The Symbol // Phan and Batman Crossover

Two

Phil Lester as Batman

Troye Sivan as Tim Drake

Anthony Padilla as Dick Grayson

Emma Blackery as Barbara Gordon

Connor Franta as Jason Todd

Bruce Wayne collapsed on his large chair in the Batcave, and let his long legs reside over the arm. Slowly, he removed his cowl and cape. The uncomfortable Batman suit came off as well, and with one push of his black hair, he was a vulnerable mortal man once more.

Batman was a symbol of hope and justice. To get the urge to have power over the city was one thing, but Bruce didn't feel like he controlled Gotham as more or less protected the weak. He wanted to give others a chance, a chance that they wouldn't end up like him, with some Joe Chill murdering their parents in front of their eyes at eight years old.

Sometimes he wondered, if he had respected his parents' wishes and stayed in that theatre for the whole performance, then maybe they wouldn't be gone. But as Lucius reminded him, their deaths weren't his fault.

As the material peeled off his back, it drew his attention to a harsh bruise over his right shoulder, where he had dislocated it. He winced. At that moment in time Alfred walked in, with a tray balanced on his open palm. Bruce didn't look up, but heard him approaching; he kept his whole control over his his wound.

"Hard time out crimefighting, sir?" Alfred asked, placing the tray on the table by his side. It held a collection of pills, a glass of cold water and another glass of scotch and ice. With a grunt, Bruce responded.

"Hmph," he replied, still not looking up with his pale teal coloured eyes, but reaching for the water. "The Joker attempted to hold up Merchants Bank with his crew and took several hostages, threatening to blow up the building if anyone but me tried to stop him. Crazy. It's also something to mention, but when I was fighting him he took out my shoulder. It hurts like hell."

The elder returned with medical supplies as Bruce took the pills and jugged the ice cold water.

"Sounds like a night, Master Bruce. I do hope the maniac is behind bars once more?" he murmured, in his articulate English accent. His silver grey hair was slicked back as always, along with his smart, everyday, black and white tuxedo.

Bruce scowled suddenly. "Unfortunately not, Alfred. Joker escaped before I could take him in."

"That is unfortunate."

The billionaire finally looked up, albeit with worry and a creased brow. "He's getting better at fighting, which is worrying - I could usually take him out with a few punches to the face without him fighting back this good." He took the supplies and stood up. "I'll need to start training a lot more if I still want to keep ahead of him."

Alfred scoffed and held his hands behind his back and tilted his chin up in a sophisticate manner. "Oh, just please don't train or go out fighting before your shoulder heals." He paused and concern also lined his face. "I don't want to see you getting hurt."

Bruce glowered and walked away. "I'm not going to get hurt, Alfred." He heard his butler sigh but continued to have his back to him as he went up the spiral staircase. It led him to a dead end and anyone else would turned on their heel, but he knew better, and turned to a wall that bore a delicate photo of the Bat family.

Batman stood in the center, actually smiling kindly for once, in the full suit, in a powerful stance. Robin, Tim Drake, was in mid-laugh with his blue eyes shut and mouth open, holding his stomach; he wore his old red, yellow and green outfit, with a silver R over his right pec, with the regrettable green tights. His short auburn hair was drooping over his forehead. He must have only been sixteen here. Dick Grayson, otherwise known as Nightwing, was trying to look badass, with only one hand running through his jet black hair and the other on his electric escrima sticks, with his dark brown eyes staring smugly into the camera. Nightwing wore a full body kevlar plated suit with a blue symbol reaching from shoulder to shoulder, and curving downwards at the chest. Jason Todd, the older Robin, was a shorter guy, with dirty blonde, shoulder length hair over to one side, blueish green eyes, and a suit similar to Nightwing's only with a red symbol across his shoulders. He was in his usual rebellious pose, grinning with his tongue out, flipping off the camera with a middle finger and thumb. Ace, the Bat dog, who lived with Nightwing in Blüdhaven, sat by the man. He was a completely black Doberman Pinscher. Barbara Gordon, who went secretly by Batgirl, pulled a peace sign. Her light reddish-brown hair was let loose out the back of her bat-themed cowl, which attached to her black cape, and a female version of Batman's suit. Batgirl's brown-green eyes were rolled up to the ceiling.

Bruce smiled, but exhaled sadly: it was an old photo and Barbara had since been shot through the spine and crippled by the Joker, making her the amazing ally known by Oracle. She was restricted to a wheelchair and tried the best she could to help Batman. Tim was now nineteen, and was still Robin - though he wore a dark red kevlar suit, hood and carried a bo staff - Dick was twenty-one and wasn't so close, choosing to fight crime in Blüdhaven, Barbara was twenty, and Jason had been violently beaten to death by the Clown Prince not long after the picture was taken. If he was still alive he would have been the same age as Dick, twenty one.

He pressed a single digit into Ace's nose and a moment later the fake wall slid aside.

Half an hour later, he was stepping out of the second floor shower, letting his thick, damp hair flop over to one side, and beads of water run down his neck and back. Bruce wrapped a towel around his lower half, before painfully, clicking his shoulder back into place. He bit down on his thin lip to stop him from yelling out. After two years of fighting crime, he still wasn't used to the pain. He put some salve on the few cuts lacing the wound, and struggled back to bed.

He hadn't dated since he became Batman, and had no wish to, so his bedroom was a place where he could be himself. There was a colourful blue and green cover on his bed, and it obviously wasn't made, with socks strewn around the floor. Alfred always complained to him about this, but Bruce had given him specific orders to never clean to room. Ever.

There were several lion plushies at the end of the bed, and on the drawers. The lion was his favourite animal - such a powerful, golden, natural born leader, and happened to be super fluffy. He just liked them.

It was almost one in the morning and he was exhausted, so he lay down. No sooner than he pulled the covers over himself to shut out the light, did he fall into a deep sleep.

And not once did he think of the Joker.