mari

You say, “No, keep going.”

And the way he looks at you then is different. Softer. Uncertain, but hopeful. Like he’s just realized he doesn’t have to perform a role, he can just exist and you’re still here. Still listening. Still choosing him.

Bruce insists on walking you to your door, it’s a formal obligation. Hand at your back, polite distance, perfect posture, the whole Gotham’s most eligible bachelor routine turned up to max. He keeps glancing around, subtle but constant, like he’s running threat assessments instead of thinking about you.

You assume he’s just being sweet. He assumes it’s about safety. Which, to be fair, it is Gotham.

You get to your door and you don’t move right away. You linger, keys forgotten in your hand, looking up at him in that way that’s supposed to mean something. He smiles back, charming and calm, clearly waiting for the next line in whatever invisible script he’s following.

Nothing happens.

So you sigh and say, “I want you to kiss me.”

He blinks like you’ve just given him new information (you very much have). Nods once, serious. “Okay,” he says, then hesitates. “Now?”

“Yes, Bruce. Now.”

And when he finally leans in, careful at first and then not at all, it doesn’t feel awkward or staged or logical. It feels like something out of a fairytale. Like he just needed the instructions before he could give you exactly what you wanted.

He starts talking in that voice again. The smooth one. The one that sounds like it belongs in a magazine profile titled Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor.

“I’ve always believed that connection is about timing,” he says, smiling just a little too perfectly, “and meeting someone like you makes me think that perhaps I’ve been waiting for the right moment without realizing it—”

You stare at him for half a second.

Then you laugh and kiss him mid sentence.

He freezes completely. Eyes wide, brain clearly rebooting. For a heartbeat he just stands there, hands hovering like he forgot what they’re for.

“…all along,” he finishes, softly, because the sentence was already lined up in his head and not saying it feels wrong.

You pull back, amused. “Were you flirting with me or giving a press interview?”

He blinks. “I was flirting. I think.”

You kiss him again, shorter this time.

The smile that comes after isn’t polished. It’s crooked, a little embarrassed, real. The playboy’s still there, but now he keeps tripping over the part of him that doesn’t know the script and doesn’t really want one.

You’re making out on Bruce’s bed, breath getting uneven, hands wandering in very ungodly ways. His hand is on your waist, warm and firm, until it suddenly stills.

You notice because his grip changes.

His fingers shift, slower now, rubbing the fabric between them with deliberate focus, thumb pressing just a little harder than necessary. He’s still kissing you, but his attention has split. “Is this satin?” he murmurs against your mouth. Then, more quietly, more absorbed, “No, silk. Different weave.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Bruce.”

He hums in response, lips still on yours, his other hand sliding up your back like he never meant to stop. “I’m still kissing you,” he says earnestly, as if he needs to clarify. “I can do both.”

His fingers keep tracing the fabric at your waist, lingering now, less analytical and more appreciative, the curiosity has turned into something else. You pull him closer by his collar and kiss him properly, slow and intentional.

There’s no performance left in him. No charm, no polish. Just Bruce, distracted and curious and somehow still very clearly turned on, getting caught on how you feel under his hands and not bothering to hide it.

You’ve been flirting for ten straight minutes. Slow, obvious, leaning in too close, letting your hand linger on his arm like you’re daring him to do something about it. You’re giving full on fuck me eyes and are practically on his lap, like come on.

Bruce watches you, clearly processing.

Then he says, calmly, “If you want to have sex, you can ask directly.”

You freeze.

“…What?”

He looks genuinely uncertain, like he’s worried he’s misread the situation. “I don’t want to assume. But that seems to be what you’re implying.”

Your brain short circuits for half a second.

“Oh,” you say, then, because apparently honesty is contagious, “I want to have sex with you.”

He blinks once.

“Yes,” he says immediately.

No hesitation. No dramatic pause. Just yes, like you asked if he wanted coffee. And then his hand is on your waist, firm and decisive, and he’s kissing you with a borderline animalistic kind of hunger.

A moment later you’re not even walking anymore. He just lifts you, easy and careful and very focused, carrying you toward his bedroom while you laugh into his shoulder.

So much for being subtle. Turns out all he needed was the exact question.

The lighting is soft, almost too perfect, he arranged it himself. He’s standing there, words chosen, pacing measured, eyes locked on yours like it’s both a challenge and a performance. You can feel the rehearsed rhythm, the careful cadence he’s practiced in front of mirrors and empty rooms.

“I would like to be exclusive. Intentionally. Long-term,” he says, each word deliberate, precise, as if it’s a line from a script he’s been running for weeks.

You nod, smiling. “Yes. Obviously.”

He exhales, relief flickering across his face for the first time all night. But before the tension fully leaves him, before he even blinks, he adds, same tone, same unwavering gaze:

“There’s something else you need to know. I’m Batman.”

You laugh, short and incredulous. “Bruce, that’s… come on, really?”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t crack a smile. He just waits, still fully composed, still staring.

And before you know it you’re in the batcave, Bruce excitedly explaining everything in sight.

You’re sitting in the kitchen with Alfred, tea in hand, expecting nothing more than a quiet morning. He sips his own cup and then, as casually as if he were talking about the weather, says, “Master Bruce prefers routine. It’s part of being on the spectrum.”

You choke on your tea, burning your throat and making you cough like an idiot. Alfred just raises an eyebrow and waits. You swallow, still coughing, cheeks burning.

Later, you find Bruce in the study, pretending to read, perfectly composed as always. You sit across from him, arms crossed, glaring in mock accusation. “You told me you’re Batman before you told me you’re autistic.”

He blinks at you, genuinely confused, tilts his head slightly. “The first one affects your safety,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

You narrow your eyes.

Then his tone softens, quieter this time, a little more vulnerable. “The second one just affects me.”

And somehow, that’s even more unmasking than finding out he dresses up as a bat to catch criminals at night. You stare at him and realize there’s nothing left hidden, nothing staged. No Bruce Wayne, no Batman. Just Bruce, entirely himself, and entirely trusting you to see him.