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devilfic · 20 hours

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❝right place, right time❞

vignette. strawberry candies.

parts: previously plot: while at your place, you discover that someone has hurt judith. you turn to the only person who can help. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, mostly bruce-centric, fluff, a bit of angst, bruce dealing with kids, mention of guns (no shooting), mentions of alcohol and smoking, bruce will get on this old lady's good side if it kills him. words: 3.2k. a/n: while outlining the next chapter, I thought up a sweet little filler chapter that takes place all in one day before and during the events of chapter 9. warning for the POV change after the first scene.

"Judith, what happened to you?"

The old lady feels your thumb brush the bandage above her eye and closes her fingers around your wrist, dragging it away, "It's nothing. It's nothing."

"Hell if it is," you rush her inside your apartment, shutting the two cops out with a kick to the door. You lead Judith to your couch, sitting her down as you kneel before her. Other than the bandage on her eye, she looks the same except for something small. You've noticed her nervous shakes before, never peculiar, but they were hard to ignore today. They rock in her lap as she keeps them folded, "Did you fall?"

She looks insulted at that, kisses her teeth at you for it. She'd had very few falls in the past, as sturdy and stubborn as a bull. But even as you examine her demeanor, you know it isn't that. Uneasiness sets in your chest. "No, I... I ran into some boys on my way home from church. That's all."

Your uneasiness begins to bubble into wrath, "Who?"

"It doesn't matter, child."

"Judith, I'm serious." Her eyes bore into yours, trying to show herself immovable, but you can feel yourself begin to tremble at the thought that Dimitri might have-

"It was some kids on the corner." She finally relents, looking away from you. "They wanted my purse, that's all."

"The corner where? By the liquor store?" Her eyes cut away from yours, guiltily, "Judith, what were you doing walking that far? You never get off the bus that early."

It was why she started taking the bus in the first place. People lingered on the streets that late, waiting for any easy target to snatch from or snatch up. With the rise in dropheads, people would take whatever money they could get, however they could get it.

The men on the corner usually kept to themselves though, nursing paper bag bottles and hiding out from the rain underneath the overpass. They usually cast a sneer and let you keep on walking if you ever found yourself around their side of town. You'd never gotten close enough for them to want to attack.

Judith frowns, "I missed it. I thought I'd walk."

"What did I tell you about walking home alone? If you have to, you call me, or you call one of the deacons, or a cab-"

"I did call you," Judith snaps, making your blood run cold, "and you didn't answer. So I called again. And then I figured you were busy or working late, so I walked on home. I'm old but I'm not senile."

Your frown deepens, "I didn't mean it that way."

"I even came to your door and you weren't there. So I handled it myself."

"You were right. I was working late." Your fingers brush your pocket where your phone lies dead, "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

Proud as she is, she doesn't look you in the eye, but you feel some of her anger melt away over time. Her hand finds yours and squeezes it, "It's not your fault. It's mine. I should've known better."

You want to bite your lip until it floods your mouth with blood. You couldn't imagine what might have happened if she'd been hurt worse, left to fend for herself in the dark. If they'd been angry, looking for someone to take it out on, and she'd been in the wrong place...

And Judith with all her pride. You can tell she barely wanted to talk about it, had hoped you might not notice. "Listen, Judith," you begin, feeling her watching you from her peripheral, "I'm not gonna be around for a while. I won't be far, I'll still be in the city, but I won't be... here."

"You're finally getting a real place?"

You laugh, "Sort of. It's temporary. Look, I won't be right here anymore so I need you to take care of yourself. I'll come running if you need me but-"

You're silenced by her two, chilly hands cupping your cheeks in between them. Stern as ever, Judith fixes you with a strong look, "I'll be okay. Don't you worry."

"You sure? I don't wanna have to call the nursing home on you."

One of Judith's hands takes your cheek into a pinch and pulls, hard, "I said I'll be fine." Despite the pain, you smile all lopsided at her and she eventually releases you.

You make her tea, but all the while your eyes keep finding the white gauze above her eye, itching and itching at you until you think you might scratch yourself raw. You couldn't let this one go.

This feels decidedly more sinister, posing on an old lady's fire escape instead of yours. Bruce can see through the lace covering the window that Judith is still up, putting on a pot of tea, and he hesitates in knocking on the glass. He couldn't exactly walk through the front door, and if he came in through the rooftop, he'd risk being seen by neighbors in the hall. This was the only way, and it just might scare the living shit out of this woman.

Gently, he curls his fingers in and knocks.

Judith does not move from the stove. He knocks again, a little louder this time. Still, no reaction. He's seconds from asking you to call Judith to get her attention, looking away for just a second, when his eyes drift back to the window and there she is.

She's got a cast-iron skillet up above her head and the meanest mug he's seen this side of the east coast. It could put Penguin to shame.

They both stare at each other for a while.

When Bruce makes no move to leave, Judith yells through the window, "Go away, demon!"

Bruce had never gotten to know his grandparents on account of them all being dead. There was no old woman at Christmastime to spoil him with gifts and candies, no lovingly crafted wrinkles and sweet smelling perfume to remember a grandmother by. He had never been the type of person to walk old ladies across the street, either. He knew his place.

There was no way to make himself small enough for her to not see as a threat, and so they each watch the other, waiting for them to make a move. He certainly wouldn't be first.

After a good few (painstaking) minutes, she points the pan at the window and asks, "What do you want?"

"A friend sent me."

Her brows furrow, and then an even deeper frown overtakes her face (if that was even possible). "I don't want your help."

"Our friend is worried about you. And worried about anyone else those guys on the corner might hurt."

"Leave or I'll call the police!"

Bruce considers his options. On the one hand, she might call and they might show and think that he'd just scared the woman creeping by her window. He'd get a slap on the wrist and a reminder to take the roofs next time. On the other, he might get a trigger-happy recruit who'd need disarming and a detective who'd need explaining.

He figures he might take his chances with this one, if only to be a true glutton for punishment, "What did it look like?" Her eyes narrow in confusion, "Your purse. What did it look like?"

"I said I don't want your help."

Bruce hides a grumble in his throat. He has half the mind to just leave. He'd take the verbal lashing from you if it meant ending this conversation sooner.

But there would be a million more grumpy old ladies, and he'd be no better at talking to them then. "You used to keep a lighter in there. It was your husband's." Judith stills. Bruce feels himself getting a bit more confident, recalling what you'd told him, "He always kept it on him. I can get it back for you."

She doesn't say anything for a while, still holding her pan at arm's length. He feels a bit silly talking at her through the window, curtains still partially drawn, and he doesn't suppose he looks any cuddlier shrouded in shadow. But all she does is stare at him.

Bruce feels more elated than he expects to when the pan lowers.

"I doubt you'll find it," she starts, and he can almost barely hear the next part through the glass, "it was silver with our initials engraved on it. C and J."

Judith is looking away when she says it. It feels as good a time as any to get going, but he lingers there until she's looking at him before making his escape. He'd like her to know he heard.

It's not hard to find them.

A group of about five men are standing on the corner, all of them just as you'd described. They look inebriated enough to not even stand straight, and Bruce wonders how they'd had the brainpower to handle a woman like Judith just walking by.

Bruce hangs in the shadows, perched on a ledge above them as a train rumbles by above his head. One of the men flicks open a light to light his cigarette, and Bruce's eyes zero in on it. He can't see initials from this far, but its silver glints under the streetlight just so. It's enough to go off on.

Bruce drops from his ledge, catching only one of the men's attention as he lazily turns his head over his shoulder at the sound. He's slow to recognize him, but quick to gather close to his friends on the brick wall, "Fuck!" He shouts, slurring a bit, "Let's get out of here!"

The one furthest from him starts to run, but Bruce's grapple gun wraps around his legs and yanks him onto his back, dragging him further into the alley and closer to him. The others look loyal enough not to run off without him, but their fighting stances are weakened by their stumbling.

"Fuck you man, we didn't do anything." One argues, raised fists wobbling in front of his face.

"Yeah!" The others chime in.

The one held captive at Bruce's feet is whimpering and clawing at the wire digging into his ankles, pulling at it to no avail. Bruce places a boot on his chest and forces him back down, "I hear you've been stealing from old ladies."

"What? No way, man. We don't do that shit."

Bruce digs the heel of his boot into the space between his ribs, feeling him squirm in anguish, "Last night you did. You took her purse. Where is it?"

"I'm telling you, we didn't do that shit. We... we weren't even here last night." The man under his boot is pushing at it, desperate to get away. Bruce has the sinking feeling as he watches him, like a rat with his tail caught in a trap, that he's telling the truth.

"We're not the only ones who hang out on this corner, we swear," one of the bigger members of the group pipes up, looking worried for his friend, "some assholes beat us here yesterday. We hung out by the docks instead. Honest."

Another chimes in, "Yeah. Ask boss inside. He lets us hang all the time. He knows we weren't here last night." He gestures toward the liquor store and Bruce watches them for a moment longer, eyes probing. They had every reason to lie: they were all drunk off their asses, and his reputation preceded him. Even with the five of them, he'd have it handled.

But that sinking feeling comes back.

Bruce gives it a little bit before he finally takes his foot off the man's chest, and he watches him scramble to his feet, running back to his pack. Before they can run to safety, Bruce grabs the one with the lighter and snatches it from his grip, checking the sides. All silver, no initials. He tosses it back with just as much kindness.

"You know who they are?" Bruce asks, holding him by the scruff.

"You gotta promise not to rat boss out," he stutters, looking back at the store, "he knows the guys. One of 'em's his nephew."

A flash of irritation rushes down Bruce's spine. These things were never easy.

Bruce catches the store owner on his smoke break, seconds from lighting a cigarette before he makes himself known. The store owner shrinks back, and before Bruce can even ask, his voice comes out in a tremble, "Where is he?"

Bruce gets the feeling it would be better to say nothing.

When he doesn't answer, the store owner starts to beg, inching closer to him even as his expression contorts in fear, "You didn't hurt him, did you? He's just a kid!"

"Your nephew is the one hurting people."

The owner winces, but doesn't refute it. "Please tell me you didn't hurt him."

"Not yet," Bruce sidesteps the man, circling him in the low light, "and I won't if he stops robbing old ladies."

"He'll stop. I promise. I'll handle it."

"You knew what he was doing and you didn't stop him before."

"I... I've tried, okay? He doesn't listen-"

Bruce grabs the man's shirt and shoves into the side of a dumpster, the sound reverberating through the near-midnight air as he stares down at him. His name tag reads "Brian", and the sweat that slicks his brow is starting to coat the collar of his shirt. "Where is he now?"

A click sounds from behind his head. Bruce doesn't turn at first, but he already knows what's pointing at him from behind.

There's a kid there, no older than 17, holding a gun to the back of Bruce's head. He trembles like his uncle, "Let him go."

Being held at gunpoint doesn't get any less frightening, even if it happens to you every night.

There's still this primal urge clawing under Bruce's skin to duck and hide, something he shakes off the second he grabs the gun and forces it out of the kid's hand. The thing clatters to the ground and he kicks it away not a moment later, taking the teenager and shoving him into his uncle's arms. Bruce almost feels sick at the scared look on his face. As if he hadn't been the one about to pull the trigger.

Bruce leans down to pick up the gun and goes to unload the chamber, but there's nothing. His gaze coasts back up to the kid's and he feels his stomach churn at the sight, the thought. This kid had seen Bruce and still thought, even if it was a long shot...

Bruce holds the thing by the barrel, "You know how to use that thing?"

"Yes!" But Bruce doesn't believe him.

"Not loaded, but it's enough to scare old ladies, isn't it?"

The kid forces himself to look tough and mean, falling flat to Bruce regardless, "How the fuck would you know?"

"Her purse. Where is it?"

"What? What are you talking-"

"If you don't have it, your friends do. Do you want me to look for them too?"

A flash of fear. The kid hardens his expression but he's too late, "There wasn't even anything in it."

Bruce glances at Brian. He hasn't taken his eyes off him. He looks as if he'll jump between any blow he might throw at the kid. His eyes glide back to the kid's and he forces his voice to soften, "There was a lighter in it. Engraved. She wants it back."

Recognition replaces the fear. The kid is hesitant to move or say anything at first, but when his uncle places a hand on his shoulder, it's enough to push him forward. He swallows down his pride for just a moment, "It's in the store. Upstairs in my room. I... we spent the cash already but all the other stuff's in there."

Bruce stares at him, and without another word, the kid runs back into the store. Bruce listens for the sound of feet pounding against the staircase to make sure he wouldn't try to book it, but he returns just as quickly as he'd left, shoving the purse into Bruce's hands as if he couldn't wait to be rid of it.

A quick ruffle around in it reveals the lighter and a pocket Bible, among strawberry candies and pens. True to his word, the wallet looks and feels empty.

He wants to leave it at that.

But one more look at the kid and Brian and he's shoving the empty gun into Brian's chest, gritting through his teeth, "You clearly love him. Don't let him do something he'll regret."

Brian goes rigid. Fixes his jaw tight. He says nothing in response, but it's enough.

He'd meant to leave it at the window, but Bruce is surprised to find Judith still awake in her recliner, fingers twiddling with another copy of the Bible. No wonder she only mentioned the lighter.

Bruce knocks and Judith does jump this time, genuinely surprised. He holds the purse up and she moves as quickly as she can, prying open the window a crack. Just enough for him to slip it in.

He's careful as he slides it through and she snatches it from his grasp, digging through it until her fingers grasp the lighter. Bruce takes advantage of the opening to speak to her, quieter this time, "The cash is gone, but they didn't touch anything else."

She says nothing. She holds the lighter in her hands and it shakes, her lip trembling just so. Bruce feels his chest swell with nervous feeling. Three years of this and he was as if a novice all over again.

He's about to leave when he feels a hand tugging on the bottom of his cape and when he turns, he sees the window propped wide open and Judith's hand fixed into the material of it. She isn't crying but she's misty-eyed, holding onto him with all her strength. He forces himself still. He awaits a "thank you" or even a firm nod of approval, but in her other hand, she holds out a candy. One of the strawberry candies. His brows furrow. He can't make out where it's from, but he knows he can't refuse.

He plucks the candy from her palm and tucks it into his utility belt. Judith releases him, saying nothing more, but as he begins his descent down the fire escape, he feels her eyes watch him all the way down.

You stare at the candy in wonder, eyes twinkling. Bruce cannot understand why you're so excited, "This familiar to you?"

"You've been given the Judith seal of approval, just one step down from getting invited over for tea." Bruce frowns. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you've never had one of these before. Everyone's grandma has 'em."

"I didn't know my grandmother."

Your eyes soften, chuckling nervously, "Ah, well. To be fair, your grandmother was in another tax bracket. She probably would've given you... I don't know, gold-flaked truffles."

Bruce narrows his eyes at you, though a smile creeps up not far behind, "Colorful imagination. Is that what you want for dessert tomorrow night?"

"Don't you fucking dare."

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