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[ifckinglovebattinson]

Begged and Borrowed Time 3/?

HERMIONE X DRACO // HEALER AND MEMORY LOSS FIC

RomanticMisanthrope on Ao3! 

Read Chapters 1-7 here :)

Chapter 3: A Fragile Line

In the bare room, Draco heard more than felt his heart rate skyrocket. This time, the incessant beeping came from anxiety, rather than at the sight of the beautiful witch hiding in the corner as healers swarmed around him, analyzing the projected diagnostics. Quizzing him on his life.

Draco did his best to keep calm and to tell them what he knew.

"My name is Draco Lucious Malfoy. I was born on the 5th of June, 1980. I am 29 years old. I am an auror," Draco took a breath.

"My wife is Hermione Jean Granger-Malfoy."

Chaos unfolded at his words.

--

"Right, so what we know," Healer Quintrel explained, "is that your memories of the last 12 years since your departure from Hogwarts and the final battle are all, relatively, the same, with the major exception of Healer Granger. She has somehow become the primary focus of thousands of memories in which your subconscious has imbedded her as not only a major part of your life, but as your spouse."

Quintrel was pointing to the bright spots on his brain again. Healers were entering and exiting his room at an incredibly fast rate, some of them writing down notes, others carrying strange scans. Most were staring at Draco wildly, like a circus freak or science experiment gone wrong.

St. Mugo's really needed some better training in bedside manner.

Meanwhile, Draco was dreaming, or dying.

Hermione was no where to be found.

"I don't understand. She is my spouse. We've been married for over a year now. Together for four." He hoped that the confusion in his voice overpowered the panic that he felt. Draco tried to find the inconsistencies, to go back through the hundreds of thousands of moments that have comprised his days for the last handful of years. All of them were too real to be deemed false.

He had lived it.

"Mr. Malfoy, while that may seem true, you were struck by a powerful curse. Your life is just as you remember it, but you are not romantically involved with Healer Granger." Quintrel sounded exasperated by his claims, his voice drawing on the edge of finality.

Draco himself was growing tired of the nonsense. He understood that he was struck by a curse in the field while hunting dragon smugglers. He knew that his partner, O'Connor, had apparated him to St. Mungo's just as the curse was taking effect. And then, of course, the coma.

He also knew that he had years and years worth of memories with Hermione Granger, pushing forward through everything Quintrel was saying.

"Where is she," Draco demanded. "I need...I need to hear it from her."

Singh left the room to find Granger while Quintrel once again began his speech.

"I know that this is a lot to process in the short amount of time that you've been awake. I want you to know that we are going to do everything in our power to untangle the knot in your mind, Mr. Malfoy. We will not rest until you have your life back."

Hermione, ever one to find the perfect timing, entered the room, looking rather exhausted.

"Healer Quintrel," she nodded at the old wizard. "Would you mind giving us the room for a minute? I think perhaps we need to find a less...sanitized way to explain this—" she seemed to search for the right word. "This ailment."

"Yes, of course. Perhaps you can go back to the beginning, Granger," Quintrel nodded, more to himself than anyone else. "Mr. Malfoy, I shall see you shortly."

With a whirl of his robes, Quintrel and all of the other healers flooded out, some casting strange looks between Draco and Hermione.

And then, they were alone.

Granger attempted a smile. It looked entirely too forced and not at all like the ones he was used to. The ones he thought he was used to.

"Malfoy—" she began, twisting her hands. He cut her off immediately, grimacing at how foreign the named sounded on her lips after all this time.

"Please," Draco shut his eyes painfully. "Call me Draco. You haven't called me Malfoy in quite some time." The earlier years of Hogwarts and shortly after drifted back to him. The indifference with which Hermione used to regard him. Draco realized that his memories of her calling him Draco might not necessarily be real, but if he was going to have a conversation about how the last five years of his life were false, he was going to hear it with something to cushion the blow.

Hermione paused and took a deep breath, shutting her eyes and then opening them with a renewed determination.

"Okay. Draco. I am going to walk you through the processes I followed twelve days ago when O'Connor brought you in," she said, walking toward the chair that waited, presumably for a visitor to lounge in, by the side of his bed.

He was grateful to have her finally step out of the corner. She began.

"When you arrived, you were completely unconscious and your body was in a very fragile state. I knew that you had been struck by a curse, right here," she raised her hand to point at her own temple, demonstrating for him the precise location. Draco tried his best to focus on where her fingers rested on her temple, but had a hard time controlling his wandering eyes as he drank in the pale smooth skin of her wrist, and the shocking bareness of her left hand once again.

If Hermione noticed, she didn't let on.

"I knew that we could heal your bones, so my primary focus was your mind and preserving your memories, as many as possible. As Quintrel noted, I specialize in both curses and neurology. My research is specific to the Obliviate and Confundus charms, and any curse variations that arise using the basis of those incantations, which happened to be the curse that you were struck with."

Hermione took a breath before continuing. "Thankfully, O'Connor had heard what the castor had yelled clearly enough for me to work out the nature of what struck you. While other healers placed your body in a stasis and repaired for you physical wounds and fractures, I spent 27 hours extracting the curse from the temporal lobe of your brain. Every synapse, every neuron within that part of your brain, was riddled with dark magic. There was not a single part of it that didn't glow during our diagnostics. I had hoped that in reversing the damage, you would not lose access to your long or short-term memory. Once I completed my counter-curses, I could not find a trace of magic there."

Draco turned the words twenty-seven hours over and over again in his head, searching for an answer in Hermione's eyes. He had seldom heard of Healers spending that long in surgery. Not unless they were incredibly gifted, which he already knew Granger was, and not unless their patient was incredibly important, which Draco doubted if the last five years truly did not happen.

She looked away.

"We knew, as Quintrel said, that there was a chance that your mind...might not fully heal. We expected, perhaps, a difficulty with speech like one might experience after a stroke, given that damage to the temporal lobe can result in Wernicke's aphasia. We prepared for prosopagnosia—face blindness—but the chances of you having that processing disorder from a forgetful charm? Unlikely."

Draco, even as Hermione Granger yammered about all the potentially horrible things that might happen to one's brain, was enamored.

"I had heard about Singh and Anderson from my earlier years at Cambridge, and their specialization in psuedomemory distortion, though they were primarily drawing on those with PTSD for their clinical research."

Finally, Granger looked back at him, and she must have noted, really noted, the intensity of his gaze, because she swallowed harshly. A crack in her composure.

"When you awoke and asked me about my ring, I knew that you were suffering more of a side-effect of the confundus charm than the remnants of obliviate that were attached to the magical signature embedded in your brain."

She seemed to struggle to summarize the turn of events, but decided to finally comment on the tension that seemed to forever permeate the air between them. Draco wished she didn't feel so far away, sitting in a chair and struggling to call him by his name.

"I just didn't think the confusion would be about me."

[ifckinglovebattinson]

Begged and Borrowed Time 2/? Hermione x Draco

by RomanticMisanthrope on Ao3!

CW: For this chapter, none. For future chapters, Explicit.

Read Chapters 1-7 here

Chapter 2: The Nerve to Adore You

Draco waited impatiently for Hermione to return. She had excused herself quickly and quietly, and without so many words as "Just a moment." He was alone in the bare hospital room once again.

Draco tried to remember his life twelve days ago, just before the attack, searching for a clue as to why his wife wasn't wearing her ring. Why she hadn't so much as touched him. An argument, surely. That could be the only reason for her coldness. Draco nodded to himself and closed his eyes.

What had that morning looked like?

He had woken up early, far before the sun had even thought to drift through the clouds that lingered around the manor in the early winter. Next to him, curly hair had fanned out over the satin pillow.

It was Friday. Her day off.

Draco had watched her even breaths, mesmerized as always by how beautiful she looked even in soft light just before true dawn. In their sleep they had drifted closer, her legs slotted between his own. Limbs that couldn't bear to be apart, even in the night.

Hermione Granger had always been wonderful to look at, but Draco loved the private moments that belonged to him and him alone. Granger, his Granger, asleep beside him without a single line of worry on her face. Granger in the manor library, excited to learn ancient healing spells Merlin himself couldn't find the original author for.

Hermione, as he sometimes whispered to her, catching her falling asleep in front of the fire.

Overwhelmed by a sudden stab of longing, Draco reached out to caress her face. A barely-there stroke using the pads of his fingers, unable to fight against the need to touch her but still not wishing her to wake.

Yes, he thought. She was real.

Sometimes he found it hard to believe. He wondered tirelessly how he had redeemed himself. How the brightest witch of her age had found the will to forgive him. He knew better not to question his luck.

As a Malfoy, he learned not to forsake an opportunity when it arose. He simply took it, planning on never giving her a reason to go back on the forgiveness she had afforded him. Malfoy's never gave up their valuable assets or investments, and Granger was his most prized possession (if one could even reduce someone of her magnitude to an analogy of ownership). Forever.

It seemed that even unconscious, she felt his touch, turning slightly toward the warmth of his palm. Draco let himself indulge in a few more moments of peace, drinking in the freckles that littered her cheeks, before sliding quietly and deftly out of bed. The cold that hit him had more to do with loss than temperature. In his mind, something tempted him to crawl back in bed, to stay as long as possible.

He dressed for the day, donning his Auror robes and whispering a final incantation before exiting the chambers.

"Producat rosa florere."

A single rose lay on the pillow where he rested his head just moments before. A parting gift for her. A reminder that she was not waking up entirely alone. Draco smiled his secret smile.

Then, he left.

--

There was no reason for Hermione to be upset with him, unless she had suddenly grown to despise roses between sleep and wake. He had it on good authority, however, that she favored the roses in the manor garden more than most other flowers. Was it just a bad day at work?

Draco felt the confusion muddle in his brain, swelling forward through his memories like a dark cloud. Pin pricks of pain had made their way to the backs of his eyes—the hints of a migraine on its way.

Before he could summon her again, a knock resounded at the door. He hoped, fervently, that his wife would cast a lenio before asking any more questions, or maybe a calming draught. His legs ached in competition with his head.

Instead of just Hermione, three other healers accompanied her and waltzed into the room, carrying with them a serious air. If Draco felt tension before, it was quite palpable now.

"Mr. Malfoy, I'm Healer Quintrel," the first man introduced himself. He too wore long, navy robes. "I'm head of the Retitentia and Neurobiology unit here at St. Mungo's. With me are Healer Singh and Healer Anderson. Both of them are recent Cambridge graduates with specializations in psuedomemory distortion."

Quintrel gestured to another man and woman, both looking exceedingly young next to the old wizard. They nodded at Draco, bearing the same composing indifference Hermione had greeted him with.  She watched, standing closest to the door. When Draco looked at her, she glanced away and stared intently at her notes.

She was avoiding him.

Draco cleared his throat, growing more frustrated. Had she really been upset about a flower? There must be something else.

"Hello, Healer Quintrel. Singh. Anderson." Draco nodded at each of them, waiting for Quintrel to resume speaking, or to preform diagnostics.

"Will I be released now, or are you looking to run more tests?" Draco continued after silence still permitted the air. He wondered if they were looking for permission for his participation in a clinical trial. Cambridge graduates must have a habit of doing that. He assumed a coma would be quite intriguing to them.

"I'm afraid that we have some questions before we can discuss the possibility of release. We of course need to run some basic diagnostics, but my colleagues and I have a few questions to ask you per Healer Granger's spoken concerns." Quintrel waved his wand and Draco felt a sudden chill run through him from head to toe. Within moments, a detailed diagram of Draco's body scan was projected above him.

Quintrel enlarged Draco's head, focusing on the part of his brain that seemed to be lit up with a hundreds of little neon lights.

Pins on a map, he thought to himself.

"Right now, we are looking at your temporal lobe and the two parts of your brain that have been greatest affected by your—" Quintrel paused and looked at Hermione. "By your accident."

"This is your hippocampus, Mr. Malfoy. It is responsible for forming and indexing episodic memories. Right next to it is your amygdala, which is responsible for your emotions. The two work together, you see. Symbiotically they control the filing system of your brain. In a way, they are the writers and producers of your life's library," Quintrel summarized.

Draco nodded, still confused about all of the lights.

"Those little pins—thousands of them—are memories that we believe have been altered by the curse that struck you."

Altered memories. Draco frowned, but Quintrel pushed on, unfazed.

"You see, we had no idea if there would be lasting damage. Granger here is one of our top researchers and healers in neurology and curses. She was able to repair the synapses and pathways that had been fried and fractured by the curse you sustained." Draco turned to look at Hermione who did not meet his eyes, but shuffled her feet somewhat impatiently.

"However, suffering curse damage that deep, especially under the duress that you did, does not bode for a full recovery. While we were, of course, impressed by Granger and the repairs she was able to preform, we also prepared for the possibility of amnesia or other neurological disorders. That is why—" Quentril gestured to Singh and Anderson, "my colleagues are here. We have great reason to believe based off of Healer Granger's initial observations, that you are suffering from a disorder known as pseudo memory distortion."

[ifckinglovebattinson]

Begged and Borrowed Time 1/?

Chapter 1

The Stillness of Remembering

Draco Malfoy awakes in a stark bed in a stark room with stark lighting.

He feels as though he has been laying down for a hundred years, maybe more, and his mouth is so dry he's afraid his lips will crumble if he dares even whisper.

A wonderful dream full of castles and books, and talking hats, had carried him away. As he woke, he felt it fade, as dreams often do.

Draco realizes, to his surprise and misery, that he is in a hospital. There are three machines in the room. All of them are magical—obviously—and all of them tell him that he has been in a coma for twelve days, that he has suffered a concussion, broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and fractured clavicle, and remnants of curse damage in both his legs.

He feels the soreness of all his ailments, seemingly, at once after reading.

A coma. Interesting.

He glanced at his left hand where he was sure to find his ring, passed down for generations.

Instead, his hand was as bare as the room before him. Perhaps it was confiscated along with his robes. He rubbed at where the metal would usually sit, restless.

With a muffled groan, he tried to shift in the bed. To sit up and find a healer, or someone. His wand. He would very much like to remember how he got here and, perhaps more importantly, if someone could please bring him water.

Maybe even more importantly: Where was his wife?

His movement, closely monitored by one of the machines, no doubt, must have alerted the healer or mediwizard that he was awake because he barely had the chance to sit up before there was a knock on his door.

Draco sighed, the beginnings of a migraine tapping at his eye like pinpricks. A promise of more violence and suffering, unquestionably.

The door-knocker did not wait for permission to enter. Draco Malfoy watched as a curly haired witch entered the room in flowing, navy Healer robes. Her hair was tied away from her face with a clip. No earrings or necklaces or other jewelry seemed to decorate her person. No ring. Strange.

And yet, even with all the simplicity, she was absolutely gorgeous.

Draco Malfoy would recognize those curls anywhere. On the monitor, his heart rate skyrocketed.

He had the audacity to school his features from awed to smug, smirking and attempting to calm his embarrassingly fast heart. Of course, it didn't make much sense to try and hide anything from her. She was, no doubt, used to this reaction.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy. It's nice to see you awake. How are you feeling?" If Hermione Granger noticed the incessant beeping, she had the professional grace to ignore it. She was speaking calmly and like she would to any other patient; not Draco Malfoy.

Mr. Malfoy? The smirk fell. He hoped the confusion was clear on his face. Maybe this was a game. He loved games. The smirk showed once again.

"Hello," he croaked out, finally. It was painful, like glass in his throat. Noticing his discomfort, Granger explained that his vocal cords were undamaged, but likely he would have a sore throat from the stasis charm and lack of use.

Draco wanted to make a sly comment about not needing to speak, he quite liked the noises he could elicit from her instead.

She summoned ice chips, wanting him to slowly adjust to moisture before graduating to a straw.

"Here," she said softly, levitating the cup to him. He was quite confused why she couldn't just hand it to him. Why she was treating him like a stranger.

She had used her wand to project his chart and his vitals, looking over them.

Perhaps she was trying to remain impartial at work. To treat him like she would treat anyone else. She always did take work so seriously. Hermione Granger never did anything half way. It was nice to see her in her element, instead of the remnants he saw outside of work.

"I'm going to administer another diagnostic, Mr. Malfoy." She sounded like a teacher, he thought just then. He quite liked that idea. Professor Granger. She was so composed.

"Sure. You're always welcome to examine me, love," he said. His throat was still raw, but he desperately wanted the awkward tension to be cut in the room. Maybe before the coma, they had gotten into an argument. Surely she could forgive him, given that he had been unconscious for two weeks?

At his not-so-subtle attempt to flirt, Granger's shocked eyes met his own. The surprise only lasted a moment before she schooled her features again.

Overjoyed at her attempt to remain professional, Draco smiled at her.

If she was surprised before, Granger was in utter shock now. Her mouth opened slightly. She could never really keep up pretenses around him, he thought. He liked the effect he could have on her.

"Mr. Malfoy," she began, confusion lacing her voice. "Do you know where you are?"

Mr. Malfoy again. She really wants to keep playing?

"M' in the Hospital, no?" Draco said, mumbling around the ice. He beamed at her again, waiting for her to crack. Surely she could break protocol. It was only them in the room.

Plus, it had been a long few weeks. Well, not to him. He had no concept of time but surely she was waiting to embrace him.

Granger had the curtesy to smile.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. That's correct. Do you know why you're here?"

Just then, Draco noticed that where her robes were embroidered with her name, there was something missing entirely. Something he had failed to note when she came in.

Healer Granger was all it said. Draco's eyes scrunched. He knew what her robes were meant to say. He had been with her when she had magically enhanced and changed them.

"Hermione," he said, glancing at her left hand again. "Where's your wedding ring?"

Read Chapters 1-5 here :) cheers friends. 

[ifckinglovebattinson]

“From the Shadows”

Chapter One/?

READER X BATMAN // Bruce Wayne X Reader

Summary: The sirens and screams of Gotham might as well be the soundtrack of your life. You're usually the one doing the saving, not the other way around. Except for this time. 

AN: Helloooo. Here’s my 2nd ever fic :) trying to post more but swamped with midterms right now. 

CW: Explicit violence, insinuated threat of SA

--

"Make sure you get home safe, Doll!" Michael, the security guard called as the hospital doors slid open for you. His thick New York accent made made you smile as you turned, tossing back an assured I will over your shoulder before letting the chill that never seems to leave Gotham caress your face.

It was raining, of course, and you didn't have an umbrella. Of course. You hastened your steps, pulling the hood of your coat over your head, determined to fight the heavy drops all the way to your apartment 5 blocks over on 183rd and Washington. You felt yourself shiver, the droplets managing to soak what parts of your scrubs that they could. Just another 20 minutes, and you'd be able to take a hot shower, drink some tea, and crash into your soft, warm bed. 20 minutes, and you'd be home.

You couldn't stop thinking about the older woman who passed today. She was 82, no family, and she had held your hand until the very end. You had cried in the break room when she'd finally gone, the feeling of her once warm fingers growing cold seared into your head. You had sang to her, softly, something your mom used to do—a song from so long ago, so distant you couldn't believe you remembered it until you were already humming.

You live your life, you go in shadows You'll come apart and you'll go black.

You were only 23, and so much life had already happened to you. You wondered what you would be like, 60 years from now. Alone, just like the woman? Nobody but a strange nurse as you became part of the shadows?

Death, you thought, as the cold seeped further into your bones, is not the scariest thing. Life is.

As if you had jinxed yourself, as if by even thinking about it had somehow conjured the events that followed, death greeted you a few moments later.

You knew better than to get wrapped up in your thoughts. It didn't matter that you had worked a 12 hour shift and your feet hurt and you could still feel that woman's hand and the tears that threatened to spill over at any moment.

This was Gotham. This city had violence on every street, every corner. A young woman like you should know better than to let her guard down, even for just a moment.

And yet, that's exactly how they found you. Your guard nowhere to be found.

The first stepped out from behind a brick wall, coming from a dark alley that you almost always hesitated by. Almost.

The second man must have been following you. For how long? Maybe since the hospital. You were too caught up in the rain and your own thoughts to listen for another pair of foot steps. Would you have heard them? It's too late to think about that now.

The man who stepped out in front of you was holding a gun.

"Don't say a fucking word," he said, raising the gun. You had stopped dead in your tracks, too shocked to scream. His hand did not shake as it became level with your eyes. This was not his first time with his finger on the trigger.

You tried backing up, tried to turn to run, but you were met with the solid flesh of the other man. His hands came up around your mouth, just as you were starting to scream, having finally found your voice.

You could taste the thick wool of his glove as he roughly splayed his fingers across your lips, your jaw. Your tongue was forced back so hard you thought you might gag. His hand was cupping your nose, and you wondered briefly if you'd suffocate before they shot you. Which would be worse? Death by asphyxiation, or the sharp burn of a bullet.

You guess it didn't matter what the means were if they led to the same end, right?

No, you thought. You weren't ready to go. You knocked your head back as hard as you could, feeling the collision of your skull to the man's head. You could hear the sharp crack, the nauseating crumble of his nose breaking before the thud of his body. You had knocked him out.

"You bitch!" the other guy said before you felt the cool metal of the gun collide with your jaw, your knees buckling. You felt your palms scrape against the concrete, but the burn was pushed from your mind. It woke you up. You screamed so loud your voice cracked, going hoarse, before you were yanked up by your ponytail, your hood no longer protecting you from the rain. The cool metal of the gun was pressed against your forehead.

So, I don't make it to 83, you thought, bitterly. Now wasn't really the time to be making jokes.

You thought about your cat at home—a black tabby who you had rescued from a dumpster as a kitten just a few months ago. You had heard his meows from your window 4 stories up and had found him, cold and wet on a night just like this one. What would happen to him? It seemed sort of pointless to be worried about a cat when death was so close, but you worried anyway. You hoped your neighbor, the grouchy old man next door, would hear his cries after a few days and think to feed him. He seemed to have a soft spot for cats.

You hoped at least one of you survived.

"Such a fucking waste, when all we wanted was your wallet. But now, there's no way I'm letting you go," the man with a gun pressed against your head growled, pulling so hard at your hair that tears pricked your eyes. You shut them tightly, willing it to be over fast. Hoping that it wasn't a slow death. You were only 23.

You could taste the metallic tinge of blood flooding your mouth from where your teeth had bit into your cheek. Your jaw throbbed from where he struck you. You felt dizzy with pain.

Maybe, you thought, I'll black out before he shoots me.

"You couldn't just fucking cooperate, huh? Had to try and be your own hero. When will you little bitches learn—this is a man's world," he spat on you, his breath raw and disgusting. You flinched and felt more tears spill over.

"Look at me," he said. You kept your eyes closed. The rain was pelting your face. The gun cocked.

"I said," he knocked the gun against your temple again, "fucking look at me." He was hissing, his voice dark and evil and full of so much malice.

Your eyes shot open at the sound of the click of the gun.

"Such pretty green eyes for such a fucking bitch," he said, staring down at you. You were on your knees. Blood was dripping down the side of your mouth, and you thought to scream again, but fear had lodged itself in your throat—it was choking you. This was Gotham. Who would hear you anyway? Screams were just another echo of the soundscape here.

The man was tall and skinny. He wore a beanie, an old, stained sweatshirt, and his teeth were yellow. Rain was dripping in streaks down his face, accumulating at his nose and other high points. He looked like he was on drugs, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black.

A drop head, probably. You treated a lot of them lately.

"Maybe it won't be such a waste after all," he said, his black eyes glimmering as he licked his lips, yellow teeth flashing. "Would be a shame if I didn't see what that pretty mouth could do before I blow your brains out," he hissed, again.

Before you could gag, or scream, or think of what he would really do to you, there was a movement from the shadows and the quick sound of boots thudding toward you. In a flash, the cold of the gun was removed from your temple, the grip on your hair released. The darkness had stepped out and tackled the man holding you hostage.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of a gunshot rang out in a brilliant flash of light, and you crumbled, desperate to avoid the line of fire.

There were groans, and then almost silence. The man was beaten unconscious by a wall of black, the fluttering of a cape and fist meeting flesh the only echos in the dark alley. You could feel your ears ringing, the throbbing of your jaw forgotten in your fear of the gun and mysterious figure.

You couldn't think to stand, you were frozen—paralyzed. Your hands had caught you, your palms scraping more against the rough asphalt below.

You would need some serious disinfectant.

Before you could move, the wall of black had turned to you, rain obscuring your vision. Were you next? Had you escaped one danger, just to fall into the hands of another?

"P-please," you finally stuttered, scrambling backward from the dark figure approaching you. Your voice was raw and strained. You wanted to cough.

"Please I don't have anything to give you." You screwed your eyes shut, waiting for the violence to reach you. You thought again, of your cat, alone and waiting for dinner. Of the shower you had promised yourself. Of the hand of the woman who died today.

"I'm not going to hurt you," a deep, but soft voice fluttered toward you. The footsteps slowed, and you allowed yourself to open your eyes.

"Are you hurt? Can you walk?" distant sirens could be heard in the background. Your blue scrubs were torn at the knees, the blood from your scrapes mixing with the rain.

"I think so," you whispered, finally meeting the eyes of the person who saved you. When you finally met his masked face, you gasped. You would recognize that armor, that cowl, anywhere.

Gotham's hero.  

"It's you," you whispered, amazed, as his gloved hands came to steady you. He didn't respond to your recognition, his mouth falling into a flat line. You could hear the sirens getting closer.

"Where do you live," he said, gruffly this time. You rattled off your address before you could think of the consequences of giving out your home location to a total stranger. He did, in fact, just save your life. What was he going to do, strangle you in your sleep?

"You're not going to strangle me in my sleep are you," you slurred. The sudden combination of dizziness from standing and your head wound had caught up to you, the adrenaline leaving just as quickly as it came.

"No," he said. Darkness was threatening your vision as you swayed on your feet. Before it swallowed you whole, you heard, "I'm taking you home."

--

You awoke with the swaying of your head as warm, firm hands carried you upstairs. The world was tilted. You were in your apartment complex. Your head and body felt heavy, like you had been sedated, but the iron taste in your mouth persisted. The pounding in your head swelled and the ache spread from your jaw outward, like a flower blooming.

You struggled to move your head—to blink wearily up at the face of the man holding you. From what you could see beyond his mask, he was a picture of stoicism.

His eyes flittered to you as you blinked more, struggling to take him all in. It shocked you—the startling blue of his irises. You had assumed they were as black as the kohl smudged around them.

"You have a concussion," he murmured. You thought back to your training. You would need to check your pupils with a flashlight, and to set timers to wake every few hours.

Maybe I should call in sick tomorrow.

"Your eyes are blue," you said. Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth.

It wasn't the response he was looking for, his mouth tightening into a frown. He stopped, climbing the last step and reaching your apartment door. In turn, you reached for your keys, trying to lift a heavy limb, but before you could, you were lowered to the ground as Vengeance swiftly unlocked your door, the jingle of metal alerting  you that he had already retrieved them from your coat pocket.

His arm was still around your waist, steadying you, but you mustered up all of your strength to take shaky steps forward, hearing the meow of Zeus as the door swung open.

He was probably wondering about dinner.

You stumbled to the kitchen, looking for the tuna that you kept in the top cupboard.

"I'm sorry I'm late, baby," you slurred, still trying to reach the top shelf. Your mind was cloudy, but you knew your cat was hungry. It had to be late, right? How long had it been since those men jumped out at you, a few short blocks from here?

Suddenly, you felt his presence behind you, grabbing the can from the top shelf and placing it gently on the counter.

You had forgotten all about your masked hero, but you froze, looking up at him once again. He towered over your small frame. He had to be well over 6 foot and broader than the doorway.

"Hi," you mumbled, once again. His eyes were narrowed.

"You have a concussion," he said, repeating himself. All you could do was nod, scrunching your nose as you poured the tuna into Zeus's bowl, the cat slinking between your legs, purring. You hated tuna.

Your hands were shaking. Actually, your whole body was shaking.

"I think I need to take a hot shower," you finally said, your back ramrod straight. The room was spinning. "Thank you, for everything. You saved my life." You knew the words were coming from your own mouth, but they sounded far away. Like it was happening to someone else, somewhere else. Did all of that really happen?

"You have a concussion, and you're in shock," came his response. He was still standing too close, the warmth from his body radiating outward despite all of the armor and the chill of the rain. Your scrubs were sticking to your skin.

You nodded, watching Zeus eat for a few more seconds before turning to walk to the shower. No footsteps followed you.

Batman is in my apartment, you thought absently as you grabbed a towel from the linen closet. Wet drops pooled around you as you entered the bathroom, shutting the door softly.

"Batman is in my apartment, but he will be gone after my shower," you said to yourself in the mirror. Your green eyes haunted you from your reflection and dried blood had caked the corner of your mouth. Where the gun had hit you was starting to swell and turn purple. You were sure your face would be bruised forever. Where the gun had hit you.

You reached out to prod at it, just to see if anything felt broken. Your long dark hair was plastered to your cheekbones, having come somewhat undone from being yanked. You tried not to think of the pinpricks of pain that radiated all over your head as you stared deep into your own eyes. Like little tiny needles piercing your skin. Like someone was throwing a bowling ball against the inside wall of your head, waiting for it to finally crack open.

Still, looking at yourself didn't feel real. The cold from the rain had settled so deep in your bones that you didn't even register the chattering of your teeth as you stepped into the hot shower, every part of your body stinging from the sharp transition of cold to hot. You were barely in there for a few moments, just enough to scrub away the blood, when the steam from the shower started making you dizzy as your head began to pound even more. Your vision started to go black, the floor rushing up at you.

You stumbled, knocking over the bottles of shampoo and conditioner and body wash, trying to grasp anything  to stay upright. Just as you felt yourself go, the bathroom door slammed  and suddenly the glass door to the shower was yanked open, leather gloved hands curling around your naked midsection.

This is embarrassing, you thought.

You were unconscious before he could shut the water off.

---

You awoke in your bed, the covers wrapped around your body tightly. The lamp on your nightstand illuminated part of the room, coating everything it could in a soft, gold light.

You tried to sit up, clutching at your jaw. The pain had subsided a little, but the pulsating feeling of blood swelling at the surface hadn't. You tried to shift, moving to place one foot on the ground.

"Don't get up," came a gruff voice from the corner of the room, still drenched in darkness.

You jolted and gasped, turning to face the shadows that somehow evaded the light. The movement made your head hurt.

There he was, sitting in a chair he must have grabbed from the kitchen.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said. Was it possible that his voice was softer? Was Vengeance capable of softness?

"You're still here," you said. You remembered the shower and the feeling of gloved hands wrapping around you.

"You saw me naked," you blurted out, clutching the sheets tightly to your chest. You were dressed, now. An old faded NYU shirt and shorts. No underwear. Had he dressed you?

You waited for a response, but the Batman had gone stiff and quiet, as if he was holding his breath.

"I didn't see anything," finally came from the dark. "You fainted in the shower. I told you. You have a concussion."

He must have lied to save your dignity, but you nodded anyway.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled. You didn't know if you were apologizing for fainting, or for the whole night. The small part of you acknowledged that you had kept Gotham's hero from the rest of his duties, but the other, larger part was thankful that the shadows had remained, watching over you.

"I don't—" you struggled to find the words, overcome with emotion. You choked back the tears. "I don't know how to thank you. You saved my life," you finally whispered, your hand still cradling your jaw as you stared into the darkness, willing yourself to see the blue that you had encountered in the stairway.

His eyes shone in the dark.

"You need to make sure you wake up, every few hours," he said, ignoring your thanks. He was monotonous, controlled. There was no hint of anything in his voice, just apathy. Still, energy, unnamed, radiated off of him toward you. You felt your joints go stiff with the seriousness of it all.

"I don't have any hemorrhaging," you said, recounting the way that your pupils responded to the light earlier. "I'll be okay."

"Are you a doctor?" It was less of a question, and more of a statement.

"Trauma nurse," you answered, looking away from him. You had seen and stitched and survived far worse in your line of work. In your life. This would be nothing in a week. Gotham was a city of pain and suffering. You were just another statistic. You tried not to think of the cold barrel of the gun against your temple.

Suddenly, a thought presented itself like an award winning idea.

"I know I will never be able to repay you for saving my life," you said, looking down at your hands. Your nails had dirt and blood underneath them. You never went to bed this dirty. "But if you ever—I mean I know you're a skilled fighter—but if you ever need help, you can always come here. It's not like Batman can just walk into a hospital," you said, exhaling.

You expected a response, even if it was a rejection, but when you looked up the chair was empty and the shadows were just shadows again.

He was gone.

---

Any and all feedback is appreciated :) x 

[ifckinglovebattinson]

“Looking Up”: Batman x Reader

Ummm I saw The Batman and now it’s haunting my every thought. 

A cute little one-shot about everyone’s favorite Vigilante :) —A reader fic where your love language is physical touch and Bruce Wayne is a mysterious, quiet man that you love. 

Nothing too explicit. Fluff/Domestic

Warnings: none

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"You want to cut my hair." Most of the time, his questions were statements.

You stared into his beautiful blue eyes, always wondering what was going on behind them. What the inside of his mind looked like.

Bruce Wayne was an enigma, and you knew you were lucky to see a glimpse even into one corner of his private world. Behind the cowl and the cape, was the man now gazing up at you.

He was also in desperate need of a haircut.

You smiled down at him (how often could you say that? looking down?), hesitating before reaching to tug a little on the fringe that so often fell over his eyes.

"Well, it seems to be getting in the way. Doesn't it bother you?"

Bruce shrugged, his expression unchanging. He was reclining in his chair, his arms crossed casually over his t-shirt clad chest. Black, of course. Even if something did bother him, no one would ever know. He was inexplicably selfless, or completely uncaring of himself in an apathetic way.

You couldn't decide.

"If you'll let me, I can give it a trim. I used to cut my brothers' hair all the time growing up," you said, tapping your finger lightly against his temple as you stood close enough to him to feel the heat of his own body. Sometimes you couldn't help yourself from relishing in these casual touches. That you got to be near him, touch him, and he let you. You didn't always push your luck, but sometimes you couldn't help yourself.

He thought for a moment, searching your eyes, before giving the tiniest nod.  "Sure."

He was sitting on his chair near his computer, watching film from the night. He was obsessive that way. He was un-showered, the dark kohl around his eyes smudged and running. Tonight was better than most, his face unmarred except for a healing bruise from a few days prior.

"Take a break, honey," you said softy, reaching for his hand. You felt reckless with your touches tonight, using the excuse of needing to physically drag him from his work. "It's easier to cut when your hair is wet," you said, urging him to follow you upstairs.

When you finally reached your destination, you had him sit on the edge of the bath while you grabbed a chair.

He waited, facing you, face completely open. Bruce Wayne rarely looked content in the public eye, but with you, he seemed to step out of the darkness a little.

"First, I'm going to clean your face," you said. You knew you didn't need to narrate everything—he would let you do whatever you wanted. Still, you thought of how many people took advantage of the man behind the mask. No one really ever did anything for him.

Using a warm wash cloth, you started at his forehead, swiping gently over his face while cupping his chin in your other hand. You avoided the healing bruise, but reached forward to brush a chaste kiss to his jaw where it bloomed. You were feeling particularly rash tonight. Selfishly, you wished you could do this all the time.

His eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into your touch. Your heart soared at this simple gesture from him. This sign of trust.

You took a moment to let yourself scan his features while you washed him. His sharp jaw and strong cheekbones. The faint line of a scar on his right temple. The length of his lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. Open and vulnerable, and right in front of you. It wasn't often that he let himself be this way.

He was gorgeous, of course. You felt a surge of emotion in your chest, bubbling its way up your throat.

In the back of your mind, the vision of Atlas and his tired shoulders.

You swiped dutifully under his eyes, using the lightest of touches to remove the kohl.

"You. know," you said, with laughter in your voice, "you wear more makeup than me sometimes."

Bruce's lips twitched, giving you a hint of a smile, while he kept his eyes closed.

When all of the kohl was gone, you asked him to open his eyes. Some black still remained near his waterline, so you swiped it away with your finger, urging him to look up. Standing between his legs, his hands came to settle on your waist, not quite squeezing, but letting them still there.

Even after all this time, your breath came a little faster from his touch. In these moments, when it was just you two, you relished in the simplest displays of intimacy. The rarity of them not lost on you.

"All gone," you whispered, running the back of your hand down his face from temple to jaw.

"Can you take off your shirt?"

He quirked an eyebrow, but did as you asked, revealing his broad shoulders and toned chest. The scars that you had already grown used to

You had him lean back in his chair over the tub, using the detachable shower head to wet his hair with warm water. Wrapping a towel around his shoulders to protect against any falling droplets, you reached for the shampoo you had grabbed from the shower, lathering it in your hands.

You ran your fingers through his hair before scrubbing and massaging his scalp, focusing on taking care of him. You loved the feeling of someone washing your hair, and you wondered if Bruce ever experienced that. As far as you knew he seemed to like when you touched him—he often turned toward you when you did so, opening up for more. Despite his reserved nature, you'd hope he would tell you if it bothered him. More often than his touch, you often felt his gaze when working on paperwork for the hospital, or when you did your makeup. His displays of affection were more from a distance.

As you massaged his temples, he let out a deep sigh, his head getting a little heavier as he relaxed. At the sound, you felt your lips move upward.

"I can't tell you how good that feels," he said softly. Your stomach flipped with pleasure, and that emotion bubbled up again. Waves of fondness crashed over you when his hands found your hips again, his thumbs tracing light circle.

This was the side of Bruce that no one else got to see. In your head, you said a thank you to whatever power let you have him. I must have been a saint in my past life, you thought dreamily.

"Sometimes, I never know if you enjoy being touched," you said hesitantly, breaking the silence a moment later, but focusing on the task at hand instead of looking down at him, where he was surely looking up at you.

"What do you mean," he said, almost anxiously, waiting for your response.

At the panic in his voice, you finally looked down, continuing to massage his head. Bright blue eyes met yours with furrowed brows.

"I mean, sometimes I worry that I cross boundaries," you said, frowning. "I feel greedy, sometimes, with how much I want to be near you. Always touching you. But I never want you to feel like you can't tell me to stop. I know you like your space," you admitted, stilling your hands in his hair.

He stared at you a moment, before pulling your hips closer.

"C'mere," He finally tugged, pulling your body down to his and situating your legs on either side of him. Now, you were nose to nose, lips perfectly in line.

"I know I don't—" he said, his eyes flittering back and forth as he swallowed. You tentatively lowered your arms around his neck, crossing your wrists to keep the soap off of him, while you waited for him to finish.

"I know I don't always initiate things," he said, leaning his forehead against you, as if to make up for his words. "I didn't grow up around the people I loved. I had no one to show me what it's supposed to be like, beyond Alfred."

He reached up to stroke your face, just as you had done earlier, and you inhaled softly.

"But with you, I get to finally feel what it's like. You can't imagine what it's like to go so long—so many years—without touch, and then to feel it from the one person you want it from most."

He leaned back again, looking into your eyes, as if waiting for the words to fully sink in.

Then, Bruce Wayne smiled. "Sometimes," he said, still grinning, "I wish you would touch me more."

At those words, you leaned in, kissing him sweetly. All this time of loving him, from afar, and now you had all the permission you needed.

You kissed him deeper, feeling arms encircle you, pressing you closer. It was not like the other, brief, chaste kisses that you often felt like you were stealing from him. This felt like a gift.

He wanted you to touch him.

Absorbed in the kiss, and feeling his tongue trace your lips, you almost forgot about the task at hand, until Bruce shivered underneath you as water trailed down his neck from his wet hair.

Breaking apart, you leaned your forehead against his, turning your head slightly to catch your breath. You were practically vibrating from the brief make out session. You laughed lightly, finally leaning back to look at him.

"I'm supposed to be cutting your hair, honey, not going weak in the knees," you laughed again, gazing at his eyes. His pupils were blown, and yours were probably the same.

How could you describe this feeling in your chest? You imagined it was like finding that last puzzle piece, inserting it, and having everything fit perfectly.

Like someone had turned on a light and bathed everything in color.  

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This is literally my first fic EVER. I created this account to post it...should I add more?? idk im nervous lol