A Gotham fairytale (Part 1)
Bruce Wayne/reader
Prologue
The soft jingle of the door breaks your concentration, drawing your gaze from the exquisite garment draped across the counter as a customer enters the boutique.
You immediately set your scissors down and hurried over to greet them.
“Hi, welcome to Bellarose!” you said brightly, only for your enthusiasm to fade the moment you recognized the figure standing in front of you.
“Oh. It’s just you.”
You slumped against the counter in disappointment. For a second, you’d thought it might be your first customer of the week, but it was only a security guard. Cosmo, if you remembered correctly. He didn’t speak much, so that was about all you knew about him.
“Alfred sent you some food, ma’am.”
“Right, thanks. Just leave it on the counter, please.”
With a small nod, he did as instructed while you returned back to your work, carefully mapping out the fabric and shaping it into a silhouette. The familiar rhythm of scissors gliding through cloth filling the boutique.
After a while, you became completely engrossed in your work, creating gowns to display on the shelves since there weren’t any custom orders yet. The constant hum of the television filled the boutique, but you barely paid it any attention.
That changed the moment you heard the name Batman.
Your eyes immediately snapped toward the screen, laser-focused on the news report covering Gotham’s newest vigilante.
You knew Bruce was Batman.
He couldn’t hide anything from you, even if he wanted to.
After his parents’ deaths, you’d become his one constant source of comfort. You knew him better than anyone, sometimes better than he knew himself. So when he vanished one day without warning, leaving behind nothing but a text saying he was going to “find himself,” you knew something was wrong.
Then, two years later, he came back.
Different.
There were new scars hidden beneath expensive suits, bruises he brushed off with weak excuses, and a darkness lingering behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Two months later, Batman made his first appearance. It hadn’t taken much for you to put two and two together.
Bruce, however, denied it relentlessly.
Over and over again.
Until one night. You had been staying at Wayne Manor, something that had become routine long before he left. Unable to sleep, you’d wandered the halls only to catch sight of Bruce emerging from a hidden passageway beneath the manor.
Covered in blood.
The memory was still vivid. You remembered dragging him to the nearest chair despite his protests, frantically patching up his wounds while scolding him the entire time. He’d sat there in silence, letting you fuss over him as blood stained your hands and tears threatened to spill down your cheeks.
That was the night he finally stopped denying it. The memory made your cheeks burn a bright red.Not because you’d discovered his secret, but because of how close the two of you had been that night, the way he’d looked at you while you stitched him back together.
Speak of the devil.
Your phone rings, and the name on the screen makes your stomach flutter.
Bruce. You answer immediately. “I will pick you up at ten. You’re staying with me tonight.”
His voice is rough around the edges, low and tired. You don’t have to see him to know he’s still wearing the suit. Years of knowing him have made certain things impossible to miss.
“Alright,” you reply softly.
The line goes quiet for a moment before he says “See you soon” in a much softer voice and hangs up without another word. Your relationship with Bruce isn’t complicated, but it isn’t defined either.
You’re certainly not friends. Bruce has made that abundantly clear through both his words and his actions. Friends don’t show up at your apartment at three in the morning just to make sure you’re safe. Friends don’t remember every insignificant detail about your day. Friends don’t look at you the way Bruce Wayne does and friends defiantly don’t touch you the way Bruce Wayne does, and friends don’t fuck you the way Brice Wayne does.
And yet he’s never given whatever this is a name. No labels and no explanations.
Just a possessive hand resting on the small of your back, a look that lingers too long, and the same words murmured against your ear whenever anyone gets too close.
You’re mine.
The thought sends a shiver down your spine. You force yourself to focus on the fabric spread across your worktable, though the silhouette you’ve been sketching suddenly seems far less interesting than the man who’ll be waiting for you at ten.
Soon it’s 9:45, and you begin closing up the boutique. A boutique that had been your dream since childhood.
Ever since you could hold a pencil, you’d filled sketchbooks with designs, imagining fabrics, silhouettes, and entire collections. Opening Bellarose had been the culmination of years of hard work and determination.
Lately, though, the dream felt more like a nightmare. Customers were scarce, bills were piling up, and every quiet day made your stomach twist with anxiety.
Taking a deep breath, you switched off the lights. The warm glow that usually filled the boutique vanished, leaving your beloved shop cloaked in darkness. You grabbed your bag and slipped on your coat, smoothing your skirt over your plush hips. You’d never been model-thin, but that had never stopped you from turning heads. Fashion wasn’t about fitting into clothes rather it was about making clothes fit you. With every carefully tailored outfit, every bold silhouette, and every perfectly chosen accessory, you wore your curves like they belonged on a runway. Shutting the door you stepped out into the chilly Gotham night.
The cold immediately sent a shiver through you.
Down the street, you spotted Cosmo lingering near a lamppost, keeping his usual watchful eye on you. You sighed knowing you will have to have a serious talk with Bruce. Soon a sleek black car turned the corner.
Your heart gave a small flutter. You recognized the car long before it came to a stop.
Not wanting to stand in the cold, you hurried over and slipped into the passenger seat before he could get out. The moment you settled inside, you were met with a pair of piercing blue eyes.
For a brief second, they softened as they landed on you. Then the look was gone.
“Why didn’t you let me open the door for you?” Bruce asked. You rolled your eyes.
“You know how much that pisses me off, baby.”A ghost of amusement flickered across his face. You sank further into the leather seat with a tired sigh.
“Did you have a good day at the boutique?”. You let out a quiet laugh. “About the same as every day since it opened.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Let me help you, princess.”
There it was again. The offer he’d been making for months. Bruce had been relentless in his attempts to help, offering investments, connections, advertising, anything that might keep Bellarose afloat.
But that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted to build this yourself. If it succeeded, you wanted it to be because of your own hard work.
And if it failed…
Well, at least it would be your failure.
“No thanks.”
A low grunt escaped him. Before you could question it, Bruce suddenly leaned across the center console. Your breath caught.
For a moment, all you could focus on was how close he was.
His cologne.
The faint stubble shadowing his jaw. The intensity in those blue eyes of his. Then his hand moved past you.
Click.
He pulled the seatbelt across your chest and fastened it into place. “you always forget,” he muttered.
You released the breath you’d been holding and turned your face toward the window, pretending your heart wasn’t beating just a little faster than before. Bruce’s smirk told you he wasn’t fooled for a second and that he knew exactly what he was doing. “Let me take you home” he mutters and you hum in response not wanting to go back to your dingy apartment today.