Impression, Sunrise by Claude Monet
Part of the Mrs. Bruce Wayne series
Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night and go to the BatCave to check up on your husband through his comms. (wc: 2k)
Tags: Fluff. A bit of angst. So fluffy. Tooth-rotting sweet. Female!reader. Husband!Bruce. Batmom!reader. Dick is twelve years old. Dick isn’t Robin yet. No use of y/n. Soft!Bruce. Established relationship. Battinson.
Painting's description: Painted in 1872, Claude Monet's Impression, Sunrise depicts the misty port of Le Havre, France, at dawn. It is famous for its vibrant orange sun, which pierces through a hazy blue and gray atmosphere to reflect on the rippling water, while silhouetted boats and smokestacks emerge from the fog. The masterpiece is known not just for its subject, but for its revolutionary impact on art history. Estimated value: between $250 and $400 million.
The worst thing that could have happened to you was to wake up in the middle of the night. When the bed was too cold, and your husband isn’t there to warm you right back up.
Waking up at 4:37 AM wasn't just a nuisance; it was a sensory disruption. You hated the specific chill of the master bedroom when it was empty—the way the expensive, high-thread-count sheets felt less like luxury and more like a cold marble slab.
You tossed and turned, your chest tightening. Dating the Batman had been an intellectual challenge; marrying him was an exercise in preservation. You hadn’t just married a man; you had legally bound yourself to a triptych. There was Bruce, the raw canvas. There was Bruce Wayne, the heavily varnished, superficial portrait presented to Gotham's high society. And there was the Batman—the dark, brutalist sculpture that demanded all of his shadow.
Living with all three was exhausting.
Giving up on sleep, you slid out of bed. You threw on a soft silk robe, though you didn't bother changing out of the ridiculous plush bunny slippers—the single, absurd piece of kitsch Bruce absolutely hated but secretly smiled at.
The hidden elevator ride down to the Batcave always felt like descending into a subterranean vault of stolen artifacts. The air down here smelled entirely of cold limestone, damp leather, and high-end server coolant. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, your fingers moving across the master console with practiced, fluid precision. You knew the keystrokes by heart now.
When the massive monitors flickered to life, the primary feed displayed his line of sight.
You weren't looking at Bruce. You were looking at Gotham through his cowl. The city was rendered in harsh, high-contrast digital blacks and neon whites—a living chiaroscuro painting. The camera tilted slightly as he sat on the stone ledge of a cathedral, looking down at the fog-rolling streets. Nothing was happening. He was just watching. Monitoring the borders of his canvas.
You leaned against the cold metal desk, pressing the comms button.
"Hi, Batman," you murmured, your voice soft, cutting through the heavy hum of the cave's cooling fans.
On screen, the camera feed didn't jerk, but you caught the subtle, micro-fractional stabilization of his posture. He always reset his baseline when he heard your voice. Through the audio receiver, his breathing shifted, slowing down.
"What are you doing up?"
The cowl's vocal modulator rasped through the cave's high-end speakers. It was the heavy, gravelly baritone designed to strike terror into Gotham's criminal underworld—but after three years of marriage, you knew the exact frequency of the hidden cadence beneath it. It was a voice that made you hyper-aware of the bare skin of your legs against the cave's draft.
"Needed to check the alignment," you replied, leaning closer to the microphone, your tone small, intentionally stripping away the professional distance you usually kept. "Wanted to make sure my favorite piece wasn't damaged."
On the monitor, the digital horizon tilted slightly. A nod. Perfect, silent comprehension.
He didn't say I'm fine. He didn't say I miss you. As Batman, he was a man of minimalist composition. But the camera feed lingered on the empty sky for one long beat before he finally spoke
“How’s Dick doing?” his tone softens up a little when he brings up the kid you two had adopted. Dick Grayson. He was barely twelve years old, but he had the same look Batman had sometimes. That vengeance look.
“He’s sleeping. I didn’t check up on him before coming here.” You see how his head tilts and you know that’s a nod.
The feed remained still on the dark gothic skyline, the digital white noise of the comms the only sound filling the damp expanse of the cave. Even through the cold, synthetic filter of his cowl, you could hear the microscopic shift in his posture—the heavy, protective weight of a father balancing the darkness of Gotham against the fragile peace of his home.
"Go check on him," Bruce murmured, the gravel in his voice smoothing out, yielding to the quiet, exhausted father who worried about the ghosts haunting the boy down the hall. "He had... a rough afternoon."
You frowned slightly, leaning a hand on the edge of the sleek, cold console. "A rough afternoon? What happened?"
"A bird with a broken wing in the gardens," Bruce said quietly, his gaze on the screen panning slightly to the left, tracking the silent movement of a police cruiser miles below. "He spent three hours trying to build a splint for it. He wouldn't leave it. He wouldn't let me help, either."
A soft, bittersweet smile touched your lips. Dick was so incredibly stubborn, carrying a fierce, quiet intensity that mirrored the man currently crouching on a freezing stone ledge in the rain. They both wanted so desperately to fix everything that was broken, no matter how small.
"He's like you," you murmured into the microphone. "He doesn't know how to walk away from a tragedy."
"He needs to learn," Bruce replied, though the flat, minimalist delivery carried a rare trace of self-reckoning. "I don't want him to be like me."
You sigh, a quiet, knowing sound escaping your lips as you stare at the digital terminal for a fraction of a second too long. “I’ll go check on Dick, he’s probably still out cold. I’ll wait for you in bed, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the modulator rumbles, carrying a thread of rare, private warmth.
Without another word, you sever the link. The elevator whisks you back up to the quiet, ancestral halls of Wayne Manor, where the cold brutalism of the cave yields to high-vaulted ceilings and heavy Persian rugs. You pad down the silent hallway to Dick’s room, pushing the door open just a crack.
Inside, the boy is splayed across his mattress like a living Jackson Pollock canvas—limbs thrown in chaotic, energetic vectors, practically dripping and splashing across the sheets. That was Dick Grayson’s version of sleep; even at rest, he was a burst of kinetic energy. He doesn't seem bothered by the weight of his dreams, and honestly, who would be at five in the morning? A small spike of affectionate jealousy pricks at your chest; he isn't the one keeping vigil over Gotham's protector tonight. You smile to yourself, pulling the door shut. Your little bird is safe, grounded in his nest.
When you return to the master bedroom, the heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, and there he is. Bruce is caught mid-motion, his broad shoulders tensed as he struggles with the stubborn latches of the remaining back plating. For a split second, he looks like a wild creature cornered by a sudden spotlight—vulnerable, stripped of his shadows.
“Need some help?” you ask softly, crossing the room.
You slip into the adjacent bathroom, returning with a warm, damp towel. Bruce lets you guide him to the edge of the bed. He sits, letting his heavy head drop slightly, completely yielding his formidable frame to your hands. He lets you in. You are the only person in the world he allows to touch him like this—to strip away the armor he built to keep the rest of humanity at bay.
You press the warm cloth to his temple, dabbing softly, carefully lifting the heavy black paint from his skin. You treat him with the same painstaking, reverent touch you use on the priceless masterpieces at the museum. In your mind, Bruce isn’t just a husband; he is a Monet—built from heavy, textured strokes of light and shadow, delicate under the surface, and utterly irreplaceable.
As the last of the greasepaint is wiped away, he leans forward. His hands rise to find your waist, his large, scarred fingers digging gently into the silk of your robe to pull you flush against him. When his lips find yours, the kiss is slow, heavy, and thick with unspoken gratitude. He tastes of dark espresso and the lingering cold of the Gotham night, a soft, grounding pull that makes your knees weak. His lips are your beautiful, inescapable perdition.
“Hi,” he murmured once he pulled away from you to look into your eyes. His light blue orbs were observing your face as if you were the only person in the world that mattered. He always made you feel like that. He flashes a small smile, not the one he uses when he’s on the cover of magazines, nor the one he uses when he talks to his associates. No. This kind of smile was only for you in intimate moments like this one. When he’s holding your body against his, and he smells like sweat, a bit metallic like blood, and inherently him. You press a kiss on his chest, bringing goosebumps on his arm. “Wanna watch the sunrise, sweetheart?”
You raised your eyebrow, looking at the covered windows of the master bedroom. The blackouts didn’t allow any light to come in, but he most likely knew what time the sun was coming up. It felt like his duty, somehow. You nod and let him guide you towards the large balcony in the living room. He opens the sliding window to let you step outside. The cool of dawn hits you immediately. He’s only wearing his sweats, hanging low on his hips and allowing all the scars on his torso to stay on display. You always told him you loved his scars, that they were his won battles.
As you hold onto the balcony railing, his warm arms embrace you from behind. His eyes are closed as he breathes your shampoo in, his warm chest against your covered back. He leans in, starting to kiss your neck and the sensitive joint of your neck and shoulder. The place where, according to him, you smelled the most you. Your hand curls around his arm and you tap him gently.
You’re going to miss the sunrise,” you whisper against his lips, a small, amused huff escaping you as you tilt your head back to accommodate the warm path of kisses he’s tracing down your jaw. It’s a beautifully transparent lie. You don’t care about the sky; you only care about the heavy, possessive way his arms are locked around your waist. And by the tight, unyielding grip of his hands, it’s clear the Dark Knight doesn’t care about the daylight either.
He nips teasingly at the crook of your shoulder—just enough pressure to make you gasp, but gentle enough to leave nothing but a warm sensation on your skin.
The first soft, orange rays of dawn begin to bleed over the horizon, cutting through the heavy Gotham mist. The sky above the distant harbor is finally waking up. You let out a soft, contented hum, looking past his shoulder at the view.
“It has the exact same palette,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his damp, messy hair.
Bruce chuckles, the low sound rumbling directly against your spine. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his dark eyes turning to the window to watch the violet and orange paint the clouds. A knowing, incredibly soft smile touches his lips.
“You’re right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and affection. “Maybe Monet actually knew a thing or two about his colors.”
A bright giggle escapes you, warm and light in the quiet dawn. You turn in his embrace to face him, burying your hands in his chest. “Cheesy,” you tease, poking his chest.
Bruce just smiles, his eyes soft and entirely resting on you, his own perfect masterpiece.
Tags: @freaksinlovexx @anvidea
