I Bet On Losing Dogs

No Interference

You can't be alone tonight. You should be happy that there was no violence at the conference. You're paranoid instead. You tried those calming oils in the bathroom during your steam while getting ready for bed. You also try looking up anxiety-reducing yoga poses, but nothing can calm you down. Nothing like holding Bruce's hand, his touch. Each step you take towards his doors makes your nerves burn, but you need him. You hate that. You knock. You don't think he's in there, but you wait, hoping Alfred misses you in your desperate hour. You rationalize what you want from him. You don't want to sleep with him, but it's a nice distraction. Maybe he could just hold you, just make sure you're okay. You shift your weight on your left foot. Perhaps he's out. Or sleeping. He always retires earlier, except for last night. You decide to knock one more time before leaving it alone. He opens the door as you lift your fist. He looks disheveled in his sweats. Working out in his mysterious gym.

"(Y/N)?" He seems more confused than upset. "I'm sorry. I..."

You trail off. Bruce lets you in without asking. You sit on his bed, and he pulls a chair over. His desk is on the other side of the room now, and his bed is more pushed back to the wall exposing his bare wooden floor. "Thank you for calming me down." You say sincerely before meeting his intense blue eyes. "But aren't you scared? Like terrified?" You ask, hesitating before reaching and touching his hand.

"I can't afford to." He answers. He doesn't return your touch this time, standing. "This is all new to you, so I'm," he pauses, searching for the right word, "sympathetic, I guess. It's my fault that you're in this mess. So I can stand there and pretend that you're fine, like all of this is normal, or I can make sure you're okay and hope not to fuck up again." He sits next to you, his heat radiating from his arms. "What were you doing?" You ask, knowing you're changing the subject. He points his head to a door. "Boxing." It's your first time seeing his arms not hidden by sleeves and not in a daze of his creating. You trail your fingers up his bicep, coming down his tricep. He tenses under the smooth movement, flexing. He adjusts to keep you from touching him.

"What do you want to do tomorrow?" He asks, moving back to the chair, a barrier. I want to leave, you almost say. You can imagine him blowing up at you, asking what is wrong with you and if you listen when he speaks. If the previous days are high alert, the following days are red alerts.

"Pretend that everything is fine."

Bruce smirks, sitting back in his chair. You want him but follow his body language. Not tonight. "I can see what we can do." He walks you to his door. "You'll be fine." He gives you a quick hug. "Believe me." You give him a quick nod, touching your cheek. Your lips meet in a chaste kiss, and you lean in on your tiptoes. He holds your waist, so you don't fall over, carefully pushing you down to your toes. He brushes your lips with his thumb before closing his door.

You wonder if there will ever be a typical day for you again as you open your blinds the next morning. You made a list of what you want to do with Bruce before going to bed. Maybe a picnic, watch a movie, get drunk again and sleep with him. You erased that line maybe five times before leaving it. This morning as you read it, you cross it out. You check the news before prepping yourself for a day of Wayne. There's nothing new besides Harvey being elected.

Bruce watches you over his sunglasses as you walk down the steps. He's eating his oats and reading. Chef Jacques brings you the fluffiest Belgium waffles with butter and berries as if waiting for you. "For the Miss." He pours you a cup of coffee before disappearing. "You've made yourself comfortable," Bruce says before opening his newspaper in front of his face. "I don't know what you expect me to do." You reply softly before taking a bite of your cloud of happiness. "Where's Alfred?" You ask after a few moments. "Sleeping in. I told him to." Bruce responds, putting his newspaper down. "Oh." "He needs to rest sometimes." You think the same about Bruce.