Fateful Beginnings // Chapter Index

Fateful Beginnings // Chapter Index

ONGOING!

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

Pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

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

Word Count: 151k (ongoing)

↓ chapters ↓

I. “the club within the club”

II. “research”

III. “the alley”

IV. “unmasked”

V. “the interview”

VI. “dinner”

VII. “peaches”

VIII. “as the rain settles”

IX. “goodbye, Gotham”

X. “discernment”

XI. “lying through teeth”

XII. “exceptionally qualified, equally eager”

XIII. “already spoken for”

XIV. “losing grip”

XV. “mutually-assured destruction”

XVI. “sweetener”

XVII. “orientation”

XVIII. “indebted”

XIX. “(im)mortality”

XX. “close call”

XXI. “belonging”

XXII. “gone missing”

XXIII. “desperation”

XXIV. “natural curiosity”

XXV. “Mr. Wayne”

XXVI. “grave responsibility”

XXVII. “tender loving care”

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

XXIX. “uncanny valley”

XXX. “gut feeling”

XXXI. “deflection”

XXXII. “superglue”

XXXIII. “night light”

XXXIV. “the affliction of pity”

XXXV. “bittersuite domesticity”

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.

about to post my FAVORITE CHAPTER YET AHHHH

finding a bruce wayne bruce is literally going

x reader fic through hell

Fateful Beginnings

XXIX. “uncanny valley”

parts: previous / next

plot: you and Bruce dance around the horrors of the weekend, desperate to make things right—or, at least, better.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, angst, mental health issues, descriptions of violence, descriptions of injury, grief, anxiety

words: 6.1k

prev. chapter summary (XXVIII): You go to Wayne Tower on Saturday night to talk to Alfred about ways to get Bruce help. Alfred is hopeless. Bruce intercepts, bitter at your intrusiveness, and storms off. You call Dr. Crane, who tells you to refrain from following him for fear of escalating the argument. On your walk home, you run into a panicked, horrified Bruce in an abandoned alley near his house. He does not recognize you, and after calling Alfred for him to be picked up, Bruce begs Alfred not to tell his parents about him being out so late. After a brief heartfelt (and teary) conversation with Alfred, where he expressed thanks and reassured you were not making things worse (as you thought, and still think), you went home. The next day, Bruce has no recollection of the night before, brought up to speed by Alfred. At Alfred’s urging, Bruce visits your apartment on Sunday, begging you to see his side. The argument becomes heated, and, convinced by Dr. Crane’s horrifying prognosis for Bruce and his own erratic, dangerous behavior, you do a last hail-mary to get him help: you lie about being the person who saw Bruce jump, expressing how terrified you were at thinking you’d watched him die. This immediately triggers Bruce to his childhood, and he does a hard reset on his denial, horrified he’s repeating the cycle, reassuring you he will accept help.

Outside of receiving some calls, you hadn't checked your phone since Thursday night. Texts, socials, it had all been abandoned trying to remove the noose snaking Bruce's neck. After the phone call with Alfred you were able to relax into bed and pull out your phone—immediately smacked by a bazillion texts from Mar, a few from your parents, and some mentions on Scypher. You clicked on Mar's texts first.

Thursday, 11:50pm: OMGGG just now seeing thissss i got so lit tonight. sorry!! idk if i can make it to help you move. def can't drive in the morning tho!!! ttys!!!

Friday, 1:20am: ok lolz i went to a second club 2nite and yahhh i don't think i can make it 2morrowww

Friday, 12:30pm: if ur still in town i could help, i just got a massive headache hahaha have you left yet

Friday, 1:22pm: ur prob on the road byeee

Friday, 1:30pm: wait ur still in Gotham??

Today, 12:58pm: BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!! you didn't tell me you did the interview with him!! like actually!!!!!!! okayyyy too famous to respond to me I see? i'll make sure to visit to get your autograph lol.

Today, 2:15pm: bro i got so many more friend requests already today???? some are Bruce Wayne fan accounts. wtf!!!??? this is like blowing up

Today, 6:15pm: MISSED CALL FROM MAR.

Today, 6:16pm: MISSED CALL FROM MAR.

Today, 6:18pm: LOOK !!!!

She'd attached a Buzzfeed article titled: Bruce Wayne's First Interview Came Out Today, and Our Jaws (and Clothes) are on the Floor

You couldn't read any further though, seeing as you had a handful of texts from your parents to sort through.

Friday, 1:45pm: Hey hunny! Your mother and I are home from the second shot. She told me to text you 'I am fine'. We will call you this evening after I finish up the deck.

Friday, 6:37pm: MISSED CALL FROM DAD.

Friday, 6:40pm: Deck done. When you visit next I'll show you. Walter likes it. Love you

Today, 3:13pm: MISSED CALL FROM MOM.

Today, 3:20pm: Hi kiddo. Wow! Congratulations on the article! Debbie showed it to us when she visited earlier. I thought you said you were done with that guy. Love you sweety!

You responded to your dad about your mom, and your mom about the article. You refused to comment on her mention of Bruce, wanting to purge your mind as much as you were able to after the weekend you'd had. You resigned to calling her first thing in the morning, miserable over forgetting about her second shot. After responding to Mar to update her on staying (and to express faux excitement about the article's release), you stayed up a few more minutes to see if your parents might still be awake and responsive. Sleep.

You woke up late that day, around two in the afternoon; the only reason you hadn't slept even longer was a phone call from Dr. Vry startling you awake. "Y/N! Have you seen your article? I can't believe it. Over a hundred applications just TODAY to the journalism program!"

You fought your way through the conversation, the gears in your head finally harnessing enough energy to start worrying again. The call ended quickly, as she 'had a lot of applications to get through', and you called your mom without a second glance at your phone notifications.

"Hey sweetie. I saw your text last night, but I couldn't respond. Walter was finally curled up in my lap, you know how sensitive he is." She sounded fine, neither ecstatic nor miserable. Her energy picked up when she started talking about your article. "Your dad was looking into that Wayne guy, and ran across that article of yours. He didn't know it was you that wrote it until Debbie brought it over!"

You'd padded out to your kitchen to make some toast with the butt of the bread. "Since when is dad researching things about Gotham?"

"He's been very intrigued ever since graduation. He—"

Your dad sounded off in the background. "Hun? Hey! I saw that article of yours! His first interview ever. That's a big family, you know. The Waynes. It's a big deal sweetie!"

He continued without leaving space for you to change the topic. "You know about his parents, right? God, poor kid. Seems to have recovered from it well enough."

You stifled a laugh at him delivering the most famous lore of Gotham city like it was breaking news. "Yeah, I know about his parents."

"You know, I knew I sensed something between you two. When's he coming to visit?" You heard a meow in the background, and you could only imagine your dad was munching on some sandwich he desperately wanted.

"Dad,"

"People don't give their first interviews to just anyone. Must've really impressed him."

"He's never coming over, dad."

"You don't have to be embarrassed honey. He seems like a stand-up guy! Next visit, bring him."

"It sounds like you want to meet him." You rubbed your temples, having temporarily abandoned your peanut butter spreading. You didn't know if you were right, but you could've sworn you heard him shaking his head. Walter meowed again. He definitely had some sort of food in his hand.

"What kind of dad would I be if I weren't excited to meet my daughter's boyfriend?"

The juxtaposition of the past few days to his chipper, nonchalant demeanor was stark, reducing you to a teary mess. No, you wanted to snap at him. I actually visited him in a psych ward. Had to stop his future from becoming a funeral.

"Hey, whoa now..." Your mom spoke in a hushed, frustrated tone in the background. "I'm sorry sweetie. I get it. I won't talk about him anymore."

You continued to cry, unable to get any words out. It was like you were finally able to feel the weight of what had been placed on you, feel the piercing stab of the fear it instilled. Your sobs were so pathetic and deep that your mom kept asking if you could breathe. It took much longer than you were comfortable with to even begin steadying, and when you did you knew it wouldn't last. You told them you had to get back to work, and that you'd see them in two weeks.

Vanity Fair. Vogue. People. Cosmopolitan. Us Weekly. Elle. Glamour. Seventeen. Marie Claire. Your eyes had fuzzed over as anxiety nestled into your gut. So this had been... this had been huge. 600 followers had turned into 13,000, and that was just on Scypher. Instagram had 300, now 6,500. So many mentions, so many comments, you started to panic even more. You tossed the phone across the bed and wrapped your arms around your body, rocking slowly back and forth, squeezing your arms so hard they began to ache. Flashbacks to Saturday night pulsed between your eardrums, projected on the back wall of your mind. You'd never seen someone so out of their element before. The image of him in the fetal position on the ground. The screaming. The nearly incomprehensible rattle in his voice. The stitches that bulged, the skin sloughed off his fingers. The blood. The sweat. The panic. Dread. Fear. Hysteria.

Your hands shook just the same as they fought to text Alfred. Your fingers garbled the message, but you couldn't handle another second without knowing if he was alive or dead. What if he'd taken the whole fucking bottle? What if he was on the floor of his bedroom, the last dregs of his functioning body procuring foamy spit out of his mouth for him to choke on? What if he flung himself off another building? His house was so fucking tall. So empty. So huge. So many places he wouldn't be seen, he wouldn't be found, so many places someone could hide if they needed, or wanted. What if he was strung up by his neck on a ceiling bar?

You shrieked in pain as waves of fear ravaged you. If it were real water you'd be swept under, and you wouldn't even fight it. The water would take away all your troubles, your worries, your fears. But he couldn't know that. They couldn't know what this was doing to you.

You set the phone down.

If he knew, he'd feel guilty. He couldn't feel guilty. Guilt would hurt him more. Guilt could push him over the edge.

Instead, you dialed Dr. Crane. He answered on the second ring, always so quick. "Y/N. I was about to call you. Before we get into it, why did you call?"

Anxiety lurched up into your chest, eager to overwhelm and incapacitate. "Get into what?"

Dr. Crane laughed, a discordant sound that chilled you. "To thank you. Whatever you did, it was successful. This is strictly confidential, but he is accepting treatment."

So he's alive? "I wanted to talk to you about that." You swallowed hard, yanking at a loose thread in your comforter. "I uh, he wasn't going to get help until I, until I lied."

"About what?" Dr. Crane's composure was always strictly maintained, and this time was no different. He never gave away his feelings. "I had to tell him I was the witness. I said I saw him jump."

"Oh."

That was quite possibly the worst thing he could've said.

"Well, that changes things."

"What things?"

"For one, that's a secret you must keep. Glad you clued me in." You heard a rustling of papers, a hushing of his tone. "Usually that would be unacceptable, but if we're both being honest," His candor was unsettling. "I have yet to see someone as deeply in denial as him accept treatment. I went to sleep fully anticipating waking to news of his passing." His tone was suddenly lighter, almost singsongy. "I can't say I'm disappointed in you."

You had no concept of how to respond to that. Guilt ulcerated your stomach and strangled your chest, but at least Bruce was breathing. After a silence that was too long, long enough you were surprised he hadn't yet hung up, you spoke. "Are we, are you, sure?" Words were having trouble finding you. "About the lying? I didn't see it, and what if the real witness,”

"There is nothing to be concerned about regarding the witness. Mr. Wayne has begun treatment, and will soon be stable. Incredible work."

"I—"

"You saved Bruce Wayne’s life, Y/N. It's only a shame it's a badge you can’t share." You could hear the smile in his tone, but you weren't happy. The reassurance you’d been seeking was far from assuring, leaving you situated in an uncanny valley of suspicion. How could he be so joyful? Why wasn't he drilling you about going to such lengths? Had it… had it really been that fucking hopeless? Anger boiled in you at the prospect of Dr. Crane knowingly sending you on a suicide mission. Before you burnt the bridge, you thanked him for the update and hung up. It took everything in you not to throw the phone against the wall.

The shower was scalding. You barely felt it. He must have thought he wouldn't make it. He seemed so fucking resolved to Bruce's death. Fully anticipating waking up to news of his passing? But there was 'nothing he could do'? Not a word of tangible advice besides 'don't go after him'. If I listened to him, who knows who would have found him out there! Would he have attempted again? You also wrestled with the uncomfortable reality that Dr. Crane had been correct; you had played a vital role in him accepting treatment. Had Dr. Crane psychoanalyzed you, deemed you the sort of person to lie if needed? Someone he could push to do things outside of personal liability? A sort of reverse hitman?

As you toweled off, your anxious mind continued its rumination. So he took meds. But did he take just one? Alfred will watch him, right? Hold onto his meds, only give him them as needed? Is he employing a system, making sure he checks under Bruce's tongue, locks the bathrooms, listens for retching, making sure the medication is accurately and genuinely consumed, as prescribed? You needed a break, but you couldn't find one. Sitting on the edge of your bed you knew you wouldn't be able to rest until you knew he was alive right now. And the next day. And the next day. And the next. A boulder jammed down your shoulders knowing you wouldn't be satisfied unless he personally slept on your couch so you could monitor him like a newborn. His attempt and general discontent were affecting you far more than you'd initially internalized.

Bruce sat in Alfred's study by the fireplace, staring out the window towards the grounds. Over breakfast with Alfred he took the first dose of the medication, and only a few hours later he swore he could feel the effects. He'd done some quick googling on olanzapine, and it appeared he was having a placebo effect. At minimum he'd feel effects in a few days, more likely after a week or two. He had to stop researching after that, too freaked out about having to be on antipsychotics, too much still in disbelief about how he'd done something so drastic yet had no memory of it. Alfred convinced him to stay 'home' from Batman for the rest of the week, which was an unusually easy feat considering how he hadn't taken a voluntary night off since beginning the project years ago. It broke him how upset you'd been, and he knew he wouldn't be able to see Alfred cry again. That was unbearable.

He didn't have much to do; he quickly realized he had been living only for the night. There really wasn't anything to do in the tower; no games (outside of a dusty chess board in Alfred's study), one old television (also in Alfred's study, off to an adjacent corner), no gym (he overextended himself enough as Batman), and the house was generally kempt from Dory's attentive cleaning in a house that didn't need more than dusting anyway.

Alfred told him to skip the meeting this week; Bruce initially hadn’t cared much either way, but realized that wasn't an option after misery frayed his nerves with just half a day of sitting around. In order to go in public, he needed to not be scarred and scabbed to hell; he wanted to walk the grounds, but worried about doing it in the daytime in the state he was in. Your article’s release had also prompted a patch of reporters to hang around his house, increasing his surveillance. Give an inch, they’ll take a mile. He and Alfred briefly discussed the contingency plan they kept at the ready: staged police photos of a nasty car crash on the edge of the grounds, but he couldn't share them yet—he wanted to leave you as much time as possible to soak up the success of the interview. You deserved that much, you deserved more after what he'd put you through. At least once an hour he thought about calling you, and he very nearly did a few times. He worried about you. Were you safe? Did you need anything?

On some level, he theorized focusing so much on you was a coping mechanism to escape his failing mental capacity. The more he focused on you, the less real estate his panic had. Last night had been miserable. He'd stayed awake staring at the ceiling, his mind swirling with shock and fear. He’d wondered if this is what his mom had endured, but he didn’t have the mental fortitude yet to go digging through Arkham Asylum records. He didn’t know if he ever would again, so he simply sat. Watched the clouds move along the skyline. Watched the shrubs sway in the backyard. Followed the occasional crow floating past the windows.

As soon as darkness fell he couldn't contain himself any longer. The nagging feeling of someone he traumatized being alone in it was too much. He grabbed a hoodie and walked to the elevator, sure he could make a free escape through the old subway route. His hand hesitated before pressing the button. What if you didn't want him to visit? What if it was too stressful? He couldn't keep coming over unannounced, it was weird. Not normal. Alfred had heard the metal rustling and walked into the kitchen. His brow furrowed. "I thought you were taking a break from him?"

"I am." He stared at the ground, lost in thought. "Would you call her?"

"Miss Y/N?" Alfred's voice was soft, concerned. "Sure, why?"

Bruce had conveniently kept to himself that you'd been the one to watch him jump. That you were the witness, that you'd called 911. "I want to give her an update."

Alfred pulled out his phone and Bruce walked closer, bridging the gap between them. "Ask if I could talk to her." He didn't blink until you picked up, hiding a wince at how you'd done so before the end of the first ring. You were scared. Desperate.

"Miss Y/N, I hope this isn't a bad time." Alfred paused with the phone to his ear, his expression faltering before he let out a small chuckle. It was hollow. "No, he's alright. He wanted to see if he could speak to you now."

He handed the phone to Bruce, who quickly scurried up the stairs and into his room. He only put the phone to his ear once the door was closed behind him. "Y/N?"

"Bruce." It was so nice to hear your voice when it wasn't panicked. You sounded a bit tired, breathy, but miles better than yesterday. A sigh of relief heaved out of him, to which you had a reflexive response. "Are you okay?" Your voice rose, both in volume and octave.

"Yes. Are you okay?"

"I really don't think it matters,"

He bit back a part of him that wanted to say you were the only thing that mattered. He'd broken you. "Are you?"

You sighed. "Yes. Did you uh,"

"I got the meds."

"Good. Did you take them? Or, one, or, whatever the dose,"

"Yeah." He could hear how clouded your mind was, and it was excruciating being so limited to the phone. He remembered the first week after the murder. His mind had been a hazy minefield, everything running on autopilot. The tears, his limbs, his voice, nothing had been a conscious decision for weeks. Sure, he hadn't died, but you'd thought he had. If… his parents had survived, he figured he would've been in a similar state regardless. He wanted to help you, but he didn't know how.

"How long does it take the medication to work?"

"A few days. Maybe a few weeks." After his parents died, everyone brought him food. Random strangers had brought flowers, and food, and even stuffed toys for him to cuddle with. He'd only kept one, a stuffed dinosaur, now tucked into the back of his linen closet. Alfred checked on him constantly. No longer did he have to do his chores; Dory and Alfred picked up the slack. No longer did he have to deal with hearing his mom demand he eat his veggies and sides before getting another helping of soup, he only had soup. And juice, and soda, and warm blankets fresh out of the dryer. He remembered the warmth. Of the blanket, the soup. Those, paired with the scraggly dino in his arms, were the only things that made a decimal of impact on his devastation. "Do you need anything?"

"No. Do you?"

"Do you want anything?"

"I'm good. What about you?"

He didn't believe it. You were trying to spare him, just like you had by making yourself anonymous. Would it be wrong of him to come over? This late in the evening... probably. But he remembered the nights were the worst part. Alone in the empty darkness. Less cars, less lights, even the reruns on tv were stale at that time. It left no room for distraction. And honestly, he worried if he didn't distract you from your pain, he'd be gridlocked by his.

"Can I stop by?"

Onion, celery, carrots, butter, flour, curry powder, chicken broth, an apple, rice, chicken breast, thyme, and heavy cream. He didn't know how to make much, and Alfred didn't keep much variety around, but you hadn't balked at mulligatawny the first night you'd stayed here, and it was one of the few things he knew how to make without a recipe. It was also one of the few things the old man always kept fresh and stocked, especially now that Bruce was in recovery mode. Most importantly, it was warm. It was only nine, he could get this done before ten, and be gone before midnight. Just in time for you to get tired and go to sleep, without hours spent tossing and turning alone in bed. It was the least he could do for you.

He'd never felt more ridiculous than he did when he opened your door. The backpack was heavy and a reminder that he hadn't asked if he could cook, but assumed he would waltz into your kitchen and work some magic. You invited him in and he went straight to the island, setting down his pack and taking out the supplies. Your face scrunched with confusion. "What are you doing?"

He kept taking out food while he thought of how to phrase it. It was like his mind was slowed down, your apartment a pool of tv static. "I wanted to cook." Pause. "For you." Another pause, and he took out the apple. "It's warm." Fuck, could he have explained it any worse?

He paused and you watched him slowly move to meet your eyes. "Can I?" His hand was hovering above one of the drawers, ready to get to work. "Sure." You didn't understand why he couldn't cook at his house, but you couldn’t complain; still coming down from the nauseating blend of relief and guilt that gnawed at you when you finally saw him in the flesh. Like being attacked by a wave on a hot day; soothing, but bitterly cold at the same time.

You had reassembled the chairs today, and the table. You'd anticipated calling Mar later tonight if she weren’t already at a club, offering to order some takeout and have a movie night. When thinking up a distraction, you certainly hadn't anticipated Chef Bruce appearing with fixings for a mystery meal. Did billionaires even know how to cook? Did billionaire Bruce Wayne ever have to fend for himself in the kitchen? A brief image of him staring confusedly at a box of cereal made your mouth twitch into a grin.

Good. Your humor was still there, thank god. With his back turned to you, facing the burner, you could finally, finally, finally, finally unclench your jaw and drop your shoulders. He was here. It was weird, and uncomfortable, but undeniable. He was here, not hanging from a rafter or god knows where doing god knows what in the city. He was putting butter in a pan, and grabbing a wooden spoon. He was alive.

But... this was still out of character, which raised an orange flag. You waited for him to reach an impasse before speaking, tapping his fingers on the countertop while he watched the rice cook. An apple sat cubed to the left, the chicken sizzling on the back burner. "How are you? Really?"

Bruce needed to toe the line. Too honest and it would shift the focus to him, further distressing you; too dishonest and you'd dismiss it before he finished speaking. His body didn't just ache, it screamed at him. Every step, even every time he spoke, felt like torture. He'd teared up at multiple points between the lobby and your unit. His spirit was entirely crushed, shattered into irredeemable smithereens. He hung his head and let all the air out of his lungs, letting his weight fall into his wrists as he leaned over the stove. "Not great."

It should've pained you to hear that, instead it felt like wind in your sails. He was being honest. You could work with that. Honesty didn't need to be interrogated or sleuthed upon. "How can I help?"

He wanted to say you've done enough and don't want your pity, but it felt too real. You didn't need that tonight, not so close to the event. "Taste the soup and tell me if it needs anything." He prayed you wouldn’t keep asking.

"How would I know?"

"I want it to suit your taste."

"I don't know what it's supposed to taste like." You were hyperaware he hadn't answered you, not in the way you wanted. Maybe it was too close for comfort right now. Maybe all you needed to do was focus on him being here, and ask questions later.

"Pepper, curry flavor. Creamy." He stirred something fragrant on the stovetop.

"What's the apple doing?"

"It's necessary." It felt good talking about something else with you. Something normal. Not Batman, not his legacy, not the attempt. Still, all of it clouded and constricted the conversation, a constant tension you both wittingly ignored. "Smooths the spice."

I barely tasted it that night. Too scary being trapped in the house of one of the most powerful men in the world. You watched as he stirred, chopped, and fluffed. You were brought back home with your parents, watching them make dinner while you sat at the dining table and talked at them. He glanced around and looked at the can of heavy cream. In an instant you were up and grabbing a can opener, desperate to do your part. He instructed you to pour it into the pan, and for a half second he was just another guy; an acquaintance, someone passing through; someone regular, unassuming.

After a few more minutes of sitting around, you grabbed some bowls and spoons. After a quick taste he required you take ("Need to know if I missed something"), he ladled the bowls full, and you both walked slowly, carefully over to the table to set down the steaming soup. Bruce dug in without waiting, while you blowed on a single spoonful until every bit of steam hesitated to rise from it.

He watched you apprehensively. Your eyes widened a bit, and he could see your jaw moving like you were savoring it. "How is it?" It tasted fairly similar to how Alfred made it, which was fairly similar to how his mom had made it. At the very least he hadn't royally fucked up. Who knows, maybe olanzapine changes tastebuds.

You nodded, blowing on another bite. "Mulling it over."

God, that was so droll... it tugged a whispering grin to his lips, his bite slipping back into the bowl at the gentle movement of his dry chuckle.

He was laughing. Not really. Kind of. Weird, but yay! "I've never tasted anything like it. It's good."

"Don't have to placate me."

"It's peppery. Curry. Creamy."

He rolled his eyes and tossed another spoonful into his mouth. "Creative. What's the apple for?"

The tension never left, though you both did your best to selfishly soothe it through dry humor. The most either of you did was grin, breathe a little extra air through your nose. When he wasn't looking your eyes wandered to his purple and green bruises, and the complementary crusting scabs along his neck and hands. You wondered if he was suicidal right now, but wasn't saying anything. When you weren't looking, he studied your body language, hoping it would betray you. Were you scared right now? Did you think this was the weirdest thing ever, like he did? Did you think this was creepy? Was it creepy? Was it helping? Was he helping you?

You both finished and walked your bowls to the sink. He started rinsing them and reached for the dish soap, and you let him for a little. After he pat dry the first bowl, you couldn't sit with this worry on your chest any longer. The food had been warm and energizing, the mood made less intimidating with the joking, and all of it together held your hand as you broached the topic. It made you sick how concerned he was about your wellbeing; yes, he scared you, images of his frenzied, panicked face waking you up in the dead of night, but you hadn't watched him nearly die like he thought. His worry felt like rain on a hundred degree day: unsettling and unwelcome. You inhaled fully, hoping enough oxygen would get to some brave neurons and force the words past your teeth. They caught in your chest and by then he'd finished the second bowl; anxiety palpated your heart, bullying it into silence. You overrode it. "Bruce."

At once he abandoned the silverware and turned toward you. His analytical gaze peppered your face and the fingers that annihilated your cuticles. The stench of something burning singed your nostrils, your eyes tracking the source to the hem of his sweatshirt draped over the hot stove, smoking as small flames burnt through the cotton. Perhaps waiting to be seen, it erupted into a blazing ball of flame. You yelped and jumped toward the sink, grabbing the adjustable faucet and spraying him down. The flames went out, he turned off the burner, and you looked around for some magazines or papers to fan away the tendrils of smoke wafting toward the fire alarm.

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

You glanced back and saw Bruce sopping wet, his hair having gotten in the mix too, draped over his eyes; the singed, ripped edges of his shirt that he clutched between his hands. You bit your lip to reign in your laugh. He started hurrying the shirt off his back, and gently shook it out to see if it had juice left in it. That was the kicker, sending you bolting toward your bedroom. You couldn't be laughing at him all the time. Get it together! He's hurting! But the laughs escaped your tight-lipped prison, and soon his shadow was in the doorway. As quickly as you'd laughed, you began to cry. You dropped to your knees at the whiplash; what once was dead, was now making soup in your apartment. Dancing around it wasn't helping, it was exacerbating the pain. He didn't hesitate to walk over, his long legs getting him across the room in only a few strides.

He didn't think you were crying about the fire. He stood helplessly beside you, unable to make a decision on what to do next. Guilt bloomed angry, self-flagellating thoughts, wishing he hadn't ran with his ego and coddled his denial. He placed a light touch to your shoulder and you jumped up. "I'm fine." He didn't say anything, only sat and watched as you struggled to reign in your barrage of tears. Your fingers threatened to go numb, and you attempted to shake the tingles away. "My body just needs to cry and then, then I'm done." You turned away from him and pressed your clammy palms to your cheeks, trying to physically shove the tears back into hiding.

After what seemed like an extended period of sniffling tears, you looked back at him. He was sat on the edge of your bed, his sweatshirt draped over his forearm. You could see more of the deeper wounds on his arms now, which was a viscerally surreal feeling. It was impossible not to be aware of his reputation; it preceded him at every turn, he was correct about that. Something entirely new though was seeing the fallibility so transparently.

Before graduation—and honestly, before seeing him breaking down in the alley—you had practically thought he was immortal. You wouldn't have done such ridiculous, dangerous bullshit as walking through an active crime scene at night if you hadn't internalized his heroism. Until this moment you hadn't realized how much you'd relied on that story; the subconscious reassurance that the Batman provided to Gotham's citizens. The mythical creature unfazed by bullets, incapacitating anyone in its wake. Batman's neutralizing force was so accepted it went unquestioned; now you knew it was because no one truly knew him. You and Alfred were the only people who had. Suddenly, the world felt a lot more intimidating. If you were any less shaken up, you might've laughed at the unmasking of Santa; but even children mourned the loss of magic, and here you were muzzling yourself.

"Can I help?"

You needed to nip this in the bud. It was going to come out however it was going to come out, and you needed to be okay with that. "I, appreciate the effort." It wasn't coming out so easily. Be nice. Be nice. Be nice. "But I want this to stop." I didn't watch you. "You don't want my pity, and I don't want yours." Too harsh, scale back. "The only thing I need is for you to be safe. Alive."

You sounded so much like Alfred that Bruce bit back a snarky retort. Not the time nor the place. Your bed creaked as he stood up. He hated how your words sat in his chest, but there wasn't exactly anything he could do about it. "Okay."

No argument, no fighting. Like you requested something he already vowed to do. He walked past you into the kitchen, and you followed on his heel. You had never been so close to him alone, and never from behind. His back was broad, making his already impressive height even more menacing. Veins bulged under his skin. Swore a tendon twitched in his forearm every time he stepped on his left foot. If he had turned for the door you might have yelped, but he just finished the dishes in silence while you lingered, then sat on the couch. If someone walked in right now, and was one of the few humans who didn't know about Bruce Wayne, they might think this looked normal. It couldn't feel more foreign.

You didn't wait half a second after the sink turned off to fill the space. From your perch on the end of the couch, across the room. "Will you be safe once you leave?"

Like a knife scraping under his fingernails. So scared he wouldn't be alive the next morning. Skittish. "Yes." He wasn't looking back at you, wishing he hadn't already put down the dish towel so he'd have something to wring. "I promise."

What good's a promise if he's six feet under? Your life had become so singular so quickly, and you were anxious for it to get back to its usual painful mediocrity. "Really?"

Ugh. He turned to face you and followed your eyes searching the carpet. He sighed away his animosity, knowing the rage seeping into his chest was directed at himself; it was nothing greater than embellished fear. He knew this, was well acquainted with it. Maybe he did need to go back to therapy. He leaned his hip against the counter and winced, jamming straight into a blackened, split bruise. He grabbed his hoodie from where it was slung across the edge of the counter, grimacing at the effort only when his face was obscured. “Really.” Within seconds he was at the door, his hand on the handle. He noticed your eyes flash in his periphery, and his entire body constricted at the sight. He forced himself to meet your eyes. It was strenuous. He figured he needed to warn you. "Alfred and I have emergency plans for times like these. Whatever you read in the news, it's a cover-up." He popped open the door, hesitating on the departure. The air was thick with emotional exhaust. "I'll see you on Thursday?"

You nodded, relieved he was being more covert with his concern. Sugaring the medicine. "See you on Thursday."

new chapter today 😇