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The first bruise appeared when you were sixteen. A deep violet mark on your ribs. No pain. Just a blooming stain under your skin. You had stared at it in the mirror, confused. Then another appeared a week later — shoulder this time. Then thigh. Then wrist. None of them hurt.
At first you thought you bruised easily. Then they started appearing too precisely. Finger-shaped marks. Scrapes. Once a perfectly straight line like someone had been cut by glass.
You discovered the truth at eighteen when a news report mentioned injuries in a vigilante fight involving Batman. That night a bruise bloomed across your collarbone. Right where the broadcast said he'd taken a blow.
You didn’t want to jump to conclusions. But over the years the bruises multiplied. Your soulmate was constantly injured.
Years later you worked late at Wayne Enterprises. The job was new. Good pay. Quiet office. And the bruises had been particularly bad lately. Your arms were speckled with fading yellow marks and fresh purples. Your coworkers joked you were clumsy.
You knew better. Someone out there was getting hurt constantly. Tonight was the worst. Three fresh marks had appeared during the afternoon. Rib. Jaw. Hip. You pressed your fingers to them in the bathroom mirror, frowning.
"Who are you?" you murmured softly.
Because whoever your soulmate was, they lived a life that involved violence.
You left the building around midnight. The street was empty. Wind whispered between buildings. And then a scream echoed around you. Your stomach dropped. Three men had someone cornered in the alley beside the building.
You barely had time to process before one turned and noticed you.
"Well look what wandered in."
Your heart hammered. You stepped back. And then the sky moved. A shadow dropped from above. Hard. Fast. Bone-cracking force. The men scattered as a black shape struck the pavement between you and them. Cape flaring. Armor dark as midnight. Batman.
You had seen him on the news. Never this close. Never like this. The fight was brutal and quick. One thug slammed a crowbar toward him— CRACK. Batman staggered slightly as it struck his side.
And at that exact moment— A bruise bloomed across your ribs. You gasped. The realization hit like lightning. Your soulmate. Your soulmate was—
The last thug ran. Silence returned to the alley. Batman was breathing harder now, one hand pressed subtly to his side. He turned toward you. His voice came out rough, low.
"You should go home."
But you were staring. Wide-eyed. Shaking. "You just got hurt," you whispered.
He froze. A flicker of suspicion.
"Are you injured?" he asked instead.
You shook your head slowly. Then lifted your shirt just enough to show your ribs. The bruise was forming right now. Same spot. Same shape. Batman didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Your voice trembled. "I get bruises where my soulmate gets hurt," you said quietly. "They never hurt. They just appear."
Silence stretched. Heavy. Then his shoulders dropped a fraction. You watched something shift behind the white lenses of his cowl. Something human. "You shouldn't know that," he said.
"But I do."
You stepped closer. "You’re bleeding."
He swayed slightly. Up close you could see it — dark blood leaking beneath the armor seam. You pointed toward the building across the street."My apartment is there."
Batman hesitated. Every instinct he had screamed don't involve civilians. But his side burned. And you were still staring at him like you'd just found something you'd been searching for your whole life.
"Please," you added softly.
"You're the reason I look like a punching bag half the time."
A small huff of breath escaped him. Almost a laugh. Almost. Finally— "Lead the way."
Your apartment was small. Warm. Books everywhere. You helped him sit on the couch and carefully peeled back the armored plating on his side. You tried not to stare. Tried very hard. But still said quietly: "My soulmate is Batman."
Another small pause.
Then he said dryly: "Congratulations."
You snorted. Despite everything. As you cleaned the wound you noticed something else. The bruise on your ribs had fully formed. You touched it lightly.
He noticed. "...Does it hurt?" he asked.
You shook your head. "No."
His voice softened unexpectedly. "Good."
You finished bandaging him. And only then did he reach up slowly and remove the cowl. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Tired blue eyes. You blinked.
Once. Twice. "Oh."
Because sitting on your couch was Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. CEO. Your boss's boss's boss. And apparently— Your soulmate. Bruce watched realization hit your face.
He rubbed a hand over his bruised jaw. "You seem to be taking this surprisingly well."
You leaned back in your chair, staring at him. Then gestured vaguely. "So all those bruises over the years—"
"Yes."
"The broken wrist last winter?"
"...Yes."
You groaned and dropped your face into your hands. "My soulmate is a professional disaster."
Bruce actually laughed. A quiet, rare sound. Then you looked up again. Studying him. Concern returning.
"You know," you said gently, "you could try getting hurt less."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'll add it to the list."
You reached forward and pressed a bandage more firmly into place. He winced slightly. A faint purple mark began forming on your own shoulder.
Bruce noticed. His eyes softened in a way he hadn't expected. Because someone out there had been carrying proof of his battles for years. Without ever knowing why. Without ever complaining. "Thank you," he said quietly.
You shrugged. "Hey." A small smile tugged at your lips. "If you're going to keep bruising me, the least you can do is survive it."
Bruce stared at you a moment. Then nodded. "Deal."