tbh clark would love being called kal-el by those closest to him. obviously my brain goes to poly!superbat, though.
warnings- smut 18+ only, unprotected p in v sex, rimming (m receiving), oral (f and m receiving)
rosy cheeks every time it slipped from your mouth. most often in these moments,
early mornings where he was still half-asleep. skin warm with lines from the blankets etched into his skin. sleepy eyes and hands always pulling himself towards you or bruce. he’d sigh in content, feeling the most at home he’s ever felt.
when he jolts awake from a nightmare with frantic eyes and a heaving chest. his first thought is to not wake either of you up. to go to the living room and just deal with it alone. but he regains his senses and ends up waking either you or bruce up, seeking comfort. without fail, whoever he leaves sleeping ends up waking up from all the movement anyways. you both tuck him in between you, if he isn’t already, and soothe him with gentle touches and reassuring words. whispers of his birth name and promises of your boundless love eventually lull him back to sleep. two sets of arms wrapped around his form. two hands that stroke his soft skin. two sets of lips that press long kisses to his hair, neck, shoulders, cheeks… everywhere.
while he’s cooking for you and bruce in the kitchen. either in his apartment or at the manor with alfred shoo’ed away. he moves with ease, flipping bacon and pancakes before either have time to burn, because when it’s his turn to cook it’s always breakfast for dinner. he has an apron on, likely a frilly “kiss the cook!” one that was definitely made to fit your size, not his. tongue between his teeth and whispering measurements to himself. every time, without fail, either you or bruce sneak up behind him to wrap you arms around his waist and sneak bites of food. you’ll nuzzle your face against his shoulder with a hum, “mmm, thanks kal-el”
you’re all getting ready for another gala. bruce goes to help clark tie his tie while you finish your hair. although clark has tied his own tie a million times, he shows no objection to letting bruce do the job for him. bruce takes time to run his fingers along the tie underneath clark’s collar to “make sure it’s not flipped”. the contact would have clark a little flustered already. but after he’s all set, bruce kisses him and whispers “you look so handsome, kal-el.”, and it renders him speechless.
when he’s hurt, his powers stripped from kryptonite or his body aches from a brutal combat. either in the hospital or the medical corner of the cave. you hover over him with tears in your eyes, hands shaky and lip wobbling. “kal-el.. honey, please.” you’d whimper. your hands move from his arms to his chest, up to his face, wherever you can touch him as if the feeling would suddenly heal him. bruce is just as unwell, but more quiet. in a nearby chair with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
but moooooooooost definitely in the bedroom. sorry i’m a horndog 4ever. lemme share some thoughts
-bruce railing clark while he eats you out. both of you telling him how good he is, how he’s such a sweetheart, “so good for us, kal-el..”
-you & bruce worshipping clark’s cock. “such a pretty cock, kal-el… so fucking hard for us.. look at you..” while he whines and squirms.
-missionary where clark is just fucking the life out of you while bruce watches. “oh- fuck! mm- kal! fuck, kal-el.. right there.”
-bruce rimming him while you suck him off. “taste so fucking good, kal. mmm.. this ass is fuckin’ mine, kal-el.”
-him and bruce DP’ing you. “bruce.. kal… shit, oh fuck you’re so deep.”
and finally, when he’s a little bit floaty and in subspace. shaky breathing and heavy eyes while you and bruce clean him up. “so good for us, kal-el..” “kal-el.. so perfect. all ours, hmm?” and sweet murmurs of his name while you hold him in the hot bath after 🤌🏼
summary: in hopes that it will help you decompress from work, you've taken on jogging at your local park in the evening. after a brief misunderstanding, you find that you might end up with something better.
It’s a Thursday just after dusk, and you lace up your shoes for the nightly jog routine you’ve adopted since starting your new desk job. The air is cool, tinged with the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. You slip on your headphones, the low thump of bass greeting you, and ease through a series of stretches, each muscle uncoiling after hours spent seated. Tonight you’ve chosen the tougher loop, craving the burn in your lungs to counterbalance the frustration that builds whenever you recall your bumbling coworkers.
You step off the pavement and onto the winding trail through the park. Overhead, amber streetlamps cast long shadows between the trees. In the distance, a youth soccer match drones on under floodlights, the shouts and cheers slicing through your music. Along the edges, families gather up strollers and blankets, their voices mingling with the distant hum of cars on the nearby road.
Rounding the first bend, your feet strike the gravel with a steady rhythm. You sink into the warmth of your playlist as crisp wind rustles the branches overhead, and you taste it on your lips. Spring is just beginning to settle in.
A few minutes later, you sense you’re not alone. The hairs on your neck prick. You glance over your shoulder and spot a lone figure—tall, silhouette rimmed by lamplight—matching your pace a dozen yards behind. His jog is smooth, unhurried. You study him for a moment: dark hoodie, hands tucked low. Nothing overtly threatening, yet your stomach twists.
You push off a little harder, picking up speed as gravel sprays behind you. You tell yourself the park is public; other runners aren’t unusual. Surely he’ll veer off or slow down. The night feels too open for stealth.
But around the next bend, there he is again, only closer. You sense his presence in your peripheral vision, a quiet thud of his steps mirroring yours. A flash of lamplight glints on something in his raised hand, causing your pulse to throb in your ears.
Panic flares. Your mind races through possibilities: a taser’s barrel, the cold edge of a knife, maybe a cloth soaked in knock-out gas. You can almost feel his intent drawing tight around you; the pack of adrenaline in your veins makes your heart hammer like a drum.
You surge forward, planting each stride heavier, angling toward the park’s center where a handful of late-stayers still linger. Someone will hear a scream. Branches whip at your arms, and your lungs burn, but you welcome the pain. You hear him accelerate too, the soft crunch of his shoes behind you growing louder, closer, his heat brushing past you in the chill air, and you pray one of those scattered families or stray joggers looks back in time to save you.
You know this is your chance to get one on him, and you quickly whirl around and deck him in the face, making his head turn and something drop out of his hands.
Your something, actually. Or rather, your apartment building pass that lets you go home, you know, something very important.
He bent over, pressing both hands to his knees, blinking at you through the shock. “Jesus,” he managed, voice muffled and thick. “You decked me.”
Horror dawns on you as you realize his intentions were innocent. Your hands flutter in the air between you, mortification heating your cheeks. "Oh god, are you okay? I'm so sorry—I didn't—it's just that I've been binging these murder documentaries lately and I thought—"
He straightened, rubbing his jaw, lips twisted in amusement that softened the swelling. He watched you for a moment, measuring you, then burst into a laugh that was bright and unreasonably forgiving. “No harm done,” he said, still grinning despite the bruise already blooming under his skin. “I guess I deserved that for chasing you through a public park in the dark.”
You tried to laugh, but it snagged in your chest. “I just—there’s been a lot of—” You hesitated, unwilling to say the words true crime out loud, as if it would curse you further. “I’m really sorry. That was… not the appropriate response.”
He shrugged, stooping to pick up the fallen pass, holding it out to you between two knuckles. “You sure about that? Looked pretty appropriate from here.” He smiled again, a full, crinkled smile that made his eyes wrinkle at the corners, and you found yourself smiling back in spite of yourself.
You accepted the pass, the moment of physical contact both transactional and jarring. “Thank you. I’m so sorry.” You shook your head, half in disbelief, half in apology.
“It’s okay. I’m Hal. Hal Jordan.” edges of humor softening his tone. “But honestly, I respect a woman who can defend herself.” He extended his hand, this time in a gesture of truce instead of transaction. Tentatively, you shook it, feeling the heat of his skin and the steadiness of his grip.
You stood there for a moment, both at a loss, the park suddenly feeling much smaller and much stranger than before. The voices of the families and teens filtered in, grounding you, and you found yourself exhaling the last of your panic.
“I really am sorry,” you said again, quieter this time. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”
He grinned, gently massaging his jaw. “If it makes you feel better, I get it. The world’s a freakshow these days. I’d have done the same.”
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe you hadn’t just made the local neighbor news by the morning. Still, you managed a shaky laugh. “Let me buy you a coffee sometime. Or an ice pack.”
He tilted his head, considering. “Deal. But only if you let me walk you the rest of the way home. For safety’s sake.”
You hesitated, then nodded, the tension draining from your shoulders. Together you started down the path, the thud of your steps gentler now, less adversarial. The park was almost empty; even the soccer kids had gone, leaving scattered cleat marks and candy wrappers in their wake.
“So,” you said, finding your rhythm beside him, “what’s your story, Hal Jordan? You always chase women down in the dark?”
He chuckled. “Only the ones who drop their security passes. And only if they outrun me, which, by the way, is impressive.”
The conversation unspooled, awkward at first, then warming. You learned he’d moved from Boston, that he liked running at night because it made him feel less like a lab rat on a treadmill. He learned you’re also new to the area and that your family was a state away, that you missed your old apartment but not your old roommate.
By the time they reached your street, the panic of the earlier encounter had faded into the kind of embarrassment that made for a decent anecdote, rather than a sleepless night.
At your door, you paused, turning the pass over in your fingers. “Thanks again,” you said, voice soft enough that you doubted he’d hear it.
He did. “Anytime. Just next time, don’t hit so hard? Well, you should if you think you’re in danger again, just try not to hit me.”
You smiled, genuine this time, and offered a small salute. He returned it, then jogged off into the dark.
Inside, you collapsed against the door, the rush of safety and shame colliding in your chest. You reached for your phone to text your best friend, to confess the story before someone else could twist it. As you typed, you realized your hands had finally stopped shaking. The park outside was silent, empty, and for the first time all week, you felt something like relief.
You made a mental note to delete your true crime podcast queue, or at least to stop listening after sunset. Maybe, too, you’d give Hal a chance. If nothing else, you owed him a decent cup of coffee.
You slept better that night, the world outside your window shifting from a threat to a possibility, your dreams bright with the memory of running not from, but toward.
a/n: two months late, and cut short, but here it is, since i promised to clear out my drafts for my birthday! idk what it is about hal that i almost always have a difficult time finishing stories with him. i wanted to write about a morning date, and maybe you taking care of him once you see you really got him good, but that's not what happened, so sorry about that!
thank you for all of your love and support, and thank you so much for your likes, comments and reblogs. i hope you have an incredible day, i love you, and here's a kiss from me to you! 😘💕
the batmobile is out of commission and after a rough go of the streets so is the batman. the circumstance forces his hand and he finds himself collapsing on your fire escape and into your arms. now an intimidating task lies ahead of you, cleaning up and taking care of the caped crusader…
ft. batman / bruce wayne x gn!reader
18+ MDNI. if you do not have your age on your blog you will be blocked, you must be 18+ to interact with and follow this content.
content: fluff, non-sexual nudity and stripping, wound patching, descriptions of injury and blood, established relationship, reader knows bruce is batman, it’s a classic patch up fic basically lol (happy batman day folks!! <3)
word count: 8.5k
ao3 ver. (must be a registered user to view)
You bounce your foot anxiously on the floor of the kitchen. The rhythm of its tapping is the only noise to fill your ears besides the tick of the clock your gaze is fixed to, though you've begun to zone that out somewhat.
Four in the morning. He should be here already.
A heavy sigh passes your lips, weighted with a nervousness unlike anything you've known before. Your whole body is tense, stomach twisted apprehensively. It's the worst feeling but you can't shake it, won't shake it until he's back in your arms.
You’re still not used to this.
Then, as if on cue you hear the familiar thud of a person's full body weight landing on the fire escape outside. And, god, it's awful creaking has never sounded so good until now. You whip your head around to follow the sound, your heart racing and pulse running icy.
Before you know it the heavy presence of the batman is back in your kitchen, his broad stature filling the window bay. His cape is a torn, tattered mess, the volume of the fabric dampened by the weight of grime and residual dirt. But still he hides behind it, hands gathered in its far corners to pull it around his body in the usual, cloak-esque way. The same dirt is smeared across the only visible part of his stubbled face.
The sight freezes you for a moment, leaving you glued to the spot. Like this he’s menacing, a bad omen that lurks in the city's shadows to strike fear into those who oppose him. It takes a moment to remember that the message, that the fear, isn’t meant for you.
It's him. That's all that matters.
"Oh, Bruce." It leaves your throat as a gasp and you hurry to stand from your chair, knocking it backwards behind you in the process. Its clatter to the floor makes his head jerk up, eyes widening like snapping him out of a trance.
You help him through the window and support his weight as his feet find the floor, watching the cape fall away from his body to reveal the damage to the front of his suit. He's doubled over himself somewhat, bent at the waist with an arm shielding his front. The sight inspires dread in your gut.
"Shut that light off." Comes his low grumble, coughing the sound of something painful. You roll your eyes but oblige, turning for the light switch. But before you flick it off you take a regretful glance at him.
The torso of his suit is torn worse than his cape, with a gash through the bat symbol that runs like a claw mark across, and into, his chest. Similar scratches wrap around his waist and shoulders, all weeping a sickly red and burning their image into your mind. He looks like he’s been grabbed by something, something beastly that he won’t so much as let you know the existence of.
"I’m sure no one’s looking in my kitchen window. It’s fine." You retort coolly and almost defensively, but the comfort of the darkness engulfing you both can’t be denied.
There’s a safety in hiding that you’re beginning to understand more and more these days, though you’d hate to admit that you’ve picked that up from the bat.
Though, with the darkness comes the shift. It's the circumstance settling in, the realisation of the long night you've got ahead of you now that he's back. It's anxiety inducing in its own, absurd way.
He scoffs his discontent and you rush back to his side, unable to resist throwing your arms around his shoulders while trying to be careful of his apparent injuries. He crumbles into your longing embrace, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you into him like he can't get you close enough. His head falls to your shoulder, face turned inwards to your neck to breathe in your honeyed scent.
It comforts him, lets him relax his shoulders and makes his chest feel lighter.
"I missed you, my dear." The only words he can muster come out timid and breathless, lacking their usual, Bruce typical, bravado.
"I missed you too, B." You sigh. "I’ve been worried sick."
You pull back slowly, hands on his biceps to encourage him to take a step back. He can barely hold his head up, or rather doesn’t try to when you reach for the menacing face of the cowl. It comes off easy and the sight of him has your breath caught in your throat. You drop the mask to the floor.
"I’m sorry. I’d never mean to worry you."
Bruce forces a closed lip smile for you, letting out a shaky sigh when you gently cup his sullied face in your palms. He leans down into the soft touch and the dark paint around his eyes smears beneath your thumbs when you glide them across his cheekbones.
"I know. But you know I will anyway." You hum, guiding him down so you can press a kiss to his forehead, caring not for the layer of sweat that sticks to the skin. Bruce nods.
A heavy breath passes his lips and he keens further down to again hide his face into the side of your neck, the tip of his nose squishing against you. You can feel the tenseness in his stature, hear it in each quivering exhale. So you keep him there for a moment, holding him gently with a hand running soothingly up and down his back.
Bruce needs this, but so do you. The adrenaline come down is rough, everything is a blur, all of it down to the autopilot journey that brought him here. It was only when the cowl came off that he realised it all and now the guilt of dragging you into this is creeping in and grounding thick roots.
Eventually he draws back, though somewhat reluctantly, standing tall in front of you with tired, steely blues staring through you. Your hands make a path down the column of his neck, making him shudder before your touch lands back on his shoulders to unfasten the cape from its anchors. It thuds to the tile right next to the cowl.
He’ll collect them on his way out.
"Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" You offer, voice barely above a whisper. He nods and wordlessly hands himself over to you.
But before you go anywhere you keen onto your tiptoes, reaching to press a chaste kiss to Bruce's lips. He reciprocates with a grunt, hands tentatively holding your waist, careful not to curl clawed fingertips into the plush of your body. When you pull away his eyes seem to shine at least a little bit, a notion that makes your heart warm.
"C'mon then." You smile, taking both of his hands into one of your own and dragging him away down the corridor of your apartment.
With a hand still on his shoulder you gently push him into the tiny box of a bathroom, flipping the light switch to illuminate the garish decorative choices that the landlord won’t let you cover. Bruce leans on the edge of the seashell shaped sink, eyes searching you as if waiting for instructions.
"Stay here." You say softly. He hums and does just that.
With that you sneak away to your bedroom, gunning it for the drawer in the leftmost corner. Rummaging through the pile of clothes that you’ve neglected to fold in the bottom draw you try to find something of his, knowing that you’ve surely taken a t-shirt or two by now. Eventually you fish out a black henley that has more creases than you knew possible and a pair of grey sweatpants that are bobbled all over. It'll do.
You steal a black, Wayne Enterprises tee for yourself too. It’s the kind of thing that is of no use to him so they end up yours for lounging around in.
When you return to Bruce he has shucked off the top half of his suit and thrown it over the top of the open door, as well as removed his boots and socks that now sit tucked under the sink, the clawed gloves laying in the basin. This leaves only the bulk of the trousers and the compression shirt that hugs his toned torso. He gives you a small smile when you enter, a weak one, but it's still a smile.
Then it's down to business. First placing the haphazardly folded clothes onto the closed lid of the toilet you turn to the medicine cabinet above the sink. From inside you grab a pack of makeup wipes.
"Come here." You softly beckon Bruce whose standing rigid in the corner of the room, watching your every move. With only one stride he’s at your side, arm brushing against yours.
You pull one wipe from the pack and swivel to face him, again cupping his jaw in your hand and encouraging him to lean over.
"Close your eyes." It’s a gentle press, damp, a little bit cold, and you notice his nose twitch as you wipe the black smear from the bridge of it. Surprisingly, the dark paint comes off easily with only a couple of passes, and somehow no stain.
"There you go." Humming, you bin the sullied wipe. Bruce blinks a couple of times and finally remembers to relax his face. "Much better."
"Thank you." He clears his throat like suddenly remembering he can speak.
There's a tenseness in the air, the vulnerability of the situation perhaps feeling foreign to the both of you. This is the first time you've seen him quite so beat up and you're sure he's noticed how gingerly you're taking everything. Your words are sweet, pacifying, but he sees right through to your worries.
Pushing past the feeling you step over to the shower bath and lean over the tubs terracotta coloured siding to switch the water on. The pitter patter of the spray hitting the bottom fills your ears and seems to startle Bruce for a moment as his body jumps, shoulders up to his ears.
You've never seen him this quiet, closed off, or timid. It hurts your heart to see your Bruce like this, after all, timid of all things is never a word you’ve associated with him. It’s just not like him, not as Bruce or the bat. But it makes you even more determined to take proper care of him.
You approach him carefully, placing your hands to his squared shoulders and pushing lightly to encourage him to drop them. He forces another small grin for you, a very slight upturn of his chapped lips, and his hands take purchase at your hips with a tight grip. You pinch the fabric of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, giving it a little tug.
"Can I take this off?" You ask, soothing your hands down his arms. Bruce raises a brow at you, though the fatigued look in his eyes remains.
"Oh." He looks down at himself briefly, as if having forgotten, or rather ignored the state he’s in. He hesitates for a long moment but you wait through it, watching his jaw clench as he muses over your question.
He doesn’t know how bad it is yet.
Alongside the surface cuts anything could be hiding under the fabric, and the bruising has probably already settled in. Not to mention the couple of darker, black patches that indicate blood still actively weeping. He doesn’t want to scare you with whatever damage could be underneath, forever trying to shield you from the harsher realities of his crusade.
Previous patch ups had been much more minimal, scrapes so small he didn’t so much as notice the sting until you pointed out the trickle of blood down his arms. When it’s like that, a quick clean and plaster, he felt comfortably in control and like he wasn’t giving away too much to fuel your worries.
But tonight had been far more eventful, straying well away from a typical patrol thanks to an unexpected intruder.
Typically he would turn to Alfred for something like this but with the Batmobile out of commission there was no way even he could make it back across the city in this state. He barely even made it to your fire escape.
He was out of his depth. And so were you. But you hadn’t come to realise it just yet.
"Yes or no, Bruce?" You quietly prompt, squeezing his shoulders reassuringly.
After a pause he nods and raises his arms up every so slowly, muscles crying out from over exertion, and looks at you expectantly.
"Go on then, my dear." He says coolly.
You let your hands fall to grab the hem of his compression shirt, carefully pulling it up as it unsticks itself from his skin. There are minor lacerations on his stomach, thin lines that seep red and tack his shirt to his body with dried blood. Bruce hisses and his features scrunch up with the force of the pain.
"Sorry." You rush, freezing your actions. "Does that hurt?" The slight wobble in your voice makes his heart sink and he tries to relax his face. Bruce hums affirmatively.
"Yes but it's alright." He grits. "Just- just do it slowly for me, okay sweetheart?" Despite the slight strain to his words his tone remains perfectly patient, never wishing to be stern with you.
It melts you, the fact that even in this state of discomfort Bruce is so gentle with you. There's no harsh words, no impulsive snatches away from your touch, just a lasting responsiveness that makes this much easier. He could do this quicker by himself and he knows this, but your eagerness to show him this kind of doting breaks him down.
"Okay." You smile timidly as you try to maintain your wavering resolve, relaxing somewhat when he looks back at you with such a delicate gaze. You return to slowly pulling the shirt up Bruce's torso, tucking one hand underneath it to separate it from his skin while the other bunches the fabric up until it's under his armpits. He helps you with the final tug, pulling it over his head and ditching it on the bathroom floor.
You let your eyes scan over him, a body trained into hard lines. There are small, angry grazes on his arms but you only give those a passing glance, your stomach dropping when you look at his chest. His upper half is completely marred by thin, long lacerations that gap slightly at the thickest points. They wrap around his left shoulder, following a diagonal across his chest to his waist where the worst of them end.
"It’s okay." Bruce says calmly, instinctively, having caught on to your stares. "I’m okay." He lifts a hand to cradle your jaw and tips your head up just a slight so you have to meet his eyes. They’re mellow, still, with no glint of panic or fear to be found in the deep blue. It helps steady you.
Though the tremble of your bottom lip and the apparent unease written on your face is exactly what he feared.
"Hey, look at me." Bruce coaxes, suddenly far more talkative upon recognising the far away look in your eyes.
"I know it looks bad, I know. But it’s all just surface damage. Nothing that won’t heal, okay?"
"You’re sure?" You utter after swallowing the hitch in your throat, your courage dwindling.
"Absolutely. I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart." He swallows. "And I’m not saying that to scare you, just so you know I’m alright."
Closing the gap between you your head falls into the crook of his neck while your hands rest flat on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall with bated breath as if you expect it to stop. You stay there for a second and Bruce lets you, his hand sweeping up and down your back soothingly.
Your heart drops when you realise where you’ve ended up.
His arms cradle you, his words soothe you, but why should you need to be placated? Beside your palm his blood weeps from sullied skin and beneath it you feel the thunder of his heartbeat, still elevated. You’ve got it all backwards.
Bruce is the one who needs the comfort, the soothing, even though he’d never admit it. Day in, day out, he has to keep a straight face and a calm attitude for the sake of the rest of the team, after all if batman panics, everyone panics. But not here.
Here he is not the batman, not the dark knight, he’s your Bruce. You need to be the one with that straight face, that calm attitude, not the other way around. If not, how can you expect to care for him?
Taking a deep breath you gather yourself and steel your nerves.
"Alright. If you say so." You sigh against his skin. "Now c'mon or I’ll run out of hot water." You admonish lightheartedly, reaching for his heavy duty belt buckle. He huffs an airy laugh.
"And what a shame that would be. Someone’s eager to rush." Bruce chides, leaning in to kiss your temple while you fumble to undo the heavy utility belt and free it from the clasps that anchors it to him.
"I'm eager to get you clean, B." You scold, jovial. "You smell."
Bruce scoffs and for a split second you see the corner of his mouth twitch, the smallest suggestion of a smile that he muscles back down.
"I can’t say I realised berating me would be part of this." He says with a shake of his head, words dripping with sarcasm. "I get enough of that as is, you know?"
You can hear in his tone that he’s amused by it all, allowing himself to get more comfortable as he slips out of the midnight mindset.
You roll your eyes at him, though playfully rather than with any venom. "Based on what I learnt from Alfred, it’s necessary."
Another sigh of a laugh pushes through his nose and a more promising suggestion of a smile, or rather smirk. "I should’ve known." He utters under his breath. "You two do love to scold me."
"I wouldn't say I love it." You finally get the belt fully off him and set it down on top of the tank of the toilet, quickly running out of places to put the various suit pieces. You can see why there has to be specific spots for all of these things. "I just try to keep you aware."
"Aware?" He echos, brows furrowed and timbre quizzical.
"Mhm. Most people would call you insane if they knew what you do out there." You shrug like it’s obvious, though only meant with levity.
"Oh, yes." He rolls his eyes with the same attitude. However, some sincerity lurks.
He knows it's a lot, the stress he must cause you. It's why he’s let you into one of the routine parts linked to his crusade, one that gives you some peace of mind in the control you can have when patching him up like this. Even today, despite being a more taxing day, a day that’ll leave a scar. He thinks it's helped. He hopes he's right.
"Arkham would love to have me, don’t you think?"
You can’t help but to laugh at that, the kind of spontaneous giggle that has you tucking your chin back and turning away from him as if you can hide the way it sways you. But you could never hide it from Bruce. He sees it in the crinkles beside your eyes, the way your shoulders quake with the force of mirth. The shaking of your head seals the deal.
"They’d have a field day with your mind, B."
With a bit of effort you tug his armoured trousers down and cringe at the heavy clunk of them hitting the tile, stepping away to let him kick them off his ankles. The compression leggings and boxers come down much easier at least.
"Now get in the tub." You say softly, gathering up the separate components of the bat suit and trying to at least fold them in some sort of way, though the panels of kevlar make it difficult. You do the best you can and leave it heaped in the sink.
Bruce shrugs and follows your instruction, pulling back the garish, floral print shower curtain to hide his body behind it. He sighs contently when the warm water hits his irritated skin, washing off loose dirt and traces of blood. Though the ache that starts to settle in is a feeling he knows all too well, a bruising weight on the whole body that makes staying on his feet a task within itself.
You hurry to get in alongside him, stripping yourself of your clothes much faster than you did him and hastily folding them up on the edge of the sink.
"Coming in, hon."
The curtain rings jingle obnoxiously as you tug it into place, smoothing its material with your hand before turning to Bruce. He is standing with his back to you and face towards the steady flow of water that cascades over him, running over his shoulders and down the column of his spine. His black hair somehow manages to get even darker with the cling of the water, though you’re left to wonder why he’s chosen to stand with his face under the shower head.
You stifle a giggle and step towards him, wrapping your arms around his midriff and pressing your cheek to rest on the expanse of skin between his shoulder blades. He jolts ever so slightly when you touch him, but soon relaxes into your familiar hold.
The two of you stand there for a moment, delighting in the feel of the warm water and the simplicity of each other's company. It's nice, a weird tranquility you had yet to grow used to. This combined with the knowledge, the feeling that Bruce was safe for the moment, made your heart thrum faster in your chest, its rhythm filling your ears.
Taking each of your hands Bruce slowly unwinds your arms from around him, apologising under his breath when he does. You pull your hands close to your chest as he slowly turns, staggering you both back a couple of steps, his head clear from the downpour that continues down his back.
Like this, with his head hung low to level with you, vulnerable bodies not even a step apart, you can see how exhausted Bruce looks.
His eyes are dull, half lidded, and the creases from the corners of them swoop down into shadowy, dark bags beneath them. His jaw is set stiff, teeth gritted, and you can hear the hinge click when he tries to relax it. The tension in his body is unforgiving and every muscle strains to accommodate it. And the scruffy stubble he’s been sporting the last couple of days only adds to the look.
You can’t help but to chew your bottom lip anxiously.
"I know you said you’re alright." You begin, voice quiet and cautious. "But are you sure?"
Unexpectedly, he smiles. It’s toothy and gracious and pulls at his lips with a snicker sneaking past them. For a second you aren’t sure what to think, waiting still in the echo of his timid laugh. But the switch, the ignition of something in his eyes that brings the life back into them, it makes the bristle of adoration wash your skin warm.
"Do I look that bad?" Bruce cracks back, scrubbing his hand down his face and scratching the stubble on his chin. You roll your eyes and reach for him, cold hands cupping warm cheekbones with thumbs sweeping soft arches beneath dark circles.
His hands take purchase around your wrists, the pads of his thumbs resting against the line of your pulse. It skips that bit faster for him.
"You look tired. That’s all." Your voice stays soft but there’s no masking the concern laced into your words.
"Hm. I suppose I am." He says flatly, unphased by the point of exhaustion he always drags himself to.
"Am I working too slowly?"
Bruce shakes his head and leans further down to you, an intimacy in the way he closes you in.
"No, no. I like that you take your time. I’m used to too many things being slapdash."
Before you get a chance to protest any further Bruce closes the gap between you with a soft, almost shy, kiss. Your hands fall to his shoulders though slightly hover, cautious of his apparent injuries. He scoffs against your lips.
"Please, I’m not fragile." His simper only grows stronger.
You click your tongue with no real venom, pressing an extra kiss to his chapped lips before reaching to snatch a balanced shampoo bottle off the edge of the tub.
"I know that."
Sage, spice and a dash of sandalwood, something you had bought and placed here so he didn’t have to leave your place smelling like vanilla every time. Sure, it’s not as nice as whatever he has at home, but it’s the thought that counts. Plus anything smells better than iron and Gotham’s street musk, and you think a little spiciness suits Bruce quite nicely.
"Step out of the water, honey." You instruct carefully, noting the way Bruce's cheeks seem to tint a delicate pink, something you would've missed had you not been so close. He takes a cautious step towards you, trying his best not to slip on the grip mat that lines the bottom of the tub.
"Turn around." You nod your head towards the water and watch as he glances between you and the steady stream from the shower head. His lips pull into a subtle pout, an expression you wouldn’t have recognised once upon a time with how he hides any outward tells of disappointment. But now it’s easy to see.
"But then I can't see you." He retorts in complaint, a smug lilt hiding in his tone. You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose to feign annoyance.
"Bruce." You raise your brows at him. His expression is stoic but you know it’s a mask, know he’s secretly amused with himself. He grumbles a fine and turns on his heel, but not without a guilt tripping huff.
"Thank you." You prise open the shampoo bottle and empty a healthy amount into the well of your palm, admiring its translucent green shine before weighing it evenly between both hands and bringing them to the back of Bruce's head. He hums happily while you begin to work.
You start at the crown of his head, sudsing up the outermost layer of his hair before scrubbing into his scalp with your fingertips. The scent of the shampoo fills your nostrils, a much needed refresher. You continue your motions through the top length of his hair, gently working in the lather while being sure not to pull the strands. It's oddly precise, and far more delicate than Bruce's usual wash routine.
But it's nice, the sensation of your nails gliding over his scalp, carefully working their magic. It's almost like he can feel the stress leaving his tense body with every calculated touch. So much so that he lets his eyes fall shut, lashes kissing the high of his cheeks, and basks in your doting attention.
You can’t help but to admire him. His hair, thick and soft, is ink black, it almost seems to absorb the light instead of reflecting it, it’s that dark. As your fingers interrupt the way it wants to naturally lay close to the roots you find a peppering of grey, little dashes that catch your eye. You aren’t particularly surprised by the discovery, though.
"Is this what usually takes you so long when you shower?" Bruce says, tipping his head back for you.
You don’t respond for a moment, too engrossed in scrubbing his scalp. He clears his throat to rouse your attention.
"You just said that you like how I take my time. Did you not?"
He sounds caught when he says, "Yes, but you’re very thorough." He shrugs and you watch the muscles ripple. Though the motion encourages a rivulet of fresh, bright blood to seep from one of the slender wounds, making a stout path down his back.
"Would you sooner I don’t?" You scoff, almost offended. It’s a lighthearted, unbelieving tsk, a tiredness of his habit to analyse and dissect everything that happens around him. You don’t mind, not really, that’s just Bruce.
"No, no. It’s nice." He reassures, tone softening. "But my hair isn’t particularly long to warrant it."
You hum thoughtfully and smile, feeling him relax beneath your touch when you kiss his scarred nape. Finishing with the back of his head you do a once over to make sure he's properly covered, amending a spot you missed by his right ear and patting his back firmly when you're done.
"Alright then, you can rinse it now." You smile, wiping your sudsy hands down the length of his back, making him shudder. Bruce grunts and looks at you over his shoulder, a subtle pout tugging at the corners of his lips once again.
"Are you not going to do it?" He balls, slightly exaggerated but off guard nonetheless. You fail to stifle a laugh as you shake your head, feeling your body flush warm in adoration.
"No, I can’t from here, B." You chide lovingly. "If I did, you'd have to put your face under the water. I’m afraid you’ll have to do it yourself." You can see the disappointment on his face as his eyes narrow and he hesitates to respond, a rarity from him.
"I don’t see how that’s a problem. Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of me?" Bruce retorts with sharp brows arched. You respond with the same expression, head tilted ever so slightly.
"Fine, but don't complain at me when you get water in your eyes." His smile is immediate, a signature, self-satisfied smirk.
"Alright. Though, if shampoo gets in my eyes that's totally your fault, sweetheart."
A heartfelt sense of relief finally washes over you when Bruce steps into the water, an avalanche of bubbles rolling down his spine without you even touching his hair. He still flinches just a little when you begin to scrub his scalp, but his stiff posture soon loosens.
What matters most is that he's back to being your Bruce.
The sarcastic remarks, the familiar smirk that pull his full lips thin, his charming, steely eyes that narrow with the playful looks he gives. All these things that you feared might slowly disappear with each passing patrol restored with just a bit of devoted care, and a palm full of shampoo.
He grunts while you run your fingers through his hair, tipping his head back to help you better clean the top. The water runs slightly filthy at the bottom of the tub, though the cowl does a mostly adequate job at keeping his hair clean. Well, clean of muck of Gotham grime, the sweat is another story.
You again pat his shoulders when the job is done, but twice this time. He turns around, satisfied, and cards his hand through his hair, slicking it back and out the way. He opens an arm to you and you step into the embrace, pleasantly surprised when he tucks you against his side.
"Thank you." Bruce hums, kissing the top of your head.
"Thank you?" You echo, puzzled. He nods his head like he's proud, smile never faltering.
"Yes, of course." Bruce says, feeling much more himself. He says it like it's obvious, deserved even, but it throws you off track. You laugh, blinking up at him.
"But I haven’t finished yet."
"No, but you’re doing a good job."
"Hm. Thank you."
The beat of silence is pleasant, warranted, despite your slight confusion in the reprieve. But as quickly as he had brought you there you step away from his side, driven by a sense of urgency.
"All right." You clap your hands together, waving off his remark and glancing at the lined up bottles of product with water dripping down their labels.
"One or two shampoos?" You ask innocuously.
Bruce seems taken back by your question, giving you an askance look to show it. But as always he quickly wipes it away.
"Two, of course. I know the state of me might suggest otherwise but I’d hope that’s not too much to ask." His lips purse and you can see that he's holding back a further remark. Yep, definitely back to being your Bruce.
"It’s not. Turn around again, please."
Before you know it you know it you've done another shampoo and conditioner on top of that and with every step Bruce is acting much more like his usual self. He doesn’t need to say it, you can just tell he’s feeling better now, only getting more chipper and talkative, throwing sarcastic digs your way and trying to pull you into his arms every so often.
The relief was indescribable. The difference between this Bruce versus the one that had sullenly arrived on your fire escape was a drastic juxtaposition. Yet another reminder of why these moments to recover are so important, and why he let you be a part of them to begin with. It’s reassuring to see him step back into himself, to see how he always bounces back.
But you had been dragging it out somewhat, knowing that now you’re faced with the part you were dreading most. The wounds. The bleeding stopped some time ago and the washout from the shampoo has helped loosen some of the dried blood that was tacked to his skin, but the toughest task still remains.
Bruce can see your unease, watching your eyes scan his torso up and down as if trying to rationalise what you do next.
"Don’t psych yourself out." He urges, gentle hands squeezing your shoulders. "It’s not as bad as it looks, remember?"
You balk. "But it’s still worse than what I’ve helped you with before."
"That doesn’t mean you treat it any differently. Maybe slower, if anything." Another squeeze and a touch that glides down your upper arms, offered with a reassuring smile.
You hum and reach for the soap dish, his hands falling away from you and eyes following your movements. It’s a small, scentless bar, suited for delicate jobs like this.
But despite his reassurances the sight of his injuries still inspires dread low in your gut. It feels a sisyphean task. You can't help but to stare woodenly as you stew in your uncertainty.
Bruce observes you patiently.
"I said don’t psych yourself out."
"I heard you the first time." You turn and set back down the now empty soap dish.
"You heard me, but you didn’t listen."
"Oh my—" You pinch the bridge of your nose with your free hand and your eyes screw shut. The look of annoyance. He knows it well.
"Don’t lecture me, Bruce. You’re off duty."
He huffs his amusement while you wet the soap in the running water and rub it between your hands to coat them in a layer of soft suds.
You begin with the smaller grazes on his arm, thumbing around the small lacerations to clean off any grime that surrounds them that got through the rips in his suit. There isn’t much, Bruce is too careful, but in a couple of places there’s skids that look as if he was dragged across the floor.
A bigger flake of dirt falls from his elbow and disintegrates in the water at your feet. He watches intently as you work up his arm, following the curves of his toned musculature and purposefully dodging the laceration on his shoulder that wraps around the curve of his skin. When you reach his collar you have him turn and rinse the arm, making sure to treat the largest of the cuts very carefully.
What can only be described as a web of dry blood flitters off of the shoulder wound and disappears down the drain in a swirl of soap bubbles. He tsks, not phased by the sight but not a fan of it either. You're a little more shaken by it, however.
The cuts on his chest are still lined with that same, sticky dry blood that webs over the thin openings, making it hard to tell what the wounds actually look like. You worry for what you'll find.
"Do you want me to do it, instead?" Bruce offers, reading your unease. "I don't mind."
You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. You watch how his chest rises and falls, the steadiness of the breaths he takes and how it animates his body. The bruises are in full bloom now, shades of blue and purple painting his pallid skin. It makes your heart ache.
The shake of your head is firm, determined.
"No, it's okay." Soapy hands return to him and to the task at hand. "I've got you."
"Watch your step, I don't want you to fall." The shower curtain is drawn back and you stand on the tile with a towel wrapped around your body. Bruce's hand is in yours as you guide him out of the tub, his own towel thrown over his shoulders.
"Thank you, but I think I can manage just fine." He hums. But as he goes to lean his weight on one leg his foot nearly slips out from underneath him and you have to hurry to steady him with a hand that flies to his shoulder.
"You were saying?" You snigger.
He scowls and playfully rolls his eyes. "I stand corrected."
Bruce is already looking much better than when he stepped into the terracotta hued tub. His skin is clear of dirt and dried blood as is his hair, the pink has returned to his appled cheeks, and he smells so much better. Not that you'd ever tell him smelt that bad but god, he did.
The only remaining issue is the cuts, the majority of which are scattered over his chest and shoulders. But even those are looking better still, they have settled from the angry red that they were and one or two of the smallest ones are already trying to scab over.
"Sit down, please." You instruct, sweeping up his clothes from the toilet lid and handing them to him in a heap. He nods with a hum.
After towelling yourself down you retrieve your underwear from where it was folded with your clothes on the sinks edge and throw them on, followed by Wayne Enterprises shirt you picked out. The sight of the bat suit's clawed gloves still laying in the basin makes you sigh. You're glad that repairing the suit isn't your responsibility, after tonight it's going to need just as much TLC as Bruce does.
While Bruce wrestles himself into the bobbled sweats you step around the sink and once again open the cabinet above it, fishing out a first aid kit you had put there months ago.
You used to always have a makeshift one, a few plasters, gauze, the bare minimum really. But after finding out about Bruce's… secret, you felt an upgrade was more than necessary. Alfred helped you put it together, all you need for if the bat turns up on your doorstep, or by your window, looking worse for wear.
It's seen a couple of uses, mainly when a pre-existing laceration reopens and you have to amend it before going out to dinner. Or, there was the time that he took a particular tough punch square on the chin. Because he was missing you he came straight here instead of retreating to the manor, and it became your job to patch up the way the skin split. You're pretty sure it didn't scar but his current stubble situation stops you from checking.
Regardless, this is the biggest first aid job you've been saddled with thus far. You try your best not to let that fact intimidate you.
You turn to Bruce with the hydrant red box in your hands, happy to see him half dressed and now sat on the lid of the toilet. His shirt is draped across one knee and left to wait, and he's thrown his towel over the bath side after scruffing his hair dry with it.
He recognises the kit immediately and the familiarity of your current situation makes him smile just slightly.
You step into the space between his spread legs and his hands immediately find home at your waist, toying with the fabric of your shirt. His shirt? Your shirt. You set the box on his lap and flip it open, first grabbing the usual saline to properly clean his cuts.
"Ready?" You smile, looking forward to getting this over and done with.
"Mhm." His lips twitch but eventually pull into a bigger, matching grin, albeit a little subdued.
With your own hands clean you soak a small cloth in the solution and let your gaze meet Bruce's. His true-blue eyes have been steadily following your every movement all evening and almost seem to gleam when you look at him.
When you bring the cloth to his split skin he initially winces, the dull pain perhaps bringing about some kind of sting. But his posture soon slacks as he gets used to the damp press, almost like a kiss over the contusions. He sighs, letting the tension he was holding dissipate.
"Well this is familiar." Bruce quips, squeezing your waist in calloused hands while you wash over the cuts framing his chest.
"It is, isn't it?" With your cloth you climb up the length of his arm to dab the smaller cuts there as well as the long one on his shoulder. The more you work away at him the easier it becomes, and you can only hope that you're doing a sufficient job of it.
When you're done you drop the cloth into the sink and dry the cuts with a fresh gauze pad.
Bruce hums happily, snaking his arms around your back to pull you into him. A poorly timed embrace but you accept it none the less, hooking your chin over his shoulder and breathing in the freshness of your lover all clean.
Yeah, the spiciness suits him.
"Thanks, sweetheart." He mumbles against the shell of your ear, hands caressing up your back, tracing along either side of your spine.
"We're still not done yet." You giggle, dancing your fingertips down his arms as you pull back. He shrugs knowingly and leans back, watching you dive back into the first aid kit.
"True. But at least the worst of it is."
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
Next is a little palm sized tin. You pop it open to retrieve the steri-strips that hide inside, thin and slender plaster like strips to hold closed the wider cuts, aiming to reduce the chance of a scar.
"Hopefully they won't scar too badly." You grumble under your breath, feeling the weight of the responsibility. His hands, having returned to your waist, again squeeze you delicately.
"I wouldn't worry about that." Bruce reassures. "One or two more won't do me any harm, I've got plenty of bad ones anyway."
"But if it scars that would mean I didn't take proper care of you," You mutter like it's the most obvious thing in the world. You close the tin and swap it out for a different, fractionally larger tin. "And we can't have that."
It's a wonder how the simplest of sentiments can melt Bruce in an instant when they come from you. It catches him off guard, the warm feeling sitting on both his heart and in his stomach, like a whirlwind of butterflies that makes his face hot.
He hums affirmatively and doesn't let on, though the way his cheeks tint ruddy would give it away if you weren't looking elsewhere.
Popping open the cigarette box style tin you rummage through it with index finger and middle, picking out the largest plasters you have. It takes a mix of those and conforming bandage to get him put to rights, but after some fumbling the job is finished and you can finally take a breath.
You kiss the patch on his shoulder and he seizes the opportunity to hook an arm around you once again.
"Am I all sorted?" Bruce noses against the side of your head, his fingertips pressing dimples into the soft give of your hips. You shiver and nudge his opposite shoulder with an open palm.
"Mhm, those should be okay now. But I won't be offended if you go to Alfred for a second opinion since—"
He grabs your face with a forceful delicacy, thumbs cupping the round of your cheeks while his pinkies hook under your jaw.
Bruce kisses you. All reassurance, thanks and admiration. His lips are a little chapped but still feel silken soft against your own, as does the tip of his nose that bumps yours. You can feel him grinning against you and curve your lips to follow before he draws back.
"Thank you, sweetheart."
His voice comes thick, honeyed, almost sounding choked up on his gratitude. His boyish smile is back, the one that seeps infectious happiness and shines like a full moon being watched from the same fire escape he crashes on to, and the hardened look in his eye is gone, washed away with the suds that swirled down the drain. He looks positively rejuvenated, shining with the kind of cheeky charm you're used to.
Words fail you. A warmth flushes over your body head to toe, rising goosebumps all over your skin like a breeze had crept in. You pick the black henley back up and hand it to him sheepishly, nodding a shy response.
"You're welcome, B. I'm just glad you're okay."
He pulls his shirt on swiftly, moves the first aid kit from his lap onto the wet tiled floor, and stands with a groan. Stretching his arms up to the ceiling until both shoulders click he then drops his hands again. He steps toward you and takes both of your hands in his own, enveloping you in his shadow as his head blocks the light shade.
"More than okay, all thanks to your help." Turning the both of you around he begins walking you backwards out of the bathroom. You let yourself be led, taking each blind step back plenty slowly.
"Well, I didn't do that much." You counter. Bruce's expression falters for a second, screwed, disagreeing.
"But you did it well, very well."
"You think so?"
"Of course." He stops in your bedroom door, lurking at the threshold. His hands return to find your hips now, instead, and your own take purchase on his biceps. He squeezes like he always does, a reassurance he loves to give.
"I know it's scary, and I'm sorry." His face softens with his sincerity. "But you kept calm and you helped me out a great deal. So, yes, you did a very good job, my dear."
Heat bristles up the back of your neck, a bashfulness that creeps over the face and pulls your lips into a toothy smile. You can feel the force of it, the tug that's reminiscent of a soreness from laughing too hard.
"And I'm not even done yet."
"You're not?" His thorned brows furrow, knotted handsomely in the middle, puzzled but intrigued.
With a titter you sneak out of his hold and flop yourself down onto the bed, positioning a pillow behind you as you rest against the headboard with open arms.
He keeps his post in the doorway, the same bemused expression remaining. The raise of one brow asks a question.
Your grin never dulls. You pat your stomach with one hand and make a childish grabbing motion with the other. He exhales a long 'ohh' under his breath and practically hurls himself onto the bed beside you, as well as he can in his current state. The mattress springs creak in both welcome and complaint when he weighs them down.
Bruce wedges an arm around your back and lays himself between your legs, his head resting on your stomach like it were a pillow. His other hand sits on your thigh and draws lazy patterns across the soft skin, it almost tickles but you welcome the careful touch.
Meanwhile one of your arms comes to rest around his shoulders while your other hand combs through his hair, fingertips drawing lines along the silvery grey hiding at the roots.
You both sigh in turn, a long exhale of stresses held and finally relieved after a long night of tender love and care. Bruce noses even further into you, squeezing you tight.
His voice comes mumbled, lazy and muffled against your shirt. "Thanks, darling. I owe you."
"Do you?" You keen, your interest piqued.
"Mhm. I'll take you some place nice to make up for the scare, promise."
You bark a laugh, warm and endearing. It rocks him subtly and he winds his other arm around you, clinging tight and cosying down.
"You don't have to, honey. Like I said, I'm just glad that you're okay."
He shrugs, shoulders nudging into you. "'Want to though."
"Alright, we can do that, then." You concede.
Silence falls, comfortable and easy, a type of peacefulness that drives home the importance of these moments to recover.
It's taken a lot to get Bruce to let you in, to work up to this point and allow you familiarity with his life as the batman. Of course he had wanted to hide it away, to live in the illusion that he can draw a line between the lives he leads and keep you on one side of it. But he knows now that letting you in was the best decision he could've made.
Because you reward him with normality.
Typically, if he returned to his empty bedroom at the manor, he would collapse with some suit pieces still on and wounds still weeping. He wouldn't allow himself the opportunity to shift where his mind resides and would wake restless, unsatisfied.
But by sharing in the intimacy you would usually show him as Bruce and not the bat you break down the strict divide between the two. You show him how his two lives can coexist without sacrifice of the other.
He's all one man. And he's all yours.
"I love you, sweetheart." He's looking up at you now, neck twisted almost uncomfortably all so that he can see your pretty face and the even prettier smile that tugs your features when the words leave his lips.
"I love you too, honey. Try to get some sleep, yeah?"
As if it were a command Bruce nestles his head back down and lets his eyes flutter a shut, a small hum of 'okay' leaving him before exhaustion catches up to him and pulls him into a deep sleep…
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timber and it’s them cuddled close on the couch with the sun’s golden rays filtering through the windows, setting them both alight. tim is laughing softly at some dumb thing bernard said just to see that smile, and his layered shirts and dark hair and shining, ice blue eyes are awash in gold, looking as though he was fated to be spun from the sunset’s gentle glow. he’s the most beautiful thing bernard has ever seen, and it’s impossible for him not to reach out and trace tim’s delicate, strong features, memorizing them for the thousandth time.
he can’t look away from tim’s gorgeous face, and capturing gaze, and tim does not say a thing to discourage him. they drink each other in, getting drunk off this moment, off the love flowing between them like a lazy river of gold. bernard’s mouth waters from getting his fill; his fill of tim, though he could never truly be full when it comes to his partner, his love, his moonlight, his precious bird. he could stay here, in this moment, calloused thumb brushing over cheekbones and eyebrows and eyebags.
“what’re you thinkin’ about, baby?” tim quietly asks, smiling so softly it melts bernard’s heart right through to the floor. bernard could not possibly sink more into this couch if he tried.
the blonde just smiles, and whispers, “you.”
tim blushes quietly, his breathtaking face flushing a gentle pink. bernard wants nothing more than to plant kisses all long the blush’s sweet path, but he stays where he is, pressed close but able to look at all of tim, beholding him like he’s the only important and precious thing in the universe.
“you, and how lucky i am to be able to see you like this. to be able to touch you, and feel you, and drag my fingertips over your pretty face. to know you deep in my bloodstream, and to watch you glitter in the light like the universe itself finds you beautiful, and can’t help but paint you with its love. how privileged am i to know you, body and soul, tim drake? to feel your love, and to look at you and know that i’ll want you for the rest of eternity,” bernard rambles quietly, a loving grin curling his lips.
tim is bright red, akin to a tomato, by this point; and he whines and curls into bernard’s chest as if to hide away from the compliments and how happy the soppy love makes him feel.
“berns!! stop..!” tim groans, though bernard can easily hear the smile in his voice.
“not as long as you keep me, babe,” bernard laughs out, his voice so soft and melty with affection. he holds tim close and kisses his hair and breathes in the smell of him as he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “i’d know you in every lifetime, in any universe. yes?”
tim is silent, but bernard can feel the warmth of his flushing face against the skin of his neck, and it only makes him smile more.
“…yeah berns. me too,” tim eventually says, pulling back to smile up at him with so much adoration, bernard feels he might implode at the sight. he grins back, and leans down to kiss the love of his life. and as he does, it’s as though he’s only gulping down more of tim and tim’s love, gorging himself on the one thing he could feast on for the rest of his life.
Batman and the Joker were already gone when Dick made it to the scene.
So was the Red Hood, it seemed.
Dick stood there for a moment, just watching the still smoldering rubble. He wasn't even sure why he was here in the first place. Batman was already out, and the Joker was with him.
The Red Hood was nowhere to be seen.
He should just go home. Go home, and not say anything about coming here. It wouldn't have done any good for anyone, anyway, after all. He could hear it in Bruce's voice, then in Alfred's.
A moment passed. Dick was still there.
There had been something. Something so familiar about the Red Hood. Something that made Dick feel strangely hopeful the more he thought about it, and he didn't know why.
There was just something.
He made his way down. He stepped around the bigger flames and into the scorching rubble. He didn't know what he was looking for. The Red Hood was gone already. He would be, if both Batman and the Joker were. That much Dick had understood about what he had been able to hear.
Still, it was like something was calling for him. Something, somewhere.
Dick wandered through the rubble and the smoke rising from it. He had been trained to listen to his instincts, after all, and this was him listening to them, he told himself, over and over again. He was doing what he knew the best.
It was the only way he could explain the feeling.
There was something in the rubble.
His eyes took a moment to recognise that what he was seeing was different from all the surrounding stone and metal. It was decidedly not made from either of those, and once his brain caught onto that fact, he zeroed in on it completely.
It was a leg, sticking out from beneath the rubble.
Dick had ran over and started to lift the rubble off of the leg before his brain caught up with him again. It was a leg dressed in torn, dark fabric, with a heavy boot on the feet. Another one became visible as Dick got some of the rubble off.
Then became visible part of the torso, dressed in torn and burnt combat shirt, and it was then Dick knew who exactly he was diggin out.
Or at least he thought he knew.
He would remain oblivious to the real truth for a moment longer.
Dick grabbed the next piece of debris, his fingers digging to what had once been either a part of a wall or a floor, with shattered tile still somehow clinging to it, and he dragged it off of the Red Hood, uncovering more of his body.
That was when he noticed the blood.
There was a lot of it. It didn't come as a surprise, exactly, with the amount of heavy wreckage that was on top of the guy. It would've been a miracle if nothing had hit him hard enough to cause some real damage.
It was a little surprising that Dick couldn't see the source of the blood yet. Was there really only one, single wound, despite all of the chances to get them all over instead?
He would worry about it in just a moment. First, he needed to see what was actually going on.
He pushed and pulled the pieces of the building away from the Red Hood, uncovering him bit by bit, discovering more of his blood in the process.
Then the last piece was pulled away.
With it, Dick found himself staring down at the face of Jason Todd.
Dick's world stopped for a one, single, long second.
Then it started all over again.
"Jason", Dick gasped, because he needed to breathe and speak at the same time to get his voice to work. "Jason."
Jason laid there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, his eyes closed and blood all over him.
He was taller than Dick remembered. He was bigger, too. Of course he was. Dick had seen the Red Hood. He knew who he was dealing with.
Jason was taller, bigger, older.
Jason was the Red Hood.
Jason was Dick's little brother.
Dick's little brother laid there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, his eyes closed and blood all over him.
There was so much blood.
"Jason." Dick wanted to scream. He didn't. If he did, then he would break the dream he was in. "Jason."
His fingers latched around Jason's wrist. Even through his suit, he could feel the warmth of his skin. He could've been warm because of all the fire that had been burning around him. Dick chose to believe otherwise.
He had been given a miracle. A miracle that was slightly twisted, but a miracle nevertheless.
He didn't want to believe that the world would be so cruel to give it to him and then take it away before he got to even have it.
He held onto Jason tight.
"Jason." His other hand craddled the side of Jason's face. The side with less blood on it. He still looked so much like he had before, despite all of the changes Dick could see. It had only been a few years, after all. Three? Four? Not too many. Entirely too many.
It was still Jason.
"Jason."
Jason opened his eyes.
He didn't look like he really saw Dick there, even though he was right in front of him. At first, he just stared somewhere past Dick, his eyes clouded over.
"Jason", Dick called.
At his voice, Jason's eyes moved ever so slightly more to Dick's direction. He still didn't look like he was really seeing him, but he was awake and moving at least somewhat. It was more than enough for Dick.
"Hold on", Dick told him. "You're going to be just fine."
There was blood on Jason's neck. It had spread from there and splattered onto his face and hair as crimson speckles. He had been bleeding quite some time.
Dick had no idea how he was still alive.
He wasn't complaining.
He needed to see a bit better, so he would know what he was dealing with, exactly. Reluctantly he let go off Jason's hand to wipe away some of the blood on his neck, to expose the wound more clearly to his eyes.
The skin beneath the blood was scorching through the fabric of Dick's suit.
Dick didn't pull his hand away. He continued to wipe away the blood, drenching his own hand in the process.
Beneath the red, there was a golden glow.
He got the edge of the wound visible. The flesh was still cut open on the surface there, but everything beneath it, the blood and the muscle were basking in golden light coming from the inside, slowly but surely knitting the flesh whole again, like thousands of needless with heavenly string in them were stitching Jason back together.
Dick had seen stranger things before.
One of them being his little brother back from the dead right in front of him.
He could take a little golden glow and the body healing on its own if it meant that his little brother stayed back from the dead.
"It's okay", Dick told Jason. "You're going to be okay."
He wiped away the blood from the edge upwards, all the way to the other side of Jason's neck. The cut was long and still deep in the middle, where the flesh had not yet healed itself as well, and Dick had the odd sense of familiarity come over him the longer he looked at it.
This time, though, there was no hopefulness accompanying the feeling.
This time, there was only the growing sense of despair.
Dick had seen a batarang being thrown enough times to know what a cut left behind by the edge of ones blade looked like.
Jason was not wearing his helmet. He was laying there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, blood all around him.
Batman and the Joker were both gone.
Dick's suit was covered in Jason's blood. He tore his eyes away from the wound, that damning wound, and looked back into Jason's eyes. They were still open, still looking at Dick, even if the slightly faraway look was still present in them.
It was enough.
"You're going to be okay", Dick told him.
Jason didn't say anything. Only one, singular tear gathered into the corner of his eye, dropping down to his cheek, washing away the drops of blood on its way.
He didn't resist when Dick gathered him into his arms.
"You're going to be okay", Dick told him. He pressed his face onto Jason's shoulder. He could feel the blood sticking to his skin, warm and damning. "You're going to be okay. I'll make sure of it."
Dick had been given a miracle, and he held onto it tight.
How would the batfam react to tim being part of the Kobra cult? How would they react to danny?
I feel like Bruce (and maybe the others) forgot how much tim could be involved in things he shouldn't be and this would wake them the fuck up (again) lol
Honestly you are so very right.
With the amount of friends and connections Tim has, I have no doubt that if he gave up all his assets right now, Drake and Wayne and everything else.
He would never be poor or live in poverty.
He knows a king for fucks sake, is friends with him too. The Kobra Cult gets their money from somewhere. Ras would probably pay to have Tim train and work under him.
Hell what about all the companies trying to hire Tim Drake? The perfect worker, born and bred as such?
Any who.
I knows one could write this as a ha ha funny kinda way. But since when do I write that?
I think they should be horrified.
Tim Drake goes off the grid, no one can find him for four months, he's just gone with the wind.
The public thinks Tim Drake-Wayne is vacationing in Ireland, and it's a "mental health break" or whatever the rich do.
Red Vulture is just gone, no note to anyone, and none of the supers can even hear him.
The bats and the whole hero community has not a clue where Tim disappeared to, and they're a little concerned.
The last time Tim went off the grid with little to no contact with the others was his Bruce Quest, but even then Kon was able to find him really easily!
(In my opinion Kon and Danny should despise the other)
Then Tim just shows back up, he's back, like nothing happened. The last person who saw Tim in person was Dick and Cass, and they saw Tim with a broken leg, a broken collarbone, and he was beaten and bloody.
Tim just shows back up like nothing at all happened, all healed and he seems to even be a little more toned then last time.
Tim is back and there's this guy who seems to be head over heels for Tim, like Tim's little lap dog.
That's how Tim thinks they see it, but it isn't, because Danny isn't "harmless" or "like anyone else"
Bruce sees Daniel Temple, the leader of murder cult, the Kobras. He sees a grown man in his twenties who by no limitations is normal. He sees a grown man who has likely killed because no one gets that many scars from sitting around.
He sees the very boy turned man that he called the enemy, because Danny is the enemy, he remembers telling Tim to stay away from Danny.
Dick sees a grown man who is around the same height as him, and Dick notices that Danny has two looks to him.
One look that Danny has is when he looks at Tim, one that's full of love and admiration for Tim. Like Danny is completely enamored with his brother, like there isn't a single mistake, there isn't anything that could ever make Tim cracked or flawed.
The second look is one that scares Dick, its a look Dick recognizes from Tim's Red Robin arc. Its a look like Danny knows how he could take out everyone in that room, knows every escape and how to close them off. Danny looks at each one of them like they could be threat, all but Tim, and he knows how to eliminate them, lethal or not Dick doesn't know.
Jason sees someone who seems to control every word they say, like they know what to let go and what to keep under lock and key. Sentences re-thought 10x before anyone actually gets to hear what Danny has to say. As if when Danny is talking to them, he's giving a speech that is going to be broken down to every letter.
Cassandra sees somebody like her, somebody who has keen eyes and is analyzing just how much he can trust everyone else. She sees someone who has run their whole life and is ready to run forever if they need to. She sees one thing about him though, its as if, this time, Danny is ready to run and take Tim with him.
Duke feels on edge around him, feels a prickle in his skin when Danny lingers too long, when some of his words feel heavier then they should. When Duke is around Danny it feels like he's being analyzed, and sure Duke knows the feeling with Bruce and Tim. But it's different, Tim and Bruce were gathering knowledge, making a mental file about you to remember. Danny feels like he's breaking you down into pieces that are vulnerable and breakable.
Damian recognizes the way an assassin holds themselves, the way a killer stands. He sees it Danny, he sees that split second flinch when someone manages to sneak up on him, like he reaches for a weapon that isn't there. Or when someone approaches him, the way his grip tightens on the pencil, the knife, the fork, the item in his hand. The way his grips loosens again, before he turns to you with a smile that isn't quite real.
One thing every single one of the family (Right now these are my thoughts on the family family, bio & adopted & foster) is that Danny isn't normal. Danny has killed and they can feel it, they know for a fact that he isn't an angel.
***Thing is, Tim knows that too. Tim knows to have led a cult that big, Danny must've made choices and sacrifices too. Tim knows what handling the Spiders means, what that really means, something similar to him and Pru. Tim isn't an idiot.***
[Side bar : I disagree with people who think of Tim as innately good or innately bad. Because he isn't either, he is not black and white at all, he can't be. Tim's moral compass does fluctuate and change, it does also become effected by who he surrounds himself with. We know how alternate Tim's handle losing the good influence in his life, and how they can turn to killing.
The BIGGEST thing about Tim's moral compass, is truly. "If I didn't deliver the final blow, if I, Tim Drake, didn't see their last breath. Did I really kill them? Or was it a situation of circumstance?"]
Danny should seem attached to Tim by the hip, in the way you can't get Tim alone. He's always there like a shadow, like this force that will break anyone who touches Tim. It scares them.
So simply : They don't like Danny, they doubt him and he scares them.
Tim Drake has been attacked many times in his life. Shot through the throat? Sure. Throat sliced? Twice. After all this, there was no way his throat was viable for speech.
And it wasn't. Of course, no one but the Waynes knew of this. Bruce had made a machine that spoke for him, mimicking his speech and changing as he grew older. This tool quickly became very helpful in both his vigilante life and his regular day-to-day life. Or, as regularly as a Wayne's life could be.
Due to the fact the technology could be switched to anyone's voice, Tim would use it for missions. Oh, the villain needed to believe someone else was with them? Give Tim a couple of videos of that person's speech and 3 minutes tops. He'll have that person singing Bohemian Rhapsody if that's what it took.
But, it was also useful in other day-to-day things! Tim has to skip school for whatever reason? He just fakes being Bruce over the phone, claiming he's sick. Someone at school catches him doing someone else's voice at school one day.
Shenanigans assume afterward. Tim has to make up a lie on the spot and pretends that he's just really good at mimicking people's voices. It's soon a spectacle and a running joke. You need to call someone and don't want to? Just ask Tim Drake!
And, reluctantly Tim does so. Often he calls his siblings doctors for them, pretending to be them for a multitude of reasons. Dick? He doesn't like talking to doctors. Jason? It's like taking a cat to the vet, you have to wrangle him just to get there. Damian? He tends to weird the doctors out by knowing way too much for a kid his age about the human body.
But, during a mission, Tim's device that speaks for him, hidden as a pin on his Robin outfit and a necklace day-to-day, is broken. He's separated from everyone. He's exhausted, and more and more people just keep showing up.
Tim can't call for help. Tim can't scream for his dad. He is a Robin who's voice has been taken from him.
So I believe many of of us have heard of Danny Todd. Jason's older brother we don't really know much about other than the fact he died in a gun fight.
I believe many in the DC X DP Fandom have seen a post or another about that being Danny Phantom before or after reborn of some kind but....
What if for Danny he was supposed to be taking a vacation? (whether it from ghost king or just genral Phantom stuff before or long after his loved ones died and presumably became ghosts is up to interpretation maybe it's even a classic reveal gone wrong visection if you want some more angst)
But the point is Danny is reborn into some of the worse parts of Gotham (possibly before the bat even premiers depending on timeline and how big you want the age gap with him and Jason) but he's born is the rough parts of town maybe he has memories, maybe not, maybe it's all kinda blurry but let's go with fir now he has his memories or he gets them back early in life and he was again not delt the best hand when it came to parents and there is no Jazz to take care of him this time but when he gets a baby brother of his own he realizes why Jazz was the way she was (not that he would ever admit that out loud) and has put himself on the path to be Jason's Jazz his caretaker when his parents wouldn't take that role but it's not easy to get money as a kid from crime ally and in order to put food on the table for Jason he ends up in some bad situations and dies and for this body he doesn't not die or become a half he just dies becomes a ghost but either because he Dosen't want to admit to his family he died young again or he's to attached to Jason he doesn't move on to the infinite realms he just attaches himself to his little brothers side and tries to help any way he can and that some ends up with the normal addition with Bruce and if this fobin seems harder to shoot or bruise than the other one that's Danny's buisness.
I'm not sure where to go from here. Maybe Danny saves Jason from death? Maybe he still dies and chills as a ghost with his brother haunting Bruce till he's revived? Maybe Danny is able to reveal himself when there's some supernatural in Gotham? Maybe this lasts as normal for Jason until after utrh he's forced to do like a magic check up with the jld because batman is paranoid about Jason's heath and the jld is like : Did you know you have this super powerful ghost falling you? And possibly visibilitying Danny and cueing emotions.
I can't decide so I'm sending this to the tumblr. You have explicit permission to use anything in this post just send me the link because I want to read that.
