Chapter Text
Gotham was cursed.
It was their unofficial slogan, born from a place of misery and reluctant fondness, because the city may not hesitate to drain your blood and consume your soul but she’s home and where would we be without her?
The city was fucked up, they would say. We’ve got crime on every corner and corruption from the lowliest police officer to the bitch of a mayor. Gotham must be cursed.
And Bruce would always reply, yes, Gotham really is cursed; deep ancient magic is suffocating the city and poisoning her people.
They would laugh only to realise that Bruce was serious and look at him like he’d grown a second head. They thought he was grasping at straws, so desperate for a reason that explained why Gotham was so fucked up that he blamed magic. Some people pitied him. Others got angry. They all believed Bruce was refusing to look at reality, the sad truth that sometimes, people were fucking monsters and the real curse was the goddamn corruption running rampant in Gotham.
But, really, Gotham was cursed.
The problem was, no one else seemed to see it. And Bruce tried. He really did.
He recruited Outside magicians, wizards, experts on all things supernatural and brought them to Gotham to investigate the foul magic plaguing the city. They had humoured him at first – Gotham’s level of fucked up did warrant the suspicion – and scoured the city up and down for any evidence of a curse in play. The fifth time they had found nothing, no altars or totems (aside from the usual cult things and the fact that cults were a norm was a problem in itself) or magical signals, they had all given up and told him to just accept that Gotham was just a little unfortunate and that maybe he should look into the more human elements at play here.
That’s the thing. Gotham was unfortunate. Really, really unfortunate.
Because there was a man who was just like any other. He had a job, a family and friends he saw every other day. Then one day, Gotham’s curse struck and the man tripped on some stairs, breaking his leg on the way down. He didn’t have health insurance and the medical fees took out a huge chunk of what little savings he did have. To make a bad situation worse, his boss wouldn’t accept a broken leg as an excuse for not going to work.
He had a broken leg, little savings, and no job.
The curse of misfortune hanging over his head may have dissipated when he tripped but that did not mean the misery ended there. The man still had rent to pay, a family to feed, and a life to live. His leg healed but no job would hire him.
But rent was due in a week, please, I’ll do anything. My little girl won’t survive on the streets.
He had a gun that he never planned on using. The first shot was an accident, and the second was because the husband had screamed and lunged at him. He almost pulled the trigger a third time but ran with the stolen goods instead.
He’s the same age as my little girl, what have I done?
He did what he thought he had to. He had a family to feed.
A curse befell the man and he befell another family.
And, yes, there were very real human elements at play here. If the man had health insurance or the health care system were not so predatory, he wouldn’t have lost his savings. If he was protected by a union, he wouldn’t have lost his job. If the man was given support at any point, he wouldn’t have felt so desperate that he resorted to mugging.
But, in the end, it all began with a broken leg.
Because the man was just like any other. He had a job, a family and friends he saw every other day. He was only one of many. It was just one unlucky event that spiralled into tragedy.
Unlucky events happened a lot in Gotham.
But no one would believe Bruce when he said Gotham was cursed. Not even when he could see the mist of misfortune hanging over the head of the next victim. Not even when he could accurately predict when the person running across the park would trip. Because no magic user could detect anything and really, Bruce, humans were responsible for their own shittiness.
Yeah, but maybe they would be less shitty if they weren’t so unlucky all the time.
Bruce stopped telling people about the curse and resolved to deal with it himself. Because Bruce knew that the curse was real – he could fucking see its goddamn mist every time he step foot outside the house – and it was rotting Gotham at its core, the very people that called the city home. So, he researched curses in his spare time, explored every nook and cranny of Gotham, delved into her history and looked for anything, anything that could destroy the fucking curse.
He found nothing, of course, until he met Amaya.
It was another standard if uneventful patrol. Batman perched on a gargoyle, peering down from his vantage point to observe two drunk frat boys lighting a blunt behind the dumpster. The tallest of the boys was surrounded by a light mist that Bruce knew meant that he was likely to trip in the next few hours. The other boy was entrenched in a heavier mist; he was almost guaranteed to stumble into something dangerous.
Batman wanted to be there when it happened.
A middle-aged woman in her mid-fifties stepped out of the bar, wrinkling her nose with distaste and dabbing at her green cardigan, muttering to herself. Bruce could barely make out what she was saying under the dim lighting of the bar’s exit. “Should have known not to be near him while he was cursed to trip. Stupid. I should leave this cursed city before it sinks its claws into me.”
Bruce twitched. Did he read that right?
“Young lads,” she called out to the frat boys, loud enough that Bruce didn’t need to read her lips to understand her. “Could you spare me a smoke?”
The boys glanced at each other and then back at the lady that looked like she belonged in a library or accounting office rather than outside a bar at 1 in the morning. The shorter boy shrugged and passed her his lit blunt. “It’s weed,” he told her bluntly.
“Yes, I am well aware. Thank you,” she said, taking a long drag from the blunt. “What are you lads planning on doing tonight?”
They shrugged. “Just having some fun. Want to come with? Some of our mates are gonna hire a bouncy castle over at the East end. Sure they won’t mind a weed-smoking lady hanging ‘round.”
The woman chuckled. “No thank you. You boys have fun but do be careful tonight, you especially,” – she pointed at the shorter boy – “a mist of danger hangs over you and you’re likely to wander into something less than pleasant.”
The woman reached into a pocket and produced a mint. She blew a cloud of smoke over it. “Here, as thanks. I’m not sure you need it considering a watchful eye follows you but it never hurts to be careful.” The woman looked up and curled a smile, looking directly at where Batman was hiding in the shadows of the gargoyle. Bruce was careful not to react.
The boy received the mint with a confused grunt. “You a witch or what? My mama’s aunt was a witch and she told her to avoid mangos or something bad will happen. The day she ate one, she met my Pa and Pa’s a piece of shit but Mama said it was a blessing anyway because she had me.”
The woman chuckled, “I’m a witch but not that sort of witch. It’s up to you whether or not you eat the mint.”
The boy looked apprehensively at it but when his buddy tried to snatch it for himself, he popped it into his mouth in a fit of possessiveness, grinning triumphantly as his friend pouted in defeat. That same friend tried to swing his arm around his shoulders but misjudged and ended up tripping over his own feet. The faint mist hanging over his head dissipated as he climbed to his own feet.
The boy laughed at his friend’s disgruntled appearance only to end up accidentally swallowing his mint. The heavy mist surrounding him also disappeared.
Bruce tried not to gape. With the level at which the curse clung to him, the boy should have had the misfortune to run into an active crime scene, not something as simple as choking on a piece of mint. He’s never seen something like this happen before. Usually, with curses that thick, the victim either rids the curse by using up all the misfortune in one fell swoop or small unlucky things happen to them until the cloud dissipates.
It wasn’t the mint that did this, Bruce knew. It was the woman. The self-proclaimed witch. She was still looking at him, taking another puff out of her blunt and smiling warmly like a mother to a child. There was something about that woman that seemed… otherworldly. It might’ve been the lack of reaction to the frigid Gotham winter, the conspicuously missing alcohol stain on her cardigan or the fact that she knew about the curse. She didn’t speak of it the way people liked to mock Gotham but with a surety and specificity that indicated that she knew.
Bruce has never met someone that knew before.
For the first time in a long while, Bruce felt the ghostly tendrils of hope gripping his heart.
He wanted to speak to her without the burden of trying desperately – to no avail – to prove that the curse existed. He wanted to discuss the stranglehold it held over Gotham without feeling like he was screaming at a brick wall that refused to listen to him. He wanted to question and finally have someone answer him back. He wanted to talk and be met not with doubt and pity but with understanding.
Batman kept silent and followed the woman as she made her way downtown, through the many alleyways, across the street and into an old building. He observed from the roof of the apartment opposite, taking in all the magical wards and alarms. Powerful wards that wouldn’t let Bruce in.
The woman unlocked the door to her building and looked over her shoulder. There was an amused smile on her face as she waved at Bruce.
He didn’t wave back.
He saw her again the next night. She was removing the curse on a tipsy woman who had shared a half-eaten doughnut with her. Two days after that, Bruce witnessed the middle-aged woman ruffle the hair of a little girl and removed the curse on her mother.
Each and every time, she would notice him watching her and wave at wherever he was hiding.
Finally, after one week, Bruce got tired of wondering what the hell her deal was – how was she removing the curse on so many people? He dropped down in an alleyway in front of her and loomed menacingly in the shadows.
“Batman,” the woman greeted with a grin, not at all affected by his theatrics.
“How do you keep dispelling the curse?” he asked curtly.
“I am the ancient witch Amaya; the curse may be powerful but so am I.” She spoke with a level of nonchalance that lent well to her claims but false bravado was a powerful tool; Bruce would know, he employed it daily.
“I’ve never heard of you before,” Batman growled low and deep, just to see if he could unsettle the ‘ancient witch’. Bruce knew many magicians – powerful magicians – and they knew other magicians. If such a witch existed, how could there not even be whispers of her in the magic community?
Amaya was unbothered by Bruce’s posturing. “I’m a nomad. I never stay long enough for people to learn my name.” She smirked, “I’m not in the habit of advertising my Gifts either.”
“And yet you’ve introduced yourself to me,” Batman grunted, slightly more conversationally.
“I was curious about what kind of man protects a city as cursed as this one. You have got to know how fruitless such an endeavour is, especially considering you can See the curse undoing every bit of good you do.”
“If it was pointless, why did you help three people this week alone and remove their curse?”
“They have shown kindness to me and I acted in turn. Temporarily dismissing the mist is nothing for a witch as powerful as me.”
“And how exactly did you do that?” Bruce asked.
“I gave them a minor blessing. It cancelled out that curse.”
“A blessing?” None of the magicians he knew could pass on blessings. That was something that strayed into the realm of gods.
“Yes, it’s rather unreliable at the best of times but they’re useful when it comes to curses.” Amaya snorted and added, “With how thinly spread this curse is, parlour tricks are enough to dispel it.”
Bruce frowned. Parlour tricks? A curse that confounded him for decades was neutralised by a simple parlour trick. “You said it was a minor blessing. That implies the existence of stronger blessings.”
“Oh, yes. I’m not capable of performing them but they do exist. Herbology and the likes are more to my style. I mainly learnt the minor blessing as a good luck charm of sorts.”
He deflated slightly. Bruce had been hoping that Amaya would be able to cast a stronger blessing on the entire city to rid Gotham of the curse once and for all but of course, it wouldn’t be that simple.
“Do you know anyone capable of performing a strong blessing? On a citywide scale?”
Amaya shook her head with a sad smile. “It will not work, not in the way you think. Blessings only get rid of the curse temporarily.”
“Even so, it will be gone for a while. That means fewer people losing their lives over a bout of misfortune. People shouldn’t be driven to desperation over loose bricks and uneven stairs.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” Amaya whispered. She sounded compassionate in a way Bruce didn’t expect a supposedly ancient being to be. In Bruce’s experience, those who had lived longer than countries have existed tended to be more jaded and apathetic to the suffering of the masses.
Amaya suddenly looked right into Bruce’s eyes, searching for something on his half-concealed face. “Tell me, why do you go out every night, fighting for a city that spits in your face?”
Bruce took a deep breath. Many have asked him that since he began his crusade but did he really need a reason to fight for his home? Did he actually need a reason to protect the people he shares a city with? Gothamites were hurting and Bruce had the will and the means, so why not?
“I do not do this for recognition or gratitude. I fight because Gotham may be cursed in both a literal and figurative sense but she is my home and she burns with ferocity like no other. People call her toxic; they say she’s a cruel and callous mistress but I know she’s as kind as the people that live within her borders. Her people are stubborn and there are fires in their hearts that keep the city glowing with life. They’re beaten and bitter but they live; they cling to the mortal plane and they survive.
How can I see this and not help? How can I listen to their song and not sing back? They are worthy of protection and if I can help keep their fires lit for just one extra day, then every drop of blood I shed for them is worth it.”
“Just one extra day, huh? Is that truly enough of a reason?”
“She’s my home. Do I really need a reason?”
Amaya laughed, the sound of her joy echoing in the empty alleyway. “You’re right. No one needs a reason to defend their home but rarely do they actually do it to such a degree. You’re one special lad. It’s no wonder the city elected you their prince and knight.
Bruce suppressed the instinct to flinch. There was only one Prince of Gotham and that was Bruce Wayne.
“I encountered your civilian ID in public and recognised your aura. No two people have the same auras, Bruce,” Amaya explained.
Bruce grunted. There was no defending against the magical ability to see auras. Bruce fucking hated magic. “It’s Batman while I’m in the suit, please. And I am no one special. I am just someone that doesn’t want to see another child orphaned senselessly.”
The witch smiled again, amused. “Not just anyone can do what you do.”
Bruce huffed. “There are seven others doing more than I could ever dream of.”
“It is not the same. You see her curse, they do not.” You know how truly fruitless this all is, she didn’t say but he heard nonetheless.
Bruce hesitated, “Do you know the reason why I’ve always been able to see it?”
Amaya took one step closer to Batman and placed a hand over his heart. “Gotham beats in your chest. She’s in your lungs and the blood coursing through your veins. You see her light and with it, her suffering too.”
He clasped her hand gently and whispered, “How can I ease her suffering?”
He wanted her to tell him, hand him a solution on a silver platter, and guide him to an answer that would finally free them from this cloud of misfortune hanging over their heads. Because Gotham’s had enough of misery. She deserved better. They all did.
“It is a very old and powerful curse,” was Amaya’s non-answer.
“That doesn’t mean it is unbreakable.”
“It will be difficult.”
“Nothing is too difficult for her.”
“I do not yet know the price.”
“I will pay what is necessary, nothing is too precious to lose. I’ll give my life for her. I’ll do anything if it means Gotham can breathe easier.”
Amaya searched for something in his face again and whatever she saw turned her face regal and solemn. She looked every bit like the ancient being she claimed to be. “If you truly wish to free Gotham from her curse, I will help you, Bruce Wayne. I swear on my magic.”
Nothing of note happened visually but Bruce could feel the weight of her oath settle over his chest. He knew he could trust her. Amaya would do everything in her power to help him break the curse. “Thank you.”
The corner of Amaya’s eyes crinkled and the woman let out an amused huff. “Don’t thank me yet. We don’t start until tomorrow.” Amaya pressed a key into Bruce’s hand. “Come find me at my apartment at 7 pm. Come as yourself. We’ll discuss what needs to be done over dinner.”
Bruce nodded and shot his grapple up at the rooftop, disappearing into the night. He returned to the cave, thrumming with energy. Someone believed him! They knew the curse was real! They were going to break it together! Bruce had to tell someone–
…Bruce had no one to tell it to.
Ace came bounding down the stairs and rubbed his head against Bruce’s side. Bruce grinned and squished Ace’s cheeks in between his hands. “We’re going to break the curse, Ace. Then, Gotham will be free,” he announced breathlessly.
The bat-hound barked, tail wagging excitedly behind him. He didn’t really know what was going on but Bruce was excited so Ace was excited too!
The good mood followed him through to the next morning – even the drab meeting didn’t put a damper on his mood. If anything, Bruce’s mood improved. He got to see Tim and exchanged nods with him, left some lunch at his desk that Tim was too preoccupied to notice, and signed a business deal that would help thousands of people. Things were going well.
It was only when he was home again, playing with Ace in the backyard, that Bruce paused to think. Am I too hasty right now?
He didn’t feel like he was rushing into things. After all, Bruce had been seeing the curse his entire life and had been plotting to destroy it since his teenage years. He was an adult now, turning thirty-nine in a month, and felt like it was about time he made some fucking progress. He’d exhausted all other options so why shouldn’t he grab the first hand offered to him?
Bruce didn’t have much to lose and Amaya had sworn to help him – he felt the vow settle in his soul and knew it to be true. He thinks she is trustworthy. He wants to trust her. She’s his only hope.
Bruce changed into inconspicuous clothing and drove his undercover car to Amaya’s apartment. The key that Amaya had given him served a dual purpose of bypassing both the door and the wards.
“Evening, Bruce,” Amaya greeted him as he stepped into her home. A nice herb scent combined with the rich scent of tomatoes and seafood wafted enticingly throughout the apartment.
“Amaya.” He nodded.
“I made some paella. I hope you like it.”
“Thank you, it smells delicious,” he politely told her. Batman may have had little to no manners but Bruce’s were ingrained in him. He took a seat in front of a plate and waited for Amaya to get settled.
“Before we discuss anything, I want to know what you know of the curse. What have you researched thus far?”
“I pursued both magical and historical avenues when researching this curse but thus far, I could only roughly estimate when the curse had a tangible effect on Gotham. I believe roughly two hundred years ago, crime rates in the city began picking up at an alarming rate, while at the same time, the wealth disparity between people saw a large increase. The journal of one of my ancestors supports my suspicion, wherein they document the downfall of an up-and-coming family, a tragedy that began when a loose brick resulted in a gargoyle falling on the head of the family.”
Amaya hummed in consideration. “In that case, it must be at least three hundred years old.”
“Can the strength of a curse grow with age?”
“It depends.” Amaya took a moment to sort her thoughts. “Curses are built on intent. They tend to die with their intended target or deteriorate over time if they are not constantly being fueled. This curse – it feels like a grudge, likely one cast with one’s dying breath. Its caster knew they would die before the curse could actually do anything so they crafted it with the intent for it to feed off of the grudges of others, fueling its power and gaining strength over time. It is likely why other magicians cannot sense it either. The caster knew that the curse at its infancy could be easily undone so they ensured it would be invisible.”
“What would have been the cure for the original curse? Would we be able to do the same thing but on a larger scale?”
Amaya laughed good-naturedly. “I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that. The curse has evolved to the point that it's completely different from the original curse. It still functions the same, but its core has been tempered with age and the grudges of millions of lives.”
Bruce grunted. It had been wishful thinking on his part but he just wanted things to be easy for once in his goddamn life.
“I can try unravelling the invisibility portion of the curse. It would be nice if other magicians help to research it.”
Bruce nodded. It would also be nice to see the looks on their faces once they realised that Bruce had been right the entire time.
“Well, that’s enough curse talk for tonight, I’m afraid this will be a long journey. How did you like the paella? I see that you’ve almost finished your plate. Would you like more?” Amaya asked, like a nosy abuela intent on fattening up everyone she saw, regardless of their size and weight. Abuelas never believed you ate enough.
Bruce looked down at his plate and to his shock, he did indeed almost finish his meal. He hadn’t even noticed that he had been eating so fast.
Before he could decline a second portion, Amaya scooped some more rice and seafood on his plate. “Eat up, don’t be shy. Running around like you do all night is sure to consume a lot of energy. Do you even eat enough at home?”
Bruce absently nodded, having a gut feeling that no matter what he said, Amaya wasn’t going to be satisfied. “I make sure to eat before and after work.” Amaya made a face like she was displeased and Bruce hurriedly added, “I drink a lot of protein and nutrient shakes too so I’m always full of energy.”
It didn’t work.
“That is not enough, young man. A growing man such as yourself should have at least three square meals a day if not five. Do you even eat home-cooked meals? Don’t tell me you eat takeaway every day.”
Bruce gulped. He did eat takeaway frequently, only cooking when he was in the mood for something specific. He couldn’t even say he purchased food from good restaurants. Bruce mostly let Ace guide him to any random restaurant when they went out for walks. “I will start cooking dinner for myself from now on,” he said to placate her.
Amaya narrowed her eyes at him. “Alright-”
Phew. Bruce felt relieved and then felt odd for feeling relieved. Why was he so nervous about this woman he had only spoken to once before worrying about what he ate?
“-But! You must eat dinner at my house whenever we meet up to talk about the curse. Bring your dog too. I want to meet him.”
“How did you know I had a dog?” Bruce has never told anyone about Ace in the five months he had him.
“I’m an ancient witch. I know things.” Amaya smiled but there was a glint of mischief in her eyes that Bruce didn’t trust.
“I have dog fur on me, don’t I?”
She laughed. “Yes, all over your pants leg.”
“Lovely,” he sighed. Bruce turned his attention back to his plate and started eating again to hide the flush of his cheeks. He was one of the world’s greatest detectives, he should have known even before he asked that first question.
They discussed some logistics and decided to meet up at Amaya’s house once a week to discuss what little progress they’d made or simply have dinner together. Bruce left an hour later, well-fed and feeling lighter than he had in months.
The week passed by at a snail-crawling pace. Bruce had gone through his routine – work, home, patrol – with thoughts of the curse, its cure, and his new ally Amaya at the back of his mind. The only time he took his mind off of it was when he wished Cass a happy birthday but other than that, it was all about the curse and Amaya.
Finally, it was Friday again and Bruce drove his car down to the witch’s apartment with Ace in the passenger seat, head stuck out the open window and happy to be out.
Amaya opened her door with a warm smile. She smelt of sage and rosemary, presumably emanating from the herb stains on the hem of her sleeves, or Amaya had simply worked with herbs so frequently that the smell became stuck to her skin and hair. She ushered Bruce and Ace in, cooing over the dog and interrogating Bruce over what he’s eaten since she last saw him a week ago. This time, Amaya kept the conversation light over dinner and only started speaking of the curse when they were finished eating. (She bullied Bruce into eating three servings again; Bruce could never say no to well-meaning abuelas.)
“I haven’t been able to undo the invisibility of the curse. However, I spent time getting a sense of the curse and I can tell it has no physical totem. It’s a mist floating about causing misfortune. I believe that in order to dispel this curse, we must find a way to create a vessel for the curse to inhabit and then destroy that vessel, ridding Gotham of it once and for all.”
Bruce felt his heart picking up speed in his chest and willed it to calm down. It was too early to get excited.
“The problem lies in creating this vessel. The curse is powerful; it is bound to Gotham. It will not leave Gotham nor will it bind itself to anything not of Gotham. My everything, magic included, is not of Gotham. It will reject me. Bruce, I’m afraid you must be the one to create the vessel.”
“This vessel you speak of, will it not require magic in the process of creating it?” Bruce asked. Bruce was many things but he was not a practitioner of magic. No, he left that frustrating art to the professionals.
Amaya nodded. “I’ll figure something out. I’ve thousands of years under my belt, I’m sure a solution will come to me,” Amaya said with levity. Her absolute confidence did wonders in laying rest to Bruce’s concerns.
The conversation strayed from the curse to cooking and somehow Bruce left with treats for Ace and two recipes that Amaya swore up and down would blow his taste buds away.
It was two weeks later that they finally made progress on their investigation – or at least Amaya did; Bruce couldn’t help much when it came to magic.
Amaya spoke of a potion that would enable Bruce to take a part of the curse within himself, tempering it inside his body. The potion would then create a vessel that could house the rest of the curse which would then allow them to destroy it.
It sounded insane.
It was the only plan they had.
The potion had a lot of unpredictable side effects and by drinking it, Bruce was essentially cursing himself. It would be as safe as can be, Amaya had assured him. Bruce needs only drink the potion and lay low for a hundred days. Amaya would take care of the rest.
Bruce was apprehensive.
It was still the only plan they had.
They got started on gathering the ingredients.
It turns out that Gotham had some wildly delicate magical plants growing alongside normal, ordinary plants. Well, ‘delicate’ as in they lose their magic if you harvest them wrong. ‘Delicate’ as in you must follow these five specific steps or rage in despair and go on a wild goose hunt for another magic plant (that looks almost identical to normal, ordinary plants).
Yeah, Bruce was really loving herb harvesting.
And yes, he had to be the one to harvest the herbs. As Amaya had stressed over and over again, she was an Outsider and apparently, the fucking curse was xenophobic so Bruce had to be the one suffering these fickle magic plants. AND he had to dry the herbs he collected and Gotham didn’t have much sunlight but it was important to the magic or whatever that he left them to sundry instead of using the many, many tools he had in the cave so Bruce just had to pray to the gods for mercy and hope that the fucking rain didn’t ruin everything.
(And by Gotham, he loved the city, but it rained too often.)
It was two days after they began harvesting herbs that they realised a problem. Amaya was an Outsider. She couldn’t brew the potion. Bruce was a Gothamite. He wasn’t an apothecary.
…Bruce had to postpone herb picking for potion brewing classes.
It was a damn good thing that Bruce had similar skill sets under his belt already otherwise Gotham would have had to just suffer for the rest of eternity. It also helped that Amaya was a great teacher that was liberal with her praises. Bruce learnt the recipes for minor pain potions, minor injury potions and minor antidote potions in just one week. He was good enough that he was allowed to practise at home. Which he did. To the point that the cave was starting to smell like a herbal medicine shop. It was no wonder why Amaya always smelt faintly of herbs.
“Good evening.”
Batman spun around and found Amaya standing behind him with a wrapped box in her hands.
“Amaya. It is not Friday.” His tone was flat but there was a question in there somewhere. Batman did a cursory search for anyone in the vicinity and relaxed when there were none.
She grinned. “I am well aware. However, considering today is a special day, I thought I’ll make an exception and come see you.”
Bruce frowned, unsure of what she was talking about.
Amaya laughed. “Happy birthday, Bruce.”
Oh. It was his birthday already? That meant that it had already been over a month since they started their partnership. Bruce hadn’t realised it’s been so long. “Thank you. You didn’t have to,” he said as he accepted the box.
“No, but I wanted to.” Amaya silently told him to unwrap it so Bruce unravelled the ribbon and opened the box, revealing a soft blanket decorated with leaf patterns. He recognised them to be the same herbs used in minor healing potions.
“It’s enchanted,” Amaya proudly told him. “Guaranteed to always be perfect. It will always smell of herbs and will never be too hot or too cold. Nor will it be too small or too big. Always just right.”
Bruce quirked a tiny smile. He had been the type of kid to drag their blanket everywhere with them. It was the perfect gift for him. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
When Bruce went home that night, he checked the text messages on his personal phone. Dick, Barbara, Tim, Stephanie, Damian and Cass had individually sent a simple happy birthday text. People he knew as Brucie also wished him a happy birthday. He thanked them all one by one and went to bed.
Amaya was right. The blanket was indeed perfect, not too hot, not too cold, it was warm and just right.
When Amaya was satisfied with the quality of Bruce’s potions, they started herb harvesting again. As they went down the list of ingredients, Bruce once again realised how much he hated magic. Some of these herbs grew in the most arbitrary of locations! How is there a plant that specifically grows in churches that have stained glass ceilings? And why is there a plant that grows and dies at dawn every day? Fucking magic. Make it make sense. Please.
Bruce went home every day and screamed because he hated magic so fucking much.
And no, he did not care that he knew how to make magic potions now and that they were actually quite nice and convenient and Bruce was planning on keeping them in stock. All magic sucked and Bruce hated it. He’ll use magic with resentment and bitter rage.
He thinks Amaya is amused by his hatred if her laughter at his rants were anything to go by.
“You’ve not been going on patrol as often lately.” Barbara’s voice was level but there was a hint of steel in there that made Bruce think of an army commander. He would know; his Uncle Jacob was a military man, not to mention Alfred.
“Hnng.” Bruce was glad that the menu hid his face so that Barbara would not be able to see the surprise flickering through it. He had not expected anyone to notice his frequent absences considering Batman truly worked alone now but Oracle did specialise in information so it made sense that Babara knew.
(Maybe Bruce had just assumed she wouldn’t care to know. The Birds did much more for Gotham than Batman nowadays.)
Barbara rolled her eyes. “What have you been doing instead? I haven’t heard much from you for all of March. It’s the 22nd, Bruce.”
Bruce looked up at the menu he was reading and made eye contact with Barbara. There was curiosity and stubbornness in them that told Bruce Barbara would press if he tried to give her a non-answer.
He suppressed a sigh. It was rare that he got to have lunch with Barbara and he hadn’t wanted to talk shop today, especially not when the topic in question concerned the curse. No one liked listening to Bruce talk about the curse, especially his children and children-adjacent. They didn’t like to see Bruce being so ‘irrational’ about Gotham. He’s learnt to speak around the subject or simply lie instead.
Naturally, confronted with questions about his slacking as Batman, Bruce fell back on his ingrained instinct to hide and lie. After all, if he talked about what he was actually doing, these rare lunches would become even more infrequent, at least until Bruce proved that he wasn’t being ‘delusional’ again.
“I’ve been learning how to make potions,” Bruce told her, which was true but not the whole truth. He hoped that the shock of the confession would be enough for Barbara to back off. Bruce would hate to lose one of the few good things he was still allowed to have.
Barbara raised one eyebrow; it was almost as impressive as Alfred’s. At the thought of his former butler, Bruce felt pangs of sorrow hit his chest and had to drink some water to compose himself. Stupid. Alfred’s just retired. You have to stop acting like he’s dead. (Yeah, retired and no longer speaking to you, a small part of him whispered and he shoved it back into its bitter box with all his might.)
“Potions. You. You’re making potions. As in magic potions.”
“Yes.”
“You hate magic.”
Bruce nodded.
“Why so suddenly?”
Bruce shrugged. “Met a witch. She offered. It seemed like a good skill to have.”
Barbara’s face scrunched up as if she couldn’t possibly imagine Bruce making any sort of magic potion. To be fair, Bruce from two months ago wouldn’t have been able to either. “What kind of potions?”
“Standard things for minor wounds, pain and poisons.” Bruce looked up at Barbara and inclined his head slightly. He reached into his pocket and placed a few small vials of a purple potion on the table. “Apparently, they’re really good for menstrual cramps.”
He knew Barbara suffered from chronic pain but she was more touchy about that than she was about period cramps. Barbara had unfortunately learnt from Bruce to hide her pain and it was only her indignance at wider society’s tendency to avoid talking about periods in ‘polite company’ that led her to becoming more open about her cramps.
Barbara blinked with bafflement but pocketed it anyway. “Why do you have it on you?”
Bruce shrugged. Then, just in case, he deposited his antidote and heal potions too. You can never be too careful in Gotham.
On Easter, a child saw Bruce harvesting some herbs and mistakenly thought Batman was searching for some easter eggs. The little girl reached into her pocket and produced a chocolate egg wrapped in colourful foil.
“Here ya go, Batman. Happy Easter!”
Bruce, a little startled and more than charmed, softened his features and gently pressed the chocolate back into her hands. “That was very kind of you but I’m quite alright, thank you. It’s not easter eggs that I’m looking for.”
“Then what are you looking for?” she asked, frizzy red locks falling over her face as she tilted her head in a show of curiosity. It reminded Bruce of Barbara when she was young, back when he was still allowed to call her Barbie without risk of dismemberment.
“A dandelion with a red stem,” he replied, gently brushing her hair back. She allowed it and nuzzled her cheeks against his gauntlets with a giggle.
“Oh! I know where’s one. It was very pretty and was growing by the fence. I’ll take you there!”
The little girl grabbed Bruce’s hand and all but dragged him to a small fence, crouching as she pointed at the dandelion. “See! It’s red, like my hair!”
“Yes, it is.” Bruce took a close look at the dandelion and was happy to note that its leaves also had a slight red tinge to them. That was another magic herb crossed off the list. “Thank you, honey,” he told the girl.
She grinned, bright and unabashedly. “I’m just like Robin because I helped ya!”
Bruce felt a pang of familiar hurt in his heart but schooled his features into gentleness. “Thank you, little Robin.” He produced a cookie from a secret compartment in his belt and pressed it onto her palm.
The girl looked at the cookie with awe and took a bite out of it. “This is the bestest cookies I have ever eaten!” she exclaimed.
Bruce hummed and showed her a sandwich bag of five more cookies but held onto it. “Now, little Robin, care to tell me what you were doing by yourself so late at night?”
She looked at the bag and then back at Bruce again. The girl gulped. “I was tryna look for more easter eggs. In case the Easter Bunny hid some here.”
“Hn. It’s dangerous at night so let’s try to stay inside, okay? I don’t want to see a little Robin hurt.”
The little girl wilted guiltily. “I know, Batman. I’m sorry, I just really like chocolate. And Mummy has work ‘til late and Daddy’s sleeping and he’s always tired so I came by myself. I won’t do it again.”
Bruce pressed the bag into the girl’s hands. “As long as you know.”
He didn’t think much of the encounter for a week and a half until an Arkham breakout benched him with a sprained ankle. Amaya told him that the minor heal potion he’d been making could speed up the recovery but it would take an entire day. It was still significantly better than the natural healing process so Bruce begrudgingly admitted that he actually liked magic.
Anyway, with the unexpected downtime, it suddenly occurred to Bruce that the child was searching for easter eggs which meant that night was Easter which meant it was April.
Bruce usually didn’t think of the date. He cared about it in relation to cases and events but other than that, he lived life not knowing if it was Monday or Thursday or February or September. Dates didn’t make much of a difference in his life. He saw no need to be conscious of it as anything other than a method of establishing timelines. But time does still flow and anniversaries inevitably come around again. Frigid winter gave way to spring, Easter came and went, and before Bruce knew it, it was the last week of April again.
April was arguably the worse month to ever exist. It was supposed to be about spring and life. Instead, April was a harbinger of death and a time for mourning. The month was cursed. Jesus died in April. Bruce’s parents died in April. Jason died in April. Bruce always had bad luck during April too. His favourite ice cream shop closed down for repairs in April. The exclusive Grey Ghost merch he’d been eyeing sold out in April. The criminals got crazier too, as if possessed by the unholy spirit of the devil that April must be.
Needless to say, Bruce hated April. He wished it was never April. He would petition for it to be removed from the calendar but he was afraid no one would accept there being eleven months because eleven was a ridiculous number. (It wasn’t the nice number that ten was nor was it the neat dozen that was twelve. It was stuck in between; the inferior amongst two of the greatest numbers to ever number.) And Calendar Man might actually kill Bruce if he removed an entire month from the calendar. Bruce’s death was a worthy sacrifice if it meant April no longer existed but getting taken out by Calendar Man certainly wasn’t. If he had to die for his sins, Bruce wanted his death to be at least a little dignified.
Inevitably, the last week of April came around and Bruce found himself paralysed with grief. And he mourned. He mourned his parents and the life they could have had. He mourned Jason and the relationship they used to have. What they'll never have again even though Jason was alive again. He mourned and Bruce felt every little bit of the loneliness consuming his soul.
When May came, he picked himself up again and went back to single-mindedly harvesting herbs and practising potion-making. And then the world kept telling him it was Mother’s Day soon and everything came to a stall once more. Bruce spent the day by his mother’s grave with a bouquet of her favourite roses. There were a few others out visiting their mothers, familiar faces Bruce recognised over the years of visiting his parents’ graves. He gave them a respectful nod and politely looked away. These people shielded Bruce from the paparazzi’s scrutiny when he was younger, the least Bruce could do was give them some privacy as they visited their deceased loved ones.
“Happy Mother’s Day. I miss you.”
Bruce placed a rock on his mother’s headstone and left, barely spending more than five minutes at the grave. He never considered this place to be the real resting place of his parents despite them being buried here. As far as Bruce was concerned, his parents’ graves lay in Crime Alley and their spirits inhibited the mausoleum that was Wayne Manor.
Finally, at the tail end of May, Bruce and Amaya finished gathering all the ingredients for the potion. Bruce was a halfway decent potion brewer but still found himself doubting whether or not he could truly succeed.
“I trust you’ll be fine,” Amaya reassured him.
Bruce grunted. He stood in front of the cauldron and threw in herbs in the order he was taught, taking care not to put them in too soon or too late. Potion brewing was an exact science, just like chemistry. Mixing in two herbs that did not interact well before adding in a herb that neutralised that interaction would spoil the entire batch.
When the potion turned blue and let out a fragrant puff of smoke, Bruce knew it was complete. He distilled the liquid and bottled the end result so that he could present it to Amaya for examination.
She grinned, wide and proud. “You’re successful.”
Bruce nodded, relief apparent on his face.
Amaya’s face fell solemnly. She looked every bit the ancient witch she proclaimed herself to be.
“I will remind you that you’ll be cursed upon drinking this potion. It seeks to transform the curse that you will be consuming alongside the potion, hence transforming you too. What exactly you will transform into is unknown and I cannot hope to predict all the side effects that will arise from tempering the curse. None will be inherently dangerous but it will be chaotic, no doubt.”
Bruce grunted. He’d been giving the spiel before. Amaya had been reminding him of this at least once a week since they began working on the potion.
“In one hundred days, the potion will have completed its task, creating a blue gem that will crystallise above your chest. That shall be the key to undoing this curse."
Bruce swirled the potion in his hands. “How long do I have until I must drink the potion?”
"It's best to drink it as soon as possible but you have a week before it loses its effects. I recommend you drink it during the witching hour."
"I understand."
"I cannot guarantee that this will work, Bruce," she warned him once more, eyes gentle and warm, looking at him in a way that no one else has in a very long time. "It's not too late to back out. Gotham will be fine even if you don't do this. Her people are strong."
"They are, but they still shouldn't have to bear this," Bruce told her in a rough voice. He cleared his throat to shake away the fear leaking into it. "I'll do anything I can to help lessen the burden."
"You are of Gotham. She will protect you."
Bruce quirked a tiny smile, putting on a brave face for Amaya. "She always has."
“I’ll see you in a hundred days,” Amaya whispered.
“Yes,” Bruce whispered back. He swiftly left, the roar of the batmobile drowning out what remained of their whispers.
Bruce went back to the Batcave, returning to a deafening silence that didn’t actually exist. The cave had always been home to plenty of ambient noises. It echoed with the chittering of the roosting bats overhead, the humming of the numerous high-tech machinery and the drip drop of water from the stalactites.
Not today. Today Bruce exited the Batmobile to a silent cave. He couldn’t hear anything over his thundering thoughts and the steadily rising tempo of his heart.
Bruce had dedicated his heart and soul to Gotham, something like this, something as minor as this, was nothing compared to the suffering and anguish he may be able to spare his city. Yet, he was still hesitating, staring at the blue vial in his hands as if it was deadly poison and not the antidote he had worked tirelessly to create.
He could do this. This was nothing. Bruce had taken on fear gas and joker toxins. He could handle a brief period of not being himself. He could do it – if it meant Gotham and her people could breathe a little easier, he’d do it over and over again.
He placed the vial carefully on his desk and opened up his emails for Bruce Wayne and Batman. He had drafted the emails when they had first started harvesting herbs and had slowly been making preparations for his hundred-day-long ‘sabbatical’. Vague comments and allusions to his younger years spent travelling incognito alongside a slow withdrawal from all his responsibilities had ensured that Bruce wouldn’t be questioned when he stopped participating in society. He wouldn’t be inconveniencing anyone by suddenly not being there either.
He was ready to disappear. Just a click of the mouse and Bruce was free to be a ghost for as long as he wanted.
He clicked send.
Bruce slumped back against his chair as if all his energy was instantaneously drained from him. All from the simple act of clicking a button.
He took a moment to gather himself and pulled up the messages on his phone. He had no new messages. Of course he didn’t. The last texts he received were all from his children and they were text messages rejecting his lunch invites because they were too busy and had prior engagements.
Bruce understood. He really did. But it still would have been nice to spend some time with his children before he disappeared for a hundred days.
(He shouldn’t feel this upset about it. Bruce had been incommunicado with them for longer periods before. It was the norm as of late. This occasion was no different even though it oddly felt more final.)
Right as the clock turned three, Bruce removed his suit piece by piece with a reverence he seldom felt. The procedure was unintentionally ceremonious. The motions he had been going through for the last twenty years became a ritual and though he was the celebrant, Bruce felt more like the sacrificial lamb about to be surrendered to the mercy of the Gods.
With the suit neatly back in its display case, Bruce finally uncorked the vial of the potion. This was it. The moment of truth.
He raised the vial to his lips… Here’s to hoping. Bruce downed the liquid.
It tasted of nothing and everything all at once. Liquid flames scorched his throat as he swallowed, roasting his body from within and burning relentlessly with sadistic glee. Bruce dropped the vial to the ground and hunched over, clutching his chest. It was excruciating.
The fire spread to his chest and beyond. It felt like his heart was no longer his own, throwing itself against the side of his ribs, twisting and fighting to escape its fleshy mortal prison. His vision blurred and the persistent headache in his head grew until it felt like he was Zeus giving birth to Athena. He was melting and dissolving into nothing. Bruce couldn’t help it. He fell to the ground screaming.
Ace came running. The loyal hound had been worried since he came back, sensing Bruce’s anxiety and tried to no avail to comfort him. He sniffed disdainfully at the fallen vial and proceeded to ignore it. Ace barked and growled loudly to scare off the intruders that were obviously the cause of this but found no one.
Ace whined. Bruce was still screaming.
Bruce clawed his way into wakefulness and opened his eyes to Ace’s head resting on his arm. He ran his trembling hands through his buddy’s fur and snuggled closer to the dog’s warmth. His body still felt muscle-less, a puddle of gooey flesh shaped into a human form.
“Ruff!” Ace excitedly licked Bruce’s sweaty face and nuzzled against his hand for pets.
Bruce let out a rusty chuckle and hugged his little friend before freezing. He raised his hands to his face and marvelled at the sight of his drooping sleeves. He had prepared himself for no longer being him but no, Bruce was still himself, just a younger version. He became a child again! In both body and mind.
It was as if nine-year-old Bruce was transported into the future with all of Adult Bruce’s skills and knowledge. In fact, adult Bruce’s memories felt like future memories and in an instant, nine-year-old Bruce knew exactly what kind of man he grew up to become.
Tears poured unbidden from his eyes and hateful sobs wracked his body. Ace let out a long keen and Bruce hugged him tighter. “Sorry Ace, I’m just tired,” he apologised.
Bruce was a failure. A failure of a son, a failure of a friend and a failure of a father. He was a man that was simultaneously too much and too little. Obsessive, controlling and paranoid. Absent, unavailable and inadequate. Bruce was a flawed and broken man and he knew it but still did nothing to change himself.
His future self was exactly what he always thought he’d be. Alone.
Too caught up in The Mission, Bruce allowed himself to drive away all the people he loved. He was alone in a hell of his own making with no one to blame but himself. Bruce was fated to die a lonely death and was both blessed and cursed with the knowledge that no one would miss him when he was gone.
The second time Bruce woke up, he was considerably less tired and much calmer. His tears had long dried, leaving swollen red eyes and a hoarse throat in their wake. Ace was resting against his chest, keeping him grounded. Bruce took in three deep breaths and sat up.
He cringed at the feeling of cold sweat glueing his undersuit to his body. “Computer, what time is it?”
“It is 1:39 pm,” the Batcomputer answered in its synthesised voice.
So he slept through the night. The most he’s slept in recent memory; both nine-year-old Bruce and adult Bruce were not very good at staying asleep. Turns out that crying yourself to sleep worked wonders for insomnia though. Emotional catharsis and a good night's rest all in one.
Bruce shakingly stood up and stretched his still sore muscles. He had been magically shrunk and spent the night on the cave floor so it was no surprise that every little movement sent a stabbing pain throughout his body. He staggered forward and Ace immediately followed to support him. The big dog came up to his chest in height and was more than able to support his entire weight. Bruce might even be able to ride him like a horse.
He took another step forward and groaned before he could stop himself as more pangs of hurt assaulted his body. Bruce took in a composing breath and looked to Ace with a put-upon grin. “Do you think you can carry me to the bathroom?”
Ace let out a bark and crouched down as if to tell Bruce to get on. More than a little stunned, Bruce let himself fall down on top of Ace and the dog stood up, walking in the direction of the Batcave’s bathroom. Once again, Bruce marvelled at the uncanny intelligence of his dog. He had never taught him those commands yet Ace had understood them and was able to so easily carry them out. Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Ace was the Bathound; he’s beyond special.
“Good boy, Ace.” Bruce patted his dog on the head and let out a giggle at the answering bark.
The Batcave’s bathroom had a high-pressure shower and a large bath with an assortment of bath salts. Naturally, Bruce directed Ace to the bathtub, too exhausted to even consider standing under the shower for any period of time. He adjusted the heat of the water and sprinkled in some chamomile-scented bath salt. Finally, Bruce tore off his undersuit with much difficulty and melted into the bath with a relieved sigh.
Something interesting to note was that he no longer had the multitudes of scars that decorated his body. Bruce had never seen his skin so… flawless before. Well, he wouldn’t exactly call his scars flaws – there were quite a few that his edgy teenage self might call cool – but they weren’t exactly pretty either and were a constant reminder of near-deaths and unspeakable trauma.
He wondered if the potion did more than just shrink him; did it somehow remake his body?
After a good hour dedicated to mulling over his new situation in the bathtub, Bruce’s muscles were well and truly relaxed and his skin was beyond wrinkled.
He looked to the right. Usually, Alfred would set aside a bathrobe for-
Oh. Right. Alfred wasn’t here. He wasn’t Bruce’s butler anymore.
It felt like it was just yesterday when Alfred had wiped away his tears and promised to never leave him. That had been at the funeral over thirty years ago. Bruce remembered clinging onto the promise even as he spent sleepless nights at his Uncle Philip’s house. The current Bruce no longer had the luxury.
I hope you live a very long life, Mister Wayne. Goodbye, Sir. Bruce did not know what hurt more, that Alfred had called him Mister Wayne or that even after he quit, he never gave him the honour of being just Bruce to the man he considered a father.
(He knew that butlers call their young charges Master – Mister was for adults – but Alfred had always called him Master even after he matured into adulthood. He had a love-hate relationship with the address but Alfred transitioning to mister the moment he resigned was something Bruce had never prepared himself for. It had hurt more than the stab wound he had gotten the night before.)
Bruce scoffed despite himself, something bitter and pained that a child should not have been able to make. Fathers don’t turn in resignation notices. Then again, what did Bruce know about fathers? He was an insane child that grew up to become an insane man. He knew nothing about fathers. He just knew that there were no fathers in his life.
Alfred wasn’t a father. Sure, he raised Bruce from childhood well into adulthood and Bruce selfishly considered the man his father but Alfred was first and foremost the Wayne family butler. Bruce’s parents made it Alfred’s job to raise their heir and ever-loyal Alfred never willingly disobeyed an order, even when it came from the dead. So, no, Bruce was not Alfred’s son. He was Master Bruce, always Master, and Alfred was the Wayne family butler.
It was only a matter of time before he resigned and Bruce had always secretly braced himself for it. Still, it didn’t make it hurt any less when it finally did happen.
Bruce wasn’t a father. The kids were his children but Bruce was aware that it was one-sided. He was never their dad. He had been told as such many times before, often after screaming matches that resulted in his children storming out of his life once more. Bruce didn’t earn the title and though a boy called him father, he knew it was more formality than anything, an acknowledgement of one’s progenitor and nothing else.
The most Bruce could call himself was ‘mentor’ and even that was shaky at best. It seemed like Dick had taken even that role away from him.
Bruce hissed at himself. It was his own inadequacies that were to blame. He refused to place even the slightest bit of blame on his son, especially considering Dick had nothing to be sorry for. Bruce wasn’t good so Dick simply stepped up.
Drops of tears fell into the water and Bruce vehemently scrubbed them away with a scoff.
The self-pity was more than pathetic and quite frankly despicable. Bruce was… lonely, he would admit to that at least. However, he would not blame others for his solitude nor would he force companionship on other people. He knew he was not a very likeable man. He was all barbs and razor wire, an all-around asshole and a certified bitch.
There was a reason he was alone and that reason hasn’t disappeared along with his height.
Bruce emptied the bathtub and staggered over to the cabinet where his bathrobes were stored. His favourite fluffy magenta robe was comically large on him, sagging from his shoulders and dragging on the floor like a wedding gown. He looked like a child playing dress up, a fitting metaphor for how he felt most days.
Be it the tailored suits of the playboy Brucie or the kevlar armour of the Gotham Bat, Bruce was always wearing clothes that felt too big for him, always playing a role that encompassed more than just Bruce. Perhaps this time his role was a ghost or relic from the past. He sure felt like a spectre haunting the manor.
As his thoughts veered towards unwelcome territory once more, Bruce whistled a sharp two-tone tune that told Ace it was time to eat.
Ace barked excitedly and ran circles around his feet, causing Bruce to stumble and fall onto Ace’s back. As Bruce steadied himself, Ace bolted towards the lift, slamming the button Bruce had built for the dog on a slow day with his paw. Bruce patted his companion indulgently and properly saddled Ace’s back, humming as he rode his way to the kitchen.
Adult Bruce had made a chicken caesar salad for dinner yesterday but he hadn’t felt like eating much so three-quarters of the meal was still in the fridge. It was more than enough to feed the current Bruce, considering his much smaller stature. Ace, the clever dog, led him directly in front of the fridge and Bruce opened it without getting off of him. After Bruce got his meal, he directed Ace to his food bowl and sat down next to it. Bruce pressed the button that released kibbles into the bowl and patted Ace on the head.
“Let’s have fun for the next hundred days, Ace.”
At the ensuing bark, Bruce grinned and rewarded Ace with a slice of chicken.