Battinson X Yn - Tumblr Posts

Fateful Beginnings

XIX. “(im)mortality”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce struggles to convince he’s not bribing your silence, and you find yourself locked in the backseat of his car while Batman investigates a suspicious murder.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, gore, fear, arguing

words: 3.3k

a/n: while I do list ‘gore’, I want to let everyone know I will never post photos or visuals, I will only describe it as is canon to Batman-typical violence.

How could he convince you it wasn't a bribe?

You met him out back where he pulled up with the headlights cut. Not terrifying at all. The alley was dark and leftover rain was spilling down through gutters. The sun had already set, not making more than a few shades of difference to how Gotham looked during the day. I want to go back home. I hope I survive the drive. You stepped toward the passenger seat and grabbed the door handle, but stopped with your hand clasped around it. Your shoulders tensed, your stomach felt like it halted digestion, and your eyes darted around the area, every new crumb of environmental information nearly sending you back into a panic.

You looked afraid, no, absolutely terrified. He picked up on the stress you held in your body like it was his own. He rolled down the passenger window which made you startle like a cat, the sound of the pulled handle snapping back to position. Your face was getting harder to see by the second, and his mind went blank. He had no words to reach for, no expression, no cloak of anonymity. It was rare his mind turned completely off, impossible for him not to have every next move choreographed. It only served to make him look more unsure, and less safe.

"I'm getting an Uber." You forced down the lump in your throat and started for the side of the building. You heard a door slam and Bruce call after you.

"It's not a bribe."

You halted, tucking your chin over your shoulder. It stung to look at him but, thankfully, he was cloaked in shadow. In more usual circumstances that might have scared you even more, but you were close enough to the main street should someone need to hear your screams. That same peculiar sense of safety crept up and let you turn around. "Why not? I know about you."

He sighed. "It would've been more if it was a bribe."

The thought have you bribed anyone before? germinated, but curiosity wasn't getting the better of you. It was all too fresh how he'd looked at you the last time you'd been in that building, and you could still feel the small wash of air his scoff had made against your cheeks. You were shocked you hadn't fallen back into acute panic. "You wouldn't just throw money at someone you hate."

He didn't hate you; Bruce didn't think he could hate anyone besides the people who killed his parents... and Falcone. He hated Falcone, but that could have been one and the same. He answered as simply as he could through grit teeth. "My parents have similar history." That same feeling was encroaching as the last time you and him had been in the alley, when you'd first asked Batman for an interview. Regulate. Breathe. Regulate. Breathe.

"So it's not a bribe, just more philanthropy? A tax write off?" Your voice began to rise. He shoved out a half-baked thought. "You still got the money, didn't you?"

Fucking... Your fear did a hard right into exasperation. It was important he understood he couldn't just do that, that rich people couldn't waltz around doing whatever they pleased without reprimand. Knocking the People's Prince down a peg seemed like your life's mission. "But it's dehumanizing, it's so fucking invasive."

His response was swift like the punch of guilt to his gut. "And I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have."

"Uh huh."

His voice was firmer, louder. "I mean it. It won't happen again."

"Unless you think I'll tell someone."

He hated having his character misinterpreted; he'd journaled about this before, this nagging feeling of no one fully seeing him, no one understanding his intentions. Once again you nestled right into a crack. "I don't do bribes."

"You could've had a conversation with me."

"It won't happen again." He hesitated, just long enough to sign the contract in his head. "Promise."

"I don't trust you." Now his eyes met yours through the glint of a sporadic streetlight. "A normal person wouldn't even be able to do that."

He shut his eyes and thought about Alfred. He hated remembering this, oh, it made him sick. Bruce had come home one day from sixth grade and Alfred had been waiting at the front of the stairs, right near the entryway phone. He'd gestured for him to follow to the kitchen table, and once Bruce had sat down Alfred had told him he'd gotten a phone call.

"Your teacher says you're exclusionary." Bruce had sat there confused, remembering swinging alone on the swingset earlier that day. "What do you make of that, hmm?" Alfred had done this a few times before—tried to have a serious conversation with him, but it sat in an uncanny valley between butler and parent, and always made Bruce feel a bit squeamish; why couldn't his dad be his dad? As much as he hated his father being gone, he completely loathed anyone trying to take his place.

"I just played on the swings." Bruce kept his head down. It was easier that way, not looking people in the eye. It'd become a reflex since he'd done it that horrible night.

"Ms. Taylor says three kids came to her crying today saying you didn't want to play with them." His brow was furrowed. He let his face loosen a bit as he noted Bruce get smaller and smaller. Sometimes he was a bit overbearing trying to take on a guardian role, it was palpable in moments like these. Quite honestly he hadn't wanted to talk to Bruce about this, but felt like Thomas would have. He stuck out a hand to Bruce.

Bruce shrugged and ignored the hand. He counted the rings in the wood table to stave off tension's bite. "I told them I didn't want to play."

Alfred had sighed. Bruce was already in therapy, and he didn't know what else to do for the boy. Stressing the importance of social interaction as a means of mental health preservation seemed like the only straw he had left, so he took it. "Master Bruce." In an effort to help make the boy feel important, thinking it might pull him out of his dejection, Alfred spoke something that burned into Bruce's mind like a hot branding iron. "You're a Wayne! If you don't want to play with someone, that hits harder than just any kid in the play park."

"Bruce?" His hands were clenched tight at his sides, and his eyes were so excessively wrinkled he had to be squeezing them shut with all his might. His face was twisted into an excruciating wince. Was this anger? Was he about to fight you?

He was red-hot, his system alerting him to LEAVE. "See you next week."

What the hell? "Wait,"

Bruce reflexively whipped around, a sharp prickling traveling up his neck to his eye socket for which he massaged his temple with barely concealed earnest. The flickering streetlight salivated for a migraine. "You said you wanted an Uber."

The frustration that bled into his tone was not lost on you, so you matched it. "Why were you standing like that?"

"Do you need me to order one for you?" Water. Might have some in the backseat.

His tone had moved firmly out of cordiality, which sent a rod of indignation through you. "Jesus,"

He opened his eyes but winced as a flash of pain seared across the right side of his head. "That's not what I meant,"

"Everything is about money with you."

"I don't want it to be."

"It is."

"I don't need the reminder."

"Whether you ignore it or not, your entire life is shaped by money."

"You think I don't know that? I hate it." Nausea was tempting him now, the gravel shifting slightly under his shoe only multiplying the vertigo.

"You hating being rich doesn't make you less rich, Bruce."

"Can you stop calling me that?"

"Why?"

"Because my parents are the only ones that did."

The street fell silent. You stared at him. The last fifteen sentences had been said in the span of ten seconds, each barely hearing the other before seething a response. His chest rose and fell rapidly, nearing ten times in the past second. He blinked rapidly as he focused on the trunk of his car, his left hand out to steady him. Black spots sprinkled the corners of his vision.

You tried to bring some levity to the situation, because the combination of the tension in the air and not knowing whether or not he was about to fall and crack his head open made you nervous. "I swore I heard Alfred call you that once."

It was mildly effective; this distance between you and him was more comfortable now, but it left more space for panic to strike you again. When you spoke up, it was a squeak. "I'll get in the car. But don't hurt me." You started walking toward the passenger, but stopped when you noticed he was staring at you, exasperated. His head was pounding, taking all of his inhibition away with its roar. Bruce heaved a breath and tried to regain focus before speaking; it stung a lot more being feared as Bruce than being feared as Batman; again, once again, made him feel so much less human. "I paid the loans because," He took another breath. "I don't want anyone going through what I did." He hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut as they became hot and prickly. "I found you on the commencement list." It spilled out. "I found your mother's name. I called the closest clinic to your listed hometown and put my card on file. I almost didn't..." He peered back at you again. "I know it was a breach. I promise to never look you up again." You were standing across the car from him, soaked in gutter water. He huffed out a breath, figuring now was the best time to get everything out. "I know I'm a Wayne. I know there's a difference between you and I. I don't know how to bridge it."

It was wild how quickly he activated you, and how equally quickly it was tamed, like a wave crashing on thirsty sand. You walked to his car and slowly slid into the passenger seat. This could be the first block of the bridge; he wanted to drive you home anyway, and this could be a quiet drive to get back to equilibrium. Tears stung the back of your eyelids thinking about your mom again, thinking about the mortality of life; swells of guilt and grief welled up inside you and you bit the inside of your cheek until it was raw to keep the sadness at bay. You tucked your arms and legs and shut the door quietly in hopes he might note your restraint. He didn't know if you really believed him, but you did accept his offer to drive you.

He fought to suppress the screaming nags at the edge of his thoughts as he slipped into the driver's seat and drove off. Bruce's speed made you nervous, transporting you to when he'd nearly flattened a pedestrian the time before. It killed you to bite your tongue but this was the closest thing you'd ever get to a peace treaty, and no one wandered out here anyway. A minute passed in total soundlessness, a quiet neither of you liked but were forced to tolerate, with the alternative being bickering again.

A wash of color illuminated the alleyway. A look out the right side window revealed a smear of jagged red light against a nearby cloud—the bat signal revamped. You heard him sigh. Your research all those months ago had never pictured it anything but white. Before anxiety got the best of you, you broke the silence. "Why is it red?"

"Means it's urgent. I have to get you a cab." After the flooding, Gordon had upgraded the signal protocol—white meant come quickly, and red meant come now. He could still smell the copper from the dead's runoff in the days after the massacre and pictured Gordon, donned in a mask and gloves. "We need to improve our communication method."

You wanted to pester him into letting you come but you were smart enough to realize the implications of Bruce Wayne seen leaving with you and Batman being seen with you shortly after. The signal began to pulse, and Bruce groaned. He took a hard left down the smallest, ricketiest alleyway you'd ever seen, let alone driven a car through. He'd never seen the signal blink like that, but considering the color... he couldn't waste a second.

Just when you thought he might slam into the brick wall at the end of the alley, he hung a right and slammed on the brakes. Before you'd so much as blinked he was headed toward the trunk. "Get in the back so you aren't seen."

You thought you were being fast, but by the time you unbuckled and opened the back door he had donned the suit in its entirety. A shiver went down your spine and you stilled. The last time you'd seen him like this was before you knew a him behind the mask. It was somehow scarier knowing it was him. More reckless. It gave an immediate sense of mortality to the Batman; a poorly placed gunshot, a chink in the armor, a moment lacking focus and it was all over.

As he finished tightening a glove he glanced over to you; that same sensation felt looking back at the same doe eyes. The armor felt heavy as its purpose became negligible. Your hair was wet, and your dress hung limply stuck to the side of your thighs. Black began to smudge on your lower lash line, and your lip color had begun to fray. Panic again. He tore away from your spotlight and landed back in the driver's side. Soon as he heard the click of your belt, he gunned it.

After another minute he spoke. "Stay in the car and stay quiet, it's a dangerous neighborhood." You slumped into the back seat and stared up at the ceiling, your mind swirling with the intricacies of how you'd ended up here in Batman's backseat. And the full suit, Christ. He was menacing.

Skrrt. The tires smeared on the pavement as Bruce parked off an adjacent street. You watched as he rummaged in the middle compartment and pulled out a small blue button. A shield went up between the back and front. "Sit up."

You did, instinctively. It almost felt like a remake of the night you'd nearly been assaulted... fuck, why did the suit bring him so much command? He doesn't own me. He doesn't know me. But right now he was the expert, and you were caught in an unfortunate emergency circumstance. He turned and made direct, unwavering eye contact and you twisted your fingers together struggling to contain the pattering spurred in your chest. He looked down and you could breathe again. His voice was low, but not soft. "Good. No one can see you. I'll be back soon."

After Bruce shut the door and began jogging off, the wash of color shifted from red to white. Had the status changed? Relief grabbed you like an ice bath. Visions of guns shooting wildly had threatened to paralyze you. Gotham's 'severe' was Washington's apocalypse.

The shift caused Bruce to move from a jog to a sprint. Gordon emerged from his police vehicle knocking what looked like a remote against the base of his palm. "This damn thing," He knocked it a few more times before the signal faded, leaving the area considerably darker. Gordon threw his hands up. "I meant it to be white. Reports of a homicide."

"Where?"

"Thirteenth floor of the Rimmel Building. There." He pointed to the building a quarter mile northeast. Flashes of light were intermittent out the windows. "Forensics already started. You were a last minute call.

"Now, I've been warned this is graphic." Gordon paused at the doorframe and glanced over at you for a moment before feeling silly. Why would he care, Jim? For all he knew, and as much he wished to stay blissfully ignorant of it, Batman could have done this himself. He faced front and walked through the doorway.

It was somewhat ordinary to Bruce, at first. His eyes caught the trail of blood toward the doorway, a blood-slicked hammer to its left. He always examined the ground first after the flooding.

Your mind had wandered in strange directions the past ten minutes you'd been locked in the back seat of Bruce Wayne's supercar. So. Bruce sent the money. Alfred entered your thoughts, sitting across from you in his office chair, spectacled, talking casually about how Bruce was kinder than he let on, more compassionate. Had he actually been worried about you back at his place? Was this an expression of care? It had sounded like it, but you could not stop your mind from wandering in all the worst directions about the billionaire's intentions. Did growing up with such massive wealth actually rob him of humanity, or did it simply make him ignorant? Was his character still intact? His moral compass? You certainly hadn't heard of Batman going around killing anyone... that was one of the rules you'd found during research for your paper. Did he leave me here as a trap? Should I leave? Curiosity got the better of you, and you decided you wanted to stick around to see what crime was so urgent it warranted a complete redesign of the iconic logo. You temporarily disabled location services on your phone in case anyone might check and question why you were in the middle of an alley at night, which... sent Mar into a frenzy a minute later.

Y/N?? Where the fuck are you?????

You texted her back, reassuring her you were okay. She kept asking you to call until you finally caved, holding the mic close as you whispered. "Mar, I'm fine!"

"Then why are you whispering?"

"I just can't talk right now. I'm fine.”

"I'm not buying that. Speak up or I need to call the police."

When Bruce moved from the ground to eye-level his mouth twitched toward a grimace. A naked man was strung up in a bastardized crucifix via tarnished throwing knives; his body had streams of caked and fresh blood stained and bubbling down his person which clotted in rolls of flesh on the way down. Gravity had made each knife point sag—and there were many—the flesh poking out like it was overstuffed. He took refuge in the lack of evidence for a fight; he hadn't seemed to suffer, at least.

"I can't talk. Please. I'm fine."

"If the next words you speak aren't above a whisper, I'm dialing 911–"

"Okay! I'm fine!" You'd been louder than you'd meant, a double-edged sword of satisfying her request and making yourself vulnerable.

"Say 'it's all good' if you need help." Mar scribbled something in the background.

Bruce walked closer to the man. He made a mental note to invest in some nasal filters as the decayed stench of dead body singed his nose hairs. It looked to be about 15 knives, and—

"What is it?" Gordon whipped his head around at the sound of Batman inhaling. He was inspecting one of the knives. "If you're looking for prints, he didn't leave 'em."

"Do you see this?" He couldn't believe it. A perfect opportunity. Just as he'd stopped looking... The owls were in plain sight, etched cleanly into the handle of each instrument. Gordon came closer, having to take a moment after turning his nose up. "Where?"

"The handle. The owl."

Fateful Beginnings

XX. “close call”

parts: previous / next

plot: your friend is set on knowing what you can’t divulge. Bruce is left conflicted about his next course of action; the next day at work, your boss tries to force your journalistic hand.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, arguing, alcohol, creepy men

words: 4.7k

"I'm coming to get you." Mar set down the phone and sounded like she was grabbing things to come there.

You panicked, wondering how you could tell her you were with Bruce right now without potentially giving his identity away to someone near the car. And what if she still comes and sees I'm actually with Batman?

"Mar." She wasn't answering. "Mar!" She still wasn't saying anything, and this time you heard a door. "I'm hooking up with someone and they're sleeping."

"Don't believe you." You heard the click of keys in a lock, and panicked further. She wouldn't be one of those Batman trackers, right? She wouldn't know you were near the Bat signal right now, right? You took a deep breath. "Just, stop! Stop!"

"Why? This is so fucking suspicious, what if you get fucking murdered?" She sounded genuinely afraid, and you heard a car door open. She already got a taxi? "Please, I know you care about me,"

"Fifth and Stark, please. Thanks." That was… extremely accurate to where you were sitting right now. Fuck!

"I know you care but please, I want my life to be my life. I don't want to be monitored, I am 100% fine." What would Bruce do if he found out I let his secret slip?

"Then you'll be fine when I get there. It's the middle of a fucking alley, Y/N,"

Even if you left the car and ran off into the night, she would get dropped off and see a car that was so obscenely expensive it had to belong to Bruce Wayne, and she would know. At this point your panic was eroding away into irritation, because she was starting to act like a helicopter parent. You put the phone on mute and frantically searched the empty car for some keys. Maybe I could just drive somewhere else while location is off. Where the fuck does he keep keys?? Does this car even have keys? Is it one of those card things?

"Y/N??" Mar had reacted even to your line going silent. Between the fear of giving away Bruce as Batman, your annoyance at being monitored so closely, and the residual fearful anger from the anonymous donor reveal, you snapped at her. "I want to live my own life without being suffocated!" Your words hung in the air a moment, then you felt sick. I shouldn't have said that. Fuck.

"Hello??" OH THANK GOD. You'd forgotten to unmute. You took a few regulating breaths, then unmuted. You saw her location as five minutes away. "How about I meet you..." On the map she was two minutes away from a queer bar downtown you and her had frequented in undergrad. It would probably be a ten minute walk from here. "At Mora's, in ten minutes."

"Do you know how much could happen in ten minutes?"

"I'll keep you on the phone." You looked around to make sure you hadn't accidentally lost anything, and she sighed. "I don't understand what's going on. But. Fine. Oh, and if you're not here in ten minutes I am calling the police, 'kay?"

"Sounds good." You muted yourself for a second just so she wouldn't hear you popping the door open. If you had to answer about sitting in a car it might move the conversation towards more sleuthing. A quick pop of the lever made the door swing open wide, and you were able to slam it shut and unmute before Mar had even realized you were silent. A few steps in the dusty alley made you turn around, wondering how the hell you might let Bruce know where you'd went. Did you even need to let him know? You feared he might stalk the city for you if he didn't. You noticed steam had accumulated on the windows from you being inside, just enough for you to maybe write out where you were going, or at least that you were safe. Pointer finger to wildly expensive glass, you wrote a quick note and evaporated into the depth of the dark night.

Bruce's inside wrist buzzed. UNL was in small blue text, signaling an unlock in the car. Gordon had just pushed up his glasses to look at the hilt, but pulled back to take a breath being so close to the stench, which was rapidly filling the room. Bruce grit his teeth and stared longingly at the knife handle before tearing away and walking across the room. "I'll be back." The detectives paid him no mind as he strode strongly past, breaking into a run down the hall to the staircase. Why did it unlock? Right when Gordon was about to look at the owls, too... He resigned to be back as swiftly as possible, flexing his fists on the way down until he burst through the door, sprinting toward the alleyway.

At first he didn't know if you were still there or not. The car was completely black, unable to even be seen until he was about ten feet away. The tinting on the windows was more severe than he'd thought, but it was highly effective. Even peering into the window with cupped hands proved futile. After opening the driver's side door and lowering the partition, he felt stuck. Where the hell were you?

This was the worst part of Gotham—an uphill walk so steep that regular patrons of the various businesses in the area made sure to rent apartments at the top of the hill; if you moved into one of the businesses at the bottom of it, you were financially doomed. This was why, though you could see Mora's sign glowing ahead, it would be another seven or eight minutes until you were able to heave yourself through the doors.

Bruce was at a standstill as he stood at the alley in front of his abandoned car. He sleuthed for evidence of a fight or unusually quick getaway—the dust pattern outside both back doors was consistent with a normal walking pace for one individual, and he was left puzzled. Had you gotten bored? Tried to prank him? He couldn't track you; after the argument about how invasive his previous searching efforts were, it would be treasonous to do so again. Though he couldn't see the building from here, he looked in its direction with utmost longing. The first owl in months had shown up, now readily accessible and able to be viewed by a trusted source. Maybe he could feel less crazy, or maybe he would feel absolutely insane if Gordon said he saw nothing there. Bruce tolerated fear well, but this was a slippery one, one that involved more than circumstances and threatened his psyche. As he changed back into his previous suit, he told himself he was leaving to find a citizen in danger, not being willfully ignorant of his own mental decline. He swung around to open the driver door when he caught a patterned glint off the back window. A dust devil danced in the background as a gentle accompaniment to the barely legible prose. Had 2 leave, am safe. He tossed his blazer atop his car and rested his hands over his head. He paced through the dust cloud that then dissipated around his ankles. Sloppy. I'm being sloppy. He couldn't change back into the suit, could he? Working protocol was to never change out of the suit in the same public location, but was this public enough to qualify? Could he go back in to follow up with Gordon? Would he drive around all night trying to see if you were honest, and not in danger? Would that be too intrusive? Probably. In a city this big, and this dark, that required facial recognition technology he promised he wouldn't use on you. Christ.

"Y/N." Mar usually greeted you excitedly, but now she stood with her arms crossed around a neon green blazer. Quite honestly it was the last thing your eyes needed to see after bland, gray concrete. She tapped her foot and glared at you, then gestured toward your phone. "Why were you being so fuckin' secretive?"

You had only barely begun to catch your breath, and followed her gesture with one towards the bar. "I need some water, Mar, that was fucking steep," She groaned but followed you in. The bouncer stared at your ID a little too long, which was usual—there weren't many IDs from other parts of the country here. Gotham was the city that people left, never a destination.

The bar was pretty busy, about the usual suspects for a Thursday night. Gotham's strong population decline apparently had not hit the partiers, because Friday through Sunday every bar and club was packed like sardines. Mora's was better on Thursdays, when it was still lively but not crawling with women and their straight boyfriends; whenever you or Mar walked past them they'd ask to watch you kiss. Thursdays were mellower, with synth pop or indie music floating from the speakers instead of EDM. On the first Thursday of every month there was a themed event, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd been here for one of them. Your favorite drink here was "The Sinnamon", a tongue-in-cheek drink consisting of cinnamon Fireball whisky, pulverized blackberries, and ginger ale. Mar liked "Hot Shot", a shot of tequila mixed with jalapeño brine. You thought hers was disgusting, and she thought yours was basic; whenever a game of truth or dare started, at some point both of you would dare the other to switch drinks.

"Wanna get our usual?" You tried to be chipper and distract from how you'd been in the back of Bruce/Batman's car, wanting so badly to avoid a conversation about him altogether and to forget that the richest, most powerful man in the city might have just bribed you into silence. You wondered when Bruce would be done, and if he would freak seeing you weren't there. Would he stalk you? Go back to his supercomputer to track the city cameras? Were you being a paranoid freak and he was simply a burgeoning philanthropist in unfortunately suspicious circumstances?

"Y/N." Mar was being short with you, and you started feeling tense. What was the line between care and surveillance? When did vigilance become paranoia? You cast your eyes to the floor and told her to find a seat while you ordered drinks. She stared at you without saying a word or making a sound, her eyes shooting daggers. You felt like a little kid. Thankfully a bartender had been walking to the back to get some supplies and happened past you. "Have you two been helped yet?"

Five minutes later you two sat in the upper lounge area on pink vinyl benches. Your thighs were sweaty from the walk and immediately stuck to the seat, painting swathes of red on the back of your legs where it peeled. Starting to remember why I stopped coming. The green walls were familiar, the same octagonal mirror loud against its backdrop. It felt oddly eerie.

Mar refused to touch her drink until the both of you talked, her stubborn nature both frustrating and soothing you. After taking a few gulps (honestly, half the drink or more) you set yours down as well, shaking your shoulders to rid tension. "Look,"

"You're keeping something from me." Mar was decidedly blunt, and it immediately made you feel caged. You shook your head at her gently, trying to avoid giving away specific information. What if she keeps up with Batman tracking and sees he was at that location, near me?

"I promise, it's nothing you need to know."

She shook her head back, refusing to entertain not being informed. "You were in an alley, you turned your location off, what the fuck? And you wouldn't speak loud to me?" Her voice was starting to raise, only slightly, but enough for you to worry about others hearing.

Your instinct was to soothe and reassure, hoping it would put out the fire brewing in her eyes. "I know it seems weird, but I'm fine. I was fine. I am fine." You topped it off with a grin and she rolled her eyes. She saw right through you, knew there were words unsaid, but couldn't quite make them out.

"I don't like you lying to me."

This struck a chord, but you knew you couldn't show it or she'd fight harder. "I'm not lying, I just don't need to tell you this."

"Like fuck you don't!"

Oh, we're being demanding now? "We barely talked before I moved back here. The whole last year of school you've just been partying, I didn't know you really gave a shit about me."

"Y/N. You're my closest friend here." Her tone was flatter, and her hands were now sitting together in her lap. Your brow furrowed. "I knew I was your friend, but,"

"Close friends don't hide things from each other."

Anxiety bubbled in your chest. This felt... manipulative? "I promise this was nothing dangerous, or sketchy, I just, want some things to be mine." Her glare hardened, so you continued speaking. "So you're not close with the people you see every day?"

She rolled her eyes again. You were starting to get a bit pissed off—that, or the alcohol was starting to hit and fuck with your emotions. "I can't talk to them, you know that."

"I don't know that. Because I wouldn't be spending most of my time with people I couldn't talk to."

"Girl... you really don't get the city." Another eye roll. Smoke was starting to come out of your ears.

"I don't. At all. It's fucking weird." You picked up your drink and had another sip, the cinnamon warming your tongue and edging off the sting of this conversation's undertone. Rumination percolated in the back of your mind about how you wished you'd never came back.

She held out her hand and counted to two, exploding her hands at the end of her sentence for added effect. "You have your going out crew, then you have your separate friends to talk to. People with substance."

The disdain was now apparent on your face, the alcohol relaxing your inhibition. "I hate it when you say stuff like that. Acting like you're better than them."

Mar laughed and sat back on the seat. "That's 'cus I am."

"These people are your friends, dude. They tag you in every photo, you go out for brunch, bars, didn't you even go to one of their weddings a few months ago?" Her smugness was infuriating.

"I don't need a lecture."

You paused. The conversation was devolving into something reminiscent of the one you'd had back home, right before the big blow-up, sans lies about your sex life. Am I the common denominator? "It just... it makes me think you talk about me like that." You clammed up, sifting through more thoughts of Is it me? and but she IS acting like a helicopter parent, not really respecting my boundaries...

"I'd never talk about you like that,"

"Why do you hang around people you don't like?" It puzzled you. It sucked being alone, but at least then you didn't have to be fake. It exhausted you picturing her smiling and laughing with people only to disrespect them in their absence. How much could you trust that she wasn't already doing that?

"The city caters to a certain type of person, okay? They'd say the same about me." At this point Mar picked up her shot and downed it. Loneliness had painted a fluffy pink cloud around your friendship with her, distracting from the reality of why you both had mostly fizzled out over the past year.

She'd always had flighty tendencies, running from one group to the next, and never quite shit talked anyone to you; she instead made small comments like that one, subtly positioning herself as better or more important than the people she spent all her time with. While the two of you had disagreements, it was more circumstantial that the both of you had fallen out of everyday contact; she had been a sociology major with you the first year, but after a particularly exciting political science course she'd moved more towards public speaking and general policy courses—she was into leading people and you were into knowing them. This was out of character however—Mar was all over the place, sure, but she was never so immovably standoffish.

"So what were you doing?"

She wasn't letting up. To cave or not cave... What would be gained if you stayed silent? What would be gained if you said you'd been with Bruce? If you were being honest with your feelings, you wanted her to know so you had someone else to bounce your fears off of, akin to a reality check. However, adding another person to the mix would only further complicate things—it was best not to act in haste. After a second of deliberation that she appeared peeved over, you decided to restate your inability to share, asserting the boundary before you became deliriously inebriated. If I truly wanted to share, I’d share it, not feel peer-pressured into it. "It didn't concern you, and I don't appreciate being forced to tell you. Everything's fine." What if I'd been buying her a gift? What if I'd gone into the alley to cry away my troubles?

"It makes me really suspicious, Y/N." She slammed the glass down on the small gold table and threw her head in her hands, like you'd just told her to go fuck herself.

"Not telling you doesn't mean I did something bad." She still sat facing the floor, exasperated. You sighed. "I know you want me to be safe, I appreciate that." You touched her back, and realized she was shaking. When she uncovered her eyes you saw her mascara was smudged, and her cheeks were wet.

"I feel fucking guilty about fucking inviting you to the fucking club." She hiccuped after trying to speak through stifled sobs. "You didn't respond after and it fucked me up, Y/N, I thought you fucking died and it was my fucking fault." She threw her hands over her face again and curled inward toward her stomach.

"Hey, hey," You pulled her into a hug and pressed your cheek to her shoulder. Her body wracked with sobs muffled by her shirt, and you only made out bits of what she said through it, one of them being a strained, pitchy "I'm sorry" followed by a volcano of tears. You very nearly cried with her, white-knuckling away the hot tears prickling your eyelashes.

"Here, I'll get napkins." You jogged to the bar and grabbed a heap, a heap she went through almost instantaneously. "I know I'm fucking weird right now, god." Her sniff was thick and hard. "You don't have to tell me."

Five minutes passed of more casual conversations. The alcohol had hit both of you at this point, leaving you both tipsy but not drunk. Bruce floated out of your mind. Mar, who could handle her alcohol about a thousand times better than you could, ended up going to the bar and ordering another round for you both. You sat alone on the sticky seat letting your eyes roam and people-watch. There was a woman sitting diagonally from you across the room surrounded by a gaggle of women, all admiring her (likely) new ring; you caught some of its sparkle, which rendered you a bit sad. They belong. I don't.

She came with the drinks faster than the first time, and downed the second shot before your glass had even reached your lips. "Ah. I need to piss and fix my mascara. Can you watch the drinks?" You nodded, and off she went. That was another good thing about this bar: the bathrooms weren't backed into a weird corner down a long hallway, they were able to be seen from across the room if someone tried to follow anyone. You watched her and the door like a hawk, clutching your drink in your cold fingers as you sipped at it absentmindedly.

Over the next hour you both sat in the haze of alcohol's glow, talking at length about any major events that had happened since the list time you'd been here (Mar had hooked up with ten different people, one of which, she reported, was the love of her life that she planned to ask to officially be her girlfriend on Halloween night; you briefly mentioned your mother's cancer, but kept the conversation in the land of hopes and dreams as for her prognosis) and by that time the bar was making you both quite dizzy. Mar had already ordered an Uber while the both of you giggled over random posts on Scypher, and before you had fully registered you'd even left the bar you were opening your apartment with Mar at your side. Exhausted, you popped an ibuprofen (Mar had taught you this—taking an ibuprofen with a couple large glasses of water took the bite out of hangovers) and nearly drowned yourself in hydration before taking a quick pee and jumping into bed. This place, though your eyes were admittedly hazy, still didn't quite feel real. The last thought before you both crashed was an eerie feeling you might never feel at home anywhere again.

BRRT. BRRT. BRRT. The alarm you'd set for yourself on Monday saved you from missing call time at Dr. Vry's office—9:45am. She'd told you to come with a 'spiked' hot chocolate every morning from the cafe a block from campus. Cafes don't put liquor in their coffee, right? Is it even legal to sell alcohol this early? But when you'd said goodbye to Mar and found yourself in line at 9:30, you realized it was nothing more than a hot chocolate with four shots of espresso. No wonder she's so talkative.

While you waited in line, now with the soothing wash of alcohol out of your system, your mind wandered round and round about the implications of Bruce having paid your parents debt, and the circumstances surrounding his payment. You knew a secret that would destroy him, and possibly land him in jail for the rest of his life—you distinctly remembered being in the police car realizing the cops hated Batman. He was a barely contained vigilante, only not caught because he left as quickly as he arrived; you figured his life would effectively end if you were to let anything slip. You vowed to do more research when you got home on if Batman had ever killed anyone, even by accident, or if there were any clues pointing toward suspicious 'disappearances' that could be in any capacity traced back to the bat. When the barista handed you the coffee, the heat in your hand brought you out of your head and back to the day's responsibilities.

"Ah hello hello!" Dr. Vry smiled at the coffee before she addressed you. Once you handed off the drink you smoothed down your trousers, to which she gave you a concerned once-over before tsk-ing. "Let's get you set up."

You were placed down the hall and to the left, in the room right next to the elevator; it was a small space that looked like it used to be a computer room. Frayed electrical wires jutted out from the stark white walls, and the thunking of the elevator was intermittent but so loud it never failed to scare you. The top of the singular student desk in the middle of the otherwise barren wasteland had a sticky film on it, like someone had spilled a caramel latte over it and left it for the summer just to fuck with the campus custodians. When you got out your computer and stared at the empty page, you worried about having enough to say; all that had happened was an introduction of the various people at the table, an overview of the candidates for mayoral election, and a few other small announcements you felt not entirely relevant to the city. Who cares if Little Me, Big Dreams was temporarily adding a dance class for toddlers that was already full, with no waitlist?

Three hours later you escaped the lull of your computer screen when Dr. Vry motioned for you to come to her office. She cleared her throat and had a smile so wide it felt like a dentist commercial. "Please, sit." You sat in the rickety chair that strained against your thighs for air, your eyes noticing the cobwebs in each corner of the ceiling. "What happened at the City Hall meeting last night?"

"Oh uh," You were a bit taken aback, but quickly summarized the draft you'd written. "Well, there are a few mayoral candidates that will be coming to the meetings, which I want to get an interview for each, and there was a lot of introducing everyone so, it honestly took up a bulk of the time, and then just some miscellaneous information from businesses across the city." Her smile had faded considerably. "I had a question about the latter too, would you like if I listed them in a bullet format, or—"

Disdain flooded her tone. "Did Bruce Wayne not make an appearance?" She sat back in her chair and stared at you with unblinking pale blue eyes.

The mention of his name was like a hot branding iron down your throat. "He did, but he really just introduced himself and listened to everyone else for—"

"You managed to get into a room with Mr. Wayne, the sole survivor of a family so illustrious, so prestigious, and did not so much as speak a word to him?"

You stammered. "I thought I was supposed to report on the content of the meeting,"

"Mr. Wayne is the content." She slammed her hands down on the table and stood up. Your chest hurt and you hid a wince. "The journalism department in this establishment is doomed. We must speak to what the people want if we are to rise from the ashes."

"And people want Bruce Wayne." You spoke flatly, your throat cinching. She nodded, heaving a sigh of relief. She blinked up a storm, then placed a hand on your shoulder. "Dearest. We must give the people what they want."

Was this just a column about Bruce? If so, you were quitting right now. "Should I include the other pieces,"

"If there's room." She moved to her filing cabinet to thumb through nondescript folders. "Did you even make contact with Mr. Wayne at last night's meeting?"

"Yeah." Your voice was small, defeat sunk you back into the chair.

"And what was the topic of conversation?"

"He showed me some notes he had. Talked a bit about Bella Reál and the candidates for mayor."

She paused for a few seconds with her fingers hovered above the cabinet drawer. "Hmm."

"I," Dr. Vry was deeply intimidating, but you felt a sore spot in your chest at the thought of abandoning the sprit of journalism in favor of a celebrity blog post. "I don't want to exclusively write about him."

"You'll do as you're instructed."

"No, I won't actually." You pushed your chair back, and she spun to glower at you. "I'm not putting my name on celebrity gossip."

She balked when you said 'my name', which made you want to curl up and cry, but you held your ground.

"Anyone else would die for your position."

"If Bruce Wayne contributes to the meeting, I'll add his contributions, but I'm not going out of my way to make him the focus."

"The audacity is striking!"

"With all due respect, this wasn't what was advertised."

"You're suspended without pay until further notice." She shoved the cabinet shut and wiped her hands of the dust. "The department will hold a meeting about your future at GU."

You bit back a million retorts and equally as many tears as you left her office, grabbed your things, and set off for The Moore.

Fateful Beginnings

XXI. “belonging”

parts: previous / next

plot: somehow, you always find your way back home. Batman gets an intriguing lead on John Doe.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, dead body, cancer, confrontation, depression

words: 3.2k

Tears studded your cheeks as you vented to Mar about the morning's happenings. She'd never liked Dr. Vry, and at some point the conversation had exploded into a rant about the subpar character of the woman. "Remember when she accidentally input my A as a C and told me 'fate' must have guided her grade input? Then didn't fucking change it because of fucking, written in the stars bullshit? Fucking tanked my GPA."

"I just don't get it. The email said nothing about him, she said nothing about reporting on him besides being excited he would be there." You collapsed flat on your back in a starfish pose. "It was like she expected me to be starstruck by him or something. Like that was the only course of action." Like everyone else seems to be. The world caters to flashy, superficial things.

"Fuck her! You don't need her!"

You stared at her blankly for a moment. "Except for my housing, my food, my plane tickets back home?"

"How much an hour is it? Like $15?"

"$43."

"Oh fuck, in this economy you should've said you'd suck his dick, too."

Maybe you were spending a little too much time with her. "I feel like alluding to me doing anything with that man should be a crime." You flopped back on your bed and checked the time--it was barely past noon. You hadn't even managed to be at the job until the afternoon... shame threatened to cocoon you faced with such obvious failure. At this point you remembered the check Dr. Vry had sent would arrive today, and a few minutes later you sat inputting the code you'd been mailed to your digital check.

You spent the next twenty minutes listening to Mar continue to rant while you ordered some groceries. By that point she'd gotten a text from one of her friends for their Friday night bar hangout and had dismissed herself, leaving you tethered to your house as you waited to stock your fridge. You watched out the window as she got into an Uber, and after she was gone for sure, and just as the check deposited, you called your mom. Moreso even than the likely imminent firing, the stress of her health threatened to spiral you off the deep end. She picked up on the third ring. She sounded tired.

"Hey, hun." She cleared her throat, then yawned. You heard a small buzzing sound in the background, then heard a small meow. Another night he spent purring and cuddling her. Thanks, Walter. God, you were so glad she had him. "Everything alright? The photos you sent of your apartment were really good, I showed them to Debbie and she couldn't believe it! 'In GOTHAM?' is what she told me!"

To tell or not to tell about the troubles this week held? She yawned again. Not the time. "You sound tired." Your grip tightened around the phone.

She sighed. "My doctors moved my appointment to six thirty in the morning, can you believe that?" She tsk-d.

"How'd the appointment go?"

"Oh just fine. I had to sign a bunch of paperwork and talk to practically everyone in the place." She sounded bored and vaguely annoyed, which she hadn't been before. Irritability a potential side effect?

"Did the shot hurt?" Small talk, but what else was there to discuss? Your likely firing?

"Nope." She began cooing to Walter, who became exponentially louder with his purr.

"How's your arm? Any side effects yet?" God, why did things feel so dry today? Did Gotham really create so much distance already between you and your family? Were you just anxious and overthinking? Was she annoyed?

"My my, they must have you busy with interviewing skills."

You opened your mouth to respond, but she questioned you instead. "When are you coming back hon?"

This question confused you. "Uh, whenever you need me to, but I thought starting next month? For the injections?" You twirled with a frayed end on your blanket. Can I still return this? It's been like a week and it's already tearing apart... she snapped you out of your wandering with her next sentence.

"Sure, your dad and I are going on a cruise this week."

A cruise? Right after her first dose of an experimental cancer drug? With unknown side effects? "Mom, your treatment,"

"Oh we'll only be gone a week. Won't interfere with my next appointment." Walter meowed again. Who would be taking care of him?

"I mean, okay. I just think with not knowing the side effects of your first dose,"

"The way I see it dear is this might be the best I ever get to feel."

That sentence hit like a ton of bricks atop bruised ribs. "Couldn't you wait a week, just see the side effects?"

"The cruise leaves the port tomorrow."

"Mom,"

"We still can't believe that donor. Whoever they are, they really opened our finances up. Your father's been saving for years to try and make that initial bulk payment,"

You recalled the argument they'd had when your mother's cancer was initially found. Your mom wanted to start a payment plan immediately, but your dad thought if he put it into deferment for a few years and made payments to a high yield savings account every month their money would 'go exponentially further'. You hadn't cared much at the time, mostly because money stressed you the hell out, and at the time you were trying to avoid thinking about your mother's prognosis. Before you could decide what to say next, your dad had walked into the room and starting shouting loud enough for you to hear on the phone.

"Hey sweets, how are you and that Wayne guy doing?"

"I don't know how else to tell you guys I don't like him. We don't talk." This conversation was going nowhere, and you could smell an impending argument if you stayed on even another minute. You needed to check on one last thing before hanging up. "Who's looking after Walter?"

"Oh don't worry about that,"

"I am worried. Do you need me to come back to watch him?"

"Debbie will be stopping in throughout the week to check on him."

Walter was never very fond of Debbie; whenever she came over, in fact, he ran and hid. If you knew Debbie any less you might think Walter was placing judgment on her character, but no: she was just very loud, her laugh sounding a bit like a stampede. Walter was never very skittish, but after enough startles, he'd come to hide whenever he heard her come around. His discomfort was all you needed. "Tell her not to come, I'm coming home for the week."

"Hon," your mom began to chastise you, but you refused to let her finish. "No, no, I'm coming home tomorrow and I will stay with him. Case closed." After saying goodbye and lying about having already bought a nonrefundable ticket, you hung up and bought the earliest flight for tomorrow: 11am. You did your best to avoid thoughts of how the thousand Dr. Vry had sent was already disappearing, and filled the rest of your evening (sans figuring out what to do with fresh bags of perishable groceries) packing to head back the next day.

The bat signal hadn't lit since Thursday night. Bruce had been left reeling, kicking himself for not following up with Gordon on the owl debacle. He went out every night, and every few hours would move to the usual meeting place with Gordon to find an empty sky. It was Wednesday night before the signal lit again, and by that point Bruce had nearly gaslit himself into thinking the owls hadn't been there in the first place.

Gordon looked morose, but resolved. "We have the autopsy back for our John Doe." He held up a graphic photo of the man, gray and laid out on stainless steel. His chest and abdominal cavities were peeled open and pinned to keep tension, revealing a normal—yet punctured—chest and abdomen. Gordon confirmed its complete lack of novelty. "Nothing. Couldn't even trace back a name. No one posting about a missing husband, child, brother, nephew, friend." He paused to clear his throat. "However, we did find something unusual in one of his fillings."

"Unusual? How?"

"The coroner said he almost didn't catch it, but he runs the deceased through an MRI machine after especially gruesome cases. Normally fillings don't show up on magnets, but these ones did." He held out his other hand, revealing a few small pieces of chipped silvery metal. The metal was extremely slick and had a mirror finish to its shine. "It's a metallic alloy of sorts. I'll send it to the lab for processing."

He nearly asked to take it back to his own lab, but that would pressure the boundaries. Gordon was in a tight spot being seen with Batman. He couldn't push it. "How long until it's processed?"

Gordon shrugged, his nose scrunched like he was still smelling formaldehyde's stench. Bruce thought he might've caught a whiff off his jacket. "Not more than a coupla days. I'll signal for you." If the city was in a better place, if Gordon was in a better mood, he might have winked.

The pause gave Bruce just enough time to speak. He said it casually, without much fuss, as if it were a rolling breeze. "Did you see what was on the knives' handles?"

Gordon sighed. A good one? A bad one? Bruce's eyes trained on him like a hawk. The cowl felt tight. "Chicken scratch, most of 'em."

"Most?" Say more.

"No traceable logo."

Frustration bled into his tone. "Looked like an owl."

Gordon's eyes focused on no particular point on the back wall, his eyes narrowing. What? He saw it too, right? pounded against his ribs to be heard. After what felt like hours Gordon shook his head. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Was this an elaborate scheme? Did Gordon not see it? Was his, was his mind failing him? It glinted off the light perfectly, the etching was transparent in its shape, the beak, the feathers, the claws...

"You alright?" The Bat was lost in thought, breathing thick and heavy. Bruce nodded. To push, or not to push? Silence hung like smog between them. It was crucial to push it, imperative to reality check his mental faculties. "It didn't resemble an owl to you?"

Gordon shrugged. It gave no information to Bruce, who was close to running out of the room and laying face-down in his pillow the rest of the night while he actively avoided looking further into the death of his great-grandfather. Was his time coming sooner than his had? Was it due to his lack of sociability? Had he been concussed one too many times? His neuronal pathways seized up, the myelin sheaths disintegrated?

"Do you know anything about owls?"

Did Gordon know? Was this a trick question? Wait, he wasn't Bruce. He considered saying he'd seen them in peculiar position throughout town, but moreso than Gordon's rocky relationship with the police force, the man had no idea who Batman was; Bruce had to keep exclusively to formidable behavior due to the weakness of the knot tying them together. A kooky moment, or a Freudian slip could force Gordon to take out some scissors and sever their relationship. Bruce shook his head, and left.

Uber. TSA. Flight. Baggage. Uber. Key. Door. Lock. Walter. Eat. Sleep. Walter. Eat. Sleep. Walter. Eat. Sleep. Walter. The past few days had passed in such inconsequential monotony you resisted the conclusion you weren't alive at all. The only moments of reprieve you gathered were when Walter walked up and jumped into bed beside you, tucking his fluffy back against your stomach. He was the only reason you were able to sleep with the anxiety of your job being in limbo, and your mom having fled the town after her first shot. Your mom had left a note saying that the connection would be spotty on the cruise, but they would be back no later than 5pm the following Friday. Now it was Wednesday, and the food your parents had left was starting to dwindle. Your muscles ached to be moved further than the walk from your bed to the bathroom, your bed to the kitchen, or your bed to the living room couch. You put another ice cube into Walter's bowl, grabbed your helmet that was thankfully still in the hallway closet, and took off for a ride to the grocery store on your mom's old bike.

The air was warm, and the sun threatened to burn every centimeter of exposed skin. You'd forgotten just long enough that the stinging sensation was of hot sun piercing onto skin to where you decided against going back for SPF. You didn't have to worry about such basic, human things in Gotham; the sun barely came out, and when it did it was covered by such dense clouds and thick smog you couldn't begin to feel heat against your skin whatsoever. The buildings were hard and cold, the dense metal keeping you chilled no matter the season. Now the sun accosted you, the wheels of the bike running over fresh leaves and the occasional string of hay. You swerved past clumps of clay dirt that lay in the middle of the road, shut your eyes for a few seconds as you coasted, not having to look out for a pedestrian or car every five feet. This was living, this was where you wanted to be. Tears prickled your eyes as you coasted into the dusty parking lot of WinCo, a local grocery store chain to the PNW. You forgot a bike lock, but the city was small and trusted enough that you never heard about bikes getting stolen, anyway. The initial panic was immediately eased, as well as the tight knot in your chest. Maybe you belonged... here?

You walked into the grocery and went straight for the fruit aisle. As you placed apples and oranges and pears in your basket, you absentmindedly flipped through the past. When you were growing up here, it was too boring. You'd wanted nothing more than to leave. You wanted to see skyscrapers, and big cities, and always have something happening around you. Now that you had experienced the worst of what a city could give, this town with its penetrating sun and lofty trees felt like paradise. A paradise that was quickly interrupted, when you accidentally knocked baskets with Lara. "Oh shit,"

"Y/N?" She pulled her basket in and glanced to her left, at someone who you presumed was her exchange boyfriend. She stared at your shoes, you noticed her cheeks going pink. Tension yanked on your shoulders and your stomach flipped. "Hi. I'm watching Walter while my parents are on a cruise."

"No longer in Gotham?" Her boyfriend turned around when she mentioned The Most Feared City, and walked over. "Gotham? That shitshow? I don't know how anyone can live there."

Fucking prick. A strange defensiveness overtook you. "It's not as bad as people make it out to be." Yes it was. "I'm just visiting home, I have a journalism job back there."

"How's Bruce Wayne?" Her tone was mocking, quite unlike Lara, and you figured it had to be Rose and Gabbi's bitter influence in the time you'd been gone that brought this upon her. Mystery Man's eyes lit up, one of the buttons on his shirt threatened to pop like the bulgy vein in his forehead. "You know Bruce Wayne? The Bruce Wayne?"

"She knows him, alright." She side-eyed the guy and giggled. He laughed, which was startling, and shame bolted through your body like a sticky, sharp rod. He leaned into her ear and said, still loud enough for you to hear and likely purposely so, "Her?"

Before shame could fully envelope you, you righted the wrong; in part because the idea of someone believing Bruce had been inside you made you want to sink into the floor, in another wanting to assuage yourself of guilt. "We haven't fucked. Sorry. I was just trying to get back at losers I thought were my friends."

Lara gasped. "I can't believe you!" It rung hollow in your ear just as Dr. Vry had. If someone put their hand over your head they'd feel steam. "You didn't used to be like this, it's fucking disappointing." You spun around and ignored what she was saying behind you, shoving your feet against the ground, making your calves burn with each grief-consumed footstep. It doesn't matter what they think. It doesn't matter what she's saying. Soon enough you made it across the store to the pantry aisle, pretending to inspect some cavatappi noodles in your quivering hands. The cardboard soaked up your bulleted tears, and you tossed it in your basket after catching a glimpse of your reflection in the boxes' plastic window. You fell to your knees and covered it up pretending to inspect the marinara, not trusting your thighs or knees to keep you steady. Everything hit you all at once, panic rising in your chest and narrowing your esophagus. You grabbed a random sauce and ran to the self checkout, ringing up your two items, grabbing a bag, and taking off for home.

The ride home wasn't as quaint as the one there. The sun wasn't at your backside, now it seared into your bleary eyes as it set, making you unable to see a rock in the road, sending you flying overtop the handlebars. When you touched your knees and elbows, they stung and stained your fingertips red. The last ten minutes of the walk was utter misery, as blood dribbled slowly down your knees and down to your wrists. Walter meowed when you came back, but you couldn't pet him. You turned the water as cold as you could manage to wash away the cakey blood and dirt. Your hands hesitated before lathering the shampoo, and when they scrubbed the back of your head you began to cry again. Your face was hot and your body ice cold. You sat on the floor, pulled your knees up, and wrapped your hands around your chest as sobs shrieked out of you. The water ran pink, then pastel, then clear. Being alive hurt. The thought pounded at the back of your corneas, chafed blisters between your thighs, and spiked the ridges in your throat, that you might never, ever, feel "home". Walter meowed at the door, you turned off the shower, and toweled off to open another can of Friskies.

Fateful Beginnings

XXII. “gone missing”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce is preoccupied at the next City Hall meeting, where the first candidate arrives to make his mayoral bid.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, talk of mental illness

words: 3.2k

a/n: the first fully Bruce Wayne POV chapter! love getting inside that man’s mind

Much to his chagrin, Bruce showed up early to the meeting in hopes that he might catch you before it began. He kept himself from thinking about the John Doe by staying up brainstorming gentle questions to ask you tonight. He figured since you didn't trust him, and quite honestly he also did not trust you, you might benefit from getting to know each other better. The only questions he'd been able to manifest on his own were superficial ones, like what's your favorite color and what was your favorite school subject growing up? He quite liked the latter, but figured it a bit redundant assuming how much you appeared to enjoy journalism.

The foyer was as it was; that same chemical rain scent mingling with Chanel number 5, a scent that drove him nearly to tears it bored and triggered him so immediately. The same golden chandelier hung in the middle, the same clusters of people hung in circles atop the warm-toned jacquard rug. If you looked at a photo of the entryway, you might think outside the windows hid an Italian villa with bright grapevines swaying in the breeze. Instead, the gargantuan absorbent mat by the door was soaked to the brim, its fibers screaming and stretching past comfort to be wrung and laid to rest. It was dreary, and dark, and smoggy, as it always was in Gotham.

Right as nostalgia for old family vacations threatened to cocoon him, a wide-shouldered, tall man in a passably pressed suit approached. Bruce grinned and reached out his hand on instinct, hiding his surprise when the stranger opened his arms wide and went for a hug. The man's cologne was sharp, cutting through the usual mildewy accompaniment. He couldn't place it. "Mr. Bruce Wayne! How incredible to finally meet you." When he pulled back he bared his teeth, gleamingly white and straight like they were physically held together by some meticulously hidden brace. Bruce kept his mysterious. "And you, Mr...?"

"Call me Lincoln." He stuck out a hand this time, which tugged up the side of Bruce's mouth to bare his canine. Where did this guy blow in from? "Lincoln March, I'm up for mayoral election this November."

The candidates. In his desperation the past week he'd forgotten all about researching, to which he pictured you a few minutes from now flipping through flawless notes of yours. Of course you'd done your due diligence, likely with a bulleted list of questions in rolling cursive to distract from your vice grip on whoever you'd set to analyze. Lincoln's handshake was timely and firm, which always read to Bruce as rehearsed and performative. His eyes were startlingly green, his voice smooth but ragged at the edge of his sentences. He had a few nicks from shaving, a pinprick of shave foam forgotten near his left ear. He smiled incessantly, but the absence of lines around his eyes confirmed his suspicions. Another schmoozer.

"Call me Bruce." Play nice...

"You're just the guy I wanted to see." Of course, the richest man in the room. Shocker. "You see, I think you and I are aligned when it comes to seeing Gotham underneath it all; greater than the sum of its parts. A prolific city packed with diversity, simply desperate for some TLC."

Jesus Christ. "And you think you can guide Gotham there?"

Lincoln nodded assuredly, his shoulders bobbing with him. "Absolutely. The other candidates want to transform Gotham into something it's not. A tourist destination, a drive-by freakshow."

"Which is why you chose to say your piece first, I assume."

He nodded again and snapped his fingers. "Bingo!" He straightened and glanced toward the ground before shoving his hands in his pockets. His eyes stared at the back wall, then over to Bruce. His voice lowered and his smile faded. "Look, I can see you're not one for the song and dance. I know what this city took from you. But you're still here, aren't you? Trying to make the city a better, safer place. I want to help you do that."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. The demeanor shift was instant, and tense. The man thought he was losing his grip, and Bruce was beginning to feel more and more like a walking bank account. "I look forward to hearing your pitch in the meeting." As if on cue, the man opened the conference room's door and called for people to file in. Five minutes to start. Bruce lifted his eyes and scanned the room. No, no, nope, not you, no, nope, no. Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Can I help you find someone?"

Lincoln's voice fell into the backrooms of his mind as his heartbeat pulsed in his ear. He felt himself turn a few shades whiter, hoping the man's earnest distracted him from noticing. His fingertips felt cold and clammy. He knew he should have gone after you, he knew he shouldn't have trusted you were safe. At this point a missing person's report wouldn't do much good, you could be anywhere across the globe, already turned to mulch after being eviscerated from an unsuspecting garbage truck's teeth.

A short blonde woman slipped into the foyer, and she spun on her heel to survey the room so quickly she nearly tumbled to the floor. The memory caused a painful jolt to slice down his stomach. Lincoln leapt into action and walked over to steady her, but when he'd moved to help she lit up seeing Bruce just behind. She held a notebook and a PRESS badge. Where were you? She rushed over and introduced herself as Bridgit. Were you safe? "I'm with Gotham University, I came to interview you for the Gazette."

She had his full attention. "GU? Journalism department?" She nodded.  "Do you have anyone on their way to meet you?"

Bridgit shook her head and dug the pen out from inside the notebook spiral. "I just have a few questions, we can get it done quickly,"

"I'm sorry, where's the journalist from last week?" He didn't know why, but saying your name felt like betraying a secret. He searched her face and ignored the curiosity of the candidate behind her. She shrugged and finally fished out the pen with a subtle click and asked her first question. "Mr. Wayne, do you have a preference for a particular candidate yet for Gotham's mayor?"

"Where's Y/N?" His eyes bored into her notebook. Your handwriting was far better. Would he ever see it again? She didn't react, continuing to pen another question like he hadn't spoken. Until this point he'd thought nothing could be worse than people hanging onto his every word but no, now he knew it was being wittingly ignored. He thought about snatching her pen and staring her down until she divulged your whereabouts, but Lincoln leaned his head in to diffuse the suspense. "Who now? Y/N who?" He smiled again and Bruce grit his teeth.

Bridgit sighed very impatiently, he noted, and tossed her hair behind her shoulders. She was flustered, but why? "I don't know who you speak of."

Bruce's brow furrowed into a glare. "You're with the Gazette, right? She is too." Guilt. It was guilt that was making him so consumed by this. Guilt at having shoved you into dangerous circumstance, guilt about not following up on a finger-painted window that held no innate credibility. She asked another question that he didn't hear, and in a split-second decision he decided against storming out to find you, instead heading into the conference room without a care in the world for what your replacement had to say.

Lincoln sat to the right of him at the head of the table, the seat with a placard stating CANDIDATE reserving it. He held the placard in his hands and tapped it against the wood a few times, seemingly mulling something over. He leaned over to Bruce just as Mr. Convoy turned to introduce the first visiting candidate. Lincoln stood and bowed as everyone clapped, and did a brief introduction before Convoy goaded him on. "Come now, you came here to persuade us into electing you as Gotham City's new mayor: introduce your cause!" With that he sat down, leaving Lincoln alone and standing very tall above the table. Bruce shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to quiet his thoughts, the only one bringing him back being memory of his father's own campaign speech. It was imperative he heard what this man wanted for Gotham.

"I feel out of place here, to be frank with you all. I don't come from money or any real notability; in fact, this suit here I rented from Men's Warehouse. Clearance rack." He paused and listened for laughs that came in abundant whispers. He set the placard down on the wood and heaved a breath from the bottom of his lungs. He paused just long enough to stir discomfort. "I'm not here to convince you of a radical, perfect plan to resuscitate Gotham. I don't believe this city needs a savior." Bruce shifted in his seat.

"I believe this city is good, and can make itself good. It needs resources that are correctly allocated, and someone who does not stigmatize the different struggles that plague not just this town, but many others. Someone who is on their team, not flying high above them." This caused Bruce to shift in his seat again, this time stifling paranoid panic about another vague bird reference. "I want to decrease homelessness. I want to fund our public schools, not just GU. I want to increase paid sick leave, maternity leave and introduce paternity leave. We can offset these costs by increasing taxes on, well, all of you." Lincoln glanced around the room to see a few people narrow their eyes, some even crossing their arms in less subtle disapproval. What a day for Y/N to miss, it was like you'd been cloned.

"And I know that sounds frustrating, but I know you all would appreciate cleaner, happier streets. Your net worths will be inconsequentially affected from an everyday standpoint, and as a gift you get to feel a sense of pride for helping the city." He was rapidly losing the small crowd, who began to snicker and grumble about themselves. He slammed his hand just hard enough against the tabletop to regain control of the room. He shook his head. "I'm only saying the quiet part aloud. My fellow candidates want the same things I do; they want to get inside your pockets, but they want to be deceptive in doing it. I want to work with you, with transparency, to assure your funds are being put to good use and we see real improvement in this city. If elected, I promise to work tirelessly, endlessly, for the benefit of you and all the other people of Gotham."

"What makes you think you're owed our hard-earned money?" A man dressed in a Prada suit pouted at the candidate. A few yeah!s were expressed, and Lincoln shrugged. "The city isn't left with many resources, and I guarantee you have more money than you can ever spend. Don't you want to build a legacy with it?"

"It's our choice what we want our legacy to be!"

"We'll make sure you never get elected with this bold-faced thievery!"

Bruce had had enough. He stood quickly beside him and placed a hand on Lincoln's shoulder. "We should wait to hear what the other candidates have to say in the following weeks. They could be better, they could be worse; but the worst thing we can do right now, ladies and gentlemen, is come to a premature decision." He balled his obscured hand into a painfully tight fist to combat a massive eye roll. "You all love this city as much as I do; my father wanted the same things for Gotham as Mr. March, and no one wants to remove you from financial security." This was too perfect of an opportunity to play up his persona, so very, very begrudgingly, he took it. "I promise you, if we can no longer afford our Beluga caviar and Tiffany bracelets I will personally destroy Mr. March." Bobbing shoulders and grins were seen around the room, with a smattering of tentative nods.

Having effectively dodged a riot, the rest of the meeting went relatively smoothly. No one was paying mind to Lincoln, who raised his hand at regular intervals but was decidedly ignored. He couldn't shake the spiraling thoughts of how much you would've lived and died to witness this meeting, watching the rich people quiver and snivel at the prospect of their pockets turned out. But you were not here, and there was a possibility you were not anywhere at all but returned to the dirt. At the meeting's adjournment, Bridgit waited eagerly at the door for Bruce to walk past and Lincoln muttered a quick acknowledgement. "Wayne. Thanks for having my back there."

Bruce nodded absentmindedly, stretching his neck to look outside the door and into the lobby. It confused Lincoln, watching the man's pupils shoot side to side, up and down, every which direction. "I can't help but think you're looking for someone." He didn't take the bait, so he pressed further. "Y/N, was that it?"

He bristled at the mention of your name, hesitated before nodding, and spoke an old truth to cover himself. "We had an interview set." He eyed Bridgit and groaned.

"I had a girlfriend once in college with a problematic ex; he'd come into work asking for her schedule. They weren't allowed to give it out."

Bruce looked over at the man. "You're saying it's policy not to divulge whereabouts of employees?" He felt embarrassed the second the sentence left his tongue, berating himself for the obviousness of his oversight. Another way he was different, not understanding basic logistics of the working class.

"Correct. The young lady by the doorway might not be legally allowed to tell you."

The legality now apparent did not rid himself of anxiety, it exaggerated it elsewhere. If he could not find out via your workplace (the only place that knew you existed in this metropolis), he was left with two options with equally miserable consequences: try to find you, or leave it alone. If he went looking and he found you, you'd have reason to hate him, thus fuel to nuke his reputation, not to mention the guilt of going back on a promise; if he did not look for you, he would never be alleviated of his guilt that he hadn't at least attempted to save you from the danger he put you in. How could he go on as usual knowing he could have done more? What if you'd simply called out sick and she was a temporary replacement? The tale of the problematic ex ping-ponged within him, reminding him of another alternative: he had scared you away, and you'd left the position to avoid seeing him. Before the emotions of that could burrow into his chest, he resorted to waiting until the following week to see if you'd returned. After a two week hiatus at a new job, there was higher probability you were out of his weekly rotation permanently; whether that meant you were dead or quit the position was another matter entirely, one which he could tackle more sufficiently next—

"Wayne? Hello?"

Bruce blinked at Lincoln, who stared at him with a blend of confusion and concern. He thanked Lincoln for coming, and began to walk away, not before he held out a business card for the billionaire to take—which he took swiftly, kindly, and hurried off. Right past Bridgit shouting interview requests at him, right past the throngs of people waiting for his attention at the exit, and over to the valet which stood waiting with his key in hand. The drive home was quick and dangerous, when he pulled into the cave he felt like he'd blinked and been transported into his seat at the computer. Television static frizzed his brain circuitry until he'd stared at an empty SEARCH screen for fifteen minutes. Alfred, concerned he had not come back and immediately went to the kitchen for dinner scraps, clunked his way out of the elevator and stood behind the boy. A hand on his shoulder startled Bruce, who groaned and pressed ESCAPE. "Jesus Alfred,"

"Mulligatawny's in the fridge, I thought you wouldn't have missed that warm for the world."

"I've been preoccupied." He placed his chin in his hand and slumped over the desk. He was this close to having the answers, just a month ago he'd spent a whole week ramping up the internet speed in there. In a single millisecond he could have the answer, or be closer to the answer. Yet nothing could propel him to push the keys. Alfred was quiet behind him, but not a good quiet; not the quiet of him being lost in a song, or mulling over the duties for the next few days. This quiet was weighted, waiting for Bruce to speak or to pester it out of him. He started with a softball.

"Bad news at the meeting?" At least, Bruce thought he might start with a softball. Alfred wondered in secret if the boy's distress was due to the disorder he presumed was creeping up on him. Bruce had a feeling he wasn't being transparent, and groaned when Alfred spoke again. "You don't have to attend the meetings, you know. The world would go on if Bruce Wayne, or, better yet Batman took a bit of a rest." He noticed the old man's watery smile in the empty reflection of the unused computer screen.

"I don't need more rest." Bruce murmured. Alfred shot a challenging look. He rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from the desk. "I'm getting some food." As he waited for the elevator (it had taken to going back up to the top stair upon arriving in the basement), he considered asking about you. Talking the situation over with him. It wasn't an invasive search, but a conversation that could help him get out of his own mind. But. He hadn't brought you up since you'd left. If he spoke now, it would be a can of worms. The questioning wouldn't cease. Alfred would assume, and pursue, and blow his concern up beyond what it was. He'd wait. He'd wait, and if you still weren't at the next meeting he'd make a decision at that point. Only then would he be able to accurately weigh the consequences of action and inaction. No earlier. In the meantime, he'd have to endure it.

Fateful Beginnings

XXIII. “desperation”

parts: previous / next

plot: you receive a suspicious phone call. Bruce meets with your boss, and runs into a psychiatrist from Arkham.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, panic attack, gaslighting

words: 3.2k

Bruce awoke the next day to Alfred opening his blinds, accosting him with the sun. "The university president called. You have a meeting in an hour." He had to make sure he wasn't still dreaming, but the only word that found him was: "Why?"

Alfred flicked on the overhead light, which always drove the boy mad—he needed a force to jolt him into quicker action than his usual sloth speed in the A.M.. "Something about the university's journalism department. It's 11:02, you're set to meet her no later than noon." As he left the room to allow Bruce to ready himself, he called out some details. "Dr. Janay Vry, she said you'd met at graduation." If Alfred had lingered in the room a moment longer he would've seen his eyes widen, and Bruce jump out of bed to rush to his closet. Not even stopping to grab the toast the butler had made for him, no sooner than Alfred had readied a single scrambled egg for himself, Bruce had climbed into his vehicle and started off for GU.

The route given to him at graduation allowed him to take a back road to campus; there were very few in Gotham that weren't filled with pedestrians during the light of day, but he tempted the law by speeding and having increased his window tint beyond the legal limit. The route would lead him to an employee parking garage on the Northeastern side of campus. If he took the stairs to floor five, shot across a hallway to the right, then another hallway to the left, he could find himself at the admin office. He assumed her office would remain in the same location, and he was correct. After peeking to see if she was in the vicinity, he stepped inside and a screeching alarm sounded. It only ceased when he'd fully stepped out of the room, out of the doorframe, and into the hallway.

Dr. Vry showed up not thirty seconds later, but with enough time between for Bruce to catch his breath, rapid blinks reorienting him to the present setting. He didn't think he'd ever clawed his way anywhere as fast as he just had. "Mr. Wayne, you're early." She held a black card to the placard beneath her name on the door. A small Ding! sounded and she walked in with Bruce in tow.

The chair was the same, and the cobwebs remained. His thighs stretched against the wood and the webs swayed gently from the air conditioning. Even though it was overcast and dreary, it was still a sweltering August. His stomach grumbled, and he daydreamed fondly about the Mulligatawny in the fridge back home. Thankfully, she wasted no time getting to the point. "Mr. Wayne. I wanted to talk with you about your aversion to speaking with our journalists here."

Damn. He should've brainstormed answers on the drive. He was too consumed with hearing potentially devastating news of a local journalist's murder that he hadn't thought of a single thing relevant to what she might ask otherwise. "My apologies, I've been unexpectedly busy the past few weeks with the election coming up." Where are you? What does she know? Does she know anything?

"If you were busy with the election, wouldn't you want to speak with the candidates?" God this was frustrating. He needed to figure out what had happened with you yet here she was, refusing to divulge information as the only other person in Gotham who knew you existed. He cleared his throat to cover another stomach grumble and tried to stave off an interrogation.

"They should be coming to the next meeting."

Dr. Vry wasted no time interrogating him anyway. "Ms. Langley was our journalist last week, and she said you refused to speak with her."

"Doctor," Bruce was quite pleased when she interrupted him because he had no idea how he would've finished the sentence.

"You didn't mingle longer than a minute or so with Mr. March, either."

Who gave her the play-by-play? Bridgit? Did they train their journalism students to be hawkeyed? "As I said, I was unexpectedly busy." Be pleasant. He wrung his hands together under the desk, not entirely sure she didn't have super vision which allowed her retinas to pierce through mahogany.

She sighed, which made her peppered gray bangs flutter. Her lipstick was feathered around her lip line, a visceral reminder of the sour note you'd both left on the night you disappeared. Could one be tracked by lip print alone? "Did Ms. Langley do something inappropriate, Mr. Wayne?"

"No." He grit his teeth, then hoped she wouldn't notice. "She was pleasant." He hated how well he could lie. It was never comfortable, but he was able to grin and grit his way through any turn in conversation with unsuspecting ease.

"She said you asked for our former employee by name. Ms. Y/L/N." FINALLY! He tried not to visibly sink into the seat with relief. His ears had a pavlovian response to your name, interrupted by echoes of the word 'former'. As much as he wanted to follow that thread, he hoped she might extend it on her own grounds.

"I was under the impression it would be the same journalist every week." He paused, and she didn't take the space. "It appears I was too assumptive."

It was like he hadn't spoken at all. "Ms. Langley said you told Mr. March you were set to be interviewed by Ms. Y/L/N."

He paused, the both of them making uneasy, penetrating eye contact. "I was." So where were you? Home? Dead?

"Peculiar." She looked down and sighed. "I fired her under the pretense she refused to interview you. Yet you say you had one set."

Bruce wanted to sink into the floor making such a faux paus. He also stifled a jump and high-five because now he knew with confidence you were at the very least, alive. The dueling emotions threatened to spin out his vision. "I must have misheard, or misread something."

"She didn't seem keen on talking to you whatsoever. She refused to write about you in our column." She shrugged and sighed again, sinking dramatically into her thick leather seat. Bruce didn't care that you weren't going to write about him, even though you'd apparently denied the prospect so thoroughly it had led to unemployment. He no longer had to lug lifelong guilt at not having done anything to save you, because you didn't need saving. His body was light and tingly, and it was only when he felt the weight lifted that he realized how heavy it had been weighing him down.

"I didn't know the column included me." He didn't much care to humor Dr. Vry any longer, his brain going into autopilot now that his most pressing concerns were assuaged.

"You do not need to perform humbly here."

He stifled an eyeroll. "I assumed she was there to report on the meeting's content."

Dr. Vry laughed. It startled him. "It's as if you rehearsed it together."

"I do not understand."

"Must I remind you that you are Bruce Wayne?" She mimed handing him a piece of paper he could only imagine was intended to be a birth certificate. "Bruce Wayne taking on an active role in the community is the news. What do people want to read more than that?" She threw her hands in the air and leaned back again, the leather squeaking.

He began to speak when Dr. Vry questioned him more deeply. "What happened with the interview last spring?"

The one-sided rapport she'd developed seemed to be fraying at the edges. Keep responses benign. "It didn't work out."

"Will it ever, Mr. Wayne? Or should I pull the plug on the department before we get into more debt?" Her voice was raising and getting shrill. He was close to walking out—the only thing tethering him was the weight of his family name.

"I was unaware of the financial strain the university was under." Good. Basic. It was the first time in his life he hoped someone would ask him for money. A check was easy to write, easy to talk about, easy to segue from to a quick exit. His mask was threatening to slip.

"One exclusive interview, the first of its kind will sell. The credibility it would lend this university... priceless."

Bruce watched on as Dr. Vry became teary and fidgeted in her seat. She wrung her hands together palm-up, which exposed a hammered-silver ring with the tiniest of owls etched into the metal. Seeing the same symbol that had been on the knife handle, the same symbol that had been on her pin, it rung hollowly and deeply in his chest. One was gold, one silver, one etched into a knife. This couldn't be coincidence. His brow furrowed and he leaned inward. "Is that an owl?"

She stared at him, not once glancing down to the ring. "What could you mean?"

He pointed at the ring and leaned so forward in his chair he had to palm the wood to catch himself. "Your ring. Is that an owl design?" He hoped she was more of a fool at spotting his mounting anxiety than you were. It was beginning to take every crumb of energy from last night's dinner to regulate his breathing.

She followed his finger down to hers. "I have no idea of what you mean."

Bruce saw it clearly, like peering at the bottom of a sparkling, transparent lake. Defiance snuck into his tone. "What would you call that symbol, then?"

"What symbol?" She spun the ring around her finger, befuddled. His anxiety was melting into desperation. "There's a symbol etched into it." His stare bore into her, and he wished he could grab the ring off her finger and show her. She gazed down at it, moving it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger, fully exposing the owl icon. It even glinted off the light. She shrugged. "This is the wedding band my husband got me thirty years ago. I'd know if something had been 'etched' into it."

Bruce sank back into the chair, realizing he'd leaned until only an inch of ass remained on the seat. He let his face fall into frustration, and he didn't conceal his shaking head. What had been defiance drowned itself under his shame. His faculties were indeed failing him. It was so clear. So vivid. It made his chest ache and his soul bristle.

"Would you rather her or Ms. Langley?"

His eyes flicked to hers again, which stared at him expectantly. He paused so long she reiterated herself with further clarification. "Would you rather speak with Ms. Langley or Ms. Y/L/N?"

He blinked. He spoke slightly above a mumble. "I don't think it's appropriate for me to make your employment decisions."

"Very well then." She stood up and walked around Bruce to the doorway, and called out for Bridgit. She came careening around the corner like a dog whistled to at a park. It was peculiar, but he didn't have the capacity to follow that lead any longer. He didn't know what his capacity was currently, and how quickly it would be stolen from him entirely.

Dr. Vry and Bridgit stood at the inside of the doorway. "Have a good day, Mr. Wayne."

Silently he removed himself from the room. Dr. Vry was swift to shut the door, and Bruce lingered just long enough to catch a phrase. "We don't have all the time in the world and seeing as he wouldn't even speak to you,"

"Mr. Wayne! Fancy seeing you here."

A shorter, slim man with dark, ruffled hair spoke from across the hall. As he drew closer his light blue eyes shone behind sterile rectangular glasses. He wore a deep gray suit and tie with a plush sweater vest atop the usual white button-up. He vaguely recognized the man, but not enough for name recall. Bruce grinned. "Turns out getting more involved in Gotham means meetings with the president." Keep up the playboy facade. He stuck out his hand and the man took it, firmly.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane. I'm sure this will not be the last time our paths will cross, especially with your new venture to save the city."

He wanted to dig his own grave. "Ah, yes. You work at Arkham, correct?" Information was coming to him now, loose memories of seeing his name in court records, and seeing him coming out of the GCPD offices every now and then. As a psychiatrist he floated between the jail and the courts, but his home base was Arkham Asylum. There he would counsel, treat, and refer the patients to whatever outside services they needed. But what did it matter? He'd forget him soon anyway. Imagine him in some other form. Maybe in a few year's time everyone's heads would morph into an owl's.

"Correct. But today my services also require a meeting with Dr. Vry." He emphasized the salutation which Bruce could only fathom was due to his own educational background. His nerves were shot from the life-ruining confirmation of him hallucinating, and he quickly bid the man adieu. He went back down the hallways and stairways, and stepped out into the employee parking lot. It was empty, as it was when he arrived.

Suddenly a trembling, tingly feeling arose in his chest, bursting out to his fingers and down his legs; when his knee rendered unsteady he began to panic, his heart thundering profoundly in his chest. He struggled to breathe, to gulp breaths, but he couldn't find air. Tears erupted from their ducts and streamed down his face automatically, and he fell to his knees heaving toward the cement. He feared he might never stand up.

You awoke to the blaring sound of your ringtone assaulting your ear. DR. VRY lit up in pulsing green text. You cleared your throat and dove for the water at your side table to take a sip before picking up on the last ring. "Hey, Dr. Vry." It was the first time you'd spoken in days other than to call for Walter, which rarely happened as he never left your side. Your fingers shook a bit thinking on how this could be the start of immediate unemployment. You'd been telling yourself since you'd come home to expect the worst, and you'd begun to feel relieved at the prospect of being fired instead of having to quit. This would be good, splendid even; it would open up your horizons and give you a guilt-free escape. You'd break the news to your parents when they got back—but only after a few hours when they'd napped, showered, eaten, and had settled in for the evening. You hadn't thought seriously of how you'd break the news of the reasoning, but you knew that whatever you said you couldn't say the whole truth. There wasn't a single fantasy in where they did not have a very specific, and specifically annoying response to knowing Bruce Wayne was the reason you were fired, and that really, the only reason you'd been fired in the first place was being a stickler about wanting to engage with the man as little as possible. They'd think it petty, and immature, but they didn't know the whole story; they didn't know what it felt like to truly see Bruce Wayne, they only saw him gussied up to public satisfaction. They didn't know that he was Batman, they didn't know the dire straits you were put in every minute you rotted in Gotham—

"Y/N." Dr. Vry sounded impatient, exasperated even.

Oh. "What?"

"As I was saying, the board... and I... have decided against firing you. You may remain in your position until renewal applications open in the end of Spring. You shall take your post immediately." The words rushed out of her mouth. You briefly imagined her being held at gunpoint to re-hire you, and your immediate assumption was that the billionaire had something to do with it. Was he meddling again, after explicitly promising the opposite? The thoughts couldn't linger long, as all the color swiftly left your face and you fell back on the bed, dizzy. You felt it in your heart of hearts that you could not go back to Gotham, and little would work to convince you otherwise. Oh god. Telling the biggest Bruce Wayne fangirl in the city you weren't going to be her puppet wasn't going to be pretty. "Dr. Vry, I can't,"

"Ah ah." You visualized her wagging her finger. It was the same tone she used in class when someone who had spoken up too often raised their hand yet again. "The stipulations of your duties has changed. You no longer need to interview him once per week, but biweekly." The silence that followed her was thick. Before remembering she couldn't see you, you shook your head, your heartbeat quickening. "I'm sorry, but I can't, I really can't," She chimed in as quickly as she ever had. "Once per month. Only once."

She had you in a pickle. Before your resolve could loosen and you gave in, you declared yourself. "I'm not coming back."

Dr. Vry didn't speak for almost a full minute. She was absent from the line so long you had to check the screen to see if the call had dropped. "Hello?" Another minute passed and your finger hovered above END CALL.

"What would bring you back?"

"I don't think anything could." You huffed into the phone, letting it out. "The city is not mine. I don't enjoy it, I graduated, and I would like to be home."

"So nothing can convince you? Not even an increase in base pay?"

"I'm sorry,"

"A better apartment, perhaps?"

"Give it to someone who needs it. Thank you, but I am not going back to Gotham." You pulled the phone back from your ear and tapped the screen to wake it. A split second before you successfully ended the call, Dr. Vry spoke yearnfully. "One interview. Next week. Then you can be finished."

She was beginning to truly frustrate you. "Let Bridgit do it. I'm sure anyone else would jump at the opportunity."

"I'll be very clear. The department has until the end of this month before we're cut. If a student of this program was able to secure the first interview with Bruce Wayne, the combination of sales from the Gazette and credibility it lends the department at GU... it's our last chance."

"There are no journalism graduates?"

"He'll only speak with you.”

Fateful Beginnings

XXIV. “natural curiosity”

parts: previous / next

plot: under extreme pressure to perform, you prepare for your first and final interview with Bruce Wayne. Batman learns intriguing info on the gruesome murder of John Doe.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mental illness, anxiety

words: 3.2k

a/n: this brings me to the end of my back-posting! we are now up to date across tumblr, ao3, and wattpad 🥳 excited to keep writing more soooon 👀

Was this some kind of cruel punishment?

If it hadn't been for Dr. Vry's unfortunately logical and desperate plea, you wouldn't have said yes—now you were left flying back for half a week. With enrollment for freshmen starting the first day of September, you had to have this in to Bridgit the morning after meeting with him. Thinking of all the belongings you'd just bought for the apartment you thought you'd be living in, you decided against a flight and booked a U-haul for that weekend instead. You'd see if Mar wanted to drive back with you in it, and if not you'd buckle down and do it yourself.

Your parents came back not an hour later. After a few minutes of hugs and chitchat they put themselves to bed, exhausted. Your mom didn't appear critically ill or markedly different in any way (besides a darker tan), so you let yourself relax for the evening out on the couch. A rerun was on the television, the air was stale, and the setting sun stabbed your eyes. You grappled with feelings of guilt as the minutes turned into hours of nothing. You loved them, but was this all you had to look forward to?

Bruce busied himself with monotonous tasks the rest of the day. The panic attack had wiped him out physically, but his mind was wired. A still-relevant yet menial task he felt he could get into a rhythm with involved stealing the giant stack of newspapers Alfred kept by his fireplace in his office for kindling. He flipped through pages and pages of decades-old Gazette publishings, refusing to indulge his curiosity as he passed the months directly preceding or proceeding his parent's murder. It felt like an impossible feat as he discarded them to his left, forcing his eyes to remain tethered to the current moment. Eventually he found clippings from the past few years, and he nestled into the corner chair to pore over their contents. Why was the Gazette failing? Why was the journalism department going to shut down? He distinctly remembered his parents reading the Gazette together every Sunday before church. On the walk to church, he remembered people sitting on park benches reading it. He only paid attention to the comic strip curated by the art majors, but even as a young kid he knew the paper was influential.

As he skimmed through the recent few years of publishing he couldn't discern why sales were lower. It was putting out relevant information that was decent to read... He stood up and walked down the hall to Alfred's room, and found him buttoning his cuffs. "Master Wayne, what's wrong?"

Bruce shook his head. "You read the Gazette, right? Do you know how many people read it?"

Alfred finished the last button and shook out his sleeves to straighten them. He shrugged. "I don't know precisely, but in concept it seems to be doing rather well. On my grocery trips I see lots of people reading it."

Bruce nodded and made some small talk for a moment about dinner ("I've been craving some sausage and cabbage soup, would you mind that, boy?") before making his way back to Alfred's office. He logged onto the computer and looked up sales for the Gazette. While there had been a decline, it had been slow and not enough to completely shut down a department. After looking into Gotham's budget, he realized there was enough budget and in fact, the majority of the Gotham finances were allocated between GCPD and GU. Looking into the school attendance rate there was still a good amount of students applying to the university; less people going into journalism, sure, but still enough to warrant continuing the major. Was Vry a particularly attentive and anxious president, or was it manipulation to get him to agree to be interviewed?

Alfred forced him away by physically walking upstairs to bring Bruce down, and they ate the soup in silence. It was warm, and soothed him enough to take the edge off his guttural sense of impending doom.

The next day he got a call from Gordon. A quick change into the suit and a back exit getaway later, Bruce found himself at the police station. The guards stiffened their spines and glared at him as he walked up; usually it didn't bother him, but after being discovered he felt every eye on him was an x-ray. He walked down a dingy, slim hallway to Gordon's office and knocked on the door. Gordon invited him in, appearing visibly stressed. "In the office on a Saturday?"

"Hey. I don't know what to tell you, but the results came in inconclusive."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "No idea what the metal is?"

"That's not exactly the problem." He reached into the desk and pulled out a plastic EVIDENCE bag smattered with pokes from the sharp metal inside. It landed on the table with a sharp rap. "We know what it is, but we are lost as to its function."

Bruce swirled the bag so the shrapnel tilted and moved about its cage. Gordon continued. "We brought in a few dentists, even one doctor, to clarify why this might be used as a filling but no one had heard of it before." He quickly continued. "Well, one guy did. Said he used to be a chemist. He'd heard of the metal, but said it was bordering on corrosive. He couldn't make head nor tail of why it would be used in a man's mouth."

"What is it?"

"The man said 'Electrum'. I made him repeat it because it sounded made up." Gordon rolled his eyes and bit his lip, lost in thought. His tone was biting. "I just want to find these punks. Can't have someone causing crime scenes like that running loose."

He'd never heard of Electrum. He opened his mouth to speak but Gordon continued again. He's talkative today. "The man said its properties are that of a 'spark to light up the wire'. Something about conductivity. I think it's just some man who got an under-the-table dental. Probably cracked open a soda can and peeled off a clip to tuck into his gums." By the end he was mumbling, and quickly stood up.

"They were certain it's Electrum?"

Gordon nodded. "He said it was clear. Bet his life on it." And with that he left, motioning to be followed out.

Electrum. Nothing could be found on the web about it. Alfred didn't know, and there had never been a mention about it in any newspaper since 1800 (any further back he couldn't find). By this point he was exhausted, and hadn't even realized he'd pulled a whole weekend staying wide awake. He physically pored over every newspaper article himself pre-1900, his smart engine struggling and misreading the small, fuzzied print. There was nothing that could even be vaguely related to Electrum. Fuck. He dragged his feet up to bed and crashed early Sunday evening.

Had it really only been a strange, foreign filling? Usually this would be his favorite type of thing to sleuth out, something no one could find but he could; he would read the small print from an article in 1806 and solve the mystery, following its crumb trail to an ultimate victory. It was the perfect catharsis, but he was too in his head. All Monday afternoon he twiddled his thumbs and waited for evening, but when evening came he couldn't bring himself to put on his suit. That one scrap metal felt like it was lodged in his tooth, giving him an emotional toothache. He slipped into bed and laid on his back with his arms behind his head. He gazed up at the ceiling, drawing a mental map of the situation. The John Doe couldn't be traced back. Dentist, former chemist, clarified it was Electrum. Electrum can't be found anywhere. No trace of it. Testing was inconclusive. Bordering on corrosive. Man was stabbed repeatedly and hung by the blades. Owls were etched into hilt. Owls were etched into pins and rings of the Gotham University president... Bruce squinted. How could he gain more information on Dr. Vry? His first thought was a Batman interrogation, second idea stalking her in his car for a week to see what she was up to. Both options, especially the latter, caused an internal cringe. Much like he couldn't shake his suspicion about Electrum, he couldn't shake the thought you embedded in him that he was too invasive.

Being invasive to criminals isn't bad. Often, it's the only way to catch them. Your voice came into his mind. And you're assuming she's a criminal. What happened to probable cause?

Her jewelry insignias perfectly match those on the weapon in an unsolved murder.

Perfectly, huh?

Almost.

Almost, yeah.

Even imaginary you mocked him. He continued having a conversation with himself until Alfred knocked on his door. He bristled and sat upright in bed. The old man leaned against the doorframe and gazed at him, spectacled. "Wanted to check in. Social battery ran out, I assume?"

Bruce stared down at his sheets. "Unsolved murder. Can't find any clues."

"Peculiar. Not much stumps you these days."

He struggled not to receive it sarcastically given how vigilant Alfred had been about his mental wellbeing the past few months. He hoped this wasn't another request for him to meet with his therapist, but his hopes were quickly dashed. "I called New Discoveries, they have a few openings this week and next."

Bruce bit back a retort. "If I ever need her, I'll give her a call."

"Bruce,"

"Stop, please. I've got enough to deal with right now."

He leaned in and raised his eyebrows at the boy. "Your analyst could help with that."

"I don't need someone to tell me my parents died."

Alfred heaved a deep sigh. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm not talking about this." This was the push he needed to get out and into his suit. He jumped out of bed and strode firmly past him, ignoring Alfred's calls to get him to 'just make a phone call'. He was surprisingly swift getting into the suit and out on the town. Guilt plagued him at abandoning Alfred, but this was about the tenth time they'd had that conversation since June and it was making him ill. He wouldn't mind seeing his therapist again, he'd liked going after the murder, but he didn't think he could handle being forced to reckon with his mortality at this point in his progression. He still wasn't sure it existed, and until he tied up all the loose ends about the owls, or his symptoms got significantly worse, he was going to ride this last high as long as it let him.

The next few days with your parents went smoothly. It was almost like before your mom had gotten sick, plus Walter. Walter was ecstatic to see your parents back, and you no longer sobbed in the shower out of lonely desperation. You were able to distract effectively through various arts and crafts with your mom, and by the time you were starting to need 'me' time she would tire. You spent some time with your dad fixing the back deck and pulling some weeds out of the raised flower beds. You tended to the pumpkins your parents had planted in June, and harvested some bell peppers and blueberries.

You avoided thinking about Gotham until you were in Gotham; you hadn't even mentioned to your parents you'd been fired/quit, and figured they'd know when a U-Haul ended up at their house with you and Mar inside. The quiet neighborhood was relaxing when your family was around, but that desperate feeling of loneliness was pinned to your chest. The town felt more desolate after being in the city, the quiet felt heavier when they were gone, and knowing how fragile her health was you figured you'd spend more of your life without her than with her. The combination threatened to consume you, and you spent every lull in conversation and every night lying in bed unable to sleep from worry about finding your purpose in life. What interested you? What motivated you? What were your values? How could all of the above be translated into a livable life?

Where did you belong? Did you belong here, in the sleepy town with wide open skies? Did you belong in a city with skyscrapers and sardine-squishing sidewalks? You liked the access the city afforded you. When you'd first moved there, you'd been enthralled by the hundreds of restaurants and stores within a mile's radius. You'd maxed out a small credit card being silly and young, trying cuisines you'd never even heard of. You found cute themed shops that were abhorrently overpriced but nonetheless aesthetically pleasing to visit. But the city moved so fast, and just in time for you to settle into a routine with a favorite restaurant they'd be closing shop. It was cutthroat and intimidating, and you felt softer. Too soft. Life here was too slow as to be entirely, aggravatingly boring. There were only a handful of restaurants in town and they were all dying fast food chains strung out amongst various struggling mom and pop shops that wouldn't dare invite in a health inspector. But the nature was beautiful, and sometimes you loved the quiet breeze of it all. You had no friends besides Mar who you could never see leaving the city, a degree that was worthless in the current economy, and your extended family lived in south Florida for some unknown reason. You only saw them once a year at a family reunion that was usually in July, but had been postponed to Christmas. Ugh.

On Monday you set off for Gotham. You'd arrived on time a few days earlier to ensure you could properly pack your stuff. Day one was filled with throwing out the perishable groceries and giving yourself a moment to breathe outside of your childhood home. The food tasted bland, your favorite shows had lost their spark, and your bed was lumpy and hard. The floors were cement and made your feet ache with every slapping step. The water took ages to heat up compared to home, and you kept watching your step for Walter who never showed. The flight had been frustrating. Your head pounded. You felt like screaming into an empty field, creating a dust storm from pounding your hands into the dirt until you were bruised.

Day two after arriving back to Gotham, you sat down at your small desk in the corner to think up some questions. It was impossible to focus, but you kept yourself to task by repeating you'd be out of here permanently, genuinely, so, so soon. As you stared at the blank page, anxiety sprouted. It hadn't before occurred to you that everyone would be reading this; in fact, everyone would likely be seeking this out so much it would be translated to different languages hours after being published. For a moment you couldn't wrap your head around why this time felt so much more high-stakes, and then you remembered the fate of an entire university department rested on how marketable and quality this interview was... and remembered how obscenely rich and powerful the subject was. You twiddled your fingers just slightly above the keyboard, nervous to even begin to dive into it.

The first thing you did was peruse Scypher, especially their forum sections.

SEARCH: Bruce Wayne

SEARCH: Mr. Wayne

SEARCH: Bruce

SEARCH: billionaire

SEARCH: Gotham

SEARCH: Gotham City

SEARCH: Gotham and Bruce

SEARCH: Gotham and Bruce Wayne

You sifted through hundreds—if not thousands—of posts thirsting after him. There were pap photos, one-shots written daydreaming about him, some tweets hating on how rich he was (you liked those), but the vast majority were simply pining after him in a public arena. You got a small sense of what people wanted to see from him, but not enough to create a substantial question.

You went onto Google and searched the same things. A handful of articles from major news outlets were titled similarly: What We Know About Bruce Wayne, the Orphaned Billionaire. People generally knew about the circumstances of his parent's murder, that he lived at home with his maids and butlers (was there more than one Alfred?) and everything that he'd announced at Gotham University graduation. There was logistical data on his Wikipedia page such as his height, birth date, current age, and where he went to school growing up. Information for the past decade was slim, the only bits being where he attended college, his date of graduation, and his major. It appeared the only times since his parent's death he peeked out into the public eye were school-related.

No one knew anything about his personal life, and you worked yourself into a tizzy brainstorming ways to persuade him into talking about himself. Where was the line between too benign of a question and too invasive of one? What was relevant information to someone high-profile's first interview? You'd spent hours digging into the first interviews of now-major celebrities, but they all happened before they rocketed into fame. This was different: he was born famous, and now at age 30 he was finally speaking to someone. After a certain point in your research you feared you would need to be the blueprint for this kind of thing; even nepo babies had been interviewed as children, asked questions such as their favorite musicians, movies, books, and colors. How did you show the public he was normal, personable, even? Did you even want to make him appear normal, because he didn't seem it. He was an enigma. Someone you couldn't quite peg.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. What's my goal with this? No one else's, mine? What do I want to learn about him? What are my natural curiosities? This led to an immediate rush of creative energy, questions popping up left and right; you didn't care about how invasive or off-kilter they might seem. After the brainstorming, you gathered the questions into three categories: COMFORTABLE - DEEPER - DANGEROUS.

The first contained questions that were more basic, and likely wouldn't elicit an emotional response in any way to the interviewee. The second probed a bit more, considered more thorough and juicy. At this point an interviewee might be more choosy with their phrasing, or pause to think about it. The final category was fully questions of your own mind, questions you didn't think you'd ever ask but wanted to be put to paper. These were so juicy as to be intimate, so personal as to be disorienting.

When else would a woman have the leverage to ask such a dizzyingly powerful man anything she wanted?

Fateful Beginnings

XXV. “Mr. Wayne”

parts: previous / next

plot: debuting a new playboy persona, Bruce banks on a moment of reprieve that never comes. after saying goodbye to a friend, you make your way to city hall for a final meeting that leaves both you and the billionaire in a haze.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, romantic tension, infidelity/flirting, mention of sexual harassment, mention of illness

words: 7.4k

a/n: a treat of a chapter for everyone 🏹 thank you for continuing to show fateful so much love! adoring the comments and reblogs, it's so fun to see your reactions ✨ soooo much more to come <3

It'd been long enough of occasional high-profile, low-commitment public escapades as Bruce Wayne. With the candidates coming, he felt it deep in his gut he had to show out and perform. He put on his best suit, had Alfred do his hair. He ordered the most expensive cologne he could find (that didn't seem to be oversaturated on the market like Baccarat Rouge; he knew Bruce would need to keep ahead of the trends) as well as the watch. He spritzed Guerlain Tobacco Honey on his wrists, chest, and neck before getting into his Bugatti. He spent so many millions in one week Alfred had checked if this was some sort of mental breakdown. He assured him it was 'only necessary' and 'only temporary', and that these items would eventually make good money at a charity auction.

When he arrived (after making a showy tip to the valet), he made a beeline for the cocktails. He asked the steward to give him a mocktail, quietly, and with a successfully deceiving martini in hand, he moseyed about the room and made small talk in a booming voice. Rich guys aren't afraid to take up space and well, as the richest man in the room...

He sipped his martini as an incredulous man's gaze lingered on his wrist. A moment of hesitation and the man appeared mere inches from his glass. "Mr. Wayne, I couldn't help but notice your Patek. Is that the Philippe Chime?" Hook, line, and sinker. He nodded, as if it were confusing the man would even approach him. He had a split second to deliberate on an asshole persona or a charming one. An easy decision, remembering his family image needed all the support possible after the antics of Edward Nashton. "Ah, a man with good taste."

They chatted for a moment about different watches and stocks (thank god Bruce had remembered to talk to Alfred to get a refresher), until a tall woman in a red silk dress tugged on his elbow. After a small laugh and excusing himself, he turned to face the blue-eyed blonde. Her smile was sparkling white and veneered, and her face didn't move a wink. "Mr. Wayne, excuse me if this is too brash but, I need to know the name of that cologne." She smiled bigger, flit her lashes, and whispered to him. "If you can't tell me, I might just have to replace you with my husband."

Oh this was going to kill him before the night was out. He grinned wider, flashing teeth, and performed a rehearsed laugh; he lowered his voice to match her evocation. "We wouldn't want that, now would we?" He winked, internally cringed so hard he thought he'd turn to diamond, and watched as she gave him a once over and walked sultrily back to the man she'd so brazenly been willing to abandon.

He knew he couldn't be seen standing around, and moved swiftly over to a gaggle of men with their martinis delicately in their left hands, positioned just below their breast pocket. The chandelier to his right kept twinkling in his periphery like an omniscient presence.

"Mr. Wayne, this renewed presence of yours..."

This was gonna hurt. "I'm glowing, right?" He flashed a bright smile and all the men grinned and rolled their eyes, their wives blushing demure side glances amongst themselves. Am I going to have to keep this up forever? Good God. He shook his head and leaned his weight on his left hip. Sip, absentmindedly. Look as if perusing through a scrapbook of memories. "There's this spa in Dubai, it does wonders for the spirit. And the body." He laughed again, feeling like he was shoving out the very last oxygen from the deepest well of his chest. "This past Spring I jetted over there for a few week-long stays, nothing crazy."

"Playboy bootcamp, hmm?" A woman in a midnight blue dress stood by Mr. Gavenstein, a popular investment broker on the Northwest side of town. Gavenstein glanced hard at her for a split second before interrupting her seduction. In all honesty he couldn't blame the ladies, remembering from a few summer camps that many upper-class Gothamite girls were raised to marry wealthy—and to lend no concern to things as trivial as loyalty to men who were probably cheating on them anyway.

As Gavenstein talked to the group (but mostly to Bruce), it became difficult to hide his increasingly strained attempts at mellowness. Bruce's first night at one of these city hall meetings a handful of years ago had led to the one and only time he'd gone out with these men, and every single waitress and bartender who served them that night got a side of sexual harassment from the husband himself. The ring his wife wore looked like it'd been longer than a few years since they gave their vows, corroborated by the same subtle chip in the gold of his wedding band. Bruce had made a small comment about the 'strange lack of respect people had for staff', and tipped the servers a few thousand each on the way out. He made it a point to lay as low as possible from that point on.

The man in the same white linen shirt interrupted the reverie by opening the door to the conference room with an announcement. "The meeting will convene in two minutes, but tonight we have an intermission at half time for the candidates to prepare their initial statements."

This schtick wasn't easy, but it was easier now that you weren't here. With the conference room's opening and you nowhere to be found, it left him no choice but to know with surety you'd left back to Washington and cut your losses. He bristled at the thought, but paid it no mind. No one here knew this wasn't the real him; no one here would be scanning to see if his hand was clenched in his pocket to try and metabolize the anxiety of performing. And if someone did notice, he would be able to effectively lie that he'd hurt his hand playing polo. Bridgit wasn't here either, and he let his shoulders relax knowing he wouldn't be grilled until he walked into the foyer of Wayne Tower.

He followed the men into the room with its sturdy, polished mahogany table set, making sure to chatter with the people at his side—until Convoy shot him a confused look as he struggled to control the din and start the meeting. Be annoying, but never rude. Feign innocence, seem to mean well. As embarrassing as it was, he had binged a smattering of critically-acclaimed films all week to prepare his psyche only to realize upon stepping back into this lion's den he'd already studied these men enough to camouflage.

Dr. Vry had been suspiciously apologetic upon your return to her office to grab supplies. She gave you the 'very best' voice recorder, a sparklingly new leather-bound notebook, and 'only the finest' 'Italian' fountain pen. As you hurried out the door she told you to keep everything but the recorder, and 'not to worry' about the price. Her Hermés Birkin bag sat bright and pink in the corner, making a mockery of whatever 'expensive' ink lie in the pen.

While she had largely been unhelpful, she had told you ahead of time that this city hall meeting would be inundated with candidates and their teams, meaning there would be an intermission halfway through meeting time. At seven sharp you'd be in the lobby waiting to whisk him to a room she'd already secured for the fifteen minutes between sessions. The key glimmered on your keyring under the shimmering streetlights as you walked to city hall.

On the way you stopped at Rai's. The store wafted with the familiar warm scent of a perfectly spiced, decadent deli, and he beamed at seeing you again. You grinned and pulled out your wallet to get a container of tabbouleh. Rai, with his deep, reverberating voice, teased you as he took the bills. "Strange woman you are, no lettuce boat! Straight 'bouleh."

"I like the tartness, what can I say?" You watched him scoop up a double helping than the cash you'd given, and felt a pang of sadness. He's the only one that's been consistent my whole time here. The only person that seems to genuinely enjoy my presence. If the two of you hadn't known each other better (coming off of a night of particularly hard partying at Mora's your first term) you might have thought he was simply schmoozing a loyal customer. But Rai had patched you up after icy falls on the way for snacks, chatted with you about early dating troubles, and you'd given him advice on how to care for his sister's elderly cat. When his grandfather had been in the hospital, and he'd received the call as you were checking out some Nutter Butters, you'd covered the rest of his shift without question. You'd had to pull an all-nighter because he'd left the keys on his keychain, but nonetheless.

"Getting ready for another school year?" Rai handed you the tabbouleh and a to-go spoon. You averted your eyes, lost in thought. "No, I'm moving home actually." The statement reminded you that Mar had yet to get back to you officially about moving things tomorrow.

His face fell, his brows pulling together. "Gotham has plenty jobs available." Now he was standing right across from you at the register, his arms crossed around his chest so he could rest closer on his elbows. "Don't tell me this is permanent!"

Anxiety was rising in your chest because you didn't want to say goodbye to him, he was possibly the only good thing in Gotham. C'mon, just uproot your entire family and move your business to nowhere Washington. "My mom is sick, actually." The truth spilled out easily for him, and thankfully no customers came in during your retelling with the tears beginning to streak your cheeks. After a few anguishing moments talking over her prognosis, he walked around the counter to wrap you in a hug. His hand was firm and soothing against your back. "Make sure you do what is best for you. If that means leaving the city, leave the city. But you must take a summer here at least once! I will feed you and your family for free."

You hoped Rai's would still be open if you did ever visit. He was the kindest man you think you'd met here, and it was a blessing he was still open—whenever someone was hungry, he'd feed them. He practically ran his own soup kitchen on the weekends, when the houseless would line up to pick some meals from his deli. As far as you knew he relied wholly on catering jobs to make the bulk of his rent. Do I even want to come back? It felt like Bruce owned this city; as much as you'd pushed back when he'd said Gotham was his, it kind of... was. His family's shadow was cast over every street and alley like a weeping willow; but that wouldn't stop you from visiting Rai. "I'll make sure of it, thanks." You grabbed your tabbouleh and spoon, and walked to the doorway with its little signs and small wind chimes. He smiled and waved at you from the register. "Thanks for being a friend, Rai. See you around!"

"I'm only saying, none of these candidates seem to actually want the best for the city."

"Well we gotta pick one of them, right? Unless one of us wants to run."

The candidates hadn't set foot in the conference room yet the space was alight with debate. Convoy had precipitated the intermission by rallying off the candidates' stances in small blurbs. "Ms. Grange is in favor of tax cuts, Mr. Hady wants to tax the churches, and Mr. March wants to increase taxes on... all of you."

"Can you believe that guy," Gavenstein was two to Bruce's left, and nudged the man closest to him. "Thinks he can waltz in here and empty our pockets." His graying hairs were sculpted fashionably above his ears on either side of his head; Bruce wondered if he painted them on to appear wise.

"The only person in this room left with a decent account would be Wayne." The man to his left chuckled and glanced at Bruce, then leaned back in his chair. Christ. He would've rather watched paint dry, then chipped off a mansion's worth of said paint with a single thumb than hear that noise again.

Bruce wanted to stay out of it, he actually wanted to leave this room forever and never come back, but that wasn't his new M.O. "At least he had the guts to say it to our faces." He got a few shrugs and murmurs before the next guy spoke.

"Grange wants tax cuts, now there I'm willing to listen."

"Hady, an attack on the churches? Isn't that unconstitutional?" The man to Bruce's right spoke like he'd never said the word before, and he stifled a laugh at how blatantly they grasped at straws to sound informed. Like a cold glass of water, Convoy announced it was intermission and to find the lobby for the next few minutes. "Our caterer has prepared ample appetizers for the break. Please enjoy!"

Lincoln... how to avoid him... As he walked out Bruce braced himself for being bombarded by the man, his opponents, and excess reporters. Never spoken to them before, don't have to speak to them now... or did he? Next week. Or the week after. He'd have more than enough time to be interviewed and photographed during the rest of this election cycle. It was already enough for him to burst simply talking with the usual suspects that didn't have a recorder on their person. He'd read up a bit on the candidates in the moments between marathoning movies and deduced a small amount about them, though the blurbs on their campaign sites seemed hastily written. Grange was indeed wanting to cut as many taxes as she could get away with, Hady was set on making sure churches paid equal tax while simultaneously cutting taxes on the elite (seemed personal), and March... well, he just wanted all the rich people to be less rich. Bruce had yet to parse if he was only not bothered by that because he had more money than someone could ever tax away.

The lobby was shockingly crowded. Three individual, large clusters splayed across the room supported the candidates, their teams swarming like flies. Reporters stood with their mics and recorders throughout, some with point-and-shoot cameras limp in their bored hands. The very second he was out of the doorframe, all eyes snapped his direction. This has to get easier eventually, right? Right? He walked to grab another mocktail, counting each step to force his nervous system to regulate. He waited behind a blonde reporter after effectively sussing out whether it was Bridgit back for revenge. He closed his eyes and took some deep, slow breaths. In, out. Innn, outttt, nose, mouth... palo santo? He'd smelled that warmth before.

"Bruce."

He spun around to see you standing with your same recorder, a different notebook, and the same slight reflection under your eyes as when you'd come out of the bathroom the night you'd gone missing. A nauseating blend of relief and anxiety displayed brightly across his face. "Y/N."

Bruce looked as he usually did now, with his perfectly slicked hair that fell just slightly askew across his forehead to look like he'd woken up that way. Only now instead of a suit he donned a dark gray cashmere sweater; it read as fancy as one, due to how expertly it had been fitted to his torso, and the same went for his slacks. You admired the fact he didn't seem wholly catering to the people here, or he'd be decked out in some starchy suit. The only way you could tell he wasn't replaced with a robot was how his face turned up looking at you.

The clock was ticking, and the room was just across the hall. You hadn't thought it would be this busy with reporters—how were you going to get him into the room without suspicion? You adjusted the PRESS badge to be loud and clear across your back, since that's what they'd be seeing. You let the notebook slip slightly to take up more real estate on your silhouette, trying to look as official as possible. "I need an interview with you. I got us a room." You strode past for him to follow in tow, knowing otherwise he'd overwhelm you with questions that would only waste the clock. Heavy footsteps behind you (how was he the picture of stealth in the heavy suit?) alerted you to his compliance.

You messed with keys on your keyring and jammed it into the lock, which was stuck. You expected him to gaff and make a snide comment, but nothing interrupted the silence. A few moments later and the door opened cleanly to a dark conference room about half the size of the one he'd just came from. As he made his way quietly in and shut the door behind him, walking easily to his seat, you grew increasingly suspicious and frustrated. He pulled these emotions out of you so easily it was almost clinical. His compliance frustrates me? I almost want to call him out on it, but we don't have time. In, and out.

The notebook slid across the heavy glass with a small squeak. First page was clean, and you pulled out the insert you'd tucked into the middle. The other half of the table was so silent you had to monitor your periphery to see if he hadn't somehow made a getaway. Unfolding the beige paper in the middle revealed your printed question sheet. You cleared your throat to give the customary announcements you'd role played so much in intro journalism. "I'm with the Gotham Gazette, and this interview will be transcribed and published in next week's paper, both physical and digital." You glanced up to see him sitting nicely with his hands rested together on the table top. Through the streaking in the glass you could see the ghosts of where he had first placed his hands. You drew a deep breath. He makes intimidating eye contact. "Feel free to decline answering any question, all I ask is that you answer things as honestly as possible. Though I may cut answers short if they run long. As this is your first interview we would like things to be as comprehensive as possible, outside of what is already known via public record. As soon as I ask the first question I will hit RECORD." You clicked your pen ready and hovered above the switch. Your hesitation combined with his silent acceptance of this made the room drop twelve degrees. "Is there any topic off limits, Mr. Wayne? You and your team will not be able to edit your answers after the fact."

Mr. Wayne? He clenched his fingers against the backs of his hands. His eyes narrowed, but your eyes were fixated on the ruled paper beneath you. You must've cried on the way here, your tear troughs were still slick. Bad news at home? Scared of him? You'd rather get fired than be in this room talking. What could've brought you back? He shook his head. "Not that I can think of. I'll let you know."

So cordial. You clicked RECORD after landing on an acceptable first question. "Mr. Wayne, this is your first public interview. Why did you choose to break the silence now?" You readied your pen to jot any additional questions that spurred from his answers.

He'd anticipated this question months ago and had an immediate response. "The timing finally feels right. For so long I hid, still feeling trapped by my parent's murder. Now that I've hit 30, well... I realized I need to make myself useful. You could say I finally figured out I didn't have to die with my parents."

Jeez, that's rough. You pressed on with the follow-up without obvious sympathy. "I'm sure many are wondering why the timing was not right after the historic flooding? Gotham was in dire need."

"I didn't want anyone to mistake my intentions. I figured if I were to do public-facing work, it would read as opportunistic. I don't want to capitalize off of tragedy. I spent my time working on the back side of rebuilding."

Hmm, convenient. But you couldn't say that on tape. You still refused to look at him, buried into your notes. You'd seen him in the doorway, how he'd transformed from a recluse to an unapologetic schmooze overnight. On your way to get him at the snack table you'd heard some women talking about flirting with him at the meeting's front end. Was he genuinely as good as he seemed? His intentions only the purest and brightest? You struggled to believe it.

"Speaking of rebuilding, at Gotham University's commencement you announced a desire to invest in Gotham city. Any sneak peeks for your Spring 2025 rollout?"

In truth, he hadn't started. He figured he'd speak to Alfred, get a board meeting set up, meet with his investors, and within a month there would be a budget drawn up for his funds. He figured he could start it early in the new year, but your delicately tamed tongue nor floundering public opinion would be charmed by the honest answer of 'I've put it off'. "Pass."

That bristled you, and for a half-second you seriously considered stopping the tape; but this wasn't personal. It couldn't be.

Why aren't you looking up? So... stoic. Guarded. Sitting down here had happened so quickly, with no fuss or snide commentary. Did Vry outfit you with a shock collar and a mic? As much as he hated your rustling, the stillness was more uncomfortable, eerie even. It was like you had a moat between the both of you, with armed guards ready to fire.

The LED lighting was causing an ache in your temples. Your feet were cramping from walking halfway across town in heels through cobbled streets, and being in a closed room with Bruce was choking out your oxygen. Every time you saw him he grew larger, and tonight was far from the exception. You'd been smacked with his cologne at a ten foot radius, he was actually taking up social space in the foyer, he'd worn well-tailored clothing for once... next question. Ask it. "With efforts towards rebuilding a better Gotham in your near future, we have come to know the business side of you far more than the personal. What brings you joy in your everyday life, away from the cameras?"

These questions were far kinder than he'd anticipated from you. Did Vry... threaten you? He refocused on your question to try and rid of the thought before he blurted it out to you. He didn't know what brought him joy, but it didn't seem the type of question to skip. His heart fell into his chest as he continued to come up empty-handed, no matter how deep he sifted into his memory.

It'd been thirty seconds and still no answer. He'd forced your hand to look up at him, and his face was pale. His eyes moved from left to right as he peered at the center of the table. Does he ever feel joy? When do I feel joy?

If this were any other reporter he would lie. Say he loved meeting with people in the city. Loved traveling. Loved sports. Maybe he woke up every morning with the songbirds, a cup of coffee in his right hand and the daily stock exchange pulled up on his MacBook. Maybe his muscles were from a home gym, playing polo, sparring with his butler. That won't fly with you. But this wasn't about you. Even still, as he tried with utmost desperation to sink it into his skull, he couldn't get the words to form in your presence.

Do I ask him if he heard me? Clarify? "Mr. Wayne," He met your gaze and it constricted your chest. You were afraid. Afraid of him and his influence, afraid of writing a good enough essay, afraid of the time running out, afraid of your mother's condition, afraid for your father if she passed, afraid for yourself and this debilitating loneliness that sat like a brick in your gut.

He spit the word out. "Pass."

God that was sobering. You swallowed a hard lump in your throat, and the room went stale in the silence. A dissonant sensation of camaraderie fluttered between the two of you. You drew a sharp and deep breath. You'd had cramps this morning, your period was on the way. You'd have cried if a dog looked at you the wrong way; this new sympathy was environmentally influenced. Next. Question. "What motivates you?"

He stared at you, blank-faced. When would this facade break? Almost imperceptibly you narrowed your eyes in response. "My parents. I want to make the city safer so no one else has to lose anyone. My parents believed in Gotham. I want to make them proud."

If only they knew their son was an infamous vigilante. Next question. You didn't have this written down, but followed off his last answer. "You speak very fondly of your parents, even after what Riddler said of them. Two months after the tragedy, Commissioner Gordon made a statement on behalf of Wayne Enterprises. Is there anything you'd like to add to it?"

If his response hadn't been succinct and wholly accurate to his feelings, he might have regretted spitting something out without thinking. "My father was a good man. Everything in the statement I gave Gordon can be corroborated. It wasn't right what he did, trying to bribe a reporter into silence, and I do not support that in any circumstance. But that is all that he did. Falcone is the one who decided to threaten and murder an innocent."

You might strike that question in editing, as he didn't add any additional information outside of what was already public record. Glancing at your phone showed that five minutes had already passed. You pressed on. "Speaking of your parents, what positive memory stands out when you think of them?" This would be the last question related to his parents; you gathered it was a kind segue between what was known to the public and comfortable to Bruce, and more personal questions.

Except, it wasn't that easy. Bruce sat in silence again, unable to stir up positive memories. This combination of questions was making him dizzy from shame. How the hell could he not remember a good memory with his parents? He knew he had good memories, he knew there'd been beautiful times with his mom, his dad. He knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Yet... "Pass."

You shut your notebook and turned off the recorder. He watched it like a hawk. "If talking about your parents is off-limits, tell me."

Bruce shook his head, a bit too fast and a bit too hard. "My mind is cloudy tonight."

"Finally gave in and drank on the job?" He certainly hadn't been in line for the food.

He shot a glare at you, a glare that caught the light for a brief second, exposing you to the rich blue of his irises. "Thinking about it." He sat his head in his hands. You were left stunned, looking at the back of his head across the table. Tower Bruce would've said something brutal back to you, maybe even accused you of being an alcoholic. He was unarmored. It was unnerving.

You let the silence sit. He stayed with his nose nearly touching the table, his hands massaging the back of his neck, slowly, thoroughly, painstakingly. For the first time since knowing him you felt like you were sharing space with an actual human... nah, not quite. He still stalked my family. When he looked like this though, this was his greatest defense against being found out. Batman didn't read as sensitive or lost in troubled thoughts. The same muscles rippled down his shoulders and back, but the bullets had been removed from the gun.

The silence went on, and it must've been another two minutes passed staring at him. You could've color picked his hair at a Home Depot you'd been so well acquainted with its hue. You remembered you hadn't truly responded to him when he'd told you why he paid for your parent's debt. You gripped the sides of the chair and broke the extended silence. "Was it true what you said about your, motive?"

He roused, barely. His eyes were tired, his body limp like a ragdoll. More hair had fallen across his forehead, and after the impromptu neck massage his clothes looked a bit haggard, wrinkled in new places and scrunched up just below his ribcage. He wanted to clarify what you meant about motive, but he didn't want to give you the glee of knowing he had no idea what you were talking about. His body was melting in front of you, relaxing until he became one with the chair, but his mind was frantic and frayed. Motive about Batman? Motive about wanting to help Gotham? Why weren't you asking him more interview questions? Why were you here?

The silence had been too long and you already regretted asking him. You flicked the recorder back ON. "Mr. Wayne,"

"Y/N."

OFF. "That's not professional,"

"I never officially agreed to this anyway."

"What do you mean? Dr. Vry said—"

"What did she say?"

"She told me you'd only talk to me."

"Why would I only talk to you?"

This felt strangely reminiscent of when you'd awoken in his bed. Anything that connected the both of you was tossed aside like a rotten, wormy apple by the billionaire. You hoped he felt too accosted to recognize the hurt in your tone. "She said you asked for me, Bridgit said,"

He rolled his eyes. "I couldn't tell them I was worried,"

"Why?"

"You left in the middle of the mission."

"I left a note."

His scoff echoed off the whiteboard. "I'm supposed to trust that?"

He pissed you off so easily. Leaving me alone in an alleyway, expecting me to just stay put? After he'd effectively bribed me? "You're lucky I left anything at all."

"Lucky..." He laughed as he shook his head. The guts of you.

The nerve on him. You tucked your chin up and away from him. "What tech did you use to find me?"

This again. "Nothing."

I'm supposed to believe that? "Sure."

"I waited until the next meeting. When you didn't show,"

"You asked where I was, okay, I get it." There was a part of you that believed Bruce, or at least wanted to; a part of you that begged to turn off your brain and naively believe all the pretty words from the pretty man so you wouldn't have to feel so on edge. If you believed him, you weren't supposed to listen to the frustration, the lashing out, the way he spit his words at you graduation night. You were supposed to kindly follow him into the dark and abandoned streets of Gotham night life. He'd only accidentally seen your texts, looked you up, found your mother's doctor, and put his card on file, and all out of the kindness of his heart. It had nothing to do with you knowing information that could land him behind bars. He didn't do bribes. He was just another upstanding citizen who spent his nights breaking people's jaws.

"How dumb do you think I am?" If this was really your last night here, he really had no answers, and he really wouldn't hurt you, nothing would come from a little hotheadedness.

He struggled to size you up. "What are you talking about?"

"Yeah, my mom's sick. But I don't think you're out here filling up GoFundMe's—why me?"

"I don't know."

"How could it not be a bribe? Do you regularly pay other people's medical bills?"

You'd backed him into a corner... or maybe he had. "I felt compelled."

"Because I know confidential information about you."

You weren't not making sense, it just wasn't what had happened inside his head. He didn't know what happened in his head, besides his snaring, insistent fixation on how quickly you'd found him out. "I don't think that played a part."

"This is why I asked if you think I'm an idiot, because? You 'don't think' it did?" Your fingers made air quotes for good measure.

"I don't have a good answer for it."

"That's not the same as not having one."

He loathed to admit it, but you had a strong point. When you put it so frankly it begged suspicion. "Maybe I believed you more than I thought. A thank you instead of bribery." Your blank face compelled him to speak again. "Saying you wouldn't tell."

"Then why were you so mad at me that night? When you found me?"

How could he navigate away from this conversation as quickly as possible while evading your suspicions? What would he do if you asked why he'd needed your help? "I was having a rough time."

"You seemed to really not believe me."

"I was in my head."

"So what's it now?”

He barely heard you through cascading thoughts. He liked being seen; he hadn't internalized it, maybe because he couldn't fathom accepting it even months after the fact, but it felt relieving to be known. Well... equal parts relieving and terrifying. What if you knew the only reason he was here right now was because you found him out? He shrugged, a move that was too casual for you. "I hope you won't."

You glanced at your phone again and saw it'd been over ten minutes. Any moment now someone could come looking for him and your window would be gone. If he were any less analytical, you might have thought he read your mind. "The meeting resumes any minute."

"Then let's use what we have." You slammed open your notebook and tried to find a question that wasn't related to his parents, childhood, or any positive emotions. You paused before pressing RECORD, begrudgingly asking for consent to interview, since apparently Dr. Vry hadn't cleared it with the man. "Are you fine with doing this interview?"

What choice did he have? He feared Vry would never lay off of him (or you, if it mattered) if he were to deny you. And if he were being completely honest, who would he be at all willing to talk to outside of you? You were aggravating and abrasive, but because of that he was allowed to turn 'off', even if just a bit. As his mouth opened to say a begrudged yes, he came to a peculiar standstill—in that he realized he might have deflected interviews all this time as a coping mechanism. Maybe he didn't have a personality outside of the Batman, and Batman himself was only borne of tragic grief. He didn't know what propelled him to honesty, but he averted his eyes and did just that. "I don't think I have answers."

The tone in which he said it brought back the earlier sympathy pang tenfold. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling a desire to poke fun and steamroll past the palpable despair in the room, but you were finished fighting. You'd be home tomorrow night, and soon the only thing on your mind would be making a life for yourself away from Gotham. This place had served its purpose, turning black and burnt as you further overstayed your welcome. This city was so big and you so gone from it you could crash into a building and abandon the car in Kansas without being caught; what meaningful consequence could come from being temporarily kind to someone who would forget you in the next five years? He didn't have answers, and that was... fine. "You have a good reason to feel that way."

He knew you were talking about the murder of his parents, and suspected this was some sort of personal comparison. After some deliberation, he went for it. "And you don't?"

You wanted to retort something about how he didn't know anything about your relationship with your parents, your life, or general wellbeing, so much so that it sat on the tip of your tongue like a yellowjacket freshly landed on its target. You cooled its vice grip by considering just how fucked up you'd feel if you'd seen your parents get shot to hell lying in a pool of their own bloody excrement. "My parents didn't get murdered in front of me."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't want pity. I've had enough of it."

"No, I'm saying it makes sense. Grief is..." You shook your head and sighed. "Strangling. All-consuming."

Shit. He'd expected you to say 'just get over it'. Thankfully he didn't have to scramble much before a hard KNOCK took the space. Foregoing polite hesitation, Mr. Convoy entered. "Mr. Wayne! We thought you might have flown the coop." A watery grin. "Please, the candidates are settling into the conference room." He glanced for a moment around the smaller, darker room you three stood in. "Well, the main conference room."

Convoy held the door open wide and a hand out to mime leaving, obviously anticipating Bruce would simply follow orders and stand to attention. No acknowledgement of you. He didn't like that. When he rose, following a squick of the seat, Convoy stepped just outside the doors in waiting. The door was wide open, and by the way his eyes tracked the floor in front of him he was very much still listening. He maneuvered round the table and hovered at your side, facing the door that was to your back. He spoke quietly, but loud enough that Convoy wouldn't think he was listening in on a secret. "Next week. Should have more time."

You'd gotten yourself into this mess by opening a can of worms. Frustrated and kicking yourself, you groaned. "This has to be in by tomorrow at 9am." Once again he was filling your periphery; you tried not to breathe through your nose, suspicious that the warmth of the honey could subconsciously warm you to him. His brows knit together as they so often did, and you felt a jump in your gut.

"Mr. Wayne?" Convoy peeked his head in and startled Bruce, whose fingers clenched momentarily, reflexively moving toward a fist. God, he's so Batman. "They'll be closing the doors soon."

"It's fine, I'll talk to Dr. Vry before I leave. It's my fault, I'll rip the bandaid off." You stood up and gathered your things. She's gonna hate me for this, but I never have to see her again. I never should've lied. I never should've felt entitled, I could've done anything and I chose this fucking mess. You could already tell you were going to have a miserable rest of the night, but at least you didn't have to type up an interview anymore.

Leave? He glanced down the hall to see the doorman looking befuddled in his direction, but there were still a few stragglers making their way in. He calculated he had about thirty seconds before attention was glaringly drawn to his absence.

You pushed your chair in and it slammed against the corner of the table, smashing your pointer and middle fingers. Bruce tracked the movement, like he always did, and you noticed it, like you always did. "She'll be angry."

Now it was your turn to shrug something off. "Can't get fired twice." Vaguely aware of Mr. Convoy's presence, you held out your hand and forced your eyes to make contact with his, the motion as heavy as lifting a slab of concrete. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne."

His hand was warm and strong. He pulled some vetiver from your perfume. His eyes were such a gentle, crystalline blue that for a nanosecond, you forgot they were his. If they weren't, you could've stared into them all night. And your eyes, they were enchantingly bright and equally deep. For no longer than a brief moment, a single split hair, something sacrilegious flickered in your eye and reflected back in his.

Quick breath in, arms back to position.

Walking out of the room felt like a hard reset. The ping-pong game of emotions Bruce had just pulled out of you was erratic. Frustration, anger, sadness, camaraderie, helplessness, defiance, sympathy, and... You barely remembered what either of you had said at all. It felt... weird. You felt doused in a blanket of sticky emotional sweat, the most peculiar, offputting sensation you'd ever felt. Mr. Convoy led Bruce towards the foyer, and by the time you finished locking up he'd been swarmed by women who pet his forearm with their long, delicate fingers. You noticed his left hand tucked away into his slacks, tense and clenched. He glanced back and caught your stare at his pocket, and deja vu grabbed him by the throat.

You took the back exit, but he couldn't linger on it. He strolled into the room and sat down, this time not by Lincoln, who was standing third in line by Grange and Hady. He flexed his hand beneath the table, his left hand absentmindedly tracing the inside of his palm; slow, swirling zigzags painted across the high points down to his wrist. He tapped his foot impatiently, revved up and jittery.

Grange was first up, standing at a haphazardly placed podium. Her assistant adjusted the mic and handed over a folder, presumably filled with projective data and other persuasive elements for the bored elitist crowd. As much as he wanted to tether himself to this conversation, echoes of his dad's voice tempting him to cling to every word said by the candidates, his mind was with you. In a few minutes you'd be long gone, never able to be contacted again. Every second he sat in this stiff chair was a foot's more distance between the both of you.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for hearing me tonight." Her midwestern accent only pushed the words further out of active listening territory. His foot tapped anxiously, each sentence increasing its fervor. You could be in an Uber by now. Already at your hotel room.

"I differ from the other candidates in my distinctive approach to city taxes. I'll be passing around a chart showing..." Her voice completely left his head as her silver cufflink glinted off the fluorescents. The insignia taunted him, its beak and feathers embedded under his epidermis, just searching for a vein to latch onto.

Fuck. He stood so abruptly the security nearly lunged at him from the doorway. His chest was heaving and there was nothing he could do about it. His brow beaded with sweat, and there was nothing he could do about it. He stammered a response to save face. "Excuse me, I need to use the restroom. Carry on, please." He was already out the door.

Frantic eyes traced the perimeter of the room; reporters whipped their heads up, and a quick glance to the entry revealed a steady stream of paparazzi fighting for the sliver of window. You'd left through the back. He sped toward the hallway in a desperate haze, his good sense rapidly falling by the wayside as he turned the corner to the emergency exit. The instant mildewed, cool air smacked his cheek he broke down the alleyway; a paparazzi had been looking down a side alley from the front of city hall and noticed Bruce's rush. His name shouted behind him, then a cacophony of scuffling feet and metal. He broke into a sprint, the slick soles of his dress shoes struggling against the wet pavement. He careened down side streets, cloaked in shadow from ill-wired streetlamps, his eyes busy with a constant scan for your silhouette. Universe willing, he would—found you.

posting the longest chapter yet today 📚👀

Fateful Beginnings

XXVI. “grave responsibility”

parts: previous / next

plot: after months of hostile bickering, you finally complete an unconventional interview with Bruce. all’s well that ends well? not quite.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, suicide discussion, feelings of shock, brief mention of hallucinations, feeling unsafe, regret, nausea

words: 9.4k

a/n: the latter portion of this chapter discusses suicide, an attempt occurs offscreen and there are no descriptions of the act or injury. if you would not like to read this, the next chapter will include a blurb at the beginning to summarize what takes place in this chapter so you can still follow along!

"Bruce?!" His chest was heaving, and he had mud snaked up his legs to his thighs. You clutched the notebook tighter as he walked closer, nervous about his intentions as your eyes darted along his haggard frame. The single streetlight down this alleyway (which is why you chose it, it was the only one that was even halfway lit) cast a shadow across half his body, obscuring his face, darkening his hair and outfit until he was mostly a dark blob of nothingness. When you took a step back he stopped, and a single hand appeared with its palm facing you.

"I don't want to scare you." His voice was low and ragged from what looked like a full-send sprint the half mile distance from city hall. The only thing letting you know you weren't entirely gripped with fear was an initial reaction of laughing, which you stifled; what person says that of all things to calm their victim? But as you stood defenseless in the dirty, bloody corridor, panic encroached.

He saw how nervous you were as your face was cast in the dim light. He held both hands up now, submissively, looking nowhere but your eyes. He stepped slowly, methodically, gently to his left so he could be in your light. He had the sense you were as skittish as a feral cat, and once again he didn't blame you. As much as you put him in situations, he put you in them the same. "I wanted to tell you why I was upset that night." And why he needed you to help, but he couldn't get that sentimental of words out of him; they rung discordantly in his head. He diverted his eyes from you for just a moment, looking around to see if there were any place even slightly more private, but you startled at his shift and made that an impossibility. Now or never.

The lack of ache in your heel reminded you your amygdala was running the show now, adrenaline perking your muscles. You needed to focus and fully internalize the situation, or it would be a blur just like the last meeting with him. You watched him with a thorough stare; memorized what he was wearing, thought back to what street he was on, tried to recognize the watch on his wrist. How long has it been since I left city hall? Fifteen minutes? Ten? Less? It was instinctual, what you always did walking anywhere in the city in case the police needed a spotless report. His watch was silver, his shirt dark gray with a rounded neckline, his pants were black and lightly pleated. He smelled like smoked honey, and it was so deep even a hundred washes couldn't take it all out, in case he tried to play it off as some other guy, in some other outfit, in some other alley.

He soaked up your studying, making sure to keep as casually still as possible for you to get your read on him. Outside of the suit even he felt it a bit unsettling out here. As you scanned his outfit he flashed back to the tattered denim around your ankles, and how he held the same frame, the same power. Every defense melted from him in an instant. Standing wasn't going to do, was it?

Bruce sank to his knees, balanced a hand in front of him on the chunky concrete, and sat his ass flat in a mucky, lukewarm puddle. When he looked up at you he relaxed his shoulders, and took firm control to slow his breathing. The dilation in your eyes quickly shrank, the wide fear in your face washed away to pointed confusion. He tucked each leg under the other for good, deescalating measure.

Criss-cross applesauce. You blurted out a laugh that sounded more like a maniacal shriek, or some sound a seagull squawked. It was reflexive, coming more from the juxtaposition of the scene in front of you than anything light and humorous. Yesterday you'd scrolled through hundreds of fanfic blurbs and imagines about how distinguished, classy, and inaccessible the man was—if only they got a load of this. For the first time you'd ever seen him he seemed to embrace a speck of humility. You felt a wash of embarrassment at him acting so docile, unable to stop ruminating on how perceptive and analytical he was. You knew he sensed your fear, and it fucked you up.

"My head was jumbled that night. I didn't intend to find you, I was trying to find something on my own. But," His inhale was quick and deep. "I don't know how much I trust my perception anymore. When I saw you, I wanted you to help reality test my, sanity." He spoke the word with a deep sigh and rapid blinking. A slight scraping sound scored his words, anxiously picking at his nails, squeezing the tips of his fingers until they were blushed scarlet.

Sanity? When you peered more intently (which was possible only by him breaking eye contact) you noticed a slight tremble in him. Now your brow furrowed, desperate to pin down Bruce Wayne's thing. More than anything he seemed to be a chameleon, able to slip in and out of any situation through altering his behavior and appearance. You didn't want to be convinced too easily, knowing full well this too could be a ruse. Some final plea to empathy to guarantee you wouldn't tell before leaving forever, and his hail mary a show of humility. "Why would you need that tested?"

He peered up at you; when your eyes locked again that weird, illegal sensation gripped you once more. Could charisma and manipulation be this intense? Be translated only through agonizing eye contact? "Have you seen any owls around?" His words were barely above a whisper, and you had to strain your ears to hear, nearly forcing you to step closer. Owls? "Like the bird? Owls?"

He nodded. "But drawings. Etchings. In any jewelry, windows, streets, buildings, pins, papers?" Jesus, his eye contact... fucking piercing. Nothing rang a bell to you. You didn't know if they even had real, live owls in Gotham, but no, you hadn't seen any drawings, jewelry, anything owl-themed. Come to think of it, you really hadn't seen one since you were a child, on a school trip, or out camping. You shook your head, the confusion and loss in your body language flitting pain across his face. If this was an act, he was convincing, you'd give him that. The bags under his eyes, the tremble in his torso and hands, the desperate searching in his eyes as he tried to enter your soul through your eye-sockets. He averted his eyes again, and you could breathe. "I think I'm hallucinating them. That night I saw Vry wearing one again, and..." Why was he spilling all of it out to you?

Again? You'd never seen her wear anything with an owl on it. He paused and heaved more breaths, as if it were torturous for him to tell you these things, and maybe it was. How comfortable would I feel saying this to him?

The rest of that night spilled out of him, and it felt about as outside his conscious control as vomiting, and equally pleasant. "When I came home Alfred was... concerned. He showed me the death reports on my great grandfather, and the same thing happened to him. Hallucinating owls." He spit these words out like they were knives. "Right before he died." He crossed his arms over his shoulders in a makeshift hug, squeezing tightly as his now unfocused eyes stared absently down the alleyway.

Oh. Your first instinct was to hug him. He looked so decidedly small... maybe his charm was working, and you resigned to stay put. He sighed again, his shoulders going stiffly up and down with it. "Now I'm here. And you gave me your answer." He looked deep in thought, burrowed in it. Hallucinations? His great grandfather, right before he died? The two pieces didn't quite fit together for you; sure, he was stoic and antisocial, but he... when you came up with nothing more, you remembered how little you truly knew about him. He could've hid any symptoms easily from you, only having to be 'on' for two hours a week, a small handful of times. Maybe that's why he doesn't want to interview. Maybe that's why it's hard for him to speak about his family.

Scuffling, clamoring sounds muffled in the background alarmed Bruce, which alarmed you. He stood up swiftly. "It's paparazzi." His wide eyes were back on you, he looked like a deer in the barrel of a gun. He glanced behind you as if studying where he could run to. The butt of his pants and the back of his shirt were alight with mud, his hair mussed, collar of his sweater askew. You could practically hear the headlines if they caught the both of you.

He couldn't just ask you to follow him, not after you'd been so hesitant of it in the past, not in the middle of the dark evening, not when you were whizzing through unmarked alleys. Not a chance you would go for it. As much as he didn't do bribes, he was thinking about how much cash he had in his wallet and if the paps would go for it. Maybe he could ask you to leave, run to the end of the alleyway and turn different directions, and you’d be spared their invasion.

Your apartment was just three blocks further and your keycard let you into the parking garage. He'd know where you lived for one night, and far from the room you lived in... "C'mon." You motioned for him to follow and turned north, focusing on the weight of your heels as you ran so you didn't slip. You thanked yourself for sticking to shorter heels than Mar had recommended. Gotham even makes it hard to run away.

He also wondered how you could run in heels for the few seconds he was behind you, wondering how you weren't laid flat by a twisted ankle. Maybe he was just too anxious, his legs too rubbery. His feet were catching on every pothole and clump of rock.

Wordlessly, you both arrived not two minutes later to the parking garage. The streets were so dark he was easily camouflaged, and when there had been a car with particularly bright lights you'd paused and stood in front of him; you couldn't tell if he was annoyed by this or not, as you were still wanting to engage with him as little as possible. You had boxes to pack, Mar to hound for an answer, and the debilitating fear and confusion of starting over with no idea what to do with your life. Much to look forward to.

When the garage doors shut, he spoke. "Thanks. I'll call Alfred for a lift in a few minutes." He found a raised yellow parking block and sat down quickly, immediately placing his head back in his hands. This couldn't be happening. You'd acted so confused when he asked that, there was no way you'd seen anything like it. He was dumb to think it was anywhere but outside his head. Vry hadn't even glanced down at the ring, Gordon didn't even care to mention it likely because it wasn't there... jesus.

Your heels in his periphery reminded him he wasn't alone, and could save the spiral for later. He watched as you mindlessly kicked at pebbles and toyed with the phone in your hands. Why did you help him? Was it pity? He thought he was coming off pretty pathetic, desperate even. Shame burned white-hot in his gut. Why did he run after you? Why'd he tell you? Why couldn't he just believe what was right in front of him: he was sick, in the same way, the proof was quite literally sitting atop Alfred's desk as he sat here avoiding it. He stood abruptly, and a haze of dizziness struck him. He ignored it. "I'm sorry for asking you. For following after you." As much as he was physically here right now, he wasn't. Lost in twisting thoughts, a sudden desire to draw up a bucket list, to plan for handing over Wayne Enterprises in case things didn't help, in case—

You shrugged, not knowing quite what to say with the stale silence. "It's fine."

"The interview." He gestured to your hand, which was still gripping the recorder and journal tightly. He livened his posture, his tone, trying to deflect from the vulnerability he'd let slip out of him, teetering on the edge of a panic attack. "We can finish it if you'd like."

The disappointment at having to come to Dr. Vry's office the next morning empty-handed was gone now, and you were more upset hearing him give you another opportunity. You'd prepped yourself to distract with the last perishables in your freezer (a pint or two of Ben and Jerry's and whatever else you could muster eating so it wouldn't be thrown out) while you splayed out in bed watching something on streaming. The thought of such a task now... You shook your head and looked away from him. "You don't have to do that. She'll be fine, I don't ever have to see her again after, so."

"Are you sure? We can do it now, I don't mind." He sounded so genuine, suspiciously so, but you had no time to investigate or tease. You thought about how it would feel to be back in your room tomorrow night empty-handed with absolutely nothing having come from your time here. The thought was harrowing. Your degree was useless in this economy, Mar wasn't answering, and you'd gotten on the bad side of one of the most powerful men in America.

You needed anything you could get, and an interview with a notable figure was far from grasping at straws; it would give you a bit of a boost, something to put on a resume that could give you a much-needed leg-up over the competition... but trying to pull answers out of him would be a Herculean task. You stood awkwardly, looking vaguely in his direction. "You didn't really have answers for me before."

"I'll come up with something. Hit me." Anything to deflect from impromptu, hastily-shared vulnerabilities.

You looked around for a place to set the recorder, until you placed it on the ground. You pulled your knee up to rest the journal on it, but the balancing act had you hopping around nearly crunching the apparatus as you regained balance. Using a car window, bumper, or hood wouldn't do; you'd bumped into a few cars down here before, and they were uber sensitive... there was just no way. Would it be so bad if he knew where I lived for one night? The windows didn't open very well, he couldn't exactly swing in. The door was heavy and loud, and you'd be able to grab some sort of knife if he tried coming in the middle of the night. Christ... "We can go up to my apartment for a few, I guess." Get this over with. Finally! Done! Fucking done! Please!

"I don't want to intrude." He stood up slowly from the parking block, you didn't have any reserve in your patience to humor him. "I've got a fridge of perishables to eat through, if you can help me with that you'll do me a favor." You walked towards the elevator and heard his light footsteps follow. You felt a bit bad for him. His confession had been markedly vulnerable, and the box swiftly shut. Mar called them your 'mediator tendencies'; no matter how shitty you felt someone was, if they showed any meekness whatsoever you desired to soothe them like a sick, stray cat.

It was strange how quietly you both walked into your apartment. You flipped on your singular lamp, walked to the freezer, and had him choose a pint. Wordlessly he picked one, and within thirty seconds he was standing in your bedroom while you readied your things, popping open some Cherry Garcia. After you'd popped open your journal, clicked the pen, and positioned the recorder in his direction, you looked up to see him eyeing your armchair in the corner. His eyes flit back to yours and he immediately cast his eyes to the ground. "Ready." He nodded, but you didn't believe it.

You looked over to the armchair you'd sat in last night, feverishly finalizing these notes. Your mouth tugged into a slight grin. Bruce Wayne in the plush pink chair. You nodded your head toward it and he walked quickly, his legs taking long, sweeping, easy strides. He was extra tall with your heels off, plopped down on your mattress looking up at him. But as he walked past you noticed the gray, brown soak on his back, and hopped up. "I'll get a towel, wait." You trekked to the bathroom and grabbed your last clean one, groaning over why you'd bought white. Upon entering the doorway you tossed it to him, and it caught on the end of the spoon still in his mouth. He winced as a clack sounded, and you stifled a laugh. Even if he was being more humanoid tonight, he was still him.

Your bed felt extra warm after the cool bathroom tile, even with the chill of Bruce in the room. He broke the silence, which surprised you enough to turn toward him. He sat, looking about ten spoons deep into the pint. "I've never had ice cream like this." His brow was furrowed, much too seriously for the situation. You wanted to cackle again, but barely held it in by squeezing your fingers together. He sighed. "Alfred only gets Breyer's. Plain."

Maybe it was a coping mechanism, maybe it was your body dissociating from the stress of the rest of the night, of leaving, of a man you so disliked and so feared sitting alone in your apartment while you were otherwise defenseless, but you broke into furious laughter. You wanted to question him further but you couldn't. You fell onto your back and held your stomach. You couldn't see him but you knew he still had that look on his face, the one he always had with you. That bewildered, annoyed, specific fucking face. Stomach cramps plagued your fun, slowing your uproar and letting you sit back up to face him. A fucking pint? Of ice cream? He talked about it like it was alien. You made the mistake of glancing your eyes up to his, and he was making that face. You scrunched your face together tight, feeling like it was getting to the point of bullying the man.

"What?" Defiance coated his tone. He'd never seen you laugh like that, or really, at all. He shoved another cherry chunk into his mouth to abate his own grin. He didn't understand what was so funny, but it felt funny. You shook your head and picked up your pen. "It's funny because it's such a simple thing, and Breyer's is, that's, I don't know." The humor of it was beginning to leave you, and you heaved a sigh to recenter. "Are you ready to start it?"

"Are you?" He gestured with the spoon and you used every muscle in your face and stomach to reign in another laugh. His defiance had melted a bit. His next scoop sounded like it scraped the bottom, and you looked over, shocked. "Already?"

"Pints are deceptively small." He sat the empty cardboard on the desk beside him. "Not like Breyer's." The ghost of a snicker, the faintest smile tempted his lips. He cleared his throat. He played it off by biting the inside of his cheek. "You said you wanted me to clear it out...?"

You thought of the second pint sitting in your freezer, and signed it away to him in your mind. "Sure, get the other one." A moment later he was taking the lid off of a pint of Half-Baked. You waited for him to get situated and hovered above RECORD. "Can we start?"

He nodded, unable to speak as he chowed down, but he was moving the rest of the dessert off to his left. You pored over the questions left unanswered and unsaid, pain cinching your chest. This evening was so erratic. Frenzied. Fucking weird. You pressed the button and cleared your throat; it always made you anxious when the button hit, even when you did roleplays in class. It felt like signing a legal document, like someone could pore over your recording and read into every little thing. Dr. Vry had told the class to treat journalistic recordings with utmost integrity and professionalism, because if your name ever got called into question it could be incredible evidence to get you out of a tight spot, keeping your name and slate clean from people who may not have liked how they came off.

"Mr. Wayne." You felt uncomfortable saying it, but that's how it had to be done. "The public knows a great deal about your business ventures, your family history, and other professional pursuits. I want to dive a bit more into the personal. What do you hope to accomplish in your personal life, outside of career aspirations?"

Christ, he really didn't have an answer for that one. But he said he would, and after masking his mounting anxiety as 'thinking', he pulled something semi-accurate out of a lot of jumbled nothing. It felt strange to speak so formally, his voice twisting into shapes only ever bouncing off the walls of city hall. "I've put a lot of emphasis on helping Gotham; if I had to say, I would like to..." Nothing. It wasn't genuine. He hoped to eradicate violent crime in Gotham, but unless they knew he was also Batman, that would just be another career aspiration. Was Batman a career? He'd never thought of him that way. He didn't fully look up at you but he could see you glancing at him from the corner of his eye. Doesn't have to be genuine. More of a family name thing than anything. "In the next decade, start a family. Then live out the latter half of my years raising my children."

You stared at him, blank-faced. The way he'd choked that out was brutal; his face scrunched, his hands clenched over his knees, his foot was tapping obnoxiously against the ground... cool it, Y/N. Be grateful he's even doing this for you. You moved on to the next, then. You would've rather sliced off the edge of your tongue than ask this, but he'd tempted the topic and you'd deliver for all the teenagers in the world who thought they had a chance with the guy plastered to their wall. Be professional. "It's a question often posed in the comments of Scypher and across other social medias: are you currently in a romantic relationship? And if not, what do you look for in a partner?" Dr. Vry always said to throw in a 'smoothie' to every interview: something digestible and flashy to get the clicks, but still relevant. Something in popular discourse, Gen-Z. You didn't really know if she knew anything about 'Gen-Z' but—Bruce was staring at you, looking insulted. You shrugged and mouthed to him People want to know making him roll his eyes and sit stiffer in the chair. "Not at the moment. Currently very focused on getting through this election campaign and the Spring budget rollout."

Wonder how Scypher's gonna take that. You noted he refused to answer the latter half of your question, but the recording felt like a tight leash, giving no slack for side conversation. "Speaking about the campaign, The Gotham Times has speculated that you might have a mayoral stint in the future. Any plans?" This one should be easy for him.

"You never know." He let out a strained laugh you could tell was only meant to be transcribed in the article. Had he been media trained? He couldn't have... maybe when he was younger? Do little kids get media training? "My father would have made an incredible mayor. I fear I could never live up to that." He wasn't giving you anything extra; sitting there, still, looking the same as he did all evening with a bit more sweat, water, and wind having embraced him. Stoic. Unapproachable.

You checked the time; it was almost eight. You had to have enough time to write this, finalize it enough for the fucking world to see it, and have enough sleep to drive fifteen hours to get home just after midnight. "What's something that you wish more people knew about you?"

It was at precisely this point that he remembered he was debuting a new persona, a different persona, one that needed to be hyped up, more performative than genuine. The same refrain from the earlier conversation blurted out of him. Only after saying it did he realize you wouldn't get the reference, because you hadn't been in the group he was talking to. "Besides my appreciation for jetting to Dubai to work on my physique?" When you had no reaction but a dead stare, he rushed to explain, stopping just shy of anything escaping his mouth. The recorder in the corner sat like a menacing god. He gestured at it until you gave in and flipped it OFF. He waited for the red light to disappear completely to speak. "Do you, have questions written?" He was flustered, and noticed you fiddle with a beige paper when he said it. "I prefer writing things out."

Unconventional, sure, but it was hard to hide your laughs and even harder to witness him break his brain trying to concoct verbal responses. He spoke again. "Underline the questions you want me to answer." He was too embarrassed to act out Bruce Wayne in front of you, and too much was at stake to toss the boyish banter to the side. You felt the nervousness emanating off of him; how worried about ethicality could you be when you'd initially blackmailed him into doing it anyway? You acceded to him. "Sure." He buried the shock at your swift accommodation deep in his chest. As you underlined, you made sure to keep to the questions least interesting to you and most generalizable to the interests of the public. Who liked Bruce Wayne? Besides the many thirsting after him and the older people who had been enamored with his philanthropic parents, he catered to businessmen—people who thought if they only idolized him enough, they could become him.

Many thought your reclusive nature was due to hatred of the city that so cruelly took your parents, yet you seem to still have a passion for Gotham; what drives that passion?

As a burgeoning philanthropist, what was your 'aha' moment?

You're a very hands-on person. Does this drive your enthusiasm?

You do a lot of traveling?

How does your public-facing life now compare to your more private one before?

What do you think is the biggest challenge facing Gotham City today?

What values are fundamental to you, and why?

What's your favorite way to unwind?

As a celebrity from birth, how do you handle criticism?

What's a book that you'd recommend? Anything you're reading right now?

What do you believe in that others might not?

What's your favorite quality about yourself? Least favorite?

How do you spend your weekends?

What is your idea of happiness?

Any weird habits?

What's the best piece of advice you've been given?

You kept the rest untouched. Light, easy to format, mix of depths. Exasperation threatened to derail you completely; if they'd wanted a better interview, they should've cornered Bruce Wayne in a public setting themselves. You hopped off the bed and handed the journal, paper, and pen to him. "I have to finish packing. Lemme know when you're done." Being close to him felt like being on fire, and you splashed your face with cool water from the kitchen sink as soon as you escaped the deoxygenated room.

You meandered, wandered, skipped from wall to wall of your living room, occasionally stopping by for some grapes, a bite of apple, or a sip from the two different juices open in your fridge. Folded the blanket that was over your couch, stacked the pillows, rolled up the rug. Put all the silverware and dishes in a box, save the ones you would use in the morning for some last-minute snacking. Packed away some cans from the pantry, disassembled the lamp, dining table, and two of four dining chairs (why did you ever think you'd need that many?) before Bruce appeared with the journal in one hand, the empty ice cream in the other. "Finished." He set the journal and ice cream on the kitchen island's edge. His voice was low, his expression tired. He gestured with a nod of his head to the two standing chairs. "Need help?"

You wanted to say no out of some misplaced sense of feminism, but you needed to get writing ASAP. By now it was past nine, long past when you thought you'd start. "I just need these two broken down." In a blink he was knelt down beside you, expertly wielding the thick wood legs like he'd telepathically scanned the crumpled manual at your feet. In just a few more blinks he had the entire chair broken down and placed nicely on top of the other two. Without pause he shifted his weight toward the other chair, and within thirty seconds it was broken down. Each chair had taken you ten minutes at least. You bristled, but your curiosity outweighed the jealousy. "How do you do that so quickly?"

His voice was low, emotionless. Even less than usual. "I'm used to fixing things."

You bit back a snarky retort. This isn't fixing them, it's... You stood and walked to grab the journal while he heaved (well, very easily, like carrying an empty plate to the sink) the pile of wood into the large box with the other pieces. He started turning to face you and the rest of the room, and you quickly snapped the journal open to skim it. Your eyes bulged when your thumb kept turning page, after page, after page. You glanced up at him to see him studying your reaction. "Is it acceptable?"

Acceptable? He'd given you a damn dissertation. "Yeah, I mean," You kept flipping pages and noticed questions you hadn't underlined answered. You flipped more, more, and noticed he'd answered every one. The hour hadn't been long at all, if this was the case. "You didn't have to answer every one, I can't fit them all in." Shit, he'd even answered that one? You hurriedly shut the journal before you could dive too deep into whatever swirled around his head. "Um, thank you." Heat tinged your cheeks. "You didn't have to do that, you didn't have to do any of this, really." Had he written them to actually help you, or was he trying to make you feel guilty? Every passing minute you spent with him only added to his mystique.

He shrugged, just as emotionless and guarded, but somehow emptier. "I figured. Now you have options."

Now the both of you were at a standstill. You'd finally gotten what you wanted. "I'll have to take some artistic liberty on how things were expressed. Fill in some exposition."

He nodded. Stayed still as a statue in the back of your living room, the glow of the kitchen lights lighting half his face.

You skimmed the column requirements internally, making sure you didn't conjure up a question the second he left forever. "You seemed to be acting... social, and laughing. Do you want me to go toward that?" This wasn't usually what happened—usually you wrote what you saw.

His blue eyes were bright and heavy. "Use your best judgement." His eyes darted around the mostly empty room, and you wondered if he was picking up on microscopic hairs on the ground, x-raying through the walls, photographing everything with one look. He existed in uncharted territory between normal and superhuman. You rocked from side to side to self-soothe, anxiety bubbling in your gut. "Anything else you need help packing?"

Your head shake came before you'd even thought about if it was true. "I'm good."

Almost invisibly, he cocked an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Another autopilot response. "Yeah. Thanks though." This whole exchange felt surreal, between the weight of his presence and the weight of the column. You couldn't submit to your anxieties until you'd finished typing it or you'd freeze into a ball of overwhelm. Bruce walked toward your door with a slower, steadier gait, almost lingering, but there was no way you could internalize that. He doesn't want to stay, he wants to get the fuck out of here. How much restraint is it taking for him not to just bolt and say 'sayonara'?

... did you want him to linger? "Bruce." He turned across his shoulder, with his hand on the doorknob.

"Thanks again. This will really help me out. And the money, I'm still mad you didn't talk to me, that's messed up but," Quick, sharp exhale. "It's really helping my family." In the silence after, you wanted to tell him she was starting a new treatment, you wanted to tell him how it was going, you wanted to talk to him. After this you'd never see each other again, and it was... affecting. You still thought it was a bribe, you still thought it was to help you keep quiet, you still thought he was scary, and unnerving, and spoiled. But he hadn't hurt you yet.

He nodded, feeling like a 'you're welcome' would've been sorely misplaced. Seeing you stand in your kitchen, heels off, hair messy, dress wrinkled from cleaning, it all felt so normal. He felt an insanely persuasive urge to move toward that, to bathe in it, to finally let his chest relax, his shoulders drop and escape into everyday nothingness. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." The sound of both your voices in the abject silence was isolated and stark.

"Why do you hate Gotham?"

You fought the urge to sigh at him opening the can of worms again. "I'm just not built for it." He stared at you like you hadn't said a thing, his expression unchanged, still as a stump. You feared if you shrugged again your shoulders would pinch a nerve. "It's too fast. Can't keep up."

He squinted. "You can be honest."

"I am." But you quickly lost the defensiveness. "I have a friend here who loves it. She's thriving, she's not phased. But..." You stared at the wall beside him floating somewhere between here and Washington. The length of today, last night, and tomorrow was weighing on you. If you thought about this much longer you'd crumble back into your existential crisis. You didn't finish your sentence.

Bruce didn't know why his stomach clenched seeing you look sad, much like he didn't know why he'd felt the same pang at city hall... before you'd blackmailed him. But now you'd already done that, the interview was done, you were leaving the next morning, and the sensitivity remained. "What?" His voice was gentler, warmer. Your throat constricted, preparing for tears you begged your body to suppress. "She's tougher than I am."

He didn't miss a beat with his response. "You seem pretty tough to me."

"Yeah, sure." Please leave. I'm about to cry.

He was lingering, and at this point he fully knew it. He hadn't realized that, if he was successful with his newfound persona, no one else would ever know his identity. The thought was sobering, seeing how he'd taken for granted someone else knowing. The second he stepped out of the room he had no one to go to ever again outside of Alfred, and with his age... he'd be resigned to spending the rest of his life alone. Why was he worried about this? Why was he thinking about this?

He noticed the tears welling in your eyes. Was it your mom?

"What?"

Shit. The stress of the evening was wearing on him. He didn't make mistakes like that. "You don't have to answer that."

He'd said it like he hadn't intended to. His eyes searched the ground like he was searching for a way out. What the fuck's the harm in it now? The tears had been beckoned, you knew he saw you shaking... you almost gave in, but you couldn't even chance a look up at him under such wuthering eye contact, let alone talk about the complicated, insidious grief that was your mom's illness. You shook your head at him and leaned your hip against the counter, hoping he wouldn't say another word, praying he would just leave. Your heart raced, and only sped up further when you saw him take a step toward you. "Stop. I'm fine." It came out harsher than you intended, and you only doubled down on it when you saw his brow furrow through the crest of tears threatening to cascade past your waterline.

He wouldn't stop staring at you. You decided to face his eye contact unflinchingly, letting the tears stream down your cheeks without comment. His eyes squinted slightly, following the path of each tear down your cheek as if he were caressing each one, holding its weight, soothing it. His chest puffed like he was drawing in air to speak, and you intercepted, shame pummeling you indiscriminately. Fuck, his presence made you feel so vulnerable, so seen, it was excruciating and untenable. On impulse, you lashed out. "Can you just leave already?"

He looked away and nodded. You could barely see through drowning tears but he looked ruffled, sensitive, a bit upset. Almost like he was kicking himself for letting the question slip at all. He turned and opened the door to the empty, dark hallway, with its smattering of tiny nightlights an inch above the carpet. You squeezed your eyes shut tight, white-knuckling gut-wrenching sobs away. He paused halfway out the door, and your ears strained for any whisper from him, but nothing came. The click of the front door dropped you to your knees, choking out cries and stifling pained screams. The devastating loneliness was inescapably stitched into your side, stomping its dirty, muddy feet all over the parts of you that clung to hope.

In the same instant, the shame intensified; not only did you feel shameful feeling so vulnerable in front of Bruce fucking Wayne, the shame of casting him aside and being so curt mingled with severe FOMO of being able to tell someone who was willing to listen. He was willing to listen to me, and I fucked it. When will anyone else be willing to listen? You shoved yourself up off your knees and flung yourself toward the door, whipping it open to look down the hallway.

Silence. Unadulterated, empty halls. Punch to the gut.

You woke up the next morning plagued by the weight of the night before. After the sob session, you’d spent the next few hours typing, editing, formatting, and finally printing it at the 24 hour office a few floors below you. A solid hour was spent just reading through all of what he had written in your notebook: not only had he answered every question, he had given multiple paragraphs of answers to a few of them. Some of his answers had been so transparent you had to flip pages before more guilt visited about turning him away so coldly. What is your most treasured memory? was answered with this:

I remember camping with my parents once. It was the only time we went out as family in private. It was by a river, and I couldn't sleep because of the rushing water. My father woke up and walked me to it; we sat there in the grassy, dirty rock, and everything went quiet. He talked to me about the current, told me how it eroded the rocks underneath, pointed his flashlight at trout jumping above water. He let me dip my feet in, and I clung to his hand. It was steadying. I looked up and saw the stars—you can't see them in Gotham. It was the first time I felt real. I could see the size of the universe. He toweled off my feet before getting back into the tent. The next morning he got called for surgery, and we left. I asked him to come back, and he promised we would. Two weeks later they died. I haven't felt that feeling since. I cherish it.

You couldn't even think about publishing that. Most of it was relatively benign besides, as he answered much of the 'deeper' questions through the new playboy lens, talking extensively about yachting, spas, hunting trips, tennis, and other activities of the elite. The only other ones you'd felt had any real truth to them was What do you hope you grow out of? (He hoped to grow out of needing to 'save' everyone, which felt like a Freudian slip it was so candid), and the one that had caught your eye last night: What, if anything, makes you nervous? You were surprised he spoke frankly still; he was nervous about going to events, nervous when he put on the suit (that shocked you), and generally only didn't feel nervous when he was home with Alfred.

Except, there had been a question he left entirely unanswered: Say it's the end of the world: how would you spend your last day? You couldn't read too much into it before you slipped the copy into your backpack and set off to campus.

Dr. Vry will be thrilled. Finally, the first interview with Bruce Wayne! Finally, the journalism department could be saved! Huzzah! You snickered to yourself as you scurried through the last few blocks. Every footstep felt like a simultaneous step toward freedom and to the gallows; freedom from Gotham, imprisoned in small-town America destined to float around from dead-end job to dead-end job, with no friends and, potentially sooner rather than later, no family to show for it either.

Steps, steps, and more steps, then the old familiar hallway. I've made her happy. I did what I said I would. This is exactly what she wanted. You were stopped in your tracks by a spectacled man in the doorway of Dr. Vry's office. He looked over and motioned for you to come in, looking busied and lost in thought, even as he finished his sentence to her. Dr. Vry nodded for you to take the chair across from her, and you sidled past the stranger to slip into the seat. Like a switch flipped, all eyes aimed at you before you could even adjust in the seat. They stared at you a moment, and you held out your folder, plopping it neatly on the desk in front of her. You opened your mouth to tell her you'd gotten the interview, but the man intercepted. The folder laid untouched between you and your former professor.

"Ms. Y/L/N. My name is Dr. Jonathan Crane, I'm the lead psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. I wanted to meet with you this morning to discuss an urgent matter." He held out a stiff hand, and it was cold when you touched it; clinical, transactional. Thoughts swirled in the backrooms of your mind of how much warmer and more inviting Bruce's handshake was. You wondered what a psychiatrist was needed for; you stifled a chuckle thinking Dr. Vry was going to try therapizing you to persuade you to stay. Except the room was grim and heavy, and the silence weighed fifteen tons. You nodded at the both of them, your eyes shifting between in search of words that would close the chasm between what they knew and you didn't.

Dr. Crane took a horrifyingly deep breath, so deep there was a shudder at the end of his inhale. "Before we begin, this is highly confidential information that must be handled with the utmost care. In that spirit, in order to share this with you it is necessary to sign an NDA." The man with startlingly blue eyes unsheathed a stapled collection of papers from his bag that sat against the leg of the desk. The top of the paper read: RELEASE OF PERSONAL HEALTH INFORMATION – HIPAA REQUIREMENTS.

Dr. Vry nodded at you and bowed out of the room, saying she would be back as soon as 'Crane' welcomed her back inside. As soon as she shut the door, Dr. Crane announced he was going to be locking the door, and if you consented. You agreed, tentatively, adrenaline beginning to tense your muscles to fight. After the door clicked and the lock turned, he sat down a white noise machine by the door. "To enhance privacy." He gestured for you to look over the small packet, and you obliged.

There was a section underneath the title which had options, and one checked: If patient does not consent to release of records but professional judgement necessitates a duty to warn. Another box was checked underneath it, too: Imminent risk of harm to self or others. Your name was listed under the section Affected Parties, for which there were only two lines. The name right above yours: Alfred Pennyworth.

You looked up with your mouth fallen halfway open. "I don't..."

"You do not have to sign, but this ensures we stay as trauma-informed as possible for our vulnerable patients. This document simply states that you will not share or discuss this information with anyone outside of myself. The line for signature is on the third page." You skimmed the large-printed paper, and didn't see anything of note. You signed, but your signature was shaky, scrambled.

"Thank you, Ms. Y/L/N. We will make this quick, and I will only share information relevant to you." He stashed the document and took Dr. Vry's seat across from you. He looked very psychological, if someone could even look that way. Rectangular, rimless glasses in sterile steel; a scholarly suit that you'd imagine someone teaching at some place like Oxford would be outfit in. Brown blazer, white collared shirt tucked under a chunky knit sweater, a red tie peeking out. His fingernails were clean and trim, his face entirely smooth like he weren't even capable of growing a beard. You wrung your hands under the table, nervous that he was psychoanalyzing you as you both sat. His eye contact was unwavering; if you thought Bruce's was intimidating, this was terrifying. He didn't even blink.

"In preface, this is not an investigation. We are keeping things very close to the chest for the time being. We do not think you at fault for last night's events, this is purely an attempt at safety planning." By this point you were feeling dizzy. Heart-pounding. He paused too long, this wasn't right. Just as you were about to burst and shout for him to SPEAK, he clasped his hands together gently above the table and sighed. "Late last night at just past 10pm, Mr. Wayne attempted suicide."

You went still, tinnitus loud between your ears, fuzzing up the edges of your vision. He continued, as if you weren't visibly unable to process new information in such shock. "He's currently in the medical ward at Arkham receiving treatment. He'll be fine, for now."

The for now sat like a boulder in your gut. You sat further up in the chair and leaned your head down, bile rising in your throat. I'm gonna vomit. And vomit. And keep vomiting. You tried to speak but nothing came out, not even a squeak. Bruce had seemed sad when he left, sure, but he always seemed sad. Nothing alerted you to danger, but... you thought back to how he plopped down in the puddle, how weird the city hall meeting felt with him, the desperate humility tinging his aura and painting his behavior. A personality change. Suddenly you felt like an idiot. You felt like an idiot not taking more care when he opened up to you, not seeing it for what it was. His lingering. Was it a last-ditch effort toward connection? For someone to intervene? The unanswered question, you snapping at him... your gut knotted with guilt; you felt woozy. "I could've saved him, I met with him, I talked to him,"

"Hey." Dr. Crane reached out and placed a hand on your trembling wrist. "You couldn't have known." He gave a small grin that didn't reach his eyes. He had no smile lines there at all, actually. God, your mind swirled. "I know that he met with you, he told me. That's why I'm here, you were the last point of contact."

Your eyes snapped up to his from the now bloody hangnail you'd picked off during this conversation. He hadn't called Alfred for a ride? The thought of him leaving your apartment to wander around downtown, suicidal... fuck. Crane didn't waste time getting to the point. "He asked to see you. Multiple times, in fact. He said you worked for the Gazette, and I got in contact with Janay this morning."

"He wants me to see him?" Your face was scrunched with concern, your body vibrating with grief. Why would he want to see me? I was a fucking jerk. I probably pushed him over the edge, fuck, fuck. What did he do? Why did he do it? "What did he, what did he do?"

Dr. Crane shook his head. "I cannot disclose specifics unless he gives explicit consent. I only came here to safety plan."

Safety plan. He said that again. "What does that mean? You want me to see him?"

"Not quite." He adjusted his glasses and leaned closer. "It appears he's been in a mental decline for some time. He needs treatment, and in the meantime we need you to help monitor his safety."

He could see by your visible confusion you didn't have half the information you needed to make an informed decision. "I'm definitely not trained for that," Yeah, you weren't, but he didn't know that you were worried you had actively made his suicidality worse.

"If you agree, I will personally ensure you receive deescalation training and psychoeducation around psychotic disorders. You'll have my number, and if anything goes awry, I will respond swiftly and immediately."

It wasn't clicking. Why me? What about Alfred? But you were afraid to ask. Why had he asked for you in the first place? Why did he try to kill himself at all? Was it something you said? Something you didn't say? Was that insatiable urge to hug him a fucking cry from the universe to fucking do something?

"Janay informed me you were leaving your post here, and that you permanently reside outside of Gotham." Dr. Crane put a hand on the tabletop and peered at you with piercingly blue eyes. They were icy, and cold. Is that even legal for her to give out? "I say this with utmost delicacy, Ms. Y/L/N; you are at no fault for his self-injurious behavior, but my clinical judgement paired with his trauma history leads me to believe your leaving pushed him over the edge." He leaned in closer to you, his expression clinical, distant, with a tinge of rehearsed compassion from a one-week training on bedside manner.

Discordant guilt flushed through you. It wasn't your fault, but it was? You weren't at fault, but something you did made him decide to take his own life? "If he needs to be watched, I can't do that, he wouldn't even want that, I'm not trained," Hot, salty tears stung your lash line as your anxieties poured out of you. "I don't know him, I don't know how to help him,"

"You may not think so, but as far as his next-of-kin explained, he doesn't have many social contacts. You seem of particular importance to him." He glanced at the folder discarded on the table. "Even trusting you to give his first interview, impressive."

You sat, slumped in the cold, hard chair. The thoughts had quieted to a fuzzy, helpless sensation, but nothing concrete outside of the gripping, visceral feeling of I fucked up. Dr. Crane spoke again. "Believe me, this is certainly unconventional. However, his status as a public figure is critical context. He is refusing long-term care, and after the 24 hour hold there's nothing we can do to prevent this happening again."

"What about therapy, medication?"

"That's the very issue we've run into and why your cooperation is imperative. Mr. Wayne is refusing any medical intervention. As far as my assessment goes, he is not answering the risk assessments honestly. He's a smart man, knows how to work the system. I'm concerned if you do not agree to this, there will be nothing we can do to save the last member of the Wayne estate."

At this point you felt as if you were floating above your body. The stakes were too high, everywhere. Too high with your mom, too high with this, too high with the interview. How were you critically involved in the continuation of both Bruce Wayne's life and a major department at one of the biggest universities in the country? Anger boiled up in you, overtaking the shock and sadness. You were helpless; how were you supposed to say no? Whenever you stepped into this room you were made to feel like you had all the power in the world, yet you were so quickly discarded if you tried to take up any actual space. He sensed a clear shift, because he spoke up quickly. "This time is crucial and temporary. I have reason to believe that after no more than a few weeks, he will be able to stabilize with medication-assisted therapy. Then your post is finished."

"You want me to convince him to get help?"

"Precisely." He pushed up his glasses with his pointer finger.

"What about the other name on the form? Alfred Pennyworth?" Would be weird to name him as his butler.

Dr. Crane sighed, like he was giving up information he really didn't want to share. "I met with Mr. Pennyworth last night upon Mr. Wayne's arrival from Gotham General. I'm afraid he's already been trying to convince him for many months to begin therapy; Mr. Pennyworth worried that might have been a trigger in itself."

Fear ballooned in you. "Then wouldn't it be the same for me? I know him even less, I really don't think a single interview signifies..." you trailed off. How is me going to one city hall meeting a week enough? Does he know how often I see him? You imagined Bruce alone in some dark room, the walls covered in soft, spongy material. Chained to a bed. If those dark thoughts crept in again, at any other point in the week, there would be nothing you could do. You were afraid the responsibility of keeping him alive would consume you, and if it didn't succeed... christ. No matter what anyone told you, no matter if a higher power came down and denied your fault themselves, you'd never be able to forgive yourself.

Dr. Crane's face was grim, and he spoke like you'd already signed the dotted line. "All you can do is try.”

what do we think of the new chapter ??

Fateful Beginnings // Chapter Index

ONGOING!

read on AO3 💘 read on Wattpad 🦇

Plot: when you find yourself needing a topic for a journalism final, you seek out an interview from Gotham's elusive vigilante: Batman. this proves even more difficult than it already sounds, and tensions rise when you discover an intimate secret—just as Bruce Wayne realizes his own.

Pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

CW: 18+, slow burn, angst (with a happy ending), smut, mental health issues, canon-typical violence, gritty, illness, enemies to lovers, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, POV alternating

Word Count: 151k (ongoing)

↓ chapters ↓

I. “the club within the club”

II. “research”

III. “the alley”

IV. “unmasked”

V. “the interview”

VI. “dinner”

VII. “peaches”

VIII. “as the rain settles”

IX. “goodbye, Gotham”

X. “discernment”

XI. “lying through teeth”

XII. “exceptionally qualified, equally eager”

XIII. “already spoken for”

XIV. “losing grip”

XV. “mutually-assured destruction”

XVI. “sweetener”

XVII. “orientation”

XVIII. “indebted”

XIX. “(im)mortality”

XX. “close call”

XXI. “belonging”

XXII. “gone missing”

XXIII. “desperation”

XXIV. “natural curiosity”

XXV. “Mr. Wayne”

XXVI. “grave responsibility”

XXVII. “tender loving care”

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

XXIX. “uncanny valley”

XXX. “gut feeling”

XXXI. “deflection”

XXXII. “superglue”

XXXIII. “night light”

XXXIV. “the affliction of pity”

XXXV. “bittersuite domesticity”

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

Fateful Beginnings

XXVII. “tender loving care”

parts: previous / next

plot: you visit Bruce at Arkham.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, discussion of suicide, hospital, mental institution, light gore, pain, arguing, mental illness

words: 5.1k

a/n: this chapter discusses a suicide attempt from the last chapter. if you would not like to read this, the next chapter will include a blurb at the beginning to summarize what takes place in this one so you can still follow along! this chapter and the next one should be the last explicit conversations about it for a while (as promised: prev. chapter summary below)

previous chapter summary: bruce tells you about his hallucinations, and you invite him to your apartment to finish the interview to escape paparazzi. he does a handwritten interview while you clean your apartment. he answers almost every question candidly, describing fond childhood memories such as a camping trip with his parents two weeks before they died. he lingers, then leaves, and upon turning in your interview to Dr. Vry the next morning, a psychiatrist (Dr. Jonathan Crane) is there. he privately informs you that Bruce attempted suicide after leaving your apartment. Crane says your leaving town could have pushed him over the edge, expressing massive concern. asks you to see Bruce at Arkham (where he’s under a 24 hr hold) and convince him to stop refusing help.

The Uber to Arkham was grueling. Stuck in that traffic felt like hours, but you couldn't remember a single thing that passed outside the window, even an isolated thought. Vibrating with anxiety, barely swallowing back the rising bile, you were escorted down a dim hallway to a tiny office after passing through the spiked gates. Another blink and Dr. Crane entered, idling by the doorway with a handful of paperwork. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, only not pulling you under by sheer will to hear what the psychiatrist had to say.

"Fair warning Ms. Y/L/N, he is moderately injured and fully restrained; we ask that you don't get within arm's reach, however." He sighed like there'd been an issue earlier. "Make sure to let him know you are not leaving, and, if he brings up owls—" He leaned toward you, looking over the top of his glasses. "Don't try to convince him otherwise. Focus on the feelings, not the content." You didn't quite know what that meant, but you had no time to ask; he yanked the door open and stood beside it with an arm outstretched. He handed you off to a nurse, a short, kind woman with a warm smile. You followed her without fuss, unable to think due to debilitating waves of fear.

Through the fuzzy haze of your eyes and the waves of blood flushing out your eardrums, you heard the nurse tell you details on his attempt; extremely vague, fragmented, but you could get the gist: he'd jumped off of something tall and landed in a thorny, glass-bottle filled section of abandoned shrubbery. The doors opened and the bright yellow light flooded the hallway with a foreboding aura. You stepped in and the door shut immediately behind you, sounding a small alarm which quickly quieted. You flexed your fists together and suppressed a startle response when you saw him in the corner of the room, restrained in a way you hadn't seen before; rather than wrist and ankle bands, he was tethered to the bed by three long belts. The nylon was taut against his calves, his waist, and his chest. He didn't snap to attention when you entered the room, instead looking preoccupied, gazing at the far wall blankly. Is he sedated?

Your teeth jammed against your tongue to keep a squeaky whine at bay—he was covered in gauze, bright red blood sticking thickly to the white, bleeding through at nearly every point. His neck covered in pockmarks and scratches; you could see a few of them had bulging, crusted stitches. He must've landed on his left side, seeing the soft cast on his left ankle and the swathes of deep, bloody purple bruising peeking out between gauze patches. Another step in and he glanced over to you, his morose posture shifting to something buzzier, tenser. As he tried to sit up he was denied by the tightness of the strap, which you could see digging into part of his bruising. "Y/N. What are you doing here?"

Holy fuck. His voice. It was raspy, and weathered. Strained like his vocal cords had been snapped, or his esophageal lining had been burnt with an iron. He fell back against the papery pillow with a soft crunch. You thought you'd been prepared for how he might look, but this was... whew.

"I was your last point of contact." You kept your tone measured, your body language casual, but concerned enough you didn't come across bored. He was trembling again, the sound of it rattling the hospital bed. When you looked closer you saw bloodshot eyes, like the vessels had popped. It made nearly all the whites of his eyes red, and you bit your lip until it bled to reign in your immediate fear response.

He rolled his eyes, his head swaying slightly side to side. In that motion, you were able to see his undereyes and cheeks catch the bright light. His face was soaked with tear streaks, and his lips were so bitten as to be plump, swollen. "And what did they tell you happened?" He winced and looked toward his abdomen.

He's not supposed to sound like that. He's not supposed to look like that. You forgot what he'd just asked, and didn't even know if you could speak. You scrambled for words to say so he wouldn't notice your shock, but he did. "I'm fine." He glared when you just stood there, awkwardly. "What did they tell you?"

He was getting straight to the point, wasn't he? "That you had a rough night." Would the word suicide trigger him? Would dancing around it be worse?

He hated the way you stood there, he hated that you were seeing him this way, he hated the way the staff coddled him. He could tell you were afraid. He knew he sounded like shit and looked even worse. The stitches itched. His head seared from stapled wounds. The bruises were achingly deep, a dull drum of pain with no reprieve. His nose stunk of dried blood and every nostril flare cracked apart webs of it. He grit his teeth. "I didn't try to kill myself."

A fleck of dust went into his eye, forcing a repetitive wince. His forearms strained to get it to no avail, barely moving against the thick cord. "Is there something in your eye?" You took a step forward, remembering what Dr. Crane had told you about staying an arm's length away.

He kept wincing. "It's fine." Maybe if he could just yawn, water his eyes a bit... it scraped against his eye, a pain so low compared to the rest of his body it was nothing but a mere annoyance, but a visible one; you looked around for a handwashing station and saw nothing, not even a hand sanitizer in the doorway. You rubbed the tips of your fingers together, trying to warm your chilled fingers. "I can get it."

After brief hesitation, he surrendered a nod and you approached, the injuries only looking more gruesome up close. Some blood bubbled up through the gauze, leaked out the sides. The restraints were dug tightly into his skin, creating deep indents. Is this even legal? He tilted his head back and opened his eye, squinting against the glaring white LEDs scattered across the ceiling. You reached out and gently pulled back his eyelid, leaning in to search for the offending material... it was more difficult to see with all the popped vessels.

He relaxed into your touch. Slightly cool, warming up against the heat of his skin. No more of the gloved hands, the clinical pats. Unconsciously his eyes shut and he heaved a deep breath out, flattening his chest, creating some space between him and the restraint. You kept your fingers on his brow bone, feeling his weight shift toward you. His lashes fluttered with tears, pain, or both; your thumb caressed his skin, gliding softly along his orbital bone. His breathing drew deeper, breath coming heavily out of his nose. Wet, hot tears leaked from the corner of his eyes. He felt himself melting out of the fight response for the first time since he'd left your apartment.

If pain could be translated through touch alone... Bruce. With every shuddering, panicked inhale the gauze flexed on his shoulders, the tape rippling. Your heart exploded for him. You flipped your palm and stroked his cheek with the back of your hand, brushing the hair back and out of his eyes. "You're safe." He exhaled forcefully from his nose, strained attempts at containing his sobs. At the quickening of his breath the door slammed open; alongside a guard, the nurse from before stormed into the room. He'd been so lost in the slip of your hand against his cheek that he only noticed people had come when you jolted back. It felt like having the floor fall out beneath his feet.

"That's enough." The nurse walked forward and placed a hand on your back, urging you toward the door. "Don't want to push it, now." You tried desperately to look back at him, but the security guard's back kept him out of view. The door snapped shut. You glared at the woman, cringing away from her touch. "He wasn't going to do anything, he's hurting—"

Dr. Crane came walking at a steady clip, a clipboard nestled tightly to his elbow and flush against his abdomen. "Ms. Y/L/N,"

Tears pricked at the edge of your vision, your tone bleeding with hostility. "You're treating him like a dog."

He nodded at the nurse and she walked away. You felt sparked, jittery, overwhelmed. Anger flushed your cheeks. Your fingers hung stiffly at your side, buzzing with adrenaline. He held an arm down the hall, sighing in tandem. "Let's have a word in my office."

Bruce was going to make note of how they treated him and see to changing things. The guard tightened his restraints before stomping out and shutting the lights almost entirely, save the glow from the observation window which cast a sinister vibe about the room. The day had been erratic, a deluge of care professionals keeping the door on a swivel. He'd spoken to at least three different social workers, two on multiple occasions. A therapist had tried to discuss the event with him, and he could tell she believed not a single word. Everyone left with a sigh and a hurry like he was an unwelcome, parasitic guest.

He was floored when you'd arrived. He thought for sure you'd already left, and had felt a twinge of relief at you not having to know about this. He hadn't thought about paparazzi until every worker who entered his room assured him that he was booked under an alternate name, and 'no one' would find out about this. It only served to remind of what he'd tried to forget the past three years—that his mother had been here, too, and it had been weaponized against her. The scene from the night before replayed so vividly whenever he closed his eyes, leaving him unable to sleep, restless, struggling against the restraints as much as he could without alerting the camera to any signs of escape. He'd woken up here, Alfred telling him he'd just been transported from Gotham General. He was given a hefty dose of lorazepam at GG, and awoke here fully restrained. Alfred told him he was informed he'd tried to fight the nurses, scratching, kicking, and biting them. He didn't recall a second of it.

What he did recall was terror. Debilitating, horrifying, vice-grip terror. A few blocks south of your apartment, a large hooded creature wearing an owl mask had grabbed him by the neck. It was so fast he didn't realize what was happening until he thudded against a wall, cracking a rib and the brick in harmony. The dark abyss enveloped him then, slicing, tearing, and pummeling him against the concrete. In a desperate attempt to get through, Bruce had wrapped his hands around the creature's throat, applying disarming pressure, a level that would make any attacker fall to their knees. The creature had only intensified their attack, acting completely unphased. Bruce had staggered to his feet, spitting blood out of his mouth as he was run deep into the concrete, slammed into the jagged edge of a dumpster. At this point he feared for his life, the edges of his vision blowing out, darkening, every breath feeling like he was pulling out his intestines piece by piece. He wrapped both hands around the thing's neck, wrestling, squeezing, juicing its throat harder than he'd ever touched anyone in his life. A force that strong would have snapped a neck in two seconds, but: nothing. With a final heave, he felt himself lifted up and thrown through the air. The last thing he remembered was the mortifying sensation of spikes entering his skin.

He'd stopped relaying the story by the time the third social worker arrived. The first two had jotted down his words, nodded at all the right times, but looked at him like he was a zoo animal. It was all too reminiscent of when people had walked on eggshells two decades prior.

"I'm sure this feels distressing, Mr. Wayne."

"The witness said they saw you jump from the top of the Spriff building, landing in some brush."

"Mr. Wayne. Your guardian, Mr. Alfred Pennyworth relayed a family history of schizophrenia. Is this information new to you?"

At the end of every validating sentence was one discrediting his perception entirely. His breaking point came when Alfred entered teary, holding a wadded up, snotty tissue. He'd begged him to get help, and he nearly did just to alleviate his misery, but he couldn't. His Bat senses were tingling, desperate to hit the ground and investigate it. The face clearly matched the etchings, he still needed to follow up on the Electrum, see if it was a dead end... he had to visit Mayor Reál, talk to her about the election; he was so aware she was somewhere unreachable within these walls. What if they were gaslighting her just like him? What if he'd gotten too close, and this was an effort to subdue him? Had Alan's death been framed? Still, embers of shame stirred deep within, fueling the nagging, world-ending thought that he was merely searching for things to alleviate his fear, to keep his denial rooted and strong. That he was embarrassing himself, refusing to give in to the truth and accept reality.

"You must understand," Dr. Crane shut his office door and swiftly navigated to his desk. Various papers and medical journals, including a reference copy of the DSM, laid out across the tabletop. You stood opposite him, unable to contain the emotions barreling through you. "Safety is of the highest priority here at Arkham."

"He was crying—"

"He was growing agitated." Dr. Crane slapped his clipboard down between you. He heaved an exasperated sigh and leaned down to rummage through a filing cabinet. The folder he pulled had newly initiated crease lines. The room was silent aside from ruffling of thick papers and the tick of his watch. He tugged out a single page, the quality of the paper so poor you could see the text peeking through. "In Mr. Wayne's condition, any heightened emotion could cause an issue. Let's just say he didn't arrive restrained."

Over the next hour he sat with you to explain the protocol, sprinkling in a few sighs about how you hadn't told him you were staying. You'd forgotten it entirely, too sideswept by his cut body and annihilated spirit. You were able to get clarification about 'feelings over content', which was the thesis of the whole operation. "When we focus on the content, meaning 'what happened', we can further alienate and antagonize the patient. To them, their hallucinations are as real as our conversation right now. Imagine if right before your very eyes, I started trying to tell you what you are hearing, seeing, feeling, smelling, and tasting were not real. Pretty activating, correct?"

You'd squirmed in your chair a bit. "I'd feel gaslit. Maybe pissed off."

He snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Instead focus on the feelings. It is real to the person experiencing it. Often it's highly distressing for them. 'That sounds scary', 'How can I best support you through this?' If possible, try to distract. Anxiety can make delusions and hallucinations worse." After the hour was up, you'd left with a chock-full notepad of what to do once Bruce was released. The major themes were highlighted at the top:

- feelings, not content

- distract, soothe

- do not engage with hallucination, aside from naming your own perspective (reality testing)

- develop a reorienting code

- be on the lookout for triggers, symptoms, and effective ways of managing them (incl. 'seeking' behavior)

Bruce was to be released at eleven that evening, accounting for the hour spent at the hospital getting his wounds dressed and checking for internal bleeds. That's all you could make out, anyway, from the backwards text you'd struggled to read while Dr. Crane had perused through a stack of documents. The drive to your apartment left you sitting in your vigilance, questioning your next move. Would you go down to Arkham later to see him? Would you go to Wayne Tower? Both options felt too intrusive, and you were sure Alfred would be there early to retrieve him... by the time you arrived back you decided to stay put and call Dr. Crane in the morning for a follow-up.

The rest of the day was miserable. Part of you wanted to reach out to Mar, but it was vetoed by how unstable you felt; if she came over, you might slip and tell her everything. How had Bruce endured this for so long? Holding this secret and all its complexity was deeply isolating. You emailed Dr. Vry saying you'd be staying for at least a few more weeks, and she'd responded half an hour later saying that Dr. Crane had already informed her that you were to remain in your post for the near future. Every minute felt like hours; you'd taken three showers that day just to do something in between binging reality television and ordering takeout. The only furniture that hadn't been broken down by the morning was your bed and couch. Who needs a dining table anyway? Bridgit emailed to confirm receiving your copy, letting you know that Dr. Vry had cleared it without edit. Whatever pride you might have felt this morning at hearing that was no longer present. All you felt was fear; weighty, inescapable, all-encompassing anxiety at holding someone's life in your hands. Maybe he'll have a change of heart. Maybe he'll talk to Alfred tonight, everything will be fine.

Your doorbell rang at 11:30 that night, and you'd been cross legged in front of the door for the past half hour awaiting his arrival, unable to rest or relax. A few minutes before he knocked you'd felt like an idiot; he had no reason to come see you. Without even looking through the peephole you hurried the door open within a second of his knock, and he nearly bonked you in the face when you appeared in the doorway. You must've been waiting at the door. About to leave? "Can I come in?"

His voice was still liquid sandpaper. You moved out of the way and he walked in, not bothering to hide his obvious limp. You looked around for a chair, and gestured to the couch. He declined, opting instead to lean hard into the counter for balance. You stood an awkward distance away, nervous if you got too close he might bail. His eyes were still bright red, the gray pallor beneath his tired eyes appearing hollow in the low light. He was a bit hunched, the gauze on his body replaced with thick bandages. His sweater from before was replaced by a baggy black t-shirt with matching sweats. Past getting his bearings, he didn't waste time. "What exactly did they tell you?"

Since he was asking.. "They said you attempted suicide." You were banking on Dr. Crane's assurance that naming suicide wouldn't increase risk. He shifted uncomfortably, but it was impossible to tell if it was related to the conversation or his battered body. He scowled. "That's not what happened." His breathing was more labored now. His eyes searched your face for anything that believed him. Anything different than what he'd seen the past twenty-four hours.

You swallowed. "What happened from your perspective?"

He scoffed, the hope he'd had crushing to dust. "It's not about perspective, it's about what happened." He moved to run his hands through his hair but only made it halfway before the bandaging restricted him. "This thing, this creature, it came out of nowhere." His voice trembled. "It had the same face as the pins, like an owl, a bird, but huge." He tapped his foot with the soft cast anxiously. His eyes were wide as he tried to conjure words to accurately depict it. He could feel you weren't buying in, probably thinking he was crazy. He winced. "I know how it sounds,"

"It sounds terrifying."

His arms dropped limply at his sides. "I'm telling you, I've never experienced anything like it. No matter how hard I fought," He tripped over his words, waves of shame and frustration crowding his thoughts. "I tried to strangle it and I couldn't, I've never pressed that hard," His eyes were wet with angry, embarrassed tears. You nodded at him, the enunciation of your words clear and deliberate. "That's really scary."

You sounded just like the staff. He tucked his lower lip under his teeth. He stood there a moment, claustrophobic in the silence. His eyes shut and he shook his head at the ground, pursing his lips. "You don't believe me."

You stepped toward him and he bristled. "I believe you experienced that." Your brow furrowed, your hands clasped together wringing out the skin. His laugh was despondent, empty. He bit the inside of his cheek, anger straightening his posture to stand unsupported. "Don't coddle me."

"I'm not meaning to coddle,"

"I know what I saw!" His voice raised, exaggerating its huskiness. It was approximately this second when you regretted signing the forms, and wanted to slap Dr. Crane for ever putting you in this position. You had no concept of what to say outside of what you already had, the thought of changing the subject felt asinine and brutally disrespectful, and you were left to bear the brunt of the responsibility of the outcome. There was a reason people went to school for the better part of a decade to navigate these situations. Against your better judgement, wanting to show him you weren't coddling, you directly engaged with details of the night before—the few that you'd been given. "They said you jumped off a building and landed in some brush. Glass, thorns, branches." He noticed your eyes wander to his injuries. He shrugged—barely, as much as his body allowed. It read as a heave. "Alfred told me. That didn't happen."

You had to tread very carefully. "Isn't it curious, though?" You kept your tone warm, low, gentle. For what you were saying, how you said it was crucial. You pegged him as a logical man, someone highly analytical, cunning, detailed. Maybe the direct approach was more tailored to him. "You're hallucinating the same figure for months. And what you said about your family..." You let him fill in the rest.

Bruce was starting to get pissed off—at you, specifically. He couldn't forget that none of this had happened until you came into his life. Now his life was punctuated by—no, infested with these shitty, confusing, layered affairs that only made him look suspicious. He kicked himself for opening up about the owls—maybe you'd have believed him if he hadn't. He loathed how much your positions made sense, because they couldn't be farther from the actual truth; but how could he convince anyone, let alone you, about his character and sanity? He had nothing. No one vouching for him. Just the weight of his reputation and family preceding all interactions, clouding it until he was no longer a human being in his own right.

The extended silence unnerved you. His face twitched painfully. Meds! Good segue. You didn't know he was fighting a carousel of dystonic emotion, that he was only not running out without a second look because you knew him, and knew this, and no one else did. "Do you want pain meds? I think I have ibuprofen here," You walked to your barren medicine cabinet without awaiting his response... which didn't end up coming, anyway.

You stood clutching a travel bottle of Advil. The pills rattled as they settled. "Uh, Bruce?"

"If you really think I tried to kill myself, wouldn't I want to bask in the pain?" His tone was biting, sourced from the depth of his helplessness. "If I really did this to myself, why run from it?"

Dr. Crane said to look out for signs of agitation. "You don't have to suffer through it."

He shot a look at you that sent an arrow through your chest. It wasn't pity that cradled you seeing hot, angry tears bleed from his lash line, or fear noticing his clenched fists and trembling mouth. It was compassion—so compelling and isolated, wholly unaffected by guilt or grief. You set the bottle down. As your apprehension lessened, he felt the air shift; with it, his heart quickened remembering your hand on his cheek. He swallowed back his rage and bat his eyes to dry them. "Fine. I'll have some." You handed over the bottle and he popped a few in his mouth, dry swallowing before you could reach for a glass. He wanted to beg, and maybe he would've if his knees weren't ripped to shreds. 'Please believe me' sat on the tip of his tongue. Your head hung as you went to get a glass for yourself. The spigot creaked when you turned it on. He noted you rinse the cup twice before filling, and followed the rim to your lips. It was a few seconds before he thought to look away.

You pressed on, desperate to know if Dr. Crane and his team were able to get through to him. "Did you set up any long-term stuff?" The glass sat atop the counter, twirling between your fingers. He heard Alfred's popular refrain so clearly. How did no one realize how traumatic it would be to go back? To sit in the chair and have a stranger affirm his sickness? To have someone sit inside his head and deny the very thing that makes up a life: his experiences. "I didn't agree. Not going to." Short, simple... he grit his teeth when you didn't let it go.

"Wouldn't it be worth trying? If the medication helps, surely that could help with discernment—"

"I know what I saw."

"You need to be safe."

"Safety means not ignoring something that tried to kill me, Y/N." His full breaths pulled at the bandages greater now, edges of them peeking up. Panic welled up in him. Something was after him, and no one believed it. Why did he want you to believe it so badly? He hadn't even burned for Alfred to know this badly. Why did this conversation feel like nails on a chalkboard, why did a sob sit unwitnessed in his chest whenever you spoke? You sighed. "What if treatment helps that go away? Then you won't have to worry."

"What if it's waiting for my guard to slip?" He meant it as a comeback, a strong point in his favor, but his chest and your expression only deflated as he said it. This is pointless.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going out." Without any additional context, you could only think he meant as Batman. "What, to investigate?" Tell me you aren't.

"While everyone psychoanalyzes me, it could be attacking others." Seeking behavior. Seeking behavior, a phenomenon you'd never heard of prior to the meeting with Dr. Crane, explained as: a common compulsory act of investigation aimed at reducing distress stemming from disturbing hallucinations or delusions and usually present in the early stages of treatment. "Often with these patients we see a strong desire to 'prove' their hallucination; remember, their experiences are tangible to them—the denial is hard to shake. This seeking behavior can leave patients going to desperate lengths to finally find the proof that what they experienced was not just real to them, but fully real, many times placing themselves in dangerous situations to do so. If they do not find what they seek it can cause panic, aggression, and self-injurious behavior."

"Bruce," Oooh, that was starting to grate him again. "You can barely walk—"

"I'm fine."

"You're not!" His schtick was drawing ancient—you had half a mind to think Alfred no older than thirty-five, aged only by the sheer stress of Bruce's stubborn, life-risking denial. "You just got out of the hospital,"

He spoke through clamped teeth. "Mandatory minimum hold, customary and unnecessary."

"You could've died last night."

If he had a dollar for every time he heard that... well, he did, but being in this situation a thousand times over didn't make the conversation go down any sweeter. "But I didn't. Funny how that works."

Searing words sat unsaid within you. You ached to call him on his hardheadedness, to shout and argue until your voice matched his. But you bit your tongue and visualized the notepad alongside the Bruce who'd trembled beneath your fingertips. "I know this experience is a lot, and there's so much to grapple with. But you need to prioritize safety." You watched him scoff and close the gap between him and the door. "Even if you don't think it'll help. Even if it's just resting at home for a few days."

He felt the scalding heat of your concern like a branding iron. He turned the knob. "Thanks for the visit." He left while the edge of his sentence still hung in the air.

You'd called Dr. Crane as instructed a few minutes after he walked out. You were to contact him in some capacity if Bruce's safety was ever of even meager concern, and he would act as triage. He'd been very concerned, but applauded your focus on safety. "You're doing the right thing, Ms. Y/L/N." He'd posited the idea of a planned 'intervention' with him and Alfred, but you'd both quickly concluded that could cause more harm than help. The rest of the evening was spent distracting yourself off the edge of a panic attack.

You glazed over while mindlessly watching shows. The sun had shined strong for a few hours, and you closed the blinds to ensure the overcast light didn't burn you as you slept... like it ever had before. The only way sleep finally found you was by surprise, on the brink of passing out. This city was a fucking menace.

Fateful Beginnings

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

parts: previous / next

plot: witnessing the breaking of Bruce, your desperation reaches new heights.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of suicide, description of panic attack/psychosis, light gore, angst, hurt/comfort, ableism (internalized; ‘crazy’ etc.), manipulation/lying

words: 8.8k

a/n: if you do not wish to read this, I will post a blurb at the front of the next chapter to summarize what happened in this one so you can still follow along. this is the last chapter for a while to talk about it explicitly.

prev. chapter summary (XXVII): You visit Bruce at Arkham, and share a tender moment. Bruce is moderately injured. Dr. Crane explains to you the protocol for interacting with patients who experience schizophrenia or psychosis, including not directly engaging with their delusion. Bruce remembered a powerful, owl-like creature attacking him, but it was ruled a suicide attempt. Bruce visits your apartment after his hold ends, where he tells you he didn't try to kill himself. Frustrated at not being believed, Bruce leaves, with no intention of getting medication or therapy.

In the afternoon you awoke, even more upset than the night before. Sleep allowed the weight of your task to internalize—you nearly passed out peeking at the news on your phone, fully anticipating news of his death—though you found nothing, the fear wasn't alleviated. A look at Scypher proved no one knew he'd been to Gotham General or Arkham, either. As day crept into night, you found yourself pacing about your apartment. Your mind's current fixation was on whether or not you should go to Alfred, and if so, whether to leave now or later. Now would increase the odds of Bruce seeing you, probably as he donned the suit and left the tower for another shift; that could leave him agitated. Leaving later would increase the odds of danger finding you, make it a sketchy Uber driver or chancing a walk across town in the total dark; neither option bode well, but there was no chance you would stay here. Every tick on the clock felt like a drop of blood spilling out of Bruce.

You paid extra for Uber Luxe, hoping that might decrease your chance of being assaulted or beheaded. Your taser sat thick in your sweatpant pocket, jostling with every step. You'd given the driver instructions to drop you off a block before Wayne Tower grounds, at the last convenience store. The drive was unfortunately short, leaving little time to plan what you wanted to say. Alfred would likely still be awake, waiting up for Bruce who was ever so ungrateful to have someone waiting and praying for his safe arrival.

Walking up the grounds was ominous; this wasn't what you thought a celebrity's house would be like, and you cringed thinking of him that way. There were no overlording guards, security staff peppering the outskirts, or someone watching the door. It was empty, quiet, and dark. The steps to the main entryway were broken concrete. The door was thick wood, double the height of a regular door, and equally wide. When you knocked it hardly made a sound.

The door opened without fanfare, the only sound the echoing creak of the door hinge bleeding into the foyer. Alfred's eyes brightened momentarily, and only slightly, at your arrival. He gave a watery grin and stepped aside for you to come in. "Miss Y/N. Master Bruce told me you visited at Arkham." You were struck by how different he seemed; his previously warm, jolly demeanor was replaced with all-encompassing fatigue, dread swaddling him with a sweaty blanket. "If you want to check on him, I'm afraid he's out." He walked to the unlit kitchen and grabbed a glass from the counter, drawing water from the sink before taking a gulp. His hand rested on his waist, his head facing the ground as he sucked his teeth. He rubbed his eyes.

You shut the door behind you, crossing your arms round your waist. "He looked pretty beat up."

Alfred gave a solemn nod. "Did they tell you what happened?"

You reciprocated. "About his great grandfather too." You paused. "Doesn't seem like he believes it."

The sigh the man heaved could've moved mountains. "I've tried to get through to him." His voice cracked. "Only seems to make him more resentful." He laughed hollowly.

Your heart hurt for Alfred. Maybe you'd only scratched the surface and the old man was some abusive piece of shit, maybe Bruce was perfectly right to disregard him, maybe it was all a show, but from what you'd experienced with Bruce, he seemed unwilling to consider his impact on others, not the other way around. "Did he seem worked up at all?"

Alfred, though exhausted, easily sniffed out your not-so-subtle attempt at gathering info. "I see—the psychiatrist brought all hands on deck." He'd wondered why you'd visited; it was hard to believe that Bruce would have asked for you, even if he'd wanted you. The boy hadn't even asked for him—though that could've been his altered consciousness after the attempt, or shame, embarrassment. On a good day the boy was tough to crack. He hadn't heard a thing about you since your leaving the mansion in the spring.

When Alfred got the call he panicked, quite literally dropping what he was doing to rush to him, but it was when he was pulled into a private room with the doctor that his heart shattered. How alone did Bruce feel? How isolated, lonely, and helpless had he felt? That night when Bruce arrived home from Arkham he'd had a long, heartfelt, one-sided conversation with him while they waited for his med timer to go off. He went on about whether Bruce would attempt again, and how Alfred could help prevent that. Bruce averted his eyes and listened, for a while. Eventually he stood with dewy eyes and told him he hadn't done it. The ensuing argument was steeped in desperation from both sides; Alfred hadn't slept a wink since. He checked on the boy every half hour as he slept and hadn't left his general vicinity until he slunk off in the suit.

"You know him best." The hallway cast an echo to your words. "Do you think there's anything you or I could do, or say? To make him get help?"

Alfred's laugh startled you. "That's precisely the issue, Miss. Bruce has an unforceable hand." He set the glass down, body tense. "He has to want it for himself. And he doesn't." The way he planted himself into the dining chair had you wonder if the sink wasn't actually filled with vodka. It almost looked like Alfred had given up. It pissed you off—not at the sorrowful man before you, but at Bruce. If your mom had begged like that, you wanted to believe you'd try something. This path of destruction he was on...

He interrupted your fuming. "Is that why you paid him a visit, to convince him to seek help?"

You nodded but his back was turned. "Yeah. Dr. Crane seems to think I can get through to him. No idea how. Said I was the last point of contact."

He huffed. "At this point anything's on the table." So maybe he hasn't given up hope... or maybe he truly sees no scenario where Bruce makes it out.

Footsteps sounded from the shadowy hallway at the back of the kitchen and before you knew it, Bruce arrived in the suit. His black eyeshadow had smeared at the edges. The cowl hung in his left hand.

"Master Bruce,"

His voice was terse, still hoarse. "What's she doing here? Did you call her?" He strode past Alfred in the kitchen to rip open the fridge and grab an apple. God, you wanted to scream. As he moved toward the elevator, you nearly flew off the handle at the combination of his back facing the two of you and his disgruntled sigh. With how fast he was escaping, that rage was unable to be tempered in time for a measured response. "So you're gonna act like I'm not here?"

He stopped but didn't look back. "I asked him a question."

"I didn't call her, Bruce." He rubbed his temples, a migraine forming. Alfred sighed and excused himself to grab an aspirin upstairs. Bruce kept forward. His stomach twisted into knots seeing you here again—intrusive, meddling, righteous. He took massive care to avoid limping.

The scene was poetic: Bruce disdainfully walking away while his butler (and only guardian) went to medicate for a stress-induced ailment. Metal clanking signified his nearing departure and you snapped. "Do you see how much you're hurting him?"

That was the single most aggravating and entitled thing you did: pretend you had any damn idea who Alfred was or had even a crumb of knowledge about their relationship. He spun around. "You know nothing about him—"

"I know he's exhausted and miserable waiting on you, he's alone in the kitchen at 10 pm with his goddamn head in his hands—"

"I told him he doesn't have to worry."

You could've laughed, but your body wouldn't let you. "You are genuinely risking your life, how the hell are we not supposed to worry?"

His eyes flashed at your pronoun choice. "You're ridiculous to think you're in any alignment with him."

"Are you?"

He stepped out of the elevator, his chest thick with tense breathing. "You don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

You shot an icy glare. "Is that a threat?"

He snarled. "Observation."

Heat rose to your cheeks for reasons you couldn't yet decipher. The longer he stayed arguing with you the less time he'd have for seeking behavior, but you had to toe the line. He was getting too riled up. "We-I just want you to be safe."

He stared at you for a good few seconds, trying to do a temperature check. You were hard to read. Ever since you'd come back he'd been decidedly disappointed in your intermittent composure. These glimmers of bite made him feel curiously alive, in ways both delightful and infuriating. "You got what you wanted from me. Why are you still here?"

It was like he was ignoring you on purpose; like he hadn't cried into your touch a day prior, like he couldn't fathom if he had been successful, Alfred would be planning a funeral right now. You shrugged, your chest procuring an exasperated sound to accompany it. "Do you not know how serious this weekend's been, or do you not care?"

He paused only briefly, enough for him to shoot a dagger stare. "It's not serious in the way you're painting it."

"Can you suspend your disbelief just a moment?" Please. Please. Please. You began to sweat.

"I could say the same to you."

You were losing him, you knew it. Whatever thin string tied you to him was threatening to sever. You opened your mouth but he cut you off, knowing if he gave you space to speak he would implode. "I know what I saw." His hands flexed in and out of fists, trying desperately to metabolize the stress, to temper the helpless rage bubbling in his stomach.

No idea what to say and at an utter loss, you stood and looked at him. The moon only lit up your half of the kitchen. The air was tense and brittle as ice. Dr. Crane's voice was a subtle pulse cocooning every sentence you thought you might say. "I know you saw that, I believe you."

His jaw set. He responded with a colossal eye roll and scornful jeer. "You don't believe it happened, you believe I experienced it."

Your voice lost its gusto, your mind going blank. "I don't know what else to say."

"Say nothing. It's not needed." He moved to turn and you reflexively tossed a lasso.

"You're needed; who will protect Gotham?" You paused too long in the middle there.

He cackled—a jarring, unsettling sound in the chilled air. "There's no line you won't cross."

Fuck. You wanted to stomp your foot, and throw a tantrum to shake the house; this visceral experience of exasperated compassion fuzzed your restraint. "No line you won't ignore."

He stopped turning and scowled, his voice devastatingly cutting. "Says the person loitering."

He needed to know how serious this was; all arrows pointed in one direction. "If you'd been successful, we wouldn't even be t—"

"I didn't do it!" It was the first time he'd really yelled around you, and definitely the first time at you. It peppered goosebumps across your skin and hitched a few breaths. Clamoring steps and Alfred entered, brows raised after a quick scan of the room. "What's going on?"

Bruce turned on his heel and made haste to the elevator, slamming his palm against the button before he rocketed down to the cave. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears, tears springing up for the umpteenth time this weekend. The second the doors opened he bolted through the basement, his cowl catching on the corner of a particularly obtrusive desk in the center of the room. He tossed the cowl, and as he felt the helplessness punctuate into his chest he began ripping off the suit until he was nothing but spandex base layers. He sprinted through the subway doors, past the car, and barreled north. The chilled air slapped his flushed cheeks, the pain in his foot and torso going silent as he sprinted through unlit sidewalks and alleys. He'd find it. Find something. Find anything. His weak ankle slipped on a patch of oil, and he landed swiftly on his back. Unprotected by the suit, the thud knocked the tears out of him, and they slid silently down his cheeks until they joined the puddles on the ground.

Alfred turned toward you and searched your face. "I heard shouting?"

You whipped out your phone and dialed Dr. Crane. He picked up on the second ring; you put it on speaker for Alfred to hear. "Ms. Y/L/N. Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. I went to see Mr. Pennyworth, and Bruce caught me there and, we had an argument and he just, he ran off." The adrenaline rush of his shout lingered much like sweat. You fought to catch your breath as tsunamis of guilt and fear crashed into you. Would he hurt himself right now? Is he gonna die? Dr. Crane sighed. "Certainly not ideal..." Another sigh. "Did he make any threat against his life, or anyone else's?"

"No."

"Did he seem oriented to place and time?"

"Yes."

"Unfortunately there's not much we can do at this point."

Your hands shook. Alfred placed a hand on your arm to steady you. "I could go after him, I don't, I don't know,"

"No." Dr. Crane was quick with it. Alfred shook his head at you too, but remained quiet. "That might push him further. Mr. Pennyworth has this number, let him know to call me if he doesn't come home in the next few hours. Anything else I can do for you?"

God this was hopeless. Guilt ravaged through you, and you barely contained a sob while telling him that was all. You stowed the phone in your pocket, callously wiping hot tears from your face. Alfred dropped his hand from your arm, face empathetic but grim. "Miss. This is not your responsibility."

"I need to leave, I'm not making this better,"

"Let me drive you."

You shook your head. "I need to walk. I have a taser, I'm fine." You brushed past him before you melted into a pile of dust and became unable to command your legs.

Alfred walked across the kitchen and pulled off a piece of paper towel. "At least take my number. I'm a call away." The soft lull of his accent and the smooth feel of the fiber grounded you enough to walk out the door and brace yourself for the two-mile walk back, after a brief embrace and thanks. You stomped along the sidewalks with your arms across your chest, both grateful and suspicious at the lack of people around. Glints of flickering street lamps caught your attention on the wet cement. It shocked you that Gotham still got rain in the summer—much less, yes, but the littering of puddles and slick pavement was an ever-present ghoul.

The sidewalk curved to the left, jutting out to various side streets and alleyways. Some faint yelling punctuated the otherwise quiet evening, but that was usual. As you walked further however, it grew louder, sounding distressed. You grabbed your taser and held it in front with the trigger ready, safety off. The screaming kept an insistent space in the ambiance. Shuffling, hitting, thudding, scrambling. The fuck? Curiosity outweighed the fear that criticized every step toward the noise pollution. By this point the main street's light source had waned, rendering your phone the only way to not trip and break your nose against disgusting concrete. You yelped when someone ran out in front of you—it took a full ten seconds to realize it was Bruce.

His clothes were completely torn up; he wasn't in the suit, which confused you. Is it lying somewhere? Someone could easily trace it back to him. He turned quickly and paced back from whence he came, a small alley littered with garbage and decaying leaves. You could make out even less of what he looked like now. Every time you moved your light up he flinched, turning hard away from it. The puddles refracted the light off your phone, allowing just enough to frame his expressions and movements. He was hunched, shaking like he was in an earthquake, and shreds of his shirt and leggings were strewn about. "Get away from me." He grumbled, loud, his voice bloated and cracked. The hoarseness from earlier had devolved into a scratchy sound, almost like his throat had open wounds. He spoke too loudly, with some words emphasized and shouted while others sounded more swallowed, drowning in the tears he sputtered on as he choked out shouts and screams. You didn't bother to hide your wince; with sounds that heartwrenching and lights so low, it would be futile to suppress. Upon closer inspection some of his bandages had been ripped off too; as if on cue he began ripping more of them off, digging underneath his shirt, sniffing, huffing, and heaving.

"Bruce,"

He looked at you like he'd seen a ghost. "How do you know my name?" He shrieked, doubling over into the fetal position while he anxiously ran his hands through his hair, smearing the bloody, blackened tears into his hairline. His next few breaths were desperate and shallow, and you heard the sound of air sucking through his teeth. You stood about ten feet from him, unable to step any closer due to his erratic movements. He fell onto his ass and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking violently as he rocked back and forth. Spit launched out of his mouth and dangled in the corner of his lips, the hiss of strained airflow clenching your gut into knots. You gulped, your limbs beginning to numb. "I'm calling Alfred."

Your hand shook nearly as much as his as you tried to squint to read his number. After too long, every second passing like ten minutes with the state Bruce was in, he picked up. "Alfred,"

"Miss? Everything—"

"Bruce needs to be picked up." You didn't realize you were gasping until you had to speak through it. It was at that second that Bruce acknowledged you, jumping to his feet and racing to only a foot's distance. "NO!" His pupils were blown, eyes rapidly shutting and squeezing. Crouched to be at eye level, you could see how his lip trembled under the weight of the sweat and tears pooling beneath his nose. His bleary, soaked, inflamed eyes threatened to impale yours with the intensity of their focused attention. He opened and shut his mouth a few times without speaking, and when he did, flecks of spit landed on your chin. A few unsuccessful regulating breaths and heaving exhales later, he whined into the phone. "Don't tell Mom and Dad about this."

Palpable silence. Alfred was the one to break it. "I'll be there in three minutes." The phone sat heavy in your palm after he hung up. Bruce sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the wet ground. He bloodied his knuckles beating against it. His screams became muffled as you stood, frozen. He gazed at the alley's dead end and shouted unintelligibly, his agitation mounting until Alfred arrived and helped him into the backseat. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and the man had to walk you to the passenger seat. "I'll take you home first, Miss."

"You won't tell them, right? I can't be out this late." Bruce wrung his hands together and looked out the window anxiously. You and Alfred exchanged a solemn look. Alfred nodded. "It'll stay between us, Master Bruce. I promise." This was bad, and you both knew it. It was sad, too. Would he wake up wondering where his parents were? Would he have any recollection of this in the morning? Would Alfred have to break the news to him that his parents had died years ago? Did this warrant an inpatient stay? What would Dr. Crane think? The hum of the cabin air was the only distraction from Bruce picking at his fingernails and sniffling up sobs. If there had been any more breathing room in there you would've joined him. But you had to wait until they were gone. Wait until the only thing around you was dark, empty silence. You directed Alfred to your apartment, and soon enough you arrived.

Pulling up to the curb of The Moore, he waited for your door to open before locking the rest. He stepped out and walked over to hold the lobby doors. His steps were slow and a bit shallow. He saw tears streaming your cheeks and stopped before grabbing the handle. "Miss,"

Now that you were out of the car you couldn't contain yourself. "It was my fault, I'm fucking meddling,"

His mouth settled into a tight frown. "As far as I'm concerned you saved him tonight. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't been there?"

You shook your head, his words not penetrating the layers of guilt. "He wouldn't have been like that if it weren't for me. I'm inserting myself where I'm not needed."

Alfred placed a hand on your shoulder, waiting until you met his eyes to speak. "Efforts to save a life are never misplaced." With that, he nodded and bid you adieu. The walk to your room felt like a million years with the weights on your ankles. Your room was cold, a liminal space between before and after, then and now. If only I hadn't left.

Bruce had woken up screaming five times that night. The first two times he'd bolted out of his bedroom in his underwear, needing to be coaxed back to bed with firm reassurance and breathing exercises. Alfred took to sleeping in a makeshift cot in front of the boy's door to make sure he didn't slip past. When morning came, he hadn't recalled a thing; his head ached, his body felt like it'd been struck by lightning, run over by a car, and chewed on by twenty dogs. Seeing Alfred sleeping at the foot of his door prompted a conversation about what had happened last night—he'd glazed over by the time he was told what he'd said about his parents, though it didn't help the sting.

As much as he wanted to rot in bed the rest of the day until he could go out as the bat, his stomach grumbled to the kitchen. It was there that Alfred threw out the idea of going to see you. "Miss Y/N is the one who found you. She called me." After a few hours of avoidance that only propelled the day to early afternoon, he caved; the hovering presence of Alfred made his embarrassment and frustration peak, and if he'd stayed a moment longer he might have lashed out. So... he found himself once again at the door to your apartment. He felt strange being there, like he wasn't supposed to remember where you lived. He figured a text would have been worse.

You opened the door wearing black sweats and a white tee. You looked exhausted. "Alfred wanted me to stop by."

It hurt more than it should have that it didn't come from him. Moreso than desiring any self-indulgent recognition, you wanted to feel like he didn't hate you. Regret had kept you up the entire night to the extent of wicked nausea. Your knees still ached from kneeling in front of the toilet for hours on end. I'm sorry caught before it passed your tonsils, evaporated before reaching your tongue. All night you'd ruminated about how ridiculous and intrusive you'd been. All you'd done was fuck up his life. Why had you even gone over last night? Because some man in a blazer with a fancy degree gave you a crash course on mental illness meant you had any right to meddle? Those thoughts stormed against others that saw the pain and dangerous denial plainly in him, like a ticking time bomb.

Dr. Crane had called you earlier that morning to warn you about his condition. "It appears he's in a state of delirium. This is the worst-case scenario outside of another attempt... which is usually imminent soon after." His words echoed through your best attempt at listening. You'd have to remove 'works well under pressure' from your resume after this weekend. The call had ended on a sobering note, such lethal stakes nearly forcing you into complete apathy. You'd sat on the edge of your couch with the phone on speaker, sitting on your hands that grew colder the more he spoke. "The gravity of his current condition cannot be overstated."

"Me talking to him only hurt him." Your voice was dry and raspy from lack of sleep. "It sent him into a spiral, I can't do that again." Your arms wrapped around your torso in a sad excuse for a hug. Walter would've been great company right about then.

"Ms. Y/L/N, I assure you: such a high-caliber reaction could not be spurred solely by asking him to get help." But you didn't believe him. At this point you snapped, wanting to drill into him that you were making it worse. "He does not like me. He only gave me the interview because I wouldn't leave him alone, I have been a stain in his life for months."

Dr. Crane sighed. "Y/N." This was the first time he'd addressed you so informally. "I am aware he might dislike you. I hear what you are telling me. My professional judgment remains."

"Wouldn't someone you hate telling you to get help only make you want it less?" This thought had plagued you between dry heaves, the thought of your assistance only exacerbating his refusal. If someone you detested—and barely knew—came barging into your home demanding you get help and told you how much you were hurting your parents... you'd want to slap the shit out of them. It was embarrassing how entitled you'd acted the night before. "I'm making the problem worse. I need to be hands-off."

"I did my graduate studies on interventions for schizophrenic populations—I focused on the different outcomes between estranged and aligned families. Some of these guardians were outright abusive and thoroughly hated by the patient," He spoke the next part emphatically. "Yet regardless of how polluted the relationship, the data was clear:" He needed to drill every syllable of the next part into your very spirit. "Once the patient entered delirium, the families who took a 'hands-off approach' had an 87% increased rate of patient mortality within one week."

If the phone had been in your hands you would've dropped it. "Whatever you need to do, make sure it gets done. Nothing is too far when it comes to saving a life. It's the eleventh hour."

You stepped aside and Bruce walked in no further than required to shut the door behind him. He looked worse than ever. How did he even walk up here in the light of day? If even one camera got a picture of him it would be plastered to the front of every tabloid, he would have to come out with a statement...

He stilled. He saw the strain in your breath, how your chest rose rapidly, the slumped defeat in your body, your swollen under eyes and chapped lips. "I also wanted to apologize." He certainly hadn't meant to, but the anger was dissipating with every second he looked at you. "Last night I wasn't myself."

Maybe he'll say it himself. Maybe this is it, maybe he came to accept it. Hope fluttered against your ribs. No more fighting, no more arguing. "I'm sorry for inserting myself. I shouldn't have said that about Alfred. I'm a stranger." After the call with Dr. Crane, you'd wondered about playing docile, but this wasn't a ploy; this guilt was desperate to purge itself, and he was an altar edging it out.

He blinked at the ground. "You weren't wrong. Alfred is suffering." It hurt to push those words past his teeth. "But there's nothing I can do about that." He snuck a look over, seeing your mouth open. He cringed. "Don't tell me to get help." He grit his teeth and balled his fists, the tension in his body overwhelming. When you didn't respond, he spoke again, trying to show you plainly and clearly how suspicious it was. "It's an anonymous witness. No footage."

You wanted to talk about how the witness probably stayed anonymous because he was Bruce Wayne, someone so rich and powerful they might have feared retaliation if their identity was on record, but the other times you reminded him of his status had sent him spiraling. You wanted to talk about how the city budget was so misused that most of the security cameras around town were out of order, especially in dark alleyways that businessmen didn't frequent—that was the only purpose of justice in Gotham anyway, to protect and serve the elite. But the tension was visible and unnerving; you and Bruce together at a fragile crossroad. That mortality rate sat like a boulder in your gut. Every option was bitter on the tongue.

The one thing you thought to do was the one thing Dr. Crane said to never do; engage directly with his hallucinations. Did you even care about that anymore? Was he even right? Was Bruce right? Probably not. He'd been so beyond himself he thought his parents were still alive, staring at the back of an empty alleyway like someone was out to get him. That couldn't be reasoned with. Another refrain ran laps around you: one week. Seeing Bruce Wayne in your kitchen after hearing that... it seemed the odds were more likely you'd attend a public memorial than speak to him next weekend. Oh. Fuck.

He chased after the shift in your body language. You had that look again from city hall. The expression of being far away, on another planet. It instilled in him an unquenchable urge to thrust you out of it. "Last night... It was like I'd been drugged."

Any explanation to keep him in denial. You shook yourself out of it, immediately replacing the dismissive thought with something more just. It's a lot to accept. Of course he's struggling with it. The most you could manage was to stare at his shoes. Your eyes still glazed. The room muffled. Unaware of every breath. You hadn't dissociated this hard since the first call from the doctor seven years ago. Therapy had helped back then, letting you know this served a function. Holding it compassionately wouldn't do a damn thing right now, locked in your gridlock, dipping your toes in the apathy that lusted to infiltrate your bloodstream. My apathy is deadly. My apathy could cost him his fucking life. But you couldn't shake it. You couldn't look up at him, you couldn't even speak. You burst into tears... or thought you did. You'd heaved an enormous sigh and sat with your head down, unable to well up tears in such a detached state. Even if you could, you wouldn't cry in front of him if you could manage; he didn't need that.

Your sigh had a whimper at the end of it, sending a jolt through him. The stillness of the moment had him noticing the details, like how you hadn't changed since the night before. Your apartment was still disassembled. The time on the stove read 4:18. His mind wandered. Gordon got off on weekends at five; the mask would conceal most of his injuries, and the ones it didn't would make sense. He could investigate it more with him, explore the evidence room... But there you sat. And he didn't want to leave you like this. His tone was tender, like yours had been. "I'm safe."

Arkham. "I don't know what else to do."

"Believe me." He pleaded, a gravelly whine fraying the end. Dr. Crane had warned you about this on the phone call. He asked about your plan if he came over; you hadn't had one, wanting to ignore the possibility entirely. Dr. Crane said it was likely he'd draw more desperate. You'd asked about humoring him. Tried to express how stubborn Bruce was. Nope. Not a possibility. "If you want to throw gasoline on a fire."

Your lids were heavy with sleep, stress, anxiety. You could see how much you stressed him out. How he was on the edge of leaving. How desperate he was to be believed. Fish hooks in your sides threatened to cut you in two, tugging equally left and right, splitting each layer of your skin at the belly button.

At least if you stuck with Dr. Crane's plan and it ended horribly, you would have someone else to blame... You hated yourself for letting that cross your mind. Bruce wasn't an experiment, and this wasn't a low-stakes outcome. As much as the situation juiced your heart until it was throbbing and weak, he was the one with the most to lose, and he couldn't think clearly. He needed you to stay the course. Trust the science. Listen to the data, to reason, not what tugged at your heartstrings. You took a deep breath. "I know it hurts to not be trusted, but you have to weigh the pros and cons."

All he did was glare back at you. You couldn't hesitate, refusing to waste another second. "Worst case scenario is you have some temporary side effects," You ignored how visibly agitated he was becoming, how his hands twitched and his eyes looked away as his jaw clenched. "Worst case scenario of not trying them is you do that again, and not even know it's happening."

He'd far surpassed his limit; every syllable slipping past your lips trying its best to gaslight. You'd been persistent when getting the interview, he should've seen the red flag in your tenacity. "You're never going to believe me?" Posed as a question, meant as a statement. His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. "Why are you pushing this?" Why would you of all people be shelling this so hard?

It was simple, and you said it as such. "I don't want you to die."

Bruce didn't give it time to linger. His face was sour with a scowl. "Doesn't change what happened."

"Weigh the options. One outcome is far worse." Please. You crossed your fingers behind your back to summon the universe's luck. Please. He just glared at you. Small shaking of his head. You pressed on. "You don't even have to believe anyone, just humor—"

He scoffed, the sound like a slap across the face. "Take medication to humor..." Your audacity... fuck. He could've laughed. He could've rolled his eyes, stormed out, any number of things. His was instead welded to the floor. It didn't make sense. Any of it.

"Please." God, the way you whined. The smallest, most minuscule seed of doubt entered him. Terrified of it manifesting into slipping resolve, he turned to leave. "Where are you going?"

He kept walking. The squeak in your voice, the haze of desperation, the exhaustion weighing you down—had you stayed up all night thinking about this? You couldn't have. He reached the doorknob just as you jumped toward him. "Please, stop,"

He winced. "Stop sounding like that." Your begging was pointless. He'd made up his mind. He'd leave, he wouldn't even look back... he wouldn't think about it, he wouldn't think about you, you wouldn't get to him.

At this point your heart was beating so hard you swore Bruce could hear it. As soon as he slipped out of your apartment he would be unreachable. Every other time he'd left like this, something terrible had happened. He could be dead by the end of the night. The end of the hour. When he turned the doorknob you could've jumped out of your skin. Your vocal cords constricted from overwhelming dread. This is too much. "Where are you going?"

"Don't need to concern yourself." He opened the door and you grabbed his arm; his head whipped around to look at you, startled by the forcefulness of your grip. Through his sweatshirt he could feel how ice cold your fingers were.

"I do,"

He shrugged his arm away. "Keep telling yourself that." The door opened wide with a quick snap; the snarl in his tone, the glare set in his features, you had about two seconds before he was down the hallway to god knows where to do god knows what. Popping into your mind was his insinuation that no one had seen it; no evidence, no corroboration, and you made a split-second decision as he stepped into the hallway.

"Because I saw it." A disorienting combination of emotions swarmed you; immediate regret at having lied, and immediate relief in seeing Bruce freeze, no longer rushing out to his demise.

"Saw what?" His voice lowered and he stilled, like he knew exactly what you implied but hoped you didn't mean it.

It was hard to stay quiet through the sudden flush of tears down your cheeks. The lie ended up gasping out of you. "I saw you jump, I'm the person who called."

You barely contained a sob of relief when he stepped back inside and shut the door. He peeked at you, his eyes searching your face slowly, deliberately. This was the first time you'd had any feeling at all that he was willing to listen. This was your last chance, his last chance, anyone's to get him to safety. "I felt bad about how the interview ended, so I went looking for you."

Bruce could barely hear you, and he could only hear you. The world, his thoughts, everything but the crackle of the flaming pitchforks his defenses held faded away. It would make sense it hadn't leaked to the press yet if it had been you, but.... He said this like an accusation, eyes narrowed with skepticism. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

He was giving you an inch, you were taking a mile. You were yanking him close to you and holding him there. You would've imploded if you had to see him in a casket, knowing you could've done more. Even if it wasn't your responsibility, even if you barely knew him. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. Thought it'd be easier."

His heart was in his throat. Hope was lying nearly dead in his chest, gasping for air before a final death rattle. His voice was strained, weary, haunting. "You saw me jump?" His brows knit together just barely, daring you both to be honest and to spare him. "Off a building?"

You bit your tongue until a searing sting. Jesus... You couldn't hesitate. Not with him, not now. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with his pulse hanging in the balance. You nodded and strangled the words out from where they clotted in your throat. "It was horrifying. I thought I watched you die."

Bruce flinched as you said it, your words evoking a visceral sensation of being stoned. Brick by brick it hit his chest, teleporting him to the night his parents died; the feeling of watching blood pour out of their bodies, shucking sounds of it glugging against the wet concrete, seeping into puddles. Like a flipped switch, he had no choice but to believe you. This was his line. The notion that he had caused someone to experience even a fraction of that feeling... no matter how deep his denial, no matter that he saw the creature clear as day, he would have forgotten his own name if it meant sparing someone. If he suffered through the truth, fine; if it harmed anyone else, it was over. Folded. Hard limit. Fear was a tool, but not like this.

You witnessed a clear shift in him. You were too busy swimming in fragile relief to think about why that had connected. Your body was buzzing, and you watched on with bated breath as he stood in silence. If you listened hard you could hear his deep nasal inhale. His shallow, quick exhale.

He felt embarrassed, ashamed, and afraid. He hated how much he still wanted to drill you. How desperate he was to corroborate his experience and dismiss everything else. He wouldn't force you to rehash it. he wouldn't make you relive something like that. The walls began to close in as his reality rapidly dissolved; the owls hadn't been real, the creature hadn't been real, he'd really jumped off a building and his mind was so unreliable he hadn't known? Ooh, this was... this was...

You sniffed. It brought him back to space and time. He couldn't lose it yet. "Do you, uh," He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind completely numbed out. Save the spiral for later. "What do you need?"

You felt absolutely disgusting. What did you need? It churned your stomach. Why did he have to have humility now? Flashbacks to him screaming and hitting the pavement as spit flew out of his mouth. Taped down to a psychiatric bed. The scabs beginning to form on his face, neck, and hands... the pain that surfaced so quickly when you'd even barely touched his cheek. You pursed your lips and blew out a shaky breath to ground yourself. Save the spiral for later.

"You want me to get meds, therapy?" Desperation coated his tone. Like he was counting the seconds until he could leave, or explode, or both.

Your eyes were wide and bleary as you made contact with his. You couldn't bring yourself to nod, or even look him in the face longer than a few seconds. "I just want you to be safe."

He didn't speak for another minute. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he certainly wasn't at peace. You hadn't expected him to believe you. You hadn't imagined a universe where he would ever believe a word you said. But then he nodded. Lost in thought, eyes darting across the floor, breathing labored, and said things you never thought he would. "I'll pick some up in the morning."

The dizzying haze of shock annihilated him. He walked to the door but felt stumbled, like his saliva was thickening in his mouth, blood rushing to his core to sustain him, keep him upright, thinking, moving. When he grabbed the doorknob he couldn't feel it. In a blink the door opened and he didn't remember opening it. The zigzag pattern on the hallway rug floated, fuzzy, spotting the edge of his vision.

He walked calmly to the door; you couldn't see his face, no idea what he was thinking, and it killed you. "Are you gonna be safe tonight?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to reassure you he wouldn't do anything now that he knew you were involved. He wanted to tell you he didn't think he'd ever attempt to kill himself, but apparently that wasn't real. You'd witnessed him try to end his life. He was obviously unstable, an unreliable narrator, and he was afraid. The pieces were falling into place; the wear in your body, your meddling... He heard the elevator ding from the end of the hall and shut the door, leaning his sore, bruised forehead against it. What had he done to get that? He couldn't remember where half of his injuries came from. Alfred said he'd panicked the night before. Was out of his body. The last thing he remembered was staring up at the cloudy sky, wishing, pleading the universe to be believed. Then it was all black.

He spoke in a whisper, though unintentional. "I don't know." He didn't trust anything now. Was he even here? Was this even happening? Were his feet planted against your flooring, or was he actually in a field by himself? He couldn't do this now, he couldn't, he couldn't make you take care of him, you couldn't feel responsible, you weren't, this was crazy. He was crazy. His heart began to race when he heard you step behind him. He shook his head hard. "I'll stay inside tonight."

"Bruce," A plaintive cry.

He spun around. His shaky, blurred vision dialed in to your slick, puffy face. His jaw hung slack. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

It's worth it. He's getting help. No more bruises, cuts, jumps. I did what I needed to. He's not gonna die. He's not gonna die. He's not. gonna. die. You flirted with hyperventilation the more you sat under his gaze. "It's fine,"

"It's not." He wasn't going to leave you like this, alone and crying. Had you gotten flashbacks like he did way back when? Did you need a hug as badly as he did after taking their bodies away?

"You're okay, so." He stepped toward you and you jumped. He searched your face and goddammit, tracked every tear again. He is not gonna take care of me. STOP CRYING! You stammered for anything to say that could shift the focus off of you as you forced your tear ducts to close. "I can call Alfred if you want to be picked up," Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I'm a fucking liar. I'm lying. I'm lying.

He didn't answer. You gulped, feeling increasingly like you were about to pass out. "The smog's pretty bad today, um," Your hands shook, you needed to find something to tether them to. Heat flooded your lashes again, fuck. "I think I have some tea, if you're walking it might, it might help."

Your hands quivered against the lavender mug as you pulled it from the cabinet. "With your throat, you know." Your hands were going clammy, your forehead felt sticky. He watched your trembling fingers search the drawers, finally procuring a packet. He'd traumatized you—he wouldn't let you take care of him too. He tracked your eyes to the microwave, and moved to open the door. You filled the mug with water and put it in the microwave for two minutes.

Just walking those few steps made him queasy; on top of everything else he was late to taking his pain meds. Inside, he frantically plugged a cracking dam. Would he be able to go out as batman anymore? How would the psych meds affect him? Had anything else happened that wasn't real? Did you even know he was batman? Was batman even real? Was batman a way for him to channel his sickness into something productive? What memories were real? He held his hands in front of him. The dam was breaking.

You turned around to grab a paper towel, but saw Bruce standing a foot away staring at his shaking palms. The blueness of his eyes was exaggerated by his constricted pupils. Unsure of what to do, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, you stared at the mesmerizing spin of the mug. Round, and round, and round. The light hit his cheek, emphasizing the scabs and cuts. The beat of his rising chest pulsing in your ear propelled you forward; maybe it was the rapid fluttering of his lashes or the first tear that fell, but you grabbed his suffering hands and the room went quiet.

"Hey, hey." You squeezed his lukewarm hands with your cold ones, nearly making a self-deprecating joke about not being able to warm him. He was staring blankly over your shoulder, his bottom lip ragged from biting. The whir of the microwave came faintly back into earshot, until Bruce looked back at you. A crest of tears balanced in his waterline.

His entire body vibrated. He wanted to tell you how terrified he was, but he was sure you could see it. He could see it in you, too. He still didn't want you to have to care for him, but that was rapidly deprioritized as more fears crowded in. You could almost see the dreams dying in his eyes; uneventful, hopeless, and frustrating like a dud firework. You swallowed back bile as you grasped for anything you could say to him, repeating a mantra to stave off the nausea. I didn't cause this pain. This was the only way. This has to help him. This is worth it, it has to be. You didn't believe it, but having him alive and in your sight helped muffle the self-hatred.

The microwave sounded. When you pulled back to open it you felt resistance—he squeezed your hands lightly, his breathing heavy and deep. You hesitated before giving another reassuring squeeze; you'd acclimated to each other's temperature, your fingers no longer feeling like ice against his. His hands were calloused and rough, and your palm rubbed on the scabs when you pulled back. Before your mind could wander further, before you collapsed in a puddle of tears, you slipped your hands out of his and busied yourself with steeping the tea.

Bruce lowered his hands to his sides, gently flexing them to remember the shape of yours. He ached to hug you; he ached to go back and stay just a little longer after the interview. He could've helped you pack more. Could've called Alfred for a ride home. What had it looked like? Had there been sounds? Body fluids? Did you race after him, or stay away out of fear? Had he needed CPR? Had there been a pulse? Did you see the impact? Did you run to catch him? Were you close, were you far? How vivid was your memory of it?

"How do you like it?" You didn't have much, just some sugar and honey, some old oat milk in the fridge.

He concealed a gasp as you broke his feverish spiral. He shook his head. "It's yours."

You didn't bother fighting him on it; the warmth of the mug and taste of the ginger would be a welcome distraction until he left safely with Alfred. You placed a plate over the mug and pat your sweats for your phone. "Did you want to call him?"

"I got it." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a regular-degular iPhone, shocking you more than it should have. You went to grab the honey while he spoke to his butler. You sat in a valley between; you wanted Bruce to leave as quickly as possible so you could throw yourself into the shower and cry, then hibernate in bed until Thursday, but it scared you to have him leaving these walls.

"He'll be in the parking garage soon."

Crap. "You need a key to open it, one of those fob things." You put a scoop of honey and mixed it in, the tremble in your hand coming back. "I'll walk you down."

The mug was cooling in the building's AC, the whoosh of the elevator doors hastening the process. The ride was quick and painless, the walk to the garage the same. Bruce had pulled up his hood, cinched it around his face, and put on sunglasses before leaving. He was actually pretty unrecognizable, but part of you wondered if that was just because you knew people would never suspect him out with someone like you; unknown, working class, in dirty sweats and flip flops.

Alfred came swiftly, giving you a wave as he pulled up. Bruce turned to you before getting in the car. "I'll keep you updated." He nodded, then sidled into the passenger seat. A second later, tint enveloped all the windows, leaving the car completely anonymous as it drove off.

The walk to the shower was excruciating. Every step felt like you were walking on legos. The shower offered a sliver of relief, but it didn't warm your conscience. It wasn't until Alfred called a few minutes after you had toweled off that you could let yourself breathe.

The old man was tearful, sniffing after every word. "Miss Y/N. Bruce asked me," He blew his nose. "To get his script tomorrow morning." He tried to catch his sobs, but they were getting away from him. "I don't know what you did, but thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

I truly believed it was the end."

Fateful Beginnings

XXIX. “uncanny valley”

parts: previous / next

plot: you and Bruce dance around the horrors of the weekend, desperate to make things right—or, at least, better.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, angst, mental health issues, descriptions of violence, descriptions of injury, grief, anxiety

words: 6.1k

prev. chapter summary (XXVIII): You go to Wayne Tower on Saturday night to talk to Alfred about ways to get Bruce help. Alfred is hopeless. Bruce intercepts, bitter at your intrusiveness, and storms off. You call Dr. Crane, who tells you to refrain from following him for fear of escalating the argument. On your walk home, you run into a panicked, horrified Bruce in an abandoned alley near his house. He does not recognize you, and after calling Alfred for him to be picked up, Bruce begs Alfred not to tell his parents about him being out so late. After a brief heartfelt (and teary) conversation with Alfred, where he expressed thanks and reassured you were not making things worse (as you thought, and still think), you went home. The next day, Bruce has no recollection of the night before, brought up to speed by Alfred. At Alfred’s urging, Bruce visits your apartment on Sunday, begging you to see his side. The argument becomes heated, and, convinced by Dr. Crane’s horrifying prognosis for Bruce and his own erratic, dangerous behavior, you do a last hail-mary to get him help: you lie about being the person who saw Bruce jump, expressing how terrified you were at thinking you’d watched him die. This immediately triggers Bruce to his childhood, and he does a hard reset on his denial, horrified he’s repeating the cycle, reassuring you he will accept help.

Outside of receiving some calls, you hadn't checked your phone since Thursday night. Texts, socials, it had all been abandoned trying to remove the noose snaking Bruce's neck. After the phone call with Alfred you were able to relax into bed and pull out your phone—immediately smacked by a bazillion texts from Mar, a few from your parents, and some mentions on Scypher. You clicked on Mar's texts first.

Thursday, 11:50pm: OMGGG just now seeing thissss i got so lit tonight. sorry!! idk if i can make it to help you move. def can't drive in the morning tho!!! ttys!!!

Friday, 1:20am: ok lolz i went to a second club 2nite and yahhh i don't think i can make it 2morrowww

Friday, 12:30pm: if ur still in town i could help, i just got a massive headache hahaha have you left yet

Friday, 1:22pm: ur prob on the road byeee

Friday, 1:30pm: wait ur still in Gotham??

Today, 12:58pm: BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!! you didn't tell me you did the interview with him!! like actually!!!!!!! okayyyy too famous to respond to me I see? i'll make sure to visit to get your autograph lol.

Today, 2:15pm: bro i got so many more friend requests already today???? some are Bruce Wayne fan accounts. wtf!!!??? this is like blowing up

Today, 6:15pm: MISSED CALL FROM MAR.

Today, 6:16pm: MISSED CALL FROM MAR.

Today, 6:18pm: LOOK !!!!

She'd attached a Buzzfeed article titled: Bruce Wayne's First Interview Came Out Today, and Our Jaws (and Clothes) are on the Floor

You couldn't read any further though, seeing as you had a handful of texts from your parents to sort through.

Friday, 1:45pm: Hey hunny! Your mother and I are home from the second shot. She told me to text you 'I am fine'. We will call you this evening after I finish up the deck.

Friday, 6:37pm: MISSED CALL FROM DAD.

Friday, 6:40pm: Deck done. When you visit next I'll show you. Walter likes it. Love you

Today, 3:13pm: MISSED CALL FROM MOM.

Today, 3:20pm: Hi kiddo. Wow! Congratulations on the article! Debbie showed it to us when she visited earlier. I thought you said you were done with that guy. Love you sweety!

You responded to your dad about your mom, and your mom about the article. You refused to comment on her mention of Bruce, wanting to purge your mind as much as you were able to after the weekend you'd had. You resigned to calling her first thing in the morning, miserable over forgetting about her second shot. After responding to Mar to update her on staying (and to express faux excitement about the article's release), you stayed up a few more minutes to see if your parents might still be awake and responsive. Sleep.

You woke up late that day, around two in the afternoon; the only reason you hadn't slept even longer was a phone call from Dr. Vry startling you awake. "Y/N! Have you seen your article? I can't believe it. Over a hundred applications just TODAY to the journalism program!"

You fought your way through the conversation, the gears in your head finally harnessing enough energy to start worrying again. The call ended quickly, as she 'had a lot of applications to get through', and you called your mom without a second glance at your phone notifications.

"Hey sweetie. I saw your text last night, but I couldn't respond. Walter was finally curled up in my lap, you know how sensitive he is." She sounded fine, neither ecstatic nor miserable. Her energy picked up when she started talking about your article. "Your dad was looking into that Wayne guy, and ran across that article of yours. He didn't know it was you that wrote it until Debbie brought it over!"

You'd padded out to your kitchen to make some toast with the butt of the bread. "Since when is dad researching things about Gotham?"

"He's been very intrigued ever since graduation. He—"

Your dad sounded off in the background. "Hun? Hey! I saw that article of yours! His first interview ever. That's a big family, you know. The Waynes. It's a big deal sweetie!"

He continued without leaving space for you to change the topic. "You know about his parents, right? God, poor kid. Seems to have recovered from it well enough."

You stifled a laugh at him delivering the most famous lore of Gotham city like it was breaking news. "Yeah, I know about his parents."

"You know, I knew I sensed something between you two. When's he coming to visit?" You heard a meow in the background, and you could only imagine your dad was munching on some sandwich he desperately wanted.

"Dad,"

"People don't give their first interviews to just anyone. Must've really impressed him."

"He's never coming over, dad."

"You don't have to be embarrassed honey. He seems like a stand-up guy! Next visit, bring him."

"It sounds like you want to meet him." You rubbed your temples, having temporarily abandoned your peanut butter spreading. You didn't know if you were right, but you could've sworn you heard him shaking his head. Walter meowed again. He definitely had some sort of food in his hand.

"What kind of dad would I be if I weren't excited to meet my daughter's boyfriend?"

The juxtaposition of the past few days to his chipper, nonchalant demeanor was stark, reducing you to a teary mess. No, you wanted to snap at him. I actually visited him in a psych ward. Had to stop his future from becoming a funeral.

"Hey, whoa now..." Your mom spoke in a hushed, frustrated tone in the background. "I'm sorry sweetie. I get it. I won't talk about him anymore."

You continued to cry, unable to get any words out. It was like you were finally able to feel the weight of what had been placed on you, feel the piercing stab of the fear it instilled. Your sobs were so pathetic and deep that your mom kept asking if you could breathe. It took much longer than you were comfortable with to even begin steadying, and when you did you knew it wouldn't last. You told them you had to get back to work, and that you'd see them in two weeks.

Vanity Fair. Vogue. People. Cosmopolitan. Us Weekly. Elle. Glamour. Seventeen. Marie Claire. Your eyes had fuzzed over as anxiety nestled into your gut. So this had been... this had been huge. 600 followers had turned into 13,000, and that was just on Scypher. Instagram had 300, now 6,500. So many mentions, so many comments, you started to panic even more. You tossed the phone across the bed and wrapped your arms around your body, rocking slowly back and forth, squeezing your arms so hard they began to ache. Flashbacks to Saturday night pulsed between your eardrums, projected on the back wall of your mind. You'd never seen someone so out of their element before. The image of him in the fetal position on the ground. The screaming. The nearly incomprehensible rattle in his voice. The stitches that bulged, the skin sloughed off his fingers. The blood. The sweat. The panic. Dread. Fear. Hysteria.

Your hands shook just the same as they fought to text Alfred. Your fingers garbled the message, but you couldn't handle another second without knowing if he was alive or dead. What if he'd taken the whole fucking bottle? What if he was on the floor of his bedroom, the last dregs of his functioning body procuring foamy spit out of his mouth for him to choke on? What if he flung himself off another building? His house was so fucking tall. So empty. So huge. So many places he wouldn't be seen, he wouldn't be found, so many places someone could hide if they needed, or wanted. What if he was strung up by his neck on a ceiling bar?

You shrieked in pain as waves of fear ravaged you. If it were real water you'd be swept under, and you wouldn't even fight it. The water would take away all your troubles, your worries, your fears. But he couldn't know that. They couldn't know what this was doing to you.

You set the phone down.

If he knew, he'd feel guilty. He couldn't feel guilty. Guilt would hurt him more. Guilt could push him over the edge.

Instead, you dialed Dr. Crane. He answered on the second ring, always so quick. "Y/N. I was about to call you. Before we get into it, why did you call?"

Anxiety lurched up into your chest, eager to overwhelm and incapacitate. "Get into what?"

Dr. Crane laughed, a discordant sound that chilled you. "To thank you. Whatever you did, it was successful. This is strictly confidential, but he is accepting treatment."

So he's alive? "I wanted to talk to you about that." You swallowed hard, yanking at a loose thread in your comforter. "I uh, he wasn't going to get help until I, until I lied."

"About what?" Dr. Crane's composure was always strictly maintained, and this time was no different. He never gave away his feelings. "I had to tell him I was the witness. I said I saw him jump."

"Oh."

That was quite possibly the worst thing he could've said.

"Well, that changes things."

"What things?"

"For one, that's a secret you must keep. Glad you clued me in." You heard a rustling of papers, a hushing of his tone. "Usually that would be unacceptable, but if we're both being honest," His candor was unsettling. "I have yet to see someone as deeply in denial as him accept treatment. I went to sleep fully anticipating waking to news of his passing." His tone was suddenly lighter, almost singsongy. "I can't say I'm disappointed in you."

You had no concept of how to respond to that. Guilt ulcerated your stomach and strangled your chest, but at least Bruce was breathing. After a silence that was too long, long enough you were surprised he hadn't yet hung up, you spoke. "Are we, are you, sure?" Words were having trouble finding you. "About the lying? I didn't see it, and what if the real witness,”

"There is nothing to be concerned about regarding the witness. Mr. Wayne has begun treatment, and will soon be stable. Incredible work."

"I—"

"You saved Bruce Wayne’s life, Y/N. It's only a shame it's a badge you can’t share." You could hear the smile in his tone, but you weren't happy. The reassurance you’d been seeking was far from assuring, leaving you situated in an uncanny valley of suspicion. How could he be so joyful? Why wasn't he drilling you about going to such lengths? Had it… had it really been that fucking hopeless? Anger boiled in you at the prospect of Dr. Crane knowingly sending you on a suicide mission. Before you burnt the bridge, you thanked him for the update and hung up. It took everything in you not to throw the phone against the wall.

The shower was scalding. You barely felt it. He must have thought he wouldn't make it. He seemed so fucking resolved to Bruce's death. Fully anticipating waking up to news of his passing? But there was 'nothing he could do'? Not a word of tangible advice besides 'don't go after him'. If I listened to him, who knows who would have found him out there! Would he have attempted again? You also wrestled with the uncomfortable reality that Dr. Crane had been correct; you had played a vital role in him accepting treatment. Had Dr. Crane psychoanalyzed you, deemed you the sort of person to lie if needed? Someone he could push to do things outside of personal liability? A sort of reverse hitman?

As you toweled off, your anxious mind continued its rumination. So he took meds. But did he take just one? Alfred will watch him, right? Hold onto his meds, only give him them as needed? Is he employing a system, making sure he checks under Bruce's tongue, locks the bathrooms, listens for retching, making sure the medication is accurately and genuinely consumed, as prescribed? You needed a break, but you couldn't find one. Sitting on the edge of your bed you knew you wouldn't be able to rest until you knew he was alive right now. And the next day. And the next day. And the next. A boulder jammed down your shoulders knowing you wouldn't be satisfied unless he personally slept on your couch so you could monitor him like a newborn. His attempt and general discontent were affecting you far more than you'd initially internalized.

Bruce sat in Alfred's study by the fireplace, staring out the window towards the grounds. Over breakfast with Alfred he took the first dose of the medication, and only a few hours later he swore he could feel the effects. He'd done some quick googling on olanzapine, and it appeared he was having a placebo effect. At minimum he'd feel effects in a few days, more likely after a week or two. He had to stop researching after that, too freaked out about having to be on antipsychotics, too much still in disbelief about how he'd done something so drastic yet had no memory of it. Alfred convinced him to stay 'home' from Batman for the rest of the week, which was an unusually easy feat considering how he hadn't taken a voluntary night off since beginning the project years ago. It broke him how upset you'd been, and he knew he wouldn't be able to see Alfred cry again. That was unbearable.

He didn't have much to do; he quickly realized he had been living only for the night. There really wasn't anything to do in the tower; no games (outside of a dusty chess board in Alfred's study), one old television (also in Alfred's study, off to an adjacent corner), no gym (he overextended himself enough as Batman), and the house was generally kempt from Dory's attentive cleaning in a house that didn't need more than dusting anyway.

Alfred told him to skip the meeting this week; Bruce initially hadn’t cared much either way, but realized that wasn't an option after misery frayed his nerves with just half a day of sitting around. In order to go in public, he needed to not be scarred and scabbed to hell; he wanted to walk the grounds, but worried about doing it in the daytime in the state he was in. Your article’s release had also prompted a patch of reporters to hang around his house, increasing his surveillance. Give an inch, they’ll take a mile. He and Alfred briefly discussed the contingency plan they kept at the ready: staged police photos of a nasty car crash on the edge of the grounds, but he couldn't share them yet—he wanted to leave you as much time as possible to soak up the success of the interview. You deserved that much, you deserved more after what he'd put you through. At least once an hour he thought about calling you, and he very nearly did a few times. He worried about you. Were you safe? Did you need anything?

On some level, he theorized focusing so much on you was a coping mechanism to escape his failing mental capacity. The more he focused on you, the less real estate his panic had. Last night had been miserable. He'd stayed awake staring at the ceiling, his mind swirling with shock and fear. He’d wondered if this is what his mom had endured, but he didn’t have the mental fortitude yet to go digging through Arkham Asylum records. He didn’t know if he ever would again, so he simply sat. Watched the clouds move along the skyline. Watched the shrubs sway in the backyard. Followed the occasional crow floating past the windows.

As soon as darkness fell he couldn't contain himself any longer. The nagging feeling of someone he traumatized being alone in it was too much. He grabbed a hoodie and walked to the elevator, sure he could make a free escape through the old subway route. His hand hesitated before pressing the button. What if you didn't want him to visit? What if it was too stressful? He couldn't keep coming over unannounced, it was weird. Not normal. Alfred had heard the metal rustling and walked into the kitchen. His brow furrowed. "I thought you were taking a break from him?"

"I am." He stared at the ground, lost in thought. "Would you call her?"

"Miss Y/N?" Alfred's voice was soft, concerned. "Sure, why?"

Bruce had conveniently kept to himself that you'd been the one to watch him jump. That you were the witness, that you'd called 911. "I want to give her an update."

Alfred pulled out his phone and Bruce walked closer, bridging the gap between them. "Ask if I could talk to her." He didn't blink until you picked up, hiding a wince at how you'd done so before the end of the first ring. You were scared. Desperate.

"Miss Y/N, I hope this isn't a bad time." Alfred paused with the phone to his ear, his expression faltering before he let out a small chuckle. It was hollow. "No, he's alright. He wanted to see if he could speak to you now."

He handed the phone to Bruce, who quickly scurried up the stairs and into his room. He only put the phone to his ear once the door was closed behind him. "Y/N?"

"Bruce." It was so nice to hear your voice when it wasn't panicked. You sounded a bit tired, breathy, but miles better than yesterday. A sigh of relief heaved out of him, to which you had a reflexive response. "Are you okay?" Your voice rose, both in volume and octave.

"Yes. Are you okay?"

"I really don't think it matters,"

He bit back a part of him that wanted to say you were the only thing that mattered. He'd broken you. "Are you?"

You sighed. "Yes. Did you uh,"

"I got the meds."

"Good. Did you take them? Or, one, or, whatever the dose,"

"Yeah." He could hear how clouded your mind was, and it was excruciating being so limited to the phone. He remembered the first week after the murder. His mind had been a hazy minefield, everything running on autopilot. The tears, his limbs, his voice, nothing had been a conscious decision for weeks. Sure, he hadn't died, but you'd thought he had. If… his parents had survived, he figured he would've been in a similar state regardless. He wanted to help you, but he didn't know how.

"How long does it take the medication to work?"

"A few days. Maybe a few weeks." After his parents died, everyone brought him food. Random strangers had brought flowers, and food, and even stuffed toys for him to cuddle with. He'd only kept one, a stuffed dinosaur, now tucked into the back of his linen closet. Alfred checked on him constantly. No longer did he have to do his chores; Dory and Alfred picked up the slack. No longer did he have to deal with hearing his mom demand he eat his veggies and sides before getting another helping of soup, he only had soup. And juice, and soda, and warm blankets fresh out of the dryer. He remembered the warmth. Of the blanket, the soup. Those, paired with the scraggly dino in his arms, were the only things that made a decimal of impact on his devastation. "Do you need anything?"

"No. Do you?"

"Do you want anything?"

"I'm good. What about you?"

He didn't believe it. You were trying to spare him, just like you had by making yourself anonymous. Would it be wrong of him to come over? This late in the evening... probably. But he remembered the nights were the worst part. Alone in the empty darkness. Less cars, less lights, even the reruns on tv were stale at that time. It left no room for distraction. And honestly, he worried if he didn't distract you from your pain, he'd be gridlocked by his.

"Can I stop by?"

Onion, celery, carrots, butter, flour, curry powder, chicken broth, an apple, rice, chicken breast, thyme, and heavy cream. He didn't know how to make much, and Alfred didn't keep much variety around, but you hadn't balked at mulligatawny the first night you'd stayed here, and it was one of the few things he knew how to make without a recipe. It was also one of the few things the old man always kept fresh and stocked, especially now that Bruce was in recovery mode. Most importantly, it was warm. It was only nine, he could get this done before ten, and be gone before midnight. Just in time for you to get tired and go to sleep, without hours spent tossing and turning alone in bed. It was the least he could do for you.

He'd never felt more ridiculous than he did when he opened your door. The backpack was heavy and a reminder that he hadn't asked if he could cook, but assumed he would waltz into your kitchen and work some magic. You invited him in and he went straight to the island, setting down his pack and taking out the supplies. Your face scrunched with confusion. "What are you doing?"

He kept taking out food while he thought of how to phrase it. It was like his mind was slowed down, your apartment a pool of tv static. "I wanted to cook." Pause. "For you." Another pause, and he took out the apple. "It's warm." Fuck, could he have explained it any worse?

He paused and you watched him slowly move to meet your eyes. "Can I?" His hand was hovering above one of the drawers, ready to get to work. "Sure." You didn't understand why he couldn't cook at his house, but you couldn’t complain; still coming down from the nauseating blend of relief and guilt that gnawed at you when you finally saw him in the flesh. Like being attacked by a wave on a hot day; soothing, but bitterly cold at the same time.

You had reassembled the chairs today, and the table. You'd anticipated calling Mar later tonight if she weren’t already at a club, offering to order some takeout and have a movie night. When thinking up a distraction, you certainly hadn't anticipated Chef Bruce appearing with fixings for a mystery meal. Did billionaires even know how to cook? Did billionaire Bruce Wayne ever have to fend for himself in the kitchen? A brief image of him staring confusedly at a box of cereal made your mouth twitch into a grin.

Good. Your humor was still there, thank god. With his back turned to you, facing the burner, you could finally, finally, finally, finally unclench your jaw and drop your shoulders. He was here. It was weird, and uncomfortable, but undeniable. He was here, not hanging from a rafter or god knows where doing god knows what in the city. He was putting butter in a pan, and grabbing a wooden spoon. He was alive.

But... this was still out of character, which raised an orange flag. You waited for him to reach an impasse before speaking, tapping his fingers on the countertop while he watched the rice cook. An apple sat cubed to the left, the chicken sizzling on the back burner. "How are you? Really?"

Bruce needed to toe the line. Too honest and it would shift the focus to him, further distressing you; too dishonest and you'd dismiss it before he finished speaking. His body didn't just ache, it screamed at him. Every step, even every time he spoke, felt like torture. He'd teared up at multiple points between the lobby and your unit. His spirit was entirely crushed, shattered into irredeemable smithereens. He hung his head and let all the air out of his lungs, letting his weight fall into his wrists as he leaned over the stove. "Not great."

It should've pained you to hear that, instead it felt like wind in your sails. He was being honest. You could work with that. Honesty didn't need to be interrogated or sleuthed upon. "How can I help?"

He wanted to say you've done enough and don't want your pity, but it felt too real. You didn't need that tonight, not so close to the event. "Taste the soup and tell me if it needs anything." He prayed you wouldn’t keep asking.

"How would I know?"

"I want it to suit your taste."

"I don't know what it's supposed to taste like." You were hyperaware he hadn't answered you, not in the way you wanted. Maybe it was too close for comfort right now. Maybe all you needed to do was focus on him being here, and ask questions later.

"Pepper, curry flavor. Creamy." He stirred something fragrant on the stovetop.

"What's the apple doing?"

"It's necessary." It felt good talking about something else with you. Something normal. Not Batman, not his legacy, not the attempt. Still, all of it clouded and constricted the conversation, a constant tension you both wittingly ignored. "Smooths the spice."

I barely tasted it that night. Too scary being trapped in the house of one of the most powerful men in the world. You watched as he stirred, chopped, and fluffed. You were brought back home with your parents, watching them make dinner while you sat at the dining table and talked at them. He glanced around and looked at the can of heavy cream. In an instant you were up and grabbing a can opener, desperate to do your part. He instructed you to pour it into the pan, and for a half second he was just another guy; an acquaintance, someone passing through; someone regular, unassuming.

After a few more minutes of sitting around, you grabbed some bowls and spoons. After a quick taste he required you take ("Need to know if I missed something"), he ladled the bowls full, and you both walked slowly, carefully over to the table to set down the steaming soup. Bruce dug in without waiting, while you blowed on a single spoonful until every bit of steam hesitated to rise from it.

He watched you apprehensively. Your eyes widened a bit, and he could see your jaw moving like you were savoring it. "How is it?" It tasted fairly similar to how Alfred made it, which was fairly similar to how his mom had made it. At the very least he hadn't royally fucked up. Who knows, maybe olanzapine changes tastebuds.

You nodded, blowing on another bite. "Mulling it over."

God, that was so droll... it tugged a whispering grin to his lips, his bite slipping back into the bowl at the gentle movement of his dry chuckle.

He was laughing. Not really. Kind of. Weird, but yay! "I've never tasted anything like it. It's good."

"Don't have to placate me."

"It's peppery. Curry. Creamy."

He rolled his eyes and tossed another spoonful into his mouth. "Creative. What's the apple for?"

The tension never left, though you both did your best to selfishly soothe it through dry humor. The most either of you did was grin, breathe a little extra air through your nose. When he wasn't looking your eyes wandered to his purple and green bruises, and the complementary crusting scabs along his neck and hands. You wondered if he was suicidal right now, but wasn't saying anything. When you weren't looking, he studied your body language, hoping it would betray you. Were you scared right now? Did you think this was the weirdest thing ever, like he did? Did you think this was creepy? Was it creepy? Was it helping? Was he helping you?

You both finished and walked your bowls to the sink. He started rinsing them and reached for the dish soap, and you let him for a little. After he pat dry the first bowl, you couldn't sit with this worry on your chest any longer. The food had been warm and energizing, the mood made less intimidating with the joking, and all of it together held your hand as you broached the topic. It made you sick how concerned he was about your wellbeing; yes, he scared you, images of his frenzied, panicked face waking you up in the dead of night, but you hadn't watched him nearly die like he thought. His worry felt like rain on a hundred degree day: unsettling and unwelcome. You inhaled fully, hoping enough oxygen would get to some brave neurons and force the words past your teeth. They caught in your chest and by then he'd finished the second bowl; anxiety palpated your heart, bullying it into silence. You overrode it. "Bruce."

At once he abandoned the silverware and turned toward you. His analytical gaze peppered your face and the fingers that annihilated your cuticles. The stench of something burning singed your nostrils, your eyes tracking the source to the hem of his sweatshirt draped over the hot stove, smoking as small flames burnt through the cotton. Perhaps waiting to be seen, it erupted into a blazing ball of flame. You yelped and jumped toward the sink, grabbing the adjustable faucet and spraying him down. The flames went out, he turned off the burner, and you looked around for some magazines or papers to fan away the tendrils of smoke wafting toward the fire alarm.

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

You glanced back and saw Bruce sopping wet, his hair having gotten in the mix too, draped over his eyes; the singed, ripped edges of his shirt that he clutched between his hands. You bit your lip to reign in your laugh. He started hurrying the shirt off his back, and gently shook it out to see if it had juice left in it. That was the kicker, sending you bolting toward your bedroom. You couldn't be laughing at him all the time. Get it together! He's hurting! But the laughs escaped your tight-lipped prison, and soon his shadow was in the doorway. As quickly as you'd laughed, you began to cry. You dropped to your knees at the whiplash; what once was dead, was now making soup in your apartment. Dancing around it wasn't helping, it was exacerbating the pain. He didn't hesitate to walk over, his long legs getting him across the room in only a few strides.

He didn't think you were crying about the fire. He stood helplessly beside you, unable to make a decision on what to do next. Guilt bloomed angry, self-flagellating thoughts, wishing he hadn't ran with his ego and coddled his denial. He placed a light touch to your shoulder and you jumped up. "I'm fine." He didn't say anything, only sat and watched as you struggled to reign in your barrage of tears. Your fingers threatened to go numb, and you attempted to shake the tingles away. "My body just needs to cry and then, then I'm done." You turned away from him and pressed your clammy palms to your cheeks, trying to physically shove the tears back into hiding.

After what seemed like an extended period of sniffling tears, you looked back at him. He was sat on the edge of your bed, his sweatshirt draped over his forearm. You could see more of the deeper wounds on his arms now, which was a viscerally surreal feeling. It was impossible not to be aware of his reputation; it preceded him at every turn, he was correct about that. Something entirely new though was seeing the fallibility so transparently.

Before graduation—and honestly, before seeing him breaking down in the alley—you had practically thought he was immortal. You wouldn't have done such ridiculous, dangerous bullshit as walking through an active crime scene at night if you hadn't internalized his heroism. Until this moment you hadn't realized how much you'd relied on that story; the subconscious reassurance that the Batman provided to Gotham's citizens. The mythical creature unfazed by bullets, incapacitating anyone in its wake. Batman's neutralizing force was so accepted it went unquestioned; now you knew it was because no one truly knew him. You and Alfred were the only people who had. Suddenly, the world felt a lot more intimidating. If you were any less shaken up, you might've laughed at the unmasking of Santa; but even children mourned the loss of magic, and here you were muzzling yourself.

"Can I help?"

You needed to nip this in the bud. It was going to come out however it was going to come out, and you needed to be okay with that. "I, appreciate the effort." It wasn't coming out so easily. Be nice. Be nice. Be nice. "But I want this to stop." I didn't watch you. "You don't want my pity, and I don't want yours." Too harsh, scale back. "The only thing I need is for you to be safe. Alive."

You sounded so much like Alfred that Bruce bit back a snarky retort. Not the time nor the place. Your bed creaked as he stood up. He hated how your words sat in his chest, but there wasn't exactly anything he could do about it. "Okay."

No argument, no fighting. Like you requested something he already vowed to do. He walked past you into the kitchen, and you followed on his heel. You had never been so close to him alone, and never from behind. His back was broad, making his already impressive height even more menacing. Veins bulged under his skin. Swore a tendon twitched in his forearm every time he stepped on his left foot. If he had turned for the door you might have yelped, but he just finished the dishes in silence while you lingered, then sat on the couch. If someone walked in right now, and was one of the few humans who didn't know about Bruce Wayne, they might think this looked normal. It couldn't feel more foreign.

You didn't wait half a second after the sink turned off to fill the space. From your perch on the end of the couch, across the room. "Will you be safe once you leave?"

Like a knife scraping under his fingernails. So scared he wouldn't be alive the next morning. Skittish. "Yes." He wasn't looking back at you, wishing he hadn't already put down the dish towel so he'd have something to wring. "I promise."

What good's a promise if he's six feet under? Your life had become so singular so quickly, and you were anxious for it to get back to its usual painful mediocrity. "Really?"

Ugh. He turned to face you and followed your eyes searching the carpet. He sighed away his animosity, knowing the rage seeping into his chest was directed at himself; it was nothing greater than embellished fear. He knew this, was well acquainted with it. Maybe he did need to go back to therapy. He leaned his hip against the counter and winced, jamming straight into a blackened, split bruise. He grabbed his hoodie from where it was slung across the edge of the counter, grimacing at the effort only when his face was obscured. “Really.” Within seconds he was at the door, his hand on the handle. He noticed your eyes flash in his periphery, and his entire body constricted at the sight. He forced himself to meet your eyes. It was strenuous. He figured he needed to warn you. "Alfred and I have emergency plans for times like these. Whatever you read in the news, it's a cover-up." He popped open the door, hesitating on the departure. The air was thick with emotional exhaust. "I'll see you on Thursday?"

You nodded, relieved he was being more covert with his concern. Sugaring the medicine. "See you on Thursday."

Fateful Beginnings

XXX. “gut feeling”

parts: previous / next

plot: in an untoward evening, Bruce gets protective.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, violence, drugging, aggression, description of injury, angst, nausea/vomit, basically Gotham being Gotham

words: 6.7k

a/n: oooowieeee Bruce is really starting to show his more flustered side 🤭

PHOTOS: EMT Says Bruce Wayne “Lucky to be Alive" After Harrowing Crash on Tower Grounds

You'd been walking the sidewalk just before Rai's when you got the news alert. Even with his warning, one that left you for a few seconds when first staring at the phone, it was like being pummeled by a brick. Tethered to your screen, flipping through the photos TMZ posted like they were scripture. After a few heavy exhales, you gathered yourself enough to walk inside. The familiar 'Welcome in!' before a double-take. "Y/N? What are you doing here? You said you left?"

In all honesty you'd forgotten about your last conversation, the last moments before tragedy, and hadn't prepared for what you'd say to people outside of what you were to tell Mar. You did your best to laugh it off, but he wasn't taking it. He walked around the register and stood in front of you, right by the Oreos. "Always been able to read you, friend. Tell me, what's on your mind?"

Ding! The door opened to a cluster of women and Rai gave you a playful finger wag. "Foiled this time."

You joined half of the pack as they perused the drink aisle, then the other that clustered by the deli. He was almost out of tabbouleh, and the second best thing in your opinion—baklava—was being thirsted after by the two people in front. You decided to get some pita and hummus to go.

Rai didn't have time to talk to you with the line of people behind you, and for a brief moment you thought about staying—but your bed was calling your name, so you kept it simple. "I decided to stay for a few more weeks, at the very least. I'll be back soon for more tabbouleh." You winked at him, smiled, and found yourself right back where you had rotted the past 36 hours.

Rai sent you a text about fifteen minutes later. Heard you're a big journalist now girl! How does it feel to be published?

The message stopped you in your tracks; it was the first time someone had mentioned the interview without also mentioning Bruce Wayne. It brought tears to your eyes. He was the first person truly interested in your experience with it, about how it was just a project, not the person, that was the cool part.

I'm staying a bit longer for the election. Especially with how much traction my interview got, I think I carved out some legitimacy for myself to maybe make a difference reporting on the mayoral campaign.

He must've gotten swamped because your next text from him wasn't until an hour later. Whatever keeps you near Gotham and tabbouleh makes me happy. Bouleh on me next visit.

It was a running joke how often you ordered it; it was almost a hyperfixation, the flavor of it orienting you to time and place whenever things got harried. You learned a few months after being here that you needed some routine and, well. That was yours. The glow of your iPad screen was also an ever-present friend:

SEARCH: Marian Grange

Google showed that Grange was the former district attorney, a big-time lawyer taking on some very high profile cases in her time. A handful of years ago she had made her way to Gotham—notably, with just enough years of residency to run for Mayor this calendar year. Since coming to the city, she hadn't taken on any more cases, submitting wholly to the pursuit of... socializing? She was often pictured with the elite, holding hands with a beaming smile, endlessly pictured throughout her public-facing Instagram going to various fundraisers and luncheons. Per her campaign website, she wanted to stop the 'targeting' of the city's rich. Out of the many filler words on her 'issues' page, that was the only information you could glean.

SEARCH: Sebastian Hady

Hady's 'issues' page was a bit more complex: in addition to his position of taxing the churches, he wanted to put out an immediate hit on the batman. He'd attempted to run for mayor in the past two elections, falling short of winning enough votes to make the final matchup, and it was clear why: his politics were inconsistent. Tax the churches, but don't tax the wealthy; increase taxes on the poor, so they could 'bootstrap' their way out of their 'unfortunate predicament'. As out of touch as Grange was, Hady made your stomach flip. He'd been a political science major, with no real experience due to being denied access to Gotham University's Public Administration graduate program. Outside of running incessant campaign ads on late-night television and blaring his oversaturated frame across the city streets, he'd mostly laid low.

SEARCH: Lincoln March

BRRT BRRT. BRRT BRRT. "Mar?"

"Have you seen the news? I didn't have any reception in the lounge."

Every time she went to the Iceberg Lounge you wanted to hold her by her collar and give her a desperate talking-to. You gripped the phone tighter. "It's dangerous, you know the type of shady shit that's gone down there the past few years?"

"So you haven't seen it." She slurped away on a drink. “Sour as hell.”

Ding! You pulled your phone away from your ear to see the TMZ article. Your gut cinched.

"It's all anyone's talking about. People are getting into massive arguments on Scypher about it, it's fucking crazy."

"Arguments?" You bit the inside of your cheek.

She scoffed on the other line. "You're joking, right? Some people are saying he was DOA and had to be revived!"

A lurching clump of bile hurtled into your mouth, forcing you to double over and squeeze your mouth shut. Everything about that sentence haunted you, from the almost incredulous way she delivered it to Gotham's colloquial use of shorthand when describing being killed. He might've been fucking dead? Fuck, fuck...

"Hello? Y/N? Hello?" She groaned. "You're acting weird. Haven't even told me why you're still in the city."

"Don't you think it's a heavy fucking thing to talk about like that? You can't throw around someone being, someone being fucking, dead!" You were more shrill than you meant to be, but you didn't exactly have the resources to control your tone while you clutched your stomach and held your breath, not wanting to taste the vomit you'd just swallowed.

"Shiiit, I thought you didn't like him." If she turns this into a conversation about dating...

"I already saw it earlier."

"Think it'll interfere with your interview?" The sound of background whistling and whooping created an unsettling soundscape.

"I really don't care if it does."

"Pretty rude of the guy, in my opinion. Stealing your thunder like that?"

She's drunk. She doesn't know any better. Hell, might even be wasted. Still, your hand shook with anger to the point you had to set the phone on your comforter and scoot back from it. You pressed your palms flat against your mouth to keep from screaming. Screaming what, you didn't know. You were beginning to understand what it was like for Bruce to talk to you as you struggled to speak through gritted teeth. "That's really disrespectful, Mar."

"I'm jooookingg!" She cackled and you heard a clatter. "Oh shit hahaha, my phone. Hello? Still there?"

Don't want to be. "Yeah. Do you need me to call you an Uber?"

"Nahh, this guy's taking me home."

"What about Gianna?" She always hung around Gianna; you'd only met her once when Mar got picked up, and only for about five seconds, but after a brief look over her socials (and an impressive LinkedIn) you were inclined to think she was a good influence. Gianna had to be with her.

"I haven't asked her to be exclusive yet, you know that." Her words were beginning to slur.

"Who's the guy?"

"Some dude I met at the bar, he's super fuckin' rad."

"I'm sending an Uber to your location. Come up to my apartment, we'll spend the night together." Did she always leave with someone when she didn't go out with you? You pictured her being preyed upon, studied in the pulsing lights of the club. It made you sick.

"Okay bossy. No." She giggled to herself. "His apartment is like half a mile north, he's walking me." She hung up. Jesus. You threw on your sneakers, grabbed a taser, and raced outside, scanning your apartment fob to access the free-use bike garage. Iceberg Lounge was about a fifteen minute walk south.

It was terrifying biking on the streets of Gotham. Half the street lamps didn't work, and the drivers were all fiendish assholes who drove like they wanted to smear bodies on the pavement. You'd almost thought yourself lost until you spotted a glint of her neon pink cami.

"Hey!" You tried not to sound too menacing; maybe this was a rare good guy in Gotham, and he was gonna tuck her in safely to his spare bed and make sure she had a nice, non-laced drink of water at her bedside. No fucking way. "Hey,"

"Y/N?" Mar looked shocked at your arrival.

You dismounted your bike and grabbed her hand. When you did, the man grabbed your forearm. You ignored him and spoke directly to her. “Let’s head back to my place.”

”Interrupting our date.” The man laughed, but it was indignant. He still wasn’t loosening his grip on your arm. Getting a closer look at Mar, she was disheveled; her straps were sliding off her arm, exposing the top of her bra; her belt was halfway undone, yet her lipstick was pristine.

“We have a rule to not go home with people when we’re drunk.” You flashed him a smile, his green eyes dark and menacing. Why do I always notice the eyes?

“Sounds like BS to me.” He tried to laugh again when he said it, which only pissed you off. He probably thought he was one of the ‘good guys’ and didn’t understand why no one ever called him for a second date. You snaked your left arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer to you. A quick once-over noted him wearing a thick leather jacket with white cuffs, and dark blue jeans with rips in the knees. His shoes were a nondescript pair of white Nikes. “You seem perfectly sober, interesting.” Mar was unsteady in your grasp, her weight leaning slightly too much into you, her knees wobbly. Did he fucking slip her something?

You swatted away his hand, which had a butterfly effect; he swiftly grabbed your ponytail, yanking on it so you were removed from between them. He grabbed her by the elbow as you stuttered back, tears springing into your eyes from the tension of having your hair yanked. He couldn’t quite walk as fast as he wanted to, her legs catching on every crack in the sidewalk. In this city that meant a long, treacherous walk anywhere, and an opportunity for you to strike.

You pulled out your taser and ran closer to him before slamming your finger on the trigger. A small catch of electricity came from the tip, then faltered. It’s not charged. Fuck. He turned toward the nearest apartment complex, and you lunged for his neck. He was tall, but not too tall, and there were a few steps he’d climbed to the doorway. You were able to wrap your palm around half of his neck, pulling him down hard on the concrete. Before he’d even smacked the ground you jumped down the stairs and slammed your foot into his balls, as hard as you could, your left foot skipping atop the concrete with the force as it struggled to balance. He cursed, spit flying out of his mouth as he clutched his groin. Mar was barely holding onto the siderails at this point, confirming she’d been slipped something. His legs thrashed wildly, his grunts filling the empty sidewalk. He caught your ankle and you fell back, smacking your head against the bottom stair. For a few seconds all you could do was breathe, the air knocked out of you and your vision blurry, stilted. He rose to his knees, and you scrambled back. By the grace of whatever God may or may not exist, you were able to get back on your feet before he did. The transition made you wildly dizzy, and before you knew it you fell to your knees again.

Mar was barfing off the edge of the railing, crying. You figured she had no idea what was going on, just knew that it was bad; the first and only time you’d been roofied was out with Mar one night. You’d tasted your drink and within a few minutes you were feeling woozy. Make it ten minutes later, and the room was a glowing haze of smoke and mirror—literally. You were seeing double everywhere you looked, locked in your own cage of whatever someone else did to you. Thankfully Mar had enough experience to notice the initial signs of being drugged (at least, in someone else) and had immediately called an Uber and notified the staff of the bar. She’d tended to you the rest of that night, and when you woke up her eyes were buggy and bloodshot. “I stayed up all night watching you. I didn’t want you to like, choke in your sleep or something.”

You attempted to raise your head, but it was pounding, whiting out your vision when you tried to support it with just your neck. You grabbed your phone and managed to open it to your phone app, but he smacked it away. You watched through bleary eyes as it soared into a bit of bark dust beneath some shrubs, landing face-down. All you saw was a gentle emanation of dark blue light. It called someone.

“HELP!” You shouted, hoping that whoever it was would hear you. Most of your contacts (you didn’t have too many) had access to your location information. You’d gotten scared after a few harrowing abduction stories in the Gazette and sent a mass text to the people in it with your info. Someone would call, and it would be fine. “CALL 911.”

Mar slumped to the ground and balanced her head against the railing, tears streaming down her cheeks. This part of town was deceptively barren, of course it was. The man grabbed you by the ankles and you screamed, jerking your legs until one broke free. “HELP!”

A part of you thought it would be okay—until you remembered Batman wasn’t on patrol tonight. Your heart sank as you watched him latch both hands onto your other ankle… and then he dropped you. He turned and walked halfway between the road and the apartment doors—why wasn’t anyone coming out to help?—and faced you, his mouth slobbery and in a slack grin. He shook out his body and flexed his fingers, taking a moment to hype himself up. You tried to sit up again, grinding your molars with the effort, but you nearly blacked out. The only thing that came to mind were the earthquake drills from elementary school, of hiding under your desk with your hands over your head to protect from falling debris. He was falling debris. Inevitable. You wrapped your hands around your aching head. Pressed your elbows together in front of your nose. Tucked your chin, barely, to protect your neck. He took off in a sprint for you, his sneakers connecting brutally with your thigh. You screamed, and he kicked it again. And again. And again. “See how you like it, fucking bitch.”

Mar screamed behind you; weak, but undeniable. “Stop it,” She stumbled toward you as his foot barreled into you with unbridled ferocity. She grabbed onto his arm and he shoved her off. She reached back out, her nails digging into his skin. He shouted and shoved her hard against the railing, turning his attention on her. She had enough bearings now to dodge a single hit, rolling out of the way before another landed square between her shoulders. You were busy incrementally lifting your head from the cement, centimeter by slow centimeter sitting upright. The man wiped the arm of his jacket against his mouth, muttering. “Bullshit fucking cunts.” He slammed his foot between her legs, and she yelped, rolling over onto her stomach. A wave of nausea stormed through you.

She was slowly rising, but he slammed his fists into her back and she buckled. Her face hit the pavement so hard you hoped her nose wasn’t broken. She started coughing, stringy spit dribbling off her lips. At this point he turned back to you with a sneer. “Guess I’m getting double tonight.”

Sick freak. The pain was edging out your fear, and resignation was teetering towards fruition. You only needed a few more minutes to get your bearings. Long enough to heat up a fucking hot pocket. He slapped you across the face, and you fell back to exactly where you were. Flat against the ground. Thundering head. Unable to sit up, arrested by searing pain.

The sound of skin slamming into skin disoriented you. Thudding, smacking sounds pierced the air, peppered with the man’s grunts and yelps. He sounded like a hit dog. What, the fuck? You shoved your palms against the ground to support your weight, but it wasn’t working. You physically grabbed your jaw and the back of your head and tilted it up, holding it there to watch the scene unfolding a few feet in front of you. A horrible hollow sound echoed just as the man was hurled against the opposite railing, his chest nearly touching his shin as his body bent around the metal. His opponent was adept at fighting; fully hooded with a black shirt wrapped around the bottom half of his face, a thick, baggy jacket bulking his frame, gauze wrapped around his knuckles. You couldn’t make out his full face, but the feeling you got told you all you needed. It wasn’t quite fear, not quite comfort, or peace, but an indisputable sensation of safety. You let your head fall back, too fast, as you sobbed cries of relief.

The mystery man kept trying to fight back, but not a single hit landed. You saw it all in the lower half of your vision. Saw the guy try, fight, and run, and the other stoop down to Mar and help her sit up. Once she was in a safe, neutral position he turned to you—Bruce’s eyes were framed with black, paint smearing down his cheekbones and into his brows. He took your arm and attempted to pull you up to the same position, but you squealed. “I hit my head,”

He sat back like he was calculating something for a moment before cupping his left hand at the base of your head. Holding you like an infant, he slowly tilted you upright. He held his hand just above your neck a few seconds longer. “Gonna let go.” Tentatively, he did, and you resisted your torso’s urge to flop back down.

A car pulled up right then, one you hadn’t seen before. It was flashy, but not a sportscar. He noticed your eyes follow it and lowered his voice. “It’s mine. I’ll take you both home.” He paused, gesturing with his head. “Do you know her?”

You tried to nod but you felt like your head would snap off your neck. “Yeah. My friend. I think, she was drugged.” The pulsing in your thigh was violent, and you worried you might have fractured something. He gave you a once-over, then looked back to her. “I’ll help her in first.”

Bruce tried to help her stand, but she shook her head. “Y/N,” she called out weakly, moving to her hands and knees to crawl toward you. She managed to make her way to your side, panting with the effort. “Who is, why,”

Shit. “Um, he’s my friend. I called him when, when the guy, shit,” Your head was in agony. You struggled to form coherent thoughts, let alone speech. How, clear is she? Recognize? Him? Disguise?

“I trust you.” Her voice no stronger than a whisper. She reached her arms out to him, and he walked over to help her up. He wrapped his arm around her back and to her armpit, hoisting her up and steadying her to the car. The side door opened as he walked up, and he helped her sidle in. He waited a few seconds while she adjusted, then grabbed the seatbelt. You heard him say something, but couldn’t… only if you want maybe? About the seatbelt?

You blinked and he was holding out his hands for you. The scarred, dirty hands that now had traces of fresh blood from reopened knuckle scabs soaking through the gauze. It made you faint thinking about him at the… Arkham. All at once you sat up, the motion sending you reeling. “Fuck!” Your hands trembled as pain ravaged your head, all the blood simultaneously leaving and filling it. “No, you shouldn’t, fuck,”

He squatted to your eye-level. His stare didn’t waver once. “You’re, recovering, I don’t, thanks,” Between every word was a gasp of pain.

His tone was firm, leaving no room for disagreement. “I’m glad you called. I’m taking you home.”

“Are you—”

“I’m fine.” He held out an expectant hand for you to take. You anticipated having to pull your own, but to your surprise he pulled you up with you barely feeling the ground whatsoever. He carried the bulk of your weight, snaking his arm on top of your shoulders instead of under, allowing your neck not to bobble as you both walked. The last time you’d been this close to him you hadn’t known his identity. You recalled his hold being so firm you couldn’t escape, how afraid that had made you until you’d realized it was him. You stopped trying to force your balance and let him guide you the last steps to the car; the door opened automatically again, and he helped you slip in beside Mar. She had her head against the back of the seat, eyes half shut.

“Need help?” He had a finger looped around the seatbelt. Your cheeks heated, and you stammered out a no. He shut the door, and you painstakingly buckled yourself. A part of you wondered what he’d do if you refused to buckle up, and how long he would sit there demanding you put it on before you finally gave in, having sufficiently annoyed him.

When Bruce climbed in, you felt like a child who forgot their lunch on the way to school. You asked him to retrieve your phone, explaining it was under some shrubs by the entryway. Not ten seconds later he was back in, wiping dirt off the screen before handing it back to you. He was so fucking fast.

Mar didn’t talk during the drive, and neither did Bruce, so neither did you. You kept one eye on her at all times, making sure she didn’t fall asleep before you could check if she had a concussion or not. You figured you did, and you were not looking forward to checking in the mirror later looking at the damage done to your left leg. Now I match Bruce. A bitter thought.

You’d had the wherewithal prior to leaving to bring your keychain with you, tucked nicely into your pocket. By some stretch he hadn’t kicked just a few inches higher, which would have probably left you with a gaping wound from the jagged ends of the keys fileting your hip. You held the fob out the window when he pulled up to the garage, and in another blink he was helping Mar out.

“Can you stand?” Mar was slumped into his shoulder as he supported her weight. “Might have to carry her.” She looked exhausted, with her eyes glazed over, her face sweaty. You watched her chest with diligence, and per usual he sensed you, reading you like he was superhuman. “Her respiration’s normal. You can check the rest of her when you get your bearings.”

You unbuckled and tried to stand, but even shifting halfway out the car scared you. The ground phased in and out of your vision, the depth completely lost. As much as it burned… You sighed. “Take her up first. I think I need help walking.”

You handed him your keychain and he went on his way. Only after he’d disappeared up the elevator did you question it. I let her go up alone with a man? In this state? You couldn’t berate yourself much though, because a strong swell of defensiveness ravaged you. It was like the you before and you now were dueling. Condemning your judgment and rationalizing it, back and forth.

There was truly just something about him. Maybe you were infantilizing him and the past week was clouding your judgment. Maybe he moonlighted as Batman to cover up his serial killer tendencies. Keep the cops trained on an alternate identity, a vigilante. But he made you feel safe. He always made you feel held. Even when your mind took over and convinced you he was wrong, convinced you you should be afraid, your body never internalized it. That gut feeling you got around other men; the other men at city hall, the other men at the club, some of the men in your undergrad classes, even some of the professors… your stomach never curdled like that around him.

You didn’t think about it any further.

Bruce jogged out the elevator and helped you out. You ignored how your stomach fluttered being pressed so close to him, fought the tears that begged at the edge of your eyes, and let yourself sink into his chest. At some point you closed your eyes and concentrated on the roughness of his jacket against your cheek, and the patter of his heartbeat. Warmth. Alive. Breathing. Secure.

You being so close to him made him keen to his breathing. His body felt tingly and dizzy. He held you tighter. Every exhale fluttered the hair in front of your face, wisping it across your eyelashes. Was his breathing too loud? Were you falling asleep? He rustled you slightly, just taking a step slightly too hard, not wanting you to—your lashes fluttered, having caught you right before slipping into dreamland. He needed to keep you awake, at least long enough to do a proper assessment. Long enough to make sure you weren’t going to die.

Walking through your doorframe was a beast he realized too late; too narrow to both walk through wide, after your left hip caught on the strike plate and you cried out. He hated how much it felt like someone squeezed his chest when he saw you in pain; if you or your friend had been any less injured, he would’ve taken more time on the perpetrator.

He sat you delicately on the couch, instructing you to sit upright as much as you were able. He unwrapped the cloth from over his mouth, shoving it into his jacket pocket. He asked if he could touch the back of your head, and you agreed. His fingers were as gentle as a cat’s whisker, delicately sifting through sweaty clumps of hair that, if it weren’t for even the air moving past it causing flinching pain, might’ve made you soft, weak. You startled when he removed his hand. “Can’t feel any bleeding, no cuts.” His voice was soft, his eyes scanning everywhere but yours. You were glad.

He asked the date, gave you a few words to recall back, and shined a light in your eyes. You recoiled like he’d slapped you when he pulled out his flashlight, the light causing physical pain. On the jump back, your leg brushed the pillow to your left, and he stared down at it. “May I?” You nodded and he pulled up your shorts; you were biting down on your tongue as his pinky grazed the bruise. “How bad is it?” It was at this point, when he didn’t immediately respond, that you realized he’d turned off the lights in your apartment and only left the lamp on in the corner. Thoughtful.

“Already bruising.” He grimaced, seeing the speckled outline of the shoe’s leather binding indented in harsh red streaks along your leg. His grimace made your face fall; he hardly grimaced like that when he had a fucking gaping wound in his leg. “What? Tell me.”

He shook his head. “A bad bruise, that’s all.” He grabbed your shin lightly and asked you to bend your leg. Then put weight on it. Twist left to right. Flex your hip. Everything worked normally. Still, his brow was twisted together, looking like he was gnawing on his cheek. You eyed him skeptically. “What?”

This was the second time he’d pulled someone off of you in less than six months. Your entire thigh would be lit dark scarlet in just a few days. He’d called Gordon the second he got into his car, and whispered an ID to his watch to ping over when he went to get your phone. He was sure they got him, but all he could think about was brutality; he didn’t like the things he was imagining, the drive to crack all the fingers off the man’s hand and shove them into his petrified, quivering mouth, and the equal drive to wrap you in a hug that never ended to make sure no one else harmed you.

You saw the movement of all these thoughts across his face, but the only source you could track them to was hesitation to tell you the extent of your injury. “Do I need to go to the hospital?”

He wanted to scour every inch of you to look for more lacerations, bruises, bleeds. For possibly the first time ever, he didn’t trust his estimation. You needed a professional, just in case. In case he missed something. In case you’d jostled your brain too much, in case the man had loosened a clot in your leg. He nodded. “I think you should.” He could take a back way there, walk you up to the doors and then put you in a wheelchair at the entrance. His mask would cover up enough, probably. He’d bring your friend with you. She could be checked out too.

You looked to his bloodless palms and fingertips that had just explored your scalp. Down to the splotches across your leg. “Why?” You felt like shit, yeah, but…?

“I might be wrong.”

”About what?”

”The extent of it.”

”What, like a brain bleed?”

”Exactly like that.”

You flicked your gaze up to your bedroom door. “I can’t leave her. Is she okay?” You moved to get up, and it was painful, but you managed. You slammed your hand on his shoulder for emergency balance, and you begrudgingly accepted his support across the living area. Mar was on her side in bed, squinting at her phone that seemed to already be on the lowest brightness. You whispered. “I got it.”

He let you go and walked back to the living room, and you shut the door behind you. You limped over to her and sat on the edge, tapping her ankle to alert her. Slowly her eyes moved to yours. The lipstick that had been untouched was now smeared across her cheeks, and her eyeliner bled and cracked off. “Are you, okay?”

”I think so. Are you?” You were doing exactly what Bruce just had; scanning her body at rapid speed, analyzing for any signs of injury. She looked a bit scraped up on the heels of her hands and knees, and you asked her to turn to take a look at her back. There was still the rough, muddied outline of his shoe from where it connected on her spine, but nothing else of note. Some general redness, and when you touched it she groaned, but didn’t shriek.

You looked into her eyes, but knew you had no idea what to look for. “Did he check you out already?”

She nodded, leisurely. “Shined something in my eye and told me to say stuff, I don’t remember what though.” Her words were still slurred, and the top of her nose was scraped, but nothing looked broken. You thought of the kick he’d done between her legs, and asked if she felt any pain there. She almost giggled. “Bastard forgot I don’t have balls. But, how,” She winced as she adjusted, her back rippling with it. “Cool is it he thought, I did.” She sighed and returned her attention back to her phone.

“Do you have pain anywhere?”

She glanced down at her palms and then pointed to her nose. Her biggest thing then was being drugged, and yours was whatever head thing you had going on paired with a throbbing leg. The thought of leaving your warm bed to go to a bright–fuck, BRIGHT–hospital made you want to actually die. You were gonna take your chances tonight. Oh, it was making you sick thinking about it…

“I’m gonna get some meds. Want some?” Whew, just a few steps through to the kitchen. I can do it! I’ve done it a lot! At least half of the journey is carpet, if I do eat shit. She nodded again (you were very jealous she was able to bob her head), and began your slow shuffle to the kitchen. The second you appeared in the doorway, Bruce jumped to your aid. You waved him off. “I think I’ll stay home.” You grabbed the counter for support.

“I’m taking you in.”

Furrowing your brow hurt your aching head. “I’m gonna take some meds, it’ll, be fine.”

“Then I’m staying.”

He sounded like a scolding parent. You shot a look at him and felt the ground wiggle beneath you. You squeezed your eyes shut which only made it worse. Tried to refocus on the medicine cabinet. So high…

“Let’s go.” He made his voice a bit louder, sterner. You finally scooted close enough to reach the handle, and now worked up the courage to grab it. You rustled around in there for a moment.

“You’re not really going to take that, are you?” His tone was biting. Footsteps, then he snatched the bottle of ibuprofen out of your hand. “Do you want to have a brain bleed?”

Shame coursed through you, another one of his thousand cuts. When you were able to look back at him, he had his eyes shut tight and his lips pursed, one hand holding the bottle and the other gripping the counter. He saw you looking at him and hastily turned away. The pop of the plastic bottle on the marble punctuated his apology. “Sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his hood removed somewhere between your bedroom and the couch. He huffed and tilted his head back to stare at the dark kitchen light. His shoulders rose and fell with every cycle of breath, one for every three blinks. The room was silent like that for a minute. He was so angry… no, he was nervous. Upset.

He caught your eye when you turned and his face fell into something softer, more vulnerable. “You’re not going, right?” He gave the smallest shake of his head and flicked the bottle a few inches. He didn’t wait for your answer. “I’m staying.” He made his voice strong, though you both knew you could kick him out and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Bruce,”

“You’re both incapacitated, leaving you here alone, it’s, it’s not an option.” He was getting flustered. You always took him there. He didn’t stutter, he never caught on his words, never caught on the sidewalk, never overlooked a pedestrian, fuck. His voice was raising, only slightly. His breathing got shallower, his fingers feeling chilled. “I need a minute.” He put his hands over his head and walked to the other side of the room, pacing in front of the couch. The fact the silence felt thick made you want to cut it. “I’ll be fine,”

“Please!” He dropped his hands at his sides and stood facing the cushions.

Deep breath in. Hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. He felt his chest start to release. Inhale, hold… exhale. Hold. Inhale, hold… exhale, hold… the feeling was coming back into his fingertips. Inhale, exhale. Hold… Inhale, slow, hold… exhale, slow, hold. Blink. Blink. Look at the wall. Couch. Hands. Jacket. In, out.

Another big sigh and a small shake, and he looked over his shoulder. He swallowed back globs of saliva that threatened to drown his vocal folds. His cheeks were pink, from what he had no idea. “I’m upset this happened to you.” He figured some transparency wouldn’t hurt, seeing as he’d just watched you get bludgeoned on the sidewalk and the… events of the past weekend. His jaw flexed. “And your friend.” He groaned, feeling frustrated tension fill him again. “I heard your shouting from blocks away. There were plenty of people.” His hands tightened in and out of fists, a motion you never failed to dial into. “No one did a damn thing.”

“Seems about right.” You slowly reached for the ibuprofen and put it back in the cabinet, letting it fall shut with a small tap.

Bruce was facing you now. “You don’t seem fazed.”

You shrugged, but couldn’t raise your shoulders in any meaningful capacity. “People don’t give a shit here.” You winced, as another blow of pain emanated the circumference of your skull. “Of course you don’t,” You flinched, speaking causing coils of pain to vibrate in your head. “Get it.”

He held back the full extent of his response, because he had a full argument sitting on the tip of his tongue. “I’ve seen the worst of it as him. I get it.” His enunciation begged no comment, but it was steamrolled.

“You don’t.” It was going to hurt to push all the words out at once, but the adrenaline of more friction with him was enough fuel to edge it out, momentarily. “You’re only able to be him because of your very unique, situation.” It was suffering to continue talking. “Even if people wanted to, to be you.” You took a small breather, placing both hands on the edge of the counter as the world whizzed by. “We can’t. We have, work, school, people are, shit.”

“We can talk about it later.” He walked to the cupboard and drew some water from the sink. You noticed him rinse it twice before filling. He held it out to you. “Drink. Sips.”

Some muscle in your finger had to have direct access to your brain because when you extended your arm fully to grab it, as soon as your pinky gripped the glass, you shuddered like you’d flicked a nerve. The glass clattered to the ground, exploding shards across the floor. When you ventured to move, he stopped you with a firm hand on your shoulder. “I’ll get it.” He didn’t want you tripping with how unsteady your gait was. He moved to your side and grabbed some paper towels, squatting once more to gather the biggest chunks. “There’s a, broom. In the closet by the door.”

“Y/N?” Mar had made her way out of your room in a drunken shuffle. She’d said your name but her squinted, hazy gaze was focused entirely on Bruce, who was now facing her without his hood, without his mask, almost entirely exposed save the black around his eyes. Her eyes widened. “Is that…”

In your periphery you noticed Bruce’s eyes flick up to yours as his hands slowed. For once he was silent, letting you take the lead–naturally, it was the first time ever you didn’t want to. Fuck.

logging on to tumblr/ao3 to read more pristine works of art that belong in the louvre

I just love writing Fateful y’all 😭 I’ve never written something like it and it’s such an enjoyable process :) I love their dynamic, likeeee !!!

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.

Fateful Beginnings

XXXII. “superglue”

parts: previous / next

plot: rumors spread about the circumstances of your interview with Bruce Wayne. You might have been more partial to each other than you realized…

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, depression, passive suicidality

words: 8.3k

a/n: it’s getting warmer in hereeee !! ahhh!!! this might be my favorite chapter yet!! as always I LOVE hearing what you think, please tell me everything!! <3

Watching the door close behind Bruce again, you felt a bruise forming.

All you’d done was check in on him, and he’d shunned you for it. Shut the door. Threw away the key. It was evident he wanted nothing to do with you.

Maybe it was all in your head—he hadn’t said he was done with you, he’d just… acted exasperated and absolutely finished with any semblance of your concern. How were you supposed to navigate that with only a week separating him and his attempt?

The phone buzzed in your hand. Dr. Crane. How were you going to navigate that while having to answer to someone else?

“Hey!”

Dr. Crane cleared his throat. “Ms. Y/L/N! Wanted to check in. Have you made contact with Mr. Wayne since we last spoke?”

“Yes.”

“And how is he?”

“Well, he said he was feeling bad. But he didn’t want to talk about it further.” It sounded worse than it was (at least you hoped it wasn’t so bad) so you pivoted. “He thanked me for helping him. He came over and cooked me some food a few days ago. We visited. Asked if I was okay. After seeing it.” You set the phone on the counter, taking a few steps back from it. Maybe if you spoke further away from the receiver, it would make the lie less painful. Make your conscience a little quieter.

“Hmm… anything since then?”

“Yeah, today. He visited again. To check in, I uh, I got in a tussle last night.” You winced at how it came out. Tussle? Really? You didn’t want him thinking he’d visited just to say ‘bad’ and then left. “That’s when he said he was feeling bad. But thanked me.” Your breath caught on the last sentence. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to reveal it to Bruce, and you didn’t want to think about what he might do if he found out you’d been lying.

“I see a city hall meeting slated for this evening. Do you know if he’ll be in attendance?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Let me know after. We’re in the sweet spot for another issue.” He said it like the ‘issue’ was something as trivial and inconsequential as traffic on the way to the grocery store. You heard him typing on a keyboard in the background. “Are you aware of the side effects for the class of medication Mr. Wayne is on?”

“No.”

“In addition to assessing the state of his nervous system, I have a few more symptoms I want you to be on the lookout for. Rashes, fever, trouble breathing, fast heartbeat, seizures, uncontrolled movement of any part of his body, fainting, heat intolerance. Some of these are relatively benign, but I want to be kept informed if you gather any of that happening. Alright?”

You’d taken as many notes as you could while he spoke, and had zero concept of how you would know about most of those. Bruce could probably make fainting look intentional, or play it off before anyone could notice.

It was a short call, and he prompted you to trust your gut before signing off.

Showering was annoying; the Tylenol had taken the brunt of the pain away, though your head still ached when you delicately massaged shampoo against it. You had your phone in a baggie sitting on a ledge of the shower in case you slipped. You wished Mar could’ve stayed for you to shower, to make sure you were alright. Part of you was surprised she had stayed until you woke up. If you’d slept another hour, would she have left with Gianna? Would she even have left a note?

While you toweled off you tried to boil down the last 24 hours to something tangible. Mar had nearly been assaulted. You’d both gotten fucked up. Bruce had saved you. Mar had seen Bruce. Mar knew Bruce. Mar thought you and Bruce were together. Bruce knew she knew that, as far as you knew. The phone sat in the baggie on the bathroom counter, holding all of its secrets. You got out your blow dryer and started in on your soaked hair with one hand while the other scanned the video.

At 4:18 in the morning, Mar had emerged from your room. You turned up the volume, barely edging out the roar of the dryer.

“Hey.” She rubbed her eyes and walked to the medicine cabinet. You could only see her back from this POV. Bruce stood up to help, but waited. She pulled something out of a cabinet and he spoke. “Tylenol is better.” Bruce left frame for only a second, and returned with the bottle of it from where you laid on the couch. They exchanged bottles and you heard the sink run for a second.

You couldn’t see either of their faces, just their torsos, only hearing their voices. Mar was situated by the sink on the opposite side of the island. Bruce stood on the other by the middle stool. She didn’t let there be much silence.

“Where did you meet Y/N?”

“City Hall. She asked me for an interview.”

Oh, it felt strange hearing someone talk to him about you. To hear him talking about you. Couldn’t tell if you liked it or hated it.

“Why’d you accept her interview?”

He waited a few seconds, and from knowing her, you knew she was about to drill him if he didn’t speak. You wondered if he sensed it too, and that was why he was being forthright. “The timing aligned. I declined them for so long, people stopped asking. Worked out with the graduation speech.”

Mar’s tone was cold, investigative. She sounded a lot like she had back at Mora’s. Not wanting to deal with nonsense. You figured they were cut out for each other, if Bruce was cut out for anyone. They both didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought. If they had a goal, they didn’t mind being pegged an asshole on the way to meeting it. “All the way back in Spring, huh? Interesting.” You heard a slurp of some water.

“How did you and Y/N meet?” It was so fucking weird to have him talking conversationally. Lightly. Politely. Couldn’t be more out of character. You had an itch to start a spreadsheet of all his different personas.

“College. We took some sociology classes together. When did you ask her out?”

AH! She was so nosy. Your stomach clenched. “I haven’t.”

“She’s just gonna tell me tomorrow if you don’t.”

“We’re not together.”

“Whatever pact you guys made, I respect it, but I’m not a fucking fool.” Pact. At least she was making it seem like you were saying the same things he was.

“There must have been a miscommunication.” He sighed.

“What are your intentions? None of that bullshit stands here. I have a really good radar.” Her face moved slightly into frame, a glare set as she gave him a once-over. “If it’s just to fuck she needs to know that, man.”

You could’ve wrung her neck.

“It’s business.” If he was exasperated, his voice didn’t give him away. He was getting better at this.

“Fine. Keep your fuckin secrets. But if you mess her up, I don’t give a fuck who you are, or how many lawyers you have. I know who you are, Bruce Wayne, and I will not hesitate to use my voice to send you into the darkest pits of hell.”

“Noted.” Spoken genuinely, without sass. You mused on how he might’ve said it to you, and smirked.

“I won’t hesitate to fuck you up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to fucking sleep.”

Bruce sat at the table, far enough away from the lens that you couldn’t make out his expression. He sat there on his phone for the next few hours until Mar entered again. It was hard to scrub while heat stung the back of your head, but you were forced to multitask.

“Did you even sleep?” It was like she was talking to someone completely normal; no worry about if he might hurt her, yell at her, no dancing around it like he was a stranger. The same framing situation: only able to hear their voices and see their torsos.

“I stay up late.”

Mar muttered something you couldn’t make out. He spoke again. “How are you doing? Y/N said you might have been drugged.” You hadn’t gotten used to him saying your name.

“You don’t have to act concerned because you’re fucking my friend.”

You nearly dropped the hair dryer, the hot metal grazing between your fingers as it slacked in your grip. Jesus fucking fuck. You wished more than anything you could crawl into his thoughts. “I wanted to check in. It’s a fucked up thing to go through.”

She paused. She actually paused. When she spoke again, her tone was gentler. “Not the first time it’s happened. And this time nothing actually happened.” She scoffed. “Piece of shit. He was acting so fucking nice at the bar, I should’ve known something was up.”

“You took his behavior at face-value. No blame in that.” Damn, an actually nice sentiment.

“Thanks for last night.” She uncrossed her arms and started rummaging by the phone, which was by the pantry. Bruce spoke unprompted. “Someone from the GCPD should be in contact within the next 48 hours. For your statement.”

Mar scowled. “Love doing those.” She’d done one before? She sighed. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“Well, I’m gonna make pancakes.”

“I can help, if you’d like.”

“Trying to impress me?”

Bruce didn’t respond. They didn’t speak again until you heard a rustle by the couch; probably you adjusting. “How is she?”

Bruce’s voice was dryer now, and you watched him reach for the dregs of his energy drink. “Seems fine. Pupils are reactive, she’s oriented to time and place.”

“What are you, a doctor or something?”

“Special interest.”

You grinned knowing the real reason. Nah, he’s just Batman. You’re not only talking to Bruce Wayne right now, you’re talking to a vigilante. She’d probably shit herself.

As soon as she had finished making breakfast and sat at the table opposite him, she started asking the frivolous questions. You felt a bit jealous of her. Getting to talk to someone she perceived as a celebrity without all the baggage, without all the fear. It might have been interesting, cool, fun. Regardless of if you thought he deserved it, or any ideological ick you got from his upbringing and social status, he lived a life entirely out of reach, kept exclusively behind a locked curtain. His life was the carrot on a stick dangling in front of every American chasing The Dream. He didn’t make it seem very fun. “What’s it like to be a billionaire?”

“I don’t think about it much. Lots of financial meetings.”

“You grew up in it so of course you don’t think about it.” A pause. You almost laughed thinking about what she was probably… “You wouldn’t miss a couple thousand, would you?” … yup. A laugh actually did escape you. As frustrating as it was to be on the receiving end of her questioning, it was decidedly enthralling to watch her do it to someone else. She took another bite and prattled more. “Nice disguise. Is it weird to have paparazzi follow you? It sounds annoying as fuck.”

“Certainly makes things more difficult.”

“What do you even do? Up in your tower, I mean. I don’t ever hear of any parties there.”

“Mostly keep to myself. Travel some. Prying eyes only got worse after my parents. Didn’t want to deal with it.”

“Damn, that’s right. Makes sense.” She finished her plate in thoughtful silence.

She put her plate away and offered some food to Bruce. At this point you looked at the recording and saw the time was one in the afternoon, just two hours before you’d woken up. He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a few pancakes, dry. In less than a minute his plate was clean.

Mar had gone back to your bedroom, telling him she was taking a nap. “Let me know when she wakes up.”

The next time you saw any movement was when Mar had made a slice of toast before speaking to you. You stopped the video when you heard her calling your name. You finished your hair, mindlessly combing through the strands, fretful about if she would ever put the pieces together herself. Black paint around his eyes. Good at fighting. Hell, she’d even said the word disguise! Why was it so clear to you, and no one else?

Between skincare steps, you’d perused Scypher, where you by far had the most notifications. It was soon evident why Mar hadn’t put two and two together: the people of Gotham thought Bruce Wayne no more than a reclusive drug addict. Maybe Bruce hadn’t had to put on the playboy show at all; everyone was already thrown off his scent.

He probably shoots heroin up in his ivory tower

swear i saw him buy on the east side

another rich scumsucker off his rocker

Then came conversations you were mentioned in. Your eyes widened at the sheer mass of them, and how cruelly they painted you. A particular thread stood out, having garnered tens of thousands of likes.

No one has talked about this STUDENT JOURNALIST — to me there’s no way someone like that would get the first pick. My sister works in editing and says people have been trying to get an interview with him for twenty years. What are we thinking, chat?

There was a poll attached that had thousands of hits. ‘See Results’ showed you that between Fucked Him, Scripted, or Both, most people had chosen… both.

The replies were especially heinous.

Is ‘sucked off his limp cock’ an option ? cant imagine the man has any stamina anymore with all that fucking dope. The man had an NFT profile picture and ‘your mom’ in his bio. Stellar. You’d been tagged right below it. what does @youruser think about this?

Someone had answered in place of you, coming off so high and mighty you had to put the phone down before reading more responses to it.

She got bought off. Scripted responses and interview. Wayne Enterprises didn't want stocks to go down. That's why they couldn't get a real journalist, no one would agree to that unethical mess. Screams litigious. Probably signed an NDA anyway with his fuckass company

|

this tracks. aint pretty enough to bargain that way. less then mid if were being honest. females only care about $$$ anyway, he could pull any one if that was it

You put the phone down. It didn’t matter. You had a life to get back to.

You couldn’t be bothered to wear heels tonight, but you needed to wear something dressy; you stared a little too long at the mirror before tugging on your dress, a haze of insecurity swooping over you. You forced yourself to walk away.

You had to stay off your phone, save calls. You turned off notifications for everything besides, noting Dr. Vry had called you earlier. She’d left a voicemail detailing that there were another hundred-fifty School of Journalism applicants. Apparently, before your interview, they’d only gotten around forty-eight a year.

Outfitted in a pair of old loafers and your same dress, hoping it didn’t look too haphazard a combination, you grabbed your PRESS badge, notepad, pen, and recorder. You tucked your ID and other personal things under your dress and into your shorts pocket. If you didn’t feel like total ass, you could’ve imagined you were a spy. Jetting off to the Meeting of the Elite to uncover clues and inquire between the lines. A resentful, anxious, overwhelmed, stubborn spy. It couldn’t have felt less magical.

You shook off the past week, the past summer, the past year. Bruce Wayne wasn’t your life, he was a minuscule part of it. No longer would you let him take over your brain space—his life was his, yours was yours. As massive a secret you held, as bizarre as it was to be on a first-name basis with a modern Kennedy, you had your own life to attend to. Interviews to conduct, business to get to, truth to find. For the first time in months, you began to feel a bit hopeful as you left your apartment. If Bruce showed up tonight. If not you would literally panic. You willfully ignored the contradiction, just as you ignored the nagging thought that this newfound hope was a fleeting attempt at coping.

Gotham was normal. Cloudy, smoggy skies. It was easy on your aching head. Flickering street lamps as the evening light got ready to wane were not, however. The bustle of the people on the sidewalks, the cracked concrete, the glimmering potholes that had every other driver making a face as they slammed into them. Everything was the same as it had always been. You walked past the same people on their same commute. Saw the same taxis pass. The walking sign on the left was still out of order, murdered by kids sticking their gum into the crevices.

You kept to your usual space, the furthest to the right you could possibly get without scraping your arms against the jagged—sometimes bloody—brick, or stepping in someone’s vomit. You recalled your first month here when you’d had to hold your breath for most of your walks. Breathing ‘fresh’ air here was like gulping someone’s rancid morning breath.

The walk to City Hall wasn’t long, but it was annoying. Cobbled streets, men who wouldn’t move out of the way even if they took up the entire sidewalk. Most of your shirt sleeves had snags from being squeezed against the sides of buildings on walks like these. You had half a mind to kick a dirty puddle at them whenever they forced you to the margins. You didn’t want to double your concussion.

The air was teasing you with autumn; a few excited trees plopped leaves for your feet to crunch, though there weren’t many of them in the area. The city was mechanical, industrial. Something as sensitive and nurturing as foliage didn’t have a place here. One time you’d seen a dandelion growing out of a concrete mound and you’d cried. Maybe you’d been unhappy here longer than you’d thought. That had been in the second month.

As you walked the last stretch of blocks, your destination sitting just in the distance, that hopeful, determined version of you dwindled. You thought about if he didn’t show up, and if he did. You thought about how unfairly singular your life was. You thought about that a lot lately.

On Tuesday, to pass the time, you’d read through Bruce’s interview responses again. This time had been a lot more painful. You’d forgotten about it in the flurry of the attack, but you’d sat with your notebook for hours. Looking at the way he wrote his letters, the Gs in particular, written with a long tail that folded in on itself, seeing the grains of the paper indented in black streaks. It made you feel better holding his writing. It made his being alive feel more real. You wanted to know more about his family camping trip. Where had he gone? Where had he traveled to? Where did he want to go that he hadn’t yet?

It was his loneliness. You smelled the burning sting of it on every page and it attracted you like a moth to flame. It was never written outright, but it was strong subtext, as clear to you as him candidly naming his nerves. It felt exceedingly intimate reading back even his most playboy responses, the hindsight of his desire to die blanching every pen stroke.

This city was brutally lonely, and everyone was so desperate not to feel it. People clustered to fragile friend groups full of superficial conversation, filled their bodies with substances, stayed out all night not daring to slow down otherwise the world might fall apart. All you were was slow. All you did was think, and feel, and think again.

You’d had a lot of time on Tuesday to think about his attempt. You had a horrifying feeling of jealousy about it. You never let your mind sit there too long. It wasn’t normal to feel that way. Reminiscing on the places depression had taken you always made you feel incredible shame. Its vice grip in the middle of the night, three in the morning, when the world was quiet and asleep, but you were so painfully, entirely awake. It was why you’d come to Gotham in the first place. This city never slept.

A masochistic part of you, as you carefully labeled it, thought that Bruce might be the only person in your life who truly understood despair. He’d come face to face with it. It had nearly won out he’d let it come so close. He was willing to show his sadness. Willing to sit in it. Willing to marinate in it, really.

“He doesn’t like to show it, but compassion comes easily to him.” Alfred’s voice punctuated your contemplation. Even if it was out of guilt, Bruce had stayed with you all night; and by the looks of the video, he’d stayed fully awake for it, even with nothing to hold his attention save whatever the hell he had on his phone. Mar had left before asking you how you were—Bruce made sure to ask. Possibly because he could handle it. Probably because he’d acclimated to pain. Your mind wandered to more projections.

Gabbi, Lara, and Rose hadn’t been able to handle the good you, the best behavior you. Your dad never wanted to talk about the reality of your mother’s sickness. Couldn’t even say the word cancer. Your mom didn’t want to dwell, either, and Debbie… she was an emotional wreck. If you stepped on a crack in the sidewalk she might burst into tears, lamenting on how she missed her mother, her father, her old pair of shoes. You’d always been the one to calm her down growing up. The one to hold it when no one could. Bruce seemed like he might be able to hold it. Engage with it. When you argued, he argued back. It wasn’t lost on you how he’d asked about your mom last Thursday when you’d started crying. You felt a lump forming in your throat. He couldn’t actually give a fuck, could he?

Perhaps you were propping him up on a pedestal, delirious from being forced to orbit around him for the past 168 hours. You weren’t exactly comparing him to the world’s finest communicators. His version of handling things was to storm off, deflect. His version of handling things was to argue. His handling things was violent, aggressive, impulsive. And, you thought wistfully, you were actively in the throes of suicide watch. He was everything and nothing all at once.

The steps were easier to climb in loafers, each step jolting you back to time and place. Why the hell had you ever tried to fit in and wear anything different? You tallied how much money you had left, wondering if you could afford a trip to Target for some slacks and a sweater. City Hall was exceptionally busy, even for being only five minutes early. Conversation appeared buzzier tonight; caterers were already handing out dozens of drinks. People were usually more subdued at this point. What had happened?

When you fully stepped inside (instead of just peering through the side window like a dork), every head snapped to you, the din going calm. A few people rolled their eyes, or sighed, and went back to their conversations, but some people continued to stare, leaning in to whoever was nearby to mutter something. You struggled not to squint as the lights pouring from the chandeliers bored a hole into your skull.

You went to your usual place of refuge, near the middle of the back wall, opposite the appetizers and wine where most clustered. Except… there was a group standing now, with PRESS badges in varying fonts, sizes, pins and lanyards. Some had beautiful cameras with lenses that begged to be inspected, adored. As far as you knew, the Gazette only had one Canon you could rent out, limited to once per term per person. Stingy.

“Y/N Y/L/N, is that right?” A gorgeous blonde woman with gleaming veneers and impeccably styled 70s curls held out a manicured hand for you to take. You took it, your hand threatening to go limp when you noticed the VOGUE logo braided into her lanyard. “Eva Reveé, chief staff writer. I read your interview with Mr. Wayne, it was such a pleasure.” You swallowed hard. You felt supremely underdressed. Understood why people had rolled their eyes at your entry. A mousey small-town wannabe student journalist scoring one of the most sought-after jobs in the industry. You wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

“Yes. Y/N.” You smiled and did a small laugh, trying to act like you weren’t talking to someone who worked at fucking Vogue. She flashed another smile at you. “You are just the cutest.” Patronizing. “Get a chance to read my email yet? I am sure your inbox is positively flooded right now.”

You turned red. You needed to remember to upgrade foundation when you came to events, a tint wasn’t nearly enough to camouflage your nerves. “I haven’t, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re perfectly fine. I was only wanting to chat about your experience interviewing him! Potentially get some ins for other journalists like myself. We were all chatting before you arrived and were so impressed you were able to score a high-profile case for your first publishing.”

You didn’t like her tone, but you were probably just irritable after the concussion. To play up the awe, or play up the professionalism? Shortchange yourself or prop yourself up? You opened your mouth to speak, but then everyone gasped, hushedly. Before turning your head, you knew Bruce Wayne had just entered the building.

“Mr. Wayne!”

“Are you alright?”

“Your accident looked horrible.”

“What caused it?”

“Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Eva and the other journalists all inched toward him, eyes bright and ravenous. Glancing at him was a bit painful, more than it had been earlier when you were already desperate to escape his gaze, but you needed to assess—you quickly realized this was, in fact, the very worst type of event for you to get any true read on him. He’d never been more on than in this room every week. How were you ever supposed to assess his mental state when he was putting on a show between these four walls?

Last night was far from written on him, not even smudged. He had no bags under his eyes, they were clear and engaged, his posture was tall and at ease. Even his voice, when he spoke, had been relieved of its crackles. It was like the past 24 hours had been a ghost. The only evidence of his attempt were some scratches on his neck and jaw, and scabs on his hand. They already looked better than they had a few hours ago. You imagined a team coming to Wayne Tower to do some fancy makeup over his injuries. The image was hilarious, but faded faster than it ever had before. Usually you adored watching Bruce squirm, even if it was relegated to your imagination, but you saw through it. I feel nervous before every event, he’d written. I don’t like crowds.

“Folks,” Bruce walked toward the center of the room and clapped his hands together, holding them tightly at his waist. The room orbited around him, the audience going still listening to his words. It was eerie. You’d never seen him have this much control over a group. “I’ve heard a lot of discussion surrounding my accident this past Friday.” He seemed to make eye contact with everyone at the same time. “I want to reassure everyone that I am okay. By the grace of God and the incredible team at Gotham General, I’ve been healing wonderfully.” He paused and looked around the perimeter of the room again. His eyes flit onto yours, and held for a second too long. He blinked and continued, and you exhaled when he released you.

“Many people are speculating that substances were involved. I want to assure everyone in here—and outside of it—” He gestured toward you and the throng of press. “That is not the case. I take the safety of my fellow citizens very seriously.” He let that sit. “I have a penchant for fixing up old cars.” He did a dry chuckle. “On a test drive around Tower grounds, my steering went out. Thus, the tree.” He was referring to the viral photo of his car nearly entirely wrapped around a thick oak tree. You gulped.

Some people mumbled, a few grumbled. Bruce stood taller, straightening the last few discs in his spine. “I was disappointed to see how far I have left to go with the residents of this city, though I understand it. I hardly leave my parent’s estate for twenty years, and now I’m in campaigns, given a voice in the election for Gotham’s mayor, and it’s only been a few months.” People’s shoulders were beginning to drop. “I’ve forgotten that though I’ve been in the public psyche, that doesn’t mean we know each other, and it certainly does not foster trust. The reactions to my accident this week have been eye-opening. I’m excited to start working with you all, and the city, to build that trust in the first place. Being Thomas and Martha Wayne’s son is a ticket into a lot of rooms, let me tell you.” Leaning a bit more playboy rich kid. “But I realized you don’t really know me, and I don’t really know you. I want to bridge that gap with this campaign season, and beyond.”

Some people nodded, less grumbles. You were absolutely mesmerized by this version of Bruce. He commanded the room flawlessly, like every syllable was a meticulous sculpture, but made everything also seem casual, off the cuff. Alfred had to have given him public speaking lessons. This was jarring. Somehow knowing precisely what to say and how to say it to lend public favor, but making it look humble, unassuming. Without a lick of nervousness.

Right then, you remembered you hadn’t turned on your recorder. This was a part of the meeting, and a massive conversation right now. You’d have to report on it. You looked down to start fiddling with it, but the REC button was stuck.

“Hopefully, that began with the publishing of Ms. Y/L/N’s interview with me last Sunday.” He both looked at and gestured toward you, the room following his hand like a cat to a laser. You went still, frozen, with your hands clutching the plastic, as a hundred or more eyes, elite eyes, powerful eyes, fixed on you. Analyzed you. Judged you. It took all your power to grin and not faint. It felt like the entire world was in this room, and in a way, it was.

“It was a great honor, and I want to publicly thank Ms. Y/L/N for handling it with utmost tact, integrity, and humor. She could not have provided a more professional, comfortable experience. We are truly indebted to the hardworking, prodigious talent of our university graduates.” He turned back to the room, consequently removing his grip on your neck. “Now, enough about me.” He held his hands up. “Let’s all enjoy tonight.”

You felt like you were buzzing; the room quieted, noise fading to the background. The sensitivity in his eyes before he’d looked away, the firmness of his words, he must have been briefed on the conversations online. You headed into the conference room when Mr. Convoy propped open the doors.

As Bruce walked away, he hoped he had stilled the criticisms hurtling toward you. Alfred had informed him upon his very late arrival back at Wayne Tower that the internet was lit up after the accident, and that it had catapulted the critique of you (and him) from the fringes into the forefront. He’d gone on the Wayne Enterprises account to see some of the conversation, but quickly had to abandon it before typing something that would’ve made everything catastrophically worse. He hadn’t been in any mood to think about you, or to think about anything, but he couldn’t stop himself fuming until the very second the words had left his mouth in front of the group. Even now, as he followed after your lead into the conference room, every step was straddling a mine. His contact lenses irritated his dry eyes after staying up so long, and it didn’t help that this was the first time wearing them to City Hall. He wasn’t looking forward to having to replay that speech later.

The first thing he did after sitting down was scan the room for you. His eyes moved to the righthand corner, where you always stood with your notebook and pen. The lurch of panic cinched his chest until he saw you nestled in with the other reporters in the back left, just barely out of peripheral view.

Convoy started the meeting the usual way, sprinkling in some good vibrations toward Bruce and his continued healing. As he explained why the candidates had not come this evening (“They are getting ready for their first respective rallies. At the meeeting’s end, we will go over the election calendar.”), Bruce fought the urge to shift his chair toward you. He wanted to check your face and see if you were okay. He was shocked you’d shown up tonight; you’d barely been able to look out the curtained window at the filtered, low light without visceral wincing. Had you only come to check on him? He wanted to dead that. How could he do that without talking to you? Was he not going to talk to you anymore?

His mind argued with itself the rest of the meeting, distracting him entirely from its content. An innocent, passing thought interrupted his ruminations and the pros and cons lists he’d drawn up to interrogate himself: he’d just talk to you after the meeting and you’d bring him up to speed about what happened. That thought felt like the first nail in the coffin; his body was already instinctively reaching toward you, trusting you.

By the time Convoy had started listing the tentative schedule for the campaign rallies, he knew he had to lock in. This… fondness he felt toward you…

He visibly grimaced. He was tired, no, exhausted. Coming up on thirty-six hours without sleep, on new meds… gah! He felt the exasperation in his bones. It wasn’t fondness, it was illusive familiarity, when in reality: he didn’t know you, even if he felt like he did, and you didn’t know him, even if you felt like you did. You’d blackmailed him. You’d done an interview. You’d saved him. You’d visited him. You’d argued, caretaken, whined, and promised, and threatened, and talked to him. That was all.

He was crushed by guilt. He’d traumatized someone. He told himself he’d feel the same way if it had happened to anyone else. He felt responsible for cleaning up the mess he’d made of you. But as he glanced behind him to see you nonchalantly scrawling something between college-ruled lines, he couldn’t read any distress in you at all. Still, the need to save you remained.

You looked at him right then. Your eyes explored the injuries on his hands, then traveled to his chest. Still vigilant. Still worried. He didn’t know if you knew he was watching you. He considered having a final conversation about it all; express his thanks, reassure you he was—he suppressed a groan— prioritizing safety, and be done with it, but exploring the guilt with you would only keep it in the present. He’d just have to grit his teeth and bear it. Let the time pass without fiddling with it. Let your wound scab over. He wouldn’t be doing you a service picking at it.

He focused instead on how he’d handle Batman going forward. He could plan well into the night, concentrate this energy toward something useful. He’d need new protocol; he’d have to talk to Alfred about developing a second distress signal; one that was for mental things, not about to bleed out, come rescue. His throat threatened to close whenever he thought about it. How his brain wasn’t reliable. The fabric of reality would fall apart around him if he thought too much about it right then. If he thought about it at all, ever.

“Didn’t think you were the religious type.”

Bruce turned to the left again and saw you closing your notebook. You looked normal; loafers instead of heels, though. Smart. Wouldn’t want to risk falling again. Tiny glance about the immediate area, and he leaned in ever so slightly. “Gotta get on their good side somehow.”

Why did he lean in? Why did he listen to his body pulling closer to you? You’d caused this. You’d decided to talk to him, after he’d made himself clear. You rolled your eyes. When you looked back up at him, you squinted. Christ, if you were able to see his lenses too… You squeezed your eyes shut and brought your fingers up to massage your temple. It didn’t relieve his worry. “Just wanted to touch base. Surprised you came tonight.”

“Couldn’t not.” He led the both of you toward the door, stopped right before the doorway, and leaned down to ‘fix’ his shoe. He lowered his voice, pretending to wrangle a knot out of his shoelace. “I saw what they’re saying online. You and I can’t be seen together.”

“I didn’t know it would be so… aggressive. I’ve only seen a bit of it.”

He was surprised you were. Always a pessimist, and you seemed to know much more about the social landscape than he did. Every single reaction you had eluded him, further solidifying you as a lock he couldn’t pick. He stood up and pretended to fix his hair. You weren’t looking at him, instead eyeing the ground as if wanting to speak. “What?” It wasn’t a conscious decision to egg you on, but, he’d done it.

“You don’t want it.”

“Pity?”

“Concern.” You tucked the notebook into your armpit and flipped your hair over your shoulder to get it out of your face. You got quieter, barely audible. Your eyes were all over the place, everywhere except him. “Are you sure you’re safe?”

His heart began to pound. The time to have the conversation had been thrust upon him, opportunity presenting itself on a silver platter. Maybe this wasn’t picking the scab, but applying ointment. His eyes latched onto the room you’d used last week, and he hid his next sentence under a cough. “Go to the bathroom.” He yawned. “Room from last week in five minutes.”

You left, your dress flouncing behind you, and he set out to find Convoy. After a seconds-long conversation about needing to make a ‘private call’, he’d gotten the man to open the room. “Make sure to lock it on your way out, Mr. Wayne.”

Now that he was alone in the room, he felt unsettled. This decision was impulsive, but necessary. The playing field needed to be leveled, in whatever way possible. The record set straight. A million other phrases and idioms whizzed around his thoughts, trying to come up with an itinerary. He needed to be grateful for what you’d done. What you’d witnessed. Sure, it was fucked up that you’d initially blackmailed him to get the interview, but the interview was assisting his public persona. He had to do one sometime. As much as he hated to admit it due to how uncomfortable it was to be known, it wasn’t your fault that you’d noticed it was him. He’d met a few people as both Bruce and Batman, in passing—as much or more than you had, and you’d deduced it.

You probably wouldn’t have stayed in his house if the flooding hadn’t happened. You’d seemed horrified at the prospect, remembering your gasp from across the table as he’d slammed himself out of the chair. You’d been rude, and intrusive, but you hadn’t committed any cardinal sins. And the elephant in the room: you’d watched him attempt to end his life. You’d seen him hit the ground. You’d gotten him help. He was sure that was etched into your memory like a scar. He had to be appreciative of that, and for calling Alfred in the alley, or he’d ruminate on it for the rest of his fucking life. Whatever guilt was eating him up, he needed to excise it to get back on his way. He needed to be the scalpel, detangling all the gluey tissue and muscle joining the both of you. So your thoughts wouldn’t ever wander back to him. So his thoughts wouldn’t ever wander back to you.

A crucial aspect of that was setting up expectations for future interaction. Unless you were leaving tomorrow, he’d have to see you again, here, every week, indefinitely. With public scrutiny at an all-time high, and you both getting wrapped up in vigilance for one another, everything was getting too complicated. You’d become entangled in his life, and his yours, to a lesser degree. Unless you were also a vigilante in your respective hometown, he didn’t think he could get caught up with you the same way. He needed to make you free of him. You were worried. He needed to soothe that worry, firmly, thoroughly, so that you might start keeping to yourself. You’d meant to leave last week, anyway. It appeared safe to assume the only reason you’d stayed was because of him.

Five minutes. He did a quick scan of the room with the watch on his wrist. The exterior was luxury, but he’d swapped all the internal components to check for bugs. The room was cleared in about five seconds. He let his shoulders drop.

When you entered the room his thoughts exited. The door clicked shut. The only light Bruce could chance keeping on was a lamp in the corner by a stray podium. He was being risky enough talking with you here, he didn’t need to draw more attention, but it was hard to see your face clearly. Also elusive: that his night-oriented vision served him in every other circumstance, but not with you. He gestured for you to sit down, and you did. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk with you.”

You looked afraid again. You looked like you were expecting him to lay out an imminent plan of taking his own life. Appreciation. Reassurance. Goodbye. “I left abruptly earlier. I wanted to reassure you I am safe, and I have no plans to take my own life or anyone else’s.”

He realized he’d been looking slightly above you, not at you, and dropped his gaze to your eye-level. You were squirming. Breathing too fast. He continued, choking back the grief that suddenly threatened to annihilate his body. The words came out of him with robotic monotony. “I promise that I am prioritizing safety. I’m adding a new distress signal into my suit. Keeping up on medication. Checking in with Alfred. I promise I will keep doing that.”

It was the lenses. He didn’t want to relive this. “Thank you for helping me. I mean it. From the bottom of my heart.” His jaw was starting to tremble, and he prayed you wouldn’t notice. He watched helplessly as your eyes glazed over. Fuck. Why did this feel so distressing? Grueling? Why was he starting to sweat? Long stakeouts, heated fights, he’d never been stricken by such apprehension. But you were shaking. And it stamped an ache onto his heart in a shape he’d never felt before.

You were so fucking close to blurting it out. You were trembling in an attempt to contain the lie clawing its way out of you, tooth and nail. I didn’t see it. I only said so so you might stay alive one more day. The words wouldn’t come, yet they couldn’t remain. It was a fucking prison.

Outside of him thanking you for effectively lying, it was evident this was the last time he wanted to talk to you. It was clear he was annoyed by you. That your concern and care wasn’t warm or cozy, it was sharp and inhospitable. A strange sensation settled into you. It was your first year of undergrad. Your boyfriend of three months had packed his car to head home with you for the holidays. You’d gone about four miles until you stopped in front of Lara’s house. He handed you a note. “I want you to read this.” He hadn’t even been able to say it to your face, speeding off right after he handed you a backpack of your things.

At least Bruce was looking you in the eye while he shed you.

You rid the comparison from your mind. You’d thought you were falling in love with that guy. You’d been infatuated with him from the moment you’d met. Bruce was just… Bruce. The only feelings you felt toward him were frustration, guilt, anxiety, and all of it was flooding you now. The mind was simple sometimes. Trying to find patterns even if they weren’t there, overlaying memories. Trying to make meaning out of a meaningless life.

You and him had formed a strange, flimsy, temporary camaraderie, if you could even call it that. He’d helped you, you’d helped him. He’d hurt you, you’d hurt him. He worried about you. You worried about him. Becoming intertwined in each other’s lives in secret, specific ways; suddenly, without asking. Moreso than camaraderie, you’d been in cahoots. Knowing something no one else knew was intimate, but not inherently special. Like a dollar store superglue. It got the job done of sticking things together, but the bond was easily broken apart, leaving a bunch of residue no one wanted. Whatever weird fairytale of connection sat dying in the pit of your stomach shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Before today, it hadn’t even reared its ugly, confused head.

You hadn’t realized he’d gotten a call until you heard his voice lower to a gravelly hue. You moved your eyes to look at him, unblurring your vision by focusing on the phone pressed to his ear. “Can they give it to him?” A pause. Whoever he was talking to, they knew him as Batman. It was uncanny seeing him speak like that dressed in polished Dior. You instinctively spun your chair around to look at the door, making sure it was closed. On the swivel back, you noticed his gaze slip away from you as you scooted back to the table’s edge.

“I’ll check it out.” Click. He got up and pushed his chair in. You followed suit. “What is it?”

“Miller made bail. Said something on the way out about security footage.” He was already nearing the door. It took you longer than you liked to recognize the name. Your brain was mush.

“I thought you said you were taking a break this week,” There you were, going right back to abandoned houses, bitter friends, empty fields.

He pushed past you, but stalled right after. “Tell your friend to stay away from the neighborhood until his trial. You too.”

“Bruce.”

He adjusted to face you and you took a stuttered step back, way too close for comfort. So close you could smell the detergent on his clothes, see the setting shine in his hair as it dried from a recent shower. The microscopic speck of black he’d missed by his tear duct. “We don’t need to do this anymore.”

You opened your mouth to protest but nothing came out; his eyes dropped to it for a half second before resuming domineering eye contact. You felt faint. “Don’t make this difficult.” His biting enunciation made your eyes narrow. So heartless, and for what? But it didn’t hold. I see right through you. His sensitivities were scrawled on the walls of your mind in sloping, hurried letters.

You both drew a deep breath at the same time, forcing the both of you to turn your head and avert your gaze. The only sound in the room was too fast, too shallow breathing. He turned around abruptly, whacking you with his cologne.

The room’s oxygen had been replaced with smoke. At last, facing the door he could gulp down a breath. He kept a tight rein on his tone so the ebbs of adrenaline rushing through him wouldn’t taint it. “Stay in here for a few minutes, lock it on your way out. Get a ride.” He grabbed the doorknob and walked out calmly, every muscle in his legs frenzied for him to sprint off. He smiled his way through the foyer and out to the valet. His sweaty palms left prints on the steering wheel as he drove off.

He needed to sleep. Staying awake so long had made him hysterical.