seeking vengeance - part two
summary: the batman (2022) reimagined. deceased reporter, edward elliot, has left his beloved daughter behind, and she is determined to pick up where her father left off. by using her father’s research and the riddler’s clues, her ultimate goal is to further expose gotham’s corruption and bring her father’s killer to light in the process.
pairing: batman x f!reader
warnings: language, violence, nsfw descriptions
word count: 6.1k
a/n: just sit back and enjoy ;)
part one
You made it back to your apartment a couple of minutes past midnight. Your fingertips were nearly frozen at the tips, your cheeks and nose flushed red, stinging from the cold. You were greeted with a comforting gust of heat the second you walked through your front door. You took a moment to silently thank the individual who had created air conditioning.
Shutting the door behind you, making your way through your living room. You took the hallway to the left, which led to your bedroom. You sauntered through your bedroom door, not even bothering to turn on the light. The mere sight of your bed invited a wave of sleepiness over you, but you were sweaty and uncomfortable, and refused to soil your expensive sheets with the contaminants that you had no doubt acquired throughout the day. You kicked your high heels off and nudged them to the corner of your bed, even though your open closet resided only a couple of feet away. You could no longer bring yourself to do more than the bare minimum.
Tomorrow’s problem, you assured yourself.
You walked in the direction of the bathroom, which was conveniently tucked in the corner of your room, to the left of your bed. Your hands reached to the zipper resting on the small of your back and tugged it down, allowing you to peel out of the dress with ease. You removed your undergarments and tossed them in the dirty laundry basket, along with the satin dress you were wearing moments ago. Using the touchscreen located on the wall, you adjusted the water temperature and pressure with a few simple taps. The shower head came to life, releasing a thick sheet of water, which flowed in a wide, steady pattern downwards. You slid the glass door open wide enough to let yourself through, and the tension in your shoulders dissolved almost instantly.
The hot water coated you in a sensual embrace, warming you all over, and you felt pleasurable shivers when you leaned backwards, the droplets landing on your breasts and caressing your nipples. You used a pump of lavender shampoo and lathered it into your hair, massaging your scalp with delicious pressure. You grabbed the pink sponge hanging on the golden shower caddy and applied your favorite body wash to it, working it into your skin, which was now tender and warm. You rinsed off shortly after and turned the water off. You saw steam rising from your arm as you reached for the towel that hung on the hook next to the shower door. You patted yourself dry and wrapped the towel around your body, exiting the bathroom.
Your bedroom was still enveloped in darkness, which is why you didn’t notice him at first. He stood beside the window next to your bed, watching you intently. Waiting.
You crossed the room and flicked the light switch by your bedroom door, soft yellow light illuminating it. When you turned to walk back to your closet, you nearly let out a blood-curdling shriek. You sank against the wall, a hand pressed against your chest, which thrummed loudly due to your erratic heartbeat.
The Batman didn’t look the least bit bothered by the obvious disruption he had caused. He stood rigidly by the window, his mouth set in a displeased line.
“Jesus,” you snapped. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Instead of answering your question, he took a couple of stiff steps towards you, stopping just close enough that you could see the slow rise and fall of his chest each time he took a cold, intimidating breath.
He spoke now. “What were you doing at the Iceberg Lounge tonight?” His tone implied that he wasn’t asking– he was demanding.
You let out a sharp laugh, but it lacked humor. “What’s it to you?”
He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. “You’re not going back there. Gil Colson isn’t good company to keep.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper aware that you were standing in a towel with wet, dripping hair, with The Batman right in front of you. Despite this uncomfortable observation, you were determined not to let him intimidate you.
“How did you even know I was there?” A pause. “Were you following me?”
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Then you were hit with a punch of realization. “The woman in the red wig. You sent her.”
This time he didn’t respond.
You shook your head in disbelief. “What, so you just expect me to divulge the information you need without any sort of protest?” You ran your hand through your damp hair in frustration. “I have questions I want answered too, you know? Starting with how you know where I live and how the hell you managed to get inside.”
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked bluntly.
His question was abrupt, and it startled you. It took you a few seconds before you could respond. “No. I’m not afraid of you,” you managed at last. And it was the truth. That night at the subway station had been the first and only time you had seen him. Despite his dark, uninviting physical appearance and his cold, calculating tone, his presence was… comforting. “But that doesn’t mean I trust you,” you added. “Hell, I don’t even know who you are. And I get that’s the concept behind the mask. You’re Gotham’s Dark Knight, and I admire that. And I’m grateful for what you did for me that night at the subway station, but I still don’t understand why you’re here or why we’re even having this conversation.”
He shut his eyes momentarily, and you were sure he was going to turn around and leave. But he didn’t. His eyes remained closed for a few counts, and when he finally opened them, his blue eyes sliced into yours.
“I haven’t been following you,” he assured you, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “But I’ve checked in every now and again. To make sure you’ve made it home safe.”
Your heart swelled with emotion, and you were too taken aback by his confession to analyze what it meant. You simply stared back at him expectantly, urging him to continue.
He swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was once again guarded, closed off. “There’s no shortage of crime in this city. I can’t be everywhere. You should invest in more reliable means of transportation.”
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Thanks for the tip.”
“As for tonight,” he continued. “I didn’t know you’d be there. I sent Selina to the 44-Below on an assignment. And coincidentally, you were sitting at the same table as the people she went there to investigate.”
You pondered this for a moment. “I guess that makes sense.”
Now it was his turn to look at you expectantly. “Your turn.”
This time you did roll your eyes. “Can I at least go change first? I just got out of the shower and I’m freezing.”
You threw your arms up in the air and turned, taking a seat on the edge of your bed, once again wrapping your arms around your front to keep it from fluttering open. You looked up at him, annoyed. “I was there for the same reason your sexy spy was. Research.” Before he could press you for more information, you added, “And don’t ask me to elaborate, because it’s personal.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, a clear signal of annoyance. But he didn’t force you to say anything more, just like you’d asked. He turned mechanically, his long black cape flowing as he made his way out of your bedroom and toward your front door. You were hot on his heels, following to make sure he went out and stayed out.
He tugged your door open, but paused in between the door frame. He half turned to you, his leather clad hand still wrapped the doorknob.
“Another tip?” he announced coldly. “Don’t forget to lock your door.”
And then he was gone. You didn’t dare peer out to see in which direction he had gone. Instead you slammed the door so hard it vibrated, and made sure to secure the lock and deadbolt in place.
“Turn left at the next street, please,” you instructed the taxi driver.
You sat in the backseat of a taxi, hands fiddling with the small black clutch on your lap. You were on your way to Mayor Mitchell’s memorial. The event had been in the works since the announcement of MItchell’s murder, and it quickly became a very big deal. A massive turnout of people was expected– especially highly-respected government officials and other influential city figures. Daily Gotham instructed every available reporter to attend and document as much of it as possible. For once, you were going to be one of the lucky ones working the front lines.
Although you were glad to finally be getting in on a piece of the action, your mood was somber. Probably because you were on your way to a massive church to take pictures and ask people questions about a dead guy who you hadn’t even thought twice about until today.
You stared down at your outfit to peel yourself away from your less-than-cheery thoughts. Your hair was pinned in a simple, yet elegant updo. You wore a modest black lace dress, and your feet were tucked in shiny black flats. Your makeup was minimal too: a thin coat of mascara, light coverage foundation, pale blush, and clear gloss on your lips.
You gave the driver another set of directions. “You can pull over up ahead. Before the crosswalk.”
He did as instructed, guiding the vehicle to an open parking spot just before the end of the curb. You handed him a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change. You stepped out of the cab and shut the door gently behind you, the driver taking off immediately, probably eager to find his next customer.
You saw the church up ahead, and the parking lot in front of it was littered with police cars. They left a thin lane by the front steps unblocked, undoubtedly for the important individuals who would be chauffeured to the event. As if on cue, a caravan of black vehicles turned the corner in the direction of the church, cruising through the open lane and stopping at the front long enough to allow their passengers to exit. As you walked closer to the cathedral-looking building, you were able to make out some of the people as they were screened and escorted inside by the cops.
Carla Diaz, one of the women you briefly sat with last night at the 44-Below. Carmine Falcone. Oswald Cobblepot – aka The Penguin, as he was famously nicknamed – the owner of the Iceberg Lounge.
You could also see the gate that had been propped up in front of the left wing of the church. You heard heated chanting, and your heart sunk when you saw protesters with signs splotched with red paint and eerily familiar symbols. No more lies, the signs read. Reporters had been conveniently placed in front of the crowd of the Riddler’s supporters. They were crowded in a small square beside the entrance, and they all spoke over each other, snapping photos and frantically begging the arriving individuals to walk over and indulge them by answering their questions. But as noisy as they were, even they couldn’t drown out the sound of the angry mob behind them.
Mister Wayne? Over here, Mister Wayne! Could we please have a moment of your time?
Your head snapped in the direction of the commotion. You did a double take when you saw Bruce Wayne exit his vehicle and hand the keys to a valet worker, who handed him a small slip of paper in return. He was a famous orphan whose family had a history of philanthropy. He expressed very little interest in the lavish life of a socialite. He kept to himself, so it came as a surprise to you that he was even here. Unlike other famous city figures, Bruce Wayne didn’t like basking in the spotlight. Because of this, he did most of his work behind the scenes. He had made generous donations to city programs and charities that his family had worked with in the past, but things had been eerily quiet on his end for the last couple of years. He was almost as hard of a man to find as The Batman himself.
You couldn’t help but watch him as he ascended the church steps; his shoulders were hunched, his head tilted down, doing his best to avoid being approached. You saw him attempt to move past the officers guarding the door to the church, but he was blocked and immediately surrounded by four officers who had seemingly come out of nowhere. Bruce wore a solemn expression on his face, but he was most definitely exasperated. He corrected his posture, pushing his wide shoulders back, towering over the men that were denying him entry.
Carmine Falcone appeared at the entrance and engaged in a brief exchange with the guards and Bruce Wayne. Whatever he said must have worked, because they stepped out of the way and let Bruce through. You couldn’t blame them for being cautious– they were doing their job, after all. Ensuring that the event was safe for the attendees, given the Riddler’s never-ending taunts and recent attacks, was top priority. And taking into consideration that Bruce Wayne had not been seen at an event of this magnitude in over two years, you completely understood why the public was beginning to forget what he looked like.
You climbed the steps and merged into the line of people waiting to be screened and allowed entry inside. Once you got to the front, you showed the guard your Daily Gotham identification card, and another guard walked over to escort you to the section reserved for the press. You passed row after row of pews, where there were no spots left unfilled. You glanced up at the immensely high ceiling, your attention momentarily caught by the alluring artwork adorning it. The guard finally came to a stop, ushering you into a pew with your fellow reporters.
You had a pretty good view of the altar, where an enlarged photo of Mayor Mitchell resided next to his closed casket. You looked around the vast space, trying to make out familiar faces in the crowd. The late mayor’s wife and son were seated in the first pew on the left hand side of the church, maybe six or seven rows in front of you. Government officials and city figures sat in the first couple rows on the right hand side. Almost everyone in the pews at the back of the church were common folks who had arrived early enough to snag a decent seat.
An announcement cut over the loudspeaker, but the chatter in the room drowned out most of what was said. You assumed they were announcing the start of the service, so you sank down in your seat, exchanging polite smiles with the reporters sitting around you while you waited. You opened the clutch in your lap and pulled out a small recording device. It felt invasive, recording audio of a funeral, knowing all too well what the mayor’s family – especially his young son – was experiencing. You flicked the ringer button on the side of your phone, silencing it. You leaned forward and turned your head towards the back of the church. The doors had been shut, and there was significantly less shuffling around the perimeter. A melancholic silence befell the crowd. There were only a handful of people still working their way through the pews, trying to find their seats.
Distant cries cut through the eerie silence. But they weren’t cries of grief or sorrow– they were cries of terror. And they seemed to be coming from beyond the front doors. The helpless screams continued, increasing in volume, accompanied by an aggressive, mechanical noise, which sounded like the rumble of an engine. Everyone in the church began to rise in panic, their gazes darting all around, trying to find the source of the disruption. You felt your body temperature dip with concern, shaky hands hoisting you up to a standing position. The commotion continued, but still no one knew where it was coming from. You took a moment to glance at the other guests, feeling momentary relief in the fact that you were not experiencing this alone. As you scanned the terrified audience, your gaze landed on Bruce Wayne, whose eyes met yours at the same moment.
Something registered in his expression– familiarity? Shock? Those deep blue eyes assessed you with intensity. You didn’t have much time to analyze what it meant, because your thoughts were cut short by a brutal crash.
A black SUV rammed through the front doors of the church at full speed, and you watched, horrified, as people attempted to dive out of the way to avoid being run over. The SUV flailed recklessly in every direction, losing control, hitting the arrangement of pews on your side so hard that one of the wooden benches was flipped and launched against you. You toppled over and hit the ground hard, hitting your head on the sharp corner of something. You laid stunned for a moment, disorientation clouding your vision. The vehicle had finally come to a stop after it slammed against one of the thick marble columns beside the altar. A chorus of terrified shrieks echoed inside the church now.
You weakly pushed yourself up to a sitting position. You observed the quick blur of motion as the police made its way to the front of the church. There was a lot of shouting, but you couldn’t make out any of what was said. Your vision tipped and turned, the world in front of you swimming in and out of focus. You took several deep breaths, focusing on not passing out. Disoriented as you were, you knew that this was the absolute worst time and place to lose consciousness.
Sharp, high-pitched ringing sounded in your ears, sending a fresh wave of pain to the base of your skull. There was more commotion now, but the ringing drowned it out, as if everything were occurring under water. Despite your muffled hearing, there were two words which you were able to pick up clear as day.
As if one cue, everyone in the church began exiting in a frenzy. You stood and dragged yourself slowly, lamely, to the ground, before being knocked down by the force of the mob. You landed on your arm this time, a sharp pain shooting from your wrist to your elbow. You attempted to roll to a sitting position, but it was no use. You had been rendered immobile.
It was then that a pair of strong arms slid under your body and hauled you up with ease. Suddenly you were flush against someone’s warm chest, bouncing lightly, their feet moving with haste. Your eyes had fallen shut, but you were able to pry them open just enough to catch a flash of stubble dotted along a strong, defined jaw, and dark hair. As if sensing your gaze, the individual peered down at you.
“Stay awake, will you?” The voice sounded familiar. It was low, sexy, masculine.
You knew you were outside because you felt the cold prickle your skin like tiny needles. You heard sirens closing in on you, rattling your eardrums to the point of discomfort. Suddenly you felt another pair of hands on you. You felt the warm touch of the individual who had helped you to safety slip away, replaced by a cold, hard surface.
Gloved hands peeled your eyes open, shining an obnoxious light on them. Your vision was so blurry that the face of the paramedic standing above you refused to come into focus. She spoke gently, firmly, but you weren’t listening. You felt yourself slipping away now. It wasn’t long before you found yourself giving in to the darkness, plunging deeply into the black abyss.
When you opened your eyes, you found yourself surrounded by white walls and bright lights. Your head rested on a floppy pillow, and when you tipped your head down to take in the rest of the room, you felt a rush of dread. Then it all came back to you.
The cab ride. The mayor’s memorial. The vehicle plowing through everything in its path. Falling and hitting your head. Attempting to flee, getting pushed to the ground. Being carried to safety by a stranger.
You peered down at yourself, finding your body dressed in a white hospital gown, covered in – you guessed it – thin white hospital sheets. Your arm had also been carefully wrapped and placed in a sling across your chest. You became ridiculously aware of the dryness of your mouth, and when you tipped your head towards the bedside table, you found a small bottle of water and an oatmeal cookie on a tray, begging for your consumption. You tried pushing yourself to a sitting position, but were immediately overcome with a ridiculous pressure pushing against your temples and small black dots danced across your field of vision. You laid back down and opted for using the handy remote tucked on the side of the bed to lift yourself to a position where you could down food and water without choking.
The head of the bed rose to your desired angle and you reached toward the tray, dragging it closer until the table rested in front of you. You twisted the cap off of the tiny water bottle, using the same remote to surf through the channels while you took a few tentative sips. You clicked the down button repeatedly, only stopping when a bright orange news headline flashed on the screen. You set the remote down after turning the volume up, your eyes fixating on the images on the screen.
You watched as camera footage made you revisit the day’s events from an spectator’s perspective. The camera captured the SUV recklessly turning into the church parking lot, ramming into the side of two police cars, only to race up the steps and barrel through the church doors. The footage didn’t include a continuation of what had happened inside, but you already knew. You had a nasty concussion and a fractured arm to prove it.
The news broadcasting cut to an image acquired by a police officer’s body cam, and the sight made your blood run cold. It was Gil Colson, mouth taped shut, blood dripping from his head, a bomb wrapped tightly around his neck. The image disappeared, replaced by a video of Batman standing stiffly across Colson, speaking to the Riddler through a phone that had been taped to Colson’s palm. Moments later, there was an explosion that hurled the Batman backwards with force. The blast had rendered him unconscious, and according to the headlines, there was no news about whether he had survived the explosion.
You felt bile rise in your throat, anxiety twisting your stomach painfully. Your thoughts began to race, and suddenly whatever the news anchors were discussing now seemed unimportant. You couldn’t help but feel completely consumed by fear. He had to be okay, right?
You did your best to assure yourself, but the reality was that you couldn’t be sure. You had only spoken to him twice, but in that short time, you had become… invested. He was dark, mysterious. But also incredibly alluring. His voice, his sultry gaze. He had a hold on you that you couldn’t quite explain. His determination to protect the city had been one of the many things that made you admire him, but now the thought of it made you feel unnerved.
He was clever, strategic. He’d never walk into something knowing he might be in over his head. Would he?
Two solid knocks sounded at the door, snapping you away from your thoughts. A slender, middle-aged woman with dark auburn hair stepped into the room, shutting the door gently behind her. A pair of black glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, and when she smiled, small but prominent wrinkles formed around her eyes.
“I see you’re awake,” she stated politely. “I’m Doctor Rollins. Do you know why you’re here, Miss Elliott?”
You nodded, meeting her eyes warily. “I was at the memorial service when the car…” you swallowed. “I fell and hit my head. I tried to get up, but was trampled by the crowd, and hurt my arm. The details get hazy from here, but I know someone got me out. I don’t remember much after that.”
She nodded, her lips pressed in a slight frown. She stepped forward, stopping beside the bed. Dr. Rollins slid the tray you had placed in front of you out of the way, inching closer and inspecting the gauze on your head, above your temple.
“May I?” she asked, searching your eyes for any sign of discomfort.
You nodded again, sitting still as she peeled back the adhesive and peered under the sterile cloth, examining your wound. She peered at it for a few counts and then put the gauze back in its place.
“The cut seems to be healing quite nicely. No excessive bleeding or discharge.” She pulled a small flashlight from her coat pocket, instructing you to follow her finger with your eyes as it moved from side to side, then up and down. “You did suffer a pretty severe concussion, so I’d definitely take it easy for the next two weeks, maybe a little longer if you can afford it. Your brain needs time to rest and heal.” She stepped back, assessing you with a soft, almost maternal gaze. “Since everything looks good, I can go ahead and have a nurse bring you a discharge form, if you’d like? You can stay another night for observation, but I don’t believe it will be necessary. What you need is rest, and I’m sure you’d rather get better in the comfort of your own home than be stuck in a noisy, bland place like this.”
You couldn’t help the smile that surfaced on your lips. “Yeah, I’d like that,” you agreed.
She returned the grin and turned on her heel, cracking the door open just enough to allow her small figure through, and slipped out the door.
Concussion recovery sucked.
The nurse who had gone over the discharge paperwork with you had given you a hefty list of things to avoid during your recovery. Absolutely no screen time, no exposure to bright lights or sounds, no abrupt or harsh movements of your head and neck, and lots of rest.
The first couple of days were great. Of course, you still had a fractured arm and a jumbled brain, but you were relieved to have nothing to do but lounge around your apartment for a change. Like your late father, you were a workaholic, fully immersing yourself in whatever you were doing. Employers had appreciated your timeliness and dedication, but more often than not, you found yourself being pushed to your limits and eventually relying solely on autopilot. You had taken this time off of work to indulge in the self care that the magazines you read were always raving about.
You lit the sugar cookie scented candle that you had been gifted for your birthday and took your first ever bubble bath. You read through an entire row of books on your bookshelf and made chamomile tea, which you sipped as you peered out onto the city from your balcony. Since you couldn’t watch tv, you dug the old radio from the depths of your closet, and after heavily dusting it, realized it was still in working order. You clicked through the stations every couple hours, hoping that someone – anyone – had news about the Batman. After an agonizing thirty-six, your fears had finally been extinguished. He had been out cold for several minutes, but he walked away from the explosion unscathed. Lucky bastard.
Unfortunately, his interference in the Colson situation was not taken well by the police. There had been an APB issued against him, and your guess was that he was lying low until the cops found something more important to occupy their time.
So, in theory, everything was good and well, except it wasn’t. You had become bored, and when you experienced boredom, you turned into an antsy mess. You paced around your living room, fluffing the decorative pillows on your couch for the fifth time in ten minutes. The door leading to the balcony had been propped open; you’d hoped the fresh air would snap you out of your frenzy. But so far it wasn’t working. You looked around your apartment for things to do. Your bedroom had been organized, your closet color coded, your bathroom deep cleaned, your paperwork filed, mail sorted, dishes washed. What the hell were you supposed to do with yourself now.
“If you keep spinning in circles like that, you’re gonna give yourself another concussion.”
You whirled around in the direction of the voice, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of the Batman standing at the edge of your balcony. Your acknowledgment of his presence is all it takes for him to close the distance between you. He came to a stop three feet in front of you, his blue eyes examining the fresh gauze on your head, the sling covering your arm. He met your gaze, a strange softness in his eyes.
“You can’t seem to stay out of trouble, can you?” He asked, but the question was all rhetorical.
“Speak for yourself,” you retorted. “That was some stunt you pulled, nearly getting yourself killed playing the hero.”
His lips twitched, as if he was fighting a smile. “But it wasn’t for nothing.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well, you are now a wanted man because of it.”
“Am I?” he mumbled, taking a step forward.
You could feel the warmth radiating off of him, which caressed your skin deliciously. You were close enough to see the sexy curve of his lips, which were parted slightly. His perfect, symmetrical nose. And those enchanting blue orbs, which had darkened significantly due to your proximity. Your heart thumped wildly in your chest and you prayed it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear. You hated to admit it, but the attraction was getting to you now. You wanted to slide your hands up his armored chest and brush your lips against his. You wanted to hear him growl with desire for you. The image was so hot, so vivid, it made you lightheaded. You took a step back, hoping some distance would erase the butterflies in your stomach and the inconvenient pulse between your legs.
The Batman straightened, as if he, too, had been stuck in a trance. He remained tall and confident, but his tone now held a guarded edge. “Do you want to know why I’m here?”
Ever-so-slightly, you nodded.
“I’m here because Y/N Y/L/N doesn’t exist.”
Your heart dropped right out of your ass. “W-what do you mean?”
You hated the way your voice faltered, and hated how you could barely look him in the eye anymore. In truth, your fake identity wasn’t this big, earth-shattering secret. The sole purpose of the alternate persona was to keep yourself out of the spotlight. You didn’t have any skeletons in your closet, but you didn’t want people asking questions, either. Especially when it came to your father’s research and for the reason you intended to use it. If the Batman could figure out that Y/N Y/L/N was a farce, what was stopping others from doing the same?
“I ran a background check on you after our last conversation,” he explained calmly. “I’m working with Commissioner Gordon to bring the Riddler down before he can do any more harm. I can’t do that if I don’t have access to the full picture. I wanted to be satisfied with the answers you gave me, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many questions regarding your involvement.”
“What did you find?” you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.
“Nothing,” he said blandly. “That’s what caught my attention. I knew where you worked, so I accessed records from Daily Gotham and used the information as a foundation for the background check. I entered your credentials and it bounced. There was no record of a Y/N Y/L/N in Gotham CIty.”
Tears prickled your eyes. “So what are you gonna do? Blackmail the information out of me? Threaten to out me to my job just so I can come clean about something you’re convinced I’m involved in?” Your words were laced with anger, but there was unmistakable hurt behind them.
The Batman grabbed your good arm gently and led you to the couch, urging you to sit down. You raised your shaky hand to wipe away a tear that had managed to escape. He knelt down in front of you, assessing you with the same softness from moments ago.
He spoke gently this time. “I don’t think you’re involved in anything. I just need you to tell me the truth so I can keep you safe.”
You felt idiotic for the way your heart soared after hearing him utter those words. You wanted him, there wasn’t a single doubt about that. You also trusted him. But you were afraid you were mistaking his kindness for something completely different. You’d be damned if you made a fool of yourself by expressing your feelings only to find out he didn’t reciprocate them. For now, you had to keep him at an emotional distance. Even though you couldn’t confess your feelings yet, you no longer felt good about lying to him, especially since he already knew the partial truth.
“Maia Elliott,” you whispered, unable to meet his eyes. “That’s my real name.”
When he didn’t immediately jump the gun to bombard you with questions, you gained the confidence to continue. “My father was a reporter. He was free-lancing at the time, taking jobs here and there. Around the time that Thomas Wayne was running for mayor, he had been hired to uncover hidden truths about the Wayne’s and the Arkham’s. My father’s employer had asked him to dig deeper because he intended to use the information to skew the election. He had some sort of vendetta against Thomas Wayne.” Your hands had begun to shake, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself. “My father was a good man. He had always valued justice. Whatever he found must have been serious, because suddenly he wanted out. But it was too late.”
You lifted your gaze, finding the Batman regarding you attentively, hanging on to your every word. You maintained eye contact, even as the tears started tumbling down your cheeks. “He was murdered two weeks before the election. I’ve read through his notes countless times, but I still can’t make sense of them. All he had written down were names, places. That’s why I was at the Iceberg Lounge that night. Gil Colson had been on the list, and I was hoping he’d help me find my next lead. But so far I have nothing,” you admitted, defeated.
The Batman reached for your hand, giving it a light squeeze. When he spoke, his voice expressed genuine sincerity. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“While I appreciate that, us feeling sorry about it isn’t going to bring him back. I just want to find out who killed him, and I want to make them pay.”
He nodded in understanding. “You can count on my help,” he assured you. “But I need you to do something for me.”
You eyed him curiously. “What?”
“You have to stay out of it.”
You shot to your feet, prepared to protest, but his touch sucked the argument right out of your mouth. He ran a gloved hand through a thin strand of your hair, which he placed between his thumb and pointer finger. He followed its length downward, letting it fall beside your neck, on top of your collar bone.
“Do you trust me?” he murmured, those blue eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation.
He stepped back, giving you a curt nod of approval. “Good.” he said, stopping whatever excuse you were working so hard to come up with. “I’ll be in touch.”
He turned and walked to your balcony, intending on leaving the same way he had arrived. He flicked one last look in your direction.
And just like that, he was gone– his dark silhouette blending in with the night sky.
