Dr Crane - Tumblr Posts
just finished the dark knight trilogy. idk what to do with my life now.
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.”
Despite being barely conscious, despite delirium of blood loss and Fear Gas setting in, Danny had made sure to tell the people saving him "No hospitals." He was sure he'd said it several times, one of them had to have been understandable.
So why the fuck was he in a hospital?
Gotham, he knew, was not a safe place. There were warnings to the high heavens and the lowest hells about going there. Transplants, people who moved into Gotham, either died within the first three years or they left within the first year.
He tried his damnedest to stay away from New Jersey as a whole, but he was quickly running out of places to go.
Every other city, every other state, he'd tried to hide was quickly swarmed with G.I.W Agents. He couldn't go to school or get a job or even ask for help because, for all intents and purposes, he was dead. He didn't get a grave, and least not one he could claim as his own despite his name being on the headstone.
New Jersey was the last place within the United States of America he could go. And, well, if he was making a stupid decision, why not go all the way? So, he set course for Gotham with the excuse of "Who's going to notice one more homeless kid in the throngs of all the rest?"
Going out of the country wasn't an option. He had tried a few times, but being legally dead means he has no usable form of ID. Getting caught sneaking across boarders got him deported back. On the bright side, being legally dead means he holds no criminal record. He's a John Doe to the system.
One month and three weeks into his stay in Gotham brought him to the situation he was now in. Scarecrow, Dr. Crane, had gotten out of Arkham Asylum three days ago and had been quiet. It was only a matter of time before he showed up. Unfortunately, he decided to take the mall in New Gotham hostage. The mall that Danny had been seeking shelter from the rain in.
Danny sat in the food court when Scarecrow made himself known and the building was locked down. He'd been a hero for nearly three years, so the instinct to help was strong within him. He did his best and managed to take some of the goons down, only sustaining minor injuries. Then, in a moment of his own weakness, he was hit in the head and a gas mask was strapped to his face.
Head wounds bleed a lot. Fear Gas smells like apple cider and vodka. Don't ask. After that, it gets fuzzy for Danny. He knows that shortly after he went down, Batman showed up. There's a possibility that Robin and Red Robin had been there, too, but he wasn't so sure.
Danny couldn't say how long the gas mask was on his face, nor how long his fight or Batman's fight was. He could tell you that one of the vigilantes, who was definitely Red Robin now that he thinks about it, had been the one to get the mask off of him and carry him out to a waiting ambulance.
"No...no hospitals," he knew he said, "No hospitals." Red Robin's a vigilante, not a hero, but even he knows when to listen to innocents.
"Don't worry," Red Robin had said to him, "They'll help you out at the hospital. They'll get you the cure for the Fear Gas before heading there and you'll be good to go in a few hours to a day."
He's not listening! "No hospitals!" Danny knew his voice was getting quieter, his words slurring. Unconsciousness was creeping up on him, but he couldn't allow it to take him until he knew he was safe! "No hospitals, please." He was not above begging.
He was put down on something soft but stiff. There were people talking. Something about a fear of needles or something? It didn't matter. He'd managed to get his eyes open enough to realize he was in the back of an ambulance. There were two paramedics messing with stuff, getting needles and an IV drip ready. Red Robin and another paramedic were just outside the van.
Again, he tried to say, "No hospitals," but it sounded barely cognisant, even to his own ears.
"Sh," the guy to his left hushed as he placed an oxygen mask over Danny's mouth and nose, "We're going to get you the antidote for the Fear Gas. This is just to make sure you're getting enough oxygen into your lungs,"
No! They're not listening to him! Why do they never listen?
The woman to his right continued explaining, "You're dehydrated and malnourished, so we're going to get you on an IV drip. When he get to the hospital, we'll draw some blood and get a transfusion going for you."
No! No, no, no, no! He wanted to scream at them, at Red Robin, at Batman, and the world. No drawing blood, no tests, no hospitals!
But they hadn't listened. They weren't listening. They never listen!
They're going to find him. He's going to be put in the system and they're going to find him. They're going to find out that he's dead and he's going to be sent away! They're going to find him and they're going to take him away and he's never going to be able to escape again.
Once more, as the darkness crawled over his vision and the noises around him dampened out, he whispered, "No hospitals."
DPxDC Prompt:
The vigilante meant well, taking the kid to the hospital to treat his injuries. The kid mumbled the entire time, barely conscious. "No hospital, please," he said more than once.
Poor kid, the vigilante thought. He must have a phobia of needles or something.
...
They never could have anticipated the danger they put that kid in, placing him in the care of that hospital.