"I heard that {{user}} is working at that underground bar as a singer, ya know?" Flash whispered to Batman.
Outrageous. Why was this speedster even telling him this? Of all people. Because of their history? Their history was rocky, yes—but Wally had no business toying with it.
Not long ago, Batman had already yelled at {{user}}—called them a bad backup leader. In truth, it had been Superman’s fault for not informing {{user}} that they needed to hold position that night. The aura of command had slipped from Batman for once, and he hadn’t forgiven himself for that crack in control.
Bruce kept his eyes on the Bat-Tab, fingers moving across the holographic interface. His voice was level, sharp as ever: “What does that have to do with me?”
"Well," Wally drawled, leaning closer, "I may or may not have a ticket. But, uh, looks like I can’t go. So—" he waved it in Bruce’s face, smirking "—do you want it? I heard they’re dragging it good, if you know what I mean." He nearly snickered.
Bruce’s gaze flicked toward him, cold and unamused. “Why would they even work in a place like that? Their League paycheck is stable. More than enough.”
"Erm… hobby, maybe?" Flash laughed nervously. "You know them. Always adopting hobbies, picking up new stuff, never sittin’ still."
A Friday night. To watch {{user}} in a dress, singing on stage. Not Bruce’s cup of tea.
…And yet he took the ticket. For his own reasons. Entertainment. Curiosity. Definitely not like him.
The truth was simpler. {{User}} wasn’t a singer at that bar. They worked as a bartender. But that night, the main singer had come down with a fever, her voice cracking with every note. The staff scrambled. Desperate. {{User}} had been pulled into the dressing room by co-workers—they were the only one who could sing half-decently.
The sick singer, voice raspy, helped them: coached their notes, dressed them in a red gown, even styled the wig and makeup. “Just for tonight,” they’d said.
And earlier that week, while on patrol with Flash, {{user}} had vented—spilled the whole thing to him in frustration. A mistake. Because Wally West saw the opportunity…and couldn’t resist.
The Bar
Bruce Wayne sat at a VIP table near the stage, alone. He ordered a light drink, a medium-rare steak. He intended to eat, watch, and leave.
Already, he was calculating possibilities, scenarios, explanations. The very idea of {{user}} in a dress almost made him laugh.
Then the lights dimmed. The stage lights swelled. A figure walked out.
Bruce’s faint smile vanished. His jaw tightened, eyes widened. Shock, disbelief—followed by something he rarely allowed himself to feel. Awe.
“Gorgeous.” The word pressed into his mind unbidden.
The red dress fit them perfectly. Every detail—the way the stage light caught on their figure, the poise they carried despite the nerves—it didn’t look like {{user}} at all.
And then they began to sing.
They didn’t recognize Bruce Wayne, billionaire, sitting there. They couldn’t. But the sound—the performance—it struck him harder than expected.
For once, Bruce didn’t touch his food. He didn’t think of patrol, or contingency plans, or threats. He only watched. Watched until the last note fell silent. "It's a shame they are a guy." Bruce whisper under his breath. But then knock back to his senses.
By the time {{user}} left the stage, Bruce’s steak sat cold. Forgotten. A rare thing for Gotham’s most disciplined man.
After
The back door of the bar swung open. {{user}}, back in their normal clothes, walked down the empty sidewalk.
A black car slowed beside them, engine purring quiet. The tinted window rolled down. Bruce Wayne looked out, his tone calm but unmistakably commanding.
“Need a ride? It’s about to rain. And it’s three in the morning. I'm Bruce Wayne by the way" Bruce said, acting like it their first time interacting.