Chapter Text
"Alright, Batgang, here’s the deal," Red Hood announces, standing in the rankest alley in all of Gotham, just outside a bar so questionable even rats file HR complaints. “Batman, Nightwing, and Robin can’t just go strutting around Crime Alley like they’re handing out justice-themed business cards. This isn’t your typical mob headquarters.”
Nightwing crosses his arms, looking every inch the stoic leader he thinks he is. “So, what’s the plan?”
Jason nearly snorts. God, he’s serious. “The plan is to throw people off your scent,” he says, adopting his best ‘I’m definitely the responsible one’ tone. “Lucky for you, there are a lot of people in Crime Alley who dress like you guys.”
“There are?” Nightwing asks, genuinely confused.
“Oh yeah,” Mark says, not missing a beat at following his leader into joke-themed chaos. “Big scene. Lotta leather. Lotta zippers. Sometimes capes. It’s kind of a… kink thing. But hey, the pay’s probably decent. Bachelor parties, themed club nights, birthday grams, the scort thing—Crime Alley’s economy is weird.”
He watches with silent glee as Bruce’s mouth flattens into a line and Nightwing’s eyebrows climb into his hairline. Robin just tilts his head like he’s storing this info for later nightmares.
“I’m sorry, what?” Nightwing finally chokes out.
“They also do non-kinky impersonations,” Hal adds dryly. He is the best at lying. Not a single smile slipping through. “For mockery purposes. Birthdays, office parties, that sort of thing. They're very popular during Pride.”
Jason nods solemnly. “Yeah. A lot of locals hate you.”
Nightwing blinks. “Hate us?”
“Oh, pretty boy, they loathe you,” Jason says, slapping a hand over his chest. “It’s cultural at this point.”
Robin frowns, lower lip poking out. “They hate us?”
Jason's heart actually hurts a little. He’s so small. “Not you, little dude. You’re a local sensation. People knit you hats.”
He almost ruffles the kid’s hair but stops himself. He has some dignity.
Bruce, face carved from stone, speaks up. “So the plan is we pretend to be civilians dressed as ourselves?”
“Exactly,” Jason says. “Cosplayers on a pub crawl. Man, you catch on fast.”
“This is the worst idea I’ve ever agreed to,” Nightwing mutters.
“Wrong,” Jason grins. “The worst idea you agreed to was the Discowing suit. This is a close second.”
"Hey! The Discowing suit is a masterpiece."
"It's not. And - did you have to zip it so low?"
"Enough."
Bruce breathes heavily through his nose — the Bat-version of screaming into a pillow — and marches toward the bar. Jason grabs Robin by the collar before the kid can follow.
“Whoa there, champ. No minors in bars. Even I have standards.”
Robin glares. “So what am I supposed to do, knit?”
“Stand watch. Survey for threats. Mark’ll hang back with you.”
“You got it, boss,” Mark says with a wink. “I’ve got a little brother your age.”
“Congrats?” Robin deadpans.
Bruce turns and glares at Jason, then at Mark like he personally insulted Alfred.
“If anything happens to him—”
“Blackgate will look like a day spa, yeah, I got it,” Jason says, hands raised. “Relax. He’s fine.”
“I can handle him,” Robin says. “I’ve stabbed people twice his size.”
Mark looks mildly concerned.
Bruce still looks like he wants to launch Jason into the sun but nods anyway.
“Comm lines open. Stay close. Be safe.”
Jason shoves the twinge of nostalgia down, smothers it with sarcasm. “Oh, one last thing—Crime Alley tradition dictates you have to take a tequila shot when entering any bar. Sacred ritual. Cultural cornerstone.”
Nightwing squints. “We don’t drink on duty.”
Jason shrugs. “Then they’ll know you’re not one of them. And if this kid’s hiding out here, the locals will tell him you’re hunting. He’ll be gone before you can say, ‘I’m Batman and I disapprove of this shot glass.’”
Bruce stares at him. Blank. Calculating. Then turns and walks into the bar like he’s heading to his own execution.
Jason grins behind his helmet. “God, I love team bonding.”
.
The bar reeks of alcohol, vomit, and poor life decisions. Music blasts at eardrum-murdering levels. People are dancing on sticky stages, draped over chairs, slurring words that stopped being English a long time ago.
It’s perfect.
Jason struts up to the bar like he owns the place, his helmet catching the neon lights in just the right way. Everyone sober enough to notice them gives a double-take—some confused, others clearly annoyed.
The bartender looks them over slowly, unimpressed. “Costume party?”
“Yep,” Jason says brightly. “Real close by. But first, we need to get absolutely wrecked before I see another Green Lantern impersonator in body paint.”
The bartender sighs like this isn’t even in the top ten weirdest things tonight.
“Five of your strongest tequila shots, my man.”
Glasses hit the counter. Liquid courage is served. Jason turns to hand them out with all the pomp of a generous god.
Bruce reluctantly grabs the tiny shot glass between his fingers like it personally insulted his ancestors. Nightwing looks like he wants to teleport back to Bludhaven right this fucking second.
“Drink it,” Jason says. “Or you’ll stand out.”
Bruce closes his eyes, tips it back, and immediately looks like someone just waterboarded his soul. Nightwing winces harder than he does taking a boot to the ribs.
“Welcome to Crime Alley,” Jason says, clinking glasses with Lina and Hal.
He turns his back to them, lifts the front of his helmet just enough to sip his own shot, and closes it again. Smooth. Perfectly chilled. Disrespectfully good.
When he looks back, Bruce and Dick are both hovering awkwardly like they’re waiting to be picked up from prom by Alfred. Jason grins. They are so not built for this. These two have never had more than half a glass of champagne at a Wayne gala. Jason? He and his crew could drink a biker gang under the table and still walk home sideways in a straight line.
“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he mutters.
He scans the crowd. Big tattooed guy pounding shots like it’s a religion. A group of women looking at them like they're the last men on Earth. Jackpot.
.
Tim leans against a wall, arms crossed, scowling like Gotham’s most stylish gargoyle.
Mark kicks a bottle cap across the pavement. “So… what’s your favorite weapon?”
Tim side-eyes him. “That your idea of small talk?”
“I’m trying, man.”
“…Bo staff,” Tim says finally. “And fists. And throwing knives. Balanced ones. Not the glittery bullshit.”
Mark nods, thoughtfully. “I once hit a guy with a frozen ham.”
Tim blinks. “Why?”
“It was... situationally appropriate.”
Tim stares. Then, almost imperceptibly, his lips twitch. “That’s kind of awesome.”
“Yeah, until he pulled a meat hook and almost sent me to Jesus.”
Tim huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Been there.”
Mark tilts his head. “Meat hook?”
“No, not that. Just... close calls. It’s scary.”
They fall into a brief silence, the buzz of the bar faint in the background.
Then Mark tries again. “So, can I ask something?”
“You can ask,” Tim mutters. “Not promising I’ll answer.”
“Does Batman just pick up random kids and shove them into primary colors?”
Tim actually snorts. “He didn’t shove me into the suit,” he says. Then, changing the subject to a less personal one: “What do you think they’re doing in there?”
Mark squints at the building. “I give it five minutes before someone challenges Batman to a tequila-off.”
“And Nightwing starts dancing.”
“Oh, definitely. You can’t be that bendy and not use it for dance-offs and chaos.”
“He dances every chance he gets,” Tim confirms.
Mark laughs, imagining Dick dancing salsa as he beats villains. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
Tim lifts a brow, thinking about the Batcave's security footage. “What’s your definition of ‘good money’?”
.
"Bats, you go talk to the big guy. He looks like a gang leader. Definitely knows something. Nighty, you go talk to those women. They might have seen him. Hal, Lina and I will talk to the people at the bar."
They both nod once, and then Batman is moving towards Tattos-and-steroids, and Nightwing is making his way towards the women who can't believe their damn luck.
Hal, Lina and Jason sit at the bar, laughing.
"Boss, this is the best operation you've taken us on," Lina says.
"Isn't it?" he laughs. He turns to the barman. "Three beers, please. Oh and please, please, send two more shots to the guys in costumes." The man nods.
Several minutes pass with Jason, Hal and Lina exchanging a really pleasant talk.
Jason’s nursing his second beer (it's slow going, he has to maneuver his helmet for each sip) and a wicked grin when it happens.
“Wait a damn second!” a gravel-throated voice booms from the back. Tattoo Mountain—the guy Jason clocked earlier as Trouble with a capital T— points a beefy finger at Batman's chest. “I know you. You’re the guy from last year’s Vigilante Kink Night. You bailed before the hot tub!”
Jason chokes on his drink.
Bruce blinks once. “I believe you’re mistaken.”
“No way, man,” the guy slurs, slapping Bruce on the back like they’re long-lost war buddies. “You almost had me with all those questions. Come on. One tequila-off, just like last time. First one to puke loses their pants.”
“Excuse me—”
But it’s too late. The bartender already slammed down two bottles and a crowd is cheering, some of them chanting “Hot Tub Batman! Hot Tub Batman!”
Jason collapses onto the bar, wheezing with laughter.
Batman turns to look at him, as if asking for help.
Jason mutters into the shared line comm they set up earlier, "Don't stand out", and lifts his glass in a mock salute.
.
Across the bar, Dick Grayson is surrounded.
He's mid-sentence—trying very hard to get intel from a woman in a glittery jumpsuit—when someone shrieks behind him, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU A STRIPPER?!”
Before he can defend his honor, a sash is thrown over his shoulder. It sparkles violently. It reads: BACHELOR BAIT.
“I—no, I’m not—”
“Guys,” Glitter Jumpsuit gasps, clasping her hands. “This is SO much better than that magician we hired.”
Another woman waves a plastic tiara at him. “Flex!”
“I’m serious,” he says, trying to inject any authority into his voice. “I just need to ask a few questions—”
“Bet those muscles aren’t even real,” someone across the booth says, squinting suspiciously. “No way that ass is natural. You’re stuffed with foam or something.”
Dick’s eyes narrow. Oh no. Not the ass. We don’t bring the glutes into this.
“Excuse me,” he says with grim dignity. “I have a very disciplined workout routine.”
“Uh-huh,” the girl says, leaning closer. “You're just a phony. Foam and lies.”
A tequila shot lands in front of him with an audible clink. The bartender doesn’t even make eye contact, just mutters, “On the house,” and walks away like he's seen the future and it's awful.
Dick blinks. “What?”
“What?” the girl taunts. “Too much of a pussy to drink it?”
He stares her down. He slams the shot. It burns. He swears his ancestors weep.
“Alright,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “I bet you can't win against me in arm-wrestling. Loser of each round chugs a shot. Best of five is the ultimate winner. Let’s go, foam boy.”
The others scream in delight. “YEAH! GET HIM, CLAIRE!”
Claire plants her elbow on the table with a thud. Dick eyes her, then shrugs. He’ll go easy—win her over, gain trust, ask some questions, escape humiliation-free. Easy.
He sets his elbow down. Takes her hand.
Oh fuck.
Oh no.
Oh shit, her forearms are made of steel rebar.
She doesn’t smile. Just raises one eyebrow.
The match begins.
.
Jason doesn't think he can laugh any harder, until he turns back to Bruce.
The first shot hits the bar.
Bruce eyes it like it’s an explosive.
Tattoo Guy lifts his and shouts, “Gotham rules, baby!” then downs it like water.
Bruce lifts the glass. His jaw tightens. He drinks.
The crowd erupts.
Jason is crying. Hal is taking a video. Lina is laying bets.
By the third shot, Tattoo Guy is starting to sway. By the fourth, he’s slurring words and telling Bruce he has “a very trustworthy face.”
Bruce, somehow, is still stone-faced and upright.
“Dude,” Tattoo Guy gasps after the fifth shot. “Are you even human?”
Bruce, blinking slowly: “No.”
He slams the sixth shot.
Tattoo Guy vomits into a nearby plant and collapses onto a chair.
The crowd goes wild. Someone starts a slow chant: “Bat! Man! Bat! Man!”
Jason wipes a tear from his eye. “That’s my dad,” he tells the bartender. “He doesn’t drink often, but when he does, he ruins people.”
Hal and Lina exchange a look but don't comment on it.
Jason turns back to Nightwing.
.
The second their hands lock, Claire drags him halfway to the table before he catches himself. His biceps flex. His forearm bulges. He digs his heels into the bar floor.
But she’s not even sweating.
The girls are chanting now. “CLAIRE! CLAIRE! CLAIRE!”
Dick grits his teeth. “Okay,” he mutters. “She’s strong. That’s fine. That’s fine. We do hard things.”
Claire smirks. “You okay there, sweet cheeks?”
He snarls. “I’m just warming up.”
He tries to push back—really push—but her hand doesn’t budge. It’s like trying to wrestle a brick wall that’s been hitting creatine since the Reagan administration.
“Come on, foam boy,” she whispers. “Flex those fake little arms.”
She slams his hand to the table.
The girls go feral.
“One-nothing!” someone shouts.
“Another shot!” another cheers.
A second tequila shot is placed in front of him before he can even recover. He downs it out of spite.
He resets. Focuses. Breathes like he’s in the Batcave, not under siege by Bachelorette Gladiators.
Match two starts.
This time, he lasts four seconds.
“Two-zero!” Claire grins. “You’re making this so easy.”
Across the bar, Jason is losing his goddamn mind.
He’s leaned against the counter, doubled over in silent laughter, while Lina and Hal egg him on.
“Oh my god,” Lina wheezes. “She’s going to tear his shoulder out of its socket.”
Jason’s nearly crying. “Tell me someone’s recording this. Please. I need this in HD.”
“Focus,” Hal says, though even he’s smiling. “You’re supposed to be blending in.”
“I am blending in,” Jason says, “with the joy of my people.”
.
Back at the booth, Dick adjusts his grip for round three. “You know,” he grunts, “this would be easier if I were drunk enough to hallucinate my dignity.”
Claire winks. “No worries. You’re getting there.”
She slams him again.
“Three-oh! WOOOOOO!”
The table erupts. A tiara lands on Dick’s head.
“LOSER SHOT!” someone shouts.
Dick raises the glass with a dead look in his eyes and downs it without blinking.
He leans back, dazed, eyes glassy. “Batman’s gonna kill me.”
Suddenly, his comm crackles. Jason’s voice, smug and delighted:
“Hey, Nighty? How’s the foam holding up, buddy?”
Dick does not respond. He just glares at the middle distance, full of shame, tequila, and a little glitter.
.
Across the bar, Bruce Wayne is enduring the worst reconnaissance mission of his life.
He's dizzy, he wants to throw up. Someone gave him another freaking shot after winning and he thinks it might have burnt a hole through his trachea. Some guy he approached in an attempt to get the mission back on track is currently telling a story about how he once got kicked out of a bowling alley for punching a clown.
Not metaphorically. A literal clown.
“...and then the dude honked at me, so I clocked him,” the guy laughs, slamming a massive hand on the table. “Bastard had it coming. I don’t care if he was hired for a kid’s birthday.”
Bruce nods stiffly, eyes scanning the room. “Right. Of course. Honking is…provocative.”
“You’re quiet,” the man says, narrowing his eyes. “Like Batman.”
Bruce freezes for half a second. “I don’t even like bats. I’m more of a… possum guy.”
The man blinks. “A possum guy?”
“Yeah,” Bruce says. “They’re…adaptable. And immune to snake venom.”
The guy stares at him.
Bruce stares back.
The man finally shrugs. “Huh. Respect.”
Just when Bruce thinks he's in the clear, a waitress appears beside him with two tequila shots.
He looks at them like they’re ticking time bombs. “I didn’t order these.”
“Compliments of the house,” she says, then nods at the bartender, who gives Bruce a double thumbs up.
Bruce glances down at the shots, then at the man.
The man grins. “You’re not gonna chicken out, are you? Come on, big guy. You drink with me, or I start thinking you are Batman.”
Bruce contemplates every decision he’s made in his entire life.
Then, with the same expression he has when disarming a bomb, he lifts the shot glass.
The tequila burns like chemical warfare. His eye twitches.
The man claps him on the back hard enough to knock a rib out of alignment. “ATTA BOY! Now hit me with your best Bat-gravel voice, man, I know you got one!”
Bruce says nothing.
“I’ll start,” the man says, dramatically lowering his voice: “Justice doesn’t take a day off, punk.”
Bruce closes his eyes. “I’m in hell.”
“Dude, that was sick! Do another one! ‘I’m the night!’ C’mon!”
Across the room, Red Hood's voice crackles through his comm.
“Uh, Batman? Quick check-in. How’s the tequila? You turn into a possum yet?”
“Red Hood,” Bruce mutters darkly. “I swear to God.”
“Smile a little, Bats,” Jason snickers. “You’re blending right in.”
“I am surrounded by drunks, degenerates, and deeply unwell individuals.”
“Exactly. Welcome home.”
"Nobody here knows anything. We're leaving," he growls.
He turns back to the bar and sees - Dick, downing a tequila shot like it's the only thing that will disarm a ticking time-bomb. Surrounded by bachelorettes. Fuck.
Red Hood walks up to him, and if it weren't for the fucking helmet, he knows he'd be seeing a mocking grin on his face.
"Ready for the next bar, Possum-man?"
"Next bar?" he asks, alarm seeping through his voice. Damn. His composure is slipping.
"Well, duh. We need to check as many as we can. One bar won't tell us where this kid is hiding out, will it?"
Bruce wants to die right then and there.
Distantly, he hears the women screaming as one of them wins a round of arm-wrestling against Dick. His poor son takes another shot, and looks so dejected.
God almighty, what did he get them both into?