Chapter Text
Bruce blinked when a wave of dizziness momentarily took over.
He gripped onto the edge of the table and narrowed his eyes at the glass he held.
How? When? He had watched the drink be made. Completely non-alcoholic and safe. Bruce scanned the large room, no one appeared to be paying attention to him.
What kind of ploy was this? Did someone discover he was Batman? Was this yet another hostage situation that would have Gordon lecturing him on safety again?
Or did somebody genuinely slip a roofie into Bruce Wayne’s drink so that they could…
It had to be the bartender. Perhaps the glass itself was coated in a drug. Bruce spotted the man in question and took a step towards him—
—before aborting that action immediately when his stomach lurched.
Withholding a groan, Bruce’s grip returned to the table as he tried to steady himself. He caught someone glancing at him and rolling their eyes. He probably looked like a true drunk at that point.
He swallowed thickly, his mouth going dry. He could feel his heart starting to palpitate in his chest and the dizziness was gradually returning stronger.
He wasn’t sure whether these symptoms were linked to the unwanted drug or his rush of anxiety.
Bruce needed to get out of here. Had to get himself back to the Cave and scan his blood. He needed to lay down and sleep it off. He needed to get somewhere safe.
Because all he felt was danger.
He couldn’t call the car. The new Batman car. He didn’t know if he could slip away into it undetected.
Maybe he should call Alfred?
No, Alfred would be mad. He’s been angry at Bruce for a lot of things lately. Bruce didn’t blame him. He was a pretty bad pseudo-son typically, but had been impossibly worse as of late.
Bruce took in a shuddering breath and clenched his eyes shut as the room spun.
He remembers Alfred scolding him as a little boy when Bruce chose not to find him after a nightmare.
“Master Bruce, I am here for you. Please, please, come find me if you ever need me.”
Maybe… maybe Alfred could forgive him for long enough to come collect him. Bruce wasn’t sure he could manage getting back home on his own.
But all those promises, all those reassurances that Alfred was Bruce’s to rely on no matter the circumstances, they were made years ago.
Years before Bruce up and left him all alone with no notice. Years before Bruce took up the mantle of Batman. Years before Bruce ignored Alfred again and again while the man begged him to slow down and rest. Years before Bruce threw himself into the Brucie role and crafted his playboy persona. Bringing home countless men and women, high and drunk, Alfred disapproving of Bruce’s self-sabotage.
Years before the argument earlier that evening which echoed through the Manor walls.
“Do not go to the event tonight, Master Bruce. I forbid it.”
“I am an adult. You have no right to tell me what to do.”
“I certainly have earned that right.”
“You are not my father! You are not Thomas. Stop acting like it!”
Bruce didn’t think he’d ever forget the expression on Alfred’s face.
“You do not mean that.”
“Yes, I do. Leave me alone, Alfred.”
He’d looked so hurt. And Bruce had turned around. Strutted away mockingly from the man who’d done nothing but love him.
“If you return to this Manor intoxicated, I am not cleaning up after you.”
“I don’t care!”
Bruce’s only support had all but rejected him tonight. Bruce was on his own.
He could try. He could take out his phone and attempt a text, a call for help.
Alfred would save him. Right? Bruce had messed up before, only for Alfred to come running in.
Sure, he might get yelled at, insulted, maybe even shamed till Alfred finally grew silent, spending days not acknowledging Bruce’s existence. No matter how much Bruce tried to convince the butler to just look at him. Even so, Bruce understood it, he didn’t make it easy to care for him. Alfred lost his temper sometimes, but Bruce pushed him to it.
But Bruce might have pushed him too far tonight.
No… Alfred would help him. Alfred always helped him.
“Woah, there.” Hands came to steady Bruce. He hadn’t realised he stumbled. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
No.
Bruce snatched his arm away, only for another wave of dizziness to wash over him from the motion. He gasped as he fell backwards and thankfully landed on a chair.
He scrunched his eyes shut as his vision blurred, his head throbbing and heavy. He opened them up to see a man in front of him.
His name began with… with M. Bruce knew him. Mark?
“Hey, looks like you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Huh, Brucie?” The man said. Maxwell?
Bruce hadn’t drunk anything, had he? It was non-alcoholic. No, he had. A drink. It was drugged. He was drugged.
Where was Alfred? He had to call Alfred.
No, Alfred was mad at him. Bruce had yelled and left. But Alfred would still come, wouldn't he?
“C’mon now.” The man (Marty?) pulled Bruce upright by his elbow, holding him steadily on wobbly knees. “Buddy’s waiting outside, he’s got a new car, ya know? Try not to throw up in it, yeah?”
Bruce shook his head and blinked, suddenly realising he’d transported halfway through the hall. There was a man leading him out. M something. Micheal? He groaned, feeling his tongue grow large and dry in his mouth.
“Whe’e a’ you… I’m not… whe’e’s A’f? Alf?”
His voice didn’t sound like his own. His breathing grew heavy in distress and something else. Like he was drugged. Was that right? Bruce gasped, stilling and his eyes darting around in a panic. He was roofied. He was in danger. There was a person pulling him out of the building.
“Don’t—”
“Brucie, Brucie, breathe. I’m taking you home, okay?”
“No.” Bruce tugged his arm away. He might as well have been tugging against steel with how weak he was.
“Sorry, folks, my friend had a little too much! Excuse us.” Bruce felt himself being weaved through crowds, people making space for him to move through.
He heard someone laugh, calling out a “classic, Bruce!” Couldn’t they see he didn’t want to go?
“You got him Matt? Damn, is he even conscious?”
Matthew! That was his name.
“Fucking better be. I want Brucie awake.”
Bruce blinked and he was in the back of a car. A man was leaning over him, buckling in the seatbelt. It was Matthew, he knew his name now.
Bruce’s vision swam again and he clenched his eyes shut with a moan.
A thumb rubbed over his cheek, running over the stubble on his chin. “Few more minutes, Brucie baby. Save those noises for later.”
He scrunched his face up and turned away from the voice. He didn’t like that.
Bruce was confused. His breathing quickened and he opened his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? Where was he? He was being pulled out of a car. A man was walking ahead a few feet in front of him and one was behind him, holding him up.
Bruce tried to ask, but only heard a groan escape his mouth.
“He’s waking up.”
“Good, good.”
They lead him into an old building with a bright display. In an attempt of defiance, Bruce pulled away from the arms behind him. Readying his fists to attack. But the hands on him only tightened around him.
Bruce didn’t have the capacity to try again. He was too distracted by the man in front of him, Matthew, stopping in his tracks and turning around. Bruce bared his teeth at him, growling as Matthew skimmed Bruce’s pockets, briefly groping him.
He pulled out Bruce’s wallet and looked through it. Bruce kept his teeth clenched, not sure he fully remembered why he was angry at him.
He watched in confusion as Matthew took out a few hundred from his wallet, walking away from Bruce. He frowned as he paid the receptionist of the building. The woman behind the desk accepted the money with no issue.
Despite his drugged state, Bruce realised that they were paying her not to care about him.
Feeling oddly betrayed by this stranger, Bruce tried to fight again, only to be interrupted by another wave of dizziness and nausea.
His clarity was slowly returning, but his body was still struggling to catch up.
He should try to call Alfred. But, Alf was angry. Bruce had yelled at him. Is that what had happened?
Maybe his mind wasn’t all too coherent, he thought as he was shoved unkindly into an elevator. He had been passed back to Matthew, his friend apparently growing tired. What was his name? It began with a B.
Bruce tried. He really did try. He was Batman. He was the Knight.
And Gotham’s hero was helpless to do nothing but drag his feet when the door to the motel room opened.
There was a bed. And two more men and a woman.
It dawned on him.
Bruce’s heart thundered in his chest.
“No.” He gasped and struggled uselessly away from Matthew. “No.”
“Shh, Brucie baby.” He whispered.
Was that amusement in his voice?
Had anyone contacted Alfred yet? When was he coming?
“Aw, bring him here.” Someone new said. Bruce felt his blazer being pulled off.
The world tipped on its axis as he was pushed down. His eyes rolled back and his head bounced when it hit the mattress.
Bruce felt the fabric of his clothes being peeled off his skin.
Cold air hit his body where he was left naked.
He shook his head desperately, pushing himself off the bed.
A hand, Bruce couldn’t tell who was who anymore, a hand shoved him back down. Bruce was helpless to fight gravity.
He was roofied, wasn’t he? That explained it. But he could fight it, he knew he could.
Bruce felt someone on him and the colours of his vision blurred, he used his hands (were those his hands? There were too many to tell) to push them off of him. But more hands (he couldn’t see, why couldn’t he see?) brought his wrists down above his head and held them there. He shuddered at how exposed he felt.
There was giggling, someone laughed. Bruce heard his name.
Electricity jolted up Bruce’s spine and his back jumped as high as it was allowed.
Someone was intimately touching him.
He didn’t give permission. Did he? He didn’t agree to this.
Bruce blinked and remembered. He was roofied. He was kidnapped. He was in a nameless motel. There were four men and one woman. They were going to violate him.
And there was no Alfred.
Bruce couldn’t breath, heart beating violently—
There were lips on him.
Bruce struggled, using whatever muscles that were functioning to fight as the last threads of his breath were stolen away from him.
There was a tongue in his mouth.
‘Bite’. He ordered his jaw. It refused to listen.
Someone was on him. They were grinding against him.
His hips jolted in reflex. Something was touching him again. Fingers prodding around him. Pushing in.
More laughter.
The person kissing him got off.
He heaved in a breath, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, his heart battering against his ribs.
Bruce weakly kicked his legs out, he had to get away.
Those were fingers. Unknown fingers. He couldn’t see who’s. The person, the woman, straddling Bruce was blocking the perpetrator. Bruce didn’t know who was down there.
They were saying things. Telling him he wanted it. Playboy. Hard to get. Slut. Baby. Whore.
“S’op.” Bruce tried.
Someone called him cute.
Bruce kicked again. He made contact. Heard a yell.
“Hey,” a hand gripped his hair and turned his face to the side. There was a new face. He looked angry. Then Bruce’s gaze zeroed in on the muzzle of a gun. “Stay still or I’ll blow your fucking head off and fuck your corpse instead.”
Bruce’s breath hitched.
Alley. Blood. Pearls. Dead.
Him. Alone.
Gordon’s warm jacket enveloping him.
He should call the police.
Alfred.
He wanted Alfred.
He started a fight again.
The gun moved closer till it rested on Bruce’s forehead.
Bruce stopped struggling.
More fingers slipped inside. It hurt. In. Out.
The woman on top leaned down. Her clothes were off. Her teeth bit into his collarbone. He wanted to ask her why. He wanted to ask her how she could do this to someone else.
He knew men could be victims too. Women could assault others. But couldn’t this lady hear his pleas? Did she not sympathise? Did she not walk the streets at night in fear of her being on the other side of this situation? All she had to do was grab the gun. It would be all over.
She finished leaving the hickey and made eye contact with Bruce. Grinning down at him before kissing his lips.
The fingers assaulting him left.
They were quickly replaced.
Bruce screamed into the woman’s mouth.
“Fuck, you didn’t stretch him out enough.” One of the rapists groaned. It didn’t deter him though.
Bruce yelled in pain, squeezing his hands into fists as he tried to breathe, to fight against the man struggling to push himself into Bruce.
When had his wrists been tied down?
The woman pulled away and giggled. Licking at his skin as she grinded lazily against his midriff.
The dizziness that had been attacking Bruce the entire time came back in full force as the bed rocked. His rapist pushing and pulling Bruce back and forth. He stared at the moving ceiling, struggling to formulate a thought that wasn’t “please stop.”
His vision was filled with a man pushing himself into Bruce’s mouth. He choked. His hair was gripped again and his throat grew raw as the foreign body thrust in and out.
Eventually, the man below him finished. Not that Bruce could rest with the person in his mouth. But even so, Bruce was hardly given a moment before another abuser took his place.
Coughing and choking, Bruce was forced to swallow.
The gun was still there.
“Make him enjoy it.”
There was a hand on his crotch and Bruce scrunched his eyes up.
He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to.
Out of his immediate sight, he hadn’t noticed that one of the men had been jerking himself off near him until fluid splashed onto his skin, Bruce yelped in shock before pinching his lips shut while it coated his face.
The woman slipped off his torso.
Slowly, with the body pounding into him and with a hand still working at Bruce’s own length, he felt the inevitable that was building up inside of him.
Whining, he couldn’t help but shake his heavy head, begging.
What good was his dignity at this point?
“That’s it. Open your eyes for me, Brucie.”
Bruce obeyed. There was a man. Matthew.
He was holding a camera.
Bruce knew he was a sight, his face and lips covered in fluids, his skin littered with hickeys, completely naked under horrible lighting.
“Do you want the gun gone, Brucie?” Matthew asked, voice soft, just loud enough to be heard over the bed creaking.
Confused but willing for any form of mercy, Bruce nodded.
“Ask me nicely.”
“Please.”
The handgun left his sight, something in Bruce’s chest eased.
“Do you want it to stop, Brucie baby?”
“Please.”
He sounded so broken.
“Then I want you to ask, yeah? Just like that, Brucie. Beg, yeah? Beg me ‘please’.”
Bruce nearly sobbed. He didn’t want to. Only five minutes ago he would have refused. Now his head was swarming and overtaken by the drug. His body refused to listen to him. There was a man raping him. Another intimately fondling him. He wanted to wash the taste out of his throat. He didn’t want to orgasm. He wanted to go home.
He wanted his Alfred.
He’d lost his dignity.
“Please.” He whispered. “Please.”
“Say it louder, Brucie. Look into the camera.” Matthew took a step back. Bruce saw him stand further away and shift the lens of the device. He knew his whole body was in the shot.
“Please.” He tried again. Desperate to stop. Anything to stop.
“He’s such a little slut.” He heard someone coo.
“Louder.”
He didn’t notice the hand speeding up its movements.
“Please!”
He hadn’t wanted orgasm from his own rape.
But with a gasp his muscles clenched and convulsed. He shook at the strength behind it.
When he came to, he noticed the ceiling had stopped moving. The person inside of him had finished. Matthew was laughing. He shut the recorder, put it aside.
Matthew leaned in, resting his forehead gently on top of Bruce’s. “You’re not going to tell anyone now, are you? Not when you’re begging for more on camera?” He moved to softly kiss Bruce’s gasping lips.
No.
It was a trick.
Bruce knew, he knew if he wasn’t compromised by the drug he would not have fallen for it. But he had and now there was evidence against him.
At least it was still over, right?
Someone new thrust into him. The woman positioned herself on top of his face.
It felt as though it wouldn’t stop.
Over and over.
He wanted no more.
He wanted Alf.
The woman got off of him, laying beside him and breathing deep while he tried to catch his own breath, finally being allowed air.
Bruce watched the person he recognised as the driver, Buddy, take a swig of a drink straight from a bottle. Next thing Bruce knew, Buddy closed his lips on top of Bruce, transferring the alcohol into his mouth. Again, Bruce was forced to swallow against his will.
He whined at the burn. As if he needed to be more intoxicated.
Then from one moment to the next, Bruce was fighting for air as he was waterboarded.
Buddy had tipped the bottle over, spilling the liquid directly onto Bruce’s face. He panicked and spluttered helplessly. Drowning on land. The alcohol ran over his face, burning in his eyes and drenching his hair. Bruce’s lungs screamed for oxygen as it went on and on. The roofie already compromising his breathing. He could distantly hear taunting jeers.
Finally, it stopped and Bruce sobbed dryly, heaving for breath.
Heat filled inside his lower region when the third man finished, grunting as he released.
Bruce’s head lulled to the side and he shut his eyes, completely exhausted.
“I thought you were kidding—”
“You’re not actually—”
“Shit, you’re fucking crazy—”
Curiosity piqued Bruce’s abused state. He gathered all the strength he had to reopen his eyes and look at what was making the monsters around him exclaim in amused horror.
Terror gripped Bruce’s heart. Crushing it brutally.
The gun was back.
This unknown man from before, the one who had initially trained the pistol on him, was now in between Bruce’s spread legs. He held the gun at Bruce’s chin and grinned. His smile frightening.
“You with me, rich kid?” He asked menacingly.
Bruce, throat raw, nodded silently.
“Good, keep your eye on the gun.”
No, no, no
Bruce watched the pistol trail down him, slipping out of sight.
No
No
Please
No
Hands tugged him up, bending him painfully in half so he could see.
More hands held his knees, contorting them painfully wider apart.
The others were horrified despite their unbelieving laughs. But they were still helping.
“No. Stop.” Bruce truly begged.
The unnamed man began to ease the gun into Bruce.
“Stop it. Not that. Anything else, please.”
The rim of the gun painfully got caught on skin, the monster cursed and readjusted, trying again.
Bruce was aware enough to note that the safety was off.
“Please, I can’t.” Bruce turned to the only face he recognised from before this event. “Matthew, please.”
Matthew cooed. “Don’t be scared, Brucie. You might have a kink for it.”
Bruce shook his head, frantic, forcing in breaths. “No.” He whined deeply. As if the word served any meaning.
The gun pushed and pushed. The metallic ridges kept catching onto Bruce’s insides. Ripping skin.
A hand tugged his head down. “Keep lookin’.”
Trembling, Bruce watched as the weapon disappeared bit by bit until just the handle was left protruding out.
He whimpered. He felt so full. It was in him.
Alley. Blood. Pearls. Dead.
It was in him.
The hand playfully flicked the handle sticking out. Pain.
Bruce broke.
Defeated, powerless tears spilled down Bruce’s cheeks and his jaw dropped open as sobs tore out his throat.
The gun was pulled out and in. Fucking him ruthlessly.
The pistol’s metal glistened with his blood.
“Hurts.”
“Aw, Brucie baby. Let me make it better.”
A hand was back, roughly wrapping around him.
Bruce cried out. At the painful oversensitivity and at the fear.
The fear of coming undone with a firearm inside of him.
The hand ran itself up and down, squeezing and fondling Bruce back up into unwanted arousal.
The gun suddenly hit the spot in Bruce that sent painful lightning through his veins.
Laughter.
More and more.
He cried.
They made him. They forced him to. They forced him to climax with a gun in him.
He didn’t want to.
He wanted Alfie.
Please.
They allowed him to fall back onto the bed and the gun came away.
Was it over?
A new body climbed on top of Bruce.
Bruce lost count. He faded away. Fell unconscious. He woke up. The predators were still there. Relaxing, eating, sleeping. Someone poured water down his throat. His throat dry, he drank it all, failing to recognise the new dosage of the roofie. He closed his eyes. He woke up to more abuse.
Finally when he opened his eyes again, they were gone. His hands untied.
Taking in a steadying breath, Bruce shifted.
Pure white pain pierced through him.
His muscles shuddered.
He laid there for longer.
Significant time passed until he was able to find the strength within himself to move. To sit up.
With a shaking hand, he used a pillow cover to wipe at himself, shuddering at the drying stickiness, until he could manage to stand. He held onto the bed, avoiding looking at the soiled bloodied sheets as he focused on regulating his breathing. Slowly, he shuffled towards the dirty bathroom. The first step was the hardest. His capillaries screeching in agony.
The shower was broken. He wetted a dirty used towel using the sink. Bruce rubbed off what little he could off his body. He cleaned his face, looking away from the mirror. He gargled the rust-flavoured water, wishing the tastes away.
With his underwear; phone and wallet lost, Bruce tentatively pulled on his pants and dress shirt. Distantly relieved they didn’t leave him with no clothes. Trying and failing to avoid his aches.
Stumbling down to the elevator, Bruce narrowly missed falling and breaking his head open. His only thought was getting home.
Finding Alfred.
He righted himself up enough to walk from the elevator to the exit. Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. As he did so, he passed by the receptionist.
Bruce couldn’t help but glare at her.
All she did was look up from her phone and smile.
“Ya got a lil something there, sweetheart.” She teased. Gesturing at her own neck.
He flushed at the reference to his unwanted hickies but held his glare.
“You will call and pay for a cab.” He growled, his voice raw.
She bit her lip, as though she was hiding in her laugh. “Suppose it’s the least I can do, sweetie. Surprised you can walk.”
He gritted his teeth and focused on not collapsing. The aftereffects of the drug still in his system along with the physical trauma his body was experiencing.
Bruce found himself sitting in a rundown taxi. Staring at a stain on the seat in front of him. His mind trained on one thing.
Get back to Alfie.
He needed Alfred. He needed his father. He needed the man who’s held him since even before his parents’ passing. The strong arms that enveloped him and supported him like no other. Bruce needed Alfred’s undying caring love. He needed Alfred to hold him. Only Alfred. No one else could touch him. Not ever. Alfred would look after him. Alfred would… would medically take care of him. He’d help Bruce wash up. He would help Bruce in locking them up.
He’ll help Bruce remember how to breathe.
“You are not my father! You are not Thomas. Stop acting like it!”
Bruce winced when he remembered his last conversation with Alfie.
But Alfred wouldn’t act on that. He’d see Bruce and immediately help. He said it enough times.
Bruce had been more than unlovable since he returned from training but… but Alfred would still help.
Wouldn’t he?
He’d believe Bruce.
He just needed Alfred.
Having no key on him, and learning that it was early in the morning, Bruce waited for the taxi to leave before limping to one of the Cave entrances. Using his biodata to gain access inside.
Forgoing the medbay and even the showers, Bruce went straight upstairs, thanking his past self for adding the elevator.
Leaning heavily against the walls and banisters at his disposal, Bruce struggled but finally pulled himself up towards the family wing of the home. He hadn’t passed Alfred yet, and his throat ached too much to call out. With blood still trailing down his leg, Bruce decided he would turn on the rarely used intercom from his bedroom.
Bruce was staggering towards the door when he heard him.
“Master Bruce?”
Despite his pain, Bruce turned around quickly. Setting his eyes on his father wearing his favourite apron and carrying a filled laundry basket.
He took in his first truly calming breath. The ease of seeing Alfred settling down deep in his chest.
It was Alfred.
“Alf,” Bruce whispered hoarsely. “I ne—”
Alfred’s tut interrupted Bruce.
A sort of ice slowly built up, frosting over Bruce’s veins.
“I told you, Master Bruce. I will not be helping you if you returned intoxicated. This was the final straw.”
He looked so angry.
“I’m not—”
“Do not try that with me. I could smell you from the stairs.” Alfred snapped.
It was… they had poured it on him.
“No, I didn’t.” Bruce begged. His weight shifted and he grasped at the bare wall frantically to catch himself from falling, unable to keep the pain in his hips off his face.
Believe me.
Alfred grimaced. “Your own actions led to this, Master Bruce. If you hadn’t wanted the consequences, you should not have indulged in the first place.”
It wasn’t… it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t want it.
He didn’t want to.
“But I…”
“You believe you’ll gain sympathy from me after running away for nearly two days? Not calling? Again? After vowing to me that you would never run off like you had done so for years? Acting as though you are entitled to worry me? Perhaps I have let you get away with too much lately if you believe this is acceptable behaviour. This blatant sign of disrespect is disappointing, child. You cannot shout and leave. I still expect your apology.” Alfred wrinkled his nose. “And for God’s sake, go wash yourself.”
Alfred turned and left, laundry basket in hand.
“Alfie…” he tried, one last time.
And Alfred stopped, hesitating, but then his back straightened and he twisted his neck to narrow his eyes at Bruce. “I have work to do, Master Bruce. I am just a butler after all. Do not confuse yourself, I could never be anything more than that.”
“You are not my father! You are not Thomas. Stop acting like it!”
Bruce felt any semblance of sanity slowly break apart as he watched his father walk away from him.
Come back. I’m sorry. Alfie. Please.
Shaking. He stood motionless. He didn’t know how much time had passed until he found himself moving. He hardly had any strength other than to rip off his clothes and turn on the shower. He sank down, laying on the ceramic floor under the burning spray. Shutting his eyes to avoid watching the liquids and blood wash away through the swirl of water.
Bruce needed help. He couldn’t stitch himself where he couldn’t reach. He didn’t want his disease test results on the Cave computer’s database. He’d need to go anonymously. Bruce didn’t want Leslie to find out. He couldn’t bear the chance of another reaction like Alfie’s. The kind woman who took care of him in his childhood had gradually grown stricter towards him. Meaner. Bruce couldn’t fault her for it. Just like Alfie, he’d pushed her away. But even with a new doctor, he’ll have to disguise himself, prosthetic nose and all. Steal the results away later so they couldn’t be DNA matched to him.
Alfred said it was his fault. Was it his fault? Was Batman was too weak to fight off a drug? Get away from some amateurs? Did Batman even try to fight it? If he truly wanted to get away, then wouldn’t he have done better? And then he did order and accept the drink, all that time ago. The roofied drink. He was stupid enough not to check. He was the one who didn’t think of the glass itself being laced. Who would believe him? Alfred was right. What more was expected from Gotham’s local slut?
If Bruce was dumb enough to get roofied. He should have to deal with the consequences.
He heaved up bile into the shower.
Days later, Batman was out at night. One of the thugs waved a gun at him. After Batman knocked him unconscious, Bruce turned the comm connected to Alfred off and threw up.
A week later, the internet was buzzing alive and his name was growing popular. A quick check told him that it never mattered whether or not he told. No one would ever believe him anyway.
Matthew uploaded the video of him enjoying his own… it was Bruce’s fault.