Enemies To Friends To Lovers - Tumblr Posts

Fateful Beginnings

II. “research”

parts: previous / next

plot: you make a very… rash decision about who you will interview, and when.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, head injury, substance use, threat of violence

words: 2.2k

You were helped into the police car by two men, one in a typical police uniform and one that looked more like a detective. The uniformed one had shined a flashlight at the back of your head and told you to take a cold shower when you got back. "The head always bleeds more serious than it is," he chomped away on gum and shooed you into the vehicle. They said they'd escort you back no problem, peppering you with some questions along the way. You didn't really have much of an answer for them. You'd never been to the club before, you hadn't seen the gunshots, didn't remember what a single face looked like in the club besides the vigilante's. Which set off a lightbulb for you. Holy shit, Batman. I could do my paper on him. I need an interview.

"Uh I do know the guy that saved me," you prattled. The uniform in the passenger sneered at you. "Uh huh, was it a big asshole in a mask?" The driver didn't share his humor towards the Batman.

"Yeah," you agreed. You didn't quite know how to phrase this next part, so you just put it bluntly. "I was wondering if you knew how to get in contact with him?"

"He sends up a bat signal, hotshot." The uniform was getting worked up, and you could tell you couldn't press the issue much longer. "What you need an outlaw for anyway?" The sarcasm turned to suspicion and you realized that the crimefighters of the town seemed out of harmony. Why didn't they like Batman?

"I've just never seen him before, I'm new here." You hoped they didn't prod you on how new; it might prove embarrassing to admit you'd been here over a year and hardly went out enough to know more than hearsay about Gotham's second claim to fame... behind the reclusive Bruce Wayne.

The rest of the short drive was quiet as the officers talked quietly amongst each other. You turned to look out the window at the pouring rain, mulling over the events of the evening. Shit. Your ears began to ring with anxiety. You went to grab for your phone but couldn't find it. Damn. You needed to contact Mar. What if she didn't make it? What if she's injured? What if she's still lying there, waiting for someone to save her?

You hastily thanked them for their time as the car pulled up to your street. You ran in the lobby and had to explain to the doorman that you'd lost your wallet, keys, and phone at the club that had been shot at this evening. This was common for them, and they knew you, giving you a spare key. You didn't have time to be worried about your belongings, you needed to know if she was safe.

You kicked yourself for not coming to your senses sooner as you opened your apartment door. You flung it open and shut behind you, racing through your kitchen as quickly as your busted scalp would allow without screaming throbs. Rummaging through the sheets you found your school iPad, opening the notifs to find 25 missed calls from her number, the last one only five minutes prior. You gasped a sob of relief and quickly pressed call. It was immediately answered.

"Y/N!!" Mar squealed from the other end, barely containing herself. You were so glad to hear her voice. You talked for the next ten minutes before you told her you had to get off and take a shower. "My head got like, split open. The officers said it was superficial, but the Batman guy—"

Mar gasped on the other end, rattling off run-on sentences of questions. She was shocked that you'd had an encounter, and wanted to know every excruciating detail. "I've heard his voice is super intense, is it?"

"Mar, I'm sorry, my head is burning. I'll text you after the shower, okay?" Reluctantly she wished you good vibes in the shower and to make sure to message her before you went to sleep so she knew you didn't slip. "Again, I'm sorry for forcing you to come with me tonight."

The shower burned your scalp even when it was cold. You felt the sting of every individual water droplet, and tried your best to trust the policeman who said it was okay. After an excruciating shower that felt good everywhere but your scalp, you went to grab your iPad and tried to take photos of the back of your head in your mirror. It was barely effective, only so much so that you could tell it wasn't bleeding anymore. You gently wrapped your hair and head in a towel and laid back against the pillow, going onto Verizon's site and requesting a replacement phone after sending a quick "I'm fine!" text to Mar. You thanked your precious self for getting insurance on your phone so you could get it replaced for free. After selecting 2-day shipping on an iPhone 14, you took an edible and tried to relax.

And relax you did. The small dose that normally chilled you out affected you differently tonight, making your body light with giggles and warmth. Maybe you were so exhausted it was hitting harder. After all, the rush of adrenaline and cortisol that had hit your system tonight were off the charts. You had a brush with death. You tapped along on your iPad aimlessly, until going into your notes app and typing up a few mock questions for the Batman. It would be really cool to get an interview with him. No one has ever spoken to him before outside of the police chief, Gordon. And it seemed like he liked to keep it under wraps, as the rest of the squad didn't much appreciate him. How would I get to see him? You didn't have much more time to think before you passed out, falling into a deep, restful slumber.

You woke up in the late afternoon with drool all over your cheek. Without thinking you tried pulling the towel off your head and then winced at the pain. You'd almost forgotten about the day before.

After getting some food in, you resolved to learning more about this masked madman running around in the night. Did he only come out at night? Where was he spotted most often? You only got a direct answer to one question: yes, he only came out at night. After hours of meticulous google searches and forum scrolling, you learned only a few things:

1. He only came out when it was dark

2. He responded to a bat signal, which was loosely placed in the sky above where criminal activity was present

There were a few stalkers in the forums who dedicated many nights a month to chasing crime in Gotham, hoping to catch a candid shot of Batman at work. A few had succeeded, since there was so much crime here. But it was very hit or miss, and largely depended on chance. If you wanted to find him you would have to spend nights prowling around Gotham, which didn't seem like a great way for a woman in her twenties to stay safe. Then it struck you: a ride-along.

You walked down to the lobby to use their public phone to dial Gotham PD. An annoyed receptionist answered, his voice gruff. "Gotham police department, how can I help you?"

"Hi uh, my name is Y/N and I'm doing a journalism project at GU. Do you do ride-alongs?" You tried to keep your voice clear and strong, like you could handle it. The men in this town seemed to greatly underestimate women, and you didn't want them to deny you based on stereotypes.

"Sorry ma'am, you'll have to ask the chief." He stayed on the line, loudly snacking on something that sounded dry and crisp. You cleared your throat. "Can I be transferred to him?"

You swore to god you could hear him rolling his eyes on the other line. He did a loud chew and swallow before responding in the affirmative. "Stay on the line."

You waited, helplessly counting beeps as another tenant stood behind you waiting for their turn at the phone. The lobby was so quiet you could hear the clock strike each second, mocking you for losing your cell, each one more frustrating than the next. Just as you were about to call it quits and go make up some random topic, a man answered the phone. "Chief Gordon speaking."

"Oh hi," you stammered, twirling the phone line between your fingers. "I'm a student at GU and wondered if I could ride along sometime, I'm doing a journalism project —"

A loud sigh interrupted things. "Let me guess, you want to see him."

The apples of your cheeks turned bright red and prickling warmth traveled up your spine. "I—"

"Listen kid, you gotta stay out of trouble. A school project isn't worth this, I promise." His accent was thick and just further proved to you how much you stuck out in this city. Gordon hung up on you and you tried not to hang around, hastily handing the phone to the woman behind you as you made a beeline for the elevator. He can't just do this. You grew more frustrated with every syllable. The paper was still sitting fully unwritten with only a week and a half left until the end of the term. You needed answers. If they weren't gonna help you, you'd go out yourself.

You went to your iPad and searched for the Gotham police scanner. You remembered a few people from the forums had mentioned using it to help track him, but you had to be online the moment they said the address otherwise you'd never catch it. This is how the few people who caught sight of him had managed to do it — keeping constant nightly tabs on the city, drowning out their lives with the sound of Gotham PD, only going to sleep once the sun began to rise. You sat there for about an hour, restless, thumbing through socials to try to find any leads. There seemed to be a lot going on in town tonight, people posting videos of themselves in the club with every single one full. It was a Saturday night, of course. The people in the city didn't have anything to do on Sundays, it was informally known as 'hangover day'. You could tell who the Dropheads were, their pupils wrecked, slumped over getting an energy drink at the corner store the next morning. It seemed like a normal Saturday until the most peculiar code came up on the scanner.

"Chief, 10-79, 10-80. 10-87 Fischer and Stark." The line started buzzing with inactivity, and you scrambled to write it down. Fischer... Stark... you pulled it up on your map and saw it was a fifteen minute walk north of your apartment. But before heading there, you needed to know what the code meant. Google searches came up with 'bomb threat' and 'explosion', prompting you to swallow your nerves and get ready.

You grabbed your taser, rain boots, and a rain jacket. You rummaged around your junk drawer to find your old Apple watch to have in case of emergency, and you needed 911. It also had a voice recorder in case tonight went how it should. Thankfully it still held a charge, however meager, and you clasped it around your wrist.

The rain was nearly a monsoon tonight, with wind whacking you side to side. Once again, what was common in Gotham was new to you.

You knew how unsafe this was, but you really didn't care. You knew you should care, but you were too stubborn for your own good. A part of you wondered if you got into enough trouble, the Batman might swoop in as he did the night before. The air was chilly, even cutting through the supposedly 'windproof' jacket you bought last year to help you acclimate to the harsh weather. There was no way he wouldn't show up to a bomb threat, right? Especially if there had been an explosion? How important is this paper? It is really worth risking my life all to get to interview a random dude? But this wasn't just some random dude... this was the Batman. While many members of the public had seen him, no one had talked to him. You picked up the pace and started jogging, ignoring the dull throb of the back of your scalp. If you were able to score this interview... it would look so good on a resume. But besides the material things, a part of you was excessively excited at the prospect of getting to see a side of someone no one had seen before. To be let in like that... priceless.

Fateful Beginnings

V. “the interview”

parts: previous / next

plot: the interview does not go as you would have hoped.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, reference to sa (which did not end up happening), anger, arguing, blackmail

words: 2k

Flustered, you wandered down the hallway to see if it happened to lead to an exit. No, it couldn't be that easy. The exit was nowhere to be found, it just led to a men's room strangely situated in the corner. You checked in the camera of your phone to see if the tear streaks were really gone, and faked confidence as you walked through the foyer again. As you wandered past the refreshment table a familiar sound startled you. "Welcome in!" You didn't miss the cheekiness in his voice, whipping around with the first real grin you'd had in ages. It almost hurt your face to move those muscles again. "Rai!" He went in for a hug and you did a few minutes of chatting, nearly to the point of forgetting what was in store for you. He showed you which dishes he had brought, including a few from his deli, and helped you to a sample portion of each. He offered you more, but your hunger cues were fucked after the level of stress you'd been under this week. Bidding him regretful adieu, you went out the front steps trying to avoid the paparazzi. It was successful, as Bruce Wayne had walked through the throngs minutes earlier leaving many of them still hitchhiking back from a short car chase.

In what unfortunately closely resembled the alley from before, you swallowed back a rush of anxiety. The alley was deceptively long, leaving you ample time to form semi-coherent thoughts about what had just occurred. Bruce Wayne was the Batman? It didn't make sense. But it did. But it didn't. But it was true. Your mind caught fragments of thoughts as they flew by. He was an asshole. Kind of. Why did he save people? Why didn't he want to talk to the people he saved? How come he had never done an interview? Had no one really recognized him before, or had they all been murdered?

An unfamiliar car was parked behind the building. It looked like something your dad would have gawked at back home, something vintage or retro. It looked like an old Cadillac, with sandy beige paint and a brown leather interior. A note was pasted on the front seat which you read after opening the unlocked driver's side.

Park it at the side of the entrance, the first alley on the right before you enter the grounds. Turn the lights off before you make the turn.

Never having been to Wayne Tower before and having no clue how big the grounds were, you put it into Google Maps. You thanked god as you buckled that this wasn't a stick shift, and sped off through the alleys of Gotham. The last time you had driven a car had been before you transferred here, back in Washington, where you had free, open streets to roam for endless miles. Gritting your teeth with frustration you were still not yet free of this place, you hit the gas and hoped the directions weren't leading you to your demise.

The grounds were... massive. It was deceptive, and you had to circle around a few times before finding an alley. The tower faced the opposite side of the giant lawn, the alley thick with tree overhang. The car managed to slip right into it like a glove, just as you remembered to dim the lights. Hope that didn't fuck anything up. You were confused as you drove down it, wondering where the hell it led to until you noticed a pinprick of light in the distance. Another grin spread across your face as you floored it, zooming close to seventy, when a figure entered your vision in the middle of the street. You slammed on the brakes which were ridiculously responsive, nearly tipping the car over backwards with the velocity. Once the car settled you met the glaring eyes of the prince himself. Let's get this over with.

The paper flew out with the force of air from whipping the door open. Suspicion crept into your bones. "Hey, this was just, sitting there." You shouted. It twirled in the air between you. He just stared and shrugged. Irked, you continued. "If this is a secret entrance to your home, wouldn't you have been more discreet?"

"No one knows my handwriting. The car could have belonged to anyone." Bruce Wayne's voice was rough like sandpaper, far removed from warmth or allure. You bit back a retort about the car looking like it cost a hundred grand as you sulked past him toward an iron door. Either he was more arrogance than man or the average Gotham resident was dense as a rock. Shooting a look back at him you tried to rip the door open. It ripped at your shoulder instead and you cursed, fingers flying to massage the socket. He chuckled to himself and your cheeks burned with embarrassment. He stepped forward with unearned confidence and the door came open with ease. "It's fingerprint sensitive." He sneered. "But I did enjoy watching you try."

Dick, you thought. Just get the interview done. Get your questions answered so you can be rid of this rich asshole. You shut your eyes tightly every few steps to remind yourself that you would be gone in a week; in one single week you would have a diploma in-hand and be on a flight back home. To your room. Your family. Your friends... who hadn't kept in contact much since you'd left. A wince of pain curdled your stomach as you suppressed thoughts of your friendships only existing due to proximity. Was there anywhere you wouldn't be an outcast?

Before stepping in, you hesitated, and his footsteps stopped after a few steps for him to glare at you over his shoulder. "I don't have all night."

"Take off your coat." You demanded. His eyes narrowed. "What for?"

You crossed your arms. "I need to know if you're armed."

He groaned and took off his jacket, leaving him in just his suit. Still, he could have been hiding something... "Your suit jacket too." The anxiety was real; if he could hide the fact he was Batman, he could surely hide bodies.

"I don't have any weapons on me." His tone was ever so slightly softer, less jagged. It only served to make you more suspicious of him.

"I don't believe you." There was silence for a few beats. Then a huff.

"Do I have to do this too or you'll blackmail me for it?" You didn't say anything in response. He turned around and flashed the inside pockets of his suit, then spun and showed you the back. "You happy? I'm not taking it off."

"Fine. But if you kill me I'll have you know people will look for me. And I won't go down easy." You took off your heels and walked through the thick door; it shut automatically as you walked in. Bruce pressed forward.

"Couldn't imagine anything with you being easy." He grumbled.

The end of the hallway opened to a balmy, wet sort of garage. There was a long table in the center with a few computers and other gadgets, with various boxes and tech scattered across the cracked concrete floor. He walked over to the desk and moved papers from the one chair in view, pushing it toward you. "Fifteen minutes starts now."

You scoffed. "What happened to twenty?"

"What happened to leaving the event when I asked you to instead of dawdling?" His jaw was set tight and you ignored him, taking a slow walk to the chair. The only thing he had on you was making his snide comments—you had the real shit, the info you could leak at any second to massive scandal.

He leaned against his desk just a few feet in front of you, palm flat. You cleared your throat and tried to drum up some questions to make it seem you'd come prepared. You flicked the recorder to ON and cleared your throat. "Bruce, tell me—"

"It's Mr. Wayne." His voice loud, biting.

"Tell me about how you spend your free time." You completely ignored him, continuing on. He adjusted, his jaw locked together. He shoved his hand in his pant pocket. He didn't know how to answer it, and it angered him to be referred to so casually by you. He thought about how Alfred would answer that could fit Bruce Wayne. It was hard to pretend he cared about his answers enough to get his brain whirring. More pressing things were on his mind, like how someone in the public now knew his identity.

"I like to read historical fiction, engage in physical pursuits, and," he paused as his mind did. Stalk the criminals of the city, stop the criminals of the city, clean up Gotham's streets one by one...

"What type of 'physical pursuits', Bruce?" You chimed.

The tips of his ears turned red with frustration. "It's Mr. Wayne." He stared at you with narrowed eyes and tense muscles. Where did you get the right to... he walked away from the desk to stand closer to you. Curious fear shot into you as you noticed how densely he was built. You'd nearly fallen prey to the average Gothamite, no way you could fight off the vigilante himself. But... maybe you could kick him in the balls. He spoke through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"

Your eyes blinked with confusion. "What?"

His fists clenched and unclenched along with his jaw. "Your silence. What do you want?"

"I need to ask you more questions."

With a dramatic eye roll he leaned back against the desk. He signified his impatience with rapid tapping of his fingers. "I have a home gym. Cardio, weight training, endurance. Can't really just jog around the street."

"Women know the feeling." You felt his eyes on you but you ignored it. "Why don't you go in public more often? Surely your cardio and fiction don't take up every waking hour."

"Aren't these supposed to be questions, not judgements?"

You simply stared back at him with an empty gaze. Was this the first time he'd ever been challenged outside of the suit? You watched as he ran his hands through his hair and his chest caved from a deep exhale. He answered your next questions with robotic ease. Renewal fund things. Got a degree from Yale Law. Never pursued it due to waning interest. His favorite dish is... soup. Mulligatawny, to be exact. Whatever that was. Often vacations to Rio and Greece.

By the time you'd asked a meager handful of questions he was near imploding. You needed a question you could focus in on. "What's your stance on the masked vigilante, the Batman?"

His eyes shot to yours with a fierce glare and you gestured down to the voice recorder. God, he couldn't believe your audacity. "What is there to say?" He rose to pace slowly between the desk and wall. More specifically, he thought, what is there to say that can't be twisted in your paper? "This 'Batman'... he's a complicated figure. I don't like that he's interrupting with our justice department. Meddling. He's taken the law into his own hands. However..." a sharp breath. "He's not necessarily harming innocent civilians. I try not to think about him."

His presumptive comment elicited a snappy response. "So you think some people are deserving of harm? What about structural inequalities that force people to steal, intimidate,"

He interrupted you with biting tone. "And that gives them the right to steal from everyone else?"

"Okay Mr. Billionaire."

"No, really!" He turned to you with his hands on his hips which pushed his suit jacket behind him. His face was alight with frustrated curiosity as he strolled over. "Do tell me, Miss Journalist," he leaned down and with your faces on the same level you could feel the heat of his breath. His demeanor was darker now. "How that man in the alley was innocent."

Fateful Beginnings

VI. “dinner”

parts: previous / next

plot: after a sour interview attempt, you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, brief mention of sa (which did not transpire), anger, arguing, feeling helpless

words: 2.2k

You quickly remembered how furiously he beat up the man in the alley. Maybe the truth was more transparent than you'd realized; you saw the Batman edge to him so clearly now. Batman was in the way his jaw set, his stature as he walked closer to someone. The staccato of his pointed words and how they flowed so securely past his lips. You could see it in every flex of his muscles, the intensity of his gaze. You never wanted to be on the receiving end of his vitriol. For now, all you had was his frustration and annoyance. Better than being prey.

"Forcing your dick into a stranger isn't exactly getting anything meaningful, is it?" You bit back, running over the pattering in your chest. Bitterness stung your tongue as you watched him pull back and pace between the desk again. "I'm talking money. Assets. Opportunities. If people had everything they needed, they wouldn't pillage the streets trying to find a means of self-preservation—"

He cut you off as rage seeped into your voice. "You talk like you know from experience."

"I know I'm far closer to them than an out of touch rich kid." You turned the recorder to OFF. He looked at you with suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"This is pointless." You clenched fingers around the recorder and grabbed your phone from where it sat on the table. Anger was starting to overtake you listening to someone who had everything in life handed to him look down on those who had less lucky circumstances. "I'm not dealing with you. I'm leaving."

Quick, heavy footsteps came up behind you and he grabbed your elbow. You ripped it away from him and kept on down toward the iron door. "I'm leaving." As you walked you remembered you'd left your heels; you wanted to turn around, but kept forward. Heat flushed your cheeks when you reached the door that wouldn't open. Panic. Would he even let you out? Is this when the torturing began?

"Master Wayne?" A British man's voice filled the basement. A clank, the sound of metal, and then a stutter. "Who—”

You spun around to face a grey-haired, well-dressed man peering out from an open-plan elevator. He had a pair of spectacles in hand and a worried expression. Opening your mouth to speak proved futile when Bruce Wayne was always so ready and willing to answer. "She knows, Alfred." His tone was flat and to the point, if a bit terse. Worry melted to curiosity as he nodded at you. Was that a statement or a signal?

You did a small, annoyed wave. "I'm Y/N. Wanted to interview Gotham's elusive billionaire." You covered the words in as much sarcasm as humanly possible to mask your deepening anxiety. Did he know how to fight too?

"Pleasure to meet you, Y/N. How about staying for dinner?" You felt softer with the presence of this man in the room. Was this his father? They didn't look particularly alike... and why wouldn't Bruce Wayne have an accent if this was his parent? Hadn't his parents died while he was young? Maybe he was a caretaker of sorts? A cook? Maybe it was too naive, it was likely so supremely naive as to be moronic, but you felt the mood shift when this 'Alfred' walked in. A positive one. Bruce Wayne started to answer the dinner invite with a resounding hell no, which plastered a smile right on your face. "I'd love to!" You skipped over to retrieve your heels and sidled beside this Alfred in the elevator. Your heels ached and you wanted nothing more than to crash in your own bed. However, pissing off this asshole? And getting free food? You felt it the utmost priority to get under Bruce Wayne’s skin as much as possible. Maybe you could get more information for your paper while you were at it.

Alfred gave a come here motion for him to join you, and after a heavy scoff and eye-roll he slumped his way over. With a press of a button the doors closed and elevator shot up. To your right wafted a gentle scent of fresh musk; whoever he was, he even smelled fancy. To your right the smell of old clothes. Your eyes wandered to the stiffness of Bruce Wayne's suit; it looked like it hadn't ever been worn, and the musty scent lent that credibility. Clustered together in this small space with Alfred too, you got a bit more brave. Tested the waters. Wanted to see if your anxiety could be alleviated. You picked off a piece of lint that was on his shoulder; as soon as you touched him his head whipped toward yours, expression accosted. You suppressed a laugh. "Just some lint, Jesus."

The elevator stopped suddenly, forcing you to grab the bars as you stumbled forward. Him and Alfred walked easily as you stumbled behind them. You looked up to the massive staircase across the way, and noticed this elevator was placed adjacent to the kitchen in a dark hallway. The ceilings were impossibly tall with gothic arches and swirls in excess.

"I'm changing." Bruce Wayne walked unceremoniously out of the room and off somewhere in the gargantuan mansion at the first opportunity. Alfred showed you around the kitchen, handing you a heavy ceramic plate. Knowing them it could even be diamond. The house wasn't particularly well-lit; surprisingly for a wealthy family. Your mind immediately went to rich celebrities and their glistening homes. Gotham was so fucking weird.

Alfred winked at you as he got out two more plates. "Master Wayne can dish up himself, being how grumpy he's acted." You let out a small chuckle when the man himself silently appeared beside you, empty plate in-hand. He was suspiciously quick, and it looked weird outside of the suit. He smelled a bit better now, like a woody oak tree... and detergent. "Sorry, the prince has to dish himself." You crooned, handing him the ladle to the crockpot.

The sound of scraping dishes brought you back to meals with your mom and dad at the living room table. Homesickness enveloped you. How were they doing? They seemed excited to go to graduation; you hadn't seen them in nearly two years.

The scraping stopped. You watched carefully for the first fork to touch a tongue that wasn't yours. You made pleasant conversation until Bruce grew suspicious. He gestured to you. "Didn't you want to eat?"

Goosebumps riddled your thighs and you did your best to will them away from your arms and prying eyes. The house was so dark. You stumbled over some dumb excuse. "I always let the hosts eat first." It went over about as well as you thought it would with him.

"You think Alfred poisoned you?"

Shame did wheelies in your mind. It seemed a bit storybookish; come to the secret lair, have a final dinner before inevitable demise. The arches, the long table... it was all very reminiscent of something underground, something akin to holiness but more sinister. He stared at you when Alfred took a scoop from Bruce's bowl, and swallowed. You took a bite and instantly settled at how delicious it was. "Alfred, is this, uh, mulli—"

"Oh, yes! How did you know?" He was chipper, likely making up for his less kindly dinner partner. You told him how you'd asked what sort of cuisines Bruce was into—to which he shot another glare your way and the old man grinned.

You made sure to draw out the length of the dinner in spite of Bruce Wayne. He picked at his food, not eating, as you and Alfred prattled on about this, that, and oh, this other thing! It wasn't all a ruse, however; you thoroughly enjoyed Alfred as he seemed exceptionally kind and competent. Looking into his weathered face and hearing his posh accent took the burning sting of Bruce's presence away—which was another thing: he always had people refer to him with formalities, so you resigned to calling him Bruce.

"I'd like to leave, Alfred." Bruce spoke through grit teeth and pushed his plate toward the center of the table in protest. If he had been a bit more animated, it might have looked like he was throwing a tantrum. You didn't bother to hide the grin twitching your lips because you knew he'd hate that, too. It was as if nothing mattered more than getting under his skin. The bickering was peaceful, really.

Alfred wasn't having it. As far as he could tell you were being a perfectly pleasant guest, and it befuddled him why Bruce was behaving that way. He’d put a few pieces together down in the batcave, given Bruce’s unceremonious announcement that you knew about Batman, but why would he be so cold? He had always told the boy it would happen eventually, and you didn’t seem to be a particularly malignant presence.

You'd notice a glare being shot from him to Bruce after he made a snide comment or a face to something you had said, which only made you add another cherry to the pile. It wasn't like Bruce was completely in the right; in fact, he had poked at you equally as much. His transgressions were more passive, less perceptible. A judging twitch of the eyebrow, a squint, an eye-roll. It was his house and he knew he wouldn't be kicked out for acting up, so he didn't bother watching himself.

You frustrated him. Your voice was grating, your chipper demeanor nearly making him gag. But. There was something more. He truly could have gotten up at any time, as Alfred was still under his payroll. Alfred had little say in how Bruce behaved at the end of the day, and he knew he could have stormed off to his bedroom without (much) consequence. You felt like an itch he couldn't scratch. You weren't dismissible, no, but that was due to how uniquely you frustrated him. It made him feel like bees swarming in his mind, thoughts scattered, body constantly teetering off the edge. A thorn he couldn't get out of his side... for some reason. The very fact that he could not pin down a sure one sent his frustration past manageability. You knew he was Batman and you were blackmailing him for it, but that was what anyone else would have done in that situation. Why was your personality so infuriating? Like a knife slipping under his fingernails?

ZZZ ZZ. ZZZ ZZ. ZZZ ZZ. Your phone buzzed and Alfred took his cell out of his breast pocket. You opened your phone to an emergency alert. FLASH FLOOD WARNING FOR GOTHAM METRO AREA. SEVERITY: MODERATE THREAT TO LIFE AND PROPERTY. STAY INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Bruce's brows knit together again, much as they did at city hall. "What? What's the alert?"

Alfred spoke first. "It seems there's a... flash flood warning for our area. It says to stay indoors until further notice." You hadn't noticed the sound of the torrential rainpour until you really focused in on it. There were light pattering sounds far above with the terrifically high ceilings, though very steady and consistent. If it were in your apartment you wouldn't have been able to sleep in that damn cube. Wait. Sleep. You started typing into your phone the Gotham City website, and there was a red banner posted 12 seconds ago scrolling through bolded words in white. You read them aloud.

"It says on the city website to... expect delays for up to 72 hours?!" You couldn't hide the shock in your voice. Alfred immediately turned to Bruce who got up and slammed himself out of the chair. "Great. Just great." His annoyance ricocheted off the entryway walls, his hands fists at his side. Shit. Shit shit. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. "Wait, my paper! It's,"

"It's alright dear. I'll make you a bed in a spare room down the hall from me. I have a laptop too, if your professor still expects you to turn it in during a monsoon." Alfred tried to laugh but you weren't in the mood, your heart pounding against its cage as you sobered at the thought of having to be around Bruce for more than another hour.

"Master Wayne, you'll give a tour to Miss Y/N while I draw up a room."

"Are you kidding me?" You couldn't see him but the frustration in his tone was different now. It felt... inescapable, which made the terror more palpable. You had just blackmailed the most infamous vigilante in the world. And now you were stuck in his house. Fuck. Karma.

Fateful Beginnings

VII. “peaches”

parts: previous / next

plot: after an awkward first night in Wayne Manor, the morning brings another unfortunate situation.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, struggling to breathe, tension

words: 2.9k

The house tour was as bitter as you anticipated. You followed in tow, his shoulders slumped as he gestured from room to room. You were beginning to get winded going up all the stairs and across the so, so expansive floors. You reached a room with double doors and a heavy lock. He glanced at you from over his shoulder, the first time he'd looked back in fifteen minutes.

"This is my parent's room." He spoke it like he was frozen in time, like any heat from his voice would blow the room from existence. And then you stood in silence. He didn't know if he should leave, and you didn't have anywhere to leave to. Alfred was taking his sweet time, and a part of you wondered if he weren't hiding in the shadowy corners of the house to try and get you two to bond. You hoped Alfred didn't have it out for you that bad.

Bruce didn't look at you as he walked down the wide, open hallway toward his room, but he stopped at the doorway. He didn't want to leave you alone, but he didn't want you to be here. Why was he so worried about being polite? Why did he owe you anything? He'd saved you in that alley and how did you repay him? With blackmail?

Him standing with his back to you in the hallway made you uneasy. You wanted to blame him for how unwelcoming he had been but... again, you'd forced your way in. It was nice enough they weren't throwing you out to take your chances on the flood waters. If it weren't for Alfred, maybe he would.

You stood there like that for a moment. Together in the moment but as far away from each other as possible. The house was disturbingly quiet. You hated that, and hoped you'd be able to sleep. Alfred saved you a minute later, motioning for you to follow him up one more stairwell and to the right. You were going to be sleeping in the room just above Bruce's.

The room was understated compared to the rest of the house. White walls (surprising with the gothic architecture), pale linen sheets, a floral comforter, and a laptop and phone charger sitting atop a particularly plump pillow. He had lit a candle in the corner, likely covering up whatever musk was natural to the space. There was a small lamp on top a side table where Alfred has graciously placed two bottles of water and a granola bar. Alongside it, a note: In case of a midnight snack. Feel free to go to the kitchen however often you please. You felt like you were at a hotel. And... how did Bruce live with someone so charming and remain so hostile?

You opened the laptop and mindlessly typed away on a new document. It turned a bit more into a journal without your conscious intent.

I'm stuck here with asshole Bruce Wayne. Maybe Bruce Wayne isn't an asshole though, maybe I'm the asshole. I blackmailed him. Kinda. I don't know. Alfred is nice. It's weird to call someone so old by their first name, but he's kindly enough. These sheets are kinda rough. I'm so tired. I don't want to sleep. But I do. But I have this paper. Ugh. I hope Bruce doesn't beat me up. Or kill me.

As sleepiness struck your eyes you did a quick YouTube search of how to check for cameras in a hotel room. The next fifteen minutes consisted of moving every single lamp, mirror, book, and looking into every lightbulb with a flashlight. You even tried a Bluetooth finder app, and nothing came up. It calmed you a bit that they weren't used to having guests, so they probably never thought about spying.

After half an hour of tossing and turning you realized you had to go to the restroom. You searched your thoughts for any memory of him mentioning any bathrooms. Jesus, did they even have any? You threw the covers off and padded across the cool marble flooring out into the hallway. There were no sounds aside from the occasional tick of a grandfather clock at the head of the grand staircase. Christ. It was downright terrifying being out here. How did Alfred not go crazy? You understood how Bruce lived here—it was probably why he was so grumpy.

You heard the sound of water coming from somewhere and wandered down to its origin—Bruce's room. Ear pressed to the door you heard the sound of a shower. Did he have the only bathroom in this place? Scurrying away from his room so as not to disrupt the prince in the dead of night, you opened every door on his floor to no avail (aside from his parent's, which you couldn't open even if you wanted to). You thought about running outside to pee in some random bush, then remembered the flooding. The house was so large you had entirely forgotten about it; storms didn't intimidate it.

After what felt like hours wandering around, you could barely hold it. You were gonna have to go back to his room. Ugh. You jogged up the stairs trying to be light on your feet as you thought you'd pee yourself. You lightly knocked, fear freezing you. It was late. You should have just gone to Alfred. Bruce would be pissed. No one was up right now, he could fuck you up in just a second... the door opened and you flinched away from it. You peered over at him standing shirtless in his doorway. He didn't look the least bit tired, which was confusing until you remembered he was fucking Batman. "Um. I need to use your restroom."

He stared at you like you were the strangest thing he'd ever seen and that was the strangest thing he'd ever heard. He gestured across the hall. "What about that one?"

You followed his gaze and saw a room behind one of the staircase pillars, covered in shadows. You wanted to bite back and tell him he hadn't shown you any bathroom during the house tour, but you had to pee SO badly. You rushed there as quickly as possible, trying not to think about how he was probably laughing at you hobbling around in the dark. The bathroom was surprisingly normal and bright, nothing much of note--as if you had any time to dawdle and inspect it in your fervor.

Once back in the bedroom assigned to you, you plucked around on your computer completely unable to sleep. You wrote random sentences about Bruce Wayne, trying to remember his answers as much as possible. You mused over whether or not Dr. Vry would want exact quotes, or if paraphrase would suffice... as you typed along blindly, you realized you would have to use exact quotes or no one would believe you. You went to reach for the water on your bedside and your fingers tripped on the voice recorder you'd forgotten about. The next hour was spent poring over the audio, replaying his snarky comments to you and his biting tone at you calling him Bruce.

"Sorry, I kept hearing my name called."

You woke up with a startle, your eyes going first to the strange ceiling, then the unfamiliar walls, finally to a tall, dark-haired man in the doorway. You wiped away sleep with your palms, slowly becoming aware of the looping interview too loud for comfort. You'd been asleep that long? Embarrassed, you fumbled around your blankets to find it, quickly silencing the offending speaker. Bruce was already turned around and headed out the door, and you threw the first words out of your mouth to try and regain some of your confidence. "I was up late working on my paper," You shouted once more. "I must've fallen asleep with it on."

He stilled briefly in the hall but didn't turn back around, striding down the hall as he said words you barely made out. "I think Alfred's made breakfast, anyway." It wasn't the most welcoming invitation--in fact, you could hardly call it one at all. He acted like a child forced to go wake up an annoying younger sibling, but you hardly cared with the grumbling in your stomach.

Sure enough, as you bounded down the stairs you smelled... breakfast. Eggs, bacon, waffles or pancakes? and hashbrowns, maple syrup, and... fresh baked bread. You peeked around the corner to see Bruce packing scrambled eggs onto his plate, and stood there waiting until he took his seat at the table. You didn't want to interact with him again; you were tired, and the idea of getting into an argument this early bummed you out. Still in yesterday's clothes, with dirty hair and no shoes besides heels, you felt disgraceful as you entered the kitchen. You smiled and thanked Alfred for preparing the food, all but rushing to the pancakes and hashbrowns. As you sat, Bruce stared down at his plate, all but scarfing down the food. He seemed to want to get out of there as quickly as possible, with no intention of making conversation.

You enjoyed your hashbrowns first, the crispy warmth helping you feel a bit more held in the cold, dingy tower. It was when Bruce was starting to get up to place his dish in the sink when you decided to dig into the pancakes. After the first bite you noticed a bit of tang; your brow furrowed and you set down your fork, taking great effort to slowly, yet successfully swallow. You let out a particularly hefty cough, which caught the attention of both men. You started sipping  water quickly, trying not to show your desperation. "Are you alright, Miss?" Alfred's soft lulling voice leaned closer to you. You blinked furiously, anxiety causing you to grip the bottom of the chair firmly. Your voice was higher and softer now as your throat swelled. "Is there, anything in the, I can't, peaches," you dove for the water again as it became harder and harder to speak. If you were at home you could have grabbed the Benadryl and this would be done with in about five minutes. Alfred's eyes widened. "Oh my god, my apologies, I used peaches to sweeten the mix." He rose quickly and bolted across the kitchen.

Bruce took a few steps toward you, eyes locked to above your shoulders, scanning your face, lips, throat. "Is something stuck?" He strode over to you and leaned in front of your face, listening to your breathing. It was becoming increasingly labored, but he trusted you shaking your head. You'd spoken, so you weren't choking. "How serious is it, do we, like, is there medicine here we can...?" He'd never seen anyone have an allergic reaction before. He knew people had died from it, but he also heard Alfred casually refer to his 'allergies' in the warmer months. Bruce thought about how they could possibly get you to the hospital, mapping ten different routes in his head trying to think how he could circumvent the flooding. Would the hospitals even be open? They had to be, right? But he'd tried to go out as Batman the night before and the streets had been rushing like a river with floodwater and sewage. He hadn't been able to make it down the last few steps in fear of being swept away.

"Jesus," He heard Alfred mutter. He rushed over clutching a faded bottle of medicine that looked at least a decade old. "I have this old children's Benadryl, we can give this a try." Alfred dosed out something and Bruce stared firmly at you as you anxiously sipped at water, struggling not to panic, feeling like you were breathing through nothing more than a straw. Even more than a droplet of water going down at once blocked your airway for a few seconds. Alfred handed you a small cup with purple-pink liquid, and you sipped it slowly, choking on the first few due to the thick consistency. Only four sips in, well more than half of the dose left, you put your elbows on the table and your head in your hands as your breathing rattled. "I can't breathe I can't breathe," you whined, fearful, hot tears pricking your eyes and streaming down your cold, clammy cheeks. Everything besides panic eluded you as you became hyperaware of your body.

Bruce was frustrated. Just drink the damn liquid. He stared for a few more seconds as your rattled, raspy breaths became increasingly shallow and grabbed your water, filling the rest of the small cup and using his finger to mix the two to make a thinner consistency. A gentle hand under your chin tilted it up and the cup was placed against your lips. "Drink." His voice was firm and encouraging. You shut your eyes, focusing on getting it into your system as quickly as possible as he slowly tipped the medicine in. You felt him tip further and further, and soon you swallowed the last of it.

Alfred couldn't help but stand back and watch him. Bruce's eyes were so trained on you, and his softness was surprising. It was what he'd done half a decade prior, back when Alfred had broken a few ribs falling down the main stairway. It was moments like these where he suspected Batman was more than just filling a role or continuing a legacy. He was suited for it. Compassion came more naturally to Bruce than he let on; he didn't miss the small sigh that escaped him when you'd swallowed the last bit of medicine.

You sat and heaved against the table, struggling to catch your breath as your throat flames began to calm—slowly, much too slowly, but your risk of asphyxiating was rapidly decreasing. As your breathing deepened Alfred let out a large sigh, setting the old bottle on the counter. "Thank god, this is from when you were a boy, Bruce.”

Sleepiness started to lull you, further proving the efficacy of the medicine. Bruce didn't look over at Alfred, still focused intently on your face for signs of distress.

You stood up slowly, after about a minute of silence as you grew more confident your throat wasn't swelling anymore. The post-Benadryl grogginess was amplified by your lack of sleep, and you excused yourself up to your room. You walked up a flight, took a right, and barely made it to bed before your eyes shut and you fell into deep, restorative slumber.

Bruce stayed downstairs to help Alfred put away breakfast. Alfred was distraught, muttering to himself self-flagellations about not checking for allergies. He excused himself from the old man's lamenting and said he was going to check on you. He jogged up the marble flights and stopped at the foot of your door with his hand hovered above your doorknob. Was this creepy? He didn't think so, but he didn't really have much experience with how a stranger would feel in this situation; it was only ever him and Alfred. Ultimately he decided it would be worse if you died in your sleep than felt embarrassed, opening your door to an empty room. His brow furrowed.

He padded down the stairs with suspicion that only intensified when he noticed his door was ajar. He lightly pushed it open to see you passed out on your side in the middle of his unmade bed. He bristled at the image, feeling deeply unsettled and vaguely nauseous. He turned to jog down the stairs and find some respite in one of the downstairs offices, but Alfred briefly interrupted as he head up the stairs. Alfred's gaze looked fleetingly toward Bruce's door, and he saw Y/N lying there. "Bruce." He chastised. "You better not be mad at the poor girl,"

He shook his head and nearly tripped trying to get down the stairs as quickly as possible. Alfred stayed on the same floor as you to check on your breathing every hour. After the third successful check, he wandered down to find Bruce in the basement tinkering on his motorcycle. He spoke as soon as he entered. "I'm serious about what I said, Bruce."

Bruce didn't hesitate. "It's just a bed. Nothing to be angry about." He continued messing with a janky wheel from turning too sharply the week before.

"I just figured with the way you've been acting toward her,"

"Like someone who blackmailed me?" He interrupted Alfred and pushed himself up to stare at the old man. He threw his hands in the air. "She's writing an exposé on me."

"Her? Why?" Alfred was dumbfounded, she'd seemed a bit sarcastic but nonetheless respectful. Why would you want to write a paper for school on Bruce? "Did you do something to her?"

Bruce shot a cold look his way. "Are you serious?" He shook his head and stormed to the elevator, hastily pressing UP. "I'll be in the kitchen cleaning up until she wakes."

Fateful Beginnings

VIII. “as the rain settles”

parts: previous / next

plot: you wake up in Bruce Wayne’s bed and fear the worst. alfred and you share a tender moment after crushing news.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of drugging/assault, mention of cancer, description of wounds/pain

words: 4k

a/n: i hope the formatting on here is okay! i’ve really enjoyed posting these for you all, tell me how you like it so far in the comments! ✨

You woke up feeling sweaty and disoriented, peeling your cheek off the slobbery sheet. The room was so dark and you fell back against a pillow. Is this my apartment? Why are the lights off? You wondered aloud why you felt so bad. Your head pounded and your throat felt sore... you started and bolted up out of bed. You looked around, frantic, and noticed this wasn't your room, this wasn't even your building; this was Bruce Wayne's fucking room. "Fuck, fuck," you peeked outside the slightly open door and saw no one standing in the small sliver of the hallway you could see. You psyched yourself up for leaving, wondering why the hell you had ended up in here. Your mind was fuzzy, memories blurred, and you couldn't think while covered in his smell. You didn't even have your phone on you, what the hell had happened?

Padding out the door you tried rushing to the stairs but noticed Bruce stepping down them. You stopped in your tracks, noticing how... sweaty he looked. You narrowed your eyes at him and took a step back as you both stared at each other. You squeezed your eyes shut and spit out the words swirling in your mind. "Did we, um,"

"What?"

"I woke up in your bed,"

"Do you not remember?"

Your mouth went dry and you felt a white hot rod of anxiety rush through you. "Oh fuck," You threw your hands over your face and shook your head, shocked. He must have drugged you, that was why you didn't remember! He had drugged you and then used you, he'd gotten revenge, finally, and—

"What? You had an allergic reaction." His incredulous tone reverberated off the stairs. "Alfred put peaches in the food. You took some allergy meds and then went up to my room and crashed."

"So we,"

"Why would we?"

You stood there like that as you struggled to trust him. He had known about the peach allergy, which he wouldn't have known unless you'd had a reaction. Or he pulled your hospital records. But your throat hurt like it did after a reaction; you didn't remember much and were exhausted, which was customary for taking Benadryl. You resigned to trusting him and vowed to verify it with Alfred later; right now, you needed to get back to your room.

You were halfway up the stairs before you remembered you'd drooled all over his sheets, and he'd walk into a massive wet spot. Oh god. What if he thought it was pee? You hurried down the stairs and to his doorway. He turned and glared at you. "What?"

"I'm uh, that's drool. Not pee." You felt yourself blush with embarrassment. He looked from you to his bed and then to the floor. He mumbled something about it being fine, and getting new sheets, but you didn't stick around. Unable to tolerate the embarrassment you rushed back to your room and slammed the door shut. You stayed there panting a few beats before settling on the edge of your bed. Opening your phone made your mouth do the same. It was late afternoon now, and you had to turn the paper in by the next morning.

You nearly tossed your phone to the other side of the bed until you noticed three missed calls from your father. Worried, you furiously tried to call back until the BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP of the 'disconnected' tone threatened to send you into psychosis. then, a text popped up from your dad: Hi hunny. Your mother and I had to cancel our flight to graduation. We tried to call you but we heard Gotham was flooding. Are you safe?

You texted back. Yes, I'm safe. Why did you cancel? Your heart raced as you saw the text bubbles pop up and fall back again. Up and back. Up and back. What on earth was he trying to say? You shut your laptop and stared at the bubble until it paused, and a longer message was sent. We didn't want to text you this, but it's good you know as soon as possible. Your mother's scan came back today and her cancer is back. We need to save as much money as we can for her chemo copayments. We're sorry hunny.

Before tears could overflow you rushed words out onto the phone. How bad is it this time? And that's okay. I didn't want to walk really anyway. I'll get a flight back home ASAP.

More waiting, and more tears welling up in your eyes. You crossed your legs and rocked back and forth in bed to try and soothe yourself but to no avail. About a minute later a text came through from him. Worse than last time. They're doing a lottery for a new clinical trial and your mother is very interested in it. In the meantime, her first chemo appointment is tomorrow afternoon.

You thanked your dad for letting you know, turned your phone off, and began to sob. Your mother had bladder cancer, and if it was worse than last time... you shuddered at the thought, your bones rattling. She'd had localized cancer—if it was worse, how much worse was it? Your breathing became labored and fast, and before you knew it you were dry-heaving off the edge of the bed, your knuckles white as they gripped and tore at the comforter. A gentle knock interrupted your cries and you quickly wiped your face with your sleeve. It was Alfred.

"Miss Y/N? I thought I heard tears." The gentleness in his voice made you stifle more sobs and you trembled as you sat back in bed, putting your head in your hands. He stood there while you quietly sobbed for another moment before he walked over and crouched down beside you. "I can talk to Bruce if he said anything to upset you. He hasn't been welcoming. I'm sorry." You shook your head so fast you saw stars. "No, no," you wiped your face again with your sleeve. "Uh," Your voice shook which nearly sent you over the edge again. What if she can't handle chemo? It was so hard on her last time. They almost sold the house. How am I going to afford to help them? At least I don't have debt. Is she okay? I wonder how she's feeling. Your mind reeled, running in every which direction. What if she dies?? What if she dies?? What if I spent some of the last days of hers holed up in this fucking prison cell?  You looked to see Alfred peering worriedly and the truth spilled out of you. For the next ten minutes, he proved a diligent, empathic listener as you explained the text you'd just received. You explained how hard it was to see your mother like that, and how worried you were. It ended with a question of when the storm might possibly let up so you could be taken back to your apartment. Alfred explained they were expecting to unclog the city drains in the early hours of the morning, and he could drive you back home at that point.

"Would you like to work in my study with me this evening? I have a lovely desk that hasn't had enough attention lately." You gravitated to his warmth in the cold house and agreed, following him with his laptop in tow right across the hall. His office was just as dark and gothic as the rest of the house, but with some trinkets and cleverly placed paintings to bring in a sense of light. You made yourself comfortable in the firm cushion of a squeaky chair, the weighty desk intimidating past what you thought was Alfred's style. He arrived a few minutes later with some snacks for the both of you, just as you were starting to draw up an outline. He immediately asked a question which nearly had you rolling your eyes and thinking about going back to your room.

"So." He sat the plates between the both of you, gesturing for you to take as you pleased. He sat in an armchair across the room, next to a brightly rolling fireplace. "What's this between you and Master Wayne?"

You stiffened at the question, knowing you were in the wrong. If you were honest, would your safety be jeopardized? If you were dishonest, would he pick up on that and pester you further? You absently typed away on the keyboard for a moment, deep in thought. With a squinted expression you looked up. "I'm writing a paper on him. Or, I was." You looked at the page which had DAD-DRAFT in centered bold. An idea had popped into your mind the moment Alfred had left, after waking up in Bruce's bed and feeling the weight of your burdensome presence. You'd decided to pretend to have interviewed your dad about his journey around the US with Bon Jovi—he'd told you the story a thousand times, which would prove easy enough to zone out with and bust out a paper in one night. It wasn’t quite the perfect fit for the topic, but it would be enough to get you a passing grade.

Alfred matched your expression. "Was? You're no longer writing the exposé on him?"

Surprise caught you like a firecracker exploding. Was this a trap? Had he and Bruce talked about it, and now you were sitting eating poisoned food? He followed your worried stare at the plate in front of you and sighed. "Miss. I'm not going to poison you." Ugh. He was as introspective as his employer. Your eyes cast downward with a tinge of shame. Didn't even really know the poor guy but you felt bad about hurting his feelings. Maybe it was because he was old and had kind eyes. "I uh," You stammered your way through a rough detail of the past week. Of meeting Batman in the alley, of trying to interview him, of realizing at the event from just his eyes that it was him, and how annoying Bruce was. You made sure to emphasize that point in the retelling to soften the impact of blatantly blackmailing the guy. Alfred sat for a moment with a soft nod of his head, staring off into space. You rushed out the next sentence. "But I'm not going to actually do it on him, though. It doesn't feel right." Your heartbeat thundered, churning out the rest of your words as anxious promises, everything spilling out all at once as if you were at confession kneeling before a priest. "I only said it because I was angry, I know it's wrong, I know he helps people, I promise I won't ever tell anyone, that would put so many people's lives in jeopardy,"

"Hey, hey," Alfred rose and walked to the side of his desk where you sat with your head in your hands. You didn't want to look at him. You didn't want to know if he believed you or not. It didn't matter. As much of a front as you had put up the last day and a half, you didn't truly believe any of it. Alfred spoke and you only caught the edges of his sentences. "I believe you", "don't worry" were among the snagging phrases that lulled you back to the moment. Your lip was trembling in unison with the tears about to spill over your lash line when you looked up at him. He took a few short steps and opened his arms for a hug which you dove into. This time you were tuned into every word he spoke, like you were a little kid again. "Don't you worry about it, Miss." His hug was firm and assuring. "You did what you thought you needed to do in a scary moment. That secret of his was all you had. He's Bruce Wayne! The Batman! If I hadn't raised him from such a young age I might have been intimidated by him as well."

You moved out of the hug to wipe your eyes on your arm. His words were calming you, helping you realize he believed what you were saying and it wasn't so wrong. You had been terrified of what he might do. You had been scared, jumpy, intimidated. And he had been intimidating. You both transitioned into your individual activities; Alfred reading some supremely old-looking book (which you'd joked about looking like a first-edition Bible), you typing furiously to fill the many empty pages before you. For the next few hours it was much the same, a little snacking, a little chit-chat. You wanted to ask him more questions about Bruce, about why he was the way he was, and about why Alfred stuck around. You kicked yourself for not writing about this topic earlier, for not having the time to fulfill your curiosities and academics. Around ten in the evening Alfred yawned and checked his watch. The sound startled you, deep into the tenth page of your paper. As you were brought back to the present moment you were reminded of your mom, of your dirty clothes, of being stuck in a house in a city you hated; it was late, and life was getting to you. Sleepy Alfred, however, was less perceptive and didn't comment on it. He rose from his chair and gestured to his laptop. "You can stay in here and work as long as you need. I, however, am going to take advantage of quite possibly the one night all year that Batman can't make an appearance and go to sleep."

You nodded and thanked him, wishing you could pick his brain but resolved to finishing your last assignment. Before he left the room, however, you remembered to ask him about being in Bruce's room. "Alfred? About earlier,"

Alfred looked down and shook his head. "Oh Miss, I'm so sorry. I didn't know whether to bring it up. Are you feeling any better?"

So it had been true, what Bruce had said? "No it's okay, peaches are delicious. You couldn't have known." You paused and drew in a breath. "When I woke up I didn't remember what happened. Mr. Wayne had to tell me what happened." It felt weird to use his first name in the presence of Alfred, who most notably referred to him in only the fanciest of ways. A grin slipped onto his face, and you could've sworn his eyes sparkled. "Did Master Wayne also tell you how worried he was?"

The laptop, which you were fiddling with, clunked back onto the table with a loud SNAP. "Worried? Him?" He let out a soft chuckle in response. "He doesn't like to show it, but compassion comes easily to him. I wish he'd embrace his sensitivities more but, alas." He smiled and stood in the hallway for a beat. "Have a good night, Miss Y/N."

You sat for a moment. Him, concerned? About you? About anything other than himself? Perhaps Alfred was being his typical kindred self, painting Bruce in the most positive light. Maybe he glanced over at you while you choked and Alfred interpreted it as a gesture of kindness.

It took a few minutes to orient back to your paper, but you gave yourself a pep talk. As soon as this is turned in, that's it. Graduation. Last assignment. That's all. Focus. The next few hours, then, were spent slamming out your paper without so much as a minute's break. You even closed your eyes and let your fingers do all the work, hearing your dad's dramatic retelling like a script. And then a reporter stopped me. They thought I was a new member of the band we were hanging out so much! All because I went to that one concert. I didn't even care about going! But the tickets were so expensive and my sister didn't want to let them go to waste. Man, the trouble we used to get into! If you weren't so buzzed from your half-day nap earlier you might have fallen asleep.

By four in the morning, you'd just hit the page minimum and began formatting; relief poured over you, drenching you in euphoria just as you heard a heavy thud come from the entryway. Alfred was in his room nearby, but you heard the soft lullaby of classical music wafting out from under his door. He was fast asleep, but he was your best bet for safety. You slunk to the doorway and paused, listening as footsteps thudded and the sound of groans filled the house. Your brow furrowed when the man called out: "Alfred," It was Bruce.

You crept out to the stairwell to look over at the foyer, shocked to see him in his full suit, struggling to get his cowl off. "Alfred, I need stitches," His breathing was ragged and he fell against the wooden newel to the right of the first stair. "Alfred,"

It was so weird seeing him this way. You hadn't seen him yet in the suit knowing his identity. Timid. You felt timid. Even in the massive hallway he was filling the space—larger than life. You went to knock on Alfred's door but Bruce noticed you. "Is Alfred up?" His tone quickly steadied and you turned to see him standing mostly upright, holding in a wince. "Never mind, don't wake him. I'm good."

You couldn't decide whether to laugh or scoff. He was being so stubborn it staved off the sense of impending doom. "Bullshit." You countered. Even from far below you could see him glowering at you. He repeated himself. "I said I'm fine."

You crossed your arms and stared him down. Was he really trying to act all tough? Now that he was in the presence of a woman? Was he really that insecure? You decided to test him, and gestured up the stairs. "If you're fine then walk up the stairs." It would be nice to watch him eat his words.

"I don't need to do anything," he hissed back at you, pain breaking through his crafted stoicism.

"If you don't walk up them yourself I'm getting Alfred."

His glare intensified to intimidating ferocity, and you bit back the anxiety that lurched in your stomach. This is why everyone left him alone. He was good at getting people to stay away, even if it was out of fear. He took one step up on his left leg and winced terribly--you almost winced in sympathy as he struggled up the next two steps before thudding onto his hands and knees. Instinctually you walked down to help, but he snapped at you. "I don't need your help." He tried to rise again but thudded hard against the stairs. You gave him a once-over and noticed he left a trail of blood from the door to his left leg. His face was looking a bit pale and sweaty. You anxiously tucked your hair behind your ears and walked down to Bruce, too busy groaning in pain to see you. When he noticed your shoes in his periphery, he balked. "I don't need help,"

"I swear to god it's me or Alfred."

"Fine." He grumbled, shifting to his back and elevating his leg on a bottom stair. He gestured with his head to a closet by the door. "There's a medical kit in that closet. I need it."

You hopped down the stairs, grateful to be using your legs again after spending the last ten hours stuck to a desk chair writing twenty pages of Dad Talk. You clung to the side rail as you got closer to the bottom stairs, noticing piles of water and mud he'd tracked in. You avoided each other's gaze as you bolted past him to the entryway closet. Settled plainly on a center rack was a bright red duffel with white lettering: FIRST AID. You turned and shut the closet door just as Bruce peeled off his boot to reveal a massive slice in his calf. The bag nearly fell out of your hands with a gasp. "Oh my god,"

"Wound spray. Now." He grit his teeth and you walked over with the spray can in hand, almost tripping. It looked like it was something from the battlefield in the late 1800s, rusted like it too. Was it even safe to use? "Spray it. Six inches away."

"Are you sure—"

"Just do it."

You pressed hard on the nozzle and a bunch of clear liquid spurted out, causing an eruption of pain from Bruce. "Fuck," he panted, throwing his head back. You winced as he clutched his knee right above the gash. "Jesus christ,"

Your limbs were tingling with adrenaline. That looked serious. "What now?"

"Wound sealer. Give it to me." You rifled through the haphazard medical bag until you saw WOUND SEALER in a plain white tube. He nodded for him to take it, and you handed it over. "Press my wound together."

"What? How do I—"

"Here." He grabbed your hands and put fingers from each hand on either side of the wound, pushing it together like tectonic plates. "Hold it just like that." You heard a ripping sound and then he leaned in, pasting the liquid along the rough seam. Almost like magic you felt the tension of the skin release from underneath your fingers, sewing him up in a matter of seconds. "Holy shit," you let your hands off his skin as the bleeding completely stopped. He let himself relax back against the stair and settle his breathing. With his eyes shut you could get a better look at him—how had no one noticed who he was before? He had the same facial structure, build, and teeth. Maybe people in Gotham didn't pay much attention to things like that? Maybe you'd just... you didn't know. You didn't know what made less sense: that he hadn't been found out before, or that you had noticed it immediately.

"Thanks." His voice was gruff but less strained now. The only sound was the drops of rain still falling from his suit to the marble, and the faint emanation of strings from upstairs. You didn't know how to respond to him when he was being normal, so you didn't. You put away the bag while he wrestled off his cowl, and you were already up three stairs before he spoke again. "How's your head doing?"

Head? "Uh, I had an allergic reaction,"

He laughed under his breath and it was like a needle in your spine. "No, I mean your head wound. From last week."

Last week... thumbing through your thoughts was hazy around him. He took up too much space. You moved your hand through your hair and felt the painful snag of a scab. Oh shit. The alley. Sheepishly you turned to face him. "Uh, good. Fine."

Your eyes met briefly, long enough for him to nod at you and look away. He was wanting to say something like I'm glad, but it didn't roll off his tongue as he thought it would. He didn't like being half inside the suit in front of you, it was disorienting. Luckily you made another smart comment.

"So you have Alfred babysit you every night?"

A glare settled naturally on his face. Every time he even thought about saying something nice, you barged in with your intrusive, abrasive self. "Believe me, I've tried to get him to stop. He doesn't listen."

"He's probably just worried about you."

Fateful Beginnings

X. “discernment”

parts: previous / next

plot: back in your respective hometowns, you navigate a sudden shift in family finances. Bruce Wayne contemplates an identity shift.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, health issues, chemotherapy, debt, substance use

words: 3.1k

a/n: i feel like this chapter is kinda the end of the setup. i’ve had a lot of fun subverting expectations of Batman’s identity usually being kept secret, and seeing how that impacts the story to have it be known so immediately. ahhh i’m very excited to keep writing <3

You did your best to shower as quickly as possible, ransacking your medicine cabinet behind the mirror while the water was heating up. Toothbrush, toothpaste, you had it all back at home, and it went into the trash. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, all did the same after you used up what you could and jumped out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a single towel you were fine with leaving behind. As you walked back into the main room, you stopped for a moment. With the sheets off the bed, the kitchen empty, and the rest of the room deserted besides what was left of your luggage, it felt final. Gotham was finally being abandoned and you could go back to the safety of hometown life.

Sweats, tee, sneakers. The plane ride was going to feel massively long with how much anticipation was in your bones thinking about being able to make your mom's appointment. You'd clarified with your dad with a text message and he responded that her treatment was at 3. Even if the plane left by noon, that was 9 to them--you'd be home by 2, could head straight from the airport to her chemo. Luggage zipped, key in hand, you nearly made it out the door before remembering you had edibles sitting in your nightstand. You couldn't technically have it in your apartment, and you definitely couldn't bring it past TSA... you shoved it in your pocket to discard in a public trashcan and made your way to the lobby. You gave the keys and your name to the same young woman, and walked out of the lobby for the final time. Damn. I'm really done here. I'm done with Gotham. I just need to make it on my plane. Then I'm gone.

Bruce was slumped down in his chair trying to avoid passersby. You slipped in beside him and yanked your thick luggage between your legs. He sat up and nodded at you as he buckled, and you did the same. As you reached to click the seatbelt in, the edibles slipped out of your pocket and fell at his feet. Shit. He reached down, read the package, and his brow furrowed. "Marijuana?"

You laughed. Hadn't he ever seen it before? "Yeah uh, I can't take it with me to the airport or leave it here." You shrugged and held your hand out expectantly, but he hesitated. His eyes scanned your face, confused. "You do marijuana?"

Now you were looking at him with confusion. He'd never done it? Drops were hardcore; weed was legal in Gotham, it was legal in most states now. You'd gone to a dispensary just around the corner from your complex to get it, surely he had experience. "Sometimes. Why are you looking at me like that?" A slight defense crept into your tone; people drank alcohol all the time, why was it strange to have edibles? He gave the slightest shake of his head and mumbled. "I just don't see the point."

"I don't get the point of drinking alcohol either, but,"

"I don't drink. I don't do any substances."

You whipped your head toward him. "Like ever?"

"I need to be clear at a moment's notice." He gestured for you to click your seatbelt in, dropped the edibles in your lap, and pushed on the gas. You sat in silence for most of the ride there, and just before he took the exit toward the dropoff lane you held them out to him. "Here. Take them." You paused. "Please."

He shot a glare at you, nearly missing the exit. "Why?"

"You don't have to take them or anything, I just can't have them on me at security." You shrugged and he begrudgingly obliged, tucking them into his pant pocket. He pulled to the right and stopped, unlocking the car. You sat for a moment, staring at all the passengers going in, all the couples embracing each other with heartfelt goodbyes. Your heart throbbed. You wanted that. You wanted to be held, you wanted someone to miss you—someone that didn't have to, like parents. Someone that liked you enough for you, as you were, for no reason other than enjoyment and care. Already in your mid-twenties you were beginning to wonder if that would ever happen for you, and it didn't help to be sitting in a car with the most frustrating, cold man imaginable while looking at so much warmth and love.

He hesitated before asking what had been on his mind since City Hall. “How did you know it was me?”

You hesitated just the same, then shrugged. “I don’t know, i just… knew?” How else could you express just how unique his eyes were? You turned toward him and met his available gaze. His eyes were so distinctive... you couldn't even quite place the color, further puzzling you as to how you had matched him so immediately to the vigilante. Maybe that was the whole thing—his eyes were so unplaceable. Sitting between a gray and blue with no particular lean to one or the other. You hadn't seen anything like it. "Thank you." A smile was easily conjured for him, sympathy and guilt fueling it. "I know I pushed my way into your home. And again, I won't tell anyone. Promise." You cleared your throat and averted your eyes as you popped open the passenger door and grabbed your luggage. He didn't respond until the door was almost shut. "I know. Have a safe flight."

You hid your smile as you shut the door behind you and walked through to the lobby of the airport. You were just in time to get in line for TSA and still make it to your terminal. You shuffled around in your purse to find your ID and pulled up the virtual ticket on your phone. God. You were finally going to be home.

You woke to the pilot over the intercom: "Good afternoon folks, we have arrived in Seattle, Washington. It is now 1:39pm as we pull into the terminal. The weather is a comfortable 73 degrees with partly cloudy skies. Alaska Airlines thanks you."

Waiting for you in the lobby was your mother and father, but your eyes quickly landed on your mother's new wheelchair. She looked frail, with more deep-set wrinkles exaggerated by her new thinness. A lump formed in your throat. He'd said she'd gotten worse. You hoped it wasn't impossibly worse, but soon you would find out more information. You hid your surprise and ran to them with open arms. Your mother started weeping, pointing out how much more grown up you looked. "Your updates on Facebook didn't do you justice," She complimented. Thankfully her voice was unchanged.

Your dad drove you all straight from airport parking to her doctor's office. Chills traveled up your spine remembering the times you'd sobbed alone in your car wondering if the chemo would work, if the medicines that made her vomit and cry in the middle of the night when she thought no one was listening would be worth it. Only to end up back here. But, you reminded yourself, with so much more time than some people got.

Your dad looked tired, so you told him you'd take your mom inside. She was happy to get some time alone with you, chattering on with questions about what exactly Gotham had been like. "I've heard so much about it. Your dad focuses on the bad things now more than I do, he's been worried sick. Especially with all the explosions. Those did worry me I'll admit. But you're back now! We got your room ready, and Walter is so excited to see you! Ever since we made the room up he has been sitting at the foot of your bed." Walter was the family cat your mother got about seven years ago when she was first diagnosed; he was her therapy cat, and he'd taken to everyone in the house. You were excited to see him, you'd missed him tons.

The receptionist smiled when you walked into the clinic, gesturing for you to follow her to a room down the hall. "Mrs. Y/L/N, how are you doing? This room is ready for you." As you wheeled your mom in and sat her next to the IV, you pulled a chair over to sit nearby. You noticed it wasn't already pulled close—did people normally not accompany their relatives, friends, neighbors to their appointments? It saddened you to think about someone having to endure chemotherapy alone. You'd never do that to her.

About halfway through some more casual conversation—the neighbors were doing great, excited to see you, your dad had been working on a back porch for them to spend nights looking at the sunsets together, she'd stocked the fridge with all your favorites, asked about your classes, and gushed to the nurses about how you were now a soon to be college graduate. She also expressed sorrow about having you come back so early and miss graduation, to which you immediately and profusely told her not to worry. You were so glad to be back, and grateful to just do everything you could. You told her how you'd be looking for a job this summer.

A nurse walked in and gently reminded you both about payment. Your mom gestured to her purse sitting at the table opposite her and you went to find her credit card. Long ago your family had abandoned debit, as the mounting costs of having cancer were too much to front all at once. You hurried to the receptionist and stood in line behind a mother and young kid with a bald head. God, kids shouldn't have to go through this. No one should have to. "Miss Y/L/N?"

"Yes, this is for Ellie Y/L/N." You held out your credit card but the receptionist cocked her head at you with a furrowed brow. "Oh hon, your balance is paid."

You stopped. What? "Uh, I'm sorry, I don't think I've paid yet." You stared at her as she clicked a few buttons and focused on her screen. She shook her head. "Nope, but an anonymous benefactor has paid your remaining balance and left a card on file." She smiled over at you. "Must be your lucky day!" She clicked a few things with her mouse and walked over to the printer, handing you an invoice. In bold print next to the mountain of numbers which had previously had a negative in front was a new 0 next to PAID. Concerned, you rushed back to your mother's room. She noted your concern at once. "Y/N, what is it?" She moved toward you enough to get the monitor to start beeping to stay put. You stared down at the paper. "It, it says it's paid. By an anonymous person, I don't, I don't know."

You fell back in your seat as you handed your mom the paper. She pored over it, then shrieked with relief. "Honey, this is a blessing. I can't believe it!" Tears came to her eyes and she looked around. "My phone, I need to tell Thomas,"

"Here, I'll call him." You took out your phone with clammy hands and dialed him. This was... unbelievable. The debt had been well above six figures. Each treatment was a few thousand dollars, with a month-long course going above thirty thousand. Not to mention the massive cost of the at-home medications she had to take multiple times per day that weren't covered by insurance. Your dad shouted with glee, saying he was going to order everyone pizza tonight. "Golly," he sounded on the verge of tears as well. "Looks like luck might be on our side."

As you helped your mom out of the clinic and into the car, your parents embraced each other and danced in place in the parking lot. Your mind was occupied, still in shock. If they had their balance paid, if all the costs coming up were covered, your dad's job at the school would be more than enough to sustain the family. Maybe they could even retire. He'd been saving up his 401k to pay off the balance in one lump sum, though he was only halfway there. It was nice to see them celebrating, but you had a strange feeling in your stomach. Who had it been? Who could have known? Your mother wasn't keeping her diagnosis a secret; many neighbors had been very supportive, and she had many friends who were decently well off that had helped your family when things got rough. But none of them had nearly enough money to do something like that.

As your dad pulled up to Domino's, it hit you like a ton of bricks. It had to be him. There was no other person who could afford it. But how had he known? Did he snoop? Did it even matter?

It had to be Bruce fucking Wayne.

Bruce dragged his pointer finger along the embossed lettering—LEMON LIME THC GUMMY. He was worn out, but could not possibly sleep. The night had been shockingly uneventful with only a few carjackings on his radar. Even the walkie talkie Gordon had lent him from the station was quiet. The night had ended early, yet he still felt tense with untapped energy. Pulling out his phone from his nightstand he Googled marijuana and sleep which elicited clear results: Cannabis may improve sleep quality by helping people fall asleep faster and wake up less often at night. Sigh. He checked the dosage instructions on the back of the tin and pulled off a small piece. Here goes nothing.

Immediately after swallowing he started to feel fearful. What if you had poisoned it? A final blow? Your last revenge? He pictured your eyes meeting his from the passenger side earlier that day. Again, I won't tell anyone. Promise. He thought your eyes were too kind not to mean it, but he still walked up the stairs over to Alfred's room. He was still up reading the paper when he walked in.

"Alfred, I'm gonna be taking some weed tonight." As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to scream with embarrassment. Here he was, in his late twenties, telling his guardian that he was talking drugs. Non lethal ones at that. Alfred peered up from over his papers with a small bit of surprise. Bruce had never shown interest in drugs before, and it felt a bit awkward, like he was admitting something terrible to a parent. He tried to make his reaction measured and interested. "Oh. Okay! Sounds... good!"

Bruce shifted his weight between feet, wanting to fall through the floor. He was still nervous of how he would react. Would his face melt? Would he have a panic attack, "Yeah. I'll be in my room." Alfred, having known him all his life, easily read between the lines.

"Do you want me to, check on you?" He paused halfway through, not wanting to come across condescending. Bruce seemed anxious. Alfred tried to smile at him. The kid averted his gaze. "I got them from Y/N. They're just for sleep." He turned to leave as Alfred continued. "Okay. Uh, have a good rest."

Bruce mumbled "Thanks." before disappearing back to his room. He laid in waiting facing the ceiling with his arms crossed across his chest, looking small and worried. Why had he trusted you so implicitly? What if your kind words at the airport had been nothing more than a ruse? He needed to be smarter than that. And the crosswalk? How he'd almost hit someone? He couldn't believe it. You clouded his thoughts more than he'd even realized. You weren't stupid and he couldn't ignore the possibility that you knew exactly what you were doing. But what were you doing? You didn't like him. You left Gotham to care for your mother's returned cancer. You were so ready to rid yourself of the city. And he did believe you when you said you wouldn't tell anyone. You puzzled him.

He decided to take a hot shower to try and relieve some extra stress before the weed kicked in. The heat coaxed his muscles to relax, his shoulders to drop, and his eyes to close. He focused on the sounds of the water, the feeling of the soap on his tired, chronically injured body as his hands ran over his bruises. He forgot the time while he was in there, until he started feeling floaty. Blinking to try and shake the sensation, he stepped out of the shower and threw on a pair of sweats. He sat on the edge of his bed and felt its emptiness. His vision was slightly blurred, reminiscent of when he got hit too hard in the head. It wasn't as jarring as he was anticipating, and let himself relax back to his initial position staring up at the ceiling.

His walls were painted black, and that made him a bit nervous. Through his periphery he saw the empty darkness of his room and turned on his bedside lamp. The soft incandescent glow felt warm on his skin and he relaxed into it. Thoughts began creeping up at the edges of his mind. Your eyes gave it away. I don't know, I just knew. Your words fluttered around the room to dizziness. That was possibly the worst answer you could have given, knowing that unless he wanted to reduce visibility while fighting and wear some sort of glasses, he could be recognized any time. In the haze of his high he pictured himself in front of him. Bandaged, bruised, melancholic, isolated. His hair dark and in his eyes. It came to him akin to an epiphany: he needed to make himself more distinguishable from his nightlife. He looked like someone who might be Batman. How instantly you knew him. There had to be someone else like you. You weren't an anomaly, no, you couldn't be.

He got out his journal and started scribbling on the page.

Me now: dark, casual, isolated, angry, unfriendly, critical

Batman: dark, isolated, angry, unfriendly, critical

Too many similarities.

Then he wrote down the opposite: bright, fashionable, connected, easygoing, friendly

As his high peaked he looked out the window at the streets of his city. It hit him like a ton of bricks settling into the pit of his stomach. He needed to become a Wayne—public facing and more inconspicuous, he needed to create distance from the two halves of him. He needed to become so different as to practically gaslight the people of Gotham into discarding their suspicions as madness. He fell back onto the mattress. He couldn't hesitate.

He had to become Bruce fucking Wayne.

Fateful Beginnings

XI. “lying through teeth”

parts: previous / next

plot: you have a tense visit with old friends that culminates in a hotheaded confession. Bruce Wayne decides his first official public appearance.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, sexuality

words: 2.6k

You woke up the next morning to brightly colored curtains and walls. You shot up in bed, startling a creature at your feet to jump up. It was Walter, and you were in your childhood bedroom. The sheets were from when you were a tween, some bright pink floral bedding that your dad had pulled out of the back of the closet. It smelled slightly musty, but Walter quickly fuzzied it up and made it feel like home. He crawled up to you with a yawn and stretch, and you pet his head as you gathered your surroundings. You weren't in someone else's bed. It wasn't dungeon-like. You heard your mom and dad talking out in the living room and heaved a sigh of relief.

Your phone on the bedside table vibrated, and you checked it. 1:38 in the afternoon. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and wandered out to the living room, your feet immediately rendering that they were back at home safe and sound. Your parents greeted you with delight as they had hands on the door—your mother had a new walker. She's not that old yet. God. I should have asked to see her scans yesterday. "We'll be gone until dinner, talking with the neighbors. I told Margaret about the anonymous donor and oh my, all the neighbors are gathering to celebrate!" With that she and your father bid you adieu, letting you know there were leftover pancakes from breakfast in the fridge.

Margaret. Mar. You took your phone out of your pocket and sent her a text. You hadn't told her you were leaving yet, but you weren't super close, and it had been on a whim... Hey, so sorry to let you know this over text but I left back to home yesterday. My mom's health is having some issues so I had to move quickly. How are you doing back there?

After eating some cold blueberry pancakes you slumped over in a dining room chair to think ahead to your mostly empty day. Walter wandered around behind you until he found his food bowl and went to town. If he followed his usual pattern he would curl up in his bed near the couch and go into a food coma for the next few hours. You smiled. What a cutie. You opened your phone again, this time to call your friend Lara. She answered on the very last ring. When you told her you were back in town, she responded sheepishly. "Uh, we thought you wouldn't be in town this early. We wanted to plan a homecoming party for you with your parents but we hadn't gotten around to it." 'We' referred to your friend group: Lara, Gabbi, and Rose. You didn't believe her when she said she was planning a party—you didn't even know if they were really your friends anymore. You'd tried to reach out so many times while you were in Gotham, but you'd only received enough responses to fit on one hand. All short, staccato, to the point. "Miss you!" and "Sounds good!" were the only type of responses your group of friends since high school had left for you since you'd left the city, though you started to wonder if they ever gave you things besides pleasantries at all.

You asked if the group wanted to go get coffee now, and after another hesitation she agreed. "Gab and Rose were just on their way to meet me to go to thrifting, but that can wait." It didn't sound like she wanted to wait, but nonetheless you planned to meet at 2:30. You showered, put on some clean clothes from your luggage, and grabbed your old bike to ride over. You had sold the car you'd gotten senior year of high school to pay for the flight to Gotham two years ago.

At 2:31 you pulled up to the local coffee shop. Sat on a patio table were Lara, Gabbi and Rose, all on their phones with drinks mostly empty when you pulled up. Had they been waiting here? Had they already been here? "Hi, sorry, we couldn't wait and already got our drinks." Lara smiled over her phone and gestured toward a grande chai latte sat across from her. "We got you a chai since you probably don't have a paycheck yet."

You held back a wince. Backhanded. You remembered another reason why you'd left which you'd tried hard to forget: your friends were... callous. They didn't have much of a filter, nor show much interest in anything outside of their own interests. Gabbi and Rose gave subtle waves when you sat down across from them, eyes still glued to their phones. Rose gasped and showed something to Gabbi, who gasped alongside her. "Ugh. That douche."

"How was your time in the big city?" Lara put her phone down while the other two chatted to look at you. At least Lara, however disinterested she could sound, tried to be an attentive friend. She'd had dreams of going to Harvard Law after you'd both binged Legally Blonde sophomore year of high school, but she'd missed the deadline senior year after a particularly bad bout of the flu. Now she worked a the local flower shop and somehow secured a local exchange student boyfriend, of which they were now three years strong. You put your chin in your elbows and sighed. "It's more dangerous than I thought. And also more boring. I think Gabbi and Rose would really like it there, it's more for partiers I think. I don't know, I never really found my place." You noticed Lara's eyes start to glaze over and shifted the subject. "But uh, I officially turned in my last paper for my degree! So as soon as they send in my certificate through the mail I'm done!" You forced a smile and Lara did the same. "Good for you." Her tone was sickly sweet and you once again hid a wince.

There was an awkward pause for a few moments until Lara cleared her throat and absently asked what your paper was on. Without thinking much of it, you responded. "I was going to do it on Bruce Wayne, but he stopped halfway through the interview."

Gabbi, Rose, and Lara all gasped in unison, and the former threw their phones onto the glass table. "OH MY GOD," Gabbi shrieked. "You've met Bruce Wayne?" By the way their faces lit up it was as if Ariana Grande, Taylor Swift or Beyonce had just entered the room.

"Did you hook up with him?"

You frowned. "I, I didn't need to sleep with him to get the interview,"

Gabbi, who had asked the question, furiously shook her head. "No," she said with an eye roll. "Because he's a billionaire?" They all stared at you with big, bright eyes. You had their full attention for the first time in your entire friendship. It hurt you, but you tried to hide it and quickly change the subject. "No, I'd never,"

Rose interrupted with a laugh. "No way, I'd do him in a second. Did you see the photos of him shopping today in Gotham? He looks ripped." The three women laughed to themselves and started loudly talking about their fantasies. "I think he likes cowgirl, how could he not? I don't think I could do doggy, he's just too fucking hot. I'd want him to remember my face too, no way."

"He's got to be a dom. He's not letting anyone on top of him."

"He's too jacked to just do missionary. He probably has some crazy sex dungeon."

"Ooh a REAL LIFE CHRISTIAN GREY! Holy fuck Lara I never thought about that!"

Why couldn't they see the flames shooting out of your ears? "He's not even hot, guys," You rolled your eyes and sat back with your arms crossed. "I don't understand the hype. He's... no."

"Come the fuck on, Y/N, he's the hottest celeb right now." Rose was rolling her eyes at you now, while Gabbi glared at you. "What's your problem?"

You threw your hands in the air, exasperated. Your voice rose as the tension in your body became unbearable. He's not hot. He's not cool. He's just Bruce fucking Wayne. He would be no one if it weren't for his fucking mountain of money. "You all couldn't care less about my life. About me, about my school." Hands slammed on the table as you shoved your chair back. They jumped, gasping. "Y/N!" They chastised. It didn't matter, the words were already pouring out of your mouth as unconsciously as vomit. "The first time you all really look at me, pay me any fucking attention, is when you think I might have fucked Bruce Wayne. I'm done."

"Fuck off, everything just has to be about you." Rose snarled. You were already on the way to your bike but spun around at the sound of them getting back to their phones, more furiously now. Nothing with them had ever been anything but themselves. They'd never paid you mind. They kept you in tow because you were too nice. Someone who could always be a shoulder to cry on. Someone to run errands with. Someone to rant to about the other friends in the group.

"You know what?" Fists balled at your sides. Your face was twitching at their audacity, at all the adrenaline shoving through you, making you a live wire. "I did fuck Bruce Wayne. And fuck you."

The flash of cameras haunted him as he slammed the door behind him. Alfred had stared at him peculiarly when he walked in, noticing the Dior and Prada bags in his fists. He wanted to press Bruce on what he planned to do with the clothing (the boy never went out unless he was forced to) but decided to wait and watch it all unfold. Unfold it had; as Alfred sought a snack in the kitchen later that evening, Bruce had walked out in a sharp Prada double-breasted suit, adjusting his cufflinks and shaking out his arms before standing in the entryway. "What do you think? Is this a good Bruce Wayne?"

The question struck Alfred, and he hadn't answered for a good few seconds. Why was he acting like Bruce was a character? He went towards that curiosity. "You look like yourself in a suit." To which Bruce responded with a short huff and looked at the ground. "I just, I need more separation from Batman. I don't want anyone able to suspect me." His answer made well the confused storm raging in Alfred's brain. No one had ever recognized Bruce before so he'd never had to grapple with that possibility. Along came someone who had, and now he was outfitted in silhouettes he'd only hoped Bruce would grow into. Tears sprung to his eyes; he could tell the boy noticed, but all Alfred did was nod. He imagined Martha seeing her boy all grown up now, looking sharp and mature. "Makes sense, right then."

Bruce holed up in the basement scribbling into his journal. Got designer clothing today. Hated it. Needed to. Creating more separation from myself and Batman. Another close call would lead to some difficult decisions I don't want to make. I still have work to do here, and I don't want to go into hiding earlier than planned. Suddenly fear and anxiety gripped him. Maybe this could just be a one-off. Bruce Wayne hardly seen again, per usual. He could have just gotten the suits to update his sizing, maybe his butler didn't get his sizing right and he had to do it himself. So he had something to wear to the city hall meetings. No, he couldn't do Alfred like that. He'd just wear it to the next meeting. Change around the Batman suit, make it a full face covering: no lips, eyes behind colored mesh. He could sneak platform wedges into the boots somehow to make him considerably taller, to further throw people off his trail. His eyes heavied with sleep from the weight of the exposure today, but he still needed to go out as Batman.

Before he could, however, he needed to empty the earbuds and contacts he'd worn to shop. They were filled with recordings from earlier, something he'd done in case he needed to look back at anything later. You never knew when crime would strike in Gotham, and sometimes he only had a few seconds to make an ID. He plugged them into their chargers where they immediately began streaming data to his screen. He skimmed through it mindlessly for a minute, hearing nothing besides screaming paparazzi and the clicking of cameras. A clustering of voices from a throng of onlookers he'd passed through, desperately asking for a photo, an autograph, a million dollars. He'd strolled quickly past, paying them little mind beside passing greetings... and a mumble. Rewind.

Mumble.

Rewind.

"Might be a new member in the club."

He could barely make out the gruff, low vocals. The club? Then an even softer, quieter response. Unreachable.

Rewind. Vocal increase. Isolate. Max volume.

"Think we can trust him?"

After that point you had entered the store and were no longer in reach. Which club? Had you heard those voices before, or was this new? The last thing you heard before getting out of reach, disappointingly, was the first man scoffing. "The prince of the city? He's more of a fed than the cops."

Bruce immediately went to his contacts to replay the footage. He roughly matched the timing of the words to men barely in his periphery—but nothing close to making an ID. If it hadn't been for the damn cameras... he could have been more vigilant. Being in public exhausted him more than any single night shift. He started scribbling more musings. No trust with public. Become less of an enigma. A partier? A Yachter? Own room at the clubs? Separation and infiltration. Talk of a club. He reviewed the footage again with neurotic focus.

As far as was possible to tell from the fish eye footage, they were suited. The only type of people who wore suits in downtown Gotham were rich. The type of people who couldn't be touched; the business district was up north, far enough away to not get mugged by partygoers the moment something valuable was visible. They had to be people that couldn't be messed with. The type of people who receive a bad look one day and have your head the next. The clubs. The dinners. These people weren't a part of the mainstream party scene; they were in the club within the club, Penguin types. Bruce groaned and tossed his pencil across the table. He didn't want to do this, and after today he realized he'd have to sacrifice more of Batman than he thought if he would have the energy to get through the day as Bruce Wayne.

He pulled up the Gotham event page and marked down every listed event to his calendar. How was he going to explain his sudden personality shift and movement into the public arena? Questions swirled and dizzied his mind. He could only do so much in his cape; now he had to create another mask. And his first big event would be Gotham University's graduation ceremony.

Fateful Beginnings

XII. “exceptionally qualified, equally eager”

parts: previous / next

plot: you receive both celebratory and sobering news which leaves you reeling; back in Gotham, Bruce Wayne solidifies his entrance into society.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, bad health news, cancer, chemo, grief, doctor’s office, shock

words: 2.5k

You woke up the next morning remembering the conversation with your friends, replaying in your mind. You kept thinking about how you told them you'd fucked Bruce. You wished you hadn't. It was wrong. But you were never gonna see him again, and they were never going to tell. It would be too embarrassing for them that they weren't the ones to fuck him, and would never let themselves be outdone. They'd let the world continue to believe he was a virgin before admitting you'd managed to sleep with a billionaire. Outshining them wasn't a possibility.

You swung your legs off the bed and rubbed your eyes before walking out into the hallway. It was suspiciously quiet, with the usual hum of the TV absent. You started when you turned into the kitchen to your parents holding a gift. It was a thick envelope with your name in sloping cursive, and your parents had hardly looked happier... besides when the anonymous benefactor, likely Bruce (you cringed hard at his name) has somehow managed to pay off the family's medical debt. "Here honey," your mother hurried toward you and you took the envelope. Walter ran in between your dad's legs and hopped up on the bed. You laughed and started opening it. "Even he seems excited."

Your fingers nearly cut on the thick cardstock. You pulled out a card in the shape of a graduation hat, and out fell a small slip. It twirled down and made Walter pounce, and you had a game of cat and mouse for a minute before you read the stub. Delta Airlines: SEA—GCA. You looked up but they just urged you to read the card. "Congratulations Y/N! Excited to see you walk at graduation. Love, Mom and Dad." What?? I get to walk? But how?

The next fifteen minutes indulged them explaining that they'd bought tickets last night and went to the store on the way home from their friend's barbecue. "After all the money we saved we could finally afford it. And your father picked out a beautiful hotel for us right next to the airport." The rush of positive feelings left as quickly as they came, lasting not a second longer than your parents shutting the door on their way out. A murkiness settled in your stomach. You didn't plan on ever returning to Gotham. Your parents had never been there either. You hoped you'd never have to deal with its hustle and bustle again. But you were their only child, and you were at least happy that they were happy.

Bruce sat in his wool overcoat in a small, stuffy office on a hard, narrow chair. His thighs were threatening to burst it, and the arms were cutting into his abdomen. He forced a smile to the school secretary as he waited for the university president to arrive. His eyes trailed to the cobwebs in the corner, the dusty books by the window, and eventually the stained carpeting. Our tax dollars pay for this? Alfred needs to know about this so he can get in touch with—no. He stopped himself. Those were his duties now, gone were the days of offloading all public contact to his butler while he kept to his sanctuary. Thankfully, GU's president burst through the doors at that very moment.

"Mr. Wayne! My God! Never in a million years did I think to see you in these halls." The woman was beaming, and Bruce stood up to shake her hand. Even her vigor didn't help the smile he plastered on be any less forced. "Pleasure is all mine, Ms...?"

"Janay Vry, former journalism department head." Her gray bob brushed along the tips of her shoulders. A thought sprinted across his mind. Journalism. Y/N. To bring it up or to not? "I heard you met with one of my students, Ms. Y/L/N."

She beat him to it. "Yes, I apologize. I was unreasonably busy that day. I hope she found another suitor." Y/L/N. Y/L/N. Didn’t quite fit you. It repeated in his mind like a mantra, and reminded him of combing through the commencement… She opened her mouth to speak, and his eyes snagged on an owl pin on her lapel. He'd never seen that before, and it stalled his train of thought.

"So, Mr. Wayne." Ms. Vry sat in the secretary's chair as she shuffled out, looking a bit nervous. He forced his face to remain pleasant as his mind began to investigate. Why was he drawn to that? What energy was it bringing? Did it symbolize anything? "What brings you here today?"

He sat up a bit in his chair, feeling the early stages of bruising as the wood tore at his sides. The right arm was snagging on a particularly thick scar. "Well," He never thought he would say these words, but he needed a platform. An entrance. "I know how late minute this is, so I understand if this is no possibility. I was wondering if I could be a commencement speaker for this year's ceremony." The shaky grin he mustered made him want to slam into a wall. This is so forced. Can she tell?

Ms. Vry had a visible, startled reaction to his question. "Mr. Wayne, wow," she shook her head in disbelief. "Of course, of course." Her smile could've reached her ears, and she started listing off the date, time, and gathering space for the speakers to arrive at prior to the event. "And of course we will amp up security. Yes, I'll get started on that this evening."

Bruce left the halls of GCU with a few pamphlets and a worn jaw. Smiling shouldn't hurt that much. He wondered how long he could keep this act up, and if this was all one big mistake he'd have to forever run away from. It felt like it, as his disheveled self jogged down the concrete steps to a fishbowl of citizens shouting and taking photos. Of course they found me. Christ.

He stared forward at the car, pretending no one was there. He needed this event as a more natural entrance into society. Announcing the Wayne's direct involvement in the city once again. He could imagine the headlines now and imagined how proud his parents might be of him. That was all that mattered. Continuing the Wayne legacy. Doing what my parents never could. He was doing the right thing, and he was utilizing the tools at his disposal. There were areas of society Bruce Wayne could reach that Batman could never, and vice versa. Why didn't I consider this sooner? As he sidled into the driver's seat and relaxed into the tinted windows, he remembered why. He loathed being on display.

The next few days you spent spending time with your family and journaling about losing your entire friend group. It hurt you, more than you even wanted to admit to yourself. Sure, they weren't very good friends, but it was scary staring down the barrel at your only social contacts being your parents. You scrolled around on Bumble for a few hours every day until you ended up hitting a week of being home and days of the most boring conversations you'd ever endured. Your dad had ordered another celebratory pizza, but it felt less fun to not have anyone to text about it.

You still didn't have many answers about your mother's cancer. Later that day was her second chemo appointment since you'd come back, and you offered to drive your mother and take her in yourself. Your dad declined, and said the three of you could all go as a family. It was nice he wanted to stay with her, but it also meant this was more serious. He likely wanted to spend as much time with her as possible. You tried not to think about why.

Pulling up to the clinic, you told your dad to head into the room with your mom. "I'm gonna talk to the doctor for a minute." You went to the receptionist and requested Dr. Righan. The receptionist directed you to a room just down the hall. "He'll meet you in consultation."

You waited anxiously to hear how bad it was while simultaneously indulging your last moments of ignorance. Her weight loss is unrelated. Her walker and wheelchair use is unrelated. Just aging stuff. Maybe she has a bad back like grandma. Yeah, that's it. She's just doing another round of chemo for good measure.

You blinked and it was over. As you came back into your body you saw the door swinging shut behind the doctor who had just come in and delivered the news: it was worse than you thought. Your mother was starting chemo to try and buy her some time before seeing if she got accepted into this clinical trial. "Your mother is exceptionally qualified, and equally eager," the graying man in the white coat had said. "Unfortunately, everyone else is too."

The drive home had you in a haze. Your parents were in the front seats still gushing over how they didn't have to pay at the end of the session, but you couldn't pay attention. The clinical trial roulette was a month from today; in the world's most desperate game of Bingo, random names would be drawn. Half would be assigned a control, half would be assigned the medicine. You couldn't bear the thought of her getting a placebo, but you couldn't bear the thought of her not getting in at all. The doctor had tried to taper her excitement, letting her know most people were not going to be picked. It stung, and left you in a haze for the rest of the night.

At about nine in the evening your dad went for a quick stop at the grocery store. He peeked his head in your room where you sat at your desk, furiously journaling, and asked if you wanted anything. Saying no, he left with an announcement he wouldn't be more than 15 minutes. Finally alone in the house with your mother practically since her initial diagnosis, you wandered to the living room where she sat in a large rocking chair, tucked into an enormous throw blanket. She smiled when you sunk into the couch beside her. "Are you excited to go to graduation?"

No. I'm not excited about anything. I want you to not be sick. "Yeah! It's really exciting, it'll be fun to be back." Your smile was fake as plastic. What if this was the last family trip? The last time on an airplane together? You wanted to go to Fiji, with the white sand and warm water for her to sink into. Paradise, not Gotham. She was genuinely excited however. "Oh I can't wait for you to walk across that stage. Your father is going to cry buckets. Buckets!"

That night you sat at your desk and scribbled more in your journal, now on your twentieth page. Why does she have to be sick. Why does it have to be so bad? Why do I have to go back to Gotham? Gotham. Bruce. I hope he doesn't find me. Maybe he will. He seems to get out more now, more likelihood to see him... ugh. Not the time. And the money thing. How do I bring that up? I don't even know if it was him. Maybe it was Alfred. I don't know. Ugh. How am I even gonna walk in my heels? I don't really want to wear sneakers. Maybe I should? Maybe I should just be myself, and stop trying to fit in? Who cares what I wear to my own graduation? Shouldn't I only care about my own opinion? My head is swirling. Graduation is so soon. You decided to stop writing, since it was getting nowhere. Just jotting down the myriad of thoughts clanking around your skull, and it was keeping you up. The next few days were job hunting, and you needed to look adequately rested... even if it was the last thing you were truly feeling.

No. No. And more no. Every business within a thirty mile radius hadn't even accepted a resume. It hadn't been this way before you left for Gotham a few years back. Your parents were all happy little birds back at home, basking in the glory of having their medical debt paid. "You don't have to worry about getting a job right now hun," your dad had said a few days prior. "Let yourself relax." But you couldn't. Having the money burden gone was a massive relief, sure, but it was a material thing, and you were grappling with potentially having to lose someone. A parent. A mother. There was hardly space for rejoicing.

The morning of graduation you'd forgotten all about it, being woken at four in the morning to head to the airport. The time difference, shit. Your mother's friend from church was dropping you all off, babbling on and on about the local gossip. "And oh my stars, you just wouldn't believe the old Scott girl. Baby number two. With TWO fathers!" You attempted to drown her out via some self-soothing humming, which only drew the attention to you. "And you missy! Why, you're not twenty-six without a ring on your finger! Meet anyone in..." she paused and visibly shuddered, spitting out the word Gotham to finish her pestering. You suppressed an eyeroll. Gotham would eat her alive.

You successfully dodged succeeding questions and found yourself at arrivals. Your parents had a fast-pass through TSA, making boarding surprisingly pleasant. You sat between your mom and dad, trying not to think about landing in a city you thought you'd left far behind.

"Good afternoon passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We are pulling into the terminal in approximately three minutes, so please prepare for landing. Weather is partly-cloudy, with a high of sixty degrees. It is 3pm local time. Thank you for flying with Delta Airlines." Your dad awoke with a strong snore, your mom rustling in her light sleep. "Oh my, already?" She yawned, rolling up her knit blanket into her carry on. "Honey, do they have the wheelchair ready?"

Wheelchair? You still weren't used to it. Wheelchairs aren't bad, you reminded. They're accessible. They help. It doesn't mean she's gonna drop dead tomorrow. Soon enough your dad was helping her into a cab while you wrestled with her chair and the luggage in the backseat of the accessible Uber. The smell stung your nostrils, the familiar taste of copper. The streets were mostly dry, as dry as they could ever get in the city. As you climbed into the passenger seat you briefly thought of the taut leather binding trimming Bruce's car's interior. Stop it. He doesn't exist.

Fateful Beginnings

XIV. “losing grip”

parts: previous / next

plot: after arguing at graduation, you can’t wait to be back home for good. when Bruce arrives back at Wayne Manor, Alfred is alarmed by his behavior.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mental health issues, hallucinations, arguing, discussion of death

words: 4.4k

Your parents eyed you while you looked at him with disdain. No one got you riled up like this; the spunk, the sass. It made your dad crack a smile, unbeknownst to you. You were acting petulant, almost like a child—in a fun way, a way he hadn't seen in ages. He wanted to keep this going. He wanted to keep this 'Bruce Wayne' around. "What about we all go to dinner, huh? I hear there's an Olive Garden about twenty minutes east!"

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, then snapped them back open to stare at Bruce. What initially felt like shame morphed into daggers shot at the billionaire. No. There's no shame in Olive Garden. And if he thinks so, he's an asshole. Much to your surprise, he didn't flinch. It was a bit amazing, actually, how much of a 180 he had done in such a short time. Amazing if it weren't so suspicious.

"I'm afraid I'll have to regretfully decline." Bruce gave the slightest shake of his head and shifted his eyes downward, as if filled with actual regret and shame, a feeling you didn't think he knew. Your dad then smiled at him and shook his hand, speaking about how he needed to come see Washington sometime, but you couldn't focus. After who knew how many seconds, or minutes, your father took your mother's chair and began walking them both toward the parking lot. "Meet you in the car, Y/N." He winked and your mom slapped his arm again as she settled into the seat. Christ. Your eyes flit over to meet Bruce's that were shifting around the turf until he saw you were reoriented to reality. You hadn't a clue as to why he was so shifty, but presumed it nothing more than residual nerves from speaking at his first public event... ever?

"Thomas!" Your mother's voice rattled between his ears and he shifted his weight from hip to hip, trying to pace his breathing. A common name. An unfortunate, ridiculous coincidence it happened to be your father of all people. The only time he ever heard that name in Gotham was in pitied whispers. You nudged him and he looked away. "You go to acting school or something?"

Bruce's brow furrowed, his defense kicking into immediate action. God, why did you do this to him so easily? "Why?"

"This new character of yours. It's like you think you're a playboy or something."

Not wanting to get into another argument he tried to diffuse it. "No, I haven't gone to acting school." He kept his tone flat, hoping you wouldn't further push him—but of course, you did.

"Then why are you acting like that?" You moved in front of him and kept a neutral expression, your voice low. No one needed to know you were interrogating the man. When he played dumb it only frustrated you further. "Like what?"

He had to have a plan. This isn't him. "Like a normal human."

Bruce's scoff returned as if he were still alone in his empty house. The one you had stayed at against his will after blackmailing him into oblivion. "Maybe because I am a normal human."

Your glare was impossible to wipe off. He wasn't normal, he was anything from it. Weird, strange, reclusive, rich, famous, a goddamn vigilante. Of course he wants to play this card. Of course he does. "But you're not. You're you." A billionaire. Nepotism baby.

He hid how much the comment stung. "And 'me' isn't human?" He loathed being reminded of how larger-than-life he was. His reputation preceded him, or rather, his parent's legacy. He never got to make a name for himself, never got to make a first impression. Everyone's mind about him was already made up.

You noticed the slight slack in his face at your insinuations, and a similarly sized pang in your gut. Your voice quieted even further, rounding out the edges of your words just enough to soften the frustration. You were acutely reminded how he probably didn't even want to know you but had to, all because of you wanting him, a stranger, to be the subject of your assignment. It was easy to forget you weren't a saint while unimaginable privilege and wealth, both unearned, stood unchallenged before you. "I'm just saying. You're, like, smiling."

Yeah, and my face hurts like hell because of it. He chanced another moment of contact with your gaze before shoving his hands in his pockets and twisting back toward the stage. His lips were tight and hands clenched. You were the reason he was in this predicament; the reason why his jaw ached, the reason why he had to carve out a public persona for Bruce Wayne, the reason his calendar was rapidly filling with event after event after event... it'd only been a few days and he was impossibly exhausted. Unable to fully recover from his long nights now, he felt the burning in his wounds and the tearing of scabs splitting with every step. This time he squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars, rushing words out of his mouth before he simply stormed off and made another ass of himself. "Look, it's your big day. We shouldn't be arguing like this."

"Yet I get two syllables from you and everyone else gets five." Your cheeks flushed red at how whiny it came out, and crossed your arms for good measure. he side-eyed you, still not turning to fully face you. He spoke under his breath with hardly a movement of his lips as he surveyed the field of people taking covert pictures of him. Your instinct wanted you to shrink away, knowing you would end up in so many photos on so many people's phones. Something as simple as a conversation that lasts a little bit too long, or a bit too familiar could lead to wild speculation...

"I didn't think you'd be walking." Low and quiet. Slightly sarcastic.

You darted back under your breath as you got out your phone and pretended to take a call. Maybe it'll distract from the fact I'm standing next to Bruce Wayne. "Is that the only reason you came? Thinking I wasn't going to disgrace you with my presence?" The black screen was cold against your cheek.

He visibly bristled. "I thought when you said you hated Gotham you meant it. You seem to mean every other word you say to me." More sarcasm. More barely-concealed groans. Why. Wouldn't. You. Just. Leave.

You felt the words he wasn't saying, the anger boiling in both of you. He has no right. "What's your problem with me being here?"

It was like you were two children arguing on the playground over the swingset. "What's your problem with getting two syllables?"

Fuck! "UGH!" You pretended to listen on the phone for a minute longer before ending the call. Your cheeks were bright red, his glare was set. "I'm leaving, it was not a pleasure to have your acquaintance." You gave a subtle bow to him and stomped off the field, toeing the line between obviously pissed and someone who might just be in a hurry. Tears stung your eyes and it only made you walk faster, your teeth grit more until you felt the early ache of a headache. I'm only worth two syllables. And some bullshit passive aggression.

He watched you rush away. His first thought was Wow, shocked she's able to walk so well in those now but he stopped himself before the thought sat fully in his mind. God, why do you do that to me. The aggravation was filling his body like you were pouring into him and he was just a cup, a cup you filled with frustration, annoyance, noticing... he turned back to the throngs of people waiting on him and his stomach split in two. Christ. What did I sign up for. A crowd of women ran up to him the second he was free, big white veneered smiles holding out papers and pens, and snapping tons of pictures. "Can I kiss you for a photo?" "Can I get a hug Bruce?" "Mr Wayne, can I be your Mrs?" And a bunch of chuckles. He smiled through it and prayed no one saw how paper-thin it was. As he quickly signed all of their gear and smiled alongside them in selfies, he couldn't stop the bass of his internal monologue. Why do they like me? Is it just my money? No one has ever ran up to me like this. I haven't made myself available, sure, but... wow. More women. Even more. Do I need dedicated security? How am I going to escape?

After what felt like hours, his feet ached and his wrist felt like it was twisted off his body. Had every single person on the planet wanted his autograph? The crowd was mostly dissipated, and he found himself with just a few other professors and Dr. Vry standing in the middle of the stadium as the lights flickered on. The chill of the night air was biting at his neck, and he longed for the cowl. His eyes had nearly glazed over when she spoke to him directly. "Thank you Bruce for coming out with us tonight. Always good to see your family out and about, and to finally see your handsome face." As she said it she gently cupped her palm around his jaw and then moved her hand down, but not before he noticed a twinkle on her wrist. It was silver, much like the pendant he'd seen on her lapel before. Don't ask. His mind screamed at him, and he resumed eye contact. He ignored that she'd just caressed him and excused himself. "My pleasure. Thank you for allowing me. I'd better get home, I've got a pledge to keep." He shook her hand, which she pulled into a hug, and he strolled off the field to where his car was parked.

He jumped in the driver's seat and floored it onto the main road, taking the first right onto a side road. He tucked his car next to some bushes and got out, his Dior shoes crunching against the gravel and popped up the trunk. He pulled out black sweats, black boots, and a black hoodie. He stripped quickly and tightened the strings on the hood, obscuring his face from view. He grabbed his journal and a pen from his glovebox, and jogged out toward the edges of downtown. While he waited at the crosswalks he slowly sketched together the owl from his memory. It was a plain owl, nothing too spectacular or detailed if his memory served him. Should always wear my lenses when I'm out. Bruce can enter places Batman can't. He penned a reminder above the sketchy drawing, swiftly shutting the journal as rain pelted the city.

He decided to jog back to his house. He needed to release the pent up energy from having spoken to you, from having spoken in front of that many people, and from having to smile so much. By the time he reached the front steps he was exhausted, more drained than he'd felt in years, with a strange desire to learn everything he could about that owl pin. Without his key he knocked, and Alfred was beaming upon Bruce's arrival through the main doorway.

"Master Wayne! How was your speech? Any glowing reviews?" He lowered his voice as if to tease and leaned toward him. "Any thrown tomatoes?" He held in a chuckle to himself—he was certain the speech had gone impeccably, he'd always excelled in those classes as a young boy. But tonight Bruce's mind was elsewhere, and he didn't even register that Alfred was trying to joke with him. He stared ahead at the staircase blankly, lost in exhaustion. He mumbled a response. "Uh, no. It went as expected."

Alfred cocked his head at the boy. The tension in his gaze was palpable, and he could tell Bruce was lost in a world of his own again. "What's the matter?" The silence that followed was just long enough to be too long, and stirred suspicion in the old man. The mumbling continued, this time with a shrug. "It just ran a little long. I had to trim it." His eyes shifted away from the top of the staircase to the floor in front of him. He's coming back, Alfred thought. Just needs a bit more coaxing. "Come now," Alfred motioned for him to hand over his soaked hoodie, but he shrugged away and pushed past him. His voice was terse, defensive. "I'm fine, Alfred."

The house felt extra chilly. Alfred had known these moments before—moments he was sure the boy journaled about long into the night before his Batman shifts. As often as he'd longed to look inside one of his many journals, he knew the kid didn't need any more peeking into his personal life. However, that didn't mean he couldn't urge Bruce to open up; it wasn't as if he'd come in trying to hide his internal turmoil. He cleared his throat. "Can you assure me these are just residual nerves?" Nothing but the sound of his hair dripping onto the cherry wood. "Bruce?"

He winced at Alfred using his first name. He didn't particularly like Master or Wayne, but they at least felt familiar in the man's mouth. Calling him by his first name was like when his parents had called him by his full one. Bruce Thomas! His dad's commanding tone rang in his ear like it was just said. He began up the stairs, frustrated that Alfred had pestered the memory out of him. "I'm fine, Alfred. Just a long day." He didn't yet know enough about the owl situation to bring it to Alfred's attention, and he didn't have the energy to explore it further tonight. He just wanted to sink into bed.

Alfred's eyes caught on a sopping wet journal clutched tightly in Bruce's left hand. The pen's nib was still open and glistening, even in the low light. Why would he go out in the rain with his journals? He never leaves with his journals. A pang rang through his stomach and came through in his voice. "It pains me to badger you so much, boy." This time he didn't linger in the silence at all. "Then stop. I don't need babysitting." He began to jog up the stairs.

It seemed the rushed defense had caused his grip to slip with the journal falling out of his hands and opening to the last crease, displaying an inky sketch of an owl. Bruce knelt down immediately to scoop it up, but not before he'd fully risen he noted Alfred's face fall and gather. Bruce rose slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. "What?" A quickening heart rate forced him to turn around and stare into him, past the gray lashes. Alfred tried to pass it off with a small shake of his head and a quick clap. Bruce wasn't going to dismiss it. The temperature in the house had just dropped ten degrees. "Your face. It fell."

Another shrug. This wasn't usual of him. "Just an interesting image, that's all." His chuckle was so strained it insulted Bruce, who bristled at it. "Didn't expect your next hobby to be artiste!"

"You know something. Tell me." Bruce stepped toward him and Alfred stepped back. Bruce's brow raised in surprise. What the hell? Alfred put his hands up to his chest with his palms out, feigning innocence. "As long as it doesn't concern you, it doesn't concern me."

His fingers brushed the rough wet leather on the journal backing. His heart was pounding in his ears, eerily similar to the rush he got as he caught wind of another crime. He swallowed back a nervous lump. "And what if it does concern me?"

Alfred's blue eyes looked back at Bruce's with pity. Bruce suddenly wanted to vomit. Alfred sighed and looked down, his voice tempering. "Well then. Maybe we'd have a conversation." The foyer was boiling with something under the surface, a secret unsaid, a something Bruce was terrified to know. Why was it to the owl? Alfred didn't look like this. The house didn't feel like this. Adrenaline overtook his fear and he shoved the words past his teeth. "Been seeing owls a lot lately."

That same reaction—a short twisting of face, a blank stupor behind the eyes, all gone within the same second but not soon enough. Bruce's suspicion turned to gritted teeth and he turned to glare at the man. The silence between them was loud; so loud, in fact, it darkened the blue in his eyes to a cloudy gray. He stepped forward again, and Alfred stepped back. It stung. "What do you know?" Anxiety was fluttering in his chest and the old man looked down, then gestured to the stairway. "Let's come into my office."

In Alfred's office he sat across from him at the desk while Alfred rifled through a dusty cabinet. He tried not to let his thoughts run. He thumbed through the green cardstock until he paused at the back and pulled out a slim file titled ALAN WAYNE. He plopped it across the desk in front of Bruce and paused a moment. He sounded hesitant, but resolved. "I didn't want to say anything but, better to catch it early."

Bruce stared at the weathered pages. Barely concealing shaking fingers he flipped it open to see an old newspaper clipping from the late 1800s. The black ink was worn, with what looked like old tear stains running through the paragraphs. "What's this?" His eyes took it in but his mind didn't. It was sprinting now, fizzing toward a short circuit. Deluded Owl Man Found Dead. He blinked, then blinked again, and a sigh from across the desk tethered him.

"That's your great grandfather." Another sigh. Bruce went cold. "As your father told me—upon organizing his office ages ago—he had an illness which manifested into seeing owls."

Bruce read the rest in his head, his mind white and blank. Alan Wayne of the esteemed Wayne family has died this past Thursday, the 19th of October. Witnesses say he emerged from Wickham Alley where he soon died from fall wounds. A. Wayne was known in the year preceding his death to be deluded by a particular bird of prey. His eyes skipped lines and noticed a page tucked behind the paper—a death certificate. ALAN THOMAS WAYNE. DECEASED. CAUSE OF DEATH: PRECOCIOUS DEMENTIA. His brow furrowed and he gestured to Alfred. "Precocious dementia?"

Alfred nodded. "That's what they called it at the time, yes. I believe it's modern-day Schizophrenia."

This caused Bruce's brow to furrow further, his cognitive processing turning on. He didn't care to interrogate whether it was a defense mechanism or not. "They say he was sixty five when diagnosed. That's unusual, correct?"

The man nodded. "Right. Not typically. Usually in puberty or just after." He scanned the boy's face for signs of distress, but didn't see any. All he saw was a boy with his detective hat on. Not the boy. He deserves more. "Perhaps we can get in with your old analyst. Treatment has expanded dramatically." He lended a small laugh to break any tension.

"What else did my father say?" He ignored the callback to his childhood therapist. Alfred adjusted on the creaky wood burrowed into by the heavy chair that had been there for nearly a century. "He said his grandfather was a very normal, happy fellow until one day he came home talking about owls. Then he went, well, you can see what happened there." The grin he gave was watery and grim.

He turned to the back of the death certificate to see autopsy report. Tightness cramped his abdomen and he pushed the file back toward Alfred. His heart was thundering in his chest. Why hadn't Alfred told him? Why was this happening? "I'm going out."

"Bruce," He was probably going out to do something reckless. He wouldn't let him. "You've had a big day,"

"I'll be back before sunrise." He slammed through the office doors and hurried down the stairs, ignoring Alfred's calls the entire way down. He pulled his hood up over his head again and rolled up his journal. He shoved it into his pocket and jogged back toward downtown. So disgusting. Vile. Sudden. His feet slammed harder against the wet concrete, grinding his joints together while he could still run, while he could still think...

Already spoken for. That phrase followed you the rest of the evening. Your parents made themselves at home in the hotel room, settling into the king bed to watch some television together. They convinced you to watch, too, and you sat on a nearby recliner as you absently stared in its direction. You had an attached room next door—supposedly it had actually been cheaper to get a pair of rooms, a single King and single Queen, than one room with two beds. Your mind fumbled with emotions too complex to name, and a deep tension knotted your stomach to where you couldn't relax. Already spoken for. Who would he be with? Who was this mystery person?

"That Wayne guy was really something. You sure you two aren't together?" Your mother probed you when your father left to go to the bathroom. She shifted excitedly, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I defended you at the ceremony, but I couldn't help but notice the chemistry between you two!"

Your laugh startled her. You? With HIM? "Mom, no." You shook your head and crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back with another cackle. "He's..." You tried to come up with a word somewhere between arrogant and ridiculous before your dad came back with renewed curiosity. "What's that, honey?"

"Oh, nothing." Your mom quickly backpedaled, which you appreciated. Your dad shifted toward you much in the same way your mom just had and you struggled not to roll your eyes. "Is this about that commencement speech guy?"

"I don't know why you are both so convinced we're together. He's... aggravating. Trust me. I'd rather die." You shifted back in your seat and gestured with your head back towards the screen but they weren't having it.

Your dad chastised you. "Don't say that, c'mon!"

You felt close to snapping, which wasn't entirely their fault, Bruce simply took up too much of your brain space, so you tempered your response. "Didn't you both want me to come back from here? That Gotham was too dangerous?" You wondered how much of potential guilt weighed down the city for you... and then promptly remembered how rude he'd been when you two had first met face to face.

Your mother shook her head. "Of course dear, the crime here is unbelievable! But he's quite an accomplished, handsome fella who could sure afford to move somewhere safer." She grinned at you like you both a) wanted to be with Bruce and b) dating a billionaire was as easy as asking him out. You scoffed. "If you count inheriting billions an accomplishment..."

"Come on now." Your father glared softly at you. You looked down with a sigh. "Do you need anything from the corner store? I'm gonna take a walk." Pushing yourself out of the seat was creaky and awkward, and you cringed putting on your old slippers to walk in the wet rain. Had Walter hidden my sneakers? He must have.

Your dad protested, not wanting you to go out alone this late at night. He first offered to go down with you, then told you to take a flashlight. They both said they didn't want anything, and said to be back ASAP. "If you aren't back in half an hour I'm calling a search team!"

When you stepped out of the lobby you squinted down to see the corner store was actually two blocks away, which made you more nervous than it should have. You started on your walk and braced yourself for any catcalls. I forgot how scary it is here. I can't wait to be back home. You stepped in a puddle and the splash went up your entire leg. Cursing, you waited for the intersection to clear, but the light was taking an incredibly long time. You looked around to see a few bars, a club, and the corner store just ahead. People here care more about partying than food. You couldn't remember seeing a single club in a twenty mile radius of your house. When the white walk signal lit, you remembered the sudden screaming of bullets the last time you'd went clubbing. Maybe Mar would want to chat, maybe I could text her when I get back to the hotel.

A voice startled you until you almost fell into the street. "Y/N!" You turned to see a soaked Bruce wearing a baggy hoodie, his hair obscuring his face under the hood. His chest was heaving like he'd just sprinted over to you.

The second he'd noticed you standing at the corner he turned around. He didn't want to talk about what had happened earlier, or feel any more embarrassment about giving his speech. It felt frilly. He wasn't meant to appeal, he was meant to challenge. And yet he'd more or less traded in armor for custom designer. For now. What made him turn back around was thinking about the suit; you were the only one who knew him. It would be weird to talk to you but weirder to talk to someone on the street. You could help him. Maybe you'd seen some owls too.

He looked... frantic. The intensity of his already palpable gaze nearly cracked the sidewalk. "I need some help."

Fateful Beginnings

XV. “mutually-assured destruction”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce elicits your help in a desperate bid to validate his sanity, but the both of you reach a permanent standstill.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, arguing, anger, fear, hopelessness

words: 2.6k

a/n: I love when they bicker lmfaooooo, here’s a lil scene for the enemies to lovers crowd 😌

You tried to be subtle with your double-take. His hair was so much darker when it was soaked from rain, and he was nearly unrecognizable in such oversized, bulky clothing. Your eyes wandered to a notebook clutched tightly in his hand. Is it slippery? His knuckles are white.

He pulled you quickly toward him and the gentle spray of what would have been an outfit-ruining tsunami grazed your ankles. As quickly as the car passed he let go and began walking across the street. "Follow me." Too curious for your own good, you followed. Only when you reached three blocks from the hotel did you stop and question the affair. He gave a gruff response to asking where you were headed. "It's only a few more blocks." He continued walking until he realized your footsteps weren't following, and hesitated to peek over his shoulder. Of course you wouldn't follow him. Of course you had to make this difficult. He very nearly pressed on without you out of spite.

He was unrecognizable to you from behind. His wet hair splayed in a haphazard frame around his face, this wasn't what a billionaire looked like. A glimmer of curiosity captured you. Why would a billionaire want to dress himself down like this? It was decidedly less glamorous when he was outside of the suit, and less pathetic than when he wore baggy black clothes to walk around his empty home. You remembered you were in seclusion in downtown Gotham with a rich man, a man so rich he could ruin you without a second thought; and even though you knew his secret, you didn’t know him. He could do anything to me and the world would let him. The possibility alone petrified you and you resigned to stay back.

He picked up on that resolution (though he thought it wasn't self-preservation but resolution to his dissolution) and turned around, glowering at you. He noted that your feet were particularly dug into the gravel, your arms stiff to your sides. The chill of the evening air outside of your lips was the only evidence you weren't a statue. "It's just a few more blocks."

"I heard you." You crossed your arms to protect your chest and you saw his eyes track the movement. Heat rose in your chest. So fucking perceptive. It's like I'm prey.

"Are you coming?"

"No. My parents are expecting me back." He was just a random guy. Your mother was sick, your dad was probably unable to figure out how to work the remote and move from HDMI 1 to HDMI 2. You grit your teeth and he, of course, noted the subtle movement in your jaw.

What are you, twelve? He bit down on his tongue with a sliver of shame. You were just a random woman. Someone who had parents to get back to, parents that were waiting on you, parents who would be concerned if you were back too late, parents to spend time with, parents to see you, to know you...

A story was flashing across his eyes, even in the dark, but you weren't staying to figure it out. "I'm sure Alfred is waiting on you." You spun on your heel but didn't make it two steps before he retorted. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should spend time with him instead of stalking girls on street corners."

He didn't need you. You didn't know what you were talking about. "Don't act like you know anything about him." He wasn't letting you get out of earshot before defending himself. You don't know a thing about Alfred. A possessiveness snuck into his tone.

You spun around, your hands lazily following until they slapped against your thighs. "I got a good sense of your hospitality while I was there, you're ridiculously antisocial." You emphasized your eyeroll.

He huffed so firmly clouds of warm air obscured his face, making him for a moment a total shadow. "My apologies for not wanting a stranger loitering in my house that just threatened to blackmail me!" His voice had risen, but it wasn't quite enough for you to call him out yet.

You put your hands up in the air, dressing your words in as much syrupy sarcasm as they could hold. "God forbid someone stay in the giant empty mansion of the person hoarding all the city's resources for three days."

He turned around swiftly, menacingly. "I'm doing more for this city than anyone else."

You didn't bother to temper your scoff. It echoed off the wet brick. "Your ego is fucking insane."

He barked back. "What has anyone else done?"

You thought of your father who had so many aches and pains he couldn't count from his endless career work. The farm workers working in nearly inhumane conditions for meager paychecks, paychecks the Wayne family spent in a day even with just one man and a butler, the people putting food on Gotham's table. You thought of all the houseless people you'd walked past on your way here and couldn't help but laugh, but it was filled with so much tension it was painful. "You picked up a voluntary night shift, congrats, what cookie do you want?"

His chest constricted like his ribs had been welded together. "This is ridiculous. I don't know why I thought you'd be any help." He moved to turn but you ensnared him with another biting accusation.

"You are sitting on a mountain of wealth while people rot in the streets."

He rolled his eyes and committed to the full turn of his back to yours. "I'm not talking about this."

You scoffed again, your chest constricting with the beginning of adrenaline. "I made a point that you don't know how to respond to because you can't. And you're just leaving! Some fucking savior!"

God, who did you think you were? He spat the words out on the pavement with his back turned, eyes narrowed to slits. "You came here just to shit on my city and—"

"It is not your city. You are just a rich kid whose parents happened to live here. And you've done nothing besides saving counterfeit checks and people who have no other choice—"

"Oh, not this again." His smugness brought you right back to running to the city hall bathroom. He didn't know how easily he could massacre someone with his tongue. "Some of the people you take so much pride in scaring the shit out of are already scared. I guarantee if you just gave everyone food, shelter,"

"Money doesn't save everything." You. Didn't. Get. It.

"How can you possibly know even a fraction of the value of a single fucking dollar when you have billions in your bank acc—"

"I'm already allocating." He increased the distance between you two.

You snapped at him, seething at his audacity. "Don't you dare interrupt me."

"Money gets you shot dead on the streets." He continued without a care in the world.

"Don't fucking interrupt me."

He turned his head to peek a touch over his shoulder. Your sharpness has rustled him. He wanted to speak up again but your chest was heaving and splotchy red. Your hands were in trembling fists at your side. He averted his gaze and looked over at the wall while you both stood in silence. His heart was racing, but it wasn't showing—blood making a racket in his ears and practically drowning out all sound. He waited, and waited, and waited more, the adrenaline steadying him and giving him clarity. No one had ever been this mad at him outside of the suit... it was weird. It felt like he should be in armor, ready to dodge a punch and land one square in the jaw. He hated the way his eyes lingered on your jaw, nose, and the bottom of your ribcage. An enchantingly strong sensation of shame erupted from it. More combatant than human.

You noted his features softening, and with it yours slowed to simmer. It was impossible not to notice how sad he looked, and that pissed you off. Why do I give a shit what he's feeling? It was like there was a small box sitting in the corner of your chest, a slim panel hidden in the back of your mind. It contained something you couldn't reach. Every time you were around him it began to glow, but it was too hot. It burned your eyes if you ever tried to look right at it. Frustration had created a mist in your mind to try and distract you, convince you he was nothing of importance; Bruce Wayne could go fuck himself. Another part leapt out and tried to tell you, right then, your empathy was pure socialization. It's a woman's job to soothe, after all. Be easy, after all. The world catered to men, and here was the stereotype and living idol to the alpha male archetype. It repulsed you. Your eyes flit down to his journal as it slipped ever so slightly on the pads of his fingers. You squinted. Curiosity. That's what's coming up. You recalled Dr. Vry on the first day of your first journalism class. She'd opened the class with a speech.

You are all here because you were curious. Curious about this class, curious about writing, and curious about interviewing. I want you to hone in on that feeling; if you have a curiosity about something, anything, anyone, this unintelligible itch to figure it out, it's the sign of a story. A truth needs to be witnessed that you might be the only one capable of seeing. A truth you need to share with the world.

His eyes were the story; it elicited such a feeling of curiosity, his eyes. They were angry, and dark, and sad, and in a position unique to one in 8 billion. You were curious. You were curious about Bruce Wayne, and you hated him. You hated his clothes, his voice, his face, his gait, his position, his quiet arrogance. It clashed so hard with the embers of sympathy for his emotional darkness you felt you could burst. Still, you weren't about to follow him into the black abyss. "Why do you need to talk to me?"

Bruce's reaction didn't quite help you feel safe; he bristled at the question. There was something he wasn't telling you, that was obvious enough, but he refused to give any of it away. "I can't talk about it right here."

"I don't trust you."

He sighed. It made sense, as much as he hated to admit it. He wouldn't follow just anyone out into the corners of Gotham at night either. He shrugged over at you, opening his arms to flap them back down. "Want to check for weapons again?"

Again. You'd been genuinely petrified back in his basement; up until Alfred had arrived, you were certain you would have been meat to string along the ceiling for the bats to feed off of. It still didn't feel quite right, and you didn't feel quite safe, but you felt safer. Safe enough to not be agreeable, safe enough to not run away the second you saw him, but not safe enough to revoke suspicion. The thing on top of your mind now, taking up so much space it hurt, was hypervigilance. Every movement of his hand, his eyes, even the rhythm of his breathing was being tracked and gauged. You didn't know why this question came up, but it fell out of your mouth when it opened. "Do you really trust I won't tell anyone?"

Damn. He didn't, in truth. He'd said so back at the airport because it hadn't fully sunk in that someone knew. Now that he'd had to begin constructing this new persona, now that he had realized how someone could see past it, he was terrified. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head. "No."

It made you a bit afraid hearing that, not that him saying yes would've made you believe him. How could he trust you? If the roles were reversed, you wouldn't. "I don't trust that you won't hurt me."

"How can I convince you?"

Before you could answer your phone buzzed. It was your dad.

"Hey hun, everything good down there?" He sounded like he was munching on the hideously expensive bag of chips that had been provided by hospitality. You nodded before realizing he couldn't see you and your cheeks burned with heat at Bruce having seen it. "Yeah, I just got caught up."

"Caught up? Is that code for something? Do you need me to come down there?"

You glanced over at Bruce who was staring down at his shoes. He slowly looked up at you and lingered in eye contact briefly before looking down to kick at a pebble. Bruce Wayne kicking pebbles on the sidewalk. Get the paparazzi over here. "It's fine, dad. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He didn't miss a beat before a small shuffling and you heard him whisper. "She must have met up with that Wayne guy. Probably doesn't want to tell me." He came back to the line and you thanked god your speaker was off. "No it's, I'll be back soon. Bye." You hung up even though you could tell he didn't quite buy it, which made you have to hurry your exit even more. You plunged your phone in your pocket, avoiding eye contact. You answered him. "You can't convince me."

You both stood there in total silence, not even a car driving in background noise. Finally an ambulance mauled past and he let out a deep sigh. "How do we level the playing field?"

You shrugged, your mouth drying up. You rolled your eyes and sighed out some tension. "Mutually assured destruction, I guess." You didn't particularly like that, the threat of violence from him ever-present in your mind. He didn't like that either, in fact, he felt like he could vomit the second you said that. "I won't hurt you."

"I don't believe it."

"We're at a standstill, then." He straightened his back. "You could say we're even." God, it made him ill that he saw no route to convince you. Another reminder of his status, another reminder of how inhuman he was. You probably looked at him like his veins were thick with gold. He felt the need to give you another reminder, not wanting to hide behind the cloak of assumed violence for another second. "Even if you wrote that, I wouldn't hurt you."

Playing the nice guy, huh? You crossed your arms and shook your head vigorously, the cold chill starting to get to you. You needed to get home and couldn't have this conversation much longer. "You can't convince me, you just can't."

You still felt a twist in your stomach at how much privilege he didn't even realize he held, so much wasted opportunity and ignorance, but you nodded. How could you explain to someone that was born into it how much power he held? Was he actually ignorant of it, or did he just want people to think he was so they would get comfortable and let their guard down for him to strike? It still felt uneven, massively so, but you reassured yourself that you would be out of his reach soon enough. Your parents were waiting, your mom was sick, and you'd be gone in the morning for good. You spun around on your heel without a look back and sped on back to the hotel. Bruce glanced down at the journal that was nearly melted into a puddle in his hand and groaned. Whatever. Mutually-assured destruction.

Fateful Beginnings

XVI. “sweetener”

parts: previous / next

plot: after months of rejections, a certain offer crops up with such sweetener you can’t possibly resist… though you wish it was under better circumstance.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, talk of death, grief, cancer, angst, unintentional weight loss

words: 3.9k

The next two months were a blur. Your days melted together, only distinguishable by doctor's visits and which job rejected you that day. The economy was in shambles; going on Indeed you were seeing hundreds of applications to a single Dunkin' barista job. You tried your best to forget about Bruce Wayne, and kept replaying the conversation over and over in the week following. His promise not to hurt you, the vague sense of safety and danger you got when you were around him... but it was soothing knowing that he was all the way on the other side of the US. This relief went away when it was deep into the night and you remembered he had all the money, all the tech, all the opportunity to hunt you down if he wanted to, but you did your best to trust the humanity he fronted with. You kicked yourself for forgetting to bring up the loan thing, adrenaline having been coursing through your veins blocking out any real coherent thought outside of the direct moment. It couldn't have been him, it could've been another donor. Maybe it was even Alfred checking my texts when I’d gone to the bathroom or some shit.

The days still blurred together however, and secretly you relished not knowing what day it was; not knowing meant you didn't know how close the draw was. Your mother's clinical trial started beginning of August, and would be a biweekly shot... if she was accepted. At each and every appointment leading up to that fateful day the staff engaged in tempering assurances, albeit assuring hardly anyone would make it into that trial. For a split second whenever a doctor or nurse mentioned it at the end of her appointments you felt a white-hot rod in your throat that froze you in your tracks. The doctors said this was her only hope. And only if she avoids placebo.

Walter was growing increasingly anxious as well. Walter refused to leave her side to the point you had called the office to see if they would ever make an exception to bring a cat inside. No. Allergies. Your dad had taken to staying home with him, otherwise he would go on a food strike. It would take hours of petting and cooing to him to make him comfortable enough to eat again if your mom ever got out of his sight. It was better with your dad there, though. Instead of three hours of cuddling, it might take two for him to eat again. You tried not to think about what would ever happen if your mom's battle ended... poorly.

Your dad started going back to work, only part time. You made sure to spend all the time possible out in the living room with your mother and Walter while she knit and pulled pieces of yarn from Walter's teeth, and watched some sort of romcom. When your dad came back you would all start cooking dinner, then eat, engage in some sort of discussion (your dad had taken to downloading an 'icebreaker' app and would pull one question each day from it) and then you'd spend the rest of the night submitting job apps. It was monotonous, a bit draining, but also sweet. It was such a far cry from Gotham that at just over a month gone from the city, you'd started to wonder if you'd dreamt it and you'd actually been here with them all along... until the day before the clinical trial announcement when you'd woken up to a particular email.

Dear Miss Y/L/N,

It is at the referral of Gotham City University President Dr. Janay Vry that we extend to you an offer of employment in the position of JOURNALISM DEPARTMENT ASSISTANT for the academic year of 2024-25. This is a part-time position requiring 20 hours of on-site time per week including outreach of no more than 5 hours per week. Duties include management of a public column in the Gotham Gazette and various office responsibilities as-needed. Compensation includes a housing stipend of fifteen-hundred dollars per month and an hourly rate of forty-three dollars and forty-five cents.

Please respond before Friday, August 2nd at 5pm. There is a mandatory meeting on Monday, August 5th at 12 noon in Challey Hall, Room 245. Flight and one-week hotel stay will be provided upon acceptance.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Gotham City University Faculty Administrator

You stared at the screen as if you'd seen a ghost. For weeks you hadn't had to worry about Gotham; the crime, the sleazes, Bruce Wayne. I'm balls deep in rejections and now Gotham sweetens the deal. You kicked the sheets off of you then paused, horrified, before remembering Walter didn't sleep in your bed anymore.

Breakfast was as usual. Your dad made omelets and the three of you made small talk about the happenings of the day ahead. Today your mother was getting a visit from Debra, her old friend from the Y back when she volunteered there on weekends. Your dad was working the same shift—10am to 3pm—and would put steak on the grill when he got back. "Looks like it might hit a hundred if we get lucky."

"Y/N," She asked after taking a sip of coffee. "Can you make sure Walter's water is filled? I think I might go to Debra's to get out of the house." You looked under the table to see Walter slurping up the last puddles of his water and rose to fill it. You grabbed a few ice cubes so it could stay cold just the way he liked it; a sobering thought of leaving this for Gotham threatened to sever your spine. After pouring a few cups into his bowl and giving him a proper pet, your dad followed up on your job search. "Any luck on those applications?"

More than anything you didn't want to tell them about Gotham. But as your parents had talked, the more you began to mull over the money in your mind. Free housing. 1500 would be enough for a good studio. 800 a week. A plane ticket's 200 round trip. I could visit, easy. I would visit. It would only be temporary, I wouldn't probably last the whole year before I got offered a position at home. What if Mom doesn't get into the trial? What if she does and she gets placebo? How long does she have? Will it be painful? Do I need to think about a job right now? It would look fucking great on a resumé, which would increase odds of getting ahead of the job seekers in WA quite significantly...

"Hun? Any offers?" Your dad turned to look at you and you blurted out the contents of the email. A second of silent surprise then an uproar of celebration. "Thank heavens, that sounds wonderful! Did you already accept?"

You looked back at them with shock, your mouth hanging slightly open. What? Walter finished his food and brushed against your legs as he wandered to your mom, looking pitifully up at her slices of bacon. "Well, no. It's Gotham. I thought it was too dangerous." You guys nearly prohibited me from even going to Gotham in the first place...

"That was before we visited!" Your mom was ecstatic; she rose to come and give you a big hug, and your dad tried to swat Walter away from jumping on the chair to sneak a bite. You wanted to think it was cute, but your mind raced. How could they be so supportive? Unquestionably? "It's Gotham, Mom," You took her hug not in celebration, but in an effort to commit the feeling to memory.

"How much is the pay?" Your dad pulled in the chair so he couldn't jump and walked over to the sink to put his plate away. You shut your eyes and hid a sigh. Once they know how good the pay is they won't let me stay. "Good, I guess."

"What, 15, 16 an hour?" Your parents eyed you expectantly and you shrugged. "A little more. Than that." You followed the linoleum's vertical lines to where it met the carpet. "And a housing stipend." You cringed. They weren't going to let this opportunity go.

"Wowza, honeybee!" Your dad called you that when he was particularly pleased, which only served to coil your stomach lining. Gotham? Gotham. This was over Gotham. The place we got into screaming matches over me going to only a handful of years ago. "I don't know,"

"Why not? It sounds perfect." Your mom was a foot away from you boring her eyes into your soul. Does she really have no idea why I wouldn't want to leave? "Mom,"

"If this is anything about my cancer," So she did.

"Don't say that," You tried to play it off and stuttered something about how you didn't particularly like Gotham anyway, you could keep looking for jobs here, but she wasn't having it.

"No no. I want you to live your life, sweetie. This is a spectacular opportunity!" Her singsong tone was back and you suddenly wanted to throw up. You wanted to blurt HOW MUCH TIME IS LEFT WITH YOU?? I CAN'T MISS IT! But, you didn't say anything and walked out of the kitchen back to your room. You didn't quite slam the door, but didn't make it silent. While your mother's selflessness was admirable, it was also frustrating. I only get one mom. You sat on the edge of your bed with your head in your hands. Whispers wafted from the kitchen but you couldn't make them out. The sound of footsteps, a pause, and then knocking on your door. "Hun, let's talk." It was your father.

"Dad, no, I'm tired,"

"You just woke up honeybun, I'm not buying that." He sat beside you on the end of your bed. It sagged a bit, not used to the extra company. He placed a hand on your shoulder. "What you're feeling about your mother, I've felt it too. I had the same conversation with her before going back to work.”

"I'm sure she was receptive." You rolled your eyes. He squinted at you. "Now, where is this attitude coming from?"

"I don't want to tell her because it'll make her sad. But. I. I have no idea how much longer she has left. And working would just take time away from her."

"Have you thought about how that might make your mother feel? Her life has changed enough. She's already reminded enough about her... illness."

"Cancer, Dad. Cancer." He never said the words. He shuddered but continued on.

"Her life has been turned upside, over, and back around. She does not need more reminders of how sick she might be."

"How sick she is." You shot a glare at your father, just then realizing how much contempt you felt toward him. It came rushing out of you. "You didn't even think to tell me her mobility changed. I had to see her frail and in a fucking wheelchair,"

"Now, calm yourself!" He snapped at you and took his hand off your shoulder. You scooted a little further from him, annoyed. Your voice was softer but the rock in your chest remained. "You didn't even tell me. She's lost so much weight. Her hair changed. You didn't even tell me. You won't even say the word 'cancer'." Your voice was starting to raise and he stood up. "Talk to your mother."

"Why? Didn't you say that'd just add extra stress? Remind her of her 'illness'?" You stood up and watched him walk to the door. "You weren't in the room with the doctor when he told me. He said it's this trial or fucking nothing."

"Don't use that language in my house!"

"It's my house too." By this point your mind was racing and your palms were sweaty and clammy and head hot, hands shaking. "If she doesn't get into this trial and this medicine doesn't work she's fucked."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "If you brought it up to her... maybe you'd see she's come to more peace than you have about it." With that, he left.

At 1:13pm the next day the phone rang. You hadn't talked to your mom about it as she was already headed out the door to see Debra, and didn't come back until late in the evening when she was visibly exhausted. Your dad helped tuck her into bed and she fell asleep quickly. Breakfast the next morning was fine, but tense; you were all anxiously awaiting this phone call. Your dad had stayed home from work just in case, and now your mom picked up the phone. "Yes, that's she. Yes. Yes, that's correct." And just by some small miracle, she'd gotten in.

Debra joined the party that evening. After a tearful raucous she was the first one your family called. Not ten minutes later she had arrived with a pie. "I baked it this morning. I figured we'd want something sweet no matter what."

The logistics were as-follows: your mom was going to be receiving her first shot of the drug (or, terrifyingly, a placebo) the following Friday. She would keep a diligent record of any side effects, even if they didn't seem related. Two weeks later she would receive her second dose and turn in the side-effect sheet, and that would continue for the following month until switching to once a month injections for the rest of the year. The first week of the new year your mother would get another scan, and that would be the first check-in. "They told me if everything goes how it should with the medication, I could not only see growth stunted, but be on the road to remission." Seeing how happy your parents were the rest of the evening only made the offer in Gotham more inviting; she'd been accepted, and if the results were, god forbid, horrendous in the new year, you would come home and help with the money you'd saved.

Clutching the laptop with white knuckles, you sent the acceptance email at 4:50pm the next day, ten minutes before the deadline. Half an hour later you were booked for your flight that Sunday at noon. Saturday was filled with laundry and packing bags; now Walter didn't want to leave your side. That night you hardly slept, staying up to pet him on the couch while your parents nodded off to a TV movie. The phrase mutually assured destruction came back to haunt you—you hadn't meant that to be a threat, but what if it was? You'd planned on never having to see him again... but the city was big. You could avoid him. And if you were going to trust him, he had said that even if you had written the exposé he wouldn't have hurt you.

You planned to come back once a month, leaving Thursday night and returning Sunday night. It fit well with your mom's trial schedule for the latter portion of the year, and you'd be able to come with her to her appointments. When you got on the plane and tucked your carryon under the seat it didn't feel so terrible. It felt less like leaving and more like a weird vacation. But as soon as you woke up in Gotham a rock hit the pit of your stomach. Fuck. I'm back.

The W was the hotel Dr. Vry had set up for you, only a floor below where you'd stayed with your parents the last time. You had one week to find an apartment, and Dr. Vry said to list her on any applications to 'speed up the process'. While waiting on the Uber to pick you up in the airport you'd sent one application to a place in North Gotham, a gorgeous gem of a spot with a full-size tub and in-unit washer dryer. Just as you pushed the key into your room at the hotel, you received a confirmation email with the date to retrieve your keys. Fuck, they made it too easy.

With a lot of time on your hands and a new neighborhood to explore, you abandoned your room and wandered around the blocks surrounding. You went more north this time, to avoid any fleeting memory of Bruce and whatever the hell he'd been up to.

Northern Gotham was certainly more family-friendly. You saw couples taking their babies out on walks instead of throngs of people clustering around the various clubs on every block. There was only one club you'd seen so far, and that one allowed minors until seven pm. You'd lived more downtown, central city, and never had reason to go further north until now. The apartment you'd been in was less than a thousand a month, which made sense how riddled it was with crime. It wasn't even close to Washington, but this didn't quite feel like the Gotham you knew close to campus.

You noticed a cute themed coffee shop on the corner ahead and went in. There were a few people and a couple sitting around the small room, working on their laptops or reading a book. It really felt like it wasn't Gotham, like you'd been transported back home for a quick moment. You went on Maps and saw that your new apartment was only three blocks east of the cafe. Safety. Serenity. Never thought I'd find a crumb of it here. You resigned to coming here as often as possible. You ordered a macchiato and sat on a leather loveseat as you waited. Your jeans bit into your stomach and you adjusted uncomfortably, the leather loud as you wiggled. I guess this is why this seat was empty. You were called up for your drink quickly and thanked them as you walked out back from whence you came. Though you hadn't been in the store for five minutes, it was already raining. Even Washington didn't rain in August, but you couldn't be too pressed. The rain was nice when it wasn't forcing you to be locked in the city mansion with the... no.

Bruce doesn't own this city. There's millions of people here. With your coffee in hand you made the trek back to the hotel, and after hopping into the giant bed you sat with your thoughts for a moment. Challey Hall... that wasn't the journalism department. The term started three Mondays later, and alongside the fifteen-hundred stipend for rent and utilities, Dr. Vry had emailed you with an extra thousand in the form of a digital check. In her words it was a 'settle-in fee'. Monday would be the meeting and then Dr. Vry would give you a tour of the places you'd be frequenting. You'd receive your schedule, and Tuesday through Sunday would be reserved for settling into the apartment and getting items for it so it wasn't an empty box. Why are they being so generous with the money? It didn't feel right, not when there was so much inequality in the city. You'd make sure to cut some costs and offer whatever was left after your first paycheck to the houseless people around campus.

As you walked back you couldn't help but think about how gigantic the city was. When considering whether or not to accept the position, you had vastly underrepresented the impact of the sheer size of the city on your psyche. It made you feel completely unimportant and equally as lost. It only served your insecurities, making you feel like even more of an outcast than you already felt in your small town just outside of Seattle. Mar. You could call Mar. She could come over, and you could tell her about Bruce. That would be a good icebreaker. Open up to her about why you'd been so MIA, about your mother's cancer, about why you left and why you came back. You needed someone to talk to.

An hour later you and her were sitting on the hotel bed eating takeout noodles. "So you're saying you stayed in Bruce Wayne's HOUSE, then he helped you pack up your apartment, then dropped you off at the airport," Her face was scrunched together, deep in thought as she recounted the last hour of conversation. Some broth from the noodles was on the top of her lip. "Then he was the commencement speaker at your graduation, he talked to your parents after, then later that night he found you again and talked to you?"

"When you say it like that it sounds like stalking." You shrugged and took another chomp of noodles. Mar stared at you. "If it sounds like stalking,"

"It's coincidence, I promise." You hadn't completely kept out the part where you two hated each other, you made sure that was clear, but you sure as hell kept out the why. Mar was trustworthy, sure, but you didn't even want to remember he was Batman. It made you anxious and nervous to think about him in the suit. Then you would've had to explain that you and Bruce were now circling each other with ammo pointed at the other's chest if one of you stepped out of line.

"I don't know, it sounds creepy. What if he shows up here in the middle of the night..." Mar trailed off when she saw you look away. You hadn't told Mar about your mom yet, and didn't know if you wanted to for fear of it becoming more real. You wanted to leave that out of Gotham. Leave the trauma, leave the guilt, leave it for the weekends when you would fly back. You shrugged and made a joke about getting to be associated with a billionaire. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he got papped here. Might boost my journalistic impact." The conversation moved away from Bruce after that, and you and Mar spent the rest of the evening talking, eventually laying in bed scrolling Scypher on your respective phones. The second you loaded the app, however, you saw a Dior ad everyone in Gotham was swooning over, and couldn't hold back your gasp.

He had not only been photographed often by paparazzi, it seemed, going on regular walks to downtown shops and local charity events, but this was his first official campaign. Mar leaned over and nodded, saying 'everyone' was talking about the photo. "I thought you'd already seen it, that's why you brought him up."

"No, I haven't." You scrolled through the comments trying to hold back a cringe.

He can top me

BARK BARK BARK

y did he keep his BEAUTY FROM US FOR SO LONG???????????

daddy

when is the rest of the campaign dropping asking for a friend

You turned your phone off and rolled over in bed. You told Mar goodnight (she decided to spend the night since she hadn't seen you in so long), murmuring something about having to be up the next day for your orientation. Bruce Wayne. Billionaire playboy. What the fuck happened with him?

Fateful Beginnings

XVII. “orientation”

parts: previous / next

plot: back in the godforsaken city, you attend orientation and set up your new apartment.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+

words: 2.3k

It could've been the sun blasting from your windows waking you up, but you lived in Gotham—instead it was the sound of shouting and piercing whoops with a sprinkle of taxi honks that made you rub the crust off your eyes. Mar was already awake and stood impatiently by the door. She looked up at you and grinned when she saw you sit up. "I ordered some donuts for us, figured you might wanna eat."

She almost looked like a little dog waiting to be let out; she was short with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, rearing to get out the door and feel some adventure. Huh. She reminds me of a cocker-spaniel. The clock read 11:05, and you jumped out of bed to get in the shower. You thanked her for ordering them before rushing to get your body clean. The water in the W’s shower was absolutely scalding, and it reminded you of another inequality in the city—only the rich people got fast-heating water. You cringed as you put the hotel shampoo and conditioner in your hair, then fought with the hair dryer that was too closely connected to the wall, and stepped out to Mar's lap covered in powdered sugar. "Here! I saved you these."

Since you signed everything virtually, Mar insisted on taking your bags to your new apartment for you. Much to your chagrin (you were feeling strangely jet-lagged from the day before) she was being convincing. "Just let me take them so you don't have to worry while you're at orientation. That's rent you're wasting!"

"I don't have a bed, I don't have anything to even sleep on in there yet, Mar." You shoved your arms through a sweater and pulled up your trousers.

"Won't they be giving you that welcome stipend or whatever today? How long is orientation?" Mar was always ready to get things moving, and you vacillated between appreciation and admonition.

"I mean I think so, and it's only until three." You furrowed your brow. "Maybe we could go to Target after and pick out some stuff?"

She clapped her hands and squealed. "Mmhm, perfect. Meet me at Jonson Street Target at 3:30?"

In the taxi to GU, you emailed her the information and messaged the apartment about a guest coming to get your things set up. You arrived at 11:58 and rushed to the Challey building, arriving sweaty and out of breath but on time. Dr. Vry was wearing a black velvet (?) sweater with a leather skirt, and had bright red lipstick. Her gray hair was up in a ponytail that sent a wash of neroli-scented air your way. "My protégé!" She wrapped you in a hug and led you by the elbow down the hallway to her office. Why does she keep calling me that? I didn't even get the interview with her billionaire.

"I'll be here. You dear, will be down the hallway just so." She pointed a few doors down to a vacant room with a sturdy desk and chair. You could've sworn it used to be a study room, and even pictured you and Mar studying for an exam there on class conflicts and inequalities.

The orientation was lackluster, but you hadn't expected much anyway. The doors creaked just as much, the cobwebs were still very much present, and the hallways were completely devoid of life. Your position was extremely straightforward: come in at least 8 hours a week to be available for any clerical work she had, and the other seven would be used up at weekly city hall meetings (two hours) and remote work. She took you down to the print room to meet one other lonely soul, Bridgit, explaining that you would bring your column to her by the end of the workday Thursday for printing. "The only thing you have to worry about is writing about whatever is happening at the meetings per week. And staying below the fifteen-hundred word count of course." She laughed like it was supposed to be funny and you and Bridgit followed suit.

By 2:30 you had completely exhausted even your boss's endless capacity for conversation, and she sent you on your way. Right as she was going to shut the door to her office you remembered the check. "Oh, Dr. Vry, the uh, I'm sorry, was I supposed to receive the initial payment today?"

She laughed again and shook her head. She waved her hand in dismissal only someone with six figures in their savings could manage. "It will be mailed to your new apartment by the end of the week." She smiled at you and shut the door. You held your raincoat limply in your hands. You only had twenty dollars in your account.

You got a taxi back to the W. 2:45. You went to the front desk and prayed this would work. "Hi, when I scheduled online I booked out through the end of the week but I don't need the room anymore. Can I cancel and get a refund?"

"Name?"

You told him and he clicked away. "Room 208?"

"Yes." You sat your hands on the edge of the desk behind a row of pens and flyers. There was a children's play at a private school close by. The Muppets. You wondered how they would accomplish that.

"Card ending in 5620?"

Fuck. "Oh I'm sorry, that card doesn't work anymore. Is there any way to get cash?" You bit your cheek to keep the anxiety at bay.

He shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, but we have to... well, I could..." The man leaned into a mic nearby. "Manger to the front desk please."

A lady with a plastic smile arrived swiftly. Her eyes met yours with a blank, wide stare. "How can I help you?"

"She says the card she booked with doesn't work anymore and wants a cash refund."

"Oh, was there a problem with your stay?" Her teeth were blindingly white and ridiculously straight. You nearly had to squint back at her.

"No no, I just don't need it anymore." You gripped the edge of the desk hard barely out of their gaze. Please please please. The manager clicked a few buttons on the computer and scanned her badge. She flashed another beaming smile at you before skirting away. After what seemed like an hour but was likely only a few minutes, the manager entered. “Yes ma’am.” After a very tense nod, the desk clerk opened the register and began counting hundreds. "One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred,"

When he handed you 1800 dollars you felt faint. You handed over the key and thanked him before pocketing the cash and taking a taxi that had just dropped off a couple at the hotel. "Jonson Target, please."

3:01 you pulled up to the curb. Mar was perusing the dollar items when you walked in, and you both made quick work of finding your way to the home aisle and packing everything into a cart. A mattress, a frame, a sheet set, a comforter, pillows, a throw rug, a lamp, hangers, a bedside table, and two beanbag chairs cleared off that section and the cart. You grabbed another and headed to the hygiene section, grabbing toilet paper, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, toothbrush, toothbrush holder, toothpaste, lotion, cleanser, moisturizer, towels, and finished off with some multi-surface cleaner, rags, and a swiffer. The total came to just under a thousand, leaving ample room for Ubers and food until your first paycheck. Exhausted, you ordered an Uber Pickup to take you to your new abode: The Moore.

The driver was a big, burly man with a big, burly pickup. You both squeezed into the back seating and he blasted some music neither of you had ever heard. When you pulled up to the front steps he was kind enough to help you out, bragging the entire time about his muscularity. "You know, city folks don't know much about this but I spent all my summers bucking hay in Georgia." You both humored him, since he was able to carry both the mattress and frame in one smooth trip. 5:30 and you and Mar were just getting out the mini toolkit provided by apartment management to begin assembling everything.

The apartment was massive compared to your last one. No longer a studio, you were upgraded to a bathroom with a full XL tub and a one-bedroom master. The queen bed fit well, and after everything had been assembled (much to your exhaustion), the apartment still looked somewhat empty, but inhabited. When you and Mar finally settled into the beanbags in the living area, you groaned about forgetting a tv. Mar asked if she could take a shower, and you moved to the bedroom and set up your iPad in the meantime.

Hi hunny. How is the new place? Your mother wants pictures ASAP ( as soon as possible ).

It's good! I'll send some pics in the morning, I'm tired from setting up the place all day. Orientation went well too. Doesn't seem like I'll be too drained there.

Mar stayed the night again, and you pestered her about if she really wanted to stay here or not. This wasn't the longest you two had been together—during your first year of undergrad here you both had been exceptionally close, sometimes spending a week flip flopping between the other's apartment. "I just don't want to be asking too much of you." You threw the comforter over you and grabbed your phone. She was slathering on some moisturizer. "Y/N." She gave you a look as the pads of her fingers pressed along her cheeks. She's right. She's never had a problem with being straightforward. She skipped over to bed with you and got under the blanket. "This gives us time to talk about the juicy stuff."

Oh no. Mar had been trying to get you a partner since the first time you both had a conversation. Extremely flirtatious and non-monogamous, her most used apps were Tinder and Uber. It had taken you a minute to get used to that coming from a smaller town, and only ever having been on a smattering of first dates and had a brief 'boyfriend' in high school. "Are you finally in a relationship yet?"

"No." You shrugged and tried to change the subject to a funny meme you'd just seen on Scypher. She shook her head and leaned in closer. "What about Ryan? Jade?" With every shake of your head she grew more exasperated. "C'mon Y/N! Get it together!"

"I'm good on that." She gave you another look and you reaffirmed. "I'll even pinky swear."

Mar held out her finger with a knowing look. You put out your pinky and moved to her hand, but stalled. You let it fall back into your lap and then pulled the covers over your head. "Okay fine. I don't completely hate the idea of dating." This created an hour more of conversation detailing all your past dates, including the coffee situation with your friends back home, and culminated in such a dense feeling of loneliness you nearly wanted to cry. The moment was short lived however due to her inclusion of the most frustrating man alive.

"I know you don't want me to say it, but what about Bru—"

"Absolutely fucking not." You mimed throwing up and passing out and she playfully slapped your arm. "Christ, dude. Last time you were here he literally chased after you."

"Last night you thought it was stalking."

"Yeah but the more I thought about it," She looked off into the distance for dramatic effect. "I wouldn't mind being invited to Paris for your birthday."

A laugh slipped out of you which eased the tension. Mar was persistent but not rude, and she had sensed this was a soft enough spot for you she didn't push it past that. You both fell asleep quite similarly to how you did the night before, but this time you didn't have to wake up for anything. Dr. Vry had told you work did not officially begin for you until Thursday evening when you were to go to the first city hall meeting to gather report. She hadn't given very specific instructions, just handed you a PRESS badge for security clearance and told you to use your phone and a notebook. She called it 'adapting to the times'. You tried not to focus too much on the logistics as you fell asleep—would you interview someone or would you simply give a summary of the meeting's happenings—and most importantly, you made sure not to zoom in on a particular aspect of the affair Dr. Vry was especially fanatic about: Bruce Wayne's attendance. You loathed how he was the last thing you thought about your first two nights back. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, and it certainly didn't make you want to stay here any longer. What would you say? What would you do? Would he pretend not to know you? Would you pretend not to know him? What if you tripped again?

The rumination lingered in your dreams and you woke up the next morning feeling like you'd napped about five minutes. Checking your phone saw that you had slept until noon, and Mar was still sound asleep in bed. You got comfortable. This was going to be a long week.

Fateful Beginnings

XVIII. “indebted”

parts: previous / next

plot: employed as the resident Gazette journalist, your first night at City Hall leaves you panicked and reeling from a last-minute confession from Bruce.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, bribery, panic attack, mental institution

words: 3.3k

Mar had taken you to Nordstrom to peruse the sale rack for appropriate journalist attire. You'd settled on a black long-sleeve mini dress; you'd wanted to go midi, but she had insisted you be more risqué. "You don't have to hide your femininity to be professional." Now you were wearing it with matching pointed toe heels—with less heel than your old ones. The press lanyard dangled around your neck nearly obscured by hair that had taken you all evening to curl; the rain was hellish, weighing down your roots and frizzing out the lengths. Paparazzi waited and for a moment you stalled to wonder why they were here; that was until they started shouting "BRUCE WAYNE?!" and racing past you. You stopped in your tracks, and all you could hear was the pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums. Fuck. He's here already. The hectic, giddy flashes blurred your vision and created floating black specks as you made your way up the stairway. It felt... weird being at the beginning of it all. Like a bad omen. You walked to the appetizers to see if Rai was working it, but it was some random catering company with bland, pompous snacks. Caviar, Oyster and a billion other things you couldn't name.

As much as you wanted to wipe him from your mind, it was impossible to not know when Bruce Wayne entered the building. Everyone inside gasped under their breath and turned like he was a shark in the water, like cat to mouse, predator to prey. It would have taken you too much brainpower—you wanted to spend precisely none on him—to figure out who was hunting who. You grabbed some champagne and tried not to bump into any of the frail, callous rich people. As you surveyed the room (making sure to glide your eyes right past him) you noticed a few upgrades; the foyer housed fresh paint, a new rug, and an ice sculpture. You squinted your eyes to no avail trying to figure out what it was supposed to resemble.

On your gaze's loop you locked eyes with the man of the hour. Your cheeks stung with angry, embarrassed heat and you spun to grab an oyster. Anything to look busy. Anything at all. Excited voices became a passing buzz in your ear as you hyperfocused on the food in your hand. Slimy.

"You may enter now." A man in black pants and a crisp linen shirt opened the door to something vaguely resembling a conference room that vaguely resembled a dystopian art gallery. It didn't quite fit right in your mind, which sent the visceral reminder of loneliness down your gut. You made your way quickly toward the room, foregoing thoughts of where he might or might not be. A mantra pinged between your ears: I will not talk to him. I will ignore him.

Oh how bitterly inferior you were to the actions of Bruce Wayne. You smelled him before you heard him, a musky, clean detergent scent; he smelled just like he did back at Wayne Tower. Only now it was dancing with some... grapefruit? Mandarin? You held back a laugh at the thought of him shuddering whilst spraying cologne.

You were already laughing. He didn't want to see you here. When he walked in he thought it couldn't be you—you hated it here—but when you turned it was immediate. Panic lurched in his chest; you weren't supposed to be here. The word 'destruction' banged around his skull. The badge around your neck alluded to him not being able to avoid you for very long, so much to his chagrin he thought he'd brave the storm and break the ice. "Didn't expect to see you here." Dancing around it. Would you do the same?

You wanted to test his limits, see how he would react if you refused to be on your best behavior, so you resorted to fronting a rude persona. "I'd say the same but..." You gave him a once-over. The Dior stitched into his breast pocket nearly rolled your eyes to the back of their sockets, but you were in public, and he was Bruce Wayne—every room orbited around him. This wasn't the place to make a bad first impression, so you slapped a grin on your face that showed your teeth. "When it strikes midnight is your Dior gonna fall off? Fairy godmother on speed dial?" You lowered your voice a bit so no one would think twice about your conversation. You hid a wince; fuck. That first part had sounded weird. He looked down and put his hands in his pockets, huffing out exasperation. You know. You know. You know. He thought about telling you he didn't like this, to reassure you he did not enjoy the facade, but: he didn't owe you anything and you owed nothing to him. Mutually assured destruction, he thought, even though it didn't help him in the slightest. He didn't need to reveal truths to you, you were more or less even.

"Nice to see you again." He sensed your nerves and tried to soothe them, (were they because you planned to make a surprise announcement this evening?) but it wasn't coming off well. He stared at you with a tight-lipped grin to meet your squinted stare. So the schtick applies to me, too. He turned around to head toward the strange conference room and you stopped yourself from trying to 'trip' again, only holding back so Dr. Vry didn't steal the badge and send you home with no income. He scooted a few people over and took a seat at the front of the huge table. A few of the paparazzi tried to sneak inside but the man in the linen reached for something on his belt and they took off outside. Does this dude have a gun? Is this because of Prince Bruce?

"Welcome everyone." A man with spectacles and a gray suit stood to the direct left of Bruce, and he clapped his hands at the end of everything he said. It might have been frustrating if Bruce wasn't dominating that bandwidth. "Tonight marks the first City Hall meeting of 2024 after our summer interlude." He leaned in while saying it which got some chuckles from the other rich people. You took a quick note. First meeting since summer break.

"And this year we have a new member of the City Hall Board! Mr. Wayne, would you?" The man bowed to Bruce and he rose from his seat with a quick, polite wave. You shook your head and got your pen ready, knowing Dr. Vry would be salivating over whatever he was about to say now and later. You were able to get a good look at him from this perspective; his hair was maybe a bit lighter, much like at graduation, though his suit had become more tailored since then. "Good evening everyone, it's a pleasure to be here in this new capacity. I look a bit less green." He mimed looking down at his suit, and everyone started howling with laughter. Holy shit. You thought about passing out in a puddle of your own vomit. Is he the same human being? He continued, nodding off the rest of the laughs. "I look forward to meeting all of you and getting to know you better as time goes on. I'm excited to collaborate and invest in Gotham City. Thank you."

Everyone clapped like he'd just won an Oscar. He studiosly notated while the other members took turns introducing themselves. You scribbled down as many names and positions as possible with a plan to commit them to memory before next week's meeting. Someone named Fox, a woman named Laurie, a man named Larry...

At the end of the brutally long introduction the man nearest to Bruce, the head honcho, introduced himself. Miguel Convoy - interim mayor. Interim mayor? Mr. Convoy heaved a deep sigh (too deep) and performed condolences for Bella Reál's recent admission to Arkham Asylum. "Miss Reál, as you are well aware, began showing some symptoms of serious mental decline mid-July. The new mayor's elections are coming up this November, and on such short notice we only have a few candidates announced to be running. These include Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange, and Lincoln March. In the following weeks they will make appearances at these meetings, so make sure to give them a warm welcome."

Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange. Lincoln March. - mayoral election, November.

The rest of the meeting was wholly uneventful, with a bunch of meaningless small talk among the bourgeoisie. You made sure to write down everything, however, as Bruce was writing a novel of notes in a small journal. I can't know less than him. He'd never let me hear the end of it. When the meeting adjourned and people began filing out, you set a reminder on your phone to research the candidates for interview prep.

You waited for Bruce to walk past to catch a glimpse of what he'd written, but when he passed... christ. Your teeth ground against your heavy steps as you rushed to reach him. Heat flushed your cheeks and you grabbed his forearm to get his attention. He snapped around and restrained a startle response when he noticed it was you. "So you didn't write anything?" You couldn't stop the gall soaking your tone. "Just scribbles?" Maybe being rude to him wasn't a front, maybe it came naturally with how insufferable the man was.

He hid a laugh—well, he thought he did, but it must have appeared somewhere because you reacted to it immediately. You wrestled with what to say next bogged down by already saying too much. In the meantime he blinked at you, his stare unwavering from your shifting eyes. You had a conviction he'd done that—only written scribbles and wavy lines—to fuck with you, but with little evidence besides a hunch you decided to let it go. If he wanted to get some little jabs in, fine. You did know life-ruining information about him, after all.

He was disappointed you didn't follow the glint in your eye. During the meeting he'd anticipated a showdown, maybe even you snatching his notebook and ripping out a few pages. In his defense he had taken some notes, but quickly devolved to scribbling when he'd caught you glancing in his periphery. He thought it might get under your skin a little, just like you did with your eyes plastered to him. He always felt like your eyes were glued to him, even when you were thousands of miles away; it was a permanent side-effect of being found out. Was it so wrong to want you to share his dread?

"Have you heard of any of these candidates?" You were thumbing through your notes, which looked...impeccable to Bruce. He shook his head. "Too short notice."

"I'm sure you're soo busy." You flipped the spiral shut and held it at your side. He flashed back to when his notebook fell in front of Alfred, his face slipping, and your brows knit together. "It's not just a jab, c'mon." You paused as he looked just behind your shoulder, eyes beginning to glaze. Huh. Weird. You cleared your throat. "With all your, Dior stuff?" God, it took so much effort to act like his activities were of any importance to greater society. It didn't help that you'd had to avoid dozens of behind the scenes clips and photos from his latest shoot on every corner of the internet the past week. Still, your heart felt a bit bruised at the prospect of hurting his feelings for some damn reason. "Hello? Bruce?"

That startled him back. He'd forgotten you used his first name after the nearly three-month reprieve. "They were only announced this afternoon."

You stood there, your skin withering from the dryness of his conversation. Men. The very second your shoulders shifted to move toward the exit he vocalized. "What made you come back here?"

You stared blankly at him. You were a bit offended at how blunt he was being, and decided to be blunt back. "Money."

He was confused. "I thought—" he stopped himself, but you weren't letting him off. "What?"

"Nothing."

You stepped toward him. "It's something."

He wanted to step back, but refused the urge. "It doesn't matter."

"Then why aren't you telling me?"

How obvious was it that he had paid for your mom's medical bills? You saw him thinking and jumped on it. "What? Why do you think I don't need money?"

God, it was maddening not knowing how much you knew; where was the line between speculation and trying to catch him in a lie? You flustered him. "I don't think about money." Ooh, that was not the way to go. You wore your feelings on your sleeve, and his chest cinched when he noticed you scowl.

You refused to let up, feeling your limbs light up with tingles. "What were you going to say?"

He felt scolded, but you weren't scolding; Alfred scolded, sometimes, in an attempt to fulfill a parental role. The problem was he did have things he was going to say and you were picking up on it. The problem was that no one ever called him out in broad daylight. You didn't appease. He winced. "I thought paying your parent's debt would—”

"I knew it!" Bitterness and appreciation dueled in your chest. Your heart raced as the reality of it set in and Mar entered your mind with bright, pulsing letters: S T A L K E R. "How did you, what," He didn't know your family, he didn't know your last name, even. You felt naked.

"Mr. Wayne!" Mr. Convoy (what a rich name) stole Bruce's attention. The edges of your vision swirled and you stepped back to abate the wooziness. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. It was only a handful of seconds before Bruce apologized and asked to excuse himself, which you barely heard over the ringing in your ears. He shot a quick look at you before walking down the hallway towards the restroom. Begrudgingly you followed him this time, feeling forcibly tied to his ankles, and the second he was out of earshot he turned toward you, eyes darting across your face. "You left your phone in Alfred's study. It was open. I only looked at what I needed to." His hands were gripped tightly together, the folds of his fingers beginning to turn white.

You paused so long he nearly spoke again, but you shoved shaky, frustrated words from behind your teeth. "But you didn't need to." You felt shockingly affected; you'd suspected it was Bruce, but had apparently successfully deluded yourself into believing it was God himself, or an accident, or Alfred had accidentally seen some texts and it captured his old, kind heart. Bruce wasn't kind, meaning this wasn't kind. Your fingers went cold and the tips began to tingle—fuck, you felt like you owed him something again, him saying it reopening the guilt you'd tried desperately to disappear.

Bruce felt trapped. Your eyes had glazed over a minute ago; he felt like you were miles away. You were right. He didn't need to. "I thought it would help." He scrambled for anything else to say but came up short. You leaving to Pluto was exceptionally distressing and rendered him nearly incapacitated.

"I didn't ask for any favors,"

"I'm sorry." He stood there feeling foolish. Naked. Uniquely stuck.

A thought sunk down to your gut and nestled into the feeling of guilt. "Was it a bribe?"

His eyes flashed and he shook his head vigorously. "No." He saw you glance over your shoulder towards the paparazzi trying to lean inside for a photo and moved his back to them. You shifted uncomfortably. This vulnerability felt exploitive; you felt small.  Standing by the Burj Khalifa made you feel deeply insignificant. That fear came back again, tenfold. He noticed the shift, and he hated it. You were lost in your own head, spiraling again about how alone you were in the world, how much more alone you were going to be so soon, especially if she got the placebo, what Walter would do once she left, what you would do once Walter left, if you'd ever see them again, if this was the only shot you got, and if so, what the hell were you doing here in a city that hated you, in a city you hated; your life was being wasted with so little of hers left, there wasn't enough time, they could get in a car crash this minute, last minute, your phone could ring any moment, Bruce could be planning your demise—

You only noticed you were having a panic attack when Bruce gently grabbed your wrist. You only realized you'd been shaking when you felt his steadiness. You stared at his hand for a brief, still moment before ripping it away. You sniffed back a tear threatening to burst containment and turned wide, only making it a step before your shoulder slammed into a man's walking to the restroom. The collision caused the tear to slide down your cheek and you collapsed to your knees. A high-pitched sob slipped out and you bolted to the bathroom, into a stall, and pushed your back against the metal door right as the weeping started.

The man glared at the WOMEN'S bathroom sign as if he was thinking about following you. He intercepted. "How are you? I'm Bruce Wayne." Another plastered smile and Ken handshake. The man's eyes lit up and he rushed to take Bruce's hand, shaking it about ten times before Bruce slipped his hand back into his pant pocket. He pretended to laugh at the man's jokes, made small talk about the upcoming election, the usual suspects. Bruce knew what waiting might be twisted as, but the man's initial step toward you left him on edge. A few people stared at him as they exited, then leaned in to whisper something to their partners. He rubbed his head and mentioned a small headache coming on, saying he needed to be on his way. He leaned his head back against the rough white wall and shut his eyes after the man finished lingering, crossing his hands around his chest with a leg up for balance. Your reaction had been an oversight. Maybe you were right, again. What's the value of a dollar?

You popped out of the bathroom quicker than he'd anticipated and he startled when you flung the door wide. A small wash of humor at having unsettled him rapidly devolved to sourness. He'd been leafing through various solutions to your bribery claim, but everything felt hollow like the slick tear troughs under your eyes. He grasped for anything to ease the tension, for once even if it wasn't fully thought through. "Let me at least give you a ride."

You stared at him with your nose huffed up. Unshed tears pleaded to be freed. This dress was a silk blend, and you could hear just how heavy the rain was. You nodded curtly, afraid to say no, but thanking yourself for remembering to move your taser to your clutch. You'd get him to drop you off at a fake location, throwing him off your scent for where you actually lived. He nodded back. "I'll meet you around back."

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

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

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

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.

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

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.