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avengerleague · 3 years

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Walk Me Home - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: this is just a lil bit of fun. i think it was a request, someone asked for batman x civilian!reader with the prompts "you're pretty"/ "you're drunk" + "can i hold your hand?" so this is what came out of my brain :) might do a part 2 at some point <3 im literally about to see the batman again in like 5 minutes so like ,,, good luck to my brainrot <3

Warnings: mentions of violence/harassment, mentions of alcohol / being drunk, language, batguy is quiet and reader is a mess (if i'm not writing adrian im writing an adrian core reader ok that's who i am <3), not proof read or beta read but we die like men! <3

Word Count: 3k+ bc i have no self control!

Summary: you get escorted home by none other than Gotham's own protector.

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The streets are quiet, except for the echoing of heavy boots against the sidewalk followed by the frantic clicking of your heels.

He walks so damn fast. Which shouldn't surprise you, really. He probably has better things to be doing, and the light shining in the sky is proof of that. It's not that you're not grateful for the escort home, you're just not entirely sure why he's using his time to walk drunk you back to their place.

He'd helped you out with some creep in a back alley — and by ‘helped you out’ you mean he kicked ten bells of shit out of the guy in five seconds flat and left him incapacitated on the ground. It was impressive, actually. He helped you up, you said your 'thank you’, and assumed that would be the end of it. You assumed wrong.

It's not your fault that you just so happened to be heading in the same direction. You tried to be quiet, to keep your distance to allow him to disappear into the night, but your clicking heels and blurry vision from the numerous shots and cocktails you'd downed at the club made that a difficult task. He didn't turn around, didn't question why you were following him. He didn't say anything, actually.

But he stopped walking when he came to the end of the street, which made you stop too. He was silent, but he turned his head and glanced back at you, and you felt yourself panic.

“I— Shit. I'm sorry. I just live this way. I wasn't following you, I promise.” You reassured him quickly.

He probably didn't need your reassurance, you had quite literally just watched him take down a man in two swift punches. He could kick your ass if he wanted to. “I'm gonna take a right here, and… leave you alone forever, now. My place is like, five minutes away, so — Oh, okay. You're going right, too. That's— Yeah, perfect.” He'd already set off walking before you could finish your sentence, leaving you in the dust.

So now you're trailing behind him, feeling like you're running a marathon as he attempts to cover four miles in under a minute. Okay, maybe you're exaggerating, but you really can't keep up with him. He's like Lightning McQueen if Lightning McQueen was real, not a car, and kind of goth. That thought makes you smile to yourself.

“Hey, uh… Batman?” You call out. No response. Okay. “Alright, uh… Vengeance? Do you still use that one? I haven't really been keeping up, so…?” No response, again. You figure he doesn't go by Vengeance anymore. “Look, uh— Mr. Batman-Vengeance-…Dude-…Guy?” Wow. That's… wow. You make a mental note to slap yourself for that one later. “Could you slow down a little? Please? You're walking like, really fucking fast.” You feel slightly guilty for asking him to slow down. From what you've seen, he's a busy guy, and he probably has other places to be. But then you remember that you never asked him to walk you home, he made the choice for himself. So you feel less guilty.

He stops walking, and you stop too, almost in shock that he actually listened to you. You're still for a few seconds, and then you see his head turn, and you notice that he's glancing back at you expectantly. And then you remember that you asked him to slow down so you could catch up, and that he's stopped for your benefit. You break out into a jog— well, you try, anyway, one hand wrapped around the strap of the bag on your shoulder. Your heels are scraping against the pavement and you're one wrong move, one wayfaring stone on the pavement away from falling flat on your face. You keep your eyes locked on the ground, only looking up once his boots come into view.

You sigh in relief. “Fuck, man. You're speedy.” You reach out and grab his gloved hand. “You could probably clear the 100m in like, seven seconds flat. Which is cool, by the way." You reassure, nodding your head. "No hate to you.” You walk ahead, but you're stopped dead in your tracks when you realise you're pulling against his heavy, very much unmoving weight. You furrow your brows and tug on his hand, trying to prompt him to move, but he doesn't. So, you turn to him. “Hey, why aren't you—”

His jaw is tense, and you can see the way the veins in his neck are straining under the pressure. You can't quite make out whether he's angry, and it's freaking you out. He doesn't make eye contact with you, but he's looking down at something. You follow his line of sight, casting your eyes in the direction you think he's looking until you see your hand wrapped around his fingers, and it all makes sense.

You let go of his hand like it's hot coal, looking at him with wide eyes. “Shit— I… I'm sorry.” He clenches his fist, so hard that you can hear the leather of his gloves squeaking. “I don't— I'm not sure why I—…. Shit.” You really don't know why you took his hand. It was a mindless decision on your part, really. Something you'd do to a friend or a man you're drunkenly stumbling home with. But he's not a friend, nor is he a date or someone you're taking home to bed. He's literally Gotham’s protector. He's Vengeance or Justice or… Batman. He's Batman. And you thought it'd be a good idea to hold his hand. Fucking idiot. “I'm sorry. That was… that wasn't cool of me. I should've asked first— I mean, I shouldn't have done it in the first place, but I definitely should've asked.” You let out an awkward laugh before falling quiet. He's staring at you. Actually, his eyes are flitting between your face and his hand, which is still somewhat outstretched and balled into a fist. You don't know what comes over you, and you feel so fucking stupid for it, but you're already in too deep to be able to stop yourself. “Can I… Can I hold your hand?”

That crippling, awkward silence takes ahold of you, suffocating you like a python constricting it's prey. Your cheeks heat up, you're sure they're bright red, and you can't even bring yourself to meet his gaze. God, you're so fucking stupid. So awkward, and stupid, and weird. Which is saying a lot, considering you're stood not even a metre away from a guy who's dressed like an armoured bat. You're just about to back away slowly under his intense stare, to walk yourself home so you can wallow in your own embarrassment in the comfort of your bed, when you hear the leather squeak again.

When you look down, you're surprised to see that his hand is no longer clenched. His fingers are spread apart, almost… inviting. He's still tense, and he won't look at you, but you think he's silently telling you that you can hold his hand. Now you're wondering whether you should take his hand. It would be useful, he's a fast walker and you'd like to keep up pace. But you're also sure that he doesn't want to hold your hand, so maybe it'd be easier to refuse and then the two of you can walk separately again. But then would it be rude to refuse him now? Fuck, you have no idea but he's staring at you now, probably waiting for you to say something or do anything.

So in a split second decision, you reach out and take his hand again, nodding your head just once to affirm your choice.

He looks between your face and your intertwined fingers for just a moment before he sets off walking again. At first, he tries to maintain his pace from before, but now that he has extra weight latched on to him (you) he seems to find that difficult to manage. You're still lagging behind, practically jogging, struggling to keep up even though your hand is in his and he's pulling you along with him. You're surprised you haven't fallen flat on your face yet. Eventually, he gives it up, and brings himself down to a speed that works for both of you. It's not too slow, not too fast. It's good enough for you to steadily maintain in your heels, and you don't feel like you're going to be pulled to the floor at any given moment.

The two of you are quiet, aside from the occasional ‘take a right here’ or 'it's a left here’ coming from you. There's not much to be said, after all. He's a masked vigilante-turned-hero and you're holding his hand for no particular reason. Well, there is a reason, it's just not a very good one. You're sure you could have managed stumbling behind him alone.

Your head is still spinning from the drinks, and you feel yourself knock against him a few times as you walk down street after street, the cold armour of his suit pressing against you and covering you in goosebumps. Every time you stumble in to him, you mumble a quiet apology, and he remains silent. Which is why it comes as a surprise to you when—

“How much further?”

His sudden decision to cut through the silence makes you jump, and you whip your head around quickly. You can't quite make out whether that voice is his. It has to be, obviously. There's no one else around. But it's so soft and quiet that you think there's no way it could have possibly come from him. But it did. You're staring up at him so obviously, with the most in incredulous look on your face. “Oh. You talk.” You say eventually. He tilts his head down, and you see his eyes glance from left to right, almost in confusion, before they land on you again. “Shit. Sorry. That was rude. I just— I don't know. I assumed you're mute, or something.”

A beat of silence. Then, “It's selective.”

You nod slowly, a small smile on your lips, “And you make jokes.”

“I wasn't joking.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him.

“Well then, I'm flattered that you're talking to me.” You tease. You're trying to break the tension, just a little.

“How much further?” He repeats, turning his attention back to the street ahead.

“Uh… Like, maybe five minutes.” You answer slowly.

You swear you hear him scoff. “You said your place was five minutes away ten minutes ago.”

Wow. Alright. You fight the urge to bite back, to tell him that he didn't have to walk you home and that you're perfectly capable of making your own way from here. But you're not brave enough for that, and after the incident in the alley, you're grateful for his help and his company. So instead, you sigh, and say, “Yeah. I don't know why I said that. I think I— I don't know. I didn't want you to think I was following you. And I didn't wanna inconvenience you. So I just… said I lived close by. And then you started walking the same way, and you kinda never left. So I'm pretty much still inconveniencing you.” You give him an awkward, thin lipped smile.

“You're not.” He mumbles. It's barely audible, and you're not sure if you're meant to hear it, but you do.

You fall into silence again, though you're finding it hard to maintain. You're buzzing from the conversation you just had with him. It's thrilled you to your core and you want to keep talking to him. Apparently it's not enough to be walking hand in hand with him like some strange couple returning from a 2000s pop vs 90s grunge rock club night. So you decide to make conversation, as awkward as it may be.

“So…” You start, and he looks over at you immediately, caught off guard. “Is that like… your real voice?”

His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to figure out how to respond to you. Eventually, “Yeah.”

“Oh. That's cool.” He's still staring down at you, and you can see by the way his lips are parted that he's totally and utterly confused. You are too, honestly. “I was just asking because, uh… y’know, guys in movies and… other heroes, they usually have those weird, gravelly voices. Like they make their voices deeper. If you were in a movie I imagine you'd sound like, uh,” you clear your throat, dropping your voice, “Hi, I'm Batman. I live in Gotham and I walk drunk people home in my spare time.” You laugh at yourself, but he doesn't look so amused. Oh for fucks sake. Why did you do that? You don't even have an explanation for why you thought that was a good idea. You just keep digging yourself in deeper.

Your smile drops. He's quiet. You're quiet. He's staring at you. You're staring at him. You're not sure what to do, and honestly you're considering just dropping to the floor, curling up and dying right then and there. But then you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, and he turns his head away from you, and suddenly you don't feel so embarrassed. It's encouraging to you. So you decide to continue.

“I'm glad you don't sound like that, though.”

“Why?” He responds quicker than you expect him to, and it throws you off for just a moment.

“Oh. Well… I don't know. I just don't think it'd suit you. I like your voice. It's really nice.” Soft and soothing, strangely. Completely opposite from what you thought he'd sound like. It suits him, in a weird way. He's the people’s protector, and you can understand why, because everything about him just seems so… trustworthy.

It's not just his voice that you like, though. As you walk down the street, trying your best to keep your eyes firmly trained forwards, you glance at him occasionally, and you come to the conclusion that you really, really like his face, too. The more time you spend looking at him, the more attractive he becomes to you. Sure, you can't see half of it, but that's not going to stop you from admiring him. You think you're being subtle, that you're stealing glimpses of him, but really you're staring right at him. And although he's not looking at you, he can feel your eyes on him.

“What?”

That's the second time he's made you jump, but it's a sure-fire way to break you from your Batman’s-absolutely-incredible-jawline-induced trance. You blink hard and shake your head. “Sorry.” You cant even begin to count how many times you've said sorry tonight. “You just have… a really nice face. I know I can't see much of it, but you have a really, really,” you pause, “strong jawline. And your eyes are really beautiful. I bet you have a cute nose, too. Soft lips. You're just… you're really pretty.” You admit. Honestly, you don't have it in you to be embarrassed or to cringe at yourself anymore. The hint of a smile he gave you just a minute ago was a major confidence boost to you. The alcohol helps too.

His jaw tenses, and he's trying so hard to look anywhere but at you. You're starting to wonder whether you've made him feel incredibly uncomfortable. But then you swear you feel him squeeze your hand, and although the streetlights are dim and barely illuminating what you can see of his face, you swear there's a tinge of pink to his cheeks now. “You're drunk.” He mumbles.

“And you're pretty.” You retort.

“Drunk.”

“Pretty.”

“Drunk.”

“Pre— Oh. This is me.” You say, stopping suddenly in front of the familiar small gate, and he stops too. There's disappointment laced in your tone. You don't want him to go just yet, but you're home. He's done what he intended to do, and he'll leave just as quickly as he arrived. You sigh, “Well, this has been… nice. Really. Uh, thank you. I really appreciate what you did for me.” You press your lips together. It's so quiet between the two of you now, and you take that as your queue to leave. “Okay. Good night. And thank you, again.” You smile at him and untangle your fingers from his. Maybe you're crazy, but you think you feel him grip on to your hand for just a moment longer.

Oh, fuck. He can't do this to you. Not when you're drunk and your feelings are so, so vulnerable. You have to walk away. You have to remind yourself that he's just being nice, that you don't know him, and that you'll never see him again after this. That one kind of stings, and you're not entirely sure why. No. Snap out of it. He's literally a stranger. You don't know him. But he's been so nice to you and tolerated all of your annoying, drunken rambles. And he's so pretty, and— No. Just walk away.

You take a deep breath and turn away from him, pushing your gate open and making your way through. You're doing so well. Just don't look back. You don't need to look back. It's okay. You leave your gate to shut on its own, and you're listening out for the familiar clang of metal, but it never comes. Instead, you hear heavy footsteps. You whip your head around and he's there, closing the gate gently, about to follow you up the garden path and the flight of concrete stairs that leads to your house. “W— I'm… What are you doing?”

“Walking you home.” He answers. His voice is steady and moderated, as it has been all night, but there's something in his tone that screams ‘duh, isn't it obvious?’.

“But I am home.” You tell him, pointing over your shoulder at your house.

“Not all the way home.”

“I— I think I'll be—…” You stop yourself there, glancing down at the ground then up at him. “You know what, I might need a little help up the stairs.” You smile at him and offer your hand to him. There's a second of hesitation, but he takes your hand and the two of you make your way up the path. His boots, as loud and intimidating as they may be against the concrete, have become almost a… a comfort to you now. It's probably too soon to call it that, but you like hearing his footsteps in tandem with your own. You ascend the small flight of steps that lead up to your porch slowly, with little to no problem. You wobble on your heels a few times, but he's there to steady you, so it's okay.

Soon enough, you're at your front door. You drop his hand and dig around for your keys in your bag (not without the classic ‘oh shit, have I lost my keys?’ moment), pulling them out and unlocking your door. Now you're really not sure what to do. You're home. You're safe. He's walked you here. You have your hand wrapped around the door handle, and he's still here, waiting behind you for…. What? You're not so sure.

You turn around slowly, nervously. You feel like your heart is going to jump right out of your chest. “I… Uh, do you wanna like, come in?” You ask quietly. “For a drink, or something. I think I have like— I don't know. A few beers in the fridge.” Did you seriously just ask him to come in ‘for a drink’? Maybe you meant it literally, but you know what it implies. It's never just a drink. And you know that.

“I don't think you need anymore drinks.” He says.

You can't even bring yourself to be offended. In fact, you're relieved that he took your words so literally instead of considering the implications. You let out an airy laugh, dropping your head, “Yeah. You're probably right. Ignore me."

Silence takes over once again. Fuck. You hate the silence. You're staring at each other, both completely still. It's weirdly tense, and you're unsure as to why that is. “I'm… I'm gonna head inside.” You mumble, though you make no effort to move, or to push the door handle down. You're completely frozen to the spot.

You're surprised when he moves first, taking a step towards you. Fuck. Oh fuck. What is he doing? He's standing over you now, towering above you, actually. You're eye level with the bat right in the middle of his chest plate, and for a moment you're completely transfixed by the steady rise of his chest. You're not intimidated by how close he is, by how he's looming above you. He's done nothing but make you feel safe the entire time you've been with him. It's okay. He's close to you, and that's okay. You're okay. You actually... like being this close to him. He's crowding you against your door, pressing your back against the cold wood, but you don't care. You like it.

All you can hear is your breathing, shaky and ragged. It's all you can focus on. You feel like you're losing your mind, waiting for him to do something— anything. To make any move at all. When you finally gather the courage to look up at him through your lashes, you realise he's staring down at you. His lips are parted, and his eyes are lidded from what you can tell. You have no idea what he wants, what he's doing, but he looks so pretty. You want to reach up and remove the mask. Not because you're desperate to know who he really is, because you truly don't care, but because you want to see all of his pretty face like this.

He leans down slightly, and you feel yourself start to panic just a little bit. Your faces are so close now. Just one jolt upwards from you, just one more slight bend of his knees and you'd be kissing the Batman. Holy—

Holy shit. Is he going to kiss you? Is he— Fuck. Will he kiss you? He's— He's going to kiss you. Holy fuck. He’s— “Are we gonna kiss now?” You blurt out, the tension finally becoming too much. Your question is followed by a prolonged moment of silence.

His reply comes in the click of your door latch, and the slight creak of hinges coming from behind you.

He opened your fucking door.

You're completely taken aback. Confused and reeling because… what the fuck? Did that just happen? You can add Batman being a fucking tease to the list of things you didn't expect to happen or find out tonight. Fuck. You probably have the dumbest look on your face right now. You're completely lost for words. Judging by the way his mouth is opening and closing ever so slightly, you think he feels the same.

“Good night.” He mumbles, stepping away from you, and you silently mourn the loss of his body close to yours. Maybe it's the drink talking, but you miss it already.

He's about to turn away from you, but you reach out and take his hand in yours. You smile at him, squeezing his hand gently. “Good night. And thank you, again.” He nods in acknowledgement, and you loosen your grip, allowing him to make his way make his swift exit, though your hands are still touching until the moment you're no longer in reach. You watch him descend the steps and quickly make his way down your path and out of the gate, his boots beating mercilessly against the ground. But before he can disappear into the night, you call out one last thing to him. “My name is (Y/N), by the way!”

He turns to look at you from the gate for just a moment, and you swear you see the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, though you cant be too sure. And then, he's gone, and you're left wondering when you'll see him again. If you'll see him again.

You might just.

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avengerleague · 3 years

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A World Alone - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: i went from bruce wayne finger-banging to 8000 words of fluff, mutual pining and a lil bit of angst. i am not ok <3 also can you tell i listen to lorde :// anyway come talk to me about batman or the riddler or adrian chase <3

Word Count: 8.1k

Warnings: Language, mentions of alcohol, not beta read idc we die like men, spoilers for the batman, cringe fluff and i don't CARE because bruce wayne deserves loves ok???? (i think that's all <3)

Summary: Bruce makes his first public appearance since the memorial service, with you by his side.

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The creaking of floorboards behind you catches your attention instantly. You place your teacup on the table gently (avoiding another lecture from Alfred about taking care with his finest China) and twist your head, a small smile crawling on to your lips when you see him approaching slowly. “Oh, look who's finally emerged from his cave.” You tease, glancing over at Alfred in amusement. He doesn't find it that funny, though.

“I can only offer my apologies, (Y/N). I did call him up an hour ago.” Alfred says pointedly, shifting to stand up from the seat beside you. You recall sitting at the table, listening to Alfred bicker back and forth with Bruce, until a few stern words and the slamming of the telephone had him making his way back to you, informing you that Bruce would be up in ‘just a moment’. An hour, in Bruce Wayne terms. “Tea, Bruce?” He offers, his hand already on the handle of the teapot.

“No. Thank you, though, Alfred.” Bruce says, his voice quiet yet polite. Like a child who's been scolded by their parent.

The room falls quiet. He hasn't made any moves to sit down, to join you at the table. He's just lingering behind you, probably wondering why the hell you're here. You know he's suspicious, you can tell by the way his gaze flicks between yourself and Alfred. Then, his eyes land on the small envelope in front of you. Now he's definitely suspicious.

You're not so sure what to say. It's been a while since your last visit, since you last saw Bruce Wayne without the cowl or the suit. You see him on TV screens much more than you see him in person, nowadays. While he's been busy helping the people, working with Gotham P.D. on search and rescue missions (you're sure he's been patrolling the areas with high crime, too), you've been working closely with the mayor and politicians. You spend most of your days in conferences and meetings, negotiating donations to whoever and whatever cause. You don't care. As long as it helps, as long as it contributes to the rebuilding of Gotham, you're game. You always wanted to do good with your money, and now you're doing exactly that.

Alfred breaks the silence, the quiet cling of his teacup against the saucer echoing around the room. You watch him down the rest of his tea quickly, more than eager to leave before your conversation with Bruce can even begin. You curse him internally for that. You always found it easier to negotiate with Bruce in Alfred’s presence. Bruce would break out the classic 'you're not my father’ line, (as if that's ever deterred Alfred from advising him, or telling him what to do), but in the end he'd always buckle. And you… well you'd sit there with a smug smile, watching the whole thing go down. You're on your own this time, evidently.

“Well…” Alfred starts, picking up the saucer from the table, “It's certainly been lovely seeing you, (Y/N). Unfortunately, I can't stay and chat any longer. The Wayne household doesn't run itself, you know.” He jokes. Though it's not really a joke.

You smile up at him, “It'd be lost without you.”

“Oh, I know that.” His gaze lands on Bruce for a moment, before flickering back to you.

“It's been so great seeing you, Alfred. And thank you for the tea.” You say.

“My pleasure.” He squeezes your shoulder before he begins making his way out of the room. His footsteps stop after a few moments, and you hear whispering, though you can't quite catch what's being said. Then, the gentle tap of his shoes resume until they're out of earshot.

You suddenly feel incredibly awkward without Alfred by your side. You can feel Bruce’s eyes burning into the back of your skull like lasers in the mist, cutting right through you. Your palms are sweaty, you can practically hear your heartbeat, feel it pounding through your entire body. “Why don't… why don't you come and sit down?” You ask, patting the backrest of the seat next to you. Nothing. “Please?”

He moves then, slowly circling the table, though he walks right past the seat you gestured to. Instead, he sits himself down two seats away from you. You can't help but scoff at how petty he's being. “Really?” You shove your tongue into your cheek in annoyance. He doesn't respond. Instead, he turns his attention to the window, seemingly taking in the scenery in the bright light of morning. Which is funny, really, because he never cared for the view.

You're getting a good look at him now, and he looks like shit, to be quite frank. Like he hasn't slept, showered or even been out of the literal cave underneath the mansion in days. All of those things are probably true. In fact, you know they're true. Except for that last one, you're sure you saw Batman on the news yesterday. Either way, he looks like he hasn't seen the light of day in, well, days. There's dark circles under his eyes, and he's squinting against the natural light flooding in through the window. He looks tired. You're starting to feel bad for what you're about to spring on him.

You're staring at him, and he's staring out of the window. You're trapped in some kind of deadlock. Neither of you know what to say or do, how to break the silence or cut through the tension. You figure out pretty quickly that he has no intention of cracking first, so you decide that it's up to you. You'll take the fall, happily. Anything to feel like you can breathe again. “Look, I know it's been a while—"

“Two months.” It's quiet, barely above a whisper, but you hear it loud and clear.

Two months.

You nod your head, “Yeah. Two months.”

Two. Whole months. Fuck. The last time you saw him was at the hospital when Alfred was hurt. You remember that not much was said between the two of you. You just sat next to him quietly, holding his hand in yours and hoping for the best.

“Listen, you know as well as I do that things just got really crazy. We've both been busy, and—”

You almost jump when he snaps his head to you, but you have no plans to back down under his intense gaze. “We have?”

“Yes, we have.” You say through gritted teeth. “And you know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is soft, quiet, yet there's a certain degree of animosity in his tone.

You huff out a laugh, though there's no humour in it. You're smiling, but you're far from amused. “Can you just let me fucking finish?” One more snide remark, one more interruption, and you would be walking out. Judging by the slight nod of his head, he knows that too. “Look, I know it's been a while, okay? I know that. Two months is… it's crazy. And I'm sorry, okay? I am sorry. I just... I needed some time to think. I felt like I was losing my mind here. The sleepless nights, the worrying... The isolation. It just… it got a little too much for me. Two weeks. That's all I wanted. But then shit got so crazy. I think—… I think both of us just lost track.”

He drops his head, focusing his gaze on the table and the intricate patterns in the wood. “Yeah.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him loud and clear.

You've known Bruce your entire life. Family friends, as cliché as that may be. You're not sure when your little affair started, but you remember the moment you found yourself in his bed as clear as day. It was an unspoken thing, as far as you knew. Neither of you mentioned relationships, becoming something more wasn't a topic either of you wanted to broach. It kind of happened naturally, though. He sought you out after spending his nights on the streets, and sometimes you'd make the trip to the mansion to be there for him when he got back. You'd have sex, and then you'd have breakfast together, sometimes dinner, and then he'd drive you back to the city in the evening. It was… nice. Really fucking nice. You might've called it love. But it didn't come without its fair share of grievances. Evidently. You just needed to be away from him for a while, to clear your head. Things had gotten really intense, and you needed some time. But then the Riddler happened, and the flood. You'd managed to get on with life for a while, doing what needed to be done before dealing with personal matters. But a part of you felt— feels empty, like you're missing something. There's a huge, obvious hole in your heart in the shape of Bruce Wayne, and you can only hope that it's able to be fixed at some point.

“What's that?” He asks quietly, gesturing to the envelope on the table.

You're thrown off by that, yet it's so typical of him. He never did like to talk about his feelings, or give you anything deeper than an 'I'm fine’, even when he clearly wasn't fine. Whatever. You know him well enough to know that he'll come around at some point, that he'll talk when he's ready. You shake your head quickly, pulling yourself together. “That would be your invitation to tomorrow night’s charity ball. We're raising money for people who lost their homes in the flood.” You tell him, sliding it across the table slowly.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you have it?” He questions, picking up the invitation, pulling the seal gently.

“Because I told the mayor I'd personally deliver it to you. She's getting tired of being ignored and sent to voicemail, Bruce. She wants to talk to you.” You lean back in your seat, your shoulders finally relaxing as you let out the breath you didn't realise you were holding in.

“So that's why you're here.” He says, unfolding the invitation, his eyes scanning over it quickly. You know he isn't reading it, that he has no interest in reading it.

“That's part of the reason why I'm here.” You shrug.

He huffs, raising his eyebrows at you and dropping the invitation back on to the table, “There's another reason?”

You shove your tongue into your cheek for the second time, suddenly understanding why Alfred was so quick to leave. You forgot that dealing with Bruce sometimes feels like dealing with a moody teenager. “I heard Batman dabbles in detective work now.” That gets his full attention. “Y’know, I always thought you to be a little more… What's the word?” You pause for a moment. “Hm. Intuitive.”

No response. Just his eyes staring straight through you.

You sigh, “Yes, I'm here on behalf of the mayor. I told her I had a personal connection to you, and that I'd deliver the invitation myself.” You pause, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. “But… I'm also here because I wanted to see you, Bruce.” You admit.

“You needed an excuse.” He says, finally catching on.

You drop your head, huffing out an awkward laugh, “Yeah. Sounds kinda pathetic, now that you're saying it out loud. I mean I could have just called, or… stopped by. I don't—”

“It's not.” You glance up at him. He clears his throat, repeating, “It's not pathetic. I'm… I'm glad you're here.” He doesn't meet your eyes, but it's okay. You don't feel uncomfortable or awkward anymore. You feel relieved. You're certain there's no way he'll want to talk about… anything. That you're better off just moving past it, at least for the time being. You are glad to see him, and he is glad to see you. Middle ground.

“I'm glad you're here.” He repeats, and you brace yourself. “But—” there's always a fucking ‘but’. “I'm not going to the charity ball.”

“Bruce—”

“No. I'll make a donation, but..” He shakes his head.

“Look, I know going out isn't really your thing. But the mayor wants you to step up—”

He cuts you off, “I am stepping up. I'm already playing my part.” There's a certain bite in his tone.

That's true. There's no denying that it's true. Almost everyday you see that familiar cowl on the news or in the papers. Everyday you see headlines about the Batman, about how he's doing the right thing for Gotham, protecting the people and the streets. But that's Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. Well, it is Bruce Wayne. But it also isn't, as far as the people and the mayor are concerned.

“Batman is playing his part.” You say gently, leaning forwards and resting your hands on the table. “I know what you do for this city, I've seen everything. You're working so hard and I feel so guilty being here, asking for more. But as far as the mayor is concerned Bruce Wayne is living outside of the city, sitting in his ivory tower and doing nothing.” He seems to straighten up. “You— Bruce Wayne, were mentioned by name. He had a whole— I don't know even know what to call it, a… a whole presentation dedicated to you and your family. Whether you like it or not Bruce Wayne played a part in what went down.”

“That's not— It's not—… I didn't know. I had no idea about—…” He tries to argue but voice breaks.

You push your chair back and stand up, plopping yourself down in the seat next to him. The one you asked him to sit in earlier. You take his hand, feeling him tense up for a moment before relaxing into your touch. “I know. I know it's not your fault. I can't—… The people know it's not your fault, too. They just… they just want to see you. He tried to ruin you, but I promise you that the people are still on your side. You just… you need to make an appearance.”

He's silent for a moment. More than a moment, actually, and you hope that he's considering you. Or he's thinking of a way to let you down gently. Yes, definitely that. “I'm not accepting the invitation.” He mumbles, pushing the invite away. Ouch. Okay. That wasn't gentle.

You were quite convincing just then, you think. It didn't seem to be enough, though. It's okay. Because you came prepared. You anticipated this from the moment you agreed to give him the invitation yourself. “Oh, well that's perfect.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Why's that?” He asks slowly. He knows. Oh, he knows you have something up your sleeve.

“Because I kind of, sort of, maybe… already have you down as my plus one.” His stare is blank, but it says everything. He's less than impressed. “And my driver might have the night off.” You add, placing the cherry neatly on top of the already-pissed-off-Bruce-Wayne-Sundae.

“I suggest you fix that.”

You shake your head. “Uh-uh. No. I don't think so. It's his daughter’s birthday so… special occasion. I wouldn't want to ruin any plans.” You shrug.

“Well you're ruining my plans.” He comments, sitting back. He hasn't dropped your hand, though.

“And what are your plans for tomorrow?” You ask. He glances away, and you can practically see the cogs in his head grinding against each other as he tries to think of something— anything that he could possibly be doing tomorrow night.

“Gordon needs me.” He answers, finally.

“That's a lie.” Blatant, actually. You're offended that he thinks you're stupid enough to fall for that.

“It’s not a lie.”

“You're lying. Your nostrils flare when you lie.” You can't help but smile at him. You know him, and you've always known him. You know when he's lying, when he's being truthful, when he's happy, when something’s bothering him. You know him like the back of your hand. Like you know the alphabet. “And even if Gordon did need you, the event starts at six. So I was thinking we get there at six thirty, leave for eight. You show face, and it leaves you plenty of time.”

He's staring at you. You're staring at him. He's silent, you're waiting for a response. He sighs quietly, “I'm not getting out of this, am I?”

You shake your head, “I don't think so. I think I've backed you into a corner enough. But I have more excuses and reasons if you wanna hear those, too.”

His lips twitch, and soon enough he's breaking out into a smile. It's not a big grin, but you can see his teeth and that makes you grin right at him. He drops his head for a moment, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly. “You're unbelievable.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “So are you.” You really mean that, too. Maybe not in the way he means it. “So, I expect to see you parked up outside of my house at five thirty tomorrow. It's black tie, so do what you will with that.”

“Fine.” He mumbles, though his smile still hasn't dropped, and he's staring down at your intertwined fingers.

The two of you sit there in silence for a minute, finally comfortable in each other’s company. Without the tension, the awkwardness, the uncomfortable elephant in the room. It feels nice, you think, to just sit there for a moment and be. It makes you realise how much you've missed him. How much you've missed just sitting at his table in a comfortable silence, eating breakfast together in the late afternoon while Alfred scolds you for being lazy. You hope this is the first step to fixing things, getting things back to how they used to be. Maybe you would become more.

You don't want to go. You want to stay right there with him. But you have to go.

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “I hope you don't mind but… I have to leave. I have a meeting soon.”

Bruce shakes his head, “No. No, of course. You—… Do you need a ride back to the city?” He asks.

You shake your head, “No, I'm good. Patrick’s waiting for me.”

“He's been out there the whole time?” He asks, his eyes widening in surprise and… probably guilt. It did take him an hour to bring himself to leave the cave.

“Uh-huh. Even more reason for me to give him the night off.” You stand up, and he doesn't let go of your hand. In fact, his grip seems to tighten. You feel guilty for leaving already. You really don't want to fucking go. You want to sit with him, kiss him, wrap your arms around him and tell him how much you've missed him and how you think about him every single day. But you have to go. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” He mumbles.

You start to walk away, and he still has your hand in his. Right up to the moment you're no longer in reach, his arm is outstretched. You swear you see him lean his body back, so you're fingertips can graze against each other for just a moment longer. You drop your hand down by your side slowly, the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin. Fuck, you miss it already. “If you stand me up tomorrow, I'm telling every magazine and newspaper in Gotham.” You tease.

“I wouldn't dare.” He reassures.

And then you're gone, your footsteps fading as you make your way down the hall.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Bruce doesn't disappoint. You didn't think he would, anyway. He was parked outside at exactly five thirty, looking far from impressed, but his frown dissipated as soon as his eyes landed on you. You smiled at him, and he managed to smile right back. He's wearing a simple black suit and tie, that long coat of his over the top. You remember it's the one he wore to the memorial service, too.

Now, you're sitting in his car, dressed to the nines, waiting in the traffic. You feel like you've been here for two hours already, but really it's only been ten minutes. It's quiet in the car, which doesn't surprise you. He's nervous. So, so nervous. You can see it in his furrowed brows, his tense jaw. In the way his eyes flick between you, the road and his own hand on the steering wheel. You do feel guilty for dragging him out, for making him leave the comfort of his own home, the comfort of his armour and cowl. Tonight, the eyes of Gotham would be on Bruce Wayne, not Batman. People would talk, because that's what people do, and they'd talk for a while. But at least he'd only have to do it once. One public appearance is enough to cause a stir, you think.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently, glancing over at him.

“M’fine.” He mumbles in response, nostrils flaring every so slightly. You know he tried so hard to hide that. His eyes are focused on the road now, the traffic moving along just a little. There's only five or six cars in front of you now. They'll know it's him immediately, just from the model of the car. You swear he's the only person in Gotham who drives himself to events.

“Okay. That's cool. Now tell me the truth?” He looks at you, then, almost incredulously. You shrug, “Why do you always forget that I know exactly when you're lying?”

He sighs. You're right and he knows it. “I'm feeling okay. Just… Just a little nervous.” There's more truth to it. Not the full truth. You know he's shitting bricks, to put it quite plainly. But you'll let him have that. You figure that's the most honest answer you're going to get.

“You'll be okay.” You reassure, but he doesn't look so convinced. “It's just for tonight. You don't have to answer any questions, if you don't want to. We'll go right in there, talk to whoever you need to talk to— definitely the mayor, and then we'll get out of there. Sound good?”

“Yeah.”

Soon five or six cars turn into two or three, and before you know it, you're right in front of the steps. You turn to look at him, to make sure that he's okay one last time before you step out, but he's already opening the car door, getting out quickly and slamming it shut behind him. Never mind then. You watch him walk around the front of the car, keeping his head down the whole time as all eyes and all cameras are pointed directly at him. He opens the door for you and offers you his hand, which you gladly take, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’. And then you're in the thick of it, too.

Cameras flashing in your face, reporters shoving microphones in front of you, everyone’s so desperate to get anything from either you or Bruce. He has his back turned to the press, handing his keys to the valet while you try and offer your best smile. It's pointless though, all attention is focused on the prince of the city, as they like to call him. You don't even register that he's turned his attention to you until he's tugging on your arm, pulling you gently towards the steps.

The ball is being held at some fancy hotel just outside of the city. It's big and bright and lavish, lit up from top to bottom, totally opposite to everything else in the city. It looks so out of place, honestly, compared to the monochromatic nature of Gotham. Oh well. You'd have plenty of time to complain about the ugly venue later.

You loop your arm around his, pulling him close to you, and immediately you feel him relax against you. The two of you ascend the white, marble staircase arm in arm. You smile and occasionally wave, answering any questions directed to you as quickly as you can. Bruce, on the other hand, ignores all of them. He doesn't even smile, you don't think. He just keeps his head down, blocking out the screams of his name.

“Mr Wayne!”

“Mr Wayne! It's so good to see you!”

“Mr Wayne, why are you here tonight!?”

“Mr Wayne, how are you contributing to the effort to rebuild Gotham?!”

“Mr Wayne, are you dating (Y/N)?!”

“Mr Wayne, you're the only one mentioned by name that survived the attacks. Is it true that you were working with Edward Nashton?!”

You feel him tense up.

“Mr Wayne, how does it feel knowing your father’s a murderer?!”

Fuck.

That one gets to him.

He stops dead in his tracks, and you stop too. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You don't know what to do. He's frozen in place, breathing heavily, cheeks turning red with anger, giving the reporter who asked that question the deadliest glare. Seriously, if looks could kill, this guy would be dead one million times over. He'd be six feet fucking under. The only thing that comforts you is the fact that Bruce makes a conscious effort to not kill. You still fear that he'll lunge over the barriers, though. Give the reporter a piece of his mind with his fists instead. Warranted, though not entirely ideal, and you know he has enough sense to not go through with any acts of violence running through his head right now.

It’s your soft voice, the gentle tug on his arm that snaps him out of it, that quells his rage for just a moment. “Hey, let's get inside.” He looks between you and the reporter for a brief moment, then nods his head. You sigh quietly in relief as the two of climb the last few steps, making your way into the building quickly.

He's shaking. You can feel him shaking against you. You assume it's because he's angry, but then you see his eyes, red and glassy, and you realise he's on the verge of tears. You're not sure whether he's upset, or whether he's just really fucking wound up. Or both.

“So much for ‘the people are on your side’.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him. Oh, he's pissed off. Rightly so, but you don't appreciate his snide comment. He tries to pull away from you, but you don't let him. You keep your arm firmly locked around his, wrapping your hand around his bicep and squeezing gently. The moment you allow him to let go of you will be the moment you lose him. You don't trust him to not bolt straight out of the doors, to fly back down the steps, get back into his car and drive home. You've only just got him back, and you'd like to keep him for good this time.

You're in the fancy lobby, now. Bright red carpets, golden wallpaper and large paintings in golden frames hanging on the walls. It's ugly even on the inside, you think, but it's far nicer in here than it is out there. In here, you're surrounded by ugly decor, politicians, socialites and pretty much anyone who's anyone in Gotham. But you're safe. Out there… you're like pieces of meat to a pack of wild dogs. They're hungry, desperate for anything they can get from you. At least inside you're away from the flashing lights, the microphones being shoved under your noses and the screaming of your names.

The large, wooden doors that lead to the hall where the event is being held are just up ahead, but you pull him to the side before you even think about going right in. “Hey…” You whisper, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Don't.” He warns, refusing to meet your eyes.

“You just have to ignore them, Bruce. I know it's hard—”

“You don't know.” He's trying to be cutting, actively trying to ward you off. The same way he does with Alfred. But just like how it doesn't work with Alfred, it doesn't work with you, either. You know that deep down he's desperate for some kind of reassurance, but he only knows how to fight against it.

You bring your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks with your palms. “You're right. I don't know. But what I do know is that not everyone thinks like that.”

“But some people do.” He sounds genuinely hurt. Bruce spent his entire life idolising his father. He started the Gotham Project for his father, to continue his family's legacy. He knows the truth about what went down with his father and Falcone and the reporter who had dirt on his mother, and that should be enough. But it isn't, and you can understand why it isn't enough. It has to be, though.

You nod. “Yeah. Some people do. They'll believe the gossip and the lies and the fucked up shit they hear over the truth, as long as it lines up with their ideals. You know the truth, and the majority of the city knows the truth, too. And they're on your side, I promise you.” You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, squeezing gently.

The two of you stand there in silence for a moment. He seems to be calming down, which is more than a relief to you. His cheeks are returning to their normal, pasty colour and he's breathing deep and slow now. He's okay. He's going to be okay. He's going to get through the next hour, at least, and then you'd be free to leave.

You bring his hand up to your lips and press a soft kiss against his knuckle, “Are you good, Bruce?” You ask gently. You don't want to push him if he's not ready yet.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“(Y/N).” He speaks your name so softly, and it commands your full attention. “I'm okay.” He brings your hand up to his lips now, pressing a kiss against your knuckle just like you'd done only seconds ago.

You almost melt.

God. Just being with him, touching him and talking to him, makes you wonder why you ever spent so long away from him. Two fucking months. You can't even comprehend it, but you know it's never going to happen again. You're never going to spend that long away from him ever again. It's Bruce, it always has been and it always will be. You're certain of that. You'll never miss anyone like you miss him, crave anyone’s attention like you crave his, buckle under anyone’s touch like you buckle under his. You're not sure if the same can he said for him, but he's here with you, and that's all that matters.

“Okay. Do you wanna head in?” He nods his head, and this time he moves to take hold of your arm first. You smile up at him, and you see his lips twitch upwards. That's enough for you.

The two of you make your way towards the wooden doors. Most, if not all, guests are already in there, you assume, since the lobby is almost barren. “Are you ready?” You ask. He nods and without a second of hesitation you're pushing open the doors. It feels like there's a spotlight shining directly on you, or maybe that's just the effect of the bright lights and golden walls meshing together to create some kind of optical phenomena that has you blinded for just a moment. Fuck, if you thought it was light out there, you have no idea how to describe this. Though, it's prettier in here than in the lobby, you think.

People are staring, and he's incredibly tense, unsure of what to do. So, you just pull him along, out of the doorway and into the crowd. “People will talk, and they'll stare, but it's because they probably weren't expecting to see you here tonight. So you're gonna say hello, you're gonna say 'I'm doing fine thank you, how are you?’ and then we're gonna move along. Okay?”

And that's exactly what he does. He's still quiet and mildly awkward, but there's a charming edge to him, too. One that doesn't come out so often in public but it's there and tonight, as he chats to politicians and friends of his father, with you by his side for comfort, you see it. You know he wants to leave, to be out of there as soon as possible, you can see it in his eyes, but he's pulling it off. He's playing the part and he's playing it well. He's latched on to you, his eyes never seem to leave you, but you're more than happy to be his safety net. Though that won't last much longer.

“(Y/N), you must work miracles.” An oh-so-familiar voice calls from behind you. You turn around, dragging Bruce with you, and you're met with the eyes of the mayor, Bella Reál. She's beaming, smiling brightly at the two of you, but you can't help but notice she's eyeing Bruce from head to toe. Almost in shock. “Look who it is. Mr. Wayne himself.”

“In the flesh. I thought I'd never get him out of that tower.” You tease, a grin on your lips as you squeeze him closer to you. You can feel his unimpressed stare, but you're not intimidated.

“I always had faith in you.” She reassures. “Do you mind if I steal him from you? I've been dying to speak with him.”

“Oh, no. Of course not. He's all yours.” You try to pull your arm away from him, but his grip tightens. He won't let go, he doesn't want to let go. But he has to. You give his bicep one last squeeze before you yank your arm away from him, careful to keep your elbows to yourself. “You'll be fine. I'll talk to you later.” You mumble. He isn't happy, his tongue is pushed against the inside of his cheek in annoyance, but there's nothing you can do.

“I promise I'll bring him straight back.” She jokes, giving you one last smile before she turns and starts walking away, with Bruce reluctantly in tow.

You're not so sure what to do now that you're on your own, so you pick up a flute of champagne from a waiter and make your way through the crowds of people. You talk to family friends, introduce yourself to unfamiliar faces and chat about any new plans or projects you have in the works to aid the city. You keep a smile plastered on your lips and a glass in your hand at all times, ready to greet anyone and everyone. It's exhausting, you have to admit that, but it's what you do. Occasionally, you feel Bruce’s eyes on you. When he's not in conversation, and even when he is, you feel him staring right at you from across the room. You're surprised he can even find you amongst the crowd of black suits and dresses, but he does. Every single time. You always look back, give him a reassuring smile and watch as he visibly relaxes. You're glad he's making an effort, that he's finally giving the mayor a chance to speak to him and discuss how he's going to help the city (though if she knew even half of what Bruce had done for Gotham, you're sure there's no way she'd be on his case about it). You can't wait for him to be back by your side, though. He's a comfort to you just as much as you're a comfort to him.

You're at a small table in the corner that's covered with champagne flutes, your back turned, when you feel hands grab on to your waist from behind. You gasp and jolt backwards, bumping against a firm chest. You're about to swing your elbow back when you hear a familiar huff in your ear, the fingers on your waist digging into your flesh lightly, forcing a quiet giggle out of you and making you squirm in his grasp. You curse the day he realised you're ticklish. “You're an asshole.” You mumble, but there's no real anger or annoyance in your tone. “How'd it go?” You ask, picking up a flute and bringing it to your lips.

“Terribly.” He says simply, though there's amusement laced in there somewhere and you know he's messing around.

“Hm. I'm sure it was awful. I bet she had you talking about all sorts of diabolical shit. Like going outside, making more public appearances, attending meetings, doing inter—”

Bruce squeezes your waist gently, cutting you off, “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” A pause. “Can we leave now?”

You pry his hands from your waist and turn around, your eyebrows raised in amusement. It's not a shock to you that he's already so eager to leave. “You wanna go? Already?”

He nods his head once. “I did what you asked me to do. I spoke with the mayor. You said we could leave early, so let's go.” He tries to tug on your arm, but you stay firmly in place.

God, you've only had two or three glasses to drink but you're already feeling slightly fuzzy. You give him your best pout, “You wanna get rid of me already?”

A beat of silence. His brows furrow, “That's not— I didn't—”

“We should dance.” You tell him. There's an orchestra playing in the background, certainly not anything yourself or Bruce would typically listen to, but that's not a problem to you. There's other couples dancing in the middle of the room, stiff and looking far from happy. Probably talking about some important matter or another that would be too intense to discuss without the distraction of dance.

“I can't dance.” A lie, for sure.

You scoff, shaking your head, “Do not disrespect Alfred like that ever again. I know he's taught you how to dance.”

He sighs, fully aware that you're right. Alfred would scold him for that. “Fine, then I don't dance.”

“You could.” You retort.

“I don't like dancing.” He says.

“Do you like anything?” You ask playfully.

His mouth opens and closes for a moment, as if there's something he want to say, but he's just not quite sure how to say it, or if he can at all. “I just don't want to.” He says, as if it's final, but you know he'll cave.

“I think it'd be fun. Just one dance.” You hold up your index finger, as proof that you truly mean just one dance.

He's silent for a moment, and you hope he's considering you. “People will talk.” He mumbles. About him, about you, about your maybe, sort of, kind of relationship. About your outfit, his hair. About why he's here tonight, why he came with you on his arm. You can understand why taking your hand and allowing you to lead him into the middle of the room, to have him wrap his arms around you and pull you close in front of so many people would be so daunting, but—

“Fuck it.” You say confidently. “People are always gonna talk. They're talking right now and we're just standing here.” You bring your hands up and cup his cheeks, looking up at him. “Let them.” You grab his hand suddenly and begin leading him to the dance floor. He tries to pull against you, to tug you backwards, but you don't care, you know he'll give up eventually. And he does. He reluctantly lets you guide him around small crowds of people and couples dancing together until you're right in the middle of… everything. The room, the dance floor, the crowd. The song that's playing is something classical. You think you recognise it, though you can't quite put a name to it. You don't really care to. You're more focused on Bruce. He looks so fucking awkward, and you can't help but feel guilty. But then you remember that if he really didn't want to dance, he would have said so. He's a big boy, and you're sure he can make his own decisions.

So, you wrap your arms around his neck, and after a moment of hesitation and a barely audible sigh, his hands find their way to your waist. You're quiet, just watching him and his facial expressions. His eyes are flickering around the room, his lips pressed into a thin line, and there's a slight tinge of pink in his cheeks. Completely different to the angry red you saw earlier. You can feel the stares, the whispers and the conversations, and you're sure not all of them are about you but you know he probably thinks otherwise. You know he wants nothing more than to sink into the floor. “Hey…” you whisper, catching his attention. “It's okay. Forget about them. It's just us. We're alone. Just me and you.”

He doesn't respond, but he sways when you sway, he moves when you move, breathes when you breathe, until the pressure releases from his shoulders and he relaxes into the dance. He still looks anxious, and slightly uncomfortable, but you're just grateful he's still entertaining you. He never did know how to say no to you, after all.

“I'm sorry.” His quiet voice cuts through the silence between the two of you. It's so sudden, and it almost makes you jump.

You're confused, though. “You're sorry… for what?” You ask slowly. You're not trying to make him admit anything, you're genuinely baffled. He hasn't made any sudden moves to leave, he hasn't left you stranded, or done anything wrong at all.

“Yesterday… when you said you were sorry for leaving for so long. I never said sorry. So I'm saying it now.” He's not looking at you, instead choosing to look straight over your shoulder, but you know he's being sincere. “I missed you.” He breathes out.

You screw your eyes shut for a moment, shaking your head. “No— You don't— Please don't be— We're both at fault.”

“I guess we are.” He looks at you, finally. Wanting you to know that he really, truly means every word. “I thought about you every day.”

You glance up at him, slightly taken aback by that admission. “Y-you did?” You curse yourself internally for stuttering over your words. God, you must sound so pathetic.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Well… you could have called.” You shrug. “I don't bite.”

“I wouldn't say that.” He's teasing you, and he's trying so hard to stop himself from grinning at his own joke.

“Wow, your comedy career’s really coming along, huh?” You bite back (fitting), but there's no malice. You take note of the fact that he doesn't even entertain the idea that you could have called him. He's somewhat self aware, at least.

“Hm. It could use some work.” A beat of silence. “I'm sorry, though. Truly. I—” He stops himself, because he knows you're about to cut him off. The look he gives you is stern, and you back down instantly, deciding to stay quiet. “I'm sorry for driving you away. It shouldn't ever be that complicated.”

“I don't mind complicated. I just— I just needed a little time. I was always gonna come back because— Fuck. Because I can't stay away from you. I'd go through forty sleepless nights in a row for you.” It's all coming out now. You're just talking and talking and you can't stop it, you're not even sure that you want to stop it.

“You shouldn't have to—”

“But I want to. I just— I want you. And everything that comes with having you.” You admit quietly, barely above a whisper. It occurs to you then that you've become the couple on the dance floor having an intense discussion. But it's not about finances or divorce or whatever the hell else, it's more along the lines of love. “I want you.” You repeat, reaffirming it to yourself and to him.

He's silent, and you fall silent too. You're not sure what to do, what he wants you to do. You're just staring at each other, and you only realise now that you stopped swaying along to the music a long time ago. You feel his hands move to your hips, pulling your body closer to his, and you take the opportunity to slide your hands from the back of his neck to his cheeks. He's leaning down, and you’re standing up on your tiptoes to meet him in the middle. Everything's so fucking loud, now. You can hear every word of every conversation around you, your heart thumping in your ears, though you can't hear your own breathing. Are you even breathing? Fuck. You don't know. Fuck. Are you breathing? It's all too much. You feel like you're going insane. You can't think or do anything. It's getting louder and louder, to the point where even quite exchanges seem deafening.

Until your lips meet his, and then the room falls quiet. Well, not really. But it feels like it does. You can't hear anything now, you're so focused on him and his lips and how they mesh perfectly with yours. It feels like the first time. It's not. It's far from the first time you've kissed the prince of the city, actually. But those sparks you felt in your stomach the first time, the ones that sent tingles through your entire body and made your legs feel like jelly are back in full force. You don't want to pull away, to be reminded that you're in a room full of people you don't know and probably don't like, to be reminded that people are watching. You want to stay in this little world that you've created forever, where it's just the two of you alone together.

He pulls away first, and you almost whine in protest as you pull him back in for another. And another. And another. Just one more. One more. His shoulders are shaking in silent laughter as you refuse to let him go, to let your lips part from his just yet. When you eventually pull back, you grin at him. It's lazy and love-drunk, and you're sure he's looking at you in the same way. “I want you.” You tell him again.

He doesn't need to say it back, and he probably won't. At least, not here. It's okay, though. You don't need him to. You know he feels the same way. You can see it in the way he looks at you. He's smiling. Like, actually smiling. In public. And that's enough for you to know that he feels the same way. He wants you too.

“Hey, do you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smiling to yourself because just ten minutes ago you were practically begging him to stay. Now, you just want to be alone with him.

“Yeah. I do.” He breathes out, and within a second he's grabbing your hand gently. He leads the way this time, weaving you through the crowd, ignoring everyone's stares and calls of his name or yours, dead set on making it to and through the wooden doors without interruption. You're giggling the whole time, and from the few glimpses you catch of his face, you think he's smiling.

When you make it outside, still hand in hand, you're not exactly thrilled to see that the press are still there, camera men and journalists focusing all of their attention on the doors, ready to capture any and all swift exits. You notice that the guy from earlier, the one who called Bruce’s father a murderer, has gone, and you thank your lucky stars for that. The attention is on you immediately, from the moment you step foot through the doors. They're shouting his name, snapping pictures, vying for any trickle of attention they can get from him, for anything to talk about in their gossip columns or front pages. He's intent on leaving, but you're more than happy to give them something to talk about.

You stop right in the middle of the marble staircase, and he stops too when you tug his arm back. “What are you doing? What's wrong?” He asks, his brows furrowed.

“Come here.” He doesn't move. “Just come here, Bruce.” You encourage.

Slowly, he makes his way up the few steps between you, and you waste no time in flinging your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips. You can hear the cameras snapping photos, and even with your eyes closed you can still see the faintest flash of white light.

You know he won't be happy when he wakes up the next morning and reads the headlines, when he sees the photos plastered in every newspaper and magazine, but you can't really bring yourself to care. You're his, and he's yours, and you don't care who knows it anymore. It's your world, and you're alone together. People will talk, so let them talk.

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avengerleague · 3 years

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i can’t imagine robert pattinson’s bruce would ever text anyone but if he did he would text selina “saw a snail today… effervescent” just like edward cullen would if he also texted

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avengerleague · 3 years

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Nothing but respect for MY Batman

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avengerleague · 3 years

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if this has been done already i havnt seen it

i love emo batman

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avengerleague · 3 years

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ANDREW GARFIELD & TOBEY MAGUIRE BEHIND THE SCENES OF SPIDER-MAN: NO WAY HOME (2021)

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avengerleague · 3 years

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I won't drown, Batman - Bruce Wayne

Words: 1.9k+

Type: Fluff

Summary: After a hard and tiring day, Bruce finds you taking a relaxing bath.

Warnings: No Spoilers! Sleepy and exhausted Bruce. Mentions of being naked in front of your significant other, and showering together (very brief).

It has become a routine. Every Friday, to end your week on a good note, you try to relax as much as you can. You do a little bit of everything that you enjoy doing throughout your day. A little bit of reading here and a little baking over there. Anything, really, to get your mood at its highest before the weekend even starts.

Sadly, you don't happen to have much time to spend with your boyfriend these days since Fridays tend to be harder for Bruce. It's where the nights are the busiest. No one wants to go home right after their week's worth of work is done. And a little bit of alcohol later, a group of assholes can become the absolute shitholes of the city.

And, Bruce also doesn't really have an exact time where he gets back to the tower. There are nights where he might come home hours earlier than usual but stay at the cave for the rest of the night, or, sometimes, he might just come up the elevator after the sun rises. Nobody really knows when he's going to be back.

You began to wait for him awake around the time your relationship became more serious, but that only really left you with a really messed up sleep schedule.

And, that might be the reason why you're taking a bath at 2:30 in the morning.

The warm water around you surrounds your body in the coziest of embraces as the foam above the surface hides your body in its entirety from your own eyes. The soft and not-to-fragrant smell of your favorite candle reaches your nose even when it burns away at the top of the counter.

There's no way to be more relaxed than this. Your eyes are closed and you have just your shoulders and face out of the water. The bathroom is naturally warm and your breathing is calm.

But that’s when you hear the soft noise of footsteps in the hallway above all the silence.

It could truly be anyone that shares the ceiling of the tower with you and Bruce, but you highly doubt that either Alfred or Dory would be awake at this time and not trying to walk on their tippy-toes.

Only one person doesn’t care enough to not lift off their heavy boots off the floor when walking.

The absence of noise of the steps just by your bedroom, reassures you more of your assumption, as the room is one that just so happens to have carpeted floors, and who else would get themselves inside it?

There's a soft knock on the door of the bathroom and with a small grin stretched over your lips, you open an eye only to check to see the door slowly opening.

A messy head of dark hair appears before the familiar tall and broad figure of Bruce's body does. His eyes are on the ground but his head is still held high.

You can tell, as he tries to re-close the door and not make too much noise, that his face doesn't have that much of the usual dark paint around his eyes. He must have already washed his face before making his way up.

You open your eyes fully at the same time the door clicks closed. Bruce leans back tiredly to the door for a second, hand behind his back as he holds the doorknob, and then finally leans back forward and starts making his way to you.

His eyes lift from the ground finally and he watches you for a bit. Your head still leaning back on the white porcelain bathtub and gracefully resting under the bubbles of your beloved Friday-late-night bath. You don't look in any way alarmed, already very much used to the way he intrudes himself into your relaxing moments in seek of his own.

Even though he tries to hide it, you notice Bruce favoriting his right side over his left while he walks. You don't say anything, though, not yet at least.

He comes closer to the tub and then he stops a simple step away, to your left. You hide your smile as he, in his still fitted and dark clothing, slowly crouches down to your height in the tub and sits right by you.

"You don't want to get in?" You ask him in a whisper.

He shakes his head. His eyes feel heavy but his body is tense and it aches with every movement that he does. The side of the tub is pretty high so it’s easily comfortable for Bruce to rest his arms over it.

As he holds onto it, his eyes come back, right after he stared at the floor for a little bit.

"You're back early." You tell him, keeping your voice soft but now above a whisper.

"I got too tired." He answers you, and a small smile creases your lips. It's rare to hear Bruce ever admit that, and it never seems to not surprise you when he does it.

Bruce can feel the heat of the water slowly come up and touch his forearms, and he stays silent for a little bit. Enjoying the calmness that surrounds him.

He has a crease over his forehead as he seems to think about something, and you watch him as he squints since his eyes looked too close to a harsher light of the bathroom. He highly regrets looking and for that, he brings his eyes back to you all over again.

You move a bit closer to him, making the warm water around you move and collide slightly over the sides, and you turn your head a bit to the side to look at him better. He stares back at you with ease.

You can totally see a bit of paint still at some spots of his face, and you bring your hand up from under the water.

Bruce watches as your hand appears in front of him and your wet fingers smooth over his face. Just by the side of his head, close to his hairline, you scrub softly and the paint comes off effortlessly.

You bring your hand back to the water and scrub away the paint from your own fingers.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" You ask, this time, in a whisper.

"Just bruised."

You nod at him and Bruce quietly studies every inch of your face. He has his arms folded as one hand rests over the other. You look away from your hands, just in time to watch him lay his head over his arms.

His hair, which was already freely cascading down his head, falls over from the top and left side of his head towards the water, and its tips gently touch the bubbles.

You bring your hand up again and try and get the rest of the paint from this side of his face.

When done and with your hand is clean again, you notice how tense his shoulders still look under the fitted shirt. He is now sitting on his knees, much closer to you, and his eyes blink from time to time, possibly dry and tired from all the hours he's been awake.

Your hand lays over his head and your warm and wet fingers work through the messy strands of hair. As your nails softly touch his scalp, you watch as Bruce fights to keep his eyes open.

Your soft digits caress over his forehead and smooth down the skin over his eyebrow, and slowly down to his cheek. Right as your hand lays over the side of his face entirely, you notice how Bruce closes his eyes.

As you pull your hand away, his eyes reopen from this rather long blink and his eyes stare back into yours. You move a bit and lean your head down over his arms as well, just by his right arm while he lays over his left.

You stare back at each other for a little bit and then your hand comes back to the top of his head, working tenderly over his scalp. Bruce closes his eyes and feels his body finally relax as pain doesn't reach him at every shift of his limbs.

"You need to go to bed, Bruce." You whisper to him while snuggling your cheek closer to his arm.

He doesn't answer, but he does reopen his eyes. He stays still for a good few seconds.

"Don't make me have to carry you there." You playfully add.

A soft curve of his lips appears and your heart swells at the sight of a familiar sleepy face. He lifts his head and leans down, closer to you. He lays a simple kiss over your lips, one not too long. When he pulls away, your hand comes down to his cheek as he stares down at you.

"I can wait for you until you're done." He tells you, voice low and soft.

"There's no need."

He doesn't move nor say anything back.

"I won't drown, Batman." You tease him, "You can go sleep."

You lift your head from his arm and take your hand off his cheek. You sit straight as he looks back at you, giving a look over at the shower just a few steps away from you. He still has to shower before going to bed. Even if the night wasn't the busiest, Bruce really didn't want to go to sleep while still smelling like all the smoke and usual smells from Gotham's streets.

His body feels so tired and heavy that he struggles a bit to force himself to even get back into a crouch and stand back up.

"I got to shower, first." He tells you simply.

After you give him a short answer in return, he drags his boots slightly over the tile of the bathroom and walks up to the shower to turn on the water.

It doesn't take him long to get undressed or get into the shower. You, using the foam as a random excuse to get into the spraying water as well, hop out of your tub. You know you wouldn't enjoy the rest of the bath as much now that you finally got his company, so, you unplug the tub and go into the shower.

The shower is quick and not really where you two shared many words. And, after that, it took you almost no time to get Bruce to walk back to the bedroom, and even as he was half dry, yet tired enough, he got himself into the covers with no hesitation.

You joined him not too long after.

As both of you lay on the bed, the silence sets comfortably over you. Bruce stares, as he always does, while you seem to feel tired just by laying on the comfortable bed. His eyelids are heavy and his bruised body is hurtful as he lays on his side and has his arm under your pillow. You face each other as sleep gets the best of the two of you by the second.

Right as your eyes are about to close for a final time for the night, you feel a pair of soft lips press a small kiss over your forehead. Bruce pulls away and lays his head back on his pillow, watching you slowly fall asleep. You snuggle your face closer to his chest and his vacant arm lays over your back, caressing it with his palm.

Your breathing softens and so does Bruce's, as both of you fall peacefully asleep.