#bw; rprt
Text
❝right place, right time❞
VII. twenty-one questions.
parts: previously
plot: everything comes to a head.
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader.
cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, reader's a little stupid, descriptions of surgical stitching, blood, surgical needles, knives, violence, mentions of drugs and underage substance abuse (alcohol), minor character death(s).
words: 11.4k.
a/n: it has been yet another hot minute and this chapter has given me a lot of grief in terms of all the ideas I had for it and what it ended up being. as you can tell by the word count, I could Not shut up
Alfred calls you bright and early to watch Bruce spar.
The billionaire had mentioned it before, and while you didn't doubt you would meet an untimely fate were you to challenge Mr. Pennyworth one-on-one, it was a whole other thing seeing them both on the mat.
Alfred is slow but thoughtful; when Bruce attacks, he goes for several hits at once. Alfred anticipates each one. He's more defense than offense, but when he strikes Bruce in the chest even you can feel it.
Bruce is lean, quick. He ducks and rolls and uses every part of his body, not just his fists. He looks a little sloppy when he wraps his legs around Alfred's—out of practice, maybe?—but it doesn't keep him from succeeding. Alfred fights like a soldier. Bruce fights like a martial artist.
Bruce makes a noise when Alfred falls to the mat and you spring up with attention, "Everything okay?"
You hear "his leg" and "I'm fine" overlap one another.
The real reason Alfred had called you was because he wanted you to watch Bruce hurt himself. The vestiges of a sprain, he guessed, that Bruce was too stubborn to rest. When he couldn't convince Bruce to pass on sparring, he resorted to you: "an objective spectator." Alfred had sounded pleased. Bruce had looked about ready to suplex him.
You head over anyway, ignoring the protests of the injured so you could kneel and survey the damage. "Can you walk?"
Bruce doesn't meet your eyes. He forces his body to stand, but you can easily tell he's favoring a side. You reach a hand up and pinch his injured calf, hearing him hiss through his teeth. "Of course it's going to hurt when you do that." He sounds childishly annoyed. Alfred is fighting a smile from his spot next to you.
"I don't understand. You're head of the company, you can afford to take a few days off. Even chair rest is still rest."
"Ah, but there lies the conundrum," Alfred pushes himself up to his feet, "he cannot sit still."
Bruce extends his hand to you, still avoiding eye contact. You hesitate but take it anyway, and the ease with which he hoists you to your feet is a bit disorienting.
Since your agreement with Batman, you were forced to be patient. After all, there were more pressing matters in Gotham besides your own ticking time bomb. He'd promised that he'd get back to you soon about Bruce and, until then, you would have to grin and bear it.
Alfred excuses himself to get busy with lunch the minute Dory enters with the groceries, leaving the two of you alone in the middle of the living room. "As your doctor," you begin, "I can't in good conscience let you keep pushing your body past its limit."
"It barely hurts anymore."
You bend as if you're about to grab at his leg again and he takes a step back, annoyed—if not offended, "You have no record of chronic pain. No record of serious past injuries at all. Yet you strain yourself doing... what, exactly? Sparring all day? You may be young, Bruce, but your body isn't indestructible."
You get the feeling he's heard this before, bristling like a scolded cat as you stare him down, "I'm fine," he brushes past you toward the table he and Alfred moved to the far end of the room, grabbing a sweating glass of water, "Alfred's just being... Alfred. He worries too much."
"I worry," Bruce raises a brow as he takes a swig and you clear your throat, "you said you need to be reminded to care of yourself. Well, that's my job now. Not that the hospital couldn't use more of your money but it's not worth the pain you'll be in." Bruce leans against the table, one leg crossed over the other. You approach, briefly taking note of the water that dribbles down his chin. "I'm starting to think you're just a masochist."
"Yeah? How do you figure?" His lip twitches up into a smile.
You open your mouth but the thought stops you cold. You were going to say, "Because I know someone just like you," but then you're transported back to that fateful morning where you first met. Bruce and all his... familiarity. The wild speculation of your exhausted mind. All of which, at the time, overlapped perfectly. Yet now that you knew them both better, they were worlds apart to you. Except for that one thing.
What was it that set them apart, again?
Your eyes drift up to Bruce's. "I get your type at General sometimes," you divert, "real pains in the ass."
Bruce steps closer to you with his glass abandoned on the table, "And your type can't seem to leave well enough alone."
You prickle. If it weren't for the fact that he was so clearly teasing you, you'd have lingered on the almost double meaning, "The fact you think this," you raise your foot and tap the side of Bruce's injured leg; his eyes narrow, "is well enough further proves my point. You need rest."
Bruce rolls his shoulders back; his compression tee clings to every muscle as he does, drawing your attention for a brief moment. "I'll think about it."
Your jaw drops. Bruce smiles. You feel a white hot flash of irritation that's wiped away when Alfred reenters the room, dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, eyes fixed on you, "Will you be staying for lunch?"
Before you can say no, Bruce interjects for you, "Yes. Thank you, Alfred." Then he turns to you, pats your arm like a friend, and pushes you in the direction of the kitchen, "I'm gonna shower. Make yourself at home."
You stumble over yourself, regaining balance just as Bruce's head disappears over the top floor banister. How quickly he could retreat when leaving you to the lions.
But Alfred is in a good mood today. Better than usual, actually. The hair on your neck stands on end as you follow him to the kitchen, preparing for the good mood to sour now that it wasjust the two of you, but it doesn't come. You watch him hum a little tune as he fixes up some vegetables to sauté.
You even find yourself getting comfortable at the island when he breaks the silence, "I appreciate what you're doing for Bruce... regardless of its efficacy. It's nice to know someone else has common sense in this house." Alfred sets down four empty plates at the breakfast table.
You take note of his tone, an improvement from his barely concealed dislike from weeks before. You take that as a small victory for today, "It's like arguing with a brick wall. How have you managed it all these years?"
"Like a soldier." Without asking, he fills a glass to the brim with water and hands it to you.
"Right. You're a veteran." Your observation gives him pause, the food he tends to at the stove crackling away. "I can tell. I've treated a lot of veterans so I can spot them from a mile away now."
Alfred snorts, straightening his shoulders. "I served as a young lad. Eventually retired and came here, took on the job as the Waynes' butler and bodyguard. I've been with them for quite some time. Since before Bruce was even born."
"You practically raised him."
"Rather... clumsily, might I add," Alfred glances at you and you're surprised to see him bashful, genuinely, "protecting him, I could handle. Raising him... well, that was another matter entirely."
"But you did a pretty good job. I mean, he's accomplished a lot. Especially with the mayor. I imagine that's why he's working so hard: really seems like he's dedicated to restoring his father's legacy."
You can't help the little hook you throw out.
Right before the Mayor was elected, when a bomb shook the penthouse of 1939 Kane St., Edward Nashton had taken to the airwaves to out Thomas Wayne as a cold-blooded killer. Not long after, the man who'd pulled the trigger was shot dead in the street before he could be brought to justice. That would bring anyone out of hiding.
Wayne Enterprises inevitably challenged the claims, Bruce Wayne had taken to his father's defense in an impassioned press conference that even you tuned into, and Gotham General made the decision to keep his father's statue in the courtyard.
It was never ruled out, though. After all, all of the Riddler's other exposés were true. But there was no paper trail. Nothing but he said, he said, and with everyone involved dead, it was Bruce Wayne's word over a zealot who'd flooded the city.
You take a sip from your glass to let Alfred ruminate on his reply. He doesn't raise his eyes to you again, "Precisely."
"I've been keeping a close eye on him in the news. His philanthropy this past year has been really remarkable." That was a bold-faced lie. You'd been keeping an eye on him for the past few weeks. Everything else you knew about Bruce Wayne's newfound appreciation for the poor and needy came from Em. "Some of the people at the party, however..."
"Councilman Roberts, was it? He was awfully spirited from what Master Bruce relayed to me."
The very mention of his name makes your blood pressure spike, "The guest list was very diverse."
Alfred transfers the cutting board to the sink, "Master Bruce has his reasons. He's become rather fixated on the state of political affairs. First behind the scenes, and now..."
"Now center stage." You finish for him, swirling your glass. "Think he'll run for office one day?"
Alfred looks somewhere between amused and horrified.
It would be natural. Thomas Wayne had almost done it. Why not Bruce? It'd be a comeback story for the ages if someone didn't try to kill him again.
"I'd rather he keep out of it. Being in a position like that has never been his true calling."
"Yeah? And what is?"
Alfred doesn't look like he wants to say. He scrubs at the surface of the wooden board, absentmindedly brushing the same spot clean over and over. His eyes catch yours for a split second, just as quick as the smile that he flashes when the answer finally spills out of him, "Altruism."
You and Alfred don't talk much more until Bruce comes down. Dory joins you all at the table soon after and, rather awkwardly, you find yourself having a quiet lunch with the Waynes. Hooks abandoned. Fish not caught.
You wait for what feels like hours, but eventually he arrives.
His car is an absolute monster. It growls as it pulls up beside you in the withering glow of street lights, and if it weren't for said lights, it would blend into the shadows almost completely. The raindrops that dot the hood help catch the light on the deep black paint job.
You look for the door handle but it opens for you. Inside, you see Batman with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. You swallow. This is new territory.
You throw your bag in first, then climb into the passenger seat, very aware of the pocket knife stuffed in the pocket of your scrubs. You go to close the door and it closes for you all on its own. Behind you is an intimidating engine that vibrates through your every bone and muscle, and when you look to the driver, he is staring straight ahead. A few beats pass as you try to keep your teeth from chattering, "Do the seat belts move on their own, too?"
Batman looks at you from his peripheral. Then—twisting in his seat—he reaches across you to retrieve the seat belt, dragging it across the front of your body until it clicks at your side, "'Fraid not."
Despite all the rumbling of the car engine, it's a smooth ride through the city. Even the littering of pot holes and uneven pavement doesn't ruin it. Still, it does nothing to quell your nerves.
You feel small, sinking into the passenger seat built for people wearing a lot more armor than you. You also note that there's nowhere for your legs to go underneath the seat. You bump the solid obstruction with the backs of your sneakers but can't make out what it is.
There are other weird things you notice when you start looking. Starting where your shoulders rest are six holes going down the seat, three on each side, all a foot apart from the last. You press your finger into one of the holes and feel hard metal on either side of the gap. Upon further inspection, Batman's seat has it too, "What are these for?" You ask.
Batman doesn't need to look at you to know what you're messing with, "Restraints."
You recoil, "I beg your pardon?"
"I could show you."
"I'm- sorry, what..." You bend at the waist to feel the metal plate beneath the seat and recognize that there are holes along the sides there too.
"In case I need to bring someone along who's less than willing. Metal bars are installed in the seats. Only I know how to activate them."
"Why your seat too?"
"In case someone tries to steal the car," he makes a turn into one of the boroughs and you realize you're getting close to your destination, "but I've considered putting a trunk in the back for... passengers."
"And where do you get the money for such... modest mods?"
At that, Batman does not answer you. You figured he wouldn't. There were a hundred answers he could give you that would surely, most definitely give his identity away. It doesn't stop your brain from beginning to wander.
It doesn't get very far before you're pulling up into the alley between two houses, shrouding the car in the shadow of Joey Russo's home.
It's not as nicely kept as the other houses on the street, and its age doesn't do it any favors. A lot of the off-white paint has been chipped off or discolored over the years. There's a piece-of-junk car in the driveway that looks like it works, but just barely. The lawn has outgrown the neighbors', kept at bay by patches of dead grass where you can tell someone had gone to town with weedkiller. There are old, faded garden decorations around the front porch. Some gnomes with their ceramic hats caved in, a wind chime missing most of its chimes.
You're wandering out of the alley and into the harsh, orange beam of the streetlight when you feel Batman's hand roughly drag you back into the dark. You're about to ask what the problem is when your eyes catch the side of the house.
There's a little window with its grey curtains shut, a dead flower limp on the sill. Next to the window is a backdoor cracked open.
You do not protest when Batman presses up against the side of the house and moves you behind him. There are dogs barking, cars driving by, faint sirens in the distance, but you can't hear anything from inside.
You watch as he presses his hand to the door and slowly pushes it open, peeking in from a safe distance into the dark. Most of the windows are blocked out by sheer curtains, and no light in the house is on from what you can tell.
Batman is a hulking thing, always, but every step is feather-light on the weathered floorboards as you both enter. There's no sign of Russo, even though the house feels warm. Like it'd been lived in recently. Your heart picks up as you swear you see a shadow move in the corner of your eye, but it's just the wind picking up one of the curtains.
You so desperately want to ask him what he's thinking but your voice is stuck in your throat, the thought crashing down upon you that you are here, that somewhere in this house is the man who had ensured you'd be here today (in nearly all the ways that that could apply), and that it was not so far behind you as you might've hoped.
And were you to get an answer—any answer—from Russo tonight, it would not change the fact that your name was still on Bruce Wayne's payroll.
You feel sick to your stomach all over again.
When the living room is clear, you're simultaneously relieved and terrified when Batman leaves you to scope out the adjoining dining room. The house is silent aside from your breathing.
It's a few moments alone that does it; you start to feel another wave of anxiety. It had been a few minutes, hadn't it? Maybe. A minute at least. You're not confident enough to go looking for Batman, and you fear calling out to him would just detrimentally unsettle the atmosphere. You listen for where he might be, any creaks in the floors boards, but there's nothing.
Just as you're about to step into the dining room yourself, something moves out of your peripheral again. Only this time, you realize too late that it's not the curtain.
You barely register the pain at first—the skin of your upper arm splitting in half—but then it's white-hot and you're choking on a cry before you can stop yourself. Something had rushed at you, a person. You shakily touch where they'd cut you.
Was it a knife? It had to be, with how cleanly it tore your skin. Your brain jumps to the next question: was it covered in anything? Would you get infected?
You stumble back and reach into your pocket for your own knife with a little more urgency. The person rushes at you again with something akin to a battle cry and you narrowly dodge their raised weapon, only the sound of it ripping through the curtains tells you it wasn't just another delayed reaction.
You slash at their back while they're still turned and manage to actually make a cut before jumping back. It's not enough, though. Your attacker spins and even though the light has now turned them into nothing but a silhouette, you can feel their crazed gaze on you.
It feels boiling. It feels personal.
Their breathing is ragged, panting from more than just the fight. It sounds like they're foaming at the mouth, rabid and wild, as they spit at you, "You should've died with your little bitch of a friend when you had the chance."
The anger in their voice stuns you before the words do.
They come at you again and you sidestep them once more but it's staggered, allowing the tip of their weapon to slice your cheek open. When you cry out this time, you yell for Batman.
You don't have any concept of time right now, but as you fall to the floor, you swing at your attacker's ankle, hoping to cut a vein, when you feel Batman rush past you and directly into your attacker.
They both crash into the coffee table, glass and wood shattering in a cacophony. You watch through burning eyes as the two wrestle each other, keeping your hand pressed to your arm to still the bleeding even as it slips against the skin. Batman has them pinned when your attacker starts wildly kicking, and one of his feet hits Batman hard in the leg. You don't expect it to be the leverage he needs, but it's enough to daze Batman—he looks suddenly awash with pain—and that's all the attacker needs to slip out from beneath him and head out the back door.
Your heart stutters. How hard did he have to hit him through the suit for it to cripple him so easily?
Batman tries to recover, tries to deploy the grapple gun in his gauntlet to trip him, but he slips into the alleyway just narrowly. Batman is after him in an instant.
You force yourself up from the floor to follow after him, when you realize that within all that commotion, no one else in the house made themselves known.
You stumble up the staircase, haphazardly swiping at the wall for light switches that might help clear the spots in your vision. "Russo!" You call out, and your voice is shaky. You realize you're trembling.
There are too many doors on the upper floor but there is one that is cracked open. You rush toward it first, shoving it open with your good shoulder.
And there, to confirm your worst suspicion, is proof.
You've had enough training in your field not to immediately vomit at the sight even as the smell overpowers you. He's lost weight and he looks smaller than he had been when you were just sixteen. Laying on the floor, drenched in his own blood, Detective Joey Russo isn't the crystal clear picture you'd preserved in your head these past 17 years.
You make it only a few steps before falling to your knees beside him. It's clear he'd passed from the stab wounds not long before you'd arrived and there's just so many. His chest, his stomach, his arms and legs and skull—his face had taken the worst of it. Whoever had done this had been furious.
You can barely bring yourself to stare into his eyes but when you do, you sob. You try to look anywhere else but your eyes just catch on pictures of him on the wall, happy, smiling, with a wife and a kid who leave no traces of themselves in this room.
It's just him. All alone here.
You sway a bit as you reach a hand up to shut his eyes but the blood on your fingers stops you. You realize that you've left a trail on the way up here, and as your eyes retrace back to the bedroom door, you see Batman standing there looking down at you.
He doesn't ask, just walks over to you and hoists you up to stand, forcing you to lean into him for support.
The time between him finding you and the walk downstairs passes in a muddy amount of time and you're stumbling into the hood of his car as your head swims.
You must be losing a bit of blood.
Batman presses a hand to your arm. His other hand goes to your cheek and you flinch away at the sting.
You watch him dizzily. He reaches down to the bottom of his cape and rips a strip off to tie around your bicep. "GCPD is on the way. We have to get you stitched up."
"If only there were a surgeon around." Batman doesn't find your joke funny. Neither do you, all things considered.
The doors open on their own again and he sits you in the passenger seat, leaning it back as far as it'll go before buckling you in. You think you feel his hand linger on yours before he abandons you for the driver's side. The thrum of the engine is the least of your concerns now.
You're halfway down the street when you mumble, "He said... I should've died."
"Stop talking." He doesn't say it with menace, or at least not the kind where you actually mean it. It's all bark and... worry, you think.
You hate the smell of your own blood, which is funny because it smells about the same as everyone else's and usually that's just fine for you. Or maybe you're still smelling Russo's.
You think of your attacker. About what they said. That you should've died with your "little bitch of a friend". It's too convenient to not be—one of the street lights you pass is far too bright and you have to shut your eyes to keep the thought going—be about her. And why her? Why Russo? Why now?
17 years of nothing. And now everything at once.
"Russo," your voice is weaker, "we gotta go back for him."
"Stop talking! I'm trying- shit." This is the most panic you've ever heard in Batman's voice before. The most fear. He hadn't been this worried when he was dying on your living room floor. "Please." He begs.
You're of sound mind enough to know what he's really asking. You should know, even as you sway in and out of consciousness.
You conserve what little energy you have left to focus on the side of his face. His jaw forever clenched. Eyelashes long enough to catch the city light on. And although it's not entirely clear from the angle you're laying at, you search out the blue of his eyes as his face turns to look at you. It's the last thing you see before you give in.
When you come to, you are laying in a hospital bed with a throbbing arm and an equally throbbing cheek. Your scrubs are still in tact, even with the bloodstains down the front and sides. The knees of your pants are stained too, and you are harshly reminded that this blood doesn't belong to you.
The next thing you notice is Em sitting in the chair beside your bed, head thrown back in a peaceful nap. She must've heard—or seen, you don't recall getting from the car to here—and came to keep you company. You'd reach over to tap her knee if it were your good arm's side. The next thing you notice after that is that there is someone else in the room with you two.
It takes a second, but you remember him: a kindly face even with the cloud of disturb that hangs over him. When he sees you're awake, he gets up from his position against the wall and approaches the other side of the bed, "Detective James Gordon," he introduces himself, nodding to you, "we met at the precinct before."
Your voice comes out scraggly, "I remember you."
He flashes you a quick smile, "Well, I'm happy to see you're alright. You lost a bit of blood, but your friend—" A pen materializes in his hand and he points it at Em, still dead to the world, "—said it was just a few stitches."
"Are you here to arrest me?"
He's trained well enough not to look shocked, but you see his expression shift, "Why would I arrest you?"
You swallow, looking down at your scrubs once more, "I assume you're not here to talk about our mutual friend."
James nods. "We examined Joey Russo's home. We found, among other things, your DNA on the scene. Blood in the living room and... upstairs bedroom."
You pinch your pants leg, trying to get at the skin so you could keep the churning of your stomach at bay. Anything to distract yourself from the very vivid image of Russo's lifeless eyes.
James clicks his pen and you focus back on him. He's got a small notepad in his other hand with a few words already written down. You wonder what he's written about, what he's thinking about you right now. "From what I understand, you dropped by the precinct recently asking for the whereabouts of Russo and were denied given his retirement. You mentioned that you were inquiring about an old case involving yourself, is that correct?" James continues after your nod, "You brought this up to the Batman too."
"Yes," your voice wobbles, "I asked if... he could help me."
"And?"
"He said no."
"But you were both there tonight. So, what happened? Why were you looking for Joey Russo?"
You lean up on your good arm, allowing your legs to swing from the bed so you could sit upright in front of James. One glance over your shoulder tells you Em is still asleep, "I told him it was urgent. I had reason to believe confidential information about the case had been leaked to someone. I wanted to confront him, find out if he... was the one that leaked it."
"The case being part of your sealed juvenile records, correct?" James casts a look over you, somewhere between pitying and skeptical, "given your involvement in this situation, I was given access to this record. Detective Russo worked your case 17 years ago, and was, in fact, the person to get your records sealed in the first place. Along with... three others, I believe. And you believed someone had unauthorized access to it?"
"I know- I know. I know they did."
"Can you tell me the name of this person?"
Detective Gordon seems trustworthy. Batman trusts him, you can tell that much. It's just the saying it out loud part that trips you up, "My, um... my employer. Not Rudy, but Bruce Wayne. I'm his personal doctor. I became aware he had this information and wanted to check with Russo myself before I said anything."
James doesn't bother hiding his intrigue this time. His eyebrows shoot up a bit when you say Bruce's name, "Right. And... do you have proof that he has this information? A picture or a recorded conversation, a witness even?"
Of course not. You'd been happy enough to get out of that penthouse without being caught. Your silence is answer enough. James writes something down on his notepad and nods at you, "Well, a single person—especially not a civilian employer—should be able to access something that's not public record. Even Russo couldn't, having been retired. I can't imagine Russo was the one to give him that information unless he just had a file lying around, and I doubt he did. He never revisited that case before he retired in any capacity."
"Is there any way Bruce could have accessed it?"
"There's plenty of ways if you have an in somewhere and the leverage to do so, but this is all speculation. I can look into it, though. See if anyone's accessed the file recently, sniff around. If you come across anything solid, let me know."
You doubted you would. After that night, those files had probably gone into a room with lock and key.
"There was something else that I wanted to talk about, though," James shifts closer to you, "Our mutual friend assured me that you've never been to Russo's house before tonight, and that he had been with you the entire time you were there. From what I understand, there was someone else in the house with the two of you. Do you have any idea who he might've been?"
"No, I... I didn't really get a good look at him."
"What about his voice? Could you describe it?"
"Uh, young. Sounded about my age." Your fingers grip the bedsheets tightly, "He said something. He said that... I should have died. Along with my friend."
James' eyes narrow on you, "Your friend?"
"Alex," you choke out, feeling a tear spill out of your eye, "I know he was talking about Alex."
"Hm. You think that's why he attacked you? He knows you?"
"But I don't know him."
James flips his notepad back a few pages, "There were eight people there the night Alex Villanueva was murdered, including herself and you: your three friends, none of whom have stepped foot in Gotham since 2019. The shooter, Natalie Young. Her younger brother, Dimitri Young. And a fellow member of their gang, Lucien Goulding. Natalie was killed in a shootout 17 years ago, Goulding is currently in prison, and Dimitri... he should be serving life in prison right now."
Your brows furrow, "Should?"
"He and several other inmates were reported missing from Arkham five days ago."
Your mouth goes dry. You squirm in bed with a sudden urge to take off running and never look back. Maybe you'd aim for your mom and dad's in New Jersey, or maybe the Atlantic.
You remember when Dimitri was a head shorter than you, had yet to sprout up so young. You remember what it was like looking at this kid not much younger than you, green eyes watering, curled up on the concrete as Alex kicked and punched and bled him until he could barely limp home.
And how he looked when Natalie came for you. Still a kid.
"Bat said he was about 5'11, 210 pounds, green eyes, shaved head and tattoos. A bit different from what he was when you last saw him. It makes sense you don't remember."
"He wanted to kill me." You whisper.
James—he's an angel, really—gives you a moment to let it sink in. "We want to put a security detail on you. We have strong reason to believe Dimitri was the one to kill Russo, and it's very possible you were next on his list, but I don't think he anticipated you being there tonight... which might've saved your life."
You shake your head, "Batman saved my life."
The detective smiles, "Twice in a row might make him your guardian angel." The both of you turn when you hear Em stir awake from behind, and James goes to dismiss himself, "Well, thank you for your time. You should probably be heading home to get some rest soon, but if you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to let me know." James hands you a business card, "And I'll look into Bruce Wayne for ya. Could be something there. Our mutual friend might know. Take it easy."
"Wait," you call, before he can get out the door, "Russo. He had a- a kid. A son. And a wife, I think. They weren't at the house. Are they okay?"
James looks a little pained as he answers you, "No... uh, his son was murdered a while back. His ex-wife's been living back home in Boston ever since. She's been notified."
There isn't much else to say after that, so he ducks his head as a final goodbye and exits the room, raincoat swaying behind him.
You're awoken by an incessant ringing about 24 hours later.
Popping one eye open, your brain takes in the shadowy lighting of your living room, blinds still halfway up from when you'd first returned home early that morning. Judith had caught you slumped outside of your apartment door and flanked by two officers—roused by the sound of you coming home late—and had helped you to your couch, poured you a glass of water, and stayed with you until the painkillers put you to sleep.
Frankly, you gave yourself permission to lie and rot today. But the ringing would not stop.
You grab your phone, uncaring of the caller, and accidentally press it to your cut cheek with a hiss, "Yes?"
You expect it to be Em, checking in to see if you were still alive. You also expect it to be your mother, checking in to make sure you still planned on staying in Gotham. You even expect it to be Rudy (who had been just about on the verge of tears when he saw you with a busted cheek).
It's none of them. "Can I see you?"
You place the voice instantly, actually going breathless. "I'm- what's... what's wrong?"
Sitting up hurts like a bitch and you realize that you're about two hours past your scheduled Tylenol. You inhale through your teeth and try to gather your bearings.
"I got... stabbed," Bruce sounds guarded, but it shockingly doesn't come across like that's because of the stabbing, "I need your help."
"Jesus! You need to call 911. Or- or get one of your ten million drivers to take you to the ER, or call a fucking helicopter to-"
"The tower, can you come? Now?"
You weren't supposed to be driving. The cops had brought you home, and you very much did not want to ask for that favor. You drop your forehead into your palm, massaging your temple with your thumb, "How deep is it? Did you stop the bleeding?"
"I've got something on it. I just need you to stitch me up."
You glance around the room, hazy, and reach for your water, "I'll need a ride. Can't drive right now."
"He's waiting outside." The line goes dead.
You don't believe him until you go to open your apartment door and see a suited man leaned against the opposite wall, nodding politely at you. You must look like you've sprung from the dead after last night, but no one makes a comment about it. The two officers on either side of the door nod to you, "Says he's a driver for Bruce Wayne and that you'd know what he was here for. His ID checks out, but we're gonna have to tail him if you go with him."
You shut the door and look through the peephole, but the driver looks comfortable waiting.
You'd wonder how Bruce knew you'd need a ride before you said as much, but it was clear by this point that he knew everything about you.
You probably shouldn't go. Not until Gordon looked into him, or Batman. Right?
You root around in your coat pocket for the phone Batman had given you and send a quick text to his number.
Going to Wayne's.
Tell Gordon to hurry up with a warrant.
You pop two pills and pull on your coat.
When the elevator doors part, you drag yourself down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the main room. Alfred nor Dory is anywhere to be seen, but with it being past 10 at night, you can only imagine they're off to bed by now. There is just a single light coming from the kitchen, and when you turn to the breakfast table, there is Bruce. Waiting.
He doesn't look at you when you approach, however. One of his hands is holding stained gauze under the neck of his shirt, and the other is gripping the table with white knuckles. You wash your hands at the kitchen sink, then round up on his left side where he's pressing against the back of his shoulder, just out of reach for him to stitch himself. You fear he would've tried had you not answered the phone.
Or, God forbid, come to you.
He looks up when you're right in front of him, scanning you quickly, "Are you okay?" He doesn't sound all that surprised to see you like this. It raises the hairs on the back of your neck.
You pull the neck of his shirt down to survey the damage, for lack of a good explanation, "I'm certain I've got a better excuse than you." Bruce shifts when you move his hand away, exposing the bloody flesh that makes you wince. You set your things on the table and command him to lift his shirt. He hesitates. "What is your excuse?"
"Got caught off guard."
"Where?"
Slowly, Bruce slips his shirt off, allowing you to see the full expanse of his back. There was the angry red stab wound, but there were other things too: moles and beauty marks scattered across his skin that paled in comparison to the several jagged lines across his shoulders and lower back—pink raised skin where it looked like he'd been cut before. Cuts that had healed years ago. You hover your fingers above one and realize they're shaking. "You never told me you and Alfred fight with knives."
"We don't," he glances at you over his shoulder but looks away just as quickly, "some of those scars are from martial artists I trained with in Thailand."
"Some?" You see so many, and those are only the ones that leave visible scars.
"Others are from the Russians."
You begin to lightly clean around his wound and ready the anesthesia but, despite the fact that he cannot see it in your hand, he waves it off completely, "Are they... the people who gave you this?"
He goes silent again. You feel like you should stop asking questions at this point, but they itch at your throat.
He wouldn't call you here to fix this unless he had nowhere else to go.
When you make the first stitch and he doesn't flinch, your eyes flit to his other scars. Martial arts training, he said. The second stitch and still no response. On the third stitch, you press your thumb against the edge of the wound and push down. He actually swears at you as blood dribbles out of the wound, and the hand that had been gripping the table reaches back to grab your lower thigh, effectively bringing the operation to a halt.
You shove his hand off, "What the hell happened? Your hands, your leg—that was easy to explain. But this?"
He has the audacity to glare at you over his shoulder, "I don't pay you to ask questions."
"No, you don't. And yet you could've hired anyone but you hired me. Even though..." You trail off, eyes blazing, because you're not feeling that confident, "the least you can do is tell me what happened."
Bruce holds your gaze until you feel your knees begin to wobble in place. For once, he doesn't look like a wide-eyed, nervous animal in front of you. He looks angry.
Then it's gone. Bruce rolls his shoulders back and you watch the needle, still hanging by its thread, roll against his muscles. More blood seeps from the wound as your hands itch to get back to work. "One question," he starts, looking away from you, "the night of the party, upstairs. You told Alfred no one got on the elevator. But you did, didn't you?"
You swallow. "He said it was broken."
"Be honest with me and I'll be honest with you."
"About anything?"
From behind, you can see Bruce's jaw twitch just so, "Everything."
You step closer. Taking your needle, you resume the suture, "A question for a question, then. To keep it fair."
"Alright."
"Tell me what happened."
"I was looking for someone."
"Who were you looking for?"
"That's another question."
"Fine," you try not to take your frustration out on his skin, "I did. Who were you-"
"Dimitri Young." You still in your stitching. It feels like your heart is inside your head, thumping against your skull with every beat. "What did you see down there?"
You have to rake your petrified brain for context, having nearly forgotten everything that had come before... before... "I- I was... nothing." Bruce hisses through his teeth and you realize that you're just pressing the needlepoint into his skin mindlessly. "Files. A computer. A car underneath a sheet, some tools, a motorbike. A TV playing the news." You don't bother with hiding it now, "How do you know about Dimitri?"
"Because I know about you. Why did you go down there? Not knowing what you might find?"
It takes all that you have to keep the burning tears at bay, "Because I don't trust you. Because everything about this has felt off. I needed to know what you were hiding. What are you gonna do with what you know?"
Bruce takes a moment as if he's thinking about it, but when he answers you, you're for once certain of his honesty, "Nothing. I might set it on fire, if that's what you want."
"You could have another copy lying around. Or a way to access it again."
"I could. But I don't. And I wouldn't want to." He turns his head over his shoulder and you are frozen under his stare, "I'm being honest with you."
"How did you get it?"
"That's another question."
You complete the next few stitches with a little more force than needed, "Then ask me something."
"Why did you take the job if you didn't trust me?"
You laugh humorlessly, "Because I knew the pay would be fucking ridiculous. How did you get my file?"
"You wouldn't have turned me down the first time if that were true."
"Answer me."
"Be honest with me, I'll be honest with you. Why'd you take the job?"
"Because-" You choke, "you... sent me those ridiculous flowers and a handwritten note." Bruce's head tilts, you choke out more, "And when I asked you why you offered me the job, you said that it was because I noticed you were hurt when no one else did. And I said it felt like more than that. I think- I have been trying to get an answer."
Bruce studies you. He must believe you because he finally answers your question, "Russo had nothing to do with it."
"Who did you pay to get it for you, then?"
"That's-"
"Just ask me, God damn it." You finish off the suture and bite off the thread.
"Why did you turn your life around?"
You'd thought about that a lot after that night. The simplest answer was right there, but if you were being honest with yourself (and you were being more honest than you would've liked tonight), you really didn't want to die. "I wanted to live. That's what I'd always wanted. Even though I... really didn't act like it. I never wanted to live more until that moment." This time when you lock eyes with Bruce, you don't want him to look away. Maybe it's because he's defeated you, broken your pride, whatever. Right now, you want to see him.
You don't have to ask again. You watch him rise from the table, flexing his back again, and though you want to scold him for irritating his stitches mere seconds after you've finished them, you just... don't have it in you.
And then he's standing face-to-face with you.
You think the lights and painkillers are deceiving you at first, but this close, you are certain: he is littered with scars and wounds color-picked from late twilight skies. His back doesn't even look this bad. It's always been more than bruised knuckles and leg sprains.
And it's familiar. All of it. Bruises and cuts new and old, the shape of him, the color. The stab wound is new but all of this is months (years) in the making.
The closer you get, the more it knocks the wind out of you. Your eyes follow the length of his torso and then—your fingers press against his side, up against a healed gunshot wound. You brush your thumb against it. It makes you feel nauseous.
You look up and he's looking at you. Defeated. Relieved. You can feel the denial creeping in but it all clicks into place, doesn't it?
The bullet wound, the limp, the job offer, the sprained leg. You couldn't see it because, frankly, they couldn't be any more different from each other. And yet...
Bruce's hand covers yours and keeps it there.
That damned bullet brought you together. It had brought Batman to you, it had brought you to Bruce, and it had solidified in no small way that whatever had led you to this moment in time was years in the making. All because you wanted to live.
"Come with me." And Bruce leads you upstairs.
17 years ago.
"I think it could be good," Alex holds up the bottle to you, "if you're down."
You hate the taste of whatever she's giving you but it does make you tingly. You take a big swig and set it between you on the concrete, "You know I'll go wherever you go."
Alex grins, "That's the spirit!"
On Tuesdays, you and Alex like to watch the cars go by from the alley. It's between a Thai restaurant and a laundromat so it always smells good; if it's not the fabric softener, then it's the pho. It's where you always find her. After a few heart-to-hearts spent curled up on the ground with her here, it became "your" territory.
Claiming it didn't stop people from holing up inside and standing around a barrel fire, nor did it stop the laundromat owner nor the line cooks from coming out to smoke and take out the trash. But it did mean that you both liked it here. For lack of other places to go.
"You know that piece of shit from the Vipers won't take no for an answer?" Alex kicks at a rat that scuttles past, making sure it wouldn't take a bite out of her ankle.
"You're very popular, it's not a surprise."
"Shit, it's just cause they know my parents don't give a shit where I go. They're all like, 'Come join us! You could be one of our best! We'll pay you more in a day than you'd make stealing in a week!' but they don't talk about all the kids floating in the river when they try to do better for themselves."
"Like you'd let someone boss you around." You giggle, and Alex beams.
"No way in hell! I love my independence. See, I can take whatever I want whenever I want. Those sad fucks in the Vipers have to answer to some... some random guy they rarely ever see. Why would I want that?"
You'd seen the kids the Vipers recruited. There was no age limit, some as young as nine were happily making deliveries. It used to be a joke in your school that any kid with a front door would end up in the Vipers eventually.
You wondered if you would've ended up there too, had you not been with Alex.
Your makeshift gang of two which had grown by three in the last few months was less organized than the Vipers. It didn't pay unless you pulled your weight, and most of it was at Alex's discretion. For the most part, none of you moved without her. She was the head, the leader, and the only reason you could afford your new winter boots this month.
And you would truly follow her wherever she went.
You watch a few more cars pass. You press your head to the brick and let the sounds of the city light your nerves. That is until you feel a breeze where Alex had once been. You open an eye and find her inching further into the alley. "Hey," you call, but she turns and shushes you so your next words come out in a whisper, "where you going?"
She frantically waves you over.
You don't see what she's looking at until you get about halfway down the alley, but the voices are crystal clear at this point. There's a woman and a young boy standing off behind a dumpster, but when the woman catches sight of you and Alex, she shoves something into the boy's hands and dips around the corner. The boy, flustered, is just barely able to put it away before Alex is grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into the light.
It becomes clear that he's not a young boy. He's about your age, maybe off by a year or two, but so thin and lanky that his puffer jacket engulfs him completely. Alex yanks his sleeve down to reveal a poorly done tattoo of a snake going up his upper arm, jagged and unfinished like he'd run off in the middle of getting it done. It didn't seem too far-fetched an idea: the guy looked 92 pounds soaking wet.
"You're on the wrong turf, kid." Alex warns, but you know her tone of voice is too final to be a warning.
The guy yanks his arm back, "Fuck off."
You realize what he was fumbling with when the woman had run. A small bag of something white, and a wad of cash sticking out of his pocket. You snort, "Dealing for the Vipers a little far from home, aren't you? You must be new."
The guy tries to escape but Alex grabs the hood of his jacket and drags him back, "We'll overlook the trespassing if you give us a cut."
"Leave me alone. This place doesn't belong to anyone." But as soon as he says it, Alex takes a hold of his dirty blond hair and yanks his face up to look at her. You go to grab his money while he's distracted but you don't expect him to brandish a knife until he slashes at you. He misses, but it sets Alex off.
She uses his hair to throw him into the side of the dumpster and you can see the thoughts rattling around his head upon impact.
"Right, everything belongs to the Vipers. Is that why your boss is still Falcone's little bitch?"
The guy is indignant against the taunts. He tries to slash at her but Alex is faster, always has been, and she has his wrist in a death grip before he can even get close. You watch her twist it back until he lets out a cry of pain, the knife clattering to the floor at your feet. You take it and hold it up to his neck, watching his eyes go wild between you and Alex.
"Give us the money and we'll pretend this never happened-" you start, but jump back when you feel something wet hit your cheek. You almost don't believe it, but the guy has some spittle dribbling down his bottom lip and a satisfied smile when you lock eyes with him again.
Alex wasn't just fast. You remember her standing up to your childhood bullies between classes and giving them shiners that she still bragged up to this day. It took a few years before you both stopped ending up with twice as many injuries, and a few more years after that before you stopped having bullies at all.
And this guy— maybe he didn't know what he'd gotten himself into and that extended to more than just this moment in time—was half the size of the guys Alex had beaten to tears in the past.
It does not surprise you that he crumbles to the ground with the very first punch to his gut. Alex hits hard first to make the fights quick, and so when her next punch lands on his nose, you know that something has been broken. With each kick to his gut, the tears free flow as if surely, the next hit will kill him.
You watch silently. Alex is unforgiving.
After a minute or two goes by, he is so beaten down that he wheezes every time he breezes. You're certain Alex has gone overboard but something in your heart swells at the thought that it was for you.
When all is said and done, you snatch the money from his jacket and he doesn't bother to stop you, head leaning against the ground as tears and blood and snot trickle into a puddle. For good measure, Alex snatches the drugs too, "Don't show your face in this alley again or you won't leave alive."
And you know this is a lie. A trick to make her bigger and badder. A threat that she would never follow through on. Because Alex always made herself look bigger, badder, scarier, deadlier. It's what protected you both on the streets. It's what made you follow her, what made your friends follow her.
Alex was everything, and you would follow her anywhere.
You ride in silence together down to the terminus. You feel much the same as you did the first time. Bruce pulls back the gate and you spill out into the dark, but much like before, the lights and TV kick on. The News 7 jingle plays, Bruce pads over to mute it.
You watch him stand a few feet away from you, avoiding your eyes as they sweep the floor. There are those same tools scattered about, hubcaps stacked on top of tires, wires going from one side of the room to the other. It looks just like you'd last seen it, only the car that had once been covered by tarp is now on full display. It gleams in the overhead lights, as much of a monster in clear view as it was in shadow.
He really wasn't shitting you.
When you still don't say anything, Bruce walks over to his desk. Underneath it is a crate full of folders, and you realize he's getting yours when he turns and holds one out to you. You take it, inching closer. Without a word shared, Bruce pulls up something on his computer and you nearly flinch when your mugshot is reflected back at you on one of the screens.
"Your record isn't accessible unless I use a workaround which isn't... legal, but it's how I found your file without Russo. The GCPD doesn't know." You peer at him from the corner of your eye, urging him to explain, "I taught myself how to get in."
Your eyes are welling up with tears the longer you stare at the younger version of yourself. Bruce continues, "I know what the record says. That they traced back a few robberies to you and your friends over the years, and that you'd had a run in with a Viper the night you met Russo. You helped track them down, took out a portion of the gang's operation, and your record was sealed. That's all."
"They didn't trace all of them back to us," you start, not really wanting to talk, "just some. There were more."
Bruce seems to sense that as he closes the record, "It's your turn. To ask, I mean."
You look at Bruce in the face and hate the softness there. You can't be angry, or numb like you wish you could be. Your chest is all twisted up with emotion with no one feeling staying for long, even if it would flare up again every once in a while. "Did you know about me before or after you asked me to work for you?"
"Before. After that morning, I couldn't stop... thinking about you. Truth be told, me and Alfred have been doing this alone ever since I started. Before you, he was the one that would stitch me up, kept me out of doctor's offices where someone might talk. But he was also running the company for me, and taking care of me, and worrying about me. I knew if I was going to commit to this, I would need to try and stay alive, and I always meant to find someone but it wasn't an easy decision to make. Until I met you."
You know it's his turn now, but you can't help asking, "And you didn't think... maybe the kid with a record would be a bad idea?"
Bruce cracks a smile, "I mean, the stitches never got infected." You would've laughed at that if you were in a better mood. "I wasn't always so understanding. But I imagine someone who's dedicated the better part of their life to saving lives has more than made up for it."
Your head automatically shakes, "I can never make up for what I did."
"You don't have to tell me everything," he begins delicately, "but I need to know what Dimitri is after. I need to know what he's thinking. You're the only one who can help me."
You blink away a few tears and plop into a stool by his desk, dropping your head in your hands. The memories suffocate you, rushing at you like a flash flood. You don't know where to start, let alone what you want to tell him. An hour ago, you were certain he was caught up in a Gotham mob, planning to use your history as blackmail for... something.
You can't quite reconcile the feelings you have for Batman with the face of Bruce Wayne. Or who you thought was Bruce Wayne.
But he was right. You were the best chance at catching Dimitri. You were the only one who could make it up to Russo.
You swallow at the memory of Russo's mutilated body, but then... you remember him in that police station. When you were 16 and wishing you were dead. You suck in a sharp breath, "I met Alex when I was a baby. I mean, we've known each other for a long time- knew each other. She and I used to be attached at the hip. She protected me from bullies and I would sneak out at night to listen to her vent about her parents, about Gotham. She fucking hated it here. I did too.
"Alex and I learned that if you want to survive, you have to be powerful. So we became powerful. You might not think a pair of 14 year olds are all that powerful in the grand scheme of things but when it was just us against the world, it was addicting. When we wanted something, we just... took it. We started off pickpocket-ting on the streets, usually assholes who could afford to lose a hundred or two. And then we started robbing places, small-time stuff, you know. Run down houses, apartments, swiping out of registers when no one was looking. If anyone gave us shit, we just turned tail and ran. It was hard enough trying to make ends meet for our parents, and we liked the thrill of it. We rarely ever got caught.
"Eventually, some of our friends from school joined us and we become a little piece-of-shit gang. God. We were like... fucking 15, running around the city like we were so big and bad. My parents had no clue what I was really up to but they knew something was wrong. I didn't care. I was with Alex and I would follow Alex anywhere. We had this little alleyway, right? Between a Thai place and a laundromat. That's where I could always find her. And one day, we were fucking around and caught some guy dealing back there. Alex got pissed. We tried to take his money but he defended himself. I said something... he spit at me. And Alex just lost it.
"She beat him into the concrete and I just... watched. This guy, couldn't even throw a punch if his life depended on it, and she just wailed on him. And I watched. And I liked it. I felt powerful. We felt powerful. I know, a pair of jackass teenagers hurting people for fun? We were pathetic. But it didn't feel that way, being with Alex. She was my best friend."
The tears are free-falling now and you don't even bother to wipe them away. It would feel cowardly. You couldn't hide from Bruce now, not anymore. Not if he wanted to believe in you. "We didn't know who this kid was, other than the fact he was a Viper. A young one, a weak one. We didn't think he'd even last a week. Most kids like him end up getting disposed of by the boss anyway. And then all five of us were fucking around in that alley again when they showed up: the guy, Dimitri, and his sister Nat and this other kid. All of 'em Vipers.
"Nat wanted the money and the drugs back. Kid had a black eye so I guess he'd gotten shit from his boss about it. Alex was... indignant. Refused. For once, I begged her to give in but she just wouldn't fucking listen. Of course she wouldn't, do you know how much I enabled her? We were on top of the world, why would she give in? And she really pissed Nat off with that, but then she started mouthing off and then... Nat shot her. Right in front of me. It was instant."
Bruce remains incredibly still. His lips part to say something but nothing really comes out. You keep on going, "I was so shocked that I didn't even move when Nat turned the gun on me. It was like... I don't know, it was like I couldn't quite believe she was dead. But I understood what happened. Logically. I saw it happen. I saw the bullet in her brain. And when Nat turned on me, I think a part of me just... didn't want to have to think about it. Like a coward. If it wasn't for our friends pulling me out of the way, I wouldn't... be here. Next thing I knew, I was at the GCPD getting investigated for murder."
"They thought one of you did it?"
"The cops that brought us in, yeah. They just so happened to be around the corner when we ran into them. By that time, Nat and Dimitri had run off. The cops thought it was some fight between the five of us and that one of us pulled the trigger, but they couldn't find the gun. That's when Detective Russo showed up."
"And he offered to get you a plea deal."
You nod, sniffling, "He told me... he said that he could tell I'd never seen something like that before. There was no way I could've done it. And when I couldn't even finish the whole story without choking up, he said... he said that in exchange for our help catching Natalie, he would make sure all the crimes they tied back to us were sealed and expunged."
"What about Natalie? How did they find her?"
"The GCPD had been looking into the Vipers for months. Vipers almost exclusively recruit minors because they're more loyal, but there wasn't a way to get in without putting some innocent kid in danger. So they had us look into it. We found one of their hideouts by the docks. GCPD wanted to get the kids out and into the foster system since a lot of them were orphans, like Natalie and Dimitri. But the ambush didn't take. They got a couple kids out but... a few died, including Nat. Last I heard of Dimitri, he got tried as an adult for killing a cop during the shootout. That was life in Arkham."
Bruce shifts closer, "Until he got out. And he came looking for Russo."
"He was just a kid, Bruce," your voice cracks, "he was just a kid. He couldn't even defend himself. And because we were assholes we got his sister killed and we got him put away. He was just a kid."
"So were you."
Something about the tender way Bruce says that makes you sob. For years, you've looked back on that moment with so much guilt, knowing how lucky you were to make it out of that situation alive and unscathed. How lucky you were to be taken seriously, to be cared for, for a detective like Joey Russo to show you a picture of his kid in his wallet and tell you that he would hate to see them in your position.
You were lucky that you got to fix your grades and go to college, study medicine, save lives, be here. Natalie didn't get that. Dimitri didn't get that. Alex didn't get that.
"You said... you said you hated Gotham. Why did you stay?"
You wipe at your cheeks, "I- I honestly... I wanted to. My parents made a deal with me that we would leave for New Jersey after I graduated but I didn't want to leave. I couldn't. I couldn't leave Alex. I couldn't leave the city, after all I'd done to it. In it. I wanted to leave like my friends because the guilt was so much but I felt obligated to fix it. I wanted to help people. Not hurt them. And I've worked hard to do better. I just can't leave. I don't want to leave."
What surprises you is the hand on your face afterwards. Bruce cups his your cheek. His thumb brushes away some tears, and it feels so unlike Bruce even though it's him, even though he's the one who cradled and comforted you after being held hostage, even though he was the one that stood on your fire escape and confessed that he trusted you, liked you even. Your brain just sort of stops there. You melt like putty in his hand. You realize you've been craving a gentle touch like this for a while.
"Then you won't have to," Bruce casts his eyes to the side, looking at where you laid your file on the desk. You can see the cogs turning beneath his furrowed brow, "I'll make sure of it."
"How?"
"...You won't like it."
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❝right place, right time❞
V. curiosity killed the cat.
parts: previously / next
plot: when else would you get a chance like this?
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader.
cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, suggestive content, you're awfully nosy aren't you.
words: 6.2k.
a/n: trying out something new with headers. also, hey! it's been three months! I did not realize! I am so sorry!
If you were to recall any other time you'd stood in the middle of your apartment, blindfolded, while a strange man you didn't know undressed for you, you'd come up a little bit empty. You were failing to accept that there was ever a time at all, let alone one happening right now.
But you can't look. You have to listen to the shuffle of clothing, the small grunts and heaves of breath, the maneuvering about your home that carries a breeze to your heated skin. Seconds pass where there is no movement at all, not even an exhale, and then, "C'mere."
You stumble forward and immediately bump your shin against your coffee table—the good shin, the one that isn't cut up in ribbons—earning a sharp "tsk" from your guest that has you flushing. You reach up to your makeshift blindfold and tug it off.
To say you were... probably not supposed to see this was an understatement. You're distracted by two trains of thought, the first being his upper body. Batman is half-sitting on the edge of your kitchen table while his under suit hangs from his waist. Every line and curve is sculpted like a meticulously maintained statue. You follow the deep divots of his collarbones, the swell of his chest, the soft yet defined skin of his torso with each ripple a sign of his strength. His cowl is still in place, and even his gloves remain.
And also, though you'd never tell him this, he looked pretty damn good.
The second thought is that he has more pressing concerns than an old gunshot wound. There are bruises littered all across his upper body, signs of fights that were too heavy-handed. You tried to imagine the force it would take to really, really hurt him under that armor. How a bullet had passed through what should be impenetrable.
The first time you'd had his skin exposed to you, it had barely been anything. A cut hole in his suit, just enough room to focus on the blood and the flesh. You hadn't even thought about it.
Now, beneath all the broken, mottled skin was the evidence of the last three years at work. Between the muscle and size of him, you were beginning to understand why he didn't take his health as seriously as you did.
Batman watches you, head tilted to the floor. One arm props him up on the table and his other hand rests over his knee. His upper armor lay discarded on the table behind him along with his utility belt. He doesn't blink as you approach, doesn't bother saying anything first. He has an intense look on him at all times and it's no different now. Even if he's trusted you enough to bare this part of himself to you, you could see the tension in him. He was prepared to fight if it came down to it.
You don't want that. You clasp your hands in front of you, shrinking yourself down like you were facing a fetterless beast because that's the best approach you've got, "Can I touch you?"
His eyes dilate. He hadn't been expecting you to ask that. You'd already touched him before without asking, had shared plenty of touch before. He moves the arm holding him up so that you can get a better look.
There is a small patch of raised skin on his side that you're delighted to find free of stitches, healing over. You press a finger to the area beneath the healing wound, feather-light. "It's looking a lot better," you begin, glancing up, "though I wish you'd keep it wrapped a little longer." You try not to let your fingers wander too much, regardless of the mind they had of their own, "How'd the bullet break the Kevlar? From what I've seen, that's pretty tough stuff from a distance."
Batman grunts when you press into a bruise on his rib cage, apparently the freshest of them all. You apologize, but he pays you no mind, "There wasn't any distance. They got close and kept shooting until it broke."
"Not to be morbid, but why didn't they just go for the head?"
Batman huffs again, though it sounds more like a laugh this time, "You don't think they tried?"
The image of him on the ground and a gangster with a gun towering over him, fighting to get in a lethal shot springs to your mind. You imagine his hands gripped around the barrel, forcing it from between the eyes, down and away until they just starts letting off every bullet in the mag until- "Oh."
He grunts again.
Despite the fact that he'd come close to death, he hardly looked bothered. You'd lived a life like that, and there wasn't a day that went by where you weren't baffled by the sheer stupidity of your youth. Maybe if you'd been smarter back then, had more self-preservation, you would have stopped much sooner.
Now look at you. A man with a gun threatens your life once and suddenly your whole world is thrown off kilter.
You're not actually looking at his bullet wound anymore. You're looking at his bruises. "You don't have doctors, right? So what happens when you... break a bone? How do you explain all this to an ER nurse?"
"I never said that."
"Well, no. You just brooded and ignored me. Which I took for an answer."
"I don't go to hospitals. If I can't fix it myself, I find someone who can."
You remember the other part of that conversation, when he'd mentioned someone looking at his wound, "That person that checked you out last time?" Batman hums. "Are they like me?"
"...No." You think that's all he'll say, having given you more information than perhaps he'd have liked to, but he surprises you, "Not a doctor, but knows what to do. From experience."
That doesn't narrow down the picture of Batman's Nightingale at all. After all, any number of people in Gotham had knowledge like that just from living here. You also figure if he's lasted this long, they must know what they're doing, "I guess you don't really need me fussing over you after all."
He doesn't need to dignify that with a response, and if he were to, you'd expect him to agree. Perhaps throw in an "I told you so" if he was feeling particularly jovial. You don't expect the sincere, "I think you have the right after saving my life."
You laugh, "By that logic, you should be up my ass about taking care of myself. Scratch that, the whole city's ass."
"I am. Or I would've taken your invitation."
"How many times do I have to say that was a stupid move before you let it go?"
"It's only been half an hour. It's not even cold yet."
"I'm sorry, okay? I can't help..." You falter. What could you say? Your feelings bigger than your vocabulary, if you tried to imprison them in words, you worried they might scare him. Might scare you. The truth was that you trusted him. And his insistence that you shouldn't didn't stop you. "I told you when we first met that I believe in what you do for Gotham, that I want you to keep doing it. I meant that. It's why I fuss and why I left the window open, why I keep hoping you're there and why I hoped you'd come save me that night. I believe in the Batman and I believe that even underneath that, you're a good person. Am I wrong?"
Batman keeps your gaze. You'd give anything to know what he's thinking at any given moment, but especially now. Your desire to be understood comes at the cost of being exposed. You realize that in this situation, he knows so much more about you than you may ever know about him.
That kind of realization is terrifying. You can't take it back now.
Your next realization is that your hand is touching his stomach, more comfortable in its place than it reasonably should be. It'd been hovering there since he'd started telling you about getting shot, warm from his warmth. You don't immediately pull away.
Your hand moves with him when he draws in a breath, "It's not something you can call yourself."
"You're a good person. There. I said it." You tip your chin up in defiance.
"You don't know me."
Then let me, you want to say. "Then prove me wrong."
A tick passes. Then, Batman stands to his full height. Your hand naturally falls away as he zips his suit back up to the neck, then his hand goes for the shirt you'd discarded. It shouldn't shock you the second time, but you shiver when he pulls it taut around your head once more, careful not to catch your hair in the knot.
You listen for the growing familiarity of his grunts, the heavy effort of pulling his armor back over his body, the click of his utility belt about his waist, and then you await the return of his cowl but the noise stops there. Your hands hover in front of you with nothing to do, too afraid to remove the blindfold early but too afraid to break the tense silence.
So you stand there, back to him, waiting for him to give you the okay. You can feel his eyes on your back (all over, really) and a trickle of humiliation works its way up your spine the longer it goes on.
You hear noise again a minute later, though it's not the sound of him putting his cowl back on. It's his boots. He's walking toward you.
You're anticipating something, a touch or a whispered final farewell. A sillier, nervous part of you is anticipating his breath on the nape of your neck. Bending his head down. The heat of his chest against your back. You imagine him dipping his mouth to the curve of your throat and the image sends a tingle up your spine. You're not expecting your hand taken hostage and something slipped into your palm. It feels small and round along the sides. When you allow your fingers to collapse around it, it feels flat. Batman doesn't release your hand until you're holding it properly.
Then you hear him put on his cowl. Then you hear him leave.
Yanking off the blindfold, you're shocked to find that there's a phone in your hand. A flip-phone. It's a prepaid, a simple one you'd find at any bodega up and down your street. You try to imagine Batman of all people, in civilian clothing, walking into one of your neighborhood's haunts and buying this for you.
You flip open the phone and find that in the contacts list, there is only one: "For emergencies only".
Huh. Batman just gave you his number.
You do not hear from Bruce Wayne for a week.
After the papers are signed, you're told rather abruptly that he'll be flying overseas. Business, Alfred had said, and that you'd be expected to be at Wayne Manor the morning of his return for a checkup if you weren't called to Verona before the week's end. If your head hadn't started swimming with the idea, you would have had the wherewithal to be excited about it.
But seven days come and go and you're eventually standing in the penthouse, poking and prodding the man of the hour while Alfred watches on from afar.
Bruce is an obedient patient, if not a little robotic. Every answer is a "yes", "no", "just a little bit". He's in perfect physical health from what you can tell, from what he allows you to see with all his clothes on. The most of note is his visible tan, and halfway through the examination, you can't stop yourself from commenting on it, "How was Italy?"
It's the first question that isn't about his appetite or sleep, so he's not as quick to answer, "Fine. Warm."
"Must be nice. Did you enjoy the beaches?"
Alfred snorts so loudly that it redirects the attention of both of you, but he has his nose deep in tax statements when your eyes find the butler. Bruce looks a little annoyed when he answers you, "I didn't go. I was in meetings most of the week."
You frown, "It's that sunny in Verona?"
"Any sliver of sunlight has him turning colors." Alfred no doubt knows from humiliating experience, and while Bruce doesn't look very pleased, you're just thankful the butler feels in good enough spirits to joke with you. Perhaps now that the contract had been signed, he'd resigned to his fate that you were here to stay. At least until Bruce's mysterious interest in you dulled his rose-colored glasses.
You try to picture Bruce basking in the sun—the kind of sun that didn't find itself on this side of the world—and all you see are scenes right out of Baywatch, so uncharacteristic that you shake your head just to get rid of them.
"Any concerns?" You ask, and then you're reminded to look down at his hands in his lap. You can't help yourself from asking, "What about those?"
Bruce follows your line of sight to the scarring over his knuckles, dimmed some due to the tan. You watch his face the entire way, hopeful to catch him in a lie. He turns over his palm, looks at you through his lashes, and says, "No, I... I fight. On purpose. It's a hobby."
That catches you off guard. You thought someone with his bank account would be into golfing.
Bruce nods over in Alfred's direction when you don't respond, "Mixed martial arts. Alfred will tell you. He's been teaching me since I was ten."
Sure enough, Alfred is watching the two of you over the rim of his glasses, "Just the basics." He confirms.
It adds up, though you can't help questioning it, "Isn't that kind of a violent hobby? Seems pretty dangerous for the future CEO of a major corporation."
"It was self-defense first, then a... hobby." Alfred spits the last word out like a rotten tooth. "Trust you aren't the first to mention it, and surely won't be the last."
You frown, "Just so you know, I'm a general surgeon. Brain damage isn't my forte."
Bruce doesn't answer. He doesn't get the chance. Dory barely has a chance to announce the arrival of guests before they're flooding the living room with balloons, streamers, flower arrangements, and more. You're taken aback by the sheer extravagance. Was it someone's birthday? You look at Bruce for an answer, but it's Alfred who shoots up to welcome them in. You hear him instructing a group of musicians to a corner of the room that you've only now realized has been cleared away of the antiques that once held space there.
A man rushes past you, carrying a folded banner in hand, and another immediately follows with a ladder that almost knocks your things off the end table. You catch your bag and hold it to your chest.
"I'm sorry, the crew for the party is here early." Bruce sounds almost disappointed.
"Party?"
"For the mayor. I'm hosting a celebration tonight for the mayor's new deal passing." Bruce rolls down his shirt sleeve once he unwraps the blood pressure monitor and hands it back to you, rolling his shoulder as you begin to pack up.
"That's awfully kind of you." You comment, glancing at the array of gold and purple being carried in. "I should get out of your hair then-"
"Would you like to come?"
There he is again.
He had such a nervous energy about him all of a sudden. Someone with his power and prestige should believe they have the world in the palm of their hand (because he does), but every time he locks eyes with you, it's like it all falls away. In your presence, he's just a man and you hold all the power.
"I wouldn't want to intrude."
"You wouldn't. It's... supporters, donors, friends. Politicians and some press too but nothing too formal." Bruce must notice the way you shrivel because he's quick to add on, "There'll be wine. From Italy. And champagne. Not from Italy, but it adds variety."
If you didn't know any better, you'd say he wanted you to come.
And it wasn't that you weren't intrigued. You admired the mayor, and being a part of something like this was a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Donors meant money-makers like Bruce who, if going off their politician of choice, would be looking for causes to fund. You could practically hear your boss's heart break at even the idea that you'd turn this down.
It wasn't lost on you that your new position with Bruce Wayne had made you, accidentally, a spokesperson for the hospital. Missing the opportunity to milk the pockets of a few more billionaires would be a waste.
And Bruce... really seemed like he wanted you to come.
"Mr. Wayne," Dory's frail voice calls from the top floor, peering over the railing, "I need to speak with you about precautions for tonight."
Precautions?
Dory hurries back down the hallway without another word, and Bruce grows distracted. You think that he's forgotten all about convincing you to come to the party, but he turns to you one for one last second, "It's at eight. If you'd like to come."
And another thing: you'd have a good reason to snoop around Bruce Wayne's house.
"Nothing too formal" your ass.
You'd had the good sense to spot a rich person lying out of their ass and had dressed as nicely as you could for the occasion, clearly a good decision.
The gathering of guests are all comfortable an hour into the party and a few drinks in, too. You immediately sneak yourself a glass the moment Dory lets you in the door. Bruce is knee-deep in conversation with who you recognize to be a councilwoman, and you catch Alfred observing the party from the edge of the room while hired servers tend to the guests. Mayor Reál is sat on a couch with a glass of champagne in one hand and her suit coat thrown over the back. She's got a line of guests leaning in to hear her recount some story about a diplomat from out of town. You wouldn't have a chance to speak to her tonight, you feared.
Somehow, you find yourself gradually floating in Alfred's direction.
He pays you no mind, not obviously anyway, but he does start speaking once you're in earshot, "Master Wayne invited you?"
Your lips purse. You try not to take his words as the insult they sound like, though his emotionless stare past your person doesn't help his case, "I debated coming. He seemed to want me here."
This gets him to look at you. Then, he turns away again, scanning the party for any signs of disorder. You noticed the tension in his shoulders almost immediately. Even if he didn't want to be friendly, that wouldn't stop you, "I can only imagine how nerve-wracking this must be."
Alfred furrows his brow. "I beg your pardon?"
"Letting strangers handle your fine glasses. God forbid someone trips."
A few moments of silence pass between you and your throat threatens to close up thinking your joke didn't land, but eventually, Alfred huffs, "That would be Dory's concern. That woman is very serious about the dishware."
Dory didn't look it. Greeting everyone with bright smiles and instructing them into the main room, she was more relaxed than Alfred was. "Then what's yours?"
The butler looks down to the side at you, but doesn't bother turning his head in your direction. He clearly didn't want the chance to miss anything, but the guests were behaving. "Someone ending up where they don't belong."
Perhaps that was why he was guarding the staircase with his life. Upstairs, you imagined, was where Bruce slept. Perhaps it was where the late Mr. and Mrs. Wayne had slept once upon a time too. If anyone were to disturb their belongings, you imagined this would be the last time a party was held in the penthouse.
But that got you thinking, "Do you hold parties often?"
"No. Never. This was all Master Wayne's idea, though I can't say it wasn't sudden."
Never was a strong response. Emily knew his shut-in status more intimately than you, but from what you saw, he did just fine on TV. He's got that interview smile on right now, cordial and fair. He laughs at the right times and makes sure to nod often enough so that his conversation partners know he's listening. He looks completely normal when you're not around. Excruciatingly normal. A picture of a proper businessman, billionaire, and bachelor. A man who should have been hosting parties weekly like the Gatsby that was expected of him.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
The way he tip-toed around you was the only proof you had that all of this was just as weird as it felt, that he knew this setup was out of the ordinary. That there was more to this than he or anyone else was telling you. A near-death experience had ushered him into the light of day and had put you right next to him. Maybe this was his version of Eat, Pray, Love.
A crash is heard from some distant part of the house and you see Alfred visibly tense. He looks uneasy to abandon his post, but you set your glass on a windowsill and take a step up the stairs, "I can keep watch until you get back."
Alfred looks skeptical, though another crash is all that's needed to convince him. He holds out a hand to the upstairs, "No one is allowed on the second floor. Understood?"
You nod, just shy of standing to attention and saluting. He rushes off without further convincing.
Your eyes naturally find Bruce again.
He's now in conversation with Mayor Reál and three other politicians all vying for his attention, though it's only she who seems to actually hold it. It's painstakingly obvious that they've seen what his dollars can do, and getting an endorsement from the newly emerged billionaire would do their campaigns wonders, but Bruce doesn't seem convinced of them.
And, if you were honest, it was a good sign.
Despite how little you were yet to understand about him as a person, you did know these politicians. You'd seen their campaign ads and the thinly veiled attempts at distracting from their shady pasts. Many of them had been in office alongside Mayor Mitchell. Many of them had rebranded, denounced him entirely after the Riddler debacle, if only to save face. There was no doubt in your mind that most of them had known about it, if not had their fingers in the pie.
Batman had promised you he wasn't corrupt. You had to believe him. You had to take his word for it.
Reminded of the caped crusader, your hand falls to your pocket to feel for the phone nestled there. Ever since the Batman had given it to you, you'd kept it charged and on you at all times, anxiously waiting for a call or a text or something.
But you hadn't seen or heard from him in a few days. If he was out there, he at least wasn't getting hurt, and that should have overjoyed you. It should have. It just... could also mean something else.
You slip the phone out of your pocket and confirm your suspicions. No messages, no missed calls.
The phone should have put you at ease, reassured you, but all it did was make you restless. Waiting for it to ring, wondering if it had and you'd missed it. You force it back into your pocket before you can fuss over it anymore than usual, and that's when you catch the sound of metal clanging against metal. It's distinct. It's coming from the second floor hallway.
Shit.
You rush up the stairs none too carefully, cursing that you couldn't take them two by two, and when you finally get to the second floor, the banging only grows louder. A glance back at the party assures you no one else is following.
It takes a turn down another hallway before you see a drunken couple standing at an iron gate, one holding their heels and drink in hand and the other positioning a fire poker over the latch. As soon as you spot them, the one with the fire poker drives it into the padlock on the handle and snaps it right off.
"Hey!" You call, and the two of them look to you, giggling like school children. The one with the fire poker puts it to the side, flashing you with a too-straight smile that is meant to put you at ease. It does nothing of the sort. "You can't be up here."
"Sorry, we were trying-" She hiccups, giggling into her hand, "-we were trying to get to the roof, but this place is fucking huge."
The closer you get, you realize that the gate is sealing off an elevator shaft. There's only one button, however, and it points downward.
Sweeping the broken padlock off the floor, the couple shuffle out of your way. "Well, this isn't it, but I'm sure if you ask the nice British man downstairs how to get there, he'll tell you." And then, for good measure, "And don't tell him you were up here or you're never coming back."
The two of them look sober enough to understand, but they're still enjoying themselves as they make their way back downstairs. You watch them go the entire way. If they didn't heed your warning, you'd get the brunt of his anger over this.
You set the padlock down on a nearby table and pick up the fire poker, unsure where they would've snatched it from. You only hoped they hadn't sneaked into any of the rooms to get it.
And then, you wonder where the hell this leads to.
There's the elevator at the front door, the one that each and every one of you had arrived in, but when you pull back the iron gate and peek inside, there aren't any floor numbers. There's two buttons: one that goes up, and one that goes down.
The inside shakes when you step in. For a moment, you wonder if it had been locked because it was out of order, and your heart drops to your stomach thinking that it might drop down a height of sixty stories all at once, but it steadies eventually. It's clear it hasn't been changed, just one part of a fitting antique carved into the other world that is Wayne Tower.
There's a weak white light that buzzes overhead and those two buttons. Curiosity itches.
Whatever was down there, whatever this thing led to, the Waynes didn't want anyone to find it. The "precautions" Dory had mentioned came to mind.
But if they didn't want anyone to find it, why throw a party here where two stupid drunks could wander off and break into it?
You're sure Alfred didn't imagine anyone would come at it with a fucking fire poker, but it had been that easy.
Your eyes burn into the button. That'd be so easy, too.
If you gave into your desire, allowed yourself to push it and someone found you, you'd be fired. You could be stripped of your license for violation of patient privacy, enough HIPAA rules broken in the time it takes to satiate your curiosity. Wayne Enterprises would sue you into oblivion. Jersey would no longer be a question. Nothing would save you.
But there was something down there that you needed to see. You knew it. Felt it like claws burrowing into the wrinkles of your brain.
Your finger twitched at your side and you saw Bruce's face in your mind, all sad eyes and something hidden beneath his skin. He'd wanted you to come, wanted you to work for him—clearly against Alfred's better judgement—and he would trust you not to go any further. Even though he doesn't know you.
Some indignant part of you thinks that isn't your problem.
That same indignant part of you, the part that had convinced you to run with wolves as a teenager, gave in.
The elevator kicked up, so loud you worried everyone in the party could hear it, but then it began its descent with its steady whirring. You held on tight as it dropped floor after floor after floor after floor.
It must've been twenty years or maybe a minute and a half. The elevator comes to a shaky stop. A door outside the gate slides open, revealing... darkness. Absolute, all-consuming darkness.
The meager light above you does very little to light your way as your heart jumps into your throat, regret bubbling up in your chest. You can hear small chittering sounds from within the darkness and dripping like leaky pipes. You're hesitant to pull back the gate, more than eager to leave this a mystery unsolved. You're not entirely sure that if you were to step out into the abyss, you wouldn't fall into Hell's mouth.
But then, light fills up the darkness.
Giant, white stage lights flicker on one by one straight ahead and the first thing you see is a car covered by tarp, elevated on a platform at the heart of the room. There are tools laid haphazardly around the ramps, as if whoever had left them there had abandoned them in a hurry. You can't see much else from this angle except a grungy, muddy mountain bike with its helmet hanging off the handle.
A garage. The big, scary void was a garage. Your heart falls back into place with a dusting of shame crawling up your neck.
You're about to take yourself back to the penthouse when you startle at the sound of a voice—no, voices—echoing off the walls of the garage. None of it makes sense at first; the discussion starts up like you'd just walked into earshot, as if they'd been talking the entire time and you'd only just started paying attention.
You touch a hand to the gate and peek further into the room, pushing it back to let you out. You're cautious, eyes flitting to and fro to find the source of the voices, but all you see are tables and computer screens and a TV just a ways away from you, having flicked on with the power. Seconds later, you recognize the voices. Newscasters. News 7 WGOT to be exact.
What really captures your attention is the darkness that hadn't been chased away by the lights. There are sconces all along the walls that keep the main area lit, an area you realize looks an awful lot like a subway terminal, but they cease at the cutoff of the platform. The lights are bright enough to show some of what lies ahead: train tracks.
You step further into the room, examining the peculiarities: a car engine here, a microscope there, subwoofers packed on top of subwoofers, tables and desks and computer screens everywhere.
A desk near the center of the room catches your eyes next. There are radio transmitters, files, and lamps scattered about the surface. None of it resembles the pristine study upstairs, what you assumed was Bruce's personal base of operations. No, this desk looked lived in. The two or three empty mugs lined up by a table leg tells you as much.
What kind of business could a CEO get done down here? The place smelled of mildew and you could feel the vibrations of trains running above ground.
Your eyes flicker over a leather-bound journal and a handful of folders, your eyes catching on names that only sort of tickle your brain. Names you've heard recently. Names you've heard upstairs. Did he have files on everyone at the party? The level of detail wasn't surprising, not for someone with his kind of position. You doubted he would take a chance on anyone that he invited after last year.
You brush a thumb over one when you catch a name that you don't recognize as quickly. Ironic. It belongs to you.
You snatch the file without thinking, flipping open the cover to see your headshot scanned off your medical ID badge, but there are other photos. One of you and the rest of your department, another of you mid-handshake with the Dean of your alma mater. Publicly available stuff. Except for one you've never seen before. It's candid, though the heavy beating of your heart in your ears is making it hard to determine when it could've been taken. It looks recent. Somewhere outside of Gotham General. You were still in scrubs, completely unaware.
With these types, it wasn't unusual to hire a private investigator before hiring on a complete stranger, let alone one who managed your very life and well-being. You kept telling yourself that, swallowing down the rising unease in your gut, when you made the mistake of turning the page.
There was a picture there that no one should have access to. Your fingers shook as they ghosted over the black and white image, the shock in your eyes, the barely captured tremor in your jaw.
Every single feeling came rushing back to you all at once as if you were 16 again. Standing still in an alleyway. Watching her blood splatter the concrete. Staring down the barrel of the same gun as it turned on you, promised you would be next.
Some names were redacted, but you could tell from the first few lines of the police report beneath your mugshot that it was exactly what you feared it would be. He shouldn't have this.
Panic rises in your throat. You can't keep the nausea down, the growing urge to vomit up your last two drinks onto the paper. Maybe you'd ruin it completely and then... and then...
It still happened. You couldn't change that.
The entire terminal rattles and pulls you out of your shock. A train was passing right above you, sending bolts and screws clattering to the ground. You accidentally drop the file and one of the screens flickers on.
There were four different feeds—camera feeds. CCTV. One of the living room, one of the kitchen, one of the foyer, and one of the second floor. All four wink away, replaced by new angles, and you realize with a chill that one of them is pointed down the hallway leading to the elevator. If these were recording... if Bruce watched back the feed...
You tremble in place, waiting as the feeds are replaced with new ones. You wait for one that would confirm you had stepped into the elevator, had come down here. You wait for the killing blow.
But it doesn't come. There's one camera in that hallway, pointed at such an angle that, really, there's no way to tell if you got on or not. It's all you need to put your file back and rush out of there.
Your teeth are chattering as you climb back into the elevator, shut the gate, and let it take you back to the penthouse, but your mind isn't with you right now. It's back there, years ago. It's reeling. It's thinking he knows, he knows and this all must be a trick. He hired you and he knew. He knew and he let you in his house, let you find that couple, let you think you had a choice to get this far because he knew the truth and the truth was that you would take a chance like this because it took one night and her brains blown out of her head and Bruce would be waiting to arrest you because you never changed-
The elevator comes to a stop. Your name is called in that same moment, and you quickly hurry off the elevator and shut the gate just in time for Alfred to appear.
You probably look incriminating enough, all wild-eyed, but all Alfred does is release a deep, deep sigh. Then, he walks over to you and examines the broken padlock and the guilty weapon in your hand. You hadn't realized you still held it. You've turned the metal warm with how tightly you grip it. "No one got on, yes?" Is all he says.
You nod.
Alfred seems to think that's enough. He holds out a hand for the fire poker and you eagerly hand it over, "I met your friends a moment ago. They've been sent home. I'm afraid letting them onto the rooftop would've resulted in a lawsuit."
It takes you a second to register that he's joking, a second longer to laugh with him, however shaky, "They got as far as breaking the lock before I stopped them."
"Lucky as they were. This elevator's broken."
You blink, "Is it?"
"I'm afraid so. That's why we keep it locked. Who knows what could've happened if someone had stepped inside?"
You did.
"I believe Bruce was looking for you," Alfred offers, and you notice the slight edge to his voice. The forced smile on his face is all it takes for you to be certain, "It appears the mayor would like to hear about your work at Gotham General."
It's an out. You'd be stupid not to take it, "Right. Thanks. Good luck with the... door."
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#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne scenarios#bruce wayne fic#bruce wayne angst#bruce wayne fluff#bruce wayne#batman x reader#batman scenarios#batman fic#batman angst#batman fluff#the batman#battinson x reader#battinson#dc#mjwrites#bw; rprt
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❝right place, right time❞
VI. do you trust me?
parts: previously / next
plot: things are getting messy.
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader.
cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, descriptions of surgery, angsty mcangsty pants as always, mentions of the christian God and religious practices, maybe you and bruce wouldn't have to keep so many secrets if you just made out a lil bit, :).
words: 6.2k.
a/n: edit as of 2/11/24: replaced mistaken use of "officer" with "detective".
Your needle passes through skin to the beat of a steady metronome. It's made up of muscle memory, glazing your mind as your hands thread the tear together. With each pass, you're unblinking. There are three others in the room with you but they might as well be shadows, faceless and without sound, coloring your peripheral but otherwise of no concern.
The steady metronome beats on well into your final pull of the thread, well into your dismissal of the shadows, well into the comforts of your office where your brain falls out of rhythm. It's been 48 hours and you haven't found a clue.
You'd think after 17 years that you'd have forgotten his name, but you remember Detective Russo. About 5'9, a kinky black beard, and bushy eyebrows that took up good real estate on his forehead. You remembered sizing up every one of those officers, but he was the one you'd memorized. He was the one that promised you that no one would ever know you were there that night. And now Bruce knows.
He was a detective of little significance outside of that, as far as your research was concerned. He'd served a whopping total of 20 years on the force before retiring seven years ago, but without any social media presence or nearby family to speak of, you couldn't find him. Not an old address, not a phone number, nothing. It was like he'd wiped himself clean the minute he retired. Which meant you'd have to resort to plan B.
Your boss intercepts you before you can even get to the stairs, though. Rudy Moretti rarely had good timing, after all, "Hey! Early lunch?"
You think about lying for all of two seconds, "No. Headed to the police station."
Your boss' eyebrows shoot up. "Whoa, everything okay? Are one of those guys from the other night bothering you? I can come with you if you need-"
"No, no. Nothing like that. It's something personal."
Rudy shifts awkwardly, "Oh. Well, be safe. And let me know if anything like that pops up." You nod, attempting to escape, but his hand finds your elbow and stops you, "By the way... how's everything with Mr. Wayne?"
You should've expected a question like that by now. You had been officially working for him long enough to warrant it, but you still wince. "Fine." When your boss blinks at you, expecting more, you have to bite your tongue to keep from swearing, "I actually... was invited to a celebration for the Mayor. Courtesy of Mr. Wayne. She was interested in the hospital's new wing. We had a good conversation."
Like a child on Christmas morning, your boss lights up at the good news. "Oh, that's good! That's good. Did she mention wanting to come down for a tour?"
"What happened to you should have never happened in the first place. I'm glad you were able to make it out alive."
Her hand on yours should've been a comfort, and to some extent it was, but even the softness of her palm couldn't have steadied your trembling. She had squeezed tighter when she felt it, perhaps thinking you traumatized for having to recall that night. Unaware of where you'd been. Unaware of the burning need to escape before you spilled your guts on the Persian rug.
"It happens all the time," a voice came from your right, a drunken councilman with his suit jacket unbuttoned, "and it'll keep happening so long as that thug's still running the streets."
"Thug?" The mayor dipped her chin.
"With all due respect, Bella, what's your plan to put Batman in Arkham for good?"
You watched the mayor's back straighten, her eyes narrow. It was the one thing everyone was itching to talk about, and the one thing everyone was too afraid to bring up first.
You felt Bruce's knee bump yours and stiffened.
"You think he ought to be imprisoned?" The mayor asks.
"I think he ought to be drawn and quartered! It's people like him that make this city a far cry from its glory days. Inviting violence, chaos. He's single-handedly responsible for that- that homicidal freak that nearly killed you, mayor. And he's responsible for everything else this city's suffered since he started infecting it. He's a menace. It'll be a cold day in hell before this city's safe with him still on the streets."
It sickened you to hear. People who'd done nothing since being elected calling for the arrest of the one person who's made any real change in this city.
The mayor doesn't immediately speak up and you think she's chewing on his words, preparing to respond with a bit more bite. Her pause is what prompts you to speak first, "If it wasn't for the Batman, I might be dead. He's done more good for this city than bad..." you watch the councilman turn his focus to you, looking baffled as to why you were butting in, as if you hadn't just finished recounting your brush with death moments ago, "...with all due respect, Councilman Roberts."
The councilman sobers up at the heavy gaze you level on him, "Oh, no. Of course. Of course! It's good that he was there. It would've been a- been a real tragedy to lose one of Gotham's good, fine citizens. I'm just saying that... maybe these things wouldn't be happening if he wasn't there to... encourage it."
"You think he's encouraging it?" The mayor chimes in, taking a sip from her glass. Whatever she was going to say before has been shelved for the time being, it seems.
The councilman laughs. You watch him twist so that he's facing you and the mayor, holding his glass to her like a gavel for judgement, "He's a glorified criminal! He's no better than that clown we put away years ago."
"He put away, councilman. I believe you meant to say he," Bruce's first words since he'd introduced you to Bella give you a shiver. With his one arm hanging off the back of the couch, he leans in from beside you and smiles that TV smile again, "Unless you've got something you’d like to share with the class?"
Snickers break out amongst the group. You can feel Bruce's breath on your shoulder for only a passing moment, and then he's falling back into the couch and taking a swig of his wine.
The councilman bristles, clearly not a fan of being laughed at. Or being faced with the truth, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, nothing. Just a silly theory of mine. It's just... it would make sense for a vigilante to hide his identity by publicly denouncing himself, especially if he’s in the public eye already. I mean, it would make most people cross you off their list but... you're making me think twice about you."
You chance a glance at Bruce's face. He isn't drunk. His eyes hold a steady gaze with the councilman encroaching on your space to meet it, and even with the looseness of his body, you can tell he's calculating. His arm behind your head feels drawn tight. You can sense it in its weight near your head. He's flashing his teeth and keeping his voice light, but he's not defenseless. He's leveraging.
Your heart hammers again at what lie beneath this tower.
The councilman flushes. Sinks back into his seat, grumbling, but all eyes on him has him forcing a grin, "You're funny, Wayne. Unfortunately for your theory, I have a real job. Making real change in this city. Something Batman wouldn't understand."
That does something to you, "Maybe I'm biased, but... I've seen what he's done for this city, sir. And in the wake of last year, I think we can all agree that... well, anyone can say they're making change. Even if they're just making money instead. Perhaps it feels like Batman is doing more because we actually know what he's doing."
Bruce's leg bumps yours again. Accidentally.
You watch the councilman's Adam's apple bob, "No offense, and I'm sure you feel offended on behalf of the man that saved you, but there are laws that make sure people like me and Ms. Reál don't cross the line. What say you, when your hero takes things too far one day, hm? Who're you going to call when the Batman beats someone's brains in because people like you justify it? Or is it only okay because at least he stopped you from getting a bullet to the head?"
You're about to spew the first thing that comes to mind, probably full of anger and vitriol and a little of whatever you had to drink earlier, when you feel a hand take hold of your inner wrist. Bruce's grip is firm, but it doesn't hurt you. It's enough to stop whatever might come out of your mouth. When you look him in the eye, he's not smiling anymore.
You stare at each other like that for a few moments, not a word shared but a million thought. It was almost like he knew what you were going to say, knew how it might've made you look, made you both look. Had imagined it coming out of his own mouth too, maybe.
Instead, he releases you and turns to the councilman, "Okay, enough. We all feel pretty spirited about the topic." When the councilman scoffs, Bruce nods to you, "I think you both make good points. He's done good. He saved my doctor, of whom I never would've had the pleasure of working with otherwise. But I have to agree with you, councilman: he operates outside of the law and that is cause for concern. I'm sure these are all important issues that our mayor is working tirelessly to address, isn't that right, Mayor?"
Mayor Reál has her leg crossed over the other, eyes cutting from the councilman's to Bruce's to yours. Eventually, she smiles and raises her glass, "Indeed. This conversation was enlightening. Much to think about."
"I'm gonna get another drink." Your announcement is followed by the most graceful exit you can muster, even though your chest is throbbing with adrenaline and you can feel Bruce following you.
You don't stop until you reach the bar and have another glass in hand, doing your best to ignore his presence as he looms beside you. He allows you a full three sips before he starts talking, "Are you okay?"
The diplomat from before is long gone. He's melted, keeping his back to the group you'd just escaped and giving you such wet puppy dog eyes that it makes you want to hurl again. How could he look you in the eye?
Your hand shakes around the stem of your glass, "You're different around them."
His eyes fall to the bar top, "I am?"
"Smiling, friendly, funny..."
He cuts his eyes back to you, smiling a little, "I'm not usually funny?"
"You pretend to be laid-back around them, and I get why. But you don't do that with me. You act like I know some big secret about you and I'm this close to spilling it," you pinch your fingers together in front of his face, "or maybe you know some big secret about me."
You watch his face for any sign of recognition, but you're disappointed to find there is none. No reaction other than a sigh. "I pretend around them because I don't trust them."
"And you trust me? Even though we barely know each other?"
Uncharacteristically, Bruce tilts so close toward you that you bend back to keep some semblance of space between you, "You're asking if I trust the person I pay to keep me alive over... Councilman Roberts." He pronounces the last two words with such incredulity, then laughs right after. You note his breath smells sweet, but nothing like the wine. Had it been wine he'd been drinking? One look at his glass and you'd think so. Two looks, though...
He was stone cold sober.
You swallow, staring up into his face. Bruce doesn't back away. Questions begin to form on your tongue... destructive ones.
How do you know? How did you find out? What are you going to do about it?
Your stomach drops as you think, surely, there's quite a bit he can do about it. If he wanted to. If you made the wrong move.
His eyes narrow on you, "You look sick. Are you feeling okay?"
"I'd like to go home."
Bruce blinks, shrinks in on himself a bit, "Okay."
"I... I drove."
Bruce nods, holds a hand up to one of the suited men near the edge of the room, and turns to you, "My driver. He'll take you home."
"My... my car. I have work in the morning." You mumble pathetically.
Bruce says something to the driver when he gets close. Another man is summoned, appearing by your side in an instant. This one holds out his hand to you and it takes you a second to realize what he's asking for. You fish your keys out and drop them in his waiting palm.
It's incredibly awkward as Bruce walks you out. You think he'll stop at the front door, or the elevator, or even the lobby, but he walks you all the way to the back door of his ride and—God—even holds it open for you.
You settle in to the nice seats, blinking up at him through eyes you fight to keep dry. You wonder if Bruce would forgive you for throwing up in his car instead. "If it's any consolation," he begins, leaning on the roof of the car. You can still hear the bustle of Gotham all around you, but when he looks at you... there might as well be only him and you, "I agree with you. Councilman Roberts is a jackass."
Your boss is looking at you, expectantly. Still waiting.
"I'm sure she's thinking about it." Is your curt reply. "Is that it? I really gotta go."
Your boss deflates, but otherwise doesn't keep you.
"How can I help you?"
The cop behind the desk seems nice enough. He doesn't smile at you but his tone is pleasant, unhurried. It helps calm your nerves. "Hi. I'm looking for someone. A detective who used to work here."
"You remember their name?"
"Detective Joey Russo," you offer, watching the cop begin to type into his computer, "he retired seven years ago. I wanted to know if you could get me in touch with him. A number or a... address."
"Ah, Russo. I remember him. I'm sorry, may I ask who you are?" You give your name and the cop frowns. "You got a badge? Unless you're with the state, I can't give you anything."
You'd worried as much, "He worked a case of mine 17 years ago. Something new's popped up and I just wanted to talk to him about it."
"If it's about a case we covered, you'd have to talk to one of us about it unless he's directly involved, and even then it'd be a process." He must notice how your face falls because his own softens, "I'm real sorry. I can get you in with someone else."
You know you shouldn't be upset. After all, he was only doing his job. If they gave out personal information to every person who walked in off the street, you imagined they'd have a bigger problem with domestic terrorism than they already do.
It doesn't make it any less debilitating. Bruce Wayne had found him. That was the only way he could've gotten his hands on your file, surely. And Bruce Wayne had money, more than enough to get an ex-cop to talk.
You're thanking the man and trying not to sound as distressed as you feel when you turn and catch new eyes.
You'd only seen Batman at night, tucked into the corners of shadow of your apartment, but here he was in broad daylight—midday—standing next to a plainclothes cop who had yet to realize the vigilante was no longer listening to him. You're so relieved to see him that you actually break out into a smile.
Batman doesn't return it. Without acknowledging his partner, he stomps across the room to you, cutting off your greeting with a rushed, "Did something happen?"
You blink, unable to answer when the cop from before sidles up next to the two of you. He's got a warm, friendly look to him, even if his eyes are narrowed at the pair of you with skepticism, "You two know each other?" He asks. When Batman refuses to tear his eyes from you, the cop addresses you directly, reluctant to extend his hand without confirmation that you were friend, not foe, "Detective James Gordon. And you are?" You give your name and his eyes light up. "Hey. I know you, don't I?"
"The hostage at Gotham General," Bruce answers for him, not even bothering to glance at the detective, "they were on the news."
"You three mind moving somewhere else? The freak's making people uncomfortable." The kind cop from before has dropped all pretense now, glaring at the vigilante who, still, pays no one but you mind.
Gordon grumbles and motions for you both to follow him down a long hallway out of sight.
You struggle to keep up when the detective starts walking, much faster than he looked, and so you all but yelp when the Bat places a hand on your lower back and guides you in front of him.
A turn or two later, you empty out beside a window at the end of another long hallway, far enough away from prying eyes that the detective seems to find it sufficient.
"What are you doing here?" Batman asks immediately.
"I was looking for someone but, actually, now that you're here, I was wondering if I could talk to you." You look over at Gordon, "If you're not busy."
The detective grunts but holds his hands up in surrender, slinking down the hall out of earshot, "I'm gonna go smoke, but I need him back in ten."
When he's far enough away, Batman speaks, voice at a much lower volume than before, "What's wrong?"
"I'm looking for a cop. I need to get in touch with him but he retired and they won't tell me where I can find him."
The Bat's head tilts to the side. You can tell the gears in his brain are turning, "Who?"
"Detective Joey Russo." The Bat freezes. "Do you know him?"
He doesn't answer that, something you take note of with a funny feeling in your chest, "Why are you looking for him?"
It's your turn not to answer. You should've known he wouldn't just tell you without good reason, but your throat closes up when you think about how you'll explain it. It wasn't that you didn't trust him... but... "It's personal. Please."
"That's not enough."
"I know... I know. And I wouldn't be asking this of you if it wasn't important-"
"Then tell me why."
"I can't. But it is important. To me. I promise, it's for good reason."
"A good reason that you can't tell me? That's not enough. That's not how I work. God forbid someone finds out I gave you classified information."
"If I told you why I needed it—if I told anyone why I needed it—it would defeat the whole purpose!"
"That doesn't make you sound any more convincing."
"Batman, please," and your voice breaks as you step that much closer to him, your eyes rimming with tears you're terrified to shed, "I have never asked you for anything, have I? Not for money or your identity or anything. I am asking you for this one thing because I have no one else. You... are the only person who can help me. Please."
You see his face fall, so clear it feels like you can see right through him. Past the cowl and the facades and right into his very being. For a moment, you're just seeing the person and not the idea of him. You see your fears reflected back at you in his eyes, a deep understanding there that gives you some hope.
He draws a deep, heavy breath, and- "I'm sorry."
You're too stunned to watch him walk away.
Judith's apartment has a lack of technology and an abundance of crucifixes. The first time you'd seen it, you'd thought it was overkill. Now, since you've visited enough, it was comforting in its own creepy way. A blast into the past, memories of a grandmother who was never really your grandmother.
She startles at the stove where she's just put something in the oven, "Oh! Dear, I didn't hear you come in. Is everything alright?"
You smile and kick your shoes off by the key-holder, "I knocked. You're supposed to have your hearing aid in."
She gives you a stern look, then smiles.
You can smell hibiscus tea in the air, her favorite. She'd gather handfuls of hibiscus and dry them out in the sun, and then she'd steep their petals in hot water until it turned a deep pink. The taste was always striking, tart and strong, but she'd sweeten it with honey for you and then it wouldn't be so bad.
Without asking, she waddles over to her breakfast table where you've already found your seat and pours you a steaming cup of tea. You take the honey she's brought with her and begin to stir. "You never answered my question." Judith reminds you.
You bite the inside of your cheek, "I'm just taking a break from work, is all. Do I need to be having a bad day to visit you?"
"No, I suppose not," she sighs, taking the seat across from you, "but you do look a wreck."
You grumble. You hadn't looked in the mirror. You hadn't done anything but busy yourself in hopes that it would stave off the wave of anxious tears threatening to fall. You busied yourself until your hands started shaking and people started asking questions. And now you were here.
"Yeah. I'm sure I do. Work's... been hard."
"And besides work?"
"I don't know. I don't really have a life outside of work anymore."
Judith frowns, "You should really make some friends, dear."
That gets you to laugh. "I have friends! I have you. Are you not my friend?"
You could see the question already brewing, the narrow of her eyes as she watched you begin to fidget, "And that demon? Is he still hanging around you?"
You cast your gaze to the tabletop, "...I don't think we'll be seeing him around anymore."
"Oh?" You don't miss the hope in Judith's voice, "Did the police finally arrest him?"
"No. I think I may have... scared him off."
She doesn't respond for a while, even though you can tell from the shift in the air that she's rather pleased with this development. It makes you feel sicker to the stomach. "It might be for the best, dear," you can tell that she's being careful, minding your upset, "he's dangerous. It's best you stick to the light for now." When you don't respond, her leathery hand clasps over yours and forces you to look her in the eye, "Come with me to service this week. I've been telling everyone about you."
You snort, "About me and the demon I'm friends with?"
Judith shakes her head furiously, as if the accusation that she might have spilled your secret greatly insulted her, "They have been praying for you ever since the night at the hospital. They'd really like to see you in person one of these days. I never shut up about how proud I am of you."
Even through the despair, you feel the warmth of Judith's love. It makes you hold her hand back, gripping so tightly that you fear she may be too fragile to handle it. She doesn't seem to mind.
You two share the rest of your tea in relative silence, taking breaks to comment on the neighbors or the news or the weather (which never really changes outside of summer, but you always have something to say with her).
After a refill or two, you feel the dread begin to creep in.
"Dear, come here," Judith calls as you button up your coat at the door, "bow your head."
You frown but do as you're told. In a blink, you feel her finger swipe across your forehead in a quick motion. The familiar scent of cinnamon and myrrh hit your senses right after. You reach up to touch it but Judith captures your hand in her own. In her other is a small vial, unmarked, filled halfway with oil. "To protect you," she says, nodding gravely, "God will watch over you. You are blessed."
You want to tell her that the anointing does nothing for the stones gathering in your stomach, that the moment you walk out of this door you will be hit with a wave so sudden that you will surely drown. But you'd be lying if you said this little woman with her God and prayers didn't make you feel, even for a fraction of a second, safe. You kiss her cheek goodbye.
It's desperate, you know that. You spend the whole evening hating yourself as you pace the hardwood floors, thumbing over buttons and weighing the pros and cons.
"For emergencies only", but this was an emergency to you. It felt like one, the way it gnawed at your very center demanding blood. Every minute dreading that you'd have to see him again and pretend like you had no idea that he knew that you... You'd also spent part of the evening bent over the toilet.
At some point, you throw yourself onto your fire escape for fresh air and nearly throw the phone across the way just to breathe.
You know you've screwed up. The tentative threads of your friendship with the Bat had surely been severed. What had gotten into you, asking him for such a bold favor without anything to offer in return? You'd already given him your hands and your mind, the two things that you'd worked so hard to hone, and you would never think of taking them away.
But maybe that would be inevitable. Maybe you'd lose your license if this got out. And it wouldn't just be you carrying that burden. Every single one of you would be dug up and exposed to the world, and with Bruce Wayne involved, you couldn't imagine the lawsuits. You just couldn't. They could put you under the prison with his kind of money.
And the cops didn't even know everything.
You gasp, sob, and wrench yourself from the railing. You clench the phone tight.
Even if you could get to Russo, and even if he admitted that he gave you up, what good would it do? Bruce had already seen it. He probably had a contact at the DA's office on speed dial. You'd seen what money could do to men like him in this city. What it made men like him do to people like you. The echoes of the accusations against his father a year ago still rang in the wind, and his efforts to make up for it all would never truly make that go away. A criminal record was just as much currency as anything else. He would undeniably own you.
Somewhere between your panicking thoughts, you hear the grates of the fire escape tremor from above. You whip your head up and see a dark shape hovering a floor up. Swiftly, it descends the stairs until your eyes adjust. Your heart catches in your throat as you choke out his name.
The strangled noise causes him to pause when he turns to you. You clear your throat, "Are you hurt?" Batman's head tilts to the side. His eyes flicker from the phone in your hand and back to you. "I'm... I wanted to see you."
His shoulders stiffen. He almost looks like he didn't mean to come. A sliver of you had actually hoped he'd changed his mind, too. "I know it wasn't fair of me to ask something like that of you with no explanation. And I'm sorry. I want you to know that."
He waits, head still tilted.
You bite your tongue, tasting the blood beginning to pool on the surface.
You could tell him. Lay it all bare. And he could drop you at the GCPD without another word.
Or he could accept you. See the you that stands before him now, who had been years clean and had saved his life on your living room floor and confessed that he was why you were a better person now.
That's what friends did. Were you and the Batman friends?
Were you and Batman... anything?
"I wasn't always like this," your head throbs as you force yourself to keep talking, clenching the railing behind you with one hand, "I'm sure it's no surprise to you that I didn't just waltz through life completely innocent for thirty-something years, given where I come from. I wasn't a very good person when I was younger... and I did things I'm not proud of. And, by the grace of a very good man, a very small group of people know the true extent of that.
"But recently, I found out that someone who shouldn't know... does. And they could ruin my life if they used it against me. So I need to talk to Russo, because I need to know if he broke his promise, and then... God knows what else. I don't know. I haven't thought any further than that."
Something substantial but unclear, and if Batman were to go digging officially and find out the rest, at least you'd know Russo was the snitch.
But your heart still clenches in your chest. It feels like you are all made up of open wounds and they're all gushing blood as he watches, saying nothing. If you had really told him the truth, you imagined it would feel akin to spontaneous combustion. God, would you even be able to utter the words? It'd been so long since you'd last said-
Batman takes a slow step toward you, and the open wounds seal up at once. You are frozen.
Another, and another, until you are caged there against the railing, awaiting his verdict. Judge, jury, and... "And if he didn't? If it wasn't him that sold you out?"
You'd briefly considered that. Your friends, who were really more ghosts now than friends, had no reason to expose themselves. They'd gotten off just as easily as you did. Most of them were living lives on the other side of the country now, far, far removed from the history you shared together. Only you remained.
And who would even think to go looking into them? Outside of your history together, now sealed up and locked away, no one would look for them unless they knew what happened already.
Which only left one other option. "Then someone did—someone very close to Bruce Wayne, and there's nothing I can fucking do about it."
Batman stares at you for a while. You don't have a clue what he's looking for. "If I take you to Russo," you gasp, and he hurries his words out before you can say anything else, "it'll be the last time anything like this ever happens again. We go, we ask, and that's it."
"Thank you. Thank you, thank you."
"And I wasn't lying to you."
"What?"
"About Wayne. When you asked me if he was corrupt." You watch his eyes waver on you, eventually falling to the grates beneath your feet, and you're dumbstruck by the shift in his tone. "I never lied to you."
"I... I didn't think you had." He looks at you again. "But there are things that maybe we don't know about him," and as you speak, you place a hand on his arm, feeling it go rigid even beneath the suit, "I mean, he's a Wayne. They're older than this city. And you've seen firsthand the kind of reach people with that kind of money have. He can smile and wave and support as many good causes as he wants, but that could all be smoke and mirrors."
"You really don't trust him, do you?"
You sigh. You could almost hear Emily asking the same thing. But Emily would be smiling, and Batman is grave. Almost... disappointed. Your frown strengthens, "He's got a lot of secrets."
"So do I."
"Yeah, but you also saved my life," you chuckle, "if Wayne pushes me out of the way of a moving car, I might reconsider my stance on him."
The Bat squints at you. To your relief, you notice a bit of mirth in his voice, "No. You wouldn't."
"Listen, I am really grateful that you're doing this for me. And I wanted to say that after today, the thought of scaring you away scared me. And I would really, really like it if you could trust me. I don't want you to think that I'm taking this for granted. I'm not asking for you to take off your mask or bare your soul or anything. I just want you to know that-"
"I gave you this," the hand holding your burner is scooped up in his, held between the two of you, "because I trust you. I keep coming back because... I like... this. It's different. And I don't trust easily. If you believe me on anything, believe me on that."
A bit of your dread is chased away, and your hero is standing in the wake. Bruce Wayne is far away from this moment. He can't stain it. You won't let him. "You wanna come in for coffee?"
At that exact moment, your doorbell rings.
You see Batman jolt backwards and reflexively reach for him, using what strength you have to keep him from escaping. He watches you, wide-eyed, as you cling to his side, "Wait, wait. I wasn't expecting anybody. I'll send them off. It'll be quick."
He turns his head to the door. "You weren't expecting anyone?"
You shake your head. He shucks away your grip as he climbs through the window and takes a few, long strides to the door. He has to bend to look through your peephole, and you rush to catch up to him. After a long moment, he peers at you from the corner of his eye, "It's an old lady."
Judith. The doorbell rings again. "My neighbor. She's harmless, I'll handle it."
You expect him to walk off, find somewhere else to hide from sight, but he backs up behind the door and waits, nodding to you. Well, he was out of sight.
The door opens. The concerned look on Judith's face melts as soon as she sees you there, and holds out a pan wrapped in tinfoil, "Oh, there you are, dear. I made too much casserole so I came to give you the rest. Just in case you haven't had dinner yet."
You beam at her, taking the dish out of her hands, "Thanks, Judith. That's really sweet of you."
She returns a modest smile, but it falls away a second later. You follow her gaze past your shoulder and into the living room where- shit. "It's winter." Her brows furrow, "You'll catch cold if you keep your window open all night."
"Right! I was just... looking out over the city. Taking a breather. You caught me in the middle of it."
She presses the back of her hand to your arm and you note the very stark difference in her body temperature to yours. She frowns hard, stepping closer to you in order to whisper, "Has that demon come to see you again?"
You can't see him from where you're holding the door open, though it's your instinct to glance, but you feel yourself warming up pretty quickly, "He's not a demon, Judith."
No matter how often you repeat it, it goes in one hearing aid and out the other, "Then why does he have horns-"
"Judith, I'm fine, I swear. Even if... he did come visit, I would be fine. He wouldn't hurt me. As I've told you before."
She stares at your window, looking for little goblins with pointed tails and pitchforks no doubt. But as the curtains blow this way and that and no shadows make themselves clear, she is forced to take your word for it. "Alright," she relents, and you try not to visibly deflate, "enjoy the casserole, dear. Keep the window shut."
You watch her waddle all the way down the hallway, smile every time she glances back at you, and wait until you can no longer hear her kitten heels click-clack-clicking on the stairway down. You immediately shut the door and drop your head against it with a dull thud.
A few moments pass. You can feel him still next to you. Even worse, you can feel him trying not to laugh. "She thinks I'm a demon?"
You stand up and shove the casserole into his hands, only a little taken aback by the smile on his face when you do, "You're going to eat this casserole and then you're gonna tell that woman you're a God-fearing man and it tasted fucking delicious."
a/n: there's a scene I'm really excited to write for next chapter if it's gonna go the way I plan for it to go :)
taglist: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @theclassicvinyldragon @marina-and-the-memes @angxlictexrs @moonlightreader649 @geekyfer @thescarletfang @navs-bhat @yehet-moi-ohorat @bluestuesday @maryx0107 @vainillasmil157 @moony-toasts @sketchiethebear @trawberry-fire @hangmanscoming @agent-scorpio @julesjewelss36 @chonkercatto @dcgoddess @hollandorks @anotherr-fine-mess @calsjack @that-one-beannnn @levisfuckinmine @miriamnox @bluestuesday @dumdumsun @phoenixgurl030 @allgaslynobrakess @marvelouskatie
#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne scenarios#bruce wayne fic#bruce wayne angst#bruce wayne fluff#bruce wayne#batman x reader#batman scenarios#batman fic#batman angst#batman fluff#the batman#battinson x reader#battinson#dc#mjwrites#bw; rprt
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❝right place, right time❞
IV. the hierophant.
parts: previously / next
plot: you ask bruce to take his shirt off.
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader.
cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, alfred’s a little mean but he’s just being protective, you’re making serious life choices on four hours of sleep and a dream, you’re getting warmer, mentions of guns (none used).
words: 7.3k.
a/n: this one is longer than usual and it is largely due to the fact that the last half of this fic came to me at six in the morning and I deigned to part with it. enjoy!
You get about as far as the lobby before your confidence wanes. The woman behind the desk has the kind of look that fits in a place like this: pristine brows, glossed lips, nary a flyaway not tamed by gel and a boar-bristle brush. You realize, quite belatedly, that you stick out like a sore thumb.
Even with a phone tucked between shoulder and cheek, her stare pins you down and tells you to stay where you are. You listen because, frankly, you don’t know where else to go.
She’s in no hurry to finish her call, but it’s all too soon before she’s fixing you with that stare again. You’re already nervous. “Can I help you?” She—Alexandra, you gather from her name tag—doesn’t blink.
You feel ridiculous saying it out loud, “I’m here to see Bruce Wayne.”
Alexandra’s head tips to the side, examining you more closely. Perhaps looking for your audacity, you think, because she doesn’t look too keen on helping you with that request. “He sent me flowers.” You add on, lamely.
Finally she blinks, unimpressed, “Did he now?”
You feel unnerved when you hand it over and she doesn’t immediately take it. Eventually, after your arm has begun to shake, she plucks it from you.
It takes her but a few seconds for her entire expression to change. The next time she looks up at you, her stare is curious, memory jogged. “You were on the news, the doctor from Gotham General,” Alexandra recalls, “did you have an appointment?”
“No. I uh... well, I just... the delivery person dropped these off a half hour ago. I just wanted to thank him.”
Alexandra’s face softens. “I’m sorry, I can’t let anyone up without a prior appointment. I can relay a message, however. Or give you his office’s number.”
You wouldn’t be seeing him today, would you? You’d come here on an adrenaline high, a little angry and a little woozy on pain meds. You hadn’t even been thinking when you’d left your apartment, had turned off your phone as soon as your mother started calling, and now you were on the other side of the city hoping to see the most important man in Gotham. Of course you should’ve called. He left you his number and you thought you could just walk right into his office.
But then again, he’d walked right into yours. Why couldn’t you do the same?
Behind the desk, one of the (heavily armed) security guards is keeping an eye on you. That... answered your question. Maybe you’d have to make that call after all.
You’re about to do just that, thanking Alexandra for her time, when you hear your name being called from a few feet away.
You recognize him in an instant. The weathered, greying face of Bruce Wayne’s right hand man is approaching at impeccable speed, nearly making you stumble back to keep the distance, “Mr. Pennyworth.” You breathe the name at the same time as Alexandra, who goes a step further and stands to acknowledge him. You don’t think it’s customary with the way his quick smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
You, on the other hand, get no smile at all, “What a surprise to find you here. I hope the flowers were received well? We were unable to gather if you’re prone to allergies.”
You wonder how he would’ve gotten that information without asking you first, “No- I mean yes, they were fine. I was actually coming to deliver my thanks.”
Alfred straightens at this. It’s not hard, with all your experience, to recognize a veteran when you see one. He’s got the determined, flawless gait along with the endless eyes (the ones that go on forever with stories and horrors not so far beyond your imagination). He’s also got the immovability of one. You understand why he’s Bruce Wayne’s right hand man. If a bomb was unable to take him out, you doubted much else could. Not even if you asked nicely. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll have to pass your thanks on to Master Wayne.”
Master? It’s not so out of place, situated in his West London accent, but it does throw you off in 21st century America. Everything about him read as other than, and yet you felt the most out of place in this conversation. “Actually, I was hoping if I could see him. I’d like to tell him in person. If that’s alright.”
Alfred’s eyebrow twitches upwards, “Does Mr. Wayne know you’re coming?”
You flush. You really should’ve called first. “No. He doesn’t. I thought-” that you’d all make an exception for me, “I was in a hurry to get here. I didn’t even think to call.”
“Mr. Wayne is a very busy man.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Truly. I just really need to talk to him.”
“Perhaps you can come back another day. I’ll be happy to schedule that with you, if Mr. Pennyworth is needed elsewhere.” Alexandra interjects. There was no way you could tell her or Alfred that if you had more time to think about what you were about to do, you might as well ask to be put down.
Mr. Pennyworth extends his arm, bringing his wrist to his eyeline where he reads the time on his watch. You glance at your phone and realize it’s just a few minutes after one. “Actually, Alexandra, there’s no need. I believe Mr. Wayne has just finished his workout and should be headed back to the penthouse to rest for the afternoon. I don’t believe he’d mind our guest coming up for a chat.”
You cut your eyes to Alexandra, then back to Alfred who’s now looking at you. Either you were really lucky, or there was something you didn’t know going on here.
Regardless, Alfred turns on the spot and begins to walk away.
With one last “thank you” thrown at Alexandra, you head off after him, slowing to a more graceful pace as employees pass pointed looks at you. You shrink closer to Alfred, then further behind him when he casts an inquisitive glance in your direction.
He leads you around the corner, down a long hallway where the suits and ties grow fewer and fewer. A few more turns and you both end up in the elevator alone.
The silence is only cut through every few seconds by the occasional ding! letting you know you’ve passed another floor. This was all starting to feel just a little too easy.
After the first five floors, Alfred speaks, “I trust you’re recovering well?”
“Yes, actually. I’m lucky. We all were.”
Alfred hums, “Yes. It is rather lucky having the Batman around.”
You turn to him, curious, “You’re a fan?”
For the first time in your presence, the old man actually cracks a real smile. It’s faint, but realer than the one he’d given Alexandra. “A critic.”
“A critical fan.”
“I think he’s done a better job taking care of the people in this city than some, though his methods could use refining. And you?”
“I might be biased given that he’s saved my life and all, but I’m a fan,” you wonder if you should tell him. Then, in line with your other decisions thus far, choose to do so anyway, “I actually got to tell him that. When we first met. Before the... hospital. Patched up a nasty bullet wound for him.”
For some reason, Alfred doesn’t look as surprised as you were hoping for. You’d have to find another way to impress him. “Is that right?” His gaze becomes more pointed, “Think he was looking out for you?”
It sounds so absurd to you at first that you laugh, but even thinking about it for a second, it isn’t that absurd. It’s easy, even, to come to that conclusion. You’d saved his life. He’d saved yours. Perhaps he’d just wanted to do away with owing you, but you know that isn’t quite right, “I think he’s just a good person. It was just-”
“Lucky.” He finishes for you, smile gone now. You get the feeling that he knows something you don’t.
Before you can be so bold as to question him about it, he starts talking again, “If I may, Master Wayne informed me of his interest in you prior to his job offer. And it’s my understanding that you politely declined. Now, it’s none of my business as to why you turned down his offer, that was your decision and he must respect that, and it’s neither my business why you’ve insisted on coming here after the fact, but I do want to make one thing clear: as Bruce’s butler, I have seen many come and go through these halls with intentions I’m more than privy to. I know when someone is looking to gain something from him. This is the first time I’ve not been sure what to predict. It’s not clear to me what you plan to get out of this arrangement, but I request that whatever you do, you do not make me regret allowing you past these doors.”
The elevator comes to a full stop, the final ding! alerting you that you’re one floor away from the penthouse. A mechanized voice requests over the speakers to “present identification”. Alfred does not move. He stares at you, awaiting your response.
You don’t know whether to feel angry or sheepish. You stand here in little more than sweatpants and ratty sneakers, shaking like a purse dog where at any moment, someone could come around the corner and put a bullet between your eyes for saying the wrong thing. In fact, no one needed to come around any corners. You’d seen the outline of the 9mm under Alfred’s vest on the way to the elevator. You had little more than your keys on you for self-defense.
You weren’t a threat. You were barely anything without a scalpel in your hand.
And yet this military man with more bullets than you’d have seconds to escape him thinks you enough of a problem to lecture you. God, alright, you’re a little angry.
“If I may,” you start, “I have no clue what Bruce wants with me either. And frankly, I’m more worried about that than you should be about me. I just want to talk to him. If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to see me again.”
He holds your gaze a little longer, wondering if you’ll crack. It takes very deep, measured breaths to keep from doing so.
You don’t know how long the two of you just stand there, but eventually Alfred touches a screen on the wall with his thumb that seems to be the magic password. The voice from before confirms as much, jolting the elevator the last few feet before spilling the two of you out into the penthouse. Alfred says nothing more, simply guiding you down another hallway, up some stairs, and into a room larger than the upper half of your apartment complex.
You don’t have time to pause at the one-of-a-kind art on the wall, nor the shelves lined with books of all languages and disciplines. You don’t even have time to examine the city outside the window (from what you glimpse, the view is beautiful).
You stand out in the open beneath twin winding staircases either side of you, leading up into a dark unknown. You feel like a child staring up at the ceiling, breathing in the gloomy castle. It’s worlds away from your quaint unit stuck in the 80s.
“He should be here,” is the first thing Alfred has said to you since the elevator, “I’ll just be a moment.”
You watch the old man wander up one of the staircases, calling for Bruce. Without anyone watching you, you’re free to explore. And really, what if this was the last time you’d ever step foot in this place?
The first thing you approach is the large table in the middle of the room. There’s a W engraved in the wood, polished to a shine, surrounded by abandoned teacups and loose papers you try not to look too closely at.
The next thing you approach is a small study off to the side where more books live, but your stomach drops when you chance a glance out into the city. You’ve been this high up before, but you couldn’t imagine this being the first thing you see every morning. You could see most of Gotham from this high. Every skyscraper, every dingy alleyway, every car and boat and train from miles around. This far above, it was no wonder they called the Waynes royalty.
You also couldn’t imagine the money it took to build this place. It was cheaper back before anyone in this building had been born, but if Bruce Wayne wanted, he could build one just like it in every major city. You can even see Gotham General from here. It’s... it makes you feel so small.
Your fingers press into the glass and leave behind prints. You doubted anyone would even notice.
You’re seconds from whipping out your phone and texting Emily a photo of the view when Alfred’s voice breaks the silence, “Master Wayne! There you are.”
Shit, he was here already?
You turn, expecting him to be at the staircase or by the front door or even by the table you’d been pondering. You don’t expect him to be just a few feet behind you, watching you watch the cityscape. The sudden closeness makes you tumble back into the window, your head thudding on the glass so loudly that you see Bruce wince.
When Alfred’s voice carries again, he’s much closer. Close enough for you to hear the displeasure in: “You have a guest.”
Alfred leaves you both alone in the study. He cites some phone calls he needs to make and swears to keep “Dory” out until the end of your meeting. You’re assured it’s just the two of you up here. As if that would calm your mounting nerves.
At the very least, Bruce looks just as unsure as you.
He puts the desk between the two of you, still standing, only now his shape has changed. In his fancy suits, he was angular, a person who parted crowds with his size. Now, here, in a t-shirt that hangs off him so loosely he looks gaunt, he looks smaller somehow. Tall and lean but smaller. Softer. It helps a little, doesn’t feel so out of place when his voice matches his demeanor, “Did you get the flowers?”
Only then do you realize that Alexandra still has the card he left you. “How do you know where I live?”
His expression turns frightened for just a moment, then softens, “Your boss called when they arrived at your office, told me you were on leave. He offered to send them to your apartment.” He takes the way your eyes narrow as you not believing him, “He didn’t tell me where. And I didn’t ask.” He hastily tacks on the last part.
Of course, he says all this as if you had lawyers on speed dial. Was it because he had something to hide?
“They were... beautiful. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.” You reply, honest, and it takes a little of the tension out of his shoulders. Yours too.
“After I saw the news, I was just glad to know you hadn’t been seriously harmed.”
“No, I was lucky. Or someone was looking out for me.” The last bit slips out without you meaning it to. When you look up to hazard Bruce’s reaction, he’s entirely impassive. Whatever got you into this penthouse convinces you to ask the next thing that comes to mind, “Do you believe in the Batman?”
You catch the genuine confusion flit across his face as he asks, “Like... the boogeyman?”
“No, I mean... do you believe- I mean he’s just a person, right? Clearly. But do you believe he’s doing something good for Gotham? Mayor Reál seems to think he’s a sign that the city has gone to shit. I know you’re a supporter of hers. I was just curious.”
“The city’s always been... shit,” he catches your eye as he reuses your wording, “I don’t think he’s a sign. I think he’s a side effect.”
“So... the city gets better and, what, Batman no more?”
“That’s the ideal.”
“I can’t imagine a Gotham that nice.”
Bruce studies you. You find it alarming how still he can be, “Do you?”
“Hm?”
“Do you believe? In the Batman?”
Why do you feel so naive when you blurt out a confident “yes”? Is it because Bruce looks skeptical? Because you realize that maybe you’re more attached to the vigilante than you should be, even if he saved your life? That maybe you’d placed all your hope for a better world in him, and if he ever failed, you’d be in for a rude awakening? All of the above was your best guess. “You didn’t answer.”
Bruce fidgets. “I don’t know.”
“That’s a cop out.” It hits you that the conversation has begun to flow on its own, the longest you’ve ever talked to Bruce. Maybe the suits were the issue after all.
“It’s... like you said: Gotham gets better, the Batman is no more. I want Gotham to get better.”
Whether he’s playing diplomat or not, it’s such a neutral stance that you begin to reevaluate what you know about Bruce Wayne. You shift the conversation to shallow waters, “Your butler is intimidating.”
“Alfred?”
“He interrogated me on the ride up here. Felt like I was being lectured by my girlfriend’s dad.”
Bruce laughs all of a sudden, even less tense. The smile that splits his stoic in two is so very different from anything you’ve seen on him so far, “I’m sorry about him, he’s protective. I hope he didn’t scare you.”
You go to say he didn’t, but then you remember the gun he’d had hidden in his slacks and reconsider, “It’s fine. He let me up here, didn’t he?” Whether he’d done so hoping this would be the last time you ever step foot in the tower or not, you would leave that unsaid. “But I didn’t come here just to thank you for the flowers or talk about Batman. There’s been something on my mind for a while. Ever since you came to offer me the job. I was too stunned to think about it then, but I’ve been meaning to ask you... why me?”
You expect to have to clarify. Bruce takes a long look at you and doesn’t ask you to, “Because you’re good at what you do.”
“There’s hundreds of talented doctors in Gotham. Millions in the world. You met me once and you wanted to put your life in my hands.”
“You’re one of those talented doctors.”
“But you... aren’t just anybody. You have to... you’ve gotta know that, right? You could have asked for anyone. I should’ve been a blip on your radar as soon as you met me. There’s no logical reason for someone with your resources to come to me, in person, and ask me to work for you.”
“Of course there is.”
“Like what?”
Frustrated, he maneuvers around the desk until it’s no longer blocking the both of you. It makes the conversation feel more personal. You don’t feel like you’re talking to the same Bruce Wayne from before, “You noticed I was hurt right away. No one else did.”
“It feels like more than that.” And it does. All of this. Every interaction has felt like something bubbling under the surface, waiting to break skin and bleed out for everyone to see. You keep getting that feeling that you know. Bruce even looks like he knows. Alfred, too. But you’re the only one who can’t quite name it.
It doesn’t help that for a second, you think Bruce is going to say more. He doesn’t. He schools his expression into stoicism again. You find that you don’t really like that look on him, can’t stand not having that glimpse of someone human now that you’ve been spoiled on it.
He takes one step after the other, assertive. You feel like you should step out of the way once he’s right in front of you, when the fresh scent of green apple invades your senses and you notice that the soft strands on his head are still damp. You realize then that you’d probably caught him fresh out of the shower, that it wasn’t just the lack of suit that had changed him. You realize too that his knuckles are still bruised, only now the flesh looks like it’d been freshly broken recently.
You’re so focused on the injury that you startle looking into his eyes for answers. For a shining, blinding second... you’d seen someone else.
“I wasn’t trying to change your mind. The flowers were a courtesy. Nothing more.”
You believe him. He’s not acting. He’s so earnest you don’t even think he’s breathing as he waits for your reply.
You’d come here in a haze and you’re finally sobering up, but you wouldn’t sound like it from what you say next, “And if I changed my mind?”
The stoicism melts. Bruce exhales a heavy breath.
It starts to catch up with you that you still have no idea if the offer is even still on the table. “If you haven’t already found someone else,” comes your buffer, trying not to let embarrassment seep into your words, “and if you’d still like me to-”
“Okay.” His answer is sure, final. His certainty reassures you in a strange way. You still feel way in over your head but God be damned, you got this far.
“Okay. And I have some conditions. I’ll still be working at Gotham General, you’ll just be my priority. And I want to do a physical exam, figure out what I’m working with.”
“Whatever you need. It’s yours.”
You glance back down at Bruce’s hands. He needs no convincing. You think back to that day when you first met him: the limp in his walk, the barely contained pain in his expression, his excuse that had felt more practiced than your speech. If you recalled, he’d favored his left side, which would put his sprain just about...
Your hand is touching his waist before you even realize that it’s left your side. Through the shirt, you feel the muscles that are deceptively concealed. No matter how much softer he looked like this, there was power coiled beneath his skin.
To your surprise, it’s you who reacts first.
You yank your hand away and put one whole step between the two of you—which does nothing. You didn’t recall being this close before you touched him. Just how out of your mind were you?
You take stock of Bruce’s expression. If he had looked any sort of way when you’d been so bold as to touch him, you’d missed it. You summon enough strength to ask, before you could throw yourself out of those beautiful windows behind you, “Can I use your restroom?”
You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing.
It’d be better to think something more positive, something that would get you to release your death grip on the sink, but you’re Icarus and you can smell something burning. You can also hear voices outside; Alfred’s, unmistakably, and Bruce’s which would be easier to hear if you pressed your ear up to the door. No doubt, they were discussing you.
Your palms are so slick that they start to slip and you have to run them under water. You don’t even want to think about drying your hands on the towel hanging beside the mirror, quality visible even to your eye, but if you wiped them on your sweatpants, everyone would know.
Your second idea is to check your phone, swiping through the missed calls and messages begging for you to have some sense and call your mother back. You check the weather (clear skies for the night), pull up pictures of kittens, scroll online until you’ve seen every news report and viral video on mute and have no excuse to hide anymore, because the only thing worse than having a borderline panic attack in a rich person’s bathroom was the rich person thinking you were absolutely destroying their plumbing.
You take a few breaths, decide against splashing your face, and begin to turn the knob.
The hallway you’d been abandoned in is far enough away from the main part of the house that you can’t see Alfred and Bruce, even if their voices carry fine. Everything about the penthouse was stately, old money etched into the deep honeys of the wood and warm lamps casting more shadows than light. Any windows on this side of the house are covered with heavy drapery, blocking what little sunlight the city allowed in the waking hours. It’s easier to imagine that you’re not sixty stories up this way.
You can still hear Alfred and Bruce talking as you drift in the opposite direction.
There are a few doors down this way, past the restroom, all doors shut and imposing enough to keep you from taking peeks inside. Outside one of the doors at the end of the hall, you do catch a whiff of clean linen from under the door. The laundry room, maybe? You recall Alfred smelling the same.
On your way back, you look back down the stairs you’d come up earlier and spot an old-timey landline with a notepad and a pen beside it. Chancing a closer look, you see a note with something scribbled across it.
Dory,
Call about the leak. Tomorrow at the latest.
Preferably before evening. Bruce won’t be home.
There was that “Dory” again. Was she the maid? The one Alfred promised to keep busy?
“...it has nothing to do with you.”
For the first time, Bruce’s voice carries out into the hall ringing clear. Alfred scoffs, tone bitter, “No, by all means. Bring a stranger home. Give them a key to the place, too, while you’re at it. You might as well rip the bandaid off in one go. I’m sure that won’t be a liability.”
You carefully ascend the staircase again, sticking close to the walls. You strain to hear without drawing any attention to yourself.
“You wanted this, Alfred. You were the one telling me I couldn’t do this alone.”
“But not... bloody like this. Look, this has never just been about you- and don’t you give me that look. I’ve stood by your side since you were a child. Since you were born. And like it or not, what you do has consequences far beyond yourself. When you’re reckless, who do you think’s gonna make sure your mess is taken care of?”
It’s when you slip around the corner that the two come into view, warring voices echoing off the walls no matter how quiet they tried to be, “I’ve never asked you to clean up after me.”
“But you’ve needed it, haven’t you? I’ve done alright, haven’t I? And all I’ve asked of you is to be careful.” From your vantage point, you can see Bruce’s face twist with determination. At the same time, Alfred’s has softened. You get the strange feeling that this isn’t entirely about you after all. “As your butler-”
“As Alfred.”
“...I’m always keeping my eyes open for you, and I’d appreciate it if... if you could keep your eyes open for you too. And mind the overlap. Lest your nights become your days.”
The silence is deafening. Even worse, you realize a second too late that their spat has come to an end because they both turn to where you stand in the archway, clinging to it to hide. Alfred gives you one hard look, forcing out pleasantries, “I trust the amenities were to your liking?”
Your mind blanks for a moment, still stuck on what exactly they’d been yelling about, “Oh, yes. It’s lovely. All of it, the whole place.”
The soldier gives a firm nod. “Bruce tells me you’ve reconsidered. I’m happy to hear it.”
Right. So much for him being lucky.
Before you can muster up some way to curb the tension, Alfred excuses himself from the room, going back where you’d came. Moments later, you hear a door shut a bit too loudly. Bruce hovers several feet away, conflicted. Somehow, this is even worse than the first time he’d left you two alone.
It becomes fairly clear after a while that neither of you know where to go from here. Were you to pretend you didn’t hear all of that? Pretend that Alfred’s anger wasn’t, at least in part, directed at you?
This was all starting to feel too much like a minefield to maneuver. Perhaps all three of you would sleep on this tonight and wake up in your right minds, but for now, all you could do was hope to God this didn’t bite you in the ass.
“Your conditions,” Bruce starts, “have them sent over to me. Whatever you need, I’ll make sure you have it.”
It takes a lot out of you not to jump back when he’s close enough to touch again. As if you couldn’t trust yourself not to reach for him. Or trust that he would even bother to stop you. “Of course... Mr. Wayne.”
By the time you arrive home, darkness has risen over the city and you’re back in your apartment building before your day could get even more exciting.
You’re operating on fumes, fantasizing about what’s left in your fridge from meal prep earlier this week, barely sound enough to get your key into your mailbox.
You feel a presence nearby as you’re sifting through bills and junk. Her scent (that of cinnamon and myrrh) gives her away immediately, “Hey, Judith.”
The little old lady doesn’t smile at you—she rarely does, severe as she is devout—the crow’s feet about her eyes fold in on each other as she assesses you, “You should apologize to your parents.”
You don’t mean to. You usually have better manners than this, but you can’t hold back your sudden, audible groan. Even Judith is startled. “They’ll get over it.”
“They’re worried for you.”
“Did they tell you to tell me that?”
“You need to be careful, dear. Strange spirits are drawn to you.” Her hand chronically trembles as it reaches into her purse. Out comes her handheld copy of the Bible, lovingly worn and dressed with tabs of all colors from her studies. You watch her pick at a neon green tab and flip the little thing open, “I’ve been praying for you ever since I saw the news. That... Batman may have saved you, but I fear you’re still in danger. I have some verses that might help you keep him out should he come looking for you again-”
Judith has never needed to care this much. On your first day moving in all those years ago, she’d struggled up a flight of stairs just to prepare you dinner and offer to show you how to get your janky dishwasher open. Your roommates had found her offputting, had turned down her offer for tea at her place, but you had gone. It’s how you found out that she’d lost her husband and only son years prior. Gunned down, wrong place wrong time. Nothing new in this city. God was all she had left.
If babying you helped her sleep at night, if praying for you gave her peace of mind, you would let her ten times over.
“He’s not a demon, I promise. He’s as much flesh and blood as you and me.”
Judith frowns, not at all convinced, “You’re not in debt to him, are you?”
You shake your head, locking your mailbox back, “We’re even, actually. I saved his life. He saved mine. We’ve nothing to do with each other anymore.” You realize that she’s dressed to head out just then. Her coat is buttoned to the neck and she’s got her beret clutched under arm while she puts away her Bible. “Got Bible study tonight? Stay safe.”
Once she fits her hat over her salt and pepper curls, she caresses your arm. Her hands hadn’t been warm in years, but they weren’t any less comforting than when you’d first felt them. “You too, dear.” Then she reaches for your keys and picks out the one she’d copied for you forever ago, “Whenever you need to, don’t hesitate.”
You watch her totter off onto the sidewalk, swept away in the waves of commuters getting off work. You hoped you’d never have to take her up on her offer.
It turns out that not only had they put your flowers in your bedroom, your parents had also taken the liberty of cleaning out your fridge. You hated that on top of all the incessant texts they’d left you since this morning, you’d be expected to break the ice with a “thank you”. You’d prolong that for as long as humanly possible, that’s for sure.
Somewhere between popping your dinner in the microwave and turning on the news, you found yourself standing at your window staring into the dark. He wasn’t there. You kind of wished he would be, though. For some reason, he was the only one you wanted to talk to.
And then, somewhere between the timer going off and your stomach growling, you’d pushed the curtains aside and propped the window open.
You practically inhaled dinner, glancing every so often at the window during infomercials. With every breeze that shifted your curtains aside, you looked. Every squeak and creak of the fire escape, you looked. By the time there’s nothing left to scoop out of your bowl, night has fallen completely. It makes it harder to see out, harder to gauge if you see him or just a shadow. Your eyes start to cross again and you force yourself to shower the day away.
You don’t expect the window to be closed when you get back.
Even better, you don’t expect him to be standing right outside it.
You’re far too eager to get it open again, cursing the old thing all the while, “Shit- sorry. Must’ve fell closed while I was in the shower, I left it open for you.”
You’re bending out of the window where Batman stands just a step or two away. You have to crane your neck to look up from your position, wondering how long he’d been standing there. He looks a little peeved at you. Had he been waiting long?
“I know. I closed it.”
You blink, “Why?”
“You were in the shower.”
You’re about to reiterate “I left it open for you” with feeling this time when it dawns on you that he’d already clocked that. You shut right up. “Okay—admittedly—stupid move. But you haven’t considered the fact that maybe I knew you’d get here before someone with a gun.” Batman doesn’t look impressed at all. In fact, he looks like he’s going to turn around and abandon you forever. You frantically back away from the window, “Sorry. Are you hurt?”
He waits to answer you until he’s stepped fully inside. He takes a short survey of the room, peering into every corner, before he’s turned his attention to you. It’s clear skies tonight. He doesn’t smell like rain for once, “I just came to check on you.”
Your chest has the audacity to swell with stunned breath. “Really?”
“Were you expecting me for something else?”
“Well, no, I just... I was just... when I said I left the window open for you, I meant... I hadn’t really expected you to stop by. Was more wishful thinking. An invitation.”
Your admission should’ve stayed secret. You watch him work through a host of expressions, landing on a firm scowl.
“Okay, again, admittedly stupid move. Can we move past the window already?” His glare could freeze you dead. No wonder he was so good at his job. “And I’m fine.” He continues to stare. “Seriously. I’m good.” Now he just blatantly looks like he doesn’t believe you. You would find it funny—you do find it funny, actually, though you hide it well—if you weren’t so annoyed that he’d found you just as convincing about your wellbeing as you found him about his own, “But you would know about being a hypocrite, wouldn’t you?”
That last part is said with a little more venom than necessary. You regret it as soon as his face softens. His eyes tells you he takes no offense.
“I’m sorry,” you found yourself saying that a lot tonight, “I don’t know what’s going on with me today. Are the people you save usually susceptible to rash, impulsive decisions?”
“What did you do?”
You exhale through pursed lips, saying with the same cadence of a teenager admitting they’d crashed the family car, “Got a job.”
Batman’s expression doesn’t change except for a teeny, tiny glint in his eye. Teasing, it looked like, “You’re insane. What on earth were you thinking?”
“Okay, ha ha.”
“No, really. You might have brain damage. We’ve got to get you to a hospital, stat.” It would’ve shocked you that he reached forward to press the back of his hand to your forehead had you not been giggling deliriously. You smack it away like he did this all the time, though once you’re touching him, your fingers cling for a little longer than needed. You aren’t exactly sure what about touching him made you want to hold on, monopolize the feeling. Was it because every time you’ve touched him, it’s been an anchor? For comfort? Something that extends beyond words? Probably.
You release his hand before he can notice. Or comment on it.
But then you’re stumbling toward your couch and dropping your head in your hands like you’ve made a big mistake. You don’t have to look up to hear him follow you. “I must be insane.” you grumble, tracking his body where it stops in front of you, where he kneels, and you clench your eyes shut tighter.
You barely feel it at first. It’s faint, lighter than a breath. It doesn’t register as a touch, let alone his touch, until all five of his fingers are hovering over the surface of your knee. You peek through your fingers and sure enough, his hand is right there. He doesn’t dare press his fingers into your skin and it almost feels like he’s dangling you off a ledge.
You don’t want him to let go.
You place a hand over his and hold it there, closing around the leather. You don’t know how long you just stay like that, trying desperately to cool down what feels like a creeping panic. There’s too much happening. Too many sensations, too many thoughts, too many emotions. You just need him to stay there, quiet, and let you touch someone.
You don’t remember the last time you’d been properly hugged. You surely hadn’t been since you’d left the hospital. Your parents had been too focused on getting you to come home with them that you hadn’t thought to ask for one, hadn’t expected that you’d get one. And, to be fair, if you’d been given one, you’d probably have brushed it off.
Because, truth was, you did not know what you were doing.
Batman doesn’t seem to mind being still. He waits, breathing slowly and deeply. At some point, when you zero in on him (because how could you not? How could it be lost on you that this isn’t just anyone you’re touching right now?), you start to match him.
You begin to apologize for the other night when you remember how you clung to him, but fear that another “sorry” might actually annoy him more than leaving your window open again. You search Batman’s face for any sign of “I need to get the fuck outta here” and find none. “I’m asking you this because I trust you: have you ever met Bruce Wayne?”
You watch him shift uncomfortably, but he never breaks eye contact with you. “What?”
“Bruce Wayne. Can I trust him?”
He hesitates, picking apart your face for something, “I’m not following.”
“He asked me to work for him. Apparently, he thinks I’m very talented even though he’s never seen me work.”
“You are. I would know.”
“Yeah, you would. It’d have made more sense for you to ask me. What I don’t get is why me. His answer wasn’t very enlightening. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“...What do you think?”
“I think I want to. But I’m worried I’m being reckless again. I’m used to... I used to chase danger a lot when I was younger. Kind of had a taste for it. I’m worried that that’s what this is.”
“There’s a lot of danger in change.”
“You’re saying I’m afraid of things changing?” He was starting to feel like a therapist now, prodding at old wounds and everything, “Is that what this is? Things change all the time. I’m a doctor. Nothing is ever predictable... and you didn’t answer my question.”
Batman frowns. You realize this is the second time you’ve said that today. “Bruce Wayne isn’t corrupt, if that’s what you’re asking. You can trust that. The rest is up to you.”
You’d think that would have been enough to put all your worries about him to bed, but it left you with more mystery. The bruised knuckles, the pain in his side he’d passed off as just stress, the warning Alfred had given you in the elevator, Bruce’s sudden interest in you... all of it felt connected to something bigger. If it wasn’t corruption, what could it be? And if it was, how deep did it go for even Batman not to know?
You’d be much more prepared for concerns like this on more sleep. And less pain meds.
You start thinking about the skin healing beneath your bandaged leg, the dull pain that shifted with every movement. You also think about Batman’s hand on your knee (the one you’re still holding, the one he doesn’t look eager to retrieve), “Do you have somewhere to be?”
You’d missed looking into those deep blues. He holds your gaze steady, speaking quietly as if not to break the moment, “It’s quiet tonight.”
“Don’t suppose you’ll react kindly to me asking to see your wound.” As soon as you lock eyes with him again, his eyes narrow. You get the feeling he’s getting better at clocking your bullshit. “Unless you’ve got some other doctor friends I don’t know about taking care of you.”
He gives you that look again, the same one on the fire escape that made you worry he’d up and leave, but his hand doesn’t shift from under yours.
You watch him look around, searching. It takes him a few seconds before he reaches for something on the other end of the couch. Your mouth gapes a little when you realize he’s holding one of your shirts, the not so fresh one that you’d forsaken for the shower just an hour ago. He removes his hand from your knee and grabs the other end of the shirt, stretching the material before looking back up at you. It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to figure out what he’s asking for, his hands motioning for you to lean forward.
You slowly tilt closer until the fabric of your shirt caresses your eyelids. You feel Batman pull the shirt around your eyes, around your ears, and to the back of your head where his fingers begin to tie a knot with it. You’d be mad that he was stretching one of your favorite pieces of clothing if you didn’t feel his breath ghost your lips, letting your head be lightly jerked around by his tying, “No. Just you.”
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❝right place, right time❞
III. the tower.
parts: previously / next
plot: funny what a near-death experience can do for motivation.
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader.
cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, you are put in a Situation, batman is there to pick up the pieces, you’re not thinking clearly, stop suppressing your emotions goddamn it, hurt/comfort, gang violence, guns, blood and surface wounds, dealing with the effects of trauma.
words: 4.7k.
It starts out simple enough.
It’s 11 at night. You’re working late. Way up here, your office is quiet—Gotham quiet. There’s still rain battering the windows and police sirens distant and close and distant again, but it’s quiet enough. It becomes the backdrop of your night, a familiar melody. Your meager little lamp is all the company you have as you scribble away at paperwork you’d left to the last minute, and there’s a nagging in the back of your head about missed dinner. You think, if you can finish this up quickly, that you might treat yourself to the 24-hour diner down the street before heading home.
Only a few minutes pass before the nagging is accompanied by a stomach growl. You decide to make paperwork tomorrow you’s problem.
You grab your things and lock up your office and you’re getting off on the first floor when something snaps in the air like a firecracker. You’re no stranger to the sound, but you can’t recall the last time you’d heard a gunshot this close.
Down the hall, through a spattering of ER nurses with their hands above their heads, is a man with a gun pointed at you.
They train you for things like this in medical school. How to identify tattoos, clothes, and demeanor. How to say the right things so that you don’t get caught in the crossfire. How to deescalate until security guards are in the room with you.
Every once in a while (because it’s Gotham, because it’s your chosen hellhole), a gang war breaks out and the ER floods with members of all affiliations. Bloodied and brawling, it trickles into the waiting rooms and operating rooms. No matter how much they all hated each other, they all bled the same.
You wonder how this one will end.
The man is frenzied. You can see through his tattered pants leg that he’d been slashed or maybe shot at, it’s hard to see from so far away, but he lets you get a closer look eventually. He’s limping as quickly as he can down the hall toward you, gun never wavering. Some nurses behind him turn and whisper about what to do. If you strain to hear over the ringing in your ears, you can make out more commotion coming from the ER still.
“Where the fuck is he?” The approaching man spits at you. He’s feet away now, and if it weren’t for his arm outstretched, he’d be right in your face. “Where the fuck is Ghost?”
He says the name like you ought to know this “Ghost”. You raise your hands carefully to show you mean no harm, shaking all the while. You consider what you can say that won’t anger him further, “I don’t know who Ghost is,” you stammer, “did he come through here?”
“Don’t fucking play with me. I know that motherfucker cut a deal. I’m not letting him outta this hospital alive.”
You’re careful not to look around lest it alert him, but you’re struggling to put together a response on the little context you have. Staring down the barrel of his gun is all you can think to do.
The longer you take, the more agitated he becomes. He steps forward and presses the gun against your temple and that’s when the words start jumping out of your mouth, “He was badly injured, right? Worse than you?” His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t correct you, “he’s probably in surgery if they took him somewhere. GCPD can’t interfere until he’s stabilized. He’s still in the building.”
Whatever you’ve said seems to be the right thing because the gun isn’t cutting into you anymore. You can pick up movement behind him in your peripheral, nurses corralling other gang members and keeping the hallway clear. Some calling for more guards, the police, anyone.
You share a few breaths with the man. He’s taller than you with an army buzz coated in droplets of rain. He’s soaked to the bone and still freshly bleeding from his thigh. He neither shivers nor buckles, driven by pure adrenaline. You watch his jaw clench and unclench as your words settle in. He must believe you, at the very least, because he’s not pulling the trigger.
You’re gonna have to remember this face later when the GCPD asks. You try to soak in each detail with the optimism that you will, that you’ll make it out of this alive. You try to be present and not with your stomach that’s grumbling or your brain short-circuiting on too little sleep and too much fear.
You think about what you’re gonna say to Em in two days time; not tomorrow, no, they’d probably tell you to take the day off. She’s going to hear about you being held at gunpoint just days after being offered a job at Wayne Enterprises and you’ll actually be able to laugh when she says “I told you so”. It would be funny, then. In two days time. You’d get to live to see that.
“Take me to him.”
Ghost, you gather, is a dead man. If not him, then you and everyone in the SICU.
You don’t dare speak without being spoken to, even as the elevator ride leaves nothing but labored breathing between you two. It’s a miracle he keeps his gun at his side the whole time, but with his back pressed against a corner, it would take him only a second to put a bullet through your skull if you tried to make a move.
You wonder if the police have arrived yet. What’s going on over the radios? Has all hell broken loose downstairs? What is your captor, Ghost’s executioner, going to bring down upon this hospital when he pulls the trigger? And you, the one who led him to his target... what would that mean for you? When it came to situations like this, you didn’t find people very forgiving.
“Fucking slow...” Your captor hisses near you, eyes glued to the steadily ascending floors to pass the time. “What floor is he on?”
You see the counter tick to 12. “18.”
You’d celebrated too soon. The gun is back, digging into the back of your head now, and one of his hands is gripping your upper arm tight, “When those doors open, you’re gonna walk me to where he’s at. If you try anything, I’m blowin’ your brains out.”
There’s a good chance that he will regardless, but you were being optimistic, remember?
The next six pass by at an excruciatingly slow pace. Your captor’s annoyance is tangible, coating the already bloody air with tension. Your heart hammers angrily. There’s a moment where you think that you might keel over and vomit up all the fear pooling in your belly, wrapping around your hunger and squeezing until there’s no room for food even if you could eat. But your jaw is locked. If it came up, you doubted you’d have the courage to open your mouth for fear your life would end much quicker.
At floor 18, the doors finally part.
You’ve never seen it like this. Half the lights are off, the other half flickering as if struggling to connect to the power. A floor usually bustling with life is completely dead. There are ominous beeps from comms left unattended and machines once in use, now abandoned. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that everyone on this floor had vanished into thin air.
Your captor shoves you out into the eerie hall while you’re forced to stare forward. You step over scattered files, nearly roll your ankle on a pen that you missed.
“Where the fuck is everybody?” He snarls, as if you and every doctor in this hospital have some kind of hive mind to tap into.
You frantically search with the limited movement his gun at your head gives you, but come up empty. With each room you pass, doors are thrown open with no one inside. You pass by a window and make out a helicopter hovering over the building, flashing its light through. You can’t make out if it’s GCPD or the news.
You’re jolted back to reality when the gun digs painfully into your head again, “You said he was up here.”
“He’s supposed to be. The ER probably alerted them. They must’ve cleared out.”
“Where else would they take him? You said GCPD can’t book him ‘til he’s stable.”
“They might have moved somewhere we wouldn’t know to look,” it’s agony trying to rationalize with someone so keen on killing you while keeping a steady walk, “somewhere they can finish up before the police come looking for you.”
Your captor curses. You can tell he’s starting to feel cornered, and that didn’t spell anything good for you. He couldn’t finish off Ghost like he wanted, but he had a hostage now. You deigned to think of the demands he could make with your life on the line.
Maybe you’d get two days off.
The dark humor isn’t appreciated, even as your mind betrays you with it. Passing by a larger grouping of windows shows the utter chaos beginning to gather outside. There are more helicopters shaking the building, police cars lining the streets below.
Perhaps it’s the fear, but your mind subconsciously drifts. You can’t see much from up here but your eyes still scan for that darkly clad figure. You wonder if he’s gotten those stitches out by now, and if he’s somewhere in the building watching you on security cameras and planning the perfect way to get you out of here alive. You imagine, for your sanity, that he’s somewhere on this floor now. Watching you. Waiting for the moment to strike. You search the shadows for him but come up empty.
“Alright, change of plans.” Your captor announces. Before you can turn to look at him, he’s shoving you hard into a wall and pressing his gun up into the soft flesh of your chin. This close, you can see his eyes speckled with blue every time the light above you flickers on. Blue. You’re looking for him again. “You’re getting me out of here.”
“What about Ghost?”
“Don’t you fucking worry about it. I’ll take care of that later. If you’re good, I might even make it quick.” It being the gun nestled just so, perfect for a swift death.
Oh God, your mother might be watching the news. You’d dropped your phone downstairs after the gunshot. It was probably ringing like crazy. She must be so worried.
And Metropolis would have been so nice. Sure, the rent was higher but it was worth it. And who didn’t leave medical school drowning in student loans? And it was less humid there, more sunny days. You would have better things to worry about, like what you’d say to Superman if you ever got the chance to get his autograph. What would Bruce Wayne say when they found your dead body in a back alley just days after he’d last seen you? What would Em say? Your boss? Your mother?
You don’t understand why he looks so uncomfortable all of a sudden, not until you feel the tears rolling down your cheeks. Fuck. You were crying, too. The adrenaline was wearing off.
Your captor opens his mouth, grabs you by the neck of your scrubs, and is about to yank you back onto your feet when the gun is torn away. You don’t know what it is but there’s a commotion in the dark beside you, a fight with your captor, and you flinch away as bullets fly off all into the ceiling. You hear glass shatter, metal ricocheting. The lights flicker on and off, on and off.
Your body collapses to the floor without his weight supporting you. You’re breathing harder and faster and gulping in air that doesn’t smell so overwhelmingly of blood anymore. You can pick up on something else instead. A fresh wave of rainfall.
Through the tears and lights flashing on and off, on and off, you see him.
He’s fast and heavy. You realize that you’ve never actually seen Batman in action, just photos and blurry videos from afar that hardly did what he left behind justice. You’d seen the gaggles of gang members left hanging by their ankles on streetlights and wondered just how strong a man had to be to do that kind of damage.
Every punch is forceful, personal. It doesn’t take many after the gun is kicked away for him to put your captor to sleep. He falls into a nearby cart and the clatter of metal shakes you, makes you let out just the smallest whimper.
And Batman’s head snaps to you.
He’s crouching before you can register it, a hand on your shoulder. The air displaced around his sudden movement carries the scent of rain and the city. “Hey,” he calls, his voice an octave or so higher than it was on the fire escape, “are you hurt?”
Your arm is probably bruised. The back of your head too, now that you think about it. It doesn’t help that his hand on your shoulder rattles you when you take too long to reply.
Your mouth opens, trying to think of what to say. You croak around his name and cringe at how dry your throat has gotten. Crying and missing dinner would do that, you supposed.
One of your hands reaches out to him and lands on his chest, then weakly falls to his thigh, searching for something warm and human to hold onto. Something other than your scrubs slick with sweat. You can’t even ask for it.
But something clicks in his eyes when the light flickers on. He takes your hand and pulls you—practically dragging you—until your hand is wrapping around his back and buried in his cape. Your other hand follows suit and if you weren’t so panicked, you’d take the time to properly lose your mind when his hand cradles your head to his chest. With the way he’s crouched, you’re shielded from the hallway by the dark expanse of his shoulders.
Your captor’s body is out of sight, and so is the broken glass and the bullet shells and the gun. It’s just you and the Bat. His warm breath, the scent of him along his exposed jaw, the faint beat of his heart beneath his armor. You feel his thumb brush your cheek ever so slightly. He shushes you as you choke on a sob, “I’ve got you. You’re safe. He won’t hurt you again.”
Maybe when all this settles, you’ll believe him. But for now, you hide your face in his neck and he lets you.
You can’t remember the last time someone had carried you. You’re weightless, his arms hooked under your knees and around your back as he rises—slowly, as to not shake you—and begins the trek back to the elevator. His armor is difficult to grasp onto; you struggle as such to find something and seize the back of his neck, finally, fingers pressing into the soft give of his cowl. You feel his head shift above you, eyes weighing on your person, but you keep your head low and tucked.
Blood pounds in your ears. Batman’s hand flexes under your knee. Gravity lowers you 18 flights into the chaos of the ER.
It’s all so sudden. The noise of ten times the people from before forces you further into the calm of Batman’s body. You can pick up on police radio, a chorus of your savior’s name and yours the minute the doors open. Even as the warmth of other bodies begin to surround you, Batman keeps his steady pace well until your foot is bumping a stretcher.
“...hurt anywhere?” A voice distant to your ears asks, and then four more hands are helping you onto the cushion. It takes you a moment to figure out that the question isn’t directed at you.
“Shots were fired, none of them hit.” The deep rumble of Batman’s voice makes you cling to his neck further. When a latex hand takes hold of your wrist, you come to instantly.
The ER is just as crowded as you expected. GCPD and trauma nurses bloat the hallways, stumbling over each other to do their jobs. Two nurses are looking over you and Batman is hovering beside your stretcher, leaning with your hand still cupped around the back of his neck. He doesn’t ask you to let go, doesn’t pull away from you.
“Open wounds on your calf, seemed to have cut a vein. We need to get the glass out.” One nurse tells you.
“Where is he?” A cop appears by Batman’s side, frantic.
“18th floor. Unconscious and armed.” Batman answers.
“Stretch your leg this way, hon.” The other nurse commands, pressing wet cloth to burning skin. Batman moves it for you when you don’t react. The other nurse starts running in the other direction when a new wave of patients enter the room.
A shard catches on your torn flesh just as another cop appears, “We need you out there, Batman. It’s a bloodbath.”
“How many are there?”
“Too many. If they’re not in here and they’re not dead, they’re out there.”
Another shard removed has you flinching into him, drawing his attention away from the officer. “Almost done,” the nurse working at your leg is careful with the last few, “then I can give you something for the bruising on your arm.”
“Batman.” This time, his name is said with urgency. The cop is staring you down. You felt certain that if it wouldn’t be frowned upon, he’d have yanked Batman free of you by now.
Your rational brain was aware that you should let go. You were one person in the midst of tens of them, most worse off than you in every way. He was better off saving lives out there. You were fine. You were... you were physically fine.
And you’d be back to yourself in a few hours, right? You’d be fine.
You don’t realize the warmth of Batman’s hand leaves your knee until it’s curling around the side of your throat. His firm thumb props your chin up until you’re both face to face, until you’re swimming in that blue you’d been searching for. Your lips part; they were just as stunning as they were the first time you’d seen them up close.
The ER is quiet all of a sudden. You swore, even with the tugging in your leg, that you and him were utterly alone.
“I have to go.” He leaves no room for argument, but the openness of his expression shocks you. As if he was asking you. As if he’d stay if you denied him.
It keeps happening like this. Him leaving when he gets too close, you letting him go when it’s never what you want.
But your head nods on its own, assuring that you got the message. All too soon, he’s tugging your hand away and storming out of the ER and back into the streets. One second, his cape is catching in the wind. You watch, blinking for just a second. The next, he’s gone.
It’s enough to awaken you, get your left brain kicking again. You slip your fingers past the nurse’s working to slow the blood flow on your leg and press them into the gauze, stinging wound and all. She stares up at you, startled. You try your best at a smile, “They need you in there. Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”
She only pulls away from you when your hand steadies on the gauze. She starts to tell you how to wrap it, forgetting your position, then thinks better of it and leaves you there.
Besides your calf beginning to throb, it’s a minor cut. Worse than nicking yourself shaving but nothing to cry about. You wrap it like muscle memory. It’s not that bad. You can help while you’re here. No doubt the trauma team is swamped as it is.
But as you slide off the stretcher, the throb burns up your leg and you gasp, a new rush of tears following suit as you collapse back against the cushion. Try as you might, the tears refuse to stop.
It’s not that bad. It’s barely anything. It’s nothing.
It could have been worse. So, so much worse. Maybe that’s why this paralyzes you. You’re watching your colleagues rush by saving lives, there are countless others out in the streets right now giving theirs to stop a senseless war, and you’re standing here shaking because you thought that for just a moment, this is where it all ended for you. A little glass in your leg. A bruise on your arm. What could have been a bullet in your brain.
A pair of cops pass by dragging someone with them. Your captor, conscious and in cuffs, is stumbling between them sporting a black eye that blots up into his hairline and down into his lopsided nose. With the one eye that can open, he looks over at you, just as quickly flinching in the other direction as they bring him out into the rain. You doubted it was guilt that made him look away. Your tears didn’t do shit the first time, why would they now?
But when you cried the first time, he showed up. As if the sky had opened and delivered him to you. Right when you needed him.
You take a few more minutes to breathe through the pain.
You get your two days off.
It’s two days of sitting on the couch, two days of poking at your bruises to feel something other than boredom, two days of phone calls and texts about the bloodiest gang war in Gotham City since Falcone was kingpin. Your captor had been identified and put away in Arkham along with the famed Ghost. If vengeance couldn’t be had in Gotham General, it would be had in the prison yard.
You punctuate your feelings with the sharp flicks and loops of your pen on paper, just thankful the nap you’d gotten in had curbed your anger for the most part, “I said I’m fine.”
“Well, you don’t look fine.” Your mother is only one woman but she suffocates the room with her presence. Your father, on the other hand, has confined himself to the couch with his head in his hands. “Honestly, I don’t know where you get your bullheadedness from.”
You restrain your tongue behind your teeth in fear you might say something that’ll get her even angrier at you, “They checked me over. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, and you’re lucky for that. Did you know the man that held you hostage had a warrant out for his arrest? First-degree murder of a cop! He could’ve killed you too.”
Your mind flashes back to the memory of his gun digging into you. You squint to push it out.
You’re thankful for the silence after that, but only seconds pass before your mother is fussing again, pacing the room as if she might just explode. Your father’s head is now perched on his fist. He makes no move to defend you or her, just stares off into space with a glass-eyed look. “You know what? Pack your things. We’re moving you out of Gotham.”
“Mom, no.”
“Yes. I told you months ago to find a new place, do better for yourself, and then I hear you’re caught in the middle of a gang war—on TV no less—and- no, no. You’re coming to stay with us in Jersey until we can get you a job with our PCM.”
The house in New Jersey that your parents had moved to as soon as you’d graduated was perfect for them. They’d made their life there, had crafted their happy ending away from Gotham. They had expected you to follow, but that had been years ago. You’d hoped those expectations had died along with whatever version of you they’d been holding onto. Clearly not.
God help you. If you could go back in time to last night, you’d cave that fucker’s nose in just for giving your parents the perfect argument to make you go back home. To their home.
You continue signing off paperwork as if you hadn’t even heard her, a skill you’d perfected in your teens when you stayed out too late and courted the city in ways that “just weren’t safe” for a kid your age.
Except this time, you weren’t just being a kid. You had almost lost your life last night.
Your mom is complaining to your dad about you, you can just kind of hear it as you continue to tune them out. You’re just about to cut your vacation short and head to your office for quiet when someone knocks at your front door.
Your mother is the fastest, rushing to the door with all the fury of a woman scorned. She yanks the door open just a fraction and demands that your visitor leave you be. Before you can even think to admonish her, you notice her hand go slack on the doorknob.
The door opens. You see flower petals before you see a face, the vase of flowers in their hands standing tall and wide, so much so that it brushes the door frame on all sides on its journey to your coffee table. When it’s set down before you, finally, you’re greeted by the delivery person and an envelope dangling in your face, your name an uncertain question as they wait for you to accept.
You stare, dumbfounded. You’d already made all the calls, had reassured friends and distant family alike that you were fine and alive and that you’d appreciated the concern. No one had mentioned sending you anything.
You take the card gingerly, ignoring your mother’s curious “who’s it from?” in favor of admiring it. Your name is printed in fine, midnight black calligraphy. Just by turning it to the light, you can tell it was truly handwritten. You poke beneath the seal flap until it gives way. A neat card sits inside.
Some color to resemble sunshine, something we Gothamites don’t get enough of. Hopefully you’re not deathly allergic like me.
Take care.
Sincerely,
The office of...
“...Bruce Wayne.” Your mother finishes over your shoulder. The disbelief is clear in her tone. For once, she has nothing to say.
The delivery person, who you’d thought would have made a break for it already, hovers in your living room with a wobbly smile. You wonder if it’s their first delivery. You couldn’t imagine the pressure. Your turbulent expression must not help because they’re stumbling out of there the minute you make eye contact.
“What’s Bruce Wayne sending you flowers for?” For the first time, your father chimes in, examining the bouquet with a critical eye, as if he could tell the difference between a rose and a peony.
You stare down the card once more, touch delighting in the feel of the high-quality card stock and the smell of flowers clinging to it still. The bush of orange and yellow is refreshing with all the rain. You notice that the writing inside the card is handwritten too. Had... Bruce really written it himself?
You imagined Bruce Wayne, the Bruce whose ludicrous job offer you’d rejected days ago, personally writing you a get-well soon card... on top of a bouquet of the most wonderful smelling flowers you’ve ever seen.
You couldn’t imagine why for the life of you. Was it sincere? Was it mocking, poking at your brush with death days after claiming you would rather remain here than up in the safety of his tower? Had he even known it’d been sent, or had a personal assistant called it in? Why would he care? Why do you care? You’d almost died.
“Where are you going?” Your mother’s voice feels far away, underwater when you come to. You’re standing at the front door all of a sudden, bag slung over your shoulder and card gripped in hand. Your parents are staring at you like you’ve grown a second head. Or a third, more grotesque than the last.
You haven’t explained anything and right now, you really don’t care to, “Call me when you guys make it home. Love you.”
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#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne scenarios#bruce wayne imagine#bruce wayne fic#bruce wayne angst#bruce wayne#batman x reader#batman scenarios#batman imagine#batman fic#batman angst#the batman#battinson x reader#battinson#dc#mjwrites#bw; rprt
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❝right place, right time❞
II. of niceties and awkward second meetings.
parts: previously / next
plot: bruce makes an offer you actually can refuse... at first.
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader.
cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, bruce wayne is still a masochist, bruce wayne is ALSO reckless :).
words: 3.5k.
edited: 2/28/24.
After every surgery—good or not so good—when you’re rinsing off and getting patted on the back for a job well done, you elect to feel hope. And then you hurry to lock yourself in your office and try to catch your breath.
The weight of a life on your hands follows you from room to room, from work to bed, from daydreams to night terrors. Even when it’s good, it rarely ever feels good. Questions bloat your brain: what if there’s something you missed? What if, despite it all, it’s not enough? Is the blood on your hands, then? Is the life yours to save or the patient’s to endure?
There was no solid answer. All you could do was wait for full recovery and try not to let it consume you.
Maybe tonight was a night for Thai. Maybe you’d call up your old roommates and get together at your place. Maybe you could finally tell them about the night Batman broke into your house, and how you stitched up his bullet wound, and then fell asleep 20 feet away because you had to meet Bruce fucking Wayne the very next morning and God help you if you embarrassed your boss by being late. So far, the only person who’d heard about it was the old lady who lived in the apartment below you, and all she’d done is pray for you.
You’d assured her you were fine, but she’d insisted on anointing your doors and windows before you left for work. The “demon of Gotham” she’d called him, herald of vengeance. The fact that you’d saved his life meant that you’d be spared in the reckoning... or whatever little old ladies learned in Sunday school.
Whatever she believed, you had no reason to think you’d be struck by lightning twice. Batman would not be returning to your home any time soon.
The thought almost made you sad.
There was no reason for him to return. Batman probably had a team of doctors waiting to tend to him if his arsenal of weaponry was any indicator of wealth. He wasn’t just any ol’ run of the mill vigilante, that was for certain.
You were just a blip. A freak accident. A glitch in the matrix. The chance that you’d been in the right place at the right time when Batman needed you most was just that: chance. And you were no gambler, but you could bet on your license that that man would never darken your doorstep (or window sill) again.
Maybe you’d stop by the liquor store too on your way home.
You’re rounding the corner when you collide with your boss, frantic as usual.
“Oh! Finally, there you are,” he grips your upper arms like a vice, eyes frenzied as they look you over, “why do you look like that?”
You imagine he’s referencing the dew of sweat on your skin and your scrubs out of whack. “I finished an operation fifteen minutes ago.” You answer, unimpressed. “I was just heading back to my office.”
Your attempt to sidestep him—to free yourself of the shackles that were his hands—proves useless. He spins to keep you in his grip, “You can’t! Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“You have a visitor.”
You frown, “A patient? No one’s on my schedule.”
“I’d like you to make an exception for this one.” His voice drops to a whisper. He readjusts your shirt sleeves as if dressing you up, prettying you for the highest bidder, and that sets you on edge, “Just trust me.”
You almost (almost) flinch away when he pushes you to your office door—now, a looming boulder instead of a gateway to your safe haven. Before you can even ask just who is waiting for you on the other side, your boss is rushing off down the hallway to do God knows what.
As if disarming a bomb, you slowly open the door to peek inside.
It scares the both of you, clearly, if the wide-eyed look he gives you says anything.
It’s like it hasn’t been a week since you’d last seen him. Bruce Wayne is wearing what looks like the same suit he’d worn last time, tie and collar stiff, jacket open underneath his billowy coat. But he looks awkward standing in your modest little office. He looks like he’s not supposed to be here, or at least not without his right hand man and the fanfare to follow.
He keeps his hands in front of him to show you he means no harm, “Your boss said it was okay to wait here for you.”
You’re still bracing yourself against the door, trying to figure out what he could possibly be doing in your office, what he’d possibly be waiting around for you for.
You think about the last time you’d seen him, when you’d grabbed him out of nowhere and his companion (Alfred, was it?) looked like he would have no problem breaking your spine if you dared manhandle him again. Oh God, he wasn’t going to sue, was he?
You swallow, “Uh, right. Can I help you?”
Bruce straightens up. His hands fall to his sides. You search his face to predict his next move but you’re puzzled to find that he’s just as clueless as you.
You didn’t know much about Bruce Wayne, that much had been established. What little you did know was some amorphous figure of nobility, the “prince of Gotham” as the press dubbed him.
Yet, standing before you in your simple little office, Bruce Wayne feels less like nobility and more like a stranger in foreign land. He keeps his hands in front of him and you’re able to make out purple dusting his knuckles. Bruised. Not bloody. Not recently. This piques your interest.
“How long have you been a surgeon?” Is his first question.
You slink into the room and debate on shutting the door, deciding to leave it open a crack; whether it is so you can escape or for him to feel unwelcome, you’re not entirely sure. “Four years. Not including the 12 years of school and residency.”
Bruce perks up just a tad to your bewilderment. “Did you study here in Gotham?”
“I did. I considered Metropolis.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Cheaper tuition.”
“Do you like it here in Gotham?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Wayne,” your voice comes out clipped—nervous—all the same, “I just got out of a surgery and I didn’t even know you’d be here so I haven’t got the faintest clue what you want-”
“I’m sorry.” Bruce apologizes, “I can come back another time.”
Come back? You assess his face once more, double checking for any sign of where this conversation is going, “Come back for what?”
For the first time since you entered the room, Bruce takes a step forward. A few, actually, ‘til he’s standing only a foot away and his whole deer-in-headlights deal is on full display. “A proposition.” Your head swims with big ideas. You’re thankful you’re still standing still. “I’d like to hire you.”
If Em could see you, she’d be laughing her head off at the look on your face. The emotions you're hit with are akin to blunt force trauma.
Bruce catches onto your distress and begins to explain, glancing away from your eyes to give you room to breathe, “Due to the nature of my job and the... events that transpired last November, I’m careful about my position in the public eye. I’ve decided to have a doctor on call, someone I can rely on in the event that something drastic happens again. It would be more menial work, but you would, of course, be greatly compensated: full benefits, triple your salary here. Nothing is out of the question.”
As the last word melts in the air, he finally locks eyes with you. Less deer-in-headlights now, more spotlight. More "I eagerly await your response".
You couldn’t even fathom the price point: triple your salary? You already made good money here, any more would be excessive. And then there’s the reality of the situation. You would be employed, solely, by Bruce Wayne. At his beck and call—perhaps moved into a nicer place within chauffeur distance of Wayne Tower—the support staff of the upper echelon.
Your mom wouldn’t bug you about moving out of Gotham ever again.
This all felt too good to be true. So good that your intuitive pendulum swung violently in warning. Bruce awaits your reply, wringing his hands before him and those glaring purple knuckles catch your attention again. How a CEO had managed those was a question you hesitated to entertain. Something else was going on here.
You knew Gotham was a corrupt city. It festered with crime in every aspect, that much the Riddler had made clear last Halloween. The late mayor, the DA, the police commissioner... and amongst his targets, Bruce Wayne had survived. Something else was definitely going on here.
“...I serve the public, Mr. Wayne. I reserve my skill for the citizens of Gotham without the... ability to seek better. I’m flattered you would consider me and I would be more than happy to point one of my talented colleagues your way in my stead. But I’m sorry, I can’t accept your offer.”
Bruce’s face falls for just a second. After all, if he were to wear his emotions on his face all the time, you doubted he’d be much of a successful businessman.
You’re thankful that he takes a step out of your personal space and doesn’t fuss, doesn’t try to shove a wad of cash at you, doesn’t throw more offers at you until you concede. “I appreciate your consideration, but that won’t be necessary. I should let you return to your work. Thank you for your time.”
You nod a little dumbly, the weight of what has just transpired starting to settle fully on you. Em would be far too angry at you to laugh, now.
With the grace of his pedigree, Bruce Wayne nods silently to you and leaves.
You notice once the muscles in your shoulders stop shaking that there’s something in your office that wasn’t there before. There, on the loveseat where Bruce Wayne had waited for you, was a business card.
You shakily approach the seat and collapse beside it, reaching out to read what adorns the back of the Wayne Enterprises logo.
Bruce Wayne
CEO
P: 212-XXX-XXXX
It takes the clatter of ceramic to pull you out of your reverie.
Beside you, Em hovers, “And here I thought you weren’t a fan.”
At the puzzled look you give her, Em jerks her head toward where your eyes had been focusing, mindlessly stirring in the events of the afternoon. At some point, the TV’s channel had changed from Days of our Lives to the Gotham News. They were running a story on a charity event downtown. Bruce Wayne was shaking hands on camera, the tagline “Bruce Wayne makes dazzling appearance alongside controversial mayor”. How fitting.
“‘m not,” you grumble, pushing your lunch around in yellowed Tupperware, “just thinking.”
“About?”
You glance at Em. Too little too late, your boss had clambered into your office shortly after Bruce left, pestering you about the conversation you’d had, disappointed when you’d told him you’d turned down the offer. “Imagine the press we’d get, one of our very own working for the CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” he’d argued, “you’ve got to reconsider.”
You hesitated to tell your tale again, fearful that you’d suffer the same reaction, but Em was not your boss. She would never let the topic rest. And it wasn’t like you signed an NDA, a truth that had only hit you hours after the fact, “I got a job offer today.”
Em’s eyebrows shoot up, “From West Mercy? Arkham?”
The very thought of working in Arkham Asylum had you abandoning your lunch altogether, “God, no. It was more like... on-demand. Concierge. A very rich patient wanted to hire me as their private doctor.”
“Wow... was it one of your patients?”
“No, I’ve never examined him in my life.”
“Him?” You recognized that tone of voice. A slew of questions were on the way if you didn’t elaborate fast enough.
Besides yourself and Em huddled in a corner, the break room was relatively empty. One of the ER nurses was napping, another engrossed in a game of Sudoku on their phone. You doubted they would hear even if you raised your voice above a whisper.
Quietly, because you clam up at the thought of saying his name out loud, you fish out his business card and slide it across the table to her.
It takes her but a moment to process. First a deep inhale, then her hand slaps the table (the Sudoku nurse glances up at you both and then changes his mind), then she’s gripping at your scrubs and shaking you violently in your chair, “Shut the front door! Please tell me you said yes!”
You frown, “No, I didn’t.”
“Why the hell not? I know you don’t keep up with the times in this city, but this guy is loaded!”
“I do keep up with the times. I just don’t give a rat’s ass about Bruce Wayne. A crime punishable by death, apparently.”
“But why in the world would you want to keep working here when you could be... having lunch on a terrace? Discussing lab results over Pinot Grigio? Jetting off to the Bahamas to check his vitals on vacation?”
You snort, “Exactly what I told him: I serve the public. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Could always do both.”
You tried to imagine it, for Em’s sake. The terrace lunches, the Pinot Grigio. You imagined the nice apartment from before and the esteem that your boss was sure you could bring the hospital.
And you imagined Bruce Wayne, with a limp. With bruised knuckles. Always looking at you with those big eyes that somehow told you everything and nothing at the same time. Like an open book in a dead language. You thought about the night that Wayne Tower caught fire and the world that had been crumbling down in Gotham had started to feel truly broken. Politicians die all the time, but the uber rich? Even you had watched the sky in horror.
And now that same man had asked you—you, of all people—to be there in case there was a next time.
You thought about the Batman. Would you say yes if he asked you the exact same question?
You hadn’t considered both.
You’re unaware that Em is leaving until her chair scoots loudly across the laminate, “Think on it. Seriously. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.” Her hand brushes your shoulder fleetingly. Then she’s leaving and you’re left to think again.
It was a bit ironic that his next visit took place as you were perusing apartment listings.
You hadn't seen him get inside your home the first time. He’d just been there, as if he’d always been there and you just never noticed. This time, he doesn’t have the urgency to break in. He waits at your window… staring in at you. No knocking. Not even a muffled “Can I come in?”
You don’t know how he expects anyone to invite him inside their home with those kinds of manners. You set your laptop aside and walk over to the curtains, his figure becoming clearer, more menacing as eyes silently follow you. By the time you reach the window, your heart is beating at an unhealthy pace. You had been able to get that adrenaline down before. How did you manage that again?
Batman waits patiently. Your hand presses to the glass, the warmth of it leaving behind a visible print as you push up on the glass, “Don’t tell me,” his head cocks to the side as you begin, “another bullet?”
If he is suffering from a wound like the last, he doesn’t look it. He’s crouched on your fire escape with his cape billowing behind him and the light of your apartment giving off just enough of an ominous glow.
After last time, you’d sneaked some extra supplies back to your place under the paranoia that something might happen again. And, let’s be honest, no one would raise a brow at having everything you need to clean a gunshot wound in this city. You couldn’t say it was entirely just for him, though.
The silence goes on uncomfortably long. You start to wonder if he even heard you, the way he stares you down, unmoving. He resembles a stray caught stealing from a trashcan, seconds from sprinting in the opposite direction to avoid being caught.
Eventually, your heartbeat spikes again. What had he told you last time? To run if someone tried to break in? Maybe he had wanted you to sprint the second you saw a human looming on your fire escape, regardless of their vague bat shape. Was he angry? He kind of always looked angry.
“Have you noticed anyone following you?” His question causes just the briefest alarm.
Living on the not-greatest side of Gotham, you had learned how to keep your head down but your eyes everywhere. If some mugger were looking to jump you as you got out of your car, you’d know. You shake your head, palms beginning to sweat.
Batman assesses you for a bit longer. You can’t tell if he’s reading you for a lie or if his instincts are just telling him otherwise, but eventually, he accepts your answer.
And begins to leave.
“Wait,” you stutter out against your better judgement, when he’s already stood to his full height, one boot positioned on the railing to propel himself below. He looks over his shoulder at you very slowly, “how’s your... side? Wound heal okay?
He looks down to where you’d stitched him, where his armor had been mended. “It’s better.”
You sigh, relieved. “You’ve gotten it looked at, then.”
“Someone looked at it.”
His wording gives you pause. “What about your stitches? Did you get them redone?” He hesitates. “You... did get them redone, right? Better. Preferably by someone who wasn’t worried about you dying on their living room floor.” Your skin prickles when you see his guilty look. “Batman, if you’ve been fighting crime every night for the past week with the same stitches I put in you days ago-”
“I’ve been through worse.”
“So you keep saying.” You really don’t mean to grit your teeth at him, practically stomping your foot because you’d, at the very least, expected him to be a bit smart about a bullet wound.
But, then again, you were talking to a man dressed as a bat.
You crawl out onto the fire escape, chilly and biting and unforgiving as the night may be, and watch Batman turn halfway toward you. You have to resist the urge to brush your hand against his side, an act far too intimate with Kevlar in the way. You look up at him, “Don’t suppose you’d let me take another look at it?”
The first time, sure, he let you because he was close to dying. With a motto of “I’ve been through worse” at his disposal, you doubted he would let you do it again unless the circumstances were dire.
Sure enough, he moves defensively away from you. You take heart in that it seems less like he distrusts you and more like he’s got a bravado issue. Not great, but better. Easier to fix.
You think of the medical supplies in your apartment and wonder if you’ve got what it takes to coax him inside. “I thought that you might not come again. Guy like you fighting crime every night must have people on hand for stuff like this, right? You’re not just any vigilante. Couldn’t be.” His unsettling glare makes the cold seep into you just a little bit more, “You don’t. Do you?”
He doesn’t answer you. His eyes shift from yours to the cityscape. Looking for a way out, maybe.
But if he wanted to leave, he would leave. Why would he hesitate?
“I just want to look. Make sure it’s not infected. No poking or prodding, I promise.”
“It’s not. I had someone look at it.”
“A doctor?”
“...No.”
“Someone who knows what they’re looking at, at least?”
He looks down at you. There’s something there that he’s keeping close to his chest, too much information for a stranger (even one who’s saved his life). You wait to see what his decision will be. “You work at Gotham General.” Batman states, matter-of-factly.
“...I know you were bleeding to death when I told you, but you’ve got to keep up in this city.” You see a hint of a smile on his mouth that is just as easily written off as a scowl. “What about it?”
Again, that look.
Just as you’re certain that you’re about to break through to something, a siren goes off in the distance. Sure enough, when the both of you look to the sky, his emblem is carved out in the clouds, beckoning him down to the streets once more. Your heart sinks. You were so close.
Batman waits a beat, positioning himself on the railing again. His eyes find yours over his shoulder, cape fluttering with the promise of taking flight, “They’re lucky to have you.”
He leaves. It feels even colder when he does.
taglist: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @moonlightreader649 @maryx0107 @vainillasmil157
#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne scenarios#bruce wayne imagine#bruce wayne fic#bruce wayne#batman x reader#batman scenarios#batman imagine#batman fic#the batman#battinson x reader#battinson#dc#mjwrites#bw; rprt
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Hii <3 Can you make a Bruce x Surgeon reader?. Love your work btw.
❝right place, right time❞
parts: next
plot: you took the hippocratic oath. you swore to help those in need. you didn’t sign up for a man crawling through your apartment window bleeding to death, but you’ve unfortunately seen worse.
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader.
cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, meet ugly but it’s kind of cute, vigilantes breaking into medical professionals’ houses but it’s not because they don’t heave health insurance, bruce wayne is a masochist, mentions of blood, bullet wounds, and surgical stitching.
words: 4k.
edited: 2/28/24.
a/n: I struggled a bit with this idea, but I ended up really liking the outcome! hope you enjoy.
Contrary to what your mother believed, you had started looking for a new apartment. You’d stare at newspaper clippings stuck to your fridge and imagine yourself living in those nicer buildings and say “I’ll call them on my lunch break” but never did.
But it wasn’t your fault, you just got busy. And busier. And you liked this place. Since you’d enrolled in medical school, it hadn’t done you wrong. You might as well have had lamb’s blood over your door the way the angel of death never came knocking.
And technically that was still true. He had to have been there before you slipped in, the stove clock reading 11:15 in neon green just a minute before you noticed his sinister silhouette outlined by your window. It had been a long shift, but you definitely weren’t just seeing things.
A chilly breeze shuffles his cape. He shifts and you realize the window he was blocking had been pried open. It’d stopped opening for you years ago. His body shifts (sways) again, saying nothing.
“What are you doing in my house?” He hears you. There’s no way he can’t hear you, the distance between the front door and the window mere feet in between. He shifts one more time, hulking forward with the ears of his cowl resembling bull horns, and you grab the doorknob in fear that he’s about to charge forward and trample you... but he hits the floor.
Slowly, you open your front door again, hallway light illuminating the body on your living room floor. Completely still. You stand there for perhaps a few beats too long just looking at him. Then, extra slow, you let your door shut and flip on the overhead light. In the time it’d taken for you to collect your thoughts, a small pool of blood had begun to stain the carpet underneath him.
Your shift had been long, and this definitely wasn’t the first time today you’d seen that much blood, but you’d been prepared then.
“Shit, shit, shit,” tossing your things to the side, you all but throw yourself onto the ground next to the Batman’s body. You note with increasing concern that he doesn’t react at all, “do not die on my carpet!”
He doesn’t react to that either.
It takes your eyes a moment to adjust in your flurry of thoughts, relieved to see that his back was still rising and falling with life, but the blood soaking the floor and eating up your security deposit didn’t leave you feeling very confident. Tucking his cape out of the way does nothing to help show you his injury, and you realize that you’d need to move him and remove the layer of armor in your way if you wanted to stop the bleeding.
Even splayed on the floor, it’s clear he’s a mountain of a man. There was no way you could flip him all on your own. “Hey,” you call, “what happened to you?”
There are slits in the cowl where his eyes should be and black paint spread around his eyelashes that do not flutter when you speak. Careful, you take your thumb and peel one eyelid back to reveal a brilliant blue eye staring back at you—or rather, your direction—unresponsive.
There’s a neat protocol for this. You’re a professional with over a decade of training under your belt and over a hundred different emergencies that hadn’t made you flinch or falter. You know what to do and how to do it right, but you really haven’t got the time.
Winding your hand back with just enough force, you bring the palm of it down onto his exposed cheek, startling him awake instantly.
The victory is short-lived when he suddenly arrests your hand in an iron-clad grip, stunning you with the sheer strength he puts behind it. That was a good sign, at least. He wasn’t quite seeing the light at the end of the tunnel yet. You’re quick to get your words out before he can fling you across the room in a rage, “I need you to roll over so I can get your suit off.”
You kinda feel bad for the guy. His eyes are slow to follow your hand’s movement, brain even slower to process what it is you’re asking. He can barely lift his head off the ground to assess his surroundings. You watch the way he struggles to focus on you, frantic as you are, and his nose twitches at the idea, “No.”
“No?”
The labored breathing isn’t a very good sign, “I can’t.”
“I need to get to your wound. I can’t do that with an inch of Kevlar in the way.”
He musters some of the strength he used to take you captive to push himself up and over onto his back. Still, he refuses to move any further, “I got the bullet out. Just stop the bleeding.”
Sure enough, the material around his wound had shattered open from the impact of a bullet, no doubt holding up for as long as it could under a barrage. His entire suit had taken a beating. You cringe at the blood still free-flowing and remove your cardigan, bunching it to press against the wound. “You’re an idiot,” you hiss, forgetting yourself and who you’re talking to, “you probably agitated the wound doing that. You need stitches. You know that, right?”
“Just... stop the bleeding.”
You’d handled legions of mafia goons, clowns, and freaks, but Batman was shaping up to be your most annoying patient. “I can’t if you don’t let me stitch you up. I can’t stitch you up with this armor in the way.” He even has the audacity to doze off a little while you talk, coming back to only when you give his cheek a few more taps, “You’re not dying in my house. If you want to bleed to death, get out. Otherwise, let me help you... please.”
If you were in the operating room, maybe you could’ve cut the thing off him by now, but you’re in your mediocre apartment with tools only a little more helpful than the average first aid kit. What stands between you and the grim reaper is an exposed identity. You were a little alarmed that he was still deliberating on which was worse.
His eyes stare down at you, eyelids drooping by the second. You hope that’s not another bad sign, “I’ll blindfold myself.”
“Tell me how bleeding out is worse again.” At least he had a sense of humor about it.
You laugh because it’s all you can really do with that, “I’m a pretty good surgeon from what I hear.” His eyes flicker to your scrubs as if he had just noticed what you were wearing, “It’s just this upper part, right? You have to take your cowl off to remove it. So I’ll blindfold myself. Then you can put the cowl back on and I can work. I promise.”
Batman watches you with those haunting eyes, rimmed with blackness that makes the blue look like it goes on forever. Then, his hand slips down to the place where his breastplate meets his belt. His fingers make quick work of loosening the latter. That’s all you need to get moving.
You retrieve your first aid kit and meager surgical tools from the bathroom, and there’s a scarf from last night’s shift on the arm of your couch that you quickly tie around your eyes, listening for movement as you kneel by Batman’s side. You hear grunts of pain and the shifting of fabric, a breathless whine and sigh. You feel him shift in front of you, cringing when you realize he’s sitting up now. Reaching your hands out to help him, he grits through his teeth to dissuade you, “It’s fine.”
“You’re gonna tire yourself out.” Your voice is much gentler this time, a reward for his compliance, and you let your hands feel for where his own are hooked under his armor. You think you hear him suck air through his teeth at the touch. “Let me.”
He doesn’t use his words to reply. His hands engulf your own and it’s your turn to gasp now as he moves them into position, hooking your fingers between the Kevlar and the fabric underneath. You feel his body flex with the effort as you heave the top off him, your fingers brushing over wisps of hair as your hands pass over his head. It thuds somewhere off to the side.
The sound of him falling back against the floor is none too comforting, though his voice confirms that you can look again.
The fabric of his under suit is easy to cut open with scissors, and once you’ve got a good vantage point, you begin wiping around the wound to prepare. “There’s no anesthesia here, sorry. You’re gonna have to tough this one out.”
The Batman keeps his gaze on your ceiling with his jaw clenched. With your needle prepared, you steady your hand against the warmth of his skin and begin stitching.
He’s good for a few minutes and you watch his face for any signs that you should stop, but every time he meets your eyes, you force yourself back to work. You’re just in the homestretch when he stutters out a pained breath, grasping at your bloodied cardigan for something to distract himself from the pain. You spread the hand that isn’t stitching him up against his torso and begin brushing your idle pinky back and forth, attempting to comfort him, “You’re doing great. I’m almost done.”
Your touch makes him stiffen and you wait for him to tell you to stop, wait for him to pry your fingers from his skin, but he does nothing of the sort. “You said you’re a surgeon.”
You make another loop, pleased that he’s more alert now, “I’d say you must be pretty lucky for breaking into my place, but you’re also the one that got shot.” His shoulders relax the minute you tie off your thread and snip off the excess. The gauze and tape is the easy part.
His eyes shift from you to the window he’d crawled in through, blood dried on the white wood. You think he’s cold and are about to get up and shut it when he speaks again, a little gentler, “Why here? You could live anywhere.”
“Be careful. You sound like my mother,” you joke, “I just haven’t gotten around to it. 16 hour shifts take precedence.”
To your surprise, his eyes flash with remorse. “I was looking for somewhere to hide. I wasn’t going to stay.”
“But you did.”
“I’m usually more bulletproof.”
That gets a laugh out of you. You think Batman even quirks a smile, however faint. “I’d hope so. I’d like you to stick around a little longer.” Batman’s confusion is obvious this close up. You continue, “Long shifts, you know. Get a lot of casualties. It’s really... gruesome stuff. They don’t sugarcoat it in residency, but when you’re really out there, seeing it every night... anyway, it’s been different since you came along. People sleep a bit easier. Me included.”
You don’t tell him that he’s part of the reason you hadn’t up and moved to a better city yet. It feels implied.
The clock now reads 12:32, a warning of how late the night had gone on, “Well, are you sleeping on the couch or the floor? I prefer the couch but you seem like the masochistic type.”
Batman brushes off your dig a little too easily, “Neither.”
“I’m not letting you leave after all that, if that’s what you’re thinking. You narrowly avoided death.”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks to you.”
Oh, oh this man. Was your heartfelt confession not enough? “You won’t be fine if you get up and leave.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“You will if you want to live.”
“I’ve been through worse.”
“I will tie you to a goddamn chair before I let you ruin all my hard work. I’ll keep you here all night.”
He sits up again, more confident now that his wound is handled, and you’re quickly reminded that even unconscious, he’d been too strong to manhandle. With him looming over you with purpose, you wouldn’t stand a chance.
Your eyes discreetly rake over the heavy, sturdy planes of his body. You weren’t much in the way of him. Your last-ditch effort is a little pitiful, “Please. You obviously do this vigilante thing for a reason. You don’t have to stay the whole night. At least rest for a few hours. There are a lot of people who need you here tomorrow... again, me included.”
Your puppy dog eyes are a little rusty, you know. The sincerity works for you. Even when the Batman feigns undecided, you can tell his choice by some of the tension leaving his body.
You just wish he wasn’t so stubborn.
You scramble to hold him when he starts pushing himself to stand, your arm linking around his almost naked waist. The fabric clings closely to the dips and curves of his hip, and you press closer to tuck under his arm. He must be more tired than he lets on because he barely resists you.
You’re thankful that he can shoulder most of his weight on the slow, stiff walk to the couch, and your worry overpowers your smugness when he drops to the cushions the second you get close enough. You’re gentle checking the gauze for any red that might seep through, but the stitches remain intact. “If you eat something, you’ll heal a bit faster.”
“I’m-” He catches himself before he adds on a “fine”, “water would be... good.”
The bottle you retrieve remains unopened until you put it in his hands, “A few hours, okay? At least two.” Batman frowns at you, jaw pulling taut at the thought of staying still for that long. His mulishness would be endearing if he wasn’t playing with life or death. “I’m gonna be in that room at the end of the hall. I’ll keep my door cracked in case you need me.”
“You shouldn’t do that.” Batman warns, a strange edge of concern to his voice, “With strangers in your house.”
You laugh, “What? You mean you?”
His hand takes your wrist but gentler this time, “Three hours. And you’ll run next time someone breaks in.”
You’re kind of stunned. Not because you didn’t think he’d care, but because, in all this commotion, you hadn’t really paused to think about what would have happened if it hadn’t been him at your window. You’d been lucky for this to be the first time anyone had ever broken in, but what if tonight had gone differently? It’s a simple, reasonable request. “Yeah,” His eyelids flutter closed a little at your agreement, “Three hours.”
You’d worked shifts longer than a day and they’d never exhausted you this badly.
You know you should be putting on a better face for the day, especially with who you’d be meeting in less than an hour, but you’d barely slept a wink with your guest only feet away from your bedroom door, no monotonous heart monitor to fall asleep to. What little sleep you did get only came after he’d left—true to his word, he’d stayed for three hours—and then worries of whether he’d made it home safely had consumed you.
That was the thing with masked vigilantes, you supposed. This was your first after all.
“You look rough. Long night?” You recognize the voice as one of the pediatricians, Emily, who had been handpicked alongside you for the day’s special event. She looked far more alive in comparison.
“You’ve no idea.”
Emily sidles up beside you, radiating excitement, “I could barely sleep either. I’ve never met a celebrity before!”
You muster up enough energy to laugh, humorless as it was, “CEOs don’t count as celebrities, Em.”
“Yeah, they do. Elon Musk hosted SNL. Only celebrities do that.”
And thank God that wasn’t who you were meeting today. You weren’t that good of an actor.
It had been between you and one other general surgeon in your department for the day, and though you’d remained adamant that it should be literally anyone else but you representing your department, your boss had nominated you.
That’s why you were standing here on only an hour and a half of sleep, second coffee in hand, waiting by the front doors of Gotham General for the fanfare to start. They’d be here any minute.
For every second you weren’t agonizing over what you’d have to say (”Thank you for your generous donation, we really need it in a city that implodes on itself once every afternoon”) or buzzing from the caffeine, you were checking local news for any sightings of the Batman. It had gone from curious to obsessive in about a few hours, and now you were doing everything in your power not to sneak your phone out and check again.
Just as your fingers begin to itch over the mouth of your pocket, a sleek Rolls Royce pulls up beneath the porte-cochère. It’s obvious who it belongs to. No one who owned a car like that would make Gotham General their first choice for healthcare.
Your boss materializes out of thin air, running outside to greet the greying man who steps out of the passenger seat first. You’re confused, wondering if they’d sent a representative instead, only for that same man to open the backseat door a moment later, and out steps the man of the hour: Bruce Wayne.
You’d never seen him in person before. “Have you ever seen him in person before?” Emily asks, bouncing up and down beside you. “He’s more handsome up close.”
She... wasn’t wrong.
Bruce Wayne looks a lot like his pictures, but there are subtle differences. His height, for one, cannot be overstated. He hovers over the man who’d come with him and your boss easily. Though you’re separated by glass doors, you’re able to make out the sharp point of his nose and squaring of his jaw. He looks every bit like his father.
It’s only when the three of them make their way into the lobby—where you are—that you notice his eyes.
You weren’t like Em. The Wayne tragedy had been just that: a tragedy. Summers weren’t for the arrival of Bruce Wayne back from boarding school, every tabloid and teenager with nothing better to do scrambling to get a picture of the sole heir. You couldn’t even say if his hair was black or brown. You’d never cared past the statue in the courtyard dedicated to his father. So you had no idea just how blue those eyes were. So... familiarly blue. You hadn’t seen eyes that blue for the last eight hours.
It doesn’t help that as soon as Bruce spots you, he stumbles in his walk behind your boss. You swore he looked like he knew you.
“...and this is Dr. Emily Madison, one of our pediatricians here. These two are extraordinary and a big part of why Gotham General is the trusted facility it is today,” your boss is all smiles and glamour, cutting his eyes to you, “why don’t you say a few words to Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth?”
Right. Your script. The one you’d written more like a joke because you couldn’t focus on anything other than- “Thank you so much for your generous donation, Mr. Wayne,” you step forward to shake both hands in order, “the Wayne Foundation will help so many of us in the field working tirelessly to serve Gotham, as I know your father was very passionate about.”
“Yes,” Bruce sounds a little breathless, “he’d be very proud of the work your team has done so far.”
Your mouth dries up a little. You had to be exhausted. Your mind was running away from you at the timbre of his voice. You’d heard it before too.
Emily’s voice is petering off into white noise as she shares her own gratitude, Bruce focusing on her instead, and suddenly you’re looking at every detail, fitting your thumb in the space between his eyelid and brow in your mind and wondering if that had been the same eye you’d peered into last night.
You haven’t slept at all, you remind yourself, thoughts forming faster than your logic could bat them down, you’re not thinking straight. It’s just that... you swear that...
Suddenly the group is moving, your boss at the forefront. His voice trickles back into your ears as you come back down to earth, “Well, shall we take a look at the new wing? It’s still under construction, but we’d love to show you what we have so far.”
You follow far behind as you approach the grand staircase in the middle of the foyer, eyes following the silhouette of Bruce. You’re comparing shadows, legs, shoulders, cheekbones, finding more similarities than differences. If he feels your eyes burning into him, he isn’t acknowledging you.
He’s barely taken five steps up the staircase when you notice the awkward tilt in his walk. The few glimpses you get of his face as the group begins to ascend looks strained, every step looks painful. Before you can stop yourself, you reach out a hand to grasp his elbow and stop him in his tracks, “Are you hurt?”
You’re just as shocked as he is. The instinct to grab him had been faster than your logic.
He’s got this wide-eyed, almost hysterically doe look as he flits his attention from your hand on his sleeve to your eyes. Seconds later, a more weathered hand pries you two apart. “Apologies, but I’ll have to ask you to refrain from touching Mr. Wayne without-”
“No, Alfred, it’s fine.” “Alfred” releases you at the behest of his employer who hasn’t taken his eyes off you, “I should be the one to apologize... I overexerted myself these last few days at work and believed I might be able to tough it out. If anyone were to notice something wrong, it would be a skilled professional such as yourself.”
His response is corporate and clean, and just as quickly as his shock had appeared, his face returns to professional distance once more.
Emily looks sympathetic over the PR statement. Your boss is quick to scramble back down the stairs, only a little hurt when Bruce waves away his arm to help him back down, “Mr. Wayne, you should have said something! We can take the elevators instead. The last thing we’d want to do is make you uncomfortable. Please, this way.”
You find your way to the back of the group again, now thoroughly embarrassed at your behavior, and begin plotting excuses to step away in the middle of the tour. Emergency surgery, maybe? You had friends in the ICU who could ping you for a false alarm. Maybe then you could sneak in a well-needed nap back at your office-
“I should thank you.”
Bruce had materialized beside you at some point on the trek to the elevators, not as keen on hiding the stiffness in his walk after being exposed. Once his words catch up with you, you stumble out a response, “Wh- oh no, that’s not-”
“Alfred often has to remind me to take care of myself, but it’d be unlike me to not give him a hard time.” Bruce offers a smile, genuine enough that you’re kind of pleased he’s not playing up the friendliness for business. You hate that his smile is the only thing that sets him and Batman apart in your exhausted mind.
You return the smile as you all wait for the doors to open, “He seems very protective of you. And he’s right, you should take better care of yourself. There are worse places to get hurt.”
You’re about to look away, about to follow Emily and your boss and Mr. Pennyworth into the elevator, but you’re a second too late and catch a glint in his eye as soon as you finish your sentence. It’s gone before you know it. “Maybe.” Is his only reply. His smile remains genuine.
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#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne scenarios#bruce wayne imagine#bruce wayne one shot#bruce wayne#batman x reader#batman scenarios#batman imagine#the batman#battinson x reader#battinson#mjwrites#bw; rprt
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