Chapter Text
Bruce was going to get himself killed one of these days.
It was only a matter of time.
So self-sacrificing, and to what end?
Working as an emergency department nurse practitioner had its perks. Your schedule matches Bruce’s (you always were partial to the overnight shift). It was how you met him, actually. After the flood last year, you helped him triage victims. It warmed your heart, really, to see the former vigilante start to become a beacon of hope. Someone the people could believe in and trust and cling to when it felt like the city and its villains were going to overwhelm them.
You thanked him personally for his work and the rest was history. Two lonely people drawn together by a common goal of wanting to help, to heal, to push away at hurt in your own lives. He let you in, six months later. Mask off and all.
Loneliness will do that to you. You know he just separated from someone he was close to. Selina saved him before the flood, before he was able to save everybody else. She was there. She meant something to him.
But maybe you meant more. You knew what Gotham meant to him more than she could understand. His crusade was yours, as well. All the survivors he saved from the immediate dangers of the city went to you to get medically cleared and psychiatrically evaluated. You worked together, separate but in tandem. United under a common goal.
Still, even with combative patients and the threats of violence associated with living in Gotham, he was far worse off than you. You can’t even count the number of times he became your last patient of the night, walking into the Wayne Tower to see him cut and bruised and shaken as the light started to bleed through the windows. So many scars from the city. So many threads pulled through his skin by your hands.
You’re on the field again tonight. You’ve been volunteering for it more recently, always willing to head out with the ambulances. It was a four car pileup on the highway, something the police think was a high-speed chase. One man is unresponsive as you help him out of the car with a paramedic, and you start chest compressions and yell for the AED.
You don’t know what happens next, because you’re knocked off your knees to the ground by a solid wall of muscle. Struggling to breathe, you gasp, a sharp pain running through your side to your back, like the wind was knocked out of you. The weight lifts off you quickly but you still can’t take a full breath in. You feel grass and gravel beneath your skin, embedding in your cheek and hands as you try to get up. Coughing, you wince at the discomfort and look around.
Bruce. Bruce. Bruce! What the fuck was he doing?
You should have known it was him.
The man in the first car, the least injured of the four, is attacking him, now, gun thrown to the side on the grass and armed only with a knife. You can’t help but admire the way he works, sometimes, so efficient and strong yet almost graceful at times, his cape flowing with him as he moves. But Bruce is only human. You wish one day he’d come to terms with that and stop pushing himself so hard. He bleeds red just like everybody else.
Just because you think you’re a god doesn’t make you one.
If there was one thing you could change about your lover, it would be that.
You can’t get up, you can’t feel your legs and your lungs still ache from when he pushed you off the man you were trying to save. Love with brutal force. An ache more than physical.
You scream when the knife lodges in Bruce’s arm, but it’s weak, and you’re gasping for air again. Christ, he just had to incapacitate you at this moment, didn’t he? You feel like you’ll never be able to breathe normally again.
“Are you okay?” One of the cops asks you.
“Jesus Christ, save him,” you groan out. “Don’t just fucking stand there.”
Incompetent was one way to describe the good old Gotham PD. The turnover rate was terrible, new officers were trained extremely quickly, and the force was still arguing over who was in with Falcone and who wasn’t more than they were actually working. So you watch in disbelief as the cop in question gets pushed by the man attacking Bruce and tazes Bruce instead. It’s almost funny. Except it’s not, really.
Bruce falls to the ground. Painstakingly human. Fallible just like the cop, just like you, just like everybody else.
With Batman out of the way, the cop successfully tazes his actual target, and with his knife still lodged in Bruce’s arm, he’s not really much of a threat anymore as it is. You look over at the man you were trying to save earlier and see that one of your paramedics took over your original task and he’s starting to come to. Good. At least one life was saved tonight. The other two men are on gurneys, ready for transport back to the hospital via ambulance. Drops are found in the back of the car one of the cops searched without a warrant. Jesus Christ. Gotham police. But at least it explains the reason for all this.
You look at Bruce, still on the ground, and you force yourself to crawl over to him. Jesus Christ, you think, he really went overkill and got both of you knocked down for the count. You run through your checklist quickly. Breathing? Yes. Pulse? Yes. Responsive? No. “Hey. Hey. Hey,” you repeat, but nothing. His head hit the pavement. Concussion likely, you think. Like anyone else. Great. Another argument about how he shouldn’t go back out tomorrow night, all your medical reasonings he would ignore. Right. Like you hadn’t been working in emergency departments your entire adult life. He knew more than you. Exactly.
But you love him anyway. You do.
You lift his eyelids, shining your penlight in his eyes, noting a thankfully normal response. He’d wake up once you started your more painful work, and judging from the blood seeping from his arm you needed to start quicker than you’d want to.
“I need a light!” you yell, and a different cop runs over with his flashlight, shining it over Bruce’s bloody arm, knife still pierced through his suit. You cut the fabric open with your utility scissors, smirking a little about how you know he’ll scold you later. Another suit he had to have Alfred fix. Oh well.
It’s seeping blood, dark red over the black of his suit, spilling over the milky whiteness of his skin, now. The most exposed he’s been as the bat. Gently, you pull the knife from his skin, and he starts to groan in pain in response. Good sign. He’d be awake soon.
Blood starts to gush from the wound and you press gauze from your med kit over it. “I need you to hold that there. You think you can do that?” you ask the cop.
“Jesus, lady, you’re always giving us attitude,” he grumbles.
“Maybe if you did your fucking job you wouldn’t need the Batman,” you snap back. “Okay? Hold the gauze and the light unless it takes two cops to do that. Christ. God gave you two hands, didn’t he?”
“I never said I couldn’t do it,” he mutters. “Bitch.”
You laugh derisively. “I’ll be telling Commissioner Gordon about your disrespect. Do what I said. Put a glove on first,” you say, handing him a glove from your bag.
Donning two gloves yourself, you start wiping his skin with alcohol. Like clockwork, done a thousand times, you suture his skin back together, instructing the cop to push the gauze further down as you get farther along the length of the gaping wound. Once you’re halfway through, sweat on your brow from concentration, you feel him start to stir underneath you and pull away, lest he stick you or the cop with the needle. You’re straddling his thigh as tightly as you can between yours, and under different circumstances, this would lead to something else and you let yourself daydream about it for a second. But all you want is for him to wake up and remember who he is right now. You want him to be okay. You want him to be safe. You want him to stop scaring you half to death and shoving you out of danger’s way just to put himself on the front lines.
Some wishes just don’t come true.
He opens his eyes halfway, trying to get up but you push him back down. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
Murmuring your name lowly, he lets you take control. He must really be hurt.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
Opening his eyes fully, now, you feel him take you in, the black pomade around them making his eyes seem electric blue, a stark contrast. His lips part, and you look for a moment, losing your breath, for a different reason this time, but he’s always, always the cause. You want to kiss him. He wants to kiss you, you know he does, you want to ask him if he’s okay and scold him like a nagging girlfriend. But you can’t. Gotham knows you as Bruce Wayne’s lover. Neither of you can risk being too familiar with each other when the mask is on. Strictly business. Just another patient, just another saved.
“You have to let me finish the stitches.”
“It… hurts,” he gasps out, and you’re surprised. He’s never one to vulnerable, especially not in the suit with a cop hanging over him. But you can feel it, even if he won’t verbalize it. It’s all been getting to him more than usual.
“I know,” you say. “You’ll bleed out if I don’t. I’m almost done.”
He nods, closing his eyes again. You sigh, your chest still aching, for two reasons, now. You hate him. You love him. You wish he was different. You hope he’ll never change. You can’t cry. This is work. Strictly clinical.
“You really fucking threw me,” you whisper, threading his skin, closing the gap. Mending. Putting back together what was never whole.
“Had to. You would’ve been hit,” he gasps out, shaky breaths leaving his mouth.
“Yeah? Well, it still hurts for me to breathe. I’m going to have bruises for weeks.”
“I saved you,” he says, self-righteous anger seeping into his tone.
“Mm. What am I doing right now?” you say.
There’s a faint smile on his lips that you can just make out as you glance at his face, the light from the flashlight making it just visible. Bastard.
You hate him. You love him.
The noises he makes in response to your ministrations let you feel the pain vicariously, and you wonder just how bad it hurts to get this done without any anesthetic. Maybe it would’ve been more humane to get him to the hospital first, but you weren’t sure how well you could walk as it was and there would be no way in hell he’d let you check him in as a patient (you tried before).
He has a pain threshold just like everybody else. He’s just a man.
Finally, you’re done. It looks shitty and like someone who never stepped foot in a hospital in their life did it, but it’s done and he’s not bleeding so it’s good enough in your book. You send the cop away with a disgruntled goodbye.
“How’s your head?” you ask him, still straddling his thigh.
“Hurts.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Don’t know. Arm hurts too.”
“Good. Feel like you’re going to throw up?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No. I really don’t feel good.”
“Jesus. You definitely have a concussion. You’re not going out tomorrow night,” you whisper.
“Whatever you say,” he mutters.
“I’d ask if you hit your head, but…” You say and smirk. “You’re really not arguing with me?”
“No. I told you I feel like shit,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Get off me. Don’t want to puke on you. Wouldn’t really be sexy of me, would it?”
“Too bad you destroyed my ability to ever stand again.”
“Please. I barely touched you.”
You would laugh, but it hurts too much, so you settle for scoffing at him. “Do you realize how strong you are? You shoved all your weight into me.”
“Adrenaline. He had a gun. Instinct. He wanted to hurt the man you were saving.”
“Right. Figured that much,” you mutter, getting off his thigh, on all fours now, feeling like a fucking idiot as you stand on weak legs. Coughing against the tightness in your chest, you watch Bruce lean over to throw up on the grass.
“You know, you’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen, right?” you snicker.
“Shut up,” he groans. “I’m going to kill that cop.”
“You should. He’s a fucking idiot.”
“Hey, are we taking him in, too?” One of your paramedics, Angela, asks you, causing you to jump a little. You really hope she didn’t hear any of your conversation.
“No,” Bruce says firmly. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine—“
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
“I’ll take him home, patch him up there,” you tell her. “Good job. You can head back with Ryan. Leave me a car, though.”
“Sure thing, boss,” she chirps. “Be careful though. Wouldn’t want Bruce to get jealous.”
You smirk at Bruce himself. “You know, I think he’ll understand.”
She leaves, and it’s just you and Bruce and now a towing company and a cop on the side of the highway. Cleared out. Adrenaline levels and heart rates coming down.
“Can you get up?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he grunts.
"Don't push yourself, because if you fall on me I'm not going to make it," you scold.
"I'm not staying here all night. I can make it to the car," he says, wincing as he sits up. "I can't believe this is the night that takes me out. Christ. Everything's fucking spinning."
"Mm. No screens. No caffeine. Lots of water. No sleeping. No--"
"I love you, you know that, right?" he says, cutting you off.
"Jesus. You really did fall on your head, huh?" you say, but you smile at him. "I love you, too. But I'd love you more if you actually did what I said this time. You're not in good shape. At all."
"I know."
"Come on. Sooner we get this over with sooner you can lie down at home. Sound good?"
"Yeah," he nods, and you help him up to standing, shuffling backward as he keels over and dry heaves.
"Are you good?"
"No. But I don't think I'm going to throw up again," he responds.
You narrow your eyes at him. "Are you sure? Because this would be the ideal place."
"Unfortunately for you, I can't vomit on cue. Let's go," he says.
You nod in agreement, letting him wrap his arm around you for stability. You wonder what you look like to the cop as you walk by him, a hot mess in scrubs and a man in a tattered bat suit. Most Unstable Couple of the Year Award in the bag, certainly. It's an awkward shuffle, and it takes a hell of a lot longer than it would if both of you weren't incapacitated, but you manage. You've always managed. It's the only option. Heal or stay damaged.
You get him into the passenger side, somehow, you don't know, and you thank your lucky stars, or God, or whoever, that he didn't lose consciousness on the way. Sometimes, even after all this time in the medical field, the human body never ceased to amaze you. The brain jostled in the skull, a coup-contrecoup force, and you were left with these effects in return. The body was always teaching its owner not to fuck with it.
Bruce never listened.
Maybe the hit did him good, though, and gave him some perspective that this was going to really incapacitate him someday, maybe to an extent he won't be able to come back from. This humbled him, you hope. Not that he was arrogant, but that he was so determined to survive and push himself in these impossible situations. Maybe it would take a very plausible situation like this one to ground him. He falls. He hits his head. He throws up. He gets back up, but he's down for the count for a few days. Just like everybody else.
You have a feeling that he'll be walking out the door tomorrow night anyway and it breaks your heart a little as you smile at him, nudging his arm to prevent him from falling asleep.
You hate him. You love him.
You pull into the driveway at his house and ask for Alfred's help. No way you're walking with his dead weight again, especially not with him looking more somnolent by the minute. The two of you walk with him in between, his slurred protests ("I'm not immobile yet") ignored.
You get him in a chair in his bedroom, taking out your blood pressure cuff and oxygen saturation monitor, making sure his vitals were stable. Blood pressure was a little higher than you liked. But he was going to be okay.
Running your hands through his hair, you feel for any blood, any depressions in his skull. But no. He's okay. Just a bad concussion.
"Are you done playing nurse? Can I kiss you, yet?" he asks.
You don't answer him verbally, you just press your mouth to his, your hands still tangled in his sweaty hair. You both could use a shower but there's no way you could manage getting him in there right now.
"I'm not fucking 'playing nurse'," you tell him, looking him firmly in the eye. "You aren't good right now. And you're not going to do this shit to me anymore. You're going to listen to me. And not just because you don't feel good tonight. You're going to listen to me tomorrow, too, even if you feel better. I'm not... I'm not doing this anymore."
"You worry too much," he says softly.
"Because I love you, Bruce. And if you go out tomorrow... you're not going to come back in good shape," you say, lip trembling. "Trust me on that. At least. As shitty as you feel today... you need to rest, Bruce. Take time off. You can't keep doing this like this--"
He leans up and kisses you. "Okay. Okay. I'll stay home tomorrow. I will."
"Are you just saying that to appease me?" you ask.
"No. I'll listen this time. But you do worry too much."
"You can die, too, you know," you say, getting off his lap, but he grasps your wrist before you can walk away.
"I know. But I'm not afraid of--"
"Don't fucking give me that, Bruce," you snap at him. "Everyone's afraid of dying. And if you're telling me you're not... what the fuck am I to you then?"
You hate getting like this, so irrationally emotional. It was why you hated being in a relationship in the first place, why you were hesitant to let him in, too.
"I care about you. I love you."
"Fine. Then put your money where your mouth is. Take the time off and rest. Listen to me every time. I went to school for this. You don't know more than me."
"I know. I'm sorry I scared you," he says, and he does sound apologetic.
"You didn't scare me. You just break my heart every time you walk out the door when I know you aren't alright. If you're going to listen to me any time, though... make it this one."
"I already said I would stay."
"Good. You know, if this were reversed..."
He chuckles, giving you a lopsided, almost boyish smirk. "Yeah. You wouldn't be leaving my bed for a week."
You roll your eyes at him. "I'm putting my foot down."
"Good. I like you bossing me around," he says, grinning.
"Really? I should've been this firm before."
"That's what I'm telling you."
"Asshole," you scoff. "Gotham isn't worth dying for. It needs you alive."
"Yeah. Yeah. I got it."
"I need you alive," you say, looking back at him, feeling weak in the knees, and the ache in your lungs subsided so now you know it's just him.
"Yeah," he says, and you swear you see tears forming in his eyes before he blinks them back.
You help him get changed out of the suit, help him into more comfortable clothing, help him wash the makeup off his face, and you change into one of his shirts.
"I love you," he whispers, hugging you into his chest.
"Good. Because you're going to be stuck with me for a while."
You love him.