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devilfic · 8 months ago

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❝right place, right time❞

IX. I'm the well they're gonna drag you down.

parts: previously / next plot: and they were rooommates. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, mentions of blood and stitches and drugs and alcohol, this chapter is fluffier because reader deserves a break, reader and bruce discussing their one-night stands, bruce thinks he's funny but he just can't hide how much he likes you okay, jealousy thy name is "disturbed". words: 6.9k. a/n: shoutout to allnurses.com contributing to at least 8 hours of research on how medications are stored in hospitals for one scene. any nurses in chat please do not stone me, I took creative liberties. also, in case there is any confusion, this chapter and the vignette take place all in (mostly) the same day.

The car gets about halfway down the street before Bruce observes out loud, "Something's bothering you."

You're clean and changed, but your hands are shoved between your thighs as you try to control their shake. Knowing what you know now, you have no reason to keep this from him. He is, by all means, the one person you should tell.

But you struggle to work up the courage without a mask looking back at you. The character of Batman you'd created in your head clashes violently with the character of Bruce. You'd written your own Jekyll and Hyde and tripped yourself up in the final act when it turned out they were one and the same, "You have a lot on your plate right now."

"So do you."

You resist the urge to grit your teeth, "It's about Judith."

Bruce thinks for a moment, "The old lady who doesn't like me."

"The very same. I... wasn't there for her last night, when I should have been. She was mugged on her way home."

Bruce doesn't make a big show of a reaction, though you notice he sits straighter, taking a break from gazing out of the window to glance at you every once in a while, "Is she badly hurt?"

"It could've been worse but... she's more shaken up than she wants me to believe."

"And her family?"

"Murdered." Bruce's car rolls by a street corner where a young mother wrangles her child back from the crosswalk, "I tried to convince her to have one of the deacons from church ride home with her from now on but she wouldn't listen. She doesn't want to be babied." Her stubbornness isn't at all unfamiliar.

"Did she see who did it?"

"She said some guys at the liquor store down the way. They hang out there every night," your eyes trail from the window down to the floor before finding Bruce's face. His profile is sharp and clean, the dark neck of his sweater stops just before the hair at his nape begins to cluster. Your eyes follow the bridge of his nose and it mirrors Batman's profile, a mix of pointed and blunt edges, "There's a... an heirloom in her purse. A lighter. She keeps it with her all the time. Her husband had it on him when he... well, he had an awful habit. She'd really like it back."

Bruce turns his head to you and you steel yourself. In the bright early morning, he is annoyingly resplendent. In the unfair way that all pretty people tended to be. It feels wrong to be asking him this. This is a stranger. You're begging for help from a stranger. You force down the sickness rising in your belly, "Please, will you-"

"I'll take care of it." He answers and it is final. He seemed to have made up his mind before you'd even asked.

The resolve in him is enough to slow your shake to nothing. There's a part of you that still doesn't quite believe what you'd seen last night, and so the certainty of Judith's well-being does not deluge you. It trickles down, dripping over your eyelashes, sprinkling off your fingertips.

You let yourself get caught up in his eyes the way you used to. You let the familiarity of them ground you and, though not with a sweeping acceptance, sigh in relief.

It's a small win in the grand scheme of steaming hot bullshit going on in your life.

You’ve taken things from General for Bruce’s sake before. Bandages and needles and disinfectants. This, however… this was a schedule II drug that could land you in prison if you got caught with it. And you were going to walk out of here with it like you were none the wiser.

A hand on your elbow forces you to slow down, drawing you back to your companion’s side. You don’t need to hear it so he doesn’t say it, but you’re embarrassed anyway. How Bruce maintains himself is enviable. “You’re a good actor.” Bruce peeks at you as you guide him through the first floor, “The thing with Gordon. You took it on the chin like a champ. You turned into a whole new person.”

“I avoid implicating myself when I can.”

“The party too. You diffused the tension, like, perfectly.”

Bruce hovers beside you as you call the elevator, a few patients and nurses lingering further behind. You can feel him probing your words for your natural line of thinking, “Couldn’t pull one over on you, though.”

No, you think, you just creeped me out while every bat-shaped clue flew right under my nose.

The elevator door slides open and the two of you squeeze into the back as the rest file in. You find yourself in a corner, braced against Bruce’s side as his hand reaches around your back to hold the railing. One of the nurses catches sight of him and swoons, the other trying (and failing) to look uninterested.

“Coming to see the new wing?” The swooning nurse asks, turning around to grin at Bruce. “Sounds like it’s coming along great. They make lots of helpful noise all day long.”

Bruce laughs good-naturedly, “Hopefully it’ll make up for all the trouble once it’s finished.”

The “uninterested” nurse nods, eyes frantically flashing from Bruce’s eyes to the floor and back over and over, “For sure! It’s really great you give back to General like this. Your dad would be proud.”

His face has no distinct reaction to it, nothing immediately telling that that comment hit too close to home. He smiles as he always does and thanks them as he always should do, and as they get off on the second floor, it’s just you two and an old man waiting for the next stop.

Bruce, to you, had long lived in his father’s shadow. The great Thomas Wayne who, despite his briefly smeared reputation, had been the face of the Wayne family for you. Even the some-twenty years after his passing had yet to shake that image from your brain.

It was his father’s legacy he was tending to here. All of the good and ugly that came with it. You couldn’t imagine how many times he’d heard his father would be proud. Did it comfort him? Frustrate him? Did he do this to make his father proud, or because it was expected of him?

Before the flood, you’d heard gossip about Wayne Enterprises going under, the reclusive in the tower giving no sign if he was alive or dead. Knowing what you know now, you wonder how much he truly wants to be a Wayne… with all the baggage that comes with it.

He’s wound tight. You can feel him against you.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you find his hand on the railing beside you and cover It with your own. He’s shocked, judging by the way he jolts under your touch for a second. You think you’ve overstepped but when you go to apologize, he is already staring wide-eyed at you. Like when you’d caught him on the stairs.

The tension is still there, and his face has fallen in its warmth and friendliness. His hand had only partially slipped out from underneath yours, but as the seconds pass you feel it rest once more, not bothering to shake you away any further.

You both force yourselves to stare ahead until the elevator dings to let you out, but through the reflection on the door, Bruce is still looking at you.

You break first, distracting you both this time as you walk out, “You kept hitting me with your knee.”

Bruce, in a daze, asks, “What?”

“At the party. While me and Roberts were arguing, you’d nudge me with your knee like it was an accident.”

Bruce seems to remember who he is and where you are, because he quickly gets back to himself, “Guess I’m not that good of an actor.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“I knew where the conversation was going. I could feel you thinking.”

You remembered holding your breath as the mayor prepared herself for confrontation back then, “And the second time?”

“I was trying not to laugh.”

You flush. You’d been so impassioned that night, defending your hero who, unbeknownst to you at the time, was hiding a snicker behind his glass. You feared you’d be remembering a lot of moments like that over the next few days.

As soon as you both get into your office, you shut the door behind you, “I need you to wait here for me.” Bruce’s face tightens, “Don’t… argue. They keep extra vials of the antivenom down in the ER. I can grab one from the med room, but I can’t have you following me down there. It’s off limits for anyone without ID, let alone a patient and a donor.”

Bruce doesn’t look comfortable. Since last night, you hadn’t been anywhere Bruce or your police detail couldn’t follow. You hadn’t even been allowed to enter your apartment until the latter had deemed the place safe. A med room not much bigger than your office—locked behind an ID scanner—posed less of a threat than your two-bedroom ten minutes away.

But it was two stories down, and anything could happen in the time you were away from Bruce.

You can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to think up some plan that allowed him to remain by your side. You have to restrain yourself from feeling… flattered.

Flattery turns to bewilderment as Bruce reaches into his pocket and drops something into your hand. It’s a gadget the size of an AirPods case, shining in the light of the fluorescents. It looked perfectly unassuming and hid—lightweight as it was—a marvel of expensive technology. You could tell just by looking at it. “The hell is this?”

“It’s an EMP generator. Put it in your pocket and I can disable any communications within your vicinity, including cameras.”

“Okay, no. This is a hospital, and I’d be going into the ER with this thing. That’s too dangerous.”

Bruce looks offended. You can practically hear him say “You don’t think I’ve thought of that?” with his eyes. He silently holds his phone up to your face and you shouldn’t be as shocked as you are that it’s got live camera feed of the entire hospital. “I can control the radius. You said you trust me. So trust me.”

You swallow back your retort. You did say you were going to trust him on this. Whether or not it would be your doom had yet to be seen. You nod once, dropping the device in your pocket. “I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.”

Bruce’s lips purse together. He still doesn’t look settled with letting you go alone, but he has very little room to argue, “Ten minutes.”

You don’t waste time. You skip the elevator for the emergency stairwell, taking two steps at a time until you’re back on the first floor and walking to the ER. The med room at the very end of the hall would—if you were lucky—be as empty as the waiting room. All you needed to do was get in, grab what you needed and very quickly get the hell out of there. Without raising suspicion. You can feel the phantom pull of Bruce’s hand on your arm, begging you to slow down before you draw unwanted attention.

You round the corner to the med room, scan your ID, and head in.

The two nurses waiting inside greet you, analyzing you curiously, “Hey doc, need something?”

Words rattle in your brain like a d20 on a deception roll. You pray for something good, “I just wanted to grab some meds for my patient.”

One nurse sits at a computer, head titled in confusion, “Did you put in a prescription? You could’ve sent a nurse to grab it for you.”

Your eye catches the camera on the ceiling, its dark glass glinting at you, mocking you. A scrying glass recording your every move. And Bruce on the other side of it, hopefully buying you an alibi. “It’s a… special case. My patient needs it soon, so I thought I’d speed up the process and grab it myself.” You force a lightness into your tone, trying your best to appear apologetic and not at all suspicious.

The nurse hums. Then, she jabs the pen she’d holding over her shoulder, “Cart’s over there. Help yourself.”

You maneuver through the shelves separating either half of the room, keeping your head straight and eyes from wandering.

Your biggest hurdle was at the back of the room.

It’s a clunky cabinet on wheels with a monitor on top and an ID scanner on the side. In one of its many drawers, your golden ticket awaited, but these things kept logs of who checked out what, and if someone were to go through them later and find out you’d stolen a highly addictive drug without prescription…

You swallow. The generator in your pocket suddenly hangs heavy against your thigh. You glance at your phone for the time and note that four minutes have passed. You need to move quickly.

You approach the cart, fingers twitching at your sides, and right as you step up to the monitor, it flickers and goes dark. You give the power button a push for good measure but nothing happens.

Well, not nothing. You hear the cart drawers all click at once, like they’d unlocked by themselves. Tentatively, you try the top drawer and it slides out without issue. Glancing behind you, you check to make sure no nurses have wandered over, but you are the only one on this side of the room.

Your fingers drift down to the right drawer next and that one slips open too—by the grace of some god—and there you see it. It has an alien glow to it, a more subdued blue to its adversary’s green. The top of the tray holding the vials pops open with just as much ease as the drawer, allowing you to sneak one into your pocket. You shut the drawers, slowly backing away from the cart, but the monitor does not turn back on.

“What? This thing too?” You’re startled when the nurse from before suddenly jogs up from behind you, grumbling under her breath as she smacks the monitor.

You rush to cover, “It just went kaput on me.”

“Yeah, so did mine.” She maneuvers around the shelves and back to her desk where you see the other nurse at the desk scratching his head. Their monitor is glitching, having some gory digital stroke, “Here. You can sign out what you take for now and I’ll bother IT about this.”

You write down “Ibuprofen” and your name next to it, “Never seen that happen before.”

“Yeah. Thing froze up on me a minute ago. Guessing around the same time this thing died on you.”

Your stomach is still nervously fluttering, but you do feel a little smug. “Weird.” You hand her back the clipboard and go to grab a bottle out of a different drawer. “Good luck.”

You try not to sprint past the nurses as they fuss with the computer. You’re out and back upstairs before your ten minutes are up.

Bruce is sat leisurely on your couch, no doubt watching you scurry into the office on his phone. He looks from the pill bottle in your hand and back to you.

You toss the bottle into his lap, plopping down on the couch beside him. He frowns at the label. “For you,” you poke his injured leg and his eyes follow your every movement, “you’re favoring the other leg today.”

He can’t bring himself to deny that, even if the look he gives you from beneath his eyelashes says otherwise. You flash the antivenom at him as a peace offering. “How’d I look?”

His gaze flutters slowly from the vial to you before he shows you his phone. The screen is a recording of the medication room. It shows you greeting the nurses, walking up to the med cart, and then… nothing. Black screen for forty-five seconds. When it flickers back on, you're signing the clipboard and walking away. Your body sags into the couch with relief.

“You did good.” Bruce praises you.

“I thought I was going to go into cardiac arrest.”

“There are worse places to do it.” You look at him and he’s smiling just a little. You’re aware, though, that he’s aware of the toll this has taken on you. He takes the vial out of your hands and puts it in his own pocket, holding his hand out to you. “We should get going.”

Bruce follows dutifully behind you as you lead him back down to the first floor. You feel much better than when you'd arrived, but your heart stutters each time a security guard passes you by. Years ago, stealing and getting away with it was second nature to you. You were also arrogant back then, uncaring of what happened to you. How quickly the tides had changed.

You feel Bruce nudge you with his arm. He isn't looking at you, but you know what he's trying to tell you: you've got a few more hallways to turn down before the exit. You just have to-

Someone calls your name.

You spin around, nerves electrified, only to find Em running to catch up with you, "What are you doing back at work already? Is your arm okay?"

The adrenaline rush had done wonders for your pain tolerance. You didn't even think about it until she brought it up, "I'm fine, it's fine. It's-" You go to rush out some sort of explanation but at that moment, Bruce turns around.

You can see the moment of impact across Em's face as soon as she realizes who you're with, her back straightening and hand pressing down flyaways. In an instant, she has forgotten all about you. For better or for worse. She rubs her palm on her leg before holding it out to shake his hand, "Mr. Wayne! Hi! I'm surprised to see you here." Her eyes are twinkling, "Everything alright?"

"Just some leg pain, nothing painkiller can't fix." He flashes the pill bottle for good measure. You're honestly impressed he admitted to being in pain at all, "It's good to see you again, Dr. Madison."

Em's face droops into a frown, "Well, you look fantastic, but you've got a mirror," she pats your arm, "and I'm sure you're being well taken care of."

"Only by the best."

You smile (borderline pleadingly), preparing to dismiss yourselves while you still have your wits about you, but then Em asks Bruce a question and, to your surprise, Bruce is happy to entertain her.

It strikes you that you had landed in your situation with no prior interest in who Bruce was, and it shows in how you barely keep up with the topic of conversation.

It's like watching a tennis match between the two. The topic in Em's court, then Bruce's, then Em's, back and forth without issue. No awkward pauses or uncomfortable looks. She recalls details about him out of thin air, your knowledge in comparison merely fringes of what Em knew.

The longer it goes on, the more it weighs on you that aside from the strange man who'd circled around you like a frightened kitten, you really didn't know anything about Bruce.

You knew Batman. You felt you knew him. Even when his identity was still a secret, you had felt comfortable with him. Vulnerable, even. He'd let you touch him in your home, fixing him up and helping you with this mess and... outside of that, what did you really know?

You feel an odd twist in your chest.

Em's voice floats back in, disrupting your retrospection, "I've always wanted to go to Italy. You must get so sick of these places after having been so many times."

"They still have their magic," Bruce grins, "but I don't like being far from home."

"Really? You could go anywhere in the world and you'd still miss Gotham?" Em's tone is teasing, but curious. Something flickers in her eyes as if she'd just remembered something.

Bruce takes in the hallway, chest swelling with pride, "Lots of things to miss about it."

"Name one."

Bruce's eyes cut to the side as he thinks, "The noise."

"You can get noise anywhere. LA, Chicago-"

"It's special here."

"No, try again."

His smile turns sheepish, "The rain."

"Now you're lying. Come on, pretty boy. I know you've got something. Penthouse, nightlife- heck, I'd even understand the freaks and clowns giving everyone PTSD."

Bruce exhales, purses his lips. His eyes flit around the white walls, "Okay. I'd miss you."

What the hell?

You straighten up. The absurdity (blatant sweet-talk) of the line shouldn't work—seriously, it wouldn't work on you—but Em goes pink in the cheeks. A strand of dark hair falls from her bun and frames her smile just so, "Well," she snorts, "aren't you just a flirt?"

To your utter dismay, they are both eating this up. "You light up the room, Dr. Madison. Your patients are very lucky."

"My patients are usually seven and way more interested in the candy I bring them."

"Candy?" Bruce finally looks at you, all humor and charm, "I never get candy. I just get yelled at."

Something in you is disturbed when Em grabs onto Bruce's arm, hanging off him as she pouts at you, "Oh! You're heartless!"

"Very much so." Bruce is somber.

"I don't-" Your voice comes out strained, a little too defensive right off the bat, "I don't yell." But you'd gotten close, and you got closer everyday, "But if I did, you'd deserve it."

Bruce is amused. You watch as he pretends to cower into Em, even as he dwarfs her in size. They start joking back and forth, more teases at your expense, and you notice that the persona he puts on around others is practically nonexistent here. You'd watched it dissolve within minutes. It's refreshing, you realize, that he seems to really be enjoying himself right now.

You catch Bruce insisting that he ought to get going, sharing pleasantries and desires to visit once more. Em looks genuinely saddened to let him go. The second Bruce's back turns, Em reaches out and squeezes your hand, whispering, "Please tell me he's single."

You fluster. You imagine yourself in the car ride back to the tower asking Bruce what he thinks about Em, offering to exchange numbers between them, and you're disturbed again.

Twenty-four hours ago, you would've been warning her to run for the hills. Twenty-four hours ago, he was only Bruce Wayne. Now he was Batman and all that came with it and, well... once upon a time, you would've wanted nothing more than for Bruce Wayne to sweep Em off her feet. Batman had always been more your style.

Then, you realize, you don't actually know the answer to her question.

Em looks expectant. You shrug. She exaggerates her disappointment but releases you all the same, "Keep me posted."

"I'm comparing the samples from the crime scene to the antivenom. I should have something in a few hours." Bruce taps the antivenom vial, watching the remaining blue liquid slosh against the glass, before handing it off to Alfred.

You're mesmerized by this backyard (or, more aptly put, garage) chemistry lab. Beakers and flasks spread out on the long table as you watch from a stool a few feet away, "How'd you get so good at this?"

"College," after a few seconds of silence from you, he adds on begrudgingly, "I started messing around with stuff down here when I was 13."

"You had all this when you were 13?"

"Some of it, whatever I could get my hands on. I liked to see how things worked."

You have a unique opportunity to learn about Bruce here, so you take it with both hands, "You majored in chem, then."

"And biology, and physics."

Your eyes blow wide. "You had three majors?"

"I bounced from one to another, sometimes double majored if I liked the professors. I followed my interests and they took me everywhere," Bruce picks up the venom test tube, little drops of green pooling at the bottom of the glass, "I've enrolled in more universities than I have degrees."

Your eye twitches, just a little annoyed, "Must've been nice going wherever you wanted, whenever you wanted."

Bruce senses your tone of voice. He peers at you from the side, elbows resting on the table, "I spent a lot of time away from home. It must've been enough because I don't miss it."

"You said the same thing to Em earlier." You recall.

"I didn't think about it as much while I was gone, but when I came home for good... I just couldn't imagine myself leaving like that again."

"He barely liked boarding school," Alfred chimes in from the other side of the room, lazily reading a book at Bruce's desk. Boarding school was posh. You imagined little Bruce in a school uniform like the British boys in movies, "I should bring out the scrapbooks once we have a moment."

Bruce sets the test tube back on its rack with a bit of aggression, "Thank you, Alfred. You can go now."

Alfred chortles. He skims one more page of his book and then shoves it under his arm on the way back up. The elevator clinks and rattles up the tower until it stops some sixty stories up.

It's quiet now. You sort of appreciate the silence- the relative silence. There is the steady drip, drip, drip coming from here and there in the cave. The whirring of the machines, the humming of the lights, the very faint sound of a news anchor forecasting snowy skies this weekend. Bruce's breathing.

It's harder to hear unless you focus on it. His mountainous build hunched over the table—staring into the venom as it stares back—rises and falls in slow rhythm. You watch him being and it captivates you. For the umpteenth time since last night, you are struck with the reminder that this was Batman. In all his broody glory, an arm's length away from you, about a hundred feet under the city.

It's funny; you paid so little attention to the man before, and now you wanted to take him apart and examine his terrible insides. You have accidentally become obsessed with the man.

"I want to take you to Blackgate."

"Sorry?"

"Lucien is there," the name makes your blood run cold, "he was with the Vipers the longest. He could answer a few things for us."

You do your best not to immediately say no. Not because you think he'll force you, but because you know—somehow—that he won't, "What about Detective Gordon? Shouldn't that be his job?"

"I think he'll talk to you." Bruce turns slowly until his back is pressed against the desk, arms crossed over his chest and pulling his shirt completely taut. "He knows you."

You hadn't seen Lucien since the night Alex died. For once, you're kind of grateful Bruce can read you. He turns fully toward you, "I can go alone."

"You just said you think he'll talk to me."

"I can make him talk." His head droops a little to meet your eyes, expression impossibly understanding. You have no doubt he can. Your throat feels like it's on the verge of closing up. Somehow, sending Bruce alone to handle him felt worse.

"But you think I can..." You have to pause to force in a breath, feeling yourself go lightheaded, "You think I can get more out of him." Bruce doesn't respond to that. He's still watching you like you might start stress-sobbing. "Okay."

"You sure?"

"Mm."

Bruce calls your name. You'd been tracing the lines of his arms with your eyes to distract yourself, not processing how much closer he'd gotten until you feel his breath against your eyelashes.

His arms are uncrossed now, one hand pressing into the table beside you, the other hovering by his hip. His fingers twitch. Does he want to touch you? You were about to go three for three with the crying in his arms thing.

You force yourself off the stool and the speed at which you stand gives Bruce very little time to react. Your chest bumps against him, but you're already slipping behind him, "Lemme see your stitches," you rasp, hand ghosting over his shoulder, "need to... redress them, probably."

Bruce tries looking over his shoulder at you but you hide behind him and after a moment, he relents. His shoulders drop in defeat. You watch him drag your stool into the light and sit.

The dismal mood did you a favor. He looked like he'd be submissive today.

You're halfway through clearing away his dried blood when you ask, "Are you single?"

Bruce's shoulder jolts just the tiniest bit, almost driving your finger into the stitch. "What?"

"Em asked," you quickly explain, "and I realized I didn't know."

You don't know exactly what he's thinking, but his answer is as straightforward as you could hope for, "Yes."

"Oh."

"You sound surprised."

"I mean... I sort of assumed..." What did you assume, exactly? You couldn't see him with a long term partner, definitely not like this, but the idea that there wasn't anybody didn't sit right with you, "no flings? Situationships, even?"

"Why? Is Dr. Madison interested?"

Your jaw clenches. You force the muscles in your face to relax, "I just don't want any secret lovers of yours adding me to their shitlist if I go through with your plan. I can't stress how little I want to fake-fight over you right now."

Bruce huffs. You finish cleaning around his wound when he pipes up again, "I had something... someone. It didn't last."

"Oh. Are you... tender about it?"

"Not anymore. I don't have time for that kind of thing anyway."

He says it like it doesn't bother him, but in the way someone might brush off a scrape on the knee or a paper cut. Like it stung, but you had to be a big boy about it. The pain would go away eventually.

You press new gauze over the stitches, taping it down as gently as you could, "I assumed someone like you would have a whole lot of someones, a revolving door even," your eyes flit over his other bruises and healed cuts, "I never made time for relationships either. I was kind of just going through the motions."

"No one interested you?" Bruce rolls his shoulders once you peel away from him. He doesn't look at you when he asks that.

"Just... childish crushes here and there. Sometimes I'd let someone take me home..." Your voice catches in your throat for a moment. You recall a stamped down memory, one of you standing blindfolded in your apartment imagining the Batman with his mouth on your throat. That wasn't very long ago. Your breath shudders as you fit Bruce into the memory instead. You don't... know how to feel about it.

"Never back to yours? And here I thought Judith was just hard on me." You belatedly register Bruce standing, rolling his shirt up his arms before pulling the neck over his hair. His question hangs lightheartedly.

Your shoulders sag, "You're not gonna believe me if I tell you I was paranoid about letting one-night stands into my home."

"Why? 'Cause you let me in?"

The back of your neck grows hot. "What about you? You ever bring yours back to the cave?"

After he's done tucking his shirt into his pants, Bruce shakes his head at you, "No. Just you."

That was the second time he'd said that to you. You were starting to feel special.

You step out of the shower and you think, almost as soon as your foot touches heated floors, that you really despise Bruce Wayne.

The towels are warm too, waiting for you as you preen yourself in the mirror, a clean you staring back. You kept your toiletries bag on the bathroom counter, afraid to unpack anything as you rustled around for deodorant. It was massive and quiet. The water pressure alone had you swearing at the marble lining of the shower.

Bruce eventually lured you downstairs with the promise of making dinner. Alfred was skeptical, but had backed off and allowed Bruce full range of the kitchen, still possessed by his book next to the fire.

He'd asked you what you had the stomach for. Eventually he was copying something out of a celebrity recipe book with you beside him.

You argued that he hadn't really made you dinner given that you had helped him do half of everything, but it was his ingredients and it was his kitchen and the food tasted good so you didn't argue long.

After Alfred offered his stamp of approval, he'd retired for the night and left you and Bruce in the kitchen to clean up. Bruce had left the pots and pans to you when you proved too nervous to handle the porcelain, "Alfred won't kill you if it breaks."

"Alfred would kill me for less, I think."

Bruce gives a short laugh, drying off the last pot. He's pouring you a glass of the wine you'd opened last night when you slide his little gadget across the counter, "I forgot to give that back to you." You swirl your glass, admiring the color as Bruce packs away the leftovers. "You looked like you were enjoying yourself with Em earlier."

"I was. Your friend is funny."

"I... also noticed something you said. When she asked you what you would miss about Gotham, you mentioned the noise and the rain. Would you really miss all that?"

Bruce glances at you, popping a top onto a glass bowl, "Of course. It's part of what makes the city."

Your eyes narrow, searching for the lie, but there isn't one. He's being sincere. "Is that why you became Batman? Because you love this city that much?"

You can feel the mood getting doused with ice water. It forces you upright in your chair, makes your hand clench around the stem of your glass. Anyone with eyes could tell you'd just touched a nerve.

But he answers you, intense as it comes out, "I hated it." The loathing is a mere shell of what it used to be, you can tell, "I hated what it took from me." His eyes cast down to the countertop. "At first, I was aimless. Everyone was worried about the future of the company but Alfred and I were just trying to make it through the day. Over the years, I boiled up with this... restlessness. I still didn’t know where I was going but I was full of something for once. I studied, I traveled, I learned from all manner of teacher. And when I came home, I was... determined."

His words sit heavily on you. You can see flecks of that restlessness in his eyes, the slight tremble of his hands as he rests them against the countertop. "Why a bat?" You whisper.

"They're what I feared the most."

Past tense. "Feared?"

"I got over it. I won't let them close enough to bite, but..." The humor in his voice breaks the intensity of his expression.

You mull that over, "You became what you feared to strike fear."

"Not anymore," his head shakes, "fear is a tool, but... there's enough fear in this city. I wasn't making a change, I was making it worse."

You remembered the first time you'd ever heard of the Batman. Back then, he was just "Vengeance". In the grand scheme of fucked up things this city had to offer, someone running around dressed as a bat didn't register as abnormal. Another Tuesday, maybe. You awaited what they'd say about his crimes: a mugger beaten and strung up on the street, a gang felled and dropped at the GCPD's door. You remembered something stirring in you when he put away the Joker.

"I remember when you became a hero. Like really, to everyone. When you took shape… they were flying in people. I was rushing in patients while you stood on top of the Garden and pulled people out of the flood. I hadn’t felt hope like that since… yeah."

Your admission moves something in Bruce. His eyes find yours, "I was just doing what you'd been doing for years."

"But I never left that hospital. You transcend boroughs, the gangs, everything. I used to think you couldn’t possibly be one guy. I still can’t believe it. How are you not dead on your feet by now?" Bruce smiles knowingly at you and you feel yourself flush, "Besides that. You’ve been doing this for longer than I've been around to patch you up."

"That would be Alfred."

"You should tell him, you know. That you appreciate him. I think he'd like to hear how much he means to you more often." Bruce's eyes soften. He doesn't debate you. "Anyway. How's that sedative going?"

"I'll take another look before I leave tonight."

Oh, yeah. This guy is Batman.

You don't know when next you'll get this chance, "Can I ask a favor? Can I... watch you put it on?" Bruce wobbles to the side, genuinely confused. "The suit?"

He examines you, mouth almost curling up into a shocked smile. He hadn't expected you to ask that, that's for sure. "All of it?"

You grip your glass so hard you think it might shatter, "No." And then, when he has the audacity to snicker, "Asshole."

He stays true to your request.

You watch with your back pressed up against the wall. His under suit hangs undone at his hips while he leans over his desk, digging his fingers into a can of black paint. He uses the reflection of his computer screen to smear it over his eyelids and under his eyelashes until the white skin beneath disappears.

Next is zipping up the under suit. You barely resist rushing over to hold his bandage steady as the suit catches on it, but he manages to get it up and over without pulling it off. Then come the plates of armor. Each piece clips into place, clinging to his waist and chest and arms. You've seen it up close enough times to know the quality of it, a wonder how he'd gotten his hands on that kind of stuff until now.

You don't ask him to, but when it's time to put his cowl on, he turns sideways so you can see.

His gloved hand combs through his hair, pushing back the longer strands so he could fit the cowl over it.

It's kind of embarrassing how it takes your breath away. Bruce had quite literally transformed before your eyes, and now there was no denying it.

Bruce stands still as your eyes bore into him.

After a few seconds of admiring every piece of the suit, your eyes flit up to his face. He's not looking at you, almost shy. Apart from Alfred and, perhaps, his someone, Bruce has probably never put on the suit in front of anyone else. Is it weird you missed seeing him shy? "It fits perfectly." Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Of course it does. You know it's dumb to say. Bruce doesn't say that, though.

He waits a beat before turning away from you, his cape sending a breeze of cool air up against your legs. His car awaits on the train tracks, headlights beaming into the near endless darkness as he approaches and you follow.

The car thrums eagerly with life at the push of a button, sending vibrations through the ground, all the way up to the ceiling where you hear a sudden flurry of wings and chirping. Bowing your head close to Bruce, you watch about a hundred bats scurry about above you, disturbed by the sudden rumble of the engine. Bruce holds his cape over your shoulder, though none of the bats fly low enough to concern him. "They don't freak you out a little bit?"

"They haven't bothered me."

"Well, when you dress like them I guess they get confused."

"I'll be back before sunrise," Bruce promises, "and I'll look into Judith for you. Maybe you should... call first."

You're tickled by the discomfort he's so desperately trying to hide, "Scared of a little old lady?"

He pointedly ignores you. You step back as he throws open the door and settles into his car, but before he can pull off into the darkness, you shout his name to get his attention over the roaring engine, "Hey! Be safe."

Bruce looks at you and... you don't know what he's thinking, only that the muscles in his jaw relax a bit. Was he used to that? Did Alfred often stand on the cold, empty train tracks before every patrol and wish him luck on another night of beating criminals to a pulp? Was he used to the worrying? Annoyed by it, even?

He doesn't say anything. The car leaves in a spray of dust and you hide your face in your shirt to shield yourself from it. By the time the dust settles, you can only see two red lights blurring into the distance.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman scenarios #batman fic #the batman #battinson x reader #batman fluff #batman angst #battinson #mjwrites #bw; rprt #fandom; dc

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 1 year ago

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Into the Breach

Here’s something I’ve had sitting around for a long time. It’s kind of a fic but in a lot of ways it’s more like an extended Théodred HC. I’ve always wanted to know more about what he was doing in the lead-up to LOTR events (he was in a position where he would have been pivotal to some major stuff!), and I’ve always wanted to give him the real life that he doesn’t get because of the way Tolkien handled his death…to have someone who loves him desperately and vice versa. His own hopes and resentments and interests. A big dumb dog that makes him happy. But all of that without breaking canon.

So that’s what this was—part plot but part little tangents/notes on his history, feelings and personality. I meant to work from this to expand into a more complete thing someday, but since even this is really long (I’m gonna break it into 4 parts) and I just don’t do hugely epic, 20+ chapter fics, I don’t know if I ever will. So, here is part 1. As a reminder, I always start from Book Théodred, who at the time of his death is unmarried, in his 40s (13 years older than Éomer), and holds the rank of Second Marshal based in the West-mark.

The first two tentative knocks at the door failed to rouse anyone in the darkened chamber, but the third brought Storbar from his place at the foot of the bed and over to sniff at the threshold. Catching a scent he recognized, he huffed out a short, deep bark that finally succeeded in waking one of the room’s inhabitants. Eadlin raised herself on an elbow, squinted in the direction of the bark, and then looked back to the still figure by her side.

“Théodred, there is someone at the door.”

He grimaced and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. It felt like only seconds ago that he had crawled into bed, exhausted in body and mind. “What time is it?” His muffled voice barely escaped the soft down that he spoke into.

“It’s early,” answered Eadlin, skimming her hand along the smooth scar that ran up his back to his shoulder, where she gave him a gentle prod. “Very early. But if someone is knocking at an hour like this, it must be important.”

He sighed and took one last moment to savor the comfort of his bed, allowing his feet to linger in the residual warmth left behind by Storbar, before hoisting himself up and giving his head a light shake to clear the fog of sleep from his mind.

Another tap at the door followed, more insistent this time, and he stepped hurriedly into the trousers that he had left on the floor barely three hours ago. He stumbled across the darkened room, shivering in the early morning chill, and carefully opened the door a few inches. Éomer’s face, bearing a somber expression and a furrowed brow, appeared in the small sliver of light coming in from the hallway.

“I’m sorry, cousin. I know it’s unbearably early and you only arrived very late last night. But I’m due to ride to the Eastemnet with a scouting patrol at first light, and I need to speak with you before I leave. May I come in?”

Théodred looked back over his shoulder at his bride-to-be, who had risen and wrapped herself in a blanket as a more expedient solution than wrangling in the dark with the many ties and buttons of her dress. She nodded, and he pulled the door open a little wider.

At the sight of her, Éomer blushed and quickly turned his gaze. “My apologies to you, too, Eadlin.” His words were now directed to the ceiling. “I should have realized that I’d be disturbing both of you. I hope I haven’t interrupted a…delicate moment.”

Théodred raised an eyebrow and smiled at Éomer’s embarrassment. “You’ve interrupted nothing more delicate than sleep, though that is crime enough right now. But unless you’ve somehow made it this far in life without ever seeing a woman’s shoulders or legs, there is no cause for blushing.” He pulled Éomer into the room so that he could close the door. “Now, come and tell me what you need to say.”

Storbar followed Éomer to a seat by the window and rested his head on Éomer’s leg in a shameless bid for scratches while Théodred lit a lamp and pulled on a shirt.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” said Eadlin, brushing a quick kiss across Théodred’s lips and planting another on Éomer’s still reddened cheek before slipping through an adjoining door into her own chamber.

Perched now on the edge of the bed, Théodred took a deep breath and waited for Éomer to speak. The troubled look that had been on his cousin’s face when he first appeared at the door had returned as soon as Eadlin left, and his knee now bounced up and down nervously, much to Storbar’s frustration. Théodred had seen that jogging knee enough times in the past to know that bad news was coming, and he steeled himself to receive it even as a part of him longed instead to ask for just a few minutes more in the comfort of not knowing.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen your father since you returned?”

Théodred winced. Of all the possible concerns Éomer could raise, this was the one Théodred most dreaded. “No. We got in so late last night that he was already asleep. Everyone was. But I assume that you’re not asking because things have improved since last I heard.”

“I wish I could say they have, but, in truth, things are worse than ever. His exhaustion and infirmity continue to advance, and now things seem to be progressing much faster. You’ve been gone only for three weeks, but the man you see later today will look years older than he did when you left.”

“Years older?” Théodred’s shoulders slumped. This malady that was afflicting his father, so unrelenting and unexplained, both baffled and terrified him. It had started with small changes. A decrease in appetite. A slower, stiffer gait when walking. A grey pallor in the face. But those changes had steadily multiplied and accumulated, and not one of the healers in Edoras seemed able to identify a cause or solution to Théoden’s increasing woes. As treatment after treatment proved futile, the king had slowly lost the strength and stamina to carry out his full schedule of regular duties, many of which then fell to Théodred in his place. As a result, he and Eadlin now always seemed to be traveling between the royal household in Edoras and his own busy command in the Westfold.

The burden of extra responsibilities was heavy, and Théodred had taken up that burden with the expectation that this illness would pass and the king would return to his normal, vital self before long. But as month after month of slow decline continued, it had become much harder to sustain that notion. And now, if Théoden’s deterioration was accelerating, time was running out to find a cure for his father. Time had perhaps already run out. The vague sense of uneasy tension that had followed Théodred for weeks crystallized suddenly into an icy chill that seized his heart and stopped his breath. “I just don’t understand,” he muttered, as much to himself as to Éomer.

“It pains me to say it, cousin, but it gets worse. While his body continues to grow unnaturally old, his mind now also seems to be weakening. It’s more than just occasional behavior and choices that seem out of character–we’ve been seeing that for months. But now he sometimes gets confused. He fails to recognize advisers and attendants that have served him for years. At times, he now calls Éowyn ‘Théodwyn’ and speaks to her as though she were his sister. It comes and goes, but it can be frightening to watch.” Éomer paused and ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Yesterday he couldn’t seem to remember your mother’s name.”

A strangled noise escaped Théodred’s throat before he could choke it back. He jumped to his feet and began to pace, trailed intently by Storbar, who had been roused by the unexpected movement and whimpered quietly at the distress in the room that even he could feel.

Théodred heard neither those whimpers nor the words that Éomer continued to speak. His own pulse pounded in his ears, and his mind raced unsteadily through a flood of muddled thoughts and questions. How was any of this possible? A man of seventy could be expected to lose a little of his sharpness over time, but not this quickly or to this degree. And surely not when it came to Théoden’s memories of Elfhild, the person his father loved most in the world. For him to forget anything of her was simply unthinkable, or so Théodred had always believed. Yet now the unthinkable had happened. What worse would happen next while they sat by, unable to stop it?

“Théodred, do you hear me?”

Éomer’s voice pulled Théodred out of his thoughts. He was standing now in front of the windowsill where he kept his most treasured flowers and small plants, those that were nursed along in the protection of the indoors because they couldn’t withstand the harsh winters in the garden he had kept at Meduseld since boyhood. His hand rested next to a delicate burgundy orchid from the southern regions of Gondor, a gift given to him many years ago by a great friend of that land, one he trusted implicitly. An idea leapt to his mind, and he whirled around to face Éomer.

“We must send word to Boromir. We’ve tried and failed for months now to address this on our own, and we need to accept that there is no knowledge in Rohan that can cure my father’s illness. But maybe in Gondor, with their vast lore and their old healing craft from the western lands…maybe they’ll recognize what afflicts him and know how to treat it. Maybe they can restore him to his old self. I can think of no better option.”

Éomer considered this suggestion for a moment. “Is it wise to share news of this crisis with outsiders? Boromir is the best of men, but the king doesn’t want others to know of his condition. And if word gets out that he is sickened, who else may try to capitalize on the opportunity? The Dunlendings have tried more for less in the past.”

“What choice do we have? We can’t hide this forever, and when it comes out eventually we’ll have gained nothing by waiting. And Boromir will understand the sensitivity. He’ll ensure our secret goes no further than absolutely necessary, and if it’s within his power to help us, he will. He takes his duty to his friends and allies as seriously as any man in Middle Earth.”

The more Théodred spoke of the idea, the better he felt about it. He had known Boromir for most of his life, and, despite being radically different by temperament, they understood one another as no one else could. Among their many friends, each had only one that knew the unique challenges and pressures of being an heir to power. Only one that knew the terror of carrying the welfare of an entire people on your shoulders. Only one who knew what it was to be marked for greatness from birth and to labor your whole life to deliver on that expectation.

They had first met as young boys on one of Théodred’s many trips to Gondor to visit his grandmother’s family. His Aunt Théodwyn invited the steward’s son to keep her nephew company while they were in Minas Tirith, and though Théodred generally preferred reading and drawing to the hunting and fishing that Boromir favored, they had a shared sense of mischief that quickly drew them together. They could often be found pilfering treats from Denethor’s kitchens, scheming to find ways into locked rooms that drew their interest, or plotting elaborate pranks on the guards that were assigned to keep an eye on the two little heirs as they romped around the White City. At times, Théodwyn almost regretted having matched them up–particularly when Boromir began showing a sudden aptitude for especially florid Rohirric profanity or Théodred turned up in possession of a priceless Númenórean scroll that only the steward’s son could have swiped from the library–but the boys had endless fun causing trouble as a pair.

Later they would learn to appreciate other things in one another. Two years after they met, Boromir’s mother passed away, and Théodred proved to be a gentle and thoughtful listener whenever Boromir needed to unburden his grief. And Boromir was a constant source of counsel, always willing to offer strong but considered opinions on any topic where Théodred craved the advice of a brother. They saw each other frequently and exchanged letters when apart, though admittedly Théodred’s letters tended to multi-page missives full of musings and emotions while Boromir’s were short notes that cut right to his point. But the flow of advice, assistance and consolation between them never ceased. All these years later, Théodred could still be counted on to provide a sympathetic ear as Boromir fretted about the relationship between his father and brother and Boromir to provide prudent guidance when Théodred expressed his occasional ambivalence to the idea of inheriting the crown.

Now the sight of that fragile orchid, sent by Boromir as a birthday gift in the year they had both turned thirty nine, sent a strengthening jolt through Théodred’s wearied frame. Boromir’s counsel had served him well in every phase of his life, giving him confidence, perspective and wisdom. Perhaps he could come through again, even as the stakes were higher than ever before.

“I’ll spend today observing my father so that I can give Boromir as detailed an account of his condition as possible, and I’ll give thought to how we can best get a letter to Minas Tirith. If others find out that we have shared this information outside of Meduseld, it may cause problems for us. But I am certain that we can find a way to get this message to Boromir discreetly.” Having a plan, even a modest one that was far from guaranteed, made Théodred feel a little calmer.

Éomer nodded his agreement and stood to leave. “One last piece of business. These few weeks while you have been in the Westfold, I have often been called out to my own command in the east. And in that time, someone has taken advantage of our absence to work his way even deeper into the king’s confidence.

Théodred sighed. His problems never seemed to come alone when they could come in plentiful company instead. “I don’t need to ask who you mean.”

Éomer nodded again. “Éowyn reports that Gríma has been with Uncle Théoden nearly every day, often for long hours. He’s had ample time to continue pushing the strategies and policies that you and I have been counseling against.”

“Does Éowyn know what has been said between them when they meet?”

“Not all. Gríma takes care to speak so that she can’t hear him, and I wouldn’t ask her to try to monitor him more closely.” The muscles in his jaw tensed and flexed. “It isn’t safe for her to be in his presence so often.”

“I agree. I have no doubt your sister can take care of herself, but it doesn’t feel right to put her in that position. And I cannot ask Eadlin to keep an eye on him either.” A ghost of a smile crossed Théodred’s face. “She would be willing to try on my behalf, but you know her–she has little use for subtlety. She makes no secret of her loathing for Gríma, and he would be immediately suspicious of her motives if she should try to spend time near him now.” He thought for a moment. “No, I’ll talk to Háma instead. He is always at the door, so he knows all who come and go and hears much of what happens in the great hall. And he is loyal to my father above all others. If anyone can find out what Gríma is up to, it will be Háma.”

Théodred pushed back the curtains to see the first faint hints of pinkish-red light just beginning to appear over the distant horizon. Éomer would be expected at the stables any moment. They walked together to the door, and Théodred put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. Even through the layers of leather and mail he could feel the tension in Éomer’s body, and he wished they had a few more minutes together to talk or even just to sit in the solace of each other’s company. Éomer was no longer the little boy that Théodred had taken under his wing–indeed, Théodred considered him now every bit his equal in strength, capability and canniness–but it was hard to let go of the old instinct to protect and comfort. And, in truth, he felt that Éomer still longed for that protection and care at times, no matter how much older and more capable he had become. He still looked for reassurance that some guiding hand was in control, one that would make all of his hardships and losses worth enduring for the blessings of a happier future. Théodred turned Éomer to face him.

“Don’t let any of this distract you while you’re out there. Be safe, do your job, and come back again. And then we’ll sort all this out. We have many challenges but also many allies. Don’t forget that.”

Éomer smiled, a look of quiet relief on his face. “I’ll come as soon as I can, cousin.” He clapped a hand on Théodred’s shoulder and then turned down the hall, striding off out of sight.

Théodred closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, his eyes closed and jaw tightly set. He desperately hoped that what he had just said to Éomer would prove to be true, but in his heart he wasn’t certain. He fought back the instinct to go immediately to his father, to seek his own reassurance that everything was under control. To hear a comfortingly authoritative voice tell him that everything would turn out in the end. But as much as he ached for that paternal consolation, he knew that he wouldn’t find it now. He would be lucky to ever find it again.

He heard the side door open as Eadlin came back into the room, wearing a long robe now. Taking in the look on his face, she opened her arms and he walked gratefully into them. They stood quietly for several long minutes with his head nestled in the crook of her neck and her arms tightly around his waist.

“You should go back to bed,” he murmured into her ear. “There’s no reason to spoil your own rest on my account.”

She shook her head. “There is so little I can do to ease your burdens, but at least I can help get you ready to face them.” She moved him into the seat that Éomer had vacated and placed herself behind him, running her fingers through his hair and all across his scalp in the way that she knew he liked. Then, taking up a comb and deftly dividing the hair on one side into sections, she began to weave a small, tight braid that ran above his ear from his temple back into the loose waves that sat on his shoulders.

“Was Éomer here about your father?” she ventured at last. Her hands continued their work, but she watched his face in the reflection that glimmered in the window pane in front of them.

He nodded. “His health is always my main concern of late, but there are other problems here as well. Not to mention those problems that we left back in the Westfold. Problems are one thing we have in overabundance.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s enough to make a person want to run and hide himself away. To find a small, comfortable spot somewhere in a far off country and just lead a quiet, normal life, away from all of this. Riding, reading, time in the fresh air, a hard day’s work with my hands and a good night’s sleep at the end. I could find myself very happy in a life like that.”

Their eyes met in the reflection, and she smiled softly at him. This wasn’t the first time he had spooled out a similar fantasy to her in the privacy of their own rooms, and the image of him content and at peace was one that always made her happy. But they both knew there was never any real intention behind his words, no actual willingness to abandon his responsibilities or leave behind the family and friends he cherished. His wishes for a simpler, more modest existence were just dreams that he liked to speak of and that he counted on her to gently redirect, as she always did.

She tied off the braid and walked around to face him, admiring her own handiwork before leaning down to give his arm an affectionate squeeze. “But if you left, of course I would go with you. And then who would water your plants?”

He laughed, as she knew he would, and he pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head as he stood. “You’re right, of course. As always.”

She handed his boots to him and no sooner had he slipped one on than Storbar was at his side, wagging a hopeful tail and looking in the direction of the door. “Alright, old friend. You’re right, too.” He pulled on his second boot and reached for Storbar’s leash. “No more rest for any of us today. There is much to do.”

Part Two is here.

Quick notes:

“Eadlin” glosses as “princess,” which seemed fitting for someone engaged to a prince.

“Storbar” means “great boar” in tribute to the Great Boar of Everholt, the legendary beast that fought Théodred’s 3x-great grandfather in T.A. 2864.

If you like Théodred, there’s a whole section for him on my master list where you can see some of what I did with a few of the elements of his history and personality that originated here.

#lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #theodred #théodred #lotr headcanon #lotr fanfiction #cameos from éomer and boromir #théodred had a real and full life y’all #he wasn’t just sword fodder for the plot

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