through the fire
you're pregnant with bruce's wayne's child. he's dead. what now? ao3! future state!bruce wayne x afab+pregnant!reader
In the weeks since Bruce has died, your life has been on a steady downward spiral.
The kids are more unruly than ever without their dad; you’re barely holding down the townhouse made makeshift orphanage. The year before he died, when the world had just begun to go sideways, he sold the Manor and moved your family of 7 to the unassuming townhouse just five blocks out of Gotham.
Then he died. Though your family had only been there for a year and the memories made there were scant positive, he haunted every corner. The day after he passed you'd been inconsolable. A week and you were stuck in bed staring at the empty space in your bed where your husband should've been; two and you were up and running. The kids, yourself and the small, new life that you hadn't told anyone about, living in you now, had to eat. The baby he had the fucking audacity to leave in you, just to go out and die. Your life partner, the only man you could ever see yourself having kids with, gone. Dead. Never heard from again. You’re still angry about it- maybe that’s why you kind-of-sort-of-really-hate your growing baby.
But you have bigger problems to care about than some man, you tell yourself as you get up.
You still make his cup of coffee (black, two sugars) when you make yours in the morning. It sits out on the kitchen countertop, like you're waiting for him to come downstairs and grumble about a spring in the mattress digging into his back.
You drink his, too.
You're quickly becoming overworked. Winter is fast approaching and you realise that Damian has outgrown his weather-appropriate garb, so you take to the underground markets for haggling. Bruce's child in you steadily depletes your energy; a weakness you can't afford. Really, the babe has been nothing but a liability- you're tired, fragile, craving creature comforts now out of reach thanks to the tumultuous downfall of Gotham, all thanks to the Magistrate. You'd kill for a. The only thing the baby is good for is getting rid of your appetite. More food for the growing children under your care.
It's the end of a bitter November day and you're walking back home. The few dollars you've scrounged from cleaning rich Peacekeeper's homes and odd ends at the few chain stores still standing are hardly enough to make ends meet, and you know your wallet will be feeling this wardrobe change later.
Dick's time has been split between run-down Arkham Asylum and your townhouse, so he's at least able to keep the household running on days when you feel like ripping out your hair or sitting down and sobbing.
God forbid he gets a job, you think to yourself hatefully on your long walk home from the abandoned Target, home now to a small black market of goods that once would've been common but were now considered hard-to-get luxuries. It's cold and the coat Bruce had bought for you ten years ago is sporting a new hole and the baby had decided to jump on your insides halfway through your haggling shift and you're miserable. But you can't continue down that rabbit hole when you get back to the townhouse because all eight heads are asleep and warm and fed; a gratitude so great to your eldest, asleep on the couch with Cass tucked beneath his arm, overtakes you. You stand in the kitchen crying until your lungs feel empty, pointedly ignoring the set of eyes watching you from upstairs.
After a warm shower, when you're collapsed in bed wearing Bruce's old hoodie he never wore out of the house, even when things got really rough (Wayne decorum and all of that) one tiny head pokes itself in.
"Mom?" Comes Tim's voice. Internally, you sigh. Externally, you open your arms for a hug.
"Yeah?"
"Why were you crying?" He asks as you pull him onto your chest, carefully maneuvering the 12-year old boy away from your sensitive abdomen.
"I just really love you and your brothers and sisters." Tim is quiet.
"Mom, I don't believe you," he says, and you groan internally.
"Really? Why not, Timmie?" You ask instead of sobbing because Bruce would've wanted you to encourage him to think for himself. He's quiet for a moment.
"I think you're sick."
"Why?" You probe.
"You're always holding your stomach," Tim starts slowly. "And you don't eat anymore. And I just saw you start crying." He says. Quieter, he adds: "You haven't cried since Bruce died."
"Oh, sweetheart," you sigh, rubbing Tim's shoulder. A tiny voice that sounds suspiciously like Bruce's tells you that maybe you should tell the truth, and a voice closer to your own tells you to think about it. Wait, at least. "You don't have to be concerned for me. But I'll tell you in the morning- it's very late. Go get some sleep, love." You say, kissing your son's forehead. His eyebrows knit but he just mumbles a "love you" before going to the room he shares with Cass and Steph.
You allow yourself to sleep in- since the Magistrate, Gotham lives in the night, so you can afford losing daylight. When you go downstairs, making your usual two cups of coffee, all eyes are on you.
"What?" You say to the small crowd just a kitchen island away, setting Bruce's mug on his coaster. Tim gives you a pointed look you're sure is supposed to mean something, but you're tired and cranky and the baby really wants you to eat a whole jar of Nutella. "I'm not gonna get it. Spit it out, love."
"You said you might be sick," Tim said, his bottom lip starting to tremble. Dick rubs his shoulders and shoots you a glare, as if to say *how dare you make my baby brother cry, wench*. Damian raises his head from where he’d been hunched over a thin sketchbook, watching warily. Ever since Bruce’s death, he’d become quieter.
"Oh. Shoot, right, I forgot." Now seems like a terrible time to admit that you're pregnant with your late husband's baby- halfway through coffee brewed with beans from the asshole of hell, a second cup cooling, waiting for you. "Uh," you hedge, looking to the side- hanged photos from when you tried to make the townhouse feel homey, stare at you.
"Mom," Jason says in a tone that tells you he's getting sick of your bullshit, and honestly, you are, too.
"Um." You say, rubbing your face. Jason slams his hands down on the shitty dining table.
"Are you sick or not, Mom?!" He shouts. Cass covers her ears.
"Well, *no*, I'm not sick!" You try to defend. Duke stands up from the couch, abandoning his dollar-store cinnamon roll.
"Then what are you, Mom?" Duke says, with all that devastating patience. You huff like a teenager- like *you're* the child, not the parent.
"I'm pregnant, okay?" You say. It's like a bomb went off in the townhouse, because nobody moves. Nobody speaks, either, until something in Dick's head clicks.
"Jesus Christ, Mom, put the coffee down!" He says, going around the countertop and messy kitchen table, forcing the mug out of your hands and taking Bruce's cup, too. "Jesus fuck. Caffeine isn't good for the baby!" He frets.
"Yeah, well, I have work tonight. Give me that," you say, reaching for the mug again just for Dick to raise it above your head, dancing to the sink, about to pour it down the drain- then he remembers the money you spent, reluctantly taking a sip of yours and sliding Bruce's to Jason.
"You're not going to work," Dick says, and he sounds scared. "How can you? You're *pregnant*." He looks confused. He looks... upset. Jason gets up, rounds the counter and puts a heavy hand on his shoulders.
"Yeah. No work for you, Mom," Jason says. "Please. Dick's gonna blow his top if you... Y'know. Endanger the baby."
"I'm not even four months along," you protest. The kids you worked yourself so hard for now telling you to stop- it couldn't get more ironic. What were you supposed to do, then, just let them starve? "I need to work. It's not like anyone else can, anyways, what with the mask ban. They're watching us. They think I'm a mask. I can't afford to let my routine change." You say. "It's not like the baby's suffering, anyways. I'm fine."
Sixteen eyes stare at you, horrified.
"I'm *fine*," you ground out, just as your phone's alarm goes off- shit, a doctor's appointment you almost forgot about. "Look," you say. "I'm going to be responsible and go to a doctor about the baby. Okay?" You say, to the worried crowd of eight vigilantes, all staring at you with conflict in their eyes. You exhale. "Okay. I should be back before evening. Don't wait up for me, there's lunch in the fridge," you say, hurried, before pulling on your coat and leaving.
The doctor's office is sterile. The only other people there are much older than you, also there out of necessity, but not for the same reasons as yours. Not many people in Gotham were getting pregnant (not like that number was high to start with) nowadays, since the iron fist the Magistrate had made anyone and everywhere skeptical about bringing new people into the world, leading to the closure of a lot of specialty clinics.
The appointment is wholly uneventful. The thing inside of you is the size of an apple, healthy, despite all your best efforts to get rid of it yourself, and you know better than to ask the bored, salt-and-pepper haired doctor for an abortion or anything else of the sort. He sounds uninterested in you, up until he rereads your medical files. You can pinpoint the exact moment when he fixates on your last name. Wayne. The look he gives you on your way out is especially sympathetic.
You stew over how he had looked as you walk back home in the dark, tugging your winter coat tighter around your shoulders as you try to walk as fast as possible without making yourself look suspicious. You’re still mulling over the half-hearted advice the doctor gave you when-
Gunshots. A block, maybe two, down. Dread fills you. The Magistrate has a bad habit of interviewing (aggressively and unnecessarily interrogating) anyone within a five mile radius of a mask outbreak. The people shooting probably weren’t even real heroes, likely only kids getting sick of the iron fist over Gotham. And they were going to fuck everything up for everyone else.
You must stay frozen for too long in the middle of the sidewalk because a male voice from a nearby alley drifts toward you;
“Hey, miss? You should really get off the sidewalk. Do you… Uh, want to come inside?”
It’s a terrible idea. It’s too dark and foggy to see anything but the silhouette of a man and he’s probably trying to kidnap and skin you. But your gut tells you that he’s safe, and even if you end up dead, your kids are grown enough to be okay without you. It’s not like you were bringing enough money in to be a saving grace in their lives, anyway.
“Um, yes, thank you,” you say hurriedly, looking behind yourself before speed walking over to the entrance of this guy’s apartment. He closes the door behind you, and you keep your hackles raised. Much to your dismay, after that doctor’s appointment, your will to live has gotten stronger. You’re ready to half-heartedly beat this guy up (like how Bruce taught you) if he tries anything funny.
“You’re welcome. You shouldn’t be out so late, y’know, there’s thugs out and about.” He says as he bolts and locks the door. The hair at the back of your neck stands. He has a true Jersey accent, his “r”’s overpronounced (he sounds so much like Bruce when he was tired that your chest aches). With your back to him, you discreetly stuff your hands in your pockets, fumbling for the brass knuckles Bruce gave you, and you crack half a smile.
“What, thugs like you?” You turn to look at him and it’s like all the breath gets punched out of you.
He looks exactly like Bruce.
Three day’s worth of stubble, hair stubbornly overgrown. Baby blue eyes, wide as he recognises you too. A faint, barely there scar over his left eyebrow from Bane, one you only know because you remember when it was a wound. You reach out, wanting, needing to know if you’re dreaming, and you sob when you brush a real, muscular bicep. He cradles you as your knees give out, as you start to sob, shaking like a leaf underneath your thin coat.
“B-Bruce-”
“Yes, honey, it’s me-”
“You were dead- you let m-me think you were-”
“Sweetheart-”
“The kids and I- it’s been so hard, Brucie, I wish-
“Love-”
“And I’m pregnant! I d-don’t want it, Bruce, I’m so scared, why did you leave? Why…” You start sobbing again; Bruce has gone stiff for a moment before he begins rubbing circles onto your back. He waits for your breath to still, to even, and then he softly asks:
“Pregnant?”
Now is your turn to stiffen. You hadn’t even realised you’d said that.
“I-I… Yeah.”
“How far along?” Your not-really-dead husband coaxes.
“Fifteen weeks,” you whisper.
“And you don’t want it.” He’s probing. The familiarity makes tears spring into your eyes.
“No.”
“Sweetheart, why?”
“I… I…” Tears spring to your eyes and you’re suddenly so, so tired. He notices; why wouldn’t he? He’s your husband. Your life partner. The father of your- your child.
“Never mind. Let’s get you to bed. You must be tired,” he murmurs as he gently, carefully begins to lift you up from the ground. He begins to usher you to his room when you suddenly stop in your tracks.
“No,” you say. “No, I-I… The kids. The kids, I need to go back to them, they’ll be worried,” you mumble.
“Love, I don’t think you should, it’s dangerous outside and you don’t seem very well-“
“The kids,” you hiss, all the parental instincts you had just denounced coming back to you with a ferocity.
“Right, love. The kids.” Bruce sighs, giving into you, and stabilises you, keeping a protective hand on your waist. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, and every time he hears footsteps or another human he tucks you into an alleyway until it’s clear. His cautiousness costs you time; when you make it back to the townhouse, the kids are in a state of disarray. Dick has his phone pressed up to his ear as he makes dinner, and Jason looks stressed as he tries to keep the younger kids entertained. Tim is asleep on Cass’ front, probably giving her some sort of deep pressure therapy. All heads snap to the door as you and your husband come stumbling in, and it’s a matter of seconds before the house devolves further.
Someone yells “it’s B!” and then everything is dropped- dinner forgotten, worries washed astray as a crowd of your own making clings to both Bruce and yourself. Someone, with their arms around your torso is crying and someone else has nearly knocked Bruce to the ground with the force of a hug. It’s not nearly a moment before someone complains of being trampled on, and the makeshift dogpile reluctantly pulls away. Tim is gripping the bottom of Bruce’s coat and you’re being ushered to the couch tenderly by Dick.
Bruce sits next to you, and then he is grilled to shreds by the children about everything and anything.
“Why did you fake your death?”
“Did you fake your death? Were you dead for real?”
“Why did you come back?”
“Where were you?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
The questions paired with patient answers from your husband quickly lulled you to sleep, your head on Bruce’s shoulder and his arm protectively around your bump.
The night ended with everyone in the house asleep together in odd spaces and chairs in the living room; the morning began with a unified complaint of back pain.
If there’s one thing about Bruce Wayne that’s imprinted itself on you, it’s that he’s a man of few, but meaningful words. He puts his value behind his actions if nothing else; every “I love you” was preceded with the thoughtfulness only Batman could have.
You had grown used to not hearing “I love you” often in your marriage. It was something Bruce obviously savoured, and you would hate to take that away from him.
But it seems like his absence has changed him; he massages your back when you wake up.
“I love you,” he mumbles into your ear, still half asleep himself.
He shadows behind you the whole day as you putter around the house- Dick had contacted your bosses and let them know you’d be on maternity leave now. Bruce bullies you into a corner or two, just to kiss your lips and whisper “I love you” again.
And when you’re the only two awake in the house, late at night, the master bedroom finally with two inhabitants again, he lays atop you. He kisses your still-flat stomach and murmurs an “love you” to the cells beyond flesh, then he kisses the crown of your head.
“I love you most.”
dividers by @/diviniyae and @/junabuggy!
