green is what? good!

✑ would not be very talkative about his love for you, but there really wouldn't be much of a need for him not. he's always been way more of a hands on person, believing that gestures convey a lot more than words.

✒ even though he is a little bit socially stunted and awkward, Alfred had always him to be a gentleman. being the only heir to the Wayne family and not being well-mannered would be "simply disastrous and, quite frankly, disgraceful". that translates into your relationship as well.

✑ when you're driving somewhere, he will open the door for you to get in, and he will not let the valet open your door, even if they open his. expect flowers given to you at least once a week. each flower carefully picked by him, delivered to your bedroom door. doesn't matter if you've been dating for a month, or for years, it's just what he deems as appropriate. is (almost) never late. he will wait for you without complaints, and will arrive five minutes earlier to make sure you aren't waiting for him already. the only times when his punctuality isn't at the top of its game is when he's out late at night, investigating in the city streets or looping the nights footage in the cave.

✒ acts of service are his love language, and so, small actions are the bare minimum to him. he will gladly kneel in front of you to help you put on your heels, for example. when you're eating together, he will pull your chair out for you without much thought. the gesture will be the same even if you're alone in the cold of the Batcave, when he'll quietly take of his thick hoodie to wrap it around your shoulders, or when you two just happen to be in public at a charity gala.

✑ if your relationship is public, he will make sure that everyone knows that Gothams most sought after bachelor is no more. the small amount of public appearances him, and you as well, make will be more than enough to show it. sweet gestures in front of people and the cameras are a non negotiable. he does not necessarily want to show you off, but all of those actions are very passive. kissing your hand when he reaches to hold it while you two walk up the stairs, fixing a bit of smudged lipstick with his thumb, lovingly looking up at you whilst you're talking to someone else (even though he was supposed to pay attention and engage in conversation).

✒ if your relationship came into the public eye accidentally, presumably due to paparazzi, he did a single interview. he didn't exactly lay his heart onto his sleeve for the whole world to see, but his feelings for you were so extremely obvious. and he definitely wasn't hiding it! praising you and explaining how smart, capable, calm, and kind you were was done without missing a beat. he was conservative on the comments about your looks. simply stating that 'the moment he first saw you, all the light of the world darkened and left you as the only illumination his eyes had ever had the mere luck to lay on'. so conservative.

✑ when he does choose to use his words, he melts you. the words he uses always tend to be some of the most meaningful and sweet compliments you've ever received and strike straight into you. he has always been a man of few words, but telling you how every touch of your finger tips makes him believe that there is a heaven makes up for it. your stoic and calm nature can't last very long around those words. he will coo and whisper it into your ear softly, while hugging you from behind.

✒ on the topic of hugging! physical touch is key to him. he had been so touch starved for all of his life, so when he finally feels comfortable to lean into your touch, he never stops. any moment of physical intimacy he can get, he will. there is the usual of holding your waist and holding your hand, hugging you as he falls asleep, but that isn't even the half of it. keeping his hand on your thigh while driving around the city, or asking you to just hold his arm while he has to use his hands for anything. being unable to touch you is like agony to him. kisses are always present. kisses for a good morning, for good night, for thank you, for i'm sorry, for i love you, and just for. kisses and small pecks on any part of your face and body. if he could, he'd spent the rest of his life softly laying his lips onto you.

✑ he is simply smitten with you. even if he might not show it as much, you've taken his heart hostage and he never, ever wants you to let it go. some days he has to supress himself from laying his mind and feelings bare in front of you, as his tongue would just unravel and he won't be able to stop himself, probably ever. words would choke him but he'd gladly succumb to that if it meant you'd know a fraction of his feelings about you. sometimes he gives you tidbits though. and those words can keep you fed for days.

✒ it is well known that Bruce has a habit of staring. the usual socially awkward stares have a whole different meaning when they're directed at you. he loves to look at you, to take in your whole presence. while you talk, he'll watch your lips move, your facial expressions and your gestures, trying to take in as much of you as possible. he'd watch your legs as you walked, your chest rise and fall as you'd breathe, your back when you're turned away from him, your eyes before you'd lean in to kiss him. he'd stand by and admire every milimeter of your skin.

✑ he'd be okay with holding eye contact with you as well! he still isn't as comfortable with it as when he is in the Batsuit, but it is miles better than with others. every moment that he is able to hold eye contact with you is precious. he'd sink in every color of your irises, trying to see into your soul. not in order to understand some yet unspoken truth in between you, as he'd try with others, but in order to reach that final moment of closeness with you. to finally have you closer than ever. those little stares feel like heaven.

✒ in short, bruce is head over heels in love with you. he'll kiss your cheek before bed and give you the sweetest compliments whispered into your ear before a rare public outing. he's always been a gentleman, but, before you, not even he himself knew he was a rotten romantic (or a good old-fashioned lover boy)

After getting to the hospital, she was hurried to a room away from the chaos that was already happening inside of Gotham General. While Cassie had thought there was no reason to keep her in a room alone, she figured it was because they didn’t want to risk having her or any other public official out in the open after what had happened to Bella. 

“Have a seat for me,” the nurse that had escorted her in said, waiving her to the seat in the room.

Cassie lowered herself onto it, the weight of the night starting to fall heavy onto her limbs. When she was settled, the nurse moved closer, beginning to inspect her.

“What’s your name?”

“Cassie Montclair.”

“Full name,” the nurse reiterated.

Right. “Cassandra Elise Montclair.”

“Okay, good,” she said as she checked her eyes. “Date of birth?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. For a moment, all she could see was Bruce and the catwalk.

The nurse looked up from her notes when Cassie didn’t answer. “Ms. Montclair?”

She blinked. Jesus Christ, get it the fuck together. “Sorry. Sorry, July, um… July Thirteenth.”

“Year?”

“Uh, 1993,” she said, hesitating. 

The nurse studied her for a moment. “I was told you hit your head last night. Did you black out at all or were you conscious the whole time?”

She didn’t know who it was that had told, but she wanted to sue. “Um, I wouldn’t say I blacked out? I was just disoriented for a second.”

The nurse sighed as she wrote something down. “And were you feeling any symptoms from the concussion you received on the Second before then?”

“Not in the last few days, no,” Cassie said quickly. “Not since last night, either.” The nurse wrote something else down as she hummed. Cassie assumed she didn’t believe her. 

Cassie didn’t know why she was so distracted. She was nervous they would think she would have another concussion because of her delay in responses, but that wasn’t the problem: all she could think about was how he was still out there.

While she sat beneath fluorescent lights answering stupid questions about her very minor injuries, he was still out there helping survivors after being electrocuted, shot, and falling from about fifty feet into floodwater. 

The absurdity of it made her feel ill.

The nurse eventually sent her for scans and examinations that felt like they took hours despite it not taking much time at all. She assumed the chaos within the hospital yet her not having to wait much time made time pass strangely. After waiting for her scans to come back, she thought she had gotten lucky. No fractures, but there were bruises on her ribs and the laceration on her collarbone needed stitches. 

“That’s it?” she had let slip out.

The doctor looked almost offended. “Ms. Montclair, with all due respect, that’s nothing to scoff at, especially with your injuries from the previous attempt on your life.”

“No, I know, I just…” 

She trailed off, because do you really? She thought that was so insignificant compared to what had happened that night. The incumbent mayor was shot in front of hundreds of people. Those very hundreds of people had either drowned or almost had. Cassie had almost died. Bruce had almost died. Bruised ribs were the least of her problems right now.

The doctor continued speaking, explaining how she needed to take it easy for the next few days and told her what warning signs she should watch for, but Cassie didn’t actually hear the words, only nodding. She almost laughed: take it easy for a few days. She doubted she would be doing that. 

Before she was discharged, one of the charge nurses on the floor offered to get her a change of clothes. When Cassie saw what she could assume were extra scrubs from a CRN’s locker and a set of hospital socks, she looked down at the ruined remains of her dress. The fabric was torn, and water, mud, and dried blood stained what remained. 

For a moment, Cassie considered accepting. She was cold, despite the blanket she still had wrapped around herself but her eyes drifted toward the window to look out the hallway. There were people sleeping on stretchers because there weren’t enough rooms. Children wrapped in hospital blankets because their clothes were soaked through. Elderly patients sitting in wheelchairs with anything they had left in trash bags beside them.

A ruined dress and some lost Louboutins felt like a very stupid problem compared to that.

“I’m good, thanks.”

The nurse frowned. “Are you sure? We don’t mind.”

Cassie nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She wasn’t, but neither was Gotham. Neither was he.

Before the nurse could leave the room, Cassie piped up and said, “I’ll take the socks, though.” She thought it best not to continue to walk through a hospital barefoot if given the choice not to.

Once the nurse left, she found herself completely and utterly alone for the first time since the election, since the flood. She wondered again how Bruce was holding up, considering the state he had been in before he injected himself with whatever the hell that stuff was. She wondered if she got ahold of Gordon if she could check on—

No. No. No. Bad idea. Bruce would kill you then die of embarrassment. No.

Instead, she decided to busy herself with starting some of the work on the relief package she had in mind. If she was going to be sidelined in the hospital, she could at least start some of the work on the donations she wanted to make. She sent some emails to some of those higher up at Montclair Industries, hoping that at least a couple of them were unimpacted by the flood. While donating money would be easier, she didn’t want a repeat of the Gotham Relief Fund—it was much more difficult to launder goods, she supposed. She thought donating some medical supplies, food, water, and clothing would be a good place to start.

It wasn’t long before the nurse came back, handing over her discharge paperwork. “It looks like you’re all set.”

Cassie accepted it with a distracted nod. “Thank you.”

The nurse flashed her a quick smile before turning to walk out of the room.

“Actually, I have a question. Are visitors still allowed right now?”

The nurse glanced toward the overcrowded hallway before looking back at her. “If the patient’s stable and lets you in, I don’t see why not.”

Cassie sighed with relief. “Great. Thanks.”

The nurse left before Cassie could ask her anything else, and she was glad for it: for now, she was focused on seeing one particular person before she went home.

In normal circumstances, Cassie thought it would have been horrible if she was somewhere where Alfred was and she chose not to stop and say hello. Even when she was younger, she would always stop by and say hello if she was anywhere close to Wayne Tower, even if Bruce wasn’t there. Now that she was in the very hospital where Alfred was still being treated, she couldn’t leave without seeing him for just a couple of minutes.

As she walked down the corridors of Gotham General, the aftermath of the flood was impossible to ignore. The hallways were lined with stretchers, sheets drenched and matted. Nurses hustled past with bloodied patients cradled in their arms, paramedics arguing over diagnoses, children crying from confusion or fear. The smell of antiseptic mixed with dampness and despair. Everywhere she looked, Gotham bled. Cassie felt herself hollow out a little at the edges, even as she tried to focus on getting to her destination.

Whenever she walked past the glass windows of the ICU room, Alfred smiled at first. The sight of him made relief hit her so suddenly it almost hurt. He looked pale and tired, but he was awake. When she came into view, a flicker of concern passed across his face, reminding her of the proper hot mess she must have looked.

“Good Lord, Cassie, what happened to you?” Alfred asked her, looking her over.

She scoffed, shooing the thought away with her hand as she wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. “I’m fine. Just some… you know, minor maiming and whatnot.” 

Alfred wasn’t amused.

“Trust me, I look a lot worse than I am,” she clarified. “You should see the other guy.”

Alfred’s lips pressed into a thin line, unconvinced. “So you’ve seen him, then.”

Cassie’s attempt at a smile faltered. “Yeah, I’ve seen him.”

“And?” 

That single word carried far more weight than it should have.

When she didn’t respond, Alfred went still. “And?”

Cassie looked down at the hospital blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She hated that she didn’t know for sure. 

“Out with it, then,” Alfred said, voice cracking almost imperceptively. “I’ve buried his parents, do I have to bury their son too?”

“No, I…” Her heart stuttered at the thought, her starting to hurt. “No, he’s alive. Definitely alive. But that’s all I really know.”

He exhaled a breath he had been holding all night. Relief softened his face, but there was a subtle tremor in his hands, a fear that he couldn’t hide.

“I wish I knew more than that. I really do. I tried to get them to let me stay and help, but you know how that goes. God forbid they prioritize actual hurt people.”

Alfred almost chuckled. “I don’t know what it’ll take for you and Bruce both to understand that you’re not exactly expendable.”

She exhaled loudly, her voice barely above a whisper when she spoke again. “I’m worried about him. Not to give you more reasons to worry, but… he almost died last night. I don’t know how he’s still standing right now.”

“I always worry about him,” Alfred admitted softly. “I just have to tell myself he’ll get himself home no matter what.” He paused, voice tight. “Only because of how stubborn he is, of course.”

Cassie stifled a laugh, a lump forming in her throat. “Yeah, I know. I just… I don’t know. This time feels different.”

Alfred didn’t argue with her. He only nodded, his gaze distant for a moment as if he was imagining the chaos of the flood himself.

She swallowed hard. “It shocks me to my core to say, but… he’s a fucking hero. It was amazing, the stuff he was doing in there. I…” She averted her gaze, almost like she couldn’t look at Alfred in front of her. “I just… I just want him to come home. Alive, preferably. There’s no way he’s not about to keel over right now.”

“He’ll come back. He always does, even if there’s a trail of blood behind him.” He then gave her a gentle smile. “You’ve done enough tonight, Cassie. More than most could. You now must let yourself… breathe.”

She wanted to, but the memory of that kiss and what she had done burned like a weight in her chest. She forced a nod anyway, trying to convince herself that she could heed his advice. 

Cassie swallowed the lump in her throat. “How are you? Really. I haven’t seen you since you were wheeled out of the penthouse.”

Alfred hummed. “I survived the Special Forces, dear. This is nothing some morphine won’t fix.”

Cassie stifled a laugh. “They’re giving you the good shit.”

“I’m too old for anything less, dear.”

Cassie let out a noise that could have been a laugh before looking out the window 

“Other than this alleged minor maiming you’ve mentioned, how are you?” Alfred asked. 

Cassie opened her mouth, then closed it again, the honest answer catching somewhere in her throat. What was she supposed to say? The truth? That she was tired, terrified, heartbroken, relieved, guilty, and yet wasn’t entirely sure of herself at all?

“I’m fine.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that sentence in the last twenty years, I could actually retire.”

Cassie huffed out a laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Alfred’s gaze softened slightly. “You know, Bruce hates that phrase.”

She blinked. “What phrase?”

“‘I’m fine.’”

She stared at him, still confused.

Alfred looked entirely too pleased with himself. “He claims it’s your most transparent lie.”

Something in her chest tightened. “Bruce said that?”

“Oh, many times.” Alfred folded his hands. “According to him, it’s usually the first indication that you’re absolutely not. He complains about it constantly.”

Cassie averted her gaze, trying not to let the heat crawling up her neck get the best of her. “He does not.”

“Oh, he certainly does.” A faint smile tugged at Alfred’s mouth. “Usually after you’ve left the room, of course.”

She sighed. “Well, I actually mean it this time. I’m fine.”

“Hm.”

The sound carried enough skepticism to make her roll her eyes despite herself.

Alfred studied her for a moment. Whatever he saw seemed to confirm something, but he let it go—Cassie figured he chose mercy. 

“You know,” he said, settling back against his pillow, “before Gotham decided to become an aquarium, I was watching the election coverage.”

Cassie stifled a laugh. “Oh yeah?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I was watching just to see if Bruce went with you,” Alfred said. “As expected, I thought you looked lovely out there. It’s a shame the dress got so ruined.” He paused, grimacing slightly. “I only wish Bruce would do those things with you more often. I think it would help him a bit.”

“Well, in his defense, had he gone with me, I think we’d all be dead. And his suit would be ruined.”

“There is that,” Alfred said. “However, I’d argue that he needs to consider getting more than one suit that isn’t so ill-fit, despite his reclusive tendencies.”

She nodded, fighting the tightness that curled in her stomach. Thinking about Bruce again made her heart ache. Cassie hated that she had had to leave Bruce with no way of contacting him. While she still had her phone, there was no way he still had his on him and that it was still working. All she wanted was to know that he was okay.

Alfred glanced at her, reading the worry she couldn’t quite hide. “You should get home. Might I suggest you go back to Wayne Tower so he doesn’t return to an empty home and collapse somewhere due to blood loss or shock?” 

Cassie shook her head faintly. “I… I can’t.”

Alfred’s eyebrow curled upward. “You can’t?”

“I… I have to go back home and make sure everything’s fine there,” she said. “If you’re worried about him, I mean, I’m sure he’d call me if he needed something.”

Alfred looked at her for a long moment. “I guess if he was really that dire, then yes, he may.” When she didn’t respond, his gaze softened. “Take care of yourself, Cassie. We can’t have both of you on your death beds.”

Cassie nodded, knowing what he meant. After the night that Bruce had had, he would be lucky to make it to said death bed. 

She lingered for another moment before standing. “I should probably let you rest.” “A revolutionary concept.”

She smiled despite herself. When she reached for the door, his voice stopped her.

“Cassie.”

She turned to face him.

“Don’t forget how much we care about you,” Alfred said quietly. “Even if both Bruce and I both have horrible ways of showing it.”

The sudden tightness in her throat almost hurt. She thought if she actually looked at Alfred in the face she might cry. If only he knew what she had done.

“Yeah,” she managed anyway. 

She slipped out into the hallway before she could answer him properly. Before she could think properly, she found herself outside Gotham General, hailing one of the few taxis still running and headed back home. She made the driver stop about a block away from her building just because he recognized her. The last thing she needed was a stalker too. 

As much as she wouldn’t have minded going back to Wayne Tower, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. After what she had done, she knew she needed to go home. She didn’t think being there when Bruce inevitably came back would do either of them any good. Besides, she knew she couldn’t take him inevitably pushing her away again after what she had just confessed.

If he even spoke to her again. 

Cassie tried to push it from her mind. As worried as she was, it didn’t matter right now. Gotham was underwater. Alfred was still in the hospital. Bruce was currently upright, but that almost worried her more. Who knew what would happen when he inevitably crashed?

When she walked through her front door, she was thankful to find her place completely unchanged from when she left it days ago. Unlike its ravage on most of town, the flood had left the building itself untouched, which she was more than grateful for. While she could definitely foot the bill, she didn’t want to deal with water damage right now. 

Her body screamed at her to rest, but the memories of the night still gnawed at her relentlessly. Before she could do anything else, she peeled off her clothes, taped up her stitches so they wouldn’t get wet, and headed straight for the shower. She needed to scrub herself clean of the night, to scrub away the memory of him almost dying like that. 

She tried not to think while she was in the shower. She was so exhausted that part of her wanted to skip it, but she knew she wouldn’t forget herself if she didn’t at least wash her hair tonight. 

The water was almost painfully hot, but Cassie stood beneath it anyway, one hand braced against the tile as steam filled the bathroom. Dirt and dried blood spiraled down the drain in muddy ribbons. 

Cassie couldn’t stop thinking about the past twenty-four hours, the dull pain in her shoulder a steadfast reminder of what had happened. If she felt this shitty, she could only imagine how Bruce felt about right now. The image of him struggling to hold himself up still flashed across her mind, making her squeeze her eyes shut.

Stop it.

The water beat against her shoulders, cruel and unforgiving. She tried to think about anything else, literally anything that wasn’t about that man. Despite her attempts, three words flashed across her mind again: I love you.

She had said it. Had actually said it, after years of keeping it buried so deep she could almost pretend it wasn’t there.

And now he knew.

For a moment, she wondered if maybe he hadn’t actually heard her. He hadn’t given any indication that he had anyway, considering he hadn’t said anything that confirmed he actually did know about her feelings for him. Maybe she had a chance of acting like she had never slipped up in the first place.

Her stomach twisted: then how would you explain the kiss, dumbass? Cassie’s head drooped lower, forehead almost thumping against the tile. What kind of a person kissed a man who was barely conscious and dying? Based on the look in his eyes when she pulled away, he had probably thought the same thing. That was why he hadn’t talked to her about it, because currently he was planning on never speaking to her again.

She almost laughed at herself. She had spent the last twelve hours watching Gotham fall apart and somehow this was still the thing making her feel sick. 

Talk about first world fucking problems.

As she traced over her lips again with her fingers, another thought surfaced, suddenly making the water feel cold against her skin. 

For the last eight years, Cassie had sworn that the night she had kissed Bruce Wayne had been nothing more than a stupid, terrible dream that she had cursed herself with for loving a man she had no reason to love anymore. Even still, it felt more real than most anything she had ever experienced. Despite her being so drunk, she swore she could remember the dark room, his hands, the sound of his voice. Now that she had kissed him again, she thought that maybe, just maybe it wasn’t a dream.

She tried to stop herself from thinking about it, but she couldn’t help but let her mind wander to the thought of her in his arms, his fingers brushing her hair back, his lips against hers and the way his breath had stuttered. Dreams weren’t supposed to feel like that. 

She opened her eyes again. She was just imagining things. It had been a dream, hadn’t it? If it wasn’t, surely Bruce would have said something by now—

Would he, though? 

Cassie’s first instincts told her yes. Of course he would say something if she kissed him, especially if she was as drunk as she was that night, but the more she thought about it, she wasn’t so sure.

Bruce, in many situations, was intrepid. He had jumped off of buildings with little to no hesitation. He had thrown himself into gunfire. He had thrown himself into rooms he should have died inside of countless times and always somehow still survived. Cassie also knew, however, that she had a snowball’s chance in hell in asking Bruce to talk about his feelings. 

The thought of them ever talking about that kiss almost made her laugh. They had never so much as been able to have a conversation about whether Bruce had actually liked a new recipe she was trying out without him getting embarrassed, never mind talk about something like that. Bruce would rather die than to admit to having feelings about anything—somehow, that made everything much worse.

Cassie thought she might spiral if she thought about it anymore.

When she got out of the shower, she went to put on something more comfortable: her old Harvard sweatshirt. It was probably one of the only sweatshirts she had that wasn’t an old one of his. Some of her closet had become cluttered with pieces of Bruce over the years: hoodies and shirts he had either forgotten or she had stolen. While normally the idea of wearing anything of his didn’t make her bat an eye, tonight she couldn’t do it. 

Not after last night. 

Before she could tread anymore on what happened, she figured she could put that energy to better use. She pulled open her laptop and began working on a relief fund and package, setting that as an immediate priority for her company. She was pulling strings, calling in favors, doing anything she could to expedite the process so those affected could get relief as soon as possible. She arranged for food, water, emergency kits, clothing, all to be shipped to the hardest‑hit neighborhoods as soon as possible, and was working on trying to get temporary housing.

She was trying her damndest to focus on work. Really, she was trying. Every time her phone buzzed, she answered it within seconds. Every email got a thorough response. Every request for authorization was approved within minutes. 

Every time the television flashed with live coverage from Gotham Square Garden, though, that focus faltered. Every single goddamn time.

Her eyes always found him before she consciously registered he was there. She hated how she knew him even from three pixels and a bad camera angle. She watched as he hauled debris, helped paramedics, carried people toward rescue like his body hadn’t already given him more reasons to stop than to keep moving forward.

For a moment, Cassie felt sick. If she was this exhausted, this sore, this worn down after one night, what the hell did he feel like?

Though she didn’t want to admit it, she was always glad to see his blurry dark figure bless her screen every once in a while. If she didn’t have that, she knew she would be searching reported casualties, calling hospitals for John Does, anything to make sure that he wasn’t hurt or dead or worse.

She tried to tell herself that he was okay. That he would be okay, at least. Instead, she did as much work as she could do on the project, waiting for people to email her back and follow through on their promises for the relief fund. When she finally shut her laptop, she put it to the side, pressing her palms to her eyes. 

She still couldn’t believe she had kissed him like that. Cassie tried to push it from her mind, but she couldn’t. She could still feel his lips. The metal of the suit beneath her hands. The life leaving him with every passing second. She could feel it in her chest all over again.

She thought she was going to be sick for a moment. Why did you kiss him! What the fuck is wrong with you! He had barely been conscious. Barely alive. The thought made her stomach twist. What kind of person—? She pressed her hands to her temple as if she could smother the memory, but it was too late for that. 

Tears prickled the corners of her eyes, and she let herself slump against her couch, squeezing her eyes shut. She felt hollow, guilty, alone. She should have thought more clearly, should have controlled herself before doing something so fucking stupid. She wasn’t sure anything could go back to the way it was before.

For years she had wanted him to know, and now that he actually knew, she had never felt more terrified. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t pretend that this night hadn’t happened. That the kiss hadn’t happened. She could only hope that she hadn’t just ruined her relationship with Bruce forever.

It was a little before three in the morning when Cassie’s phone rang again.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. One second she had been staring at the television, watching coverage of the flood roll endlessly across the screen. The next, she was jerking awake on the couch with a crick in her neck and her phone vibrating violently against her thigh.

Still half-asleep, she fumbled for her phone blindly and froze when she read the name.

Bruce.

Her heart stuttered enough to hurt. She nearly dropped the phone trying to answer it, still tangled in the throw blanket on her couch. “Bruce?”

For a moment, there was only breathing, heavy and uneven like every inhale cost him something.

Her pulse immediately spiked. “Bruce?”

“Hey.”

The relief that flooded her chest lasted less than a second. His voice sounded wrong. Not weak, exactly, but strained like he was forcing words through clenched teeth.

“You home?” he said, voice still wrong as he exhaled heavily.

She sat upright immediately. She almost couldn’t believe that he had asked her such a stupid question. “Yeah, I’m home. Where are you? Are you okay?”

There was a faint scrape of metal that came before a soft groan.

“Bruce, where are you?” she pressed, heart thumping in her ears.

“Home,” he said, the word coming out rougher than she was sure he intended.

“How hurt are you?”

“Just—” He groaned like he had tried moving but couldn’t. “Just a little.”

Her grip tightened around the phone. “Bruce.”

“What?”

“You’re such a dogshit liar.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, she heard a muffled curse as something metallic clattered loudly through the speaker. The sound made her jump up.

“Come on, talk to me,” she said, her throat burning. “What’s going on?”

He groaned frustratedly as another scrape of metal came.

“Bruce, what are you doing?”

He sighed. “I’m trying to get this thing off.”

“What?”

“The suit.” His voice tightened as another metallic clank echoed through the phone. “Goddammit.”

“Bruce, please, just—”

“Can you…” He made that sound again, the air hitching through his teeth as he scraped metal. “Just… come here.” The next sound he made was the kind of broken noise she had never, ever heard from him. “Please.”

The bottom dropped out of her stomach when his voice broke, almost like a desperate plea rather than a simple request.

She didn’t remember moving, only that she nearly slipped on the floor when she got to her feet. She ran into her room and grabbed a pair of sneakers she had at the edge of her closet. When she went back to grab her keys, they clattered on the ground when she tried to grab them, and she swore under her breath as she scooped them back up.

Her phone was still at her ear, white-knuckled in her grip. “I’m on my way. Don’t hang up. You hear me? Just… keep talking to me, okay?”

“No rush.”

“Bruce Wayne.”

He let out another pained sound, the sound soft like he was trying to hide it but failing to do so. “A little rush wouldn’t hurt.”

She normally would have at least hummed a little laugh, but she couldn’t even find his attempt at a joke funny. The thought that he was even admitting that he actually wanted help made her sick to her stomach.

“I’m coming as fast as I can. I promise.”

He muttered something that sounded close to “okay,” something strained through his teeth as he hissed in pain. 

She bolted down the hall to the elevator, phone still clutched to her ear. She didn’t bother to put on the shoes she still had in her hand. As she went down the elevator, she shoved her feet inside them, only half-tying the laces before sprinting to her car.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely turn the ignition. Once she made it out of the garage, the headlights cut across the empty street in a violent sweep.

“I’m on the way,” she breathed out, voice shaking. Her eyes flicked between the road and his name and contact image on the screen of her car. “Just hang in there, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

He hummed, like he was too scared to force actual words out. Though he didn’t talk much, he sounded so tired. Too tired. Every time he got too quiet for too long her chest seized, like her heart forgot to beat. 

“Still with me?” she asked. When she didn’t get a response, she said, “Bruce, come on, I need words.”

“Yeah,” he choked out.

The drive felt much longer than usual despite the city blurring through the windows. She didn’t care about the two red lights she blew through. What if I get there and he’s already gone? Her heart thudded against her ribs so hard it made her nauseous. She couldn’t wait when she couldn’t hear anything but his ragged breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he finally mustered, like he was fighting through pain to say something to her. 

Cassie gripped the steering wheel tighter, her palms slick as she tried to fight her throat burning. She didn’t know what he was attempting to apologize for, but it didn’t matter. He had nothing to apologize for. “Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? You’re gonna be okay.” 

“Mm,” he breathed out, like he didn’t believe it. 

“Bruce, I’m serious. Don’t waste your breath on something like that, all right? Just breathe.”

He made a sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh but sounded more pained. “Trying.”

“Good. Keep doing that.”

He made another sound, something that she thought he had tried to muffle so it didn’t sound as horrible. It didn’t matter—the sounds of his swallowed pain were enough to make her chest seize. Despite his pain, some pathetic part of her clung to it. Even if he sounded in pain, noise was good. If anything, she appreciated having the proof of life.

“Hey. Keep talking to me,” she pleaded, her voice barely holding together. The car jolted over a pothole as she sped through the last stretch of road, headlights cutting through the tunnel’s mouth. “Say something. Anything.”

Her chest locked tight when all she got back was a breath that sounded like it hurt to take. 

“Bruce?”

He hummed softly like it pained him to still be conscious. “Still here.”

“Just—I’m almost there,” she said, forcing her voice steady even though it trembled at the edges. “Just keep hanging on for me.”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

He grunted, low and ragged, followed by the faint scrape of metal. She thought for a second that meant he was moving, or maybe he was pressing one of those buttons on the console. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, nervous. When he didn’t answer, she said, “Bruce, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying—” he grunted again— “to get the door open. So you can come through that way.”

“Okay, while I appreciate the effort, I’d rather not have you—”

The sound of a crash, loud enough to make her flinch, cut her off, followed by a strangled noise that barely made it through the speaker before she heard nothing.

“Bruce?” she called.

Nothing.

“Bruce,” she pleaded. “Bruce, come on. Talk to me.”

For the first time, there was nothing. Hardly even a faint sound crackling through the speaker to prove he was still there.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, Bruce, just hang on a little longer.”

Her pulse thundered so loud it nearly drowned out everything else. The tires screamed as she rounded the last corner toward the cave’s entrance. She fumbled the car into park and shut off the engine, her whole body trembling with adrenaline. She nearly dropped the keys when she pulled them from her cup holder, her fingers slick with sweat.

The cold air of the old station hit her first, damp and metallic, tasting faintly of iron. The hum of machines filled the air just loudly enough to unsettle her nerves further. Her sneakers slapped against wet stone, each echo ricocheting through the emptiness.

“Bruce?” Her voice cracked too softly to echo.

The silence made her pulse roar in her ears.

“Bruce,” she called again, louder this time as her voice caught in her throat.

Cassie’s heart lurched into her throat as her vision blurred at the edges. Please don’t be dead. The cowl discarded on the ground did nothing but make her stomach lurch. She forced herself forward. A few feet ahead of her, a gauntlet caught the light. His gloved hand limp, palm up, fingers slack.

“Bruce.” The word fell out of her like a breath punched from her lungs. She couldn’t stop herself from running toward him.

Slumped against the base of the console, armor hanging half-open across his body, he looked like he'd lost a fight with his own suit. One gauntlet was gone. The chestplate hung crooked. Metal tools and loose pieces of armor were scattered around him where he had apparently dropped them.

He must have tried to finish taking it off himself but had failed to do so.

Her knees hit the stone so hard it set a shock up her legs, but she didn’t feel it. As she got closer to him, she thought that up close he looked much worse. His head rested heavily against the console, damp hair clinging to his forehead. Sweat shone across skin that looked almost gray beneath the remnants of black camo paint around his eyes.

“Bruce,” she called, her hands immediately finding his face. “Bruce, hey, hey—look at me.”

His skin was clammy against her hands, damp with sweat. His jaw was still rough with stubble from a few days’ neglect. She said his name again and again, like maybe if she kept repeating it, she could drag him back by sheer will. 

“Bruce, come on. Please.”

His eyelids fluttered, just barely, and her breath caught so sharply it hurt. His gaze finally found hers, unfocused and dazed, but still there. 

“Hey,” she whispered, breathing out a broken laugh of relief as tears pricked her eyes. Her voice was somewhat brittle as her thumbs brushed the sweat from his temples. “It’s me. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He stared at her for what felt like a long time, like he was trying to make sure she was real; something in his expression eased. 

“You’re okay,” he said softly, the words barely audible.

“What?”

“You’re okay,” he repeated, this time sounding more relieved.

A broken laugh escaped her again, some of her tears already overflowing. “Jesus Christ, you were worried about me?”

“Yeah.” His eyes drifted over her shoulder, still unfocused. “You… got hurt.”

The words came out slow and rough, like that alone explained why he was worried.

When his eyes began to drift again, she moved closer to him, brushing damp hair away from his forehead. “Hey, don’t do that. Stay with me.”

His lips parted, a sound escaping low in his throat. He finally managed her name hoarsely paired with a groan. “Cass.”

Her chest splintered open. “I’m right here.”

He exhaled heavily in response, his eyes already sliding shut again.

“Bruce.”

A low noise escaped him. Not quite an answer, but it was enough for now.

Her gaze dropped to the armor. For the first time, the armor looked more like a cage than protection. The chestplate was dented inward in multiple places, riddled with bullet holes and deep scratches. The largest dent curled into him in a way she couldn’t imagine meant anything good. 

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, voice cracking. 

She swallowed down the rising panic and carefully reached for one of the gauntlets. The moment she started undoing the straps, Bruce’s hand twitched weakly, instinct more than anything.

“It’s okay,” she murmured immediately.

She peeled the leather away inch by inch. When she finally worked the gauntlet free, she found split knuckles underneath, dried blood caked across his skin.

Her throat tightened. “Jesus, Bruce.”

His head shifted slightly at the sound of his name, but no noise came.

One by one, she stripped away everything she felt she safely could. She peeled the cape from around his shoulders, the utility belt, anything that she thought wouldn’t hurt him before she fiddled with the chestplate as she muttered half-apologies under her breath. 

When there wasn’t much left, she swallowed, then slid her hands to the first buckle she could reach. Metal bit her fingers as she worked it loose. The strap gave with a reluctant snap. The plate shifted with a dull scrape, and Bruce gave a low groan, like the sound had been torn out of him.

Her stomach twisted, her voice cracking at the sound, and her eyes squeezed shut for half a second. “I know. I know it hurts, I’m so sorry, I have to.”

She moved to the next one, fingers clumsy. Every time she tugged something free, the weight of the armor dragged against him, and he flinched, his body shuddering weakly under her touch. She found herself murmuring with each piece, little apologies she wasn’t sure he could hear.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry, just one more. Just one more and we’re done.”

By the time the last buckle gave, sweat had collected along his hairline despite how cold the cave was.

“Okay,” she breathed out, touching his face again for just a moment. “Okay. We’re done.”

Carefully, she lifted the chestplate away, and the scrape of metal echoed through the cave. Bruce made a small, broken sound as his body jerked at the movement. The sight of what remained underneath the metal made her forget how to breathe.

“Fuck.”

The undersuit was torn and stretched in ways that made her stomach uneasy. It clung to him with sweat and grime, stretched tightly across bruises that had already darkened into ugly shades of purple and black. Even without touching him she could see swelling along one side of his chest.

Her stomach dropped. “Bruce…”

Her hand found the least damaged part of his chest, his skin damp beneath her palm and far too hot. She pressed down just enough to feel the faint rise and fall of his chest, proof he was still breathing. It was shallow and uneven, but it was there. For right now, that was all that mattered.

The relief was so sharp it almost hurt.

She swallowed hard and forced herself up, legs barely working beneath her. “I’ll be right back.”

The panic in her chest had turned to static, loud and suffocating. She darted toward his workstation and grabbed anything she could find and hold in her hands—medical kit, sutures, antiseptics, gauze, bottles of sterile water. Her hands shook so badly that two bottles hit the floor and rolled away.

“Okay,” she whispered under her breath, more to herself than him. “Okay, okay, okay.”

The word sounded increasingly less real each time she said it.

When she dropped back to her knees beside him, the impact jarred through her already aching body, but she barely felt it. She tore open the trauma kit and grabbed the shears, the metallic click seeming unnaturally loud. As she started to cut the undersuit, he groaned half-consciously, seemingly in more annoyance than pain, as he formed a word that almost sounded like her name.

“Yeah, I know,” she said quickly, continuing to cut. “I know, I’m sorry, but there’s no way you’re fixing this thing, it’s…” She had to stop herself from saying completely fucked beyond repair. “I’ll get you another one. I promise.”

The word promise wavered, because she didn’t know if there’d even be a him to give it to.

Carefully, she peeled what was left of the undersuit away. The sight underneath made her stomach drop. Bruises spread across his ribs and sternum in ugly shades of purple and black. Swelling distorted the shape of his chest enough that she couldn’t tell where one injury ended and another began. His chest rose too shallowly, too fast, like every breath caught on broken bone.

“It’s okay, it’s not…” Her voice cracked. She couldn’t lie to him. She pressed her sleeve to her mouth, biting down so hard on her cheek she tasted blood. 

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Crying wouldn’t help. Crying would just make her useless.

She forced herself steady as she pulled the kit closer. First, she helped him sit upright just enough to avoid smothering his lungs further. His head flopped against her shoulder, but he managed a small swallow between shallow breaths.

“Hey, come on,” she murmured. “You have to sit up for me. Just for a second, okay?”

He made a low sound of protest.

“I know,” she said, shifting her grip. “Trust me, I know, but you have to sit up.”

Helping him upright felt less like lifting a person and more like trying to hold together something already falling apart. 

For a second, he tried helping. His arm twitched like that was his intent, anyway, and his abdominal muscles tightened. After only a few seconds, a sharp breath escaped him and the effort died immediately.

“Okay.” Cassie tightened her hold before he could slump sideways. “Okay, stop.”

His head dropped heavily against her shoulder, the weight of it nearly undoing her as he shook. 

“Just let me do it, okay?” she said, adjusting her hold slightly. “I’ve got you.”

Whether he heard her or not, he stopped fighting—she didn’t know which one was worse, at this point. Together they managed something vaguely upright. While it wasn’t perfect, his breathing eased enough that she could convince herself it was helping.

She reached for the bottle of water. “Small sips for me.”

The cap nearly slipped from her shaking fingers as she put the bottle to his lips, using her other hand to support his head. For one awful second she thought he wasn’t conscious enough, but he swallowed before she could change her mind. 

“Good. That’s it,” she murmured as he swallowed again, pressing a hand to his shoulder to keep him upright. “You’re doing good.”

Eventually, his head lolled against her collarbone again. This time she let it, guiding his head down gently as she pulled the water away.

“Okay. That’s enough for now.”

Carefully, she set the water aside, then reached for the antiseptic swabs. She looked down at him for a moment, trying to decide where to start. She started with the gash above his eyebrow, cleaning it as gently as she could. 

Bruce immediately flinched, his jaw tightening as a muscle jumped in his cheek.

“I know,” she whispered. Her fingers slid through his sweat-matted hair, pushing it away from his face. “I know. This is gonna suck and I’m sorry.”

Something moved at the corner of his mouth as he stifled a hum. For half a second she thought he might have tried to laugh. The possibility hurt more than if he hadn’t reacted at all.

Cassie worked her way through the rest methodically. She moved to his hands next. The blood on his knuckles had gone dark and thick, almost black in color. When she swiped at them with the antiseptic, he hissed softly, the sound scraping raw against the air. His fingers twitched involuntarily, but she held them steady, her touch gentle even as her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t think the cuts were deep enough for sutures, so she wrapped each hand in sterile gauze, securing it with tape. 

She worked her way down his body like that—cleaning shallow cuts, wrapping gauze around his ribs, taping what she could. Nothing fatal, not on the surface. The amount of bruising and swelling he had scared her, but not more than the way he was breathing. Every few minutes she found herself checking his pulse again, just to be sure he was still there.

Her throat burned. She bent close, lips almost brushing his ear, whispering like she could trick him and herself into believing her own words. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. You have to be.”

Bruce stirred slightly, lips parting around a half-formed word.

Cassie immediately leaned closer. “What?”

“You…” His brow furrowed as he tried again but his breath came out hot and uneven against her wrist, the words he was trying to say failing to come out. She swore she heard him try to apologize again.

“I know.” She blinked away the sting in her eyes, brushing her thumb across his temple. “I know, it’s okay.”

When she finished working on what injuries she considered needed immediate attention, exhaustion hit her all at once, but she didn’t cave to it out of fear of dropping Bruce. The medical supplies were scattered across the floor around them, and while he looked marginally less terrible, he still didn’t look okay. 

She tried to think through her available options. She knew getting him up the elevator, then up multiple flights of stairs was going to be impossible. Getting him into her car to take him back to her place was more possible, but not something she wanted to do either. She turned her head to look at the cot he had not too far away from where they were sitting on the floor, something that he had just in case something like this ever happened.

“As much as I don’t want to, we’ve gotta move you, okay?”

He exhaled heavily, his head turning against her shoulder like he was trying to bury himself there. 

She took that as agreement. “Okay.” Carefully, slipped one arm behind his back. “Okay, come on.”

Bruce immediately tried helping, despite still being half-conscious and unable to keep his eyes open. The second she started pulling him upright, his arm moved on instinct, searching for leverage.

For one hopeful second she thought maybe this would be easier than she had expected, but he could hardly get up on his own legs. 

“Whoa,” Cassie tightened her grip instantly. “Okay, no, don’t do that.”

A strained sound left him, but she didn’t know if it was frustration, embarrassment, or pain—knowing him, probably all three. Despite her asking him not to, he tried again anyway, his jaw clenched. He had one hand planted weakly against the floor. He managed to push himself a few inches higher before a sharp breath escaped him and all the strength seemed to leave at once.

“Bruce.” The warning came out sharper than she’d intended. “Stop it. Seriously.”

Her piercing tone didn’t do anything to stop him from starting to try again.

“Bruce, please.”

For some reason, that finally seemed to get through to him—Cassie thought that maybe he had conveniently become too exhausted to keep fighting her. Either way, he stopped trying.

“Thank you.”

She slid his arm over her shoulders and her arm under his, bracing herself to lift him. When she tried to pull him up, she immediately regretted every decision she had ever made. He twitched faintly, a sharp breath escaping through his teeth when her hand brushed against his ribs by accident.

“Jesus Christ.”

Bruce hummed like the sound itself was a question.

“You weigh, like, a million pounds.”

He mumbled something that sounded roughly like “one-ninety” back, his brow twitching.

Cassie started at him for a moment before a broken laugh escaped her, tears spilling over before she could stop them. “Shut up.”

His mouth moved slightly, like he was maybe trying to smile but the effort of it was too much.

“Don’t waste energy trying to argue with me,” she said, voice strained.

With considerably more effort than dignity, she finally managed to get both of them standing. For just a second, she thought that they were both going down when he started to sway, his weight sagging heavily against her side.

“Okay.” She tightened her grip. “Okay, I’ve got you.”

His forehead dropped against her shoulder, and the motion felt strangely familiar. 

“I’ve got you,” she whispered again.

This time he didn’t argue. 

The cot couldn’t have been more than thirty feet away, but Cassie swore it felt like miles. Every step was slow, careful, painful in its deliberation. A few times she felt Bruce trying to hold more of his own weight so she didn’t collapse. A few times she felt him struggle hard not to collapse. Each attempt made her heart hurt, because even though he was like this, he was still trying.

“Stop helping.”

A weak sound came from somewhere near her neck that she swore was a, “can’t.”

“Seriously,” she strained out as they took another step. “You’ve done enough.”

By the time they reached the cot, her arms were shaking so much she feared she may drop him. Her knees felt unstable, and sweat dampened the back of her sweatshirt.

“I’m gonna put you down now, okay?”

He nodded weakly against her shoulder, and she carefully turned them. Getting him down proved almost as difficult as getting him up, she found. She lowered him slowly, one hand behind his shoulders, the other supporting his head.

Bruce made a quiet sound as the mattress shifted beneath him. Then, finally, he was down.

Cassie adjusted the pillow he had and pulled a blanket over him, tucking it carefully around the side that looked least injured.  Only when she was absolutely certain he wasn’t going to slide off the cot did she let herself pull away. The moment she did, her body gave out. 

She sank onto the cold stone floor beside him, her palms slick and trembling. Everything hurt, especially her chest and shoulders. Tears blurred her vision.

At first, all she could do was stare at him through blurry eyes. She counted his breaths for a long time, the unnatural rise and falls of his chest still making her anxious but hey, at least he’s breathing. 

Cassie pressed both of her palms to her face, dragging them down hard, like she could scrape the panic out of her skin and stop herself from crying. She sat on the cold stone floor next to him, breathing ragged, staring at him like something would happen to him if she didn’t. 

She sat there like that for a long time. She pulled her hoodie tighter around her, trying not to let the cold crawl into her bones. She tried not to think how he must have felt if she was about to freeze to death. The faint hum of the cave machines echoed against the walls, but it barely registered. She could only focus on him.

Her hands rested lightly on the blanket over him, fingertips brushing against him. Every shallow rise and fall of his chest made her heart ache. Fear for what came next coiled through her veins like ice water, sharp and relentless. She felt it physically in her stomach, in her lungs, making her hands shake.

Every once in a while, he muttered incoherently beneath the covers, syllables that made no sense but made her lean closer anyway, like proximity alone could pull him back from the edge. She pressed her hand against his shoulder, traced the curve of his jaw, almost like that would help. 

Her eyelids burned, her muscles still screaming from lifting him. She hadn’t had more than a few hours’ rest at a time for two days now and she was starting to feel it. She fought her exhaustion anyway, trying not to fall asleep as she leaned her head against the cot. She thought about leaving for a second: just to grab fresh gauze, maybe some more medicine, another blanket, anything to make him more comfortable. Her body made the motion before her brain could fully process it.

Before she could fully stand, his hand shot out and caught hers, weak and trembling. The suddenness of it made her heart lurch, like someone had ripped her lungs from her chest.

“Bruce?”

“Don’t…” The word barely made it out, eyes still closed. His fingers tightened around hers. “Don’t go.”

Cassie’s breath caught. The sound of those words cleaved through her. The thought of him reaching out to her like this nearly killed her.

She sank instantly back down beside him, clutching his hand in both of hers like she could anchor them both that way. Her tears came before she could stop them, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she choked out, her voice barely holding. “Okay? Never.”

He pulled weakly at her hand again, like he wanted her closer to him. She pressed her forehead to his arm as she tried to stop herself from shaking, grounding herself in the faint warmth of him. He was still here. Still alive. Still fighting, somehow.

He drifted back into his half-asleep state, but he didn’t let go of her hand. Even unconscious, his grip was still somewhat firm, still steady like he couldn’t bear the thought of her not touching him.

She didn’t move for what felt like hours. She shifted only enough to ease the cramps throughout her body. She ached from laying haphazardly on the floor, but she stayed. She didn’t want to move until he woke fully again. 

Somewhere deep in her chest, a quiet terror lurched, making it impossible to take her eyes off of him. She feared he would slip away without warning, too quickly for her to act on it. That he would close his eyes and not open them again.

Her hand tightened around his, her forehead pressing harder into him. “Just stay with me.”

And for now, by some miracle, he did.

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