I Bet On Losing Dogs

The Man Who Sold the World

Bruce wakes you in the morning. Your curtains open a quick flurry, scratching on the curtain poles. You wince at the sudden light covering your face as your heart thumps in your ears. Nervous heat flushes your skin as he slams your door. Why is he doing this? You keep your eyes closed, trying to listen in case he leaves. You never realize how quiet his steps are until now as you hear the soft slap of his feet in your room, going to your closet. "Wake up, (Y/N)." The scraping of hangers alerts you—your backpack. You forgot to unpack it, leaving it by your closet door. Your closet is almost empty without the missing clothes. You sit up, yawning and stretching, playing off your nerves.

The quiet danger about Bruce has never been revealed to you, always a simmer. You look over at him through your lashes. There's no reason to pretend that you're not exhausted. You already are. He's holding your backpack, however. His breathing heavy. Your eyes widen, your mind racing with what to say. Batman probably tipped Bruce off. His hair is stringy this morning, covering his eyes as he stares at the heavy bag. "What the fuck is this?" Your stomach flips, and you swallow hard. "My backpack," you say as evenly as you can. "Why is it packed?" You're stunned with fear. You want to grab your backpack from him, tell him it's none of his business, and rush him out. "Why are you here?" You ask instead.

"Answer the fucking question," Bruce demands sharply. His eyes are wet, but his brow furrowed. You recoil, hating when men yell. He notices your fear, dropping your backpack. "Security saw you. I don't know how you weren't apprehended." He says, his voice lower, trying not to yell again. "You said I have a choice on staying or going."

"I thought you were smarter than this," Bruce retorts, pushing his hair back. "Has it not clicked for you that people want to hurt you even if you leave here? You were harassed at the coffee shop and attacked at your home. They were not here." He reasons, sitting on the edge of your bed. You pull your legs towards yourself, not able to meet his eyes. "I felt so scared. So isolated." You bite your lip to keep yourself focused on the pain, the tears at bay. He shakes his head. "It was stupid." You nod, knowing now, but why chastise you now? He stands, exhaling deeply. "You're so frustrating (Y/N). I don't know why you came back, but you should go if you don't want to stay so badly. I don't know what else I can do, what I can say to get you to understand the real da-"

There's a knock at the door. Bruce grimaces, going to the door. You see it's Alfred who is taken aback by seeing Bruce. "Ah, are you both in there? Lieutenant Gordon called. The Dents can take visitors. Elvira just woke up. She asked for (Y/N)." Bruce looks back at you, so close to boiling over. "We'll leave as soon as possible," Bruce answers, turning to the older man. Alfred gives a quick nod before leaving you.

"You should get ready. Keep your bag packed. You're free to go any time." Bruce says, closing your door behind him.

Your hand goes to your lips. Of course, he knew. He wanted to test you, and you failed, but you doubt there's any way to pass. Fear ices your blood as you stare at the bag on your floor. If you stay, there'll be a lot of ass-kissing. You don't have any news about the kidnappers for the Dents, the whereabouts of Oz if he's the man behind the attack. You wipe your cheeks, hot tears escaping. You want to blame him for your actions but know you acted alone and in fear. His words still sting your heart. You finally get out of your bed, going to the evidence of your crime. You grunt as you pick it up, dumping the contents on your bed. Hope flutters in your stomach. Hopefully, he'll let you stay for now.

The hospital is not that far from his home. In his all-black uniform, Bruce is in a heavier black jacket over his shirt. You choose a yellow sundress with a white sweater jacket. You figure brighter colors would make the couple feel better. Bruce barely looks at you, your heart sinking. Why are you so impulsive? There are cameras in the parking garage, and his hand takes yours in his. You don't even notice at first. It feels so natural now. He squeezes as you go to the entrance. It's a newer entrance, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, dark granite floors, and brown mosaic on the inner walls with giant flat-screen TVs sharing the news and ads. The people in the waiting room seem preoccupied with their ailings, speaking amongst each other. A tall, burly security guard next to the front desk watches you intently.