The house tour was as bitter as you anticipated. You followed in tow, his shoulders slumped as he gestured from room to room. You were beginning to get winded going up all the stairs and across the so, so expansive floors. You reached a room with double doors and a heavy lock. He glanced at you from over his shoulder, the first time he'd looked back in fifteen minutes.
"This is my parent's room." He spoke it like he was frozen in time, like any heat from his voice would blow the room from existence. And then you stood in silence. He didn't know if he should leave, and you didn't have anywhere to leave to. Alfred was taking his sweet time, and a part of you wondered if he weren't hiding in the shadowy corners of the house to try and get you two to bond. You hoped Alfred didn't have it out for you that bad.
Bruce didn't look at you as he walked down the wide, open hallway toward his room, but he stopped at the doorway. He didn't want to leave you alone, but he didn't want you to be here. Why was he so worried about being polite? Why did he owe you anything? He'd saved you in that alley and how did you repay him? With blackmail?
Him standing with his back to you in the hallway made you uneasy. You wanted to blame him for how unwelcoming he had been but... again, you'd forced your way in. It was nice enough they weren't throwing you out to take your chances on the flood waters. If it weren't for Alfred, maybe he would.
You stood there like that for a moment. Together in the moment but as far away from each other as possible. The house was disturbingly quiet. You hated that, and hoped you'd be able to sleep. Alfred saved you a minute later, motioning for you to follow him up one more stairwell and to the right. You were going to be sleeping in the room just above Bruce's.
The room was understated compared to the rest of the house. White walls (surprising with the gothic architecture), pale linen sheets, a floral comforter, and a laptop and phone charger sitting atop a particularly plump pillow. He had lit a candle in the corner, likely covering up whatever musk was natural to the space. There was a small lamp on top a side table where Alfred has graciously placed two bottles of water and a granola bar. Alongside it, a note: In case of a midnight snack. Feel free to go to the kitchen however often you please. You felt like you were at a hotel. And... how did Bruce live with someone so charming and remain so hostile?
You opened the laptop and mindlessly typed away on a new document. It turned a bit more into a journal without your conscious intent.
I'm stuck here with asshole Bruce Wayne. Maybe Bruce Wayne isn't an asshole though, maybe I'm the asshole. I blackmailed him. Kinda. I don't know. Alfred is nice. It's weird to call someone so old by their first name, but he's kindly enough. These sheets are kinda rough. I'm so tired. I don't want to sleep. But I do. But I have this paper. Ugh. I hope Bruce doesn't beat me up.
As sleepiness struck your eyes you did a quick YouTube search of how to check for cameras in a hotel room. The next fifteen minutes consisted of moving every single lamp, mirror, book, and looking into every lightbulb with a flashlight. You even tried a Bluetooth finder app, and nothing came up. It calmed you a bit that they weren't used to having guests, so they probably never thought about spying.
After half an hour of tossing and turning you realized you had to go to the restroom. You searched your thoughts for any memory of him mentioning any bathrooms. Jesus, did they even have any? You threw the covers off and padded across the cool marble flooring out into the hallway. There were no sounds aside from the occasional tick of a grandfather clock at the head of the grand staircase. Christ. It was downright terrifying being out here. How did Alfred not go crazy? You understood how Bruce lived here—it was probably why he was so grumpy.
You heard the sound of water coming from somewhere and wandered down to its origin—Bruce's room. Ear pressed to the door you heard the sound of a shower. Did he have the only bathroom in this place? Scurrying away from his room so as not to disrupt the prince in the dead of night, you opened every door on his floor to no avail (aside from his parent's, which you couldn't open even if you wanted to). You thought about running outside to pee in some random bush, then remembered the flooding. The house was so large you had entirely forgotten about it; storms didn't intimidate it.
After what felt like hours wandering around, you could barely hold it. You were gonna have to go back to his room. Ugh. You jogged up the stairs trying to be light on your feet as you thought you'd pee yourself. You lightly knocked, fear freezing you. It was late. You should have just gone to Alfred. Bruce would be pissed. No one was up right now, he could fuck you up in just a second... the door opened and you flinched away from it. You peered over at him standing shirtless in his doorway. He didn't look the least bit tired, which was confusing until you remembered he was fucking Batman. "Um. I need to use your restroom."
He stared at you like you were the strangest thing he'd ever seen and that was the strangest thing he'd ever heard. He gestured across the hall. "What about that one?"
You followed his gaze and saw a room behind one of the staircase pillars, covered in shadows. You wanted to bite back and tell him he hadn't shown you any bathroom during the house tour, but you had to pee SO badly. You rushed there as quickly as possible, trying not to think about how he was probably laughing at you hobbling around in the dark. The bathroom was surprisingly normal and bright, nothing much of note—as if you had any time to dawdle and inspect it in your fervor.
Once back in the bedroom assigned to you, you plucked around on your computer completely unable to sleep. You wrote random sentences about Bruce Wayne, trying to remember his answers as much as possible. You mused over whether or not Dr. Vry would want exact quotes, or if paraphrase would suffice... as you typed along blindly, you realized you would have to use exact quotes or no one would believe you. You went to reach for the water on your bedside and your fingers tripped on the voice recorder you'd forgotten about. The next hour was spent poring over the audio, replaying his snarky comments to you and his biting tone at you calling him Bruce.
"Sorry, I kept hearing my name called."
You woke up with a startle, your eyes going first to the strange ceiling, then the unfamiliar walls, finally to a tall, dark-haired man in the doorway. You wiped away sleep with your palms, slowly becoming aware of the looping interview too loud for comfort. You'd been asleep that long? Embarrassed, you fumbled around your blankets to find it, quickly silencing the offending speaker. Bruce was already turned around and headed out the door, and you threw the first words out of your mouth to try and regain some of your confidence. "I was up late working on my paper," You shouted once more. "I must've fallen asleep with it on."
He stilled briefly in the hall but didn't turn back around, striding down the hall as he said words you barely made out. "I think Alfred's made breakfast, anyway." It wasn't the most welcoming invitation—in fact, you could hardly call it one at all. He acted like a child forced to go wake up an annoying younger sibling, but you hardly cared with the grumbling in your stomach.
Sure enough, as you bounded down the stairs you smelled... breakfast . Eggs, bacon, waffles or pancakes? and hashbrowns, maple syrup, and... fresh baked bread. You peeked around the corner to see Bruce packing scrambled eggs onto his plate, and stood there waiting until he took his seat at the table. You didn't want to interact with him again; you were tired, and the idea of getting into an argument this early bummed you out. Still in yesterday's clothes, with dirty hair and no shoes besides heels, you felt disgraceful as you entered the kitchen. You smiled and thanked Alfred for preparing the food, all but rushing to the pancakes and hashbrowns. As you sat, Bruce stared down at his plate, all but scarfing down the food. He seemed to want to get out of there as quickly as possible, with no intention of making conversation.
You enjoyed your hashbrowns first, the crispy warmth helping you feel a bit more held in the cold, dingy tower. It was when Bruce was starting to get up to place his dish in the sink when you decided to dig into the pancakes. After the first bite you noticed a bit of tang; your brow furrowed and you set down your fork, taking great effort to slowly, yet successfully swallow. You let out a particularly hefty cough, which caught the attention of both men. You started sipping water quickly, trying not to show your desperation. "Are you alright, Miss?" Alfred's soft lulling voice leaned closer to you. You blinked furiously, anxiety causing you to grip the bottom of the chair firmly. Your voice was higher and softer now as your throat swelled. "Is there, anything in the, I can't, peaches," you dove for the water again as it became harder and harder to speak. If you were at home you could have grabbed the Benadryl and this would be done with in about five minutes. Alfred's eyes widened. "Oh my god, I apologize, I used peaches to sweeten the mix." He rose quickly and bolted across the kitchen.
Bruce took a few steps toward you, eyes locked to above your shoulders, scanning your face, lips, throat. "Is something stuck?" He strode over to you and leaned in front of your face, listening to your breathing. It was becoming increasingly labored, but he trusted you shaking your head. You'd spoken, so you weren't choking. "How serious is it, do we, like, is there medicine here we can...?" He'd never seen anyone have an allergic reaction before. He knew people had died from it, but he also heard Alfred casually refer to his 'allergies' in the warmer months. Bruce thought about how they could possibly get you to the hospital, mapping ten different routes in his head trying to think how he could circumvent the flooding. Would the hospitals even be open? They had to be, right? But he'd tried to go out as Batman the night before and the streets had been rushing like a river with floodwater and sewage. He hadn't been able to make it down the last few steps in fear of being swept away.
"Jesus," He heard Alfred mutter. He rushed over clutching a faded bottle of medicine that looked at least a decade old. "I have this old children's Benadryl, we can give this a try." Alfred dosed out something and Bruce stared firmly at you as you anxiously sipped at water, struggling not to panic, feeling like you were breathing through nothing more than a straw. Even more than a droplet of water going down at once blocked your airway for a few seconds. Alfred handed you a small cup with purple-pink liquid, and you sipped it slowly, choking on the first few due to the thick consistency. Only four sips in, well more than half of the dose left, you put your elbows on the table and your head in your hands as your breathing rattled. "I can't breathe I can't breathe," you whined, fearful, hot tears pricking your eyes and streaming down your cold, clammy cheeks. Everything besides panic eluded you as you became hyperaware of your body.
Bruce was frustrated. Just drink the damn liquid. He stared for a few more seconds as your rattled, raspy breaths became increasingly shallow and grabbed your water, filling the rest of the small cup and using his finger to mix the two to make a thinner consistency. A gentle hand under your chin tilted it up and the cup was placed against your lips. "Drink." His voice was firm and encouraging. You shut your eyes, focusing on getting it into your system as quickly as possible as he slowly tipped the medicine in. You felt him tip further and further, and soon you swallowed the last of it.
Alfred couldn't help but stand back and watch him. Bruce's eyes were so trained on you, and his softness was surprising. It was what he'd done half a decade prior, back when Alfred had broken a few ribs falling down the main stairway. It was moments like these where he suspected Batman was more than just filling a role or continuing a legacy. He was suited for it. Compassion came more naturally to Bruce than he let on; he didn't miss the small sigh that escaped him when you'd swallowed the last bit of medicine.
You sat and heaved against the table, struggling to catch your breath as your throat flames began to calm—slowly, much too slowly, but your risk of asphyxiating was rapidly decreasing. As your breathing deepened Alfred let out a large sigh, setting the old bottle on the counter. "Thank god, this is from when you were a boy, Bruce."
Sleepiness started to lull you, further proving the efficacy of the medicine. Bruce didn't look over at Alfred, still focused intently on your face for signs of distress.
You stood up slowly, after about a minute of silence as you grew more confident your throat wasn't swelling anymore. The post-Benadryl grogginess was amplified by your lack of sleep, and you excused yourself up to your room. You walked up a flight, took a right, and barely made it to bed before your eyes shut and you fell into deep, restorative slumber.
Bruce stayed downstairs to help Alfred put away breakfast. Alfred was distraught, muttering to himself self-flagellations about not checking for allergies. He excused himself from the old man's lamenting and said he was going to check on you. He jogged up the marble flights and stopped at the foot of your door with his hand hovered above your doorknob. Was this creepy? He didn't think so, but he didn't really have much experience with how a stranger would feel in this situation; it was only ever him and Alfred. Ultimately he decided it would be worse if you died in your sleep than felt embarrassed, opening your door to an empty room. His brow furrowed.
He padded down the stairs with suspicion that only intensified when he noticed his door was ajar. He lightly pushed it open to see you passed out on your side in the middle of his unmade bed. He bristled at the image, feeling deeply unsettled and vaguely nauseous. He turned to jog down the stairs and find some respite in one of the downstairs offices, but Alfred briefly interrupts as he heads up the stairs. Alfred's gaze looked fleetingly toward Bruce's door, and he saw Y/N lying there. "Bruce." He chastised. "You better not be mad at the poor girl,"
He shook his head and nearly tripped trying to get down the stairs as quickly as possible. Alfred stayed on the same floor as you to check on your breathing every hour. After the third successful check, he wandered down to find Bruce in the basement tinkering on his motorcycle. He spoke as soon as he entered. "I'm serious about what I said, Bruce."
Bruce didn't hesitate. "It's just a bed. Nothing to be angry about." He continued messing with a janky wheel from turning too sharply the week before.
"I just figured with the way you've been acting toward her,"
"Like someone who blackmailed me?" He interrupted Alfred and pushed himself up to stare at the old man. He threw his hands in the air. "She's writing an exposé on me."
"Her? Why?" Alfred was dumbfounded, she'd seemed a bit sarcastic but nonetheless respectful. Why would she want to write a paper for school on Bruce? "Did you do something to her?"
Bruce shot a cold look his way. "Are you serious?" He shook his head and stormed to the elevator, hastily pressing UP. "I'll be in the kitchen cleaning up until she wakes."