breaking free

[bossymarmalade]

When David (the only other man besides Alfred trusted to chauffeur the Wayne Enterprises CEO) brought the car to the Gotham jail on Alfred’s instructions, he was already on his second cup of coffee that afternoon. Picking up Mrs. Spencer-Queen from where she’d been, at the courthouse (and raising hell from the expression on her face when she’d descended the steps), had been easy, but the ride had been long and by the time they arrive, an hour late, his nerves were skittering on the waves of caffeine.

Without being told, he moved from the driver’s door to open the door for Bruce. The man had been snuck through the back of the building by Geneviève—she meets David’s eyes with a grim nod—and he slid into the seat and immediately shucked his jacket, tossing it onto the seat in front of them.

He didn’t meet Kate’s eyes, his jaw tight, the bruises across his face healing still, and spoke, in a low voice.

"Kate."

"Bruce," said Kate, looking up from her phone. She was firmly ensconced in the seat of the limo, wrapped up tight in scarves and gloves and coat against the November chill. Her mood hadn’t improved too much since they’d left the courthouse, made their way through downtown traffic—the already congested roads even further packed with people leaving their offices on a lazy half-day before the holiday weekend.

As David shut the door, Kate looked, to be honest, like she was seriously considering spiking her coffee with some of the Glenfiddich from the mini bar. Hair artfully messy, eyes a bit wilder, and considering she hadn’t slept very well lately, she was in a state—

And even someone unobservant would notice her wince and faint bite of the lip, as she leaned over to gently—seemingly platonicly, were anyone looking—touch Bruce’s knee. “You’re going to tell me what you did for this, you know,” she said, cocking her head and shifting downwards (ow) to get a glimpse of his eyes. Maybe not here, but soon, was implied.

The timing was such that she knew it was him.



He shook his head, immediately, indicating that, no, it hadn’t been him, and in the next breath, depressed the button for the partition between the driver cab and passenger compartment, and wrapped both hands around the sharp, flared edges of Kate’s jaw. He watched her face, scanning it over for sign of sleep deprivation, and noticed the wildness of her eyes, the rawness of her lower lip, and without asking permission, he kissed her.

He kissed her once, chastely, then again, deeper and pushed his weight on top of her, onto the lush cushions of the car. The partition was sightless, soundless, but Bruce seemed beyond caring, besides that. He didn’t ask where Ollie was, doesn’t ask anything, but kisses her, his tongue scraping deep against her teeth. His hand dropped to her breast, and he cupped it, over the shirt and her bra, thumb pushing in to seek the peak of her nipple.

"Kate," he groaned, straight into her mouth, his eyelids half-mast, lashes shading the cobalt of his eyes.

He didn’t need to ask permission. Kate…Kate hadn’t fully realized quite how she’d missed Bruce’s hands against her skin this time until she had it again. She made a soft little noise, a whimper, as he kissed her, kissing back tenderly but without hesitation.

She’d missed having him on top of her as well, but the weight of him was almost too much against the lingering bruises, and she whimpered again, shifting a little more underneath him. Soreness and the echo of ache echoed against the pleasure of his touch, how she could feel her clit throbbing between her legs already, in sympathetic counterpoint, from the desire.

Bruce saying her name, though, that undid her. It crumbled at the slapdash walls she’d been vainly trying to put up since the attack at the church and the aftermath, for the kids, for Ollie as the Bat, for herself. Which was why she did something rather unlike her, then, and buried her face into his shoulder, breath choked into a tearless half-sob. “Bruce,” she murmured, and couldn’t really figure out what she meant to say next.

everyoneollieweimissedyou we can’t do this anymore without you please we have to stop them can’t ever lose you again

It tangled in her mind and she gave up on trying to make it into words.

The way she shifted under him should have been the first sign.

The sounds Kate made when he put her onto her back were not the pleasant, husky noises that Bruce was used to in situations like these, but the feeling of her, under his hands and against his body was almost too much for him to stop, just like that. Bruce kissed her, and it was only when she pulled back, echoed his name back that it suddenly clicked: something was wrong.

He pulled back, shifted his weight off of her, and gently moved his thumb over the slope of her cheek, the heat in his eyes subdued, not gone. His other hand lifted, fingers pushing her wild, messy hair between the roughened digits, and Bruce exhaled before asking.

"What happened, querida?”

The endearment drifted his tongue without a droplet of trepidation.

Kate’s face crumpled further at the name, it shattering her (good shatter, yes, but she was riding so damn hard on emotion) just enough to make her lose more of her grip on the remnants of her strength. She cleared her throat, looked up at him, then squeezed her eyes shut.

"Batman and Manhunter were chasing down drug smugglers," she said, almost as if she were telling a story that happened to someone else. "New kind, this time, still those creepy inhuman…I don’t know what they are." She shuddered without volition, sucked a little on her lower lip, and continued. "We’d split up, I was on point. Their leader, who was dressed as a goddamn nun…came up on me. Brought goons with…and they kicked the everloving shit out of me. Literally."

She frowned, as if trying to remember the haze of adrenaline and pain—the rest of it was so crystal clear. “Was the Hatter, apparently. The nun. Arsenal had been in Gotham with the kids, he and Batman brought down the goon squad, but not before Sister Hatter dosed me with the goods.”

The rest of it she was not sure she wanted to explain, and it made her physically draw in on herself, trying to remember she was safe, Bruce had her, the flashbacks wouldn’t g—

Ollie’s—no, the fox creature’s—green eyes had been red, she remembered, and came back to herself to find she was clutching hard at Bruce’s arm.

Bruce listened as Kate explained the situation: the areas where she left alone, he quickly filled in with details, things he instinctively understood. But, even the analytical workings of his mind don’t do much to stop the visceral reaction to understanding that she had been hurt. It was a bit ridiculous, to grow upset over this, Bruce knew: they were, at best, vigilantes, and at worst, rabble-rousers looking to do good. With that job description came the inevitable throw down that left bones broken and teeth loose in their sockets.

Bruce knew this.

But, it still didn’t change that as she talked, he pushed his hands to the immaculate press—Bruce could see Alfred’s handiwork there as if the butler had written his name across the material—of Kate’s shirt. Rucking it up, he drew in a low breath. The bruises were impressive, to layman’s eyes. Yet, to Bruce, who knew how quickly Kate healed, it meant that they had been worse.

Tenderly, he lowered his head and kissed the worst of them—it’s nearly out of character, but Bruce was barely aware of it. He kissed the center of it, then another, before turning his head down on top of her own, and nudged her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He tangled his fingers in her hair, working them deep into the soft ones at the crown of her head, cradling her skull.

"I.." Bruce ducked his head, pressed his lips to the top of the curve of her shell. "I should have been there."

I’m sorry.

Kate didn’t need to look at Bruce’s face to know what his reaction would be to seeing her. She was still beat up, though the bruises were now more livid than sore, on their way to healing through being appallingly ugly. She closed her eyes tightly, again, as he kissed them, almost as if he were a child and a kiss would make them better faster, to keep from crying.

She knew, somehow, that it wouldn’t have mattered much, if he’d been there. She would have still been dosed. And—

"The drug was worse," she said, softly, huskily, shifting a little into his arms as though he would carry her through it—

not daddy’s little girl not that

Kate pressed her face against Bruce’s shirt. “It took the better part of a day for it to wear off. It’s still…” Frowning, she shook her head, not finding words. “It still haunts me. I thought I saw terrible things. Thought Ollie and Alfred would…do things.”

His armed moved around her, instinctively, and he continued the path of his mouth, only pausing as she spoke. Of course the drugs were worse. She could have taken any physical beating that they threw at her, but the drugs… Bruce stopped, listening to what she said—psychoactive drugs, in a high enough concentration to have affected her biology, would spell trouble for any regular physiology; he’d have to check on Ollie—and lifted his eyes to hers.

"But they didn’t," he soothed, but not too harshly because he understood. Understood as best he could.

Bruce sat up a touch, and carried Kate with him, kept her tucked against him. The heat in his blood still simmered, it was obvious from the way his fingers dimpled her flesh here and there, how tight his jaw was, but he understood—better than most—there was a time and a place.

He pushed a hand through her hair, and kissed her forehead, her temple, her lips. He lingered there, drawing comfort from the press of her mouth to his.

"Y ya estoy aquí, Catalina.. Lo vamos à arreglar."

It wasn’t as though there wasn’t underlying fire in Kate’s own blood, an empty place that needed to be filled, the bond between the three of them reaffirmed in bright white heat. She longed for it, but knew that right now she couldn’t give as much as she wanted or needed to. Bruce needed to know these things. There was no point in hiding them.

"No, but I told them, I said it, I tried to hurt them," she pointed out, feeling compelled to do so even as Bruce tried to ease it back. She was comforted but not consoled, not entirely. Not from the horrors of her own mind, at any rate.

Kate inhaled, then let out a deep exhalation. She shifted so she could look him in the eye, and replied, “Sí. Y yo voy a ayudarte.”

Bruce looped his arm around Kate’s waist, and lifted them both up, keeping her tucked into his side, her head against the crook of his armpit. He kissed the side of her temple, and lowered the window partition, just enough to speak.

"David?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

"The Manor."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

He raised it again, and turned his body to move his opposite hand against Kate’s shoulder. He continues to kiss her, and it’s unlike him, the affection, though it isn’t out of place. The shift of his lips is soft, and after the third or fourth press it becomes obvious: he has missed her.

He doesn’t speak, for the long ride up, doesn’t attempt anything else, just holds Kate close to him as the car winds up to the gate. Bruce dimly heard the crackle of the intercom, and when the car lurched again, he turned to Kate, murmuring quietly.

"Where is he?"

Kate allowed herself to close her eyes, to lean into him a little, enough to feel somewhat safe (not entirely, not until all of this was said and done). She noticed, of course, that Bruce was gentle, affectionate, sweet—but to her this seemed within reason. He’d had a lot of time to think and not much else. Anything that seemed truly off, she’d call him on.

Her fingers wound in his hair a little, just a little too long, the dark strands, though nowhere near what they’d been in Cachement. She liked it like this anyhow, something to hold onto.

She shifted, as they approached the house, sitting up a little more in his lap (not daddy’s little no no no fuck no) and clearing her throat softly. “Trying to fill your shoes enough for us all to get by,” she said, equally quiet. Ollie had been, quite frankly, working like a dog to try and keep on top of everything plus try to be the Bat for long nights. It wasn’t that Ollie wasn’t capable, wasn’t up to the challenge, it was that the challenge was ridiculously difficult, in a time like this, and it was a life he hadn’t chosen. Even so, the amount of work involved…she pursed her lips. Neither of Ollie or Bruce needed her working out drug-induced paranoias on top of that, which was why she didn’t volunteer anything more.
Even if she wanted needed to, deep down.

Bruce nodded, and looked out at the Manor’s front steps, where Alfred was descending, his cane barely able to keep up as he moved swiftly to get the door for them. There was a controlled happiness on the older man’s face that Bruce felt mirror and echo in his heart, and when he kissed Kate’s mouth once more, and gently moved her so he could rise out of the car, it was with his hand still lingering on hers, twining their fingers. He squeezed, once— twice—-and then moved from the vehicle, to Alfred.

The two men regarded each other for a moment. It was a heavy stare—an equal and wholehearted appraisal in a set of wizened hazel, darkened blue eyes—before they embraced, both moving at the same time. It seems orchestrated, perhaps, but the in the seconds between them there is a chorus of unspoken phrases. All needed. All understood.

Bruce separated before Alfred was ready to—and wasn’t that always the case—and turned to assist Kate out of the car. He put his hand against the small of her back, uncaring of David’s stare as he moved up the steps, and into the Manor’s open door.

The space was quiet, but instantly, Bruce could feel the difference between his home from before he’d left until now. The heating was higher than Bruce normally kept it, the pipes flushing hot water underfoot keeping the ambient temperature bearable, and as Alfred shut the door behind them, Bruce looked to Kate, the faintest edges of a smile on his face.

"Someone complained about the cold."

The Manor didn’t intimidate Kate, not anymore. She had been here long enough, had been accepted by Gotham tacitly long enough, for it to only be imposing, like the initial testing bulk of a large dog asserting its place in the pack. Her lips quirked a little as she witnessed the exchange (it was an exchange, for Bruce it was equivalent to a goddamn conversation) between Alfred and Bruce, and she straightened a little, willing the bruise ache down as she became Kate Spencer Queen, attorney at law.

Even so, she let Bruce’s hand linger at her back, welcomed the soft pressure and warmth she swore she could even feel through her coat. Mi corazon.

She was able to shuck the coat, though, inside. And the gloves and the scarves and the hat, because it was sweet and warm inside, even in the dimness of fading light. “Someone did. Someone needs to not have her fingers freeze so she can work,” she pointed out, softly, amused.

Bruce turned and kissed Kate on the mouth (Alfred, behind them, attempted to keep his eyebrows level and even) at that, and turned to the butler, cocking an eyebrow at the short chuckle he gave. Alfred, amused, moved past them, leaning heavily on the cane as he walked out of the foyer, speaking over his shoulder.

"The rest of the household will be here sooner than later," he announced, informing them, as he made his way to the kitchen, looking left and right for Titus. He gave a sharp whistle and continued on his way, leaving Bruce and Kate to their privacy, whatever they had left.

Bruce looked to Kate, and curled his fingers around her own. She did not have petite hands, but they were still small in comparison to his, and he lifted them, kissing the tips of her fingers, as he lifted his other hand to curl in her hair, and kissed her again. No heat, but an aching tenderness, and now it’s apparent that it’s his own relief coming through in the press of his lips: she was here, they were alive, he was back in a place of power.

He lingered, for a moment more, pulling her taut against his body and then, exhaled, mirth brimming in his voice. “I should take a shower.”

Kate leaned in for the kiss, smiling in sly amusement at Alfred’s little laugh, and nodded at his comment. “Thanks, Alfred,” she said, then leaned a little further into Bruce. She found his reaction to Alfred adorable (could Bruce even be adorable? she decided he could), and therefore welcomed the kiss.

And the next. And the next one.

She trailed her fingers against his jaw for a second, then eased her upper body back, the rest of her still tangled with him. “You should, mi corazon,” she said, smirking. “You smell like elementary school bathroom soap. It’s not a good look.”

And she was tempted to say she’d go with him, but then they’d be there for hours, so she leaned in and kissed his jaw, with just the lightest nip of her teeth. “Hurry back.”

When Kate found Alfred in the kitchen, the man had begun to remove that night’s dinner from the refrigerator for cooking: a roast, it looked like, along with side dishes of green beans, potatoes au gratin, two loaves of bread already rising on the counter to be baked, and a few bottles of wine with a fine layer of dust over them. He smiled at her when she entered, and then continued on his work, his voice jovial and light.

"It’s not often that Master Wayne is released from prison," he joked, explaining the spread of food across the expansive kitchen island. "And I do believe a good meal is a fitting epilogue for this chapter."

He looked up at her. “I’ve contacted Mr. Spencer-Queen, but he informed me he was working.”

There are a few things unspoken in between the phrases, things he would not find proper to voice out loud.

Kate had raised her eyebrows at the food, and she smiled too, crossing her arms and surveying the landscape of dinner, almost ready for the oven. “I know the meals for him have probably been lacking. And you’re right, we could all stand a good meal.”

She paused, quietly, huffing a soft noise from her nostrils. Ollie was determined to work out the Tea, track down the source, and find where the hell it was coming into Gotham. “Including Ollie, but that may be too difficult to manage. I certainly wouldn’t tell you to drag him bodily, that’s not in your job description.” And the usual tricks for Bruce didn’t work.

After a moment, Kate added, realizing, “Have you seen Ramsey? His dad sent some photos in that package and I wanted to ask him about one. Not to mention I need another picture of him in that letter jacket.”

Alfred paused for a moment, and then tilted his head. “He was playing in the courtyard behind the east wing.. Let me call him and Miss Harper in for supper.”

He placed the roast in the oven, and the bread as well, in a separate oven, and moved from the kitchen, his gait spritely. Without a doubt, it was obvious: Wayne Manor’s caretaker was happy, and the walls of the place itself seemed to echo that cheer back as he moved, swiftly, despite the cane, to where the children returned.

It’s short-lived.

Alfred returned, no more than ten minutes later, without either of the children.

"Miss Harper is napping in her bedroom, but I.." He forced himself to look the woman in the eyes. "I cannot find Master Robinson."

"He had been in the library, before, and I left—he and I had tea, but when I received the message from Master Bruce, I informed him he could stay until you both arrived."

Kate hadn’t known Alfred for long, but she could tell when something had him rattled, when something was not right. And he knew the Manor backwards and forwards, the grounds as well, and if he couldn’t look at her…

She could feel the blood drain from her face, because Alfred being afraid was enough to strike fear into the hearts of nearly anyone.

"He’s ten, he’s old enough to play on his own," she said to Alfred, trying desperately for him to see she didn’t blame him, even if this was only temporary, though she could feel in her gut that there was something not right. That it wasn’t over, they weren’t allowed to even try to be happy while this hell still lurked.

"That tracker," she murmured to herself, going over to open a panel and type in a keycode. Even so, within moments, as Alfred could likely see, her shoulders sunk, her body drawn in a little on itself. "That’s impossible."