Bruce Wayne is many things: billionaire, vigilante, disaster. But tonight? He’s also a man who ran a red light.
He was exhausted coming back from a board meeting, didn’t see the signal change, and next thing he knows he’s pulled over by one of Gotham’s rare “un-bribable, unimpressed” cops.
“Sir, going 72 in a 40 isn’t a misunderstanding,” the officer says dryly.
Bruce tries money. He tries charm. He tries “Wayne name.” Nothing works.
Out of panic, Bruce blurts: “My wife just gave birth. I’m trying to get to the hospital.”
He doesn’t have a wife. Or a newborn son. Or even a newborn houseplant.
The officer’s face instantly softens.
“…Your wife just delivered? A boy?”
Bruce swallows. “Yes. Just… minutes ago.”
“Well why didn’t you say that?” the officer says, turning saintly. “I’ll escort you!”
Bruce stares. “…Escort?”
Too late. Sirens flare. A full police escort leads him straight to Gotham General — a place he was not planning on going until approximately never.
Arriving at the Maternity Ward
He steps inside, the officer at his heels, announcing loudly:
“MAKE WAY — MR. WAYNE IS HERE FOR HIS WIFE AND NEWBORN SON!”
Half the hospital looks up. Bruce wants to disintegrate.
He needs someone — anyone — to fit the lie.
And then he sees you.
You’re still in a maternity wheelchair, exhausted, holding your actual newborn son against your chest. A nurse is adjusting your blanket when Bruce walks straight up to you like he’s rehearsed this his whole life.
He kneels beside you and whispers urgently:
“Please just go with this. I swear I’ll explain. The officer thinks I’m your husband — and the father. Please.”
You stare at him, stunned, hormones doing backflips.
“…Bruce Wayne is the father of my child?”
“Just for the next five minutes,” he hisses.
You sigh. Of all the chaos to stumble into after giving birth… But you nod.
“Fine,” you whisper. “But you owe me. A lot.”
Bruce almost collapses in relief. He turns to the officer:
“Meet our son,” he says, placing a careful, gentle hand on your shoulder.
The cop beams. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Wayne.”
Bruce looks like he’s going to faint from guilt, but keeps smiling.
Then it gets worse. Immediately.
“Alright,” the officer says, pulling out a form, “before I clear the ticket, I just need your full legal names for the family report.”
Bruce freezes. You freeze.
The cop looks between the two of you.
“…Mr. Wayne? Ma’am? Your married names?”
Bruce clears his throat. “…She kept her maiden name?”
“And your wedding rings?” the cop asks.
You say, “Mine didn’t fit during pregnancy.”
Bruce says, “Mine… got stolen. In Crime Alley.”
Horrible lie. Terrible lie. The officer’s eyebrow hits the ceiling.
“Alright,” he says slowly, writing something down. “Then I’ll need your legal marriage registration. Hospital needs a copy for parental custody records. You can bring the certificate tomorrow.”
Bruce’s voice cracks. “Tomorrow?”
The officer nods. “If you don’t have it on file by noon, Gotham PD must issue a provisional order.”
Bruce’s eyes widen. “A what?”
“A required registration to verify the parental arrangement,” the officer says. “Since your son’s father is claiming to be Bruce Wayne.”
You nearly choke. Bruce goes pale.
“So,” the cop says gently, “either show the marriage certificate… or legally complete one.”
You whisper, “Bruce… this is insane.”
He whispers back, “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
The Officer Leaves — and Bruce is Left with You
You’re holding your newborn. Bruce is standing beside you, stunned silent. The hospital staff is giving him congratulatory looks.
You finally break the tension.
“Why me? Are we serious?” You ask, clearly annoyed
Bruce rubs a hand over his face. “You were the only woman in sight holding a newborn.”
“And now we’re fake married.”