You woke up feeling sweaty and disoriented, peeling your cheek off the slobbery sheet. The room was so dark and you fell back against a pillow. Is this my apartment? Why are the lights off? You wondered aloud why you felt so bad. Your head pounded and your throat felt sore... you started and bolted up out of bed. You looked around, frantic, and noticed this wasn't your room, this wasn't even your building; this was Bruce Wayne's fucking room. "Fuck, fuck," you peeked outside the slightly open door and saw no one standing in the small sliver of the hallway you could see. You psyched yourself up for leaving, wondering why the hell you had ended up in here. Your mind was fuzzy, memories blurred, and you couldn't think while covered in his smell. You didn't even have your phone on you, what the hell had happened?

Padding out the door you tried rushing to the stairs but noticed Bruce stepping down them. You stopped in your tracks, noticing how... sweaty he looked. You narrowed your eyes at him and took a step back as you both stared at each other. You squeezed your eyes shut and spit out the words swirling in your mind. "Did we, um,"

"What?"

"I woke up in your bed,"

"Do you not remember?"

Your mouth went dry and you felt a white hot rod of anxiety rush through you. "Oh fuck," You threw your hands over your face and shook your head, shocked. He must have drugged you, that was why you didn't remember! He had drugged you and then used you, he'd gotten revenge, finally, and—

"What? You had an allergic reaction." His incredulous tone reverberated off the stairs. "Alfred put peaches in the food. You took some allergy meds and then went up to my room and crashed."

"So we,"

"Why would we?"

You stood there like that as you struggled to trust him. He had known about the peach allergy, which he wouldn't have known unless you'd had a reaction. Or he pulled your hospital records. But your throat hurt like it did after a reaction; you didn't remember much and were exhausted, which was customary for taking Benadryl. You resigned to trusting him and vowed to verify it with Alfred later; right now, you needed to get back to your room.

You were halfway up the stairs before you remembered you'd drooled all over his sheets, and he'd walk into a massive wet spot. Oh god. What if he thought it was pee? You hurried down the stairs and to his doorway. He turned and glared at you. "What?"

"I'm uh, that's drool. Not pee." You felt yourself blush with embarrassment. He looked from you to his bed and then to the floor. He mumbled something about it being fine, and getting new sheets, but you didn't stick around. Unable to tolerate the embarrassment you rushed back to your room and slammed the door shut. You stayed there panting a few beats before settling on the edge of your bed. Opening your phone made your mouth do the same. It was late afternoon now, and you had to turn the paper in by the next morning.

You nearly tossed your phone to the other side of the bed until you noticed three missed calls from your father. Worried, you furiously tried to call back until the BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP of the 'disconnected' tone threatened to send you into psychosis. Then, a text popped up from your dad:

Hi hunny. Your mother and I had to cancel our flight to graduation. We tried to call you but we heard Gotham was flooding. Are you safe?

You texted back.

Yes, I'm safe. Why did you cancel?

Your heart raced as you saw the text bubbles pop up and fall back again. Up and back. Up and back. What on earth was he trying to say? You shut your laptop and stared at the bubble until it paused, and a longer message was sent.

We didn't want to text you this, but it's good you know as soon as possible. Your mother's scan came back today and her cancer is back. We need to save as much money as we can for her chemo copayments. We're sorry hunny.

Before tears could overflow you rushed words out onto the phone.

How bad is it this time? And that's okay. I didn't want to walk really anyway. I'll get a flight back home ASAP.

More waiting, and more tears welling up in your eyes. You crossed your legs and rocked back and forth in bed to try and soothe yourself but to no avail. About a minute later a text came through from him.

Worse than last time. They're doing a lottery for a new clinical trial and your mother is very interested in it. In the meantime, her first chemo appointment is tomorrow afternoon.

You thanked your dad for letting you know, turned your phone off, and began to sob. Your mother had bladder cancer, and if it was worse than last time... you shuddered at the thought, your bones rattling. She'd had localized cancer—if it was worse, how much worse was it? Your breathing became labored and fast, and before you knew it you were dry-heaving off the edge of the bed, your knuckles white as they gripped and tore at the comforter. A gentle knock interrupted your cries and you quickly wiped your face with your sleeve. It was Alfred.

"Miss Y/N? I thought I heard tears." The gentleness in his voice made you stifle more sobs and you trembled as you sat back in bed, putting your head in your hands. He stood there while you quietly sobbed for another moment before he walked over and crouched down beside you. "I can talk to Bruce if he said anything to upset you. He hasn't been welcoming. I'm sorry." You shook your head so fast you saw stars. "No, no," you wiped your face again with your sleeve. "Uh," Your voice shook which nearly sent you over the edge again. What if she can't handle chemo? It was so hard on her last time. They almost sold the house. How am I going to afford to help them? At least I don't have debt. Is she okay? I wonder how she's feeling. Your mind reeled, running in every which direction. What if she dies? What if she dies? What if I spent some of the last days of hers holed up in this fucking prison cell? You looked to see Alfred peering worriedly and the truth spilled out of you. For the next ten minutes, he proved a diligent, empathic listener as you explained the text you'd just received. You explained how hard it was to see your mother like that, and how worried you were. It ended with a question of when the storm might possibly let up so you could be taken back to your apartment. Alfred explained they were expecting to unclog the city drains in the early hours of the morning, and he could drive you back home at that point.

"Would you like to work in my study with me this evening? I have a lovely desk that hasn't had enough attention lately." You gravitated to his warmth in the cold house and agreed, following him with his laptop in tow right across the hall. His office was just as dark and gothic as the rest of the house, but with some trinkets and cleverly placed paintings to bring in a sense of light. You made yourself comfortable in the firm cushion of a squeaky chair, the weighty desk intimidating past what you thought was Alfred's style. He arrived a few minutes later with some snacks for the both of you, just as you were starting to draw up an outline. He immediately asked a question which nearly had you rolling your eyes and thinking about going back to your room.

"So." He sat the plates between the both of you, gesturing for you to take as you pleased. He sat in an armchair across the room, next to a brightly rolling fireplace. "What's this between you and Master Wayne?"

You stiffened at the question, knowing you were in the wrong. If you were honest, would your safety be jeopardized? If you were dishonest, would he pick up on that and pester you further? You absently typed away on the keyboard for a moment, deep in thought. With a squinted expression you looked up. "I'm writing a paper on him. Or, I was." You looked at the page which had DAD-DRAFT in centered bold. An idea had popped into your mind the moment Alfred had left, after waking up in Bruce's bed and feeling the weight of your burdensome presence. You'd decided to pretend to have interviewed your dad about his journey around the US with Bon Jovi—he'd told you the story a thousand times, which would prove easy enough to zone out with and bust out a paper in one night. Your dad would be thrilled to know you were sharing with another soul his brief time spent as a groupie.

Alfred matched your expression. "Was? You're no longer writing the exposé on him?"

Surprise caught you like a firecracker exploding. Was this a trap? Had he and Bruce talked about it, and now you were sitting eating poisoned food? He followed your worried stare at the plate in front of you and sighed. "Miss. I'm not going to poison you." Ugh. He was as perceptive as his employer. Your eyes cast downward with a tinge of shame. Didn't even really know the poor guy but you felt bad about hurting his feelings. Maybe it was because he was old and had kind eyes. "I uh," You stammered your way through a rough detail of the past week. Of meeting Batman in the alley, of trying to interview him, of realizing at the event from just his eyes that it was him, and how annoying Bruce was. You made sure to emphasize that point in the retelling to soften the impact of blatantly blackmailing the guy. Alfred sat for a moment with a soft nod of his head, staring off into space. You rushed out the next sentence. "But I'm not going to actually do it on him, though. It doesn't feel right." Your heartbeat thundered, churning out the rest of your words as anxious promises, everything spilling out all at once as if you were at confession kneeling before a priest. "I only said it because I was angry, I know it's wrong, I know he helps people, I promise I won't ever tell anyone, that would put so many people's lives in jeopardy,"

"Hey, hey," Alfred rose and walked to the side of his desk where you sat with your head in your hands. You didn't want to look at him. You didn't want to know if he believed you or not. It didn't matter. As much of a front as you had put up the last day and a half, you didn't truly believe any of it. Alfred spoke and you only caught the edges of his sentences. "I believe you", "don't worry" were among the snagging phrases that lulled you back to the moment. Your lip was trembling in unison with the tears about to spill over your lash line when you looked up at him. He took a few short steps and opened his arms for a hug which you dove into. This time you were tuned into every word he spoke, like you were a little kid again. "Don't you worry about it, Miss." His hug was firm and assuring. "You did what you thought you needed to do in a scary moment. That secret of his was all you had. He's Bruce Wayne! The Batman! If I hadn't raised him from such a young age I might have been intimidated by him as well."

You moved out of the hug to wipe your eyes on your arm. His words were calming you, helping you realize he believed what you were saying and it wasn't so wrong. You had been terrified of what he might do. You had been scared, jumpy, intimidated. And he had been intimidating. You both transitioned into your individual activities; Alfred reading some supremely old-looking book (which you'd joked about looking like a first-edition Bible), you typing furiously to fill the many empty pages before you. For the next few hours it was much the same, a little snacking, a little chit-chat. You wanted to ask him more questions about Bruce, about why he was the way he was, and about why Alfred stuck around. You kicked yourself for not writing about this topic earlier, for not having the time to fulfill your curiosities and academics. Around ten in the evening Alfred yawned and checked his watch. The sound startled you, deep into the tenth page of your paper. As you were brought back to the present moment you were reminded of your mom, of your dirty clothes, of being stuck in a house in a city you hated; it was late, and life was getting to you. Sleepy Alfred, however, was less perceptive and didn't comment on it. He rose from his chair and gestured to his laptop. "You can stay in here and work as long as you need. I, however, am going to take advantage of quite possibly the one night all year that Batman can't make an appearance and go to sleep."

You nodded and thanked him, wishing you could pick his brain but resolved to finishing your last assignment. Before he left the room, however, you remembered to ask him about being in Bruce's room. "Alfred? About earlier,"

Alfred looked down and shook his head. "Oh Miss, I'm so sorry. I didn't know whether to bring it up. Are you feeling any better?"

So it had been true, what Bruce had said? "No it's okay, peaches are delicious. You couldn't have known." You paused and drew in a breath. "When I woke up I didn't remember what happened. Mr. Wayne had to tell me what happened." It felt weird to use his first name in the presence of Alfred, who most notably referred to him in only the fanciest of ways. A grin slipped onto his face, and you could've sworn his eyes sparkled. "Did Master Wayne also tell you how worried he was?"

The laptop, which you were fiddling with, clunked back onto the table with a loud SNAP. "Worried? Him?" He let out a soft chuckle in response. "He doesn't like to show it, but compassion comes easily to him. I wish he'd embrace his sensitivities more but, alas." He smiled and stood in the hallway for a beat. "Have a good night, Miss Y/N."

You sat for a moment. Him, concerned? About you? About anything other than himself? Perhaps Alfred was being his typical kindred self, painting Bruce in the most positive light. Maybe he glanced over at you while you choked and Alfred interpreted it as a gesture of kindness.

It took a few minutes to orient back to your paper, but you gave yourself a pep talk. As soon as this is turned in, that's it. Graduation. Last assignment. That's all. Focus. The next few hours, then, were spent slamming out your paper without so much as a minute's break. You even closed your eyes and let your fingers do all the work, hearing your dad's dramatic retelling like a script. And then a reporter stopped me. They thought I was a new member of the band we were hanging out so much! All because I went to that one concert. I didn't even care about going! But the tickets were so expensive and my sister didn't want to let them go to waste. Man, the trouble we used to get into! If you weren't so buzzed from your half-day nap earlier you might have fallen asleep.

By four in the morning, you'd just hit the page minimum and began formatting; relief poured over you, drenching you in euphoria just as you heard a heavy thud come from the entryway. Alfred was in his room nearby, but you heard the soft lullaby of classical music wafting out from under his door. He was fast asleep, but he was your best bet for safety. You slunk to the doorway and paused, listening as footsteps thudded and the sound of groans filled the house. Your brow furrowed when the man called out: "Alfred," It was Bruce.

You crept out to the stairwell to look over at the foyer, shocked to see him in his full suit, struggling to get his cowl off. "Alfred, I need stitches," His breathing was ragged and he fell against the wooden newel to the right of the first stair. "Alfred,"

It was so weird seeing him this way. You hadn't seen him yet in the suit knowing his identity. Timid. You felt timid. Even in the massive hallway he was filling the space—larger than life. You went to knock on Alfred's door but Bruce noticed you. "Is Alfred up?" His tone quickly steadied and you turned to see him standing mostly upright, holding in a wince. "Never mind, don't wake him. I'm good."

You couldn't decide whether to laugh or scoff. He was being so stubborn it staved off the sense of impending doom. "Bullshit." You countered. Even from far below you could see him glowering at you. He repeated himself. "I said I'm fine."

You crossed your arms and stared him down. Was he really trying to act all tough? Now that he was in the presence of a woman? Was he really that insecure? You decided to test him, and gestured up the stairs. "If you're fine then walk up the stairs." It would be nice to watch him eat his words.

"I don't need to do anything," he hissed back at you, pain breaking through his crafted stoicism.

"If you don't walk up them yourself I'm getting Alfred."

His glare intensified to intimidating ferocity, and you bit back the anxiety that lurched in your stomach. This is why everyone left him alone. He was good at getting people to stay away, even if it was out of fear. He took one step up on his left leg and winced terribly—you almost winced in sympathy as he struggled up the next two steps before thudding onto his hands and knees. Instinctually you walked down to help, but he snapped at you. "I don't need your help." He tried to rise again but thudded hard against the stairs. You gave him a once-over and noticed he left a trail of blood from the door to his left leg. His face was looking a bit pale and sweaty. You anxiously tucked your hair behind your ears and walked down to Bruce, too busy groaning in pain to see you. When he noticed your shoes in his periphery, he balked. "I don't need help,"

"I swear to god it's me or Alfred."

"Fine." He grumbled, shifting to his back and elevating his leg on a bottom stair. He gestured with his head to a closet by the door. "There's a medical kit in that closet. I need it."

You hopped down the stairs, grateful to be using your legs again after spending the last ten hours stuck to a desk chair writing twenty pages of Dad Talk. You clung to the side rail as you got closer to the bottom stairs, noticing piles of water and mud he'd tracked in. You avoided each other's gaze as you bolted past him to the entryway closet. Settled plainly on a center rack was a bright red duffel with white lettering: FIRST AID. You turned and shut the closet door just as Bruce peeled off his boot to reveal a massive slice in his calf. The bag nearly fell out of your hands with a gasp. "Oh my god,"

"Wound spray. Now." He grit his teeth and you walked over with the spray can in hand, almost tripping. It looked like it was something from the battlefield in the late 1800s, rusted like it too. Was it even safe to use? "Spray it. Six inches away."

"Are you sure—"

"Just do it."

You pressed hard on the nozzle and a bunch of clear liquid spurted out, causing an eruption of pain from Bruce. "Fuck," he panted, throwing his head back. You winced as he clutched his knee right above the gash. "Jesus christ,"

Your limbs were tingling with adrenaline. That looked serious. "What now?"

"Wound sealer. Give it to me." You rifled through the haphazard medical bag until you saw WOUND SEALER in a plain white tube. He nodded for him to take it, and you handed it over. "Press my wound together."

"What? How do I—"

"Here." He grabbed your hands and put fingers from each hand on either side of the wound, pushing it together like tectonic plates. "Hold it just like that." You heard a ripping sound and then he leaned in, pasting the liquid along the rough seam. Almost like magic you felt the tension of the skin release from underneath your fingers, sewing him up in a matter of seconds. "Holy shit," you let your hands off his skin as the bleeding completely stopped. He let himself relax back against the stair and settle his breathing. With his eyes shut you could get a better look at him—how had no one noticed who he was before? He had the same facial structure, build, and teeth. Maybe people in Gotham didn't pay much attention to things like that? Maybe you'd just... you didn't know. You didn't know what made less sense: that he hadn't been found out before, or that you had noticed it immediately.

"Thanks." His voice was gruff but less strained now. The only sound was the drops of rain still falling from his suit to the marble, and the faint emanation of strings from upstairs. You didn't know how to respond to him when he was being normal, so you didn't. You put away the bag while he wrestled off his cowl, and you were already up three stairs before he spoke again. "How's your head doing?"

Head? "Uh, I had an allergic reaction,"

He laughed under his breath and it was like a needle in your spine. "No, I mean your head wound. From last week."

Last week... thumbing through your thoughts was hazy around him. He took up too much space. You moved your hand through your hair and felt the painful snag of a scab. Oh shit. The alley. Sheepishly you turned to face him. "Uh, good. Fine."

Your eyes met briefly, long enough for him to nod at you and look away. He was wanting to say something like I'm glad, but it didn't roll off his tongue as he thought it would. He didn't like being half inside the suit in front of you, it was disorienting. Luckily you made another smart comment.

"So you have Alfred babysit you every night?"

A glare settled naturally on his face. Every time he even thought about saying something nice, you barged in with your intrusive, abrasive self. "Believe me, I've tried to get him to stop. He doesn't listen."

"He's probably just worried about you."