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ellesthots · 4 months ago

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Fateful Beginnings

XXVII. “tender loving care”

parts: previous / next

plot: you visit Bruce at Arkham.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, discussion of suicide, hospital, mental institution, light gore, pain, arguing, mental illness

words: 5.1k

a/n: this chapter discusses a suicide attempt from the last chapter. if you would not like to read this, the next chapter will include a blurb at the beginning to summarize what takes place in this one so you can still follow along! this chapter and the next one should be the last explicit conversations about it for a while (as promised: prev. chapter summary below)

previous chapter summary: bruce tells you about his hallucinations, and you invite him to your apartment to finish the interview to escape paparazzi. he does a handwritten interview while you clean your apartment. he answers almost every question candidly, describing fond childhood memories such as a camping trip with his parents two weeks before they died. he lingers, then leaves, and upon turning in your interview to Dr. Vry the next morning, a psychiatrist (Dr. Jonathan Crane) is there. he privately informs you that Bruce attempted suicide after leaving your apartment. Crane says your leaving town could have pushed him over the edge, expressing massive concern. asks you to see Bruce at Arkham (where he’s under a 24 hr hold) and convince him to stop refusing help.

The Uber to Arkham was grueling. Stuck in that traffic felt like hours, but you couldn't remember a single thing that passed outside the window, even an isolated thought. Vibrating with anxiety, barely swallowing back the rising bile, you were escorted down a dim hallway to a tiny office after passing through the spiked gates. Another blink and Dr. Crane entered, idling by the doorway with a handful of paperwork. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, only not pulling you under by sheer will to hear what the psychiatrist had to say.

"Fair warning Ms. Y/L/N, he is moderately injured and fully restrained; we ask that you don't get within arm's reach, however." He sighed like there'd been an issue earlier. "Make sure to let him know you are not leaving, and, if he brings up owls—" He leaned toward you, looking over the top of his glasses. "Don't try to convince him otherwise. Focus on the feelings, not the content." You didn't quite know what that meant, but you had no time to ask; he yanked the door open and stood beside it with an arm outstretched. He handed you off to a nurse, a short, kind woman with a warm smile. You followed her without fuss, unable to think due to debilitating waves of fear.

Through the fuzzy haze of your eyes and the waves of blood flushing out your eardrums, you heard the nurse tell you details on his attempt; extremely vague, fragmented, but you could get the gist: he'd jumped off of something tall and landed in a thorny, glass-bottle filled section of abandoned shrubbery. The doors opened and the bright yellow light flooded the hallway with a foreboding aura. You stepped in and the door shut immediately behind you, sounding a small alarm which quickly quieted. You flexed your fists together and suppressed a startle response when you saw him in the corner of the room, restrained in a way you hadn't seen before; rather than wrist and ankle bands, he was tethered to the bed by three long belts. The nylon was taut against his calves, his waist, and his chest. He didn't snap to attention when you entered the room, instead looking preoccupied, gazing at the far wall blankly. Is he sedated?

Your teeth jammed against your tongue to keep a squeaky whine at bay—he was covered in gauze, bright red blood sticking thickly to the white, bleeding through at nearly every point. His neck covered in pockmarks and scratches; you could see a few of them had bulging, crusted stitches. He must've landed on his left side, seeing the soft cast on his left ankle and the swathes of deep, bloody purple bruising peeking out between gauze patches. Another step in and he glanced over to you, his morose posture shifting to something buzzier, tenser. As he tried to sit up he was denied by the tightness of the strap, which you could see digging into part of his bruising. "Y/N. What are you doing here?"

Holy fuck. His voice. It was raspy, and weathered. Strained like his vocal cords had been snapped, or his esophageal lining had been burnt with an iron. He fell back against the papery pillow with a soft crunch. You thought you'd been prepared for how he might look, but this was... whew.

"I was your last point of contact." You kept your tone measured, your body language casual, but concerned enough you didn't come across bored. He was trembling again, the sound of it rattling the hospital bed. When you looked closer you saw bloodshot eyes, like the vessels had popped. It made nearly all the whites of his eyes red, and you bit your lip until it bled to reign in your immediate fear response.

He rolled his eyes, his head swaying slightly side to side. In that motion, you were able to see his undereyes and cheeks catch the bright light. His face was soaked with tear streaks, and his lips were so bitten as to be plump, swollen. "And what did they tell you happened?" He winced and looked toward his abdomen.

He's not supposed to sound like that. He's not supposed to look like that. You forgot what he'd just asked, and didn't even know if you could speak. You scrambled for words to say so he wouldn't notice your shock, but he did. "I'm fine." He glared when you just stood there, awkwardly. "What did they tell you?"

He was getting straight to the point, wasn't he? "That you had a rough night." Would the word suicide trigger him? Would dancing around it be worse?

He hated the way you stood there, he hated that you were seeing him this way, he hated the way the staff coddled him. He could tell you were afraid. He knew he sounded like shit and looked even worse. The stitches itched. His head seared from stapled wounds. The bruises were achingly deep, a dull drum of pain with no reprieve. His nose stunk of dried blood and every nostril flare cracked apart webs of it. He grit his teeth. "I didn't try to kill myself."

A fleck of dust went into his eye, forcing a repetitive wince. His forearms strained to get it to no avail, barely moving against the thick cord. "Is there something in your eye?" You took a step forward, remembering what Dr. Crane had told you about staying an arm's length away.

He kept wincing. "It's fine." Maybe if he could just yawn, water his eyes a bit... it scraped against his eye, a pain so low compared to the rest of his body it was nothing but a mere annoyance, but a visible one; you looked around for a handwashing station and saw nothing, not even a hand sanitizer in the doorway. You rubbed the tips of your fingers together, trying to warm your chilled fingers. "I can get it."

After brief hesitation, he surrendered a nod and you approached, the injuries only looking more gruesome up close. Some blood bubbled up through the gauze, leaked out the sides. The restraints were dug tightly into his skin, creating deep indents. Is this even legal? He tilted his head back and opened his eye, squinting against the glaring white LEDs scattered across the ceiling. You reached out and gently pulled back his eyelid, leaning in to search for the offending material... it was more difficult to see with all the popped vessels.

He relaxed into your touch. Slightly cool, warming up against the heat of his skin. No more of the gloved hands, the clinical pats. Unconsciously his eyes shut and he heaved a deep breath out, flattening his chest, creating some space between him and the restraint. You kept your fingers on his brow bone, feeling his weight shift toward you. His lashes fluttered with tears, pain, or both; your thumb caressed his skin, gliding softly along his orbital bone. His breathing drew deeper, breath coming heavily out of his nose. Wet, hot tears leaked from the corner of his eyes. He felt himself melting out of the fight response for the first time since he'd left your apartment.

If pain could be translated through touch alone... Bruce. With every shuddering, panicked inhale the gauze flexed on his shoulders, the tape rippling. Your heart exploded for him. You flipped your palm and stroked his cheek with the back of your hand, brushing the hair back and out of his eyes. "You're safe." He exhaled forcefully from his nose, strained attempts at containing his sobs. At the quickening of his breath the door slammed open; alongside a guard, the nurse from before stormed into the room. He'd been so lost in the slip of your hand against his cheek that he only noticed people had come when you jolted back. It felt like having the floor fall out beneath his feet.

"That's enough." The nurse walked forward and placed a hand on your back, urging you toward the door. "Don't want to push it, now." You tried desperately to look back at him, but the security guard's back kept him out of view. The door snapped shut. You glared at the woman, cringing away from her touch. "He wasn't going to do anything, he's hurting—"

Dr. Crane came walking at a steady clip, a clipboard nestled tightly to his elbow and flush against his abdomen. "Ms. Y/L/N,"

Tears pricked at the edge of your vision, your tone bleeding with hostility. "You're treating him like a dog."

He nodded at the nurse and she walked away. You felt sparked, jittery, overwhelmed. Anger flushed your cheeks. Your fingers hung stiffly at your side, buzzing with adrenaline. He held an arm down the hall, sighing in tandem. "Let's have a word in my office."

Bruce was going to make note of how they treated him and see to changing things. The guard tightened his restraints before stomping out and shutting the lights almost entirely, save the glow from the observation window which cast a sinister vibe about the room. The day had been erratic, a deluge of care professionals keeping the door on a swivel. He'd spoken to at least three different social workers, two on multiple occasions. A therapist had tried to discuss the event with him, and he could tell she believed not a single word. Everyone left with a sigh and a hurry like he was an unwelcome, parasitic guest.

He was floored when you'd arrived. He thought for sure you'd already left, and had felt a twinge of relief at you not having to know about this. He hadn't thought about paparazzi until every worker who entered his room assured him that he was booked under an alternate name, and 'no one' would find out about this. It only served to remind of what he'd tried to forget the past three years—that his mother had been here, too, and it had been weaponized against her. The scene from the night before replayed so vividly whenever he closed his eyes, leaving him unable to sleep, restless, struggling against the restraints as much as he could without alerting the camera to any signs of escape. He'd woken up here, Alfred telling him he'd just been transported from Gotham General. He was given a hefty dose of lorazepam at GG, and awoke here fully restrained. Alfred told him he was informed he'd tried to fight the nurses, scratching, kicking, and biting them. He didn't recall a second of it.

What he did recall was terror. Debilitating, horrifying, vice-grip terror. A few blocks south of your apartment, a large hooded creature wearing an owl mask had grabbed him by the neck. It was so fast he didn't realize what was happening until he thudded against a wall, cracking a rib and the brick in harmony. The dark abyss enveloped him then, slicing, tearing, and pummeling him against the concrete. In a desperate attempt to get through, Bruce had wrapped his hands around the creature's throat, applying disarming pressure, a level that would make any attacker fall to their knees. The creature had only intensified their attack, acting completely unphased. Bruce had staggered to his feet, spitting blood out of his mouth as he was run deep into the concrete, slammed into the jagged edge of a dumpster. At this point he feared for his life, the edges of his vision blowing out, darkening, every breath feeling like he was pulling out his intestines piece by piece. He wrapped both hands around the thing's neck, wrestling, squeezing, juicing its throat harder than he'd ever touched anyone in his life. A force that strong would have snapped a neck in two seconds, but: nothing. With a final heave, he felt himself lifted up and thrown through the air. The last thing he remembered was the mortifying sensation of spikes entering his skin.

He'd stopped relaying the story by the time the third social worker arrived. The first two had jotted down his words, nodded at all the right times, but looked at him like he was a zoo animal. It was all too reminiscent of when people had walked on eggshells two decades prior.

"I'm sure this feels distressing, Mr. Wayne."

"The witness said they saw you jump from the top of the Spriff building, landing in some brush."

"Mr. Wayne. Your guardian, Mr. Alfred Pennyworth relayed a family history of schizophrenia. Is this information new to you?"

At the end of every validating sentence was one discrediting his perception entirely. His breaking point came when Alfred entered teary, holding a wadded up, snotty tissue. He'd begged him to get help, and he nearly did just to alleviate his misery, but he couldn't. His Bat senses were tingling, desperate to hit the ground and investigate it. The face clearly matched the etchings, he still needed to follow up on the Electrum, see if it was a dead end... he had to visit Mayor Reál, talk to her about the election; he was so aware she was somewhere unreachable within these walls. What if they were gaslighting her just like him? What if he'd gotten too close, and this was an effort to subdue him? Had Alan's death been framed? Still, embers of shame stirred deep within, fueling the nagging, world-ending thought that he was merely searching for things to alleviate his fear, to keep his denial rooted and strong. That he was embarrassing himself, refusing to give in to the truth and accept reality.

"You must understand," Dr. Crane shut his office door and swiftly navigated to his desk. Various papers and medical journals, including a reference copy of the DSM, laid out across the tabletop. You stood opposite him, unable to contain the emotions barreling through you. "Safety is of the highest priority here at Arkham."

"He was crying—"

"He was growing agitated." Dr. Crane slapped his clipboard down between you. He heaved an exasperated sigh and leaned down to rummage through a filing cabinet. The folder he pulled had newly initiated crease lines. The room was silent aside from ruffling of thick papers and the tick of his watch. He tugged out a single page, the quality of the paper so poor you could see the text peeking through. "In Mr. Wayne's condition, any heightened emotion could cause an issue. Let's just say he didn't arrive restrained."

Over the next hour he sat with you to explain the protocol, sprinkling in a few sighs about how you hadn't told him you were staying. You'd forgotten it entirely, too sideswept by his cut body and annihilated spirit. You were able to get clarification about 'feelings over content', which was the thesis of the whole operation. "When we focus on the content, meaning 'what happened', we can further alienate and antagonize the patient. To them, their hallucinations are as real as our conversation right now. Imagine if right before your very eyes, I started trying to tell you what you are hearing, seeing, feeling, smelling, and tasting were not real. Pretty activating, correct?"

You'd squirmed in your chair a bit. "I'd feel gaslit. Maybe pissed off."

He snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Instead focus on the feelings. It is real to the person experiencing it. Often it's highly distressing for them. 'That sounds scary', 'How can I best support you through this?' If possible, try to distract. Anxiety can make delusions and hallucinations worse." After the hour was up, you'd left with a chock-full notepad of what to do once Bruce was released. The major themes were highlighted at the top:

- feelings, not content

- distract, soothe

- do not engage with hallucination, aside from naming your own perspective (reality testing)

- develop a reorienting code

- be on the lookout for triggers, symptoms, and effective ways of managing them (incl. 'seeking' behavior)

Bruce was to be released at eleven that evening, accounting for the hour spent at the hospital getting his wounds dressed and checking for internal bleeds. That's all you could make out, anyway, from the backwards text you'd struggled to read while Dr. Crane had perused through a stack of documents. The drive to your apartment left you sitting in your vigilance, questioning your next move. Would you go down to Arkham later to see him? Would you go to Wayne Tower? Both options felt too intrusive, and you were sure Alfred would be there early to retrieve him... by the time you arrived back you decided to stay put and call Dr. Crane in the morning for a follow-up.

The rest of the day was miserable. Part of you wanted to reach out to Mar, but it was vetoed by how unstable you felt; if she came over, you might slip and tell her everything. How had Bruce endured this for so long? Holding this secret and all its complexity was deeply isolating. You emailed Dr. Vry saying you'd be staying for at least a few more weeks, and she'd responded half an hour later saying that Dr. Crane had already informed her that you were to remain in your post for the near future. Every minute felt like hours; you'd taken three showers that day just to do something in between binging reality television and ordering takeout. The only furniture that hadn't been broken down by the morning was your bed and couch. Who needs a dining table anyway? Bridgit emailed to confirm receiving your copy, letting you know that Dr. Vry had cleared it without edit. Whatever pride you might have felt this morning at hearing that was no longer present. All you felt was fear; weighty, inescapable, all-encompassing anxiety at holding someone's life in your hands. Maybe he'll have a change of heart. Maybe he'll talk to Alfred tonight, everything will be fine.

Your doorbell rang at 11:30 that night, and you'd been cross legged in front of the door for the past half hour awaiting his arrival, unable to rest or relax. A few minutes before he knocked you'd felt like an idiot; he had no reason to come see you. Without even looking through the peephole you hurried the door open within a second of his knock, and he nearly bonked you in the face when you appeared in the doorway. You must've been waiting at the door. About to leave? "Can I come in?"

His voice was still liquid sandpaper. You moved out of the way and he walked in, not bothering to hide his obvious limp. You looked around for a chair, and gestured to the couch. He declined, opting instead to lean hard into the counter for balance. You stood an awkward distance away, nervous if you got too close he might bail. His eyes were still bright red, the gray pallor beneath his tired eyes appearing hollow in the low light. He was a bit hunched, the gauze on his body replaced with thick bandages. His sweater from before was replaced by a baggy black t-shirt with matching sweats. Past getting his bearings, he didn't waste time. "What exactly did they tell you?"

Since he was asking.. "They said you attempted suicide." You were banking on Dr. Crane's assurance that naming suicide wouldn't increase risk. He shifted uncomfortably, but it was impossible to tell if it was related to the conversation or his battered body. He scowled. "That's not what happened." His breathing was more labored now. His eyes searched your face for anything that believed him. Anything different than what he'd seen the past twenty-four hours.

You swallowed. "What happened from your perspective?"

He scoffed, the hope he'd had crushing to dust. "It's not about perspective, it's about what happened." He moved to run his hands through his hair but only made it halfway before the bandaging restricted him. "This thing, this creature, it came out of nowhere." His voice trembled. "It had the same face as the pins, like an owl, a bird, but huge." He tapped his foot with the soft cast anxiously. His eyes were wide as he tried to conjure words to accurately depict it. He could feel you weren't buying in, probably thinking he was crazy. He winced. "I know how it sounds,"

"It sounds terrifying."

His arms dropped limply at his sides. "I'm telling you, I've never experienced anything like it. No matter how hard I fought," He tripped over his words, waves of shame and frustration crowding his thoughts. "I tried to strangle it and I couldn't, I've never pressed that hard," His eyes were wet with angry, embarrassed tears. You nodded at him, the enunciation of your words clear and deliberate. "That's really scary."

You sounded just like the staff. He tucked his lower lip under his teeth. He stood there a moment, claustrophobic in the silence. His eyes shut and he shook his head at the ground, pursing his lips. "You don't believe me."

You stepped toward him and he bristled. "I believe you experienced that." Your brow furrowed, your hands clasped together wringing out the skin. His laugh was despondent, empty. He bit the inside of his cheek, anger straightening his posture to stand unsupported. "Don't coddle me."

"I'm not meaning to coddle,"

"I know what I saw!" His voice raised, exaggerating its huskiness. It was approximately this second when you regretted signing the forms, and wanted to slap Dr. Crane for ever putting you in this position. You had no concept of what to say outside of what you already had, the thought of changing the subject felt asinine and brutally disrespectful, and you were left to bear the brunt of the responsibility of the outcome. There was a reason people went to school for the better part of a decade to navigate these situations. Against your better judgement, wanting to show him you weren't coddling, you directly engaged with details of the night before—the few that you'd been given. "They said you jumped off a building and landed in some brush. Glass, thorns, branches." He noticed your eyes wander to his injuries. He shrugged—barely, as much as his body allowed. It read as a heave. "Alfred told me. That didn't happen."

You had to tread very carefully. "Isn't it curious, though?" You kept your tone warm, low, gentle. For what you were saying, how you said it was crucial. You pegged him as a logical man, someone highly analytical, cunning, detailed. Maybe the direct approach was more tailored to him. "You're hallucinating the same figure for months. And what you said about your family..." You let him fill in the rest.

Bruce was starting to get pissed off—at you, specifically. He couldn't forget that none of this had happened until you came into his life. Now his life was punctuated by—no, infested with these shitty, confusing, layered affairs that only made him look suspicious. He kicked himself for opening up about the owls—maybe you'd have believed him if he hadn't. He loathed how much your positions made sense, because they couldn't be farther from the actual truth; but how could he convince anyone, let alone you, about his character and sanity? He had nothing. No one vouching for him. Just the weight of his reputation and family preceding all interactions, clouding it until he was no longer a human being in his own right.

The extended silence unnerved you. His face twitched painfully. Meds! Good segue. You didn't know he was fighting a carousel of dystonic emotion, that he was only not running out without a second look because you knew him, and knew this, and no one else did. "Do you want pain meds? I think I have ibuprofen here," You walked to your barren medicine cabinet without awaiting his response... which didn't end up coming, anyway.

You stood clutching a travel bottle of Advil. The pills rattled as they settled. "Uh, Bruce?"

"If you really think I tried to kill myself, wouldn't I want to bask in the pain?" His tone was biting, sourced from the depth of his helplessness. "If I really did this to myself, why run from it?"

Dr. Crane said to look out for signs of agitation. "You don't have to suffer through it."

He shot a look at you that sent an arrow through your chest. It wasn't pity that cradled you seeing hot, angry tears bleed from his lash line, or fear noticing his clenched fists and trembling mouth. It was compassion—so compelling and isolated, wholly unaffected by guilt or grief. You set the bottle down. As your apprehension lessened, he felt the air shift; with it, his heart quickened remembering your hand on his cheek. He swallowed back his rage and bat his eyes to dry them. "Fine. I'll have some." You handed over the bottle and he popped a few in his mouth, dry swallowing before you could reach for a glass. He wanted to beg, and maybe he would've if his knees weren't ripped to shreds. 'Please believe me' sat on the tip of his tongue. Your head hung as you went to get a glass for yourself. The spigot creaked when you turned it on. He noted you rinse the cup twice before filling, and followed the rim to your lips. It was a few seconds before he thought to look away.

You pressed on, desperate to know if Dr. Crane and his team were able to get through to him. "Did you set up any long-term stuff?" The glass sat atop the counter, twirling between your fingers. He heard Alfred's popular refrain so clearly. How did no one realize how traumatic it would be to go back? To sit in the chair and have a stranger affirm his sickness? To have someone sit inside his head and deny the very thing that makes up a life: his experiences. "I didn't agree. Not going to." Short, simple... he grit his teeth when you didn't let it go.

"Wouldn't it be worth trying? If the medication helps, surely that could help with discernment—"

"I know what I saw."

"You need to be safe."

"Safety means not ignoring something that tried to kill me, Y/N." His full breaths pulled at the bandages greater now, edges of them peeking up. Panic welled up in him. Something was after him, and no one believed it. Why did he want you to believe it so badly? He hadn't even burned for Alfred to know this badly. Why did this conversation feel like nails on a chalkboard, why did a sob sit unwitnessed in his chest whenever you spoke? You sighed. "What if treatment helps that go away? Then you won't have to worry."

"What if it's waiting for my guard to slip?" He meant it as a comeback, a strong point in his favor, but his chest and your expression only deflated as he said it. This is pointless.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going out." Without any additional context, you could only think he meant as Batman. "What, to investigate?" Tell me you aren't.

"While everyone psychoanalyzes me, it could be attacking others." Seeking behavior. Seeking behavior, a phenomenon you'd never heard of prior to the meeting with Dr. Crane, explained as: a common compulsory act of investigation aimed at reducing distress stemming from disturbing hallucinations or delusions and usually present in the early stages of treatment. "Often with these patients we see a strong desire to 'prove' their hallucination; remember, their experiences are tangible to them—the denial is hard to shake. This seeking behavior can leave patients going to desperate lengths to finally find the proof that what they experienced was not just real to them, but fully real, many times placing themselves in dangerous situations to do so. If they do not find what they seek it can cause panic, aggression, and self-injurious behavior."

"Bruce," Oooh, that was starting to grate him again. "You can barely walk—"

"I'm fine."

"You're not!" His schtick was drawing ancient—you had half a mind to think Alfred no older than thirty-five, aged only by the sheer stress of Bruce's stubborn, life-risking denial. "You just got out of the hospital,"

He spoke through clamped teeth. "Mandatory minimum hold, customary and unnecessary."

"You could've died last night."

If he had a dollar for every time he heard that... well, he did, but being in this situation a thousand times over didn't make the conversation go down any sweeter. "But I didn't. Funny how that works."

Searing words sat unsaid within you. You ached to call him on his hardheadedness, to shout and argue until your voice matched his. But you bit your tongue and visualized the notepad alongside the Bruce who'd trembled beneath your fingertips. "I know this experience is a lot, and there's so much to grapple with. But you need to prioritize safety." You watched him scoff and close the gap between him and the door. "Even if you don't think it'll help. Even if it's just resting at home for a few days."

He felt the scalding heat of your concern like a branding iron. He turned the knob. "Thanks for the visit." He left while the edge of his sentence still hung in the air.

You'd called Dr. Crane as instructed a few minutes after he walked out. You were to contact him in some capacity if Bruce's safety was ever of even meager concern, and he would act as triage. He'd been very concerned, but applauded your focus on safety. "You're doing the right thing, Ms. Y/L/N." He'd posited the idea of a planned 'intervention' with him and Alfred, but you'd both quickly concluded that could cause more harm than help. The rest of the evening was spent distracting yourself off the edge of a panic attack.

You glazed over while mindlessly watching shows. The sun had shined strong for a few hours, and you closed the blinds to ensure the overcast light didn't burn you as you slept... like it ever had before. The only way sleep finally found you was by surprise, on the brink of passing out. This city was a fucking menace.

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frost-queen · 1 year ago

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Reversed roles (Reader x Jeremiah Valeska)

Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly@denkisclown, @wildieflower, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @justanothercoco@subjecta13-thefangirl, @m-rae23, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @swampthing07, @melsunshine, @panhoeofmanyfandoms, @venomsvl, @the-uncoordinated-house-cat, @rosecentury, @imagines-by-her, @evilcr0ne, @vviolynn

Summary: Reader is Jeremiah's therapist at Arkham. When the roles are reversed it is time for Jeremiah to be in charge and do whatever he likes with you.

“Ah Y/n!” – Jeremiah called out upon seeing you enter the room. You gave him a soft glare as he lowered his enthusiasm. – “Ma’am.” - he expressed in a deep voice trying to be half funnily. Taking a deep breath you pulled the chair back. Jeremiah came leaning his elbow on the table, resting his knuckles under his chin.

“I’ve missed you doctor.” – he said as you sat down. – “Then you are the first.” – you told him looking for a pen in your pockets. He chuckled with a wide smile. – “Normally people hate therapy.” – you continued taking out a pen. – “I like you doctor.” – he responded all cheeky.

It made you quirk your eyebrow at him. – “This isn’t a playdate Mr. Valeska.” – you reminded him. – “It could be?” – he answered. You looked around the small pale room. – “Very romantic.” – you said sarcastically. Jeremiah leaned back in his chair, moving his hands behind his head. – “We can make it very romantic.” – he suggested glancing down at his own lap.

Almost inviting you over to come over and sit on it. You flashed your eyes down unamused by his attempt. – “Auch doc.” – he outed sounding like a wounded puppy. Exhaling loud you lifted your head back up. – “Shall we begin Mr. Valeska?”

Jeremiah shrugged his shoulders. You clicked your pen with a quick quirk of your brow at his lack of co-operation. – “You keep requesting me here Mr. Valeska. Why if you are not motivated to take on my therapy.” – you said as he snorted loud. – “What you really think talking about my feelings will magically make me sane?” – he laughed it away.

“It could be a start.” – you proposed inviting him to start. Jeremiah lowered his arms, changing his posture in the chair. – “I am more of an actions first type of guy.” – he told you. You hummed intrigued scribbling down as you mumbled out loud enough to him.

“Violent.” – Jeremiah puffed loud at how you were keeping the charade of being his therapy doctor up. It bothered him that you weren’t giving him the attention he wanted from you. There was a reason he kept requesting you for therapy even though he never wanted it.

Manipulating the guards into having a change of heart when it wasn’t the case. They were just foolish enough to buy it. Jeremiah leaned over the table taking your notebook and tossing it behind him. The pages fluttered open before it hit the wall. Dropping down to the floor, some loose pages scattered around.

You leaned a bit to the side to look past him to your notebook. – “You owe me a notebook.” – you spoke. – “You owe me your attention.” – he responded mocking the dull tone in your voice. – “I’m paying you to be here so I get to decide what I do with you.” – he made clear. – “You don’t pay me at all. The asylum does.” – you stated with a sneer driving him wild.

Jeremiah started to clap, applauding you. – “You are one tough one to crack.” – he said with a silly smile on his lips. – “Finally common ground.” – you answered. Jeremiah got up, shoving his chair back. He pressed his hands firm on the steel table. You didn’t even flinch feeling his fierce eyes pierce at you.

You looked back at him with a tiny smile. – “Does my lack of attention make you angry?” – you asked him. He licked his lip brief, turning his head. Clearly bothered that you were spot on. – “I’ll take that as a yes.” – you filled in. He looked back at you with a silly grin. – “I want your attention, all of it.” – he spoke full of mischief.

“I want you to keep your eyes on me.” – he went on straightening his posture. You kept your eyes on him as he slowly moved around the table over to you. – “I want your devoted attention.” – he continued rounding your side. – “What will you have me do?” – you responded intrigued what his intentions with these sessions were.

He set his hands on the bars of your chair, letting the feet scrape over the floor as he turned you in the chair to him. It made you swallow soft, feeling your heart rate slightly pick up. Jeremiah bend down, leaning in closer. – “It’s my turn to tell you what to do doc.” – he said staring hungry at your eyes. – “Is that s…” – you couldn’t finish your sentence as he had grabbed your throat, pushing your head back. His grip caught you off guard, making you blink a few times to process his hand around your throat.

Jeremiah chuckled devious loosening his fingers around your neck. He let his hand slide down your neck to your chest. His eyes following his movement till they landed on your lap. He smiled. – “May I?” – he asked, sitting down without permission. You felt his weight on your thighs. The thumping of your heart beating through your muscles with his pressure. He exhaled loud looking up to the ceiling for a moment. His arms resting on your shoulders. – “Isn’t this nice doc?” – he asked not wanting to hear an answer.

You turned your head to the side, trying not to fall under his spell. It was so clear he was toying with you. Messing you up and manipulating you. He knew damn well how good looking he was. Knowing no woman could resist his charm. His gaze went down on you once more, seeing you were keeping your head away from him. Jeremiah clicked his tongue, grabbing you by your chin.

He swayed his finger in front of you. – “All your attention Y/n.” – he reminded you. He drew himself nearer letting his cheek brush against yours to reach your ear. – “I can do whatever I like with you.” – he whispered making you feel slightly intimidated and strangely attracted to it. – “There will be guards soon.” – you told him. You heard him breath out a chuckle by your ear. – “We still have twenty minutes, doll.” – he said out loud to send a wave of fear over you.

You swallowed nervously knowing he had his grip on you for another twenty minutes now. He moved his head back to look at you. – “Are you frightened?” – he let out. Strangely you weren’t. Shaking your head you let him know. Your gesture seemed to amuse him. – “Very well doll.” – he spoke as his thumb slid down your cheek. – “Now it is my time to give you therapy.” – he paused his thumb on your underlip, flashing his gaze down to it. – “Therapy of insanity.” – he filled in with a hushed voice.

With his thumb he forced your chin down, opening your mouth. Before you could response properly had he pressed his mouth onto yours. Slipping his tongue right in your mouth. Your eyes widened at the feeling of his tongue in your mouth. His tongue brushed up your upper teeth before he sucked it back in, closing his lips on yours. Kissing your lips roughly. Staining your lips with his sanity. A gentle pull on your hair made you join in. Unable to resist not joining the party. The hotness of his lips demanding your participation. Whatever game he was playing it seemed to affect you. Unable to stay away from it.

What’s wrong with me? You thought as you moved your hands around his neck, grabbing onto the back of his neck. Your chest pressed itself against him taking a bit of control back. Jeremiah released his lips from you with a smirk. – “Somone is eager.” – he teased. – “Shut up and kiss me.” – you demanded pushing his head closer to you. Wanting his hot lips on yours again.

You didn’t have to say that twice as Jeremiah kissed you once more. Blood began to pump harder to your legs as a warmness spread inside of you. What was he doing to you? It was clear he was manipulating you yet you couldn’t stay away from it. Eager to be bound and do his bidding. Whatever he demanded you were willing to give. Surrender fully to him like a lapdog. Lips retracted once more as he smiled touching your cheek with a quick touch.

“Look at you.” – he said noticing the flush in your cheeks. You were panting, ushering your chest closer to him yearning for more. He had you right where he wanted you and you didn’t care. He removed himself from your lap as it pulsated strong. He went back around the table to the wall. Bending down to pick up your notebook. – “Can’t have you leaving without this.” – he said casually as if he just hadn’t kissed you till you saw stars.

He placed the notebook on the table, sliding it over to you. – “Next week same time?” – he asked as you could only nod. – “Good girl.” – he said going round the table again. He went to the door, knocking loudly at it. There he waited for the guards to open up. With one hand in his pocket was he waiting.

As if he had been the therapist ending the session and you the patient. The door opened as the guards were surprised to see him. They cuffed him once more. Before they walked off with him, had he turned around to you. – “I enjoyed this session. Very progressive for my well-being.” – he teased striking you with a wink.

The guards took him with them as you were left alone. You needed at least a few more moments to recollect yourself. The smell of his insanity still lingering on you. You laughed loud trying to cope with the fact that he has you under his thumb now. Grabbing your notebook you took your leave. Anticipating the next session where you no longer cared what he would do to you. As long as it made you feel wanted by him that was enough.

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trixter-god · 7 months ago

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Self indulgent Arkham story where we get to find out what exactly happened to Crane.

Like we saw him get nabbed by Croc and then assumed he died until in AC when you find out that Crane somehow survived the being a chew toy. Then in AK we find out this man decided instead of fixing his mauled face to some “normal” he reconfigures his face himself to look like his mask.

TO LOOK LIKE HIS MASK.

Along with the facts he now hobbles/walks slower, he wears a leg brace, the sickly green/white/yellow coloring to his skin.

I want this man’s hospital report, x-rays included, I want before and after full body pics. along with both his and Waylon’s statements and any (if any) eyewitness accounts of watching john probably clawing himself out of the sewers like a zombie.

Johnathan Lauren Crane (not his real middle name) how you intrigue me so

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alter-l-ego · 8 days ago

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The founding fathers of the Court of Owls: an architect, a judge, a psychiatrist and a mayor. They wanted to build a utopia in Gotham City, but what legacy did they actually leave behind?

Left to right: Cyrus Pinkney, Solomon Wayne, Amadeus Arkham, Theodore Cobblepot.

Follow my IG to support my work: @alter.l.ego

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lcwtdii1e · 2 months ago

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This is my Joker AU, i find fun that the joker doesnt have a past so i just wanted to do a little AU with him, i remember read a comment about the batman and the joker: "the joker is always supposed to be older than batman", so in a simple way... I make him younger.

Here him with so make up. Just call him J, im not good with names, he's 17, and he's a patient in arkham, where he mets the other rogues who tell him about the Batman.

Idk if i should write a fanfic about it...i can yap about this AU for hours

#alternate universe #the joker #artists on tumblr #fanart #art #batman #dc comics #dc joker #gotham #arkham asylum #fanfic #redesign #detective comics #joker fanart #joker

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i-am-not-the-riddler · 2 months ago

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Butterflies?

Arkham Riddler x Reader: word count, 912. Okay but Eddie getting kinda flustered when you tend to his wounds.

⚠️CW: mention of blood, a little fluff, Eddie realising he’s a human being and not a robot

The sharp clatter of metal echoed through the dimly lit workshop as Edward worked intently on his latest project - a series of robots designed to carry out tasks with ruthless precision. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the soft glow of the monitors casting shadows across his face. You stood nearby, cataloging his latest notes, eyes glancing up occasionally as you tried to follow the intricate process of his genius.

He muttered to himself under his breath, words slipping into riddles as they often did when he was particularly focused. You’d grown used to it by now, the way his mind seemed to work on an entirely different plane from anyone else’s. It was part of what made him so fascinating—and so infuriating at times.

Suddenly, there was a sharp intake of breath from Edward, followed by a low curse. Your head snapped up, and you saw him clutching his left hand, blood already seeping between his fingers. The pliers he had been using lay discarded on the floor, a tiny smear of red marking where he had dropped it.

"Edward!" you exclaimed, rushing over to his side. "What happened?"

He grimaced, holding up his hand. "Just a... minor miscalculation," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Nothing I can’t handle."

You frowned, not buying his nonchalance for a second. The cut was deeper than he was letting on, a jagged gash running across the side of his palm. Blood dripped steadily onto the floor, staining the metal surface beneath him.

"That’s not ‘minor,’ Ed," you said, your voice firm as you grabbed a clean cloth from the nearby table. "Sit down."

He looked as if he might protest, his pride clearly wounded as much as his hand, but there was something in your tone that made him pause. Reluctantly, he sat on the edge of the table, still holding his bleeding hand in front of him.

You carefully took his hand in yours, your fingers warm against his cold calloused skin. His blood smeared slightly against your palm, but you ignored it, focusing on the wound. “This is pretty deep,” you murmured, pressing the cloth against the cut to slow the bleeding. "You should’ve been more careful."

Edward scoffed, though it was half-hearted. “I’m always careful,” he grumbled, though the tightness in his voice gave away the sting of the injury. His eyes flicked down to where your hands were gently tending to his wound, his breathing slightly uneven.

A strange flutter stirred in his stomach, something unfamiliar and unwelcome. It wasn’t just the pain. It was… something else. The way your fingers brushed against his skin, the care in your touch. It made him feel exposed in a way he wasn’t used to. He frowned, trying to brush it off, attributing it to the adrenaline and discomfort.

You reached for a bottle of disinfectant and some gauze, your movements practiced and efficient. As you began to clean the wound, Edward winced, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes stayed locked on you, as if studying every small detail of your face—the furrow in your brow, the way you bit your lip in concentration.

"You don’t have to do this, you know," he said after a long pause, his voice softer than usual. "I could’ve handled it."

You glanced up, meeting his gaze. “Maybe. But you don’t have to do everything on your own, Eddie.” Your voice was gentle, almost too gentle for someone as sharp and calculated as him. "It’s okay to let someone help once in a while."

He blinked, momentarily thrown off by your words. For someone who prided himself on solving every problem, it was strange to hear that. Stranger still that it came from you, his assistant, the one person he could always count on for efficiency, logic, and order. And yet here you were, tending to his wound with a softness that was unsettling in ways he couldn’t quite articulate.

The flutter in his stomach returned, stronger this time. His mind scrambled to rationalise it. Perhaps it was just the rush of adrenaline wearing off. Yes, that must be it. It had to be.

As you finished wrapping the bandage around his hand, your fingers brushed against his wrist, sending an unexpected jolt through him. He tensed slightly, trying to suppress the odd sensation that seemed to crawl up his arm.

"There," you said with a small smile, tying the bandage securely. "All done. Just try not to reopen it, okay?"

Edward looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers slightly. The bandage was snug, the bleeding had stopped, but his focus wasn’t on the injury anymore. His eyes drifted back to you, lingering a little too long on the way you smiled at him, the way you stood just a little too close.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words coming out awkwardly, as if they didn’t quite fit in his mouth. Gratitude wasn’t something he was used to expressing, especially not in moments like this. Vulnerability was a puzzle he had never solved, one he hadn’t even wanted to.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. "You’re welcome, Ed. Now, let’s try to get through the rest of the day without any more accidents, okay?"

He nodded, his mind still reeling from the strange mix of emotions swirling inside him. As you turned back to your work, he let out a slow breath, rubbing his bandaged hand absently.

The flutter in his stomach hadn’t gone away.

#arkham knight #batman #gotham #riddler #the riddler #fanfic #my fic #arkhamverse #arkham asylum #arkham riddler #riddler smut #imagine

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arkhamabyssfiles · 3 months ago

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Arkham Abyss Files: Robin_MEMORY_02 Loading FILE... JASON TODD: AGE, 17 TIM DRAKE: AGE, 16

And off, his backpack went flying into the pool. Tim sighed, it was the last year of High School and these idiots couldn’t bother even to try to be normal human beings for a second. He briefly wondered who had messed with them so badly in their childhood or spoiled them like this, before he tuned in to what they were saying.

“—smarty pants? Cry to that old hag of your aunt?”

“I didn’t know you cried to your parents when someone was being mean to you at this age, thanks for the info.” Maybe Tim shouldn’t have said that, because his friends snickered behind his back and he turned red from anger. Uh-oh, here came the punch.

Except it never landed because someone had kicked him before he could even get close to his face. Tim looked to the side and there was Jason with a cold glare.

“Five to one? That’s lame as fuck.”

The shock of the other idiots faded away quick enough and now it was a brawl. Tim knew how to fight, or he thought he did until he saw Jason. Man, he didn’t hold back his punches and hit like a truck on a speedway by the look of it. Four minutes later all their assailants were knocked out on the floor, Tim let out a pant and rubbed his leg where a kick had landed.

“Remind me to never cross you,” Tim said cheerfully.

“You’re smart enough to don’t need that,” Jason huffed shaking his slightly bruised knuckles. “So much bark, and they can’t even bite.”

“Well, their parents will definitely come and bark a lot in a couple of hours.”

“Fuck. Probably. Maybe I shouldn’t have beaten them so much.” Jason didn’t sound half as sorry as his words might seem it look.

“Maybe— But I can’t say I’m sorry,” Tim seconded the other feeling as they started groaning while getting up and running away.

Jason blew a short laugh and smiled lopsided then gestured with his head towards the pool, “You probably should get that back.”

They both stepped closer to the edge of the pool and Tim looked doubtfully at his backpack, everything was probably already ruined besides his jacket. “Books probably are useless al—”

Tim didn’t have the time to warn or stop Uriah—the ugly brow-less meaty redhead—from shoving Jason into the pool. Then he turned to the pool and realized something was wrong. He immediately took off his shoes and jumped in, it wasn’t that it was a very dire situation, they were close to the edge so he just grabbed it and then took Jason’s hand then pulled him up and towards the edge. He sputtered then pulled himself up, Tim followed right along. All the idiots had already gone, probably limping and crying about their parents doing something or other while they sat at the edge of the pool looking into his still floating backpack.

“So—you don’t know how to swim?”

“There weren’t many places to learn in the streets beyond the harbor.”

“Guess not. Want me to teach you?”

“Sure.” Jason shrugged but Tim could tell he was very relieved by the offer. He wondered briefly at it but decided he didn’t know him yet well enough to take a guess.

“I think you can pick it up in a couple of days, so let’s meet here after class…”

* * *

Three days. It had taken him three days to swim back and forth the 25-meter pool. Anyone who saw his freestyle strokes would think he’d been doing it for years. They had started talking almost a year ago—minus the vacation months where they hadn’t spoken at all—but he still was as much a mystery as he’d been back then, for different reasons now, but still a mystery. He was gruff with most people here—not that Tim didn’t get into that feeling—but quiet and minded his own business, which was studying, he took that pretty seriously and had made Tim wonder why he hadn’t applied himself like that to it, then he’d probably be out of high school already. But it wasn’t just the academics but in sports as well, everything he tried—just like now—he mastered quickly enough… What drove him? What made him want to excel at everything he did? It certainly wasn’t to impress or show off to these deep-pocket kids—himself included of course.

Jason pulled himself up from the pool and shook his head to take the excess water from his hair.

“You could use a cap and goggles you know,” Tim commented dropping a towel over his head.

“I’d rather get used to swimming without them.”

“Why? Planning to swim in a random moment?”

“Something like that.”

Tim crouched and let his elbows rest on his knees and his arms hung limp in front of him. “I can’t figure you out, you know.”

Jason pulled the towel away from his hair and hung it around his neck. “What’s there to figure out?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Jason huffed, “There’s not much depth, really. Just got lucky an eccentric billionaire took an interest in me.”

Certainly eccentric was the word to describe Bruce Wayne, just the recollection of him showing up three days ago after their “brawl” at the dean’s office and seemingly enjoying to fence with a bunch of enraged parents and somehow managing for him and Jason to don’t get into bigger trouble than to write a paper.

“I mean. He’s kind of cool to have on your side, right?”

Jason humped a short laugh and nodded, “You can say that.” He stood up and paused, “You live with your aunt right?”

“Great-aunt,” Tim corrected.

“Is she nice?”

“She’s very sharp with her words—but she’s very good. You know, the kind of sincerely good. She’s going to be ninety this year.” He really liked Aunt Beatrice, he just worried she wouldn’t live much longer and then his last relative would be gone.

Jason raised his eyebrows impressed. “Never met someone that old. By the way, thanks for teaching me the gist of this,” He said pointing at the pool with his thumb.

“Yeah, don’t sweat it…” Tim didn’t know why he always thought to leave it to another time to ask Jason to hang out outside school, but if he kept leaving it off the year would end and most likely their feeble friendship would dissolve. “Hey.”

Jason turned towards him.

“Do you—want to hang out sometime?”

“Sure. What for?”

Tim shrugged and Jason huffed but grinned. “What do people our age do for fun?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I guess we’ll have to figure out our own kind of fun,” Tim said shrugging again.

“Probably.”

END OF MEMORY... For more FILES check previous entries...

#arkham abyss (fanfic)#jason todd #tim drake #arkhamverse #jason and tim were friends #then everything changed when the fire nation attacked #well when arkham asylum happened #batman #fanfic #dc #arkham knight

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sugar-queen12 · 5 months ago

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Do u ever think about a world where after Bruce comes back from the time stream he finds a broken family and his son holding tight to its crumbling pieces, do u think that Dick could lose himself in the cowl so much that Bruce has to force him out and what he finds underneath is only the shell of the man be used to know, do u ever think that that shell is so unstable and so deranged that he has to through his son into a padded room at Arkham, do u ever think about what the rest of that bat siblings would do when the realize what pressure they put him under, do u ever think?

#bruce wayne #dick grayson #batfam #arkham asylum #please make a fanfic I have ideas but no skill

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neiveel3llson · 5 months ago

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I rlly need to get on w my million fanfics waiting 2 be written

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greeeengoblin · 4 months ago

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youtube

New Edit!!<33

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futurefamousdeadmusician · 5 months ago

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Lost at sea ⛵️

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ellesthots · 3 months ago

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Fateful Beginnings

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

parts: previous / next

plot: witnessing the breaking of Bruce, your desperation reaches new heights.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of suicide, description of panic attack/psychosis, light gore, angst, hurt/comfort, ableism (internalized; ‘crazy’ etc.), manipulation/lying

words: 8.8k

a/n: if you do not wish to read this, I will post a blurb at the front of the next chapter to summarize what happened in this one so you can still follow along. this is the last chapter for a while to talk about it explicitly.

prev. chapter summary (XXVII): You visit Bruce at Arkham, and share a tender moment. Bruce is moderately injured. Dr. Crane explains to you the protocol for interacting with patients who experience schizophrenia or psychosis, including not directly engaging with their delusion. Bruce remembered a powerful, owl-like creature attacking him, but it was ruled a suicide attempt. Bruce visits your apartment after his hold ends, where he tells you he didn't try to kill himself. Frustrated at not being believed, Bruce leaves, with no intention of getting medication or therapy.

In the afternoon you awoke, even more upset than the night before. Sleep allowed the weight of your task to internalize—you nearly passed out peeking at the news on your phone, fully anticipating news of his death—though you found nothing, the fear wasn't alleviated. A look at Scypher proved no one knew he'd been to Gotham General or Arkham, either. As day crept into night, you found yourself pacing about your apartment. Your mind's current fixation was on whether or not you should go to Alfred, and if so, whether to leave now or later. Now would increase the odds of Bruce seeing you, probably as he donned the suit and left the tower for another shift; that could leave him agitated. Leaving later would increase the odds of danger finding you, make it a sketchy Uber driver or chancing a walk across town in the total dark; neither option bode well, but there was no chance you would stay here. Every tick on the clock felt like a drop of blood spilling out of Bruce.

You paid extra for Uber Luxe, hoping that might decrease your chance of being assaulted or beheaded. Your taser sat thick in your sweatpant pocket, jostling with every step. You'd given the driver instructions to drop you off a block before Wayne Tower grounds, at the last convenience store. The drive was unfortunately short, leaving little time to plan what you wanted to say. Alfred would likely still be awake, waiting up for Bruce who was ever so ungrateful to have someone waiting and praying for his safe arrival.

Walking up the grounds was ominous; this wasn't what you thought a celebrity's house would be like, and you cringed thinking of him that way. There were no overlording guards, security staff peppering the outskirts, or someone watching the door. It was empty, quiet, and dark. The steps to the main entryway were broken concrete. The door was thick wood, double the height of a regular door, and equally wide. When you knocked it hardly made a sound.

The door opened without fanfare, the only sound the echoing creak of the door hinge bleeding into the foyer. Alfred's eyes brightened momentarily, and only slightly, at your arrival. He gave a watery grin and stepped aside for you to come in. "Miss Y/N. Master Bruce told me you visited at Arkham." You were struck by how different he seemed; his previously warm, jolly demeanor was replaced with all-encompassing fatigue, dread swaddling him with a sweaty blanket. "If you want to check on him, I'm afraid he's out." He walked to the unlit kitchen and grabbed a glass from the counter, drawing water from the sink before taking a gulp. His hand rested on his waist, his head facing the ground as he sucked his teeth. He rubbed his eyes.

You shut the door behind you, crossing your arms round your waist. "He looked pretty beat up."

Alfred gave a solemn nod. "Did they tell you what happened?"

You reciprocated. "About his great grandfather too." You paused. "Doesn't seem like he believes it."

The sigh the man heaved could've moved mountains. "I've tried to get through to him." His voice cracked. "Only seems to make him more resentful." He laughed hollowly.

Your heart hurt for Alfred. Maybe you'd only scratched the surface and the old man was some abusive piece of shit, maybe Bruce was perfectly right to disregard him, maybe it was all a show, but from what you'd experienced with Bruce, he seemed unwilling to consider his impact on others, not the other way around. "Did he seem worked up at all?"

Alfred, though exhausted, easily sniffed out your not-so-subtle attempt at gathering info. "I see—the psychiatrist brought all hands on deck." He'd wondered why you'd visited; it was hard to believe that Bruce would have asked for you, even if he'd wanted you. The boy hadn't even asked for him—though that could've been his altered consciousness after the attempt, or shame, embarrassment. On a good day the boy was tough to crack. He hadn't heard a thing about you since your leaving the mansion in the spring.

When Alfred got the call he panicked, quite literally dropping what he was doing to rush to him, but it was when he was pulled into a private room with the doctor that his heart shattered. How alone did Bruce feel? How isolated, lonely, and helpless had he felt? That night when Bruce arrived home from Arkham he'd had a long, heartfelt, one-sided conversation with him while they waited for his med timer to go off. He went on about whether Bruce would attempt again, and how Alfred could help prevent that. Bruce averted his eyes and listened, for a while. Eventually he stood with dewy eyes and told him he hadn't done it. The ensuing argument was steeped in desperation from both sides; Alfred hadn't slept a wink since. He checked on the boy every half hour as he slept and hadn't left his general vicinity until he slunk off in the suit.

"You know him best." The hallway cast an echo to your words. "Do you think there's anything you or I could do, or say? To make him get help?"

Alfred's laugh startled you. "That's precisely the issue, Miss. Bruce has an unforceable hand." He set the glass down, body tense. "He has to want it for himself. And he doesn't." The way he planted himself into the dining chair had you wonder if the sink wasn't actually filled with vodka. It almost looked like Alfred had given up. It pissed you off—not at the sorrowful man before you, but at Bruce. If your mom had begged like that, you wanted to believe you'd try something. This path of destruction he was on...

He interrupted your fuming. "Is that why you paid him a visit, to convince him to seek help?"

You nodded but his back was turned. "Yeah. Dr. Crane seems to think I can get through to him. No idea how. Said I was the last point of contact."

He huffed. "At this point anything's on the table." So maybe he hasn't given up hope... or maybe he truly sees no scenario where Bruce makes it out.

Footsteps sounded from the shadowy hallway at the back of the kitchen and before you knew it, Bruce arrived in the suit. His black eyeshadow had smeared at the edges. The cowl hung in his left hand.

"Master Bruce,"

His voice was terse, still hoarse. "What's she doing here? Did you call her?" He strode past Alfred in the kitchen to rip open the fridge and grab an apple. God, you wanted to scream. As he moved toward the elevator, you nearly flew off the handle at the combination of his back facing the two of you and his disgruntled sigh. With how fast he was escaping, that rage was unable to be tempered in time for a measured response. "So you're gonna act like I'm not here?"

He stopped but didn't look back. "I asked him a question."

"I didn't call her, Bruce." He rubbed his temples, a migraine forming. Alfred sighed and excused himself to grab an aspirin upstairs. Bruce kept forward. His stomach twisted into knots seeing you here again—intrusive, meddling, righteous. He took massive care to avoid limping.

The scene was poetic: Bruce disdainfully walking away while his butler (and only guardian) went to medicate for a stress-induced ailment. Metal clanking signified his nearing departure and you snapped. "Do you see how much you're hurting him?"

That was the single most aggravating and entitled thing you did: pretend you had any damn idea who Alfred was or had even a crumb of knowledge about their relationship. He spun around. "You know nothing about him—"

"I know he's exhausted and miserable waiting on you, he's alone in the kitchen at 10 pm with his goddamn head in his hands—"

"I told him he doesn't have to worry."

You could've laughed, but your body wouldn't let you. "You are genuinely risking your life, how the hell are we not supposed to worry?"

His eyes flashed at your pronoun choice. "You're ridiculous to think you're in any alignment with him."

"Are you?"

He stepped out of the elevator, his chest thick with tense breathing. "You don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

You shot an icy glare. "Is that a threat?"

He snarled. "Observation."

Heat rose to your cheeks for reasons you couldn't yet decipher. The longer he stayed arguing with you the less time he'd have for seeking behavior, but you had to toe the line. He was getting too riled up. "We-I just want you to be safe."

He stared at you for a good few seconds, trying to do a temperature check. You were hard to read. Ever since you'd come back he'd been decidedly disappointed in your intermittent composure. These glimmers of bite made him feel curiously alive, in ways both delightful and infuriating. "You got what you wanted from me. Why are you still here?"

It was like he was ignoring you on purpose; like he hadn't cried into your touch a day prior, like he couldn't fathom if he had been successful, Alfred would be planning a funeral right now. You shrugged, your chest procuring an exasperated sound to accompany it. "Do you not know how serious this weekend's been, or do you not care?"

He paused only briefly, enough for him to shoot a dagger stare. "It's not serious in the way you're painting it."

"Can you suspend your disbelief just a moment?" Please. Please. Please. You began to sweat.

"I could say the same to you."

You were losing him, you knew it. Whatever thin string tied you to him was threatening to sever. You opened your mouth but he cut you off, knowing if he gave you space to speak he would implode. "I know what I saw." His hands flexed in and out of fists, trying desperately to metabolize the stress, to temper the helpless rage bubbling in his stomach.

No idea what to say and at an utter loss, you stood and looked at him. The moon only lit up your half of the kitchen. The air was tense and brittle as ice. Dr. Crane's voice was a subtle pulse cocooning every sentence you thought you might say. "I know you saw that, I believe you."

His jaw set. He responded with a colossal eye roll and scornful jeer. "You don't believe it happened, you believe I experienced it."

Your voice lost its gusto, your mind going blank. "I don't know what else to say."

"Say nothing. It's not needed." He moved to turn and you reflexively tossed a lasso.

"You're needed; who will protect Gotham?" You paused too long in the middle there.

He cackled—a jarring, unsettling sound in the chilled air. "There's no line you won't cross."

Fuck. You wanted to stomp your foot, and throw a tantrum to shake the house; this visceral experience of exasperated compassion fuzzed your restraint. "No line you won't ignore."

He stopped turning and scowled, his voice devastatingly cutting. "Says the person loitering."

He needed to know how serious this was; all arrows pointed in one direction. "If you'd been successful, we wouldn't even be t—"

"I didn't do it!" It was the first time he'd really yelled around you, and definitely the first time at you. It peppered goosebumps across your skin and hitched a few breaths. Clamoring steps and Alfred entered, brows raised after a quick scan of the room. "What's going on?"

Bruce turned on his heel and made haste to the elevator, slamming his palm against the button before he rocketed down to the cave. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears, tears springing up for the umpteenth time this weekend. The second the doors opened he bolted through the basement, his cowl catching on the corner of a particularly obtrusive desk in the center of the room. He tossed the cowl, and as he felt the helplessness punctuate into his chest he began ripping off the suit until he was nothing but spandex base layers. He sprinted through the subway doors, past the car, and barreled north. The chilled air slapped his flushed cheeks, the pain in his foot and torso going silent as he sprinted through unlit sidewalks and alleys. He'd find it. Find something. Find anything. His weak ankle slipped on a patch of oil, and he landed swiftly on his back. Unprotected by the suit, the thud knocked the tears out of him, and they slid silently down his cheeks until they joined the puddles on the ground.

Alfred turned toward you and searched your face. "I heard shouting?"

You whipped out your phone and dialed Dr. Crane. He picked up on the second ring; you put it on speaker for Alfred to hear. "Ms. Y/L/N. Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. I went to see Mr. Pennyworth, and Bruce caught me there and, we had an argument and he just, he ran off." The adrenaline rush of his shout lingered much like sweat. You fought to catch your breath as tsunamis of guilt and fear crashed into you. Would he hurt himself right now? Is he gonna die? Dr. Crane sighed. "Certainly not ideal..." Another sigh. "Did he make any threat against his life, or anyone else's?"

"No."

"Did he seem oriented to place and time?"

"Yes."

"Unfortunately there's not much we can do at this point."

Your hands shook. Alfred placed a hand on your arm to steady you. "I could go after him, I don't, I don't know,"

"No." Dr. Crane was quick with it. Alfred shook his head at you too, but remained quiet. "That might push him further. Mr. Pennyworth has this number, let him know to call me if he doesn't come home in the next few hours. Anything else I can do for you?"

God this was hopeless. Guilt ravaged through you, and you barely contained a sob while telling him that was all. You stowed the phone in your pocket, callously wiping hot tears from your face. Alfred dropped his hand from your arm, face empathetic but grim. "Miss. This is not your responsibility."

"I need to leave, I'm not making this better,"

"Let me drive you."

You shook your head. "I need to walk. I have a taser, I'm fine." You brushed past him before you melted into a pile of dust and became unable to command your legs.

Alfred walked across the kitchen and pulled off a piece of paper towel. "At least take my number. I'm a call away." The soft lull of his accent and the smooth feel of the fiber grounded you enough to walk out the door and brace yourself for the two-mile walk back, after a brief embrace and thanks. You stomped along the sidewalks with your arms across your chest, both grateful and suspicious at the lack of people around. Glints of flickering street lamps caught your attention on the wet cement. It shocked you that Gotham still got rain in the summer—much less, yes, but the littering of puddles and slick pavement was an ever-present ghoul.

The sidewalk curved to the left, jutting out to various side streets and alleyways. Some faint yelling punctuated the otherwise quiet evening, but that was usual. As you walked further however, it grew louder, sounding distressed. You grabbed your taser and held it in front with the trigger ready, safety off. The screaming kept an insistent space in the ambiance. Shuffling, hitting, thudding, scrambling. The fuck? Curiosity outweighed the fear that criticized every step toward the noise pollution. By this point the main street's light source had waned, rendering your phone the only way to not trip and break your nose against disgusting concrete. You yelped when someone ran out in front of you—it took a full ten seconds to realize it was Bruce.

His clothes were completely torn up; he wasn't in the suit, which confused you. Is it lying somewhere? Someone could easily trace it back to him. He turned quickly and paced back from whence he came, a small alley littered with garbage and decaying leaves. You could make out even less of what he looked like now. Every time you moved your light up he flinched, turning hard away from it. The puddles refracted the light off your phone, allowing just enough to frame his expressions and movements. He was hunched, shaking like he was in an earthquake, and shreds of his shirt and leggings were strewn about. "Get away from me." He grumbled, loud, his voice bloated and cracked. The hoarseness from earlier had devolved into a scratchy sound, almost like his throat had open wounds. He spoke too loudly, with some words emphasized and shouted while others sounded more swallowed, drowning in the tears he sputtered on as he choked out shouts and screams. You didn't bother to hide your wince; with sounds that heartwrenching and lights so low, it would be futile to suppress. Upon closer inspection some of his bandages had been ripped off too; as if on cue he began ripping more of them off, digging underneath his shirt, sniffing, huffing, and heaving.

"Bruce,"

He looked at you like he'd seen a ghost. "How do you know my name?" He shrieked, doubling over into the fetal position while he anxiously ran his hands through his hair, smearing the bloody, blackened tears into his hairline. His next few breaths were desperate and shallow, and you heard the sound of air sucking through his teeth. You stood about ten feet from him, unable to step any closer due to his erratic movements. He fell onto his ass and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking violently as he rocked back and forth. Spit launched out of his mouth and dangled in the corner of his lips, the hiss of strained airflow clenching your gut into knots. You gulped, your limbs beginning to numb. "I'm calling Alfred."

Your hand shook nearly as much as his as you tried to squint to read his number. After too long, every second passing like ten minutes with the state Bruce was in, he picked up. "Alfred,"

"Miss? Everything—"

"Bruce needs to be picked up." You didn't realize you were gasping until you had to speak through it. It was at that second that Bruce acknowledged you, jumping to his feet and racing to only a foot's distance. "NO!" His pupils were blown, eyes rapidly shutting and squeezing. Crouched to be at eye level, you could see how his lip trembled under the weight of the sweat and tears pooling beneath his nose. His bleary, soaked, inflamed eyes threatened to impale yours with the intensity of their focused attention. He opened and shut his mouth a few times without speaking, and when he did, flecks of spit landed on your chin. A few unsuccessful regulating breaths and heaving exhales later, he whined into the phone. "Don't tell Mom and Dad about this."

Palpable silence. Alfred was the one to break it. "I'll be there in three minutes." The phone sat heavy in your palm after he hung up. Bruce sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the wet ground. He bloodied his knuckles beating against it. His screams became muffled as you stood, frozen. He gazed at the alley's dead end and shouted unintelligibly, his agitation mounting until Alfred arrived and helped him into the backseat. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and the man had to walk you to the passenger seat. "I'll take you home first, Miss."

"You won't tell them, right? I can't be out this late." Bruce wrung his hands together and looked out the window anxiously. You and Alfred exchanged a solemn look. Alfred nodded. "It'll stay between us, Master Bruce. I promise." This was bad, and you both knew it. It was sad, too. Would he wake up wondering where his parents were? Would he have any recollection of this in the morning? Would Alfred have to break the news to him that his parents had died years ago? Did this warrant an inpatient stay? What would Dr. Crane think? The hum of the cabin air was the only distraction from Bruce picking at his fingernails and sniffling up sobs. If there had been any more breathing room in there you would've joined him. But you had to wait until they were gone. Wait until the only thing around you was dark, empty silence. You directed Alfred to your apartment, and soon enough you arrived.

Pulling up to the curb of The Moore, he waited for your door to open before locking the rest. He stepped out and walked over to hold the lobby doors. His steps were slow and a bit shallow. He saw tears streaming your cheeks and stopped before grabbing the handle. "Miss,"

Now that you were out of the car you couldn't contain yourself. "It was my fault, I'm fucking meddling,"

His mouth settled into a tight frown. "As far as I'm concerned you saved him tonight. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't been there?"

You shook your head, his words not penetrating the layers of guilt. "He wouldn't have been like that if it weren't for me. I'm inserting myself where I'm not needed."

Alfred placed a hand on your shoulder, waiting until you met his eyes to speak. "Efforts to save a life are never misplaced." With that, he nodded and bid you adieu. The walk to your room felt like a million years with the weights on your ankles. Your room was cold, a liminal space between before and after, then and now. If only I hadn't left.

Bruce had woken up screaming five times that night. The first two times he'd bolted out of his bedroom in his underwear, needing to be coaxed back to bed with firm reassurance and breathing exercises. Alfred took to sleeping in a makeshift cot in front of the boy's door to make sure he didn't slip past. When morning came, he hadn't recalled a thing; his head ached, his body felt like it'd been struck by lightning, run over by a car, and chewed on by twenty dogs. Seeing Alfred sleeping at the foot of his door prompted a conversation about what had happened last night—he'd glazed over by the time he was told what he'd said about his parents, though it didn't help the sting.

As much as he wanted to rot in bed the rest of the day until he could go out as the bat, his stomach grumbled to the kitchen. It was there that Alfred threw out the idea of going to see you. "Miss Y/N is the one who found you. She called me." After a few hours of avoidance that only propelled the day to early afternoon, he caved; the hovering presence of Alfred made his embarrassment and frustration peak, and if he'd stayed a moment longer he might have lashed out. So... he found himself once again at the door to your apartment. He felt strange being there, like he wasn't supposed to remember where you lived. He figured a text would have been worse.

You opened the door wearing black sweats and a white tee. You looked exhausted. "Alfred wanted me to stop by."

It hurt more than it should have that it didn't come from him. Moreso than desiring any self-indulgent recognition, you wanted to feel like he didn't hate you. Regret had kept you up the entire night to the extent of wicked nausea. Your knees still ached from kneeling in front of the toilet for hours on end. I'm sorry caught before it passed your tonsils, evaporated before reaching your tongue. All night you'd ruminated about how ridiculous and intrusive you'd been. All you'd done was fuck up his life. Why had you even gone over last night? Because some man in a blazer with a fancy degree gave you a crash course on mental illness meant you had any right to meddle? Those thoughts stormed against others that saw the pain and dangerous denial plainly in him, like a ticking time bomb.

Dr. Crane had called you earlier that morning to warn you about his condition. "It appears he's in a state of delirium. This is the worst-case scenario outside of another attempt... which is usually imminent soon after." His words echoed through your best attempt at listening. You'd have to remove 'works well under pressure' from your resume after this weekend. The call had ended on a sobering note, such lethal stakes nearly forcing you into complete apathy. You'd sat on the edge of your couch with the phone on speaker, sitting on your hands that grew colder the more he spoke. "The gravity of his current condition cannot be overstated."

"Me talking to him only hurt him." Your voice was dry and raspy from lack of sleep. "It sent him into a spiral, I can't do that again." Your arms wrapped around your torso in a sad excuse for a hug. Walter would've been great company right about then.

"Ms. Y/L/N, I assure you: such a high-caliber reaction could not be spurred solely by asking him to get help." But you didn't believe him. At this point you snapped, wanting to drill into him that you were making it worse. "He does not like me. He only gave me the interview because I wouldn't leave him alone, I have been a stain in his life for months."

Dr. Crane sighed. "Y/N." This was the first time he'd addressed you so informally. "I am aware he might dislike you. I hear what you are telling me. My professional judgment remains."

"Wouldn't someone you hate telling you to get help only make you want it less?" This thought had plagued you between dry heaves, the thought of your assistance only exacerbating his refusal. If someone you detested—and barely knew—came barging into your home demanding you get help and told you how much you were hurting your parents... you'd want to slap the shit out of them. It was embarrassing how entitled you'd acted the night before. "I'm making the problem worse. I need to be hands-off."

"I did my graduate studies on interventions for schizophrenic populations—I focused on the different outcomes between estranged and aligned families. Some of these guardians were outright abusive and thoroughly hated by the patient," He spoke the next part emphatically. "Yet regardless of how polluted the relationship, the data was clear:" He needed to drill every syllable of the next part into your very spirit. "Once the patient entered delirium, the families who took a 'hands-off approach' had an 87% increased rate of patient mortality within one week."

If the phone had been in your hands you would've dropped it. "Whatever you need to do, make sure it gets done. Nothing is too far when it comes to saving a life. It's the eleventh hour."

You stepped aside and Bruce walked in no further than required to shut the door behind him. He looked worse than ever. How did he even walk up here in the light of day? If even one camera got a picture of him it would be plastered to the front of every tabloid, he would have to come out with a statement...

He stilled. He saw the strain in your breath, how your chest rose rapidly, the slumped defeat in your body, your swollen under eyes and chapped lips. "I also wanted to apologize." He certainly hadn't meant to, but the anger was dissipating with every second he looked at you. "Last night I wasn't myself."

Maybe he'll say it himself. Maybe this is it, maybe he came to accept it. Hope fluttered against your ribs. No more fighting, no more arguing. "I'm sorry for inserting myself. I shouldn't have said that about Alfred. I'm a stranger." After the call with Dr. Crane, you'd wondered about playing docile, but this wasn't a ploy; this guilt was desperate to purge itself, and he was an altar edging it out.

He blinked at the ground. "You weren't wrong. Alfred is suffering." It hurt to push those words past his teeth. "But there's nothing I can do about that." He snuck a look over, seeing your mouth open. He cringed. "Don't tell me to get help." He grit his teeth and balled his fists, the tension in his body overwhelming. When you didn't respond, he spoke again, trying to show you plainly and clearly how suspicious it was. "It's an anonymous witness. No footage."

You wanted to talk about how the witness probably stayed anonymous because he was Bruce Wayne, someone so rich and powerful they might have feared retaliation if their identity was on record, but the other times you reminded him of his status had sent him spiraling. You wanted to talk about how the city budget was so misused that most of the security cameras around town were out of order, especially in dark alleyways that businessmen didn't frequent—that was the only purpose of justice in Gotham anyway, to protect and serve the elite. But the tension was visible and unnerving; you and Bruce together at a fragile crossroad. That mortality rate sat like a boulder in your gut. Every option was bitter on the tongue.

The one thing you thought to do was the one thing Dr. Crane said to never do; engage directly with his hallucinations. Did you even care about that anymore? Was he even right? Was Bruce right? Probably not. He'd been so beyond himself he thought his parents were still alive, staring at the back of an empty alleyway like someone was out to get him. That couldn't be reasoned with. Another refrain ran laps around you: one week. Seeing Bruce Wayne in your kitchen after hearing that... it seemed the odds were more likely you'd attend a public memorial than speak to him next weekend. Oh. Fuck.

He chased after the shift in your body language. You had that look again from city hall. The expression of being far away, on another planet. It instilled in him an unquenchable urge to thrust you out of it. "Last night... It was like I'd been drugged."

Any explanation to keep him in denial. You shook yourself out of it, immediately replacing the dismissive thought with something more just. It's a lot to accept. Of course he's struggling with it. The most you could manage was to stare at his shoes. Your eyes still glazed. The room muffled. Unaware of every breath. You hadn't dissociated this hard since the first call from the doctor seven years ago. Therapy had helped back then, letting you know this served a function. Holding it compassionately wouldn't do a damn thing right now, locked in your gridlock, dipping your toes in the apathy that lusted to infiltrate your bloodstream. My apathy is deadly. My apathy could cost him his fucking life. But you couldn't shake it. You couldn't look up at him, you couldn't even speak. You burst into tears... or thought you did. You'd heaved an enormous sigh and sat with your head down, unable to well up tears in such a detached state. Even if you could, you wouldn't cry in front of him if you could manage; he didn't need that.

Your sigh had a whimper at the end of it, sending a jolt through him. The stillness of the moment had him noticing the details, like how you hadn't changed since the night before. Your apartment was still disassembled. The time on the stove read 4:18. His mind wandered. Gordon got off on weekends at five; the mask would conceal most of his injuries, and the ones it didn't would make sense. He could investigate it more with him, explore the evidence room... But there you sat. And he didn't want to leave you like this. His tone was tender, like yours had been. "I'm safe."

Arkham. "I don't know what else to do."

"Believe me." He pleaded, a gravelly whine fraying the end. Dr. Crane had warned you about this on the phone call. He asked about your plan if he came over; you hadn't had one, wanting to ignore the possibility entirely. Dr. Crane said it was likely he'd draw more desperate. You'd asked about humoring him. Tried to express how stubborn Bruce was. Nope. Not a possibility. "If you want to throw gasoline on a fire."

Your lids were heavy with sleep, stress, anxiety. You could see how much you stressed him out. How he was on the edge of leaving. How desperate he was to be believed. Fish hooks in your sides threatened to cut you in two, tugging equally left and right, splitting each layer of your skin at the belly button.

At least if you stuck with Dr. Crane's plan and it ended horribly, you would have someone else to blame... You hated yourself for letting that cross your mind. Bruce wasn't an experiment, and this wasn't a low-stakes outcome. As much as the situation juiced your heart until it was throbbing and weak, he was the one with the most to lose, and he couldn't think clearly. He needed you to stay the course. Trust the science. Listen to the data, to reason, not what tugged at your heartstrings. You took a deep breath. "I know it hurts to not be trusted, but you have to weigh the pros and cons."

All he did was glare back at you. You couldn't hesitate, refusing to waste another second. "Worst case scenario is you have some temporary side effects," You ignored how visibly agitated he was becoming, how his hands twitched and his eyes looked away as his jaw clenched. "Worst case scenario of not trying them is you do that again, and not even know it's happening."

He'd far surpassed his limit; every syllable slipping past your lips trying its best to gaslight. You'd been persistent when getting the interview, he should've seen the red flag in your tenacity. "You're never going to believe me?" Posed as a question, meant as a statement. His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. "Why are you pushing this?" Why would you of all people be shelling this so hard?

It was simple, and you said it as such. "I don't want you to die."

Bruce didn't give it time to linger. His face was sour with a scowl. "Doesn't change what happened."

"Weigh the options. One outcome is far worse." Please. You crossed your fingers behind your back to summon the universe's luck. Please. He just glared at you. Small shaking of his head. You pressed on. "You don't even have to believe anyone, just humor—"

He scoffed, the sound like a slap across the face. "Take medication to humor..." Your audacity... fuck. He could've laughed. He could've rolled his eyes, stormed out, any number of things. His was instead welded to the floor. It didn't make sense. Any of it.

"Please." God, the way you whined. The smallest, most minuscule seed of doubt entered him. Terrified of it manifesting into slipping resolve, he turned to leave. "Where are you going?"

He kept walking. The squeak in your voice, the haze of desperation, the exhaustion weighing you down—had you stayed up all night thinking about this? You couldn't have. He reached the doorknob just as you jumped toward him. "Please, stop,"

He winced. "Stop sounding like that." Your begging was pointless. He'd made up his mind. He'd leave, he wouldn't even look back... he wouldn't think about it, he wouldn't think about you, you wouldn't get to him.

At this point your heart was beating so hard you swore Bruce could hear it. As soon as he slipped out of your apartment he would be unreachable. Every other time he'd left like this, something terrible had happened. He could be dead by the end of the night. The end of the hour. When he turned the doorknob you could've jumped out of your skin. Your vocal cords constricted from overwhelming dread. This is too much. "Where are you going?"

"Don't need to concern yourself." He opened the door and you grabbed his arm; his head whipped around to look at you, startled by the forcefulness of your grip. Through his sweatshirt he could feel how ice cold your fingers were.

"I do,"

He shrugged his arm away. "Keep telling yourself that." The door opened wide with a quick snap; the snarl in his tone, the glare set in his features, you had about two seconds before he was down the hallway to god knows where to do god knows what. Popping into your mind was his insinuation that no one had seen it; no evidence, no corroboration, and you made a split-second decision as he stepped into the hallway.

"Because I saw it." A disorienting combination of emotions swarmed you; immediate regret at having lied, and immediate relief in seeing Bruce freeze, no longer rushing out to his demise.

"Saw what?" His voice lowered and he stilled, like he knew exactly what you implied but hoped you didn't mean it.

It was hard to stay quiet through the sudden flush of tears down your cheeks. The lie ended up gasping out of you. "I saw you jump, I'm the person who called."

You barely contained a sob of relief when he stepped back inside and shut the door. He peeked at you, his eyes searching your face slowly, deliberately. This was the first time you'd had any feeling at all that he was willing to listen. This was your last chance, his last chance, anyone's to get him to safety. "I felt bad about how the interview ended, so I went looking for you."

Bruce could barely hear you, and he could only hear you. The world, his thoughts, everything but the crackle of the flaming pitchforks his defenses held faded away. It would make sense it hadn't leaked to the press yet if it had been you, but.... He said this like an accusation, eyes narrowed with skepticism. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

He was giving you an inch, you were taking a mile. You were yanking him close to you and holding him there. You would've imploded if you had to see him in a casket, knowing you could've done more. Even if it wasn't your responsibility, even if you barely knew him. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. Thought it'd be easier."

His heart was in his throat. Hope was lying nearly dead in his chest, gasping for air before a final death rattle. His voice was strained, weary, haunting. "You saw me jump?" His brows knit together just barely, daring you both to be honest and to spare him. "Off a building?"

You bit your tongue until a searing sting. Jesus... You couldn't hesitate. Not with him, not now. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with his pulse hanging in the balance. You nodded and strangled the words out from where they clotted in your throat. "It was horrifying. I thought I watched you die."

Bruce flinched as you said it, your words evoking a visceral sensation of being stoned. Brick by brick it hit his chest, teleporting him to the night his parents died; the feeling of watching blood pour out of their bodies, shucking sounds of it glugging against the wet concrete, seeping into puddles. Like a flipped switch, he had no choice but to believe you. This was his line. The notion that he had caused someone to experience even a fraction of that feeling... no matter how deep his denial, no matter that he saw the creature clear as day, he would have forgotten his own name if it meant sparing someone. If he suffered through the truth, fine; if it harmed anyone else, it was over. Folded. Hard limit. Fear was a tool, but not like this.

You witnessed a clear shift in him. You were too busy swimming in fragile relief to think about why that had connected. Your body was buzzing, and you watched on with bated breath as he stood in silence. If you listened hard you could hear his deep nasal inhale. His shallow, quick exhale.

He felt embarrassed, ashamed, and afraid. He hated how much he still wanted to drill you. How desperate he was to corroborate his experience and dismiss everything else. He wouldn't force you to rehash it. he wouldn't make you relive something like that. The walls began to close in as his reality rapidly dissolved; the owls hadn't been real, the creature hadn't been real, he'd really jumped off a building and his mind was so unreliable he hadn't known? Ooh, this was... this was...

You sniffed. It brought him back to space and time. He couldn't lose it yet. "Do you, uh," He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind completely numbed out. Save the spiral for later. "What do you need?"

You felt absolutely disgusting. What did you need? It churned your stomach. Why did he have to have humility now? Flashbacks to him screaming and hitting the pavement as spit flew out of his mouth. Taped down to a psychiatric bed. The scabs beginning to form on his face, neck, and hands... the pain that surfaced so quickly when you'd even barely touched his cheek. You pursed your lips and blew out a shaky breath to ground yourself. Save the spiral for later.

"You want me to get meds, therapy?" Desperation coated his tone. Like he was counting the seconds until he could leave, or explode, or both.

Your eyes were wide and bleary as you made contact with his. You couldn't bring yourself to nod, or even look him in the face longer than a few seconds. "I just want you to be safe."

He didn't speak for another minute. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he certainly wasn't at peace. You hadn't expected him to believe you. You hadn't imagined a universe where he would ever believe a word you said. But then he nodded. Lost in thought, eyes darting across the floor, breathing labored, and said things you never thought he would. "I'll pick some up in the morning."

The dizzying haze of shock annihilated him. He walked to the door but felt stumbled, like his saliva was thickening in his mouth, blood rushing to his core to sustain him, keep him upright, thinking, moving. When he grabbed the doorknob he couldn't feel it. In a blink the door opened and he didn't remember opening it. The zigzag pattern on the hallway rug floated, fuzzy, spotting the edge of his vision.

He walked calmly to the door; you couldn't see his face, no idea what he was thinking, and it killed you. "Are you gonna be safe tonight?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to reassure you he wouldn't do anything now that he knew you were involved. He wanted to tell you he didn't think he'd ever attempt to kill himself, but apparently that wasn't real. You'd witnessed him try to end his life. He was obviously unstable, an unreliable narrator, and he was afraid. The pieces were falling into place; the wear in your body, your meddling... He heard the elevator ding from the end of the hall and shut the door, leaning his sore, bruised forehead against it. What had he done to get that? He couldn't remember where half of his injuries came from. Alfred said he'd panicked the night before. Was out of his body. The last thing he remembered was staring up at the cloudy sky, wishing, pleading the universe to be believed. Then it was all black.

He spoke in a whisper, though unintentional. "I don't know." He didn't trust anything now. Was he even here? Was this even happening? Were his feet planted against your flooring, or was he actually in a field by himself? He couldn't do this now, he couldn't, he couldn't make you take care of him, you couldn't feel responsible, you weren't, this was crazy. He was crazy. His heart began to race when he heard you step behind him. He shook his head hard. "I'll stay inside tonight."

"Bruce," A plaintive cry.

He spun around. His shaky, blurred vision dialed in to your slick, puffy face. His jaw hung slack. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

It's worth it. He's getting help. No more bruises, cuts, jumps. I did what I needed to. He's not gonna die. He's not gonna die. He's not. gonna. die. You flirted with hyperventilation the more you sat under his gaze. "It's fine,"

"It's not." He wasn't going to leave you like this, alone and crying. Had you gotten flashbacks like he did way back when? Did you need a hug as badly as he did after taking their bodies away?

"You're okay, so." He stepped toward you and you jumped. He searched your face and goddammit, tracked every tear again. He is not gonna take care of me. STOP CRYING! You stammered for anything to say that could shift the focus off of you as you forced your tear ducts to close. "I can call Alfred if you want to be picked up," Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I'm a fucking liar. I'm lying. I'm lying.

He didn't answer. You gulped, feeling increasingly like you were about to pass out. "The smog's pretty bad today, um," Your hands shook, you needed to find something to tether them to. Heat flooded your lashes again, fuck. "I think I have some tea, if you're walking it might, it might help."

Your hands quivered against the lavender mug as you pulled it from the cabinet. "With your throat, you know." Your hands were going clammy, your forehead felt sticky. He watched your trembling fingers search the drawers, finally procuring a packet. He'd traumatized you—he wouldn't let you take care of him too. He tracked your eyes to the microwave, and moved to open the door. You filled the mug with water and put it in the microwave for two minutes.

Just walking those few steps made him queasy; on top of everything else he was late to taking his pain meds. Inside, he frantically plugged a cracking dam. Would he be able to go out as batman anymore? How would the psych meds affect him? Had anything else happened that wasn't real? Did you even know he was batman? Was batman even real? Was batman a way for him to channel his sickness into something productive? What memories were real? He held his hands in front of him. The dam was breaking.

You turned around to grab a paper towel, but saw Bruce standing a foot away staring at his shaking palms. The blueness of his eyes was exaggerated by his constricted pupils. Unsure of what to do, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, you stared at the mesmerizing spin of the mug. Round, and round, and round. The light hit his cheek, emphasizing the scabs and cuts. The beat of his rising chest pulsing in your ear propelled you forward; maybe it was the rapid fluttering of his lashes or the first tear that fell, but you grabbed his suffering hands and the room went quiet.

"Hey, hey." You squeezed his lukewarm hands with your cold ones, nearly making a self-deprecating joke about not being able to warm him. He was staring blankly over your shoulder, his bottom lip ragged from biting. The whir of the microwave came faintly back into earshot, until Bruce looked back at you. A crest of tears balanced in his waterline.

His entire body vibrated. He wanted to tell you how terrified he was, but he was sure you could see it. He could see it in you, too. He still didn't want you to have to care for him, but that was rapidly deprioritized as more fears crowded in. You could almost see the dreams dying in his eyes; uneventful, hopeless, and frustrating like a dud firework. You swallowed back bile as you grasped for anything you could say to him, repeating a mantra to stave off the nausea. I didn't cause this pain. This was the only way. This has to help him. This is worth it, it has to be. You didn't believe it, but having him alive and in your sight helped muffle the self-hatred.

The microwave sounded. When you pulled back to open it you felt resistance—he squeezed your hands lightly, his breathing heavy and deep. You hesitated before giving another reassuring squeeze; you'd acclimated to each other's temperature, your fingers no longer feeling like ice against his. His hands were calloused and rough, and your palm rubbed on the scabs when you pulled back. Before your mind could wander further, before you collapsed in a puddle of tears, you slipped your hands out of his and busied yourself with steeping the tea.

Bruce lowered his hands to his sides, gently flexing them to remember the shape of yours. He ached to hug you; he ached to go back and stay just a little longer after the interview. He could've helped you pack more. Could've called Alfred for a ride home. What had it looked like? Had there been sounds? Body fluids? Did you race after him, or stay away out of fear? Had he needed CPR? Had there been a pulse? Did you see the impact? Did you run to catch him? Were you close, were you far? How vivid was your memory of it?

"How do you like it?" You didn't have much, just some sugar and honey, some old oat milk in the fridge.

He concealed a gasp as you broke his feverish spiral. He shook his head. "It's yours."

You didn't bother fighting him on it; the warmth of the mug and taste of the ginger would be a welcome distraction until he left safely with Alfred. You placed a plate over the mug and pat your sweats for your phone. "Did you want to call him?"

"I got it." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a regular-degular iPhone, shocking you more than it should have. You went to grab the honey while he spoke to his butler. You sat in a valley between; you wanted Bruce to leave as quickly as possible so you could throw yourself into the shower and cry, then hibernate in bed until Thursday, but it scared you to have him leaving these walls.

"He'll be in the parking garage soon."

Crap. "You need a key to open it, one of those fob things." You put a scoop of honey and mixed it in, the tremble in your hand coming back. "I'll walk you down."

The mug was cooling in the building's AC, the whoosh of the elevator doors hastening the process. The ride was quick and painless, the walk to the garage the same. Bruce had pulled up his hood, cinched it around his face, and put on sunglasses before leaving. He was actually pretty unrecognizable, but part of you wondered if that was just because you knew people would never suspect him out with someone like you; unknown, working class, in dirty sweats and flip flops.

Alfred came swiftly, giving you a wave as he pulled up. Bruce turned to you before getting in the car. "I'll keep you updated." He nodded, then sidled into the passenger seat. A second later, tint enveloped all the windows, leaving the car completely anonymous as it drove off.

The walk to the shower was excruciating. Every step felt like you were walking on legos. The shower offered a sliver of relief, but it didn't warm your conscience. It wasn't until Alfred called a few minutes after you had toweled off that you could let yourself breathe.

The old man was tearful, sniffing after every word. "Miss Y/N. Bruce asked me," He blew his nose. "To get his script tomorrow morning." He tried to catch his sobs, but they were getting away from him. "I don't know what you did, but thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

I truly believed it was the end."

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2-guns-b1tch · 6 months ago

Text

Talk To Me

Arkham! Riddler x FemaleReader

+18 Minors DNI!!!!

After 10 months I'm finally done with this chapter ! Sorry to leave everybody waiting, but I was having trouble writing this chapter, but it's finally here. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Masterlist

CHAPTER 4 / AO3

"What about this one?" Harley asks, taking the book off the shelf and showing it to you.

"I've read that one, but I didn't like it that much. Too many of sex scenes."

Harley rolls her eyes, huffing a laugh. "What did you expect? It's a Smut book!"

You shrug as you continue to scan over the books in the romance section. "I know, but there was no character development. And I was getting tired of reading about how the main guy had a huge cock and how wet the romantic interest was all the time.”

Harley returns the book back the shelf, shaking her head at you. "You're the only person I know who reads an erotic book waiting for plot."

Since it was your day off, you had decided to run some errands and, luckily, Harley had agreed to come with you. Going through your to do list could be boring sometimes, but Harley always managed to make things more fun. Plus, a little help never hurt anyone.

It was a particularly cold day in Gotham. Although it had rained earlier, the clouds were still dark and heavy with water, the wind howling through the busy streets. At least the bookstore you and Harley were in was warm. The smell of new books accompanied by the scent of freshly made coffe from the café on the back created a cozy atmosphere that made you want to stay a little bit more.

"Still on the topic of erotica,” She raises her eyebrows in a sugestive way. “How’s your romantic life going? Any lucky guys caught your eye?" Harley says while looking at the cover of a book with a shirtless muscular man holding a woman in his arms.

"I've been so busy with everything lately. I hardly have time for myself, let alone a relationship. But what about you? Are you seeing someone?"

"Well..." Harley bites her lower lip as she wraps a lock hair around her finger. "There's this guy I met."

You turn your full attention to her, smiling excitedly. "Tell me everything! How long have you been talking? Does he work at Arkham too? Do I know him?"

"Okay, calm down!" she giggles, looking around as a light blush covers her cheeks. "I met him at Arkham and we've been talking for the last few months. He's pretty funny."

"And what's his name?"

"His name is... Jack. You don't know him." She quickly turns back to a pile of books."What are we looking for again?"

"Edward finished the puzzle book I gave him, so he asked me to bring Frankenstein this time."

Harley laughs. "Okay, we're definitely not going to find that here. Let's look in the Horror section."

The two of you head deeper into the bookstore, the old wooden floor creaking beneath your feet. You loved being surrounded by books, so many amazing stories just waiting to be discovered. You remembered your childhood, how easy it was to get lost in words, every turn of page made the world a less scary place, your problems fading for just a few moments. You used to imagine yourself as one of Peter Pan's lost boys, or Alice falling down the rabbit hole to her Wonderland. Anything that distanced you from your own troubled reality.

You find the Horror section and you start browsing over the columns of the books in search of Frankenstein while Harley walked aimlessly between the shelves, looking for nothing in particular.

"Has the Joker ever asked you to bring him something?" The words left your mouth before you realise. You didn’t want to ruin the mood talking about work, and besides, Joker was Harley’s patient, not yours.

"Not really. He knows I'm not allowed to take anything into the maximum security ward."

It made sense. As much as Edward didn't have a clean record, he definitely wasn't as unhinged as the Joker. So he was allowed to interact with other patients and his cell wasn't as protected. Just the thought of being in the presence of the Joker makes you feel a shiver run down your spine.

Dracula. Carmilla. Dr. Jekyll and Mr.Hyde. You skim over the titles in the row of books arranged side by side. You've never been much of a fan of the horror genre. Gotham was dangerous enough and you didn't need any more paranoia in the middle of the night. Was that why Edward wanted a book like that? To some people he was like one of the monsters in those stories. Maybe he just wanted to see himself in a story where one of the characters wasn't so different from him, even if they were the villain.

You finally find what you were looking for. You pull the book, running your fingers over the dark green velvet cover. This edition looked older, having only the title and the author's name written in gold letters on the front. Edward would definitely like this one.

"You won't believe what I found." Harley's voice comes from behind you, pulling you from your thoughts. She’s holding a small book, a smile stretching her lips. "It's a joke book!"

Harley flips through the pages until she stops at something she likes. "A book just fell on my head... I only have my shelf to blame." She reads aloud.

"Oh, my God. That was horrible!" You cover your mouth, but it's impossible to hide the laughter that escapes you.

“That’s a good one. I used to be addicted to soap, but I’m clean now.”

"We're not going buy this one." You say, heading towards the cashier.

"Oh, we totally will." Harley speaks, following you.

You and Harley finish buying the books, and when you open the door to leave the bookstore, a gust of wind hits you. The clouds that were silent just a few minutes ago are now alive. A loud thunder crashing over the city noise.

You hesitate at the door, unsure whether you should risk venturing into this weather or wait for the threat of rain to pass. Before you can say anything, Harley pulls you by the hand, guiding you down the street. Halfway through, drops of water begin to fall from the sky. At first it's just a thin drizzle, but little by little the rain starts turning thick.

But you can't even get mad at Harley. While other people are trying to protect themselves from the rain, Harley jumps into the puddles of water in an almost childish way, not seeming to care that the two of you were soaking wet. She throws her head back in an laugh and you can't suppress the smile that forms on your lips.

At that point you decide not to worry about getting a cold or how your clothes would take hours to dry. Instead, you allow Harley's warm to pass through you. You just keep the book under your coat so you don't get it wet and let Harley guide you.

------

When you finally arrive in the therapy room, Edward is already there. You catch him hunched over the table with tensed shoulders for just a second before he snaps his head towards you and fix his posture.

"Good morning, Edward." You say as you walk around the table, sitting in your usual spot opposite him.

Edward watches you in silence as you grab your purse and take out your things to start the session.

"You're late." He notices, his voice quiet.

You check the clock on the wall. "For only 5 minutes."

"It still means you're late."

It’s not unusual for patients to be attached to a specific routine. This brings stability and security to them, so making even the smallest change in the pattern can easily bother them. But you expected a tic related to time would be Tetch’s thing, not Edward’s.

You smile apologetically. "The asylum is big and it takes me a while to walk here. But you're right, I'm late. I'm sorry."

You wait patiently for Edward to say something sarcastic or some comment about how important and smart he is to wait for people like you. But he just nods weakly, keeping his eyes on his lap.

You tap your pen a few times against your clipboard, trying to break the foreign silence that filled the room.

"Is everything okay? You're strangely quiet today."

Edward scoffs a laugh. "At least you're smart enough to appreciate what I have to say. Most people would rather I shut up."

"I always want to hear what you have to say. That's why I'm here."

Edward squeezes his lips into a thin line, looking disturbed by something. His eyes travel across the room for a moment before landing on you again. He swallows hard a few times, a light sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.

"I... I've got something for you." He babbles, the words coming out choked. "It's a... well, I- Oh dammit."

He lets out a frustrated sigh before putting something down on the table and retreating back to his chair.

The object Edward left on the metal surface of the table wasn’t some kind of riddle or puzzle. It was actually a small sculpture of a cat in a sitting pose that fitted in the palm of your hand. You pick it up, realizing that Edward must have made it from a bar of soap. Your fingers caress the delicate details, the small nose, it’s pointed ears, the tail that wrapped around it’s body.

"The details may not be entirely accurate, since I don’t know the exactly appearance of your cat and I didn't have the necessary materials and-" Edward starts chattering but you interrupt him.

"Is this Meg? I loved it!" You hold the sculpture firmly between your fingers, placing it against your chest. "It's perfect."

"You... Loved it?" Edward clears his throat, adjusting his posture. "Well, of course you did. I couldn't have expected any other reaction. I did an excellent job, even with the inadequate materials." A pink flush appears on his cheeks, spreading across his face and up his ears.

"Is this some kind of apology because of our last session?"

Edward adjusts his glasses over his nose. "You could say that my behavior was not entirely appropriate. I may have been a little rude. But don’t think this is an apology, I’m not nice."

"But where did you find the tools to do something like this? You're not allowed to be near sharp objects." You remember him.

"My abilities know no bounds, Doctor. Nothing can stop a brilliant mind like mine," after a second he adds. "I used a spoon."

A smile spreads across your face as you imagine Edward with his tongue tucked in between his lips, his brow furrowed in concentration as he methodically carved out the details in a piece of soap.

"Since we're exchanging gifts, I have something for you, too." You pull Frankstein's copy out of your bag, pushing it towards Edward.

"You remembered..." He comments as he strokes the velvety cover of the book, looking surprised.

"Of course I did. Did you think I would forget?"

"It’s not that. I just thought that because of the last session you might be... upset." Edward looks almost embarrassed, but it's still too early to know for sure if he actually feels any kind of remorse. One step at a time.

"I forgive you, Edward. Even if this is not an apology. I may have been a little harsh too, but now we're even."

You smile at Edward and for a second he surprises you with a soft smile of his own. It's not like the smirk he usually has on his face or the kind he reserves for his cruel comments. This time it's sincere. You think it suits him.

"Very well," you continue, checking your notes quickly. "Today I would like to talk about-"

This time, it's Edward who cuts you off with a groan. It looks like things are back to normal.

"This is so boring, can we talk about something else? I feel like my neurons are dying every day I spend in here." Edward complains, resting his chin on his cuffed hands. "Anything would be a more interesting mental stimulation."

"Do you think I'm going to change the session just because you gave me a gift?"

"Maybe?" He grins, his lips stretching like the Cheshire Cat.

You decide to give in this time, since Edward was in such a good mood. You place your notes on the table and lean against the chair.

"Well, what do you want to talk about?" You ask, placing your hands on your lap.

"Let me see..." Edward taps his chin a couple of times before speaking again "How's the weather?"

You huff a laugh. "Weather, really? Do you find this a more interesting mental stimulation?"

"You can see how desperate I am, can't you?" his foot nugdes yours under the table and you jump lightly, surprised by the unexpected contact. "Come on, tell me. I stay all day inside this building, I hardly see the sky."

"Well, it's been raining a lot these last few weeks. You know, the sewer system doesn't work so the streets are all flooded."

He sighs. "Gotham never changes. How about the renovation of Bleake Island's main avenue? Before I came here, they were still trying to finish it."

"Still going. Takes me even more time to get here because of it. They stopped because of a funding problem or something."

"At least I know that our dear mayor will never fail to let us down. And they still say I'm the villain." Edward gestures in an exaggerated manner, drawing a small chuckle from you.

"What do you miss most from outside?" That wasn't one of your prepared questions, but you've always wondered what it was like to be stuck in Arkham.

"I miss food. Real food. I've been dreaming of that Italian place on 19th Street." He leans back against his chair, an dreamy expression on his face. "And music, too. I'd kill for a radio in here."

In these last few weeks you had seen Edward bored, grumpy and even angry. But now he seemed relaxed, almost content to be talking to you. This sudden change in mood makes a strange feeling pass through you.

You clear your throat, straightening your back.

"What are you trying to do here, Edward?"

His smile dies a little and he tilts his head slightly. "What do you mean?"

“As far as I know, you hate our sessions and suddenly you just want to talk to me? What has changed?"

"Can’t we just have a good old-fashioned conversation? I'm known for my intelligence, but believe me when I say I can also be charming when I want to."

"I don't know if I buy it." You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him.

Edward clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes at you. "All right. It may come as a surprise, but in this building full of imbeciles and lunatics, you are one of the few people that I’m able to have a normal conversation with. You should be proud, Doctor. Not many have this honor."

The look of surprise on your face must be apparent, since Edward snorts a laught at you, shaking his head gently. Maybe it was too early to believe that Edward trusted you, but at least he seemed to be starting to warm up to you. And in your book that was considered a victory.

------

The door of your apartment closes behind you with a small click. You go through your usual routine, first locking all the locks on your door, then taking off your coat and finally greeting Meg with a pat behind her ears.

The answering machine warns you that you have seven new messages, but this time you decide to delete them without listening. You were in a good mood and didn't feel like having your day ruined again because of a wrong message. Whatever it was, it could wait.

Meg follows you on the way to your room and you need to be careful not to trip over her as she snuggle against your legs. A sigh leaves your lips when your sinks in your comfy matress, allowing the stresses of the day to leave your shoulders. You decide to make a new entry on your recorder, it's been a while since you've done that.

"Fourth session with patient Edward Nygma. Ed showed a great evolution today," you say as you rummage inside your bag. "He exhibited violent behavior on our last session, but Ed seemed to feel guilty as we talked about it. He was also willing to engage in a normal conversation with me and even seemed to be interested in what I had to say. Maybe this is a form of manipulation, but I like to believe Edward is improving in his treatment."

You take the little cat statue out of your purse, placing it on your bedside table. You pet it carefully, almost as if it was a real cat. When you started talking again, a smile came across your face.

"We exchanged gifts today. I brought the book he asked me and he made a cat sculpture inspired by Meg. It's lovely. I wonder what Edward could do if he had the right materials and tools. His manual skills are... fantastic."

You find yourself remembering how nervous Edward was earlier. The soft pink flush on his cheeks, going all the way up his ears. His gentle smile. Meg's meows knock you out of your thoughts and you realize you've been staring at the cat sculpture for too long. You decide to end the recording and getting up to prepare your and Meg's dinner.

#batman rogues #batman villains #the riddler #the riddler x reader #riddler x y/n #edward nygma x reader #arkham asylum #arkham riddler #edward nygma #arkhamverse #the riddler smut #the riddler fanfic #riddler x you #the riddler fanfiction

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