Chapter 1: The Prodigal
Chapter Text
“Firstly, I’d like to thank all of you for attending the 7th annual Water for Gotham Charity Gala. Your immense generosity has led to countless homes being refitted and has allowed the human right to clean drinking water in our community,”
Claire’s drugstore press-on manicure dug into the sides of the glass podium as she paused, the faint-hearted applause barely filling the cavernous ballroom of Gotham’s Museum of Natural History. Pushing past the thrum of anxiety reminiscent of being cold-called during 1L by Professor Godwin Matthews, she cracked a wry grin, “Secondly, thank you for the increased catering budget. After last year's unfortunate calamari incident, we couldn’t afford to take any chances. However, I was assured by inside sources that all guests survived,”
A polite ripple of laughter, and her white-knuckle grip loosened. She continued, not making lingering eye contact with any one person in the crowd. She listed off the figures on her notecard, sure to tickle the ears of benefactors and make them forget about the human rights violations their own companies incurred over the last fiscal year— feet of new pipe laid, gallons of clean water gained, and filter orders placed as well as the need to find a new filter supplier to keep up with rising funding approved and housing applications.
Every quirked appraising brow reminded her how far outside her own tax bracket she was standing. As it happened, she was already planning on how to receive compliments to her secondhand pity gift. A long-sleeved, high-necked yet backless dichotomy of a winter dress. “Oh, yes, isn’t it darling? It’s vintage. I just couldn’t say no to Doctor Tompkins when she insisted.” Even though she wasn’t sure how any black Givenchy dress could be considered a pity gift, with any luck, the tax write-offs would distract from any chance of noticeable fashion faux pas.
“And once again, our committee members and I thank you for your support for this project and for your initiative in promoting a better environment for Gotham and all her citizens,” she said and waited for the more enthusiastic applause to abate.
“And now, I’ll let you all be the judge of whether the catering budget extends to the champagne quality,” with a last wink and another ripple of laughter that turned into a wave across the ballroom and up to the second-floor balcony above, Claire Hawthorne made her dignified escape down the raised stand, praying to God her heels wouldn’t catch on the hem of her dress.
More than a few couples arrived to congratulate her on taking over her mother‘s position as chair. And when she found there was no way to escape by climbing the T-Rex display behind her, Claire nodded, smiled, and shook hands, enduring the predictable conversations which included:
“It’s so wonderful, admirable really, how you’ve taken the gauntlet for your mother and father, especially after…”
Claire nodded at the sympathetic purse, lips, and mournful stares. Yes, her mother lived in an assisted living facility due to “a small nervous breakdown,” and her father was dead. Killed actually. Prison riot. Or hit, whichever story you chose to believe. All in law school, as if having a Professor Snape wannabe wasn’t traumatic enough for 1L.
So, yes, she knew. Very sad, but she would have appreciated it if they had handled it like her Irish grandfather— by burying any and all emotions underneath thick cable knit and extolling Guinness. She smiled, tucking her clutch under her arm, letting the woman clear her throat and amble off. Then it was a blur of,
“ Your speech was marvelous… Do you handle the tax receipts or is it someone else now? Your mother was wonderful at taking care of everything,”
“Oh, I remember when I was able to wear dresses like those. Just wait until children,” before a mumble of, “Little bastards ruin everything,”
“I told Irving we needed to be checking into filters for the new garden fountains… They seemed a bit off, you know. You can never be too safe about the water for Calla lilies,”
“I’d like to see those chumps across the river. Try getting this past legislation. Good on you, kid,“
Claire was fairly certain that people in the city had somewhat transitioned away from total mob rule. However, this was Jersey, and even as a transplant from Virginia, she had learned to keep her mouth shut.
The polite smile turned brittle at the 13th tax break conversation. Her clutch became a riot shield, redirecting wandering hands away from the backless dress that she was beginning to regret. The rigidness of her shoulders tightened with every polite complaint directed at her and the decorations. Greenery perfectly matched the Natural History aesthetic, dammit.
She looped her response to end all inquiries. “No, no. No, it’s nothing I’ve done. Quite the opposite. It’s the actions of those like you, who care about the future of Gotham that are making the true difference here,” it worked better for money’s sake to flatter the ego and worry about her own sleepless nights later.
And with much cooing over the discussion of grandchildren, the casual confession of crimes, and offers to be set up with personal shoppers across the city, she was allowed to edge further to her finish line – the windows on the ballroom's far side. When she saw that most guests were entertained and that a hors d’oeuvre table lay unoccupied, she looked over both shoulders and ducked underneath the long white tablecloth.
She allowed herself a brief moment of shame. A grown woman, hiding underneath the table because silently counting to 10 wasn’t working anymore to control her temper when faced with Gotham’s finest.
On her knees and elbows against cold marble, she blew out a long breath. She wished she had worn her pearl earrings instead of the heavy statement jewelry. Faux diamonds dragging the floor made for an undignified army crawl. The tablecloth fluttered against her face, and she froze. The distant clatter of conversation competed with the tattoo beat of her heart hammering against her ribcage. Dress shoes peeked underneath the tablecloth. She recognized the deep rumble of Lucius Fox’s voice,
“Now, Mrs. Stein, think about the recriminations about that,” stern but good-humored.
“Oh, but Lucius, you know how I feel about those ferns. I just don’t know how…” their voice trailed off as they walked away.
Claire shook her head, willing away panic, “Lucius Fox, I owe you one,”
Claire crawled on, making a note to send a personalized thank you to Lucius’ office. She reached the end, and conversation lulled around her. The chill from the windows kept most onlookers away as she slid from underneath the table, brushing off her skirt. Nearby waitstaff offered champagne and a nod of solidarity, “Better you than me, girl.” Claire raised her glass in salute, drained half of it, and moved on to the window.
The champagne warmed her stomach, keeping away the worst of the January chill emanating from the windows. Rain cascaded down the glass; streetlights were streaks of flickering gold down the sidewalks. Taxi headlights obscured any chance of identifying stragglers entering the museum's front entrance. A blur of Jaguars, Rolls, and Mercedes, her fingers flexed against her champagne glass. They felt dirtier shaking hands here than when she’d been handed a muddy water sample gathered from Crime Alley two weeks ago—a mother with shaking hands and a son, Tyrone, in the ICU.
The paint on her office door— Hawthorne, Esq.— had barely finished drying when Sally Russell had come knocking. Gotham native and waitress who specialized in night shifts that involved tossing drunks out on their asses.
“You’re the water lawyer, aren’t ya?”
Sludge and sediment had swirled at the bottom of the glass. She was fighting for the people smothering in the dirt, but here she was, standing amongst the crowd slinging shovels full of it.
Setting her glass on a nearby table, she reached into her clutch, bypassing her lipstick for the photo against the side. Tyrone Russell cheesing for the camera in his muddy soccer uniform. Kinky black hair cropped close to his head— her thumb ran across his face.
“So you won’t forget,” she’d said.
Claire lifted her eyes, searching out the slow rolling river past the next block. Beautiful, filtered through fog and moonlight, but she remembered walking past it— the stench of gray water and kids playing close to sewage because there was nowhere else to go. Illegal dumping, industrial run-off— poisoning the water, the people…Tyrone, killing those who couldn’t afford to leave and those who spoke out against it, like her father had. Like she was going to. Free water was for everyone, as long as you had the money to clean it. Claire squared her shoulders like Ted Grant had taught her in the ring back in grade school. She’d been training for this ring her whole life. Her reflection stared back, green eyes hard and angry, as moonlight cut through the fog bouncing off the river.
A GCPD uniform reflected in the window behind her. Claire fumbled to shove the photo back in her purse, sliding the clutch back underneath her arm. She turned on her heel, a charming smile stretching her mouth. “Officer, has anyone offered you—,”
Renee Montoya smirked back, and Claire deflated, relief softening her smile. “Oh, thank God,”
She quirked one perfect, dark brow. “Evening already goin’ that good, huh?” She offered another glass of champagne, manna in the wilderness.
She took a bracing sip before answering, “Isn’t it every girl’s dream to fend off the Tommy Lee wannabe ass-grabber?”
Montoya snorted, joining her by the window. “Hmph. If it happens again, I’ll try to make myself known and tell him you’re my bitch,”
Claire’s shoulders trembled as she held back measures of undignified laughter. “Well, it worked in high school,”
“Bet your ass it did, Hawthorne,” she sniffed, raising her nose higher, looking down at Claire from the corner of her eye. “Nobody messes with my bitch,”
She bumped her shoulder, and Montoya finally gave way to a toothy grin, easing the hard lines on her face. Hair back in a tight, gelled bun, Montoya held her officer's cap under her arm, posture still Marine-ready even six months post-discharge. “Uniform suits you,”
Montoya looked away, shifting her feet, scoffing, “Damn well better for how much I coughed up for it,”
Claire shrugged, “Meh, you still wear it better than most of the other clowns tonight,”
“Yeah, the fat off Falcone’s table don’t really work wonders for the physique, does it?”
Claire’s head shook ruefully, “No. Nope, it really doesn’t,” she swirled the champagne glass. “Now, c’mon, what’re you doing here? You didn’t even save me from hours of social-anxiety-induced handwringing by calling me and telling me I’d have an ally?”
Montoya’s jaw worked, but her tone was light. “Your motion went through today. Publically filing your intent to sue. Takes guts,”
Claire refused to face the side eye she received. Her heart dropped. It was like being asked for a book report she hadn’t even started yet.
“HorizonClear Solutions,” Montoya shook her head. “You couldn’t a’started with a fender bender?” Claire’s hackles rose, but before she could defend herself, “Easy, Nancy Drew. I’m just sayin’ a phone call woulda been nice. Besides, somebody needs to check in on ya,”
Claire met brown eyes that softened around the edges. “I got you however I can, mama. But—,” she shook her head. “You sure you know what ya doin’?”
Part of her wanted to spew out every legal precedent and witness statement that listed a whole apartment block as plaintiffs. Instead, she shook her head. “Ain’t gotta a damn clue. But I know it’s right. And I can’t pretend that I’m not able to do anything,”
Montoya sighed before offering a reluctant half smile, “Yeah, well, I guess that rich butler friend of yours would know about getting sludge stains out,”
She laughed, “Seriously. Mr. Penny— oh, shit,” catching a glimpse over Montoya’s shoulder. Montoya’s head swiveled, mouth a firm line. A balding head popped up like a shark fin, and she mapped out escape routes. “For the love of—,”
“Mr. Grab-ass?”
She nodded, “Mr. Grab-ass,”
Montoya pulled her cap over her head. “Side stairs up to the second floor,” she instructed before marching off. “Doctor Fry, if you’ll come with me, sir. The valet has told us that—,”
Claire spun on her heel, crossing the hall to the marble stairs. Picking up the dress, she dashed up the red carpet, careful of uneven dips in the stone. She deposited her empty glass on the tray of the passing wait staff. The stringed quartet competed with a low echo of jungle ambiance in the next display hall. She thought it might have been the homo evolutionary stage exhibit. All stages of previous life forms that somehow still seemed more evolved than Dr. Fry, who thought it was a good idea to throw a tantrum at the bar, she thought with a wry grin leaning against the balustrade.
Without the congestion of the crowd, her next breath came easier. She ran her hand down the soft velvet of her dress, letting the champagne warm down her arms and legs. A cool breeze filtered from the next display rooms, and she sighed in relief, rolling her neck from side to side. The conversation became more like a dull afterthought as she let Vivaldi ease the tension from her shoulders.
A voice, deep and measured, identical to every press conference she’d watched of him, cut through Spring’s violent emergence.
“Miss Hawthorne?”
She refused to stiffen. She stood and turned. Jonathan Maddox, tall with impeccably styled salt and pepper hair and a ruthlessly tailored suit with threads that gleamed as silver as his hair. She had managed the invitation list, sent out, and approved every single one. He had not been on it.
He offered his hand and a perfect smile. She took it and tried not to snarl when he pressed a kiss to the top of her hand. “Mr. Maddox,” she returned in a steady courtroom cadence.
Both hands went to clutch her purse in front of her as she met his eyes with a calm smile. It was tactical on his part, showing up uninvited and seeking her out while isolated. She hadn’t expected him, but Claire only made these types of errors once. She wondered if he realized that.
He joined her by the marble balcony overlooking the gala. It was difficult not to feel like everyone was looking at them. Montoya was going to lose her shit.
“I hope I’m not interrupting your moment of solitude,” he said, icy blue eyes scanning over the crowd, sharp, and looking for blood in the water. “I know these events can be quite taxing for those used to solitude like ourselves,”
She forced a polite laugh, “It’s too early in the evening for the collusion of the hermits,”
She could admit he was beautiful, with all his sharp and lean lines, and she wondered how many women had suffered because of the fact. “Hermits from society are often those busiest, wouldn’t you agree?”
Her throat went dry, her heart rabbitting in her chest. Papers weren’t supposed to have been served until the next week, but she supposed a little detail like sealed records and procedures meant little to a man like Maddox.
“How so?”
He stepped closer, a gently beguiling smile in place. “I’ve heard you’ve been doing remarkable work since starting in your own practice. I’m sure the Donegal Firm regrets letting someone with your drive and tenacity get away from them,”
She demurred, “You’re too kind. I thought it was the organizer's responsibility to flatter the donors, not the other way around,”
He chuckled, sending a chill down her back, “Gotham is fortunate to have someone looking out for its citizens,”
“My parents set a high philanthropic standard. I can only hope that I’m living up to half of it,”
Below, the quartet hit a sour note, and the crowd’s discussion paused. Had she not been trapped in the world’s most juvenile staring contest, she would have looked over the balcony to see what caused it. Old people murmuring was nearly more dangerous than their muttering.
“It’s not every day I come across someone willing to undertake the dangers of throwing their gauntlet into the rings of injustice,”
She gritted her teeth at the shark's smile, eyes glittering in their enjoyment. “What can I say, I always enjoyed Round Table stories,”
“Even so, not many would undertake a challenge that so many actively avoid,”
Claire’s head tilted to the side, “And what could you possibly mean by that, Mr. Maddox?”
She enjoyed the unexpected pause before realizing it wasn’t because of her. A broad shadow fell across her. Her brow furrowed.
“Claire? Is that you?”
Her heart, stomach, and all other vital organs dropped at the unexpected voice-- smoother and deeper than Maddox’s. One she hadn’t heard in years, and honestly, one she had expected to never hear again because she had mourned that voice. Her mind blanked as her mouth dropped. Her body moved on instinct, turning to face him.
And it was him. There was no doubt it could be anyone else. The necklace hidden underneath her collar burned. His name left her on an exhale,
“Bruce,”
She had to look up a bit more than she remembered to meet his eyes. The blood drained so quickly from her head she was surprised her knees kept her upright. He looked just the same. Probably better, that bastard. Dark hair swept back neatly, shoulders that had broadened filled out the bespoke black Armani, the Guerlain Vetiver cologne-- fresh cedarwood and vetiver-- and his eyes. His eyes were just the same as they’d been the day she’d chased him down at the private airport before he decided to vanish-- sharp, blue, and utterly fixed on her.
His gaze flickered almost imperceptibly. Then he looked over her shoulder, and a veneer slipped over him. A wide, playful grin spread across his face, and Claire nearly recoiled. Bruce stepped in between them as Maddox remarked,
“Well, I’ll be. Isn’t this a surprise,”
Bruce winked, and Claire could only watch. This wasn’t-- couldn’t be Bruce.
“The prodigal returns,” Bruce said, hanging his head with boyish charm and matching every caricature they had ever made fun of. “I know, I know. You should’ve heard the board this afternoon,”
Maddox quirked a brow, “I can only imagine,” before looking between them. “And the two of you…know one another?”
“Yeah, of course,”
At the same time, “No,” Claire said, earning her looks from both gentlemen. She found it harder to force laughs the more she tried. “Oh, I only mean… no, we used to. It feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it, Bruce?”
She ignored the small line of tension between Bruce’s brows. Oh, he hadn’t liked that answer, had he? Well, fucking good. That, at last, sparked her temper because it seemed her first answer had been correct. She didn’t know Bruce Wayne. Hadn’t for a long while, and now, intended to keep it that way.
Bruce’s voice was light, almost airy. “When I saw the both of you up here, I knew I had to risk interrupting. Old friends on both sides and all that,” he laughed, running a hand through his hair, giving it that perfectly disheveled look. Claire wanted to throw up. “Besides, Mads, you’re still the small talk magnet. I’m sure Claire couldn’t have peeled herself away even if she wanted to,”
Her heart stuttered in her chest. Was it possible for someone to lose that many IQ points in such a short amount of time? God. Shut. Up. Bruce.
Annoyance flashed in Maddox’s eyes before he remembered to chuckle, shaking his head. “Ah, old Bruce. Never change,” then his eyes turned against her. He squeezed her shoulder gently, fingers trailing lightly up her neck, and she refused to flinch or take her eyes from his, even as her breath caught. Bruce stiffened next to her. “No, no. I was just making introductions to Gotham’s newest best and brightest,”
He slid past them, “I’m looking forward to watching your progress, Miss Hawthorne. Next time you’re in the neighborhood, let me know. I’ll make sure to clear my schedule for lunch,”
Claire swallowed but lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders. “We’ll have to make time for it. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to discuss,”
Amusement lit his features before he started toward the stairs, sending a wave over his shoulder. For a long moment, Claire stood, waiting until she could no longer see silver hair. Her palm went to her neck, rubbing overtop where his fingers had lingered. She regretted that last glass of champagne because now her stomach threatened to lose it over the balcony.
Another deep breath, and she remembered the other imposing presence at her side. The self-appointed prodigal himself. He’d be waiting for a while if he expected a fatted calf from her. And so, pulling from every junior high drama club experience she could muster, she plastered her best winsome smile across her face, forcing her hands to her sides, smoothing and gripping her dress in tandem.
“I’m surprised I haven’t picked up a Times issue with your picture across it, prodigal,” she said lightly, proud of her even tone. “News like that always sells,”
The muscles in his jaw worked as the cogwheels in his brain jammed so thoroughly that Claire was surprised smoke hadn’t started coming out of his ears. She could practically feel him considering whether he could get away with asking about the pissing contest he’d interrupted. And Claire could have answered that for him with a resounding, “Hell no,”
“No.” he shook his head. “No Times yet. Plane landed on Monday, and Alfred convinced me to keep a low profile until the quarterly board meeting this afternoon,”
A bitter scoff caught in her throat. “Alfred, huh? What’d he have to do, roll you into the room inside a steamer trunk?”
His mouth softened around the edges, and grief sucker-punched her in the stomach. “Claire, I--,”
“Bruce!” came the mating call of Vicki Vale from the direction of the stairs. “Brucie!”
Claire straightened, eyes darting away, and fuck her, if she was going to stick around for the press tour as her eyes started to sting. She cleared her throat, her polite fundraiser facade locking into place, this time more prepared to look into the eyes of a stranger. “Duty calls loudly these days, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t want to keep Gotham’s prince away from more interesting company,”
“I’m sorry. I needed a date on short--,” he stepped closer when she retreated, reaching for her elbow. “Claire, please,”
She turned sharply with an even sharper smile. “Enjoy the festivities, Mr. Wayne. I hope we can count on the Wayne Foundation’s usual donation,” before stalking off.
She didn’t look back at them, but in the exhibit glass reflection, Claire saw Bruce catch a tipsy Vicki around the waist, dipping to whisper in her ear.
She marched through the exhibit halls before reaching the ocean mammals and various other creepy crawlies. She reached the preserved corpse of a Humboldt squid before her knees gave out.
Catching herself on a plaque’s corner, she heaved in one short breath after another. She scrubbed a hand down her face, smearing immaculate eyeshadow, her rings catching on strands of wavy hair. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be happening.
Her voice caught as she pressed her palms against her eyes, “Damn you, Bruce,”
Her clutch buzzed, and she slid the rest of the way down to the floor. She struggled to make jelly legs cooperate. Her pager blared, and she fumbled to silence it.
‘MOM- NURSE,’ it read. She shut her eyes, leaning her head back against the squid box, and tapping the pager against her forehead. A nervous breakdown against a squid coffin, she huffed a watery laugh. Apparently, this was the least ridiculous thing to happen in the past hour. She exhaled shakily, looking back at the floating cephalopod.
“We’re just having a bad night, aren’t we?”
She wiped her eyes, yanked herself to her feet, and cursed prodigals to an early grave or to at least a surprise IRS audit. With parting condolences to the squid, Claire marched to the exit. She yanked out her earrings, tossing them into a nearby potted plant.
“I knew those damn things were bad luck,”
Chapter 2: Sorry I Decapitated You
Notes:
hyperfixation nation
Chapter Text
Like any good seven-year-old, Claire had opinions about castles. And, by God, she knew a good one when she saw it, and Wayne Manor could very well turn out to be a good one. Her dad had laughed at her notes on the turrets (he agreed they made the estate less defensible) while her mother nearly combusted inside the sedan and begged her not to bring up structural weaknesses until after lunch. She had tried arguing that Jack would have understood, even though she was still angry that her brother had chosen going back to school instead of coming with them.
While Claire’s conscience had ruffled at remaining silent about something so horrid, she became much more docile when she was forced out of the car. Directed up the stairs, she was assaulted by a barrage of instructions from her mother that only ceased when her father caught her by the shoulders, “Zella, calm down. They’re not reptilian, you know,” and kissed her cheek.
Claire tried not to become nauseated at that. This was her new Barbie pink dress that was obviously irreplaceable. She could not throw up on it.
Her mother slapped her father’s chest. “You’d still take their money even if they were,”
“Don’t discriminate against crocodile money. It all spends the same. Even in New Jersey last I checked,”
The door opened, and oh, yes, this was definitely a good castle. Claire gasped as she struggled to figure out what to look at first. Family crests, vibrant reds, and opulent stairs.
She tugged the back of her father’s overcoat, “The castle points just went up,” and he chuckled.
Sure, later she would remember the Waynes and how nice they were. And obviously, people of taste because of how Mrs. Wayne complimented her pink frock. She thanked her from behind her father’s legs.
With the arrival of the butler (Ha! Castle rating continues to go up), they were directed to lunch. And it was here that things went sideways. She adored Doctor Wayne and even thought he was a little handsome until he said,
“You know, we have a little boy around your age, Claire. Bruce, where-- ah, there he is,”
The banquet hall door opened, and a dark-haired boy shoved the rest of a creme puff into his mouth. The butler sighed, and Mrs. Wayne raised an eyebrow, a very appropriate reaction, Claire thought, because most boys she had the misfortune of meeting foamed at the mouth on a good day. Boys were a complete disaster. But Doctor Wayne just laughed and motioned him over.
“Chum,” Doctor Wayne put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “These are the Hawthornes,” She frowned at the boy’s seriousness. This one was weirdly serious. No one was that serious after eating a creme puff. “And their daughter Claire,”
Her father, the traitor, pushed her forward while Bruce approached. She’d never been more glad that she was taller than every boy her age. Bruce shook her hand. “How do you do,”
She yanked her hand back, “Fine,” and her wariness or the way he rolled his eyes didn’t matter as the parents had already moved to the dining table. Between her dad’s easy laughter, her mom’s pleading glances between courses, and Bruce’s way too formal manners, Claire spent most of the lunch hiding chopped asparagus in the folds of an extra napkin nearby.
Mrs. Wayne never really seemed to touch the ground. She only floated from place to place, corralling and beguiling people to follow along, which was how the parents ended up in Doctor Wayne’s office pulling out city schematics and pipeline plans.
Mr. Pennyworth, hands clasped behind his back, offered, “Would Miss be interested in exploring the library perhaps?”
Miss did, in fact; so she followed close to his coattails, down the grand hall littered with gleaming regalia and standing displays of knights' armor. He stopped in front of double oak doors, “the library, Miss,” before opening one.
Excitement fluttered in her belly, but she managed a quick, “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth,” dashing inside.
Sunlight streamed through the skylight. Her head moved on a swivel. Two stories of books with shelves filled to the brim. Moveable ladders, knickknacks, statues, Persian carpets. The butler chuckled behind her, but she decided to forgive him.
She rubbed her cold hands together because, despite the two fireplaces, it was still freezing in here. And also keeping her hands underneath her armpits kept her from touching too much. She would hate for the greatest day of her life to end because her mother was forced to kill her for breaking something in Wayne Castle. She made unfortunate eye contact with a weird Egyptian cat statue. Besides, some things were too ugly to even be worth breaking.
She held her hands above the fire close to the fireplace near the huge desk in front of a window. She glanced over her shoulder, and a golden illustrated book cover looked back. She crossed the rug. Shining letters read, “King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table.”
A slow grin spread across her face. She paused in reaching for it on its stand. She glanced over both shoulders. No parents or butlers. Fire crackled, but no attack dogs or gargoyles growled. She took this as a sign that her grubby little paws were welcome here. Standing on tiptoes, she pulled the book from its stand and placed it on the desk. Her fingers traced the raised ivy designs before her eyes locked onto the embossed sword in the middle— Excalibur. She flipped through the pages until she reached,
“Guinevere,” she gasped, reverent fingers tracing down the deep red gown, lined with furs and swirling gold, as she held the coronation orb and scepter. The court surrounding her stared at their new queen but Guinevere only had eyes for one person— the king who knelt before her before placing the crown on her head, proclaiming the new queen of Camelot.
“Guinevere?”
Claire yelped, shutting the book, clutching it to her chest. Spinning around, there stood Bruce Wayne, arms crossed over his gray sweater with a judgmental frown. That creep. But Claire still remembered enough of her manners for the both of them.
Her cheeks burned. Raising her chin, “She’s my favorite,” she dared him to argue.
He scoffed, nose wrinkling, moving closer, “Eww. Why, she’s completely useless,”
Her temper flared, heat flying up her neck and down her arms. Something she hadn’t felt since Jack decided to play keep away with her favorite Barbies. “She is not!”
He shrugged, “is so,”
Her jaw dropped. How could he say that? He might have been polite, but he was stupid. Her eyes narrowed. She set the book back on the desk, her little fists clenching when he continued,
“She can’t even sword fight. What’s even the point of keeping her around?”
The art of words and diplomacy was evidently lost to him. She eyed a ruler on the desk, because now he had challenged her honor and Guinevere’s, and therefore, he must die. “Fine,” the word erupted from her. “But I can, so you better take it back,”
“What, sword fight?”
“Yes, my big brother taught me.” She gritted her teeth, tapping an impatient Mary Jane. “So take it back,” she warned.
A smarmy little smirk worked its way onto his face. At least when he was serious, she didn’t feel like punching him. “So. What are you gonna do about it?”
Annoyance worked its way out of her throat. She grabbed the long ruler, brandishing it under his nose, “I’ll run you through and throw you over the turret,”
Bruce’s eyes crossed at the ruler under his nose. “Seriously? You can’t—,”
It seemed Claire had had enough of diplomacy too. Her battle cry echoed through the library, “Say Guinevere’s not useless!” She said with a wide swing.
Bruce ducked, yelling, “Wait! I wasn’t ready!” Rolling underneath the desk, he reemerged with another ruler on the opposite side, grinning wildly. Claire advanced, and Bruce raised his own just in time to block her attack.
“Real knights are always ready!” She grunted. The rulers clacked together, loud enough to rival the snap of the fire. Bruce swung wide, narrowly missing a stack of books, while Claire darted forward with a jab that sent him scurrying backward. “I am Sir Guinevere, surrender!”
Bruce was aghast, “That’s not how it works!”
Claire leaped over an armchair. “It is now!”
It was a flurry of parries and dodges. Before long, she forgot that it wasn’t a fight to the death and laughed because he wasn’t a terrible sword fighter. He swung like he wasn’t afraid she was a girl, and that already made him better than half the boys at school.
He tripped over the rug, landing on his back. She laughed, pointing the ruler at his chest. She loomed over him, and he didn’t even seem mad.
He held up his hands, admitting, “Fine, she isn’t…completely useless,”
She grinned, pushing back her sweaty bangs, lowering her weapon. She gave a haughty sniff like she’d seen the older girls at school do, “Thank you,” before collapsing on the floor next to him. She frowned, “How come you’re not terrible like all the other rich kids at school?”
Bruce shrugged, “I dunno. I don’t go to school yet,”
Claire gaped. “You don’t go to school?” before grumbling, “Lucky,” then frowned again. “But you know how to read?”
Bruce objected, “Of course I know how to read. I’m not stupid,”
He was a little bit, but Claire wasn’t going to tell him. He was a boy, he couldn’t help it. He might grow up to be smart, like her brother had, but even he was stupid sometimes.
“So who’s your favorite?”
“What?”
“You know. Before I beheaded you and stuff.” she rolled her eyes. “Who’s your favorite at the Round Table?” She turned her head on the floor, but he refused to look at her, taking one of his serious moods again, like he was maybe even trying to have a thought.
“Claire!” Her mother’s voice came from down the hall. “It’s time to go,”
Claire waited for him to answer before she sighed, pushing herself to her feet and brushing off her dress.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Bruce,” she looked back briefly. “I’m sorry I had to decapitate you,”
She pushed her headband back onto her head and opened the door when she heard a soft voice behind her,
“Arthur’s my favorite,”
She smiled before running down the hallway to meet her parents. Arthur was his favorite, and he was brave, wasn’t he? He might not be totally hopeless.
-O-
“Excuse me,” Claire stopped at the hospital front desk, well aware of the image she made in her black evening gown, hair all askew from the open window in the taxi ride over to fight against the cigarette smoke soaked into the seats. She offered a pleasant smile to the receptionist, who looked perturbed to be at work past midnight. Which, completely understandable, as she would also not prefer to be in the middle of Gotham General, surrounded by junkies and people who generally smelled bad. “I’m looking for a new admittance,”
“Name?”
Her gown shimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights, a stark mismatch against the peeling linoleum floors and the pungent mix of antiseptic and desperation that lingered in the air. “Zella Hawthorne, please,”
“3103,”
Claire nodded, gathering up her skirts, “Thank you,”
The home healthcare nurse met her at the nurse’s station. Tonya had been with Claire since the beginning of her mother’s health troubles. A middle-aged woman with three teenagers, she was nearly unflappable. Tying her braids back at the nape of her neck, she said with regret, “Claire, I’m sorry I had to page you. I know you were busy this evening,”
Claire was already waving her off. Tonya had been from the same area of Virginia, near Manassas, where her mother had grown up. Those manners never left Claire either. “No, Miss Tonya,” she steeled herself with a deep breath, looking past her shoulder where 3103 was darkened with the room partially opened. “You did the right thing. And thank you for riding down with her in the
ambulance. I know having a familiar face with her made it easier,”
“I really don’t know what triggered this episode, honey. She’d been having a good evening to be honest with you. Talking about you and Jack,” Tonya gave a sympathetic smile before saying, “Bout how you’d be home with your daddy soon. She was catching a fit about Jack enlisting without telling her, but you could tell she was proud,”
Hot tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She cleared her throat. “Hmm. Well at least, she was thinking about… happy memories. At least she didn’t get to the part of the story where I followed him to the recruitment center,”
Her brow raised, but Claire saw her fighting a smile, “Oh, don’t worry, she did,”
“Oh, I need to call Jack. He always says that I don’t—,”
Tonya placed a hand on her forearm, stopping her from digging out her cell phone. “Already left a message. I’m sure he’ll call us back tomorrow,”
“Alright,” she nodded, swallowing. “Ok, good. That’s… good,”
Claire’s eyes flitted between the nurse and 3103. Tonya nudged her along. “Go ahead and check on her. I needed to check with the attending about her medication schedule,”
She squeezed her hand as she went past as Claire murmured, “Thanks,”
The darkened doorway seemed to stretch and blur as her feet carried her forward. She swallowed hard, bracing for the version of her mother she might find tonight. Claire hesitated at the door to Room 3103, her fingers grazing the cold metal handle. Her heart hammered in her chest. Taking one last breath, she pushed the door open.
The room was dimly lit by the glow of the machines humming softly around Zella. Her mother sat propped against a stack of pillows, her once-vivid auburn hair now streaked with gray, wild and tangled around her face. Her eyes were glassy, distant, fixed somewhere beyond Claire’s shoulder. Her glasses… where were her glasses? She could have lost them in the ride over… she should ask Tonya. Tonya always knew where everything ended up.
“Who is it?” Zella squinted against the stream of light from the hall. Claire hurried inside the door, shutting it. She crossed the room, setting her bag on the small table next to the bed.
She kept her voice light. “Hi, Mommy,” Her mom’s hand lay flat on the bed, and God, she wanted to take it. She wanted to—
Zella’s eyes narrowed, a glimpse of recognition and cognition before a slight smile rose to her face. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. You must have the wrong room,”
Claire’s heart clenched in her chest. “Oh? You’ll have to forgive me then. This is where the nurse told me to go,”
Zella waved her off, wedding ring glinting in the low light. “No, no. No sorries here. Besides, we match in a way. I’m waiting for my daughter to get here. Her brother is supposed to pick her up from school. I’m sure her father would but…” Zella’s head turned on her pillow. “You’ll have to stay. I just know she would love your dress,”
She chuckled wetly, “Ya think so?”
Zella nodded, “That girl… she loves her clothes that’s for sure. It’s a good thing too. It’s good for society members, to know what to wear and how to use what you wear.” Ah, there was her mother, the fundraiser general. “I think it’s all the Barbies she has. Sometimes I swear we’ll have to take a second mortgage,”
“Sounds like trouble,”
Zella hummed, “Girls are the best kind,”
“Speaking of trouble…” Claire rolled her bottom lip in between her teeth. “I heard Bruce Wayne made his way back into town,” Claire couldn’t say why she mentioned him, why she brought him up at all. Besides maybe for the fact she wanted someone else to mourn him with her. “Like the freaking prodigal himself,”
Zella shook her head, “I was so sorry to hear about Martha and Thomas. They were good people. I can’t imagine what that little boy… even if he was always a little odd but my Claire never minded it. She—,” Zella’s eyes went far away past her shoulder before focusing again. This time on her, and her heart jumped. “Claire?”
Her hands finally shot out, grabbing her mom’s hand. “Yes, mommy?”
There was no answer.
Claire’s smile was watery. She squeezed her mom’s hand, “I’ll call you tomorrow, ok?”
She remained quiet, eyes locked onto the far wall. Claire shut the door as quietly as she could behind her. She stood in the hallway and rubbed her temples.
It should have been easier by now, seeing her like this. But the ache didn’t dull, not really. Every time she walked into this room, she felt like she was stepping into a memory that no longer belonged to her. Her mother had always been so sharp, so quick to catch the details Claire tried to hide. Almost neurotically so. Drove her absolutely crazy when she was a teenager. Sometimes, she thought about trying to sneak out the window in front of her to earn one last lecture.
Maybe that was why Claire brought up Bruce. Her mother wouldn’t press now, wouldn’t see the contradiction in her words the way she would have years ago.
Two ghosts, she thought bitterly. Two ghosts that weren’t even dead, both haunting her in their own ways. She had come to the hospital to visit the living, but walked to the elevator carrying the dead. Her mother’s ghost followed her down the hall. And in the quiet of her mind, she realized Bruce’s did too. The past lingered like choking industrial fog, and she just wanted to breathe.
She slipped her fingers under her collar, nails easily finding the dainty golden chain. Her fingers ran across the charm— an intricately crafted golden sword: Take me up, cast me away—her Excalibur.
A nurse walked past.
The dead would have to wait another day.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Claire stepped in her path. “Which way to an ICU patient? His name is Tyrone Russell,”
Chapter 3: Still Got That Virginia Charm
Notes:
don't flame me this is claire's story and bruce is here to be pretty <3 he's such an angsty little girl sometimes
Chapter Text
Her subpoenaed financial records were finally delivered to her office— both for HorizonClear and for every damn one of their shell corporations that she could get her grubby little hands on. And now her shoebox office looked the part of struggling second-year attorney with the literal thirty-seven boxes stacked around her. She didn’t think she had been anywhere but her office and her apartment for at least five days, and the office was starting to smell like it.
Jack had already left four voicemails on her machine, and because she didn’t want him calling in an airstrike, she finally picked up on the second ring this time because she wasn’t a completely terrible sister.
“First off, if I could threaten an airstrike to make you get a life, I would have done that a long time ago,” Jack scoffed. Claire rolled her eyes, taking iut a new stack of files from a box labeled ‘subcontractors.’ “Secondly, the cover-up for the airstrike would be more trouble than its worth,”
It was Claire’s turn to scoff, “Oh, please,”
“What?”
“Like you would ever be capable of a successful cover-up,”
A bit of annoyed shuffling on the opposite line, then in a hiss, “I’ll have you know the Air Force is more than capa--,”
“It’s not the Air Force I’m doubting here, Lieutenant Colonel,”
She laid HorizonClear’s shell companies alongside each other-- EverGreen LTD, RiverStream Consolidated, and (her personal favorite) ClearPath’s Holdings and Accounts. Irony that obvious should be against the law. Next came the subcontractors for distribution of Maddox’s miraculous water filters generously donated over a period of the last five years. And could she also just say she was getting really tired of dreaming about that prick looming over her every night.
She grabbed her StickyNotes and purple pen. “Yeah, like, hi, Mom and Dad, this is my best-est friend Stephen. No, we met in basic, and he’s always at my place because he gets cold. He gets cold? Seriously, Jack. Coming out at a carhop with a boombox over your head would’ve been less embarrassing than that,” she tsked. “Think of Stephen’s feelings,”
A loud voice snickered-- not Jack either, and she grinned. “Yeah, honey,” with a tone sweet enough to choke someone. “What about my feelings,”
Claire could feel Jack’s nuclear scowl all the way from DC. “Shut up, both of you,”
“I’m just being a good sister-in-law,”
“You’re being fucking annoying is what you’re being,” he grumbled.
At the same time, Stephen called, “Thanks, Claire!”
“Hey, you called me, remember?” Claire arranged herself cross-legged in her bespoke office chair that she rescued from the street two blocks over.
She flipped the fan on. The desk fan whirred softly, blowing a loose strand of hair into her eyes. She tucked it back absently, scanning yet another spreadsheet of transactions. There was a rhythm to it—line after line of legitimate-looking payments for waste removal services, equipment, and employee salaries. Then, she realized Jack hadn’t said anything for longer than a minute. And it seemed like one of those serious silences where he was trying to figure out whether it was worth it to act like a big brother. Or worse, offer emotional support. As it turned out, Claire still preferred it when he showed his support through impromptu WWE sessions in the living room. But lately, he’d been faking it out with so-called back problems.
He took a deep breath, and Claire cringed, “Look, if this is about Bruce--,”
He deflated all at once. “Bruce?” he repeated, confused frown palpable across the line. “Why would I be…Claire,” he warned. “Is there a reason I would be asking about that rich shithead?”
Her hand flinched, knocking over her cup of pens. She lunged to grab them.
Oh, shit. Abort. He didn’t know. He never checked the society pages anymore. Shitshitshit.
Trying to grab the pens, her hand knocked against the switch on the fan, kicking it to the highest setting. File papers flew everywhere— off the table, into the floor, under filing cabinets, against the window.
“Shit!” She jumped from her chair. The receiver fell from her hand, and she fumbled to catch it, slipping it between her ear and shoulder.
Stephen’s voice floated back, “Oh, yeah, he came back to Gotham last week. At that gala your family came up with,”
She froze. Claire’s heart dropped into her stomach before she hissed, “I take every nice thing back, you traitor,”
She ran around the desk, throwing the phone cord over the corner, yanking out the fan cord from the wall, and gathering her papers.
“He what?” Jack roared. “What the fuck, Claire? What was he even doing there? Did you--”
Claire tried for nonchalant. “C’mon, Jack. I doubt he even knew I was going to be there,”
“At the gala that you organize? He didn’t think you were going to be there?” he scoffed. “Be real, Claire,”
“Don’t be a dick,” Claire bristled, tapping papers against the desk, straightening them into orderly piles. “I’m surprised he even remembered my name. I haven’t seen him since--,” the words caught in her throat.
“Since he ditched you without so much as a goodbye,” Jack snapped. “Let me remind you, in case you forgot: you were a wreck. And I was the one peeling you off the floor.”
She straightened. “Well, I’m sorry I was such an inconvenience,” she bit out.
“Claire--!” he started, heated, before he paused and regained himself, and said more softly. She knew Stephen had something to do with that. “That’s not what I meant,”
Claire chewed the inside of her cheek.
“What I meant was that I don’t want to see you get hurt like that again. I still remember what you were like after he left. You weren’t just hurt—you were…” He trailed off, exhaling sharply. “I just don’t want to see you like that again. Especially not over some spoiled asshole like Bruce Wayne who didn’t know the value of what he had,”
Her breath caught, and she managed a wobbly smile. Claire stared down at the stack of papers in front of her, pretending to read them. Her hands shook just enough that the neat pile she’d been trying to organize slid apart again. “That was actually one airstrike I thought you might actually order,”
His next sigh was relieved. “Damn straight,”
“Can’t believe you made me spill my papers everywhere,”
“I’m not even there!”
Claire laughed. She stooped again, eyes scanning over the documents. Her hands froze mid-reach. “Oh my God.”
“What, you can’t blame me for something when I’m not there,”
Her brain worked faster than her mouth as her gaze darted between two columns of figures. “Wait…” she muttered, her voice barely audible over the buzz of adrenaline flooding her veins. She straightened up, holding the sheet closer to her face. Her other hand dug through the pile on her desk, frantically searching for the account management document she knew was there. Fuck. It had to be there.
Jack was still perturbed. “And don’t even say it’s all Bruce Wayne. What exactly are you working on, Claire? You’ve been dodging my calls all week, and don’t think I didn’t see the news about those kids in the hospital near your apartment block. I know that tone you get when you’re about to do something stupid—”
One payment, from ClearPath Holdings to “Gotham Logistics Solutions,” stood out. Unlike the others, it wasn’t processed through a bank. It was cash. Buried in red tape and bill payments. The amount—a cool $250,000—was suspiciously rounded.
“Who the hell pays a quarter million dollars for trash removal?” Claire grabbed her notepad, scratching down the dates.
The first was the cash payment to Gotham Logistics Solutions, dated September 12th. The second—a maintenance report—showed that HorizonClear’s magical filters at their main processing facility were flagged as “non-operational” from September 11th to September 14th.
Claire grabbed both papers, her pulse stuttering. She shuffled through the rest of the maintenance logs. A pattern emerged: every time the filters were listed as offline, Gotham Logistics received a matching cash payment, often within the same week.
Her mind raced. If the filters were turned off, the chemical waste would have had nowhere to go—except straight into Gotham’s storm drains, the rivers, and apartment blocks. She sat back, the papers clutched in her hands, her heart pounding. It wasn’t just incompetence or equipment failure. She’d been hoping for negligence for a settlement suit for Tyrone. But this… This was intentional. And the cash payments? Hush money to the people doing the dirty work—or paying off someone higher up.
But that name, she thought. I’ve heard that name.
And judging from the sinking stone in her gut— not in a positive way.
“What about trash removal?” Jack repeated, incredulous.
Claire stood, bare feet scattering papers. Spinning, she reached for the backed issues of the Gotham Star she’d added on the little end table in front of her desk. Nothing said homey like the current homicide investigations for the last five months.
“Claire, you’re starting to freak me out. Don’t. Stephen is already trying to put me on blood pressure medicine,”
“Because you refuse to do any other stress-alleviating activities. Well, publicly acceptable—,”
“Stephen?” Claire said, flipping through the newspapers.
“What, don’t hate. You’re brother’s hot,”
“No. Gotham Logistics. It was in the news. I remember it, but I can’t find…”
“Oh,” Stephen’s tone dropped.
“Oh?” Jack’s voice was sharp. “What do you mean oh?”
“It’s no good, babe, is what it is,”
She flipped through the September issue, right before she had cut off on her own and opened her own firm. Her breath caught. The Falcone trials. The Falcones had been diversifying their portfolio for decades, hiding their criminal empire behind legitimate-looking businesses. Waste management, infrastructure, construction—they had their claws in it all. And now it looked like they were working with HorizonClear to dump chemical waste. It was all intentional. Kids in the hospital— murder in slow motion.
A footnote at the bottom listed some of the shell corporations. The last might as well have been in bold, fluorescent lettering. Gotham Logistics and Account Management.
Her eyes widened, and for a long moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her ears rang. She straightened.
Claire’s voice caught in her throat, a strangled, panicked sound. “Jack…I gotta go,”
“What, no. You tell me what the hell is going on,”
She threw the cord back over the desk and scrambled back behind her desk. “I’ll call you later, ok. Kisses! Bye!”
“Claire, don’t you fucking—!”
She pulled the phone cord too roughly. “Love you!” She lunged, grabbing the receiver before it could hit the floor. Her numb fingers fumbled to punch in Montoya’s personal line. “C’mon, c’mon. Pick up, pick up,” her hand slid the papers next to one another before she grabbed a red pen, circling the payment dates and companies. “Montoya? It’s Claire. No, no, I’m not fucking ok. You need to get me Dent. Now,”
-O-
The scent of roasting coffee beans and espresso brewing was enough to rouse even the most zombie-like defense attorneys and overworked court clerks. She tapped her fingers on the counter while the barista frothed milk, the whir of the machine blending with the low buzz of murmured conversations. Every coffee choice burned like gasoline, but those were the best sellers across the street from the courthouse. Mainly because no one was allowed to sell booze because of zoning laws this close to the courthouse.
Her eyes drifted down to the newspapers for sale beneath the counter. A dark figure blurred across nearly every front page cover. It was easy to ignore Bruce Wayne’s presence as long as she ignored tabloids in grocery lines. But the other guy. Now he was interesting. The papers were absolutely eating it up. And why wouldn’t they? If they bleed, people read. Gotham's own Dark Knight was what they called him.
She grabbed one of the papers, depositing her change for it into a nearby jar.
Calling him the Batman or some shit. She shook her head, fighting a disbelieving smile. A new entry for the Looney Bin at Arkham, but at least this one had the decency to take out a few drug and human trafficking rings on his way out. Sure, it sold papers, but Claire could give credit because saving the people most people stepped on wasn’t nothing.
A baked barista called out, holding a white disposable cup. “Double shot latte for..uh.. Lair?”
Claire stalked to the counter, swiping the drink. “It’s Claire, dude,” she took a burning sip, grimacing at the guy. “Seriously? Whose name is Lair?”
He shrugged and walked off. Claire slid the newspaper under her arm, rolling her eyes. She turned, buttoning the top of her wool coat when she collided with a fucking wall. But normally walls didn’t grunt in pain.
Her coffee hadn’t spilled, thank God. She gasped, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying—,” She looked up to find Bruce Wayne looking down at her with a grimace, holding a hand to his ribs. Her face slackened. “Bruce,”
“Funny seeing you here,”
He looked around before taking her arm, directing her out of the line of traffic. And in her shock, she let him. And then she realized Bruce Wayne actually grunted, the only billionaire she’d ever met built like a quarterback, grunted like it hurt. Her eyes narrowed. The bags under his eyes had their own zip codes, and the stiffness in his posture screamed sleepless nights. She frowned. No billionaire party was worth that.
She returned, dubious. “Yeah, you’re absolutely right. A lawyer across from the courthouse, super funny,”
Bruce gave a faint, hungover smile. “Speaking of that, I hear congratulations are in order. I heard about your filing.”
“And I heard about you getting the company back,” she said, leaning back slightly. “The stocks are up. Good for you.”
His eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe. But before he could reply, she crossed her arms. “What do you want, Bruce? What are you really doing here?”
His eyes narrowed before he tried neutrally, “Like I said, everyone’s talking about the filing. Corporate’s buzzing,” he said. “You should’ve heard what Maddox’s assistants had to say about the whole thing,”
Her heart dropped. She cleared her throat, unwilling to meet Bruce’s hard stare for a moment before she remembered she didn’t owe him anything. For a moment, she thought airhead Bruce might have been easier to deal with. She was out of practice with this Bruce.
“Everybody, huh?” She sipped her latte and tried to ignore the third-degree burns in her mouth. She tried for levity. “You sound like you’ve been talking to Jack,” shaking her head. “But somehow I doubt that would have turned out well for you. And he wouldn’t be that desperate,”
His stoicism was still as good as she remembered. An angry flush worked its way up her neck. She wanted to demand, Now? You’re gonna do this now? You’re going to pretend you care in front of my colleagues and Brian the Baked Barista? I’m not the teenager you left on the Gotham airport runway, you complete dick.
She didn’t get the chance to show him her new offensive law skills when tires squealed outside followed by the bright flash of a camera bulb. The camera flashes were blinding, even through the window. Bruce swore under his breath, a sharp, irritated sound, ducking further underneath the popped collar of his overcoat. Apparently, it was hard to duck when you were 6’3.
She sighed a long breath, and she hated that her anger dissipated with it. “Alright, look. There’s a back door,” she said quietly, nodding toward the kitchen. “Goes out to the alley. You’ll be able to get back to your car or however you got here. The staff won’t stop you if you keep your head down.”
His eyes flicked to hers, startled, and for just a second, they softened. “Thanks. I owe you,”
She shook her head. “No. For old times sake, y’know,”
For a moment, it seemed he wanted to object, but that didn’t matter. The words caught in his throat. It didn’t matter what Jack said either. Her Bruce was gone, but that didn’t mean she wanted this one to suffer. He’d already done enough of that, and maybe he’d let go of… everything.
He didn’t respond. She nudged him. “Time to go.” He nodded. “And Bruce?” He turned his head as he stood at her side. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad…” she took a bracing breath. “I’m glad you got back safe,”
The words were heavy as they left her. She didn’t wait for his response and didn’t look back as she exited the coffee shop. Gotham smog grounded her even as more paparazzi swarmed. It was the first deep breath she’d taken in two weeks, it felt. She took a sip of her coffee and kicked a patio chair into the path of a paparazzo taking the lens of his camera. The man flew over the metal chair, landing in a snowbank outside the door. Glass audibly cracked, and she smiled in bratty triumph.
“What the hell, you bitch!”
Claire flipped him off over her shoulder as she crossed the street back to the courthouse. Who said she’d lost that Virginia charm her mother had passed down?
Chapter 4: The Fountain Pen
Notes:
they have a lot of feelings ok
Chapter Text
Claire received her invitation for her quarterly tea with Alfred promptly on February 20th, as she always did. The tradition had been a lifeline during her 1L through 3L years, a reprieve from the constant grind of law school. Alfred had a knack for listening without judgment, allowing her to vent about professors, classmates, and even the occasional existential crisis. He’d scoff and hum in all the right places, his dry wit like a balm for her frazzled nerves.
He was so similar to her father some days—same razor-sharp wit, same annoying penchant for unsolicited wisdom that always landed precisely where it was needed, no matter how much she tried to resist it.
But this time, as she stared at the elegant cream-colored card, her hand had hesitated over the phone. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Alfred. It was Bruce.
Lately, he was everywhere. He was popping up like fucking tuberculosis in a Dickens novel. Have court one day? Bruce Wayne was photographed having a coffee date across the street. Jog around the park? Oh, guess who’s doing a ribbon cutting in the Diamond District. Every glance and every shared space pulled her back to things she didn’t want to think about, to questions she didn’t want to ask. Short of hanging a 'Go Away' sign around her neck or begging Gotham's new Mr. Pointy Ears to drop her off a rooftop, she was out of options. Stephen suggested stopping looking for him to pop up, but she didn’t think she would ever be able to stop looking for Bruce.
Still, she had sighed and reached for the phone. Tea with Alfred wasn’t something she was willing to give up—not even for Bruce Wayne.
So, now here she stood, willingly knocking on the door of the lion’s den at 11 am sharp. Well, technically banging the lion-headed doorknocker, but same difference. Hands stuffed her pockets and her collar popped against the chill, she looked up with a slightly rueful grin at the two gargoyles staring back—Greg and Denise, her loyal stone-faced audience. It was still a cool castle though.
The door opened promptly, and Alfred Pennyworth, in all his dapper glory, smiled. She was helpless not to grin back.
“Miss Hawthorne,” he said warmly. “Shall I take your—,” was all he managed before Claire threw her arms around his neck, and Alfred Pennyworth was nothing if not indulgent, of her especially. He chuckled, pulling her out of the cold and shutting the door behind her. “Hello, my dear,”
She squeezed one last time, breathing in familiar spices and spearmint. “Hi, Alfred,”
He smiled kindly, “Come, let’s get out of the cold, shall we,” he took her hand, placing it in the crook of his arm. “I found this delightful chai from the Ivory Coast. It’s been at the back of the cabinet awaiting your arrival,”
“Ooh, breaking out the good stuff, aren’t we?”
The smile turned a bit mischievous. “Indeed, Miss,”
Soon, Claire was cocooned by a cushy armchair and two roaring fires. Alfred sat adjacent to her and poured the spiced tea into their cups. She curled her legs underneath her, accepting the drink. “Oh, Alfred,” her eyes widened. “This is delightful,”
A bit smug, he settled his cup and saucer in his hands, “It is rather delightful,” before he shook his head. “Master Bruce never grasped the art of a good cuppa,”
Claire’s eyes darted away, her fingers flexing against the cup, “and uh… where is the young master these days,” and then winced at her own question.
“The young master?” Alfred’s arched brow made her regret even asking. “Ah, yes, well. I’ve yet to see him.” He sipped his tea. “Though I expect the grand entrance to be as dramatic as usual habits dictate,”
Despite the flush racing up her face, she laughed. “The new usual?”
Alfred’s eyes twinkled. “The constant and perpetual usual,” another sip, then, “But enough about all this, tell me what you’ve been doing since I last saw you. From rumors circulating in upstairs and downstairs circles, it must be something quite daring,”
She had the sudden urge to adjust the collar of her turtleneck, but she still reached for her purse. She found Tyrone’s picture, her thumb tracing the familiar path of his gap-toothed smile. “Meet Tyrone Russell,”
“Handsome fellow, isn’t he,”
“His mother was the first to come knocking on my door when I first opened. The doctors are saying they caught heavy metal poisoning just in time,” she remembered how light his hand felt in hers inside that ICU room. “But it's funny how the doctors' estimates date back to HorizonClear's philanthropic act of installing new filtration systems in economically disadvantaged neighborhoods. It’s almost like the filters either aren’t working or there’s been more instances of dumping in the river system,”
“Good Lord,” Alfred leaned forward. “You don’t mean—,”
“I have enough,” she said straightening in her chair. “I have enough for the court that they’ll have to settle and give the families what they’re owed,”
“And why do I feel there’s something you’re not saying,”
“We have a good DA, Alfred,”
“Yes,” he looked at her overtop his glasses. “If I recall there were some semi-frequent meetings between you and Mr. Dent during your law internships perhaps,”
She cleared her throat, and now she really felt like adjusting her collar. “Besides the point,” she dismissed. “I’m saying that once WayneTech labs get back to me, then the criminal charges will have a leg to--,”
“You do realize, miss, that should you accept the permanently open position that I am authorized to give you then…”
“Oh, come on,” her head fell back on a groan. “You can’t still be on this. Can you really imagine me as the head of legal of anything? You know I wouldn’t do corporate. My head would explode or something equally nuclear,”
“And yet here you are against one of the most powerful corporations in the Northeast,” he said pointedly. So pointedly in fact that Claire made a pointed effort to divert her attention to the chai instead of making eye contact. “Really, Miss Hawthorne,” he said, and it felt slightly scolding. “I’m only trying to say it is easier to wage war with an army behind you,”
A heavy door opened behind them with equally heavy footfalls hitting the stairs. Her heart dropped into her stomach, but she still turned in her chair in time to see Bruce descend the grand stairs. His dark hair stood on end, sleep-mussed and stupidly charming, with stubble shadowing across his face. She didn’t think he’d been old enough to know what a beard was when he left. His robe hung open over a pair of silky navy pajama pants worth more than her apartment, exposing a long line of muscle that she had absolutely no business noticing. She still looked though-- hey, emotional damage reparations.
His feet hit the bottom floor, and Alfred sighed, probably at the great inconvenience of his employer. Though perhaps more reminiscent of an impatient father, she thought. But even Alfred’s impatience was polite, “Master Bruce, if I might suggest… a robe that closes perhaps,”
Bruce didn’t startle until he noticed Alfred’s companion-- Yes, hello, hi. That would be her-- then he was cloistering himself tighter than a nun’s knees.
Her gaze flicked to the bruises blooming like ink stains along his collarbone. “Oh, my God, Bruce. What happened?” she gasped and started to get up before she remembered who he was. More importantly, who she was. She cleared her throat, setting her cup and saucer on the table between herself and Alfred.
His eyes widened, darting between Alfred and herself. “Squash tournament,” he said. Claire blinked dumbly.
“Squash tournament?” she repeated. Her gaze snagged on a dark splotch just beneath his ribcage, the faint purples and greens of a deep bruise mottling his skin. She glanced lower and saw another one blooming over his hip bone. She’d seen her dad after he’d been mistakenly moved from protective custody to Gen Pop for twelve hours with similar marks. Those weren’t from squash unless they had suddenly started including tire irons in the game.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Alfred roll his eyes. A thoughtful frown drew down the corners of her mouth while Bruce tied his robe. She wondered if famous lawyers past also saw questions literally whirling around their eyes. Or if perhaps this was the first sign of insanity.
“Rough squash tournament for charity,” he said with a paper-thin smile.
The questions caught in her throat, a strange strangled noise leaving her instead. Claire pressed her lips together. “Maybe next year just cut a check and leave,”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,”
Alfred stood. “Well, now that everyone’s here,” Alfred interjected smoothly, “I shall retrieve the honey scones, as requested. Do try not to tear each other apart before I return should the urge for a squash match arise,” he said as he left the room. “You’ll find the coffee on the tray, sir,”
He avoided Claire’s eyes. “Thank you, Alfred,”
She didn’t know it was possible for a man his size to slink across a room, but he was trying his damnedest. She took another sip of her chai as he poured steaming coffee into a cup.
“You know, you do avoiding differently than anyone else who’s ever tried it with me,” she said with forced lightness.
Bruce’s mouth tightened. “How so?” He grimaced at the strong coffee as he took Alfred’s seat.
Claire pushed the sugar bowl to him. He heaped two teaspoons into his coffee as she continued, “You pop up in every corner of my peripheral vision, but you’ve apparently become allergic to saying hello,”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Perhaps, this was the glare that earned back Wayne Enterprises from the board. She wasn’t impressed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she turned in her seat to face him, “if you have something to say, then say it, otherwise my head’s been turning so much you’re giving me whiplash,”
He then decided this was the best time to engage in some very intense staring instead of acquiescing. What was she supposed to do with this? Align the stars with his eyes and interpret his meaning through that? Speak words, good fellow, or relinquish any weird hold on her life. She ignored the shiver rolling down her spine the longer his blue stare locked on hers.
Her cell phone trilled in her pocket, and she startled, catching the cup but not the saucer. She thought of Alfred’s devastation at an incomplete set. But before she could fully imagine the expression, Bruce’s leg jerked to the side. The edge of the porcelain saucer bounced off his shin, landing in the palm of his hand. He set the floral English porcelain on the side table. Eyes wide, she looked at him when he winced, grabbing his ribs.
“Bruce!” Her legs swung down from her chair as she reached for him. This time she knew hurt lined her face when he recoiled. She pulled her hand back, looking down briefly. “Bruce, what is going on? Whatever you’re doing, you’re hurting yourself,”
He shook his head, leaning back in his chair, “Your phone’s still ringing,”
Claire grabbed the Nokia, cleared her throat, and answered, “Hawthorne,”
“Hawthorne? Tha’ any way to greet a friend who’s doin’ ya a favor?”
She normally found the Irish brogue charming, but the headache behind her eyes prevented her from finding much enjoyment in anything. “Seamus, dark overlord of all,” she said dryly. “It’s a wonder I ever lived without you and your mass spectrometer,”
He gave a discerning sniff before, “That’s better,”
“What’s the lab got for me?”
Bruce, who’d silently migrated to lean against the doorway, watching the exchange with practiced disinterest, straightened at the mention of a lab. Despite the exhaustion in his features, his focus sharpened like a predator. She ignored him, and that was easier the longer Seamus talked.
“Hazardous levels of chemical runoff and heavy metals?” Her stomach curdled, and she thought Alfred’s scones might be wasted today. “Lovely,”
“Yer tellin’ me, sunshine. Remind me to never buy whatever filters they’ve got on their hands. They don’t work for shite,”
“Any particulars you’d like to share?” She fumbled in her bag for her notebook and pen. She flipped the pad open, still scrambling for—
A tap on her shoulder, and Bruce held out his fountain pen. She didn’t currently have a moment to care how he conjured it up, only that he had it. She nodded her thanks scribbling down the chemical abbreviations and other bacteria that he spouted off.
“But these types of companies no matter who they are… they operate in their own special patterns and operating procedures. And I’m no forensic chemist, but if I had to say—,”
Hope sparked in her chest. “There’s a way to trace it?”
“Find me those filters, and I’ll make ‘em match up,”
“Seamus, you are a beautiful man,”
“Get in line. What don’t ya? Though I could throw in a good word to have ya put further up the queue,”
Bruce’s jaw worked before he forced another sip of coffee.
“Thank you again. Fax that over when you get the chance. But Seamus? Maybe keep this between us for now, huh? I don’t need plaintiffs getting their hopes up,”
“Or tipping off producers. Loud and clear,” he said before shamelessly charm took over, “But about movin’ up the queue,”
She shook her head, suppressing a little grin. “Goodbye, Seamus,”
“Didn’t know you were that close with my environmental health science lab employees,”
His tone set her on defense. “Last I checked, a person can’t be anyone’s,”
“And last I checked, my name is the one on all the signs,”
“Not one,” she seethed, grabbing her coat off the back of her chair. “Not mine. Not ever,”
Bruce’s hand wrapped around her upper arm, spinning her around to face him as her eyes burned. Her heart pounded, chest rising and falling rapidly. “You don’t know what you’re doing. It goes further than just Maddox, and he would be bad enough alone,”
“Oh, so the playboy can read beyond his conquests in the society pages,” she sniped and refused to back down when his eyes flickered. Instead, she jerked her arm away, ignoring the hurt in his eyes. If he could have an enormous bubble, she could too. “And yes, Mr. Wayne, I am well aware of the fact that the Falcones soften HorizonClear’s bed and make EPA checks go silky smooth,”
“Claire--,”
She slung her coat over her shoulders. “And if it truly is a problem, I can outsource future water and soil testing to Metropolis,” she marched toward the front door. “I wouldn’t want to waste your valuable resources,”
Snapping from his stupor, he stalked across the hall and made to take her arm again. Claire recoiled, a sneer curling her mouth. He held up his hands, saying more softly, “Would you please just listen?” and she wanted there to have been condescension.
She hated that she could still tell when he was hurt. That she’d probably hurt him worse than whoever messed up his ribs. What a hell of a way to figure out that Bruce fucking Wayne still cared.
“No. You’ve had weeks to talk. I might’ve listened,” her eyes burned, and she should have listened to Jack. She didn’t care how badly he had broken her heart the first time. No one sent her to the floor, to her knees. Not anymore.
“But now, you’re going to listen to me.” she buttoned her coat. “I don’t know who you came back as, but he isn’t who left as far as I can see. And now, I’m doing what we started, what we planned for Gotham. Because it hasn’t gotten better in the last eight years. That’s for damn sure. In fact, it’s gotten worse. And I’m well aware that people better than me have died trying to fix it.” her voice cracked. “And if I have to--,”
She bit her lip, pulling her hair out of her collar, and he looked stricken.
A rather shocked Alfred balked. “What on Earth--?”
Tears finally choked her, and she spun to face Alfred. She swiped underneath her eyes and offered a watery smile. “I’m sorry, Alfred. Something urgent’s come up at the lab, and I have to go. We’ll go to lunch next week, my treat. I promise,”
Claire turned on her heel and strode back out into the winter cold, ignoring how he called her name.
-O-
She checked for the fax in her pocket for the seventh time in as many minutes. Still folded away in her inside breast pocket, the fax seemed to burn. Excalibur weighed heavily around her neck, and she wished for the Lady of the Lake to pop out of one of the chunky snowflakes falling to say, “Oh, never mind. I meant to give this enormous crushing responsibility to someone else. My bad.” And after Wayne Manor, Seamus’ readouts had been just the depressing pick-me-up she’d been hoping for. It was a damn miracle Tyrone was alive at all.
A drunk couple stumbled past, laughing, dragging their feet through accumulating snow. It fell gray instead of white on the sidewalks in the lengthening shadows of street lamps. One of them bumped her shoulder, and her bag dropped to her elbow. She threw a glare over her shoulder before throwing the strap across her body instead. She checked for the fax again.
“God, Claire. Really,” she groaned. “This kind of neurosis is special, even for you,”
Her brain was feeling mean that evening so she was promptly provided with who taught her to plan contingencies for contingencies. The way his voice dipped when he asked her to just listen. How his eyes were almost wounded when she left. She clenched her jaw and walked faster.
Familiar shadows deepened, blanketing the city as night approached. The silence as she neared her apartment block provoked unease. No, not total silence. There was no such thing in Gotham City. But it was muted, like someone had thrown a heavy quilt over all the noise like all the taxis backfiring, wives catching husbands cheating, or the steady march of factory workings marching in and out of graveyard shifts. Claire wrapped her coat tighter around herself, the winter air biting at her skin. Streetlights buzzed overhead, flickering weakly, casting pools of sickly yellow against the pavement. Snowmelt dripped from rusted fire escapes, forming slick patches along the sidewalk.
Then again, over and over, every sharp word she’d thrown at Bruce, the way his eyes darkened when she wrenched free of his grasp.
You don’t know what you’re doing.
Oh, so the playboy can read beyond his conquests in the society pages?
She swallowed hard. Maybe she’d gone too far. Maybe—
Footsteps.
Too steady. Too even. Not the aimless shuffle of a drunk or the hurried pace of a commuter.
Footsteps echoing behind her.
Her spine prickled first. A cold weight pressed between her shoulder blades. Not touch—awareness.
Someone was there.
Her breath fogged too fast in the frigid air.
Claire’s pulse picked up. She didn’t turn around—never turn around—but she adjusted her pace, stepping toward the street, closer to the wash of headlights. A car passed, its tires hissing against wet asphalt.
The footsteps adjusted with her.
Her stomach tightened. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Her hand slipped into her pocket, her fingers wrapping around the sharp edges of her keys. She reached the next intersection, forced to pause at a Don’t
Walk signal. She dared a glance at the darkened storefront beside her, the glass reflecting the faintest outline of—
The signal changed. A shadow surged in the glass—
Then, impact. A white-hot burst behind her eyes. The world tilted.
Nausea came before the pain. Her knees buckled as rough hands shoved her into the alley behind Baldacci's deli. Someone caught her under her shoulders, sneering in her ear in a gravelly voice laced with amusement.
“Someone sent us to say hello,”
Another man in a dingy work uniform approached. Claire blinked through a dizzy haze, the concrete shifting under her feet. “Yeah, well, they should have sent you with breath mints, ya know that,”
The backhand came before she could comprehend the other man had moved. Blood filled her mouth as the arms holding her up tossed her aside. Her fingers scraped the brick as she tried to catch herself. She skinned her knee, ripping her hose to shreds.
“Ya looking into stuff you don’t belong in. You shoulda walked away,” he hovered over her back as she wiped blood from the corner of her mouth.
Hands shoving herself off the ground, she gritted her teeth and decided she wasn’t going to die on her knees. Her elbow flew back into his groin, and he stumbled back, howling, and her heel slammed into the other’s shin. She started to run before a rough hand wrenched her back by the hair. Her hands flew to her head. Slung like a rag doll back against the wall, her arm was twisted painfully behind her back.
One of them grabbed his ribs behind her, growling, “Hate to kill a doll with so much fight in her,”
The other, “Fuck her. I don’t,”
A gun cocked behind her. Adrenaline shot down her neck as she shook off the grip on her arm, spinning to lean against the alley wall. She hated her body trembled as one approached, grabbing her chin. “Shoulda been an ambulance chaser instead,”
“Fuck. You.” Anger glimmered in her eyes.
A wicked smile crossed his face before Mr. Trigger Finger flinched at the sudden rush of air in the alley.
“Hey, Jimmy—,”
An impossibly large shadow stretched above them. All three looked up.
A wretched scream, “It’s the Bat!”
The man released her, and she crumpled to the ground. Both men grabbed guns in their waistbands, retreating to the center of the alley as the shadow fell.
Black tinged the edge of her vision.
The thud of boots hitting concrete in front of her, a rough voice ordering, “Stay down!”
The world tilted, and she fell. A gunshot, then nothing.
Chapter 5: She Didn't Look Back
Chapter Text
Antiseptic stung on her forehead. She flinched. Light seemed far away, and it was like she was fumbling to catch it with numb fingers.
A dull, throbbing ache spread from the base of her skull, each heartbeat pressing against her temples like a fist clenching and unclenching. The sharp sting of antiseptic flared against her forehead, dragging her fully into consciousness. A shadow hung over her.
Her fingers twitched, scraping against fabric. Shitty couch fabric. Shit, wait—her shitty couch fabric.
Claire’s breath caught as awareness snapped into place. Her eyes snapped open, and she blinked at the bright light shining down before a rough voice, “Hold still,” more antiseptic sting on her lip.
She blinked. A shadow loomed over her, broad and unmoving. Not just a shadow. A figure.
Her gaze flicked upward.
Black cowl. Heavy cape. A jawline like carved stone. Two perfectly pointed bat ears.
Oh.
Her fingers curled into the blanket draped over her. A heavenly afghan from Alfred. “You’re real,” she murmured.
No answer. Rude, but she gave him a pass. The guy had probably taken a bullet for her. Her eyes moved slowly over armor built for a man who was already a tank. So probably not an immortal Eldridge creature.
He was crouched beside her, a small light attached to his cowl illuminating her face as he carefully swiped an antiseptic pad over her temple. The contrast was almost surreal—his massive, armored frame and the precision of his touch. He’d had to move the coffee table to fit in between the small space. She’d thought about getting rid of it because of how many times the wrought iron had nearly taken her toe off in the middle of the night.
Her head fell back against the pillow. She should be happy she made it back here and not left on a rooftop or whatever cave he inhabited during the day with his other bat friends.
She tried to sit up. A sharp burn lanced across her ribs, but she clenched her teeth and pushed through it. A gloved hand dipped underneath her shoulder, lifting her up. She swung her legs over the side. “So,” she rasped, voice thick with exhaustion, “at least I didn’t wake up in a morgue.”
Batman made a noncommittal sound. A grunt.
Typical. Maybe that was part of the terrifying schtick. Different grunts indicated which bones he was going to break next… That curiosity brought to life by her undergrad journalism degree sparked to life.
Her gaze flickered around the apartment. Coat draped over the chair. Shoes lined up neatly beside the couch. Purse—intact—resting on the coffee table. God, she knew she should have listened to Mrs. Li and vacuumed regularly.
Her stomach twisted.
“You know where I live?”
A beat. Then, in that low, modulated rasp:
“Driver’s license.”
“Right. Of course.” Her hand drifted to her temple, fingertips grazing the fresh bandage. “Yeah, I guess locks don’t really mean much to you.”
A pause.
Then, with that same gruff neutrality:
“Locks don’t mean much in a shitty apartment.”
Claire scowled. “Rude.” She looked up to the ceiling. She didn’t know how well calling Batman a dick would go for her. “The clawfoot bathtub was what sold me. And beggars can’t be choosers,”
“Last I checked the Hawthornes weren’t hurting for money,”
“Must not have checked in a while then,” she shot back. “Don’t you read the news, Batman? We’re pariahs now. Bad luck to be seen with a Hawthorne these days.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. Her jaw ticked. “Might catch our curse,”
Everything ached—her ribs, her shoulder, the throbbing pulse in her skull—but she ignored it. She could feel his gaze even if she couldn’t see his eyes behind the light. Something worse than pity— curiosity.
“Most of my money goes to my office,” she muttered, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Startup costs. Court fees. You know, things that actually matter. I’ll live in a shitty apartment if it means someone gets a fair shot in court, even if they can’t pay upfront,”
He hummed again. But it didn’t sound judgmental. He didn’t argue, didn’t even call her crazy for it. And that was a welcome change. Something shifted in the air. Not sympathy. Not pity. But recognition.
Then: “You could’ve walked away.”
She wondered what his voice was like under the voice modulation, if it would be as deep and rolling as she imagined.
She laughed once, a quiet, bitter thing. “Yeah? That’s the thing about being stubborn with a righteous cause,” A pause. Then, softer, “I must be doing something right if someone wants me dead.”
Batman stilled.
His silence was different this time.
Cold. Angry.
He stood from the ground, hovering over her. “You think this is a game?”
Claire’s gaze snapped to him. “I think I know enough about Gotham to know how it works here. I’m getting closer, making them uncomfortable. And when I call the next press conference with a black eye, I hope they shit themselves,” she glared. “Besides, what do you even know about me? About my case? Aren’t I just your fifteenth damsel in distress this evening alone?”
He ignored her bait. “The case involving water contamination in Crime Alley. Illegal chemical dumping. HorizonClear’s equipment and chemicals and Falcone’s business covering it all up,”
Her eyes widened slightly. She shook her head, rubbing her temples. Of course, he knew. Gotham's own mystical cryptid probably knew what she was going to do before she did. She wanted to ask if he had any aspirin in that stupid belt he wore. “What, are you a court clerk in your day job? Or do you just send out bat spies to gather your intel?”
“You’re up against dangerous people, Hawthorne. People who don’t care about the law, only their bottom line. Tonight won’t be the last time they come after you.”
She met his gaze, wishing he’d turn that damned light off. “That’s what I’m counting on,” she said, and he stiffened. “Look, I don’t have a death wish despite what everyone seems to think.” She pushed herself to her feet shakily. His hand twitched, but he didn’t help her. “They can try. If they think a little muscle in an alley is going to scare me off, they don’t know me.”
Batman straightened, looming over her. But it didn’t feel intimidating or like he meant for it to be. Almost like he seemed to accept her words for what they meant. His silence this time felt like quiet approval.
“Bravery isn’t worth anything if you’re dead,”
“C’mon. That’s all you think I’m capable of?” the impish grin was painful but worth it. “Besides, I think you might’ve built up my street cred. Little lawyer like me being saved by the Bat? Some good stuff,”
She would swear he was fighting a little amusement. Her voice dropped, quieter now.
“You love this city.”
His shoulders tensed—so subtly it was almost imperceptible, but she caught it. So. She wasn’t wrong. She tilted her head. “You’re like me. Even though your eyeliner’s better than mine.” She regarded him carefully. “Who did you lose to make you like this?”
A long pause. Too long.
“…Not just one.”
Claire exhaled through her nose. Her mouth twisted, bitter.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “I know the feeling.”
She turned slightly, about to say something else—
“Look, do you need any ice or something?”
But when she looked back—
Gone.
The only sign he’d ever been there was the faint rustle of her curtains, the whisper of cold air seeping through the open window.
Claire stared, blinking once. Twice.
Then let out a breath, shaking her head.
“Huh. Neat trick.”
She pulled Excalibur from underneath her turtleneck, fingers tracing over the familiar worn shape, her heart panging with something she hadn’t felt in years. She shut the window, wincing. God, she needed ibuprofen.
She prodded her swollen lip.
And maybe a new face.
-O-
Eight years ago…
Tires screeched against the pavement as Claire slammed on the brakes of her Mustang, yanking the gear into park. The golden Excalibur necklace in her palm burned her skin.
She kicked the car door open, storming toward the jet stairs. “Bruce!”
The wind roared down the runway, whipping her hair into her face, but she didn’t stop. She shoved past the suitcases being loaded, past the faceless attendants, and straight toward him. “Bruce!”
He turned, mouth dropping a bit, surprised, but not nearly as surprised as he should have been. She was going to rip his hair out.
She ignored Alfred calling her name, throwing a glare for good measure, even if he had been the one to leave the message on her machine. He descended down the stairs meeting her halfway. She threw the necklace at his face, and he fumbled to catch it against his chest.
“You!” She accused, finger poised and ready, as she ran up to meet him on the jet stairway. He barely had time to react before she shoved his shoulder, her voice rising. “You just— your grand idea was to leave a stupid necklace in my dorm and vanish? Are you kidding me?”
“Claire—”
“No, no!” Her voice cracked, and her hands trembled even as she clenched them into fists. “You don’t get to just disappear on me!” Her jaw tightened. “What the hell were you thinking?”
His expression softened, but he didn’t try to touch her. “You know I have to do this.”
“No, you don’t.” Her breath hitched. She cupped his face, her hands desperate and trembling. The wind howled between them, and she wanted desperately to curl into the Armani coat and cable knit sweater. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Bruce smiled—soft, sad, knowing, and it felt like giving up. Like she’d already lost with no chance to fight.
“This, I do.”
Her chest ached, something cracking in the space between them. “C’mon,” she whispered, a watery laugh breaking through. “C’mon. I can’t be Guinevere without Arthur.” Her voice shook as she forced a smirk. “She’s the only reason he lived so long.”
His hands came up to hers, gently pulling them from his face, holding them in his own.
“Claire,” he murmured, voice thick, full of everything he couldn’t say. A surge of something desperate, something helpless, crashed over her. Before she could think, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that felt like a last chance.
She pulled back almost instantly, eyes wide, breathless. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t know why—”
Bruce didn’t let her finish.
He pulled her back, hard, broad hands wrapping around her waist, dragging her closer. She threw her arms around his neck. His lips crashed against hers like a balm, like a goodbye, like something he had wanted for so much longer than he would ever admit. God, why didn’t you tell me, Bruce? We could’ve—
For a moment, there was nothing but them—wind and warmth and the weight of goodbye. Then, as she pulled back, she felt it.
The necklace was no longer in his hand. He finished clasping it around her neck.
She looked up, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his eyes made her chest feel too tight, too full.
“I’ll come back for this,” he murmured.
She swallowed hard. “Come back for me.”
Bruce exhaled sharply, then kissed her forehead—lingering, reverent. A promise. Then he was gone, running up the jet stairs, shaking hands with the pilot, then disappeared.
Claire stood frozen, staring after him, barely registering Alfred’s gentle hand on her elbow, guiding her back down.
“Alfred?” She said in a daze.
His own voice was thick. “Come along, Miss. Don’t want you hurting yourself on the way back down,”
They stood in silence as the jet roared to life. The lights of the runway blurred in her vision, but she kept watching, kept waiting—
“He’ll be back,” she said, voice steady. Resolute. Alfred stared straight onward, steady soldier.
Then, softer, fingers curling around the sword at her throat—
“He’ll be back.”
-O-
Fire licked at her heels this morning, and opposing counsel were gritting their teeth. She’d never had an experienced court stenographer bite back a smile against her objections against opposing counsel. And oh, the look on their faces when they saw the bruises lining her face when she spoke to the press that morning. Daryl Sandusky and Paul LeRous, Gotham corporate sleeze who had gotten murderers, rapists, and corporate bastards off their raps for years. Those bastards had wanted to puke when she played the press, ignoring questions about her injuries but with enough that they could infer what they wanted and played to her strengths, showing pictures of sick kids. Sandusky and LeRous could go suck a dick, and thankfully, the judge agreed.
“Objection, your honor,” Sandusky said tiredly from the defendant's desk. “Leading questions pertaining to jury selection,”
Judge Meyer looked overtop her glasses, “Motion sustained. Living address does not constitute grounds for dismissal, Mr. Sandusky,” She said with a slightly satisfied twist to her mouth. She motioned with her head. “Continue, Miss Hawthorne,”
She nodded, “Yes, ma’am,” and went on. She ignored piercing glares and stares alike. Yeah, she knew makeup didn’t cover the bruises. That was the point, and she held her head higher. Every word had purpose, every pause measured. She didn’t need theatrics; she let the truth do the damage because it was theatrical enough.
She paced in front of the jury box, a slow leisurely pace in front of people from Crime Alley, the Water Board, the golf club, and Diamond District alike. Eyes followed her, and she didn’t let her heart pounding slow her gait.
“For years, they polluted this city’s water supply, and for years, they told the people suffering in their own homes that it wasn’t happening. That the symptoms—the sickness, the deaths—were coincidental. That it was in their heads. That it was in your heads.”
She paused, letting the weight settle. Then:
“But the evidence will show otherwise. The truth is not a coincidence. The harm was not an accident. And the people responsible—sitting right here in this courtroom—” A pointed glance toward the defense table, and she hoped Maddox felt the mental bird she was throwing his way. “knew exactly what they were doing.”
There was a scoff behind her. “Objection. This trial should not be—,”
The judge warned. “Mr. Sandusky—,”
The other held up placating hands, “Begging your pardon, your honor. What counsel meant…Your Honor, my clients have been more than cooperative. Miss Hawthorne is bringing forth so-called ‘secret witnesses’ with no credibility. This entire case is built on hearsay and speculation.”
Claire didn’t blink, continuing, “With all due respect, Counsel is mistaken. My evidence is neither hearsay nor speculation—it is scientific data, medical records, and firsthand accounts. And if opposing counsel is truly so confident in their clients’ innocence, then they should welcome this case proceeding so they can clear their name in front of a jury.” The crowd murmured amongst themselves. “It would be better business practice,”
Journalists shifted in their seat, itching to grab cameras and recorders despite the bailiffs' scrutiny.
She hid her wince as she turned back to the jury members. The judge pushed her glasses further up her nose. “Miss Hawthorne,” Claire’s head turned, “approach the bench please,”
She strode forward as Judge Meyer covered her microphone. “Miss Hawthorne…are you well enough to proceed today? There would be opportunities…”
Panic kicked up in her chest. “No, ma’am,” she swallowed. “I can assure you I am perfectly capable of proceeding with the preliminary today,”
The judge scrutinized, taking in bruises and scraped skin. Claire lifted her chin but kept her eyes soft. The judge finally nodded. “As you wish,” she dismissed her with a wave of her pen. With a bang of her gavel, “Adjourned for lunch,”
Everyone rose for the judges departure and Claire smiled faintly when LaRous groused behind her under his breath, “Bitch’s got the judge wrapped around her damn finger,”
Without turning or breaking stride, “And just imagine how much of a bitch I’ll be at trial,” she glanced over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Enjoy your lunch, boys,”
The smog was refreshing when she walked out, taking a deep breath as she was able without wincing. Adrenaline still thrummed in her chest. Ah, today could be a good day, she thought, making her way down the front stairs. If she could get her hands on a shitty latte and it could turn out better than good.
A light flashed in her eyes, and she winced. She had a moment before the press swarmed, yelling their questions,
“Miss Hawthorne! What proof do you really have of wrongdoing?”
“What does this mean for HorizonClear?”
“Is it true what they’re saying about the water! Miss Hawthorne!”
Claire slung her bag over her shoulder, shielding her eyes, heading toward the crosswalk, and was never more thankful that LaRous and Sandusky were deemed more interesting than her. The press fell back, dashing back up to the doors to the two more than happy to give a statement. She blew out a harsh breath, “Good luck, fellas,”
Then, a familiar gray figure on the side of the sidewalk, lost in foot traffic, leaning against a lamppost, like he’d been there for a while. The charcoal suit, the expensive coat—out of place here, but Bruce Wayne had always been good at looking effortless where he doesn’t belong. The soft glow of the streetlight cast sharp shadows over his face.
Her chest tightens.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither moves.
Then he gives her a small, almost sheepish wave, like he’d just been passing through—like he hadn’t been watching her. He was still watching her in fact, eyes roving over every bruise and cut. And for a moment, an unfamiliar anger cut through his eyes and threw her, looking like a hot, ugly thing he kept hidden, before he swallowed it away again.
She stalked over, stopping a few feet away, arms crossing over her chest. She looked up at him. “So. A parking ticket or something?”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk flickering across his face, amused and wary. “Gotham’s finest got me. Did you know there’s not even exceptions for double parking for a quarterly fiscal meeting?”
Claire didn’t answer.
Bruce cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “You were good in there.”
She shrugged. Did she have “pushover” stamped across her forehead? “I usually am.” She said. “What, you making court-people watching a new hobby?”
“Only when it’s someone—,” then stopped, clearing his throat.
She sighed tiredly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “Someone you what, Bruce?”
He hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket—a thick envelope. “I wanted to help.”
Claire stared at it.
Money.
Of course.
She shook her head. Her stomach twisted, like grief, anger, and sadness all tearing through her at once. This was all he knew how to do. Throw money, and everything would be hunky-dory. She’d bet her life that Alfred didn’t know he was here. Maybe more, she’d bet his Indian tea set.
She forced a tight, hollow smile. “And here I thought Wayne Enterprises was neutral on environmental lawsuits.”
Bruce’s expression hardened slightly. “Claire.”
Oh, so we’re doing this again. Great. But at least it looked like he was attempting to think through what he was going to say.
“Look, I know what you’re up against,”
Her eyes snapped to his. Claire fought the urge to scoff. Oh, do you? You went and held the hand of a dying kid in ICU? You went and collected over a hundred plaintiff testimonies for the civil suit? You had your ass handed to you in an alleyway by two dipshits twice your size?
Bruce shifted towards her, his frame blocking out most of the street. He hesitated briefly, “Look, I know with all the press and attention and the nonprofit, I just know your dad can’t be making this easy on you,” scratching the back of his neck.
The world tilted on its axis. Her ears rang. Her heart stuttered.
“And I know you won’t take anything from—,”
He didn’t know. He didn’t—
Her mouth parted, but only a choked breath escaped. Bruce must have finally decided to pay attention. His eyes widened briefly, alarmed, “Claire—,” he grabbed her shoulders, and she let him. Let him shuffle her out of the path of passersby. She tried to take a breath. Couldn’t. His voice changed, something deeper, more serious, hands moving clinical across her, prodding at every sore spot. “Claire, did you get medical attention from last night? I know you didn’t want me to ask…Did they— Claire!” He shook her.
A choking breath filled her lungs. Her nails dug into his forearms. “You think Dad is alive?”
Bruce recoiled, his features slackening. His face shifted, horror dawning in his expression breaking through that horrible detachment, the billionaire facade he’d cultivated in the eight years apart. “I—,”
Claire gasped through watery eyes. “Oh my God,” Claire breathed, hands trembling at her sides. “You didn’t know,” and it seemed Gotham’s prince could feel shock.
Voice raw, “Claire…”
She shook her head violently, backing away. “No,” her voice shook, but she didn’t falter. —” She swallowed hard, blinking fast. “You don’t get to stand here and act like you understand what I’ve been through when you don’t even know.”
Bruce stared at her, eyes dark and stricken, like he thought he knew everything and suddenly didn't know anything at all.
“Dad is dead, Bruce,” she said, voice sharp and cutting. “He died— was fucking murdered in his prison cell while you were off finding yourself. Or whatever weird new age term you decided to call it,” her throat tightened. “My mom doesn’t even know who she is most days, let alone me,” she seethed.
Bruce swayed slightly.
Claire blinked rapidly against the burning building in her eyes. So tell me, Bruce—this?” She gestured toward the envelope, her voice quieter now. Sharper. “This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”
Silence.
His fingers twitched around the envelope.
“You wanna help?” she pressed. “Change back. Or change again. Just. Change. But at this point, I don’t think you even know how.”
She whirled around before he could answer. She walked away, shoulders squared, ignoring the way her chest ached.
“Claire, wait!”
The press smelled fresh blood but didn’t follow her. They were too busy crossing the road to him. To Bruce Wayne. Bruce couldn’t move, just stood there—frozen, struggling—as the cameras flashed in his face, envelope crumbled in his hand.
Claire wiped her cheek, quickening her pace.
Jack had been right.
She didn’t need Bruce Wayne. And she hadn’t for a long, long time.
She didn’t look back.
Chapter 6: The "Oh Shit" Handle
Notes:
Bruce is trying guys i swear he just hates his own feelings and thinks Claire is pretty
Chapter Text
Claire’s pen scratched against her legal pad. She propped her head on her other hand, eyes dangerously close to closing. If insomnia and workaholic tendencies were the positives of walking away from Bruce Wayne a second time, then she would hate to see the negatives. She groaned, throwing her pen down, pressing her palms into her eyes. Her fingers ran through her hair before getting tangled halfway through. She shook her hand out of her waves with a grimace before deciding a ponytail might be safer. After she looked back down at the layers of depositions and statements she’d printed, she realized even her special green concentration turtleneck for exam days was doing nothing. She tapped a nail on the desk. She should have slept in, should have—
Her desk phone rang. She tried to clear the rough grogginess out of her throat before, “Hawthorne, PLC,”
Tonya’s voice broke through, “Very professional,” with a clear smile.
Claire went ramrod straight. “Tonya, what—,”
She chuckled. “Girl, one day you gotta stop going to the worst-case scenario,”
Claire attempted to relax back into her chair. “I don’t do that,”
Tonya’s hum was all that was needed to convey her feelings on the subject. “But, someone’s wantin’ to talk to you,”
Claire’s breath caught. “What— you mean…?” A slow smile warmed Claire’s face. She leaned further back in her chair, tucking her feet underneath her, pressing the phone tighter against her ear. “You’re serious?”
Tonya laughed, “Here, let me pass the phone,”
A brief shuffle before, “Claire?”
Her heart soared. “Mommy?”
Warmth seeped through the phone line. “Oh, hi, dear. Are you busy?”
“No, no,” she pushed the papers away, clearing a place to prop both her elbows on as she leaned on the desk. “No, I have all the time in the world,”
“Hm, yes, that’s what every mother in the world wants to hear about her daughter’s place of business,”
Part of her wanted to blubber and sob, but that other stubborn part of her— the Hawthorne part she inherited from her dad— said, “Hey!” with feigned offense and a laugh. “I’ll have you know people are beating down my door,”
They had, but it was mostly for the rat problem downstairs.
Her mother’s wry tone, “I’m sure,”
“So, any good books lately?”
There they fell into a small back-and-forth about a book Claire knew her mom had started to read more than fifteen years ago. It was on her shelf now, and she didn’t care it ended with Marple solving the case like she always did. Didn’t even care that her mom got the names completely wrong.
A silence lulled after fifteen minutes before Claire continued, “So, what got you to call me today, Mommy? I know your social calendar’s normally full,”
The next silence was longer, and Claire’s smile dropped slightly.
“Well, you know that your English teacher called yesterday,”
Claire’s heart sank. “Oh?”
“Yes, why didn’t you tell us you entered the writing contest?”
Claire looked around her office— the files scattered on her desk, the law degree framed next to her door, the photo of her mother and father at her college graduation. Claire cleared her throat, fingers tightening around her phone. “Oh, well, uh. You know, I just…I just didn’t want you and Daddy to be disappointed if I didn’t place,”
Her mother’s voice was light, stretching out, and Claire was losing her. “You know your father and I wouldn’t…” a long pause before a slight shuffle on the other end of the line.
Tonya’s voice was sympathetic in her low tone. “I’m sorry, Claire,”
She forced some brightness into her voice. “No, Miss Tonya. You don’t have anything to…thank you for calling while she was feeling like it,” she sniffed. “But uh, I gotta get back to it,”
“Honey, are you—,”
“I’ll call you later tonight?”
Tonya sighed, knew when she’d lost the battle. “That’d be alright. Reynolds is on shift with her tonight,”
“Alright, thanks again,”
Claire set the phone down carefully and slowly as if it made a single noise, the rest of Claire would crack apart with it. She straightened it amongst the pile of papers, a single sign of order in chaos. She got her hopes up—again. It was her fault but still, she wanted to hope. She stared at the phone.
The ceiling fan circled above her. She sat there for a long five minutes before exhaling, shaking her head. She pushed herself up from the desk; on autopilot, she crossed to the crate in front of the back window— Knick-knacks that hadn’t been put on shelves yet. She pushed aside the aged little Pooh Bear and Gotham Knights flag until she reached the worn plastic cassette. Prince and the Revolution. She tapped Purple Rain against her fingertips.
She knew cassettes were out of vogue. CDs had taken over the world, but she didn’t have the heart to replace this one.
Flipping the cassette open with her thumb, she exhaled. With her nail, she turned the tape to her favorite song, the last track. She slid the tape into the small player next to her desk and pressed play. The end of “When Doves Cry” then the soft roll of the guitar.
She flopped back into her desk chair, a pile of jello instead of a person.
I never meant to cause you any sorrow/
I never meant to cause you any pain/
She leaned against the desk, letting her chin rest against her folded arms. The ache of everything-- her mother, Tyrone, Bruce. It didn’t stop, but it quietened.
Just a few more seconds…just a few more.
I only wanted one time to see you laughing/
I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain/
A knock sounded at the door. Her hand fumbled blindly for the volume, only down not off. She reached for her papers, ordering them more neatly.
Without looking up, “Come in,” She pulled her ponytail over her shoulder as the door opened, “Hi, how can I--,”
Over the low music, “I’m sorry,”
Her head jerked up, eyes wide. Bruce Wayne stood at her door. There was no glitz or glamour today. Only a sleek black overcoat and a bespoke gray cable-knit sweater. Old Gothamite money with nothing to prove. It softened him, made him more real. The cool gray made his damn steel gray eyes practically sparkle. She doubted the tabloids would have been able to recognize him today.
He shifted on his feet like he was unsure of whether he could enter. “I’m sorry about Samuel. I should have known. I should have known about a lot of things,”
Her eyes flew back down to her papers. She exhaled, grabbing her pen, “Yeah, you should have,” standing without looking at him. She took a pile of papers that needed filing anyway. Probably. They were upside down. She had no idea.
She cleared her throat, walking away from him. She forced The Attorney into her voice. “But honestly, you don’t owe me anything,” she was picking up the watering can for her dead plants when he crossed the room in three quick steps.
“No,” he said firmly. She wouldn’t be surprised if the toes of his shoes were touching the back of hers. “No, I do. More than you know,”
She stilled, eyes drifting shut.
“Claire, please,”
She turned to face him, and he took the plastic can from her hand, setting it on the cabinet behind her. She wanted to shy away from the intensity lining his eyes. He had never realized personal space with her, and he loomed over her, keeping her against the filing cabinet. She thought this would be the time claustrophobia would crawl up her chest. Waited
“I can’t--,” he exhaled sharply, voice raw and rough around the edges. “You were right about the change. I have changed. But God, I hope it’s not in every way you think. It’s not how you think,”
She bit her lip to silence every demanding question she wanted to ask. Then what is it?
The air shifted. “When I came back to Gotham last year,” his throat worked. “The first thing I-- you were just…”
She held her breath as their eyes met.
It's time we all reach out for something new, that means you too/
Her phone trilled.
Bruce tensed, stepping back. Claire waited, let the phone ring. C’mon, Bruce, say it. Say something…anything.
He averted his eyes. “You should get that,”
Except that.
The phone rang again. Frustration flared in her chest. She blew out an irritated breath. She grabbed the receiver, feet a little unsteady. “Hawthorne,”
“Miss Hawthorne, I know you said I could call anytime,” Sally Russell’s voice-- angered and panicked-- echoed on the other side. Glass shattered. “Get the hell away from that!”
“Sally?”
“They’re from the GCPD. They won’t tell me their names or show me their warrant--,” A gruff voice on the other side, but Claire couldn’t make out what they said. “No! You can’t do that!”
“Sally,” Claire cut in harshly, trying to ignore how Bruce had migrated in front of the desk and was trying to catch her gaze. A deep line furrowed his brow as his mouth drew down. “Who is it from GCPD? Don’t say anything until I get there, especially if they don’t have a warrant, because I doubt they’re there in an official capacity,”
“You don’t say!” she bit out, and Claire winced as she scrambled to gather her notepads, pen, and voice recorder. Bruce appeared and handed her her purse. “They say they’re confiscating evidence and asking about people,”
“People?” Claire froze mid-way through shoving things into her purse. “What people?”
“I-- I don’t…” she stammered. “witnesses I guess. There’re two others at Mr. Magnus’ across the hall,”
Claire clenched her jaw until her teeth ached, mind racing. “Okay, okay. Listen to me,” her hand tangled in the receiver line as she reached for her other pencils and cell phone. “Do not, and I mean, do not put yourself in harm’s way, but if there is any possibility that you could prohibit them from--,”
“Oh hell no!” Sally roared into the phone. “Coming here is just as good as coming after my boy, and they’re sure as hell not going to be pushing me around either. ‘Cause last time I checked, this was my damn house and my damn-- hey! Hey! Put that down, you--...”
A muffled commotion, Claire’s heart dropped into her shoes. “Sally! Sally, I need you to call the number I gave you. Remember? Officer Montoya. Call her right now,”
“Damn right, I will!” she growled. “If you don’t put that down, right now, I will--”
The line went dead.
She jammed her thumb against the switch hook. “SALLY! Dammit!” she slammed the phone down, swearing under her breath, calculating what she need to grab next, how much the cab fare would be if she told him to enter orbit. She would need to--
She spun, and Bruce caught her by the shoulders before she tripped over her chair. He kicked it out of the way, crossing the rest of the distance.
He stepped closer, voice low and firm, “Claire, what is going on,” more command than a question.
She could freak out later and pretend her hands weren’t shaking. She debated on taking her files, the scanned paperwork uploaded onto about seven floppy disks. There was probably a reason she was having this thought. She grabbed all of them, cradling them to her chest.
Bruce’s gaze flicked to the disks, then back to her face. His jaw flexed, unreadable, but the tension in his grip betrayed him. “Claire.” Her name was softer this time, like he wanted her to stop, just for a second—just long enough to see that he was there.
“Dirty cops. No warrant. No idea how the actual fuck they found her address, but I’m assuming Falcone or Maddox pulled some strings,”
His frown deepened, the muscles in his neck tightening. “She’s a whistleblower,”
“Yeah, currently, there’s a block of whistleblowers,” she moved around him, eyes darting around for her coat, “and I really hate to do this to you, Bruce, but I--,”
He exhaled sharply. Bruce tossed her coat to her and threw his own back over his shoulders, “We’re going,”
The brakes in her brain squealed. “No, you don’t need to get involved in this. I’m--,”
His eyes darkened, an old, familiar fire burning behind them. His eyes asked if she was stupid, and his mouth wasn’t much better. “Yeah, in your words, tough shit. I’m going,”
She balked before realizing she didn’t have time to win this fight. Besides, even if Bruce had forgotten all of Ted’s boxing lessons, he could still loom intimidatingly. “Fine,” she slapped the seven disks against his chest, pressing her lips together in frustration when he simply pocketed them. “But only because your car is faster than a cab,”
Satisfaction lined his mouth. He grabbed her wrist after she had the coat on one arm and pulled her down the stairs. She stared at the back of his head, cursing his long legs as she struggled to get the rest of her coat on. Determined in the same way as when he figured out her dad’s secretary had been embezzling funds from the non-profit.
He opened her door and practically dove into his own seat. She still watched when he revved his car-- some new Jaguar or something-- and peeled into traffic towards Crime Alley, ignoring angry car horns, even throwing out a few choice words of his own, as he effortlessly switched gears, flooring it. She lunged to grab her purse to keep it from spilling.
“Bruce!” she cried, grabbing onto the ‘oh shit!’ handle.
Maybe a little bit of the old did come back…
Chapter 7: I Think You Can Take Him
Notes:
there's been a lot of prince and nirvana ok
Chapter Text
Claire had thought she was in good shape. She was proven wrong when they found the elevator in Sally’s building broken. With all the water stains from leaks and busted linoleum, she wasn’t surprised. So they took stairs two at a time; however, by floor four, she was clutching a stitch in her side, demanding, “What kind of sadistic gym do you go to?”
He’d been silent the entire car ride, except for the order to stay in the car which she ignored. She didn’t know why she expected him to answer now. His jaw clenched, his hands stayed loose, flexing like Ted Grant’s had before a bad match or before he had to bust some young cuts’ heads. But this Bruce wasn’t anything like the Wildcat Ted proclaimed himself to be. No, this was measured, controlled in a way Claire could never remember the boy propelled by so much anger he didn’t know what to do with it.
He continued two at a time while she panted and chased after him like a warthog chasing a Greek god.
She saw the door to the 7th floor and silently griped that Bruce wasn’t even breathing hard. Her irritation evaporated when the echoes of chaos and possible violence from Sally’s hall reached her. He shoved the door open, the bang reverberating down the stairwell and into the hallway. Bruce lunged past the door into the hall with Claire close behind. They raced down the hallway to the broken-down door. Claire gasped at the trashed apartment. Bruce didn’t hesitate. He slid in front of her with a smoothness that sent a chill down her spine. He held his left arm out to the side, signaling her behind him. With Sally shoved against her kitchen counter by a rough grip by two creeps masquerading as cops, she listened.
Sally’s face twisted in fury, and then a voice,
“Let. Her. Go.”
It took Claire a moment to realize that it had come from Bruce. She stared at his back. the voice of the awkward, too-big teenager she’d known for years. This voice came from somewhere deep, somewhere dark, a slow, gravel-cut sound that sent the whole hallway into eerie silence. The cop holding Sally tensed. The other one turned, and recognition flickered across his face before twisting into something mocking.
“Well, well,” he drawled, shoving Sally back, releasing her. “Never thought I’d see the day of Bruce Wayne in Crime Alley. What? You run outta company up in the penthouses? Or did you wanna see what it would feel like to pay for it?”
His partner chuckled, nudging him to something over Bruce’s shoulder— her. “Looks like he might’ve gotten his pick already. Didn’t take you for the kind to slum it, but—” his gaze slid to Claire, a heavy, prickling gross feeling oozing across her skin, and the smirk widened. “Guess you already found yourself some company for the night,”
Claire had barely registered the comment when Bruce moved. Not a lunge, or even a full step. Just the kind of shift that predators make before they strike— a shift of weight onto the balls of his feet, his shoulders broadening. The air changed, thickening, and she hoped the cops choked on it. She remembered it being like this once before. It had been her first real party in high school…well, their first real party because she wasn’t going to leave Bruce out even if he was already enrolled at an Ivy nearby. Timothy Schwartz had thought it a good idea to slip a molly into her drink. She hadn’t noticed, but Bruce had. Claire remembered hazily that she hoped Timothy would still have his kneecaps the next day.
It was like that. Only worse, because now Bruce did look like he could break a grown man in half.
“Get out,”
There was an uneasy snort from the brave dumbass before the two took a deliberate step back away from Sally, edging out the door around Bruce. Not before he bumped into Claire, though—just enough to knock her off balance into Bruce’s back, just enough to make it clear that it wasn’t an accident.
Then in a slimy, satisfied murmur, “Ya know, I can see why my boss is looking forward to meeting you,”
Claire refused to shiver, refused to flinch. Bruce twitched as he pivoted halfway, again placing half of himself in front of her. There must have been something in Bruce’s stare, and the man took a half step back before he remembered his pride and straightened. But he wasn’t half as good as looming as Bruce proved to be. She laid a soothing hand on his forearm, feeling tension coiling the muscles under her fingers.
She said quietly, “Don’t, Bruce,” and the man took devilish delight in that with a nasty smirk. She fought the urge to gag at the stench of stale sweat. She met his eyes with an icy stare. “Don’t worry, gentlemen. I look forward to seeing you in court. All of you,” she looked at the other. “And I’m sure Mr. Dent does as well,”
The man howled with laughter as he pushed his friend toward the stairwell. She wiped the spit from underneath her eye, flinging it away with a disgusted flick of her fingers. She grumbled, “Try some breath mints next time, asshole,” ignoring her pounding heart and how her limbs wanted to tremble. She looked up, maybe halfway expecting a lecture on antagonizing dirty cops. Bruce still stared at the empty doorway, fists tightly clenched and mouth twisted angrily. She squeezed his forearm again, and his eyes flew to hers, flashing dangerously. She offered a fragile smile. “Hey, c’mon. Get me inside. We still need to check on Sally,”
He gave a clipped nod, which was better than him chasing after the cops. He pulled his forearm from her grip. Before she could frown, the arm had wrapped around her shoulders and was guiding her down the hallway. Sally had her hands propped on her hips, cheeks flushed red, and Claire could already tell a bruise would form on her arms. Red rimmed her eyes, but there was a furious twist to her mouth.
A boy around four years old wrapped himself around Sally’s legs from behind. Settling her hand on top of his head, she looked between them, “Either of you know how to put a door back on the hinges?”
-O-
Bruce did, in fact, know how. Even with a manual screwdriver. She wondered if Alfred had taught him. He still wasn’t talking, but hauling up the door kept his hands from balling into fists, even if she could still feel his anger, sharp and silent. He threw his coat over the dingy couch, crossing his arms, staring at the door. Sally’s other son, Joshua, stood in the doorway of his room, staring, fascinated, at Bruce.
She handed Sally a cup of tea that she wrinkled her nose at but took anyway. She left her at the small table, walking to Bruce. She nudged his shoulder, her eyes darting to Joshua. He followed, pressing his lips together, sighing, then nodding. Joshua darted back into the room, not afraid, and Claire heard the crash of toys being dragged out. A smile quirked her mouth when he hesitated in the narrow hallway a few steps away.
He must have felt it. He looked back. By the time Montoya knocked on the door, Claire knew Bruce would be several Nintendos in debt.
She quirked a brow. “What’s the matter, trust-fund baby? Never babysat before?
He shot her a flat look.
“Don’t worry. Should violence arise, I think you can take him,”
She turned, feeling the glare against her back before hearing fading footsteps toward the boys’ shared room. Sally was up, leaning against the counter, staring blankly into her mug. Claire approached, laying her coat across one of the dining chairs. She leaned on the countertop against her palms. The cat wall clock ticked by. The faucet dripped. She should check to see if Bruce could fix that too.
Claire’s nails rolled against the wooden counter. “Think you can tell me what happened?”
Her laugh was mirthless, “T’be honest, I’m not even sure I know what the hell happened, and I was here the whole time…I would say they were lookin’ for somethin’ but,” she gestured around the mess of the apartment, “obviously they didn’t find it,”
“You think they were looking for something?”
“I think they were tryin’ to scare me,” she said before she straightened her shoulders. “They’re gonna have to do a hell of a lot more than that. I’ve worked nightshift at that damn diner for eight years now,”
Claire huffed a laugh, “That’s the spirit,”
“Scare me,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “Pissed me off is more like,” she looked at the tea again, grimacing. “I fucking hate tea,”
Her laugh became more genuine. “Then why’d you watch me make it for you?” Claire saw a tiny grin, one so similar to Tyrone’s that it split her chest open.
“Well, ya seemed to know what you were doing at the time,”
“Oh God,” she shook her head. “Fake it til you make it. That’s all court is most of the time,”
“Oh, yeah, that really instills faith in the justice system,”
“Sorry to disappoint,” she said wryly.
Lines etched themselves into her face. “Why would they come here? We were just getting ready to go see Tyrone. You know he’s being moved to the step-down unit today?” her voice thickened.
“Hey, hey,” Claire took her by the arms, guiding her to sit in one of the chairs. She grabbed one of her hands. “It’s going to be alright. I have good cops coming. And I know they’re good. They’re going to take good care of you while we’re waiting on this to cool off,”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, blinking rapidly. “I know. I know we’re doing the right thing, but I--,”
She squeezed her hand, “I know. I’m scared too,” and the thought aloud was terrifying. Scared meant no control, scared meant mistakes. But, she thought, looking around the apartment, scared went both ways. “Did they take anything with them?”
Sally shook her head, “No, no. Nothing like that. They were wrecking shit just to wreck it. They were asking about names. Wanted to know who’s been stirring the pot. Asking about whistleblowers, journalists, ‘people causing problems’,”
Claire winced, “Yeah, that might have been about me,”
Sally bit the inside of her mouth. “I’m just glad Joshua stayed in his room,”
A chill flew down her back. Claire’s eyes darted to the table, that cold fear returning for a long pressing moment. “Yeah,” she cleared her throat. “Yeah, me too,”
Sally swallowed, rubbing her face. “Something did happen earlier, uh, before…before this,”
Her brow furrowed, “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t recognize him. Just came knocking on my door. Said he heard about Tyrone and that he was sorry,”
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
Sally shrugged, “Dunno. He didn’t say. He did have one of those lab coat things over his arm,”
Sally reached under her shirt, and Claire’s eyes went wide. “Uh—,” she looked up at the ceiling.
Sally held a small recorder cassette tape in her hand. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a prude. What were they gonna do, start tearing my clothes off while I gouged their eyes out? Yeah, I think that would’ve woken up the huge meth dealer downstairs,” She shrugged, “thought it might be a better idea,”
She took the tape labeled with a date a year and three months previous before reaching into her purse and pulling out her own tape recorder. She slid out the blank tape, replacing it with the other. She slid the volume dial as far as it would go.
Feedback nearly deafened her before, “I want this cleaned up, now,” --Maddox.
Claire’s heart stuttered, eyes widening. “Holy shit!” she breathed before crying, “Bruce!”
“What? What?” Sally demanded. “You know this son of a bitch?”
A stumble from the next room before Bruce emerged, carrying Joshua, eyes frantically scanning the room before they landed on her. He crossed the room in three long strides as a deep chuckle resonated from the tinny speaker, “I’m not the one with filtration issues, am I?” followed by the metal flick of a lighter.
Claire looked up at Bruce as he came to stand next to her. “Is that…”
He adjusted his hold on a squirmy Joshua, his face grim. “Yeah,”
“Hello, can you spell it out for the distressed mother in the room please?” She jabbed the pause button.
Claire took a steadying breath. This was it. This was what she’d been looking for for the last six months. Was she supposed to be this freaked out? Was there a correct emotional state for this? “That is Emmanuel Viti. He’s a uh…a manager for Carmine Falcone,”
“Oh…” Sally leaned back in her seat. “Oh, shit,”
Claire swallowed more than fear as she leaned forward. “But, Sally, this is good news.” Bruce’s stare beat down the back of her neck. “This is solid proof of what we know has been going on. And if we can—,”
Someone banged on the door. Claire jumped up. Before she could blink, Bruce had swung Joshua into his mothers arms and was crossing the room. He ordered over his shoulder, “Stay here,”
Claire grabbed the tape out of the recorder, staring for a moment, before she shoved it under her shirt into her bra. She met Sally’s shock with, “What, it worked for you,” she motioned them up out of sight into the furthest corner of the kitchen. “Stay back,”
Another bang before, “GCPD,”
Relief nearly took her legs out from under her. “Montoya,” she breathed.
Bruce opened the door. She saw Gordon first. “Relax, not here to break kneecaps,”
Montoya grimaced at the sight of Bruce. “Oh, good. You’re here,”
Claire shoved her recorder back into her bag. She placed her hand on Bruce’s shoulder with a crooked smile. “We’ve all felt like that once or twice,” She met Montoya with a hug she pretended to hate. “Thanks for coming,”
For all her tough shit, Montoya couldn’t hide the worry in her eyes. “Sorry I couldn’t get here faster,” she jerked her head toward Sally and Joshua. “Think they can give a description?”
“I think she would bring their heads back on stakes if she could,”
She watched as Gordon and Bruce talked in hushed tones near the door. She averted her eyes when Bruce’s sought hers. She cleared her throat. Sally approached, and Claire squeezed her hand. “Let’s get you guys a bag packed, huh?”
-O-
“You should’ve given that to the police,”
And Claire wanted to bring up the fact that he’d nearly driven the car into oncoming traffic when she’d retrieved the tape from under her shirt. It was better than replaying what Bruce had said after Montoya’s warning to watch her.
She’s got more looking out for her than you think.
She shook her head.
“And then what? Have the tape mysteriously disappear or get damaged in the chain of evidence?” She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the headrest. “Yeah, no thanks,”
His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Claire—,”
She said softly. “You know I’m right. I wish I wasn’t, but I am. That is what will happen. If we keep this close, we’ll have half a shot,”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “A shot? You’re walking around with a target on your back, and you don’t seem all that worried about it. Which worries me even more,” he shook his head. “That guy back at Sally’s place all but said you’ve been marked,”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Brains himself. Bruce, c’mon,”
“And that’s exactly my point,” he snapped. “You’re making yourself a target. And I know you think that making yourself bigger to draw attention away from the Russells will—,”
“Will what? She has two sons. She’s a single mom with nothing. With no one to go to. What do you want me to do?”
His jaw clenched. “I want you to be careful. You’re sticking out your neck for something that might not even stick,”
Her lips pressed together. She forced her voice to be calm. “And I appreciate that. I really do. I’m not just going to roll over and let them get away with it. If I start backing down every time some corrupt cop or mobster sneers at me, what kind of lawyer would I be?”
“Alive!” He said, and her eyes snapped to him. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, a slow, deliberate motion. “Alive. You would be one alive to practice,”
Claire folded her arms across her chest. The rest of the ride passed in thick silence. By the time they reached her office, Bruce still looked like he was biting his tongue. Claire stepped out, shivering a little against the night air. Bruce stayed close at her heels. Apparently, this was going to be a thing now. He hovered, half a step too close, eyes scanning their surroundings like he was expecting something to jump out of the shadows. There was no point in asking whether he was coming up or not.
She sighed. “You gonna follow me up and tuck me in too?”
He didn’t dignify that with a response. She pulled her keys from her bag after much searching, inserting one into the lock. She needed to start carrying a smaller purse unless she wanted back surgery before age 35. The office wasn’t much—a single-floor space above a closed convenience store—but it was hers, and it was safe. She twisted the key, turning the knob.
A heavy metallic click.
Bruce moved before she could react—his hands yanking her backward, twisting her away from the doorway—
Then everything was light and sound.
A concussive blast ripped through the building. The door blew apart, the force sending them both sprawling onto the pavement. Glass shattered, a fireball burst from the entryway, and the heat stole the breath from her lungs.
Claire landed hard, the back of her head cracking against the concrete. The world spun, ringing in her ears, a blur of red and orange.
The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was Bruce—half on top of her, shielding her from the worst of the blast, his face twisting as he yelled her name.
Then— nothing.
Chapter 8: The Blaze, then the Silence
Chapter Text
Claire winced at the sharp sting of antiseptic, everything raw and aching from impact. Blue and red lights mixed in the smoldering alley outside of her office. She tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Sitting in the back of the ambulance, she watched the blur of police officers and firefighters around her— setting up crime scene tape, running more hose line, pushing back bystanders. A reel-to-reel of silent screaming and chaos.
No casualties as far as anyone could tell. Her office was gone, everything up in flames. She’d nearly burst into tears when she remembered Bruce still had all her evidence stored away on floppy disks she’d thrown at him earlier. God, what if she hadn’t? What if—
Bruce stood close by, his pant legs brushing against her knees when he shifted. His coat was ruined, charred and ripped. The joke that she couldn’t afford to replace it for a few years had fallen flat. His shirt wasn’t much better, bloody and soot-covered. A thin cut ran down his jaw, the fresh red reflecting darkly in the flashing blue lights. He looked like hell had run him over and dragged him a few miles. And she knew she looked worse.
She’d woken up with Bruce hanging overhead, eyes frantic as she tried to open her eyes. He’d told her she would be staying at the Manor until further notice, and she hadn’t argued. She was too tired to care where she was staying as long as she wasn’t alone. She’d be damned to say that out loud but it didn’t make it any less true.
She flinched again.
“Sorry,” the EMS muttered. “Almost done,”
Bruce spoke up, “Her ribs need to be checked. Hit the ground pretty hard. Very least she’s got lacerations that need to be cleaned,”
She fought the urge to glare. “Bruce, I’m fine,”
“So let him check,”
The EMS sounded vaguely amused. “Just to be safe. I need to grab some more supplies,” he patted her shoulder. “Go and ahead and slide off that top for me,” he tottered back into the ambulance, humming some Chordettes tune that she didn’t find reassuring at all.
Pain twinged down her side as she shifted. She gritted her teeth as she slid one arm out of her shirt. Bruce hovered, arms awkwardly stretched out. She slumped in defeat, nodding him over. She grappled for humor, “Count yourself thankful I wore a tank under the turtleneck,”
“At least it wasn’t a jab about me taking your clothes off in a dark alley,”
She huffed a laugh. “Oh, so he can be funny,” ignoring how his hands slid underneath her top, calloused hands catching on the tank top underneath. Her breath caught, part pain and part…something. That something she’d been fighting since Bruce walked back into Gotham last year. Bruce’s fingers skimmed over her ribs, gentle despite the roughness of his hands. She barely suppressed a wince.
“Hurts?” He asked, voice low.
She gave a stiff nod. “Nothing a long soak won’t fix,”
His jaw tightened. He was quiet for a moment, just watching the rise and fall of her breath. His hands were careful, skimming over the bruises blooming beneath her skin. There was something unnervingly reverent about it. Like he was cataloging every mark. She pulled her arms out of the sleeves as he finished getting it over her head. He smoothed a hand over her hair after he set the shirt to the side.
“Well, I’ll say one thing about bombs, it can really lend to actually getting some volume in my—,” she started before he froze, eyes wide and locked below her chin. “Oh, God, what? What is it?”
His knuckles brushed over the necklace chain. Claire stiffened. His fingers ran down the chain until they came to the golden Excalibur pendant. He was going to know now. Just a desperate little girl waiting for a fairytale to come and—
He took the pendant between two fingers, holding it in the gleaming light. His breath hitched. He swallowed, voice rougher than before, “You kept it,” an odd sheen in his blue eyes. “You still wear it,”
“Yeah, well,” her eyes locked onto the wall across the street. “It’s hard to find something that matches everything like this does,”
The pad of his thumb traced absently over the metal, his expression unreadable. “That’s not why,”
“Bruce—,” she began, every piece of armor torn away, and all she felt was raw and tired.
He stepped closer, hips coming in between her knees where sat on the back of the ambulance. “You still wear it,” it wasn’t an accusation, but might as well have been of the fact she had waited all this time. And now he knew.
The corners of her eyes stung. She sucked in a slow breath. Her voice broke. “It’s just a necklace,” she argued.
His hands cupped her face, forcing her eyes to his. Vulnerability softened his eyes, his mouth. He breathed, “Guinevere,”
A tear slid down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb. Bruce tilted his head, studying her, and she let him see her— bloodied and battered with a proud jut to her chin and tears in her eyes. Her fingers encircled his where he held the pendant. Her gaze dropped to his lips. One hand slid into her hair, and she leaned into the touch. Warmth flushed up her neck, into her face.
“Bruce, I—,”
A barrage of car doors slammed, and Bruce’s head followed the noise. Reporters swarmed out of their cars, hammering for their place. It wouldn’t be long before one hit the right price with one of the cops to be allowed back. She sighed, dropping his hand, settling the charm back in place.
“Hey, you better get outta here before they catch a whiff of you,” she said. Cameras lit up like firecrackers against the sidewalk. He met her eyes. She could see he knew she was right. Yet he hesitated. She nudged his hip with her knee. “Seriously. Hit the road. I’ll see you later, remember? And don’t think that Alfred will be the one carrying my big suitcase up all those stairs to the guest wing,”
That earned her a huff of laughter. A pang went through her chest at the genuineness of it. Her eyes softened. He pressed his forehead to hers, taking a grounding breath. He squeezed the nape of her neck, sending a chill down her back and arms. “Be seeing you,” before slipping away and off into the shadows.
“Yeah,” She echoed, “Be seeing you,”
She cleared her throat as EMS approached again, cleaning the rest of her wounds. He unsuccessfully tried to argue for a ride to the hospital for X-rays.
She decided the turtleneck was a lost cause. She stood, ignoring fiery waves of pain pulsing down her side. She gritted her teeth, shrugging off the blanket. She put her smoky coat back on. She’d be damn glad when it was actually tank-top weather again. The ambulance door slammed shut as the yelling started behind her. The cops tried to create a new barrier.
“Ms. Hawthorne, is it true you were the target of an assassination attempt?”
“Was this a police cover-up?”
“Do you have evidence against HorizonClear?”
“What does this say about Johnathon Maddox’s future as CEO?”
Claire straightened, squaring her shoulders, adjusting her necklace. Another siren whooped, and brakes squealed.
“Yo! Hawthorne!”
Claire spun at Montoya’s voice. She held up her hand. “Here!” she yelled as Montoya slid past the crowd of journalists.
Her eyes were wide as she pulled her hair back into a tight bun, “What the fuck,” she hissed.
“I can guarantee it wasn’t on purpose,” she looked up at the smoldering remains of her office. “Seriously. My favorite album was in there,” she said quietly.
Her eyes softened, but she laid a hand on her shoulder. Which, in Montoya speak, was as good as a hug.
“Think you can back me up?”
Montoya jerked her head toward the press. “Against these jokers? Piece of cake,”
Claire managed a smile that felt more genuine than not. “Piece of cake,” she turned, Montoya close at her heels. The questions started again, a cacophony.
Claire held up a hand, silencing the frenzy. The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting a sharp glow against the press corps’ eager faces. Behind them, Gotham moved like it always did—grimy, restless, watching from the shadows.
She took a breath. Then she began.
“I know what you all want to ask. I know the rumors are already spreading. So let me be perfectly clear—what happened tonight was no accident.”
The murmurs intensified, cameras flashing wildly. Claire didn’t flinch.
“It is no surprise that some are fighting to keep my clients silent. For weeks, I have been building a case against HorizonClear—a corporation that claims to be an environmental leader while poisoning Gotham’s poorest communities. A corporation that has hidden chemical spills, falsified safety reports, and, let’s not forget, funneled money through dummy corporations linked to organized crime."
Red buttons on the cameras signaled live. A little smirk set her mouth. She hoped they were shitting themselves.
“Harvey Dent and I have been working together to expose these people and make sure they answer every single crime they’ve committed against this city. And I promise you—HorizonClear, its executives, and every corrupt official protecting them will have their day in court."
Silence stretched even as one camera shutter clicked. She quirked a brow. Even though it fucking stung like a bitch with the remnants of antiseptic on her head, it’d make for a hell of a photo in the morning edition. “Thank you for your time,”
Montoya wrapped an arm around her shoulders, directing her away from the renewed flashing of cameras. “Yeah, that wasn’t dramatic at all,”
“I was going for flair,” she said. She winced prodding the cut on her forehead. “Don’t suppose you could give me a ride?”
Montoya rolled her eyes, opening the door to the squad car. Claire cranked the heat to a million. She nuzzled further into her coat, already mourning the fact that she would be reaching for the Big Suitcase in her overhead closet shelf with busted ribs.
Montoya switched her lights off. “Well, if they weren’t pissed off before, they sure are now,”
-O-
Steam curled against the cool bathroom mirror as Claire shut off the shower. The scalding water had helped—somewhat. The ache in her ribs dulled to a persistent throb, and her headache settled into something manageable. She scrubbed every last inch, washing away soot and dried blood from her cuts—each pass of the cloth threatening to tear them open again. She’d given up the loofah as a lost cause.
She dragged a towel through her damp brown hair, absently watching condensation bead along the mirror’s surface. The reflection was blurred, the edges soft. For a moment, she didn’t look like herself. She wondered if this was what her mother felt sometimes when she came to herself, alone in her rooms. If she felt like she was seeing herself through a foggy mirror. But knowing that it wasn’t really her, was it?
Everything was gone. She thought suddenly. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the counter, holding herself up. Everything. Thrifted desk with Mutant Ninja Turtles stickers that wouldn’t quite scratch off. File cabinets that nearly killed her moving up the stairs. The crate of tapes and records. The mug she’d swiped from Harvey’s desk.
Smoke still burned her nose.
She shook her head, reaching for the robe behind her. She shrugged into it, winding an uncomfortable tight knot around her waist. Her gaze dropped to her clawfoot bathtub. Starting the water, she rummaged in the cabinet behind the mirror for her vanilla and lavender bath salts. She didn’t bother looking in the mirror again when she closed it.
She dumped half the jar into the water, swishing it around with her arm. She sat on the edge of the tub before cracking open the door, letting some of the steam escape. The cordless on the sink rang. She blindly reached for it.
Exhaustion roughened her voice. “Hawthorne,”
“Ah, good evening again, Miss Hawthorne,” his voice was warm but she sensed underlying tension. Or perhaps, she’d reached the level of exhaustion where she believed everyone was angry with her. She didn’t know. She rubbed her temples. “I do hope my repeated calls aren’t interrupting anything,”
She dragged herself up, feet scuffing against the fluffy purple rug. She left the water running. Tucking the receiver between her shoulder and ear, she trailed through her living room and kitchen, aimlessly tidying and straightening. “Only what I believe is a well-deserved pity party, Alfred,”
“Understandable, given the circumstances,” Alfred allowed. “However, I regret to inform you that Master Bruce has found an errand that apparently cannot wait. I’ll be arriving shortly to collect you,”
She stopped, hand frozen over two dirty mugs. Panic flared. He didn’t leave. It’s not the same. Not the same. It’s not the same, Claire.
Claire rolled her eyes, “This errand wouldn’t happen to have long legs and a gossip column, would it?”
There was a skeptical hum that reeked of raised eyebrows steeped in disapproval. “Not exactly. Though I was made immediately aware of his displeasure of your brazen statement to the press,”
She managed a little grin. “Oh? Did he frown at me?”
“Several times I believe,”
She huffed a laugh. “Lucky me,” wandering back into the bathroom.
Alfred continued, “I would be remiss if I didn’t express my own concerns as well, Miss Hawthorne. You have made yourself a rather visible target. Gotham has never been kind to those who challenge its…its way of doing things,”
She tried to hide her pause, to change the subject instead. She swirled the water around again, “And I’m sure Master Bruce informed you that he will be the one to carry my suitcase. I wasn’t the one who invited myself over at such an indecent hour.”
This time, Alfred did chuckle. “You could never be just a guest in this house, Miss.”
Her breath caught. “Well, I—,”
Alfred seemed to take pity on her. “In any case, I’ll be over within the hour,”
She cleared her throat. “I’ll meet you at the curb,” and promised she would try to stay away from the press while taking her bath. She set the receiver back on the sink with a wince. Her body was a freshly pressed giant bruise. Dull spikes of pain rolled through her ribs. She spread another handful of salts. There was probably a point when they became medicinal, right?
She rolled her sore shoulders, turning off the water. She rubbed her neck. She stilled.
“Dammit, Bruce. Those disks— you better have left them with—,” she stood reaching for the phone again.
Then—
A breath of cold air brushed her damp skin.
She froze.
Her bathroom window was shut. She’d locked everything. Her muscles tensed, but she didn’t turn around. Another whisper of a breeze, and she reached for the small knife underneath the sink.
A whisper of movement behind her.
Shit.
She turned too late.
A force slammed into her, shoving her forward. Her thighs caught against the tub, and she screamed. She jabbed the knife behind her, digging into muscle sinews with an awful squelch. Someone howled— one of the policemen from earlier. She spun and was faced with the other’s horrible grin.
“Looks like you won’t be having that meeting after all,”
A hard, unyielding grip wrenched at her arms, fingers digging into her bruised skin. He shoved, and she grappled desperately for his collar as she fell into the bath water sending streams over the top. It crashed over her, seeping into her nose, her mouth—
Her body thrashed, but the grip on her was iron. Another pair of cold, wet hands shoved her deeper into the bath. Red rust bled into the water from the wound she’d inflicted. Panic soared through her chest, and she took a breath. Water rushed up her nose, into her mouth, searing like acid in her throat.
No. No, no, no. Not like this.
Her ribs screamed as she twisted, black spots blooming against the warped glow of the bathroom light. The world narrowed. Panic surged. Her fingers clawed for the edge of the tub, for anything. But her limbs turned sluggish—too much pain, too little air.
Her vision blurred. A cold numbness spread through her limbs.
A shadow flashed above her followed by a loud crack. Her ears popped, water rushing past them, as arms lifted her from the water. Water gurgled in her chest.
Black dotted her vision before A voice, raw and desperate, split the air.
"Claire!"
Then, nothing.
Chapter 9: Claire!
Notes:
you can hug me later
Chapter Text
Panic and water. Darkness in and out. Panic and water.
A hard pressure on her chest until it felt like her ribs would break.
Panic and water. Panic and water.
“No!” A voice breaking through the din, “Claire!”
Panicandwater. A pinch to her nose and pressure in her mouth. Panicandwater.
“C’mon, sweetheart. C’mon,”
The pressure became her only tether. Ragged breaths above her.
Then an angry, “C’mon, breathe, damn you!”
A blow to her chest.
Panicandwater.
She pitched onto her side, lungs burning as water was forced out. She coughed and sputtered, chest burning, hot tears falling down her cheeks. She gasped in huge gulps of air before her stomach turned against her. She wretched up the meager contents of her stomach. She moaned, agonized, heaving in shaking breaths, her body trembling. She turned in on herself.
Gloved hands caught her arms, pulling her back, then pulling further. Through bleary eyes, she caught a dark, pointy silhouette. Relief flooded her limbs, leaving her a useless, shaking, almost drowned Barbie doll.
Almost, she thought again, heaving in breath after breath. Almost drowned.
He turned her in his arms, pulling her into his lap, his arm banding underneath her back, letting her head fall against his shoulder. His other hand pushed the hair from her eyes, her face further into his neck. She breathed as deep as she could, breathed in clean sweat, leather, and rain. Her eyes shut, and she let herself be arranged. Body armor wasn’t as uncomfortable as it looked. Couldn’t even be upset that her tile was definitely covered in puke, bathwater, and dirty cop blood.
Then, she realized he hadn’t stopped murmuring. That he really hadn’t stopped talking since he pulled her from the water, a frenetic flow of, “You’re alright…You have enough air. You can breathe. I’m here now…You’re safe, Claire. You’re safe…”
Not all of the trembling was her. The voice… different from the scolding on the couch. That stupid voice modulator wasn’t working.
Her eyes opened again. Her shaking fingers wrapped around his gauntlet as his fingers tangled in her hair, and he went still under her. Underneath the mask, shining blue eyes against black makeup bore into hers. Those same piercing blue…
There was no stutter in her heart as realization struck her. Tears spilled over again. Her breathing hitched on a sob, “Oh my God,”
She released her grip on his gauntlet, hand following the path up his arm, over his shoulder, until she cupped his face. His gaze dropped. Her thumb ran over the sharp jawline covered in day-old stubble until she came to the small cut he had refused to let the paramedics treat earlier.
Her fingers moved slowly, slow enough for him to stop her. Her nail slid under the edge of the cowl. His breath shuttered. She pushed her fingers underneath the mask, peeling it back.
The world tilted, then shifted, clicking back into place.
His eyes closed as her fingers glided through sweat-damp hair before coming to cup his face. Exhaustion weighed at the lines in his face. Black paint was smeared under his eyes evidenced by the smudge on her thumb.
Her voice broke, “Oh, Bruce,”
Gotham’s Darkness held her on her bathroom floor and looked at her like she was the dangerous one. A muscle in his jaw ticked, like a boxer waiting for impact. He didn’t move. He was waiting, she realized. Waiting for her to recoil and shriek and curse him to an early grave. The only thing she wanted to curse was him bleeding and breaking apart at the edges alone. But she thought she’d been doing the same, hadn’t she?
She thought he’d been slipping through her fingers, sand through a broken hourglass. No, he’d been hiding himself away, shaving away the pieces of himself that could cut or harm, hoarding them away until he could pull on the mask and using himself as a blade.
“It could have only been you,” she said, and piercing eyes flashed open, searching and desperate. “I think…I think I’m the stupid one,” she leveraged herself up further, settling against his thigh and pressing her tear-streaked face in his neck, breathing in traces of his cologne and smoke. Agony streaked down her ribs when she wrapped her arms around his neck. She ignored it with the deliriousness that only came with exhaustion or, apparently, attempted murder. “It could have only been you,”
He snapped from his stupor. His arms banded around her waist until it hurt, and she felt his chest expand with a deep breath. “You almost died,” he accused.
She returned the vicious grip, “But I didn’t. I didn’t. You got here,” she pulled back, cradling his face between her hands. She said fiercely, “You were here. They didn’t get me,”
His eyes averted, going somewhere over her shoulder. “They did,”
Her brow furrowed. “Bruce--,”
“Seventeen seconds,”
She shook her head. “What?”
His eyes caught hers, red-rimmed and angry. “Seventeen seconds. You had no heartbeat for seventeen seconds,” he shook his head, all bundled energy with nowhere to go.
She blanched for a moment, heart dropping. She refused to be cast off, shifting her legs, settling closer into his lap. “No, I--”
“There was nothing. You were gone,” he hissed.
“No!” she said sharply around the rasp in her voice. “You don’t get to torture yourself about me too.” she forced his face to her as surprise slackened his face. “You saved me, Bruce Wayne. You did,”
His hands had never stopped moving, over her arms, up and down her back, to her hips then back up again. It didn’t stop her trembling, but it gave her an anchor, flooding blood back into her limbs. For the first time in nearly a decade, she let herself lean into him, knees bracketing his hips. Perhaps, it was an undignified flop while only wearing a bathrobe, but she tried not to think too much about it because body armor and no panties weren’t going to be comfortable long term. He adjusted to accommodate her.
“You saved me,”
Bruce’s lingering silence was fraught. His breath was warm against her cheek.
She admitted, “I thought I was losing you,”
His hands smoothed over her back, a tactile memorization. She thought he’d smothered the habit of always moving, to focus, to think. She was glad he hadn’t. His focus was incredibly relaxing. “You… I was losing myself. Alfred told me I… Claire,” his voice was stricken, and he stopped himself. The muscles under her fingertips tensed. His eyes met hers, filled to the brim with terror and determination. “I have to do this. This is what I was meant to do. It’s all I know how. All I have,”
Her heart clenched. “Hey, no. It’s not all you have. You know it’s not,” she reached behind her, taking one of his hands, intertwining their fingers, pressing their hands between them. “As long as I am here on this Earth, it will never be all you have,” she sniffed. “Even when I told myself that I didn’t need or want…” she shook her head. Was she overwhelming him? It felt like she was close to cardiac arrest. “Besides, I’m sure Alfred would have something to say about that too,”
He sighed, eyes closing, pressing his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to drag you down here with me. You don’t belong in the darkness,”
“Bruce.” She said gently, raking her nails through his hair. He tried not to follow the pressure. “I’m already here. Gotham will be like this until it decides to turn into the sun again. It may never.” she shrugged, and the quiet in the apartment felt like spun glass as she walked around the truth that she’d been in love with Bruce Wayne for most of her life. “But I’m here for the people stuck in the dark because I can’t leave them behind. This is what I have to do,”
He swallowed hard, then turned his hand over beneath hers, lacing their fingers together. The fight and the distance crumbled between them. It was just a matter of who would run to the other first.
“You’re not leaving this fight, are you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
She shook her head. “No.”
Bruce exhaled, then pulled her in tighter. “Then I’m not letting you do it alone.”
Claire let her eyes slip shut, her lips barely ghosting his shoulder. “Good. Because I think we were always going to do this together.”
Her fingers curled against his shoulder, gripping the damp armor beneath them. The last time she had held onto him like this, there had been a plane idling behind them, and she had kissed him like she could change his mind. It hadn’t worked. But this time, she wasn’t trying to stop him. This time, she wanted to tell him she understood. I get it now,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to see his face. “This fight—it’s not about you being reckless. It was never about vengeance,”
Bruce stared at her like he was still afraid she might make a break for it. “Claire, you don’t have to—,” Bruce stayed perfectly still. His breath was shallow, controlled, but Claire could feel it against her skin—too close, too steady. The silence stretched between them.
Her fingers twitched against his armor, uncertain whether to hold on or let go. The weight of his gaze was heavy, searching, hesitant. The world that was always spinning around Claire’s ears, too fast to catch, slowed, matching Bruce’s heartbeat underneath his armor.
Her pulse thrummed at her throat, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. “You weren’t running from me,” she said softly. “You weren’t leaving me,” and something broke free in her chest, and she breathed deeply. “You were running toward something. Toward Gotham. Toward…” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to say it. “Toward saving people like me.”
His lips parted slightly, but no words came. His chest rose and fell in measured breaths like he was bracing for her to pull away. His grip tightened on her waist—a fraction more, just enough that she could feel the restraint in it. Claire wondered if she had misread his silence before he left, if she had misunderstood what it meant when he didn’t look back. Her heart clenched at the thought.
“I tried to stop you before,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “At that runway, before you left. I thought if I could just… make you see me, you’d stay.”
His jaw clenched, eyes dark with something unreadable.
“I saw you,” he rasped.
“But I didn’t see you,” she admitted, running her thumb along the cut on his jaw. “Not really. And I’m sorry that I didn’t see you. Not the way I should have.” She met his eyes. “I don’t know if you remember the runway—,”
He broke in sharply, “If I—,” he stopped himself. Slowly, deliberately, Bruce turned his face into her touch. Just enough. Just so the stubble on his jaw scraped against her palm, just so she could feel the way his breath caught in his throat. “There will never be a time I don’t remember that. Sometimes it was all I thought about. To remind myself that home was real. That home was a place I was working to get back to,”
The silence between them stretched, taut and humming. His words hung between them, charged, unshakable. Claire’s breath caught, something shifting in the space that separated them—except there was no space at all. Their foreheads brushed. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her robe, hesitant, waiting. The air between them thickened, charged, inevitable. A slow tilt of her head—just a fraction, unconscious—was met with a mirrored motion, and for a heartbeat, it felt like falling forward, knowing she wouldn’t hit the ground but fly.
Then Bruce exhaled sharply, barely whispering, "Claire."
The single word snapped her back, dousing in cold water. She shivered, blinking. Her pulse pounded in her ears. A single droplet of water dripped from her robe, hitting the floor with a soft pat. The sound broke the silence apart like glass fracturing under pressure.
“I’m here now,” she said, pressing closer, drinking in the heat of him, the steady warmth that had never been anything but home. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Bruce exhaled shakily, and she felt his grip on her waist tighten just for a second, his eyes dropping to her parted lips. It wasn’t hesitation she felt—it was resolve. He whispered, “Neither am I.”
He attempted levity. “If you’re going to keep insisting on inviting trouble in…looks like I’ll need to stay close anyway,” and it almost sounded like he was giving himself permission to proximity.
Hers was a hysterical giggle. “He’s funny twice in one night,” she curled further into him, away from the bathtub she never wanted to see again.
His arm slipped underneath her knees, and he cradled her to his chest. He braced her weight like she was nothing when he rose to his feet. “I’m trying something new,”
She wiped away snot and tears. “That popping noise you’re hearing is the multiverse splitting apart— Bruce Wayne, trying something new. The future is irrevocably changed,” she squeaked when he pinched her thigh.
She closed her eyes as he carried her from the bathroom. His combat boots squeaked on the wet floor. The walls would have closed in on her otherwise. Her ribs felt a wrong breath away from busting open, her lungs ached, and water dripped from the bathrobe she was going to toss in one of the many Wayne Manor fireplaces.
She opened her eyes to find him already looking at her. Her skin prickled, a different kind of awareness. She didn’t want to hide from it. But she didn’t know what to do with it now either. She’d said all she could, all she was able, and her brain was well on its way to an Error 404.
She swiped at her eyes. Tears streamed down her face, “I can’t believe I almost died in a grandma bathrobe,” panicked laughter escaping her.
His face softened, the skin around his eyes crinkling a bit. “I like the grandma bathrobe,” the ghost of a boyish smirk curving his mouth.
“Yeah, because it’s been half open the whole time,” she argued. There was a suspicious amount of silence. “This is where you’re supposed to reassure me that’s not the reason,”
The little shit just hummed, eyes darting downward a bit smugly. She whacked him on the shoulder before yelping and cradling her hand, remembering he was wearing body armor a second too late.
“Just for that, you can go ahead and carry the big suitcase and the garment bag,”
“Ok,”
“With no Alfred,”
“Ok,”
He carried her into her bedroom. She managed a little smile.
Chapter 10: Desperation Doubled
Notes:
hey so, not dead, but grad school is kicking my ass so same thing I guess? anyway ly guyssss
Chapter Text
There was something to be said about riding in the batmobile. Maybe she’d brood all the time too if she had to sit on a hard seat like this. He’d said, “Claire, it’s a tactical warhorse,” with a mild scowl even as he carried her and settled her in the seat, pulling the seatbelt across her. “Not the Jag,”
Who knew Batman was so angry because he had a sore ass? She chose to keep that to herself.
But she couldn’t keep her mind from flicking back to before—before the fire escape, before the purple suitcase stuffed in the backseat. Before the mask had come down over his face again.
Blood flushed up her face. She’d tried not to think too hard about it, the moment his gloved hands had peeled away to help her dress, fingers steady as he pulled the robe from her shoulders. He had turned his back, letting her drag on the pajama pants she’d laid out, but he hadn’t missed the sweatshirt. His sweatshirt.
The Gotham Medical School logo was faded, cracked in places from years of wear. Heat had flared in his eyes when he saw it, something that made her breath catch in her throat. She’d stumbled through an excuse—Alfred was getting rid of things in a spring-cleaning spree (lie), and she must have grabbed it by accident with some other items (also a lie).
She was sure he hadn’t believed her, but he hadn’t called her on it either. Had only straightened the hood, pulling it over her messy hair. “Raining outside,” he’d said.
Now, sitting in the Batmobile, she stared at the city rolling past, Gotham’s neon glow reflecting off high-tech dials and slick rain-slicked streets. The silence between them was heavier than the hum of the engine rumbling. Because she could feel the weight of his gaze.
Every time she shifted, every time the streetlights flickered against the windshield, she felt him watching her. He wasn’t saying anything, but the silence licked up her spine —his presence wrapped around her, pressing against her skin like a phantom touch. Be real, she thought desperately. Please, be real. The dull ache in her ribs and head kept her on the ground.
If she looked at him, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
If she spoke, she wasn’t sure what would come out.
Bruce drove like he did everything else—controlled, deliberate, dangerous. He shifted gears with precision, cutting through alleys she hadn’t even known existed. Like he was Gotham. Like he knew its veins, its hidden spaces, the places no one else had the right to see. She wanted him to know her the same way, until he could map her as well as he could navigate Gotham-- easily, without thought, only muscle memory and instinct.
The tension was unbearable, vibrating in the small space between them. The air in the car felt warmer than it should.
She swallowed hard. Her hand hesitated, fingers hovering above his where they rested on his lap.
She curled her fingers over the back of his hand, testing, waiting. Another line crossed. A breath stolen.
He didn’t pull away. Claire exhaled, her heart stuttering against her ribs. She looked straight ahead as they sped out of downtown into the long road leading toward Wayne Manor.
And then, carefully—deliberately—he flipped his hand over and intertwined their fingers. She finally leaned her head back and closed her eyes. He tightened his grip as the car turned.
-O-
She jerked awake when her car door opened, panic flaring in her chest.
“Easy. It’s alright,” Bruce soothed above her. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Just me. It’s just me,”
A faint mist clung to the air, swirling in the cool, subterranean space, catching in the soft glow of LED lighting embedded in the rock, illuminating the cavernous open space that went on forever, extending past the darkness. The distant rush of the underground waterfall, a steady, soothing roar, didn’t mask the constant drip… drip… drip of condensation falling from the stalactites, echoing. Bat wings shuffled high above her, a distant chatter of squeaks falling from the ceiling. Gotham’s own haunted cathedral, carved beneath the city itself.
He was such a drama queen. She loved it.
She swung her legs out, a sharp hiss escaping as pain lanced through her ribs. He knelt in front of her, pulling the mask back. Nausea rolled her stomach, and he caught her by the shoulders before she fell forward, steady hands bracing her shoulders.
“Take your time. You’re crashing from the adrenaline. It’s normal,”
Her voice was slurred, words hard to force out. “This happen to you often, or am I just lucky?”
A dry, British voice from behind Bruce, “More than I would particularly care for in the calendar year,” Alfred came into view, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Bruce slid his arm underneath her shoulder, hauling her to her feet. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from yelling. She gripped his biceps as her head spun. The cave blurred at the edges. He kept an arm around her waist. Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know why…”
Bruce shook his head. “No apologies. Not tonight,”
Apologies were instinct, as natural as breathing. She had always been the one to smooth things over, to pretend the weight on her shoulders was never too much. But Bruce—Bruce wouldn’t let her. His words settled like a hand over her spine, keeping her upright when she wanted to fold in on herself. She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to argue, to deflect. Because maybe, just maybe, he was right. Just this once.
“You putting me in a no-go zone?” she challenged with a quirked brow, lifting her head and meeting his gaze. Her heart fluttered at the openness she found there— stubbornness and softness in equal measure.
Eight-year-old, thirteen-year-old, eighteen-year-old Bruce—they all stared back at her, overlapping like echoes. The boy who chased porcelain thieves with her in the summer. The teenager who left without a goodbye. The man who had spent so many years guarding his heart with iron and shadows. She could see them all at once for a moment, and its weight tightened her chest. She had loved every version of him, even when she hadn’t meant to. Even when she shouldn’t have.
Alfred spoke up behind her, setting her suitcase on the ground. “I do believe the point of coming here was to retrieve you from the… hmm, no-go zone, as you put it, miss,”
She turned to face him, Bruce’s arm still bracing her around her waist, “Very true, Alfred,” offering a tired smile. It fell when she met his red-rimmed eyes. She stepped forward, reaching out, “Alfred, I--,”
He shook his head with a brittle smile. “Quite alright.” before he said heavily. “I’m simply relieved that you are alright, my dear,” he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Her eyes burned at the gesture. He squeezed her hand. “Now, I shall take this luggage to your usual room. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an escort to your quarters in my absence,” he said with forced lightness. “Please, do try to listen to Master Wayne as he conducts his first-aid treatment,” he turned to Bruce with a slight incline to his head. “I’ll take this and retire if it’s agreeable to you, sir,”
She felt the nod behind her. “That’s fine. Thank you, Alfred. Goodnight,”
She echoed quietly, “Goodnight, Alfred. Thank you,”
He inclined his head again, “Sir. Miss,” before retreating further into the cave, away from the computers and to an elevator on the far side of the room.
Bruce’s grip around her waist tightened. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up,”
The first-aid station was tucked against the wall of screens, their cold blue glow throwing long shadows over the cavern floor. It was all police reports, crime patterns, and grainy security footage—except for one screen.
HorizonClear.
Her stomach twisted at the sight of it. The company logo sat like a brand in the corner of the screen, lines of data scrolling beneath it. Fear flickered in her chest, but she shoved it down, shoved it deep where it couldn’t reach her. Not tonight. Who the fuck had time for Johnathon Maddox.
Instead, she managed a smirk. “You know, for a guy who hates surveillance, you really have a Big Brother complex.”
Bruce grunted, the sound more acknowledgment than agreement. He didn’t even roll his eyes, just stepped away and stripped off the Bat. The cowl, the gloves, the cape—torn from his body and thrown over the massive chair in front of the console, each movement deliberate, methodical. He felt different. More brooding than before. More far away than he had in the car and in her apartment.
She lowered herself onto the medical cot, heart hammering against her ribs. She watched the tense line of his shoulders, the clench in his jaw. He was working up to something. Something he didn’t want to say. About to tell her the thing she’d been dreading since they got in the car. Claire, this can’t happen. It's too dangerous. I can't have you in the middle. Claire, we can’t—
If he was going to let her down easy, he needed to just do it.
Instead, he knelt beside her, hands impossibly gentle as he eased her sweatshirt over her head. She shivered at the loss of warmth, more vulnerable than she’d expected. Thank God she was still wearing a bra. But it hardly mattered. His voice was a low rumble. “I don’t think anything’s broken,”
“Oh, is that why I only feel like I got hit by one semi instead of two?” she prodded. She nudged his knee with her foot. “What, I only get two Bruce Wayne funnies per day?”
Nothing, silence. Sitting here, bandaged and bruised, under the weight of his gaze— She needed him to say something. Anything.
His hands were steady as he treated the bruises along her ribs, fingertips brushing over the worst of them with more care than was necessary. It was almost reverent like he was memorizing every hurt he hadn’t been able to stop. The silence stretched, taut as a wire—the continued constant drip… drip… drip.
She couldn’t take it anymore.
Her voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “If you’re trying to pretend like this didn’t happen, I need you to stop,”
“What?”
Bruce stilled, gaze flicking up to meet hers. A long beat of silence. Then, finally—
“I’m not pretending.” His voice was low, steady. “I just don’t want to get this wrong.”
Her breath caught. He wasn’t looking away. Not once.
“I spent years convincing myself I couldn’t have this.” His jaw tightened like the words physically hurt.
“Bruce,” she shook her head, looking down at her hands. “Really. You don’t have to…I can’t--,”
He caught her chin, forcing her gaze back to him. “I’m not pretending. Not anymore.” He shook his head, a resigned smile quirking his mouth. “Did Alfred ever tell you the story of how my parents met? My mother was climbing over the wall to escape a party. Gave Dad a black eye when he came up behind her,”
She didn’t understand, thoughts whirring too quickly for her to make sense of. Without thinking, “Smart lady,”
“Dad thought so, too. Probably why he climbed after her after he gave her a boost,”
Her brow furrowed. “Bruce, I don’t—,”
“I love you.”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She’d spent so long thinking that she was in this alone, that she was the only one who felt the ground shifting beneath her feet.
He shook his head. Bruce had never believed in fate, but he did believe in tactical reevaluation. Claire knew this from many conversations over board games and their foray into amateur Nancy Drew escapades. That was probably why Alfred had grayed so early.
“I’ve loved you since I was thirteen,”
She opened her mouth, something raw pressing against her throat, but all that came out was— “Don’t suppose that was a pleasant revelation,” she said dumbly.
“It was an inevitability,” he said, his thumb swiping away a stray tear. “I love you. I’m not going to pretend I don’t,”
It was a punch to her ribs, worse than any of the bruises lining her skin.
“In fact, it was costing more energy to pretend I didn’t,”
She wasn’t alone. In fact, he may have beaten her, may have even loved her longer. That bastard. Before she could stop herself, before fear could eat her alive, she surged forward and kissed him.
Her hands fisted in the collar of his suit, dragging him closer. Bruce made a sound against her lips, something low and rough like this was hurting him as much as it was undoing him. His hands were on her in an instant, sliding over her waist, grasping her back, almost too rough against her tender skin. But she didn’t care.
Claire pressed closer, chasing the heat of him, chasing the impossible feeling of his body flush against hers after so many years of wanting, of waiting. She whispered something into the kiss—his name, maybe, or some half-formed thought she couldn’t hold onto. It didn’t matter. Her hands slid upward, tangling in his hair, tugging until he growled into her mouth. She arched into him. His hands slid underneath her thighs, lifting her and dropping her on the med counter, swiping away obstacles behind her as he leaned into her.
Heat rushed up her neck, flushing across her face. Her thighs pressed together.
Bruce was everywhere. His breath hot against her skin, his fingers slipping under fabric, his heartbeat hammering against her own. Everywhere, too much, everything.
Her fingers caught on the armor.
Not enough.
Those bodice rippers she’d hidden under her mattress from her mother had not said anything about the difficulty of removing a knight’s armor. “Off, off,” she ordered against his mouth, tugging at the chest plate. She magnanimously decided not to start throwing fists when he chuckled.
“Needy,”
It was a blur of invisible snaps and buckles before he was lifting the armor and shirt, all carelessly discarded on the floor. Her eyes roved over the muscles cut into his abdomen greedily. Before she remembered, she could touch. She was allowed, allowed a hell of a lot more than she could have imagined. Her hands roamed. And ok, maybe needy had been onto something.
Their eyes met, a clash of blue against green. A breathless moment passed before Bruce’s face lit with a blinding smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. She could feel the ghost of his hands indented into her hips, swiping across her back, down to her breasts.
Her fingers hooked in his belt and yanked. He followed, moving in between her legs, brushing his lips against hers, letting her chase him before he trailed his lips downward, all gentle brushes until he set his teeth between the juncture of her neck and shoulder before soothing with his tongue. She gasped, her fingers threading through his inky hair and yanking him closer.
A distinct throb began between her legs when his hands reached her bra clasp. She was nodding before he could ask. There was a hint of a fumble, and she couldn’t help herself, “The playboy needs an instruction manual?”
He pulled back to glare. The glare lasted the half-second it took for her bra to fall from her arm, revealing her chest to him. She resisted the urge to turn in on herself as he looked his fill, to hide her bruises, her wrongs, the insecurities that haunted the mirror. His eyes locked back onto hers. The softness-- no, more than that…it was love, wasn’t it? That familiar look she’d seen between her parents, between Jack and Stephen. The one she had been chasing for over half her life.
Then she lost every viable thought when his head dropped, mouth laving across the valley of her chest, taking a peaked nipple into his mouth with a mean suck and gentle teeth. Her toes curled as her knees dug into his hips, catching a strangled noise in her throat. Her fingers tangled in inky black, sweat-damp hair.
“Bruce,” she breathed, fire rocketing up her spine, down her fingertips, heart pounding against her ribs. She used her hold to redirect him back up. He trailed his lips up her throat, nipping sensitive skin, laving marks that no amount of concealer would be able to hide. Her head fell back on a groan. God, she was going to have to start wearing turtlenecks come summer. No, focus. There was something she--
“Bruce,” her nails scored down the nape of his neck. A deep growl rumbled through his chest. She opened her eyes, and it felt like he was everywhere-- the sweep of his eyelashes, the calluses on his hands, the sharpness of his cologne underneath him, the black paint smeared underneath his eyes. Everything was Bruce.
A thin band of blue surrounded black as he met her eyes. Her breath caught as her grip softened, her hand coming to cup his cheek. The words that had been building behind her heart for nearly two decades choked her—swelling so big and so fast that she could hardly breathe. His face softened, and the lines in his face eased.
“Bruce,” she said again. What else could she say? He brought his hands up, cupping her face, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth, a fleeting pressure that relieved the tightness in her chest. A smile softened the edges of her mouth. She nudged her nose against his, arms wrapping around broad shoulders. “I want to…I need to tell you…”
“Would it make it better if I told you that I know?” His voice was a graveled tone-- easy, confident, and sure. “I know, sweetheart,”
Her eyes burned. She blinked rapidly. “Do you have to be so understanding about it? Damn you,” He only smiled. The words poured over, “Even when I didn’t want to, I thought about you constantly. Sometimes, you’re all I think about. It’s terribly inconvenient, especially when I was busy convincing myself I was mad at you.” she wanted to avoid his eyes and pick a bat to stare at instead. He was brave, and she could pretend to be for him. “All those parts of my life-- pissed, frustrated, happy, confused, excited-- I always wanted to tell you first,”
“So tell me,”
“I love you,”
It wasn’t a fleeting press the next time. Caught in his grip, he drew her back, drowning until all she could breathe and feel was him. His tongue sought out every groove and dip in her mouth, hands sliding down her neck, cupping her breasts, seeking purchase on her hips. Her hands caught his, interlinking them to hook her sweatpants and panties down and out of the way. Her legs spread around his hips.
Testing palms traced up her thighs. A whimper caught in his throat with his face pressed into her neck, hot breath against her necklace, pressing sloppy kisses against her molten skin. “Bruce,” she moaned as he slid two practiced fingers between her folds, gently circling her swollen clit before sliding down further and into her. She welcomed the slight burn, the echous pants of their breath in the cave. She welcomed the aching burn in her legs from leaning into him. She welcomed the realness. He crooked his fingers, then she didn’t think of much at all.
She heard him blearily, “You have no idea…” a blur of pleasure and heat. “No idea…how much…beautiful…all I thought of…”
She only nodded, pressing open-mouth kisses to the crown of his bowed head. His thumb found her clit as he worked another finger into her. Her orgasm caught her by surprise, the sudden wave that overtook her as she clenched down on his fingers. A silent scream shredded her voice before she was babbling, begging, “Please, please, I need you in me. Don’t make me…”
He wasn’t as gentle with himself as he unfastened his belt and shoved armor out of the way. Her breath caught when she caught a glimpse of him, hard and leaking between them. The throb between her legs intensified, red, molten hot, and clenched around nothing until she was sure slick dripped down her thighs.
“Again,” he said, voice wrecked, his hands catching under her ass, pulling her to the edge of the med table. One of his hands wrapped around his cock, the head slotting between her folds.
She scrambled to catch his shoulders. “I love you. God, I love you so much. I’ve always--,” her voice caught on a gasp as he slid into her. Her head fell back, air punched out of her lungs, “Bruce,”
He groaned as he bottomed out. She relished the sting of blunt nails biting into her hips. She’d never seen Bruce desperate before tonight. There was always too much control, a self-determination that could turn to self-flagellation on a dime. Now, she’d seen it twice. First, in her bathroom after saving her, breathing life back into her. And now…now, he hung over, enveloping her until all she could do was hang onto him, letting him bear her weight, holding her up as he fucked himself into her.
She bore her teeth, threw her head back, and hooked her leg around him. She ground against him, release chasing her faster than her breath could catch up to her. Heat flushed up her chest as his hips shifted on an upward thrust, hitting that sweet spot she’d always struggled to find with her fingers. “Oh, fuck. Fuck,” a barely withheld shriek. Her nails raked down his back.
His hands roved, never idle, gripping and chasing, before his thumb slipped in between her thighs, rubbing tight circles. Her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping, as his rhythm faltered. “Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m gonna…” she clenched around him at the drunk slur. “Fuck, where-- where do you want me to…”
“Inside,” She gripped him tighter, almost afraid he would pull away. “I want everything. Please, Bruce. Pleasepleaseplease,” He fell apart on a tight gasp of her name. Heat flooded her as his hand worked with renewed vigor, rubbing tight circles as he ground his hips into her, forcing her along with him. He caught her high moan in his mouth as he pressed his lips against hers, gripping her jaw, forcing her open to him. She convulsed against him, bringing him closer. “Bruce,” she sighed, pressing her forehead against his.
She slumped against him, burying her face in his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. A sated smile tilted her lips as his voice rumbled through her.
“Tell me again,”
jwct123 on Chapter 1 Wed 19 Feb 2025 07:32PM UTC
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