Chapter Text
Wayne Manor is, in a word, daunting. Take away for a moment the rich history, the wealth, the stories, the silence. The house itself is simply a beast. Nowhere in Gotham have you ever seen this much land. On the cloudiest of days the grass is a rich green, the sprawling lawn adorned with lush bushes. Tall trees line the gravel drive, leading up to a mansion that there are not enough adjectives in the English language to describe.
To think that you work here, that you’ve lived here for the past 6 months is still somewhat of a dream you haven’t come to accept. When one of your teachers from the orphanage reached out, you thought she was kidding, or at the very least wanted something in return for what she was offering. Sure, you trust her, as much as an orphan trusts anyone, but her words came through the static of your phone as simply unrealistic.
“They’re looking for someone to help Alfred with the house. He’s getting up in years, and Mr. Wayne is typically unavailable or not on the grounds. You’d live there and they’d pay you well. But Alfred requested someone from Wayne Orphanage specifically.”
You had pulled the phone away from your ear, making sure that you were hearing and seeing things correctly before responding.
“But I - I haven’t lived there in years. I left when I was 18. Do they know that? I mean…why did you call me specifically?”
You tried to keep the edge out of your voice, the constant shadow of defensiveness that followed you everywhere. It had been 5 years since you’d left the orphanage. Moving from random houses, couches, apartments and the like. Not really searching for a home, not really searching for anything. Just glad to be free.
“Because I know you.” She replied simply. Your throat seemed to be caught on a lump, unable to produce an immediate answer. So she’d filled in the silence for you, telling you that she’d pass along your number and let you know.
Now here you stand on the back lawn, the old Gothic style home stretching tall behind you. Two black Dobermans are chasing after a ball you’ve thrown, the beginnings of a light rain starting to touch your face. It reminds you of the first night you saw Bruce Wayne, the only night so far in fact.
You couldn’t sleep, though that was nothing of note, despite how luxurious your bedroom was. Even a large king bed with sheets that had a thread count so high you couldn’t even fathom it could not help you fall asleep easier. The nightmares were certainly under control, but not gone. Not completely. So you’d gotten up to get a snack, tiptoeing down the spiral wooden staircase and padding along the dark polished wooden floor. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was massive, dimly lit and very well stocked. The chef, Ms. Blackford, lived in a carriage house on the property, so between her mouthwatering meals, and the pantry full of snacks, you were never lacking for choices. You had been eating a small bowl of ice cream when there was a loud thud behind you. You jumped, making the spoon clang against the bowl as you whipped around, your heart pounding. Only to see…nothing. The rain was beating hard against the windows outside and you thought maybe it was a tree branch that had come loose in the storm, until you saw a bloody hand splayed out just behind the kitchen island. Your hands were shaking so hard you had to clutch them together as you stepped slowly, slowly, slowly around to the other side.
And there, laying on the ground shirtless, was Bruce Wayne. For a moment you were frozen in place, struck not only by what was before you but also by the fact that this was in fact the one and only Bruce Wayne. You’d seen his pictures of course, around the house, online, even a few family albums Alfred had shared. But in person he was…beautiful, even in his current state.
A knife wound, about 2 inches long, punctured the upper left side of his torso, a slow but steady stream of dark blood pouring out. You gasped before finally pushing your body into action and rushing towards the oven to grab every towel in sight.
“Alfred!!” You yelled, racing back to the other side of the island again and pressing the towels hard into his side. In an instant, his hand flew up to grab yours and you screamed. You don’t know why, other than the fact that you thought up until a moment ago that he was unconscious.
“It’s ok,” you said, looking into his dark eyes. It was only now that you noticed that they seemed to be ringed with charcoal. Smudged all over his eyes, almost like…like a mask.
“Alfred!” You shouted again, hoping that wherever he was in the house, he could hear you. Turning back to Mr. Wayne you kept pressure firmly on his abdomen while you scanned the rest of his body. No other wounds from what you could see, that was good. Dark purple, angry looking welts and bruises dotted along his chest and stomach. Not so good. You noted black combat boots and form fitting black utility pants with a belt that held a plethora of weapons, soaked through from the rain.
Interesting.
His broad chest heaved, his grip tightening on yours, and you realized he must have been watching you, watching him.
“Everything’s ok,” you said in a soothing voice, heat rising to your cheeks. “Everything is fine now.”
His head thumped back to the floor and you would have thought that he’d passed out again if it wasn’t for his firm grip, still warm on the top of your hand. You were going to raise your head again to shout for Alfred. Too afraid to let the pressure off this wound, but you weren’t sure how long you could sit here without getting help. But then you heard footsteps, and the British accent you’d come to find so familiar say,
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“He- I uh. He. I was eating ice cream and, and he collapsed. And there’s blood, Alfred do something, please.”
Comforting gray eyes looked back at you, his salt and pepper hair ruffled from sleep. Leave it to Alfred to be totally collected in a situation like this. He stood quickly, and went to the living room to retrieve what you could now tell with the overhead lights on was a black leather doctors bag.
“Alright then. Here’s what I need you to do,” he said, his voice firm but kind.
“I need you to let go, and move those towels and get me some fresh ones from the laundry.”
But you couldn’t move. Your elbows were locked against Bruce’s side, his hand still warm on yours, though his grip had loosened. Oh God, you were about to cry.
“Listen to me now, look at me,” he said, coaxing you back to him, “It will be fine. You’ve done very well. We’re going to take a look at what’s going on, and we’ll get him fixed right up. Alright?”
Your head was nodding, but your arms weren’t moving, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. You looked at Bruce’s face again though for what you didn’t know. His gaze was fixed right on yours, brown eyes somehow letting you know that it would be ok.
So you let go, ran to get towels, and watched as Alfred slowly but surely, stitched him up. It could have been minutes or hours that passed as you stood there until finally Alfred said your name, cutting through the sound of fingers and cold metal tools on open flesh.
“Off to bed then.” He said, not looking up from where he worked.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
So on shaky legs, you walked slowly back towards the stairs you descended down at whatever time that was, pulled yourself into the shower and watched crimson colored water circle down the drain. You didn’t move until it ran clear, for some reason afraid to bring your hands in sight. Then you exited in a daze, towelled off and managed to collapse on top of your duvet until exhaustion eventually won over.
That had only been a week ago, and you still couldn’t fathom how you’d raced down the stairs the next morning to find…nothing. No blood, no stains, no mess. Your ice cream bowl had been cleaned, the ice cream put away. And when Alfred came up to greet you as he always did, a warm cup of tea in hand, you knew that it was clear that whatever had happened the night before, was not to be brought up or mentioned again.
So that’s what you’ve been doing. You play with the dogs, you continue your normal duties and you try to forget the warmth of his hand on top of yours.
Unfortunately tonight you’re starting to feel that itch again. It’s only happened a few times since you’ve been here so far but you’ve been trying very hard to keep it at bay. You don’t do anything when you go out late at night. You carry a knife in one pocket, your phone in the other, and walk with purpose as if you have somewhere very important to be. But the night calls to you, the dank streets, the screeching trains overhead. Gotham comes alive in a different way after the sun has set. Ever since you were in the orphanage, you ached to know what the city looked like after dark. You thought you’d quenched that thirst when you’d been a teenager, but it comes back with a vengeance sometimes. So you wait until the house has fallen asleep, give each of the dogs a treat, and step out of the side door into the cool midnight air.
You don’t know where you’re headed, open to the possibilities, though you have a usual pattern you like to follow. Walk down the gravel drive, turn right and walk under the bridge, then left towards the main road, cut through the trees to remain concealed since it’s typically very empty aside from a car or two, then emerge at the end of the road, head right and walk right into the heart of the city. Steam rises from the sewer grates in the ground, making your skin clammy despite the cool air. A man near a closed down deli holds an empty soup can in his gnarled shaking hands. You don’t know if he wants money or food, but you aren’t going to stop to find out. Street lights flicker as you head down the street, a car zipping by blasting music, it’s driver shouting at you from the rolled down window. Your boots step through puddles and around garbage as you continue forward. You can’t explain it but you can feel your blood fizz when your body is engulfed in darkness. At night anyone can be what they want to be, avoidant of the light of day. Sure during the day you're an orphan who has finally caught a break, working for the wealthiest man in Gotham, but at night? You can be whatever your heart desires. And even better? There are no nightmares if you don’t have to sleep. You climb rickety metal steps up to one of the train platforms, gum sticking to your shoes as you stand and wait. It’s stale up here, humid from the friction of rail wheels on old rusted tracks. You’re about to pull your phone out of your back pocket but then a prickle of awareness bites at you and you’ve lived in Gotham long enough to know that you need to turn and leave. Now.
But there are two men coming from the bottom of the stairs, and as you look down the platform there are another two coming from that direction as well.
Stupid stupid stupid!
The other side is blocked off with a maintenance area, which is locked but more importantly, a dead end. Instinctively you touch the switchblade you tucked in your pocket, a light layer of sweat gathering underneath your shirt. Maybe this will teach you to stay your ass home. The men get closer forming a triangle-like formation in front of you, moving slowly like a trained pack about to take down a very easy kill.
“A pretty little thing isn’t she?” One of them snarls, spitting grotesquely off to his left.
“Bet she’s nice and soft. Sure would be lovely on a cold night like tonight.” Another says, rubbing hands covered in grime together. One of them steps forward and you pull the blade from your back pocket, flipping it open.
They laugh, holding their hands up in mock fear, but you grip the handle tightly. You might not make it out of here unscathed but you will make it out of this. You will.
Dirty hands lunges forward but you slice downwards quickly, catching his forearm perfectly and he cries out, stumbling back a little and grabbing his arm with his free hand. Here’s to hoping that that gets infected.
“Bitch!” he shouts as another moves forward. You widen your stance as he advances only suddenly, you're moving backwards? You can’t explain it but you're being pulled into the darkness and now you can’t see anything. What are you looking at right now? It’s almost as if the darkness has come alive, moving swiftly from one man to the other at a speed your eyes are having trouble adjusting to. You hear grunts, punching and kicking and feet trying to make contact with the surface to…run away? In a flash of bright light from a train going by on the opposite track, you see a whip of a jet black cape, two small pointed ears, the quick movement of bodies being flipped like coins.
You spot black combat boots.
Your head is swimming, having trouble understanding what the hell is happening right now. It couldn’t be him…could it?
And who do you mean by him? Mr. Wayne? Batman? Both?
Your back finally connects with the wall and you watch in utter shock as the men stumble and retreat back from the directions they came from. He stands there, breathing heavily, fists clenched tightly at his side, before he turns slowly and strides towards you. If you could melt into this wall, you’re certain you would do it. His heavy footfalls stop in front of you and you’re not sure exactly what to do now. You’ve heard the stories of course, but is a simple thank you supposed to suffice?
“You shouldn’t be up here.” His voice is a low quiet rumble, barely audible from the roaring in your own ears.
“I - I know.” You know? Yeah it really looks like it, genius.
He absolutely towers over you so when he tilts his head to look down at you, you can tell you have his full attention. You can’t really make out anything up here, his body covering what little light there is to begin with, but you can just tell.
“It’s dangerous.” He states. He doesn’t say it like you're an idiot, which would have been deserved, but with a hint of something else in his voice. Fear? Concern?
You really need to get some sleep.
You open your mouth to say something but your voice has escaped you. Instead a cool gloved hand meets the bottom of your chin, tipping your face slowly up towards his masked one. You can’t be sure but you feel like he’s searching your eyes, almost to make sure that your silence is due to being dumbfounded as opposed to injured. Then his hand releases your face and closes around your hand instead. There’s a split second right before he lets go that you feel a bolt of awareness zip through your arm, before you realize he’s pulling the blade from your tight grasp.
“Come on,” he says before turning towards the steps.
“Oh I - I have to get back um,” you try to formulate something along the lines of a denial but he keeps walking, and this doesn’t seem like the type of thing you’re supposed to turn down. So you make your feet move forward and follow.