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Your husband is a recluse. Fact. In all fairness, you were warned going in about his elusive habits and nocturnal nature, but for some reason you downplayed his words, believing him to have exaggerated.
He can’t be that bad, you remember telling yourself in the early days of your marriage; back when his absence was so keenly felt, back when you had to swallow the bitter taste of rejection whenever his place on the table went untaken. No man is truly an island.
Yeah, no. Bruce Wayne is most definitely an island unto himself, uninhabitable and unwelcoming. Many a ship had tried to breach his shore, of that you have no doubt, and just as many ships came apart when they did so.
(Okay, yeah, your analogy could use some work. Shut up, brain.)
“He’s not available much,” Alfred told you apologetically one morning when yet another breakfast went untouched. “Master Wayne is a busy man.”
Plastering a big, fat smile on your face, already busy burying the familiar hurt behind a mask of warm indifference, you hurried to say, “No, no, of course. I completely understand.” In hindsight, you most definitely overdid it.
Over time, you’ve gotten used to this. Spending time with your husband’s butler – with your butler, you remind yourself with a jolt, still not used to the wealth and power your married name gave you – helping keep the mansion in order as much as you can. You never thought being a glorified housewife would be your future, but, hey, here we are. It’s not so bad. Maintaining appearances, trying to keep up with what’s going at Wayne Enterprises, as much as you’re allowed to, anyway. You never really had a career goal in mind, never really put much stock in the person you were going to become. You just kind of aimlessly flitted through life with passive detachment, always just a step behind everyone else. Living in the shadow, always too afraid to step into the light.
Speaking of shadows…
“What’s that?” you ask Alfred one evening after dinner, eyeing a curiously-lit cloud bearing a certain symbol.
Alfred seems to know what you’re on about before he even turns to look at what you were pointing at. “That’s the Bat Signal,” he informs you, strangely cautious.
“The Bat Signal?” you repeat slowly, feeling dumb for even asking. “What’s it for?”
When it becomes clear you aren’t going to drop it, Alfred sighs, scrubbing a weary hand down a tired old face. Amazingly, it looks as though he’s aged a century in the scant few seconds this exchange occurred in. “It’s for the Batman.”
The Batman.
You mull the name over and over in your mind, trying the syllables on for size. The moniker intrigues you, as does the image it invokes, the sign of it: dark and foreboding, dangerous and unyielding.
You open your mouth to press Alfred for further details, but like his master he disappears, lost to the dark of Wayne Manor and the ghosts who still live here.
Alright. Perhaps you should start at the beginning.
Arranged marriages were starting to fall out of favour, but they weren’t unheard of. If, for whatever reason, you found yourself alone and requiring an “heir” – as archaic and disgustingly patriarchal as that phrase entails – you could appeal to the state for compensation. When you did so, the state would assign you a ready-made spouse, hand-picked and tailored especially for you, based on a wealth of information: your social security, your credit history, your education. Basically whatever the machine had on you.
(Oh, yeah, it’s very 1984. Someone tell George Orwell society’s been infringing on his copyright.)
Once your supposedly ‘perfect’ match had been decided, all that was left to do was convince the other party of your intentions. You still feel rather embarrassed at how little convincing it took you to accept Mr. Wayne as your lawful-wedded husband.
“You know,” you overheard the butler – who even has butlers anymore? – say to your, uh, newly-wed husband the very first morning you arrived. “When I told you I think you should consider working on your public image, I didn’t expect you to bring home a wife.”
You weren’t sure whether to be offended, and you reflexively flinched away, feeling the imposter. Maybe your rushed decision to accept Bruce Wayne’s unorthodox marriage proposal was not one of your finer moments.
Turning away from the conversation before you could hear Mr. Wayne’s reply, you let your eyes roam what you could see of Wayne Manor.
Money had been tight growing up. You trained yourself to be careful with loose change, to plan daily budgets and stick to them. Your parents did their best, but there were times you had to go without to make do.
Bruce Wayne had no such experience. If this mansion was anything to go by, he never had to want for anything.
– except parents, a traitorous voice reminded you, the sobering realisation making you cold all over. You have parents, a mother and a father who love you with every bone in their body, who raised you right, who taught you everything you know. Already, you missed them, having impulsively eloped with a state-mandated stranger, and you know that’s incomparable to how much Mr. Wayne must miss his parents every second of every day.
You were interrupted from your solemn musings by said husband’s unmistakable presence.
“Alfred’s going to help you unpack,” he informed you, “and give you a tour of the mansion.”
Swallowing, you asked, “Where are you going?”
“I have– business to attend to.” You think he tried to smile down at you, but the muscles, unused to such distortion, failed to take, morphing instead into a grimace. It was gone in the blink of an eye, and so was he.
Here’s what you know so far: the Batman is a masked vigilante who has, for whatever arbitrary reason, taken it upon himself to protect the people of Gotham City. Fine, that’s all well and good. In fact, that’s pretty fucking fantastic. The only question you have is – why?
Why, why, why, why?
Why has this man taken up the mantle? What could he possibly stand to gain from this? From what you can tell of Gotham, the city is not kind to those with good hearts, and there is not a doubt in your mind that the Batman, in spite of his attire and unsmiling countenance, had just about the purest heart out there.
So… what’s his endgame?
Si vis pacem, para bellum.
Translation: if you want peace, prepare for war.
Oh, but, no, that’s not quite right, either. For as much as Gotham is a city teetering on the precipice of war, Batman’s not a soldier. He isn’t beholden to any one thing or person – he’s not a politician’s puppet nor is he a state secret harnessed for reasons untold. No. He’s his own entity, his own man, sworn only to obey his command.
And that makes him pricelessly unique. Special. Uncorrupted. An invaluable commodity in a city that dealt exclusively in valuable commodities.
You’re not sure why you’re fascinated with him so, but you are. You can’t help it. Something inside of you just aches to understand him, to know him, to maybe even help him if you can. Because, and here’s the rub, so listen closely: he inspires you. People. He inspires the general person to do better, to do more, to do whatever they could for the wellbeing of the city they live in. You are just one of many he’s inspired; you’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last.
You spare a passing thought for Mr. Wayne’s thoughts on the Batman, but then promptly discard them. You know next to nothing about the man you exchanged vows with, you wouldn’t even know where to start with analysing him. Regardless, this isn’t about Mr. Wayne and his hypothetical response. This is about you.
Which begs the question: what are you going to do?
Mr. Wayne hasn’t shown up. The mayor, a fierce woman named Bella Reál, had pencilled in a meeting with your husband to discuss the new philanthropist endeavours Wayne Enterprises are reported to deliver. Alfred told you to stall, to play for time; he regretfully passed on your husband’s by now long since practised excuses, and now it is just the two of you left to pass the time.
Ergo, this is your responsibility to sort out. And Ms. Reál did not look like the type of woman to take false promises lying down.
Then again…isn’t this precise occurance the reason why Mr. Wayne wed you in the first place? Upon your agreement, he signed the marriage certificate the first time he met you in person, unflinchingly resolved. Because this is what he needs you for: to nurture his public image, maintain his social standing.
To be a Wayne.
And you, well– you like to be needed.
You have a chance, here, a chance to do some good. In Mr. Wayne’s absence, you could make this opportunity your calling.
Emboldened, finally stepping into the Wayne skin for the first time since your marriage, you announce to Ms. Reál your intention of rebuilding the orphanage. You’ve thought about this for a while, even hoped to bring this proposal up to your husband, and now you can finally make it a reality.
The mayor seems shocked by your planned project, perhaps because, if your husband’s anything to go by, the current Wayne response is to deflect and stall, and here you are actively rebelling against the status quo. She recovers quickly enough to ask questions pertaining to the addicts squatting in the abandoned, derelict building.
You take a deep breath before announcing a half-baked idea to construct a rehabilitation centre for those serious about battling their addictions, free-of-charge.
Truthfully, you aren’t too sure how you can make that work, yet, you make sure to tell her, not wanting to provide false hope, but you are determined to try.
You feel a little guilty about essentially handing over your husband’s name and money to designs you can’t guarantee will ever come to fruition, but you shunt it to one side. Besides, what’s his is now yours, isn’t that how marriage works? Whatever. You’re not quite sure. You’ve never been married before.
The mayor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, that’s certainly a bold endeavour. If you’re sure you’re up to the task–”
“I insist.”
Your firm tone surprises you, unaccustomed as you are to the confidence behind your words. Nevertheless, this feels right. Good.
“Okay,” Ms. Reál says after silently scrutinising you, and is it just your imagination or is there a hint of… respect gleaming in her eyes?
“Okay,” you promise.
The next day you prepare to greet Alfred with a morning coffee and a quick run-down of the day’s plans.
Instead you greet Bruce Wayne.
“Alfred told me,” he says in lieu of good morning, “about what you said to the mayor. About the orphanage, your proposition for a rehab centre.”
You bite your lip. It’s impossible to get a read on him.
“It sounds good. It would be good for the city if you can do that.”
“Mr. Wayne–”
“Bruce,” he counters, a frown crumpling the lines on his forehead at the formal use of his name. “It’s Bruce. My name is Bruce.”
“Mr. Wayne,” you reiterate, the meeting you had yesterday making you unexplainably fearless, “I don’t think we’re on a first-name basis just yet.”
You’re expecting him to agree with you, to take back his first name and keep it in his possession, so it’s all the more surprising when, “I disagree. I believe we’re on more than a first-name basis.” He pauses. “You are my wife.”
“Yes. I’m your wife – and I haven’t seen you since the day you brought me here.”
The bluntness of your words stun you – the truth behind your statement is resolute, yet you flounder in the aftermath of them. It’s never been you to be so forthcoming, to speak so brusquely.
Bruce is characteristically silent.
Then:
“I’ve been a bad husband,” he mutters, soft and sad, and something in you gives out.
The quiet self-recrimination tugs at your heart strings. Helpless, your mouth lifts forgivingly.
“It’s okay,” you assuage. “You’re just– busy. I never see you.”
“That shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t let that get in the way of–” he gestures between the two of you, actions speaking where words cannot.
You shrug one shoulder in understanding, in a what can you do kind of way. (Although, on a serious note, what actually does Bruce Wayne do?)
You watch Bruce internally debate something, wrestling against an idea in his mind. God, what you would give to catch even a brief glimpse into that mind.
“You. Do you want.” Bruce struggles to vocalise his suggestion. “Sex?”
What?
Come again: what?
It takes you a second to process his question, as painfully awkwardly sincere as it had been. It’s definitely not seductive. Incongruously, there’s no sexual undertone present in his ask. It comes out sounding so earnest, as though he has no idea where to begin fixing this problem, but so desperately determined to correct it regardless. Part of you melts at the sentiment.
It takes you even longer to phrase your reply.
“I just want to get to know you,” you hedge, quiet.
Bruce flinches, reels back as though struck, physically pained by your wish.
Your heart damn near breaks at his sharp recoil. A lump forms in the back of your throat, and you know that just as his face belied his feelings just then, the pain at his bodily rejection will be written all over yours.
It startles you, then, that Bruce takes a step in your direction.
“Wait,” he says, stops, swallows. His hand is slightly outstretched, fingers splayed but beginning to withdraw into themselves.
You give him a moment to compose himself.
“Okay,” he says, sounding wrecked.
You’re lost. “Okay?”
“Yes. Okay. We can–” he takes another step toward you, and he’s standing so close you can smell his cologne, and it’s so not fair that he smells so fucking good. “We can get to know each other. Take it slow.”
The smile his words evoke feels like it splits your face in two. Chancing a look at your husband, you see a hint of the same lightness you’re experiencing in the blue of his eyes. He’s much closer than you initially realised, so close you could touch him if you thought he would appreciate it.
“I have to go out tonight,” he tells you, the first step in this new direction you’re both hopefully going down together. “Is that okay?”
“Um, yeah,” you say.
Bruce nods, and you expect him to leave. But he doesn’t, and you look up at him once more. When you do, he kisses you, chaste, quick and hurried, a brief peck of the lips, but one you will undoubtedly reply about a million times later. Your first kiss together.
He’s gone by the time you come back to yourself.
After your tentative truce, things between the two of you begin to take shape.
It’s still strange and clunky – a melody played with trembling fingers – but it’s a start. It’s progress. He comes down to you more often now, makes small talk with you and Alfred in the morning, listens to your day during dinner. He gives you a peck on the cheek, a swift kiss on the brow.
Once, daringly, you kiss him goodbye, and delight in the way his cheeks picken up.
You begin to take a more active role in the Wayne Foundation. You can mediate on his behalf. You’re getting better at it, you think, accepting the self-compliment. You’re also getting better at doing that as well, courtesy of your weekly meetings with the mayor over the development of your projects.
Shockingly, you even manage to persuade your husband to make a rare appearance to the world at the Wayne Foundation fundraiser. The entire time, he engages in polite conversation with Gotham’s finest and keeps a hand resting on the small of your back, an unmistakable sign of ownership. The heat of his touch sears through you like a brand, and you press more intently into his side.
Your face is a flame.
One day, he tells you of the death of his parents.
His tone is factual, words matter-of-fact, acting as though he’s just reading lines from a script with no idea of the character he’s cast to play.
You’re nearly in tears by the time he’s finished.
“Bruce, I’m…” so sorry, you were about to say before recognising the gesture as meaningless, one ultimately aimed more for your benefit than for his. A social nicety, yes, but one you are sure he wouldn’t appreciate.
He didn’t tell you this to make himself feel better; he told you this for you. You told him you wanted to get to know him, and he has been actively working towards doing so, fighting against every self-preservation instinct he has that have urged him to spend his life in solitary confinement.
Gratitude swells in your breast.
Instead, mustering up every inch of truth and sincerity, you look him in the eye and say, “Thank you for telling me.”
Bruce nods, once, curt and crisp, suddenly uncomfortable in the face of emotional honesty.
Recognising this, you carefully turn the topic on to the latest Grey’s Anatomy episode, feeling you could both do with some inane chatter.
Bruce doesn’t seem to understand the plot, but he listens attentively to your recap. You fall asleep sometime later, your head on his chest.
It all happened so fast.
One minute you’re walking alone down a dimly-lit alley; the next, you’re pushed hard against the wall, brick digging painfully into your back. Knife to your throat. Hot, alcohol-infused carbon dioxide exhaled harshly as your attacker shoved his face into yours.
Your meeting with Bella Reál ran long. You should have called Alfred, he would have picked you up, but you didn’t want to inconvenience him. He’s normally working with Bruce at this time, you’re fairly sure. You end up telling yourself you can just walk to the train station and buy a ticket there, or even hail a cab to Wayne Manor.
But now here you are.
I’m gonna die. Where once that realisation would have made you statuesque, frozen numb, instead it makes you angry. Makes you want to fight.
You’re not even sure how you do it, but one second you’re up against the wall, and the next your assailant is doubled over at your feet, clutching his lower half in pain. Your knee throbs. You allow yourself only a couple seconds shock before your higher brain functions kick in, and you run, run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m–
…running out of breath.
Heaving, you look up. There’s not a bat in sight.
You’re slumped against a different wall this time. As luck would have it, this particular street is packed full of people. There must be some kind of event happening here tonight, you rationalise, but for the life of you you can’t remember.
Stupid , you admonish yourself now that your body’s started to metabolise the adrenaline in the face of relative safety. Such a stupid, stupid girl. What on Earth were you thinking, walking home late at night?
Phone. You still have your phone.
Trembling in the aftermath, you press Alfred’s contact. He answers on the first ring, concern layering his tone.
“Sorry to bother you,” is all you can muster, shaky and weak as it is. “Can you come and pick me up?”
You were expecting Alfred, but it was Bruce who came. Inconspicuously speeding in a black car you don’t know the name of but assume it’s something ridiculously expensive. Distantly – mind still floating somewhere far, far away – you’re grateful Batman took the night off. You would hate to get Bruce into trouble.
He gets out of the car.
The sob escapes before you even register it was being formed, and you stumble into your husband’s embrace, arms coming up instinctively to shield you from the rest of the world.
Shush. It’s all right. He’s got you.
He manages to bundle you into the car, all the while holding you like you’re something infinitely precious. Fragile.
Bruce lets you keep a hold of his hand for the duration of the ride. Wayne Manor appears before you know it, time ceasing to make any sense for you, and he leads you up into your bedroom.
“Rest,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“Stay,” you require.
He does. Navigating you to the bed, making sure you’re still firmly tethered to him, he lays down and urges you to follow, manoeuvring you when your tired limbs fail until your head is on his chest. He hooks his legs around yours, entangling them to the point you don’t know where you end and he begins. Every inch pressed together.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Bruce mutters thick and ragged, burying the heated words into each individual strand of your hair. “I’ll do better. I promise.” His grip tightens, commits.
“You’re here now,” you comment, melting into his strong hold. In contrast, your words are murmured softly into his chest, crinkling each syllable into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t go.”
“I won’t, baby,” he says, and the endearment catches you off guard. It’s not like the Bruce Wayne you’ve had the privilege of getting to know to use pretty, velvety words just to make others feel better, but after considering it for a second, you relax into them. Even if he is just saying it for your benefit, feeling the press of his mouth form the pet name atop your crown feels nice. “I’m not going anywhere.”
After a few moments silence, he puts on Grey’s Anatomy, and you want to cry.
Instead, you fall into dreamless, black sleep.
After that, you're more cautious now when wandering around Gotham. It doesn't escape your notice how protective Bruce has become, now, as though he's frightened to let you out of his sight.
You remember the tragedy that befell Bruce's parents, and his vigilante watch over you suddenly makes sense.
God, you want to kick yourself for being stupid in the first place. Rationally, you know you're not at fault for what happened, but even so you despise your poor decision-making skills, loathe your weakness.
Local news reports Batman's actions are growing in intensity, vicious and blood-thirsty, not quite tipping the balance into full-out manslaughter, but certainly toeing the line more than he used to. You're sure there's no connection. How can there be? Both Alfred and Bruce made sure what– what happened to you was kept out of the eyes of the press. This is a coincidence, surely?
You shake yourself out of your reverie just in time for the hairs on the back of your neck to rise, guarded.
The shadows are watching you.
Stuttering, your heart falls out of rhythm, sending frightened messages to your brain stem. You're not in the middle of the city, just walking back to the Manor after a quick trip to the nearby store, and it's not pitch black; the last visages of a dying sun paint the sky a dusky red.
But there – right over there, hiding in the dark – something is watching you.
Something...
Okay, so: Batman’s eyes are brown, not blue, but when the Bat that's taken your city by force steps in front of you, you catch a glimpse of those eyes, of that face, of that jaw–
That. Jaw.
You’ve felt that jawline brush against yours in quick instalments. You’ve pictured how it would feel in the palm of your hand, how the stubble would tickle.
"Bruce," you mouth, choked, and you do as bid: you place a hand across his jaw and feel it in your hand.
He leans into your hand, close his eyes, lets you share the weight with him. He brushes his lips against the skin of your palm.
"Wait up for me," he murmurs soft and low, waiting for your nod before dissolving into the dark.
In his wake, you are breathless.
You wait for him in his bedroom. All the time you've been married, nearly a year, and you have never set foot in here. You're not sure how long he'll be – by all accounts the Batman prowls the streets until dusk bleeds clear across the Gotham City skyline – so you carefully strip down to your underwear and on a whim dress in one of Bruce's shirts from the closet. Content, you settle down under the covers.
The Batman comes to you sometime past five in the morning, decked in his full regalia.
Except his eyes... his eyes belong to Bruce Wayne.
Your husband.
You have a million and one questions to ask him, but that's okay. You can wait.
At his acquiescence, you carefully strip him of his vigilante attire, removing the sturdy bulk of Batman to reveal your husband's slight frame instead – no less strong.
Gasping, you trace the outline of the scar closest to you, the one just beneath his left shoulder blade. You feel his body shudder under your finger, feel the goosebumps form on his scarred flesh.
Jesus, he puts his life on the line every day. Beats up criminals, weeds out the corruption of the city, little by little restores a little more faith to the people of Gotham. It's a thankless job, and he is more often than not crucified for it.
But not today.
You make to remove his make-up.
"Close your eyes," you whisper.
Bruce obeys unflinchingly, and the simple act alone astounds you. The trust he has in you was absolute - the finest gift you have ever been given. Your most precious treasure.
Choking back the thick wave of emotion, you gently wipe the bat-black from his eyes.
When you're done, he slowly opens his eyes to meet yours, and you... and you...
And you can't resist anymore.
Bruce Wayne – Batman – kisses like he isn't sure this was what his lips were made for; like it's not something he was made to do, but is resolved to try regardless. That is one thing no one could never fault him for: his resolve.
And as you kiss him back, nipping and sucking as best you can, you wouldn't have him any other way.