Chapter Text
“Bruce.”
Bruce grunted, ignoring Clark’s desperate attempt at eye contact. The folder Clark had set down on the corner of his desk was a bright, garish yellow. A League internal notice, and one that rarely ever left the Watchtower.
An oversight he’d need to correct in the future; the Cave was secure, but the Watchtower was a fortress, physically and digitally. Bruce made a mental note, refocused, and pulled up a malfunctioning feed he’d noticed earlier. Busy work that would bore even an investigative reporter.
19:02:45, Bruce noted. The camera had failed at night, but the frozen feed on his monitor wasn’t necessarily proof of tampering. Only the suggestion of it.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Clark hedged, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Look. Diana and I agreed, it needed to be--”
“It’s a hearing notice.”
In Bruce’s peripheral vision, Clark gave a full-body wince. “Yeah.”
“You could serve me during the next Founders meeting,” Bruce replied. He flipped idly between the two feeds on the monitor, looking for subtle differences. Ladders, repeat passerby, things that didn’t belong.
“Look.”
That was Clark’s Superman voice. Bruce turned slightly in his chair, giving him the respect of a third of his attention.
“Just sign the papers and take the suspension,” Clark pleaded. His eyes darted back down to the folder. “We don’t need to do this with the whole League. You admit fault, we tie the investigation up in a bow and forget about it. You might not care about your reputation, but--”
“I do.”
Clark exhaled, visibly relieved. He grabbed the folder, holding it up. “So you’ll sign the reprimand?”
Bruce pretended to think about it, just for a second. “No.”
A quick web search indicated that the camera was still ‘live’ and recording on the Port’s official website. Bruce enlarged the feed, trying to find the loop point by eyesight alone.
“Bruce.”
“Clark,” Bruce rebutted, turning his chair back to the monitors. Clark’s frustrated breath made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; still, the answer was firm in his mind.
“Okay. Okay.” The folder was set down again, this time five inches closer to Bruce’s right hand. “Hearing date and time are both in there. You’re entitled to an advocate--”
“--with adequate Watchtower clearance,” Bruce murmured, finishing the sentence for Clark. “I wrote the form. You don’t need to repeat it to me.”
The sharp words landed exactly where he’d intended. Clark turned on his heel, letting out a frustrated Jesus under his breath as he left.
At least it wasn’t Diana.
The yellow folder beckoned from the corner of his desk, exactly the bright, lurid flag Clark had intended it to be. When the exterior sensors flashed, tracking Clark’s departing flight, Bruce reached out, sliding it over.
Complainant: Michael Carter (Alias: Booster Gold)
Incident Date and Time: 04/05/26, Earth Standard Cycle. 23:04:51 Earth Standard Time.
Complaint: Bodily injury inflicted by a teammate. Preliminary investigation findings include--
“Your guest couldn’t stay, sir?”
Bruce looked up from the folder, blinking. For a moment, he felt the absurd need to hide the notice from Alfred -- a man who had seen everything for as long as he’d been alive. Good, bad, and the murky grey in between.
“No.”
“Shame,” Alfred said. He set a tray down to Bruce’s left, taking care to balance it away from the stack of Dick’s patrol journals. “I made tea for two.”
“We’re two.”
“I suppose we are,” Alfred said, lips twitching. Without a word, he reached for the nearby rolling chair, seating himself -- delightfully -- without Bruce’s permission.
Bruce poured the tea for them both in silence. The yellow of the folder was a constant presence just beyond his line of sight. Ignoring it only made it seem larger.
“Something on your mind?”
Alfred’s way of circling politely around the issue at hand. Bruce let out an amused huff as he lowered the teapot back to its tray.
“Not on my mind, no.”
Alfred took the proffered cup with a grateful nod. “But perhaps on your desk?”
The strange urge to hide from Alfred pooled in his belly again. Bruce closed his eyes, breathing for a six-count before he responded.
“It’s nothing. Administrative paperwork from Clark.”
Alfred arched an eyebrow -- inquisitive, Bruce promised himself. Not disappointed. “I see.”
That was the problem. Alfred saw -- and saw through -- everything. If, by some small mercy, he hadn’t overheard the conversation with Clark, he’d gleaned the gist of it purely from Clark’s posture and expression on his way out.
“It’s nothing,” Bruce repeated. The assurance sounded hollow, even to his own ears.
Alfred allowed it anyway, inclining his head with an air of grace. The eyebrow lowered. The sharpness of his eyes diverted, finally, to Bruce’s lap. To his free hand, currently clenched into a white-knuckled first.
“I’m sure.”
Dick closed the folder. It took a moment to gather his thoughts, but Bruce had trained him out of hot anger long, long ago. Clarity and focus came with a cool head. A cooler kind of anger.
“How did he take it?”
Alfred’s lips were a flat, bloodless white. Anger was all Dick needed to see. Alfred’s fury was like the flash of light before a nuclear bomb went off: cold, damning, and final long before the blastwave reached the onlooker.
“I’m going to make some calls,” Dick said. He stood, tugging the folder with him. “Can I borrow this?”
The set of Alfred’s jaw was truly impressive. How it hadn’t cracked yet was a mystery. Dick could practically hear his teeth grinding against each other.
“Certainly,” Alfred bit out, flatter than Dick had ever heard him. “Might I make a request?”
Dick raised his eyebrows, waiting. Alfred reached into his pocket, pulling out an unfamiliar mask -- more than a domino, but short of a full cowl -- and holding it out between them.
“Would you show me how to adhere this?”
Oh shit.
“I need you for something.”
Jason rolled over, scrunching up his face as he realized his patrol earpiece was still, despite best efforts, still lodged in his left ear. He dragged a pillow over, taking out his frustration on it instead of the annoying voice in his ear.
“Fuck off.”
“Okay, let me rephrase,” Dick said, sharper than he usually was. “I need you to come up to the Watchtower with me.”
Jason groaned into the pillow.
“B hit someone.”
Good for Bruce, Jason thought. He burrowed further into the pillow, eyes clenched shut. “Am I supposed to be against that?”
“B hit Booster Gold,” Dick started, “and the League’s having a disciplinary hearing about it.”
The final vestiges of sleep drained from his body. Jason lifted his head from the pillow, squinting at the clock. Too damn early. Or late. It was hard to say for sure with the blackout curtains on the window.
“They’re disciplining him for hitting Booster Gold?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve heard all week.” Jason slid his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his boots. He’d had the foresight to stick clean socks into them before crashing.
“Alfred’s pissed.”
“Fucking lead with that next time,” Jason muttered. Dick huffed on the other end of the line. “Dickbird?”
“Yeah?” Things truly were dire if Dick was answering to that particular nickname. It sent a strange feeling down his spine
“Where are we zetaing from?”
“--so yeah, they’re having a formal hearing with the whole Justice League,” Dick said. “We’re all zetaing up, including Alfred. You in?”
Tim thought about it for a second, chewing on his lower lip. His right leg jiggled up and down, betraying the massive hit of adrenaline currently circulating through his body.
“Who’d he hit?”
There was a pause -- presumably Dick rolling his eyes. “Booster Gold.”
“Who?”
“Hey-O,” Dick started the call, painfully smooth despite the ridiculous pun. “I was wondering if-”
“Already heard. Busy, call back later.” Babara said, jabbing at the end call button on her comm hookup. Within a second, her comm was ringing again. She hit accept, then immediately went back to typing.
“I was just going to ask,” Dick repeated, louder this time, “If you were planning on zetaing up.”
Barbara sat back, surprised. “That’s an option?”
“Word is Damian’s trying to get Batcow on a zeta too,” Dick said with great confidence. After a brief pause, Barbara could hear his gulp. “Not that you’re a cow in any way, shape, or form. You are DISTINCTLY non-cowlike, for the record. I don’t even know why I--”
Barbara muted him, staring at her screen. It was a question she’d never expected to answer again. Batgirl had only made it to the Watchtower twice before there hadn’t really been a Batgirl anymore.
She hit unmute.
“Do I have to wear the suit?”
“Babe, you can wear whatever the hell you want,” Dick said. “Except a bare face, I guess.”
That made Barbara crack a smile. A little one and, mercifully, far from Dick Grayson’s proximity.
“You got a mask for me, Nightwing?”
There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the call. “If I don’t, I’m about to find one.”
Barbara’s smile widened. After a moment of further thought, it faltered. “Dick.”
“Yeah.”
The only detail she hadn’t been able to remotely confirm swirled around her head. A thousand questions for one man. How is he doing? or I know how much the League’s perception means to him or even I know it means so much to you, too.
Instead, she settled on a statement, clearing her throat.
“We’re going to be there for him.”
Dick’s laughter filled the comm line. “I know.”
“No, I mean, we’re going to be there for him,” Barbara said. “Do you know who’s organizing chairs?”
“...shit.”
Dinah stepped out of the bathroom, wiping her dripping hands on her thighs instead of the blasting monstrosity of a dryer that made her teeth vibrate in all the wrong ways.
As she turned back to the Founders’ Hall, something red flashed at the end of the hallway. A very distinctive red. Followed by an even more distinctive black, in matte, shiny overlay, and a blend of both.
“Nope,” Dinah muttered. “Nope nope nope nope.”
The silent parade of Bats passed her, their boots soundless against the Watchtower standard tiles. Dinah counted at least five before she decided counting more than that wasn’t going to help.
When the Bats were out of sight, Dinah jabbed at the call button on her wrist comm. It auto-dialed Ollie’s number, overriding the wait time and pinging straight to his earbud.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going home,” Dinah said. She eyed either end of the hallway, searching out the safest path to the zeta foyer. “Let me know how the meeting goes.”
Ollie made a disappointed noise, but didn’t push. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Is it…” his voice lowered to a mock-whisper. “Lady things?”
Dinah hung up on him. Then, upon further deliberation, she hit the PASS override to shock his ear.
Fucker.
Clark had spent the last ten minutes silently praying that Bruce would actually show up to the hearing. His prayers, it seemed, had been answered by someone with a cruel sense of humor.
There were at least seven Bats seated in the back right section of chairs, shoulder to shoulder and completely silent. Dick, he recognized immediately in vivid blue. Barbara sat next to him in her chair, her hair loose, wearing what looked like one of Nightwing’s domino masks. Jason sat next to him, hood up and arms crossed against his chest. Tim had one leg up on the chair in front of him, bouncing it up and down. Steph was staring daggers in their direction from under her hood. Cass and Duke were exchanging a worrying amount of Bat battle-sign in the far corner, entirely uninterested in the interest in them.
The other League members in attendance gave them a wide berth, seating themselves across the aisle and far away from the simmering emotions hovering over the group. Even Barry kept his distance, all too aware that this meeting wasn’t a friendly one. Despite the leeriness of the attendees, the room was nearly full. Some had chosen to stand rather than sit near the Bats, and that -- that, Clark couldn’t entirely blame them for.
At the very least, Booster Gold seemed entirely unaffected by the shift in the room. He was seated at the end of the Founders’ table, chit chatting over his shoulder with a few junior members Clark recognized from their Titans days.
Booster Gold’s teeth caught the light every time he smiled, an over-whitened flash perfectly sandwiched between gleaming, pink gums. He had a way of smiling that had always felt calculated, even to Clark. His lips covered any hint of a gummy smile, spaced to highlight the perfect portion of his teeth. His tongue lodged itself in the roof of his mouth whenever he wasn’t speaking, keeping his jaw and chin perfectly aligned.
The massive bruise that covered the majority of his left cheekbone seemed almost coincidental. The bruise itself was an ugly purple that bled into yellow and green at the edges. It had barely healed in the intervening week. Clark could still see the outline of Bruce’s knuckle guards in the injury if he looked closely.
A hand grasped his shoulder. Clark looked up, meeting Diana’s calm, even gaze.
“He has a few minutes still,” Diana said softly. She squeezed his shoulder, grounding him with the pressure and slight flicker of pain.
“I know,” Clark said. They both knew what having the entirety of Bruce’s family and proteges in the room with him. It hadn’t been Bruce’s request, if he even was aware of it.
“A suspension will give him time,” Diana continued. She was the voice of reason, and he found himself nodding along. “Men who fight too long…I have seen them behave like this. They jump at shadows and stay awake for days, staring at nothing.”
Bruce was far from jumping at shadows -- typically he was the shadow -- and while he often stayed awake for several days at a time, Clark knew he cherished rest when it finally came.
“Don’t let Booster gloat too much,” Clark said, throat tight. Diana nodded. “He agreed to the show, but that doesn’t mean we have to make it anymore painful than it needs to be.”
The hand slipped off his shoulder. Diana gave him a soft, genuine smile -- the antithesis of Booster’s picture perfect grin. Her eyes matched the smile, hesitant, somber, but ultimately hopeful.
A hush fell over the room. Clark didn’t need to look to know who had -- finally -- arrived.
The instant Bruce stepped into the room, Clark knew he hadn’t had any knowledge of the Bats’ plan. To his credit, his steps never faltered; his eyes stayed forward, not flicking desperately back and forth between the crowd. The only tell was the slight clench of his left fist, custom synth-leather gliding against itself in his palm.
The Bats said nothing, but their focus was like a physical presence in the room. It blanketed Bruce as he sat at the front of the section, giving Booster a respectful nod. A raging storm two rows behind him, reaching up above him, before him, like a fury all of its own.
And Bruce, at the center of it, entirely resolved to his focus. Graceful, in the way his chin lifted slightly, as if to say and now?
Clark cleared his throat, stepping up to the table. Diana did the same to his right. “I’d like to--”
The words -- call this meeting to order -- died somewhere in his throat as the door to the Founders’ hall opened, revealing one final attendee.
If Batman’s arrival had hushed the room and focused the Bats, this man’s presence was an earthquake. Every head turned in his direction. Every eye focused on him all at once, searching for some indication of identity.
He was tall, Clark noted. Slim in the chest, but with shoulders that gladly filled out the clothing under his tac vest. The collar of his shirt ended just under his jaw, made all the more stark by the contrast of thick, silver hair above. There were a half-dozen weapons hidden on his person, and an equal amount of devices Clark didn’t recognize at all. His boots were reinforced at the toe and heel, the leather combat-grade and a deep, telltale black.
The domino mask across his nose and eyes was vaguely reminiscent of the masks Bruce had worn under his cowl, years ago. When he hadn’t yet trusted a triple fail-safe in their presence. The corners, edged in a shiny black, highlighted strong, angular cheekbones. The lenses were blacked out, blending nearly seamlessly into the mask itself.
Alfred Pennyworth walked down the center of the aisle, well-aware of the attention he’d garnered and entirely indifferent to it. He passed the Bats’ section without acknowledgement, headed for Bruce’s side with long-legged grace.
A silent claim was staked as Alfred chose the seat next to Bruce that bordered the aisle. He sat, crossed his arms, and became a black wall between Bruce and, at the end of the Founders’ table, Booster Gold. The message was painfully clear: Go through me. I dare you.
Clark thought back to the man he’d known for close to a decade -- amiable, polite to a razor’s edge, and inclined toward a biting sarcasm that could run circles around Bruce on a bad day. They’d spoken just a few weeks ago in Wayne Manor’s parlor; Alfred had begged off the encounter eventually, declaring the glassed parlor too chilled for an old man’s bones.
A kind, stubborn man. Not weak, and yet -- not this, Not even close.
“With that,” Clark said, eyeing Diana before continuing. “I’d like to call this meeting to order. Thank you for your attendance--” lie “--and dedication to this League. Our agenda is simple: We’ll hear from the complainant first, if they wish to revisit their written statement--” Clark prayed he wouldn’t “--and receive testimony from the other party.”
He glanced at Diana again, who gave an encouraging nod. They sat at the same time, one chair remaining empty between them.
“First,” Clark turned to Booster, who sat up a little straighter on the other end of the conference table, “our complainant.”
A dramatic silence fell over the room, entirely unintentional on Clark’s part. He flipped open the report, trying to locate Booster’s written statement. As he fumbled, Diana jumped in, taking over the questioning without a hint of the hiccup that had just occurred.
“Welcome,” Diana said to Booster, who looked close to outright smiling. “Could you please state your name for the record?”
Booster eyed the room around him before responding. Under Diana’s attention, he, like many before him, began to lean slightly in her direction.
“Booster Gold.” Then, slightly flustered: “Uh. Ma’am.”
A scoff from the back of the room broke the spell. Clark recognized Tim’s voice instantly, despite the affect.
“Who?”