Chapter Text
Evelyn had always been partial to the reckless sort of weather that sent most of Gotham scurrying for cover. She relished the rawness of a city stripped down by rain, the way the rooftops bled their lights into a single luminous haze, how thunder drummed against the glass and startled the wine in her cup to trembling. Her penthouse balcony, draped in trailing pots of rosemary and ringed with soft, wind-warped string lights, offered a front-row seat for the evening’s spectacle.
She curled deeper into her wool cardigan, a thumb pressed against the worn spine of her paperback. The rain had started as a whisper but now scythed sideways, hissing against the glass and the balcony’s steel railing. Below, Gotham's cityscape flickered and brooded, endless windows aglow with their own private dramas. Evelyn turned a page, sipped her drink, and listened to the storm test every edge of the building. She could have been the only living soul for a dozen stories.
The night sharpened. Lightning flickered, briefly outlining a bent old chimney on the neighbouring building. Somewhere to the west, a siren wailed—high and urgent—then faded, chased off by a guttural peal of thunder. She marked her place in the book with a grocery receipt and leaned back, letting the familiar, ozone-rich air clear out the day’s administrative clutter. This was, in her estimation, exactly the correct way to pass a Friday evening in Gotham: no plans, no one expecting her anywhere, just the city’s racket and a bottle of Italian red.
The metallic crash didn’t immediately register as real. At first, she thought it was a part of the weather, a particularly vicious gust rattling the old fire escape, or a piece of tin roofing torn loose and flung against her balcony rail. But then came the second sound: a raw, human exhale, sharp and guttural, and unmistakably close. Evelyn blinked, set down her glass, and leaned forward, squinting through the rain-glossed darkness. The fire escape’s upper landing, usually deserted and grimy, now hosted a slumped, broad-shouldered shape wedged awkwardly against the railing.
She watched for a beat, heart ticking up a notch. The figure didn’t move. The storm had pressed its black cape flat against the grating, but even sodden and folded, it looked excessive for any normal Gotham denizen. Another soft noise—half-cough, half-growl—carried to her through the rain.
Evelyn stood, wrapping her cardigan tighter. This was new, even by her apartment’s standards. She eyed the fire escape’s little windowed door, then, on instinct, grabbed the umbrella from its hook by the balcony and padded barefoot across the tiles. The rain swallowed her instantly, cold needles pricking through her sweater, but curiosity overpowered discomfort. She clicked open the umbrella and stepped out, careful not to slip on the wet iron rungs.
Halfway across the landing, the figure twitched, just enough to reveal the unmistakable curve of a cowl, two matte-black ears canted at a determined angle. His jaw was exposed, stubbled and streaked with blood, and below it the storm-slicked lines of armour gave the lie to any notion of a prank or stunt. Batman. In the flesh. And in what looked like a non-trivial amount of distress.
Evelyn hesitated, umbrella drooping, as she recalibrated her understanding of the evening. Then she cleared her throat, carefully schooled her expression to neutral, and crouched next to him.
“You okay there, Batman?” she said, voice low and conversational. “Comic convention’s not for another month.”
He didn’t answer at first. Up close, she could see the glisten of fresh blood tracking down the line of his neck, the way his gloved hand pressed hard against his side. His breathing was ragged, but even so, he radiated an aura of permanent readiness, as if every muscle in his body might snap to action at the merest provocation.
“I’m fine,” he grated, but the sentence came out thinner than intended. He tried to shift upright and failed, jaw flexing as pain registered. The hand at his side clenched, smearing crimson across the textured suit.
“Right,” Evelyn said. She angled the umbrella so it shielded them both, then risked a closer look. The suit was less a costume than a second skin, armoured and moulded to emphasise every threatening contour. Blood seeped between the plates near his ribcage, vivid against the matte black. She whistled softly. “You know, if you’re looking to break into the neighbour’s penthouse, you might want to avoid leaving your DNA all over the fire escape.”
A faint sound escaped him, could have been a huff of laughter or a growl of irritation. He attempted another rise, this time bracing on his elbows, and managed to lever himself a few inches up before sagging again.
“Don’t,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder—gingerly, as one might handle a wounded Dobermann. “Let’s not make this worse. Can you walk if I help you?”
For a moment, she thought he might argue on principle, but then he relented. “Yes.”
Evelyn’s pragmatic side took over. She hooked one arm under his, careful to avoid the blood-soaked patch, and gripped tight. Even battered, he was heavier than expected, solid with the kind of muscle that bespoke years of fighting and zero regard for self-preservation. He moved like a man stitched together by pure stubbornness, and she found herself mirroring his tenacity as they staggered toward the door.
The short walk inside left a trail of red droplets on the tile and several bruises on her shins, but they made it. Inside, the penthouse glowed with golden lamplight and the scent of rain-damp rosemary. Evelyn guided him to the broad kitchen island and helped lower him onto a barstool. She considered calling an ambulance, but dismissed it, the sight of Batman in her apartment was already straining credulity, and she doubted EMTs would react with composure.
Instead, she snapped into nurse mode, stripping the umbrella and cardigan, yanking open a kitchen drawer for the first-aid kit she kept embarrassingly well-stocked. She popped the plastic case and snapped on a pair of gloves. “Do you mind if I—?”
“Do it,” he said, eyes fixed straight ahead.
She peeled back the gauntlet where his glove met the forearm, assessing the visible wound. It was a gash, deep but not mortal, the sort that bled like a warning flare but could probably be handled with a few well-placed butterfly strips. She worked quickly, swabbing blood, applying antiseptic, and pressing sterile gauze into place.
“You know,” she said, wiping her hands, “I’ve worked in hospital admissions. Seen a lot of weird injuries. But you are my first superhero.”
He glanced at her then, eyes shadowed by the cowl but surprisingly alert. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, reaching for the gauze tape. “You’re going to owe me new barstools.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. She finished the bandage, then retrieved a clean dish towel and handed it over. “Here. Apply pressure.”
He did, silent and mechanical. The kitchen clock ticked loud in the interim. Evelyn rinsed the blood from her hands, then busied herself making coffee, because nothing diffused the strangeness of the world quite like the hiss and pop of a French press.
When she turned back, he was watching her. Not in a predatory way, but with the frank, analytic attention of someone used to solving puzzles under duress.
“Do you make a habit of helping masked strangers?” he asked, voice rough but less strained.
“Only the ones who crash-land on my balcony,” she said. “Gotham’s a big city, but I’m pretty sure you’re a limited edition.”
He considered this, eyes narrowing. Then he inclined his head, once, in grudging acknowledgement.
Outside, the rain softened, running in curtains down the windows. The city’s electrical grid shuddered back to stability; the apartment’s lights flickered, then held steady. Evelyn set the coffee on the counter between them, poured two cups, and slid one toward him.
He stared at the mug for a moment, as if weighing the possibility of poison, before wrapping gloved fingers around it.
Evelyn pulled up a stool across from him. “So. Should I expect the Batmobile to show up for curbside pickup, or is this a one-man operation?”
He sipped the coffee, considered, and said, “I’ll call for extraction.”
“Do you need to make a dramatic exit, or can you chill here until your ride arrives?”
He looked at her, the cowl doing little to obscure a faintly bewildered scepticism. “I can wait.”
“Great.” She thumbed her paperback, retrieving the grocery receipt, and set the book aside. “If you bleed on my first edition, we’re going to have words.”
He almost smiled. “Noted.”
They sat like that for a while, the city’s storm-muted pulse humming beyond the glass, the kitchen bright and oddly peaceful. Batman’s breathing slowed, his posture relaxing by degrees as the adrenaline faded. Evelyn nursed her coffee, pretending not to notice how often he catalogued every exit, every object within arm’s reach.
She glanced at him, studied the wary set of his shoulders, and decided not to push for details. Everyone in Gotham had secrets. Some just wore them more literally than others.
In the end, when he stood—slowly, carefully, but with a deliberate dignity—she was ready. He did not ask for help, but she offered her shoulder anyway. Together, they made it back to the balcony, the air now cool and rain-scrubbed, the city glittering clean beneath the storm’s retreat.
He paused at the threshold, looked at her once more. “Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.
Evelyn shrugged, trying not to smile too widely. “Anytime, Batman.”
And with that, he vanished into the night, leaving only a faint trail of blood and the impossible memory of his weight leaning, for just a moment, on her ordinary human shoulder.