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đđ đĄđđ đđđđ§ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đđ°đš đŠđšđ§đđĄđŹ đŹđąđ§đđ đČđšđź đđ§đ đđ«đźđđ đĄđđ đšđđđąđđąđđ„đ„đČ đđ«đšđ€đđ§ đźđ©. đđ đ°đđŹđ§'đ đźđ§đđ±đ©đđđđđ đđĄđđ đČđšđź đđ°đš đĄđđ đđąđ§đđ„đ„đČ đđđ„đ„đđ đąđ đȘđźđąđđŹ, đ§đđđ«đ„đČ đđŻđđ«đČ đđđČ đŹđšđŠđ đŠđąđŹđđšđŠđŠđźđ§đąđđđđąđšđ§ đšđ« đđ«đ đźđŠđđ§đ đ°đđŹ đĄđđ©đ©đđ§đąđ§đ đđđđ°đđđ§ đČđšđź đđ§đ đĄđąđŠ. đđ đđšđ§đŹđđđ§đđ„đČ đŹđĄđźđ đČđšđź đšđźđ, đ«đđ«đđ„đČ đđŻđđ« đ đąđŻđąđ§đ đČđšđź đđđđđ§đđąđšđ§, đđ§đ đŹđ©đđ§đ đđ„đ„ đšđ đĄđąđŹ đđąđŠđ đđ§đ đđ§đđ«đ đČ đšđ§ đđđąđ§đ đ đŻđąđ đąđ„đđ§đđ.
đđšđźđ« đđąđ§đđ„ đŹđđ«đđ° đ°đđŹ đ°đĄđđ§ đđ«đźđđ đĄđđ đąđŠđ©đ„đąđđ đđĄđđ đČđšđź'đ«đ đ§đšđđĄđąđ§đ đđźđ đ đđąđŹđđ«đđđđąđšđ§ đđš đĄđąđŠ. đđ đ°đđŹđ§'đ đđŻđđ§ đ„đąđ€đ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđźđ đ đąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ, đČđšđź đĄđđ đđ«đšđźđ đĄđ đŹđšđŠđ đđšđšđ đđšđ°đ§ đąđ§đđš đđĄđ đđđđđđŻđ đŹđąđ§đđ đČđšđź đĄđđđ§'đ đŹđđđ§ đĄđąđŠ đđšđ« đĄđšđźđ«đŹ đđ§đ đČđšđź đ€đ§đđ° đđĄđđ đĄđ đ°đšđźđ„đ đ§đšđ đđđ đąđ đĄđ đ°đđŹ đđšđ°đ§ đđĄđđ«đ đđšđąđ§đ đ°đĄđđđđŻđđ« đĄđ đđąđ. đđđđđ« đĄđ đĄđđ đđ«đźđŹđĄđđ đšđđ đČđšđź đĄđđ§đđąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ đ đŠđđđ„, đĄđ đđąđ§đđ„đ„đČ đŹđ©đšđ€đ đźđ© đ°đĄđđ§ đČđšđź đĄđđ đŹđđ đđĄđ đ©đ„đđđ đąđ§ đđ«đšđ§đ đšđ đĄđąđŠ, đđ§đ đ©đ„đđđđ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđ§đ đšđ§ đĄđąđŹ đźđ©đ©đđ« đđđđ€.
"đđš đČđšđź đĄđđŻđ đđš đđ đĄđđ«đ đ«đąđ đĄđ đ§đšđ°?" đđ đŹđđąđ đ đ«đźđđđ„đČ đŹđ„đąđđąđ§đ đđĄđ đ©đ„đđđ đđš đđĄđ đšđđĄđđ« đŹđąđđ đšđ đĄđąđŹ đđđŹđ€.
"đ'đŠ đŹđšđ«đ«đČ?" đđšđź đĄđđ đ°đ«đąđ§đ€đ„đđ đČđšđźđ« đđČđđđ«đšđ°đŹ đđ§đ đ«đđŠđšđŻđđ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđ§đ đđ«đšđŠ đĄđąđŹ đđđđ€.
"đ/đ§, đČđšđź'đ«đ đđąđŹđđ«đđđđąđ§đ đŠđ, đđĄđ đ°đđČ đČđšđź đđ„đ°đđČđŹ đđš" đđ đ„đšđšđ€đđ đđ°đđČ đđ«đšđŠ đČđšđź, đđ§đ đŹđđąđ đđĄđ đ„đđŹđ đ©đđ«đ đźđ§đđđ« đĄđąđŹ đđ«đđđđĄ. đđšđź đ€đ§đđ° đđĄđđ đ°đĄđđ§ đđ«đźđđ đ°đđŹ đŹđđ«đđŹđŹđđ đĄđ đđšđźđ„đ đđ đąđ§đŹđđ§đŹđąđđąđŻđ đ°đąđđĄđšđźđ đđŻđđ§ đ«đđđ„đąđłđąđ§đ đąđ, đđźđ đđ đđĄđđ đ©đšđąđ§đ, đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđąđ«đđ đšđ đđđąđ§đ đđ§ đźđ§đđđ«đŹđđđ§đđąđ§đ đ đąđ«đ„đđ«đąđđ§đ, đđ«đźđđ đ°đđŹ đđđąđ§đ đ đđ«đšđšđđČ đđąđđ€ đđ§đ đ©đđ«đ đšđ đČđšđź đđđ„đ đ„đąđ€đ đĄđ đ€đ§đđ° đąđ.
đđšđź đŹđźđđ€đđ đąđ§ đ đđđđ© đđ«đđđđĄ, đđđđšđ«đ đđ đ đ«đđŹđŹđąđŻđđ„đČ đŹđĄđšđŻđąđ§đ đđĄđ đ©đ„đđđ đšđ đđšđšđ đšđ§đđš đđĄđ đđšđ„đ đđ„đšđšđ«.
"đđĄđČ'đ đČđšđź đđš đđĄđđ?" đđ«đźđđ đđ§đ đ«đąđ„đČ đđŹđ€đđ đ đąđŻđąđ§đ đČđšđź đ đđšđ§đđźđŹđđ đ„đšđšđ€, đČđšđź đđšđźđ„đđ§'đ đđđ„đąđđŻđ đđĄđ đđđđ đđĄđđ đĄđ đĄđđ đđĄđ đ đđ„đ„ đđš đđđ đđšđ§đđźđŹđđ.
"đđ'đŹ đ§đšđ đ„đąđ€đ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đ đšđ§đ§đ đđźđđ€đąđ§đ đđđ đąđ," đđšđź đŹđĄđšđźđđđ, đŹđĄđ«đźđ đ đąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đŹđĄđšđźđ„đđđ«đŹ. đđŹ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđđšđźđ đđš đ°đđ„đ€ đđš đđĄđ đđ„đđŻđđđšđ« đČđšđź đĄđđđ«đ đđ«đźđđ đ„đđ đšđźđ đđ§ đđ§đ§đšđČđđ đŹđąđ đĄ, đ°đĄđąđđĄ đŠđđđ đČđšđź đđŻđđ§ đŠđšđ«đ đđ§đ đ«đČ. đđšđź đđźđ«đ§đđ đđđđ€ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đ đđđđąđ§đ đ«đđđđČ đđš đđ«đźđ„đČ đ„đđ đĄđąđŠ đĄđđŻđ đąđ.
"đ đđđ§đ§đšđ đđđđĄđšđŠ đĄđšđ° đąđ§ đđĄđ đĄđđ„đ„ đČđšđź đĄđđŻđ đđĄđ đđźđđđđąđđČ đđš đđđ đ„đąđ€đ đ'đŠ đŹđźđđĄ đđ§ đšđđŹđđđđ„đ đđš đ°đšđ«đ€ đđ«đšđźđ§đ, đ'đŠ đđ«đČđąđ§đ đđš đŠđđ€đ đŹđźđ«đ đČđšđź'đ«đ đĄđđđ„đđĄđČ đđđđđźđŹđ đ„đšđ«đ đ€đ§đšđ°đŹ đČđšđź đ°đšđ§'đ đđš đđĄđđ đđšđ« đČđšđźđ«đŹđđ„đ," đđšđź đĄđźđđđđ đđ đĄđąđŠ, "đđšđź đ©đźđ đČđšđźđ«đŹđđ„đ đđĄđ«đšđźđ đĄ đđĄđ đ°đ«đąđ§đ đđ« đđŻđđ«đČ đđđŠđ§ đ§đąđ đĄđ đđźđ, đ'đŠ đđĄđ đđąđđđĄ đđđđđźđŹđ đ đ°đđ§đ đïżœïżœïżœ đŠđđ€đ đŹđźđ«đ đČđšđź đđđ đđšđ« đđĄđ đđđČ" đđšđź đČđđ„đ„đđ, đđ§đ đŹđĄđšđŻđđ đČđšđźđ« đąđ§đđđ± đđąđ§đ đđ« đ đđšđźđ©đ„đ đąđ§đđĄđđŹ đđ«đšđŠ đĄđąđŹ đđđđ, đđŹ đĄđ đŹđđ đđĄđđ«đ đąđ§ đŹđąđ„đđ§đđ.
"đ đ§đđŻđđ« đŹđđąđ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đ đđąđđđĄ" đđ«đźđđ đŹđđąđ đđąđŹđŠđąđŹđŹđąđŻđđ„đČ đđđđšđ«đ đđźđ«đ§đąđ§đ đđđđ€ đđš đđĄđ đŹđźđ«đŻđđąđ„đ„đđ§đđ đŻđąđđđšđŹ đĄđ đĄđđ đšđ§ đĄđąđŹ đđšđŠđ©đźđđđ« đŹđđ«đđđ§đŹ.
"đđĄ, đđĄđđ đąđŹ đŹđš đČđšđź, đšđ§đ„đČ đČđšđź đ°đšđźđ„đ đŹđąđ§đ đ„đ đšđźđ đšđ§đ đđĄđąđ§đ đ đŹđđąđ đđš đŠđđ€đ đŠđ đŹđđđŠ đ„đąđ€đ đ đđšđ§'đ đ€đ§đšđ° đ°đĄđđ đ'đŠ đđđ„đ€đąđ§đ đđđšđźđ, đđ§đ đČđšđź đ€đ§đšđ° đ°đĄđđ đđ«đźđđ đČđšđź đđšđ§'đ đĄđđŻđ đđš đŻđđ«đđđ„đ„đČ đŹđđČ đ'đŠ đ "đđąđđđĄ", đđđđđźđŹđ đđĄđ đ°đđČ đČđšđź đđ«đđđ đŠđ đŹđđČđŹ đđ§đšđźđ đĄ," đđšđź đČđđ„đ„đđ, đČđšđźđ« đđ„đšđšđ đĄđđ đđđ đźđ§ đđš đđšđąđ„ đđ đđĄđđ đ©đšđąđ§đ, đČđšđź đ°đđ«đđ§'đ đŹđźđ«đ đąđ đąđ đ°đđŹ đĄđąđŹ đđąđŹđŠđąđŹđŹđąđŻđ đđđĄđđŻđąđšđ« đšđ« đđ§ đđđđźđŠđźđ„đđđąđšđ§ đšđ đđĄđąđ§đ đŹ đđĄđđ đŠđđđ đČđšđź đđĄđđ đđ§đ đ«đČ.
"đđźđŹđ đ đš đđĄđđ§" đđ«đźđđ đĄđđ đŹđđąđ đȘđźđąđđđ„đČ, đĄđ đđąđđ§'đ đđŻđđ§ đ„đšđšđ€ đČđšđź đąđ§ đđĄđ đđČđđŹ. đđšđź đĄđąđđđĄđđ đČđšđźđ« đđ«đđđđĄ đđ§đ đ°đđ„đ€đđ đđš đđĄđ đđ„đđŻđđđšđ« đ„đđđŻđąđ§đ đđ«đźđđ. đđšđź đĄđđ đ©đ«đđđđąđđđ„đ„đČ đ«đđđđ đđš đČđšđźđ« đŹđĄđđ«đđ đđđđ«đšđšđŠ đ°đąđđĄ đđ«đźđđ đđ§đ đđđ đđ§ đđš đ©đđđ€ đČđšđźđ« đđĄđąđ§đ đŹ. đđšđź đ°đđ«đ đŹđš đđ§đ đ«đČ đđ đĄđąđŠ, đĄđšđ° đđšđźđ„đ đĄđ đđ đŹđš đźđ§đđšđđĄđđ«đđ đđđšđźđ đČđšđź đ„đđđŻđąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ, đđŹ đąđ đđĄđ đđąđŠđ đČđšđź đŹđ©đđ§đ đđšđ đđđĄđđ«, đđĄđ đđĄđąđ§đ đŹ đČđšđź đŹđĄđđ«đđ đ°đąđđĄ đĄđąđŠ đŠđđđ§đ đ§đšđđĄđąđ§đ . đđšđź đ„đšđŻđđ đĄđąđŠ đŠđšđ«đ đđĄđđ§ đđ§đČđđĄđąđ§đ , đđ§đ đđĄđ đđĄđšđźđ đĄđ đšđ đŹđđđ«đđąđ§đ đšđŻđđ« đŠđđđ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđđ«đ đđđĄđ, đČđšđź đđąđđ§'đ đ°đđ§đ đđš đĄđđŻđ đđš đĄđđŻđ đđ§đšđđĄđđ« đđąđ«đŹđ đđđđ, đšđ« đđąđ«đŹđ đ€đąđŹđŹ đ°đąđđĄ đŹđšđŠđđšđ§đ đđĄđđ đ°đđŹđ§'đ đĄđąđŠ.
ïżœïżœđĄđđ§ đČđšđź đĄđđ đđąđ§đąđŹđĄđđ đ©đđđ€đąđ§đ đđ§đ đđđ đđ§ đđš đĄđđđ đđšđ°đ§ đđĄđ đŹđđđąđ«đŹ đšđ đđĄđ đŠđđ§đšđ« đČđšđź đđšđźđ„đ đŹđđ đđ„đđ«đđ đĄđđđ đšđŻđđ« đđš đČđšđź.
"đ/đ§ đđšđ§'đ đ đš," đđ„đđ«đđ đ©đźđ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđ§đ đšđ§ đČđšđźđ« đŹđĄđšđźđ„đđđ« đđ«đČđąđ§đ đđš đŹđđšđ© đČđšđź đđ«đšđŠ đ đšđąđ§đ đšđźđ đđĄđ đđšđšđ«. "đđ đ§đđđđŹ đČđšđź" đđ đ«đđđŹđšđ§đđ
"đ đđđ§'đ đđš đđĄđąđŹ đđ§đČđŠđšđ«đ, đĄđ'đŹ đ đ đ«đšđ°đ§ đŠđđ§, đĄđ đđšđđŹđ§'đ đ§đđđ đŠđ đđ§đ đĄđ đđšđđŹđ§'đ đđŻđđ§ đđđ«đ đđđšđźđ đĄđąđŠđŹđđ„đ, đŹđš đĄđšđ° đđšđźđ„đ đĄđ đđđ«đ đđđšđźđ đŠđ," đđšđź đŹđđšđđđđ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đšđźđ đđĄđ đđšđšđ«, đČđšđź đĄđđ đ°đđ„đ€đđ đđ„đ„ đđĄđ đ°đđČ đđšđ°đ§ đđš đđĄđ đđąđ«đŹđ đđđ« đČđšđź đđŻđđ« đđšđźđ đĄđ, đ đ«đđ đ đđđČ đŹđđđđ§ đČđšđź đđšđźđ đĄđ đđ đŹđąđ±đđđđ§ đ°đąđđĄ đđĄđ đŠđšđ§đđČ đČđšđź đŹđđ«đđ©đđ đđšđ đđđĄđđ« đđ«đšđŠ đđ±đđĄđđ§đ đąđ§đ đđđ§đŹ đđ§đ đđšđđđ„đđŹ đđšđ« đŠđšđ§đđČ.
đđŹ đČđšđź đ©đźđ„đ„đđ đšđźđ đđšđ« đđĄđ đ đđ«đđ đ đšđ đđĄđ đŠđđ§đšđ« đČđšđź đąđŠđŠđđđąđđđđ„đČ đđąđđ„đđ đČđšđźđ« đšđ„đ đ„đđ§đđ„đšđ«đ đ°đĄđš đ°đđŹ đđđ„đ đđš đ©đźđ„đ„ đŹđšđŠđ đŹđđ«đąđ§đ đŹ, đđ„đ„đšđ°đąđ§đ đČđšđź đđš đŠđšđŻđ đđđđ€ đąđ§đđš đČđšđźđ« đšđ„đ đđ©đđ«đđŠđđ§đ. đđšđź đĄđđ đŹđąđ„đđ§đđ„đČ đđĄđđ§đ€đđ đđšđ đđĄđđ đČđšđź đĄđđđ§'đ đȘđźđąđ đČđšđźđ« đŁđšđ đđđŹđ©đąđđ đđĄđ đ§đźđŠđđđ« đšđ đđąđŠđđŹ đđ«đźđđ đĄđđ đđŹđ€đđ đČđšđź đđš. đđš đĄđąđŠ, đąđ đ°đđŹ đźđ§đŹđđđ đđšđ« đČđšđź đđš đđ đ°đšđ«đ€đąđ§đ đąđ§ đ đđąđđČ đ„đąđ€đ đđšđđĄđđŠ, đ°đąđđĄ đđ«đąđŠđ đ„đźđ«đ€đąđ§đ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đđŻđđ«đČ đđšđ«đ§đđ« đ°đđąđđąđ§đ đđšđ« đđĄđ đ§đđ±đ đźđ§đŹđźđŹđ©đđđđąđ§đ đŁđđ«đ€ đđš đ„đđ đđĄđđąđ« đ đźđđ«đ đđšđ°đ§ đ đđđđąđ§đ đđĄđđŠđŹđđ„đŻđđŹ đđš đ đđ đŻđąđđđąđŠđąđłđđ.
đđ đĄđźđ«đ đđš đđ đąđ§ đČđšđźđ« đšđ„đ đđ©đđ«đđŠđđ§đ, đđĄđ đŠđđŠđšđ«đąđđŹ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đ©đđŹđ đĄđđ đđ„đšđšđđđ đČđšđźđ« đŠđąđ§đ đđ§đ đ«đđŠđąđ§đđđ đČđšđź đšđ đ°đĄđđ§ đČđšđź đđąđ«đŹđ đŠđđ đđ«đźđđ. đđšđŠđ đđšđđĄđđŠ đ đđ§đ đŠđđŠđđđ« đĄđđ đ«đđ§ đąđ§đđš đČđšđźđ« đđźđąđ„đđąđ§đ , đđđđđŠđ©đđąđ§đ đđĄđ đ„đšđšđ đđĄđ đ©đ„đđđ, đ°đĄđđ§ đČđšđź đŹđđđ©đ©đđ đšđźđ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đđ©đđ«đđŠđđ§đ đđš đŹđđ đ°đĄđđ đđ„đ„ đđĄđ đđšđŠđŠđšđđąđšđ§ đ°đđŹ đđđšđźđ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđđđ đđš đđđđ đ°đąđđĄ đđĄđ đŻđąđ đąđ„đđ§đđ. đđ đŠđđđ đđ«đąđđ đđČđ đđšđ§đđđđ đđđđšđ«đ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đđšđ°đ§ đđĄđ đĄđđ„đ„đ°đđČ đđšđ„đ„đšđ°đąđ§đ đđĄđ đŹđđ«đđđŠđŹ đđšđŠđąđ§đ đđ«đšđŠ đđĄđ đ„đšđ°đđ« đ„đđŻđđ„đŹ. đđĄđđ đŠđšđŠđđ§đ đąđŹ đ°đĄđđ đŠđđđ đČđšđź đąđ§đđđđźđđđđ đ°đąđđĄ đĄđąđŠ, đđ đđąđ«đŹđ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đŹđ€đđ©đđąđđđ„ đšđ đđĄđąđŹ đ©đ«đđŹđđ§đđ đąđ§ đđĄđ đđąđđČ. đđš đČđšđź, đ đ đ«đšđ°đ§ đŠđđ§ đąđ§ đ đđšđŹđđźđŠđ đ°đĄđš đ§đšđđšđđČ đ«đđđ„đ„đČ đ€đ§đđ° đđ§đČđđĄđąđ§đ đđđšđźđ đŹđšđźđ§đđđ đŹđźđŹđ©đąđđąđšđźđŹ đđ§đ đđšđ«đđđ«đ„đąđ§đ đđđ«đ«đąđđČđąđ§đ .
đđŹ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đźđ§đ©đđđ€đąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đđĄđąđ§đ đŹ, đČđšđź đ«đđđ„đąđłđđ đđĄđđ đČđšđź đĄđđ đđđđąđđđ§đđđ„đ„đČ đ©đđđ€đđ đšđ§đ đšđ đđ«đźđđđŹ đŹđĄđąđ«đđŹ, đđ§ đšđŻđđ«đŹđąđłđđ đ«đđđđČ đđ„đđđ€ đ-đŹđĄđąđ«đ đĄđ'đ đ°đšđ«đ§ đđšđ« đđĄđ«đđ đđđČđŹ đŹđđ«đđąđ đĄđ. đđ đ°đđŹ đšđ§đ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đđđŻđšđ«đąđđđŹ, đđđđđ« đ đ„đšđ§đ đ§đąđ đĄđ đČđšđź'đ đđĄđ«đšđ° đąđ đšđ§ đđđ€đąđ§đ đąđ§ đđ«đźđđđŹ đđšđŠđđšđ«đđąđ§đ đŹđđđ§đ.
đđšđź đĄđđ đŹđ„đąđ©đ©đđ đąđ§đđš đČđšđźđ« đđđ, đ§đšđđąđđąđ§đ đąđ đđđ„đ đđŠđ©đđČ, đČđšđź đ°đđ«đđ§'đ đđ§đđąđ«đđ„đČ đźđŹđđ đđš đŹđ„đđđ©đąđ§đ đąđ§ đđ§ đđŠđ©đđČ đđđ. đđđđđ§ đđ«đźđđ đ°đšđźđ„đđ§'đ đđšđŠđ đđš đđđ đŹđđđČđąđ§đ đźđ© đđ„đ„ đ§đąđ đĄđ đšđ§ đ©đđđ«đšđ„ đšđ« đąđ§ đđĄđ đđđđđđŻđ đđšđđźđŠđđ§đđąđ§đ đđ§đ đ«đđŻđąđđ°đąđ§đ đđšđšđđđ đ. đđ đ°đđŹ đŠđšđ«đ đĄđąđŹ đđđ đČđšđź đŠđąđŹđŹđđ, đđŻđđ§ đđĄđšđźđ đĄ đĄđ đ°đđŹđ§'đ đ©đĄđČđŹđąđđđ„đ„đČ đđĄđđ«đ đĄđąđŹ đŹđđ§đŹđ đ„đąđ§đ đđ«đđ đšđ§ đĄđąđŹ đđ„đđđ€ đŹđĄđđđđŹ đđĄđđ đ°đđ«đ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đČđšđź. đđ đđąđđ§'đ đđđ€đ đ„đšđ§đ đđšđ« đČđšđź đđš đŹđĄđđ€đ đđĄđđ đđđđ„đąđ§đ đšđ đ đđđđąđ§đ đđšđŠđđšđ«đđđđ„đ đđ«đąđđđąđ§đ đšđđ đđš đŹđ„đđđ©.
*đđđ đđđđđđ đđđđđ*
đđĄđđ đŠđšđ«đ§đąđ§đ đČđšđź đ°đšđ€đ đźđ©, đđĄđ đ«đđđ„đąđđČ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đŹđąđđźđđđąđšđ§ đĄđđ đŹđźđ§đ€ đąđ§, đđĄđđ đČđšđź đđ§đ đđ«đźđđ đ°đđ«đ đšđđđąđđąđđ„đ„đČ đđšđ§đ, đđ§đ đđĄđđ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđđđ€ đđš đ„đąđŻđąđ§đ đąđ§ đ đŹđđźđđąđš đđ©đđ«đđŠđđ§đ đąđ§ đđĄđ đŹđ„đźđŠđŹ đšđ đđšđđĄđđŠ đđąđđČ. đđšđź đđšđźđ„đđ§'đ đĄđđ„đ© đđźđ đŠđąđŹđŹ đđ«đźđđ đđŹ đČđšđź đ đšđ đ«đđđđČ đđšđ« đ°đšđ«đ€, đĄđ'đ đđ„đ°đđČđŹ đŠđźđŠđđ„đ đđšđŠđ©đ„đąđŠđđ§đđŹ đąđ§ đČđšđźđ« đđđ« đđŹ đĄđ đ°đđđđĄđđ đČđšđź đ đđ đČđšđźđ«đŹđđ„đ đđšđ đđđĄđđ« đđšđ« đđĄđ đđđČ.
đđĄđąđŹ đđąđŠđ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đ đđđđąđ§đ đ«đđđđČ đđČ đČđšđźđ«đŹđđ„đ, đ°đąđđĄ đ§đš đšđ§đ đđ«đšđźđ§đ. đđšđź đĄđđ đđđ€đđ§ đźđ© đ đđšđźđđ„đ đŹđĄđąđđ đđĄđđ đđđČ đđš đ đđ đŹđšđŠđ đđ±đđ«đ đŠđšđ§đđČ đđšđ đđđĄđđ«, đČđšđź đđąđđ§'đ đĄđđđ đČđšđźđ« đŁđšđ đđźđ đ°đšđ«đ€đąđ§đ đđ đ đđšđđđ đ đąđ§ đđšđđĄđđŠ đ°đđŹđ§'đ đđ±đđđđ„đČ đđĄđ đđ«đđđŠ. đđšđź đđšđ§đŹđđđ§đđ„đČ đĄđđ đđš đđđđ„ đ°đąđđĄ đđ«đđłđČ đ©đđšđ©đ„đ đđšđŠđąđ§đ đąđ§ đđšđđĄđđ«đąđ§đ đđźđŹđđšđŠđđ«đŹ đđ§đ đđ«đČđąđ§đ đđš đ«đšđ đđĄđ đ©đ„đđđ. đđĄđąđđĄ đ°đđŹ đšđ§đ đšđ đđĄđ đŠđđ§đČ đ«đđđŹđšđ§đŹ đđ«đźđđ đđšđ§đŹđđđ§đđ„đČ đđ«đąđđ đđš đ đđ đČđšđź đđš đȘđźđąđ đđ§đ đŁđźđŹđ đđđ©đđ§đ đšđ đĄđąđŠ.
đđĄđđ§ đČđšđź đĄđđ đđ«đ«đąđŻđđ đđ đ°đšđ«đ€ đČđšđź đ„đđ đšđźđ đ đŹđąđ đĄ đšđ đ«đđ„đąđđ đšđ§đđ đČđšđź đŹđđ° đČđšđźđ« đđđŻđšđ«đąđđ đđš-đ°đšđ«đ€đđ« đđđĄđąđ§đ đđĄđ đđšđźđ§đđđ«, đđąđ đŹđĄđ đ°đđŹ đšđ§đ đšđ đđĄđ đđźđ§đ§đąđđŹđ đ©đđšđ©đ„đ đČđšđź đĄđđ đđŻđđ« đŠđđ đ§đđŻđđ« đđđąđ„đąđ§đ đđš đđ«đąđ đĄđđđ§ đźđ© đđĄđ đ°đšđ«đ€đ©đ„đđđ.
"đđđČ, đ đąđ«ïżœïżœ," đđąđ đŹđŠđąđ„đđ đđ đČđšđź đ đąđŻđąđ§đ đČđšđź đ đŹđŠđđ„đ„ đšđ§đ-đđ«đŠđđ đĄđźđ .
"đđđČđČ," đČđšđź đŹđđąđ đĄđźđ đ đąđ§đ đĄđđ« đđđđ€, "đ°đ đĄđđŻđ đ đ„đšđ đđš đđđđđĄ đźđ© đšđ§" đČđšđź đđ«đđđđĄđđ đšđźđ đđ§đ đđ„đšđđ€đđ đąđ§.
*đđđđ đđđđ*
"đ°đđąđ đŹđš đČđšđź đŁđźđŹđ đ°đđ„đ€đđ đšđźđ?" đđąđ đ°đĄđąđŹđ©đđ« đŹđđ«đđđŠđđ, đ°đąđđĄ đĄđđ« đđČđđŹ đ°đąđđ đšđ©đđ§.
"đČđđđĄ đ©đ«đđđđČ đŠđźđđĄ" đđšđź đŹđĄđ«đźđ đ đđ đŹđ„đąđ đĄđđ„đČ đŹđđ«đđąđ§đąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đŻđšđąđđ,
" đ đąđ«đ„, đČđšđź'đ«đ đđđđđđ« đđĄđđ§ đŠđ, đđđźđŹđ đ đ°đšđźđ„đ'đŻđ đŹđđđČđđ" đđĄđ đ„đđźđ đĄđđ đ„đđđ§đąđ§đ đđđđ€ đąđ§đđš đĄđđ« đđĄđđąđ«
"đČđđđĄ, đąđ'đŹ đđđŹđČ đđš đŹđđČ đđĄđđ đ°đĄđđ§ đČđšđź đđšđ§'đ đĄđđŻđ đđš đ©đźđ đźđ© đ°đąđđĄ đąđ" đČđšđź đŹđąđ đĄđđ đđĄđ«đšđ°đąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđđ đđđđ€ đđ đđąđ§đŹđ đđĄđ đŹđĄđđ„đ đđđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđź.
đđźđŹđ đđŹ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđđšđźđ đđš đ đš đąđ§đđš đ đ«đđ§đ đđđšđźđ đđĄđ đđĄđąđ§đ đŹ đČđšđź đ©đźđ đźđ© đ°đąđđĄ, đąđ§ ïżœïżœđšđźđ« đ«đđ„đđđąđšđ§đŹđĄđąđ©, đČđšđź đȘđźđąđđ€đ„đČ đŹđĄđźđ đČđšđźđ« đŠđšđźđđĄ đđ đđĄđ đŹđąđđ đšđ đšđ§đ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đđš-đ°đšđ«đ€đđ«đŹ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đąđ§, đđ«đąđđ§. đđ đ°đđŹ đđ„đđđ« đđĄđđ đđ«đąđđ§ đĄđđ đđđ„đ đŹđšđŠđ đŹđšđ«đ đšđ đđđđ«đđđđąđšđ§ đđš đČđšđź, đđ„đ°đđČđŹ đ„đąđ§đ đđ«đąđ§đ đ§đđđ« đČđšđź, đđđŻđđŹđđ«đšđ©đ©đąđ§đ đšđ§ đČđšđźđ« đ©đ«đąđŻđđđ đđšđ§đŻđđ«đŹđđđąđšđ§, đđ§đ đ°đšđ«đŹđ đšđ đđ„đ„ đĄđąđŹ đŹđĄđđŠđđ„đđŹđŹ đđ„đąđ«đđąđ§đ .
đđ'đŹ đ„đąđ€đ đđĄđąđŹ đ đźđČ đđšđźđ„đđ§'đ đŁđźđŹđ đ„đđđŻđ đČđšđź đđ„đšđ§đ, đđŻđđ§ đ°đĄđđ§ đČđšđź đŠđđđ đąđ đđ„đđđ« đđš đĄđąđŠ đđĄđđ đČđšđź đđĄđđ§ đĄđđ đ đđšđČđđ«đąđđ§đ. đđĄđ đ„đđŹđ đđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđź đ°đđ§đđđ đ°đđŹ đđšđ« đĄđąđŠ đđš đĄđđđ« đđĄđđ đČđšđź đđ§đ đđ«đźđđ đđ«đšđ€đ đźđ© đđ§đ đđĄđąđ§đ€ đĄđ'đŹ ïżœïżœđąđ§đđ„đ„đČ đ đšđ đ đđĄđđ§đđ đ°đąđđĄ đČđšđź.
"đđđČ đ đźđČđŹ, đ°đĄđČ đŹđš đȘđźđąđđ" đđ«đąđđ§ đȘđźđąđ©đ©đđ đŹđđđ§đđąđ§đ đ đ„đąđđđ„đ đđšđš đđ„đšđŹđ đđš đČđšđź, "đđšđź đđ°đš đźđŹđźđđ„đ„đČ đĄđđ đ đđđŹđ đšđ đđĄđ đŁđđđđđ« đŁđđ°đŹ" đđ đ„đđźđ đĄđđ đ§đźđđ đąđ§đ đđšđ« đČđšđźđ« đŹđąđđ đ đđąđ. đđ«đąđđ§ đ°đđŹ đšđ§đ đšđ đđĄđšđŹđ đ©đđšđ©đ„đ đ°đĄđš đ°đđ«đ đđšđ§đŻđąđ§đđđ đđĄđđČ đ°đđ«đ đ "đ©đđ«đŹđšđ§đđ„đąđđČ đĄđąđ«đ" đŹđšđŠđđšđ§đ đđš đ€đđđ© đđĄđ đ©đ„đđđ đđ„đąđŻđ đ°đąđđĄ đĄđźđŠđšđ«. đđĄđ đšđ§đ„đČ đąđŹđŹđźđ đ°đđŹ, đđĄđ đđđđ đđĄđđ đđ«đąđđ§ đ°đđŹ đ§đšđ đđźđ§đ§đČ đđ đđ„đ„, đđĄđ đŠđđ§ đđąđđ§'đ đĄđđŻđ đđ§ đšđźđ§đđ đšđ đđšđŠđđđąđ đđŹđ©đđđđŹ đąđ§ đĄđąđŹ đđšđđČ đšđ« đŹđšđźđ„.
"đđ§đ đČđšđź đĄđđŻđ đ đđđŹđ đšđ đ„đđđ€ đšđ đŹđđ„đ-đđ°đđ«đđ§đđŹđŹ," đđąđ đŹđ§đąđđ€đđ«đđ, đđđ«đ§đąđ§đ đ đ„đđźđ đĄ đđ«đšđŠ đđ«đąđđ§. "đđđđĄ, đ đ°đđŹđ§'đ đŁđšđ€đąđ§đ ," đŹđĄđ đȘđźđąđđđ„đČ đŠđźđđđđ«đđ đźđ§đđđ« đĄđđ« đđ«đđđđĄ.
"đđđ„đ„, đ„đšđšđ€đŹ đ„đąđ€đ đđĄđąđŹ đąđŹ đđĄđ đđ§đ đšđ đŠđČ đŹđĄđąđđ" đđšđź đŹđĄđ«đźđ đ đđ, đđđđ„đąđ§đ đđđ đđšđ« đ„đđđŻđąđ§đ đđąđ đ°đąđđĄ đđ«đąđđ§.
"đđđČ đĄđšđ° đđđšđźđ đ đ°đđ„đ€ đČđšđź đđš đČđšđźđ« đ©đ„đđđ" đđ«đąđđ§ đšđđđđ«đđ, đ©đ„đđđąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđ§đ đšđ§ đČđšđźđ« đŹđĄđšđźđ„đđđ«.
"đđđĄ, đ'đŠ đđąđ§đ, đđ§đ đđąđđ§'đ đČđšđź đŁđźđŹđ đđ„đšđđ€ đąđ§?" đđšđź đđŹđ€đđ đĄđąđŠ, đđĄđ đąđđđ đšđ đđ«đąđđ§ đ€đ§đšđ°đąđ§đ đ°đĄđđ«đ đČđšđź đ„đąđŻđ đŠđđđ đČđšđź đ đđ§đźđąđ§đđ„đČ đ©đźđ đšđđ.
"đđĄ đđšđŠđ đšđ§, đ đ©đ«đđđđČ đ đąđ«đ„ đ„đąđ€đ đČđšđź đ§đđđđŹ đ đ đźđČ đđš đ©đ«đšđđđđ đĄđđ« đąđ§ đđĄđ đŹđđ«đđđđŹ" đđ đ©đ«đšđ©đšđŹđđ. đđŹđąđđ đđ«đšđŠ đđĄđ "đŠđđ§" đ©đđ«đ đĄđ, đąđ đ°đđŹđ§'đ đđ±đđđđ„đČ đ°đąđŹđ đđš đ°đđ„đ€ đđĄđ đŹđđ«đđđđŹ đšđ đđšđđĄđđŠ đđ đ§đąđ đĄđ đđ„đšđ§đ. đđźđ đŹđšđŠđđđĄđąđ§đ đđđšđźđ đđ«đąđđ§ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đČđšđź đĄđšđŠđ, đĄđšđ„đđąđ§đ đČđšđź đŻđđ«đđđ„đ„đČ đĄđšđŹđđđ đ đŠđđđ đ đ°đđ„đ€ đđ„đšđ§đ đŹđšđźđ§đ đ§đšđ đŹđš đđđ. đđšđź đ°đđ„đ€đđ đšđźđđŹđąđđ đđĄđ đŹđđšđ«đ, đ„đšđšđ€đąđ§đ đźđ© đđ đđĄđ đŹđ€đČ đšđ§đ„đČ đđš đ§đšđđąđđ đĄđąđŹ đŹđąđ đ§đđ„ đ°đđŹ đ§đšđ đźđ©. đđĄđ đđđ-đŹđĄđđ©đđ đŹđąđ đ§đđ„ đđĄđđ đđ«đšđźđ đĄđ đČđšđź đđšđŠđđšđ«đ đđŻđđ«đČ đđąđŠđ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđ„đšđ§đ đđ đ§đąđ đĄđ.
"đđ§ đŹđđđšđ§đ đđĄđšđźđ đĄđ, đ đ°đđ„đ€ đđšđ đđđĄđđ« đđšđđŹđ§'đ đŹđšđźđ§đ đđšđš đđđ" đđšđź đ„đđđ§đđ đđđđ€ đąđ§đđš đđĄđ đŹđđšđ«đ. đđšđź đđšđźđ„đ đŹđđ đđĄđ đđđŹđšđ„đźđđ đŹđĄđšđđ€ đšđ§ đđąđđŹ đđđđ đđ đČđšđźđ« đđĄđšđąđđ đđš đ°đąđ„đ„đąđ§đ đ„đČ đđ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đđ«đąđđ§ đđšđ« đđ«đđ. đđ đđđ đđ«đ„đČ đŹđ©đđ đđ§đ đ°đđ„đ€đđ đšđŻđđ« đđš đČđšđź đĄđšđ„đđąđ§đ đđĄđ đđšđšđ« ïżœïżœđ©đđ§ đđšđ« đČđšđź.
"đ°đĄđđ đŠđđđ đČđšđź đđĄđđ§đ đ đČđšđźđ« đŠđąđ§đ" đđ đ„đšđšđ€đđ đšđŻđđ« đđš đČđšđź đđŹ đČđšđź đđšđđĄ đđđ đđ§ đđš đ°đđ„đ€ đđšđ°đ§ đđĄđ đŹđđ«đđđ đđšđ°đđ«đđŹ đČđšđźđ« đđ©đđ«đđŠđđ§đ.
"đ đđšđ§'đ đ€đ§đšđ°, đŁđźđŹđ đ đ°đđąđ«đ đđđđ„đąđ§đ đđđšđźđ đđĄđąđŹ đ§đąđ đĄđ," đđšđź đŹđĄđ«đźđ đ đđ đ„đšđšđ€đąđ§đ đđĄđ đšđ©đ©đšđŹđąđđ đ°đđČ. đđ§ đ đđ«đąđđ đŠđšđŠđđ§đ đšđ đŹđąđ„đđ§đđ, đČđšđź đđšđźđ„đ đŹđđ đđĄđ đŹđ€đČ đ„đąđ đĄđ đźđ© đ đđąđ, đČđšđź đ©đšđąđ§đđđ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđđ đźđ© đđ đđĄđ đŹđ€đČ, đđ§đ đđĄđđ«đ đąđ đ°đđŹ, đđĄđ đđđ đŹđąđ đ§đđ„, đđĄđ đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ đđš đđ„đ„ đđĄđ đđ«đąđŠđąđ§đđ„đŹ đšđźđ đđĄđđ«đ đđĄđđ đđĄđ đđđ«đ€ đ€đ§đąđ đĄđ đ°đđŹ đđ«đšđźđ§đ.
"đđđ„đ„ đđĄđđ'đŹ đ đ«đđ„đąđđ" đđšđź đđ«đđđđĄđđ đšđźđ, đ„đđđđąđ§đ đ đš đšđ đŹđšđŠđ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đ©đ«đąđšđ« đđ§đ±đąđđđąđđŹ.
"đđĄđđ đđš đČđšđź đŠđđđ§" đđ«đąđđ§ đŹđđąđ đŹđ„đšđ°đąđ§đ đđšđ°đ§ đĄđąđŹ đ©đđđ, đ đŹđđšđ°đ„ đŹđ„đąđ đĄđđąđ§đ đđšđ«đŠđąđ§đ đšđ§ đĄđąđŹ đđđđ.
"đđđ„đ„, đđĄđđ đŹđąđ đ§đđ„ đŠđđđ§đŹ đđĄđ đđđđŠđđ§ đąđŹ đđđšđšđ" đđšđź đđđŹđźđđ„đ„đČ đ„đđźđ đĄđđ, đ§đšđ đźđ§đđđ«đŹđđđ§đđąđ§đ đđĄđđ đđ«đąđđ§ đ°đđŹ đšđđđđ§đđđ đđČ đČđšđźđ« đ«đđ„đąđđ đđšđŠđŠđđ§đ.
"đđš đ°đĄđđ đđŠ đ, đđĄđšđ©đ©đđ đ„đąđŻđđ«? đ'đŠ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đČđšđź đĄđšđŠđ đđš đŠđđ€đ đŹđźđ«đ đČđšđź'đ«đ đŹđđđ, đ đđšđ§'đ đŹđđ đđĄđ đđđđŠđđ§ đđšđąđ§đ đđĄđđ" đđ đŹđđšđđđđ, đđ„đđđ«đ„đČ đ đđđđąđ§đ đŠđšđ«đ đđ§đ đŠđšđ«đ đ°đšđ«đ€đđ đźđ© đšđŻđđ« đČđšđźđ« đđšđŠđŠđđ§đ.
"đđ«đąđđ§, đđĄđđ'đŹ đ§đšđ đ°đĄđđ đ đŠđđđ§đ, đąđ'đŹ đŁđźđŹđ đđĄđđ đąđ'đŹ đ§đąđđ đđš đ€đ§đšđ° đŹđšđŠđđšđ§đ đąđŹ đ„đšđšđ€đąđ§đ đšđźđ đđšđ« đđĄđ đđąđđČ đ«đąđ đĄđ đ§đšđ°" đđšđź đ«đđđŹđšđ§đđ, đČđšđź đ€đ§đđ° đđ«đąđđ§ đ°đđŹ đ đ°đđąđ«đ/đđ§đ§đšđČđąđ§đ đ đźđČ đđźđ đąđ đŹđđđŠđđ đđ„đŠđšđŹđ đšđźđ đšđ đđĄđđ«đđđđđ« đđšđ« đĄđąđŠ đđš đ đđ đŠđđ, đšđŻđđ« đ©đ«đđđđąđđđ„đ„đČ đ§đšđđĄđąđ§đ .
"đđšđ° đŠđźđđĄ đđš đČđšđź đ°đđ§đ§đ đđđ đąđ đŹđšđŠđđđĄđąđ§đ đĄđđ©đ©đđ§đđ đđš đČđšđź đ«đąđ đĄđ đ§đšđ°, đĄđ đ°đšđźđ„đđ§'đ đđ đĄđđ«đ đđš đĄđđ„đ© đČđšđź," đđ đŹđđąđ, đđ§đ đ«đąđ„đČ đŹđĄđšđŻđąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđ§đđŹ đąđ§đđš đĄđąđŹ đ©đšđđ€đđđŹ.
"đđ€âŠ đ°đĄđđ đđš đČđšđź đŠđđđ§ đđČ đđĄđđ?" đđšđź đ§đđ«đ«đšđ°đđ đČđšđźđ« đđČđđŹ, đđ«đšđŹđŹđąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đđ«đŠđŹ đšđŻđđ« đČđšđźđ« đđĄđđŹđ.
"đ đŠđđđ§ đČđšđź đĄđđŻđ đđĄđąđŹ đđ„đąđ§đ đđđąđđĄ đąđ§ đŹđšđŠđ đ đźđČ đČđšđź'đŻđ đ§đđŻđđ« đŠđđ, đĄđđ„đ„, đ§đš đšđ§đ đ€đ§đšđ°đŹ đ°đĄđš đĄđ đđŻđđ§ đąđŹ" đđ«đąđđ§ đ«đšđ„đ„đđ đĄđąđŹ đđČđđŹ.
"đđ'đŹ đ§đšđ đđĄđ đŠđđ§ đĄđąđŠđŹđđ„đ, đąđ'đŹ đ°đĄđđ đĄđ đ«đđ©đ«đđŹđđ§đđŹ, đ°đĄđđ đđšđđĄđđŠ đđđ§ đđ, đĄđ'đŹ đ đŹđČđŠđđšđ„ đšđ đĄđšđ©đ đđ§đ đŁđźđŹđđąđđ," đđšđź đđđđđ§đđđ, đ đ«đšđ°đąđ§đ đŠđšđ«đ đąđ«đ«đąđđđđđ. "đ'đ€đ§đšđ° đ°đĄđđ đđĄđđ§đ€đŹ đđšđ« đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đŠđ đđĄđąđŹ đđđ« đđźđ đ'đ đŠđźđđĄ đ«đđđĄđđ« đ°đđ„đ€ đđĄđ đ«đđŹđ đšđ đđĄđ đ°đđČ đđČ đŠđČđŹđđ„đ" đđšđź đđ«đđđđĄđđ đšđźđ đđ«đČđąđ§đ đđš đđđđźđŹđ đđĄđ đŹđąđđźđđđąđšđ§ đđđđšđ«đ đąđ đ đšđ đđšđš đĄđđđđđ.
"đđ«đ đČđšđź đ€đąđđđąđ§đ đŠđ?" đđ đŹđđąđ đŹđđđ©đ©đąđ§đ đąđ§ đđ«đšđ§đ đšđ đČđšđź, đąđ§ đđ§ đšđđđ„đČ đđđ„đŠ đŻđšđąđđ. "đđš đČđšïżœïżœïżœïżœ đŁđźđŹđ đ°đđ§đđđ đđš đ°đđŹđđ đŠđČ đđąđŠđ?" đđ đđ«đ đźđđ.
"đ đđšđ§'đ đ€đ§đšđ° đ°đĄđđ đČđšđź'đ«đ đđđ„đ€đąđ§đ đđđšđźđ" đđšđź đĄđźđđđđ đđđđđŠđ©đđąđ§đ đđš đ°đđ„đ€ đ©đđŹđ đĄđąđŠ.
"đ'đŠ đŹđđČđąđ§đ đđĄđđ đČđšđź đŁđźđŹđ đ„đđ đŠđ đšđ§, đ đŹđđČ đšđ§đ đđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđź đđšđ§'đ đđ đ«đđ đ°đąđđĄ đđ§đ đ§đšđ° đČđšđź đ°đđ§đ đđš đŁđźđŹđ đïżœïżœđ„đ„ đŠđ đđš đ©đąđŹđŹ đšđđ?" đđ đŹđ©đđ đŹđđđ©đ©đąđ§đ đąđ§ đđ«đšđ§đ đšđ đČđšđź đšđ§đđ đđ đđąđ§. đđšđ° đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đ đđđđąđ§đ đ©đąđŹđŹđđ, đČđšđź đđĄđšđźđ đĄđ đ§đš đšđ§đ đ€đ§đđ° đĄđšđ° đđš đ©đ«đđŹđŹ đđĄđ đ°đđČ đđ«đźđđ đđąđ đđźđ đđźđ«đ§đŹ đšđźđ đđ«đąđđ§ đ°đđŹ đšđ§ đ đ°đĄđšđ„đ đšđđĄđđ« đ„đđŻđđ„ đšđ đđ đ đ«đđŻđđđąđ§đ .
"đđđ đČđšđź đšđ§? đđšđź đšđđđđ«đđ đđš đ°đđ„đ€ đŠđ đĄđšđŠđ đđ°đąđđ đąđ§ đ đ«đšđ°, đđ§đ đ đđđđđ©đđđ, đ°đĄđđ đąđ§ đČđšđźđ« đđąđ§đČ đŠđąđ§đ đŠđđđ đČđšđź đ°đđ§đ đđš đđĄđąđ§đ€ đ đ°đđ§đđđ đđ§đČđđĄđąđ§đ đđš đđš đ°đąđđĄ đČđšđź đ«đšđŠđđ§đđąđđđ„đ„đČ đšđ« đŹđđ±đźđđ„đ„đČ" đđšđź đŹđđąđ đ«đšđźđ đĄđ„đČ đ©đźđŹđĄđąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ đšđźđ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đ°đđČ.
"đ
đźđđ€ đČđšđź đ/đ§," đđ«đąđđ§ đČđđ„đ„đđ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đ©đđŹđ đČđšđź đđđđ€ đđš đđĄđ đŹđđšđ«đ.
đđąđŹ đąđŠđŠđđđźđ«đ đ„đđŹđ đ°đšđ«đđŹ, đŠđđđ đČđšđź đ„đđźđ đĄ đźđ§đđđ« đČđšđźđ« đđ«đđđđĄ đ đđąđ đđđđšđ«đ đČđšđź đŹđđđ«đđđ đđš đđšđ§đđąđ§đźđ đČđšđźđ« đ°đđ„đ€ đđšđ°đđ«đđŹ đČđšđźđ« đđ©đđ«đđŠđđ§đ.
đđĄđ đđźđ«đđĄđđ« đČđšđź đ°đđ„đ€đđ đđĄđ đŠđšđ«đ đ§đđ«đŻđšđźđŹ đČđšđź đ đšđ, đČđšđź đđšđźđ„đ đĄđđđ« đđđąđ§đ đŹđąđ«đđ§đŹ đąđ§ đđĄđ đđąđŹđđđ§đđ đŹđđ§đđąđ§đ đ đŹđĄđąđŻđđ« đđ«đšđŠ đČđšđźđ« đŹđ©đąđ§đ đđš đČđšđźđ« đ§đđđ€. đđšđź đ€đ§đđ° đđĄđđ«đ đ°đđŹ đ đđĄđđ§đđ đđ«đźđđ đ€đ§đđ° đ°đĄđđ«đ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđźđ đ§đšđ đđšđ« đŹđźđ«đ. đđšđźđ„đ'đŻđ đČđšđź đŠđđđ đĄđąđŠ đđĄđđ đŠđđ đđš đđĄđ đ©đšđąđ§đ đĄđ đ°đšđźđ„đđ§'đ đđđ«đ đąđ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đšđ§đ đĄđźđ§đđ«đđ đ©đđ«đđđ§đ đŹđđđ đđĄđ đ°đđČ đĄđ đđąđ đ°đĄđđ§ đđĄđ đđ°đš đšđ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđšđ đđđĄđđ«?
đđšđźđ« đđ«đđąđ§ đšđ đđĄđšđźđ đĄđ đŹđđšđ©đ©đđ đ°đĄđđ§ đČđšđź đĄđđ đđĄđ đźđ«đ đ đđš đ„đšđšđ€ đđđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđź, đšđ§đđ đČđšđź đđąđ đČđšđź đđšđźđ„đ đŹđđ đ đŠđđ§ đ đđšđźđ©đ„đ đšđ đŠđđđđ«đŹ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đđđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđź.
"đđđČđđ đĄđ'đŹ đŁđźđŹđ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đđš đĄđąđŹ đ©đ„đđđ đđšđš," đđšđź đđĄđšđźđ đĄđ đđ«đČđąđ§đ đđš đđđ„đŠ đČđšđźđ«đŹđđ„đ đđšđ°đ§. đđŹ đČđšđź đ€đđ©đ đ°đ«đąđđąđ§đ đČđšđź đ°đđ§đđđ đ§đšđđĄđąđ§đ đŠđšđ«đ đđĄđđ§ đđš đŁđźđŹđ đđđ„đ„ đđ«đźđđ, đđŻđđ§ đđĄđšđźđ đĄ đĄđ đ©đ«đšđđđđ„đČ đ°đšđźđ„đđ§'đ đđ§đŹđ°đđ«.
đđźđŹđ đđŹ đČđšđź đ°đđ«đ đđđšđźđ đđš đđĄđđđ€ đšđ§ đđĄđ đŠđđ§ đđđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđź đđšđ« đđĄđ đŹđđđšđ§đ đđąđŠđ, đĄđ đ°đđŹ đŠđźđđĄ đđ„đšđŹđđ« đđš đČđšđź, đŠđđČđđ đšđ§đ„đČ đđđšđźđ đ đđšđšđ đđ°đđČ. đđ đĄđđ đ°đĄđąđđ đđđđ đ©đđąđ§đ đšđ§ đ°đąđđĄ đđ„đđđ€ đŹđŠđźđđ đđ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đđČđđŹ đđ§đ đđ§đ đŠđšđźđđĄ.
"đđĄđđ đđš đČđšđź đĄđđŻđ đšđ§ đČđšđź" đđ đŹđđąđ đđĄđ«đđđđđ§đąđ§đ đ„đČ đ đđđđąđ§đ đđ„đšđŹđđ«, đČđšđź đ„đšđšđ€đđ đđ đČđšđźđ« đŹđźđ«đ«đšđźđ§đđąđ§đ đŹ đđ«đČđąđ§đ đđš đŹđđ đąđ đđĄđđ«đ đ°đđŹ đđ§đČđšđ§đ đđ«đšđźđ§đ, đđźđ đđĄđđ«đ đ°đđŹ đ§đš đšđ§đ.
"đđ„đđđŹđ đđšđ§'đ" đđšđź đŹđšđđđ„đČ đ©đ„đđđđđ.
"đđđđČ, đ đŹđđąđ đ°đĄđđ đđš đČđšđź đĄđđŻđ đšđ§ đČđšđź" đđĄđ đŠđđ§ đŹđđąđ đđ đđąđ§ đđĄđąđŹ đđąđŠđ đ„đšđźđđđ«. đđšđź đ«đđđđĄđđ đąđ§đđš đČđšđźđ« đ©đšđđ€đđđŹ đđąđ đ đąđ§đ đđš đđąđ§đ đąđ đČđšđź đĄđđ đđ§đČđđĄđąđ§đ đŻđđ„đźđđđ„đ đšđ§ đČđšđź. đđ đđĄđđ đŠđšđŠđđ§đ đČđšđź đ«đđŠđđŠđđđ«đđ đđĄđ đŠđđđ đđ«đźđđ đ đđŻđ đČđšđź đŠđšđ§đđĄđŹ đđ đš, đĄđ đąđ§đŹđąđŹđđđ đšđ§ đČđšđź đđđ«đ«đČđąđ§đ đąđ đ°đąđđĄ đČđšđź đđ đđ„đ„ đđąđŠđđŹ.
đđšđź đȘđźđąđđ€đ„đČ đČđđ§đ€đđ đđĄđ đŠđđđ đšđźđ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đ©đšđđ€đđ đŹđ©đ«đđČđąđ§đ đąđ đđ„đ„ đšđŻđđ« đđĄđ đŠđđ§đŹ đđđđ, đŠđđ€đąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ đŹđđ«đđđŠ đąđ§ đđ đšđ§đČ. đđšđź đŹđĄđšđŻđđ đĄđąđŠ đđš đđĄđ đ đ«đšđźđ§đ đđ§đ đđđ đđ§ đđš đ«đźđ§ đđšđ°đ§ đđĄđ đŹđđ«đđđ ïżœïżœđšđ đ„đšđšđ€đąđ§đ đđđđ€. đđđđđ« đ đđšđźđ©đ„đ đšđ đŠđąđ§đźđđđŹ đđš đđ«đšđźđ đĄđ đČđšđźđ«đŹđđ„đ đđš đ đĄđđ„đ đđđđđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đđ«đđđđĄ. đđšđź đ°đđ„đ€đđ đđšđ« đ đ°đĄđąđ„đ đđđđšđ«đ đĄđđđ«đąđ§đ đđšđšđđŹđđđ©đŹ đđđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđź, đđĄđąđŹ đđąđŠđ đđđ€đąđ§đ đ§đš đđĄđđ§đđđŹ đČđšđź đđźđ«đ§đđ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đŹđ©đ«đđČđąđ§đ đđĄđ đŠđđđ đąđ§ đđĄđ đ©đđ«đŹđšđ§đŹ đđđđ. đđ đđšđšđ€ đČđšđź đđđšđźđ đđĄđ«đđ đŹđđđšđ§đđŹ đšđ đŹđ©đ«đđČđąđ§đ đđš đ«đđđ„đąđłđ đČđšđź đąđ đ°đđŹ, đąđ đ°đđŹ đđ«đźđđ.
"đđĄ đŠđČ đ đšđ," đđšđź đŹđđąđ đđ«đšđ©đ©đąđ§đ đđĄđ đđđ§ đđ§đ đđšđŻđđ«đąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đŠđšđźđđĄ đ°đąđđĄ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđ§đđŹ, đĄđ đ°đđŹ đ©đ«đđđđąđđđ„đ„đČ đšđ§ đĄđąđŹ đ€đ§đđđŹ đđđđđŠđ©đđąđ§đ đđš đđđ€đ đšđđ đĄđąđŹ đđšđ°đ„ đđ§đ đ«đźđ đĄđąđŹ ïżœïżœđČđđŹ.
"đđš, đ§đš đđĄđđ'đ„đ„ đŁđźđŹđ đŠđđ€đ đąđ đ°đšđ«đŹđ" đđšđź đČđđ„đ„đđ, đ«đđŹđđ«đđąđ§đąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđ§đđŹ đđ«đšđŠ đĄđąđŹ đđđđ. "đđšđŠđ đšđ§ đ„đđ đŠđ đĄđđ„đ© đČđšđź," đđšđź đŹđđąđ đĄđđ„đ©đąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ đŹđđđ§đ đźđ©, đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ đšđŻđđ« đđš đČđšđźđ« đđ©đđ«đđŠđđ§đ đ°đĄđąđđĄ đ°đđŹ đ§đšđ° đšđ§đ„đČ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đđĄđ«đđ đŠđąđ§đźđđđŹ đđ°đđČ. đđšđź đđđ„đ đŹđš đđđ đđšđ« đ°đĄđđ đČđšđź đđąđ đđźđ đđ đđĄđ đŹđđŠđ đđąđŠđ đ©đąđŹđŹđđ đđ đĄđąđŠ. đđĄđČ đąđ§ đđĄđ đĄđđ„đ„ đđąđ đĄđ đđĄđąđ§đ€ đąđ đ°đđŹ đ đ đšđšđ đąđđđ đđš đŹđ§đđđ€ đźđ© đđđĄđąđ§đ đČđšđź đ„đąđ€đ đđĄđđ?
đđšđź đȘđźđąđđ€đ„đČ đźđ§đ„đšđđ€đđ đČđšđźđ« đđšđšđ«, đ€đąđđ€đąđ§đ đąđ đšđ©đđ§ đ°đĄđąđ„đ đĄđđŻđąđ§đ đđ«đźđđđŹ đđ«đŠ đŹđ„đźđŠđ©đđ đšđŻđđ« đČđšđźđ« đŹđĄđšđźđ„đđđ«. đđšđź đ©đ„đđđđ đĄđąđŠ đšđ§ đČđšđźđ« đ«đđđđČ đŹđšđđ đ©đźđ„đ„đąđ§đ đšđđ đšđ đĄđąđŹ đđšđ°đ„, đĄđąđŹ đđ„đđđ€ đđČđđ„đąđ§đđ« đ«đźđ§đ§đąđ§đ đđšđ°đ§ đĄđąđŹ đđđđ. đđšđź đ«đđ§ đđš đČđšđźđ« đđ«đąđđ đ, đ đ«đđđđđ đČđšđźđ« đđđ«đđšđ§ đšđ đŠđąđ„đ€, đđ§đ đ đđ§đđ„đČ đđđ đđ§ đđš đ©đšđźđ« đąđ đđšđ°đ§ đĄđąđŹ đđđđ, đđđŹđąđ§đ đđĄđ đđźđ«đ§đąđ§đ đŹđđ§đŹđđđąđšđ§ đąđ§ đĄđąđŹ đđČđđŹ.
đđ đ đ«đšđđ§đđ đđ đđĄđ đđđđ„đąđ§đ đšđ đđĄđ đ©đđąđ§ đđđđąđ§đ đđ°đđČ, đ©đ„đđđąđ§đ đšđ§đ đšđ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđ§đđŹ đšđ§ đČđšđźđ« đ„đšđ°đđ« đđĄđąđ đĄ.
"đ'đŠ đŹđšđ«đ«đČ đđ«đźđđ đ đđąđđ§'đ đ€đ§đšđ° đąđ đ°đđŹ đČđšđź, đŹđšđŠđ đ đźđČ đĄđđ đŁđźđŹđ đđšđŠđ đźđ© đđš đđ«đČ đđš đ«đšđ đŠđ đđ§đ đ đ°đđŹ đ«đđđ„đ„đČ đ©đđ«đđ§đšđąđ đđđđđ« đ đ đšđ đąđ§đđš đ đđąđ đĄđ đ°đąđđĄ đŠđČ đđš-đ°đšđ«đ€đđ«" đđšđź đ«đđŠđđ„đđ đŠđđ€đąđ§đ đŹđźđ«đ đđĄđ đŠđąđ„đ€ đđšđŻđđ«đđ đđĄđ đšđ«đđ§đ đ đŠđđđ đšđ§ đĄđąđŹ đđđđ. "đđŹ đđĄđąđŹ đđđđđđ«?" đđšđź đđŹđ€đđ đ°đąđđĄ đ đđšđ§đđđ«đ§đđ đ„đšđšđ€.
"đđđąđ- đ°đđŹ đđĄđ đđš-đ°đšđ«đ€đđ« đđĄđđ đđ«đąđđ§ đ đźđČ" đđ«đźđđ đ đ«đšđđ§đđ đ„đđđ§đąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđđ đđđđ€ đąđ§ đ«đđ„đąđđ.
"đđšđđŹ đąđ đŠđđđđđ«?" đđšđź đđŹđ€đđ đȘđźđąđđ€đ„đČ đ đđđđąđ§đ đąđ«đ«đąđđđđđ đđ đđąđ§.
"đ đđšđ§'đ đ„đąđ€đ đđĄđ đ đźđČ" đđ đđ«đđđđĄđđ đšđźđ đđ«đČđąđ§đ đđš đ«đźđ đĄđąđŹ đđČđđŹ đđ đđąđ§.
"đđđšđ© đđĄđđ" đČđšđź đ đ«đźđŠđđ„đđ, đŹđĄđšđŻđąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđ§đ đđšđ°đ§, đđ°đđČ đđ«đšđŠ đĄđąđŹ đđđđ đđ đđąđ§. "đđđ„đ„ đŠđ đđšđđŹ đđĄđąđŹ đđđđ„ đđđđđđ«?" đđšđź đĄđźđđđđ đđ đĄđąđŹ đŹđđźđđđšđ«đ§đ§đđŹđŹ.
"đđđŹ, đđ«đ đČđšđź đšđ€?" đđ«đźđđ đđŹđ€đđ đŠđđ€đąđ§đ đđČđ đđšđ§đđđđ đ°đąđđĄ đČđšđź, đđŻđđ§ đđĄđšđźđ đĄ đĄđ đĄđđ đ đĄđđ«đŹđĄ đ«đđđ§đđŹđŹ đđšđŻđđ«đąđ§đ đđĄđ đ°đĄđąđđđŹ đšđ đĄđąđŹ đđČđđŹ, đĄđąđŹ đđšđ đ đČ đđ„đźđ-đ đ«đđđ§ đđČđđŹ đ°đđŹ đđ„đ„ đČđšđź đđšđźđ„đ đđšđđźđŹ đšđ§.
"đđđŹ đđ«đźđđ đ'đŠ đđąđ§đ, đ đźđŹđđ đđĄđđ đŠđđđ đČđšđź đ đđŻđ đŠđ" đđšđź đŹđšđđđ„đČ đ„đđźđ đĄđđ đđ«đźđŹđĄđąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđąđ« đšđźđ đšđ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđđ.
"đ đïżœïżœđ§ đđđ„đ„" đđ đŠđźđ«đŠđźđ«đđ đźđ§đđđ« đĄđąđŹ đđ«đđđđĄ.
"đđŠđŠ, đ°đĄđđ đ°đđŹ đđĄđđ" đđšđź đđČđđ đĄđąđŠ đ°đąđđĄ đđ§ đđČđđđ«đšđ° đ«đđąđŹđđ, đđŻđđ§ đđĄđšđźđ đĄ đŹđšđŠđđđąđŠđđŹ đđ«đźđđđŹ đŹđđŹđŹđąđ§đđŹđŹ đ©đąđŹđŹđđ đČđšđź đšđđ, đąđ đ°đđŹ đŹđš đđĄđđ«đŠđąđ§đ đđ đđąđŠđđŹ, đđ§đ đđ„đŠđšđŹđ đŹđ°đđđ. "đđšđź đŹđĄđšđźđ„đ'đŻđ đ€đ§đšđ°đ§ đđđđđđ« đđĄđđ§ đđš đŹđ§đđđ€ đšđ§ đŠđ đđ đ§đąđ đĄđ đ„đąđ€đ đđĄđđ" đđšđź đŹđąđ đĄđđ đ©đ„đđđąđ§đ đ đŹđšđđ đ€đąđŹđŹ đšđ§ đđĄđ đđšđ© đšđ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđđ.
đđ đĄđźđŠđŠđđ đąđ§ đ«đđŹđ©đšđ§đŹđ, đđ„đšđŹđąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đđČđđŹ đđ§đ đ„đđđđąđ§đ đšđźđ đ đđđđ© đŹđąđ đĄ. "đ đ§đđđ đđš đ đš đđđđ€ đšđźđ" đđ đŠđźđđđđ«đđ đŹđ„đšđ°đ„đČ đ đđđđąđ§đ đźđ© đđ§đ đ đ«đđđđąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đđšđ°đ„ đšđđ đšđ đđĄđ đđšđźđđĄ.
"đđš đČđšđź đđšđ§'đ," đđšđź đŹđĄđšđšđ€ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđđ đđ§đ đ„đąđ đĄđđ„đČ đ©đźđŹđĄđđ đĄđąđŠ đđđđ€ đđšđ°đ§ đđš đđĄđ đđšđźđđĄ.
"đ/đ§ đ©đ„đđđŹđ đđšđ§'đ" đđ«đźđđ đŹđđąđ đŹđąđđ đđČđđąđ§đ đČđšđź, đ§đšđ đąđ§ đđĄđ đđ§đ đ«đČ đšđ« đ«đźđđ đ°đđČ, đđźđ đąđ§ đ đđąđ«đđ đđ§đ đđ«đđąđ§đđ đ°đđČ.
"đđšđ§'đ đ°đĄđđ? đđđ«đ đđšđ« đČđšđź?" đđšđź đđŹđ€đđ, đđ«đąđ§đ€đ„đąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đđČđđđ«đšđ°đŹ, đČđšđź đđąđđ§'đ đ°đđ§đ đđš đđ«đ đźđ đ°đąđđĄ đĄđąđŠ, đČđšđź đ°đđ§đđđ đđš đźđ§đđđ«đŹđđđ§đ đĄđąđŠ. "đđ«đźđđ, đđ đđĄđ đđ§đ đšđ đđĄđ đđđČ đđđŹđ©đąđđ đ°đĄđđ'đŹ đĄđđ©đ©đđ§đđ đđđđ°đđđ§ đźđŹ, đ đ„đšđŻđ đČđšđź đđ§đ đ đ°đđ§đ đČđšđź đđš đđ đšđ€" đđšđź đŹđąđ đĄđđ đ©đ„đđđąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đđšđ«đđĄđđđ đđ đđąđ§đŹđ đĄđąđŹ đŹđĄđšđźđ„đđđ«.
"đđ„đđđŹđ, đŁđźđŹđ đ„đąđŹđđđ§ đđš đŠđ" đđšđź đŹđđąđ đąđ§đđš đĄđąđŹ đŹđĄđšđźđ„đđđ«, "đđšđźđ« đĄđźđ«đ đđ§đ đ đđšđ§'đ đđŻđđ§ đđĄđąđ§đ€ đČđšđź đđđ§ đđźđ„đ„đČ đŹđđ đ«đąđ đĄđ đ§đšđ°" đđšđź đŹđĄđ«đźđ đ đđ đ„đąđđđąđ§đ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđđ đđ«đšđŠ đĄđąđŹ đŹđĄđšđźđ„đđđ«.
"đ đđđ§'đ" đđ đđ±đĄđđ„đđ đ„đšđšđ€đąđ§đ đźđ© đđ đČđšđźđ« đđđąđ„đąđ§đ đđđ§.
"đđąđŹđđđ§ đđš đŠđ đšđ« đŹđđ?" đđšđź đ„đšđšđ€đđ đšđŻđđ« đđ đĄđąđŠ.
"đ
đźđ„đ„đČ đŹđđ" đđ đŹđĄđ«đźđ đ đđ, đŹđšđŠđđđąđŠđđŹ đąđ đ°đđŹ đĄđđ«đ đđš đđđ„đ„ đąđ đđ«đźđđ đ°đđŹ đđđąđ§đ đ„đąđđ«đđđ„ đšđ« đąđ đĄđ đ°đđŹ đŁđšđ€đąđ§đ . đđ đđąđ đĄđđŻđ đŹđđ§đŹđ đšđ đĄđźđŠđšđ« đđđŹđ©đąđđ đđĄđ đ°đđČ đĄđ đ©đ«đđŹđđ§đđđ đĄđąđŠđŹđđ„đ.
"đ đđĄđąđ§đ€ đąđ đđđ€đđŹ đ đđđ° đĄđšđźđ«đŹ đđš đđšđŠđ©đ„đđđđ„đČ đ°đđđ« đšđđ" đđšđź đ„đđźđ đĄđđ đđđ€đąđ§đ đđĄđ đđđ§ đšđ đŠđđđ đšđźđ đšđ đČđšđźđ« đ©đšđđ€đđ đđ§đ đ«đđđđąđ§đ đđĄđ đđđźđđąđšđ§ đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ đšđ§ đđĄđ đ°đ«đđ©đ©đđ«. "đđšđź đđđ§ đŹđđđČ đĄđđ«đ đđšđ§đąđ đĄđ, đđĄđ đđđđĄđ«đšđšđŠ đąđŹ đđšđ°đ§ đđĄđ đĄđđ„đ„ đđ§đ đđš đđĄđ đ„đđđ" đđšđź đŹđđąđ đ đđđđąđ§đ đźđ© đđ«đšđŠ đđĄđ đđšđźđđĄ, đđ§đ đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đđš đČđšđźđ« đđđđ«đšđšđŠ đ«đźđŠđđ đąđ§đ đđĄđ«đšđźđ đĄ đČđšđźđ« đđ«đđ°đđ«. đđšđź đ°đđ„đ€đđ đđđđ€ đąđ§đđš đđĄđ đ„đąđŻđąđ§đ đ«đšđšđŠ đ°đąđđĄ đđ«đźđđđŹ đšđ„đ đ đŹđĄđąđ«đ đąđ§ đČđšđźđ« đĄđđ§đđŹ đđšđŹđŹđąđ§đ đąđ đđš đĄđąđŠ.
"đ đđđđąđđđ§đđđ„đ„đČ đđšđšđ€ đđĄđąđŹ, đđźđ đđ đ„đđđŹđ đąđ đŠđđđ§đŹ đČđšđź đĄđđŻđ đŹđšđŠđđđĄđąđ§đ đđš, đđĄđđ§đ đ đąđ§đđš," đđšđź đŹđŠđąđ„đđ.
"đđĄđđ§đ€đŹ" đđ«đźđđ đŹđđąđ đȘđźđąđđđ„đČ, đ°đđ„đ€đąđ§đ đđš đđĄđ đ«đđŹđđ«đšđšđŠ đ°đąđđĄ đđĄđ đŹđĄđąđ«đ đąđ§ đĄđąđŹ đĄđđ§đ.
đđĄđąđ„đ đđ«đźđđ đ°đđŹ đąđ§ đČđšđźđ« đđđđĄđ«đšđšđŠ, đČđšđź đđĄđđ§đ đđ đąđ§đđš đČđšđźđ« đ©đđŁđđŠđđŹ, đđ§đ đ đšđ đąđ§đđš đČđšđźđ« đđđ đ°đđąđđąđ§đ đđšđ« đđ«đźđđ. đđšđź đĄđđđ«đ đđĄđ đđđđĄđ«đšđšđŠ đđšđšđ« đšđ©đđ§ đđźđ đŹđđąđ„đ„ đđąđđ§'đ đŹđđ đĄđąđŠ đ°đđ„đ€ đđĄđ«đšđźđ đĄ đČđšđźđ« đđšđšđ«. đđđđđ« đđ«đšđźđ§đ đđąđŻđ đŠđąđ§ïżœïżœđđđŹ đČđšđź đ đšđ đźđ© đđ«đšđŠ đČđšđźđ« đđđ, đ„đšđšđ€đąđ§đ đđšđ« đđ«đźđđ, đšđ§đ„đČ đđš đŹđđ đĄđąđŠ đŹđđ«đźđ§đđĄđđ đźđ© đšđ§ đČđšđźđ« đđšđźđđĄ.
"đđĄđđ đđ«đ đČđšđź đđšđąđ§đ ?" đđšđź đđźđ«đ«đšđ°đđ đČđšđźđ« đđČđđđ«đšđ°đŹ đ„đšđšđ€đąđ§đ đđ đđ«đźđđ.
"đđ«đČđąđ§đ đđš đŹđ„đđđ©" đđ đ°đĄđąđŹđ©đđ«đđ đđ„đšđŹđąđ§đ đĄđąđŹ đđČđđŹ, đąđ đ°đđŹ đđ„đŠđšđŹđ đŹđđ đŹđđđąđ§đ đđĄđ đđđ„đ„ đŠđđ§ đ„đđČ đšđ§ đČđšđźđ« đŹđŠđđ„đ„ đđšđźđđĄ đđĄđđ đĄđąđŹ đđšđđČ đđšđźđ„đ đđđ«đđ„đČ đđąđ đšđ§.
"đ'đŠđšđ§" đđšđź đ«đšđ„đ„đđ đČđšđźđ« đđČđđŹ, đČđđ§đ€đąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ đšđđ đšđ đđĄđ đđšđźđđĄ đđ§đ đ„đđđđąđ§đ đĄđąđŠ đđš đČđšđźđ« đđđđ«đšđšđŠ.
đđ§đđ đđĄđ đđ°đš đđšđ« đČđšđź đ đšđ đąđ§đđš đđĄđ đđđ, đČđšđź đđšđźđ„đ đđđđ„ đđ«đźđđ đ°đ«đđ© đĄđąđŹ đđ«đŠđŹ đđ«đšđźđ§đ đČđšđź, đŁđźđŹđ đđĄđ đ°đđČ đĄđ đźđŹđđ đđš.
"đ'đŠ đŹđšđ«đ«đČ" đđ đŠđźđŠđđ„đđ đąđ§đđš đČđšđźđ« đ§đđđ€, "đ'đ„đ„ đ§đđŻđđ« đđđąđ„ đČđšđź đđ đđąđ§" đĄđ đ«đźđđđđ đČđšđźđ« đđđđ€. đđ đ°đđŹđ§'đ đšđđđđ§ đđĄđđ đđ«đźđđ đđąđ«đđđđ„đČ đđ©đšđ„đšđ đąđłđđ, đĄđ đ°đšđźđ„đ đđČđ©đąđđđ„đ„đČ đđš đđĄđąđ§đ đŹ đ„đąđ€đ, đ„đąđ§đ đđ« đđ«đšđźđ§đ đČđšđź đđ§đ đ đąđŻđąđ§đ đČđšđź đŹđšđđ đđšđźđđĄđđŹ. đđ đ°đđŹ đ„đąđ€đ đČđšđź đđšđźđ„đ đđđđ„ đČđšđźđ« đđđđ€ đđšđ§đ đ đąđŻđ đšđźđ, đđ«đźđđ đđ„đ°đđČđŹ đ€đ§đđ° đĄđšđ° đđš đ đđ đČđšđź, đđĄđ đ°đđČ đČđšđź đ€đ§đđ° đĄđšđ° đđš đ đđ đĄđąđŠ.
đ„đđ đŠđ đ€đ§đšđ° đ°đĄđđ đČđšđź đđĄđąđ§đ€!
đđđđ, đđđ
đđđ
#dc fanfiction#dc comics#dc universe#dcu#fandom#fanfic#batman#batman x reader#batman fanfiction#batman x you#batman smut#bruce wayne#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne x you#bruce wayne x fem!reader#bruce wayne fanfiction#bruce wayne smut#smut#fluff#angst#the batman 2022#the batman#the batman x reader#battinson#battinson x reader#battinson fic#batman comics#battinson smut#robert pattinson batman#robert pattinson x reader
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Fateful Beginnings // Chapter Index
ONGOING!
read on AO3 đ read on Wattpad đŠ
Plot: when you find yourself needing a topic for a journalism final, you seek out an interview from Gotham's elusive vigilante: Batman. this proves even more difficult than it already sounds, and tensions rise when you discover an intimate secretâjust as Bruce Wayne realizes his own.
Pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader
CW: 18+, slow burn, angst (with a happy ending), hurt/comfort, eventual smut, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, forced proximity, fluff, severe mental/physical health issues, canon-typical violence, gritty, multiple POV
Word Count: 182k (ongoing)
â chapters â
I. âthe club within the clubâ
II. âresearchâ
III. âthe alleyâ
IV. âunmaskedâ
V. âthe interviewâ
VI. âdinnerâ
VII. âpeachesâ
VIII. âas the rain settlesâ
IX. âgoodbye, Gothamâ
X. âdiscernmentâ
XI. âlying through teethâ
XII. âexceptionally qualified, equally eagerâ
XIII. âalready spoken forâ
XIV. âlosing gripâ
XV. âmutually-assured destructionâ
XVI. âsweetenerâ
XVII. âorientationâ
XVIII. âindebtedâ
XIX. â(im)mortalityâ
XX. âclose callâ
XXI. âbelongingâ
XXII. âgone missingâ
XXIII. âdesperationâ
XXIV. ânatural curiosityâ
XXV. âMr. Wayneâ
XXVI. âgrave responsibilityâ
XXVII. âtender loving careâ
XXVIII. âeleventh hourâ
XXIX. âuncanny valleyâ
XXX. âgut feelingâ
XXXI. âdeflectionâ
XXXII. âsuperglueâ
XXXIII. ânight lightâ
XXXIV. âthe affliction of pityâ
XXXV. âbittersuite domesticityâ
XXXVI. âwhiplashâ
XXXVII. âLuminolâ
XXXVIII. âfor loveâ
#bruce wayne x reader#the batman#battinson#angst#slow burn#fluff#chapter index#batman#batman x reader#battinson x reader#fanfic#romance#battinson x yn#enemies to lovers#the batman 2022#dc bruce wayne#bruce wayne#batman imagine#battinson fic#dc batman#fanfiction#fateful beginnings#fic writing#writing#x reader#reader insert#romantic tension#mutual pining#angst and fluff#forced proximity
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DOCUMENTS AND DESTINIES Â
⯠battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader - 1/?
summary: An unexpected visitor comes to your work to check out the history of his company, which leads you both to a tense search for the much needed files⊠Which is pretty tiring for you.
warnings: none - just swearing
info: english isn't my first language, i apologize in advance for all the mistakes (if there are any!)
a/n: working on part 2 now hihihi
The time went slowly when you were stuck in the office. The uncountable amount of times you've checked the clock is absurd.Â
Papers are all over the table, every single document staring at you back. The highly reflective colored highlighters sitting at the side of your desk. Nearly at their lowest as they've been used so many times in the past few hours. The documents are full of names, places, words, numbers and other symbols. Some names are unknown to you, some familiar.Â
A sigh escapes your lips, turning to the side to look at the clock on the other side of the room.
It was finally reaching the time you were mostly looking forward to.Â
5:58, the clock read.Â
"Thank god," you whispered out to yourself. Slowly gathering all the papers from your table and closing the work laptop in front of you. All the papers are quickly gathered on top of each other and put into a dark purple-colored folder. The color is slowly ripped around the edges of the folder as it has been in use for a very long time. A white â now dark pastel brown like color sticker is in the middle of it. The sticker is pulled at the edges,
but still stays on. Your name written on top of it, written with a dark blue pen. You don't have the heart to switch the folder with a new one. It holds too many memories.Â
In a quick time, all of the things you've had on your table are safely packed and put inside your bag. All the documents are starting to overflow your folder, which ends up taking the whole space in your bag. You know well that your shoulder is going to be hurting pretty badly when you come back home with the bag draped over it.Â
Your boss had barged inside your office just a few days ago with multiple folders on top of each other in his hands. When he dropped them all onto your table, it felt like the table itself would drop as well and break down just there.Â
He started talking about how he needs the documents to be checked, corrected, and put out into mails, then returned... And more instructions were flying onto you from his mouth. Which you've totally ignored, but gave him a nod as you pretended to listen to his instructions. The amount of documents there could be counted into hundreds and hundreds.
Now, thankfully, you were about to just go home and enjoy your night by yourself!
Or so you have thought.
As you were about to move your chair back to the table and make your way out of your office, a knock sounded on your door. Which sounded completely different from the knock your boss' usually gives you on your office door.
With a deep sigh, you made your way towards the door and pushed it open. The person who was standing behind the door was someone that nobody in the entire building would expect.
Bruce fucking Wayne.
"Daniel's not here," you quickly muttered out the first thing that came to your mind. Mentally slapping yourself for such an answer. Of course, your boss wouldn't be there... In your office.
"I'm not here for Mr. Meyer... The receptionist told me that you are the only one in the building with the keys to the archive. Is that so?" He asked lowly and looked back to the hallway that he most likely came from.Â
"Oh! Yeah... I am the only one with the keys," you chirped, backing away from the door and walking back into your office, "I was just about to go home, but thankfully, you caught me just at the right time!" You laughed your sentence off awkwardly. He remained silent and with no other expression. His stoic' expression remained unchanged.
You opened the drawers of the cabinet, which was near the table and fumbled with the drawer, which keep the keys safe. Finally opening it and pulling out the set of keys that could open the multiple doors of the archive. The keys rattled with a sound as you picked them up from the drawer.Â
Then in just a moment, you closed the drawers, stood back straight, and looked over to Mr. Wayne, who was still standing outside of the office. Now fidgeting with his fingers, with his head hung low. He stood here, waiting, with no intention to move inside the office to retrieve the keys himself from you.
He was wearing a dark set of brown pants, which weren't skinny nor baggy. A white pastel-like blouse underneath a matching dark brown jacket with its front opened. The little cufflinks with 'W' could be seen on the cuffs of the blouse. His shoes were peeking out from the bottom of the pants. His dark hair was falling into his face and his pale white skin was showing off.
You shuffled back outside and closed the door of your office. Your belongings still inside as you'll have to take the keys back and lock them up back into the drawer after you come back from the archives. Â
"Okay... We can go now, this way! Down the stairs and then to the archive doors," you told him as he looked up to meet your eyes. His expression still hasn't changed since he knocked on your door.Â
Both of you made your way towards the staircase with no words uttered between each of you. The steps echoed around as both of you walked down. The sound of your heels hitting the stairs echoed down the staircase.Â
"If I may ask, Mr. Wayne... Why do you need to go to the archives? Is there something wrong with the documents we've sent back to the Enterprises? We canâ" You were quickly cut off by his husky voice.
"No. There's no problem with the documents we've received," his voice cut your rambling quickly, "I've found something else... In the older documents. What my father might still have stored down there, in your archives... I need to check them out for certain reasons," he informed you as you reached the end of the stairs and started walking through the long, hardly lit, hallway.Â
The walk to the archives felt endless.
The sound of your heels hitting the tiled floor started to echo around the hallway once again. His walk was steady and his steps were long. The awkward silence felt like it grew with each step you both took. You had to walk even quicker than before, to catch up next to him.Â
"Here it is," you told him as both of you stopped in front of locked doors with a black bold writing on it 'ARCHIVES' and a smaller text underneath which said; 'RESTRICTED AREA; NO ADMITTANCE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY'Â
The keys jiggled as you looked through them to find the right one for the first door. The key had a little red cover on it with a little black bold number one, '1' written on it. Meaning that it's for the first door of the archives.
You unlocked the first door and turned to Mr. Wayne to let him in first. With a nod, he entered the room and walked deeper into the room.Â
"Your father's documents are stored in the more 'locked up' side of the archives, the much more important side," you told him as you closed the door behind you. The room is filled with drawers, shelves and boxes full of important documents, the scent of old paper making its way to your nose.
You quickly make your way towards him, where he's standing by door with '2' written on it and some smaller text underneath it, which you don't care to read as you've been there multiple times before.
You unlock the door and let him in first again. Closing the door after the two of you. You look over as you see him stalk over to the next door at the end of the current archive room.Â
God, this man has no patience.
"What's up with your father's documents, though? They've been checked, even multiple times and on different occasions... And your father, he used toâ" You started rambling to him as you approached him but you were, once again, quickly cut off by him.
"I know. But I have to check something on them. For personal reasons and also to check up on our history, the Wayne Enterprises' history, with others... I know what I'm doing," he snaps back at you sternly, now looking straight at you, into your eyes. His brows furrowed.Â
The tone that he spoke to you in, was no close to respectful, nor close to being polite. A scoff wanted to make its way out of your mouth, but you rather kept it shut. Your lips press into a thin line as you watch him look back at the door he waits for.
You unlocked the third door and let him in first again. He stops and looks over at you for a split of a moment and then he's turning his body away from you and heading inside, leaving you standing by the door alone.Â
With another sigh, you make your way inside, closing the door after you.Â
You made your way towards him, where he was standing. He was standing by the drawers with a big red 'W' written on the label, peeking from the side of the drawers. All of the drawers marked with red 'W' contained all the documents from the Wayne's.Â
"You can... Um, check the documents you need. Just put them back into their place, where they were placed before," you told him as you watched him open the first set of archive drawers to check through them.
A few minutes went by, he put out about five files out onto a table next to him. He went through every single document and file, flipping through every page he came across.Â
"Who's this?" He suddenly asked. His finger stopped at a certain part of the document he was reading at the moment.Â
You stood up from the very much uncomfortable chair that you were sitting on. You made your way towards him and looked over to the documents that he was holding.
He lowered the documents to your height and his finger hovered above a certain name.
Scott Starkey.
His name was crossed out with a black marker. In every sentence, his name was mentioned.
You looked up to meet his eyes and then back down at the name, "He used to be close with your father. He worked hard to reach a position as your father had... Or at least one close to him. He was so ambitious and hungry for success as he, your father, had," you started telling him. Bruce's eyes stayed on you.
"His ambition to get to that position literally consumed him and morphed it all into one huge obsession. He fought against his own limitations. He didn't know when to stop... His friendship with your father started to tear, he couldn't understand why your father had achieved so much so effortlessly. His admiration turned into resentment, anger, and total hatred against him," you told him as you looked up to meet his furrowed expression. His stance was now noticeably different, he was standing straight as he listened to you.
"He dug so deep into your father's personal life. Scott started to spread your father's secrets and things about his personal life, your father's reputation wasn't going to end well for him, or anyone in the Wayne Enterprises if he would have continued," you sighed as you stopped for a moment.
"What happened to him?" Bruce suddenly rasped out into the silence with his question. He looked into your eyes and then down at the documents, which he was holding in his hands. A deep frown on his face after hearing thr backstory from you.
"I don't really know..." you mumbled out to him. Your mind going blank now. They never told anyone what had actually happened to him, he just left everything behind and never came back.
He completely disappeared.
Bruce hummed and closed the file quickly. The dust flew into the air. Floating around the two of you. The files haven't been opened for a long time now.Â
A cough made its way out of you from the dust. You waved your hand around to get the dust away from your face.
Meanwhile, Bruce turned his body away and opened the next drawer, and took out the first file of documents, reading and listing through them. His brows were furrowed in concentration, eyes running over all the words, numbers, and symbols written on the paperwork.
You went back to sit in the chair you sat in moments prior. You didn't take your phone down there, so you've got no idea what the time currently is. But you know one thing and that is that you should have been home for at least an hour now. Not at work, sitting in the archives, on the most uncomfortable chair ever, and with the Bruce fucking Wayne.
You try to sit comfortably on it as you watch him go through another opened file, which is more of a yellowish color. Must be an older one than the other ones.Â
As you watch him closely, you can feel your eyelids getting heavier. Your head slowly falls forward, hanging lowly. Your eyelids flutter shut and you can feel yourself drifting away into the darkness.
The sound of traffic and the rhythmic hum of a car wakes you up.Â
You slowly come to your senses and open your eyes to see the road of Gotham City, full of traffic, in front of you. The rain is falling against the car.
The car. You're in a car.Â
Your head quickly shoots up to look at your surroundings. You blink a few times as the very unknown and unfamiliar surroundings come into focus.Â
You're seated in an unknown car in the passenger seat, with a seatbelt on. The interior of the car is black and looks way more luxurious than your car does.Â
You look to the side and you finally see the driver of the car.Â
Bruce Wayne is sitting at the driver's side, holding the steering wheel. His side profile is up to your eyes as you watch him from your seat.Â
His eyes suddenly flicker to yours and you can see a slight hint of a smirk coming up on his face. And then it's quickly gone.
"You're awake," he says, his eyes returning to the road ahead.Â
"Where... Where am I? I was at the archives. Where are my things?" you groggily ask as you push yourself away from the window that you were leaning against the moments before.
"Wait! The keys! I didn't put them back, didn't lock the doors! Oh my god, Daniel's gonna kill me!" The realization suddenly comes onto you and dawns slowly. You recall your last moments when you were at the archives; sitting in the chair, slowly falling asleep while he checked through the files.Â
Bruce sighed softly at your rambling, "I locked all three doors. As well put the keys into their place and locked your office," you looked over to him once again as he talked, "your things are in the backseat, don't worry."
You slowly looked over to the backseat and saw your coat and your bag on the seat, with the dark purple folder peeking out. You smiled to yourself.Â
Then the silence filled the car they were in for a brief moment.
"Thank you... For taking care of the things and taking me with you," you said to him after a few brief moments.Â
You see him give you a small nod, his gaze never moving from the road and traffic ahead. His hands turn the wheel to the side as the car moves to the left. You recognize the street you're driving through.
"Waitâ How'd you know where I live?" You ask him as you watch the buildings and cars go by through the window.Â
"A friend of yours told me⊠Angus?" He answered, his eyes flickering to yours for a moment. His expression is much softer than back in the archives.
"Oh! Angus, yeah..." you sigh as you lean back into the seat, the tiredness creeping back onto you.Â
You watch the buildings go by and then another turn comes. Then you see your apartment building just a few buildings away from where you're right now.
"This is me," you point out to the building you're nearly at. The building looks like any other ordinary building in Gotham.
Bruce nods as he slows the car down and parks near the curb, in front of your building entrance.
You unbuckle your seatbelt and open the door of the car. Your feet meets the pavement and you stand up. Your body aching from the sleep.
You softly close the front door behind you and make your way toward the back door to get your things out.Â
You're met with Bruce standing by the other side of the car, with your long coat and bag in his arms. He walks around the back of the car and hands you the items.
"Thank you," you utter to him softly, taking the items from his grasp, "for everything you've done for me today. Means a lot," you smile up at him.
You're so sure that you saw the corners of his mouth turn a bit upwards. A smile wanting to creep up onto his face.Â
"No problem," he says after a long pause. He nods his head and leans against the back of his car, his arms folded over his chest, and closely watches you stand.Â
His tone was steady but his eyes and posture said differently. His eyes held a hint of something even more. A very subtle, small smile coming up onto his face couldn't even be seen.Â
An awkward silence took over your small conversation.Â
You shuffled from side to side on your feet, looking down to the ground before meeting his eyes once again.
"So... Well, I should probably... I should probably head in," you say with a small smile to him, clutching your bag and coat to your chest.
"Oh, yeah... Of course!" He quickly replied with a shake of his head. As he pushed himself off the car.
You gave him another shy smile and turned yourself around to leave, walking up the stairs to the entrance of the apartment building. As you reached for the door, you looked back and lifted a hesitant hand to give an awkward wave to him.
Turning back and opening the door to the building. Your steps finally met the surface of the tiled floor of your apartment building's first floor.
You take a quick glance over your shoulder and catch your eyes with him once again.Â
Then he lifts his hand as well, and a very hesitant wave comes back to you. A smile plastered on his face. His smile grows as he watches you disappear into the apartment building. A warm feeling spreading through his chest.Â
With a final glance at the building, he walks around and gets back into his car. The childish smile not leaving his face at all.Â
The whole ride back is quiet. But he can hear his heart beat so loudly inside of his chest. As he drives, he can only think of one certain thing. His mind is stuck.Â
He only thinks of you.
PART TWO
bruce wayne fic is here! i'm so obsessed with battinson hahahah
give it some love if u liked it thank uu <3
#battinson bruce wayne#batman 2022#battinson x you#battinson x fem!reader#batman#battinson x reader#the batman 2022#battinson#bruce wayne x fem!reader#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne#bruce wayne x you#bruce wayne x y/n#battinson x y/n#robert pattinson x reader#batman fic#batman fandom#batman fanfiction#battinson fanfiction#tumblr writers#battinson fic#bruce wayne fanfiction#batman writing#writeoffside
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đđđ đđđđđ đđđđđ đđđđ đđ đđđđđ âËâčâĄ
âËâĄâĄ SYNOPSIS â ËïœĄâàšâĄà§â ËïœĄâ đŠđđą đ€đđđ đĄâđ đđđĄđ đ đĄđđđ đ đđđđđđ, đĄâđ đđđđŠ đ€đđđđ đĄđ đđđđ€ âđđ đđđđ đđđđđĄđđĄđŠ. âđ đąđ đđ đŠđđą đđ âđ đđđđđ đđ đđđ đŠđđą đđđđâđĄ đđđđđđđđ⊠đąđđĄđđ âđ đ đĄđđđĄđđ đĄđ đđđđ đ đđđđĄâđđđ âđ đđđđ€ âđ đ âđđąđđđâđĄ. đđđŁđ. Ëàšà§âïœĄË â
â°âŠïœ„ïŸâ” đđđđđđđđ: how he acted đâč the beginning of how it started. a part detailing how Batman initially treated you and handled the relationship.
â°âŠïœ„ïŸâ” đđđđđđ đđđđđđ: how it happened đâč how Batman fell in love with you and all the things that happened leading up to it. all the signs and actions that made him love you.
â°âŠïœ„ïŸâ” đđđđđđ: how it was đâč how Batman handled the reality of being in love with you and all the things he did to try and hide from it. better yet, his confession.
â°âŠïœ„ïŸâ” ïżœïżœđđ
đđđ: how it all fell together đâč yours and Bruceâs relationship and how he was with you. some relationship headcanons for fun.
âËâĄâĄ PAIRING Ëàšà§âïœĄË â battinson x fem!reader
âËâĄâĄ CONTENT INCLUDES Ëàšà§âïœĄË â mentions of sex, mentions of fighting and threatening, rough kissing, mentions of sad!Bruce / undertones of depression, mentions of alcohol & insomnia, bad words, sweet kisses, tears, hair pulling, love confessions, not really a whole lot of sexiness just headcanons mostly
âËâĄâĄ WARNINGS Ëàšà§âïœĄË â mature content, emotionally tortured Bruce Wayne, maybe not my best story telling :(, mentions of blood and fighting cuz this is Batman, alcoholism
âËâĄâĄ AUTHORS NOTE Ëàšà§âïœĄË â thanks to @diavolosbaby for requesting this!! Hope you enjoy and it lives up to your standards đ©·
OTHER LINKS Ëàšà§âïœĄË â đđđđđđ đđđđđ | đđđđ đđđđđ
đ«ïżœïżœïżœïżœđœđœđČđ·đŒđžđ· â ËïœĄâàšâĄà§â ËïœĄâ He told you what this was before he even started it. Told you this was strictly business, no feelings involved; you knew who he was during a chance encounter and you were the only one he could really come to after that. It was simple, straight forward; you needed his dick and he needed your pussy.
â°âŠïœ„ïŸâ” đđđđđđđđ: how he acted đâč
âËâĄâĄ Bruce came to you a lot, which was a little odd compared to how you perceived him to be. You thought he was a very busy man, always fighting crime or hiding away in his mansion, always too busy to bother with someone as unimportant as you. But no, you couldnât have been more wrong. He was there at least three times a week, standing by your window in that black suit of his with his cape blowing with the wind, waiting for you.
âËâĄâĄ He was always quiet, head filled with whatever torturous pain lingered in the shadows of his mind, brimming with the secrets he never told you and you never asked for. He never spoke, unless it was a command spoken in a gentle gruffness. He never smiled, tried not to grunt or make too much noise, but some nights he couldnât contain himself and the sounds just escaped him. Those were the nights he was particularly frustrated.
âËâĄâĄ He never let you take off his mask at first, heâd leave it on and you were left grasping at leather and air. He didnât like affection, having you touch his scars and his body, it was too vulnerable, too intimate, for his liking. So, naturally, he didnât stay to cuddle afterwards. The business was over, your job was done, heâd slip out the window as youâd bask in the aftershocks.
âËâĄâĄ His heart was cold but his body was warm, always warm. He was like a furnace when heâd be flat against you, fucking into you with his head in your neck and his hands gripping your jaw, your waist, your thighs. Youâd always get so hot, craving his warmth like a bug to a bonfire.
âËâĄâĄ He never bothered to ask you anything about yourself, but you had a suspicion he had to have done some research on you during those long lonely days in the darkness of his home. He was too cautious not to, too curious. And he did. He found out everything about you but didnât share a single detail about himself. He was Bruce Wayne, rich son whose parents died by day, and then Batman, vengeance personified by night. Thatâs all you needed to know.
âËâĄâĄ Batman only came to you in the middle of the night, sometimes bloody and beaten, your fingers running over tender bruises that would make him grimace. A part of him liked the pain, figured he deserved it. Sometimes you worried for him on the nights he was particularly beaten up, but he didnât give you time to ask questions before he was shoving you against your dresser and pressing himself against you.
âËâĄâĄ He didnât like being in the light, being too seen. He liked it with all the lights off, your room glowing with the dim light of the moon and the streetlights, your face pressed into his neck or shoved into a pillow so you couldnât look at him.
âËâĄâĄ In the beginning, he liked it when you just submitted to him; he mostly cared about his own pleasure at first as he told you what this was, why he was doing this. That didnât stop him from making sure you came at least once though. He couldnât help it, didnât want you to feel completely used.
âËâĄâĄ You noticed he always had this way about him when he touched you, almost like he yearned to hold you closer but knew he shouldnât. His hands were rough, long fingers and hot palms, lingering on your skin before heâd move them away, never touching one place too long before heâd move on. It was almost a tease.
âËâĄâĄ He spied on you, a lot actually, would watch you from his spot on a roof top, stare at you through your big office window. He didnât know why, just bored and curious, he always told himself. Heâd see you stress yourself out, fill out paper after paper while your boss did nothing but throw more at you. You took it anyway and Bruce was confused by why. But he never asked, didnât want to make a connection with you and risk losing you.
âËâĄâĄ He remembered sneaking into your house, waiting for you, but you were late coming home from work and he wasnât sure if he should leave or not. He felt wrong about it, but he looked through your photos and your notebooks, saw a glimpse into your real life outside of him and work and he quickly put everything back the way it was and left. He didnât want to see, he didnât want to see you as anything different than what he already did.
âËâĄâĄ He would lie to Alfred about where he was going at night, why he would be so late coming home. But Alfred knew he was lying, he wasnât sure about what exactly, but Alfred knew Bruce would come to him in time.
âËâĄâĄ Bruce tried hard to keep his and yours personal lives outside of your mutual situation, he really did. He didnât want to know you, hear you talk about your problems and your dreams and fears and learn what made you you, from your own words. He was alone and knew he was meant to be alone, planned on being alone forever. Being with him would only put you in danger, a bigger target on his back he didnât need. It was for your own protection, for the sake of both your lives and both your hearts.
âËâĄâĄ He vowed to himself to keep it that way, strictly professional, a hobby almost. He really didnât plan to fall in love, he really really didnâtâŠ
â ËïœĄâàšâĄà§â ËïœĄâ Your living room was dark when you came home from work, later than usual because of your infuriating boss; he was lazy, relied on his employees to do his work while he sat in his office and ate his donuts. You hated him, loathed him, absolutely couldnât stand him, but you understood he was just another obstacle, a milestone you needed to get through before you reached where you needed to be. So, you didnât make a fuss, you didnât complain, didnât speak up. You did what you were supposed to as you were supposed to do it, just another hamster circling the wheel of business over and over until you finally got the balls to break the cycle.
Unfortunately, your ambition was almost too much for you sometimes, tonight was evidence enough.
You set your keys in the ceramic bowl by the door with a tired sigh, soft rain pattering on your windows, furniture lit up with a dim orange glow from the street lamps outside. All twisting shadows and rain drops. Your nose tickled with the scent of vanilla bean and raspberry, remembering the candle you had forgotten to blow out before you left. Oops.
Your hair was damp, gray suit littered in dark spots from the rain outside. Your limbs were sore and heavy, eyes burning and fluttering for a semblance of rest. Your heels were sore from the heels youâve been prancing around in all day, your whole body exhausted in general. This was normal for you though, you always came home lagged and tired. You regretted being such a hard worker, but knew it would ultimately pay off in the future.
You walked to your bedroom, your heels clacking on the floor unevenly, dragging on the wooden boards as you navigated your way through the darkness. You held your purse loosely in your left hand, a shiver crawling up your spine as an unexpected gust of coolness swept up your legs and down your neck.
Your foot stuttered, lingering by the doorway in your bedroom as the rain seemed louder, less dull, wind whistling your black bed sheets. You furrowed your eyebrows at that, knowing you left your window closed before you left. Your eyes strained to see anything in the darkness as panic blared in your chest like a fire alarm, trying to make out any figure in the shadows of your room. You slowly crept forward, preparing for the worst, your exhaustion melting into hot fear that made your bones go stiff.
You swallowed, eyes immediately going to the open window to see the empty street below, the sound of a car alarm in the distance overpowering the rain that seemed to just pound harder. Your window was wide open, sheer purple curtains flapping from the breeze like a set of violet wings. Your eyes narrowed at that, hearing nothing but buzzing silence ringing in your ears. Then, it just hit you.
You couldnât describe it exactly, but you felt a sensation of calmness wash over you as you let out a hefty breath, fear gradually melting away as your body relaxed and hands unclenched. It was like your body knew it wasnât in any real danger, that there was nothing lurking in the shadows besides what was supposed to be. This was all too familiar to you; a setting youâve come home to many times before. The open window, the darkness, the buzzing calm.
You felt excitement spark through you in recognition as you felt your neck tingle, a barely there whisper of a breath wash over your neck and tickle your hair.
You felt a smile quirk on your lips, turning around slowly, sucking in a sharp breath when you were met with the large bulking figure of the man in black standing just an inch away from you, a shadow hiding in shadow as he stared down at you with those black soulless eyes. He was big, a thing you liked about him, dirt encrusted on his suit and so out of place in the cozy warmth of your home. He was big and bulky, comically large for your small bedroom.
You looked back up at him, your purse dropping to the floor as instinctual arousal flooded your belly at just the mere sight of him. You couldnât help it, your body knew what he was capable of and yearned for it. Your throat became dry, you swallowed once more as his eyes, those dark blue gems of his, looked over your face with a certain pained look in them, calculating and tortured, covered in black face paint that hid the beauty of his raw skin.
His pink lips were set in a firm frown, a faint scratch on his chin, breaths slow and even, calm. That damned mask of his covered his face, the fluffiness of his brown hair you seldom ever felt run through your finger tips. He always wore this expression, always so serious and somber like he was going through a dreadful ordeal every second he continued to live. You were always curious as to why, but knew heâd never answer, nor appreciate your nosiness.
You let your thoughts drift off, looking back up at him with a false confidence.
âI didnât know you were coming tonightâŠâ You mumbled quietly, losing any conviction in your voice as he took a small step forward, closer to you, his heavy boot thudding on your floor. You took a small step back, crumbling under him way too easily, as always. He always loved to completely invade your space, but never let you do the same to him.
You looked up at him, he looked down at you, breaths mingling together as a dark look washed over his oceanic eyes, his strong jaw clenching as he ran his eyes over your face like this was the first time heâd ever seen you. You felt your thighs tighten at the look in them, at the way he looked at you.
You were being honest though, you didnât expect him tonight. You had seen him two nights ago, expecting not to see him for another few weeks at least.
âShhhâŠâ He shushed you gently, voice gravelly but gentle, tired but awake, undertones of desire.
He leaned down towards you and you found yourself holding your own arms back from wrapping around him and taking him already, just as he always took you. His gloved hands reached for the edge of the dresser behind you, trapping you between his strong arms and chest, completely invading your senses as your eyes looked into his, almost begging. His cape flowed down his shoulders and shrouded around you both until all you could see was black, the heady smell of smoke and rain tickling your nose, captivating.
He pressed himself against you, a brick wall, the mahoganyâs edge digging into your lower back as your breath stuttered. You found yourself looking at his lips, his nose, his eyes, his closeness overwhelming you as you couldnât figure out where to look, your skin feeling hot and stuffy, the confidence you had previously now a pile on the floor as your stomach twisted.
You could see the rain on his black suit, dripping down all his gear and heavy armor he wore and down to his waist, some falling to the floor in soft drips. You licked your lips, minding the mess, feeling lightheaded and fluttery as you looked back up at him with sparkling eyes.
He cocked his head at you, dark eyes running over your lips before looking back into your own, âTake your hair down.â
He always used such a gentle, tired voice, like he didnât want to scare you and he could never find enough sleep, but the demand was obvious in his tone, eyes dark and predatory as they stared down at you intently. He didnât need anymore command, knowing youâd do as he said just like you always did.
You didnât dare disobey, sensing his need sizzling in the air just as strong as your shared want. You managed eye contact as you brought a hand up to the back of your head, taking out the black hair clip holding your hair together, the rain pattering on your roof almost too loud in your ears. He stared as your hair fell down your shoulders, cascading down your back in silky waves and framing your face. You swallowed, feeling the need to clear your throat as you put a hand through your hair and brushed it over your shoulder.
You saw his eyes run over your hair, the way it fell around your cheeks, his jaw clenching once more. He brought a hand up, big and heavy, running your locks through his fingers, imagining the softness of it as the sweet smell of apricot and citrus filled his nose, the signature flavor of your favorite shampoo.
You sighed at the pleasurable sensation on your scalp, head titling back as your eyes drooped, your hair clip falling to the ground noisily as you brought your hands up and grabbed his forearms. You mightâve been a little dramatic at just a few touches, but you were so needy, needy for this dangerous man you knew absolutely nothing about besides the obvious. He was a stranger in a suit, a stranger to you, but he somehow knew how to touch you better than any man youâve ever been with.
He took note of your reaction, his own body twitching to touch you as he noticed the look in your eyes. He felt an intense need spark through him, his hand grabbing a handful of your hair and pulling your head back. He remained calm looking, but his eyes gave it all away.
Your head was yanked back, a pleasurable gasp leaving your lips as you squeezed his arms, looking up at him with your lips parted and breaths heavy. Your head stung, hair being pulled on in just the right way that had a familiar wetness pooling between your thighs, your body buzzing alive with feeling.
Bruce looked down at you, pressing the broadness of himself against you even harder, your breasts smushed against his suit, completely at his mercy. He looked down at you with an unraveled look in his eyes as he tilted your head up towards him.
He kissed you then, rough and hot, groaning into your mouth as his tongue played with yours, teeth clashing and breaths hot against each other. You couldnât help but moan against him as he finally granted you what youâve been wanting for so long now, scalp burning from his hold on your hair as your hands flew up and gripped at the leather of his mask, arms wrapped around his neck.
He was forceful and rough, his other hand crawling around your waist and lifting you off the ground with such ease it almost caught you off guard. You gasped into his mouth, his hand tightening on the hold in your hair as you grimaced at the pain.
You didnât break the kiss, stuck on him as your heels fell off your feet and hit the floor. In two big strides you were suddenly lied flat on your bouncy mattress with Batman himself between your thighs, still holding your waist and head against him as he kissed you fervently.
Your skirt slid down around your thighs as you wrapped your legs around him, pressing him harder into you as all you wanted was him, him everywhere and him all over you. You moaned against him, helpless and desperate, as the ridges in his suit dug into your stomach, his lips movingly hotly against yours as he grunted against you. His cape flowed around you, thick and smooth, trapping you underneath until all you could see was blackness, unable to discern the space between his body and yours.
You knew this was going to be quick; he was too rough, too impatient and needy. It mustâve been a bad night for him, but you didnât pry no matter how much you wanted to, no matter how much the questions bubbled in your throat and ached in your chest you knew you were in no place to ask. A part of you liked it that way, liked that this was strictly this. You liked that you didnât have to answer to him, that you werenât bound to him and he wasnât to you. It was just simple, secrecy for a night of shameless lust-filled sex in return.
You both got what you wanted and that was enough. You appreciated that he didnât go beyond that just as you didnât. Outside of this room he was Batman, a dangerous vigilante some trusted and some hated, he was Bruce Wayne, an orphan child with more money and pain than he needed. But in the shadow of your bedroom, under the covers with you, there was no identity, no obligation, just two strangers seeking each other out in search of the one thing they both wanted, blessed with none of the other drama that followed a relationship.
With Bruce on top of you in this very moment, his hands gripping your body for no reason other than pleasure, you knew he would be gone before the night was over, and youâd be alone in your bed with bite marks and handprints on your skin to serve as a reminder of the man who gave them to you. You knew he would silently leave, slip away when he thought you were sleeping, you knew he wouldnât talk or tell you any of his problems. Heâd give you what you wanted and then slip into the shadows⊠you had to admit, It was the most perfect arrangement.
â°âŠïœ„ïŸâ” đđđđđđ đđđđđđ: how it happened đâč
âËâĄâĄ Batman didnât plan on ever falling in love with you, but when he did, it had happened after a couple of months of doing what he did with you. But before he did, things had been going so well. You never intervened in his life and he never intervened in yours. Just as he expected, just as he preferred. It had been perfect, but somewhere along the way he had gotten too involved, started to trust you without even realizing it.
âËâĄâĄ At first, it started with him staying in your bed longer than he used to. You didnât argue, comfortable with the heat his body gave you in the coldness of the night. He found himself dozing off after you would, your fluffy blanket soft on his skin and the mattress like a cloud for his broken body. Heâd always be gone before you woke up though. You didnât want to say anything about his little sleepovers, scared youâll frighten him and heâll stop. So you let him do as he pleased, enjoying his company albeit his silence.
âËâĄâĄ He never cuddled with you though, ever (donât worry, he lets that slip too). Always stiff like a board on his side of the bed, expression crumbled with pain and peace. Sometimes heâd flinch, nightmares you never questioned him about but always noticed. Still, heâd wake up after about an hour, slip out your window, but not before giving you one last look, seeing how the moon shined down on your soft skinâŠ
âËâĄâĄ Then, it was following you home after work, making sure you got home safe on those dark nights where it seemed like every shadow was following you. Heâd be on the rooftops, claiming he was just curious and bored, cape flapping in the wind, when in reality he just needed to make sure you got home safely.
âËâĄâĄ You didnât know, but he was watching you much more than youâd ever suspect. He watched your home on the nights Gotham was quiet, his body knowing you were so close but oh so far. He thought about you when he wasnât thinking about you, thought about the routine he had found in you, the unfamiliar closeness, the comfort he had found between your body and your bed sheets.
âËâĄâĄ He started kissing you more, flinching less when your fingers would graze his back. He let you look at him, look deep into his eyes when he was inside you, have your hands touching his face and his back without the security of his suit to hide him. You loved when he did that, feeling him under your hands, skin to skin as it should be.
âËâĄâĄ He let you see his scars in the light, didnât care when he took off his suit and your bathroom light was on, shining down on his body and the sculpted muscle of it. He had learned you wouldnât judge him, but he was still hesitant, suffering inside when he looked down at the floor as you gazed at him in awe⊠you thought he was so beautiful.
âËâĄâĄ He would watch you when you worked, watch as your boss would storm in and demand more from you. Bruce didnât like that, would clench his fist and grind his teeth when youâd get scolded like a child, told to work harder when all you did was work. Heâd have to control himself when your boss would walk past him on his way home every night.
âËâĄâĄ He started conversing with you more, holding you against his chest when you two were done. Heâd ask you profound questions as you two stared up at the ceiling, youâd tell him your answer. He didnât talk a lot, just liked to listen. It would be intimate, almost romantic. Heâd listen to what youâd have to say and heâd learn, learn more about who you were, where you came from, and heâd find himself not wanting to leave, a dull ache in his chest every time youâd fall asleep and heâd have to slip out your fire escape.
âËâĄâĄ He never admitted it to himself, but he started to look forward to seeing you, found comfort in your small bedroom and the absence of lifeâs problems that came with it. He started to enjoy the smell of vanilla bean and raspberry from those candles you always forgot to blow out before work. He started to pick up on your little quirks.
âËâĄâĄ While gradually falling in love with you, Bruce would deny, deny, deny. He acknowledged that he was starting to feel things he didnât want to, and heâd be incredibly disturbed and moody, more than usual. Alfred would even be a little peeved with him.
âËâĄâĄ Bruce would find himself asking you how work was. He would be concerned about the bags under your eyes and the wrinkles in your clothes, not outright concerned but he couldnât stop himself from asking. He wanted to hear your voice.
âËâĄâĄ He would be very hesitant around you, scared he was doing too much when heâd touch you now. It wasnât like before, when he would just grab and control. Now he was really touching you, trying to feel you, every dip and curve of your skin under his fingertips.
âËâĄâĄ He had gotten way too comfortable with you now, even he knew that. He relied on you and the comfort you gave, a feeling heâd been without for so long. He was like a cold soul lost in the woods, searching for something, anything, hollow, a warm body to bring him back. He found that with you, and he didnât even realize it until he started to feel pain when he wasnât around you, a pain in his chest like a knife was stabbing into his heart. He missed you but he didnât want toâŠ
âËâĄâĄ He stared at your face a lot, too intensely for your liking, thoughts behind those dark eyes of his heâd never tell you about if you confronted him about it. He just liked to look at you, watch you giggle and smile. Heâd do it without realizing how intimidated it made you feel, how youâd have to blush and look away, pretend you didnât notice. He just liked to look at you, soak in your expressions before heâd leave again.
âËâĄâĄ The signs were all there when you thought about it. The lingering touches, the admiring stares, the countless nights heâd watch over you. He felt like a creep, following you around so much, but he couldnât help it. You were a pleasant distraction and he was a fool, easily succumbing to those feelings he had for you without even knowing it. They had been growing inside of him like a blooming vine⊠they started out small but grew into so much more, and he ignored it, until he just couldnât take it anymoreâŠ
â ËïœĄâàšâĄà§â ËïœĄâ It was a quiet night in September, it had been raining for days and the coolness of autumn had just started to blow into the city. The trees danced with orange and red leaves, strewn all over the road and sidewalks, getting stuck under peoples rain boots and car tires. Your window was cracked, letting a cool breeze into your room that made you shiver, the savory smell of someoneâs cooking wafting into your noses from the apartments across the way. You looked at your tv, black screen shut off but reflecting the blurred forms of your mingled bodies on your bed, arm outstretched on Bruceâs stomach, head lying on his chest. You could hear his heart, slow and calm just as he always was, pumping in your ear and lulling you to sleep.
You wanted to stay awake though, listening to the sounds of cars driving in rain puddles and horns honking, the occasional laughter of a passerby. A candle was lit on your dresser across the room, with the faint scent of vanilla bean and raspberry in the air just as Bruce liked. Your legs were a little sore, thighs tender from where Bruce had gripped them so hard, lips puffy from where Bruce had kissed them so much. You felt satisfied, pleasant even, comforted by his presence, the knowledge of his identity absent in your mind as you didnât register him as a millionaire, or as a crime fighting vigilante, you never really did.
He was neither of those things to you. He was⊠he was Bruce, just Bruce, your Bruce. Not Bruce Wayne or Batman, and that was enough for you. You took him as he is not as he was, never questioned him about his parents or how Batman was even created. He appreciated that, didnât like answering questions about himself he wasnât comfortable with. He was comfortable with silence, but he didnât mind hearing you.
He was awake too, didnât want to fall asleep before you, something in his mind telling him he should leave already, not sink into the mattress any further and let himself relish in your warmth. He had responsibilities, duties, people he needed to save and crime he needed to stop. It was Gotham, something was always wrong and someone always needed help. But he couldnât think about any of that stuff around you, his thoughts always either empty or crowded with your smile.
His suit was a mess on the floor, scrambled just like his mind, bat mask clear as day in his vision, lit up in a red glimmer from the light outside. It stared at him with its blank eyes, watching, the buzzing of a neon light loud in his ears. Itâs like it was mocking him, patronizing him. He frowned at it, turning his head slightly away from it, like it was a reminder of what his true purpose was, where he should really be this late other than here in your arms. He knew he should go, felt his arm twitch like he was about to get up and unwind from you.
âDonât you have somewhere you should be? Or are you gonna stay?â You mumbled sleepily, voice so quiet and sweet he almost didnât hear it.
His eyes drifted to you, rubbing his fingertips on your rib cage and savoring the feeling of your smooth skin underneath him, against him. You were so unblemished, unlike him. A few scratches and scars here and there that held stories and memories, none like his. His were ridged and pale, covered his skin, they held memories but none of them good. Memories that served as reminders of why this was so wrong, of who he really was and who he needed to get back to once he left these four walls.
He thought about it for a minute, frowning at the ceiling fan.
Did he have somewhere to be? Yes, yes he did. He always had somewhere to be, that was the problem. He couldnât be everywhere at once, he could be somewhere else, but he was here instead. He was here with you, here with you. He had somewhere to be, could be anywhere else, but he was here. Everyone always expected him to be where they were, expected him to save everyone. But he couldnât, he couldnât save everyone and he couldnât be everywhere they wanted him to be. He was with you but he shouldnât be. Guilt settled in his gut as he swallowed, hands itching like it was wrong to touch you.
His eyes, dark and somber like storm clouds, especially just as captivating, looked over your frazzled hair like he could see your face, knowing how exhausted you mustâve been from work and sex, how it was so late already and how youâd have to leave so early. Your breathing was slow and even, warm breath brushing over his chest from your parted pink lips, all cues of how youâve already fallen asleep. He thought about your question, yes, yes he had somewhere he needed to be, he always did.
He didnât bother speaking, just turned his head back and looked at the ceiling as his arm held you just a little tighter against him, hearing the splash of a car racing through water from somewhere outside.
Heâll stay for a little while.
â°âŠïœ„ïŸâ” đđđđđđ: how it was đâč
âËâĄâĄ When he realized he was in love with you he left, he left for a long time. He refused to let those feelings blossom into anything more, grow into something more⊠dangerous. Love was dangerous, he was dangerous. He isolated himself from you, in a worse mood than usual. Alfred had picked up on it, knowing there was more going on than Bruce wanted to say. You couldnât help the disappointment as the days turned into weeks, weeks of hope being crushed on with every night he wasnât there.
âËâĄâĄ He told himself it was for the best, heartbreak was something you could heal from, death was something youâd never come back from. With his life, you would die. He couldnât lose anyone else, he couldnât. He couldnât subject you to that same fate his parents had.
âËâĄâĄ Still, he couldnât stop himself from watching you when youâd walk home, still sitting outside your job, your home, watching you from a distance to make sure youâd be alright. He couldnât sleep if he didnât.
âËâĄâĄ He couldnât sleep anyway. Eyes a dark purple and the ache in his chest getting so much worse. It was because of you he couldnât sleep, bed empty and cold without you, mattress hard and firm unlike yours. His nightmares consisted of your death and his inability to save you. He was better off seeing nothing with his eyes open than your blood with his eyes closed.
âËâĄâĄ Alfred was concerned. Confronted his Master Bruce during breakfast when Bruce was silent and gloomy. Yes, Alfred knew he would confess eventually, just needed a little shove. âI canât stop thinking about her, Alfred.â
âËâĄâĄ You couldnât stop thinking about him either⊠work was slow and long, your thoughts muddled together as you couldnât stop racking your brain for a reason, any reason, as to why, why he left. Did you do something wrong?
âËâĄâĄ You didnât want to say you missed him, you didnât want to admit that to yourself. You felt almost stupid, like he had used you and discarded you, but wasnât that the whole point? You were a mess, confused and feeling a different kind of lonely only a sad heart could bring you. You felt abandoned.
âËâĄâĄ Bruce would hide up in his room and think, read books but not pay attention to the words. Alfred would bring him his tea and advice whenever he could, but it seemed nothing could cheer him up. Bruce felt a different kind of loneliness now than he had his whole life. When his parents died they were taken away from him, he didnât choose to give them up like he did you. He felt like he had lost yet another person.
âËâĄâĄ He really thought about moving on from you, a part of him arguing thats what was best for you. But the thought of fully giving you up to anybody else angered him. You werenât his but youâd always been in some way, his. He yearned to be near you again, an itch in the back of his mind only you could scratch.
âËâĄâĄ He drunk, a lot. Spent his free time as Bruce Wayne drowning in whiskey and scotch, heavy liquor bottles empty and discarded on the floor. He almost felt like crying, but heâd just pass out on his bed, too drunk to crawl under the covers. Sometimes heâd pass out in the common room, leg hanging off the couch and hair unraveled, Alfred cleaning up the mess and putting a blanket over him.
âËâĄâĄ He drowned himself in his work to distract from you. He was frustrated, angry, weeks having gone by without you having set him on edge. He was beating petty criminals to a bloody pulp, sending them to Gordon barely conscious. He needed to take his anger out on something, anything. Alfred would just sigh when a bloody Bruce would storm past him, ensuring his suit was cleaned before the next day.
âËâĄâĄ It was a late Friday night when Bruce let his anger take control of him. It was some petty thief thinking heâd run off with the bags of cash heâd stolen. Bruce didnât let him speak, anger taking over him like thick ropes of lava in his blood, anger that had festered in his black heart for weeks, simmering under his skin waiting for the moment it could boil over.
âËâĄâĄ He was bloody and dirty when he came to you in a blur of anger and love, adrenaline running through him with a determination boiling in his bones.
â ËïœĄâàšâĄà§â ËïœĄâ It was a dark cloudy night when you saw Bruce standing outside your window; you lay in bed, cozy and under the covers, bathed in the dim golden light of your lamp. You were pretending to read a book youâve meant to finish with a frown on your face, mind full of memories and the fruitless desire to have it all back. It was a melancholic pain that throbbed under your skin, sharp and persistent like a plant rash, the memory of forgotten things plaguing your mind and wishing it could just all go back to the way it was.
You almost didnât see him if it wasnât for the thud on your fire escape; you jumped and the book flew to the floor with a thud. Your eyes widened and you felt a wave of excitement and relief flourish through your veins as you scrambled off your bed. You couldnât believe it, heart pounding as you rushed over to your window and swung it open like an eager baker opening an oven door. It was a big window, one with a giant view of the street below and the park across the ways, big enough to fit a grown man in a heavy suit.
Your hands were almost frantic, eyes wide in disbelief to just see him standing there in all his glory, back to you like he used to be all those weeks ago before he left, left you, left you behind. The memory of his loss and betrayal flashed back like a pull to reality, all those sad feelings you pushed away coming full frontal in your head like a tidal wave in your fragile brain.
Bruceâs heavy stare burned through you and it was like you could feel it on your skin, like a million microscopic bugs crawling all over you, your body buzzing with electricity and your hands almost shaking. You felt a flurry of difficult emotions coursing through you that all muddled together in one big mess in your head; anger and happiness, relief and irritation. You couldnât pinpoint on one, feeling everything all at once when you opened your window and Batman was stood on the other side of you in all his threatening grandness.
You hated that he looked so good despite the grime.
You were left stunned as all you could do was stare at him. This was a moment youâve only dreamt about, wished for for days and countless weeks, fantasized about for hours on end. How you would react, what you would say, how it would all go⊠and especially how heâd apologize on hand and knee for you, atone for his sins and plead for your pardon. It was all meticulously planned and carefully thought out, and now here it was, the moment youâve been waiting for for so long; it was finally here, staring at you in the face. And it was so funny how all those ideas and all that confidence you had just seemed to vanish now that it was time to confront them; you were frozen as you stared back at him, unsure of what to do next and too tongue tied to formulate a thought. All that planning, pointless in the face of its precipitant.
Bruce stared back at you longingly and painfully, breaths hard and heavy and knuckles bruised and sore. His eyes were smeared in that black paint he always used, thick with an unspoken emotional torture, like he was being tormented in his own mind at the mere sight of you. He was in a way; you were his reminder of why he left, the catalyst of his destruction but at the same time his anecdote. It was all very confusing and contradictory; all he could understand was that it pained him to look at you, but he couldnât find it in himself to look away.
Blood was splattered over his cheeks and suit, his heart pumping in his ears as he looked you over, putting all the pieces of you back in his mind; from your face, to your pink pajamas, to the black socks on your feet, then back to your cautious eyes. You were all right, you were okay and he was so relieved. He felt a weight drop from his chest, knowing you were in no certain danger but he always worried for you if he couldnât see you, a consequence of everyone he cared for always getting hurt some way or another. Bruce felt what he could only describe as happiness, a feeling he only got with you, hit him full on like a train, smacking into his heart as his throat closed up.
He had missed you.
He had missed you a lot, more than he ever wanted to admit, but he would gladly do so for you. He had missed your pretty eyes and sweet voice, soft hands and smooth skin, and your voice, calming and rich like honeyed pastries. You were beautiful to him, so beautiful, and he couldnât believe he had shown up here once more, that he would risk ever putting it in danger. But he had to come, he couldnât take it anymore⊠and if his love for you was that perilous then his soul be damned.
He noticed the subtle way your face crumbled as your initial excitement died down, settled into pain and sadness and concern; your eyes running over the blood on him, wondering if it was his, really looking at him and realizing that he was really here, back on your fire escape. He couldnât believe it himself, but here he was and he didnât plan on leaving, not unless you ordered him to. You were nervous, eager to touch him, feel the suit under your palms like you used to, but you were also too stubborn to welcome him back into your home so easily, hurt once and not wanting to be hurt again. He understood that notion all too well.
Bruce felt an unfamiliar form of courage jolting through him, a type of courage so different from the one he used to fight criminals every night. This was a type of boldness that made him just want to grab your face and kiss you, hard, make up for all the lost time between you and spill all his confessions in the space between his lips and yours, make you taste the apology on his tongue. All he wanted was to be here again, here in your room; his nose was already filling up with the smell of vanilla bean and raspberry, his muscles relaxing instinctively at the sweet smell of it, knowing he was safe here. He wanted so badly to be here again, but now that he was he didnât know what to do.
Bruce admitted that he was a little disappointed at your reaction to him, that you didnât welcome him back in with open arms and gleeful smiles, kiss him and hug him and show him how much you missed him. But he knew that was too optimistic. He knew your antipathy was to be expected; he could only imagine the amount of hurt heâd put you through if it was anything compared to his own. He could only imagine how many nights you came home hoping he was there, waiting for you like he always did, how many days you kept looking at the clock, wishing it would hurry up and you could just go home already, how many days you hoped it would be different from the one before, how much hope he mustâve killed.
He felt horrible, regret and guilt spinning in his stomach as his muscles twitched, itching to touch you again; you were a drug coursing through his veins, and after two months of withdrawal he could say he was positively hooked once more. But, he knew he couldnât just grab whatever part of you he liked like a greedy child in a toy store. He needed patience, he needed to wait for you to warm up to him on your own terms, no matter how long that took.
So, Bruce just stood on your fire escape with his hands holding the frame of the wall, blood and vanilla heavy on his nose as he stared at you, breathing hard but calm, waiting for you to make a move, any move or semblance of invitation.
Your eyes ran over the blood on him, the awkward silence deafening with all the unspoken words and yearning you both wanted so badly to address. Your eyes narrowed at the red spots and stripes on his suit and face, dripping off his gloves, worry shooting through your buzzing veins. You took a step back away from him in discontent, curious as to why he has suddenly appeared after so long away, eyes looking him over like the situation has really dawned on you. It had been weeks, two months even, since youâve seen him, seen his black eyes and pointed ears, seen the vague Batman symbol on the chest piece of his suit.
Memories were coming back wave after wave at the sight of him, ones that wanted you to embrace him, ones that were gradually persuading you to give up this act and just be thankful he was here again, back to you. But you knew better than that, knew better than to just simply overlook a mistake as monumental as the one he made. You needed to have some damn pride.
Despite thatâŠ
Were you happy to see him? Yes, yes you really really were. You wanted him to just take off his mask and kiss you already, hell, you didnât care if he left it on because you just wanted him to kiss you again. You wanted to feel his big arms around you once more and feel his warm palms on the dip in your back. Have him lift you up and smile into his kiss and say those magical words you yearned to hear. You could try to act tough all you wanted but at the end of the day you were still just a girl, a sad girl who wanted to be held by the man she missed so much⊠but your anger was still so present, lingering cold in your veins and greatly overpowering any positive emotions you had.
You wanted a damn good reason for why he did what he did.
âWhat are you doing here, Bruce? I thought you had moved on.â You licked your dry lips, crossing your arms and glaring at him with distaste and a false sense of confidence, a faux act of strength and apathy to cover up the real pain you felt. Your tone was anything but friendly, standoffish and disinterested, conveying the anger you felt almost perfectly; if it wasnât for the waver in your voice and the glimmer in your eye you would even believe yourself.
You frowned at him, a cruel part of you hoping he was feeling any kind of hurt, any kind of hurt like the hurt youâve felt. But at the same time, you just wanted so badly to hear that he came back for one reason and one reason alone. You. You wanted to hear him say that he missed you dearly, that he was so sorry for what he did and that heâd never do it again. If you heard that, then maybe, just maybe, youâd forgive him. No, you definitely would.
Bruce almost flinched at your tone, but knew it was well deserved. He looked at you with guilty eyes, like heâd committed the most heinous crime (which in his mind, he did), frown deep on his lips where a cut was on his skin, swallowing down the nerves in his throat at the look in your eyes.
A string of fear curled in his chest and made him nervous, made Batman nervous, a fear of being rejected, of him telling you how he really felt and you not reciprocating it. He couldnât bear it, the uncertainty. But he was also afraid of hurting you any more than he already has, arguing with himself that he shouldnât have come. But he was already here and he couldnât leave now, couldnât disappoint you any more than he already has. He looked up at you, his chest fluttering when he looked into your eyes.
ââCould never move on from youâŠâ Bruce grumbled in that deep voice of his, sounding pained and earnest and genuine, pulling at your heart like a trained harpist and making your eyes burn with brimming tears. He meant it, meant it more than you knew, staring at you with so much emotion in his eyes it almost scared you to see it; it was so unlike him to be so emotional, a part of you grateful that he trusted you enough to show it.
You felt a tingle on your skin when you looked back at him, a spark of joy peeking through the dark clouds around you. I could never move on from youâŠ
Bruceâs dark eyes flickered between yours, gauging your reactions, intense and brooding as they always were. They bore into you like he was laying your soul bare in front of him, seeing deeper inside of you than you thought was possible. It made you feel flustered and agitated at being examined so fiercely. His voice, my god his voice, so soft but so gravelly, made you flustered, especially hearing it again after so many weeks of going without it. It washed over your skin like a warm blanket and made goosebumps pop up on your arms, a chill going through your spine that made your heart spike. You were trying so hard to fight it, fight that feeling inside of you that wanted him so badly.
You almost scoffed at his proclamation, looking at him offended, almost too theatrically, too rehearsed.
âWell it seems like you did, so.â You shrugged stubbornly, not knowing what else to say, really, not wanting to speak too much or else youâre afraid heâd hear the longing stutter in your voice. You shook your head incredulously and looked at the wall besides the window, where he stood outside in the cold air still. Secretly, you wanted to bring him inside already, bring him between your arms and hold him against your chest until he was one with you, unable to leave and bound to you forever, souls entwined and breaths shared. That may be a tad dramatic, but thatâs what you felt; you knew he needed to cross that barrier on his own⊠you also knew that the moment he stepped back into your sacred space, the moment his heavy black boot stepped onto your wooden floor, you wouldnât be able to keep your composure anymore, and youâd collapse in his arms like a dying bride.
Obviously, that couldnât happen. You needed resistance, strength, a reason.
You couldnât look at him, didnât want him to see the tears welling in your eyes and the vulnerability staining your face. It was too embarrassing and too real; you didnât want Bruce to see how easily you got worked up because of him. You didnât want him to see all of you just yet, wanted him to feel guilty for what he did to you. He hadnât even said much, just a single sentence, and you were already a desperate mess hiding under a false security. It was always so easy for him to get to you and you wished you were stronger for it.
Bruce knit his eyebrows at that, subtly shaking his head with a frown as his eyes still searched for yours. He wanted you to look at him, to see the honesty in his words and the sincerity in his blue eyes. He wanted you to see that he was hurting too, just as much as you.
âI didnât⊠I just needed some time away⊠I needed to think.â He confessed vaguely, his voice gentle like he didnât want to spook you, quiet but just loud enough for you to hear. Bruce always treated you like you were so fragile, a slippery glass vase between his clumsy hands. He never wanted to drop you, hurt you and watch you crumble into a million pieces⊠but he already did, and now he was trying to glue them all back together, put you back together, but only if youâd let him.
That was something you had come to appreciate about him; his gentleness, so opposite of the image he represented, what everyone believed him to be. He wasnât just Batman, vengeful and harsh and dangerous. He wasnât just bloody fists and sharp edges. He was incredibly genuine and tender, complex and multilayered; he was more than the bat, the symbol, the orphan, the millionaire. He was intricately sewn together with all different threads, and over the course of the year you and Bruce shared together youâve managed to pluck and pull them all, see the warm center inside his cold shell.
Those were sides of him only you got to see, only you got to witness, only you got the privilege to marvel at and cherish. It might have been foolish to think, and you certainly think so now, but you had thought that made you special, that you were the only one he trusted enough, cared for enough, to show that side to⊠that there was more affection sizzling between you than you both wanted to say⊠but that just made it hurt so much more when he left, it just convinced you that you were too gullible for love, too naive to tell the difference between love and infatuation. When he left, he made you feel stupid.
You furrowed your eyebrows at his response, your face twisting into an anger Bruce didnât want to see. Your eyes flashed to him immediately, burning and piercing and blazing, his words bouncing around in your head like a twisted game of racquetball. To think? He left, for months, because he needed to think? It sounded so phony, a simple excuse to disguise the truth, a simple excuse that only angered your unspoken pain.
âTo think? To think about what? Youâve been gone for weeks, Bruce! You just left, didnât tell me anything, didnât tell me why, but now youâre telling me itâs because you had to think? That sounds ridiculous. I think I deserve a better explanation than, you had to think.â You mocked him, scoffing in his face. You were frustrated and lonely, wanting, deserving, a better reason to justify the pain you went through when he left. You couldnât believe he couldnât at least grant you that, a credible reason why.
Bruce grimaced, eyes closing like the sting of your words had just stung him. He slouched, frustrated that he couldnât seem to get the words out that he wanted to. They were stuck in his throat, itching his tongue and wanting so badly to get out, but he was mute, could only try to explain himself. Besides, there were no words to express just how sorry he was, but he knew how right you were. You were always right. You did deserve more than that, you deserved a better explanation.
Bruce swallowed down his dry throat, clenching his jaw as he looked back up at you, aching to step through the threshold of the window and grab your face between his broken hands and kiss your tears away. He felt hot coils of guilt and regret wrap around his heart and squeeze, his chest collapsing in on itself.
âI-I know how it sounds, but itâs the truth. I needed to think⊠and to do that I had to leave. I just needed to understand why.â He spoke raspy, voice gritted with anguish and sincerity, looking at you with such desperation it made your foot itch to step towards him, made your heart yearn to comfort him. He was downright pitiful, fingers holding onto the brick so hard it could crumble under his strength. He was slouched down, looking up at you with sunken eyes, begging and pleading without an ounce of shame.
You stared back at him, clenching your jaw so hard your teeth hurt. God, you really did just want to hold him again, kiss him again⊠the need was too much, burning inside you and crawling under your skin. You had your hands crossed over your chest like you were physically trying to hold yourself back, like you were trying to protect yourself against his woeful whims of persuasion.
You frowned at his statement, the rational part of your brain that was still logical and loyal to you making you want to question him more, learn more, find out more. Your shoulders slumped as you looked back at him confused, lips pulled in a frown.
âWhy what? Think about what? Can you stop being so vague!â You said exasperated, wishing he would just say what he meant and stop being so damn secretive all the time. Especially now, especially here. He was the one who showed up here after all this time and now he was trying to just sneak by with it. You refused to let him, forced him to confront his own dilemma. You couldnât see it any other way, blinded by your own rose colored rage that needed an explanation.
Bruce grit his teeth, working up the nerve to answer you as he looked down at your feet, looking physically pained. He wanted to tell you why, he wanted to tell you why so badly, but just as soon as he wanted to say it he was found at a loss for words, struck with that same fear again that made his words stutter. That same fear of being rejected, ridiculed, that fear of putting his heart on his sleeve and having you pierce it with a silver dagger. He was Batman, the shadow of shadows who dealt with worse pain than you could ever imagine. Heâs been shot, stabbed, cut up, pushed out of a window, and any other horror you could ever imagine but somehow⊠none of that hurt would ever compare to the pain caused by your rejection.
You had the power to destroy him and you didnât even know it. You didnât know how much of him you carried with you, how easily you could make him fall. Against Gotham he was the Dark Knight, relentless, strong and menacing, capable of things you didnât want to think about. Against you⊠he was nothing, powerless, a twig in your hand you could crush without a thought. He was weak against your beauteous thrall and he just wished he couldâve admitted that to himself so much sooner.
Bruce felt his heart constrict, his palms suddenly clammy and his throat suddenly dry; he swallowed roughly. His own heart pounded in his ears, beating under his hot skin, the reality of what he was about to say hitting him full force and he felt like he could pass out, right here on your fire escape, light headed and heavy chested.
He let out a big breath through his nose, gripping the wall between his bloody gloved hands, mustering up the confidence he needed and pushing his fear down, down and deep so it couldnât be acknowledged anymore. He smothered his insecurities and doubts like a candle wick, clenched his jaw and cleared the smoke from his mind. Bruce looked up at you, eyes glimmering like fire light as they looked over your form once more. He looked up from your socks and your feet, up to your smooth legs and pink nightgown, up to your face, where he focused intently on your lips and nose and eyes.
You looked back at him, where he was staring at you with a type of ferocity and intensity it had your breath stuck in your throat, chills going down your spine.
ââŠWhy I was in love with you.â
You swore your heart stopped.
â°âŠïœ„ïŸâ” đđđ
đđđ: how it all fell together đâč
âËâĄâĄ Of course, you loved him back, and Bruce couldnât have been happier about it. But, during the actual relationship he was very much still the same, but you could see that he was trying to be closer to you, it was just hard for him. You helped him, made him feel not so scared.
âËâĄâĄ You were patient with him, never judged or pushed him to do things you knew he had a hard time doing. He always wanted to talk to you about his parents but he would stop himself before he went in depth about it. That was something he needed time with, and you understood it.
âËâĄâĄ He was always doing small things for you that you probably wouldnât have noticed if you werenât so focused on him. He would always smooth out your pillows for you, make you breakfast and be shy that he made something you didnât like, he would even blow out your candle for you if you ever left it lit. He would give you small gifts, sometimes expensive, a bracelet or a necklace, a set of earrings his mother adored. You loved them all.
âËâĄâĄ You had to buy him those vanilla bean and raspberry candles you had. He set them up around his home because the smell reminded him of you and your house, his safe space.
âËâĄâĄ He still didnât like to talk, but he loved to listen. Heâd ask questions that were deeply intimate and personal because he wanted to know everything about you. Heâd apologize for prodding but he really had no shame about it. He wanted to know you more, learn everything.
âËâĄâĄ He loved holding you in his sleep, you made his nightmares go away and made him feel less lonely. He would still flinch sometimes, keep his hands at appropriate distances away from your precious parts. He was a gentleman, that was for sure.
âËâĄâĄ He didnât sleep a lot still, so heâd always stare at you when you slept, brush his hand on your cheek when heâd leave in his Batman suit for the night. He hated leaving you, but knew he had responsibilities to his city he couldnât abandon.
âËâĄâĄ He introduced you to Alfred, rather, Alfred went to clean up Bruceâs room early in the morning and found you two in a rather compromising position. He just chuckled and walked out while Bruce awkwardly scrambled to compose himself. You were mortified.
âËâĄâĄ Bruce liked to draw you a lot, most of the time from memory when he was bored on a late night, sitting on a rooftop with charcoal scratching on ripped paper. He didnât show them to you, but you found them anyway.
âËâĄâĄ Bruce was soft, gentle with you, but sex was a different story, just depended on his day. Most of the time he was sweet, making up for leaving you and hurting you. He always carried so much guilt about it, even when you told him you were over it and understood why he did it.
âËâĄâĄ He didnât come out with you as a couple to the press, as Bruce Wayne. He didnât want them to badger you and question you, make you feel uncomfortable. He came to you a lot, his house was always under constant scrutiny from the public.
âËâĄâĄ He threatened your boss when you refused to quit your job. It was late, he was Batman, and your boss just so happened to walk past him. Bruce threw him against the wall with promises of pain if he didnât treat you right. You had a sneaky suspicion your boyfriend had something to do with your now positive work atmosphere and sudden raise, but decided not to question him.
âËâĄâĄ He was always touching you, or kissing you, hesitant to show outright affection so he was subtle when he did it. A hand on your lower back, hovering over your jacket or gently pressing into it. A hand on your arm, a peck on your forehead, a kiss to your cheek when youâd fall asleep.
âËâĄâĄ He told you he loved you every night, rarely ever during the day. It was in his bed or yours, when it was silent and cozy, heâd whisper it in your hair or against your skin, and youâd smile and tell him the same.
âËâĄâĄ You never expected anything from him besides his love, but he always felt like he owed you something, grateful that you gave him this chance to be with you despite what he did.
âËâĄâĄ He was constantly worried about you, on edge when you would be out by yourself or come home later than usual on the nights he couldnât see you. He would always think the worst, think you were dead and he was too late, someone found him out and was using you to blackmail him. All the worst scenarios to prepare himself for the worst outcomes.
âËâĄâĄ Bruce is constantly having negative intrusive thoughts. Youâll leave him, he doesnât deserve you, he shouldâve stayed gone. Heâll go quiet and try to isolate himself when that happens, so you always try and support him and reassure him in any way you can.
âËâĄâĄ He still has such a hard time being vulnerable and talking about his past, but he tries with you. Heâll get tongue tied sometimes or a sentence will drift off before he can finish it, but heâll try.
âËâĄâĄ Bruce is always so busy he forgets to eat. Youâll constantly remind him food is good for you. So, some days heâll go eating nothing at all, despite you and Alfredâs insistence. But when he does, itâs a big feast Alfred prepares for him.
âËâĄâĄ He is very sweet, a complete gentleman. He has the best manners. He always says his pleases and his thank yous. Heâll follow a question with, when you have a chance, if you can. With Alfred though heâll be so distracted heâll just walk away. He doesnât mean to, just makes sure heâs extra gentle with you.
âËâĄâĄ He likes black and white films to play in the background when heâs not doing anything. Or slow, almost gothic music to really set the tone. Heâs emo like that and I just know it.
âËâĄâĄ He goes to Alfred a lot for relationship advice, scared heâll mess up and youâll leave him. He wants to avoid making mistakes with you, so heâll ask for help or reassurance on what to do.
âËâĄâĄ Bruce has a tendency to ignore any problem until it goes away, especially to avoid a fight with you. Heâs confrontational when it comes to you, so heâll let you have your way a lot of the time. He doesnât like to fight with you.
â ËïœĄâàšâĄà§â ËïœĄâ Bruce was sweet and shy, always making sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed. He never judged you when youâd tell him your stories or your past, he never accused you of things, and he never raised his voice at you when things would get frustrating. He loved you too much, appreciated you too much. You had no idea how happy you made him even if his face didnât show it.
He was still wary, scared youâll leave him, scared one of his enemies will find you out and take you away from him. But he was always there, watching and protecting, hiding in the shadows, being the shadow, on the nights you didnât know. He may have been Gothamâs protector, but he was also yours.
He loved you and was grateful for you, so grateful he met you when he did and that you trusted him enough to let him see every lovely part of you. He vowed to protect you, to cherish you, and he made good on that promise. Even going as far as to blow out your candle every day before youâd leave for work. Couldnât have you burning your house down, now could he?
Honestly, I could go on and on about this man so I think I have to end this here. But thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed, especially @diavolosbaby who requested this. I really hope you like it, and if youâre not satisfied or I didnât answer your ask correctly then donât be afraid to tell me đđ constructive criticism isnât bad mmkay âșïžđ
#đŻê· đđđđđ ïŸ â Ìšâč#batman#batman fanfic#the batman#batman x reader#catwoman x batman#batman oneshot#batman imagine#Batman fanfiction#batman fic#robert pattinson x reader#Robert Pattinson#battinson#battinson x reader#battinson one shot#battinson fanfiction#battinson fanfic#battinson fic#battinson Imagine#Batman smut#battinson smut#bale batman#Christian bale batman
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áŠDom!Bruce Wayne (Nsfw)
A/n: IM BACKKKK
Please reblog if you enjoyed <3
Summary: Some dom!bruce Wayne head canons :)
Bruce likes to keep your arms restrained,whether itâs him holding your arms down or have you tied down old fashioned â with some rope. He usually ties you up/holds you down while he eats you out.
When he wants to be a bit more romantic heâll lace his fingers with yours as you devours your soaked cunt.
Iâve said it once and Iâll say it again. BATMAN LOVES EATING PUSSY.
Bruce loves tightly holding your hips as he plows into from behind, most time he ends up leaving bruises. To which he kisses the next day when theyâre more visible.
He loves having you close so that he can whisper filthy things in your ear:
âLook at you taking my cock so wellâ
âYou like it when I fuck you like youâre nothing?â
âFuck you feel so goodâ
âDonât you fucking cumâ
âLook at how I fit so fucking goodâ
âYou want more?â
Bruce likes handling you rough, whether itâs him forcing you to look at him in whatever position he puts you in.
He loves spanking you while you ride him, he loves the way your hips buck and how your body jerks when he does it.
He loves any position where he can still see your face, even in doggy or reverse cow girl heâll still find a way to get to see your face.
Bruce loves making you whimper and beg for him (he teases you about it):
âAwww you need me?â
âHow bad do you need me right now?â
âFuck youâre soakedâ
âCan I taste you?â
He DEFINITELY grunts
Thereâs only been one time where he has made you cry during sex, by extreme overstimulation. And as soon as he saw the tears roll down he came instantly and the hardest heâs ever came.
He loves seeing his cum on you, from him either cumming on your face, of cumming on your stomach/back/or tits.
He loves holding your legs down while he fingers roughly, curling his fingers inside you while playing with your clit. Bruce loves watching your body shudder and break down trying to keep composure while he fucks you, he loves watching your eyes roll to the back of your head and your mouth silently gape open from pleasure.
Thank you for reading!!!
#batman#brucewayne#battinson fic#batman fanfiction#battinson x reader#bruce wayne x reader#dark#smut#headcannons#batman headcanon#robert pattinson bruce wayne#smut headcanons#battinson smut#battinson
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+ Bruce Wayne with âđ€đ«đ©ââ€ïžâđâđšâ
-âïžâïž
--word count: 0.5k
--warnings: SICK FIC!!! not much, but bruce is very stubborn. fluff, fluff, fluff!
--gif credit: @gotham
You knew being out in the cold and the rain would eventually catch up to him. And, of course, he always ignored you. Bruce tended to brush off anything concerning his health, and it stressed you out. Whether you asked him about a jacket, or even to sleep in a little longer, he always denied it. So when you heard sniffling coming from his side of the bed, you knew he was in for a few days of rest, even if he didnât want it.Â
You glance toward Bruce next to you, reading the morning paper and barely touching his food, his shoulders slumped more than usual. His constant sniffling makes you worry. Reaching over to rest your hand on top of his, you pull his attention away from the newspaper and onto you, âAre you feeling alright?â His palm turns over and interlaces your fingers, giving them a soft squeeze.Â
âYeah,â his voice revealed the stuffiness of his nose, âIâm fine.â He checks the time before quickly changing the subject, âDonât you have to be at work? Itâs getting late.âÂ
Youâre studying his features as he speaks before you let go of his hold to bring the backside of your hand to feel his forehead, the skin hot to the touch. âBruce, youâre burning up. Iâll take the day off, so that means you have to, too,â you walk over to Alfred to inform him of Bruceâs current state.Â
â(Y/N), I told you that Iâm fine,â a tone of annoyance hidden in his voice, followed by a nasty cough. You know that he doesnât want to abandon his work for a single day. His work trumps his health, according to his logic.Â
This pulls both your and Alfredâs attention. âWell,â you sigh playfully, âI guess Alfred can cuddle you back to health if you donât need any of my help today!â You return to the dining table where Bruce still sits and pick up your purse. Leaning down to press a quick peck to the top of Bruceâs head, you add, âIâll be off thenâŠâ
As you make your way to the front doors, a voice shouts your way, âWait!â You peer over your shoulder to see Bruce standing, his eyes pleading for you to stay. â I donât feelâŠthe best,â he mutters.
You fully face him, waiting for him to say something else, but he doesnât, so you give him a push of encouragement. âYou donât feel the best, and you what,â you ask him in a sing-song voice. You know youâre pushing it a bit, but you still stand there waiting for his response.Â
â...And I would like for you to stay here. With me,â he adds.Â
This makes you grin as you walk over to Bruce, enveloping him in a hug. Bringing up your hand to brush his hair out of his face, you peck his forehead, âYouâre stubborn, you know that right?âÂ
You only receive a huff in response, but youâre satisfied. As the two of you walk up the stairs and back to bed, Alfred canât help but chuckle at the two of you. You have Bruce wrapped around your finger, and he loves it.Â
--author's note: dear universe, just because i wrote a sickfic does NOT mean i should get sick...thank you!!! I LOVED THIS ASK!!! THANK YOU âïž ANON! don't forget to like, comment, and reblog to support me and my work! my 300 follower celebration is happening NOW, so send in something if you want to bae:) ok, ily bye<3333.
#bruce wayne#bruce wayne x reader#fluff#sickfic#battinson#battinson fic#battinson x reader#bruce wayne blurb#the batman 2022#dc#llftd 300 follower celebration
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in flames
battisnon! bruce wayne x CEO! vigilante! reader
summary: The reader encounters the Batman when stealing information from a murdered man one night. The next day at a meeting to merge her business with Wayne Enterprises, she meets Bruce Wayne for the first time--and he has a cut on his face exactly like the one she gave the Batman. When sparks fly, will they go down in flames?
a/n: look it's me back with another "oneshot" in which I'm too long winded! This one's smutty and full of banter--enjoy! (and yes I do have to use this gif whenever there's something sexy in the content oops)
***not affiliated with middle of the night***
*content is NSFW. 18+*
word count: 10,497
The window opened with barely a creak. Y/n slipped through carefully, quietly, every one of her senses on high alert.Â
Getting caught at an active crime scene would be a terrible look for her company, to say the least. Especially the night before a huge meeting about a potential merger.Â
But that part of her that had always existedâthe part that fought against injustice, no matter how big or small, the part that used her position in life for goodâwouldnât let this rest.Â
A man had been murdered, after all.Â
A man who was a murderer himself. A man who hurt people, repeatedly, for his own gain.Â
She left the window open the barest crack in case she needed to make a quick getaway, but still closed enough that it didnât look like it had been tampered with. Sheâd learned that lesson the hard way over the years sheâd been doing this.Â
She waited a beat in the silence of the night to make sure nothing was stirring.Â
The penthouse apartment was utterly quiet.Â
She knew from a couple of hours of observation that there was only one cop posted outside the apartment door and another in the lobby. She guessed they hadnât expected anyone to come in from the roof. And hadnât that been how the Riddler had gotten in to kill the mayor the year before? GCPD were never going to learn.Â
Y/n bit back a sigh. A year, and things in Gotham were still shit.Â
Well, she was working on that. Not only did she shore up charitable donations in the city, but she also had taken notes from the Batman and decided to take matters into her own handsâin secret of course. She did good work with her money and her company by day, and a different sort of work by night in disguise.Â
While she didnât have the gadgets or physical strength like Batman did, she had her own set of skills. Namely, plenty of friends in places both low and high, willing to help her out because they all owed her favors. She dealt in secrets, and secrets were what led to real change in the city.
Not violence. Not death. Not even good, old-fashioned police work.Â
Secrets from the right person leveraged in the right way wrought change with little effort.
And secrets were what she was currently after.Â
The man whoâd been murderedâa former city councilman who had just announced his run for Senate and his plan to eventually run for presidentâwas scum just like all the powerful people the Riddler had murdered a year before.Â
Y/n didnât condone murder, but she did believe in bringing the darkness into the light. That part of the Riddlerâs manifesto, at least, she could get behind. As fucking crazy as the guy was, she really couldnât blame him for wanting to correct some of the shitstorm that was the city of Gotham. His methods had been all wrong, though. She didnât hurt anybody. She merely told the truth about them.Â
It was pure chance that her target had been murdered. There had been a string of robberies in the upper class neighborhoodâand this time, the apartment hadnât been empty as expected. The thieves had killed him in their surprise. It had always been her plan to rob the man, just not his valuables. She was after his secrets so she could expose him and ruin his political career.Â
Now one man was dead and the thief turned murderer was in a jail cell. The city was lauding one and villainizing the other. But they didnât know what she knew, what she was seeking to reveal to the city at large.Â
Y/n knew the truth. Not only was the Senate campaign paid for with all kinds of dirty money, but that money had also been stolen from all kinds of charitiesâseveral of which y/n was directly involved with and one she had started herself.Â
Even if she hadnât been involved in the aforementioned charities, her blood would have curdled at every other secret this former councilman had hidden. The skeletons in his closet were overflowing, all clambering over each other, multiplying the more she dug.Â
And apparently, the man was old fashioned and had several paper copies of his nefarious dealings hidden in a personal safe. The police had checked the other safe, the one the thief had been trying to get into when he shot the former councilman. All along there had been another, smaller, much more important safe underneath the manâs desk.Â
It was this safe y/n aimed for.Â
She bent underneath the desk and got to work picking the lock.Â
It took nearly ten minutes, not her best work, but finally the damn thing opened with a soft click. Sadly, her informant hadnât known the code, but y/n was adept at safe cracking and lock picking.
Every hair on the back of her neck rose.Â
It was instinct born of her nightly activities, or it was the soft movement of air as someone snuck through the apartment, or maybe it was the barest sound of a shoe against the hardwood. Somehow, she very suddenly knew she wasnât alone.
Y/n didnât hesitate. She whirled and threw one of the many knives on her at the person sneaking up behind her. The aim was to scare, not to kill. In the same moment, she grabbed everything from the hidden safe and tucked it under her arm.Â
The knife nicked the side of the Batmanâs jaw as he easily stepped out of the way.Â
Shit, she thought, because she had expected another thief or maybe a cop. And he was close, closer than sheâd expected.Â
She hadnât expected Gothamâs favorite vigilante to be right behind.Â
The Batman didnât hesitate either. He darted forward so fast she barely saw more than a blur of shadow. With a curse out loud this time, she dodged, hip banging painfully against the corner of the desk as she moved out of the way.Â
âItâs not what it looks like,â she said in a low voice.
âItâs exactly what it looks like,â the masked man said. They were both keeping as quiet as possible. She didnât think either of them would want the cop outside knowing someone had broken into the apartment.Â
He lunged. She ducked under his arm and kicked at the back of his knee. He grunted but didnât go down. She frowned but had no time to alter course before his hand grabbed her upper arm and yanked. All of the papers sheâd taken scattered across the floor.Â
Y/n chopped at his elbow, hand stinging as it connected to whatever his armor was made out of.Â
âOw,â she muttered as she tried to release herself from his tight grip. Damn, he was strong. She aimed a kick towards his balls but his free hand caught her ankle. Now he had her arm and her leg. She bared her teeth at him and forced herself closer to take him off guard. He wasnât easily fooled, though, and only held her tighter.Â
âIâm not stealing, you fucker,â she hissed. Her chest pressed up against the hard planes of armor. Batman stared down at her, eyes almost blank underneath the mask. He was taller and broader than her, and showed no signs of his grip lessening.Â
âThen why did you take papers out of that safe?â he asked in a gravelly baritone that made her shiver. She hadnât realized that the Batman wasâŠkind of hot.Â
âTake a look at them and youâll see why.â She wriggled again but he didnât let go.Â
He stared down at her for a long moment. Finally, he moved enough to bend over and gather up the papers with one hand. His other hand still had her by the wrist.Â
âIâm not going to run,â she said with an annoyed sigh. âIâm doing what you doâfixing corruption.âÂ
The vigilante straightened and glanced at the topmost paper in his hand. He frowned.Â
âIs this all true?âÂ
She craned her neck to see what, exactly, he was looking at.Â
âYes, itâs all true.â She gave up trying to get out of his hold. He was too strong, too fast. âThatâs all I was after. I have a contact at GC1 news I was going to send it to. Make it public that this guy was a piece of shit whoâs better off dead.âÂ
Batman simply stared at her. The cut across his jaw was shallow but bleeding steadily.Â
âThen why break in?â he finally asked.Â
âWhyâd you break in?â she countered. His grip loosened slightly. She silently began to count down. She didnât want this asshole taking her hard-earned information to the police or anyone else. She wanted it public and she needed the papers in his gloved hands in order to do so.Â
âIâm investigating,â he said with a slight narrowing of his eyes. âAnd catching thieves.âÂ
âIâm not a thief!âÂ
She used his distraction to yank her hand back, grab the papers, and dart away.Â
Batman caught her by the suit at the scruff of her neck.Â
Rage welled up inside y/n and she struck out with her leg. In the same movement she twisted to face him. Her foot connected with his chest. He barely moved. He didnât make a sound, either, as if she was simply an insect bothering him.Â
âIf youâre not a thief,â he said while blocking the blow from her fist. She kept backing up towards the window sheâd left cracked, even as they exchanged a flurry of blows. âThen why did you break in? Why did you throw a knife?âÂ
She almost winced. âYou snuck up on me, okay? You were closer than I thought. I wasnât aiming to hit you.âÂ
âBut you were aiming to steal.â Again, he caught her by the ankle as she tried to kick him. She growled as she was forced to hop on her other foot to remain balanced.Â
âYes, we went over this. Nothing else nefarious is going on.â She crossed her heart with her free hand for emphasis.Â
Quicker than she thought possible, the Batman released her foot. It knocked her off balance and she stumbled.Â
He pulled off her mask.Â
Her heart stopped. She froze, panting heavily from their little bit of sparring, and stared at him in fear.Â
âDonâtââ she said, but no other words would come.Â
âIâm keeping this,â he said as he held up the mask. âDo what you want with those papers. Then stop breaking into places.âÂ
He had her mask. He was looking her dead in the eyes. She might not have been easily recognizable like other wealthy CEOs in Gotham, but if her merger with Wayne Enterprises went through the next dayâŠher picture would be everywhere. And then heâd know who she was.Â
She half-snarled and darted towards her mask. The Batman easily kept it out of her reach.Â
âGive it back!â she said in a voice that was much too loud.Â
They both froze as the apartment door clickedâa key in the lock.Â
Shit, the cop was coming to check on them.Â
She and the Batman exchanged a glance.Â
Her mind tripped over itself trying to get past her fight, flight, or freeze instincts all warring for attention. She needed her mask, but if she got caughtâŠit was over.Â
Fuck it, she had to leave the mask.Â
âFucker,â she mumbled to the other vigilante as she fled for the window. He didnât stop her.Â
As she closed it behind her, she chanced a glance in the window. The Batman was gone. A cop was walking through, shining his flashlight over every shadow.Â
Y/n stared for a beat longer.Â
Then she scrambled up to the roof to grab her things and run like hell.Â
First she had information to leak to the press. Then she had a board meeting to prepare for. At least she had the files now.Â
She could get revenge against that asshole vigilante some other time.Â
â
Y/n dressed carefully for her meeting the next morning. It never hurt to dress to impress, she reasoned. She needed to look strong, capable, but not dowdy. Men were simple creatures and she figured Bruce Wayne was no different. If she could impress him, the merger would go through.Â
Her pantsuit was simple and black, tailored to perfectly accent her body. Underneath she wore a red silk shirtâred for power, red for purpose. Red to match her favorite lipstick.Â
The news played in the background as she finished her makeup and hair. The information sheâd given the news was already everywhere. She tried not to feel too smug, but it was hard. Sheâd taken that bastardâs reputation down, sent it to hell where it and he belonged. And now investigations were startingâinvestigations that would hopefully help the people he wronged. That would give money back to the charities and families he had stolen from.Â
She was so focused on her triumph that she didnât have time to be angry at the asshole vigilante whoâd stolen her mask. She could get another one madeâbut it would take a while. It was custom made, bulletproof and made to perfectly fit her face. Maybe this time sheâd request it hook to her suit, too, that way it wouldnât be so easy to steal next time.Â
She and her team were the first ones in the boardroom at Wayne Enterprises. They were early, but only by a few minutes. She shuffled her papers quietly and pulled up the current contract on her laptop. They would be discussing terms in that meeting and hopefully everyone would win. In another tab she had cost and profit projections in neat little graphs.Â
Merging with Wayne Enterprises was going to change her life. Her business would thrive even more, have more reach, be able to give more to charity. She knew Bruce Wayne liked charitable givingâhis parents had been philanthropists and he had started a relief. She had made sure to include all this in her pros and cons list that sheâd emailed the Wayne CEO at the beginning of the merger talks.Â
âGood morning,â said a member of the Wayne Enterprises board from the doorway. She and her team stood and started shaking hands.Â
Bruce Wayne was the last one in the door. He didnât shake anyoneâs hand, merely went to the opposite end of the conference table from y/n.Â
As they all sat, Bruce Wayne looked up and met her gaze.Â
They both startled.Â
Recognition flitted across his face before he could hide it.Â
Her own mouth parted in shock.Â
Bruce Wayne had a long cut across one side of his jaw. A cut that perfectly matched the one sheâd given a certain vigilante the night before.
Bruce Wayne was the Batman.Â
â
âânot saying that we shouldnât, but after all the bad luck with the Riddler last yearââÂ
Bruce Wayne interrupted y/n with a growl in his voice. âBad luck? Bad luck? Heâs a psychopath who murdered people and blew up half the city! Itâs notââÂ
âYou know what I meant!â she shot right back.Â
There had been a moment, at the beginning of the meeting, where everyone was introduced and the terms of the contract were read aloud and y/n and Bruce had simply stared at each other. The moment stretched into silence, and all she could think was, Holy fucking shit.Â
Bruce Wayne was the Batman.Â
It had devolved from there.Â
Bruce had immediately shot down several of the terms she had insisted on, which pissed her off. Her rebuttal had been appropriately angry, which had pissed him off. Every beat of her heart had her more and more worried heâd reveal her identity and sheâd be fired on the spot.Â
After half an hour, theyâd argued about several things, and she finally started to stop worrying about him outing her.Â
That didnât mean he didnât piss her off with every word out of his mouth.Â
Now, here they were, half-shouting at each other from across the long table, both of them the only ones standing. Bruce had his hands flat on the table as he shot daggers at her with his eyes and his words. She stood with a hand on her hip, just as angry as she was.Â
The worst part was, theyâd been using an intermediary to even draft the contract they were there to discuss. And now he suddenly had a bunch of issues with it? It was in his fucking favor.Â
There was a soft clearing of a throat that shut them both up mid bickering.Â
âI think we should table this for the day,â said the intermediary. She was pretty sure he wasnât there to act as a literal mediator. âWe can reconvene at the same time tomorrow. Why donât we have both sides draw up new proposals in the meantime.âÂ
Everyone was staring at them, at their behavior, and it only served to piss her off more.Â
âWell Iâm okay with getting this finished today,â y/n said petulantly. She glared at Bruce Wayne.Â
âLetâs table it,â he said as he glared right back. She had a feeling that he was only saying that to disagree with her, not because he actually thought it was a bad idea.Â
She ground her teeth together so hard she was pretty sure the whole table could hear it. âFine, same time tomorrow.âÂ
She was too angry to feel embarrassed at her squabbling with the CEO of Wayne Enterprises like two rival schoolchildren. Not only had this fucker taken her mask, but he also was trying to fuck her with her company too. All this work sheâd put into the contract, into the merger, and he was blowing it off like it was nothing.
She stormed out of the room without another word, headed straight for the elevator, and muttered curse words under her breath the entire way. It didnât help her feel better, but she had to blow off some of the steam rising in her somehow or she was going to burst into angry flames and take down the whole building, his apartments included.
Inside the elevator, she took a deep breath. Sheâd have to rewrite the entire contract, which would probably take all night. The only thing that made her feel better was that Bruce Wayne had to do the same thing if he wanted any of his terms put up for consideration.Â
She imagined him in his full Batman costume pouring over the contracts and snorted to herself. Of course, he probably just had someone do it for him and send it to him to review, but the mental image cheered her slightly.Â
As if her thoughts had conjured him, a hand caught the closing elevator doors, and in stepped Bruce Wayne.Â
The doors slid closed beside them.Â
Y/n had to bite her lip to keep from making a rude comment. There were several of them warring to get out at once.Â
âMr. Wayne,â she said instead, but she let all of the built up anger and venom come through her words.Â
He put his hands in his suit pockets and sighed. She had to admit, even as mad as he made her, he looked damn good. He was wearing a tailored dark blue suit that made his blue eyes pop. His long, dark hair was tousled as if heâd woken up right before coming to the meeting. He was tall, his shoulders broad, and his damn jawline was so sharp it looked like it had cut itself with the damage her knife had inflicted. And the cut along the jaw just made it worseâhe looked mysterious, handsome, like he was full of secrets waiting to be discovered. Which, she guessed, he was.Â
He stared down at her, back ramrod straight, and seemed to grow in the small space. He reached a hand out and without looking hit a button that made the elevator stop.Â
She simply waited. She was pretty sure she knew what was coming. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.Â
Bruce leaned in very closeâclose enough that she could smell whatever fresh scent of shampoo or deodorant he used. It was a masculine scent that made her pulse jump as he got close enough for her to feel his breath.Â
âIf you tell anyone,â he said in a voice that definitely dredged up all sorts of images of darkness and shadows and bat wings. It also made her think of silk sheets and shadowy beds.Â
Feeling bold, y/n stepped closer. Their chests brushed now. âIs this a threat, Mr. Wayne?âÂ
Something flashed in his eyes and her traitorous body decided to get really, really turned on. His jaw clenched so tightly she expected to hear an audible snap. She could practically see his internal struggle not to be an asshole and it made her want to laugh. It was almost too easy to rile him up.Â
He took a step back, expression suddenly vulnerable. âIt would beâŠvery bad for me, and those close to meâŠif you told anyone. So, please. Just donâtâplease.âÂ
She softened a little. She hadnât expected the please. âHey, Iâve got a big secret too, remember? I wonât tell.â He gave a single sharp nod. âI want my mask back,â she added.Â
âNo,â he said as he leaned against the elevator wall. She could see their reflections in the shiny metallic ceiling. He was a blur of dark blue, she a pop of red. Opposites, of course.
âWhy the fuck not?â she asked. She crossed her arms again. The softness sheâd felt towards him was completely gone just like that.Â
Bruce straightened and got into her space again. Granted, it might not have been on purpose since he was so tall and the elevator was small. He lowered his voice, eyes flickering to her red lips, and said, âTo keep you out of trouble.âÂ
Y/n had no excuse for what happened next. As if possessed, she matched his step forward and let her hand slide up his chest to his shoulder. He swallowed hard, seemingly nervous.Â
âI can get into all kinds of trouble without the mask,â she murmured. Her eyes traced his lips this time.Â
And maybe it was because he was handsome and he was there. Maybe it was because they shared so many similarities. Or maybe she wanted to one up him somehow, and knew this would do the trick.Â
No matter the reason, y/n stretched up and captured Bruce Wayneâs mouth with her own.Â
He froze for a second, going unnaturally still, before he seemed to shake it off.Â
She couldnât help the small groan that escaped when his tongue traced her bottom lip or the one that slipped out when he grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him. One of her hands slipped inside his suit jacket while the other tangled in his hair. He groaned this time, and it went straight through her like a meteor, lighting her on fire as it went.Â
Her back bumped against the cold elevator wall, the railing digging into her, and she let herself be lifted so her ass sat on top of it. It was barely big enough to balance on, but provided enough leverage for Bruce to slide between her legs. She could feel his arousal press against her, right where she wanted him, and she couldnât help the small shift of her hips.Â
Bruce grabbed her tighter.Â
She bit his lower lip and grinned when he jerked back.Â
âThat was for being a jerk earlier,â she said.Â
He stared down at her. His dark hair was mussed. The blackness of his pupils had almost overtaken the bright blue.Â
Y/n lifted her hips to grind against him. His breath shook, eyelids fluttering closed. He felt so good against her like this, warm and strong and solid.Â
But then he let go and stepped away from her. He straightened his suit and wiped her lipstick off of his own mouth.Â
âWas it something I said?â she asked, teasing to cover up the hurt that was stinging through her like small thorns.Â
âI shouldnât have done that,â he said. He jabbed the same button from earlier and the elevator lurched into motion once more.Â
She frowned at him. He didnât bother looking at her. âSo youâre going to leave me and my business high and dry?âÂ
No answer. She scoffed. âAnd here I thought you were different from the typical rich man.âÂ
His shoulders stiffened but he still didnât say a word. Above their heads, the elevator counted down as they slowly got closer and closer to the ground floor.Â
âDonât you live in the penthouse?â she asked with another frown, distracted from her annoyance by the descending numbers.Â
âYes,â he said, but didnât elaborate.Â
âThen letâs go up there so you can give me my damn mask back.â
The elevator dinged as they reached the lobby.Â
âNo,â he said over his shoulder as he stepped out.Â
She watched him stride away on impossibly long legs.Â
âFuck,â she said, half annoyed with him, half with herself. She wanted to chase after him and slap some sense into him. Or chase after him and kiss him again. Her whole body tingled from the adrenaline of their meeting followed by quite possibly the best kiss sheâd ever had.Â
And he still wouldnât give her damn mask back.Â
With another soft growl of frustration, she stepped out of the elevator. She had no choice but to head home and start working on the damn contract. That, and she had to order a replacement mask. Hopefully her supplier still had her measurements on file.Â
âÂ
The next morning, y/n decided to do something stupid.Â
She left two hours early for their makeup merger meeting and stopped at the reception desk with her most winning smile.Â
âGood morning,â she said brightly. âThey messed up my order this morning so I have an extra latte. Do you want it?âÂ
âOhâYeah, sure, thanks. I was running late this morning so I havenât had time to get coffee,â the young girl said. She took the proffered coffee and inhaled deeply with a soft sound of appreciation. âYouâre a lifesaver.âÂ
âOh, donât worry about it, it was free.â She smiled again. It definitely hadnât been free and was, in fact, part of her stupid plan. âIâm just heading up to see Mr. Wayne. He forgot to give me the code to get up there. I donât think heâs awake yet.â She winked and laughed. âWeâre going over this merger contract some more before we bring all the big boys in on it.âÂ
She waved a file folder in the air. It was a copy of her amended contract, to be fair. And she did want to talk to Bruce about it. But she also wanted to maybe snoop around and get her mask back and maybe also find out where he hid his Batman armor.Â
âSure, no problem,â the receptionist said cheerfully. She scribbled a note with one hand and sipped her coffee with the other. Y/n relaxed. She thought for sure sheâd be told a very firm no. Sheâd imagined Bruce being summoned from the top of the tower to come curse her out in front of all of his employees. She supposed being a CEO in her own right made it easier to get into a forbidden space. Hell, this girl probably thought she and Bruce were going to go over the contract naked.Â
And wasnât that an idea.Â
Y/n thanked the girl and practically skipped to the private elevator she was directed to. It gave her no small amount of joy to get one up on Bruce again. She spent the whole long ride up to the penthouse smiling as she imagined the look on his face when she interrupted his breakfast.Â
She knew it was stupidâreally, she did. The merger was tentative now because of their show in the boardroom and she was sure their kiss hadnât helped matters at all.Â
She didnât stop and question why she was doing this or what she hoped to get out of it. Mostly she wanted to bother Bruce, get her mask back, and maybe, hopefully iron out some of the kinks in the merger plan. She had a feeling they would both be better without an audience.Â
The elevator made no noise as it slid to a stop and opened its doors.Â
Y/n stopped in her tracks.Â
Wayne Towerâs penthouse wasâŠlike the inside of a gothic church. The ceilings were tall and sweeping, full of detailed arches, sculptures, and well, a lot of dust.Â
âHello,â said a soft, accented voice. She turned and saw an aging man with a cane, his salt and pepper hair styled perfectly neat, his clothes pressed and clean. âIs Mr. WayneâŠexpecting you?âÂ
She didnât miss the way his hand strayed to his side and the telltale bulge underneath his shirt. He was armed. His expression was polite, kind even, but there was a glint in his eyes that said he meant business.Â
She held up her trusty file folder. âI came to go over some stuff about the merger. Iâm y/n. I donât know if he told you about uhâŠour argument in the meeting yesterday, so Iâm here to apologize and smooth things over.â She shrugged as if sheepish.Â
âThe day you apologize is the day my father becomes mayor,â said a familiar voice.Â
She turned, and there was Bruce. He was dressed in dark sweatpants and nothing else, running a towel over his damp hair. She hated that her entire body reacted to the sight of him shirtless. He was muscular. Scarred, too, but it made sense with his nightly activities.Â
Her mouth was too dry to talk. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, âWell, you better get out the confetti because I really am here to say Iâm sorry.â Okay, maybe it hadnât actually been part of her plan butâŠshe could say two little words in exchange for saving the merger.Â
Bruce and the older man exchanged a look. Bruce made a dismissive wave. The man nodded once and disappeared down a hallway.Â
They stared at each other in silence. Bruce slung the towel over one bare shoulder. She tried not to stare, she really did, but it was next to impossible. God, did he have to be so fucking good looking on top of everything else?Â
âHowâd you get in here?â Bruce finally asked. He crossed his arms, which only served to show off his biceps and pectorals.Â
Stop staring! y/n mentally shouted at herself. She tore her eyes away and met his gaze.Â
âI flirted with the receptionist,â she said. She was rewarded with Bruceâs shock. He opened and then abruptly closed his mouth before he schooled his expression.Â
âPoor Stella,â he said after a beat.Â
She couldnât help her laugh. âI bought her coffee and told her the truth. I came to talk about the contract. AndâŠokay, maybe I wasnât going to apologize, but I did intend to smooth things over. That counts for something, right?âÂ
Bruceâs lips compressed like he was trying not to smile. âI should have let Alfred shoot you.âÂ
She let out a startled laugh. âI did sneak into your home, soâŠâÂ
âWell, come on then,â Bruce said, gesturing for her to follow him.Â
âWhere are we going?â she asked uncertainly.Â
âWeâre going to have breakfast and go over the damn contract.âÂ
âAnd youâre going to give in to all of my demands and grovel at my feet, right?â she said to his unfairly muscled back.Â
He turned his head just enough that she could see his arched eyebrow.Â
âHey, it was worth a shot.âÂ
Breakfast went well, at first. She and Bruce joked together like they were old friends as they ate. He told her about the time heâd snuck out on break from college and had tried to sneak back in, only for Alfred to catch him and threaten to shoot him.Â
Then the talk shifted to business, and they started arguing all over again. She shouldnât have brought up the controversial Renewal Fund, she knew that, but it had been an accident. An accident that pissed Bruce off, apparently.Â
âIâm just saying that we should have more checks and balances,â she said through gritted teeth as Alfred cleared their plates. He was Bruceâs butler, apparently, though he seemed more like an uncle or something.Â
âI donât disagree,â Bruce said. He rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb.Â
âYou are literally disagreeing!â She threw her hands in the air in exasperation.Â
âNot about that!âÂ
âThen what? That the Renewal Fund wasnât used to fund the corrupt? That it wasnât an absolute shit show?â She tapped her pointer finger on the table with every other word.Â
Bruce stared at her. âAll of that is true.âÂ
âYou are soââ She made a frustrated noise. âSo fucking annoying!âÂ
âIf you would listen to me for a moment, maybe you wouldnât get so frustrated.â He glared at her between his fingers as he continued rubbing at what was apparently a massive headache caused by her.Â
âI am listening! I donâtâI mean, come on, you run around dressed as a bat every night to try and make a goddamn difference in the city. And now suddenly your morals change?â She smacked her hand against the wood table so hard it hurt. âOf course Iâm frustrated.âÂ
Bruceâs gaze went flat. âThat has no bearing on what I do in my company,â he finally said after a long pause.Â
She inhaled deeply. âShouldnât it, though?âÂ
âWhat are you saying?â Both of his palms were pressed flat on the table. Every line of him was rigid as if he were about to snap.Â
âJesus, if youâd chill for a second,â she muttered, then straightened. âIâm saying that my company is charitable. Thatâs one of our core values. We hire the underprivileged, we give back to the community, we work to build up Gotham brick by brick. And what does Wayne Enterprises do? Give to charity once or twice a year? Sometimes help with relief funds where thereâs a flood caused by a psychopath?âÂ
âYouâre saying you donât think this will work because Iâm not charitable enough?â Disbelief colored his tone even though his face remained carefully neutral. His nostrils flared though as he breathed in deep and let it out, the only sign she was truly getting under his skin. âBecause I shut down the Renewal Fund?âÂ
âI know what you do every night. I commend it. Itâsâactually pretty fucking amazing. But thatâs only one thing. Bruce Wayne, CEO, can doâŠso much more in the light of day. Why do you think I do both, too? So all Iâm saying is, maybe if we join forcesâŠ.we can really make a change. At night and during the day. You understand?âÂ
Bruce stood abruptly and started pacing. âYou shouldnât be doing that kind of stuff.âÂ
âNeither should you,â she said dryly. âAnd thatâs not stopping you.âÂ
Bruce paused in his pacing. He opened his mouth but she interrupted, her annoyance rising all over again.Â
âI swear if you say itâs different for you, Iâll punch you so hard youâll forget your name.âÂ
He closed his mouth again.Â
âSeriously,â she said. She stood to better face him. âYouâve got some kind of weird savior complex going on and itâs getting on my nerves.âÂ
He raised one dark eyebrow. âSavior complex?âÂ
âYes!â She resisted the urge to stomp her foot like a child.Â
âAnd youâre qualified to comment on this afterââ He pretended to check a watch he wasnât wearing. âOnly knowing me for about thirty-two hours?âÂ
âYouâre not as much of a mystery as you like to think, Mr. Wayne. You run around every night and yes, you do plenty for the city. But you think you have to do it alone. I donât know if itâs because you think youâre better than anyone else or what, but newsflashâother people want to help Gotham too.â She crossed her arms again and stared him down. His eyes narrowed. âOther people can help Gotham.âÂ
âItâs dangerous,â he finally said after a long minute of glaring at each other.Â
âNo shit, Sherlock,â she said. She couldnât help the roll of her eyes that went along with the words. âIâm not hurting anyone. Hell, I usually wait until places are empty to steal information. Thatâs what I deal withâsecrets and information. Iâm barely in danger.â
âHow do I know you wonât steal information from me?â
She grit her teeth. âAre you doing anything illegal? Other than, you know, being a vigilante, I mean. I donât care about that.âÂ
âNo.â His jaw flexed and he looked away.Â
âThen what the fuck is your problem?â Sheâd been doing so well at squashing the annoyance that kept rising within her. âAre you just trying to be an asshole? You lose nothing with this merger, donât you get that? All Iâm asking is for you to use your fucking money for good. You know, I bet your dad would be so disappointed thatââÂ
âGet out.â The words were a growl. All at once something in him shifted and she saw a shadow of a cape and mask. Something in him was all predator now.Â
She hesitated. She hadnât meant to actually piss him off. âBruceââ
âGet. Out.â He pointed a single, threatening finger. He seemed to loom even larger, his body taking up twice the amount of space with its anger.Â
âI just meant thatââÂ
He took a step forward and damn it if she didnât feel a small jolt of fear. She scrambled to grab her stuff.
âThe meeting is canceled,â he said in a calmer voice. âNow get out.âÂ
âYouâre canceling?â She paused in the process of gathering her things. âNo way. Iâm going to talk to your board about canceling the merger, IââÂ
âNot the merger, just the meeting.â Without another word, Bruce turned and left. She imagined a shadow following him, a physical manifestation of his anger. Somewhere, a door slammed.Â
Grinding her teeth, y/n grabbed all of her stuff and stomped back to the elevator. âStupid, stubborn, asshole of a man,â she muttered the whole way. Sure, maybe she shouldnât have brought up his dad. But she had a point and he knew it. That was why he was so pissed off.Â
And canceling their meeting? What a dick.Â
She stopped before hitting the button that would take her to the lobby.Â
âYou know what?â she said out loud. âIâm just going to wait.â She glanced around at the imitation of a spooky castle. âHear that?â she shouted. âIâm not fucking leaving until you see sense!âÂ
Her voice echoed around the space. She half-expected a hoard of bats to take off from the rafters far above. She bit back an almost hysterical laugh. Maybe there were bats hiding up there. Thatâs probably where he got the idea from.Â
She leaned back against the wall next to the elevator.Â
âAm I going to have to have you arrested for trespassing?âÂ
Y/n jumped. Standing in the entrance to a hallway on her left was Alfred, the butler orâŠwhatever he was. Security. Uncle. Bruce hadnât ever actually clarified that point.
âOhâUhââ It was one thing to try to get back at Bruce. Alfred, frankly, intimidated her. And he seemed nice, unlike Bruce, which made her loathe to get on his nerves. âI was justââÂ
âI take it the meeting didnât go so well?â he said, letting her off the hook.Â
She relaxed slightly. âOh, it went perfectly. We yelled at each other for half an hour, debated the morality of vigilantes, and then when I accidentally brought up his dad, he kicked me out.âÂ
Alfredâs eyebrows practically disappeared into his hair. âOh?â he said.Â
Right. She probably wasnât supposed to know that Bruce was Batman. âI uhâŠwe actually met the night before last,â she said. âHe stole my mask.âÂ
She was impressed that he didnât show any emotion. âDid he?âÂ
âAnd I cut his face. It was an accident, but at yesterdayâs meeting I noticed andâŠwell. You probably know what I noticed.âÂ
Alfred hummed and relaxed his posture. âYou didnât tell anyone?âÂ
âLike I said, he stole my mask. I donât give a shit what he does.â She shrugged. It was the truth. âAll I want is for this merger to not only benefit our companies, but Gotham too. And for some reason the guy who runs around at all hours of the night protecting the city is suddenly waffling about using some of his buckets of cash to do some fucking good.âÂ
Alfred did the last thing she expected. He laughed. âOh, I like you. Come on.â He waved her over and went to, of all things, another elevator.Â
âWhere are we going?â she asked, wondering if maybe there was a dungeon beneath this place that Alfred was tricking her into. âAnd why does this goddamn tower have so many elevators?âÂ
Alfred put in a code and stepped inside an elevator that was a lotâŠgrungier than the others sheâd been in inside of Wayne Tower. He pressed his thumb to a keypad and entered another code. He then hit a button labeled only B before the thing started to lower. Basement, maybe?Â
âThis one is only for Bruce and I.âÂ
âAre you taking me to the dungeon?â she asked with a raised eyebrow.Â
Alfred chuckled. âYouâll see.âÂ
âSo thatâs all it takes to get into Bruce Wayneâs inner sanctum, huh?â She leaned against the side of the elevator. âSneak into the penthouse, pick a fight, and reveal that I know his deepest secret to hisâŠuncle?âÂ
âButler,â Alfred said. He shifted grip on his cane. âAnd Bruce needs someone to pick a fight with him.âÂ
âI really feel like youâre about to lock me in a dungeon.âÂ
The elevator jerked to a stop. There was a gate across the opening that rattled as it parted.Â
Alfred gestured for y/n to step out, so she did. She was surprised to see Alfred was staying inside. He winked at her and was gone as the elevator ascended again.Â
âIs she gone?â Bruceâs voice echoed around her and a chittering noise started in its wake.Â
The space around her wasâŠdark. She was standing on a platform with steps in front of her that led down to a wide open space. The edges of the area were in deep shadow and everything echoed strangely. Her eyes lifted to the dark ceiling andâholy shit, those were bats.Â
Her gaze landed next on two words carved into the stone overhand: Wayne Station.Â
âNo, actually, sheâs not,â y/n said as she followed the stairs down to where Bruce was. He had a shirt on now, at least. He was standing at a desk with several computer screens, hunched over as he scribbled something down. All around them were tables, computers, various tools, random pieces of Batmanâs suit, two motorcycles, and a car on a ramp with one of those cloth covers over it.Â
Bruce whirled at the sound of her voice. âWhatââÂ
âAlfred let me in,â she said with a triumphant grin. The pen in Bruceâs hand cracked from the force of his grip.Â
Bruce growled and turned back to what he was doing, unceremoniously flinging his pen to the side. âAlfred,â he muttered as if it were a curse.Â
âHe said you need someone to pick a fight with you. All I did was tell him I knew your secret and poof, here we are.â She greedily took in the space around her. It was so interesting. She had a feeling she was seeing a manifestation of Bruceâs mind. There were blueprints, all kinds of gadgets in various stages of completion, and a dummy dressed in his Batman armor and mask.Â
âHeââ Bruce muttered something else she didnât catch.Â
âListen, I can pick a fight if you want, or you can show me all of this cool stuff.â There was almost a giddiness rising within her. He had so many cool gadgets, things sheâd never dreamed of having. No wonder he was such a good vigilante.Â
Bruce glared at her for a moment before turning back to whatever it was he was doing. It looked like he was making notes on a blueprint of some sort. The drawing looked like a car. Kind of. âIt isnât stuff,â she thought she heard him mumble, but she wasnât sure.Â
âOoh, okay, fine. Letâs pick another fight. Will you get pissed off if I start moving stuff around?â It was too easy to tease him, she thought as she reached out and lifted something that looked an awful lot like a grenade. Her fingers had barely wrapped around it when Bruceâs hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.Â
âPut that down.âÂ
She grinned at him and obliged. âThatâs a yes, then. What if I touch this?â she asked as she picked up something that looked like the armbands he wore on his wrists. It was a lot heavier than she expected. Goddamn, he wore those things every night? Her wrist felt like it was about to break just from holding it.Â
He snatched it from her.Â
A small laugh escaped her lips. âYouâre too easy a target.â She reached blindly for something else.Â
He caught both of her wrists in his hands this time. âStop doing that.âÂ
âWho pissed in your wheaties this morning, huh?â she asked as he yanked her away from the tempting pile of stuff.Â
âYou did,â he said. He still hadnât let her go.Â
âListen,â she said after a beat. âI didnât mean toâbring up anything by mentioning your dad, okay? I was frustrated.âÂ
âUnderstatement of the year,â he muttered. He glanced away but didnât let her go.Â
âIâm going to let that one slide because I really am sorry.â She shrugged as best as she could from within his grip. Her eyes trailed past him, over his shoulder, and she jerked. âHey! Thatâs my fucking mask!âÂ
She yanked hard against him but he didnât let her go.Â
âI told you, youâre not getting it back,â he said firmly. He was scowling down at her.Â
âYou fucker,â she said. âI already ordered a new one, anyways. Made some improvements.âÂ
He sighed long and loud through his nose, eyes closed as if he were trying to find inner peace or something.Â
âWill you let me go?â she asked.
âWill you stop touching stuff?â he asked, eyes opening. She didnât miss the way his pupils expanded as he continued to stare at her.Â
âThat depends,â she said with a bold step forward. âIs there anything I am allowed to touch?â She said it so seductively that there wasnât a question about her meaning. She let her chest brush against his.Â
Bruce said nothing but his grip loosened.Â
She slid one of her hands up his chest and rested it on his shoulder. âDo I really piss you off that much?â she murmured.Â
âYes.âÂ
âSo you donât like meâŠat all?â She pressed herself closer against him. His sweatpants did nothing to hide the fact that he at least liked her some.Â
âI didnât say that.â His hands fell to her waist, his touch burning hot even through her clothes.Â
âShould I get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness?â she asked in a low voice. Just imagining it turned her on so much her breath stuttered. Bruceâs fingers flexed against her and she felt the words go straight through him as his cock twitched against her stomach. âOr maybe you should get on your knees,â she murmured as her hand tangled in his hair. His eyes fluttered closed for a second.Â
âWhich one will make you shut up faster?â he asked after a second. His blue eyes flashed as they opened again.Â
She laughed and leaned up to whisper in his ear. âSounds like you want my mouth full.âÂ
Bruce stopped breathing for a split second. Then his lips were crashing against hers. Her back smacked against the nearest table. He was everywhere. The warmth of his body surrounded her and she again had a moment of thinking he was larger than he was. His hands strayed up her shirt, the calluses on his bare palms dragging a shiver from her as they scraped across her skin.Â
This time he bit her lower lip and the mixture of pleasure and pain had a soft noise escaping from her before she could stop it.Â
âYouâre so infuriating,â he said against her lips. âYou drive me crazy.âÂ
âRight back at you,â she said and kissed him again.Â
âI mean it,â he said as his nose traced her jaw. He pressed a kiss against her pulse. She was certain he could feel the way it suddenly jumped. âI have never been so aggravated by a person before.â He kissed down her neck and sighed into her skin. âAnd Iâve never wanted someone so much.âÂ
âThen do something about it,â she said with a challenge in her voice. It didnât come out as strong as sheâd hoped though, because his lips were distracting her, and one of his thumbs had chosen that moment to brush the underside of her breast through her bra.Â
In one swift movement he had rid her of her shirt. His eyes were hungry as they took her in. âYouâre beautiful,â he said.Â
âFinally, a compliment,â she said but the words choked off as his lips touched the top of one breast and then the other.Â
âOne of us has to be nice,â he said, and the way his breath brushed against her skin made her shiver. He glanced up at her through his dark, dark lashes.Â
âI can be nice,â she said defensively. What she really wanted to do was demand that he touch her already, but that would defeat the purpose of her comment about being nice.Â
Bruce quirked an eyebrow at her. âOh?âÂ
She pulled him back to his full height and settled on her knees before him. And bless him, he had some sort of cushioned mats underneath the tables so she wasnât on hard concrete. Her hands settled on the backs of his thighs as she leaned back enough to stare up at him.Â
âI can be very nice,â she said as she tugged his sweatpants down.Â
His breath and hers both caught when his cock sprang free. Her mouth practically watered at the sight. His hand caressed the back of her head encouragingly but he made no move to force her forward. He simply watched, and waited.Â
She licked the underside of him slowly. Her reward was a choked noise. His hand tightened spasmodically on her head but again, he didnât force her forward.Â
She licked him again, experimental this time, letting her mouth very slowly explore him, moistening him so when she decided to, her lips would slide right over him.Â
She took the head of him in her mouth first and swirled her tongue. This time he moaned out her name. The sound of it made her squeeze her thighs together. Her want was a living, breathing thing within her. She didnât want to tease anymore. She took him into her mouth fully, swallowing him as deep as she could.Â
The sound Bruce made was desperate. It echoed around them and only served to make her hungry for more. She was doing that to him. She was making him feel that good.Â
Her head bobbed, his hand a gentle guide on the back of it, the noises he was making becoming more frequent the more she moved. His body trembled. She wasnât entirely sure he was breathing, either.Â
All of a sudden her mouth was empty as he jerked away from her. It was instinct to follow but he tugged gently on her hair to stop her.Â
âMy turn to be nice,â he said, voice deeper than sheâd ever heard it. He guided her upwards and kissed her so hard it left her breathless. He palmed one of her breasts with one hand and her ass with the other. Then her bra was falling off and to the floor.Â
âYou?â she said on half a gasp. âNice?âÂ
He grinned at her. âI can be very nice.âÂ
He unzipped her skirt. It puddled around her ankles. She kicked off her shoes and the skirt in anticipation.Â
âYeah?â she said as both of his hands gripped her ass and pulled her closer. She wiggled against him, his cock against her bare stomach about to drive her wild with need and they hadnât even done anything yet. âProve it.âÂ
One of his hands was between her legs before she finished speaking. He brushed a thumb against her clit through her underwear, making her squirm. He leaned down to kiss the pulse point in her neck again.Â
She made a noise of complaint when he stopped touching her but all he did was lift her so she was situated on the table.Â
âSpread your legs,â he said and her body instinctually obeyed without her permission. He pulled down her underwear. His eyes were hungry as he lowered himself to her knees. He was devouring her with his gaze. His lips parted as his tongue darted out. She knew that tongue was about to be on her and the anticipation was killing her.Â
âThis is the part where you beg for forgiveness,â she said in a breathy voice. All of her bravado went out the window as he smirked at her and traced a finger through the wetness between her legs.Â
He moved teasingly slow as he continued to trace her, staying just outside where she wanted him, every other pass stopping to circle her clit. He kissed the inside of one thigh and then the other. Then he paused, staring up at her with eyes like blue flames, and lifted one of her legs to rest on his shoulder. The new position made her lean back against her hands.Â
She moaned at the first touch of his lips. His tongue gently traced her clit and she squirmed all over again.
âBruce,â she said like a plea.Â
He listened to her unspoken demand and inserted a single finger into her so slowly she wanted to scream. His tongue worked her clit as his finger moved in and out of her. The sensation started to build and build and build. She reached out for an anchor with one hand, something, anything to keep her grounded. Her fingers threaded into Bruceâs hair. He hummed against her, eliciting a moan from her as the vibrations moved through her body.Â
âFuck,â she said because there was no other word for it.Â
He pushed a second finger inside her. His movements started to quicken.Â
Her orgasm built within her as he moved faster and faster. The sensation of his tongue on her clit coupled with two of his fingers inside her was almost too much. She couldnât catch her breath.Â
Bruce slid a third finger inside her and every muscle in her body clenched around him.Â
She shuddered as the orgasm washed over her, pleasure rolling on waves throughout her body.Â
When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. Somehow, that was hotter than anything heâd done up until that point. The look in his eyes, feral and hungry, made her feel more naked than her actual nakedness.Â
âHow do you want me?â she asked, voice thick in the wake of her orgasm. Her body shuddered with an aftershock and Bruceâs piercing blue eyes didnât miss any of it. He stood slowly, the bulk of him seeming to unfold little by little as he towered over her. He pulled his shirt off with one hand and somehow kept eye contact the whole time.Â
He stepped between her legs and she shivered again. The air was cold but the warmth pouring from Bruceâs magnificent body was enough to keep her from feeling it.Â
âHow do you like it?âÂ
God, his fucking voice. Deep and sexy and with a hint of a growl that turned her on.Â
How did she like it? Was he serious? She just wanted him inside her, she didnât care where or how.Â
âJust fuck me,â she said when she could find her voice.Â
âYouâre so bossy,â he said with half a smile as he bent to kiss her.Â
She clutched his shoulders. âI mean it, Bruce,â she said with as much bravado as she could muster. âFuck me. I have an IUD so we have nothing to worry about.âÂ
âAre you sure?â he asked after a second. He studied her face calmly as if she werenât half-mad with lust. As if his cock wasnât dripping for her, angled perfectly to go inside her.Â
âI donât know how I could make my consent any clearer.â She rolled her eyes. Then she realized that maybe Bruce wasnât sure. âAre you sure?âÂ
âYes,â he said against her lips, and then pushed into her so suddenly she cried out.Â
She said every cuss word she knew which only served to make him laugh. The vibrations traveled between their connected bodies in a delicious way. He stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust to him, his lips moving up her neck and to her breasts and to her lips.Â
âFuck,â Bruce said as he began to move. She agreed with the sentiment. With her leaning back on the table, him between her legs, the angle was just right to immediately send shivers up and down her spine. Every thrust made her muscles clench.Â
The feel of his cock within her was almost transcendent. She grabbed him tightly, pressing their bodies together, keeping him close to her as he thrust in and out.Â
He slid a hand between them to circle her clit and she cried out as she came almost immediately. When she opened her eyes she expected to see that she had burst into flames. Bruce was staring at her again, his expression tight.Â
âYouâre beautiful when you come,â he said and the words almost made her do so again.Â
âI bet you are too,â she said with a grin. She wrapped her legs around him so that their bodies were flush. The new angle made them both gasp. His big hands splayed across her back and her own hands tangled in his hair. He seemed to like it when she pulled, so pull she did.Â
âY/nâŠâ he said into the crook of her neck. His thrusts picked up speed. She saw stars as his cock hit her just right, over and over and over. The grip she had on his hair was a lifeline now, the only thing grounding her and keeping her from exploding into a million tiny pieces.Â
âCome inside me, Bruce,â she said. It wasnât at all bossy like sheâd intended it, but he groaned anyways.Â
He rocked into her, harder and deeper than before, the sweat on their skin making their chests slide together. His fingers deftly swept over her clit again. Her cry echoed, almost a scream, as she came for the third time.Â
Bruce wasnât far behind. His thrusts stuttered, rhythm uneven, as his hips jerked into her. She could feel it spill out of her even as he continued to move.Â
âFuck,â he said as his hips slowly jerked to a stop. They were both panting.Â
âFuck,â she agreed. She was still clinging to him. They stayed tangled together for a minute more. Her body shivered with aftershocks every few seconds. Her mind was blissfully blank. Her limbs were warm, her body languid. She felt completely wrung out in the best way possible.Â
Bruce kissed her jaw. His hands rubbed idle circles against her bare back. It wasâŠsweet. She liked it. Usually the men she fucked pulled out and yanked their clothes back on in the same movement.Â
âI had no idea Bruce Wayne was such aâŠgenerous lover,â she said, breath still heaving.Â
âNow you know all of my secrets.â He toyed with her hair, his face softer than sheâd ever seen it. She let her legs fall from around his waist. He stepped back, sliding out of her, and passed her a small towel from God only knew where. âItâs clean, I promise.âÂ
âI highly doubt I know all your secrets.â Their eyes met and they shared a smile. She cleaned herself up to the best of her ability. âIâd like to, though.âÂ
âOh?â he said, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that wasnât there before.Â
âFeel free to say no, but Iâd like to take you on a date.â She nudged him gently. She pulled her bra and underwear back on.Â
âIâd like that. But I should pay.â He pulled up his sweatpants but left his shirt off. She couldnât say she minded the view.Â
âOh, I only meant I was driving. Youâre definitely paying.âÂ
He laughed, long and loud, and the sound stirred something in her gut.Â
âWho knew that all you needed was to get laid to loosen up?â she teased as she gave him another playful nudge.Â
âI doubt this is what Alfred had in mind when he said I needed someone to pick a fight with,â Bruce said with another slight laugh. âBut it worked, didnât it?âÂ
Y/n glanced around, suddenly panicked. âThere arenât security cameras in here, are there?â
Something glinted in his eyes. A playfulness, almost. âNo, there arenât.âÂ
She squinted at him, suspicious. âIf you tell me know and I find out youâre beating off to the tape every nightââÂ
He laughed again, this one a short, surprised burst of sound. He raised his hands as if in surrender. âI promise thereâs not.âÂ
She finished straightening her hair with a soft hmph. âFine, fine. Dateâs still on then, I guess.âÂ
Bruce leaned in and brushed a kiss to her temple. It was as if he couldnât help it. As if the sex had softened all of his rough edges. Maybe it had softened her, too, because she couldnât drum up an ounce of annoyance at him if she tried. In fact, she leaned into the touch.Â
âSeriously,â she teased as she bent to pull her shoes back on. âItâs like youâre a different person.âÂ
âWhat can I say?â he said. He spread his hands. âYouâre not all bad.âÂ
âDoes this mean youâll accept all my terms with the merger?âÂ
There was a long, long pause. âAbsolutely not.âÂ
She snorted, and they fell into what was becoming their new routine of bickering as they went upstairs to get lunch.
#battinson x reader#batman x reader#bruce wayne x reader#the batman fic#battinson fic#bruce wayne fic#the batman 2022#the batman#battinson#bruce wayne
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Sonata in Morning
Summary: itâs been weeks since Gotham City flooded, and Alfred has returned to Wayne Tower to continue recovering from his injuries. One morning over breakfast, Bruce opens up to Alfred about his feelings after nearly losing the man who raised him for 20 years.
Content: emotional hurt/comfort through the roof, with some mild suicide ideation. This is Battinson canon-compliant, taking place only a few weeks after the end of the movie.
Word count: 1,487
Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!
Authors notes at the end.
ââââââ
âAlfred.â
Alfred looked up at the sound of Bruceâs voice. His young charge stood in the doorframe, his oversized t-shirt dwarfing his frame and bringing to mind the days when a child had refused to sleep in anything other than his fatherâs old clothes.
âYes, Master Bruce?â
Bruce hesitated for a moment, then slowly came to join Alfred where he sat at the kitchen table. Alfred wordlessly poured Bruce a cup of coffee from the pot that sat waiting, and Bruce took it, his knuckles white as he gripped the mug.
âIâŠâ he began, then paused, a slight crease forming on his forehead.
His shoulders were hunched, and he didnât quite meet Alfredâs eyes as he spoke. Alfred was used to seeing Bruce clam up in this way, though it had been some time since he had been on the direct receiving end. Something was clearly bothering him; the question was what could it be?
It had been a stressful few weeks following the attack on the sea walls, but Gotham had reached a tentative equilibrium. Bruce still went on patrol most nights, though he also wore the cowl during the day now, helping civilians with transport, first aid, and evacuation.
Alfred himself had been one of the first evacuated from the city, along with the other patients at the hospital, but had come right back home to Wayne tower where he belonged as soon as he was discharged. Heâd had to switch from using a cane to using a wheelchair, but his physical therapist said that it may only be a temporary measure. His daily exercises were already having a positive effect, though who knew if heâd ever be able to spar with Bruce again.
Alfred didnât speak as all this ran through his mind, he merely gave Bruce the space to gather his thoughts. Heâd learned a long time ago that there was no forcing anything out of the boy before he was ready, as much as he still found himself trying on hard days.
âIâm sorry, Alfred,â Bruce finally said, and Alfred blinked.
Of all the potential things that could have come out of Bruceâs mouth, that was one heâd not expected.
âWhatever for, Master Bruce?â he asked, and Bruce grimaced, cringing further in on himself.
âThese past few years, Iâve been soâŠfocused. Devoted entirely to this cause, this idea that if I just fight hard enoughâŠâ he shook his head. âI let vengeance become the only thing that mattered to me. And I didnât thinkâŠI wasnât allowing myself to think of anything else.â
His grip tightened on the mug of coffee, and Alfred could hear the lump in his throat when he spoke.
âOr anyone else.â
He looked up then, and as their eyes met, Alfred was shocked to see that Bruceâs were glassy with unshed tears.
âI almost lost you, and I couldnâtâŠI couldnât bear that,â he whispered.
The words were like a lance through Alfredâs heart, but he forced himself to smile encouragingly.
âYou canât lose me that easily, Master Bruce,â he said, but Bruce shook his head.
âI couldnât stand the thought of losing you,â he reiterated. âBut I wasnât thinking about howâŠhow every night, for the past two years, I was forcing you to go through the same thing.â
Alfred had taken more than his fair share of punches over his lifetime. In recent years many of them had been from Bruce himself, as the two trained and sparred together. But if you asked him in that exact moment, heâd be hard pressed to recall a time when the wind had been so completely knocked out of him.
âI didnât care about what happened to me,â Bruce continued, looking down again. His words came out in a rush, as though now that heâd started speaking, he wasnât able to stop himself. âNot just my name, or my money, or the company, me. And if Iâm honestâŠI think a part of me still doesnât. IâŠIâm not sure I know any other way to be.â
âBruceâŠâ Alfred said, tears of his own welling in his eyes.
âBut that kind of thinking wasnât fair to you,â Bruce continued. âIt shouldnât have takenâŠall of this, for me to see just how much I must have worried you. And Iâm sorry that I let you down.â
âOh, Bruce,â Alfred said, leaning forward. âI wonât lie and say I havenât worriedâŠthat I havenât been scared to death some nights that you wouldnât come home, that theyâd find you bleeding in some alley in the morning. But you havenât let me down. Youâve stood up every single night and fought for what you believe is right, and so many people owe you their lives. How could I be anything but proud of you?â
Bruce didnât answer, and Alfred knew from experience that meant that he didnât quite believe him.
âI am proud of you,â he insisted. Then, pretending he hadnât noticed Bruceâs hitch of breath, added, âAnd I know your parents would be too.â
Bruce nodded stiffly, wiping surreptitiously at his eyes, which Alfred also pretended not to notice.
âYou were right,â Bruce said softly, once heâd composed himself. âAbout their legacy. I still believeâŠâ he paused, swallowing. âI have to believe that the Batman can work. But it needs to evolve. It has to stand for something other than vengeance. It has to be capable of bringing hope to people, or all Iâve done is become another monster in the dark. If I really want to save GothamâŠif I want to change it, I have to be more than the Batman.â
His voice was hesitant, uncertain, something that Alfred hadnât seen in the boy in a long time. For years, Bruce had been driven by his single-minded determination that he would personally save the city from itself. Heâd been pushing so hard for so long, and never once in all that time had he shown any doubt about the fact that he was doing what needed to be done.
Seeing him now, adrift and unmoored from his sense of purpose, it reminded Alfred of that child from so long ago who had looked up at him with wide, tearful eyes and asked âwhat do I do now?â
Alfred had done his best, provided what little guidance he could while struggling through his own grief, and not a day went by where he didnât wonder whether heâd done it right, whether heâd made some horrible mistake. âDonât be sorry, Alfred,â Bruce had told him back at the hospital. Such easy words to say, yet so hard to really, truly hear.
âI have to be more than the Batman,â Bruce repeated. âBut I donât think I can be. Not alone.â
He finally looked up again, and Alfred found himself looking into those familiar eyes, eyes that held both the past and the future in equal measure. Eyes that looked so much like his fatherâs.
Alfred wordlessly wheeled his chair around the table and took Bruceâs hands in his. Bruce startled at the touch, but Alfred just tightened his grip.
âOne thing you never have to worry about, Master Bruce,â he said firmly, âis being alone.â
Bruceâs tears spilled over his cheeks, and Alfred pulled him forward into a tight embrace. Bruce moved hesitantly at first, placing feather-light arms around him, and Alfred snorted quietly.
âIâm not going to shatter, Bruce. Iâm well on my way to recovery.â
Finally, Bruce sank fully into the hug, burying his face in Alfredâs shoulder like heâd done when he was a child. He let out a shuddering breath and Alfred squeezed even tighter, trying to convey everything that theyâd failed to say with words over the years through the simple touch.
Later, they would clumsily disentangle from the hug, and Bruce would fret over him as they dried their tears. They would discuss the company, the money, the ways that Bruce Wayne could work alongside the Batman to bring change to the city.
Alfred would eventually help him write and practice a speech that announced the new Wayne Foundation, a charitable organization that Bruce would establish to address the misuse of the Renewal Fund and provide real aid to Gotham and its citizens.
And every night, the Batman would return to the streets, and Alfred would have an emergency comms channel on standby that Bruce could use if he found himself in a situation that he wasnât able to get out of on his own. It would never completely erase Alfredâs worry, nothing could ever do that. But it gave him one more opportunity to protect the boy who had become a man who fought with his every breath to save the city, just as his father had.
All of that would come later.
For now, as the morning light streamed through the arched windows and signaled a new day, Alfred simply held his child, and hoped that would be enough.
ââââââââ
Authors Notes: yeah so I rewatched this movie with @mug-of-beans this weekend and have a lot of feelings about this version of Bruce and Alfredâs relationship. I decided to look for fic that featured their dynamic, but then surprise! AO3 was down, so like a normal person, I coped by just writing my own. Honestly, I had a lot of fun, so if you have any other Battinson stuff youâd like my take on, let me know. Thanks for reading!
#Batman#the batman#the batman (2022)#battinson#alfred pennyworth#batfic#battinson fic#hurt/comfort#my writing
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Waiting for the Night
Bruce Wayne x F!Reader
Epilogue - Always You
Chapter 20; Masterlist Summary: One December evening, Vengeance climbs into your apartment through the window. That's regular occurrence by now. What isn't regular, is the conversation you share. Warnings: 18+ (sorry, the gremlin in my brain insisted I describe some of that), swearing. Author's Notes: So, this is the official farewell. This epilogue turned out to be kind of an 'evening in the life of', but I think I needed that. Even if only just to say goodbye to those two. It's 6k of headcanons and fluff, so I hope you enjoy đ Once again, thanks for sticking around âš A playlist will follow bc of course I have that too. Feel free to let me know what you think? Tag list: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy, @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki, @shimmeringgrim, @ttae-yong, @freyadruid, @siriuslydestiny, @ms-dont-care, @raphaelaisabella, @itsmytimetoodream, @brightjimini, @castellandiangelo, @grunge-n-roses5
(gif credit: @1038276637)
No amount of thinking and consideration could have ever prepared you for the reality of being Bruce Wayneâs partner. Or girlfriend, a term you had sometimes relished teasing him with. If only to get that same deadpan look, complemented by a pink blush on his cheeks and one sentence reply.
Always the same: âYouâre much more than that to meâ. Every time the answer made you blush too, overwhelmed with love and hopefulness like never before. Because, as it quickly turned out, Bruce treated this seriously, daily putting in work to make sure whatever you had would survive.
And it did, at least until the rain showers had been replaced by snowfall, and the white coat covering most of Gotham almost made up for the plummeting temperatures. Long enough for you to get used to the idea that a solo night at your place did not mean loneliness. It did not even mean that you would be alone for that much longer, for, as it happened, Bruceâs patrol now sometimes led to your apartment instead of the Terminus. It was a substitute for the nights when you opted to stay at your place instead of perusing the Tower. All the heads-up he would give would be a quick text sent between the hours when you were likely still awake. But it was all you needed, instantly perking up at the idea.
That night was like that, as you were informed by a message on the burner phone: âIâll come by after 2â. Easy fate to achieve - waiting for Bruce until 2 am. Although, the slow passage of time made you groan for the umpteenth time as you found it still to be only 1 am. An hour. A whole bloody hour. Your head dropped onto the table with a dull thud. The waiting for him was the worst part of it all, perhaps only next to the constant anxiety that filled your veins whenever Bruce was playing the part of Batman. Mostly because you never knew whether waiting up on him in the cave would be to get that desired kiss and help him with the amour or whether it would entail cleaning the wounds and bandaging the cuts. You already had a fair share of both. And there was no point guessing which you preferred.
Your favourite nights, by a large margin, were those when Bruce stayed home. Or at least stayed long enough to go to bed with you. Those were the nights of discoveries and enlightenment, leaving you breathless and wanting more. Always wanting more. Luckily now, you did not have to deny yourself what you had become addicted to. And the list was growing exponentially. Like the fact that after that first night when you had confessed your feelings for Bruce, the three words had only gained power. Enough so that when you whispered them at just the right time, with Bruce still buried deep inside you and inching towards his release - they were all the trigger he needed. All sense of control seemed to disappear as soon as you reminded him you loved him. And for that, the affection only grew.
You knew that was very much mutual.
The other discovery, which had led to many sleepless lonely nights, spent squirming under the covers, was that once Bruce had understood that he truly was the best you ever had, a new level of confidence was unlocked. Some might even call it smugness. But you could not possibly mind a bit of cockiness when it got you a man who would tease you with his fingers and mouth till you were a whimpering mess. And then, only then, he would lean in close, let his mouth brush your heated cheek and the shell of your ear, and whisper: âCome for meâ. A request. A command even. You had no choice but to obey. Not that you didnât want to. By now, the exact way he had spoken had become a go-to soundtrack to all your daydreams. A weak substitute for when you were apart.
It was still better than nothing.
Glancing at the watch to check the time, you were easily brought back from the pleasant recollections. It was almost 2 am. Not long now. You did not need a mirror to confirm your mouth stretched into a dumb smile. The reaction was involuntary at this point, transforming you into that type of lovesick individual you always scoffed at. The irony was infuriating. Feeling the tell-tale shiver of anticipation, you made one final lap of the flat. Smoothing out the bedsheets (even though neither of you cared about it), taking out the short-rimmed tumbler (in case he did want that whiskey you offered before Halloween) and dragging a hand through your hair to detangle any knots (even though he had seen you with bed-hair and mascara stains on your cheeks). Only then you could say you were ready.
And right on time, too, for before long, you heard the familiar light knock upon the window frame. A smile broke out on your face as you crossed the room to unlatch the window and stepped back. This part always made you laugh. You knew why Bruce deemed the window a better way of entering your apartment, but it was still a strange spectacle to witness. Using the grappling hook, he would lift himself to the level of your building and gracefully slip in. The only downside? The melting snow created puddles on your floor. This time you were prepared, a sweeping mop in hand.
The first glimpse you caught was a smile under the cowl. A look so strange for Mr Vengeance himself, yet something you had grown accustomed to. You returned the expression with ease, watching as he jumped in feet first through the window frame and landed on your floor with a quiet groan. That, too, was a sign â this night had been rough. Before you could process the realization, Bruce strengthened up and took off the cowl. As always, that first shared glance made you shiver. The smudged black makeup was smeared around his eyes, hair messy and unkempt, begging you to arrange it. There was no reason to wait.
âHello, youâ you closed the remaining gap and placed your hand on his shoulder.
The material felt cold and made you shiver as you rose on your toes to level with him. Bruceâs eyes traced your every move as he wound his arm around your waist, keeping you close and secure.
âHey,â the whisper you got in return was the last thing you let him say before you crashed your mouth into his with a satisfied hum.
The coldness of his lips did nothing to stifle the spark of fire slowly building in your veins. As always. Carefully you let your tongue trace his bottom lip, prodding at the seam till Bruce opened his mouth, inviting you in. The familiarity of the feeling was enough to let you drop the remaining weight from your shoulders and sink into him, tasting and consuming all you could. All that he was willing to give you.
Bruce responded in kind to the tempo you had set, caressing your tongue with his and lightly nipping at your bottom lip. He felt like home. Even with the melting snow dripping onto your clothes and the hard edges of the armour digging between your ribs. The need to continue was stronger than anything else. Until neither of you could get deep enough breaths to continue.
You drew back with a quiet whine, frustration adding spikes to the warmth in your chest. The blue of Bruceâs eyes staring back at you smoothed the feeling, instantly making you notice the glimmer in his gaze. The love that was no longer a secret between you. It was impossible to escape the blush blooming on your cheeks and the pick-up in your heart rate. Ignoring the urge to hide from his perceptive stare, you returned to the task at hand.
One assessing look was enough as you raised your hand to cup his cheek and then up to comb through the hair falling into his eyes. You carefully brushed it away from his forehead, barely managing not to drown in the grateful look you got awarded. The only way of avoiding the shame of losing your mind and doing something utterly stupid like falling to your knees before Bruce, you grabbed the mop and pushed it onto his chest with a simple instruction:
âNow mop the floorâ you eyed the growing puddle at your feet with a critical eye, adding, âYouâve made a messâ without waiting for a reply, you turned away towards the kitchen.
Just in time to hear the answer.
âYes, maâamâ you did not need to see him to know he was smiling.
Approaching the counter, you opened the cupboard and eyed the contents. It was too late for a meal, but when Bruce visited, you would always share a drink before retiring to your bedroom. It was only a question of choice. What suited him better on this particular December night?
âWhatâs your poison tonight?â you asked and turned to face Bruce, finding him leaning the mop on the wall and the floors shiny and swept (naturally), âCoffee? Tea? Whiskey?â the first two had been staples on the menu, the last one was an inside joke.
An option you always gave him for the sake of it. And also, because you were yet to see Bruce Wayne relax with an alcoholic drink in his hand. Early on, he had told you he did not indulge in that too often, seldom, in fact, because alcohol did not exactly help the difficult thoughts springing in his mind at every possible chance. You knew the feeling too well, so you never pushed. But maybe-
âYou know what?â Bruceâs question interjected your internal monologue as he eyed the tumbler you had taken out earlier, âMaybe itâs time. At last,â raising his head to meet your searching gaze, Bruce grinned.
Even now, when smiles no longer were rare, you still treasured each one. Mostly because they lit up Bruceâs beautiful face like nothing else, throwing everything into perspective. It was a point of personal pride you made him smile like that.
Without waiting for Bruce to change his mind, you took the bottle off the shelf and grabbed a second glass to fill. Two ice cubs per drink clinked in the tumblers as you poured the rich brown liquid and turned to hand it to him.
âCheers,â raising yours to toast, you sent him another pleased smile.
You did not need to discuss the arrangement, wordlessly taking a sip from the glass and placing it back on the counter to free your hands for the next step in the routine. Bruce mirrored your moves, patiently waiting for you to start taking off the armour pieces. By now, the process was almost second nature. You did not need his directions, easily following the straps and buckles to undo them. Each plating would end up on one of your chairs, a dark heap covered with the cloak. Only once Bruce was left with the black thermals, you drifted to the sofa and fell against each other on the cushions. Multiple points of contact at every spot. Calves, knees, thighs, hips, and shoulders. At the least.
At first, you did not talk, quietly soaking in the calm. It quickly became evident that Bruce valued his peace, and each nightly escapade was enough to drain his battery. Both physically and mentally. That is why when he returned home or to your place the priority was letting him rest. Usually, you would put the tv on as background noise, but tonight as soon as you turned your head to look at Bruce, the remote control was frozen in your hand.
Suddenly it struck you. The strangeness of the moment in its entirety. It was nothing you could have foreseen, not in a million years. And yet, it made perfect sense.
You must have stared for too long because the next thing you registered was Bruce looking back at you with an incredulous glim in his eyes. He arched an eyebrow, his hand landing on your knee to gently stroke the skin beneath your pyjama pants. A question followed:
âWhatâs that look for?â the curiosity in his tone made you smile, barely resisting the urge to hide your face in the crook of his neck to avoid being stared at.
Especially by someone who could see through each wall you ever tried to raise. By now, you never even tried anymore, aware that it was pointless. Bruce (somehow) wanted all of you, so that is what he got. You could only hope he would never change his mind.
âItâs a lot to take in,â shrugging with one shoulder, the one not tucked against his side, you chose the safest answer.
All the while knowing Bruce would not let that be the end of that conversation. You only had to wait approximately 10 seconds for the follow-up question.
âWhat is?â you had to admit he was good at this.
Interrogation techniques that somehow fit right in the dynamic between you. And made it impossible for you to hide from him. While the thought had been terrifying once, it was almost easy to get used to. Almost being the keyword there.
âOh, you knowâ feigning nonchalance, you chose to pace your answer, taking your time with the reveal, while watching him closely, âHaving Vengeance in my living roomâ was the most obvious of hang-ups, something you did not think you could get accustomed to. Each time you saw tv coverage of Batman or had your work colleagues develop a piece on the vigilante, the thrill of realization felt like something new, something you had never experienced before. Now, you let your gaze stray to the half-empty tumbler in his hand, adding another layer to the confession, âServing whiskey to Bruce Wayneâ lifting your eyes to catch the growing smile on his face, you allowed the fondness seep into your tone. The feeling was almost drowning out the disbelief that still tinted your vowels. You never expected to get rid of that either, âHaving that same Bruce Wayne as my boyfriendâŠâ it was strange to let the term roll off your tongue this freely, but the strangeness could not contend with the happiness you could see in his eyes. It was enough to make you grin, the conclusion to the speech coming up effortlessly, âNever once saw that comingâ no lies were to be found there, âI need to stare a little longer to make sure you wonât disappear on me nowâ the excuse was flimsy, but it had the intended effect.
Bruce smiled and pulled you closer again, your body falling against his chest like always. The warmth of the embrace kept the chill from settling in your bones. His arms tightened around your waist as he rested his chin on your head and let out a content sigh.
âI wonâtâ there was no need to question him, all sense of doubt disappearing like melting snow when he added, âI like you too much,â
It was both what he said and how he said it. Like it was no big deal. Like the admission did not cost him anything. Like the character evolution you had witnessed in Bruce was something he was proud of. Something he took joy in if only because it mattered to you.
That was a little difficult to get used to.
So much so that instead of facing the affectionate admissions head-on, you chose to go for a joke, using it as a protective veil:
âDamn, never imagined Bruce Wayne would be such a softieâ you lightly swatted him across the chest, not expecting the delighted giggle that would erupt from your throat when he caught your hand in his and squeezed it.
âIâm notâ it took one look at Bruce, registering the slight pout and the petulance in his eyes, to make you abandon the pretence.
You dove in for a kiss, pressing your mouth against his in a quick, firm peck balancing just on the right sight of not being too greedy. Or distracting for the conversation you were still hoping to have with Bruce.
âSure, babeâ you placed another kiss on the apple of his cheek, slightly tinted pink, and changed the topic, âSo, howâs Gotham? Any hot goss I should know about?â you bated your eyelashes as a complimentary show of begging.
Not that Bruce would otherwise deny you the answers. He never did that, which quickly made you the second most informed individual in the city. After the Batman, of course.
Bruce shifted slightly - a sign you had come to associate with the conversation taking a more serious turn. Placing a comforting hand on his knee, you waited as he gathered his thoughts and replied:
âThereâs some talk of the Penguin putting most of his resources into bringing back the drops businessâ you frowned, already knowing what a mess would result from such a move. Although, unfortunately, it sounded plausible, âIâve got addresses to scout that might be their new labsâ Bruce glanced at you, awaiting a comment.
And potentially wordlessly asking whether you wanted to accompany him during the recon. It was something you did together, from time to time. An unusual way of spending time and a first-hand opportunity to gather information for work. And if the pleasant side-effect were the heated kisses shared in the shadowed alleys, then it was nobodyâs business but yours.
You already knew it was a yes if he asked.
âThatâs probably something you should share with Gordonâ instead of voicing that, you chose to offer him reasoning.
The close cooperation between them was still a surprising development. But it was getting stronger and sometimes made you wonder whether the GCPD lieutenant would not be the very next person to learn Vengeanceâs identity. So far, Bruce denied it, but you knew better than to take his word for granted. After all, decisions changed.
âAnd I will. But once Iâm sure thereâs truth in what Iâve been told,â Bruce shrugged, a brief hint of petulance in his tone making you grin.
Bruce Wayne also did not seem to change. Not completely.
You could never let a chance like that pass you by. Shifting yet again to sit up on your knees and face him, you dropped your voice a notch, giving it an appropriately seductive timbre:
âGood boyâ before Bruce could react, you patted his head and dragged your fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands.
That was another key phrase of your relationship. The magical two words, if used correctly, gave you complete control over Bruce. As it turned out, the Wayne heir was incredibly susceptible to praise. You could never have too much fun with that knowledge.
You watched with growing satisfaction at how he shuddered, the two words already having an impact. Bruce blushed, and his eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. To anyone else, the reactions would have been difficult to discern from the poker face he had slipped back on. But it was much harder to fool you.
Bruce knew as much. He shrugged off your hand with unnecessary care and turned to glare at you. The twitching corner of his mouth was an easy giveaway.
âCareful there,â the warning in his voice was another trick taken straight from the toolbox.
You already knew what this was. The rules of the game were familiar by now. You did not have to fake the heat blooming in your face at the tone Bruce had implemented. All you had to do was give him your brightest smile and amp the innocent flicker in your eyes to fit the intent. That was always fun.
âOr what?â enjoying the way his eyes followed your every move, you placed your hand on his chest, pressing it flat against the fabric to feel the heartbeat, âYouâre going to jump me?â as the question left your lips, your fingers begun tracing their path up the length of his thigh.
More often than not, that was how those precious nights between you began. With a ridiculous conversation and increasingly risky touch, getting rid of the remaining inhibitions. Not that there were many left.
You could see Bruce ponder the assumption, using the ball you had placed in his court. The decision was strictly up to him. You liked to remind him from time to time that you both could share the control equally. And that whatever he chose did not change anything for you. You were there for the long run.
âIâd love toâ he reached out to brush the stray hair from your forehead, eyes showing hints of remorse that spoiled the answer before he gave it, âNot tonight though, sorryâ it was impossible to miss the subtle wince on his face as Bruce shifted on the sofa.
That told you all you needed to know. Your hand stopped all its wandering, resting atop his thigh and tracing lazy circles over the black fabric. You knew that before you both went to bed, you would need to take out the ointments bought specifically for evenings like that and ask Bruce to take off his shirt. And it was alright. Fine, even. Because seeing Bruce Wayne shirtless was a perk of every kind of evening. Full stop.
Hoping the convey the feelings through the softness of your gaze, you allowed yourself one last joke. One final tease to satisfy the need and drag that shy smile out of its confines.
âYouâll pay for your crimes soon enoughâ Bruce let out a breathless laugh, and you felt like the luckiest being on the planet.
Yeah, you never saw this coming.
***
It was well past 4 am when you finally turned off the ceiling lights in your bedroom and joined Bruce on the bed. Sometimes that part, the brief conversations whispered with your heads resting against the headboard, felt almost like the domestic future you never expected to have. Like the word, which began with an m and ended with an e. You were still too scared to say it out loud or even in the quiet of your mind.
Ignoring the thought now, you quietly settled against the pillows and turned to stare at Bruce. He looked as if he belonged there, nestled underneath your woollen quilt with his damp, dark hair falling in strands over his forehead. Your heart throbbed in your chest. It was almost too good to be true. Fearing another wave of feelings you could not control, you broke the silence with whatever sentence you could think of:
âYou know thereâs this gala RĂ©al is hosting before ChristmasâŠâ admittedly, it was something you had wanted to bring up to Bruce.
It has been on your mind since the mayorâs announcement via press release weeks back. After the election and everything else that followed, she had taken decisive steps to fix the city. One of them was inviting the elites and the journalists to the charity gala this December. Although you were sceptical about the effects, the intents alone were admirable.
You knew Bruce had received an invite. But if that were not common knowledge, the myriad of emotions passing through his face at the reminder would have been the giveaway. You could easily discern discomfort, uncertainty, and fear among them. Without thinking about it, you took hold of his hand resting on the covers and squeezed it. That was a common way of assuring Bruce that you were there, of offering him comfort when he would not ask for it first. After what felt like hours of silence, Bruce let out a tortured sigh and replied:
âYes, of course. Itâs only every other day that Alfred reminds me I should show upâ from that dejected tone alone, you could recognize that it was a touchy subject.
And that Bruce had already made up his mind about doing everything he could not to go. Unfortunately for him, with this case and with many others you were on Alfredâs side. You made a quick mental note to mention it to the butler the next time you saw him.
âWell, you shouldâ as soon as you spoke, Bruce sent you a glare and let out another pained groan. His penchant for dramatics was something you never expected but was incredibly happy to discover, always making you laugh, âI know, I know, but⊠I mean, Iâll be thereâ once the bit of information was out, you winced. It was a stupid thing to add. While it was true, the fact was entirely unnecessary. For obvious reasons, âObviously we canât go together⊠which I donât mind, by the way,â nervous laughter broke through the surface as you unconsciously moved away from Bruce and fixed your gaze on the swirling patterns of the duvet âI knew what I was getting myself into with you, soâŠâ
And you did know. You never expected to ramble around Gothamâs public events holding onto Bruceâs arm. It was not even something you actively yearned for, finding the desired happiness and peace in those quiet private moments instead. It was another case of your mouth having a mind of its own and an incontrollable want to fill the gaps between reasonable sentences with bullshit. It was far from the first time that had happened.
Maybe that was why what Bruce said next did not surprise you but only made the pricks of conscience worse.
âIâm sorryâ the apology was filled with enough sincerity to make your heart ache.
You knew that he meant it. In his eyes, something as silly as keeping your relationship secret was another way of letting you down. Of not being enough for you. It was another thing to nag him in the quiet of his mind when there were no distractions. You knew what that was like all too well. Before Bruce could drown in the spiral of his own making, you leaned in to cup his face and spoke:
âNo, Bruce, I⊠I love youâ the admission was an easy thing to say these days, falling from your lips like the tears you had once shed over it, âNothing changes that. Plus, thereâs an exciting potential in taking some time away from the other guests by perusing the bathroomâ you wiggled your eyebrows comically, delighted to see him smile âItâs just a suggestion,â
It felt like a relief when Bruce grinned and gave you a forehead kiss.
âIâll think about it. I promiseâ giving his hand another squeeze, you accepted the truce and made sure to meet his gaze. The tone Bruce used told you that was only just the beginning, âYouâre not the only one who didnât see this comingâ slightly changing the grip on your hand, Bruce caressed your knuckles in broad, repetitive strokes.
The shyness in his eyes was familiar by now. Although, still, his openness could surprise you. Like just now. With an admission that he had no obligation to make yet seemed eager to anyway. You tightened the hold on his hand and asked:
âYeah?â wincing at the wavering voice, you could hardly conceal the surprise in your gaze.
Because that was a line of conversation, you never expected him to follow. At least not tonight. But it did not make you any less curious, always happy to get another glimpse into the workings of Bruceâs mind and heart. Those were utterly precious. It was pointless to even think about getting rid of the gaping mouth and the dazed eyes.
Judging by Bruceâs smile, there was no need to try either.
âYep,â he nodded and raised his arm in an invitation, soon followed by words, âCome hereâ you did not hesitate in scooting closer and letting Bruce pull you to rest with your back against his chest. You could feel him nosing along the tendons in your neck, voice slightly muffled yet still audible âYouâre absolutely terrifyingâ you could picture his gleeful smile with your eyes closed.
The joy in his tone felt infectious. It was easy to say he meant it. That being called terrifying was one of the highest honours Bruce could bestow on you. You leant into the lingering kiss he pressed to the nape of your neck and breathed out the reply:
âThatâs a new one, but Iâll take itâ stringing together the words and ignoring the fire torched in your lower stomach from something as simple as his lips on your neck were too difficult a feat to achieve.
It became apparent as soon as you became aware of your breathless voice and heard Bruceâs low chuckle resonating through your body. It was a sound you came to like, very much. It meant he was finding you amusing and decidedly good enough. It was something to shove in the face of struggling self-confidence that could always try a little more.
âYouâre terrifying because, with you, I canât hide behind the cowl and pretend I donât existâ the sincerity of the statement was enough to make your heart trip over itself in your chest.
Without thinking, you raised your clasped hands to your mouth and kissed his knuckles. A few days old scrapes scratched the skin of your lips. It felt real.
âIs that a good thing?â you had to ask, even if only to prolong the fragile moment.
Because no matter how much you enjoyed the loudest of nights and the blatant confessions, poignancy was something else entirely. Something you would always chase after if it stepped into your sights. Like just now.
âYes, because you make me braverâ Bruce did not hesitate, his grip around your waist tightening just a little bit as he continued, âIâm pretty sure you know this, but youâre the only person that gets to see me. The real Bruce Wayne as heâs supposed to beâ you did know that which did not make the knowledge feel any less groundbreaking âItâs just that I know Iâm not enough. For you-â it was once he started saying utter bullshit, that you had to interject.
That was not acceptable. Not on your watch. Gently peeling Bruceâs arms from your waist, you turned in his lap to straddle his hips and placed your hands on his shoulders. He did not expect that. You could tell as much from the hitch in his breathing and the widening eyes. Bruce still took it in his stride, steadying you with his arm around your shoulders, the other hand tracing invisible pathways along your thigh. You knew he was struck into silence, unable to do anything but wait on your next call. Something about the power you possessed over him was intoxicating if you did as much as stop and think about it.
Most days, you simply did not.
âYouâre really dumb, but thatâs okayâ without hesitation, you cupped his cheek and carded your fingers through his unruly hair, smiling like an idiot. Because in the end, it was quite simple, you were astonished Bruce did not know it just yet. You waited for his blue eyes to meet yours and whispered, âYouâre everything to me,â
It was an easy synonym to the familiar I love you, and to the less apparent I donât want to imagine my life without you. It was the only way you could tell him the extent of his importance. The only way you could try to without dissolving into tears or doing something stupid like asking him to marry you. You did not think that would be quite the right time for it.
Bruceâs answering smile, softened by the persisting edges of disbelief, told you that you made the right call. He understood. As always. Unlike your very first kiss, you moved simultaneously, colliding somewhere in between with strangled gasps. Your tongues met in an electrizing touch, igniting the fire in your veins and making you fall against him with a whimper. Bruce swallowed the sound, his fingers buried into your hair as his tongue traced the sharper edges of your canines. As if he did not have the inside of your mouth memorized by now.
You could only step into the dance, letting him set the pace. His warmth overwhelmed your body as you kissed his lips with the hunger and thirst of a dying woman. Because that was the next best thing you could think of to show him you meant it. Because the pressure of his mouth against yours and the taste of his tongue sometimes were the only things that felt real. Real enough to make you believe hope could persist. That it had a place within your reality. With each kiss, each confession, and each day that passed with Bruce, hope slowly replaced the longing that used to fill your heart. You could only trust that one day it would be eradicated.
Your kiss stretched until it was nearly impossible to breathe. Then, and only then, you nipped at Bruceâs lower lip and softened the bite with the swipe of your tongue before parting. His eyes looked beautiful when nearly swallowed by the gaping black of his blown-out pupils. And it was all your doing. You always took pleasure in the seconds just after the kiss, the few ticks of the clock when Bruce had to forcibly shake himself awake from the spell you had put him under. You could see it in the slight shake of his head, clearing the daze in his eyes and the deep breath he took before even trying to speak.
You rested your forehead against his, the pounding heart slowing down. Until everything that was left was a pleasant hum of the passion coursing in your veins. There was no need to act on it, so you let yourself exist and bask in the warmth of Bruceâs body against yours. When he finally spoke, you were almost composed:
âSee? Terrifyingâ happiness shone in his blue eyes as Bruce raised his hand to let his fingers trace the edges of your features.
It was impossible not to lean into his touch, greedily taking every ounce of tenderness Bruce would offer. He always took that additional second to brush the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, soothing the kiss-bruised skin. You could hardly stop the satisfied purr that rose in your throat.
Instead, you tried to focus on the sentiment. On how much it must have meant for Bruce to admit. Without needing to think about it too hard, you knew you understood the feeling. That the myriad of emotions swirling in your chest could be summarized with one response. One that Bruce would see through easily. One that would show him that you have this in common, too.
You leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek and whispered the reply:
âQuite right, too,â the unspoken meaning shone through the gaps between the vowels, highlighted by the slight waver of your voice.
When Bruce tipped your chin and met your gaze, you knew you made the right choice. Another ounce of hope replaced the longing. Another heavy sigh became unanchored and took flight within the safety of his eyes.
As the snow covered the city outside, you became aware of two things. 1) It was good to be seen if the gaze that pierced through your soul was kind. 2) Bruce Wayne could be many things, but above all that, he was yours. And that was enough.
#the batman#the batman 2022#the batman x reader#the batman x y/n#the batman x you#robert pattinson#robert pattinson x reader#robert pattinson x y/n#robert pattinson!batman x reader#robert pattinson!bruce wayne x reader#battinson#battinson x you#battinson x reader#battinson fic#battinson x female reader#bruce wayne#bruce wayne x fem!reader#bruce wayne x y/n#bruce wayne x you#bruce wayne x reader#batman x reader#batman x you#batman x fem!reader#batman x y/n#waiting for the night
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becoming unraveled | pattinson!batman
series: staring into the echo | 1 | 2 | 3 pairing: pattinson!batman x reader summary: bruce needs to hear the truth. wc: 2.3k+ genre: angsty, reader has doubts about feelings, sad, but has a happy ending (here it is!)Â
His voice, sad and open, calls to you. âWas it something I did?â
Your face wavers and your feet stop moving.
Of course, this has nothing to do with him. This is all about you. This is about a relationship that youâre realizing you imagined all in your head.
He did nothing wrong. He has a right to pursue and like who he wanted. Youâre an adult. Youâre responsible for how you feel. Youâre trying to sit and deal with your emotions.
But you never meant for Bruce to feel like he could do anything to jeopardize what the two of you had. You just wanted to process and wait for it all to go away.
Slowly, you turn around. His shoulders timidly fold into each other. He looks so vulnerable. You canât stand it.
You decide to try to tell the truth.
You canât promise you would tell everything, that might be too risky if youâre trying to protect the relationship you have, but you would at least try to help him understand.
âNo.â Your face scrunched into a look of concern. Bruce responds, becoming less sorrow-filled and more inquisitive. âOf course not, Bruce.â
âThen why do I feel like I did something to upset you?â
âYou didnât,â you shake your head.
He slowly pads closer, watching to make sure you donât back away from him. You donât this time. âYou never said anything to me before you left. You didnât let me check if you were hurt. I donât think you were even going to answer my texts.â He stops right in front of you, your toes nearly touching. He reaches down and grasps your hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. âTell me, what did I do?â
You swallow. Worry engulfs his eyes as they scan across your face, up and down your arms.
The last thing you expected was for Bruce to come and seek you out. You couldnât help but keep asking yourself, where was this other woman?
You need to bring her up. While you enjoyed having him so close to you, so worried about you, and so insistent on making things right, you need to know what happened between them before you let yourself fall into him.
You close your eyes, scrunching your brows together in a grimace. You canât believe youâre going through with this.
âWhat?â Bruce asks, noticing your facial expression, an anxious tone both softening and lifting his pitch. His grip on your hands tightens. âWhat is it?â
âItâs stupid,â you breathe.
âItâs not, whatever it is. Talk to me.â
You take a deep breath and open your eyes. You make sure to keep your gaze locked on the floor and not on him. He canât read what he canât see. âDid the woman with the red hair go back with you to the manor?â
âWhat woman with the red hair?â
You scoff. You knew this was stupid. Either heâs denying this on purpose or he really does not remember what youâre talking about. âThe woman you were talking to when we got out of the building.â
His silence prompts you to look up at him. His expression twists in confusion, eyes shifting slightly as he sorts through his memories. âOh! Selina.â
Just what anybody wants to hear. The bright recognition in his voice has you ready to confirm your suspicions about her going home with him. Then Bruce keeps talking.
âThe woman with the red hair,â Bruce continues. âThat was Selina. Selina Kyle. Weâre working together to try to get information about the Riddlerâs targets. Her friend is missing. She got a lead but lost them in the building explosion.â
You take another deep breath.
He didnât answer your question. But now youâre more interested in questioning him a bit about the nature of their relationship. Even if you have to result to lower methods, methods you donât even like the fact that you were about to use.
âYou two seemed pretty cozy,â you murmur, trying to keep your eyes away from his face again. He would know what youâre doing if he looks you in the eye. You feel his confusion in the silence.
âShe was pretty upset, but itâs not like that.â Bruce squeezes your hands. âWeâre just temporary partners. Once we figure things out, weâll go our separateâwait,â Bruce hesitates and you bite your lip to keep yourself still.
There was that partner word again. As much as youâre elated to hear that he doesnât think of Selina in that way, it doesnât dismiss the fact that you donât know how he views your relationship. Your heart starts to race in his silence. âAre you jealous?â
You could lie, but you told yourself already that you wouldnât do that. You need to stand your ground, no matter how scary that was. âI donât know.â Your hands twitch in Bruceâs steady hold. âI just was confused. You looked at her like she was more than just a partner.â
Bruce starts laughing, and you would be lying if you said that it doesnât tick you off a little. This is a very serious conversation.
Youâre beginning to pour your heart out to him. If he isnât going to take that seriously, you would stop talking to him entirely.
âIf youâre going to laugh at my feelings, we can just talk later.â You start to back away from him, slipping your hands from his grasp, but he tightens his hold, keeping you planted where you had only taken a few steps back.
His eyes open as his chuckles die down. His gaze fills with clarity andâŠhappiness?
Only a few moments ago he looked upset and confused, now he looks as if he had made a special discovery that helped him unlock a puzzle.
âIâm sorry for laughing. I do take your feelings very seriously. I just never thought we would get to this moment.â His eyes are so bright now; they draw you in, refusing to let you look away.
âWhat moment?â
âThe one where I can finally be honest with you because I know you feel the same.â
Your heart picks up again. Youâre starting to get whiplash from all of the emotional ups and downs.
But now, you let a bit of hope seep through, lightening your face and coloring your voice in tiny bits of giggles that echoed his.
Was he going to admit what youâd been waiting to hear? Did he see you as more than just a partner?
You anxiously shifted your weight from one foot to the other. âOkay, out with it, Bat guy.â
Bruce gently drops your hands. For a second, you thought this is going to go differently, that heâs going to say how thankful he is for your partnership and talk about how he works hard not to jeopardize it.
But then he brings his hands up to cup your face, tilting your chin to look him in the eye.
âI didnât sleep with her. I was up half the night worrying about you. I could barely sleep thinking you were upset with me.â
You sigh in relief, letting your eyes slip closed. The hope you kept firmly in check spilled forth through your veins, heating your veins and adding a flush to your cheeks. You meant more. You mean more to him.
âSo, you see me as more than a partner?â You smile at him, knowing how tender and vulnerable your eyes look.
Before you would have locked your expression down immediately. Now, thereâs no need. Youâre safe with Bruce, even if the answer is a no.
That same tenderness reflects in the intensity of his stare. Then, he gently leans in, waiting for your foreheads to touch and for you to angle your chin toward his face before he presses his lips against yours. He drops a hand to wrap around your waist, pulling you into his chest. Your hands curl into his shirt.
His kiss is firm but soft, and he surges forward to capture your lips again before leaning back to press his forehead against yours. âYes, I see you as more than a partner,â he whispers against your lips.
Your stomach erupts in butterflies while your heart calms down. You could feel a puffiness starting to form on your lips.
He feels the same way. He really feels the same way.
âWhat about me?â Bruce pulls back to brush some of your hair away from your face. âAm I more than a partner to you?â
You smirk and reach up on your tiptoes to kiss him again, lingering longer than you need to. Your core warms as his arm tightens against your back. When you break for air, you chuckle. âIâm not in the habit of kissing my working partners.â
âOh really?â Bruce laughs. âWell good. Otherwise, HR would have a file about a mile long on you.â
Your laughter is bright and smiley and warm. Bruce grins, a warmth in his eyes.
âYouâve been more than a partner to me for some time.â You murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck and running a couple of fingers along his skin. His breathing stops for a second before he demurely smirks.
Right as heâs getting ready to kiss you again, your phone rings. You check your watch.
Itâs 8:05 am. Youâre missing breakfast with Gordon.
You disentangle yourself from Bruce, but not without begging Bruce to let you go. His laughs follow you into your room. You answer the phone without looking at the caller ID; you already know who it was.
âHey, Gordon. Iâm so sorry. Something came up.â You answer, breathless and still giddy.
âThat bat guy showed up at your place, didnât he?â
You chuckle, ready to ask how he knew but then you remembered the bat signal the other night and how Gordon could tell something was wrong with you and how Bruce knew you went back to the department instead of going straight home.
âYou told him to come here?â You ask.
Gordon is silent for a moment. âI recommended it.â
âWow. Look at you, matchmaker for the department.â Bruce now leans against your door, looking at you on the phone with a happy grin. He must have already figured out who youâre talking to.
âYou guys have a good thing going on. Figured all you needed to do was talk it out.â
âYouâre really something Lieutenant. You knew he was going to show up in the morning?â
âNo. I told him to wait till the evening after youâd blown off some steam. Heâs the nutjob who thought the earlier the better.â
âIs that so?â
âMhm. Did he use the biscuit excuse?â
âAs a matter of fact, he did.â You cock your head to the side to look at Bruce. He looks back with an innocently curious look on his face. You make up your mind to tease him about it later.
âThat was a decent one,â Gordon hums. âA little on the nose for my taste, but it seemed to work because here I am with a pot of coffee in front of me and nobody to drink it with.â
âIâm still going to be there. I just might need 15-20 more minutes.â
âFine. Itâs not like Iâm going anywhere.â
âSee you soon, Gordon.â
âYeah. Hey. Bring that bat guy with you, will you? I think Iâve earned a free breakfast.â
âWill do, Lieutenant.â
You click off the phone and shake your head at Bruce. âWhat?â He knowingly smiles.
âYou little schemer. You planned this thing with Gordon. And there are no biscuits! You lied to me.â
He grins, white teeth peaking out behind his lips as he walks closer. âYou know Alfred has plenty waiting for you back at the manor. Plus, I needed somebody to run some thoughts by. I thought I was reading into the situation wrong. I needed a second opinion.â
âHmm. I guess I can believe that.â Bruce comes to a stop right in front of you, bending down to press a kiss against your temple. Butterflies flutter in your stomach again.
Itâs nice to know that all of your worries would lead you to this moment with him. Now, you donât have to concern yourself with how he thought about you.
Bruce likes you and sees you as something precious in his life. Itâs endearing as much as it was scary.
Your honesty paid off. The voices in your head are quiet now. The memories with Bruce change from black and white back to gold.
Now you could just be. Just be with him.
âOh, also, Gordon invited Batman to breakfast.â You squeeze his shoulder as you walk around him to retrieve the clothes you were going to change into.
âHe did?â Bruceâs face scrunches into a confused expression.
âHe did. He expects repayment for his services in the form of an early morning meal.â
âOf course,â Bruce chuckles. âI should get back to the manor to change then.â
âSounds good.â You set your uniform down in your bathroom before you quickly bounce back over to Bruce. âSee you soon.â
You lean up and press a kiss against his lips. Bruce responds right away, a hand lifting to your cheek to draw you in, another holding your waist. His lips gently move across yours.
This is really happening. Youâre together with Bruce. That the little voice that held on to him was right.
Bruce presses one long kiss to your lips before he backs away, smiling in a daze. âDrive safe,â he tells you, turning around to leave your apartment.
A warmth blossoms in your core that you havenât felt in a long time.
That warmth follows you from the shower, to your car, to the diner, and expands again when you feel Bruce, now dressed as Batman, slide into your side of the booth, nudging your knee under the table.
taglist! @beautifulgrungekidâ (I got u)
#site#battinson fic#battinson x reader#battinson angst#battinson/reader#battinson fanfiction#bruce wayne#bruce wayne fanfiction#bruce wayne fic#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne/reader#series: staring into the echo#s: staring into the echo
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@bruciemilf Batcat with baby Dick
âYou're getting sloppy,â Selina greeted Bruce from the couch.
She liked to surprise the bat and sneak into his house. But it got too easy when the owner of the house left a back window open for her.
"Selina? What are you doing here?" the billionaire asked, having the audacity to look surprised. Here, a woman disappeared for a few months, and she was immediately forgotten.Â
She stood up, walking over to him and putting her arms around his neck, "Well, it's Christmas Eve. I've come to unwrap my present."
Selina was the first to acknowledge that she and Bruce didn't have a typical relationship. Heck, even saying they were in a relationship was an exaggeration: they played chasing each other, between the roofs and at galas, both wearing different masks, pathological liars who had recognized each other.
They couldn't be together, not when they had such different morals and both were too stubborn to back down.
Such a pity. For those lips, she would have abandoned anything. It would have taken so little to be happy, but Selina supposed that some people weren't made for happiness.
Bruce gently pushed her away, "Selina, now is not the time."
"Are you afraid your butler won't approve?" she teased him, her arms still around his neck.Â
Bruce pursed his lips, "It's not him I worry about."
"So how about we screw up this couch and..."
A small voice interrupted her, "Bruce? Who is with you?"
Selina's eyes widened. Standing by the door was a kid in Superman pajamas, messy black hair, and bleary blue eyes. He looks like a miniature Bruce.Â
Bruce seemed to suddenly age ten years, "Selina, this is Dick. Dick, she's...my friend."
Friend seemed a lot better than she is a criminal I occasionally have sex with, but Selina was still too shocked that Bruce Wayne, emotionally stunted and with more trauma than scars, had a child and she didn't know it.
"Do you have a son?" finally the woman blurted out, genuinely surprised.
"Why are you so surprised? Haven't you read the newspapers?"
"I've been busy," she said evasively. Selina hadn't been in Gotham for months, keeping herself off the radar of people she'd pissed off. She had stayed out of trouble long enough not to make the bat suspicious.Â
Who would have guessed that Selina was the least of his thoughts?
"Did the mother sue you for alimony? That's why he lives with you now?"
"No, his...his parents...the ropes snapped and they...they didn't make it."
Oh. Oh.
The boy had lost his parents, like Bruce. That's why the man welcomed him. Bruce had seen himself in the boy.
She pulled away from Bruce and smiled at Dick. First impressions mattered.
Dick looked at her warily, "She doesn't look like a friend to me."
"Why do you say that?"
"You look like a thief."
She laughed. Smart boy. Selina told him conspiratorially, "Don't worry. I only steal from those who deserve it."
The boy cocked his head, "Like Robin Hood?"
"Just like him."
"Wow!" he exclaimed, his wondering look making her laugh.
"Does Bruce deserve it?" Dick asked.
Selina hummed, "The only thing I want to steal from him...is his heart."
Behind her, she heard Bruce begin to breathe again. Seriously, who did he take her for? She wasn't that shameless.
"Doesn't it hurt?" Dick seemed genuinely concerned about his new guardian.
"Oh yeah, it hurts a lot. If you want it, go for it. Take a risk. Don't always play it safe or you'll die wondering."
Urgh, she was getting sentimental. It was the fault of the holidays. She used to get corny at Christmas.
Dick blinked, but before he asked any more potentially awkward questions - or something that would force either of them, god forbid, to talk about feelings - Bruce interjected, "Selina came to say hello. She's leaving now."
âShe can't stay?â Dick almost begged.
"She seems nice."
"You have to go to sleep or Santa won't come," Bruce reminded him calmly, the softest voice she'd ever heard him use. Fatherhood suited him.
"But I want to see Santa Claus!"
"Well," Selina chimed in.
"We could wait for him together. What do you think?"
"Really?"Â
"I could tell you a story while we wait."
Dick nodded vigorously and flung himself onto the couch. Bruce looked at her as if she'd helped Poison Ivy escape Arkham.
Selina sat down next to the overexcited boy, and started rubbing his head. She spoke softly, "You know, even at your age, I was waiting for Santa to come. My mom and I used to make him cookies, putting a lot of chocolate chips in them..."
Selina had never had the luxury of believing in Santa Claus, and sure as hell her mother had never baked cookies.
But the beauty of stories was that they didn't necessarily have to be true to be told. Within half an hour, Dick was asleep on her lap, and Bruce was staring at her in amazement.
"How did you do?"
"He was already tired," Selina explained to him.
"I just had to create the right atmosphere for him to fall asleep. Plus, kittens love it when I give them head scratches."
Bruce snorted, "He's not a kitten."
"You're right. He's a baby bat."
The man shook his head, "He's got too much color in him to be a bat. No, Dick is a bird. He's built to fly much higher than me."
The thief looked at him pityingly, "Oh, Bruce. Birds are fragile creatures."
"I know. Probably, I'll ruin him. But maybeâŠmaybe I can learn to be more human, for Dick."
Selina teased him, "The big bat is getting softer."
"Maybe," was all Bruce answered. He took the sleeping boy by the arm, looking at Selina, "Dick comes first."
"Got it. The child comes first. What about me?"
"You..."
She laughed, "I was kidding, silly. I would never get between a single parent and his child."
"Selina...Dick comes first, but I wouldn't mind if you too...come to visit him more often."
"Are you asking me to be his cat mom?" Selina asked half jokingly and half seriously.
"If you want."
"Mhm...I will think about it."
It wasn't a no. For now, it would have been enough for both of them.
Selina gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and like a teenager on a first date she whispered in his ear, "If you want to come looking for me without the kid, you know where to find me."
Selina left much the same way she had arrived, in a whiff of subtle perfume and mischief, feeling her heart heavy and her mind full of what-ifs.
#crossover#fanfiction#books#feels#au#quote#bruce wayne x selina kyle#dc bruce wayne#the batman#batman 2022#battinson fic#battinson#batcat#batman x catwoman#bruce wayne#bruce wayne x selina kyle dc#dc battinson#dc batman fic
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pairing: pattinson!batman x reader
summary: When her thread on r/GothamUnsolved (claiming that Bruce Wayne is the Batman) goes viral, an amateur sleuth finds herself at odds with both the man - and the Dark Knight.
wc: 10k+
genre: a romantic comedy between two deeply strange weirdos
warnings: canon-typical violence, bruce wayne is bad at google
âAfter the events of the Gotham Flood, the Batman has become something of a folk hero around the streets of our âfairâ city. But what if I told you that the Batman isnât all he seems? What if I told you that the caped crusader, the man who solved the Riddler and the masked menace of Gothamâs evil-doers isnât just some guy? What if I told youâŠheâs Bruce Wayne?â -Excerpt from âBruce Wayne is The Batman (NOT CLICKBAIT),â a forty-six part reddit thread by TheRealGothamGirl
Three years ago, after devouring a True Crime podcast about the Wayne murders, a nobody barista found her way to the r/GothamUnsolved subreddit.
It wasn't much of a hobby, just a forum dedicated to amateur sleuths attempting to piece together the perpetrators of crimes the Gotham PD was unable â or unwilling â to solve themselves. Ever since, in the hours between the dead-end job she worked to one day (hopefully) put herself through law school, she poured over the subreddit and its various threads, picking apart evidence and seeking it out herself.
Six of her own investigations had led to arrests, she was proud to say. Not that anyone knew who she was. The forum was entirely anonymous, and she wanted to keep it that way. The last thing she needed was some of Gothamâs criminal element coming after her for exposing their identities or that of their accomplices â if they did, she figured theyâd definitely kill her, and considering that the Gotham PD solved fewer homicides than her favorite subreddit, her killer would likely never be found.Â
But every amateur sleuth like her had a white whale â that one unsolved mystery that would haunt them for the rest of her days. In her case, however, the while whale was more of a dark knight. A Kevlar bat.Â
She wasnât the first to drive themselves basically crazy over the identity of The Batman. Many on the forum had tried, only to run into dead ends or talk themselves in circles or point the finger at plainly ridiculous candidates. ( Harvey Dent? Really? ) However, she was - she believed, anyway - the first person to get it right.Â
So, after months of meticulous research, a few illegal dumpster dives outside of Wayne Enterprises, a few less-than-accidental run-ins with muggers so she could lure the Batman for closer inspection, and some incredible luck, she published her findings: a forty-six part reddit thread detailing most of her evidence, enough evidence that a jury of Bruce Wayneâs peers would have no choice to convict him, enough evidence to prove that the crown prince of Gotham was really its caped crusader, enough evidence to prove to anyone with half a brain that Bruce Wayne was unbelievably, irrevocably, incontrovertibly â
âNot the Batman. No. Definitely not.âÂ
All day, behind the counter of the shitty print shop where she scanned other peopleâs theses and endlessly shuffled corporate reports into bracketed binders, sheâd had to listen and smile and push highlights while customer after customer snickered at the ridiculous theory that had gone viral last night â the âinsaneâ âconspiracy theoryâ that Bruce Wayne was The Batman. Each of them totally unaware that they were talking to the woman whoâd spent months of her life crafting it. Â
All of that, she could have taken. But when the crackling television on the wall played a newscast with brooding Bruce Wayne snickering at the idea â staring into the camera as he said it, as if he were taunting her, specificallyâŠthat was the last straw.Â
âI donât know, Mr. Wayne, this online poster seems to have really gotten people talking. Are you sure youâre not The Batman?â
âMiss Vale, how crazy would I have to be to run around Gotham City dressed as a bat?â
Vicki Vale, GCN's resident Bruce Wayne stalker, accepted this with a giggle, allowing Bruce Wayne to disappear into his city offices so she might sum up her ambush interview for the folks at home. But the woman behind the desk at the print shop bit the inside of her cheek.Â
What Bruce Wayne had just said? It wasnât a denial. And she did think he was crazy enough to run around the city as a bat.Â
In fact, she knew he was.Â
Pinned Comment from Mod_GothamUnsolved: âHey, Front Page! Due to an increase in inflammatory comments and threats against OP for this post, we are locking down our comments - approved users only for now. Sorry! Donât be dicks next time! Keep an eye on our subreddit for more Bats-related content, though. OP claims to have more information forthcoming.â
That night when her shift was over, she tucked her keys between her knuckles, carried her umbrella in her free hand, and returned by the better-lit streets â basic operating procedure for anyone who wanted to live to see another day in Gotham â to the crappy loft in the crappier side of town where she lived. Every step was agitated agony. She knew it wasnât literally true, but it felt as if everyone who laughed, everyone who smiled, everyone who glanced down at their phone, was making fun of her theory.Â
But it wasnât a theory. Bruce Wayne was Batman. He was. She just had to prove itâ
When she slammed the door of apartment 1319B open, her blood ran cold.Â
Oh, she was going to prove it alright.Â
Because there, rifling through one of her cabinets as if it were his own home, was the short, gruff, stocky, suited man sheâd seen in more than a dozen photographs of Bruce Wayne and his associates.Â
âOh. Mr. Pennyworth. Fancy seeing you hereâŠâ She closed the door behind her, rolling her eyes around the room to highlight just how supremely fucked up it was for him to be here. â...in my apartment.âÂ
For his part, Mr. Pennyworth did not seem fazed by the strangeness of his presence there.
âHello there,â he hummed, perfectly pleasant as he finally closed a cupboard and crossed to face her in the corner of the room that served as what could generously be called kitchenette. âIâm afraid we havenât been formally introduced.âÂ
âNo,â she said, âbut I bet you already know who I am. Donât you?â
No denial. Instead, he slid a file across the grotty, coffee-stained countertop that served as her cook surface, her mail table, her desk, and her dining room. With one hesitant hand, she flicked it open to find exactly what sheâd expected: pages and pages of print outs. Not just of her online post history, but of everything else.  She couldnât help but smile. No, beam . This was confirmation. She had found The Batman. And The Batman had sent his little minion to take her off of their trail. Only a truly threatened man would uncover the identity behind her online handle, break into her home, and present her with what looked like a blackmail folder. It basically screamed, âIâm guilty. I'm the Batman.âÂ
âYouâve caused a bit of trouble for my boss,â Mr. Pennyworth informed her.Â
âAnd heâs caused a lot of trouble for the city.âÂ
The man sniffed. âUnless you call causing a shortage of black clothing and Radiohead records trouble , weâll have to agree to disagree on that point, Miss.âÂ
Her lip twitched. The butler had jokes. That delighted her in a way she hadnât expected. Still, she played dumb. âI canât imagine what Bruce Wayneâs personal fixer would want with little old me.âÂ
âThis is all very embarrassing for Mr. Wayne, as Iâm sure you can understand. Being associated with some kookââ
âIsnât it more embarrassing to actually be that kook?â She mused. âMaybe if he didnât want to be associated, he would, you know, stop being Batman?â
The slightest flash of annoyance crossed Mr. Pennyworthâs face. ââBut he understands that you have a keen investigative mind and admires your tenacity. Even if itâs turned up the wrong result. He thinks he can help with that.â
And here it was. The only logical conclusion of Bruce Wayne discovering her identity. He was going to bribe her. Well, he could have her killed, but that would be so sloppy. These rich guys. Always the same. âOh, yeah?â
âThe Wayne Foundation would like to make a donation to your education,â Mr. Pennyworth said, passing another envelope across the desk, this time, sealed and check-sized. âA fully funded scholarship to Gotham Universityâs law program. You could train your mind. Put that tenacity to good use. Make the world a better place.â
âAnd stop pursuing this Bruce Wayne as Batman thing all together, I guess?â
âWell, I imagine you wonât have time,â he said, the implication clear. Her silence in exchange for this money, for her future. âWhat with all of that coursework youâll be doing.âÂ
She picked up the check, toying with its weight in her hand. How strange that something so small could have such power to change her life. A deep breath, then: âI appreciate this. I hope you tell Mr. Wayne that.âÂ
âI willââ
With three easy gestures, she ripped the check into pieces and resigned them to the nearby trash can. âAnd you can also tell him that the next time he wants to intimidate me, he should put on his little costume and do it himself.âÂ
UPDATED TO ADD: Today, I had a visit from Alfred Pennyworth, Mr. Bruce Wayneâs personal fixer (mentioned in sections 1, 2, 4, 7-45 of my investigation). He very politely invited me to cease my investigation into Bruce Wayne. And told me that if I did, the Wayne Foundation would happily pay for me to finally go to law school, something Iâve wanted to do but never have been able to afford. For anyone who still doubts my theory, I think Mr. Pennyworth pretty much proved it. Why would Bruce Wayne need to buy me off if what I said wasnât true?  Donât believe me? See the security camera stills below - taken inside of my apartment. Thatâs Alfred Pennyworth, going through my cabinets. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Pennyworth, but Iâm here for the truth. Bruce Wayneâs money may be able to buy a lot of things in this town, but itâs not going to buy my silence."- Excerpt from âBruce Wayne is The Batman (NOT CLICKBAIT),â a forty-seven part reddit thread by TheRealGothamGirl
Every Tuesday, on her only day off, she had a little ritual. First, she went to the Gotham Public Library to sort through the public records and pick up a new smutty romance book to read before bedtime over the next week. Then, she went to the courthouse and police station to pull any reports she might have needed for her research. And finally, she would go to the deli behind the police station, order the cheapest sandwich on the menu (usually given at a discount, as she requested day-old bread instead of fresh), and sit on her favorite park bench to enjoy her paperwork, her sandwich, and - on rare days like these - the sunshine.Â
However, on her walk to the bench today, a long, black coat wearing a tall, imposing man knocked her off of her path when their bodies accidentally collided. As she stumbled back from the force of him, her papers flying everywhere and her sandwich bag tumbling into the nearby grass, a brittle, soft voice reached her ears:Â
âExcuse me, missââ
Familiar. Sheâd heard that voice before.Â
Crouched down to grab her papers, she looked up to see that the voice belonged to just the man sheâd suspected â or feared.Â
It was Bruce Wayne. In the flesh. Without his armor or his mask. And when their eyes met, he smiled at her. Not a big smile, not anything he might have flashed in the papers, but something softer. Almost genuine. Almost good enough to awaken a whole sea of butterflies in the pit of her stomach.Â
âOh,â he said, wincing his greeting. A little shy. A little awkward. âHello. I'm sorry about that. Here. Can I...?âÂ
He crouched down to help her. For a moment, she lost her breath and every word sheâd ever learned. There was nothing but him. Sheâd been close to him before â once. But other than that fleeting exchange, one she was sure he didnât remember, she only knew him from photographs and archival footage. In those videos, heâd always seemedâŠ
Well, not to be rude, but a little bit like if the sickly orphan boy in a Charles Dickens novel had been cast in a 90âs grunge bandâs music video.Â
In person, though, so close, he was something completely different. Sure, the basics of him were still the same, but there was an intoxicating indirectness about him â as though he didnât understand the basics of human interactionâŠbut something about her made him want to try.Â
She shook off the feeling almost as soon as it occurred to her.Â
There wasnât anything special about her. This wasnât a chance meeting in the park. It was another attempt to con her into dropping her Batman posts.Â
âThatâs cute,â she muttered, attempting to pile her papers back into some semblance of order.Â
Bruce Wayne offered up stray pages as though he werenât a billionaire crouched down in the middle of a public park. âWhat is?â
âThis isnât some chance meeting, Bruce Wayne . Youâre pretending to run into me just a few days after your bruiser broke into my apartment.â
She glanced up to check out his reaction. A muscle in his jaw tightened and he looked anywhere but her.Â
âI didnât ask him to do that. AndââÂ
He stopped himself short, as though heâd caught himself almost saying something he shouldnât have. When he handed her the last of her papers, she prodded:Â
âAnd?â
âAnd he didnât break in,â Bruce mumbled. âHe said the door wasnât locked.âÂ
âI notice youâre not denying the fake run-in.âÂ
âThis isnât fake," he protested, at last. "I donât even know youââ
Lie. How was a man with a whole-ass double life so bad at lying?
Maybe that was why he barely made it out of Wayne Manor or his offices. Maybe he was such a bad liar that if he showed his face in public too much, the whole world would see through him. She fought to fit her folders back into her bag, her sandwich quite forgotten nearby.Â
âBruce. I discovered your super-secret identity. Youâre not fooling me with this whole innocent guy act.âÂ
Dropping the pretense of this meeting being an accident â thank God, she was glad he didnât see fit to insult her intelligence any longer â he leaned forward, lowering his voice as though they were sharing a confidence. âI donât have a secret identity.âÂ
Heâd gotten closer to her than heâd probably meant, but she could tell he wasnât going to back down until he had his answer. So, for a moment, they shared the same air, huffing out cold puffs of powdered breath onto the frigid afternoon wind. His lips â so easily identifiable by anyone with eyes as the Batmanâs lips â were pink from the cold. She dragged her gaze from them, then met his.Â
âOkay, then,â she said, squaring up to him. âProve it.âÂ
âProve what, that Iâm not Batman?â
âYes. And you can do that by taking me to dinner.â
404. Batman error.Â
The man blinked, apparently not expecting her to ask him that question â or, more bafflingly to her, shocked that any woman would want to go on a date with him.Â
âIâŠâ A muscle twitched between his eyes. Confusion. âIâm sorry?â
She practically sang her answer, quite pleased with herself. How wonderful to play with him this way, to tease him with a challenge she knew he would never meetâŠto taunt herself with a date she knew she would never get. But it was fun to pretend, just for a second. âThe Batman goes out every night between eleven forty-seven and and eleven fifty-two. He doesnât disappear until sunrise. Take me to dinner. If heâs out tonight and youâre with me, that will prove that youâre not The Batman.â
It would have been so easy for Bruce Wayne to turn on his heel and abandon her. To call a full-court press assault on her character, to degrade her as a crazy conspiracy theorist and resign her silly little theory to the pages of one of those tabloids that had gotten rich off of smearing his dead parents with horrible theories of their own.Â
But he didnât. And she wonderedâŠ
She wondered if maybe he wanted to have dinner with her. Â
âEleven forty-seven is a late dinner, donât you think?â He asked, a cooly conspiratorial glint in his eye. Â
âWeâll go to a diner.â She shrugged. âI like waffles.â
âDinner,â he repeated, confirming. His lips tipping up again in that nearly-smile of his. âIâll pick you up at 11:45.âÂ
Going for her forgotten sandwich, she rolled her eyes. It was a fun game while it lasted. But she wouldnât be falling prey to his promises. She wasnât a fool. âSure you will, Batman.âÂ
âIâm notââ
But before he could finish that protest, she disappeared around a nearby tree, biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing.Â
COMMENT FROM @ BALLCHUGGER 69: Batman is the greatest hero. I donât care who he is. Leave him alone, whore.Â
That night, she didnât even bother to get dressed for a date. Didnât even pretend it was a possibility. No, if anyone had come to pick her up from her shitbox apartment on the wrong side of the city, they would have found her sprawled on her couch in a pair of sweats and a sports bra, stealing internet from her next door neighbor so she could scroll redditâs latest Bruce Wayne as Batman megathread and listen closely to a livestream of the Gotham PD scanner.Â
Sure enough, about ten minutes after Bruce was supposed to meet her for dinner, crackle-voice cops informed their comrades that the Bat had just strung up three low-level mob figures up by the ankles from a lamppost.Â
Ten minutes after that, a knock on the door drew her to it. But when she opened, there was only a small, weighty eggshell envelope waiting for her, taped just beneath the peep hole. When she opened it, a handwritten letter under Wayne Enterprises letterhead informed her that Bruce regretted his absence, but had been called away on an urgent matter.Â
She smirked as she tossed the letter carelessly into the trash. Sheâd always known he wasnât going to show up. The Batman was never going to ignore the city when it was in danger â even if it meant protecting his identity.Â
She had to admit: she admired him for that.Â
REPLY TO @ BALLCHUGGER69: I never said he wasnât a hero. I think he is. In fact, I know he is. So we agree there. But as to the whore commentâŠif Batman is so heroic, I donât think he would like you talking to ladies like that.
Sometime around midnight, she decided - for no particular reason - to go for a little walk down to Bowery. The Batmanâs main territory. Sheâd seen him here more than once - and she wanted to see for herself that Bruce Wayne wasnât at some high society dinner or in his Wayne Enterprises high-rise, but out there, on the streets. Doing what he did best - hunting.Â
She stuck to the shadows, one hand on the pepper spray in her pocket and the other on the heavy handle of the umbrella she always carried for protection. But soon enough, she found him. Guiding a frightened woman to the safety of a police car, while her three assailants scrambled away.Â
When Batman turned, his glazed eyes caught hers in the shadow. She smirked. He could run after the bad guys, or he could confront her.Â
Again, he chose the noble thing. He ran after the criminals.Â
Admirable. And fortuitous, as the mud from last night's rain left perfect copies of his boot prints behind. Boot prints that she meticulously photographed for later examination.Â
@ CKent_DailyPlanetNews: After independently verifying recent revelations regarding Wayne Enterprise Employee Alfred Pennyworth and the reddit user who asserts that Bruce Wayne is Batman, I have agreed to cover this story for The Daily Planet. More developments to follow.Â
For the next few days, after Clark Kent reached out to her anonymous account on Reddit and they set up a time to discuss her Batman finds, she went about her normal routine and tried not to think about Bruce Wayne or his dark knight counterpart. She did her job, raced home, and dove into the other outstanding amateur sleuthing cases that had been piling up during the whole Batman thing.Â
But she should have known that once the Clark Kent news broke and the internet exploded over it, Bruce Wayne would not be far behind.Â
One afternoon, in the print shop, she was five paragraphs into a really good sex scene in her book when a hand appeared on the desk in front of her, opening and closing into a loose fist - uncomfortable, not threatening. She glanced up to find Bruce Wayne standing there. As unbearably awkward in real life as he was confident and dangerous as Batman.Â
She waited for him to speak first. When he finally did, it just came out:Â
â...Hi.âÂ
âHi,â she said in her best customer service voice. Trying to ignore how his unbroken stare made her want to melt into his stupid, sexy arms and act out one of those romance novel scenes sheâd just been reading. The only thing that stopped her from doing so was the knowledge that sheâd gotten him right where she wanted him. He was panicked. And panicked men always made mistakes. Mistakes that could lead to him outright confirming his real identity. âCan I help you?â
âCould IâŠâ He swallowed, trying to strengthen his weak voice. âCan we talk?â
âAs opposed to what weâre doing right now?â
âAlone, I mean.â
With a flourish, she rose from behind the printing desk and breezed past him to straighten the already-straightened display of staplers and graphic calculators.Â
âIf youâre here to ask me out, Iâm sorry, but my schedule is all full. I donât go on second dates with guys who stand me up, Mr. Batman.âÂ
â Donât call me that .âÂ
It was a growl, the closest sheâd yet seen to The Batman flashing past his Bruce Wayne exterior. A thrill shot up and down her spine. Keep him talking . She didnât want to let him go. She loved this dance that they were doing, this go away closer they played. âYou saw Clark Kentâs tweet, didnât you?â
âI donât know why youâre doing thisââ
âOf course you donât,â she mumbled. âYou never even asked.âÂ
â--But please. Stop. The city needs BatmanââÂ
Clearly, he thought speaking faster and clearer and something approaching a big businessman voice was going to spook her. But she would not be deterred. Sheâd thought this through a million times. âAnd they need Bruce Wayne, too. I agree. I just wonder why they canât have both at the same time.âÂ
âWhat do you mean by that?â
âNothing.â He still hadnât asked her why she was doing this. And every time their eyes met, she waited for some flash of recognition that she now knew would never come. Even if she told him now what she meant by that little comment, he wouldnât listen. Why waste her breath? âNothing youâd be interested in hearing, anyway.âÂ
Rounding one of the shelves she stocked, he came face-to-face with her. The rack was the only barrier between them.Â
âI am asking you to stop this,â he pleaded, low and gentle. Â
âOr what? Youâll make me stop?â
âWhat do you want? What can I give you?â
Her lips tugged. Smug. âI told you, Mister Wayne. I want to go to dinner.âÂ
âThatâs not possible.âÂ
âWell, then. I think weâre done here. As it happens, I have a meeting with Clark Kent later this week to talk about my findings.â
âYouâll be making a mistake.âÂ
âWhy?â
âBecause one day, if you do this, maybe youâll need Batman, and I wonât be there.âÂ
That felt like a threat. It felt like a slap. He instantly recoiled, as if ashamed that heâd said it. But when he opened his mouth to no doubt apologize, she beat him to it.Â
Sheâd caught him. The harder he tried to deny the truth, the more he kept showing his hand. â... You wonât be there? Sounds like an admission to me.â
Bruce adjusted his coat, drawing the collar up around his neck. He ignored her question and took to convincing her â which sounded more and more like he was convincing himself. âThis conversation is over. Iâm not your Batman. Your ridiculous post is only going to get people hurt. No one will believe you. And you donât have any proof, just conjecture and speculation and probably some very flimsy âevidence.â Nothing can link me to The Batman. Nothing .âÂ
She could have laughed. She almost did. But she managed to stop it. Laughing would have given away her whole play. Adopting a fake serious tone, she nodded solemnly. âOf course. Yeah. Silly of me. You . Batman. Itâs ridiculous. Iâll just go ahead and cancel my meeting with Clark Kent.âÂ
Something flashed in his expression. Relief? Gratitude? A tint of regret? âIâŠThank you.âÂ
With that, he went for the door, but only made it two steps before she called him back.Â
No proof, heâd said. Please. As if she would accuse the most powerful man in Gotham of being The Batman without any actual evidence.Â
âJust one more thing, Bruce.âÂ
âYes?â
When he turned back around, he found himself face-to-face with her phone screen, which flashed a perfect picture of Batmanâs boot print, which sheâd snapped during their last encounter.Â
The blood rushed from Bruceâs face. She smirked.Â
âWhat size shoe do you wear?â
COMMENT BY DENT4PREZ: Yo, GothamGirl, any more Batman updates?
REPLY BY TheRealGothamGirl: Iâm working on another case right now. The world does not revolve around Batman! Â
She wasnât sure what made her hold back the boot print picture. Considering Bruce Wayneâs shoe size was a matter of public record thanks to some particularly freaky BW TikTok stans, it would have been a significant piece of evidence to add to the pile currently being combed over by dozens of amateur sleuths like herself.Â
Maybe it was the slight panic sheâd caught in his expression when she showed it to him. Perhaps it was the fact that if he did fully prove him without a shadow of a doubtâŠheâd have no reason to find her again, ending their brief flirtations.Â
Maybe she didnât want to lose him, something she knew would happen if she pushed the truth any further.Â
It was selfish, she knew. To want to keep him. He belonged to the people, and so did the truth.Â
But another day or two couldnât hurt. Especially now that he seemed to hate her.Â
One day, maybe youâll need Batman and he wonât be there .Â
It was those words ringing in her ears when her latest cold case investigation took her to The Narrows, one of Gothamâs worst neighborhoods. The evidence had led her here, to an abandoned warehouse where she believed someone had stashed the trophies of the murders theyâd committed, so a bit of light breaking and entering was on the menu tonight. But she wasnât worried. Sheâd done this a dozen times. Narrows or no, it was an abandoned warehouse. What were the odds that anyone would â
âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doing in there?â
She was halfway out of the window when a man staring up at her from the street caught her. Damn. She was nearly homefree.Â
Adrenaline kicking into action, she threw herself out of the window, careful not to jostle the bag slung across her body â the one containing the killerâs treasures. The man was on her in a second, lunging with everything he had. All of her self-defense training flooded back to her. She dodged him at first, then knocked him back with her umbrella. The next time he approached, though, he caught her on the back foot, and before she knew it, he had her pinned against the wall.Â
Something sharp pierced her side.Â
She screamed.Â
The edges of her world went fuzzy.Â
Fuck . Had he stabbed her?
The blood loss was swift. His rancid breath on her cheek turned her stomach. But with one last flurry of energy, she emptied her pepper spray into his eyes, and he scrambled out into the darkness. Probably convinced that she wasnât a threat to him anymore anyway. After all, heâd stabbed her .Â
When he abandoned their little drama, she crumbled down the wall, pinning her hands to her wound. She had to get out of there. Had to fix herself up. But she wasâŠso tired. Down to her bones. The kind of exhaustion that made sleeping on the ground of a dark alleyway in The Narrows with a bag full of a serial killerâs treasures seem appealing.Â
Shock, she realized vaguely. This was shock. She was in shock. Thatâs why the wound didnât hurt. Thatâs why she wanted to sleep. Thatâs why she didnât notice â not at first â when a cloaked figure stalked into her line of sight.Â
âOh, youâve got to be kidding me,â she groaned, lolling onto her side at the sight of him.Â
The Batman. Of all the dark alleyways in all the world, he had to walk into hers.Â
âWere you following me?â He growled, eyes darting up to the warehouse, where he instantly spotted the window sheâd broken to force entry not twenty minutes ago.Â
âNo,â she spit, tasting blood on her teeth now.Â
âThen why were youââ
âI was on another case.â She followed his line of sight as it traveled from the window down to her bag, which had sprawled open during the scuffle. With those weird shades in his mask, his expression proved unreadable, but she spotted the slightest tensing of his jaw. Ah, so she hadnât followed him and he hadnât followed her. Theyâd just both been hunting the same criminal and gotten here at the same time. âIt just happened to be yours, I guess.â
It was only then that he looked at her â really looked at her, not in panic, not in rage â and noticed the red blooming behind the hands clenched at her stomach. His jaw parted this time, but he made no move to approach.Â
âLeave me alone. I canâI canâYou already said what you would do if you found me in trouble. And I assume youâre a man with, like, a code or whatever. Itâs what I deserve. Besides,â she wheezed, indicating the police sirens that had just gone off somewhere in the vicinity. âYou have bad guys to catch.âÂ
God , she was going to die here. She was going to die here and Batman was going to leave her to do it because he had more heroic things to do and also because sheâd been threatening to expose him and also he was angry with her andâ
Suddenly, he was all she could see. Kneeling at her side, arms at the ready to collect her.Â
âCan I touch you?â
âI bet you say that to all the criminals,â she snarked, the blood loss finally getting to her head.Â
He remained still. Stoic. He would not be touching her unless she gave her consent. Slowly, very slowly, she nodded. âYeah. Fine. Go ahead.âÂ
No sooner were the words out than he scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, and walking her out of the alley.Â
She tried not to think about the firm warmth of his chest or how right it felt to curl up in his arms. Tried not to think about the easy way he picked her up â as if she was nothing, rather than the generously curved woman sheâd always been.Â
When he lodged her in the back seat of what appeared to be what sheâd pejoratively termed in her reddit post, âthe Batmobile,â they were silent. He worked quickly, positioning her so he could withdraw a first aid kit and set to stitching up the wound gushing onto his smooth leather seats. She watched him with hazy vision â cataloging the precision with which he sank a needle into her ribcage and filled her with morphine, the way he cooed quietly when she hissed as he began stitching her up, the delicate care he took with picking the fabric of her clothes out of the gash in her side.Â
âI could blow up your life tomorrow,â she muttered. Though whether she was speaking to the bat or the man behind the mask, she didnât know.Â
âYeah,â he agreed. âYou could.âÂ
âBut youâre still doing this. Why?â
âYou have your reasons for doing what youâre doing.â His hands were gentle. So gentle for a vigilante. She was struck by the urge to rip those gloves off and see if those hands were as gentle as Bruce Wayneâs had been when heâd first touched her. âI have mine.âÂ
âI hope I get to hear them someday,â she mumbled, teasing. âMaybe at dinner.âÂ
âBatman doesnât do dinner,â he said, apparently still trying to engage in his little game of pretend. As if he hadnât just as good as admitted who he was. As if this night didnât change anything.Â
The last thing she remembered, before she passed out from the drugs heâd given her, was the chuckle he rewarded her with when she replied, âMaybe not. But Bruce Wayne might.âÂ
SIGNAL MESSAGE FROM CLARK KENT: Are we still on for our meeting tomorrow? Iâm flying down tomorrow morning.Â
SIGNAL MESSAGE FROM ANONYMOUS: Flying? Itâs like an hour drive. Arenât you supposed to be some kind of environmentalist fighting Lex Luthor, Mr. Daily Planet?Â
SIGNAL MESSAGE FROM CLARK KENT: Typo. Damn autocorrect. Are we on?Â
SIGNAL MESSAGE FROM ANONYMOUS: Yeah.Â
SIGNAL MESSAGE FROM CLARK KENT: Make sure to bring the documents you mentioned in your posts.Â
The next morning, she woke up in her apartment. The wounds were the only proof that the night before had even happened. The Batman had saved her life. And according to the police blotter, he hadnât stopped there. Heâd taken her evidence and caught that killer â and on his way out of The Narrows after that, heâd apparently had enough time to stop two muggings.
As someone without health insurance who lived in the most dangerous city in the country, she was pretty used to attending Youtube medical school. Because of that, she had no trouble cleaning out Batmanâs tidy stitches and keeping the bandages clean and dry. What she did have trouble with?  Not thinking about him every time she moved. When the pain made her twitch, when the scabs begged to be scratched, with every bandage change, she couldnât help but think about those warm, gentle hands against her skin. The easy, uncomplicated way heâd saved her. Those quiet words theyâd shared in the dark.Â
It made her interview with Clark Kent, conducted in a small coffee shop off the beaten path, one where neither of them would be recognized, a little awkward. Every time she breathed too deeply, she was reminded of Batman â and the potential consequences of being here with a powerful journalist, her arms full of proof that would link him to Bruce Wayne.Â
âMissââ
She shook her head as Clark fumbled with the recording app on his phone. âI think itâs better if I donât use my name. You know it. Youâve confirmed my identity. That should be enough. Anonymous sources are still a thing, arenât they?â
He flashed a grin. Friendly. Wholesome. Thoroughly un-Bruce-like. âCertainly. Itâs a pleasure to meet you, Miss Anonymous.âÂ
The Muzak in the coffee shop stretched between them as he flipped through his pages of notes. For her part, she stared blankly into the distance past the nearby window. Her hand drifted to her ribcage, pressing past her coat and her shirt and the bandage straight to her slow-healing wound.Â
âWhat do you think will happen?â She asked, vaguely.Â
Clark adjusted his glasses. âWhatâs that?â
âWhen the people know, for sure, I mean, not just my speculation or whatever, that Bruce Wayne is Batman? What do you think will happen?â
âI can't see the future or anything, but I guess he'll be arrested. Heâll have to be, if thereâs ever going to be any faith in Gothamâs institutions again. If my article has anything to say about it, thatâs where heâll end up. Isnât that what you want? For the Batman to stop terrorizing the streets?â
No. No, it wasnât what sheâd wanted at all. Sheâd never wanted that. Clark Kent seemed like a decent enough guy, butâŠÂ no .Â
Leaping to her feet, she grabbed at the briefcase of Wayne-related documents.Â
âYou know â I forgot â I have a work thing.âÂ
Nearly choking, Clark gawked at her. âBut I came all the way from Metropolis.âÂ
âIâm sorry, I just ââ
âLeave the documents, at least.âÂ
He bolted up from his chair, grabbing for her. Â
Too fast. Inhumanly fast.Â
She tried to wrench out of his grasp. âNoââ
âWaitââ
With a twist, she stumbled back. Clark remained unmovable, but his head tipped suddenly, knocking his glasses clean off of his face. Giving her a perfect look at him.Â
It was just a split second, but a split second was all it took for an idea to plant in the mossy soil of her mind and take immovable root. Then, when his eyes focused on her bag, it already began to sprout.Â
âSorry. Youâre right,â he said, straightening, as if heâd already gotten everything he needed from her in that single look.Â
Which, she suspected, he had.Â
@ CKent_DailyPlanetNews: Confidential sources have withdrawn from the Bruce Wayne story. However, with the help of newly uncovered documents, I will diligently follow the truth wherever it takes me.Â
After Clark tweeted about her withdrawing from the story, she went home and deleted all of her threads on the Gotham Unsolved subreddit. Sheâd kept the evidence in a sealed locker in her house, and the digital footprint would surely live on forever, but at least sheâd done something . Once sheâd closed the book on Batman, she turned her attention to other matters, other cases that needed solving, other unsolved mysteries she hoped she wouldnât screw up as royally as she had this one.Â
The Batman case was the first time sheâd ever regretted solving one. She needed another win, anything to remind her that she was on the good side of this city, that she was contributing to its salvation rather than its decline.Â
Which is how, on a particularly snowy Tuesday afternoon, she found herself hunched over a cup of coffee (bought in place of her usual sandwich, because it was too cold to sit out here without coffee and she couldnât afford both) and her records on her park bench when a shadow passed over her.
Not just any shadow. Bruce Wayneâs shadow.Â
âOh. Mr. Wayne. I didnât - I didnât think I would -â the stammering continued a minute more before she finally slammed the folder in her lap closed and tried again: âHow are you?â
âThis is your spot, isnât it?â He asked, not answering her question.
No wonder. He looked like shit. The bags under his eyes had gotten darker and more bruised. His coat engulfed him. She tried to tease some life back into him â anything to stop staring at the snowflakes currently settling on his eyelashes and melting into his lips.Â
âSpying on me again?âÂ
He shrugged, but it worked. He smiled â just barely. Like most of his smiles. âMy office is just up there." He pointed to the Wayne Enterprises building towering over the northern stretch of the park. "I see you down here sometimes. Just like I saw that the Batman threads have all been taken down. And that Clark Kent lost his source. And that someone solved the Kyminsky murder.âÂ
This time, it was her turn to shrug.
âI just figured it out. Batman brought the guy in. I donât deserve any credit.â
âMaybe not,â he said. âBut you might deserve dinner.âÂ
Against her better judgment, her heart fluttered. A traitorous hummingbird trying to get free and fly straight for him. âReally?â
âReally. But at eight. Not eleven-fifty. I have a lot to show you and I canât do it in an all-night diner.âÂ
Intriguing. She probably should have said no. It was undoubtedly better to keep her distance from Bruce Wayne, especially after all that had transpired between them. But he had to know she couldnât resist a good mystery. âWhere, then?â
âWayne Manor.â
APARTMENT 1319B RECENT SEARCH HISTORY:
What to do if you have weird feelings for a vigilante?
What to do if a billionaire invites you to his house?
What to wear if a billionaire invites you to his house?
Do billionaires brick their enemies up in amontillado cellars anymore?
How to escape bricked-over amontillado cellar
What do rich people serve at dinner?
How to eat lobster without looking like a poor person
Wayne Manor was everything sheâd expected. A gothic mansion set out past the edges of the city, it filled in the picture of what she believed about Bruce Wayne. It was sort of a reflection of him. Locked up, crumbling, defiantly enduring, and impossibly beautiful.Â
The place was so grand that the second she stepped up on the grand marble steps, she felt underdressed. A feeling that only intensified when Mr. Pennyworth opened the door and snarked at her.Â
âWelcome to Wayne Manor, Miss. I see youâve dressed for the occasion.âÂ
Behind Alfredâs tuxedo-ed back, she could hear the tinkling of fine music and the pop of a champagne bottle. Theyâd been originally supposed to go to a diner . How was she supposed to know that Bruce wanted her to dress formally ? She flushed. âHe didnât tell me what to wear, and wouldn't you know it? All of my gowns are at the cleanerâs.â
Alfred scoffed. âYouâreââ
But the arrival of his master cut him off. Bruce Wayne stepped into view, looking like an evening star wrapped up in a ten-thousand dollar suit. He still hadnât gotten the hang of styling his hair like a normal human being, she noticed, and there were several bruises beginning to surface just beneath his collar and at the skin near his shirt cuffs, but even so â
He was so handsome. Especially when he assessed her like he did now. Â
âYouâre perfect,â he said simply, finishing Alfred's sentence.Â
Having handed her coat to Alfred when he waved for it, she gestured down to her jeans and flannel combination. He was in a goddamn tux and she was in jeans . âI donât feel very perfect.âÂ
âYou are exactly who Iâve been looking for.â
That sounds like something a murderer or Batman or a guy in love would say â dear God, please be the second one.Â
âI hope youâre hungry,â Alfred said. âMaster Wayne doesnât eat much, butââ
The tops of Bruceâs cheeks flushed. ââ Alfred ââ
âBut he insisted on only the best. Iâll just be in the kitchen, preparing.â
Without another word, the man was gone. Sheâd done so much research into Alfred and Bruce, but none of her documents ever could have taught her this: they cared about each other. Almost like father and son.  It was cute, the way Bruce ducked his head, embarrassed, and apologized for Alfred. Domestic in a way she hadnât expected.Â
There was a lot she hadnât expected, it turned out. The living room of Wayne Manor was well-appointed, but clearly weathered from lack of use. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet and despite the obvious attempts to spruce the place up, she couldnât help but notice that the entire room, while it glittered from golden candle light and smelled like the fresh, home-cooking wafting from the nearby kitchen, carried with it the oppressive weight of grief.Â
Suddenly, so much of Bruce made sense. He was not some playboy who masqueraded as Batman to make meaning out of his useless life. He was not doing it for the attention. He was not a man with a death wish.Â
He was justâŠso, so sad. And so very lonely. And trying to right a wrong for the universe that had never been righted for him. Saving other people so theyâd never have to know what heâd been through.Â
As she leaned against a nearby window and watched him pour champagne for them both, she blinked away tears at that revelation. Sheâd always been on Bruceâs side. But now? Now she actually understood him. And that broke her heart a little.Â
âI really am sorry about my clothes,â she said, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. âI thought this would be, like, a casual thing, not aââ
âA date?â
A date. Even after the tuxedos and champagne, it hadnât even occurred to her that this was a date.Â
Sheâd thoughtâŠ.
WellâŠ
Sheâd thoughtâŠit was, like, a detente. A cessation of hostilities. A friendly armistice.Â
But a date�
Once more, she swept the room. Champagne. Music. Lights. A home-cooked meal. Bruce doing that almost-smile thing he did whenever she was around. Color and life back in his face, something that had been sorely missing the last time sheâd seen him.Â
Yeah. A date. That checked out. Heat flooded her cheeks. She stared down at her shoes.Â
âYeah.â
âI understand,â he said, handing her a champagne flute.Â
âYou do?â
âYeah.â He clinked their glasses together. Sardonic and self-deprecating. âI wouldnât want to go out with the Batman either.â
Her eyes widened. This was not a mistake. This was not a slip-up. It was purposeful. Heâd invited her on a date, invited her to dinner, and was telling her the one secret heâd been trying so hard to keep. Retiring her glass to a nearby table, she repeated the word, â...Batman.âÂ
He nodded once. At last, a confirmation. â Batman .â
Before she could think better of it, she charged towards him, to ask him more questions, to probe him for answers â only for the aggressive action to tug at her stitches, causing her to painfully twist and stumbleâŠ
â Shit ââ
âCareful thereââ
âŠright into his arms.Â
Suddenly, the pain in her side was the furthest thing from her mind.Â
Even if he hadnât just confessed the truth to her, she would have known it was him just from this embrace. It was the same one sheâd experienced in the alley that night â the one where he saved her life. It was an awkward hold. Soft in some places and stiff in others. Close but not close enough for her liking. Unpracticed. As if he hadnât known the non-violent touch of someone in too, too long.Â
It washed her in peace from the flushed crown of her head all the way down to her untied shoelaces.Â
For a breathless moment, neither of them moved. But the music from the old stereo played something soft and lovelyâŠand before they knew that they were even doing it, as if twisted in some magical spell cast by the speakers, they were swaying.Â
âDo you like to dance?â Bruce asked, his breath tickling her neck.Â
âNo.â
âMe either,â he agreed.Â
And yetâŠthere they were. Dancing. Each of them equally unwilling to let the other one go.Â
She didnât know what that meant. Only that it felt right, being there in his touch.
What a miracle â that her life would bring her to this place, this time, this man. All because she nearly died one night six months ago - not that he knew about that yet.  Â
âWhy did you do it?â He asked, melting into her touch.Â
âDo what?â
âTry to expose me. And then stop.â
She tilted her head until their eyes met, giving him full, silent permission to survey her. When nothing sparked in him, she asked: âYou really donât remember me, do you?âÂ
No answer. She tucked herself back into the crook of her body, enjoying his touch while she still could.Â
âI had my suspicions about you before the flood. But it seemed so impossible. Bruce Wayne, the Batman? Of course not. But thenâŠI was in that stadium. And those things you put in your eyes when you wear that mask, the things that keep people from seeing your eyes? They shorted in the water. After all that research Iâd done about youâŠwhen you pulled me out of that water, I recognized them. You have very distinctive eyes, Mr. Wayne.âÂ
Did he notice that heâd tightened his grip around her waist? As though he were now the one drowning and she was the only thing holding him above the swells?Â
âI know you think I wanted this city to destroy you. But I donât. I think youâre a hero.â She was digging her fingers into the soft fabric of his suit jacket now. Hopefully, he thought she was just holding onto him for support because of her injury â not for the reason that being this close to him made her knees weak and her heartbeat at a rate she considered medically unsafe. âAnd for awhile, I believed that if the world knew that Bruce Wayne and Batman were the same guyâŠyou could be even more of an inspiration. Someone with everything trying to do something for those who have nothing . The man everyone knows, fighting for the forgotten. The Crown Prince of Gotham saving us peasants down below.âÂ
She teased him with that last bit. But he was as serious as he had been the moment before.Â
âAnd now?â He prompted, pulling away so she could no longer hide in the crook of his neck. Under his stare, she knew she couldnât falter.Â
âNow, I just want you to keep fighting - even if you have to do it in the shadows.â
Their breath intermingled. It felt like the start of something. His attention flickered down to her lips âÂ
âMaster Wayne.â
The sound of Alfredâs voice made her twitch. She moved to step away, but Bruce held her fast, even as Alfred raised a judgmental eyebrow at their romantic clinch.Â
âDinner is served,â he said, lingering in the doorway.Â
Through it all, she realized that Bruce had never looked away from her. And he didnât when he spoke again.Â
âIâm sorry, Alfred. I think we have something else to do first.â
BRUCE WAYNE RECENT SEARCH HISTORY, SCRUBBED at 7:58 PM:Â
Ethics of hiring woman youâre attracted to
Can you kiss someone at a first date/job interview?
How to confirm a secret identity?
How to hide bruises from a fistfight you got into the night before a date?
Romantic Covers of Nirvana Songs
How to reveal secret location without seeming like a kid showing a girl your treehouse?
There wasnât much Bruce Wayne cared to examine in himself. He knew, in vague strokes, that he was obsessive and driven by pain, and desperate for justice in any form it could take. He knew he didnât want to be the monster that stalked the shadows anymore, but a hero who actually helped people.
And he knew that from the moment he met this strange woman in the park, something within him shifted. She was a threat to him, an existential one he should have done everything in his power to destroy. He was a billionaire, after all. It should have been easy to tie her up in legal battles for the rest of her life, to pay for bots to drown out her posts, to keep upping the ante of Alfredâs bribery until she had no choice but to accept.
Still. He didnât. She was brilliant and infuriating and matched him turn-for-turn. Every time he thought he had her figured out, she dodged in the exact opposite direction. Whether she was relentlessly taunting him about his secret identity or flirting or asking him to dinner or sneaking pictures of his boot prints or crumbling under his hands as he healed her or giving up the story with Clark Kent or doing that scrunching thing with her nose she did when she was thinking too hard or fiddling with the handle of her umbrella she uselessly kept nearby for protection or flashing those intelligent, sharp eyes of hersâŠ
He was fascinated. He couldnât remember the last time something other than the underworld of Gotham had fascinated him. Maybe it was this new change in him, the one that had been brewing ever since The Flood. Maybe, as he returned slowly from Vengeance back to his humanity, maybe his heart was slowly awakening, too. Maybe all of those feelings heâd chained away for so long were resurfacing.
In any caseâŠsomething shot straight through his heart when she stepped down the stairs into The Cave and her lips parted in a wondrous smile. Only, for the first time in his life, a sudden bolt to his chest didnât hurt. It blossomed into something warm and unfamiliar.Â
âWhat is this?â She breathed, eyes wide and uncertain. âWhy have you brought me here?â
âItâs my headquarters,â he said, leading her down the rickety steps until he reached the floor of the spotlight-illuminated tunnel. He suddenly found it impossible to look at her. As if he were afraid she would suddenly pass judgment and he would be found wanting. He steeled himself for what was to come. From the start, sheâd known the truth. He knew she knew the truth. And she knew that he knew the truth. But this was a final confirmation. An admission of guilt, undeniable, that could not be retracted once made. âAnd Iâm showing you because⊠Because Iâm Batman.â
Miracle of miracles, she didnât run out of the door. She didnât scream and throw things at him. She didnât even feign surprise. Instead, she chuckled. Bruce felt his own lips twitch. When was the last time anyone had laughed in this house? âYeah, no shit. I already knew that. I mean why are you showing this to me?â
That was the question Alfred had asked about a half-dozen times since Bruce had decided to bring her here â a decision heâd made the moment he found out sheâd scuttled Clark Kentâs Batman story. And the answer heâd given Alfred was the same answer heâd give her now.
But it wasnât the whole answer, not really. The whole truth would have been youâre a damn good detective and I want an excuse to get close to you â to stay close to you . Instead, he edited the truth, tailoring it for this moment:Â
âBecause youâre a damn good detective. And I donât think I can do this alone anymore.â He paused. âOr maybe I donât want to.â
Her skepticism was immediate and apparent. âYou want me to help you?â
A wash of insecurity snuck up on him all at once. âIt would be a good job. Iâd pay for law school. Youâd have a generous salary. Benefits. The hours arenât great, butââ
She spun around, and suddenly they were very close. He had her pinned between his desk and his body, but she didnât seem to noticeânot in the way he did, anyway. Her eyes shone. âOkay.â
âOkay?â
âIâll take the job.â
âYou will?â
âBut first ââ A hint of exasperation and delight mingled in her tone. âI need you to tell me why the hell you thought it was a good idea to put your paramilitary headquarters under your own damn house , Bruce.â
Oh, she was so smug. Sheâd finally won, hadnât she? Sheâd confirmed that Bruce Wayne was, indeed, Batman, and now she got to lord it over his head.
Bruce didnât mind. Not if she kept smiling like that.Â
âI see. So, youâre not going to stop bullying me now that weâre working together?â
âStop? Oh, no. Itâs going to get worse. So much worse.â
He liked the sound of that.Â
âAre you ready to start, then?â
âI am,â she said, as confident and sure as she had been from the moment he met her. Despite the blistering lights he set up all around the cave, the work lights that broke through the oppressive darkness here, she outshone them all. âAnd I know exactly where I want to start.â
âAnd where is that?â he asked.Â
She smirked mischievously, and he knew in that moment that this was the beginning of something new. Something exciting. Something like a sunrise over his long, lonely, dark night.Â
â...I think I know Supermanâs secret identity.âÂ
#battinson imagine#bruce wayne#bruce wayne fanfiction#bruce x reader#battinson/reader#bruce wayne/reader#batman/reader#batman x reader#battinson fic#bruce wayne x oc#not y/n but blank for projection self-insert purposes!
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Fateful Beginnings
XXXVII. âLuminolâ
parts: previous / next
plot: the Batman investigates a string of murders. Bruce gets protective attending the first rally for Gothamâs mayoral election.
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader
cw: 18+, blood, description of injury (crime scene stuff), anxiety, rumination, sexual content
words: 14k
a/n: a chapter entirely Bruceâs perspective đ€ yâall are gonna like this one đ getting to dive into his mind was so fun đŠ
His body lit up like a string of lights. His body, your hands. Up his stomach to his chest, down his shoulder and armâŠ
He couldnât shake the look in your eyes when youâd grabbed his hand, panicked, searching him for comfort. God, he was used to people seeking him out for solace, safety; he was used to being made into a symbol of reassurance, even hope. But when you looked at him that same way, it was different. Like somehow the weight of the world rested in it.
You texted him a picture of frozen carrots, joking about the additional vitamins. He responded with a joke about peas being more effective, before blinking back into his environment and staring at his phone in disbelief. This was what was taking up his time? He was still on patrol. Not only that, but he was half in the suit, in public.
He clicked his armor back in and donned the cowl. The rest of the night was spent in near-total isolation, with Gordon unable to be contacted besides the brief run-in at the subway station. He wondered how he had time to respond to a call like that, but not to return his messages. Mustâve already been in the area.
All he had to do was drive in the area near vandalists for them to buckle. He never found much joy in things like thatâit felt routine. Droplets of rain peppered his windshield, giving him more attention than anyone in Gotham the entire night. It was like the city was asleep. Not right. He drove, and drove, and tried to contact anyone on the GCPD to no avail. Something really wasnât right; they hated to hear from Batman, that was evident, but they never declined a late-night call, just as desperate to get their hands dirty.
What started as a usual patrol dissolved into a hunt for any officer. Just as the first streams of dawn were peeking behind the clouds, he spotted a patrol car in front of a diner. An officer was fishing something out of their vehicle, and he squinted at the incoming headlights, throwing a hand over his eyes. He didnât recognize the man; he looked young, a new hire. GCPD hadnât hired anyone new in ages. The last time had been right after the flooding.
Once he realized the Batman was approaching, the man choked on something, knocking his chest to catch his breath. He made his voice gravelly, a movement so instinctual he never thought about it; when he entered the suit, he entered the voiceâuntil you came around, apparently.
âWhereâs Gordon?â
The manâs eyes flashed, and he swallowed back the last of his spit. His eyes were red, strained. Heâd been up all night. Not unusual for new hires, a sort of hazing. He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. He wouldnât make eye contact, staring at the batâs leather boots.
âHavenât met him yet, I donât know. I can caââ
He growled under his breath, turning on his heel to return to his car. He slammed into the driverâs side and jammed on the gas, ripping past the officer. Heâd already cleared the area near the subway, trying to uncover any cleverly disguised patrol cars, had the scanner blasting through the speakers, but nothing revealed itself. It didnât track, leaving him drowning in an unsettled, ruffled headspace. Were they intentionally hiding something from him?
When he arrived back at Wayne Tower, he was wired and unsatisfied. He worked through the morning, searching every index, newspaper, and engine for leads. Whatever this was, it was under wraps.
But if it was big, why wouldnât he be clued in? Gordon never failed to elicit his support for a gruesome, intense, or mysterious case. It had to be one of those, because menial crimes didnât have all hands on deck like this.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
He got up to put on his hoodie and jacket again, head to the station, bike around town, but Alfred had a sixth sense; already walking out of the elevator with a mug of tea that spread the scent of lavender about the basement. Bruce smelt him before hearing the clip of his cane.
âYou need some shuteye.â The soft slurp of the drink eviscerated his eardrums, irritability coating him like flaking skin.
âIâm fine.â
âYouâll focus better.â
Bruce pressed on, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. His brain was crowded, but empty. Filled with nothing real, nothing tangible. Exhausted from scrolling, searching, driving, looking, with no information to chew on. He wouldnât rest until he got an answer on why the GCPD was freezing him out.
âYou need to take care of yourself.â
Need this, need that. He hid his balled fists in the baggy clumps of his jacket, grabbing the scarf from the bench with a snap. He wasnât halfway through wrapping it when Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce wasnât looking back, instead rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Theyâd have another argument if the old man kept this up. He wasnât a child, and the events of the past week hadnât changed that.
âBruce.â
He still refused to look, tying the scarf at the back and flipping up his hood. The weather today would be cloudy, the cloudiest itâd been in months. He finally had the backdrop to get work done during the day. Something to busy himâshit. He cast his eyes down and slammed past Alfred, all but punching the button to the foyer. Trying hard not to think about it, he rushed to the cabinet closest to the sink and took his meds, lowering his head to drink straight from the spout. As the water glided the olanzapine into his stomach, he thought how the only reason he was taking it was to alleviate your suffering. It hadnât been pleasant having the hallucinations, but every pill taken felt like a deeper acceptance of his decaying mind. He did his best to force dissociation.
He grabbed an apple off the table and was met with Alfred blocking the elevator doors.
âIf you donât let me go, Iâll take the stairs.â
âLook at yourself, boy. Youâre worn thin.â Bruceâs frame was turned in, shoulders slumped, bags under his eyes. His voice was thick with exhaustion, frayed. Red flag after red flag. Alfred wouldnât let the boy be so careless without a fight, if that was what this came to.
He needed to keep moving; every moment of stillness, of silence, felt like nails scraping his skull. He took a hard right and walked through the kitchen hallway, frustrated to hear footsteps following. âAlfred, thatâs enough.â He tried to keep his tone leveled, not tip off just how frustrated he was, how close he was to turning and ripping Alfred a new one, or breaking down into tears. The feeling of grief hadnât left him since the cemetery, save the fleeting blip of time where youâd careened into the alley, panicked. He wanted to stop thinking about that, too.
Alfred called after him. The man was fast when he wanted to be, and he heard him pick up speed. He said something else Bruce ignored, shoving through the door to the staircase, rushing down flight after flight, his chest starting to burn as he got closer to the ground, dozens of stairs slipping under the sole of his boots every few seconds. He tripped on the last stair and fell out the door, grating his palms against the cement. The stairs led to a side exit not viewable from the front or back, with a cloak of trees lining his escape.
Thankfully, he thought ahead for circumstances like these. In case the tunnels ever flooded, or the ceiling collapsed, or Alfred was being particularly obtrusive, he kept a car and motorbike stowed a quarter mile away. Every step made the tower less loud, creating space for him to prioritize, hone in on the mission. Figure out what the hellâs going on. Whatâs keeping the GCPD locked up.
The bike took a second to start, requiring some finicky tinkering before it would do more than rev up and die. Soon enough he was speeding into downtown, wanting to stake out the station in the central city. Gordonâs office resided there, though he often vacillated between there and the east side. If his personal car wasnât parked in the garage, heâd ride east.
And there it was. Good as gold. A beat-up old Honda. Ice had crusted over the windshield from the chill the night before. Pulled an all-nighter. He rarely did that on weekends, opting to spend it with his family unless⊠Christ, what the hell was going on?
He didnât expect Gordon to walk out right then, and cursed himself for not having the suit. Gordon got in the police car closest to the building doors, Martinez trailing behind looking beat. He held a lidless paper cup of black coffee in his left hand, his badge stretching out the pocket on his jacket. Mightâve even been the second, or third day on patrol. Running on fumes. The lip on Martinezâs coffee was worn and soaked, the paper uncurling and soggy. Far from his first cup.
Waiting a few seconds after they pulled out, Bruce dallied in front of the police doors on his bike, pretending it wouldnât start to take a quick peek through the windows. It was empty, save the security and receptionist. He sped off a few seconds later, following the glow of the taillights through the fog.
Tailing cops was easy, tailing Gordon wasnât. He had to stay further back than he wanted, take turns only to turn back, cut the lights, either far enough removed to turn a street before, or close enough to their bumper he had to keep on past when they stopped. This drive was quick and dirty. Not long, very specific. Turns he didnât think he would take, every time.
They landed at a house that looked like it was still recovering from the floodâthe beige paint had faded into a peely pink, shingles broken off the roof, windows patched together with duct tape. He watched as Gordon and Martinez entered, the door opening off only one hinge. A small child was in the doorway holding a raggedy stuffed bear, and someone who looked like their sibling stood above them, holding their shoulders. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pair of binoculars, seeing on the zoom that their faces were blotchy and red, eyes puffy. Someone had died there.
That was when he noticed a flash of yellow tape in the kitchen, before the older child pulled the door shut. Unable to see through the taped-up front windows and no more being visible on the bottom floor, he pulled out his phone and searched the residence. Current renter was Raina Altruss, who appeared to be a lunch lady at the elementary school nearby. No arrest records, not even a speeding ticket. It couldnât have been anyone else, unless she was so moved by grief that sheâd let her small children open the door for the officers. Why werenât they being taken to the station? Was a social worker already on the way, or were they letting that slip, too?
Murders took a decent chunk of time to investigate, even in the acute phase. Especially so if sheâd had an abusive partner, less if it was a suicide, but that wasnât typical for single mothers here; too attached to their children and desperate to protect in a city so dangerous, but who knew. Certainly he didnât.
There wasnât much he could get done outside of the suit, and he couldnât very well get into it during the day⊠and he didnât know how much longer Gordon would be on shift. His gait was dragging across the mangled porch, eyelids heavy. She was listed as having two children, now orphaned. He hated the thought of going back home so soon, but saw no way around it. He needed to get working on the emergency planning, nap, and have a bite before heading out tonight. Days that were this uneventful meant trouble would soon follow, and going to a murder scene in broad daylight wasnât an option. Restless, kinetic energy climbed through the trees on his drive home.
He slept down in the basement, not wanting Alfred to know heâd arrived. He kept a makeshift cot tucked under the desk; whenever Alfred noticed it was out, he complained that Bruce would âbreak his backâ on it, but he was tired enough between patrols to not notice. This time was no different, drifting off the second heâd set his alarm.
He slept hard, without dreams.
Only a few hours of sleep later, he was back to prepping. No more info came up about Altruss, or much else for that matter. He was left staring at the emergency planning document with weary, tired eyes, mind blank. He tackled what he assumed was the easiest one first, but he couldnât come up with an orienting item. He looked around the basement, felt the weightiness of different tools, pens, and other miscellaneous items, but nothing felt tethering. Only after working through the dusty bottoms of old cardboard boxes did he find one: his old cufflinks, the W loud and proud. The surface just smooth enough, just rough enough. It felt significant in his fingers, cold, heavy, hollow.
As he rolled it between his finger and thumb, heat pricked his eyelids, and his breathing shallowed before he could register it. Memories of his fatherâs first campaign rally, the bend of his knee as he crouched to hand Bruce a small package with a blue velvet bow. His mom was putting in earrings by the door with one hand, the other wrestling on her heels. She always had trouble getting them over the heel of her left foot, and he never knew why. His dad helped him attach the cuffs to the wrist of his jacket, and ruffled his hair as he stood. He clinked Bruceâs wrist with his own pair, and Bruce grinned, pulling his smile into the one heâd rehearsed in the mirror that morning. âYour fatherâs going to be on TV, honey. We all have to look our best.â Sheâd pulled a tight smile in the mirror, and he mimicked it.
As he was pulled back to the gray concrete around him, he thought miserably that his orienting item could be the throbbing ache in his chest. His eyes swept around the room, and he swore he could hear the echo of his breathing in the emptiness. His stomach began to clench and twist, the sensation that never failed to precede a guttural cry and blurry, fragmented vision. He pocketed the cufflinks and walked back to the computer to check it off the list. His mouse squeaked against the metal as his fingers slipped to the edge of the desk, head hung as he winced, feeling like he was breathing through a straw.
In a tinny blur, he shoved his weight into his elbows to push him upright. Ignoring the cues in his body to slow down, to sit, to feel, he grabbed the ear of his cowl.
It was still light, so he found refuge in the watchtower. He sent a message to Gordon about being available, and needing to discuss something urgent, intentionally keeping it vague. The suit felt heavier tonight, as the wind whizzed around the edges of his towering frame, staring down the interweaving streets. Every time a thought threatened to form, he focused on another pedestrian, another street. In secret, trying to hide from the parts of him with a screaming conscience, he begged for violence. Someone to throw a punch at someone smaller, someone vulnerable. An arsonist to light a house so he could run inside, grab the kids, usher out the parents, feel the weight of the held door on his hip, let his mind quiet.
His prayer was answered with the rattle of the elevatorâs ascent. Gordon walked through with a rush, his shoulders slumped more than before, his footing unsteady. âHey man, sorry. Had to book it from the subway last night. Been swamped.â
âToo swamped to return a call?â
Gordon sighed, the end of it hoarse, depleted. âI only have a minute, thought to tip you off.â His glasses were smudged and fogged. âString of murders, same as the John Doe. Strung up by knives.â He made a face and pulled his glasses off, cleaning them on the bottom of his jacket. When he put them on, they werenât much better.
Batman had to clench his fists, slam his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as his thoughts flew to the handles. Gordon motioned for him to come over, pulling a folded packet out of his breast pocket. He held his gaze at the ground a second longer, thoughts spiraling over if theyâd have the owl insignia. Gordon was already beginning to fold them up as quickly as he took them out, so he was forced to glance overâ
âempty, undisturbed handles on the same knives. He let out a breath as Gordon walked over to the elevator, motioning for him to follow. âHeaded to another right now, last stop for the night. Only a few blocks.â
Consumed by more crushing confirmation that heâd lost his mind, he was grateful Gordon was barely standing, without reserve to perceive him. Thereâd never been marks on the knives. His mind had put them there. The creature hadnât attacked him, heâd been alone. He stared at some graffiti by the CALL button, ruminating on its outline to create more distance between him and his thoughts.
He paid attention to the puddles of light from the streetlights on the short drive. Wouldâve counted the cracks in the windows he passed if heâd been going any slower. This house wasnât as dilapidated as the last one, but still disheveled. Another vehicle had already arrived with the officer from the diner. He felt the weight of his cape tugging on his neck with each thudding step.
Walking into the scene, the first thing he noticed was the victim strung up in the same fashion as the John Doe. Knives peppering the outer edges of the body, outlining the frame with throwing knives. The handles were smooth and unaffected. The Batman stepped closer, moving his breathing from his nose to his mouth. He sidestepped the forensics team beginning to work across the kitchen, moving to see the areas of impact on the victimâs body.
Everything was clean but the puncture areas, and their blood fallout. On immediate notice, his eyes followed the passive pattern of the stains across the victimâs bodyâwhoever had done this had done it fast enough that the stains were strictly linear, undisturbed. He overheard Gordon talking to the lead, murmuring something about the victim âstrung up like a dartboardâ. âIf it werenât for the blood stain in the corner, itâs almost like the assailant stuck him there in space.â
His gaze analyzed the drip pattern in the stains down the victimâs bodyâthey fell behind the woman toward the wall, though she was upright. She was on her back when it happened. Blood in a steady, linear stream. On the ground long enough for it to dry. His eyes trailed down to her ankles, where the blood was moving backwards, curved and zigzagged against her brown skin. She was lifted up by her ankles. The blood was darker and more clotted than the stains on her shoulders. Those wounds happened first. He leaned his head down to peek at her fingernailsâclean, manicured. Hadnât put up a fightâat least hadnât gotten a hand on them, or anything else.
His eyes caught next on a hoodie placed on the dining table to her right. The table was clean, at least without visible stains. His gloved fingers picked up the hoodie. Static stain. Even, circular edges. He flipped the hoodie overâno transfer to the textile. Whoever did this stuck around a while.
A soft movement of air from his left side, an analyst approached with a ruler, donned in a white coverall and mask. After she snapped a few photos with her camera, her gloved hands lined the ruler through the brown dots on the glass countertop. Long axis. He squinted. Four millimeters. He waited for her to move to the width. Two millimeters. She grabbed her pencil beside her and jotted the measurements down. Four over two: point five. Arcsin of point five is thirty. âThirty degrees.â He kept his voice low, but she still startled. He repeated himself. âConvergence is thirty.â
He stared down at the ruled lines as she double-checked his work herself. His eyes roughly mapped the distance from the edge of the stain to the convergence. Twenty-two. Tangent of twenty-two⊠âOriginâs fourteen point four two.â Whoever the perp was, they wanted to experience it. Close to the victim. Possibly personal. Possible bludgeoning.
Just below the tabletop, he noted a small cluster of droplets pooled on the wood floor. Spiny outer ring, pooled closest to dining room door. Drag marks faint toward the wall. Sheâd been dragged up to it after being attacked by the dining table. The analyst finished writing down the same number as he had, stowing her calculator in the front pocket of the coverall.
He stepped a few feet back from the body to see if any stains dripped to the floor, but found nothing. A tingle shot up his spine. Numerous knives jammed through the perimeter of victimâs flesh. Some blood trailed down around the punctures. Nothing on the ground underneath. On the quick sweep of the room, he didnât notice anyone else calculating splatters. Nothing appeared on the ceiling, either.
Not enough blood for the stabbings to have finished it.
Gordon wandered over with his notebook, noticing the rapid movement of Batmanâs eyes across the room, waiting until it lingered on the floor in front of him before speaking. âWhat do you think?â Gordon noticed the sweatshirt placed alongside the blood splatter, having watched him remove it a minute earlier. âNot very smart. Thinking someone wouldnât check underneath the hoodie.â
He grunted. âItâs no amateur.â Gordon followed as he did a sweep around the room, nothing catching his naked eye. He wondered if theyâd do Luminol on this one, or if they didnât think a layperson important enough. The only discernible bloodstains were on the table, just underneath, and painting the skin of the victim. Strange. âKiller knew just where to hit. Avoided major vessels. That many knives, itâs purposeful.â He walked to the victim and the table again, keeping his eyes wide with slow, sweeping looks to further analyze once he got home. He paused with Gordon on his way to the rest of the house. âWanted us to discount them. Cheapened their work.â
âYou think they placed the sweatshirt there on purpose?â
âLook at the blood patterns on the victim. Stains on the ground. She was dragged by her feet, strung up after. Shoulder wounds happened on the ground. No signs of struggle or aspiration. Tell the team to use Luminol. Swab and test it.â
The lead had heard Batman, looking at him apprehensively before rustling through a bag at the entryway. He followed Gordonâs step back for the analyst to compute the convergence and origin of the ground stain, and another assistant to snap photos, grab samples. A few minutes later the liquid was being sprayed, the analyst moving to dim the lights.
Absolutely nothing.
He felt a chill underneath his suit, his heart rate quickening. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, excitement stretching from his core to the tips of his fingers. Interesting. Either theyâd died from blood loss and the killer was a professional, or theyâd died from less visible, traceable means, and this was some kind of performance art. Whatever it was, it was intentional, and they knew what they were doing.
âVictim needs a full internal exam. Not enough blood loss, likely killed by something else.â He looked to see a window cracked in the far corner of the adjoining living area. Open floor plan. Carbon monoxide? But a cracked window would give the method away. He looked to the oven, seeing no brown or yellow stains. Likely coming from a water heater, furnace, or dryer. He walked through the living room to the window, his gaze lingering at the sill, the same analyst following in tow. She pulled out a duster and black powder, and started searching for prints.
He walked through the hallway to the laundry room, where he found nothing. He followed the door it went through to the garage, but there was no car. He checked the heater, but nothing was out of order. Clean, well-maintained, no scent anywhere in the house besides the copper sting of blood around the victim. If it was poisoning, mustâve brought in a generator.
He passed through to the windowsill again, the black powder picking up a single half-print on the left-corner of the sill. Unusual gripping point to lift. Half, but clearâleft like a gift for even the most novice crime-scene investigator. Suspicious.
A remote was placed underneath the sill; after the assistant came to photograph the analystâs work, the Batman grabbed the remote, flicking on the television.
Channel 5 news. Looked live. Nothing of note, talking about the weather. Nothing on the chyron at the bottom of the screen. Volume set to five. The five on the keypad was worn-in. Could be coincidence. Popular news channel, especially living on the east side. Volume kept low. Or maybe they heard an intruder coming and lowered the volume. He held the remote out to look for any marks, and sure enough, there were faint oils from a fingerprint on the VOLUME DOWN arrow. He handed the analyst the remote, gesturing with his eyeline to her duster, and made his way out the front door.
Walking the perimeter of the house gave nothing away. No tracks outside the window where anything was laid or rolled, and no visible impressions in the front, sides, or back yard grass to establish any sort of intrusion. The killer entered through the front, and left the same. Everything itched all the rightâand wrongâspots in his brain, feeling the gears in his head begin to turn. It could take days for the printâs results to come back, the same for the coronerâs report.
He walked back in and surveyed the living area again. Nothing out of the ordinary outside of the haphazardly placed remote, placed just so that it could have fallen off the arm of the couchâif the investigators were idealists. Batman wasnât.
He did a last look around the kitchen, noting everything in place. Not a single item or square foot in the house glared back at him. The killer didnât mess around. In and out, but long enough for the blood to dry. Disturbing nothing save what they wanted toâthe window, the table, and the body.
As the forensics team cleaned up, a medical examiner walked in with trainees in tow. Their eyes were wide and bright, and they fiddled with their gloves and masks like they were worried they werenât on correctly. Lot of newbies today. Didnât sit right, not at all.
He followed Gordon out, and stood between their respective vehicles to give report. âSame as the last three.â
Three? âWhy wasnât I called to them?â
âItâs been a long night, man. It was either call you, or eat.â He flipped through his spiral again, flipping past the front pages where Bruce had given his statement earlier. He wanted to push him harder, make it known he needed to be called into these crimes. Did they not realize heâd pieced together more for the GCPD in the past year than the decade theyâd been left to their own devices? Gordon didnât leave space for him to push. âSame situation. Victims strung up by knives, little evidence otherwise. First time we recovered a print, though.â
âNone on the knife handle?â
Gordon shook his head. âWeâll get the print looked at ASAP. Should only be a coupla hours, but donât get your hopes up.â
Batman tucked into an adjacent street and accessed his computer via phone. The hum of the police scanner in the background tugged at the outskirts of his attention as he pored over the victimâs names of the past few days. Gordon had given him the names of the victims, in order.
Ulysses Ecuatorro
Bradley Yates
Raina Altruss
Elizabeth Weiss
Hours of searching later, he couldnât pin a golden thread between them. None in related fields, no glaring convictions. Yates had a speeding ticket, Ecuatorro a DUII three years earlier. They spanned age groups, and were scattered across town in a way he couldnât find a pattern in. That in and of itself was a pattern. An observation.
Altruss was a lunch lady; looking at her social media, news of her death had already reached friends and family. Messages of love poured in, with varying other Altrussâ family members commenting on how great they would take care of her children, âin her honorâ. He moved away from Altruss quickly.
Weiss had a kid tooâhe blinked, typing that into a different tab. Each person had children, that was a common thread. How had he overlooked that? Weiss was recently divorced, with a daughter whoâd just celebrated her tenth birthday not two weeks earlier. One of the comments stuck out to him: Many blessings, Lizzie. Babygirl is in good hands. Could be a normal message, could not. According to her socials, the divorce process was speedy; in the span of two months, sheâd filed, and itâd been completed. Her name had been changed the next day. Desperate to escape him? Most of her posts regarded âmental health awarenessâ. Gaslit her? Manipulated her? Abused her? Records showed joint custody. No big halts on either partyâs end. Seemed to be in agreement. If it had been that easy to agree, whyâd they get divorced at all? The man was an ex-cop. Propensity to violence. Marvin OâLander. Graduate of GU. Degree in business. Failed business venture? Took it out on his family? Police work appeared to be a second-choiceâsuch celebration at graduating, plans of a business, then⊠nothing. Bruised ego. Lots of opportunity in that. Then why the appreciative comment from his side of the family? Was it appreciative? Threatening? They were mutual friends on socials. An ally? Double-crosser? All of the kids were under the age of ten, but no further discernible pattern. Varied income levels. Varied neighborhoods. Varied cultural backgrounds. Varied ages at time of death. Varied relationship status. Varied interests. Varied social presence. Though⊠everyone was being mourned in droves. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss. Valued community members. Engaged in their communities. Serving others in some fashion. His eyes fuzzed staring fixedly at the small screen, his shoulders, back, body tense. Whereâs the tension stemming? Stomach? Chest? Throat? Stomach. Cinch in stomach. Tight, coiled, like a spring ready to bounce. Tingles again, up arm and shoulders. Altruss. Ecuatorro. Yates. Weiss. Yates, Ecuatorro, Altruss, Weiss. Weiss, Altruss, Ecuatorro, Yates. Any pattern in the names? Order of their deaths? Ecuatorro. Yates. Altruss. Weiss. Raina, Elizabeth, Bradley, Ulysses. Four victims so far. Channel five. Volume five. Five victims? One left to be found? Did the namesâ
Gordon rang. âPrintâs back. Tech said it was one of the clearest theyâve ever run.â Prints never came back that fast, no matter how clear.
With calculated speed, he arrived to the residence of Cecilia Natividad, a woman who lived as far North as the city stretched. He got there before any officers, cutting through back streets and jamming the gas with what was perceived as reckless abandon; in reality, he noticed the color of every tree that passed, the name of every street corner, could re-identify each pedestrian that (rarely) appeared with a nearly photographic accuracy. He felt electric, alive.
The residence was quaint, single-story. A cat peeked up from the porch, blinking sleepily while they stretched. The door was already open. He pressed his back to it as he slunk in, the cat slipping behind him, making a beeline to a closed door to the left of the kitchen doorway. The TV was off, the house silent. He opened his palm, making sure the taser was accessible on a fast grab. He held his breath, his chest puffing, as he peered around the corner⊠to an empty kitchen. The house was smaller than it looked on the outside; one bedroom to the left, with a closed door, and one to the right, wide open. The cat was lingering by the closed one, going so far as to meow for him to pay attention. He ignored the animal, and crept into the open bedroom first.
Nothing. Undisturbed bedroom, undisturbed bathroom outside of it in the mini hallway. He felt his shoulders squeeze in as his eyes scanned the entirety of the space. Not much room to walk, low ceilings, stuffy carpet. The carpet held heavy track lines from the front door to the couch, the couch to the kitchen, and the kitchen to the far bedroom. The person who lived here liked routine; whatever child he assumed they had was either too small to walk.. no, no baby toys. No toys at all. The bedroom looked neutral, nondescript. The child was old enough to be done with fairytale and spontaneity. Old enough to be out of the house for the time being. Another divorcee? Joint custody? Full custody? His hand hovered above the doorknob; the putrid stench of thick, fresh blood revealed itself as a mural on the wall with two letters: C N, with an exclamation point. The C was separate to the N, which was almost flush to the exclamation. His eyes hung there, the sensation of dreadful realization washing over him before his mind caught up.
C _ _ _ _ _ N_!
The woman was stamped to the wall in the same way. No blood pooling beneath, blood spills across her skin in the same pattern. This was the same killer, beyond the shadow of a doubt. He walked closer to the mural, noting the indent in the blood on the dot of the punctuation mark. He spun around to the click of a gun, Martinez and Gordon the first to enter the house. He scowled, never failing to be frustrated at their attachment to lethal means. They tucked their guns into their holsters with a disheartened sigh, Martinez containing his eyes to the floor, swallowing back what he assumed was bile. His nose scrunched to confirm his evaluation.
âJesus.â Gordon adjusted his glasses and drew a breath, his cheeks expanding as he held it to walk closer. âSame damn thingâŠâ
âPrints in the exclamation point. Have the investigators pull there.â The Batman huffed, his mind suddenly foggy. Her initials, not a next victim⊠He mapped the spaces between the letters by the width of those already there, and judged the wordâs length. C_ _ _ _ _ N_!
Martinez squinted as his eyes adjusted to the roomâs bright lighting. âCN? Her nameâs on the house. Identifiable.â
CâŠâŠâŠ.NâŠâŠ.
A pattern. In the names. Cecilia Natividad. Bradley Yates. He envisioned a game of hangman, dropping letters into the air. BY. UE. RA. EW. CN.
Bruce Wayne. Fuck.
He bolted out to his car as forcefully as was possible without drawing too much attention. The letters were placed too transparently. It was too obvious. Writing the letters out like that. Too obvious when everything else wasnât. Hiding in plain sight. The killer wanted to send a message to Bruce Wayne, an unmissable one. He careened back to Wayne Tower while he furiously rung Alfred. Miserable flashbacks hit him like bombs as he shouted for him to answer, voice going hoarse. He picked up, and Bruce had never been so grateful to not hear Doryâs voice.
âBruce?ââ
âAre you okay?â He couldnât cover the strain in his voice, or the crack at the end of it, or the tears forming in his tear ducts in the milliseconds between his question and Alfredâs answer.
âYes,â
âThereâs another serial killer. Iâm his next target. Donât let anybody, or anything in or out. Tighten security.â
Alfred agreed, and the few minutes between hanging up and driving into the basement felt like purgatory. He resisted the urge to compulsively call Alfred every fifteen seconds, his counting never going past that. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Pulling onto the wide road into downtown from the industrial district, he fixed his attention to the top of Wayne Tower. Searching for fumes, fire, anything. At one point a cloud had moved to obscure the top levels, and he felt like he might faint.
He couldâve dry-heaved with relief when Alfred stood at his desk with another mug of tea in hand, moving out of the way as he parked the car at his work station. âKiller targeting you? I read your notes after alerting security.â Bruce pulled off his cowl and sank onto the bench, dragging a towel across his face and hair to soak up the sweat before it rendered him sightless. âWhy?â
âThereâs a theme. Everyone murdered was a single parent. Only victim with a partner on record is Weiss. Orphaned. Under the age of ten. Initials spell out my name. In full.â
âDo the police know about this?â
âNot yet. Unless someone put the pieces together.â And judging by the level of sheer exhaustion in every officer⊠unlikely. He got to work straightaway, sending a message first to Gordon about getting that print out of the blood as soon as possible. Would it be a print of his? Someone else? The number âfiveâ swirled in his head. If the killer was declaring another victim, wouldnât it be six?
Second-guessing himself, feeling his gears turn but doubting his judgment more than ever, he wrote out the names and their initials, plugging in the contacts and pulling up the blood mural on the wall. He motioned for Alfred to come closer. âWhat do you make of it?â
âAppears to spell out your name. Pretty exactly.â
So he wasnât crazy. He wasnât paranoid. Not everything was in his head.
The electrum tab jolted back into view as he revved up his computer for the night ahead. He sent another message to Gordon, who hadnât yet responded, about checking the victimâs mouth for metal. Alfred hummed behind, wanting to convince the boy to rest his mind while knowing it was a fruitless endeavor, a task that would only strain. Bruce didnât even hear him leave.
He didnât know how long it had been, but he knew the smell of Alfredâs afternoon tea. âYouâve been up all night? Itâs midday, Bruce.â
Sunday. Midday. Almost time to ready the car, don the suit. He clicked around the various documents littering his screen, his mind on the same loop as before, with no new information. It was grating him. Gordon had responded an hour after the fact, letting him know he checked, and no such luck. No visible fillings or caps, nothing except dead mouth. The autopsy would be given priority due to the sheer scale of the situation and its ongoing nature, but not fast enough. If they were any less invasive, heâd learn how to do them himself and sneak into the coronerâs office to perform them. Couldnât be that hard, right? At minimum he needed toxicology. What was in each of their systems? What had killed them? He had a few theories, none of which seemed particularly promising. He had such a feeling that this would become more unusual as time went on. How much could he trust that feeling? Could he trust any of his instincts now? How would the medication affect them? Was he useless? Could he attune to his intuition no longer? Was this threat empty, or was it dense, packed, full, stuffed, overflowing, waiting for the one lead that would take him there, the one thing he was overlooking, the piece that was the rug to pull; the diagram-exposing, secret-message encoded video before the bombs went off, that he was too late to catch, what if he was too late now, what if there were more being murdered as he thought this? He needed to call Gordon again, needed to get someone to patch him inâ
âBruce.â
His strained eyes felt like sandpaper with every blink, his eyelid sticking to his inflamed, bruised eyes. Heâd made the text of the documents larger, easier to see. Still nothing on electrum. Really? Nothing? Must not be finding it. Looked in all the papers Alfred has, the entire archive of papers from the Gazette and the Times⊠but only searched until the hundredth page of results. Could search more. Havenât seen them all. Need to. Three hours âtil sundown. Might be able to get that done. Need to stake out the residences. Check on Weissâ husband. Everyoneâs so unusually normal. Nothing stands out. Only things that stand out are relevant to the Wayne family, to their murder. Everything had been so uniform. He blinked as he pulled up the images from his contacts and the faxed photos from Gordon of each of their bodies, right next to each other. Placed at the same height against the wall. Same placement on their bodies. Same dragging puncture wounds on their calvesâup. Stains down everywhere else. No sign of aspiration. No sign of struggle. If only Gordon got better pictures of their hands. Had any of them struggled? No signs of it. No signs of anything now matter how long he looked at them, no matter how close he got to the screen, how much he zoomed in, out, left, rightâ
âBruce!â
What the hell was it? What had killed them? Why hadnât they hit a single artery? Why no signs of struggle? No fight? No one home at time of death. Able to stick around long enough to wait for blood to dry, just how they wanted it to. Luminol wasnât foolproof though. Couldâve been a professional; again, which professional? Heâd scoured the lists of forensic analysts in the state, students studying forensics, history of discharges at different government agencies around town. Who wanted to threaten him? They couldnât know he was Batman, right? That thing that attacked, it felt so real⊠that was something adept at fighting. Knowing their enemy. But that wasnât real. It wasnât. Was it related to his parents? The Riddler? Heâd already ruled that out. He was still in Arkham, rotting where he belonged. Heâd checked. Everything was in place. Nothing had changed, but this. Heâd had to confirm with Gordon that the letters had been correct. That the mural was there. Even confirming with Alfred, he was worried his infected mind was contagious, that Alfred and him were living in some sort of surreal state, that the walls of the, maybe the walls, the walls of the building, maybe they had mold. He needed to follow up on that. Mold poisoning, that fucks with people. That kills people. Maybe the appliances were leaking something. Alfred could check that. Would he check it well enough? He needed to check it himself, and pulled out a notepad to add to the to-do list.
His pen dragged a jagged line on the yellowed paper when Alfred placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. He jumped, cricking his neck with the turn toward him. âWhat?â He looked down at the list, thinking he might be able to get them all tidied up by tonight. Tonightâs patrol would be busy, and hopefully not boring. Hopefully there was something. Anything. A crumb. A whisper. Something fake to follow, even. No. That would distract from the real lead he needed to uncover; why couldnât he see it? Why was every direction leading nowhere? Heâd had more stuff on the Riddler, Joker, Penguin, even Annika and Selina. On the Falcones. Maronis. He always had somewhere to go. But this had absolutely fucking nothing.
âIf you wonât sleep, eat. I made an early dinner.â
âI donât have time for that.â
âYou need rest, and you need food.â
âIâm not hungry.â
âYou havenât eaten all weekend.â
âI had an apple.â
âItâs not funny. Come.â
As much as he didnât want to follow him up, he needed to take his meds. He needed to bring them down to the basement, keep them handy on his desk. Replenish his snack drawer so he didnât have to leave. Maybe he could install a toilet down there, or get an outhouse. His mind didnât quiet down as the elevator rose, or he walked to the kitchen; not when he took his medication, or when he forced himself to sit in the chair for precisely one minute while he slammed a bowl of soup, or when it burnt the roof of his mouth, felt the heat sliding down his chest. Alfred had barely sat down before Bruce put his bowl in the sink and descended the elevator, going this time right to his suit.
Heâd programmed a button on the hidden screen in his sleeve in bright yellowâbright red was already taken, the color of blood, impossible to miss. Yellow was annoying, much as he felt about needing to even do something like this. If he ever felt supremely distressed, heâd press it. If he was dizzy, heâd press it. If his heart was beating much too fast, heâd press it. He sent a message to Alfred about picking up those calls with urgency, programmed to be received as DISTRESS - CHECK IN, different from the DISTRESS call that let the man know he was in physical peril.
If anything was awry, he needed to press it. No ego. Ego could cost him this whole endeavor, the entire mission. In the message to Alfred, heâd let him know the protocol was shifted from the previous distress call: in this one, heâd answer the call, and triage if he needed support. He hoped, agonizingly aware of how naive it was, that most of the time heâd only need a breather. Alfred would see if he was oriented to person, place, and time, and decide from there if he needed to be rescued. That was all he was doing tonight, outside of pocketing the cufflinks in his tactical pants after pulling them on.
The first stop he made was to Ecuatorro. The house was surrounded in caution tape, but the door was clear. He slipped inside, getting a peek around. Living roomâs normal. Kitchen. Bedrooms. Bathroom. He looked at the toilet paper rollâalmost unused. Only a few squares removed. He hadnât planned on dying. The same was true in the kitchen, where all the dirty dishes were in the wash, and a day-old smoothie was just starting to turn in the fridge. There was an outfit folded on the dresser of the manâs bedroom. Keycard beside it for a gym nearby. Who plans to go to the gym if they suspect theyâre in trouble?
He couldnât linger too long in one place. After doing the same across the next four houses, finding nothing, he swore he could feel the top layers of his teeth shedding from being ground so hard. Nothing tying them to him, nothing tying them to each other, no traces, nothing. His black light picked up nothing, he checked every corner, perimeters of each house and every room, what channel the televisions were on (all channel five; again, why not six?), but nothing besides. Channel five. What if that was a clue? His mom had worn itâit was still sitting on top of her dresser in their bedroom. Chanel number five. How would they know that? Couldnât be related to the perfume. Nonsense. He was thinking nonsense, mind swirling, circling, full. His brain was looking at every thought that passed, inspecting it for a holy realization, some divine intervention. Nothing!
He had to wait for the results of the print to come back, or the autopsy. Waiting was miserable. While he was here, his mind was partially at home, panic treading just below the surface thinking about Alfred being blown to smithereens. Any second could be his last. Any minute, any breath he took, could be one breath more than Alfred. Between each house he circled back to a road with a view of the tower, searching for smoke again, for tendrils, for bright lights, even S.O.S. painted on a window. It never changed. Nothing.
He went back to the watchtower after staking out the houses of each of their known family members. He had a list stuck in his pocket with their names, affiliation, and addresses. No one was coming out at this hour; that was why heâd developed the drifter. Heâd decided: at the end of the night, he was going back out. When daybreak hit, and the world shed Batman, heâd see what they were truly up to; heâd find something. Something existed, it had to. Murders didnât happen without a trace. Or the only trace being a single print muddled with blood. God they were good.
Sunlight streamed through the clouds. It stung his eyes. His mouth matched them now, his saliva abandoning him as his body begged for water, yowling to be taken care of. He trudged back to the basement with bleary eyes, grabbing a stale bottle of water from weeks ago on his desk and wetting his mouth before passing out on his cot, his breathing ragged and deep. Only for an hour. Or less. Need to get back out there. They need help. The city needs help. City needs. Needs. Help. SavingâŠ
âFinally got some rest. Good.â
Bruce gasped awake, springing to his feet. All the blood left his head and he staggered to his desk, his fingers cold on the metal. Alfred was in a new outfit again. He clicked on his monitor and couldâve collapsed; his tone was biting, sharp, almost a scream. âEleven PM?!â He rushed to his suit, thankful heâd slept in his padding, desperate to get out. So much wasted time, couldâve been out for hours alreadyâ
âSlept all day and all night.â
Bruceâs face fell. What? What?!
Alfred watched him scramble along the desk, patting his pockets, likely looking for his phone. His face was contorted tight, scrunched. âLike Iâve told you. If you donât let yourself rest, your body will force it. Youâve hardly slept in weeks.â
He found his phone, nearly dead, his heart slamming into the ground below his feet. Tuesday. Fucking TUESDAY? âYou didnât wake meââ
âIf youâre too exhausted to set an alarm, I wonât interrupt it. Your body needs to recover.â
Bruce struggled to ignore the implications of that, feeling like heâd unknowingly been sentenced to time-out for twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours? TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS? He turned to berate Alfred more, but heâd already zipped up the elevator by the time he formed a thought callous enough to get his point across, but not unnecessarily cruel. He checked his messages for any updates but was rendered empty handed.
Until one popped up right under his thumb.
Report back on the prints. Suspect in custody, just left interrogation. Lookout tonight, nine.
Shit. Already? With those muddied prints? How sure were they?
Alfred sent him a text.
Lieutenantâs here. Says itâs related to the murders.
So they had figured out the letters spelled âBruce Wayneâ. He didnât like sitting across the table from Gordon, but it was easier with his crowded head. Left no space for unrelated thoughts to form. Left no space for him to be passive aggressive over what had happened the last time theyâd sat thereâthe nights, the days, they all rolled together when things got heated. When they didnât, too. Martinez looked more awake. They both did. He assumed he did, too. The goddamn coma-level nap needed to be worth something. Fuck, how had he let that slip? Why couldnât Alfred ever see the importance of sharing his priorities? Someone couldâve been killed. Maybe Gordon was about to say so. Maybe he was about to say that the entire city was in flames, Martial Law was put into effect, FEMA was back. Maybe another flood had happened. Maybeâ
âMr. Wayne.â Gordon cleared his throat. Martinez stifled a yawn. He fiddled with papers sliding on the tabletop. âIt has come to our attention that a credible threat was made against your life. Last week, a string of murders occurred across the city, details of which we donât need to engage with at this time. Fingerprints found at the scene matched the profile of Matthew Risou. Does that name ring any bells?â
Risou. Matthew. âNone.â MR. Did that stand for anything? Could that shift the meaning of the others? Was that a pseudonym, like the Riddler had gone by? Hidden meaning? Heâd scramble up the letters later and dig into it the second Gordon left.
âIt appears he was a big fan of yours.â
Martinez laughed under his breath, rolling his eyes. His hand tightened on his belt loop. âHad whole social pages dedicated to you.â
Gordon continued, giving a sideways glance to Martinez. âYes. Very preoccupied, disturbed. Found a letter at his residence detailing the plans. Thought if he killed people with your initials,â he peered out over his glasses, and Bruce kept his face concerned enough, cloaking the confusion soaring through him. The killer admitted it? Admitted the initials? Thought what? âYou might âmanifestâ into his life.â He shrugged, his pen clicking to the table with a clink.
âWhereâd he get that idea?â
âRisou underwent a psychological evaluation after intake. Psychiatrist believes he was hallucinating. Heâs enroute to Arkham Asylum as we speak.â
Arkham. So many roads leading thereâneed to answer them. Canât be suspicious. Need to be scared, but not too scared. Need to think Bruce Wayne is untouchable. That Risou is below. âWowâŠâ He shook his head, performing a full sigh. He swallowed a glob of spit for good measure. âHow long will he be there? Do I need to worry? Iâll be at a lot of public events the next few months.â Good. Focusing on public image, perception, some level of safety concern. So Gordon didnât think he was even more suspicious.
The officers shook their heads in unison. âNo need to worry about that, Mr. Wayne. Confession on file, prints at the scene, at minimum heâll be inpatient. Long-term. At least a few months.â
âAnd youâll be the first to know if anything changes.â Martinez nodded strongly at him. What is he gonna do next, salute? âTechnically, the second, because we would, uh.â He trailed off, moving his hands to awkwardly adjust his hat. Gordon got up from his chair and pushed it flush to the tableâs edge.
âBottom line is: youâre safe. Wanted to let you know.â Gordon nodded at Bruce, then Alfred, then Martinez, and Alfred showed them to the door once more. Deja-vu.
He didnât like how simple this was, how straightforward. Had the victims really been murdered due to their initials? Had that been the depth? Is that why when Bruce slammed into the deep end, scoured the internet, excavated his mind to poke and prod and measure each passing thought, he continuously came up empty?
Risou had worked in forensics in his youth, which explained why the scene was so clean. His social platforms were loosely related to Bruce, tweeting a few times a week about how much he wished Bruce would be his friend, tagging Wayne Enterprises in dinner invites, but outside of thatâhe retweeted extremely normal things; memes that were a half-decade expired, even he knew that much. Photos of animals, political content unrelated to Gotham and not otherwise fringe. Mustâve been a delusion.
He thought of how Martinez scoffed, laughing under his breath, all but outright mocking the man for being deluded. It felt like a bruise. The delusions werenât the problem, the violence was. Nothing about the situation was laughable, or worth something as cheap and dismissive as an eye-roll. He needed help. He needed help before he became a murderer, before the parents were taken from their children, before heâd be subjected to a life sentence at Arkham, confined to the stale walls, harsh lighting, rehearsed smiles, cutting restraints, spoon-fed applesauce, having to request sips of water, have people staring at him through windows, assessing his risk, his safety, his body, his mind, what if he would eventually be a danger to people around him? What if he already was, but too deluded to know it?
He forced his eyes to the motorbike by the tunnel entrance. He wasnât about to sympathize with a murderer. He wasnât about to think about his time in Arkham. He hadnât hurt anyone yet. He wouldnât. This was the bullshit that started happening when he slept too much. He knew his thoughts tended toward the ruminative, and that it wasnât a problem if he was working.
âDoryâs heading out for the evening.â Alfred startled Bruce again. âWants to know if you need anything pressed for tonight.â
Tonight? His eyes widened. The rally. âUh,â Didnât even have time to research March. If Alfred hadnât let him sleep so much, he couldâve gotten everything done. This falling through the cracks⊠unacceptable. What are the people of Gotham supposed to think if their vigilante canât follow through on meager research? What was he even doing at the meeting tonight? He needed to work on the case. Who had declared Risou mentally unstable? The prints were âthe clearest theyâd ever runâ? For someone likely unfit to stand trial? Sure, he was in forensics, butâ
âBruce?â
âWhatever, Iâll find something.â This was what happened when he didnât have time for his responsibilities. This was what happened when he let his body get the better of him. Why hadnât he set an alarm? Shake it off. Dory was leaving, meaning it was five. Rally started at six. He needed to get ready now so he could arrive with fifteen minutes to spare; he needed a shower. That would take five minutes if he hurried. Find an outfit, do his hair, find the watch. Warm up the sports car. Would Alfred have let him sleep right through the rally, too, if the prints hadnât surfaced?
All Bruce could think about as he handed his keys to the valet was that he hoped the rally didnât run long. Heâd stowed his suit in the trunk, hidden behind a cleverly-placed bag of Alfredâs old golf clubs.
His clothes felt too tight on his body. The sweater was itchy round his neck, scraping on a scab on the small of his back. Sweat tickled the skin under his chest, creating a terrible grating feeling against the shirt. The cameras were too intrusive; flashing bright, white lights to disorient him, making him have to watch each step he took. The watch caught on the hair of his forearm, his cologne was giving him a headache, and god, he just wanted to go home.
March walked straight to him when he entered, though it wasnât a far walk; heâd positioned himself far enough from the entryway to be polite, close enough to greet people on arrival with warmth. Bruce stomached a grimace as the chandeliers exacerbated the pounding in his skull. He had to blink a few times before he could read the politicianâs face. March wasnât⊠eager. Looks afraid. Nervous. No, sorrowful. Concerned? His eyes traced the slope of Marchâs, the downturned angle on his mouth, the way he held his hands clasped in front of him rather than going for another hug. âBruce! Didnât know if youâd show tonight.â
âIâll be attending as many campaign events as possible.â Force a grin, force a grinâŠ
Marchâs brow furrowed, then relaxed, and he laughed. Was he going to bring up the accident? Hadnât he heard the speech he made at the beginning of the meeting last week? He was sure it made some paper somewhere; at the very least, people had gotten pictures of him arriving. March gave his arm a reassuring slap. What? âTrying to show the masses you wonât be bullied into submission?â
âIâm unsure what youâre referring to.â Seriously, what? He glanced over Marchâs shoulder and noticed everyone was looking at him, occasionally shuffling closer. Some looked away when he noticed them staring, some waved, but regardless, his presence was noticed beyond anticipation.
He laughed like Bruce was making a joke. âThatâs an informed angle to take. Serial killers like to be known, heralded. Not giving them power.â
Christ, it went public? He remained measured, hyperaware of all the eyes on him, and how illuminated he was in this obscenely well-lit room. The meetings werenât this well-lit, were they? At this point, people mightâve started thinking he was cursed. The accident, then the âscandalousâ interview, now a superfan-turned-serial killer was attached to his name. Speakâhe needed to respond. He needed to get it through his head that this was his life now. Of course it went public. âI feel tremendously sorry for the victims.â He didnât have to act saying that, as he felt the guilt seep into his bones, gnawing him to gummy shreds. A thought pierced through him, one that was familiar, but sharp as ever; the guilt of being alive. If he hadnât survived the attempt, Risou wouldâve had no one to manifest. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss, Natividad⊠they could be at a park with their children right now. Part of him knew his mind was simply running with anything it could get, that it wasnât true that X followed Y; he knew that things happened without purpose, unfolded without special fanfare, but it didnât make his nausea any more palatable. Just gave it a different shape.
March nodded. âGlad heâs getting the support he needs. Support he needed before.â He sighed. âDonating a portion of the funds tonight to the victimâs families.â
In truth, Bruce had forgotten that was an option, and wrote a mental note. Send a check to each of the families. He hoped it would stick in the middle of the spirally muck that was his crowded, guilt-laden mind. Had that guy truly been the killer? Said he worked in forensics, but his name hadnât come up in any of the databases, past or present, for the entire state of New Jersey. Forensics was one of the few careers people moved to Gotham to pursueâdid he commute out of state? Why? Did he move here after his career ended? Why? Would Gordon have anything new to add tonight? If crime was slow, he needed to check if there were other Risous, people so obsessed with celebrity theyâd be driven to violence. Was he a celebrity? Was this what celebrity felt like? Like ants crawling over his skin? Like the entire world was analyzing him, staring at him, poking, prodding, pushing⊠could he get out of this room? Pretend the GCPD were wanting him down at the station? If he wouldâve known heâd had an outâŠ
âWelcome! Press are clustered left of the stage, but feel free to break from the herd if you so please.â
He spun around at the tenor of your voice before he was consciously aware of it. Your hair was down tonight, and you had on pants and a sweater rather than your usual dress. Shockingly fitting. Your eyes flit to his for a brief moment, but didnât linger. In the mess of the weekend, heâd forgotten youâd be here. Thank god for the prints.
âReminds me: need to make an announcement to the press. I wonât be accepting press questions until the last half hour. I want to give priority to people who arenât paid to be here.â March winked at you before striding across the room, and Bruceâs gut tightened.
âI hope you and Alfred were able to stay safe this weekend.â
When he looked at you next, he saw your eyes skimming his exposed skin. Looking for injury. Each time it felt less and less painful. Swore he could feel a touch in every glance. Whatever eye makeup you were wearing had the slightest shimmer, the light hitting it in such a way his eyes kept coming back to it. Oh, SPEAK! He opened his mouth to reassure you theyâd been fine, but he had no air in his lungs. Heâd forgotten to breathe; when he did, your perfume took up all the space, and his thoughts left him again. Completely, entirely empty.
Your waiting is so patient. He managed a nod only when he looked to the ground, the words tumbling out without particular attention paid to them, or even awareness of which ones his lips might form. âNever got in contact. Wish I wouldâve known sooner, maybe some of them couldâve been saved. Probably wouldâve.â
You shook your head with such seriousness it consumed him, gave him no leeway to berate himself. âItâs not your fault, if thatâs what youâre taking from it.â He held a strange feeling in his body, like talking to you was going to confession. Like you had the authority to release him.
His eyes caught on the glimmer again. It made your eyes brighter than they already were. Your hair framed your face so softly. His stomach lurched when he noticed a glint by your ear, but it was just earrings. Matched the necklace hanging down your sweater, and the ring on the pointer finger of your left hand. The fingers that dragged along his torso were being fiddled with hard enough they left a blush of lightness whenever you shifted your touch. He put his hand in his pocket to keep it from grabbing yours.
March tapped on the mic, causing a bleating sound to screech from the speakers. An interesting choice to hold it in the foyerâuntil he looked away from you and noticed a sizeable crowd had formed. The occupancy had tripled in just the few minutes he stood with you. At least he thought itâd only been a few minutes. Couldâve been an hour, or only a second. He followed your eyes over to the throng of press, and nodded. As if you needed permission from him to do anything. âIâm good. Join âem.â
You grinned, and he felt a bubble of air expand in his chest. âTrying to get rid of me?â
It popped, immediately. âNo, I didnât meanâno.â He felt himself turn scarlet. He swallowed hard, and almost choked on his spit, now taking up far too much space in his mouth. âI meant Iâm fine, Iâm,â
âIâm teasing.â Your grin spread to the other side, revealing your teeth. His limbs felt tingly. You looked⊠you looked soâŠ
âWelcome, everyone. Itâs about five minutes to six, and thereâs lots to cover tonight, so weâll be starting on the dot. Feel free to take a quick trip to the restroom, or check out our caterers: Mr. and Mrs. Lindel from Lindelâs Bakery on the east side. Thank you.â March gave a small wave, then stepped back from the podium.
âIâd better get situated.â You sighed. Your breath smelled minty. âSkating on pretty thin ice.â You pulled out the recorder from the small bag on your hip. âGlad youâre good.â With that as your salutation, you walked through the crowd toward the stage side.
All the air left his lungs in one enormous huff. Heâd been holding his breath, and hadnât even known it. In the same fashion, he felt a decayed throb from his stomach, suddenly screaming at him. He was starving.
The ham and cheese croissant was stunning, and a needed distraction from the incessant pull he felt to engage you, but it wasnât enough. He scooped up a plate of rolls and doughnuts to tide him over, but by the time heâd walked to the gathering area of the stage, heâd finished it all. He was hungry, a bit exhausted, and his brain felt like itâd gone through the wash. None of which heâd been the least aware of prior to your conversation. Hmm. You felt grounding. Tethering.
When he walked to the trash he was intercepted by Gavenstein, accompanied by all his cronies. Ugh. âWayne!â God, his voice is aggravating. âCouldnât help but notice you playing favorites.â The men around him snickered. Bruce had about two seconds to fix his face after discarding his plate. His voice was light with mischief, and a piss-poor attempt at humor. âIs she someone youâd recommend?â
Whatever cloud youâd left him on was gone in an instant. He straightened his spine and flexed his shoulders wide, his mind running away with what to sayâmore specifically what not to. He kept to the least of it, not wanting to put more heat on you. âNot a good look to talk about journalists that way.â
Gavenstein scoffed, a slick smile turning up his eyes. âIâm not talking about journalists, Iâm talking about that one.â The man nearest to him, McKinleyâa name he only knew from the first dayâs introductionâthought he had any right to chime in, sneaking a comment under his breath to the men beside him. âThe broad no oneâd give a second glance if it werenât for Wayne.â
Donât react. Bruceâs throat caught on fire, he was sure of it. Goosebumps peppered his skin, his abdomen tensing, crunching down on the words he couldnât say. Donât react⊠but they kept chuckling. They think this is funny? Fuck. âDonât talk about her like that.â
Gavenstein laughed again, performing a stage whisper to the gaggle of men strung to his hip. âWants to keep it for himself.â
Oooh⊠he wanted to get you OUT of this room; away from the harassing, invasive, disgusting, FUCK! âDid you not hear my speech last week at city hall?â He didnât hear any of the menâs responses, too busy imprinting the precise shade of Gavensteinâs rolling, dismissive eyes to memory. For later. âOr were you too busy flirting with every woman but your wife to notice?â
His eyes flashed, and he released a short puff of air. âYouâre pushing it, Wayne. Know your limits.â
Bruce was already tightening his hands into fists, choreographing how heâd slam him by the collar of his shirt into the edge of the wall. âI do. Do you?â
âAlright folks, it is six on the dot and we are ready to get started! Thank you all for showing up this evening.â
Bruce stepped forward in the crowd, knowing if he stayed back there heâd disrupt the entire event. The walls were closing in on him again. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many reporters. Everyone was touching him as he walked through; a tug on the shoulder, caress on the arm, a touch on his hip. Low, sultry whispers echoed on the same trail, but he couldnât have cared less if he tried.
Maybe he wanted to disrupt it. Maybe he wanted to be the first to throw a punch, bring some pain to the lofty businessmen of the city. Maybe then they wouldnât fuck with you. Keep their smartass comments to themselves. He could walk back there, and get him right in the jaw. Take a few hits so everyone just thought he was lucky. YeahâŠ
âQuestions from the press will be saved until the end. I want to hear from all of you first, who took time out of your workweek to hear my campaign.â
Bruce glanced over heads and shoulders to see you in the middle of the pack of reporters; the only one without a flashy camera or tablet, your hair falling into your face as you wrote something on your notepad. His shoulders relaxed. You took care to be here. Probably spent the weekend researching. He wasnât about to fuck that up for you.
He maintained that rhythm through the rallyâs end. Each time he felt his thoughts melt toward vengeance, heâd peek your direction. The flames would dissipate to a gentle mist. Though for all your diligent notetaking, none of the press got a chance to speak, even going past the stated runtime. The people had come in hot, drilling March on topics from environmentalism to if heâd uphold the death penalty. The crowd seemed to lean progressive, with not a lot of naysayers. He wondered how that ratio might shift with Grange and Hady. He hoped you wouldnât miss another rally, because he was barely staying afloat at this one; reminiscing how he used to stand on stage beside his parents, and how tightly heâd squeezed his momâs hand. Crowds had always made him anxious.
He hung to the back and let people pass him, though many wanted to stop and chat. He pretended to be answering an email, keeping his eyes to the ground toâfound you, and stepped in line with your footsteps. Though heâd tried to be inconspicuous, he did it for your sake; he didnât give a shit what Gavenstein had to say, or how he wanted to spin it. Being in your orbit, safely, was all that mattered.
He spoke first, bursting with energy. âWhat are you thinking?â The crowd leading toward the exit was stalled, with a large group hogging the doorway. You and him were some of the last people in the pack⊠he glanced behind him to see if anyone was taking the back exit. So far, no one.
Jesus, your voice was like a salve. âIt would be blasphemous for me to take sides,â
âBut?â He liked how your cheeks went pink when he egged you on.
âBut⊠he seems about as stellar as a politician can get.â
Bruce smirked. âTold you.â
âWhat did the billionaire think about all the taxes?â
He thought about how willing heâd been to hand over his card under alcoholâs haze. Oddly, he still felt that way. âMight take some of the funds away from our housing mission.â
âI thought Iâd dreamt that.â You laughed, and it made his stomach flip. You liked it that much? It was a dream of yours? A flutter of blinks and you stared at the floor, biting your lip. Why hadnât he wanted to come here, again?
The line still wasnât moving, and he got a pit in his stomach thinking about you getting into another rideshare. Or worse, walking. He was certain your leg still hurt, maybe your head too. He was pretty sure Miller hadnât escaped, but he hadnât checked since the weekend. He lowered his voice, though he didnât think the geriatric couple behind you were gossips. âCâmon, Iâll drive you home.â
He tried to not make it seem like heâd fall through the floor if you declined, and tried to stifle his relief when you accepted. After instructing you to wait five minutes before walking out back, he slipped through the line and snuck between the family holding everyone up. The steps were slippery, but he jogged down them well enough. The shouting and flashing barely resonated as he took his key from the valet and sped down the avenue. Paparazzi usually followed him until Orville, where he hung a right and took a half dozen more. Maybe one day theyâd catch on, but it wasnât today.
Youâd just slipped out of the back door when he pulled up, lights cut. On approach heâd anxiously inspected the chair for dust, crumbs, or defects, none of which he found. The collar of his undershirt was choking him. Was the cabin too cold? Too warm? You slid into the passenger seat, and all was quiet again.
You were the first to break the silence, him being perfectly content to share the space. âYou really want to do the housing thing? That wasnât a binding contract.â
âIâd never thought of it before. Everyone talks so much about the housing crisis, I never thought there were enough empty apartments.â
âBe good to get it rolling before winter. Shit kills people.â Shit likely being the thick, hard blankets of ice and snow that coated every available surface in the city from November to February. He nodded in agreement, pinning the conversation for Thursday. It got him thinkingâŠ
âDoes it snow much where you live?â
âI donât know, downtown gets so much less than the rest of Gotham.â
Your sarcasm used to be so grating; now he felt lucky to receive it, his cheeks pained from squishing against endless grins. Is that all it took? One drink, once, and now he was talking to you like a friend? âYour hometown.â
âHave you been to the west coast?â
He shook his head, trying not to pay attention to the gong of nostalgia rattling through him. His parents had continuously put off travel until the campaignâs end. You looked out the passenger window, only able to see the slight reflection of your face in the glass. âThe winterâs more mild there, for the most part. We live in a valley, so we donât get much snow. Fallâs pretty there, though.â
âWhat do you like about it?â
âThe trees are gorgeous. Like,â you shook your head, and he had to intentionally focus his eyes to the lanes of the road or his eyes would wander. âSeriously. Stunning. Used to bike there a lot, especially in October.â It was impossible to miss the wistfulness in your tone.
He was caught between two sides: pulling himself into the conversation, or keeping the focus on you. He gripped the steering wheel and took a chance. âYouâll have to send me some photos.â His brow furrowed. Why had that felt like taking a chance, exactly?
âI can pull some up right now.â The light blasted you in the face when you pulled out your phone. The streets were wide and empty, no one visiting the industrial district past sunset. He cut the lights again and pulled into an empty recycling plantâs compact parking. He unclicked his seatbelt and leaned toward you, and you did the same, transfixed by whatever was on your screen. Whatever it was had your pupils dilating, even in the bright light, and your smile huge. You held your phone between the two of you, your shoulder pressing into his to fill the gap.
Could you feel his heart pounding? The flush of his skin? Was his breathing too loud? He didnât move away, didnât react. You swiped to a photo of a cat playing in a bright red pile of leaves. He hoped you would speak, he didnât trust his voice not to shake as his chest and arm pulsed everywhere youâd touched. He didnât have padding now; you could feel his skin, he could feel your fingertipsâŠ
âThis is Walter.â
Bruceâs lips parted in alarm when you spoke, his eyes moving from the fingers cradling your phone to the video of the leaping cat running around a side yard. âWalter. Is he yours?â Thank god his voice didnât crack like he thought it would. He was coming back into his body, looking at the gray cat frolicking, focusing on the blue of the sky. You startled him when you turned to face him, so close he could see every pore on your cheeks, every line in your lips. Lips that had just asked him a question, one that he couldnât recall over the glow in his chest. What were you doing to him?
âDo you like cats?â
He nodded, his body going on autopilot. You swiped again, showing another landscape with no building that wasnât a barn. He drew a steadying breath. âLooks quiet.â Like the physical manifestation of being around you.
âIt is. Too much sometimes, but, yeah.â
Whatever tension his body had become confused navigating, it was fading the more he focused on the images, and less on the you of it all. Getting this window into another life, life outside the city walls, was fascinating. âIs that your neighborhood?â You nodded and swiped again, showing an endless dirt road with vineyards and a disheveled barn in the distance. Some birds flew over you, your bike tires rumbling against the separated, dry dirt. It wasnât just quiet, it was silent. Gotham had never been silent. What would it feel like to be somewhere like that?
He noticed the time just as his heart slowed to a light jog. 8:49. Gordon. He sighed, getting caught up in yet another startling amount of disappointment, and put the car in gear. âNeed to be somewhere at nine. Sorry.â Sorry didnât cut it, and for the next five minutes of driving he overthought how simply heâd put it. You hadnât complained, tucking your phone away and chatting pleasantly while juxtaposing the two climates, but he was aching with dread.
When he pulled into the parking garage (youâd ducked, and heâd waited until the street was relatively empty), he squeezed as close to the door as he could before braking. Stay. Please. âThanks for showing me the pictures.â Donât leave. âLooks nice. Walterâs fun.â Letâs watch another show. Get snacks. Talk. âSee you on Thursday.â
You waved before getting into the elevator, and he waited for the doors to close before pulling out. His body felt hot, sweaty, tight. Putting on the padding, the armor, the cowl⊠it sounded horribly irritating. The driving, the elevator up, the strain on his esophagus when he spoke. The pictures Gordon would inevitably share, full of blood, and guts, and dead, dead eyes.
He winced, intrusive images of that overlaid with your neighborhood. Bloodied, mangled leaves, animals and bodies strewn about, a constant scream heard from another assault, another fist, tooth, blood running down his shower drain at six in the morning. He wasnât even mad when Gordon called him minutes later to postpone, and he didnât care why. The drive home was monotonous.
Bruce dragged his heavy body up to his bathroom, shedding first the sweater, then his undershirt, his hands tiring as they unbuckled his belt. He turned the water hot, waiting for steam to fill the room and fog the glass before forcing the last of his clothes off. He let the water pummel into his tired muscles, the soreness becoming one dull throb. Being around you lowered his tolerance for this, he was becoming conscious to that phenomenon of yours. But he didnât know why.
The water droplets stung as they hit his shoulderblades, cooling just slightly but not enough as they slid down the back of his thighs. Steam thickened the air he breathed in, deep and slow. He let his eyes fall shut, let the weekend pass over him, slip through like the water falling from the tips of his fingers. He pressed his palm against the shower wall to release the tension in his lower back, struggling to grip against the slick, fogged glass as he dropped his shoulders and opened his hips. His eyes fluttered and he let out a reflexive sigh as the hand lingering at his side moved to slide down his abdomen, following the flow of the water.
He hadnât masturbated in awhile, not having enough energy while balancing the two identities. He was tense, strung out, his dick already hard, pulse hammering. He leaned his forehead against the glass, soft moans coming out in exhausted sighs as he built closer to climax. God, his body needed this⊠his strokes stuttered as the water fell out of perception, his body tensing, tensing, yesâuntil his hand became yours. His eyes flashed open and he gasped, yanking his hand back as he slammed onto the shower floor. What the, what the fuck?
He scrambled out and threw on a towel, unimaginably tense, driven straight to the edge. He pressed his palms to his temples, struggling to stop their shaking. No. No. No!
#the batman#batman x reader#bruce wayne x reader#batman#battinson#bruce wayne#battinson x yn#battinson x reader#romance#fanfic#eventual smut#the batman 2022#bruce wayne smut#angst#batman imagine#batman smut#slow burn#slow build#fateful beginnings#x reader#reader insert#long fic#denial#slow burn fanfic#cross posted on ao3#noir#enemies to lovers#reevesverse#gotham#battinson fic
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DOCUMENTS AND DESTINIES, part two
⯠battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader - 2/?
PART ONE < here
summary: Continuation of part one of documents and destinies â The mentioned visitor comes to give you another visit after he comes in to return the files he had borrowed few days ago, both of you unaware to the forming interest inbetween the two of you
warnings: none - just swearing
info: english isn't my first language, i apologize in advance for all the mistakes (if there are any!)
a/n: part two finally woooo!!!! i loved writing angus so much, he is so silly:D i hope ur gonna like this chapter :))))
He couldn't stop thinking about that day. It's been nearly five days since he last saw you, as well for the first time.
He couldn't shake that whole moment from his thoughts. He imagined that little awkward wave you both gave to each other. The little smiles you threw. The whole interaction with you. He couldn't stop thinking about it.
He had work to do. He's read throughout the whole files he borrowed. Made copies of them, which he then gave to Alfred to check through them as well. Even as he was working, he couldn't stop his thoughts to wander to that interaction.
"Bruce?" A familiar voice sounded in the cave, pulling Bruce out of his thoughts. Alfred stepped out of the elevator and walked towards his hunched over frame.
"I was wondering if you'veâ" He stopped himself as he came to stand by Bruce. His eyes catching a certain video on one of the monitors in front of them, playing with the reddish filter over. The video was replaying on a loop. It was clearly a video from Bruce's eye lenses... Which held the interaction.
The screen showed the video where you stood in front of him. Your coat and bag drapped in your grasp and little smile plastered on your face. The video replayed the shared awkwardness you both had.
Bruce didn't even bother to look over at Alfred, who stood next to him. He didn't turn away from the monitors in front of him. He takes a step closer and observes the video in front of him. A hum makes its way from him as he watches the recording play.
Bruce finally shuts off the video and sighs as he does so. The memory stays in his headâ the hesitant smiles, the eye contacts you've both had, awkward little waves... It plays over, over and over again. He remains silent, his eyes still glued to the monitor, where the video was shown before.
"Alfred," he finally breathed out as he turned his head to the side to look at his butler, who is standing there and leaning against the cane he holds.
"Maybe... Maybe it's time for a break, Bruce," he tells him as he puts a gentle reassuring hand onto his shoulder and squeezes. His body stiffening quickly at the touch.
A deep hum comes out of his chest and he stands up back onto his height. His eyes fixated on the monitors in front of him.
With no other word uttered, he's swiftly walking away from the butler, towards the elevator hidden in the darkness of the cave. His steps thumping against the hard floor as he walks away. Leaving his butler behind.
As the elevator escalates, the butler takes a step closer to the computers, monitors and more equipment on the table. He eyes the little folder icon on the monitor, which hides away the bright red colored video from the nights before.
He sighs as he reaches for the touchpad of the computer and moves the cursor towards the file what's sat on the screen. He presses the button and the screen lights up, the footage looping back to the beginning of the choosen clip.
There it is.
The screen is lit up with the clip that the young master has replayed countless of times in the past few days. The video doesn't hold the blackness sides of the cowl he wears during the nights. It's not through the eyes of the Vengeance.
But through the eyes of Bruce.
There is a woman, standing by his car, in front of an old apartment building. Her face was shined on by the glow of the city lights, a soft and genuine smile adoring her face.
The butler smiled at the sight. The footage followed all her movements. The way the lingered on her, the way his eyes followed her, how his focus was only on her, it didn't move nor shift. The footage showed how Bruce didn't watch with the cold stare what he had reserved for the criminals or the nights of work. It showed the brighter side.
There wasn't a fight, a crime scene, a chase with the criminals, no action. Just a moment of Bruce's real life, the shared intimate moment filled with the awkwardness and adoration inbetween each other. His usual cold behavior and confidence was replaced by this... Nearly shy, boyish behavior.
Alfred knew that under the footage, there was a smile hidden. A genuine one, not a one given to the cameras. A rare one.
He couldn't quite remember when was the last time Bruce has genuinely smiled like that, especially with a presence of someone else. It was an unique moment to be treasured.
The video played, the red colors shining onto the butler's face as he watched the video play. The woman tilts her head, her arms holding her things even tighter as another chuckle escapes her lips.
Then he heard it. Bruce's breathy laugh sounded in the video, as his head hangs down, his eyes adverting from the woman. The awkwardness breaking into something even more. It sounded natural, genuine. He knew Bruce for nearly his whole life, he knew that it was hard and and difficult for him to open up, let anyone in and hear him out. But this moment, it has changed everything, it was like Bruce was someone else. He had taken that one step that Alfred had always pushed him to take.
A smile tugs onto his lips as he watches the woman slowly take steps backwards, her cheeks brightly colored with a pink color. He couldn't believe that this was his Brice, talking to someone else than him and the common rich men and women he has to speak with other times.
The video ends with Bruce's hand in the view as he waves to the woman, who is already in the building.
It feels different one. The cave feels different. Alfred feels different. It's the same but also different... Everything seemed different at the moment.
The Prince of Gotham, Gotham's Billionaire, the one always hidden in his tower, no emotions showed on his pale face. The straight put answers with no hint of emotions in his voice, to this moment of shared awkward little smiles and conversations.
It was perfect.
With a final look at the footage, Alfred moved towards the elevator that Bruce took some moments ago. A sigh, once again, escapes his lips as he leans onto the cane he holds. His steps echoing in the cave.
He steps into the elevator and leans his back against the wall of it. The elevator began to rise as he pushed the button. The cave disappeared beneath the shadows and darkness as he was carried upstairs to the soft lights of the tower.
Alfred finally saw a different side of the young master. A different path. A one where the the young boy could step out of the way of darkness, where he hides within it, into a something softer, warmer. Something real.
Something human.
"Ring! Ring! Wake up, princess!" a voice pulls you out of the dreamy slumber you fell into. Work has been so exhausting the whole day. The amount of paperworks you had to check through, give to others, run around the building to get old ones, new ones. The amount of papers you've seen today is absurd.
Angus is standing infront of you. His wide toothy white smile on his face. The blonde hair slicked back with two straids falling on the side. Round glasses are perched on top of his nose. He's wearing a pastel brown suit jacket and a brighter pastel colored suit pants. A white button up underneath, with a black suit-tie with goldenish stripes peeking out.
"Fuck... What time is it?" you murmured out, pulling your head up from the table. Scretching your arms into the air as you lean back into the chair. Your hands fumbling over the mess of paperworks on the table, trying to find the hidden phone burried underneath all of them.
"It's nearly seven... But that's not the point, princess. You were supposed to send out the emails for the marketing shit that our boss is having... Like, two hours ago?" He leaned onto the doorframe and put his hand onto his side as he eyed you.
Two half-lidded blinking eyes stared back at him. Not awake enough to process the things he's saying.
You hummed as you slid away from the table on the chair. You spun around once and turned back to him and stared at the blonde man.
"And... I really need you to send out those emails! At the end of the day, at least, so we can finally finalize the last parts of the marketing thing! You know how angry Daniel gets if theâ" He kept going, oblivious to the fact that the girl hasn't been listening to him for the whole time.
"Yeah! Got it! But first, let me just sleep for like... Five more minutes? I'll get back to it, Angie." You yawned and leaned your head onto the headrest of the chair. Your eyes closing. The weight of the whole day was coming back onto you, the exhaustion taking over once again.
There was a long pause between you, until it was interrupted by Angus clearing his throat awkwardly into the moment.
"Also," he began saying as he walked into the office and halfly sat onto your desk. His voice and tone sounding different than moments ago.
"Why the fuck did Bruce Wayne take you home few days ago?"
Your eyes snapped open at that sentence. Your whole body shooting up from the chair, making it slide back into the wall behind you. Your stomach twisted and heart skipped a beat.
Your hands went up to your head as you stared back at him with widened eyes. Your hands cluthing at your hair as you vividly remembered the night before. The night you met Bruce Wayne. The night he literally drove you home.
"Girl, don't look at me that way! That man literally picked you up bridal style, asked where exactly you lived and then he proceeded to walk out with you in his arms like in some fucking rom-com!" He threw his hands up into the air, his toothy smile back on his face as he spoke loudly.
"You saw that..." You mumbled as you turned around and walked around the office with your hands on your head. You couldn't believe the fact, that he carried you! In bridal style! And Into his car!
"Yeah, I fucking did! What the hell is going on in your damned life?" He spoke as he watched you pace around the office.
"Also, since when are you two on a fucking first-name and get-carried-home-like-a-fucking-disney-princess basis with the Gotham's billionaire prince?" His grin widened even more. Clearly enjoying this situation than you.
You rubbed your eyes hardly as you processed what he was currently saying to you. You weren't even hundred percent sure why he needed those archive files, let alone sure why he literally decided to personally carry you home. It didn't make any sense to you at the moment.
"I guess, he just felt bad leaving me alone asleep down there? He was just a client, he was there for work!" You shrugged your shoulders, trying to play it off while your thoughts were screaming and rumbling in your head.
"Right. Sure! That fucking explains why he was so kind enough to ask where you live and scoop you up like a damn damsel in distress. Jesus Christ!" He raised his voice as he threw his hands into air once again, "totally normal worker-client relationship stuff, yeah!"
"Okay, listen! I fell asleep, he picked me up, I don't know else I promise! When I woke up I was already in his car." You groaned as you walked back to your chair and fell into it, sliding even further against the wall.
"C'mon, princess! Bruce Wayne doesn't just show up out of nowhere and carry people home for fun!" He scoffed as he leaned towards you on top of your desk, that he's currently sat on top of.
You groaned once more and laid back into the chair, "Can we not? Please? I'm too tired for this."
Another scoff came out of Angus and he jumped off the desk and walked over to be in front of you, "Oh no, princess. I need answers! You don't just fall asleep at work and then wake up being carried by the Gotham's Prince, girl." He chuckled as he leans onto the side of her desk.
"Oh my god." He suddenly whispered. His mouth dropping open and hands coming to hold himself against the desk behind him.
"Are you secretly dating Bruce Wayne?"
The question came the most unexpected. His whole stance was stoic like he suddenly came to realization. Like a chikd discovering that it was their parents putting money under their pillow, not a tooth fairy. His eyes widened and mouth dropped.
"What the fuck?" You opened your eyes and started laughing loudly. Your hands coming in front of your mouth as you let out all your laughter.
"Okay, sorry, I just don't get it! But some of us wake up with fucking paperworks sticked to our faces or keyboard marks all over our faces. You wake up in car of a billionaire!" His eyes were practically bulging out of his head as he spoke. His hands gesturing around in the air.
"Do you realize how insane you sound, Angie?" You cannot comprehend all the wild theories coming out of mouth. He's fully in his own world with those theories.
"No, listen! What if he's testing you out for a new job at some high position at the Wayne Enterprises? No, no, no... Maybe, he's planning to make you his new secret muse! Or maybe, he thinks you're, like, the best new face of Vogue couple cover! Like... Imagine the headlines; The billionaire Bruce Wayne in relationship with an unknown girlâ"
"I will pretend I never heard what just left your mouth." You breathe out as you slide your chair to him, pushing at his knees to get him off your desk. Your hands slapping his thighs.
"Sorry, princess. But there's no chance, that we're done talking about this!" He finally jumps off the desk and walks around towards the door, he touches the door frame and takes a last look at you with that toothy grin of his... And then he's gone.
The office is quiet once again. Some of the paperworks ended up crumbled as he was sat atop of. With an exhausting sigh, she drops her head against the desk and it lads with a thump!
It was late now. The office has gone even more quiet than usually. You were packing up, shoving the paperworks, files and the dark-purple colored folder into your bag. Already excited to go run through the door and go straight home, leave the day behind.
As you put the final folder into your bag a soft knock came from the doorway.
Your head snapped up to see the person. Your breath suddenly getting caught in your throat as you recognized the man, who just knocked on the office doorframe.
Standing there is the devil himself, Bruce Wayne.
He stood there, his arm up at the place of the doorframe, where he knocked onto few seconds before. As you looked at him, you could see his posture was different than last time. Less professional. His presense wasn't commanding and calm, but more of a hesitant one. His eyes scanning around the office and then landing back onto you.
He was wearing a white button-up shirt with a matching tie, underneath a dark buttoned suit vest. On top of it was a brown leather jacket. It was so much different outfit than the last time you saw him. His pants were baggier, but not as baggy as others wear. The top of his shoes were peeking out from the bottom of his pants.
You slowly stood up back to your height and blinked at the sight.
"Mr. Wayneâ What... What are you doing here?" You stammered out with a quick clear of throat. Shifting on your weight slightly as you eyed the visitor.
"I'm about to return these," he said, mentioning his chin towards the files in his arms, "I borrowed them few days ago... From archives."
Your eyes flickered down to the files and realization came over you. He had actually taken some of the files home from the archives, probably already taken copies of them. You still wondered why he needed those archive files, when they haven't been updated nor opened in years.
"Oh! Those files! Thank you, Mr. Wayne!" you spoke as you flicked him a soft smile and walked over to take the files from his hands.
As you walked to him, he slowly entered the office, his gaze flickering around as if he was trying to find something interesting to gawk at other than you. But he couldn't find anything else, his gaze flickered back onto you and his eyes burned holes into yours.
"So," you began as you reached for the files, "did you find what you needed in them?"
"Yes, I did. Thank you." He paused and let go of the files as you took them from his hands. As the files fell right into your hands, the dust went flying around. Your face scrunching up as the dusk flew around.
"These are, like, ancient! Right?" A chuckle escaped your lips as you rambled, "I mean, woah. How are they still holding up? Looks like they would turn into dust as well!" You rambled more as you held onto the files.
His lips quirked into a little soft smile, his gaze on you, watching your every move. He leaned onto his leg as he stood in front of you.
"Yeah," he said softly, after a longer pause, he added "Are you embarrassed?"
Your heart felt like it stopped for a brief moment as those words left his mouth. Your eyes widened and your fingers gripped the dusty yellow papered files. "W-What? No. Why would Iâ" You stuttered out and then sighed, "Okay, maybe a little bit."
He raised an eyebrow at that, the faint smirk coming onto his face with a hint of amusement in it, "because of the files?"
A chuckle came out of your mouth at that, your mind was racing at this conversation, unsure what to say and what to not say. You could feel the color heating up on your cheeks. Your eyes moving everywhere but at him.
"I just didn't expect you to literally, you know! Carry me out of archives and then drive me home!" you said, your vocie mixed with embarrassment and awkwardness. It came flooding at you, the embarrassment of him, Bruce fucking Wayne, lifting you and carrying you like some helpless little figure, while you were asleep!
Your fingers were fumbling with the ends of the files and papers sticking out of them. Trying to distract yourself from this snd save yourself from another embarrassment. Your heart was pounding hardly in your chest, you hoped he couldn't hear it.
After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"You were exhausted." He said, almost in shy manner, "I couldn't just leave you there, asleep by yourself in the archives."
You chuckled nervously and shifted on your legs, "Still, I don't usually wake up to be driven home in billionaire's car!" A nervous chuckle escaped your lips.
He let out a soft laugh as well, "Well, you looked exhausted. I didn't want to wake you up and tell you to walk back... You needed the rest."
You felt a wave of relief come over you.
"Well. Thank you, Mr. Wayne," you said softly, "I was mortified when I woke up in your car, but... I appreciate it. Thank you." You smiled up at him, your eyes meeting his.
His gaze was soft, a little smile on his lips, his eyes held yours as he stared down. Then, with a small nod of his head, he said, "You don't need to be embarrassed. It's the least I could do. You work hard."
"I guess I do, Mr. Wayne. Maybe, you know... I should leave the office at time, huh?" You chuckled at that, smile plastered on your face.
"That would be nice," Bruce nods with a chuckle. Both of you shared a soft laugh. Both of you genuinely smiling at each other. The tension between them easing.
"I should get going." He says with a sigh as he stands back straight. His hands coming to his jacket to straight it out. His eyes leaving yours.
You smiled and nodded with a little 'yeah, me too.'
It felt surreal at that moment. You and Bruce Wayne talking once again. You knew that Angus will storm into your office once again and ask tons of questions about this.
As he leaves, he gives you a small glance and a small smile. And then he's gone. Not in your sight anymore. Your hands are sweaty against the files and you feel like your legs are wobbly. The sound of his footsteps fading down the hallfway as he leaves.
Another realization came drawing over you, his voice. His tone. The softness of his voice today, not demanding like the last time. Today it was near, of a shy one. A slight hesitation in his voice. That send a warmth all over your body, your cheeks gaining the redish colour once again. Flushed all over again.
You, finally, forced yourself to move. You turned around and dropped the dusty files onto your desk, sighing as you did so. The dust flying everywhere around the office. You slumped into your chair, sliding few steps back, staring blankly at the files he returned. It felt strange. He was just a client. He was there for work.
Right?
With a quick glance around your office, you stood up and pushed the chair back to its place. Grabbing your back and slinging it over your shoulder with a huff. There was no point of staying there longer, processing the day. You can do that home!
The building was already quiet, The only loud thing at the moment was your own mind. Your thoughts racing each other.
You stepped out of the office, locking it behind yourself. Your steps were wuick as you left the building into the cold breeze, it felt nice though. Cooling down the redness in her cheeks. Pulling the coat tighter around you as you walk down the pavement towards the nearest entrance of subway.
Your steps were quick, the heels clicking with each step you take. Almost hurriedly. Your thoughts were everything as you processed the day.
You walked around the entrance of the subway, nearly colliding with another man coming out of the entrance. You neay fall into him, making him let out an angry 'Watch where you go, damnit!"
A soft apology leaves your lips as you descend the stairs down to the subway. You fumble with the subway card as you tap it absentmindedly before you go through the turnstile. You go to the side where you would be getting on in few minutes. You lean against one of the cold pillars on the station as you wait. The station is pretty quiet for the night, not many people there.
The screech of an incoming train snaps you out of your racing thoughts. You quickly push yourself off the pillar and come to stand at the end of the line, waiting for the train to srrive at its position. Quickly pushing the button to open the doors as you move inside. Thankfully found a seat alone. You plump down onto it with a sigh as you lean yourself onto it. The doors close with a loud sound and the train moves, leaving into the dark tunnels of underground Gotham.
By the time the train reached your stopc, you were hurriedly out. Walking straight to your apartment.
Unknown to the man following your every step, perched on top of one of the buildings in the darkness, invisible in the shadows of Gotham.
To you the day ended, ready to sleep it all off. But for him, it just began.
NOTE FOR OUTFITS :)
what angus is wearing >>> angus' outfit
what bruce is wearing >>> bruce's outfit (with less baggier pants though)
ౚà§âËïœĄâ
part twooooo is here:) i hope you like as much as i did writing it! sorry for the wait xx
give it some love if u liked it thank uu <3
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100 FOLLOWER LISTENING PARTY!!!!
I know 100 is not a big number, but itâs a big number to me. So to celebrate this milestone Iâm having a listening partyđ„ł. To participate all you have to do is send in an emoji thatâs on the list.
The only rule is the characters have to be a in my character list(all are open for this) Character List
STARTS: October 15, 2023
ENDS: October 22, 2023
đ§ Tell me the character you want to be paired with and why you chose them and I will give you a song that matches the two of you
ïżœïżœGive me a song you picture yourself singing to a character and I will choose which character matches the song
đ¶Send me your favorite genre of music and a character, and Iâll find a playlist for you to listen to
đčGive me a character and a scenario and Iâll make a headcannon
đ±Would you rather: Send me two options and I have to choose one
đ»Send some facts about yourself and Iâll tell you who you remind me of/who I see in you
#star wars x reader#din djarin x reader#moon knight x reader#star wars fanfiction#din djarin fanfiction#100 followers#celebration#anakin skywalker x reader#anakin skywalker fanfiction#bumblebee x reader#battinson x reader#shuri fanfiction#shuri udaku x reader#connor kenway x reader#connor kenway fanfic#ahsoka x reader#star wars#ezra bridger x reader#ezra bridger fanfic#battinson fic#miguel oâhara x reader#clay beresford x reader#james kelly x reader#william tell x reader#100 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION#santi garcia x reader#frankie morales x reader#poe dameron fanfiction#david rice x reader#keith kogane x reader
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#đŻê· đđđđđ ïŸ â Ìšâč#batman#batman fic#batman oneshot#catwoman x batman#the batman#batman fanfic#batman imagine#batman x reader#dc universe#dcverse#bale batman x reader#christian bale#bale batman#bale batman fic#battinson imagine#battinson one shot#battinson fic#battinson x reader#robert pattinson x reader#robert pattinson#jonathan crane#jonathan crane x reader#scarecrow dc#scarecrow x reader#scarecrow fanfic#cillian murphy
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