Fateful Beginnings

Fateful Beginnings

XXXI. “deflection”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce takes care of you.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, drugging, concussion

words: 4.8k

a/n: the title… did we really expect anything more from Bruce? 💀

“…Bruce Wayne?”

You sought to cover up your heaving chest, to close your wide eyes, to look any nanogram less suspicious than you did, but you needed to think. But you didn’t have time to think. Her eyes took an occasional pit stop on yours, otherwise they watched Bruce slowly go back to picking up the broken glass. There was no other way around it. You didn’t have a pretty way to say it, so you just did. “Yeah.” You gulped. “My phone, it, called him.”

The drum of pain in your head took a backseat to the adrenaline coursing through you. How disorienting is it for her to find out right now? Even with the drugs in her system, even after being pummeled into the concrete, you knew by the glint in her eye that she was drawing a list of ten thousand different questions to throw at you the second you were alone. You wondered how much the drugs lowered her inhibitions, and if she would risk asking you right then. How long have you guys been fucking, and how long were you gonna wait to tell me?

Bruce stood up, having successfully wiped enough of the biggest shards to direct his attention to the situation at hand. He smiled at her, only a bit. “Hi. You’re Y/N’s friend, correct?”

He wasn’t making this go down easy. He could’ve come in swinging with an explanation of why he’d dropped in, and would’ve made it look seamless. Why wasn’t he leveraging his charisma? Making things more and more suspicious, a grave you’d have to fight to dig out of?

She responded, without any body language indicating she was about to introduce herself. Still as a statue, like a deer in headlights. “Yeah. Margaret. Marie.” She waited a moment, then turned and stumbled back to your room with urgency. You carefully stepped around the glass and ignored Bruce’s hushed calls after you.

You shut the door, hoping the adrenaline would see you through the end of this conversation without passing out from pain. Quick steps caught up to you when you sat beside her; you desired nothing greater than to fall back on your pillow and sleep the night out of memory. Seemed like Bruce would never let you hear the end of it if you did. Something, something needed to monitor something, something concussion.

Surprisingly, she was angry yet restrained. You might’ve been in awe of it if she didn’t assume straightaway that you’d had less than pure intentions with the man. “When were you going to tell me?” Mar’s voice was still hazy, slurry, but her mission wasn’t. “Keeping the fucking boyfriend,” she paused, looking like she might throw up from the drug. “Of all boyfriends,” Sigh. “A s-secret.”

You started to disagree with her but she was forthright. “Too fucked to talk.” She shot you a glare and stood, walking slowly to the bathroom. You followed her, a silent agreement between the both of you to make sure the other was okay. She moved to the shower right after, and you felt a pull toward the kitchen to let Bruce know everything was all good—but you didn’t. You waited with her, got out a clean towel, and only left for a few seconds to grab her clothes once the water turned off and she was on the slip-resistant mat.

Once she was safely tucked into bed, you wandered back out to Bruce, who was sitting sunk into the couch cushions; he perked when you walked out, scooting to the edge of the couch. As far as asking about how the conversation went, it eluded him; it felt too self-indulgent for the circumstance. He did another glance at the whole of you before meeting your tired gaze. You noted the broom sitting rested against the counter.

You gestured back to your room. “She’s going to sleep.”

“You can’t check on her like that.” He saw the way you leaned against the fridge to steady yourself, and the fluttering of your eyelids every time you took a step or said a single syllable. “I’m staying.”

“No.” Shaking your head was a mistake; the room began to wiggle, and he stood abruptly before you held out a hand to keep him from walking over.

“And she can’t check on you.” His tone was firmly in hardheaded territory, ratcheting up a notch every time you refused to heed it. If you were any less encumbered by pain you would’ve told him off for being so autocratic. In lieu of an argument, you slowly balanced one foot in front of the other to sit on the far side of the couch. You pressed your head gently against the back cushion and wheezed–stomach sleeping tonight, I guess.

Like a goddamn seismometer, Bruce attuned to your every twitch and wince with precision. “I’ll run to get some meds.” He walked to the door and looked back, noticing you peer at him through sleepy, sore eyes. He’d have to hurry. In anticipation of your protest, he left speedily.

Relax… You shut your eyes and tried to make the room spin a bit less. With Bruce no longer polluting the environment, you were able to take some deep breaths that made you realize your stomach was cramping. You managed to get to the kitchen and grab a few slices of bread off the back of a loaf, and nibbled at them while you sat.

“Hey.” You awoke to a gentle tap on your shoulder. Bruce was standing with a plastic bag in one hand, a glass of water in the other. It freaked you out how quiet he could be. A just-opened bottle of Tylenol sat on the floor below him, the top punctured in the shape of his thumb. You slowly pushed up, the world even more bleary now that you’d gotten a nap in, and he handed you a branded pill. As you swallowed it he squatted and dug out an instant cold pack, rattling it and squeezing it before walking to the kitchen to grab a rag.

“Your head felt hot earlier. Might have a bump.” He handed over the cloth-wrapped cold pack and you settled it against your pulsing, aching scalp. After a minute it began to soothe the throb. You muttered a thanks and rested your eyes. On the precipice of dreamland, he startled you awake.

“Is there anyone you want to call?” He was at the kitchen counter removing the rest of the items from the baggie. You didn’t strain your vision to see what he got. “Someone has to check on you every two hours.” He turned and tucked something into the fridge, and moved the broom back to the closet. Seeing him navigate your apartment so seamlessly was disorienting.

You’d begun forming a sarcastic response before remembering you’d told him not to stay. The evening was shifting in and out of focus; you thought he was being too anal, but… ugh. He was right. Two people in different states of fucked up, the most conscious one with a head injury. It wasn’t overbearing, but he made it seem so.

For a split second you considered calling Rai; Mar and him had met briefly last year, twice or thrice while you were getting late-night snacks together after your edibles had kicked in, or coming home from a night out–but you didn’t want to bother him. It didn’t bother you to inconvenience Bruce.

The fridge light illuminated the back of his hand and you saw the thick scabs; he’d acted so normal tonight you’d forgotten all about it. Lost in your own attack. It would be nice to keep an eye on him, figuratively, as you were certain you were about to pass the hell out. You’d know his whereabouts. Be able to know if he freaked out. You wondered what Mar would think about having a strange man, a fucking celebrity she’d only seen in the news, wandering around alone while she slept vulnerably in the other room. It didn’t sit right. You needed to stay up.

You fought the sleep that tore at your eyelids and noticed him opening a Red Bull. You gestured to it and his brow furrowed. He held it up as if to ask, ‘this?’ and shook his head. “Caffeine isn’t good after a head injury. You need to rest.”

Your voice was muted, your body hurtling towards sleep. “She doesn’t know you.” The cold pack was helping quite a bit; that, or he got rapid-acting pain meds. Bruce looked down, seemingly in thoughtful consideration.

He knew what you weren’t saying. Only a willful idiot would argue about the implications of a man patrolling an apartment late at night; especially given the circumstances. He’d helped enough roofied women to know how wobbly they were; he’d overheard enough at the station (and personally stopped more than a handful) about how the men in Gotham orchestrated their assaults and scrambled the minds of their victims so they couldn’t properly testify. He remembered how still you’d gone after graduation. How you refused to be alone with him. Then, after the interview: how you’d lingered on every piece of his outfit and glanced to the corner of the alleyway to look for a street name.

“I don’t have anyone to call.” It was said sheepishly. Pathetically. At least, that’s how it sounded in your head. He mused a moment more and asked for your phone. “I can set it up to record video in the kitchen. You can turn it off when you wake up.” He walked over and held out his hand for it. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

If he weren’t Batman that would’ve raised your suspicions. If you hadn’t already spent multiple nights alone in his house without problems when he hated you, you might have hesitated more than you did. As it stood, you forced yourself to trust your body, trust what you knew of his record, and let yourself fucking rest.

He turned on the sound before hitting record, showing you he was pressing it and placing it against a cup on the stove. Luckily you still had your charger on the counter, which he plugged in, then sat at the table. Your eyes were heavy. You gave in.

“Hey.” You opened your eyes to see Bruce standing next to you, holding up four fingers. The black around his eyes confused you until you blinked a few. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

You murmured a response. “Four.”

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Okay.” He turned, and your eyes closed to the sight of his jacket.

“What year is it?”

You opened your eyes again. The room was a bit brighter now. “Uh, 2024.”

“What’s my name?”

“Bruce.”

“Good.”

You fell asleep again to the sight of his back, and the dense woven fabric of his jacket.

“Where are you right now?”

God, you were positively exhausted, and irritated as hell. “Couch.”

“Whose couch?”

“Mine.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

He held up a peace sign. “Two.”

He peered closer. “Let me see your eyes.” He grabbed his phone and shined the flashlight at your face, and you yelped. He startled. “Sorry.” He leaned closer and searched your irises, telling you to follow along with the light. You felt the soft breeze of his exhale on the tip of your nose. Satisfied, he turned it off and pulled back. You blinked as tears sprung to wet your eyelids. “How’s the ice treating you?”

You felt the mushy warmth of the ice pack, and slowly reached around to pull it out from under you. The rag was soaked with condensation, and you handed it off to him. “Fine.” You mustered the strength to roll over and quickly sank back into sleep.

“How many–”

You gasped and sat up, his perfect reflexes snapping to attention, narrowly missing his outstretched hand from whacking your forehead on the upswing. “Ow!” Your hand flew up to your temple and he reached below him for the glass of water and meds. “It’s time for another dose.”

You swallowed and gulped, and glared at him as you answered his finger questions. “Seven.” God! Your body was lit up with rage at having been interrupted; it was hard to shake, rattling around in your bones. SLEEP!

You felt a gentle tap, and when you opened your eyes next, your head wasn’t in excruciating misery. The room was brighter, even as the curtains had been closed, and you smelled burning. Mar grinned at you. “Whew, thought you might be comatose.” She popped the rest of her toast in her mouth. “You should probably wake up, it’s like three.”

Bruce rose from where he was at the table. Mar leaned in and whispered to you, and you strained to hear her. “He wanted to stay until you woke up. In case he needed to drive you to the hospital. Said after drugging and shit you can’t drive for like, a day.” She grinned to herself and held out her hand for you to take, her voice going back to normal speaking volume. “C’mon, I managed to make some pancakes with your empty-ass pantry.”

Why is she so casual about this? About being drugged? About being here? About him? “I uh,” You cleared your throat, your body existing in a strange liminal space between last night and healed. “I need help picking an outfit,”

She guided you to your room and you avoided looking at Bruce, now acutely aware that he’d spent the entire night basically staring at you sleep while you were covered in dirt and sweat. She shut the door and you plopped on the bed. She went to your dresser like you had actually meant it, not that you needed a moment alone. “Mar.”

“Hmm?” She spun around and looked at you for a second, her mouth curling into a smirk. “You little witch.”

“What?”

“I can see it.” She nodded to herself, sucking on her teeth to a smack at the end of it. Her hands gestured from you to the door and back, the mischievous smile crinkling her eyes. “You and him, him and you.”

God, when did she get so happy? You hadn’t known she’d be acting like it was her birthday the second she perceived you betrothed. “Are you good? Your body? Head?”

She continued on like you hadn’t spoken. Her singsongy tone and energetic posture answered for you, you figured. She paced the room with nearly a skip in her step. “Were you with him that one time, before Mora’s? Oh, I knew it!” She snapped her fingers and gasped excitedly. “Ooh, scandalous.” A lightbulb had gone off, apparently. She walked closer to you with her eyes wide, her mouth parted. “Sleeping with your client, I see.” She winked at you and gasped again. “That’s crazy. Ahh!!” She squealed and you shushed her, your ears going red. “Stop.”

“I can see why you wanted to keep it a secret.” She was practically hyperverbal, and you couldn’t see a way in that wasn’t physically closing her lips between your fingers. “People would assume you only got it because you fucked him. Which isn’t true, obviously. You can be a bomb journalist and still let yourself have fun.” She winked at you again and you wanted to vomit. “You trained him well, I gotta give you kudos. He wasn’t giving anything away.”

Your stomach did somersaults at the thought of her drilling him about whether or not you two were together. The knots were painful, not fun. “Mar.” You tried to borrow Bruce’s tone from the night before. It didn’t make a dent.

Her thoughts were getting away from her, all tumbling out together. “That makes sense, with that, yeah! And then… yup. And the staying in Gotham! Wow. Was that the night he officially asked you out? Did you give him an ultimatum? I feel like he’d be hard to pin down otherwise. God, fucking BRUCE WAYNE are you fucking serious!” She doubled over, giggling. Your chest panged not exactly as it had when you’d met your friends for coffee, but it was similar enough to sting.

“We’re not together.”

“Uh huh.” She winked again, waltzing back to the dresser. “Why else would he stay here all night worried about you? Comfortable enough for you to accept him staying over… yeah, yeah.”

“We are not together.”

“You have sweats, shorts, or leggings. What do you want?” She thumbed through your middle drawer.

“Look at me.”

She grabbed a pair of sweats and tossed them to your left on the bed. You glared at her. “I promise you, we are not, will not, will never be together.” You said it as loud as you could without risking him hearing. You didn’t want him knowing you talked about him. That you were still having to talk about this. That everyone in your life had been hounding him about your ‘relationship’, making it seem like whenever he left the room you couldn’t stop gushing. Now you were on damage control.

Mar took her phone out of her pocket and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Gianna is gonna pick me up.”

“Why ‘ugh’?”

She held up a black screen. “Phone’s dead. We’re gonna get some coffee and head back to her place.” She sipped on some water you hadn’t realized was sitting on your dresser. “Wanna come?”

Thursday. “No, sorry. I have work tonight.”

“You’re still going?”

“The candidates will probably be there. Can’t miss it.”

KNOCK KNOCK. Mar set down her glass and nodded to you, scooping up her clothes from the night before. “Thank you, for everything. Text me later. After you and Mr. Wayne get some alone time.” She winked again like she was doing you a favor, like she hadn’t heard anything you’d said, and walked out to the front door. She hesitated before opening it and turned to him. She said something you couldn’t hear and then pointed to your bedroom.

Bruce walked into your room with his eyes down and walked toward the far wall. Then you watched Mar open the door and leave, half of Gianna’s face in view before they left in a flurry of laughter.

You were the first to glance up, you thought, but he was already looking at you. He nodded. “How’s your head?” His voice had more roughness than even the weekend had given him, and you could only imagine it was from both having to stay up all night and the next day, and probably talk more than he ever had before. Mar was nothing if not an extrovert.

You carefully shifted in bed and cleared your throat. “Good. I mean. Hurts. But fine. Better.” You looked down again, his unwavering gaze settling onto you like a weighted blanket that was too heavy. “Thanks, again. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Said in the same no-nonsense tone. Like you were trying to say the Earth was flat. Like you were looking at a dog and calling it a cat, and he didn’t have time for tussling about it. He walked briskly past you and back to the kitchen, and you felt beckoned, with no signal from him to follow. You followed on his heels again, feeling a subtle role reversal. Now that your head was a manageable throb, you had all hands on deck to hyperanalyze his mental state.

Except, walking into the kitchen felt like being naked. He was putting breakfast away, placing the remnants onto a plate you assumed was for you. You noticed your phone sitting on the counter and reached for it; it was hot, and when you ended the recording you weren’t sure it would save a fourteen hour video. But it did. What fucking secrets did this hold?

Rip the bandaid off. “I see you met my friend.” Weird! Reroute! “She said you talked.” You instantly regretted opening the can of worms, not wanting to know, not wanting to discuss it…

He nodded as he rinsed off the pan. “She’s nice.” He pondered a second, as if deciding whether or not to share more. You bit your cheek. “Protective.”

You hoped he wasn’t aware of how red your cheeks were. She was gonna get a mass of texts later. Breathe. She was fucking drugged, maybe she didn’t even mean to be like that. The warm brick in your hands held the scripture, and you couldn’t stop the curiosity bubbling to hear what his take was before watching it back. “How so?”

Poking the bear was fun as ever, because he abruptly stopped cleaning and gave you a sideways look. He shrugged, then the absolute faintest of grins tugged the corner of his mouth. “Said she’d fuck me up.”

It was funny. He’d been the one to save you both from getting fucked up, and here your friend had come at four in the morning with her pitchfork.

The next part blurted out of you like an exorcism. You couldn’t bear the thought of him thinking he filled your thoughts when he was away, that you giggled into corners, whispering in the ear of whoever was nearby about your wildest dreams and fantasies. “I don’t talk about you, by the way.”

He looked at you, expression unreadable. He was quiet for too long, his hands slowing as he continued his wash and rinse. Buying time. As he clinked the last plate onto the rack, he sighed. You thought he might say something, but he didn’t. Now you felt embarrassed. “How are you doing?”

His face squished together, weirded out. “Me?”

Did you even have to say it? You let the silence sit, and he picked it up after a few orienting blinks. His intonation was more melancholic. “Fine.”

“Had any med side-effects?”

“Aren’t you the one who got assaulted last night?”

“I’m just asking.”

He shut off the water and dried his hands on the kitchen towel. A single patter registered as your gaze tore away from its fibers. It was still bizarre to have him be here. Touching normal things. Brought right back to the Bruce you conceptualized prior to the attempt. Was that version of him gone now? An event like that had to be perspective-shifting, right? A life ready to end, could’ve ended, but here he remained. Or were you entirely off-base?

“Thought we were past that.”

“What?” Your thoughts were a maze. He rolled the top of the flour down and clipped it. He peered at you suspiciously, his movements a bit jerky. “Pity.”

“I didn’t realize it was pitying to ask about medication.”

He changed the subject entirely. “Got in contact with Gordon. Guy’s in custody.”

“Who is he?” You grabbed the plate and started chewing on some toast. You were getting tired of only eating bread.

“Lee Miller. Former graduate student at GU.”

“Former?”

“After last night.”

Damn. A perp getting actual consequences? Per usual, he stared at you, confused. Your reactions were always unexpected.

“You look shocked.”

“Thought he’d get a slap on the wrist.”

“At minimum it’s assault. Likely a felony.”

He had so much to learn. “Maybe I should write about it.” You set down the stale bread and started on the pancakes. They were cold and chewy. “Horrible Man Faces Consequence for Horrible Actions”.

Bruce sneered. He again looked like he would respond, but didn’t. The next minute passed by in brittle silence. He finished putting everything away in the pantry, cupboards, fridge. You felt strapped to the floor, your heels nailed in one place. When he stood and didn’t do anything, lingering, a brutal emotional flashback gripped you. You swallowed back tears. Tucked your thumb into your palm to grip it. You could barely breathe. You asked again, imploring honesty. “How are you?”

The air between the two of you was tight. The longer he didn’t answer the more anxiety boiled up into your throat and flushed your cheeks. You started to sweat, your forearms flushing cool, a flash of prickling heat. You couldn’t feel your hands. It took every crumb of strength to stay standing, let alone to keep looking at him. He broke the contact. His chest caved in a little too far.

“Tell me.” It was coming out rougher, firmer, but you couldn’t redirect it. Another minute of silence.

You couldn’t understand nor handle him not answering. The hair on the back of your neck stood up. You gasped at the front of your speech. “I’m not letting you leave until you tell me. Unless you’re honest. You have to tell me the truth. All of it. You have to.” An embarrassing whine curled the end, and you sat in it without apology. Is he really making me beg?

The truth was, he wanted to run out the second you asked. He wanted to run far, far away, and never see you again. He wanted to run away from himself, and you weren’t letting him. You wanted him to sit inside of it. Talk about it. Feel it. He was doing everything in his power not to. He’d been worried about you last night, but that wasn’t the full extent of why he’d stayed. Staying gave him a task. A time-consuming, monotonous one, but those were hours he didn’t have to answer to himself.

It was strange to see someone suffering because he wasn’t burdening them. Like the earth’s tilt was all backwards, all wrong. He felt himself constructing a wall in real time, brick by painstaking brick. It scared him. How hard it was. With Alfred it went up like a revolving door; a natural baseline to slink back to. It wasn’t like that right now. It wasn’t like that with you. All he had were words you saw transparently.

Admitting it felt like clawing his own skin off. His face drew sour. “Bad.” He was only peeking into the shoebox, not upending it. He wasn’t doing that for anyone. Didn’t matter how much you pleaded. Alfred had eventually learned it was a futile effort, and you would too. However, as the witness… he had to give you something. And he had. Bad.

“How’s your safety?”

He laughed. It ulcerated your gut. “I’m serious.”

He walked around the kitchen island—you lunged across it when you thought he was headed to the door, and he shot a look at you as you missed his elbow. He continued to the couch, each step of his sending a shockwave through your body until you knew for sure he wasn’t heading out. You received it as a subtle power play. You wanted to scream.

He knelt to grab your discarded glass, taking his sweet time walking back to the sink. Caught between a rock and a hard place, you were gutted by equal urges to curse him out and soothe him. The gentle, caretaking Bruce had evaporated. He was guarded. Purposely shutting you out. Trying to make yourself sound firm only made you more feeble. I WANT to know fought with I NEED to know which fought with pleasejustfuckingtellmegoddammit.

“You said it yourself: I don’t want your pity. Any of it.” Biting. Callous. Without a care in the world for how you would receive it. Your ears got hot.

“I’m checking on your safety.”

“Don’t want it.” Maybe if he made himself clear enough, you’d know to step back. If he let you in now, you’d think you could get in again, and that was a habit he wanted to break before it started.

Your scoff couldn’t be contained. “I—”

It alarmed you the speed at which he pivoted from the sink to bore his eyes into you. Fucking Batman again. His tone was resentful, undercutting his word choice. “You helped me. Thank you. Leave it at that.”

He wasn’t being considerate. He didn’t have to be, but he wasn’t, and that hurt you more than you were willing to admit. It all suddenly felt profoundly silly. You’d expected his coldness to vanish. Maybe some sort of bullshit camaraderie borne of tragedy. But as he scooped up his face covering and flipped up his hood, you couldn’t help but feel this was the last time he’d ever be in your apartment. The last time he’d ever discuss the attempt. A severing.

You didn’t chase him to the door as he’d expected. You weren’t giving him any fuel to move his hand to the doorknob. Fuck. The room’s silence left a chasm wide enough for him to feel like an asshole. The greater half of his conscience yelled at him to be better.

He left anyway.

Baaaaabe, your fic is so good, don’t ever underestimate yourself ! The plot and the writing are fantastic too !!! The details and everything, specially in the last chapter ? Like the way Bruce didn’t want to burden her with his problems because he clearly saw that she was TRYING to deal with hers. Idk (yet) what lead to the point of him wanting to commit suicide but my heart clearly dropped when I read it. I had to take a minute lol. Another detail that I like is the fact that her parents are still alive ? Idk, its just very rare in Bruce’s fics because authors tend to lean for the orphan!reader, so it’s easier to build a bond with him. Not that I don’t like those type of fics, I love them just as much actually, but what I’m trying to say is that it brings change. What I’m mostly excited rn is the reunion after that awful and traumatic accident, cause it’s about to get more angsty, and I just love every interaction with Bruce lol. He’s clearly already a simp 😎

Awwww thank you immensely for the confidence boost with this thoughtful comment!! 💘🥹 I think it’s easy to get in my head about it since it’s the first fic I’ve published on here and AO3! I feel so Baby 🐣 hahaha but it’s so fun too!!! And omggg the angst !!! I’m so glad it’s coming across on the page 😌 This plot is so thick with angst… wheww, we’ve only dipped a toe in. To so many of the dynamics!

I’ve noticed that about Bruce Wayne fic too! I might have some fluffy scenes surrounding that family aspect planned for later 👀

We LOVEEE simp Bruce !! Even if he doesn’t consciously realize it yet sksksks. Sooo excited to keep writing and share it with you all 💌

finding a bruce wayne bruce is literally going

x reader fic through hell

new chapter today 🦇🕚

just posted (and pinned) a chapter index for Fateful Beginnings !! 🦇 hopefully this helps with navigation 💓

I thought of this meme after the last few chapters 🌚