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har-rison-s · 4 months

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mask & seek: 15

batman x fem!reader

based on: Hello! May I request Battinson x SpiderWoman!Reader fic where she’s from the MCU but then she ends up in Battinson’s universe and meets him? Maybe he doesn’t trust her at first but once she saves him from something, he relents then begins to trust her and maybe then a relationship ensues??

author's note: hey all :) mask & seek is forreal back this time. i think this is my favourite series ever, sooooo.... i really want to like actually finish it. there's not a lot left honestly, but don't worry, no spoilers. i hope you guys are still tuning into this, i know it's been like..... more than a year since i published 14, and almost two years since i started mask & seek too.... wow. that's insane. so! bruce and y/n are so cute in this. happy reading <3

main masterlist

bruce wayne masterlist

part fourteen

word count: 4.7k

warnings: little bit of smut towards the end, it's pretty short, some anxieties, self-doubting

gif credit goes to author! (i know it's neil but i needed a sorta domestic bruce gif and there are none!!! i cannot find them!!)

“okay, here goes,” y/n mutters with a heavy heart and a chest that seems to have grown ten times its usual weight. she sticks the porta filter back into its place in the coffee machine and faces vanessa with a heavy sigh. everything is heavy as of now, most of all - her own heart. vanessa meets y/n’s dark eyes with her bright ones, “i... will be quitting this job soon.” y/n finally tells her.

immediately she thinks her voice was too quiet, too unsure, too dark even, maybe? and maybe she uttered the words too fast. but really, no matter what voice she uses or how she says it, the news stay the same, and they still break vanessa’s heart. her eyes grow wide and her mouth hangs slightly agape. “what? you’re leaving?” she asks in nearly a whisper, shock and sadness all over her features. y/n can do nothing else but nod. “why? are you going somewhere? did something bad happen yesterday or something?”

“no, no, no, not at all,” y/n answers with a shake of her head. god, does she tell her the truth? it’s been a only a few days since that faithful night and morning that were followed by this decision being made, officially. it’s been hard for y/n to muster the courage to tell her co-workers, much less her boss, about leaving this job, but it’s also been killing her not to tell them. so here she is, choosing vanessa as the first person she tells. mainly because vanessa has become sort-of her best friend, and she trusts her the most, “i, uh... i got a really good job offer. it’s something completely different, but actually in the field or, value margin, that i wanna work in, and have wanted to for... a while. basically since i was a kid.”

“not a team of crazy scientists, i hope?” vanessa asks, now her face changing to doubt. it makes y/n laugh, and she does so while shaking her head. “okay, what is it, then? some genie came up to you and offered you three wishes, one of them being getting your childhood dream job?” vanessa gets more casual and closer again. y/n chuckles again.

“something similar to that,” y/n nods along, “only the genie is a man who happens to have very, you know, thick pockets,” y/n wiggles her eyebrows, and vanessa laughs, “he’s honestly the kind of man who’d fulfil more than three of my wishes, he’s made that quite clear.”

vanessa grows an ear-to-ear wide grin and gives y/n a wicked look. “is this about bruce wayne coming to visit you here those days back?” she asks and steps even closer to y/n, so their conversation would get more private in the café with nearly all full tables, “did you guys work it out? and how do you even know him? he’s a very hard man to catch outside his enormous house, much less to meet.”

now, bruce had predicted that this kind of question would come up for both of them, and that they couldn’t just dodge it. he also predicted that people would want a clear status of their relationship, to know how the business would really work and how it came to work at all. his and y/n’s conversation about it came to start on something like...

“i don’t want to be a faceless fling of yours in the eyes of the media and public,” y/n admits with a frown on her face, and bruce looks to her.

“well, you’d be the first one to have that title,” bruce faintly jokes. y/n gives him a curious look, still thinking that it sounds kind of impossible, “at least we’re the same age. they’ll take you somewhat seriously.”

“somewhat seriously?” she echoes, now turning to face him completely, one leg bent at the knee before her, on which she lazily splays her arm. bruce shakes his head.

“trust me, i know this so-called industry,” he clarifies, “the press love the old billionaires and their young fling-of-the-months.” bruce says and has a dark-humoured chuckle. it’s sad, really, that old men go after much more younger women, and that the press make all their money off it. bruce knows that. he’d never want to be that kind of man, and he’d never wish that fate upon any girl. “what do you want to be to the public?” bruce asks y/n as he looks to her again, his shoulders hunched forward.

she shrugs. “don’t want to lie about anything that i am, or what we are,” she says truthfully, “but then again – tell the truth, and they find a way to make up lies, anyway.” y/n chuckles and shrugs her shoulders, looking thoughtfully out of the window.

bruce wears a faint smile on his face. “how does being my wife sound to you?” he asks her in a soft tone. that question, though it’s just a casual one mentioning an option for their title, makes y/n look at bruce again. she smiles, too, her head tilted to the side as it’s resting on her knee now.

“for the papers or... in actuality?” she clarifies. bruce smiles wider. he wouldn’t mind having her as his wife, though we all know that’s an understatement, but he needs her consent, of course. he already feels closest to her now, sitting with her in her apartment, and he felt close to her and with her when she was at his mansion. marriage is only a document, two rings and a ceremony. he doesn’t need that to know that he loves her, to have proof that they’ll want and belong to each other forever.

so bruce shrugs for an answer. “whichever one you want.” he answers truthfully. it’s really all up to her. it’s her image to society, after all. and yes, of course, the medias and public change it to what they want it to be, but at the end of the day, she is the foundation of herself and how she is viewed. y/n smiles again, this time with a hum.

“neither, to be honest,” she answers and turns her gaze back to the window, “i’m not ready to be someone’s wife. not because i’d be scared of commitment or anything, no. i feel you and me have committed for quite some time now,” y/n says and they both chuckle, knowing it’s true, “no, it’s just that the word has so much meaning, so much... weight and unnecessary stigma around it, you know. like, you tell a person that you’re someone’s wife, and in their eyes you’re already pregnant, have two cars, a cul-de-sac and its garage full of washing machines, fridges and driers.” bruce laughs further. “plus, being a wife is just a legal paper and title. i could be your wife in my head, if i liked the title, without any legal, official papers.” bruce has quieted down, and just smiles now. it kills him to realise more and more, with each day and each new conversation with her, just how similar they are. they both see marriage the same way. “i wouldn’t say no if you proposed at any point in the future, though,” y/n clarifies and bruce chuckles again, like a school boy, “just making sure you heard me.”

“i hear you,” he confirms with a nod and that smile still on his face, “how double standard of me to not need to worry about my title. what if i wanted to be your husband or your fling of the month?” he suggests, and that makes y/n laugh loudly. she hops off the window sill, only wearing one of her huge thrifted sweaters and a pair of pajama shorts, and still giggling, tiptoes her way over to bruce, her thin socks touching the wooden floor of her apartment. he watches her all the way of doing so, and now that she’s comfortably sitting close next to him on the sofa, his eyes take on a more private gaze at her. she makes one of her beautiful smiles at him and breathes a short sigh. “what about you being my... girlfriend?” bruce now suggests, his voice a bit quieter.

y/n’s smile grows even wider, and her mushed cheeks are complimented by a deep crimson blush. she smiles so wide her eyes are barely visible, but the small portion of them still visible shine with the few tears gathered in them. just pure happy tears, nothing else. she shrugs her shoulders and then moves closer to bruce. his body grows immediately aware of the proximity. “well, my only condition would be...” y/n starts to say, and sighs quickly again, “that you’ll be my boyfriend.” she says. and she thinks god, there must be more age appropriate terms for boyfriend and girlfriend for people their age, something between boyfriend and husband, and girlfriend and wife. partner seems too formal, as well. she feels too young saying saying boyfriend, and too old saying partner. but, she guesses, since they’re just playing with these terms, also the ones the medias like to use, there’s no harm in saying boyfriend and girlfriend.

bruce cracks a wide smile at that, something only y/n gets to see and even she rarely does, and his pale cheeks blush a rose pink for a moment, too. on the rare occasion y/n sees him blush, she always takes note of how the rose pink brings out the soft brown of his eyes, and the gentleness of his eyes altogether. they’re usually dark, filled with emotion to the brim, and encircled by that dark matter he uses. but his eyes are gentle, as is he. the light brown irises look up into y/n’s eyes with care and ease, and a smile still faintly displays itself on bruce’s lips, “i think that’s a good deal.” he says in a voice deep and soft.

y/n smiles wide again and gets the closest to him that she can. legs entangled, y/n partly laying in his lap, faces close but hands still withdrawn from each other. “yeah?” she asks him in a faint whisper, and now her hand glides over the side of bruce’s face, like he’s often done to her, and she adores it. she only expects more of that in the future.

his eyelids flicker as he looks up at her, and any expression except adoration and submission fades away from his features. bruce only gives her a nod in response and y/n smiles. the world goes completely quiet as she presses her lips down onto his. only their inhaling of breath can be heard as bruce encircles her waist with his arms and pulls her body impossibly closer to his own. y/n holds both sides of his face now, continuing to kiss him—still hoping she’s good at it—and draws in breaths through her nose because the event and sensation of kissing bruce is drawing out all air and suffocating her in the best way possible.

“we, uh...” y/n’s mind fogs a bit from that memory, but only pleasantly so, “we met through friends in the justice department.” she tells her, hoping it’ll be enough. she and bruce planned out a small cover story for them to use, involving an old friend of bruce’s in the justice department, who happens to be on vacation right now.

“oh, you never told me you had friends there!” vanessa muses. “tell me exactly how you met, i need all the details.”

y/n chuckles, and hopes the nervousness in her chuckle doesn’t appear too strong. “it’s nothing romantic, i promise,” she tells vanessa, “they visited me here on a closing shift after some dinner they’d had, and bruce happened to be with them.” y/n says, but she knows she’s gotta do better than that. funny, how her whole life here in gotham has been built on lies she’s told, and she’s suddenly nervous to lie. maybe it’s because she has to lie to vanessa. but she’s done that before, too. “he told me recently that i struck him in the first moment he saw me. i do remember how awkward he was when he tried to order a drink.” y/n says and makes a small laugh again, but this time it’s genuine because she knows how awkward bruce, in truth, can get sometimes.

“i don’t care what you say, to me that is romantic,” vanessa replies. y/n shakes her head. the reason why she hates to be lying right now could be that the circumstances of how they met are much better than this made-up story. much more special, “wish i could have been there to see it.” vanessa admits. y/n doesn’t like the light this cover story paints her in, either. rich business man falls for the woman serving him. in her eyes that feels very weird for some reason. maybe it’s her feminist character that finds it weird.

but judging by vanessa’s face, the cover story and y/n’s acting are natural and convincing enough. y/n wishes she could spill the truth to vanessa, because god knows she trusts her, but she can’t tell her the truth. it would jepordise everything. “you would have got second-hand embarrassment, v,” y/n tells her and both women laugh.

“so, what, are you gonna be working for wayne enterprises now?” vanessa clarifies.

“sort of,” y/n answers with a shrug, “you’ll see. but don’t tell anyone else yet. and don’t tell anyone outside of work, ever. they’ll be all over you, and i do want us to make our relationship public, not anyone else.”

“yeah, yeah, you and I both know how tabloids work around here,” vanessa answers, “even though i’d love to tell everyone, i promise you on sebbie’s life that i won’t tell a soul.” she promises y/n on her cat’s life and does a cross over her heart. y/n chuckles at the superstition element. “you’ll have to deal with them a lot, though. i’m sorry for that.”

“yeah, thanks,” y/n replies quietly, taking that vanessa has mentioned the thing she’s most afraid of. she guesses vanessa knows the character assassination women face in gotham if they’re on any tabloid or news banner. y/n is in for a big portion of that—people don’t take too kindly to women who work in the same company for their male partners or spouses. it’ll be even worse for y/n perhaps, because she’ll be getting a job at wayne enterprises because she’s in a relationship with bruce. there’s nothing wrong with it, and it was bruce’s idea. god knows what kind of speculations will spiral out of that fact...

y/n feels bruce’s tongue against her own as he brushes his hands underneath her sweater now, petting her waist gently. the image of his large calloused hands on her bare skin already entices y/n more, her sharply inhaling breath through her nose. it feels difficult to breathe now, her fingers digging into the skin of his face. bruce softly groans at the feeling, and an almost animalistic shiver sends his hands to the back of y/n’s thighs and pulls them closer to his crotch, positioning her legs on either side of his body.

the pair nearly fall over from the impact, but y/n steadies them both with ease that her instincts provide, and they only interrupt their kissing with laughter over their slight clumsiness. she really has me feeling like a teenager, bruce thinks to himself before kissing her once more. they melt into each other so easily you’d think they were two pieces of butter on a hot pan. y/n is just about ready to eat him up, she feels this insatiable urge to touch him and kiss him all over, for as long as she has breath.

and when she’s reaching into his sweatpants and adjusting him up with her entrance, panties slid to the side, it’s almost like they sync up completely. the final transaction, the closest they can get, yet they still want more. they’re messy, panting, giggling, hands trembling as they hold onto each other and y/n rocks her hips on bruce’s length. he thinks this must be heaven – her on top of him, her chest in his face, her hands in his hair. he loves her on top of him, always did when she used to patch him up, clean his face, all those times. now their relationship has been turned around and this intimate position they’ve been in before has gained a different turn, too, one bruce was secretly thinking of beforehand.

“you’re so perfect,” he breathes against her skin, laying hot kisses across her chest, her sweater now pushed up, barely covering anything. y/n gasps at bruce’s lips on her breasts, mewls softly, and feels herself so close to release already. she pulls her sweater off over her head, it being in the way, and lets bruce pull her closer, smothering her chest with kisses, arms around her holding her securely.

“fuck, i’m close, bruce,” she tells him in a heave of breath and bruce nods in response. it might be his familiarity with her body, and it might be her spidey-sense growing on him, but he could tell she was close before she uttered the words herself.

“i know, i’ve got you,” he tells her quietly and keeps his hands supportingly on her back. y/n looks into his eyes, her hand now on his cheek.

“you f-feel so good inside me.” she whines and arches her back, hair messy in the air, complete surrender to her feelings.

bruce feels himself twitch inside of her at the words, and he doesn’t resist the groan coming out from between his lips. he grips one of her thighs in his hand, one palm completely capable of covering it, and sees the bump he’s made in her, completely visible to him. “fuck,” he moans out and takes one of her hands in his, guiding it down to the bump, looking into y/n’s eyes as he does. y/n feels the phenomena there and gives him a tired smile, her cheeks sweaty and shining from it in the half-dark.

“you’re so big, bruce, no wonder,” she compliments him and it makes them both chuckle quietly, though the praise once again goes straight to bruce’s hardness inside of her, “ah, fuck—” she starts to say, but can’t even finish her sentence, whatever it might have been, because her orgasm has taken hold of her and is washing through her entire body like an intense wave. bruce completely succumbs to her, feeling himself unloading inside of her, too, nearly in unison with her milking him in all his length.

he tries to watch her face as she comes, not wanting to miss the sight of it, and he manages through his eyes filled with euphoria to catch the look of her. eyebrows scrunched, cheeks glistening with sweat, breasts on display for him, hair falling over her arched back. that is until she crumbles on top of him, her head resting on his shoulder and her hands gripping the back of the sofa. she pants heavily into his ear as he does the same, both of them grounding themselves back to reality. “you’re incredible, y/n,” bruce tells her and y/n smiles in response.

she easily hops off him and finds her sweater on the floor and puts it on before sitting back down next to him. bruce stuffs himself back into his sweats and runs a hand through his hair. she turns her head to look at bruce and they smile at each other. “you’re not so bad yourself,” she tells him and kisses his lips gently. she circles her arms around his neck and they rest their foreheads together, “i could never get tired of this. physically, i mean. i think my stamina is through the roof,” y/n admits, making bruce chuckle, and she enjoys feeling the rumble of his laughter.

“i’ll try to keep up,” he promises and glances into her eyes, this time he’s made her laugh. with her he comes to realize how much he’s capable of. he can make her laugh, he can make her smile, he can make her blush, he can make her reach ecstasy-level orgasms. all of these are honours he holds dear to his heart, “i could never get tired of you.” he tells her quietly.

“me, neither, of you,” y/n responds, then averts her eyes from bruce’s briefly, “what if i can’t take it? the press, the job? what if i’m not... good enough? classy enough?” she lets her anxieties wonder. it breaks bruce’s heart that she feels this way.

“you’re more than good enough,” he assures her, “the press may want to say horrible things about you, and i know it’s easy to give into hate and... critique, but...” bruce shakes his head, “you’re the amazing spider-woman, without the suit and powers, too.” he makes a smile at her and y/n gives a weak one back. “you’re going to be so great at this, i already know it. and don’t be afraid to ask for help—me and alfred will be supporting you every step of the way.”

y/n sniffles quietly, but gives bruce a nod. she leans against the back of the sofa, letting go of bruce, and his skin misses her touch immediately. she rubs her eyes and sighs. “i’ve wanted to do something like this, be someone who can make a real change, all my life, since i was a little kid,” she tells him, “and everything that happened throughout growing up just made me want to do it more. and now you’ve given me this amazing opportunity to finally do something like it, and it scares me,” she turns her head to look at him again. bruce nods, understanding, and splays an arm over her frame, “i can never thank you enough for doing this for me. i’m really grateful for it. i’m just scared i won’t be any good at it.”

“you will be,” bruce tells her, “i never expected this kind of... role would fall on me. i did know, of course, that i would have to follow in my father’s footsteps, and i was more than happy to, but doing it alone, especially when there’s so much pressure about it, and relentless work, never made me like it.” he shook his head. “i know i still want to help people, i always have, and being batman was my way of doing it, but... you’ve made me realize it’s never going to be enough. yes, i can make people fear me, but there’s always going to be someone not so afraid.” he makes a pause to clear his throat. “you remember that brothel we went to on our first night together?” he asks and y/n nods along. “we’re never gonna stop more of those being made by just... doing what we do on our night shifts. crime and corruption in gotham are like diseases. we gotta do more.” he says and y/n nods again.

“i’m glad you see it now, too,” she tells him and runs a hand through his hair, “we will do more. but i can’t do it without you.” she says and makes a sad smile. bruce holds her moving hand in his and lays a kiss on the top of her palm.

“you won’t,” he promises, “you won’t be alone. i’ll go to every interview, every event, anything with you.” so you won’t be alone, like i was, in this business.

y/n chuckles. “really?”

“yeah, i promise,” bruce says with a smile and that’s what makes her believe him. she nods, “i’ll take care of you.” she presses their intertwined hands against his cheek.

“we’ll take care of each other,” she corrects him, and bruce nods, lips once again on her hand, “thank you for this. and for believing in me.” she makes a smile at him and curls herself closer to bruce. he nods at her. he’ll always believe in her. ever since that first night she took him to her apartment, he has put tremendous faith in her and she has always proved worth it. she has never disappointed him. she’s only ever surprised him and hurt him when she fled the manor that night. but never disappoint him. she should have ‘exceeds expectations’ written in her resume, in her passport.

“always,” bruce says and kisses her lips.

“uh, vanessa,” y/n calls for her attention again, and vanessa turns to her with welcoming eyes, “can you promise me that... you won’t say anything the press want you to say? no matter how much money they’re offering.” she requests shyly, hoping this won’t close vanessa off to her. but her friend-colleague nods.

“of course,” she says, “i would never do that to you, man, come on,” she bumps y/n’s shoulder and they both laugh, “no amount of money could make me want to lie about you.”

“thanks so much. i’d never assume otherwise, you know, just had to make sure.” y/n says timidly and rubs her hands together. “i’ll hand in my resignation tomorrow. a month’s notice.” she tells her and vanessa nods with a smile, though she also sighs sadly.

“only a month with you left,” she says and makes a playful frown. y/n shakes her head, “it’s gonna be weird here without you.”

“i know,” y/n says in an aching voice, “it’s gonna be so strange not working here. but i’ll come here for coffee, i promise you that.”

vanessa smiles. “it’ll always be on the house,” she says and does a salute. it makes them both giggle again, but the bell ringing at the entrance door alerts them of a new customer and their laughter dies down a little.

“that won’t go unnoticed, v,” y/n tells her as she takes her post behind the cash register. vanessa raises an eyebrow at her, “if i’m ever invited to a gala and i can take a plus one, it’s gonna be you.” y/n smiles at vanessa and she nearly bursts at the proposition.

“are you serious? but won’t mr wayne be your plus one?” she makes sure, but y/n shakes her head.

“no, he gets his own invites. we could go as three, and i wouldn’t wanna go with anybody else, anyway,” she admits.

“ah, just imagine – us getting ready together to go a gala! what a dream,” vanessa ties her apron around her waist again and passes y/n to stand behind the coffee machine, “your life��s definitely getting better.”

that statement sort of stops y/n in her tracks. her life is getting better, that’s true, she just hadn’t admitted that to herself yet. probably because she feels she doesn’t deserve it, isn’t worthy of such good circumstances. a great relationship, a job she’s wanted to do since she was a kid, a job in helping countless people in peril, poverty, hunger and everything else that’s eating gotham up from inside. but she doesn’t let herself enjoy it. well, truthfully, it hasn’t happened yet, and she’s already hesitant towards it.

being scared of the job is one thing – how good is she gonna be at it? how will everyone else at wayne enterprises like her? how will the media take her work? how will the people of gotham embrace her? but another thing is feeling like she doesn’t deserve it. she doesn’t come from upper class, she wasn’t born into money like bruce was. she comes from a different universe altogether.

but shouldn’t an advocate for people who can’t defend or support themselves be someone exactly like them? maybe y/n should tell her story to the whole of gotham, about her hardships growing up, about her mother’s hardships – not the whole story in details, but just enough that would make people see that she’s just like them, no different, and wants to help. because she knows how she can help. she knows exactly what these people need because she’s been one of them. who better to protect and vouch for them than someone who comes from the same gutter? that would be a great article headline for the press, y/n thinks.

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preciouslandmermaid · 2 years

Text

from high above, Gotham glows (battinson x f!reader)

Note: First Time writing Battison lol and uhh this one really got away with me so there’s a decent amount of Plot and Yearning before you get to the smutty stuff. LMAO. Takes place pre-movie with some generous fuckery with the timeline and off-hand original characters.

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. Dubious consent drug use (reader is required to take the drug to keep her cover secret). reader suffers from claustrophobia/fear of tightly enclosed spaces (only mentioned/experienced during the "fear scene"). established childhood friends with Bruce. cursing/explicit language. minor hurt/comfort. enthusiastic consent during sexual content. no physical descriptors are used for the reader.

prompt: cockwarming, clothes ripping, balcony/window | pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

“You’ve got Gotham under your nails, girl.” Falcone hisses, close enough to smell his shitty cigar breath, “More than that. You’ve got her in your blood. I can tell. And I could use a girl like you.”

You ignore your roiling, empty stomach that sloshes with alcohol. Someone leans down to whisper in Falcone’s ear – some goon, you gather – and it’s just enough time for you to slip away from the crowded booth. Your hands are clammy, and you wipe them off on your short dress.

Your bones practically vibrate beneath the thumping bass of the club’s techno music. The lounge is an assault on every sense. Sight: nauseating flashing lights. Sound: the music that rakes claws down your spine. Touch: sweaty, clammy hands reaching for your dress, your arm, your shoulder. Smell: cigars, and marijuana, and sweat, and cigarettes. Taste: harsh, clear vodka that burns and strips layers of your throat going down.

You stumble out into the misty and glossy Gotham and press your hand to your racing heart.

Was the intel you gathered about Falcone worth his grubby hands and gross breath? Surprisingly, the answer is yes. You eagerly get into your car and verbalize everything Falcone told you into a tape recorder. You’ll write down the rest when you’re home.

*********

Home is a single-bedroom apartment that’s only redeeming quality is the little balcony that views the sunrise on precious mornings. When the sun touches Gotham, it paints everything a reflective orange and yellow, igniting the city on fire without a touch of smoke. More often than not, you went to bed on the couch, watching that sunrise, watching Gotham burn.

You don’t bother scrubbing off your glittery makeup or removing your tight dress. Your fingers itch to fly across the keyboard. This frantic determination is what earned you the nickname “Quicksilver” back when you were a pulp journalist writing about missing cats and happy birthday columns.

Despite your hard work, both in the field and out, the Gotham Gazette refused to promote you. In attempt to prove yourself, you singlehandedly wrote an article that revealed the corruption of several Arkham State Hospital doctors. When you dropped the story on your editor’s desk - they fired you. You went freelance after that.

It’s a shame the Gazette wiped your files and withheld your work laptop. Your current laptop wheezed to life; their fans mimicked a jet engine about to take flight. Corruption ran into the very veins of Gotham. Her blackened, wet streets were littered with petty crime and shady corporations. Sometimes it felt like you and the Bat and Gordon were the only people left with a shred of moral integrity.

You click on the multi-colored lights that framed your balcony window. You are the only one in the building that kept the lights up year-round. They are your very own, personal bat signal. You flipped them on whenever you had important news to share about Gotham.

The blue light of your computer screen frames your face as you start transcribing your notes from your tape recorder. The soft click-clack of the keys and the sharp, heavy ‘clunk’ of the play and pause button are the only sounds that fill your apartment for a long, long time.

Batman’s voice is gravel scraping against your skin, “what’ve you found?”

You jolt. “Jesus.” Your gaze narrows at him, “we talked about knocking, didn’t we? Just a little tap-tap on the glass will do.”

“I don’t have time, Silver.”

You roll your eyes. No time for pleasantries, huh? Not even a shred of basic, human decency. You’re not sure what you expect from a guy who runs around dressed like a bat. Still – he’s your ally. You turn the laptop around to show him your notes.

“It’s worse than I thought.” You say, brow furrowing, “I thought – I theorized that Falcone was just using the girls to run drugs, maybe help establish meetings, but he’s – he’s got them testing some kind of psychoactive drug for him.”

“LSD?” Batman rasps, his shadowed eyes scan the screen.

“Something else.” You drum your fingers against your coffee table. It’s always a little silly seeing Batman, decked out in his heavy armor and big cape, in your cramped living room. It’s big enough for a couch, a coffee table, and your overflowing bookshelf – but that’s it. Batman swallows the space like a hungry black hole.

“Injected – is my theory – based on his linguistic tell.”

His eyes meet yours over the lip of your laptop.

“He mentioned Gotham being in my veins. Said he could use someone like me.” The term ‘use’ was slang for junkies when they blissed their brains out with drugs. You look down at your exposed skin, at the translucency of your inner elbow, where a needle impresses, where wandering, greedy hands at the club try and grab. You suppress a shiver.

Batman’s question comes as a surprise; “How long were you with Falcone?”

“Few hours.” You shrug. His concern is sweet, but unnecessary. There is some truth to Falcone’s words. You were born and raised in Gotham. And very little in this city could scare you. Hell, when Gordon introduced you to Batman in a dark, shadowed alleyway, you merely blinked at Vengeance and proclaimed you needed some food if you were going to have this conversation.

You start to pace, because moving helps you think, “he didn’t give up much. He was too busy trying to impress me with expensive drinks and flattery. But he threw the word opportunity around a lot. He kept mentioning how he was the one on the ground floor of this thing.”

You fold your arms across your chest and stare out your balcony sliding glass door. “We know Falcone is involved in a drug trafficking, and maybe even human trafficking too. I’ll go there again tomorrow—”

“No.” The word tears from his throat. You spin, expecting him by the table, and your heart gallops in surprise at his close proximity. He practically looms over you. You peer up, and the second surprise comes in the color of his eyes, striking and watery blue, smudged with some type of black paint or makeup.

He says, “you’ve got enough.”

You almost laugh. “I’ve got shit.” You shake your head, “I don’t have anything to pin Falcone with. I’ve got conjecture. I’ve got a half-remembered conversation thanks to all the booze they plied me with. I don’t have names, or details, but if I go in again—”

“You said he wanted to use you.” Up close, you see the chest plates of his body armor flex when he inhales deeply. “You could get hurt.”

You shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

You stare into Batman’s impassive, stoic expression and his tense, tight jaw. Your resolve flares white-hot. The girls working for Falcone are actively getting hurt, being hurt, the longer you take to crack this case. Yeah, sure, you’re just a freelance journalist. But lots of people in Gotham read your articles. A big enough article should garner enough public backlash to cause the Gotham PD to investigate. That was your hope anyway. And if not—well—you had Batman in your living room. You’d give the evidence over to him.

You lift your chin and set your shoulders, “I can bear the pain if it means saving others the trouble.”

Something ripples across his half-masked face. Something – you think – like empathy? Until his eyes drop pointedly to your mouth. Your thoughts dry up, your mind a wasteland, and a new, sudden pulse reverberates across the muscles of your heart. You slowly release your lower lip from your teeth. If you had any space to move, you would slink around him, return to the solace, and comfort of your couch and start digging through Falcone’s contacts. But – tiny living room, big Bat. Outside, you hear a deluge pattering on the balcony railing and the rooftops below. A low and distant rumbling thunder vibrates through the skyscrapers.

Batman edges impossibly closer and the front of your chest brushes against his armor. Your neck aches from craning upward to look at him.

“Don’t go back to the lounge.” Says Batman.

“You’re not my boss.” You quip. “No one is. That’s kinda the point.”

“What about Gordon?” His lips thin. “I thought you worked for him.”

“Nope!” You respond brightly, “I just dig around in sketchy business and stir the pot, so the PD gets off their assess and does their actual jobs.”

Batman grumbles lowly.

“I can handle Falcone from here.”

“I’m sure you can, Vengeance.” You agree with just the barest touch of sarcasm.

Handle Falcone? Yeah. He’ll probably go break a few of Falcone’s ribs. Effective for intimidation, but not effective for the truth. You’ve seen Vengeance in action more than once (he’s got a pesky habit of turning up in the same circles you’re investigating). But would his technique of busting skulls help the girls in trouble? No. It wouldn’t. Based on your assumption of Falcone, if Batboy was busy fighting, then Falcone’s men would just transport the girls – and the drugs – to another location.

You reach behind yourself and tug the door handle, “I’ll call you with an update.” You slide the door open and burst of wind pushes chilly rainwater onto your floor and your back. “I promise.”

Batman glares down at you. He looks ready to say something else but thinks better of it. You step to the side to let him pass. You release a relieved sigh once he’s gone. What was that? Why did it almost seem like he was going to kiss you? You shake the foolish thought from your mind. You and Batboy? Hah! In your dreams maybe.

*********

A single phone call changes the trajectory of your entire day. You find yourself at Bruce Wayne’s Tower. You never thought you’d be here again. You use a tissue from your car’s glove compartment to try and wipe off the residual clumped mascara from last night. You aren’t as blue-blooded as the Wayne family. But the closeness in age, and the friendship your mother had toward Martha Wayne, meant that you and ‘Brucie’ were set up for playdates when you were old enough to talk. You despised him instantly.

On your first playdate, you bit him. The Bruce-Free days only lasted so long before the mothers decided to try again. On the second, he wouldn’t give you your favorite toy back. This caused quite a rift. He was forced to handwrite an apology. You still have it – somewhere – in a shoebox.

By the third or fourth playdate, things changed. Bruce stopped some older kids from picking on you and shoving your face in the dirt. He earned a busted lip and your unwavering, childish loyalty. You started looking forward to those scheduled, routine meetings in his big, fancy penthouse.

Until his parents were killed and whatever fondness that was born beautifully between you as children grew distant and cold.

You frown and count backward on your fingers. Jesus. It’s been years since you’ve seen him. Granted, it’s not like you tried to reach out either. After the years of ignored calls and radio silence in the fresh, tender years after his parent’s death—you gave up on trying. Was it shitty behavior? Maybe. But you were like ten. You didn’t know how to handle the grief of losing anyone either.

You smooth the wrinkles on your slept-in shirt and pop a piece of gum in your mouth to calm your nerves. Oh, well! You can’t hide in the car forever.

You’re led inside his glossy, gothic penthouse. Your eyes snag on the polished, wooden table holding a vase. You’ve got a tiny, white scar from where you smashed your face into that exact table from running through the hall. Alfred gives you a polite, well-mannered smile before pouring tea.

He says, “it’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks.” You accept the pretty, floral teacup, “can’t say I was expecting a phone call from the Wayne house.”

“Hm. Indeed.” His eyes sparkled, “I, myself, was quite surprised when Bruce told me to contact you. He said he could trust no one else with it.”

You squirm a little in your seat. “Being vague to a pseudo-reporter is like the literal worst thing you can do. Care to enlighten me as to why I’m here?”

The only tidbit of information Alfred gave on the phone was that Bruce had a job for you. Although it felt a little weird to be meeting up with your old childhood friend under the blanket of professionalism and employment opportunity, your pathetic bank account is two overdraft fees away from being closed completely, so you really couldn’t be prideful or finicky.

“I’m afraid I cannot. He will explain everything.”

In that moment, the man of the hour decides to bless you with his presence. Your teacup clatters shakily against the porcelain saucer. His damp hair hangs in wet, slinky tendrils along his pale forehead. A shadow of dark stubble crests over his square, handsome jaw. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping based on his hunched posture and the dark half-moon circles under his baby blue eyes.

“Did you not consider getting dressed, sir?” Alfred tuts and shakes his head. Bruce sinks into the chair opposite to yours with a sigh. His dark, large hoodie and gray sweatpants drape over his frame like a blanket. His feet are bare which you find both funny and startlingly intimate.

“Quicksilver’s seen worse.” He grumbles.

You smile at the old moniker. “You’ve been following my career have you?”

Bruce’s lips quirk, something boyish and bashful crossing his features for a mere second, before he tamps it down.

“Here and there.” He shrugs, reaching for his tea, “I heard about you leaving the Gazette.”

“I wish it had been a more dramatic exit.” You sigh, “I can see the headline now. Sacked journalist gags Gazette with gory tell all of Gotham’s crime grime!” You drag your hand across the air as if smearing the headline into space.

Bruce exhales through his nostrils, a short and huffy sound. “Does it have to rhyme?”

“No, but it’s more fun if it does.” Your heart flutters when you look over at him (when did the gangly boy who hid behind pillars at charity events get so handsome?) You look away and focus on the ever-blooming pink roses on your teacup.

“Which brings me to my next point – why am I here?” You ask.

He sips his tea.

“How much did Alfred tell you?”

“Close to nothing.” You half-heartedly glare at the doorway where Alfred exited. “Said you had a job, said you asked for me.” Your heart does a strange twist. “Said you’d only trust me with it.”

Bruce stiffens. You notice it in his shoulders hidden beneath his baggy clothes. You’ve never known Alfred to lie but his statement, however true or not, made Bruce uncomfortable. You attempt to read his exhausted, sullen face, but it’s like trying to read a street sign within the reflection of a puddle.

Bruce avoids your eyes, “it’s about Arkham.”

Your eyebrow quirks upward. How did Bruce hear about that? Or was this unconnected? You shift in your seat again, sitting upright, attentive, and a scent not unlike blood fills your nostrils. Your old editor used to say: ‘Quicksilver, you got the instincts of a fucking shark.’ It’s a shame the bastard didn’t bother to fight to keep your big story afloat. Before Bruce even opens his mouth again, you can taste it—The Story. There’s something under the soil waiting to be dug up and brought to the light.

“I’m listening.”

“I heard about the story the Gazette wouldn’t publish.” Bruce sucks in a breath, “I want you to write it.”

The floor dips out from underneath you. You’re glad you’re not holding the expensive, delicate teacup because otherwise it would be shattered on the hardwood floor.

You balk. “What?”

“Write it.” He says with more certainty this time. “I’ll pay you.”

“Bruce.” You shake your head, immediately worried for his reputation, “if people find out you’re footing the bill to uncover Arkham’s dirty laundry…”

Something scared and small inside of you cringes at the idea of going into Arkham again. Then, abruptly, the face of one of Falcone’s drugged-out girls surfaces to your mind. Shit. If you do this, you’ll be fighting two monsters. Falcone’s dangerous corruption and obvious viciousness, and Arkham’s cold, claustrophobic corridors and placid doctors who – if you’re honest – have plastic smiles that freak you out more than some of the dangerous patients.

He says, “it doesn’t matter.”

God, he’s dumb. He’s all that’s left of the benevolent Wayne family name, and he wants to spend his days a shut-in recluse paying an ex-journalist to write a story no one wants? You want to shake sense into his shoulders.

You nibble your lower lip before asking, “why me?”

Bruce actually looks at a loss for words (not that he’s been a man of many words but whatever). His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left. His eyes narrow imperceptibly. You twist the tiny sugar serving spoon between your fingers for the sake of movement, so you don’t start pacing in his parlor.

“Alfred already told you why,” murmurs Bruce.

All air whooshes out of your lungs in something that resembles a chuckle but is far too warbled to be an honest laugh.

“Even if I write the story, Bruce. What happens next? If I post it online, people will call me a conspiracist, or a liar, or both! And if it comes out that you’re involved, they will drag your name through the mud for supporting it.” You explain a hurried rush, desperate for him to understand, “there’s no way in hell the Gazette will publish it. And none of the smaller papers either would risk the Gazette’s wrath.”

You continue, “And this is all assuming my old contacts will even speak to me.”

You had walked in, ready to accept the job offer with a smile on your face, and now you were arguing against it. Why? Because you don’t want Bruce to have his name slandered? Because it looks hopeless? Or because you don’t want to face Arkham again? Or because you already have your hands full with the Falcone drug ring investigation?

You are uncertain of the answer. It feels like a little of everything.

“Write the story first, then we’ll figure out what to do with it.” He slides his palms down his legs, from his thighs to his knees. “There are papers outside of Gotham. As for your contacts…well…the ones who won’t speak to you are likely paid off by the Gazette, right?”

You blink at him. Holy shit. He’s serious. He wants you to rewrite the story. The damp, musty air of Arkham clings to the vessels inside your lungs. Can you do it? Can you tell both stories? Save the girls from Falcone and save the patients in Arkham? It’s a Herculean task.

But it’s not impossible. You told Vengeance last night that you’d suffer pain for the sake of others. And ‘others’ included the criminally deranged patients in Arkham.

You pinch the upper bridge of your nose and close your eyes. “Fuck…”

“You’re going to say yes.” Although you’re not looking at him, you can hear a faint smile in Bruce’s voice. A molten, nostalgic, and hungry heat unfurls through your bones. Goddamnit. At the end of the day – it’s Bruce, the scrappy boy who took a blackeye and busted lip for you – that’s who is asking you for a favor. You can bite and bark all you want. But you know you’re going to agree. Doesn’t explain how he knows it, though.

You meet his steely, blue gaze, “how do you know?”

Bruce shrugs.

You groan. “Fine, fine. Yeah. Yes. I accept. Show me the paperwork to sign.”

The rich bastard does actually have paperwork for you to sign. Which is like – hilarious and also ridiculous and your leg bounces under the table with each shiny, wet signature you leave behind. It’s basic non-disclosure agreement and ownership stuff that you’ve seen a hundred other times. You mutually agree to not reveal whose paying you, you keep your contacts private and secure, and Bruce agrees that once the article is complete—it’s his. You can choose to strip your name from it completely. He’s free to sell it to the highest bidder outside of Gotham.

Though, with minor hassling, he agrees to consult with you beforehand before it goes anywhere to print.

Once the business is done, you find yourself falling into sort-of-easy conversation. It’s mostly one-sided because Bruce’s life is incredibly fucking boring. He’s unlike the other rich elites of Gotham – those with their smiling, plastic faces on glossy magazine covers.

“What?” Your prompt, leaning your elbows on the table, “Not even a single torrid and gut-wrenching love affair to share with your old friend?”

Bruce deadpans, “no.”

“What about Alfred?”

“No.” A little line appears between his eyebrows. It’s cute. You stifle a giggle in the back of your throat. “Unless he’s keeping secrets.”

You lean back in your chair, “I’ll ask him on my way out.”

You talk about work because it’s easiest. You tell him about your other articles – both published and tossed aside. You tell him about your brief period, post-Gazette, as a private investigator (“It was mostly trying to find out if partners were cheating on each other and I got bored fast” You clarify, “money was good though”). You tiptoe around any topic that implies you have a life outside of your work. Simply because you don’t. You fall asleep staring at your computer screen, up to your neck in research, and you wake up staring at the same screen. It’s a little…embarrassing…to consider how hollow your life is, but Bruce doesn’t leave his house. It’s not like he can judge you and you’d give him hell if he tried.

A notification on your cracked phone screen informs you that you need to go. You’ve got a meeting with Gordon in an hour. You already passed information off to the Bat. Now, it was time for Gordon to follow-up with you on the leads you gave him last week.

“I’ll walk you out.” He offers, falling into quiet step behind you.

You tease. “Always a gentleman.”

His lips twitch. You think he almost smiled. Now, It’s not perfect. You’re not slotted together at the hip like you used to be when you were kids. And he’s practically your boss now. But at least you’re talking again. At least it’s something. That’s better than the years of static and loneliness and complicated, yearning feelings you endured in your youth.

You press the button for the lobby with a short wave to Bruce in farewell.

His long pale fingers suddenly wrap around the silver, polished elevator door and he stops it from hissing shut. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips, and the arch of your brow. He looks …haggard – a little wild…like whatever he’s about to say or do is being ripped from his ribcage. Bruce is on a flimsy tether and he’s one rough pull from unraveling.

His voice dips low, stoking at an ember you weren’t aware of in the depths of your belly.

“You always used to close your eyes before saying yes to me.” His eyes pin you, their gaze darkening, and the rumpled slump of his shoulders tightens.

You grin. “That’s because you were an insufferable brat who always got his way.” You rapidly press the ‘close door’ button a few times. It doesn’t do anything, of course, because Bruce is white knuckling the door.

“Anything you need…” He trails off, then finishes his sentence with a gruff, “– just call.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You wave a hand, trying to be as nonchalant as possible with your heart trying to fucking escape from your chest like an Olympic acrobat. “I’m on the payroll now. Got it.”

You’re about to become the Queen of Multi-tasking.

*********

Fuck this fucking club, you think, as Falcone places his arm around your waist. It sends a clear message to the other creeps in here. He’s interested in you. Everyone else better back off or they’ll lose an eyeball. Your skin crawls. You put on a brave face. You giggle at his jokes. You pet the front of his blazer, curling up next to him in the booth, enduring his cigar-breath and fingers groping your thighs.

“How ‘bout we get outta here, sweetheart?” He asks, “I got something I wanna show you. Something that’ll make you feel good.”

You flutter your eyelashes, playing dumb, “really?”

Gordon followed some of Falcone’s cars to the shipping district and confirmed that Falcone was keeping the missing girls somewhere else. Gordon couldn’t breach the private warehouses without a warrant. And Batman has been MIA for the past two nights. You hope and pray that Falcone is planning to take you there now. You’re desperate for a lead.

“Yeah, baby.” He grins. “Remember how I was telling you that I’m getting into something big? Something groundbreaking? Well – tonight, you get to have a taste of it.”

You don’t want to be too eager. “Can’t we just go to your office?” You wine.

“No, no, baby.” He takes a long pull of his cigar, “I don’t keep it here.”

He signals for one of his boys to bring a car around. You don’t bother to hide your nervous and bouncy excitement. You mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for the car ride. So far, you’ve avoided Falcone’s mouth by dodging and playing coy and leaving before things get heated—but he’s a brute and a criminal. He’ll take advantage of the small space of the backseat. You’re sure of it.

Plus, he thinks you’re a runaway who is desperate for her next fix. He thinks you’re vulnerable and weak. He has no idea how wrong he is.

You hold the image of the missing posters at the forefront of your mind. You repeat their names as Falcone shoves his tongue between your teeth. You climb onto Falcone’s lap so he can’t reach between your legs and fantasize about Batman punching into Falcone’s slimy face.

Thankfully, it’s a short ride. You make a big show of pouting when the car door opens and then giggling as if you’re drunk at Falcone’s goon. Falcone leads you past some of the warehouses and into a small receiving office. You’re confused until he opens the door at the far end of the wall which leads into a narrow staircase.

Your lungs shrivel. It’s underground. You take Falcone’s offered hand and follow him down the stairs, counting each step, counting every breath. You hope the stairwell will open up into a larger space. You never did well in tight, confined spaces. You swallow thickly. You repeat the girl’s names over and over again like a mantra to salvation and sanity. Nearly halfway down and you start to hear low, echoing moaning. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting. Falcone doesn’t look back at you.

The universe is downright cackling at you when the stairwell ends, and you’re confronted with a wider-than usual hallway pocketed with doors. The air is chillier than above and you’re in a black mini dress and fighting off a panic attack. A full body tremor wreck through you. The urge to bolt, to run upstairs, digs its claws into you.

Falcone misinterprets your trembling, “don’t worry, honey.” He nods to one of his boys and they open one of the doors, “you’ll get what you want.”

You come face to face with one of the missing girls. Her cherry blonde hair is mussed over her damp, tear-streaked face. She’s curled on a mattress and muttering, quietly, to herself. It almost sounds like a song.

All self-preservation flies out the metaphorical window. Your heels click toward her, you crouch, and smooth her hair away from her face. Her big, brown eyes are glossy and distant. Wherever she is – it’s not here. And you’re thankful for it. Her hair is longer than her missing photo, but you recognize her. Her name is Karina. She broke up with her boyfriend and ran off after they had a fight. Falcone – or one of his people - must’ve grabbed her during the emotional turmoil and fallout.

Now, you’ve found her and there’s a high chance the rest of the girls are in the other rooms. You need to get to them. Gordon might not be able to shut this place down in time. The silver lining is that Falcone has limited security here. This is where he keeps the girls – not where he keeps the drugs. The few security goons you saw only carried pistols. You will get your hands on one. You’ll get these girls out.

You’re a journalist, not a hero. But doesn’t stop you from formulating a plan. If all else fails, you’ll reveal the ace in your sleeve, and tell Falcone about the tracker in your phone. It had been Batboy’s idea. It’s a one-of-a-kind program. Once activated, if you don’t check-in after 2 hours via a passcode, it alerts Gordon.

Come to think of it, it probably alerts Batman too.

“Don’t worry.” Falcone croons, “it’s more than pleasant.”

His goon grabs your arm. You almost jerk away until you remember yourself and let your wrist fall limp in their hands. You flinch at the bite of the needle. The world swims in vibrant, pulsing color. You cling to reality as feebly as you can. Whatever lucid part of your mind rationalizes that the high cannot last too long. Your tongue rests heavy in your mouth. The door echoes shut with a loud bang.

The walls close-in toward you. Shit, fuck, what the fuck?! Is the room collapsing? You press your hands to the concrete with a panicked gasp. Yes, yes, you feel vibrations. An earthquake? In Gotham!? It sounds implausible. Your mind is foggy, formulating thoughts through a haze of animalistic panic, your heart thundering so loud in your ears that you hear nothing else.

You hiccup, unaware when you started crying, your sluggish fingertips clawing at the flat, immovable walls that press closer and closer with every ragged inhale. A swarm of black spots dance like demons in front of your eyes.

You’re not even sure why you say—“Bruce?!” until you realize it’s because an earthquake is happening, and you’re stuck underground and he’s at Wayne tower and it’s going to collapse! And no one is going to be able to warn him and no one is going to be able to save him and no one is going to be with him and—Oh God!

The air is stale. You don’t have enough of it. You’re going to die in here. The realization hits you as the ceiling starts to drop. Tiny flecks of white plaster drop onto your head and into your eyes. They cloud your vision and burn. You want to curl up into a little ball and scream, but you suddenly remember you aren’t alone.

You grab Karina’s addled face, “we have to breathe slowly!” You shout to her over the noise of crumbling walls and plaster. “Slowly!”

You practice the correct slow and measured breathes to conserve oxygen. Karina doesn’t listen. She is crying. Her tears fall, fat and watery down her face. You keep trying to show her how to breathe like a mother teaching her child how to take their first steps. Karina is hopeless. She continues to wail and cry, and blubber apologizes and lamentations for her parents.

You stumble to your feet on the unsteady, shaking ground. Somehow, the metal door has withstood the ongoing earthquake. You’re not sure how this is possible, but you’re not going to spit on the blessing. Your fingers dig into the cold handle and tug. It gives way – unlocked – and you barrel into the hallway with watery knees. Another tremor of the earth and you shoulder into the doorway directly across the hall. Your body flares at the pain of impact.

Someone is screaming. It’s not Karina. Your face turns toward the sound. The collapsing world is a mess of greys and an off-shade blue that’s too unlike the sky and nearly nauseating. Every time you move your head, there’s an after-image of the world prior, like your mind is lagging and struggling to hold connection to your body and your visual receptors.

Batman is standing in the hallway. His cloak is billowing outward, led by an unknown wind, and you nearly collapse with relief. He can help. He can save Bruce and Karina and all the others. You don’t have to do it alone.

You scream, “Bruce!”

He reflectively jerks like someone slapped him. The elbow in his hand, held at an awkward and painful angle, is dropped. You lean your weight against the wall and stumble toward Batman to explain, your tongue still feels heavy, and your lips tingle.

“Bruce – my friend – my friend Bruce - you have to help him.” You grab Batman’s solid arm, heavy and black, but he’s the only thing not crumbling around you.

“There’s been an earthquake—didn’t you feel it?! And he’s on his own and someone has to warn him so he can -so he can get out. So, Alfred can get out. They live in a tower. It’s going to collapse. It’s going to collapse. Please, please, please, please. I can’t lose him again. Please, please, please.”

Your body won’t stop shaking. Your jaw tenses with a wild, deep urge to grind your teeth. “You’ve got tons of gadgets. Do a gadget. Help him. Help him, please.”

Batman is holding your face. When did that happen? You feel the heat of his palms through his gloves. Or maybe it’s you. Your skin is burning up. You feel the heat of it travel all the way down the back of your neck and across your chest. The words are slipping now like big slimy eels. Your tongue struggles to shape them.

“What did he give you?”

“Dunno.” You slur, your eyelids droop. “Karina. Other room. Help Karina. The girls. Help B—Bruce. Please. Please. Earthquake. Tell him. Hurry. Hurry.”

He squeezes your face, “Silver. Look at me.” He demands. “There’s no earthquake. It’s the drugs. Did you see where Falcone went?”

As if to prove him wrong, a piece of rubble falls from the ceiling.

It lands on him.

He collapses like a squashed bug. You shriek. The force of it renders your throat into bloody ribbons. You back pedal with arms flaring, blood hot and sticky on your face, and you trip over your feet. Someone is grabbing you, their grip strong, and they’re talking—but you can’t hear them. The walls are falling, falling, falling. You’re going to be buried alive. You failed. You failed the girls. You failed Bruce. You failed yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut because to look would be unbearable.

*********

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in a hospital. The white and blue gown is itchy and fits poorly. You rub your eyes and work the muscles of your aching, dry throat. Your body feels…mostly fine. There’s some minor discomfort at the back of your skull and your jaw.

Gordon says, “Quicksilver, you gave me a scare.”

You probe your memory and glance to your bedside where Gordon sits. “Take it from the top, Gordon, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You asking me as my friend or as a cop?”

He straightens his shoulders and his mustache quivers, “a friend.”

“Finding Karina in a sub-level below a shipment receiving office. Falcone’s men drugging me.” You chew at your lower lip, “I think…I think there was an earthquake?” Your mind snaps to Bruce and to his safety. The heartrate monitor betrays your unease.

Gordon mutters, “he mentioned that.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend in black.”

You sit up in bed, “he’s alive?!”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I – I saw him. I don’t know if it was the drugs or if it was real…but he was there.” You fuss at the sheets pooled around your waist, “I guess it was all a hallucination. Fuck. What was it?”

“The lab is running an analysis on your blood.” Gordon clears his throat, “we know it triggers the adrenal gland, and it induces auditory as well as visual hallucinations, and based on the other victims, we think it affects cognitive abilities as well.”

You make a mental note to ensure Gordon releases the analysis to you.

“Are they okay?”

“They’re badly shaken, but everyone is accounted for thanks to you.”

You weren’t sure what happened to Falcone and didn’t feel ready to ask, but if you had to guess—he likely weaseled his way out of there.

You relax a little into the pillows, “Gordon, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Can you call my boss?”

Gordon smiles faintly, “I thought you were freelance. Untethered, I think, was the word you used last time.”

“Fuck off.” You laugh, “I’m allowed to change my mind.”

*********

Gordon gave you the rundown of what happened while you waited for Bruce. Your app triggered shortly after you entered the shipment office. Batman was following you the whole evening (because of course he was! He’s worse than an overbearing grandmother).

When you didn’t check in, he assumed the worst and followed. Batman found you, rambling and sweating and screaming about an earthquake in the hallway. Batman called Gordon who arrived shortly thereafter with EMTs.

None of the doors keeping the girls were locked. A stronger dose, Gordon explained, usually rendered your body paralyzed. He theorized that Falcone must’ve wanted to see how you’d react first, but when Batman arrived, he fled. You decide not to think about what could’ve happened if Batman didn’t show up.

Gordon leaves the room to take a call. You’re left alone with your thoughts.

You rest your cheek along the stiff, bleach-smelling pillow and stare out the window to Gotham’s chrome brilliance. It’s overcast, painting the skyscrapers gray, the big, fluffy clouds reflect on every giant window. They promise rain. And when Gotham’s skies promise rain—she almost always delivers. You sigh.

Bruce hasn’t been in your life for more than three days and he was your first thought when you were in trouble. It is embarrassing. It’s heart-wrenching. You were on a drug-addled hellscape of your worst nightmare and what did you do? You begged Batman to keep Bruce safe. The seasons change, but your candle to Bruce Wayne hasn’t. He’s ingrained into you. The little white scar from his hallway table. The folded apology letter in the shoebox under your bed next to the faded, sun-washed photograph of you two eating watermelon slices.

The door creaks open.

“Hey, no hoodie this time! I’m honored.” You smile and try to infuse as much teasing and normalcy into your voice as possible.

The treacherous heartrate monitor betrays you again. Your pulse is erratic from simply looking at him. Truthfully, he looks like shit. All bedraggled, and sleep-deprived, and pale. He somehow manages to look more hollowed-out from when you saw him last. You wish whoever kept carving out pieces of Bruce Wayne’s heart out of his chest would just stop. But, sadly, the truth is that Bruce is the one holding that knife.

You kick the covers off your legs, standing when he approaches you, “you shouldn’t—” He says, but he’s too late. Too slow. You throw your arms around him. You tremble, hot and biting tears burn inside your lower lashes, and your hands fist the fabric of his heavy, woolen coat. His cologne is earthy, masculine, and warm.

It takes him a minute to wrap his arms around you. But when he does—oh God—when he does that’s when you shatter. You’re not sure how you have the energy to weep after everything that happened, but somehow, against all odds, you do. You cry messy, snotty tears into his expensive wool collar. He clings to you like he might just fuse your bodies together through sheer willpower alone. It nearly hurts. You gasp, muttering his name over and over again, through the salt and relief that clumps your eyelashes together.

“I was so scared.” You admit, voice small like a child, “I was so scared something happened to you and that I wouldn’t be able to reach you.”

“Me?” He rumbles, “what about you?”

You shrug and pull away to look up into his face. “I can take it.”

Bruce’s hand cradles the side of your face. You lean into it. His hands are cool and surprisingly calloused. His thumb catches an errant tear and brushes it aside. He looks at you like he’s about to give you something. His expression so earnest, so pained, that it momentarily steals the breath from your lungs. Your exhale quivers through your parted lips.

He says, quite simply, quiet plainly, vocal chords rough and strained; “I can’t.”

It feels like a declaration. It feels like a confession. The wretched heartbeat monitor has not stopped relentlessly beeping and displaying your desperate, aching heart. Your fingers crawl toward his jaw. His stubble scratches your palms. His pink tongue skirts across his plush lower lip. There is a question lingering in the fathomless depths of his blue eyes. You crane onto your tiptoes, edging closer, and Bruce finally asks the question in his eyes—

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

Your eyes close, “yes,” and you nod minutely.

His lips graze yours. You close the barely-there distance between your mouths. He sighs into your mouth. It tastes like inevitability. He presses you snug against the hard, lean muscled strength of him. He is warm, and strong, and safe. You start to pull away, but he chases your mouth with his, humming pleasantly and pleased, you feel the vibration of it from his chest.

His hand on your face slides to the nape of your neck and he holds you, securely, and almost possessively. Your tongue glides against the seam of his lips, and he opens willingly for you. You lick into his mouth with a selfish and needy whimper. This feels right. It feels good.

The door swings open, followed by Gordon’s voice, “They said they’d release—” You wrench your mouth free and hide your face in Bruce’s collar.

“Oh.” Gordon clears his throat.

You burst into laughter, bubbly and bright, traveling all the way up your stomach and through your nose like fizzy champagne. To your immense pleasure and surprise, Bruce doesn’t let you go. His grip relaxes, but he doesn’t release you. You stay pinned to his side. Hip to hip.

You wipe the residual tears from your face, “tell me I’m going home.”

“Under supervision, yes.” Gordon’s perceptive gaze flickers to Bruce. “The side-effects of the drug are unknown. They wanted to keep you here but I – uh – I argued against it.”

“She can stay with me.” Offers Bruce.

“Hell yeah!” You beam, “tell me you have the same mattresses. Please.” The sleepovers were rare, but you had fond memories of those squishy, expensive mattresses and throwing pillows at Bruce’s head. After the kiss…maybe you’d stay in Bruce’s room? A tiny light of hope ignites in your chest.

Gordon’s eyebrow lifts a notch. You ignore him.

“I have a guest room, yes.”

Well, that hope was short-lived. You stamp down on your disappointment and focus on the positives. You’re staying with Bruce. He won’t be a phone call away. He’ll be a few feet away at most. You can make up for lost time. Lord knows you’ve got plenty of it.

“Can I leave now?” You ask Gordon.

“There’s some paperwork you need to fill out, but generally, yes. You can leave whenever you’re ready.” He regards you, both professional and concerned, “are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod. “The less time I’m in a hospital, the better.” To Bruce you say, “can we stop at my place so I can get some clothes and my laptop?”

Bruce looks quizzically at you, “your laptop?”

“Mhm.” You nod, “for work.”

“I suggest we keep the Falcone investigation private for now, Quicksilver.” Gordon says with a worried pinch to his brow, “we don’t have enough evidence to charge him. I know you’re not really ‘The Press’ anymore, but you’d be doing us a favor.”

“Don’t get your tie twisted, Gordon. I’ve got other projects on my plate.”

Gordon hums, a deep sound low in his chest, and he gives a knowing glance to Bruce before leading you out.

*********

You try not to internally panic at the reality of Bruce standing in your awkwardly living room. His eyes roams over your bookshelves and to the messy, unkept pillows and blankets on your coach.

“I’ll just be a minute.” Your bedroom door softly clicks shut. You peel off the hospital scrubs they gave you. Your shoulder whines with sharp, throbbing pain. In the mirror above the bathroom sink, you prod the mottled bruises that decorate your shoulder and splatter like paint across your collarbone. You don’t remember hitting the door that hard. You change into bulky, comfortable clothes. You shove enough clothes for a few days into a backpack.

According to your discharge paperwork, the doctors advised you should be monitored for at least 72 hours. You exhale harshly through your lips. Three days with Bruce Wayne. What can go wrong? What can go right?

Maybe he’ll just hand you off to Alfred and call it a day. You chuckle to yourself.

“Okay,” You swing the door open, “I’m ready—h-hey!” You proclaim, frowning, seeing Bruce holding your laptop open in his hands.

He doesn’t even look up, one hand on the keyboard, the other flat beneath it. “Your laptop is grossly outdated.”

“First of all, invasion of privacy. Rude. I should kick you out.” You sidle beside him and peer around his arm, “secondly, how’d you guess my password?”

His lips curve upward into a smirk. Your stomach swoops and awareness prickles across the nape of your neck. You’re relieved there’s no longer a heartrate monitor to blast your embarrassing feelings on monochromatic display.

He says, “I got lucky.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh.

*********

The sound of your laugh unravels something in him. He’s been so careful, so distant, and yet one laugh from you and he’s weak. He wants to wrap you in his arms again and ensure you’re safe. He wants to drag Falcone by the hair to the steps of Gotham Police. He thought he mastered fear. He believed himself immune to it. He is shadow, and vengeance, and righteous fury.

But, at Falcone’s drug den, he was helpless to ease your suffering. His failure plagued him. It is forever buried into the deep reaches of his mind. Every possibility of what could have been flashes through his mind whenever he looks at you. Losing you would be…his stomach sours thinking of it. He avoids your perceptive gaze and carefully snaps the laptop closed.

He says, “you should change your password.”

Your nose scrunches. His heart pangs within the hollowness of his chest. All at once, he is seven years old again, chasing you in the park, and pretending summer would never end. He’s refined the art of missing you – of your necessary absence – and now all those careful, practiced skills are turning to dust.

“Why?”

He tucks your laptop under his arm, “the code is too obvious.” Said code is his birthday. The password implies that you’ve not forgotten him—despite his distance, his lack of friendship. He recalls your glossy, wild eyes begging the Batman to save him. Falcone’s drugs clutched you in a vice grip of madness and you thought of him. He doesn’t deserve it.

“So?” You shrug, but a nervousness enters your eyes and gives you away. “How many people know we’re friends? Like two people, right? The odds of those two people trying to hack my laptop for information are close to zero.”

He sighs. You’ve got that fiery, determined gleam in your eyes. There’s no winning this argument.

On the walk back to the car, you continue, “besides, all my important notes and files are encrypted with a different password. I browse anything online through a VPN. And—” You keep talking throughout the car ride. You fidget in your seat. You chew at your lower lip.

He realizes, albeit slowly, that the excessive rambling isn’t because you want to prove a point. It’s because you’re anxious. It’s likely because of Falcone’s continued freedom. His grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Falcone can’t reach you here.” He says levelly, “you’ll be safe at Wayne Tower.”

“Huh?”

“You’re…” He clears his throat, glancing sidelong toward you, “acting jumpy.”

“Oh.” You rub both of your hands over your face. You go quiet. You turn your face away, watching the city through the rain-speckled windshield. Bruce immediately wants to kick himself. Shit. He wants to comfort you, reassure you, not cause you to withdraw. He fumbles to find some type reply of that’ll get you talking again.

You reach over to the center dashboard and flick on the radio. An old, classic croons through the speakers. You rest your chin in your palm and continue to stare out the window. His fingers flex against the wheel with an errant, foolish wish to stretch across the space and settle his palm on your bouncing knee. The rest of the car ride is silent, save for the rain hitting the metallic roof, and the droning, sorrowful song in his ears.

*********

Bruce is painfully absent once you enter the tower. He doesn’t even explain why. He walks in with you and then vanishes like an impressive magician. You’re half-tempted to go knocking on walls and look for secret doorways.

Dory shows you to the guest room. She’s sweet and fusses over your comfort and keeps saying how nice it is to have a guest over. Alfred helps you connect to the wi-fi signal. He keeps you company in the room you’ve plugged your laptop into (the old beast can’t hold a charge anymore). You take notes about Arkham, you eat little sandwiches and fresh fruit, and force yourself into some semblance of normalcy. Alfred is a decent conversationalist, but you worry that he’s here to keep you occupied so you won’t go looking for Bruce. You push the thought away.

It's not like Bruce is avoiding you, right? He’s just busy doing weird billionaire reclusive stuff. You wrinkle your nose. What could Bruce be doing? Oh, God. Maybe Alfred is keeping you away, maybe Bruce has some freaky, embarrassing hobby. Like roadkill taxidermy and then he uses the taxidermy animals to produce original puppet shows.

Alfred says, “found something interesting, have you?”

You realize you’re smiling from the thought of Puppet-Show Bruce. You shake your head.

“I’m piecing together the etymology of the word Arkham to build my timeline for the hospital and the Arkham family’s influence. I want to see if any of it connects to the current medical board or the staff.” Your fingers continue to click-clack across your keyboard.

“It’s interesting. Usually, surnames will connect back to a specific occupation, or piece of land which you can cross-reference, but for Arkham there’s nothing.” You divulge these findings to a patient and attentive Alfred.

He smiles fondly, “I see.”

“You’re looking at me funny.” You squint at him.

“I’m just pleased you’re here.”

You press your lips together. A pleased, appreciative warmth prickles along your skin.

In the evening, Bruce doesn’t show up for dinner. And you start to wonder if you hallucinated the kiss at the hospital. But there’s no way, right? The drugs were flushed out of your system. You were of sound mind and body. Did he regret it? That is the only plausible and logical reason in your mind for his avoidance. He kissed you, regretted it, and now probably regretted having you in his house for the next three days.

You roll onto your side in the big, comfy bed. You can’t even enjoy it. Your stupid stomach is tied into knots thinking about Bruce-fucking-Wayne. You stare at the dark ceiling. OK. You can’t sleep. Fine. His home is temporarily your home. What did you do when you couldn’t sleep?

The chilly air bites your legs when you kick off the heavy, puffy covers. When the thoughts go loud, you go quiet, and focus your mind on something else. Bruce is dodging you, but at least he gave you something to do. Might as well be useful if you’re not going to be unconscious.

You’ve set up in the main parlor/sitting room/whatever-the-hell this room is with its heavy, iron lantern chandeliers and sleek, dark mahogany and bookshelf nooks. Your computer hums loudly to life on the desk and blue light spills across the woven, red tapestry rug. Behind you, the tall, cathedral-like window is sluiced with rainwater and pockets of light from Gotham below twinkle like an inverted night sky. Your files on Arkham flood the screen.

Your shoulders hunch forward, “okay, Dr. Mercer.” You mutter to yourself, “let’s see you’ve been up to.”

*********

He doesn’t know how to approach you as Bruce. He approaches you as the Bat. His cape and cowl do more than protect his identity from criminals. His mask is a shield. If he’s Batman—and not Bruce—he can do so much more. He can be more than just a man.

He watches you from the shadows. You’re hunched over your laptop, bloodshot eyes, fingers drumming on the hardwood, your face hardened and taught with concentration. You worked yourself to the bone, risked your life to save the missing girls. Not because anyone hired you to. Not because of the promise of fame or recognition Not out of ambition to try and get your old job at the Gazette back. But because you noticed a pattern. And you actually care. You brought it to Gordon, who gave what support he could within the confines of the justice system, but otherwise you worked alone. And despite the odds stacked against you, you succeeded.

If not for the tracker in your phone, he doesn’t know if he would’ve found you. Well, that’s only partially true. With the tracker, Bruce doesn’t know if he’d find you in time. But he knows – deep in whatever remains of his heart - if you were missing, he’d tear Gotham bolt-from-bolt to find you. He gingerly steps from the shadows, his cape dragging softly on the floor, and his boot intentionally hit a creaky floorboard.

You look up, eyes wide, and you don’t scream. Your throat bobs in a difficult swallow.

He says, “you weren’t at your apartment.”

“Instead of breaking and entering into my friend’s house—” Your brow pinches together, “you could have called.”

He is prepared for this conversation. The mask hides the slight lift of his brow. He steps behind you and peers over your shoulder to the computer screen. Your notes on Arkham are impressive. He doesn’t know how the ancient thing manages to hold enough memory to store it all.

“You asked me to check on him.”

“Yeah, but there wasn’t an earthquake.” You twist, turning your face toward him. A faint smell of mint toothpaste catches him off guard. The knowledge that you’ve settled into the tower, that you’ve done ordinary things like brushed your teeth and shared tea with Alfred, should scare him. But it doesn’t.

“Besides, I didn’t expect you to actually follow-through.”

He frowns. Has he already lost your trust in him?

“Why not?”

You turn back to your screen, shrugging mildly. “I saw you die.”

His breath hitches. How much pain did you endure from the moment the drug was injected? What other horrors did you see? And yet, here you are, continuing to research Arkham because he asked you to. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Anger rolls through his gut, hot and metallic in the back of his throat.

“You shouldn’t have gone near Falcone.” He grumbles, “I told you—”

You interrupt him. “And I told you I didn’t work for you.”

Yeah, that plan backfired magnificently. He assumed when he gave you the Arkham assignment, you’d step away from the Falcone case. He should’ve known better. Guilt, and anger, and self-loathing churn and mix like a dangerous, erratic cocktail. When you interrupted him, you turned around, and now he’s pinned like a butterfly by your gaze. Your nostrils flare gently as you stare up at him. Your eyes roam. He feels the heat of your eyes as they trail the square of jaw, the cleft of his chin, the shadowed expanse around his eyes.

“For the record, though…” You say softly, “I am glad you’re ok.”

His eyes drop to the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. The T-shirt you’re wearing is well-loved, buttery soft from frequent washes, and a few holes peeking around neck hole hem. His frown deepens. His glove skims the edge of your collar. Your pulse leaps inside your jaw, but you don’t flinch or step away.

He hooks his index finger into the fabric and gently tugs it aside. A scatter of dark bruises splotch over your collarbone and disappear into your shoulder. Everything in him goes tight like a bowstring ready to fire. His heart is thunderously loud in his ears. His eyes cannot move away from the bruise even as he notices your breathing pattern change.

“Falcone?” He says asks, lowly, dangerously.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. “A door, actually.” You don’t pull his hand away like he expects. Your fingers glide over his glove and loosely twine over his. Your hand is much smaller than his. It’s a strange detail to notice in this moment, but it’s the only thing that’s tethering him to sanity.

“I’m fine. I promise.” Your thumb rubs across his knuckles. He cannot feel it. And for once, he’s cursing his layered and protective armor. He cautiously turns his wrist and enfolds your fingers between his. You bite your lip and look away…almost shy. This would be the perfect time to kiss you. The rain gently is pattering against the window. There are no sirens or Bat signals to pull him away. He tilts forward, preparing to drop his mouth to yours…

“I don’t think Falcone is at the top of this pyramid.” You announce abruptly. He blinks.

He responds, “what do you mean?”

You untwine your fingers from his and walk around the desk and toward the bookshelf and the window. You pace back and forth in front of it like a race car on a plastic track. Around and around. Several steps, then pivot, walk the same steps in the other direction.

“Falcone is a sleazeball and an opportunist. I know he deals in uppers. Drugs like ecstasy, drops, cocaine…” You list off, clearly finding comfort in talking your problems aloud, “they’re expensive and addictive. But the drug they gave me and the other girls…that wasn’t a party drug.”

He knows. He has a sample of your blood being tested in the Batcave.

“What’s your theory?” He tracks your pacing form with his dark, smudged eyes.

“I’m thinking about the execution of the drug and its effects. It requires a needle. It induces a panic-like state.” You shake your head in uncomfortable remembrance, “it increases body temperature and effects cognitive functions. Could it be used in a controlled environment for torture? Probably. But that doesn’t feel financially ludicrous enough to tempt someone like Falcone.”

“You think it’s a prototype.”

“Exactly!” You snap your fingers and glow from within. His eyelashes flutter at the brilliance of your smile. “See? This is why we work well together.”

He can see the threads in the air that connect one thought to the next.

“Falcone is working with someone else.” It’s not a completely debased assumption to make. Falcone has plenty of business connections.

You offer him a distracted nod. “That’s my theory.”

A notch forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drops to the carpet, your thumb is pressing into the tempting lush shape of your lower lip. His heart careens into his ribcage in a desperate, love-struck attempt to break free. He can’t be with you as Bruce. Bruce has a secret identity, a secret life. But Batman is freedom. He’s the choice to wake up and try to make a difference. He’s fearless and fear inspiring. There’s only so few hours in the night and he can’t afford to lose them.

************

You explain, “it could be Penguin. It could be someone else. We’ll know more when Gordon has my blood report.”

It feels strangely liberating to talk this through with Batman. You can’t talk about it with Bruce—though you know he’s trustworthy, you’re not sure he’d support the…extremes…you take to uncover the truth. And you don’t want to worry him either. Hell, there used to be a time when you never kept secrets from him. Where did all the time go.

You sigh, shoulders slumping, and cover your hands over your face. If only Bruce would stop avoiding you, then you’d talk to him! God. You hope he doesn’t wake up and find you having a midnight fireside chat with Gotham’s vigilante. That would be awkward. You smile behind your palms. It would be awkward first, then funny.

Batman says your name delicately as if he might break it on his tongue if he’s not careful. The warm, supple heat of his gloves wraps around your wrists and gently pulls your hands away from your face. You are unsurprised to see the grim, flat line of his mouth, to see the haunted echo behind his cerulean eyes.

“It wasn’t me who saved those girls.” He says, “it was you.”

You find the carpet infinitely interesting. Wow. What is that pattern? Eastern-European? Late 19th Century? Is it Dracula Chic? The detail work is fantastic. The color is so rich and textured—

He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “You made a difference.”

You must’ve fallen asleep while working on the Arkham article. There is no way this is real. There’s no way Vengeance is complimenting you. It’s surreal. It’s impossible. His gaze drops to your mouth. His thumb lightly presses into your lower lip. Yes, this is definitely a dream. Your heart is pounding harder than the rainfall against the window.

Batman leans toward you, close enough to feel the feather-whisper of his breath on your lips. His heavily lidded eyes drag from your mouth to your eyes. A low electric pulse strums through your veins. Your finger scramble for purchase on his arm guards and squeeze in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. It could be real, it could be a dream, or it could be the side-effects of the drug.

“Is this real?” You mumble. “Because it seems like you—like you might kiss me.”

Batman’s gravelly voice responds, “I’d like to.”

You press your teeth into your lower lip. Bruce kissed you, but a kiss isn’t always pretense to a relationship. A kiss isn’t a promise to monogamy. Besides, you have your suspicions that Bruce is regretting the kiss anyway. There’s no harm in kissing Batman. You’re not betraying anyone. You touch his stubbled jaw with your fingertips and instinct pulls your eyes closed.

“Yes, you may.”

He sighs unevenly and then, his mouth is pressed into yours with surprising, desperate intensity. You clutch his face, opening your mouth beneath his, and moan softly at the first lick of his tongue against the roof of your mouth. Batman kisses you like he’ll die if he stops, like this kiss is all that stands between Gotham’s salvation, like he’s been waiting to kiss you for years. His tongue drinks in every soft, keening sound that he pulls from your throat. Your spine bumps into the window and you loop your arms around his neck. There is a feeling of complete, utter safety that envelopes you. And you melt into him.

His hands briefly move away from your face, but when they return—they are cool and calloused and firm. He cups your jaw, tilting your head back for him, and pressing the hard length of his body into yours.

He rasps, “I want to touch you.” His lips find the hollow spot of skin below your ear, “can I?” He suckles your skin, kissing his way down the side of your neck, explicitly careful of the bruises that dip below your collarbone.

“Yes, yes please.” Who knew Batboy could turn you into someone who whines?

His fingers hook around your sleep shorts and tug and—you hear and feel the fabric rip. You shiver in his arms, unafraid, and filled with nervous trepidation. Batman covers your mouth with his. You wish you could touch more skin beyond the scrape of jawline and his long, calloused fingers. His knuckles brush against the front of your clit and Batman hisses through his teeth.

Your hips eagerly shift, your blood ignited with desire, your head swimming with dizzying affection. He repeats in light, teasing strokes, back and forth, along your clit. Your finger slide for desperate purchase along the sleek, dark material of his armor. His other hand enfolds your wrists before pinning them together and lifting them over your head. Your knuckles rap lightly against the cool window.

“Ohhh,” You smile with understanding. His mouth latches onto your jaw and a soft hiss is pulled from your lips when his stubble scratches your sensitive skin. “You can touch, but I can’t?”

“Something like that.” He hums. His fingertip swirls over your swollen clit and it earns him another pitched moan from the back of your throat. His index finger glides between your folds and thank God he’s kissing you—thank God—because the sharp, ragged cry that you release would’ve woken the whole tower. He swallows your moans, relishing them. He grunts with pleasure when his finger plunges into you, covered in your arousal, and your walls flutter around him. He pumps his finger in and out of you, the sound of it slick and debauched, stoking the fire from deep within your abdomen.

“Be good and keep your hands up there.” He releases your wrists.

Out of sheer curiosity about what he’ll do next—you decide to listen. He kisses you senseless, kisses you breathless, and you’re certain it must be a distraction technique because there’s another ripping fabric sound from below your waist. Farewell, sleep shorts. You don’t mourn their loss for long because Batman plunges another finger into your wet, aching cunt. His thumb presses onto your clit and there’s something…clumsy…about the way he touches you. Unpracticed. Oddly, it’s a turn on. Batboy might wear a fancy belt, but it doesn’t look like he’s got many notches on it.

“Like that.” You breathe, rocking your hips in time with his fingers, “yes, yes, yes—" His thumb presses firmer, the concentric motion growing frantic, and your body tenses. You forget his instruction to keep your hands to yourself. You grab his face, hold him close, your lips smear messily along his cleft chin and pouty lips. You release a strangled moan when his fingers curl inside you.

“Stay quiet.” He warns with some difficulty. His eyes burn into your warm face. As if you’ve forgotten that you’re in Bruce Wayne’s study getting finger fucked by Batman. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

You choke out, “y-yeah, I k-know.” You squeeze your eyes shut, head lolling backward, his mouth on your throat. The familiar tightening and tensing of your lower abdomen heralds the final peak of your desire.

“I’m gonna—” Your voice pitches higher, “cum. I’m gonna cum.”

Batman gives a sweet little drawl of, “please,” at the hollow of your throat.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You shatter around his fingers, gush over his knuckles, your fingertips like claws on his biceps. Your mouth hinges open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. He hasn’t stopped touching you. His thumb continues to stroke your over-sensitive clit. You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sounds he’s plucking from you like a trained violinist. Your body spasms, twitching, the come down of your orgasm only promising another quick release if Batman keeps toying with you.

“I want to feel you,” says Batman into the shell of your ear, “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Fucking hell.” You blink, dazed, and swallow roughly. “Right now?”

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you. “Yes.”

“O-okay.” You nod and are surprised your brain and vocal box can string together a single sentence. Batman turns you to face the window. Gotham twinkles and shines, gray and bright, as rain travels like independent rivers the windowpane. You flatten your palms against the glass and flinch in surprise at the first touch of his cock near your sensitive folds. He slides his cock back and forth between your folds, not entering you, just slickening his cock with your earlier release. Your eyes roll backward into your skull. Your heart thunders loudly in your chest. Just through the sense of touch alone, you can surmise the girth and length of him. You can already imagine how he might fill you.

You arch on your tiptoes, rocking your hips into his, and whine lowly. His fingers come to settle on your waist.

He says, “stay very still for me.”

“You should know by now that I’m not very good at following directions.” You tease with a lopsided smile.

The rumbling that comes from behind you sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. But, before you can turn back and see if Batman is smiling—the tip of his cock thrusts into your cunt. The world goes white.

“Oh, fuck me!” You gasp brokenly. Batman inches himself deeper, and deeper, holding your hips firm between his strong, calloused hands. He stretches you wonderfully, fills you, and your walls squeeze around him in an instinctive, desperate attempt to garner more closeness. He bottoms out. Your stomach muscles clench. Your frantic breath fogs the glass. The seconds tick by in agonizing slowness. Your body quakes. Your fingers curl with a quiet squeak on the glass. He said stay still but didn’t give a time limit. You wrestle against the instinct to start grinding your hips, desperate for friction, desperate to satisfy the craving that’s burning inside of you.

You look over your shoulder and Batman’s jaw is dropped open in pure, lustful awe.

You say, “please.”

His striking, blue eyes lift from your joined bodies and his upper lip glistens with sweat. He clears his throat.

“You feel…” He grunts and bows his head, “will you touch yourself for me?”

You nod. Your hand tucks between your legs and finds your swollen, slick clit. Your fingertips brush against the hard, impressive length of him buried deep inside you. Batman groans through clenched teeth. With every stroke of your fingers, your inner walls squeeze his immobile cock, and you try—you really, really do—to not move your hips and start thrusting.

You manage it for like thirty seconds. It’s not even intentional. You’re rubbing your clit, panting with soft little ‘ah ah ah’s. Next thing you know, you’re dragging your hips away, and letting out a deep, unrestrained moan at the feeling of his cock sliding along your walls.

Batman suddenly crowds you, pushing you up against the window, and your breasts squish into the cold glass. Your nipples pebble beneath your thin, old t-shirt.

“I—” You begin to explain yourself, or apologize, but the words rapidly dissolve on your tongue as Batman thrusts into you. You place your both palms on the glass to steady yourself again. At this angle, the head of his cock keeps hitting a deep, toe-curling spot inside you. A collection of stars dance and twirl in front of your vision like fairy dust.

You’ve forgotten the earlier instructions to stay quiet. Your moans punctuate each thrust and Batman doesn’t try to muffle you. At this rate—you’ll take the awkwardness of Bruce walking in if it means Batman doesn’t stop.

Through heavily lidded eyes, you watch down at Gotham as Batman – the masked vigilante, Vengeance, your partner – fucks you like it’s his last night on earth. He grunts from deep within his chest. Your walls squeeze. Your thighs shake. The side of your face presses into the glass, too tired to hold your head upright, and your cheek and flecks of saliva smudges the pristine surface. Everything pulses with white-hot heat and frenzied intensity.

You blindly reach behind you and grab hold Batman’s wrist. His hand twists beneath yours, and for a wild, panicked second, you’re worried you’ve crossed a line, you think he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He traps your hand under his and clutches your fingers, twining them together like a Celtic knot, squeezing the delicate bones in tandem with his eager thrusts.

“Oh, oh fuck.” You announce emphatically. Every atom, every nerve, every muscle, is wound up tight inside you like a spring-loaded weapon. Your inner legs are slick with arousal and sweat pools at the dip of your spine. The windowpane is blotched with evidence of your clawing fingertips and haggard breath. All the tension inside of you snaps. You come undone. Your walls grip around his cock. He says your name with feverous reverence, with glimmering absolution, with greedy satisfaction.

Praise drips like rainwater from his mouth, “you’re so good for me.”

In the haze beneath the din of your blissed-out cry, Batman quietly says, “it’s you - you’re - I—“ and whatever else he would’ve said is swiftly pulled into the undercurrent of his bitten-off moan. He buries himself to the hilt, pressing you flat against the window, and shudders as his cock swells and pulses inside you. His arms encircle your waist, your spine rests snug—if uncomfortable—into the hard planes of his armor.

You droop, boneless and sweating, and listen to the rapid, deep, and booming beat of your heart. Batman’s haggard breath fills your eardrums alongside the pouring rain. Your eyes gently open. You are greeted by dark, warm mahogany and weathered book spines, and a woven, expensive rug. Your laptop purrs on the desk behind you.

The room looks the same. Yet, your world has changed. Batman doesn’t move. In the muddled, rain-streaked reflection of your visages, you see Batman tilt forward and rest his forehead in the middle of your back between your shoulder blades. His warm breath slips through the fibers of your t-shirt and your skin prickles with goosebumps.

You hope he doesn’t let go (you’re gonna collapse onto the floor if he does). Your eyes slip closed again, because—what’s the point in keeping them open? You could sleep here for a few minutes. Then you’ll crawl your way to the guest room later after Batboy leaves. You loosen your grip on his fingers and sigh languidly.

If your eyes had been open, you would’ve seen the longing that ensnares his expression.

*********

He wishes he could stay here forever in the warmth of you. He’s carried the memories of you like a candle in the dark. He never imagined, never thought, that he would experience this with you. You fit him so perfectly—it’s maddening. It’s an impossible dream. He catches his reflection in the glass. He can’t forget who he is. He can’t forget his family’s legacy. He’s Vengeance. Allowing himself closer to you would only result in heartbreak. And Bruce made a promise a long time ago to protect you from any pain. This can’t happen again.

He waits until his cock softens inside of you before pulling out. You mumble something completely intelligible. His lips quirk in fondness. You are normally so eloquent—you talk fast, waving your hands in dramatic displays, and piece together missing puzzle pieces at hundred miles per hour. A sense of pride smolders in his gut. He can make you speechless. He pours water onto the ember. This won’t happen again.

He adjusts himself and collects you easily in his arms, one arm beneath the bend of your knees, the other scoops around your back.

“I can walk.” You grumble, your sweaty head falling against his shoulder, “put me down.” He doesn’t bother listening. He walks silently through the dark halls of his home. Your breathing slows and your hand slides off your stomach, dangling to the side.

He crosses the threshold into your room and lays you carefully onto the disheveled bed sheets. His fingers trail across your jaw. He selfishly drinks in the sight of you in the muted, orange glow of the bedside lamp. You are achingly lovely, and clever, and stupidly determined. Your golden lion heart will be his ruin. Your eyelashes flutter in a dream. He hopes it’s a good, happy dream. He hopes you aren’t plagued by nightmares like he is.

He draws the covers up to your chin. The back of his knuckles caress your cheek in a lingering and lonely farewell.

*********

Someone knocking on your door is what wakes you. Not your phone alarm. Not the muted, cloud-struck sunlight bleeding through the big windows. You grumble and make a noise that sounds like “come in.”

You blink in confusion at Bruce standing in the doorway. You were expecting Alfred or Dory. His dark hair lays flat against his scalp and little droplets drip from his earlobes onto his gray t-shirt. Fondly, he reminds you of a drowned rat. You smile.

“Hi.”

Bruce takes that as an invitation to walk in. Your shirt reaches an inch or so above your knee, but when sitting, it’s basically useless to cover below your waist. You adjust the bedsheets to ensure he can’t see your nakedness. You have no clue what Batman did with your shorts and underwear. Did he keep them? It’s not outside the realm of possibility, you think, for a guy who dresses up like a bat to fight crime.

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, “hi.”

He fidgets with a bulky wash towel in his hands. He meets your gaze, then avoids it, strangely skittish for the man who shoved his tongue in your mouth in a public hospital room. You open your mouth to comment on it—but he speaks before you can.

“Can I see your shoulder?” says Bruce. Your mouth snaps shut with a comical clack of your teeth. How did he know about that? Then you remember Dory. On your first night, she—due to doctor instruction—waited outside the bathroom when you showered. Her thin, wrinkled mouth pursed when she saw your bruises, but she didn’t say anything. She must’ve reported back to Bruce. You couldn’t be upset with her, though. You liked her too much.

You grin, your tone playful, “what? You want me to take my top off?”

Bruce smirks and looks away from you, sighing indulgently. Your heart melts.

You poke his thigh, “close your eyes.” You immediately register the muscled tenseness of his leg but brush it off. He’s a billionaire hermit who doesn’t skip leg day. Who would’ve guessed.

He starts, “you don’t have to—”

“Close ‘em.”

He bites his lower lip, briefly, before shutting his eyes. You wince when you pull your old shirt over your head, but you manage without difficulty. You take the sheets pooled around your waist and tuck them under your armpits. In full light, in full view, the bruises follow the curve of your shoulder and into your collarbone. You take a minute to wonder if Falcone’s prototype drug affects blood thinness. You file the thought away for when you’ve got your results in hand.

“Okay.”

Bruce’s breath snags in his mouth. His nostrils flare. Under his scrutiny, his desperate gaze, your skin throbs dully with pain. You swallow roughly as Bruce’s fingers come close to your skin, but don’t touch you. He traces the mottled landscape with his eyes. His sooty eyelashes flutter, blinking away some errant thought, and he peers at you through his wet hair.

“How’s it feel?” He asks.

You say, “I only notice it only if I’m moving that arm.”

“You should be icing it.”

You chuckle. “You sound like Alfred.”

Bruce lifts the washcloth from his lap, “lucky for you, I brought some ice with me.” His hand hovers over the worst bruise, the part of your body that took the full, animalistic force of the door. He looks at you in silent askance. You don’t even need to think about it. You trust him. You bite your lower lip and nod.

He gently, oh-so-delicately, applies the cold compress to your injury and you inhale sharply. His gaze snaps away from your shoulder to your face, his brow furrowed.

“It’s cold.” You press your lips together.

He smiles faintly, ducking his head, and hiding the full sight of his smile from you.

“That’s the point, Silver.” He cradles your elbow in his other hand and methodically places the cold compress on the injury for a few minutes before moving to another section of your skin. His eyes remain focused on his task, only looking at you when you make a sound of discomfort. A prickle of goosebumps flush across your skin.

When the compress comes to your collarbone above your breasts, you lift your eyes to the ceiling, and the cold sensation radiates outward. You shouldn’t feel warm while Bruce is tending to your injuries. Yet, your body – treacherous as it is – hums with warmth and slow, deep throbs of desire.

Even after your…adventure…with Batman last night. It can’t erase how you feel about Bruce. He’s etched into you like the lines on your palms. Your heart has his fingerprints all over of it.

You try to focus on other thoughts, like Falcone, or the Arkham project, but holding onto your thoughts is impossible. It’s like holding tendrils of condensation that puff in front of your face in cold mornings. It all circles back to him. His gentle hands. The smell of his shampoo. The water dripping into his eyes. The length of his eyelashes. The bridge of his nose. His steady inhale-exhale.

Bruce asks quietly, “will you tell me how it happened?”

Your brow wrinkles, and something akin to grief crawls into your throat, “it’s not a happy story, Bruce.”

His hand, chilly and familiar, caresses your throat. His thumb grazes across your pulse. “I know.”

You close your eyes. “Okay…” you take a deep breath, “it all started when I noticed a pattern of girls from the same age group going missing…”

Bruce listens to all of it. Your dead-ends at other bars and clubs. The connections you made about the girl’s being runaways or estranged from their families. The terrifying close calls with drug dealers, who either wanted to rob you or kill you, or the other criminals—who usually wanted to do worse. The little help you got from Gordon. Your eventual success in getting Falcone’s attention. The shipyard. The drugs. The hallucinations you saw, what you felt, all the terror and panic, and the worry.

You omit the fact that Batman was there. And has been there since the beginning of your days as a freelance, reckless journalist.

You hate lying to Bruce, but the story is more believable if you say Gordon was following you and just called in the EMTs. That’s easier to explain that then ‘yeah, I work with Batman, and he installed a custom app in my phone to protect me.’

At the end of the story, he says, “the drugs triggered what happened when we were kids.” And his words floor you. You haven’t thought about that in years. A lightbulb switches on inside your mind, bright and humming, and you gasp with delight and surprise. It wasn’t just a random hallucination. It was triggered by memory, by fear.

“Bruce! You’re a genius!” You grab your tossed aside shirt and awkwardly pull it over your head. If Bruce unintentionally sees a bit of skin, well, it won’t kill him.

“I gotta call Gordon.” You grab Bruce’s face between your hands and plant a kiss square on his forehead. “Thank you!”

You clamber off the bed, feet nearly slipping on the hardwood, as you snatch your phone from its charging spot near the door.

Bruce says your name, freezing you momentarily.

“I thought…” He swallows, “I thought it was over with Falcone.”

You shrug, then wince. “It’s not over for me until he’s behind bars.”

He slides from the bed, approaching you, and he pins you with his gaze. “But you’re not investigating him anymore, right?”

“I can’t leave this loose end untied.” You clutch your phone tightly between your hands. “I don’t…I don’t expect you…to understand. It’s…”

Hell, you hardly understand it yourself.

“It burns me up inside, Bruce.” You say fervently, “I can’t leave a job unfinished. Yes, the girls are safe. Yes, I’m safe. But Falcone and his associates remain at large. The drugs’ location and his supplier are unknown. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”

You pause, and consider another angle, “I promise I’ll still have time for the Arkham article.”

He holds the side of your face, his expression pained, “you think that’s what I’m worried about?”

“I don’t…” You trail off, searching his eyes, and your mouth goes dry. When did Bruce start looking at you like you were the first sight of land after days lost at sea?

“Let Gordon and the PD handle Falcone.” He whispers.

“But this is important!” You argue, clutching the front of Bruce’s soft shirt, “Gordon needs to know what the drug actually triggered.”

“Fine.” His gaze hardens but raw concern is etched across his face, “you’re going to get hurt if you keep chasing Falcone.”

You smile to yourself. “Another friend of mine said the same thing.”

“I meant what I said in the hospital, Silver.” His thumb crests over the delicate space below your eye. “I care about you. I – I don’t know what I’d do if…if….”

Your heart squeezes like a vice.

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then you should know the feeling is mutual.” Your lip quivers. “But lucky for me, you’re a vitamin D deficient shut-in who is best friends with a sixty-year-old man.”

“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that.”

You laugh softly and it breaks some of the tension in Bruce’s shoulders.

“I know it looks easy from the outside. I could get a different job. I could work the Arkham article for ten years and drain the Wayne bank account dry.” You smirk, then control your expression into one of seriousness. If Bruce wants any semblance of a relationship with you, then he needs to know this. This is your non-negotiable standpoint.

You say slowly, “but…for me…this is it. This is who I am.”

“A journalist with a death wish?” There is the barest hint of dry humor in his voice.

“A journalist who believes Gotham can change. All the crime and corruption doesn’t have to be the status quo.”

Bruce sighs softly and you know you have him. He can’t argue against your valiant, golden hope for a better Gotham. A safer Gotham. You believe in this truth and nothing, not even the man who holds your heart, can shake you from that conviction.

You lean forward and nuzzle your nose along his. “Be thankful I’m not dressing up and fighting crime.”

“There’s still time.” He murmurs good-naturedly.

You hum in agreement. “Hm. Maybe next year.”

Your lips ghost over his, “I think this is the part where we kiss and make up,” you mutter.

“Is it?” He guides your face to tilt to the side.

“Mhm.”

Bruce kisses you slowly. There is a lazy Sunday afternoon, bathed in golden light, hidden somewhere inside the kiss he gives you. You’re not sure if that afternoon is the near future or the very distant. But you want to discover it. You want to hold it tenderly in your hands, the same way you are holding Bruce’s jaw, and nurture it until it blossoms into a thousand, bright orange butterflies that carry hope with each flutter of their wings.

When you pull your mouth away from his, he asks a simple, modest request, “stay.”

And you are more than persuaded to indulge him.

(Part two)

*************************

((tag list: @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid ))

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #battison x reader #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x y/n #batman x fem!reader #battison x you #dc fic #the batman fanfic #fic: from above gotham glows

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Note

Bestie- u didn’t just deliver u served and I’m the greedy gremlin who’s eating this up, that was amazing, he’s so skrunkly I love him 😔Ur gonna kill me here but bestie I need them to meet I can’t 😩

This is the effect of me doing sudokus and crosswords in the ethics lecture... Was listening to Jasmine Thompson's cover of 'Rather Be' while writing this and honestly?? A whole mood

Imagine the Riddler being your secret admirer. - Part 3

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 4] [Part 5]

That day felt weirdly long as if hours were stretching out as much as the universe would allow them to. You haven't felt that tired and fed up in quite a while, dreaming about the soft comfort of your own bed during your commute back home.

Home, however, had another surprise in store for you:

"Perfect timing, Eddie," you said to yourself as you tore the envelope off your front door. "Could use a little pick-me-up."

You opened the letter and couldn't help the surprise at the front of the card you were given. For some reason, it said "Invitation" in fancy, glittery writing. Inside, on the left side was another torn-out page from a poetry collection.

Underneath an apple-tree Sat a maiden and her lover; And the thoughts within her he Yearned, in silence, to discover.

Under the piece of a poem were written only two words: "Meet me". Your gaze followed the vague message to the right side of the card where a small map was drawn. It looked like a bird's view of a restaurant or a bar with a question mark drawn over one of the, as you had assumed, tables like the little map was the continuation of the unfinished sentence. On top of the drawing was scribbled an address, a date and an hour. You were supposed to meet him in a week's time.

From that moment on, you could hardly think about anything else and, little did you know, so did he. It was going to be a fateful Wednesday evening.

"That's the place," you whispered to yourself as you checked the GPS on your phone again.

You found yourself standing before a desolate diner that looked like it was taken straight out of Quentin Tarantino's movie. But you had to admit that the Pulp Fiction feel to the locale was charming in some way as if gracefully continuing your dilemma whether you were now the main character of a rom-com or a slash horror film.

"Here goes nothing," you said with a sigh. With each step towards the front door of the diner, your restlessness was only increasing.

The bell near the door chimed cheerfully as you hesitantly entered the building. At first, you couldn't see a soul inside - even the waitress was more of a cryptid as you could only hear her quiet chatter with the cooks coming from the kitchen. They left the door slightly ajar. According to the drawing, the marked table should be the one under the vintage-style graffiti with a pin-up girl holding a tray of apple pie. Your heart stopped for a moment, seeing that the booth was occupied.

Ever since he sat down in that booth, he'd been eyeing the door, waiting for the fateful moment you enter. The muffled laughter of the waitress rung in his ears and Eddie was half-convinced that she was laughing at him. After all, who was he to ever believe that you were actually going to show up? That you would be anything but disgusted with him?

He watched as you checked his little drawing once more. You turned your head towards him and Ed could swear the time actually slowed down if not entirely stopped when your gaze met his. The moment you realized that it was him, a bright smile appeared on your face, making Eddie's palms even sweatier than they already were. He just knew he was going to mess things up - there was no way in Hell that he could impress you. That much was obvious to Eddie.

You were just so... unreal to him. There he was: the loser, the loner, the butt of the joke and there were you, the epitome of grace approaching the table he was sitting at. He couldn't believe his own senses, some anxious beast still gnawing at his thoughts, that you didn't immediately turn around and left once you saw him.

"Hey," you said softly as you sat down across from him.

"H-hi," he nervously stuttered out.

Eddie looked more or less as you expected him to: a quiet, kind of awkward and easy-to-overlook guy who had no idea what he had gotten himself into. Your friends always found it very amusing that you had a thing for underdogs. No matter how strange it might sound to anyone else, you thought there was a certain charm to his awkwardness like an adorable deer caught in headlights.

"You have great taste." You waved the "invitation" card before putting it back into your purse.

"In what?" Eddie asked sheepishly. His mind was fluctuating between blankness and intrusive thoughts, so coherence and reason weren't something he could count on at the moment.

You shrugged. That bright, showstopping smile was still on your face and Eddie felt he wouldn't be able to look away from you even if he wanted to. "Poetry. Flowers," you counted. "Girls."

His chubby cheeks turned crimson red at your words. Your confidence made him even more aware of his incapacitating insecurity. Eddie believed his intrusive thoughts: there was nothing he could delight you with.

"I loved your riddles," you confessed. "You're really good at it."

A flutter of his heart and a ray of lovesick hope.

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dreamtinblackandwhite · 3 months

Text

The Blood in the Truth - Part One

Summary: Y/N is the niece of Alfred Pennyworth and childhood friend to Bruce Wayne. Feeling disappointed with her career, she goes out of her way to investigate the cases nobody else wants to.

Note: This is part one of an idea I have been toying with! It takes place prior to the events of The Batman (2022) but is inspired by Robert Pattinson's Batman. Y/N, her, she is reader - I kept the physical descriptions to minimum.

Warnings: physical assault, brief/implied sexual assault (nothing graphic), swearing.

Word count: 7412

Y/N Pennyworth is the niece to Alfred Pennyworth, who has worked for the Wayne’s for many years – she even considered Thomas and Martha Wayne to be an aunt and uncle with how they happily welcomed her own family when they moved to town. They were often invited to family gathering and public events simply for being family to their butler.

The manor was busy and chaotic by 11:00pm that cold night in 1999; it seemed like the entire police department had shown up to help investigate the murder of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne. Bruce, who had been there when it happened, was escorted back to his home by the chief of police. Y/N, whose parents were away visiting family in Britain, had been sleeping on the sofa in the large living room when she was woken up by the panicked and worried voices of the staff.

Alfred rushed young Bruce, his dress clothes were stained with the bright red blood of his parents, into the living room. Y/N noted the puffy redness of her uncle’s eyes as he fought off his emotions so he could focus. “Stay here with Y/N, Bruce,” he commanded hurriedly, but kept a loving tone to his voice. “We need to take care of a few things before I can get you some new clothes.”

Bruce, looking detached and frozen, simply nodded and sat on the sofa. Y/N didn’t say anything, she’d heard enough of the conversations from the other room to understand what had happened. She sat next to her long-time friend and gently intertwined her fingers with his, squeezing his hand gently. He didn’t squeeze back, he just stared ahead as his mind attempted to accept what he had just lived through.

Eventually, the eight-year-old fell asleep, his head leaned against Y/N’s right shoulder. No one came to check on them; there was a specific protocol for each member of staff to follow in the event of the untimely deaths of their employer and it had sprung into action within minutes of the attack at the theatre. Y/N, though she certainly wasn’t a member of Wayne’s staff, allowed herself to think that her role was to comfort Bruce.

So that’s what she did, that night and the years following his parent’s death. She was right there, by Bruce’s side: she was the first one he talked to about what had happened; she stayed next him while he gave his statement to the police; she stayed next to him at the funerals; she stayed next to him at each public appearance his families name required.

Bruce was happy she was his friend through it all, he was happy she never pushed him or asked him more questions on it. She made him feel more alive slowly over the years, bringing back that small light that died with his parents. Even when Bruce went away to boarding school, when he returned home, it was like no time had passed.

Alfred, who was named Bruce’s legal guardian, had started Bruce on sparring lessons after he received a worrying letter from the Headmaster about Bruce’s attitude at school. It helped as Bruce learned to fight and put his anger into something new. Y/N watched most nights, memorized their movements, and practiced in the safety of her own home after she’d leave them. But it didn’t take long before she asked her uncle to teach her as well.

By the time Bruce settled into his secrete role as Batman, he and Y/N had fought together thousands of times. Alfred, not entirely happy with Bruce’s choice of vigilante lifestyle, supported him under the condition that he wouldn’t tell Y/N; he worried it would encourage her to follow a similar path. Bruce agreed, only because he knew after those first few months that he’d need someone to help stitch him up and who else could he trust other than the man who had stepped up to be his father.

Y/N went a different route with her life anyway. Her parents had moved their family out of Gotham before Y/N had even graduated high school, she attended university and got her degree in journalism before returning and joining the staff of ‘The Gotham Times’ as a photo journalist. She was early in her career which didn’t allow for many distractions. Bruce and her friendship suffered only slightly, it wasn’t uncomfortable between them but they didn’t know each other anymore, not like they used to.

Alfred had promised her parents to keep an eye on her in the busy city and forced Y/N to join him at the manor for a home cooked meal once a week. She agreed, mostly so she could see her long-lost friend again, who would sometimes join if he were feeling up to it. She never pushed, just as she never did when they were kids; she was happy to spend the time alone with her uncle.

Most of the dinner conversations each week focused on Y/N’s career: what stories she was working on, what stories she wants to write soon, what she will do to reach her goals, etc. Alfred was very proud of his niece, she seemed to love her position and was continuously getting praise from her bosses. But Y/N hid her own disappointment from him. She wasn’t doing the journalism that she wanted to do – she was fluff for the newspaper. They never gave her the big pieces, always putting her on assignments that called for her to interview people who found a chip that resembled the chief of police or their dog has the world record for the highest jump.

She went out of her way to collect her own stories, posting them anonymously when her boss would again skip over her for the job after assuming she didn’t have the guts to write it. That’s what she was doing now, working a story. She had gotten a job at the Iceberg Lounge under the pseudonym of ‘Lucy Porterfield’ in order to investigate a new drug that has hit the streets. She worked as a waitress and bartender, and even had proven herself enough to be a drug run for the Penguin himself. She always kept her ears open as she worked these shifts, taking mental note of the information she’d hear and then returning home to write all of her notes.

It was midweek, Wednesday, finally. Y/N worked on her articles from her work desk until 5pm; it was a simple day and nobody bothered her. She rushed about of the building by 5:02pm, she had to go to the store before heading to Wayne Manor for weekly dinner. Wednesday’s she always woke up and went to bed with butterflies in her stomach. She spent all week looking forward to the minor possibility of seeing Bruce, even if he just happened to walk through the kitchen as she cooked. The sight of him alone, alive and breathing, was enough to keep her going at her menial job for another week.

Today was no different, of course. She fidgeted anxiously with the paper grocery bags in her hands as she rode the subway towards the manor. She knew it was stupid, she knew he thought of her as his sister from his childhood, but she couldn’t erase the feelings she had developed over the years. She had thought after she moved away that maybe her school girl crush would fade. And when that didn��t work, she forced herself to go on handfuls of boring, soul draining dates just in hopes she’d meet someone who affected her the way Bruce did.

As she left the subway platform and started the short walk towards the manor, she mentally examined her outfit choices. She had decided on blue jeans that hugged her comfortably and a black turtle neck that would show an appropriate amount of her curves. She paired it with a dark brown woolen coat that stopped just above her ankle and black slip on boots that gave her just an inch of height.

It wasn’t much, and again she knew it was stupid to worry about what Bruce thought of her appearance. But she almost enjoyed the nervous pit she had every time she thought if he’d like the outfit or not. Y/N had her own codes to get through the main gate and into the service door that lead directly to the kitchen. This was the first thing Bruce ‘decided’ when Alfred decided he had reached the age to begin making decisions for the house. He’d wanted his best friend to be able to come and go as she pleased.

Y/N set the two grocery bags onto the counter and leaned against the door frame to remove her boots. Bruce, who had surprisingly woken up earlier than he normally would have after the night he had, was waiting to hear the door open in just the next room over. As soon as he knew Y/N was in the house, he made his way into the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, waiting to announce himself as he examined her.

So, yes, Bruce also had a crush on Y/N. He refused to admit it to anyone, wouldn’t even allow himself to imagine telling Y/N of his feelings or what sort of relationship they could have. He had convinced himself that after all the years and everything Y/N had seen him through, he surely already alienated himself for her. He was positive there was no way she’d ever learn to love him after she’d seen his grief and anger in such a first-hand point of view. That’s also what made it easier not telling her he was Batman, he already had practice with pushing her away.

He examined her, enjoying the way her hair fell in front of her face as she bent over to take her boots off, noting how her soft, small hands moved as she tugged off the shoe, before finally deciding to let her of his presence. “Hi, Y/N,” he breathed, his voice was still raspy with sleep and cracked from his long night before. She looked up at him with a surprised look on her face. After a beat of silence, a smile bloomed in replacement.

“Bruce!” Y/N greeted happily, setting her boots neatly onto the mat so she wouldn’t track rain water all over the kitchen. “How are you?” She stepped further into the kitchen as she examined him. He was comfortably dressed, wearing black joggers and a deep grey crewneck that barely managed to stretch around his thick biceps. She started to take her coat off, feeling her cheeks heat up as she looked at him – it would never not baffle her with how Bruce could make anything look attractive.

“Here, let me help,” Bruce quickly said as he approached and helped to tug the garment off her arms. “I am doing well, yourself?” He was happy he managed to catch these few moments with her before Alfred would monopolize the conversation, though he would enjoy that time as well.

He hung her jacket on one of the hooks just above her boots as she answered. “I am doing well, how is Wayne life? Busy recently?” She asked as she busied herself with taking the ingredients out of the grocery bags.

Bruce suppressed a sigh, he wasn’t as involved with the Wayne business as he implied to her when she returned to Gotham. “Oh, you know, always something,” he replied, he hoped she wouldn’t ask for details. He didn’t like to lie to her, unless as it was a lie of omission (like Batman), that was easier. He clocked an odd-looking bruise on her forearm as she stretched across the kitchen island to lay out her ingredients. “What happened here?” He asked as he stepped next to her and allowed his fingers to trace the shapes he could see, taking a secret joy in the feeling of her soft skin.

Y/N quickly tugged her sleeve down as she pulled her arm back. “You know me,” she smiled over at him, “I’m clumsy!” She quickly dodged his eyes as she folded the now empty bags in her hands. Bruce furrowed his brow together, from what he could tell that wasn’t a bruise that appeared from simply bumping into something. In truth, Y/N had received the bruise after one customer at the Iceberg Lounge had gripped her arm slightly too tight while attempting to flirt with her.

“See, the intention behind agreeing to teach you to fight was so you’d be more stable on your feet,” Alfred’s voice came from the door behind the two causing both of the to inhale sharply. “But you still seem to always come with new bruises.”

“Hi Alfie,” Y/N greeted, ignoring his jab about her poor coordination as she approached him and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Hi, love,” he replied, grinning at her. “What’s for dinner this week?”

“I was thinking some chicken gnocchi soup! Dad’s recipe, of course,” Y/N replied as she rounded towards the sink to wash her hands. Bruce decided he’d need to find a time tonight to separate Y/N from Alfred so he could ask her about the bruises again, he knew she wouldn’t tell the truth with her protective uncle in the room.

“Would you happen to have enough for three tonight?” Bruce asked, smiling at Y/N as she dried her hands.

She smiled and nodded, “Bruce, there is always enough for you.” She gave him a look, hoping he’d understand that she always wanted him to join these meals. Bruce knew what her eyes were saying immediately, but he only allowed himself to do this once a month; maybe two times if he was having a particularly hard time. He couldn’t allow himself too much time with Y/N, it only made his feelings more difficult to ignore, even though she made the pain easier.

They all chatted as Y/N cooked their dinner; Alfred would help with prepping ingredients or grabbing spices she’d needed but Bruce, being that he has never cooked himself a meal, simply sat and watched the pair together. Once the cooking was done, and three bowls were filled to the brim with the soup, they all walked together to the dining area and sat down.

“Well, Y/N, I talked to your father a few days ago, he said you’re dating an army man now?” Alfred asked after eating some of the soup, eyeing his niece. Y/N had a skill for convincing her parents everything was perfect for her here in Gotham, but it was Alfred’s job to confirm the stories she told. Bruce tensed at this new information, he felt a wave of jealousy rush through him as his jaw set tightly.

Y/N rounded her shoulder’s uncomfortably with a sigh. “I told him I had a date with an army guy, not that I was dating him,” she grumbled as she shoveled more food into her mouth.

“Is there a difference?” Alfred questioned, an oblivious look on his face. Y/N rolled her eyes, Bruce stifled a laugh. Alfred was old, though he didn’t always act it; he hadn’t been on the dating scene in a minute.

“Yes, Alfie, there’s a difference,” she replied as she thought back on the date with a shiver. He was nice at first, but the way he awkwardly complimented her before talking about woman as if they were accessories and not partners was a major turn off. “And I certainly would not want to be dating that man, so you can report back to dad that he has nothing to worry about and I am still happily single.” Alfred looked into his soup with a light blush, he was embarrassed that Y/N could tell he was just collecting information on her and relaying it back to her parents.

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, feeling more relaxed now that he knew Y/N was still single. He knew he’d someday need to accept that she would find someone who she loves and live a life without him, but he wasn’t ready to do that yet. He wanted to ask Y/N about the article he read of hers from last week when her phone rang from her pocket. She quickly pulled it out, Bruce watched her face light up slightly and ached to know who would have texted her.

“I, uh…” Y/N coughed slightly, pulling the phone into her chest and forcing a smile at the two men in front of her. “I need to leave, it’s work…” she trailed off as she quickly stood up. “This was a lot of fun, I will see you both next week!” She quickly rushed back into the kitchen and grabbed her personal items before heading outside so nobody could ask her questions. She had a contact at the morgue who would tell her of certain overdoses before they made it to the public record. There was a boy, a John Doe, who overdosed in the same way as 25 other victims who was found down by the pier. Y/N decided to make her way there to see if anything was left behind.

Bruce helped Alfred bring everything back to the kitchen before excusing himself to begin his own night-time job. It was easy for him to forget about Bruce Wayne when he put the body armor and cowl on, it was comfortable. He was happy to leave Bruce Wayne in this secret garage and comfortably allowed his more confident personality to shine through Batman.

Batman had a rotation of grids he used to patrol the city, tonight was Grid D which started him at the pier. He got onto his motorcycle and left the garage, and Bruce, behind. With the bike, the drive was only 15 minutes, though it could have gone faster if he hadn’t stopped to beat up and deliver a prick that was robbing a gas station to the police station. He hid the bike in an abandoned building before climbing to the top of it for a better vantage point of the scenes below.

There was a normal amount of illegalities surrounding the pier; drop heads getting high, gangs fighting amongst each other… But Batman was watching for something different. He chose carefully each night he went out, he needed to send a very specific message to a very specific group of criminals. He planned to stay and watch for another 10 minutes before moving towards his next grid. A taxi pulled up and dropped a woman off; this was the type of change he waited for. Batman crouched on the roof top slightly as he watched this newcomers’ movements.

Y/N had stopped at home and changed into more moveable clothes: black leggings and a black hoodie which she kept securely over her head for a sort of anonymity. She knew going to the pier at this time of night wasn’t smart, but she needed to see it before the authorities came through tomorrow to clean everything up. She kept an eye on her surroundings, some people already trying to follow her through the shadows, as she made her way to where the body was discovered.

She was next to the sea wall now, looking at the random mix of trash, bottles, and needles on the ground. She’d hoped there would be some sort of clue as to how the drug is ingested. She took a picture with her phone of the items that laid around where the body had been found. “Hey there, pretty,” a slurred voice came from behind her. She closed her eyes with a sigh as she turned around, a group of men surrounded her; she counted 7 of them. “What brings you out this late, gorgeous?”

She backed against the wall her heart starting to race in her chest. She could probably fight off these men, they all looked to be high or drunk meaning they’d be weaker. Batman watched the scene below, not moving yet, he wasn’t sure if this was an arranged meeting or a chance meeting. “Stay away from me,” Y/N warned, keeping her voice even. Some of the men laughed, another stepped closer to her.

“Why would we do that?” He smirked at her, grabbing her arm roughly. “You look real tasty.” Y/N rolled her eyes and punched him square in the nose, breaking it under her knuckles. The rest of the group lunged at her fast, they had been prepared for her to fight back. She held them off for longer than Batman had expected as he made his way towards the fight.

“Get the hell off me!” Y/N yelled as one of them men grabbed her from behind and another punched her gut. She quickly stomped on the foot behind her and twisted his arm back, dislocating his shoulder and sending him to the ground. The man who had punched her grabbed her throat roughly and held her against the wall.

Y/N, her hood now resting on her back so her face was exposed, clawed at the hand around her neck as he crushed her windpipe. He was stronger than her, and he wasn’t afraid to kill her like this if he needed to. As she struggled against him breathlessly, she watched something in his eyes flicker. He enjoyed this, he was getting off on it even. His free hand started to explore across her body as she choked out protests.

Batman ran faster towards the scene now seeing that this mysterious woman was restrained. As he got closer, he felt his heart drop and his brain struggled to comprehend what his eyes saw. Pinned against the wall, with a hand squeezing tightly around her neck, was Y/N. He worked fast to knock the men who had seen him coming unconscious but the man who was enjoying seeing Y/N’s face turn dangerously towards a blue color as he deprived her of oxygen, didn’t seem to care about the commotion behind him.

Batman ripped him off of her as soon as he was in reach, ignoring one of the other men who hit him in the back with a bat. Y/N collapsed, coughing and gasping, as her head spun from the lack of oxygen. Batman didn’t let himself waste time with the rest of the group, either knocking them out or injuring them enough to send them running away. Within a minute, he was kneeling in front of Y/N as panic surged through his veins.

“Are you alright?” His voice was deeper in the cowl out of habit, but now he forced it even lower; he couldn’t risk Y/N recognizing him as Bruce in the Batman suit. He swiftly pulled off his gauntlet and glove and pushed two of his fingers into the pulse at Y/N’s wrist to check her heart rate as she continued to sputter and gasp beneath him.

Y/N, ignoring the tears that had streaked down her face, finally looked up at the masked stranger that came to her aid. She was afraid to speak, but she needed to tell him she was okay. “Thank you,” she could barely get her voice above a whisper, and it cracked at the end of each word. She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut at the pain. Batman helped her stand up, keeping his hand on her elbow incase she wasn’t strong enough to be on her feet.

“Let me get you to the hospital,” he said, still nervously examining her pale face. She shook her head at him, finally taking her first full and clear breath. His mind raced, he didn’t understand why Y/N would be here, why would she put herself in this sort of position.

“No,” she croaked, “I’m okay.” She looked at him again, his eyes were ocean blue underneath his dark black mask and makeup. “I can get myself home,” she finished, her voice still strained. She pushed away from him slightly, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to keep herself steady.

Batman bit his tongue when he almost said her name, and grabbed her arm again. “You really should get yourself checked out,” he nearly growled. He knew Y/N hated being taken care of though; even when her appendix burst when they were 11 years old, he had to tell Alfred because she didn’t want to cause drama.

Y/N rolled her eyes at the vigilante, “I am fine.” She stared at him now, did everyone he save have conversations with him? He examined her eyes, he could already see them turning pink as blood pooled behind them. There were gun shots in the distance now, he sighed silently as he closed his eyes. Y/N is alive, he reminded himself. She is alive and you need to take care of other things right now.

“Get home safe,” he grunted at her before jogging away towards the commotion of a different group. Y/N watched as he left before quickly making her way towards the main drag, she didn’t want any more unwelcome company for the night. After she found a cab and told the driver where to take her, she looked at the photos with a disappointed feeling in her chest. Tonight, was a major disappointment with no obvious tell as to what the drug was handed off in.

Batman worked his grid through the night, anxiously thinking about Y/N as he did. Her apartment was towards the end of the grid though, he couldn’t let himself check on her yet; the city needed him. Finally, around 5am, he was in her area. He climbed the rooftops until he saw her living room window. Relaxing slightly seeing the hood she had been wearing tossed over the edge of her sofa. This wasn’t the first time he checked on her, but it was the most important after last night. It was slowly becoming an addiction to end each of his nights by seeing her off to work safely.

Today wasn’t different. He sat in a spot positioned across from her building and watched as Y/N left her bedroom at exactly 5:30am. She didn’t sleep easily last night, only ended up falling asleep because her body won over her mind. She couldn’t look in the mirror yet, she knew she’d have her work cut out for her with covering bruises from last night. She made herself a cup of coffee before getting ready for the day.

She’d spent an extra 15 minutes getting ready today. She didn’t have a choice but to wear a turtle neck again today; her neck was black and blue. She settled for a tan turtle neck paired with black skirt, tights, and boots. She kept her hair down again, hoping it would help to cover more bruises. Thankfully, she would be working in the lab on photo development today and nobody would see her bloodshot eyes.

Batman waited until he saw her leave the building to quickly get to his bike and follow behind the taxi she got in. He stayed in the shadows, taking side streets when he needed to, and only relaxed once she was walking into the Gotham Times building before deciding to turn back towards his garage. He quickly took his contacts out, letting the images from the night download into his computer and rushed to take his armor off. Normally, he’d take a moment to watch the images and journal through the night but he had an idea on his drive home to see Y/N again and make sure she was okay.

“I’m home!” Bruce yelled as he came up the elevator into the main part of the manor. Alfred walked into the main hall with a confused look on his face as he watched Bruce jog up the stairs and towards the shower. It was abnormal behavior, Bruce knew that. But he didn’t have the time to care about what Alfred thought. He quickly washed the night off: the grimy dirt, the dried blood, the makeup. He tossed on black slacks and a white button up that he didn’t bother to finish the top two buttons of, an appropriate outfit for a public appearance as a Wayne.

Alfred was in the kitchen, aimlessly filing away paperwork he would have Bruce examine later after he slept, and was equally confused and surprised to see Bruce join him. “Bruce?” He asked watching the man anxiously go to the fridge. “Has something happened that I am unaware of?”

Bruce considered, for one weak moment, if he should tell Alfred about Y/N’s night but he decided he needed to figure out why she was there before tossing her to the dogs – he didn’t want to feel like he was tattling. “Pretty sure you’re aware of everything,” Bruce smiled at his dear friend after pulling out the container of leftovers from last night. “I am just going to run some errands.” Alfred pursed his lips but didn’t push the subject as Bruce rushed towards his less secretive garage. He assumed the playboy was off to meet a fling, maybe one he cared about slightly more than the other girls.

Y/N was happy to be in the dark room, she had a migraine from being deprived of oxygen last night and the florescent lights would not have helped. She absent-mindedly rotated the developing photographers in the developer while reading over some of the notes she’d taken on the drug case. The intercom beeped, indicating someone needed her for something. She groaned slightly but walked over to the door and clicked to button.

“What’s up?” She asked into the microphone, hoping it wasn’t anything too important.

“You have a visitor here to see you,” the front receptionist said in a kind voice. Y/N noted a small giggle in her tone and wondered who this visitor could be.

“Would you tell them I will meet them on the deck just outside the offices?” Y/N asked, she’d need an excuse to wear sunglasses so she could hide her eyes. She ended the call and grabbed her long black coat and sunglasses before heading out of the development room and up the elevator to the 12th floor where the offices lived.

As she walked outside, she glanced around wondering who would be coming to her work until she found the eyes of Bruce who smiled and waved at her. Y/N smiled softly, no wonder the receptionist was giggly; the billionaire, whose reputation as a playboy stuck with him everywhere he went, Bruce Wayne, was standing right in front of her. Y/N tucked her hands into her jacket as she walked over to him, she didn’t need him seeing the bandages wrapped around her knuckles. “Bruce?” She asked, her voice was rough and coarse, it was obvious something was wrong.

Bruce frowned hearing her, “are you okay?” He noted the high turtle neck and sunglasses she wore and felt a strange relief. He didn’t know how he’d handle seeing her hurt in that way. He forced his eyes to stop from trailing down her body. He had already noted how attractive she looked when she stepped out onto the deck, and he couldn’t risk her seeing his desire this close.

“Yeah,” Y/N smiled, trying to brush him off with a laugh that got caught in her throat. “I woke up with just the worst sore throat today. Probably caught some bug that’s going around. What are you doing here?”

“Well, you left so fast last night you couldn’t grab your leftovers,” he spoke slowly, he was trying to figure out how to lead the conversation how he needed it to. He needed her to tell him what happened without him asking her.

“You didn’t need to come all the way here for that,” she replied with a smile as she took the container from him.

He brushed her off with a small wave, “I was running errands anyway. Now you have lunch.” Y/N nodded and awkwardly turned her body trying to single that she was ready for the conversation to end. Bruce wasn’t ready though: “What articles are you working on right now?” He asked, casually leaning himself on the railing next to him.

Y/N sighed as she looked at him, “I’m actually working on film development for this week’s release – nothing exciting.”

"Okay, then next week, any articles?” Bruce pushed. The obvious guess was that she was working on an article; it would be a big jump for what she has typically been putting out, plus she didn’t have her camera with her last night.

“Listen, Bruce, I really enjoy chatting with you,” Y/N said, more bitterness in her voice than she intended. “But all of my deadlines were pushed up, I have to get back to work.” Bruce furrowed his brow at her, she’d never been so dismissive with him before.

“Of course,” he said after a long beat of silence. “Can I walk you back to your desk?” He smiled at her and motioned a hand forward.

“No, I’m good,” Y/N replied before walking away. Bruce stared at her back as she left, he felt a small tinge in his chest. Her actions hurt, that’s for sure, but it was worry that overwhelmed him. He wasn’t sure if this reaction was work stress, or was it because of what happened last night? Were there other nights that he wasn’t there and she’d gotten hurt? His mind raced as he drove back to the manor, guilt filling every single one of his bones.

Two days later, Y/N was back at the Iceberg Lounge. Her bruises looked worse now, but it didn’t matter, the men there would see them an assume it meant she would let them do anything to her. She wore a tight black mini dress that would sparkle when the light caught it right, and a pair of black heels. She blew her hair out and did her makeup thick; she’d learned within the first month of working here that the sexier she looked, the looser lipped people became.

The Iceberg Lounge was a popular hangout spot for a lot of people. Drug lords, dirty cops, dirty politicians, rapists, murders… anyone who wanted a place to do their bad things under non-judgmental supervision. The Penguin didn’t have many rules, only if you kill someone you don’t do it in the club. Y/N’s night was passing quite fast, she’d even managed to get some information from one of the cops that had come in on how the overdoses were intentionally being hidden from the media.

She only had 30 minutes left of her shift when she was delivering a drink order to a table of drug pushers. One of them had been eyeing her all night, normally when she saw this she’d trad tables with another girl; but since they were drug pushers, she had to hope he’d slip and give her some information.

“Here you are, boys,” Y/N smiled as she set the drinks in front of each of them. “Is there anything else I can get you for?” She gently rested a hand on the shoulder of the man closest to her, winking at him. The man who had been staring at her, who also seemed to be the leader of the pack, slowly stood up. “What’s up, baby?” She asked, blinking her eye lashes at him and she stepped over to him.

He smirked at her and gently grabbed her waist, pushing her against the wall behind him. Y/N would have protested, but he’d been so gentle with his movements that she had no reason to worry yet. “You,” the man slurred, tucking some of her hair behind her ear before letting his fingers trail across the bruises on her neck. “Are a beautiful woman.”

“Why thank you,” Y/N smiled at him. “What do you do for work, hon?” She carefully snaked a hand across his chest.

“That doesn’t matter, sweetheart,” he slurred as his hand traced down to her chest now, the other still gripping onto her hip. She grunted softly as he roughly grabbed her left breast.

“I’d prefer we didn’t do this,” she croaked, pushing against his chest now.

“Shut up,” he said, slapping her across the face. She gasped and pushed harder against his chest now.

“Get off of me!” She yelled, straining her voice. His friends laughed as they watched what was happening and his hand finding a spot between her thighs now. “Fucking asshole!” Y/N groaned, punching him hard enough in the jaw to hear the bone snap and bringing her knee up into his groin. He doubled over in pain and Y/N quickly took the opportunity to walk away and rushed into the back room where the liquor was stored.

Her hands were shaking as she sunk down against the floor, feeling the tears stinging in her eyes. She spent the last 15 minutes of her shift there, allowing silent sobs to escape her body, before heading to the locker room and grabbing her items.

She happily allowed the cold rain to brush against her skin and wash that man’s skin away as she stepped into the alley behind the lounge. She started to walk down the alley, towards the main drag where she would get a taxi, when a hand clasped around her mouth. “You’re a fucking cunt,” the familiar slur filled her ear, thicker now that he couldn’t move his jaw. Her eyes widened and she started trying to fight against him.

She escaped his arms but he quickly punched her in the side of the head. Y/N groaned and followed up with a punch to his ribs, feeling the bone crack. The man grunted and mirrored her actions, punching her hand enough to break more than one rib and send her to her knees. He grabbed her by the hair and punched her face multiple times. Y/N’s vision blurred from both pain and blood, she yelled out as he busted her lip and sent another blow into her gut.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, Y/N forced herself to stand up and quickly grabbed his head and pounded it into the brick next to them. He fell to the ground unconscious within a second of the blow. Y/N ran, she didn’t care to check that he wouldn’t bleed out, she knew someone would find him.

She ran all the way back to her apartment before the pain started to catch up to her. She grunted, leaning against the brick of her building. She didn’t want to be alone, she needed someone to help stich up some of her injuries, she needed her uncle. She quickly hailed a taxi, keeping her head down as she got in.

Bruce had returned home early that night and already had rid himself of all things Batman. A drop head had found the inconvenient gap in Batman’s body armor and sunk a knife in a little too deep. He was sitting in the living room while Alfred worked on stitching the gash in his abdomen. It was 2am, neither of the men had been expecting any visitors when they heard the service door open from the kitchen. No alarms went off so it was somebody who used a code.

Alfred was busy cleaning the blood off his hands and hiding the evidence of the medical procedure, while Bruce walked over to the kitchen entrance. He pulled his shirt on just as whatever visitor flipped the lights and his jaw dropped at the site. “Y/N?” His voice was panicked as he rushed over to her. Y/N leaned herself against the door frame, one hand cradling her side where her broken ribs were.

“Bruce,” she whispered, groaning slightly at the feeling. “I need Alfie…”

“Alfred!” Bruce yelled, gently scooping Y/N up in his arms and walking with her back to where Alfred was. Y/N blushed at the contact, leaning her head against Bruce’s muscular chest sleepily.

“Y/N?” Alfred’s voice was filled with fear as he saw his niece bloody and beaten. Bruce laid her on the sofa and Alfred rushed to assess her injuries. “Who did this to you?”

Y/N shook her head, and pushed her self to sit up. “Just stitch my hand, and my forehead,” she whispered, leaning her back against the sofa now. She cradled her ribs still with a grunt, “I may have some broken ribs though…”

Alfred would ask questions later when she wasn’t losing blood. He quickly numbed the areas and started to expertly close the open wounds. Bruce anxiously paced in front of the fire place while he watched Alfred work, he would also wait until she was okay but as soon as he knew who did this he would be beating them to a pulp.

Y/N started to feel better after Alfred had given her a small dose of morphine. She could breathe more evenly and used the damp rag he had given her to wipe the blood from her face while he stitched the cuts on her knuckles. “Y/N,” Alfred said, keeping his voice stern but calm. “You need to tell me what is going on, right now.” He cut the surgical thread once his last stitch was finished. Noting that he was done, Y/N stood up.

“Nothing is going on, I handled it,” she said, moving to look at herself in the mirror nearby. She examined the injuries, both new and old, that covered her face.

“Your neck is bruised, but not from tonight,” Alfred pointed out as he stood up straight. “You obviously have been fighting tonight, did you know them?”

“No, Alfie,” Y/N sighed, “I did not know them. I’m going to go home and rest now.” She turned towards the front door, she didn’t want to answer anymore questions.

“Enough,” Bruce spoke, his voice was harsh and dark. Y/N turned to look at him, shocked. “Tell us what the hell happened, now.”

She examined his face and noted the look she had only seen once before; he wasn’t going to let her leave without answering their questions. She looked at her uncle next, the worry and fear on his face broke her heart. She sighed and closed her eyes, swallowing hard as she prepared to tell them the truth. “I work at the Iceberg Lounge,” she admitted, Alfred stepped forward confused. “Well, I don’t… Lucy does. I’m a waitress and I do hospitality.”

“Why?” Alfred asked, needing to sit on the sofa as the shock washed through him.

“There’s a new drug,” Y/N sighed, starting to pace. “I go to the lounge and collet information for my articles.”

“What happened tonight then? Who—” Bruce’s voice caught in his throat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to center himself. “Who did this to you?”

“I don’t know who it was. I served him a drink and when he made certain advances, I broke his jaw…” Y/N avoided the eyes of the men in the room as she explained. “After I left, he met me in the alley and well,” she motioned over her body. “After a bit of a fight, I knocked him out and came here.”

“You are quitting that job tomorrow,” Alfred commanded after a whole 2 minutes of silence.

Y/N snorted slightly, “I am not.”

"It wasn’t a request, Y/N!” Alfred yelled, his anger getting the better of him. “You will not be risking your life in this way!”

“I did not become a journalist to take pictures of Gotham’s celebrities and write about what they and their fucking dogs are wearing!” Y/N shouted back at him, ignoring the pain this caused. “I became a journalist to inform people what is happening in their city, their neighborhood, or up the block from them! I became a journalist to touch the lives in my little corner of the world and to help people!” Alfred and Bruce both watched her shocked, they hadn’t expected such fight from her especially with her injuries. “I love you, both of you, but people are dying out there; people that have nobody to care about them. There is nothing either of you can say or do to stop me.”

As soon as the door slammed to a shut behind Y/N, Alfred looked at Bruce. “I don’t care what you have to do,” he stepped towards him. “You keep my niece safe, understood?” Bruce gave one nod in agreement. He knew in his bones that he would never rest until he ensured Y/N would be safe.

next chapter

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #battinson #battinson x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #the batman #the batman 2022 #robert pattinson x yn #robert pattinson #the batman fanfic #battinson fanfiction #alfred pennyworth #blood in the truth

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stargirlfics · 11 months

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The Gentleman Chapter 5: Éclosion

Alfred Pennyworth x Black Dancer!Reader

Summary: Harsh realities and a dangerous new enemy push you and Alfred to be upfront about your feelings

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, canon typical violence, chemical attack mentions, light angst, soft concerned bf!alfred vibes, romantic gestures galore, brief allusion to smut, fluff & feelings!

Word Count: 4.9k

Note: So happy to be bringing you all more of this story I know it’s been a minute! Hope you enjoy this one, it’s special in a lot of ways! The soundtrack for this chapter and the title come from Èclosion by Tony Anderson which I listened to while writing. It makes me think of what falling in love feels like!

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Tension lay heavy over the city in the days after the fear toxin attack, people were wary and on edge, the weather even starting to turn cold and dreary while unease hung thick in the air.

Paulie’s Diner was now the site of a police investigation, the entire street blocked off, the news coverage of the attack on a twenty four hour cycle, just barely contained panic swirling over this fear toxin and what it could do.

You couldn’t lie that it was terrifying, hearing what those who’d been injured said about the toxic gas, what it did to them; hallucinations of a nightmarish hellscape drawing out everyone’s anger and fear, driving them mad.

It sounded awful and then there was Scarecrow’s chilling warning, the mystery of who he was and what his motives were bringing back eerie memories of the year before and how out of control things had gotten.

Worry twisted taut in your stomach, exhaustion in your limbs as you finished out your last show of the night, the fourth one in two days in fact, your body and mind run ragged.

Oz was a smart man but he was predictable.

The new late night hour dance slots added to the schedule weren’t a coincidence, you were sure he was using the distraction to make more money, every dancer working doubles late into the morning hours now, Madame Olena working quick to teach new choreography, a refresher on some pole tricks and sexier strip teases and dances added to the repertoire of shows.

There were bruises already blossoming on your shins from where you had to push against said pole as you climbed it, inching your way up so the audience could see you float and twirl around it, and as fun as it was, as much as you enjoyed getting to dance with your friends on stage beside you each night, you were tired and sore and just wanted to sleep for a year.

Certain rituals were getting you through the grueling hours though.

Sleepy phone calls with Alfred before you drifted off when you got home, his sweet encouragement texts and reminders for you throughout the day and how he’d stopped by every other day this week so far to see you even if just to say hello before heading back to the office.

You’d both been busy since the night of the attack, not finding much time inbetween work to spend the kind of time together that you wanted, a reluctance in both your voices when trying to soften the sting of it likely being the entire week and maybe even the next before you’d get to see each other properly.

That didn’t seem to sway Alfred much though, even when you insisted he didn’t have to go out of his way to come by if he was pressed for time, he showed up anyway, as often as he could.

You were grateful for it, relieved that he didn’t find your disappointment about your schedules selfish with everything going on, just as content to get any second spent with you that he could.

Reminders of him were everywhere now too.

The throw blanket on your sofa that smelled faintly like him, the new bouquet of fresh flowers he’d come by one afternoon with, the space near the front door made for his shoes and coat next to yours, like tiny little puzzle pieces were beginning to fill in, ones you didn’t even know you seemed to have all the perfect pieces for.

It made you laugh to yourself now, laid out on the floor in your living room, trying to ease the ache in your muscles, stretching each limb gently while pondering on how tangled up your heart was.

All these feelings were so intense, one part of you cautioning yourself to slow down, not get too invested when you’re not sure he even feels the same, or wants a relationship while another part felt sure about trusting the groundwork that had been laid so far.

So much was going on and you were sure a proper conversation would happen soon, when there was time—if it was Alfred that much you were sure of, knowing he’d never leave you wondering for too long but you did worry.

Maybe it just wasn’t a good time, with Scarecrow loose and wreaking havoc and the recent reminder that you were under Penguin’s thumb indefinitely; it didn’t bode well for fostering a relationship and in Gotham that was tricky enough on its own.

But you also couldn’t deny what you were feeling and experiencing.

Another half suppressed smile coming then, a dreamy breath sighed out at the memory of the previous evening, when Alfred had come by to drop off some takeout only to see you icing your shins, his immediate concern when you greeted him making you laugh, something he didn’t find as amusing in the moment.

His slightly stern but still soft, “Darling, what happened? Who did this?” made you squirm against the cushions while also making haste to explain before he got too upset.

The worry on his features faded just a touch after, as he fussed over you, though you didn’t miss his slight eyebrow raise of surprise and intrigue when you said “pole dance”, reminding yourself to circle back around to that subject at a later date…you wanted to see how far that interest went.

It’s just that he didn’t ever make you feel like these visits were a chore, that’s what you kept coming back to, remembering how his coat and cane were discarded to the side immediately so he could kneel down and take over icing your muscles, soothing hands kneading the stiffness from your calves, insisting that you start eating while he take care of you.

How could you ever get over that? The gentleness with which he touched you?

Wanting him felt like oxygen, just as normal as breathing and inevitable as falling asleep, his kisses tasting of hope and something sweet. Things felt different now that Alfred was in your life, the good kind of different, the exciting kind and it almost felt silly to be unsure if you could lean into this but the more you thought about it, the more clarity you came away with.

There was a reason he spoke to you with such respect, his thoughtfulness about your feelings present in everything, and god the way he looked at you with so much fondness, how his expression could go from sweet to simmering in seconds, leaving you aching, feeling special and adored at every turn, it had to mean something.

Lost in the web of your thoughts the chime of your phone’s alarm nearly startled you, the time letting you know you had to get ready for rehearsal, your focus now pulled in a different direction and you reasoned with yourself it was best not to overthink this if you could help it.

The pattering of rain hitting the windows made you wish you could stay in instead, a daydream already forming about curling up with Alfred on the couch, snuggled under the blanket, napping together for the whole evening.

Rushing out the door before traffic hit you couldn’t help but gaze out in the direction of Wayne Tower, wondering what he was up to, hoping his day was going okay and already counting down the hours until you could hear his voice again.

Just across the city, staring out at the winking lights of traffic on the streets below, Alfred paced the floor of his study, his thoughts and emotions a tangled mess.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this way, or felt this much about someone, realizing that he’d gotten swept up in it all, reality washing over him like ice now.

The past week had been stressful to say the least, things were already busy with certain projects and due diligence with investors and financial advisors at Wayne Enterprises, now this fear toxin attack had taken center priority as well, he and Bruce already starting to work around the clock to get a handle on things.

That meant there was less time available to be with you and even though it had only been a handful of days so far, and despite his frequent visits he still felt distant.

He missed you terribly when you weren’t around and it didn’t take much to see that his feelings for you were really entering serious territory.

He should be happy about that, he knows he should be, but all there is for him in the moment is fear, because this could only ever end one way and he knows it.

It was foolish to think he could have something proper with you, something not tainted by secrets that weren’t his to tell, tainted by a dangerous obligation he’d taken on to be at Bruce’s side in his mission as Batman.

That was an obligation he would never ever regret, all of it done out of love it’s just that most of his life had been spent with some proximity to danger and there had been many close calls.

Far too many tragedies had already happened he couldn’t let that become the case for you too. He wouldn’t allow it.

You were too important to him already and he couldn’t drag you down into all this, especially not now with this Scarecrow figure coming out of the woodwork.

It did hurt though, just the mere thought of ending things, his heart lurching painfully, not wanting to entertain the thought of letting you go for a single second.

A door he once thought was closed for good had opened the day you met and he let himself get close, captivated in every way, each time hoping it wouldn’t be the last time he would see you.

He was awestruck by how quickly you disarmed him, seeing him so clearly and the fact that you wanted him as well, that you wanted his attention?

He was helpless to do anything except be swept up, but now he had to understand he’d never be able to have that.

It’d be alright, it would rip him open but this wasn’t the first time he’d chosen duty over feelings, he’d have to find comfort in knowing he had experienced this with you no matter how brief it was, already knowing he wouldn’t quite ever forgive himself for hurting you this way.

“What’s wrong?”

The question catches him by surprise as Bruce makes his entrance out of Alfred’s peripheral, still drying the rain from his hair.

Perfect. Just in time for dinner.

“Nothing, just working on some numbers in my head. How did it go?”

His own question had been a deflection, one he’s not proud of but he just needed a second to get his bearings, to screw his head back on straight after thinking of you.

“Went alright. They don’t have much to go on, Gordon says they’re trying to get a read on the chemical mixture in the gas but that could take awhile. I’m going back to the diner tonight, I have to try and find some clues, whatever I can get.”

A rough hand passes over the scruff of his jaw as he considers the information, nodding after a moment.

“I’ll be on standby if you find anything. I’ve been doing some digging myself, nothing concrete so far but there may be more security footage we haven’t seen that could identify him.”

There's a moment after where it’s quiet, the two men moving around each other in comfortable silence before Bruce caves first, a light chuckle let loose, almost mixing with the downpour of the rain.

If Alfred were any older he was sure he wouldn’t have heard it but he did, flicking one of his pointed looks at the young man.

“Seriously, Alfred, what's wrong? Something’s on your mind.”

He resisted the urge to brush it off or get defensive, softened at this offer to discuss, treasuring these moments of depth with Bruce whenever they came.

All he had to do was say your name and Bruce was nodding, his heart tugging at the sound of it, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose before explaining further.

“I think I may have to end things. I-I’m worried about keeping her safe through this and ultimately she’s just better off. I’d have to lie to keep her from finding out, from getting involved and I don’t want to have to do that, it’s what’s best.”

More silence, his heart sinking now that the words had been said out loud, the crushing reality setting in just a little more.

“But you don’t want to let her go right? You do have feelings for her?”

Alfred can sense the careful line of questioning, deciding to be truthful as vulnerable as it made him feel, nodding a yes.

“I do, I have feelings for her.”

“Good, I don’t think you should end things then.”

Oh that wasn’t what he was expecting to hear.

“Bruce…it’s not as simple as that, she doesn’t know, she can’t know, that could put her at risk, you at risk, we don’t know when there could be another attack, I can’t let-“ but the words are falling short with a placating hand.

“Look I see the way she makes you feel and I don’t think you should let that go. I can’t let you do that actually, you shouldn’t have to sacrifice that, Alfred,” there’s a moment in between, a look that says he wants to say something else but finding the words is hard, “I never actually told you this but before Selina left town, I met up with her, saw her one last time. She wanted me to come with her and I-”

Alfred’s eyes widen for a moment, a sympathetic nod given as the sentence trailed off because he understood now what he always suspected but never pried about.

He figured Bruce had feelings of some kind for Miss Kyle but of course, his boy had chosen duty over feelings, just as he was contemplating doing himself.

It was a clever way of calling him out on it he had to give him that.

“I know you’re worried she’ll get hurt and I know you’re scared she won’t want anything to do with us when she finds out but I see how much you trust her, so I trust her and I think she’s safest close to us. You don’t have to lie to her, tell her just enough for now and we can keep her protected from it for as long as possible, you can tell her on your own terms.”

His heart quickened, mulling it over, pacing again without realizing, struck by the sincerity in Bruce’s words.

The weight in telling him he didn’t need to make this sacrifice, carefully guiding a stubborn old man out of his head and setting him straight again, because the answer could be that simple for once even if everything else wasn’t.

He’d be an even greater fool not to try just because it might be hard, knowing already that he’d regret not giving you every bit that he had to give out of fear and his own self doubt, so with a cautious nod he was agreeing, ribs loosening with a breath he felt like he’d been holding in for ages.

Nightfall was approaching now and Bruce had since snuck off after a little more discussion and a flat toned promise to eat dinner before going anywhere else, leaving Alfred sat at his desk with a newfound clarity to things.

This made sense to him now, the swirl of thoughts racing through his brain.

He knew how he felt about you and could admit he wanted to be with you, hands buzzing as he racked his mind for how to tell you, because it had been weeks now and he didn’t want to waste anymore time, he needed you to know he was serious and wanted a relationship and by god he hoped you felt the same.

An idea came to mind on the tail end of his thoughts, Bruce’s earlier words echoing as he pulled out a few pages of his favorite writing paper, adjusting his glasses quickly before he picked up a pen and began writing.

The first snowfall in Gotham was just beginning to blanket the streets, snowflakes melting against the frosty windows while you got bundled up to go out on a date!

A small window of time opened up over the weekend and Alfred had taken the reins on it, telling you he wanted to take you out again, properly and his pick this time, promising to plan something he thinks you’d really enjoy.

You swear your heart skips when you see his sleek car pull up outside your apartment, feet already carrying you down the steps to meet him outside.

“Hello, love. You look beautiful!” that smooth, accented voice causing your cheeks to burn despite the chill of the snow falling around you.

Running into his arms he embraced you tight, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple before getting you tucked into the car.

“Thank you, same to you, handsome. I missed you.” your wistful sigh came softly as you put your seatbelt on, already trying to figure out where he was taking you.

“I missed you too, more than you know. Ready?” His warm hands caressed your knee for a moment, squeezing as you gave him an answering nod.

The car rumbled to life and you were off, the heat turned up comfortably while you slipped into an easy conversation that continued until he was pulling into a parking spot, one of the quieter downtown streets lit up and glittering through the window.

“Are you treating me to pastries and hot chocolate right now? Is that the date because if so please say yes!” your excited shiver earned you a laugh when you step out, his cane in one hand and your own clasped around his arm, squeezing his bicep as you walked towards the sweet smelling cafe up ahead.

“As many pastries as you’d like, darling…I also may have ordered us a special dessert ahead of time too.” his sheepish grin warming your heart.

He was so impossibly sweet there were times where you wondered what you ever did to deserve him.

“Ooh that sounds fancy, are we celebrating something?” the innocent question hung opened ended as he got the door for you.

“You could say that, yeah.”

Later, foamy whipped cream lined the edge of your lips from sipping on the hot chocolate you’d taken to-go, Alfred kissing away the sugar quickly after even when you giggled out a protest against his lips.

Rounding the street together, it felt so nice to be this close and receiving his affection, holding hands as you walked.

You found it so cute how he checked to make sure no one was watching before he ducked down for another quick kiss.

Just as cute as when he sat next to you at the cafe, a reassuring hand resting over your thigh, absentmindedly playing with your fingers and the hem of your outfit while you indulged your sweet tooth.

That special dessert he ordered turning out to be one he used to love when he was younger, his wish in sharing it here to make a new memory of it with you.

Oh, he couldn’t be real.

That effortless charm was getting him everywhere and the delight didn’t seem to stop because now you were in front of a quaint, cozy looking bookstore, his arm already at the small of your back guiding you inside.

The smell of ink and paper filled your nose, a homey feeling in your chest browsing over the shelves; your first bookstore date together.

You couldn’t have been more excited, glancing at Alfred every few seconds, all smiles and bright eyes pointing out familiar titles and old favorites, reading the descriptions of interesting looking novels together, a real and definite shift in the air.

Something in the eye contact was different…heavier, a weight to it that made you feel short of breath.

Almost achingly so, your body was acutely aware of his closeness to you, the soft wrap of his hand over your waist, how his shoulder bumped into yours when you wandered over to the romance novel section, it made you feel like your chest was caving in, and you weren’t even afraid.

No, you were happy to let yourself collapse into the feeling.

The bookstore made you feel a little like you were in a romance novel yourself, faded patterned rugs draping the wood floors, soft fairy lights hanging above you and the rows of books and haphazard stacks laid out in armchairs all felt whimsical, romantic; perfect for two bookworms turned lovers.

“This is part two of my date plans, you know. Whatever books catch your eye, I’ll buy for you, my treat.

As if he didn’t aready have the key to your heart.

“Even if the book is an erotic novel?” you beamed back at him, smiling at the one he’d picked up off the shelf you were peering at, recognizing the cover anywhere.

“Oh especially if it’s that.”

“How crass, Mr. Pennyworth, I would have thought you to be more of a Shakespeare guy!” you joke and pluck the book from his hands, thumbing through a few pages.

“I most certainly am but I do have skills in other areas too, darling. It’s important to be a well rounded reader.”

He says it with an edge to his voice that leaves you speechless, your brain lagging just a second behind as he leads you further into the store, a beeline made to the poetry section.

A short while later and both of your arms were balancing a stack of books each, you trailing behind Alfred as he lead him you to a secluded spot in one of the reading corners in the store’s second level so now you were sitting side by side, musing over your book picks for each other.

True to his words, he’d bought you all the books of your choosing along with some he’d gotten just for himself too; a photobook of the English countryside, another about hand to hand fighting and then a few books about chemical compounds finding their way into the mix too.

You didn’t know he had an interest in chemistry but didn’t question it, forgetting about it a moment later when he pulled out a book he found of different black burlesque dancers through history, a little gasp filling the quiet space when he told he got it as a gift for you.

As if you needed anymore reasons to fall for him further, all this was taking the cake.

Hours had gone by, the two of you huddled together sharing stolen kisses in between the last sips of hot chocolate and the turning of pages, truly feeling like you were in a world apart with him, like whatever was happening out there in the world couldn’t touch you, at least not here.

Heat tingled on your lips when you kissed him again, a little more soundly this time, showing him just how much you missed him.

It had been too long.

Remembering that the last time you’d been intimate like this was the morning of the attack, part of you wishing you could be in his bed right now, spread out underneath him, taking him until you were making a mess of his sheets but the other part of you didn’t want to leave this moment in time with him, a whole different level of intensity to this all on it’s own.

You’d never felt so connected, so close in your life, so much unspoken sentiment in the way his larger hands were grasping your much smaller ones, holding them warmly before his forehead was pressing against yours.

“I have one more thing to give to you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open then, the gentleness in his whisper wrecking you, sitting patiently as he moved back a bit. Watching with bated breath, he fished an envelope out of the inside pocket of his coat and placed it in your hands, leaving the rest up to you.

The way your heart was clammoring in your chest and your own anticipation kept you from noticing the nervous jitter of his hands, seconds feelings like minutes while you unfolded the paper, realizing he’d written on it, recognizing his handwriting right away.

With trembling hands you brushed your fingers over where he had written your name, words beginning to sink in as you read the letter addressed to you.

My love,

I fear there will never be enough words to describe how dear you are to me but I will try my best to write them all here. I’ve never felt so sure about someone before, about the way you make me feel and how vast those feelings are. The morning we met I had a feeling that there must have been a reason we crossed paths and now I know there was. You must know I couldn’t sleep that night, because all I could think about was if you were okay and if you had made it home safely. I just couldn’t get you out of my head and then there you were again at The Magpie wanting to talk to me and I knew then I was the luckiest man in the world.

Glancing up from the page you locked eyes with Alfred for just a moment, a perfect mirror of your feelings reflected in them.

Never in a million years did I think I’d ever feel this way again but I do and I need you to know that being a man worthy of your affections is all that I want to be. You were meant to shine as brightly as you do, my darling, I never want you to feel as if you have to hide your talent or temper the big, wondrous ideas you have. They’re all I ever want to hear. You do in fact have my heart, love, as much of it as you want to take, it is yours.

Tears welled along your lashes as you kept reading, everything in you softened by each line, your heart opening, hatching, blooming at his words, hearing how much he felt for you too.

…things are less than ideal right now I know, and there are things you don’t know about me yet either, things in my past and certain things in the present that I want to tell you about but have to be careful of first, your safety is always a priority for me but I do plan to tell you in time. Darling, I know how I feel about you and I think and hope you feel the same about me. I cherish every second I get to spend with you, there’s so much I want to show you, so much I want to tell you and do with you by my side if you’ll have me.

There was one more page left, filled with more words that made your stomach flip with butterflies, those tears threatening to fall because what he was saying was everything you had hoped for and then some.

And you think you understood what he meant about needing to be careful with certain secrets before he could speak about them, thinking on your own situation with Penguin—you still hadn't told Alfred those men where his that had been sent to follow you.

It was wonder how your heart was still inside your chest at this rate, a tear breaking free to fall down your cheek as you finished reading, lingering where he signed his name.

Yours always,

x Alfred.

The letter lay in your lap as strong hands- no longer trembling- reached for you again, brushing the stray tear from your cheek.

Your face was cupped so tenderly in his hands you almost started to cry for real, never knowing it could be like this, that you could be told and shown in so many ways that you were wanted and adored.

“I know we haven't really discussed this yet and so much has gotten in the way but I want to say it here and now, I would really love it if you wanted to be mine. Admittedly it has been some time since I’ve dated anyone and I am rusty, you’ll have to forgive me if this could have been better but I do want to be with you, I have all this time.”

“Oh, Alfred. Yes, of course I want to be yours! I’d love nothing more. And shut up, this was a perfect way to tell me, you’re not rusty at all, old man.”

You sniffled with a laugh, leaning in to press your forehead against his again, both of you sinking into the moment together, feeling tethered to one another now, connected in a way you hadn’t been before.

Things had just gotten very real and for as much as you’d pondered and daydreamed of this moment, you didn’t feel an ounce of fear at the gravity of feelings before you.

Trusting in Alfred’s words, ones he’d actually taken the time to spell out to you on paper so you could keep the reminder of his devotion forever, the gesture easing any worry there might have been.

Snow was still falling outside as you sat together for just a little while longer, Alfred pretending not to notice you sneaking giddy glances at him while you gazed over the letter one more time before stowing it safely away in your bag.

Your hand finds his, fingers lacing together while you rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes contently for a moment when you feel his cheek press against you.

The odds still seemed grim, the whole city on edge with so much uncertainty left on the horizon, cause enough for isolation and the walls around people’s hearts to come up but not here, not with you and Alfred.

You felt stronger for it, having faith that whatever was coming your way in the time ahead, you’d have him by your side and that gave you all the hope in the world.

---

A/N: Soo they finally got their moment! I actually began this chapter with the ending of it in mind already, I was listening to the chapter title song in the playlist and was like oh this is where it would play, this is the moment where he admits his feelings and asks her to be his girl

There were times where writing this chapter was such a challenge but also really exciting and wholesome too! Hope it gives you all the feels it gave me and I'm giving kisses to those who pick up on all the little details in this too, thank you so much for your patience while I write this series and for all the love!

(dividers used are by the wonderful @saradika 💫 )

Let me know what you think!! Thank you for reading as always!

some tags, no pressure! @eupheme @squidlywiddly87 @the-eyes-of-andyserkis @tarabyte3 @tarrenterror25 @ozarkthedog @peachyteabuck @unrefinedmusings @aislupu @mariahthelioness29 @flamingdisputes @ayoarticulate @fluffyprettykitty @kneelforloki @allaboardthereadingrailroad @xoxovivarecs

#amalia writes #alfred pennyworth x black reader #alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth fluff #alfred pennyworth imagine #alfred pennyworth #alfred pennyworth fanfiction #the batman fanfic #alfred pennyworth angst #alfred pennyworth fanfic

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