⋆ Elle ⋆ @ellesthots - Tumblr Blog

ellesthots

Apr 20

Fateful Beginnings

LXIV. “bumble bee”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: the first week back in Gotham.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, smut-lite, reference to past suicide attempt but nothing detailed!

words: 13.7k

a/n: this chapter is SOOOO exciting to share, i'm over the mooon that it's here now. oh my goddd!! there's lotsss more but i'll let you get to it <3

Unable to break through the crowd for a parting hug and not lose your boyfriend, you sent a goodbye text to Rai. You barely focused on the screen as your body relaxed, soothed just by Bruce’s presence in the room.

When your skin met his, you relaxed into his touch and tucked into his shoulder. Warm and familiar, it spurred a new level of excitement to be heading back to Wayne Tower together—in the full sense of the word.

Bruce led the way to his car without a peep, focusing the entirety of his energy on getting you to the passenger safely. As you buckled you dodged blaring camera flashes and angled your face down so they couldn't catch your conversation. “Why didn't you stick around to talk to March?”

“Too many eyes,” he replied, not bothering to shift himself from the paparazzi. Staring a bit too long at his lips, you had to look away before your mind went blank.

“Ah, your 'not endorsing' thing.” You flopped back into the leather seat. “Might have to talk to you about that after tonight.”

The main road glittered with fresh rain and the bustle looked as it always had. You complimented March as you settled into the post-meeting routine—told Bruce how good the candidate was, how much people liked him.

“Big turnout.”

His voice was quiet, expression flat; his knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel in a way that was worried, antsy, anxious. You went toward it.

“How'd your meeting with Crane go?”

“Fine.”

Fine wasn't all that comforting; Bruce was shaken about the paparazzi, surely, but he didn't seem in the mood for reassurance. He looked resolute in his distraught.

You put your hand on his thigh and he clenched the wheel. “Are you good?”

He drew a deep, slow breath and nodded. It wasn't convincing. To get you both out of your heads, you turned attention toward the night’s plans.

“I have a few movies picked out this time, which feels like a miracle.” You went to your notes app to find the list, beginning to pepper off names until he gently interrupted.

“Sorry, but,” his hand strangled the wheel again. “I don't think I can do our date tonight.”

“Why not?” You cocked your head at him, intrigued. Was it the paps? Had the meeting not gone well?

“Just work stuff.”

His voice was tempered, quiet; you rested your hands in your lap as you talked yourself down.

It has nothing to do with his mental health, it has nothing to do with us. It's just Batman shit.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Maybe.”

Wayne Tower was in view before you knew it.

While you were extremely aware of his shift in mood and what that might mean, you didn't allow yourself to spiral. You waited until his car pulled into the garage and you were both in the elevator—which you made sure had no cameras—to ask about it. After denying issues with his medication, side effects, or if he needed to talk, the elevator stopped at his floor.

“I'm alright for now.”

“For now?” you pressed, nudging closer to him and wrapping your arm into his elbow. He nodded, and it was just convincing enough when paired with his response.

“Being away made things pile up.”

It made sense; “It's not like you're Batman or anything.”

Bruce laughed under his breath but you weren't sold.

As you walked into the foyer, your gaze landed on the pops of color on each table. Florals in various shades of white, pink and red brought a stunning burst of liveliness to the place. You ducked into the kitchen to find a purple and pink bouquet on the table and red roses by the sink.

You leaned on the entryway wood and stared at him. “Is there a bouquet in every room?”

A whisper of a grin wore his lips. “Mhm.”

“This is gorgeous, oh my god.”

You'd only gone up a few stairs before he called after you.

“I have to go work.”

Pouting for good measure, you spun and gestured for him to come up. “You sure you can't give me a tour?”

His shoulders hunched and he put his hand in his pockets, but he obliged. The wool of his overcoat flowed behind him just enough to hit your ankles when you stepped a stair too close. He gestured toward his room which he introduced as ‘the bedroom’, sweetly reminding that you weren't tethered to it and could inhabit any room you liked.

“Bruce,” you cozied up, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You're not pressuring me to room with you. I can't wait.” When you stepped into the bedroom and gushed over the decor he added for you, he stayed in the hall. Continuing the tour, you passed the room you used to use where most of your stuff resided, and he said so low you almost couldn't make it out: “You can put your stuff in the other room if you'd like.”

The theater room was the star of the show; once barren, it was cozy and lush, with plush blankets, throw pillows, and vibrant snacks illuminated by backlit LEDs.

“You put all this together?”

“I did.”

His voice weakened with each passing word. Your excitement hushed. “Baby,”

His jaw flexed. “I've really got to work.”

You stepped into the hallway. “Are you upset about missing the date?”

He stared at you with such a despondent look you were frozen. After an undetermined length of time—god, it all disappeared with him—he agreed. “Yeah.”

Though everything in you wanted to pry, you’d kept him away from his duties longer than ever. If it was urgent, it was urgent; this was the life you’d signed up for. “Okay. I’ll break in the TV for us.”

You slugged him in the arm, hoping to get a little rise out of him. When he didn’t bite, you launched into a hug that was carefully reciprocated, his arms slowly and lightly wrapping around you in full.

“Go for it.” His voice was soft by your ear and your heart fluttered. You squeezed him tighter. “Have fun.”

“I will,” you assured, brushing some lint off his shoulder. You nuzzled his chin. “Don't work too late.”

His grin pulled wider as he took you in. Drinking up his admiration, you followed how his eyes roamed all parts of your face like he’d been in a desert for years. That tenderness had been sorely missed, even after just one night.

“Got to go. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”

“Well, if you’ve got to…”

He gave you one last squeeze and headed for the basement. The decor snagged your attention again and you lost yourself briefly in repose. Colors coordinating, everything so practical and immersive, down to the snacks. It was as if he’d gone to a movie theater yesterday.

Realizing you forgot to say it, you jogged out to the railing and shouted, “Love you!” but he was already gone.

Jogging down to your old room, you went through the piles of neatly folded clothes atop the dresser. Alfred, kind and compassionate as he was, had left all of your intimates untouched. It didn’t take long to take some outfits down to Bruce’s room, despite the burn in your thighs from your feet slamming down marble steps.

A final pile plunked on the edge of Bruce’s bed made a paper in the bed’s center flutter in the whoosh of air. You picked it up, sitting on the edge of his mattress to read.

Hi, love. If I haven’t already told you, the dresser is yours and half of the closet. Feel free to reorganize things to your liking; I want you to feel comfortable. I bought a candle that reminds me of the field near your house. Hopefully it inspires a bit of home. I love you. - Bruce

You tucked the letter in your—your?!—bedside table and uncapped the candle on your side. Your heart threatened to expand past your ribcage when you smelled its woody, ambery pine. It was probably good he wasn’t here tonight; otherwise you wouldn’t get any shuteye. Not when he was this sweet, this perfect, when the excitement percolated that this was where you lived now.

And so it was for the next hour. Hanging up and folding clothes, tucking them into drawers, grabbing toiletries and infiltrating his bathroom. He used a cheap brand of shaving cream and very harsh body wash, but you thought that might've had a purpose. Difficult to imagine a frilly soap removing the dirt and grime off a vigilante.

A rush of endorphins hit your system when you caught a whiff of it; despite how it would likely destroy your skin barrier with its three-in-one formula, you turned on the water and hopped in. The room felt more like a luxury sauna than a typical bathroom, with a water pressure that rivaled anywhere in the world, not just Gotham. Through the fogged glass exposed a claw tub tucked into the corner, something you’d overlooked for the shiny sink and gleaming mirror. This bathroom was practically the size of your old studio.

Bergamot and a scent you could only describe as ‘musky fresh’ raged sulfates across your skin. You stayed in there so long that you worried your entire body might prune. Hunting for towels was an entire ordeal until you lifted the lid of a weird trash can and pulled out a freshly warmed one. Fuck, he was rich.

And when you wrapped it around you and it felt like a horde of rabbits, when you applied your drugstore skincare in a gargantuan, pristine mirror over a gorgeous sink and immaculate countertop, felt the cool marble beneath your—

In the mirror you noted a light switch on the back wall that said ‘heating’. Within seconds of flicking it ON, the ground warmed.

He was fucking filthy rich.

Something hard jammed into your shoulder when you plopped into his bed to rest. In the center of the mattress, likely beneath the card and so dark you couldn’t see it against his sheets sat a debit card with instructions sticky-noted on the back.

Address shipping to ‘Pennyworth’.

Bruce’s signature on the stripe was beautiful. You traced your fingers over it and the embossed metal lettering. Envisioned him laying beside you, hands intertwined, staring at the ceiling as you planned the next few months of your lives.

After a minute, however, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the fairytale of having an unlimited debit card.

Target, Nordstrom. Then West Elm, just because you could. Housewares, clothes, birthday gifts. By the time you realized the damage, you must’ve clicked ADD TO CART a hundred times, inputting Pennyworth a dozen.

To break the loop, you moseyed down to the kitchen to get a bite. The cupboards were nearly overflowing, the fridge and freezer perfectly stashed with multiples of your favorite foods. By a quick look as you gathered an orange and some Phish Food, he’d bought every single thing you’d ever said you liked, as well as replicated the cupboard at your house. If he were anyone else, his elephantine memory might unnerve you.

Tucked into the counter flush to the fridge was a new bottle of wine, an exact match of the one he’d said he owed you for back at your apartment. Did anything slip past him?

You got comfortable in the theater room. Bruce had already hooked his card up to every on-demand video service, so you switched on a movie that had just left theaters and dug into your pint like it’d run away. It wasn’t as lonely as you thought it would be up here, but still—at various points throughout the film, you tussled with whether to text Bruce.

Would it interrupt his focus? Would it take away time from people who needed him right then?

You turned your phone on silent, resolved not to disturb him. You could handle these nights alone, even enjoy them. Come breakfast you could talk about the spoils of the evening.

One damn thing was for sure: you weren't cracking the first night.

The dregs of the pint were smeared and half-dried up your forearm when you woke up. Thankful it hadn't poured on the couch, you rushed to the bathroom to clean up and basked in the subtle aroma of his hand soap. Using his things made you feel closer to him.

His bed looked inviting and the exhaustion from the nap still lingered; without Bruce as reason to push through your fatigue, you fell into his bed. A rush of his scent wrapped you as you snuggled under the covers. You checked your phone for the time and got drawn into Scypher.

Despite being private, your notifications were blown up. People tagged you in various thinkpieces that were a level of viral that made your head spin. Two conversations appeared prominent: one about you and Bruce’s autograph stint, the other of you and him at the bar. The latter drew you like a moth to flame.

Surprising given the lack of full light at the dive and the social's compression, the video was in stunning quality. Whoever recorded left whispered commentary throughout. “They've been like this all night” “It's literally him, I don't know if you can see” “Why would he be here? I'm literally in shock” “He hasn't stopped holding her hand since I got here” and “I swear to god I'm not joking. I'm not hallucinating, right?”

You pulled the covers to your chin, the luxe fabric gliding on your skin like water, and pressed play.

They’d caught two minutes of dancing—at least that was the only part they posted. Watching him twirl you out and into his chest brought that weightless feeling right back. Crinkly eyes, chatting and laughing, he looked every bit as happy as you’d felt. You downloaded it as you made the mistake of perusing the comments.

I didn't buy them at first but this is legitimately the first time I've seen that man smile

It had more likes than you cared to think about.

Indulging your curiosity, you clicked on the top reply.

Isn't it well known by now that he's a junkie? He's high off his ass.

Idk man, he might just be having fun

Since you were private, you gave OP’s reply a like.

The rest weren’t too terrible, but enough to stick like chewed gum to an otherwise perfect night. All at once the memory blended out of secrecy, letting its bloody pulse until it threatened to become a concept.

You tore yourself off the posts after scrolling through hundreds of comments on various threads mocking you for giving out your autograph, asking if you came from money, speculating on the interview, if this was PR…

Clinging to the home page refresh like a life preserver. Thoughts swirling in his pitch-black bedroom of feeling like a specimen that just got poked, on the verge of making your page public and putting them on blast. They didn’t know him, they didn’t know you. Acting high and mighty, leeching off of other’s intimacy to feel anything in their own lives.

A mutual aid request popped up on your timeline. Someone you’d followed years back from a freshman year science course.

$1753 left for medical bills before TOMORROW. Please please repost, thank you so much!!! Anything helps!!

You gave it a like and hovered above the repost button on impulse, then paused.

Sent.

The algorithm must’ve processed that you clicked the link because five more popped up after it.

Seventy five bucks. Sent.

A hundred and one. Sent.

Four-hundred. Sent.

Two thousand one hundred fifty. Sent.

Forty-six. Sent.

Sending one made you desperate to send another. You clicked around GoFundMes until your eyes went bleary and your wrist ached, until you memorized the numbers on his debit, until your phone dimmed from low power and your head hit the pillow.

You spent breakfast alone.

Alfred juiced some fruit while you made pancakes, longing to do something with your empty hands. He talked politely about how you were settling in and if there was anything he could do to make the transition easier. It was considerate, enjoyable. He assured you that Bruce had come up an hour earlier to grab some food. It was meant to help but only made you miss him.

“Is this… normal?” You took the last sip of orange juice. “Him working into the next morning?”

The old man gave you a sympathetic grin. “Absolutely, Miss. Nothing to fret over. I suggest you find something to keep busy in the meantime.”

With that, he insisted on taking your plate and doing the dishes himself.

A self-guided tour of the place was imminent; there were floors you’d never even seen all the way at the top. You peeked into rooms that didn’t have locks; so far as the tower showed, the only locked one was his parent’s room. Everything looked the same to the first few levels. Gothic, a little dusty and dated. No Beast hiding in some upper floor dwelling, no dirty secrets.

Sleepy from the week’s happenings, you found a chaise on the uppermost floor nestled by a silver rimmed window. You skated down to the library and plucked out a novel to properly utilize the reading nook. It was difficult to find something fun in a sea of nonfiction, and more than a few of those informative titles drew your eye, but you needed to escape. Your head swam with numbers and debts that slowly disappeared under the glow of Gotham fog and pages of serif font.

When you tired of the current novel, you had a kitchen full of snacks and a room full of books to peruse. Tracing fingers along century-aged spines too stubborn for a duster. Inspected the intricate spirals carved into the wood. Crunched into an apple.

It was easy to fill your Sunday. The wood began to warm by late evening, your simple presence bringing some temperature to the tower, turning the air less stale. Dinner was alright; Alfred once again invited you not to worry, he’d brought a plate down to him before calling you, and to focus on making the place more your own. You translated what he meant: Get used to it, Bruce is like this.

Monday morning rolled around to another breakfast for two. A few of your packages had arrived seemingly with the morning paper, large boxes scattered around the foyer. While Alfred plated, you carried them up to Bruce’s room.

He held out a plate of eggs benedict; you only knew what it was when you asked. Just as you were about to sink into your chair he questioned, “Has Bruce spent any time with you since landing, Miss?”

You shook your head as you dug into his signature orange juice. Alfred set aside a third plate and walked a pair of keys to you. A minute later you were holding a large silver tray with two plates, steeling yourself to the raucous of the elevator. Your fingers tingled as the doors opened.

“Alfred, I'm busy. I already told you.”

He sounded exhausted. Had he slept?

You stepped into the basement and cleared your throat. Bruce startled and switched off his monitors before spinning around.

“What are you doing down here?”

“Bringing you breakfast, Mr. Nocturnal.” He met you halfway and took the tray off your hands. As much as you wanted to stare at him, touching him was more important; nestling into a side hug made your eyes fall, thoughts glossy. “Wanna eat together?”

You looked up at him with sparkly, bright eyes. Up close like this, his fatigue was a love letter—of service to Gotham, of loving his community. The bags under his eyes, the heaviness in his arm around yours, all for the city.

“Not today.”

Whatever he was looking into was consuming him. You traced his cheekbone with the tips of your fingers. “Not even ten minutes?”

He looked positively yearnful, if that was even an expression. Those blue eyes dark in the cave’s low lighting almost looked brown and stubble erupted over his jaw. In fact, he looked so worn that you shook your head and told him not to worry about it. You took your plate back and left his.

“Hey.” You rubbed his arm in an attempt to soothe and he bristled. “Don't worry about me. So long as we get our sunrise date tomorrow.”

It was half a tease, knowing that it could be pushed if this was emergent, but when he didn't smile at you, your heart clenched.

It could be anything. Something with his parents, with him. A tragedy in the city or one about to unfold. Worrying about you. Shoving down insistent questions was a fireball in the back of your throat but you wouldn’t be needy. He already felt guilty enough.

“It's fine if we can't do it, but can you just give me a heads up?”

His brows knit together and you rushed out an addendum to patch his wounds.

“Just because I’d rather not leave your bed so early if not.” Your laugh was stiff. “Don’t know how you ever leave it, it’s like a cloud.”

Maybe he eased, it was hard to tell.

“I can't do it.” he spoke without apology and the plate went heavy in your hand, its ceramic chilled. You must’ve not hid your disappointment well, because when you turned around he shot out an olive branch.

“I'm sorry for not warning you.”

You nodded without looking back; he didn’t need to witness it sink in that you might spend most of this relationship alone. “You're really busy.”

“Friday.” His voice echoed. Glancing over your shoulder showed he’d taken a step closer. “I have to figure this out by Friday. We can have dinner then.”

“Friday night we can have a date?”

He nodded, earnest as ever, and you couldn’t swallow it anymore.

“Can you at least tell me what it is?”

Had he even blinked once?

“It's better for this to be worked on alone. I need to focus.”

Naively, you’d thought this ache of inferiority would leave now that you were together. Past snarky comments at your suggestions while detectiving flooded in.

“Okay. Date night on Friday then. What time?”

His pause felt weighty. “Six.”

You nodded. “Perfect. I’ll uh, have stuff ready by then.”

“How are you feeling?”

His concern was music to your ears. What alarmed you was how fragile he looked at a short distance.

“I’m alright. How much sleep are you getting?” You stepped back into the basement and he shook his head. A lot of nonverbals this morning.

“Enough to keep working.” He stuttered after he paused. “Don't worry.”

“It doesn't look like you're getting any sleep. If this is about me saying you should do more for the city,”

“It’s not about that.” He bit his lower lip and fluttered his lashes. His voice went soft. “I know we planned fun things but this is crucial.” His eyes shimmered. “I have to figure it out. It could change everything.”

You felt tears press forward; your voice frayed under the weight of the world on his shoulders. “How am I not supposed to worry when you say things like that?”

He didn't have an answer. “It'll be more manageable if I'm left alone until Friday.”

“Okay.”

“If you need anything, ask Alfred. He'll be happy to help.”

The donating. “You have money set aside for philanthropy, right? Can I use that card you lent me for it?”

He nodded. You wished he’d use his words more, longing to hear his voice.

Overwhelmed, you brushed at your eyes with your free hand and pressed the UP button after sidling in. One foot in front of the other until you could slam down the food and nap this vertigo away.

The elevator doors began to shutter. He called out. “Thanks for the food.”

You stared at the floor of the elevator as it rose, wringing your hands together under the plate. You brushed shoulders with Alfred as you hurried to the counter to set down the plate, ate a few bites, then dug out plastic wrap to put it away. Ran up to his room. Threw yourself in bed and let the emotion crash you to sleep.

In a supposed effort to make you feel worse about yourself, you, of course, had only slept two hours until your body fitfully rose. Another shower you now justified because of ‘crusties’, another time smelling his body wash like your lover was lost at sea. And after, while it wasn’t your first choice for distraction, the ever-mounting threat of torrential loneliness pushed you to email Dr. Vry.

How did you professionally say: I am now dating my interview subject and he is very high profile. What does this mean for credibility and how much of a stain do you think I am on The Gazette’s good name?

Fingernails chipping against the smooth wooden desk while you waited, the chair inexplicably comfortable for its form factor, staring at the screen of your new laptop bought on impulse the night before. Every thought about money and privilege was shoved to the back of your skull as fast as it came.

Decluttering your inbox of job offers made you sicker—it seemed you’d been pidgeonholed into little more than a gossip writer, a seat warmer, a cool glass of champagne at handoff to make people feel special. You’d done it to your fucking self at the end of the day, it was why you were in this tower instead of rotting in a cold studio. In what world could you complain?

When she did get back to you four hundred email deletes later, Dr. Vry expressed it was up to you. It wasn’t required to remain employed, though she followed that up with ridiculous levels of gratitude for what you’d brought to the department. She signed it saying she understood if there were sunnier horizons on your path now.

Your stomach twisted. She hadn’t made this any clearer. All you knew was the longer you looked at that email, the more nauseous you felt. If you resigned, you had zero confidence that anyone would take you seriously on your own. An interview with March, sure, but what if that did nothing?

The Gazette had rigor, reputation. If you went solo, you were certain the only open doors would come from the boyfriend, Mr. Wayne. At least if you stayed with an official publication, there’d be a name other than yours at the bottom.

You pulled up March's campaign website and found his email.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Meeting Request

Good afternoon Mr. March,

I am emailing about our interview discussion this past weekend. At this time, my employment is not finalized. It is my understanding that if I continue my employment with The Gazette, it does not meet your criteria for an interview.

However, I am curious if we could meet to discuss issues surrounding free press over an informal meeting—off the record. Please let me know a time and place to meet if you are interested.

Regards,

He responded almost immediately.

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Meeting Request

Always available for the residents of Gotham. Does Willow off Fourth Ave. work tomorrow at three?

No sign-off, so casual it was refreshing. Maps revealed a nice café in midtown, and intrusive thoughts of scandals swirled. It was imperative to meet at a government space or speculation would run wild; you couldn’t risk his campaign getting negative press.

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Meeting Request

Would you be able to reserve a meeting room at City Hall? Paparazzi are fairly active recently.

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Meeting Request

I am only able to discuss such matters on neutral ground. If a casual meeting space does not work for you, unfortunately I cannot meet your request. Feel free to reach out if you are able to accommodate.

Regretfully,

Lincoln March

Dammit.

Why wasn't City Hall neutral ground?

You took a lap around the tower to clear your mind. You didn't know the man well enough to make a call, didn't have any info to go off of outside of his campaigns, he wouldn't speak to you unless you were willing to cause a major upset with the public that would likely backfire on him in some capacity—probably you, too.

At some point in your pacing, after passing the twirling, abandoned library, after feeling the echo in every footstep, the tower inflated. How many times had you walked past this building during undergrad? How many passing thoughts occurred about how terrible it was for people to live like that?

Like this?

Mar wasn't responding and Rai was working. With three billion hours to kill before having dinner with Bruce and the thoughts closing in, you told Alfred you were going out. Despite your insistence on not troubling him, he ensured that you had a chauffeur and bodyguard now.

It was a relief to have someone with you in the department stores; sometimes when you switched aisles, you felt the cold metal of the gun against your temple again and moved closer to Alfred for a semblance of comfort.

The public was fairly decent to you. A few people had their phones out and suspiciously focused on your person as you moved but they were easy to tune out.

Miscellaneous hygiene items, clothes, entirely clearing out the menstrual product section, all the blankets. What else did shelters need? What else did they need help with?

Housing, you thought as you put some baby clothes and formula in the cart. They’re in a shelter because they need to be housed. Here I am putting clothes in the cart just for them to keep warm without a goddamn house.

It was logical that you couldn’t walk into shelters and place every person in an apartment—not yet anyway. Was there a better way to consolidate philanthropy money? A fund that could sustain itself, donations to a certain cause, a system you could develop for a hierarchy of who needed something first? How could you even decide that? Was that even ethical? Did someone who didn’t want kids or couldn’t have kids deserve housing after people with kids? But kids were helpless comparatively, at a critical stage of development, surely that would constitute—

“Miss? Should I gather a fresh cart?”

Absently, you nodded, and Alfred took off. You needed Bruce to bounce these thoughts off of. It was his money after all, even if he didn’t do shit to earn it.

You rubbed your temple, a headache coming on.

As you passed more people who definitely weren’t taking photos of you, that ‘scandal’ volume turned up. Would people think you had an ulterior motive? That you were trying to clean up the Wayne image? That you were trying to make a good name for yourself after ‘the scandal’? Would the shelter workers think that? Would people feel insulted taking donations from someone like you?

It made you fucking sick to think of your relationship as a TMZ headline. That you were giving any weight to those losers.

Alfred arrived with the second cart and you directed him toward the food aisles. You filled it with the good shit people would actually like, the expensive items you couldn’t have regularly afforded. Ice cream, cakes, fancy soups, all the things no one wanted to throw out.

Checking out was alright. Getting to the car was okay. Pulling up to the first shelter and doing a quick, rushed handoff felt… strange. You were shaking in the back of the car by the time you finished dropping off the third round of items, sweaty and tired from carrying all the boxes. Something nagged at you.

You cut the first day short and didn't end up shopping a second carful. Alfred made conversation on the route back about how he wished Bruce would be more proactive about using his money for public good, but he was grateful someone was stepping up.

“You’d have much more to work with if Bruce tended to finances,” Alfred shared as he pulled into the garage. You quickly googled his net worth and your mouth went dry. He confirmed it was accurate, then sighed.

Still a billionaire by a mile. Their concept of money was peculiar.

Walking to the elevator with Alfred dehazed the experience of the private garage. Immaculate metal siding, clean kempt concrete, bright even lighting. Before, all you’d noticed was Bruce.

Was he really that encompassing from the beginning?

The tower was gigantic. The elevator ride smooth and efficient, spacious. The foyer dated and gothic but nonetheless grand.

It took twenty-one strides to walk from the entrance to the first stairstep. That was the length of your entire house. You looked to the right where he’d been bleeding back in Spring; if something happened to you, Bruce would make sure you got the best doctors on the planet.

Deep breaths as you reached the top of the stairs—clean air. No musty scent from molded floorboards and walls. Secured windows without drafts.

If you wanted, you could never leave this tower again. Get every new movie delivered to you in advance. Freshly prepared meals from a professional chef. All your affairs put in order, clothes washed and pressed, messes cleaned; you’d never have to lift a finger.

The safety it provided was so wonderful as to have an edge, a bite, a cut. It wasn’t fair to hoard all the dense soil, to bloom in an otherwise untended garden. A bumble bee didn’t stay in its nest.

So you’d sleep past sunrise, your alarm went off later the next morning. Tuesday’s breakfast left a pang in your stomach as Bruce continued to sequester himself in the cave. You struggled not to show frustration when the paparazzi followed your car, pressed cameras around you while shopping. Smile. Wave. Eventually you just ignored them.

Who you couldn’t ignore were the public; a few people wandered up to you in various stores to take photos and ask about Bruce. How is he doing? was their question, usually including some version of What’s it like to date him? By the seventh person you rehearsed a standard answer: He’s great, it’s great. And we’re doing very well, thank you for asking.

Getting out of the big box stores brought one relief and another wound. Every time you did a donation handoff it felt like striking someone across the face. The imbalance was so great that it felt pitiful; you knew all the blankets and cakes in the world couldn’t make up for the penthouse you drove back to. Until your arms ached and your legs went sore from walking, you chased from center to center until they closed for the evening.

The night brought no sleep.

Alfred questioned why you were up so early the following day. You couldn’t tell him how your chest ached when you woke up from your nap to find an empty bed; you couldn’t express how even his company filled you with dread. When people questioned who the man with you was, the term butler singed your tongue.

“He’s eaten, right?”

“Yes, Miss.” His voice was stern across the table. “Though ensuring he eats is Bruce’s concern, not yours.”

You didn’t ask again.

Mar had at least responded that day, though late. Some brief exchanges about being moved into the tower, about her going on weeknight dates with Gianna, about needing to set up a date with you next week. You typed out a self-deprecating joke about those being the only dates you’d get, then deleted. It’d be a whole conversation about why Bruce wasn’t romancing you that you couldn’t speak to.

This cloud followed until Bruce’s shower shot icy water into the square of your back that night. Ambery body wash was sudsy in your hands, with iridescent bubbles you were suddenly far too tired to lather onto your skin.

Doing what you could, you finished washing and dragged yourself back to his bed. His cologne had already been faint on the sheets and it was nonexistent now. You’d forgotten how hard it was to be alone and how pathetic it felt to struggle to keep your mind busy for even a few days. It hadn’t even been a fucking week back in Gotham.

Your body kept you up most of the night for the third day in a row. Resolve had worn and the tight sieve opened to an overflowing bucket. The perception of you was now entirely out of your control; your ex friends—and exes, could look you up whenever they wanted, find wherever you were, join in on the hate at any moment. It was a matter of time before someone posted your address, names of family members, the car your dad drove. It hadn’t felt that bad when Bruce was around you.

The bed was worn in on the side closest to the door. You slipped to that side in the middle of the night and contoured to his shape. A headache woke you the next morning and you threw on the closest outfit to make do.

You seized the rare morning Alfred wasn’t in the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal. Normalcy. A crumb of it. Please.

And it helped, so much so that you went through half a box of frosted mini-wheats.

Movement on the stairs made you rush to the main elevator and press DOWN, scrambling together a plan to meet Rai as you loaded up a rideshare app. Rai’s was the only grounding rod you could think of.

The paparazzi followed your car but you didn't give a shit anymore. Didn’t give a shit pushing through them once they stopped at the curb. Plastered on a smile and rushed through the door to a bell ring and introduction that made your heart melt.

A glance around showed the place was empty, typical for right before lunch. Back when you were a student, this was your only available time between classes to rush over and fill yourself at the deli. Your stomach hurt.

“Thank god. Hi, Rai.”

“Hey girl. Should I ask for your autograph?” Good natured as always, his curls bounced as he laughed.

“That's actually the reason I'm here.” You ran your hands through your hair and tucked into the office behind the counter, keeping the door wide enough to talk to him but out of camera sight.

“Stressing, huh?”

“Things just feel weird.” So exhausted, you almost remembered too late that you were in public; you tried to speak in generalities. “I haven't been very busy this week, and I’m trying to adjust to moving into his place and I feel… off. I don’t know, it feels like so much.”

“Squirrel.”

“Huh?”

He cast you a look like you'd gone mad. It made you acutely aware that you were an exceptionally awful friend who’d forgotten the code.

“Okay, no. I'm not squirreling right now.”

“You got back on Saturday, man. Squirrel.”

“I just feel like I'm doing nothing and I don't know how not to feel like I'm in a fishbowl. A fishbowl with billions of fucking dollars that aren't even mine, it's not even mine!” You threw your hands up, frustrated.

Rai wiped his hands on a small rag and stepped into the office. “If it's not yours, it's not yours to worry about.”

“But I can do something. Anything, really. What do rich people do aside from rich people shit or helping people?”

“So he signed you over to the Wayne fortune, huh?”

“No.” You understood his point but felt too anxious to take it. “I don't know. I can't stop this comparison… the whole drive here I was looking out at the sidewalk at people who used to be me, and I just know if someone like me walked up to me back then and gave me money my life would be changed forever. Even just ten thousand dollars would’ve set me up. Bruce wouldn't even see that gone."

“You're still the person on the sidewalk. That money isn't yours.”

“I know but I have access to it. And people kill themselves from money problems, I could stop people from—”

“So you're playing god?”

“I don't think it's that simple, Rai. I need to do something while I wait for Bruce.”

“Wait for what?”

“I have some things I have to process with him before I can do much of anything.”

A customer came to buy a single bottle of Snapple apple. Would Bruce like that?

Rai made quick work ringing them up and came right around. “Can someone else help you process? Why's he so busy?”

“He just is. And he has very specific knowledge that I need, stuff that's critical to know before making a decision, and in order to do anything with my job I need to know that information, and so I'm stuck either wandering the tower or trying to talk to Mar but you know how she is, she's probably out with friends, I don't even know how she goes out every day,” you took a shallow, rapid breath, just enough to continue. “But some people are just made for this, you know? I'm not. I don't feel equipped to do anything, and I'm just running around town like some kind of fucking fairy trying to fix everything and I can't do that, I know that logically I can't do that,”

“Y/n.”

“But still I'm just doing random shit because I want to help, I do, I don't want people to suffer. I want to do something with my time that's productive. It feels disgusting to sit around and just wait. What am I supposed to do? Go to a movie? A bar? A restaurant? A couple months ago I could barely afford food and now I'm here? Sitting on my ass?”

“You're tired. Accomplish a nap.”

“You do a lot of donating, I thought you'd understand.”

“I do a lot because I took it slow. I didn't burn out.” He crossed his arms, wrinkling the blue shirt he wore every Wednesday. You forgot about that. “I'm not confident anything would be enough though. For you.”

If he'd delivered that any less relaxed, you might've thought he was being rude. “What do you mean?”

“We used to tear those fools apart. Thought they were a joke. Good for nothing richies turning this city to shit.”

Your heart sank. He walked out to the fridges on the floor, grabbed a water, and handed it to you. The chill of the plastic made you sit a little taller. The liquid degunked your throat from the smog.

“When you say that, it’s like you're describing me.”

“Exactly. You can't think like that.”

“How am I supposed to think? I don't want to be one of them.” You strangled the water bottle to abate quivering hands. “If I weren't me I'd hate me.”

I don't want to feel guilty for loving Bruce, either.

“You know where your heart is. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.”

“But it does. I can't be complicit.”

“I can see the bags under your eyes. Let's talk more after you get some shuteye.”

This urgency wouldn't leave your body. You laid back in his loungy office chair, propped your feet up on the desk, and pulled your hood over your head. Suddenly you understood Bruce a lot more.

Waking up in Rai's office was more than jarring; you fell off the chair and slammed your knees into the concrete flooring. Swore a spider got scared out from under the desk and ran toward the wall.

“Good timing.” Rai walked in with a duffel bag. “Deli just closed and every fridge is full. Unless your boyfriend is starving you, you can help that squirreling and drop off the extras at the women's shelter. Should be on the way back.”

You must've taken too long to log any type of reaction, still blinking sleep out of your eyes, because he dropped it with a loud sigh. “Or this is payback for that food I spot you a while ago.”

Oh shit. “Sorry, Rai,”

He wagged his finger at you and shook his head. “A year ago you would've joked back.”

“I don't know. I still feel weird about being here, together with him, publicly. I didn't think I would.”

He clicked the door behind him and lowered his voice, sitting on the edge of one of his desks. “Weren't you two public before that trip?”

“Yes, but…” you quieted too in case some pap had an ultra-mega microphone. “It was… fake. Fake dating. It's a long story. But now it's real and there's videos of us near my hometown…”

While at the bar, a million cameras could’ve surfaced and you would’ve just smiled at them capturing your love. What had you told Bruce then? Let them? He was allowed to live? Why didn’t it feel like that now?

Something lovely about Rai was he didn't pry. “Gotham has teeth. Makes sense you're feeling it; you're the most popular topic the past few days.”

“I don't want to be a topic.”

“It's not fair, but it's not going to change.” His face was set in a sympathetic smile. “You just have to think about if he's worth it.”

“He is.” It fell out of you before conscious thought, but the thought matched it when it caught up. Losing the one person to ever reveal the color of euphoria was an obscene thought.

Rai accepted this answer. “Then you’ll get used to it, don't worry.”

“What if I don't want to get used to it?”

He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk as he stood up. “You decided to date Bruce Wayne. If low-profile is something you want, it's not with him. He's practically royalty, even trying to hide in the middle of nowhere.”

You fidgeted. Hard to hear, but honest. “I'm just glad you and Mar aren't treating me differently. It’s grounding.”

“I'm not treating you differently because you haven't changed,” he reminded, grabbing a cardboard box to break down. “I'd be worried if you weren't stressed.”

“Because I need to be?”

“No,” Rai chided. “Because it shows you still care. And I'm sure you'll continue to.”

His sureness about your backbone was relieving, and you stepped onto that steady platform to get a breath of air. “You're right, I'm squirreling.”

“Yep.”

As you stood and brushed yourself off he put a hand on your shoulder.

“But if it's ever too much and you need a safe place, come here.”

He held out a pair of keys that looked unused. “I don't want to take your spares.”

“I made them for you. Saw the chaos on the web.” He plopped them on the table and nodded for you to take them. “I want you to have a place to go, day or night. No problem. And that—” he pointed toward the minifridge under the desk where you thought the spider might've hidden behind, “is kept stocked with deli leftovers. Feel free.”

There was that reason you didn't hate Gotham: Rai's goodness. It radiated out of him like sunshine.

You hugged him goodbye and grabbed the duffel, forcing yourself not to tear up so the cameras wouldn't catch it.

You pushed through the crowd with your bag and tried to ignore the flashes of their cameras, their shouting, how the strangers in front of you dodged out your path like a flamethrower. Lowering your gaze, you focused on the cracks in the sidewalk.

This was still your city. Kinda. At least a city you'd be in for a while. A place that knew your loneliness like its own pulse; that knew the sweet electricity of wandering with Bruce; the solace you sought when the west got too dark.

The swing in your step echoed what would come next. City Hall meetings each Thursday, rallies on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Screens that dried your eyes out and fingers tight from typing and researching. Finding that downtime with Bruce to tattoo more memories.

As the street pressed on and the signals remained defective as ever, the line blurred. Being outside of tower walls and actually sitting in the city, tracing the cobbled steps you took before you ever knew him, brought you out of the clouds. You kicked a piece of broken glass off the curbside ramp.

The messiness of the city made you relax, unlike it ever had. You unhunched your shoulders and analyzed the overcast streets. The car lights, the drizzle of rain hitting your bare skin. Glistening dark puddles, the thunk of tires hitting potholes. Some man on his phone ranted about a game, another woman texted while repeatedly pulling a purse up her shoulder. Flashes of light to your right and left, cameras saying your name.

WALK.

A feeling of sonder struck you as you bumped shoulders with a pedestrian and the spotlight effect hushed. She readjusted her purse as she walked past, the man changed subjects on the phone, the signal got dimmer. The world went on without you; you didn’t keep it spinning.

The sign for the women's shelter was very hidden, which you understood, and immediately felt awful about ducking into it with a gaggle of cameras outside. The volunteers asked if you were sent by Rai, recognizing the hot deli food, and you spent the final few minutes gushing about how wonderful he was to the community as you tracked your Uber’s arrival.

It was easier feeling less alien when you weren’t driven by Alfred. It was possible to pretend nothing had changed and you were on your way back to your studio to eat some cold pasta. You rested your head on the chilly window and noticed how strange it was to romanticize a place you’d been so desperate to escape.

The ride up the elevator took eons this go-around. When you got to the kitchen to grab a snack, Alfred startled. You didn't think you'd seen him do that before.

“Didn't know you were out.”

“I just went to visit a friend for a bit.” You swung open the fridge and then stalled, peeking over. “Do I need to notify you when I leave…?”

“It always helps if someone knows where you are, but no. You are not required.”

Dropping the miss, that was interesting. What did his schedule entail on Thursdays? Did he have a long talk with Bruce about you two missing a meeting tonight?

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Well,” you grabbed a carrot and hummus platter. “I haven't thought that far ahead.”

“Good. You can help me in my study.”

“Oh, I—”

“Should only take an hour.” He pulled out his phone and typed something. “Let’s get this sorted through.”

Alfred was deceptively fast, good god, and you tripped trying to hurry up the stairs after him.

A plethora of jewelry sat out on his desk. Before you could ask, he answered.

“From the Wayne archives. Mrs. Wayne never had the opportunity to wear most of them, but I try to keep the pieces nice and clean in her memory.”

Christ, these looked about a billion dollars each. The diamonds sparkled like water; you'd never seen jewelry this reflective, this expensive, and when Alfred placed a necklace in your hand, that heavy. You quickly handed it back.

One of them stood out to you: a beautiful gold wedding ring. Alfred must've seen you stare at it because he picked it up with a gloved finger.

“Mrs. Wayne was very modest, but she liked a bit of flair.”

He spun it to show the centered oval cut diamond on a mostly plain band, with two simple stud diamonds embedded into the band, evenly spaced on either side.

“It's beautiful.”

Alfred nodded, used some sort of technique to shine it, then tucked it away. It seemed to match her; from photographs, she looked dainty. Were you the most boisterous person to walk these halls?

He handed you a bracelet and a cloth. You reached out to grab it before you realized what he meant, then shied away. “I feel like I'm not qualified to touch them, Alfred.”

“Oh, you certainly are. Bruce gave the OK this morning.”

“I have no idea how to clean jewelry like this,”

“I'll show you.”

And boy did he—for the next hour you learned enough skills to snag a beginner position at a local jeweler. The ultrasonic machine was magic despite there being little to no visible dirt on any of the luxury pieces, and by the time you were finished, you began to squirrel again. You unboxed some of your purchases and placed them about Bruce’s room the rest of the afternoon to distract.

Thursday evening came with utmost relief. Digging around in the fridge, you placed the ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner in one section to make your job easier. Tacos weren’t especially romantic, but they were fun to make together and a nice bridge from coast to coast.

On the uppermost floor you revisited the chaise; moonlight threaded between the fibers of the aged curtains and made quite the nook. Wedged between the wall and the cushion sat a book you hadn’t noticed before.

Pushing the furniture away from the wall you pulled out A Study in Scarlet, a Penguin classics edition. A thick layer of dust had accumulated on its face. You settled in after wiping it off on the chaise’s edge and a bookmark nearly slipped out; you turned to its page.

“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awestruck voice, and we were all silent for a while. There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.

Getting cozy, you turned back to the beginning. It was a 2001 copy; he couldn’t have spent much time with it before his parents died, if he hadn’t read it later.

Bruce must’ve liked it up here. A nice hideaway, just isolated enough to be in one’s own imagination. What had you been doing while he sat here and read mysteries? Did he return here when he was older, or had he abandoned it once the tower went silent?

You made it all the way to Holmes testing the pills on an unknowing canine before drifting off.

“Don't let me wake you, sweetheart.”

An elderly woman wearing a black dress with a lacy white collar smiled at you while she dusted. Her hair was in a kempt gray-white bob.

"Oh, hi," you swung your legs over the edge of the daybed. Smiled at her. Wondered what the hell time it was, wondered why you were so hungry. A book banged to the ground and you scrambled to recover it. “You're—” what the hell was her name?!

“Dory, ma'am. I'm Mr. Wayne's housekeeper. You're Ms. Y/l/n, correct?”

You nodded, rubbing your eyes to rouse yourself. “Yes. Y/n, actually. If you don't mind.”

“Of course not, dear. Mr. Pennyworth told me all about you and Mr. Wayne.”

She thought for a moment and turned to you, away from the bookcase.

“If you could give me your schedule so I can have clothes pressed for you, that would be most convenient.”

She then asked if she might know which room you were staying in—“Bruce's”—and which items you'd like pressed for each event. You told her most of them hadn't arrived yet, but they would in the coming days. You agreed to leave the clothes you'd like pressed and returned in a wicker basket outside of his door.

It was such a strange conversation—you'd seen similar ones the rare times you'd babysat for the kids of your parent's friends, how they'd have a maid swing by and fulfill household tasks. Dory was amicable, but that didn’t make it less bizarre.

You absently spun your bracelet around your wrist as you walked down the stairs to grab your phone. It snagged on your belt loop and you paused, making sure it didn't break and spill out over the marble, your heart racing.

Was it better to preserve the bracelet or wear it out?

The glow of your phone on the nightstand revealed you’d slept for twelve hours. Starved, you sought the kitchen for another round of cereal.

Roses and peonies kept a gorgeous atmosphere, but you couldn’t give them all the credit for your bright spirit. Every thought was lifted by the wind of date-night excitement.

Getting things in order was shockingly fun. First: quick stops at a few places downtown for gifts. Second: setting aside a dress and heels from the new arrivals.

You laid out an outfit for him too, knowing he'd probably come up from the cave covered in car grease and sweat and deserved a shower. Prideful as you were for making it to Friday without completely losing your mind, that impatience lingered.

This tension followed to early evening, when the room was adequately rearranged and your toiletries populated his bathroom. Your attention kept turning to his clothes laid out on his dresser, his uncapped cologne wafting just enough of his scent to tease.

The plush rug under his bed soothed your tired feet, serenading you towards scuttling under the covers. His comforter was heavy and thick, inviting just enough pressure for your eyes to flutter shut and lewd thoughts to tempt you.

The door was open a crack so you couldn't exactly do all that you wanted. You let your body relax, resting into his smell, your skin hot with the memory of his touch. Between layers of his bedsheets you slid your hand between your thighs, began to picture all he might do tonight, how much you’d missed each other and all the ways it could be expressed. Slowly.

The first time in his bed needed to be slow.

You turned your head into the pillow and stifled a moan. His whispers vibrated in your ear like he was here, as he instructed you to touch yourself and you pretended to hate following orders, as he teased about your goosebumps giving you away, that you got off to this, running his fingers down your sensitive throat down to your belly where he'd grip your hips, ask you to spell out what you wanted, to use your words; oh, you needed him to call the shots tonight, in his room, his mattress, please...

A knock made you jump. Dory's weathered, warm voice rang from just beyond the doorway. “Miss Y/n, I pressed some of you and Mr. Wayne's clothing. I'll leave it folded at the door. Would you like any help before I leave for the day?"

“Uh,” you sat up and pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead, your heart rate stuttering. “I don’t think so, no. Thank you though—Dory! Have a good night!”

It was half past five. You hustled to get ready, slamming in earrings and speeding on makeup after slipping into your dress and heels.

All light had already left and the moon wasn't high enough to shine into the kitchen yet. You switched a couple overhead lights on and got to making the tortillas, stressing at the clock waiting for the dough to rise as time bled into six. At which point, you heard every shift of the tower and turned toward each sound with mounting intrigue.

You finished making the tortillas around six thirty. By six forty you had your phone out on the table, writing a quick text before going back to the meat on the stove.

Hey babe, everything's ready! If it's going to be much longer, let me kn

The elevator clunked open and you dashed out of your seat. His hair hung limp, his clothes wore baggy on his frame. His shirt had a ripped collar and holes scattered throughout the chest. Hugging him was a crisp pool in the desert.

Giddy, you stepped back to look at him. Those same gorgeous blue eyes, his textured skin with its little lines. It was worth it. It would always be worth it.

“Bruce, oh my god I’m happy to see you.” Your smile bit into your cheeks. As you scanned his face and came back to Earth, his expression looked… upset. In his clenched right hand was a tan folder, but otherwise he had nothing else on him.

“What's that for?” you asked, walking to the table to push the candle in a foot. His overshirt was far too flowy.

“A case.”

He sounded like sandpaper. You were too excited to slow down.

“I have an outfit laid out for you upstairs, only if you'd like to change. Don't have to, but might want to get cleaned up if it's more comfortable?”

Bruce shook his head. “I'm alright.”

Transitioning from the cave to date night couldn’t be easy, especially after a week. Gifts might help with that. Bring him into the space, ground him to it. “I got you some things.”

You grabbed the box from his tablesetting and held it out for him to take. His morose didn’t shift, but he did look down at it.

“I know the public knows that we're together,” you started, pulling apart the velvet ribbon to unpack it. Lifting the lid revealed a thin silver bracelet. “But they don't know the real us, you know? This way we can have something similar but not give too much away to them.”

He absently held out his wrist, almost dazed. You undid the homemade one and gently placed it in the designer box. He stammered when he spoke. “What about those ones?”

“I figured we could keep the other bracelets here, wear them on our private dates. Wear them around the house—Tower.” you corrected, feeling heat spread across your face as you clicked it onto his wrist. “It's just to keep them safe, you know? I'm not overthinking things, I'm…” You took a deep breath.

A second bracelet materialized from the box and you held out your wrist, grinning.

“My turn, babe.”

His expression flickered at the pet name. Good. He was getting acclimated.

“The paparazzi, the public, I'm starting to deal with it better, actually.” Butterflies flew when he righted the bracelet and ensured it hung well on your wrist. You continued, smiling as his fingers grazed your skin. “It'll take more time to feel it out, but it doesn't have to make me spiral.”

He didn't linger past that, immediately moving his hands to his sides. Something was off, he was stilted.

You looked into his eyes against the rising tide of anxiety. For him to act like this off the heels of what was, for all intents and purposes, a honeymoon, was unsettling. Shouldn’t he have more joy at reconnecting?

You turned back to the stove when you smelled something burning. Perhaps explaining more to him would help? “I just want some things to still be ours. I figured you could understand that better than anyone.”

You moved the meat off the heat and made an appreciative comment about the rosé and how he remembered so much. He didn’t move from across the kitchen.

“I made tacos. I thought we could put the fixings on them together—oh my god, I almost forgot.” You licked your finger that had some seasoning on it and spun around, hurrying to the hallway and arriving with a bouquet of midnight calla lilies.

“Since you were so generous with your flower-giving, I figured it was only fair to get some for you. And not only fair,” you stumbled through the gift, hyperaware of and equally confused why you were fumbling. Your body held the same nerves as public speaking.

“You know, just… yeah. I want to give them to you. I don't know. I'm feeling kinda like, flustered? After our time apart?”

Bruce’s face kept flat but he took the flowers. He took the flowers.

You rushed to get out the tortillas. “I forgot to ask, are you okay with corn? I made some flour tortillas just in case, I don't know which you prefer.”

His response was walking toward the kitchen island and gingerly placing the flowers. You swallowed and shifted the subject.

“Later I'll need your help figuring out what to do about the Gazette situation.”

This one made him reply.

“Did something happen with Vry?”

His voice sounded drier now that he had to project it. This was easier, he was talking.

“No, no. I've just been wondering if I should go independent.” Since he didn't answer, you just chose corn. The oil sizzled when you placed one on the pan. “At the rally, March didn't want to meet with me unless I was solo. And with Dr. Vry already firing me once, I mean, I guess that was before she knew we were dating, before we were,”

He waited until you finished building a taco before responding.

“I never asked: why did you leave Gotham after Vry fired you last month?”

“Because she fired me… I told you.” You added another tortilla to the oil. Thank god the conversation was getting more casual.

“I know that. But leaving immediately?”

“Yeah.” You took a swig of water, careful not to smudge your lipgloss as best you could. He sounded strained.

“My mom was leaving on a cruise and I didn't want Debbie to have to take care of Walter. She can be so loud, and Gotham was honestly really depressing me,”

“What were you thinking about?”

He hurried that question out, barely waiting for you to finish.

“I don't know, I really just want to get eating.” You flipped a second taco. “This was a convo for later, remember? We have a date to get to.”

“Did you come back the day of my attempt?”

That was what felt so weird: he sounded like fucking Batman.

“I came back a few days before. Wanted to research for the interview.”

“Is that all you did the days before? Research?”

“I think so.” A third taco, en route.

“Think so?”

His tone gave you pause.

“Why?” You added more meat to the tortilla, wishing you hadn't waited for him to arrive so things weren’t so rushed. “Did something come back about your attempt?"

He continued like you hadn't spoken. You couldn't look at him because the oil started to pop. “Did you go anywhere before that Thursday? On Wednesday? Before the meeting? Tuesday?”

“I met with Dr. Vry to grab supplies right before the meeting, but that's it. I wanted to have the best questions so I took my time.”

“Why did you want the best questions?”

“It was your first interview. I knew every eye in the world would be on it.”

“And what did that feel like?”

“What did what—”

“What did it feel like knowing it would be popular?”

You shrugged. “Scary. Good.”

“Why?”

You decided he must've seen stuff in the press; he’d seen the viral posts and came up to have a hard conversation when it didn’t need to be one. His anxiety about you getting hurt was endearing, but he couldn’t keep you in a box. You’d already reassured him to hell and back.

“I promise, I'm fine with the press. And one day it'll feel super normal, I'm sure. Or a version of it.”

You turned the heat down and soothed a corner of your finger that got hit by rogue EVOO.

“You did nothing but research those days before my attempt?”

You peeked over your shoulder and he stared into you with a squeezed brow. Wanting to bend the mood back, you half-laughed. “Absolutely nothing. Life was riveting. And I got back on Monday I think.”

“You think?”

“Bruce.” You spun around and gave him a look. His stare didn’t shift. “I don't know. I'm pretty sure I didn’t go anywhere, yes. As for what I did, I just stayed in my apartment. Cleaned stuff up.”

“You said you researched.”

“I didn't spend every waking moment at my computer, I also thought I was leaving later that week, so. I cleaned some. But that's it.”

He paused. You worked to assemble a few more tacos.

“Did you do anything the days after, then? The two days after?”

“No. Not outside of the stuff with you.” you replied. “Trying to keep you alive.”

“You didn't go anywhere but to Wayne Tower and back?”

“No… Actually, I might've gone to Rai's. Maybe. I don't know. It's fuzzy.” You snuck a bite of the cooked meat and added a touch more salt.

“Why is it fuzzy?”

“Why wouldn't it be? I was terrified you were gonna die.”

At this point he had properly frustrated you. This wasn't how you wanted to start date night.

“Did you go anywhere else? Anywhere southwest?” He continued his questions without apology and no sign of stopping.

If he was ruminating on that night, you wouldn’t let it carry on. Retracing his steps, stressing, it wouldn’t do him good. Was that why he looked so haggard? Had this been the thing on his mind all week? He kept looking at the clock like he couldn’t wait to get back down there.

“No, I didn’t. And you look wiped out. We should eat.”

“What'd you do after I left your apartment that night? After the interview?”

“Right before your attempt?” You wondered how much longer to humor him for.

“Yes. After I left, what did you do?”

“Bruce, you said you didn't want to relive it. You haven't eaten a proper meal in days for all I know—”

“When I left your apartment after doing the written interview what did you do the rest of the night? The whole night until morning?”

You slowed. Was it something with Oz?

His stare was unrelenting. He hadn't looked at you like that since—

“The night of my attempt. After I left. What did you do until morning?”

An uncomfortable pang banged around your stomach. This wasn't the warmth you'd wanted, this wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. “I stayed home. I wrote the interview out, it took all night. I barely slept before I had to wake up and turn it in.”

“After I left, you never stepped outside of your apartment until the next morning when you went directly to GU campus?”

“After you left, I never stepped outside of my apartment until the next morning when I went directly to GU campus, yes.” It was challenging not to snap at him. “Can we eat now?”

He didn't ask anything after that and you didn't bother to check how he reacted. You still had a handful of tortillas and a bit more meat, the only one seemingly invested in this ‘date’.

“Originally my plan was for us to cook these together but you didn't end up coming up until forty minutes into our date. That's pretty late, dude.”

Why did you sound so… peeved? Suddenly your skin lit up like ants. You shoved the meat into a taco shell and felt hot tears sting your lashline.

“Y/n, I know.”

You wiped your eyes. It stung for him to be late, fuck. It stung for him to grill you when all you wanted was to connect, to be let in. “You know, but do you care?”

Bruce scoffed behind you; you had a physical reaction to the sound. “Of course I care about that.”

“Well if your way of showing it is getting all quiet and stiff, I don't fucking appreciate it.”

“How am I supposed to act?”

“That sounds really defensive, Bruce.”

“Why don't you care that I know?”

“We both know, the clock's right there.”

“Alfred told you?”

“No, he didn’t.” A tortilla split in the pan, sending sizzles of oil up to your hand. You cursed and grabbed a spatula. “So you knew earlier and didn't tell me? I could’ve waited on these bullshit tacos.”

He was doing it again, folding into himself and disregarding everything else. Your heel clacked against the porcelain tiles as you tried to burn off the anxiety.

“I knew if I came up earlier, I might stop looking.” His sigh was shaky. “I couldn’t see you until I knew. Not until I was sure. I needed to know if… if there was a way it wasn’t… any other reason to explain it.” He trailed off, exasperated. “I just couldn’t believe it.”

His voice had a hue it'd never had before—Jersey. It slipped into the edges and curves of his words. You softened; Bruce was always concerned with being the perfect boyfriend, these were the first days of something so scary to him. He didn’t need to wrack himself with guilt.

“Bruce, it’s not that big of a deal. Let's just eat and—”

From the corner of your vision his devastation shifted to a glare, his tone incredulous. “Not that big of a deal?”

“I just snapped and I didn't mean to, I'm sorry. We're both upset right now so let's just put it behind us. Start fresh, alright?”

“Why are you so casual about this?”

Being late to a date wasn’t a cardinal sin. If you looked at it another way, the fact this felt high stakes was good: it meant you both cared.

“What happened happened. We haven't interacted in a while; all we need is some time together to smooth it over. You still love me, I still love you.”

You took a second to breathe.

“When I said I love you, I didn't know you tried to kill me.”

A hunk of taco meat fell onto the stovetop as his statement fizzed through you. You whirled around.

“What?”

“It's all here.” Bruce took the manila folder and plopped it on the table.

When you gave him a wary look, he didn't falter. If the mood were any less dour, you might’ve thought he was playing a sick joke.

Bewildered, you approached the folder and flipped it open. Your name was centered and bolded; italicized underneath were the words Active / Susp. of: Aggravated Assault, Conveying False Information, Trespassing, Attempted Murder: 2nd Degree.

“I don't understand.”

“What don't you understand?”

You turned the page to a dense list of items precisely labeled as: Evidence.

Suspect matches latent prints and hair sample found at scene. Victim wounds do not corroborate self-injury.

The remainder of the first page was purely clinical, detailing sample testing and demographics with a byline for each potential sentence. He was miserably silent, leaving only the sound of your heart thumping.

“Bruce, I didn't—I didn't do this.” Your hands shook as you clumsily thumbed through dozens of interactions with him over the past few months. “Killing you? It doesn't—no, this isn't—I don't get it. What do you mean? Like, I tried to fucking murder you—? No. No.”

“Explain it to me then. How were your prints there? Why did you wait a month after that night to bring me back to Gotham? Why’d you extend our trip after calling Crane?”

It was hard to see the words as your vision clouded. When you turned to a page labeled Index, printed screenshots of your call log and internet history were highlighted with the same timestamps as everything else. You couldn't swallow any of it, the words blurring and leaving.

You gripped the back of a chair to steady yourself. The noiseless tower sent a shiver up your spine, your knuckles working the glazed wood.

“Do you really think I pushed you?”

Your voice rang hollower than anything had in the tower.

“Knowing damn well your apartment complex only keeps footage for thirty days. That the second you got off the phone with him you searched prison sentences, Blackgate—what did your friend say? Did she promise to keep it a secret?”

“Bruce, I didn’t think—I didn’t think about—nothing. None of that is related, I didn’t do this.” Your head spun, unable to form a coherent thought.

“How did that come out again? When you ‘confessed’ to the ‘lie’? How did you say it? You panicked when it slipped.”

“I don’t remember.” You couldn’t breathe. “I don’t know anything right now.”

Bruce gave you a long, weighted stare. The stillness ate you alive by the time he turned around.

“Meet me in the garage.”

You dashed after him and wedged yourself in front of the elevator. Air fell out of you in buckets. “Bruce.”

He winced. You tried to look in his eyes but he wouldn't make contact, his face twitching on the verge of tears. When he wouldn't respond you grabbed his arm and he flinched away.

Adrenaline coated every thought.

“Let's—let's talk about it, okay? I’ll calm down, let’s just take a minute so I can breathe. We can figure out how it happened. They found my prints on some pole at the scene? Some doorknob? My hair there? How often are those false matches? And the timing, the calls, the lie, and the stuff with Aaron, and my searches, um,” you mentally reviewed the murky memory of flipping through the pages. “All those conversations you listed, they, they're not that, not like that at all, you know, um,"

Goddammit, you still couldn't think!

A last hail-mary, a final desperate attempt to squeeze some air into collapsing lungs. You knew that fucking look of his, except its lines were even deeper and more resigned than out on your back porch.

“Everything in there has a context. It's an awful misunderstanding.”

“Is it now?”

“Yes, I promise. Can we just sit down?”

That word, ‘promise’—he shuddered when you said it.

You attempted to touch his wrist but he stepped away. Was anything even real right now?

“We've got to go.”

He looked cold. Distant. Like the version of Bruce telling you to scram from that alleyway and never come back.

Except that felt better. That felt so much better than this.

“We need to get on the same page. Obviously something convinced you—”

“And what would getting on the same page mean?”

Your hands felt emptier than they ever had now that he'd rejected them. It filled you with intolerable feelings that started to bleed out. “That I obviously didn't do it. That it's ridiculous to think—”

“Ridiculous?”

“Fucking ridiculous, yeah! I don't know why you'd believe some shit like that—”

“Trying to convince me I'm wrong again?”

His voice was thin as it had been at The Moore.

Fuck. He was right there, touchable, yours, but he wouldn't allow it. You reached for Bruce again, gently, and he avoided it.

“No, I'm so jumbled right now, I just don't understand why that would make sense to you, that's all, so obviously we need to talk about it and get on the same—”

“It's all in that case file you want to dismiss.”

“Those are—no, we need to sit and talk it over because those are—”

His step back became a hard step forward. “You need to start being honest with me.”

“I am being honest! If we could talk—”

“At this point it's not a question of if, but why—”

“Why would I do something like—”

“I can think of a dozen reasons—”

“Like what? I love you, I would never—”

He counted on his fingers at rapid speed. “Fame; security; sympathy; money; revenge—”

“Who do you think I am—”

“I don't know!”

It was impossible for that one not to leave a mark; you gritted your teeth and hurled back, “You know me. If you don't know me, then no one—”

“Why did you do it?”

“I didn't do—”

“I don't know who you think you're fooling right now,”

You could excuse yourself and allow you both to cool down; being this dysregulated was no state to argue in. But at this point you didn't know if you were stretching out the argument just so he'd come closer, not knowing what might happen if either of you left this room.

Still, you needed to diffuse this before he ran. Maybe something more was going on with him; maybe you needed to state it all directly.

“I'm not fooling anyone. I love you and I would absolutely never—”

“Did you think you got away with it? Or did you think I'd forgive you if you made me love you first?”

The wind knocked out of you. “None of that,”

He glanced at the clock and opened his mouth; you interrupted despite the nausea ravaging, feeling him slipping through your fingers.

“Can you let me talk?!”

He pushed past you. “We're almost late.”

“What are you talking about? Come on—”

You yanked at the tail of his shirt and he easily stepped out of your sweaty grasp.

“Are you serious? Just dropping this on me—I can’t think.” You braced your hands on your thighs and bent forward, breathing through a straw. You righted too quickly and a sharp gasp came out with your exhale. “I just need fucking five minutes, please.”

“Can you say anything other than you didn’t do it? Anything about your evidence at the scene?”

You blinked to clear your vision. Bruce looked pleading, brows knit, begging. Your hands slapped to your sides, your very blood drained out of you.

“I didn’t leave my apartment. I didn’t do it.”

His eye contact was staggering; if you’d been in your body it would’ve taken you out of it. Your truth glanced off of him.

Bruce grabbed the folder, turned off the stove, and headed for the rickety elevator. “We’ve got to go.”

“Where are we going?” The only reason your feet followed was a desperate desire not to lose contact. He walked so fast he made a breeze.

“Cases like these require evaluation.” The door opened without him breaking stride. “I’m taking you to Arkham.”

taglist: @noisylime @jonathancranesgf @hedonisticwomen @vampiresvengeance @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sarcasticwalrus0 @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog @mesywelch @kimdrqculas @fairyjanes @twirlinginlace @ratheripped @sugacor3 @idontcarewahthappenstome @joanappleee @batlovr @hiraishua@cluelessnitwhit

#fateful beginnings #the batman #bruce wayne x reader #battinson #fanfic #bruce wayne #batman #batman x reader #battinson x reader #longfic #long fic #fic #angst #slow burn #slow burn fanfic #enemies to lovers #angst with a happy ending #multi chap fic #the batman 2022 #batman 2022 #reevesverse #court of owls #fic writer #fic writing #fanfic writer #fanfiction writer #cross posted on ao3 #cross posted on wattpad

Trending Blogs

Last Seen Blogs

⋆ Elle ⋆