Fateful Beginnings

Fateful Beginnings

V. “the interview”

parts: previous / next

plot: the interview does not go as you would have hoped.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, reference to sa (which did not end up happening), anger, arguing, blackmail

words: 2k

Flustered, you wandered down the hallway to see if it happened to lead to an exit. No, it couldn't be that easy. The exit was nowhere to be found, it just led to a men's room strangely situated in the corner. You checked in the camera of your phone to see if the tear streaks were really gone, and faked confidence as you walked through the foyer again. As you wandered past the refreshment table a familiar sound startled you. "Welcome in!" You didn't miss the cheekiness in his voice, whipping around with the first real grin you'd had in ages. It almost hurt your face to move those muscles again. "Rai!" He went in for a hug and you did a few minutes of chatting, nearly to the point of forgetting what was in store for you. He showed you which dishes he had brought, including a few from his deli, and helped you to a sample portion of each. He offered you more, but your hunger cues were fucked after the level of stress you'd been under this week. Bidding him regretful adieu, you went out the front steps trying to avoid the paparazzi. It was successful, as Bruce Wayne had walked through the throngs minutes earlier leaving many of them still hitchhiking back from a short car chase.

In what unfortunately closely resembled the alley from before, you swallowed back a rush of anxiety. The alley was deceptively long, leaving you ample time to form semi-coherent thoughts about what had just occurred. Bruce Wayne was the Batman? It didn't make sense. But it did. But it didn't. But it was true. Your mind caught fragments of thoughts as they flew by. He was an asshole. Kind of. Why did he save people? Why didn't he want to talk to the people he saved? How come he had never done an interview? Had no one really recognized him before, or had they all been murdered?

An unfamiliar car was parked behind the building. It looked like something your dad would have gawked at back home, something vintage or retro. It looked like an old Cadillac, with sandy beige paint and a brown leather interior. A note was pasted on the front seat which you read after opening the unlocked driver's side.

Park it at the side of the entrance, the first alley on the right before you enter the grounds. Turn the lights off before you make the turn.

Never having been to Wayne Tower before and having no clue how big the grounds were, you put it into Google Maps. You thanked god as you buckled that this wasn't a stick shift, and sped off through the alleys of Gotham. The last time you had driven a car had been before you transferred here, back in Washington, where you had free, open streets to roam for endless miles. Gritting your teeth with frustration you were still not yet free of this place, you hit the gas and hoped the directions weren't leading you to your demise.

The grounds were... massive. It was deceptive, and you had to circle around a few times before finding an alley. The tower faced the opposite side of the giant lawn, the alley thick with tree overhang. The car managed to slip right into it like a glove, just as you remembered to dim the lights. Hope that didn't fuck anything up. You were confused as you drove down it, wondering where the hell it led to until you noticed a pinprick of light in the distance. Another grin spread across your face as you floored it, zooming close to seventy, when a figure entered your vision in the middle of the street. You slammed on the brakes which were ridiculously responsive, nearly tipping the car over backwards with the velocity. Once the car settled you met the glaring eyes of the prince himself. Let's get this over with.

The paper flew out with the force of air from whipping the door open. Suspicion crept into your bones. "Hey, this was just, sitting there." You shouted. It twirled in the air between you. He just stared and shrugged. Irked, you continued. "If this is a secret entrance to your home, wouldn't you have been more discreet?"

"No one knows my handwriting. The car could have belonged to anyone." Bruce Wayne's voice was rough like sandpaper, far removed from warmth or allure. You bit back a retort about the car looking like it cost a hundred grand as you sulked past him toward an iron door. Either he was more arrogance than man or the average Gotham resident was dense as a rock. Shooting a look back at him you tried to rip the door open. It ripped at your shoulder instead and you cursed, fingers flying to massage the socket. He chuckled to himself and your cheeks burned with embarrassment. He stepped forward with unearned confidence and the door came open with ease. "It's fingerprint sensitive." He sneered. "But I did enjoy watching you try."

Dick, you thought. Just get the interview done. Get your questions answered so you can be rid of this rich asshole. You shut your eyes tightly every few steps to remind yourself that you would be gone in a week; in one single week you would have a diploma in-hand and be on a flight back home. To your room. Your family. Your friends... who hadn't kept in contact much since you'd left. A wince of pain curdled your stomach as you suppressed thoughts of your friendships only existing due to proximity. Was there anywhere you wouldn't be an outcast?

Before stepping in, you hesitated, and his footsteps stopped after a few steps for him to glare at you over his shoulder. "I don't have all night."

"Take off your coat." You demanded. His eyes narrowed. "What for?"

You crossed your arms. "I need to know if you're armed."

He groaned and took off his jacket, leaving him in just his suit. Still, he could have been hiding something... "Your suit jacket too." The anxiety was real; if he could hide the fact he was Batman, he could surely hide bodies.

"I don't have any weapons on me." His tone was ever so slightly softer, less jagged. It only served to make you more suspicious of him.

"I don't believe you." There was silence for a few beats. Then a huff.

"Do I have to do this too or you'll blackmail me for it?" You didn't say anything in response. He turned around and flashed the inside pockets of his suit, then spun and showed you the back. "You happy? I'm not taking it off."

"Fine. But if you kill me I'll have you know people will look for me. And I won't go down easy." You took off your heels and walked through the thick door; it shut automatically as you walked in. Bruce pressed forward.

"Couldn't imagine anything with you being easy." He grumbled.

The end of the hallway opened to a balmy, wet sort of garage. There was a long table in the center with a few computers and other gadgets, with various boxes and tech scattered across the cracked concrete floor. He walked over to the desk and moved papers from the one chair in view, pushing it toward you. "Fifteen minutes starts now."

You scoffed. "What happened to twenty?"

"What happened to leaving the event when I asked you to instead of dawdling?" His jaw was set tight and you ignored him, taking a slow walk to the chair. The only thing he had on you was making his snide comments—you had the real shit, the info you could leak at any second to massive scandal.

He leaned against his desk just a few feet in front of you, palm flat. You cleared your throat and tried to drum up some questions to make it seem you'd come prepared. You flicked the recorder to ON and cleared your throat. "Bruce, tell me—"

"It's Mr. Wayne." His voice loud, biting.

"Tell me about how you spend your free time." You completely ignored him, continuing on. He adjusted, his jaw locked together. He shoved his hand in his pant pocket. He didn't know how to answer it, and it angered him to be referred to so casually by you. He thought about how Alfred would answer that could fit Bruce Wayne. It was hard to pretend he cared about his answers enough to get his brain whirring. More pressing things were on his mind, like how someone in the public now knew his identity.

"I like to read historical fiction, engage in physical pursuits, and," he paused as his mind did. Stalk the criminals of the city, stop the criminals of the city, clean up Gotham's streets one by one...

"What type of 'physical pursuits', Bruce?" You chimed.

The tips of his ears turned red with frustration. "It's Mr. Wayne." He stared at you with narrowed eyes and tense muscles. Where did you get the right to... he walked away from the desk to stand closer to you. Curious fear shot into you as you noticed how densely he was built. You'd nearly fallen prey to the average Gothamite, no way you could fight off the vigilante himself. But... maybe you could kick him in the balls. He spoke through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"

Your eyes blinked with confusion. "What?"

His fists clenched and unclenched along with his jaw. "Your silence. What do you want?"

"I need to ask you more questions."

With a dramatic eye roll he leaned back against the desk. He signified his impatience with rapid tapping of his fingers. "I have a home gym. Cardio, weight training, endurance. Can't really just jog around the street."

"Women know the feeling." You felt his eyes on you but you ignored it. "Why don't you go in public more often? Surely your cardio and fiction don't take up every waking hour."

"Aren't these supposed to be questions, not judgements?"

You simply stared back at him with an empty gaze. Was this the first time he'd ever been challenged outside of the suit? You watched as he ran his hands through his hair and his chest caved from a deep exhale. He answered your next questions with robotic ease. Renewal fund things. Got a degree from Yale Law. Never pursued it due to waning interest. His favorite dish is... soup. Mulligatawny, to be exact. Whatever that was. Often vacations to Rio and Greece.

By the time you'd asked a meager handful of questions he was near imploding. You needed a question you could focus in on. "What's your stance on the masked vigilante, the Batman?"

His eyes shot to yours with a fierce glare and you gestured down to the voice recorder. God, he couldn't believe your audacity. "What is there to say?" He rose to pace slowly between the desk and wall. More specifically, he thought, what is there to say that can't be twisted in your paper? "This 'Batman'... he's a complicated figure. I don't like that he's interrupting with our justice department. Meddling. He's taken the law into his own hands. However..." a sharp breath. "He's not necessarily harming innocent civilians. I try not to think about him."

His presumptive comment elicited a snappy response. "So you think some people are deserving of harm? What about structural inequalities that force people to steal, intimidate,"

He interrupted you with biting tone. "And that gives them the right to steal from everyone else?"

"Okay Mr. Billionaire."

"No, really!" He turned to you with his hands on his hips which pushed his suit jacket behind him. His face was alight with frustrated curiosity as he strolled over. "Do tell me, Miss Journalist," he leaned down and with your faces on the same level you could feel the heat of his breath. His demeanor was darker now. "How that man in the alley was innocent."

no matter how terrible my day is. i can always end my day in bed imagining fictional characters making out sloppy style and fucking raw. and that's beautiful. there's some good in this world mister frodo and it's worth fighting for

You know what?

I love you, fics that take months to update. I click on the newest chapter and have no memory of this place and get to go back some chapters and rediscover how much i love everything about this story.

I love you, fics that take years to update. I think of you fondly, and know your names, go search for you and see an update from this year and scream, diving in uncaring of any missed details (i will finish the update and read you in reverse because this is a treat you have bestowed)

I love you, fics that probably will never update again. Thank you for being a roman empire for my mind, thank you for teaching me about the ephemeral fandom experience, for inspiring a thousand million what if-s, for being a comfort read and a nostalgia read and a reread.

I love you fic writers, who jump into projects and stories with enthusiasm. I love you when you succeed in pumping out those chapters and that love doesn't go away when you stop.

I love you fic writers who post and then get in your own head and never feel confident enough to update, whether it's at all or whether it's just that one story.

I love you fic writers, who have a fandom or media hurt you to the point of abandoning or having a hard time with their WIPs.

I love you fic writers, who lose interest or have life changes or illness or bad memory. Thank you for being part of the fandom, a core part of the fandom. Thank you for the time spent in the fandom.

I love you, fic writers who try out something new and then stop. You're so valid.

I love you, WIP fics that may or may not ever get finished. Thank you for brightening my day in the way only you could have.

Fateful Beginnings

II. “research”

parts: previous / next

plot: you make a very… rash decision about who you will interview, and when.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, head injury, substance use, threat of violence

words: 2.2k

You were helped into the police car by two men, one in a typical police uniform and one that looked more like a detective. The uniformed one had shined a flashlight at the back of your head and told you to take a cold shower when you got back. "The head always bleeds more serious than it is," he chomped away on gum and shooed you into the vehicle. They said they'd escort you back no problem, peppering you with some questions along the way. You didn't really have much of an answer for them. You'd never been to the club before, you hadn't seen the gunshots, didn't remember what a single face looked like in the club besides the vigilante's. Which set off a lightbulb for you. Holy shit, Batman. I could do my paper on him. I need an interview.

"Uh I do know the guy that saved me," you prattled. The uniform in the passenger sneered at you. "Uh huh, was it a big asshole in a mask?" The driver didn't share his humor towards the Batman.

"Yeah," you agreed. You didn't quite know how to phrase this next part, so you just put it bluntly. "I was wondering if you knew how to get in contact with him?"

"He sends up a bat signal, hotshot." The uniform was getting worked up, and you could tell you couldn't press the issue much longer. "What you need an outlaw for anyway?" The sarcasm turned to suspicion and you realized that the crimefighters of the town seemed out of harmony. Why didn't they like Batman?

"I've just never seen him before, I'm new here." You hoped they didn't prod you on how new; it might prove embarrassing to admit you'd been here over a year and hardly went out enough to know more than hearsay about Gotham's second claim to fame... behind the reclusive Bruce Wayne.

The rest of the short drive was quiet as the officers talked quietly amongst each other. You turned to look out the window at the pouring rain, mulling over the events of the evening. Shit. Your ears began to ring with anxiety. You went to grab for your phone but couldn't find it. Damn. You needed to contact Mar. What if she didn't make it? What if she's injured? What if she's still lying there, waiting for someone to save her?

You hastily thanked them for their time as the car pulled up to your street. You ran in the lobby and had to explain to the doorman that you'd lost your wallet, keys, and phone at the club that had been shot at this evening. This was common for them, and they knew you, giving you a spare key. You didn't have time to be worried about your belongings, you needed to know if she was safe.

You kicked yourself for not coming to your senses sooner as you opened your apartment door. You flung it open and shut behind you, racing through your kitchen as quickly as your busted scalp would allow without screaming throbs. Rummaging through the sheets you found your school iPad, opening the notifs to find 25 missed calls from her number, the last one only five minutes prior. You gasped a sob of relief and quickly pressed call. It was immediately answered.

"Y/N!!" Mar squealed from the other end, barely containing herself. You were so glad to hear her voice. You talked for the next ten minutes before you told her you had to get off and take a shower. "My head got like, split open. The officers said it was superficial, but the Batman guy—"

Mar gasped on the other end, rattling off run-on sentences of questions. She was shocked that you'd had an encounter, and wanted to know every excruciating detail. "I've heard his voice is super intense, is it?"

"Mar, I'm sorry, my head is burning. I'll text you after the shower, okay?" Reluctantly she wished you good vibes in the shower and to make sure to message her before you went to sleep so she knew you didn't slip. "Again, I'm sorry for forcing you to come with me tonight."

The shower burned your scalp even when it was cold. You felt the sting of every individual water droplet, and tried your best to trust the policeman who said it was okay. After an excruciating shower that felt good everywhere but your scalp, you went to grab your iPad and tried to take photos of the back of your head in your mirror. It was barely effective, only so much so that you could tell it wasn't bleeding anymore. You gently wrapped your hair and head in a towel and laid back against the pillow, going onto Verizon's site and requesting a replacement phone after sending a quick "I'm fine!" text to Mar. You thanked your precious self for getting insurance on your phone so you could get it replaced for free. After selecting 2-day shipping on an iPhone 14, you took an edible and tried to relax.

And relax you did. The small dose that normally chilled you out affected you differently tonight, making your body light with giggles and warmth. Maybe you were so exhausted it was hitting harder. After all, the rush of adrenaline and cortisol that had hit your system tonight were off the charts. You had a brush with death. You tapped along on your iPad aimlessly, until going into your notes app and typing up a few mock questions for the Batman. It would be really cool to get an interview with him. No one has ever spoken to him before outside of the police chief, Gordon. And it seemed like he liked to keep it under wraps, as the rest of the squad didn't much appreciate him. How would I get to see him? You didn't have much more time to think before you passed out, falling into a deep, restful slumber.

You woke up in the late afternoon with drool all over your cheek. Without thinking you tried pulling the towel off your head and then winced at the pain. You'd almost forgotten about the day before.

After getting some food in, you resolved to learning more about this masked madman running around in the night. Did he only come out at night? Where was he spotted most often? You only got a direct answer to one question: yes, he only came out at night. After hours of meticulous google searches and forum scrolling, you learned only a few things:

1. He only came out when it was dark

2. He responded to a bat signal, which was loosely placed in the sky above where criminal activity was present

There were a few stalkers in the forums who dedicated many nights a month to chasing crime in Gotham, hoping to catch a candid shot of Batman at work. A few had succeeded, since there was so much crime here. But it was very hit or miss, and largely depended on chance. If you wanted to find him you would have to spend nights prowling around Gotham, which didn't seem like a great way for a woman in her twenties to stay safe. Then it struck you: a ride-along.

You walked down to the lobby to use their public phone to dial Gotham PD. An annoyed receptionist answered, his voice gruff. "Gotham police department, how can I help you?"

"Hi uh, my name is Y/N and I'm doing a journalism project at GU. Do you do ride-alongs?" You tried to keep your voice clear and strong, like you could handle it. The men in this town seemed to greatly underestimate women, and you didn't want them to deny you based on stereotypes.

"Sorry ma'am, you'll have to ask the chief." He stayed on the line, loudly snacking on something that sounded dry and crisp. You cleared your throat. "Can I be transferred to him?"

You swore to god you could hear him rolling his eyes on the other line. He did a loud chew and swallow before responding in the affirmative. "Stay on the line."

You waited, helplessly counting beeps as another tenant stood behind you waiting for their turn at the phone. The lobby was so quiet you could hear the clock strike each second, mocking you for losing your cell, each one more frustrating than the next. Just as you were about to call it quits and go make up some random topic, a man answered the phone. "Chief Gordon speaking."

"Oh hi," you stammered, twirling the phone line between your fingers. "I'm a student at GU and wondered if I could ride along sometime, I'm doing a journalism project —"

A loud sigh interrupted things. "Let me guess, you want to see him."

The apples of your cheeks turned bright red and prickling warmth traveled up your spine. "I—"

"Listen kid, you gotta stay out of trouble. A school project isn't worth this, I promise." His accent was thick and just further proved to you how much you stuck out in this city. Gordon hung up on you and you tried not to hang around, hastily handing the phone to the woman behind you as you made a beeline for the elevator. He can't just do this. You grew more frustrated with every syllable. The paper was still sitting fully unwritten with only a week and a half left until the end of the term. You needed answers. If they weren't gonna help you, you'd go out yourself.

You went to your iPad and searched for the Gotham police scanner. You remembered a few people from the forums had mentioned using it to help track him, but you had to be online the moment they said the address otherwise you'd never catch it. This is how the few people who caught sight of him had managed to do it — keeping constant nightly tabs on the city, drowning out their lives with the sound of Gotham PD, only going to sleep once the sun began to rise. You sat there for about an hour, restless, thumbing through socials to try to find any leads. There seemed to be a lot going on in town tonight, people posting videos of themselves in the club with every single one full. It was a Saturday night, of course. The people in the city didn't have anything to do on Sundays, it was informally known as 'hangover day'. You could tell who the Dropheads were, their pupils wrecked, slumped over getting an energy drink at the corner store the next morning. It seemed like a normal Saturday until the most peculiar code came up on the scanner.

"Chief, 10-79, 10-80. 10-87 Fischer and Stark." The line started buzzing with inactivity, and you scrambled to write it down. Fischer... Stark... you pulled it up on your map and saw it was a fifteen minute walk north of your apartment. But before heading there, you needed to know what the code meant. Google searches came up with 'bomb threat' and 'explosion', prompting you to swallow your nerves and get ready.

You grabbed your taser, rain boots, and a rain jacket. You rummaged around your junk drawer to find your old Apple watch to have in case of emergency, and you needed 911. It also had a voice recorder in case tonight went how it should. Thankfully it still held a charge, however meager, and you clasped it around your wrist.

The rain was nearly a monsoon tonight, with wind whacking you side to side. Once again, what was common in Gotham was new to you.

You knew how unsafe this was, but you really didn't care. You knew you should care, but you were too stubborn for your own good. A part of you wondered if you got into enough trouble, the Batman might swoop in as he did the night before. The air was chilly, even cutting through the supposedly 'windproof' jacket you bought last year to help you acclimate to the harsh weather. There was no way he wouldn't show up to a bomb threat, right? Especially if there had been an explosion? How important is this paper? It is really worth risking my life all to get to interview a random dude? But this wasn't just some random dude... this was the Batman. While many members of the public had seen him, no one had talked to him. You picked up the pace and started jogging, ignoring the dull throb of the back of your scalp. If you were able to score this interview... it would look so good on a resume. But besides the material things, a part of you was excessively excited at the prospect of getting to see a side of someone no one had seen before. To be let in like that... priceless.

i want to FLUSTER that man. i want to make him BLUSH. i want to make him feel VULNERABLE AROUND ME. i want to make him WEAK IN THE KNEES. i want to kiss him

“You have no idea how badly I want you.” You no longer cared about groveling at his feet; you saw the world in his eyes and God’s own breath in the flutter of his lashes. You didn’t want to love Bruce Wayne, but you rarely got what you wanted—you should’ve known that by now.