Gotham's morning was gray and clinging that signature blend of exhaust fumes, fried food, and a dampness that crawled up your spine. Nolan walked with his collar turned up, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. The cheap suit he wore clung awkwardly to his shoulders from last night's rain, but it did the job. It made him look like someone who belonged at least somewhat.
He stopped at a food cart just off Grant and 5th.
"Egg and cheese, extra hot sauce," he said, voice low.
The vendor nodded, tossing the folded sandwich into wax paper. Nolan handed over a crumpled five without making eye contact.
"You're a regular now," the guy said, smirking. "Want me to just start making it when I see you?"
Nolan gave a tight smile and walked off, unwrapping the sandwich as steam escaped into the air. His burner buzzed in his pocket.
He stepped to the side of the sidewalk, sandwich half in his mouth, and answered.
A nervous voice. Young. "Hey—uh, the guy from three nights ago? The one from the Rosedale job? He says someone's been sniffing around the safe house."
Nolan chewed, eyes scanning the street.
"Send two people. Move him out through the southern tunnel. Use the blind spot under the overpass, then reroute him to Sector Three."
"Got it," the voice said. "You sure he's worth the trouble?"
Nolan ended the call without answering.
He walked again. Crossed another street. The Apple Chat was just up ahead a little local café that somehow survived Gotham's churn. Warm lighting glowed behind the glass. He stepped inside, feeling the heat and scent of cinnamon punch him in the face. It was too nice in here. Too safe.
The barista looked up. "What can I get you?"
"Black coffee. No cream, no sugar."
He moved toward the pickup counter, still finishing his sandwich when he heard a voice — soft, familiar, and suddenly hesitant.
She was standing by the cream station, holding a paper cup, expression caught somewhere between surprise and caution. Maria. Same dark curls, same lopsided smile — except the smile wasn't there now. Her eyes flicked over him, from the suit to the tired eyes, to the slight stiffness in his jaw.
"Maria," he said quietly.
"You—" she blinked. "I saw what happened. I thought you were—"
She didn't finish the sentence. Didn't have to.
They stood there in silence as the espresso machine hissed behind them.
She looked down at her cup, stirring it even though it didn't need it. "I thought you got arrested. I even asked around. But no one knew. And then…" Her voice dropped. "Then I heard what happened to Beckett."
He didn't answer. Didn't move.
"You… You don't look the same," she said, her voice smaller now. "You look… older. Like it's been years, not weeks."
Nolan took the coffee handed to him without looking at the barista. He held it like a shield.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Maria blinked again. "Sorry for what?"
He hesitated. "For whatever you're afraid of."
She looked at him sharply then. "Should I be afraid of you?"
He looked away, out the window. The city moved around them like it always had. Cars honking. Steam rising. Lives continuing.
"No," he said. "But you probably are anyway."
They stood in silence again. Just two people in a café, both trying to figure out who the other had become.
"Do you… need help?" she asked suddenly. "Like, real help? I know a couple shelters. Or—I mean, maybe someone to talk to."
Nolan almost smiled. Almost.
"I'm good," he said. "Better than I've been in a while, actually."
She nodded slowly, clearly not convinced.
"Okay," she said. "Well… take care of yourself, Nolan."
He waited until she left before he sat down in the back corner of the café, coffee still untouched.
He stared at the window for a long time.
In his head, he heard Quentin's voice, low and cold "She wouldn't survive two days in our world. You know you don't have to fall in love with the first girl that's nice to you in a long time you know?"
Nolan shook his head, "I'm not in love with her."
And for once, none of the other voices argued.
Nolan pressed his palms to his face, then dragged them down slowly.
It had only been a couple weeks.
But the version of himself she knew… he was already gone.
He stayed in the café longer than he meant to. Just… sitting. The coffee cooled. The sounds of steam and milk frothing blurred into the hum of background noise, and his mind drifted—past the conversation with Maria, past Beckett, past the blood and the concrete and the burner phones buzzing in his pocket.
Eventually, he stood. Tucked the untouched cup in the trash and stepped back into Gotham's cold wind.
The streets had filled up more. Midday traffic. More suits. More tired faces. Everyone going somewhere.
He didn't have anywhere to be, not right now.
Wound through side streets, weaving past vendors shouting about hot dogs and knockoff Gotham Knights jerseys. Passed a mural that had been defaced and redone so many times it was just a patchwork of color now. Walked past a bookstore with a cracked window. Then he stopped.
There was a newsstand on the corner.
He hadn't really looked at a newspaper in weeks. Maybe months, including the time back on his world.
His eyes skimmed the front pages.
METROPOLIS MIRACLE: SUPERMAN SAVES FALLING MONORAIL
The photo showed the Man of Steel hovering above the skyline, the glint of sunlight off his cape like something out of a comic book. There were kids cheering in the background. One woman crying with joy.
Nolan stood there, staring at it.
That guy could lift buildings. Fly through the sky. Stop trains.
He was out here juggling burner phones and bleeding men through hidden tunnels beneath Gotham's bones.
A laugh escaped him. Dry. Small. Like something cracking in his throat.
The vendor looked over.
"You want a copy or you just gonna stand there breathing on it?"
Nolan shook his head. "Nah. Just looking."
Eventually, he ducked into a small alley, took a breath, and leaned back against the wall. His hand fumbled for a cigarette, the last one he'd been saving, even though he barely smoked. Lit it. Let the burn settle into his chest.
He ignored Quentin's shouts of annoyance at Nolan stealing his cigarettes. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ NovᴇlFir(e).nᴇt
He watched the tip glow orange. Thought about that photo.
The guy who saves the world.
And here Nolan was, scraping together escape routes for men who just knocked over liquor stores and failed drug buys.
He didn't belong in that world.
But somehow… he was in it anyway.
He closed his eyes for a second. Just one second. Let the weight of everything settle over him like a second skin. The cold wind. The cement under his shoes. The echo of Maria's voice still in his ears.
He wanted to sleep for a year.
Instead, his phone buzzed again.
He sighed, flicked the cigarette into a puddle, and answered.
"This is the line," he said, voice low.
"Yeah. Uh. I need out. Tonight. It's bad. I don't got time to explain."
Nolan straightened. Pulled a small notepad from his coat and flipped it open, the pages already scribbled with routes and safe house codes.
"What's your location?" he asked, pen already moving.
The world didn't care if he was tired.