#jim gordon imagine

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

Tags: @eclecticwildflowers, @illiana-mystery

warnings: swearing

I rubbed my forehead as I took another sip from my cup, draining it in one go. The noise of another cup being put down made me look up. Jim stood there with a case file under one arm, cup of coffee in his hand and a smile on his face.

“late night? Or early morning?” He asked, pressing a kiss to my head as he moved to sit next to me. I rubbed my eyes and grabbed his hand, tilting it to catch a look at his watch.

“Both I think.” I said, letting go of his hand. Jim chuckled and leaned over to flip through the file in front of me. “Maybe I should head to bed.” I said, rubbing my face before leaning into Jim.

“want me to join you?” He asked, pulling back to look at me. I shrugged. “Yeah I’ll come with. I can read a file in bed. It’s fine.”

“you’re commissioner. You can do what you want.” I yawned as I stood up. Jim took my hand as he walked with me back to our bedroom. I climbed into bed and he waited until I was comfortable before climbing in next to me. I moved over to lay on his chest while jim wrapped his arm around me, file laying open on his lap.

“I’ll wake you in a couple hours.” I groaned as I turned my head into his chest to block out the light. “You need to eat. I’ll make you something. Don’t worry about it.” I nodded and let myself drift off. When I woke up later, my face was turned into a pillow and Jim was walking in with a tray of food. “Afternoon sleepy head.” He teased, setting down the tray and leaning in to kiss me.

“thought you said it would only be a couple hours.” I grumbled, brushing the hair out of my face as I looked over the tray. Jim smiled as he brought it closer. “You didn’t need to make this much food.”

“thought you deserved it.” Jim shrugged. “After pulling an all nighter like you did.” I nodded as I started to eat. “That file? What’s it on?” I swallowed my mouth full and smiled at him.

“case study. Thought I’d take a look at some of the older cold cases.” Jim nodded. “It’s some of the older joker murders.”

“I thought we solved all of those.” Jim’s said as he stole a piece of toast off the tray.

“the Arthur fleck ones.” I said, covering my mouth while I ate. “The original joker.” Jim rolled his eyes and I laughed. “Yeah I know. It also takes me across the Wayne murders and i thought i was seeing something there. Maybe some way to tie them to him and actually make them stick this time.” I shrugged while Jim looked impressed with me. “I’ll have to look again but I’m thinking now that I’ve slept and ate, maybe there wasn’t really something there at all.”

“well if anyone can find it, it’s you.” Jim assured me. “I’d be happy to help if you need it.” I nodded as we continued to eat. “Any other plans for the rest of the day?”

“depends. What do you have in mind?” I asked. “I might be able to be persuaded to put the file on hold.” Jim leaned over and kissed me deeply, one hand on my cheek.

“I can think of a few things.” He said, pulling back slightly as I trailed after him.

“you drive a hard bargain commissioner.” I teased him. “But I think I’m in agreement.” Pulling him back with me as I laid back, I kissed him just as deeply.

[batfam-imagines]

Okay are you taking Batmom requests? Cuz I have this absolutely hilarious idea.Blind Batmom gets taken into questioning cuz she "witnessed" a crime. The 2 officers are newbies not knowing she's Bruce's Wife, but Gordan and the others do. There's a line in my head that keeps playing.

Officer: Tell us what you saw!

Batmom: Fine you want to know? *takes off shades* Im blind ya asshole.

Gordan: *laughing his ass off*

“Hey, Gordon! Did ya see who the rookies have in Interrogation room 3?”

“The new kids already dragged some poor guy in?” Gordan quickly stood from his desk, following the group of officers heading to the interrogation viewing.

“Oh you’re gonna love this, Commissioner. But you might wanna call whatever lawyers GCPD has on retainer for the rookies. Her family’s gonna be pissed about this.”

Jim paused, his hand on the doorknob, “Shit.”

Inside the room the two new officers are sitting across from a smartly dressed woman who’s wearing sunglasses and a large dog that’s lying beside her.

Rookie #1, obviously tired of playing nice, slams his hand on the metal table and jabs a finger at the woman, “Just tell us what you saw!”

“Listen, ma’am, we just want to know what happened last night. You are the only witness left who could have seen Batman’s identity. We have several reports that his mask was compromised during the fight. Everyone at GCPD would be grateful if you could tell us anything you saw.”

The woman lets out a harsh breath, “Fine, you want to know?” She pulls her sunglasses of, revealing acid burn scars around both eyes, “I’m blind ya assholes, I didn’t see shit.”

Gordon lets out a barking laugh, doubling over, “Get those assholes out’a there before they get the whole department shut down!”

Once he’s alone in the observation room, Gordon lets out a harsh breath, “Damn rookies. How the hell am I gonna explain this to her kids?”

[avalon-of-babylon]

I fucking love genuinely out of touch rich guy Bruce Wayne. Like realistically, yeah, he knows the value of a dollar and how far it gets you but just off the people around him it would be fucking hilarious.

Dick who's lived his entire life in the circus asks for some lunch money.

Rich guy™️ Bruce hands him a thousand because he doesn't have anything smaller.

Reporter Clark Kent casually venting about his 2 mortgages.

Rich guy™️ Bruce tries to relate by talking about how hard it is to juggle his 27 private properties across the world hidden in various shell companies full of millions of dollars worth of batman gear.

Meanwhile Oliver Queen who just has the 1 house, shoves everything into a gym bag and flies his own ass places is sitting there like what the fuck.

Jason certified street kid and son of a drug addict currently splitting rent 5 ways "Yeah it's been hard to keep the lights on with Roy in rehab"

Rich guy™️ Bruce "why don't you dip into your trust fund?"

Jason certified problem child perpetually on the edge of getting disowned. "My what now?"

Commissioner Gordon, father of two, fully aware his daughter is batgirl, spends half his paycheck on his son's indefinite psychiatric treatment, cant afford to leave the rent controlled apartment he's had half his damn life, with a literal nightmare job in the worst city in the world, paranoid because of the stupid amount of corruption around him constantly, and is always on the edge of a mental breakdown.

Rich guy™️ Bruce "You need a vacation. There's this amazing place in the Bahamas you should try-"

Commissioner Gordon, whose idea of a vacation is faking his death for a week in a sting operation, already sobbing.

[gilverrwrites]

My horny ass has been watching Gotham again.

A-Z Gotham Men* and how they fuck you.

*like 75% of Gotham men: Alfred, Bullock, Butch, Ed/The Riddler, Jerome, Jervis, Jim, Lucius, Maroni, Penguin, and Zsasz 🖤

18+ MINORS DNI

Almost everything Alfred does is practiced, and purposeful and despite all his training, he’s still rough around the edges. But when he looks into your eyes, when he hears his name on your lips, all of that hardness and posturing dissipates. He tries to praise you but it comes out all muddled and breathless. So he worships your body as best he can, gently brushing your most sensitive parts with strong calloused hands, rocking your bodies together until you’re as lost as he is. Sometimes he does it with those white cotton gloves still on, and he neglects to clean them for days after because he can still smell you on them.

Bullock talks a big game, but he’s not the man he used to be. Still, what he lacks in youth, he makes up for in enthusiasm. Swollen lips kiss and suck at you, wherever he can find, his scruffy facial hair leaving beard rash on all his favourite parts. Firm, clammy hands pull and grope and guide your body, showing you how he likes it done. “Oh yeah, ooooh yeah, baby.” He pants between ragged breaths and clenched teeth, “Feels so fucking good baby, just like that.” When he’s done he wipes you down with a wet cloth and a cheeky grin, offering to buy you a drink he’s needed since you started.

Butch is big and sturdy and such a good boy. Butch is happy to say whatever you want to hear, to do whatever you want him to do, for you to use his body however you need to get off. “Anything for you Ma’.” He gets high on the scent of you, whimpers when you touch his cock, and eagerly licks up any mess he’s made, whenever, and wherever you allow him to. He’s at your service, just tell him what to do, so long as you shower him with your praise and adoration when you’re done. He especially loves it when you run your fingers through his hair, and plant your kisses behind his ears.

Ed is curious and attentive. His voice is shaky as he asks “Is this okay?” “Does that feel good?” “Is all this because of me?” His long fingers tentatively exploring every inch of you, in and out, memorising every jerk of your body, retaining every noise you make. He refuses to cum until you’re ready, until you’re fully entwined and engrossed in each other.

But The Riddler knows you’re needy. The Riddler takes advantage of that desperation, because it makes you dumb and mailable. He uses your body for his pleasure, he knows where to twist and pull to make your walls wet and tight around him. When you try to speak, he shushes you, cups your cheeks in gloved hands and coos; “I know, I know. Don’t speak. Just take it.”

Jerome is unpredictable. Some nights he’s a tease, making you beg and plead for your own defilement. It’s an act, entertainment, and you’re his favourite performer. When you’re good to him, he’s good to you, but when you’re bad, he’s really really bad. But it’s hard to be good, because he likes to move the goalpost whenever he senses you getting comfortable.

On other nights he’s clingy, and dutiful. He uses you to keep his cock warm, cradling you, swaying your bodies back and forth, inching himself deeper and deeper inside of you, and laughing into the crook of your neck.

Jervis is composed, and poised. He rolls his sleeves up and lets his hat sit askew while you ride him. Likes to watch the way you wither and pant, your eyes grow more and more vacant each time you work his cock deeper into your burning core. Likes to whisper and woo you with his sweet nothings. “Aren’t you a treasure? Fucking yourself for my pleasure?” It’s such a thrill to watch you come undone for him, especially when you’ll unravel yourself willingly.

As to be expected, Jim is the vanilla type. The quiet type, the strong and sturdy type. He makes love to you like it’s his duty, holding you down in missionary or the mating press as he hammers into you in powerful, uniform thrusts into your both coming undone, your name escaping his lips in an atypically soft whisper when he finishes deep inside you. What’s less expected is his oral fixation. Jim likes to relieve his stress by loosing himself between your legs, by licking and sucking and biting all the parts that make you flinch. He likes to know he’s left his mark on you, even if it’s confined to the places only he can lay his eyes on.

Lucius is like the cat that got the cream, grinning the whole time, every time. No matter the place or position, he peppers your skin with kisses, the curl of his lips evident with each press of his open mouth. He likes it slow and deep. Holds your feet over his shoulders and sink in until you can both feel his tip press against your cervix. Tell him how good that feels, smile back at him and he’s a goner. He likes to finish in your mouth, likes to watch the way your body perks when his cock twitches against your tongue, the way your expression softens, and your lids grow heavy when his thick, warm cum hits the back of your throat. You can barely roll over to grab the tissue before he’s on you again, ready to assault you with yet another round of smile-laden kisses.

Maroni likes a show, likes to be entertained, likes to know he makes you feel good without barely lifting a finger, he’s just that good, you know? So he lets you grind against him, or lets you ride him, nice and slow. He might play with your nipples when he wants you to make those pretty little noises, or press your tongue down with his think fingers when he wants you to be quiet. After you’ve found your release he holds your hips in a vice-like grip as he bucks up into you, deceptively fast for a big guy, until he unloads wherever he sees fit.

Penguin fucks you in a frenzy, high on your body, using you like every time is the first and last chance he’ll get. He ruts into you in short, sharp movements. He likes to see you on your knees, worshipping at his feet, taking him in whatever hole he pleases. He likes to rub his cock on your face, likes to mark you with his musk. When he speaks, it’s between shallow, harsh breaths, he begs demands that you call out his name, again, and again, louder and louder, ensuring everyone knows you belong to the King of Gotham.

Zsasz doesn’t care about your pleasure or comfort. In fact, it’s your pain that gets him off. Zsasz will fuck you dry so he can watch you flinch. He pinches, and wrenches, and grabs you like a ragdoll. He enjoys choking you until your neck is bruised and swollen, until you're crying deliciously salty tears that he loves to lick up. He likes to cut you on those fleshy, tender parts, likes to see your deep red blood on his pale hands. He loves to fuck you until you’re shaking, until you’re sore and overstimulated and begging him to stop.

[not-a-matopoeia]

Dick: And nope means nope like you said

Bruce (sobbing)

Image Description:

Panel one: a young (robin) Dick Grayson and Batman are standing there, Bruce leans over and says “Dick…chum…where are your pants”, to which Dick says “Nope!” A giant shit eating grin on his face

Panel two: Robin and Batman, Robin has his hands in the air and looks excited, Batman, with the cowl on, breaking the forth wall while Jim Gordon in the very background says “Put some pants on that kid Batman.”

[batmanlovesnirvana]

What would Bruce Wayne be cancelled for ?

[maweallgotohell]

Jerome Valeska - Brother's Assistant pt.1

+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:

+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:

pairing: Jerome Valeska x fem! reader

warnings: none

summary: Jerome locates Jeremiahs residence and decides to pay his brother a visit - to kill him. But when the door opens, he is met with the prettiest and kindest woman he has ever seen. But how will Jeremiah react, especially when it turns out, that Jerome has caught feelings for her, his assistant and best friend? And how will Jerome himself react in such a situation?

+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:*﹤+*:ꔫ:

He found him.

He searched for him for all these years and now he found him. His brother. And he wanted to kill him.

For all these years he made dozens of plans and figured out the best ways to spread fear and get his name all across Gotham so his brother would notice.

He wanted him to feel unsafe.

He wanted him to be afraid.

A few weeks ago he found out what name Jeremiah now went by and after knowing that it wasn't all too complicated to find him. Well yeah, he lived in a fuckin' bunker in the middle of the woods (fuckin' paranoid bitch), but with a name like his, it wasn't very difficult for Jerome to make out his location. Just threaten the right people and you're ready to go.

And there he stood. In front of his brother's labyrinth bunker. Was he nervous? Yeah. But he was determined to kill Jeremiah.

For the last few weeks, he tried to find a way to break into the bunker without being noticed, but there wasn't another entrance. Just the main one. And so he just... pressed the doorbell?

It was weird for him because it felt like a polite gesture. He felt like a brother, who wanted to visit his twin for dinner, while he was the "evil twin", who came to kill that son of a bitch, he had to call his brother.

* ring*

To his surprise, it wasn't his brother's face, that greeted him at the door, no. A beautiful young woman opened it swingingly, her silky (hair color) hair swaying with her movements. It was quite early in the morning, which was why she was still wearing her nightgown, the dark green silk hugging her curves perfectly and the lace gracefully accentuating her (skin color) skin. Her warm and welcoming smile greeted him like a cozy hug and he couldn't help but stare at her.

" Hello?", she asked, her voice sounding soft and gentle, as if she was an angel, that came down to earth just for him.

Her face changed and turned into a frightened one immediately as she recognized his features. She must've recognized him from the news or from stories his brother told her, he thought, but that wasn't the case. Not at all.

" Omg, Xander! What happened to your face?! Are you okay?! Are you hurt?!" She rushed directly towards him.

" Uhm, hello..? No, no Miss, I'm Jerome, Jeremiah's, uh, I mean Xanders' long lost twin brother.", he answered nervously.

Why did he stutter? And why did he lie? Well, it wasn't exactly a lie, but he wasn't honest either. How could the presence of a woman make him this nervous? He should've shot her right then and there. But he couldn't. She was too. .. breathtaking and.. . interesting to kill. He somehow knew she was different. He felt it.

Her expression softened and her smile found its way back onto her face. She hugged him as a greeting, which kinda took him by surprise.

" Omg hello!", she grinned. " I didn't know Xan had a twin. Glad to meet you! I'm YN." You held out your hand for him to shake.

...Xan?

You had a nickname for him? Was he your boyfriend? Jerome came to kill his brother, only to fall for his girlfriend? Wow. That was weird, even for him. And how could someone like Miah even pull a girl like you? Tf?

„ Nice, nice to meet you too YN.", was all he could bring himself to say.

" Xan will be so happy to hear that you're here and that you found him."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the front door with her.

" Come in. Follow me.", she said as she closed the door behind them.

The sudden touch of hers took him by surprise as he stumbled after her into the building.

It was silent for a bit, only the sound of their footsteps against the concrete was to be heard.

Then Jerome found the courage to speak up.

" Sooo YN.. is "Xander" like.. you know... your boyfriend?" He found it so awkward to ask you that, whyever that was, but he just had to. He had to know that to contemplate, whether he had to kidnap or kill you if his brother really was your boyfriend.

She stopped in her tracks to turn around and look at him, only to burst out in laughter.

" Oh god, no.", you giggled. " I'm his assistant and we're like best friends. No romantic feelings between us, really. But I live here. We both needed someone to live with and we've worked together before since we met at St.Ignatius and became best friends there and later, roommates. And here we are."

He was relieved. You weren't with his brother. But were you single? He knew he was there for a different reason and definitely not to go all heart-eyed over his brother's best friend and assistant, but the question occupied his mind completely.

You stopped in front of a door and put your key card in front of the card reader.

" We're here.", you said. "This is the living room. Make yourself comfortable, Jerome. Do you want anything to drink?"

He nodded.

" Soo we have coffee, a few types of tea, water, hot chocolate or orange juice. What would you like?", you asked him with a genuine smile.

" Oh, uhm, coffee sounds amazing. Thank you."

You nodded.

"I'll be right back."

And with that, you turned around and left into the kitchen, which was right next to the living room.

" Xan should arrive here soon too btw. I think in half an hour or so. I'd be happy to have you stay here and accompany me while we wait for him. Only if that's fine for you, tho.", you smiled.

Jerome had always been able to accurately identify and define his feelings. He was also able to consider and assess them rationally. And right now, he felt something he never thought he could feel. Admiration and joyful excitement.

You could've told him to leave or come back when Jeremiah was home or given him an appointment to meet up with his brother. But you didn't. No, furthermore, you invited him to stay with you and said you would like him to accompany you. You weren't even a little bit scared of him, not even because of his "awful" features, which he found sometimes. No, you didn't do any of that. Instead, you were genuinely nice to him and treated him like everybody else, or rather special.

You made him feel wanted just by these small things you did and your naturally nice behavior, which was quite rare for him.

He thought he had, no, he was sure that he had developed a small crush on you. Even though it was unusual for him to trust someone that easily or feel drawn to someone, especially that fast, he wasn't afraid of it at all.

It felt like being near you lifted all the weight he carried off his shoulders without effort. And he wasn't scared to experience these new feelings, because he felt like they wouldn't do him bad at all. It was strange but exciting at the same time and he couldn't wait to learn more about you.

You two chatted a bit until you noticed that you hadn't informed Xan about your guest.

" Sorry, I hate to interrupt you, but I just noticed, that I haven't told Xan about you being here. Lemme just send him a message real quick."

He panicked immediately. What if Miah warned her about him and made her have a different view of him? I mean, sooner or later, Miah would come home and she would find out, who Jerome 'really' is, yeah. But he didn't want their nice little talk and their shared time to end so soon.

"Uhm, YN?", he spoke up, his voice rather quiet. The young woman looked from her phone, back up at him, a questioning expression on her face.

"Could you maybe not tell him I'm here?" His low voice now sounded rather hesitant. Your eyebrows furrowed a bit in astonishment.

"I...I wanted to surprise him. After all this time we haven't seen each other, you know?" He was surprised by himself. He said those words with such emotion, that even he himself would've believed that he missed his brother that much.

Her astonished expression settled again and gave way to a lovely smile.

"Oh yeah, sure! That's a very sweet idea. Xan will be so happy to see you", the young woman cheered.

Jerome exhaled in relief but then lowered his head as well as his voice.

"I doubt that. See, I wasn't always the best brother for him, you know. It may be that he doesn't want to see me at all, let alone talk to me or even have me here. Don't be disappointed then, YN. It's okay, really. I don't want to bother you two. Really, I don't."

He said that. And he sounded like he really missed his brother or felt sorry for the things he did.

Did he? No, very surely he did not. He came here o kill Miah, not to reunite with him and be like 'best buddies'.

But he didn't feel as if what he told the girl before was a lie. Because it wasn't.

The sad undertone in his voice was not a result of missing his brother so much, no. It was because he knew that when Miah returned, he would no longer be able to spend time with the beautiful young lady sitting across from him at that very moment, looking at him sympathetically.

She had changed everything for him in that short time. He had already heard that when you are in love, you no longer have control over what you feel and think. But he had never experienced it. Until this very moment.

No.

Until that moment when she opened the door for him.

" Jerome, please. How could someone, especially Xander, ever be that resentful."

He sighed.

He contemplated telling her the truth. That his brother built this whole bunker they're living in, just to protect them from him.

But he didn't.

Because he was... scared. This was the first time since he killed his mother that he was truly afraid of something.

He feared losing her. And it was more terrifying than anything else.

---------------

While Jerome and YN chatted and got to know each other better, Jeremiah just then received a text from her.

> Hey Xan! You home soon? We have a surprise guest. C ya.<

At first, he thought of it as a normal text she would send him. Everything was fine.

But then it hit him like a crash.

Nobody knew where they lived. Nobody.

He panicked immediately and quickly got in his car, so he could be home as fast as possible. What if YN was in danger but didn't know yet? He could never forgive himself if something happened to her.

----------------------------

word count: 1820

The first part of a new short series (probably gonna be 2 or 3 parts again). Hope y'all like it.

C ya

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXXVI. “whiplash”

parts: previous / next

plot: sobering up brings a host of emotion to the surface. your next interaction with Bruce takes things a step further.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, anxiety, panic

words: 7.2k

a/n: hiii !! been a little longer between this and the last chapter, started my final year of grad school and have had to adjust to a lotttt more work! but i got this done and i'm exciiited to keep writing <3 this will not be the new norm! grad school will not take away my fic time !! i refuse !! anyway, the characters took me places in this chapter I wasn’t anticipating 🤭

The night had been lengthy. As daybreak hit, and the ceiling had gone blurry from staring at it so thoroughly, the high-res image of him fuzzed into nothing more than an outline. The shadow of him followed you to the counter, where you ordered the first thing you noticed on the menu, plugged in your card, and waited for your latte in vain.

A girl who couldn’t be more than seventeen walked around the counter with an apologetic smile. “So sorry, but we’re out of oat milk.” She had bright brown eyes that turned down at the corners, and a lopsided grin. You continued to tread water, forcing back memories of your cursed adolescence that had led you here. You nodded at her first suggestion, slinking closer to the wall as you reset your waiting. You wanted to grab her by the shoulders, tell her to get out, to leave. That the city would swallow her up, smother her dreams, break her.

You wished you’d listened when your parents had done that to you.

Wood paneling brought warmth to the small dining area. A speaker nestled between some spider plants wafted lofi music from the far corner. A few friends clustered together with laptops and cheap spiral notebooks on the spindly tables and chairs. Your mind wandered around itself like an echoey ballroom, poking and prodding at each thing out of place. Why had you ever come to Gotham?

Your phone buzzed, but the cinch in your stomach knotted your fingers from grabbing it. It was a hot stove, burning a hole in the pocket of your hoodie so much you could almost smell it smoldering. Prioritizing your attention to the steady tempo of the heartbeat in your ears was the only reason you were still standing.

It buzzed again. Then again, giving you no choice but to stare the horse in the mouth. Mar was responding to the barrage of texts you’d sent her last night to distract; two-player games, memes, entirely too specific questions because you’d hoped she’d free you from the night’s torment. At some point, you’d deliriously tried to telepathically text Walter, so desperate for anything other than the frames of Bruce and you that slammed against your eyelids like hail.

Your thumb slipped and moved you back to your messages menu. The pull you felt toward his name was all too similar to slowing past a car crash, straining your neck against all better judgment to look away. You clicked on it, feeling like you’d fallen back into bed, the sheets coarse against your skin.

You’d taken a shower the second he left, stopping for nothing save locking the door. The water was ice cold, an attempt to shock away the play acting itself out behind every blink. Every movement of your arm across your body felt like a bullet, or a hot knife slicing through the top layers of skin. You fought through body wash like it was his hands gliding over you, wincing as they passed over the gigantic scarlet bruise assaulting your thigh.

You’d been convinced you were losing your mind, and swore not to take weed ever again.

After toweling off, tears stinging your eyes over the endless suffering of that shower, you wanted nothing more than to slip into a state of nonexistence. No thoughts, no hopes, no fears, no consequences. But the phone stared at you, and you stared back, knowing you had to text him.

The barista came out and handed you your coffee, and you startled to the point she apologized again, eyes squinting slightly. You muttered a thank you, and slipped out into the street.

Leaving the café had you feeling like a thief. Like someone was out to get you, breathing down your neck whispering I found you out. I know your secret. Walking past pedestrians felt like they could see right through you. Like you were stripped naked walking through downtown, pining for an alleyway you could slip into for a moment of reprieve.

The main intersection downtown had a notoriously ‘sticky’ walk light—sometimes it would go off too often, creating a horrific hazard for people too trusting, or it would only buzz rarely, leaving you stranded between you and your destination for far too long. After the third light cycle with no signal, you were forced to suffer an indefinite wait, the phone a heavy brick in your hand.

Almondmilk foam caressed your lips as you diverted your attention to the texture and spices in the latte. Still bitterly hot, you relished its sting, fingers tapping anxiously on the inflexible plastic back of your phone case. Burn me. Scald me. You slammed a gulp of it, and for a moment the desire to stare at your screen faded to gray. After a few seconds soothing your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you squinted your eyes open to see if the walk signal was lit. No such luck.

When you thought about rushing into traffic, you made yourself take a deep breath. You needed to get a grip, and tried talking yourself down. So what? You’d been high, had an unprecedented dream, and the thoughts had lingered. The situation didn’t need to be stickier than that. As exposure, you looked through the messages from the night before, the first few of which you’d tossed and turned in bed before sending, suddenly overthinking every syllable you ‘spoke’ to him.

Hey, it’s Y/N. Back yet?

Home safe.

You recalled being shocked he was such a fast texter.

Thanks for following up. Got your number saved.

Does that make two numbers in your phone now?

Three. Running out of storage space at this rate.

1.Alfred

2.Alfred (Cell)

3.Me

How’d you hack my phone?

Lol (laughing out loud)

Thanks. Had no idea.

Now that Bruce Wayne is in the public eye, you gotta know this stuff.

Hope I don’t run into him. Heard he’s a total tool.

That poor journalist he roped into interviewing him.

You know Bruce, desperate to talk.

By this point you’d been grinning in bed, forgetting the turmoil of the past half hour. You’d set your phone on your nightstand, until two minutes later when it lit the room up.

I did have a great time tonight. Sorry if I intruded.

I owe you another bottle. And Skittles.

I liked the company. Wasn’t looking forward to being alone, hence the edible.

I’m sorry for how I acted this morning. If it helps, I’m safe.

It does. Glad you’re feeling better, really.

Appreciate you looking out for me. I’ll try to make it easier.

You’d have been lying if you’d said that didn’t make your stomach flip a little.

You don’t need to feel bad about this morning. It makes sense why you’d feel that way, the pity stuff.

Doesn’t mean you had to be in the crossfire.

How’s your head? Your leg?

Better. I think the weed’s helping somehow.

Good.

If you want to talk about anything, I’m here.

I forget the toll these things take.

By this point it was like a spell had overtaken you, like his kindness was a slippery slope of contagion enveloping you before you’d even realized what you were messing with.

For someone who claims these interactions are so new, you sound pretty normal.

Alfred fills the gaps.

I’m imagining him standing over your shoulder telling you what to say.

I’d sound more British.

In the pause of you laughing to yourself, he sent another text.

Followed up with Gordon before you texted. Miller’s still in custody, no chance of bail. Hope that helps you sleep better tonight.

You distinctly recalled thinking Talking to you is helping me sleep better before promptly throwing your phone across the room on reflex. It thudded into the pink chair of your desk, thankfully unharmed. You laid there, chest heaving, room spinning. Like a petulant, obnoxious visitor looking for any excuse to insert themselves, the mirage came back with a gentle pulse, and you felt his breath on your neck again.

You hadn’t responded the rest of the night, and that was where the text chain ended. By the time you’d gathered your breath enough to walk to your phone, it was too late to respond, made you too self-conscious. You’d hoped he’d leave it at that, and wouldn’t follow up more. You were petrified of the nightmare coming back.

The light turned, and after a triple check to make sure it wasn’t short-circuiting, you pocketed your phone and walked across, flinching at every crunch of a leaf under your shoe. Bruce had certainly been a favorable distraction from the reality of having been held at gunpoint, of being kicked and pummeled into the concrete, but you couldn’t shake the sweat-soaked feeling that clouded every thought about him: whiplash.

Walking home, the feeling was different than he’d ever felt before; rather than harassing himself about why he’d said this, that, or anything else, he felt… peaceful. A bit sore, but a good sore, like flexing a muscle you hadn’t exercised in a while. Simultaneously, he felt like he’d opened up too much for comfort and comfortably stretched his limits. It was disorienting, the usual word for how he felt around you. Rather than ruminating on words or tone, he looked at the flicker of the streetlights off the broken windows, how the puddles created a dew on the jagged edges of the brick in the alleys he slipped through. More than anything, he felt like he’d been cracked open. Like a sliver of light was getting in; the light of wanting to keep you talking on the couch. The light of getting lost in you.

As he drew closer to Wayne Tower, his legs felt more weighted. Maybe it was the alcohol, no, it was absolutely the alcohol, and he’d likely feel horrible in the morning, but for now, as he walked through the damp streets, his head felt less crowded. A nagging thought at the back of his mind was how the hell he’d fallen asleep so quickly. He was always keenly aware of his energy levels, having mapped them endlessly to accurately gauge how much longer he could stay out and fight. He hadn’t felt tired. It hadn’t even been midnight. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d fallen asleep that early. It was ridiculous.

It’d been about ten minutes into the episode that he’d noticed you were sleeping. As quickly as he could remember after, he’d followed your lead. He’d passed a long-abandoned park a half-mile from his house and a swingset creaked in the wind, mimicking the sound in his chest when you’d come back from the bathroom with a yawn. It’d been devastating to leave, but he hoped he’d played it off well enough.

Even cloaked in alcohol’s gentle embrace, he felt the sober him kicking at his walls. In the morning he’d be scared of this, and he knew it, he knew it as well as his feet knew their way home. He pictured himself in the batcave the next morning swearing off alcohol for the rest of his life, planning a campaign to make Gotham a dry town so he’d never again be tempted to fall into this. Or collect all the beers up in his tower so he could drink, drink, and drink the slope of your smile out of his memory.

Alfred was in the kitchen again when he’d entered; a fragment of him wanted to thank him, tell him he was right, that he’d opened some sort of door into something new. Instead he nodded at the man, striding past him like he wasn’t still coming down, like they hadn’t had the confrontation, and went up to bed.

As soon as he sat, his phone buzzed. Before inputting you as a contact, he read your number with focused repetition to commit it to memory. He sat back against his headboard, feeling its squish against the wall. As he responded to your messages, it dawned on him that he hadn't texted like this in ages, if ever.

That poor journalist he roped into interviewing him.

He didn’t realize he was smiling until his cheeks felt weak from the tension, and by then he didn’t care. After he sent the message about Gordon, he stayed up for the next hour waiting for what you might say back. Sleep interrupted his waiting, and he woke up the next morning with his phone still in his hand. He’d startled upon rousing, usually keeping it tucked into his nightstand or face-down on top of it. A few moments of blinking back to the room, and…

He felt like shit. Every feeling came back to him tenfold, alongside a mind-numbing headache. The gentle hold of last night’s vulnerability had degraded into a blanket of knives, puncturing every inch of his body. He ignored Alfred when he stormed down to get lunch, and ate it in a daze. He stomped up the stairs and threw on a hoodie and jacket, tightening the drawstrings and slapping a scarf over his face. He threw on a pair of sunglasses and called it a day, jogging the back alleys downtown, all deliberation gone on whether to visit or not.

In the hour before sleeping, deliberate he had; he’d ached over whether or not to visit you so soon. He owed you another bottle of wine, and some snacks, but he felt like shit inserting himself again. His feet slammed the pavement as he broke into a sprint, his teeth gnashing together with each thudding step. You’d only allowed him to visit because you’d thought he was in crisis, you probably felt violated having someone over while under the influence; probably thought he was irresponsible and opportunistic; maybe you’d even blocked his number by now.

Bruce had to take a detour from the usual route, having to slip onto the main road for a few blocks. He kept his head firmly down, never being out at this time of day and absolutely hating it. Keep to the right. Keep to the wall.

Someone slammed into his shoulder, falling and spilling the contents of their purse about the sidewalk. His head snapped up, noticing the color of your hair, stooping to collect what had fallen. Some lipstick, gum, keys. Did you recognize him? He moved his hand to his sunglasses to pull them down, a sneaky tell just for you, but when he looked up his stomach sank. The stranger grabbed her stuff from him quickly, hastily pulling the bag over her shoulder before rushing off.

Shit. He hurried and slunk more to the wall, the arm of his jacket skipping against the brick. He pulled against the snags when they caught, clipping along to the beat of his chest. He wanted it to be you so badly. Too badly. He felt nauseous.

Possibly in the worst timing of all, he found himself approaching the worst intersection in the city. Whenever he drew up his budget, he needed to lobby for it to be taken care of. Cars whizzed past, most drivers looking anywhere else but right in front of them. A passing thought: if they hadn’t died that night, they probably would’ve died here. How much blood was caked in the potholes and chunks of dry gravel?

The light came on, another force of hand making him interact with the world around him. Except when he did, his eyes dragged up to you at the other side, staring down at your phone while you sipped a coffee. The tips of his fingers went cold.

You were looking forward, but looked right through him. This was possibly the first time he’d ever been disappointed by invisibility; it was a trap, not freedom.

He’d look suspicious following you, but he couldn’t very well pull you to the side on a busy street corner.

He’d talk. He’d say something as you walked past, and you’d know it was him. You’d know his voice. You knew him.

He drew a breath before you walked past, but hesitated when you did. You’d been so close the ends of your hair had flounced against his jacket, could smell the subtle sweetness of your shampoo. He swallowed hard, his breath faltering. A light airiness bounced around his stomach. You were walking fast, he only had a few seconds…

He started walking toward you, but stopped after a few steps. You wouldn’t believe he hadn’t followed you, it would be too suspicious. He turned around with a snap, checking if the signal was still on, and jogged across the street. His head was a mess. He reassured the pit in his stomach that he’d see you on Tuesday for March’s rally, while also wanting to temper his hope, while also not wanting to have it…

“Hey, sorry, I was just in your shop, and—yes! Y/N. Oh my god, thank you, I’m a block away. So sorry, I’ll be right there.”

Bruce looked over his shoulder to see you running across the street, your jacket flapping in the wind behind you, just like your hair, your phone pressed to your ear. At this point the universe was teasing him. Bruce Wayne can’t have simple run-ins. Certainly not with you.

You walked past fellow pedestrians, no one giving you a second glance, like you were another faceless member of the nebulous ‘public’. You were even allowed to say your name out loud, to use your voice without modulation, bare your face, dress how you’d like, go where you pleased. You disappeared a block down into a small café, and he wanted to follow, but he waited. You came out a few seconds later, finishing the pocketing of your card into your pant pocket.

You walked to the intersection a few feet from him. It felt bizarre watching you, like he was watching a movie happen in real time. A woman walked to the waiting area beside you, pushing a stroller with a very loud child inside. You and the woman exchanged grins, and you waved at the baby. Your hair flew into your face and you tucked it behind your ear, saying something he couldn’t make out. The woman’s voice got louder as she recognized you. “Wait, are you the journalist who did the interview with Bruce Wayne?”

Bruce stepped to the side a few feet, playing with his position against the wind to ensure he could hear.

“Yeah! It was wild, really cool he wanted to work with someone from GU.”

“That’s so fun. Congratulations!”

Even though the conversation was polite, it churned Bruce’s stomach to see your coffee trip be affected by your connection to him. She was only one out of many who had passed by without look or comment, but that ratio, and those interruptions, would only increase the more time you spent together. He felt like a monster, too big to hang out, encroaching on all remaining normalcy in your life.

The light turned, and you walked in tandem with the woman and her stroller. The wind was able to lap across your cheeks, not a camera to be seen; no shouting crowds, clamoring strangers. He turned and walked the rest of the way to his car, pulling the keys from his jacket pocket before standing limply by the driver door. Why couldn’t he walk up to you? Why was he wrapped to anonymous completion, having to obscure every inch of available skin for the crime of walking to his car? The scarf was stifling. His eyes sweat behind the sunglasses. At the beck and call of his dead family’s reputation was an excruciating place to live.

He jammed into his seat and restrained every muscle in his foot that wanted to slam on the gas, only letting himself do so once on the outskirts of town. The pedal hit the floor hard, and the world whizzed by in a blurry haze. He had half a mind to slam on the brakes, sending the car toppling over itself into the gravel ditch.

The image of it is what made him coast to a stop, the world slowing enough for him to catch his bearings. Once he was safely pulled to the side, near one of the city’s many graveyards, he pressed his forehead to the wheel, feeling what bubbled under the surface. Grief.

The drive home was slower and more deliberate. Every time his foot itched to slam into a tree, or ram into an alley wall, he counted his breaths. By the time he got back he was drained, but wouldn’t let himself sit in it. His stomach grumbled, ached with emptiness, his meds rotting an ulcer into his abandoned stomach, but he didn’t care.

Not able to enter Wayne Tower by the front, he didn’t see the police car sitting on the curb; instead, Alfred was already in the cave, standing by the elevator so there could be no faux pas. “Detective’s arrived. Wants a statement for this past Thursday.” His cane echoed coolly on the concrete floor.

Bruce would’ve asked if there was another time, or a way to skip altogether, but that wasn’t an option when it came to helping you. He pulled off his disguise and ran a hand through his matted hair before following Alfred up the elevator. It was difficult not to overthink the first extended interaction Gordon would have with Bruce Wayne. At the mayor’s funeral, he’d turned his nose up at Bruce, going so far as to eye him with criminal suspicion. He hadn’t yet figured out what to do if Gordon were to find out, and he didn’t want to have to think on his feet today.

Gordon was sitting at the table in Bruce’s seat. Martinez stood beside him, his energy expanding to fill the dim room. Alfred flipped on the last of the lights, making everyone wince. “Apologies, thought it best to let the light in.”

“Mr. Wayne.” Gordon cleared his throat, Martinez taking the opportunity to speak with the thinly veiled glee of a child on Christmas morning.

“Sir, we’re here to collect your statement sir, about an incident that occurred on…” He continued to talk, but Bruce tuned it out, wanting them to leave already. He situated himself in your seat, clasping his hands together on the table.

“I was walking to a convenience store after the City Hall meeting. Passing by that alleyway, I noticed the shape of a gun being held to someone’s head. The man saw me, as he was facing back, and slammed on the gas as I approached. I didn’t know what was going on, until the journalist that I spoke to earlier this month fell out of the vehicle before crashing.”

Gordon notated everything, his tone light, but suspicious. He had this tone whenever interrogating someone he didn’t fully believe. “Lucky timing, huh?”

Bruce shrugged. “Glad I could help.”

“Of course.” He flipped a page in his mini spiral. “So, after she ‘fell’ out of the vehicle, what happened?”

He shoved down a brittle laugh. Did they really think he was nefariously involved in this? If only Gordon knew… if only they both knew. Martinez continued to have the same reaction to Batman as his partner was having to Bruce now.

“She told me he held her at gunpoint asking to recant her statement. Apparently they’d been in some sort of altercation the night before.” He wondered if he was speaking too matter-of-fact, if he should dull his adjectives and verbs. “Wanted to use her to get to my lawyers. Get him back in school.” He hesitated before saying the next part, trying to glean off pure body language if Gordon knew you hadn’t come back to your apartment that night.

“I wanted to help, so I brought her here for the night. Talked through things,”

“What things?” His pen sat menacingly above the ruled paper.

“About what happened then, and the night before. Got her situated in a room upstairs, took her home in the morning.”

“She trusted you to do that?” He peered over his glasses. Bruce nodded, and Gordon sighed. “Must’ve formed quite the alliance at the interview.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, feeling a shift in the room. What did he mean by that? Him too now? His voice was darker, grim, the rose-colored lens fading to purples and blues. “I don’t know what you mean.” He wanted Gordon to say it with his chest.

He didn’t bite. “Did she ask to come here, Mr. Wayne?”

“I told her it would be safest.”

“Didn’t think to report it?” His left hand fiddled with the curled pages at the bottom of the notebook, as if he were going through the motions, unfazed. Another one of his tactics to get people’s guard down. Maybe he’d even start doodling on the seams. “Slipped your mind?”

He grit his teeth. He knew Gordon was reading into the circles under his eyes and the laxity of his skin, both giving away too much to do on not enough sleep. “My priority was to make sure she was alright. It’s traumatic having a gun pointed at your head.”

Martinez’s eyes flashed just so, his chest puffing. Gordon rustled, closing the notebook with a plop. Bruce never liked employing that night in any form of defense, but this was threatening murky waters, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep a rein on his temper with Gordon’s passively placed, blasé accusations about you.

“Thank you for your time Mr. Wayne. We’ll be in touch.” Alfred saw them out, and Bruce waited to hear the door click behind them before pulling himself out of his seat, returning right back from whence he came.

The elevator was rickety, and it unnerved him, which was unusual. His muscles felt tight, his chest and throat constricted. Rumors about the interview had reached the GCPD, infiltrated Gordon, ooh. He walked to the front of his desk, facing the computer that had been untouched the past week and a half, one of the longest breaks yet. He pressed his palms to the edge of the metal and hung his head, coaxing his temperature down.

Clicking the computer on showed where his mind had been the days before the attempt. A dozen tabs with varying searches for Electrum came to life just as the days swept into him. Before he could jump back in, he forced himself into purgatory, opening a new tab to draw up new contingencies. The blank document titled Emergency Plan: Mental glared back at him. He closed his eyes and typed, holding his breath like a ball in his chest until the last word was released onto the page.

- Come on quickly: easily accessible button to phone Alfred

- Unstable reality when it hits: program unique signal to physical distress

- During periods of stress: increase assessment of stress on patrol

- Some form of tranquilizer/sedative readily available

- Orienting item: figure out

He hadn’t stopped hearing what the nurses, psychiatrists, and social workers said to him in Arkham, he’d just stopped caring. Unfortunately, he’d been wrong, not them, adding an entirely new level of shame to the affair. It took longer than he would’ve liked to manage recall as he waded through the memory.

His phone rattled on the table closest to the exit, next to the pile of the day’s disguise. It was easy to pull him away from the computer screen, the back of his thoughts in a constant search for something to distract from the unraveling of his mind, potentially the upheaval of life as he knew it.

It was you.

The sunglasses were a nice touch.

It was like the air got knocked out of him. Your perceptiveness could’ve made him jealous if he weren’t the current victim. He’d worn a different scarf this time, you’d only seen his jacket under struggling streetlights, a dark kitchen after getting your head pounded into pavement.

Had to get my car. Didn’t want to bother you.

Do you believe that I won’t tell now?

I already have for a while.

He put the phone down and told himself it was to focus back on the work, ignoring the squeeze in his gut, the thread you pulled simply by acknowledging him, making him looser, the seams splitting, letting the contents of him jostle and spill out over your lap.

BZZT.

Now I kinda want to prove you wrong.

BRB, calling the president.

Told him. He’s helicoptering over to Wayne Tower as we speak.

Bruce grinned against his will again.

Your fingers were clammy from cradling your phone, the remains of your coffee sitting cold next to you at the kitchen counter. The woman from earlier had commented on how it was ‘so late’ to be having a coffee, but that she understood. It had been difficult hearing her with Anonymous Dock Worker Who Was Definitely Not Bruce standing behind you.

Now you can see me hold my side of the bargain.

Waiting at my apartment in armor. I have a big stick, don’t know if that changes things.

My weakness.

Too bad people don’t try that more often.

Got you all figured out.

More than most.

This conversation was equal parts painful and thrilling. In honesty, you’d ignored him when you saw him on the corner, hyperaware of his presence from the moment you walked past him. You’d suspected it was genuinely to get his car, no secret stalking, but you couldn’t put your finger on why you were so convinced so soon.

This was where things went wrong–when you felt like you knew a person more than you did. This was where charisma and power pulled their initial weight, in making their victims swim in a sense of novel electricity. It was the reason you hadn’t spoken to him on the streetcorner, and why it took pacing your apartment for an hour to finally send him a text back. You were circling the drain, avoiding the swirling waters that you knew could pull you under.

You glanced over at the couch, the cushion still ruffled from where he sat. He can be so sweet. The symphony of his smile and his laugh together, planting a glow deep in your chest, padding you from the familiar, harsher realities of your past experiences with him. You didn’t want to ignore them. It would be irresponsible.

You grabbed your laptop and pulled up the schedule of events for the next three months. Bruce was harsh and unyielding.

SEARCH: Lincoln March

He was a recluse, someone whose most regular social contact was his own butler, who he treated pretty shittily.

Lincoln March - The People’s Candidate

Still, he kept showing up for you, slowly increasing in warmth each time.

Campaign Goals:

But only because you’d lied.

Fully-fund Gotham’s K-12 public schools.

He was only being nice out of guilt. You couldn’t read into it further.

Maternity leave has long been a partially-funded social program in Gotham, but if elected, I plan to expand upon…

He ran another hand through his hair, shutting his computer off. You were only acting this way out of guilt, handling him with gloved hands, every interaction careful and gentle. Impulsive, he crossed the room to don the suit instead of sending you another text. The snap of his armor into place atop his padding was the sound of Bruce Wayne slipping away. Relief washed over him as he dipped his fingers into the tarry paint. He didn’t have anything to do but what Gotham gave him tonight.

He called Gordon once he was on the road. He didn’t answer.

The streets were filled, a typical Saturday night. He slunk round the same alleys, the usual crime spots, even looped around the watchtower in case Gordon was there, messing with a broken bat signal. Nothing. Until he heard some shouting at a nearby subway station. He cut the lights on his car and slipped silently through the corridor, ears ringing with adrenaline.

A small group of men were harassing a young girl with a sparkly pink backpack. She couldn’t be older than thirteen. The men were whistling, one of them tugging on her ponytail. Her face was scrunched up tight with her hands covering her ears. He didn’t even think before jumping in.

His fist connected with the nearest man’s jaw, amplifying a rush of adrenaline through him. Suppressing a grin, he followed it with the other, ducking to dodge a hit from the man behind him. He spun out his right heel, rendering the man unstable, and slammed him against the brick with a jut of his elbow. Every punch he landed was easy, instinctual, bliss. The fighting felt different. He had vastly more energy. While the three men staggered back, he gestured for the girl to run. She mouthed something he couldn’t hear, a hit landing in the plane of his back.

Jaw. Nose. Rib. Kidney. A tooth of the man flew out amid the tunnel of punches, skidding into a puddle. Batman grinned.

“COME ON, MAN!” A hoarse voice, the tallest man of them, shouted out. They ran off, leaving the empty sound of terrified sniffles echoing from the far corner. He studied their clothes, their hair color, and height, giving a quick call on his wrist to the GCPD. The dispatcher confirmed they already sent cars to the area, and he calmed his heaving body before turning around.

The girl was clutching her backpack like a stuffed animal, shoving herself into the metal bars of the subway entrance. He made his voice softer. “They’re gone, you’re safe. Do you know where your parents are?” The only time he wished the suit was less threatening were cases like this. Kids didn’t need to be more scared than they already were.

“LACIE!” The strained shout of a desperate mother arrived at the same time as Gordon’s vehicle. The child raced to their mom, and Gordon sidled up with another notepad for his statement. He gave it, listened while the mother tearfully explained that the kid had gotten off at the wrong stop, and left before anyone could see the blood dripping off the knuckles of his gloves.

Against your better judgment, you loaded up Scypher, clicking to clear but ignoring everything in the ‘Social’ tab and all notifications. You locked your accounts to ‘private’, upset you’d kept them public this long, but paused. What if that makes me look suspicious? You set them public again, noticing a ping on the ‘Crime’ tab.

GC1 News was reporting on a shooting at a nightclub about three miles north. Only minutes before their reporting, you saw a swarm of posts from right after.

BATMAN JUSR SAVED ME

|

Wtf are you okay????????

|

YEA HE TOOK A BULLET FR ME IM HSAKING

You refreshed, frantic. He was fine, right? His suit was meant to take bullets. He was used to taking bullets. He was fine. You could hardly read the screen your hands were shaking so intensely.

Did anyone die?

|

The shooter I think. I was at a bar nearby, so far only one body has been brought out and no one in handcuffs.

You texted him.

Are you okay? I heard about the shooting.

No response. You put your hands over your head and talked yourself down for the second time today. He’s fine. He’s used to this. He knows what he’s doing. He helped someone. He’s just busy.

But two minutes turned into five, which turned into seven, and you could barely breathe.

Text me when you can.

Which turned into ten, then fifteen, with no further mention of his presence online. It was fine. It was fine! You tried to meditate on the image of Batman before you knew his identity. Someone competent, agile, strong, impenetrable. That was still true. That was still him.

Your phone lit up as you were sipping water at the sink, and you nearly tripped rushing over to it. Alfred!

“Miss. Is Bruce with you?”

“No, whe—”

“It says he’s parked about three blocks east of your apartment. I lost the signal to his suit.” You were already out the door.

You didn’t think you’d run that fast before, racing right back to where he’d dropped you off the day prior. Was he bleeding out? Incomprehensible? Unconscious? You ducked through an alley in a shortcut, jumping over piles of trash and dead rats. Your leg was starting to stiffen at the thigh, your knee crunching and grinding as you propelled forward.

You had to clamp your mouth shut after almost shouting "Bruce!” at the masked man standing at his trunk. He spun around, his cape swishing against the bumper of the car with a satisfying crack.

“What are you doing?!” His voice had slipped the octave, going back to Bruce, a slipup that unnerved him on a spiritual level. He surveyed the surrounding area with a paranoid daze, motioning hard for you to get into the passenger seat. The door was heavy, tactical, and the seats the same. The outside of your vision took in all the gadgets, wires making shapes you’d never seen before, but you were centrally focused on the blue of his irises against the backdrop of black.

“Are you okay? Alfred–”

“What did he say?” You were shaking, out of breath, gulping after every word.

“Your suit lost signal and you were parked here, I heard about the shooting online, that you were there,”

It took every available cell in his body to smother an angry rebuttal, his defenses beginning to stack.

“Someone said you got shot,”

He scoffed. “I didn’t get shot,”

“Are you hurt?” You grabbed his wrist and darted your eyes along his chest. His breathing hitched at the contact, even through the layers. His brow furrowed, but you couldn’t see it through the cowl. He felt like you were looking at him, not Batman, even though he was sure you couldn’t see anything but armor right now.

“Are you sure you’re not in shock,” your cheeks were red-hot, inflamed from the sprint and the fear crushing adrenaline through you. All you could see was black, darkness, you couldn’t see anything, you couldn’t get a good look. You fumbled with your phone to find a flashlight, but it fell onto the passenger floor.

“It was a normal patrol,”

A strangled whimper left your panicked, overwhelmed body as you strained to reach the phone. You heard a shick and a button unclasp. “I just need—”

“—To breathe.” A warm, non-gloved hand wrapped around your forearm, applying gentle pressure back towards the seat. Your eyes shot up to his like a deer in headlights, his touch creating a separate raucous within you. He exaggerated the slow movement of his shoulders up and down, opening his mouth on the exhale. You mimicked his breathing, comfortably matching it after a few cycles.

“I’m okay.” He nodded at you as your demeanor settled, his attentive gaze drilling holes in your memory. “I promise.” He let go of your arm and your hand snapped out to grab his. Your breathing hastened the second he broke contact, and only slowed once your fingers interlaced with his. He welcomed your hand with a reassuring squeeze and continued breathing slowly, deeply, guiding you out of the stratosphere. You squeezed back ten times harder, feeling like the barrel was at your temple again.

He let your hands sit together for a few seconds, your eyes trained on his like life support. He nodded again, letting you know he was still here though he was slipping his hand out of yours. Bruce glanced out the windows for onlookers and pulled off his cowl, unclicking the front half of his armor, tossing it to the backseat.

His hair was mussed, sweaty, the paint around his eyes smudged and smeared. He had dirt and faint droplets of red along parts of his jaw, with shadowy stubble underneath. He took your wrist, always with an astounding gentleness, and moved your hand to his chest, gliding your hand across the soft padding. “See?” Your hand moved along the sides of his body, across his stomach, and up to his collarbone. No snags, no wet spots…

Your palm felt like it was on fire, your heart thundering, cranked up to eleven. You slipped your hand past his collarbone, over his shoulder, and glided down his bicep. Still nothing. You shut your eyes, shouting at your brain to believe it, begging your thoughts to stop swirling horrific images, jumping to horrifying conclusions. Including the ego-dystonic impulse that wanted to tug your hand lower, pull him closer.

Bruce couldn’t hear himself think with your hands skimming his torso. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. He didn’t know how helpful he was being now, his breathing way too shallow to help you regulate, his brain going offline. He studied your face, the only part of you he could see clear enough, scouring it to see if this was bringing you even a crumb of peace. He was jolted back into his body when your finger skimmed his exposed neck as you trailed to the thicker padding over his sternum.

You shut your eyes and pressed your fingertips into the padding, seemingly grounding yourself. Your expression drew increasingly relaxed until your hand pulled away, falling almost limp at your side. When you fell back against the headrest, he finally looked away. He flexed his hand against his knee where it sat now, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled. He hardly registered it as he struggled not to pass out.

It was about a minute until he tossed a glance your way again; a minute of sitting at the bottom of the deep end, rationing held breath. He only exhaled when you did, a loud one, now more calmly leaning to nab your phone. “I’m… thank you. That won’t happen again. Freaking out. It was stupid.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You don’t have to be nice,”

“I’d do the same.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re used to it.”

“That’s not a good thing.”

Oh. It was like Alfred had entered his psyche. A Freudian slip. You stared at the ground, evidently unaware of how candid an admission that had been. He was gridlocked. You fiddled with your phone until your shoulders sank, popping the door open without warning. “I’d better get home.”

He let your door shut before opening his, using any opportunity to gather himself before stepping out to the night breeze. He leaned his elbow on the roof of the car as you started down the gravel. “Text me when you get back.”

You gave him a thumbs-up.

He noticed a limp in your gait, feeling the smart in your thigh like it was his own. “And put some ice on that tonight.”

You unlocked your phone as you turned the corner. Bruce heard a buzz from the center console, and fished out his phone after settling into the driver’s side.

Will-do. So attentive.

He noted the concerned texts just before your message.

Just returning the favor.

[taming-bats]

the only reason that the Identity Reveal[tm] is such a big deal is bc Bruce wayne is In the Fucking Media all the time. He's EASILY recognizable if someone sees his face. If he was just. A guy. Then there's a delayed gratification of seeing the face under the cowl. You'd have to do work and research to identify him.

(Think of that one scene from The Batman 2022. When one of the Riddler Followers was unmasked and Jim had to be like, man who tf even are you)

Like imagine Joker or someone getting a peak and just being like. Who the fuck is this guy? Where's the real Batman??? Like as if it's a fucking trick. I simply wouldn't belive it.

[2d-beefcakes-my-beloveds]

Bruce: “Good evening Comissioner, this is my new partner. He’s very friendly.”

Dick: “Hi! :D”

Jim: “Bats, that is a chi-AAAAAA!!”

Bruce: “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite”

Jim, trying to shake the gremlin from his leg: “YES HE DOES!!!!! D:”

[lumillsie]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ gotham masterlist. ੈ✩‧₊˚

╰┈➤ jim gordon, barbara kean, victor zsasz, oswald cobblepot, edward nygma, sofia falcone, jerome valeska, jeremiah valeska, tabitha galavan

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ jim gordon. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ barbara kean. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ victor zsasz. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ edward nygma. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ sofia falcone. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ jerome valeska. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ jeremiah valeska. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ tabitha galavan. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

[bruciemilf]

A witness protection program batgordon AU is jumping around in my head like a ping pong ball rn. Awkward billionaire who's on a very tight edge after his house was bombed has to be in someone's custody and Jim really doesn't feel like babysitting a rich kid.

" Pass em to Martinez. Guy already treats Wayne like he's Jesus,"

" Don't say that. That's so offensive. Bruce Wayne is better than Jesus."

"...You say that like you actually believe it. If you do, seek help. But yeah, I don't want to look after him. "

" Well, you're gonna have to. We didnt give either of you a choice, but Wayne asked for you first."

Jim did not expect Bruce Wayne to smell like vanilla bodywash. Curiously, so does Batman.

[love-imagineitall]

Let Her Go

Pairing: Victor Zsasz x Assassin!Female!Reader

This is set in the first season only a little bit after Zsasz is at the GCPD for Gordon. Also I don't think I mention it in the story, but the reason that the reader was in prison for two years without getting broken out or anything was to go in and make more contacts in the female criminal world. Falcone had asked her to and after she thought she was done, he pulled his strings to get her released immediately.

TW: usual Gotham violence and allusions to smut, heavy make out sesh.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Are you kidding me Gordon!?!?"

"What the hell are you talking about Harvey?"

"Please don't tell me that is who I think it is that you have in that interrogation room?"

"Again I ask what are you talking about? I brought her in for killing a man right in front of me."

"Oh god," Harvey groaned shaking his head, "let her go right now" he said with a tone of urgency that Jim hadn't heard from his partner before.

"No, I've told you many times I'm not going to turn the other way just because these criminals have money or power," he says to Harvey seeming to be frustrated with his partner and the entire city of Gotham, as he steps back into the interrogation room.

"So, (Y/N) (L/N)? You want to tell me why you killed an innocent man? What did you want with him?"

"You must be the new hot shot," the woman in front of him smiled mischievously with her feet up on the desk. The way she smiled an kept her calm like that did concern Jim a little, but he pushed on.

"Gordon. Detective Jim Gordon nice to meet you. Now tell me why did you do it?"

"Jim... hmm, Jimbo can I call you Jimbo? I'm gonna call you Jimbo."

Harvey then entered the room and Jim noticed that he looked different, frightened even.

"Harvey! Long time no see"

"Hello (Y/N), I am so sorry about my partner. We will get you out of here as soon as we can there is no need to let any one know that you are here."

"No, Harvey, no we won't. She murdered a man right in front of me, she has to go to prison, but first I am going to find out why?"

"I love the place by the way it's been a while. Have you guys redecorated?"

"(Y/N)! I am done playing games with you now you are going to tell me what I want to know or I'm going to have to send you away for a long long time!" Jim yells, the frustration pouring out of him.

"Ooh, feisty" the woman says with a smile on her face. She turns to Harvey, "I like him"

"(Y/N)-," Jim starts.

"Look boys I'm only here because I wanted to take a look around, but now I've met the new guy and seen enough. I'd like to leave now"

"Are you kidding? That isn't how this works princess I saw you with my own eyes murder a man in cold blood, this is the police so yeah the only place that you are going is to prison."

The woman turns to Harvey, completely ignoring Jim, "Harvey, I'd say you got about a minute to let me go... we don't want a repeat of the last time now do we?"

"No ma'am" he says quietly shaking his head while pulling Jim to the side.

"You need to let her go like now," he says while constantly checking his watch.

"Who the hell is she Harvey?"

"You remember Victor Zsasz?"

"How could I forget?"

"Well look as scary and creepy as that dude is, she's a hundred times worse, she's even more deadly of an assassin than he is if you can believe that, but as of right now we haven't pissed her off. The thing I'm worried about is that those two aren't just colleagues, they've got this weird thing... and, and, and-"

"And what Harvey?"

"And he's not gonna be too happy that we've got his girl in lockup after he hasn't seen her for 2 years"

Just then the two detectives hear a gun shot, Harvey looks wide eyed at Jim, and pulls him back into the interrogation room.

"Uncuff her Jim! Uncuff her!"

"Right on time," (Y/N) says with a smile on her face.

The two detectives hurriedly rush to uncuff the woman sitting in front of them. As soon as they have her free and very pissed off Zsasz enters the room with guns a blazing.

"Hello darling," he says with a smile to (Y/N), immediately turning his attention and guns towards the detectives. The smile previously on the assassin's face now completely wiped away and replaced with an anger never seen before.

"Come on honey, we were just leaving" she grabs Zsasz by the arm, "oh and Jimbo, I'll see you around," the pair walking off with her sending Jim a wink. Zsasz walks with his girl out of the GCPD quietly leaving everyone there in awe and fear.

After the pair of assassins return to Falcone's house, (Y/N) immediately drags Victor up to the bedroom. After all the pair hadn't been this close in two years what with the woman being locked up in Blackgate prison.

"Ugh-" Victor groans as he pulls her in for a very hungry kiss

The two of them wasting no time and immediately going to the bed. She jumps on top of him, taking control and kissing him with even more passion.

She rips open his vest and going to pull down his pants when he flips her over and regains control, immediately kissing her again and pulling her shirt off. As the two are going at it and undressing each other, one of Falcone's men walks through the door to tell them to come down stairs, but as soon as he opens the door and begins to speak both assassins pull out their guns and shoots the man without breaking the kiss.

The pull back for a moment to catch their breath, and as they are breathing heavily, Victor tucks a piece of hair behind (Y/N)'s ear, flashes a toothy grin, and says "you are never leaving for that long again you hear me?"

Chuckling and grinning back at him, she replies, "wouldn't dream of it sweetness"

[rolloroberson]

John Lennon - It’s So Hard

[oicuperp]

GOTHAM CHRISTMAS TIME HEAR ME OUT imagine harvey invites jim over for a nice christmas dinner and jim decides to dress up nicely bc yk it's christmas and when he goes to harvey's house and knocks on the door he opens it wearing this

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter eight | back to black.

masterlist.

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +7k

A/N : FUNERAL DAY !! I originally planned for this chapter to be 10k words, but it felt like too much, so I decided to split it into two parts. I’ll post the next part soon after this one! As always, feel free to leave a comment—I love hearing your thoughts!

cw : Bruce being a simp, Maryam and her sisters making fun of him, I forgot what else, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE CAVE FEELS MORE LIKE A TOMB than a workspace, cold and silent, echoing only the low whirring of Bruce's gadgets. 

Beneath Wayne Tower, Gotham's pulse feels distant, dulled by layers of concrete and steel.

At his workbench, as usual, Bruce sits alone, bathed in the soft blue glow of multiple screens. His face is as unmoving as stone, but his eyes burn with an intensity that belies his calm. 

On the screen before him, the footage replays—not of Gotham's criminals, not of the streets he prowls, not even of Selina's contacts or his enemies. But her. Maryam.

Maryam—like the Virgin Mary, but nothing so innocent, nothing so untouchable. Maryam is fire and ice, contradiction and certainty, strength and vulnerability. She is as untamed as the storm and as steady as the mountains. 

He knows it well, and yet, even after all this time, she's still a mystery he can't solve, a puzzle with pieces he's terrified to touch.

The screen freezes on her face, capturing her in mid-sentence, her expression twisted not in anger, but in something deeper—hurt. Her brow is furrowed, and those striking hazel eyes, that impossible green-gold, blaze with a betrayal that lances through him like a blade. Her lips, poised to unleash a torrent of words she'd held back, are pressed tight in defiance. And all he can do is stare, feeling the sting of his own stupidity.

Valuable. 

He'd said it as if it were a compliment, as if it justified the risks she took, as if it somehow explained the place she'd carved out in his life of shadows and secrets. But he hadn't anticipated her reaction, the flicker of hurt that had flashed across her face, the way she'd recoiled, as though he'd reduced her to a pawn in his endless game of vengeance.

His hands, fingers tense above the controls, curl into fists as her words echo back, slicing through the silence of the Cave like a ghostly accusation.

"Just some asset to monitor, a liability to contain—like a ticking bomb?"

He could see her in his mind, fire in her eyes as she spat the words at him, her voice trembling with fury, her frame taut with unspent energy. And he'd felt that pang, deep in his chest, as if something inside him had cracked, letting in the tiniest sliver of vulnerability, one he'd locked away long ago.

He remembers the way she looked at him, her gaze searching, peeling back the layers of his resolve with an intimacy he wasn't prepared for. "I'm not just... valuable. I'm a person. I bleed, I hurt. And you... you can't just..." She'd hesitated, her voice wavering, raw with something achingly human. "You can't just treat me like I'm another cog in your mission."

She'd left him speechless. 

He, who always had an answer, who prided himself on his ability to read people, who knew Gotham's darkest corners like the back of his hand—he had nothing to say. 

Because she was right.

He'd built his life on walls, fortress upon fortress, a castle to keep everyone out, and her words had broken through like a wrecking ball.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, burying his face in his hands. 

And for the first time in years, he feels the weight of guilt, sharp and foreign, pressing into him like a blade he can't remove. He'd made a vow to never let anyone in, to keep his mission above everything, and yet here she was, tearing down his carefully constructed armor with nothing but her honesty.

He's so absorbed that he doesn't notice Alfred's quiet approach, the soft click of his footsteps as he stops a few paces behind. 

After a moment, the butler clears his throat gently, breaking the silence. 

Bruce doesn't turn, but his body tenses, the mask slipping back into place, though the rawness lingers in his eyes.

"Enjoying the view, sir?" Alfred asks, his tone laced with mischief as he steps into the dim light.

Bruce clenches his jaw, not answering his guardian, the words swirling in his mind—valuable, asset, liability. He feels the weight of them now, heavier than ever.

He'd built walls so high around himself, walls no one—not even Alfred—could breach. But Maryam... she had found a way through, dismantling his defenses piece by piece, forcing him to confront things he'd long since buried. 

Things he swore to himself would never resurface.

"Looks like you upset her," Alfred says softly, "Again." he says putting his arm behind his back, inspecting the screens before him.

Bruce exhales, shifting in his chair, his annoyance barely concealed. "It's not... like that, Alfred." His voice is low, roughened by something that sounds almost like regret. "She just... she has this way of getting under my skin."

Alfred chuckled softly, moving closer and crossing his arms as he leaned against the edge of the workbench. "Under your skin? Good heavens, I'd say that's quite the understatement, Master Wayne."

Bruce didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the monitor. 

The screen showed Maryam's face frozen in a moment of hurt, her emotions laid bare. That expression gnawed at him, more than he cared to admit.

Alfred caught the flicker in his young master's gaze and raised his brows, making his point.

"Not many people would stand up to you like that."

Bruce frowned, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze back to the screen. "It's not about standing up to me," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a gravelly whisper.

But Alfred, as persistent as ever, pressed on. "Oh, I think it is. That kind of anger comes from caring, Bruce. Even if you didn't realize it at the time."

Bruce let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. Stubbornness radiated off him like armor. "She misunderstood."

"Did she? Or did you just say the wrong thing?"

Bruce's jaw tightened further, his teeth grinding almost audibly. "She doesn't understand what I'm trying to do."

"And whose fault is that, hm? Communication has never been your strongest suit, sir."

Bruce didn't respond, the tension in his body evident in the way his hands gripped the computer mouse and his knuckles whitened.

Alfred watched him in silence for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer now, more measured. "People aren't tools, Bruce. She said it better than I could. They're not assets to be managed or risks to be calculated. Especially not someone like her."

Bruce's gaze faltered for a moment, his mind replaying the moment on its own, no longer needing the footage. He could hear her voice, see her expression, feel the weight of her words. The hurt in her voice cut through him like glass, and her defiance still lingered in the space between them.

Was she wrong to be angry? No. If anything, she'd been right. He had reduced her to a tool in that moment, another pawn in his endless war. But Maryam wasn't a tool. She wasn't a pawn. She wasn't like anyone else.

She had her own battles, her own scars. And yet, she had stood before him, unflinching, demanding more. Demanding better.

And he had failed her.

"If you truly believe she's valuable," Alfred said quietly, "perhaps you should show her why."

Bruce finally turned slightly, his eyes meeting Alfred's briefly. The butler gave him a small, encouraging smile.

"You'll have another chance, I'm sure," Alfred continued. Then, after a pause, he added, "Didn't you tell me that she seems familiar—?"

"She's a medical examiner. Nothing else."

There it was again—his stubbornness, a trait they both shared. Or was it something else? More like fear. 

Fear from a man who claimed to have none.

The thought of letting someone in, of opening even the smallest part of himself, was too much. Too dangerous.  It wasn't practical; he told himself that over and over. There wasn't time for it.

The butler sighed, shaking his head, as though reading Bruce's thoughts. "You keep telling yourself that, sir."

Bruce didn't reply, his gaze drifting back to the darkened screen. The weight of his choices, of his words, hung heavy in the cave, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate.

A beat of silence passed before Alfred's voice cut through, pulling him back to the present. "Shall I take it as a good sign," the butler asked, a faint smile playing on his lips, a touch of humor in his tone.

Bruce furrowed his brows, not understanding. "What?"

Alfred gestured toward him. "Your attire." he clarified, raising a brow. "Is Bruce Wayne making an actual appearance?"

Oh, that.

Bruce glanced down at himself. He was, indeed, dressed in a suit—formal and impeccable, though he had barely noticed the effort it had taken.

Blinking as if shaking off the question's sudden intrusion, he straightened, rolling his shoulders to cast off the weight of his thoughts.

"There's a public memorial for Mayor Mitchell," he explained, his voice steady but cool. "Serial killers like to follow the reaction to their crimes—Riddler might not be able to resist."

"Oh, that reminds me." Alfred reached into his waistcoat pocket, producing a folded piece of paper. "I took the liberty of doing a little work on this latest cipher..."

Bruce finally turned from the screens, the faint screeches of bats echoing from above as he focused on Alfred. The butler unfolded the paper, gesturing to the symbols.

"I'm afraid his Spanish is less than perfect, but I'm fairly certain it translates to, 'You are el rata alada.'"

Bruce took the paper, his brow furrowing as he studied it. "'Rata alada'... rat with wings?"

"It's slang for pigeon," Alfred explained. "Does that make any sense to you?"

Bruce nodded slightly, his mind already working. "Yeah... a stool pigeon."

Before the thought could deepen, Alfred's sharp eyes caught something else. "Where are your cufflinks?" he remarked, gesturing toward Bruce's bare cuffs.

Bruce muttered distractedly, "Couldn't find them," his attention still fixed on the cipher in his hands.

Alfred sighed and pulled a pair from his own pocket, stepping forward. "You can't go out like that—"

"Alfred, I don't want your cufflinks," Bruce snapped, irritation flickering in his voice as he glanced briefly at the older man.

"You have to keep up appearances," Alfred insisted, his tone calm but firm as he took Bruce's wrist and began fastening the cufflink. "You're still a Wayne, after all."

Reluctantly, Bruce let him.

As Alfred worked, Bruce noticed the monogrammed 'W' on the cufflink. He raised an eyebrow and let out a small, wry chuckle. "What about you? Are you a Wayne now?"

Alfred smiled faintly, moving to secure the other sleeve. "Your father gave them to me," he said quietly, the words heavy with unspoken emotion.

Bruce paused, the statement catching him off guard. 

He looked at Alfred, his expression softening slightly. But Alfred, ever the professional, broke the moment with a lighthearted smile. "I'm just loaning them to you—I want them back."

The billionaire nodded, a rare, fleeting warmth passing between them before he turned away, the weight of their conversation still lingering in the cave air.

The sun had barely risen, casting a dim, gray light over Gotham as Dr. Halimi adjusted the collar of her tailored black coat, her eyes scanning her reflection in the mirror. The soft morning light filtered through the small windows of her apartment, bathing the room in a quiet, muted glow.

She took a step back, her gaze moving over the sleek lines of the black coat, which hugged her figure with an austere, precise elegance. The cut was sharp, the fabric smooth, cinching at the waist and falling just below her knees—a perfect balance of timelessness and severity. She smoothed the lapel with practiced hands, tugging at the waist one last time before letting her eyes rest on the black veil pinned to her pillbox hat.

The veil draped softly over her high cheekbones, adding a quiet touch of drama to her otherwise composed appearance. It rested at a slight angle, lending her a timeless, classic look, while her caramel hair was half-up, the rest falling in soft waves down her back.

Sherine had teased her about the veil, calling it "a bit much," but to Maryam, it felt like the only choice. It was right for today—appropriate, even necessary.

Her black high heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor as she stepped back once more. The impracticality of them was a minor sacrifice for the sake of elegance. She adjusted the pillbox hat once again, smoothing the veil, allowing herself a fleeting moment to indulge in the kind of grace she rarely had the chance to embrace.

Maryam wasn’t one to lean into vanity—not because she didn’t enjoy it, but because her line of work didn’t exactly leave room for it. But today... today was different.

Her eyes dropped to her hand, where she held her mother’s brooch—an old, delicate thing, with silver vines curling around soft pearls. She ran her thumb over its familiar curves, feeling the weight of its history, its stories, pressed into her skin.

It was a relic, a link to a past long gone, and for years it had been tucked away in a velvet box beneath her bed. Pinning it to her coat had felt like the right choice—small, subtle, and close to her heart. But now, doubt began to creep in.

Would it draw too much attention? Invite too many questions? She wasn’t sure if anyone here would recognize it—or what it would mean if they did. For a moment, she considered leaving it behind.

Just then, Sherine yawned from the hallway, adjusting her earrings in the mirror. Dressed in a sharp black dress and high heels, she looked every bit the polished, worldly journalist and archaeologist she was.

She'd flown in from Metropolis just for this, bringing with her an extra pep in her step and an almost comical disbelief at Gotham's perpetual gloom. Despite being a Gothamite herself, it seemed that Metropolis had rubbed off on her.

"Okay fine, I admit it, the veil looks amazing," Sherine's voice broke through Maryam's thoughts as she stepped further into the room, reaching out to touch the delicate fabric. 

The doctor quickly slapped her hand away, and Sherine rolled her eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

Maryam smirked, smoothing down the veil with a delicate hand. "Thanks, it's called 'honoring tradition,' Sher."

Her sister raised an eyebrow. "Right. A tradition you remembered just for today, I see. You look like you're about to attend a royal funeral."

"Close enough," Maryam retorted with a dry laugh, checking her reflection again. "Besides, with Bruce Wayne rumored to make an appearance, it might as well be. Gotham's royalty, gracing us commoners with his presence."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Wayne," Sherine replied, practically snickering. "The hermit king himself."

Maryam shot her sister a sideways glance, a smirk tugging at the corners of her otherwise serious expression. “Can you believe it? Word is, the elusive Wayne heir might actually make an appearance today,” she said, raising an arm dramatically and waving it like she was unveiling a grand banner.

Sherine scoffed. "Nepo baby royalty. It's ridiculous, really. His family practically built Gotham—and I don't mean that in a good way. He's the poster child for unchecked capitalism."

Maryam chuckled, shaking her head. "You're not wrong. The Wayne legacy is all around us, and yet he hides away like some... Gotham myth."

"Not unlike Falcone," Sherine added, raising an eyebrow. "Though between the two, I think Falcone's the scarier recluse."

The mention of Falcone brought a flicker of unease to Maryam's face. "Do you think he'll show up?" She asked, more to herself than to Sherine. The thought of Falcone coming out of his shadows was unsettling, to say the least.

"Not a chance," Sherine dismissed with a wave of her hand. "That man's probably hiding under a dozen layers of security and shadows."

"Still, I wouldn't put it past him. He's got his hands in everything in this city."

"Not more reclusive than Bruce Wayne, though," Sherine snorted, reaching for her clutch. "At least Falcone actually does something—however terrible it is."

"If he shows up with his son Vittorio, I swear to God, I'll—" Maryam began, spritzing a hint of her favorite perfume on her wrists.

"You will do absolutely nothing," Sherine cut in, standing beside her and fussing with her hair in the mirror, her vibrant red waves catching the muted morning light. "You don't want to start anything, especially today. It's the mayor's funeral, for crying out loud."

"Oh, I'm serious, Sherine. I went out as the Wraith just two nights ago and yesterday as a civilian, and still nothing. Nothing! If Vittorio even glances in Alma's direction, they're going to find out exactly what I'm capable of," Maryam muttered, her eyes flashing with a hint of defiance as she twisted off the cap of her perfume.

Sherine raised an eyebrow. "And that's exactly why I'm reminding you to keep it together. This isn't some Gotham street brawl—it's a funeral. Dignity, remember?"

Maryam scoffed, setting the perfume bottle back on her dresser. "Falcone is the last person who deserves any respect. And his son? The only thing he got from his father is that insufferable sense of entitlement."

Sherine just sighed, too tired to argue with her stubborn sister. "You're impossible," she muttered, shaking her head.

Maryam responded with a faint, tight smile, but her eyes flickered back to the brooch now sitting quietly on her dresser.

She picked it up, her thumb tracing the delicate silver vines and tiny pearls. It felt almost too precious for a day like this—too bold, too revealing of a heritage she'd rather keep hidden.

Sherine noticed her hesitation. "Are you really going to wear that?" she asked, softening her tone, then quickly added with a grin, "Actually, I hope you do."

"I don't know," Maryam murmured, uncertain.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just wear the damn brooch," Sherine said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "No one here is going to recognize it. The average Gothamite probably thinks the Romanovs are a brand of vodka."

"Not everyone's that ignorant of history," Maryam replied with a hint of amusement.

Sherine smirked. "Maybe not, but Gotham has its own blind spots. Who's really going to scrutinize your jewelry today?"

Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the brooch before slipping it back into its velvet box, closing the lid firmly. "I just... don't want any unnecessary attention."

Sherine shrugged, looking Maryam over. "Fine. But you're still the most elegant one there, veil and all. That coat is practically regal."

Maryam's gaze lingered on the box, feeling the familiar tug of unease. She'd nearly decided to leave it behind... but, almost on instinct, she pinned the brooch to her coat, the weight of it settling against her heart.

"Yeah, fuck it," she said with a finality, sliding her clutch under her arm."So, are you ready? We need to pick up Aunt Meysa and Alma before they complain that we left them to fend for themselves."

"Oh, trust me," Sherine replied, laughing as she slipped on her coat. "Aunt Meysa is probably lecturing Alma as we speak. You know Alma's in hiding mode—poor thing can't even escape her law books without Aunt Meysa giving her a full interrogation."

Maryam smiled knowingly. "It's probably good for Alma. Keeps her grounded."

As they made their way out of the apartment, Maryam's heels clicked against the floor with a steady rhythm, each step seeming to amplify her resolve. 

Sherine chattered beside her as they descended the stairs and headed to Maryam's car, parked just down the block. The streets were already buzzing with Gotham's peculiar mix of early risers and the last stragglers of the night.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers gripping the steering wheel. Her sister glanced over, reading her sister's tension.

"Hey, it's just a funeral," Sherine said, trying to sound lighthearted.

"It's Gotham," Maryam corrected, a hint of grim humor in her voice. "Funerals here are never just funerals."

Sherine laughed. "Alright, fair. But come on, it's the mayor's funeral, not some mob boss's funeral. How bad could it be?"

Maryam shot her a look that clearly said, You should know better by now.

As they drove, Sherine’s phone buzzed incessantly, its ringing filling the otherwise quiet car.

The name "C" flashed on the screen, and Maryam caught the subtle twitch of her sister’s eye— the same one that always appeared when this particular contact reached out. The phone rang again, and Maryam couldn’t help but glance at her sister, who tried to hide the faint blush creeping up her neck.

They exchanged a quick glance, and both reached for the phone. Sherine, always quick, made a grab for it, but Maryam, with a mischievous grin, was quicker.

She snatched the phone away before Sherine had a chance to react.

"Ooooh, who is this, dear sister?" Maryam teased, unlocking the phone and scrolling through the messages. "Hmm? Someone special?"

"Nobody!" Sherine snapped, her voice tight as she stretched for the phone, but Maryam held it out of reach, enjoying her sister’s discomfort.

Maryam clicked on the contact photo, revealing a handsome man with black glasses, a shy smile, and messy black curls that fell just above his forehead. It looked like one of those professional photos you’d put on a company badge.

"Ooh, very cute. Very your style. Very glasses, very nerdy... very American," Maryam mocked playfully.

Sherine blushed deeply, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Khalas, Maryam! We’re gonna have an accident!" she scolded, her voice sharp as she tried once again to reach for the phone, but Maryam pulled it away.

Maryam continued scrolling, her fingers dancing across the screen. "Come on, tell me his name, and I’ll stop."

Sherine sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine! Clark, his name is Clark!"

Maryam raised an eyebrow, clicking her tongue. "Very American," she said with a grin. Sherine’s face reddened further, and her voice hardened as she reached for the phone again.

"Maryam."

Maryam sighed, finally giving in and tossing the phone into Sherine’s lap. The car remained perfectly still— Maryam was too precise behind the wheel for anything to disrupt their calm drive. The silence lingered, but Maryam wasn’t quite ready to let it settle just yet.

With a small smirk on her lips, Maryam reached for the radio, her red nails glittering as they stopped at a red light. She glanced at her sister, then at the road, before breaking the silence.

"So?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and mischief.

Sherine let out a long sigh, her voice softening as she glanced at the passing streets. "Ugh, yes, he's very American. From Kansas, farmer’s son and all that," she muttered, her tone losing some of its usual edge. "And... yeah, he's very attractive, to put it simply. Clark Joseph Kent. That's his name. He works at the Daily Planet as a journalist with me."

As Sherine spoke, her voice steadied, but Maryam could hear the quiet vulnerability slipping through her words. Sherine always said a person's full name when she was crushing hard on them.

"We're just friends, okay?" Sherine added, biting her nails nervously as she stole a glance at the road. "I mean, what am I even saying? Just colleagues. He's... he's interested in someone else." Her gaze drifted out the window, and Maryam caught the subtle clench of her sister's jaw, the silent struggle to hold back her feelings. "I met him three months ago and made him visit our place of work per Perry's order. That's all there is to know. We work together, and that's it." It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself.

Maryam raised an eyebrow, her smirk never wavering. She knew her sister too well. Sherine could pretend she didn’t care, but Maryam could see the truth beneath the layers of nonchalance.

But she also knew when to stay silent and let her sister talk in her own time.

"You better not tell anyone about him," Sherine said quietly, her voice carrying a hint of caution.

Maryam turned the wheel to the left, steering them through a turn, and made the motion of zipping her mouth with one hand. "Your secret’s safe with me," she teased, her smirk still in place.

They pulled up in front of Aunt Meysa's building, where both Aunt Meysa and Aunt Jamila were already waiting at the curb. 

Aunt Meysa, the picture of elegance, stood tall in a somber black dress, her usual veil draped gracefully over her greying hair. She raised an eyebrow, her usual approving expression settling on her face.

"Masha'Allah," she said with a nod, her eyes scanning their outfits. "You both look presentable, thank goodness."

Maryam smirked, fighting back a laugh. "Shokran, Amti Meysa."

Beside her, Aunt Jamila let out a low chuckle, her lips pulling into a wry smile as she cast Maryam and Sherine a quick, assessing look. "Almost like they didn't grow up running around in dusty alleys."

Maryam only hummed in response, stepping forward to kiss the cheeks of her two aunts in turn.

Just then, Aunt Meysa cast a sharp look back toward the building entrance. "Alma's coming down," she announced, a hint of exasperation in her tone. Her gaze flicked to Maryam. "You know she's ignoring you, right?"

"Isn't she always?" Maryam replied, shrugging lightly.

Sure enough, Alma appeared in the doorway moments later. She wore a simple black dress paired with an elegant coat and high-heeled boots. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her gaze remained downcast, deliberately avoiding her sisters.

"Ah, finally!" Aunt Jamila clapped her hands, her tone hovering between amusement and reproach.

Sherine leaned out of the car window with a grin. "Ready to face the lions, Alma?" she teased as Alma climbed into the backseat, her expression resigned.

Alma rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly. "Like I had much of a choice," she muttered, shooting Aunt Meysa a half-hearted glare.

Aunt Meysa arched an eyebrow, her voice thick with her Arab accent. "I swear to God, girls, I don’t want any problems. I’m warning you!"

When they finally pulled up in front of Gotham’s City Hall, the scene outside was pure chaos. The streets were teeming with people, their chants rising in the air—"No more lies." Banners with the Riddler's ominous symbols waved above the crowd like a dark omen.

"Shouf," Aunt Meysa gestured toward the crowd, her head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What is this?" she demanded, clutching her veil tightly as she observed the scene with sharp, calculating eyes.

No one responded right away. The atmosphere was heavy with tension as they all stared out at the gathering, unsure of what they were witnessing.

Suddenly, a cop tapped on the glass, pulling Maryam from her thoughts. She snapped to attention, rolling the window down with a slight hesitation.

"Hello, names please," the officer said, his tone bordering on a command as he looked at them expectantly.

"Ben Halimi, sir," Aunt Jamila replied smoothly, handing Maryam an envelope with the invitations.

Maryam passed the envelope to the officer, who took it and quickly skimmed the contents. "Alright," he said with a nod, pointing toward a nearby parking lot. "This way, please."

As they parked, the air felt thick with humidity, the wet pavement reflecting the city’s lights. The sound of heels clicking against the slick ground echoed through the otherwise quiet street. Aunt Meysa led the way, her steps measured and dignified, her head held high as always. Sherine, Maryam, and Alma followed closely behind, the weight of the evening settling over them in the form of a quiet procession.

"Why didn't we get the same service?" Aunt Meysa asked, casting a critical glance at the sleek, elegant cars pulling up nearby.

"Because we're peasants, Amti," Maryam quipped without missing a beat, her tone dry and laced with humor.

Aunt Jamila laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Maryam, you look like royalty. We should've had the same treatment," she teased.

Maryam gave a mock grimace, her lips curling into a wry smile. "Yes, of course. And maybe we should've brought our butler too, right?" she retorted, which earned her an exaggerated eye roll from her aunt.

As they approached the entrance to City Hall, Maryam’s eyes scanned the crowd, noting the sea of black suits and dresses, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional camera flash from the paparazzi. Her gaze landed on Warda and her husband, Ryan, standing near the grand staircase. They were mostly overlooked by the flashing cameras, an odd relief in the sea of attention.

Warda stood with her hands gently resting over her growing belly, radiant even in mourning attire. Ryan hovered close beside her, one hand protectively on her back, his gaze sharp as he scanned the bustling crowd.

Aunt Jamila waved at them, her expression softening into something warm and affectionate. She shuffled over to greet them while other attendees glanced their way. Sherine offered those onlookers an awkward smile, but Maryam merely raised a brow, daring anyone to say something.

"Finally! We've been waiting for you. Rania's been fussing—"

"We know," Alma interrupted, her tone curt as she slipped her hands into her coat for warmth. "We saw the messages in the group chat."

"Feeling alright?" Maryam asked Warda, her instinct as a doctor surfacing as she nodded toward her sister's rounded belly.

Warda smiled gently. "Just fine. Ryan's the one fussing over me, though."

Ryan shook his head with an amused smirk, but Maryam chuckled, looping her arm through her sister's. "That's what husbands are for."

In Gotham, even a funeral felt like a performance, and Maryam couldn't help but wonder what kind of show was waiting for them inside.

She didn't have to wonder for long.

Not far from them, Carmine Falcone emerged from a sleek black car, flanked by his usual bodyguards. 

He extended a hand to help a striking woman out—a companion for the day, no doubt. Behind them, his son, Vittorio, followed, phone pressed to his ear, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with calculated precision. Maryam heard Alma shift nervously behind her.

"Is that—" Ryan started, narrowing his eyes.

"The Falcones," Maryam muttered, an unexpected flare of anger tightening her jaw.

"No, I meant Bruce Wayne," Ryan clarified.

"Oh my god, yes!" Warda whispered, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

"He's even more handsome in person," Aunt Jamila added, squinting like she was assessing a priceless possession.

"Look, Maryam! Go talk to him!" she urged, her voice practically bubbling over with enthusiasm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Amti," Warda replied in Arabic, trying to suppress a laugh.

But Maryam wasn't paying attention. She hardly noticed the paparazzi shouting for Wayne or her family's chatter, because at that moment, Vittorio's eyes locked with Alma's. Alma immediately turned her head, a blush creeping up her cheeks, while his jaw tightened visibly.

Sherine squeezed Maryam's arm. "Mar—"

"Don't you dare, Maryam! You'll embarrass me!" Alma hissed, but her words went ignored.

Maryam shook off her sister's grip, her focus narrowing as she strode confidently toward the Falcones. Aunt Meysa's voice trailed after her, sharp with disapproval. "Where is she going? We're supposed to go inside!"

But Maryam didn't stop. Every step she took drew attention. As she closed the distance to Gotham's notorious crime family, one of Falcone's security guards stepped in her way.

"Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" he asked, his tone cold and dismissive.

Maryam pointed at Vittorio, her eyes burning with intent. "I need to speak to him."

Carmine's dark-rimmed glasses gleamed in the dim light as he turned his attention to her. His gaze, a mixture of curiosity and quiet menace, lingered on her before he spoke, his voice a low rumble. "And who might you be?"

Without flinching, she met his stare, her voice steady. "You should ask your son."

Vittorio said nothing, his gaze dropping away as he clenched his jaw and slid his phone into his waistcoat pocket. But Carmine didn't wait for an explanation. His sharp eyes flicked over Maryam's shoulder, settling on her family. His gaze lingered on Alma, and a knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

"They weren't lying when they said you girls were a sight to see. Beautiful," he murmured, his tone as smooth as it was unsettling.

A shudder rippled through Maryam, her unease deepening.

Then, from behind him, came a laugh—loud, brash, and unmistakably familiar.

Oz Cobblepot. Of course.

The sudden jolt of recognition struck Maryam. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. 

What did he mean by that? The way he spoke, like he already knew them—knew her—made her uneasy. Before she could find her voice, Carmine slipped his hand under her arm, his grip surprisingly gentle, almost as if she were fragile porcelain.

"Take a walk with us," he said, guiding her forward.

Still in a daze, Maryam let herself be led, her feet moving almost automatically as they began climbing the stairs. 

She glanced back, catching the confused, wary looks of her family. Aunt Jamila's eyes narrowed, a mix of concern and indignation flashing in them. Alma, on the other hand, seemed like she wanted to vanish into the ground. Aunt Meysa's stern expression softened, her lips pressing into a tight line, as if she wanted to call Maryam back but couldn't bring herself to.

As they ascended, Maryam's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with questions she couldn't yet voice.

Bruce gripped the steering wheel, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the city hall ahead. 

The city hall loomed ahead, its steps swarming with mourners and a sea of makeshift memorials. Flowers, candles, and angry placards blurred together in the drizzle, the wet pavement reflecting glints of firelight and the oppressive gray sky.

People were chanting "no more lies" people who at first thought were mourners but needed people who were protesting.

Among them , a group of hooded men caught his eye, their scrawled question-mark signs mimicking the Riddler's mark. 

Always lurking, he thought grimly.

Not far from him, another protestor waved a sign reading "Who Else Dies for Gotham's Lies?"

His blood chilled at the sight.

The honk of a traffic cop jarred him back to the present.

He avance with his car in the traffic before he could even down his window, an officer was already double-tooking through it when he recognized Bruce, his stoic professionalism cracking into something close to reverence. "MR Wayne over here!" he pointed to the place where valets were waiting down the stairs of the city hall the cop waved him forward.

The valet opened his door, and Bruce stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. The murmurs started immediately.

"Is that the Bruce Wayne?"

"Bruce Wayne's here!"

The paparazzi swarmed, shouting over each other as camera flashes exploded around him. Bruce reached for his wallet, barely paying attention.

Then he saw them.

Carmine Falcone stepped out of a sleek black car, his phalanx of bodyguards forming a protective shield around him. 

He moved with a calm, deliberate arrogance, the kind that only a man like Falcone could carry off. Bruce's eyes narrowed as he watched him reach out a hand to help someone step out of the car.

A slender leg, clad in a high-heeled boot, emerged first. Bruce's stomach tightened. The boots were strikingly similar to the ones Annika and Selina favored in the club. The woman followed, her face obscured by a hat, her movements poised and deliberate. For a moment, Bruce's mind reeled. Was that Selina?

But before he could process further, his attention snapped to something—or someone—else.

Maryam Ben Halimi.

The haunting of his dreams. 

Her face appeared in his line of sight, pulling his focus away from the unfolding scene. He recognized immediately despite her elegant veiled pillow box hat. She stood a short distance away, surrounded by a cluster of women—a pregnant woman, likely her sister, stood closest to her, her husband at her side. Maryam's hand rested gently on the woman's arm as she spoke, her expression soft but firm.

Bruce's hand, mid-motion to hand cash to the valet, faltered. 

The noise of the crowd, the paparazzi's shouts—it all faded into a dull hum. 

All he could see was her.

Even in the somber atmosphere of a funeral, she looked radiant. Her dark attire was elegant, almost regal-- like royalty, a stark contrast to the gritty chaos around them. 

For a fleeting moment, Bruce forgot why he was here. 

He forgot everything except the way she held herself—graceful, poised, utterly captivating.

Then she moved.

Bruce's brows furrowed as he watched Maryam break away from her family, her stride purposeful, graceful. She was heading straight toward Falcone.

What is she doing?

His pulse quickened as Carmine turned, his sharp eyes narrowing with interest as Maryam approached. The woman on his arm seemed momentarily forgotten.After talking for a few minutes, Carmine slipped his arm under Maryam's, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated charm as he began leading her up the steps to City Hall.

Bruce's stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

Before he could think, his body moved on instinct. 

The crowd was thick, a crush of mourners, reporters, and onlookers. Cameras flashed, and the paparazzi's voices rose in a cacophony around him, but he heard none of it. His eyes were locked on Maryam and Falcone, his focus razor-sharp.

He couldn't call out to her. No, that wasn't an option. She didn't know him—not as Bruce Wayne. To her, he was a stranger, a man with no place in her life.

And yet, none of that mattered. The only thing driving him forward was the unshakable instinct to pull her away from that man, to shield her from whatever danger lurked behind Falcone's veneer of charm.

As he closed the distance, the bottleneck near the entrance to city hall became a wall of bodies. Falcone's security detail fanned out, forming a human barricade between the mob boss and the growing crowd.

Bruce's jaw tightened, his frustration mounting as he tried to maneuver closer. Two bodyguards stepped into his path, their imposing forms blocking his view. His gaze darted past them, landing squarely on Maryam.

She turned then, her veil shifting slightly as her hazel eyes caught his. Bruce felt a jolt run through him. Her gaze met his directly—steady, searching. She took a shallow breath, her eyes narrowing as though trying to place him. Recognition? No, it couldn't be. She didn't know him. Not like this.

Still, he couldn't look away. 

It was as though the crowd, the noise, the chaos around them all melted into nothing. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable, while he stared back, caught in the moment.

It was only when one of the bodyguards slammed a hand against his chest that he snapped back to reality.

"Hey, hey—give us some space here, slick," the man growled, shoving Bruce back a step.

Bruce bristled, his frustration threatening to boil over. His piercing glare bore into the man as he fought the urge to push back harder.

The commotion finally drew Falcone's attention. The crime boss paused on the steps, his grip still resting lightly but possessively on Maryam's arm. He turned toward the scene, his eyes glinting with amusement as his thin lips curled into a smirk.

"Watch it, fellas—you've got the prince of the city there!" Falcone's drawl was smooth, mocking, every word dipped in condescension.

The bodyguards hesitated, exchanging glances before loosening their grip slightly at Falcone's signal.

Bruce stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Maryam as if the sheer force of it could dissolve the distance between them. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, hesitation, or perhaps a fleeting recognition that vanished as quickly as it came. He didn't know, couldn't know. 

But it pierced him all the same, an ache he wasn't prepared for.

The woman with the hat and the heels that had first caught his attention—the ones so similar to Selina's—turned as well, revealing not Selina, but Carla, the girl from the club. 

The realization barely registered; his focus was elsewhere.

"Some event," Falcone drawled, stepping forward with a smug grin. "Brought out the one guy in Gotham more reclusive than me. To what do we owe the honor, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Maryam. She stood beside Falcone, her posture stiff, her body tense, but her expression now unreadable. If she was afraid, she didn't show it. Instead, her composure was as calculated as a blade—poised, sharp, and ready.

Falcone noticed. He followed Bruce's gaze back to Maryam, his grin deepening. Then, in a move so deliberate it felt like a taunt, he slid an arm around her waist.

The effect was instant. Maryam's shoulders tightened, and though she didn't flinch, the discomfort was plain in the set of her jaw. Bruce's fists clenched at his sides, a surge of anger coursing through him. He stepped forward again, but the bodyguards moved in, one of them shoving him back with a heavy hand.

"Easy there, Wayne," Falcone said, raising an eyebrow, his voice laced with mockery. "We're just having a little chat." He turned back to Maryam, his expression almost playful. "Do you two know each other?"

Maryam's hesitation was barely perceptible, a single heartbeat of silence before she answered. "No," she said, her voice steady but tight. She looked away from Bruce, breaking the connection between their gazes. "He's a total stranger."

The words landed like a blow. Bruce's chest tightened. But weren't they true? She didn't know him—not here, not like this. Outside of the cowl, he was nothing to her. A stranger. He reminded himself that he couldn't fault her for that.

And yet, the sting remained.

But Bruce didn't falter. His gaze stayed locked on her, even as she avoided his. The tension between him and Falcone thickened, an unspoken challenge simmering just beneath the surface.

"Let her go," Bruce said quietly, his voice low and even, each word a deliberate act of defiance.

Falcone's smirk deepened. His hand on Maryam's waist tightened ever so slightly, a gesture so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. But not by Bruce.

"Why don't you run along, Wayne?" another voice interjected, this time Vittorio's, dripping with false civility. "This is family business."

Bruce ignored him, his eyes narrowing at Falcone. "I thought your father never left the Shoreline," he said coldly, his tone cutting. "Aren't you afraid someone'll take a shot at you?"

Falcone's smirk didn't waver, but his eyes darkened. "You mean now that your father isn't around?" He turned slightly, calling over his shoulder. "Oz, you know Bruce Wayne?"

A gravelly voice answered, "Whoa—s'that right?" Oswald Cobblepot emerged from the shadows, his calculating gaze sweeping over Bruce from head to toe. He looked unimpressed, but the sharp gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

Falcone chuckled, turning his attention back to Bruce. "His father saved my life, you know. I always tell the story to Vittorio here." He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, but Vittorio didn't react, his cold gaze fixed on Bruce as he dragged on a cigarette.

Falcone tapped his chest. "Took a bullet right here. Couldn't go to a hospital, so we showed up on Dr. Wayne's doorstep. Operated on me right there on the dining room table. Kid here saw the whole thing." His grin widened. "You don't think that meant something?"

Bruce's jaw clenched. He wanted to fire back, but Maryam's voice cut through the tension.

"I should probably go," she said, her voice steady but edged with tension. She stepped away from the group with a fluid grace that bordered on defiance, her grip tightening around her clutch. Falcone didn't even acknowledge her departure, his attention still fixed on Bruce.

Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she moved, the sound cutting through the charged air. For a brief moment, she turned her head back toward him, a flicker of something in her eyes—uncertainty, or perhaps contemplation. Her brow furrowed, a brief pause in her otherwise composed demeanor, as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.

Then, with a final, decisive glance, she hurried into City Hall, blending into the crowd, her figure swallowed up by the throng of people.

Bruce's eyes followed her until she disappeared inside. 

Then, finally, he spoke. "It meant he took the Hippocratic Oath."

Falcone's laughter was sharp and derisive. "Hippocratic Oath, huh? That's good."

Vittorio, his silence thick as always, flicked his cigarette toward Bruce's shoes, a subtle yet pointed gesture. Bruce didn't so much as blink.

"'Scuse me," he muttered, brushing past them without a second glance.

His focus was singular now.

Maryam.

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Oooooop 👀👀

I know this might be a bit cringey, but I can’t help myself—I just love doing it! So, here’s what I envisioned for Maryam’s outfit in this chapter :)) :

[ Translation ]

Amti : aunt.

Khalas : stop.