Archive of Our Own ^beta

He'd been expecting the storm. 

For days, the newscasters had talked about little else besides the tropical depression gaining power as it moved along the coast, until even the advertisements between reports were taken over by emergency alerts on the growing threat of the fully-fledged hurricane it had become. 

It was funny, Bruce mused. When he was a boy, this kind of thing was practically unheard of. 

These days, at least one category 5 was simply expected during the season. 

He'd stayed out on patrol as long as he could, helping with evacuations and storm shelters and stepping in to prevent looters taking advantage of the power outages in between, but there was a point when even the Batman was forced off the streets by the rushing winds and pounding rain. 

Back home, the water rushed through the depths of the cave. Experience had taught him which of the lower levels may be vulnerable to flooding, which of the stone pillars to keep an eye on for weathering, and he called for Damian and Alfred to give him a hand moving equipment and supplies to higher ground. 

Even with as long as he'd pushed the patrol, there was ample time to complete their preparations. They'd worked this process up to a smoothly efficient methodology by now, ready as early as April for things to be moved, eyes ever on the storm reports. Bruce remembered his very first year under the cowl uncomfortably, after all, when the yet-unfamiliar Riddler had crippled the city so fully with the help of a similar storm, doing little but hampering the prepared defenses, and it was too harsh a lesson to forget so soon. 

Preparations complete, he sent his family back upstairs. The manor's emergency bunker, with its thick walls and its stored supplies, made for a much safer place to wait things out than a natural formation like the cave, sections of it always prone to giving in to the unforgiving rigors of time. 

Despite his promises, Bruce knew he wouldn't be joining them inside anytime soon. 

Anxiously, he paced, keeping an eye on every news channel covering the crisis, on the local casters delivering sparse reports on anything other than the storm, on the police chatter as they kept close watch on the real threat to their security- Arkham Asylum's power supply, already flickering in the winds' pressure. As the lightning advanced on the island, the crosstalk grew more tense. They'd be hard-pressed to contain a breakout under these conditions, and they knew it. The prisoners would be willing to take risks the GCPD simply could not. 

The Batmobile sat, primed, at the exit, ready for a reckless excursion. Bruce prayed it would be unnecessary, for Alfred's sake, if nothing else. 

Tense and jittery, hearing the city's power supply failing and his generators humming to life, listening to panicked reports of the Asylum's doing the same, Bruce trudged upstairs, setting a kettle to boil on the gas range and prepping that chamomile blend Alfred always used to coax him into a good night's sleep. It seemed to take an eternity for the kettle to begin a low whining, Bruce spending the entire while pacing a groove into the kitchen tiling, and he snatched the kettle off the fire the moment it began to make noise, splashing the hot water in his haste to fill his cup. Burner off and tea steeping, he hurried back underground, passing by the shelter door guiltily along the way. Doubtlessly, Alfred was likewise pacing, just inside that door, waiting for Bruce to show. 

He didn't allow his footsteps to falter. His mission was always too important to abandon for Alfred's worry. The man had nothing to fret over, anyway. Not yet. Not unless the worst came to pass. 

The clock in the study swung open, proving the generators were still functioning below, and Bruce began to relax. He heard nothing suspicious from the steps down to the cave, and the door barring exit up to the manor from the other direction was still closed. Nothing out of place. The world hadn't ended in his absence. 

He placed his palm, warmed by the grasp he'd had on the mug, onto the handprint key he'd added once he realized Damian could bypass his voice commands. It accepted and released the lock before it had completed a full scan. 

Bruce froze, watching the door release. That wasn't what was supposed to happen. 

The mug of tea was abandoned on the nearest table to the door, splashing over the lip and across the surface, staining the corner of the crisp white shirt waiting there for emergency costume changes. Bruce's footsteps echoed in the cavern, the rushing water below indistinguishable from the rushing of the blood in his ears. 

The lights, which should have switched themselves off by now from lack of movement, remained brightly lit, shining down on a shadow crumpled near his work bench, cleared by Damian earlier and now perched in a puddle of murky water. 

Bruce approached, warily, judging the distance to the Batcomputer and wondering if he had time to grab his helmet before the situation escalated. He took barely a step in that direction before the decision was made for him, the shadow shifting and coughing, pale hands emerging and steadying the body upright. The heavy, labored breathing barely reached his ears, more evident by the tense movement of the figure's shoulders than the actual sound, and Bruce found his boots leading him across bridges and down steps until he was crouching, kneeling, a glove already outstretched to steady the man who had washed up in his secret sanctuary. He was horrified to find the water drenching this level wasn't murky with muck torn up from the harbor floor, as he'd expected, but rather pink with blood, seeping from the darkened fabric hanging limply from the man's body and suffusing out into the water until seamless.

The man's head lifted, slowly, as though even that took him great effort, and Bruce's breath caught in his throat in panic. 

The red hair looked longer than it usually did, clinging to his chin and neck, dripping steadily into the pinkened puddle below, but the startling green eyes peering up at him from behind the wet ginger curtain, wide with desperation, were horrifically familiar. 

"Riddler...?" 

"I didn't know where else to go," he croaked, voice thin and pitiful in the absence of his usual obnoxious gloating, and cracking at the end in a way that made Bruce's heart twist despite himself. 

A million questions raced through Bruce's head, begging to be answered, but far more pressing was the yet unstemmed bleeding, still leeching red, swirling and spreading and staining the stone. Bruce stamped down the panic bitter in his throat, at the threat posed by Edward's mere presence, at the extent of the wounds, hidden but hinted by the quantity of blood, and pulled the man to his feet. 

Edward leaned heavily into him, apparently unable to stand on his own, and Bruce guided him up the short flights of stairs winding around to the medical equipment, trying to watch their steps without looking overmuch at the red-laced footprints he left behind. 

The cot welcomed him, giving little complaint as Edward sank into it, not half so heavy as its usual occupant. Bruce was glad, suddenly, that he'd neglected to put out new sheets after the last time he'd come home cut to ribbons and staining everything he touched. The material would be easy to clean off, and Edward could be made comfortable after he was stable. His clothes fell wetly as they were discarded, with a slap and a splatter. The vibrant green of them would never be recovered, unfortunately, and the fabric was shredded, besides. 

"What happened?" Bruce asked, trying for a comforting tone and only managing muted terror. The skin he revealed was far too pale, the body beneath shivering with cold. The blood smeared in rivulets where the clothing had soaked to his skin, obscuring the extent and location of his wounds. "Hold on. This is gonna be cold," he apologized, tipping purified water from a nearby container to rinse the worst of it off, but Edward barely shivered. 

"Some thugs with a grudge," Edward murmured softly, pausing after just that phrase to suck in labored breaths. His lashes drifted low, eyelids heavy, but he kept his unfocussed gaze on Bruce's face. "Don't really know what they wanted. Couldn't tell if- if I'd screwed them over personally, or if it'd been some boss of theirs-" 

The slurring explanation was abruptly cut short, Edward hissing at the first splash of disinfectant across one of his deeper wounds. Bruce couldn't quite hold back the amused smirk, knowing exactly how the next hour or so would go. He'd ended up in just this position before, after all, under Alfred's steady needle, thanks to the Riddler's own efforts. "If you thought that was bad, you'll hate this next part." 

"Oh goodie," Edward grumbled, followed by a bitten-short 'Ah-!' of pain as the needle breached skin. 

"Just a few dozen more of those," Bruce promised, or threatened. Either way, Edward nodded, gritting his teeth at the tug of the thread being tied off. "So, some sort of revenge, then? I thought you'd been keeping your head down lately." 

Edward shrugged, a minute motion that still tugged the myriad cuts enough to furrow his brow more deeply, and Bruce let him catch his breath before continuing with the next suture. "I have been. The whole parole officer thing really puts a damper on elaborate plans, you know."

"I believe that's the point, yeah," Bruce chuckled, tying off the last of the sutures and moving to the next-largest laceration. Edward's teeth dug into his lower lip, not breaking the skin but irritating it into a dull red, at the burning of the alcohol.

"Anyway," Edward huffed pointedly, "It must have been an old grievance. I'd have seen it coming if it was someone I'd screwed over recently." 

"Good point. You've always been good at saving your own skin," Bruce acknowledged. No one put him in a state like this but Bruce himself, usually. How ironic that he'd be here like this, now, carefully closing wounds that, for once, he didn't leave. "So, why here? Why me? How did you even know how to get in?" 

"Oh, man, that's-" Edward took a deep breath, and then another, and Bruce hovered over the next gash. "That's gonna take more talking than I'm up for right now. Short version, I trust you not to kill me." 

Bruce hummed, nodding, and returned to task when Edward went quiet again. Only on his darkest days had he even considered letting someone die, let alone actively taking a life. Edward was one of the nearest, he knew, gaze trailing across the curved line of the self-inflicted wound long since scarred into Edward's chest, recalling memories of when the question mark cut into the muscle there was fresh. Edward hadn't been anywhere near in his best mind, then, either. 

With a shake of his head, Bruce put those thoughts out of his mind. Should he do his job right, very few of these would scar the same way. He went about applying butterfly bandages to those cuts too small for sutures and too big to ignore, and gently pulled Edward into a sitting position. His back hadn't fared much better, the cuts fewer but longer, and Bruce had to steady him with one hand while the other made practiced work of the needle. 

"What were you thinking about?" Edward's voice was quiet, too quiet over the echoing of the storm and the humming of the generators, but Bruce had been listening so intently to his breathing, he caught it anyway. 

He shrugged, pointlessly, as Edward clearly couldn't see it, out of mere habit. "Just thinking about the irony of it all." 

Edward chuckled, breathily, the slight movement jostling the needle into scraping painfully down the path of the wound, and he yelped in response, jerking away. Dizzied by the sudden movement, he tipped, easily caught by the hand Bruce had already been bracing him with. 

"Alright?" Bruce checked, thumb stroking across an unbroken patch of skin over Edward's shoulderblade. The weight of him leaning into that hand shifted and swayed as he wobbled unsteadily. 

Still unbalanced, Edward nodded, attempting and failing to sit under his own power. 

"Hey, now, don't lie to me." Bruce set aside the needle, using both hands to guide Edward into lying down on the cot, on his side, so Bruce could still reach the yet-open wounds. He hissed as he touched down, one gash across his ribcage pulling just too far to the side and dipping into the wet mess of the cot, and Bruce snatched a small towel from the shelves to place underneath him. "Can't have you passing out on me and making my job harder." 

"Sorry," Edward mumbled. 

"Apology accepted. Now, lie still." 

The little hisses and winces faded off as Bruce finished up, until Edward failed to react at all to the dabbing of an alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the lacerations on his calves. Bruce glanced up, trying to get a good look at his face despite the wet hair sticking stubbornly to his cheeks and obscuring his features, and a cold bolt of dread shot down his spine as he realized Edward had lost consciousness. 

Rushing through preparations, Bruce hurriedly wiped down the cot as best he could before tipping Edward back onto his back. The blood bags, arranged neatly by type and kept up-to-date in their dedicated cooler, were running low of universal donor, but Bruce trusted his memory of Edward's medical records enough to confidently pull a bag of A- from the shelf and set it up. 

"Stay with me, alright, Eddie?" He murmured, pushing wet locks of ginger hair out of the way to reach the pulse point just below Edward's stubbled jaw. Slow and faint, but steady. He forced himself to relax. He'd pull through. Bruce would pull him through. This blood wouldn't be on his hands. Not today. 

He took his time finding a good vein in Edward's elbow, pushing down his panicked urgency. Better to do it right the first time than to lose progress with a stupid mistake. Of course it was better. No matter how frustrating the slowness was, how much he wanted to finish now , to see Edward's eyes flutter back open and the color return to his face. Slow and steady, for now. Precise. 

The needle went in. The tubing connected. The valve released. 

He waited just long enough to make sure the blood was flowing properly, that he hadn't made any mistakes in his distracting distress, before judging Edward stable enough to leave for a few minutes, just a few minutes, and what could possibly happen if he just turned his back, just for a bit-

He retrieved his digital watch from the upper landing, tied it to Edward's thin wrist, and pulled open the app on his phone to watch his pulse rate while he headed back upstairs. 

"Won't be gone long. Don't go anywhere." 

Of course, Edward didn't respond. Bruce hadn't expected him to respond. His chest still tightened anxiously at the silence. 

With effort, he forced himself to walk away, one eye to his phone's screen the whole while. The hand scanner gave that same concerning half-hearted scan before releasing. Whatever Edward had done to the security, it seemed he'd have to fix it manually. 

Later, though. Just a few minutes. Up to the kitchen and back again. Maybe he'd make himself another cup of tea and not abandon it partway to get cold. 

The clock swung open, and there Alfred stood, clearly having just rushed through the study doorway and now shocked to see Bruce standing there. 

"Oh. Master Bruce. Here you were. Master Damian and I were beginning to get worried. All's well, I hope...?" 

The butler's gaze travelled curiously down to the blood smeared across the armor he still wore, raising an eyebrow in question. 

"Long story, Alfred. Actually..." He scratched at his jaw. This ordeal wouldn't stay secret for long. He may as well break it now. "Would you be willing to bring some food down to the cave for me? Emphasis on protein. Red meat." 

Alfred's brow furrowed, gaze searching over the rim of his narrow glasses. His lips pursed, clearly recognizing the request for what it was. "Who's blood is that, Master Bruce?" 

Bruce scratched at his hairline, gesturing vaguely at the smears across his torso. "We have an... unexpected guest. Downstairs. He arrived injured and in no condition to be questioned just yet. I understand if you'd rather stay up here-"

"I'd rather you come join us in the shelter, as we agreed, sir," Alfred argued impatiently. 

"I... can't do that. I can't leave him down there, and I can't risk bringing him into the bunker with us." He glanced at the phone screen. The reading flickered between 'no signal' and roughly 60 bpm. He needed to get back to the cave. 

Alfred, even if he'd sensed Bruce's urgency, didn't budge. "Who is it, Bruce?" 

It shouldn't be so tough. He'd already requested Alfred downstairs, where he knew he'd find their guest, one way or another. It shouldn't be so hard to just tell him, instead of letting him find out on his own time. 

It was just so hard to say anything to that suspicious face, knowing it would fall into disappointment, or worse.

"...Nygma." 

The sharp intake of breath and widening of his eyes were the only indication of Alfred's reaction. "Very well. I will have something prepared for you both shortly." 

His voice was measured, flat. Like he was referring to a perfectly ordinary guest. Like Bruce hadn't casually admitted that not only had one of his most dangerous foes broken into the Batcave, but that the same villain had seen him, armored and unmasked. 

Only thanks to his decades of practice did Bruce notice the very slight tension in Alfred's shoulders as he left the room, broadcasting his muted panic. 

Another glance at the phone screen showed a steady reading and a climbing pulse rate. Edward was waking up. Tearing his eyes from the doorway Alfred had disappeared to, Bruce rushed down the steps to the cave yet again, wearing them well in his panicked pacing tonight.

The cavern was growing quieter, as the storm lost power after making landfall, and he could hear his own bootsteps echoing in his haste. The metal stairs clanged underfoot, continuing to ring behind him even as he crossed over to the cot, where Edward held a hand to his ear, nose wrinkled with distaste. 

"Aren't you supposed to be stealthy, Dark Knight?" Edward grumbled, pouting up at him. He still looked exhausted, eyes hooded and breathing labored, but the attitude was a significant comfort nonetheless. 

"How are you feeling?" Bruce checked, pulling out the gauze and tapes and returning to the patching he'd had to abandon. 

"Like I went through a woodchipper," Edward griped. "And then got dumped in the harbor. Oh, wait, that part actually fucking happened." 

Judging by the shivers still wracking his pale body, Bruce believed it. "We'll get you warmed up once I'm sure you won't bleed out on the sheets," he promised. 

"Of course. Wouldn't want to ruin a perfectly expensive set of bedding on my account." Edward rolled his eyes. 

Bruce chuckled. "Good to see you're feeling better. Do you think you'll be able to stand?" 

Edward gaped up at him, looking mildly affronted. "You expect me to walk around like this?! I know you're all... reckless and bullheaded and you go out five minutes after getting your arms broken, but some of us are human, thank you very much." The little speech was the longest he'd managed since arriving here, and was only broken for breaths a couple times. Bruce couldn't be sure how long this burst of energy would last, but he hoped it was enough to get him to the upper landing. 

"Well, I was going to move you up to the pull-out bed where I have a space heater set up, but if you'd rather shiver on this tiny, stiff little cot..." Bruce shrugged. 

Stubbornly, still pouting, Edward swung his legs off the side of the cot, wincing at the movement and holding a hand to the bandage across his left thigh, the one that had gotten dangerously close to the major artery. Bruce held out his hands, offering his aid, but Edward batted them away, pushing himself to his feet with effort. 

He swayed dangerously, and Bruce had to grab hold of him, regardless. 

"No point being stubborn if you can't follow through," he admonished. 

"Yeah, yeah," Edward mumbled, dropping his head to Bruce's shoulder. "Give me a minute to let the room stop spinning before you bitch at me, alright?" 

Bruce waited patiently while Edward adjusted, stroking a thumb absent-mindedly across his ribs. From above, he could hear the door slide open, followed by a set of footsteps too precise to be entirely natural coming down the carved stone steps to the Batcomputer. 

"Come on, Alfred brought you something to eat." With an encouraging pat to the shoulders, Bruce drew back, checking Edward was stable on his feet before dragging over the IV. Stand in one hand and supervillain in the other, Bruce led their careful way back up the metal staircase, winding up to their nearby destination. 

Halfway up, Edward had to pause, leaning heavily into Bruce's body to catch his breath. "This is... a little harder than I thought." 

"Well, you were put through a woodchipper, remember?" Bruce teased. 

This close, he could feel Edward's shoulders quake with his wheezy little laugh. "Near enough, anyway. Who even uses swords these days?" 

"You mean besides my son?" 

Edward snorted at that, triggering a coughing fit that had Bruce chewing at his lip. "Ow. No funny jokes while I'm still injured, asshole." 

"I'll try to be less amusing, then," Bruce promised, fully intending to break it. "Ready to keep going?" 

At Edward's nod, Bruce ascended the last of the stairs, stepping back onto stone to see Alfred waiting, tight-lipped, and Damian, cross-legged, in the computer chair. Edward brightened, heading directly for the silver-lidded meal waiting for him there, forcing Bruce to hurry along behind to keep him both standing and connected to his damned blood bag. Alfred patiently revealed the plate beneath, spilling out an enticing aroma nearly as appetizing as the steak dinner itself, while Bruce activated the mechanism that released the bed, fully made up in thick cotton bedding and with a heating element already warming the mattress. For good measure, he also started up the space heater tucked beneath the computers, bringing the immediate area to a more comfortable temperature. 

"Where are his clothes?" Damian demanded. He had his arms crossed, sheathed katana tucked into the crook of his elbow. Alfred must have brought him along as backup, but clearly Damian didn't consider Edward to actually be much of a physical threat. Bruce shared that opinion, but Alfred made precaution into a profession. 

"Shredded, unfortunately. Alfred, could you grab the spare clothes from the exit? Edward-" Bruce glanced down, frowning at the blood-soaked briefs, the final barrier between him and complete immodesty, and then at the nice white sheets, the ones he curled up in every time there was a crisis and he couldn't stray far from the computer. "Those will have to come off, too."

Damian groaned, hands slapping to his face to cover his eyes, and Edward turned a searching look back at Bruce. "You're... joking, right?" 

"Completely serious. I don't want blood on the bedsheets." 

Alfred was returning, frowning at the stained shirt with distaste. "Would you care for another cup of that chamomile, sir? It appears your shirt partook of the first." 

"That'd be great, actually. Edward, do you drink tea?" 

Edward frowned at the offered clothing, checking for tags and holding out the fabric. It was obvious what he was thinking before he even opened his mouth to complain. "None of this will fit." 

"Just the shirt, then. Tea?" 

"Yes, yes, fine." With an exaggerated huff, Edward pulled the pressed shirt over his head. The sleeves dangled to the tips of his fingers and the hem covered the better part of his thighs. Gingerly, taking care to keep the shirt dangling low, Edward slid the briefs off, as demanded. Bruce tried not to watch with too much interest, he really did, but the look Alfred gave him, with one eyebrow cocked judgmentally, told him all he needed to know about the actual measure of success. 

At least Damian hadn't yet uncovered his eyes.

Edward maneuvered the IV stand closer to the bedside, accepting Bruce's outstretched arm for balance, and crawled into the bed, sighing in relief at the cocooning warmth.

"Alright, Damian. All clear," Bruce announced. "Why don't you and Alfred get back upstairs? I can take it from here." 

Damian cracked just two fingers apart, glancing over to confirm Edward was, indeed, fully covered, before dropping his hands and stomping off. 

"Take care, Master Bruce. I hope you know what you're doing," Alfred tutted, before following Damian on his way out. 

So do I, Bruce thought, and sank into the vacated chair. 

---

What little time Edward spent not sleeping or picking, nauseous, at the food Alfred brought down was entirely filled by him complaining. 

There was a growing stack of books perched precariously on the Batcomputer's console, threatening to topple and hit any number of keys Bruce would really rather not see hit, but Edward went through them practically as quickly as Bruce could bring them down from the Wayne family library and refused to allow him to return any of them upstairs. 

"What if you get caught up with some, I don't know, Bat- business, and I'm stuck down here with nothing to read?" Edward huffed over the most recent attempt, and Bruce just raised his hands in surrender, making a mental note to drag over a cart of some sort for them. Shortly after, though, the sun had begun peeking out through the cloud cover above and the Arkham staff reported a few notable absences, and Edward's prediction came true. Bruce's quote-unquote 'Bat-business' kept him out through the long hours of the day and tipped into the night and by the time he arrived back in the cave, the Batmobile's engine roaring through the renewed silence, Edward's sheets were strewn with discarded books and he was flicking, frustrated, through the last few pages of another. The pile on the console had dwindled to nothing, just a couple books perched innocently, as though they'd never been part of a tower, and Edward was glaring hotly. 

"Your damn computer nearly killed me," he griped. 

"Sorry about that," Bruce replied without remorse. "You're still recognized as a high-threat intruder, you know. The charge is supposed to keep you from getting close enough to tamper with it." 

Edward scoffed and grumbled, "Like I'd need to touch it to do that..." 

"Yes, yes," Bruce mocked, "you're the master hacker who only needs his incredible genius to bypass any security." 

"Got in here, didn't I?" Edward reminded him, and that was a decent point. He'd been half-drowned and bled nearly dry, and he'd still disabled the locks. "And anyway, I was thinking more along the lines of a nice, heavy rock." 

Bruce snorted. "I doubt you could lift a rock heavy enough in this condition. Heal up and try some curls, first." 

"I'll keep that in mind." Edward slumped, sighing, and tossed his book among the others. "I had a point, you know." 

"And that point would be?" 

"You left me in here, dangerously un-entertained, practically shackled to your high-end, very expensive, potentially-hackable supercomputer-slash-citywide surveillance system- and with nothing to keep me occupied but a shitty pile of shitty books I've already read! You're playing a very dangerous game, you know, Dark Knight." 

Bruce hummed. "Potentially-hackable?" 

Edward's nose scrunched. "Still haven't decided the best place to put that rock. It's very important it doesn't damage the space heater, after all. I'm very cozy." 

"Good to hear." The pointed reference to the Batcomputer's surveillance functions was slightly alarming, but the threat itself was empty enough to be disarming. He doubted Edward would purposely remind him of the threat he posed were he actually planning to do anything of that nature. "How are you feeling? Other than toasty warm and bored, of course." 

Edward sighed, dropping heavily onto the pillows, hair fanning out around him like an orange sunburst. "Sore and stiff, mostly. Moving anything hurts something, and not moving ends up hurting, too, eventually." 

"That's too bad," Bruce hummed, trying for genuine sympathy. He was glad he at least didn't end up sounding sarcastic. "I'd offer up a massage, but I think we'd run into a similar problem." 

Edward coughed out a short laugh, followed by a wince. "Not that I'm not interested in the offer, of course, but you have a point. Maybe later."

The moment Bruce felt the fond smile tugging onto his face, it fell. He was getting too comfortable. "Planning to stick around that long?" 

Naked alarm twisted Edward's features, eyes wide and searching Bruce's face. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he looked away, brows furrowing with frustration. "I don't have anywhere to go," he admitted.

"No?" Bruce questioned. "Where were you staying before this?" 

The scowl that shot back at him reminded him, with a jolt of tension to the spine, of their usual circumstances of meeting. "It doesn't matter, does it? I can't go back, now can I? Whoever did this-" and here, he gestured furiously with one arm, the other conscious of the needle still driven deep into the vein- "will know to look for me there!" 

"It matters," Bruce insisted. 

"Right." Edward groaned. "You think anyone keeping secrets must be up to no good- because you, of course, have no secrets at all, mm?" 

Bruce wiped at his bare face, all too aware of how many of his own secrets they were surrounded with. "You've always had a knack for hiding yourself away, for keeping just out of reach until you wanted to be caught," he pointed out. "If you won't give me any more information, I have to assume you're here because this is where you want to be, and that's too suspicious to ignore." 

Edward wrinkled his nose and wouldn't meet Bruce's eye. He took a long pause, long enough that Bruce began to brainstorm a new approach, but he spoke before Bruce reached a decision. "...Not so much a knack as the resources to do so. My usual method of staying off your far-reaching radar involves a number of less-than-legal business dealings and connections that, you will recall, I haven't been maintaining, and besides which, I don't know if I can trust." 

"Makes sense," Bruce acknowledged, "But what about options that are on my radar? If you're keeping your nose clean, what does it matter if I know where to find you?" 

"Like you can't keep a plenty close eye on me here, right?" Edward snorted. "Incredibly, my hangups about where to sleep don't always have to do with you." 

"Then... what? What's keeping you from getting a lease on an apartment, or just booking a hotel room for a while?" Bruce pressed. "If it's about people finding you, you could always do it under my name."

"Which one? Bruce Wayne? Or Batman? I bet either one would get me the presidential suite." Edward rolled his eyes. "Really, though, and you should be able to guess this on your own, but there's not many respectable establishments in this city I can just pop my head into, you know. What hotel clerk is going to watch me walk through the door and wait until I've even reached her desk to press her little panic button, hmm?" 

"Your parole paperwork lists you under a room at the Royal," Bruce recalled. 

"A simple fix. If they ever needed to check in on my physical location, they'd find the room doesn't actually exist." 

"And that the fake number you chose is some sort of clue," Bruce surmised. 

"Not a very complex one. Just a hint at my identity, should someone stumble across it from the hotel's end." Edward collected the books into their stacks again, arranging them by size for stability. "Habits, and all that." 

"Habits, or compulsions?" Bruce asked. 

Edward remained silent. His lips tightened, turning white. 

Bruce sighed, ruffling his own hair, in the way he always did to fluff it when the cowl came off. Habits. He knew Edward hated to be reminded of his own struggles, the ways his own mind worked against him, but maybe Bruce was too used to confrontation, the habit too ingrained for him to avoid. "So, if you forged your paperwork, where have you really been staying?" 

Edward shrugged, running his fingers along the last book still on the bed. It was a well-worn paperback of Catcher in the Rye, an early print but not so rare as to be handled carefully. It had been an impulse to add it to the stacks, among the variety he'd tried to gather, guessing at what would keep Edward occupied. The answer, it turned out, was anything that might keep him from boredom, but maybe that had been a good choice. 

Then again, maybe it was just the smallest. 

"...I've been... couch-surfing. Sort of." 

Bruce hummed, hoping it sounded encouraging instead of dismissive. 

Edward flipped through the pages, releasing the gentle vanilla scent of old books, then set the novel aside, the towers giving a promising lack of a wobble at the addition. "A few nights in one of Jonathan's bunkers, a week at Arthur's apartment. Waylon offered longer than the one night I took him up on, but he does live in the sewers. Even homeless, I'm entitled to some standards." Edward ran his fingers through his hair, falling around his face in crispy clumps due to the blood and harbor muck left behind when the water dried. "I was crashing with Oswald above his Lounge the night I was abducted, and I don't know how long they had me. A while, I think."

"Nobody you could tell your parole officer about, you mean," Bruce concluded. 

"Yeah, I guess that's the long and short of it." Edward shrugged. "Again, though, I don't know who I can trust. Maybe Oswald sold me out, maybe they just got past his goons. Either way, I wouldn't be safe there." 

"No, I can see that you wouldn't." It put him in a tight spot, then. Sending Edward out would only put him in danger, wouldn't it? And after all the trouble he'd gone through to see to his wounds, too. That made Edward's safety his problem, finding him a place to stay his responsibility. 

Was that a good enough excuse to keep him here, though? It was clearly what Edward was hoping for, and making Edward happy was bad for Gotham, generally speaking. 

"You've given me enough to earn you a nice, well-guarded door at the Asylum, you know. Seems like you've broken your parole several times over." 

Edward winced like he'd been hit. "That's quite true. Should have expected as much. Your whole thing is punishing criminals, isn't it? No regard to the hows or the whys, just that the law was broken, hmm?" 

"No," Bruce argued, reflexively. He'd had this argument before, after all, with too many people. "My ' whole thing' is keeping people from being hurt. The GCPD can worry about the parole violations and the petty thefts and the missing pets. I'm more worried about the people you kill, the lives you ruin-"

"And how does crashing on Oswald's tiny, purple, Antarctic-themed loveseat hurt anyone, hmm?" Edward groused defensively. 

"It doesn't," Bruce snapped. "I'm not threatening you, Edward. I'm trying to help." 

"Help?!" Edward squawked indignantly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "You tell me you're going to throw me to the wolves for, what, not committing enough crimes?! For getting kidnapped and half-gutted before they tried to drown me?! Or just for being stupid enough to trust you?!" 

Edward had surged to his feet in the middle of his rant, and was holding his head, eyes screwed shut, by the end of it. Bruce's hands hovered near either shoulder, ready to catch him should he topple, but the adrenaline of his fury kept him on his feet. 

"I was putting it forward as an option, Edward." Bruce tried nudging him back into the bed by his elbows, but Edward slapped his hands away, furiously. "They would be able to monitor your recovery and keep you safe from attacks." 

Edward snorted at that, humorlessly, but sank back onto the sheets. The color had drained from his face, the hand not covering his eyes darting out to steady his balance. "If you really believe that, I've got something else to sell you..." 

Bruce wasn't sure which part he was disagreeing with, but it was a clear enough rejection of the proposal, either way. "As far as I'm concerned, you've done nothing to deserve incarceration. If you want to keep the law out of this, I understand." 

Edward's long fingers rubbed circles into his temples, the movement jostling the hair that had fallen around his face again. After a long moment, he looked up, eyes clearer than they'd been since he'd washed up here, eyebrows arched high with surprise. "You're serious." 

The corner of Bruce's mouth tugged into a smirk. "I'm always serious." 

Edward rolled his eyes, dropping the hand from his face to tap a rhythm against his knee. Legs spread comfortably, Bruce's shirt was doing very little to keep him modest. 

Bruce cleared his throat, glancing back to the tower of books, just for somewhere to put his eyes that felt somewhat less invasive. "It might take a few days, but I can line something up for you. Somewhere to stay, just until you can get back on your feet. Properly, this time." The tapping fingers continued with anxious urgency. "Any requests?" 

"Access to your computer?" Edward suggested, with a tiny smile like it was fighting against him. 

"Not a chance," Bruce responded quickly, finding he'd almost anticipated the response. "I meant as far as location, type of accommodation, that sort of thing. Though, if you've got entertainment requests, I'm sure I can help with that, as well. More books? Maybe some movies?" 

"How about some pants?" Edward stretched his pale legs out, toes poking at Bruce's boots. "Unless you had some, ahem, entertainment in mind without them, hmm?" 

Bruce nudged the wriggling toes away, ignoring Edward's spreading grin. "I'll see what I can find. I'm sure one of the boys left behind something that will fit you. You're, what, an extra-small?" 

The grin immediately fell into a grimace, Edward's nose wrinkling and one of his canines visible. He kicked out in retaliation, Bruce just slightly too far away for the foot to connect, and huffed, slumping back onto the bed. "If you try to bring me something from your little demon's closet, I'm going to take the engine out of your car and drop it into the water." 

"Hey, Damian just turned twelve. He's been hitting a growth spurt lately." Bruce tapped a finger to his chin like he was considering the matter carefully, as though he didn't already know fully well he'd be raiding Dick's old room. "But, if you insist, I'm sure Tim wouldn't mind-" 

Despite being an old paperback, Catcher in the Rye could deal a decent impact, apparently, especially when thrown with pinpoint precision directly between one's eyes. 

---

The bedsheets had been tossed aside, their occupant missing, when Bruce returned with the small stack of freshly-laundered clothing. He dropped it, haphazardly, onto the mattress, swivelling frantically to try to catch a glimpse of the injured supervillain prowling the cave, unsure which of those epithets would define the impending disaster. 

It was the mop of ginger hair that finally caught his eye, an unusual spot of color against Bruce's favored tones, alerting him to where Edward crouched, curiously, on a lower level. The IV stand had come with him, gripped in one hand while the other traced along the thick cords running from the generators towards the Batcomputer. 

Bruce cleared his throat, stomping down the steps to Edward's level with a slowness he knew was intimidating. 

"Ah, Batman. How good of you to join me. Did you bring me clothes, or just more questions?" Edward greeted, tone markedly casual. 

"What are you doing?" Bruce snapped.

"Checking out your cave's power sources. I figure one of these has to be what sends the extra voltage to power that cutting-edge anti-hacking technology of yours." He stood, leaning on the stand for support, before turning a smug look back towards Bruce. "That was a joke, of course. Only cavemen would find your little force-field 'cutting edge'." 

Bruce closed the distance between them with measured steps, making full use of the several inches of height he had on the man to loom, menacingly, over him. "You're willingly admitting to tampering with my equipment?" 

Edward's smug little smirk didn't slip an inch. "Why hide it? You know full well I want at that computer. You're going to suspect me of tampering, regardless, keep an eye on my every move. Does it matter if you catch me in the act instead of after the fact?"

He knew this was a stupid fucking idea, what had he been thinking-

"Are you going to help me back up those stairs, or are you just gonna stand there and give me the spooky scary Bat-glare? I don't have a terribly high stamina right now. You see, I've been in something of an accident recently." 

Teeth grit against the temper burning hotly in his throat, Bruce roughly grasped Edward by the elbow, his other hand snatching the stand out of Edward's grip. He was startled to realize it was empty, tubing disconnected from the needle waiting in his arm, the stand failing to serve any sort of purpose at all. He blinked at it, trying to work out Edward's reasoning, mind sluggish with confusion. "Why...?" 

Edward huffed, lip curling impatiently. "You'll have to be more specific." 

"The stand. Did you drag it down here with you just to, what, appear more fragile? Make me underestimate you?" 

Evidently, he was far off the mark, as Edward rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Batman. This can not be a difficult leap of deduction." 

Bruce scanned his face, hoping to find some hint in his expression.

"You may have forgotten, not keeping a constant watch on me these past months, but I usually carry a fucking cane, remember?" Edward supplied. "Obviously, I didn't get to keep the cane when I was dumped in the fucking harbor, so I'm having to make do." 

"So... makeshift weaponry?" Bruce concluded, though it sounded wrong before he'd finished saying it. 

Edward confirmed the feeling with an unimpressed glare. "Mobility aid, you ass." He stormed his way toward the steps, forcing Bruce to hurry after to keep the hold on his arm, and recklessly began ascending, letting Bruce take little of his weight. "I thought you were the type to memorize everyone's protected patient records? You knew my blood type, I'd be willing to bet you know my medication list better than I do. I didn't think it was a stretch to assume you were also familiar with my genetic, incurable , connective tissue disorder, as well."

He tripped, stumbling to catch himself on the railing, and Bruce squeezed at his elbow, stabilizing him. Edward tore his arm out of the grip, nostrils flaring, and stomped the rest of the way up, pausing at the top step to catch his breath while gripping, knuckles white, the very edge of the rail. 

"Well, sure, but you tend to use the cane as a bludgeon or a blade. I didn't think-" 

"You think I'd pick such a cumbersome prop just for a weapon? Something golden and glittery and obvious like that? Really, you should have a higher opinion of me than that." Edward allowed himself to be guided back to the bed, glaring until Bruce gave him space before gathering up the clothes. "Sometimes, if it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, it is, indeed, a duck. The cane is a cane and when I'm sore up to my damn hips because my ankles keep popping in and out of place, it's nice to have something to lean on. Now, go away. Give me some privacy." He waved a hand, dismissively, borrowed boxers in hand. "Or watch on your cameras, wherever you have them, I don't care." 

Bruce found he was reluctant to walk away with Edward still fuming, though he couldn't entirely blame the feeling on paranoia about what the supercriminal may do, in boredom or retaliation or otherwise. He turned, showing Edward his back in a display of faith and offer of privacy, as requested, but remained, adjusting and readjusting his gloves unnecessarily. 

There was a heavy sigh, settling into an irritated groan. "Is there a reason you're still here?" Edward grumbled. 

Bruce glanced over his shoulder, to where Edward sat, legs crossed and fingers tapping again, looking ridiculous in Dick's old jeans and hoodie, like an actor far too old for the role trying to play a teenager on TV. The lank, unwashed hair and overgrown scruff certainly weren't doing that image any favors, either. 

Maybe Bruce had a decent excuse for staying behind, after all. 

"Your stitches need to be cleaned and rebandaged. I was going to offer you a shower, and a second set of hands, if you need them." 

Edward hummed, the smug little grin creeping back. "Trying to get me back out of my pants so soon, huh? For shame, Dark Knight." 

Bruce cleared his throat. The incessant flirting may have been bog standard for dealing with the cheeky man, but without the temperance of outright animosity, it was getting to be a bit much. "That's a 'no', then?" 

"Oh, no, definitely not a 'no'. I'm very much in favor of washing the fucking blood out of my hair." He gave a dramatic little grimace, fluffing his fingers through the clumping locks. "I'm just curious about your, let's say... ulterior motives?" 

"None," Bruce insisted, though he had the suspicion the assertion rang hollow. "It'd be in your best interest to assume that everything I do is in the interest of surveillance. Nothing more." 

Edward shrugged. "If you say so." He held out one hand, wriggling his fingers, and slapped lightly at Bruce's arm when he didn't respond. "Come on, help me up. You've gotta be my cane. Since you're so worried about me using medical equipment as makeshift weaponry, and all." 

"I'm not-" Bruce argued, but cut off the disputation with a heavy sigh. "I apologize for the unwarranted suspicion. Despite your history, you've been very cooperative while you've been here." He held out his arm, as requested, and stood steady while Edward leant his weight into him, rising smoothly to his feet. 

"Thank you," Edward chirped pleasantly, though Bruce couldn't be sure if it was for the apology or the aid. "Now, that shower?" 

---

There was a shower in the cave, for rinsing blood or toxins or whatever other messy substances might crop up in an evening's work, but it was small and only ran cold and didn't come attached to a bathtub, so Bruce led Edward up the stairs. His too-sharp gaze watched carefully as Bruce's palm was scanned, the repaired system taking its time to think before releasing the lock. After all of this was over, Bruce would have to change out the locks again, maybe even move the secret entrances around. Edward was clearly memorizing the layout as they went, taking note of the clock they exited from and the rooms they passed along the way to the master bath, with its jacuzzi-style bathtub waiting at the other end. 

"Ooh, fancy," Edward complimented, running his hands along the polished countertop. He made a face at himself in the wide mirror. 

"Got the whole bathroom redone not too long ago. Alfred insisted the old color scheme was too dark, so we went with something a little lighter." He had yet to get used to the rich browns and seafoam greens, preferring the stark silver-on-black of before, but what Alfred wanted, Alfred got. 

Edward snorted. "This is 'lighter'?" He gestured broadly, encompassing the whole of the room and, sure, the deep umbers dominated the room, but Bruce felt he'd more than compromised on giving the soft mint tones their due space. "I have to admit, the green is flattering, but come on, who has a dirt-brown bathtub?" 

Bruce shrugged. "The catalogue called the color 'coffee bean'." 

"Fair enough, it is that," Edward laughed. "Pity the overall effect is more soporific than stimulating, though." 

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Just strip. I'll get the water warmed up." 

Edward clicked his tongue, but he couldn't hold the faux-irritated expression long before it broke back into a grin. "Bossy," he complained. 

Bruce ignored him, starting up the taps. With the sound of rushing water echoing around the dark-tiled walls, it felt as though they were still where they began, listening to a pounding storm and racing against a tightening timeline. He almost expected to see rivulets of blood revealed as Edward gingerly slipped the pale blue hoodie off, but the bandages beneath were mostly clean, and the tension of anxiety slowly relaxed out of his shoulders. 

Letting the water run behind them, Bruce padded over to start peeling the bandages from Edward's torso, seeing how carefully he was still moving. Edward startled, yelping and tensing, at Bruce's touch, but relaxed, allowing it to continue. 

"You know, I always wondered how you do that," Edward remarked, conversationally. He winced at the tape peeling up off his shoulder blades, his own fingers scratching, shaky, at the edge of another on his stomach. 

"Do what?" Bruce pulled the next more slowly, seeing the rapid pinkening of the skin where the first had been ripped off. 

"The silent walking. I'd assumed it was in the tread of the boots, but you were loud, earlier, when you were in a hurry." 

The second bandage released without a wince, though the skin underneath still began to discolor. "Training." 

"Really?" Edward sounded more curious than unconvinced, and Bruce bit the inside of his cheek to avoid launching into an explanation. 

"Really. Turn around, let me get that one." 

Edward had yet to secure the edge of the bandage across his stomach, tiny red dots of irritation springing up around where he'd been trying, and Bruce started in on the opposite side. The rubber grip of his glove caught the edge easily, peeling it gently away from Edward's skin. 

"Thanks." 

There was a fresh tension, suddenly, Edward's eyes glued to Bruce's face with a worrying intensity. He tried to ignore it, to peel up the other bandages one by one and pretend he didn't have an attentive audience. He distracted himself, watching the water rise in the tub, noting the redness of the skin around each laceration, dropping the discarded gauze with unnecessary care into the bin, all while Edward's curious green eyes bore into him relentlessly, peeling him back layer by layer, Bruce laid as bare as Edward's skin under that calculating gaze. 

He stopped, fingers poised on Edward's hips, just gracing the waistband of borrowed jeans. The moment held, still, like the last note of a piano concerto, ringing out over the crowd. The water rushed, their breathing off-tempo, Edward's eyes, unblinking, watching Bruce's face- impassive, unnaturally so, unconvincingly so. 

"You might want to get the water. I can finish up here."

Even with his voice low, the sound of it broke the spell, the bubble of it popping in an iridescent cascade of movement and unease. Bruce hurriedly switched the taps off, finding the tub generously full, while denim hit the tile behind him. He let his gloves do the same, freeing his hands, but disrobed no further, all too aware of Edward, fully bare, awaiting him. 

"Where do you want me?" 

The question felt too charged, in the moment, but Bruce powered through, gesturing to the tub. "However you feel comfortable. The water will sting the cuts, so you might want to sit at the edge." 

Edward nodded, padding over and taking a seat. He dipped his feet in carefully, pale to the point of whiteness against the dark tones of the tub, distorted by the rippling movement of the warm water. Slowly, he lowered himself in, hissing sharply when the long gash across his thigh fully submerged, but continued entering until he was sat, stiffly, in the heated pool. 

Bruce tried not to feel grateful he'd ignored his suggestion. 

"I'll get your hair first. Lean forward. We don't want any shampoo getting onto your back." 

"Good plan," Edward murmured, acquiescing. A pale hand gripped either edge of the bath, keeping him steady as he tilted, neck extended, looking like he was preparing for the guillotine. Vulnerable, trusting. 

Bruce could snap that skinny neck in a heartbeat. 

He scooped a handful of water in his palms, spilling it gently into Edward's hair. It soaked through, turning his bright hair dark, and streamed down the tips of it pink, returning to the tub and turning the area beneath cloudy. Bruce repeated the motion, again and again, until there was no dry hair left and the water ran clear, reminded again why he preferred the dark-toned tubs when the color failed to show through. 

The shampoo, carefully lathered, gentle fingers scratching into tender scalp, lent no such kindness. It tinged with the blood, pink and then red, where Bruce's nails scratched congealed clumps of it free at the roots. Just a bare fraction of what had been drawn from his body, still enough to taint whatever it touched. 

Bruce hurried to rinse the suds out. 

Edward winced at a particularly large splash sending a sudsy drip between his shoulder blades, and jerked away from Bruce's hands to sink fully into the spacious tub. He reemerged, hair plastered wetly against his head and neck, the way he often kept it gelled, with the suds spinning on the opposite end, away from where they could sting at his sensitive wounds. He had a twisted pout on his face, nose wrinkled with distaste. 

"I thought the whole point of you invading my modesty in here was to keep that from happening?" 

Bruce shrugged. "Despite what you may believe, I'm not exactly capable of controlling water or gravity. I'll try harder next time, hmm?" 

Edward watched him, flicking lazy fingers against the water's surface. "Next time?" 

He hadn't quite thought that quip through. He wasn't exactly intending on ever washing Edward's hair again, not in this lifetime. "I still need to clean the stitches, don't I?" 

"Hmm." Edward continued to analyze him, but finally dropped his gaze. "Fair enough." 

He sat up, gripping the tub's edges, and slid back up onto the edge. Bruce averted his eyes, not prepared, emotionally, to watch water trace rivulets along Edward's body, and looked back again only when Edward snorted in amusement. 

"Gee, thanks for the privacy. Don't you worry, I'm definitely more decent now."

Bruce shot a glare at him, uselessly, finding Edward smirking back at him, perched at the edge of the tub like some chiseled marble of Satan, one thigh lifted coyly to cover the important bits. 

"Grab the purple soap. It's the antibacterial," Bruce instructed. 

Put out that Bruce didn't rise to his bait, Edward complied, tossing the requested soap over with unnecessary force. Bruce caught it neatly, of course, and that only made Edward's pout deepen. 

"I'll get the ones on your back for you."

"Will this one sting, too?" Edward's voice wavered with no small amount of trepidation. 

"Might. Shouldn't, but might." Bruce worked a bit into a lather between his palms. "Too harsh of chemicals would hinder the healing process. It's supposed to be pretty gentle." 

"Supposed to be? Is it not your soap in your bathroom?" 

Bruce shrugged, the motion lost with Edward's head turned forward. "I've got a pretty high pain tolerance." 

Edward's shoulders bounced with his short laugh. "I know that's true."

Bruce began to work the soap into the first cut with gentle circles, taking care around the threads not to catch them with too much force. 

"Careful," Edward warned. 

"I know. It's not the first time I've done this," Bruce reminded him. 

"No, I mean-" Edward doled out a measure of the soap into his own palm, the muscles of his back shifting under Bruce's hands while he worked it into a lather. "I've got very soft skin."

"I've noticed," Bruce murmured. It was both true and somewhat distracting. Soft was practically an understatement. 

"It tears easily. Stitches don't always hold," he explained. "It's too stretchy, just like my joints. The drawback to being able to twist out of any restraints, I suppose." 

Bruce hummed, taking the extra care. "Must be frustrating." It was certainly frustrating for Bruce. 

Edward shrugged. "I've always healed slowly. It just makes me more careful."

"Does it?" Bruce could hear the clear note of amusement in his own voice. There was no way Edward had missed it. "In my experience, you always invite danger like you're craving for it."

"I don't like to be brutalized by you!" Edward snapped, furious out of nowhere. As quickly as the temper flared, it dwindled, Edward curling back into himself sheepishly. "Sorry. It's just- It's something I've heard from the staff at Arkham too often." 

"That you're some sort of masochist?" 

Edward shrugged, working suds around the cuts on his chest absent-mindedly, as though simply looking for something to do with his hands. "I don't have a very high pain tolerance, not like you do. Nor do I much enjoy being hurt. It's just-" 

Bruce nudged Edward to turn a bit, so he could rinse his back without soaking the bathroom floor. It had the unfortunate side-effect of Edward trying to meet his eye again. "'It's just-'?"

Edward shrugged. "The game with you has always been worth it." 

The game. Bruce ground his teeth together, barely holding back from snarling back at him, screaming obscenities, tearing the stitches out of his velvety-soft skin. How had he forgotten? No matter how fragile and vulnerable Edward pretended to be, the Riddler would always have all that blood on his hands. A wolf in sheep's clothing, toying with his kills just to spite the shepherd. 

Bruce stood swiftly, swirling out of the bathroom, ignoring the squeaking sounds of Edward losing his balance on the wet tub echoing behind him. The door clicked shut between them. 

He took a deep breath, and then another, his head thunking softly against the wood. Edward's voice called, uncertain, from the other side, but Bruce couldn't go back in there, not yet. Not while images still flashed behind his eyes, memories of blood and fire and screams, of riddles solved too late.

A bare hand carded through his hair, reminding him he'd left his gloves behind. Stupid. An easy weapon for his enemy to get a hold of. He'd let his guard down, started seeing Edward as a victim, someone needing protection, rather than the snake he really was. 

The game. 

Bruce was well aware of how Edward thought of their conflicts. The man made no secret of it. He was self-centered, narcissistic. Other people were things to be used to him, pieces in the inscrutable game he'd turned their very lives into from the moment they first met. 

The game with you has always been worth it. 

And that was the trouble, wasn't it? 

"Bruce?" Edward's voice called, timid, from just on the other side of the door. "I still need your help with the bandages." 

He couldn't go back in there. Couldn't face Edward looking small and scruffy and harmless, hair wet and pale skin flushed with the heat of the bathwater, carved to ribbons and needing him. 

It made it too easy to forget. 

"I don't know what I said, but I didn't mean to upset you," Edward tried. "If you'd rather send in your butler or something- he's the one who usually does this sort of thing for you, isn't he?" 

But that was worse. Alfred, Damian- he couldn't let his damnable weakness in coddling the injured villain come at the cost of their safety. No, this was his decision, his responsibility. If his family were to get hurt…

"No need. I'm coming in." 

He waited to hear Edward's feet slapping, wet, against the tile, giving him space to open the door, before swinging it open. Edward waited, as he'd imagined him, hair towel-ruffled, the minty green towel the only thing covering his body, nervousness written into every line of his expression. 

He let the door click shut behind him. 

"The first aid kit's in the medicine cabinet," Bruce directed. "If you'll grab that, I'll dig out some clippers for you." 

The kit was easy enough to find, and Edward was already digging out gauze and tape to arrange on the countertops by the time Bruce had fished the electric clippers from the back of the cabinet. Bruce never kept facial hair, what with a clean-shaven face less immediately identifiable under the cowl, but Edward had kept the same neat sideburns the entire time he'd known him, so presumably he'd like to keep doing so. 

He accepted the offering graciously, giving a soft-spoken word of thanks and busying himself with the setup while Bruce began to tape gauze across his stitches again. The buzz of the clippers filled the uncomfortable silence, giving them an excuse not to speak to one another again. After Edward finished with touching up his face, he plugged in the blow dryer, letting Bruce get the rest of the bandages applied while his arms were lifted. 

The silence continued until Edward was pulling his clothes on once more, smoothing the blue fabric of the hoodie down his chest. 

"Thank you. I don't remember if I've said that. For rescuing me." 

Bruce cleared his throat, awkwardness having set in as his anger subsided. "It wasn't exactly my choice. You made it hard to refuse." 

Edward winced. "Still. I'm grateful. I really am trying not to piss you off." 

"You've got a talent for it."

The smile the sarcastic quip earned was wry, almost self-deprecating. "That I do." His hands continued to worry at the hoodie, freshly-cleaned hair falling around his face in soft waves. "So, shall we return to the Bat-cave? I can't imagine you're particularly eager to have me prowling around your home." 

He wasn't. Maybe it would have been better to keep Edward with an extra layer or two of security between him and the Batcomputer, but he'd surely just dismantle the scanners again, anyway. 

"Come on, let's go."

"As you wish." 

---

It started with a cough.

Bruce had been trying to talk through some of the options he'd looked into for housing, discussing pros and cons and preferences for each with their prospective occupant, but had been interrupted so frequently by bouts of wheezing coughs he'd cut the discussion short, promising to get into contact with Dr. Thompkins and to return to the topic after. 

It had progressed rapidly from there. Bruce returned to the cave to find Edward shivering under the covers, hoodie on the floor nearby and sweat beading on his brow. He sent an update to Leslie, and the next thing he knew, Edward's cough began to rattle. 

Leslie arrived to a spiking fever, an excruciating headache, and a chest already growing sore from wet coughs. Bruce stood vigil by her side, though she insisted it was unnecessary. 

"Sorry to hear you're feeling crap, Eddie," Leslie greeted, listening in on his lungs. 

"Heya, Leslie," Edward wheezed. "Didn't expect to be sat on by an elephant right after making it out of the woodchipper, but here we are." 

"Here we are," she agreed. "You said you fished him out of the harbor?" 

Bruce nodded. 

"I'm seeing a lot of bandages. How well did these get cleaned up before you closed them?" 

"I flushed them out and disinfected them before closing," Bruce explained defensively. 

"Good. And you've been keeping up with them?" 

He nodded.

"We'll keep an eye out for infection, but it looks like we're just seeing a bout of pneumonia here. Keep his temperature down and get some antibiotics in him and he'll be right as rain." She thrust a little paper bag at him, shaking with the sounds of dozens of clattering pills within. 

"That's all?" Bruce clarified, clutching the bag to his chest. 

"Almost." She crooked a finger, nodding away from the bedside. 

Edward kept a bleary eye on the conversation, but made no move to follow as Bruce and Leslie moved away for further privacy. 

"What the hell are you doing, Bruce?" She asked. She sounded tired. He realized he must have pulled her away from a number of other hurricane casualties. 

"What I always do. Saving someone's life." 

"Uh-huh. And those lives you save are usually people who've tried to kill you?" Leslie crosses her arms, raising a challenging eyebrow. 

"More often than you'd think, actually." Edward certainly wasn't the first, not by a long shot, and was unlikely to be the last. 

"I hope you know what you're doing," she tutted. 

"Funny, you're not the first person to say that to me, either." 

She let out a heavy sigh, shaking her head. "I wish I could tell you to look out for yourself first, but I know you'll never listen to that. So, instead, I'll say this- think of what will happen to Gotham if something happens to you." 

With that hanging in the air between them, she stalked off, sending a wave and a farewell to her patient and joining Alfred at the staircase. Something the old butler said made her laugh, the sound of it echoing behind them even as they disappeared back into the manor. 

Edward's coughs brought Bruce back to his side. 

"Hey, sit up. Let's get some more pillows under you." 

Edward allowed himself to be manhandled, while Bruce formed a gentle incline for him to relax into. "What did the doc have to say?" 

Bruce shot him a look. "We would've had the conversation right here if you were meant to hear. It was private." 

"That bad, huh?" Edward sighed, sinking back into the mound of pillows, and only then did Bruce notice the way his brows were wrinkled with worry. And, fair enough, there was usually one very good reason for a doctor to have a conversation out of her patient's earshot.

"Nothing about you," Bruce clarified, to Edward's confusion. He gave a half-hearted little shrug. "She just told me the same thing Alfred told me earlier."

Edward tried to speak, managed only a crackling wheeze, and cleared his throat harshly before trying again. "Which is?" 

"That I'm an idiot for trusting you." 

"Do you?" Edward asked, tilting his head like a curious puppy. 

Bruce shrugged again. There was a reason he hadn't wanted to tell Edward about Leslie's concerns. "Not really. I hadn't given it much thought. I've been on alert since you arrived, but they seem to think just keeping you here shows I'm being reckless." 

Edward smiled, in a manner almost fond. "Well, then. Thank you for being reckless."

Bruce reached over, smoothing out the fan of hair getting rumpled by his movements. "Am I, though?" 

"Hmm?" 

The stroking of Bruce's fingers seemed to be lulling Edward to sleep. He didn't stop the motion. "Am I being reckless? Would it be stupid of me to trust you?" 

Edward hummed again, brow furrowing. Bruce combed at the hair on his forehead, and the lines smoothed back out. "Probably." 

"No plans to double-cross me anytime soon, though?" 

"It'd be a terrible idea," Edward admitted. He cracked open one eye, grin sluggishly playing on his face. "I make a lot of terrible decisions where you're involved, though."

It shouldn't have been half so comforting as it was, he knew, but somewhere between the sleepy wheeze of his voice making him sound so vulnerable and the easy admission of both his spotty history and such a plan's futility, Bruce found he really was trusting Edward to at least try. 

And that was just as reckless as everyone said he was. 

---

Alfred had been more than willing to make the soup himself, but Bruce was insistent on taking over the kitchen. Recipe book open in front of him, ingredients prepped and arranged in order of use, Bruce carefully followed the process, step by hesitant step.

He was less than a natural in the kitchen, after all. It wasn't a skill he exercised often, or even capably when he did, but his patient, his responsibility. So far, nothing smelled burnt, nothing had bubbled out of the pot, and the knife had drawn no blood, so he felt like he was doing a decent job. 

The little timer ticked its way along, preparing to tell him when to add the potatoes, when Damian's voice broke through the silence. 

"How long are you planning to let the prisoner remain?" 

Bruce had to hide his startled flinch. Damian stood, arms crossed, stance wide, looking as confrontational as Bruce had ever seen him. 

"He's not a prisoner." 

Damian watched, eyes narrowed, while Bruce placed the knife on the cutting board. "He should be." 

Bruce was getting very tired of everyone in his life questioning his judgement. "That's my call to make." 

Damian clicked his tongue in that judgemental way he had, shooting his glare at the happily bubbling pot. "I thought you were done shopping for romantic prospects in prisons after the fiasco with the cat burglar." 

"He's not a romantic prospect," Bruce argued. "Where did you even get that?" 

"You're making him soup," Damian pointed out. 

"He has pneumonia and he hasn't been eating well. Not letting him starve isn't a romantic gesture." 

"You don't cook." 

The little timer buzzed. Bruce clumsily scooped the unevenly-diced potatoes into the broth, hissing when an errant splash burned the exposed skin of his wrists. Hastily, he set the timer for the next interval, then rinsed the burns under the cold tap, patting them dry gingerly before turning back to his son. 

Damian had one eyebrow raised, sending a significant look between Bruce and his soup. 

"The other boys are a bad influence on you, I swear," Bruce sighed.

"It's not a mark of bad influence to not want a certifiably insane convicted criminal hanging around the place," Damian shot back. 

"I meant reading romantic intentions into every little action," Bruce clarified. "And he won't be 'hanging around'."

"No?"

"No. As soon as he's well enough, I'll be finding him a place to stay." 

Damian's lip curled, baring his teeth. "You'll be finding." 

Bruce returned the expression right back at him, feeling only a bit childish doing so. "Reading into it," he accused. 

Damian clicked his tongue again, spinning on his heel. "Just get him out of here. I won't hold back just because he's an invalid if he tries something." 

Bruce almost responded with something like 'he said he wouldn't', but it sounded stupid even in his head, and Damian was already out the door, anyway. 

He took a deep breath, watching the broth's foam swirl around the edges of the pot, boiling away cheerfully, unaware of the snappish argument Bruce and his son had had right in front of it. Maybe Damian wasn't reading into things. Maybe Bruce just didn't want to look at what was right in front of him. 

The timer buzzed, and the noodles were poured in.

---

"Bruce?" 

Edward's voice, punctuated by harsh coughs, echoed up the steps, carrying in the stillness that had returned to the cave. Bruce kept his pace even, the hot tureen of soup in his hands gently sloshing under its ceramic lid. His name was called several more times before he reached the platform, each time more with more urgency than the last.

"Hey, hey, I'm here. What's wrong?" 

Edward's hand reached out for him, grasping at the air, and Bruce slid the tureen onto the table where most of his meals grew cold, freeing a hand for Edward to grab hold of. 

"You weren't here," Edward complained, squeezing Bruce's knuckles in a tight grip. 

"I'm here now." Bruce squeezed his hand back with gentle pressure. 

Edward shook his head, hair ruffling into a tangled mess against the pillow. "In my dream. I swam here and cracked the door but you didn't come and I bled out." 

Is that what would have happened if Bruce hadn't been so stubborn? The intruder alarms hadn't gone off, not with how neatly Edward had snuck in, so would he have been found in time? Would he have been found at all? 

"Luckily for you, I'm a workaholic," Bruce joked, covering the tremor he felt at how close Edward's nightmare had come to being reality. "It's not often I'm away from the cave for long." 

"I know." Edward's thumb shifted, rubbing a shallow attempt at circles into Bruce's knuckles. "I knew you'd be here for me. Knew you'd save me." 

"Well..." Bruce took a heavy breath, Edward's groggy honesty hitting him like a solid weight, "I'm not done saving you quite yet. You still need to get better, alright?" 

Bruce tried to move away, to fetch the undoubtedly cooling soup, but Edward was reluctant to let go of his hand, tugging him back to his side and squeezing again. "Don't go," he begged, the same frightened urgency in his voice as there had been before, when he'd been calling for Bruce in the empty cave. 

"I'm not going anywhere. I brought you soup," Bruce explained gently. 

Edward's nose wrinkled.

"Hey, I'm not that bad of a cook." He hoped. 

When he pulled away again, he made sure to move more slowly. Edward's grip loosened and dropped, his hand dangling over the edge of the mattress. Bruce wheeled the table over, pulling it flush with the bed, and whipped the lid off the tureen with a little flourish. The movement was lost on Edward, who was drifting back to sleep, lashes fluttering shut. 

"Woah, woah, wait. No going back to sleep, not yet." 

"But 'm tired…" Edward mumbled. 

"You have soup to eat," Bruce reminded him. 

"Mm… you made soup?" 

"I made soup," Bruce confirmed. "Try it?" 

"Hmm…" It seemed like a tough decision, taking several labored breaths and a furrowed brow to reach. "Mmkay." 

"Okay." 

Despite the verbal agreement, Edward made no move to sit. Bruce sighed at him, as pointedly as he could make a single breath sound, and manhandled him into an upright position himself. Edward allowed it, perfectly happily, leaning into Bruce's hands heavily and grinning to himself. 

"What's got you so chipper, hmm?" Bruce tapped a finger to Edward's chest, keeping in his mind's eye the location of each bandage beneath the concealing fabric of Dick's old hoodie. 

"Mm not," Edward argued, though the damning evidence still curled on his lips. 

"Stop grinning and eat your soup," Bruce groaned. 

Obligingly, Edward sat back into his pillows, glassy eyes watching him distantly under heavy lids, but instead of taking the spoon he was offered, he opened his mouth with an 'aah'. 

"No," Bruce asserted. 

"Come on, you big hero. I'm sick." Edward gave a couple of very convincing rattling coughs to back up his claim. 

"Surely you can hold a spoon by yourself," Bruce sighed. "Why would you even want me to do this?" 

Edward hummed contemplatively. "Wanna see how much you'll put up with." 

"So, it's all a big test, you mean." 

He frowned at that, brow furrowing again. "No, that's not-" He made a frustrated growling noise, sinking back down into the bed. 

"Hey, hey, no, sit back up. You have to eat." Without really meaning to, Bruce fished out a spoonful of broth, giving it a cooling blow and holding it out for Edward to try. "You've barely eaten in days." 

"See, that- that's what I mean!" Edward huffed, making some vague gesture with a hand that barely rose from the sheets. "You're acting like you care about me. No one does that. Not for me." 

"Well…" Bruce poured the spoonful back into the tureen, giving it a stir. Steam rose merrily from the depths, dissipating in the cool cavern air. "It's important to me you don't die. That no one dies, not if I can do something about it. Everyone deserves to live, to get another chance." 

Edward gazed at him mournfully. "I ruined my chances, though, didn't I? Right back at the start." 

"You can always make a fresh start. No one is beyond redemption." 

Edward snorted. "It's not about redemption. I'm not that noble." 

"Then what?" 

Instead of answering, Edward reached out for the spoon. He drew a sip of the broth to his lips, hands unsteady, and spilled a bit onto the covers. At the taste, he grimaced. "Salty." 

Bruce pried the spoon from his fingers, using it to point sternly at him. "Then what, Edward?" 

The sleepy glare he received was weak, more of a pout than anything. "You were just griping at me to eat soup. I try to eat soup, you don't let me eat soup." 

"You're using the soup to dodge. Tell me what you meant." 

"I don't know what I meant! I'm sick, okay? I'm delirious with fever!" He buried his face in his hands. The short burst of energy dissipated as suddenly as it had come on, leaving him slumped and taking deep, slow breaths. "I don't know what I meant." 

Bruce drew his hands away from his face. Edward wouldn't meet his eye. "I don't believe that. I think there was something you were getting at, something you think I won't like, or that I won't understand." 

Edward's lip curled, canines baring. "Alright then, detective, what, exactly, is it that you think I'm getting at?" 

Defensive… "So I'm right." 

Edward flinched. 

"Let's see, then… You were curious to see, quote, how much I'd put up with, in the interest of caring for you. And that connects to the chances you think you ruined, the ones that aren't so noble? Do I have that right?" 

"I don't like this game anymore," Edward grumbled. 

"Edward. Please." 

He tugged his hands out of Bruce's grip, letting them fall into his lap and watching them with a rapt attention, a thin attempt at covering his stalling. 

"...I used to think there was something wrong with me." 

The admission hung heavy in the air for a long moment. Bruce didn't know what to say to that, not when what he wanted to say was 'of course there is, no normal person goes around building elaborate murder-scavenger hunts or amassing armies to fight equally-murderous clowns'. He doubted that would go over well. 

"When I was younger, when we met, I thought it was the whole 'big fish in a small pond' scenario, that I would find my great purpose and leave my mark on the world. That, somehow, all the things that made me different, made me better, that they were all part of some grand design that I was meant to bring to fruition. 

"And then I met you." 

Even with his chest heaving with the effort of the speech, Edward pressed on, as though once Bruce had broken through the dam of his words, all the thoughts in the reservoir needed to flood their way out. He shifted, sitting more fully, rubbing the last dredges of sleepiness out of his eyes. 

"The part of me that had never managed to connect to another person, that had convinced me that I would live and die alone and that I would be better for it, that part got so wrapped up in you so quickly, I didn't know how to handle it. I thought you were an obstacle to my purpose, back when you tore apart all the work I'd put into my Zero Year, but…"

"But…?" Bruce prompted. 

Edward met his gaze for just a moment, some great emotion he was struggling to name watering in his eyes, before he had to look away again. "If you were just an obstacle, why did it scare me so much that Joker might win? If he had killed you, the purpose would have still been served, you know? Obstacle cleared. What did it matter if I was the one pulling the trigger? 

"I think, by then, I should have realized. It's embarrassing to admit, but I was always a bit slow when it comes to interpersonal matters." 

"Realized what?" 

Edward smiled wryly. "You're a bit slow in those matters, yourself. But I knew that."

Bruce bit his tongue. He couldn't quite argue the point. It was true enough, and it had gotten him into trouble before. He had a feeling it was getting him into trouble right now. 

"At some point, I have to admit it, don't I? My great purpose has never been just my purpose, in the end. I'm the whetstone on which you sharpen your blade. By playing me, you hone your own skills. I challenge you, I lose, because I'm terrified to win.

"After all, a whetstone is just a rock without a blade to serve its purpose." 

Edward went quiet, worrying at a thumbnail.

"Is any of this making sense?"

Bruce shrugged half-heartedly. "Not really. What is it you're getting at?"

Edward sighed. He chewed at his lip for a moment, brow furrowing. For all the words that had just flown forth, it seemed a more concise version eluded him.

"What I'm getting at, Batman… Bruce. What I'm getting at is that I'm nothing without you. That part of me that I thought was broken… I don't think I've ever been happier than lounging around here, completely useless and hurting, but having you take care of me.

"I just… I just wish it was real." 

"What do you mean?" Bruce shook his head. "'Not real', what does that- This isn't a dream, it's not some sort of… simulation. I'm here, and so are you."

"Not that, I don't mean- I mean the feeling. The part where you care. I know you're only worrying over me because I forced this on you. You can't stand a death on your conscience. The stitches, the bath, the food… it's all just to keep me alive, and I know that, but that broken little part of me… I can't help but wish it meant more, is all." 

Bruce took a steadying breath. The steam coming off of the soup was paling, the contents cooling. The soup he had made, by hand. The soup that had given him three neat little circular burns on his wrist, a soft pink for now that would surely get worse in the coming days, darkening while Edward recovered. 

"...I don't cook." Bruce blurted it out of nowhere. The words startled them both. 

"What?"

"I'm no good at it. I never have the time to sit down and learn, I'm too methodical to adjust on the fly for taste, I'm impatient and I cut the wrong corners and things come out cold or hard or, well, too salty. Sorry about that, by the way."

Edward shook his head. "I don't know what you're saying."

"I don't cook. I had to chase Alfred out of the kitchen. He double-checked the smoke alarm before he left. Damian ambushed me partway through. They both questioned me about it. I don't cook, but I insisted on cooking this for you." 

Bruce met Edward's eyes. They looked terrified, like Bruce was about to level him with a physical blow, like maybe he'd prefer that to whatever Bruce had to say. 

"Maybe all of this means a little bit more to me, too." He was trying to keep his voice casual, but it wasn't coming across. This was terrifying him, as well. "Maybe the blade needs the whetstone just as much."

"Bruce…?" Edward's voice wavered, his eyes searching Bruce's face. "I swear, if you're fucking with me right now…" 

Bruce reached out, brushing a ginger lock of hair out of Edward's eyes and behind his ear, letting his fingers trail onto his jaw before losing his nerve. 

"Go on, eat your soup. Just shout if you need me, I won't be far." 

Although he made every attempt to force his steps into a perfectly normal rhythm, he still felt like he was running away.

---

Getting Jason to clear out the safehouse on short notice was the easy part. Getting anything that had been in there back from him would be the hurdle, but that could wait.

Edward had shown fast improvement on the antibiotics, which should have been a relief, except as he'd regained mobility, he'd taken to following Bruce around the cave, sticking his nose into investigations and generally making a nuisance of himself. The clipped message letting Bruce know the safehouse was ready could not come soon enough, and he sighed in audible relief when his phone pinged, showing Jason's nickname in the notifications. 

"So eager to be rid of me?" Edward pouted, leaning up on his tiptoes to peer over Bruce's shoulder at the message. 

"Should I not be eager to get the criminal mastermind away from my crime-fighting supercomputer?" Bruce tapped out an acknowledgement to Jason, shrugging off Edward's chin. 

"Ooh, good point," Edward chirped cheerfully, prancing off quite suddenly, the cane he'd nicked from Bruce's trophies spinning in his fingers. Bruce narrowed his eyes in suspicion as he approached the Batcomputer. "Oh, Computer?"

"Welcome, The Riddler," the automated voice sang, screens powering on. Bruce's usual array of news feeds and GCPD communications scrolled past, the UI unchanged except all the elements were now in shades of green. 

Bruce scanned the displays critically. "When did you do this?" 

"Computer, show me the locations of all Batman's safe houses in the city," Edward ordered, and the computer complied. Half a dozen locations alit, scattered around Gotham's streets. "There we are. So, which of these is the one you cleared out for me? I'd like to get a sense of the area before we head out." 

"Edward..." Bruce growled with warning. 

"Bruce." Edward turned a look at him, too carefully neutral to be genuine. "I know that you'd rather pretend neither of us said anything at all, but I can't- You can't just give me hope like that and then act like nothing happened. You're terrified of me, of what I can do. I know that. I just need to know- Whatever flight of fancy possessed you, can it stand up to this? To the reminder of what I am?"

"Edward, I don't-"

"It's why you left the bathroom the other day, isn't it? You couldn't handle being reminded of what we really are to each other." 

"No, it wasn't that." 

"No?" Something in the expression was breaking, Edward still fragile after peeling open his façade. 

"Not entirely," Bruce admitted. He watched the little red spots on the map blink, drawing attention to themselves. Edward's gaze had grown too intense to meet. "It was realizing how easily I'd forgotten, with you looking like that." 

"Like what?" With the curious cock of his head, the soft waves of his hair swept out around his face, haloing him with the fiery glow. "Surely you don't just mean 'naked'." 

"No, I don't." His fingers tangled in the sweeping fringe, feeling irresistibly magnetized to it already. He pushed it back, fingers following the same path from ear to jaw as he'd allowed himself the other night, letting his thumb rest just at the sharp jut of the bone. "I mean, looking all earnest and unpolished, in the way you always try to hide." 

Edward gave a little derisive scoff, but made no move to unseat Bruce's cradling hand. "Looking vulnerable and helpless, then." 

"Maybe," Bruce allowed, for honesty's sake. "You did play on that hero complex I keep being accused of having pretty expertly."

"That was the plan, and my plans do tend to be fairly spectacular."

"But that wasn't the part that unbalanced me. That, I've seen before. But the honesty, the hope? Those were new, and they seemed dangerous." 

"And… how about now?" Edward asked, taking a half step forward, shrinking the space between them. "Does this still seem dangerous?" 

"Very." Bruce's fingers slid to cup the back of his head, soft hair threaded between each one, angling Edward's face up towards his own. He made no move to stop him, only swaying ever closer, his curious fingers alighting on the hem of Bruce's shirt. "But I've never been the man to give up on something I want just because it might be dangerous." 

Those questing fingers trailed a little higher, dragging up under the thin fabric, nails finding the waistband of Bruce's slacks. "Something you want?" 

"As long as you want it, too," he murmured, nose brushing Edward's as he leaned in close, giving him an offer, making a request. 

Edward responded eagerly as expected, pressing himself fully into Bruce, from lips to hips, teeth nipping between kisses and nails dragging lines up his flexing stomach. It was all Bruce could do to slow him down, pulling away from the biting kiss to nose into his neck, pressing a forceful palm into his back to hold him still.

"Not here." 

Edward whined, fingers splaying on the warm skin he'd found, teasing at the hard muscle underneath. "Why not!" 

Bruce tugged his reluctant hands out of the sweater, holding them in a steely grip, and put just enough space to breathe between their bodies. "Because I have kids, and they have access to the cave. Worse, Alfred might come to check on you." 

Edward let his head fall heavily into Bruce's clavicle, nuzzling into the bone painfully and groaning in frustration. "Why the fuck would you start something if you didn't plan to follow through!" 

"I didn't say we couldn't, I said not here." 

"Alright, then where? What's your big seduction plan, then? What romantic getaway did you have planned to sweep me off my-" 

Bruce had turned Edward's face with both hands pressed to his cheeks, turning him back to look at the map he'd requested. He nodded at the blinking dots, stepping away when he was sure he had Edward's rapt attention and tapped a knuckle to the screen. 

"Your new place. The best security Batman can provide, no receptionist to startle, ground, first floor, and roof exits, and free wi-fi." 

Edward's eyes darted around the map, memorizing the nearby landmarks. "It's right next to Wayne Tower." 

"All the better to keep an eye on you." Bruce shrugged. "And so I'll be nearby if you have an emergency. I can get there from the office in seven minutes, assuming I don't get stopped on my way out by some clueless intern." 

Seven minutes, Edward mouthed, committing it to memory, or maybe repeating it like a prayer. "You're really serious about this." 

"Yeah." Bruce followed his gaze, looking afresh at the familiar location. "Yeah, I guess I am." 

---

Jason waited at the stoop for him, tossing the spare key over as Bruce drew close. "Y'know, I thought you were screwing with me." 

Edward stepped out of the car, flanking Bruce's other side. He sent a sharp-eyed look at the fully-costumed Red Hood giving him a casual little wave, tensing warily and pressing close to his escort. 

"Very serious. You added him to the security protocol like I asked?" 

Jason gestured at the door. "It's all set, just like I promised." 

Bruce looked to Edward, nodding toward the entrance. "Go on. It's yours." 

With one last wary look between the two, Edward scurried off, the door opening for him and clicking swiftly shut behind. 

Jason made no move to leave. 

"I swear to God, Jason, if you're about to say 'I hope you know what you're doing-'"

Jason shrugged. "Nah." He snickered. "I know you don't know what you're doing. Honestly, though, it was kind of a matter of time." 

Bruce stiffened. "What was?" 

"Well, y'know, Eddie's always been kinda… like that with you. Figured he'd either give up or you'd give in. Dick owes me five bucks." 

"You did not bet on this." 

Another snicker echoed inside the opaque helmet. "A long time ago, and I don't think he was serious. I, on the other hand, am always serious." 

With exaggerated nonchalance, Jason pushed away from the wall. In his heavy boots, he dwarfed Bruce by a couple of inches, forcing him to look up into the flat eyes of the mask. 

"Seeya, Bruce." He pushed past, knocking into Bruce's shoulder abrasively before swinging a leg over the motorcycle parked just behind Bruce's vehicle. "Don't forget to use protection! Make Alfred proud!" 

"Jason!" Bruce snapped, but the sound was lost over the revving of the engine and squealing of the wheels. 

He sank back against the door, head knocking heavily into it. What was his life turning into? 

"Bruce?" Edward's voice called, muffled, from the other side. "Are you still out there?" 

"Coming," he called back. He did still need to check how Edward was settling in, after all. 

And, well, he'd made a promise he'd yet to see through. 

---

Three days later, Bruce contracted pneumonia.