time waits for nary man

The video cuts to both you and Bruce sitting next to one another. Both of your hands are clasp on the table while Bruce's are hidden under. One of them of which is on your thigh though the camera doesn't see it. A female crew member from Vanity Fair sits just off camera on the other side of the table.

"Y/N, Bruce, you were both brought here today to take a lie detector test. One of you will be hooked up onto the machine and the other will interview. Then you switch." She tells you. Both you and Bruce nod in understatement. "This is Judd, our polygraph operator." she introduce the man sitting off to the side.

You and Bruce both turn to him. Bruce gave him a greeting nod, you smiled and gave a small 'hello.'

"Who wants to be in the hot seat first?" the crew member asked.

You laugh nervously and turn to look at your husband and he looks at you.

"Is the hot seat the lying seat or the other one?" Bruce asked.

"This side is the test and also it's the truth seat." you tell him.

"Well then ladies first." Bruce says, which you gasp in shock.

You are getting hooked to the machine and are suddenly getting nervous. Judd, the lie detector operator, places your right arm on the table.

"Try not to move this arm too much." he told you.

A montage of setting up the lie detector starts to roll before the camera is on Bruce, now sitting opposite of you.

"My love…to calibrate the machine, I'm going to ask you some straight forward questions. Please answer honestly. Is your full name Y/N M/N Wayne?"

"Yes." you say.

"Are you 39 years old?"

Once again your eyes widen, "Didn't anyone tell you it was rude to ask a women her age?" Bruce just gives you a smug smile. "Yes." you finally answer with an eye roll.

"Are you about to take a polygraph exam?"

"Yes…everything I say feels like is a lie." you say then looked over at Judd. "Is it registering than I am?"

Judd shakes his head, "No, you're doing fine."

Bruce raised an eyebrow at you, "Are you nervous?"

"Well I wasn't before we arrived, but now being hooked up, I am. I guess I never realize how much I lie in life. Now I'm actively trying not to and it just feels wrong." you say.

"You lie more times than you think you do." Bruce stated.

Y/N Wayne Tells The Truth

Bruce reads off the first prompt, "You once told the Gotham Gazette that you feel like everyone hates you." you nod your head. "Do you still believe that?"

You nod your head again, "Yeah."

The camera switches back to Bruce, whose face had nothing but concern written on it.

"Why?" he said so quietly that it also didn't get picked up by audio.

"Um…I mean I don't know why anyone wouldn't have like some resentment towards me. You are like Gotham's baby, the prince of Gotham City. The city loved your parents and by extension you. Then here I come, a low-middle class girl from Star City, somehow got the playboy to settle down. I was living most Gotham girls fantasy and different from everyone else. So yeah I knew people hated me and I think some still do."

"I wouldn't trade you for anyone." Bruce stated.

"Awe you sap."

"Is the real reason you took the job to be my assistant because you secretly wanted to date me?"

"Really? That's the next question, even after what I just said?" you rolled your eyes, "No."

"She's telling the truth." Judd said.

"I truly had no idea who you were. I'm from the west coast, we didn't care about what was happening in the east. Which also if we are being honest…I think Alfred was looking for someone who didn't care who you were."

Judd nods, "Truth."

"Am I a good husband?" Bruce ask with a straight face.

You take a moment to answer, "Yes."

Judd shakes his head and Bruce tilts his head at you.

"What? No! You are you're a great husband…I will say though that you weren't a very good boyfriend, but I've had worst."

"That's the truth." Judd says.

"Okay so then follow up, what made me not that good of a boyfriend?"

"Well, there are two big things, but for legal reason…I can't say." you say.

"You went to the same high school as this person." Bruce slides over a picture of Oliver Queen.

You knit your eyebrows in confusion before realizing who it was, "Oh Ollie."

"Don't like how you said that…" Bruce mumble. "You dated during your senior year. Would you say that he was one of your worst that you were talking about?"

Your mouth twist as you looked at the picture, thinking hard. You opened your mouth to speak, but then retracted it.

"No." you finally say.

"That's a lie." spoke Judd.

Your jaw dropped as Bruce laughs a little, "What? I didn't lie. Sure he wasn't the best and he owns up to that…now at least. The ones in college though…" You make a face.

"Ones? Plural?"

"Oh, don't act like that…you practically had a new girlfriend every month according to Alfred."

"I already know the answer to this one," Bruce says and you give an offended look, "Do you look at fan accounts dedicated to you?"

You laugh, "I look at fan accounts dedicated to all of us. Especially ones about Dami."

Judd nods, "She's telling the truth."

You look into the camera, "I gotta make sure everyone is being respectful and appropriate about my baby."

"We see it all." Bruce comments.

"You make me watch a lot of reality TV." Bruce says.

"I don't make you, you enjoy it."

"Do you think we should have our own reality TV?"

You shake your head, "God no. We are kind of public enough, I don't need the world seeing into our home life."

"Truthful."

"If I asked to with hold information from a super villain to cover for me, would you?" Bruce makes a face.

"No." you say equally making the same face.

"I would never ask you to do that."

"I don't even think our kids would cover for you." you and Bruce both laugh. "Also, I've done that before…wouldn't recommend."

"Did you lie at any point of this interview and we didn't catch you?" Bruce asked.

"I think I was pretty truthful consider that fact that I felt what I was saying was all lies."

"My turn I guess." Bruce said tossing what he was reading off of behind him.

The camera cuts to now Bruce getting hooked up to the polygraph machine.

"Bruce, to calibrate the machine, I'm going to ask you some straight forward questions. Please answer honestly." you read off of a note pad. Bruce nods. "Is your full name Bruce Thomas Wayne?" you asked.

Bruce nods, "Yes."

"Are you from Gotham, New Jersey?"

"Yes."

"Are you about to take a lie detector test?"

Bruce smiles at you, "I suppose that I am. Yes."

You look toward Judd, the lie detector operator, "Good?"

"All good." Judd says back to you, and you turn your attention back to your husband.

Bruce Wayne Tells The Truth

"I feel like this is going to be boring because you generally don't really lie." you say.

"What? I lie to the press all the time…and our children." Bruce states.

"He's telling the truth." Judd says.

You look at him with wide eyes, "Honey, you can't say that."

Bruce shrugs, clearly not caring.

You look down at the paper the crew gave you. Pre-reading the first one, it makes you laugh.

"I'm already not liking this." Bruce admits.

"How often are you faking that you remember people at Galas from when you were a kid?" you ask.

Bruce doesn't hesitate to answer, "Oh, all the time."

"That's so bad." you say, "You're horrible."

Bruce shrugs again.

"The family group chat often talks about how hot this person is " you slide a picture of Clark Kent in front of Bruce.

"Oh no…" Bruce says already knowing where this was going.

"There is a part of the internet that is very dedicated on shipping you two together..,"

"Shipping?"

You gave your husband a deadpan look, "Don't try to act like you don't know what that is. I know Stephanie's explained it to you before."

Bruce chuckles.

"The two of you are seen pretty close with each other. So the question is would you leave me if Clark Kent declared his love for you?"

Bruce draws his lips into a thin line. Staring a the photo of Clark on the table, contemplating. Five minutes go by and you, on the other side of the table, look at your so call lover with with shock.

"Bruce this is a long time, goodness!"

Bruce shakes his head, "No, no I wouldn't leave you." You turn your head to Judd.

"Truth." said Judd, but you shake your head.

"I don't believe you. Would you leave me for Clark Kent?" you ask again.

"No." He said it clear with a stern voice.

You are narrowing your eyes at him as Judd tells you that Bruce was telling the truth.

"Before dropping out of Gotham University, you were dorm mates with Former District Attorney, Harvey Dent. Was he a good roommate?"

"I think we were both equally bad roommates…" Bruce said.

"Would you say that you are or were more successful than him?"

"Ohhh." Bruce made a face like that question psychically hurt him. You laugh at his reaction, "No absolutely not."

"Deceptive." Judd said, causing both you and Bruce to laugh.

"Oh well I already know the answer to this, but when was the last time you made a dinner reservation?" you laugh. Bruce makes a face that you couldn't describe. "Never." you said as you shook your head. "I don't think you ever have, Alfred does it for you."

"If I did and this was before you, I would just call and pretend to be my own assistant…" Bruce revealed.

"Well, you didn't have to," you told him laughing, "It was just something you chose to do."

"You're quite well know for your physique. What's your secret for staying so fit and or hydrated?"

Bruce thinks on how to answer, "I get wet when I…"

The camera cuts back to you. You are slightly shaking your head, trying not to laugh.

"No…say something else." you say. Bruce breaks into silent laughter. "Please say something else."

"What was the question again?" Bruce asked.

"What's your secret to staying so hydrated or fit?"

"I get wet when I-"

"NO!" you yell, "Bruce say it another way…" you tell him.

"I drink water? I work out almost everyday?" Bruce responds.

"There you go. Oh my god, Bruce." you say.

Bruce laughs at your panic expression.

"Moving on from whatever that was-"

"What I was trying to say-" Bruce began, cutting you off.

"NO! Honey, we're done." you say.

"We have a lot of kids." You state reading of the card, "Out of all of them, who is your favorite?"

"Are you trying to start a war?" Bruce ask.

"Not me, Vanity Fair."

"I don't have a favorite." Bruce claims.

"That's a lie." Judd tells you. You burst into laughter

"It varies week to week. Who ever runs my patients the least that week the is favorite."

"Truth." Judd says.

"So then who gets on your nerves the least?" Jason's voice said from somewhere off camera.

"Cassandra…and Duke."

Judd nods, "Truth."

"Are you the crime fighting vigilante known as Batman?"

Bruce sighs, "Am I going to get asked this every interview we do?"

"Answer the question, honey."

"No." Bruce declared.

Judd's face twitch a little, "Ask him again."

You let out a little surprise noise, "Did it not pick up?"

You lean forward looking into your husband's eyes. He was staring back at you, with a shit eating grin on his face.

"Are you Batman?" you ask again.

Bruce leans forward too, leaning into your eyes. You're enjoying this, he could tell.

"No." Bruce answered.

"He's telling the truth." Judd announced.

You fell back into the chairs, "We almost had him guys." you say referring to the people of the internet.

"Okay that was all the question. Did you lie at any point during this interview and we didn't catch you?"

Bruce nods, "Yes."

"True." Judd said.

You looked wide eye at your husband, "Are you serious?" Bruce smiles and nods. Mouth open with shock, "When?"

"I'm not going to say."

"Can I say what I think you lied about?" you smiled.

"What?"

"Leaving me for Clark Kent." you laughed.

1,1010 Comments

@ shootingforthestars

Bruce knew exactly what he was saying

@ littleotter13

"Is that the lying seat' bruce for you every seat is the lying seat

@ FemboyJackie1

She looks at the camera like she's in The Office

@ noname-kA17

the concept of the industry's biggest pathological liar taking a lie detector test.

@ DCalc12

Y/N Wayne taking about Blark was not on my checklist for 2026

@ harleendefender09

Whose out here hating on our queen???

more notes: can you guys guess what three lie detector test videos inspire this??

Bruce was really nervous about taking Dick to Haly's Circus, sure it was Dick's birthday and he really wanted to come but it was also his first birthday without his parents and Bruce didn't want to tigger something in Dick. But then, two weeks ago, he received a letter from Mr. Haly saying that the circus would be in Gotham and since it would be Dick's birthday by then, they all would be really happy to see him but they would understand if he couldn't visited and would send him a gift instead. Dick was so excited to see all his old friends again that Bruce couldn't say no, but he made Dick promise that when he felt uncomfortable he tell Bruce and they would drive home.

"Come on," Dick says, tugging on Bruce's sleeve and bringing the man out of his nervous state.

Bruce didn't have time to reply before Dick tugged at him again so he just gave him a small smile and tired to keep up with the boy.

"Mr. Haly!" Dick calls, letting go of Bruce to run to the man he hasn't seen in a long time.

Mr. Haly lets out a small grunt when Dick runs directly into a hug, making the man take a step back to try and hold balance. "You made it."

"Of course," Dick beams up at him. As if Dick would ever not come. He missed them all so much, sure it's pretty cool with Bruce but he really missed the life in the circus.

Bruce walks slowly towards them. He's sure everyone in a two meter radius could hear the exited ramble of the now nine-year-old.

"Mr. Wayne," Mr. Haly greets, letting go of Dick to shake Bruce's hand. "I'm really happy to see you again."

"Me too. It's been a long time."

"Yeah, we thought it'd be nice to make a short stop here in Gotham before we make our way to Metropolis."

Dick leans slightly against Bruce. He was already bored. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬? He doesn't want to talk about the weather or whatever other boring things adults talk about. He wants to go around and greet everyone, and he wants to go and greet Sitka, he missed his best friend. He couldn't wait to see her again. But he couldn't just go around without Bruce, sure he knows the people around here but he promised him to be within reach, so that if he would get overwhelmed he wouldn't be alone.

"And we have a surprise for Dick." Now that got his attention.

"What is it?" He looks between Mr. Haly and Bruce but the latter just shrugged at him. Bruce really didn't know what the surprise was.

Mr. Haly points to the tent with a knowing smirk. "Why don't you just go and see for yourself?"

Dick doesn't even reply to him but starts running in the direction of the tent before he stops to look at Bruce for permission. Bruce smiles at him and gives him a nod. And that's all the boy needs for running into the tent.

Dick stops when he's inside. It's been something over a year since he saw all of that and he feels an uncomfortable shiver run down his spine. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦. But before he turns around, he sees a present lying on the floor, and his curiosity and excitement were bigger than this uncomfortable feeling.

He slowly approaches the box. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘹 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? Dick looks around and frowns. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦? Nobody was in the tent which is very weird. They all should be here and greet him, and above all, practice their performance.

His frown forms into a pout. But since he's already here, he can open his present. The boy opens the box happily but that turns into confusion pretty quickly. A note. All that's in the box are a few words written on a piece of paper.

Dick grabs the note. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘹 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮?

It did not.

So he finally reads what's written on the paper.

'𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘶𝘱!'

Dick frowns slightly but looks up anyway. There is a sign that reads: '𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵!'

He got really excited and looks to the right but there was nothing, except that this side of the tent was really dark.

𝘞𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥. 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦 𝘢—

Dick's thoughts are interrupted when a spotlight on the ground turns on and illuminates the dark side of the tent. The birthday boy blinks a few times to adjust his eyes to the new brightness. And then he blinked a few times more because he couldn't fully grasp what he saw. Standing in front of him were all the people he missed so much: Sando the Strongman who played tug-of-war with him, Waldo and Harry—the funniest clowns he ever met, Palmer the juggler, and many many more.

A big smile stretches on Dick's face when he runs forward to greet everyone.

🎂🦇⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅🐘🎪

"Have you had fun so far?" Bruce asks, helping Dick clean his face—how the boy got more cotton candy on his face rather than in his mouth was beyond him.

"Yes!" Dick says, putting another piece of cotton candy in his mouth. "This day couldn't be better."

"I have something that would make the day even better," says Mr. Haly.

Dick stares at the man with wide eyes. "What is it?"

"It's not a what, but a who?"

"Who?" Dick frowns, "everyone is here."

"𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?" This voice. Dick knew this voice. But it couldn't be, could it?

The boy turns slowly around before he lets go of his candy in complete shock. 𝘠𝘰𝘶. It was really you. Dick hadn't seen you in over two years and now you stood before him. Tears welled up in his eyes and with a soft whimper of your name he starts to run in your direction.

You squat down when Dick is near you to give him a better hug. He's bigger than the last time you saw him but in this position you could hold him tighter against you.

"Hi, my little robin," you whisper in his hair, trying to speak around the lump that formed in your throat. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," he whispers.

You smile to yourself before you lean back and cup his face in your hands to get a better look at him. It's been so long since you last saw him.

You worked and lived in the circus your whole life, so you knew Dick since he was a newborn. His parents and you even had a performance together. But then your mother got sick and you took a break to look after her, and when she died you needed time to heal. A few months ago you decided to return, and that's when you learned about John and Mary's deaths. Mr. Haly told you everything about it and that he didn't want to burden you with this matter as well, but all you could think about was Dick and the mysterious but kind man who took him in.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you needed me," you wipe some of the boy's tears with your thumbs away. This was something you'll probably never forgive yourself for.

Dick sniffs before he starts to wipe your tears away as well. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘺?

"It's fine," he says when a big smile stretched out on his face, "you're here now."

"I am."

"Come on, I have to introduce you to someone."

He took your hand when you stood to your full size again, walking with you to a man around your age. He was dressed in only black but he had a soft smile on his lips when he looked at Dick.

"You okay, chum?" The man asks when you stand in front of him. Dick nods his head, and starts to introduce you to the man you assumed took him in.

"It's really nice to meet you Mr. Wayne." You say with a soft voice and smile, stretching your hand out.

But the man only looked at you with wide eyes. You knew you looked probably like a total mess right now with your red and swollen eyes, but it was kinda rude of him to just stare at you.

Luckily for you, Dick felt the same way.

"Bruce?" the boy whispers, "you're being rude."

Dick was completely confused by the way Bruce acted. He was always polite to everyone, even tho those he didn't like, so him acting like this was very weird and confusing to Dick. But he was even more confused when Bruce starts to blink his eyes a few times, like he was trying to wake himself up and a slightly rose colour blossomed on his cheeks and ears.

"Yeah, I-I'm sorry," Bruce says, shaking your hand softly, "nice to meet you as well, and please call me Bruce." 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘊𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘒? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.

To his luck you just smile sweetly at him.

🎂🦇⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅🐘🎪

"Wait," Damian says, his voice sharp and his hand stretched out to signal his oldest brother to stop talking, "you're really trying to tell us father is terrible at flirting?"

"Yeah," Tim nods, "he's Bruce Wayne, when he doesn't have game who does?"

"True," Jason mutters. He can't believe he just agreed with the younger boys. "But it's also dad, and we know how he is around ma," he continues, seeing that everyone agrees with him on that matter. "What I don’t understand is why you’re telling us this story?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"No."

"Negative."

"Only to you, dickhead."

"It’s the reason why the front seat should go to me!" Dick says, looking down at his brothers who sat down on the edge of the roof they were currently waiting for their father and the Batmobile.

"That's a stupid reason," Jason scoffs, taking his phone out to reply to a stupid meme Roy sent him two hours ago.

"I kinda understood the point in you being...," Damian begins before he turns his head to Jason, "what did you call him?"

"𝘈𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵," Jason says with a smirk, still looking at his phone.

"AnCiEnT?!"

"Right," Damian completely ignores Dick, "I kinda understood the reason you need the front seat because your 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵, and therefore you have poor bones and other things that old people get."

"I'M NOT THAT OLD!"

Damian gives Dick a dismissing hand before he continues, "but what is the point in you telling us the story on how our parents meet for the first time?"

"Hey, I'm Richard," Dick says, stretching his hand out, "𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮!"

"Nah," Tim shakes his head, "we have her because dad is very charming."

"He wasn't when I introduced them," Dick grits out, "his voice literally CRACKED!"

"Who's voice cracked?" The deep voice of his father makes Dick freeze for a few seconds.

"According to dickhead over here, yours."

"My voice didn't crack, my throat was just dry."

"And what about your red face?"

"It was really hot that day."

"Hot?" Dick asks in disbelief, looking more confused when Bruce nods. "A hot day in Gotham? In March?"

Bruce just rolls his eyes before he directed his next question to all his children, "did you figured out who's getting the front seat?"

"I'm the reason you have a wife."

"I died so y'all own me something."

"I'm to tired for this shit but I took down the most guys, so it's only fair I get the front seat."

"Father, I should get the front seat because—"

"You're not the 'Superior Robin'," Dick, Jason, and Tim shout at the same time to which Damian just scoffs.

Bruce groans in annoyance. "Dick get in the front seat, everybody else goes in the back." Did he really think that would sit right with everyone besides Dick?

"Seriously?"

"Old people privileges I guess."

"Father, you can't be really—"

"Enough," Bruce says in a stern voice (but it's his stern dad voice, not his stern Batman voice, and yes the dad voice has a better effect), "it's Dick's Birthday so he gets the front seat. End of discussion."

With that he makes his way to get finally to the Batmobile, mumbling a quiet, "do you have any idea what your mother would do to me if we were late to Dick's surprise party?"

"Surprise party?!" 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.

"I'm sure that whatever ma would have done to you is less harmful than what she'll do to you when she finds out you've just spoiled the surprise party to her '𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯'," Jason laughs when he claps his father on the shoulder, moving to the fire escape to wait in The Batmobile. If he has to sit in the back, then at least he should sit by the window.

"I guess your side of the bed goes to me tonight," Damian says with little satisfied smile before he frowns when he noticed that Tim was in the back as well, which means he has to sit in the middle. Again.

"I'm really sorry, Dicki," Bruce apologies, seeing the pout on his eldest son (some things just never change).

"It's fine," he responds, making his way to the fire escape as well before turning back towards Bruce. "I don’t tell mom, but you own me one and I don’t know what's worser for you."

Bruce just chuckles, following Dick down to the car where he can hear the other three arguing again.

🎂🦇⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅🐘🎪

"Some little birdie told me you spoiled the surprise party," you say to your husband who was about to hand you a drink.

Bruce narrows his eyes. "It was Damian, wasn't it? The little traitor, just wants to sleep on my side of the bed."

You chuckle, grabbing the drink from your husband. "Wrong bird."

"Well," now he has to think about it, "it wasn't Dick 'cause I own him one now."

You take a sip from your drink and shake your head. You absolutely love the look on Bruce's face when he was deep in thought. "It was the idiot bird."

𝘐𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥? 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵. 𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳—

"It was me, wasn't it?"

"Hm?"

"It was me," he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, "you didn't know, so you tested me, and I just told you myself."

"Your pretty smart for an idiot," you snort, giving his cheek a kiss before you lean closer to his ear. "You're in so much trouble."

"I know," he whispers back, but you could hear the smile on his face. "But we still have guests here, so you'll be nice to me."

His arms wrap around your waist before he starts peppering your face with kisses. Bruce always does this when he knows that your angry with him. He does this to try and charm his way out of trouble. Did it ever work? No. Does he still do it because he loves your giggle? Absolutely.

You try to gently push his face away from yours when he starts nuzzling his nose against yours but to no avail. So you wrap your arms around his neck and peck the corner of his mouth.

A disgusted sound appears next to you so you turn your head and see Dick's frowning face.

"Can you please not be this disgustingly sweet on my birthday?"

You look from your boy to your husband with a mischief smirk, and when he nods you turn back to your boy. "You're right, sweetheart. We shouldn't be disgustingly sweet on your birthday."

Bruce nods along to your words, letting you go in favour to grab Dick. The last thing you see on his face is the terrifying look that dawns on him when he realises what your plan is.

"We can be disgustingly sweet with you," you say, sandwiching Dick between you and Bruce.

"That's so embarrassing," he whispers, looking around to try and find one of his brothers. "Jason! Please help me."

"Oh, I'm helping," Jason says, going around you three to take pictures of this f̶u̶n̶n̶y̶ sweet moment.

Dick turns his head in another direction. "Tim?"

"Busy, helping Jason," he says, turning the flashlight on his phone on for better lightning.

Hope shines in Dick's eyes when his gaze lands on his youngest brother who is on his way to get himself another drink. The birthday boy is smart this time and doesn't ask Damian for help, instead he grabs the younger boy and pulls him into the hug.

"Let go of me old man," Damian scoffs.

"I AM NOT THAT OLD!"

You laugh at the bickering of your boys, and then even more when you got an idea, looking your husband in the eyes.

𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦'𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝟣 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸:

The wife of Bruce Wayne was expected to be shrouded with mystery, glamour, and elegance. Or at least that’s what the public was expecting her to be. Especially since she was never really seen in public. There was so much speculation on who she could be, who she is, and what she’s like. Nobody really knew anything about her, aside from the stuff Bruce’s, and assumingly her, adoptive children would let slip.

The first was Dick Grayson, both in adoption and obviously slippage. He was a fresh teen and already known for his laidback attitude and charming smile. So charming and charismatic it had many gossip mongers writing tabloids speculating whether or not this child Bruce Wayne adopted was really only an adopted child and not some secret love child.

He was Bruce’s plus one for yet another high society gala. The young teen had a large smile on his face as smile for camera while following his adoptive father. Cameras, flashing lights, and microphones all in his face.

“Richard! Richard! Over here! What’s it like being the son of Bruce Wayne and the mysterious woman who tamed him?”

This caught his attention as he stopped and chuckled, a boyish grin on his face as he finally looked directly at a camera. “Tamed? Oh no- Y/- I mean Mrs. Wayne is probably worse than him. Just nicer. Like wayyyy nicer!”

Bruce scoffed to hide his own chuckle and smile as he turned to look at the younger man who was falling behind to call out in a firm dad-like voice. “Dick.”

Dick glanced away from the paparazzi and tabloids to look at Bruce. And instead of feeling intimidated he just smiled wider and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, clearly gesturing to Bruce. “See what I mean?”

Then there was Commissioner Gordon’s daughter, Barbara Gordon. She was interning with her father, working behind the scenes for an upscale art gallery’s charity event CCTV security team, despite being a teen. Bruce Wayne was one of the primary sponsors, of course, his name stamped across every plaque, his presence commanding the attention of every camera, every whisper, every expensive glass of champagne. Barbara, already finished networking with the elites, was in the camera room, two other people with her, observing the security feed.

“Hey, kid, you’ve worked closely with the Wayne’s right? With him and your pops being acquaintances and all. What’s Mrs. Wayne like?” an older man asked, the only man in the room. “Like is charming and charismatic? Or intimidating and cool?”

Barbara froze mid-click of her mouse. Maybe she should’ve brushed it off, said she didn’t know, or that it wasn’t her business to tell. But since Dick had something before she assumed there was no harm in just being a little open.

“She’s..” Barbara glanced behind her to the door where her father had just stepped out. “She’s not what people think she is.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s…” she hesitated once more before a soft smile spread across her face, clearly remembering something. “The only person that can make Bruce Wayne stop what he’s doing or saying mid sentence with such little effort. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do that for anyone else, just her.”

It was innocent enough. Harmless, she thought. But what she didn’t see was the ways her co-workers’ expression shifted. By the next morning, headlines exploded across Gotham Gazette and The Daily Chronicle:

“WHO IS MRS. WAYNE? THE WOMAN WHO COMMANDS BRUCE WAYNE’S SILENCE.”

‘Even Mr. Wayne listens when she speaks,’ says insider Barbara Gordon.

Barbara hadn’t technically said that — but it didn’t matter.

Next was Jason Todd, and much like Dick he was a happy kid, only he didn’t care much for secrets. And all it took was what should’ve been just a simple parent teachers conference, for the world to know she was a black woman. Jason sat next to Bruce, slurping away at medium sized slushee, as the one of the teachers at Gotham Prep looked between the two.

“And where’s Mrs. Wayne if you don’t mind me asking? Shouldn’t she be here?” One of the teachers asked, unable to hide their confusion and disappointment.

“At home.” Bruce answers calmly, as if he was expecting these types of questions.

“But she should be here. This is a mandatory parent teacher conference. She had to be here as well.” Another said, clearly about to lose their patience over something so small.

“My mama says the only thing she gotta do is be black and die.” Jason said without even looking up as he moved the straw around in his slurpee, trying to break the ice down so he wasn’t only drinking the juice. The art and science teachers, a black woman and man respectively, both barely holding in their laughter at the familiar phrase. Bruce could only pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh.

They didn’t even make it home before his phone was vibrating with tweets, emails, and text messages.

#MrsWayneIsBlack was trending in a matter of minutes across all forms of social media. The responses were all over the place some happy to know that a black woman was living her best life. Others less than happy to know that their prince of Gotham was married to a black woman. They didn’t even know who she was and yet she was getting the Meghan Markle treatment. The people hating on her probably only upset that she’s not what they thought she’d be. Claiming Bruce Wayne was either being blackmailed by her or marrying a charity case for PR purposes.

Jason had no idea what he started after Bruce got off the phone with his PR team and lawyers.

Jason only looked up from his book and slushee when Bruce’s phone went off for what felt like the hundredth time in under five minutes. “Uhh.. we in trouble or something?”

Bruce only exhaled through his nose, trying to keep his face straight. On one hand, he thought the situation was funny, but on the other, he could already picture the storm that is yet to come and it made him mad. “No Jay. Not we.”

“Oh.” Jason blinked. “So… you’re in trouble.”

That earned him a look, not angry, but whatever the look was, it did have a hint. The kind of look that said Bruce was already calculating damage control, and punishment. Jason sank back into his seat, slurping his drink a little quieter after that.

By the time Tim Drake came along, the world had already developed an obsession with you. Every few months, someone thought they’d cracked the code —publishing grainy, overexposed photos of a woman stepping out of a black town car, or a shadowed profile beside Bruce Wayne at some long-forgotten fundraiser. None of them were you, of course. But that didn’t make the fantasy any less alive, especially not for Gotham.

But after Jason’s death, everything changed, and Bruce stopped showing up to galas and events the way he used to. It got to the point that Wayne Enterprises began sending spokespeople in his place. The man who had once smiled for every camera had turned into a recluse.

And so the tabloids wrote their own narrative instead of allowing a father to grieve in peace.

They said grief had consumed him. That Mrs. Wayne had “retreated into mourning beside him.” Some suggested that her and Bruce were going through a messy divorce, unable to handle the grief, others that you had never existed to begin with, a convenient placeholder created to explain the holes in his glamorous image and lifestyle. And Tim’s sudden adoption was like damage control. Tim was smart, bright, and articulate. What he lacked in charisma like Dick and Jason he made up for in grace and etiquette. He wasn’t a heartthrob like Dick or a ray of sunshine like Jason, but Gotham loved him none the less. Soon the quiet young boy became Bruce’s ward and protégé, and unofficially his heir.

It was during a scholarship event, made to help children, teens, and young adults afford schooling and give grants to their schools as well, where his slip occurred. If it could even be considered a slip. Reporters were obviously curious, as was the rest of the world about this new boy in the Wayne’s lives. About how they were handling their loss. But mostly about the woman they still have yet to see officially.

“Mr. Drake,” one journalist began, “you’ve been seen accompanying Bruce Wayne quite a lot lately. Does Mrs. Wayne ever come to these events with you two? Or better yet does she even go outside? Is she real?”

Tim froze for a moment, not out of fear, but uncertainty. He was used to lying, and had no problem doing it to these vultures. But this topic was different, especially since Bruce told him the rule when it came to these type of invasive questions.

“No, she does not come to these events. And yes she’s real.” he said finally, his tone even and polite, but most importantly calm. With practiced precision. “She just doesn’t really like the spotlight. I think she prefers… quieter spaces.”

The reporter tilted their head. “So she really is still around? Are she and Mr. Wayne still married?”

Tim showed a strained smile, that careful, too-thoughtful type of uncomfortable smile of someone who hadn’t yet learned how to dodge invasive questions. “Of course. She’s the only one who can really get through to him.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But something in him told him he needed to be clear, decisive, enough to satisfy them.

“She keeps him grounded,” he continued, his voice softening as though speaking to himself more than anyone else. “After Jason- I mean, after… everything that happened, she’s been the reason he still gets up in the morning. They need each other now more than ever. The way I see it, who better to understand the loss of a child than someone who lost the same thing?”

At the mention of Jason, the young boy who was murdered, the silence that surrounded Tim became deafening.

The last one was Stephanie Brown. She was lighthearted, talkative, and too comfortable saying whatever came to mind, a habit that had already made her a favorite among the younger Wayne Foundation volunteers. But reminded the older volunteers of another. When she joined Tim for a youth outreach interview with Gotham Insider, she hadn’t planned to say anything worth printing. The conversation was supposed to focus on scholarship programs, mentorship, and Wayne Enterprises’ charity work. Simple. Clean. Safe.

Right?

Just when they thought they were just about done with interviews a person stood up. The interviewer, a woman notorious for steering small talk into scandal, leaned forward with a smile that was all teeth. “You’ve both spent plenty of time at Wayne Manor. Be honest, what’s it like living with Bruce Wayne? Being trusted to help with such important projects? And what about the ever-elusive Mrs. Wayne? Does she even exist?”

Tim froze mid-sip of his black tea, eyes darting toward the camera. He was about to redirect, but Stephanie had already laughed.

“Oh, she’s real, alright,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Trust me. You’d know if she wasn’t.”

The interviewer’s brows lifted. “Oh? So what does she look like? And what’s she like?”

Stephanie leaned back in her chair, smiling brightly. “Look wises. Think… I don’t know… maybe Mortician Addams, Betty Boop, and maybe Velma. All in one, and well, black. Personality wise…She’s like… you know that one mom friend who’s super nice, the one everyone loves and would die for, but will absolutely ruin your life if you mess with someone she loves? That’s her. Sweetest woman alive—unless you touch what’s hers.”

Tim coughed sharply beside her, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a warning, “Steph…”

But it was too late. The cameras were still running. By that evening, social media had descended into chaos.

“MRS. WAYNE: THE SWEETHEART WITH A SCARY SIDE.”

‘The nicest woman alive—unless you cross her,’ says Stephanie Brown.

When Bruce saw the headline, he didn’t laugh. He said nothing. Didn’t scold. Didn’t comment. Just folded the paper once, precisely, and set it down on the table beside him.

Then, quietly:

“Stephanie, you and Tim won’t be giving any more interviews for a while.”

Tim only sighed and slumped in his chair, placing his tea cup down while Stephanie pouted.

You glanced at the bedroom door from where you were standing in front of the vanity, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Come in, Dory.” 

The door opened, and Dory walked in, shutting the door softly behind her.

“I was just checking to see if you were doing alright. You’ve been in here all day.” She smiled at you, which you returned as you fiddled with your bracelet, which had come undone.

“I’m okay. I’m just trying to put this bracelet back on. I’m actually about to go see what Alfred is doing as soon as I’m done here.” You chuckled.

The bracelet in question did not seem to want to cooperate with you; in fact, it seemed to taunt you by slipping from your wrist as you managed to almost hook the claw onto the other side, causing you to grit your teeth as you fumbled with it.

By the fifth try, you were ready to call it quits when Dory approached you, taking the bracelet from your hands quietly.

“Let me.” She said softly, and you held your wrist out. The two of you remained in a comfortable silence as she fastened your bracelet, then took a few steps back.

“Thanks, Dory. Usually, Bruce helps me with this, but…” You trailed off, gesturing towards the door.

Dory smiled, an understanding look on her face.

“It’s quite all right, dear. You’re not the one who’s been having some trouble. I heard that Bruce had trouble with his cufflinks earlier, but didn’t want help.”

You swallowed, a (petty) part of you feeling a little better knowing that Bruce was struggling too. The other part of you, however, ached because Bruce was struggling too.

“It’s normal, right? To have arguments with your spouse?” You asked quietly after a moment of silence, looking at yourself in the mirror as you remembered the argument you and Bruce had the previous night.

Full of scathing words and frustrated looks, it had ended with you walking out of the terminal, and Bruce watching with a defeated look on his face.

“It is. But this is just something that you will overcome. A bump in the road. It may not seem like it now, but everything will be just fine. Mr. Wayne loves you too much to let this argument be the end of your marriage.” Dory reassured you, patting your arm before excusing herself and leaving the room.

You remained there for a few moments, taking in what Dory said before walking out of the room, bracing yourself just in case you ran into Bruce.

It will be all right. You thought as you closed the door behind you.

Everything will be okay.

–

Everything was not okay. 

You paced the hospital hallway, waiting for the doctor to step out of Alfred’s room.

Did Dory manage to get a hold of Bruce? You would have to call her and ask her as soon as you received any news about Alfred. Sighing, you sat down on one of the chairs, pulling your phone out to text Bruce just in case.

“Mrs. Wayne?” A nurse approached you, a sympathetic look in her eyes. You smiled weakly at her as a greeting, putting your phone away and immediately standing up.

“I need you to please come with me to fill out some paperwork. Will it just be you visiting the patient?”

“My husband should be arriving soon.” You murmured as you walked to the nurses’ station with the nurse, clutching the jacket you were wearing closer to you.

“Okay. It’s not a lot of paperwork. Usually, we have the patient fill it out, but if they can’t, then we have their family member or emergency contact do it for them.” She explained, going behind the station to get a clipboard and the paper from the printer. “It’s mostly his medical history, so we know what we can work with.”

She handed you the paperwork and pen.

“Just fill it out, and bring it back to me when you’re finished.”

You thanked her and walked back to the small waiting area you passed on your way. Sitting down, you filled out what you knew, wishing that Bruce was beside you to help you with it.

You took the paperwork back to the nurses’ station after double-checking to make sure what you had filled out was correct. The nurse who helped you looked up as you approached her.

“I filled out what I knew, but my husband should be here soon. He should know the rest.” You said, handing her the items.

“That is quite all right, Mrs. Wayne. We’ll get Mr. Wayne to fill out the rest when he arrives.” She reassured you, and you nodded, thanking her.

Then your phone rang, and you ran your hands through your hair as you excused yourself quietly to take the call.

–

“We’ve sedated him. We just have to hope he stabilizes.” The doctor informed Bruce as she stepped out of Alfred’s hospital room. 

Bruce said nothing. He had arrived a few moments after you had excused yourself to take the phone call, and, after filling out the rest of the paperwork, the nurse gave him, had walked over to stand in front of Alfred’s room waiting for news.

“You should go home, Mr. Wayne. Get some sleep. Your wife, too. Is there anyone else to notify? Next of kin?” She continued.

Bruce paused and turned his head to glance at the doctor, thinking. The only ones who were there for Alfred was himself and Y/N.

“No. Just Y/N and I.” He said, turning back to look at Alfred through the window - not bothering to mention that he was Alfred’s emergency contact.

The doctor nodded and was about to say something else– but was interrupted by footsteps approaching. 

Bruce looked up to see you walking towards them, your phone pressed against your ear. He felt some tension leave him as he sighed quietly, the sight of you unharmed and safe bringing him some comfort.

“-I’m just waiting to hear what the doctor says before I head back.” As you got closer, he noticed that the jacket you were wearing looked big on you- it was his jacket, he realized a moment later, how your eyes were red from crying, and how your hair was disheveled from you running your hands through it- something you would do when you were worried or nervous.

“Okay. Both Bruce and the doctor are here. I’ll see you soon, Dory. Be safe.” You hung up and placed your phone in your pocket before looking up. “I am so sorry Doctor, I had to fill out some paperwork, and then I got a call and I had to take it–” You shook your head, glancing briefly at Bruce, who had not taken his eyes away from you, before asking, “How is Alfred doing? Is he okay?”

“We sedated him, now we’re just waiting to see if he stabilizes.” The doctor repeated what she told Bruce, and you nodded along. “I was just telling Mr. Wayne that he should go home and get some sleep–”

“I can stay with Alfred.” You offered, wrapping your jacket closer to you to block out the cold of the hospital.

“Mrs. Wayne, that goes for you, too. You both need to get some rest. We will notify you if there are any changes.”

With that, she excused herself, leaving you alone with Bruce in the hallway.

You ran a hand through your hair, turning your head to look at Alfred through the window. Your heart hurt, seeing the man you considered as a father lying there, injured.

“Y/N.” Bruce spoke in a gentle tone, causing you to look at him. His eyes bore into yours. “What happened?”

You looked away from the intensity of his gaze, your eyes flickering from the floor to Alfred and back again to the floor, not knowing how to start.

It was the first conversation the two of you were since the argument the night before, after all. Do you apologize, or…?

“We were talking,” You started quietly. “He was about to start sorting the mail, and I thought it would be nice to make some sandwiches to eat while we waited for you to get home. So I went to the kitchen-”

You didn’t notice your hands were trembling slightly until you felt larger ones taking a hold of them. Your eyes widened as you looked up, and your first instinct was to pull away, but you realized that it was just Bruce.

“I had just taken out the condiments when I heard the explosion. I-” You took a deep breath. “I ran to where Alfred was and saw him on the floor. I had Dory call the ambulance while I pulled him to safety.”

His thumb started tracing soothing circles on your left hand, which calmed you down a bit. You glanced from the floor to your joined hands, then to Bruce.

“The ambulance arrived before the police did. They almost didn’t let me ride with Alfred. I only had time to grab a jacket- the closest one I could find. And I told Dory to call you and tell you what happened. When we got here, the doctors took him and they’ve been trying to stabilize him ever since.” With that, you trailed off and let out a deep sigh.

The two of you stayed quiet for a few heartbeats. 

Bruce did not let go of your hands, even as he turned his head to look at Alfred.

“I tried to get there as quickly as I could.” After I found out was left unsaid. “The police and firefighters were in the Tower when I got there.”

“Did the police tell you what it was?” You asked, although you had a pretty good idea who was the culprit of all this.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, dark with anger.

“It was a package intended for me. The Riddler sent it.” He clenched his jaw as he looked away from Alfred to the floor. The two of you stayed like that for a few seconds until he lifted his gaze to you. 

He looked like he wanted to say something, if the intense look in his eyes was any indication.

“We should go.” He finally said, letting go of one of your hands. He looked frustrated with himself. “You need to get some sleep.”

He needed to get some sleep too, you thought as you walked beside him to the elevators that would take you to the 1st floor of the hospital, past the waiting room and the nurses’ station. 

He did not let go of your hand until the two of you had reached his car. 

Bruce opened the passenger door for you and waited until you were seated before closing the door and walking over to the driver’s side. You buckled in your seat belt and bit back a yawn as he got in, buckling in his own seat belt and turning on the ignition.

The car purred to life, and Bruce made quick work of pulling the car out of the parking garage. You swallowed, looking at the window to the passing scenery outside.

You let out a deep sigh. Bruce glanced at you as he stopped at a red light.

“Are you okay?” He asked. You nodded, searching for words to say, but nothing came to mind.

As the light turned green and Bruce pressed on the gas gently, you rested your lower left arm on the middle console of the car, and rested your chin on your right hand, as if you were thinking.

Then you felt it - his hand moving to rest on top of yours - tentatively, as if he were afraid you would pull away. You smiled.

Wordlessly, you moved your hand so your palm was facing upwards, your fingers brushing against his.

Bruce then intertwined his fingers with yours, and gave it a squeeze, which you returned with a small, hidden smile.

A silent apology between the two of you - not the one either of you wanted to give - the two of you had a lot to talk about, and the hospital or car was simply not the place to do so - but it was a start. 

As he lifted your hand to his lips and murmured a quiet ‘I love you’, you realized that what Dory had told you that morning was true.

Everything will be just fine.

“My wife.” Aerion responds dramatically resting his hand on his forehead, like a dramatic maiden. Truly pathetic.

“What about her?” Maekar asks not actually caring but he knows he can’t get anything done until he’s dealt with Aerion.

“She’s left me.”

“No she hasn’t.” Maekar say rolling his eyes, knowing that you’re just in the library with Aemon researching healing techniques.

“She has, she’s spending her time with everyone but me.” Aerion proclaims, thinking back to how you spent last night reading to his sisters before having a drink with Daeron. “She doesn’t love me anymore.”

“You’ve just come back from your second honeymoon.” Maekar says giving the boy a look. You both coming back from Dorne not even 2 weeks ago.

“Exactly we’re newlyweds she should be with me.” He responds already thinking of when he can take you on a third trip.

“You married over a year ago.” Maekar sighs, waiting for you both to give him a grandchild. Now not sure how Aerion will cope with you giving attention to a child.

“And?”

“Go away.” Maekar tells him sitting down behind his desk, having letters he’s got to deal with.

“That’s what she told me.” Aerion whines almost falling off the sofa when he moves dramatically.

“No she didn’t.” His father says, knowing you wouldn’t say that to your husband. You probably just told him to be quiet.

“It was implied.”

-

“Go away.” Aerion tells Rhae, the girl cuddling you in his bed, you reading to her.

“No, you go away.” She says snuggling into you.

“She’s my wife.” Aerion say pushing his youngest sister wanting her to leave so he can cuddle you.

“I was here first!” Rhae argues having been with you for the past hour, listening to you read.

“I was alive first!” Aerion argues back wanting you to himself.

“Enough!” You snap, fed up with the arguing as you have a headache. “Aerion if you would like to join us you can, but you have to be nice.”

-

“Can I have a hug?” Egg asks having hurt himself in the training yard when he jumped off a wall. He’s perfectly fine he just wants some comfort.

“Of course sweetheart.” You say going to stand up from where you’re sat with Aerion knitting a blanket.

“No.” Aerion says pulling you back into his arms and away from the boy you’re trying to hug.

“Aerion! He can have a hug.” You say trying to get out of your husband clinging hands.

“No he can’t.” Aerion says practically wrapping himself around you so you can’t get up. “Get your own wife!”

“I’m 10!” Egg argues, now wanting the hug even more to upset his brother.

“What’s that got to do with me?” Aerion counters pressing kisses all over your face. “Now fuck off.”

-

“We should go out tonight.” Daeron says to you over dinner, the both of you sharing a bottle of wine or two.

“That would be nice, I heard there’s a play happening outside that tavern we like.” You say placing your hand over Aerion’s as he places his on your thigh.

“We have to go then.” Daeron says before getting interrupted by his brother.

“No.”

“Aerion.” You say with a sigh, your husband being too dumb to realise he was included in we. Like he is every time.

“No, you’re my wife not his.” Aerion whines wanting to watch the play with you. “Why can’t we go together?”

“You’re invited you moron.” Daeron says giving his brother a look, thinking Aerion jealously is dumb.

The worst part? You indulged that little usurper every single time.

“Who is my good boy?” you cooed, bouncing Maegor on your knee and earning a delighted squeal in return. “Who is he, hmm?”

Maegor giggled, tiny arms wrapping around your neck as he buried his face against your cheek. Then, peeking over your shoulder with his wide, glassy violet eyes, the boy looked towards Aerion.

He beamed triumphantly then, settled smugly against you.

Aerion stared, a brow rose slowly in disbelief. From that moment onwards, he became convinced that cunning little thing knew exactly what he was doing.

And if Maegor understood the extent of his power, then Aerion was no longer competing with a babe— he was competing with a schemer!

Therefore, if he wished to have his wife to himself again, drastic measures would be required.

You loved your son to bits, and if you were being completely honest, there was something endlessly entertaining in watching your prickly prince look on as though he had been personally wronged while you lavished Maegor with affection.

Still, you took pity on him. Perhaps tonight, you would leave your son with the wet nurses for a few hours, at least until—

You rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into the object of your thoughts.

“Wife.”

Aerion appeared before you as though summoned by fate itself, standing between you and the oak doors of your marital chamber.

“We are not retiring here tonight,” he announced with a smile that immediately made you suspicious.

“Huh? Aerion—” Before you could protest, he caught your hand and began leading you down the corridor.

“No.”

You leveled a frown at him. “You do not even know what I am going to say.”

He shot you a flat look. “You are going to ask what will become of our son without you tonight.”

“Well—”

“Then no.”

You snorted despite yourself, struggling to keep pace with his determined stride. “Where are you taking me, husband?”

“You shall see.”

The two of you ventured deeper into Summerhall, farther from your apartments than you had expected. The halls gradually grew quieter, the familiar sounds of servants and guards fading into the distance.

When Aerion finally stopped before a heavy oak door situated at the far end of an isolated corridor, your curiosity had long since overcome your annoyance.

The moment he pushed the door open, a cool breeze greeted you from the open windows, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of summer blooms from the gardens below. Scented candles cast a golden glow throughout the chamber, their flames dancing softly against carved walls and elegant furnishings.

You stopped short, taking in the sight. Everything was serene and unmistakably deliberate, perfectly a chamber for relaxation— he had planned this.

“Aerion...” Your eyes swept across the room before settling on him. “When did you—”

The question never left your lips. One moment you were standing beside him; the next, a surprised gasp escaped you as he swept you clean off your feet as though you weighed nothing at all.

“Aerion!” Instinctively, your arms looped around his neck while his answered laugh rumbled warmly in his chest.

“Yes, wife?” he playfully asked, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he carried you further into the candlelit chamber.

He lowered himself onto the mattress, taking you with him until you found yourself sprawled atop him. One arm settled around your waist immediately, as though he had no intention of letting you escape.

“Maegor is—”

“He is well-fed, warm, lacks for nothing, and is currently asleep,” he immediately declared, as if anticipating your question.

“But—”

“He has three wet nurses and six servants hovering over him, enough toys to occupy an entire nursery, and Egg along with his absurdly tall knight standing guard nearby besides.”

“Why would Egg and Ser Duncan—”

His violet eyes narrowed into unsatisfactory frown then, a hand lifted to your cheek.

“This lady protests far too much.”

Before you could muster a retort, he captured your lips in a fervent kiss, making words die between your lips.

“Mmh, ah...” The kiss was firm, a bit forceful like he was, and entirely unfair. You held onto his shoulders, made a muffled sound of surprise as Aerion bit your lip and drew you closer, one arm tightening around your waist while his other hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he tilted your face toward his, deepening the kiss until it left you breathless.

Unlike the all-consuming fire his kisses usually were, there was nothing hurried about this kiss. This felt like a seduction, longing and the bottled-up feelings of a man who had gone too many days without the comfort of his wife, savoring her presence now that he finally had her to himself.

When he finally pulled back, it was barely by an inch. You gazed into the bewitching Targaryen violet irises of his, almost spellbound.

“There,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that rich, velvety drawl that always made your heart skip. “For one glorious moment, you were not thinking about our son.”

You almost broke into a grin. “Is that what this is about?”

His arms tightened around you possessively, those dangerous eyes eyeing your lips again.

“The fact that I have scarcely had my wife to myself in days? Fucking yes.”

Had someone told you years ago that Aerion Brightflame would become your husband and it would lead to love, you would have had them hauled away for speaking madness. For the better part of your youth, you had been convinced he would be a catastrophe.

Instead, by some strange twist of fate, he had become the love of your life... and you, his.

His lips curled into that infuriatingly smug smile as his gaze lingered on you. With every passing second, you could feel the warmth creeping further into your cheeks, getting more conscious of his heat pressing between your legs.

“What use is there in growing shy now?” he asked lazily. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Yet as always, you refused to let him have the upper hand so easily.

“Oh, listen to yourself,” you scoffed. “All that confidence, when the truth is far simpler.”

“And what truth is that?”

“That you are utterly captivated by me.”

Without answering, Aerion reached for you, his fingers finding the lace fastened at your back. Absentmindedly, he began loosening it while continuing to study you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and affection.

“Wife,” a wry smile on his lips, he shook his head fondly, “your arrogance grows by the day.”

You batted your lashes innocently, knowing full well what he was doing behind your back. “And who do you think I learn that from?”

Sometimes a prude, other times a wanton. Years ago, you had been the little lady he delighted in tormenting, however now, you were the woman he would defend with fire and blood. Anyone who dared bring tears to your eyes would quickly learn how dangerous the Bright Prince could be when it came to protecting what was his.

The last knot of your lace came undone beneath his fingers.

“Mayhaps you are right.”

You poked his chest in mock surprise. “Who are you and what have you done with my evil husband?”

His lush lips crooked into a sinful grin, and he bounced you once, making sure you could feel his hardness, before going after your neck and bit the skin there, making you hiss.

“How terrible of you,” he breathed against your ear. “You have utterly ruined me for anyone else, sweet wife.”

When he eased you back onto the bed and bent over you, raining hot kisses wherever he could reach, you found yourself surrendering without protest.

And when he laved that very sinful tongue on your skin, nipping and worshipping you at the same time— you let him, your fingers found their way to his back and scalp, clutching at him.

And when he commanded you to cry out his name, you did— it was the only thing you could comprehend amidst the hazy lust and the bliss engulfing you both as he proved himself very much capable of pleasuring you.

“Can I ask you something?”

In the afterglow, curled comfortably and sheltered within the warmth of his embrace, you tilted your head to look at him.

Aerion, who had been idly tracing circles against your arm, still had his eyes shut. “Spit it out already.”

“Did you hate me?”

He almost cursed out of impulse. His eyes flew open at once and he turned to you with a frown.

“When we were but children, I mean,” you clarified.

The memory of childhood was still vivid in your mind. Aerion had shoved you, stolen every lemon tart he could get his hands on, run straight to his father with fabricated accusations whenever it suited him. For years, you had been convinced the prince disliked you beyond redemption.

“Hate you?” Your husband looked at you with the most disapproving look, as if you had spouted pure nonsense. “Seven hells, woman. No.”

“No?”

His lips were wound tight. “No.”

“You made me cry rather often, though.”

“I made everyone cry often.”

You were quiet after that, and it made Aerion reflect on those days too. Was every prank he pulled on you constituted as hate? How could they, when he looked forward to your visits to King’s Landing too?

“I did not hate you,” he said firmly, turning onto his side to face you, and a smile found its way to your face at the way his violet eyes hardened.

He was exceptionally terrible at putting his feelings into words, yet your prince was also the man who had ensured your son was fed, comfortable, and watched over by half of Summerhall before whisking you away to the far end of the castle simply so he could have a quiet evening alone with his wife.

“I still have grievances, you see,” you informed him, lazily tracing a finger across his chest. “So I’m afraid you’ll have to spend some time considering how best to make amends.”

He blinked. “For childhood crimes committed before I reached manhood?”

“All of them.”

“Cruel woman.”

“Your sweet wife, remember?”

He snorted, and he pulled you closer until your head rested above his heart. The candles had burned low, and beyond the windows, the summer wind stirred the gardens, and somewhere in the distance, Summerhall slept.

————————————————————————

Jude liked to pretend he ran the house.

He did not.

Not even close.

The house was run by two little boys with his eyes, your attitude, and enough energy to make a grown man question his life choices before nine in the morning.

There was four-year-old Amari, dramatic, curious, too smart for his own good, and already convinced he was the man of the house whenever Jude wasn’t home. Then there was baby Cairo, barely one, chubby-cheeked, clingy, and deeply committed to pulling on Jude’s chain every chance he got.

Jude loved them so much it made him ridiculous.

On the pitch, he was focused. Serious when he needed to be. He carried himself with that confidence everyone talked about, the kind that made him seem older than he was.

At home?

He was lying flat on the living room floor at seven in the morning while Amari sat on his back yelling, “Giddy up, daddy!”

You stood in the kitchen doorway with your mug of tea, watching.

“Jude.”

He lifted his head slightly from the rug. “Yeah, babe?”

“Are you a footballer or a horse?”

Amari answered for him. “Horse.”

Jude dropped his head back down. “Apparently.”

Cairo sat nearby in his little pajamas, clapping like this was the greatest show on earth.

You shook your head, smiling. “You have training later.”

“I know.”

“And you’re letting a four-year-old use you as transportation.”

“He asked nicely.”

Amari tugged lightly at Jude’s shirt. “Go, daddy!”

Jude started crawling across the rug again, making dramatic horse noises while Cairo squealed and bounced in place.

You tried not to laugh.

Jude looked up at the sound, smiling like he had won something. “See? Worth it.”

That was what being a father had done to him.

It softened him in ways that still caught you off guard.

Jude had always been loving with you, always attentive, always the type to notice when you were quiet or tired or pretending you didn’t need help. But fatherhood had opened another room in him. A warmer one. A sillier one. A part of him that didn’t care how famous he was if his son wanted him to wear a superhero cape during breakfast.

Which he did.

Often.

That morning, after the living room rodeo finally ended, Jude came into the kitchen carrying Cairo on one hip while Amari followed behind, holding a toy dinosaur.

Jude kissed your cheek first.

“Morning.”

“You’ve been awake for forty minutes.”

“Still morning.”

Cairo immediately reached for you.

You took him, kissing his soft cheek. “Hi, baby.”

Jude looked offended. “He was fine with me until he saw you.”

“Because I’m the favorite.”

Amari gasped. “No, Daddy is my favorite.”

Jude pointed at him. “That’s my boy.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Amari paused, realizing he had stepped into danger.

Then he smiled sweetly. “Mommy favorite too.”

“Good save,” Jude muttered.

You laughed and started making breakfast while Jude lifted Amari onto a stool at the island. Cairo sat in his high chair, banging both hands on the tray like he was demanding service.

“Impatient,” Jude said, pointing at him.

“You mean like you?” you asked.

“I am very patient.”

You turned slowly.

Jude looked away. “Sometimes.”

Breakfast was never peaceful anymore. It was warm, loud, messy, and full of interruptions.

Amari wanted pancakes shaped like footballs. Cairo wanted whatever was on Jude’s plate even though he had the same thing cut smaller. Jude kept stealing bites from your plate and pretending he hadn’t. You kept smacking his hand away with the spatula.

“You have your own food,” you said.

“Yours tastes better.”

“It is the same food.”

“No, yours has love.”

“You are so annoying.”

He grinned. “But handsome.”

“Debatable.”

Amari looked between you both. “Daddy is handsome.”

Jude put a hand over his heart. “Thank you, son.”

Then Amari added, “Mommy is prettier.”

You smiled smugly.

Jude nodded. “That’s fair.”

After breakfast, Jude tried to help clean while Cairo clung to his leg and Amari stood beside him with a dish towel, wiping the same spot on the cabinet over and over.

“I’m helping,” Amari announced.

“You are,” Jude said seriously.

“He is smearing syrup,” you said.

Jude looked down. “With confidence.”

You loved watching him with them. Maybe more than anything.

There was something about seeing Jude crouch to Amari’s level when he spoke to him. Something about the way he never brushed off his questions, even when they were endless and made absolutely no sense.

“Daddy,” Amari asked later while Jude helped him put on his little sneakers, “why do you kick the ball but not pick it up?”

“Because in football, you use your feet.”

“But the goalkeeper uses hands.”

“Yeah.”

“So why you not goalkeeper?”

Jude paused. “Because I like scoring goals.”

Amari thought about that. “I want to score goals.”

Jude’s face softened immediately. “Yeah?”

“And be like you.”

You watched from the hallway as Jude’s hands stilled on the sneaker laces.

For a second, he just looked at his son.

Then he smiled, softer than before. “You can be better than me.”

Amari shook his head. “No. Like you.”

Jude blinked quickly, then pulled him into a hug.

“You’re already like me,” he said quietly. “But louder.”

Amari giggled into his shoulder.

Cairo, apparently offended by not being included, crawled over and slapped Jude’s knee.

Jude laughed and scooped him up too. “You too, little man.”

Both boys ended up in his arms, one on each side, and Jude looked at you over their heads.

His eyes were warm.

A little overwhelmed.

You knew that look. The one that said he couldn’t believe this was his life.

You walked over and kissed his cheek.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just happy.”

The day stayed soft.

Jude had training in the afternoon, so he spent the morning trying to squeeze in as much time with the boys as possible. He built a block tower with Cairo, who immediately destroyed it and clapped for himself. He let Amari “teach” him how to score goals in the hallway using a soft ball that had already been banned from three rooms.

“Gentle,” you called from the living room.

Jude froze mid-pass.

Amari looked at him seriously. “Mommy said gentle.”

“I heard.”

“So be careful.”

Jude nodded. “Yes, coach.”

Amari loved that.

By the time Jude had to leave, both boys were upset in different ways. Cairo started crying the second Jude picked up his keys. Amari crossed his arms and turned his face away dramatically.

“I’m not sad,” he said.

Jude crouched in front of him. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You look a little sad.”

“No.”

Jude nodded slowly. “Okay. Then I guess I won’t give you a goodbye hug.”

Amari immediately turned around and threw himself into Jude’s arms.

You laughed from the doorway.

Jude hugged him tight, kissing the side of his head. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Cairo reached for him from your arms, still crying.

Jude stood and took him for a minute, bouncing him gently. “Hey, hey. daddy’s coming back.”

Cairo sniffled against his neck.

“You know I always come back to you.”

Your heart softened painfully.

Jude kissed Cairo’s cheek, then handed him back to you carefully.

Then he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not distracted. Sweet and warm, one hand at your waist, the other brushing Cairo’s back.

“Love you,” he murmured.

“We love you too.”

Amari shouted, “Score a goal!”

Jude pointed at him. “For you.”

Then he looked at Cairo. “And you.”

Then at you, smiling. “And mommy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Go to training, lover boy.”

He laughed as he left.

That evening, Jude came home tired but smiling. You heard the door open and knew immediately because Amari gasped from the couch.

“Daddy!”

Cairo, who had been half-asleep against you, lifted his head instantly.

Jude barely got inside before both boys reacted like he had been gone for months.

Amari ran full speed into his legs. Cairo started squirming in your lap, whining until Jude came over and took him.

“There are my boys,” Jude said, kissing Cairo’s cheek, then rubbing Amari’s hair.

“You scored?” Amari asked.

“Training, not a match.”

Amari frowned. “So no?”

Jude looked at you. “Tough crowd.”

You smiled. “He gets it from you.”

Later, after baths, pajamas, and one bedtime story that became three because Jude kept saying yes, the boys finally fell asleep. Amari was tucked in with his dinosaur, Cairo asleep in his crib with his tiny fist curled near his face.

You and Jude stood in the hallway outside their rooms, both exhausted.

Jude leaned against the wall, pulling you gently into his chest.

“House is quiet,” he whispered.

“For now.”

He smiled into your hair.

You rested your cheek against him. “You’re such a good dad.”

He went still.

You pulled back slightly and looked up at him. “You are.”

His face softened, but there was something vulnerable in it too.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

He looked toward the boys’ rooms. “I just want them to feel loved.”

“They do.”

“And safe.”

“They do.”

“And proud.”

You touched his face gently. “Jude, they adore you. Amari wants to be exactly like you, and Cairo cries when you pick up your keys.”

He laughed softly, but his eyes shone.

“You love being a boy dad, don’t you?” you asked.

His smile came slowly.

“I love being their dad,” he said. “And I love that they’re ours.”

Your throat tightened.

He lowered his forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For giving me this. Them. Us. The chaos. All of it.”

You smiled. “You thanking me for syrup on cabinets and hallway football?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.” His arms tightened around you. “But I’m happy.”

You leaned into him again, listening to the quiet house around you.

The toys on the floor could wait.

The dishes could wait.

Tomorrow, Cairo would probably wake up too early, Amari would ask twelve impossible questions before breakfast, and Jude would once again pretend he was in charge of a house very clearly run by two tiny boys.

But tonight, everything felt warm and full.

Your husband, holding you in the hallway.

Your sons sleeping nearby.

A life built out of noise, softness, sticky hands, tiny sneakers, bedtime stories, and love big enough to fill every room.

Everybody else got Jude the footballer.

You got Jude the father.

And somehow, that version of him was your favorite one.

-----

taglist ~

you notice it early. the energy he moves with. something about him, the way he walks like he owns the ground under him, the way he watches you when you talk—like he’s assessing, deciding what he will and won’t tolerate. you’re not used to that. men usually scramble to impress you, crack jokes, try too hard. aurélien just… looks. unfazed. maybe even unimpressed. and you feel it in your gut, that instant irritation because who the fuck does he think he is?

but that irritation, it burns too close to curiosity. because if he isn’t pressed, if he isn’t eating out of the palm of your hand, then what does he know that you don’t?

you find out real quick.

“fix your face.”

you blink, genuinely thrown off. “excuse me?”

aurélien doesn’t even look at you. just tugs you in closer, fingers pressing into your waist, easy like he’s done it a hundred times before, like he’s sure of his place there. he’s warm, solid, smells like that expensive cologne you like—the woody, deep kind that lingers on your skin when he holds you too long, the kind that sneaks into your clothes and makes you smell like him when you’re lying in bed hours later.

“you heard me.” he says it slow, weight behind every syllable, like you don’t actually have room to argue. “been pouting since we left the restaurant.”

you scoff, shifting against him, but his grip stays firm. “because i wasn’t ready to leave.”

aurélien exhales, not quite a sigh, but close enough. his jaw ticks, that small, barely-there movement, like he’s holding something back. you know he wants to say something smart, something that’ll get under your skin. you feel it—the way his fingers flex against your side, the way his pace slows just enough to make you match him, step for step.

“we had dinner. a whole three hours in there.”

“and? i was enjoying myself.”

and then he stops. right there, mid-sidewalk, like the conversation demands his full attention. his hands at your waist, his jaw tight, that serious, unreadable expression that makes your stomach twist up in ways you don’t want to unpack.

“don’t do that.”

you squint up at him. “do what?”

“act like a brat when you don’t get your way.”

and listen—nobody talks to you like this. ever. men don’t check you. they don’t hold you accountable. they either kiss up to you or tap out when you push too hard. so the fact that aurélien is standing here, chest rising slow and controlled, his grip still on your waist, holding you in place like he knows you’re about to start acting up, has your stomach twisting up in knots.

because you want to act up. you want to be difficult. you want to push. test him. step into his space, tip your chin up, press your finger against his chest and dare him to hold his ground. you want to see if he’ll push back. if he’ll match you, keep up, take whatever attitude you throw his way and give it right back.

but then he tilts his head, slow, eyes dragging over your face with a look that knocks the air from your lungs. and suddenly, you feel—small. not in a way that makes you retreat, not in a way that makes you fold in on yourself, but in a way that makes heat bloom at the base of your spine, makes your breath hitch, makes your lips part just slightly, like your body is reacting before your mind can catch up. because he has no business standing this close, looking this good, making you want things you should not be wanting right now.

you fold your arms instead, drop your gaze, shift your weight between your feet. “whatever,” you mutter, annoyed. “can we just get in the car already?”

“you finished sulking?”

you scoff, but it’s weaker now, more for show than anything real. still, you nod, half-hearted, just barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

he tilts his head. “yeah?”

you nod again, slower this time, lips pressing into something that’s still too pouty, still carrying the ghost of your attitude.

and that’s when he leans down, voice dipping lower, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “then act like it.”

you shudder. literally. a whole-body reaction that you couldn’t even stop if you tried.

—

the thing about aurélien is that he doesn’t let shit slide. he’s fun, sweet, spoils you because he can, but he doesn’t do games. not the ones you’re used to playing. he won’t chase you around a problem. won’t feed into your dramatics. if you try to stir shit up, he’ll sit you down and say, “what’s wrong with you?” real calm, real straight to the point, and it’s annoying because now you have to actually think about why you’re upset instead of just making noise about it.

you test him. a lot. just to see if he’ll bend. if he’ll let you get away with things like everybody else does.

but he never does.

“nah, you’re not wearing that.”

you pause mid-lip gloss application, spinning around in front of your mirror. aurélien’s on your bed, laid out in sweats, scrolling on his phone like he didn’t just say that with his whole chest.

“excuse me?”

he glances up. “you heard me.”

you huff, turning back to the mirror. the dress is short. tight. you love it. it’s your favourite one. and now, just because he wants to say no, you wanna wear it even more.

“i don’t need your permission, you know.”

aurélien doesn’t respond right away. just sighs real slow, drags his hand over his face, then sits up.

“c’mere.”

you roll your eyes, but you step over to him anyway.

he sits at the edge of the bed, knees spread, hands at your thighs as he looks up at you. “you need me to explain why it’s a no?”

you open your mouth, then close it.

because it’s not that he’s trying to control you. he’s never done that. he hypes you up when you dress pretty, buys you the things you like, never tells you what you can and can’t do. but this is different. the dress is too much. you know it, he knows it, and now he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it.

and you do.

with a soft little ‘hmph’ and a turn on your heel, pulling the dress up over your head and tossing it onto the bed. you dig through your closet for something else, ignoring the way aurélien leans back on his hands, watching you with that smug little smirk like he knew you’d listen.

you kinda hate him for it.

but also, you like him for it.

—

it’s the way he carries himself. like a man that’s sure. steady. unwavering. he doesn’t ask for respect, he just moves like he already has it. like he deserves it. and you, for all your attitude and your sharp mouth and your need to be in control, you respond to it. you respond to him.

and he knows it.

you give him hell sometimes, just to keep things interesting. just to see if he’ll snap. but aurélien never crumbles under pressure. he just gives you that look, voice low and rough when he says, “you done?” and suddenly, you are.

it’s confusing. it’s intriguing. it’s something you’re still figuring out.

but if there’s one thing you do know, it’s that you’ve never met a man who could handle you like this. who could match your energy without letting you steamroll him. who could let you be a little reckless, a little loud, a little too much—without ever making you feel like you had to shrink yourself.

who could put you in your place when you needed it, without making you feel small.

and you think maybe, just maybe, you love that shit.

—

your mom does too, apparently, because when you bring aurélien to your childhood home a few weeks later, she watches in shameless amusement. her eyes flick between you and him like she’s studying a live experiment, trying to make sense of the hold this man has on you.

and you know exactly what she’s thinking. because never—not once—has a man sat at this table and made you sit still. never have you brought someone home and actually let them speak.

no, usually you were cutting them off mid-sentence, rolling your eyes, barely pretending to care. usually, your mom was giving you that look—the one that meant why did you even bring him here if you were just gonna act like this?

but tonight, she doesn’t need to say a word.

because tonight, you’re sitting right next to aurélien, eating your food like a civilised person, letting him talk without jumping in, glancing at him every now and then just because you like hearing him speak.

and your mom is eating it up.

“so, aurélien,” she starts, reaching for another helping of mac and cheese. “what exactly is it about my daughter that made you wanna stick around?”

you shoot her a look. she shrugs, shameless. “what? it’s a valid question.”

your dad chuckles under his breath. your little sister is too busy kicking her feet under the table, admiring the tiny paper crown aurélien made her out of a napkin to care about anything else.

and aurélien? aurélien doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t even pause. he wipes his mouth with a napkin, sets it down, and shrugs like he saw the question coming from a mile away.

“she keeps things interesting,” he says simply.

your mom laughs. your dad raises his brows. you huff, elbowing him in the side. “that’s it?”

he tilts his head like he’s thinking, dragging it out just to make you impatient. “mhm, and i like her attitude. most of the time.”

“most of the time?”

“yeah,” aurélien glances at you, something amused in his gaze. something smug. “sometimes, she gets a little carried away.”

your mom snorts. your dad shakes his head, mouth twitching like he’s fighting off a smile. “oh, we know.”

your jaw drops. “okay, wow.”

aurélien chuckles, squeezes your thigh under the table. a silent relax.

you cross your arms, lips twisting to the side. you don’t like being ganged up on, but you do like how he handles it. how he’s not thrown off by your family. how he fits in like he was meant to be here.

your mom notices. watches the way you lean into aurélien even when you’re pretending to be mad. the way he doesn’t flinch when you get defensive. the way his hand never really leaves your leg.

she smiles to herself, sips her wine.

because, yeah. she gets it now.

—

your little sister is obsessed. full-blown, starry-eyed obsessed with aurélien.

she’s been stuck to him all evening, trailing after him like a shadow, tugging at his sleeve every time he so much as shifts in his seat. she climbs onto his lap like he’s some kind of jungle gym, asks a million questions about football, makes him retell the same story twice just to hear him say it again. and, of course, aurélien indulges her.

right now, he’s got her perched on his knee, small hands fisting his hoodie while he helps her tie her shoe.

“i like your nails,” she chirps, pointing at his hand.

aurélien grins, flexing his fingers. “yeah? they’re just regular nails, though.”

“you should let me paint them,” she says, big eyes blinking up at him.

he hums, like he’s actually considering it, lips twitching. “what colour?”

“pink!”

you snort, arms crossed over your chest. “please let her. that would be hilarious.”

aurélien flicks his gaze up to you, narrows his eyes in a way that’s more playful than threatening. then he turns back to your sister, voice softening. “maybe next time, yeah?”

she pouts. “promise?”

he chuckles, brushing a strand of her braids from her face. “promise.”

and you—you just watch. watch the way she settles against him, tiny fingers still gripping at his hoodie, head resting against his chest like she’s found her favourite place in the world. watch the way aurélien adjusts without even thinking, tilting his body so she’s more comfortable. something warm settles in your stomach. it’s unfamiliar, kind of startling, but it’s there. and it stays, lingers, makes itself at home in your chest.

you didn’t think you had a thing for seeing a man be good with kids, but maybe you do. because aurélien, like this—soft-spoken, careful, letting your baby sister treat him like her own personal jungle gym—is doing something to you. something that makes your breath catch, something that makes your fingers tighten where they rest against your arm.

your mom is watching, too. you don’t even realise until she leans in, voice dipped low, amused. “he’s good, huh?”

you swallow. nod before you even think about it. “yeah.”

she smiles, all-knowing. “figured.”

and you have no idea what she means by that, not really, but the warmth in your chest spreads, seeps into your skin like something permanent. like something you won’t be able to shake.

—

when it’s time to go, your little sister throws a fit.

arms crossed, face scrunched up, tears welling—the whole nine yards. her tiny fingers curl around aurélien’s hand in a death grip, like she can physically hold him in place if she tries hard enough.

“do you have to leave?” she whines, her voice wobbling.

aurélien chuckles, crouching down to her level with the easy patience he seems to have for her. “i gotta take your sister home.”

she scowls immediately, eyes darting to you like this is your fault, like you’re the villain in her little story.

you hold your hands up. “don’t look at me, girl. you can have him.”

your mom smacks your arm, murmuring your name in that warning tone, but aurélien just laughs, shaking his head.

“i’ll come back soon.” he reassures her, soft and warm, like he’s making a vow instead of a simple promise.

“promise?”

he nods, tapping the tip of her nose with his finger. “promise.”

she pouts, wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, then lets go of his hand with great reluctance, like she’s doing it against her better judgment.

when aurélien stands, stretching to his full height, his eyes flicker to yours—bright, amused, knowing. he’s wearing that little smirk, the one that always makes you roll your eyes because he’s so him about everything.

“yeah, yeah,” you mutter, shaking your head. “everybody loves you. i get it.”

his grin deepens, and before you can blink, he’s slinging an arm over your shoulder, tugging you into his side like it’s second nature. like he’s done it a thousand times before, will do it a thousand times again. his lips ghost over your temple, not quite a kiss, not quite not one.

it’s true. everybody does love him. your parents. your sister. your friends.

and maybe—just maybe—you do too.

you don’t really bring men home. not because you’re secretive, but because it’s never been that serious. your parents know how you move—know you’re picky, know that even when you do entertain somebody, it’s never for long. they’ve learned not to ask questions, not to get attached, because the answer is always the same: he’s not staying.

so when you step through the front door, hand tucked into ruben’s, the shift in the air is instant. your mother is the first to react, and she doesn’t even try to hide it. hand on her chest, lips parting in barely concealed delight, eyes darting between you and him like she’s trying to figure out what spell he put on you.

“oh, this must be ruben.”

he smiles, all polite and warm, reaching his hand out with the kind of confidence that never teeters into arrogance. “yes, ma’am.”

and lord. he’s barely said two words, but he’s already winning. your mother loves a polite man.

your dad is next, stepping forward with the kind of presence that makes people stand up straighter. he sizes ruben up the way dads do, like he’s seeing through all the good things your mom has already told him, picking apart the man standing in front of him with a trained, protective eye.

ruben, unshaken, sticks his hand out. “nice to meet you, sir.”

“mhm.” your dad clasps his hand in a firm shake—too firm. like he’s making a point. a statement. a quiet don’t get comfortable.

you shake your head, biting back a laugh. such a dad thing to do, you’re not even surprised.

but ruben? doesn’t flinch. doesn’t cower. just meets his gaze, solid and self-assured. you already know your dad is going to respect that. a man who can stand up for himself, who won’t fold under pressure, is a man who can stand up for you. that’s all he wants for his baby girl.

but the real test? zuri.

your seven-year-old sister, your mini-me, the loudest, nosiest, most chaotic person in the house. if there’s a single crack in ruben’s armor, she’s going to find it and pry it open with sticky fingers and relentless questions.

she peeks out from behind your dad’s legs, wide brown eyes locking onto ruben like she’s scanning his soul.

“hey, zuri.” he crouches down to her level, arms resting on his knees. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

she squints. doesn’t respond right away. just tilts her head and stares at him, like she’s trying to decide if she fucks with him or not.

“you the football boy?”

you snort. ruben grins. “that’s me.”

“hmm.” she taps a tiny finger against her chin, the way she does when she’s fake-thinking about what ice cream flavour to get. “you any good?”

your dad chuckles, your mom shakes her head, and ruben just laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe this little girl is pressing him like this.

“i’d like to think so, yeah.”

zuri studies him for a second longer, then extends a hand, palm up, expectant. “gimme your phone.”

ruben raises a brow. “why?”

“so i can google you.”

and listen. you expect ruben to hesitate. expect him to laugh it off, tell her no, maybe throw you a look like come get your little sister, please. but he does none of that. instead, he pulls his phone out without a second thought, unlocks it, and places it right in her tiny palm.

your mother is quick to protest. “ruben, baby, you don’t have to—”

“no, it’s alright.” he smirks, watching zuri take the phone and plop down on the couch like she owns the place. “gotta prove myself, right?”

you press your lips together, trying to suppress a smile, because if there’s one thing about ruben, it’s that he never backs down from a challenge. not on the pitch, not in life, and apparently not from a seven-year-old with a sassy mouth and zero filter.

a natural-born winner, so of course he’d want to win your baby sister over too.

—

dinner is a whole event. your mom goes all out, pots and pans clattering in the kitchen for hours. she makes every dish you grew up on—fluffy rice, slow-cooked meat that falls off the bone, greens seasoned to perfection, cornbread still warm from the oven.

ruben eats everything. like, cleans his plate, goes for seconds, tells your mom it’s the best meal he’s had in a long time. you swear she almost tears up, waving him off with a dish towel like she’s not about to brag about it to the aunties later.

your dad, meanwhile, is running him through the gauntlet. no softballs, no easing in—he’s cutting straight to the chase, arms folded across his chest like a man who’s been waiting for this moment. wants to know about his career, about his life, about his intentions with you. ruben doesn’t hesitate. no fumbling, no nervous stammering—just smooth, calm answers, all respect, all confidence. like he was built for this.

and zuri? she’s been on the fence all day, eyeing him with that serious little frown of hers, arms crossed like a mini version of your dad. but now she’s settled herself right next to him, like she’s decided he’s worth her time. her tiny legs kick under the table, her voice full of nosy, rapid-fire questions, stealing food off his plate like they go way back.

“you famous famous?”

ruben wipes his mouth with his napkin, fighting a smile. “not really.”

“but people know you?”

“yeah.”

“hmm.” she twirls her fork between her fingers, sizing him up. “so you got money?”

your dad damn near chokes on his drink. your mom gasps, smacks zuri’s hand with the back of her spoon. “what did i tell you about asking people personal business?”

ruben just laughs, light and easy. “it’s alright.”

zuri ignores your mom completely, elbow on the table, chin resting in her tiny palm as her eyes stay locked on ruben. “so… do you?”

he leans in a little, like they’re in on something together. drops his voice to a whisper. “enough to buy you a new colouring book.”

her eyes widen like he just promised her the world. “really?”

“mhm. but only if you promise not to bully me for the rest of the night.”

she gasps, presses a hand to her chest like she’s been gravely insulted. “i would never.”

you roll your eyes. the dramatics.

ruben chuckles, shaking his head as he picks up his fork again. “alright, then. deal.”

zuri grins, holds out her tiny hand. “shake on it.”

and ruben does. his much larger hand gently enveloping hers. you swear, you feel something shift in your chest watching them.

because this? this is new. men don’t make it this far with you. they don’t sit at your mother’s dinner table and hold their own against your father’s interrogation. they definitely don’t entertain zuri’s nonsense past the five-minute mark before giving up.

but ruben? ruben is here. handling all of it like he was made for this. like it’s easy. like he belongs here.

and that… that does something to you. something deep. something heavy in your chest, warm in your stomach.

you try to shake it off, pick up your glass of wine, take a slow sip. but ruben catches your eye across the table. gives you this look.

like he already knows.

—

after dinner, everyone moves to the living room. your dad puts on the game, already muttering at the screen before kickoff even starts. your mom, despite your protests, is still fussing in the kitchen, clinking dishes together as she wipes down the counters. and zuri? zuri’s still stuck to ruben like glue, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, looking up at him like he hung the damn moon.

“sooo… you really play for man city?”

ruben, who’s settled into the armchair like he’s been here a hundred times before, nods. “yeah.”

“like, the real one?”

he laughs, low and amused. “yeah, the real one.”

she squints, head tilting, nose scrunching. “but you don’t sound english.”

you snort into your wine glass, and ruben throws you a look before turning back to zuri. “that’s ‘cause i’m not.”

zuri scratches her chin, considering. “hmm. you any good?”

ruben exhales, shaking his head, and you swear you can hear the smile in it. “you already asked me that.”

“yeah, but now i googled you.” she narrows her eyes, all mock-suspicion. “i need to know if the stats match up.”

you shake your head, sinking into the couch, the plush fabric swallowing you up as you take another sip of wine. your mom finally sits down beside you, letting out a satisfied sigh, and leans in close, voice hushed but full of something knowing.

“baby, where did you find this one?”

you glance at ruben, watching the way he bends slightly to hear zuri better, nodding like whatever she’s saying is the most important thing in the world. his brows pull together, lips twitching, and then he grins, nudging her playfully when she suggests he add a backflip to his goal celebrations.

“i didn’t,” you murmur, half to yourself. “he found me.”

your mom hums like she already knew that. like it confirms something. “that explains a lot.”

you frown. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

she just smiles, that all-knowing, motherly kind. “nothing. i’m just saying he’s a keeper. so keep him.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t argue. because, yeah. she’s right. he’s definitely a keeper.

—

later that night, when it’s finally time to leave, zuri flings herself at ruben’s leg like he’s about to be deployed to war. arms wrapped tight, face pressed dramatically against his knee.

“you just got here,” she whines, words muffled against his jeans. “stay.”

ruben chuckles, patting the top of her head like she’s a stubborn puppy. “i gotta go, munchkin.”

“but why?”

“because your sister would be mad if i moved in on the first day.”

zuri peeks up at you, wide-eyed. “you live together?”

“no,” you say, at the same time ruben says, “not yet.”

your head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. he just smirks, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

zuri gasps like she’s just uncovered the biggest scandal of the decade. “so you’re gonna?”

ruben crouches down to her level, but not before shooting you a teasing glance. “not anytime soon,” he tells her, ruffling her curls. “but i’ll come back and visit, yeah?”

she huffs, arms folding over her chest like a tiny executive rejecting a business deal. “pinky promise?”

ruben grins, holding out his pinky. “pinky promise.”

zuri stares at him for a long moment, assessing, like she’s weighing the truth in his words. finally, she nods, wrapping her pinky around his.

“okay, i believe you,” she says. “but only because you’re kinda cool.”

ruben laughs. “high praise.”

then she leans in, cupping a hand around her mouth like she’s about to share state secrets. “and because you’re the only boyfriend my sister’s ever brought home. so you must be special.”

ruben’s eyes flicker to you. something shifts in them—something softer, something unreadable.

your stomach does that stupid little thing it always does when he looks at you that way. you ignore it, reaching for your coat.

“alright,” you mutter. “that’s enough. time to go.”

—

the drive home is quiet at first. you sit back, watching the city melt past your window in streaks of gold and navy, feeling the night settle into your bones. your belly is full, the warmth of dinner still lingering in your chest, the echoes of laughter curling at the edges of your thoughts. it was good. better than you expected.

“they love me.”

you don’t even have to look at ruben to know he’s smirking. you sigh, but the smile creeping onto your lips is inevitable. of course he’s smug about it.

“yeah, yeah, whatever.”

he chuckles, deep and warm. “your mom damn near adopted me. your dad was three seconds away from calling me son. and zuri?” he shakes his head. “she adores me.”

you roll your eyes, shifting in your seat. “zuri likes everybody.”

“not true.” he side-eyes you, the glow from the dashboard catching the sharp line of his jaw. “she made your last situationship cry, didn’t she?”

you groan, tilting your head back against the seat. “why would you bring that up?”

“‘cause it’s funny.”

you shoot him a glare, but it’s weak at best. because, yeah, it was funny. zuri had made it her personal mission to get on that man’s last nerve whenever he came to pick you up. he'd barely lasted three weeks.

ruben reaches over then, his hand finding your thigh like it belongs there. his touch is warm, soothing. you barely even notice the way you lean into it.

“you okay?”

you blink. glance at him. “why wouldn’t i be?”

he shrugs, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your skin. “dunno. just… your mom said something earlier. about how she’s never seen you let your guard down like this before.”

you pause. turn back to the window.

oh.

he hums, like he’s giving you space to sit with it. “she sounded surprised.”

you exhale, slow and measured, fingers curling around the hem of your dress.

“yeah, well. my mom says a lot of things.”

he doesn’t respond right away. just keeps driving, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting against you, the hum of the engine filling the space between you.

then, softer—

“it’s not a bad thing, you know.” you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flick to you before returning to the road, steady and certain. “letting someone take care of you for once.”

your throat tightens.

because he says it like it’s simple. like it’s a truth so obvious he doesn’t even need to think twice.

but it’s not that simple. not to you, anyway. you’ve always been a little too guarded, a little too stubborn. men have tried to get close, and you’ve let them—but only on your terms, only as much as you wanted, only as much as you could control. and then ruben came along, and somehow, you weren’t thinking about control anymore. you weren’t thinking about walls or defenses or escape routes. with him, it was just… easy.

you swallow, turn back to the window.

“i don’t need to be taken care of,” you mumble, but there’s no real bite behind it. just habit. just reflex.

“never said you did.” his voice dips lower, smooth like something honeyed, something reassuring. his thumb strokes over your thigh again, slower this time, like he knows you’re thinking too much and he’s trying to pull you back. “i’m just saying it makes me happy.”

you hesitate. “what does?”

“that you feel safe enough to let down your defenses around me.” his fingers squeeze gently against your skin, a silent reassurance. “means i’m doing something right.”

your heart stumbles.

because fuck.

he says it so easy. just ruben being ruben—sure of himself, sure of you, sure of whatever the hell this is.

and that’s what gets you the most. the steadiness. the certainty.

you don’t know what to say. so you just look at him, hoping he gets it.

he does.

he squeezes your leg one last time before pulling his hand back, turning back to the road. and the rest of the drive is quiet, but it’s a different kind of quiet now. it’s weighted, filled with something unspoken, but not in a bad way.

no, this is the good kind of quiet.

the kind that means something.

and maybe—just maybe—you’re both closer to saying those three words than either of you thought.

the santiago bernabéu.

you grew up watching him dream about this place, talking about it like it was some kind of holy ground. back when you were both younger, when football was still a dream on the horizon and music was just something you did because it felt right. before the contracts, before the interviews, before the weight of expectation settled on your shoulders like something you had to carry forever.

and now, here you are.

the bernabéu is packed. but instead of a sea of white jerseys, it's your name on the banners. your lyrics printed on homemade signs, scrawled across arms and cheeks in glittering ink. your initials strung together in neon lights, flashing against the dark sky. instead of football chants, it's your songs echoing off the stadium walls, swallowed by the night, belted from thousands of voices that somehow know every word.

it's overwhelming in a way you didn't expect, makes your stomach flip. not the stage—that's second nature now. the music, the crowd, the way your voice carries over the speakers—you've been doing this too long for nerves. but tonight is different.

tonight, he's here.

it's not lost on you—the irony, the strange poetry of it all.

you spent years watching him take the field, feeling your heart race as he made history. sitting in these same stands, lost in the same impossible crowd, screaming his name like it was the only one that mattered. watching him turn his dreams into something real. you knew what this stadium meant to him before the world did.

you remember the first time you ever sat here, barely teenagers, your knees pressed together as you watched players you'd only ever seen on tv. he nudged you every time something big happened, buzzing with excitement, eyes wide with something bigger than hope—something inevitable.

"one day," he had said, voice barely above a whisper. "one day, it's gonna be me."

and you had believed him. not because he needed you to, but because you knew. because there was never a doubt in your mind that kylian mbappé was meant for this.

and now, tonight, he's watching you. in the stands instead of the pitch, lost in a crowd of your making, looking up at you.

tonight, the bernabéu isn't his—it's yours.

you wonder how it feels.

if it's surreal for him too.

if he's proud.

if he thinks about the nights you stayed up, mapping out your futures like you had any control over them. him, on the field. you, on the stage. always different paths, but always together. at least, that's what you thought back then.

someone calls your name, pulling you out of your spiralling thoughts—one of the stage managers, telling you to get into position. you nod, rolling your neck, shaking out your hands.

the intro music starts. low, deep, a slow build that makes your pulse quicken.

you close your eyes for half a second.

then the lights shift. the curtain lifts.

and the bernabéu erupts.

—

you're six songs in when you finally say it.

"so tonight is kind of special."

the screams swell, rolling through the stadium in waves, like they already know what you're about to say. maybe they do. maybe they've been waiting for this as much as you have.

you wet your lips, letting your fingers trail over the mic stand. your heart's hammering, but your voice is steady when you speak again.

"an old friend of mine is here."

a fresh wave of noise—high-pitched, frantic, excited. you can hear the murmurs even through the roar, fans turning to each other, pointing, speculating.

you let the words settle, let the tension build. and then, you drag it out just a little more, teasing, knowing they'll eat it up.

"he's hidden somewhere in here," a pause. a playful tilt of your head. "if you see someone in cargo pants, or a fresh release of some nike tech, that’s probably him."

the reaction is instant—laughter ripples through the crowd, screams blending into giggles, because of course they know exactly what you're talking about. kylian and his damn swagger… or lack of.

you shake your head, eyes glinting under the stage lights. "that’s really all he knows, y'all. like, every time i see him it's a new nike tracksuit or some beige cargo pants. there’s no in between."

you grin, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth as you let the laughter swell. the crowd loves it. they love you and him—this thing between you two that never really left, never really faded, even after all these years.

you take a breath, let the moment sit for a second.

and then, softer this time—

"kylian is here tonight."

absolute pandemonium.

it's deafening, the kind of noise that makes your ribs vibrate, your skin prickle, your ears ring.

you step back from the mic for a second, letting it happen, letting them scream for him the way they scream for you. it's surreal in a way—watching it all unfold, watching a stadium full of people lose their minds over a boy you used to sit on rooftops with, eating corner shop snacks and talking about your futures like they weren't already written for you.

you take a slow breath, gripping the mic a little tighter, your smile slipping just a fraction.

the cameras will catch the way your eyes flicker across the crowd, how your expression softens, how your fingers twitch at your side.

they'll call it sweet. nostalgic.

they won't know how heavy it feels in your chest.

you glance toward the pit, where the security guards are holding back fans with banners—some with your name, some with collages. one catches your eye, scrawled in thick, glittering letters:

"STILL LOVE ME WHEN THE LIGHTS COME ON?"

your stomach twists. you blink, once, twice.

that line was from his song. the one that gutted you when you wrote it, the one you almost didn't release because it felt too raw, too honest. the one where you admitted, in too many words, that you never doubted the love when it was just the two of you, tangled in low light and quiet promises—but you feared what would happen when the world crept in. when the cameras flashed and the schedules filled and love had to compete with everything else.

september nights was never confirmed to be about him, but the fans knew. they picked apart every lyric, every interview, every offhand comment about the song that you tried to brush off. and maybe you should've been more careful, maybe you should've chosen different words, a different melody, a different story to tell—

but back then, it was the only way you knew how to grieve him.

you drag in a breath, press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, and shake it off before it can settle too deep in your bones.

later. you'll sit with it later.

for now, you tilt your head, forcing a soft smile as you bring the mic back to your lips.

"hope you're enjoying your first live show, kyky."

the crowd screams, a fresh wave of hysteria crashing over the stadium, but you don't let yourself linger in it.

instead, you turn to your band, give them a small nod, and let the music take you somewhere else. somewhere safer. somewhere that doesn't feel like looking at him would still hurt.

—

later, when the last note fades, when the adrenaline starts to settle, when your throat is raw and your limbs are sore in the way that reminds you why you love this, you find him.

he's waiting backstage, tucked into the corner of the dressing room, leaning against the table like he belongs there. relaxed, comfortable, the same way he's always been in your spaces.

he's in a louis vuitton hoodie, sleeves slightly pushed up, loose but not baggy, sitting just right on his frame. cargo pants—of course. dior trainers, fresh out the box, laces still crisp.

he looks good.

his arms are crossed, dark brown eyes shamelessly taking you in—and, yeah. he looks too fucking good. so good it damn near throws you off.

you hesitate for half a second before stepping inside, letting the door swing shut behind you.

"bought a backstage pass and everything." you tease, dropping onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out in front of you like your heart isn’t doing a thousand things at once. "big fan, are you?"

he huffs out a laugh, pushing off the table. "yeah, something like that"

he moves then. closer. a step, maybe two. you catch it before he even fully closes the distance—the scent of him, warm and deep, laced with something unmistakably him. it clings to him, settles into the spaces between his skin and his clothes, seeps into the air between you like a memory you weren't ready to relive.

and maybe it's that. maybe it's the scent of it alone or maybe it's the way it ties itself to so many things you thought you had let go of—late-night drives, shared hotel rooms, lazy sundays at his house when his mom would make roast dinner and call you both down just as the gravy was thick enough. or those quiet, easy nights on the sofa with his dad, all of you watching some old game from years before, kylian arguing every ref call like it still mattered.

whatever it is, it messes with your head.

there's a beat of silence. not the uncomfortable kind. but not easy either. somewhere in between.

his gaze drifts, scans the room like he's still getting used to being back here, then lands on you again.

"you didn't play them," he says eventually.

you know exactly what he means. them. the other songs—the ones that belong to him in a way nothing else ever could. the ones you rarely perform because they're too personal, too his. they're the ones your fans call the devastating ones—the ones that linger. the ones that sting.

you lift one shoulder in a half-shrug, toying with the ring on your index finger. a gift from him years ago. cartier. the love ring, a subtle thing that carried too much history for its own good. "wasn't that kind of night."

his lips press together, something flickering behind his eyes. regret, maybe. something heavier.

baby steps.

so instead of lingering in it, you nudge his foot with yours. "did you like the show?"

he exhales, a breathy, quiet thing, before sitting beside you. not close enough to touch, but closer than he should be.

"yeah," he says, soft, sincere. "i really did."

you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, letting it sink in.

he watches you, head tilting slightly, something knowing in his expression.

"you looked happy up there," he murmurs.

it's not a question, but you answer anyway.

"i was."

and you could leave it at that. let the moment settle, let the air between you stay charged but unspoken. but something about tonight makes you brave. maybe it's the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, maybe it's the way he's looking at you—soft, steady, like he's been waiting for this.

so you tilt your head, let your gaze flicker over him, let a slow, knowing smile tug at your lips.

"think it had a lot to do with a certain real madrid superstar in the crowd."

his brows lift, amusement flashing across his face. "oh yeah?" he muses, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he's trying not to grin. "he must be a pretty big deal."

you hum, pretending to think about it. "mhm. bit of a heartbreaker, though."

his smile falters for half a second—just enough for you to catch it—before he schools his expression, nudging your knee with his.

"nah," he says, voice quieter now. "not anymore."

something in your chest tightens.

and maybe it's stupid—maybe it's reckless—but something about the way he's looking at you makes you feel like you can say anything. like you should say something.

so you tilt your head, resting your elbow on the couch as you look at him. really look at him.

"not anymore?" you echo, voice softer now. careful.

kylian exhales, tipping his head back against the couch for a second before turning back to you. his eyes flicker down—to your hands, to the way your fingers toy with your ring—before settling on your face again.

"i was never tryna break your heart, you know."

the words hit you in a place you weren't ready for.

because you do know that. even at your angriest, even when the space between you two felt impossible, even when you swore you'd never speak again—you always knew that.

you swallow, shifting slightly, feeling the weight of his gaze.

"wasn't tryna break yours either," you admit.

he nods, like he gets it. like he's been holding onto that same truth too.

a beat of silence.

and then, quieter—almost like he doesn't want to say it, like it just slips out—

"but we did."

you let out a slow breath, leaning your head back against the couch. staring at the ceiling, letting the truth of it settle between you.

"yeah," you murmur. "we did."

there's a heaviness in the air now. not bad, necessarily, but thick enough to make your throat feel tight.

you should change the subject. lighten the mood. tease him for being emotional. but instead, you turn your head to look at him again.

"so," you start, voice quieter. "why are you really here?"

his jaw tightens, just slightly.

"you invited me," he says.

you narrow your eyes. "the real reason, kylian."

his lips twitch, but he doesn't smile. instead, he just watches you. searching. debating. and then, after a long, quiet moment—

"because i wanted to see you."

it's simple. too simple for something that carries so much weight.

your heart stumbles in your chest.

he must see it on your face, because he leans forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees, voice lower now.

"because i missed you."

you blink. feel your breath catch in your throat.

he doesn't look away. doesn't shift, doesn't backtrack. just sits there, waiting.

waiting for you to say something. waiting for you to be brave back.

your fingers tighten around your ring.

then, finally—

"yeah," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "yeah, me too."

kylian lets out a breath, something caught between relief and something else you don’t have a name for.

you’re both quiet for a moment, like you’re letting the words settle, letting the weight of finally saying it sink in.

you missed him.

he missed you.

and after everything—after the distance, the mess, the silence—you both still feel it. that pull. that thing that’s never really gone away, just buried under all the noise, all the hurt.

you tilt your head, let your eyes find his again, let the ghost of a smile tug at your lips.

“so,” you start, a little hesitant, testing the waters. “think you’ll stick around? see the next show?”

his eyes flicker over your face, scanning, searching.

like he’s trying to figure out if you really mean it. if you’re just saying it to say it or if you’re being serious. if it’s really okay for him to say yes.

so you nudge his foot with yours, keeping your smile, keeping it light.

“it’s in barcelona,” you tease, lifting a brow. “the superior city in spain.”

his lips twitch.

then, a low huff of laughter, shaking his head. "you wish," he mutters, but there's no bite to it. just something familiar. something fond.

your smile grows, and for the first time tonight, the edges don’t feel so sharp.

he leans back against the couch again, stretching his arms over the top, fingers barely brushing against your shoulder. not touching, not quite, but there.

his gaze lingers on you, warm and unreadable. and then—

“if you want me there, then i’ll be there.”

your breath catches.

not because of what he said, but because of how he said it.

soft. sure.

like it’s that simple. like it’s easy.

like he’s saying, just ask, and i’m yours.

you don’t know what to do with that. don’t know what to do with the way it spreads through your chest, settles in your stomach, sits heavy in your throat.

so you just sit there, knee against his, his fingers brushing against your skin.

maybe it’s not supposed to be complicated. maybe it doesn’t have to be some big, impossible thing.

maybe it’s just this. this moment. this tiny step forward.

maybe it’s just trying.

just letting each other in again.

letting it be enough.

you smile, almost shyly. “i do want you there.”

his smile mirrors yours. “then i’ll be there.”

The only reason Bruce wasn’t up there with them right now, was because he claimed he had “important work” to finish, but you promised the children that Bruce would join them shortly. Plus, Alfred remarked that the Christmas decorations needed to be found up there anyway.

Dick pulled the album out of an old box, and opened the cover to be met with a photo he had to blink twice to figure out properly.

It was very obviously you in the photo, but much younger. You looked like you were college age, standing with a group of girls that were clearly your friends, judging by the arms around each other.

After flicking through a few more pages, Dick held it out and called, “hey look, it’s all old photos of mom.”

Damian’s head appeared from above the small wall of junk he had built while searching through the different piles. He made his way to Dicks side, stepping over whatever Tim or Jason had carelessly tossed over their shoulders. “Let me see.” He demanded, before humming a little as Dick lowered his hands.

Cass had appeared at the other side of Dick, also interested in the pictures of her mother. Duke had also made his way over, equally as interested. Jason shrugged, deciding that it was definitely better than continuing to clean and walked over. Tim was also interested, wanting to see any picture that he wouldn’t have seen when he was doing his previous research.

When they properly turned each page of the album, they found that the pictures started when you were a baby. There was a picture of you, small with chubby cheeks blowing spit on a birthday cake with a big ‘1’ decoration on it.

A couple of pages later, there was a picture of you, a couple of years older. You had hair that was just past your shoulders, flashing small teeth in a smile with one missing in the front. There was a small note underneath the picture that said “First day of school.”

First school play. Graduating elementary. First day of middle school. First day of high school. Prom, homecoming, and you with your diploma. You throughout different years crouched by a Christmas tree or you with different costumes through the years on Halloween.

That was the first half of the album.

Dick flipped the second half, when you had started college and most of the pictures were now taken by you or your friends, rather than your parents. They varied from different locations, from parties to your dorm room.

In one picture, you’re taking a shot with one of your friends, the clock in the background showing that it was 2:30AM. “And she tells me not to stay out too late.” Jason rolled his eyes, but had no real bite to his words. “She was cool.” Duke said, his voice laced with awe.

When Bruce made his way up the ladder to the attic, the album was open on a page that showed a picture of you getting ready for some event. You had rollers in your hair, and a bathrobe on as you beamed at the camera. The lighting made your eyes sparkle and your smile shine. There was a different look of happiness that the children hadn’t seen on your face. You looked much more carefree, and you had the look of someone that could never fathom the horrors the world had to offer you. It wasn’t that you weren’t happy now, it was just clearly different back then.

“What are you all crowded around?” Bruce asked them, making each of their heads fly up to notice him.

“A photo album of Mom.” Tim answered him before swiftly turning back to the photo album.

When Bruce cast his eye on the photos of you, he didn’t look surprised. A small, easy smile appeared on his face. Cass reached out to flip a couple of more pages, and they reached the section where you had clearly just started your relationship with Bruce.

The picture was the two of you in a kitchen that looked very different from the one in the Manor. Even though it was barely seen in the background, it was clearly smaller, with much simpler looking furniture. You were both dressed in pyjamas, the morning light coming knocking through the window in the background.

The camera was held in your hands, just the upper half of your bodies shown. You were making a face at the camera while Bruce wasn’t even looking at it. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed to your cheek as he stood behind you. Bruce looked younger too. He had some lines on his face, and there were a couple of scratches on his shoulder from presumably the previous night as Batman. But still, younger.

Bruce’s fingers reached out, eager to see more pictures of the two of you from the past. That’s when they heard somebody else enter the attic.

“Are you all doing alright up here?” Your voice was heard before you found them huddled around something in the middle.

“Grayson found an album of you.” Damian answered, already taking a step towards you as you joined their huddle.

You smiled upon seeing the different pictures of you when you were younger. There was a picture of you when you first appeared at a gala with Bruce. Your face was smoother back then, the crease between your brow not yet there. you weren’t yet aged with the stress of having a husband who likes to throw himself into danger every night, and six children who did the exact same.

“I was fairly pretty back then.” You said, “Been a while since that was a relevant fact, though.”

Bruce’s head immediately turned to yours at your words, his mouth opening. But a couple of people got there before him.

There was a chorus of outraged sounds, shouts of confusion and overlapping voices of siblings that don’t know how to speak in turn.

“Absolute nonsense.” The smallest boy at your side said, shaking his head. Damian was acting as if you had gotten a simple question wrong on a test. “You were beautiful then and equally beautiful now.”

“Exactly.” Tim nodded. “You’re gorgeous, mom. The amount of camera flashes when we’re forced to galas should prove it.”

Cass had slid herself close beside you, so that your arm subconsciously went around her. She shook her head at you too, before saying quietly, “very pretty.”

Dick looked downright horrified at your words. “How could you even think that?” He said. “Mom, you’re literally inspiration for like, five different clothing brands.”

“You’re stunning.” Duke declared. “In all these pictures you are. And you are now.”

Jason also tutted. He looked pained to agree with all of his siblings, but he had no choice. “Saying nonsense.” He muttered. “You’re beautiful, ma, always have been and always will be.”

You were silent for a moment before you smiled. “Thank you.” You said, a little sheepish. You pressed a kiss to the top of Cass’ head and ruffled Tim’s hair. “You know how to make me feel special, anyway.”

They continued fussing over you before you eventually reminded them to return to their ‘punishment’.

Later that evening, Bruce found you in your shared en-suite bathroom, washing your face before bed.

He stared at you for a moment, letting that indescribable feeling settle in his body again. Even after years of marriage, gentleness is still unfamiliar to him. He would’ve stayed there for hours if you hadn’t noticed him.

You caught his eye in the mirror before turning to him, “you okay?”

Bruce just nodded before walking the few steps to put his arms around you. “i’m okay.”

and that was enough.

“they’re weren’t lying earlier, you know.” he mumbled into your hair. “when they said you were still beautiful. you are. you’ve always been.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “thank you.”

And Bruce took every opportunity he could to remind you of it. because it wasn’t just your face that Bruce found beautiful, it was everything.

How you loved and cared for his children, how you put up with him and his late nights for years, how you cry and laugh at movies and books, how you treat Alfred with kindness and respect, how you were able to bring in so much love into his life when he thought it wasn’t possible, how you held him even when he couldn’t admit he wanted to be held.

Bruce Wayne might be the best detective in the world, but he’ll never figure out how you didn’t see how gorgeous you are.

You're not so sure what to say. It's been a while since your last visit, since you last saw Bruce Wayne without the cowl or the suit. You see him on TV screens much more than you see him in person, nowadays. While he's been busy helping the people, working with Gotham P.D. on search and rescue missions (you're sure he's been patrolling the areas with high crime, too), you've been working closely with the mayor and politicians. You spend most of your days in conferences and meetings, negotiating donations to whoever and whatever cause. You don't care. As long as it helps, as long as it contributes to the rebuilding of Gotham, you're game. You always wanted to do good with your money, and now you're doing exactly that.

Alfred breaks the silence, the quiet cling of his teacup against the saucer echoing around the room. You watch him down the rest of his tea quickly, more than eager to leave before your conversation with Bruce can even begin. You curse him internally for that. You always found it easier to negotiate with Bruce in Alfred’s presence. Bruce would break out the classic 'you're not my father’ line, (as if that's ever deterred Alfred from advising him, or telling him what to do), but in the end he'd always buckle. And you… well you'd sit there with a smug smile, watching the whole thing go down. You're on your own this time, evidently.

“Well…” Alfred starts, picking up the saucer from the table, “It's certainly been lovely seeing you, (Y/N). Unfortunately, I can't stay and chat any longer. The Wayne household doesn't run itself, you know.” He jokes. Though it's not really a joke.

You smile up at him, “It'd be lost without you.”

“Oh, I know that.” His gaze lands on Bruce for a moment, before flickering back to you.

“It's been so great seeing you, Alfred. And thank you for the tea.” You say.

“My pleasure.” He squeezes your shoulder before he begins making his way out of the room. His footsteps stop after a few moments, and you hear whispering, though you can't quite catch what's being said. Then, the gentle tap of his shoes resume until they're out of earshot.

You suddenly feel incredibly awkward without Alfred by your side. You can feel Bruce’s eyes burning into the back of your skull like lasers in the mist, cutting right through you. Your palms are sweaty, you can practically hear your heartbeat, feel it pounding through your entire body. “Why don't… why don't you come and sit down?” You ask, patting the backrest of the seat next to you. Nothing. “Please?”

He moves then, slowly circling the table, though he walks right past the seat you gestured to. Instead, he sits himself down two seats away from you. You can't help but scoff at how petty he's being. “Really?” You shove your tongue into your cheek in annoyance. He doesn't respond. Instead, he turns his attention to the window, seemingly taking in the scenery in the bright light of morning. Which is funny, really, because he never cared for the view.

You're getting a good look at him now, and he looks like shit, to be quite frank. Like he hasn't slept, showered or even been out of the literal cave underneath the mansion in days. All of those things are probably true. In fact, you know they're true. Except for that last one, you're sure you saw Batman on the news yesterday. Either way, he looks like he hasn't seen the light of day in, well, days. There's dark circles under his eyes, and he's squinting against the natural light flooding in through the window. He looks tired. You're starting to feel bad for what you're about to spring on him.

You're staring at him, and he's staring out of the window. You're trapped in some kind of deadlock. Neither of you know what to say or do, how to break the silence or cut through the tension. You figure out pretty quickly that he has no intention of cracking first, so you decide that it's up to you. You'll take the fall, happily. Anything to feel like you can breathe again. “Look, I know it's been a while—"

“Two months.” It's quiet, barely above a whisper, but you hear it loud and clear.

Two months.

You nod your head, “Yeah. Two months.”

Two. Whole months. Fuck. The last time you saw him was at the hospital when Alfred was hurt. You remember that not much was said between the two of you. You just sat next to him quietly, holding his hand in yours and hoping for the best.

“Listen, you know as well as I do that things just got really crazy. We've both been busy, and—”

You almost jump when he snaps his head to you, but you have no plans to back down under his intense gaze. “We have?”

“Yes, we have.” You say through gritted teeth. “And you know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is soft, quiet, yet there's a certain degree of animosity in his tone.

You huff out a laugh, though there's no humour in it. You're smiling, but you're far from amused. “Can you just let me fucking finish?” One more snide remark, one more interruption, and you would be walking out. Judging by the slight nod of his head, he knows that too. “Look, I know it's been a while, okay? I know that. Two months is… it's crazy. And I'm sorry, okay? I am sorry. I just... I needed some time to think. I felt like I was losing my mind here. The sleepless nights, the worrying... The isolation. It just… it got a little too much for me. Two weeks. That's all I wanted. But then shit got so crazy. I think—… I think both of us just lost track.”

He drops his head, focusing his gaze on the table and the intricate patterns in the wood. “Yeah.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him loud and clear.

You've known Bruce your entire life. Family friends, as cliché as that may be. You're not sure when your little affair started, but you remember the moment you found yourself in his bed as clear as day. It was an unspoken thing, as far as you knew. Neither of you mentioned relationships, becoming something more wasn't a topic either of you wanted to broach. It kind of happened naturally, though. He sought you out after spending his nights on the streets, and sometimes you'd make the trip to the mansion to be there for him when he got back. You'd have sex, and then you'd have breakfast together, sometimes dinner, and then he'd drive you back to the city in the evening. It was… nice. Really fucking nice. You might've called it love. But it didn't come without its fair share of grievances. Evidently. You just needed to be away from him for a while, to clear your head. Things had gotten really intense, and you needed some time. But then the Riddler happened, and the flood. You'd managed to get on with life for a while, doing what needed to be done before dealing with personal matters. But a part of you felt— feels empty, like you're missing something. There's a huge, obvious hole in your heart in the shape of Bruce Wayne, and you can only hope that it's able to be fixed at some point.

“What's that?” He asks quietly, gesturing to the envelope on the table.

You're thrown off by that, yet it's so typical of him. He never did like to talk about his feelings, or give you anything deeper than an 'I'm fine’, even when he clearly wasn't fine. Whatever. You know him well enough to know that he'll come around at some point, that he'll talk when he's ready. You shake your head quickly, pulling yourself together. “That would be your invitation to tomorrow night’s charity ball. We're raising money for people who lost their homes in the flood.” You tell him, sliding it across the table slowly.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you have it?” He questions, picking up the invitation, pulling the seal gently.

“Because I told the mayor I'd personally deliver it to you. She's getting tired of being ignored and sent to voicemail, Bruce. She wants to talk to you.” You lean back in your seat, your shoulders finally relaxing as you let out the breath you didn't realise you were holding in.

“So that's why you're here.” He says, unfolding the invitation, his eyes scanning over it quickly. You know he isn't reading it, that he has no interest in reading it.

“That's part of the reason why I'm here.” You shrug.

He huffs, raising his eyebrows at you and dropping the invitation back on to the table, “There's another reason?”

You shove your tongue into your cheek for the second time, suddenly understanding why Alfred was so quick to leave. You forgot that dealing with Bruce sometimes feels like dealing with a moody teenager. “I heard Batman dabbles in detective work now.” That gets his full attention. “Y’know, I always thought you to be a little more… What's the word?” You pause for a moment. “Hm. Intuitive.”

No response. Just his eyes staring straight through you.

You sigh, “Yes, I'm here on behalf of the mayor. I told her I had a personal connection to you, and that I'd deliver the invitation myself.” You pause, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. “But… I'm also here because I wanted to see you, Bruce.” You admit.

“You needed an excuse.” He says, finally catching on.

You drop your head, huffing out an awkward laugh, “Yeah. Sounds kinda pathetic, now that you're saying it out loud. I mean I could have just called, or… stopped by. I don't—”

“It's not.” You glance up at him. He clears his throat, repeating, “It's not pathetic. I'm… I'm glad you're here.” He doesn't meet your eyes, but it's okay. You don't feel uncomfortable or awkward anymore. You feel relieved. You're certain there's no way he'll want to talk about… anything. That you're better off just moving past it, at least for the time being. You are glad to see him, and he is glad to see you. Middle ground.

“I'm glad you're here.” He repeats, and you brace yourself. “But—” there's always a fucking ‘but’. “I'm not going to the charity ball.”

“Bruce—”

“No. I'll make a donation, but..” He shakes his head.

“Look, I know going out isn't really your thing. But the mayor wants you to step up—”

He cuts you off, “I am stepping up. I'm already playing my part.” There's a certain bite in his tone.

That's true. There's no denying that it's true. Almost everyday you see that familiar cowl on the news or in the papers. Everyday you see headlines about the Batman, about how he's doing the right thing for Gotham, protecting the people and the streets. But that's Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. Well, it is Bruce Wayne. But it also isn't, as far as the people and the mayor are concerned.

“Batman is playing his part.” You say gently, leaning forwards and resting your hands on the table. “I know what you do for this city, I've seen everything. You're working so hard and I feel so guilty being here, asking for more. But as far as the mayor is concerned Bruce Wayne is living outside of the city, sitting in his ivory tower and doing nothing.” He seems to straighten up. “You— Bruce Wayne, were mentioned by name. He had a whole— I don't know even know what to call it, a… a whole presentation dedicated to you and your family. Whether you like it or not Bruce Wayne played a part in what went down.”

“That's not— It's not—… I didn't know. I had no idea about—…” He tries to argue but voice breaks.

You push your chair back and stand up, plopping yourself down in the seat next to him. The one you asked him to sit in earlier. You take his hand, feeling him tense up for a moment before relaxing into your touch. “I know. I know it's not your fault. I can't—… The people know it's not your fault, too. They just… they just want to see you. He tried to ruin you, but I promise you that the people are still on your side. You just… you need to make an appearance.”

He's silent for a moment. More than a moment, actually, and you hope that he's considering you. Or he's thinking of a way to let you down gently. Yes, definitely that. “I'm not accepting the invitation.” He mumbles, pushing the invite away. Ouch. Okay. That wasn't gentle.

You were quite convincing just then, you think. It didn't seem to be enough, though. It's okay. Because you came prepared. You anticipated this from the moment you agreed to give him the invitation yourself. “Oh, well that's perfect.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Why's that?” He asks slowly. He knows. Oh, he knows you have something up your sleeve.

“Because I kind of, sort of, maybe… already have you down as my plus one.” His stare is blank, but it says everything. He's less than impressed. “And my driver might have the night off.” You add, placing the cherry neatly on top of the already-pissed-off-Bruce-Wayne-Sundae.

“I suggest you fix that.”

You shake your head. “Uh-uh. No. I don't think so. It's his daughter’s birthday so… special occasion. I wouldn't want to ruin any plans.” You shrug.

“Well you're ruining my plans.” He comments, sitting back. He hasn't dropped your hand, though.

“And what are your plans for tomorrow?” You ask. He glances away, and you can practically see the cogs in his head grinding against each other as he tries to think of something— anything that he could possibly be doing tomorrow night.

“Gordon needs me.” He answers, finally.

“That's a lie.” Blatant, actually. You're offended that he thinks you're stupid enough to fall for that.

“It’s not a lie.”

“You're lying. Your nostrils flare when you lie.” You can't help but smile at him. You know him, and you've always known him. You know when he's lying, when he's being truthful, when he's happy, when something’s bothering him. You know him like the back of your hand. Like you know the alphabet. “And even if Gordon did need you, the event starts at six. So I was thinking we get there at six thirty, leave for eight. You show face, and it leaves you plenty of time.”

He's staring at you. You're staring at him. He's silent, you're waiting for a response. He sighs quietly, “I'm not getting out of this, am I?”

You shake your head, “I don't think so. I think I've backed you into a corner enough. But I have more excuses and reasons if you wanna hear those, too.”

His lips twitch, and soon enough he's breaking out into a smile. It's not a big grin, but you can see his teeth and that makes you grin right at him. He drops his head for a moment, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly. “You're unbelievable.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “So are you.” You really mean that, too. Maybe not in the way he means it. “So, I expect to see you parked up outside of my house at five thirty tomorrow. It's black tie, so do what you will with that.”

“Fine.” He mumbles, though his smile still hasn't dropped, and he's staring down at your intertwined fingers.

The two of you sit there in silence for a minute, finally comfortable in each other’s company. Without the tension, the awkwardness, the uncomfortable elephant in the room. It feels nice, you think, to just sit there for a moment and be. It makes you realise how much you've missed him. How much you've missed just sitting at his table in a comfortable silence, eating breakfast together in the late afternoon while Alfred scolds you for being lazy. You hope this is the first step to fixing things, getting things back to how they used to be. Maybe you would become more.

You don't want to go. You want to stay right there with him. But you have to go.

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “I hope you don't mind but… I have to leave. I have a meeting soon.”

Bruce shakes his head, “No. No, of course. You—… Do you need a ride back to the city?” He asks.

You shake your head, “No, I'm good. Patrick’s waiting for me.”

“He's been out there the whole time?” He asks, his eyes widening in surprise and… probably guilt. It did take him an hour to bring himself to leave the cave.

“Uh-huh. Even more reason for me to give him the night off.” You stand up, and he doesn't let go of your hand. In fact, his grip seems to tighten. You feel guilty for leaving already. You really don't want to fucking go. You want to sit with him, kiss him, wrap your arms around him and tell him how much you've missed him and how you think about him every single day. But you have to go. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” He mumbles.

You start to walk away, and he still has your hand in his. Right up to the moment you're no longer in reach, his arm is outstretched. You swear you see him lean his body back, so you're fingertips can graze against each other for just a moment longer. You drop your hand down by your side slowly, the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin. Fuck, you miss it already. “If you stand me up tomorrow, I'm telling every magazine and newspaper in Gotham.” You tease.

“I wouldn't dare.” He reassures.

And then you're gone, your footsteps fading as you make your way down the hall.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Bruce doesn't disappoint. You didn't think he would, anyway. He was parked outside at exactly five thirty, looking far from impressed, but his frown dissipated as soon as his eyes landed on you. You smiled at him, and he managed to smile right back. He's wearing a simple black suit and tie, that long coat of his over the top. You remember it's the one he wore to the memorial service, too.

Now, you're sitting in his car, dressed to the nines, waiting in the traffic. You feel like you've been here for two hours already, but really it's only been ten minutes. It's quiet in the car, which doesn't surprise you. He's nervous. So, so nervous. You can see it in his furrowed brows, his tense jaw. In the way his eyes flick between you, the road and his own hand on the steering wheel. You do feel guilty for dragging him out, for making him leave the comfort of his own home, the comfort of his armour and cowl. Tonight, the eyes of Gotham would be on Bruce Wayne, not Batman. People would talk, because that's what people do, and they'd talk for a while. But at least he'd only have to do it once. One public appearance is enough to cause a stir, you think.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently, glancing over at him.

“M’fine.” He mumbles in response, nostrils flaring every so slightly. You know he tried so hard to hide that. His eyes are focused on the road now, the traffic moving along just a little. There's only five or six cars in front of you now. They'll know it's him immediately, just from the model of the car. You swear he's the only person in Gotham who drives himself to events.

“Okay. That's cool. Now tell me the truth?” He looks at you, then, almost incredulously. You shrug, “Why do you always forget that I know exactly when you're lying?”

He sighs. You're right and he knows it. “I'm feeling okay. Just… Just a little nervous.” There's more truth to it. Not the full truth. You know he's shitting bricks, to put it quite plainly. But you'll let him have that. You figure that's the most honest answer you're going to get.

“You'll be okay.” You reassure, but he doesn't look so convinced. “It's just for tonight. You don't have to answer any questions, if you don't want to. We'll go right in there, talk to whoever you need to talk to— definitely the mayor, and then we'll get out of there. Sound good?”

“Yeah.”

Soon five or six cars turn into two or three, and before you know it, you're right in front of the steps. You turn to look at him, to make sure that he's okay one last time before you step out, but he's already opening the car door, getting out quickly and slamming it shut behind him. Never mind then. You watch him walk around the front of the car, keeping his head down the whole time as all eyes and all cameras are pointed directly at him. He opens the door for you and offers you his hand, which you gladly take, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’. And then you're in the thick of it, too.

Cameras flashing in your face, reporters shoving microphones in front of you, everyone’s so desperate to get anything from either you or Bruce. He has his back turned to the press, handing his keys to the valet while you try and offer your best smile. It's pointless though, all attention is focused on the prince of the city, as they like to call him. You don't even register that he's turned his attention to you until he's tugging on your arm, pulling you gently towards the steps.

The ball is being held at some fancy hotel just outside of the city. It's big and bright and lavish, lit up from top to bottom, totally opposite to everything else in the city. It looks so out of place, honestly, compared to the monochromatic nature of Gotham. Oh well. You'd have plenty of time to complain about the ugly venue later.

You loop your arm around his, pulling him close to you, and immediately you feel him relax against you. The two of you ascend the white, marble staircase arm in arm. You smile and occasionally wave, answering any questions directed to you as quickly as you can. Bruce, on the other hand, ignores all of them. He doesn't even smile, you don't think. He just keeps his head down, blocking out the screams of his name.

“Mr Wayne!”

“Mr Wayne! It's so good to see you!”

“Mr Wayne, why are you here tonight!?”

“Mr Wayne, how are you contributing to the effort to rebuild Gotham?!”

“Mr Wayne, are you dating (Y/N)?!”

“Mr Wayne, you're the only one mentioned by name that survived the attacks. Is it true that you were working with Edward Nashton?!”

You feel him tense up.

“Mr Wayne, how does it feel knowing your father’s a murderer?!”

Fuck.

That one gets to him.

He stops dead in his tracks, and you stop too. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You don't know what to do. He's frozen in place, breathing heavily, cheeks turning red with anger, giving the reporter who asked that question the deadliest glare. Seriously, if looks could kill, this guy would be dead one million times over. He'd be six feet fucking under. The only thing that comforts you is the fact that Bruce makes a conscious effort to not kill. You still fear that he'll lunge over the barriers, though. Give the reporter a piece of his mind with his fists instead. Warranted, though not entirely ideal, and you know he has enough sense to not go through with any acts of violence running through his head right now.

It’s your soft voice, the gentle tug on his arm that snaps him out of it, that quells his rage for just a moment. “Hey, let's get inside.” He looks between you and the reporter for a brief moment, then nods his head. You sigh quietly in relief as the two of climb the last few steps, making your way into the building quickly.

He's shaking. You can feel him shaking against you. You assume it's because he's angry, but then you see his eyes, red and glassy, and you realise he's on the verge of tears. You're not sure whether he's upset, or whether he's just really fucking wound up. Or both.

“So much for ‘the people are on your side’.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him. Oh, he's pissed off. Rightly so, but you don't appreciate his snide comment. He tries to pull away from you, but you don't let him. You keep your arm firmly locked around his, wrapping your hand around his bicep and squeezing gently. The moment you allow him to let go of you will be the moment you lose him. You don't trust him to not bolt straight out of the doors, to fly back down the steps, get back into his car and drive home. You've only just got him back, and you'd like to keep him for good this time.

You're in the fancy lobby, now. Bright red carpets, golden wallpaper and large paintings in golden frames hanging on the walls. It's ugly even on the inside, you think, but it's far nicer in here than it is out there. In here, you're surrounded by ugly decor, politicians, socialites and pretty much anyone who's anyone in Gotham. But you're safe. Out there… you're like pieces of meat to a pack of wild dogs. They're hungry, desperate for anything they can get from you. At least inside you're away from the flashing lights, the microphones being shoved under your noses and the screaming of your names.

The large, wooden doors that lead to the hall where the event is being held are just up ahead, but you pull him to the side before you even think about going right in. “Hey…” You whisper, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Don't.” He warns, refusing to meet your eyes.

“You just have to ignore them, Bruce. I know it's hard—”

“You don't know.” He's trying to be cutting, actively trying to ward you off. The same way he does with Alfred. But just like how it doesn't work with Alfred, it doesn't work with you, either. You know that deep down he's desperate for some kind of reassurance, but he only knows how to fight against it.

You bring your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks with your palms. “You're right. I don't know. But what I do know is that not everyone thinks like that.”

“But some people do.” He sounds genuinely hurt. Bruce spent his entire life idolising his father. He started the Gotham Project for his father, to continue his family's legacy. He knows the truth about what went down with his father and Falcone and the reporter who had dirt on his mother, and that should be enough. But it isn't, and you can understand why it isn't enough. It has to be, though.

You nod. “Yeah. Some people do. They'll believe the gossip and the lies and the fucked up shit they hear over the truth, as long as it lines up with their ideals. You know the truth, and the majority of the city knows the truth, too. And they're on your side, I promise you.” You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, squeezing gently.

The two of you stand there in silence for a moment. He seems to be calming down, which is more than a relief to you. His cheeks are returning to their normal, pasty colour and he's breathing deep and slow now. He's okay. He's going to be okay. He's going to get through the next hour, at least, and then you'd be free to leave.

You bring his hand up to your lips and press a soft kiss against his knuckle, “Are you good, Bruce?” You ask gently. You don't want to push him if he's not ready yet.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“(Y/N).” He speaks your name so softly, and it commands your full attention. “I'm okay.” He brings your hand up to his lips now, pressing a kiss against your knuckle just like you'd done only seconds ago.

You almost melt.

God. Just being with him, touching him and talking to him, makes you wonder why you ever spent so long away from him. Two fucking months. You can't even comprehend it, but you know it's never going to happen again. You're never going to spend that long away from him ever again. It's Bruce, it always has been and it always will be. You're certain of that. You'll never miss anyone like you miss him, crave anyone’s attention like you crave his, buckle under anyone’s touch like you buckle under his. You're not sure if the same can he said for him, but he's here with you, and that's all that matters.

“Okay. Do you wanna head in?” He nods his head, and this time he moves to take hold of your arm first. You smile up at him, and you see his lips twitch upwards. That's enough for you.

The two of you make your way towards the wooden doors. Most, if not all, guests are already in there, you assume, since the lobby is almost barren. “Are you ready?” You ask. He nods and without a second of hesitation you're pushing open the doors. It feels like there's a spotlight shining directly on you, or maybe that's just the effect of the bright lights and golden walls meshing together to create some kind of optical phenomena that has you blinded for just a moment. Fuck, if you thought it was light out there, you have no idea how to describe this. Though, it's prettier in here than in the lobby, you think.

People are staring, and he's incredibly tense, unsure of what to do. So, you just pull him along, out of the doorway and into the crowd. “People will talk, and they'll stare, but it's because they probably weren't expecting to see you here tonight. So you're gonna say hello, you're gonna say 'I'm doing fine thank you, how are you?’ and then we're gonna move along. Okay?”

And that's exactly what he does. He's still quiet and mildly awkward, but there's a charming edge to him, too. One that doesn't come out so often in public but it's there and tonight, as he chats to politicians and friends of his father, with you by his side for comfort, you see it. You know he wants to leave, to be out of there as soon as possible, you can see it in his eyes, but he's pulling it off. He's playing the part and he's playing it well. He's latched on to you, his eyes never seem to leave you, but you're more than happy to be his safety net. Though that won't last much longer.

“(Y/N), you must work miracles.” An oh-so-familiar voice calls from behind you. You turn around, dragging Bruce with you, and you're met with the eyes of the mayor, Bella Reál. She's beaming, smiling brightly at the two of you, but you can't help but notice she's eyeing Bruce from head to toe. Almost in shock. “Look who it is. Mr. Wayne himself.”

“In the flesh. I thought I'd never get him out of that tower.” You tease, a grin on your lips as you squeeze him closer to you. You can feel his unimpressed stare, but you're not intimidated.

“I always had faith in you.” She reassures. “Do you mind if I steal him from you? I've been dying to speak with him.”

“Oh, no. Of course not. He's all yours.” You try to pull your arm away from him, but his grip tightens. He won't let go, he doesn't want to let go. But he has to. You give his bicep one last squeeze before you yank your arm away from him, careful to keep your elbows to yourself. “You'll be fine. I'll talk to you later.” You mumble. He isn't happy, his tongue is pushed against the inside of his cheek in annoyance, but there's nothing you can do.

“I promise I'll bring him straight back.” She jokes, giving you one last smile before she turns and starts walking away, with Bruce reluctantly in tow.

You're not so sure what to do now that you're on your own, so you pick up a flute of champagne from a waiter and make your way through the crowds of people. You talk to family friends, introduce yourself to unfamiliar faces and chat about any new plans or projects you have in the works to aid the city. You keep a smile plastered on your lips and a glass in your hand at all times, ready to greet anyone and everyone. It's exhausting, you have to admit that, but it's what you do. Occasionally, you feel Bruce’s eyes on you. When he's not in conversation, and even when he is, you feel him staring right at you from across the room. You're surprised he can even find you amongst the crowd of black suits and dresses, but he does. Every single time. You always look back, give him a reassuring smile and watch as he visibly relaxes. You're glad he's making an effort, that he's finally giving the mayor a chance to speak to him and discuss how he's going to help the city (though if she knew even half of what Bruce had done for Gotham, you're sure there's no way she'd be on his case about it). You can't wait for him to be back by your side, though. He's a comfort to you just as much as you're a comfort to him.

You're at a small table in the corner that's covered with champagne flutes, your back turned, when you feel hands grab on to your waist from behind. You gasp and jolt backwards, bumping against a firm chest. You're about to swing your elbow back when you hear a familiar huff in your ear, the fingers on your waist digging into your flesh lightly, forcing a quiet giggle out of you and making you squirm in his grasp. You curse the day he realised you're ticklish. “You're an asshole.” You mumble, but there's no real anger or annoyance in your tone. “How'd it go?” You ask, picking up a flute and bringing it to your lips.

“Terribly.” He says simply, though there's amusement laced in there somewhere and you know he's messing around.

“Hm. I'm sure it was awful. I bet she had you talking about all sorts of diabolical shit. Like going outside, making more public appearances, attending meetings, doing inter—”

Bruce squeezes your waist gently, cutting you off, “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” A pause. “Can we leave now?”

You pry his hands from your waist and turn around, your eyebrows raised in amusement. It's not a shock to you that he's already so eager to leave. “You wanna go? Already?”

He nods his head once. “I did what you asked me to do. I spoke with the mayor. You said we could leave early, so let's go.” He tries to tug on your arm, but you stay firmly in place.

God, you've only had two or three glasses to drink but you're already feeling slightly fuzzy. You give him your best pout, “You wanna get rid of me already?”

A beat of silence. His brows furrow, “That's not— I didn't—”

“We should dance.” You tell him. There's an orchestra playing in the background, certainly not anything yourself or Bruce would typically listen to, but that's not a problem to you. There's other couples dancing in the middle of the room, stiff and looking far from happy. Probably talking about some important matter or another that would be too intense to discuss without the distraction of dance.

“I can't dance.” A lie, for sure.

You scoff, shaking your head, “Do not disrespect Alfred like that ever again. I know he's taught you how to dance.”

He sighs, fully aware that you're right. Alfred would scold him for that. “Fine, then I don't dance.”

“You could.” You retort.

“I don't like dancing.” He says.

“Do you like anything?” You ask playfully.

His mouth opens and closes for a moment, as if there's something he want to say, but he's just not quite sure how to say it, or if he can at all. “I just don't want to.” He says, as if it's final, but you know he'll cave.

“I think it'd be fun. Just one dance.” You hold up your index finger, as proof that you truly mean just one dance.

He's silent for a moment, and you hope he's considering you. “People will talk.” He mumbles. About him, about you, about your maybe, sort of, kind of relationship. About your outfit, his hair. About why he's here tonight, why he came with you on his arm. You can understand why taking your hand and allowing you to lead him into the middle of the room, to have him wrap his arms around you and pull you close in front of so many people would be so daunting, but—

“Fuck it.” You say confidently. “People are always gonna talk. They're talking right now and we're just standing here.” You bring your hands up and cup his cheeks, looking up at him. “Let them.” You grab his hand suddenly and begin leading him to the dance floor. He tries to pull against you, to tug you backwards, but you don't care, you know he'll give up eventually. And he does. He reluctantly lets you guide him around small crowds of people and couples dancing together until you're right in the middle of… everything. The room, the dance floor, the crowd. The song that's playing is something classical. You think you recognise it, though you can't quite put a name to it. You don't really care to. You're more focused on Bruce. He looks so fucking awkward, and you can't help but feel guilty. But then you remember that if he really didn't want to dance, he would have said so. He's a big boy, and you're sure he can make his own decisions.

So, you wrap your arms around his neck, and after a moment of hesitation and a barely audible sigh, his hands find their way to your waist. You're quiet, just watching him and his facial expressions. His eyes are flickering around the room, his lips pressed into a thin line, and there's a slight tinge of pink in his cheeks. Completely different to the angry red you saw earlier. You can feel the stares, the whispers and the conversations, and you're sure not all of them are about you but you know he probably thinks otherwise. You know he wants nothing more than to sink into the floor. “Hey…” you whisper, catching his attention. “It's okay. Forget about them. It's just us. We're alone. Just me and you.”

He doesn't respond, but he sways when you sway, he moves when you move, breathes when you breathe, until the pressure releases from his shoulders and he relaxes into the dance. He still looks anxious, and slightly uncomfortable, but you're just grateful he's still entertaining you. He never did know how to say no to you, after all.

“I'm sorry.” His quiet voice cuts through the silence between the two of you. It's so sudden, and it almost makes you jump.

You're confused, though. “You're sorry… for what?” You ask slowly. You're not trying to make him admit anything, you're genuinely baffled. He hasn't made any sudden moves to leave, he hasn't left you stranded, or done anything wrong at all.

“Yesterday… when you said you were sorry for leaving for so long. I never said sorry. So I'm saying it now.” He's not looking at you, instead choosing to look straight over your shoulder, but you know he's being sincere. “I missed you.” He breathes out.

You screw your eyes shut for a moment, shaking your head. “No— You don't— Please don't be— We're both at fault.”

“I guess we are.” He looks at you, finally. Wanting you to know that he really, truly means every word. “I thought about you every day.”

You glance up at him, slightly taken aback by that admission. “Y-you did?” You curse yourself internally for stuttering over your words. God, you must sound so pathetic.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Well… you could have called.” You shrug. “I don't bite.”

“I wouldn't say that.” He's teasing you, and he's trying so hard to stop himself from grinning at his own joke.

“Wow, your comedy career’s really coming along, huh?” You bite back (fitting), but there's no malice. You take note of the fact that he doesn't even entertain the idea that you could have called him. He's somewhat self aware, at least.

“Hm. It could use some work.” A beat of silence. “I'm sorry, though. Truly. I—” He stops himself, because he knows you're about to cut him off. The look he gives you is stern, and you back down instantly, deciding to stay quiet. “I'm sorry for driving you away. It shouldn't ever be that complicated.”

“I don't mind complicated. I just— I just needed a little time. I was always gonna come back because— Fuck. Because I can't stay away from you. I'd go through forty sleepless nights in a row for you.” It's all coming out now. You're just talking and talking and you can't stop it, you're not even sure that you want to stop it.

“You shouldn't have to—”

“But I want to. I just— I want you. And everything that comes with having you.” You admit quietly, barely above a whisper. It occurs to you then that you've become the couple on the dance floor having an intense discussion. But it's not about finances or divorce or whatever the hell else, it's more along the lines of love. “I want you.” You repeat, reaffirming it to yourself and to him.

He's silent, and you fall silent too. You're not sure what to do, what he wants you to do. You're just staring at each other, and you only realise now that you stopped swaying along to the music a long time ago. You feel his hands move to your hips, pulling your body closer to his, and you take the opportunity to slide your hands from the back of his neck to his cheeks. He's leaning down, and you’re standing up on your tiptoes to meet him in the middle. Everything's so fucking loud, now. You can hear every word of every conversation around you, your heart thumping in your ears, though you can't hear your own breathing. Are you even breathing? Fuck. You don't know. Fuck. Are you breathing? It's all too much. You feel like you're going insane. You can't think or do anything. It's getting louder and louder, to the point where even quite exchanges seem deafening.

Until your lips meet his, and then the room falls quiet. Well, not really. But it feels like it does. You can't hear anything now, you're so focused on him and his lips and how they mesh perfectly with yours. It feels like the first time. It's not. It's far from the first time you've kissed the prince of the city, actually. But those sparks you felt in your stomach the first time, the ones that sent tingles through your entire body and made your legs feel like jelly are back in full force. You don't want to pull away, to be reminded that you're in a room full of people you don't know and probably don't like, to be reminded that people are watching. You want to stay in this little world that you've created forever, where it's just the two of you alone together.

He pulls away first, and you almost whine in protest as you pull him back in for another. And another. And another. Just one more. One more. His shoulders are shaking in silent laughter as you refuse to let him go, to let your lips part from his just yet. When you eventually pull back, you grin at him. It's lazy and love-drunk, and you're sure he's looking at you in the same way. “I want you.” You tell him again.

He doesn't need to say it back, and he probably won't. At least, not here. It's okay, though. You don't need him to. You know he feels the same way. You can see it in the way he looks at you. He's smiling. Like, actually smiling. In public. And that's enough for you to know that he feels the same way. He wants you too.

“Hey, do you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smiling to yourself because just ten minutes ago you were practically begging him to stay. Now, you just want to be alone with him.

“Yeah. I do.” He breathes out, and within a second he's grabbing your hand gently. He leads the way this time, weaving you through the crowd, ignoring everyone's stares and calls of his name or yours, dead set on making it to and through the wooden doors without interruption. You're giggling the whole time, and from the few glimpses you catch of his face, you think he's smiling.

When you make it outside, still hand in hand, you're not exactly thrilled to see that the press are still there, camera men and journalists focusing all of their attention on the doors, ready to capture any and all swift exits. You notice that the guy from earlier, the one who called Bruce’s father a murderer, has gone, and you thank your lucky stars for that. The attention is on you immediately, from the moment you step foot through the doors. They're shouting his name, snapping pictures, vying for any trickle of attention they can get from him, for anything to talk about in their gossip columns or front pages. He's intent on leaving, but you're more than happy to give them something to talk about.

You stop right in the middle of the marble staircase, and he stops too when you tug his arm back. “What are you doing? What's wrong?” He asks, his brows furrowed.

“Come here.” He doesn't move. “Just come here, Bruce.” You encourage.

Slowly, he makes his way up the few steps between you, and you waste no time in flinging your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips. You can hear the cameras snapping photos, and even with your eyes closed you can still see the faintest flash of white light.

And, Bruce also doesn't really have an exact time where he gets back to the tower. There are nights where he might come home hours earlier than usual but stay at the cave for the rest of the night, or, sometimes, he might just come up the elevator after the sun rises. Nobody really knows when he's going to be back.

You began to wait for him awake around the time your relationship became more serious, but that only really left you with a really messed up sleep schedule.

And, that might be the reason why you're taking a bath at 2:30 in the morning.

The warm water around you surrounds your body in the coziest of embraces as the foam above the surface hides your body in its entirety from your own eyes. The soft and not-to-fragrant smell of your favorite candle reaches your nose even when it burns away at the top of the counter.

There's no way to be more relaxed than this. Your eyes are closed and you have just your shoulders and face out of the water. The bathroom is naturally warm and your breathing is calm.

But that’s when you hear the soft noise of footsteps in the hallway above all the silence.

It could truly be anyone that shares the ceiling of the tower with you and Bruce, but you highly doubt that either Alfred or Dory would be awake at this time and not trying to walk on their tippy-toes.

Only one person doesn’t care enough to not lift off their heavy boots off the floor when walking.

The absence of noise of the steps just by your bedroom, reassures you more of your assumption, as the room is one that just so happens to have carpeted floors, and who else would get themselves inside it?

There's a soft knock on the door of the bathroom and with a small grin stretched over your lips, you open an eye only to check to see the door slowly opening.

A messy head of dark hair appears before the familiar tall and broad figure of Bruce's body does. His eyes are on the ground but his head is still held high.

You can tell, as he tries to re-close the door and not make too much noise, that his face doesn't have that much of the usual dark paint around his eyes. He must have already washed his face before making his way up.

You open your eyes fully at the same time the door clicks closed. Bruce leans back tiredly to the door for a second, hand behind his back as he holds the doorknob, and then finally leans back forward and starts making his way to you.

His eyes lift from the ground finally and he watches you for a bit. Your head still leaning back on the white porcelain bathtub and gracefully resting under the bubbles of your beloved Friday-late-night bath. You don't look in any way alarmed, already very much used to the way he intrudes himself into your relaxing moments in seek of his own.

Even though he tries to hide it, you notice Bruce favoriting his right side over his left while he walks. You don't say anything, though, not yet at least.

He comes closer to the tub and then he stops a simple step away, to your left. You hide your smile as he, in his still fitted and dark clothing, slowly crouches down to your height in the tub and sits right by you.

"You don't want to get in?" You ask him in a whisper.

He shakes his head. His eyes feel heavy but his body is tense and it aches with every movement that he does. The side of the tub is pretty high so it’s easily comfortable for Bruce to rest his arms over it.

As he holds onto it, his eyes come back, right after he stared at the floor for a little bit.

"You're back early." You tell him, keeping your voice soft but now above a whisper.

"I got too tired." He answers you, and a small smile creases your lips. It's rare to hear Bruce ever admit that, and it never seems to not surprise you when he does it.

Bruce can feel the heat of the water slowly come up and touch his forearms, and he stays silent for a little bit. Enjoying the calmness that surrounds him.

He has a crease over his forehead as he seems to think about something, and you watch him as he squints since his eyes looked too close to a harsher light of the bathroom. He highly regrets looking and for that, he brings his eyes back to you all over again.

You move a bit closer to him, making the warm water around you move and collide slightly over the sides, and you turn your head a bit to the side to look at him better. He stares back at you with ease.

You can totally see a bit of paint still at some spots of his face, and you bring your hand up from under the water.

Bruce watches as your hand appears in front of him and your wet fingers smooth over his face. Just by the side of his head, close to his hairline, you scrub softly and the paint comes off effortlessly.

You bring your hand back to the water and scrub away the paint from your own fingers.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" You ask, this time, in a whisper.

"Just bruised."

You nod at him and Bruce quietly studies every inch of your face. He has his arms folded as one hand rests over the other. You look away from your hands, just in time to watch him lay his head over his arms.

His hair, which was already freely cascading down his head, falls over from the top and left side of his head towards the water, and its tips gently touch the bubbles.

You bring your hand up again and try and get the rest of the paint from this side of his face.

When done and with your hand is clean again, you notice how tense his shoulders still look under the fitted shirt. He is now sitting on his knees, much closer to you, and his eyes blink from time to time, possibly dry and tired from all the hours he's been awake.

Your hand lays over his head and your warm and wet fingers work through the messy strands of hair. As your nails softly touch his scalp, you watch as Bruce fights to keep his eyes open.

Your soft digits caress over his forehead and smooth down the skin over his eyebrow, and slowly down to his cheek. Right as your hand lays over the side of his face entirely, you notice how Bruce closes his eyes.

As you pull your hand away, his eyes reopen from this rather long blink and his eyes stare back into yours. You move a bit and lean your head down over his arms as well, just by his right arm while he lays over his left.

You stare back at each other for a little bit and then your hand comes back to the top of his head, working tenderly over his scalp. Bruce closes his eyes and feels his body finally relax as pain doesn't reach him at every shift of his limbs.

"You need to go to bed, Bruce." You whisper to him while snuggling your cheek closer to his arm.

He doesn't answer, but he does reopen his eyes. He stays still for a good few seconds.

"Don't make me have to carry you there." You playfully add.

A soft curve of his lips appears and your heart swells at the sight of a familiar sleepy face. He lifts his head and leans down, closer to you. He lays a simple kiss over your lips, one not too long. When he pulls away, your hand comes down to his cheek as he stares down at you.

"I can wait for you until you're done." He tells you, voice low and soft.

"There's no need."

He doesn't move nor say anything back.

"I won't drown, Batman." You tease him, "You can go sleep."

You lift your head from his arm and take your hand off his cheek. You sit straight as he looks back at you, giving a look over at the shower just a few steps away from you. He still has to shower before going to bed. Even if the night wasn't the busiest, Bruce really didn't want to go to sleep while still smelling like all the smoke and usual smells from Gotham's streets.

His body feels so tired and heavy that he struggles a bit to force himself to even get back into a crouch and stand back up.

"I got to shower, first." He tells you simply.

After you give him a short answer in return, he drags his boots slightly over the tile of the bathroom and walks up to the shower to turn on the water.

It doesn't take him long to get undressed or get into the shower. You, using the foam as a random excuse to get into the spraying water as well, hop out of your tub. You know you wouldn't enjoy the rest of the bath as much now that you finally got his company, so, you unplug the tub and go into the shower.

The shower is quick and not really where you two shared many words. And, after that, it took you almost no time to get Bruce to walk back to the bedroom, and even as he was half dry, yet tired enough, he got himself into the covers with no hesitation.

You joined him not too long after.

As both of you lay on the bed, the silence sets comfortably over you. Bruce stares, as he always does, while you seem to feel tired just by laying on the comfortable bed. His eyelids are heavy and his bruised body is hurtful as he lays on his side and has his arm under your pillow. You face each other as sleep gets the best of the two of you by the second.

Right as your eyes are about to close for a final time for the night, you feel a pair of soft lips press a small kiss over your forehead. Bruce pulls away and lays his head back on his pillow, watching you slowly fall asleep. You snuggle your face closer to his chest and his vacant arm lays over your back, caressing it with his palm.

Your breathing softens and so does Bruce's, as both of you fall peacefully asleep.

I'm not leaving any character soak in their dirtiness, so, yes, I made Bruce take a shower over a bath.