Why you agreed to marry him he’ll never understand. It’s not about the money, you make enough as Gotham's environmental consultant. And it can’t be his sparkling personality. 

“Dory was just bringing up some sandwiches. I told her I would do it. I think she thinks we’re going to fuck because she’s vacuuming the spotless downstairs instead of polishing the banister outside.” Bruce smiles, actually smiles, and picks up a sandwich from the tray you set down. You perch yourself on the arm of his desk chair, dangerously close to sitting in his lap. Your proximity makes his skin ripple with electricity. He wants to reach out and touch you, to feel your creamy soft skin under his fingertips. 

He wants to hear you gasp and moan as he thrusts into you. 

“Bruce? Are you listening?” Your question shakes him out of his fantasies. “…no.” You make an annoyed little huff and frown down at him. It would be so easy to just reach up and pull you down into his lap, to feel you pressed against him. It’d be so easy to slip a hand between your legs and…shit, he got distracted again.

 “I asked you how you’re feeling about…” you trail off and gesture towards the now black tv. He shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich. In truth, the things they’re saying about his parents makes his blood boil. It makes him want to storm into the studio and beat up the reporters. Instead of admitting that he goes for a neutral: “I’m happy you’re dealing with it.” 

You shrug and take a sandwich. “It’s what you hired me for, is it not?” It’s Bruce’s turn to frown at you. “Don’t make that face at me, Alfred hired me to be your wife. I’m doing my job.” The way you nonchalantly mention that you’re not really his wife knocks the air out of Bruce’s lungs. Legally speaking, you are married. A little over a year and a half ago you’d become Dr. Wayne in a large ceremony neither of you really wanted. Someone had to Keep Up Appearances and he couldn’t be bothered. 

“Don’t do that.” 

You hadn’t meant to sneak up on Bruce, truly. You’d meant to knock before you heard your own voice. The anger had washed over you and before you could contemplate politeness, the tv was off and you were staring at Bruce. You’re always a little shocked by how pretty he is when you see him for the first time in a long time. His intense, intelligent eyes always surprise you. You always get the impression he’s looking straight into your soul. Would he like what he sees? 

You set down the tray, it’s sliver because of course it fucking is, in the middle of your explanation. You watch Bruce’s eyes glaze over. With anyone else, you’d be offended if they stopped listening mid sentence. Bruce is different, Bruce is out of practice with human interaction. His explanation (or lack of) of his feelings might as well require a translation. Good thing you’re fluent in all things Bruce Wayne. Instead of piecing out exactly what he’s feeling about this revelation, you goad him. 

The fact that W.E. PR arranged your marriage bothers him. It bothers him even more when you remind him of this fact. “Don’t do what, Bruce? Remind you of the truth? Remind you I’m no better than the working girls at the Iceberg?” What exactly you want out of this conversation is a mystery to even you. Why you’re furious at him is also a mystery. His eyes flare at your comment, his anger clear. “You know I didn’t ask them to find me a wife.” His tone is dark with undercurrents of his true anger. You shouldn’t push him any further. 

You do.

“And yet you’re happy to let me manage the Wayne legacy. You’re happy to take me to bed and fuck me like I’m your wife.” 

The storm that rushes over Bruce’s face makes it clear you pushed too far. “You are my wife.” “Only when you need me, Bruce.” Being this close to him is suddenly too much. The space between your arms sparkles with electricity and if you don’t get out of there, you’re going to let him bend you over the desk. You stand a little too quickly in your rush to get a safe distance away and almost topple over into his lap. His hand on your elbow steadies you. Sparks rush up your arm and it only makes you angrier, irrationally angry. You rip your arm away from him and manage to throw yourself more off balance. Before you can fall to the floor, Bruce catches you in a perfect dip.  

It’s a romance novel worthy scene, you in the arms of your husband, caught mid fall during a heated argument. In the romance novel, you’d look up at him, your anger forgotten. He’d look down at you, concern evident in his face. A moment of silence would pass before he would bend to kiss you and any anger either of you had would be forgotten for the passion of kissing the man you love. 

Instead, you stomp on his foot and he drops you. 

Thankfully, you’d chosen to make your little scene on the rug so you don’t hit the hard stone floor of his bedroom. Bruce looks down at you, betrayed by your assault. You look up at him, defiant from your place on the floor. The ensuing starting contest feels like it lasts forever. You break first. “I’m sorry.” He frowns down at you and holds out a hand. “Don’t apologize, you did a good thing.” You take his hand and he pulls you up. There’s a moment where you two just look at each other, still holding hands, before he clarifies. “Defending my mother, I mean. Thank you.” You shake your head in disgust and drop his hand like it’s scolding. “Your father basically had someone killed and all anyone cares about is your mother’s mental health.” You’re muttering more to yourself than talking to him. Thankfully Bruce doesn’t comment as he sits back down. You sit down in the chair across from him. It’s a safe distance away and you feel like you can breathe, “I don’t regret saying yes, Bruce. I do not regret becoming your wife. I just…” you trail off. You wish it had been Bruce’s choice. You wish you had been Bruce’s choice. You wish he really loved you, you wish you could be Dr. Wayne in more than name only. 

Instead of actually talking about your feelings, you blurt out what you’d come here to tell him about in the first place. “They told me I should get pregnant, you know.” His head snaps up and anger rushes back across his face. “I went to our quarterly meeting with the PR team, you missed it by the way, and they said I should get pregnant. If we conceive in the next two months we can feasibly announce on our second wedding anniversary and the baby will be born around your father’s birthday. Even better if we have a boy and name him Thomas Wayne II.” 

Bruce, as usual, says nothing. You fidget in the silence. Would having a baby with you be that bad? “I told them we could adopt a circus kid or something and they just looked at me like I was crazy.” Your suggestion makes him snort. A few agonizing moments pass in silence. With your anger done, you’re suddenly exhausted. “I should go, I’m sure you have other things to do…” 

“Stay.” The word stops you in your tracks. It’s more commanding than he’d prefer but it has its intended effect. “I’d like you to stay.” 

You give him a curious look. “And do what, exactly?” 

“I would like to…talk.” You laugh and the sound goes right to his cock. He’d been behaving himself, thinking of designs for his suit to prevent getting embarrassingly hard from just having you there. Your laughter makes it impossible for him to behave himself. “Bruce, this is the most you’ve said to me in six months.” You pick up the umbrella you’d laid on the bed and shrug on your coat. “You don’t talk. We don’t talk. You come over, we fuck, and you disappear.” Before you can turn and open the door, he grabs your umbrella and lays it back on the bed. He gently slides the coat off your shoulders, pressing kisses to the newly exposed skin. “Then dance with me.” 

You laugh again but it’s shakier, less sure. “Dance? There’s no music.” Bruce reluctantly lets go of you and crosses the room to turn on a record player that had been his father’s. He can feel your eyes on him and it makes heat bloom across his cheeks. “Bruce…” He pulls you flush against him, one hand resting respectfully on the small of your back and the other clasped in your much smaller hand. Your arms tentatively wrap around his neck and he can feel your ring resting against his neck. The two of you sway gently as the music plays. 

His broad frame almost fills up the doorway as he turns to look at you. Silently, he raises an eyebrow, challenging you not to follow him, challenging you to make him chase you. You consider it for a brief moment, consider the idea of Bruce (still wearing his Batman suit) chasing you down and taking what’s always been his.

You follow him dutifully.

Bruce takes his time undressing you. He starts with a kiss on your lips then on your neck. You reach for the obnoxious straps on his suit, fumbling with the buckle in an effort to undress him quickly. A look from him stops you, your hands still resting on his chest. The look communicates more than he’ll ever express with words. It tells you to stop, asks you if you want him to stop. It tells you that stopping before he can taste you, can be inside you, might actually kill him.

Bruce reaches down and runs his hands up your leg to the waistband of your sleep shorts. You squirm a little, uncomfortable with his undivided attention. His eyes, still surrounded by the black make up he cakes on, are intense as they bore into yours. They never leave as he starts pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs, hooking them over his shoulders so he can taste you. You’re practically shaking with anticipation by the time he presses his tongue against you in a long, slow lick from top to bottom.

He makes a soft comforting noise as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking in that way that makes you cry out in ecstasy. Your hands fly to his hair--it’s longer than normal, apparently vigilantes don’t get haircuts--and tug. He likes it when you tug at his hair. It makes him work harder, makes him start grinding into the bed to get some friction.

Always a gentleman, he makes sure you cum first. You cry out and arch off the bed as the waves of your orgasm wash over you. Bruce remains quiet, smirking at you in the rapidly lightning room as he rolls on a condom. It’s dangerous, soon there will be enough light for the two of you to really see each other. It’s easier in a dim room, you can pretend not to see the love in his eyes, he can pretend not to see the want for something more in yours.

You both gasp in unison when he enters you. Bruce stills as you adjust to the stretch of him inside you. Your hands run through his hair as you wait and mutter sweet nothings. His face is pressed to your neck, his black eyeliner mixing with the marks he’s covering your neck in as your adjust. Dimly, it occurs to you that cleaning it off before work will be hell.

You don’t care.

You babble incoherently as he thrusts into you, begging for more. Bruce mumbles something into your neck, the first words he’s spoken all night. They’re too soft for you to hear or you’re too drunk on the sensations of Bruce to understand. “I know baby, I know.” You coo, your eyes rolling back into your head as you clutch at him.

Neither of you realize you’re chanting I love you as you cum. He follows a moment later, going boneless on top of you before slipping out, tossing the condom in the trash, and bringing you a cool washcloth. The silence isn’t truly awkward but it isn’t comfortable either.

“Mistress Wayne, my apologies for waking you.” “No, no Alfred I wasn’t asleep. Is there something wrong with…,” you hesitate, calling him Bruce feels much too intimate, “Mr. Wayne?” Alfred had sat you down hours after your wedding and matter of factly told you Master Wayne was the Batman. 

“Master Wayne is well. He has not slept in many days and I thought…never mind. Sleep well Mistress.” His tone is that of an anxious father, worried for his child. “I’ll be right over, Alfred. And please, call me by my first name.” 

“Alright, Mistress Wayne. Shall I send a car?” 

“No, thank you Alfred. I’ll walk, it’s not that far.” 

He sends a car and ten minutes later you’re trudging into Wayne Tower. You’re soaked to the bone and freezing but you managed to get across Gotham without being shot. Dory’s hovering at the base of the staircase looking anxious. “He’s upstairs.” “Thank you, Dory.” 

When you finally find him, the bastard ignores you. It takes several minutes of you standing next to him, patiently repeating his name for Bruce to notice you. It takes even longer for you to bully him into bed. “Where do you keep your shirts?” “I can sleep in this.” “That’s not what I asked you.” Bruce frowns at you and you frown back, dripping onto the carpet in the massive walk in closet. “Bruce, I’m freezing. I can’t sleep in these clothes, I’ll soak your nice sheets.” He smirks and you stomp your foot in frustration. “You know that’s not what I meant. Where do you keep your shirts?” He relents and crosses the room to open one of the approximately hundred drawers. You grab a soft black t shirt and turn to face away from him. “Don’t look.” “I’m your husband.” “And?” You turn your head to glare at your husband. Finally, Bruce obeys and turns his back as you strip and pull on his shirt. It smells like him, warm with a touch of vanilla. 

Finally in something dry, you march toward his too big bed and pull back the sheets. Bruce stares as you slide in, settling in on the right side. “What are you doing?” You glare at him as you pull back the sheets on the left side of the bed. “I’m going to sleep. I’m cold and it’s nearly,” you check the bedside clock and groan internally, “four in the morning. I have a lecture across town at nine and you haven’t slept in like three days. Get in bed.” The two of you stare at each other for a few more minutes before Bruce slips in next to you. 

You’re more than half asleep when you roll over and press your face into his neck. Bruce stiffens as you toss an arm across his chest and fling wrap your leg around his thigh. 

He sleeps better than he has in years with you in his bed.

After that first night it becomes a Thing for you to sleep in his bed. Once or twice a month Alfred calls in the hours after midnight and asks you come. You always do. The first time Bruce calls nearly knocks you off your feet. His soft voice on the other end of the line is barely audible as he asks you to come. You’re there ten minutes later, slipping under his dark duvet. There’s a moment of silence as you press your face into his neck. It’s your usual position, pressed so close to him you feel as though you can’t possibly tell where you end and he starts. It’s not close enough. Bruce wraps his arms around you and pulls you on top of him. 

“Someone got hurt today.” His voice is even softer than on the phone. If you hadn’t be literally laying on top of him you might have thought you had dreamed it. “I’m sure several people got hurt today, it’s Gotham.” He stiffens and you reach up to brush your fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Bruce. You did your best, that is all they ask of you.” He shakes his head. “That isn’t enough.” You sit up, straddling his hips and looking seriously into his eyes in the dim light. “That is all I ask of you, Bruce.” He stares back at you. “Is it enough?” You nod. Something possesses you and you bend down to kiss him. His lips are slightly chapped, rough against yours in a pleasurable sort of way. Bruce sits up, tugging you even closer to him. There’s hardly room for air between the two of you. You’re frenzied, kissing your husband as if the two of you had been parted for years instead of days. 

“Bruce, Bruce.” He stops at your whispers but it looks like it physically pains him. “I’m…I’m sorry.” You shake your head, shifting to get more comfortable. It quickly becomes clear just why Bruce looks so pained. Heat rushes across your face in a combination of embarrassment and arousal. He realizes that you’ve realized and a look of horror crosses his face. His hands come to rest on your hips as he moves to pick you up and move you off his lap. You set a hand on his wrist, stopping him from moving you. “No, no, don’t. I…I’d like to.” His groan as your hand wraps around him is positively sinful. 

The first time you realize you love him it physically stops you in your tracks. “I love him.” Your tone is more betrayed than revelatory or excited. Margie, your coworker (because of course you’re at work when you realize you do love your husband), actually cackles at your tone. “I felt the same when I met my Jenny. We’ve been together for 45 happy years.” “But Bruce and I aren’t…” Margie shrugs. “I met Jenny before my transition. She helped me realize my true self. You’ve been happier since the wedding, he’s good for you.”

You wait to tell him until your birthday, a few weeks later. You’re giggly, too much champagne, cake, and well wishes. You’ve been hanging off Bruce for the better part of the last hour, stealing kisses and indulgent smiles from your husband. He’d given up on trying to get you to stumble to your bedroom and carried you up the massive staircase. It’s as he’s undressing you that you decide to tell him. “I love you.” Bruce stops, his hands resting on your thigh as he pulls up your sleep shorts. “No you don’t.” You nod emphatically, taking his face in your hands. “I love you, I do.” 

At first, I think Bruce really doesn't care. I mentioned it, but Dr. Wayne was essentially selected for Bruce (lmk if ya'll wanna see that process). WE PR basically said "this man is never going to get married and the company needs an heir" and sent Alfred a list of candidates (think this scene from the Princess Diaries)

Dr. Wayne applied bc she needed money. PhDs are expensive.

After the wedding/getting to know you, I think Bruce thinks it's cool that she has a whole Ph.D. He goes to her graduation, claps at all the right times, takes pictures, etc.

After they're friends but not yet together together (they absolutely still fuck though), I think Bruce asks her more about her research and work. It's definitely something that makes her more attractive but it's not the thing that makes her attractive

After they finally admit their feelings, Bruce mentions it to literally everyone. Everyone in Gotham knows that Bruce Wayne is married to a doctor. He's so, so proud of her even though he had nothing to do with her finishing her education.

He comes to one of her lectures because she's really nervous and yes, it does turn him on. He loves knowing that his wife is smart and accomplished and he can take her apart to where she doesn't even know her own name.