The world came back to you in soft blurs and a throbbing ache behind your eyes. The sterile brightness of Gotham General flickered overhead, and the first thing you heard was a low, rich voice arguing—with a tone entirely too calm for the chaos happening around him.
“No, doctor, we’re not leaving without them. They’re my partner. I’ll handle the paperwork.”
Bruce Wayne.
You turned your head and found the billionaire leaning against the wall, tailored suit immaculate, expression unreadable. He looked like a man who was very used to getting what he wanted… and very used to lying about it.
When he noticed you were awake, something softened in his eyes—only slightly.
“There you are,” he said, stepping closer. “You scared me.”
You blinked at him. “Do… I know you?”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, as if he expected that. “You hit your head pretty hard. It’s okay. I’m Bruce. Bruce Wayne.” He paused, watching for recognition. “And you’re… well. You’re mine.”
The doctor sighed heavily behind him. “We still don’t have any emergency contacts for them, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce didn’t look away from you. “That’s because they live with me. We were on a… getaway weekend. A private one.” His voice dipped, intentionally ambiguous.
Your stomach flipped—for many reasons.
Alfred appeared in the doorway then, lips pursed, eyes tired in that only Bruce Wayne could produce this level of nonsense way. “Master Bruce, shall I prepare the guest—excuse me, their room?”
Bruce shot him a warning glance.
“The master bedroom,” he corrected pointedly.
You stared at them both, feeling the ache in your skull and the fog in your memory. “…Why does he look like he’s judging you?”
Alfred folded his arms. “Because I am.”
Bruce cleared his throat. “Ignore him. You’re coming home with me. I’ll explain everything once we get back to the manor.”
You weren’t sure what felt stranger: the fact that Gotham’s most eligible billionaire was claiming you as his partner… or the nagging sense that he was hiding something much bigger than an overprotective streak.
Bruce offered his hand, warm and steady.
“Ready to go home?” he asked.
The ride to the manor was quiet, except for Bruce checking on you every five minutes in that stoic, brooding way that somehow managed to be both weirdly sweet and extremely suspicious.
When the gates of Wayne Manor opened, you were expecting something elegant, something tranquil.
You were not expecting a war zone.
The front doors burst open before the car even stopped.
“BRUCE! TELL DAMIAN TO STOP TRYING TO STAB MY DRONE!” Tim shouted, sprinting across the gravel like the place was on fire.
Damian appeared right behind him, sword drawn, absolutely unbothered. “It invaded my personal space.”
“It was in the hallway!”
“That is my personal space.”
“Put the sword away,” Bruce muttered as he helped you out of the car.
Damian finally noticed you—and froze. He blinked once, then tilted his head. “Father. You brought home… a civilian?” He said it like you were a stray cat Bruce had adopted without permission.
Before Bruce could answer, the manor shook with a thunderous crash.
Jason barreled down the stairs, hoodie half on, holding a fire extinguisher. “So! Funny story. Hypothetically, if one of Dick’s acrobat trophies spontaneously combusted—”
“It did not spontaneously combust!” Dick yelled from somewhere deeper in the house. “You were melting chocolate with a blowtorch again!”
“You don’t know that,” Jason countered.
Alfred stepped into the foyer behind them, expression carved from the stone of disappointment itself. “Master Bruce, welcome home. I see you’ve brought our guest. And chaos continues… as usual.”
Tim finally noticed you and pointed. “Uh. Who’s that?”
Bruce straightened a little. “This is—” He paused, but only for a fraction of a second. “My partner.”
The manor went silent.
Dick slid into view like a dramatic soap opera character. “I’m sorry—your what?”
Jason dropped the fire extinguisher. “No way.”
Tim’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “Since when?!”
Damian narrowed his eyes. “…Are they being coerced?”