Half-lucid and barely able to stand on his own two feet, Bruce doesn’t know where to turn.

Alfred would take one look at his condition, and demand he go to a hospital. Bruce Wayne can hardly show up with these kinds of injuries and think of a conceivable lie, let alone show up and not end up on the front page of every tabloid in the city.

No, he can’t return to the Manor in this condition, and he certainly can’t seek out a doctor.

With little other option, he finds Gordon at the GCPD. Bruce was uncomfortable with the idea of the other man calling anybody to handle his injuries, but he knew Gordon understood that he had to be discreet. Unless he wanted to suffer long-term effects, he knew he’d have to suck it up and put his trust in you.

Gordon doesn’t mention what your profession is, or what your relation to the man is, before he leaves you alone to deal with Bruce. Bruce doesn’t ask. In fact, he doesn’t say much of anything as you carefully peel away layers of his torn suit to examine him. Your own questions remain impersonal, hoping only to gather the extent of his injuries, and not the why. Bruce appreciates it greatly.

Throughout the entire process, the cowl stays on. As far as Bruce is concerned, you’re treating the Bat. The less people that know about him, the better.

When you’ve done as much as you possibly can without the aid of a hospital, Bruce’s gaze drifts to the clock. He frowns slightly, realising just how long he’s been inconveniencing you. You were probably in bed, and now you’d have to return home, late at night, through the dangerous Gotham streets.

“Let me walk you home.” Bruce says, voice low and gravelly. He goes to sit up, but his vision is blurry and his head is swimming, and he quickly ends up slumped back against the office couch. Maybe not. “Or set up a ride for you. I know… people.”