#bale!batman

you first crossed paths at a charity gala, where you were working as a server. you’d only seen bruce wayne in tabloids before, so when you caught him leaning against a marble pillar, watching you, you simply froze.

“you seem a little… distracted,” his eyes flicked to the tray you balanced expertly. “nervous, or just tired of all this nonsense?” you gave him a polite, weary smile. “neither. just trying to get through the night without spilling on anyone important. still got a paper to finish.”

his lips twitched in amusement, but he didn’t press further. at the end of the night, though, you found an obscene tip tucked beneath his empty glass—crisp hundred bills folded neatly, more money than you’d made all week.

weeks later, he appeared again—this time at a hole-in-the-wall café near campus where you worked part-time. it wasn’t his scene; he stuck out like a sore thumb in his tailored black coat, looking utterly out of place among the students.

he didn’t say much that first visit, just ordered black coffee and left another ridiculous tip. but he came back. again and again. sometimes he’d stay long enough for a brief conversation, other times he’d sit quietly in a corner, newspaper in hand. it wasn’t just the tips that stuck to you—it was the way he listened. bruce never made you feel small or dismissed your struggles, like so many others did.

when he first offered to help you financially, he did it with tact that left you room to preserve your pride. “you’re working too hard,” he said one evening. “let me take some of the weight off—just until things settle. consider it an investment in your future.” there was a sincerity in his voice that made it sound like a practical solution rather than a handout.

accepting his help wasn’t easy. you’d been so accustomed to clawing your way through life that the idea of someone else shouldering your burden felt unnatural. after days of hesitation, you finally agreed—but only on the condition that you’d pay him back one day. bruce had only nodded, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk, like he knew you never would.

he never made you feel indebted, though. if anything, he treated it like helping you was a privilege.

when your ancient car finally gave up, bruce didn’t even wait for you to ask for help. within the week, a sleek, brand-new model was delivered to your apartment, the keys tucked into an envelope with a simple note: you need something reliable. you tried to thank him, but he just waved it off. “just focus on getting where you need to go.”

your decrepit laptop, with its constant crashing and refusal to load anything on time, was next. one day, you came home to find a pristine, state-of-the-art model sitting on your desk, already set up and ready to use. you didn’t even have to ask.

bruce never demanded anything in return. the closest he came to asking for favours were the occasional lunches or dinners where he’d pick your brain about your studies, your ambitions, your dreams. he always seemed genuinely interested, never letting the conversation veer into anything too personal unless you led it there.

you realized over time that it wasn’t just the money, the gifts, or even the way he treated you like an equal—it was the steady presence he provided. bruce wasn’t there to fix your life or control it; he just wanted to make it a little easier. and somehow, that made all the difference.

when you stayed up late working on papers, bruce would sometimes settle on the couch nearby, a novel in his hands. he never intruded, but his quiet presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone. on particularly rough nights, he’d bring you a cup of tea without saying a word, setting it gently beside you before returning to his book.

on your birthday, he surprised you with a bouquet of your favourite flowers—something you’d mentioned in passing months ago—and a beautifully wrapped box containing a classic hermès birkin. the card attached to it read simply, “something to carry all those books in.”

his gifts were always thoughtful, never ostentatious in a way that would make you feel uneasy. designer coats, shoes, and bags—each impeccably tailored to your taste, yet discreet. the labels were always tucked away, hidden in folds and linings. they were things you could wear without being worried you’d get mugged. nothing about them screamed, “i have a sugar daddy.”

bruce never tried to “buy” your affection. you didn’t owe him anything—not in the transactional way most would expect. he just wanted to see you comfortable, to help you in ways that went beyond financial support. and, over time, you realized you cared for him too—not for what he could give you, but for who he was.

he had an uncanny ability to remember the smallest details about you. the way you took your coffee. the name of the professor whose lectures you dreaded. how the sound of rain on a window always calmed you. those little moments of attentiveness.

at first, bruce kept you at arm’s length emotionally, cautious about pulling you deeper into his complicated world. but as the months went by, as your late-night talks stretched into early mornings, it became clear that bruce didn’t see this as a favour or an obligation. he cared for you in a way that went far beyond surface-level kindness.

when you went through a bad breakup, he didn’t try to fix it or console you with empty platitudes. instead, he just wrapped his arms around you, letting you cry into his chest.

it wasn’t long before the line between benefactor and friend blurred entirely. he was no longer just footing your bills or buying you thoughtful gifts—bruce got greedy. he didn’t just want to take care of you financially; he wanted all of you.

one night, you were venting about your professors, frustration pouring out in a messy jumble of words. bruce listened intently, brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, giving you his undivided attention.

“you’re too nice to me,” you blurted, the words slipping out like a spew of vomit. before doubt could creep in, you leaned forward and kissed him. it was a kiss that changed everything—as you half expected him to gently push you away, his hand came up to cradle your face, deepening it.

the kiss led to one thing, then another, and before you knew it, you were tangled together in his sheets, lost in his kisses, his touch, his quiet attention to your every reaction. bruce wasn’t just passionate; he was thorough in a way that unraveled you completely—it was hands down the best sex you’d ever had.

when you woke up the next morning, still tangled in his arms, a wave of uncertainty hit you. maybe it was nerves or overthinking, but you couldn’t stop wondering if you’d crossed a line you shouldn’t have. sensing your unease, bruce kissed your shoulder, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “i hope you know this changes nothing… we’re fine.”

and just like that, you became his official “sugar baby.” not that the dynamic between you two changed drastically—it simply gave bruce an excuse to really spoil you.

the secrecy was part of the thrill, but also a necessity. bruce wasn’t ready to let the world know, and truthfully, you weren’t either. the thought of being reduced to a tabloid headline or a shallow label like “sugar baby” or “sugar daddy” felt like a betrayal of the genuine connection you’d built.

he started sending you to your favourite spa on weekends, claiming you deserved a break from all the stress. when you protested that it was too much, he just shrugged. “self-care is important,” he said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

your closet, which had been a collection of fast fashion and thrifted pieces, was slowly replaced with the row, max mara, burberry, and dior.

your jewelry collection grew as well. delicate van cleef & arpels bracelets, tiffany & co. pendants, and diamond-stud earrings from cartier found their way into your life. he gifted you a dainty rolex, understated yet stunning, with a cheeky note: “don’t be late to class.”

despite all of this, bruce was careful to ensure it never looked like you were “living large.” you stayed in your same modest apartment, though it was clear his influence was woven into the details: a state-of-the-art security system, upgrades to your furniture and appliances that made life a little easier.

dinners became a regular occurrence, whether it was a reservation at gotham’s most exclusive restaurant or an extravagant meal in his penthouse.

when you graduated, bruce was there, blending into the crowd in a simple black coat, inconspicuous among the sea of families and friends. you didn’t spot him at first—he wasn’t the type to draw attention when he didn’t want to—but when your eyes finally landed on his, he gave you the smallest of nods. after the ceremony, he approached you quietly, slipping a small velvet box into your hand. you opened it to reveal a key.

“what’s this for?” you asked, already overwhelmed, fingers trembling slightly. “your new apartment,” he replied simply. then, after a pause, “unless… you’d rather move in with me.”

Your last words to him were, “I’m just trying to look out for you, asshole,” before you slammed the guest bedroom door in his face. So he retreated to your shared room, basking in the hollowness of it as he winced from his weary body. He released a tired groan and resolved to rectify things with you the next morning by surprising you with breakfast in bed.

But he never had the chance to. When he knocked on your door and reluctantly pushed it open, he was greeted with an empty, rumpled bed. His sweet wife was long gone. The curtains billowed in the morning breeze.

After turning Wayne Manor inside out, Bruce stumbled upon a note written by a scratchy hand.

115/108 Second Street. Alone. If not, your precious wife will be dead before you can open the door. You have 24 hours. -J

Needless to say, Bruce read it and re-read it as he staggered back into the bed. You were gone. Was it sick that his heart leapt a little at the knowledge your disappearance wasn’t of your own volition? Probably. But that sliver of joy was quickly squished by the guilt and ire building up within him.

How could he let his wife be taken from right beneath his nose? In the middle of the night, the time when Batman was typically on the prowl for criminals to bring them to justice (or his definition of it, anyway), how had he let his perfect enemy steal his perfect love from him?

Alfred waltzed in, put two and two together, and urged Bruce to act rationally. But all rational thoughts had already been cast out from his brain. The billionaire bolted from that cursed room, straight to his Bat armoury. There was no time to think, no time to map out a plan. How long have you been waiting for him now? You must be so afraid whilst in the hands of that lunatic! Even if it’s dangerous or reckless, Bruce must go to you now. In broad daylight. Alone. Running purely on instinct.

His mind was too occupied on the drive to the given address to properly formulate how he was going to handle this situation. Even as the most important moment approached, all he could think of was the look of disappointment and exasperation on your lovely face last night. The way your brows knit together, how your hands had shaken as you patched up his injuries while simultaneously cussing him out.

It’s all too soon before he’s creaking open the unlocked apartment door. No stealth. Just him in a black bat suit like some lost cosplayer. His head whips around as he frantically searches the barren room for any trace of you. However, the first inkling he receives of your whereabouts isn’t through his eyes, but his ears. A muffled whimper.

Batman pivots to what should be the master bedroom, his footsteps menacing as he steps past the threshold. There you were. Like a dream—no! a nightmare. You’re lying on the bloodied floorboards on your side, gagged with a strip of torn fabric from your crimson-stained night gown. Your hands and feet have been bound with an ungodly amount of white cable ties, which clearly press into your delicate skin painfully.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Batman scampers over to you and is on his knees in seconds, turning you onto your back and tugging the damp strip of fabric out of your mouth.

Your first words come out raspy, laced with panic and relief, “Bruce! Bruce…” He shushes you and starts working on your restraints.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” You nod. It’s all you can do. These past hours have been absolute hell. The brush of your dark knight’s fingertips (albeit beneath his gloves) sends a sense of security rippling throughout you.

“It’s gonna be alright,” he murmurs absent-mindedly, now slashing through the bindings around your ankles. You mumble his name, and a light smile comes to his lips, like it’s too soon to be relieved, but he can’t help feeling that way nonetheless.

Your rescue goes without a hitch (surprisingly). You’re back home before you realise it.

Your vision is fuzzy. You barely register Bruce’s strong arms around you, carrying you through his Bat lair and into the manor. But you do register his warmth. You can feel it seeping into your aching bones. Everything hurts. Your wounds sting, and are likely infected with how much time has passed since they were inflicted. Your throat is unbearably dry, and your skin is sticky with blood, sweat, and tears.

“Bruce,” you whisper. His grip tightens around you slightly, causing you to wince. He notices.

“Sorry. ‘M sorry, my love. It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures you. Softness surrounds you as he sets you down on a cushy couch in your shared bedroom. If you were in your right mind, you’d chastise him for letting you ruin such a beautiful antique with your bloodied body. But right now, you couldn’t care less. You don’t question why he leaves. But it makes sense when your husband returns with his butler in tow.

“Mrs Wayne!” Alfred gasps. He comes rushing over with a first aid kit in hand. Bruce stands behind him, his mask abandoned, but the symbol of a bat imprinted on his chest. As Alfred reaches for your arm, you flinch.

“Mrs Wayne—”

“Don’t. I…” You pause to lick your chapped lips. Gazing at your husband, you ask quietly, “Bruce, can you go, please?”

“What? No.” He steps closer to you, frustration clear in the crinkling of his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, alright?” He spares his butler a glance and nods his head toward you.

“Mrs Wayne.” Alfred reaches for your arm again, but despite the pain, you shrink back from him. Your eyes are wild, frenzied.

“Bruce!” You exclaim. Swiftly, he plops down on the couch beside you and reaches for your hand. You don’t pull away, but there’s a stiffness in your body as your husband thumbs your throbbing wrist.

“What is it, honey?” He asks gently, his touch sweet and soothing. Holding your fearful gaze, he utters, “Alfred, can you get her some water?”

You don’t even hear Alfie’s, “Right away, sir,” as you’re immersed in recalling unpleasant memories. What happened when that madman got his hands on you… You don’t even want to recount it. Not yet.

Bruce clasps your hand tightly while his other hand finds your tear-stained cheek and brushes back your matted hair. “It’s okay now. We’re not gonna hurt you—”

“I know that,” you cut him off. Wriggling and trying to pry your hand from your husband’s, you whimper in pain.

“Honey!”

“I’m fine! I’m fine. Just.” You meet his concerned gaze. “Please go, Bruce. I don’t want you to see me right now.”

He shakes his head, whether in denial or disbelief, you can’t tell. “You don’t want me to see you right now? You’re my wife, baby. ‘Course I wanna see you. You’ve seen me at my worst. How is this any different?” He hasn’t yet loosened his grip on you. It’s not crushing, but it’s firm in a way that betrays his underlying frustration at your lack of cooperation since you made it back to Wayne Manor.

“Please,” he says in that gentle voice again. “Let me stay. You have no idea how worried I’ve been about you. And-and I’m sorry that I didn’t come sooner. I promise you, as soon as I found Joker’s note, I was on the way.” You flinch at that name. Joker. Jo-fucking piece of shit-ker-you can’t catch these hands. Hands. The mere thought of his hands, what they wielded, the pure agony he inflicted upon you, makes you shiver.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce blurts out. “I won’t say that name again if it—”

“Your water, Mrs Wayne.” You give Alfred a thin smile as your husband takes the glass from him. Bruce holds it to your lips.

Moving back slightly, you object, “I don’t need you to—” Bruce grabs your chin and brings the glass’ rim to your lower lip. He’s tipping the cool liquid down your throat before you can protest any further. Magically, the itch in your throat vanishes. Now, you can talk without sounding like a withering grandma.

“Bruce,” you mumble. He sets the glass down on the nearby coffee table and cues Alfred to open up the first aid kit. “I don’t want you here,” you whine. He casts you a pointed look.

“Don’t give me that.” His tone is harsh, like sandpaper against your skin. Instinctively, you curl in on yourself.

“Just go, please. Both of you. I can take care of myself.”

Bruce snaps back, “So it’s both of us now that aren’t allowed to see you?” You nod, a pout on your lips. “Look, sweetheart.” He shifts sideways to face you better. “Whatever he’s done to you, I don’t care. I just-we just-want to help you, alright? So please.” Your husband stares at you, his jaw set and waiting for you to surrender yourself to his care.

“You’ll hate me,” you say, sadness clouding your voice.

“I could never hate you. Especially not for something that isn’t even your fault.” Done waiting, Bruce grasps your arm and tugs down the strap of your night gown. There’s no point in resisting any longer. Alfred moves in with a wet gauze pad to wipe away the blood. What he finds is a swollen, red cut. A jagged cut in the shape of a scraggly ‘J’. Ugly, but recognisable. It’s guaranteed to scar.

They both gasp. Your lips tremble, and your vision fogs up.

“I know!” You cry out, bursting into tears.

“Honey,” Bruce breathes out, his voice coated in sorrow.

Through your sobs, you manage to say, “It’s everywhere! The ‘J’s.” And you certainly didn’t lie. Bruce’s blood boils with every discovery of a new, scratchy ‘J’ on your body. Your ribcage, your hips, thighs, ankles and calves were all victims of that lunatic’s carving escapade. The marks on your thighs, one ‘J’ scrawled right beneath your ass and the other ‘J’ on your opposite leg, far too close to your sex for safety, particularly infuriate him. Batman was gonna have this sick bastard’s head on a platter after pulling this stunt.

By the time Alfred and your husband are finished tending to your wounds, the sun is kissing the horizon; you’ve dozed off from exhaustion. Bruce slips you into one of his shirts before laying you down in bed and tucking you beneath the covers nice and snug. When he closes the bedroom door behind him, he finds Alfred silently waiting for him. The two men head to the Bat cave, so they won’t wake you with their ensuing discussion.

“I’M GONNA KILL HIM!!” Bruce yells, resisting his potent urge to throw the nearby chair into a wall.

“Master Wayne—”

“I’M GONNA KILL HIM!! I’M GONNA RIP HIS FUCKIN’ HEAD OFF AND FEED IT TO THE DOGS!!”

“We don’t own any dogs, Master Wayne—”

“That’s not the point, Alfred!” Bruce’s chest is heaving as he paces about the dark, cavernous space. “I’m going to kill him for what he’s done to my wife.” His anger quietens down into a smoulder, but his rage continues to burn underneath his skin. And that burning won’t stop until an objective has been achieved. But even then, will Bruce be able to move on? God, he hopes so for your sake.

“If I may, Master Wayne,” Alfred starts.

Bruce mutters, “Say it. You’re gonna say it anyway.”

“Right, well, instead of going on a one-man hunt, don’t you think you should do something a little more useful?”

The furious billionaire whips around. “What could be more useful than going after Joker right now?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about caring for your wife? She needs you a lot more than you need vengeance. If you’re still hellbent on killing him tomorrow, you can start by figuring out where he lives.”

Bruce grits his teeth. “You and I both know that’s not how that works. That lunatic could be anywhere right now, which is why I need to start searching for him as soon as possible.” He goes for his bat mask sitting on the computer desk. Snatching it, the billionaire pulls it over his face, and voila, Batman has taken the reins.

Much to Alfred’s dismay, the vigilante storms out and hops into his Batmobile, filled with uncontrollable bloodlust and an appetite for revenge.

It’s been about a fortnight since that incident occurred. Unfortunately (though predictably), you haven’t seen your husband much. He’s been returning home late in the evening and heading out just before you wake up. But even when he is here, he can’t look you in the eye.

You had a feeling this would happen. It makes sense. How could your husband love you when you’ve been branded by another man? Your body, which used to be yours, has now been scarred by the hands of someone else. The skin your lover used to kiss has been claimed by his enemy. What love can bloom when you’ve been unwillingly torn apart, where your heart is Bruce’s, but your flesh belongs to J-Jo…?

You’d be lying if you said you haven’t cried yourself to sleep on more than a few nights these past couple of weeks.

Thankfully, Alfred has been looking after you. Your wounds have scabbed over, but you’re still applying steroid cream daily to help with the inflammation. And that’s something you can do yourself.

The couch in your bedroom has been replaced while the original is getting cleaned. You sit down on it and take out that magical medical tube. This stuff has saved both you and Bruce on many occasions. But as you twist off the cap, the door opens. Heavy footsteps are absorbed by the cream carpet.

Turning your head, you see that your husband is back. His hazel eyes—usually bright with determination and vigour—are dull and rimmed by dark circles.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

“Hey.” He offers you a tight-lipped smile and wanders over to you. Bruce sinks down beside you like he did last week. But instead of alarm and concern in his gaze, there’s hesitancy and solace. You stare at each other for a long moment before you glance down at the medication in your hands. Naturally, he notices the familiar tube and gently takes it from you.

“You put it on already?” His voice is slightly hoarse. He clears his throat as you shake your head. “Let me then.” You reach out, intent on stopping him, but it’s too late; he’s already squeezed a little ivory pea onto his fingertip.

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “You don’t need to. I know it must be hard for you to—” Bruce soothes the cream onto the jagged mark on your forearm. His tired eyes find yours once more.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t been around when you needed me most,” he utters. Next, he moves onto your shoulder and applies the cream with reverence. “And I’m sorry that I haven’t been taking care of you like I should have been.”

“It’s okay,” you say, repeating your words from earlier. But this time, your tone is more understanding and forgiving.

His brow draws together as he contests, “No. It’s not. You’ve always stood by me whenever I’ve been wounded. But what do I do the second you get hurt? I go out there and hunt.” Softly, he asks you, “Lie down for me.” Doing just that, he lifts the hem of his your shirt to expose your tummy and ribs.

Bruce continues, “I should have been there for you. That’s what a good husband would do.”

“Bruce—”

“You deserve a husband who wouldn’t let something like this get to him.” His finger traces over the relatively small, ragged ‘J’ over your ribs. Meeting your dispirited gaze, he mutters, “I don’t think you know how much this gets to me. How angry this makes me.” His jaw twitches under the pressure of his clenched teeth.

Moving on to your hips, Bruce rubs the ointment into your puckered wound tenderly. If not for the obvious tension in his face and shoulders, you wouldn’t be able to tell of his burning abhorrence for these scars.

You offer in a mellow voice, “Bruce. I know things are still fresh. But in future, I want this to be a neutral thing.”

His harsh gaze snaps up. “What do you mean?”

You explain, “I’m still me, yeah? And I don’t want you to hate any part of me. I don’t want either of us to feel any kind of way about these scars. They’re just another part of me, whether I wanted them to be or not.”

“I don’t hate them. I don’t-I can’t hate you.” Bruce continues more gently, “What I hate is that I didn’t prevent these scars. They’re a reminder of how I’ve failed to protect you.” Silence envelops you both momentarily as he shifts from your inner thigh to the ankle of your other leg. Propping your foot up on his knee, he greets you with his soothing touch.

“Bruce,” you murmur.

“But if you don’t want us to feel a certain way about the scars, then I’ll try my best, ’kay, sweetheart?” He gives the top of your foot a pat before instructing, “Turn over.” Your husband helps fix your shirt and supports you as you roll onto your front. His fingers dust the back of your thigh, spreading the cream on your scab.

Pressing your cheek to the couch cushions, you utter with a soft smile, “Thanks, baby.” Bruce quickly finishes caring for your wounds before helping you turn back over.

“It’s the very least I can do. Now c’mere.” Your lover pulls you into a sweet kiss. Both of you sigh into it. It’s been too long since you did this. Your arms wrap around Bruce’s neck while his snake around your back. Days of stewing sadness melt as your bodies seek each other out, hands grasping and mouths moving with desperation. But uncertainty lingers in your movements. Your wounds are still fresh.

Breaking the kiss, you sink into his warm embrace and stay there for a little while, giggling at the prospect that your husband has truly returned to you, that everything will eventually be alright.

The past few weeks have flown by. Bruce hasn’t given up on his search for Joker. But he’s been around more often, much to your delight. Better yet, your husband has been delivering on his word to take greater care of you, from holding you close in the morning to accompanying you whenever you leave the manor.

Just recently, he had taken you to a pet store to peruse their selection of fine animals. He gravitated toward the puppies, while you couldn’t draw yourself away from the adorable kittens. Money has never been an issue for Bruce Wayne. However, you couldn’t find it in yourself to ask him to pay almost $4000 for a purebred ragdoll kitten.

“You can find them on the streets. Gotham has lots of stray cats. And if you really want a pet, we could always look at the rescue shelters,” You told him once you were back in his Lamborghini. Bruce glanced over at you, incredulous as to your reluctance to splurge on a designer cat. Isn’t that what every girl wanted? Some adorable kitty that costs an ungodly amount?

“I thought you two had a bond,” he remarked. Rain began to patter against the windscreen and car roof.

You shrugged. “Not really. I mean, she was cute and all, but… I’m sure she’ll find someone willing to adopt her.” Staring out the window at the passing buildings, you had asked, “What about you? Did you see any puppies you liked? I think there’s a pound near the police station, right?”

“There is, but it opens at odd times. I’ll have to find out when we can go and have a look.”

“Mhm,” you hummed. The buildings are growing sparser, replaced by green foliage and sporadic trees. “Are we going home?”

“Well, is there somewhere else you wanted to go?” Bruce stole another glance at you. There was this unfocused look in your eyes. He wondered what was on your mind. The feeling of his calloused palm just above your knee brought you back to reality. He gave you a tender squeeze.

“No,” you had answered, offering him a reassuring grin. It was your first time outside the manor since your encounter with that villain. And it wasn’t until you got home that you realised how grateful you were for Bruce keeping your trip short.

The memory brings a smile to your lips, water trickling over them from the showerhead. Sunlight spews into the bathroom, white and crisp as the day breaks. Your husband was still soundly asleep when you woke up. Despite his vice-like grip, you managed to slip away and offer him a pillow to cuddle in place of you.

Softly, you sigh while lathering yourself up with body wash. Your heart is calm, beating gently like baby waves lapping at the shore. Closing your eyes, you inhale the familiar scent of your favourite soap. The sound of rushing water fizzles out into the background as your fingers brush over the raised skin on your hip.

The scabs have now fallen off, revealing pearly scars in their place. The surrounding skin is still red and angry, unforgiving. It’ll return to normal in a matter of months, you know. But still… even though you’ve healed on the outside, your inside is getting there step by step. Not only did J*ker physically and mentally scar you, but he essentially cockblocked you for an indefinite period, too.

You’ve been quite afraid to take things in that direction with Bruce, and he hasn’t been pushy in the slightest. If anything, you’d say that his desire is more dead than yours. Well, it’s not necessarily dead. While Bruce has been working with you on the perceived neutrality of your scars, it’s obvious they’re a blaring turn-off for him. The way he gulps every time he brushes a finger over one of them. Even when you’re just going about your days, you often catch his eyes on any exposed ‘J’s like he can’t resist the temptation to hurt himself.

You tell yourself that he feels guilty, that’s why he pays so much attention to them. That’s what he had said, hadn’t he? That he feels angry that he didn’t protect you from J*ker’s cruel hands? But what if that was just a cover-up? What if he actually doesn’t love you anymore, and these scars only amplify that?

For a moment, your mind blanks. Then a laugh rises in your chest. What bullshit are you thinking about now? Of course, Bruce loves you. And never once has he made you doubt that. It’s simply your mind working against you. What else is new?

Your high-pitched scream echoes off the tiles as the shower door opens. “OH MY GOD, BRUCE!” He stares at you wide-eyed, like a young boy caught stealing candy from his father’s desk. A smirk spreads across his lips. He closes the door behind him.

“You scared me.” You pout, unfurling yourself as he slowly approaches.

“Hm, I can’t join my wife in the shower?” He teases while grasping your upper arms affectionately. Leaning down, he pecks your lips sweetly before reaching for your bottle of body wash. He pumps an outrageous amount onto his palms and starts running his hands over his toned torso.

“Hey,” you whine. “Get your own body wash.” He chuckles at the furrow in your brow, a handsome smile on his face that’s unfortunately contagious. Lightly, you slap his chest. “Bruce.”

“I’ll buy you some more, ‘kay?” He kisses your hairline. You place your palms on his pecs and feel his heart beating beneath your touch. It helps dissipate any residual jitteriness in your limbs. Your hands slip down his rippling muscles, all the way to his hips.

He grins. “You having fun?”

“Mhm.” Releasing him, you step toward the running water and begin rinsing yourself off. Suddenly, Bruce’s meaty arms wrap around your waist, and he squeezes you playfully.

“Bruce!” You squeal. His laugh rumbles in his chest and vibrates throughout your entire body as he coaxes you to spin around. His lips meet yours, smile against smile, and bodies flush. You choose to ignore his half-hard length against your lower tummy, instead softening into his kiss. Your husband’s hands cup your face, keeping you close to him.

The water runs down your back, washing away the soap and spraying into your pulled-back hair. You do not want to wash your hair today. But it seems you might have to as Bruce leans into you, causing your back to arch as you stay firmly pressed against him.

What were you so worried about again? He doesn’t love you? Yeah, right, he doesn’t love you, my ass.

You moan quietly as his teeth graze your lower lip, nibbling lightly. Your hold on his shoulders tightens as your tongues tease each other, first hesitant, but then eager. He tastes minty. Thankfully, he brushed his teeth before hopping into the shower with you. Spit spills at the corners of your mouths, which Bruce brushes away with his thumb.

Straightening up, he gives you both a moment to breathe, his cheek resting atop your head while you exhale into his sudsy [soapy] chest. But just as you thought things would rekindle, he adjusts the showerhead to spray onto you. His hands caress your skin and help to wash off any remaining body wash. You do the same for him, but your mind is stuck replaying the last few minutes. Have you done something wrong? Usually, a steamy kiss turns into a steamy make-out, then an oops, I missed my 10 o’clock meeting when it’s you two. But not this time.

You try to console yourself with the thought that your husband’s agenda is so important today that he can’t afford to get caught up in the shower with you. But the cracks in your lie are obvious. It’s the scars. Looking up, you notice his bright gaze on your shoulder. Oh, it’s definitely the scars.

Noticing he’s been caught, Bruce instantly apologises, “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s fine.” Your brow creases as your eyes absentmindedly travel over his arms, bearing witness to the evidence of his nighttime thirst for justice. Yes, your scars were different. But you wish they didn’t have to cause such a divide between the two of you. His scars (still growing in number) have never been an issue beyond a subject for argument in your relationship. To say the least, it’s unfair how he can get away with them, but you can’t.

“It’s not fine. I—”

You interrupt him with, “I’m done now, so…” Avoiding Bruce’s stare, you shuffle around him to the shower door and step out. So much for neutrality and your sex lives.

For the first time in a while, everything feels normal. These past couple of weeks have been heaven-sent. The passing of time really does heal. Just last week, you revealed what happened to you a few months ago to Bruce.

You were walking through the gardens together, admiring the blooming flowers, when you brought up the previously forbidden topic. “Hey, Bruce, baby.”

“Mhm.”

“Do you wanna know what happened? With Joker?” You hadn’t stumbled over that word, hadn’t said it like it was filthy, or spat it out with disgust. To you, it was simply a name now, a memory which you’ve journaled and cried about countless times.

Your husband had sucked in a sharp breath, his body stiffening before he relaxed the arm that was around you and drew you closer into his side. “Only if you’re ready to talk about it.” He squeezed you reassuringly.

“Mhm, I’m ready,” you replied.

“Then please, go ahead.”

Steadying yourself with an inhale, you began the recount of your kidnapping and subsequent torture with, “We fought that night, do you remember?”

“How could I forget?” He offered, glancing down at you with his lips pressed together in a thin line.

You continued, “After I retreated to the guest room, I cried, and then I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark out. There were some shadowy figures moving about the room. I thought it was my imagination, you know? And then…” Gazing at the neatly trimmed hedges, those frightful images filled your mind. “And then the figures pounced on me. They held me down, and one put a cloth over my nose and mouth. I was out in seconds.

“When I woke up, I was at the apartment where you found me. I couldn’t think straight. Like, whatever they drugged me up on was still in my system. Joker was there. I can’t remember what he said. Something about wanting to hurt Batman in the worst way possible. Cruelty for the sake of cruelty. What I do remember is the knife. I remember its glint as the dawn broke.

“I wasn’t tied up or anything, which is kinda stupid if you think about it. But to be fair, I couldn’t really move so… A couple of Joker’s henchmen held me down as he… marked me.” You paused for a second, your throat tightening up. But then you felt Bruce’s hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

He leaned down and whispered against your hair, “It’s alright.”

In a small voice, you said, “It really hurt. Like, I’ve never felt pain like that before. And I was screaming and crying a lot. I think I started mumbling your name at one point.

“I can’t really remember much after that. Joker and his goons left. And then I was just waiting until you finally came and saved me.” Birds chirped in the distance, ignorant of the secrets held close to your heart that were revealed. But your chest felt lighter. You could finally breathe.

Your confession hung in the air, heavy and stagnant as a quiet fell between you both. Until Bruce kissed the top of your head. And then your temple and your cheekbone, and before you know it, you were giggling as he peppered you in light pecks.

There was guilt and regret in his tone as he uttered, “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“Don’t be.” You shook your head a little and placed a kiss on his jaw.

Your husband sighed, his voice deeper than before, “You’ve been so strong. You know that?” You nodded, your noses touching. “I gotta stop underestimating you, sweetheart,” he murmured before capturing your lips in a brief kiss.

Ever since your admission, there’s been a playfulness to your relationship that’s reminiscent of earlier times. Consider tonight, for example. Bruce is taking you out to dinner; it’ll be your first official date since that fateful day.

Staring at yourself in your vanity mirror, you’re positively beaming as you futz with your jewellery. Your husband always loved to surprise you with expensive gifts and nice things, the main ones being jewellery. The recent necklace and bracelet set he gave to you was stunning. Gleaming diamonds and divine filigree. ‘Just a little something for my precious girl,’ he’d said. Your chest pangs at the memory.

Dusk is approaching. Bruce should be waiting downstairs. With one last glance at your reflection, you grab your bag and head out your bedroom door.

Wayne Manor is pitch black by the time you and Bruce return. He opens the door to your bedroom and ushers you into the darkness. Only frail beams of pale, silver moonlight illuminate the ecru bedsheets and covers. You feel your coat being tugged on, and let your husband remove it.

Tonight’s dinner was splendid. The food was delicious, and your conversation flowed naturally. Bruce couldn’t stop complimenting you, and not only on your beauty. He praised your resiliency and depth of wisdom. He was as enamoured with you as you were with him.

Golden light washes over your bedroom with the flick of a switch. Shadows remain in the crevices, but there’s now a cosy ambience to the space. Bruce makes his way back to your side.

He’s already taking off your necklace as he murmurs, “Let me help.” Your hands find his tie and begin undoing it. You’ve missed this, the simplicity of helping each other undress after a wonderful night out. And you’ve missed other things, too.

Soon enough, you’re left in your underwear while Bruce still has his button-up shirt and trousers on. He kneels at your feet like a devout disciple. Confusion knits your brow, but then he grabs your ankle, his thumb on your scar. Ah. You let him pull off your heels, sighing as he kisses up your shins to your knees and then thighs. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer until his cheek rests against your lower tummy.

“Bruce…” You comb your fingers through his silky locks. He tilts his head back, hazel eyes gazing up at you as though you’re his salvation. And in many ways, you are. A lazy smile spreads across his lips, lovesick. Nuzzling the fat of your stomach, he presses reverent kisses wherever he can, avoiding the boundaries of your panties. His fingers dig into the backs of your thighs before trailing up to your doughy hips.

You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. It’s been far too long since he’s showered you in his love like this. But it’s not his fault. It’s not only his former reluctance, but yours also. Despite your lingering nerves, your desire for your husband swells in your chest. Every inch of your skin is on fire as he kisses and caresses you. Never before have you needed him as much as you do at this moment.

“Bruce,” you utter with an edge of urgency. Your fingers gently tug at his roots. He rises to standing, arms coiled around your waist. You grab onto his collar, need apparent in your grip, and yank him down to your lips.

For a moment, Bruce is still. But as his shock transforms into amusement, he returns your kiss passionately. You drown in each other’s affection, hands pushing and pulling, and mouths barely parting. Who needs air when you have one another?

Your husband, it would seem. He breaks your kiss, and before you can pout and complain, he bends down and throws you over his shoulder. Your squeals resound throughout the quiet night as Bruce walks over to the bed and carefully sets you down on it. When you catch a glimpse of his handsome face, your eyes widen.

Cupping his cheeks, you grin. “You’ve got my lipstick all over you.”

He returns your smile with one of his own. “Good.” His lips find your neck and leave searing kisses all over it.

“Bruce,” you whine.

“Mhm. What is it, honey?” He asks, his words muffled into your skin.

“My makeup.” Sighing, he draws back and takes in your jutted-out lips.

“Fine, fine,” he mumbles, getting off you and heading to the bathroom. There’s no way you’re fucking in a full face of makeup. You might ruin the bedsheets with your fluids, but not with your Armani Luminous Silk foundation.

When Bruce returns, he’s got your micellar water and a few makeup pads in hand. He sits beside you and removes your makeup for you with gentle strokes.

“Thanks, baby.” You beam up at him. He pecks your lips before setting down the products and climbing back on top of you.

“Now, where were we?” He smirks down at you, making you giggle. As he leans in, you run your hands over his strong shoulders and arms before melting into his sweet embrace. His kiss is softer this time, just as deep as before, but slower as if he’s savouring every moment of this. And knowing Bruce, he most certainly is.

The incident with Joker showed just how vulnerable you really are. If he’s not careful, you could be taken from him again. Or worse, his distance post-incident could ruin your connection and intimacy. While his ultimate enemy is still on the run, Bruce wants to ensure that he doesn’t take a single second with you for granted. You’re too precious for that. Your love and marriage are too precious for that.

Your quiet moans fill the air as your husband makes his way down your body, pleasuring all of your sensitive spots. He peels off your underwear sensually and spreads your thighs. Positioning himself between them, he takes a second to look at you. Fuck, he’s missed this sight. Even with its new addition, his mouth waters at your glistening folds.

Bruce presses tender kisses up your inner thighs, even to your scar, because this is just you, this is your warmth and flesh, and this is the body he’ll worship until the day he dies. Your breath hitches at the firm press of his lips. But he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t even pause. Your husband switches to the other side, teasing you and riling you up until he finally licks a stripe up your slit.

Your back arches off the bed, moans tumbling from your lips as he laps at your folds, sucking on them gratefully before giving your clit some much-needed attention. You grip his hair, your thighs tightening around his head as he uses his tongue to bestow upon you the greatest ecstasy. His fingers grasp your hips firmly and press you into the mattress. But even his incredible strength can’t stop you from bucking and wriggling about.

His name is like a prayer on your lips. You chant, “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce,” like you’re mumbling some ancient incantation, about to cast a powerful spell. Hearing your blissed-out mumbles makes your husband smirk into your cunt. He lets you throw him about, riding the waves of your pleasure-induced reactions whilst administering even more.

You look so good like this, you sound so perfect when you’re breathy and needy for him. Only him. Yes, only Bruce can make his wife feel like this. No other man could. And that sends a sick streak of pride jolting through him as his fingers prod at your entrance.

“Come on, baby,” he coos, steadying you so he can properly slide his fingers in. And when he does, it feels like Heaven on Earth. You cry out, the pleasure becoming all too much from the curling motions of his fingers and his eager tongue on your clit. It doesn’t take long before you’re panting about how close you are, and inevitably, falling over the edge. Your entire body feels like a string pulled taut before it snaps. Your orgasm tears through you, causing you to cry out and tremble with poor Bruce trapped between your thighs. Not that he’d want to be anywhere else.

Your husband could do this for hours, and he’s almost tempted to as he tastes your release. But he knows what you want more than anything else. You want to be close to him. You want to connect with him in a way that only you both can.

Once your body has relaxed, he gently pries your legs apart and glances up at you. That expression on your face is one of his favourites: slack jaw, dazed eyes, sweat beading across your forehead and your lips all swollen from biting them in the moment. He crawls up your body and embraces you tenderly.

Into your ear, he says in a deep and raspy voice, “Hey, honey. You okay?” All you can manage is a nod. “Talk to me, sweetheart. How’re you feeling?” He asks softly. You throw your arms around his neck, your breathing heavy as you calm down.

“Mhm, good,” you sigh. “Really good.” Bruce kisses you lovingly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hard length rests against your sensitive pussy. You moan loudly as he suddenly rocks his hips against you, his tip grazing your clit. And he doesn’t stop. The feeling of his cock sliding between your folds draws even louder, more obscene sounds from you.

“Bruce,” you mewl.

“Yeah?” He moans, picking up the pace a little. The stimulation is too much. You need him now!

“Please!” You cry out, burying your face in the crook of his neck and grabbing onto him tightly. Bruce grasps the back of your knees and hooks your legs over his hips, your heels naturally sitting in the dimples above his ass as he slowly slips inside of you. Your body tightens up at the feel of your husband’s cock, eliciting a groan from him. Supporting himself on one elbow, he shifts to hold the back of your head.

“I gotchu, honey,” he reassures you. “Just relax for me.” His words only make you clench harder around him, earning you several more throaty groans from him. It takes a minute or so for you to finally relax and let him push in further. Your body could never forget him. But admittedly, it’s been a while, and you’re sure in need of a reminder.

“S’okay, baby,” he murmurs, scratching your scalp lightly. He kisses your hair. “S’okay. I’m gonna move now, alright?”

“Mhm, ‘kay,” you say quietly, gripping him tighter. Bruce’s first thrust is slow and gentle, considerate of how long it’s been since you last had sex. He fucks into you at a leisurely pace, allowing both of you to feel every drag and squeeze.

“F-fuck,” you whimper, gathering up the courage to look him in the eye. He grins at you, so so glad to see you melt beneath him. “Feels really good, baby,” you breathe out, your hands finding his jaw and guiding him down to your lips.

There’s no better feeling than this: your husband thrusting into you lovingly as you kiss each other like you’ve been starved. You can feel him all around you, burning hot and bringing you an overwhelming amount of pleasure. Your joint shadows are painted on the bedroom floor and wall, carved out from honeyed light. Everything is right again in the world when he’s inside of you.

Bruce is the first to pull away. Strings of spit connect your lips like they couldn’t bear to be apart. His smirk snaps a few of them.

“Fuck, look at you, my beautiful wife.” You giggle quietly at his words, the sound punctuated by raw, irrepressible moans. You gaze at each other, brimming with immense love and adoration, desperate to see the pleasure-addled faces you both make. Your breaths intermingle, becoming one just like your bodies, and your heart beats synchronise.

Soon, the sound of your skin slapping grows in volume. Bruce thrusts into you harder, his mouth on yours and swallowing your every moan. Every time he gives you a moment to breathe, his groans become louder. You can feel how close he’s getting by the sloppiness of his hips.

“Fuck, honey,” he moans, kissing and sucking on your neck. You pull him in closer, squeezing your legs around him and keeping him deep within you. “I-” His deliciously pathetic little whimper cuts him off.

“Just cum, baby,” you coo. “I want you to cum in me.” He needs no further encouragement. With a loud groan, your husband finishes inside of you. You cry out as you feel his release spurt out, covering your walls. It’s dizzying, the sensation of him filling you so completely. You love it. You love him.

Bruce nearly collapses on top of you, his body weakening after such an intense orgasm. He moans breathily in your ear, hips still grinding into you languidly as he rides out his high and fucks himself into overstimulation.

“God, you feel so good. I love you. Love you so fuckin’ much, sweetheart,” he rasps out into your neck. You rub his back soothingly and hold him tight as he floats down from his high. “So fuckin’ beautiful n’ perfect. I love you,” he babbles, prompting a soft chuckle from you.

“I love you, too, Bruce,” you sigh, feeling relieved and ecstatic. There’s nothing that could compare to this feeling. You’ve been bathed in each other’s love, and despite the exhaustion clinging to your limbs, you won’t be satisfied until dawn.

elle's notes: not my best work, but i hope y'all liked it!!! i worked really hard on it!

@xinghuisknight hope you like it!

header images from pinterest. 18+ banner by cafekitsune. red flower banner by dollywons. end banner by xycrowlo.

you didn’t turn at first. you knew that voice all too well. it did that thing to your spine—the slow, electric straighten. but when you finally looked over your shoulder, bruce was already watching you.

he stood there with his hands in his pockets, jaw set, a polite expression adorning his perfect features, but the one you knew was reserved for work. underneath that mask was a roaring green fire—one that increased in size every time he heard you talking about someone who wasn’t him.

“shouldn’t we be working?” he asked lightly, sending a wink towards the other girls (which was enough to make them forget they ever saw superman). the girls scattered like startled pigeons, all flustered laughter and shaky heels. you couldn’t help the small shake of your head—of course they reacted that way. bruce wayne had that kind of gravity, the silent pull that made people wobble, forget their own names, rethink their life choices. the same kind of effect a shirtless superman or a brooding batman had—yet, bruce didn’t have to wear a cape to have it.

you remained seated at your desk…mostly because your legs weren’t cooperating. “mr. wayne,” you said, trying to sound normal. “we were just-”

“swooning,” he replied with knowing eyes. “yes, i heard.” your mouth opened…and closed. he didn’t give you time to recover; he just let that faint, pointed smirk touch his lips. “try not to let superheroes distract you too much,” he murmured, stepping past you toward his office. “some of us still require your attention.”

your heartbeat did this catastrophic jolt. he didn’t look back—he didn’t have to—but you saw the way his jaw tightened, like he was chewing on something he’d rather break.

you didn’t go to his office right away after that. he had meetings, calls, more meetings, the usual routine of pretending to be a spoiled billionaire instead of a man who prowled rooftops at night. around five-thirty, you needed his signature on a stack of contracts. it took you ten minutes to gain the confidence to stand up from your desk, and another five to form the fist to knock on his door.

“come in.”

you walked inside, and stopped breathing. bruce was in the middle of changing. he had a fresh dress shirt in his hands, the one he’d been wearing discarded on the couch, and he looked absolutely ruinous. his torso bare, muscles defined by the overhead lights, and bruises and scars from god-knows-what. he didn’t even flinch at your entrance, just lifted his gaze to you. “you’re early,” he said, voice a low slide of warmth. “i wasn’t expecting you yet.”

“i—um—these-” you lifted the papers like a white flag. “contracts.”

he took his time buttoning the first two buttons of his shirt. unfairly slow, deliberately slow. a layer of sweat formed on your forehead. “you can set them on the desk,” he tilted his neck, motioning towards his unorganized desk.

you crossed the room, trying not to look at him and failing miserably. when you set the papers down, he stepped in behind you. he was close enough that the heat radiating off of him was melting you.

“busy afternoon?” he hummed, glancing over your shoulder to the contracts.

you swallowed. “i—i guess.”

“heard a lot of…enthusiasm out there.” he raised his brows, eyes finally meeting yours.

you squeeze your eyes shut. “mr. wayne-”

“bruce.”

you hesitated and he smiled. “bruce,” you corrected, voice barely there.

he walked around you, stopping in front of his desk, the shirt still unbuttoned halfway. “so, superman.”

you nearly choked. “that was—just stupid office talk.”

“mm.” he picked up a pen but didn’t look at the contract. “wouldn’t have guess that was your type.”

your face went hot. “he’s not.” the words spill out of your mouth a second too fast, hands tightening into fists.

“no?” he poked, eyes widening at your sudden defensiveness.

“no.”

something in him eased—relief he refused to name. he signed the first page, then the second. he embodied confidence and ease, except for the way his fingers drummed against the wood, betraying the jealousy still simmering under the surface. “good.” he murmured.

you blinked. “good?”

he stepped closer again. “i’d prefer not to compete with someone who can fly.”

“you’re jealous of superman?” you whispered before your brain could stop you.

bruce gave a soft, dry laugh. “honey, i’m not jealous of anyone.” you raised an eyebrow, still staring at him pointedly. “i’m just…mildly irritated,” he amended, eyes flicking to your lips. “if you’re going to be impressed by anyone,” he murmured, voice low, “i’d rather it be someone who’s actually in the room with you.”

“bruce…”

he reached out slow, like you were something fragile, and brushed a stray curl off your cheek. the touch wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t even possessive—it was worse. it was soft and caring, the kind of touch that would be hard to forget.

“for the record,” he said, “i’ve been flirting with you for months, you just haven’t caught on.”

your breath caught entirely. he let his hand drop, giving you space but not stepping away. “now,” he added quietly, a hint of that signature smug tilt returning to his mouth, “how can i make you forget about that superman?”

The effects of Scarecrow’s fear toxins pump through Batman’s veins as he struggles to scramble away from the quickly forming crowd of prying eyes. To be fair, why wouldn’t they be gathering, he just fell out of a fucking window, not to mention- on fire. 

For once, Gotham’s signature rainy weather came in handy, but Batman doesn’t have half the mind to celebrate the small victory. Instead, he’s stuck in a maelstrom of fear and hallucinations, he knows he has to get somewhere safe so he pushes through and makes his way to the top of one of the buildings in the surrounding alley. 

He collapses with a grunt as he reaches for his comm link, practically begging for his trusted butler (and right hand man) to help him.

No one can fully know what happened in between the time Batman called and Alfred’s arrival- only Bruce knows that. 

Alfred arrives with haste and quickly finds  Batman convulsing with fear on the pavement. You’re sitting in the back seat (despite Alfred’s attempts to keep you at the manor), about to get out of the expensive car before Alfred calls back-

“Please stay in the car, Missus Wayne- It’s not safe here!”

You want to argue with him but he’s already halfway down the alley way before you can get out a word- you’ve never understood how Alfred moves so fast. 

A loud groan rings out and you catch the sight of the cowl, Alfred has his arm wrapped around Batman’s waist as he guides the hulking figure towards the car.

On instinct you shove the door facing the two men open and Alfred helps the Bat into the backseat. You grab under his arms and pull him further into the back so that his head is resting in your lap. Alfred shuts the door and quickly hurries around to the driver's seat. 

“Oh my God!” you exclaim as you finally see his condition. 

His whole body is shivering, his eyes are unfocused, his breathing is labored, and he keeps babbling incoherent nonsense. 

Once the car is started, you’re racing back to the manor. Hastily, you take off his cowl; Bruce’s right cheekbone is bruised and he is deathly pale. You feel your eyes tearing up, he’s suffering so much and there’s nothing you can do to help at all. 

“P-poision- It’s poison- p” he stutters as he twitches in your gentle embrace. 

‘What the fuck happened in there?’ you think to yourself as you brush your fingers through his tangled hair, trying to provide any semblance of comfort. 

“Bats- they, the-, they’re everywhere! Help me!” 

You pull him closer to you; cradling his head with one hand and brushing his cheek with your other. He begins to yell for help and you worriedly make eye contact with Alfred in the rearview mirror- his own eyes, welling with tears; neither of you had seen Bruce so terrified. 

“Shhh, it's ok my Love, It’s going to be ok” you attempt to ground him (and yourself). 

Soon, Bruce begins chanting something else, your name; he calls out to you in desperation even though you’re holding him. 

“Please! Come back- come back!” Bruce sobs in your arms. 

You sit up straighter, your hold on him tightening; you’re right here, why doesn’t he recognize you?

“Bruce, I’m here baby. I’m right here-”

“D-don’t touch her! Don’t touch my wife-” he cries as he attempts to sit himself up. 

You pull him back to your chest and wrap your arms around his waist to keep him in one spot. You’re full on crying too now as he struggles against your hold, the wet kevlar of his suit bruising your skin. 

“NO!” he cries to no one in particular, he’s panting now as he tries to break free from you, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“Alfred! How much longer?!” you beg in desperation as your husband is becoming too much for you to contain. 

“4 more minutes, Ma’am- We’re almost there” he responds hurriedly as he presses harder on the gas. 

“She’s g- she- she's gone! Killed, killed, they killed her!” Bruce screams, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he thrashes around. 

You release your hold of him and quickly scramble to get on top of him; one knee pressed between the backseat and his left side and the other foot on the floor of the car. You press your elbows onto his chest and reach out both hands to cup his face. 

“Bruce! Baby, I’m right here- It’s ok, I’m alive” you breathlessly pant as he finally squints his eyes open. 

You lean down to press a kiss to his forehead and his eyes widen as he quickly grabs your waist, holding onto you like a lifeline. He pulls you impossibly closer to him and hides his face into your neck as he repeats your name like a prayer. 

Thankfully you feel the car shift into park and Alfred quickly opens the backdoor; you meet his worried eyes that seem to well up more when he sees how Bruce has shrunk himself into you. 

“Alfred would you-”

“Don’t worry Missus Wayne, I’ll get him out” the butler affirms before reaching for Bruce’s arms. 

Your husband tightens his grip on you once he feels another set of arms on him, “Baby, we gotta get you out of the car- It’s Alfred, you’re safe” you offer but he doesn’t seem to budge. 

His arms tighten when you try to wiggle out of his hold, making you gasp- it’s so tight you can tell you’re already bruising. 

“Bruce please- I can’t breathe-” you manage as you tap his chest plate with urgency. 

“Master Wayne!” Alfred exclaims just as Bruce releases you. 

He scrambles back and Alfred catches him before he can fall out of the car.

“No, no, no! I’m so sorry, I-I, I-’m sorry! I’m sorry” Bruce cries as he reaches for you again. 

Once you catch your breath you respond, “It’s ok Bruce, You didn’t mean to. But we need to get you to the manor, so please let Alfred help you out of the car”. 

His blue eyes are blown wide and darting around the car and you reach out a hand to cup his bruised cheek, “We’re home, I’ve got you”. 

________________________________________

Getting Bruce up to your shared bedroom was no easy task; his legs seemed to give out at random times, his whole body shook with anxiety, and he gripped onto your arm as if you would disappear if he didn’t. 

Alfred followed closely beyond to make sure Bruce didn’t fall backwards down the stairs or grab you too tightly. 

You enter the bathroom connected to your bedroom and ask Alfred to fetch water for Bruce as well as call Lucius Fox, he obliges and quickly leaves you and Bruce alone. 

You turn to look at your beloved husband again, you see him shivering in the corner of the bathroom, hugging his knees as close to his chest as he can- his position mirrors that of a small child. 

You rush to his side and slowly place your warm hands on his cheeks to tilt his head to look at you. His eyes are wet with tears and beginning to redden, his bottom lip quivers as he looks at you for comfort. 

“S-Scarecrow- Toxin- Toxin” he babbles, you brush his damp hair as you acknowledge what he’s trying to tell you. 

“I know baby, I know- Alfred and Lucius are going to help you. I’m going to help you. You’re safe” you say through your own tears as you press gentle kisses all over his face. 

“Can I help you take off your suit, so that we can get you clean?” you ask softly, as not to stress him. 

He looks at you with skepticism and you begin to take your own blouse off; Bruce’s eyes watch you as you strip down to your bra and panties- his favorite set.

He seems to warm to the idea now that he sees you’re just you- no injuries, no bruises, no concealed weapons or illusions… Nothing hidden beneath the clothes- just his beautiful wife. 

Safe. 

He reluctantly nods and you reward him with another kiss. "That's my good boy” you smile as you hook your fingers under the solid kevlar slats of his suit, helping pull them off of his tired body. 

Soon he’s down to just his undersuit layer and you begin to slowly pull down the zipper of the suit. Bruce shivers at the cool air on his skin and places a large hand on your thigh. 

Once the suit is off, you begin to get up so that you can run the bath (Bruce wouldn’t be able to stand on his own long enough to take a shower), but before you can stand all the way up, he’s clinging to you again. 

His hand is firm around your wrist, but not tight enough to hurt you. He’s crying again; big beautiful eyes, a sea of uncertainty and torment. He tugs you back down and gathers your smaller frame into his arms and sits you on his lap. 

Your husband cradles you close to his chest, strong hand holding your head, tucking it under his chin. He’s shielding you from the horrors that only he can see. 

“Please, Please don’t go. Don’t leave.” he mumbles as he holds you. 

You allow him to hold you for a while until he seems to calm down a little and you begin to wiggle out of his hold. His eyes protest and he whimpers. 

“I’m not going anywhere my Love, I’m just turning on the water ok?” you offer, giving him a reassuring squeeze. 

He nods, closing his tired eyes and resting his head against the wall as you fill the tub with warm water. 

Alfred knocks on the door, startling Bruce and you silently curse- he was just settling down.

“One minute Alfred!” you exclaim before turning back to Bruce. 

“It’s just Alfred, he’s just bringing us water” you assure him as you take the glass from the older man. 

“Lucius Fox is downstairs working on an antidote as we speak ma’am” Alfred offers. 

You nod and thank him, “Wait Alfred, would you help me get him into the tub? I’m afraid he’s not able to on his own and he’s too heavy for just me to” .

“Of course” Alfred shoots you a sad smile. It hurt him just as much to see the man he raised in such a state. Surely Alfred just saw the frightened little child who once fell down the bat infested well. 

Bruce has folded in on himself in the corner, shaking again, repeating something you can’t quite decipher. 

“My Love” you call, cautiously approaching him again. 

You place a hand on his shoulder and he looks at you. “Lets get you in the tub, ok?”. 

His eyes dart from you to Alfred a few times before he obliges. You throw one of his arms obver your shoulders and Alfred takes the other side. Bruce’s walk is uncoordinated as you and the old man steady his waist with your free hands until you reach the foot of the marble tub. 

The two of you ease him into the bath and he lets out a sigh once the warm water envelops him like a sweet embrace. “Thank you Alfred” you say, before the man leaves the two of you alone again. 

Once the large oak door is closed, you grab the cool glass of water again. “Here Baby, drink this” you say, kneeling beside the tub. 

He narrows his tired eyes at the glass and you can tell he’s not sure it’s safe, so you take a sip first, “It's good, it's normal water”. 

He allows you to lift the glass to his cracked lips and he almost downs the whole thing in one go. Once you place the glass down on the floor, he calls to you- “Please, join me?” he asks so softly. 

Of course you can’t deny your sweet husband, so you take off the rest of your undergarments, ask him to lean forward, and slip into the tub behind him. Once you’re situated, you ease him back to rest his head against your shoulder.

You wrap your arms around his chest, holding him tightly, grounding him. The pressure on his chest makes him feel sane, he knows he’s home. 

For about 30 minutes, you hold him tight, whispering affirmations and praises against his ears as you gently clean him. He’s finally able to let go. 

Once you get him into bed, Lucius is ready with the antidote; he administers the dose to Bruce as he’s drifting off. 

“Thank you Lucius” you say before turning to the butler, “and thank you Alfred”. 

The older man shakes his head, “No, thank you Missus Wayne, I don’t know if I would have been able to get him back”. 

You knew what he meant, there was no one else who was able to draw Bruce back to reality better than you. The men left the bedroom and you snuggled up to your already sleeping husband; gently, you brush his damp hair from his face and pepper him with kisses before placing his head on your chest, “you’re safe my Love, sweet dreams”. 

Months Before Everything Changed

When you entered Dr. Jonathan Crane’s laboratory, you closed the door behind you almost holding your breath; the air inside was heavy, thick with an antiseptic, metallic chemical smell, and the pale white glare of the fluorescent lights rendered every surface unnervingly clear. The rows of glass tubes, labeled bottles, and precision instruments lining the counters reflected the orderly yet obsessive architecture of Crane’s mind. Your purpose for being there was clear: to find proof that the therapy he’d been subjecting you to was illegal. Your fingers, steady but too careful to deny the tension inside you, lifted the edge of every file, read the label of every chemical bottle, opened and closed each drawer in silence; yet everything was flawless, disturbingly clean, as if Crane had turned the art of leaving no trace into a discipline.

The steel cabinet on the back wall caught your eye because it was different from the others; it was sealed with a thick electronic lock, a small red sensor light glowing steadily. When you crouched to examine it, it didn’t take long to realize that any attempt to force the code would immediately alert Crane. You could sense that something was hidden inside—you knew it instinctively. Most likely everything he had tested on you, every note, every formula, was in there. As you considered ways to crack the code, your mind rapidly scanned possibilities, trying to recall Crane’s habits, his recurring numbers, his obsessive patterns; but no combination felt safe enough. One wrong attempt could end everything.

That was when your gaze shifted to the medical waste bin in the corner of the room. The black-lidded container marked with a biohazard symbol looked like the only chaotic element in Crane’s otherwise perfect order. Kneeling down and lifting the lid slowly, you were hit with a sharp chemical odor. Inside were used syringe casings, empty ampoules, and gauze stained with chemicals. You picked up each small tube one by one, trying to read the faded labels, but none of them gave you what you were looking for. Just as you were about to give up, crumpled, torn scraps of paper at the bottom of the bin caught your attention. When you carefully pulled them out and spread them across the counter, your heart quickened.

Putting the pieces together required patience. As your fingers matched the edges of the paper, your mind worked just as fast; parts of the chemical formulas were legible, while the rest were nearly erased by liquid stains. One fragment of a note was clearer than the others. When you leaned in to read it, your stomach tightened: “Strange’s raw formula is still irrationally unstable — the side effects are unpredictable.” Beneath it, another hurried line mentioned how dangerous Strange’s experiments were and that they needed to be stopped. This was no longer just Crane’s personal obsession; it was part of something bigger and darker. Along the edge of the paper, an almost completely faded phrase could be made out through the chemical smears: Beneath Arkham — The Forgotten Tunnel. You couldn’t pinpoint its exact location, but it wasn’t hard to understand that it pointed to a hidden laboratory.

In that moment, the scandals that had erupted around Arkham in recent months rearranged themselves into a new pattern in your mind. Hugo Strange could be at the center of all of them. The therapy Crane had been administering to you might have been a byproduct of these larger experiments. As you quickly gathered the papers and stuffed them into the inner pocket of your jacket, a cold shiver slid down your spine. You suddenly realized you weren’t alone. The air in the lab had changed; the presence of someone behind you settled on your shoulders like an invisible but crushing weight.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t show it. As Bruce had taught you years ago, you regulated your breathing, kept your hands steady, and acted as if you were still absorbed in the papers. While your heart pounded hard against your ribs, your ears strained to catch the slightest sound. Then you heard a voice—low, hard, and certain.

“I knew Crane’s weakness for you would become a problem for us.”

The owner of the voice took a few heavy steps closer. On the polished surface of the lab counter, a broad, imposing silhouette was reflected. You immediately recognized Hugo Strange’s most loyal assistant; she was the woman whose presence filled space even in Arkham’s corridors. Her muscular arms were crossed over her chest as she watched you. The air suddenly felt tighter, more suffocating.

As your fingers instinctively tightened around the papers in your pocket, the woman stepped closer, her voice now nearer and more threatening.

“Now,” she said slowly, “you’re going to hand over what you’re holding… or you’re never leaving this room.”

As the fluorescent lights hummed above your head, you realized the door stood between you and the woman, and you began calculating escape routes in seconds—because what you saw in her eyes told you this was not just a threat.

As the woman’s words hung in the cold air of the laboratory, you slowly turned to face her. Your heart pounded against your ribs, yet your expression was unexpectedly calm—almost dismissive. You had swallowed your fear and turned it into anger. Locking your eyes onto hers, you spoke while making the presence of the papers in your pocket feel like a deliberate act of defiance.

“I know you’re exploiting vulnerable patients,” you said in a low but steady voice. “Your experiments, the illegal therapies, Strange’s laboratory… all of it. And it’s all going to come out.”

The muscles in Ethel’s face tightened; her jaw locked. For a brief moment, pure anger flashed in her eyes—the look not of a professional employee, but of an accomplice cornered.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hissed.

“I do,” you shot back immediately. “And you’re afraid.”

That last word fell like a spark. Without hesitation, Ethel lunged at you. Her large body moved faster than you expected, her arm swinging toward you. The reflex Bruce had drilled into you over and over kicked in without thought; you stepped back and twisted your body aside, slipping free as her hand tried to grab your wrist. A metal tray clattered to the floor after hitting the counter, and one of the glass tubes shattered, spreading across the tiles.

When Ethel attacked again, you kicked a chair between you, throwing off her balance for a split second.

“You can’t run,” the woman growled, shoving the chair aside.

“You won’t know until I try,” you panted.

The laboratory began to feel suffocatingly small; with every step you bumped into something, knocking things over. As Ethel tried to seize you, you circled the counters, recalling the basic escape maneuvers Bruce had taught you and trying to create distance. But she was stronger, heavier, and eventually she cornered you. Your back hit the cold steel cabinet, and there was nowhere left to go.

Without taking her eyes off you, Ethel touched the small earpiece at her ear.

“I’ve got her,” she said in a short, hard tone. “In Crane’s lab.”

The crackling reply from the earpiece didn’t reach you, but Ethel’s lips thinned into a tight line.

“Understood,” she muttered. “I’m bringing her in.”

At that exact moment, when her attention flickered for a single second, you grabbed a glass bottle from the counter and hurled it to the floor. It exploded, releasing a sharp-smelling cloud of fumes, and Ethel recoiled on instinct. You didn’t waste the opening; slipping past her, you lunged for the door. Her hand brushed your jacket, nearly catching the fabric, but you managed to wrench the door open and burst into the corridor.

Your footsteps echoed down Arkham’s long hallway as you heard the heavy thud of steps behind you. Ethel was chasing you. The corridor’s fluorescent lights glared in your eyes, distorting your sense of direction. You overturned a cleaning cart in your path, sending buckets and mops sprawling to slow her down.

“Stop!” Ethel shouted from behind.

You didn’t answer; your lungs burned and your legs trembled, but stopping felt like death.

When you rounded the corner, you saw two guards blocking the corridor. Their uniforms were standard, but their expressions were not; instinctively, you knew they were Strange’s men. Your heart seemed to drop into your stomach. You knew you couldn’t fight them. Your only chance was to remember the simple but vital lessons Bruce had taught you: survive. Create distance. Find an exit.

As one of the guards lunged toward you, you smashed the glass of the fire alarm with your elbow and set off the siren. The piercing alarm filled the corridor as red lights began to flash. Seizing the sudden chaos, you ducked under the guard’s outstretched arm and slammed hard into the other’s knee. You weren’t professional—your movements were messy, driven by panic—but they were unexpected enough.

The brief opening created by your collision with the guard’s knee didn’t last as long as you’d hoped. The second guard reacted on instinct, looping his arm around your neck and yanking you backward. When your back slammed hard into the wall, the air burst from your lungs in a painful rasp. As your hands clawed at his wrist in panic, the first guard recovered and drove his fist into your ribs. The blow was sharp and heavy; pain spread through your chest like a stone dropping inside it, and your knees nearly buckled. You weren’t professional—your body wasn’t used to absorbing hits—and every impact left you reeling. But Bruce’s voice echoed in your mind, the sentence he’d drilled into you for years: Don’t focus on the pain. Focus on the exit.

To break free from the arm crushing your throat, you tucked your chin and suddenly dropped your weight, then slammed your heel down on the guard’s foot with all your strength. When his grip loosened for a split second, you threw your elbow backward, blindly but with desperate force, into his ribs. At the same time, the first guard lunged for your hair, his fingers clamping cruelly around your scalp. Your eyes watered as your head was jerked back. While pain exploded behind your eyes like white light, your hand fumbled along the wall until it closed around a metal fire extinguisher, and you swung it without thinking. It struck the guard’s shoulder with a dull thud, and he staggered.

“That’s enough!” Ethel shouted from the other end of the corridor, her voice cutting through the wail of the alarm like a blade. As she approached with heavy steps, her face was twisted with pure hatred. “Do you think you can run? You’re not Wayne’s little pet anymore. No one’s going to save you here. You’re going to be part of Strange’s project, understand? A test subject!”

Her words left an icy weight deep in your stomach, but they also sharpened your anger. When one of the guards lunged again, you remembered the simple lesson Bruce had taught you about balance: instead of meeting force with force, you shifted sideways and used his momentum against him, pulling his arm and redirecting him into the wall.

As Ethel tried to reach you, you shoved the overturned cleaning cart between you with your foot, sending buckets and slick water spilling across the floor. The ground instantly turned into a dangerous sheet of ice, and one of the guards slipped and fell. Seizing the brief chaos, you darted through the nearest door. The room was dark—probably an unused storage space. When you closed the door quietly and pressed your back against it, your heart thundered in your ears, and the pain in your ribs flared with every breath.

While footsteps and shouts echoed outside, you slipped between the shelves and hid in the shadows. As you forced your breathing to slow, another of Bruce’s lessons surfaced in your mind: buildings are like people—they have blind spots. When you spotted the small security camera on the ceiling, you quickly calculated its field of view and realized the triangular patch of shadow formed by the shelves lay outside its range. You crouched there and waited without moving.

After a while, the door opened and light spilled inside.

“She ran out,” one of the guards said, breathless.

“Search everywhere!” Ethel shouted. “She can’t have gone far!”

As their footsteps receded from the doorway, you felt your muscles gradually loosen, though you stayed still for a few more minutes. Then you cracked the door open and glanced into the corridor. The red alarm lights were still flashing, but the hallway was empty for now. Mapping the cameras and their angles in your mind like a blueprint, you moved from shadow to shadow, slipping through the building with every step carefully calculated.

When you finally reached the service exit, your hands were trembling, but you managed to push the door open. The cold night air hit your face, burning your lungs as you filled them. Arkham’s dark silhouette loomed behind you. Feeling the papers still safe in your pocket, one thought crystallized in your mind despite everything you’d been through: you had to get this to Bruce.

–––

After leaving Arkham, when the city air filled your lungs, it should have felt like freedom—but what you felt was closer to exposure. The blood in your nose had long since dried, yet with every breath you could still taste its metallic tang at the back of your tongue. The split in your lip stung with every movement, the bruises on your hands throbbed in the cold night air, and all of it, strangely, made you more alert. As you walked, you deliberately kept your steps pointed away from Wayne Manor, instinctively and stubbornly turning your route toward the Gotham City Police Department. You didn’t want to go to Bruce; you didn’t want to look into his eyes and see that familiar fear, that look of someone trying to protect you like fragile glass. But you could talk to Batman. Batman wasn’t just a mask—he was the language of everything Bruce couldn’t say, and tonight you wanted to speak to that language, not to Bruce.

When you slipped onto the GCPD rooftop, it was a little past two in the morning, and the city was suspended in that strange half-sleep; the neon lights were still burning, but the streets had thinned, as if Gotham had retreated into its own shadow. The heavy metal body of the Bat-Signal stood at the center of the roof, and when you saw it, a childish thrill from your past stirred in your chest. You rested your fingers on the projector’s cold surface and hesitated for a moment before turning the switch. As the light tore through the sky and carved the black bat silhouette onto the clouds, your heart quickened. You knew the gesture was theatrical, but that was exactly why it felt right. This wasn’t a call to Bruce Wayne. It was a summons sent to Batman. And you were standing on the side you’d dreamed of since childhood—the one making the call.

You didn’t hear him arrive; Batman was never heard. He was simply there. When he stepped out of the shadows and into the edge of the light, the hem of his cape stirred softly in the wind, and the eyes behind the mask found you immediately. You saw him freeze, that millisecond of hesitation tightening something in your chest.

“…You,” he said in a low, hard voice, trying to contain his surprise. “What are you doing here?”

You stepped a little further into the light, making no attempt to hide the damage on your face. Your bloodied nose, split lip, and bruised hands became brutally visible in the projector’s pale glow. The gaze behind the mask sharpened; his shoulders tensed.

“Before you answer,” he said, taking two quick steps toward you, his voice lower now but heavier, “who did this to you?”

The corner of your mouth curved involuntarily. “No hello? This is our first meeting, Batman.”

When he reached for your chin, you didn’t flinch. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he tilted your head slightly to inspect your nose. There was restrained anger in the contact—and something deeper: fear. Not fear of hurting you, but the careful precision of someone afraid of losing you.

“This isn’t a game,” he murmured. “You’re wandering Gotham’s streets at midnight, showing up here covered in blood, and—”

“And using the Bat-Signal,” you cut in lightly. “Admit it. It was cool.”

The jaw beneath the mask tightened. “This city isn’t a stage. And you—” he paused, weighing his words, “—you shouldn’t be involved in this.”

A familiar ache rose in your chest, but you forced it down. You pulled the crumpled papers from your pocket and handed them to him. “Then you’re lucky,” you said, your tone turning serious. “Because this is already inside my world. Strange… this explains the unrest that’s been happening at Arkham.”

As he took the papers, his gloved fingers brushed yours; the contact was brief but electric. His eyes scanned the lines quickly, and the expression on his face hardened into stone. After a moment, he looked up.

“This,” he said at last, his voice low and vibrating with intensity, “will help open an investigation into Strange.”

He lowered the papers slightly but didn’t release them. When his eyes returned to you, the hardness in them was more personal. “Where did you get this?” he asked, each word precise. “No—” he shook his head faintly, correcting himself, “what did you do to get this?”

You shrugged, but the movement betrayed the pain in your body; his gaze flicked instinctively to your bruised hands. His jaw tightened again.

“You went into a lab at Arkham,” he said. “Alone. Into a locked area. A place under Strange’s direct control.” His voice didn’t rise, but each word landed heavier. “What were you doing there?”

You opened your mouth. You were about to say Jonathan Crane’s name—the lab, the illegal prescriptions he’d put you on, his invasive closeness, the voices seeping into your mind… And in that exact moment, a door slammed shut inside your head. The hesitation wasn’t accidental. The methods Crane had used in his therapy sessions went beyond classical suggestion. Words he had planted in your mind while you were in REM. Conditioning built specifically on post-hypnotic association. The word trust had fused with the tone of his voice in your mind; it functioned like a safety cue, a key that suppressed your sense of threat. Whenever you tried to speak his name, your subconscious muted the alarm signal and replaced it with a false calm. Your heart raced, but your thoughts fogged over. Cognitive inhibition.

Realizing it was almost as terrifying as experiencing it.

Batman waited. He didn’t force the silence.

“Go on,” he said at last, softly but firmly.

You swallowed. You still couldn’t say Crane’s name. Your tongue was fighting your mind.

“I noticed… something was wrong,” you managed. Even that sentence cost you effort. “In the prescriptions. The protocols. At Arkham.”

He lifted the papers closer to his chest and glanced over the notes again; his professional mask was slowly sliding back into place, but the crack that had appeared moments ago was still there. “All this time,” he said in a more controlled voice, “the place I’ve been searching for was right in front of me… How did I miss it?”

You frowned. “The place for what?”

“The Forgotten Tunnel,” he said. When the words left his mouth, it was as if a lock clicked into place.

You repeated the name, but it meant nothing to you. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“It tells me,” he replied, and his voice darkened. “And if I’m right, it means there’s a battlefield buried beneath Gotham.”

“We need to talk to Gordon,” you said, your breath steady but tight.

He stepped closer; the distance between you narrowed, his shadow swallowing you whole. His gaze dropped to the injuries on your face, then rose back to your eyes. “You’re not getting involved in this, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but absolute. “Because this isn’t a game. Strange—” he paused, weighing the word, “—if he’s done even half of what I think… I’m not dragging you into this war.”

“You’re not dragging me,” you shot back. “I’m already in it.”

Your hands curled into fists; your bruised knuckles throbbed, but you didn’t pull away. “I saw what’s happening in Arkham. I found that lab. I pulled those papers out. This isn’t something you can carry alone anymore.”

Batman shook his head slightly; the gesture was tired and stubborn. “You’re hurt,” he said. His eyes flicked to the dried blood on your nose and your split lip. “And this is just the beginning. Next time you might not be this lucky.”

“It wasn’t luck,” you whispered. “It was preparation. What you taught me.”

That sentence opened another door between you. The hardness in his eyes cracked for a heartbeat, replaced by something rawer. Memory. Guilt. Fear.

“I taught you that to survive,” he said. “Not to walk back into the fire.”

“The more you try to keep me away from the fire,” you replied, your voice sharpening without rising, “the more you push me straight into it. Don’t you see that? You’re trying to protect me, but all you’re doing is leaving me in the dark. And I’m not blind in the dark, Bruce.”

When his name left your lips, the air shifted. The eyes behind the mask sharpened, but you didn’t retreat; you stepped closer instead. There was almost no space left between you. You could feel his breath—measured but deep.

“I’m not your weak point,” you said quietly. “I can be your partner. I want to be. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because what they’re doing to those patients… I can’t ignore it.”

Batman’s hand moved to your arm on instinct; his grip wasn’t harsh, but it was possessive, as if he wanted to anchor you in place. “I can’t risk losing you,” he said. This time the words were unfiltered. “I lost my family once. I’m not making the same mistake again.”

Your fingers slid to his wrist; beneath the hard edges of the armor you felt his pulse, fast and strong. “The only place I’m safe is beside you,” you said intensely. “In front of your eyes. Somewhere you can control. That scares you, because then you’d have to admit how much you need me.”

The words settled heavily between you. Batman didn’t close his eyes, but his gaze softened for a fraction of a second; the edges of his resistance were wearing down.

“If I accept this,” he said slowly, “you play by my rules. You don’t leave my side. You don’t act alone. And if the smallest thing goes wrong—”

“—I pull back,” you finished. “I promise.”

You held each other’s gaze a moment longer; it was more than an agreement. It was a silent negotiation of trust, fear, and an attraction neither of you named.

At last, he inclined his head by a fraction.

“All right,” he said. He raised his right hand slowly to the side of his mask near his ear. With his index and middle fingers, he tapped the armored surface lightly. A faint beep sounded.

In a low, rough, authoritative voice, he said, “Gordon,” when the connection opened. “We need to meet. There’s a new development. Hugo Strange…”

Inside you, there was less victory than relief. Gotham kept breathing below, and as you stood at his side, you felt that this wasn’t just an operation—it was a partnership that would carry you both past a point of no return.

In the early hours of the morning, the bathroom of Wayne Manor still carried the silence left behind by the night; beneath the high ceiling, the marble surfaces softly reflected the pale daylight, and the gray-blue light filtering through the wide windows spread a cool yet peaceful brightness into every corner of the room. The dark veins in the stone walls and the old gothic carvings gave the space an almost cathedral-like weight, but the warm yellow sconces above the sink softened that severity, making the atmosphere unexpectedly intimate. You were sitting on the edge of the marble counter; your bare feet touched the cold floor, and the thin fabric of your morning robe brushed lightly against your injuries on your shoulders. The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air, but mixed with the manor’s clean, aged wood smell, it felt strangely comforting.

Bruce stood directly in front of you; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and even that simple detail brought back an image you recognized from years ago. He wasn’t wearing gloves. His fingers were bare. After dipping a piece of cotton into antiseptic, he gently held your chin between two fingers and turned your face toward the light. His touch was careful, measured, as if you might break.

“This is going to hurt,” he said in a low voice.

“You said the same thing yesterday,” you replied in a lightly teasing tone. “And I’m still alive.”

When he pressed the cotton to the cut at the corner of your lip, your breath caught involuntarily; the pain was short and sharp, but the warmth his fingers left against your skin was far more distracting. Your eyes drifted to his face. His brows were furrowed, all his attention fixed on your wounds, as if all the chaos in Gotham had ceased to exist for that moment.

“You’re underestimating this,” he said. “It could have been worse.”

“But it wasn’t,” you murmured. “And if I kept you from going down into the underpasses…”

His hand paused for a moment. He lifted his eyes to you; there was no accusation in his gaze, only a thoughtful seriousness.

“Strange is probably erasing the most obvious evidence right now,” he said. “When people panic, they make mistakes. They leave behind things they consider insignificant.” He set the cotton aside and carefully turned your bruised hand with his thumb. “Uncertainty might seem like it’s buying him time, but it’s actually buying it for us. We’ll talk to Gordon. Once an official investigation begins… they won’t have anywhere left to run.”

His fingers closed around your wrist; the grip should have felt purely professional, but feeling the rhythm of your pulse scattered your thoughts. You smiled faintly.

“So I didn’t really stop you,” you said. “I just… forced a strategic pause.”

The corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he replied.

The silence was brief but dense. The light filling the bathroom brightened slightly; morning was advancing. Your eyes wandered around — the familiar marble, the old mirrors, the orderly shelves — and an unexpected warmth spread through your chest.

“I missed this place,” you said, as if mentioning something trivial. “The smell of Alfred’s coffee. The echo of footsteps in the corridors.”

Bruce’s hands stilled for a moment. He didn’t lift his head, but his shoulders tightened.

“This has always been your home,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you whispered. “But some things… look different once you step away. It feels like coming back to a place you once belonged to as a guest.”

This time he raised his eyes. His gaze met yours directly; there was something restrained inside it, the weight of years and unsaid sentences.

“There were times I thought I’d lost you,” he said with unexpected honesty. “Not physically. But…” he weighed the words. “What’s between us.”

Your breathing grew shallow. You tried to maintain your lightly teasing mask, but your voice softened. “I don’t get lost that easily.”

“I know,” he said. “But that… doesn’t erase the fear.”

The distance between you had narrowed without either of you noticing. His hand was still around your wrist; his thumb rested over your pulse. His eyes dropped to your lips, then returned to your gaze. The silence in the bathroom thickened; you seemed cut off from the outside world, hearing only each other’s breathing.

“Bruce…” you began, your voice barely a whisper.

The way you said his name changed the air. His face moved a few centimeters closer; his other hand slipped instinctively to your waist, as if steadying you, but the pressure of his fingers lingered longer than necessary. The space between your lips thinned, the tension becoming almost tangible.

At that exact moment, the vibration of your phone echoed sharply across the marble counter.

Both of you froze.

When you glanced at the screen, the name caught your eye: Jonathan Crane.

Bruce’s jaw hardened. His hand remained at your waist, but his fingers tightened slightly. His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to your face.

“Strange,” he said in a low voice, not taking his eyes off the phone. “He must’ve told him about last night.”

Bruce was thinking — fast, layered. “Crane’s reports,” he murmured to himself. “Whether he’s against Strange or working with him… this could be a way to find out.”

His gaze returned to you. “Answer it.”

You hesitated for a second.

That second didn’t escape Bruce’s notice, but he misread the reason — he saw it as danger, suspicion, operational tension.

He tilted his head slightly. “Put it on speaker,” he said.

You answered the call. Your fingers were faintly damp.

“Dr. Crane,” you said in a controlled voice.

The voice on the other end was soft, measured, wrapped in clinical politeness. “Y/N. I apologize for disturbing you this early. But after last night… it would be difficult not to feel some responsibility regarding what happened.”

Bruce was watching you. Your eyes, your expressions, your breathing — everything.

His gaze sharpened. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I’m fine,” you said shortly.

Crane was silent for a few seconds. Then his voice lowered. “Even so, I think we should speak face to face. I have… certain concerns about your safety.”

Bruce’s eyes locked onto yours. His lips moved — without sound.

Go.

He gave the faintest nod. Approval.

“What about?” you asked, not taking your eyes off Bruce.

“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone,” Crane said. “Today. Alone.”

Bruce’s gaze darkened further, but his lips shaped another silent word.

Accept.

“All right,” you said. “Time and place?”

Crane gave the details. His voice was calm as always, but beneath the lines something else flowed — a tone only you could recognize, carrying the tense shadow of your history.

“I’ll be there,” you said, and ended the call.

You set the phone down slowly on the counter. The bathroom’s silence returned, but it wasn’t the same; the intimate warmth from before had given way to an operational chill.

Bruce spoke first.

“This is an opportunity,” he said. “To understand his connection to Strange. What he knows. What he’s hiding…”

“And you’re going to use me as bait,” you said flatly.

His gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t harden either. “I won’t leave you alone. You’ll have a comm in your ear. I’ll hear every second of that conversation. I’ll guide you.”

You couldn’t suppress the wave of discomfort rising inside you.

“Bruce…”

The unease in your voice made him pause.

He tilted his head slightly. “Is there a problem?”

There was.

In your mind, that moment flashed — Crane standing too close, the distance where his breath brushed your face, the tone of his voice dropping to a whisper, the unexpected warmth when his lips touched yours. Your body’s split-second response that had felt like betrayal. Then you pushing him away. Your harsh words. Your escape.

Your stomach tightened.

“No,” you said too quickly.

Bruce fell silent.

He looked at you — long, careful, intuitive. The look of someone who had read you for years. He saw your discomfort, but not its source. And he didn’t try to force it. Because he understood you were hiding something. And that if he pushed, you wouldn’t tell him the truth.

So he only nodded.

“We’ll make him talk,” he said in a calm but resolute tone. “Whatever he’s hiding will come out.”

Bruce stepped closer again. This time his touch wasn’t operational; he placed his hand lightly beneath your cheek, turning your face toward him.

“If anything goes wrong,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll get you out of there in seconds.”

You looked into his eyes. The protective determination in them collided with the lingering warmth of the moment you’d nearly kissed in the bathroom.

“I know,” you whispered.

But in the back of your mind, Crane’s voice was still echoing.

And both of you — for very different reasons — could feel that this meeting wouldn’t be just an operation.

---

The church was like a rusted nail driven into one of Gotham’s forgotten veins; it wasn’t completely ruined, yet it wasn’t standing strong enough to be called intact. The afternoon light filtered through the leaden clouds in the sky and slipped inside through the gaps of the shattered stained-glass windows, spreading across the layers of dust on the floor like a blood-stained reflection. The stone walls smelled of damp; the rotting wooden pews had warped, and the hollow where prayers once echoed now carried only the wind’s low moan. This was a place even abandonment had abandoned.

On the upper level, standing before the wide, fractured stained glass, was Jonathan Crane.

His silhouette appeared like a thin, dark line against the light; the colors filtering through the broken glass fell across his face, painting the shadows beneath his eyes violet and his cheekbones in tones of blood-red. One hand rested in his coat pocket, the other pressed lightly to the phone at his ear. He had already seen the silhouette walking up the road toward the church — you.

As you walked the narrow stone path leading to the chapel, your steps slowed; you couldn’t explain why, but even the ground here felt uneasy. You could feel the weight of an unseen gaze behind your shoulders, yet whenever you turned, no one was there. When you stopped before the church doors, the rhythm of your heartbeat shifted — like a pulse suspended between turning back and going inside. But Crane had already looked away from you, his gaze turned toward the city; he wasn’t impatient. He was calm, like a hunter who enjoyed waiting.

On the other end of the phone was Dr. Hugo Strange.

The corner of Crane’s mouth curved slowly. “You noticed,” he said into the phone, his voice low but carrying a sharp calm. “How long did it take?”

The voice on the other side — Hugo Strange’s — echoed with metallic composure. “Fast enough,” Strange said. “I saw my files being moved, my experimental records — including the ones involving you — erased, the financial traces… rewritten. Manipulation on this scale isn’t the work of one man.”

Crane’s lips curled into an almost invisible smirk. His eyes remained fixed on you as you crossed the church courtyard. “You underestimate me, Hugo,” he said softly.

“No,” Strange replied, his voice harder now. “I take you very seriously. Which is why I’m asking: who’s behind you?”

Crane didn’t answer. He tilted his head slightly; the light from the broken glass fractured in his pupils. “Because,” Strange continued, “this confidence… this sense of immunity… doesn’t belong to a scientist alone. It rests on power. And when I find that power… I’ll eliminate you, and them.”

The implication was clear. Behind his words lingered the cold shadow of the Court of Owls — ancient, aristocratic, invisible.

Crane tilted his head faintly; his gaze drifted down to you walking below. As you approached the doors, he watched you with a hunter’s patience.

“I know how solid you believe your structures are, Hugo,” he said slowly. “But sometimes… there’s another structure behind the structure.”

Strange fell silent.

Crane continued, never taking his eyes off you, his voice soft as velvet but carrying a hidden blade. “The Owls hunt at night… true. But there are shadows even an owl wouldn’t dare fly above.”

For the first time, real silence formed on the line — analytical, calculating silence. When Strange spoke again, his voice was still controlled, but sharpened with new caution.

“You don’t know who you’re playing with.”

Crane lifted his chin slightly. His gaze slid back to the path below — to you. He watched your hesitant steps as you neared the church, the tension in your shoulders, the instinctive unease in your posture. And inside his chest, a familiar dark warmth spread. Obsession rose from the deepest layer of his mind to the surface.

“On the contrary,” he said into the phone, his eyes still on you. “I know exactly who I’m playing with.”

Strange’s voice sharpened. “This is a war, Jonathan. And you—”

Crane cut him off. “No,” he said with calm certainty. “This is a hunt.”

His gaze tracked you as you reached the door.

“And the difference between prey and hunter… I understand far better than you think.”

When you pushed the door open, the sound of rotting wood groaned through the air. Crane’s pupils widened slightly; the strategic coldness in his gaze gave way to something else — more personal, deeper, more obsessively intense.

The phone was still at his ear, but his focus had shifted entirely to you.

“You won’t be able to protect her,” Strange said suddenly. “Y/N made a grave mistake touching my projects. And that… turns your weakness for her into my prey.”

The smile on Crane’s face froze — then sharpened into something more dangerous. “Don’t say her name,” he said, for the first time with open hardness.

Silence.

You had stepped further inside, approaching the staircase that led to the upper level. Your footsteps echoed through the hollow space.

Crane spoke one last time:

“If you want to know who stands behind the shadows… look up, Hugo. Because sometimes the hands holding the strings are far higher than you expect.”

A brief pause.

“And I… can feel their breath very close.”

Without waiting for a response, he ended the call.

Crane didn’t move for several seconds. He waited for you — with his entire mind. In the middle of that decaying church, where his childhood fears had once imprisoned him… the thought of seeing you now created a strange, dark fusion inside him: trauma, desire, possession.

All you could see was his back. He was still looking out through the glass.

The silence stretched.

At last, to draw his attention, you spoke:

“Dr. Crane.”

When your voice echoed through the church, Jonathan Crane slowly turned his head; the crimson light filtering through the shattered stained glass painted one half of his face while leaving the other in shadow, and that half-lit, half-dark state gave his gaze an almost supernatural depth. When he saw you, the faint smile forming at the corner of his lips was not merely a greeting — it was the quiet satisfaction of waiting, calculating, and… the desire to possess.

“You’re right on time,” he said, his voice echoing through the hollow church like velvet. “As always.”

The subtle, personal vibration in his tone was immediately noticeable; this was not just a therapist addressing his patient, but the impatient satisfaction of a man watching the woman he had been waiting for arrive.

You stopped a few steps in front of him, measuring your distance.

“For a conversation,” you said coldly, “you could have chosen somewhere less… symbolic. Why here?”

Crane’s gaze drifted briefly around — the broken pews, the darkened altar, the shadows along the ceiling — before returning to you.

“Because this place,” he said slowly, “is my turning point.”

There was a cold echo of the past in his voice; he chose his words as if walking carefully over stone.

“There are places in a person’s life,” he continued, “that shape you, break you… and rebuild you.” A brief pause. “Bringing a woman I value to such a place… felt meaningful.”

He took a step toward you. Your reflex was faster than thought; you stepped back. The movement was small but drew a sharp line between you. Crane noticed. Of course he noticed. For a brief instant, the ghost of that moment in his office flickered in his eyes — the moment he had cornered you, when his lips had touched yours. But he didn’t confront you with it. He only looked.

A few streets away, inside a parked car near the church, Bruce Wayne had heard all of this. He was listening to every syllable, every breath through the earpiece. Crane calling you “a woman I value”… that tone… that soft possessiveness.

At first, he couldn’t process what it meant. Nonsense. Psychological manipulation. A distraction tactic. But in truth, he had understood. He wasn’t stupid enough to miss the shift in Crane’s voice, the personal undertone beneath his words. His analytical mind was fully capable of decoding the psychology behind symbolic choices — but when it came to you, he chose to shut those pathways down in his subconscious.

He forced his focus back to the conversation.

You, meanwhile, kept your distance.

“You said this was about last night,” you said directly. “That’s what we should be talking about.”

Crane’s gaze sharpened, but he wasn’t offended; on the contrary, he seemed to take a strange pleasure in your continued caution and distance.

He tilted his head slightly; the dark focus in his eyes sharpened again.

“Of course,” he said. “Strange’s illegal experiments, the structure behind him… and my role in what I should do with the evidence I’ve gathered about him.”

Bruce’s voice came through your earpiece — short, sharp:

Ask why he’s doing it.

“Why?” you said. “I thought you were working together. Did you have a falling-out… or are you planning to sell him out?”

Crane’s smile deepened this time.

“Strange forgot who he was,” he said. “Arkham’s legacy. Amadeus Arkham’s ideals.” His gaze hardened. “Whoever takes over that institution must not betray that legacy.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“Is that successor you?” you asked.

Crane clearly enjoyed the question; a thin glint lit his eyes.

“I like hearing you say that,” he replied softly. “But the power behind Strange… is greater than you think. Working behind his back wasn’t sustainable for long.”

Bruce’s voice returned through the earpiece:

What changed his mind? Ask.

“And now?” you said. “Why aren’t you afraid anymore? Why move now to expose what you know?”

This time, Crane looked at you before answering — long, measured, intensely personal.

“Because it’s no longer just about Arkham,” he said in a low voice. “You’re involved.”

A thin tension stirred in your chest.

“Strange’s attention has shifted to you,” he continued. “And that… changes everything.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t retreat — but you froze.

“Protecting you,” he said, his voice darkening like velvet, “has taken priority over everything.” His eyes moved across your face — as if he wasn’t only looking, but touching.

Bruce’s breathing shifted in your ear; you felt it too.

“Even your shadow isn’t safe near him,” Crane whispered. “But with me… you are safe.”

The words echoed in your mind.

Shadow.

Safe.

He continued, his voice dropping further.

“I won’t allow anyone to touch you. And if someone is going to…” he went on, his tone velvet-soft but dangerously possessive, “…I know how it should be done.”

Touch.

The word struck somewhere deep in your subconscious — sending vibrations through buried memories, like echoes of past therapies and sedated recollections.

Then his hand lifted. His fingers moved toward your cheek.

You should have pulled back. But for a moment, your body hesitated — locked in surprise, in that strange conditioned calm from your subconscious.

The warmth of his fingers touched your skin.

At the same instant, inside the car, Bruce Wayne’s fingers slowly tightened around the leather of the steering wheel. His face showed nothing. But what rose inside his mind… was dark. Jealousy, in him, was something cold and silent; it didn’t explode, didn’t shout — it took root. He didn’t see it… but he heard it. Hearing Crane touch you, hearing the possessiveness in his words… awakened the most primal protective instinct in him. He didn’t want to kill him. But he now knew how Crane looked at you. And that knowledge moved through his veins like a slow, poisonous fire.

While the ghost of the warmth Jonathan Crane’s fingers had left on your cheek had not yet faded, Bruce’s voice came through the earpiece again. This time it was no longer just a whisper carrying the shadow of jealousy; he had regained control — the measured tone of a man retreating into strategy.

Invite him tonight.

You steadied your breathing, keeping your voice even while you felt Crane’s gaze resting on you.

“Tonight,” you said, “there will be a meeting at the old Wayne building. I’ll send you the location. Gordon will be there. Batman too.” You paused briefly, measuring his reaction. “To open an official investigation into Strange.”

Crane’s eyes sharpened, but he didn’t pull back; if anything, the proposal intrigued him more than you expected.

“I see,” he said slowly. “And Bruce Wayne?”

“He’s working to clear the Foundation’s name, so I’ll be there representing him,” you added.

Crane tilted his head slightly; a thin, calculating glint moved through his eyes.

“In that case,” he said, “Charlotte Rivers should attend as well.”

The name echoed against the church’s cold stone. An involuntary tension stirred inside you. Your brows tightened before you could stop it.

“Charlotte?” you asked, trying to keep your tone neutral. “Why?”

Crane’s lips curved slowly. “For the public dimension. For the possibility of a media leak. If we want to expose Strange… we’ll need a journalist.” A brief pause. “And Rivers is already close to the Wayne Foundation.”

In your earpiece, Bruce’s breathing went quiet for a second — then returned.

Accept.

Your jaw tightened. You suppressed the unease her name stirred in you, but this time Bruce’s voice came softer, more personal:

I approve.

Your heart tightened with a thin ache. That woman’s name was like a sharp blade, reminding you of her place in his life. But you didn’t let it show.

“All right,” you said to Crane. “Charlotte will be there.”

Crane watched you; he seemed to catch even the smallest tremor her name had caused. But he didn’t press it. Not yet. Silence fell between you like a heavy curtain. Then Crane didn’t step back. On the contrary… he moved closer. His step was slow, measured — as if he didn’t want to startle you, yet certain enough not to let you escape. The stained-glass light fell between you; red and violet shadows painted his face.

You should have stepped back. But your body froze, stunned.

Crane’s face drew closer to yours; you felt the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your lips, then rose back to your gaze. There was desire in that look — but mixed with something darker, more possessive.

Bruce’s voice didn’t come through the earpiece. But you felt the weight of his silence.

Crane tilted his head slightly; his lips were only a breath away from yours.

You thought he would kiss you. Your heart quickened — with an unwanted tension, the shock of an unwanted closeness. But his lips never touched yours. Instead, he stopped near your cheek; his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.

“People think love is pure,” he whispered. “I don’t.” His breath brushed your skin. “What I feel for you… has already crossed the line between protecting you and possessing you.”

He paused.

“And if I can’t pull you out of the darkness…” his lips curved faintly, “…then I’ll keep you safe inside it.”

Then he pulled back. Without touching you. Without kissing you. But what he left behind… was heavier than a kiss.

He turned away, walking slowly toward the church exit; his coat brushed the stone floor as his silhouette passed through the stained-glass light and dissolved into shadow.

There was still silence in your earpiece. Bruce didn’t say a word. He only waited.

When you were alone in the church, you headed for the door and stepped outside; the evening light hit your eyes. Down the road, the black car was still parked.

As you approached, Bruce was at the wheel. His face was half in shadow.

When you closed the door of the black car, the cold that had seeped from the church’s stone walls still clung to you; the red light of the stained glass flickered behind your eyes, and Crane’s breath lingered in your mind along with the warm ghost it had left on your cheek. Bruce sat behind the wheel, his hands resting on the leather too calmly, too controlled; but beneath that control, you could see how tense his muscles were, how white his knuckles had become. The engine started, the car moved forward slowly, yet the silence inside was heavier than the hum of the road; his silence wasn’t an absence, it was a choice. Bruce Wayne sometimes said more by remaining quiet, and today that silence settled between you like a blade sharper than words.

As the city lights streamed past the window, you watched his profile; his jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the road, yet you could feel that his mind was elsewhere. He had heard Crane lean close to you in the church, had listened to his whispers, but he hadn’t said a word; now the echo of that moment lingered inside the car. Bruce’s jealousy didn’t explode like anger — it condensed inward like pressure; he was trying to think like a strategist, to analyze the emotion, to keep himself under control. But control did not always mean the absence of feeling; sometimes it was only its postponement.

“I told you to call him,” he said at last, his voice low and measured, as if he were discussing only the plan, not what had just happened. “He’s the only bridge we have to reach Strange.” His sentences were logical, perfectly placed; yet the tension beneath his tone pointed elsewhere. His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, his eyes flicked toward you for a brief second before returning to the road. “He didn’t need to get that close to you,” he added, stepping outside the boundaries of strategy.

Your breath caught slightly; you hadn’t expected him to say it so directly. “He didn’t,” you replied carefully, choosing your words. “He only talked.” The sentence was true, but incomplete; what it lacked was the tension of that moment, his breath against your face, the way your body had frozen. Bruce’s brows knit faintly; he wasn’t accusing you, but he was trying to complete a picture in his mind. “I heard the way he looked at you,” he said, his voice more personal now, more exposed. “And I didn’t like it.”

The air inside the car grew heavier; Bruce Wayne usually analyzed what he disliked with cold composure, but this time analysis and emotion were intertwined. In that moment he wasn’t seeing Crane merely as a threat, nor you as a piece in an equation; he saw you as a woman, as a bond, as something that could be lost. “Since your internship began…” he said slowly, weighing the words, “is there something between you and him that you haven’t told me?” The question wasn’t accusatory, but it was wounded; it walked that thin line between wanting to know and fearing the answer.

Your heart tightened because there was something he didn’t know — though not in the way he imagined; you had no awareness of the words Crane had planted in your mind, but not every moment of the therapy had felt entirely innocent to you either. “It was only therapy,” you said, meeting his gaze. “About the puppets.” Bruce nodded faintly; he knew it was therapy, his mind accepted that, but another voice inside him remained uneasy. “You could have told me,” he said, this time softer. “You didn’t have to be alone with your fears.”

There was something heavier than jealousy in that sentence: a sense of being left out. Bruce was used to protecting you, to standing beside you in your weakest moments; but the fact that another man — Jonathan Crane of all people — had touched your fears unsettled him. That discomfort was less about possession and more about lateness; the quiet ache of not having been there in a certain moment. “Don’t let him get close to you,” he said finally, his voice controlled again, though a crack ran through it. “We can move against Strange together. We can plan. But Crane… he’s someone who doesn’t recognize boundaries.” He paused briefly, as if he knew he shouldn’t continue. “And I’m not leaving you inside that line.”

As the car approached the gates of the manor, the conversation wasn’t finished — it had only sunk deeper; Bruce’s jealousy was like a fire held under control, from the outside only warmth was visible, but inside the flames were rising silently. The possibility of losing you, Crane’s gaze, the small fragments of doubt that had gathered since the first day of your internship — they had all melted into the same crucible. And Bruce Wayne, carrying both Batman’s cold intelligence and a man’s fragile heart at once, without looking at you yet feeling your presence in every cell of his body, thought this: the war between protecting you and setting you free might be the hardest battle he had ever faced.

Location: Abandoned Mausoleum belonging to the Wayne Family

Time: Midnight

When the door of the Wayne family mausoleum opened, even the air that slipped inside felt aged — heavy with damp, stone, and forgotten grief. As you stepped in, the sound of your footsteps echoed beneath the domed ceiling, returning to you as though rising from between the tombs themselves. This wasn’t just a family burial site — it was the frozen heart of Bruce’s past.

Sarcophagi lined the walls; the old engravings of the Wayne name carved into their marble surfaces flickered under candlelight, the shadows making the letters seem alive. Stone statues — ancestors of the Wayne lineage — stood with heads slightly bowed, eyes fixed into emptiness, like silent witnesses observing the meeting. The long stone table at the center, usually meant for prayer offerings, had been transformed tonight into a war council.

And he stood at the center of this darkness.

Batman.

His tall black silhouette was motionless before the tombs; his cape touched the ground, candlelight carving sharp lines across his mask. When he turned his gaze toward you, there was more than operational composure in it — there was the inner tension of having brought you here.

James Gordon stood to the right side of the table; thick case files, photographs, and maps were spread open before him. The exhaustion etched into his face deepened under the light. Charlotte Rivers stood at the opposite end — her journalist’s instinct scanning not only the criminal implications of the room, but the emotional tension flowing through it.

When the door opened a third time, Jonathan Crane stepped inside.

He walked slowly, studying the space — the stone walls, the sarcophagi, the carved Wayne names. This place was a traumatic sanctuary for Bruce; Crane could feel it. Then his gaze found you. Not Gordon. Not Batman. You. His eyes lingered for only a second — but that second was deeply personal. Then he shifted his attention to the table as if nothing had happened, analytical composure settling over him again — though something more private lingered beneath it.

“Gathering in the midst of death…” he said slowly. “Strategic… as much as it is symbolic.”

Batman opened the discussion.

“Hugo Strange is at the center of the investigation,” he said. His voice echoed across the mausoleum’s stone walls, deep and authoritative. “Missing patients. Illegal experiments. Financial record manipulation.”

Crane inclined his head slightly, listening without interruption. Then he spoke.

“The purpose of the experiments isn’t treatment,” he said. “Not to erase fear… but to weaponize it.”

Gordon opened a file.

“The evidence we have so far is circumstantial,” he said. “Without the exact lab location, experiment records, financial chain… we can’t file charges.”

Crane was about to speak when Batman turned slightly toward you — you felt the masked gaze signal you.

You were meant to provide the information.

You steadied your breath.

“The primary facility where Strange’s experiments are conducted,” you said, “is beneath Gotham. In the old infrastructure tunnels connected to Arkham.”

Charlotte lifted her head.

“How far beneath?”

“In the convergence zone of the city’s abandoned metro and service lines,” you continued. “A network erased from maps.”

Batman added a single phrase:

“The Forgotten Tunnels.”

At the words, Gordon’s face hardened.

“Getting in there is nearly impossible,” he said. “Even the maps are incomplete.”

Charlotte spoke up. “If I publish this,” she said, glancing at her notebook, “the city will erupt. But the Wayne Foundation will burn with it.”

Batman turned to her. “I’m here to protect the Foundation.” His voice was clear. Cold. But you knew the man behind the mask — this wasn’t just institutional defense; it was a reflex to protect his family’s legacy.

Crane’s brow lifted slightly. “So you already knew the location,” he said, looking at Batman.

Batman answered without delay.

“I learned it from her — it was in the report she found in your lab.” He inclined his head slightly toward you.

The power balance in the room shifted.

You were the source of the intelligence. Crane looked at you for a long moment, impossible to read. What he was truly processing now was that your real target might be him. And that realization… fed the darker motivations already forming in his mind.

Charlotte stepped closer to the table. “If this is accurate… Strange’s experiments aren’t just a medical scandal. This is a city-scale criminal network.”

Crane reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He placed a small black USB drive onto the table. Candlelight flickered across its metal surface. “Your real task is to expose the information inside this device,” he said, then continued, “A journalist’s golden key — and it found you.”

Charlotte picked up the USB. “What is this?”

“Strange’s experimental budgets,” Crane said. “I traced the expenditures. Proof the funds never passed through the Wayne Foundation.”

Charlotte’s gaze sharpened. “Source?”

Crane smiled faintly.

“Encrypted email chains. Orders issued through false identities. Experiment directives. All routed through Strange’s own network.”

Gordon closed the file.

“This… opens an official investigation.”

Silence settled over the chamber.

Charlotte added:

“If I publish this, the city will erupt.”

Batman’s voice cut through — cold, precise:

“That’s exactly the point. To divide his attention.”

Crane spoke again, without taking his eyes off you:

“Strange’s interest is no longer limited to me.”

The sentence hung in the air.

Batman’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.

Crane continued, still looking at you:

“There’s a new name on his target list.”

The candle flames in the mausoleum trembled. And you felt, in that moment, that this meeting was not just the planning of an operation…but the beginning of a war with you at its center.

As Crane’s words — “There’s a new name on the target list” — echoed beneath the stone dome of the mausoleum, the candle flames seemed to tremble under the weight of that sentence.

Gordon was the first to recover. “Who?” he asked sharply.

Crane didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed only on you. The silence said more than any word could.

Charlotte noticed it. She looked at you first, then at Crane, and finally at the figure behind the mask — Batman. Her journalistic instinct had already begun reading the invisible currents moving through the room. “Is there something else that isn’t being said here?” she asked.

The question landed on the table like a blade. No one answered immediately.

Batman’s gaze locked onto Crane; his face was hidden behind the mask, but the tension in his shoulders showed even through the folds of his cape.

Crane smiled — a thin, provocative smile. “I can say that Strange has taken… a special interest in certain subjects,” he said. “Especially those with high mental resistance potential.”

Gordon cut in. “Let’s stay on topic.” He spread a map across the table — Gotham’s underground infrastructure plans, marked heavily in red.

“There are three entry points into the Forgotten Tunnels,” he said. “But all of them are either collapsed or being monitored.”

Batman spoke:

“We’re going in anyway.”

Charlotte lifted her head. “If the press finds out—”

“They won’t,” Batman said.

Gordon frowned. “This is a suicide mission.”

Silence followed.

When you spoke, your voice was calmer than you expected.

“I’m coming too.”

All three men turned to you at once.

Gordon objected immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Batman said nothing, but you felt his stare harden.

Crane, however… smiled faintly. “That would be interesting,” he said softly. “Observing her mental resistance in the field.”

Batman’s voice came out sharper this time:

“This isn’t observation. It’s an operation.”

Crane shrugged. “Same thing.”

Charlotte spoke again, but this time her voice sounded less like a journalist and more like a woman: “Do we have to put her at risk?”

With that sentence, Charlotte’s gaze locked directly onto you for the first time — measuring, weighing, comparing.

A brief silence fell.

Batman finally spoke: “No.”

It was a single word, but it cut the discussion in half.

Crane tilted his head slightly. “Even so… if Strange has already targeted her,” he said, his eyes returning to you, “keeping her out won’t protect her.”

That sentence changed the air.

Gordon closed the file. “The operation will be in two phases,” he said. “Recon first. Then intervention.”

Charlotte lifted the USB drive.

“I’ll analyze this data. Spending chains, forged emails, financial links… we can dismantle Strange in the court of public opinion.”

Batman gave a short nod. “Be fast.”

The meeting began to disperse.

Gordon gathered his files. Charlotte put on her coat. Both of them headed for the door.

But you didn’t leave.

Crane didn’t leave either.

Batman hadn’t moved from his place at all.

When the heavy door of the mausoleum closed behind Gordon and Charlotte, the silence that remained wasn’t merely environmental — it was the kind of silence where three different heartbeats, three different intentions, collided in the same darkness, where tension gained physical weight. Candle flames cast trembling shadows across the stone walls, and the sarcophagi of the Wayne family rose like silent witnesses to the scene.

The three of you were alone.

Crane spoke first.

He didn’t raise his voice; he lowered it — as though speaking loudly in this place would disturb the dead.

“You’re not taking her into the field,” he said to Batman.

But his eyes weren’t locked on the mask.

They were locked on you.

That gaze… wasn’t the gaze of someone who wanted to protect — it was the gaze of someone who wanted to possess.

Batman didn’t answer.

His cape shifted slightly; you saw the tension tighten across his shoulders, though his face remained buried in shadow.

Crane stepped forward. His footsteps echoed against the stone floor and up into the mausoleum’s dome. “You want to protect her,” he said softly. “But the darkness has already found her.”

This time Batman’s voice came — low, sharp, barely restrained. “Watch your distance, Crane. ”It was a warning. And a line drawn in stone.

Crane stopped. He smiled. “I didn’t even touch her.”

The sentence carried the ghost of that moment in the church into the mausoleum’s cold air. That second when you hadn’t stepped back… the closeness of his breath against your face… it all seemed to exist again.

Batman’s jaw hardened.

He said nothing — but you saw his gloved fingers slowly curl, the leather creaking loud enough to reach the stone walls.

The silence grew heavier. And standing between them, you felt it in your bones — this tension wasn’t only about Strange anymore… it was becoming a darker, more personal war growing between the two men.

You steadied your breath. You couldn’t stay silent. You felt you had to be the one to speak. “I’m joining the operation,” you said. Your words echoed through the mausoleum.

Batman didn’t turn immediately, but you felt the gaze behind the mask shift toward you. “No,” he said, short and final. That tone… the one you’d known for years — the one he used when he was trying to protect you. And this time, it made you angry.

You stepped slightly toward Crane’s side — a deliberate, measured, unmistakable move. “This is my war too,” you said. “Strange’s experiments, the patients in Arkham… I was at the center of all of it.”

Crane was watching you — attentively, with quiet satisfaction.

“This isn’t only about Strange for me,” you continued. “This is… the name of the Wayne Foundation. A legacy that belongs to Bruce’s family. And I—” You hesitated. But you didn’t step back. “I owe that name.”

The moment that word fell into the air, everything changed.

Owe.

Behind the mask, Bruce Wayne’s inner world fractured around that single word. Because to him, you were never: A responsibility that had to be protected. A burden that had to be repaid. Someone bound by a debt of gratitude. The only reason he kept you close, protected you, made space for you… was unconditional love. And now you were calling it a debt.

Batman said nothing. But his silence grew heavier. His shoulders tightened. His gloved fingers slowly curled around the edge of his cape. This wasn’t just anger — it was hurt.

You didn’t see it. But Crane did. Of course he did. He had been analyzing Batman with clinical precision ever since the Riddler claimed that Batman was Bruce Wayne. And because he was impatiently waiting for the day Riddler would be proven right, he never hesitated to slip into any crack he found.

“High sense of responsibility,” Crane said softly. “That… is a valuable trait.” He stepped closer to you — slower this time, more measured. “Keeping her away from the field won’t protect her,” he said, looking at Batman, though there was warmth in his tone directed at you. “Preparing her will.”

With that sentence, you felt yourself unintentionally positioned beside Crane.

Batman’s gaze hardened. The silence stretched. Candle flames trembled.

Finally Batman spoke — but not to you. Into the air. “This isn’t a mission.”

He stepped closer. Now the distance between you was dangerously thin. The shadow of his mask fell across your face. “This… is a line you don’t come back from.”

You felt the warmth of his breath. But you didn’t step back. “I already crossed that line,” you said. “The moment Strange learned I’d been secretly searching his lab.”

A brief silence followed.

Crane was watching the tension — like a scientist observing two different species of fear colliding.

At last Batman stepped back. But the movement wasn’t approval — it was restraint, an act to prevent losing control.

He stayed silent. And in that silence, you felt something shift: Even if he didn’t take you into the operation… He couldn’t stop you anymore.

As the candlelight of the mausoleum flickered, the gazes of the two men met on you again.

One wanted to keep you away from the darkness.

The other… wanted to claim you within it.

And you stood between them.

---

At four in the morning, the corridors of Wayne Manor felt less like the interior of a living residence and more like the inside of a monument holding its breath; the paintings on the walls were swallowed by darkness, and the crystal chandeliers no longer gave light, only the quiet awareness of their presence. When Bruce climbed the stairs with heavy steps, his footsteps didn’t echo across the marble floor — as if the manor itself refused to disturb his exhaustion, swallowing the sound. When he noticed your door slightly ajar, he paused; the faint draft from inside revealed the window was open. Without pushing the door further, he stepped in — and saw you, your back turned to the window, motionless like a night that refused to give way to dawn.

You hadn’t heard him arrive; your mind was occupied by another possibility, tying Bruce’s late return to Charlotte, imagining — unwillingly — that he might be with her. You had tried to suppress the thought, but jealousy sometimes overpowered reason; that was why your fingers gripping the window ledge were tense. Bruce watched you for a moment — not just looking, studying; he remembered your stance at the meeting, your resolve in the mausoleum, the dark spark in your eyes when Strange’s name had been spoken. He had wanted to keep you outside this world, but now he realized that was no longer possible — perhaps it never had been.

“You didn’t sleep.”

His voice came from behind you, and your shoulders flinched slightly; you turned slowly. He stood by the door, tie loosened, jacket still on; tired, yet his gaze was alive — not hardening when it landed on you, but deepening. He took a few steps forward, slow but deliberate, as if making one last calculation about whether to approach you or not.

“At the meeting…” he said, his eyes fixed on your face, “…you were very resolute.”

There was unhidden pride in his voice; this wasn’t praise directed at a colleague, but at someone he had raised. “You didn’t step back when Gordon spoke. You weighed Crane’s words. You didn’t avert your eyes when Strange’s name came up.” A brief pause. “You were brave.”

A faint shadow touched the corner of your lips. “You raised me,” you said quietly. “You shouldn’t be surprised.”

The sentence lingered in the room; Bruce’s gaze softened, but then drifted to the window — the same window. Both your minds were pulled to the same memory: the night you had said you would give up the Wayne surname. You had stood there, back turned to him, drawing a sharp line between you. That window had witnessed your first great fracture; now you stood at the edge of another turning point.

“I heard what you said tonight in the mausoleum,” he said at last, his voice lower. “Debt.”

When he repeated the single word, there was no harshness in his tone — only a fragile weight.

“I don’t want you to see yourself as indebted to me… or to this family.” He stepped closer; the distance between you narrowed. “The reason I keep you beside me isn’t gratitude.”

Your eyes turned to him. “But that’s how it feels,” you admitted honestly. “I lived under that name. I grew up in that house. When I said I might leave it one day… it felt like betrayal.” Your fingers slipped from the window ledge, replaced by a hesitation hanging in the air. “That’s why I want to be worthy. Of this life. Of this name. Of you.”

Bruce was silent for a long moment; the silence wasn’t anger, but the effort of placing emotion into the right words. He lifted his hand hesitantly, then brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was light, but he didn’t withdraw; his fingers lingered against your cheek for a moment too long — at the border between tenderness and something more restrained.

“You were never a debt,” he said. “And you never will be.”

The certainty in his voice was as deep as the night beyond the window.

He watched you for a while; his gaze moved over your face, carrying not only emotion but a protective analysis. “Tonight…” he began, then stopped before finishing the sentence. He didn’t say it directly, but the implication hung in the air — Crane standing close to you in the mausoleum, his gaze, the possessive tone in his voice.

“Some people,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully, “interpret boundaries differently.”

It was a sentence spoken without naming anyone, yet its meaning was unmistakable.

“Seeing you in the field… divides me in two,” he continued. “One part of me sees how strong you stand there. The other… doesn’t want to think of you on the same line as everyone else in that world.”

He stepped closer; the space between you shrank to a breath. When the warmth of his hand touched your arm, the contact wasn’t accidental; it wasn’t to pull you back, but to keep you near.

“I want to protect you,” he said quietly. “But not by underestimating you.” A brief pause; his gaze locked onto yours. “And I won’t allow anyone to measure you by the way they think they can get close to you.”

Jealousy didn’t shout in that sentence, but it ran deep; Bruce Wayne’s possessiveness was never loud — it was quiet and absolute. His fingers slid from your arm to your wrist, the touch still controlled, not crossing the line but making its presence known.

“Once you step into this world, there’s no going back,” he said. “I can’t hide that from you.” Then his voice softened, cracked but didn’t break. “But I’m afraid of losing you inside it.”

You stood before the window — the very place where you had once said you would walk away from him — now defending your choice to walk into the darkness beside him. In Bruce’s gaze, two men existed at once: the one who wanted to keep you away from this life, and the one who could no longer deny how strong you stood within it. And in that gaze, even unspoken, one truth pressed down with full weight:

He wanted to protect you. But he knew now… he could no longer stop you.

Candlelight struck the stone walls and returned in wavering echoes; the circular chamber beneath the city felt like a courtroom untouched for centuries. Perhaps night was beginning to loosen its grip above Gotham, but down here there was no passage of time — only decisions, only sealed fates. The figures seated around the long marble table were motionless, each of them having left behind identity, status, even humanity behind the mask of an owl. Authority filled the room before a single word was spoken; this chamber carried power long before it carried sound.

The newspaper placed upon the table landed like a gavel strike against stone.

The front page was opened.

“DARKNESS BENEATH ARKHAM.”

The headline trembled in the candlelight; when a pale shaft of light filtered down across the page, the ink looked less like print and more like blood. One of the masked figures drew the paper closer — not with fingertips, but with the slow deliberation of someone touching something that already belonged to them.

“It has surfaced,” a muffled voice said.

Another figure leaned forward; the darkness inside the eye sockets fell over the page.

“Earlier than expected.”

The silence that followed was brief but heavy. None of them panicked — Owls did not panic. They calculated, and then they countered.

A subheading was read aloud:

“Young intern…”

That word shifted the balance of the room.

One mask tilted slightly. “From inside.”

“Not an observer,” another corrected. “A witness.”

The paper was pushed back to the center of the table. The phrase Forgotten Tunnels, the insinuations toward elite families, the financial chains — each detail was examined without emotion. There was no outrage, no surprise. Only risk assessment.

Then the eldest among them spoke. His voice was calmer than the rest — because power did not need to raise itself.

“The laboratory will be cleared.”

Another added:

“The files will be relocated.”

A third:

“Connections will be severed.”

The decisions followed one after another, delivered with ceremonial gravity. Strange’s name was not spoken directly, but everyone knew what was required. This was not about saving a man — it was about preserving a system.

Silence settled again.

One of the masks reopened the newspaper. A finger stopped on a single line:

“…the intern’s safety is among the most critical concerns.”

For the first time, the air in the chamber shifted.

“Safety,” a low voice repeated. “So they are afraid.”

Another inclined his head slightly. “They should be.”

This silence lasted longer. The decision was not yet named, but its shape was forming. The Owls never rushed — they studied their prey, learned its habits, and struck in a single, decisive motion.

At last, the figure at the head of the table lifted his gaze.

“The witness…”

The word hung in the air.

“…will she continue to see?”

The question did not seek an answer; it initiated a procedure.

One of the masks dipped faintly — whether in approval or simple acknowledgment, it was impossible to tell.

The candle flames trembled in unison.

“Watch her,” the elder voice said.

A brief pause.

“Do not approach… not yet.”

That yet was the coldest thing in the room.

The newspaper was folded closed.

The headline showed one final time before sinking back into shadow.

The meeting did not adjourn — the Owls did not disperse. They simply receded into darkness.

And as dawn rose over Gotham, a decision had already been made beneath it.

It had not been named.