#Jonathan cross | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ellesthots · 2 days ago

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Fateful Beginnings

XLI. “guilty as sin?”

parts: previous / next

plot: left reeling from an abrupt interruption, you and Bruce fight a losing battle against rising tides. Crane makes himself clearer than ever before.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, smut, brief mention of past suicide attempt, psychiatric hospital scene, brief seizure

words: 12k

a/n: hiii lovelies !! consider this a holiday gift <3 i thiiiiink it’ll be worth the wait :)

He’d come much too close. And not close enough. Your lips lingered on his like a searing knife. A flame that came too near and singed off the top layer of skin.

His head buzzed as he followed Alfred without thought down the steps. His fingers traced the ghost of you as they skimmed his lower lip. It had only been a second, but you’d sent such a jolt through him that he’d swore he’d been struck by lightning. Why did Gordon have to come now?

The edges of his vision blurred knowing you were up there waiting; if he’d remembered to shut the door, maybe he could’ve ignored Alfred. Asked to kiss you. Maybe you would’ve reciprocated. Maybe. Then he could’ve tasted you.

Nah. No way.

His left hand flexed at his waist, holding the tension of a quiver as it grieved the loss of your warm skin. He thudded hard down the last stair, thoughts wandering to how quickly he could get this over with; he hadn’t expected the tension to linger like this, consuming his entire body, even as he shook Gordon and Martinez’s hands and listened to them speak. His hips sitting in the chair didn’t feel right—too hard, too static, he needed to move.

Something about paperwork regarding something about a court, something about a trial, something about testifying against Risou or signing away the rights. As much as he tried to blink back to the moment and engage with what was in front of him, he remained untethered.

Focus. Seems straightforward. Jail time and some institutionalizing. That part of him burned again thinking about how animalistically they treated patients. Focus. My word has weight.

It was a constant refrain as your fingers brushed your bottom lip: why did Alfred have to interrupt?

You swore you felt a shift in the air—but maybe you wanted to think so. There couldn’t be a world where he had actually wanted to kiss you, right? Where his breath on your neck meant anything... You pulled your legs up to the couch and leaned against the back. Head pounding. Heart racing.

The room was extraordinarily empty without him. The television’s screensaver ping-ponging within its frame, the gentle whir of the mini fridge to your left. Though the door was open, you couldn’t make anything out; with how unstable your body was, consumed with the shock it just endured, you couldn’t begin to snoop.

At the back of your mind were your worries: would Mar be okay? Would Bruce have to leave? Did someone escape? What happened? Soon after they materialized they were flushed away by the pounding in your mouth and the tingle in your hands and feet. His lips touched mine. Your thoughts were jumbled and incoherent besides. Our mouths touched.

The caffeine wasn’t helping much, and any possible adrenaline from his abrupt departure had been drained by holding him close. Your heart’s thunderous pace was relentless, even as the seconds turned to minutes and your eyes began to close.

An hour later Bruce sat with his head in his hands, supported by weak wrists from endless stacks of paperwork. Two untouched mugs of coffee sat where Gordon and Martinez had. Too busy slogging through formalities, they hadn’t bothered. Bruce was glad for it. Could have prolonged their loitering.

Alfred wandered back with the click of his cane, setting it against his chair while he walked the two cups over to the sink. Bruce knew it was awful, but despite the images from the crime scenes and Martinez’s bright, happy-go-lucky tone while he incessantly spoke, his mind was stuck on the room upstairs and its possibilities. Yet now, when he could finally move back to you, his feet were welded to the floor.

“Should I anticipate the young lady coming over more often?” The cups clinked together as the man rinsed them, and Bruce tried to play off his surprise.

Should he? “I don’t know.” Something ensnaring had sunk its teeth in and overtaken him; he was drawn to the room like a moth to flame. Had your mouth truly touched his? Not your chin, or some trick of the air?

“It’s good to have a friend.”

It rang discordantly through him like a bent gong. Friend. When he was procrastinating climbing the stairs to see you because he worried he’d trip and fall onto your lips and lose his hands in your hair. When he was overflowing with unused, pent-up energy that wouldn’t lower to a simmer.

The alternative of being questioned by Alfred about having a woman upstairs had unglued his feet, not able to bear where he might steer the dialogue next. Within a few seconds he was jogging up the stairs and counting each step.

He repeated a mantra to hype himself up as he stood in the hall. He needed to breathe. That’s all. Breathe. A deep breath, then walk inside… “Sorry for—”

You were sound asleep on the couch, but he slunk in a few more steps to make sure. Your breaths were long and deep, your eyelids with a slight flutter, both signs that he shouldn’t wake you. Sensing the chill in the room, he padded to Alfred’s study and grabbed the blanket laid atop the chair by the fireplace. He fluffed it in the hall so he wouldn’t disturb, and held his breath as he tossed it over you. In a blip he was gone, sending a text to Alfred through sweaty palms about letting him know if you woke, then descended to the batcave before anything else could be said.

You startled when you felt something on top of you. An emerald green quilt covered you to your chest, the occasional snags of white thread in its valleys lending a homemade quality. Waking up in unfamiliar rooms started to wear on your sanity, but thankfully Bruce had kept the decorations so slight it didn’t take long to orient.

Pushing off the blanket Alfred had undoubtedly tossed on, you slapped around for your phone. Getting to your hands and knees revealed it tucked at the bottom of the couch, squarely between the cushion and the arm.

HOURS. You’d been asleep hours.

3:02 a.m. was the time blaring from your home screen. You had a single text from Mar updating you with a group picture from Mora’s, but she hadn’t responded to any of the messages you'd sent prior. She hadn’t invited you, though you probably wouldn’t have gone. You didn’t think you were allowed to feel bad in such a case, but it stung.

Impossible to decide if it was a blessing or curse that Bruce was nocturnal, you padded out to the hallway with the quilt wrapped around you like a cape. What had compelled him to make a cape on his suit? Were capes intimidating? Heroic? Distracting?

The stairs were cooler than you remembered, but you stalled after the first set. Standing in the hallway where you’d embraced, like this. The air, the night. Your melancholy was admittedly lower, but you knew a hug from him would fill you the same. You forced yourself down to the foyer, and jumped when you met Bruce sitting in your seat at the table. He startled too.

“I let you sleep, I thought you needed it.” He sounded apologetic, nervous. You shook your head and pursed your lips.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He got up and opened the fridge. You entered the room in full, careful to scoop the edges of the blanket dragging on the ground. “Want anything?”

The eye contact was fleeting; the second your gazes met, you both cut away like a dodged bullet. You snuck to your chair across the table, furthest from where he stood, and nodded. “What do you have?”

“Bread, cheese, broccoli." He sifted through unknown items and withdrew some ciabatta and a cheddar loaf.

“Grilled cheese is good.” What you wanted to say was that you didn’t deserve for him to be cooking, that you’d overstayed your welcome, and it was embarrassing you were here. Arguing with your host, however, seemed even more remiss—and you didn’t want him to turn around yet. His presence was stifling.

While he prepared a pan on the stove, you rolled the quilt into a compact cylinder and placed it on Alfred’s seat.

“Was that warm enough?”

“Yeah, perfect.” Had Bruce given it to you? “Thanks.”

He didn’t respond, busy slicing cheese and toasting the bread. Had he noticed what had happened upstairs? You couldn’t have imagined it. You really, really couldn’t have…

“Want a drink?”

Each syllable was a firework popping.

“Think there’s juice.”

You got up while he placed the bread in the pan. A container of orange juice glistened on the top shelf, and you followed Bruce’s opening of the cupboard to his left and grabbed two glasses.

The drink was sweet, with a tang that was an ideal distraction from the elephant in the room. If he wouldn’t mention it, you weren’t opening that can of worms either.

Seeing as he’d only made one sandwich, which he put on a single plate and walked over to you, you sought to test the waters after taking a bite. Maybe it would ease the pressure. “You call that a sandwich?”

Bruce straightened, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

Admittedly, it was delicious. “It’s fine, but…” you eyed the pan on the stove. Feigning a groan, you rolled up your sleeves and grabbed the spatula. He moved to stand but you waved him down. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

As you began making the sandwich the exact same way he had, placing the toast down, the cheese on top, flipping it at the same time, he grew increasingly suspicious. “That’s how I made it.”

“It’s different.” You flipped the sandwich once more, then placed it on a small plate from the cup cabinet. You sat it at his table setting and gestured to him. “Try it.”

Bruce looked up at you with discernment. You bit your cheek to stave off a laugh. Slowly, almost methodically and with a great hesitance, he picked up the sandwich and took a bite. It didn’t take a second for him to catch on, speaking with food in his mouth. “Tastes the same.”

“Probably won’t taste it on the first bite, detective.” You put the spatula away, wondering if you shouldn’t do the dishes to make the load easier on Alfred in the morning. Or their housekeeper. Or whoever did the cleaning in the kitchen. The gentle crunch of another bite was music to your ears, and turning back toward him revealed the most concentrated expression you’d ever seen him make. It was a brutal ordeal not to fall to the floor and laugh until you saw stars.

He opened his mouth with what you were certain would be another comment about how it was not different, so you interrupted. “Just take a few bites. Really think of the flavors.” Slowly, you wandered back to your seat opposite him. He was almost entirely finished with the sandwich, and had just swallowed an especially large bite. Perfect.

He was almost glaring. “Are you messing with me?” His brows were knit together, his jaw tight, his eyes roaming the tabletop as he struggled to uncover the difference.

Once his gaze landed squarely on you, you folded. He lowered what remained of the sandwich as you barely held a laugh. “Why would I ever mess with you to get you to eat?”

Bruce’s eyes flashed, but yours were already shut with silent, full-bellied laughter. Something about how late at night it was. How dark the kitchen was. How seriously he took things. How awkward things felt after your embrace. When you managed to open your eyes a good twenty seconds later, you noticed the flicker of a smile on his lips.

He’d totally fallen for it. While he wanted to join in on your contagious laughter, he felt supremely unnerved. He bought himself time by moving the plate to the sink, hoping your laughter wouldn’t be so easily contained as he waded through confusing thoughts.

Only twice in recent memory had he forgone his own perception for the words of another, and both belonged to you. He recalled the creature vividly; in fact, at least once a week it would infiltrate his dreams. But you had a different story—so he bowed to you. He wanted to feel stupid for overthinking a grilled cheese at three in the morning, but it hung over him like nothing else. Not a raincloud, per se… that was too sinister, too foggy.

He peeked over his shoulder to watch you pour another glass of juice. A blanket, maybe? A weighted blanket? It was a heavy feeling, but one he wasn’t so nervous to give in to. Like something supposed to soothe. Why did he believe you so easily, and why did he want to believe you? It couldn’t be familiarity; if Alfred had tried the same antics, he would’ve outright refused. Possibly taken one bite, then made it clear the two sandwiches were precisely the same… God, it was ridiculous.

A chuckle escaped him. It must’ve been at the precise time you’d taken a particularly big sip, because he heard the strangest, bubbliest garbling sound and turned to see you with chipmunk cheeks struggling not to blow your drink. Another laugh ripped out of him, and you slapped the table and shook your head, eyes crinkled with humor pleading for him to shut up. Bruce bit his lip and turned away, breathing tightly through his nose.

He liked hearing you laugh. He liked seeing you playful and lively. He liked having you in his kitchen, even if he might have to mop after you went to bed if you couldn’t get it under control. He looked to check if you’d managed, and you had. Your bright eyes staring back at him from across the room. You were alone again, and he swallowed thickly. He could move the pitcher to the counter, the same with your glass. Shove the placemats to the floor…

“Not gonna finish it?”

He glanced at the quarter of sandwich left, his eyes blurring the edges of the toast as his pupils struggled to focus. He popped it into his mouth and centered on the taste of the cheese and roughness of the bread against his tongue. It was barely enough to keep himself tethered as he plunked into his seat.

You grinned and asked about what went down with Gordon, and he responded with the most detail he could muster: it wasn’t much. All his effort channeled into what you were saying, because the other side of the seesaw was hyperfixated on your mouth. No, your eyes. Your lashes. Your fingers. The intangible location of your voice ringing in his head Whew.

And so you talked for the next hour. Trying to pretend like you hadn't clung to each other like koalas mere hours ago, hoping he was forgiving about you tricking him into eating, playing a cat and mouse game with eye contact that drew progressively more tense though the conversation remained logistical.

The topics weren’t enthralling by any means; updates about the people you’d help house (all situated, some starting new jobs soon), opinions about the candidates for mayor (you and him agreed that Mr. March was what Gotham needed, but were unsure if he’d break in with such genuine focus on people over profit), and a bit about how the election was covered in other states (as you told him: ‘almost nonexistent’). Regardless of how exciting the discussion was or was not, the simple act of engaging with Bruce was addicting.

You truly didn’t talk about anything invigorating, or even anything about each other or your individual lives—the time just flew. By the time you both started talking about each other, the room was misty, and you couldn’t stop staring at his mouth when he spoke.

“Speaking of,” Bruce piggybacked on the campaign talk to direct things more personally. Each time he went to City Hall, he risked being found out. Each time you went there, you risked being openly harassed—if you hadn’t been already and had the foresight not to tell him.

“How do you deal with being treated that way at meetings?” His intensely focused, like you were about to say some ancient, secret code he couldn’t miss a second of. While it felt like being spotlit, it was so unusual for you to hold anyone’s attention that it was frightfully endearing. You didn’t have to ponder long for the answer to spill.

“I just think about how pointless it is to value their opinions. I don’t respect them.” You took another sip of the juice as you shrugged. His eyeline followed the glass, perceptive as ever. “If they think I’m weird, or gross, or whatever else, it probably means I’m doing something right.” Even as you said the words, you struggled to internalize them. Though you technically believed it, your chronically unmet desire to be valued proved a shaky foundation to dismiss scrutiny. You wrapped your arms around your chest, noticing a subtle flick of Bruce’s eyes down and back again. “And I don’t like them anyway. Why do I care what they think of me?”

He wished he could walk into rooms and not care. Throw away their opinions without thought. As a Wayne, this was another way he was isolated from normalcy. His gaze cast down from yours, following a small crack in the wood midway through the table length. He had to play into the elite’s hand; he didn’t have a choice. He was more them than the other way around. “Easier said.”

“I guess it’s about caring more what I think.”

He looked again at those beautiful eyes. Why should he care if they thought he was an idiot? Did they define his family’s legacy, or did he? After all, did the public decide if Batman was good or evil? When he stopped people from getting mugged? Saved kids from trauma? He followed your fingers as they wrapped around the glass. When he stopped you from being assaulted?

Bruce’s eyes had trailed again to his own fingers and thumbs. You prompted him. “What?”

Lamenting on the public’s opinion had pulled the air from the room. Did he value a public that had stolen his family? A public which, until very recently, had all but smited Batman, and condemned the Wayne legacy to a drugged-up skeleton hiding in his tower?

“My mom.” He sighed from the bottom of his lungs. You followed his rapid blinking, how his eyes scattered across the table. His voice was more timid than you knew it to be, his body fidgeting. “She, uh.” He bit his lip, and you flung away creeping thoughts. “I spent most of my time with her. She lived as if there was always an audience.” Memories of her toying with the hem of her pajamas during a movie night, checking the mirror she kept in her pocket to see if her lipstick had moved. Even when she was alone, she had to be camera-ready. What had she endured to make her behave that way? How little did he know her? Know them?

And he hated to say that. Lived.

His brows fused together, his back straightening to meet the chair. You leaned forward, hoping he knew you were a willing, attentive audience to any part of his mind. That these moments were gifts, not burdens. He didn’t look up.

“You’re right.” You struggled to avoid the jump in your stomach at his acknowledgement. “Living for the public’s estimation is borrowing a legacy. Can be taken at any point.” He sat in silence after that, time which allowed a smile to spread to your eyes and your chin to rest in your hands.

“Keep going.” His eyes stuttered up to yours, and the slightest tinge of pink speckled his cheekbones.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

He flushed to red, and your thoughts became jumbled again. So sweet. His lack of arrogance was staggeringly apparent, and rapidly becoming the hottest thing about him. It was terrifically difficult not to think about how that humility might translate elsewhere.

An expanse of possibilities had his mind inching toward disaster. Surely ‘anything’ didn’t include making a speech about how nice you looked, or how much he enjoyed seeing you across his table. The neckline of a tee had never bothered him before, but now it chafed. He glommed onto the first question in an effort to distract from the tension building in his chest. The question spiraled out of his journals and into the open air between you. “The meetings. How do I throw people off?”

“Of Batman?” Taking advantage of the single space you could reveal his alter ego felt holy. It made him feel larger, a little more imposing. The tired frame of the man in front of you was the same armored creature slinking through shadows in the night. Too often you forgot that, and now it was scintillating. He nodded. The room heated a few degrees. You wrung your hands together beneath the table, suddenly clammy. Well, to start… his eyes were so Vengeance it was virtually comical. He noticed the flicker.

“Tell me.”

You might tell him anything. He could rifle through your thoughts like you’d handed him a stack of your journals back home. Reminiscing on that moment where you’d faltered an apology to the faceless man, and the click of your eyes on his that spurred instant recognition. If you could slow it down, piece it out any further, you would. But it was simple. Agonizingly simple.

“You can’t really wear colored contacts, so.”

His eyes narrowed. You knew he was suspicious. For all he knew, you could’ve been stalking him for months and tracking his every whereabout, and you didn’t have any way to convince him otherwise. “You actually recognized me from my eyes?”

Crossing your fingers he wouldn’t notice your increased consideration, you soaked in the possibility that you’d been enamored from the beginning. His absorbing eyes, just as expressive as they were right now. Oh, if he kept looking at you... “Guess so.”

He shifted in his seat, something you read into far too deeply. His fingers tapped the table’s edge, occasionally clenching to grip it. Speaking of absorbing.

Your attention focused on his fingers, and he realized you’d been staring at them. He tucked his hand into his lap, fingers straining toward something he couldn’t get. He tracked your eyes to the jug, noting you swallow when your lashes fluttered. The air in his lungs compressed. “Nothing else?”

You had a twinge of doubt; a shred that dissipated when you and him walked arm in arm and you’d felt how stacked his muscles were. Something you never would’ve known hid beneath his oversized wool coat. You mustered enough energy to stop blush from creeping onto your cheeks. Unfortunately, it meant not leaving enough to refrain stumbling over words. “You’re uh, pretty dense. Walking me to the hallway, muscly. Felt them, it.” To make matters worse, you’d said it while making ceaseless eye contact, so you noticed every twitch in his face when you did. Don’t breathe, don’t blush, don’t let oxygen get to your head…

“Lose the muscle, then.”

You couldn't make out if he was joking. “Yeah. Don’t need ‘em.” You wanted to demand he stop boring his eyes into you. You were parched and desperately needed relief, but your hands shook and rattled against your thighs. You’d cause a scene if he kept it up too long.

“What would’ve thrown you off?”

You hummed, wondering if any combination of traits or behavior could’ve convinced you that a person of the precise build and brooding demeanor was not a vigilante. Separating him and Batman was impossible. You dug your palm against your chin to freeze the tremble as you mused his question in avoidance of your blooming desire. “I don’t know.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, and you reflexively bit your lip. “Clumsy. Talkative. Casual, maybe. Batman seems so… cold, and calculated. So serious, and uptight.”

“I have to be. My family.”

“They already assume the worst of you, what’s some superficiality?” You stuttered when you noted he continued to linger on your lips. “You need something that gives an alibi to your nights.”

“Like what?” He was looking at you again, and you went weak.

Your face heated to a fever pitch. If there was one quality Batman didn’t possess, it was sex appeal. At least, not in how he, uh. You hollowed thinking of how brutal and merciless he could be if he handled you with those gloves, and that armor… “I mean, if you want to lean playboy,” your lips pressed into a hard line, not believing you’d introduced it to the airspace.

His pause was unraveling. “I can’t bring people here.”

“Go there?”

The tension pooling in your stomach bubbled into a laugh at the absurdity. His brow quirked. “What?”

“Talking about pimping you out, it’s, it’s ridiculous.”

That laugh again. He reached for his glass. “Eventually word would get out that I’m not sleeping with them.”

“Why not?” Too busy taking care of me? You pressed your thighs together.

“Can’t have anything take up my nights.” Why did he—feel jealous? At the thought of touching anyone but you? He released his grip on the cup before he broke it. You bit your cheek, brows cinching. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s weird. Already deleted it.”

He heard tight, shallow breaths escape his nose. Whatever it was, it was likely a good idea. You were full of good ideas. Full of, of… less weirdness than he was right now.

“I was thinking about if you did, but it was fast, but then—”

His eyes flashed. “Fast?”

“I don’t know!” Bruce’s face was bright red, his jaw slack. Get a shovel and bury me. “I told you. It wouldn’t make sense, it would be too short.”

“Too short?”

The room spun. With how goddamn perceptive he was it was a matter of seconds before he noticed the heat in your cheeks, the shake in your hand, and the barely-concealed panting. He laid his palm flat to the table. You felt it painted across your lower back. You squeaked. “I’m feeling tired, um,”

“You can sleep here, same room.” Why did he say that? “As last time.”

“Okay.” You downed the last of your glass to cool your throat, and grabbed the jug to put back in the fridge.

You sounded out of breath, he felt breathless, and you were leaving so hurriedly. “Y/N,”

You stood up so fast you slammed your legs into the table and knocked over the juice. It splattered across your shirt and pants, dousing the fabric, and you scrambled to place it upright. “I’m sorry,”

“It’s alright.” His elbow brushed yours as he soaked up the wreckage with a dishrag, and you banged the chair back in an attempt to distance.

“I need to, um,” the frenetic energy had you about to pass out.

“You can use the shower upstairs.”

“Thanks.”

The instant you were out of his eyeline you sprinted up to the bathroom and pushed your back against the door, floundering for air. The nanosecond he heard you in the stairwell he bent over the table and took deep, labored breaths that did nothing to neutralize his headiness. He didn’t know what he meant by saying your name, but his next thought was how you might look splayed out on the table.

Fuck. You tossed your clothes on the counter and got the water running, jumping in despite its freezing temp. It met your blazing skin and melted in small streams down your legs, but it didn’t comfort. You turned the knob hotter.

Steam tinted the shower glass, adorning the aged shampoo bottles with pearls of dew. Cold didn’t work. Heat didn’t work. So scorching it practically scalded your shoulderblades. It did quicken your heartbeat, but it was already racing.

That meal was dangerous. Being alone together so late, staying over so often… a plume of hot breath fell out of you. It was a miracle you were showering and not straddling his lap. Was it?

Would it… be so bad?

It was as though your body had already given in; the room’s lighting was hazy, your breathing increasingly deliberate. You thought back to what Mar had joked about many a night at Mora’s: “There’s no such thing as bad thoughts.” She’d said it while thinking about getting a third or fourth drink, but it settled into the thick of your chest differently now.

You swallowed hard as you pressed your back to the glass. The coolness brought a gasp to your lips, and your mind shot to Bruce’s sigh against your ear. Your heart was a broken metronome; speeding up as your fingers flexed down your torso, catching when you hesitated.

No bad thoughts, huh?

Your trembling fingers slid across your stomach, then paused. Not in his shower. Not in his bathroom. Not in his home. Not when he’d been so… vulnerable with you. Your throat went dry, your pulse echoing between your thighs in rebellion. How he’d gripped your shirt. His pause. You could’ve sworn… What if he kissed me? Feeling his heartbeat knock against yours and the heat of his breath on your neck threatened the stability of your legs.

Maybe he’d hate you for fantasizing about him; maybe it was creepy, and horrible, and nasty. Maybe it was inappropriate and weird; maybe you’d loathe yourself in the morning, but the morning wasn’t here, and neither was he. As much as you fucking hated it, you could keep a secret.

You ached, so sensitive to touch you had to start gently, practicing godly restraint. It took a Herculean effort but you shoved your guilt to the side, telling yourself it could come back when you stepped out of the shower. Right now, as your fingers swirled circles over your clit, you needed to imagine his hands on you or you might die. The all-consuming desire slammed a fever to your cheeks and let your reason slip away with little fight.

The outside of your thigh flushed beneath the grip of your free hand. You never touched yourself in the shower, the water destroying any lubrication, but it didn’t make any difference when you were this drenched. You kept repositioning, making the circle tighter and tighter with increasingly firm pressure for your fingers to stay in place.

However he wanted, you were ready—against the wall, on the counter, his bed, his car, Jesus, even the bare ground. You bit your lip to the point of pain as your wrist began to ache, speeding up as you imagined his cock slipping in and out of you.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, muffled moans slipping past his lips. He could hardly breathe, his air so ragged, body impossibly tense. You’d feel so good, so fucking good, he couldn’t take it. He was so close already. His hips drove off the bed as he chased the image of you. Jesus fucking Christ, he couldn’t think, stroking himself faster and faster, imagining your, oh, your, your mouth, fuck,

Your tongue jammed against your teeth and your jaw trembled as your body tensed toward an orgasm. Lewd, sinful noises of your wet cunt absolutely begging for him to pound into it, slamming deep into you over and over—you could take it, fuck, you could take anything. If he heard you, if he came in right now, if he said he wanted you, you’d fuck him. All fucking night, until you memorized the taste of his fucking sweat and the exact angle that made his eyes roll, oh my GOD—

This was sacrilegious; you were here, and there was no way you felt the, he prayed you wouldn’t hear him—mmm. How would he explain this? Panting and trembling in his bed, envisioning the shapes you could make, how you might sound, how you’d look at him as he… goddamn.

You forced your fingers to slow down, your orgasm building too quickly. Unwillingly pulling your hand away brought a fantasy: he was so fucking frustrating, he would absolutely, positively, god, he would make it hell, wouldn’t he?

He’d never whined while he stroked himself, never sweat through his sheets, never felt his heartbeat in his temples, but he didn’t want this feeling to end. It was hell moving his hand away, his chest caving into itself as he caught his breath, but he wouldn’t finish until he got enough of you. Enough of your lips on his neck, of your gasps in his ear, of making you feel so, so good… His praise fell out in wanton moans. “Yes baby, perfect, ah, ah,”

Making you beg, right when you were the most strung out… His voice in your ear telling you no, not yet… lacing his fingers between yours and guiding your hand away. His lips warming your cheek as he kept teasing. Your face going red as you writhed beneath him, begging him to move your hand back, the water pounding the shower floor cloaking your pleads. “Let me just, fuck!” The dull ache in your hand was yours, but that was the beginning and end, all but levitating under his imagined touch.

“Yeah, right there?” His lashes fluttered, his tensing abs creaking the bed as he nearly lost it.

You were even more responsive after only a few second’s break. “OH,”

“Baby,”

You groaned, sighing out gasping pleads for him to fuck you, understanding this feeling had been growing for weeks, realizing how horrendously fuckable he was. Even when he made rude comments, when he was pissy, annoyed, “please,” you begged the air to bring him to you, “please, Bruce, please please,” you were so gone you couldn’t breathe. It was happening so quickly, the tsunami of how it felt to fantasize about him��

He shut his eyes and imagined you saying his name, begging him to cum. Bruce, let go for me… His brows knit together and his jaw slacked, stroking himself faster when goosebumps tingled up his spine. Faster, his cock twitching, you’re doing so well, baby, so needy… you made him so desperate, so pathetic, nothing but a fucking toy for you… he stroked his cock like it was you gripping him, moaning and grinding on him like it was all yours. It was. He was all yours. All… fucking…

The tension snapped when you visualized his shower-sodden form standing in the doorway, so real you could almost reach and pull his pants down his hips. Your vision whited out and your heart stalled, an involuntary groan pulling itself out of you as your abdomen tensed forward, folding in on yourself. The guilt sideswept you at your most vulnerable, transforming the pleasure into a sharp knife and the heat in your face to burning coal.

He’d never wanted someone more, and nowhere was this more evident than the pure flight that was his climax. Maybe calling after you in the kitchen had been a vow, a premonition. Your name fell from his lips like poetry; like water flowing through a river.

After a speedy wash through riptides of shame and yearning that threatened to drown, you stared at your clump of dirty clothes that had fallen behind the toilet. As much as you trusted Alfred and the maid to keep things pristine, and how you were fairly certain you’d been the only person to use this bathroom in decades, you couldn’t bring yourself to put them back on. You couldn’t bring yourself to move. Couldn’t bring yourself to remember you actually existed.

Standing in your towel, hoping clothes would magically appear, you shivered in front of the massive bathroom door. The steam from the shower was heavy against the mirror, manipulating shapes that looked a lot like sin. The towel was long and thick, arguably the biggest tell that he was a billionaire. You’d never seen a towel so long or so wide, it nearly hung to your ankles. You tightened it and took deep, regulating breaths. The notion of seeing him after he’d consumed your fantasies made you want to die. Your hair was still dripping, your knuckles shaking as they gripped the cotton at full strength.

You narrowed your glare to the golden doorknob. I can do this. I’ll just walk up and ask for a shirt. It’ll be fine. Just fine. Painfully, you reached for the door, hoping for the metal’s coolness to soothe you, but you’d been in the shower too long. It was warm and slick, matching the temperature of your own skin. Your heartbeat quickened, and you swallowed hard, still acutely aware of the echoes between your legs and praying it wasn’t stamped to your forehead.

You slammed the door wide and found yourself standing alone in the open hallway. It was dark, thankfully. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to tell you were only in a towel. Maybe he’d already have clothes right by the door and you’d only have to face him for a few seconds. Maybe you wouldn’t even have to look at him. Pretend you got some shampoo in your eye.

The steps to his doorway were much too difficult. Your legs were lined with lead. You did another pep-talk as you situated in front of his door, making sure to knock with your opposite hand to try and feel less naughty. You released a shivering breath.

Shit. Bruce’s heart stopped when he heard your knock, and he tripped over himself as he stumbled out of bed toward his bathroom. Faster than he’d ever done anything in his life, he desperately bent himself over the sink to wash off his abdomen. The water was too cold, it was making things too sticky, it needed to warm up, warm UP!

Another knock. You would leave if he didn’t show up soon. Maybe you were having a reaction, oh, shit! He grabbed a towel and scraped at his skin and tossed it behind him, throwing on a folded tee atop his dresser as he fumbled his way to the door. He’d bought new Benadryl, but where was it? Had he brought it up with him to the movie room? Was it in the medicine cabinet downstairs? Was it in here somewhere—

“Hi, um.” His eyes landed on your bare shoulders before stuttering up to yours. Your lashes were clumped together from the shower, face flushed from the heat. Probably why he couldn’t get hot water. “Do you have a spare shirt?”

“Yeah.” He could barely hear himself talk over the ringing in his ears. Of course you’d show up like this, not even a few minutes after… he bit his tongue as he turned and ransacked his dresser drawers. His cheeks turned red as it dawned on him that you might have heard… fuck.

He cleared his throat as he moved to the middle drawers. “Uh, how was your shower?” He hoped you’d say something to the tune of: Oh, long and uneventful. The shower is so loud in there, could hardly hear myself think. Definitely couldn’t hear you jacking off to me. His fingers shook as he pulled on the handles. There seemed to only be pants in the middle drawers, and your faint response reminded him you were stranded in the hallway. “You can come in.” His increasing anxiety nearly made him implode when he heard you step inside. The last drawer came up empty.

“It um, it was, yeah, fine.”

He didn’t know whether to look at you or not. He moved silently to his closet, hoping Dory might’ve hung some of his undershirts. Could you see how red his face was? Oh god, did the room smell weird? Could you tell something was off? Were you about to confront him about it?

He was acting strange. Not so strange as to be concerned, but a bit off. Like you’d interrupted something. How did he spend his evenings when he wasn’t out as Batman? Was he prepping for Batman, but you’d gotten in the way? Did he hate that you were here and felt like he could finally stop the facade, but now he had to plaster on a kindly demeanor? Was this a kindly demeanor? He appeared… frazzled, though that could be a total projection given you’d just climaxed to… you gulped. Not now.

Relief flooded you as you realized his hair was wet, and his shirt clung to his torso. If he’d showered at the same time, he probably couldn’t hear! Your tone was too sunshiney for the apology, but you didn’t have the capacity to manage it. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your shower, I’m sorry, I can wait.”

He hesitated before continuing his thumbing through hangers. “I didn’t shower.”

The room was silent a few beats. He kept searching through his closet, which was decidedly massive, while you stood clinging to your towel for dear life. You would rather Alfred saw you dripping in the hallway than stand shivering within a few feet of Bruce’s bed.

His bed looked comfortable. All too inviting. Your attention was split between watching his body move, and trying to take a photograph of the room’s layout with your mind. The guilt that gnawed at you was quieted in his presence, overwhelmed by being with him again. Truly all-consuming; so tall, strong, capable, understanding, smart… he was everything.

In his effort not to make you uncomfortable, he hadn’t looked at you since you knocked. He tried to focus on finding a tee shirt, any non-collared shirt, but kept coming up short. Was this the last shirt he’d just put on? Jesus…

His attention snagged on the corner of his bed, horror flooding him as he realized he may have left cum on his sheets, or his blanket, and oh god, you might see it— “Uh, you can grab whatever you want in here.” He stepped to the side, waiting for you to step up and start looking before he rushed to the bed and scoured his sheets.

As you neared, his chest thundered. His body still caked in sweat, he probably smelled like shit, you could probably tell exactly what he’d been doing, you always read him like a book, fuck… he needed to check his bedsheets, make sure there was nothing on them, okay, you were starting to peruse the hangers,

He stepped to turn, eyes locked to his bed just a few feet away, cursing himself for creating a sweat pattern in the sheets, when he heard you gasp. Whipping his head around showed his foot had caught the edge of the towel and yanked it off of you. He squeezed his eyes shut and stepped back, apologies propelling from his chest. “I’m sorry, shit, sorry, sorry,”

Some rustling and whooshing sounds, then you spoke. Bruce stood in the middle of his room in total darkness, mortified, refusing to open his eyes until you left. He’d accidentally caught a view of your lower back before he’d realized his fuck up, and failed to rid his mind of the image. Sure that his face was beet red, that his sheets were dark with sweat, that his body was beaded with it, his hands and torso still dirty and incriminated, tearing your only covering off of you, he prayed a bomb would explode under his feet and take him to an early grave.

“Lock a woman in your tower just to get her naked?” He went utterly still until he heard you laugh. You aren’t mad? He felt his heartbeat in his fingertips and the tightness in his chest loosen. “I’m covered now.”

Blinking back to the room to see you standing in his dress shirt, one button at your waist holding everything together, your eyes crinkled at the edges holding back a smile. His eyes narrowed as if to ask, and you obliged, like you were beginning to share a secret language.

“I’ll be sure to spill juice on this in the morning.”

Playing it off. He wasn’t about to get in the way. He looked at the white shirt you’d chosen, and smirked. How was he still standing? “Just Dior.”

“At least it’s not the Prada.” You winked at him and turned to leave, the spin fluffing the back hem enough to skirt his leg. Certainly you could see how enamored he was if you looked back, and right then he might not have cared—but you didn’t. When you shut the door he fell to the edge of the mattress, planting the heel of his palm to his forehead as he caught his breath. You were a goddamn force.

Impossible to stifle your heaving breaths, you moved from his doorway with utmost urgency. The cool air of the tower traveled underneath the linen to relieve your heated skin as you made your getaway up the stairs. You couldn’t believe you’d said that, or winked, or that he’d very likely seen you naked. Or that you were in his home again. Dressed in his clothes. Fresh from a shower where you begged him to be inside you.

Your body already knew which direction to walk; you already knew the height of the knob and weight of the door, and how many steps it took to fall into the bed. It was starting to be normal talking to Bruce. Normal to be in his tower. You both… knew each other. If he’d pulled that towel shtick a month ago you would’ve argued, stormed away, and avoided him at the next meeting like the plague. But you believed he didn’t mean it, and thought it adorable how he’d stammered an apology through a clenched, closed face. Though initially distracted by the accidental kiss (?!), it was endearing how he’d launched into your arms. How you launched into his.

He felt familiar; he felt safe.

He scrubbed the shirt in the sink, showered, and managed to change his sheets before staring at the ceiling until the sun rose. Whirls of smoke crowded the room, permeated only by drive-by thoughts that attacked just when he thought he might be falling asleep. Of going to your room. Your room. In his home. Knocking on the door. Your door. Admitting that he wanted to listen to you talk. Or stare at you. Or both. Or more. All night.

The thrill was short-lived. Whenever his muscles tensed like he actually might, the ceiling turned to meteors. His reputation. Family. Batman. His heart bled. He would crush you.

That was something Alfred failed to understand: his life was fundamentally incompatible with others. Either layer was too much on its own, but when they stacked? When he was a Wayne and when he was Batman? What would happen if the world found out? If they threw him in jail, then you too? If he kept up this public persona, which he figured he’d need to, he would only become a bigger and bigger target. What happened to Alfred could happen to you, or worse.

Even if nothing tragic ended up happening, your life would be irrevocably shifted. You wouldn’t be able to get coffee. Go to bars with your friends. You’d need security outside your apartment, people following you at all times. Always looking over your shoulder, always doubting the motives of whoever wanted to get to know you. Whatever you chose to do for a career would be squashed. After that first headline, you’d live and die by his association. He loathed being under perpetual shadow, preceded in every. little. thing. by preconceived notions, cursed to contrived interactions for eternity. To put you in the blast radius… fuck. He fisted his sheets and grit his teeth until his jaw popped. It couldn’t even be a question. If he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy, how could he do it to you?

That was if you felt the same, and how could he ever know for sure? You never failed to speak your mind or put him in his place, absolutely, but the imbalance was too great. Even for you. He’d never trust anything other than the word ‘no’.

By the time Alfred knocked on his door in the afternoon, he’d cemented his conclusion into a megalith. It was dangerous, cruel, and selfish of him to pursue you. Like Alfred had said: you were a friend. A secret, temporary friend, and he could enjoy his time with you as such. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he pushed it any further, no matter how much he yearned for it. When he considered cutting you off entirely his body locked up, his mind procuring a million alternatives; the most convincing of them being that you were lonely here, and it would be kinder to lend some companionship until you left for home.

And wouldn’t that be the ultimate show of care? Seeing an incredible flower, wanting to cut it, but letting it grow? He was convinced you’d thank him for sparing you, anyway.

You awoke to gentle taps at your door and someone clearing their throat. “Breakfast is ready. Or—lunch.”

Bruce. The room wasn’t yours, the sheets too expensive for you to mistake them for your own. His shirt had slid off one shoulder and crumpled under your side. “I’ll be right out.”

Sliding off the bed reminded you that you didn’t have any underwear. How would you sit—

“Dory left your clothes here. Want me to bring them in?”

You pulled the shirt straight and fastened a few buttons. “Sure.”

“Now?”

You grinned. “Now.”

Like a true gentleman, he opened the door slowly and kept his eyes to the ground, holding a shallow wicker basket in front of him where your clothes lay folded with a candy on top. “Dory washed them.”

“Tell her I said thanks.” You bridged the space between, taking the basket from underneath to nullify any possibility of your bodies touching. He nodded, making brief eye contact before sighing and grabbing the door. Your spine prickled with the ghost of his fingers on your back, his breath on your ear. You bit your lip.

“Do you want to walk down?”

“Oh I uh, I need to change,”

“I’ll be outside.” He left with a nod and the click of the lock.

In the spirit of speed, you pulled on your pants and tucked in his dress shirt, finishing the buttons so Alfred didn’t get any ideas. You stretched your arms, shook out any residual sleepiness, and pulled your hair back. You grabbed your phone to check the time, and noticed three missed calls: Dr. Crane, Dr. Crane, Dr. Crane. The blood left your face.

You shouted out to Bruce, starting to pit his shirt. “I’ll be a minute, I’ll meet you down there.”

“Sounds good.”

You scurried to press your ear to the door, making out the faintest footsteps down the staircase. Shit. Shit, shit. The last call had been a few minutes ago, and you pressed the phone to your ear with a force that threatened to crack the screen in half. With each passing ring you grew more nauseous, kicking yourself for continuously forgetting to call. But Bruce had been fine, right? Bruce had been normal, and polite, and talkative, and open about his feelings.

“Y/N.”

“I’m so sorry for forgetting to call, I woke up—”

He launched into a scolding, in a voice somehow made sinister by how measured it was. “I haven’t been asking a lot of you, because I assumed you would take the initiative to tell me what I need to know.”

“Dr. Crane,”

“However, given your history of dodging my calls—”

“I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to dodge anything,”

His sigh sounded like a curse, which sewed your mouth shut. “You’re not working, correct? No longer in school?”

You paused to ensure you didn’t interrupt him again. “Well,”

“Are you keeping his status from me?”

“Not at all,” you looked to the doorway as if Bruce had his ear to it.

“Perhaps you’ve formed an alliance with Mr. Wayne.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do.”

The room dropped ten degrees.

“Come to my office today before five. I have some things to show you that should convince you to take the precariousness of life seriously.” He hung up before you could reply, leaving you stranded with a gutting blend of anxious guilt.

If only Alfred hadn’t scheduled Wednesdays to be meeting days… then the pancakes wouldn’t be burnt, and the juice wouldn’t be insulting, Christ.

Bruce’s wrist ached from manually driving orange halves into the juicer for the past half hour, a task which had made the pan on the stove start to smoke, which contained the pancakes, and he hadn’t even began with any sausage or bacon, or eggs—why had he said things were ready? Because he had five blackened pancakes sitting on the table and a half jar of juice sitting uglily on the counter?

He heard you descending the stairs. Despite his pep-talk the entire morning, and the one he gave before waking you, a lightness besieged him while in your presence. It decorated the walls of the kitchen when you stepped inside. “Where’s Alfred?”

“Meetings.” He tossed the last rind, embarrassed by the pitiful juice rations. “The juice from last night was for today, so I, it won’t be as good.” As he walked to place the glass by your seat, his ears turned pink and the silence in the room ricocheted. Every step pounded in his head, hyperaware of your placement in the room, his limbs tingling at the squick of your chair across the floor. He peeked over his shoulder to see you taste it. He grabbed some utensils and tucked into his seat, feeling a peculiar need to micromanage his table decorum.

You grabbed some pancakes and he handed you a fork. “They’re burnt, I was juicing the oranges, and,”

“It’s fine.” Your smile was meek, but the twinkle in your irises made him forget. You took another small sip.

“So it’s horrible?”

Your eyes crinkled once more; it was happening more often now, and he soared higher each time. “Telling on yourself there, Bruce.”

Who knew his name could sound poetic? That he’d clutch each time you said it like a security blanket? If it hadn’t been made abundantly clear in the past twelve hours, he might’ve realized in this moment—as he roamed the slopes and valleys of your face with the spirit of a loving caress—that he adored you.

Your face slipped, and his matched. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t sleep very well.” You took another drink from the glass, your eyelids heavy. “Nightmares.”

“You could’ve woken me.” Did he sound too indignant? Possessive? Needy?

“They weren’t too bad, just tossing and turning a bit.”

Whatever it was, you didn’t want to discuss it further. He chewed on some pancake (that was somehow sour, dry, and too wet—either your tastebuds were nonexistent, or you were capable of more politeness than he knew), and thought through his next move. The creasing by your eyes had withered, your grin the same. “What do you like to do back home?” Remembering how you lit up talking about your town, and your cat. Wearing his earnest on his sleeve.

Your lashes fluttered, chewing slowed. “Be in nature. Go on bike rides, drives, camping.”

“You said the trees were nice.” He tucked another bite into his cheek, hoping either the conversation or his insistence on eating the entire plate would lift your spirit.

“Yeah, they are.”

“What else do you like about it?”

“I don’t know.” You rested the fork and moved the plate away. If he followed his ambling convictions, he might assume you were angry with him. If he followed them deeper, he might think you had a reason to be.

“Sorry if bringing up your hometown isn’t—”

“It’s alright, not feeling very… energetic today.”

You played with the rest of your food while Bruce finished his. Each passing second you appeared more dejected, and by the time he rose to put his dish away, he was about ready to blurt how can I help?! so loudly it would’ve interrupted Alfred stories below.

You bumped into his back when he turned to meet you, and he blushed. A quick swivel and he’d put your pancakes down the chute, rinsed the plate, and cleared his throat. “I know a place outside city limits, lot of empty roads. Used to test drive out there.” He cleared his throat again as he wrestled a stammer. “I could take you on a drive, might help.”

You could’ve cried. Domestic Bruce was a sight you were rarely privy to, but it kept your heart beating. The clock on the stove read 3:47, and Arkham was a twenty minute Uber from your apartment. When he turned and looked at you once more, god, you turned into a puddle. He was so pretty. He searched your face for a second, then went still on your eyes. The smallest upward tilt of his mouth made tears well. Sitting passenger while he gunned it down abandoned roads, taking a turn too hard and slamming your bodies together. Maybe your lips could skim again, or press, or…

“Can you take me to my apartment?” You brought your hands to your chest and turned before he could notice a tear slip. Whatever waited for you in the shadowy offices at Arkham was menacing, and you couldn’t tell the one person who would actually listen.

“Sure.” A pause, which you held your breath in for, your stomach tight. “Now?”

“I’ll grab my stuff.” You longed to sprint the stairs all the way to the top and howl jagged, desperate truths from the rafters, but you walked calmly to the room above his, knelt to grab your folded shirt and shoes by the door, and followed him to the garage. You blurred your eyes to focus on the material of his shirt and not the outline of him underneath. A pipe set to burst.

Hopefully he wouldn’t ask you on the drive about what your plans were. The cabin air was stifling, especially so lying on your back. Once Dr. Crane told you what you needed to know, you could regroup. Journal about it, even. In some shorthand. Codename. Pretend you went on some journalistic assignment and discuss it that way with Mar, if she would listen…

“Here.”

Your neck cricked with the rocket speed in which you scurried out of his car. You made it halfway down the alleyway, planning a low shout of ‘thanks!’ once you were out of his forcefield, but his door was opening. No, Bruce, please… if he initiated a hug, or even a fucking high five you would pour everything out.

“You left your bag.”

Oh. You both walked toward each other, and his strides were so long it took a single move from you to be mere inches from him. The pleather wrinkled in your fist. You muttered your thanks, and took off without a second glance.

Turned out there weren’t many rideshare drivers who would accept trips to Arkham. After being tossed around by a dozen drivers, the only acceptance was a gruff looking older man in a Chevy pickup. He made a joke about ‘the loony bin’ when you got in, and you grit your teeth for the duration of the drive.

At 4:47 you pulled up to the steely gates. You’d planned a speech to hype yourself up, but faced with the memory of Bruce black and blue in vicious restraints, you instead pretended you were visiting a jail. A jail, or a school that was funded in a strange way. Anything to not sob at his supposedly very precarious existence.

The guard at the front desk didn’t look at you while you checked in. You stood with twiddling thumbs in the empty waiting area; an area with no seats or benches, the sole accompaniment being a fish tank and a cacophony of creaking metal.

You checked your phone: five minutes passed. If he didn’t hurry, he’d blame you for showing up late. Even though you’d run up to your apartment to change, ordered Uber after Uber while on the toilet, forgone a snack…

“‘Ave a good one, chief.” A man with a forceful tone and heavy accent cut through the hallway and nodded at security. He was recognizable, you’d seen him before, but you couldn’t place it…Thick brows, black eyes. He paused and tucked a folded paper into his black leather jacket. His eyes flit to yours, and his cheeks coiled into a grin. A gold-capped tooth twinkled under the LEDs. “Ay sweetheart, how you doin?”

The man from City Hall. Except Bruce wasn’t here to grab you by the elbow and escort you away. You nodded. “Doing okay.” Your voice lost its gusto.

“Aren’t we all, eh?” He chuckled and it pierced your gut like a dull knife.

“Ms. Y/L/N?” Your gaze moved a few feet to the right to the lady you’d checked in with. Goosebumps prickled your arms when you walked past the man.

“Don’t worry. The people here, they run a tight ship.” He winked, then went on his way. The woman escorted you to Dr. Crane’s office, the first room on the right. You heard him before you saw him. “Ms. Y/L/N, finally. Follow me.”

He sped past you, his clipboard dipping in a ‘come here’ gesture behind him. You had to jog to keep up, though he wasn’t tall. The hallways were tinged green with stale lighting, the concrete floors crunching the arch of your shoes. He stopped halfway down the second turn and pointed to a small window situated at two-thirds the height of the door.

The bolts smelled rusty when you walked closer, Dr. Crane’s narration starting immediately. The room was empty, except—no, it wasn’t. Someone sat facing the opposite wall in the far corner with their legs pulled to their chest.

“This is Ms. Reál’s room.”

She turned as if she heard her name spoken, and you made out dozens of scratches across her face and neck. Some were old, some freshly scabbed over, some oozing and raw. The freshest ones trickled streams of bright red down the orange jumpsuit. Your voice shook. “She’s bleeding, can you—”

Bella locked eyes with yours through the window, and she shrieked. She clawed her way up and threw herself at the door, pounding and screaming against it. You gasped back, the force of her torment shaking the door. Your body spun to him, shock crossing your face. “Can someone go help?”

“Keep looking.”

“It’s too—”

“Too what, Ms.?” He tucked his clipboard into his chest, his expression so neutral you couldn’t make sense of it. Bella’s screaming was dampened by the reinforced walls, but remained booming and apparent.

“Personal.” You’d never met Bella Reál, and surely you weren’t cleared to see these things. As a prominent government figure, she had to have a similar process to Bruce. Paperwork, NDA, consent…

“Look, Y/N.” His jaw clenched, the clipboard digging into his armpit. You couldn’t feel your body as you inched closer, keeping your eyes low and shutting them when the psychiatrist could no longer see. All you heard were her screams. Screams that began to roar and pierce through your chest. He clicked his pen impatiently, and you wondered if he could tell your eyes weren’t open. You snapped to attention when she sounded like she’d been struck.

She was flat on her back, body convulsing. Her head and eyes moved wildly, and you reached to grab Dr. Crane’s coat. Your fingers were numb, and you scoured the room for things she could hit her head on. Her bed was about a foot away, the metal edges sending you into a tailspin. “She’s seizing, get a nurse to, her bed,”

“She’ll be alright.”

Your head whipped back, the slack expression transforming to a glare. “What are you talking about?” You turned to look again, and her convulsing had brought her about a half foot closer to the bed frame. You yanked the doorknob but it wouldn’t budge. Your mind went white.

Dr. Crane was nonchalant, pulling out his clipboard to note something as you slammed your palm against the door in a futile effort to loosen it. You stopped when logic caught up to you, realizing that might scare Bella more.

“Psychosis can involve many nights without sleep. High stress, low food intake, unwilling to take medication because they believe they’re unchallenged. It can all lead to Ms. Reál.” The clip snapped against the board, and it echoed along the hall.

Bella’s seizing had begun to calm, just inches from the metal corner. You caught panting breaths as you gathered your wits. Using her name like she was a symptom. Like something on display. “She needs someone to help her.”

“I wanted you to see the best outcome.”

“Of what?” Anger was seeping into your voice. Dr. Crane’s brow raised, and his knuckles tightened against the board.

“Ms. Reál didn’t have someone like you. By the time we got her inpatient, it was too late. Her seizures had already stolen her sanity.”

“How did she get those cuts? Why isn’t anyone monitoring her?”

“We have cameras in all patient rooms, Y/N.”

Your name in his mouth felt like a razor. “So, what? You think Bruce—Wayne will end up the same way? Caged and catatonic?”

“Catatonia is the opposite of what you just witnessed, ma’am. It would be in your and Mr. Wayne’s best interest to follow the advice of professionals rather than the whims of an impressionable amygdala.”

His smugness made Bruce sound like he was singing in a church choir. Fucking stuck-up… “Is this why you brought me here? He’s doing fine.”

He squinted. “Defensive.”

“He’s taking his meds, he hasn’t seen any owls, he hasn’t had an attack, he’s been completely normal. Which is why I haven’t been talking, there’s nothing to report on.”

“Nothing, hmm?”

You shrugged, completely out of sorts. Why were you talking about Bruce now anyway? “She needs someone to help her.” You turned to look through the window, but it slid closed. “What the fuck?”

“You’ve seen what I meant you to.”

“And what aren’t I meant to see?”

His lips pursed. “If Mr. Wayne is functioning as you say, then I have nothing more to discuss.”

“So he’s fine? Since he’s been taking his meds, he’s had no side effects,”

“You seem to have it all figured out.” He walked back toward his office, this time without motion to follow. “Call me if he’s catatonic or otherwise.”

After another pass at the window to get it to open, you ran after Crane. “When is he in the clear?”

It was like you weren’t there, and it was insulating. When he pushed open the door to his office, you jammed your foot inside to keep it from closing. “I want to help him. If there’s anything more I need to know, tell me.”

It was tough feeling thankful he’d responded with his voice dripped in disdain. “Dr. Vry recommended you on the basis that you were uniquely immune to the charms of the Wayne estate. I’m not sure she was correct.”

“I—”

“Your face flushes when you speak of him.” He stared you down like he physically had you in a chokehold. Your throat constricted. “You’ve become increasingly defensive the more time you’ve spent in his presence.” He stood from his chair. “And you now seem very assured in your estimation of his symptoms.” The clipboard slapped onto the wood and he strolled to his door, gripping the handle but not opening. “Almost like he’s spoken intimately with you to assuage any anxieties.” The light blue of his eyes was arctic, and you were so flabbergasted by his insinuation you couldn’t move. “Why would he do that with someone he isn’t colluding with?”

You breathed out a response. “Colluding—”

His voice rose: “I brought you here to remind you of what is at stake. If you keep anything from me, any behavior even slightly outside of the norm, there is little between him and a coffin.” He opened the door with a gust that blew your jacket askew.

“When is he safe?”

“If Mr. Wayne makes it to his next prescription pickup with no side effects, and no deviation in mood, interest, or reality, you are relieved of your post.”

“When is that?”

“Is he attached to you?”

These turns threatened to send you flying. Bruce, shaking, clinging to you. Answering every text, every call; stepping in line with you at meetings, driving you home, orchestrating hangouts. Opening up in ways you couldn’t imagine he’d spoken to anyone before. And how Dr. Crane had forced that level of vulnerability. The guilt grew fifty tons. “You made him have to rely on me, I don’t know what kind of answer you’re expecting.”

“I would advise you to begin untangling yourself from my patient now, to prevent an unfortunate situation.”

An unfortunate situation? He talked of Bruce’s death like it was gum stuck to his shoe. Oh, Jesus, your head started to spin.

“Look what he did the first time you left.”

The wind knocked out of you. He stared back with his dead eyes, his creaseless face glassy smooth. This was the most forthright he’d ever been in saying it was your fault. Stars popped into vision. “He has medication now,”

“Which is why you are even capable of leaving, and need to start the severing at your earliest convenience. Good day, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Luckily the hallways were clearly marked in bold, bright letters, or you wouldn’t have stumbled out. Since it’d been less than fifteen minutes, you requested your same driver. If he didn’t accept, you’d call Mar until she answered. Get wasted at a club. But the man accepted, and ten minutes later you found yourself bumping over Gotham’s potholes.

Bruce wasn’t fragile. He could handle someone leaving. He could handle you leaving, and certainly you from before the attempt. He’d said it wasn’t your fault. That your arguing hadn’t caused it. He’d told you to leave multiple occasions since. He could. He could. He could.

The man dropped you at the parking garage entrance. Pedestrians sidestepped you, a man shoved into your shoulder to ensure he wasn’t inconvenienced. And you took it.

You checked your phone to see if it was worth a trip to Rai’s. A text message from an unknown number had been sent three minutes ago.

Meet me at the old deli under the Tricorner Bridge. 2am. Come alone. Tell no one.

49 notes · View notes