DC Bruce Wayne

Bruce had proposed to his closest friend with all the romance of a business transaction.

"It makes sense," he had said. "The act isn’t convincing anyone anymore. The Board wants stability, the press keeps circling, and a marriage would quiet things down."

At forty-two, Bruce was hardly old, but in the world of billionaires and celebrities where youth was currency, the Brucie persona had lost its shine. The same headlines that had once called him Gotham's most eligible bachelor now speculated on why he was still single–especially when he's adopted so many boys.

"You wouldn’t have to worry about anything again," he'd added. "You’d have security. A clean slate."

You had laughed at that. Not because it was funny, but because you were tired. The kind of tired that settled into your bones after a heartbreak so deep it left you wondering if love was worth chasing at all. And after Selina... maybe he was tired too.

So you said yes.

Now, weeks into the arrangement, something unsettling lingers at the edges of his mind. It isn’t regret–it’s how easy this is.

The silence he once relied on isn’t suffocating when you’re in the room. If anything, he finds himself listening for the sound of you moving through the halls, for the quiet hum of your voice when you’re reading.

The other night, Alfred had said something in passing—something about how Bruce seemed lighter. He hadn’t thought about it until now. Hadn’t realized how naturally he lets himself relax around you. How he’s started looking for you when he comes home, like it’s instinct. Like it’s real.

He shoves the thought away as he always does. This isn’t about feelings. It’s practical. A mutually beneficial solution.

Yet as he descends into the Batcave after another long patrol, the sight of you waiting there—sleepy-eyed, curled up in his chair, checking the comms for injuries—makes something in his chest twist.

"You should be in bed," he says, stripping off his cowl. His voice is gruff, but you don’t miss the way his shoulders ease at the sight of you.

"All right," Bruce said, gesturing firmly with his hand. "This wasn't supposed to happen, but it happened."

When Bruce asked his long-time friend to come with him to Vegas for a fundraising trip for Wayne Foundation, neither of them had expected to come out of it married. Bruce was angry at himself, really. He wasn't sure whether their drinks had been spiked or they'd just had more than usual, but neither of them remembered what had happened, only that they'd woken up with pounding headaches and a very legally binding marriage license.

Maybe they could prove they were both of unsound mind at the time of the marriage and get an annulment. A trusted member of Bruce's legal team was already on it. If the media caught wind of it, they'd surely write it off as Brucie being Brucie. He'd very much prefer it if it never got out that they'd been married in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator, though.

He offered his childhood friend a cup of water and a special painkiller, which he had because Bruce was always prepared for everything. Well, almost everything. Marrying overnight and having no recollection of it was one of the very few scenarios he'd never considered. "Take this. It'll help with the headache."

With a sigh, he sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair.

"Sorry for dragging you into this," Bruce said, turning toward his friend. "I know I'm probably the last person you wanted to marry. If there's anything I can do to make this easier, I'll do it. Just...please, bear with me for a bit. My lawyer is already working on getting us out of this."

His lips set into a thin line. He didn't address the other elephant in the room—the fact they'd woken up in bed, together, and very conspicuously unclothed. They didn't do things like that. Well, they had, once, a lifetime ago. Then Bruce had left Gotham to train, and it had almost killed their friendship. This was a path he didn't want to go down again. Did he?

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the sterile hospital room, a stark counterpoint to the turmoil brewing within Bruce. He sat beside his spouse's bed.

Two years he'd operated alongside a phantom, a meticulously crafted replica you, the person who had been his first partner, his confidante in those early, uncertain days of his crusade. The guilt gnawed at him, a constant, corrosive presence. How could he have missed it? How could Batman have been so thoroughly deceived?

He’d replayed every interaction, searching for a flicker of discrepancy, a telltale sign that something was amiss.

There had been fleeting moments. but he'd dismissed them. He'd been blind, blinded by his own unwavering trust, his faith in the familiar.

The Light. Damn them all to hell. Lex Luthor's insidious tendrils had reached into his life, stole the love of his life, someone precious, and replaced you with a carefully programmed imposter.

The clone–he still struggled to reconcile the image of the person he’d known with the chilling reality of their manufactured existence.

The clone had eventually led him to Cadmus, to the cold, sterile chamber where the real you had been held captive, the years of isolation and experimentation. The reunion had been a mixture of relief and agony.

He had failed you. He’d allowed you to be taken, to be replaced, to be subjected to God knows what horrors.

He looked at you now. The clone stood silently, a stark silhouette against the Gotham skyline. The others were there too – Richard, Barbara, Jason, Tim, Damian – their faces etched with concern. They had all been fooled. They had all lost two years with the real you.

Bruce reached out, his hand hovering just above yours. “I've already dealt with those responsible,” he murmured. “Every single one of them.” it was Just the beginning. It was about reclaiming the trust he’d so carelessly lost, about rebuilding the bond that had been shattered by deception and betrayal. It was far from over.