“Thanks for the help,” Batman said stiffly. It was weird to hear his voice low and gruff, after the high-pitched chirping he’d been stuck with as a bat.
“No problem,” Gunn said. “You’d have done the same.” He would have; Gunn had gotten to know Batman, enough to know he wasn’t a murderer like the police claimed, know he was one of the good guys. Whatever had gone down the night Dent died, the official story wasn’t it. “You ever have problems with magic or demons, call me.”
“I work best alone,” Batman said.
“Right,” Gunn said, thinking of Alfred and Fox and the Bat’s rumored partnership with Commissioner Gordon. “You don’t have to worry about me saying anything; I know some things should stay clear of the daylight. Even when they’re on the side of good. Sometimes fighting the good fight means doing things people on the outside don’t understand.” He shook his head, thinking of his time at Wolfram and Hart.
“I know,” Batman said. He shifted slightly, almost uncertainly, but didn’t say anything further.
Gunn waited. “I’ll see you around,” he said at last, and walked off. One brooding, emotionally distant hero was enough for a lifetime.