#gotham-ink

𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑

bruce wayne x gn!reader

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ! ── 1.1k words. established relationship. when bruce tries to get you to take medicine you’re very adamant about not taking any. that is, until he forces you.

You wake to the sound of measured footsteps outside the bedroom door, each one too calm, too controlled. It irritates you instantly.

The light filtering through the curtains feels too bright, drilling straight into your skull. Your body is heavy like your limbs don’t quite belong to you today. There’s an ache behind your eyes, a burn in your chest, and that familiar nausea curling in your stomach.

You already know what today is going to be like. You already know you don’t want to deal with it.

The door opens without a knock.

“Good. You’re awake,” Bruce says, voice even, firm.

You roll onto your side, tugging the blanket higher. “Congratulations,” you mutter. “Want a medal?”

Bruce doesn’t rise to it. He never does. He steps into the room, takes in the untouched glass of water on your nightstand, the small pill organizer beside it—still full. His jaw tightens just slightly.

“You were supposed to take your medication an hour ago,” he says.

“And you were supposed to mind your own business,” you snap back, sharper than you mean to be, but not sharp enough to stop yourself.

There’s a pause. Bruce exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he’s counting down something dangerous. When he speaks again, his tone is stern, edged with something heavy underneath.

“This is my business,” he says. “You’ve been pushing yourself for days. You didn’t sleep last night. You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, even as your hands curl into the sheets to steady themselves.

Bruce crosses the room and pulls the curtains back just enough to let in softer light instead of the harsh glare. It annoys you—how he notices things, how he adjusts the world around you without asking.

“You’re not fine,” he says. “And being unpleasant doesn’t change that.”

That does it.

You sit up too fast, the room tilting for a moment before settling. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you bite out. “Did my tone offend you? Must be hard, being Bruce Wayne, savior of idiots who won’t listen.”

The words land hard, even in the quiet room. Alfred would have scolded you gently. Dick would have cracked a joke. Bruce just looks at you, expression darkening—not with anger, but with something closer to disappointment.

“You don’t get to push me away because you’re scared,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You laugh, bitter and short. “Scared of what? Taking a stupid pill? Lying in bed like I’m useless?”

“Yes,” Bruce says immediately. “That. Exactly that.”

He reaches for the pill organizer, turning it in his hands. “You hate feeling out of control. You hate needing help. And when your symptoms get worse, you lash out instead.”

You look away, jaw tight. The ache in your chest flares, half physical, half something uglier.

“Get out,” you mutter.

“No.” He said flatly.

Bruce sets the organizer down and pulls a chair closer to the bed, sitting so he’s at eye level with you. His voice lowers—not softer, but steadier, grounding.

“You don’t get to skip your medication because you’re angry,” he says. “And you don’t get to tear into me because I won’t let you make yourself worse.”

“I didn’t ask you to babysit me.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t. But you need someone to make sure you rest, and right now, that’s me.”

You feel heat prick behind your eyes, and it makes you furious. You clench your fists.

“I hate this,” you say, voice rough. “I hate feeling weak. I hate that my body can’t just—do what it’s supposed to do.”

Bruce watches you carefully, then reaches out—not touching you yet, just close enough that you feel his presence.

“Needing medication doesn’t make you weak,” he says. “Ignoring it doesn’t make you strong.”

Silence stretches. Your breathing is uneven. The room feels too small, too full of everything you don’t want to admit.

The pill stays on the nightstand. Your chin lifts in quiet defiance, eyes sharp despite the tremor in your hands. “I said no,” you mutter, turning your face away. “I’m done being managed.”

Bruce goes still.

The air changes—heavier, colder. When he moves, it’s deliberate. He steps in close, blocking your retreat, and his hand comes up to your jaw. Not gentle. Firm. Fingers spread along the hinge, thumb pressing just enough to make you look at him.

“Enough,” he says, low and unyielding.

You scoff, but it falters when his grip tightens a fraction. He angles your face back toward him, forcing your attention to look up at him. “You don’t get to punish your body because you’re angry,” he continues. “And you don’t get to gamble with your health to prove a point.”

“I can handle—”

“No.” The word cuts clean. “You can’t. Not like this.”

He takes the pill, brings it to your lips. When you refuse to open them, his thumb presses at your jaw, firm pressure at the hinge until your mouth parts with a sharp breath. It’s not cruel—just efficient, practiced, the way someone handles a problem they refuse to let get worse.

“Swallow,” he orders.

You glare, heat flaring in your chest, but the pill is already past your teeth. He keeps his hold until you do it, until your throat works and the resistance drains into a bitter, exhausted compliance.

Only then does he let go.

Bruce steps back, watching closely as you cough once and scowl at him like you might bite. His voice doesn’t soften, but it steadies.

“You can hate me for this,” he says. “That’s fine. But you’re taking your medication. You’re resting.”

You don’t answer. You just turn your face to the wall, jaw still burning where his hand was.

Bruce pulls the blanket up anyway.

A few moments pass in silence.

He exhales, slow and tired, like he’s finally letting something slip. “You know,” he says quietly, “I’m aware I can be… harsh. I don’t always say things the right way.” His voice tightens just a little. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

You don’t turn around. You don’t give him the satisfaction.

Still, he continues. “You matter to me. More than you realize. And seeing you in pain—watching you fight your own body—” He stops for a moment. “I don’t want that for you. Even if you’re mean. Even if you push me away.”

The mattress dips as he leans in. You feel the warmth of him before you feel the kiss—gentle, lingering, pressed to the top of your head like a promise rather than an apology.

“I’ll take tomorrow off,” Bruce murmurs. “No board meetings. No calls. I’ll stay with you.”

Then he straightens, footsteps retreating toward the door.

“Get some rest, darling.”

Then the door closes behind him.