#plssendmerequests

Bruce Wayne had always respected you.

At first, it was professional. You were sharp without being cruel, curious without being reckless. You didn’t chase scandals for the thrill of it—you chased truth. In Gotham, that alone made you dangerous.

You’d interviewed him twice. Short conversations, clean questions. You never lingered too long on Wayne Enterprises’ money or the rumors that followed his name like shadows. You looked at him like he was… human. That had stuck with him longer than it should have.

Then it became something else.

He noticed how often he found excuses to be where you were—press events, charity galas, even a late-night fundraiser he absolutely did not need to attend. He told himself it was caution. Journalists were observant. But that was a lie.

He liked the way you spoke, calm but firm. The way you listened like people mattered. The way you didn’t flinch when Gotham showed its teeth.

Bruce Wayne didn’t allow himself attachments.

Batman did even less.

—————————————————————————————

The night he ended up at your apartment was a mistake.

A bad landing. A cracked rib. Blood soaking through armor that had already taken too many hits. He barely remembered grappling across the rooftops before his vision blurred and his body chose the nearest open window.

He remembered the impact.

Then warmth.

Then your voice—soft, startled, steady far too quickly for someone who had just found a masked stranger bleeding on their living room floor.

“Oh my God—don’t move. Please. Don’t move.”

Batman forced his eyes open.

You were kneeling beside him, hands hovering like you were afraid to touch him but more afraid not to. You had already grabbed a towel, pressing it carefully where the blood was darkest, not panicked—focused.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t call the police.

“Okay,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Okay. You’re alive. That’s good. That’s very good.”

He should’ve left.

He knew that.

But his body refused.

So did something else.

—————————————————————————————

You didn’t know who he was.

Not really.

You knew the symbol. Everyone did. Gotham’s shadow protector, half myth, half warning. But you treated him like a person—not an idea.

You cleaned his wounds with shaking hands that never once pulled away. You spoke to him while you worked, not asking questions, not demanding answers.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” you said quietly. “I just need you to stay awake.”

Batman had interrogated criminals without mercy.

This was worse.

Because kindness disarmed him completely.

————————————————————————————

Bruce Wayne fell in love with you that night.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Quietly.

He watched you pace your apartment while he rested on your couch, murmuring to yourself as you researched how to treat injuries without removing armor. He noticed the way you apologized every time you touched him, like he was the one being inconvenienced.

At one point, you laughed—soft, breathless.

“This is insane,” you said. “I let a stranger bleed on my couch and I’m worried about getting blood on the floor.”

Batman almost smiled.

Almost.

—-——————————————————————————

When he finally stood to leave, you stepped back—not afraid, just respectful.

“You can… come back,” you said, hesitant. “If you need help again. I won’t ask.”

He looked at you then—really looked.

Not as Batman.

As Bruce.

You had no idea how rare that was.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low, sincere.

You nodded. “Be careful.”

He vanished into the night without another word.

—————————————————————————

The next time Bruce Wayne saw you, it was at a press conference.

You looked tired.

He wondered if you’d slept at all after that night.

You met his eyes—and something flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A feeling you couldn’t place.

Bruce felt it too.