He had explored your body with reverence and care. You were sure that the kisses he planted on you would remain there forever, his touch eternally engraved on your skin. He had all but branded you, ruining you for every other man who dared approach what he had already claimed as his. And you didn’t mind one bit.

—-----------------------------------------—————

After waking, Bruce had chauffeured you back to your apartment. He had offered you the opportunity to freshen up in one of his mansion’s many bathrooms and even insisted on having his staff acquire a fresh set of clothes for you, but you had politely declined.  His resources and generosity were impressive, but you hadn’t fallen for him on the basis of his wealth. 

Your relationship had just begun, and you weren’t comfortable allowing him to shower you with gifts and favors just yet, especially when they were things you could easily provide for yourself. You took great pride in your independence, and as much as it warmed your heart that Bruce had your comfort and convenience in mind, you refused to allow this relationship – or any relationship, for that matter – to strip you of your ability to be self-reliant. 

To appease him, you allowed Bruce to conduct a walk-through of your apartment to ensure it was safe. To your relief, the apartment had resided just the way you left it. Bruce waited in the parking lot of your apartment complex while you rushed to shower and get dressed. He had told you very little about what he had planned for the day, but you knew he intended for you to meet someone important. Because of that, you opted for a more reserved outfit, which consisted of an off-white turtleneck and beige flared slacks. You paired this with brown booties and a light brown plaid overcoat. 

Glancing at the digital clock on your nightstand, you saw that it had already been twenty minutes. You chose not to make Bruce wait any longer, and ditched the makeup bag in your hand, lathering moisturizer on your face and massaging it into your skin as you walked out the door. You made it downstairs and to the parking lot, and you couldn’t help but giggle when you saw Bruce sitting awkwardly behind the steering wheel, almost in the same exact position you had left him. 

The difference in his demeanor when he wasn’t hidden beneath a mask and armor was fascinating. When he was Bruce, he seemed to sink deep into himself, rejecting the perceptions of the outside world. But when he was the Batman, he took up every inch of space he could– completely unapologetically. 

The ride from your apartment to Gotham Memorial hospital was relatively short, but Bruce used this time to fill you in on the purpose of your visit. He told you about Alfred – a former staff member of Wayne Manor and currently the head of Wayne Enterprises – who had become Bruce’s legal guardian following the murders of his father and mother. He confessed that Alfred had ended up hospitalized due to an explosive, which the Riddler sent in an attempt to kill Bruce. You heard the sorrow and the guilt in his voice as he recounted the events of that night. Despite the verbal omission, you knew his concern came from a place of love, and it was reassuring to know that Bruce still had someone to call family. 

He went on to admit that the reason he showed up on your doorstep that night was because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. His body had acted before his brain, and it had led him to you. 

You rode in silence once he finished speaking, and you knew it was because he was giving you the opportunity to process everything he had just shared. You admired his strength, and you found your heart squeezing with guilt when you remembered how you had accused him of walking out on you. It was painful to fathom how distraught he had to be in those moments – so overwhelmed that he succumbed to the need to be comforted by another individual. It had been a big step for him, admitting to himself that the circumstances were too heavy for him to bear on his own. And he had chosen you to help him. 

A few minutes later, you and Bruce strolled through the front doors of Gotham Memorial Hospital. His hand rested on the small of your back, guiding you past the reception desk and through the maze of halls with rooms lining their walls. You came to a stop in front of two closed double doors. He pressed the button on the wall, a faint buzz sounding through the overhead speaker. 

Two counts passed before the doors clicked, the electronic lock disengaging, and Bruce held the door open for you. You strode through, and he followed closely, lacing his fingers through yours as he made his way around the corridors of the intensive care unit. Finally, he turned a corner, stopping in front of a room labeled R119. 

His eyes found yours, eyebrows slightly raised, as if asking: ready? 

You flashed a reassuring smile in his direction. 

His knuckles made contact with the door in three soft knocks before turning the knob and easing the door open. He stepped in first, sliding aside the privacy curtain that concealed the bed from plain view. Bruce approached the man laying on the bed, whose eyes fluttered open and warmed at the sight of him. You materialized from behind Bruce, and Alfred’s eyes landed on you, curiosity and amazement lighting up his eyes further. 

Alfred looked a little worse for wear, with a thick bandage wrapped around his head and several cuts littering his face. His hands were wrapped too, curled inwards in a weak fist, and you saw that he had IV’s in each arm. Despite the collection of medical equipment on and around him, Alfred seemed to be healing up nicely. He seemed calm; relaxed, even. 

“How are you feeling?” Bruce inquired, stepping closer to the bedside. 

“Splendid,” Alfred reassured him. Then, “Well, aren’t you going to introduce me?”

This earned a soft chuckle from Bruce. He looked over at you and you joined him at Alfred’s side. Bruce extended his arm, pulling you into his side, a hand resting on your hip.

“This is Maia Elliott.” He turned to you. “Maia, this is Alfred Pennyworth.”

You stepped closer, smiling warmly down at Alfred. He reached for your hand and held it in between his palms briefly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Likewise, Mr. Pennyworth. Although I wish it was under different circumstances.”

Alfred sighed at this. “You’re not the only one, dear. And please– call me Alfred.”

“You got it. Alfred.” you replied.

Alfred let out a raspy chuckle, and he looked at Bruce with equal parts pride and approval. “You struck gold with this one.”

—-----------------------------------------—————

You hadn’t stayed at Gotham Memorial long. Alfred was scheduled to be discharged tomorrow evening, and you and Bruce had decided he needed to rest up some more before then. You had engaged in brief conversation with Alfred, and the few minutes you conversed were enough to prove just how much he cared for and admired Bruce. Bruce didn’t speak much and he didn’t have to; his presence was enough. It might’ve been hard for him to verbalize his concern, but his attentiveness made up for it. 

Alfred had tended to Bruce the best way he could after he had lost his parents, and now Bruce was returning the favor. Changing the channel when Alfred became bored, adding or removing the covers depending on what the temperature demanded, and making sure he was well fed and hydrated before you departed. 

You were on your way back to your apartment, where you’d spend the remainder of the day. Bruce insisted on walking through once more just to be on the safe side, and you hadn’t protested. Bruce hadn’t yet revealed who he thought left you the envelope with the photograph, and by his uneasiness, you were no longer sure you wanted to know. 

There was a guess, a gruesome possibility swimming in the back of your mind, but the implication was so terrifying that you knew better than to entertain it. If you did, you’d spend the rest of your days overcome by paranoia. Unless you knew for sure, you weren’t going to succumb to your intrusive thoughts and psych yourself out. 

A short drive later, Bruce eased his car into one of the visitor parking spots in front of your apartment building. He killed the engine and you walked upstairs together, his arm wrapped protectively around your shoulder. Once you made it to your floor and ambled down the hall to your door, something felt off. 

The air crackled with malice, and Bruce sensed it too. He pushed you behind him and you saw his shoulders visibly stiffen the closer he got to your door. He stopped a few inches from it, and gave you a quick side glance. You peered around his shoulder and your blood immediately ran cold. 

Your door was cracked open. 

“Stay here,” Bruce instructed, moving forward towards the door. He nudged it fully open with his foot, disappearing inside. 

You stood out in the hallway for several seconds, anxiety bubbling in your belly, dread compressing your chest. You chewed on your bottom lip, barely able to keep yourself from fidgeting. You glanced down the long corridor, but it was deserted. There were no cameras, so you wouldn’t be able to use any footage to identify the intruder. Bruce came back outside after what felt like an eternity. His expression was unreadable. 

“Whoever it was is gone.” He paused, swallowing. “But there’s something you need to see.”

He slipped back into your apartment, and you joined him hastily. Your skin was cold and clammy, and for some reason the knowledge that the intruder was gone made you feel worse. 

You followed Bruce to your living room, where he stopped in front of the coffee table. There was a picture frame knocked over on the surface of the table, the stand facing up. There was a white sticky note scribbled with red ink. Turn me over, it read. 

You looked up at Bruce for guidance, but he simply looked back at you with weary eyes. You did as the note instructed, turning the frame over so you could see the front. You had purchased the frame and inserted the picture yourself, so you knew exactly what photo you’d find staring up at you. 

It was a photo taken on your ninth birthday, just a few weeks before your father was murdered. You had lost enthusiasm for parties, so it had been just a celebration for two that day. Your hair was pulled up in two loose pigtails, and you wore a soft yellow dress, which your father had gifted to you that same morning. You were leaning against his chest, his large glasses resting on the bridge of your nose, the both of you lost in a fit of laughter. The photo had been a candid captured by your grandmother during your picnic lunch at the park. You remembered how excited you had been to lay down the checkered blanket on the grass, your small arms carrying the large woven basket full of delectable items.

What you hadn’t expected, however, was the message scribbled over top of the glass, which was written in such a way that it covered your father entirely. 

I’m sometimes white and always wrong.

I can break a heart and hurt the strong.

I can build love or tear it down.

I can make a smile or bring a frown.

What am I?

You reread the words over and over again, trying to make sense of them. “What is this?” you asked Bruce, but deep down you really didn’t need him to answer. By the bile rising in your throat, you feared you already knew. 

Bruce let out a slow, shallow breath. “There’s something you need to know,” he told you, his tone monotonous. “I wanted to tell you before, but I didn’t want you to become alarmed over speculations.” He paused. “The note you found with the flowers… I recognized the handwriting. But I needed to be certain.”

Your voice shook as you uttered your next question. “Certain of what?”

Bruce spoke slowly, gently. “The Riddler, Maia. The Riddler has been writing to you.”

You felt lightheaded. Your head spun with uncertainty, your thoughts racing at a million miles per minute. The shock shook you to your core, causing your vision to blur. You had to sit before you toppled onto the floor. 

This doesn’t make any sense, you thought to yourself. What could the Riddler possibly want with me? How much does he know? About me? About my father?

To your horror, the television in your living room flickered. The remote resided on the coffee table in front of you, untouched, but the screen came to life anyway. An image flooded the screen, and you realized it was a video being broadcasted live by your local news station. 

From your peripheral vision, you spotted Bruce, who was more rigid than before, eyes trained on the images flashing before you. You turned your attention back to the television, and the volume adjusted on its own, a low, distorted voice booming through the speakers, narrating the slideshow that had just appeared on the screen. 

The Riddler’s voice was low, taunting. “The Wayne’s and the Arkham’s. Gotham’s founding families. But what is their real legacy?” There was a brief pause, and your stomach lurched when a picture of your father appeared on the slideshow. The first photo was of his portfolio picture, and then it faded into the second image, which was him in his office, bent over his desk, deep concentration set in his features as he assessed the stack of papers in front of him. 

“Twenty years ago one reporter set out to uncover the dark truth. He found shocking family secrets. How when Martha was just a child her mother brutally murdered her father, then committed suicide. And how the Arkham’s used their power and money to cover it up. How Martha herself was in and out of institutions for years and they didn’t want anyone to know. Thomas Wayne tried to force this crusading reporter into a hush money agreement to save his mayoral campaign! But when the reporter refused, Wayne turned to long time secret associate Carmine Falcone, and had him murdered!” The Riddler laughed hysterically momentarily, and the weight of his revelation threatened to crush you entirely. “The Wayne’s and the Arkham’s,” the serial killer continued, his voice charged with a mischievous edge. “Gotham’s legacy of lies and murder.” 

The slideshow ended, replaced by camera footage of a dark room, which was adorned with cyphers that the public had begun to associate with the Riddler. He came into view then, his green leather mask tight against his face, the nose piece flaring upwards by the intensity of his breathing. “I hope you’re listening, Bruce Wayne, this is your legacy too. And Gotham needs you to answer for the sins of your father. Goodbye…”

His haunting conclusion echoed in the speakers as the screen faded to black. You sat on the couch for several moments, doing everything you could not to fall apart right then and there. Bruce had not moved a muscle since the Riddler’s broadcast had ended. The tension in the room was thick, unbearable. 

You couldn’t look at him, but you could feel him looking at you. Tears began filling your eyes, an excruciating pain throbbing in the center of your chest. 

Everything you had been through– every night you had spent awake, asking yourself why my father? The countless hours you had spent at his gravesite, cleaning his headstone, ensuring he always had a fresh bouquet of flowers in the vase next to it. All of the effort you had put into finding and deciphering his research, yearning for retribution. Promising you’d find his killer and make everything right. Everything that had happened had led here– to this moment. You couldn’t fathom that you’d  been so close to the answers all along. 

Your tear-stained eyes traveled to Bruce, who was still frozen in place, shock coated on his expression. “What the hell is he talking about, Bruce?”

“I don’t know,” he responded lamely. 

“You don’t know,” you repeated. You shook your head, and the movement made your temples throb even harder. 

You stood then, making your way to your bedroom robotically. Your body operated on autopilot, your limbs performing functions that you were too weak to object to. You grabbed a duffel bag from your closet door and began throwing items inside. Clothing, shoes, toiletries. You filled the bag until it practically overflowed. Making your way back to the living room, you brushed past Bruce, beelining for your front door. Bruce caught your arm. 

The dazed expression had left his eyes. His blue eyes were darker now, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” you retorted. 

He nodded. Bruce let go of your arm and attempted to usher you out of the apartment, but you dodged his hand before it could find the place on the small of your back that he had become so fond of. He detected your aversion immediately. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to care. Part of you acknowledged that he wasn’t at fault. Bruce had been but a boy at the time of your father’s murder. He hadn’t had any part in it, and yet you felt sick acknowledging that murder ran through his veins. Bile rose in your throat when you remembered how you had given him your heart, your body, unknowingly disrespecting your father’s memory by fraternizing with the family that took him away.

“I’m calling a cab and getting a hotel. Please don’t follow me.” Your voice sounded foreign, nothing like your own. Your tone was cold, distant. 

A part of you wished he’d stop you; tell you there was no way in hell he was letting you go. But Bruce didn’t make any attempt to stop you. You knew it was selfish; wanting him to fight for you, when you, yourself, had no desire to fight for him. The revelation was simply too much to bear. You had accepted defeat, and you hated yourself for it. But what else could you do? His father had your father killed. No matter which way you looked at it, you were doomed. This truth was something you couldn’t overlook. Your relationship was on the fast track to failure, especially when all you could see now when you looked at Bruce was your father’s face– the night you had found him at the edge of death in his office. How his lively expression had been replaced with one of horror. The grayish tint of his skin, the redness of his eyes, the coldness of his limbs. The miserable, guttural sounds he had made before passing away. 

The flashback was so vivid that you stood helplessly as your lungs were stripped of air. The moment only lasted a few seconds, but the physical discomfort was nothing in comparison to what you were experiencing on the inside. Your spirit had been gutted, your heart shattered, the pieces of it pulverized at your feet. All you could do was watch as life was slowly being drained out of you. You wondered if this was the price you had to pay– the universe cashing in on the consequence and holding you accountable for dishonoring your father’s memory. 

A loud honk brought you back to your senses. You had made it to the taxi stop at the edge of your apartment complex. A taxi had materialized in front of you, and the driver, who was clearly exasperated, was waiting for you to get in the car. Your shaky hands found the door handle and tugged it towards you, opening it. You dragged your sluggish body toward the vehicle and slid into the backseat, the weight of you and your sorrows landing on the bench with a hollow thud. You shut the door and instructed the driver to drop you off at the nearest hotel.

As the car rolled to motion, a fresh wave of despair crashed over you. The feeling intensified when you gazed up at the darkening sky, finding a familiar signal illuminating Gotham’s evening scenery. The outline of the bat beckoned you, and you found yourself wishing you could float up into the sky, allowing its silhouette to envelope you in its darkness. To use its wings to conceal you from the horrors of your reality. 

You wished you could reverse the love that had an iron hold on your heart. But you had begun to accept your punishment. Your father had met his tragic demise, and so had this love. You couldn’t expect to live your life without hardship, especially when your father had made the ultimate sacrifice. Now it was your turn. No matter how unbearable of a loss this was, you couldn’t allow yourself to look back. There was too much sorrow there; too much pain. From this point on, your mission would be to move forward, just as you had done a thousand times before. 

Move forward as if you had never fallen in love. Move forward as if he had never existed. 

—--------------------------------—————————

It had been a few days since you had last spoken to Bruce, and you felt the ache of his absence in every single atom in your body. The more you thought of him, the more upset with yourself you became. You had accepted defeat too early, and you had realized it too late. You had walked away from Bruce, accepting the Riddler’s revelation without so much as a question. You had jumped to a horrifying conclusion, and you weren’t sure Bruce would forgive you. You hadn't realized it in the moment, but Bruce had to be hurting too. After all, he had been told that his father was an alleged murderer. Thomas Wayne hadn’t done the killing, but he had instigated it. For a son who had dealt with the grief of losing both parents and finding out his father was not the man he thought he knew, he had held up extremely well in your presence. He had been in shock, but he hadn’t raced to any conclusions. He had been rational in the face of complete despair, and you admired him so much for it. You, on the other hand, had fallen apart and shut him out, and it made you feel incredibly selfish. So much so that you weren’t sure you’d be able to make it right. 

The Riddler might have provided you with the facts, but there had to be more to the story. It was his narrative after all, and he had a habit of leaving out the details that would help put together the bigger picture. He saw what he wanted to see, and taking advantage of your weakness, he had distorted your judgment and turned you against Bruce. 

Bruce had respected your request and kept himself at a distance. You had been staying at the Merlie Inn for a couple of days now, but you held onto the hope that he wasn’t all gone. That he’d been hidden in shadow, silently observing, making sure you were safe. 

The days without him had dragged on in an excruciating manner. You couldn’t remember what your life had been like before Bruce had stumbled into it. Maybe because there hadn’t been anything good there at all. You continued to push through the motions of the day– waking up, showing up for work, and returning to the hotel. Outside of that, there wasn’t much else for you to occupy yourself with. You watched the news in hopes that there would be a new development in the Riddler case, but he had vanished after his last broadcast. Gotham was at his mercy, treading blindly, waiting for him to make another appearance. 

Tonight the news was preoccupied with other matters. GCPD had ambushed the Iceberg Lounge earlier in the evening after it was revealed that Carmine Flacone had been responsible for the murder of Annika Kosolov. She had been the woman photographed with late Mayor Mitchell. According to the news report, Annika had come across very sensitive information regarding Falcone’s business affairs, and he had killed her to keep her quiet. It had also become public knowledge that the Renewal program, funded by the late Thomas Wayne, was the lifeline of crime in the city. Falcone had taken over the Drops industry after the arrest of Salvatore Maroni, and with the help of corrupt public figures and elected officials, he’d been running the city under the radar for twenty years. 

You watched the screen intently as the live broadcast captured the moment Carmine Falcone emerged from the building, escorted by the Batman himself. Your heart palpitated at the sight of Bruce in the center of all of the commotion. But in the midst of it all, he seemed confident and composed. Commissioner Gordon appeared in the frame and you watched as he retrieved a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and secured them around Falcone’s wrists. There was a short exchange between them before Gordon secured a hold around Falcone’s arm and led him down the steps to the police car waiting for him. As soon as he made it down the final step, you observed a spark on the edge of the screen, a blur of motion, and then Falcone was on the ground. The broadcast cut off almost immediately, but not before you caught a glimpse of Falcone’s limp body on the ground, blood splattered on his cheek and on the right lens of his glasses. 

The screen had faded to gray, and all you could hear was static. You waited for the news anchor to come back on screen, but she never did. You sunk down on your stiff hotel mattress, the cold sheets sending goosebumps down the length of your legs. You slid under the thin covers and turned off the lamp at your bedside. The grainy screen illuminated the room, the dull hue sending a wave of sleepiness through you. But you were certain you’d be unable to give into it.

When you closed your eyes, all you could see was Falcone lying lifeless on the ground, covered in his own blood. The attack had been perfectly orchestrated, and you had a pretty good guess about who had been behind it. You could mull the gruesome events of today over and over in your head, trying to make sense of them. You immediately felt a piercing headache coming on; your body warning you against your compulsive thoughts. You tried your best to flush them all from your mind, imagining your brain as a vacant white room, which stretched endlessly in every direction. The tactic seemed to work, because you began to feel a weight pushing down on your eyelids, lulling you to a place of relaxation and bliss. 

You weren’t sure when you had drifted off, or for how long, but when you woke, the tv was flashing vivid colors all around the hotel room. You glanced at the tiny digital clock on the bedside table, and it indicated that it was just after eight. You felt like a complete grandmother– hanging out in the same four walls daily, with only yourself to keep you company. The loneliness and isolation so severe that falling asleep uncharacteristically early was the only way to make the time pass. 

You sat up in bed, reaching for the remote at the foot of your bed. You increased the volume a few notches, and you blinked your eyes several times, trying to make the sleep disappear from them. You squinted at the screen, the bright red heading coming into focus. Your eyes passed over the string of words, and you couldn’t believe it. 

The Riddler was in police custody. 

The news anchor informed the audience of the serial killer’s arrival at Arkham State Hospital, where he was waiting to be processed. A heavy series of thoughts and emotions flowed through you. Wonder. Curiosity. Desperation. 

But your curiosity could wait. You weren’t particularly eager to stick around to figure out how it all went down. What mattered most was that he was finally behind bars. After several days of hiding, fighting paranoia, constantly looking over your shoulder– you were free. 

Now that the Riddler no longer posed a threat, you needed to jump into action and address the task that occupied the first slot on your priority list. And that was finding Bruce. 

It was late, but you didn’t care. You had sought him out in the night once before, and you were determined to do it again. The longer you waited, the higher the risk of losing him forever. And this time you weren’t going down without a fight.

You had made a terrible mistake walking away from him, and it was your responsibility to correct it. The idea of such a confrontation terrified you– especially when there was a possibility that he’d no longer want anything to do with you. But you owed it to Bruce to make things right– to prove to him that your love and devotion to him never faltered.

—----------------------------------------——————

You had made it two blocks into the city when the explosion sounded. Its thunderous boom cut through the silence of the night. You looked around, trying to pinpoint the source. It was then that the second explosion went off. Then the third, fourth, fifth. You were frozen in terror, watching as people stuck their heads out their windows, stepped onto their balconies, opened their front doors to decipher the origin of the commotion. 

Thick black smoke began to rise up, casting a dark cloud over the sleek buildings by the seawall. The looming cloud spread out further, encompassing the entire east side in a veil of darkness. It was then that you began hearing the screams, the ferocious roar of something– and it was coming in your direction. 

You began running towards the center of the city, towards Gotham Square Garden, which had been deemed the shelter of last resort in the event of a natural disaster. As you ran, people came stumbling out of their houses and from side streets, taking off in the same direction you were. You saw the fear and desperation in their faces as their legs moved faster than they could manage, trying to get them to safety. 

You saw the illuminated sign of Gotham Square Garden just up ahead, and you pushed yourself to keep going. Your breath hitched when freezing cold liquid flowed beneath your feet, wrapping your ankles in an iron grip, making it impossible to run. You allowed one quick gaze behind you, and you immediately regretted it. A giant current of water was sweeping the city, dragging everything and everyone in its path. 

The muddy water was flowing fast, almost catching up with you. Tried as you did, the pressure of the current weighed you down, and the harder the water came, the more difficult it became to stay on your feet. The force of it threatened to knock you down in one hard sweep, dragging you with it. Your legs began moving in fast, tall, elongated strides.Your arms were pumping hard at your side, willing you to move with haste. You turned a sharp corner, and you made it onto Garden Avenue, where the current dispersed. The water wasn’t as deep or as strong, but the seawall would not hold much longer with the holes the explosives had caused in its foundation. It was only a matter of time before the entire city was under water. And you needed to make sure you had made it to safety when that happened. 

A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you saw the crowd of people in front of Gotham Square Garden. Police officers were stationed at the entrance, road blocks in place, directing the traffic of people that were scrambling to get inside the venue. You merged into the sea of people, advancing toward the entrance. More people materialized behind you, and you felt the desperation as they shoved you further through the already-cramped entryway. 

You made it inside the venue, and even with the lights from the screens adorning the stage and the perimeter of the building, it still seemed dark and gloomy.Police officers, paramedics, and terrified individuals had filled the venue to the brim. You couldn’t move in any direction without bumping into someone. You were feeling a bit claustrophobic, and your uneasiness over what was taking place outside wasn’t helping. You needed space– somewhere you could relax and regroup. You looked down at the rows of seats, which were positioned in a downward slope, toward the stage. You began walking down the steps, scanning your surroundings for any familiar faces. You reached level at the exact moment the mayor-elect Bella Real walked onto the stage. Anxious chatter filled the room, and she tapped the microphone a few times to get the audience’s attention. 

Her voice sounded frail when she spoke, but her stance never faltered. “Everyone…everyone, if I could just get your attention. Please, I just need your attention–” she stopped abruptly, her gaze traveling upwards. Her expression contorted into one of sheer horror. 

And then the shots began. The mayor-elect collapsed behind the podium, clutching the gunshot wound she had just suffered. Bullets began whizzing through the air, in any and every direction, sending the crowd into a frenzy. People dove to the ground, attempting to shield themselves from the gunfire. Screams and shouts of panic rose in volume, and you found yourself caught in the middle of a stampede. You did your best to stay upright, but you were seconds away from being trampled. 

There was another explosion coming from above, and the abruptness of it caught the attention of the crowd long enough for you to slip out unharmed. You looked up just in time to see a dark figure falling through the ceiling, landing fiercely on the suspended platform above you. Bruce dodged the shots fired at him with ease. He took the assailants down one by one, disarming them and beating them just enough to immobilize them. Your eyes remained glued on him as he moved from one side of the platform to the other, bulldozing through the armed individuals quickly. 

He strode towards the final individual with purpose, but just as he neared, the individual managed to access the rifle beside him and immediately pulled the trigger. The force of the shot sent Bruce tumbling back, and he slipped off the edge of the platform. He caught himself with one hand at the last minute, and your heart dropped to your feet at the sight of him struggling to maintain his grip. You looked around the venue, but no one seemed particularly motivated to help him. You figured that first responders would be tending to the injured, but there was no one in sight. 

Time was ticking, so you decided to take matters into your own hands. You spotted a thin ladder along the wall that led up to the platform. You sprinted through the crowd towards it and lunged onto it the minute it was within reach. You climbed quickly, knowing that it was only a matter of time before Bruce’s strength gave out. He was incredibly strong, but he wasn’t superhuman. 

You made it to the top just as a masked individual crouched in front of Bruce’s flailing figure, pointing a rifle to his head. The individual seemed to be taking his sweet time, relishing the moment. He was preparing for the glory he’d certainly receive from his accomplices for taking down the mighty Batman once and for all. He was so immersed in the moment that he didn’t notice you coming up behind him. 

You didn’t know the first thing about fighting, but in that moment, you launched yourself at the masked individual with every ounce of strength you had. You delivered a powerful kick in his direction, knocking the rifle out of their hands. He was surprised, and you used his hesitation to your advantage. You brought your knee up, which collided with his face, and finished off with a final punch. The individual was immobilized, and you immediately went to Bruce’s aid. 

He wore an expression of exhaustion. You bent over the edge of the platform and wrapped your hands around his arm, pulling him upwards. Bruce groaned in pain, reaching up with his other hand, grabbing hold of the edge and hoisting himself the rest of the way up with your assistance. He collapsed once he was secure on the platform, his breathing labored and erratic. You gazed at him with equal parts worry and adoration. Just as you were about to help him to a standing position, a pair of hands sprung from behind you, closing tightly around your neck. 

The masked individual slammed you onto your back, straddling you, pressing his thumbs painfully into your windpipe. You attempted to push him off, but all you could do was gasp for air, your mouth opening and closing helplessly as if you were a fish out of water. From the corner of your eye, you saw Bruce reaching for you, struggling to move. Your vision began to blur, and the small ember of resistance that you had in you went out. 

You felt your lungs expanding, desperately searching for air. The pressure in your chest increased by the second, and you were certain it was going to explode. Suddenly, the weight on your chest vanished. Your mouth was agape, drawing oxygen back into your lungs. Your vision was still out of focus, but you were able to make out a dark figure next to you, kneeling over someone’s silhouette, beating them senselessly. 

Two more figures emerged from behind the first, and the violent motion stopped. The dark figure approached you then, and you felt smooth leather caress your temples and your cheeks. They leaned down towards you, and their face finally came into focus. Bruce regarded you with an expression of wariness. His mouth was set with concern, his pupils dilated, eyes wide and crazy.

“Hey,” you whispered faintly. 

“Hey,” Bruce whispered back, forcing his mouth into a small reassuring smile. 

He took your hand and pulled you up to a sitting position. His eyes scanned you for additional injuries, but you were feeling better by the second. Your throat was slightly sore, but other than that, things couldn’t have been any better. Bruce was by your side. You were safe. That was all that mattered. 

“Hey, Vengeance?”

You turned towards the voice, and you watched in horror as the masked individual raised his rifle towards Bruce once again. He pulled the trigger, and you pushed Bruce out of the way just as the bullet whizzed out of the barrel. The bullet struck you in the shoulder, the force of the hit sending you tumbling down over the side of the platform. You heard the swoosh of Bruce’s cape as he dove down to catch you. His strong arms wrapped around you just before you hit the water, his body shielding you from the impact. 

An intense wave of pain shot from your shoulder down to the tips of your fingers. The fabric of your shirt had begun to cling to your skin, drenched with blood. The red liquid pooled out of your wound, and you felt yourself swaying in and out of consciousness once again. Bruce pressed a fierce kiss to your temple and mumbled a string of words, but you were unable to make out what he said. 

He lifted your arm slightly and you screamed out in pain. He laced something under your armpit and wrapped it tightly, securing it in place with a knot. He continued to speak, but his voice sounded muffled, as if he were submerged in water. You managed to open your eyes just enough to see him staring down at you, his blue eyes blazing with fear and something else– anger. 

You weakly lifted your good hand and pressed it against his chest, finding comfort in his warmth, in the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

“I love you,” he mouthed silently. 

But you couldn’t tell if it was real, or if you had imagined it. You didn’t get much more time to ponder. Everything faded soon after. 

—------------------------—————————————

When you regained consciousness, you were on a cold, solid surface. Gotham’s bright morning rays were beating down on you, warming your body from head to toe. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the brightness, but when they did, you saw you were on a rooftop of sorts, with an incredible view of Gotham City’s scenery. Somehow the buildings seemed taller, brighter. This was due to the reflection of water, which had spread vastly, now covering every square inch of Gotham for miles. 

In the distance you heard the soft whirr of a helicopter, the sound of its propeller increasing in volume as it neared. The sky was uncharacteristically clear, with white wispy clouds adorning it. You spotted the helicopter in the distance, and it began its descent onto a nearby platform.

A pair of leather clad hands came to rest on the top of your head. The hands caressed your hair, gentle fingers tracing their way down the side of your head, lower, until the tips grazed the side of your neck, sending warm shivers down your spine. You tilted your head in the direction of the hands, and when you gazed up to see who they belonged to, your heart instantly warmed. Bruce was still in his suit, but it was significantly tattered and torn. His face was filthy, black stains streaked across his cheeks. Despite this, he had never looked more handsome. His eyes glowed behind the mask, their blue color accentuated by the dark shadow outlining his eyes. 

He moved his fingers from your neck down to your shoulder, his hand hovering over the wound you had suffered. You turned your head further towards him, observing the bandage that was now wrapped around your shoulder.

“I got the bullet out. It wasn’t lodged deep. It should heal fine, but be sure to monitor the area for infection.” 

Your brows furrowed in confusion. Why was he speaking to you like he was saying goodbye? 

He noticed your uncertainty and squeezed your hand reassuringly. “The worst of the flooding is over. Everyone is being evacuated,” he explained softly. “The National Guard will be arriving shortly to transport you out of the city.”

You swallowed hard. “Where will you go?” 

Bruce sighed. It was the softest of sounds. “I can’t leave,” he said simply, but you heard the strain in his voice. “Gotham needs me.”

A sharp pang of anxiety reverberated in your chest, and you suddenly feared that your time with Bruce was running out. “I’m really sorry,” you whispered, tears filling your eyes. “For everything. For walking away. For doubting you. For realizing too late how much I need you.”

His blue eyes darkened with sadness. “None of that matters. What matters is your safety, and I can’t guarantee that here. Not right now. Not while the city is in shambles.”

“I walked away from you once before, Bruce. I’m not making that same mistake again.” 

A muscle in his jaw jumped. You could sense the frustration radiating off of him, but you knew none of it was aimed at you. Finally, he said, “Things are going to get worse before they get better. There’ll be a power grab, and it will be bloody. Are you prepared for that? For long, sleepless nights with me? The fear, the exhaustion, the uncertainty? Is this what you really want?”

You sat up then, and you winced when you jolted your shoulder a little too hard. You moved your arms slowly and brought them up around Bruce’s neck. You cupped the back of it and pressed your lips against his in a delicate kiss. You pulled back, fiery determination burning in your belly, igniting your resolve to conquer anything and everything– as long as you had Bruce by your side. 

“Where you go, I go,” you told him, matter-of-fact. “Gotham is going to rebuild, and when that happens, you’re going to need all the help you can get. Lawlessness will be rampant.  I’m no superhero. I can’t fight or lead dangerous undercover operations. But I do love you, Bruce, and I’ll be damned if I allow you to do any of this alone.” 

Bruce flashed one of his soft, rare smiles. He was satisfied with your answer. You could tell by the glimmer in his eyes. He circled his hands tightly around your waist. It was a promise of safety; a physical vow that conveyed that he was never letting go. You liked his promise. 

You kissed him again. Fiercely, possessively this time, making a covenant of your own. “Together,” you murmured against his lips. 

He returned your intensity tenfold. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes regarding you with equal parts appreciation and adoration. “Together.”

He had come across a few leads regarding your father’s case, but so far he hadn’t found anything solid. He had stopped by your apartment several times, always late at night, after the conversation you had. He never stayed long, but you were filled with warmth every time you saw his large, mysterious silhouette standing on your balcony, which had become his favorite entryway. His visits were almost entirely due to the research he was conducting on your behalf, but there were times where you sensed there might be something more. 

You didn’t know who he was yet, but you were certain his personality was not far off from the one he showed when he was hidden in layers of armor. He was a vigilante; hated by some, admired by others. But you were beginning to understand the physical and mental toll that being the Batman had to have on him. He was solid, his courage and cunning never faltering, but you got the sense that, underneath it all, he was incredibly lonely. 

You did everything in your power to assure him your apartment – and, of course, you – could be a safe space for him. There were moments where you saw a glimmer of hope flash in his eyes, but it was always replaced by cold, calculated indifference. But you were confident there weren’t many layers of him left to peel back. You just had to give it time. 

You knew where he’d be tonight. Two days ago, when he had visited your apartment to give you a rundown of his findings – more like lack thereof – he had informed you that he and Commissioner Gordon suspected the Penguin might be connected to the Riddler. After cracking another of the Riddler’s cyphers, he had discovered a slang term, which he was convinced led back to the Penguin and the shady business he operated forty-four feet beneath the Iceberg Lounge. He and Gordon were tracking the Penguin, and they had a source reveal that he’d be participating in a Drops buy tonight. 

You hoped he was correct in his suspicions, and that with the help of the police, this nightmare would be put to an end once and for all. But in reality, things would never be that simple. There were too many factors at play, and the Riddler seemed to have caught his second wind. He had only revealed the tip of the iceberg of what was to come. Certainly things would get worse before they got better. The only thing that brought you solace was the knowledge that you had the Batman on your side, and as unclear as his underlying motives were, you knew you’d be safe as long as he was around. 

It was pathetic how many times per day you found your thoughts drifting to Gotham’s Dark Knight. Things between you hadn’t escalated physically or emotionally, but you felt such an intense longing for him in his absence. You had met him a mere couple of weeks ago, and yet your lungs filled with a fresh breath of air every time you were in close proximity to him. Your skin tickled with an electric charge, as if you were two magnets calling to each other, being beckoned together by delicious anticipation. 

Tonight this particular longing tugged at your heart with intensity and your stomach tightened with worry. You had to remind yourself that he had been doing this for a long time. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Except, you weren’t entirely convinced. Not after he showed up at the church despite the impending threat of an active explosive. You just had to trust that his survival instincts would hold priority over his need for acquiring answers. 

The uncertainty made your head spin. You were still on concussion recovery, but after a checkup from your primary physician, you were cleared to work from home as long as you allowed yourself rest if and when you began feeling fatigued. You had spent the day catching up on tasks: uploading the few photographs you took at the memorial, completing reports of your past articles that had been left unfinished. You had taken several necessary breaks, and after finishing your tasks of the day, spent the remaining time on your computer, reading an online news article of the tragic events that occurred at the memorial nearly two weeks ago. 

You had been present, but your head injury had prevented you from registering anything with clarity following the vehicle’s violent intrusion. You had spent a day in the hospital afterwards and had not been allowed to access any information online to understand why it had all happened. 

The article on your screen was the twelfth one you had read in under an hour. They all said the same thing: Gil Colson had been behind the wheel, and under pressure from the Riddler, had admitted to a live feed of thousands of viewers that he operated his business based on bribes. He accepted generous monthly payments from donors who wanted him to turn a blind eye to cases that would negatively impact them. Colson had also been forced to bring up the rat, the informant he had been speaking about the night you spent with him at the 44-Below. It was Colson’s unwillingness to reveal the identity of the informant that ultimately got him killed. The Riddler gave him a chance, and he refused to take it. It was a terrifying thought, that someone somewhere held an exorbitant amount of power – so much power, in fact, that a man was willing to give up his life instead of uttering one measly name. 

You felt sick to your stomach. This was nowhere near finished; you knew that. And you still held onto hope that the Batman would visit you one of these nights bearing good news, but you weren’t counting on it further. Your temples began to contract under uncomfortable pressure, a symptom of an oncoming migraine, and you took it as a sign to put things on pause for the night. 

You shut your laptop and set it on your bedside table, your arm extending to the button on the base of your lamp and pressing down, draining the light from the bulb. You slid under your covers, the cool silk sheets caressing your exposed skin, inviting sleep and relaxation. 

You let the sirens echoing below your building lull you to the hazy, dream-like state you so desired. You fell into a slumber effortlessly, letting every thought, every worry, float away as you sunk deeper into your mattress. You couldn’t have been asleep for longer than thirty minutes, because when the knock sounded at your front door, the first thing you did was peer at the digital clock on your nightstand, which indicated it was just shy of 1:30 AM. 

Usually you were oblivious to the various nighttime sounds. After all, Gotham wasn’t exactly a quiet city. Someone, somewhere, was always awake. But the aluminum door at the entryway of your home only amplified the abrupt, heavy, disgruntled pounding against it. You flicked your bedside lamp on and swung your feet off the side of your bed, sliding into your fuzzy gray slippers and quickly slipped the matching robe in your closet off its hanger, securing it around your body. 

You opened your bedroom door and waded through the darkness of your living room, still dazed from sleep. You flicked on the foyer light and stood on your tiptoes, peering through the peephole to see who was on the other side of the door. Your heart lurched when you saw an individual standing in the hallway, wearing all black. They were tall, but their shoulders were pinched together tensely, their posture slightly hunched. They wore a black hat and their face was pointed towards the floor, concealing their identity. 

They stood impossibly still, as if lost in deep thought. You weighed your options carefully. It could very well be a homeless person, or a drunk, or even a criminal. And they were planted at your front door, showing no intention of leaving. No matter which way you spun the scenario in your head, opening the door was not a good idea. As good of a samaritan as you tried to be, you’d never willingly allow a stranger access to the inside of your home, especially not in the middle of the night. Chewing on your lip, you decided it would be best to go back to bed, and hopefully the stranger would get the hint that past-midnight visits were unwelcome. 

You peeked out one last time, and just as you were about to shut off the foyer light and waddle sneakily back to your bedroom, the individual on the other side looked up. They were wearing a black neck gaiter, which obscured the bottom portion of their face – his face. Even with his features concealed, you recognized his sharp nose and chiseled jawline under the fabric. Once you saw the glint of blue in his irises, the uneasiness in your stomach transformed to near desperation. 

You turned the lock and did everything you could to restrain yourself from flinging the door open. He was wearing an oversized black jacket, black jeans, black boots. This was an unfamiliar sight to you, but your eyes soaked up every detail of him with delight. You stepped aside a fraction, allowing him entry. He stepped into your apartment stiffly, wordlessly. You shut the door behind him, moving so you stood in front of him. You shoved your hands in the pockets of your robe to keep them from fidgeting. 

As you scanned his face, waiting for him to speak, you noticed the lack of security in his demeanor. He stood straight now, but he seemed… off. He still towered over you, and you could see the definition in his arms and shoulders, despite the baggy jacket he wore. His eyes were red and hollow. Despite his size, at this moment, he had never looked more fragile. You feared that if you nudged him even slightly, he might very well shatter. The hat was still on his head, but you saw the dark brown strands of hair that hadn’t quite been tucked inside it. 

Deciding to take the initiative, you grabbed his hand, attempting to lead him to the couch in the corner of the living room. His feet remained glued in place. He met your eyes now, a haunted look passing over them. 

“It was supposed to be me,” he mumbled, his voice agonizingly frail. 

You tugged at his hand once more, and this time he followed. You stopped in front of the blue suede couch, urging him to take a seat. He did as you ordered, and you sunk down on the couch next to him, close enough that your knees were nearly touching. 

“What’s the matter?” you asked, making your voice as gentle as possible.

He sat rigidly at the edge of the cushion, staring at a blank spot on your wall. “He’s in this mess because of me.”

The defeat in his voice made your heart sink. Instead of demanding him for an explanation right away, you tried to ease him into comfort. You tugged on the sleeve of his jacket and he slipped his hand out of it mechanically, doing the same with the other arm. The bulky coat plopped on the couch in between the two of you, leaving him in a black long sleeve button down shirt, which was unbuttoned, a black undershirt beneath it. Grabbing the jacket, you stepped away quickly, hanging it on the metal rack in the entryway of your apartment. You then ambled in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Would you like anything to drink? I can make us some tea, if you’d like?” you offered. 

He shook his head in response to your question, but by the look on his face, you knew he hadn’t really heard you. His thoughts were elsewhere. 

You took your spot back next to him, a strange surge of courage giving you the confidence to take control of the situation. Whatever happened must have been devastating enough to put the Batman into shock. Seeing his humanity – his vulnerability – exposed in this way only made you want him more. You’d never take advantage of a situation of this severity to make your move on him. You simply wanted him to know you could demonstrate fortitude when he couldn’t. He was brave, cunning, and above all ruthless. But he was human, and you decided you loved the unsteady parts of him too. You would be his backbone until he could afford to stand back up on his own. 

You reached for his hand, the contact of your skin against his sending a jolt of electricity up your spine. Every single nerve ending in your body tingled in unison. Longing. Loving. Hoping for this man. 

You squeezed his hand to draw his attention away from his thoughts. A few counts later, he tilted his head in your direction, his tired eyes gazing into yours. 

“Do you trust me?” you asked. 

It was a silly question. You knew he trusted you– that’s why he was here, after all. No suit, no armor. Just him and the burden of his torment. But you needed to hear him say the words. 

He nodded slowly, exhaling deeply as he did. 

This was as good of an answer as you were gonna get. Gaining courage from his response, you dropped his hand gently, guiding your hands towards his face. You placed each one on either side of his cheeks, your fingers resting in the crook of his jaw. He watched you intently as you slipped his hat off, revealing a layer of straight, dark hair, which was slightly grown out. Short strands rested on his forehead, but you brushed them aside, revealing his thick, defined eyebrows. 

You used the back of your pointer fingers to trace the upper structure of his face, trailing your feather-light touch downward toward the fabric still covering the lower portion of it. You grabbed the edge of the mask and pulled it down slowly, searching his face for any signs of protest. But there were none. He was still looking at you, his eyes trained on your face so intently you felt a warm blush creeping up to the apples of your cheeks.

You removed the fabric from his nose first, continuing lower until you saw the small ridge of his cupid’s bow, which merged seamlessly into the shape of his pale pink, perfectly set lips. Once the fabric had been completely removed from his face, you leaned back slightly, taking in his features as a whole.

A small gasp escaped your lips. Bruce Wayne sat before you, and for several moments, you were completely lost for words. Your mind raced, working to make sense of this revelation. Though you were still recovering from the shock of it all, your doubts began to melt away, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

“It was you. At the mayor’s memorial.” You stated, your eyes widening with wonder at your realization. “You were the one that got me out.” 

He confirmed this with another nod. 

Before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around his neck, your body flush with his. He remained rigid at first, long enough to make you regret your decision to embrace him without his permission. You drew your hands away from him, pulling back to create some distance, but his arms circled your waist then, keeping you against him. 

Your hands came to rest on his warm, solid chest. He lowered his face towards yours, his forehead leaning against yours. You looked up at him, finding his eyes closed, his breathing deeper, more labored. You had been dreaming of this moment for several weeks, and now that you were living it, you were frozen in time, unsure what to do next. 

You committed every detail of it to memory. His steady hands warming the place right above your hips, the tickle of his stray hair on your nose, the length of his eyelashes, the adorable upwards curl at the end of them. You wanted to say something– anything to express your appreciation. Your gratitude. 

But words weren’t enough. They would never be enough. Not to encompass how grateful, how entirely and irrevocably lost for him you were. Your mouth decided to give it a try anyway, but the minute you opened your mouth to speak, you were overcome by a different sensation. 

You tentatively brushed your lips against his, and his mouth immediately captured yours in a passionate kiss. His resistance melting away, he tightened his hold on your body, one hand remaining on your waist while the other gripped your thigh, as if he were afraid you’d slip away. 

You returned his intensity tenfold, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him harder against you. You ran your hands through his hair, tugging gently, causing a low grumble to emanate from the back of his throat. He pulled away briefly, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. He pressed gentle kisses along your jaw, down your neck, ending at your collarbone. He kissed his way upwards, his lips finding yours again, claiming you hungrily, the physical display conveying everything words couldn’t. It was fervent as it was emotional. The two of you melted into each other, claiming one another as your safe haven. 

Finally, you found the restraint to pull away from each other completely. The kiss had left you breathless. You bit your lip to keep from smiling like an idiot. You looked up and Bruce studied you with wariness, as if unsure of what to make of the moment you had just shared. He looked vulnerable. Nervous, even, and it was apparent that this was all uncharted territory for him. 

You took his hand and dragged him up from the couch. You led him through the living room, down the hall, toward your bedroom. He stopped just shy of the doorway, an alarmed look passing over his eyes. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice strained, a few notches above a whisper. 

You flashed a warm smile. “We’re getting some rest, silly.” When your response didn’t seem to ease his nerves, you regarded him with a serious expression. “You came here tonight for a reason. I may not know exactly why, and you don’t have to tell me. You can, but only if and when you’re ready.” You paused, sighing. “In the few short months that I’ve known you, in the brief meetings that we’ve shared, I’ve been able to see just how devoted you are to protecting this city. For two years, Gotham has claimed every single one of your nights. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Not with me– not tonight.”

His adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed thickly.

“Stay with me tonight?” you asked, hopeful.

He mulled this over for a few counts. Your heart soared when his feet began moving in your direction. You plopped down on the bed, snuggling beneath your warm covers once again. You scooted closer to the middle of the mattress, leaving a spot big enough for him to fill. He made it to the edge of the bed and analyzed it awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure how close he wanted to get. Bruce opted for sitting down next to you. 

Baby steps, you reminded yourself. 

You asked him to shut off the lamp and spent the next several moments in silence. You closed your eyes and turned on your side so you were facing him. He lifted his arm and placed it on your pillow, right above your head. After a few minutes of this, you felt his fingers stroke the top of your head, his hand opening and closing, lightly massaging your scalp. Instinctively you relaxed, your breathing falling into sync with the movement of his hand. You looked up at him through heavy eyelids, and you found him already assessing your sleepy figure. His eyes were pensive, his mouth set in a neutral line. Not frowning, but not quite smiling either. Your eyes fluttered shut and you leaned into his warm, soothing touch. It didn’t take long for sleep to pull you under. 

—-----------------------------------------—————

When you woke, the spot beside you was cold, the sheets barely ruffled. There was no imprint on the mattress, no sign that Bruce Wayne had been here, by your side, in the first place. For a moment you doubted yourself, believing that the events of the previous night had been a figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your dreams. 

After the moment you shared, you felt a surge of disappointment that he’d left without letting you know, without reassuring you that you’d see him again. Because the truth was, you weren’t sure you would. The kiss was passionate, electrically charged beyond belief. He had wanted it in the moment, but what if that was all it was? 

A moment. 

You sensed his aversion to vulnerability. It wasn’t in his nature to be exposed in this manner, nearly defenseless. Being a vigilante in Gotham, working tirelessly to find and unmask the killer that had been terrorizing rhe city for months, didn’t come without a cost. The Batman had priorities, and you weren’t sure you’d make the cut. 

You shook your head, attempting to expel the negative thoughts from your brain. Bruce Wayne would remain untouchable as long as he wanted to be untouchable. It wasn’t up to you. If he wanted you, he needed to come to terms with that on his own. You were willing to be patient, but you weren’t going to wait forever. 

You had finally been cleared to resume your normal activities, so instead of over analyzing Bruce’s intentions further, you hauled yourself out of bed and prepared yourself for work. It was liberating, knowing that you’d no longer be confined by the same four corners of your apartment. Because you had awoken earlier than you needed to, you were able to indulge in the warmth of your morning shower. You chose to wear a pale pink sweaterdress and paired it with nude tights and long brown boots. You noticed a small blue-ish hue adorning your under eyes, and applied a thin layer of concealer to erase the evidence of your exhaustion. 

Once you finished getting dressed, you made your way to the kitchen to prepare a quick, light breakfast to take with you. As you brushed past the entryway towards the refrigerator, a flash of purple was caught in your peripheral vision. 

Turning, you found a large, elegant bouquet of flowers resting on your kitchen counter. The bouquet was wrapped in thin brown paper, the pinks and purples standing out against the white, simplistic theme of your kitchen. The flower arrangement was made up of lavender stock, mini pink spray roses, fuschia heather, and was held together by a thin white ribbon. You felt your face warming from the delightful surprise. 

You picked the bouquet up and held the flowers up to your nose. You inhaled their fresh, sweet scent, all the while feeling your worries about Bruce slip away. He might not have stayed through the night, but this sweet gesture ensured you didn’t feel discarded. 

It was then that you noticed the white envelope that had been placed under the striking flower arrangement. You set the flowers down and gave the envelope the full weight of your attention. You ran your fingers against the smooth paper, peeling back the seal, excitement bubbling in your belly as you attempted to guess what words Bruce had left you to wake up to. 

You pulled the small card out from within the envelope. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you stared down at the contents in your hand. It was a black and white photo. The image was grainy, but you were able to make out the familiarity of the location. The photograph had been taken from beyond your balcony, most likely from a neighboring building. It was from the night you visited the Iceberg Lounge. More specifically, after you had returned home, when you had been met with a displeased Batman in your bedroom after your shower. The photo had captured you in just a towel, arms crossed defensively, the Batman towering over you. 

The light flooding in through your kitchen window illuminated the photograph, the bright glare allowing you to see the outline of black ink on the other side of it. You flipped it over, your eyes scanning the words printed on the back of the photo in messy writing. Your stomach twisted with revulsion, a feeling of inescapable dread overcoming you. 

The truth kills. Just ask your father. 

—-----------------------------------------

Your first day back at Daily Gotham had been… underwhelming. You had expected friendly smiles and welcome back’s from your coworkers, but it was as if your absence hadn’t made an impression on anyone. You weren’t fooling yourself; you knew your place and you knew better than to expect balloons or cupcakes or cards full of well wishes addressed to you by your fellow reporters. But you had expected something. At the very least some form of acknowledgement of the trauma you endured.

When you had walked into the office, no one had so much as looked in your direction. In a way, it was a good thing. It meant you had done a good job at remaining invisible, just as you had intended from the start. But now the thought of being a nobody to everybody made the alarms in your head blare at full volume. 

The flowers and the message you received this morning were disconcerting. You had rushed out of your apartment the moment you realized whoever took the picture had access to the inside of your home. After all, that was how they managed to plant the sinister gift in your kitchen. The envelope containing the photograph was stowed in your purse, taunting you to reread it until you had exhausted every last possibility of what the message meant. 

Despite the weeks of work you missed due to medical rest, you managed to get ahead on all of your assignments. You glanced at the timestamp in the bottom right corner of your computer screen, and it was just after five-thirty in the evening. You peered out the window and saw that the sun had begun setting. This was a novelty, considering that you rarely left work while the light of day was still visible. Since you had no tasks left to complete, you printed out all of your finished reports and organized them according to the due date. You collected the thick stack of paper and crossed the cramped space to your supervisor’s office, placing it in the middle of his desk. 

You returned to your own cubicle, gathered your things and logged out of your computer. Clutching your bag tightly against you, you used the staircase to lead you downstairs to the main floor, and let yourself out. Once outside, you realized there was nowhere for you to go. You no longer felt comfortable returning to your apartment alone, and any close friends you could stay with were located at least three hours away from the city. 

You could stop by a nearby cafe and grab a bite for dinner, but you weren’t even remotely hungry. The soggy lettuce and kale salad that resided in a bowl in your lunch bag that had marinated in italian dressing for far too long attested to that. You had attempted to eat, but there were more pressing matters on your mind. And the mere thought of the eerie message on the photograph made food almost impossible to stomach.

With your apartment off limits and dinner nowhere on your mind, there was really only one other matter left to ponder: Bruce Wayne. 

You needed to speak to him, but you weren’t sure where to find him, and you hadn’t the slightest clue where to begin. He operated solely during nightfall, moving with the shadows, using their darkness to his advantage.  Whenever he needed you, he’d find you. And that was all well and good, except this time the urgency was yours, and having no way to contact him was only fueling your frustration. Despite the fact that he had left without discussing or acknowledging the intimate moment you two shared, he was still the only one you trusted to keep you safe, and the only one who you knew was capable of getting to the bottom of who had left you those flowers. 

You glanced up at the sky in frustration. The sun had dipped lower in the horizon, causing an array of pink, orange, and purple strokes to adorn the darkening sky. The moon had become more visible now, taking the attention away from the bright yellow orb that had been illuminating Gotham just a few minutes prior. 

It was a full moon, and you couldn’t help but fixate on its prominent roundness. As the sun descended into invisibility, the glow of the moon intensified, transforming it into a transfixing, natural spotlight. 

A spotlight. 

Your feet began moving before the thought could come to completion. You weren’t sure exactly where you were going, but you knew you needed to find the tower that housed the bat signal. You had seen it once before, but you hadn’t been paying attention to where the light had been coming from. Back then, you didn’t think you’d need it; you didn’t know you’d need it. 

You knew it had to come from the east side, where the buildings were more desolate and GCPD patrol was practically nonexistent. Crime was rampant on that side of Gotham, and although it was risky, you knew there was no other way. You followed the mental map in your head, walking down the cracked sidewalks, turning down streets every few blocks. 

The transition from the west side to the east side was everything but seamless. Once you crossed the street toward the empty, haunted-looking side of town, you felt a prickle of fear shimmying down your spine. You paused momentarily, trying to decide what direction to take next. You had visited the east side in the past, but only in passing. The buildings around you all looked the same. Abandoned, dark, uninviting. You were relying solely on luck at this point. The bat signal could very well be stored in any of them. You decided to narrow things down by thinking logically. 

In order to get maximum visibility, the signal needed to be positioned at a good vantage point, meaning higher ground. Since Gotham was pretty level, you knew you needed to focus on the larger buildings. You glanced upwards as you walked, scanning the area, waiting for something to catch your eye. 

And something did. 

A flicker of light in one of the windows of a skinny building two streets down. You began walking towards it, and as you got closer, you heard the abrupt clank of metal from up above. It sounded like some sort of machinery, perhaps a pulley. 

As you rounded the corner to locate the building’s entrance, you saw a sleek black motorcycle parked next to a vintage muscle car in the alleyway parallel to the building. You weren’t sure this was it, but there was only one way to find out.  

The building’s exterior had been gutted, so the interior of it was fully exposed on the bottom floor. You weaved through the various metal poles that made up its frame and located the industrial elevator that was tucked in the far left hand corner. You opened its gates as quietly as you could, stepping onto the platform and closing the gates to secure yourself inside. You looked down at the operating board and pushed the button with a faded upward arrow sticker beneath it. The elevator made a low rumble as it came to life and began ascending. The trip only lasted a handful of seconds, and once you finally reached the top, you made out a familiar figure on the opposite side of the floor. 

It was dark, but his height and silhouette were unmistakable. You saw the outline of his mask, caught the gentle movement of his cape against the breeze. You stood frozen, and it took you a moment to identify the individual who was up here with him. Inching forward slightly to get a better view, you saw the shadow of a woman’s silhouette standing across from him, her body angled slightly away. You stepped fully off the elevator platform then, keeping your back flush against the wall to avoid being seen. You scooted closer in small increments, straining your ears to listen to the conversation being exchanged. 

“I’m sorry,” you heard Bruce whisper. “For what I said.” 

She turned to face him now. “It’s all right. You assume the worst in people. Which, well… maybe we’re not so different after all.”

The familiarity of her tone struck you in the face. It was Selina, the woman that joined you and Gil at your table that night at the Iceberg Lounge. The woman the Batman claimed to have sent. You watched as she closed the distance between her and Bruce. She stopped a few inches from his chest, lifting a hand to caress the side of his face. Her slender fingers grazed his mask, and from your angle, it seemed as though he was leaning into her touch. 

“Who are you under there?” she asked, her voice silky, seductive. “What are you hiding? Or are you just... hideously scarred?”

“Yeah,” Bruce managed to croak out. 

The sharp, painful sting of jealousy made it hard to focus on the rest of their conversation. You felt dizzy, but more than anything, you regretted having come here in the first place. You should have taken Bruce’s disappearance as a sign that you had simply been a distraction, and watching him interact with Selina only proved it. 

You wanted to kick yourself for being such a coward, for believing that Bruce would be able and willing to fix things for you. Independence had been required of you since the moment you buried your father, and although the loss of him was devastating and abrupt, you had been able to adjust well to taking care of things on your own. 

Why had it been so hard to do that now?

You didn’t have time to criticize yourself further, because when you looked up, a fresh wave of envy and betrayal washed over you. The emotion was so potent that it knocked the air right out of your lungs. 

You watched as Selina kissed Bruce. Tears stained your vision, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. She had her hand cupped on the back of his neck, pulling him towards her, and as far as you could tell, he wasn’t showing any signs of resistance. She pulled away first, dragging her thumb across his lips. 

“I told you, baby. I can take care of myself.” With that, she turned on her heel to walk away, but he remained in place. She only made it a few steps before stopping in her tracks the moment her eyes landed on you. 

Bruce noticed her pause and turned his head in your direction. You watched him visibly stiffen. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked. His voice wasn’t harsh, but not gentle either. 

You blinked away the tears, thankful that the darkness was able to conceal the humiliation that was certainly plastered on your face. 

You swallowed hard, doing your best to keep your voice impassive. “Sorry. I would have announced myself, but I didn’t want to interrupt.” You gave Selina a pointed look for emphasis. 

She pretended like she didn’t notice and resumed walking, directing a brief glance at you as she brushed past you. You heard her footsteps trail towards the elevator, and neither you nor Bruce spoke until the elevator descended. 

He took six long strides towards you. “How did you find this place?” 

“It was easy enough,” you replied coldly. “I think it’s time for you to find a new meeting place.” 

“Why are you here?” He reiterated his initial question, trying a new approach. “Did something happen?” His blue eyes stood out in the dark, and you watched them search your face intently.

You dug the envelope from within your purse and slammed it against his chest a little harder than you intended. He broke eye contact long enough to grab the envelope from you and examine its contents. 

He looked up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “What is this?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I found it in my kitchen under a bouquet of flowers that I thought were from you.” Bruce’s eyes didn’t give away much underneath the mask, but it was hard to miss the guilt that flickered behind them in that moment. “I came here hoping you could help me figure out what the note means and who it’s from.” 

“I have an idea,” he answered, his tone neutral. 

You waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Well?” you pressed on. “What is it?”

“Not here.” 

“Then where?”

“Come with me,” he ordered, and began walking towards the elevator. It was clear he wasn’t going to share more, so you had no choice but to oblige. 

You kept a steady pace behind him and joined him on the elevator. The ride down was silent, tense. There were a million things you wanted to say – scream – at him, but not before you got some answers out of him. If he had been slimy enough to lead you on and use you for kissing practice, you were going to be using him right back. It still hurt, having the image you had created of him be completely obliterated by a kiss. The one he shared with you, sure, but more so the one he had accepted from Selina without hesitation. 

It was apparent that you didn’t know him as well as you thought. And although you had promised yourself you’d remained composed until you got what you wanted from him, rage boiled in your chest every time you looked at him. Who would have thought? Gotham’s Dark Knight:  master seductor, and in turn, professional heartbreaker behind closed doors. 

Bruce opened the elevator gate and motioned for you to exit first. You stepped off, once again following him as made a beeline for the vintage vehicle that you saw parked in the alleyway. 

You snorted, but there was no trace of humor behind it. “I didn’t peg you for a car guy, Batman. I always thought you flew everywhere. Hence your name.” 

He didn’t seem the least bit amused by this. “Get in the car.” 

“Yeah, not a chance,” you retorted. You began walking towards the street, but he caught you by the elbow before you could turn the corner. His grip was tight, but not painful. 

His jaw was set, lips in a thin, exasperated line. “Get in the damn car. It’s not safe here.” 

“Then why was she here?” The question escaped before you could even think to stop it. Internally, you cringed, knowing full well that you didn’t want to hear his response, because the intimate display of affection you had walked in on told you more than enough.

Instead of entertaining the snide inquisition, Bruce began pulling you towards the vehicle. He opened the passenger side door, giving you a pointed look that said: either you get in the car, or I'll put you in the car. 

Begrudgingly, you sunk down in the seat, and he waited for you to put on your seatbelt before shutting the passenger door. He came around the front of the vehicle and swiftly got behind the steering wheel, starting the engine. 

Bruce maneuvered the car onto the road, taking a path back towards the center of the city. You drove in silence for several minutes, eyes trained on the ever-changing horizon, as he expertly veered around street corners until finally making it out onto the highway.

His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel, and he flexed his fingers slightly. “You put yourself in danger tonight, looking for me.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I hoped it’d be worth it.”

Bruce turned his attention away from the road momentarily, glancing in your direction. You had scooted as close to the door as possible and your arms were crossed over your chest. You did this in hopes of shutting him out, because you knew you couldn’t trust yourself when in close proximity to him. Anger simmered in your chest, but he still had an effect over you. One whisper, one touch, and you might dissolve into a puddle at his feet. 

He made another sharp turn, and suddenly you were passing through a dark tunnel. The only thing illuminating the path in front of you were the yellow beams of his car. He pressed a button on his wrist, and suddenly what looked like a garage door began to rise in the distance. You drove under it, entering what you assumed was his hideout. It looked like an oversized stone bunker, and you saw Wayne Manor carved into one of the stone panels on the wall. He eased the vehicle to a stop in the middle of the room.

You heard the metallic screech as the garage door shut following your entrance. Bruce killed the engine, and you took this as an invitation to exit the vehicle. Your footsteps echoed against the floor, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the staircase that led up to a surveillance area.There was a giant desk littered with several screens, keyboards, scanners, and an array of other electronic equipment that you couldn’t even name.  

You climbed the stairs and waited for him to join you at the top. He stepped towards you with care, sensing your aversion. 

You stared daggers at him. “Why did you bring me here?”

“It wasn’t safe for you. Back at the building.” 

“Oh, really?” you scoffed. “Then why was Selina there?”

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw jumped. “Because she can take care of herself.” 

You flinched at the implied insult. “And I can’t?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Then what were you trying to say?” 

“She was there for business,” he responded softly. “She asked to meet me. We made a deal.”

You rolled your eyes. 

Bruce took a step closer to you. “I told her I’d help her if she did something for me.” He waited for you to offer some sort of commentary, but when you didn’t, he continued, his blue eyes holding yours as he spoke. “She agreed to keep tabs on the Riddler for me if I helped her find and catch the bastards that killed her friend. That way I could focus on finding out more about what happened to your father.”

You felt some of the annoyance dissipating. Had he really made such a deal to help you? 

Even if he did, that didn’t excuse his behavior. Showing up at your door. Kissing you. Disappearing without so much as a goodbye. And the icing on the cake: you had found him kissing another woman. 

“I appreciate the effort, but I don’t think your intervention is necessary anymore. I can take it from here.” You did your best to sound casual, but your hands trembled at your sides.

He shook his head. “It’s not safe.”

Your nostrils flared, the exasperation you thought had faded slowly beginning to return. Part of you knew you should be grateful for the sacrifice he was making for you, but the other part was still stuck on the embarrassment you had experienced upon seeing him with someone else. You had opened yourself up to him, and he had willingly slipped away from you. He had been the one to drive the wedge between you, and he had the audacity to be surprised that you no longer wanted his help. 

You put out your hand, fingers outstretched. “Could you return the envelope? I’d like to go home now.” 

He glanced down at your hand. “What is this about?”

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’re angry. Why?”

You laughed in disbelief. You couldn’t fathom how someone so smart could be so oblivious. 

“Maia-” he began.

“Because you walked out on me!” The confession burst from your lips. “You sought me out at my apartment. You kissed me. Then you left me behind as if what happened between us didn’t matter.” You chewed on your bottom lip, your eyes burning as tears threatened to spill from them. “I woke up to that awful message, and after I read it, my first instinct was to go to you for help. When I finally found you, there was another woman in your arms.”

Your voice broke as you uttered the last sentence, and all you could do was stare pathetically up at him. You watched as he digested your response. To your surprise, he extended his arms and pulled you close. He ran his leather clad hands down the length of your arms in a soothing manner. 

He pressed his lips against your forehead, murmuring against it. “I’m sorry.” 

He slid a hand underneath your chin, tipping your face up gently. You couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“Look at me.” His voice was tender, pleading. Your teary eyes met his. “Selina is my friend,” he explained patiently. “I shouldn’t have let her kiss me. In the moment it felt like she was expressing her gratitude, but it was still a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

You swallowed thickly. “You can do whatever you want. Don’t stop on my account.”

His lips twitched, as if he were fighting a smile. “I can’t stop something that never started.” He ran his gloved hand across your cheek. “Besides, my interest is elsewhere.”

Your breath caught in your throat. His words were getting to you, and you felt every bit of your resistance collapse with a simple caress. 

“I want you,” Bruce confessed, his lips grazing the lobe of your ear. The soft sensation sent a shiver down your spine. “I was a coward for not admitting it sooner.”

“What are you gonna do about it now?” you asked, a hint of challenge in your voice. 

Bruce straightened and pulled back from you slightly– just enough so that he could meet your eyes while he spoke to you. “I’m going to prove just how much I’ve longed to be with you. To touch you.” He ran his hands down the sides of your torso. “I’m going to worship every inch of you until you get it in your head that there’s no other woman for me but you. Everything about me was nothing before I met you, Maia. But now… you’re everything.” 

Tears were flowing heavily from your eyes now. You cupped his masked face in your hands, running your thumbs over the exposed lower half of his cheeks, his stubble ticking your palms as you did. 

He set his hands over yours, trapping your touch on him. “You make me want to be more than vengeance. I can’t remember ever doing anything for this city for a reason other than retribution.” His voice was thick and emotional. “But I don't want that anymore. I want to be the kind of hero that makes Gotham better. I want to be the kind of man that is worthy of you.”

You crushed your lips against his. You weren’t sure words would suffice in this situation. Bruce had taken you completely by surprise with his confession. Happiness soared within you. There was still a lot of uncertainty, a lot of fear, but your worries all seemed insignificant with Bruce by your side. You were two very jagged pieces of a puzzle, and yet you fit together perfectly. The big picture had not yet been uncovered, but it didn’t matter. The hard part was over. You had each other, and because of that, everything else would fall into place. 

“Come on,” he said, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

—----------------------------------————————

You had barely made it past the door of his bedroom before your mouth was on his again. He unfastened the cape from around his shoulders and tossed it aside. He removed his leather gloves too, and they landed somewhere on the floor. He was still in his mask and armor, but his focus wasn’t on himself now. He pushed you back towards the bed and you landed on the edge. 

Bruce kneeled in front of you, his warm hands wrapping around your thigh. Carefully, he lowered the zipper on your boot, slipping it off, and did the same with the other. His hands slid up your thighs and around your waist. His fingers curled under the waistband of your tights, and he slid them down your legs along with your panties until they were fully removed. He began kissing his way up your leg, his lips trailing light pecks to the inside of your thigh. Your core pulsated with anticipation at his closeness, and you groaned audibly when he removed his mouth from your skin. 

You wiggled the skirt of your dress up your hips and scrunched the fabric up, pulling the entire thing over your head. You sat in just a bra now, but your arms were quick to remove that too. You felt subconscious now that you were completely naked while the Batman knelt fully clothed in front of you. But you couldn’t help but think back to all the fleeting, dirty thoughts you’d had of him. Fucking him in his suit had definitely been one of those thoughts. 

At the thought of his cock deep in your pussy, thrusting in and out of you with intensity you knew he possessed, your nipples hardened and you felt arousal begin to moisten his sheets. Despite being completely nude in front of him, Bruce had his eyes focused on your face. 

After a few counts he finally allowed his gaze to land lower. He gave you a full once-over, and you felt deep satisfaction as you saw him stiffen in his pants, his erection fighting against his zipper. He swallowed hard, his eyes dazed, as if he thought they were deceiving him. 

The hesitation disappeared quickly, replaced by fiery confidence. He got to his feet and hooked his hands on the underside of your thighs, lifting you against him. He took the spot on the bed that you were just occupying and placed you on his hips. He lowered his mouth to the crook of your neck and nibbled seductively, dragging his mouth down to your breasts, where he sucked your right nipple into his mouth. His tongue toyed with the puckered bud, a wave of pleasure shooting down to your core. Your clit was swollen with arousal, begging for contact. 

As if reading your mind, he slipped his hand between your bodies, trailing down your stomach until the tips of his fingers brushed your folds. You pressed yourself against his hand, and he parted your pussy with his index and ring fingers, while his middle finger stroked your swollen clit. You gripped his shoulders, a breathy moan escaping your lips. He rubbed the sensitive nerve steadily, and already you felt an orgasm building deep in your belly. You began rocking against his hand, the added pressure making you feel so good you had to bite your lip to keep from squealing. 

But it wasn’t enough. Your cunt ached with desire, and his cock was the only way you’d be able to satiate the hunger. You craved the feeling of him filling you to the hilt, pounding against the spot that would have you scratching at his back, writhing with pleasure, screaming for him to go harder, harder, harder. 

“I need you inside me,” you whimpered, planting a sloppy kiss on his lips. 

His pupils dilated at your demand, and he obliged wordlessly. He removed his hand from your pussy and rotated his body, laying you down on the bed gently. He stood before you at the end of the bed, and you watched in fascination as he removed his armor in pieces. He slipped the helmet off of his head, and smudged black eyeshadow outlined his eyes, the blue of his irises a bright blue flame. He removed his undershirt, revealing a strong, sculpted chest. His stomach was taunt and defined, his biceps bulging as his hands worked to undo the button of his pants. He yanked his pants down with his boxers, and your pussy contracted in delight when his erection sprung free.

His length was impressive, as was his girth. The dim candlelight illuminated the room just enough for you to spot the slick line of precum adorning the head of his cock. He kicked his boots off and removed his pants from around his ankles. Bruce moved toward you then, his mouth agape, cock pulsating in anticipation. 

He lowered himself on top of you, his elbows propped up on either side of your head. His mouth found yours, and you kissed him back fervently. You reached your hand down and wrapped your fingers around his length, giving the head of his cock a couple light strokes with the pad of your thumb. Bruce groaned against your mouth, his hand cupping one of your breasts, pinching your nipple in between his fingers. 

Your back arched, your legs spreading at the delicious agitation. “Bruce,” you begged, completely oblivious to the desperation coating the syllable of his name. 

He released your nipple and bent down to place a hasty kiss on it, and he pulled away with a quiet pop! He supported his weight on one arm while the other guided his cock to your entrance. You felt his engorged head poking at your folds, and you bucked your hips up, pleading for him to fill you. Bruce placed his free hand on your cheek and angled your face downward. He stared passionately into your eyes, observing you with equal parts desire and adoration. 

You felt him plunge into you, his length pressing against the walls of your pussy, stretching you around him. It took a moment for you to adjust to his size, a heavenly sting shooting electric currents into your cunt. Once he was sure he could move without hurting you, he began to propel his hips against yours. His thrusts were short and slow at first. He was delicate, considerate of your every need. He fought against his own animalistic desires, ensuring that he didn’t succumb to his own feverish needs. On any other night you would have enjoyed him making love to you. But tonight was not that night. You wanted him to claim you with all of the hunger he possessed. And he did. 

All you had to say was one word: Harder. 

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him. Being vocal was not his style, but as he started to drive his cock deeper into you with force, you heard him struggle to keep his pleasurable groans at bay. His breathing had quickened, his hair plastered to his forehead, damp with sweat. In a quick maneuver, he propped one of your legs on his shoulder to gain better access to you. He drove in and out of you vigorously at an angle, the tip of his cock hitting the sweet spot in your cunt repeatedly. You cried out, the violent bliss almost too much for you to bear. 

“Gonna cum in your pussy, baby,” he cooed, his voice silky with lust. “You feel so good.”

Your hands flailed on his back, scratching helplessly as he pushed you over the edge. You gripped his shoulders, tugged on his hair, trying to anchor yourself as you got closer and closer to your release. Bruce continued pounding into you, but he was close to the edge too, and when his thrusts became labored and sloppy, you knew he was seconds away from unraveling inside you. 

You brought your lips to his, sealing his mouth with yours in a desperate kiss. His body grew taut against you, and moments later you felt warm liquid shoot into you, so abundant that your pussy overflowed, his seed dripping out of your hole. The feeling of his release triggered your own orgasm, which washed over you so hard your vision went momentarily black. Your back arched against him, legs trembling, a hearty cry emanating from the back of your throat. You laid on the bed, breathing hard, the aftershock of your orgasm sending little shivers up and down your body. Your pussy gently contracted against Bruce’s cock, which was still inside you. 

The hunger had left his eyes, replaced by warm awe. He pulled out of you slowly, walking to the massive wardrobe that took up the length of the entire wall. He slid open the wooden door and, a few counts later, returned next to you with a towel in his hands. He cleaned you up first, pressing the fabric against the skin of your inner thighs, soaking up the mixture of your bodily fluids that had dripped down on them. He then did the same with the spot between your legs, his movements brief, respectful. Once he was finished, he repeated the same technique on himself, then discarded the dirty towel in the woven laundry hamper in the entrance of his bathroom. Your heart rate had slowed, your breathing returning back to normal. Your body was now heavy, weighed down by intense exhaustion.

Bruce noticed this and scooped you into his arms, bringing you around and setting you down further up the bed. He opened the covers and tucked you inside, and already you were indulging in the softness of his pillows, the warmth of his sheets. The smell of him – pine, with a hint of mint – filled your nostrils. He slid in the bed next to you, pulling you in so that your head rested on his chest. Your eyes immediately fluttered shut, his presence putting you in a spell of deep relaxation. 

Bruce kissed the top of your head, drawing small circles on your arm, down the back of your hand. “Get some rest, darling. Tomorrow there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” 

Tomorrow’s problem, you assured yourself. 

You walked in the direction of the bathroom, which was conveniently tucked in the corner of your room, to the left of your bed. Your hands reached to the zipper resting on the small of your back and tugged it down, allowing you to peel out of the dress with ease. You removed your undergarments and tossed them in the dirty laundry basket, along with the satin dress you were wearing moments ago. Using the touchscreen located on the wall, you adjusted the water temperature and pressure with a few simple taps. The shower head came to life, releasing a thick sheet of water, which flowed in a wide, steady pattern downwards. You slid the glass door open wide enough to let yourself through, and the tension in your shoulders dissolved almost instantly. 

The hot water coated you in a sensual embrace, warming you all over, and you felt pleasurable shivers when you leaned backwards, the droplets landing on your breasts and caressing your nipples. You used a pump of lavender shampoo and lathered it into your hair, massaging your scalp with delicious pressure. You grabbed the pink sponge hanging on the golden shower caddy and applied your favorite body wash to it, working it into your skin, which was now tender and warm. You rinsed off shortly after and turned the water off. You saw steam rising from your arm as you reached for the towel that hung on the hook next to the shower door. You patted yourself dry and wrapped the towel around your body, exiting the bathroom. 

Your bedroom was still enveloped in darkness, which is why you didn’t notice him at first. He stood beside the window next to your bed, watching you intently. Waiting. 

You crossed the room and flicked the light switch by your bedroom door, soft yellow light illuminating it. When you turned to walk back to your closet, you nearly let out a blood-curdling shriek. You sank against the wall, a hand pressed against your chest, which thrummed loudly due to your erratic heartbeat. 

The Batman didn’t look the least bit bothered by the obvious disruption he had caused. He stood rigidly by the window, his mouth set in a displeased line. 

“Jesus,” you snapped. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Instead of answering your question, he took a couple of stiff steps towards you, stopping just close enough that you could see the slow rise and fall of his chest each time he took a cold, intimidating breath. 

He spoke now. “What were you doing at the Iceberg Lounge tonight?” His tone implied that he wasn’t asking– he was demanding. 

You let out a sharp laugh, but it lacked humor. “What’s it to you?” 

He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. “You’re not going back there. Gil Colson isn’t good company to keep.” 

You crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper aware that you were standing in a towel with wet, dripping hair, with The Batman right in front of you. Despite this uncomfortable observation, you were determined not to let him intimidate you. 

“How did you even know I was there?” A pause. “Were you following me?”

“I have a source.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Then you were hit with a punch of realization. “The woman in the red wig. You sent her.” 

This time he didn’t respond. 

You shook your head in disbelief. “What, so you just expect me to divulge the information you need without any sort of protest?” You ran your hand through your damp hair in frustration. “I have questions I want answered too, you know? Starting with how you know where I live and how the hell you managed to get inside.” 

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked bluntly. 

His question was abrupt, and it startled you. It took you a few seconds before you could respond. “No. I’m not afraid of you,” you managed at last. And it was the truth. That night at the subway station had been the first and only time you had seen him. Despite his dark, uninviting physical appearance and his cold, calculating tone, his presence was… comforting. “But that doesn’t mean I trust you,” you added. “Hell, I don’t even know who you are. And I get that's the concept behind the mask. You’re Gotham’s Dark Knight, and I admire that. And I’m grateful for what you did for me that night at the subway station, but I still don’t understand why you’re here or why we’re even having this conversation.” 

He shut his eyes momentarily, and you were sure he was going to turn around and leave. But he didn’t. His eyes remained closed for a few counts, and when he finally opened them, his blue eyes sliced into yours.

“I haven’t been following you,” he assured you, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “But I’ve checked in every now and again. To make sure you’ve made it home safe.”

Your heart swelled with emotion, and you were too taken aback by his confession to analyze what it meant. You simply stared back at him expectantly, urging him to continue.

He swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was once again guarded, closed off. “There’s no shortage of crime in this city. I can’t be everywhere. You should invest in more reliable means of transportation.” 

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Thanks for the tip.” 

“As for tonight,” he continued. “I didn’t know you’d be there. I sent Selina to the 44-Below on an assignment. And coincidentally, you were sitting at the same table as the people she went there to investigate.” 

You pondered this for a moment. “I guess that makes sense.”

Now it was his turn to look at you expectantly. “Your turn.” 

This time you did roll your eyes. “Can I at least go change first? I just got out of the shower and I’m freezing.” 

“No.”

You threw your arms up in the air and turned, taking a seat on the edge of your bed, once again wrapping your arms around your front to keep it from fluttering open. You looked up at him, annoyed. “I was there for the same reason your sexy spy was. Research.” Before he could press you for more information, you added, “And don’t ask me to elaborate, because it’s personal.” 

A muscle in his jaw twitched, a clear signal of annoyance. But he didn’t force you to say anything more, just like you’d asked. He turned mechanically, his long black cape flowing as he made his way out of your bedroom and toward your front door. You were hot on his heels, following to make sure he went out and stayed out. 

He tugged your door open, but paused in between the door frame. He half turned to you, his leather clad hand still wrapped the doorknob. 

“Another tip?” he announced coldly. “Don’t forget to lock your door.”

And then he was gone. You didn’t dare peer out to see in which direction he had gone. Instead you slammed the door so hard it vibrated, and made sure to secure the lock and deadbolt in place. 

Asshole. 

—-----------------------------------------—————

“Turn left at the next street, please,” you instructed the taxi driver. 

You sat in the backseat of a taxi, hands fiddling with the small black clutch on your lap. You were on your way to Mayor Mitchell’s memorial. The event had been in the works since the announcement of MItchell’s murder, and it quickly became a very big deal. A massive turnout of people was expected– especially highly-respected government officials and other influential city figures. Daily Gotham instructed every available reporter to attend and document as much of it as possible. For once, you were going to be one of the lucky ones working the front lines. 

Although you were glad to finally be getting in on a piece of the action, your mood was somber. Probably because you were on your way to a massive church to take pictures and ask people questions about a dead guy who you hadn’t even thought twice about until today. 

You stared down at your outfit to peel yourself away from your less-than-cheery thoughts. Your hair was pinned in a simple, yet elegant updo. You wore a modest black lace dress, and your feet were tucked in shiny black flats. Your makeup was minimal too: a thin coat of mascara, light coverage foundation, pale blush, and clear gloss on your lips. 

You gave the driver another set of directions. “You can pull over up ahead. Before the crosswalk.” 

He did as instructed, guiding the vehicle to an open parking spot just before the end of the curb. You handed him a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change. You stepped out of the cab and shut the door gently behind you, the driver taking off immediately, probably eager to find his next customer. 

You saw the church up ahead, and the parking lot in front of it was littered with police cars. They left a thin lane by the front steps unblocked, undoubtedly for the important individuals who would be chauffeured to the event. As if on cue, a caravan of black vehicles turned the corner in the direction of the church, cruising through the open lane and stopping at the front long enough to allow their passengers to exit. As you walked closer to the cathedral-looking building, you were able to make out some of the people as they were screened and escorted inside by the cops. 

Carla Diaz, one of the women you briefly sat with last night at the 44-Below. Carmine Falcone. Oswald Cobblepot – aka The Penguin, as he was famously nicknamed – the owner of the Iceberg Lounge. 

You could also see the gate that had been propped up in front of the left wing of the church. You heard heated chanting, and your heart sunk when you saw protesters with signs splotched with red paint and eerily familiar symbols. No more lies, the signs read. Reporters had been conveniently placed in front of the crowd of the Riddler’s supporters. They were crowded in a small square beside the entrance, and they all spoke over each other, snapping photos and frantically begging the arriving individuals to walk over and indulge them by answering their questions. But as noisy as they were, even they couldn’t drown out the sound of the angry mob behind them. 

Mister Wayne? Over here, Mister Wayne! Could we please have a moment of your time?

Your head snapped in the direction of the commotion. You did a double take when you saw Bruce Wayne exit his vehicle and hand the keys to a valet worker, who handed him a small slip of paper in return. He was a famous orphan whose family had a history of philanthropy. He expressed very little interest in the lavish life of a socialite. He kept to himself, so it came as a surprise to you that he was even here. Unlike other famous city figures, Bruce Wayne didn’t like basking in the spotlight. Because of this, he did most of his work behind the scenes. He had made generous donations to city programs and charities that his family had worked with in the past, but things had been eerily quiet on his end for the last couple of years. He was almost as hard of a man to find as The Batman himself. 

You couldn’t help but watch him as he ascended the church steps; his shoulders were hunched, his head tilted down, doing his best to avoid being approached. You saw him attempt to move past the officers guarding the door to the church, but he was blocked and immediately surrounded by four officers who had seemingly come out of nowhere. Bruce wore a solemn expression on his face, but he was most definitely exasperated. He corrected his posture, pushing his wide shoulders back, towering over the men that were denying him entry. 

 Carmine Falcone appeared at the entrance and engaged in a brief exchange with the guards and Bruce Wayne. Whatever he said must have worked, because they stepped out of the way and let Bruce through. You couldn’t blame them for being cautious– they were doing their job, after all. Ensuring that the event was safe for the attendees, given the Riddler’s never-ending taunts and recent attacks, was top priority. And taking into consideration that Bruce Wayne had not been seen at an event of this magnitude in over two years, you completely understood why the public was beginning to forget what he looked like. 

You climbed the steps and merged into the line of people waiting to be screened and allowed entry inside. Once you got to the front, you showed the guard your Daily Gotham identification card, and another guard walked over to escort you to the section reserved for the press. You passed row after row of pews, where there were no spots left unfilled. You glanced up at the immensely high ceiling, your attention momentarily caught by the alluring artwork adorning it. The guard finally came to a stop, ushering you into a pew with your fellow reporters. 

You had a pretty good view of the altar, where an enlarged photo of Mayor Mitchell resided next to his closed casket. You looked around the vast space, trying to make out familiar faces in the crowd. The late mayor’s wife and son were seated in the first pew on the left hand side of the church, maybe six or seven rows in front of you. Government officials and city figures sat in the first couple rows on the right hand side. Almost everyone in the pews at the back of the church were common folks who had arrived early enough to snag a decent seat. 

An announcement cut over the loudspeaker, but the chatter in the room drowned out most of what was said. You assumed they were announcing the start of the service, so you sank down in your seat, exchanging polite smiles with the reporters sitting around you while you waited. You opened the clutch in your lap and pulled out a small recording device. It felt invasive, recording audio of a funeral, knowing all too well what the mayor’s family – especially his young son – was experiencing. You flicked the ringer button on the side of your phone, silencing it. You leaned forward and turned your head towards the back of the church. The doors had been shut, and there was significantly less shuffling around the perimeter. A melancholic silence befell the crowd. There were only a handful of people still working their way through the pews, trying to find their seats. 

Distant cries cut through the eerie silence. But they weren’t cries of grief or sorrow– they were cries of terror. And they seemed to be coming from beyond the front doors. The helpless screams continued, increasing in volume, accompanied by an aggressive, mechanical noise, which sounded like the rumble of an engine. Everyone in the church began to rise in panic, their gazes darting all around, trying to find the source of the disruption. You felt your body temperature dip with concern, shaky hands hoisting you up to a standing position. The commotion continued, but still no one knew where it was coming from. You took a moment to glance at the other guests, feeling momentary relief in the fact that you were not experiencing this alone. As you scanned the terrified audience, your gaze landed on Bruce Wayne, whose eyes met yours at the same moment. 

Something registered in his expression– familiarity? Shock? Those deep blue eyes assessed you with intensity. You didn’t have much time to analyze what it meant, because your thoughts were cut short by a brutal crash. 

A black SUV rammed through the front doors of the church at full speed, and you watched, horrified, as people attempted to dive out of the way to avoid being run over. The SUV flailed recklessly in every direction, losing control, hitting the arrangement of pews on your side so hard that one of the wooden benches was flipped and launched against you. You toppled over and hit the ground hard, hitting your head on the sharp corner of something. You laid stunned for a moment, disorientation clouding your vision. The vehicle had finally come to a stop after it slammed against one of the thick marble columns beside the altar. A chorus of terrified shrieks echoed inside the church now. 

You weakly pushed yourself up to a sitting position. You observed the quick blur of motion as the police made its way to the front of the church. There was a lot of shouting, but you couldn’t make out any of what was said. Your vision tipped and turned, the world in front of you swimming in and out of focus. You took several deep breaths, focusing on not passing out. Disoriented as you were, you knew that this was the absolute worst time and place to lose consciousness. 

Sharp, high-pitched ringing sounded in your ears, sending a fresh wave of pain to the base of your skull. There was more commotion now, but the ringing drowned it out, as if everything were occurring under water. Despite your muffled hearing, there were two words which you were able to pick up clear as day. 

Out. Now. 

As if one cue, everyone in the church began exiting in a frenzy. You stood and dragged yourself slowly, lamely, to the ground, before being knocked down by the force of the mob. You landed on your arm this time, a sharp pain shooting from your wrist to your elbow. You attempted to roll to a sitting position, but it was no use. You had been rendered immobile. 

It was then that a pair of strong arms slid under your body and hauled you up with ease. Suddenly you were flush against someone’s warm chest, bouncing lightly, their feet moving with haste. Your eyes had fallen shut, but you were able to pry them open just enough to catch a flash of stubble dotted along a strong, defined jaw, and dark hair. As if sensing your gaze, the individual peered down at you. 

“Stay awake, will you?” The voice sounded familiar. It was low, sexy, masculine. 

You knew you were outside because you felt the cold prickle your skin like tiny needles. You heard sirens closing in on you, rattling your eardrums to the point of discomfort. Suddenly you felt another pair of hands on you. You felt the warm touch of the individual who had helped you to safety slip away, replaced by a cold, hard surface. 

Gloved hands peeled your eyes open, shining an obnoxious light on them. Your vision was so blurry that the face of the paramedic standing above you refused to come into focus. She spoke gently, firmly, but you weren’t listening. You felt yourself slipping away now. It wasn’t long before you found yourself giving in to the darkness, plunging deeply into the black abyss. 

—--------------------------------------———————

When you opened your eyes, you found yourself surrounded by white walls and bright lights. Your head rested on a floppy pillow, and when you tipped your head down to take in the rest of the room, you felt a rush of dread. Then it all came back to you. 

The cab ride. The mayor’s memorial. The vehicle plowing through everything in its path. Falling and hitting your head. Attempting to flee, getting pushed to the ground. Being carried to safety by a stranger. 

And now you were here. 

You peered down at yourself, finding your body dressed in a white hospital gown, covered in – you guessed it – thin white hospital sheets. Your arm had also been carefully wrapped and placed in a sling across your chest. You became ridiculously aware of the dryness of your mouth, and when you tipped your head towards the bedside table, you found a small bottle of water and an oatmeal cookie on a tray, begging for your consumption. You tried pushing yourself to a sitting position, but were immediately overcome with a ridiculous pressure pushing against your temples and small black dots danced across your field of vision. You laid back down and opted for using the handy remote tucked on the side of the bed to lift yourself to a position where you could down food and water without choking. 

The head of the bed rose to your desired angle and you reached toward the tray, dragging it closer until the table rested in front of you. You twisted the cap off of the tiny water bottle, using the same remote to surf through the channels while you took a few tentative sips. You clicked the down button repeatedly, only stopping when a bright orange news headline flashed on the screen. You set the remote down after turning the volume up, your eyes fixating on the images on the screen. 

You watched as camera footage made you revisit the day’s events from an spectator’s perspective. The camera captured the SUV recklessly turning into the church parking lot, ramming into the side of two police cars, only to race up the steps and barrel through the church doors. The footage didn’t include a continuation of what had happened inside, but you already knew. You had a nasty concussion and a fractured arm to prove it. 

The news broadcasting cut to an image acquired by a police officer’s body cam, and the sight made your blood run cold. It was Gil Colson, mouth taped shut, blood dripping from his head, a bomb wrapped tightly around his neck. The image disappeared, replaced by a video of Batman standing stiffly across Colson, speaking to the Riddler through a phone that had been taped to Colson’s palm. Moments later, there was an explosion that hurled the Batman backwards with force. The blast had rendered him unconscious, and according to the headlines, there was no news about whether he had survived the explosion. 

You felt bile rise in your throat, anxiety twisting your stomach painfully. Your thoughts began to race, and suddenly whatever the news anchors were discussing now seemed unimportant. You couldn’t help but feel completely consumed by fear. He had to be okay, right?

You did your best to assure yourself, but the reality was that you couldn’t be sure. You had only spoken to him twice, but in that short time, you had become… invested. He was dark, mysterious. But also incredibly alluring. His voice, his sultry gaze. He had a hold on you that you couldn’t quite explain. His determination to protect the city had been one of the many things that made you admire him, but now the thought of it made you feel unnerved. 

He was clever, strategic. He’d never walk into something knowing he might be in over his head. Would he?

Two solid knocks sounded at the door, snapping you away from your thoughts. A slender, middle-aged woman with dark auburn hair stepped into the room, shutting the door gently behind her. A pair of black glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, and when she smiled, small but prominent wrinkles formed around her eyes. 

“I see you’re awake,” she stated politely. “I’m Doctor Rollins. Do you know why you’re here, Miss Elliott?” 

You nodded, meeting her eyes warily. “I was at the memorial service when the car…” you swallowed. “I fell and hit my head. I tried to get up, but was trampled by the crowd, and hurt my arm. The details get hazy from here, but I know someone got me out. I don’t remember much after that.” 

She nodded, her lips pressed in a slight frown. She stepped forward, stopping beside the bed. Dr. Rollins slid the tray you had placed in front of you out of the way, inching closer and inspecting the gauze on your head, above your temple. 

“May I?” she asked, searching your eyes for any sign of discomfort. 

You nodded again, sitting still as she peeled back the adhesive and peered under the sterile cloth, examining your wound. She peered at it for a few counts and then put the gauze back in its place. 

“The cut seems to be healing quite nicely. No excessive bleeding or discharge.” She pulled a small flashlight from her coat pocket, instructing you to follow her finger with your eyes as it moved from side to side, then up and down. “You did suffer a pretty severe concussion, so I’d definitely take it easy for the next two weeks, maybe a little longer if you can afford it. Your brain needs time to rest and heal.” She stepped back, assessing you with a soft, almost maternal gaze. “Since everything looks good, I can go ahead and have a nurse bring you a discharge form, if you’d like? You can stay another night for observation, but I don’t believe it will be necessary. What you need is rest, and I’m sure you’d rather get better in the comfort of your own home than be stuck in a noisy, bland place like this.” 

You couldn’t help the smile that surfaced on your lips. “Yeah, I’d like that,” you agreed. 

She returned the grin and turned on her heel, cracking the door open just enough to allow her small figure through, and slipped out the door. 

—--------------------------------------------————

Concussion recovery sucked. 

The nurse who had gone over the discharge paperwork with you had given you a hefty list of things to avoid during your recovery. Absolutely no screen time, no exposure to bright lights or sounds, no abrupt or harsh movements of your head and neck, and lots of rest. 

The first couple of days were great. Of course, you still had a fractured arm and a jumbled brain, but you were relieved to have nothing to do but lounge around your apartment for a change. Like your late father, you were a workaholic, fully immersing yourself in whatever you were doing. Employers had appreciated your timeliness and dedication, but more often than not, you found yourself being pushed to your limits and eventually relying solely on autopilot. You had taken this time off of work to indulge in the self care that the magazines you read were always raving about. 

You lit the sugar cookie scented candle that you had been gifted for your birthday and took your first ever bubble bath. You read through an entire row of books on your bookshelf and made chamomile tea, which you sipped as you peered out onto the city from your balcony. Since you couldn’t watch tv, you dug the old radio from the depths of your closet, and after heavily dusting it, realized it was still in working order. You clicked through the stations every couple hours, hoping that someone – anyone – had news about the Batman. After an agonizing thirty-six, your fears had finally been extinguished. He had been out cold for several minutes, but he walked away from the explosion unscathed. Lucky bastard. 

Unfortunately, his interference in the Colson situation was not taken well by the police. There had been an APB issued against him, and your guess was that he was lying low until the cops found something more important to occupy their time. 

So, in theory, everything was good and well, except it wasn’t. You had become bored, and when you experienced boredom, you turned into an antsy mess. You paced around your living room, fluffing the decorative pillows on your couch for the fifth time in ten minutes. The door leading to the balcony had been propped open; you’d hoped the fresh air would snap you out of your frenzy. But so far it wasn’t working. You looked around your apartment for things to do. Your bedroom had been organized, your closet color coded, your bathroom deep cleaned, your paperwork filed, mail sorted, dishes washed. What the hell were you supposed to do with yourself now. 

“If you keep spinning in circles like that, you’re gonna give yourself another concussion.” 

You whirled around in the direction of the voice, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of the Batman standing at the edge of your balcony. Your acknowledgment of his presence is all it takes for him to close the distance between you. He came to a stop three feet in front of you, his blue eyes examining the fresh gauze on your head, the sling covering your arm. He met your gaze, a strange softness in his eyes. 

“You can’t seem to stay out of trouble, can you?” He asked, but the question was all rhetorical. 

“Speak for yourself,” you retorted. “That was some stunt you pulled, nearly getting yourself killed playing the hero.” 

His lips twitched, as if he was fighting a smile. “But it wasn’t for nothing.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well, you are now a wanted man because of it.” 

“Am I?” he mumbled, taking a step forward. 

You could feel the warmth radiating off of him, which caressed your skin deliciously. You were close enough to see the sexy curve of his lips, which were parted slightly. His perfect, symmetrical nose. And those enchanting blue orbs, which had darkened significantly due to your proximity. Your heart thumped wildly in your chest and you prayed it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear. You hated to admit it, but the attraction was getting to you now. You wanted to slide your hands up his armored chest and brush your lips against his. You wanted to hear him growl with desire for you. The image was so hot, so vivid, it made you lightheaded. You took a step back, hoping some distance would erase the butterflies in your stomach and the inconvenient pulse between your legs. 

The Batman straightened, as if he, too, had been stuck in a trance. He remained tall and confident, but his tone now held a guarded edge. “Do you want to know why I’m here?”

Ever-so-slightly, you nodded. 

“I’m here because Y/N Y/L/N doesn’t exist.” 

Your heart dropped right out of your ass. “W-what do you mean?” 

You hated the way your voice faltered, and hated how you could barely look him in the eye anymore. In truth, your fake identity wasn’t this big, earth-shattering secret. The sole purpose of the alternate persona was to keep yourself out of the spotlight. You didn’t have any skeletons in your closet, but you didn’t want people asking questions, either. Especially when it came to your father’s research and for the reason you intended to use it. If the Batman could figure out that Y/N Y/L/N was a farce, what was stopping others from doing the same?

“I ran a background check on you after our last conversation,” he explained calmly. “I’m working with Commissioner Gordon to bring the Riddler down before he can do any more harm. I can’t do that if I don’t have access to the full picture. I wanted to be satisfied with the answers you gave me, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many questions regarding your involvement.” 

“What did you find?” you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“Nothing,” he said blandly. “That’s what caught my attention. I knew where you worked, so I accessed records from Daily Gotham and used the information as a foundation for the background check. I entered your credentials and it bounced. There was no record of a Y/N Y/L/N in Gotham CIty.”

Tears prickled your eyes. “So what are you gonna do? Blackmail the information out of me? Threaten to out me to my job just so I can come clean about something you’re convinced I’m involved in?” Your words were laced with anger, but there was unmistakable hurt behind them. 

The Batman grabbed your good arm gently and led you to the couch, urging you to sit down. You raised your shaky hand to wipe away a tear that had managed to escape. He knelt down in front of you, assessing you with the same softness from moments ago. 

He spoke gently this time. “I don’t think you’re involved in anything. I just need you to tell me the truth so I can keep you safe.”

You felt idiotic for the way your heart soared after hearing him utter those words. You wanted him, there wasn’t a single doubt about that. You also trusted him. But you were afraid you were mistaking his kindness for something completely different. You'd be damned if you made a fool of yourself by expressing your feelings only to find out he didn’t reciprocate them. For now, you had to keep him at an emotional distance. Even though you couldn’t confess your feelings yet, you no longer felt good about lying to him, especially since he already knew the partial truth.

“Maia Elliott,” you whispered, unable to meet his eyes. “That’s my real name.” 

When he didn’t immediately jump the gun to bombard you with questions, you gained the confidence to continue. “My father was a reporter. He was free-lancing at the time, taking jobs here and there. Around the time that Thomas Wayne was running for mayor, he had been hired to uncover hidden truths about the Wayne’s and the Arkham’s. My father’s employer had asked him to dig deeper because he intended to use the information to skew the election. He had some sort of vendetta against Thomas Wayne.” Your hands had begun to shake, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself. “My father was a good man. He had always valued justice. Whatever he found must have been serious, because suddenly he wanted out. But it was too late.”

You lifted your gaze, finding the Batman regarding you attentively, hanging on to your every word. You maintained eye contact, even as the tears started tumbling down your cheeks. “He was murdered two weeks before the election. I’ve read through his notes countless times, but I still can’t make sense of them. All he had written down were names, places. That’s why I was at the Iceberg Lounge that night. Gil Colson had been on the list, and I was hoping he’d help me find my next lead. But so far I have nothing,” you admitted, defeated. 

The Batman reached for your hand, giving it a light squeeze. When he spoke, his voice expressed genuine sincerity. “I’m sorry about your father.” 

“While I appreciate that, us feeling sorry about it isn’t going to bring him back. I just want to find out who killed him, and I want to make them pay.” 

He nodded in understanding. “You can count on my help,” he assured you. “But I need you to do something for me.” 

You eyed him curiously. “What?”

“You have to stay out of it.”

You shot to your feet, prepared to protest, but his touch sucked the argument right out of your mouth. He ran a gloved hand through a thin strand of your hair, which he placed between his thumb and pointer finger. He followed its length downward, letting it fall beside your neck, on top of your collar bone. 

“Do you trust me?” he murmured, those blue eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation. 

“Yes, but–” 

He stepped back, giving you a curt nod of approval. “Good.” he said, stopping whatever excuse you were working so hard to come up with. “I’ll be in touch.” 

He turned and walked to your balcony, intending on leaving the same way he had arrived. He flicked one last look in your direction.

Now that you, yourself, had become a journalist, it was not hard to understand why your father had found it so difficult to pull the plug on the case he was investigating. He had been a reporter for over thirty years; surely he had come across several alluring cases over the course of his career. But none like this. Thomas Wayne’s mayoral campaign had drawn a lot of attention from the beginning. It wasn’t until Salvatore Maroni decided to hire your father to dig deeper into the Wayne and Arkham family history in order to skew the election that things became… complicated. Your father was dead two short weeks later. 

Maybe you would have been able to overcome his death if you had known who did it. But to your family’s dismay, the police were never able to figure it out. Infuriatingly enough, the GCPD was quick to close the case and sweep his death under the rug due to “insufficient evidence.” It was clear they had more pressing matters to tend to, like arrest the neighborhood prostitute for the eigth time and issue parking tickets to senior citizens. 

Retribution had not been on your mind at the start. But the more time passed, the more angry you became. Following his death, you had undergone a sort of– awakening. You had considered Gotham your home before the tragedy; you were born and raised in the very city, and you had grown to love it despite its many visible imperfections. But none of that love remained now. You were now able to see Gotham for what it truly was– superficial. Gotham’s politicians did a pretty decent job at convincing the public of the good behind their agendas. Granted, there was never going to be much room for scrutiny or complaint when said politicians waved money and empty promises in the faces of the needy and hopeful. But you were no longer going to be taken for a fool. Your father had lost his life to the malice of this city, and you were going to make sure his death was worth it. As his only child, you owed this to him. It was your job to honor his memory, and you were going to do so by picking up where he had left off. You were going to expose Gotham. You were going to make him proud. 

—------------------------------------------------------

It had been a long day at Daily Gotham headquarters, and you were eager to get home to wash away the day’s disappointments with a nice, warm shower. You knew you wouldn’t be able to dive into your father’s work right away; you knew there would be setbacks. But so far you didn't have a single lead. You had spent countless hours reading his files filled with old newspaper articles and notes and photographs, but you were still missing the big picture. You had gotten hired as an entry-level journalist for Daily Gotham just three months ago, and you had quickly filled your plate with regular employment duties on top of your father’s project. You were young and new and no one seemed eager to give you any insight on systems and sources, and your supervisors were even less eager to allow you to cover a remotely interesting case. But you had decided that it needed to be this way– that you needed to begin by making yourself invisible. 

It would have been easy to introduce yourself as Maia Elliot. After all, that is who you were. The name itself would have opened so many doors for you, without so much as the flick of your wrist. But you knew the implications behind revealing your true name. Maia Elliot? Daughter of Edward Elliot? My goodness, where has the time gone? It really is a shame what happened to your father. He was a good man, God rest his soul. 

When you had applied for employment at Daily Gotham, you applied under the name Y/N Y/L/N. Perfectly normal. Inconspicuous. You had avoided the spotlight from the day the media announced your father’s murder. You were 9 when it all occurred. You were 26 now, and the drag of time – and the weight of your grief – had changed you. You were certain no one would recognize you once you resurfaced. And you were right. No one had batted an eye, and for that you felt relief. 

You exited the dated cobblestone building and made your way down the street, following the signs to the subway station. Your eyes stung with exhaustion and your shoulders were pinched forward as you walked, stress and frustration weighing you down with every step. Once inside the subway, you were met with individuals clad in costumes of all assortments. You could have laughed at the silliness of it. Today was Halloween, and you had completely forgotten. It was once your favorite holiday, but nowadays you seemed to be too much in your head to acknowledge how the days passed you by. 

You brushed past several strangers as you walked deeper into the subway car, scanning the crowd for an open seat. About halfway down the length of the car, you spotted a vacant spot and quickly moved forward to claim it. You sunk down onto the seat and immediately leaned your head back, resting it on the window behind you. Your temples throbbed and it took everything in you to stop yourself from audibly groaning. 

“Rough day, sweetheart?” 

You opened your eyes at the sound of a man’s gruff voice. In front of you sat six men dressed in dark, roguish clothing, their faces colored an artificial white, their eyes and lips outlined with thick black paint. They watched you intently, the way a predator sizes up their prey. You managed a small smile, so as not to antagonize them. You quickly shifted your gaze and turned your body towards the front of the car. You rode in silence the next several minutes, but you felt their eyes grazing the length of your body the rest of the way. Once the subway came to a stop and the doors opened, you shot to your feet, pushing yourself to the front of the car to secure a quick exit. 

Your heels clapped against the stone platform as you walked, your heart thumping as you attempted to overextend your legs in order to quicken your pace and successfully disappear out of sight. You weren’t paranoid enough to believe every stranger who approached you on the street meant you harm, but you knew it was better to be safe than sorry. 

Your heart sunk to the pit of your stomach when you heard several heavy footsteps coming up behind you, followed by the same rough male voice you heard in the subway car. 

“What’s the rush, gorgeous?” one of the men calls after you. 

But you don’t dare to look back. You see the stairs leading to the exit up ahead. Just a few more feet, you think to yourself. Five… four… three….

You’re stopped in your tracks by a sharp yank on your elbow. The large calloused hand on your body whips you around with ease, and you find yourself face-to-face with one of the men from the subway. Fear seeps into your chest, and your eyes search your surroundings frantically for help, for a way out. The man in front of you tightens his hold on your arm and lifts his free hand toward your face, using a thick, dirty index finger to caress your cheek, trailing his touch down and tracing the outline of your jaw. 

“Don’t-” you began. 

“What?” the man asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You afraid of a good time?” 

One of the men standing behind him stepped forward, his eyes raking your body, starting from your legs and traveling upwards, his gaze lingering on your chest. After a few seconds, the corners of his lips turned up in a sinister smile. “We’ll show you a good time, all right.” Tears prickled your eyes as the second pair of hands invaded your space further, one hand skimming the valley between your breasts, the other firmly squeezing your thigh, just below your ass. The remaining men took this as an invitation and they stepped closer, surrounding you from all sides. 

Terror constricted your throat, and you whimpered helplessly, a heavy wave of tears tumbling down your cheeks, the salty taste of them invading your mouth. The lustful murmurs of the men echoed off the walls, and you prayed to a god you no longer believed in to end your misery. You felt bile rise in your throat as a hand brushed the inside of your thigh, inching upwards, a groan of anticipation rumbling in someone’s chest…

And something else. 

Footsteps. Flat, heavy footsteps. They seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. 

As the steps grew closer, the men grew rigid, alert. They looked at each other and ceased their actions, looking around to spot the source of the sound. You seized the opportunity to step out of their grasp and managed to back yourself into a corner, but they hardly noticed. Their eyes were trained on something – someone – else. 

A tall, dark figure emerged from within the shadows of the platform adjacent to where you were standing. It was a man, that much you could tell. He was wearing a black mask that concealed half of his face, but it was impossible to miss the intimidating edge in his light-colored eyes. He stepped further into the light, and you spotted the stubble along his jaw, and pale pink lips that were set in a thin, straight line. He was dressed in all black too; black pants, heavy black boots, a black cape, black armor. 

Upon seeing the masked individual, the men who had been harassing you just moments ago, chuckled snidely in unison. One of them stepped closer to the masked man, looking him up and down. 

“What the hell are you supposed to be?” he asked smugly. 

When the newcomer didn’t  answer, the man confidently raised an arm, rushing forward to deliver a punch, but the masked man blocked it with ease. He delivered several strong blows against the smug man in response, sending him tumbling to the ground, where he continued beating him with force for a moment longer. He stopped, backing up just enough to see the outcome of his violence. 

The masked individual stares down at the bloodied man in disgust. “I’m vengeance,” he uttered, his voice deep, cold, and lethal. 

“Shit, it’s him,” you heard one of the other men mutter. They stood in front of you, frozen in shock, trying to calculate their next move. 

They began surrounding the masked individual with uneasiness and began throwing messy kicks and punches, but the newcomer barrelled through the group of men with admirable swiftness. He took them down one by one, dodging their attacks and countering them with moves strong enough to immobilize them. You hadn’t realized it, but you had sunk deeper into the corner during their violent exchange, holding yourself close, with your knees drawn against your chest– a futile attempt at self protection. 

It wasn’t long before the remaining men found themselves on the ground as well, having been no match for the stamina and strength of the dark mystery man before them. They cowered as he analyzed each and every one of them with intensity, his deadly stare alone driving them to stand and flee while they still had the chance. 

Now that the men were gone, it was just you and him on the empty platform. His eyes landed on you then, and he took a tentative step closer. You looked up at him from your position on the ground, and you fixated on his sharp, broad shoulders, which made him seem impossibly enormous when paired with his impressive height. Although a strange man in disguise stood before you, all shred of fear had dissipated. He crouched ever-so-slightly, extending his gloved hand towards you. 

You stared at it for a moment, but ultimately convinced yourself he was simply trying to help. Lacing your fingers through his, you allowed him to pull up to a standing position. He retracted his hand gently but swiftly, and he stepped to the side, allowing you a clear view of the exit. You held his gaze for several seconds, as if trying to commit every detail of his face to memory. Your chest swelled with gratitude and you found your throat numbing with emotion. 

“Thank you.” You managed to whisper. 

You gathered your purse, which lay a few feet away from you. You figured you must have dropped it during the commotion. Releasing a deep breath, you began walking toward the exit gate, which enclosed a set of stairs that led out to the street above. You felt his eyes on you the entire way, up until you disappeared from his field of vision. Your legs wobbled the rest of the way to your apartment, surely due to the trauma of what you had just endured. But there was something else there too. Something warm– inviting. Deeper than appreciation but not quite admiration, either. 

Fascination. 

—------------------------------------------------------

It had been two weeks since that horrifying night at the subway station. You had gotten home, freshened up, and treated yourself to a late night snack. But instead of listening to your body and allowing yourself to indulge in much-needed sleep, you decided to turn to the internet, hell bent on finding everything you could on Vengeance. It hadn’t been difficult to find coverage on the masked man – The Batman, as he officially called himself. Unfortunately, there was not much information to entertain. All anyone knew about him was that he had made his first appearance as a vigilante two years prior, that he was most active at nighttime, and that his true identity was still a mystery. 

You had left work every evening since then glancing up at the sky, looking down every dark alley, hoping you would catch another glimpse of him. You could not pinpoint the exact reason behind your fascination. But one thing was for certain– he had made an impression. 

Within those two weeks, The Riddler had struck yet again, this time claiming Commissioner Savage of the GCPD as his second victim. Everyone at Daily Gotham was working overtime conducting research, publishing articles, desperately trying to put the pieces together. The Riddler had uploaded a video online prior to Savage’s murder, and he made his intentions frighteningly clear: he would continue killing, taking down important city figures, exposing their facades in order to unmask the truth about Gotham. 

Images of Mayor Mitchell alongside a mystery woman had recently been leaked, followed by images of Commissioner Savage participating in a Drops buy. You hated to admit it, but The Riddler’s motives were much like your own. Minus the murder and psycopathy that had been thrown into the mix. But the guy was dedicated, you had to give him that. And it was because of this dedication that you came to the conclusion that The Riddler was your best bet at identifying and exposing your father’s killer. 

You were going to use him – his knowledge, his tactics – to your advantage. You were going to need to get closer to the action, but not close enough to compromise your safety. What you needed was to speak to people on the inside– people who would fold under just the right amount of pressure. 

There were rumors regarding the notorious Iceberg Lounge. You knew it was a famous mobspot, but after seeing the photos of Mitchell and his mystery woman, you assumed there was more going on behind those closed doors. What other reason would a respectable, important man like him have for being there?

The Iceberg Lounge, you decided, was where you would begin. 

—--------------------------------------------------

You descended the stairs leading to the secret club within the Lounge – the 44 Below, as they called it – your hand laced in the crook of Gil Colson’s arm. He was Gotham’s district attorney, and after doing some digging, you had discovered that he was a frequent visitor of the 44 Below. You had chosen the most alluring dress in your closet for the occasion. It was a gorgeous short navy blue satin dress with a slit up the thigh. The dress hugged your figure beautifully, and left very little to the imagination. It wasn’t skanky, but not modest either. It was the perfect combination of seduction and elegance. Paired with a glimmering diamond earring and necklace set, and deep red lipstick, you knew Colson would be rendered speechless the moment he laid eyes on you. 

And you were counting on it. 

Gil Colson was a smart man, but because of the high demand of his position, he was stressed and very susceptible to manipulation. It hadn’t surprised you when you’d learned he was a consistent Drops buyer. If anything, it made your job a whole lot easier. If he was wasted and horny, who knew how much information he’d be willing to divulge?

You passed through the guarded entrance of the 44 Below and were immediately met with a blast of heat. The scent of expensive perfume, alcohol, and sweat swarmed your nostrils. You looked around the room, finding the place packed to the hilt. There were tables and booths scattered along the edge of the room, gyrating bodies on the dance floor in the middle, a crowd surrounding the fully-stocked, elegant bar just beside the entrance. 

Gil led you to one of the booths in a more secluded area of the room, where a group of familiar individuals awaited. You didn’t know them all by name, but you had seen them in photos and videos affiliated with Colson. As you made your way through the loud crowd, you noticed more than a few less-than-discrete stares in your direction. Once you finally made it to the booth, Gil slid in next to his secretary, beckoning you to take the open spot beside him. 

He smiled sweetly at the sitting strangers. “Everyone, this is Y/N. I caught a glimpse of her upstairs and simply could not let her walk away without inviting her to join us.” He paused, turning to you. “Y/N, this Travis, Richie, Gwen, Carla.” He pointed to the respective individuals as he uttered their names. 

It was your turn to put on a show. You spoke, your voice silky. “It’s such a pleasure.” 

You flashed an innocent grin, accentuating the curve of your lips and the flutter of your lashes as you assessed the other two men at the table. As for the women, you regarded them with fabricated admiration. 

Colson reached for the tray in the middle of the table and extended it in your direction. “You want a Drop?” 

You shook your head and rested your manicured hand on his forearm, caressing it ever so gently. “Not tonight, sweetheart.” 

He shrugged and plucked one of the small vials from the tray for himself. He twisted the seal off and tipped his head backwards, squeezing small drops of the contents of the vial in each eye. He brought his head back forward, and when you met his eyes, his pupils had dilated almost three times in size. You tried to ignore the squeeze of disgust in your gut, caused undoubtedly by what you had just witnessed. Your city’s district attorney – someone sworn to defend and uphold the law and justice – aid and abet one of the largest drug organizations in the country. 

Before you could come up with something else to say, a beautiful woman in a leather corset, fishnet leggings, and matching long leather boots sauntered past your table. As if sensing your gaze, she stopped and turned, but her eyes didn’t quite meet yours. You realized that her eyes were trained slightly to the left, and when you turned, you saw Colson regarding her with just as much intensity. At first glance, she might have looked interested, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. 

Gil slid out of the booth and closed the distance between him and the woman. Her red wig reflected the glimmer of the strobe lights. Her skin was smooth and tan, her lips effortlessly plump and red. Other than a dash of black winged liner and highlight, she wore no makeup whatsoever. Although you had only ever been interested in men, you couldn’t help but marvel at her natural beauty. 

There was a brief exchange of words between her before Gil offered her a seat at your table, which she accepted with little hesitation. He proceeded with the same introduction that he gave you, but this time, you were part of that introduction. When he said your name, her gorgeous dark irises finally landed on you. She gave her head a minimal tilt, regarding you closely. She suddenly froze, breaking eye contact, as if something had caught her attention. But no one but you seemed to notice. When she met your eyes again, she smiled and leaned forward. 

“Have I seen you here before?” she inquired politely. 

You shook your head. “This is my first time actually. Figured I’d finally see for myself what all the fuss is about.” You made a show of snuggling closer to Colson, stroking his arm suggestively for emphasis. “I think it’s safe to say I didn’t walk away disappointed.” 

She leaned in closer. “I’ve got to say, it is a hell of a time to be the new girl around these parts. Everyone’s on edge, especially with everything that’s been going on lately.” 

Gil stiffened at the shift in conversation. He let out a slow, shaky breath, “Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve got a lot on my shoulders with that psycho running around.“ He dropped his head, shaking it pensively. “I mean, this Riddler… he’s going after the most powerful people in this city. He knows so much.” 

One of the other men at the table, who had been completely silent up until this point, spoke up, irritation clear in his tone. “He don’t know shit, man.” 

Colson whipped his head up at the man’s commentary. “Uh, yeah, he does, man. What about that rat–”

The man pointed a warning finger at Colson. “Hey. Hey, Gil, Come on. Slow down.” 

The beautiful woman got that pensive look in her eyes again. After a few counts she reached across the table, taking Gil’s hands into hers, stroking his knuckles with her thumb gently. “Hey, what’s this about a rat?”

Realization dawned on me. I wasn’t the only one here with an agenda. 

Gil raked a frustrated hand down his face, inhaling sharply. His voice wobbled when he spoke. “I mean,” there was a shaky pause, “there was a rat. We had an informant. We had some big time information on Salvatore Maroni, that’s how we got him out of the Drops business. This guy knows. It’s gonna come out, and when it does… this whole city’s gonna come apart!” His voice had risen to a near shout. 

One of the women – Carla – spoke up this time. “Hey, I don’t wanna hear this. This is the kind of pillow talk that had that Russian girl disappeared.” 

Russian girl? Was she talking about late Mayor Mitchell’s mistress? Word had it that she had disappeared a day after his murder. As far as you knew, no one had any information on her whereabouts, and it seemed like no one was in a rush to find her, either. 

“What do you know about that?” the red-haired mystery woman demanded, not bothering to hide her piqued interest. 

Carla shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then stood abruptly, fixing the risen bottom of her gold sequined dress. “Anybody want a drink?” She walked hastily towards the bar before anyone could answer. 

The red-haired woman pushed out of her seat and followed after Carla. They quickly disappeared in the sea of bodies, but not before seeing the woman catch up and grip Carla fiercely by the arm, her expression dark and dangerous as she demanded an explanation. 

You took this as your cue to go. After waving goodbye to the gentlemen at the table, you flashed Colson a sympathetic smile and made your way toward the exit. You scanned the room for Carla and the mystery woman, but there was no sign of either of them. As you walked through the door leading up to the main floor, you found yourself brushing shoulders with the notorious Carmine Falcone. He was wearing dark glasses, but by the angle of his neck and his sudden pause, you knew you had caught his attention.

Unfortunately for him, you were finished making friends for the night. You rushed up the stairs and bulldozed past the crowd on the upper floor. You made it past the guards who opened the armored door to let you out.