#bale!bruce wayne

You found a small library in the east wing, one you'd never seen before, and it seemed like a good place to settle down, surrounded by old papers, unclassified books, and titles they no longer copied. It was a somewhat dusty and forgotten corner, but cozy, with a large window that let in the morning light. You lost yourself there for over an hour, sorting through old documents, reading handwritten notes from someone decades ago.

You didn't hear any of the doors open. Nor the sound of footsteps. You were alone, or so you thought.

And when you finally decided to stand up, awkwardly and quickly, as if you were still so young and your knees weren't already giving way, you felt your left foot catch awkwardly against the carpet, your ankle turn at an odd angle, and the world spin with you.

The pain was immediate.

"Ow... ow, ow, ow!" you moaned, rolling slightly to the side as you clutched your foot in a mixture of indignation and pain.

You didn't even have to call him, quick footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by Bruce's deep, worried voice as if he'd seen the Batsignal.

"What happened?" he asked, immediately kneeling beside you. "Did you hurt yourself?"

You nodded with a grimace, still holding your ankle with both hands.

"I stood up wrong... I think I twisted it," you said through your teeth, trying to sound calm, although the sharp burning sensation running down your leg made you squeeze your eyes shut.

Bruce didn't say anything at first. He just leaned in a little closer, his face shadowed by the light streaming through the window behind him. His large, warm hands reached for your leg with a gentleness that belied everything else about him.

"Can i?"

You nodded again, biting your lip.

Bruce brushed his fingers over your skin, gently pressing around the swollen area. When he touched a more tender spot, you let out an involuntary gasp. He looked up immediately, his eyes fixed on yours with a concern for seeing you complain.

"I don't think it's more than a sprain, but I'll have Alfred check you out. In the meantime, you'll just have to keep it elevated and on ice for a while," he said, more to himself than to you. His voice was low, firm, but with that tinge of guilt that only appeared when something was out of his control.

"I'm fine, Bruce," you tried to say, knowing full well he wasn't going to fully believe you. "I just need a minute."

"No, you're not staying on the floor," he said then, wrapping one arm around your back and sliding the other under your legs.

"Hey, wait! You don't have to... Bruce!" you protested, even though he'd already lifted you off the ground as if you weighed no more than a breath.

"I can ask Alfred to do it if you prefer," he joked, in his dry tone.

"No, poor guy, I could break his back, I don't mind you carrying me, Batman."

Bruce crossed the hall with a firm and confident step, taking you directly to one of the rooms, where Alfred already had a pillow and an ice pack ready.

"Mrs. Wayne, if I may say so, you can't keep twisting your ankle all the time, you should pay a little more attention," Alfred said as he carefully placed the ice pack on your swollen ankle, his tone polite, though clearly resigned.

"All the time? It was just one time!" you replied, making a face that was both offended and amused. .

“Once… today,” Alfred remarked with British elegance, dry enough to make you roll your eyes and gentle enough that you couldn’t contradict him.

Bruce, sitting next to you on the couch, barely hid a smile, but said nothing. He just shifted more comfortably, resting his arm behind you on the backrest, as if he didn't want to be even half a meter away. .

"I promise to be more careful," you said dramatically. "Although the carpet was really into me, I swear. It gave me dirty looks from the moment I walked into the room."

Alfred sighed. "That rug's been in the family longer than Master Bruce. I doubt he has any vengeful intentions."

"Tell it to my ankle," you whispered. .

Bruce glanced at you, his hand gently brushing your arm, as if checking to make sure you were still in one piece.

"I'm going to stay with her for the moment, Alfred," he said then, as if it were a decision already made.

"All right, sir. If you need anything, I'll be in the kitchen… making a cup of hair reducing tea."

“Thank you, Alfred,” you said, as he walked away with his dignity intact, even in the sarcasm.

The silence hung for a few seconds, comfortable, until Bruce spoke again. "Are you really okay?"

"Yeah, it doesn't hurt as much as it used to, I think I can put it on the ground now."

Bruce looked down for a few seconds, as if it disarmed him more than he was willing to admit. Then he met your eyes again.

squinting, he flips the crinkly plastic over, trying to make out something familiar. “and this is…” the crease in his forehead deepens. “a blanket?”

“no, silly. it’s your new pajamas.” you say it in a ‘duh’ tone. you bounce on his lap, staring at him with wide eyes and warm skin.

bruce blinks, eyes flicking between you and his new outfit. in one sharp movement, the plastic is torn and he’s holding the pjs up. “and these are for me…?” he asks, voice gentle as ever, like he’s afraid to shatter you with his thoughts.

“of course! and i got a matching set for me too!” you giggle softly before revealing yet another set of plaid fabric.

bruce’s mouth twitches. it’s somewhere between a wince and a smile as the red and white plaid drapes over his hands. the firelight paints him in gold, catching the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he’s already calculating an escape route from whatever this is.

“i’m…not entirely sure about these,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with that night time rasp. he shuts his eyes, not wanting to witness the exact moment where your heartbreaks.

you gasp like he’s just kicked a puppy. “what do you mean?” your voice is void of the past excitement. he slowly peals his eyes open, staring directly into the pits of betrayal that are your eyes.

“it’s just not my style, baby.” he throws in the pet name for good measure, praying it will soften the blow.

and just like clockwork, you gasp once again, as if he confessed to murder. your hand is over your heart, body stiff in his arms. a beat passes before you speak again. “wellllll,” you drag out the word in that mischievous manner. “if you don’t want to, i’m sure i can find another man who can match with me.” your eyes slant, declaring war on your poor boyfriend. “maybe he will actually appreciate me.”

his reaction is instant, like an electric pulse. bruce’s spine snaps straight, eyes narrowing as if someone just threatened gotham itself. “the hell you will.” it comes out sharper than he meant, protective in that usual bruce way.

you bite back a grin. “oh? suddenly you do like them?”

he exhales through his nose, the closest he’ll ever get to pouting. “i didn’t say that.” his hand slides to your waist anyway, possessive, warm, tugging you closer like he needs you super-glued to him. “i said no one else is wearing matching anything with you.”

“so you’ll wear them?”

he inhales, glancing at the clothing, contemplating the pros and cons of the situation. pro: you will be happy (and that’s all that matters) con: you will be upset (and he can’t stand another silent treatment). with a final defeated exhale, he murmurs, “…fine.”

you squeal, victorious, wrapping your arms around his neck before he can pretend he hates how happy you look. his hand settles on the back of your thigh, big and steady, grounding you right against him.

“don’t smirk,” he mutters, already resigned to his fate.

you do anyway. “you’re gonna look adorable.” bruce groans into your shoulder, but can’t help the smile that curves up his lips.

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.

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”.