Logging On To Tumblr/ao3 To Read More Pristine Works Of Art That Belong In The Louvre

logging on to tumblr/ao3 to read more pristine works of art that belong in the louvre

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.

Fateful Beginnings

XXVII. “tender loving care”

parts: previous / next

plot: you visit Bruce at Arkham.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

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

words: 5.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He was crying—"

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

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

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

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

- feelings, not content

- distract, soothe

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

- develop a reorienting code

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed. "What happened from your perspective?"

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

"It sounds terrifying."

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

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

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

"I'm not meaning to coddle,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know what I saw."

"You need to be safe."

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

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

"Where are you going?"

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

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

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

"I'm fine."

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

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

"You could've died last night."

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

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

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

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

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

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

how I see everyone that reads my fic

new chapter today 🦇🕚