|The D.C Collection | Imagines, One-Shots, Preferences, and More |

To Escape | Gotham!Bruce Wayne x Reader

Description: You are the aristocratic daughter of Dr. L/N, who's work envelopes him so much he has no time for his daughter and her fantasies of a loving soulmate.

Words: 3057

Notes: Part 2 of works from the old blog/things I wrote but never published

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"Will father be able to tuck me in tonight, Nan?" You whispered.

You didn't need to look at your nanny to know she shook her head. It was the same answer every time you proposed the idea. Nan hung up your jacket on the hook beside the front door to your home, solemn expression hidden as she turned away. Facing you, she folded her hands respectfully and shook her head.

Nan gently pushed a stray curl of hair out of your face, offering a smile, "But I will, if you want me too..." She suggested kindly.

Today, you had done many things. You woke up, which was a personal goal you were proud to complete every morning. It had gotten easier to do over time. You ate breakfast in the garden with Nan, who, despite her professional boundaries as a maid, listened to your request and ate with you anyway. You took the extra cans in the pantry and delivered them to the homeless shelter down the road, after donating to the facility as much as your father would allow. And then, after lunch and your fencing classes, informed your mother's gravestone of your weekly accomplishments. You had done this or similar tasks every day for the entirety of the summer, and yet you had only encountered your father—who shared the same home with you—only twice.

So hearing that he would not tuck you in at night was no unusual occurrence.

Of course, you knew why, you weren't stupid. He slaved over papers and homework and more work every waking hour. And every minute, every millisecond was in your family's honor. Every time he wrote another word another dollar was added to your college fund, or the bank account. With your father's absence came money and influence. With money and influence, you had a home and an education unlike any other. Regardless, you would trade your family's name and fortune for one hour of time with your father, good or bad. At least, that's how it was just after your mother died. Now, with every, "No, I'm afraid your father is busy," you became more bitter, and every punch you threw during training was rougher than necessary.

You see, in your world, there was a reality and complication many disliked when it came to confrontation. Soulmates. The way you knew who your soulmate was through the release of a chemical compound in your irises—or, to put more simply... you right is the color of your soulmate's and your left is your own. When you meet your soulmate, your right eye is changed to match your left. Your eyes, a pair of blue and E/C, were quite the sight that many cooed over. Your father's eyes were complete, all thanks to your mother... who is now gone. Without her, your father distracts himself with work. In turn, he ignores you.

"You do not need to tuck me in, Nan." You say, tone reminiscent of your mothers.

Picking up the skirt of your day-dress, you glance back at her over your shoulder and nod, "I will put myself to bed. Have a good evening." You wished.

She slowly nodded, eyes heavy with concern. You brush off her glances and proceed up the steps in the foyer.

The best way to fall asleep is to create a story in your mind to escape to. Often, your soulmate was the subject of these internal tales, whisking you away to a world where attention is given out like oxygen. A world where you are never alone, and where they, male or female, are always there for you. That feeling you get when soulmates are discussed settles in your stomach just as you settle into bed, and the feeling—like that of the steep fall of a rollercoaster cart—does not leave as you toss and turn.