Requested
Summary: after a failed mission, the Reader and her boyfriend Batman, aka Gerard, cuddle up on the couch
Reader: female
Warnings: blood, injuries, stiches
Word count: 1 173
A/N: Thb I don't know what to write for this one. Most of my stories are not constructed to get a second part written for them. So instead I think this'll be just some random scene without much plot. Also if my writing sounds off today, it's because I've been rereading some Tolkien, for the first time in English, and since I'm not native English I tend to be impacted strongly by such things.
Out of breath, and far from elegant, you tumbled into your flat through the window that reached out to the fire escape. This was your usual way in, it was easy to reach for you from the outside, and the soft sofa underneath the window in the living room caught you safely every time. The second you hit the soft cushions, you rolled aside, making room for your partner in crime, or rather: partner in crime prevention. Even less elegantly than you, he tried squeezing in through the narrow window in haste while you could hear the cars of the street gang driving around down in the alley below, searching for the two of you. Just in time the figure, dressed in black, managed to wiggle into your flat, but being taller than you, slipped off the couch, and landed on the floor. Search lights skipped over the window just a second after Batman's feet had slipped into your room, and he gave a sound of both annoyance and relief.
You wanted to pull the window closed, but just in that moment a terrible pain at your right side brought your attention back to the wound. Whimpering you pressed a hand against the torn fabric, feeling blood seep through your fingers. Damnit. You had been shot. Again. You had not been shot in a long while, the last time having been long before your Catwoman had teamed up with Gerard's Batman, but still it felt way more unpleasant than you remembered. At your sounds of distress Batman jumped up from the floor, and immediately made his way to your side.
"I'll call the ambulance", he announced as soon as he had spied the blood on your hands, but you shook your head.
"They ask too many questions," you answered, biting your teeth, "I got needle and thread in the bathroom behind the mirror-"
"No, nononono. I will not stich you up, I can't do that," the panicked voice of your partner sounded strange through the voice distortion of his helmet, which he luckily noticed. Finally he took of the mask, revealing worried hazel eyes, and a mess of black hair.
"Right," you remembered, "you're scared of needles." Gerard nodded palely. "If you help me clean up, I can do the rest myself."
You too pulled the mask off of your face, and together with Gerard's help, you managed your way to the bathroom, where he sat you down on the closed lid of the toilet. Carefully he helped getting the upper part of your suit down to your waist, where it dangled strangely around your still covered legs, leaving you only in the sports bra you always wore underneath the suit.
With shaking fingers he helped clean and disinfect the wound. If you were quite honest, you were slightly annoyed by how long he took. He was as carefully as he could be, trying not to hurt you any more than the bullet that had grazed you already had. And because he was so careful it took almost forever to clean the wound. If you had done it yourself, you probably would have been finished ages ago, but also been in a lot more pain, because you would not have cared about hurting yourself.
Eventually Gerard sat back, still in his Batman armour, only his mask and black gloves were laying in the living room. He gulped as he handed you the needle and the thread you needed before quickly excusing himself. You felt dizzy, but your hands were not shaking at all when you came to terms with what you had to do, but the longer you hesitated, the longer it would take you to be able to sit down on the couch comfortably. So you took a deep breath, and went to work.
Ten minutes later you hand finished patching yourself up, cleaned the skin around the wound, and stuck a huge plaster over it, protecting the wound from irritations. You had shed your suit completely and gotten rid of the bra, and instead slipped into the soft pyjama you had found in the bathroom. When you stepped back into the living room, you found that Gerard too had changed from his suit into a set of sweatpants and a shirt, which he kept in one of your drawers in the bedroom. For emergencies. He had cleaned away the few blood stains on the sofa as well, and prepared two cups of hot chocolate.
When you waddled out of the bathroom, he jumped up to helped you sit down on the sofa, handing you one of the cups. You took a small sip, and smiled over the edge of the cup at the man.
"It's perfect," you complimented, making him smile.
"Are you in pain," he asked worriedly, lifting his hand to your face, gently running his fingertips over your cheek.
"Took some painkillers already," you comforted him, "Probably I'll fall asleep soon thogh, when my body begins to relax from the pain and the adrenaline."
As if to underline your warning, a shiver ran down your spine, and quickly you took another sip of the hot beverage, hoping it would keep you warm. Gerard reached for the woolly blanket that always waited on the armrest of the couch, unfolded it, and spread it over your body. Then he scooted closer, and pulled you into his chest, allowing you to snuggle against him.
Thankful, you drank some more of the hot chocolate before you put the cup aside, and moved to lay more comfortably against Gerard's chest. He smiled softly and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You did not know, but he had almost gotten a heart attack when he had heard your scream at getting shot. For a second he sure had thought you would be dead now, before he had seen you leap at your attacker. But it definitely had been the right call to abort the mission. You were strong, and a fighter, but even you could be killed by slow and steady blood loss.
He pulled you a little closer, and already felt how your breath got slower, falling into a steady rhythm. He buried his nose in your hair. One day or the other, rather sooner than later he needed to tell you how much he loved you. Of course, he enjoyed the bickering and the sassy exchanges, the heated kisses on roof tops, and the long nights, the cuddles on the sofa, and the breakfast he brought to your bed whenever he spent the night. But he wanted to voice this feeling that had been growing inside his chest for a long time now.
For a moment he almost would have considered waking you up again, just to tell you, but he shook away the thought. You had been through a lot tonight, and you deserved your sleep so much. There was time to talk about this tomorrow, he decided, for tonight both of you were safe in each other's arms.