Facing The Reality

TW: Forced Bathing/Washing, Accusations of intended Rape/Non-Con (nothing actually happens, however reader will keep bringing it up), Threats of sedation, possible other TWs not listed here, proceed with caution!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After your meltdown, both Clark and Bruce decided it was best to get you "settled", which really meant the two of them sitting on either side of you, one gently wiping your blotchy, snotty face, and the other trying to coax some chamomile tea and buttered toast into your churning stomach.

With a handkerchief that probably cost more than your monthly rent, Clark dabbed at your tearstained cheeks, endlessly patient. He'd occasionally take care to tuck any hair that had fallen into your face behind your ears, all soft and projected movements, careful not to startle you.

Bruce had rested your tray of food on his knees, cutting up your toast into bite-sized pieces, then cutting them again after taking another look at you. He would spear a piece with your force and hold it up to your mouth, watching intently as you chewed at the food and following the bite down your throat with each swallow. If you so much as cleared your throat after a bite, he was there with a hand gently stroking at your back and the cup of tea raised up to your lips. He looked at you expectedly to take a sip and waited until he was sure that you weren't actively choking to give you another piece of your toast.

To your credit, you were trying to behave. You didn't love the way the way they were babying you currently. You didn't love any part of this situation. You had been kidnapped by the world's richest man and his pulitzer-winning husband, the whole situation was terrible and bad and if you thought too long about it, you'd spiral into another panic attack.

However, the slight glint of a needle in Bruce's sleeve, catching the light every time he went to spear you another piece of toast, was the only reason you tried to fight against the urge to curl up and start wailing again. An unconscious you was a defenseless you, and while, admittedly, a conscious you wasn't any more in-control of this situation, you weren't going to willingly allow these creeps to be around you like that if you could help it.

But could you help it?

No, thinking that way wasn't good for you, instead of giving up so soon, you had to fight, kicking and screaming and clawing at their too-blue eyes. Maybe if you gouged one out, they'd realize you weren't worth the effort to keep around.

But also, you would not allow yourself to die in this place, another statistic of a missing girl abducted by rich old men and never seen again. You had to stay alive, which meant any kind of fight was a last resort, so for now you'd resolved to play your cards wisely.

So you let them hover. You let Clark press a scratchy kiss to your forehead when he deemed your face clean enough. You let Bruce cradle your face between two large hands and stare at you with an indecipherable searching gaze before ruffling your hair and letting you go.

You let them. Because the more they thought you were coming around, the more they'd start to let down their guard.

You weren't dumb, but neither were they. Your performance would need to be Oscar-worthy for them to fall for it, but you could pull it off.

You had to.

~~~~~

They'd tucked you in after that, rearranging the stuffed animals along your wall and pulling the blankets up close under your chin. You were genuinely exhausted after the stress you'd been under, and knowing that you were most definitely being watched from somewhere in the room, you made the choice to close your eyes and try to hold out from drifting off for as long as you could.

Maybe you didn't want to be unconscious via sedative around them, but you had to sleep at some point, and you might as well try to get it in while they were giving you any semblance of choice. Plus, your past in the foster system meant you were an extremely light sleeper. If someone so much as cracked open the door to peek in, you could trust yourself to jolt awake.

It was the safest time for you to get some shut-eye, so you did.

~~~~~

When you woke back up, it was early the next day, and you felt like absolute shit. There was crust in your swollen eyes from all your crying, your head felt heavy, you felt dirty and greasy and would do anything to go back home to your apartment.

Sleeping under Bruce's ridiculously comfortable Egyptian cotton duvet on his memory-foam mattress did wonders for your back, but it wasn't yours. That meant that any amount of sleep on would never be enough to itch that little part inside of you that had grown fond of the scratchy bedsheets you'd spent weeks mending and the patchwork quilt your old neighbor had gifted you when she'd moved out.

You weren't alone with your thoughts for very long before your door was pushed open, this time by Bruce. The second he locked eyes with you, looking an absolute mess in the pile of bedding, he seemed to deflate, face fixed with a bemused smile.

"You're up. Sleep well, sweetheart?" He asked, sitting down next to you and trying to smooth down your bedhead.

You blinked at him owlishly, "Yeah, fine, I guess." Your voice cracked from the sudden dryness in your throat, but Bruce only tutted, before procuring a water bottle from somewhere and handing it to you.

You looked it over for a second, noting the sealed cap in particular, then looked back up at Bruce. He was still giving you that sickeningly fond look.

"Safe, I promise. Now, take a drink, Clark's bringing up breakfast for the three of us, we'll eat in here with you."

You only shrugged before popping open the seal and taking greedy swallows of the water, still acutely aware of Bruce tracking your swallows and patting you on the back when you pulled away coughing, too much water too fast.

Whether or not you liked to brush your teeth before breakfast didn't matter, since just then Clark, ever dutiful, came in with the breakfast spread: fluffy pancakes, three cups of coffee, cut seasonal fruit, hot biscuits, clotted cream, syrup, jam, ect.

It was a lot, but Clark managed to balance it all, while Bruce shifted aside your blankets and cleared a space for the massive tray in the middle of the bed. Clark took the spot across from the two of you and handed you your coffee cup.

It was exactly the way you liked it, sweetness level perfect and just the right level of hot—not enough to burn, but you could feel it going down. It was better than perfect and that was enough for you to pause before taking your next sip and meet his expectant gaze over the rim of your cup.

Clark looked at you just like Bruce had—endeared by your messy state.

"Is the coffee okay? I tried to make it the way you liked, but," He looked slightly bashful, "I wasn't exactly sure what brand was your favorite so we used what was on hand."

So that's why it was so good, even when you made it yourself at the dining halls, it never tasted like this. You could taste the quality difference in their probably expensive espresso.

"Heads up, your's is decaf, so if you start to get a headache from the lack of caffeine, that's okay, just let me or Dad know, 'kay kiddo?"

Decaf was slightly upsetting, but to be honest you were a little surprised they were giving you any coffee at all. You just nodded and went back for another sip.

You weren't sure how old they saw you as. On one hand, they hadn't shied away from talking about your life in college or minded any of the cussing. But the constant pet names and the hand-feeding and the hovering wasn't how people you age were meant to be treated, either.

Then again you weren't supposed to kidnap anyone of any age, so was that really applicable in your situation?

At the very least the food was good, and you'd seemed to have proven to Bruce over the last few meals that you could be trusted to eat on your own without choking to death, so he kept his focus on breakfast as well.

The three of you ate in silence, with your captors looking up at you every now and then.

Soon enough, you were full and breakfast was wrapping up. And this time Bruce shuffled your plates out of the room, while Clark was content to just squeeze up next to you on your side of the bed.

Clark was touchy. Not a weird way (at least, not yet, that didn't mean you were going to wait around and find out), but in a way where he liked to run his hands through your hair. Currently, he'd tucked himself into the space between you and the wall, propped up against the headboard of your bed. It was closer than you'd been to either of them since you'd woken up, and there was a growing buzz under your skin, a frantic 'away-awa-GETAWAY'.

You didn't exactly like being touched by your kidnappers, but still you let him settle in, taking deep breaths. You knew he noticed it too, your form, coiled up with tension, basically glaring daggers at him. He just kept beaming at you.

Bruce came back into the room, but didn't join his husband, instead standing at the threshold of your bed, giving Clark a look that you couldn't understand.

Clark, however, clearly understood it, because he turned his body to face you. He took a second before opening his mouth, wrestling with how best to phrase his next words.

"Honey...we know you're not fully situated yet, but it might be for the best that you get refreshed, hm? Get out of those clothes and into something a little more comfortable?"

No, no fucking way, what the fuck.

He winced at the way your jaw dropped.

"How about a bath?""

You ignored the sinking feeling in your stomach, the earlier breakfast threatening to come back up.

"I- I can do that, just point me to the bathroom."

Bruce responded, face impassive, "You're still weak, you could slip and injure yourself."

You had to shove down the wave of nausea.

Clark immediately tried to soothe you again, "No one's gonna touch you if you don't want us to, one of us just needs to stand in the room, make sure you don't get hurt."

Another wave of nausea,

"Who do you want, me or Dad?"

Your mouth was dry, eyes darting between the two of them, one looking at you gently but in a way that told you he wasn't going to budge and another that kept his face carefully blank, only the slightest sign of worry in his eyes.

"You said this wasn't a sex thing. You said I'd be safe, what part of this is safe? Fuck this, fuck both of you. Go to hell." You hissed at them, slightly hysterical and tugging at your scalp.

Suddenly being stuck in between the both of them felt twice as suffocating as it did a minute ago.

Bruce climbed on the mattress, settling in front of you. He sent Clark another look you couldn't decipher, and gently untangled your hands from your hair.

"You are safe, I promise. No one's going to touch you, understand? Nod if you understand."

You just stared at him with wide, wet eyes.

He exhaled heavily, but he didn't back down.

"You'll feel better after the shower. You'll understand what we mean. Now I need you to choose, me or...Pa?" His nose wrinkled slightly on the last word.

Between the two of them, Clark seemed more at ease with the whole situation. You wouldn't be surprised if 'Pa' decided he wanted to take a hands-on approach to getting you clean.

Bruce, though still obviously on-board, didn't touch as much. You trusted him more.

Was that stupid, seeing as he was the one who took interest in you in the first place? Probably.

But the alternative was being stuck with Clark, a greater unknown.

As a Gotham native, you knew more about Bruce than his Metropolis boy-toy.

All that to say you were still basically taking a shot in the dark when you looked Bruce in the eye and whispered, "You."

Your captors shared another look, before Bruce nodded at you and climbed off the bed, motioning for you to follow him. Clark, instead, headed to your closet, pulling out a towel and change of clothes: soft Superman patterned pyjama pants and an oversized Gotham Knights sweatshirt. You looked away when he reached into another drawer.

Bruce started the bath for you, checking the temperature regularly with a dip of his hand. When he deemed it warm enough turned towards you, still hovering near the door to the en-suite.

"Its ready. It'll stay warm for as long as you'd like, but you need to get in now."

You sucked in a breath, and steeled yourself. You could do this, granted Bruce stayed true to his word.

"Fine, but turn around. I'll get in on my own."

He just nodded and dutifully turned to face the wall, chin up, back straight and arms crossed across his chest.

Still in his new stance, he called out one more time, "Tell me when you're done, I'll bring you your towel and clothes."

You only answered with a hum, but since you didn't want him to turn around and tell you to hurry up, you started to get undressed.

You folded your old clothes into a pile and left it on the ground near the wall.

The bathtub was in the opposite corner of where Bruce was, and so you backed away slowly, keeping your eyes on him and making sure he wouldn't whirl around when your back was turned. You climbed into the tub, and Bruce was right, the temperature was pleasantly hot—not scalding, but you liked your baths warmer.

Settled in, it was time to get to work. You cleaned yourself diligently, internally grateful that you were allowed to take a shower at all, most kidnapping victims didn't get that privilege. Most kidnapping victims didn't get most of the privileges you'd had thus far, but you'd die before thanking one of your captors for their 'generosity'.

You tried to ignore the fact that all your toiletries were the same ones as you'd had at home. They didn't try to hide that they'd been to your apartment, but it was still jarring to see just how much they'd brought over to this place.

"Okay, I'm- I'm done, can I get my clothes now?"

Bruce stiffened, "Did you wash your hair?"

Ah.

So no, you hadn't, because shampooing, rinsing, conditioning, detangling, and re-rinsing your hair would take a while, and you were on a quest to get out of the tub as soon as possible.

But realistically, Bruce would have known that it would take you a while and gotten suspicious when you hopped out so early.

Fuck.

"Um, no, I don't- it's a hassle to y'know wash and dry it and then- it just takes a while," you floundered.

Bruce just sighed, deeply and resigned.

"Sweetheart, you need to clean your hair, I know it takes a while, but I can't let you neglect your hygiene. If you won't do it, I will."

And boy, did that send you into a panic.

"No! No, I can do it, I just need a second."

Bruce clicked his tongue, "I don't know if I can believe that. I gave you a chance, sweetheart, I think you need to give me one now."

"What, you- you said you'd stay over there. You said no one would TOUCH ME-"

"I won't. I promise, just your hair, nothing more. If I help you, we can speed this up, you want to get out of the bath quickly right? If we work together we can make it happen."

You gripped your bottle of body wash for dear life, ready to lob it at his head.

On one hand, you really didn't want Bruce anywhere near you like this. You didn't trust him, he knew that.

On the other hand letting him help your hair was the quickest way to get it done with, and the first step to getting him to trust you. You'd had your hair washed for you before, by friends, nurses, or the occasional foster mother when you were really young.

But Bruce was different, he was a strange old man that had kidnapped you.

But also a strange old man that had kidnapped you and seemed desperate to have you trust him.

You didn't think he would hurt you.

You couldn't be sure.

You worried your lower lip as you wrestled with yourself.

One part of it was that taking care of your hair was the least invasive way you could make a big show of handing over any amount of trust.

You could do it, right? Plus, should it come down to it, you'd throw the glob of body wash you had hidden in your palm into his eyes and make a run for it, sudsy hair and all.

"Okay."

Bruce stiffened again, "Could you repeat that, (Name)?"

"Okay, you...can help me with my hair. But, nothing else, keep your hands off my skin, I don't- I don't like physical contact."

Bruce tutted but nodded, still facing the wall.

You pulled your knees to your chest and hid partially under the water.

"Alright, you can turn around."

He turned slowly, projecting his movements before actually committing to them. The man kept his eyes firmly forward as he walked towards the tub, not ever sneaking a glance down at you. Instead he just passed you and reached for one of the cabinets under your sink, grabbing a comb and small cup.

He dragged a stool behind you, and sat down, but didn't immediately start grabbing at your scalp like you'd expected.

Instead he spoke again, the deep timbre of his voice closer to your ear than it had ever been.

Right, out of the two of them, Clark was more touchy, Bruce kept a physical distance.

"I'm going to touch your hair now and I'll do my best to avoid your neck. I'm going to try and be quick about it, but I need you to work with me, tip your head back when I ask you to, I don't want you getting shampoo in your eyes."

You only nodded, keeping your eyes towards the opposite wall, not even risking a glance backward at him.

Bruce was true to his word, he made an effort not to touch your skin, and moved efficiently.

He massaged a healthy amount of shampoo into your scalp, alternating between rubbing heavy circles with the pads of his fingers and scraping lightly towards the crown of your head with his nails.

If you weren't so keyed up you would have nodded off. More than once you flinched when Bruce worked the shampoo into the base of your head.

When his fingers hovered over the baby hairs at the very base of your skull, now working the first rinse through your hair, you jolted away again, and Bruce went very still.

"If you'd rather take over from he-"

"No! I mean- no it's- I'm fine. I just-," you sighed, about to give away more than you would like to about yourself.

"When I was a lot younger, I had a foster father who was always drunk and angry. One time, he saw me throwing away an empty old beer can and thought I was pouring out his drinks, so he grabbed me by the neck and slammed me against the wall. I'm not very good about fingers near my neck because of that, I think. I'm sorry, its not you, you're being nice."

You didn't expect to admit that, not in a hushed tone over the steam of your bathwater, but you could reason with yourself that it wasn't the worst thing to say.

For one, Bruce, clearly convinced he was trying to help you, would likely keep his hands off your neck, and hopefully as far from you as possible.

Secondly, while it made you seem even more defenseless in their eyes, you knew somewhere that you couldn't reason with these people. You could prove your competency a thousand times, it didn't mean they were going to let you go. It was better to stick with the plan, to keep making yourself seem harmless, then running like hell the second they gave you an inch.

Bruce paused, the next cup of water hovering over you. He tilted your head back again, but before placing a hand over your forehead like he'd been doing before, he looked you in the eyes as he said, "I'm very sorry that happened to you, it will never happen again. I said you were safe here and I meant it."

And with that he cupped your hairline and went back to washing your hair.

But the air felt different in the room, less stiff.

You'd done your part for the day, participated in the exchange. You'd gave and been given. Somewhere inside, you felt something unfurl.

At the very least, maybe Bruce wasn't so bad.

Clark on the other hand had not proven anything to you yet.

~~~~~

Bruce had made quick work of the rest of the process, detangling your hair with a gentleness even you never cared to show it.

He brought you your towels and the change of clothes you'd seen earlier, and you very much did not gag at the fact that they had undergarments in your size stocked up.

Drying your hair was approached with the same meticulousness he'd shown you before and soon enough you were done, feeling clean and warm.

There was such a gap between the way you felt mentally and physically that it almost hurt to think about it. Mentally, you were exhausted, tired of trying (and repeatedly failing) to keep up a charade. You still felt that buzz of 'dangerdangerDANGER' along your nerves, but Bruce was right—you did start to understand after your bath.

He didn't seem likely to hurt you in the way you were thinking.

Did you trust him? Absolutely not.

But did you still want to gouge his eyes out every time you saw him?

....okay yes you still did.

Okay but, you understood that he really was deluded. He truly thought he was doing the best for you.

That was almost scarier than the idea that the ditzy billionaire had no idea what he was doing was wrong, because it meant he knew exactly what the moral objections were to this whole situation, but he went for it anyway.

~~~~~

Despite the hiccups, you were done in about half an hour, clean, dried, and being transported downstairs under Bruce's careful gaze.

While he shuffled you through the manor, you noticed that he very deliberately didn't name any of the rooms or give you any specific landmarks about the house. You had no mental map of the place, and ended up even more disoriented about where you were than when you first woke up. The place was huge, you'd needed to take multiple hallways and flights of stairs before Bruce opened the door to your intended destination.

After your impromptu confession, he'd given you a wider breadth, letting you stay within a three step radius, where you guessed he'd rather you just hold his hand instead.

Apparently you were going to join Clark in the glass solarium in the garden. You'd seen the solarium before in Gotham Architectural Digest, but the photos paled in comparison to the actual thing.

There, sat in the middle of the soft yellow beams of shifting, refracting sunlight, was Clark, with a stack of books next to him and a crossword book in hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(A/n: Whoooooo, this one is a loooong chapter, 4k words if you can believe it. Anyway, there's part 2 done, let me know what you think and if you have any feedback, I LIVE to read it :P )