𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x fem!reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: did nobody tell you, that it is bad luck to wear wayne pearls in june?
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: angst, some fluff, happy ending, 3.6k words, mentions of death, blood, reader's birthday is in may but aside from that no other details are given, selina cameo, darling used twice, not edited 😛
<𝟑: based on this request! i hope you like it :)
By the time your birthday comes around, it feels as if Gotham is waking up from its drowsy winter sleep. May comes with the promise of the future, something bright looming nearby.
Maybe it is that, or the fact that you and Bruce have been dating for the better part of two years (or maybe the true reason is that he is hopelessly in love with you). Whatever the answer might be, it does not change the fact that Bruce has gifted you his mother’s pearl necklace for your birthday.
It is heavy and smooth between your closed hand—but not slippery—the pure white colour shifting slightly under the light. At first they are startlingly cool, but quickly warm up to your flesh. You are a grinning mess, clutching them with a vice at the same time you decorate Bruce’s face with invisible kisses.
He allows himself a tiny smile. You almost drop the pearls.
“I thought the trip to Italy would excite you more.”
You laugh, slightly breathless. The whole day feels like a dream. Because on top of the heirloom, Bruce has gifted you a weekend getaway to Italy—for once, he promises not to disappear.
That memory from a month ago hits you as you stare at a black satin dress. Selina plays with her flute, eyeing something much different. The dress is gorgeous; long, smooth, a sharp silhouette decorated with lace details.
Selina sips her drink. “Bruce is going to have a heart attack when he sees you in that.” Her grin is wicked. “You should totally buy it.”
You run the pad of your finger where the lace of the bodice meets the silk of the skirt. “I’m thinking I’ll pair it with her pearls.”
“They’re yours now,” Selina reminds you. You don’t dwell much on her words because she’s already spotted an amazing pair of shoes. “I like my heels studded but they match perfectly with your dress.”
You hum absentmindedly, still playing with the fabric.
Selina glances at you over the rim of her glass. “What?”
“Nothing.” You blink, finally snapping out of it.
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a bad thing.”
Your fingers trace the lace of the dress again. “Things are good with Bruce.”
Selina waits. Her eyes are focused on you with so much patience and intensity… She makes it impossible not to tell her.
“There it is,” she says. “The terrifying confession.”
You snort. “He makes me happy.”
She pretends to gag. “Now you’re just being disgusting.”
“Selina.” You press your lips together.
Despite yourself, you smile. “He’s thoughtful. He’s always there when it matters. He remembers things I don’t even remember telling him.” Your mind drifts to the pearls again. “And sometimes he looks at me like I’ve hung the moon and the stars.”
Selina’s expression softens for a fraction of a second. “But?”
You shoot her a look. “How did you know there was a but?”
“Because nobody talks about Bruce Wayne for that long without one.”
You laugh. The sound fades quickly. “Sometimes I feel like there’s a part of him I’m never going to know.”
Selina doesn’t answer immediately, she just sips her champagne really slowly. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Not like this.” Your voice comes out quieter than intended. “There are days he disappears completely. He’ll cancel plans, stop answering calls, and then show up exhausted with some excuse that barely makes sense.” You shake your head. “I know he’s hiding something.”
Selina’s gaze lingers on you. “And?”
“And nothing.” You shrug. “I don’t need to know everything about him.” That isn’t entirely true, but it is true enough. “I just…” You search for the words. “I wish he trusted me with whatever it is.”
For a moment, something unreadable crosses Selina’s face— gone almost as quickly as it appears. “Bruce trusts you more than you think.”
The certainty in her voice makes you blink. “That’s oddly specific.”
Selina takes a slow sip of champagne. “Call it a hunch.”
Just as you’re about to answer, you hear the sharp crack of glass crashing against the marble floor.
Time stretches in that silence.
Another buyer has dropped her courtesy champagne flute. You see the scatter of fragments; delicate and bright, skittering across the floor like ice. Immediately a young girl gets on her knees to pick it up while the older woman laughs nervously, flushed in the face.
Selina drops her voice and whispers in your ear: “I think someone didn’t understand one glass per person.”
You laugh, your sudden increased heartbeat slowly going back to normal. You pick the heels and the dress. “Did you see anything you like?”
Selina is eyeing the necklace of the tipsy (definitely drunk) woman. “Hmm yes,” her eyes snap to yours, “but I think I can do better than that.”
The gala looks plucked from one of your dreams as a girl; it’s summer, so the hosts have decided to go with an all-white theme. It gives the feeling of being in a cloud, high up in the sky. The soft song of the orchestra (thick jazz but in allegro, so it is lively against the oppressive heat outside), the coruscating lights hidden amongst the decorations on the ceiling.
The conversations blur together, champagne flows freely, and Gotham’s elite laugh and chat.
Neither Bruce nor you like galas that much, but you have to admit, this is amazing so far.
And it isn’t because Bruce’s hands are settled on your hips, or because he is looking at you that way he sometimes does ( often, actually. You just fail to notice).
You two glide across the dance floor, and you wonder how you managed to convince him to dance.
“You’ve been staring at me all night,” you say, looking up at him.
A smile tugs at Bruce’s mouth. “You’ve been staring at me.”
You pretend to think about it. “I’m prettier.”
His grip tightens almost imperceptibly at your waist. “True.”
You laugh. “Bruce, you're supposed to argue."
The smile that follows is small, but real. "Can't."
You feel your chest squeeze. The world seems quieter when Bruce looks at you like this. You blush, and his smile widens just a fraction further.
There is something startlingly vulnerable about the way Bruce Wayne loves; he never says it often—but he doesn’t have to. It's in every cancelled meeting when you need him, every remembered detail no matter how minuscule it is, every last small moment and gesture that has I love you behind it.
It's in moments like these when all of his secrets and the skeletons in his closet don’t bother you. What harm can dust do, if he keeps looking at you that way?
You rest your forehead briefly against his shoulder. “I don’t want this to end.”
Bruce’s expression softens. “The night is young.”
His thumb brushes lightly against your side. “Then we’ll create more moments like these.”
The promise is so immediate that it makes you smile. He says it with such conviction, as if there is no other answer… as though he would simply move the world around until he can make it happen.
The music shifts, a new song picks up, the people laugh, someone nearby drops a glass of champagne—
And suddenly Bruce goes still. Not completely, he still keeps guiding your body through the music, but enough for you to notice.
His gaze lifts over your shoulder, and you see that the warmth has left his expression.
His attention snaps back to you too fast. “Stay close to Selina.”
A chill crawls down your spine. “What?”
Before he can answer— the first gunshot rings out.
The music stops with a screech from one of the instruments. Screams erupt across the ballroom.
Another shot follows. Then another.
Panic explodes through the crowd, and you have an iron grip on Bruce’s suit, fingers slightly quivering.
People shove past one another toward the exits. More champagne glasses shatter, and amongst the chaos, someone falls.
“I know.” His voice is steady, infuriatingly low. His grip tightens around you. But then he lets go.
You feel the loss immediately, that blanket of security yanked away from you.
Your heart lurches. “What are you talking about?”
Another gunshot cracks through the room. People scream. Someone slams into your shoulder. You stumble. When you look back—
Vanished into the chaos. The fear crashes into you all at once; the gunmen, the danger, Bruce isn’t there—where is he? What if—
A rough hand suddenly seizes your arm.
You barely have time to react before someone drags you backward. “Move.”
You freeze for a second, your eyes stopping their frantic search and settling on what is in front of you.
An assault rifle points toward your chest.
Two other women stand nearby, equally terrified. One of them is already crying.
The gunman shoves you toward a side corridor. “Let’s go.”
You look desperately over your shoulder one last time, still searching in the crowd for Bruce. The crying woman whimpers, and you have to stop looking. He is nowhere to be found. Your eyes meet the second gunman flanking the group, he points directly at you with the weapon. Well, the message is clear.
And for the first time that night, you are completely alone.
The two men drag you to an empty room– it must’ve been an old office, because there are only a few boxes at the corner and an empty desk pushed towards the wall. The men flicker the lights on, harsh and bright, making you squint.
When they close the door, and position at the door rifles in hand, your stomach sinks further. They make the three of you get on your knees on the floor, arms behind your back.
The distant collapse of sound outside the room—muffled through walls thick with wealth and insulation—gunfire, shouting, something crashing. Hard. Each impact reverberates faintly. The men grip their weapons a bit more tightly each time a bang can be heard.
The crying woman has calmed down, only sniffles and small gasps can be heard from her. But then you feel it, the tremors of the lady on your right.
She’s trying to suppress her crying. It's not loud at first. Just broken, shallow breaths that keep catching on itself. But it escalates too fast. The sound slices through the room like a little wounded bird, gasping and sobbing. Hands and body quivering uncontrollably.
You notice immediately; the man holding the rifle shifts. It’s not much, maybe an inch or two. There's a twitch of impatience in his grip. He glances sideways toward the door behind him, toward the sound of chaos outside. His jaw tightens, he doesn’t want to be here, you realise.
“Hey,” the other woman snaps under her breath, harsh and panicked. “Shut up—just shut up—”
But the woman can’t. It's hysterical now, uncontrollable and raw. She takes in big gulps of air but it just makes her tremble now.
They’re going to shoot her, your mind screams at you. Time goes too fast for you to grip or try and make anything out of. Time is speeding away from logic and reasoning.
Your body moves before your thoughts finish forming.
You step in front of her— or waddle. It’s an awkward movement, when you’re wearing a silk dress, heels, your hands behind your back and your legs pressed to the floor.
Time has gone too fast. Now, it stops.
Even the crying does. You see the man move his rifle in slow motion. One second you’re there… the next there’s a crack slicing through the room. Your mind remembers the broken champagne glass, from earlier today, and sees the resemblance.
Time picks up again. Pain is hot and immediate, exploding somewhere in your body. It’s too much— too much— for you to even think of where the bullet might be. Your body folds and collapses to the side.
The crying woman screams, the men freeze and silence resumes.
“That wasn’t supposed to—”
Their voices overlap, fractured and panicked. Movements restless that make the other two hostages inch towards you.
Your hand moves instinctively to your chest. It's warm and viscous, you palm the base of your throat. The necklace’s strand has snapped.
The pearls are no longer a line of shining perfection— they are scattering, slipping, breaking free in uneven arcs across your collarbone, your dress, the floor. Some are already rolling away into the widening stain of red that you are only now becoming aware of.
Blood. There’s blood. And a lot of it.
Your breathing sharpens—not in pain, but in disbelief. No. No, no, no— Not this. Not the necklace.
It does not make sense, the way your mind latches onto that detail with desperate precision. Not the wound, not the men, not the hostages, not the gun, not the room—
The necklace. Bruce’s mother’s pearls.
Your vision blurs slightly at the edges and you force yourself to reclaim ownership of your limbs, not caring about the pain. Your fingers are shaking while they search.
You start picking them up one by one, frantic, clumsy, slipping against the slick surface beneath them. They roll. They disappear into folds of fabric, into the darkening stain, into places you cannot quite see clearly anymore.
Your voice breaks in a way that embarrasses you immediately, but you cannot stop. Blood stains your fingertips as you try to find them.
Behind you, someone is shouting.
You search through the blood, palming to find the pearls but they keep slipping away, like trying to capture beads of water.
The men are arguing now, louder, spiraling, their earlier control dissolving into something messy and uncertain.
But all you can think about is Bruce. Bruce, who gave you these. Bruce, who trusts you with things he does not give anyone else. Bruce, who will see this. Bruce, who will see you like this— it's June. Just a few days from now it will be the 26th. Bruce--
It's not even fear for yourself that hits first. It's the image of him seeing this. The broken pearls, the blood, you.
Batman barges in, but you barely realise. Another voice nearby and frantic, telling you to stay awake and to breathe, to stay with her. But you are shaking too hard to respond properly. And you are still holding the pearls. They’re sticky now.
Batman is suddenly there. In front of you. Too close. The world tightens around him like everything else has been pushed away.
His head tilts slightly. “You’re losing too much blood."
You barely hear him. His voice is like sound above the water your head is submerged in.
But his voice is not cold (everyone but you notices), there’s something off underneath— it doesn’t match his exterior coolness.
One of the women speaks over him, panicked. “We tried to stop it, but—she won’t— she keeps—”
“I know,” Batman cuts in.
Your grip tightens instinctively around what remains of the necklace. Not a sound comes out of you.
Batman’s gaze drops to your hands. He sees the bloodied pearls.
“Ambulance won’t make it in time,” he says. A pause. “I’m getting you help.”
The world is a blur once more. You’re not even aware he’s picking you up, bridal styles and away from everything. Even the Batmobile is a blur. One second you’re here, the next you’re there.
You are crying the entire time.
“I’m sorry,” you keep saying, though you are not sure who you are apologizing to anymore. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry— Bruce is going to— he’s going to be so— he’s going to—”
Batman does not look at you, but his hands tighten slightly on the wheel.
Alfred is there before you fully register arriving at the cave. You don’t even notice that it's Alfred. There’s rapid talking, a tremor in the air and hands that try to grab you.
You flinch away instantly. “No— don’t— don’t take them—”
Your fingers curl tighter around the pearls, pasty because of the blood and too fragile, they are the only thing anchoring you to the real world.
Batman is beside you again, but he’s closer. And lowering himself to your level.
“Listen to me,” he says. It doesn’t come off as a command, his tone is… careful. Soft even. “You’re safe.”
You shake your head violently, tears still falling.
“They’re broken,” you choke out. “They’re broken and I— he gave them to me and I broke them and he’s going to— he’s going to—” Your breath stutters.
“I can fix them,” Batman says.
That makes you freeze. Your eyes snap up to him. A beat.
“I can fix them,” he repeats, slower this time. “But I need you to let go.”
Your grip tightens reflexively. “No.”
Your voice breaks entirely. And then the world tilts. Everything dissolves away.
When the world comes back, it’s like being bathed in cotton. You see through a slightly white filter, the meds softening the blow so your body just feels light.
The cave ceiling stretches above you, vast and unfamiliar at first, until memory begins to stitch itself back together in uneven pieces; the gala, the gunfire, the necklace… Your breath catches immediately.
The voice is close. You turn your head. Bruce is there.
Sitting beside you like he hasn’t moved once. The eyebags under his eyes are more prominent and there’s a file in his hand, he closes it and drops it to the cold stone floor.
His posture is still, but not rigid in the way you are used to seeing in public. Unarmored in a way that makes your chest tighten before you even understand why.
“Bruce…” Your voice comes out weak, cracked. “The pearls—”
“I know,” he says gently.
Your throat tightens again instantly, as if your body has been waiting for permission to fall apart.
“I tried,” you whisper, shame flooding in before anything else. “I tried to save them, I tried to keep them but it— everything was happening and I couldn’t and I’m sorry—”
You blink up at him. He hasn’t looked away from you once.
“There are no apologies needed,” Bruce says quietly.
Your breath stutters. “It was your mother’s—”
“I know what it was,” he says. A pause. Something shifts in his expression— something carefully contained for years, now loosened at the edges. “I also know what it is not.”
Your brow furrows slightly, confusion cutting through the exhaustion.
“I should have told you sooner,” he says.
Your heart stumbles at the tone more than the words.
“I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
Your mind struggles to catch up. Find out what exactly? Your mind is giving you the answers in flashes, but things are still hazy and making conclusions seems like a herculean effort to you.
Then they click: the disappearances, the timing, the way he moves. The way he always knows. Last nights events.
“No,” you whisper, almost disbelieving. “You’re—”
“I'm Batman,” he says simply.
The cave suddenly feels too large to hold it.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the sheets.
“And I need you to understand something,” he continues. A brief pause. “What happened tonight— was not your fault.”
Your throat tightens. “I broke them,” you say immediately. “I broke your mother’s pearls—Bruce, I broke them—”
“I don’t care about the pearls.” His gaze doesn’t stray away from you, not even to blink. “I care that you’re here,” he says. “That you’re alive.”
“You’re bleeding,” he adds, quieter now. “You were dying in my arms and all you could think about was apologizing for something that doesn’t even matter.”
Your lips part, but no sound comes out.
“I don’t need things,” he says, voice steady again, but no less intense. “I don’t need heirlooms. I don’t need objects that can be replaced.”
A beat. Then, tender— unbearably so. “I need you.”
Your eyes burn instantly. The tears return before you can stop them, but this time they feel different. It's not panic, more like relief.
Bruce finally reaches out carefully. His hand rests gently over yours, brushing your skin is soothing notions.
You realize you are shaking slightly.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, but it is weaker now. Less certain. “I didn’t mean to ruin it…”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says. Then quietly, “You mattered more than them the moment I met you.”
Your eyes close. “Bruce?”
“Yes, darling?” He keeps rubbing your skin, and you fear you’ll fall asleep before you get to tell him.
You blink up at him. “Can you sleep with me?”
He’s already moving. Slowly— annoyingly so— you make space for him on the small bed. He carefully wraps an arm around you, and presses a kiss to your temple. “I love you.” He says again.
You snuggle closer to his warmth. “So, you’re Batman.”
He hums, and your eyelids flutter. Sleep is coming down on the both of you.
“Will you let me drive the Batmobile?”
He just kisses your temple again.
