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elena-mayfair · 1 year

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Madness and old friends

Paring: Bruce Wayne x f!reader, Batman x f!reader Warnings: rating T+/M, blood and gore, violence, strong language, themes of depression Summary: New city, old friends. Feeling lost and called out by prof. Crane and his accusation that she couldn't or was afraid to build relationships with people she makes an impulsive decision to renew an old friendship. But her old friend is not who she used to be. What path will it open in front of her? Where it will lead? Word count: 7.2k Note: Gifs are not mine, credit to the authors.

Chapter one: Bright future, dark city Chapter two: Curious people

***

James Gordon did not like waiting. Waiting made his perpetually overworked mind start listing all the things he could be doing right now, made his imagination spin images of all the people he could be helping right now, made the number of cigarettes in his pack start decreasing fast. Still, he waited. He would light the specially modified Klieg searchlight located on the roof of the First Precinct of GCPD building, illuminating the sky above Blake Island with a pale bat-shaped symbol, lit a cigarette and wait. Sometimes he waited a few minutes, sometimes even an hour. The longer he waited the more anxious he became. For when Batman didn't show up it meant one of two things, either he was busy or Gotham was in trouble.

The alliance with Gotham's mysterious masked protector was not an easy one. James was a commissioner, and as a commissioner, he should obey the law in every way. He should lead his men by example. He should always act by the book. And yet, how to act perfectly by the book in a city where corruption reaches every level of government. How to stick to ideals when even the Judge and Jury are paid by Carmine Falcone, the biggest mafia boss in Gotham. How to obey the law when in this city no one breaths without his knowledge and consent. Finally, how to apply the law to criminals like the Riddler, who loved to torture people with complex puzzles, Poison Ivy, who, under the pretense of protecting the planet, would murder anyone who dared to pluck a flower from the garden, Mad Hatter, who would kidnap young blond-haired girls and subject them to mind control in the eternal search for his Alice, and finally the Joker, who was the embodiment of madness and mayhem. James knew that when facing the challenge of protecting Gotham's citizens from criminals like these, he had no choice but to create new ideals, he had to bend the law, he had to create new rules, and in the end, instead of arresting the masked vigilante had to trust him.

He glanced nervously at the watch he got from his daughter for his birthday and reached for another cigarette. Half an hour had passed and the bat symbol continued to light up the night sky. He was absolutely sure that it was visible from every Gotham neighborhood, even those far away, he checked. Years ago, when the searchlight was first installed and Batman first failed to appear, he forced his men to go out to Gotham's most remote neighborhoods to confirm that the symbol was visible. From the lonely Mercey Island where Arkham Asylum was located to the equally remote Wayne Manor as far as twelve kilometers from Gotham located in Bristol Township, the symbol in the sky was visible everywhere. That night Batman first confronted the League of Shadows and his old friend Ra's al Ghul who came to Gotham with a plan to destroy the city. Batman never told him about it, and James could only guess. The clues left in the city allowed him to piece together the facts and put the sequence of events together. Tonight, as he stood on the roof of the GCPD, smoking cigarette after cigarette, he could only hope he wouldn't have to do it again. The briefcase in his hand seemed to grow heavier with each passing minute. Photos and officer's reports, burned into his mind, seemed to manifest before his open eyes. One by one, similar murder cases seemed to appear. Photos of more nightmarishly mutilated bodies kept appearing on his desk. On the surface, they had nothing in common except the gruesome deaths. Some part of him didn't want to turn to Batman for help, didn't want to admit the fact that the police were failing to find the perpetrator, didn't want to admit that he was failing. Yet there were always too few police officers in Gotham, especially those he could trust, those who weren't fed by the kind hand of Falcone or Maroni. He needed that trust, deep down he knew that just as Gotham needed Batman, he needed that strong bond of trust that kept him firmly grounded in reality, that kept him hopeful.

"Jim," a low throaty voice reached his ears. He turned sharply, in his mind cursing his ally and his habit of appearing silently in the darkest places.

"One of these days you'll give me a heart attack," he fumed, letting out a cloud of smoke, "Busy night?"

"We'll see," he replied shortly and with a slow step approached Jim. No matter how many times they met on the roof of the GCPD, Jim never got used to the towering figure, dressed in a black armor-plated suit, whose black cape reached all the way to the ground. The only bright spots of his suit were a symbol shining with a black metallic glow in the middle of his chest, and two bright dots standing out against his cowl. Jim knew better than to stare at the masked ally so he simply opened the folder containing the case file and handed it to him, " more victims, similar to the family from two weeks ago," he outlined, "at first glance, nothing connects them except…"

"They all died the same gruesome death," Batman finished for him and took a closer look at the photos. The first report showed two young girls whose bodies were marked with dozens of incisions. Their faces, chests, thighs, the insides of their arms, were cut with surgical precision.

"Scalpel," Gordon interjected quietly, "forensics combed every inch of the apartment, found no signs of forced entry, struggle or fingerprints or DNA."

Batman made no comment, simply turned the page and looked at the next case. A young man, slim, of slight stature, beaten to death.

"I sent homicide guys to the scene, but it turned out that it wasn't a murder at all. At least not intentional. Witnesses testified that the boy went to the area of one of the smaller gangs and attacked its members. He was armed with a machete and a revolver. They beat him up. They are now in custody and will be tried for unintentional manslaughter."

Batman took a closer look at the photos of the young boy. He seemed to him the type of bookworm, perhaps an aspiring scientist, certainly not a gangster. The camera in his cowl scanned all the photos, which he planned to analyze once he got back to the cave.

He turned the page and saw another photo. This time if it weren't for the description he wouldn't have been able to recognize the victims. The photo showed two bloodstains splattered on the sidewalk. Blood, shattered bones and insides were one with the clothes.

"They jumped from a plane, without parachutes," Gordon explained quickly, "Batman, it doesn't make sense! The family from two weeks ago and the two girls would suggest that it could be the Joker's doing.

"It's not his MO," Batman interrupted, "Too clean. The Joker would have left more havoc behind. And he wouldn't act discreetly by attacking individual random people. Joker wants to be seen."

"And what's more, a boy and two jumpers destroy any substitute for a pattern..."

"No," Batman flipped through the pages again, "they create a different pattern."

"Care to share?" Gordon glared at him surprised.

"When I know more," Batman replied and handed the file back to Gordon, "in the meantime, have the security around the Joker at Arkham Asylum strengthened."

"You expect that he will try to escape?"

"I expect everything," he replied after which, without a word of farewell, he jumped off the roof and glided into the night.

***

Y/N knew she should go to bed but was too excited to fall asleep. She tried the podcast, tried reading, tried watching the meager night TV, but nothing brought her to sleep. She was thinking about Professor Crane's words and his accusation that she couldn't or was afraid to build relationships with people. Perhaps there was a grain of truth in that. Perhaps experience had taught her to be cautious, distrustful, and to always expect the worst first. Yet for those few brief moments when she was talking with Bruce, she felt so comfortable, felt so very natural, so very at ease. The conversation with him flowed so smoothly and freely. She didn't have to calculate in her mind her every move, she didn't have to think about every word she spoke, and the conversation flowed on its own, despite her ignorant remarks about him. "Consider me curious," she recalled his words and those blue eyes that for a split second came within breathing distance of her face. She giggled when the part of her that was still sixteen years old momentarily peeked out. However, the adult side of her quickly stifled the exultant teenager, "I don't need problems," she rebuked herself in her mind turning restlessly to the side and closing her eyes, "I don't need drama in my life, I need peace and quiet." And yet, even under her closed eyelids, the barely visible smirk refused to leave her.

She got up irritated, grabbed her phone, and impulsively typed a message.

"Hey, I'm in Gotham. Maybe we could catch up?"

The answer came a few minutes later, just as she was trying to assign the scent of his perfume to any of the well-known brands.

"Heya sweetie! Sounds like a banging plan! Bowery, tomorrow around 9pm? How does it sound?"

Y/N smiled at the idea of an evening spent with an old friend. "At least I won't sit at home and think," she thought.

"Sounds like a plan :) send me a pin!"

"Will do! See ya tomorrow!"

***

Saturday meant a day without therapy. Saturday also meant a day without work. On Saturday, Y/N could be calm, she could not stress about Professor Crane's perfectly targeted questions, on Saturday she could not worry about another accidental Bruce Wayne encounter during her work day. Saturday meant she could get up later than usual, run some errands, and then plan an outfit for the evening. She had hoped for a casual meeting with an old friend at some quiet restaurant, but a quick google search shattered all her hopes. The Bowery turned out to be the commercial district of old Gotham, filled with pubs, stores, cafes, restaurants, and the hottest club in town, Iceberg Lounge. As soon as Y/N saw pictures of the club she knew it was where Harleen wanted to go. The club didn't match the Harleen she knew, the quiet, sometimes shy girl with a feisty sparkle in her eyes that betrayed to an attentive observer a hidden, dormant other self. Y/N knew it, saw it come to the surface in situations of heightened tension or complete relaxation. Harleen, however, wanted to be seen seriously, wanted, dreamed of being a psychiatrist, but not just any psychiatrist, no that was not Harleen's style. Harleen and her dormant bit of insanity decided that they wanted to work nowhere else but Arkham Asylum, a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane. They tried to talk about it but Harleen was stubborn, and Y/N had her own problems on her mind, problems that overwhelmed her, problems that made her close herself off and cut herself off from the world. And so Harleen left, and Y/N was left alone. As she was getting ready to leave, Y/N wondered if and how much her friend had changed, wondered if they would find a common language again, wondered if the little black dress and calf-length boots were too much, wondered if someone like Bruce Wayne frequented places like the Iceberg Lounge. She left her hair loose on her shoulders and swiped her lips with burgundy lipstick, just in case. She grabbed her favorite black leather jacket, smiled at her reflection in the mirror, and decided it was going to be a good night.

Bruce Wayne didn't spend his Saturday evenings as befits a billionaire. Once in a while, he would show up in town, and let the camera flash lights and the endless calls of the paparazzi focus on his person for as long as he let them. He would smile politely while doing so, turn in the direction in which he was being called, and played the role that had been entrusted to him. However, he usually didn't have to play, he usually holed up in a cave deep under the foundations of his mansion and worked, fulfilling the role he had entrusted to himself. There was always work in the cave. If it wasn't investigation, it was training, if not training it was maintenance work, if not maintenance work it was implementing new technologies and improvements. And even when everything was already done, which was extremely rare, he came here simply to sink into his thoughts in peace and get away from the world on the surface. On that evening, however, he stared for another hour in a row at the photos of the victims and the case files displayed on most of the large computer screens, as if he hoped that looking at them from a different angle would make him see something he hadn't seen before. He zoomed in and out, scaled up, framed, looking for details that could be part of the puzzle. He searched, read, analyzed, each victim individually. Who they were, where they lived, what they liked, who they were friends with, where they worked, what stores they went to, what they bought, every little detail could be important, every little detail could be a breakthrough in understanding the pattern. For Bruce saw the pattern, saw the sense in the randomness of the events, saw the similarity of the victims so different from each other, saw the pieces of the puzzle, and was able to name them however he did not want to do so. Not yet. "Too soon," he thought.

"Four cases, eight victims. They didn't know each other, they didn't frequent the same places, they have no connection to each other. And they don't fit any known pattern…" he spoke aloud hearing the echo of approaching footsteps, "It's someone new Alfred," he continued accepting a mug of steaming coffee from the butler, "it's someone precise, discreet, intelligent."

"I see you've already managed to determine that these were no random cases Master Bruce," Alfred stated while looking at the displayed photos. Bruce didn't respond immediately, he merely enlarged the photos of the family that he himself had taken a few days ago and arranged them side by side with the photos of the young girls he had received from Gordon, "a gruesome death…" Alfred quietly commented.

"The family from Narrows was the first victim we know of," Bruce took a sip of coffee without taking his eyes off the computer screen and continued, "The man died of exsanguination after he scratched his eyes out."

"Nail fragments and blood on the fingertips left no doubt…"

"A woman and a child," Bruce continued, "They died from internal burns after drinking solvent."

"We rule out the possibility that someone forced the solvent into them…" Alfred stated more than asked.

"There were no traces of forced entry or foreign DNA in the apartment. Whereas the traces I found and which were later verified by Gordon's forensics confirm definitively that the woman first gave the solvent to the boy then drank it herself," he took another sip of coffee, "No, Alfred. No matter how we look at it the facts are indisputable."

"How could a mother do such a thing to her son? What was going on in her head?" Alfred asked quietly.

"I'd like to know…" Bruce moved his mouse across the screen drawing red lines on the photos of the young girls, "They were friends, went to high school together, and later went to college together. Exemplary students, exemplary daughters," as he was saying this he outlined red lines connecting the cuts on their bodies, "good homes, loving parents, no problems, no history of mental illness or tragedy in the family…"

"At least until now…"

"On Instagram, they followed celebrities, models, singers, actresses…" the number of lines was increasing, some straight, some forming oval shapes, on their abdomens, on their faces, on their arms, on their thighs, "the wounds were made with a scalpel…."

"My god…." Alfred whispered looking at the patterns that Bruce had drawn, "it looks like surgical incisions, like the ones that are made during plastic surgery. Buist augmentation, liposuction of the abdomen, thighs and arms, fillers in the cheeks and lips, correction of the nose…."

"Anything they'd like to improve in their seemingly less than ideal bodies…" Bruce concluded.

"Master Bruce, you do not think that they also did that to themselves!" shock and disbelief tinged Alfred's voice, "it's impossible, a person is not able to inflict so many wounds on themselves and not pass out from the pain!"

"That's exactly what I think Alfred," Bruce replied grimly, "the fingerprint marks on the scalpels, the angle and depth of the incisions suggest that they did that to each other. Instead of drawing on each other's bodies with red marker pens, they drew with scalpels."

"But Master Bruce, this is not physically possible…"

"The evidence is clear, and as with the family, the toxicology came out clean. If they took any drug, it had cleared from the bloodstream by the time the bodies were found. The problem is that no known drug disappears without leaving a trace. Not in such a short time."

"What about the other victims?" Alfred asked in a tone that told Bruce he was quietly hoping for a pattern disruption.

"A couple, a woman 28 years old and a man 34 years old," Bruce displayed their photos on the screen next to the bloodstains on the sidewalk, "they got married a week before. They were flying on their honeymoon."

"And halfway there they decided it would be more romantic to jump out of a plane without a parachute?" Alfred scoffed.

"Gordon questioned the pilot," a scan of the police report appeared on the screen, "he was their friend. A pilot by passion. As a gift, he got them a flight in his private avionette. An hour after takeoff, they unexpectedly got up from their seats and, ignoring his shouts and cries, opened the door and jumped out."

"How is the man doing now?"

"He is under psychiatric observation, which is being conducted by a certain Professor Crane, a prominent psychiatrist with a very impressive resume," Bruce took another sip of coffee, minimized photos of the couple and displayed a photo of the latest victim.

"Jeremy Walters, age 17," he informed, "with him I have the biggest problem."

"As far as I can see, he was beaten to death by inferior gang members…" Alfred ran his eyes over a scan of the case file.

"Maroni's men, pawns for collecting ransoms, and intimidating small businessmen."

"Coincidence?"

"Perhaps," Bruce replied pensively, "one thing, however, troubles me."

"What's that?"

"All Gotham residents know which neighborhoods to avoid, and where not to go. What was he doing in the Maroni area?"

"Stupidity? Bravado? Need to impress his colleagues?"

"Or a missing piece of the puzzle…" Bruce minimized the images and set the empty cup down on a silver tray set on the desk.

"What are you going to do Master Bruce?"

"I need to see if there is any connection between the victims and the dockside shooting and what was in the cargo," Bruce stood up abruptly and began reviewing the state of his suit utility belt, the bottom part of which he had been wearing all this time. As he checked pocket by pocket each of them, his face was painted with calmness and complete control, like that of an experienced soldier who checks his rifle before going to the battlefield. Despite the passage of years, Alfred couldn't shake the terrible feeling that maybe if he had done more himself, maybe now he wouldn't have to watch the man he had treated like a son don the top of his suit, attach the long black cape and hide his face under the mask, becoming someone completely different.

"I understand that I'm not supposed to wait with dinner," he said in his perfectly controlled tone tinged with a hint of irony. Bruce merely smiled at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll be in touch."

You wouldn't say that Harleen looked exactly as you remembered her, for she had changed a lot. Long gone were the sneakers, loose pants and oversized pullovers she used to be so fond of. They were replaced by tight black jeans clinging tightly to her slim body, a blue shirt unbuttoned two buttons too many, and brown high-heeled boots. The beautiful blond hair she once wore in a loose bun or ponytail now fell in waves of gold to her shoulders. Eyes painted with strong black eyeliner peeked confidently from behind strong black eyeglass frames, and her lips adorned with blood red lipstick smiled wryly.

"Harleen, if it weren't for the damn pin I would have passed you on the street and not recognized you!" you hugged your friend joyfully, and she reciprocated the hug, "damn, you've changed!"

"Girl gotta look the part don't ya think!!!?" Harleen replied with a sparkle in her eye.

"Totally!"

"You've changed too!" Harleen swept her eyes over you, "what's with the goth vibe?!"

"Don't know, kinda like it I guess, feels right," you replied dragging your hands over your black dress quickly realizing that every part of your outfit was black.

"And looks right! You look fineee sweetie!" the smile on Harleen's face seemed sincere, and you could clearly hear undisguised joy in the tone of her voice.

"So, Iceberg Lounge," you began awkwardly, realizing that after so many years you didn't even know where to begin, "I hope it won't be cold inside."

"We won't have time to get cold! We'll have a few shots, and hit the dance floor!" Harleen replied with a broad smile then grabbed your hand and pulled you along, pushing through the crowd of people waiting in line to enter.

"Harleen!" you tried to stop her, "shouldn't we wait like everyone else!"

"Fuck them! My boyfriend knows the owner, we'll be here like VIPs!" she threw over her shoulder then stopped abruptly in front of the bouncer, whose physique surpassed both of you both in height and width, "Hello, Butch" she smiled playfully, "a table for two! Me and my bestie are planning to have a banging evening!"

"Miss Quinzel…" the bouncer spoke quietly but his gaze, instead on Harleen, focused on you, measuring you from head to toe, his gaze giving you unpleasant shivers as if something slimy had just touched your bare skin, "enjoy your evening," he opened the door revealing to your eyes a gigantic establishment bathed in shades of blue, white and silver.

Everywhere within your sight you could see countless tables adorned in black and white at which ladies in elegant dresses and gentlemen in suits were engaged in many conversations. Some were enjoying elegant meals, while others were sipping sparkling wines or amber whisky from shining silver crystals. In the middle of the room, at a shiny black piano, a musician was playing a graceful classical melody, soothing nerves and inviting people to dance.

"Harleen? I think we're a little underdressed," you chuckled quietly, looking around the room.

"Oh, oh don't be silly! The upper hall is for stiffs and snobs!" Harleen replied without lowering her tone of voice causing outrage from guests sitting nearby, "we're hitting there!" she added and pointed to a silver and black door with a shiny VIP sign.

44 Below, the club below club, opened its doors with rumbling synthwave bass and blinding red lights reflecting off the black walls and floors. Elegant couples chatting in hushed voices over a glass of wine turned in the blink of an eye into a sea of bodies rhythmically floating between the smoke and the blaze of light, huddled together in cramped lodges tilting glass after glass. Between one flash of lights and another, a glass of green and purple liquid appeared in your hand. You tried to stop Harleen, who was still holding your hand and dragging you deeper into the club, but she only turned around and winked wryly.

You tried to take in your surroundings, so strange and fascinating at the same time. On one side, girls dressed in skimpy dresses, latex pants and corsets dancing so close to the men as if trying to melt their bodies into one. On the other, men in suits, hidden in lodges seemed to watch everything and everyone at once. Someone winked at you, someone smiled, someone's hand touched your shoulder, another brushed your hip. The music was pounding, the lights were blinding, and Harleen seemed to be in absolute heaven, even though to you, the place looked more like hell. It seemed to you that she was waving to someone, perhaps greeting someone. An empty glass not knowing when became full again when she pulled you by the hand and slipped into a vacant booth deep in the club.

"Isn't this awesome?!" she asked throwing her shirt off her shoulders exposing a black sleeveless top, "I love this place!!!"

"It's something, I give you that!" you replied forcing yourself to smile. This is not how you imagined this evening but you decided, to go with the flow.

"It's fucking brilliant! You look tense! Drink up and let's hit the floor!!!"

"I don't drink much…"

"How so?"

"It's messing up with my head…" you smiled apologetically.

"Come on! You gotta loosen up a bit!!!" Harleen's hand landed on your shoulders "All that trauma is gonna eat you alive! And I know what I'm talking about!! I am a psychiatrist! Have a paper and all!"

"You know?" you pulled away from your friend in surprise, suspicion seeping into your mind in an instant sharpening all your senses.

"Sure I know!" Harleen countered with an innocent smile, "Just cos you ain't staying in contact doesn't mean I don't keep tabs on ya! You my bestie aren't ya?!"

"Then why didn't you say something earlier?"

"Well, it was kinda obvious you needed time! I ain't gonna rush you! You been through hell, you needed time, I get that! But now since you here, chill dude!!!" she pushed a glass in your direction, "drink up! Doctor's orders!"

You smiled uncertainly and emptied the glass.

"That's my girl!!" Harleen applauded and emptied hers, "don't ya worrie sweetie, I'm gonna take care of ya! No talks about trauma, no talks about past, no sadness! You have your therapist for that! Today, let's put some smile on that face!!"

"How do you know I see a therapist?" suspicion crept in again pushing out the brief dizziness.

"Dude, I fucking now ya!" Harleen replied without hesitation, "C'mon we know each other like whole life!!!"

"That's true…" smiled faintly, "alright then! Fun it is!"

"Fuck yeah!!!"

Batman knew that if there was anyone in Gotham who would be in possession of information about the cargo on the docks, it would be the Penguin. Nothing in Gotham happened without his knowledge. He acquired, sold, stored information more expensive and valuable than all the cocaine that passed through his club, than all the weapons he traded. Oswald Cobblepot was many things, but above all, he was a businessman. If something constituted value and could be sold for an exorbitant amount, Oswald was the first person in Gotham to take an interest in it. At the 44 Below, various transactions took place every night. The club was frequented by the very elite of Gotham's social scene, criminals, gangsters, dealers, politicians, police officers, a Judge, the District Attorney. All who contributed in one way or another to Gotham's downfall. Dealers sold drugs under the noses of police officers, passed through the hands of hookers the purest goods destined for the Judge and his men. Gangsters were striking deals to sell things far more dangerous than drugs right behind the backs of an unseeing District Attorney. And all in the underground of a seemingly pristine establishment for the upper class.

Piecing together the plan in his head, Bruce was tempted for a moment to enter the club with the door and let the whole place go up in smoke. Chase people away, burn it to the ground. He knew, however, that it wasn't the premises that were the problem, but the people. Burning down the premises would only spread the plague throughout the city until they would find a new place. They couldn't seek refuge with Falcone, who played his political games in a more discreet way, with blackmail, threats and bribes. They couldn't hole up in one of Maroni's restaurants, since he wasn't interested in political games, only in the pure profit from the arms trade, the harassment and the eternal war with Falcone. Sionis continued to pretend that he was just an influential businessman focused on industrial development. Penguin was not picking and choosing, Penguin accepted everyone and could profit from anyone. Without him, they would have scattered across Gotham like locusts, spreading all over the city. They would have become more desperate, more dangerous.

So he chose the stealth approach. Squeezing through a narrow ventilation shaft, he seriously questioned his decision to reinforce his suit with kevlar plates and attach a cape. "Superman does have a cape," he mused, "but Superman doesn't sneak into the underground clubs through the narrow shafts…" he smiled faintly, imagining Superman in his place.

The plan was simple, get through the shaft straight over Pingiwn's office, surprise him, intimidate him and interrogate him. The only problem was a quick exit. The narrow ventilation shafts were not suitable for a quick escape. More than that, they left a clear trail, an entry and exit route, betraying his tactics, something he could not afford to do. "I will have to improvise. Make my way through the crowd to the upper level exit and grapple my way out…" he planned, "it's gonna get messy."

"Everyone I've ever loved either left me or died!" you exclaimed as you downed a glass of whisky in one sip. The alcohol was starting to warm you from the inside, causing the world to spin along with the flashlights, "I don't blame you Harl, I don't have any resentments," you corrected yourself quickly, "I don't hold a grudge, you left much earlier."

"I get it!" she assured you.

"No one gave a fuck! No one!" you reached for the bottle and refilled your glass, "Not my remaining family! Not my friends!!! They did not give a single flying fuck!"

"People suck!!! Fuck them!!!"

"I didn't know what to do! I was so fucking lost! It's just…I was left alone so I said FUCK IT! Fuck it all!!! I packed my bag and here I am! In fucking Gotham out of all the places!!! Where some maniac named Joker is fighting in front of the police with a guy dressed as a bat! What the actual fuck?! What is this place!"

"It's Gotham baby!!!" Harleen replied with a wide grin.

"Who does that!? Batman and Joker!! Like mindblowing!! Who gives him right!"

"Right!!! Beating up innocent people like that!!! Fucking psycho!"

"Totally!!! What is his problem! Like dude, therapy is actually a thing! Get one!"

"No one cares about anyone these days!" Harleen emptied her glass while anger clearly painted on her face, "And fucking Gothamites, all they do is judge and judge! No one actually takes a time to think! All they want is someone to blame! They don't take time to understand!"

"Fuck them Harl!!!" you chuckled with a smile, "fuck all of them!!!" raising your glass in a toasting gesture.

"That's right!!!" Harleen smiled tapping her glass against yours, "I'm so glad you texted me!"

"Honestly, I wasn't sure if you still want to have anything to do with me," you replied sincerely.

"Don't be stupid! 'course I want to!"

"And truly, it was my therapist who convinced me," you laughed.

"What's his name!?" curiosity shone in Harleen's eyes.

"Professor Crane," you replied without thinking, "you know him?"

"I do, "Harleen replied with a sly smile, "but don't count on me to tell you anything about him! Professional courtesy!"

"Fuck professional courtesy!" you laughed, "talk!"

"He's a brilliant psychiatrist. He'll help you, free yourself from that cage you've built in your head!" Harleen replied, "And I won't tell you anything else!"

"Fine!"

The music was pounding louder and louder which meant that he was getting closer to his destination. A few more meters and he should find himself above Penguin's office. He couldn't turn on his listening or echolocation because the music would damage his hearing. He had to count on himself. He tried to listen in on the conversation, but the thin metal trembled moved by the rhythmic bass and his own careful movements. He had to rely on himself, had to trust himself, had to trust that, as in any air-conditioned room, every few steps a ventilation shaft would be cut by a vent and that one of them would be above Penguin's office. According to the reconnaissance he did, Penguin's office was about 120 square meters, the vents appeared on the ceiling evenly every 50 meters in a straight line, which meant that there was at least one in his office. A few meters and he should see one of them below him, and through it a few security guards, armed goons, and a short squat man probably with a cigar in his mouth.

"A quick attack from above, by surprise," he planned, "before he realizes what hit him."

Dancing in the middle of the crowded dance floor, for a moment you forgot all your worries and cares, forgot the stresses of everyday life, forgot the anger that boiled inside you every day when you showed up for therapy, the feeling of loneliness every time you went home, the strange excitement that appeared in you every time you recalled that blue eyes and that low soft voice. The music rumbled inside you, the alcohol allowed your perpetually heightened senses to finally relax, the lights dazzled you, and you flowed along with them. You didn't notice that within a few steps, no one was dancing around Harleen and you, you didn't notice that several men standing at the bar were clearly watching you, you didn't see the owner of the club standing behind the glass wall of his office watching you from afar, nor a stocky man heading in your direction. Nothing mattered. You were free, you felt free, you felt as the rhythm of the music awakened in you a new strength and confidence that something incredible was waiting around the corner, a confidence that Gotham was indeed becoming the beginning of an amazing new life.

You opened your eyes and saw a stocky man standing behind dancing Harleen smiling at you in a way that made you shudder. He leaned over her and said something in her ear making her stop immediately. She threw him angry glances and shouted something while gesturing intensely, but the loud music drowned out her every word. The man only smiled again, as if this gesture was supposed to be the answer to everything.

Harleen turned to you and gestured in a direction then followed him into the depths of the club.

"What's going on?!" you asked, evening your step with theirs, "where are we going?"

"The boss wants to talk to Miss Quinn," the man replied without even looking in your direction.

"Why?" you directed your question to Harleen ignoring him.

"Told ya my boyfriend knows the owner!" Harleen replied with a wide smile, "don't ya worry! Ozzy probably wants to talk business with me while my puddin' is away!"

"What kind of business your boyfriend does here?!"

Harleen didn't have time to answer. The door to the owner's office opened wide revealing a short man inviting you inside with a gesture. You didn't want to enter, your intuition suddenly seemed to have sobered up and wasn't happy about where you found yourself. Harleen stepped confidently inside, while you took two steps back, clashing your back with Butch who effectively blocked the way out.

"I'll wait outside…" you smiled softly.

"Nonsense!" a voice reached you from deep in the room, "C'mon love! Harley's friends are my friends!"

"Five armed goons, two handguns, probably a Colt M1911…" Batman assessed the surroundings from above, "one, Micro Uzi, plus knives. Two at the glass wall, two at the entrance, one at the door. They need to be taken down first. First the ones by the wall. Then those by the door. The one behind the door will manage to get inside, freeing my way out."

"Come here! Ozzy wants to meet ya!" Batman picked up the female voice and scanned the room for its source. A blonde woman with a petite athletic build was turning toward the door and gesturing inside, "Who is she? Who's behind the door?"

"You have a business to discuss!" came from behind the door, "seriously, I'll wait outside, I won't disturb you," he knew the voice.

The thugs began to move. The two at the door turned their backs to the room. In the glare of the lights reflecting off the glass wall, Batman could clearly see one of them reach behind his back and unlock his holster. "I'm out of time…" he decided after which he sprayed a bit of explosive gel in a quick efficient motion and pressed the detonator.

The rumble of the explosion, the pieces of metal and debris falling from the ceiling caused disorientation exactly as he had planned. He didn't even have to use a smoke grenade. Before the thugs had time to realize what had happened he fell from the ceiling and in two quick moves hit those near the wall. A stunning blow to the head and a kick to the chest sent them flying outwards shattering glass in the process. Somewhere behind him he heard a furious curse and a woman's cry of surprise. He didn't care. In two quick steps he jumped to the armed men at the door. A knife flashed before his eyes, but he dodged in time. Swift hand movement and the knife got stuck in the spikes of his gloves. He yanked hard sending the knife far toward the floor.

"It's Batman!" the other shouted, yanking the weapon from behind his belt. A blow to the chest left him breathless but only for a moment, a hit to the shoulder sent a bullet to the floor, a kick, to the abdomen, a dodge, "I have to move them away from the door" he thought, he parried the blow catching his arm in flight and flipped one over his shoulder with a punch to the floor knocking him unconscious. The other one just screamed, pushed through the door and started running away. For a moment Batman saw the chaos that prevailed in the club. One exit, hundreds of people, "I should have foreseen that," he thought. But he didn't have time to analyze, a strong blow to the jaw came from behind the door, sending him tumbling back into the room. He didn't fall. With a backward roll, he got back on his feet poised to fight. He quickly sent a Batarang toward Penguin effectively knocking the weapon out of his hand and attacked his opponent. Butch Gilzean was a stocky man, two meters tall and similarly wide but he was slow which gave Batman the advantage. He attacked first, stunning him with his cape, knocking the gun out of his hand, and hitting Butch's hard chest again and again, pushing him outward to finally send him crashing into the wall with a kick. The scanners in his cawl read a pulse of 47 beats per minute, and he knew Butch wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.

"Don't hurt me…." he heard a familiar female voice from a darkened corner between the door and the wall, "We are not with them…."

Y/N stood there leaning against the wall with her hands raised in a defensive gesture. She looked at him but there was no fear on her face, only shock and confusion. He quickly suppressed the overwhelming fear and surprise, "what is she doing here…"

"Leave," he replied briefly, but she did not move. He turned away from her and looked at the blonde. She did not run away from him with her eyes. On the contrary, she looked at him defiantly and with scorn, "You too. Leave, both of you. Penguin and I need to talk."

***

Standing outside, slowly smoking a cigarette you received from one of the girls who rushed out of the club, you watched as one of the windows shattered from the inside shimmering in the light of the neon lights. A black figure shot up into the sky like a phantom, and if it weren't for the fact that a few minutes earlier you had seen him, standing just a few steps away from you, you would have thought your mind was playing a trick on you. Batman rose into the air towards the tall buildings only to disappear under the cover of night.

"What the actual fuck…" you whispered.

"Told ya this night gonna be banging!" Harleen joked with a wide grin.

"Yeah…let's not do that again…" you breathed musingly.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Harleen asked as if completely ignoring what you had just said.

"Oh no no! I am not partying with you ever again! Forget about it!" you sneered.

"C'mon sugar! It was an awesome night! Till this nutcase showed up!" Harleen grimaced, "but don't ya worry! No party tomorrow! Just thought you might go with me to pick up my puddin'! He's coming back from his short vacation and I so would love ya to meet him!"

"I don't know Harl…" you hesitated, "after this insanity, I think I need some time to cool off before Monday. Gotta work Monday."

"C'mon! don't be like that!" Harleen looked at you with her big blue puppy eyes, "Now when we are back together I really really want ya to meet my boo! Do this for me! Pretty please!"

"Fine…" you smiled in agreement, "I can't say no to you," you added and Harleen only jumped up joyfully and hugged you, "but please, no craziness tomorrow!"

"You got it sis!" Harleen agreed but the glint in her eye betrayed to you that she wasn't entirely sincere, "Where do you work by the way?"

"Wayne Enterprises."

***

Chapter four: I am innocent

***

Author note: The story continues! Thank you for your patience and my apologies for the long await. I got distracted by work, some additional tasks that you took on, and then totally got lost watching Peaky Blinders (I know, I'm late to the party but this show is absolutely brilliant! It's been on my 'to watch' list forever and the time finally came!). But a dear friend of mine reminded me kindly that she is still waiting for chapter 3 so I had no other choice but to find time and write the next chapter. Even though I was distracted lately, I kept it in the back of my mind and I'll say, going back to it was a blast! Hope you like it! And I promise I'll do my best to publish the next chapter much sooner than this one! But for now, my Dear Reader, I thank you for reading.

#batman x reader #batman x y/n #bruce wayne x reader #batman imagine #bruce wayne imagine #batman x you #bruce wayne x fem!reader #batman x fem!reader #batman #bruce wayne #dc comics #batman fanfiction #bruce wayne fanfiction

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scapegrace74-blog · 1 year

Text

Don’t Let Me Fall, Chapter 8

A/N Thank you for your patience while I worked out some issues with this chapter. I hope that you’re as happy with how it turned as I am! It ends with a bit of a cliffhanger, but the good news is that I’ve got part of Chapter 9 already written.

For those who have asked about the inspiration for Jamie and Claire’s routine, you can find a video of it here. The move I’ve dubbed the “death spiral” starts at 1:12.

Previous chapters can be read here.

Over the course of his years as an athlete and aerialist, Jamie had noted there were two types of performers. There were those who excelled at the physical aspect of their jobs. Technically proficient, they drew joy and inspiration from the perfection of each move and sequence. The audience’s enjoyment was an unintended consequence of their own focus on execution in its purest form. He counted himself and most of his peers amongst this group.

Then there was the rarer specimen. No less physically adept, their motivation was the audience. Put them in an empty room and their performance would suffer. But in front of spectators, they outshone the spotlights, bringing something ineffable to the stage that could neither be taught or contrived.

Witnessing Claire Beauchamp perform to a sold-out tent of rapt Japanese spectators, Jamie understood once and for all just how rare a jewel she was. For while she had learned and then mastered the physical discipline that was the aerial straps with astonishing ease, her performance was on an entirely different level now that they were on tour.

Night after night their act, placed just before the intermission of Tropico, drew a crescendo of sighs and gasps as Jamie lifted, twirled and spun Claire through the air like an iridescent feather. His body was the podium on which to display the art that was his partner, and he’d never been more honoured to play a supporting role. She deserved every accolade, so when the klieg lights blazed for their second curtain call, he took a large step backwards, gesturing to Claire and bathing in pride as the typically reticent Japanese crowd acknowledged her with thunderous applause.

***

I had been to Japan once before, a three day stay while touring with the Royal Ballet. We’d been entertained from morning to night, but my jet-lagged memories blurred Shinto shrines, imperial palaces and outdoor tea ceremonies into a chaotic cherry blossom slide show.

By contrast, the three weeks spent in Tokyo with Cirque des Étoiles left plenty of time for personal exploration, even with eight weekly shows and our regular curriculum of strength training and stretching. With over two hundred artists, stagehands, musicians and supporting personnel, we took over a large hotel not far from where the touring big top was set up in Yoyogi Park, which meant all of downtown Tokyo and its eternal hum was at our doorstep.

Once my internal clock had adjusted, I developed a bit of a routine, rising early to walk the tree-line paths in the nearby park. While the winter branches were bare, it was still an oasis of tranquility in the middle of one of the world’s largest cities. After breakfast, I joined one of the group Pilates sessions before making my way to the hotel gym where the physical trainers put me through my paces. That left a handful of hours of leisure before I needed to report to the big top for costume and make-up.

“Did ye ken fugu is the Japanese word fer puffer fish, Tourist? Tis considered a delicacy, despite being more deadly than cyanide if it’s no’ properly prepared.”

And through it all, there was Jamie. Always Jamie.

He was standing in the doorframe of my hotel room, nearly obscuring my view of the hall. His hair was damp, darkening his curls to the colour of myrhh. A subtle sniff yielded a whiff of sage and tree sap, the remnants of his post-workout shower in the room next door.

Either by design or cosmic happenstance, Jamie and I were placed in adjoining rooms. By and large, this was very convenient as we spent most of our free time together. It was only late at night, body weary but nerves jangling from another magic experience soaring through the air in his arms, that the convenience turned to torment. Through the wall, I could hear Jamie going about his nightly routine, talking quietly on the phone to his family, settling into the mattress with a greedy sigh. It took all my will power not to knock on the connecting door, knowing as I did that on the other side lay a promise of paradise.

“I’m pretty certain our employer would take exception to us eating potentially deadly fish, Fraser,” I smirked, returning to the search for an umbrella as Jamie flopped down on my bed.

“Ye’re probably right. What about regular sushi, then? Yi Tien was tellin’ me about a place he tried the o’her day.”

I made a vague affirmative noise as I continued to open and close drawers and peer beneath the bed.

“What are ye lookin’ for?”

“My umbrella. I swear I hung it up in the closet yesterday, but it’s not there.”

Jamie glanced towards the window, a rogue curl falling rakishly over one eye.

“Tis barely a smirr. Ye dinna need one.”

As it turned out, Jamie’s definition of a smirr involved us having to hop around puddles and duck under awnings as we ran, laughing, to a nearby office tower. We were both quite damp as we descended, paradoxically, into the basement where there were a handful of small shops. Jamie ushered me through the door of one of these with a shrug, and we entered another world.

A tiny Zen garden of rocks and bamboo greeted us. I was now familiar with the Japanese custom that dictated we remove our outdoor footwear before entering any private space. Jamie cursed as he tried to jam his massive feet into the modestly sized slippers provided by the restaurant.

“Look on the bright side,” I teased him as a kimono-clad hostess led us to our table. “You can tell everyone that you’re big in Japan.”

“I’m big pretty much everywhere, Tourist.” An awkward beat. “Uhhhh, that didna come out quite right,” he hastened to add with a blush.

I could feel the colour rush to my own cheeks as I valiantly tried to stifle my giggles. I should have taken pity on Jamie’s Freudian slip, but I found I couldn’t. Having spent a significant amount of time pressed intimately against his body, I also knew it wasn’t an idle boast. Jamie glared at me playfully, but I caught the corner of his mouth pleating.

We were ushered into a small room divided from the rest of the restaurant by rice paper screens. Watching all six feet four inches of muscular Scot try to fold his limbs on the tatami mat in such a way as to allow him to approach the low table set off my giggles again.

“Ye’re having a great deal o’ fun at my expense, Tourist,” Jamie grumbled good naturedly after our hostess left with a graceful bow.

“I can’t help it. You’re like Gulliver in Lilliput!”

As it turned out, Gulliver’s Travels was one of Jamie’s favourite childhood stories and my comment initiated a conversation in which we lobbed the names of beloved books and authors at each other, finding we had a great many in common.

The sushi was undoubtedly good, although I had no recollection of what we ate. What I did recall, long after we’d left Japan, was watching Jamie struggle with his chopsticks while he regaled me with a boyhood anecdote about digging his very own hobbit hole on his family’s estate. There were raindrops scattered across the shoulders of his denim shirt, turning the fabric the exact same shade as his eyes.

***

Touring with Cirque des Étoiles was grueling work. It sounded idyllic, travelling from place to place and experiencing local culture while performing to sold out audiences night after night. There came a time, however, where Jamie just wanted to watch some television in a language he understood, make a proper home-cooked meal, and sleep in his own bed.

Fortunately, the Cirque planned each tour around the very real risk of performer burnout. Which was why, after their five-week run in Hong Kong was over, Tropico went on one-week hiatus. Performers had the option of flying home, taking a local vacation, or moving on to the Cirque’s next locale and waiting for their colleagues to catch up to them.

“Have ye ever been tae Bangkok, Tourist?”

Claire was rummaging through a stall of trinkets in the local night market, searching for a suitable souvenir. Steam from a nearby cart selling roasted chestnuts was making Jamie’s wame rumble and he wondered if he could convince his partner to take a break from her treasure hunt to grab a bite to eat.

“No, never. Have you?”

Finally settling on a jade figurine in the shape of a cat, Claire began to haggle with the vendor over the price. Jamie watched on in amusement as she used her expressive hands and the calculator on her phone to arrive at a price that both she and the store owner pretended was an expedient hardship. Her cheeks were flushed with victory as she joined him back on the street and he could finally answer her question.

“Aye, on a weekend break when Quitan passed through Hanoi a few years back.”

“Well, you can give me some pointers before you leave. I’ll have a whole seven days to explore, after all. Is everything alright with your arm?”

Without realizing it, Jamie had been rubbing his wrist. A nervous gesture, he supposed.

“Oh, aye. Nothin’ tae fear, Tourist.”

He was quiet as they navigated the tightly packed pedestrian street, lights strung overhead making it as bright as day. There was something he’d been meaning to ask Claire, but he’d been putting it off and now it felt like it was almost too late.

“You’re going to Phnom Penh, right?” she asked while they leafed through a selection of Chinese calligraphy on vellum, the chop marks bright red against their pale backgrounds.

“For a few days, aye. I’ll be spending most of the time in Siem Reap. Seeing Angkor Wat, y’ken?”

“Sounds lovely,” Claire replied, although to his ears it sounded half-hearted.

Jamie glanced sideways at his partner, trying to read her expression. She was so lovely, lustrous skin reflecting the sodium lights and hair curling wildly in the humidity. Doubt sharpened its teeth on his insecurities, but he shoved it away and drew a fortifying breath.

“Tourist, I’ve been meanin’ tae ask ye… and ye dinna need feel obliged…but would ye…that is, could ye see yerself…ifrinn, what I’m tryin’ tae say is, would ye consider comin’ tae Cambodia wi’ me? As my friend?”

Claire stopped walking and was staring up at him, her eyebrows furled in consideration. Nearby, someone set off a firecracker that had them both flinching.

“As your friend,” Claire clarified, managing to sound both relieved and disappointed.

“Aye. I enjoy yer company, Tourist, as ye ken well. T’would be a more enjoyable break if ye came wi’ me. Plus, I wouldna need tae worry about ye in Thailand all alone. I’m stayin’ in budget hotels. There’s sure tae be another room available. And we can always explore Bangkok t’gether later, between shows.”

The certainty returned to those honey-gold eyes that haunted his dreams. A strong hand, delicate and warm, linked with his own.

“Together.”

***

Our hotel in Singapore was arranged around a massive rain tree, with each guestroom facing an interior arcade. While this made for a pleasant view each morning, it also meant a long walk from the lobby to my door. I was coming around the final corner when I caught sight of John Grey entering a room about halfway down the hallway. There was nothing unusual about this except that I was fairly confident my former partner’s room was on a different hallway. In fact, I was certain the room he’d gone into belonged to Clarence Marylebone.

When I’d first realized the artistic director was on tour with Tropico, I’d expressed my surprise to Jamie.

“Tis no’ as unusual as ye may think,” Jamie had said between mouthfuls of udon. “A circus show is ne’er a finished work. Routines evolve. Talent changes. Even the costumes and music may need to be adjusted tae accommodate cultural norms.”

His explanation made sense, and it was the last time I’d given much thought to the pompous playboy getting a free ride around East Asia. Until now.

I desperately wanted to tell Jamie what I thought I saw, but he and John had only just begun to mend their frayed friendship. Without any way to confirm what John might have been doing in Marylebone’s room (although I could guess), I kept the incident to myself.

The following Sunday was a rare night off and some of the troupe went out on the town to celebrate. Ever since we’d returned from Cambodia, I had noticed the other performers treated Jamie and I like a couple, always assuming we’d want to sit together at breakfast or share a taxi to the circus grounds. We were no more a romantic couple than we had been before we left for Cambodia, but I certainly wasn’t going to set them straight. As Jamie had implied, it was only a matter of timing.

“Rickshaws!” Mary, typically soft-spoken, had consumed a fair number of Singapore Slings, and was therefore shouting animatedly at anything that caught her eye.

“Let’s take them back to the hotel,” I suggested, not particularly interested in navigating the uneven cobbled streets in my slingbacks.

“Let’s race them back to the hotel,” Mary countered.

There were three rickshaws and nine of us, so logic dictated three per bike. Mary dragged me into the nearest one, with Jamie at my heels. Before he could climb in, however, I grabbed Yi Tien Cho and pulled him up next to me.

“Tired o’ me already, Tourist?” Jamie joked, his eyes smoky in the dim light.

“No offence, Fraser, but you weigh more than three Yi Tien’s. And if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I hate to lose!”

With a hail of laughter, our driver accelerated away, motivated no doubt by Mary’s offer of a generous tip if we outpaced our colleagues.

“Come on, Jamie, jump in with us!” John cried from another rickshaw.

Watching over my shoulder I felt a warmth that overpowered the glow of alcohol observing Jamie and John, giddy as schoolboys, crying out encouragement to their driver. The incident surrounding Marylebone’s hotel room faded from my mind as I listened to Jamie’s booming laugh echo across the narrow street.

***

My partner had been acting oddly all day. After months in each other’s back pockets, we’d recently spent a week apart when Jamie travelled home to Scotland, and I visited with friends in Sydney. He seemed happy enough to see me again when we regrouped in Melbourne but had since grown quiet and distant. The previous night I heard him tossing and turning through the thin shared wall of our hotel. The water from his shower turning on woke me in the early morning hours. Perhaps he was jetlagged.

I resolved to give him space. Jamie worked incredibly hard, with an intensity that was almost frightening. If that made him moody from time to time, so be it. Instead of inviting him on my afternoon visit to the St Kilda Botanical Garden, I slipped out quietly while he was conferring with Roland, one of the staff physiotherapists.

That night Jamie’s smile when we met backstage for our warm-up was radiant, and possibly a touch relieved.

“There ye are, Tourist. Ye look beautiful.”

To my everlasting surprise, Jamie bent down and placed a tender kiss on the shell of my ear, one of the few places not artfully decorated in stage make-up. I was wearing the same costume he’d seen me in for the past three months, but I tingled all over in pleasure nevertheless.

“Uhhh, thank you. So, umm… so do you.” Dressed as Marylebone’s vision of a noble savage, my partner wore little more than a loin cloth and some artfully applied vine leaves, but his perfectly formed body was beauty incarnate, so I wasn’t exaggerating.

Jamie’s grin was reaching mythical proportions. Before we could continue to stare at each other like addled simpletons, our five-minute call crackled over the stage director’s walkie talkie.

“Time tae get tae work,” Jamie said ruefully. “Let’s make it one fer the ages, a’right partner?”

“You’re on,” I replied, placing my hand in his as we went to our marks.

And it was. Whatever had dampened Jamie’s mood had passed like a thunderstorm, leaving him charged and utterly magnetic. My afternoon spent surrounded by nature, the relief of seeing Jamie return to his usual sanguine self, his unexpected kiss; they all combined to lift my spirits and send a wash of endorphins through my veins. Together, we were magic. Every touch, every gesture was a perfectly struck note, humming in the air around us until I was convinced I could hear it.

So attuned was I to Jamie’s body that I knew something was amiss before it happened. He was lowering me around his body like a hula hoop using his stronger left hand in preparation for the move I’d dubbed the death spiral. One millisecond he was securing his grip on my ankle and the next I was being heaved skyward in an act of super-human strength. Instinct forced me to grab for the loose strap where I clung for an endless second, staring at Jamie’s stricken face in disbelief. Before I could even make sense of what had happened, he was gone. A sickening thud was the last thing I heard before pandemonium erupted.

Someone was shouting at the audience to stay calm. A high-pitched wail sounded like a siren but turned out to be rising from the very pit of my stomach. I peered downwards, searching madly for some sign that Jamie had survived the fall, but the stage lights blinded me. My strap was lowered slowly, far too slowly, to the stage. No sooner had my feet touched the ground than I was rushing to where Jamie lay, a motionless bulk surrounded by stagehands and the staff medic. I pushed someone aside to kneel by his head. When I saw his marine blue eyes were open, I bent forward, unable to contain my relief.

“Jamie?” My hands fluttered near his face, afraid to touch him anywhere he may have been hurt. I settled for brushing back his curls where they clung to his damp forehead.

“He’s dislocated his shoulder,” I heard the medic advise, and one glance at the gruesomely distorted joint confirmed this was true.

“Hold still, Jamie. They’ll need to pop the bone back into place.”

I had to lower my head even further to make out his voice, more shape than sound.

“I dinna have. Much choice. In the matter. Tourist. Got the wind. Knocked fair out o’ me.”

The fact that he was able to joke, however feebly, when he probably should have been dead broke the icy dam that was holding back my emotions. They rushed out in a flood, and the swiftest was anger.

“What the hell was that stunt you just pulled, Jamie? You could have been killed!”

His eyes were growing unfocused with pain, each breath a ragged pant, but he still managed to answer.

“Promised ye. I wouldna. Let ye. Fall.”

His words hit me like a slap.

“Such a bloody hero,” I groaned, unable to hold onto my anger in the face of my gratitude.

“No’ a hero, Tourist. Jes. A man in love.”

#my writing #outlander #fanfiction

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