A Life in DC
Chapter 5 - Part 2
Batman didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He grabbed Joker by the collar, hauling him up, their faces inches apart. The stench of cheap whiskey and sweat filled his nostrils. Joker's grin was back, wider than ever, his eyes wild and gleaming with manic delight.
"You're just a shadow, Bats," Joker whispered, his voice suddenly quiet, almost intimate. "A ghost haunting the edges. You watch. You wait. You never take. And that's why they leave you. That's why they choose the real thing — the messy, the loud, the alive."
Batman's grip tightened. His knuckles whitened. He wanted to crush the life out of him. He wanted to silence that voice, that laugh, that truth that cut deeper than any blade.
But he didn't.
Instead, he threw Joker hard against the railing. The clown hit the metal with a clang, his head snapping back, stars dancing behind his eyes. He slumped to his knees, still laughing, still grinning, still alive.
Batman turned away. He didn't look at Joker. He didn't need to.
He was already moving — down the catwalk, toward the hostages. His movements were fluid, efficient, silent. He disarmed the first goon with a chokehold, the man collapsing without a sound. The second tried to run. Batman caught him with a batarang to the knee, dropping him like a sack of bricks. The third raised his gun. Batman was already on him, his fist connecting with the man's temple, sending him crashing to the ground.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He freed the hostages, his hands quick and sure, cutting the ropes with a flick of his knife. The hostages stumbled back, wide-eyed, trembling, but alive.
He didn't look at them. He didn't need to.
He was already back on the catwalk, standing over Joker, who was still on his knees, blood trickling from his lip, his grin still plastered across his face.
"You're not the center of the universe, Bats," Joker whispered, his voice hoarse but still dripping with mockery. "You're just the guy who shows up after the party's over. The cleanup crew. The ghost who watches from the dark."
Batman's grip tightened, his knuckles white, but instead of crushing the clown's windpipe, he shoved him away. Joker stumbled back, his feet tangling, and he collapsed against the railing with a metallic clang. For a fleeting second, the manic grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise at being let go.
That was all the opening Joker needed.
Dazed but never truly beaten, he pushed himself up, swaying on unsteady legs. His eyes darted around, a frantic, calculating assessment. He glanced at the detonator in his hand — still live, still a threat. He glanced at the hostages — now free, their hands being cut by the Bat. He glanced at the spot where the Bat had been standing — vanished.
A low, chuckling laugh escaped his lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. He didn't run. He didn't need to. He turned and stumbled toward the far end of the catwalk, his movements clumsy but purposeful. He reached a rusted service ladder, gave a mocking little salute to the empty air where Batman had been, and swung himself over the edge. He disappeared into the labyrinth of pipes and catwalks below, a ghost in his own right, slipping into the shadows like smoke.
Batman didn't chase him. He didn't even watch him go. The moment Joker's feet left the catwalk, Batman was already turning his back on him. Joker was a distraction — a loud, bleeding, screaming distraction — and the real work was here, in the rain-slicked yard below, where three terrified civilians were still trembling against the railings, their wrists raw from the ropes, their eyes wide with the kind of shock that came from staring death in the face and surviving. The clown could wait. The living could not.
Batman moved like a storm given form. He dropped from the catwalk in a silent arc, landing in a crouch beside the first hostage — a woman in her forties, her suit torn, her face streaked with tears and grime. She flinched when he approached, her body curling in on itself, but he didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence was enough. He pulled a small, razor-sharp utility knife from his belt and, with a single, precise flick, severed the ropes binding her wrists. His movements were efficient, almost clinical, but there was a gentleness in the way he pulled the frayed ends away, careful not to snag her skin.
"Stay behind me," he murmured, his voice low, rough, but not unkind. "Don't move."
She nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps, and stumbled back, pressing herself against the cold metal of the railing.
The second hostage was a man in his fifties, his glasses cracked, his tie askew. He was trying to stand, his legs shaking, his eyes darting wildly around the yard. Batman was beside him before he could take a step. Another flick of the knife, another clean cut. The man didn't thank him. He just stared, dumbfounded, at his freed hands, then at Batman, then back at the spot where Joker had been.
"Move," Batman ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Stay behind the first woman. Keep your head down."
The man obeyed, stumbling toward the woman, his hands still trembling.
The third hostage was younger — early twenties, a delivery driver by the look of his uniform, his face pale, his mouth open in a silent scream. He was still bound, his wrists bleeding where he'd tried to saw through the rope with his teeth. Batman knelt beside him, his gloved fingers brushing the man's arm — a brief, grounding touch. "Look at me," he said, his voice softer now, but still firm. "You're safe."
The kid's eyes, wide and glassy with shock, finally focused on the dark cowl. He flinched, but held his gaze. Batman didn't wait for a response. He sliced the ropes with the same efficiency, the blade parting the fibers without a sound. He then moved to the kid's feet, freeing them as well.
"Can you stand?" Batman asked.
The kid nodded shakily, trying to push himself up, but his legs buckled. Batman caught him by the arm, his grip firm but not crushing, and helped him to his feet, guiding him toward the other two huddled hostages. "Stay with them. Don't move until I say."
The three of them formed a small, terrified knot against the railing, watching him with a mixture of awe and primal fear. They were safe, but the danger wasn't over. The goons were still here.
Batman turned, and the air grew cold. The playful chaos of Joker's performance was over. Now, it was just business.
There were six of them left, scattered across the yard like confused, oversized children. They had been laughing and whooping moments ago, but now they stood frozen, their cheap clown masks doing little to hide the sudden, stark realization that the party was over and the bouncer had arrived.
One of them, a brute built like a refrigerator, seemed to decide that bravado was his best option. He raised a rusty crowbar, pointing it at Batman. "Hey! Bats! You're not gonna take us all on, are ya?"
Batman didn't answer. He moved.
He was a blur of motion, a shadow that detached itself from the darkness and struck with the force of a car crash. He closed the twenty-foot distance in three strides. The crowbar-wielding thug swung wildly, the metal whistling through the air. Batman ducked under the clumsy arc, his fist driving into the man's solar plexus. The air left the thug's lungs in a whoosh, the crowbar clattering to the ground as he collapsed to his knees, gasping like a fish on land. Batman didn't even watch him fall. He was already moving to the next.
Two more goons charged from either side, trying to flank him. One had a knife, the other a length of chain. Batman pivoted, his cape swirling around him. He caught the knife-wielder's wrist, twisting it with a sharp, audible snap. The man screamed, dropping the blade, and Batman drove a boot into his knee, sending him crumpling to the ground. The chain-wielder swung the metal links in a wide arc. Batman ducked under it, stepping inside the man's reach, and chopped him hard in the throat. The goon gagged, stumbling back, clutching his neck, before Batman swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the wet concrete.
It wasn't a fight. It was an extermination.
The remaining three goons, their confidence shattered, decided discretion was the better part of valor. One turned and ran for the main gate. Batman didn't give chase. He simply reached for his utility belt, selected a small, disc-shaped object, and hurled it. The batarang flew through the air with a faint *whir*, striking the back of the fleeing man's knee. He cried out, pitching forward into the mud, where he lay groaning, clutching his leg.
The last two stood frozen, their weapons suddenly feeling like useless toys. They looked at each other, then at the dark figure standing amidst their fallen comrades, his cape settling around him like a shroud. They dropped their guns and raised their hands.
"Please! Don't hurt us!" one of them whimpered.
Batman ignored their pleas. He strode toward them, his footsteps the only sound in the rain-slicked yard. He moved with a cold, detached purpose, disarming them and binding their hands with zip ties, his movements economical and final. He worked in silence, the only sounds the distant wail of approaching sirens and the quiet sobbing of the hostages.
Within two minutes, it was over. Six goons were either unconscious, moaning on the ground, or trussed up like hogs, awaiting pickup. The hostages were safe. The bomb was disarmed. The mess was contained.
Batman stood in the center of the yard, the rain washing over him, cleaning the grime from his suit. He turned to the three terrified civilians. "GCPD is on their way. They'll take care of you."
He didn't wait for their thanks. He didn't want it.
He fired a line from his grapple gun, the hook catching on the catwalk above. With a smooth, silent ascent, he vanished back into the shadows, leaving the chaos behind him, the image of Selina's face still burning in the back of his mind.
***
The first thing Oliviero knew was the warmth. It wasn't the sun creeping through the blinds, though that was there too, casting long, lazy shadows across the floorboards. It was the heat radiating from between his legs, the wet, rhythmic suction that coaxed him back from the edge of a deep, exhausted sleep.
{R-18 Scene Vieri x Selina Kyle 2209 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
He collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving, his body covered in a sheen of sweat, his breathing ragged and heavy.
*Beep-beep-beep-beep.*
The shrill, jarring sound of the oven timer cut through the haze of their passion, signaling that breakfast was ready. It was a jarring, mundane intrusion into the post-coital silence.
Vieri groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, nuzzling against her skin, inhaling the scent of her hair mixed with the smell of sex. "The lasagna," he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion and satisfaction. "It's ready."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Vieri remained slumped over her, his weight a comforting, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his breathing a slow, steady rhythm against her skin. Selina lay beneath him, a boneless, sated mess, her limbs tangled with his, the apron strings still knotted loosely around her waist.
Finally, with a low groan that seemed to vibrate through his very bones, Vieri pushed himself up. His muscles screamed in protest, a symphony of aches from the night before and the morning's vigorous activities. He looked down at her, taking in the mess of tangled hair, the swollen lips, the blissed-out expression on her face, and felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with sex.
"Breakfast," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "You weren't kidding."
Selina stretched languidly, a satisfied purr rumbling in her chest. "I never joke about lasagna," she said, her voice still husky. She propped herself up on her elbows, the t-shirt riding up to reveal the soft curve of her stomach. "But first, a shower. And maybe another round. You know, to work up an appetite."
Vieri chuckled, a low, tired sound. He stood up, holding out a hand to help her up. "Let's eat first, woman. I'm not sure I have the energy. Starvation might kill me."
She took his hand, her fingers lacing with his, and let him pull her to her feet. She swayed slightly, her legs still unsteady, and leaned against him, her head resting on his chest. "Good," she whispered, her voice muffled against his skin. "I'd rather you die inside me than on the battlefield."
He wrapped an arm around her, holding her close, and for a moment, they just stood there, in the quiet aftermath, the smell of sex and baking lasagna filling the living room.
They showered together, the hot water washing away the sweat and the grime, their touches slow, gentle, exploratory. There was no urgency now, no desperate need. It was just the quiet intimacy of two people who had seen each other at their most raw and vulnerable, and had chosen to stay.
Dressed now in clean clothes—Vieri in a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt, Selina in one of his hoodies that swallowed her whole—they sat at his small kitchen table, plates of steaming lasagna in front of them. The first bite was heaven. The pasta was perfectly cooked, the cheese melted and gooey, the sauce rich and savory. It was the kind of meal that felt like a hug, a warm, comforting blanket on a cold day.
"This is amazing," Vieri said, his mouth full. "Seriously, Selina. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
Selina shrugged, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips. "I spent some time in a convent once. Long story. Let's just say I learned a few things."
He raised an eyebrow. "A convent? You?"
"Don't ask," she said, taking a sip of water. "Look, Vieri… as much as I'm enjoying this… this domestic bliss… that's not why I came here last night."
Vieri put down his fork, his expression sobering. He knew this was coming. The bubble was about to burst. "I figured."
"Harley and Ivy know where you live," she said, her voice dropping, the playful tone gone, replaced by a quiet, serious urgency. "I don't know how, but they do. And they're planning on coming to visit. Soon."
Vieri leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look scared. He just looked… resigned. "And?"
"And?" Selina stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "And? Vieri, these aren't just a couple of thugs. They're unpredictable. They're dangerous. They're… obsessed with you. Especially Ivy. She's not just interested in you. She's… fascinated. Like you're a new species of plant she's never seen before and wants to… dissect."
Vieri picked up his fork again, twirling a strand of pasta around it. "What happens, happens," he said, his voice calm. "I'm a cop, Selina. I deal with dangerous people every day. It's what I do."
"This is different," she insisted, her voice rising with frustration. "This isn't some random mugger or some low-level enforcer. This is Ivy. She can control plants. She can create toxins that can kill a man in seconds. She can make you do things you don't want to do. And Harley… she's chaos. She's a walking, talking, cackling time bomb. They're not just going to knock on your door and ask you out for coffee."
"I know," he said, his voice still calm. "But what do you want me to do? Run? Hide? Change my name and move to a different city? That's not who I am, Selina. You know that."
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know. I just… I worry."
"I can handle myself," he said, his eyes meeting hers. "I always have."
Just then, the TV in the living room, which had been on mute, flickered to life, the image of a news anchor filling the screen. Vieri grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.
"—another night of chaos in Gotham," the anchor was saying, her expression grim. "The Joker, in what appears to be a solo act, took hostages at the old Ace Chemical plant on the riverbank. Police say the situation was resolved by Batman, but not before the Joker and his gang caused significant damage to the property. Three hostages were rescued, and six of the Joker's accomplices were taken into custody. The Joker himself, however, managed to escape. Authorities are warning citizens to be vigilant, as the Joker's motives for this attack remain unclear, though sources say he seemed unusually agitated, reportedly ranting about betrayal and the formation of a criminal faction known as the 'Queens of Crime'."
Vieri and Selina stared at the screen. The image of the burning plant, the terrified hostages, the maniacal grin of the Joker—it was a stark, brutal reminder of the world they lived in.
The anchor continued, her voice a monotone drone in the background, but Vieri wasn't listening anymore. He was thinking about Montoya's offer, about the task force, about the danger, and the reward. He was thinking about the Queens of Crime, and the fact that they knew where he lived.
He looked at Selina, at the worry in her eyes, and then back at the TV, at the chaos unfolding on the screen. He took a deep breath, then picked up his fork again, and took another bite of his lasagna. It was still warm. It was still good. For now, that was enough.
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