Saving Grace: a Batman fanfiction

Chapter 5

            Grace was lying under her bed in her new room. Bruce’s room, she corrected herself. She couldn’t live here-- she wouldn’t live here. Nothing was hers. She wasn’t an idiot.

            The room-- the second one-- was perfect. The walls were her favourite color, there was a fluffy pink rug on the ground, and all the furniture was clean and white. 

            It was hands-down the nicest room she’d ever stayed in.

            Alfred seemed nice enough; if a little simpering and pathetic from what she observed. 

            She could hear other kids-- Bruce’s kids-- downstairs, but she wouldn’t have gone down if somebody paid her a million bucks. (In other words, half of Bruce’s salary for the month.) It wasn’t that she was scared. She wasn’t scared. 

            She wasn’t scared.

            Nope. Not her. Maybe some sucker somewhere was, but she was not. 

            She was fearless.

            Not. Afraid. 

            (So then why was she hiding under the bed? Why was her heart beating so fast?) 

             "Why hasn't she come down yet?" Tim asked curiously.

             "She's in a bad mood," responded Bruce airily.

             "Am not," snapped Grace, appearing at the mouth of the kitchen. Hunger for breakfast drove her out of her room. "You're just a big dick," she muttered under her breath in a low voice; however, Bruce, Damian, and Tim's heightened senses meant they heard every word.

             Tim snickered a little bit, looking simultaneously shocked and awed. Damian looked stunned at first but then his face took on a distinctly purple hue, and had Bruce not squeezed his knee warningly under the table, he probably would've jumped at Grace for offending his father and his blood. (Not that Bruce would’ve minded that much.)

             "I'm Tim," Tim said courteously, smiling a little bit at Grace over his coffee.

             "Good for you," she responded icily before pinching a waffle between her thumb and forefinger and carrying it out of the room.

             Tim stared as she left, expression slightly aghast.

             "Get used to it, son," said Bruce, smirking. They didn't see Grace for the rest of the day, not even when Alfred asked her to come down for dinner. Just as well, Bruce thought privately.

            But then day was over and the night came creeping in, and soon Bruce and Tim and Damian would be out on patrol and that still left the very potent problem of Grace. She couldn’t find out. This was Bruce’s one hard rule. He would do anything to ensure that it wasn’t broken, including locking her in her room at night.

            It was for her own good.

            So at nine thirty, when he and the boys were getting ready to leave the Batcave, he pulled up an app on his phone that let him control all of the locks in the house and locked Grace’s door so she couldn’t wander out and find them all gone—or worse, go exploring and find the Batcave.

            She had a bathroom connected to her room, he reasoned. There shouldn’t be anything she needed. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was for her own safety.

            Alfred usually spent his time in the Batcave when Bruce and the boys were on patrol, prepping the med center and preparing post-patrol snacks in the small kitchenette in the cave. Keeping Bruce’s large monitor on and tuned to Barbara so that he could be prepared for any situation and help as needed.

            The thing is, when you’re in the Batcave, you can’t hear any sounds coming from the manor.

            Grace was restless.

            First night in a new place. It was hard to sleep. It was always hard for her to sleep, actually. She was weary, watching the door. Wondering about the other residents of the manor.

            About Bruce.

            He had every reason to hate her. She’d been nothing but rude to him since she arrived. She was mean and petty and snobby, and she couldn’t stop. She had always been that way, arrogant and self-centered and manipulative and always right, and always with the last word.

            But it was worse here.

            (If they knew. If any of them knew. Oh, God.)

            She repositioned herself from on top of the bed to under it to try and feel better. And it did help, but she was still restless. Tired, but restless. Thinking that locking the door might help her relax, she scooted out from under the bed and crept to the door, trying to walk as quietly as possible (Bruce was right next door).

            The door looked a little complicated, and she tried to figure out how to lock it.

            But when she twisted the handle experimentally, a jolt of panic ran through her body.

            It was already locked.

            She was locked in this room.

            She tried the doorknob again, trying to steady her breathing and keep her thoughts straight. Locked. Maybe if she tried one more time? Still locked.

            Grace dropped to her knees in front of the door and rested her head against the wood, curling in on herself. Her breathing hitched and her thoughts buzzed around her head, dizzying her. Oh my God oh my God oh my God it’s locked, the door’s locked, a locked room, locked in a room, oh my God, please open please open—she pressed her hands to her temples, trying in vain to calm herself. He’s locked me in, they’ve locked me in, I’m stuck here, I’m locked in, animals in cages, dogs in crates, cats in kennels, Grace locked in a room—she sucked in a deep breath, tears welling in her eyes. Maybe it’s just stuck.

            She found that thought and hung onto it for dear life. The door may as well be jammed, or the doorknob broken, she thought desperately.

            And if that was the case, there was only one thing to do.

            “Bruce?” Grace called cautiously. (He was right next door, after all, no need to shout too loudly.) There was no reply. She stumbled over to her bed and grabbed Ted off the bed—Ted, who Bruce had laughed at, who Grace had punched for that—Was that it? Was that what he was mad about? She shouldn’t have punched him, oh, God, now she was locked in this room and— “Bruce!” she called again, louder. “Bruce!!” She could hear the desperation (the weakness) in her own voice and hated it, hated it with all her heart. “Alfred!”

            Nothing. “Hey!” she cried, mustering up all the bravery and bravado she possibly could, “LET ME OUT!”

            Nothing. They couldn’t ignore her screams forever, she reasoned. “BRUCE! ALFRED!” She twisted her hands and pressed her palms to her eyes. The room started to close in on her, she was trapped, trapped like a mouse in a mousetrap—“BRUCE! ALFRED!”

            What did they want with her? Her blood ran cold, her body began to shake uncontrollably, “BRUCE, ALFRED! BRUCE!"