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Pairing: Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x gn!Reader

Word Count/Rating: 8.3k // M

Warnings: canon-typical violence/injury (not graphic), guns, canon-typical voyeurism, reader uses gn!pronouns but does wear a dress, a couple demeaning uses of "princess" (not by Bruce & not to intentionally misgender), shirtless Bruce;)

Summary: You attend a charity gala. Bruce's paranoia pays off.

A/N: A continuation from Don't Be A Stranger (not required reading, but it will be better if you read that first).

This is ridiculous. He doesn't need to be told by anyone else that what he's doing is absurd and over-possessive but he can't help it. Speaking with you, not just reading your words on a page, it unlocked something in him.

A regular correspondence started back up between the two of you; weekly letters being sent back and forth. He gave you his personal phone number, suggesting the switch to text may be easier, but you refused citing “tradition” as your reason. It still quieted his constant paranoia to know that you could reach him at any time now.

Bruce peers through his binoculars, that same paranoia alleviated upon seeing you in your apartment. You're stretched out on the couch occupied with some show playing on your TV. You seem relaxed, which in turn relaxes him. Now he can focus throughout his night.

Being Batman is not nearly as thrilling as some news outlets would lead Gothamites to believe. In fact, a lot of his nights are spent sitting on rooftops and waiting. Waiting for his mark, to catch someone in the act, to see where money flows. There's always crime in Gotham and there's always information to gather before he starts throwing punches. Being more than vengeance is hard and lonely work.

Sitting outside a warehouse on the pier, Bruce allows his mind to do some limited wandering. He received your latest letter earlier today. Alfred left it beside his breakfast, a subtle encouragement to eat while he read. You and Alfred both would be thrilled to know it worked.

There was nothing of great importance in the letter. Little tidbits – the dog you saw on the way to work, the new recipe you decided to try. What you wrote at the bottom of the letter is what’s at the forefront of his mind.

Happy 20th Anniversary.

Has it really been that long? The majority of his life spent being pen pals with you. He remembers the way it began like it was yesterday.

+++

Alfred had coordinated getting Bruce involved with the pen pal program to start. He was too young to care or ask about the specifics and part of him thought the whole thing was ridiculous. If he participated though, Alfred had agreed to allow him to travel to Europe for the summer.

The first letter he received had an orange envelope decorated with random stickers. You included drawings, highlighting what you deemed the most important parts of your letter. There was one more surprise in store for him. A scrap of paper written on with sparkly gel pen and clearly snuck in without your teacher's knowledge.

I hope we can be friends.

As young as he was, Bruce didn’t understand why that struck him so deeply. As an adult it's something he's thought over and rehashed many times. At that time in his life, Bruce didn’t have anyone he would consider a friend. He had acquaintances and peers, but he'd lost any true friendships he'd once had two years before. The idea of having one again appealed to him – especially since he got to determine how much you knew about him through what he chose to write. It made the decision to take the letters seriously a simple one.

He couldn't have known it then, but from that moment forward you were a constant in Bruce's life. No matter where he was, or what he was doing, he knew a letter from you would eventually make its way to him.

When Bruce was sixteen he decided to take things a step further and seek you out. Curiosity and boredom compelled him, eager to know more about you than what you already shared. There was a voice in his head (that definitely didn't have a British accent) telling him this was wrong and hypocritical, which he readily disregarded.

It wouldn't have been hard even if he wasn't a genius with seemingly endless money at his disposal. You never shied away from sharing personal details. That, and your full name and address was on every letter he received.

The apartment you lived in was quaint. A little two bedroom by the harbor, convenient for your father's job as a dockworker. Bruce stood on a building across the street and pulled out the binoculars he received when he was seven for Gotham Cadets.

The apartment was bathed in yellow incandescent light. He could see a well worn couch, blankets and pillows strewn across it haphazardly. From his vantage point, houseplants and photo frames made up a significant portion of the decor, but it seemed more cozy than crowded.

Beyond the living room, your father was at the stove stirring a pot. Bruce imagined it was some kind of soup – perfect for the frosty autumn nights that were settling in. You often wrote about how much you loved your dad's cooking and helping him in the kitchen. That night you weren't playing sous chef.

Off to the left, your mother sat at the kitchen table. She had a few clothing items folded beside her and what looked to be your father's jacket in her hands. The binoculars weren’t strong enough to see clearly, but it looked like she was sewing a patch on the sleeve.

A chill stronger than the cold breeze blew through him. What would his mother and father be doing on this night?

Half a lifetime ago, he sat on the floor of the den with the fireplace crackling and soft music playing. He had just started reading The Hardy Boys books much to his father's joy. I loved these books when I was your age, chum. Bruce leaned back against his mother's legs, her hands preoccupied with her latest embroidery. He remembers his father joking that her hands were steadier than his own and that she should consider being the surgeon in the household.

His father changed the record playing to something slow but warm. His mom smiled, setting down her project as she knew what was to come next. Bruce put his own book aside, watching his parents gracefully waltz around the room.

Three weeks later they laid lifeless in a dirty alleyway. His mother's embroidery was never finished. He didn't pick up a Hardy Boys book again.

Bruce shifted his attention to the next window over. It was obvious that this was your room. Bright colors, posters adorning the walls, an unmade bed with what was likely homework strewn across it. He couldn't help but smile. He had tried piecing the look of your room together before based on your letters and promptly forgot all his imaginings once he saw it for real. It couldn’t have looked any other way.

The door to your room opened, greeting Bruce with a sight he never anticipated. It was you, wrapped in a towel with your shoulders still damp and gleaming from your shower. Another towel wrapped around your head, leaving your face open and unobscured. Bruce couldn't make out the minute details, but he could see enough for his breath to catch. He looked up a photo of you before – he knew what you looked like. This was so much more.

Beautiful wasn’t the right word. Both of you were too caught up in the awkward latter throes of puberty to yet be considered stunning or refined. Limbs still figuring out their size, fat and muscle learning new ways to settle along your frames, bursts of acne still blemishing skin. None of that mattered. He was captivated, body frozen in place. Binoculars pressed hard into his eyes, taking in every move you made and every inch of skin.

He should have stopped looking. It wasn't right. If Alfred would have had his hide for sneaking out and spying, Bruce shuddered to think what he’d do if he ever learned about this.

You moved to the corner of your room, out of his field of view, only to return moments later. Your mouth started to move and your head bobbed. There was no way for him to hear you, but he realized that you were singing. He wondered if you liked Nirvana or Soundgarden.

Your hand reached up to pull at your towel. Bruce reacted like he’d been struck by lightning, all of the energy he had stored exploding out of him at once. A quick step and he tumbled backwards onto the cold roof before he saw anything he shouldn't. The lens on one side of his binoculars broke under the sudden impact.

He didn't write for three weeks after that.

When Bruce left Gotham two years later, he expected your letters to stop. He stopped writing to you – rationalizing it as being safer. The less you knew, the less dots you could connect, the better. Only you never stopped.

The letters kept coming with a constant irregularity. Somehow Alfred managed to get every single one to him. Sometimes they would reach him in batches and he’d have weeks or months of your life to catch up on, but not one was ever missed.

Not writing back was a choice for your safety, but he would sometimes send you a sign that he was still reading. He’s not completely heartless like some would believe. Bruce will never understand how that was enough for you. You provided him with so much more than he ever deserved, and Bruce has many more years to make up for what you are owed.

20 years. Bruce hopes he can make it that long.

+++ A few weeks later

“Sir, there's a call coming in on your personal phone.”

“It can wait,” Batman responds roughly, staring out at an old abandoned building. It's been two weeks of this, but the intel is strong. He knows someone is going to be making a move soon. There can't be any distractions.

“I believe this is a call you'll want to accept,” Alfred presses.

“Take a message.”

Alfred disregards him, answering the call and patching it through to his earpiece.

What comes through is completely garbled at first. It sounds like a butt dial and Bruce nearly ends the call until he hears it. Your voice.

Please, no one wants any trouble. We're here for charity.

His blood turns to ice in his veins and his decision is made. He tucks his binoculars away and grapples down to where his bike is stashed.

“Triangulate their location for me, Alfred.”

“Already done, sir. The Gotham Grand Plaza Hotel. Second floor.”

××××××××

A situation like this was probably inevitable. The fact that it hasn't happened sooner is honestly a miracle given the general state of Gotham. The crime rate has gone down but that doesn’t mean it's low.

You do what you can to limit your risk. You avoid sketchy locales when possible. Avoid going out after dark. Carry a self defense weapon that you actually know how to use. Share your location with a handful of trusted friends and family members.

Rogues are usually decent enough to avoid the shelters and outreach centers that you volunteer at. Even they know to not direct their ire at those trying to help. Go figure that the criminal element would finally reach you at an upscale event like this one. You've never even stepped foot in the Grand Plaza Hotel before tonight.

You were asked to attend the Gotham HELP¹ Charity function on behalf of the homeless shelter you primarily volunteer at. Typically this isn't an invite you'd accept. You find events like these largely performative and a way for the upper echelon to feel better about themselves without ever having to interact with those that are unhoused. You held a lengthy discussion with two of the event organizers before agreeing to attend.

No one else needs to know about any other reasons you may have had for attending. Bruce has been making more of an effort with public appearances, especially philanthropic ones, but rarely mentions them until after the fact. You’re not sure if they make him too nervous or too irritated to think about beforehand. Typically the letter that follows one of these appearances is full of his exact thoughts on the press, the people in attendance, and at times smaller details like the food or decor. Shrimp cocktail at an event for ocean preservation? How avant-garde. You have the impression Alfred doesn't listen to Bruce's complaints with the same friendly ear as you do.

Much to your disappointment, there's been no sign of him. Something else must have his attention at the moment. You don't doubt its importance. If you're lucky, you'll hear bits and pieces about it in his next letter.

The event was turning out to be quite pleasant. You were pleased with the amount of familiar faces you saw in the crowd – a healthy influx of other volunteers and community organizers in attendance to help drum up support and larger donations. Those that you spoke with were cordial and only a few make comments that made you briefly see red. You sometimes wondered if you’re truly living in the same city as some of these people.

The Grand Plaza itself is gorgeous. One of the oldest buildings in Gotham, but well-maintained over the years by taxpayer money and private donations alike. You would never know the seawall flood had even touched the building a few years ago. The high cathedral ceilings and large gothic tudor windows provide an elegance to the space that's otherwise been tastefully decorated with fabrics and florals. It's just the kind of place that makes a person proud to be a Gothamite.

When the commotion began at the door, you thought Bruce might be making a fashionably late appearance. He often relayed that part of his loathing of public appearances was the media circus that ensues. You feel stupid for heading towards the noise instead of away from it – allowing fantasy to overrule common sense.

You're now stuck along a wall of the main hall while the whackjob of the month twirls in the center screaming about Batman. So much for a night of glamour and philanthropy.

The ringleader in his green beanie and his three goons waive their guns wildly, making demands but not yet taking any action. It almost seems like they didn't expect to get this far. You don't know if that's a good or a bad thing. Luckily, you're positioned close enough to one of the dark marble columns in the hall so that it occasionally blocks you from view. A plan forms in your mind. It's a risk, but one you know you need to take.

You slowly pull your phone from your pocket, keeping it hidden in the folds of your skirt fabric. Praise be to whoever created dresses with pockets. You consider dialing 911 first. That would be the smart choice, right? Easy to do with your phone's emergency functions and hopefully quick to bring first responders.

Tension is thick in the room. You glance around and take in the faces of the crowd. Plenty are scared, but you see just as many angry or hardened expressions. That's the one perk to living in Gotham – you're not the only one prepared for something like this. There must be others in the room taking the same risk as you are. You’re the only one who can do something more.

You keep a careful eye on the men. There will only be a small window to get your phone open, find his contact, and press call. Fifteen seconds if you're lucky. Thank goodness his contact is close to the top. Every second spent waiting feels like an eternity. The men’s yells are reaching new heights. You’re worried that things will soon escalate.

The leader turns his back to you, his underlings moving just so to provide the privacy you need. You've never used a piece of technology faster. Adrenaline must be the only thing keeping your hands from shaking as you navigate your apps and manage to start a phone call. You even think to turn your volume down to avoid suspicion of a disembodied voice coming out of your pocket. The possibility of him not answering isn't something you allow yourself to consider.

The person beside you does not see the genius or flawless execution of your plan.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

You glance in his direction. He's not someone you've spoken to tonight, but you can tell he's not part of the volunteer crowd. His suit is too tailored, physique toned to an uncomfortable level of perfection, and a spritz of too much cologne. The sweat beading at his paid for hairline tells you he's panicking. You don't say anything.

“You're going to get us killed,” he adds at just the wrong moment. The sound of his whisper catches one of the goons’ attention, causing him to saunter over.

“We got a problem over here?” he asks.

The rich guy glares daggers at you. The urge to punch him rises in your gut, but you quickly squash it. Punching him for his stupidity and misplaced anger will do nothing to help you right now.

“Please, no one wants any trouble. We're here for charity,” you plead.

The goon sneers at you. “If you're here for charity what's with all the glitz, princess? Seems to us like that's the kind of money your charity could have used.”

You don't disagree with him. Almost daily you look into the faces of Gotham's most needy, trying to help provide for them and seeing that it's not enough. It's the exact reason you had reservations about attending in the first place. You open your mouth only to close it. This man isn't going to listen to reason or sympathy.

“Huh? You got something to say?” he asks, getting in your face. You can see the grease and dirt that’s layered upon his skin. The smell of his breath makes your stomach roll. A different day, a different place, you could help get him the services he needs. Instead today you’re both one of Gotham’s victims.

You make your voice as small and unintimidating as possible. “No. We're all just a bit scared.”

A lopsided grin overtakes his face. Your heart drops. “Scared? Princess, you don't know the meaning of the word yet.”

Screams erupt around you as the greasy-haired man grabs your arm and pulls you into the cleared center of the room. His sharp fingers dig into your bicep. Through some small miracle, you force your body to relax. Instinct screams to punch, kick, or claw. Rationale tells you resistance will only mean injury or worse. You have to trust that help is on the way – whether it be masked or uniformed. You squeeze your eyes shut against the fear and hope that you'll see a black cape when you open them.

××××××××

The darkness of the rafters keeps Batman concealed as he takes the scene below in. He clears all of his audio channels and ends your call, now able to hear everything for himself. The situation is no better than it sounded over the phone.

There’s a man in a green beanie that’s clearly leading the group of partycrashers. He’s shouting the loudest and the other men keep looking to him for confirmation and reassurance. The only one not paying him as much heed is the one that is holding onto you.

His arm is locked around your neck, forcing your body to follow his as he sees fit. Your hands are gripping his forearm, but you don’t look to be fighting. It’s more likely you’re trying to keep as much pressure as you can off your windpipe. He needs to act fast. Every nerve in Bruce's body is screaming at him to get down and save you. He forces himself to wait.

There are two other men circling the room, guns swinging about wildly. From what he can tell no one has fired a shot, but that offers no comfort. That means full magazines in a room full of hundreds. It won’t take much to do a lot of damage. Bruce loathes guns.

“Where’s your precious Batman now?” The man in the green beanie shouts at the crowd. This is the best opportunity he’ll get. He can’t waste it. Batman connects his grapple line to the ceiling, rappelling down faster than what’s reasonably safe.

Everyone gasps as he appears. The moment of surprise and awe is exactly what he needs as his heavy boot connects with your captor’s head. The high speed means that Bruce lands hard on his knee, sending a shoot of pain up his nervous system, but it also means the greasy-haired man is out cold. Bruce manages to keep you from hitting the floor with the man by catching you around your waist. If he's lucky, everyone watching will think that was all meticulously planned and not Batman flying by the seat of his pants.

Cradled in his arms, your eyes snap open to meet his. He’s comforted by how alert they still are. You’re okay. He’s not losing you today.

“I knew you’d come,” you smile. Bruce’s heart is beating harder than it should for the small burst of physical exertion.

As quickly as the moment is shared, it’s broken. The man in the green beanie fires a spray of bullets into the air. The entire crowd screams in fear and panic, cowering further from them. This isn’t over yet.

“Stay behind me,” he tells you. You keep close to him as you both stand. It’s enough to keep his head on straight, knowing that you’re there and alive. Now he just has to do the same for everyone else. Alfred would kill him if he ever found out how little of a plan he had. There was no time.

Batman's focus falls on the leader of this crew. He looks worse for wear. All of his men do. Whatever their goal is here, they aren’t working for anyone else. Anyone getting serious about crime in Gotham knows the value of a relatively healthy and happy crew. In contrast, these men are out for themselves, which might only serve to make them more dangerous.

“There he is!” Green beanie shouts, as he claps acrimoniously. “Here to save all the rich folks.”

One of the still conscious men spits in Batman's direction. He needs to keep them talking. Figure out their end goal. Right now, he isn’t seeing it. He stays silent, looking blankly from the spit back to the leader. It conveys his thoughts well enough without uttering a word.

“The people of this city think you’re some kind of hero,” the man seethes. “We know what you really are. You’re a sickness. Always protecting those who need it the least. Where are you when Gotham's poorest need you? When they're crying out for help and dying in the streets? Where were you at the bombing of Crown Point²? Funny when the Bat decides to show up or not.”

He knows this criticism. He's heard it on patrol. Read it in the papers and online. The Batman isn't blind to it, but he can't win this fight of public perception. There are detractors on either side – he's either not doing enough to help or he's over-policing, he's ignoring the “real problems” or he's too focused on the big picture. No matter what he chooses, there will always be someone who finds a way to view his efforts negatively.

It hurts him daily to know how much pain his city is still in. That for all he's done, there's still so much more to do. The infuriating, frustrating truth that he's only one man. He can't be everywhere. He can't save everyone.

Bruce keeps his face impassive, but inside the words sting. He understands now. This isn’t some hold-up gone wrong, nor is it part of some larger scheme. These are four – currently three – disenfranchised men doing what they think is necessary to cause change. He only wishes they hadn’t threatened innocent lives to make their point.

“What are you going to do now?” Batman asks.

“We’re going to show these people who you truly are.”

He takes a deep breath. At least now he knows what’s coming.

You're still close behind him. He can't do what he needs to while being worried about you or the other civilians.

He leans back, whispering his plan just loud enough for you to hear. “On my count, you're going to run towards the stairs. You'll be at the front of the pack, so you need to be quick. Kick off your shoes. The police should be waiting outside. Got it?”

He spares a glance at you. Fear is still present in your features, but so is a hardset determination. Hope is winning out. You give a small nod and everything is set.

“One.” The tension in the room builds. Quiet takes over as everyone waits to see what will happen next. The remaining men have all focused their attention onto Batman. The crowd is fading into the background now that their main prize has arrived. Their comrade remains passed out on the floor.

“Two.” He rolls his neck and brings his hand to his belt. He'll have to be quick to pull this off. He can hear your skirt rustle and he knows you're getting ready too.

“Three.” All hell breaks loose.

Silence becomes discord as the room explodes with motion. Batman reaches into his belt, throwing two batarangs out. There's the arching thud of your shoes hitting the floor. The batarangs hit their targets, jamming into the barrels of the two goons’ guns. Your feet slap against the wooden floor as you run. Batman charges forward and kicks the leader's gun from his hands. A risky move, but one he is well rewarded for. The rest of the crowd shifts towards the stairs to follow you.

Now the Batman can get to work.

××××××××

You're temporarily blinded as you burst through the front doors of the hotel. Police spotlights and flashers are everywhere in the street, reporters right behind their barricade with camera flashes capturing the dramatic release of hostages from every angle. It’s likely you’ll be on the front page of at least three news outlets tomorrow.

You hardly get your wits about you before you're whisked off to the back of a nearby ambulance. The paramedic is kind and she doesn't allow any of the cops to approach you until her assessment is complete. You'll be bruised and sore but not much worse.

“No permanent damage done. You're lucky,” she says and walks away. Her words register but don't ring true. Save for a few key moments, very little of tonight feels lucky to you.

You're kept seated with a thick gray blanket pulled around your frame. Between your bare feet and shoulders the extra warmth it provides is appreciated. From this position you're protected from the reporters you can see hovering like vultures at the fringe. Maybe Bruce's biting assessments of the media aren't all that inaccurate.

An older detective walks up and stops before you. He looks tired, like the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders, but his eyes are still bright and sharp behind his glasses. He shows his badge to introduce himself.

“Commissioner Gordon. From what I'm hearing, you're the one I really want to talk to.”

Out of all the cops that could have approached to take your statement, you find yourself relieved that it’s this one. Bruce has never said so plainly, but you can tell the Commissioner has his trust. If he's good enough for Batman that certainly means he's good enough for you.

“I guess that you'd be right,” you reply.

“What happened in there?”

You lay it all out for him. The men storming into the event hall, your secret call, the man beside you drawing the attention of the nearby goon. Batman showing up to save the day. You skip over getting hauled around by your neck.

Gordon takes it all in stride. You have to imagine it’s one of the tamer statements he’s been given in his career. No major injuries. No deaths. No strange gimmick with promises of more trouble to come. Just another bizarre moment in Gotham’s even stranger history.

As you finish answering some clarifying questions, a uniformed officer runs up and whispers something in the Commissioner's ear. His eyes widen and narrow, his focus falling squarely onto you. The feeling of being a teen caught in a lie by your parents washes over you. There’s only one detail you omitted. One he can’t possibly know.

The officer leaves. Gordon takes a moment, allowing it to fester before speaking. Your skin feels like it's vibrating.

“You said you made a call. Our emergency lines don't have any record of a number associated with you connecting with a 911 dispatcher.”

You could lie. Tell him to check his records again or that your call must not have gone through. The look he's giving you says that won't be enough. He'll do the due diligence to get the answers he needs. So why start now?

“I didn't call 911. I called a friend.”

Your honesty catches him off guard, but doesn’t knock him off track. “Why would you do that?”

“I figured you were already on the way. I thought I'd try reaching out to someone else.”

“Must be a powerful friend if you expected them to help.”

“He is,” you affirm. There's a commotion at the hotel's front doors. You and Gordon look to see Batman dragging the tied up criminals out behind him. There's no way to tell from this distance, but he doesn’t look much worse for wear than when he arrived. A tension you didn't know you were holding onto dissipates and a tear sneaks out from the corner of your eye. You know Gordon saw it.

You can feel his suspicion. The connections he's making in his mind to make the night's events complete. You don't think he ascribes your tears to your attacker. It makes sense why Bruce likes him. He’s sharp.

“He couldn't be here tonight, but I knew if something terrible happened he could do something about it,” you say, looking away from the spectacle.

Gordon’s brow furrows. You've thrown a curveball. He thought he had it figured out – and he did – but you've put him back to square one. Your phone dings before he can ask anything more.

“Excuse me, Commissioner.” You’re careful with the angle of your screen, tilting it once you’re sure you don’t mind Gordon reading the message. He’s polite enough to pretend like he isn’t looking. He’d be a bad cop if he didn’t.

Bruce W: Called you a ride. Black Rolls Royce.

You respond to the message with a simple Thanks and look back up at the Commissioner. “Am I okay to go?”

The shock is still present on Gordon’s face. You’ve done what you needed to get Gordon off any connection between you and Batman. You don’t know if you’ve made things better or worse by establishing this one in its stead.

He nods. “You’re free to go. We’ll call if we have any additional questions.”

“Thank you. I hope your night gets easier from here.” You genuinely mean it. It might lead to Batman's night getting easier too.

Gordon grunts, looking towards the pile of criminals for him to deal with. “Not likely.”

A man with silver hair in a suit is waiting beside the car. He looks calm and professional, but you slow your approach, some remaining nerves still clinging. Catching sight of you, he smiles broadly and says in a British accent, “Right this way, Mix. We’ll likely still be waiting a while for the master to get in tonight.”

The honorifics make you balk, but also tell you exactly who this is. Despite the urge, you don’t try to convince the butler to use your name instead of the title. That was a fight waged and summarily lost by a middle school aged Bruce. You reread those letters when you want a good laugh. He was so melodramatic about it.

“Alfred,” you greet warmly. “I can't believe I finally get to put a face to the name.”

Alfred smiles back, opening the door of the car for you. “Likewise. Your letters have been a source of joy for many years now.”

A flush of embarrassment flows through you as you duck into the car. “Oh, did you-?”

Alfred is quick to pick up on the implication. “Never, but they always seemed to boost Master Bruce's spirits and therefore, mine.”

The car door shuts, cutting you off from the circus outside, and you finally feel like you can breathe again. It’s over. You’re safe.

+++

Alfred offers a number of apologies for not having a guest room made up for you. He guides you to Bruce's room instead, reassuring that he won't mind. You get the sense of there being ulterior motives at play, but Alfred's demeanor gives nothing away. Maybe it's just your own imagination running wild.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you know that you should be freaking out right now. You're standing in Wayne Tower – in Bruce Wayne's bedroom. People would pay exorbitant amounts for entrance to the residential area of the Tower alone. You can't imagine what they'd do to be where you are.

Bruce’s room is more comfortable than you would have thought. It's Gotham through and through with the ornate detailing and vaulted ceilings, yet cozy with its dark wood and luxurious furnishings. The large four poster bed is plush with soft black bedding and looks every bit the place for the prince of the city to rest his head. Large, heavy curtains in a dark shade of blue line the windows of the room. You wonder if they were here before or after Bruce took up his nighttime activities. The cleanliness of the room seems due to Alfred. A mess of papers and other items on the desk in the corner would not suggest Bruce is concerned with picking up clothes or making his bed each morning.

There isn't much in the way of personal knick-knacks in the room, but the few items clue you into their importance. There's a photo on the dresser of his parents with a young Bruce between them, a massive smile on his face. They're all in a pool, likely cooling off from a hot summer's day as a family. Based on the photo alone, it doesn't seem to be significant beyond being a happy memory where all the Waynes were alive. Beside the photo is an old baseball emblazoned with the Gotham Knights logo. You wonder if Thomas had taken him to the game where he got it, or if Alfred might have brought the young heir there.

He's never been one to pontificate about his home or possessions but you can see the way he fits so seamlessly into these surroundings. They're as much Gotham as they are him.

A large chest catches your eye, off in the corner of the room. The lid is open, inviting you to peer inside it. Your heart skips a beat when you do.

Inside are black boxes, neatly labeled in gold embossed script with start and end dates. On the top sits one without a lid, filled with your letters. Looking at the amount of boxes and size of the chest, you come to the easy conclusion that Bruce has kept every letter you've ever sent. Tears well in your eyes as you let out a pleased huff. Past and present questions of what you mean to him answered in a single fell swoop – the proof laid out before you. Any lingering apprehension about being in his room melts away.

You move to the en suite, intent upon washing the events of the day off of you. The water pressure here has to be leagues better than your apartment.

××××××××

It’s late when Bruce gets back to the cave. He spoke with Gordon at the Grand Plaza and then managed to get back to the building he'd been staking out. After nearly two additional hours of nothing, he finally called it quits. Batman had seen enough action for a night anyway.

Alfred is there, patiently awaiting his return. “Welcome back, sir.”

“How are they?”

“About as well as one can expect. I can understand now why you've enjoyed communicating with them all these years.”

Bruce doesn't respond. Tonight’s footage is already on screen, flying through hours of tedium before getting to the big event. He releases the fast forward as the rafters come into view, allowing himself to relive it in real time. Alfred doesn't hide his gasp when he sees you trapped in the man's grasp. He leaves only moments later, taking Bruce’s discarded undershirt with him.

As Batman, Bruce has faced far more organized and lethal foes. He's gone into battles that he's unsure he'll make it out of and ended nights with wounds that take weeks or months to heal. Watching it all back he can see just how disorganized this crew was. It's a failing of the hotel's security more than anything that they even got in. Despite all of this, his pulse is racing in a way he hasn't felt since first facing off with the Riddler.

He tries to keep his focus on the men. Analyzing. Making sure that he didn’t miss anything important that would suggest a motive other than the one he already determined. He can’t stop his eyes from drifting to you instead.

Despite the terrifying situation, you remain relatively calm. The only real sign of your panic is how tightly your fingers grasp at the man's arm. Your eyes stay shut the entire time. He wonders if that was a tactic for yourself or others. He’s seen firsthand what someone's fear can do to those around them – probably talked about it in one of his more recent letters. Is that a lesson you took from him? Or pure coincidence?

He has to slow down the footage of his rappel in order to see things clearly. His boot connects cleanly with the man’s temple. It’s unsurprising that he dropped like a sack of potatoes after that. You start to slip out of his grip the second there’s impact, his arm going limp. Bruce can still remember the feeling of his own arm around your waist. How naturally you fit.

Your face fills the screen. Eyes wide as you take the new situation in. Bruce pauses the screen just as your cheeks start to lift, the fear gone from you for just a moment. He takes in all the details his binoculars never show. Your fine lines and freckles. The depth of color in your irises. An errant eyebrow hair. The plush curve of your lips. He feels like he's sixteen again.

After what feels like an eternity staring at the screen he shuts it off and heads upstairs.

Bruce opens the door to the bedroom gently, doing his best to diminish any creaks. With any luck he'll be in and out in under a minute with you none the wiser. He just needs a change of clothes.

Instead he finds you sitting up in bed, book in hand, with the bedside lamp on. Backlit as you are, he can’t see your face but he does see your head turn towards him.

“Why are you still awake?” he asks softly.

A ragged sigh fills the air. “Couldn’t fall asleep.”

You place the book on the nightstand and curl your knees up to your chest.

“I thought you'd be exhausted.”

Another sigh. “Who says I'm not?” When Bruce doesn't respond you continue. “I couldn't get my brain to turn off. Usually I'd write to you about what's on my mind but since you were there I figured… I don’t know, that I'd wait up for you instead I guess?”

Guilt crawls up Bruce’s spine and sinks itself into his head and his heart. An old familiar friend, tightening its grip on him once more. He never has enough time – can never be everywhere he needs to be. Forsaking one thing to accommodate another. It’s one piece he hasn't yet been able to figure out as Batman.

His feet move toward you of their own volition. For once in his life, Bruce doesn't doubt himself or wonder if this is the right thing to do. It feels natural – like instinct. He comes around to the side you've chosen to lay on and perches himself on the edge.

You react to the change in pressure, gasping as you turn your head. Right. He was still without a shirt. Most people speak to each other with clothes on. Bruce hopes that the room lighting is low enough for you to not see his blush.

“Sorry, let me–” He moves to stand, stopping awkwardly part way when your hands wrap around his arm to hold him in place.

“No, I mean it's- you can- It's your room. I'm the one intruding,” you stutter, letting one of your hands fall.

Bruce sits back down, closer to you on the bed this time. Your hand is still searing around his arm, permanently branding him with your touch. His free hand moves to cover yours and keep it in place. He's unaccustomed to this kind of heat. Your eyes shine brightly, awaiting his response. It relaxes him somewhat to know that tonight hasn't taken you completely apart.

The shirt you're wearing is familiar – a favorite of his own. You look as though you're meant to be there, wearing his clothes. You look at home.

“I would never call you an intruder.”

The warmth stirring in his gut starts to turn sour. Closer now in the dull lighting he can see the discolored marks that paint your throat. He reaches out slowly, thumb gliding gently over the tender skin. Your pulse is rabbit quick under his hand. He's not sure what he should do.

Bruce wishes he would have had the chance to inflict more pain upon the man who did this to you. Vengeance is dead, but he'd resurrect him for a night for you. It’s certainly an easier way to deal with the maelstrom of emotions he’s experiencing right now. Comforting others is something Batman has gotten better at over the years, but it's not something he's had to do as Bruce. The closest he's ever come is holding Alfred's hand in the hospital. Would you like that?

He's suddenly flinching – body reacting before he can catch up mentally. He catches your wrist easily and brings your touch back to his shoulder. “It's okay. I wasn't expecting it.”

Your fingers are soft. They start at the bruise on his shoulder that's forming from one of the men hitting him with the butt of their gun. From there they travel across his chest. Every touch is careful. Reverent. Taking in every inch of his pale skin and making his own pulse start to jump.

××××××××

You think you might be dreaming. Maybe you did fall asleep on the astronomically high thread count sheets and goose down pillows instead of tossing and turning before giving up and accepting your sleepless fate. The luxury sleeping arrangements could explain the quality of your dream. Then again, his body seems far too firm and warm for this to be a mere byproduct of your subconsciousness.

Scars of various shapes and sizes litter his shoulders and chest. Some look old and faded and you wonder if you might know the stories behind those. Scrapes and stories from childhood that weren’t yet too revealing to share. Others are thick or gnarled and raised. Injuries that look as though they have an intense and dangerous origin attached to them. You wonder if Bruce will ever share those with you. There are a few fresh purple bruises like the one on his shoulder that you can only assume he obtained tonight. It’s not easy to see those. Knowing that on some level, he has them because of you.

You’re mapping out every detail of his torso. Committing it to memory as you discover the way a scar traces a line from his sternum down his abs. Or the medium sized freckle below his right nipple. The tremble in his muscles each time your fingers trace his side. The smoothness of his skin in the places that are still unmarred.

His gaze is heavy. You barely find the confidence to work your way back up, risking a touch past his collarbones to trace the sharp line of his jaw. Stubble tickles your fingertips. Sweat damp hair has fallen forward across his forehead. You push it back, tucking it towards his ear. His eyes are just as arresting without the black surrounding them. You’re not sure when the air of the bedroom got so thick.

Bruce’s thumb sweeps across your neck again. The look in his eyes is sad, heavy with something you can’t quite describe. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” you ask, perplexed by the genuine apology.

The corner of his lip turns upward slightly, as though he finds your question humorous. Like it should be obvious. “For not getting there sooner. For not being there.”

You’re sure that Bruce had an invite to tonight’s event. He likely has a standing invite to any event within Gotham’s city limits and more. Whatever made him choose to pass on this one, you’re sure there was good reason for it – something else he couldn’t otherwise easily set aside. It wasn’t even as if he knew you’d be in attendance or that tonight’s events were going to happen. There’s nothing he could have done differently short of becoming omnipotent.

“All that matters is that you got there. You saved me and everyone else tonight.”

It’s hard to know if Bruce believes what you’re telling him or not. His expression changes very little and you're compelled to convince him of it.

“Thank you.” You lean forward, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. There's no room for second guessing. You're already in his bed and wearing a piece of his clothing. He has every letter you've ever sent carefully organized and stored in his bedroom. You don’t know what any of this is anymore, but it feels just as right as any other step you’ve ever taken with him.

Bruce looks bewildered but not upset when you pull back. You take it as a good sign.

“I think I might be the one who owes you an apology,” you say, looking down and studying his hand. He has elegant fingers. It’s easy to picture them writing in his neat and tight script.

“For what?”

“I may have implied to Commissioner Gordon that we’re close friends.”

“Are we not?”

“Yes, I mean no. I mean-” you sigh exasperatedly. Your mind is swirling – trying desperately to process everything that's happened tonight. You're not sure you know how to define this relationship anymore. “We are, but I don’t know that you wanted it known. It’s not something I wanted to force upon you.”

Bruce’s large hand gently squeezes your own. “I don't mind. I wouldn’t have sent Alfred if I did.”

You're not sure what to say. This is not the night you had imagined. You thought you might see him at the charity event, share a drink and a few laughs and end the night separately. You back on your couch in front of the TV and Bruce off somewhere as the city's caped crusader. Not holding hands in Bruce’s bed, half undressed.

“You should get some sleep,” Bruce says, breaking the loud silence. He guides you back towards the pillows, pulling the blankets up to tuck you in. As he reaches for the lamp, your hand finds his again.

“You should too,” you tell him. The dark circles under his eyes tell you of his exhaustion.

“I will. I'll be down the hall in the study.”

“No.” The speed and force of your response surprises you both. You scramble for a reasonable follow up that doesn’t freak him out or make you sound like a lunatic. “I am not kicking you out of your own bed. Stay.”

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks. If you didn't know better, you'd say his words sounded a little breathless.

“Please. I don't want to be alone.”

××××××××

Bruce nods and turns out the lamp. In the darkness of the room everything else is amplified. The pad of his footsteps walking around to the other side of the bed. The rustle of sheets as he climbs into them. The sound of your breaths, not yet evened out.

He's careful to leave space between you. For once in his life, he feels out of his depth. This isn't something he's ever done before. There wasn’t much time for it in all his years spent training and crime fighting, despite what rumors may say. The fear of crossing a boundary keeps him straight and stiff. His eyes are wide open, staring up towards the ceiling into darkness. Has his room always been this quiet?

The mattress shifts slightly as you readjust, the memory foam absorbing most of the movement. You must be getting more comfortable, settling in to finally get some much needed rest. Bruce’s breathing stutters when your fingers intertwine with his. An innocent and all-consuming touch.

“Goodnight, Bruce,” you mumble, already halfway to falling asleep.

“Goodnight,” he whispers back, unsure if he can continue to hold up that sparkly gel pen hope you wrote to him so long ago. Bruce may not have many others to compare it to, but this feels like something past friendship.

He tries to stay awake, puzzling over tonight’s developments in his mind. If there's one thing he hates, it's not having a plan, and he's currently in the middle of uncharted territory. It's not five minutes before exhaustion and the comfortable warmth of your hand take over and pull him into slumber. He hasn't fallen asleep that quickly in years.

With any luck, he'll get this figured out before another twenty years pass him by.

++++++

¹ HELP: Homeless Education and Legal Program (made up for this fic)

² Takes place in The Penguin show

💕 thanks for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated:)

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