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ellesthots

Jul 6

Fateful Beginnings

LXV. “shadow”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce takes you to Arkham.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, very brief and vague description of suicidal ideation, discussion of abuse

words: 13.3k

a/n: so much stuff in this chapter. the title, the references, there's so much to dig into here. proud of this one!! it's a bit... different than what we've gotten used to 👀

Bruce had his hand on your lower back, keeping you close when you shrank from the dark edges of Arkham's hallways. That small kindness—and the sympathetic look he gave you before unbuckling his seatbelt to walk you in—kept your feet in front of you. He still loved you, you could feel it.

There was a way out of this. You could feel it.

The halls had lights that flickered, old LEDs that made you squint and wonder if you were in a dream. That untethered, holographic feeling followed as a nurse led the way to your room. His uniform put you on autopilot and you didn't question him when he held your room open, swiftly taking the outfit he held out and ducking inside.

A whoosh of air from the heavy door made you spin around, squeezing your foot in before it clicked. "Bruce?!"

He didn't say anything, but he stepped into vision—all two inches of it. It took a second for his gaze to unglue from the floor. Maybe two seconds. Or three. You ignored the pit in your stomach nagging that he hadn't talked the entire ride there, that all your pleas could've gone in one ear and out the other. When you attempted to force the door wider so you could touch him to bridge this ravenous canyon, it didn't budge.

Bruce winced—barely, but you caught it—when you opened your mouth in the same shape it'd taken the last fifteen minutes. "I didn't do it. I promise I didn't." But now you added, persuaded by the freezing steel of the walls around you, "I swear on everything. On my life, on my mom's, my dad's. I didn't do anything."

Him biting his cheek was the last face you saw that night. He muttered something about telling him if they mistreated you but it was quick; your foot slipped in your desperation to reach him and the door slammed shut.

Its echo and the implications overwhelmed you so severely that you barely made it to the en-suite toilet before puking your guts up. The stench of vomit seared the air until morning.

Your last name came out of a new nurse's mouth after an indeterminate length of time. The woman, with graying hair and smile lines embedded in her cheeks, instructed you to don the uniform and hand her your 'civilian' clothes. You hadn't felt real in hours, a body without a mind, nerves without feeling, but something in you woke up when you slipped off your date night dress to feel striped orange linens rub rough against your skin.

"I'm in Arkham." Vacuous, unmoored, surreal. She told you to hurry up. Each stitch in every seam had you feeling like you'd explode.

Arkham looked worse than it had when you visited, though you'd never been the patient. Also relevant to your unease was that you'd read on more than the odd Reddit forum tales of how they performed medieval torture in these halls. After your world turning upside down, nothing was off the table.

It was excruciatingly, achingly unclear whether or not you and Bruce were still together. That seemed to hinge on how fast he figured out this all hadn't happened.

Bile rose to the back of your throat. It was no use going all doomer within these walls; Bruce was a good memory, this was all a misunderstanding, and soon enough, oh, soon enough… you'd find yourself in his arms and everything would melt away. He was still yours. You were still his.

A social anxiety that hadn't reared its head since middle school shrunk your posture as you were guided into the cafeteria. The room looked a vivid smear of orange with offputting metallic tables, complimented by ginormous metal fans in the wall above the cafeteria servers. It seemed they wanted the place to look as unwelcoming as possible.

As it was, half the group was lined up with red trays while the others sat and dug into their gruel. You did what you thought best and went with the herd, vocal chords frozen. The line moved quickly and it was impossible to tell if you were grateful.

Slipping into the least-occupied corner table, you took in the sight of brown mush beside gray mush. Before being handed it, you'd prepared to ask if there were peaches in any of this. After a single glance, you could tell it wasn't even possible.

One potato was visible, or a quarter of one. Something green that looked of peas or string beans. A plastic cup of watery milk.

Just an evaluation. Then I'm out.

You weren't hungry by any stretch of the word but given how desperately everyone ate, this was potentially your sole sustenance for the rest of the day. The taste was acrid, everything blending together, and you kept your head down until someone slid their tray across from you.

Looking up made the photographs four-dimensional, a delirious blend of fear and adrenaline perking your nerves. "Sofia Falcone?"

Her deep brown eyes flicked up to yours as she swallowed a glob of mealy loaf. She held a silent gaze long enough for you to feel pointless, then dropped it. She didn't want to be bothered and you couldn't blame her.

But she knew Oz. For all you were aware, Bruce could've already been killed by him. Came close once. Who knew what state Bruce was in after putting you in here?

You pushed aside your tray and leaned forward to force her attention. She glared back. "Can I help you?"

Her voice was typical for the area, you shouldn't have been surprised. Bruce was the enigma in this city for not having a constant Jersey accent, though Sofia's was also wrapped in wealth. She had some fading scars on her neck—long, silvery white lines. Her brows were thick and dark, matching the overgrown mullet of her hair.

"Yes." You scanned her face like she was a thing to decode, all dissociation gone. "You know Oz."

Sofia's glare turned to acid. Shit. Wrong code.

You were out of it, scrambling, everything slowly catching up to your system. The look Bruce gave you when he first entered the kitchen, the twinge in your back from the hard bed, the claustrophobia of this fabric…

"I'm sorry, I'm all over the place." As if to prove it, you accidentally jammed your elbow into the edge of your tray and sent it flying off the edge. You reached for a napkin that wasn't there, flustered and embarrassed to feel so many eyes on you. A worker behind the counter sighed and reached for their mop. Mortifying.

Sofia's eyes flashed as she took another spoonful. "Better hope dinner's good."

The worker scrubbed the mess while you apologized, your heart taking place of your mind. Of course she doesn't want to talk about Oz. He probably put her in here, too.

You drummed your fingers and sipped on the paper cup of milk you thankfully hadn't decimated. Waited for the worker to finish, listening to the squeak of the mop, growing increasingly concerned that Sofia was about to finish her food and leave you with zero answers.

Words spilled out of you like oil the second the employee was out of earshot. "I know you don't know me, but I think Oz is targeting me. I need information. On him, on anything you know."

She thought on this a moment, not looking especially involved. You sat on your hands to abate peeling off your nail beds. Certainly this was all a bad dream. You'd wake up in his bed and rush down to the cave to hug him.

"So, what was it?" She spoke with a sigh. "Stared too long at his sports car? Worked for him at his little club, hm?"

Memories of how he'd tried to recruit you that first meeting, and how Bruce saved you, stung like bees.

"Tried to kill Bruce Wayne," you countered, the words slicing off your tongue. She nodded after taking a slow drink, lashes fluttering.

"Got some balls, I'll give you that."

"Except I didn't. I'm being framed. By Oz."

She had just taken a bite but stopped chewing.

It all spilled out. "I don't know if it's because Bruce and I are dating and he wanted access, I know I accidentally made Oz out to be cheap at the City Hall meetings, I know I'm getting involved with politics and I am certain from what I know that man doesn't have good intentions, but for whatever reason, someone tried to kill Bruce Wayne and they're saying it was me. It has to be him."

"You sure trust the Waynes."

"I know what the Riddler said."

"Thomas Wayne worked with my father." It looked physically painful for her to say the word. She really hated her family, huh? "He was at my father's home throughout his campaign."

"Bruce isn't working for Oz. No way in hell."

"It's nice to date a rich guy, right?" Sofia put her elbows on the table. "Distracted by all the shiny toys until they toss you out and get a new one?"

"It's Oz." It was frustrating seeing a mirror of your old self. Had you completely lost your edge falling for a billionaire?

"Good luck, then." Sofia got up and you stood with her.

"I don't know if I'll have a chance to talk to you again. I need to know anything you have on Oz. Anything that might give some leverage."

"There is no leverage with him." She snagged her tray. "He'll put a bullet right through your head."

If that were Oz's priority, he would've done it already. Wasn't he defined by his impulsiveness? Guided by knee-jerk desires? That man wanted you in here, away from him, with a tarnished reputation.

"You knew him better than anyone. He probably put you in here for some bullshit too."

Her blank expression made you acutely aware of Bruce's warnings. Would he even accept intel from someone like her? Was he wrong about her the same way he was wrong about you?

"Please, anything. I'm already wanting to help Reál get out, I can maybe help you—"

She squinted. "The mayor?"

"Doesn't she eat in here? Or something? She's been in here since July."

Her eyes flit over to the hallway, then back to you, and she pushed past. "Don't bother asking for seconds."

She walked out the double doors, a guard leading her back to her room.

Fuck.

Most days were monotonous here, at best. In fact, she'd just spent the morning in the mandated therapy thinking—not saying, she never spoke to the therapists here anymore—about what a life in Arkham looked like.

Could it even be called a life?

Sometimes Sofia thought so. In the rare glimmers when her dreams took her out of this hellhole, or the days she'd get mail. Selina Kyle was a pulse beyond these walls to adhere to. At times it was excruciating, reminding her she was trapped by Oz in a world that moved on without apology. Other days, it instilled hope. Not that anyone would let her out, of course. She had no one left to advocate for her, he'd made sure of that. Her case was iron-shut and so 'straightforward' that no one would think to wedge it open. Not in a place like Gotham where intakes and files could fill the whole river. She'd been lucky to get that first exoneration, when she still had someone looking out for her.

The hope that remained was named revenge.

She didn't think about Oz, never let herself. The second his name popped up she'd swallow it down like a knife. He didn't come to visit, never came to rub it in. It was almost surprising. Until she realized it was purposeful, and he was doing that to ensure she felt like shit on the bottom of a shoe.

Everything Oz did was calculated. Apparently those calculations had landed the girlfriend of Bruce Wayne in these walls now. To say she tried to kill him. And maybe she had. People loved to lie about what they came in for.

Oz was an afterthought, a thorn in her side. Any true revenge she sought was for her mother.

The rest of the afternoon culminated in her getting an ounce more sleep and feeling her organs shrink. When Rush came around, there was no mail for her. The first month without correspondence, she'd thought it a fluke. The second, she forced herself to stop caring. This sensation of being forgotten, of melting out of a past life, wasn't new. She'd been thrown in the trash enough times to tolerate this feeling.

Evening began in a dissociative funk. Selina'd been her only outlet for months. Last letter, there'd been talk of visiting. As complex as it was to have him around, Rush was the only reason such letters were even getting out without interception. He'd promised to leave Arkham if she didn't want him around, and with the new management and no sign of life beyond these walls, she started to wonder about telling him to go.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I answered every question exactly as requested."

A voice rang out in the hall. Sofia was used to the constant noise pollution, what with her cell being closest to the telephone, and nearly blocked out the sound entirely until you spoke next.

"Me being here isn't helping anyone—the real culprit is out there and using me as, as fucking cannon fodder."

There was desperation to your voice that pinned to the center of her chest. That all too familiar feeling drew her closer to the door, pressing her ear to it.

"Please, just call—call Bruce, Bruce Wayne, okay? I need to talk to him. Why are you laughing at that? He helped me check in. There is no reason why—hey! Don't fucking grab me!"

Just as Sofia peeked her head out the peephole window, a head of brown hair whizzed by, white coat billowing behind him. From the shit angles she could see he had his hands up in surrender. Dr. Crane wasn't someone she'd met personally, but others had. From what she could overhear, he was boring. Nothing compared to the abject cruelty of Ventris. The rest of the conversation was muffled, but audible. She gnawed at her lip.

"Something wrong, Y/n?"

"The tech who did my exam. The questions were loaded. Trick questions. It wasn't how the nurse described it at all. I want a second exam."

"I understand if this is a lot to handle,"

"No, it's not. I just want fair treatment."

Usually when a new patient was booked, their attempts at authority were desperate; you didn't talk like you were backed into a corner. Likely still had a contact outside and reasonably confident your stay wouldn't be long. Maybe you hadn't been entirely lying earlier.

"Can you do my exam?"

"At the moment I'm tied up, unfortunately. I will get to you as soon as I am able. The weekends are always exceptionally busy." Crane took a heavy breath.

Sofia rolled her eyes. Faux sympathy these psychs learned to exhibit during their course in bedside manner. By all means. Don't upset the crazies, right?

"Then I need to call Bruce."

At first she thought your explanations were a goddamn joke. The princess of the city getting thrown in the dumpster? Plenty of people had been booked for stalking, existing on some spectrum of psychosis that made Arkham the best fit over Blackgate. But then again: what were rich men if not trained in throwing women under the bus and stuffing them out of view?

Oz knocked at the edge of her thoughts. How bad could it be dishing out some info? There wasn't any guarantee he wouldn't kill you regardless.

When she walked back to sit on the edge of her bed, it wasn't like she tried to listen, and it wasn't like you were trying to speak loudly, but she heard every word.

"Bruce." Sofia heard you gasp—maybe hiccup?—and continue. Your words were garbled with emotion. She thought of Alberto. How each phone call with her brother drilled right to the meat of her heart at the beginning.

"I need you to find a way to get me out."

If you were breathless now, no way you'd survive life here.

"Because I'm not being treated fairly." You spoke more stubbornly now. "It wasn't a proper evaluation."

But then again, Sofia thought she'd never survive here, but now it'd been over decade in this shithole.

"Yes, I know I had one, I told you—can you just come here? Talk to them in person, maybe? I need a re-evaluation and they're making me wait through the weekend."

Her throat went dry, feeling a pull away from her mind, her body.

"I can't wait that long." You hushed. "The longer I'm in here, the more the actual person has the chance to hurt you. To actually succeed, alright? That can't happen."

It was harder to recall her brother's voice. Had it really been that long she'd spent in here? Surviving day to day?

"You told me to call you whenever,"

She hadn't had much hope back then, but she had dramatically less now. Her chest ached.

"Yes, poorly! I'm being treated poorly!" A pause. "No, my basic needs are met, they aren't hurting me, but this isn't a fair process, I'm telling you. They're implicating me in the questions, they're having a tech do it that kept being—it's not a psych exam that I've ever seen. Just—please, Bruce. Please."

A sharp dial tone filled the space in an abrupt cutoff. That felt like an exceptionally long sixty seconds. Did being a billionaire's supposed girlfriend grant you royal phone privileges?

Evidently it did. Rarely anyone was allowed calls here—especially not on night one—and never when someone was being demanding; there always sat some guy tasked in each hallway to ensure no one tried to snag a call.

Dr. Crane's no-nonsense voice again. "Phone calls are only a minute long. I assure you, I will get to you as soon as I am able."

Sofia went to lie in bed, dizzy and choking on wire memories. It was very easy in the mundane to tread water. Why the hell did you have to show up? Throw her right back in the ocean?

By the time her breathing calmed enough, able to ward off the vice around her neck, she heard scuffling in the hallway.

"Oh my god, thank you. Thank you. Did you talk to him? Crane? About the exam?"

She crept back toward the door, intrigued. First-day calling privileges, visitors outside the visitation room after hours? Two in the morning? She knew the Waynes pulled weight, but jesus. This?

Who the hell was she kidding. Any man in this town with a billion dollars could do what he pleased.

His voice was low; the man sounded exhausted. She strained to catch every fifth word.

"… said… wait… didn't have… thirty seconds… on the phone… trying." It was clearer at this point as he became audibly exasperated. "I'm trying, Y/n. You need to follow protocol."

"I don't want him drawing this out. What if…" You whispered the next part, she could just barely see as you got by his ear to say it. Was this really who would take down Oz? A dopesick billionaire?

"I'll call him again in the morning."

"And more if he doesn't do it." you added, unaware of how not soundproof the cells were.

"Calling him over and over again will only make things slower."

"Not if it's you." You grabbed his arm; Bruce Wayne was exceptionally still, as if he were barely alive. "You can do something about this, I know you can. Please."

It was difficult to see in the dark, but he might've slumped then. Had he just come off a bender?

"Baby," you pleaded, he winced, and Sofia tore her attention from the door. You weren't her, he wasn't Alberto… Sofia thudded onto the mattress, shut her eyes, and counted down from ten.

It was such bullshit that those cheap tricks actually helped.

Night slipped by with a quiet, empty hallway after that. The only disturbance were those same familiar nightmares. Once in a blue moon, when they were especially dark, she'd briefly consider ending it all. Wouldn't that not be letting them win, in a way? Taking control of her body one last time? But that final image of her mother was haunting, stopping the thoughts from being anything more than fleeting.

You showed up at lunch the next day with unfettered resolve. As you ate to the right at the far end of her table, she watched you when you stared down at the plate, eyes roaming your lap trying to concoct some sort of plan. Your hair wasn't soaked and greasy from the spray-down they gave all inmates. There weren't dry patches on your skin from the cold water, and if she remembered correctly from that first meal, there'd been a lingering perfume on you. That would've been washed away too.

A swirl of anger rose in a dying, defensive part of her that knew her time had come and gone. You had the privilege of thinking you were getting out of here; the privilege of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was a mistake to be corrected, and trusted someone to vouch for you. And you were probably right to hold onto that conviction. Even her brother hadn't managed half of what Bruce Wayne had.

Shockingly, you didn't approach her at lunch. You slammed what you could down without so much as a flinch and stood by the exit until the guards opened the doors. People stared—were you more well known than she thought?—but you weren't aware. Too locked in to some plan that kept taking up her brain space.

Sunday passed with more silence and, like a damn dog with a chew toy, she couldn't wriggle out of your snare. The only thing that loosened the grip—but didn't stop it, to be sure—was the notion of freedom. Passing the baton.

It would be a purging of sorts. Not that she'd ever been religious, god no—but it was an endearing concept on its face. Vomit all the bad shit onto you and maybe you'd clean it up. Maybe vengeance could be had, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. You and Bruce Wayne, the modern Clyde Barrow, sure, sure. Maybe her mother had actually killed herself, too.

It was Tuesday after lunch when you showed up in her vicinity again. Monday passed in a blink, as things usually did when her mind got too full. It'd been a great habit to pick up in her youth, sleeping the nagging loops away, learning to swallow things she couldn't change. You didn't show up to lunch, to her disappointment, but you knocked into her shoulder when she turned the corner to go back to her cell. She felt a scrape between her fingers and quickly clenched a fist.

The note was folded so many times it was a shock the paper hadn't broken. How'd you get supplies to write this? It'd taken weeks to persuade Rush to allow her to write back to Selina.

I need to know what you do about Oz. Anything at all. He has a weakness, an angle, there is something that can be exploited. Is there anything you personally know about him? I know he wants power and status. He's erratic and deadly. I'm protected while connected to Bruce; there's no other reason he wouldn't have just killed me yet, I'm a meddling journalist. Oz schmoozes Bruce. Bruce wants to stop corruption in this city, I know it's hard to believe, but he does. I have resources on this Oz case that are unbelievable, I swear to you. I just need something. Some tactic, knowledge. You said I'll die: then what's the harm in telling me what you know? I don't care how trivial it is. And I'll never tell him you told me. You don't know me, I understand that, and I wouldn't be putting you in this position unless I thought justice could come of it. Oz and everyone propping him up need to be defanged. I'm willing to take the risk.

He needed to be fucking euthanized. Defanged might be a start.

The longer she held that note in her hands, the more she fell toward it. Optimism was a double-edged sword. There was no reason to trust you, even less knowing that you commiserated with the Waynes, but she was unable to imagine another circumstance where even the option to aid in Oz's downfall would present itself.

She crumpled the note and tossed it into the toilet with a resounding flush. No use beating a dead horse—let alone one that could rise from the dead and kill you.

Sofia hadn't responded to your message in three days. The facility gave you no reason to keep calling Bruce. Though resolve was fierce, it was fading.

You ached to hear his voice. Your chest felt more hollowed out with every breath. What was an initial concern about someone hurting him bled into another one: that he might hurt himself if he thought you'd pushed him. That he'd stop taking his meds and be right back where you both began but with one less watchful eye on him to keep him safe. Every time your thoughts lingered there, you were half a second from picking up the phone.

But hearing him, however much you longed for it, was miserable. It made him feel so close that your body thought it was right back in his kitchen getting glared at, interrogated, seeing the light leave his eyes that took so long to ignite in the first place. Sure he'd shown up, but with that same vacant look that made it explicit he was pulled by obligation, not desire. It made your bones rot.

So you waited. Arkham was tightly bound; for as shitty its reputation, they ran it like a tank. Lunch was served to the minute each day, breakfast and dinner slid through the bottom of the door to the millisecond. Digestion had almost entirely stalled from the inhumane food rations; you damn near spent half of today on the toilet straining for nothing.

Crane came by after lunch—which Sofia notably did not indulge you at—to inform you he'd get to your evaluation tonight. "I'll make sure to squeeze you in before the weekend." You asked him to repeat himself. It hadn't been a week. No fucking way. It felt like a blip.

Sitting on the edge of your 'mattress' felt like a slap. Seven days?

A full fucking week?

The time had just… passed.

Everything was a blur, like walking through jello, like staring off at the wall, like feeling peeled away from yourself—hollow, but not empty. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, it was a tactic that'd gotten you through so much, but it was never this strange. Losing a week of time in a blip of misery so visceral yet so vacant.

In the past, avoidance felt comically unproductive. Every breath oozed it. Everywhere you looked, you were critically aware of where you weren't looking. The same was true now, but it wasn't as encompassing. You'd been thrown in the same ocean but weren't drowning. Sometimes your head went under, yes, but it never stayed there. In the wake of loving Bruce, you'd grabbed a buoy.

After the evaluation, Crane would see there was nothing outside of the clinical norm. At worst you'd be let out on bail, Bruce could leverage that, with enough time before a trial to gather evidence in your favor. To hash this shit out with the Bat.

Over the week, one thing you'd kept track of were the room numbers. 203 for you, 209 for Sofia. Bella, 267. On one glance, she'd been sat on her bed with her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting atop them. Nothing else could be gathered before guards pushed you along. Sometimes you tried to ask about her, but the guards said nothing.

Another day, you'd walked past the max holding unit. It looked terrifically normal for what it was. Nothing to glean. No fatal flaws, no information to feed back to Bruce.

Crane's incessant clicking of his pen down the hall was a horrifically grating noise that needed regulation. How could he be certain that the people here weren't unwell because of that?

As you walked the halls day in and day out, your thoughts were storms of concern and suspicion. If people were funneling money to Arkham, as the anonymous journalist said, and if Bella was being kept here as a consequence of that, where was it all going? Into personal pockets of the staff? Some CEO of the hospital who lived in another state?

When staff whispered, it was usually some burnt out, rude comment about a resident. It was nearly impossible to reach Crane, who might know something, as he'd only appear in short bursts to let you know you would absolutely get on his schedule the first opening.

Unfortunately, comparison was a significant factor to you eventually stopping the pestering of Crane. It was a privilege to know this stay wouldn't be a lifetime, and unthinkable to have Bruce Wayne, Batman in your back pocket. For some, there was never getting out of this place. You were sure some people had no one to go back to even if they did.

You'd known being with him would put a target on your back—you just thought the shield would be big enough. Or the weapon would be quick, to the point. Not aggravating yellow lighting, a grumbling stomach and an ache in the center of your spine.

Would the public learn about this? Did they already? Did anyone know why you were in here? What would make Bruce figure it all out? Did he already have it figured it? Was this all part of a grander plan he couldn't communicate because of call monitoring?

These thoughts made up your days. Pondering, wondering, musing, whatever way to dress up a mind in a cage. Wherever your attention wandered in the physical environment, nothing stuck. There were no secret hideaways, no monsters in closets, no villain monologue, nothing to credit in an exposé. It seemed your all-seeing eye had lived and died with the revelation of Batman's identity.

People watching within the facility, analyzing the movements of staff and residents, was like shoving two misaligned puzzle pieces together. No matter how hard you pushed, how much you stretched reality, it wouldn't fit.

Maybe the night nurse, Olivia, was secretly a spy for Oz. The Hello Kitty and 'mental health matters' stickers on her Hydroflask were no more than a psyop to distract from true motive.

Or! Roger, the psych NP, was engaging in mind control when he asked if everyone got their meds. The question felt numbing enough by the fourth day. You were one of the few who didn't get a cup of something.

Reál, you noticed, got delivered every meal through a thin flap in the door. She hadn't made a peep since you'd been here. Why'd she been in such distress then, but not now? Did they get her medications right?

Getting in for that evaluation before the weekend was drawing dubiously close to a lie as lunch turned to dinner. At the far edge of an empty dining table, you tried to reason with universes, convincing yourself that time was a mere illusion. If a week hadn't felt like a week, then surely, the next week you'd spend waiting on a second opinion would feel like a blip. Perhaps it worked the same for Bruce's enemies, too, and whoever actually did this shit wouldn't have enough time to get to him.

You'd just requested to take a lap around the halls again—each patient was allowed one lap twice per day, though you were the only one to take them up on it—when the nurse stopped you, gesturing down the hall. "You have visitors."

Visitors?

"What the fuck's going on?"

The nurse stepped back as you peeked out. "Mar?"

Mar jogged down the hall with Bruce trailing behind. Was he wearing a suit—?

The first thing she did was push you back into your room, shouting for Bruce to 'wait his goddamn turn'. Second, she gave you a rapid once-over, pulling at the baggier parts of the uniform and making you spin around. "Did that fucker hurt you?"

You shook your head as she squared your shoulders to hers. She had glitter on her eyes, a party dress on, smelled like iced vanilla—evidently she'd crashed whatever plans she had to come here. She cared. "How did you know I'm here?"

Pulling back your garments just to peek a bit lower on the neck, rolling out your wrists to see if any damage had been done, she spoke while deep in analysis. "Your location. At first I thought you were doing some piece, but every time I checked you were still fuckin' here. And then…"

"Are you guys here to pick me up?"

She let out an enormous sigh and dropped your arms, satisfied that you weren't covered in contusions. "I don't know shit about what he's up to. Motherfucker won't talk to me."

Bruce stepped into view from the hall, speaking stern and just loud enough to carry. "I told you she was being evaluated here."

You could tell it'd been a week when you heard him. Like realizing how burnt your skin was after being in the sun all day, or slamming into a freezing pool in the dead August heat.

Mar whirled around, face tight. "After ten fucking calls to your butler, mind you! After I showed up to your mansion and refused to leave."

She was not concerned with being quiet in the slightest. You swallowed.

Bruce took a few steps closer, now effectively dragged into the conversation. He looked determined, frustrated—more light behind those eyes, even by fire. Your body relaxed.

"You called ten times in the span of one minute, Margaret."

You'd never seen Mar glare this hard. It burned to simply be in its vicinity. "What does that matter?"

"My butler couldn't get in contact to tell me until after the tenth call."

"Why did you need to be called at all? Huh? While your girlfriend is in fucking Arkham you're just out partying?"

You laughed at the image of Bruce partying anywhere in Gotham.

She tore her attention away from him to stare at you. "I don't know why you're laughing. I pulled your little boyfriend from a club downtown to get here. Staff wouldn't let me in without him."

Huh?

Bruce stepped out of view. Mar grabbed you by the shoulder to keep you from going after him. "Have you had that test yet? They found out you're innocent and did not try to kill him and they're wasting time?"

You strained against her touch, distracted by the weight of a week without him. "Yes—"

"So they'll let you go?"

"No,"

"No?!"

"It's complicated, I need a re-evaluation—" why was he at a club?! "—how do you know the charges?"

She shook her hair off of her neck, looping the elastic around her wrist to put her hair up. "Cops came to my door asking about our phone call. Attempted murder, right? Bullshit. Fucking bullshit."

You craned your neck out the door. "Bruce, you were at a club—?"

"Don't talk to him!" Mar snapped, pushing you deeper into the room. "He put you in this shithole!"

"It's not like that, Mar."

The sound of footsteps distracted her; she shouted after him, taking up the full space in the doorway so you couldn't see out. "Where are you going, Wayne?"

"I need a moment."

"Like hell you do. Hey! You need to call this thing off. Now. Don't fucking ignore me!"

He continued his trek toward the exit, evident in his silence and the clicking of his dress shoes. She cursed under her breath, fingers shaking they gripped the doorframe so hard. "He's really trying it."

She took off after him while a worker grabbed you hard by the elbow to keep you in place. Mar ran up ahead of Bruce and shoved him back, making your stomach flip. If she didn't go easier on him, he might just give up on the whole affair. Whoever dug your grave had already made it deep enough to feel discouraging; you didn't want things to be so heavy that you became too much of a burden and he checked out.

He slipped past her. She got in front again. She grabbed his wrist as he sidestepped. "Promise I'll be back in five minutes."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Please, I have to—"

Mar grabbed his tie and tried to yank him toward the office. "Go and get her out. I don't know what you're paying these people to keep her here, pay them more to get her out. I don't give a shit."

"I've been trying—"

"YOU WERE AT THE FUCKING CLUB!"

Bruce fell to crouch; when you squinted, he was shaking, his chest overinflating on each breath. Fuck. Had he stopped taking his meds?

Oh god. He definitely wasn't taking his meds anymore.

"Mar, stop." you shouted, muscles clenched. Bruce was still close to the ground, fisted hands covering his face. He started to wheeze.

She shoved him in the shoulder to try to rouse him. All it did was make his shoulders draw tighter. "You're a manchild, you know that? Get the fuck up and fix this."

"Mar!"

"He thinks he can cry his way out of it. I told you not to fall for it, Y/n, oh my god!"

"Get away from him, come on."

She pointed at him, frustrated. "He's so overwhelmed that he had to be in a VIP lounge fifteen minutes ago. He's trying so hard to get you out, yeah. What a stand-up guy."

When Bruce told you his mom was in and out of this place, his vulnerability had been strikingly apparent, making you so tender, feeling so much… like his fingers brushing the back of your neck as he washed your muddy hair. He was trying. He was good. All Bruce ever did was try to be good.

"Mar, I'm so fucking serious right now."

She didn't know he hated the elite, and how could she? How could she know he was Batman? That his behavior made so much more sense once you peeked behind the veil.

Bruce's labored breathing echoed down the hall. She gave you a look that said 'come the fuck on' and groaned, begrudgingly abandoning him for you.

For now you'd have to grit your teeth and bear her thinking you'd lost it.

"Is he okay?"

Deadpan, she grabbed you and lowered her voice. "Stop. Look at yourself."

You refocused your eyes and tried to blink away the spike of adrenaline. Tried to stave off brutal thoughts of if he'd die tonight, tried to focus on her heavy hands gripping your arms, tried to come off regulated, needing to show her everything was good…

"You're in goddamn Arkham. You're sleeping on a metal sheet. Don't worry about him."

"You don't get it, Mar,"

"That doesn't matter. This is dangerous. This has gone farther than you even realize."

She'd never spoken this seriously to you before. Her eyes drilled into you.

Did she know something? The journalist's conversation flooded back. "What do you mean by that?"

"It means you're not immune to abuse, Y/n."

Her words shivered through you.

"He's been successful in manipulating you. You're stuck in Arkham with a fabricated murder charge. Thousands of miles from your family. And he starts crying and that's all you care about."

"It's not like that."

"Then tell me how it's like."

First of all, he's Batman. That clear anything up?

You chewed on your cheek, shifting your gaze. "I can't."

The space before her response was an arid desert. Deep down the hall, the locks clicked from the exit closing. "Exactly, babe. This is fucked up."

Maybe it was fucked up. Maybe it was all a mirage. Maybe you'd click your heels three times and wake up in your bed in Washington.

Your stomach turned sour and tears sprouted. "I know why you feel that way. I do."

"Do. Not. Go back to him." She rubbed your shoulders as she said it, trying to get it down to your bones. All your thoughts centered on him. "I want you to stay with me when you get out."

"I'm staying with Bruce." You sucked in a shaky breath. "I understand if that's upsetting to hear,"

"It's not about me. That's the whole thing: it's about you." She sat on the edge of your bed and put her head in her hands, bouncing an idle leg hard into the ground. "You know things about him no one does. If he makes the world think you're insane, you have no credibility. You can't smear him. It makes you look like a stalker, it works out."

"It's not him doing this to me."

Now she bounced both legs.

"Can you at least think about the possibility? Please? And I'm serious. Actually consider it. I don't want you to end up dead."

Nonstop talk of you dying for months was actually making you worried it was an omen.

What could you tell her? What was safe to say within these walls? "Things outside of him are doing this. Someone convinced him that I tried to kill him. He didn't do this, he doesn't want this, I know it—"

"You don't." Mar's hands slapped her thighs as she stood. "You don't know. Realistically, he's someone you hated before getting dragged into doing an interview on him,"

"I made him do it—"

She practically guffawed. "How did you make him do it? Are you joking?"

"I blackmailed him—"

"A billionaire? You blackmailed Bruce fucking Wayne?"

"Like I said, I know why you feel that way, I know it looks fucked up, I know it. I'm not—I'm not delusional, I'm not being manipulated by him, he isn't doing anything to me." It was awfully slippery to have this conversation with so much missing context. "He's being convinced, Mar."

"By who?"

"Oz, I think. This guy that runs a whole bunch of clubs, the Iceberg guy I told you about on the phone, he wants to be close to Bruce, I was rude to that guy,"

"And this Oz put you in Arkham? Or, no, he made your boyfriend, Bruce Wayne, put you here?"

You shushed her too late; saying his name so loud felt like inciting a curse.

"They framed me. With my hair, my fingerprints, stuff that's irrefutable in Bruce's eyes. He can't argue with that shit."

"And who has access to those?"

"I don't know, I touch a lot of things in the city,"

"You live with Bruce Wayne."

You let out a high-pitched stress laugh. "Why do you keep saying his last name?"

"Because I think you're forgetting it."

Breathe, Y/n. Breathe.

"He doesn't have it out for me. He's not—he's not using his power for anything against me, he's not. He's not. He wouldn't do that. He doesn't do that."

"You know…" Mar toyed with a frayed part of your collar, jaw clenched. "I thought you'd be the last person to fall into something like this. I think you do, too, which is why you can't see it. You think your judgment is clear when it comes to people like him."

"Good people?" Defensiveness reared its ugly head. "People that are being manipulated by a whole fucking system and suffering under it?"

"Oh. My. God." She stepped away and rubbed her temples, pacing the few steps of your room. "You see how you're saying the exact same thing you used to blame him for, right? That people like him were the shitty system."

"There are things you don't know about him that I can't tell you. Things that would make you see my side."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"I just can't. Bruce is not the problem here. He's trying."

"He loves you, but not enough to save you?"

You met her gaze with tear-smeared eyes. "You have to trust me and you have to trust that he's not bad. Can you?"

She softened, shoulders drooping. "I don't know, girl."

Looking at her as the argument dwindled, she'd never been more exhausted. You had to consciously remind yourself that neither Bruce nor her were burdened by you—this wasn't your fault, this wasn't yours to feel bad about.

"It's so suspicious. Why was he at the club? Why did he stay in Washington after your mom was okay? Why was there such a huge change in your opinion about him in such a short period of time? Why are you already living together?"

Had the room chilled ten degrees? "He's good. Mar, he's good. Please."

She gave you a long, sad look. Then sighed, rubbed your shoulders, and fixed some flyaways in your hair. "If the results are bad, if they keep you here… hell, I'll turn the signal on myself, get Batman to break you out of this shit."

Your voice flattened like a punctured tire. "That'd be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Honestly. Wouldn't be a bad bet at this point."

"Or I could just plead insanity."

"But you're not."

You thought of a lifetime within these walls, framed for something you didn't do, plagued by the memory that Bruce was judging you off of something you weren't. Cutting off a future you both so desperately wanted. "Not yet."

"Y/n?" Crane stepped into the hallway and gestured to you. "There was a short delay in booking. I can fit you in right now."

She squeezed your hand and you rushed across the hall. Crane's office was at the end of it, nearest to the entrance. When you glanced behind you, Mar and Bruce were talking to each other, their voices beginning to fade as you got further away.

"I just want to know why you were at a club under these circumstances, that's all."

"Business."

God, his fucking voice. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

"You have time to do business when your girlfriend is in Arkham?"

"It was relevant."

"How?"

"Come on in."

His office was the same as it ever was; full of paperwork, books, a billion pens, mugs, the status quo for someone who lived at work. At any hour of the day, you might hear him rushing down the halls checking in with a patient.

You sat across his desk with a decidedly eerie feeling. Last time for Bruce, this time for you.

Crane rifled in a cabinet beside his desk. He wore an owl pinned to the front of his coat, matching the insignia on a mini flag amidst his collection of pens. "You like owls, Doctor?"

A soft smile, or a semblance of one, crested up his cheek. "Got my degree at Rice. It's actually where Dr. Vry and I met. She found an open position here at Arkham as I finished up my residency, and here I am." He rifled around to pull out what you assumed was an assessment material and continued. "Go Owls."

Hmm. You glanced at the clock and cleared your throat.

"Can't I see my records?"

"Yes, you can. Would you like to see the past examination results before we get started?"

"Yes."

The file he pulled from the manilla looked standard. The razor-thin paper was see through in his hands.

Your name, yet again, enclosed within some secret folder's walls. This time though, at least it felt more clinical, not like an ambush. He gathered the few stapled papers and handed them over for you to read.

Client reports no history of psychiatric hospitalization. Client has prior mental health diagnoses on file.

Alright.

Assessments used:

Beck Depression Inventory (BDI): Score of 8 (Minimal Depression)

Patient Health Questionnaire (PHQ-9): Score of 1 (Minimal to No Depression)

General Anxiety Disorder-7 (GAD-7): Score of 3 (No Anxiety Disorder)

Montreal Cognitive Assessment (MoCA): Score of 30 (No Impairment)

Columbia Suicide Severity Rating Scale (C-SSRS): Low Risk

Not very true—half the questions on the anxiety and depression screenings screamed at you to go full-hog. But you could see how they'd be twisted, how they'd make you look guilty. You'd scaled everything down.

Mental Disease Evidence: Client does not fit criteria for Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) or any psychotic disorder. Client is oriented to person, place, and time.

"Question." You scooted flush to the desk and pointed out the paragraph to Crane. "Why are these the only diagnoses listed?"

He pushed his glasses up and sat straighter, delivering it so coolly you could tell he'd been studying this field for years. "They're the only disorders the court will accept in pleas of insanity."

"Why?"

"Unstable realities. Mood states that are somewhat psychotic in nature."

People were just patients to him. Just a part of the workplace. This was just… routine, despite your entire life being on the line. You went back to reading before that thought could spiral.

Or thoughts about how this was likely the room Bruce was told you tried to fucking kill him. How he came to City Hall acting differently, the gears probably turning, starting to paint you terribly.

Capacity Evidence: Client intentionally did not disclose to healthcare providers about harming the victim, even when in regular direct contact.

"Because I didn't."

"Didn't what, Y/n?"

"I didn't disclose anything because I didn't do anything."

"Alright, so." He sighed and sat back in his chair. "These are simply clinical judgements based on the facts we have about the case."

"They aren't facts though, because I didn't try to kill him. I didn't push him, nothing. I wasn't even there."

"All I can do is follow the evidence. Bruce is my patient. I have a duty to protect my patients."

Feeling your blood boil, you went back to reading the chart before he whipped it away and went to another person, condemning you to another week here without follow-up.

Client developed supportive role with victim's healthcare provider while intentionally not disclosing pertinent information to the case. Client went to considerable lengths to convince victim not to follow up with healthcare providers as evidenced by victim self report.

Jesus. Everything painted you in such a fucked up light.

Client's web history shows Client researched lengths of sentences pertaining to violent crimes relevant to the case. Per self-report and victim corroboration, Client immediately requested victim extend their trip.

"Okay, here. The looking up sentences thing. I was calling my friend—the one who is out there, you can ask her about this—I was harassed, like, literally almost murdered by some guy who was trying to drug her on a date. Me and Bruce split them up and he got pissed off, and he wanted me to get Bruce to—"

Crane got out a notepad and started writing. "Alright. So you… had an interaction with… who?"

"I forget his name. But Bruce would know. You can ask him." He seemed to be listening, which was hopeful. A little squint between his brows. Filling up a page of a small notepad.

"And you were calling your friend about him why?"

"I was calling about something completely different. When we were getting ready to hang up, she wanted to go out that night but didn't know if the man was still in jail. I wondered what the sentences were for something like that, so we could both feel comfortable going out." You slapped your hand on the side of his walnut desk, overexcited. "See! These are the things the tech wouldn't let me say. This is critical context."

"Please continue reading, ma'am. The intake was only pushed back fifteen minutes."

Client intentionally chose setting for crime outside of normal route in order to secure a location without cameras. Client chose late evening for conducting of crime. Client asked victim leading questions about trauma before 'snapping' at victim and ordering them to leave. Client reports victim appearing 'listless' and 'depressed' night of crime.

"I don't know how you can glean intentionality, that feels like a stretch. Who is telling you these things?"

He wrote down a little more, but nodded for you to continue.

Clinician reports client was lucid and fully aware of wrongfulness of offense at the time of the crime. Client has full mental capacity.

Clinician has reason to believe Client is not being transparent in their responses to GAD-7; clinician reports a discrepancy between scores in GAD-7, current presentation, and history of events in past thirty days. Client reports little to no anxiety, though verbally reports feeling worried about partner's mental wellbeing to the point of constant checking and sleeplessness as well as a recent negative family health history causing significant distress.

Dammit. You hadn't put it together at the time, but the discussion about your mom's health had been priming you for a baseline of symptoms. And he was fucking right. You were dodging shit.

Observations: Client appeared withdrawn and hesitant to respond to clinician questions. Client showed signs of irritability with questions regarding legal process. Client presented as distracted and vague in responses. Client expressed anger at clinician as evidenced by self-report of 'feeling very pissed off right now' and 'this evaluation is a waste of both of our time'. Client engaged in fidgeting behavior and refused eye contact.

"Y/n, we need time to go through a second examination, if you will."

You placed the folder in his hand and ground your teeth. This was fucking terrible.

"Since you didn't find the primary examination format suitable, we have an alternative. It's more compact, which is better for our time today. Full disclosure, the primary examination will need to be analyzed alongside this one. The second examination is not normed, it is something I utilize as a check-in tool. But I think it could provide better context, as you say. Is it alright if we continue?"

"Yes."

Each tick on the clock was a time bomb.

"In your words, what were you doing the night of August 22nd?"

"I was home. At my apartment, at The Moore. When Bruce left, I immediately started writing the interview. The one that got published."

"Did you follow Bruce down the hall, walk him out, go with him anywhere else or to any second location?"

"No."

He scribbled some things down, his poker face trained to perfection. Queasiness slimed your spine.

"A quick overview of your life history… your school records show good attendance, good grades, no issues there. You have no criminal record outside of being followed up with by the police about an altercation with a Mr. Miller, correct? Is that who you were referencing earlier?"

"Yes, that's correct. To both."

"Alright."

You watched your fidgeting, made sure to breathe normally, maintain polite eye contact, not give him anything abnormal to put on a report.

"It says here you sought therapy when you were younger, is that correct?"

You nodded. He locked eyes with you over the rim of his glasses.

"I need verbal confirmation."

"Yes. That's correct."

"What were you seeking therapy for?"

"Um," your hands went clammy and you hid them in your lap. "My mom. She got diagnosed with cancer, it was really bad. I went for like a year, or two, I don't know. My grandparents were starting to get sick during that time too, it's blurry."

"You were diagnosed with a few things at that time…" he flipped pages and adjusted his glasses. "Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Persistent Depressive Disorder, Adjustment Disorder… are any of those surprises to you?"

"No," you muttered.

"Alright. Who is the president right now?"

You named the president, then counted backwards from 100 by 7, then drew a clock and labeled it, practiced word recall, named the time, the date, the city you were in, your full name, birth date, hometown. He sped through them at a breakneck pace.

"Normal MSE." He wrote something down, then sighed. You never wanted to hear a sigh again. "Full transparency, last night when I had a few minutes I contacted your mother and father to do a brief interview over if they saw any concerning behavior recently, what you were like as a child."

Okay. Is that legal without my consent? Does it even matter as long as it gets me out? "And?"

"You shouldn't be surprised to know that there was nothing extraordinary or abnormal that I discovered. In fact, you were very well behaved. A bit anxious and depressed, your mother informed. About your grandparents passing, about her cancer diagnosis. Some isolation, withdrawing in the few years post-high school, but nothing else."

"Yes, exactly. Yes. So if everything is normal…"

"We are not done here, Y/n. What do you think happens when someone is pushed off of a tall building? Please get specific."

This was a similar line of questioning as when you sat with the tech, but far more open-ended. "They could die. Or get seriously injured. Broken bones. Blood. Brain injury. Coma, maybe."

"And do you know the laws regarding harming another individual?"

"I know you can't murder someone. Or seriously injure someone. Unless it's self defense."

He checked some boxes of god knows what. "And what is self defense?"

"Like. When you feel your life is in danger, and you need to stop the other person from hurting you. You can hurt them back to save yourself and not be charged."

"And were you acting in self defense with Mr. Wayne?"

"No. I was not there that night, I had no idea that happened to him until you let me know the next morning at GU."

"Here's the situation, Y/n." He leaned over the table at you, making your heart race. "This has to be outsourced to a judge, but unfortunately, I can say with near certainty that you will not qualify for an insanity plea."

"Unfortunately? What would an insanity plea do? Doesn't it just mean I'd stay here forever?"

"Not necessarily. Not even usually." Crane took of his glasses, cleaning them off on his shirt like this were any old conversation. "You'd finish a course of treatment here, get on medication, and once you were stable and no longer a threat to others, you'd be released."

Oh. "What does it mean if I don't qualify?"

"That you're fit to stand trial. It means that in the event of charges being pressed, and with the evidence against you,"

Panic crept in. "Can I be assigned a lawyer? Surely there's—"

He held up a finger to you, glancing at the clock. Your pulse thundered in your ears. "You will get a lawyer if it comes to that."

"How will I know?"

"It depends on a few factors, such as if Mr. Wayne will press charges—"

"Can I talk to him?"

"Hold on. We only have a few minutes left and I need to talk to him, too. Share what I'm seeing. Even if he decides not to press charges, the evidence suggests you interfered with an active investigation into one of our patients. Obstructed justice."

Get to it already. I need to talk to Bruce.

"Arkham State Hospital may very well press charges themselves. In fact, I'd argue it's imminent."

Fuck.

"But—"

"Now is not the time to fight this, Y/n. I still don't know what Bruce will do, or what the hospital will definitively decide. If it were up to me, given your history, I'd… probably settle for giving you a restraining order to not contact Bruce and send you on your way. However, this is a very special circumstance with someone so high profile. I don't know if it will swing in your favor or completely outside of it, or how much sway I will have."

"But he's your patient."

"And I am a psychiatrist, not the legal team that presides over this hospital."

"How long will it take to know what will happen to me?"

"Weeks, possibly months. Depends on if Mr. Wayne presses charges or Arkham does. Might get expedited if someone like him wants a court date."

You were hastened out by Crane, his hand squarely between your shoulders as he walked you back to your open cell. He held a hand up to Mar when she tried to run to you from down the hall. A nurse took her and said they were going to the lobby; you were too disoriented to respond when she shouted something to you. This didn't just rest on Bruce's shoulders, it extended past him.

Bruce walked past the door thirty seconds later, not a glance your direction. Crane followed in tow. You counted ten seconds and they were in his office with a lock of the door.

'Might be expedited if someone like him wants a court date.'

Now you had to decide between hoping Bruce would realize you didn't do it or begging him to sue you first and make it fast. Would a restraining order be better? Bruce could fight that, right? You'd be set free, right? Even if it took legally, he had ways of not being seen, not being tracked. The both of you could still meet.

You thudded onto your mattress. Sticking your hand under your pillow to get comfortable, something jammed into the side of your finger. You flipped your pillow over and found a piece of paper folded so tightly it sprung when you started to open it, written on both sides.

Discard this after you read it.

Oz has a mother named Francis. She has Lewy body dementia and Parkinson's disease. She had a stroke, I think, or a heart attack the last time I saw her. Oz is very protective of her, but she won't make good leverage. Oz cares about no one. She might be good bait, but he'll let you kill her before speaking. He'll get revenge though.

Francis hates Oz. Oz killed his two brothers when he was a child. Locked him down in the sewers during a rainstorm. Francis knew. Tried to kill him when he was younger because of it, backed out at the last minute. Hired someone named Rex Calabrese to help her do it. Planned to have Rex take him for a drive after they spent an evening at Monroe's.

Oz has a helper named Victor. Victor Aguilar. He's soft. You might be able to get through to him. Or he might kill you. He's young, usually drives Oz around in Oz's purple sports car. He has a stutter if that's enough to set him apart.

Eve Karlo and Oz have a mutually beneficial agreement. She's an entrepreneur, as Oz would say. Her girls are very loyal to her and vice versa. You won't be able to trick any of them. Eve works with Oz and Oz uses her as an alibi. She lives by the zoo in Crown Point. That's also where Victor and Francis went to hide before I found them. Place with a bunch of old records. Eve helped me track Oz down. She knows he's dangerous. She's smart. Don't underestimate her. Don't write her off as an ally, either. She works at the Iceberg most nights but frequents other clubs.

Oz killed my brother, Alberto. He also sent me here. Twice. Oz wants to be a bigshot, a gangster. He's prideful and awfully insecure. He only cares about status. He wants people to idealize him. Calls himself a man of the people. He wants to be seen as a hero. I think he just wants to be taken seriously for once in his life.

As simple as he is, he's not dumb. You cannot trust a word he says. Oz will say and do whatever it takes at any given moment. He can talk his way out of absolutely anything. He has a way of getting out of every situation. If I believed in magic, I'd think he had it.

Good luck. You'll need it.

You manually slowed your breathing. Yes. Yes!

Yanking the blanket over your head, you read it half a dozen more times, committing every fact to memory. A door creaked open down the hall, strong footsteps following. You shot up and crumbled the note into your hand. Bruce needed to see this.

A nurse stood directly across the hall from your room, monitoring your feet to ensure you didn't step out. Your neck ached from trying to catch peeks, but it was worth it to see—"Bruce!"

He didn't so much as glance your way as he pressed past. You only caught enough of his shirt to find a meager grip he easily walked out of.

"Where are you going?"

"Your friend's outside." The nurse answered for him as she pushed you back in. Everything hurt. "Now go to bed."

Hours of anxious tossing and turning later, the door jostled like a linebacker slammed into it.

You scrambled to your feet. Crept to the door. Looked out and saw nothing to the left, craning your eye, wishing these damn windows weren't the equivalent of a peephole. You glanced to the right.

Bloodshot eyes and cracked teeth pressed to the window glass.

You jumped back; whoever it was jumped forward. Knocked harder into the door. Jangled the knob.

It was at precisely this point, as you scrambled backwards, where you noticed there wasn't a single emergency button in any cell, at any point. Not a single way to call and alert someone if something were to happen. It was dark, too, with no individual room lights. You stooped to the ground and hoped that the man would forget, waiting for a nurse or security to come help them.

When the doorknob started to jiggle—like really, truly move—you started looking around for things to use as armor. A blanket? Pillow? Your non-slip slippers?

You grabbed your blanket and held it wide.

The man surged in, shouting something unintelligible. You dodged his first lunge, but as you headed for the door he snagged the back of your shirt and pulled you to your knees. Only then did you make out some of his words. Tuition, maybe. Lawyer, the next. Graduate school? GU?

Oh shit.

You shouted for a nurse, for a guard, as you tried to unlatch from his grasp. It wouldn't go. You heard nothing out in the hallway as he cursed and spit on you. You couldn't get a good look, it was too dim, but he was the same height, too. Wasn't he in Blackgate? Why was Miller brought here?

He dodged your elbows and you couldn't kick from behind. Your blanket was your best shot, which you threw over him, then slammed your pillow into his head with your foot. It was enough to unstick his grip.

Shouting still wasn't doing anything. You sped down the hall toward the main office, passing Crane's shut door with the lights off. The hallways bled together in a dark smear. You forced yourself not to panic, focusing on one foot in front of the other. He didn't have a gun. This wasn't the side of the street. There were policies and procedures here.

Where the fuck was the main lobby? Why was it so fucking quiet? What the fuck was going on? "Hello?! Can someone help?!"

"You put me here, you fuckin' bitch. I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you."

Yeah, that was Miller alright.

Thankfully he was far enough back that that sentence didn't make your skin curdle. All you had to do was keep the distance until someone heard, that was it.

"Is anyone watching? Hello?!"

Adrenaline had you in a chokehold. Sprinting down hallways, slipping and tumbling and getting right back up. New wind in your lungs. You wouldn't fucking die here. It just wasn't happening.

A loud electronic sounded off in the distance. Horn? A flashing light?

Doors. Double doors. You raced toward its escape. Wayne Tower wasn't horribly far from Arkham, no, it wasn't. You could run and find Bruce, you could find a payphone, even, if you didn't want to be charged with running away. Yes, yes. Then you could call Arkham, make sure everything was locked down, tell them exactly where you were…

But outside those doors, as you ran closer to them, parked a prune-colored car. Someone stepped out of it, and—holy fuck. Before it was consciously registered, a burst of cortisol throttled your system. You hurtled down a side hallway as the barrel of Oz's gun winked at you under the streetlight.

Had that final paper in Spring been worth this?

The hallway you'd shot down was short, and a dead end. You prayed the phone you saw sticking out of the wall wasn't a mirage. Sweaty, shaking hands wrapped around the hard plastic, and you scrambled to input Bruce's number, zooming your vision to a dialed focus. It rang once. You bit down on your tongue and tasted blood. Twice… Thrice…

Click.

"Bruce—help, I need help. Miller's here. He's chasing me. Um,"

You heard a crash closer down the main hall, shoes slapping and squeaking as he ran closer. You shoved the phone tighter to your ear, breathing already beginning to regulate. Something about being in proximity to him. Something about knowing he would save you.

"At Arkham?"

"Yes, now! I have to—"

"Miller's chasing you?"

"He's here, he's chasing me, I outran him for a second but I have to go, please, come help—"

"Y/n."

Your name in Bruce's voice came out like a sigh—exasperated, guarded.

Miller turned the corner. You thought you saw him smile. Fuck. Fuck!

"I have to go. He's right here, please help, no one's coming,"

"I can't."

Even though it was already forcefully pressed to your ear, you wriggled the earpiece closer until the pressure hurt. "I think you're breaking up—he's gonna kill me, I have to go, c'mere,"

"I'm not coming."

Reality suspended for a moment. It was enough time for Miller to get within a foot of you and you to drop the phone, careening around him. Something sharp snagged your arm around the corner when he was within reach, but you couldn't feel anything.

Shouting wasn't doing anything, only making you more breathless, so you cut it out. Run. Breathe. Run. Breathe. You channeled your attention to how close he was behind, and which way you could run next. Your arm felt wet.

You manged to turn down a hall before he noticed, finding another phone.

One phone per hallway. Good to know.

You dialed Bruce again. Held the phone so close, whispering, voice shrill from lack of air and an excess of panic. One ring… two… three… no, no, four… fuck, fuck, no—no, Miller was gonna find you—five—the drop in your stomach felt lethal. It clicked right before six. The only tell it wasn't voicemail was his exhale.

"Seriously, Bruce, I need you. Just—come here. That's all. I just need you to stop him. He says he'll kill me."

The length of his pause made tears slip out and your hands shake so violently you could barely hold the phone up.

"Please, Bruce, please, please!"

"Miller's in his cell at Blackgate. I checked."

"I'm telling you, he's fucking here—" Footsteps entered the main hall. Your heart threatened to burst it was beating so hard. You pivoted to something he might fucking listen to. "Then why is Oz here, too?"

Clicking sounds came from his end of the phone. You felt like you might explode.

"Bruce, I'm about to fucking die and no one is doing anything!"

His tone shifted. "Get to a back exit. I'm unlocking them. Meet me at the gas station two blocks south."

"He has a fucking gun, Bruce, I can't go out unarmed,"

"Oz does?"

"Yes! He pointed it at me!"

More loud, frantic clicking sounds. "Doors haven't been breached. Can you find somewhere to hide until I get there?"

Shit. Maybe you did need to leave out the exit. "I don't—" it was so hard to breathe, "I don't know. I don't know. I um—can you see where Oz is? There's no place to hide, I need to get out of here."

"The cameras are taking too long to load. Where'd you see him?"

"Uh,"

"North? South? East? West?"

White-hot, panicky heat flashed through you. "I don't know. It wasn't the back and it wasn't the front, um… it was—I ran down the hallway from my room," how close was Miller now?! Had Oz found a way in? "and then took a left down a big hallway, he was at the end of that,"

"Exit to the East, then. It's closer to the gas station. I'll be there in two minutes."

You cut for the Eastern exit faster than you'd ran yet. The soles of your feet ached, shin splints beginning to burn after pounding the miserably hard floors. Still no one, nowhere. Hiccups fought you for air.

Miller's shoes squeaked much too close for comfort and you pitched forward like a baby deer fumbling about, struggling to find home. Why'd you come back? Why didn't you stay home after graduation? Why? Why?

Finally you found something this direction that led to an exit. The metal bars crunched as you slammed through the doors. Night air zapped your lungs, your mind blanking as you tore through the side of the parking lot. Muddy puddles splattered up your legs, soaking through the tough linen. You fell to all fours and scraped your hands as you pushed back up, the uneven pavement acting as enemy. Pebbles lodged into the meat of your palm, some breaking skin.

You stalled when your fingers wrapped around a wire fence. Squinting against the rain, you tried to make out if there was barbed wire at the top. Couldn't see any. Harsh wind obscured sound, the streetlights putting up a pitiful fight against the storm. Miller could still be inside. Could be a foot away.

Shouting was purely into the void. Your fingers felt like they'd snap at the knuckle as you scaled the fence, toes pinching and feet sliding in your worn slippers. Shards of icy rain cut into exposed skin.

You shut your eyes, suddenly overwhelmingly woozy. Your foot slipped from its tiny purchase as you heaved your body over top, straddling. The metal bowed out slightly, your body angled back from the high winds. You weren't too far up, you could fall and be fine, maybe you would, maybe… your bones felt like weights. Dizzy TV static began at the back of your nostrils and emanated over your whole body.

Thankfully there was no wire at the top. The palms of your hands were raw, indented, and borderline hypothermic. Petrified of heights but more scared of getting fucking shot, you jumped.

After the shock of landing on your feet—your calves would kill you later—you booked it for the gas station ahead, having just enough wits about you to zigzag, making it a tougher shot. It was misty, streets empty, the rain thick, an earache blooming from the cold. When you got out of here you needed to study a map of Gotham, make sure you never felt lost in this city again.

Luminous headlights of a black Corvette pulled up to the curb and made you collapse to your knees in relief. Bruce leapt out of the driver's side with his phone tight to his ear, close enough to hear. "Yes, she's here. We're two blocks away."

Bruce ushered you into the passenger seat. That same well-tended leather, the soft whir of heat from the climate control, the barely-there bergamot… Under his shadow, safety settled into your fatigued body. Gasping sobs flung out of you. He started up the car.

You startled, slamming your hand atop the gear stick. "I can't go back there. Oz, he's—"

"At the Iceberg." Bruce's tone was incisive, his jaw set. He worked the steering wheel like it was playdough. "And Miller is still in his cell at Blackgate."

"No." Your brows scrunched. He reached below you and moved the car into first gear and pulling it onto the road. "That's not true!" Two blocks was nothing. The car was very nearly at the back entrance to Arkham now just in those few seconds. "I just ran away from both of them."

Bruce stopped at the light and signaled his turn into the back parking lot. You opened the passenger door and jumped out. The car was turned off and he rushed out before you'd even shut the door. "What the hell are you doing?"

You had to shout for him to hear you. "I'm not going back inside. We need to leave and go back to the Tower now."

"They aren't here."

"I would know if someone tried to fucking kill me."

Bruce looked down and your stomach knotted. Rain accumulated between your lips, running sweat into your mouth each time you spoke. Brushing it off with your forearm brought a copper taste. A smear of bright red blood trickled down your arm in rivulets, a thick line cutting into the skin where it bubbled from. Why didn't it hurt? That was a 'I want you to die' cut. It didn't look real.

When he looked back up, his eyes flashed.

"When I ran past Miller, he fucking stabbed me—he, um,"

He popped open the trunk and emerged with a tie. In a blink it was wrapped around your arm, in the next the rod placed. You cursed, feeling like it was pressing against the bone. His hands left you the second it was secured.

"They were really both there?"

He squinted when you nodded. "Yes."

"Oz and Miller? Just now?"

"Yes. Trying to fucking kill me. I probably would've ended up dead or covered in these cuts," you clenched your fist into the fabric by your thigh, the pain smarting. "Fuck."

He gave you a long, studying look. It crushed you under its analytical weight. If this was the same analysis that got you put in here, you didn't fare well. If he understood the gravity of it, maybe he'd do something.

"I swear to god, Bruce, if I go back there I'm gonna fucking die. You could, too."

When he finally spoke, it was barely audible. "Alright."

"Alright?" You let go of the jumpsuit fabric, your heartbeat one big bright spot. "You'll get me out? Right now?"

Vaporized breath from the chill filled the space between you. He looked as shattered as you'd ever seen him. "I will."

Fuck. Held breath burst out of you, dislodging the rock in your stomach. Once again, you gravely underestimated how he felt about you. Yes. Yes.

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#fateful beginnings #the batman #bruce wayne x reader #battinson #bruce wayne #batman x reader #battinson x reader #fanfic #batman #slow burn #angst #multi chapter fic #multi chap fic #longfic #enemies to lovers #betrayal #arkham #the penguin #sofia falcone #sofia gigante #the batman 2022 #batman 2022 #reevesverse #bruce wayne x yn #battinson x yn #battinson x you #bruce wayne x you #x reader #x you #jonathan crane

ellesthots

Jun 22

that kind of angel

i. “tumbling down”

bruce wayne x clark kent

read on ao3 🖤

parts: next

plot: Four exclusive interviews with Bruce later, Clark finds himself invited to a Wayne Foundation gala.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x corensupes!clark kent

cw: 18+, explicit, mutual pining, secret identities, eventual smut, jealousy, bit o’ angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn (kinda!), pov alternating

word count: 3.5k

a/n: hi lovelies <3 more superbat for you all!! i just adore their dynamic and exploring all its juicy intricacies. feel free to leave comments if you'd like, i love hearing allll the thoughts! enjoy :)

“Evening, Mr. Wayne.”

Hands dragging from elbow to wrist, wandering fingers lingering on gold cufflinks. Strong hands shifting a full whiskey glass from right to left, a pleasant introduction, a steady heartbeat tunneling all of its wonderful blue-eyed attention into… her.

Clark sipped his Dixie cup of water, his grip pressing indents into the paper. Even from across the room Mr. Wayne was enchanting—perhaps especially so. In the handful of interviews he’d snagged with the billionaire recently, he never acted as enthused as he did in these rooms. Glittery eyes, a reliable grin, an unparalleled focus.

With him, Mr. Wayne was quiet. Withdrawn, even. Flat-faced. Gave clipped answers. After their first interview, Clark had shown up to Lois’s house unannounced and drenched in sweat, worrying he’d held the man hostage. Lois reassured him it was enough to simply get a slot with him, and that mantra held him over until Wayne Enterprises reached out for a second interview.

That same night Lois had also grilled him on if he’d fallen for the billionaire’s charms, but the embarrassingly half-hearted deflection he gave soon reduced to complete and utter honesty.

The next day at work, she’d gone from flaying him alive over the professional ethics to teasing him about it, even going so far as demanding he set a date for when he’d ask the man out (‘You and I both know, Clark, if you don’t get it off your chest it’ll be on everyone else’s.’) Clark had mumbled something about the second interview, knowing darn well he’d wimp out.

Two meetings became four, and four became this: receiving what looked like an automated email invite to the Wayne Foundation’s fundraiser. Part of the press, it specified. The doorman had told the lot of press they could have their pickings of the catering, but no one dared. Clark was starving.

He caught another person—a little friendly—introducing themselves to Mr. Wayne and his face flamed. He’d never wished he could get drunk more in his life.

It wasn’t like he had a reason to be jealous; Mr. Wayne was firmly a part of his work life, disqualifying him from anything else. He knew this. He’d reminded himself of it in front of the Wayne Tower doors: Clark chose this. Plus, the interviews gave him far more connection than many others got with the man.

Even still, he couldn’t help the heat flashing up his spine when Mr. Wayne smiled in an introduction, or worse: leaned in.

Clark couldn’t be mad at them; the gala patrons were lovely, he was sure, and it wasn’t right to blame them for his predicament. The woman walking up to him now, she was one of his peers. An equal in this world of galas and fundraisers and penthouse apartments. He'd never be that kind of angel—the kind of angel someone like him would see, anyway.

He’d spent countless breaks at The Daily Planet scouring the internet for any proof this playboy played with men, but he’d never been relationally associated with anyone, and only publicly associated—via flings—with women. But, whenever Clark's optimism leapt out, he'd remind himself that those flings were rare. Just a single article the past ten years, detailing only: Wayne Spotted: Reclusive Billionaire Seen With Mystery Women. Even Lois had looked into it and found the same.

Clark hoped it was possible he kept his romantic life private. That he kept his options open. In that universe, in the nights he laid awake dreaming, maybe Bruce Wayne could be his.

If he knew he was Superman, would that change his mind? Make him flashy enough to be in his orbit? The thought plagued Clark as he went to discard the half-crushed cup in the bathroom trash.

At late-night hangouts with Lois and Jimmy, Clark tried to get them to describe what he looked like with the glasses. What were his features? They were different, but how different? Which him did his interviewee see?

He tried now, staring into the hastily-cleaned mirror through the Kryptonian plexiglass. Squinting, twisting his face, chanting under his breath baseless mantras. Nothing. Still Super-Clark.

And, overwhelmingly, still just Mr. Wayne’s reporter.

On more than one occasion, Clark considered getting sloppy with his Superman change after an interview; hang a part of the suit out of his suitcase, leave at too suspicious of a time, or allow his glasses to slip just enough. That desperation tingled through his fingers now.

Too dangerous.

Clark fixed his tie, pushed the damn plexiglass up the bridge of his nose, and trudged out. If he was leaving disappointed, he’d at least not go home hungry.

Bruce’s feet ached, his mouth dry from talking so much. He thought inviting Kent might make this whole affair easier to stomach, but in the two hours of the speaker droning on, he hadn’t worked up the courage to speak to him.

Over the shoulder of his latest guest, he studied Kent perusing the hors d'oeuvres and struggled to track the conversation over the pulsing in his ears. The man was dressed past the expectation for press; naively, Bruce had hoped that meant he intended to mingle, but that dream was rapidly fading. Kent had always been so chatty, and he’d banked on being approached, not approach-ing.

Why had he thought him coming would make things easier? The interviews left him reeling each time, damn near making him sweat through his suit.

Four interviews. Each time trying to muscle the audacity to ask the man out and failing miserably in his presence. In Bruce’s pursuit of courage, he’d accidentally solidified their business relationship. Now, breaking out of that box felt wrong.

If they got together, would it destroy Kent’s reputation as a hard-hitting journalist? Mr. Kent got the exclusives for Superman and Batman, though he didn’t know that part. For all Clark Kent knew, he was only talking to a billionaire playboy.

Would it even be right to split his attention elsewhere, if he did make his feelings known? These fundraisers, the endless carousel of galas, cut into his detective work enough as it was. He couldn’t do nights, and enough private meetings with nothing to show for it wouldn’t bode well for either of them.

Bruce’s stomach did a somersault at the concept.

“Mr. Wayne?”

Angelica, a popular businesswoman on the East side, twitched her brow up at him. Bruce rapidly pieced together the sentences he’d glazed over and strung a response.

“We’ll set up a meeting to go over investment options. You can, uh…” he tried not to mumble, but was unsuccessful. “Reach out to my team.”

She leaned in, brow furrowed. “Are you alright?”

His attention pulled over her shoulder again, where Kent had struck conversation with a man by the wine table—and looked far more relaxed than he ever had with Bruce.

No, he wasn’t alright.

The nameless man nodded goodbye, leaving him the perfect opportunity to intercept.

“Excuse me, sorry.”

Shocked his legs worked, Bruce weaved through the crowd with a million thoughts. Would Kent be offended by the proposition? In the event of being turned down, he might prefer that. Letting him down easily, handling him with gloves, that would make Bruce sick. But the gentle approach was probably what he’d do—Kent was kind. Warm. Charming, while having no clue of it.

He wanted to melt into him. This ditzy playboy act frayed every tendon and serrated his bones. Public life—no, life in general—had always felt lonely, but especially so since the reporter emerged. Who stood a few yards ahead. With curly black hair. Dorky glasses. Ridiculously deep dimples. A laser-bright smile.

Clark Kent was like the sun, illuminating all the spaces Bruce’s life would be better with him in it.

How would he ask it? His heart thundered and he tilted his head down.

Casual conversation?

Being blunt and ripping the bandaid off?

He fought to inoculate himself from nerves. It was just words, after all; if it was a disaster, that was alright. He’d survive. He’d survive.

Pausing, he looked up. His jaw went slack. No one but an eager bartender glanced between him and the wine table.

A peek to his right showed the tall, broad-shouldered man a few steps away, standing alone, looking in an adjacent direction with a furrowed brow. Most notably: not where he’d just been.

Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat. Was Kent avoiding him?

Air. He discarded the untouched whiskey on the table.

He needed air, winter be damned.

A quick shoot to the far left of the room and up two flights, feet skipping every other stair in an anxious haste. He’d been too cold in those interviews—possibly callous. It was embarrassing to think Kent would ever go for someone like him. Ridiculous. Goddamn ridiculous.

This was the problem with a persona; the rare time he wanted someone to know him, they couldn’t. Any interest they showed stemmed from a farce. Then he was left in situations like these—open up, and have the other person realize he wasn’t being honest the entire time they’d known him, or stay in this stiff, distant… jesus.

Shame threatened to capsize him just in time for the dilapidated balcony doors to open. Slabs of tarnished gray concrete made the place inhospitable, and the combined back alley view rendered this area abandoned. He practically lived here the first few years of these events. The only respite.

Gotham’s frostnipped chill stung blushed cheeks. The calloused pads of his fingers gripped onto the balcony’s edge. A flickering streetlight down the way provided eerie accompaniment to the symphony of horns, sirens, and distant chatter downtown.

Bruce heaved out plumes of vaporized breath, lightly obscuring the muddy alley walls five stories below.

Had Mr. Wayne wanted to… talk to him?

Clark looked around the foyer of City Hall, confused, and very certain of his blush the closer he came to a conclusion. A sudden stop, a slight look to his right—precisely where Clark had stood.

The man’s heart had been thundering. Fastest he’d ever heard it, to the point he almost turned to ask about it before he abruptly left. Either he’d wanted to talk, or he was having a panic attack.

Would he want to be alone? Did he turn towards Clark for help or was it a mere coincidence?

Standing around for a minute was excruciating; he kept listening for Mr. Wayne’s heartrate to relax, but it didn’t. Another minute passed through sheer will, and when it only seemed to rush faster, Clark had no choice but to hike toward the stairway he’d climbed. If he weren’t following his heartbeat, he could be following the light trail of bergamot the man wore. It was a delightful change of pace from generic, stuffy tobacco cologne. It didn’t make this crush any easier to forget.

Creaky stairs had him glance around for cameras, then gliding just above to not make a peep. He didn’t want to scare him, gosh no, but he didn’t want to interrupt him either if he did just want to be alone. He’d take a quick peek into whichever room or space he was and make a judgment then.

This section of the building was entirely different from the glittering interior—or at least how they gussied it up for events like these. He didn’t think someone so rich would want to linger around here; was he especially distressed? Its gray pallor was regulating, maybe… maybe?!

With each step closer to his heartbeat, Clark stressed if this was appropriate. He was essentially following his interview subject into a dark corner of… he put his feet fully on the ground.

Mr. Wayne was out on a balcony, his head in his hands by the concrete railing. He didn’t appear to be outwardly panicking, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that he’d simply gotten used to hiding his anxieties, being a celebrity and all.

Still. Celebrities didn’t seem to rush out of events they seemed perfectly fine at moments prior. Hmm.

Too focused on watching him, Clark’s half-step back made a loud sound, making Mr. Wayne’s head whip back toward him. The man’s heartbeat skyrocketed, and Clark scrambled to fix it. It wasn’t healthy for it to be this fast for too long. Clark shouldn’t have come up.

“Mr. Wayne.” He cleared his throat and stepped away from the stairs, fussing with the ends of his suit jacket. “I’m sorry, I um—you looked like you left in a hurry, and I wanted to see if everything was okay.”

The billionaire’s gaze slid down to his shoes then back again, slowly. He stared a beat too long, and Clark had a peculiar feeling he also had super vision. “Call me Bruce.”

It might’ve felt like flirting if he were any less monotone.

“You sure? I know this isn’t as formal as an interview, but it still feels pretty—”

“I’m sure.”

Clark stared at Mr.—Bruce, struggling to size him up. Was he angry? Would it be strange to say he looked anxious, to try to discuss his ever-pounding heartbeat?

He was already worse for wear around Bruce (gosh, to even think his first name), but it felt impossible to talk now. He almost wanted to leave, but that also felt wrong. Clark was no more alone than he ever was with Bruce, but this felt… different.

“So, Bruce.”

Even weirder to say!

He took a step closer, not quite on the balcony yet. “You um, didn’t answer my question. Are you alright?”

Bruce’s mouth twitched up, just barely enough to notice if someone was already fixated on his lips. “Wasn’t aware this was an interview… Clark.”

Intentional informality. Testing the waters. Clark felt his eyes dilate, realizing just how desperate he’d been to hear his name in that voice. He looked so good tonight, too… in a triple black suit… not an undone hair on his head…

Meeting for the first time outside the pretense of an interview, it was entirely plausible Bruce was acting like his usual socialite self now that he was off the record, or perhaps simply had too much to drink.

There was nothing to read into. There couldn’t be. Not with Bruce Wayne.

Bruce knew he was being dodgy, but he couldn’t really care. It was impossible to explain the false bind he found himself in; yes, Kent, I want you to leave and I want you to stay and I shouldn’t even be thinking about this right now.

There were far more important things in the city. If he were so unenthused by the gala or so terribly bothered by their current dynamic, he could simply leave. Go put on the suit. Log a couple more hours. Make more headway into the open cases.

Yet he was stuck with his perfectly movable feet welded to the floor. Couldn’t even face the man.

Lovely.

“I’m not like that, you know.”

For once Bruce spoke before thinking; now his pulse deadened every other sound. And what a ridiculous thing to say: he was like that, in most ways that mattered. If he performed one way, who gave a shit about the invisible other?

He was grasping at straws to feel that warm smile against his skin. Any form of atonement for his distance.

“Not like what?” Kent’s tone was strong and curious. Like he imagined his hands might be.

Bruce flinched at the thought—inappropriate, unprofessional, unreciprocated—but it didn’t stop them.

Kent always wore the baggiest suits, my god. Did he do it on purpose? Did he make Clark—Kent, Kent, goddammit, uncomfortable enough to cover up? Bruce never let his eyes wander, never let his tone slip, despite this festered yearning.

“Bruce?”

“Kent.” He’d rarely felt more like a coward.

“If you don’t mind my asking,”

Why was it suddenly impossible to breathe?

“You seem stressed. Would you like me to tell anyone downstairs an—um, an excuse, maybe? If you want to leave, of course. If you did, well, I just don’t want you to have to, you know, parade around when you’re not feeling well.”

The delivery was undeniably Clarkian. For the first time in conversation, Bruce didn’t feel like he had to keep up jargon. Be polished. Suave. Businesslike. It made him smile, made his knuckles unclench.

“You’re worried about my stress?” He turned to fully face him, tucking his hands into the pockets of his tux. The city seemed to quiet for their conversation.

Even in the low light, he saw Clark’s face bloom scarlet. A cool rush of air surged to his lungs.

“It’s quiet out here. I quite like it.”

It was new to fill the space; he knew the man would’ve responded, it was the polite thing to do after all. And who was Clark Kent if not polite?

“I imagine.” Clark pushed his glasses up on his nose with his pointer finger.

“Would you like to come out with me?”

He’d already started moving before Bruce finished his sentence.

As he stepped fully onto the balcony, they slipped again. Bruce’s hands tingled, going numb, but he shoved his nerves into the pit of his stomach and stepped to meet him. The frame of Clark’s glasses were surprisingly dense and cool against his fingertips as he adjusted it for him. He noticed a glaring streak on the glass.

“You have a smudge…” Bruce pulled them off the man’s face, untucking his tie to flip it to the back side. Softer, less coarse, easy to buff—

Clark jumped back like he’d been shot, making the glasses clatter to the ground. “Oh! I—thank you! Uh, but—these are, um, they can’t be—”

He stooped over, his hand clapped over his eyes to hide them.

“I’m sorry, um.” Bruce knelt to the ground to retrieve the glasses, accidentally kicking them with the tip of his shoe. He clambered toward the pair, certain they’d be scratched to shreds. Why had he taken the glasses off?! What the hell had gotten into him?

They’d been kicked dangerously close to the edge of the cement. In fact, if the wind picked up, they’d be gone. Clark lunged for his glasses, snagging them in a fist as he thudded into the cement, and shoved them on with a geeky thumbs-up. “All good! See?”

A crack! sent a shiver down Bruce’s spine; the next second, his legs felt like they were floating, his limbs suspended in air. He grabbed for a concrete newel at the edge as the balcony crumpled, his fingers almost finding purchase before slipping miserably.

Clark.

Oh, Clark hated these moments. A fraction of a second to compute how much someone had paid attention to him in a crowd; if he was safe to switch into his suit; if not, how to manipulate his body into a space of plausible deniability. Adrenaline rush, he could say. That’s why his bones didn’t crumble!

There was no suit-change today, Bruce analyzed him too closely for that. And he couldn’t very well just let the guy fall, absolutely not. As he narrowly avoided gripping something solid, Clark lunged for Bruce and tucked him into his shoulder.

A tuck-and-roll will have to do, I guess.

Bruce was shockingly nimble. Some people’s bodies were awfully rigid when crisis hit. He made sure to come to a ‘messy’ stop on the ground, acting woozy as he stumbled away.

“Bruce!” Clark huffed, ‘slamming’ his elbow into the concrete and performing a wince. He was breathless, pained, shocked. “Are—are you—whoa.”

No comment. No heaving, no panic, no running away because he’d scuffed his fancy shoes. Had anything even happened? Were the last five minutes a mirage?

Panic grabbed him. Oh no. Had he not protected the head? Had a piece of rubble slammed down on his squishy human head? Oh NO!

Hopping to his feet, Clark burst through a cloud of cement-particle fog to see the man already standing, peering at him. That thunderous heartbeat was now… regulated. Bruce Wayne was calmer than he’d ever seen him. More focused, too. Very focused. Strange.

He was terribly confusing.

“Glad you’re okay, goll-y.”

The Prince of Gotham was a man of few words, yes, but one would think something like this would bring at least a peep of check-in. He didn’t appear to be in shock. Had he just done a great job saving him? It was like it never even happened?

Dang. He was getting good at making it look seamless.

Security guards from the front turned into the side alley, flashlights ablaze. Clark squinted at them, giving a small wave before being slammed out of sight in a haze of bergamot.

“Put your glasses back on, ‘Clark’.”

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