3 hours you lasted, before you rang the number he’d given you.
You go to meet march at his …apartment above the comedy club?
Warnings: 18+, NSFW minors do not interact. reader is written with a penis, but no other appearance descriptions. no use of y/n. plot what plot? blowjob, frotting (YAYYYY). holland mentions his wife because he’s stupid. giving and receiving hickeys (these boys like to bite), drinking. healy makes an appearance
a/n: boss makes a dollar, i make a dime, thats why im writing porn on company time. most of this was written at work because they do not pay me enough. once again i haven’t posted smut properly since i was 13. be gentle with me . I LOVE YOU JACKSON HEALY
Listen, Holland had made some questionable parenting choices over the years, but fucking hot-bar-guy-stranger in the same house as his daughter would be bad...even for him.
But he was lucky, and just as you hummed your proposal into the phone, he twirled the cord around his finger, and settled his eyes on a set of keys laying abandoned on the counter. BINGO. He was a genius- no one could compare, he was the best in the world.
He'd rattled off the address with a proud smirk on his lips, and slurred a shout to Holly that he'd be back in an hour or two, and not to do anything he wouldn't do. -Which quite frankly, didn't leave a lot of things.
10 minutes later he was leaning against the wall of a comedy club, cigarette pinched between his lips as he kept making less than comfortable eye contact with the bouncer, along with the line of strangers waiting to be let in. He winked at the bouncer with a teasing grin, spinning the keyring around on one finger, which only earnt an eye roll in response.
"March!" You had a beaming grin on your face now, and your sheer drunken glee at the sight of him did little to quell his up and coming ego problem, and he almost lost the cigarette out the side of his mouth when he beamed back at you.
"Looks like I owe you on your bet now." He mused, stubbing his cigarette out onto the wall, and raising an arm to loop through yours at your approach.
"Mhm, but I think we can find some alternate payment." You barely stayed on your feet as you leant right into his side, humming giddily into his ear.
Another wink to the clearly disapproving bouncer, and you were in and up the stairs in no time, both scrambling, an excitement bubbling up that neither could ignore. You barely made it to the door without throwing yourselves at each other, and March couldn't tell if it was the booze or the adrenaline that was making it virtually impossible to stab Jack's stupid key into his lock.
"So is this like- your work apartment?" You both all but fell through the door, and despite how much you wanted to get right to performing literally any sexual act on the man beside you now that you weren't confined to the dirty club bathroom, you allowed yourself a quick look around. It was tidier than you'd expected from Holland, who still looked as dishevelled as when you left him, though he'd copied your act of a quick trouser change. Blue this time, you had to admire his commitment to a good look.
"Yeah-Yeah it is." He leant against one of the walls with his elbow, and you tried to pretend that you didn't see him slip and nearly go careening sideways to the floor as he did so. "You want-want a uh-" He leant back to look around the room he was standing in, looking awfully confused as he did so. "Fuck- there's gotta-" He dipped out of view, only for a series of crashing to follow. "Fuck yes- I knew I could count on you, Healy." He appeared again, holding two bottles of beer, a pleased smirk tugging at his lips. "You're up to two drinks you owe me now." He laughed at his own joke, passing you one of the bottles, eyes following a little too closely as you lifted it to your lips.
"Can I like- suck you off?" There were definitely smoother ways to go about it, but you figured this arrangement didn't exactly require much flirting, namely on account of the fact that as soon as you said those words, Holland was very rapidly crossing the room.
"You know that's like my favourite question ever?" He sounded genuinely excited, all semblance of a cool composure melting into absolutely nothing but pure joy. "They say eyes are the window to the soul but like- I'm pretty sure my dick is- no- I meant like- your mouth is ..."
"Shut up- I beg of you." He was all too happy to let you push him down onto the sofa, and you'd hazard a guess that if he was any more drunk he'd actually start crying tears of joy as he placed his bottle down.
"Yeah-Yeah I can do that." He spoke like man who definitely couldn't do that, and you swore a cigarette materialised in his hand the moment you glanced away to put your beer on the floor beside the sofa. "I can be sooooooo shut up you would not bel-" In an effort to stop what you knew would be a barely comprehensible ramble, you moved to the floor, making light work of undoing the front of his trousers. "Fuck- yeah okay-fuck yeah." You watched him as his head all but rolled back limp on his neck, a trail of smoke crawling up to the ceiling.
"Shit- Y'want a drag?" With your mind still buzzing, intoxicated and sweet, you felt yourself drift slightly, and you rested your head against his thigh. "Here." He spun the cigarette around between his fingers, offering it down to you, helpfully positioned right in front of his crotch, much to his clear enjoyment.
"Mhm, thanks." Your hands found his thighs as you leant forward, taking the cigarette between your lips. It felt obscene and filthy- sleazy, just like everything with March seemed to be, and you revelled in it, blinking up at him and watching the barely concealed lust on his face.
It became very clear how March felt about the situation when he pulled the cigarette away from your mouth, and gently pushed his hips up, almost meeting your lips. He whistled lowly when you pressed a kiss to the strained fabric, moving until your teeth caught the waistband, listening to him hiss above you. "Fuck- it's so much better seeing it from this angle." You didn't let yourself think too much on the fact that he was definitely about to launch into another porn anecdote, and instead decided to shut him up the best way you knew how.
Getting March out of his trousers had proved to be no easy task, as far as you were concerned, they may as well be plastered to his thighs. "Shit-" He mumbled, almost catching his own hair on fire with the end of his cigarette as he shuffled about in an effort to help you shimmy them down.
"Fuck." The curse passed your lips before you could think, and you glanced up to see an embarrassed flush cross over March's face. "In a good way." That seemed to settle his sudden nervousness, and he rewarded it by settling his free hand atop your head.
"Be careful with those fuckin teeth of yours- don't think I've forgot." He slid the hand on your head round to your cheek, just enough to probe his thumb along the seam of your lips. "Little vampire." He mused, pushing it in enough to part them, trailing the digit across your teeth once more.
"Nah March, I was just planning on biting your dick clean off." You licked across his thumb, leaning back enough to talk, before reaching out for his other hand, catching on his wrist to pull the cigarette down towards your own lips. His eyes tracked its movement into your mouth with an almost unnerving intensity, his lips curving up into a smirk, watching you take a drag once more.
"I think I'd let you anyway."
Following on with the rather unceremonious tone the evening had taken, you wasted no time in getting right to it- and the shocked face March made when you moved to instead wrap your lips around him was entertainment enough. Plus, you'd spent the last few hours since you left the bar bathroom imagining this exact scenario, so a little self indulgence wouldn't hurt.
"Jesus!" His voice rose in pitch, and you attempted to muffle the snort that bubbled from your throat by taking him just a fraction deeper, which to your great enjoyment, did not make him any quieter- especially not when you dug your fingers into the soft flesh of his thighs. "You're gonna kill me-you're gonna fuckin' kill me and I'm gonna let you." His hand found the back of your head, guiding you hesitantly forward as you attempted to relax your throat. He was oddly tender, compared to the riled up, hellbent-on-making-you-cum version of him you'd been with a few hours ago in that bathroom stall. You kind of wished he wouldn't be so gentle.
He began to rut further and faster into your mouth, and you learnt the beautiful fact that March was a whiner. His head alternated between being thrown back as he whimpered, or grunting and whining weakly as he stared down at you, cigarette crumpled in the corner of his mouth as his other hand slotted over your own on his thigh.
"I don't wanna-" He trailed off, seemingly fighting himself to slow his pace back down, hips jittering as he panted. "I don't wanna cum in your throat yet- you know I-I can actually be a real giver- if you'd let me." His hand found the back of your neck despite the awkward angle, and he squeezed with his thumb and index just enough that your head spun. "Off, c'mon." You came off with an obscene pop, and March groaned filthily. "You are like- fucking incredible at that- jesus- I feel like I should be paying you-" Through his ramble he helped you back up to his feet, cigarette since abandoned, dropped into a glass sat by the floor.
"Take your pants off." He retrieved his drink, reclining back with an almost childish grin, gesturing to your waist with the bottle.
"Oh I-" You paused, hands finding your own waistband.
"C'mon! Get your dick out for me! Don't be shy, I've seen plenty! Plus- from what I felt earlier, you have nothin to hide." He punctuated it all with a wink, and you wondered whether he was this charming sober, or if this was a special dizzy treat you were getting.
Either way, his eyes on you were almost as intoxicating as all the booze flowing through your system, so it didn't take much convincing for you to shuffle out of your pants, letting them pool around your ankles and-
March whistled lowly, immediately moving to clutch at your waist, dragging you towards him. "March!" You yelped, unsteady on your feet, but it didn't falter his apparent mission, because he used your wobbly state to pull you down onto his lap.
"Yeah baby, that's my name, don't wear it out." He looked down at where your bodies were now almost flush together, his cock red and leaking against his stomach, yours in a similar fashion. "Or uh-or do wear it out- y'know- if it means you're enjoying this." A sudden crack in the persona he'd been wearing, a nervousness crawling up his skin as he tensed beneath you.
"Im loving it, March." One hand steadied you against his shoulder, whilst the other tapped at his chin, urging his eyes back up. "You're my man, if you can't do it, no one can." You repeated his earlier words to him, leaning down to pepper his face with kisses as you laughed softly, feeling him relax once more, one of his hands trailing to your ass.
"Maaaarch." He snorted, squeezing the flesh under his hand, watching you react immediately, much to his delight. "Woah you weren't kidding huh? And now seeing as we're both dicks out, what's a little proper frotting between two hot guys?"
His hand found your dick before you could even register what he'd just said, and his own pressed up against it, fingers curling around both at once, eliciting a soft gasp. "Fucking lube-" He paused, glancing around for several moments before you watched his eyes light up, following his gaze towards his discarded bottle.
"If you pour beer on my dick, I will bite yours off, March." He had that same shit eating grin again, and he didn't let you think before that same hand was at your mouth.
"Open wide then." Marched seemed to be largely enjoying your willingness to let him stick his fingers in your mouth, and he groaned softly as your tongue glided against them.
"You know- I think we could make a good little...experimental film together.." He used the fingers in your mouth to hook behind your teeth, thumb pressing to your chin so he could manipulate your head up and down in a nod. Fucking hell. "Glad you agree."
Once you'd slobbered enough over his hand for his liking, he returned it to your cocks that we're still bumping together, chuckling at the spit that dribbled down your jaw. "Fuck porn, I could get off just from that sigh for the rest of my fuckin life. You're a gift- baby, I'm telling you." It was your turn to whine as he began to jack you both off slowly, the friction setting your skin aflame. "I've always wanted to try this- sadly my wife didn't exactly have a-" You tried not to recoil at the words.
"Please don't talk about your wife whilst my dick is in your fucking hand." You leant forward, resting your forehead on his shoulder, nuzzling his open shirt enough that you could kiss lazily across his collarbone.
"Sorry. Does this make up for it?" He tilted his head just enough to catch his lips against the side of your neck, biting down softly as his thumb pressed to your slit.
"Bastard." You hissed, and you could feel him grin into your skin, swiping precum messily around as you both thrust into his hand.
"I can stop if you want." His movements ceased, and you responded by sinking your teeth into the taught skin of his shoulder, listening to the groan it caused, vibrating against your throat.
"Don't you fucking dare." He resumed his movements, jerking you both off together at an almost feverish pace.
You could feel your release building, and judging by March's incoherent whining muffled against your neck, he was close too, thrusts uneven and sloppy. "C'mon, fuck- c'mon." He panted, desperation clawing at his voice, high pitched and needy.
"March- shit-" Your fingers squeezed at his shoulder where you'd been steadying yourself, nails digging desperately into the muscle. "Fuck." You were practically slobbering over his collarbone, jaw slack against him.
You just about managed to open your eyes as you came, and March seemed to do the same as he choked out a moan, spreading your cum over you both before coming himself with a blissed out cry.
"Was that better than porn?" You panted, hearing him laugh softly beneath you.
"Fuck yeah." He nuzzled back up against you, hissing as both your hips shifted.
"Do you have anything to.." You trailed off, and March shuffled in his pocket, passing you a pack of cigarettes.
“Light me one, and we’ll use my vest.” You wanted to question why the hell he wouldn’t just go to his bathroom to get a towel, but he shut that thought up when he pushed a cigarette between your lips.
“How charming.” You slid carefully off of his lap to sit beside him on the sofa, rummaging in your own pockets to retrieve your matches.
“Oh I am a romantic, doll.” You rolled your eyes, lighting the cigarette.
You revelled in watching him unbutton his shirt, exposing the bite marks trailing across his shoulder, and when he lifted his vest over his head, your eyes flicked down to his toned stomach. “Here, babe.” He grinned at you, cleaning himself off with his vest before doing the same to you, chuckling softly when you whined at the feeling of the fabric brushing against your sensitive head.
“A real romantic you are, March.” He tossed it lazily to the floor, reaching over to snatch the cigarette from your lips, giving you a moment to pull your trousers back up, though you left them unbuttoned, March mirroring your actions.
“I bet-“
The door swung open so hard the hinges squealed, and you jumped about 10 feet into the air at the sight of the man in the doorway. “Shit!” March screamed next to you, cursing again when the cigarette fell from his mouth and landed on his leg.
"Are you fucking kidding me? Don't tell me you're seriously- oh my god- March this is low even for you!” He slammed the door behind him, jabbing a finger at March, who held his hands up in defence.
"What the hell are you doing back so early?! You're-You're supposed to be gone for another 2 days! If anything- this is- this is on you!" He scrambled to his feet, though he made no move to go at the other man, instead blocking you from view.
"Who even is that?" The unknown man peered around him, eyes wide in disbelief.
"He's uh- He's- You know I don't actually know his name I-" He had a stupid smile on his face, shrugging casually as you sent a small wave to the other man, one he mirrored for a moment before turning back to glare at March.
"You are fucking unbelievable March I-Fucking this fucking stranger in my apartment!" He paused for several moments, leaning around him once more. "Actually, my apologies uh- I can imagine he lead you to believe this was his place, listen- my anger is only with him, not you uh- you- you seem like a lovely young man— he's despicable but uh-you're blameless here." He forced an awkward smile, a hand grasping March’s shoulder, eliciting a small yelp.
“Jackson Healy- this is uh- this is my apartment, actually.” He held a hand out, and you stood up to shake it, eyes widening at his harsh hold. Hello.
“Nice to meet you- I’m really sorry, and you uh-you have a lovely apartment, for what it’s worth.” Jackson seemingly forgot all about his shirtless business partner, genuinely smiling at you now.
“Well thank you, it’s a good little spot y’know? Reasonably nice part of town, I’m a lucky guy.” You nodded along, glancing over at March, who looked guilty as sin, a grimace tugging at his lips.
“I’ll uh- I think I’ll leave you both to it. It was nice seeing you again, March. And uh- lovely to meet you, Jackson, sorry again.” He just waved you off dismissively, a reassuring smile that it wasn’t your fault.
“See you around, doll.” Despite the death grip on his shoulder and his friend now staring at him like he could kill him, March still managed a smirk and a wink at you, and you couldn’t help but think that this wouldn’t be the last time you saw either of them- and you didn’t quite mind.
The reader went on a long mission and came back to the mansion and is now exhausted mentally and physically. But the reader still has things to do after the mission, maybe some reports, but Scott sees how exhausted the reader is and argues that he should stay in bed and catch up on rest. The reader is stubborn at first, but after stumbling around for a bit and brain fog, the reader hesitantly agrees to basically be on bed rest. The reader is still grumpy though, with Scott being overly worried and watching his every step.
Burnout
Scott Summers x Male Reader
Summary: Mental and physical exhaustion was something you were used to, unless Scott had something to say about it
CW: Fluff - Stubborn reader - Mutant reader - Reader has telekinesis/telepathy - Established relationship
Words: 2.2k
A/N: Finally a Scott request! My boy deserves so much love that isn't just smut, and by gods anon you did it! Honestly though, I fucking love Scott and I appreciate the request.
Another grueling mission had come to an end, leaving you drained in a way that felt bone-deep. You knew the logic behind the assignment; Charles usually insisted it was you who took point on these long-distance ops. Jean was still grappling with the volatile edges of her own psyche, and Charles was simply getting too old for the physical demands of field work. Your dual mastery over telepathy and telekinesis made you the X-Men’s most versatile asset, but that utility came at a steep price.
It wasn't the first time you had returned feeling like a hollowed-out shell, and it wouldn't be the last. You had a habit of pushing past your limits—a trait that caused Scott endless dismay. He hated seeing you return to the mansion looking absolutely miserable, yet still too stubborn to admit you needed to collapse.
This time was no different. Scott was waiting, his silhouette sharp against the clinical lights of the Blackbird’s hangar. He could see the burnout in the way you carried your shoulders the second you stepped off the ramp. You looked lost, your eyes unfocused and a permanent grimace etched onto your face, as if the very air in the room was too loud for your overstimulated mind.
He met you halfway, his pace hurried but his touch cautious. His hands came up instinctively, resting firmly on your hips to steady you. Through the red lenses of his sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his concern.
“You don’t look so good,” Scott murmured, his voice dropping into that low, private register he reserved only for you.
“I’m fine,” you sighed, the lie feeling heavy on your tongue. You leaned into him, letting your forehead rest against his shoulder for a fleeting second. “Just a headache, Scott. Nothing too bad.”
He didn't buy it for a second. He could feel the heat radiating off your skin, a tell-tale sign that you’d been over-extending your powers. “Your ‘headaches’ usually involve the whole floor vibrating,” he countered gently, sliding an arm around your waist to take your weight. “Let’s get you upstairs before you pass out in front of the recruits.”
You tried to sidestep him, but your boots felt like they were made of lead, catching on the metal grating of the hangar floor. The sudden jolt sent a spike of white-hot pain through your temples, making the world tilt dangerously to the left.
“I told you, Scott, I’ve got it,” you gritted out, though the words felt sluggish in your mouth. You shoved weakly at his chest, trying to put distance between you, but he didn't budge. He was a solid, unmoving weight in the center of your collapsing world. “I’m just... I’m hungry. A shower, a sandwich, and I’ll be back for the debrief in twenty minutes.”
“You aren't going to a debrief; you're barely going to make it to the elevator,” Scott replied. He stepped back just enough to let you try to walk on your own, his arms crossing over his chest. He stood there, one eyebrow quirked above the rim of his sunglasses, watching you with a look of practiced patience.
You took two steps, fueled by pure spite and the stubborn refusal to be the "vulnerable" one. But then, the fog rolled in.
It started as a dull hum at the base of your skull that suddenly flared into a roar of static. The hangar lights didn’t just look bright anymore; they began to bleed into one another, stretching into long, shimmering ribbons of silver. You reached out to steady yourself against a nearby equipment rack, but your hand passed through empty air—your depth perception had simply checked out.
The sounds of the mansion—the distant hum of the sub-basement generators, the muffled footsteps of students three floors up—all came rushing into your mind at once, unfiltered and violent. It wasn't just noise; it was a physical weight. You felt the telekinetic hum in your fingertips begin to buzz uncontrollably, a stray wrench on a nearby table rattling as it responded to your fractured focus.
For a few terrifying seconds, you forgot where you were. You weren't in the hangar; you were back in the mission zone, then in the jet, then nowhere at all. The floor felt like it was liquid. You stumbled, your knees buckling as the "brain fog" turned into a total sensory blackout.
Before your knees could hit the cold metal, Scott was there. He caught you under the arms, pulling you flush against his chest. The smell of his leather jacket and the faint scent of ozone acted like a lightning rod, pulling you back to reality.
“Yeah,” Scott’s voice rumbled against your ear, dry and knowing. “You look real ‘fine’ from down here.”
You blinked, the silver ribbons slowly retreating. You were panting, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead. “I just... the floor moved.”
“The floor didn’t move, babe. You did,” Scott murmured, his tone softening as he realized the bravado had finally snapped. He didn't let go this time, his grip tightening protectively. “The shower can wait ten minutes. The bed can't.”
Scott didn’t let go, even as you regained a shaky sense of balance. He let out a long, weary sigh. He looked over your shoulder at the workbench behind you, where a handful of heavy-duty wrenches and a blowtorch were still hovering inches off the table, vibrating in sympathy with your frayed nerves.
“You can drop the tools, honey,” he chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your chest. “Unless you’re planning on fixing the Blackbird with your mind while you’re half-conscious.”
You hadn’t even realized you were doing it. The realization hit you like a splash of cold water. With a sharp exhale, you severed the telekinetic tether. The heavy thud-clank of the tools falling back into their slots echoed through the quiet hangar, the sound momentarily bringing you back down to earth. The sudden absence of that mental weight made your head swim again, and you slumped more heavily into his side.
“I wasn't... I didn't mean to,” you muttered, your voice thick with exhaustion.
“I know,” Scott said, already steering you toward the elevator.
As he led you through the winding hallways of the sub-basement toward the living quarters, the "whinging" began in earnest. Now that the adrenaline was gone, you felt every bruise, every mental scrape, and the indignity of being coddled.
“I can walk, Scott, seriously. You’re holding me like I’m made of glass,” you complained, even as your feet dragged pathetically against the carpet. “And I’m starving. If I go to sleep now, I’m going to wake up in two hours and eat the entire contents of the pantry. You’ll have to explain to Logan why his beer and jerky are gone.”
“I’ll buy him more,” Scott countered, his grip on your waist iron-clad. He didn't even look at you, his focus entirely on navigating the turns.
“It’s not efficient,” you persisted, leaning your head back against his shoulder as the elevator doors hissed open. “I need a shower. I smell like jet fuel and sweat. I’m going to ruin the sheets. Scott, are you listening? The sheets are high-thread count, it’s a tragedy.”
“The sheets are washable. Your brain is not,” he replied dryly. He used his free hand to swipe his keycard at the door to your shared suite.
The door slid open, revealing the dim, cool sanctuary of your room. The silence here was a physical relief; Scott had clearly soundproofed the walls specifically to help with your telepathic sensitivity. You let out one last, weak protest as he guided you toward the edge of the bed. “I’m perfectly capable of standing in a stream of hot water for ten minutes...”
“You’re perfectly capable of falling asleep standing up and cracking your head on the tiles,” Scott corrected. He sat you down on the edge of the mattress and immediately knelt to unlace your boots. He looked up at you, the red of his sunglasses softened by the bedside lamp. “Food is coming. I’ll go to the kitchen once you’re under the covers. But right now? Boots off. Mouth shut.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it, the cool air of the room finally winning over your stubbornness. You flopped back onto the pillows with a dramatic groan. “Fine. But I’m being mistreated. This is a kidnapping.”
“Worst kidnapping ever,” Scott muttered, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he set your boots aside.
By the time the soft hiss of the door announced Scott’s return, you had managed the Herculean task of shedding your suit. It lay in a discarded, crumpled heap by the chair, replaced by the sheer comfort of your boxer briefs and one of Scott’s oversized grey t-shirts. The cotton was soft, washed thin from years of use, and carried the faint, lingering scent of him—sandalwood and a trace of the engine oil he always seemed to pick up in the hangar. It was the first thing all day that didn't feel like a burden on your skin.
Scott entered carrying a tray with the steady precision of a man who had spent his life honing his balance. He set the plate of food—a massive, hastily assembled sandwich and some fruit—on the bedside table, followed by a tall glass of water and a bottle of electrolytes.
"You raid the kitchen?" you asked, your voice barely a croak.
"Let's just say Logan is going to be looking for his expensive ham tomorrow morning," Scott replied with a faint smirk.
He didn't immediately hover. Instead, he moved to his side of the bed, beginning his own nightly ritual. You watched through heavy lids as he stripped down to his boxers and a plain white tee. He moved with a practiced caution, his fingers grazing the temples of his dark-tinted sunglasses to ensure they remained firmly in place. Even in the privacy of their room, the safety of his partner was his first priority; he never took risks with his eyes, not even when he was bone-tired.
The bed groaned pleasantly as he finally climbed in beside you, propping himself up against the headboard. The shift in the mattress rolled you slightly toward him, a movement you didn't fight.
“Smells good,” you whispered, sitting up against the pillows. Your hands felt a little shaky as you reached for the plate, but the fog in your mind was finally starting to thin, replaced by the sharp, primal demand of hunger.
Scott watched you take the first bite, his expression unreadable behind the glasses, though the tension in his jaw had finally begun to melt. He reached out, his hand finding the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles against your skin. It was a grounding touch, a silent promise that the world outside—with its Sentinels, its politics, and its endless noise—was locked firmly behind the door.
“Slow down,” he cautioned gently, though there was a teased undertone to his voice. “The ham isn't going anywhere. Neither am I.”
You finished the meal in a comfortable silence, the heavy fog that had clouded your brain finally replaced by a sleepy, contented warmth. When the plate was cleared and the lights were dimmed to a soft, amber glow, you finally slid down under the heavy duvet. Scott followed suit, opening his arm in a silent invitation. You didn't hesitate, tucking your head into the crook of his neck and draping an arm across his chest.
For the first time in forty-eight hours, the "noise" stopped. Scott’s mind was always a sanctuary for you—it wasn't the chaotic, buzzing hive of thoughts you encountered in the outside world. His mind felt like the steady hum of a well-tuned engine, or the quiet focus of a laser; it was rhythmic, calm, and utterly safe. You let your telepathy go dormant, tethering your consciousness to his steady heartbeat until you finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, you didn't wake up to a klaxon or a telepathic summons. You woke up to the smell of actual coffee and the soft light of the sun filtering through the curtains.
You stretched, feeling a few satisfying pops in your spine. The crushing weight behind your eyes was gone, replaced by a light, airy clarity. Your telekinesis felt sharp and responsive again—you tested it by reflexively hovering your coffee mug from the nightstand toward your hand, catching it with a grin.
Scott was sitting by the window, already dressed in a casual polo and jeans, looking through a mission report. He looked up as you sat up, his smile visible even if his eyes were hidden.
“There he is,” Scott said, his voice bright. “You look… significantly less like a zombie today.”
“I feel human again,” you admitted, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. You walked over to him, and this time, there was no stumbling. Your steps were sure, your mind was quiet, and for the first time in a long time, there was nowhere else you needed to be.
You leaned down, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind. Scott reached up, squeezing your forearm. The mission was over, the danger had passed, and you were home.
“Thank you,” you whispered into his hair. “For not letting me fall in the hangar.”
“Always,” Scott promised, leaning his head back against you. “But next time? Just listen before you start hallucinating again, okay?”
You laughed, a genuine, light sound that filled the room. “Deal.”
May I request a Remy LeBeau "Gambit" x (Scott's brother) male reader fic, with the one of them getting sick trope? I have literally got two directions this could go, either:
Remy is the one who's sick, so the fic is just him being fussy/needy/bratty(?) for male reader to take care of him (maybe even cuddle him🫣). Scott doesn't really play much of a role in this branch as, what is he going to do, play doctor for Remy in male reader's place? Never. Maybe just some scoffs and comments from Scott as the rivalry between the two X-Men has made some slight progress in mellowing out;
Or, male reader is the one who gets sick and, of course, Remy wants nothing more than to play nurse for his sick boyfriend. Scott, putting aside that he wants to maintain the distance between he and his brother, steps in and says he will take care of male reader since he believes Remy will only make male reader's condition worse. Chaos ensues with fluff! (Literally all male reader wants is some warm soup😭😭).
Under The Weather
Remy 'Gambit' LeBeau x Male Reader
Summary: Mutants didn't really get sick, so when Remy got sick you were obviously worried.
CW: Fluff - Sick trope - Needy Remy - Reader is Scott’s brother - Mutant reader - Energy absorption powers
Words: 4.1k
A/N: I really wanted to do sick reader simply because of Remy in the maid dress, but there's so many sick reader fics that I decided against it for now. I've been putting this off for too long, it is time. Not a huge fan of how this turned out.
Mutants didn’t exactly get sick—not in the way humans did. Most possessed an accelerated healing factor that made the common flu a non-issue. Of course, mutant sickness was still a reality; it just usually manifested as a side effect of power-redlining.
You had only experienced it once. You’d absorbed a surge of kinetic energy far beyond your capacity, and your body had revolted, leaving you bedridden while your cells vibrated with a fever that felt like liquid lightning. Remy, on the other hand? As far as you knew, the man was invincible. Until today.
You were currently tucked away in the sub-basement lounge with Anna-Marie. She was one of the few people you could actually touch without the fear of a power-mishap, your own energy-absorption acting as a natural buffer to her life-force drain. You were mid-way through a game of Rummy—a game that usually went much faster and involved a lot more cheating when Remy was around.
The heavy door slid open, and Scott stepped in. He looked more than just "tired-from-training" weary; he looked genuinely disturbed. He stopped by the couch, huffing as he rubbed the bridge of his nose just under his sunglasses.
“Something is wrong with your boyfriend,” he muttered.
The cards in your hand paused. You blinked, processing the words. Scott usually referred to Remy as "LeBeau," "The Thief," or simply "That Man." For Scott to acknowledge the relationship—especially as your overprotective older brother who still harbored a deep-seated suspicion of Remy’s intentions—meant the world was ending.
You cocked an eyebrow, keeping your eyes on your hand. “What happened? Did he forget to sneer at your tactical manual?”
Anna-Marie let out a soft, melodic giggle from across the table. “Don’t fret none, sugar,” she hummed, adjusting her glove. “You know Remy just likes gettin’ under Slim’s skin. It’s his favorite pastime.”
Scott didn’t leave. Instead, he sank onto the cushion next to you, his shoulders dropping. “He told me I was a good leader. And then...he told me I was a good brother.”
That made you drop your cards entirely. They scattered across the coffee table, face up. Remy LeBeau would admit to a crime before he’d admit Scott Summers was a good brother out loud.
You looked at Scott, then at Anna-Marie, whose smile had quickly faded into a look of genuine concern. “Okay,” you said, already reaching for your gloves. “If he’s being nice to you, he’s definitely got a brain tumor or a fever.”
You leaned over and gave Anna-Marie’s cheek a quick kiss—a luxury you never took for granted—and offered Scott a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as you stood up. “I’ll go see what’s up. Try not to miss me too much, Scott.”
The walk to your quarters felt longer than usual. The quiet of the mansion’s upper hallways was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the ventilation system. A sneaking suspicion gnawed at you—a low-level buzz in the back of your mind that told you exactly where the thief had retreated to.
Sure enough, when you stopped outside your door, you could feel the heat radiating through the wood. Not fire, but the frantic, pressurized hum of Remy’s kinetic energy spinning out of control.
You pushed the door open softly.
Remy was a mess. He was sprawled across your bed, a chaotic tangle of high-thread-count sheets and limbs. He’d stripped down to his boxers, his skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat that glinted in the dim light. He looked smaller like this, stripped of his trench coat and bravado. Scott had definitely buried the lead; seeing Remy like this was enough to make anyone forget their grievances.
His head lulled to the side as the door clicked shut. His eyes, usually glowing with a sharp, ruby intensity, were hooded and glazed with fever.
"Mon cher?" he mumbled, his voice a dry rasp that barely carried across the room. "C'est toi?"
"Yeah, Remy. It's me," you sighed, the irritation you'd prepared melting into instant concern. You crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress. The heat coming off him was like standing next to an open oven.
As you sat, Remy’s hand drifted up, fingers trembling as he reached for your jaw. He was seeking the grounding contact he always craved, but you were faster. You caught his hand mid-air with your gloved fingers, gently squeezing. Even through the leather, you could feel the erratic thrum-thrum-thrum of his power.
"Careful, le diable," you murmured with a small, sad smile. "If I touch you skin-to-skin right now. I’ll drain you dry before you can say my name.”
Remy let out a weak, wet huff—his version of a laugh. He didn't pull his hand away, instead hooking his fingers around your wrist, trying to pull you closer.
"Don' care," he breathed, his accent thickening as his filter failed. "'m burning up, beau. Feel like... like de cards are all shufflin' at once in m' head. Thought you was... maybe a dream."
"No dream. Just a very worried boyfriend who had to hear from my brother that you're being 'nice' to people," you teased softly, reaching out with your free hand to brush a damp strand of mahogany hair off his forehead. "You really aren't feelin' well, are you?"
He leaned into the touch of your gloved hand, his eyes fluttering shut. "Feel like death warmed over twice and fried in lard," he admitted, a rare moment of total honesty. "Don' tell Slim I said he was a good leader... 'e'll never let me live it down if I survive dis.”
You shook your head, a dry laugh escaping your throat. "A little late for that, Remy. You already spilled the beans. Scott’s currently downstairs in a state of existential shock because you called him a 'good brother.' I think you broke him."
Remy groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He tried to hide his face in your pillow, looking thoroughly mortified. "Fever talk," he croaked into the fabric. "Don' count... non... it don' count if I can't see straight."
You looked at him, truly assessing the situation. Part of you knew you should call Hank. The blue-furred genius would know exactly which mutant-flu strain this was, or if Remy’s kinetic charging was backing up into his system. But as your gaze drifted over Remy—who was currently shivering in nothing but his dark boxers, his skin flushed a deep, angry pink—you realized the logistics were a nightmare. Getting him dressed would be a literal minefield. One slip of a glove, one accidental brush against his bare chest, and you’d drain what little strength he had left.
"Look, I’m going to go find Hank," you said, making a move to stand. "I'll just ask him what the protocol is for a Cajun with a fried circuit board. I’ll be right back, I promise."
Before you could even shift your weight, Remy’s hand shot out, his fingers hooking into the fabric of your shirt with surprising strength.
"No," he rasped, his eyes snapping open, ruby-red and desperate. "Stay. Don' need de big blue 'eadache in here. Just need... un moment... just you."
"Remy, you're burning up," you protested, gently trying to pry his fingers loose, but he only gripped tighter, pulling you back toward the mattress. "You're needy when you're sick, you know that? Let me go get someone who actually has a medical degree."
"Non, petit," he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, honeyed register he used when he was trying to win a hand at poker. He slanted a look at you, his lashes heavy. "Hank's gonna poke and prod... talk 'bout cells and... and 'mospheric pressure. I don' need science. I need my heart. Stay wit' me?"
"You are such a liar," you huffed, though your heart wasn't in the argument anymore. "You're just trying to sweet-talk your way out of a thermometer."
"Is it workin'?" He offered a weak, lopsided smirk, his thumb rubbing against the back of your gloved hand. "You look so handsome when you're frettin' over me. Makes a man feel... cherished."
You rolled your eyes, but you stayed seated. The brother of Cyclops in you wanted to be organized and clinical, but the boyfriend in you was losing the battle.
"Fine. I'm staying. But we are doing this my way," you countered, pointing a finger at his chest. "I’m not sitting here while you bake. I'm going to get you into a cool bath to bring that temperature down, and while you're soaking, I'm getting out of these clothes. If I’m staying, I’m getting comfortable. Deal?"
Remy seemed to consider this, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips before he finally gave a slow, reluctant nod. "A bath," he repeated, sounding like the idea of moving was a monumental task. "Only if you stay in de room. Don' like de quiet when it feels dis hot."
"I'm not going anywhere, Remy," you promised, finally managing to stand up while keeping a firm grip on his hand. "Now, let’s get you moving before you melt my mattress.”
The bathroom was thick with a different kind of heat now—the heavy, humid kind that made your fresh t-shirt cling to your skin the second you stepped back inside. You’d opted for a pair of soft cotton joggers and a plain tee, finally feeling more comfortable.
The tub was filled with cool, tepid water. You had watched—with a mix of medical concern and a boyfriend’s appreciation—as Remy had clumsily shucked his boxers and climbed in. He’d hissed when his skin hit the water, looking at the porcelain like it had betrayed him.
Even through the closed door while you were changing, the protest hadn't stopped. It was a low, melodic stream of grumbling—mostly in French—that drifted through the vents. You didn't need to be fluent to catch the gist; he was calling the water "ice," questioning your motives, and complaining about the "loneliness" of a thirty-second absence.
When you finally sat down on the small wooden stool you’d dragged to the side of the tub, Remy looked up at you with the expression of a kicked puppy.
"Took you long enough," he huffed, his wet hair plastered against his forehead in dark, messy spikes. "Thought maybe you’d decided to move back to Alaska wit' your brother and leave me here to freeze to death in a bucket."
"It’s been two minutes, Remy. And it’s not a bucket, it’s a garden tub," you said, reaching for a washcloth.
The second your bare arm came within reach, Remy’s hand shot out of the water like a strike team. He was aiming for your wrist, his fingers trembling with the need for contact. You flinched back just in time, swatting his hand away with the damp cloth.
"Hands in the water, LeBeau. I’m serious," you warned, though your voice was soft. "I'm not wearing the gloves anymore. You touch me now, and I’m taking your kinetic charge and your lunch. You’ll be unconscious for a week."
Remy let out a long, dramatic groan, sinking deeper into the water until his chin was submerged. He looked at your bare forearms with a hunger that had nothing to do with malice and everything to do with the fever-induced need for grounding.
"Is cruel," he muttered, the water muffling his voice. "My head is spinnin' like a roulette wheel, and you won' even let me hold your hand? C’est de la torture, truly."
"I'm literally sitting right here," you countered, dipping the washcloth into the cool water and beginning to wipe down his shoulders. "I'm taking care of you. That’s the opposite of torture."
"Is 'alf-measure," Remy insisted. He leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, his eyes fluttering shut as the cool cloth hit his skin, but his hand kept wandering, searching for the edge of your joggers or your knee. "Need to feel you, mon cœur. De world feels all... blurry. Your energy is de only t'ing dat stays still."
You had to keep your hands moving, constantly dodging his reach like it was a sparring match. He was being relentlessly needy, his usual cool charming persona completely dissolved by the fever. Every time you moved to rinse the cloth, he’d let out a small, discontented sound in the back of his throat.
"You're like a giant, feverish cat," you teased, dodging another swipe of his fingers. "If I give you a ball of yarn, will you behave?"
"Only if it’s made of silk and smells like you," he rasped, his eyes slanting open to track your every move. He reached out again, his fingertips just barely grazing the hair on your arm before you pulled back. "Please... just a second? You're so fast, you won' even feel it."
"Nice try, Remy. I know your tricks," you said, though the sight of him—usually so untouchable and sharp, now reduced to begging for a hand-hold—was doing a number on your resolve. "Just focus on the water. Try to breathe. If you can get your temperature down, I’ll sit on the bed with you later. Over the covers. No skin contact."
"A miser," he sighed, though he finally let his arm fall back into the water with a splash, looking thoroughly defeated. "I date a Summers and I get de cold shoulder. Is a cosmic joke, I t'ink."
"You love the 'cold shoulder' and you know it," you retorted, leaning in to carefully wipe the sweat from his temples, being extra cautious to keep your skin from brushing his. "Now shut up and soak. You’re lucky I don’t call Scott in here to keep you company. I’m sure he’d love to hear more about what a 'good brother' he is."
Remy’s face went even redder, and for once, you didn't think it was just the fever. "You wouldn' dare," he hissed, though he finally stayed still, basking in the attention even if he couldn't have the touch.
Getting Remy out of the tub proved to be an even more delicate operation than getting him in. You had to navigate the slick floor and his unsteady, shivering frame while maintaining a strictly hands-off policy with your bare skin.
"Alright, le diable, time to move," you murmured, holding out a large, fluffy towel like a shield.
Remy rose from the water like a drowned cat, his teeth chattering. The cool bath had done its job—the angry flush on his chest had faded to a dull pink—but he was weak. He stumbled as he stepped over the porcelain rim, and for a heart-stopping second, you almost reached out to steady his waist. You caught yourself just in time, bracing your shoulder against his damp side instead, letting the fabric of your t-shirt act as the barrier.
"Careful," you hissed, feeling the frantic, buzzing heat of his kinetic energy vibrating through your clothes. "Don't take us both down."
"Got... got it," he managed, though he immediately leaned his full weight against you. He wrapped the towel around his waist, but his hands were shaking too much to tuck it.
You ended up doing it for him, your fingers working quickly and precisely, staying clear of his skin. Once he was somewhat decent, you guided him back into the bedroom. The trek to the bed was short, but Remy made it feel like a pilgrimage. He kept accidentally swaying into you, his head dropping onto your shoulder, his damp hair soaking the collar of your shirt.
"You are being remarkably unhelpful," you noted, though you were already pulling the duvet back.
"M' legs feel like jelly, chéri," he murmured, practically collapsing onto the mattress the moment he was in range.
He didn't crawl under the covers. Instead, he lay on top of them, staring at you with those glowing, tired eyes as you moved around the room, closing the blinds to keep the light from aggravating his headache. Every time you passed the foot of the bed, his hand would twitch, his fingers searching for a stray hem of your joggers.
"Stay," he rasped, the command softened by his exhaustion. "You said... you said you'd sit."
"I am, I am. Just let me get some water for you," you said. When you returned with a glass, you sat cross-legged at the very edge of the bed, a safe three feet of comforter between you.
Remy wasn't satisfied with the distance. He began to crawl—slowly, painfully, like a man lost in a desert—until his head was resting right next to your thigh. He didn't touch your skin, but he tucked his face against the fabric of your pants, breathing in the scent of your laundry detergent.
"Better," he sighed, his breath hot through the cotton.
"You're a menace," you whispered, reaching out to tentatively stroke his hair. You were careful to only touch the strands, avoiding his scalp. "Most people just take an aspirin and a nap. You turn it into a theatrical production."
"I am a man of... many talents," he breathed, his eyes finally starting to drift shut. He reached out one last time, his hand hovering just an inch away from your bare ankle, teasing the contact he knew he couldn't have. "Promise... you won' vanish? If I wake up and see Slim instead of you... I'm gonna jump out de window."
"I'll be right here, Remy," you promised, leaning back against the headboard but keeping your legs tucked close. "I'm not going anywhere. Just sleep."
He let out a long, shuddering breath, his body finally beginning to relax as the fever-nap took hold. Even in his sleep, he drifted closer, a heat-seeking missile looking for the one person who could actually keep him grounded.
The digital clock on your bedside table hummed, its red numbers glowing 11:14 PM. The mansion had fallen into that deep, heavy silence that only came when the younger students were finally in bed and the hanger had been powered down for the night.
You hadn't moved. Your back was a bit stiff against the headboard, and your leg had gone slightly numb where Remy’s head was still pillowed against your thigh, but you didn't mind. You were halfway through a technical manual on energy displacement—ironic reading, given the circumstances—but your eyes kept drifting from the schematics to the man beside you.
Remy stirred.
It wasn't the violent, thrashing wake-up of a nightmare, but a slow, liquid movement. He inhaled sharply, his nose wrinkling against the fabric of your joggers, and then he froze. You felt the subtle shift in the air—that static-cling sensation that meant his kinetic charge was stabilizing.
"Still here," you murmured, not looking up from your book yet. "In case you were wondering if I’d swapped out for Scott."
A low, gravelly groan vibrated against your leg. Remy slowly rolled onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling. The ruby glow in his eyes was much clearer now, the hazy, glassy film of the fever finally gone. He looked around the room, realization dawning on him as he took in the dim lighting and the fact that he was currently half-naked on top of your covers.
"D’accord... that was... unpleasant," he croaked. He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked at you, his gaze lingering on your bare arms and the book in your lap. "How long I been out, petit?"
"About six hours," you said, finally closing the manual and setting it on the nightstand. "Give or take a few minutes of you mumbling in French.'"
Remy winced, a faint flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with illness this time. He looked genuinely sheepish, a rare expression for a man who usually carried himself with the confidence of a king. "I remember... de water. And tellin' Slim he was a good man." He let out a pained hiss, burying his face in his hands. "Tell me I didn' really say dat. Tell me I imagined dat part."
"Oh, you said it," you teased, leaning forward just enough to see his eyes peek through his fingers. "With a lot of conviction, actually. He looked like he wanted to go hide in the Blackbird and never come out."
"Mon Dieu," Remy muttered, though a small, rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shifted, sitting closer to you, but paused—his eyes dropping to your hands. He saw you weren't wearing your gloves.
The playfulness in the room shifted into something softer, more grounded. Now that he was lucid, the needy behavior from earlier had been replaced by a quiet, intense appreciation. He reached out, stopping his hand just inches from yours on the comforter, respecting the boundary even in his dazed state.
"You stayed de whole time," he said softly. It wasn't a question. "Even when I was bein' a difficult bastard. Even when I was tryin' to drain you by accident."
"I told you I wasn't going anywhere," you reminded him. You reached over, grabbing your gloves from the nightstand and pulling them on with practiced ease. Once the leather was snug, you reached out and cupped his cheek. His skin was finally cool, the frantic vibration beneath the surface replaced by his usual, steady thrum. "Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't wander into the kitchen in your boxers looking for gumbo."
Remy leaned into your palm, his eyes fluttering shut. "You're a saint, you know dat? A saint wit' very bad taste in boyfriends." He turned his head slightly, pressing a lingering kiss to the leather-covered palm of your hand. "I feel like I got hit by a Sentinel, but I t'ink I'm gonna live. Thanks to you."
"Don't thank me yet," you smirked, giving his cheek a playful pat. "You still have to face Scott in the morning. And I’m pretty sure he’s going to want to talk about your 'feelings' over breakfast."
Remy’s eyes snapped open, a look of genuine horror crossing his face. "In dat case... maybe I stay in dis room forever. You can just bring me crackers and cheese, yeah?”
Remy let out a dramatic sigh, collapsing back against the pillows, though he didn't move his head far from your lap. The bravado was returning, but it was softer now, colored by the quiet intimacy of the late hour.
"Forever is a long time, Remy," you said, reaching out to trace the sharp line of his jaw with your gloved thumb. "I think the mansion would miss its resident troublemaker. And Rogue would definitely come knocking if she didn't get her card partner back."
Remy hummed, a low sound of contentment. He reached up, his fingers intertwining with yours, squeezing the leather-clad hand. "Let 'em miss me. Right now, I got everythin' I need right here."
He went quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the seams of your glove. "You know... when de fever was high, I could feel your energy. Not de part dat bites. Just de part dat feels like... home. It kept me from floatin' away into de dark."
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. Usually, Remy dealt in layers of charm and misdirection, but the lingering exhaustion had left him wonderfully, dangerously honest. You felt a swell of affection so strong it felt like a physical weight in your chest.
"I'm glad," you whispered, leaning down until your forehead rested against his. "But let’s try to keep you grounded without the fever next time, okay? My heart can’t take seeing you that 'nice' to Scott ever again."
Remy chuckled, a genuine, dusty sound. "Deal. Tomorrow, I go back to callin' 'im 'One-Eye' and scoffin' at 'is drills. For your sake, cher."
You smiled, finally shifting to lie down properly on the bed beside him. You stayed on top of the covers while he remained partially tucked under them—a makeshift barrier to keep your skin safe, but close enough that you could feel the steady, comforting warmth of him radiating through the fabric.
Remy immediately curled toward you, his forehead resting against your shoulder. He let out a long, shaky breath, the last of the day’s tension leaving his body.
"Sleep, Remy," you murmured, closing your eyes.
"Only if you dream of me, beau," he slurred, his voice already thick with the first stages of a much-needed, healthy sleep. "And make sure in de dream... I win at poker."
"In your dreams, LeBeau," you teased softly, though you leaned over and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the scent of the cool bath and the faint, ozone-sweet smell of his power. "In your dreams.”
draped over the back of tim's chair, gaze following his cursor as he clicks through files, one arm under your cheek while the other rests at his shoulder, pushing through slightly sweat damp hair. "you know you have, like.. the worst immune system on the planet, right? you remember that? the amount of medical atrocities that have left you more vulnerable than a newborn?" you ask, gaze shifting to the tissue that's pressed under his nose, then back to the screen. "one sneeze in this god awful city and you're already half way to your death."
he gives you an unimpressed side eye, that same one that makes most people look away or change the topic, before shifting it forward again. "my immune system is perfectly fine," he mumbles, and it would be convincing if he didn't sound like he ate rocks and cigarettes for lunch, "that.. is just a conspiracy against me."
"i've literally seen your medical records, tim," you snort, arms moving to go around his shoulders, straightening so your chin rests atop his head. for once, he doesn't sigh or shrug you off, doesn't tell you to drop it. he brings a hand up to hold onto one of your forarms, thumb brushing against it.
"a ridiculous invasion of privacy, now that you mention it," he points out, and you can practically feel the way he wants to roll his eyes, but can't, because it'll just make his head feel worse. "besides.. if i go down every time someone sneezes, you'll just keep taking care of me. which, it's not rocket science to see you clearly don't mind." he finally shifts, leaning back in his chair, head tipping so he can look at you.
you look down at him, nose wrinkling up at how close you are. "i'm not trying to bury you because of germs, drake," you mutter, pressing a kiss to his too warm forehead.
"well, aren't you so lucky that i'm obsessive enough not to die and leave my boyfriend unsupervised? i can already imagine how tragic that would be. what would he possibly do if he couldn't spend his days fussing at me?" he grinned, just barely, but you could see the amusement behind his tired eyes.
"is your boyfriend lucky or do you just tell yourself that to feel better?" you ask before sighing deeply, uncurling one arm to reach and close his laptop. "come on. meds, water, sleep before you lose said boyfriend and, god forbid, another vital organ."
requested | by anon as part of my gestures of affection series
pairing | garth x gn! reader
It starts simple, small.
The occasional brush of your body against his back as you lean over him to see something. The weight of your shoulder digging into his side as you reach across the table for something. Your back resting against his shin from your spot on the carpet in front of the couch during movie nights.
You don’t seem to realise you’re even doing it, the casual touches, brushing your body against him and even lingering sometimes.
But Garth notices, each instance leaving him rigid and suddenly alert of your skin on his. The heat of your body seeping into his until he’s all tingly and fuzzy feeling.
It escalates from there. From draping yourself over his lap as you whine about Nightwing’s training, to resting your head on his shoulder as your eyes shutter closed after a long day.
He feels like he’s going insane. Surely you can’t be unaware of what you’re doing? What you’re doing to him? Kicking up a swirl of butterflies in his gut whenever you so much as touch him.
You’re resting on his lap, eyes closed and a contented smile on your face, the common area of Titans Tower empty bar the two of you when you murmur, “You’re such a good pillow, my favourite pillow.”
You don’t elaborate further, nor can Garth bring himself to pry. Not if it will disturb the careful balance of what you’ve constructed.
So for now he’ll let you lean on him, however you needed, even if you left him a confusing puddle of giddy emotions.
requested | by anon as part of my gestures of affection series
pairing | cole cash x gn! reader
“Ow! Careful with that!” Cole hisses, flinching out of your grip as you shoot him the nastiest glare you can muster.
“Sit still.” You seethed, jaw clenched as you reached for his side again. To your horror, your gloved hands tremble minutely as you shakily inhale, desperately fighting back the wave of tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks all of a sudden.
“Hey, wait, I was kidding, don't cry. It doesn't even hurt anymore!” His face dropped, panic shining in his eyes at the sight of you so clearly upset.
Hearing him speak only makes it worse, a sob tearing from your throat as you abruptly stand, ripping the gloves off, struggling a little when the nitrile sticks to sweaty skin.
“I can't keep doing this, Cole.” You choke, arms hugging close to your chest as you turn away from him.
“I can see that, don't worry, I'll stitch myself—”
“Shut up!” You shrieked, whirling on him, anger renewed and burning bright hot. “I mean it, Cole, I can't keep doing this!” You gestured wildly to the gash on his side, “I can't keep seeing you hurt, wondering if—if you'll even make it back next time.”
The teasing smile drops from his face, the wooden chair scraping across the floor harshly as he swiftly makes his way over to you. “Hey, look at me.” He pleads, gently grabbing your hands from where you'd dug the heel of your palms into your eyes in a futile attempt to stop the tears.
“I'm right here, I'm ok.” There’s an underlying panic to his words, an almost frantic energy even as he rushes to reassure you, to pull your mind back from the brink.
“But next time you might not be!” You burst out, months of pent-up frustration and worry slipping out from the cracks of your perfectly crafted veneer. Closing your eyes in fear of seeing Cole’s reaction, you force yourself away from his touch, turning until all he can see of you is the shaking of your shoulders as you try to muffle your sobs.
A pair of arms hesitantly wrap around you from behind before locking tight, as if Cole was scared you’d disappear at any moment, “Please don’t leave.”
The sudden desperation takes you aback enough that the flow of your tears stops. His forehead rests on your shoulder, body hunched over yours, and it takes you a few seconds to realise the trembling wracking your frame isn’t coming from you, but from him.
“Cole, what—”
“You can’t keep doing this? I can’t do this without you.” Just like that, you crumble, turning in his arms to comfort him.
“I’m not going anywhere, I just—”
“I know, I’ll be more careful, I promise.” You believe him. Cole’s a cutthroat, a man who lies as easily as breathing, but not to you. Early on in your relationship, you’d made it very clear you wouldn’t tolerate such, and Cole, already halfway in love, accommodated easily, even if the truth was sometimes hard to hear.
Logically, you know Cole can’t keep that promise, not with his line of work, but you know he’ll always try his absolute hardest to make it back home, to make it back to you.
Even if that meant patching up the occasional injury. You’d do it because you loved him, and truthfully, the thought of a life without Cole at all was much worse than the worry that came with loving a man like him.
yearner!dick who goes quiet whenever you laugh, not because he doesn’t have anything to say, he just wants to memorize the sound like he needs it to survive.
yearner!dick who keeps every voicemail you’ve ever left him, even the ones that are just you rambling about something mundane. he listens to them when he can’t sleep and pretends you’re right there beside him.
yearner!dick who pretends he isn’t looking for you in every crowded room, even though his eyes always find you first. like gravity works differently for him when you’re around.
yearner!dick who rearranges his schedule without telling you just so he can walk home with you, claiming it was “on the way” despite it being absolutely not on the way.
yearner!dick who always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, subtly nudging you closer to safety with the gentlest touch on your lower back.
yearner!dick who writes down little things you mention wanting to try so he can surprise you with them weeks later like it’s nothing, even though he’s been planning it meticulously.
yearner!dick who buys two of everything. drinks, snacks, little trinkets “just in case you wanted one,” acting casual as if he hasn’t actually been thinking about you all day.
yearner!dick who keeps an extra toothbrush for you at his place even before you start dating, hiding it away in a drawer like a tiny secret wish.
yearner!dick who gets jealous in the quietest ways,his fingers tapping faster, his posture a little straighter, his smile a little tighter. all because he never wants to make you uncomfortable by showing it outright.
yearner!dick who melts when you reach for his hand for the first time, his fingers curling around yours slowly, reverently, like he’s holding something sacred (he is).
yearner!dick who stays up late staring at the ceiling, wondering if you know how much of his world you take up. and hoping, quietly, that he takes up even a tiny part of yours.
yearner!dick who kisses you for the first time like he’s afraid you’ll disappear halfway through, one hand in your hair and the other gripping your waist, holding you like a promise.
yearner!dick who becomes even softer after you get together, constantly brushing his thumb over the back of your hand, tugging you closer by the loop of your jeans, smiling whenever you say his name like it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.
yearner!dick who still can’t believe you chose him, who sometimes pulls you into his chest out of nowhere, pressing small kisses to your temple, grounding himself in the reality that you’re here, and you’re his.
PAIRING:
PLATONIC! Jason Todd x Male Child Reader
SYNOPSIS:
Bruce was no stranger to taking in kids and raising them as his own, but this one was different. It was biologically his. He expected the child to bond with Dick more (because let's be honest, he could be kind if he wanted), but not Jason. Never Jason.
The rumor spread fast. Gotham had a new Wayne. It wasn’t unheard of, Bruce adopting another child was practically a yearly headline, but this one wasn’t adopted. This time, the kid was his.
His biological son.
A toddler. Barely two.
Jason wasn’t supposed to care. He really wasn’t. But after three texts from Dick, a phone call from Alfred, and a voicemail from Bruce himself asking him to “come by if you have time,” he was curious enough to drag himself to the manor.
The house felt the same—cold but familiar. The kind of silence that made you feel small. Except this time, the silence was broken by the sound of soft sniffles echoing from the sitting room. Stepping inside, Jason found Bruce, seated on one of those massive armchairs like a painting come to life, and, on his lap, sat a tiny boy.
The kid was cute in that fragile way newborns were: delicate wrists, long lashes, rosy cheeks that still had the fullness of babyhood, but instead of wonder in his eyes, there was fear. He flinched at the smallest sounds. The tick of the clock, the creak of floorboards, even Tim whispering softly to Alfred made him whimper and hide his face in Bruce's suit jacket. Damian stood in the corner, arms crossed, glaring like the toddler had personally offended him.
Jason leaned against the doorframe. “So the rumors are true.”
Bruce looked up, shoulders tensing. “Jason.”
“Relax, B,” He said, holding up his hands. “I didn't come here to fight.” He gave a low whistle, eyes flicking between the billionaire and the trembling bundle in his lap. “But I will say I'm surprised. Didn’t think you had it in you to make another one. What’s his story?”
Bruce exhaled, slow and heavy, the kind of sound that already carried too many sleepless nights behind it. His gaze fell to the little boy—who clung to him tighter as if he understood he was being talked about—and something in Bruce’s expression cracked.
“He was left here.”
Jason frowned. “Left—what do you mean, left?”
Bruce’s tone was low, steady, but there was a tremor beneath it: anger, regret, maybe both. “She showed up three nights ago. Came right to the gate.” He paused, eyes unfocused as if still seeing it. “She had him in her arms. No car seat. No bag. Just him. She said it was mine.”
Jason blinked. “And you just believed her?”
“She gave me the DNA test that confirms he's mine. After that, she handed me his birth certificate and..." He trailed off, eyes hardening. "Told me if I didn't want him, she'd 'let the system deal with it.' Her words, not mine.”
Jason looked at the kid properly then. And yeah, he could see it now. Underneath the cute cheeks and soft curls, the boy looked worn. There were faint bruises along his arms, the kind you got when you were grabbed too hard. His hair was uneven, like someone had cut it in a hurry. His eyes—those big, dark eyes—were dull in a way no toddler’s should be.
“Christ, B…” Jason muttered, disbelief flickering to disgust. “He looks like he’s been through hell.”
Bruce didn’t disagree. He adjusted his hold, careful not to jostle the child, who whimpered when the fabric shifted. “The doctor said he’s underweight. Mild dehydration. Nothing permanent, but—he doesn’t like noise, or touch. And he doesn’t speak. They think he might’ve stopped trying to because no one ever answered him.”
Jason’s chest tightened. “How old is he?”
“Two and a half,” Bruce murmured. “His name’s Y/N. I don’t know if she gave it to him or if it was something a nurse chose.”
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the clock. Y/N peeked up from Bruce’s jacket, eyes darting warily toward Jason.
Seeing this, Jason crouched down, resting his arms on his knees. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice gentler than anyone in the room expected. “You gonna keep hidin’ in there forever, or you gonna say hi?”
Y/N blinked at him. His little chest rose and fell fast, uncertain, but when Jason gave a small, exaggerated wink, something flickered behind those tired eyes. A spark. Jason smiled faintly. “Yeah, that’s it. I see you.”
And then, out of nowhere—a tiny giggle.
Everyone froze.
Tim looked up from the corner of the couch. “Did he—?”
“Yes, Master Timothy,” Alfred said softly, wonder slipping through his composure. “He did.”
Y/N giggled again, like the sound surprised him, too. Then, to everyone’s shock, he reached out—small hands stretching toward Jason.
Jason blinked, then chuckled. “Well, can’t say no to that.” He moved closer, slow, like approaching a wild animal, and let the boy grab at his jacket sleeve. Y/N's fingers curled around the leather, knuckles still pale, but his breathing steadied. He tugged, weak but determined, until Jason was close enough to touch.
Damian scowled. “Clearly, he has no taste.”
Jason shot him a look. “Don’t be jealous, demon spawn.”
“Why would I be jealous of a—”
“Damian,” Bruce interrupted before the bickering could start, still watching the toddler with wide eyes. “He likes you.”
Jason glanced down at the kid still tugging curiously at his jacket zipper. “Yeah, I’m getting that impression.”
The little boy laughed again when Jason exaggeratedly tugged the zipper up and down, making a ‘vroooom’ sound. Soon, the boy was giggling so hard he had to hide his face in Jason’s chest. And just like that Jason was done for. From that day forward, the toddler followed him like a shadow.
If Jason sat on the couch, there he was, crawling up beside him.
If Jason tried to leave the room, tiny footsteps trailed behind.
If Jason disappeared for more than a minute, there’d be little sniffles echoing through the hall until he came back.
Jason swore he wasn’t good with kids. He wasn’t soft, not like Dick or Alfred. But every time the little guy hid behind his jacket when strangers came around, or reached up for him to carry him instead of Bruce. Jason couldn’t say no. Everyone noticed this, but that didn't mean they approved.
“Jason,” Dick said one morning, watching as the boy waddled across the living room straight to Jason’s lap, ignoring everyone else. “You’re good with him, but maybe don’t encourage too much attachment.”
Jason’s smile dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He needs stability,” Tim added carefully. “And you—”
“Are what? The screw-up? The ‘bad influence’?” Jason’s tone sharpened. “Y/N's not scared of me. He’s scared of everything else. That kid flinches when someone raises their voice or moves too fast. You think me hanging out with him’s the problem?”
Damian, ever blunt, muttered, “He shouldn’t get used to people who might leave.”
Jason turned, jaw tight. “I ain’t leaving."
Dick’s expression softened, but his voice stayed careful, the kind that made Jason want to throw something at him. “We’re not saying you’d do it on purpose, Jay. But you know how it goes. You’ve got your own life, and Bruce—”
“—can barely keep up with one kid, much less five,” Jason snapped. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I remember.”
Tim flinched. Damian frowned, about to say something sharp, but one small sound cut through the tension like a knife: a quiet whimper.
The boy had pressed his face into Jason’s shirt, tiny fingers fisting the fabric. Jason’s anger melted instantly. He shifted the kid higher into his arms, murmuring, “Hey, hey. It’s okay, little man. I’m not mad.”
“Jay…” Dick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’re just worried about him.”
“Then be worried about the right things,” Jason said, voice low now. “He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t laugh unless I’m around. You don’t see the way he shuts down when people get too close. He needs someone who won’t scare him off just by existing.”
Done with this conversation, Jason stood up with Y/N in his arms and began to walk in the direction of the kitchen. He didn’t need to look back to know the others were staring: Tim with that furrowed brow like he wanted to apologize but didn’t know how, Dick chewing on guilt, Damian pretending not to care but clearly affected.
In the kitchen, the air was quieter. Alfred glanced up from the stove, calm as ever. “Argument, Master Jason?”
Jason huffed a humorless laugh, settling the kid on his hip as he opened the fridge one handed. “You could say that.”
“Ah.” Alfred didn’t press. He rarely needed to. “Would the young master care for some warm milk?”
Jason looked down at the boy, who was still half hiding in his jacket. “You want that, kiddo?” The toddler peeked up, gave the smallest nod, and whispered yes. Something in Jason’s chest went soft and tight all at once. “You got it, champ.”
Alfred’s eyes warmed, though he kept his expression composed as he poured milk into a small cup. “He’s quite attached to you.”
Jason leaned back against the counter, bouncing the kid gently in his arms. “Yeah, I noticed. Guess I don’t exactly mind.”
“Nor should you,” Alfred said, handing over the cup. “Children often know far better than adults whom they can trust.”
Jason gave a small, crooked smile. “You saying I’m trustworthy, Alfred?”
“I’m saying,” Alfred replied, with that dry fondness only he could manage, “that perhaps Master Bruce isn’t the only one capable of fatherly instincts.”
Jason nearly choked on a laugh. “Fatherly? Me?”
But then the toddler reached up, tiny fingers brushing against Jason’s jaw, smiling sleepily as he sipped his milk. The laugh faded, replaced by a look he didn’t let anyone see—something gentle, almost protective. “Yeah, well,” he murmured. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
yooo I really like the way you write for Bruce so I was wondering if I could request a male reader x Bruce Wayne
Reader who is another Gotham elite, they met at boarding school at a young age and haven’t seen eachother in awhile. Reader is now also a lot more cold and snappy, but still harbors softness for Bruce
old money, same ghost
wc: 2.5k+
You come back to Gotham the same way everyone with too much money does—quietly, like you never left, even though you did.
Your name still means something here. Old Gotham elite. Generations of wealth, a family name etched into buildings people walk past every day without looking up. You grew up in townhouses with ceilings too high and hallways too quiet. You were raised to sit straight with your chin raised high and never let anyone see the flaws.
Boarding school was where they sent kids like you. Kids like him, too.
You hadn’t thought much about Bruce Wayne on the drive back into the city, but Gotham has a way of dragging memories up whether you want them or not. Every corner feels familiar. Every streetlight feels like it’s watching you.
You remember him first as a boy with bruises he never explained and eyes that were always a little too tired for someone your age. You were both young when you met—too young to fully understand grief, but old enough to feel it sitting heavy in your chest.
The school was cold, old stone and strict rules. Everyone wore the same uniforms. Everyone pretended they were fine.
You and Bruce ended up sitting next to each other in class. Last names close enough in the alphabet. Wayne and yours. Two Gotham families that teachers treated carefully, like glass that might crack if handled wrong.
You didn’t become friends right away. It was more like… orbiting. Sitting near each other at meals. Walking the same paths across campus. Sharing quiet looks when things got overwhelming.
Eventually, that turned into late-night conversations whispered in dorm rooms. Sneaking out to the library after hours. Talking about Gotham like it was a place neither of you really belonged to, even though it owned you.
Bruce didn’t talk much about his parents. You didn’t push. You had your own family problems—cold dinners, expectations piled on you until it was hard to breathe. You both understood the weight of a name.
Then life happened. Graduation. Different paths. You left the country. Bruce disappeared into the world and came back… different. Sharper. More reserved. Gotham whispered about him for years.
And now you’re back.
Bruce doesn’t see you at first. He hears about you the way he hears about most things in Gotham—through whispers, passing comments, careful mentions at events. Your name comes up in rooms full of people who pretend not to watch each other closely.
You’ve changed, they say.
Sharper. Colder. More precise.
Not cruel, just… edged. Less patient. Less forgiving. There’s a stiffness to you now that wasn’t there before, like something inside you locked into place and never unlocked again. You still say “please.” Still dress impeccably. Still move through rooms like you belong in them.
But you don’t soften.
Bruce tells himself it makes sense. Time does that to people. Pressure. Expectations. Gotham itself. Still, the thought sits strangely with him.
Because he remembers you as controlled and calm—never hostile. Never sharp for the sake of it. The idea of you being openly cold catches him off guard more than he’d ever admit.
He wonders what happened overseas. Wonders what kind of life turns politeness into precision, restraint into something that cuts.
You haven’t reached out. Neither has he.
You exist in the same city again, breathing the same air, circling the same social spaces without crossing paths yet. Old acquaintances turned distant strangers, connected only by memory and a shared past neither of you ever fully unpacked.
Bruce knows it’s only a matter of time before you run into each other.
And he isn’t sure whether he’s bracing himself for a reunion or for the realization that the version of you he remembers may no longer exist at all.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
One night, Alfred mentions you over dinner.
“Your old schoolmate has taken up residence again,” he says casually, pouring tea. “Quite nearby, actually.”
Bruce looks up too quickly. “You’ve met him?”
“Briefly,” Alfred replies. “At a committee meeting. He was… composed.”
That word again.
Bruce nods, pushing food around his plate. “That’s always been his way.”
Alfred studies him for a moment longer than necessary. “People don’t usually change without reason, Master Bruce.”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
Later, alone in the cave, your face surfaces in his mind uninvited. Not as you are now—he hasn’t actually seen that yet—but as you were. Younger. Still guarded, but softer around the edges. Someone who understood quiet without making it uncomfortable.
He wonders if you’d recognize him at all.
Not the public Bruce Wayne. Not the careful smile and careless reputation. The man underneath all of it. The one who learned, like you did, how to turn himself into something precise just to survive.
Eventually, the inevitable happens.
An invitation lands on both your calendars. Same event. Same time. Same place. Small enough that avoiding each other would be noticeable.
Bruce stands in front of the mirror longer than necessary, adjusting his cufflinks, his tie. He tells himself it’s habit. Preparation. Nothing more. You’re just an old friend, someone he hasn’t seen in years.
The event is smaller than the usual Gotham spectacle.
Still elegant, still expensive, but quieter. Fewer cameras. Fewer strangers. The kind of charity gathering meant more for networking than attention. Soft music, low lighting, people standing in neat clusters with drinks in hand.
Bruce arrives on time.
He scans the room out of habit more than intention—and then he sees you.
You stand near the edge of the crowd, posture straight, expression controlled. Your suit is dark, tailored perfectly, nothing flashy. A few people linger nearby, clearly part of your company. They hover close, attentive in a way that isn’t casual.
You don’t look uncomfortable. You look… in command.
Bruce watches for a moment longer than he means to. You don’t smile as you greet donors, but you’re polite. Efficient too. Conversations start and end on your terms. People lean in when you speak.
So this is what they meant.
He exhales quietly and decides to stop delaying. Whatever you’ve become, you’re still someone he knew once. Avoiding you now feels childish.
He’s just about to step forward when voices carry from a few feet away. Low. Hushed. Sharp.
You’ve turned slightly, facing one of your workers. A younger man, maybe mid-twenties. Nervous. Bruce recognizes the look instantly—someone who knows they’ve messed up and is waiting for the verdict.
“I told you to confirm the numbers before submitting,” you say quietly.
Your voice isn’t loud. That’s what makes it worse.
“I—I did, sir. I just—”
“You assumed,” you cut in, jaw tightening. “And assumptions cost time. Time we don’t have.”
The worker swallows. “It was a small discrepancy. I thought it wouldn’t—”
“That’s not your call,” you snap, the edge unmistakable now. Your hand tightens around the glass you’re holding. “If you don’t understand the difference between small and acceptable, you shouldn’t be handling reports at all.”
There’s a beat of silence.
You don’t raise your voice. You don’t insult him. But the anger is there—contained, precise, unmistakably sharp. The worker nods quickly, murmuring an apology, shoulders drawn in.
“I’ll fix it,” he says.
“You’ll fix it tonight,” you reply. “And you’ll cc me this time. Don’t make me ask again.”
He retreats immediately, relief and embarrassment written all over him.
Bruce stands frozen a few steps away, having heard everything.
So the rumors were true.
He feels something twist in his chest—not disapproval, exactly, but surprise.
Bruce exhales slowly.
He’s just about to step forward when you turn back toward the room.
Then your gaze shifts.
You look up and see him.
At first, you don’t react.
Your eyes land on Bruce Wayne like they’re cataloging another face in the room. Your shoulders stay square. Your mouth remains neutral.
Then—just barely—something eases.
The tension in your jaw loosens a fraction. Your brows draw together, not in irritation but in focus. Like you’re allowing yourself a second longer than usual.
Bruce sees it.
Anyone else might miss it. But he doesn’t.
It’s subtle enough that even someone watching closely would have to squint to be sure it happened at all.
You take a breath.
Recognition doesn’t hit all at once. It arrives slowly, carefully, like you’re turning a memory over in your hands to make sure it’s real.
Bruce Wayne.
Older. Broader. Sharper around the edges, but still unmistakably him.
You straighten—not defensively. Deliberately.
Bruce takes that as his cue and steps forward.
“Hey,” he says, voice gentle. “It’s been a long time.”
You don’t answer right away. Your eyes search his face, tracing the years, the changes. The ghost of the boy you knew flickers somewhere beneath the man standing in front of you.
“…Yeah,” you say at last, quieter than before. “It has.”
There’s no smile but there is patience. And for Bruce, that alone is enough to tell him something important:
Whatever you’ve become, whatever sharpened you—he still matters enough to slow you down.
He gestures slightly toward the side of the room, away from the main cluster of donors. Not secluded, just quieter. An unspoken suggestion, not a demand.
You consider it for a moment, then nod once.
The two of you move together, steps matching without thinking about it. It’s strange how easy that still is. You stop near a tall window overlooking the city, the lights of Gotham spread out beneath you. The noise fades to a low hum.
“So,” Bruce says, breaking the silence carefully. “You’ve been busy.”
You glance at him, then back out the window. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I heard you were overseas for a while,” he continues. “Longer than most.”
“Long enough,” you reply. A pause. “Things expanded faster than expected.”
Bruce nods, accepting the answer for what it is. He doesn’t press. You notice that. It earns him another fraction of patience.
“And you?” you ask, after a beat. “Still playing the role?”
His mouth curves faintly. “Depends who’s watching.”
That almost gets a smile out of you. Almost. You shift your weight, loosening slightly, shoulders no longer drawn so tight. It’s a small thing, but Bruce notices.
“I heard about your company,” he says. “People seem… impressed.”
“They’re cautious,” you correct quietly.
He hums. “You’ve always been practical.”
“That’s a kinder word for it,” you reply.
Another pause settles between you—not uncomfortable, just… careful. Like both of you are testing the ground, making sure it’ll hold.
Bruce studies you openly now. You don’t stop him.
“You’re different,” he says at last, not accusing. Observant.
You don’t flinch. “So are you.”
Fair enough.
You take a slow sip of your drink, eyes lowered. “I didn’t plan to change,” you add. “It just… happened.”
Bruce nods. He understands that better than most.
“I heard you’ve been keeping a low profile,” you say. “As much as that’s possible for you.”
He chuckles quietly. “I try.”
You glance at him again, really look this time. The lines around his eyes. The strength in his posture. The restraint in the way he carries himself.
“You look… steadier,” you say.
The word seems to catch him off guard.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
Silence again. Softer now.
The music swells faintly from across the room. Someone laughs. Glasses clink. Gotham continues on without caring about the two of you standing by a window, reconnecting piece by piece.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” Bruce admits. “But I’m glad I did.”
You hesitate, then answer honestly. “So am I.”
It’s quiet. Reserved. But real.
And for the first time since you returned to Gotham, you don’t feel like you’re standing entirely on your own anymore.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Time passes without either of you really noticing when it starts to matter.
A few days turn into a couple of weeks. You don’t suddenly become inseparable, and nothing dramatic shifts between you. It’s quieter than that. More natural.
You start running into Bruce more often—sometimes planned, sometimes not. Board meetings that overlap. Small dinners hosted by people who know exactly what they’re doing when they place the two of you near each other. A late evening charity follow-up where you end up walking out at the same time.
You talk more now.
Not deeply, not all at once. Just enough to fill the space that used to exist between you. Conversations stretch a little longer. Silences feel less guarded. You find yourself waiting half a second before leaving, just to see if he’ll say something else.
He usually does.
Bruce notices things first. He notices that you listen more than you speak, but when you do speak, you choose your words carefully. He notices how you soften around people you trust, even if it’s barely visible. He notices that when you’re tired, your patience thins—but never with him.
You notice things too.
The way Bruce always positions himself slightly closer than necessary, like he’s anchoring himself without realizing it. The way his voice lowers when he speaks to you, calmer than it is with most people. The way he looks at you when you’re explaining something, like it matters more than the room around you.
Neither of you calls it what it is.
There are moments, though.
Like the time you’re reviewing paperwork in one of Wayne Enterprises’ quieter conference rooms. It’s late. The city outside is dark and buzzing. Bruce leans over your shoulder to point something out on the screen, and for a second, you’re aware of how close he is. The warmth of him. The steady presence.
You don’t move away.
Neither does he.
Or the time you’re walking through Gotham after a dinner that ran too long. You offer to share a car. He accepts. The ride is quiet, but not empty. Your knee brushes his once when the car turns, and neither of you apologizes.
You start to look forward to seeing him in a way you don’t quite allow yourself to think about.
Bruce does the same.
He catches himself smiling when he sees your name on an invite list. Finds himself wondering if you’ve eaten, if you’re sleeping enough, if you’re carrying more than you let on. He doesn’t push. He never has with you.
One evening, weeks after that first gala, you’re standing on a balcony at another small event. The city air is cool. Bruce joins you without asking.
“You always end up near windows,” he says lightly.
You glance at him. “You always find me there.”
Something lingers in the space between you after that.
Your shoulder brushes his as you lean on the railing. It’s accidental. You don’t move away. He doesn’t either. You stand like that for a while, close enough to feel, not close enough to cross a line.
“You staying in Gotham for good?” he asks quietly.
“I think so,” you reply after a moment. “If the city doesn’t chase me out.”
He huffs softly. “It hasn’t chased me out yet.”
You look at him then, really look. There’s something warm in your eyes now. Still reserved, still controlled—but gentler.
“Maybe it won’t,” you say.
The moment stretches. Heavy. Unspoken.
No touching. No confessions. Just the understanding settling in slowly, like something inevitable.
Whatever this is between you, it doesn’t need to rush.
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