Fateful Beginnings

Fateful Beginnings

XIX. “(im)mortality”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce struggles to convince he’s not bribing your silence, and you find yourself locked in the backseat of his car while Batman investigates a suspicious murder.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, gore, fear, arguing

words: 3.3k

a/n: while I do list ‘gore’, I want to let everyone know I will never post photos or visuals, I will only describe it as is canon to Batman-typical violence.

How could he convince you it wasn't a bribe?

You met him out back where he pulled up with the headlights cut. Not terrifying at all. The alley was dark and leftover rain was spilling down through gutters. The sun had already set, not making more than a few shades of difference to how Gotham looked during the day. I want to go back home. I hope I survive the drive. You stepped toward the passenger seat and grabbed the door handle, but stopped with your hand clasped around it. Your shoulders tensed, your stomach felt like it halted digestion, and your eyes darted around the area, every new crumb of environmental information nearly sending you back into a panic.

You looked afraid, no, absolutely terrified. He picked up on the stress you held in your body like it was his own. He rolled down the passenger window which made you startle like a cat, the sound of the pulled handle snapping back to position. Your face was getting harder to see by the second, and his mind went blank. He had no words to reach for, no expression, no cloak of anonymity. It was rare his mind turned completely off, impossible for him not to have every next move choreographed. It only served to make him look more unsure, and less safe.

"I'm getting an Uber." You forced down the lump in your throat and started for the side of the building. You heard a door slam and Bruce call after you.

"It's not a bribe."

You halted, tucking your chin over your shoulder. It stung to look at him but, thankfully, he was cloaked in shadow. In more usual circumstances that might have scared you even more, but you were close enough to the main street should someone need to hear your screams. That same peculiar sense of safety crept up and let you turn around. "Why not? I know about you."

He sighed. "It would've been more if it was a bribe."

The thought have you bribed anyone before? germinated, but curiosity wasn't getting the better of you. It was all too fresh how he'd looked at you the last time you'd been in that building, and you could still feel the small wash of air his scoff had made against your cheeks. You were shocked you hadn't fallen back into acute panic. "You wouldn't just throw money at someone you hate."

He didn't hate you; Bruce didn't think he could hate anyone besides the people who killed his parents... and Falcone. He hated Falcone, but that could have been one and the same. He answered as simply as he could through grit teeth. "My parents have similar history." That same feeling was encroaching as the last time you and him had been in the alley, when you'd first asked Batman for an interview. Regulate. Breathe. Regulate. Breathe.

"So it's not a bribe, just more philanthropy? A tax write off?" Your voice began to rise. He shoved out a half-baked thought. "You still got the money, didn't you?"

Fucking... Your fear did a hard right into exasperation. It was important he understood he couldn't just do that, that rich people couldn't waltz around doing whatever they pleased without reprimand. Knocking the People's Prince down a peg seemed like your life's mission. "But it's dehumanizing, it's so fucking invasive."

His response was swift like the punch of guilt to his gut. "And I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have."

"Uh huh."

His voice was firmer, louder. "I mean it. It won't happen again."

"Unless you think I'll tell someone."

He hated having his character misinterpreted; he'd journaled about this before, this nagging feeling of no one fully seeing him, no one understanding his intentions. Once again you nestled right into a crack. "I don't do bribes."

"You could've had a conversation with me."

"It won't happen again." He hesitated, just long enough to sign the contract in his head. "Promise."

"I don't trust you." Now his eyes met yours through the glint of a sporadic streetlight. "A normal person wouldn't even be able to do that."

He shut his eyes and thought about Alfred. He hated remembering this, oh, it made him sick. Bruce had come home one day from sixth grade and Alfred had been waiting at the front of the stairs, right near the entryway phone. He'd gestured for him to follow to the kitchen table, and once Bruce had sat down Alfred had told him he'd gotten a phone call.

"Your teacher says you're exclusionary." Bruce had sat there confused, remembering swinging alone on the swingset earlier that day. "What do you make of that, hmm?" Alfred had done this a few times before—tried to have a serious conversation with him, but it sat in an uncanny valley between butler and parent, and always made Bruce feel a bit squeamish; why couldn't his dad be his dad? As much as he hated his father being gone, he completely loathed anyone trying to take his place.

"I just played on the swings." Bruce kept his head down. It was easier that way, not looking people in the eye. It'd become a reflex since he'd done it that horrible night.

"Ms. Taylor says three kids came to her crying today saying you didn't want to play with them." His brow was furrowed. He let his face loosen a bit as he noted Bruce get smaller and smaller. Sometimes he was a bit overbearing trying to take on a guardian role, it was palpable in moments like these. Quite honestly he hadn't wanted to talk to Bruce about this, but felt like Thomas would have. He stuck out a hand to Bruce.

Bruce shrugged and ignored the hand. He counted the rings in the wood table to stave off tension's bite. "I told them I didn't want to play."

Alfred had sighed. Bruce was already in therapy, and he didn't know what else to do for the boy. Stressing the importance of social interaction as a means of mental health preservation seemed like the only straw he had left, so he took it. "Master Bruce." In an effort to help make the boy feel important, thinking it might pull him out of his dejection, Alfred spoke something that burned into Bruce's mind like a hot branding iron. "You're a Wayne! If you don't want to play with someone, that hits harder than just any kid in the play park."

"Bruce?" His hands were clenched tight at his sides, and his eyes were so excessively wrinkled he had to be squeezing them shut with all his might. His face was twisted into an excruciating wince. Was this anger? Was he about to fight you?

He was red-hot, his system alerting him to LEAVE. "See you next week."

What the hell? "Wait,"

Bruce reflexively whipped around, a sharp prickling traveling up his neck to his eye socket for which he massaged his temple with barely concealed earnest. The flickering streetlight salivated for a migraine. "You said you wanted an Uber."

The frustration that bled into his tone was not lost on you, so you matched it. "Why were you standing like that?"

"Do you need me to order one for you?" Water. Might have some in the backseat.

His tone had moved firmly out of cordiality, which sent a rod of indignation through you. "Jesus,"

He opened his eyes but winced as a flash of pain seared across the right side of his head. "That's not what I meant,"

"Everything is about money with you."

"I don't want it to be."

"It is."

"I don't need the reminder."

"Whether you ignore it or not, your entire life is shaped by money."

"You think I don't know that? I hate it." Nausea was tempting him now, the gravel shifting slightly under his shoe only multiplying the vertigo.

"You hating being rich doesn't make you less rich, Bruce."

"Can you stop calling me that?"

"Why?"

"Because my parents are the only ones that did."

The street fell silent. You stared at him. The last fifteen sentences had been said in the span of ten seconds, each barely hearing the other before seething a response. His chest rose and fell rapidly, nearing ten times in the past second. He blinked rapidly as he focused on the trunk of his car, his left hand out to steady him. Black spots sprinkled the corners of his vision.

You tried to bring some levity to the situation, because the combination of the tension in the air and not knowing whether or not he was about to fall and crack his head open made you nervous. "I swore I heard Alfred call you that once."

It was mildly effective; this distance between you and him was more comfortable now, but it left more space for panic to strike you again. When you spoke up, it was a squeak. "I'll get in the car. But don't hurt me." You started walking toward the passenger, but stopped when you noticed he was staring at you, exasperated. His head was pounding, taking all of his inhibition away with its roar. Bruce heaved a breath and tried to regain focus before speaking; it stung a lot more being feared as Bruce than being feared as Batman; again, once again, made him feel so much less human. "I paid the loans because," He took another breath. "I don't want anyone going through what I did." He hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut as they became hot and prickly. "I found you on the commencement list." It spilled out. "I found your mother's name. I called the closest clinic to your listed hometown and put my card on file. I almost didn't..." He peered back at you again. "I know it was a breach. I promise to never look you up again." You were standing across the car from him, soaked in gutter water. He huffed out a breath, figuring now was the best time to get everything out. "I know I'm a Wayne. I know there's a difference between you and I. I don't know how to bridge it."

It was wild how quickly he activated you, and how equally quickly it was tamed, like a wave crashing on thirsty sand. You walked to his car and slowly slid into the passenger seat. This could be the first block of the bridge; he wanted to drive you home anyway, and this could be a quiet drive to get back to equilibrium. Tears stung the back of your eyelids thinking about your mom again, thinking about the mortality of life; swells of guilt and grief welled up inside you and you bit the inside of your cheek until it was raw to keep the sadness at bay. You tucked your arms and legs and shut the door quietly in hopes he might note your restraint. He didn't know if you really believed him, but you did accept his offer to drive you.

He fought to suppress the screaming nags at the edge of his thoughts as he slipped into the driver's seat and drove off. Bruce's speed made you nervous, transporting you to when he'd nearly flattened a pedestrian the time before. It killed you to bite your tongue but this was the closest thing you'd ever get to a peace treaty, and no one wandered out here anyway. A minute passed in total soundlessness, a quiet neither of you liked but were forced to tolerate, with the alternative being bickering again.

A wash of color illuminated the alleyway. A look out the right side window revealed a smear of jagged red light against a nearby cloud—the bat signal revamped. You heard him sigh. Your research all those months ago had never pictured it anything but white. Before anxiety got the best of you, you broke the silence. "Why is it red?"

"Means it's urgent. I have to get you a cab." After the flooding, Gordon had upgraded the signal protocol—white meant come quickly, and red meant come now. He could still smell the copper from the dead's runoff in the days after the massacre and pictured Gordon, donned in a mask and gloves. "We need to improve our communication method."

You wanted to pester him into letting you come but you were smart enough to realize the implications of Bruce Wayne seen leaving with you and Batman being seen with you shortly after. The signal began to pulse, and Bruce groaned. He took a hard left down the smallest, ricketiest alleyway you'd ever seen, let alone driven a car through. He'd never seen the signal blink like that, but considering the color... he couldn't waste a second.

Just when you thought he might slam into the brick wall at the end of the alley, he hung a right and slammed on the brakes. Before you'd so much as blinked he was headed toward the trunk. "Get in the back so you aren't seen."

You thought you were being fast, but by the time you unbuckled and opened the back door he had donned the suit in its entirety. A shiver went down your spine and you stilled. The last time you'd seen him like this was before you knew a him behind the mask. It was somehow scarier knowing it was him. More reckless. It gave an immediate sense of mortality to the Batman; a poorly placed gunshot, a chink in the armor, a moment lacking focus and it was all over.

As he finished tightening a glove he glanced over to you; that same sensation felt looking back at the same doe eyes. The armor felt heavy as its purpose became negligible. Your hair was wet, and your dress hung limply stuck to the side of your thighs. Black began to smudge on your lower lash line, and your lip color had begun to fray. Panic again. He tore away from your spotlight and landed back in the driver's side. Soon as he heard the click of your belt, he gunned it.

After another minute he spoke. "Stay in the car and stay quiet, it's a dangerous neighborhood." You slumped into the back seat and stared up at the ceiling, your mind swirling with the intricacies of how you'd ended up here in Batman's backseat. And the full suit, Christ. He was menacing.

Skrrt. The tires smeared on the pavement as Bruce parked off an adjacent street. You watched as he rummaged in the middle compartment and pulled out a small blue button. A shield went up between the back and front. "Sit up."

You did, instinctively. It almost felt like a remake of the night you'd nearly been assaulted... fuck, why did the suit bring him so much command? He doesn't own me. He doesn't know me. But right now he was the expert, and you were caught in an unfortunate emergency circumstance. He turned and made direct, unwavering eye contact and you twisted your fingers together struggling to contain the pattering spurred in your chest. He looked down and you could breathe again. His voice was low, but not soft. "Good. No one can see you. I'll be back soon."

After Bruce shut the door and began jogging off, the wash of color shifted from red to white. Had the status changed? Relief grabbed you like an ice bath. Visions of guns shooting wildly had threatened to paralyze you. Gotham's 'severe' was Washington's apocalypse.

The shift caused Bruce to move from a jog to a sprint. Gordon emerged from his police vehicle knocking what looked like a remote against the base of his palm. "This damn thing," He knocked it a few more times before the signal faded, leaving the area considerably darker. Gordon threw his hands up. "I meant it to be white. Reports of a homicide."

"Where?"

"Thirteenth floor of the Rimmel Building. There." He pointed to the building a quarter mile northeast. Flashes of light were intermittent out the windows. "Forensics already started. You were a last minute call.

"Now, I've been warned this is graphic." Gordon paused at the doorframe and glanced over at you for a moment before feeling silly. Why would he care, Jim? For all he knew, and as much he wished to stay blissfully ignorant of it, Batman could have done this himself. He faced front and walked through the doorway.

It was somewhat ordinary to Bruce, at first. His eyes caught the trail of blood toward the doorway, a blood-slicked hammer to its left. He always examined the ground first after the flooding.

Your mind had wandered in strange directions the past ten minutes you'd been locked in the back seat of Bruce Wayne's supercar. So. Bruce sent the money. Alfred entered your thoughts, sitting across from you in his office chair, spectacled, talking casually about how Bruce was kinder than he let on, more compassionate. Had he actually been worried about you back at his place? Was this an expression of care? It had sounded like it, but you could not stop your mind from wandering in all the worst directions about the billionaire's intentions. Did growing up with such massive wealth actually rob him of humanity, or did it simply make him ignorant? Was his character still intact? His moral compass? You certainly hadn't heard of Batman going around killing anyone... that was one of the rules you'd found during research for your paper. Did he leave me here as a trap? Should I leave? Curiosity got the better of you, and you decided you wanted to stick around to see what crime was so urgent it warranted a complete redesign of the iconic logo. You temporarily disabled location services on your phone in case anyone might check and question why you were in the middle of an alley at night, which... sent Mar into a frenzy a minute later.

Y/N?? Where the fuck are you?????

You texted her back, reassuring her you were okay. She kept asking you to call until you finally caved, holding the mic close as you whispered. "Mar, I'm fine!"

"Then why are you whispering?"

"I just can't talk right now. I'm fine.”

"I'm not buying that. Speak up or I need to call the police."

When Bruce moved from the ground to eye-level his mouth twitched toward a grimace. A naked man was strung up in a bastardized crucifix via tarnished throwing knives; his body had streams of caked and fresh blood stained and bubbling down his person which clotted in rolls of flesh on the way down. Gravity had made each knife point sag—and there were many—the flesh poking out like it was overstuffed. He took refuge in the lack of evidence for a fight; he hadn't seemed to suffer, at least.

"I can't talk. Please. I'm fine."

"If the next words you speak aren't above a whisper, I'm dialing 911–"

"Okay! I'm fine!" You'd been louder than you'd meant, a double-edged sword of satisfying her request and making yourself vulnerable.

"Say 'it's all good' if you need help." Mar scribbled something in the background.

Bruce walked closer to the man. He made a mental note to invest in some nasal filters as the decayed stench of dead body singed his nose hairs. It looked to be about 15 knives, and—

"What is it?" Gordon whipped his head around at the sound of Batman inhaling. He was inspecting one of the knives. "If you're looking for prints, he didn't leave 'em."

"Do you see this?" He couldn't believe it. A perfect opportunity. Just as he'd stopped looking... The owls were in plain sight, etched cleanly into the handle of each instrument. Gordon came closer, having to take a moment after turning his nose up. "Where?"

"The handle. The owl."

Fateful Beginnings

XII. “exceptionally qualified, equally eager”

parts: previous / next

plot: you receive both celebratory and sobering news which leaves you reeling; back in Gotham, Bruce Wayne solidifies his entrance into society.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, bad health news, cancer, chemo, grief, doctor’s office, shock

words: 2.5k

You woke up the next morning remembering the conversation with your friends, replaying in your mind. You kept thinking about how you told them you'd fucked Bruce. You wished you hadn't. It was wrong. But you were never gonna see him again, and they were never going to tell. It would be too embarrassing for them that they weren't the ones to fuck him, and would never let themselves be outdone. They'd let the world continue to believe he was a virgin before admitting you'd managed to sleep with a billionaire. Outshining them wasn't a possibility.

You swung your legs off the bed and rubbed your eyes before walking out into the hallway. It was suspiciously quiet, with the usual hum of the TV absent. You started when you turned into the kitchen to your parents holding a gift. It was a thick envelope with your name in sloping cursive, and your parents had hardly looked happier... besides when the anonymous benefactor, likely Bruce (you cringed hard at his name) has somehow managed to pay off the family's medical debt. "Here honey," your mother hurried toward you and you took the envelope. Walter ran in between your dad's legs and hopped up on the bed. You laughed and started opening it. "Even he seems excited."

Your fingers nearly cut on the thick cardstock. You pulled out a card in the shape of a graduation hat, and out fell a small slip. It twirled down and made Walter pounce, and you had a game of cat and mouse for a minute before you read the stub. Delta Airlines: SEA—GCA. You looked up but they just urged you to read the card. "Congratulations Y/N! Excited to see you walk at graduation. Love, Mom and Dad." What?? I get to walk? But how?

The next fifteen minutes indulged them explaining that they'd bought tickets last night and went to the store on the way home from their friend's barbecue. "After all the money we saved we could finally afford it. And your father picked out a beautiful hotel for us right next to the airport." The rush of positive feelings left as quickly as they came, lasting not a second longer than your parents shutting the door on their way out. A murkiness settled in your stomach. You didn't plan on ever returning to Gotham. Your parents had never been there either. You hoped you'd never have to deal with its hustle and bustle again. But you were their only child, and you were at least happy that they were happy.

Bruce sat in his wool overcoat in a small, stuffy office on a hard, narrow chair. His thighs were threatening to burst it, and the arms were cutting into his abdomen. He forced a smile to the school secretary as he waited for the university president to arrive. His eyes trailed to the cobwebs in the corner, the dusty books by the window, and eventually the stained carpeting. Our tax dollars pay for this? Alfred needs to know about this so he can get in touch with—no. He stopped himself. Those were his duties now, gone were the days of offloading all public contact to his butler while he kept to his sanctuary. Thankfully, GU's president burst through the doors at that very moment.

"Mr. Wayne! My God! Never in a million years did I think to see you in these halls." The woman was beaming, and Bruce stood up to shake her hand. Even her vigor didn't help the smile he plastered on be any less forced. "Pleasure is all mine, Ms...?"

"Janay Vry, former journalism department head." Her gray bob brushed along the tips of her shoulders. A thought sprinted across his mind. Journalism. Y/N. To bring it up or to not? "I heard you met with one of my students, Ms. Y/L/N."

She beat him to it. "Yes, I apologize. I was unreasonably busy that day. I hope she found another suitor." Y/L/N. Y/L/N. Didn’t quite fit you. It repeated in his mind like a mantra, and reminded him of combing through the commencement… She opened her mouth to speak, and his eyes snagged on an owl pin on her lapel. He'd never seen that before, and it stalled his train of thought.

"So, Mr. Wayne." Ms. Vry sat in the secretary's chair as she shuffled out, looking a bit nervous. He forced his face to remain pleasant as his mind began to investigate. Why was he drawn to that? What energy was it bringing? Did it symbolize anything? "What brings you here today?"

He sat up a bit in his chair, feeling the early stages of bruising as the wood tore at his sides. The right arm was snagging on a particularly thick scar. "Well," He never thought he would say these words, but he needed a platform. An entrance. "I know how late minute this is, so I understand if this is no possibility. I was wondering if I could be a commencement speaker for this year's ceremony." The shaky grin he mustered made him want to slam into a wall. This is so forced. Can she tell?

Ms. Vry had a visible, startled reaction to his question. "Mr. Wayne, wow," she shook her head in disbelief. "Of course, of course." Her smile could've reached her ears, and she started listing off the date, time, and gathering space for the speakers to arrive at prior to the event. "And of course we will amp up security. Yes, I'll get started on that this evening."

Bruce left the halls of GCU with a few pamphlets and a worn jaw. Smiling shouldn't hurt that much. He wondered how long he could keep this act up, and if this was all one big mistake he'd have to forever run away from. It felt like it, as his disheveled self jogged down the concrete steps to a fishbowl of citizens shouting and taking photos. Of course they found me. Christ.

He stared forward at the car, pretending no one was there. He needed this event as a more natural entrance into society. Announcing the Wayne's direct involvement in the city once again. He could imagine the headlines now and imagined how proud his parents might be of him. That was all that mattered. Continuing the Wayne legacy. Doing what my parents never could. He was doing the right thing, and he was utilizing the tools at his disposal. There were areas of society Bruce Wayne could reach that Batman could never, and vice versa. Why didn't I consider this sooner? As he sidled into the driver's seat and relaxed into the tinted windows, he remembered why. He loathed being on display.

The next few days you spent spending time with your family and journaling about losing your entire friend group. It hurt you, more than you even wanted to admit to yourself. Sure, they weren't very good friends, but it was scary staring down the barrel at your only social contacts being your parents. You scrolled around on Bumble for a few hours every day until you ended up hitting a week of being home and days of the most boring conversations you'd ever endured. Your dad had ordered another celebratory pizza, but it felt less fun to not have anyone to text about it.

You still didn't have many answers about your mother's cancer. Later that day was her second chemo appointment since you'd come back, and you offered to drive your mother and take her in yourself. Your dad declined, and said the three of you could all go as a family. It was nice he wanted to stay with her, but it also meant this was more serious. He likely wanted to spend as much time with her as possible. You tried not to think about why.

Pulling up to the clinic, you told your dad to head into the room with your mom. "I'm gonna talk to the doctor for a minute." You went to the receptionist and requested Dr. Righan. The receptionist directed you to a room just down the hall. "He'll meet you in consultation."

You waited anxiously to hear how bad it was while simultaneously indulging your last moments of ignorance. Her weight loss is unrelated. Her walker and wheelchair use is unrelated. Just aging stuff. Maybe she has a bad back like grandma. Yeah, that's it. She's just doing another round of chemo for good measure.

You blinked and it was over. As you came back into your body you saw the door swinging shut behind the doctor who had just come in and delivered the news: it was worse than you thought. Your mother was starting chemo to try and buy her some time before seeing if she got accepted into this clinical trial. "Your mother is exceptionally qualified, and equally eager," the graying man in the white coat had said. "Unfortunately, everyone else is too."

The drive home had you in a haze. Your parents were in the front seats still gushing over how they didn't have to pay at the end of the session, but you couldn't pay attention. The clinical trial roulette was a month from today; in the world's most desperate game of Bingo, random names would be drawn. Half would be assigned a control, half would be assigned the medicine. You couldn't bear the thought of her getting a placebo, but you couldn't bear the thought of her not getting in at all. The doctor had tried to taper her excitement, letting her know most people were not going to be picked. It stung, and left you in a haze for the rest of the night.

At about nine in the evening your dad went for a quick stop at the grocery store. He peeked his head in your room where you sat at your desk, furiously journaling, and asked if you wanted anything. Saying no, he left with an announcement he wouldn't be more than 15 minutes. Finally alone in the house with your mother practically since her initial diagnosis, you wandered to the living room where she sat in a large rocking chair, tucked into an enormous throw blanket. She smiled when you sunk into the couch beside her. "Are you excited to go to graduation?"

No. I'm not excited about anything. I want you to not be sick. "Yeah! It's really exciting, it'll be fun to be back." Your smile was fake as plastic. What if this was the last family trip? The last time on an airplane together? You wanted to go to Fiji, with the white sand and warm water for her to sink into. Paradise, not Gotham. She was genuinely excited however. "Oh I can't wait for you to walk across that stage. Your father is going to cry buckets. Buckets!"

That night you sat at your desk and scribbled more in your journal, now on your twentieth page. Why does she have to be sick. Why does it have to be so bad? Why do I have to go back to Gotham? Gotham. Bruce. I hope he doesn't find me. Maybe he will. He seems to get out more now, more likelihood to see him... ugh. Not the time. And the money thing. How do I bring that up? I don't even know if it was him. Maybe it was Alfred. I don't know. Ugh. How am I even gonna walk in my heels? I don't really want to wear sneakers. Maybe I should? Maybe I should just be myself, and stop trying to fit in? Who cares what I wear to my own graduation? Shouldn't I only care about my own opinion? My head is swirling. Graduation is so soon. You decided to stop writing, since it was getting nowhere. Just jotting down the myriad of thoughts clanking around your skull, and it was keeping you up. The next few days were job hunting, and you needed to look adequately rested... even if it was the last thing you were truly feeling.

No. No. And more no. Every business within a thirty mile radius hadn't even accepted a resume. It hadn't been this way before you left for Gotham a few years back. Your parents were all happy little birds back at home, basking in the glory of having their medical debt paid. "You don't have to worry about getting a job right now hun," your dad had said a few days prior. "Let yourself relax." But you couldn't. Having the money burden gone was a massive relief, sure, but it was a material thing, and you were grappling with potentially having to lose someone. A parent. A mother. There was hardly space for rejoicing.

The morning of graduation you'd forgotten all about it, being woken at four in the morning to head to the airport. The time difference, shit. Your mother's friend from church was dropping you all off, babbling on and on about the local gossip. "And oh my stars, you just wouldn't believe the old Scott girl. Baby number two. With TWO fathers!" You attempted to drown her out via some self-soothing humming, which only drew the attention to you. "And you missy! Why, you're not twenty-six without a ring on your finger! Meet anyone in..." she paused and visibly shuddered, spitting out the word Gotham to finish her pestering. You suppressed an eyeroll. Gotham would eat her alive.

You successfully dodged succeeding questions and found yourself at arrivals. Your parents had a fast-pass through TSA, making boarding surprisingly pleasant. You sat between your mom and dad, trying not to think about landing in a city you thought you'd left far behind.

"Good afternoon passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We are pulling into the terminal in approximately three minutes, so please prepare for landing. Weather is partly-cloudy, with a high of sixty degrees. It is 3pm local time. Thank you for flying with Delta Airlines." Your dad awoke with a strong snore, your mom rustling in her light sleep. "Oh my, already?" She yawned, rolling up her knit blanket into her carry on. "Honey, do they have the wheelchair ready?"

Wheelchair? You still weren't used to it. Wheelchairs aren't bad, you reminded. They're accessible. They help. It doesn't mean she's gonna drop dead tomorrow. Soon enough your dad was helping her into a cab while you wrestled with her chair and the luggage in the backseat of the accessible Uber. The smell stung your nostrils, the familiar taste of copper. The streets were mostly dry, as dry as they could ever get in the city. As you climbed into the passenger seat you briefly thought of the taut leather binding trimming Bruce's car's interior. Stop it. He doesn't exist.

hi! :) how many chapters are you planning on having in fateful beginnings?

Hiiii, so cool to get my first ask! I don’t have a solid grasp on how many chapters I’ll have yet. I’m writing this more discovery-style, so while I have an overarching plot, I’m letting the characters take me where they will. I’m about a third through the story at this point, give or take, but I don’t think that’ll directly translate to 75 chapters lmao. I’m planning on writing much longer chapters going forward (like my most recent one!). The slice of life vibe x slow burn is taking me on quite the unpredictable journey length-wise!

I might have a ‘rewrite’ after I finish the full fic, since I’m posting the chapters as I write them, which would combine the earlier chapters to make it easier to navigate on here, too. I’m used to longer-form (and crossposting this fic from) platforms like AO3 and Wattpad. Very all over the place answer haha, I hope this clears things up at all! 🦇🫶🏼

Fateful Beginnings

XXV. “Mr. Wayne”

parts: previous / next

plot: debuting a new playboy persona, Bruce banks on a moment of reprieve that never comes. after saying goodbye to a friend, you make your way to city hall for a final meeting that leaves both you and the billionaire in a haze.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, romantic tension, infidelity/flirting, mention of sexual harassment, mention of illness

words: 7.4k

a/n: a treat of a chapter for everyone 🏹 thank you for continuing to show fateful so much love! adoring the comments and reblogs, it's so fun to see your reactions ✨ soooo much more to come <3

It'd been long enough of occasional high-profile, low-commitment public escapades as Bruce Wayne. With the candidates coming, he felt it deep in his gut he had to show out and perform. He put on his best suit, had Alfred do his hair. He ordered the most expensive cologne he could find (that didn't seem to be oversaturated on the market like Baccarat Rouge; he knew Bruce would need to keep ahead of the trends) as well as the watch. He spritzed Guerlain Tobacco Honey on his wrists, chest, and neck before getting into his Bugatti. He spent so many millions in one week Alfred had checked if this was some sort of mental breakdown. He assured him it was 'only necessary' and 'only temporary', and that these items would eventually make good money at a charity auction.

When he arrived (after making a showy tip to the valet), he made a beeline for the cocktails. He asked the steward to give him a mocktail, quietly, and with a successfully deceiving martini in hand, he moseyed about the room and made small talk in a booming voice. Rich guys aren't afraid to take up space and well, as the richest man in the room...

He sipped his martini as an incredulous man's gaze lingered on his wrist. A moment of hesitation and the man appeared mere inches from his glass. "Mr. Wayne, I couldn't help but notice your Patek. Is that the Philippe Chime?" Hook, line, and sinker. He nodded, as if it were confusing the man would even approach him. He had a split second to deliberate on an asshole persona or a charming one. An easy decision, remembering his family image needed all the support possible after the antics of Edward Nashton. "Ah, a man with good taste."

They chatted for a moment about different watches and stocks (thank god Bruce had remembered to talk to Alfred to get a refresher), until a tall woman in a red silk dress tugged on his elbow. After a small laugh and excusing himself, he turned to face the blue-eyed blonde. Her smile was sparkling white and veneered, and her face didn't move a wink. "Mr. Wayne, excuse me if this is too brash but, I need to know the name of that cologne." She smiled bigger, flit her lashes, and whispered to him. "If you can't tell me, I might just have to replace you with my husband."

Oh this was going to kill him before the night was out. He grinned wider, flashing teeth, and performed a rehearsed laugh; he lowered his voice to match her evocation. "We wouldn't want that, now would we?" He winked, internally cringed so hard he thought he'd turn to diamond, and watched as she gave him a once over and walked sultrily back to the man she'd so brazenly been willing to abandon.

He knew he couldn't be seen standing around, and moved swiftly over to a gaggle of men with their martinis delicately in their left hands, positioned just below their breast pocket. The chandelier to his right kept twinkling in his periphery like an omniscient presence.

"Mr. Wayne, this renewed presence of yours..."

This was gonna hurt. "I'm glowing, right?" He flashed a bright smile and all the men grinned and rolled their eyes, their wives blushing demure side glances amongst themselves. Am I going to have to keep this up forever? Good God. He shook his head and leaned his weight on his left hip. Sip, absentmindedly. Look as if perusing through a scrapbook of memories. "There's this spa in Dubai, it does wonders for the spirit. And the body." He laughed again, feeling like he was shoving out the very last oxygen from the deepest well of his chest. "This past Spring I jetted over there for a few week-long stays, nothing crazy."

"Playboy bootcamp, hmm?" A woman in a midnight blue dress stood by Mr. Gavenstein, a popular investment broker on the Northwest side of town. Gavenstein glanced hard at her for a split second before interrupting her seduction. In all honesty he couldn't blame the ladies, remembering from a few summer camps that many upper-class Gothamite girls were raised to marry wealthy—and to lend no concern to things as trivial as loyalty to men who were probably cheating on them anyway.

As Gavenstein talked to the group (but mostly to Bruce), it became difficult to hide his increasingly strained attempts at mellowness. Bruce's first night at one of these city hall meetings a handful of years ago had led to the one and only time he'd gone out with these men, and every single waitress and bartender who served them that night got a side of sexual harassment from the husband himself. The ring his wife wore looked like it'd been longer than a few years since they gave their vows, corroborated by the same subtle chip in the gold of his wedding band. Bruce had made a small comment about the 'strange lack of respect people had for staff', and tipped the servers a few thousand each on the way out. He made it a point to lay as low as possible from that point on.

The man in the same white linen shirt interrupted the reverie by opening the door to the conference room with an announcement. "The meeting will convene in two minutes, but tonight we have an intermission at half time for the candidates to prepare their initial statements."

This schtick wasn't easy, but it was easier now that you weren't here. With the conference room's opening and you nowhere to be found, it left him no choice but to know with surety you'd left back to Washington and cut your losses. He bristled at the thought, but paid it no mind. No one here knew this wasn't the real him; no one here would be scanning to see if his hand was clenched in his pocket to try and metabolize the anxiety of performing. And if someone did notice, he would be able to effectively lie that he'd hurt his hand playing polo. Bridgit wasn't here either, and he let his shoulders relax knowing he wouldn't be grilled until he walked into the foyer of Wayne Tower.

He followed the men into the room with its sturdy, polished mahogany table set, making sure to chatter with the people at his side—until Convoy shot him a confused look as he struggled to control the din and start the meeting. Be annoying, but never rude. Feign innocence, seem to mean well. As embarrassing as it was, he had binged a smattering of critically-acclaimed films all week to prepare his psyche only to realize upon stepping back into this lion's den he'd already studied these men enough to camouflage.

Dr. Vry had been suspiciously apologetic upon your return to her office to grab supplies. She gave you the 'very best' voice recorder, a sparklingly new leather-bound notebook, and 'only the finest' 'Italian' fountain pen. As you hurried out the door she told you to keep everything but the recorder, and 'not to worry' about the price. Her Hermés Birkin bag sat bright and pink in the corner, making a mockery of whatever 'expensive' ink lie in the pen.

While she had largely been unhelpful, she had told you ahead of time that this city hall meeting would be inundated with candidates and their teams, meaning there would be an intermission halfway through meeting time. At seven sharp you'd be in the lobby waiting to whisk him to a room she'd already secured for the fifteen minutes between sessions. The key glimmered on your keyring under the shimmering streetlights as you walked to city hall.

On the way you stopped at Rai's. The store wafted with the familiar warm scent of a perfectly spiced, decadent deli, and he beamed at seeing you again. You grinned and pulled out your wallet to get a container of tabbouleh. Rai, with his deep, reverberating voice, teased you as he took the bills. "Strange woman you are, no lettuce boat! Straight 'bouleh."

"I like the tartness, what can I say?" You watched him scoop up a double helping than the cash you'd given, and felt a pang of sadness. He's the only one that's been consistent my whole time here. The only person that seems to genuinely enjoy my presence. If the two of you hadn't known each other better (coming off of a night of particularly hard partying at Mora's your first term) you might have thought he was simply schmoozing a loyal customer. But Rai had patched you up after icy falls on the way for snacks, chatted with you about early dating troubles, and you'd given him advice on how to care for his sister's elderly cat. When his grandfather had been in the hospital, and he'd received the call as you were checking out some Nutter Butters, you'd covered the rest of his shift without question. You'd had to pull an all-nighter because he'd left the keys on his keychain, but nonetheless.

"Getting ready for another school year?" Rai handed you the tabbouleh and a to-go spoon. You averted your eyes, lost in thought. "No, I'm moving home actually." The statement reminded you that Mar had yet to get back to you officially about moving things tomorrow.

His face fell, his brows pulling together. "Gotham has plenty jobs available." Now he was standing right across from you at the register, his arms crossed around his chest so he could rest closer on his elbows. "Don't tell me this is permanent!"

Anxiety was rising in your chest because you didn't want to say goodbye to him, he was possibly the only good thing in Gotham. C'mon, just uproot your entire family and move your business to nowhere Washington. "My mom is sick, actually." The truth spilled out easily for him, and thankfully no customers came in during your retelling with the tears beginning to streak your cheeks. After a few anguishing moments talking over her prognosis, he walked around the counter to wrap you in a hug. His hand was firm and soothing against your back. "Make sure you do what is best for you. If that means leaving the city, leave the city. But you must take a summer here at least once! I will feed you and your family for free."

You hoped Rai's would still be open if you did ever visit. He was the kindest man you think you'd met here, and it was a blessing he was still open—whenever someone was hungry, he'd feed them. He practically ran his own soup kitchen on the weekends, when the houseless would line up to pick some meals from his deli. As far as you knew he relied wholly on catering jobs to make the bulk of his rent. Do I even want to come back? It felt like Bruce owned this city; as much as you'd pushed back when he'd said Gotham was his, it kind of... was. His family's shadow was cast over every street and alley like a weeping willow; but that wouldn't stop you from visiting Rai. "I'll make sure of it, thanks." You grabbed your tabbouleh and spoon, and walked to the doorway with its little signs and small wind chimes. He smiled and waved at you from the register. "Thanks for being a friend, Rai. See you around!"

"I'm only saying, none of these candidates seem to actually want the best for the city."

"Well we gotta pick one of them, right? Unless one of us wants to run."

The candidates hadn't set foot in the conference room yet the space was alight with debate. Convoy had precipitated the intermission by rallying off the candidates' stances in small blurbs. "Ms. Grange is in favor of tax cuts, Mr. Hady wants to tax the churches, and Mr. March wants to increase taxes on... all of you."

"Can you believe that guy," Gavenstein was two to Bruce's left, and nudged the man closest to him. "Thinks he can waltz in here and empty our pockets." His graying hairs were sculpted fashionably above his ears on either side of his head; Bruce wondered if he painted them on to appear wise.

"The only person in this room left with a decent account would be Wayne." The man to his left chuckled and glanced at Bruce, then leaned back in his chair. Christ. He would've rather watched paint dry, then chipped off a mansion's worth of said paint with a single thumb than hear that noise again.

Bruce wanted to stay out of it, he actually wanted to leave this room forever and never come back, but that wasn't his new M.O. "At least he had the guts to say it to our faces." He got a few shrugs and murmurs before the next guy spoke.

"Grange wants tax cuts, now there I'm willing to listen."

"Hady, an attack on the churches? Isn't that unconstitutional?" The man to Bruce's right spoke like he'd never said the word before, and he stifled a laugh at how blatantly they grasped at straws to sound informed. Like a cold glass of water, Convoy announced it was intermission and to find the lobby for the next few minutes. "Our caterer has prepared ample appetizers for the break. Please enjoy!"

Lincoln... how to avoid him... As he walked out Bruce braced himself for being bombarded by the man, his opponents, and excess reporters. Never spoken to them before, don't have to speak to them now... or did he? Next week. Or the week after. He'd have more than enough time to be interviewed and photographed during the rest of this election cycle. It was already enough for him to burst simply talking with the usual suspects that didn't have a recorder on their person. He'd read up a bit on the candidates in the moments between marathoning movies and deduced a small amount about them, though the blurbs on their campaign sites seemed hastily written. Grange was indeed wanting to cut as many taxes as she could get away with, Hady was set on making sure churches paid equal tax while simultaneously cutting taxes on the elite (seemed personal), and March... well, he just wanted all the rich people to be less rich. Bruce had yet to parse if he was only not bothered by that because he had more money than someone could ever tax away.

The lobby was shockingly crowded. Three individual, large clusters splayed across the room supported the candidates, their teams swarming like flies. Reporters stood with their mics and recorders throughout, some with point-and-shoot cameras limp in their bored hands. The very second he was out of the doorframe, all eyes snapped his direction. This has to get easier eventually, right? Right? He walked to grab another mocktail, counting each step to force his nervous system to regulate. He waited behind a blonde reporter after effectively sussing out whether it was Bridgit back for revenge. He closed his eyes and took some deep, slow breaths. In, out. Innn, outttt, nose, mouth... palo santo? He'd smelled that warmth before.

"Bruce."

He spun around to see you standing with your same recorder, a different notebook, and the same slight reflection under your eyes as when you'd come out of the bathroom the night you'd gone missing. A nauseating blend of relief and anxiety displayed brightly across his face. "Y/N."

Bruce looked as he usually did now, with his perfectly slicked hair that fell just slightly askew across his forehead to look like he'd woken up that way. Only now instead of a suit he donned a dark gray cashmere sweater; it read as fancy as one, due to how expertly it had been fitted to his torso, and the same went for his slacks. You admired the fact he didn't seem wholly catering to the people here, or he'd be decked out in some starchy suit. The only way you could tell he wasn't replaced with a robot was how his face turned up looking at you.

The clock was ticking, and the room was just across the hall. You hadn't thought it would be this busy with reporters—how were you going to get him into the room without suspicion? You adjusted the PRESS badge to be loud and clear across your back, since that's what they'd be seeing. You let the notebook slip slightly to take up more real estate on your silhouette, trying to look as official as possible. "I need an interview with you. I got us a room." You strode past for him to follow in tow, knowing otherwise he'd overwhelm you with questions that would only waste the clock. Heavy footsteps behind you (how was he the picture of stealth in the heavy suit?) alerted you to his compliance.

You messed with keys on your keyring and jammed it into the lock, which was stuck. You expected him to gaff and make a snide comment, but nothing interrupted the silence. A few moments later and the door opened cleanly to a dark conference room about half the size of the one he'd just came from. As he made his way quietly in and shut the door behind him, walking easily to his seat, you grew increasingly suspicious and frustrated. He pulled these emotions out of you so easily it was almost clinical. His compliance frustrates me? I almost want to call him out on it, but we don't have time. In, and out.

The notebook slid across the heavy glass with a small squeak. First page was clean, and you pulled out the insert you'd tucked into the middle. The other half of the table was so silent you had to monitor your periphery to see if he hadn't somehow made a getaway. Unfolding the beige paper in the middle revealed your printed question sheet. You cleared your throat to give the customary announcements you'd role played so much in intro journalism. "I'm with the Gotham Gazette, and this interview will be transcribed and published in next week's paper, both physical and digital." You glanced up to see him sitting nicely with his hands rested together on the table top. Through the streaking in the glass you could see the ghosts of where he had first placed his hands. You drew a deep breath. He makes intimidating eye contact. "Feel free to decline answering any question, all I ask is that you answer things as honestly as possible. Though I may cut answers short if they run long. As this is your first interview we would like things to be as comprehensive as possible, outside of what is already known via public record. As soon as I ask the first question I will hit RECORD." You clicked your pen ready and hovered above the switch. Your hesitation combined with his silent acceptance of this made the room drop twelve degrees. "Is there any topic off limits, Mr. Wayne? You and your team will not be able to edit your answers after the fact."

Mr. Wayne? He clenched his fingers against the backs of his hands. His eyes narrowed, but your eyes were fixated on the ruled paper beneath you. You must've cried on the way here, your tear troughs were still slick. Bad news at home? Scared of him? You'd rather get fired than be in this room talking. What could've brought you back? He shook his head. "Not that I can think of. I'll let you know."

So cordial. You clicked RECORD after landing on an acceptable first question. "Mr. Wayne, this is your first public interview. Why did you choose to break the silence now?" You readied your pen to jot any additional questions that spurred from his answers.

He'd anticipated this question months ago and had an immediate response. "The timing finally feels right. For so long I hid, still feeling trapped by my parent's murder. Now that I've hit 30, well... I realized I need to make myself useful. You could say I finally figured out I didn't have to die with my parents."

Jeez, that's rough. You pressed on with the follow-up without obvious sympathy. "I'm sure many are wondering why the timing was not right after the historic flooding? Gotham was in dire need."

"I didn't want anyone to mistake my intentions. I figured if I were to do public-facing work, it would read as opportunistic. I don't want to capitalize off of tragedy. I spent my time working on the back side of rebuilding."

Hmm, convenient. But you couldn't say that on tape. You still refused to look at him, buried into your notes. You'd seen him in the doorway, how he'd transformed from a recluse to an unapologetic schmooze overnight. On your way to get him at the snack table you'd heard some women talking about flirting with him at the meeting's front end. Was he genuinely as good as he seemed? His intentions only the purest and brightest? You struggled to believe it.

"Speaking of rebuilding, at Gotham University's commencement you announced a desire to invest in Gotham city. Any sneak peeks for your Spring 2025 rollout?"

In truth, he hadn't started. He figured he'd speak to Alfred, get a board meeting set up, meet with his investors, and within a month there would be a budget drawn up for his funds. He figured he could start it early in the new year, but your delicately tamed tongue nor floundering public opinion would be charmed by the honest answer of 'I've put it off'. "Pass."

That bristled you, and for a half-second you seriously considered stopping the tape; but this wasn't personal. It couldn't be.

Why aren't you looking up? So... stoic. Guarded. Sitting down here had happened so quickly, with no fuss or snide commentary. Did Vry outfit you with a shock collar and a mic? As much as he hated your rustling, the stillness was more uncomfortable, eerie even. It was like you had a moat between the both of you, with armed guards ready to fire.

The LED lighting was causing an ache in your temples. Your feet were cramping from walking halfway across town in heels through cobbled streets, and being in a closed room with Bruce was choking out your oxygen. Every time you saw him he grew larger, and tonight was far from the exception. You'd been smacked with his cologne at a ten foot radius, he was actually taking up social space in the foyer, he'd worn well-tailored clothing for once... next question. Ask it. "With efforts towards rebuilding a better Gotham in your near future, we have come to know the business side of you far more than the personal. What brings you joy in your everyday life, away from the cameras?"

These questions were far kinder than he'd anticipated from you. Did Vry... threaten you? He refocused on your question to try and rid of the thought before he blurted it out to you. He didn't know what brought him joy, but it didn't seem the type of question to skip. His heart fell into his chest as he continued to come up empty-handed, no matter how deep he sifted into his memory.

It'd been thirty seconds and still no answer. He'd forced your hand to look up at him, and his face was pale. His eyes moved from left to right as he peered at the center of the table. Does he ever feel joy? When do I feel joy?

If this were any other reporter he would lie. Say he loved meeting with people in the city. Loved traveling. Loved sports. Maybe he woke up every morning with the songbirds, a cup of coffee in his right hand and the daily stock exchange pulled up on his MacBook. Maybe his muscles were from a home gym, playing polo, sparring with his butler. That won't fly with you. But this wasn't about you. Even still, as he tried with utmost desperation to sink it into his skull, he couldn't get the words to form in your presence.

Do I ask him if he heard me? Clarify? "Mr. Wayne," He met your gaze and it constricted your chest. You were afraid. Afraid of him and his influence, afraid of writing a good enough essay, afraid of the time running out, afraid of your mother's condition, afraid for your father if she passed, afraid for yourself and this debilitating loneliness that sat like a brick in your gut.

He spit the word out. "Pass."

God that was sobering. You swallowed a hard lump in your throat, and the room went stale in the silence. A dissonant sensation of camaraderie fluttered between the two of you. You drew a sharp and deep breath. You'd had cramps this morning, your period was on the way. You'd have cried if a dog looked at you the wrong way; this new sympathy was environmentally influenced. Next. Question. "What motivates you?"

He stared at you, blank-faced. When would this facade break? Almost imperceptibly you narrowed your eyes in response. "My parents. I want to make the city safer so no one else has to lose anyone. My parents believed in Gotham. I want to make them proud."

If only they knew their son was an infamous vigilante. Next question. You didn't have this written down, but followed off his last answer. "You speak very fondly of your parents, even after what Riddler said of them. Two months after the tragedy, Commissioner Gordon made a statement on behalf of Wayne Enterprises. Is there anything you'd like to add to it?"

If his response hadn't been succinct and wholly accurate to his feelings, he might have regretted spitting something out without thinking. "My father was a good man. Everything in the statement I gave Gordon can be corroborated. It wasn't right what he did, trying to bribe a reporter into silence, and I do not support that in any circumstance. But that is all that he did. Falcone is the one who decided to threaten and murder an innocent."

You might strike that question in editing, as he didn't add any additional information outside of what was already public record. Glancing at your phone showed that five minutes had already passed. You pressed on. "Speaking of your parents, what positive memory stands out when you think of them?" This would be the last question related to his parents; you gathered it was a kind segue between what was known to the public and comfortable to Bruce, and more personal questions.

Except, it wasn't that easy. Bruce sat in silence again, unable to stir up positive memories. This combination of questions was making him dizzy from shame. How the hell could he not remember a good memory with his parents? He knew he had good memories, he knew there'd been beautiful times with his mom, his dad. He knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Yet... "Pass."

You shut your notebook and turned off the recorder. He watched it like a hawk. "If talking about your parents is off-limits, tell me."

Bruce shook his head, a bit too fast and a bit too hard. "My mind is cloudy tonight."

"Finally gave in and drank on the job?" He certainly hadn't been in line for the food.

He shot a glare at you, a glare that caught the light for a brief second, exposing you to the rich blue of his irises. "Thinking about it." He sat his head in his hands. You were left stunned, looking at the back of his head across the table. Tower Bruce would've said something brutal back to you, maybe even accused you of being an alcoholic. He was unarmored. It was unnerving.

You let the silence sit. He stayed with his nose nearly touching the table, his hands massaging the back of his neck, slowly, thoroughly, painstakingly. For the first time since knowing him you felt like you were sharing space with an actual human... nah, not quite. He still stalked my family. When he looked like this though, this was his greatest defense against being found out. Batman didn't read as sensitive or lost in troubled thoughts. The same muscles rippled down his shoulders and back, but the bullets had been removed from the gun.

The silence went on, and it must've been another two minutes passed staring at him. You could've color picked his hair at a Home Depot you'd been so well acquainted with its hue. You remembered you hadn't truly responded to him when he'd told you why he paid for your parent's debt. You gripped the sides of the chair and broke the extended silence. "Was it true what you said about your, motive?"

He roused, barely. His eyes were tired, his body limp like a ragdoll. More hair had fallen across his forehead, and after the impromptu neck massage his clothes looked a bit haggard, wrinkled in new places and scrunched up just below his ribcage. He wanted to clarify what you meant about motive, but he didn't want to give you the glee of knowing he had no idea what you were talking about. His body was melting in front of you, relaxing until he became one with the chair, but his mind was frantic and frayed. Motive about Batman? Motive about wanting to help Gotham? Why weren't you asking him more interview questions? Why were you here?

The silence had been too long and you already regretted asking him. You flicked the recorder back ON. "Mr. Wayne,"

"Y/N."

OFF. "That's not professional,"

"I never officially agreed to this anyway."

"What do you mean? Dr. Vry said—"

"What did she say?"

"She told me you'd only talk to me."

"Why would I only talk to you?"

This felt strangely reminiscent of when you'd awoken in his bed. Anything that connected the both of you was tossed aside like a rotten, wormy apple by the billionaire. You hoped he felt too accosted to recognize the hurt in your tone. "She said you asked for me, Bridgit said,"

He rolled his eyes. "I couldn't tell them I was worried,"

"Why?"

"You left in the middle of the mission."

"I left a note."

His scoff echoed off the whiteboard. "I'm supposed to trust that?"

He pissed you off so easily. Leaving me alone in an alleyway, expecting me to just stay put? After he'd effectively bribed me? "You're lucky I left anything at all."

"Lucky..." He laughed as he shook his head. The guts of you.

The nerve on him. You tucked your chin up and away from him. "What tech did you use to find me?"

This again. "Nothing."

I'm supposed to believe that? "Sure."

"I waited until the next meeting. When you didn't show,"

"You asked where I was, okay, I get it." There was a part of you that believed Bruce, or at least wanted to; a part of you that begged to turn off your brain and naively believe all the pretty words from the pretty man so you wouldn't have to feel so on edge. If you believed him, you weren't supposed to listen to the frustration, the lashing out, the way he spit his words at you graduation night. You were supposed to kindly follow him into the dark and abandoned streets of Gotham night life. He'd only accidentally seen your texts, looked you up, found your mother's doctor, and put his card on file, and all out of the kindness of his heart. It had nothing to do with you knowing information that could land him behind bars. He didn't do bribes. He was just another upstanding citizen who spent his nights breaking people's jaws.

"How dumb do you think I am?" If this was really your last night here, he really had no answers, and he really wouldn't hurt you, nothing would come from a little hotheadedness.

He struggled to size you up. "What are you talking about?"

"Yeah, my mom's sick. But I don't think you're out here filling up GoFundMe's—why me?"

"I don't know."

"How could it not be a bribe? Do you regularly pay other people's medical bills?"

You'd backed him into a corner... or maybe he had. "I felt compelled."

"Because I know confidential information about you."

You weren't not making sense, it just wasn't what had happened inside his head. He didn't know what happened in his head, besides his snaring, insistent fixation on how quickly you'd found him out. "I don't think that played a part."

"This is why I asked if you think I'm an idiot, because? You 'don't think' it did?" Your fingers made air quotes for good measure.

"I don't have a good answer for it."

"That's not the same as not having one."

He loathed to admit it, but you had a strong point. When you put it so frankly it begged suspicion. "Maybe I believed you more than I thought. A thank you instead of bribery." Your blank face compelled him to speak again. "Saying you wouldn't tell."

"Then why were you so mad at me that night? When you found me?"

How could he navigate away from this conversation as quickly as possible while evading your suspicions? What would he do if you asked why he'd needed your help? "I was having a rough time."

"You seemed to really not believe me."

"I was in my head."

"So what's it now?”

He barely heard you through cascading thoughts. He liked being seen; he hadn't internalized it, maybe because he couldn't fathom accepting it even months after the fact, but it felt relieving to be known. Well... equal parts relieving and terrifying. What if you knew the only reason he was here right now was because you found him out? He shrugged, a move that was too casual for you. "I hope you won't."

You glanced at your phone again and saw it'd been over ten minutes. Any moment now someone could come looking for him and your window would be gone. If he were any less analytical, you might have thought he read your mind. "The meeting resumes any minute."

"Then let's use what we have." You slammed open your notebook and tried to find a question that wasn't related to his parents, childhood, or any positive emotions. You paused before pressing RECORD, begrudgingly asking for consent to interview, since apparently Dr. Vry hadn't cleared it with the man. "Are you fine with doing this interview?"

What choice did he have? He feared Vry would never lay off of him (or you, if it mattered) if he were to deny you. And if he were being completely honest, who would he be at all willing to talk to outside of you? You were aggravating and abrasive, but because of that he was allowed to turn 'off', even if just a bit. As his mouth opened to say a begrudged yes, he came to a peculiar standstill—in that he realized he might have deflected interviews all this time as a coping mechanism. Maybe he didn't have a personality outside of the Batman, and Batman himself was only borne of tragic grief. He didn't know what propelled him to honesty, but he averted his eyes and did just that. "I don't think I have answers."

The tone in which he said it brought back the earlier sympathy pang tenfold. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling a desire to poke fun and steamroll past the palpable despair in the room, but you were finished fighting. You'd be home tomorrow night, and soon the only thing on your mind would be making a life for yourself away from Gotham. This place had served its purpose, turning black and burnt as you further overstayed your welcome. This city was so big and you so gone from it you could crash into a building and abandon the car in Kansas without being caught; what meaningful consequence could come from being temporarily kind to someone who would forget you in the next five years? He didn't have answers, and that was... fine. "You have a good reason to feel that way."

He knew you were talking about the murder of his parents, and suspected this was some sort of personal comparison. After some deliberation, he went for it. "And you don't?"

You wanted to retort something about how he didn't know anything about your relationship with your parents, your life, or general wellbeing, so much so that it sat on the tip of your tongue like a yellowjacket freshly landed on its target. You cooled its vice grip by considering just how fucked up you'd feel if you'd seen your parents get shot to hell lying in a pool of their own bloody excrement. "My parents didn't get murdered in front of me."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't want pity. I've had enough of it."

"No, I'm saying it makes sense. Grief is..." You shook your head and sighed. "Strangling. All-consuming."

Shit. He'd expected you to say 'just get over it'. Thankfully he didn't have to scramble much before a hard KNOCK took the space. Foregoing polite hesitation, Mr. Convoy entered. "Mr. Wayne! We thought you might have flown the coop." A watery grin. "Please, the candidates are settling into the conference room." He glanced for a moment around the smaller, darker room you three stood in. "Well, the main conference room."

Convoy held the door open wide and a hand out to mime leaving, obviously anticipating Bruce would simply follow orders and stand to attention. No acknowledgement of you. He didn't like that. When he rose, following a squick of the seat, Convoy stepped just outside the doors in waiting. The door was wide open, and by the way his eyes tracked the floor in front of him he was very much still listening. He maneuvered round the table and hovered at your side, facing the door that was to your back. He spoke quietly, but loud enough that Convoy wouldn't think he was listening in on a secret. "Next week. Should have more time."

You'd gotten yourself into this mess by opening a can of worms. Frustrated and kicking yourself, you groaned. "This has to be in by tomorrow at 9am." Once again he was filling your periphery; you tried not to breathe through your nose, suspicious that the warmth of the honey could subconsciously warm you to him. His brows knit together as they so often did, and you felt a jump in your gut.

"Mr. Wayne?" Convoy peeked his head in and startled Bruce, whose fingers clenched momentarily, reflexively moving toward a fist. God, he's so Batman. "They'll be closing the doors soon."

"It's fine, I'll talk to Dr. Vry before I leave. It's my fault, I'll rip the bandaid off." You stood up and gathered your things. She's gonna hate me for this, but I never have to see her again. I never should've lied. I never should've felt entitled, I could've done anything and I chose this fucking mess. You could already tell you were going to have a miserable rest of the night, but at least you didn't have to type up an interview anymore.

Leave? He glanced down the hall to see the doorman looking befuddled in his direction, but there were still a few stragglers making their way in. He calculated he had about thirty seconds before attention was glaringly drawn to his absence.

You pushed your chair in and it slammed against the corner of the table, smashing your pointer and middle fingers. Bruce tracked the movement, like he always did, and you noticed it, like you always did. "She'll be angry."

Now it was your turn to shrug something off. "Can't get fired twice." Vaguely aware of Mr. Convoy's presence, you held out your hand and forced your eyes to make contact with his, the motion as heavy as lifting a slab of concrete. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne."

His hand was warm and strong. He pulled some vetiver from your perfume. His eyes were such a gentle, crystalline blue that for a nanosecond, you forgot they were his. If they weren't, you could've stared into them all night. And your eyes, they were enchantingly bright and equally deep. For no longer than a brief moment, a single split hair, something sacrilegious flickered in your eye and reflected back in his.

Quick breath in, arms back to position.

Walking out of the room felt like a hard reset. The ping-pong game of emotions Bruce had just pulled out of you was erratic. Frustration, anger, sadness, camaraderie, helplessness, defiance, sympathy, and... You barely remembered what either of you had said at all. It felt... weird. You felt doused in a blanket of sticky emotional sweat, the most peculiar, offputting sensation you'd ever felt. Mr. Convoy led Bruce towards the foyer, and by the time you finished locking up he'd been swarmed by women who pet his forearm with their long, delicate fingers. You noticed his left hand tucked away into his slacks, tense and clenched. He glanced back and caught your stare at his pocket, and deja vu grabbed him by the throat.

You took the back exit, but he couldn't linger on it. He strolled into the room and sat down, this time not by Lincoln, who was standing third in line by Grange and Hady. He flexed his hand beneath the table, his left hand absentmindedly tracing the inside of his palm; slow, swirling zigzags painted across the high points down to his wrist. He tapped his foot impatiently, revved up and jittery.

Grange was first up, standing at a haphazardly placed podium. Her assistant adjusted the mic and handed over a folder, presumably filled with projective data and other persuasive elements for the bored elitist crowd. As much as he wanted to tether himself to this conversation, echoes of his dad's voice tempting him to cling to every word said by the candidates, his mind was with you. In a few minutes you'd be long gone, never able to be contacted again. Every second he sat in this stiff chair was a foot's more distance between the both of you.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for hearing me tonight." Her midwestern accent only pushed the words further out of active listening territory. His foot tapped anxiously, each sentence increasing its fervor. You could be in an Uber by now. Already at your hotel room.

"I differ from the other candidates in my distinctive approach to city taxes. I'll be passing around a chart showing..." Her voice completely left his head as her silver cufflink glinted off the fluorescents. The insignia taunted him, its beak and feathers embedded under his epidermis, just searching for a vein to latch onto.

Fuck. He stood so abruptly the security nearly lunged at him from the doorway. His chest was heaving and there was nothing he could do about it. His brow beaded with sweat, and there was nothing he could do about it. He stammered a response to save face. "Excuse me, I need to use the restroom. Carry on, please." He was already out the door.

Frantic eyes traced the perimeter of the room; reporters whipped their heads up, and a quick glance to the entry revealed a steady stream of paparazzi fighting for the sliver of window. You'd left through the back. He sped toward the hallway in a desperate haze, his good sense rapidly falling by the wayside as he turned the corner to the emergency exit. The instant mildewed, cool air smacked his cheek he broke down the alleyway; a paparazzi had been looking down a side alley from the front of city hall and noticed Bruce's rush. His name shouted behind him, then a cacophony of scuffling feet and metal. He broke into a sprint, the slick soles of his dress shoes struggling against the wet pavement. He careened down side streets, cloaked in shadow from ill-wired streetlamps, his eyes busy with a constant scan for your silhouette. Universe willing, he would—found you.

Fateful Beginnings

XVI. “sweetener”

parts: previous / next

plot: after months of rejections, a certain offer crops up with such sweetener you can’t possibly resist… though you wish it was under better circumstance.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, talk of death, grief, cancer, angst, unintentional weight loss

words: 3.9k

The next two months were a blur. Your days melted together, only distinguishable by doctor's visits and which job rejected you that day. The economy was in shambles; going on Indeed you were seeing hundreds of applications to a single Dunkin' barista job. You tried your best to forget about Bruce Wayne, and kept replaying the conversation over and over in the week following. His promise not to hurt you, the vague sense of safety and danger you got when you were around him... but it was soothing knowing that he was all the way on the other side of the US. This relief went away when it was deep into the night and you remembered he had all the money, all the tech, all the opportunity to hunt you down if he wanted to, but you did your best to trust the humanity he fronted with. You kicked yourself for forgetting to bring up the loan thing, adrenaline having been coursing through your veins blocking out any real coherent thought outside of the direct moment. It couldn't have been him, it could've been another donor. Maybe it was even Alfred checking my texts when I’d gone to the bathroom or some shit.

The days still blurred together however, and secretly you relished not knowing what day it was; not knowing meant you didn't know how close the draw was. Your mother's clinical trial started beginning of August, and would be a biweekly shot... if she was accepted. At each and every appointment leading up to that fateful day the staff engaged in tempering assurances, albeit assuring hardly anyone would make it into that trial. For a split second whenever a doctor or nurse mentioned it at the end of her appointments you felt a white-hot rod in your throat that froze you in your tracks. The doctors said this was her only hope. And only if she avoids placebo.

Walter was growing increasingly anxious as well. Walter refused to leave her side to the point you had called the office to see if they would ever make an exception to bring a cat inside. No. Allergies. Your dad had taken to staying home with him, otherwise he would go on a food strike. It would take hours of petting and cooing to him to make him comfortable enough to eat again if your mom ever got out of his sight. It was better with your dad there, though. Instead of three hours of cuddling, it might take two for him to eat again. You tried not to think about what would ever happen if your mom's battle ended... poorly.

Your dad started going back to work, only part time. You made sure to spend all the time possible out in the living room with your mother and Walter while she knit and pulled pieces of yarn from Walter's teeth, and watched some sort of romcom. When your dad came back you would all start cooking dinner, then eat, engage in some sort of discussion (your dad had taken to downloading an 'icebreaker' app and would pull one question each day from it) and then you'd spend the rest of the night submitting job apps. It was monotonous, a bit draining, but also sweet. It was such a far cry from Gotham that at just over a month gone from the city, you'd started to wonder if you'd dreamt it and you'd actually been here with them all along... until the day before the clinical trial announcement when you'd woken up to a particular email.

Dear Miss Y/L/N,

It is at the referral of Gotham City University President Dr. Janay Vry that we extend to you an offer of employment in the position of JOURNALISM DEPARTMENT ASSISTANT for the academic year of 2024-25. This is a part-time position requiring 20 hours of on-site time per week including outreach of no more than 5 hours per week. Duties include management of a public column in the Gotham Gazette and various office responsibilities as-needed. Compensation includes a housing stipend of fifteen-hundred dollars per month and an hourly rate of forty-three dollars and forty-five cents.

Please respond before Friday, August 2nd at 5pm. There is a mandatory meeting on Monday, August 5th at 12 noon in Challey Hall, Room 245. Flight and one-week hotel stay will be provided upon acceptance.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Gotham City University Faculty Administrator

You stared at the screen as if you'd seen a ghost. For weeks you hadn't had to worry about Gotham; the crime, the sleazes, Bruce Wayne. I'm balls deep in rejections and now Gotham sweetens the deal. You kicked the sheets off of you then paused, horrified, before remembering Walter didn't sleep in your bed anymore.

Breakfast was as usual. Your dad made omelets and the three of you made small talk about the happenings of the day ahead. Today your mother was getting a visit from Debra, her old friend from the Y back when she volunteered there on weekends. Your dad was working the same shift—10am to 3pm—and would put steak on the grill when he got back. "Looks like it might hit a hundred if we get lucky."

"Y/N," She asked after taking a sip of coffee. "Can you make sure Walter's water is filled? I think I might go to Debra's to get out of the house." You looked under the table to see Walter slurping up the last puddles of his water and rose to fill it. You grabbed a few ice cubes so it could stay cold just the way he liked it; a sobering thought of leaving this for Gotham threatened to sever your spine. After pouring a few cups into his bowl and giving him a proper pet, your dad followed up on your job search. "Any luck on those applications?"

More than anything you didn't want to tell them about Gotham. But as your parents had talked, the more you began to mull over the money in your mind. Free housing. 1500 would be enough for a good studio. 800 a week. A plane ticket's 200 round trip. I could visit, easy. I would visit. It would only be temporary, I wouldn't probably last the whole year before I got offered a position at home. What if Mom doesn't get into the trial? What if she does and she gets placebo? How long does she have? Will it be painful? Do I need to think about a job right now? It would look fucking great on a resumé, which would increase odds of getting ahead of the job seekers in WA quite significantly...

"Hun? Any offers?" Your dad turned to look at you and you blurted out the contents of the email. A second of silent surprise then an uproar of celebration. "Thank heavens, that sounds wonderful! Did you already accept?"

You looked back at them with shock, your mouth hanging slightly open. What? Walter finished his food and brushed against your legs as he wandered to your mom, looking pitifully up at her slices of bacon. "Well, no. It's Gotham. I thought it was too dangerous." You guys nearly prohibited me from even going to Gotham in the first place...

"That was before we visited!" Your mom was ecstatic; she rose to come and give you a big hug, and your dad tried to swat Walter away from jumping on the chair to sneak a bite. You wanted to think it was cute, but your mind raced. How could they be so supportive? Unquestionably? "It's Gotham, Mom," You took her hug not in celebration, but in an effort to commit the feeling to memory.

"How much is the pay?" Your dad pulled in the chair so he couldn't jump and walked over to the sink to put his plate away. You shut your eyes and hid a sigh. Once they know how good the pay is they won't let me stay. "Good, I guess."

"What, 15, 16 an hour?" Your parents eyed you expectantly and you shrugged. "A little more. Than that." You followed the linoleum's vertical lines to where it met the carpet. "And a housing stipend." You cringed. They weren't going to let this opportunity go.

"Wowza, honeybee!" Your dad called you that when he was particularly pleased, which only served to coil your stomach lining. Gotham? Gotham. This was over Gotham. The place we got into screaming matches over me going to only a handful of years ago. "I don't know,"

"Why not? It sounds perfect." Your mom was a foot away from you boring her eyes into your soul. Does she really have no idea why I wouldn't want to leave? "Mom,"

"If this is anything about my cancer," So she did.

"Don't say that," You tried to play it off and stuttered something about how you didn't particularly like Gotham anyway, you could keep looking for jobs here, but she wasn't having it.

"No no. I want you to live your life, sweetie. This is a spectacular opportunity!" Her singsong tone was back and you suddenly wanted to throw up. You wanted to blurt HOW MUCH TIME IS LEFT WITH YOU?? I CAN'T MISS IT! But, you didn't say anything and walked out of the kitchen back to your room. You didn't quite slam the door, but didn't make it silent. While your mother's selflessness was admirable, it was also frustrating. I only get one mom. You sat on the edge of your bed with your head in your hands. Whispers wafted from the kitchen but you couldn't make them out. The sound of footsteps, a pause, and then knocking on your door. "Hun, let's talk." It was your father.

"Dad, no, I'm tired,"

"You just woke up honeybun, I'm not buying that." He sat beside you on the end of your bed. It sagged a bit, not used to the extra company. He placed a hand on your shoulder. "What you're feeling about your mother, I've felt it too. I had the same conversation with her before going back to work.”

"I'm sure she was receptive." You rolled your eyes. He squinted at you. "Now, where is this attitude coming from?"

"I don't want to tell her because it'll make her sad. But. I. I have no idea how much longer she has left. And working would just take time away from her."

"Have you thought about how that might make your mother feel? Her life has changed enough. She's already reminded enough about her... illness."

"Cancer, Dad. Cancer." He never said the words. He shuddered but continued on.

"Her life has been turned upside, over, and back around. She does not need more reminders of how sick she might be."

"How sick she is." You shot a glare at your father, just then realizing how much contempt you felt toward him. It came rushing out of you. "You didn't even think to tell me her mobility changed. I had to see her frail and in a fucking wheelchair,"

"Now, calm yourself!" He snapped at you and took his hand off your shoulder. You scooted a little further from him, annoyed. Your voice was softer but the rock in your chest remained. "You didn't even tell me. She's lost so much weight. Her hair changed. You didn't even tell me. You won't even say the word 'cancer'." Your voice was starting to raise and he stood up. "Talk to your mother."

"Why? Didn't you say that'd just add extra stress? Remind her of her 'illness'?" You stood up and watched him walk to the door. "You weren't in the room with the doctor when he told me. He said it's this trial or fucking nothing."

"Don't use that language in my house!"

"It's my house too." By this point your mind was racing and your palms were sweaty and clammy and head hot, hands shaking. "If she doesn't get into this trial and this medicine doesn't work she's fucked."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "If you brought it up to her... maybe you'd see she's come to more peace than you have about it." With that, he left.

At 1:13pm the next day the phone rang. You hadn't talked to your mom about it as she was already headed out the door to see Debra, and didn't come back until late in the evening when she was visibly exhausted. Your dad helped tuck her into bed and she fell asleep quickly. Breakfast the next morning was fine, but tense; you were all anxiously awaiting this phone call. Your dad had stayed home from work just in case, and now your mom picked up the phone. "Yes, that's she. Yes. Yes, that's correct." And just by some small miracle, she'd gotten in.

Debra joined the party that evening. After a tearful raucous she was the first one your family called. Not ten minutes later she had arrived with a pie. "I baked it this morning. I figured we'd want something sweet no matter what."

The logistics were as-follows: your mom was going to be receiving her first shot of the drug (or, terrifyingly, a placebo) the following Friday. She would keep a diligent record of any side effects, even if they didn't seem related. Two weeks later she would receive her second dose and turn in the side-effect sheet, and that would continue for the following month until switching to once a month injections for the rest of the year. The first week of the new year your mother would get another scan, and that would be the first check-in. "They told me if everything goes how it should with the medication, I could not only see growth stunted, but be on the road to remission." Seeing how happy your parents were the rest of the evening only made the offer in Gotham more inviting; she'd been accepted, and if the results were, god forbid, horrendous in the new year, you would come home and help with the money you'd saved.

Clutching the laptop with white knuckles, you sent the acceptance email at 4:50pm the next day, ten minutes before the deadline. Half an hour later you were booked for your flight that Sunday at noon. Saturday was filled with laundry and packing bags; now Walter didn't want to leave your side. That night you hardly slept, staying up to pet him on the couch while your parents nodded off to a TV movie. The phrase mutually assured destruction came back to haunt you—you hadn't meant that to be a threat, but what if it was? You'd planned on never having to see him again... but the city was big. You could avoid him. And if you were going to trust him, he had said that even if you had written the exposé he wouldn't have hurt you.

You planned to come back once a month, leaving Thursday night and returning Sunday night. It fit well with your mom's trial schedule for the latter portion of the year, and you'd be able to come with her to her appointments. When you got on the plane and tucked your carryon under the seat it didn't feel so terrible. It felt less like leaving and more like a weird vacation. But as soon as you woke up in Gotham a rock hit the pit of your stomach. Fuck. I'm back.

The W was the hotel Dr. Vry had set up for you, only a floor below where you'd stayed with your parents the last time. You had one week to find an apartment, and Dr. Vry said to list her on any applications to 'speed up the process'. While waiting on the Uber to pick you up in the airport you'd sent one application to a place in North Gotham, a gorgeous gem of a spot with a full-size tub and in-unit washer dryer. Just as you pushed the key into your room at the hotel, you received a confirmation email with the date to retrieve your keys. Fuck, they made it too easy.

With a lot of time on your hands and a new neighborhood to explore, you abandoned your room and wandered around the blocks surrounding. You went more north this time, to avoid any fleeting memory of Bruce and whatever the hell he'd been up to.

Northern Gotham was certainly more family-friendly. You saw couples taking their babies out on walks instead of throngs of people clustering around the various clubs on every block. There was only one club you'd seen so far, and that one allowed minors until seven pm. You'd lived more downtown, central city, and never had reason to go further north until now. The apartment you'd been in was less than a thousand a month, which made sense how riddled it was with crime. It wasn't even close to Washington, but this didn't quite feel like the Gotham you knew close to campus.

You noticed a cute themed coffee shop on the corner ahead and went in. There were a few people and a couple sitting around the small room, working on their laptops or reading a book. It really felt like it wasn't Gotham, like you'd been transported back home for a quick moment. You went on Maps and saw that your new apartment was only three blocks east of the cafe. Safety. Serenity. Never thought I'd find a crumb of it here. You resigned to coming here as often as possible. You ordered a macchiato and sat on a leather loveseat as you waited. Your jeans bit into your stomach and you adjusted uncomfortably, the leather loud as you wiggled. I guess this is why this seat was empty. You were called up for your drink quickly and thanked them as you walked out back from whence you came. Though you hadn't been in the store for five minutes, it was already raining. Even Washington didn't rain in August, but you couldn't be too pressed. The rain was nice when it wasn't forcing you to be locked in the city mansion with the... no.

Bruce doesn't own this city. There's millions of people here. With your coffee in hand you made the trek back to the hotel, and after hopping into the giant bed you sat with your thoughts for a moment. Challey Hall... that wasn't the journalism department. The term started three Mondays later, and alongside the fifteen-hundred stipend for rent and utilities, Dr. Vry had emailed you with an extra thousand in the form of a digital check. In her words it was a 'settle-in fee'. Monday would be the meeting and then Dr. Vry would give you a tour of the places you'd be frequenting. You'd receive your schedule, and Tuesday through Sunday would be reserved for settling into the apartment and getting items for it so it wasn't an empty box. Why are they being so generous with the money? It didn't feel right, not when there was so much inequality in the city. You'd make sure to cut some costs and offer whatever was left after your first paycheck to the houseless people around campus.

As you walked back you couldn't help but think about how gigantic the city was. When considering whether or not to accept the position, you had vastly underrepresented the impact of the sheer size of the city on your psyche. It made you feel completely unimportant and equally as lost. It only served your insecurities, making you feel like even more of an outcast than you already felt in your small town just outside of Seattle. Mar. You could call Mar. She could come over, and you could tell her about Bruce. That would be a good icebreaker. Open up to her about why you'd been so MIA, about your mother's cancer, about why you left and why you came back. You needed someone to talk to.

An hour later you and her were sitting on the hotel bed eating takeout noodles. "So you're saying you stayed in Bruce Wayne's HOUSE, then he helped you pack up your apartment, then dropped you off at the airport," Her face was scrunched together, deep in thought as she recounted the last hour of conversation. Some broth from the noodles was on the top of her lip. "Then he was the commencement speaker at your graduation, he talked to your parents after, then later that night he found you again and talked to you?"

"When you say it like that it sounds like stalking." You shrugged and took another chomp of noodles. Mar stared at you. "If it sounds like stalking,"

"It's coincidence, I promise." You hadn't completely kept out the part where you two hated each other, you made sure that was clear, but you sure as hell kept out the why. Mar was trustworthy, sure, but you didn't even want to remember he was Batman. It made you anxious and nervous to think about him in the suit. Then you would've had to explain that you and Bruce were now circling each other with ammo pointed at the other's chest if one of you stepped out of line.

"I don't know, it sounds creepy. What if he shows up here in the middle of the night..." Mar trailed off when she saw you look away. You hadn't told Mar about your mom yet, and didn't know if you wanted to for fear of it becoming more real. You wanted to leave that out of Gotham. Leave the trauma, leave the guilt, leave it for the weekends when you would fly back. You shrugged and made a joke about getting to be associated with a billionaire. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he got papped here. Might boost my journalistic impact." The conversation moved away from Bruce after that, and you and Mar spent the rest of the evening talking, eventually laying in bed scrolling Scypher on your respective phones. The second you loaded the app, however, you saw a Dior ad everyone in Gotham was swooning over, and couldn't hold back your gasp.

He had not only been photographed often by paparazzi, it seemed, going on regular walks to downtown shops and local charity events, but this was his first official campaign. Mar leaned over and nodded, saying 'everyone' was talking about the photo. "I thought you'd already seen it, that's why you brought him up."

"No, I haven't." You scrolled through the comments trying to hold back a cringe.

He can top me

BARK BARK BARK

y did he keep his BEAUTY FROM US FOR SO LONG???????????

daddy

when is the rest of the campaign dropping asking for a friend

You turned your phone off and rolled over in bed. You told Mar goodnight (she decided to spend the night since she hadn't seen you in so long), murmuring something about having to be up the next day for your orientation. Bruce Wayne. Billionaire playboy. What the fuck happened with him?

Fateful Beginnings

XXIV. “natural curiosity”

parts: previous / next

plot: under extreme pressure to perform, you prepare for your first and final interview with Bruce Wayne. Batman learns intriguing info on the gruesome murder of John Doe.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mental illness, anxiety

words: 3.2k

a/n: this brings me to the end of my back-posting! we are now up to date across tumblr, ao3, and wattpad 🥳 excited to keep writing more soooon 👀

Was this some kind of cruel punishment?

If it hadn't been for Dr. Vry's unfortunately logical and desperate plea, you wouldn't have said yes—now you were left flying back for half a week. With enrollment for freshmen starting the first day of September, you had to have this in to Bridgit the morning after meeting with him. Thinking of all the belongings you'd just bought for the apartment you thought you'd be living in, you decided against a flight and booked a U-haul for that weekend instead. You'd see if Mar wanted to drive back with you in it, and if not you'd buckle down and do it yourself.

Your parents came back not an hour later. After a few minutes of hugs and chitchat they put themselves to bed, exhausted. Your mom didn't appear critically ill or markedly different in any way (besides a darker tan), so you let yourself relax for the evening out on the couch. A rerun was on the television, the air was stale, and the setting sun stabbed your eyes. You grappled with feelings of guilt as the minutes turned into hours of nothing. You loved them, but was this all you had to look forward to?

Bruce busied himself with monotonous tasks the rest of the day. The panic attack had wiped him out physically, but his mind was wired. A still-relevant yet menial task he felt he could get into a rhythm with involved stealing the giant stack of newspapers Alfred kept by his fireplace in his office for kindling. He flipped through pages and pages of decades-old Gazette publishings, refusing to indulge his curiosity as he passed the months directly preceding or proceeding his parent's murder. It felt like an impossible feat as he discarded them to his left, forcing his eyes to remain tethered to the current moment. Eventually he found clippings from the past few years, and he nestled into the corner chair to pore over their contents. Why was the Gazette failing? Why was the journalism department going to shut down? He distinctly remembered his parents reading the Gazette together every Sunday before church. On the walk to church, he remembered people sitting on park benches reading it. He only paid attention to the comic strip curated by the art majors, but even as a young kid he knew the paper was influential.

As he skimmed through the recent few years of publishing he couldn't discern why sales were lower. It was putting out relevant information that was decent to read... He stood up and walked down the hall to Alfred's room, and found him buttoning his cuffs. "Master Wayne, what's wrong?"

Bruce shook his head. "You read the Gazette, right? Do you know how many people read it?"

Alfred finished the last button and shook out his sleeves to straighten them. He shrugged. "I don't know precisely, but in concept it seems to be doing rather well. On my grocery trips I see lots of people reading it."

Bruce nodded and made some small talk for a moment about dinner ("I've been craving some sausage and cabbage soup, would you mind that, boy?") before making his way back to Alfred's office. He logged onto the computer and looked up sales for the Gazette. While there had been a decline, it had been slow and not enough to completely shut down a department. After looking into Gotham's budget, he realized there was enough budget and in fact, the majority of the Gotham finances were allocated between GCPD and GU. Looking into the school attendance rate there was still a good amount of students applying to the university; less people going into journalism, sure, but still enough to warrant continuing the major. Was Vry a particularly attentive and anxious president, or was it manipulation to get him to agree to be interviewed?

Alfred forced him away by physically walking upstairs to bring Bruce down, and they ate the soup in silence. It was warm, and soothed him enough to take the edge off his guttural sense of impending doom.

The next day he got a call from Gordon. A quick change into the suit and a back exit getaway later, Bruce found himself at the police station. The guards stiffened their spines and glared at him as he walked up; usually it didn't bother him, but after being discovered he felt every eye on him was an x-ray. He walked down a dingy, slim hallway to Gordon's office and knocked on the door. Gordon invited him in, appearing visibly stressed. "In the office on a Saturday?"

"Hey. I don't know what to tell you, but the results came in inconclusive."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "No idea what the metal is?"

"That's not exactly the problem." He reached into the desk and pulled out a plastic EVIDENCE bag smattered with pokes from the sharp metal inside. It landed on the table with a sharp rap. "We know what it is, but we are lost as to its function."

Bruce swirled the bag so the shrapnel tilted and moved about its cage. Gordon continued. "We brought in a few dentists, even one doctor, to clarify why this might be used as a filling but no one had heard of it before." He quickly continued. "Well, one guy did. Said he used to be a chemist. He'd heard of the metal, but said it was bordering on corrosive. He couldn't make head nor tail of why it would be used in a man's mouth."

"What is it?"

"The man said 'Electrum'. I made him repeat it because it sounded made up." Gordon rolled his eyes and bit his lip, lost in thought. His tone was biting. "I just want to find these punks. Can't have someone causing crime scenes like that running loose."

He'd never heard of Electrum. He opened his mouth to speak but Gordon continued again. He's talkative today. "The man said its properties are that of a 'spark to light up the wire'. Something about conductivity. I think it's just some man who got an under-the-table dental. Probably cracked open a soda can and peeled off a clip to tuck into his gums." By the end he was mumbling, and quickly stood up.

"They were certain it's Electrum?"

Gordon nodded. "He said it was clear. Bet his life on it." And with that he left, motioning to be followed out.

Electrum. Nothing could be found on the web about it. Alfred didn't know, and there had never been a mention about it in any newspaper since 1800 (any further back he couldn't find). By this point he was exhausted, and hadn't even realized he'd pulled a whole weekend staying wide awake. He physically pored over every newspaper article himself pre-1900, his smart engine struggling and misreading the small, fuzzied print. There was nothing that could even be vaguely related to Electrum. Fuck. He dragged his feet up to bed and crashed early Sunday evening.

Had it really only been a strange, foreign filling? Usually this would be his favorite type of thing to sleuth out, something no one could find but he could; he would read the small print from an article in 1806 and solve the mystery, following its crumb trail to an ultimate victory. It was the perfect catharsis, but he was too in his head. All Monday afternoon he twiddled his thumbs and waited for evening, but when evening came he couldn't bring himself to put on his suit. That one scrap metal felt like it was lodged in his tooth, giving him an emotional toothache. He slipped into bed and laid on his back with his arms behind his head. He gazed up at the ceiling, drawing a mental map of the situation. The John Doe couldn't be traced back. Dentist, former chemist, clarified it was Electrum. Electrum can't be found anywhere. No trace of it. Testing was inconclusive. Bordering on corrosive. Man was stabbed repeatedly and hung by the blades. Owls were etched into hilt. Owls were etched into pins and rings of the Gotham University president... Bruce squinted. How could he gain more information on Dr. Vry? His first thought was a Batman interrogation, second idea stalking her in his car for a week to see what she was up to. Both options, especially the latter, caused an internal cringe. Much like he couldn't shake his suspicion about Electrum, he couldn't shake the thought you embedded in him that he was too invasive.

Being invasive to criminals isn't bad. Often, it's the only way to catch them. Your voice came into his mind. And you're assuming she's a criminal. What happened to probable cause?

Her jewelry insignias perfectly match those on the weapon in an unsolved murder.

Perfectly, huh?

Almost.

Almost, yeah.

Even imaginary you mocked him. He continued having a conversation with himself until Alfred knocked on his door. He bristled and sat upright in bed. The old man leaned against the doorframe and gazed at him, spectacled. "Wanted to check in. Social battery ran out, I assume?"

Bruce stared down at his sheets. "Unsolved murder. Can't find any clues."

"Peculiar. Not much stumps you these days."

He struggled not to receive it sarcastically given how vigilant Alfred had been about his mental wellbeing the past few months. He hoped this wasn't another request for him to meet with his therapist, but his hopes were quickly dashed. "I called New Discoveries, they have a few openings this week and next."

Bruce bit back a retort. "If I ever need her, I'll give her a call."

"Bruce,"

"Stop, please. I've got enough to deal with right now."

He leaned in and raised his eyebrows at the boy. "Your analyst could help with that."

"I don't need someone to tell me my parents died."

Alfred heaved a deep sigh. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm not talking about this." This was the push he needed to get out and into his suit. He jumped out of bed and strode firmly past him, ignoring Alfred's calls to get him to 'just make a phone call'. He was surprisingly swift getting into the suit and out on the town. Guilt plagued him at abandoning Alfred, but this was about the tenth time they'd had that conversation since June and it was making him ill. He wouldn't mind seeing his therapist again, he'd liked going after the murder, but he didn't think he could handle being forced to reckon with his mortality at this point in his progression. He still wasn't sure it existed, and until he tied up all the loose ends about the owls, or his symptoms got significantly worse, he was going to ride this last high as long as it let him.

The next few days with your parents went smoothly. It was almost like before your mom had gotten sick, plus Walter. Walter was ecstatic to see your parents back, and you no longer sobbed in the shower out of lonely desperation. You were able to distract effectively through various arts and crafts with your mom, and by the time you were starting to need 'me' time she would tire. You spent some time with your dad fixing the back deck and pulling some weeds out of the raised flower beds. You tended to the pumpkins your parents had planted in June, and harvested some bell peppers and blueberries.

You avoided thinking about Gotham until you were in Gotham; you hadn't even mentioned to your parents you'd been fired/quit, and figured they'd know when a U-Haul ended up at their house with you and Mar inside. The quiet neighborhood was relaxing when your family was around, but that desperate feeling of loneliness was pinned to your chest. The town felt more desolate after being in the city, the quiet felt heavier when they were gone, and knowing how fragile her health was you figured you'd spend more of your life without her than with her. The combination threatened to consume you, and you spent every lull in conversation and every night lying in bed unable to sleep from worry about finding your purpose in life. What interested you? What motivated you? What were your values? How could all of the above be translated into a livable life?

Where did you belong? Did you belong here, in the sleepy town with wide open skies? Did you belong in a city with skyscrapers and sardine-squishing sidewalks? You liked the access the city afforded you. When you'd first moved there, you'd been enthralled by the hundreds of restaurants and stores within a mile's radius. You'd maxed out a small credit card being silly and young, trying cuisines you'd never even heard of. You found cute themed shops that were abhorrently overpriced but nonetheless aesthetically pleasing to visit. But the city moved so fast, and just in time for you to settle into a routine with a favorite restaurant they'd be closing shop. It was cutthroat and intimidating, and you felt softer. Too soft. Life here was too slow as to be entirely, aggravatingly boring. There were only a handful of restaurants in town and they were all dying fast food chains strung out amongst various struggling mom and pop shops that wouldn't dare invite in a health inspector. But the nature was beautiful, and sometimes you loved the quiet breeze of it all. You had no friends besides Mar who you could never see leaving the city, a degree that was worthless in the current economy, and your extended family lived in south Florida for some unknown reason. You only saw them once a year at a family reunion that was usually in July, but had been postponed to Christmas. Ugh.

On Monday you set off for Gotham. You'd arrived on time a few days earlier to ensure you could properly pack your stuff. Day one was filled with throwing out the perishable groceries and giving yourself a moment to breathe outside of your childhood home. The food tasted bland, your favorite shows had lost their spark, and your bed was lumpy and hard. The floors were cement and made your feet ache with every slapping step. The water took ages to heat up compared to home, and you kept watching your step for Walter who never showed. The flight had been frustrating. Your head pounded. You felt like screaming into an empty field, creating a dust storm from pounding your hands into the dirt until you were bruised.

Day two after arriving back to Gotham, you sat down at your small desk in the corner to think up some questions. It was impossible to focus, but you kept yourself to task by repeating you'd be out of here permanently, genuinely, so, so soon. As you stared at the blank page, anxiety sprouted. It hadn't before occurred to you that everyone would be reading this; in fact, everyone would likely be seeking this out so much it would be translated to different languages hours after being published. For a moment you couldn't wrap your head around why this time felt so much more high-stakes, and then you remembered the fate of an entire university department rested on how marketable and quality this interview was... and remembered how obscenely rich and powerful the subject was. You twiddled your fingers just slightly above the keyboard, nervous to even begin to dive into it.

The first thing you did was peruse Scypher, especially their forum sections.

SEARCH: Bruce Wayne

SEARCH: Mr. Wayne

SEARCH: Bruce

SEARCH: billionaire

SEARCH: Gotham

SEARCH: Gotham City

SEARCH: Gotham and Bruce

SEARCH: Gotham and Bruce Wayne

You sifted through hundreds—if not thousands—of posts thirsting after him. There were pap photos, one-shots written daydreaming about him, some tweets hating on how rich he was (you liked those), but the vast majority were simply pining after him in a public arena. You got a small sense of what people wanted to see from him, but not enough to create a substantial question.

You went onto Google and searched the same things. A handful of articles from major news outlets were titled similarly: What We Know About Bruce Wayne, the Orphaned Billionaire. People generally knew about the circumstances of his parent's murder, that he lived at home with his maids and butlers (was there more than one Alfred?) and everything that he'd announced at Gotham University graduation. There was logistical data on his Wikipedia page such as his height, birth date, current age, and where he went to school growing up. Information for the past decade was slim, the only bits being where he attended college, his date of graduation, and his major. It appeared the only times since his parent's death he peeked out into the public eye were school-related.

No one knew anything about his personal life, and you worked yourself into a tizzy brainstorming ways to persuade him into talking about himself. Where was the line between too benign of a question and too invasive of one? What was relevant information to someone high-profile's first interview? You'd spent hours digging into the first interviews of now-major celebrities, but they all happened before they rocketed into fame. This was different: he was born famous, and now at age 30 he was finally speaking to someone. After a certain point in your research you feared you would need to be the blueprint for this kind of thing; even nepo babies had been interviewed as children, asked questions such as their favorite musicians, movies, books, and colors. How did you show the public he was normal, personable, even? Did you even want to make him appear normal, because he didn't seem it. He was an enigma. Someone you couldn't quite peg.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. What's my goal with this? No one else's, mine? What do I want to learn about him? What are my natural curiosities? This led to an immediate rush of creative energy, questions popping up left and right; you didn't care about how invasive or off-kilter they might seem. After the brainstorming, you gathered the questions into three categories: COMFORTABLE - DEEPER - DANGEROUS.

The first contained questions that were more basic, and likely wouldn't elicit an emotional response in any way to the interviewee. The second probed a bit more, considered more thorough and juicy. At this point an interviewee might be more choosy with their phrasing, or pause to think about it. The final category was fully questions of your own mind, questions you didn't think you'd ever ask but wanted to be put to paper. These were so juicy as to be intimate, so personal as to be disorienting.

When else would a woman have the leverage to ask such a dizzyingly powerful man anything she wanted?