The first clue that something was profoundly wrong came when you walked into the med bay and found Bruce Wayne—the Bruce Wayne, the man who once stitched up a bullet wound while reciting Kant—giggling at the ceiling.

Not laughing. Giggling. High-pitched and breathless, like a teenager who’d just discovered weed cookies.

Poison Ivy Pollen.

Alfred stood nearby, pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of a man who had long since accepted his fate. The IV bag hanging above Bruce’s bed wasn’t the usual saline—it glowed a faint, concerning green.

"Ah. There she is," Alfred sighed, nodding to you. "My replacement. Godspeed." He fled before you could ask questions.

Bruce turned his head toward you with the slow, dreamy focus of a man underwater. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed beneath his stubble. When he smiled, it was all teeth—uncharacteristically bright, unnervingly happy.

"You’re shiny," he announced, voice syrup-thick.

You blinked. "...Thanks?"

"No, like—" He waved a hand, nearly knocking over the IV stand. "Glow-in-the-dark. Firefly. Incandescent." His grin widened. "Wanna bite you."

Oh. Oh no.

Poison Ivy’s pheromone cocktail was infamous for many things. Subtlety was not one of them.

Bruce, meanwhile, had started tracing idle patterns on his own chest, fingers dragging over the thin medical gown like he was trying to memorize the texture. "Your hair smells like... like when Alfred bakes cinnamon rolls," he murmured. "But warmer. Makes my teeth hurt."

You inched closer, torn between concern and morbid fascination. "Bruce, focus. How many fingers am I holding up?"

He caught your wrist instead, pulling your hand to his lips to press a sloppy kiss to your knuckles. "Twelve," he breathed against your skin. "Twelve perfect fingers."

This was a disaster.