divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto
word count: 9.1k
synopsis: You accepted you would never be his first choice and after five years you decided enough was enough and decide to divorce Bruce.
warning: Divorce, miscommunication, Bruce being emotionally constipated
a/n: Alrighty part 3 done, part 4 should be the last one... most likely... hopefully.
Hell. Bruce Wayne was certain he’d somehow been dragged straight into it.
He’d even gone so far as to contact John Constantine—just to be sure he hadn’t slipped into an alternate reality, a curse, or some particularly cruel cosmic joke. Unfortunately, Constantine had only laughed, lit a cigarette, and confirmed the worst truth of all:
This was real.
And you were truly set on divorcing him.
Ever since the news broke, Gotham had gone unnervingly quiet. The whispers of Batman’s foul mood had spread fast through the criminal underbelly, and like rats sensing a flood, they’d scattered. No muggings. No evil schemes. No desperate villains looking to cause their usual brand of chaos. For once no one dared to piss off the Bat.
Which meant Bruce had no outlet.
No criminals to bleed the anger into.
No bruises to dull the ache.
And no you.
He carried it all with him—everywhere. A volatile mix of fury, regret, misery… and want. Because even now, especially now, the thing he wanted most in the world was his wife.
Soon to be his ex.
And that knowledge burned hotter than any hell Constantine could’ve dragged him through.
“Why so glum, Bats?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened at the sound of Oliver Queen’s voice. He turned to find him perched casually nearby, clad in green, far too relaxed for someone standing within striking distance. The white lenses of Bruce’s cowl narrowed.
“Why are you here?” he demanded.
Oliver grinned, unbothered by the look as he spun one of his arrows between his fingers like a toy. “What? Not happy to see me?”
Bruce’s glare sharpened, a silent warning.
Oliver only laughed, the sound bright and infuriating against the weight pressing down on Bruce’s chest. “Don’t tell me you’re still brooding about that little dance I had with Y/N.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched.
Oliver sighed, long and theatrical. “Relax, Bats. It was a dance. No vows were broken. No laws were violated.” He tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “And if we’re being honest—she looked like she was having fun. Which is more than I’ve seen in a long time.”
Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides, leather creaking under the strain. “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
Oliver’s expression shifted. The grin faded, replaced by something more serious. “I know you’re screwing it up.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t get to have it both ways,” Oliver continued, voice firm now. “You don’t get to ice her out and then bare your teeth when someone else makes her smile.”
“Stay out of it,” Bruce growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Oliver stepped closer anyway, utterly unbothered by the threat rolling off him. “Don’t forget—I consider her like a little sister. And I won’t stand around and watch you keep hurting her.”
The punch came without warning.
A sharp crack split the air as Bruce’s fist connected with Oliver’s cheekbone, the impact snapping his head to the side. For a heartbeat, everything went still.
Then Oliver straightened slowly, infuriatingly calm.
He rolled his jaw once, testing it, before shrugging as though he’d taken an inconvenient elbow on the court instead of a full-force punch from Batman. With his thumb, he wiped the thin trail of blood from the corner of his mouth and glanced at it briefly, unimpressed.
“Feel better, princess?” he asked mildly.
Bruce only answered with a grunt, chest heaving.
Oliver watched him for a moment longer, then sighed, shaking his head.
“You know what the worst part is?” he said quietly. “You actually love her. I can see it. Hell, everyone can.” His gaze hardened. “But you refuse to let her in.”
Bruce turned back sharply. “I can’t.”
Oliver shook his head, frustration finally bleeding through. “This isn’t being fucking righteous, Bruce. It’s cowardice.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You’re hurting her. And you’re hurting yourself.”
Bruce said nothing.
“If you can’t let her in,” Oliver continued quietly, “then let her go.”
“I can’t,” Bruce ground out, the words dragged from somewhere raw and ugly in his chest.
Silence stretched between them, thick and volatile.
At last, Oliver stepped back, giving Bruce space, though his eyes never left him. “I’m not your enemy, B. But I won’t apologize for standing up for her.”
He paused, then added, almost too casually, “And for what it’s worth? If you keep hesitating, someone else won’t.”
Bruce’s head snapped up, eyes burning with anger. “You wouldn’t.”
Oliver lifted his hands in surrender, calm and honest. “You know I wouldn’t. Dinah and I are solid.” His expression sobered. “But someone else will. Let her in, or let her go. There’s still time to save your marriage—before it turns into something unsalvageable.”
Then he turned and walked away, boots echoing softly against concrete, leaving Bruce alone with the truth Oliver had shoved straight into his chest.
Four damn weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and Bruce was no closer to figuring out how to make you stay.
He’d been foolish enough to hope something would change—that the small, almost imperceptible lift in your mood meant there was still a chance.
Your conversations remained polite, cordial, and painfully distant. At work, any communication went through your assistant, who might as well have been a professionally trained guard dog. Invitations to breakfast, lunch, dinner—declined with perfect courtesy.
No matter what he tried, you stayed just out of reach.
The tabloids, courtesy of Lex Luthor, were having a field day. Speculation buzzed endlessly, theories multiplying by the hour—but neither of you confirmed a thing.
It was obvious you wanted this divorce to happen cleanly and quietly as possible. But unfortunately for you, Bruce Wayne had never been the better man when it came to letting go.
That morning, he sat at the kitchen table in a foul mood, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold as he flipped through the papers. Gossip headlines screamed up at him from the page, each more ridiculous than the last.
This time, apparently, he’d caught you with a younger gigolo.
The article suggested you’d run off with the man because he couldn’t keep up with your voracious appetite.
Bruce stared at the headline for a long moment.
His jaw tightened. His fingers creased the paper.
“Remind me,” he muttered darkly, “to buy the Gotham press and fire this journalist.”
“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied with a weary sigh, already far too accustomed to damage control of this variety.
Before anything more could be said, the sound of heels cut sharply through the room.
“I trust your schedule is open,” you said coolly as you stepped in, gaze locking onto him, “so we can get everything finalized.”
Bruce blinked—once. Then again.
Confusion flickered across his face before realization hit like a gut punch.
Your eyes narrowed. “It’s been a month, Bruce,” you said evenly. “Today’s the day.”
His eyes widened just enough to give him away. “I—I have a meeting this morning,” he said quickly, clearing his throat.
Now it was your turn to blink.
“Oh?” you asked, voice deceptively calm. “I don’t remember seeing it on the schedule.”
“It was last minute,” Bruce said quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded way too fake. “You know how Winston gets.”
He made a point of not looking at Alfred, who regarded him with a look so unimpressed it bordered on judgment.
You studied Bruce for a moment longer than necessary, then let out a slow breath. “Fine. After the meeting, then,” you said evenly. “I’ll set it up for lunch.”
Bruce nodded a little too fast. “Of course.”
You turned and strode away without another word, heels clicking decisively against the marble. The moment you were out of sight, Bruce’s shoulders sagged. He dropped back into his chair and dragged a hand down his face.
A long, tired sigh left him.
“You cannot keep postponing this, Master Bruce,” Alfred said quietly. “If you are unwilling to tell the madam the truth, then you must give her what she wants.”
“I can’t, Alfred,” Bruce muttered, staring down at the desk. “I didn’t sign the papers.”
Alfred froze.
“…What?”
Bruce let out a rough breath. “I was hoping,” he admitted, voice low and bitter, “that she’d change her mind.”
Alfred closed his eyes for a brief moment, the disappointment unmistakable.
“Then, sir,” he said at last, “you are not buying time. You are only ensuring that when the truth comes out, it will hurt her far more than honesty ever would.”
Bruce only sighed, heavy and exhausted, staring at nothing in particular.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred continued quietly, “I have watched the madam for five years.” He folded his hands behind his back. “The first two—when you were gone—devastated her. And yet she kept the company afloat. She stood firm while board members challenged her authority, while shareholders doubted her, while the city whispered that Wayne Enterprises would crumble without its heir.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“And the last three years,” Alfred went on, “were met not with your absence, but with your distance. Your coldness. Your relentless pursuit of the cowl, while she stood beside you in name only.”
The silence stretched.
“If you cannot let her in,” Alfred said softly, “then you must let her go. Let her find someone who can give her what you refuse to.”
Bruce swallowed.
“I love her, Alfred,” he admitted at last, the words stripped bare of bravado.
“I know,” Alfred replied without hesitation. “That is why your parents agreed to such a contract when you were still a child. They saw the love between you long before either of you understood what it was.” He paused. “But sometimes, Master Bruce, loving someone means setting them free.”
Bruce pushed back from the desk abruptly and stood, tension radiating from every line of his body.
“I’m heading to the office,” he muttered, already turning away—running from the truth he wasn’t yet ready to face.
Five times you called, and five times he let it go to voicemail.
Bruce knew he was late. He knew you were furious for him delaying the meeting. He just didn’t know how to tell you the truth: that he had never signed the papers.
A hesitant knock broke the silence.
His assistant cracked the door open, hovering nervously. “Mr. Wayne… it’s your wife.”
Bruce didn’t even look up from where he was staring at the ceiling. “Tell her the meeting is taking longer than expected.”
The door closed.
Then opened again.
Bruce exhaled hard, already preparing a sharp rebuke—but the words died on his tongue when he looked down and saw Clark stepping into the office. One glance at the pitying expression on his face told Bruce everything he needed to know.
Bruce sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let me guess,” he muttered. “It’s your turn to tell me to let her in or let her go?”
Clark tucked his hands into his pockets, striding further into the room. His expression was carefully neutral in that infuriatingly gentle way of his—but the concern was there all the same.
“Oliver’s worried,” Clark said quietly. “So am I.” He paused, then added, almost dryly, “And for the record, punching me would only hurt you.”
Bruce scoffed and paced once across the office before turning back to him. “You all seem very invested in my marriage all of a sudden.”
Clark studied him for a long moment before answering. “Because this isn’t just about the marriage.”
Bruce stilled.
“This is about you,” Clark continued evenly. “And the fact that you’re letting paranoia and fear run your life.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” Clark replied gently. “I’ve watched you push people away for years. I’ve watched you convince yourself that protecting someone means keeping them at arm’s length.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And now—” he gestured vaguely between them, “—now you’re finally facing the consequence of that working.”
Bruce dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion bleeding through the cracks in his control. “She’s asking me to sign my own damn heart away.”
“No,” Clark corrected quietly. “She’s asking you to respect her choice.”
Bruce let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Easy for you to say.”
Clark didn’t rise to the bait. “Is it?”
That made Bruce look at him.
“You think I don’t know what it costs?” Clark continued. “Letting someone see the parts of you that scare you. The parts you’re convinced would break them.” He paused, voice soft but unwavering. “I chose to trust Lois with that. You never gave her that chance.”
“I can’t,” Bruce whispered, the word torn from him.
Clark stepped closer, his presence calm but unyielding. “Then let her go.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re hurting her like this, Bruce,” Clark pressed.
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, jaw flexing. “I know.”
“Bruce—”
“I know!” he snapped, the restraint finally shattering. He surged forward, shoving Clark back against the wall, forearm braced at his chest. “I know,” he repeated, voice breaking now, raw and unguarded. “But I can’t. I can’t.”
His grip faltered, anger bleeding into desperation. “I love her, Clark. I love her too damn much to let her go.” His voice dropped, hoarse. “And I love her so much that I’m terrified if she gets any closer—if she really sees everything—she’ll get hurt.”
The admission emptied him.
Bruce sagged, the fight draining out of his body all at once, his forehead dropping forward as if the weight of it had finally become too much to carry alone.
Clark didn’t hesitate.
He stepped in and pulled Bruce into a firm, grounding hug, one hand braced between his shoulder blades. Clark exhaled slowly, feeling Bruce’s pain as if it were his own.
Protests sounded behind the door, muffled and frantic—but Bruce barely had time to register them before the doors slammed open.
You stormed in.
“Mrs. Wayne, please—Mr. Wayne is in a meeting—”
“Save it,” you snapped, already halfway into the office. “There is no damn meeting. I saw Winston at the restaurant with his wife—and he looked genuinely confused when I asked about some supposed meeting with Bruce.”
The assistant faltered behind you, but you were no longer listening.
You stopped short.
Clark’s arms were still around Bruce, in what looked to be an intimate embrace. Bruce’s hair was rumpled, his tie loosened, collar open—disheveled in a way you’d never seen in public.
Your mouth fell open.
Clark froze first, instinctively stepping back, hands lifting in immediate surrender. “This isn’t—”
“I can explain,” Bruce said quickly, straightening as he scrambled for words—any words—to explain why he hadn’t shown up for the settlement meeting. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“You…” Your eyes flicked between him and Clark. “…You and Clark?”
Bruce’s brows drew together in pure confusion, while Clark promptly choked, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable red.
“What?” Bruce asked, completely lost.
You dragged a hand through your hair, pacing once before stopping short, eyes widening as if a realization had just slammed into place. “That makes so much sense…”
“What does?” Bruce pressed, genuinely bewildered. He was still trying to figure out why you weren’t yelling—why you weren’t demanding answers about the meeting.
“All these years,” you said slowly, disbelief threading your voice, “why didn’t you tell me you were into men? I would’ve understood.”
Bruce’s eyes went wide. “What?!”
It was your turn to blink. “You and Clark…?” You looked between Bruce’s baffled expression and Clark’s mortified one, your brows knitting together. “You two aren’t together?”
Clark cleared his throat, straightening immediately. “No, ma’am. I assure you—Lois and I are very happily engaged. Bruce just… tripped.” He gestured awkwardly between the two of them. “And you walked in when I caught him.”
You stared at him.
“He tripped,” you repeated flatly.
Clark nodded far too quickly, already backing toward the door. He shot Bruce an apologetic look. “I—I appreciate you agreeing to the interview, Mr. Wayne,” he said, lying with as much professionalism as he could muster.
And with that, he fled.
The door closed with a soft click, leaving the office awkwardly quiet. You turned back to Bruce slowly. He stood there, shoulders tense, jaw set, clearly scrambling for something—anything—to say.
“The meeting went late,” he began.
You lifted a hand.
“Save it,” you said coolly. “I saw Winston at the restaurant. There was no meeting.” Your voice didn’t rise but it was lined with determination. “Enough is enough, Bruce. Let’s finalize this.”
“Y/N…” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
“What?” You threw your arms out, frustration finally breaking through. “What could you possibly say this time?”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then, quietly—too quietly—
“We can’t finalize it.”
Your expression stilled. “Excuse me?”
“We can’t finalize it,” he repeated, voice low, steady in a way that made your stomach twist.
“Why not?” Your eyes narrowed. “Everything is settled for a clean and quick break. I want nothing from you.”
His throat bobbed. “Because I never signed the papers.”
The words didn’t register at first.
“What?” you whispered.
“That night,” he said, barely breathing now, “I never signed them.”
Your jaw clenched, a sharp, aching pressure building behind your eyes. Bruce felt it the moment he saw the tears gather there—the betrayal, the hurt, the quiet devastation he’d been trying so desperately to delay.
But you didn’t yell.
Without a word, you turned on your heel and walked away, fury radiating off you in controlled, lethal waves.
“Y/N!” Bruce called, panic crashing through him as he moved after you, his long strides barely keeping up. He nearly had to run to catch you as you stormed down the corridor, heels striking marble like gunshots.
“Stop,” he pleaded. “Please—just let me explain.”
Julie chose that exact moment to step out of the elevators, a bright, hopeful smile on her face and a bakery box cradled in her arms. You nearly collided with her. She gasped in surprise, stumbling back—but you didn’t slow, didn’t apologize, didn’t even look at her.
Neither did Bruce.
He caught up to you a heartbeat later, fingers closing around your arm.
“Y/N—wait, please—”
You whirled around and slapped him across the face. The sound cracked through the office Gasps rippled outward as heads snapped up from desks and glass-walled offices. Julie dropped the box in shock and rushed forward instinctively, hands already lifting toward Bruce’s face.
“Oh my God—Bruce—are you okay—”
He didn’t even register her.
His head was still turned from the impact, jaw tight, cheek stinging—but his eyes were locked on you. And when he saw the tears finally spill, something inside him broke.
“I’ve never asked you for anything,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite your effort to keep it steady. “Not your money. Not your time. Not your secrets.” A tear slipped free, tracing down your cheek. “I asked you for one thing. Just this. And you still couldn’t give me that.”
Julie bristled, stepping forward like she had a right to be there. “How could you hit him?”
You let out a hollow, disbelieving laugh and turned on her, eyes flashing. “Don’t worry,” you snapped. “It gives you a chance to kiss it better.”
Then your gaze swung back to Bruce, glaring through the tears.
“My lawyers will be in touch,” you said coldly. “I wanted to do this cleanly.” Your voice trembled once, then steadied. “But you’ve made it very clear you had no intention of that.”
With that, you pulled free of his grip.
“Y/N—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your hand came up, fingers shaking as you slid off the ring from your finger. For a split second it caught the light, the silver diamond gleaming, before you hurled it at his chest. It struck him just below the collarbone and fell to the floor with a soft, hollow clink.
You shook your head once, conveying your disappointment and disgust, and turned away.
Your heels carried you down the hall toward the elevators, back straight, shoulders tight, every step an act of will. You didn’t look back. If you did, you knew you wouldn’t keep moving.
Behind you, Julie reached for him, her voice urgent, hands hovering at his arm, his shoulders, as she fussed over him but he still didn’t even look at her.
His eyes were locked on you as the elevator doors slid open. Locked on the way your reflection fractured in the polished metal, on the tears you hadn’t been able to stop.
He stood frozen, cheek burning, heart in ruins—watching the woman he loved disappear as the doors shut, knowing with brutal clarity that this time… he might have finally lost her for good.
“I hate him,” you groaned, tipping back your glass and draining it in one go.
“Mhm. He’s an idiot,” Selina agreed easily, already flagging the bartender for another round.
Your phone buzzed against the bar. You glanced down, thumb fumbling slightly as you opened the notification—and then your vision went red.
There it was.
Bruce, Julie, and… Andrew.
You downed another drink without thinking, the burn barely registering. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him,” you hissed, slamming the glass down. “Now he’s trying to hijack my project.”
Selina leaned in to look at the screen and winced. “Yikes.”
“I don’t understand what his problem is,” you went on, words spilling faster now, alcohol loosening every restraint you’d been clinging to. “I mean—I walked in on him and Clark in his office today, and for a second I finally got it. I thought—oh. That’s it. He’s gay. That’s why this marriage never worked.”
Selina choked on her drink. “You what?”
You didn’t hear her, too busy spiralling. “Five years, Selina. Five years I wasted on him. Trying to understand him. Trying to love him.” Your voice cracked, just barely. “Is it me? Because he never had a problem sleeping with me…”
Selina snorted, sharp and immediate. “I promise you, that is very much a him problem.”
You frowned at her, squinting slightly. “What do you mean? He never had performance issues or anything—” You paused, brow furrowing as a new thought occurred to you. “You know what? If he doesn’t want a divorce so badly, maybe I should stop fighting it. Reap the benefits. Find myself a side piece with his money.” You lifted your glass in grim mockery. “I mean, he has Julie. Why can’t I have my own?”
Selina’s eyes widened—and she had to bite down hard to keep from laughing.
“If you did that,” she said, barely holding it together, “I’m pretty sure Bruce would finally break his no-kill rule.”
“Mhm,” you nodded solemnly, as if this were the most logical conclusion in the world. Selina’s words not truly registering. “Maybe I should. Show him exactly what he’s missing.”
“Yeah, no,” Selina said immediately.
You pushed yourself off the barstool anyway, triumphant—only for the room to tilt violently. Your knee buckled.
“Woah, woah—easy, kitty,” Selina caught you just in time, looping an arm around your waist. “Let’s postpone your revenge tour until tomorrow, yeah?”
You groaned but didn’t argue, your head dropping briefly against her shoulder in defeat.
“Good,” she muttered. “Because drunk you has terrible judgment.”
She shifted your weight more securely against her and began steering you toward the exit, already fishing her phone out of her pocket. As the cool night air brushed your skin, she brought the phone to her ear and tapped a familiar number.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Hello?” Bruce’s voice came through, tense even without context.
“I have a very drunk and extremely pissed-off—” Selina began.
She never finished the sentence. She was cut off as something struck her from behind hard.
The sound was dull and sickening. Selina’s body went slack instantly, her grip loosening as she collapsed, dragging you down with her. The world lurched, asphalt rushing up to meet you as you hit the floor.
The phone clattered nearby, still connected.
On the other end, Bruce’s voice had turned panicked and demanding.
“Selina?”
A beat.
“Selina—answer me. What the hell just happened?”
There was no answer, and then he heard the distant sound of your voice. weak and dazed.
Your senses lagged behind reality. The impact registered too late as Selina’s weight vanished beside you, her body crumpling bonelessly to the pavement. Your shoulder struck first, then your head, the sound ringing sharp and hollow inside your skull.
Pain bloomed—hot, blinding, swallowing every coherent thought.
“Selina—” you slurred, trying to crawl toward her. Your fingers scraped uselessly against the asphalt, refusing to obey.
Footsteps approached, measured and unhurried.
“Well,” a voice said pleasantly from somewhere above you.
It sounded distorted, warped by the ringing in your ears. You blinked hard, trying to focus. The world swam, colours bleeding together—green smearing into black. A cane tapped once against the pavement, the sound sharp and echoing far too loudly in your skull.
“This is… disappointing,” the voice continued, almost thoughtful.
Your vision tilted as you tried to lift your head. The effort made nausea roll violently through you.
“Drunk,” the voice went on, faintly fond. “Alcohol always introduces errors.”
You tried to speak. Tried to scream.
A gloved hand clamped over your mouth, cutting off the sound before it could form. Something pressed against your face, the scent acrid and sharp.
You struggled weakly, panic flaring as your limbs refused to respond.
“Shhh,” the voice crooned close to your ear. “You’re already very bad at staying conscious. Let’s not fight this.”
Your last clear sight was Selina lying motionless beside you, blood dark at her temple, her chest frighteningly still.
Then the world collapsed inward.
And everything went black.
Bruce arrived to chaos.
Red and blue lights cut through the night, washing the pavement in violent flashes. Police officers moved in tight clusters, radios crackling.
His chest seized.
“Bruce!”
He turned sharply. Selina was sitting on the edge of an ambulance, an EMT hovering nearby, clearly mid-argument with her. She waved them off with irritation the second she saw him, her head snapping up despite the bandage already wrapped around her temple.
Bruce crossed the distance in seconds.
“What happened?” he demanded.
Selina shook her head, frustration and fear threading through her voice. “I don’t know. Y/N was upset and drinking. I called you to tell you I was taking her back to her penthouse, and then…” Her brow furrowed as she searched the moment. “Everything went black. The bastard came up behind me. Knocked me out cold.”
Bruce’s breath stuttered.
“When I woke up,” Selina continued, swallowing hard, “she was gone.” Her eyes locked onto his. “He took her, Bruce.”
“No,” Bruce breathed.
The word tore out of him as his gaze swept the scene, frantic now,
“No. No—”
An EMT reached for his arm, voice calm but firm. “Sir, you need to—”
Bruce shook him off without a second thought.
“Bruce.” Selina’s voice cut through the noise.
He turned back to her just as she reached into her jacket and pulled out a small, neatly folded card. Even from a distance, the colour made his blood run cold.
Bright green.
Slowly, carefully, he unfolded the card, his fingers steady even as something feral clawed its way up his spine.
Inside, a single line was typed.
“What did you assume was safe
simply because it was yours?”
Bruce’s jaw clenched, the card crumpling in his fist as something raw and violent surged through him. He turned and stormed off without a word, ignoring the officers calling after him, brushing past EMTs who tried to slow him down. Nothing mattered except one thing.
You.
Behind him, Selina watched the moment his control finally snapped—and took her chance. She slipped out of the ambulance before anyone could stop her, landing lightly on her feet and disappearing down the alley. In seconds, she was scaling the brickwork, agile as ever, until she reached the rooftop where two familiar figures stood watching the chaos below.
“You think this’ll work?” Oliver asked, arms crossed, eyes never leaving Bruce’s retreating form.
Selina scoffed. “Nygma owes me a favour. He knows better than to hurt her.”
Clark tilted his head, eyes unfocusing as he listened to something only he could hear. After a beat, he relaxed slightly. “She’s fine. Still out cold.” He looked at Selina, uncertainty flickering across his face. “Are we sure this is the right way to handle this?”
“Relax, Boy Scout,” Selina said dryly. “That’s why you’re here—to get her out if anything goes sideways before Bruce finds her.” Her gaze sharpened. “He needs this push. Otherwise he’ll let her go, convince himself it’s the right thing to do, and rot in his misery instead of fighting for her.”
Oliver nodded slowly. “She’s not wrong. You know how morally self-destructive Bruce can get.”
Clark sighed, the sound heavy with reluctant agreement.
Below them, Gotham raged on—unaware that its darkest knight had just been given a reason to burn the city apart if he had to.
You came back to consciousness slowly.
The ache in your head was the first thing you noted and the second was the awareness that something was wrong. A faint hum vibrated beneath you, mechanical and steady, like a server room.
You tried to move.
Your wrists were bound but found yourself secured against the cool metal of an armrest. The chill seeped into your skin. Overhead, a single light burned bright, casting harsh shadows along concrete walls painted an unsettling, nauseating shade of green.
“Good,” a voice said calmly, almost pleasantly, “You’re awake.”
You lifted your head, vision swimming.
Edward Nygma stood several feet away. His suit was perfectly pressed, his posture relaxed. The glare from the light reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes and making him look less like a madman and more like a professor preparing a lecture.
“Oh—don’t bother screaming,” he added mildly. “The soundproofing is excellent. Very expensive.”
Your throat felt dry as sand. “What do you want?” you managed.
Riddler smiled faintly. Looking almost curious.
“I want an answer,” he said calmly. “And you’re going to help me get one.”
He stepped closer, the soft click of his shoes echoing in the too-quiet room, and placed a single bright green card on the table in front of you. The typed text, perfectly aligned, stared back at you.
“Consider this,” he continued, voice smooth. “A riddle—for you.”
Your mouth felt like cotton as you leaned forward just enough to read it.
“What man disappears at night,
yet leaves his shadow everywhere?”
You frowned, confusion knitting your brows as you read it again.
You shook your head, irritation cutting through the fog in your thoughts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He studied you for a long moment, head tilting slightly, as though you were a specimen under glass. His gaze sharp and assessing.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“I don’t play riddles,” you snapped, the words coming out harsher than you intended. “If this is about Bruce—if you think kidnapping me gets you money—”
“Oh, no,” he interrupted. “Money is boring.”
He began to circle you, footsteps soft against the concrete, unhurried. The faint hum in the room seemed to grow louder with every step he took.
Your pulse picked up. “You’re not making sense,” you snapped. “If it’s not money, then what do you want?”
Riddler stopped directly in front of you. For the first time since you woke, his expression shifted, looking genuinely puzzled.
“You really don’t know,” he said.
“Know what?”
He straightened slowly, studying you as if recalculating something in his mind.
“You don’t know,” he repeated, this time with a trace of disappointment. “How deeply inefficient.”
You let out a frustrated groan, your head tipping back against the chair. “Again—if this is about Bruce,” you said flatly, “I hate to break it to you, but we’re divorcing.”
Riddler looked at you again, eyes narrowing.
“…Divorcing,” he repeated slowly, testing the word.
“Yes,” you snapped. “So if this is some leverage play, congratulations—you kidnapped the wrong woman.”
Silence stretched.
Riddler adjusted his glasses, studying you the way one might study a malfunctioning instrument.
“No,” he said at last, voice tightening with displeasure. his expression darkened and something manic entered his gaze. “No, no, no… that won’t do at all.”
“What won’t?” you demanded.
Suddenly, the room erupted.
Alarms screamed to life, sharp and piercing. Riddler’s head snapped toward a nearby monitor as lines of green code began cascading down the screen far too quickly to decipher.
“…Ah,” he murmured, almost fondly as the darkness in his expression seemed to vanish. “It seems someone finally found us.”
The lights cut out.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
A violent crash split the air. Metal screamed as it tore free, followed by the unmistakable sound of something—someone—landing with a heavy thud.
Your breath caught.
A silhouette moved through the dark, tall and solid, every step looking predatory. The very air around him felt as if it was charged with barely restrained violence.
“Step away from her,” a low, gravelly voice commanded.
Batman.
He was on Riddler in seconds.
You barely registered the fight beyond flashes of motion—black against green, a blur of limbs. There was a sound of bone meeting concrete. A sharp grunt cut short. Riddler’s cane clattered uselessly across the floor before his body followed, hitting hard and not getting back up.
Heavy boots approached. You felt him before you saw him. There was sharp clink as the metal cuffs released you and you immediately rubbed your wrist.
A gloved hand reached out, careful now, nothing like the force he’d used moments ago.
You took it and tried to stand.
Your legs immediately betrayed you.
A sharp gasp left your lips as the room tilted, and before you could even think to be embarrassed, he was already there—one arm braced around your back, the other steady at your knees. You clutched his suit instinctively, fingers digging into armoured fabric as he lifted you with effortless strength, as if you weighed nothing at all.
“I’ve got you,” Batman said, his voice lower now, roughened with something that sounded dangerously close to relief. “You’re safe.”
He wrapped his cape around your shoulders, cocooning you in warmth, blocking out the sight of Riddler’s unmoving body behind him. The cape smelled faintly of smoke and rain and something deeply familiar you couldn’t quite place.
As he carried you toward the exit, you looked up at him—at the dark cowl, the shadowed line of his jaw, the way his hand stayed firm and steady at your back, thumb pressing once as if to reassure you.
Your chest tightened at such a familiar gesture. You turned your face away, blinking hard, and only then realized he was already moving toward the exit.
“No,” you said breathlessly. “Please—stop.”
He froze instantly, muscles locking beneath the armour.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, already scanning the room again, body angling subtly to shield you, prepared for another attack.
“I—” You swallowed, fingers tightening in his cape. “I don’t want the paparazzi to see me like this.”
He stared at you for a long moment. “Is there someone I can call?” Batman asked finally. “Mr. Wayne.”
A bitter laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “He’s the last person I want to see right now.”
You let out a slow breath. “I have a high-rise in the East End,” you added quietly. “Would you… mind giving me a ride?”
He was silent for a long moment and you prepared for him to deny your request.
“All right,” he said at last.
He turned away from the exit without another glance, cape settling more securely around you as he adjusted his path—already choosing a route that would keep you out of sight.
“Hold on,” he murmured.
“We’re here,” Batman said at last.
You peeked up from where your face had been tucked against his shoulder, relief washing through you as solid ground replaced the dizzying rush of rooftops. Being carried across Gotham by a man dressed like a bat was—decidedly—not an experience you ever wanted to repeat sober.
He set you down carefully. Your knees wobbled, and instantly his hands were there—firm, steady, almost reluctant to let go until he was sure you had your balance.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
You let out a soft, breathy snort. “You’d think being kidnapped would sober a girl up.”
His mouth tightened beneath the cowl. “You need to be more careful drinking at night,” he said. “Gotham isn’t safe.”
“Usually I am,” you replied, straightening. “Tonight was a special occasion.”
He glanced at you, clearly debating whether to ask. You spared him the effort.
“I mean,” you continued, voice sharp-edged with exhaustion, “when your husband lets you believe he signed divorce papers—then casually reveals a month later that he never did—I think it would drive any woman to drink.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, a sound slipped from him. A low, restrained grunt, almost like a grumble. “Still,” he said, steady and firm, “it’s always best to be careful.”
You hummed softly, the sound thoughtful—and then you swayed just a little closer than necessary, close enough to feel the solidity of him again. Your voice dropped, almost conspiratorial.
“You know,” you murmured, “you’re much nicer than my husband.”
For a fraction of a second, something in him stilled. His hands tightened just enough to keep you upright.
His jaw flexed. “I’m not—”
“Don’t,” you interrupted softly, one finger lifting to trail slowly down the hard line of his armoured chest. “I know. Boundaries. Rules. The heroic image to maintain.” You smirked mischievously. “But even heroes break the rules occasionally.”
His breath caught—just slightly. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Clear enough to know what I want,” you purred, the boldness in your voice something you’d never allow yourself sober. A faint smile curved your lips. “You can even keep the mask on. I promise I won’t peek.”
Your fingers lifted to his jaw, brushing along the edge of the cowl. He barely flinched—barely breathed. Slowly, you rose onto your toes, closing the last inch between you, and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to his lips.
Bruce’s restraint finally snapped.
Weeks of distance, of watching you slip further from him, of wanting and denying himself all at once—it shattered in a single breath. A part of him knew this was wrong, knew every rule he was breaking. But another part justified it just as fiercely. You were still his wife. He knew you well enough to know you were sober enough to consent to this. And you had made it clear—you didn’t want the mask off.
His arms came around you, strong and certain, as he kissed you back with a hunger he’d kept leashed for far too long. You gasped when he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively locking around his waist. He moved without hesitation, sure-footed and you were too lost in him to question how easily he seemed to know the layout.
By the time you realized where you were, you were in the bedroom.
Pieces of armour and discarded clothing lay scattered across the floor, silent evidence of how quickly both your and his control had unraveled. He set you down on the bed, and you watched him with parted lips as he removed the last of the heavy plating, revealing the powerful lines of muscle beneath.
Then he reached for the cowl.
Your breath caught—only for relief to follow when, beneath it, there was only a simple domino mask. Whatever relief or confusion you might’ve voiced was stolen as he was suddenly there again, his presence overwhelming, his kiss deep and consuming.
His lips devoured yours hungrily, urgency bleeding through every movement. Your fingers clutched at him instinctively—one hand gripping his shoulder, the other sliding to his waist, curling up his back.
His mouth found your neck and you arched up, a breathless moan slipping past your lips.
Your fingers brushed over his skin, slow now, deliberate. A scar—raised, familiar beneath your touch. Your breath caught. Your hand shifted slightly, tracing along muscle and heat until you felt another. And another.
The hand at his shoulder slid lower, mapping instinctively, and there it was again.
You stilled, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Batman's body was a canvas of scars just like Bruce's. They were etched deep, earned over years—Like the ones you had traced countless times in the dark, memorizing each ridge and groove without ever questioning where Bruce had gotten them.
Your pulse roared in your ears.
“What man disappears at night, yet leaves his shadow everywhere?”
The riddle crashed back into your mind like ice water.
Nygma had been telling the truth, It hadn’t been about money. It had never been about money.
Riddler had known something that you hadn’t allowed yourself to see. His irritation at the divorce. His certainty. The way he’d looked at you.
The answer had been in your hands all along.
Your breath hitched as the pieces slammed together with brutal clarity.
Your palms pressed flat against Bruce’s chest, shoving him back before you even realized you were moving.
He froze. The movement stopped instantly, concern flickering across what little of his face you could see beneath the mask.
Your breathing was shallow now, uneven. Your eyes dragged over him, no longer seeing the mask meant to hide his identity, but everything beneath it.
Your fingers trembled as they hovered over his skin, tracing paths you had memorized a hundred times before. The same healed gashes. The same ridges beneath scar tissue. All those late nights. All those silences. All the things you had noticed and never questioned.
It was the same body.
Slowly, your gaze lifted to his face.
To the man who vanished night after night, leaving you alone with questions you never dared to ask—what he was doing, where he was going, who he was with—never once imagining this.
The sound that tore out of you was sharp and breathless, bordering on hysterical. A laugh that didn’t belong to humour so much as disbelief.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me…”
Your eyes burned as they locked onto his.
“You,” you said hoarsely. “It was always you.”
Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t bother to deny it. Didn’t reach for you again.
Slowly—carefully—he lifted his hands away from you, palms open, as if you were something volatile.
“Say it,” you demanded, your voice shaking despite your effort to steady it. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
For a long moment, he only looked at you.
Then, with a deliberate slowness, his hands rose to his face. He hooked his fingers beneath the edges of the domino mask and pulled it free.
Your husband’s face stared back at you.
The sound that tore from your chest was broken—half laugh, half sob—as the world tilted violently beneath your feet. Tears burned hot and sudden, blurring your vision as everything you had ignored, excused, rationalized came crashing together all at once.
“No,” you breathed, even as the truth settled deep into your bones. “No—because of course it is.”
Bruce’s face was bare in a way you’d never seen before—no armour, no charm. Just devastation written plainly across his face.
“I never wanted you to find out like this,” he said quietly.
“Oh, don’t,” you snapped, pain sharpening your voice into something jagged. “You never intended for me to find out. Period.” Your chest heaved as a new thought crystallized. “Tell me—was that why you refused to divorce me? Because I was a convenient cover? An alibi?”
Bruce flinched like you’d struck him.
“No,” he said immediately. “God, no.”
You laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. “Then what, Bruce? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like I was useful. The perfect Wayne wife. Smiling beside you, keeping the questions away while you disappeared every night.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You were never a cover.”
“Then explain it,” you demanded.
He dragged a hand down his face, the movement slow, showing just how wrecked he felt. His eyes shone with something dangerously close to panic. “Because I was trying to protect you,” he said hoarsely. “Because if I stayed distant, you wouldn’t start seeing the patterns. You wouldn’t put together the connection between me and Batman.”
He swallowed hard.
“And you wouldn’t be dragged into the darkness I fight every night just to keep this city standing.”
Your chest tightened. Your voice, when it came, was quiet—deadly in its calm.
“So I was an acceptable loss,” you said. “As long as Gotham stayed safe.”
His breath hitched. “No.” His voice broke on the word. “You were the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose.”
You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “Bullshit!” you snapped.
You drew in a sharp breath, forcing your voice down, forcing control back into it even as your hands trembled.
“Bullshit,” you repeated quietly. “That’s just an excuse.”
He took a step toward you—then stopped, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, as if touching you might shatter what little remained.
“I didn’t refuse the divorce because I needed an alibi,” he said, voice raw. “I refused because signing those papers felt like ripping my own heart out.”
“What are you saying?” you asked shakily.
You pressed on before he could answer, years of hurt spilling out at once. “I spent years loving what might as well have been a ghost. Making excuses for your absence. Convincing myself the problem was me.” Your voice trembled. “Feeling used. Alone. Like an afterthought whenever you finally decided to show up.”
Bruce closed his eyes, like every word was another stab to his heart.
“If you’d told me,” you whispered, broken now, “I would’ve stayed.” A tear slipped free. “I would’ve chosen you.”
That was what finally broke him.
“I know,” he said, the words barely audible, like they were torn straight from his chest. “And that’s what terrifies me.” His breath hitched. “Y/N… I love you. I love you so much that I’ve been selfish. So selfish that I’d rather keep you safe at any cost—even if it meant doing everything except the one thing I should’ve done.”
He dragged a shaky hand through his hair, eyes shining, voice rough with emotion he’d been holding back for years.
“I wake up every night knowing there are people out there who would use you to hurt me,” he went on. “People who would enjoy it.” His jaw tightened. “And every time I put that mask on, I tell myself the same lie—that keeping you in the dark keeps you safe.”
“But it didn’t, did it?” you said, your voice stripped of emotion. “Tonight is proof of that.”
Bruce flinched.
“I know,” he admitted hoarsely.
You drew in a steady breath, forcing your voice to remain even. “We live in Gotham, Bruce. We come from two of the richest families in the city. Danger was never something we could opt out of—Batman or not.”
You met his eyes then, unwavering.
“I was always a target,” you continued quietly. “Because of my name. My money. My influence. The difference is that while you were preparing for that reality, I was being kept ignorant of it.”
You shook your head.
“You didn’t make the world safer for me,” you said. “You just made me less prepared to face it.”
Bruce’s shoulders slumped, his head bowing his head because you were right. Everyone had told him the same thing, over and over. Let her in, or let her go. And still, he had clung to the space in between, too stubborn and too afraid to choose.
Afraid you would get hurt.
Afraid this world would be too much for you.
Afraid that if you truly saw him, you wouldn’t accept what you found.
So he had done the one thing he knew how to do best.
He had taken control and made the decision to keep everything concealed from you.
And in doing so, he’d hurt the one person he’d been trying so desperately to protect.
“I was terrified,” he admitted quietly. “Terrified you’d look at me and see a monster. That you’d realize loving me meant living with this—” he gestured helplessly to the suit, the scars, the truth “—and walk away.”
His voice broke.
“So I chose for you,” he said quietly. “And I was wrong.” A breath shuddered out of him. “I’m sorry.”
You stared at him for a long moment, stunned by the rawness in his voice. Your mouth opened, then closed again—too many thoughts colliding, none of them lining up neatly. You’d spent years bracing yourself against his distance. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him.
“And what about Julie?” you blurted at last.
The name seemed to genuinely catch him off guard. His brows pulled together. “What about her?”
You let out a hollow scoff. “She has been in love with you forever, everyone knows it.”
“And?”
“And what, Bruce?” The words came out sharper than you meant, tears blurring your vision despite your effort to hold them back. “I know she’s the one you truly love. I’m just the one you were forced to be with.”
His expression shifted instantly—shock, then something like hurt. “What are you talking about?” he asked, voice rising. “The only person I’ve ever loved is you. I never even touched Julie.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound breaking in your throat. “You two were always together, going out for lunch and dinner. She clings to you shamelessly—”
“Y/N, that’s not—” Bruce tried to cut in, already shaking his head.
You shot him a sharp look, stopping him cold. “Don’t,” you said, voice trembling but firm. “I saw you two kiss.”
Bruce stiffened. “When?”
“Back in university,” you said, swallowing hard. “In the hall. When no one else was around.”
For a split second, he looked genuinely confused—then his eyes widened, memory snapping into place. “That’s not what you think.” You scoffed, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he caught your hand and pulled you closer, his other hand rising to cup your face, forcing you to look at him.
“I’m serious,” he said urgently, the words tumbling out of him now that the truth was finally in the open. “I came to pick you up from class when she approached me. She told me how she felt, it caught me completely off guard. And she took the chance to try and kiss me.”
Your breath hitched.
“I pushed her away before she could,” he continued, voice rough, desperate for you to believe him. “I told her it was never going to happen. That it was always you.” His hand tightened around yours. “I never loved her,” he said firmly. “Not once. Not for a second. You have always been the only woman for me. There has never been anyone else.”
Your gaze searched his face—really searched it—and what you found there wasn’t deflection or guilt, but raw sincerity. He looked like the boy you’d fallen in love with long before Gotham had beat him down.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice softer now, stripped of its defences. “For every night I wasn’t there. For every truth I buried. For letting you believe—for even a moment—that you were anything less than the center of my world.” His breath shook. “If she bothers you this much, then she’s gone. Whatever you want, I’ll give you. Just—” his voice broke, “—not a divorce. I can’t lose you.”
Your breath hitched at the raw desperation in his words.
“Then why?” you asked, your voice shaking despite yourself. “Why did you let her hang around you? All those lunches, the dinners, the way she was always there—why?” You searched his face, aching for an answer that would finally make sense of it all.
He hesitated, eyes flicking away as his jaw tightened. His head shook slowly. “I…”
You laughed bitterly, the sound thin and fragile. “You still don’t get it,” you sighed as you pulled away from his touch. “Trust, Bruce. This all comes down to the fact that you still don’t trust me.”
“Do you have any idea what it feels like,” you continued, words spilling faster, sharper, “to love someone who’s always half gone? To lie awake wondering if tonight is the night you won’t come back—and not even knowing why?” Your throat tightened. “To feel unstable inside your own marriage?”
Line of guilt carved deep into his face.
“Even now,” you went on, voice cracking, “you won’t tell me why you kept Julie so close.” You shook your head. “Do you know what that did to me? It made me feel like I wasn’t even an option. Like I was unwanted. Like I was something you settled for.”
“That was never true,” he said hoarsely.
“It doesn’t matter,” you said quietly. “Because that’s how you made me feel.” You swallowed. “Now you’re telling me it was all for my protection? That the pain I went through was just… acceptable collateral damage in your eyes?”
“You were never collateral,” he said immediately, the words ripped from him.
“But somewhere along the way,” you replied softly—devastating in its calm, “you decided my feelings were expendable. In the name of safety and secrecy.” You held his gaze, unflinching. “At least in your calculations.”
He looked at you like the ground had fallen away beneath him.
“I thought loving you meant carrying the burden alone,” he said quietly. “Shielding you from the darkness that’s been my life.”
Tears slipped free before you could stop them. You wiped them away angrily, refusing to let them soften your resolve.
“Love isn’t martyrdom, Bruce,” you said. “It’s partnership. It’s choosing each other with the truth—not in spite of it.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m realizing that now.”
Silence stretched between you. It was fragile and raw, honest in a way it had never been before.
At last, he spoke again, voice low. “I can’t promise you’ll be safe. Not if you stay. Not if you know everything.”
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as you held his gaze. “I’m not asking for safety,” you said. “I’m asking for choice.”
Something in him shifted. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, then eased—as if a long-held tension finally loosened.
“Then whatever you choose,” he said softly, resolute. “I’ll live with it.”
You exhaled, your breath trembling as it left you. “Not tonight.”
Pain flickered across his face, but he didn’t argue.
“I need time,” you continued. “Time to decide if I can forgive you. It’s years of hurt and neglect, Bruce. I can’t look past that so easily.”
He nodded once, the motion dejected. “Take all the time you need.”
You turned to leave, but he reached out and caught your hand once again.
“And Julie,” he said softly. “Give me until Monday to explain. Please.”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you slipped your hand out of his grip and got off from the bed, gathering your dress, and pulling it on with a strange feeling of detachment. When you walked away, you didn’t look back.
For the first time, it was you leaving Bruce alone in the bed.
Behind you, Bruce Wayne stayed perfectly still, realizing that saving Gotham had never been his greatest test.
أَصْـبَحْنا وَأَصْـبَحَ المُـلْكُ لله وَالحَمدُ لله ، لا إلهَ إلاّ اللّهُ وَحدَهُ لا شَريكَ لهُ، لهُ المُـلكُ ولهُ الحَمْـد، وهُوَ على كلّ شَيءٍ قدير ، رَبِّ أسْـأَلُـكَ خَـيرَ ما في هـذا اليوم وَخَـيرَ ما بَعْـدَه ، وَأَعـوذُ بِكَ مِنْ شَـرِّ ما في هـذا اليوم وَشَرِّ ما بَعْـدَه، رَبِّ أَعـوذُ بِكَ مِنَ الْكَسَـلِ وَسـوءِ الْكِـبَر ، رَبِّ أَعـوذُ بِكَ مِنْ عَـذابٍ في النّـارِ وَعَـذابٍ في القَـبْر.
اللّهـمَّ أَنْتَ رَبِّـي لا إلهَ إلاّ أَنْتَ ، خَلَقْتَنـي وَأَنا عَبْـدُك ، وَأَنا عَلـى عَهْـدِكَ وَوَعْـدِكَ ما اسْتَـطَعْـت ، أَعـوذُ بِكَ مِنْ شَـرِّ ما صَنَـعْت ، أَبـوءُ لَـكَ بِنِعْـمَتِـكَ عَلَـيَّ وَأَبـوءُ بِذَنْـبي فَاغْفـِرْ لي فَإِنَّـهُ لا يَغْـفِرُ الذُّنـوبَ إِلاّ أَنْتَ .
رَضيـتُ بِاللهِ رَبَّـاً وَبِالإسْلامِ ديـناً وَبِسيدنا مُحَـمَّدٍ صلى الله عليه وسلم نَبِيّـاً ورسولاً.
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