Thomas was born a Wayne. Martha was born a Kane. Both come with curses, destines, tied to Gotham from the marrow of their bones
When Martha finds out what Carmine did to Maria Kyle? She sees red. For heaven's sake, she's a Kane– she can't sit still and see the city burn itself. Do nothing. The thing she carries on her purse, unnamed, is steel heavy. She stretches her fingers, tentatively, thinking, and pulls the trigger
When the Falcone shows up the Wayne's doorstep? Thomas is too far deep in his own self-loathing. It's just one of those nights where he remembers he was born in a gold candle, fed by a silver spoon. It's just one of those days where the city weights upon his shoulder. The people count on him. The city. Can he stand tall and proud if he allows his hands to be tainted by Falcone's blood? Can he be the judge in Carmine's life? Isn't not saving someone the same as sentencing them to death? So, he made the oath, help the sick
That is to say Bruce has his mother's rage towards the city and his father's savior complex
And Carmine Falcone? He just thinks this all is amusing
@bruciemilf have you ever considered that despite being under Alfred's wardship, Bruce likely went to boarding school (Gotham Academy) because of Jacob?
I always loved the chaotic teenager!Bruce but I never noticed that all the troubles he got in that era can and will bite him back via his sons
Plus it can be a generational thing. Something about the Wayne name
It was clear Bruce is son of Martha and Thomas Wayne, chaos personified.
It's the precedent to his playboy persona. Martha and Thomas were strange and charismatic enough to make anyone open up and to entrance anyone in a conversation
It's the harsh Gotham accent from Thomas but the soft Russian from Martha. It's the way Bruce laughs at galas like a fire cackle and tells stories that make everyone laugh
So, the cheeky jokes and the tabloid-bright smile? Loud music and louder people? Dick genuinely enjoys and he's worse than his father
Because he's telling stories people are falling over and howling, it's the party tricks that make him end up in the chandelier or balancing champagne flutes and he is posing for cameras and buying martinis for Vicky Vale
It's the summer smile people fall in love with and the way kids naturally want to be close
And Bruce is a Gotham's child too. Jason Todd is his son and it is clear in the way he is nurturing
But it's clear in the way that, somehow, people don't expect neither of them to have five different degrees each. It's the way they don't expect Jason to be a highly competent CEO, it's the way people wouldn't expect Jason to be extremely academic
It's the way there's always plenty of food in Jason's house and snacks in his pockets. Teenager Bruce is the bleeding heart, it's the way magazines want to put his grief in the headlines, fundamentally incapable of being something but himself
It's the way people keep wanting to tell their story again and again, to point at them as beacons of tragedy
It's the way Jason is hemorrhagic and miserable but whose is gentle and loving despite despite despite
And Tim? Tim's smile is full of promises, it's the way he doesn't care in the slightest about money and sometimes he'll wake up with everything hurting, it's the way being a person doesn't come naturally for him
It's the way he'll drag his name trough mud if it's getting bad again, it's the way he doesn't care about social status
Tim is the way he spell secrets no one should know when he is mildly annoyed, it's the way he'll get serious and stare at you and be sorely disappointed at what he sees
It's the way he'll tell you if your husband is cheating and will be nothing but gentle about it. It's the way that, in front of cameras, he'll say he doesn't believe Batman exists just for the funsies
Damian is his father's son in every way. It's the way he is an heir born to command, it's the way he cries holding a knife the same way Bruce cried wielding his father's rapier
It's the way old woman pinch his cheeks, it's the way he sneers, it's the neverending guilt complex, it's the way he has his father's face, the twitch of his eyes and the way he corrects people's grammar faster that he can think of being impolite
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader. Tags: emotional hurt/comfort, burnout, established relationship. Title based off a Hozier's song. Ao3 link.
Summary:
« You've done me wrong for a long, long time. But after all you've done, I never changed my mind. »
Behind you, you wonder if the chauffer it is still there, standing. You know he is, the manners making him wait until you enter the house to only then pull the car to the garage. Watching you frozen in place, bag lazily held in a hand, umbrella in another. Hair disheveled, clothes unruly.
You wonder if you look pathetic on his eyes, just as much as you feel currently.
The truth is: you are utterly destroyed.
Not only mentally. Your muscles ache, pain spiking up on your lower back worse than any damage a sharpened knife could cause. Feet so thoroughly hurt by heels they're numb, if not for the casual sharp sting.
It is Gotham. The sky is grey, the city sucks up you out of life each passing moment.
Rain splatters against your umbrella. You stand just before the front door of Wayne Manor, mindlessly fidgeting with the wedding ring sitting pretty on your finger.
One year. You've been married with Bruce Wayne for one year already? Doesn't feel like it.
Time flew before your eyes, the start of it all just below your eyelids. Every first so toothachingly sweet, burned into your brain. Press nails against skin until it sharpens.
Behind you, you wonder if the chauffer it is still there, standing. You know he is, the manners making him wait until you enter the house to only then pull the car to the garage. Watching you frozen in place, bag lazily held in a hand, umbrella in another. Hair disheveled, clothes unruly.
You wonder if you look pathetic on his eyes, just as much as you feel currently.
Not worthy of the surname Wayne, to be called “lady of the house”.
Time is a cruel kind of lesson.
"Ms. Wayne." Alfred's voice, invariably courteous, calls. You almost wince at the door opening. He stands before you, maybe a little unnerved by your state, but if it's displeasure or worry on his face, you can't tell.
He masks terrifically well. You're always alarmed by this.
"Are you alright, ma'am?"
At that, you do wince.
"Yes, Alfred." Your brain haven't even processed his presence yet when you walk past him. He takes your coat and bag. "Just got lost in thoughts for a moment."
"Pondering the mysteries of our universe at the front step?" Ah, you do love the edge of sass in his voice. You meet his eyes, a shy-like (unlike you) smile cursing your face. "Shall I fetch for tea? Supper will be served in one hour's time."
Some months ago, you might have looked forward for it. If Bruce couldn't welcome you after work, he at least would make sure to eat dinner with you.
Deep in your stomach, rot. You swallow dry.
"No, thanks," you say, taking a deep breath. Desperately– desperately talking through the knot in your throat. "I just want to hit the showers and sleep," you say, all sincerity.
You smile politely. He doesn't pushes you.
It is easy to backslide. To make oneself likeable, less volatile, more agreeable. Until you can earn love and care.
(Oh. It's getting bad again.)
"And Bruce?" You ask halfway through up the stairs, despite yourself. My love for you is bigger than words. I search for you everywhere.
The silence that hangs would be enough of an answer. Alfred is merciful, though. "Still working, ma'am."
Isn't it painful? Loving someone just from outside their life?
Wayne Manor is a haunted house. Constantly burning, touching the skies with horrible black smoke. Sculpted coffered ceilings, furniture of expensive dark wood. Bristol, yet you can see the city and all its skyscrapers by the right window.
Wayne Manor, aka Bruce Wayne's first grave.
Every corner, a memory.
"Of course," you mutter to yourself, emotion pooling in the eyes.
Love is about the failure of language, so you fall silent and disappear into the halls.
~*~*~
The sheets are clean like you know they would be.
Heels are the first to go. You kick them off, grumbling in satisfaction. Earrings next, then lipstick messily scrubbed off in any sheet of paper.
Hairpin and belt lost to the ground. Bra? Disappeared.
Yet, despite being absolutely exhausted, you stop just before the bed. Ice at the nape of your neck like a garrote, a promise. Knot in your throat to hang on.
King-sized, silk sheets, cloud soft. Each breath is a stutter of a muscle, the blood running in your veins a statement that you are, in fact, alive.
Isn't it such a lousy fear? The fear to sleep and have yet another nightmare. Oh, to be worn out mind and body and still unable to touch a bed.
The sheets are clean, white-pure. Sours you mouth.
Messy and childish fear. To see the future, where he dies by your feet using the damned cowl. Feats unnamed, life unhonoured.
Death smiles to Batman.
(Ah, Bruce. I would break my own fingers for you. Tear the tongue out of my mouth.
But there are limits.)
You can't even remember half those nightmares. Hands shaking, clattered flesh, de-boned corpses–
You don't want to ruin the sheets. You don't want to ruin your life.
~*~*~
It might be 5am.
He nuzzles against your neck, breath hot and exhausted, chest to your back. Skin painted with purple and red, scar-tissue mapping constellations, saying eat.
Eat you do. Bite one step removed, soft-mouthed kissing blue veins and rough hands. Until you lips become raw and numb.
His weight sinks the mattress, acting like a gravitational pull. Bruce's body, which furnaces can't compare, protectively embraces you.
He's so warm. It's 5am and you both are lying together, legs intertwined, his face buried on your shoulder. You listen to his breathing, slow and controlled, in the comforting quiet of unrealized-hours.
I wish the past had been kinder on you. How the world is cruel and how you refuse to be.
Soft sunlight hums through the damasked curtains, birds start to sing. You are wide awake, and he is too.
You'd seen him die down in your mind, every night. He lives your nightmares, putting on the suit. You're not bound to him by fate, not a soulmate, with no divine intervention; hallowed by gums aching and reverence– that is to say: the door is open, you can walk away.
Because one day, he won't come back.
You know it. He knows it. He has the arrangements prepared for the occasion.
And nowadays, he can't afford to leave the cave if not for going downtown.
The life of a hero is very unthankful.
"Do you hate me?" he asks you, voice rough to be an knife's edge. It's been long enough since you last felt him this close, low in your ear.
Bruce assures you through touch. Calloused thumb rubbing your wrist. Affections ebbs in his palms, love even. A work in progress.
In all your inner turmoil, you can see yourself getting quite tired of it all. The late nights crawling up walls, knowing he won't come back until morning– the stitching of wounds, his blood in the Persian rugs– but to imagine oneself as his enemy? As in, hating him?
"No," you murmur in a steady heartbeat. A detour cross your mind, of eustress: he gets tired too. And, then you say for good measure, "Never."
People don't really think how tiring tragic the life of a hero is. But there's this exhilarating moment where all that exists is Bruce's breath in your skin.
"Do you love me?" he asks because he can't take any chances. Oh, you can bet a kid that grew up traumatized will need reassurance. Constant, gentle reassurance.
White stripes of scars in his knuckles and forearms below your fingertips, drawing into your memory again and again.
The truth is: you are utterly destroyed.
Not only physically. But he tugs with your heartstrings everyday, bruised like he'd been squeezing it. The more it lingers more you realize you've been packing up emotions for weeks, now.
"What a silly thing to ask," you say. Not an answer. Neither are breathing for a second, there. You teeth clatter like a damn trying to bust.
Ah! There's a lot of messed up stuff happening all the time. You coil in yourself, perhaps considering. Bruce's touch shudders.
And there is something to realize. You'd rather die drowning for love than in thirst of it. Repeat to yourself, to him, I will never leave you. In healthiness and sickness–
"On purpose. Always–"
Love, who is brutal, who is stored in the viscera–
"–I love you."
A/N: If you like what I do, please consider supporting me and buying a coffee!
This man runs a whole conglomerate, dozen different charity foundations, has to play into whatever current political ploy is to earn information, (might have, like, 20 children), is a founding member of the JL, on top of being The Batman and trying to prevent Gotham from imploding – trying to make this unfixable city heal.
He nearly doesn't have enough time for himself – heavens know how many times Alfred shoot him with a horse tranquilizer – and time to you??
All his responsibilities are half the reason why quality time is his love language.
The other half is that he didn't have enough time with his parents. They were snatched from him, a child, and this time (his childhood) is something he'll never be able to have back
Not gonna lie, he's harsh. He won't prioritize you. Not on purpose, not because he doesn't love you, simply because there's people out there that need to be saved. And, after so much time without a proper relationship, maybe Bruce also doesn't know how to cater for you – and because he's way too awkward, too dense to a detective, even if he can play cool at times.
But the tiny things are like love letters:
Strikes to me as the guy that'll be in utterly destroyed, broken ribs and concussion, and still try and get up and have breakfast with you, just to be with you
His personal quiet time is important to him. It helps him organize his thoughts. Yet he'll try to be, at least, in the same room as you.
Bruce will sit on the same room as you, in complete silence, and stay. Maybe you're working and he is there on the couch of your office, sitting with a concussion and sixty percent painkiller, statue-quiet.
I love you, so I'll take the burden of not doing this super important other thing – like resting – to sit with you in silence.
Will stare at you, motionless.
Eventually, you'll learn that this face he's making is lovestruck-ness. Don't comment on it.
And if his love language is all about undivided attention, it means he'll learn how to organize his time to have together time without all the distractions. A walk around the Manor Garden, a quiet dinner in front of the tv, cuddling; might do the trick.
Stays awake to talk with you, even if it's after a case frenzy where he didn't sleep for a week. Crash with him in the couch after a long day.
If I could stay with you here forever, I would. He can't get this words out, a lump on his throat, so he just stay as long as he can
Can't tell me he won't marathon Grey Ghost with you. At the end of every episode will dump on you all the details about the production. It's important that you listen even if you don't find it all interesting. Connection bids, y'know?
Ask him about forensics if you want to know more about the whole Batman deal. Or explain the new additions to the batmobile.
Getting to explain something he loves to someone he loves counts as top-quality time in Bruce's books.
Sometimes will find you just to start explaining a current case he can't crack. Either to see if you have any intelligent idea, but mostly because saying it aloud helps thinking.
And he doesn't know how to have the steady heartfelt conversations, so he'll listen to you talk. About your day, your plans, how much you worry about him, about what you ate today.
A great listener. Will hit you with follow up questions so you can keep talking about what you love. Never talks about him but at this point you know the drill – you have to ask for him to talk.
Regular week preplanned dates. Will do all in his powers to not postpone it. Will be completely heartbroken when this inevitably happens. Will look like a kicked puppy.
He's not distracted with you, all his mental attention on you and you only.
So we all know that Bruce left Gotham when he was around 18yo. During this time, he toured the world, got taught by a plethora of teachers in the most unexpected skills, and eventually met both Ra's Al Ghul and Talia
This all on the span of around 10 years
When he came back to Gotham, he stayed low for some time. Weeks? Months? He was still figuring out how to be Batman
What if he also was figuring out how to be Bruce Wayne? How to be a Wayne and help the city as one?
So he gets himself some nose prosthetics and brown contacts and infiltrates himself on Wayne Enterprises. Works himself through various departments, which doesn't exclude neither manual labor nor office work
Bruce studies the safety measures of the buildings, of the machines, of everything. He talks and makes friends with the employees to know if they're satisfied with the pay and conditions
That's why he eventually ends up as an historical CEO world-wide known philanthropist. He listens and changes things based on feedback
Bruce knows that loving Gotham is to understand its people. To love is to care and Bruce loves to the point of creation
