Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Life was never easy for Harleen Frances Quinzel. Sometimes it was fate, sometimes her own choices. But there she was, on the edge of a new start, perhaps with a few new people and a new life.
She carried the last box of books to her new room and wiped sweat from her forehead. Then she sat down on her new bed. After spending the last two years in the dorm, at last Harleen had managed to move into a flat with two other girls, nearby the University campus. It wasn't perfect, but at least there weren't any rats the size of a cat.
She had her letter of acceptance from Gotham University, Faculty of Medicine. It was her very own path to becoming a psychiatrist. The human mind and what it was capable of had always impressed her. She could have been a psychologist but Harleen was also interested in the function and biochemistry of the brain and how it was associated with the other systems.
After high school, she had immediately left home for college, hoping for a good start. However it wasn't easy to work and study at the same time while she was going to college for pre-med. Fortunately, Wayne Industries had started giving scholarships to bright students in need of financial support. And yeah, Harleen was one of those bright ones. She was still working in a diner but at least it was only on weekends.
Harleen made her hair into a ponytail and took off her glasses. She was exhausted because of carrying all those boxes; her arms were aching and she was about to sleep. But she still had to think of a dress for the charity meeting which was happening in a few weeks. Wayne Industries had always liked showing off their generosity by displaying the scholarship recipients in the annual charity gala. Nevertheless, Harleen would never say no to an opportunity to build a network. This was how she had had the chance to obtain that exact scholarship. Her path had crossed with a guy named Alfred, who had some sort of job that Harleen never completely managed to understand at the Wayne family company. Alfred was a regular at the diner, only drinking black coffee with half a teaspoon of sugar every Sunday morning.
She decided to fall into the arms of sleep while her eyelids were getting heavier.

The road from home to the faculty wasn't long. Harleen actually enjoyed riding her bike there. Only she wasn't expecting to bump into a poor guy. Actually it was him who bumped into her.
As Harleen slammed the brakes, her bicycle tires let out a painful screech, leaving dark marks across the asphalt—but it wasn't enough to keep her from hitting the young man who had leapt into the middle of the road. Thrown off balance, she tumbled to the ground. Her glasses flew to the other side of the street, the pedal grazed her ankle, and when she hit the pavement hard, the air was knocked clean out of her lungs. She groaned in pain.
With her head pounding, she reached for her forehead. Anger surged up inside her—until the image of the young man came back to her. Even if he was the one she'd crashed into, she still hoped he was okay.
When she looked up, she saw that he was already back on his feet, steadying himself. The guy was apparently made of steel. He picked up her glasses from the ground with surprising gentleness and crouched to help her up. "I'm so sorry," he said in a whisper with his deep voice. Much deeper than his young look. His black hair fell into his blue eyes, and he was breathless. He wore athletic clothes.
Harleen took his hand. "It's alright," she murmured. With unexpected strength, he lifted her effortlessly.

Still dazed from the fall, Harleen took her glasses and put them back on. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, keeping her from fully registering the pain.
Without waiting, the dark-haired boy picked up her bicycle with one hand and squinted at the tires. "I think we'll need to get this fixed," he said. "But it should get you to campus."
It was only then that Harleen realized she couldn't move her wrist. The young man noticed her gaze and immediately knelt to inspect it, his fingers brushing gently over the injury.
"Does it hurt when you move it?"
Harleen bent her wrist—and winced. It felt like a thousand shards of glass slicing through her skin.
"Yes," she replied, her voice cracking. "Oh no! I have to get to class! If I'm late, Professor Brown will never let me into the clinic!"
The young man stayed calm. "Med school?" he asked briefly.

Harleen nodded.

He swiftly climbed onto the bike and turned to her. "Hop on." His voice was as steady as if a bicycle hadn't just hit him minutes before.

"What?"

"Don't you want to make it to class?"

She stared at him, watching his one foot hovering over the pedal. "You're not going to drop me, are you?" asked Harleen.

And then—for the first time—he smiled. The icy blue in his eyes melted away, replaced by something softer, like the color of a calm sea.

"Not a chance."

Cover Picture

Chapter Text

As the wind whipped against Harleen’s cheeks, it felt less like she was riding on the back of a bicycle and more like she was clinging to a motorcycle. Each time the young man pushed down on the pedals with his powerful legs, they seemed to glide forward twenty meters at a time.

Harleen held on tightly to the back of the stranger—whose name she still didn’t know—feeling a strange mix of emotions. Even though he had been the one to jump into the road and cause the accident, he hadn’t just walked away. He’d cared enough to offer her help—real help—the best he could manage in the moment.

It wasn’t long before the deep burgundy silhouette of the medical school building came into view, and Harleen’s eyes lit up with relief.

“We made it! Oh my god, we actually made it!”

The corners of the young man's lips curled into a confident, lopsided smile. When they finally reached the entrance, Harleen hopped off the bike and took a deep breath. She had five full minutes to spare.
“Thank you,” she said, beaming. “You were incredible... I mean while cycling.”

“No problem,” he replied, stretching his arm. “And it was my fault, jumping into the road like that. I thought I saw something.”

They both fell quiet for a brief moment, just looking at each other. Harleen expected him to get off the bike—but he didn’t.

“Let me get this repaired,” he said instead. “What time does your class end?”

Harleen’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “You really don’t have to. I should’ve been more careful, too.”

But the dark-haired boy shook his head, a firm no. Something in his tone said the matter was settled. Harleen remembered she’d need the bike for her shift at the restaurant over the weekend and bit back any further protests. Besides, anyone wearing that high-end sportswear brand probably wasn’t looking to steal a beat-up bike. At least Harleen had no chance to get that repaired until the weekend so he was her best chance.

“Around four,” she replied quietly.

The young man gave a solemn nod. “Deal.” As he turned to go, Harleen hesitated, then called after him, “Wait—you never told me your name!”

He glanced back over his shoulder with a quick smile, “Bruce."

Then, without another word, he rode off—disappearing down the path that led away from campus.

* * * * * * *

After class, Harleen felt completely wiped out. Dragging herself down the stairs, she grumbled to herself, now more certain than ever that she hated clinical pathology. It felt like the smell of formaldehyde had permanently settled into her clothes. She folded her white coat and shoved it into her backpack.

That’s when she remembered—the dark-haired guy, Bruce, was supposed to return her bike. Or at least not steal it. But there was no sign of Bruce. Or her bike.

Until…

Bruce appeared like a jet out of nowhere, skidding to a stop in front of the building on a bike Harleen had never seen before—black with crimson accents, practically drifting into place.

He wasn’t wearing sports clothes anymore. Now he had on a plain black shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and dark jeans. The change was...noticeable.

Harleen walked toward him in small, cautious steps. First of all—she hadn’t realized Bruce was this... “good-looking.” Second—clearly, her classmates had noticed too, judging by the stares.

Bruce got off the unfamiliar bike and locked eyes with her. “Hey,” he said, almost sheepishly. “So... this isn’t your bike.”

Harleen blinked. “No kidding?”

He gave a small nod “I decided to buy a new one instead of fixing the old one.” Shrugged.

“You really didn’t have to. I don’t want to owe you.”

“You don’t,” Bruce said, his voice calm. “Like I said, it was my fault. But if it makes you feel better—the repair guy said fixing the old one would cost about the same as a new bike. And he wasn’t going to return it for at least a week. Buying this one just made more sense.”

Harleen was almost sure he was lying. And she didn’t want to owe anything to this mysterious, charming stranger.

“This is too much,” she said firmly, pointed at the logo on the bike. “To even buy this brand, I’d have to sell five of my old bikes—when they were still in perfect shape.” She stood straighter, “Don’t try to fool me.”

Bruce’s serious expression softened. He raised his hands slightly in surrender. “Okay, you got me,” he said, amused. “Tell you what, Harleen. Just owe me a favor. Take the bike—and save me from the crushing guilt. Deal?”

Harleen still didn’t want to feel indebted to this polished-looking boy, but she knew she didn’t have much of a choice.

Finally, she sighed. “Alright... Thank you.”

Bruce looked genuinely pleased. He smiled faintly. “Hope we run into each other again.”

Harleen smirked, “Preferably in a future where we’re not colliding.”

Bruce chuckled, kept his faint smile as he turned around and began walking toward a sleek, imposing black motorcycle parked at the edge of campus.

Every person he passed turned their head to look—at the tall, striking young man who moved with effortless confidence. But then, all of a sudden, Harleen realized something.

She had never told him her name.

Chapter Text

Harleen hadn’t seen Bruce since that day. Weeks had passed... And yet, every time she rode her new bike toward campus, her eyes instinctively scanned her surroundings.

“Stop it...” she muttered to herself aloud. Yes, Bruce was a charming guy—and yes, he had definitely left a mark on her. But he was also... unsettling. How had he known her name?

Still, if he’d been a stalker or had any ill intent, it probably would’ve come to light in the weeks that followed. So maybe, just maybe, he was exactly what he had seemed: a troublemaker who had accidentally crashed into her—and then, somehow, turned into her unlikely savior.

As the days rolled on, Sunday morning arrived. At dawn, Harleen biked her way to the restaurant.

She locked her bicycle next to the familiar black Mercedes Benz parked out front and stepped inside. It was the kind of place that stayed open twenty-four hours—a classic American diner. Eddie, who was just finishing the night shift, gave a long, exhausted yawn before nodding to Harleen and handing things over. At that moment, there was only one customer in the diner. Harleen recognized him instantly and walked over with a huge grin on her face. “The usual, Alfred?”

The man, in his forties, with greying hair and a neat mustache, smiled warmly when he saw her. “It’s always good to see you, Harleen,” he said kindly. “And yes, I wouldn’t say no to a black coffee—no milk, no sugar.”

Harleen adjusted her glasses with a mock-serious expression. “What about egg benedict? Molly’s in the kitchen today,” she added, winking. She knew full well that Alfred could never resist anything Molly cooked. He let out a quiet chuckle at having his weakness exposed. “Well then... why not,” he replied, calm as ever.

They chatted a bit—about the weather, the city, and Harleen’s ever-piling coursework—before she went back to the kitchen to put in his order. Of course they have never talked about Alfred's work. He would never mention about that and thus, Harleen never asked.

Harleen thought of the Wayne Enterprises charity gala was the following week, and Harleen still hadn’t even thought about finding a dress. She groaned to herself in frustration.

As the number of customers steadily grew, Harleen threw herself into work with frantic energy. Each time the little bell above the kitchen rang, she rushed to deliver orders, clear plates, and handle payments. She noticed Alfred rising slowly from his seat, placing a folded bill on the table. He always tipped generously. As he headed toward his Mercedes Benz parked outside, Harleen quickly followed him out the door.

“Alfred! Hey!” she called after him. “I forgot to ask you something…”

He turned to her, his expression gentle. “Go ahead, Harleen.”

“For the Wayne Enterprises charity gala next week… I’m, uh, a little nervous. Will you be there too?” she asked hesitantly.

Alfred smiled. “I’m not invited.” But when he saw the disappointment flicker across her face, he shook his head. “But I’ll be there,” he added, his tone warm, reassuring. “My boss is attending. So, invitation or not, I’ll certainly be present at the Falcone Opera House.”

Harleen felt a bit more at ease.
Just then, Alfred’s eyes drifted toward the black and red bicycle parked beside his car. He raised an eyebrow. “That bike... is it yours, Harleen?”

She nodded. “Some guy ran into me and totaled my old one. Bought me this as an apology.”

Alfred gave a thoughtful nod, but muttered under his breath, “Interesting...” while rubbing his chin. Then, as if shaking off the thought, he gave her a parting smile and stepped into his car. Harleen watched him go for a second, then turned and headed back into the diner.

* * * * *
That evening, Harleen returned home with aching shoulders. A party of twelve had arrived just before the end of her shift, and until the night waitress, Sofia, showed up, Harleen had carried heavy trays, dragged tables, and rearranged chairs all by herself. Thankfully, Sofia had shown up earlier than expected.

During a quick break, Harleen had stepped outside the diner and seen her—taking a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling slowly before flicking the butt into the trash.

“Sofia! You’re early?”

Sofia, with her pale skin and rose-colored lips, was a mysterious young woman. She rarely talked about herself. Harleen noticed her hair—long, wavy, and so smooth it looked like it had never known a bad day.

“Got into a fight with my dad,” she said, smiling as if it didn’t bother her at all. “Needed an excuse to get out of the house… How about you, blondie?”

Harleen chuckled. That nickname wasn’t exactly her favorite, but coming from Sofia’s lips, it felt oddly like a compliment. The truth was—Sofia barely spoke to anyone at all. She only ever chatted with Harleen.

Harleen shrugged. “I’ve got the Wayne Enterprises gala next week—part of my scholarship thing. I need to find a dress…”

“The Waynes love to show off. Well... that’s not entirely fair,” Sofia corrected herself, eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s mostly the company board that loves the drama. The Waynes? There’s no one left, really—except for their golden heir.”

Harleen raised her brows, surprised. “I didn’t know that…” she said in a quiet voice.

Sofia shrugged again. “Life’s not fair.”

She glanced at her watch. “I’ve still got five minutes,” she muttered, lighting up a second cigarette.

That’s when Harleen caught a glimpse of it.

A Patek Philippe.

Sofia wore it like it was nothing. Harleen couldn’t help but wonder if Sofia was working there just to escape her family or maybe just for fun. But the real mystery was whether the Patek was fake or real. Something deep down told Harleen it was the real deal.

“Hey Harleen… You said you needed a dress, right?” Sofia said, casually blowing out smoke. “Come by my place tomorrow evening. I’ve got a few dresses. I was thinking of burning them,
but if they’re any use to you, take them.”

Harleen stared at her in shock. “You… you’re serious?”

Sofia just shrugged. “Couldn’t care less about the dresses. Come by the diner during the week, or drop by my place at evening. Doesn’t matter.”

“Alrighty, then…” she said hesitantly.

“In that case, scram, blondie. I came in early, so go enjoy getting off early too. I need to take out my rage on a few customers anyway.”

Harleen smiled. “Then I’ll swing by your place tomorrow night.”

“I’ll text you the address, blondie. Come around eight. My dad won’t be home, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

Harleen gave her a small nod, then turned back inside with a light step, slipped off her apron, and hopped on her bike to head home—feeling, for once, just a little bit lighter.

Chapter Text

Harleen pedaled quickly to the bike rack in front of the faculty building and locked her bike securely. Today, Professor Carson was scheduled to talk about acute and chronic kidney failure—a tough topic to digest. But as she stepped inside, she immediately sensed something different. People were talking more than usual, their voices buzzing like a swarm of bees, filled with whispers and nervous chatter.

Frowning, Harleen made her way over to Helena, one of her classmates. Helena’s face was lit up with a mischievous grin.

“What’s going on here?” Harleen asked quietly.

Helena nodded toward the classroom.
“See for yourself, Leen.”

Curious, Harleen stepped through the door. Sitting in the second row from the back was a young man with black hair and crystal-clear blue eyes—impossible to miss. He was dressed sharply in a crisp, white Ralph Lauren shirt—its clean lines perfectly framing his broad shoulders and toned arms. The sleeves were neatly buttoned at the wrists, subtly revealing the lean muscle beneath. His dark trousers contrasted sharply with the shirt, tailored to fit his athletic build flawlessly. Every movement he made hinted at strength and control, a quiet confidence that spoke as loudly as any words. Her heart skipped a beat, and though she tried to look away, Bruce’s eyes found hers, accompanied by a subtle wink

Clutching her books tightly to her chest, Harleen scanned for an empty seat and finally settled right in front of Bruce. A strange mix of excitement and nervousness churned inside her. As Professor Carson droned on, Harleen struggled to focus—until she suddenly felt warm breath near her ear.

“Relax, Harleen. I’m not stalking you,” a low voice whispered. The sound of Bruce’s voice sent a shiver down her spine.

She spun around, frowning deeply. “I never said anything like that,” she hissed, her tone sharp.

Bruce shrugged nonchalantly. “Then why did you look at me like a deer caught in headlights?”

A faint blush crept over Harleen’s cheeks, but she held his gaze. Somewhere deep down, she secretly enjoyed the playful challenge—even if she’d never admit it out loud. She whispered back, “I didn’t know you were a med student too!”

Bruce asked, “Why? Don’t I look like a med student?”

Harleen’s cheeks flushed even deeper. “No—uh— you look more like…”

Bruce smirked, “More like what? A playboy?”

The more he teased, the more annoyed Harleen became. “No! I was going to say an athlete—”

“MS. QUINZEL, DO YOU HAVE ANY CONTRIBUTION TO MAKE ON THE CAUSES OF ACUTE RENAL FAILURE? BECAUSE YOUR VOICE CARRIES ALL THE WAY BACK HERE…”

Professor Carson’s reprimand made Harleen freeze in her seat, burning with embarrassment.

She blushed like a ripe tomato. "I’m sorry, Professor Carson.” she mumbled.

She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. At that moment, Bruce raised his hand, “Sorry, Professor Carson. I distracted Ms. Quinzel because I couldn’t keep up with the notes since I've recently transferred here as you know. It’s not her fault.”

All eyes turned to Bruce the moment he talked. Professor Carson stared at him for a long moment, as if recognizing him. But her gaze wasn’t angry—more like reluctant acceptance.

“Alright then…”

But Harleen was starting to get genuinely irritated. This young man managed to both cause her trouble and save her afterward. What made it even more infuriating was how everyone around seemed to be making allowances for him—cutting him slack as if he was untouchable.

After class ended, Harleen quickly gathered her things and rushed out of the room like a lightning bolt. But it was impossible not to hear footsteps chasing after her.

“Hey! Quinzel! Quinzel, wait—”

A strong hand grabbed her arm. Bruce was trying to stop her. But Harleen yanked her arm free and kept walking.

“Quinzel—I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

Suddenly, Harleen stopped and spun around angrily. “Is that what you think this is about? I don’t know about you, but I fought hard to get here. I’ve done everything I can to keep my scholarship. I started working at a restaurant to afford a room and a Litmann stethoscope. Every moment I spend here is precious. Don’t mock that.”

Bruce hesitated. His gaze shifted; it was as if his earlier attitude had been just a mask, now peeled away, revealing seriousness. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Harleen.”

Harleen felt the sincerity in his apology. She suddenly regretted being harsh. But then said nothing and she turned her back and continued on her way.

* * * *

The same day Harleen was cycling in the streets of Gotham, going to her coworker Sofia's place. She had never visited that part of Gotham before. The city was dangerous, that much was certain, though thankfully Little Italy, where Sofia's house was located, wasn't one of those neighborhoods. She cycled swiftly through the narrow streets, following the address displayed on her mobile phone. As the number of buildings around her gradually thinned out, a knot of unease settled in Harleen's stomach. Still, she pressed on, throwing her weight into the pedals and flying forward like the wind. Her blonde hair tumbled across her glasses, and she pushed the curls behind her ear with one hand before continuing on her way.

When she finally arrived, however... she was stunned. Before her stood an enormous house—no, a mansion. The possibility that Sofia, her colleague from the restaurant, actually lived here seemed utterly absurd. Yet the address matched exactly what she held in her hand. Could this be some sort of elaborate joke? But Sofia, with her nonchalant manner, was the last person who would pull such a prank.
Eventually, though hesitant, Harleen dismounted her bicycle and approached the front door, pressing the bell. For a long moment, no one answered. Harleen felt a wave of relief wash over her—she would rather find no one home, even at the right house, than ring the wrong doorbell entirely. Just as she reached out to ring the bell a second time, the door burst open like a storm.
There stood Sofia, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Instead of the jeans she wore at the restaurant, she was dressed in an elegant dark red dress.

"Come in, blondie. Don't be shy," she said nonchalantly.

As Harleen stepped hesitantly inside, she became certain that the Patek Philippe she had glimpsed the day before was indeed authentic.

“Let’s find you a fancy dress for the Wayne gala.”

Chapter Text

The crystal chandeliers shimmered above like frozen lightning, casting golden reflections over the sea of silk dresses and tailored tuxedos. The Wayne Enterprises Charity Gala was in full swing, pulling Gotham’s elite into its gravitational orbit. In the midst of it all, Harleen stood still. The Elie Saab gown Sofia had lent her clung to her like a secret. Deep burgundy with intricate lace tracing her shoulders, it cinched her waist with a grace that didn’t feel like her own. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her in the restroom mirror earlier. No glasses tonight—Sofia had snatched them from her hands with a smirk: “Don’t let those lenses clash with that neckline.”

Now, holding a delicate champagne flute and walking carefully through the golden room, Harleen moved like someone afraid to wake a dream. The symphony's strings danced around her, but her heart was beating louder than the music. She didn’t belong here. Not really. Her breath caught when she noticed a familiar figure standing beside the side buffet table, arranging crystal glasses with the quiet efficiency of someone who knew how to run the world without stepping into its spotlight.

“Alfred?” she asked, her voice tentative.

The older man turned—and the warmth in his eyes was like an anchor in stormy waters. “Miss Quinzel,” he greeted with a small bow of his head, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I must say, you clean up rather spectacularly.” Relief flooded Harleen's chest. She hadn’t realized just how tense she’d been until that moment. “I was afraid I wouldn’t know a single soul here.” “Then allow me to be your unofficial escort, until a more suitable one finds their way to your side,” Alfred replied gently, his voice a soothing balm against the hum of the crowd.

He discreetly slid her a glass of champagne. “Drink this slowly. Smile when approached. And remember, half the people here are more nervous than you—they just have better tailors.” Harleen laughed—a real one this time—and Alfred’s eyes crinkled with approval.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

Alfred leaned in just slightly, as if sharing a secret. “You’ll be quite all right tonight, Miss Quinzel. I have a feeling this gala might turn out to be... memorable.” Before she could ask what he meant, Alfred’s gaze flicked toward the ballroom entrance behind her. Harleen turned. And then she saw him. Across the crowd, tall and sharp as shadow under moonlight, stood Bruce.

Not in the sports gear she was used to, nor the simple black shirt and jeans from their second meeting. Tonight, he wore a tailored black suit with the kind of effortless precision.

His ice blue eyes scanned the room like he was counting stars no one else could see. Harleen froze. What was he doing here? And why, in a place like this, did he look like he belonged? Then her memory snapped back to Sofia’s words: “There are no real Waynes left. It's just the board. The so-called heir is more ghost than man.” Her chest tightened. Her fingers clutched the stem of the glass a little too hard.

Bruce is a Wayne?

Everything made sense all of sudden. Behaviour of the Professor and rest of the class...

As if drawn by her thoughts, Bruce turned. Their eyes met across the room. His expression didn’t change but his eyes did. The slightest flicker of recognition, followed by a smirk—faint, knowing, controlled. Harleen’s heart began to pound. Should she approach? Walk away? Pretend she hadn’t seen him?

Too late.

Bruce moved, parting the crowd as if they made space for him without realizing it. He reached her in only a few strides and stood a breath away. “I recognize that dress,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “Though I don’t remember it was you, who was wearing then.”

Harleen cleared her throat, steadying herself. “So… you own this place.” Bruce arched a brow. “Falcone Opera House? No. It’s just... one of many things that don’t belong to me.” There was a pause a brief, suspended in the hush of strings and candlelight. And in that pause, Harleen caught something in him: a quiet estrangement. A man surrounded by glittering worlds he didn’t want to rule.

“And you,” he continued, tilting his head slightly. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

“I could say the same,” Harleen answered, her voice soft but unwavering. Then, without looking away, she added, “I’m just a scholarship student with a borrowed dress. Feels like I'm at the wrong chapter in the histology textbook.”

Bruce chuckled, took a step closer. Just enough to fold the world around them into silence. “Maybe it’s not the wrong chapter,” he said. “Maybe you just haven’t read far enough to know the role you’re about to play.”

Before Harleen could respond to Bruce’s cryptic words, the music shifted—softer now, a swell of strings and piano that wrapped around the ballroom like silk. A dance. Couples were already drifting to the center floor like moths to candlelight. Bruce extended his hand, palm open between them, quiet but sure. Harleen hesitated for a heartbeat too long. “I’m not exactly a ballroom regular,” she said. Bruce leaned slightly forward, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ve seen you carry Cecile Internal Medicine's two volume set at once during a lunch rush. You’ll manage.”

Despite herself, a smile tugged at her lips. She slipped her hand into his. The moment their fingers touched, something subtle shifted. His palm was warm, steady. Grounding. He led her into the sea of dancers, weaving effortlessly between tulle skirts and pressed tuxedos, until they found a quiet rhythm of their own. Harleen’s heart thudded, not just from the nearness, but from the strange, magnetic calm that fell over her. It didn’t make sense. He was a stranger… and yet, not.

“So,” she said as they moved, her voice barely above the music, “do you often attend galas where people think you’re a myth?”

Bruce’s lips curled. “Only the ones with champagne worth suffering for.”

Harleen tilted her head, watching him carefully. “I still can’t tell when you’re joking.”

“That’s probably for the best.” Their eyes held for a moment—long enough to almost forget the room around them.

Then Harleen asked, more quietly now, “Why walking?” Bruce blinked. “What?” “The day we met,” she said. “You looked like you belonged in a sports car or a private jet. But you were running. Also jumping into traffic like some manic parkour enthusiast.”

He gave a low laugh. “Guess I am not used to that kind of things.” Harleen’s brow furrowed. “I thought you were living your best life in Metropolis?” She instantly regretted saying that. Bruce was quiet for a beat. His hand adjusted slightly at her waist—just enough to draw her in without pressure. Then he answered, voice lower: “When everyone sees you as something else; an heir, a name, a symbol, then you start to forget where the the titles end and my true self begins.”

Harleen’s breath caught in her throat. It was the first real thing he’d said. Honest. Unarmored. “I get it,” she said after a pause. “Sort of.” Bruce studied her face.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been pretending too,” she admitted. “Like I belong in rooms like this. Like I don’t hear the clock ticking on my scholarship, or wonder if I’ll still be able to afford rent next month.” Bruce’s gaze softened.

“You belong more than most people here.”

“How would you know?”

He dipped his head slightly, so only she could hear. “Because you walked in like you didn’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Their movements slowed, not from the music, but from something unspoken coiling between them. Harleen swallowed, “I still don’t know what to make of you.”

Bruce smirked. “That’s fair.”

“You nearly killed me with a bicycle, but saved as if a knight in a shinning armor.”

“And then gave you a better bike.” Bruce intervened with a rare humour. 

Their laughter blended with the orchestra, echoing faintly into the chandeliered ceiling. Around them, the crowd kept spinning—but in that moment, the gala fell away. There was just the girl in a borrowed dress and the man who wasn’t supposed to be real, swaying together in a room full of ghosts. Just as Bruce leaned in as if he was going to whisper something to her ear, a scream pierced the music.

It cut through the ballroom like a shard of broken glass. In the blink of an eye, chandeliers rattled overhead and a loud crash echoed from the main entrance. The gilded double doors had been blown open, splinters and smoke clouding the grand entrance. Figures stormed in. Masked, armed, reckless. Gotham’s signature breed of chaos, dressed in ragged leather, mismatched armor, and neon face paint.

Street gangs.

 Panic erupted. Guests screamed and scattered, heels snapping, wine glasses shattering on marble. A woman tripped on her gown. A man shoved another aside trying to escape. The string quartet scrambled from the stage, cellos abandoned mid-note. Harleen stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs. The fear was instant, primal.

Before she could speak, Bruce moved quick as a a lightning.

In one seamless motion, he pushed her gently behind a marble pillar and stepped forward. He was calm, focused, and unshaken. As one of the gang members rushed toward a screaming guest, Bruce intercepted, delivering a sharp, calculated blow to the attacker’s ribs, disarming him in a single breath. Another came at him from the left. Bruce spun, dodged, and used the attacker’s own momentum to send him crashing into a table.

Harleen could barely breathe. She peeked from behind the pillar, stunned. He wasn’t fighting like someone defending himself. He was fighting like someone trained to attack.

Who was he?

When the worst of the chaos had passed and the gang retreated, chased by arriving security, Bruce finally turned to her steady as ever.

"You alright?" he asked softly, as if nothing had happened.

Harleen could only nod, eyes wide with shock and... something else. Awe.

However another  gang members threw a punch straight at Bruce’s face. He had been trying to shield Harleen behind him and didn’t manage to dodge in time. The hit landed hard.

But before the attacker could follow up, Harleen snapped into action. Her eyes locked onto the nearest table, and without thinking, she grabbed a heavy silver candelabra. Holding it like a baseball bat, she swung it with all her strength cracking it against the attacker’s head.

The man dropped instantly, collapsing like a ragdoll.

Bruce turned toward her, dazed for a moment, not from the punch, but from sheer surprise and admiration.
“Wow...” he muttered, eyes wide with a flicker of a smile.

Harleen stared at the makeshift weapon in her hand, almost in disbelief at what she’d just done. Then she rushed over to Bruce, catching sight of the blood trickling from his cheek.

“You’re bleeding,” she said softly, reaching up to touch his face with a gentle hand. A shallow cut ran from his cheekbone down to his jaw — likely from one of the shattered glasses during the chaos.

Bruce barely flinched. “It’s nothing,” he replied quickly. “Let’s just get out of here first.”

The distant wail of police sirens began to echo outside the opera house.

Without another word, the two of them made their way toward one of the tall windows near the back exit, dodging overturned chairs and panicked guests. They slipped through the open frame, landing on the old fire escape with hurried footsteps and pounding hearts, vanishing into the night as Gotham's emergency lights flashed behind them.

Harleen’s new apartment wasn’t far, and from the way Bruce’s cheek was bleeding, she knew the cut might leave a scar if not properly stitched. After a moment of hesitation, she finally asked,
“Thank you… for saving me. Again.”

Bruce gave a casual shrug. “You’re the one who saved me, Quinzel. That candelabra swing was… genuinely impressive.”

Harleen smirked, a flicker of pride in her eyes. “Didn’t have any brothers growing up, so I used to play baseball in the backyard… back then.” Her voice dropped slightly at the end — the weight of old memories creeping in.

As they walked, Bruce loosened his bow tie and let it hang around his neck.
“When did you lose him? Your father?”

Harleen looked at him, caught off guard. “How did you know?”

Bruce gave a small nod. “Your voice. People who’ve been through the same kinds of things… we recognize each other.”

She remembered suddenly — Bruce had lost both his parents. Of course he would know.

“I was fifteen,” she said quietly.

After her father died, everything had changed. She had to fight for her own future, earn every cent for college, work every spare hour she could.

“I was eight,” Bruce said. “After that, it was one boarding school after another until..." He didn't continue, Harleen didn't ask.

They walked on in silence, the kind that doesn't need filling each of them adrift in memories. The cold night air made Harleen shiver slightly, and without a word, Bruce slipped off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

Eventually, they reached her apartment. The lights were off; her roommates had clearly gone to bed already. “Shh,” she whispered to Bruce as she unlocked the door. Together, they tiptoed up to her room.

Bruce wandered in with quiet amusement, a soft grin playing on his lips. Harleen disappeared briefly into the bathroom, returning with a first-aid kit. She found him sitting at the edge of her bed, by the window, smiling still.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked up at her, a sparkle in his tired blue eyes. “Your room... it’s cute.”

Harleen rolled her eyes. “Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not,” he said, still smiling. “It’s... very you.”

“Do you find me cute?” Harleen teased, a playful smirk curling on her lips as she placed the first-aid kit on the desk beside the bed.

Bruce didn’t answer right away, only tilted his head slightly to the side as she stepped closer. Harleen inspected the cut along his cheek, her expression shifting to something more focused. She poured a few drops of antiseptic onto a cotton pad.

He sat on the edge of her bed, still wearing the remnants of his gala attire dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose. Even seated, he was nearly eye level with her.

“Maybe I do,” he said at last, voice low.

Harleen let out a short, amused breath. “Quite the unexpected preference for the heir to Wayne Industries, Mr. Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce didn’t smile. Instead, his tone turned thoughtful, sincere. “I’d argue the opposite. You and I—we’re not that different.”

Harleen raised a brow, gently dabbing at the shallow cut across his cheekbone. “Last I checked, I wasn’t a billionaire. And I’m pretty sure you’ve never worked a night shift at a diner.”

As she pushed a loose blonde curl behind her ear, she went back to cleaning the wound. Her touch was careful, her eyes fixed on the task. Bruce, however, was watching her.

“No,” he admitted, “but when you hit that guy with the candelabra… there was something in your eyes. A spark. You wanted to hit him a second time. And it wasn’t just self-defense.”

Harleen froze mid-motion, cotton pad suspended in the air.

“I’m not judging you,” Bruce added quietly. “I’ve only seen that look once before, when I look in the mirror. But you didn’t do it. You chose to stop.”

For a heartbeat, the room fell into silence. The air between them hung heavy with the weight of things neither of them had spoken aloud before—about violence, restraint, and how easily one could tip into something darker.

Harleen slowly lowered the cotton pad to the desk, her gaze still fixed on Bruce’s face. There was no smugness in his expression, no teasing glint. Just calm observation… and maybe something else. Understanding.

“I didn’t want to stop,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I thought if I hit him again,” she continued, voice unsteady now, “maybe it would make everything I’ve been carrying feel lighter. My dad, med school, the bills, the creep at the school, the way I always have to laugh off the worst nights… like they didn’t get to me.” Her eyes shimmered but didn’t break. “I’m so tired of pretending everything’s fine. That I’m fine.”

Bruce leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, closing the distance between them without touching. “But you stopped Harleen. That's the hard thing, so hard that I still barely do." He cintinued whispering, "You don’t have to pretend with me.”

The words lingered between them, warm and steady. Harleen gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

“I barely know you.”

Bruce gave the faintest smile. “Maybe. But you saw me take down three armed men in a tuxedo and didn’t run screaming.”

She smiled back, a real one this time, tired and crooked. “True. And I guess I did hit a guy with a candelabra.”

“A very effective swing, by the way.”

Their eyes met. The electricity that had sparked back at the opera house returned now in quiet pulses—charged, unspoken, but alive. Harleen stepped back slightly, needing air between them, needing space to think. “You should let me stitch that before it scars. I don’t want to be responsible for ruining your billionaire jawline.”

Bruce’s voice was velvet and low. “And here I thought you already had.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed anyway as she opened the kit and pulled out a sterile needle and thread. “Sit still, Wayne.”

“As you wish, Dr. Quinzel.”

As she threaded the needle with precise, careful fingers, Bruce watched her in silence, her focus, her steadiness, the way her brows drew together in concentration. And for the first time in a very long time, he didn't need the mask of a billionaire heir.

The stitching was done. The cut on Bruce’s cheek now held together by Harleen’s careful hands. She cleaned the last trace of blood from his jawline, her touch slower than necessary, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

The needle slid through Bruce’s skin with mechanical precision. Harleen's hands didn’t tremble—she had done this before. Just not on a billionaire. And not under the weight of so much unsaid.

“I saw it in your eyes too,” she murmured.

Bruce’s gaze flicked up. “What?”

“That moment,” she said, not looking at him. “When you fought back. It wasn’t just reflex or training. There was something else there. Something you let out.”

Silence stretched. Then Bruce said quietly, “You saw it.”

“I did.”

Harleen tied the thread off, cut it, and finally met his eyes. “And it didn’t scare me.”

That hitched breath he took wasn’t for pain. It was something deeper. Ancient. A secret long buried that someone had finally unearthed.

Bruce’s voice was low, almost hoarse. “I think I was eleven or twelve the first time I felt it. The rage. The need to do something… when everything felt out of control. I learned to channel it. Refine it. But it’s always there. Waiting.”

Harleen stepped back, folding her arms. Her voice came out as a whisper. “I thought I was broken. For feeling the same.”

“You’re not broken,” he said firmly. “You’re surviving.”

Their eyes locked in that soft, dim light. Two haunted souls, shaped by pain, wielding it in different ways. They were too close, not just physically, but emotionally exposed. And neither turned away.

“You ever wonder,” Harleen said, her voice a rasp, “if the darkness is the real you… and the rest is just something you fake to get by?”

“All the time,” Bruce replied.

Something cracked open between them. Not fragile, but sharp. A shared recognition. Like a mirror.

And then without a word Harleen stepped forward, closing the inches between them. Bruce didn’t flinch. He met her halfway. Their lips met not in a rush, but in something heavier. A slow, deliberate surrender. His hand slid to her back, her fingers curled into the lapel of his tux jacket. She tasted adrenaline and regret and something rawer—truth.

When they finally pulled apart, breath shallow, foreheads brushing, Harleen whispered, “That felt… dangerous.”

Bruce's lips curved. “Good. I like dangerous.”

Chapter Text

A month had rushed by like the wind, and for Harleen, it felt almost like living through a dream she never wanted to wake from. She and Bruce could talk about nearly anything — from long, intricate discussions about medicine to utterly silly, playful exchanges that made them laugh until their sides hurt.

Despite being a billionaire, Bruce was surprisingly down to earth, his warmth genuine rather than polished. But there was one thing that gnawed at Harleen’s peace: she’d begun to notice Bruce attending fewer lectures. Some evenings, he wouldn’t pick up her calls, and when they saw each other the next day, faint bruises sometimes darkened the skin of his arms. At first, she’d struggled to piece it together. Bruce had offhandedly blamed a motorcycle accident for the bruises, and maybe once, Harleen might have accepted that.

Yet when it happened again — and again — something clicked in her mind. Especially when she remembered just how easily Bruce had fought off those gang members, as though violence was as familiar to him as breathing.

Finally, one evening, Harleen found the courage to ask.
“Bruce... are you... are you fighting somewhere? Like underground cage matches or something?”

Bruce pressed his lips together, his gaze slipping away from hers toward the far corner of the room. For a second, Harleen glimpsed something almost vulnerable in his silence. She gently laid her hand on his arm.
“You know I wouldn’t judge you,” she murmured, her voice softer now. “You know me. I’m just... worried about you.”

“For now... just give me a little time,” he replied, his voice low, edged with finality.

From the tone he used, Harleen understood the door to this conversation had been firmly closed. And yet, she disliked the idea of secrets festering between them.

One evening, after a long day of lectures, she tried calling Bruce again. But once more, the call rang unanswered. A restlessness coiled in her chest, sharp and persistent. To distract herself, she settled on her narrow bed, opened her pathology textbook across her lap, and read under the warm pool of lamplight until the words blurred into nothingness.

But the silence only grew heavier, pressing on her ribs like weight. At last, Harleen stood, pulling off her glasses and tucking them into her pocket. Determination sparked in her eyes, chasing away hesitation. If Bruce wouldn’t talk, maybe she’d have to find answers herself.

Outside, the street was washed silver by the moonlight. She unlocked her bicycle, slung her worn canvas backpack over her shoulders, and began to ride through the cool Gotham night toward Wayne Manor.

She remembered Alfred once mentioning he worked around Mountain Drive it felt as good a place to start as any. As the wind tangled her blonde curls and the distant hum of the city accompanied her journey, Harleen couldn’t silence the thoughts tumbling in her mind.

What if he really is in danger? What if there’s something darker Bruce can’t share? And why, even now, do I feel this pull to go after him, no matter the risk?

She pedaled faster, driven by an ache deeper than worry — an ache that had grown into something dangerously close to care.

And so, beneath the moonlit sky, Harleen rode on, her shadow chasing hers across cracked asphalt, toward answers she wasn’t sure she was ready to find.

Harleen hadn’t expected to find Wayne Manor so easily. But the strange part wasn’t the location it was the way the sprawling estate stood silent and unlit, its towering walls swallowing any sign of life. Not a single lamp burned behind the stone façade.

She ran her hands through her hair, frustration twisting her features as she stared down at the gravel path beneath her feet. The chill in the night air bit through her jacket, but the cold was nothing compared to the knot of worry tightening in her chest.

At last, Harleen exhaled shakily, pushing the thoughts aside. I’ll confront him tomorrow. Properly. Determination set her jaw as she climbed back onto her bicycle and pedaled away from the silent manor, heading home through the darkened streets of Gotham.

What she hadn’t counted on was how dangerous Gotham truly became after dark.

She pushed the pedals as fast as her legs could manage, her breath misting in the cold air. But suddenly her tire caught on something taut across the road. A wire? A rope? She barely had time to register before she crashed to the asphalt, palms scraping painfully against the ground.

Then she heard it: that low, mocking voice curling through the darkness.
“Well, well... who’s this pretty little thing?”

Heart hammering, Harleen’s wide eyes snapped toward the sound. A filthy-looking man stepped into the moonlight, and as he raised his hand, something metallic glinted wickedly. A knife.

Panic burned through her chest. She scrambled upright, grabbing her bicycle and climbing on, “Stay away from me!” she screamed, her voice cracking with fear. She pushed off desperately — but before she could gain speed, another figure stepped into her path, blocking her way.

She swerved, lost her balance again, and hit the ground hard. Pain shot through her elbows, but adrenaline overpowered it. With shaking fingers, she tore her backpack open and pulled out the worn baseball bat she kept tucked inside.

Rising to her feet, she raised the bat in both hands, her knuckles whitening as she faced the man before her. There was something boiling up from deep inside her — rage. It felt toxic, consuming, mixing with the adrenaline until rational thought blurred at the edges.

With a sharp cry, Harleen lunged forward, swinging the bat with all her strength. The blow landed against the man’s ribs, and the sickening crack of bone splitting filled the night. Harleen grimaced at the sound, the weight of what she’d done hitting her for a single, searing instant.

The others closed in. But now, they didn’t look at her like easy prey. There was caution in their eyes, wariness.

Yet there were too many of them. Far too many. And in that breath between one heartbeat and the next, Harleen realized just how alone she truly was in the darkness of Gotham.

Until, from the darkness, a masked figure emerged.

With a single, brutal punch, he smashed it across the first man’s jaw. Then, moving like a storm, he leapt forward and drove his boot deep into the gut of the second attacker — sending the man sprawling nearly five meters across the street.

At last, he stepped toward the man Harleen had struck down herself, nudging him lightly with his foot. Once certain the man was out cold, he reached up and tugged down the scarf that had been wrapped around his face, hiding everything up to the bridge of his nose.

Icy blue eyes stared back at her, wide, burning, familiar.

Bruce.

“Harleen, what the hell are you doing here?!” His voice was low, strained.

“I was looking for you, Bruce... and now I understand why you’re so busy at night.” Her voice trembled, equal parts fear and realization. “You’re out here fighting thugs, aren’t you, Bruce?”

Bruce’s gaze swept around the dark street, still scanning for danger. Then, as if pain had finally caught up to him, he doubled over, a harsh breath escaping his lips.

“Let’s get out of here,” he ground out, his voice rough with pain.

In that single moment, Harleen’s anger dissolved into something softer, sadder, concern.

“Are you alright?” she whispered, though deep down she already knew the answer.

Bruce climbed onto the back of the bike, his weight a heavy, comforting presence behind her. Harleen pedaled with everything she had, the cold Gotham wind burning against her cheeks. Every so often, she dared a glance over her shoulder, Bruce’s face was pale under the streetlights, jaw clenched, one arm wrapped protectively around her waist, the other pressed tightly against his side.

God, please don’t let him be bleeding out, she thought, her heart hammering so violently it drowned out the night sounds.

By the time they reached her apartment building, Harleen’s legs were trembling with exhaustion, but adrenaline kept her moving. She helped Bruce off the bike, draped his arm over her shoulders, and half-dragged, half-carried him up the narrow stairwell. The quiet creak of the old wood felt deafening in the stillness of the hour.

Inside her small room, moonlight spilled across the faded quilt and the half-open textbooks scattered over the desk. Harleen gently lowered Bruce onto the edge of the bed, breathless. “Lift your shirt,” she whispered, voice tight with worry.

Bruce hesitated — then did as she asked, revealing a long, angry gash along his side. Not deep enough to be fatal, but ugly and raw. Harleen swallowed back her panic, forcing her shaking hands to steady. Focus, Harleen. You’ve patched up worse in the ER rotation, she reminded herself.

She knelt beside him, cleaned the wound with antiseptic, the sharp smell stinging her eyes. “You could have died tonight,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

Bruce let out a strained laugh, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, vulnerable. “I know. I... I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Harleen’s heart twisted. God, he’s so stupid. And yet... “You don’t have to do this alone, Bruce,” she said softly, the cloth pausing on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “For scaring you. For dragging you into this world.”

Her fingers brushed lightly against his ribs, and for a fleeting second, the air between them felt too heavy, too close. “I was already in this world the moment I cared about you,” she admitted, the confession hanging between them like fragile glass.

Bruce lowered his gaze, something unspoken flickering across his face. Guilt, gratitude, something darker. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispered.

"Stop it." she wrapped the bandage around his torso, every touch gentler than the last, trying to hold together not just skin and flesh. But everything between them that felt like it was about to break.

After Harleen finished bandaging the wound,Bruce lay back on her bed, his breath ragged, every inhale laced with pain. The sight of him like this—so human, so breakable—made Harleen’s chest tighten  in ways she couldn’t name.