Fateful Beginnings

Fateful Beginnings

XXII. “gone missing”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce is preoccupied at the next City Hall meeting, where the first candidate arrives to make his mayoral bid.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, talk of mental illness

words: 3.2k

a/n: the first fully Bruce Wayne POV chapter! love getting inside that man’s mind

Much to his chagrin, Bruce showed up early to the meeting in hopes that he might catch you before it began. He kept himself from thinking about the John Doe by staying up brainstorming gentle questions to ask you tonight. He figured since you didn't trust him, and quite honestly he also did not trust you, you might benefit from getting to know each other better. The only questions he'd been able to manifest on his own were superficial ones, like what's your favorite color and what was your favorite school subject growing up? He quite liked the latter, but figured it a bit redundant assuming how much you appeared to enjoy journalism.

The foyer was as it was; that same chemical rain scent mingling with Chanel number 5, a scent that drove him nearly to tears it bored and triggered him so immediately. The same golden chandelier hung in the middle, the same clusters of people hung in circles atop the warm-toned jacquard rug. If you looked at a photo of the entryway, you might think outside the windows hid an Italian villa with bright grapevines swaying in the breeze. Instead, the gargantuan absorbent mat by the door was soaked to the brim, its fibers screaming and stretching past comfort to be wrung and laid to rest. It was dreary, and dark, and smoggy, as it always was in Gotham.

Right as nostalgia for old family vacations threatened to cocoon him, a wide-shouldered, tall man in a passably pressed suit approached. Bruce grinned and reached out his hand on instinct, hiding his surprise when the stranger opened his arms wide and went for a hug. The man's cologne was sharp, cutting through the usual mildewy accompaniment. He couldn't place it. "Mr. Bruce Wayne! How incredible to finally meet you." When he pulled back he bared his teeth, gleamingly white and straight like they were physically held together by some meticulously hidden brace. Bruce kept his mysterious. "And you, Mr...?"

"Call me Lincoln." He stuck out a hand this time, which tugged up the side of Bruce's mouth to bare his canine. Where did this guy blow in from? "Lincoln March, I'm up for mayoral election this November."

The candidates. In his desperation the past week he'd forgotten all about researching, to which he pictured you a few minutes from now flipping through flawless notes of yours. Of course you'd done your due diligence, likely with a bulleted list of questions in rolling cursive to distract from your vice grip on whoever you'd set to analyze. Lincoln's handshake was timely and firm, which always read to Bruce as rehearsed and performative. His eyes were startlingly green, his voice smooth but ragged at the edge of his sentences. He had a few nicks from shaving, a pinprick of shave foam forgotten near his left ear. He smiled incessantly, but the absence of lines around his eyes confirmed his suspicions. Another schmoozer.

"Call me Bruce." Play nice...

"You're just the guy I wanted to see." Of course, the richest man in the room. Shocker. "You see, I think you and I are aligned when it comes to seeing Gotham underneath it all; greater than the sum of its parts. A prolific city packed with diversity, simply desperate for some TLC."

Jesus Christ. "And you think you can guide Gotham there?"

Lincoln nodded assuredly, his shoulders bobbing with him. "Absolutely. The other candidates want to transform Gotham into something it's not. A tourist destination, a drive-by freakshow."

"Which is why you chose to say your piece first, I assume."

He nodded again and snapped his fingers. "Bingo!" He straightened and glanced toward the ground before shoving his hands in his pockets. His eyes stared at the back wall, then over to Bruce. His voice lowered and his smile faded. "Look, I can see you're not one for the song and dance. I know what this city took from you. But you're still here, aren't you? Trying to make the city a better, safer place. I want to help you do that."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. The demeanor shift was instant, and tense. The man thought he was losing his grip, and Bruce was beginning to feel more and more like a walking bank account. "I look forward to hearing your pitch in the meeting." As if on cue, the man opened the conference room's door and called for people to file in. Five minutes to start. Bruce lifted his eyes and scanned the room. No, no, nope, not you, no, nope, no. Lincoln's brow furrowed. "Can I help you find someone?"

Lincoln's voice fell into the backrooms of his mind as his heartbeat pulsed in his ear. He felt himself turn a few shades whiter, hoping the man's earnest distracted him from noticing. His fingertips felt cold and clammy. He knew he should have gone after you, he knew he shouldn't have trusted you were safe. At this point a missing person's report wouldn't do much good, you could be anywhere across the globe, already turned to mulch after being eviscerated from an unsuspecting garbage truck's teeth.

A short blonde woman slipped into the foyer, and she spun on her heel to survey the room so quickly she nearly tumbled to the floor. The memory caused a painful jolt to slice down his stomach. Lincoln leapt into action and walked over to steady her, but when he'd moved to help she lit up seeing Bruce just behind. She held a notebook and a PRESS badge. Where were you? She rushed over and introduced herself as Bridgit. Were you safe? "I'm with Gotham University, I came to interview you for the Gazette."

She had his full attention. "GU? Journalism department?" She nodded.  "Do you have anyone on their way to meet you?"

Bridgit shook her head and dug the pen out from inside the notebook spiral. "I just have a few questions, we can get it done quickly,"

"I'm sorry, where's the journalist from last week?" He didn't know why, but saying your name felt like betraying a secret. He searched her face and ignored the curiosity of the candidate behind her. She shrugged and finally fished out the pen with a subtle click and asked her first question. "Mr. Wayne, do you have a preference for a particular candidate yet for Gotham's mayor?"

"Where's Y/N?" His eyes bored into her notebook. Your handwriting was far better. Would he ever see it again? She didn't react, continuing to pen another question like he hadn't spoken. Until this point he'd thought nothing could be worse than people hanging onto his every word but no, now he knew it was being wittingly ignored. He thought about snatching her pen and staring her down until she divulged your whereabouts, but Lincoln leaned his head in to diffuse the suspense. "Who now? Y/N who?" He smiled again and Bruce grit his teeth.

Bridgit sighed very impatiently, he noted, and tossed her hair behind her shoulders. She was flustered, but why? "I don't know who you speak of."

Bruce's brow furrowed into a glare. "You're with the Gazette, right? She is too." Guilt. It was guilt that was making him so consumed by this. Guilt at having shoved you into dangerous circumstance, guilt about not following up on a finger-painted window that held no innate credibility. She asked another question that he didn't hear, and in a split-second decision he decided against storming out to find you, instead heading into the conference room without a care in the world for what your replacement had to say.

Lincoln sat to the right of him at the head of the table, the seat with a placard stating CANDIDATE reserving it. He held the placard in his hands and tapped it against the wood a few times, seemingly mulling something over. He leaned over to Bruce just as Mr. Convoy turned to introduce the first visiting candidate. Lincoln stood and bowed as everyone clapped, and did a brief introduction before Convoy goaded him on. "Come now, you came here to persuade us into electing you as Gotham City's new mayor: introduce your cause!" With that he sat down, leaving Lincoln alone and standing very tall above the table. Bruce shut his eyes in a desperate attempt to quiet his thoughts, the only one bringing him back being memory of his father's own campaign speech. It was imperative he heard what this man wanted for Gotham.

"I feel out of place here, to be frank with you all. I don't come from money or any real notability; in fact, this suit here I rented from Men's Warehouse. Clearance rack." He paused and listened for laughs that came in abundant whispers. He set the placard down on the wood and heaved a breath from the bottom of his lungs. He paused just long enough to stir discomfort. "I'm not here to convince you of a radical, perfect plan to resuscitate Gotham. I don't believe this city needs a savior." Bruce shifted in his seat.

"I believe this city is good, and can make itself good. It needs resources that are correctly allocated, and someone who does not stigmatize the different struggles that plague not just this town, but many others. Someone who is on their team, not flying high above them." This caused Bruce to shift in his seat again, this time stifling paranoid panic about another vague bird reference. "I want to decrease homelessness. I want to fund our public schools, not just GU. I want to increase paid sick leave, maternity leave and introduce paternity leave. We can offset these costs by increasing taxes on, well, all of you." Lincoln glanced around the room to see a few people narrow their eyes, some even crossing their arms in less subtle disapproval. What a day for Y/N to miss, it was like you'd been cloned.

"And I know that sounds frustrating, but I know you all would appreciate cleaner, happier streets. Your net worths will be inconsequentially affected from an everyday standpoint, and as a gift you get to feel a sense of pride for helping the city." He was rapidly losing the small crowd, who began to snicker and grumble about themselves. He slammed his hand just hard enough against the tabletop to regain control of the room. He shook his head. "I'm only saying the quiet part aloud. My fellow candidates want the same things I do; they want to get inside your pockets, but they want to be deceptive in doing it. I want to work with you, with transparency, to assure your funds are being put to good use and we see real improvement in this city. If elected, I promise to work tirelessly, endlessly, for the benefit of you and all the other people of Gotham."

"What makes you think you're owed our hard-earned money?" A man dressed in a Prada suit pouted at the candidate. A few yeah!s were expressed, and Lincoln shrugged. "The city isn't left with many resources, and I guarantee you have more money than you can ever spend. Don't you want to build a legacy with it?"

"It's our choice what we want our legacy to be!"

"We'll make sure you never get elected with this bold-faced thievery!"

Bruce had had enough. He stood quickly beside him and placed a hand on Lincoln's shoulder. "We should wait to hear what the other candidates have to say in the following weeks. They could be better, they could be worse; but the worst thing we can do right now, ladies and gentlemen, is come to a premature decision." He balled his obscured hand into a painfully tight fist to combat a massive eye roll. "You all love this city as much as I do; my father wanted the same things for Gotham as Mr. March, and no one wants to remove you from financial security." This was too perfect of an opportunity to play up his persona, so very, very begrudgingly, he took it. "I promise you, if we can no longer afford our Beluga caviar and Tiffany bracelets I will personally destroy Mr. March." Bobbing shoulders and grins were seen around the room, with a smattering of tentative nods.

Having effectively dodged a riot, the rest of the meeting went relatively smoothly. No one was paying mind to Lincoln, who raised his hand at regular intervals but was decidedly ignored. He couldn't shake the spiraling thoughts of how much you would've lived and died to witness this meeting, watching the rich people quiver and snivel at the prospect of their pockets turned out. But you were not here, and there was a possibility you were not anywhere at all but returned to the dirt. At the meeting's adjournment, Bridgit waited eagerly at the door for Bruce to walk past and Lincoln muttered a quick acknowledgement. "Wayne. Thanks for having my back there."

Bruce nodded absentmindedly, stretching his neck to look outside the door and into the lobby. It confused Lincoln, watching the man's pupils shoot side to side, up and down, every which direction. "I can't help but think you're looking for someone." He didn't take the bait, so he pressed further. "Y/N, was that it?"

He bristled at the mention of your name, hesitated before nodding, and spoke an old truth to cover himself. "We had an interview set." He eyed Bridgit and groaned.

"I had a girlfriend once in college with a problematic ex; he'd come into work asking for her schedule. They weren't allowed to give it out."

Bruce looked over at the man. "You're saying it's policy not to divulge whereabouts of employees?" He felt embarrassed the second the sentence left his tongue, berating himself for the obviousness of his oversight. Another way he was different, not understanding basic logistics of the working class.

"Correct. The young lady by the doorway might not be legally allowed to tell you."

The legality now apparent did not rid himself of anxiety, it exaggerated it elsewhere. If he could not find out via your workplace (the only place that knew you existed in this metropolis), he was left with two options with equally miserable consequences: try to find you, or leave it alone. If he went looking and he found you, you'd have reason to hate him, thus fuel to nuke his reputation, not to mention the guilt of going back on a promise; if he did not look for you, he would never be alleviated of his guilt that he hadn't at least attempted to save you from the danger he put you in. How could he go on as usual knowing he could have done more? What if you'd simply called out sick and she was a temporary replacement? The tale of the problematic ex ping-ponged within him, reminding him of another alternative: he had scared you away, and you'd left the position to avoid seeing him. Before the emotions of that could burrow into his chest, he resorted to waiting until the following week to see if you'd returned. After a two week hiatus at a new job, there was higher probability you were out of his weekly rotation permanently; whether that meant you were dead or quit the position was another matter entirely, one which he could tackle more sufficiently next—

"Wayne? Hello?"

Bruce blinked at Lincoln, who stared at him with a blend of confusion and concern. He thanked Lincoln for coming, and began to walk away, not before he held out a business card for the billionaire to take—which he took swiftly, kindly, and hurried off. Right past Bridgit shouting interview requests at him, right past the throngs of people waiting for his attention at the exit, and over to the valet which stood waiting with his key in hand. The drive home was quick and dangerous, when he pulled into the cave he felt like he'd blinked and been transported into his seat at the computer. Television static frizzed his brain circuitry until he'd stared at an empty SEARCH screen for fifteen minutes. Alfred, concerned he had not come back and immediately went to the kitchen for dinner scraps, clunked his way out of the elevator and stood behind the boy. A hand on his shoulder startled Bruce, who groaned and pressed ESCAPE. "Jesus Alfred,"

"Mulligatawny's in the fridge, I thought you wouldn't have missed that warm for the world."

"I've been preoccupied." He placed his chin in his hand and slumped over the desk. He was this close to having the answers, just a month ago he'd spent a whole week ramping up the internet speed in there. In a single millisecond he could have the answer, or be closer to the answer. Yet nothing could propel him to push the keys. Alfred was quiet behind him, but not a good quiet; not the quiet of him being lost in a song, or mulling over the duties for the next few days. This quiet was weighted, waiting for Bruce to speak or to pester it out of him. He started with a softball.

"Bad news at the meeting?" At least, Bruce thought he might start with a softball. Alfred wondered in secret if the boy's distress was due to the disorder he presumed was creeping up on him. Bruce had a feeling he wasn't being transparent, and groaned when Alfred spoke again. "You don't have to attend the meetings, you know. The world would go on if Bruce Wayne, or, better yet Batman took a bit of a rest." He noticed the old man's watery smile in the empty reflection of the unused computer screen.

"I don't need more rest." Bruce murmured. Alfred shot a challenging look. He rolled his eyes and pushed himself up from the desk. "I'm getting some food." As he waited for the elevator (it had taken to going back up to the top stair upon arriving in the basement), he considered asking about you. Talking the situation over with him. It wasn't an invasive search, but a conversation that could help him get out of his own mind. But. He hadn't brought you up since you'd left. If he spoke now, it would be a can of worms. The questioning wouldn't cease. Alfred would assume, and pursue, and blow his concern up beyond what it was. He'd wait. He'd wait, and if you still weren't at the next meeting he'd make a decision at that point. Only then would he be able to accurately weigh the consequences of action and inaction. No earlier. In the meantime, he'd have to endure it.

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

X. “discernment”

parts: previous / next

plot: back in your respective hometowns, you navigate a sudden shift in family finances. Bruce Wayne contemplates an identity shift.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, health issues, chemotherapy, debt, substance use

words: 3.1k

a/n: i feel like this chapter is kinda the end of the setup. i’ve had a lot of fun subverting expectations of Batman’s identity usually being kept secret, and seeing how that impacts the story to have it be known so immediately. ahhh i’m very excited to keep writing <3

You did your best to shower as quickly as possible, ransacking your medicine cabinet behind the mirror while the water was heating up. Toothbrush, toothpaste, you had it all back at home, and it went into the trash. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, all did the same after you used up what you could and jumped out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a single towel you were fine with leaving behind. As you walked back into the main room, you stopped for a moment. With the sheets off the bed, the kitchen empty, and the rest of the room deserted besides what was left of your luggage, it felt final. Gotham was finally being abandoned and you could go back to the safety of hometown life.

Sweats, tee, sneakers. The plane ride was going to feel massively long with how much anticipation was in your bones thinking about being able to make your mom's appointment. You'd clarified with your dad with a text message and he responded that her treatment was at 3. Even if the plane left by noon, that was 9 to them--you'd be home by 2, could head straight from the airport to her chemo. Luggage zipped, key in hand, you nearly made it out the door before remembering you had edibles sitting in your nightstand. You couldn't technically have it in your apartment, and you definitely couldn't bring it past TSA... you shoved it in your pocket to discard in a public trashcan and made your way to the lobby. You gave the keys and your name to the same young woman, and walked out of the lobby for the final time. Damn. I'm really done here. I'm done with Gotham. I just need to make it on my plane. Then I'm gone.

Bruce was slumped down in his chair trying to avoid passersby. You slipped in beside him and yanked your thick luggage between your legs. He sat up and nodded at you as he buckled, and you did the same. As you reached to click the seatbelt in, the edibles slipped out of your pocket and fell at his feet. Shit. He reached down, read the package, and his brow furrowed. "Marijuana?"

You laughed. Hadn't he ever seen it before? "Yeah uh, I can't take it with me to the airport or leave it here." You shrugged and held your hand out expectantly, but he hesitated. His eyes scanned your face, confused. "You do marijuana?"

Now you were looking at him with confusion. He'd never done it? Drops were hardcore; weed was legal in Gotham, it was legal in most states now. You'd gone to a dispensary just around the corner from your complex to get it, surely he had experience. "Sometimes. Why are you looking at me like that?" A slight defense crept into your tone; people drank alcohol all the time, why was it strange to have edibles? He gave the slightest shake of his head and mumbled. "I just don't see the point."

"I don't get the point of drinking alcohol either, but,"

"I don't drink. I don't do any substances."

You whipped your head toward him. "Like ever?"

"I need to be clear at a moment's notice." He gestured for you to click your seatbelt in, dropped the edibles in your lap, and pushed on the gas. You sat in silence for most of the ride there, and just before he took the exit toward the dropoff lane you held them out to him. "Here. Take them." You paused. "Please."

He shot a glare at you, nearly missing the exit. "Why?"

"You don't have to take them or anything, I just can't have them on me at security." You shrugged and he begrudgingly obliged, tucking them into his pant pocket. He pulled to the right and stopped, unlocking the car. You sat for a moment, staring at all the passengers going in, all the couples embracing each other with heartfelt goodbyes. Your heart throbbed. You wanted that. You wanted to be held, you wanted someone to miss you—someone that didn't have to, like parents. Someone that liked you enough for you, as you were, for no reason other than enjoyment and care. Already in your mid-twenties you were beginning to wonder if that would ever happen for you, and it didn't help to be sitting in a car with the most frustrating, cold man imaginable while looking at so much warmth and love.

He hesitated before asking what had been on his mind since City Hall. “How did you know it was me?”

You hesitated just the same, then shrugged. “I don’t know, i just… knew?” How else could you express just how unique his eyes were? You turned toward him and met his available gaze. His eyes were so distinctive... you couldn't even quite place the color, further puzzling you as to how you had matched him so immediately to the vigilante. Maybe that was the whole thing—his eyes were so unplaceable. Sitting between a gray and blue with no particular lean to one or the other. You hadn't seen anything like it. "Thank you." A smile was easily conjured for him, sympathy and guilt fueling it. "I know I pushed my way into your home. And again, I won't tell anyone. Promise." You cleared your throat and averted your eyes as you popped open the passenger door and grabbed your luggage. He didn't respond until the door was almost shut. "I know. Have a safe flight."

You hid your smile as you shut the door behind you and walked through to the lobby of the airport. You were just in time to get in line for TSA and still make it to your terminal. You shuffled around in your purse to find your ID and pulled up the virtual ticket on your phone. God. You were finally going to be home.

You woke to the pilot over the intercom: "Good afternoon folks, we have arrived in Seattle, Washington. It is now 1:39pm as we pull into the terminal. The weather is a comfortable 73 degrees with partly cloudy skies. Alaska Airlines thanks you."

Waiting for you in the lobby was your mother and father, but your eyes quickly landed on your mother's new wheelchair. She looked frail, with more deep-set wrinkles exaggerated by her new thinness. A lump formed in your throat. He'd said she'd gotten worse. You hoped it wasn't impossibly worse, but soon you would find out more information. You hid your surprise and ran to them with open arms. Your mother started weeping, pointing out how much more grown up you looked. "Your updates on Facebook didn't do you justice," She complimented. Thankfully her voice was unchanged.

Your dad drove you all straight from airport parking to her doctor's office. Chills traveled up your spine remembering the times you'd sobbed alone in your car wondering if the chemo would work, if the medicines that made her vomit and cry in the middle of the night when she thought no one was listening would be worth it. Only to end up back here. But, you reminded yourself, with so much more time than some people got.

Your dad looked tired, so you told him you'd take your mom inside. She was happy to get some time alone with you, chattering on with questions about what exactly Gotham had been like. "I've heard so much about it. Your dad focuses on the bad things now more than I do, he's been worried sick. Especially with all the explosions. Those did worry me I'll admit. But you're back now! We got your room ready, and Walter is so excited to see you! Ever since we made the room up he has been sitting at the foot of your bed." Walter was the family cat your mother got about seven years ago when she was first diagnosed; he was her therapy cat, and he'd taken to everyone in the house. You were excited to see him, you'd missed him tons.

The receptionist smiled when you walked into the clinic, gesturing for you to follow her to a room down the hall. "Mrs. Y/L/N, how are you doing? This room is ready for you." As you wheeled your mom in and sat her next to the IV, you pulled a chair over to sit nearby. You noticed it wasn't already pulled close—did people normally not accompany their relatives, friends, neighbors to their appointments? It saddened you to think about someone having to endure chemotherapy alone. You'd never do that to her.

About halfway through some more casual conversation—the neighbors were doing great, excited to see you, your dad had been working on a back porch for them to spend nights looking at the sunsets together, she'd stocked the fridge with all your favorites, asked about your classes, and gushed to the nurses about how you were now a soon to be college graduate. She also expressed sorrow about having you come back so early and miss graduation, to which you immediately and profusely told her not to worry. You were so glad to be back, and grateful to just do everything you could. You told her how you'd be looking for a job this summer.

A nurse walked in and gently reminded you both about payment. Your mom gestured to her purse sitting at the table opposite her and you went to find her credit card. Long ago your family had abandoned debit, as the mounting costs of having cancer were too much to front all at once. You hurried to the receptionist and stood in line behind a mother and young kid with a bald head. God, kids shouldn't have to go through this. No one should have to. "Miss Y/L/N?"

"Yes, this is for Ellie Y/L/N." You held out your credit card but the receptionist cocked her head at you with a furrowed brow. "Oh hon, your balance is paid."

You stopped. What? "Uh, I'm sorry, I don't think I've paid yet." You stared at her as she clicked a few buttons and focused on her screen. She shook her head. "Nope, but an anonymous benefactor has paid your remaining balance and left a card on file." She smiled over at you. "Must be your lucky day!" She clicked a few things with her mouse and walked over to the printer, handing you an invoice. In bold print next to the mountain of numbers which had previously had a negative in front was a new 0 next to PAID. Concerned, you rushed back to your mother's room. She noted your concern at once. "Y/N, what is it?" She moved toward you enough to get the monitor to start beeping to stay put. You stared down at the paper. "It, it says it's paid. By an anonymous person, I don't, I don't know."

You fell back in your seat as you handed your mom the paper. She pored over it, then shrieked with relief. "Honey, this is a blessing. I can't believe it!" Tears came to her eyes and she looked around. "My phone, I need to tell Thomas,"

"Here, I'll call him." You took out your phone with clammy hands and dialed him. This was... unbelievable. The debt had been well above six figures. Each treatment was a few thousand dollars, with a month-long course going above thirty thousand. Not to mention the massive cost of the at-home medications she had to take multiple times per day that weren't covered by insurance. Your dad shouted with glee, saying he was going to order everyone pizza tonight. "Golly," he sounded on the verge of tears as well. "Looks like luck might be on our side."

As you helped your mom out of the clinic and into the car, your parents embraced each other and danced in place in the parking lot. Your mind was occupied, still in shock. If they had their balance paid, if all the costs coming up were covered, your dad's job at the school would be more than enough to sustain the family. Maybe they could even retire. He'd been saving up his 401k to pay off the balance in one lump sum, though he was only halfway there. It was nice to see them celebrating, but you had a strange feeling in your stomach. Who had it been? Who could have known? Your mother wasn't keeping her diagnosis a secret; many neighbors had been very supportive, and she had many friends who were decently well off that had helped your family when things got rough. But none of them had nearly enough money to do something like that.

As your dad pulled up to Domino's, it hit you like a ton of bricks. It had to be him. There was no other person who could afford it. But how had he known? Did he snoop? Did it even matter?

It had to be Bruce fucking Wayne.

Bruce dragged his pointer finger along the embossed lettering—LEMON LIME THC GUMMY. He was worn out, but could not possibly sleep. The night had been shockingly uneventful with only a few carjackings on his radar. Even the walkie talkie Gordon had lent him from the station was quiet. The night had ended early, yet he still felt tense with untapped energy. Pulling out his phone from his nightstand he Googled marijuana and sleep which elicited clear results: Cannabis may improve sleep quality by helping people fall asleep faster and wake up less often at night. Sigh. He checked the dosage instructions on the back of the tin and pulled off a small piece. Here goes nothing.

Immediately after swallowing he started to feel fearful. What if you had poisoned it? A final blow? Your last revenge? He pictured your eyes meeting his from the passenger side earlier that day. Again, I won't tell anyone. Promise. He thought your eyes were too kind not to mean it, but he still walked up the stairs over to Alfred's room. He was still up reading the paper when he walked in.

"Alfred, I'm gonna be taking some weed tonight." As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to scream with embarrassment. Here he was, in his late twenties, telling his guardian that he was talking drugs. Non lethal ones at that. Alfred peered up from over his papers with a small bit of surprise. Bruce had never shown interest in drugs before, and it felt a bit awkward, like he was admitting something terrible to a parent. He tried to make his reaction measured and interested. "Oh. Okay! Sounds... good!"

Bruce shifted his weight between feet, wanting to fall through the floor. He was still nervous of how he would react. Would his face melt? Would he have a panic attack, "Yeah. I'll be in my room." Alfred, having known him all his life, easily read between the lines.

"Do you want me to, check on you?" He paused halfway through, not wanting to come across condescending. Bruce seemed anxious. Alfred tried to smile at him. The kid averted his gaze. "I got them from Y/N. They're just for sleep." He turned to leave as Alfred continued. "Okay. Uh, have a good rest."

Bruce mumbled "Thanks." before disappearing back to his room. He laid in waiting facing the ceiling with his arms crossed across his chest, looking small and worried. Why had he trusted you so implicitly? What if your kind words at the airport had been nothing more than a ruse? He needed to be smarter than that. And the crosswalk? How he'd almost hit someone? He couldn't believe it. You clouded his thoughts more than he'd even realized. You weren't stupid and he couldn't ignore the possibility that you knew exactly what you were doing. But what were you doing? You didn't like him. You left Gotham to care for your mother's returned cancer. You were so ready to rid yourself of the city. And he did believe you when you said you wouldn't tell anyone. You puzzled him.

He decided to take a hot shower to try and relieve some extra stress before the weed kicked in. The heat coaxed his muscles to relax, his shoulders to drop, and his eyes to close. He focused on the sounds of the water, the feeling of the soap on his tired, chronically injured body as his hands ran over his bruises. He forgot the time while he was in there, until he started feeling floaty. Blinking to try and shake the sensation, he stepped out of the shower and threw on a pair of sweats. He sat on the edge of his bed and felt its emptiness. His vision was slightly blurred, reminiscent of when he got hit too hard in the head. It wasn't as jarring as he was anticipating, and let himself relax back to his initial position staring up at the ceiling.

His walls were painted black, and that made him a bit nervous. Through his periphery he saw the empty darkness of his room and turned on his bedside lamp. The soft incandescent glow felt warm on his skin and he relaxed into it. Thoughts began creeping up at the edges of his mind. Your eyes gave it away. I don't know, I just knew. Your words fluttered around the room to dizziness. That was possibly the worst answer you could have given, knowing that unless he wanted to reduce visibility while fighting and wear some sort of glasses, he could be recognized any time. In the haze of his high he pictured himself in front of him. Bandaged, bruised, melancholic, isolated. His hair dark and in his eyes. It came to him akin to an epiphany: he needed to make himself more distinguishable from his nightlife. He looked like someone who might be Batman. How instantly you knew him. There had to be someone else like you. You weren't an anomaly, no, you couldn't be.

He got out his journal and started scribbling on the page.

Me now: dark, casual, isolated, angry, unfriendly, critical

Batman: dark, isolated, angry, unfriendly, critical

Too many similarities.

Then he wrote down the opposite: bright, fashionable, connected, easygoing, friendly

As his high peaked he looked out the window at the streets of his city. It hit him like a ton of bricks settling into the pit of his stomach. He needed to become a Wayne—public facing and more inconspicuous, he needed to create distance from the two halves of him. He needed to become so different as to practically gaslight the people of Gotham into discarding their suspicions as madness. He fell back onto the mattress. He couldn't hesitate.

He had to become Bruce fucking Wayne.

Fateful Beginnings

XXVI. “grave responsibility”

parts: previous / next

plot: after months of hostile bickering, you finally complete an unconventional interview with Bruce. all’s well that ends well? not quite.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, suicide discussion, feelings of shock, brief mention of hallucinations, feeling unsafe, regret, nausea

words: 9.4k

a/n: the latter portion of this chapter discusses suicide, an attempt occurs offscreen and there are no descriptions of the act or injury. if you would not like to read this, the next chapter will include a blurb at the beginning to summarize what takes place in this chapter so you can still follow along!

"Bruce?!" His chest was heaving, and he had mud snaked up his legs to his thighs. You clutched the notebook tighter as he walked closer, nervous about his intentions as your eyes darted along his haggard frame. The single streetlight down this alleyway (which is why you chose it, it was the only one that was even halfway lit) cast a shadow across half his body, obscuring his face, darkening his hair and outfit until he was mostly a dark blob of nothingness. When you took a step back he stopped, and a single hand appeared with its palm facing you.

"I don't want to scare you." His voice was low and ragged from what looked like a full-send sprint the half mile distance from city hall. The only thing letting you know you weren't entirely gripped with fear was an initial reaction of laughing, which you stifled; what person says that of all things to calm their victim? But as you stood defenseless in the dirty, bloody corridor, panic encroached.

He saw how nervous you were as your face was cast in the dim light. He held both hands up now, submissively, looking nowhere but your eyes. He stepped slowly, methodically, gently to his left so he could be in your light. He had the sense you were as skittish as a feral cat, and once again he didn't blame you. As much as you put him in situations, he put you in them the same. "I wanted to tell you why I was upset that night." And why he needed you to help, but he couldn't get that sentimental of words out of him; they rung discordantly in his head. He diverted his eyes from you for just a moment, looking around to see if there were any place even slightly more private, but you startled at his shift and made that an impossibility. Now or never.

The lack of ache in your heel reminded you your amygdala was running the show now, adrenaline perking your muscles. You needed to focus and fully internalize the situation, or it would be a blur just like the last meeting with him. You watched him with a thorough stare; memorized what he was wearing, thought back to what street he was on, tried to recognize the watch on his wrist. How long has it been since I left city hall? Fifteen minutes? Ten? Less? It was instinctual, what you always did walking anywhere in the city in case the police needed a spotless report. His watch was silver, his shirt dark gray with a rounded neckline, his pants were black and lightly pleated. He smelled like smoked honey, and it was so deep even a hundred washes couldn't take it all out, in case he tried to play it off as some other guy, in some other outfit, in some other alley.

He soaked up your studying, making sure to keep as casually still as possible for you to get your read on him. Outside of the suit even he felt it a bit unsettling out here. As you scanned his outfit he flashed back to the tattered denim around your ankles, and how he held the same frame, the same power. Every defense melted from him in an instant. Standing wasn't going to do, was it?

Bruce sank to his knees, balanced a hand in front of him on the chunky concrete, and sat his ass flat in a mucky, lukewarm puddle. When he looked up at you he relaxed his shoulders, and took firm control to slow his breathing. The dilation in your eyes quickly shrank, the wide fear in your face washed away to pointed confusion. He tucked each leg under the other for good, deescalating measure.

Criss-cross applesauce. You blurted out a laugh that sounded more like a maniacal shriek, or some sound a seagull squawked. It was reflexive, coming more from the juxtaposition of the scene in front of you than anything light and humorous. Yesterday you'd scrolled through hundreds of fanfic blurbs and imagines about how distinguished, classy, and inaccessible the man was—if only they got a load of this. For the first time you'd ever seen him he seemed to embrace a speck of humility. You felt a wash of embarrassment at him acting so docile, unable to stop ruminating on how perceptive and analytical he was. You knew he sensed your fear, and it fucked you up.

"My head was jumbled that night. I didn't intend to find you, I was trying to find something on my own. But," His inhale was quick and deep. "I don't know how much I trust my perception anymore. When I saw you, I wanted you to help reality test my, sanity." He spoke the word with a deep sigh and rapid blinking. A slight scraping sound scored his words, anxiously picking at his nails, squeezing the tips of his fingers until they were blushed scarlet.

Sanity? When you peered more intently (which was possible only by him breaking eye contact) you noticed a slight tremble in him. Now your brow furrowed, desperate to pin down Bruce Wayne's thing. More than anything he seemed to be a chameleon, able to slip in and out of any situation through altering his behavior and appearance. You didn't want to be convinced too easily, knowing full well this too could be a ruse. Some final plea to empathy to guarantee you wouldn't tell before leaving forever, and his hail mary a show of humility. "Why would you need that tested?"

He peered up at you; when your eyes locked again that weird, illegal sensation gripped you once more. Could charisma and manipulation be this intense? Be translated only through agonizing eye contact? "Have you seen any owls around?" His words were barely above a whisper, and you had to strain your ears to hear, nearly forcing you to step closer. Owls? "Like the bird? Owls?"

He nodded. "But drawings. Etchings. In any jewelry, windows, streets, buildings, pins, papers?" Jesus, his eye contact... fucking piercing. Nothing rang a bell to you. You didn't know if they even had real, live owls in Gotham, but no, you hadn't seen any drawings, jewelry, anything owl-themed. Come to think of it, you really hadn't seen one since you were a child, on a school trip, or out camping. You shook your head, the confusion and loss in your body language flitting pain across his face. If this was an act, he was convincing, you'd give him that. The bags under his eyes, the tremble in his torso and hands, the desperate searching in his eyes as he tried to enter your soul through your eye-sockets. He averted his eyes again, and you could breathe. "I think I'm hallucinating them. That night I saw Vry wearing one again, and..." Why was he spilling all of it out to you?

Again? You'd never seen her wear anything with an owl on it. He paused and heaved more breaths, as if it were torturous for him to tell you these things, and maybe it was. How comfortable would I feel saying this to him?

The rest of that night spilled out of him, and it felt about as outside his conscious control as vomiting, and equally pleasant. "When I came home Alfred was... concerned. He showed me the death reports on my great grandfather, and the same thing happened to him. Hallucinating owls." He spit these words out like they were knives. "Right before he died." He crossed his arms over his shoulders in a makeshift hug, squeezing tightly as his now unfocused eyes stared absently down the alleyway.

Oh. Your first instinct was to hug him. He looked so decidedly small... maybe his charm was working, and you resigned to stay put. He sighed again, his shoulders going stiffly up and down with it. "Now I'm here. And you gave me your answer." He looked deep in thought, burrowed in it. Hallucinations? His great grandfather, right before he died? The two pieces didn't quite fit together for you; sure, he was stoic and antisocial, but he... when you came up with nothing more, you remembered how little you truly knew about him. He could've hid any symptoms easily from you, only having to be 'on' for two hours a week, a small handful of times. Maybe that's why he doesn't want to interview. Maybe that's why it's hard for him to speak about his family.

Scuffling, clamoring sounds muffled in the background alarmed Bruce, which alarmed you. He stood up swiftly. "It's paparazzi." His wide eyes were back on you, he looked like a deer in the barrel of a gun. He glanced behind you as if studying where he could run to. The butt of his pants and the back of his shirt were alight with mud, his hair mussed, collar of his sweater askew. You could practically hear the headlines if they caught the both of you.

He couldn't just ask you to follow him, not after you'd been so hesitant of it in the past, not in the middle of the dark evening, not when you were whizzing through unmarked alleys. Not a chance you would go for it. As much as he didn't do bribes, he was thinking about how much cash he had in his wallet and if the paps would go for it. Maybe he could ask you to leave, run to the end of the alleyway and turn different directions, and you’d be spared their invasion.

Your apartment was just three blocks further and your keycard let you into the parking garage. He'd know where you lived for one night, and far from the room you lived in... "C'mon." You motioned for him to follow and turned north, focusing on the weight of your heels as you ran so you didn't slip. You thanked yourself for sticking to shorter heels than Mar had recommended. Gotham even makes it hard to run away.

He also wondered how you could run in heels for the few seconds he was behind you, wondering how you weren't laid flat by a twisted ankle. Maybe he was just too anxious, his legs too rubbery. His feet were catching on every pothole and clump of rock.

Wordlessly, you both arrived not two minutes later to the parking garage. The streets were so dark he was easily camouflaged, and when there had been a car with particularly bright lights you'd paused and stood in front of him; you couldn't tell if he was annoyed by this or not, as you were still wanting to engage with him as little as possible. You had boxes to pack, Mar to hound for an answer, and the debilitating fear and confusion of starting over with no idea what to do with your life. Much to look forward to.

When the garage doors shut, he spoke. "Thanks. I'll call Alfred for a lift in a few minutes." He found a raised yellow parking block and sat down quickly, immediately placing his head back in his hands. This couldn't be happening. You'd acted so confused when he asked that, there was no way you'd seen anything like it. He was dumb to think it was anywhere but outside his head. Vry hadn't even glanced down at the ring, Gordon didn't even care to mention it likely because it wasn't there... jesus.

Your heels in his periphery reminded him he wasn't alone, and could save the spiral for later. He watched as you mindlessly kicked at pebbles and toyed with the phone in your hands. Why did you help him? Was it pity? He thought he was coming off pretty pathetic, desperate even. Shame burned white-hot in his gut. Why did he run after you? Why'd he tell you? Why couldn't he just believe what was right in front of him: he was sick, in the same way, the proof was quite literally sitting atop Alfred's desk as he sat here avoiding it. He stood abruptly, and a haze of dizziness struck him. He ignored it. "I'm sorry for asking you. For following after you." As much as he was physically here right now, he wasn't. Lost in twisting thoughts, a sudden desire to draw up a bucket list, to plan for handing over Wayne Enterprises in case things didn't help, in case—

You shrugged, not knowing quite what to say with the stale silence. "It's fine."

"The interview." He gestured to your hand, which was still gripping the recorder and journal tightly. He livened his posture, his tone, trying to deflect from the vulnerability he'd let slip out of him, teetering on the edge of a panic attack. "We can finish it if you'd like."

The disappointment at having to come to Dr. Vry's office the next morning empty-handed was gone now, and you were more upset hearing him give you another opportunity. You'd prepped yourself to distract with the last perishables in your freezer (a pint or two of Ben and Jerry's and whatever else you could muster eating so it wouldn't be thrown out) while you splayed out in bed watching something on streaming. The thought of such a task now... You shook your head and looked away from him. "You don't have to do that. She'll be fine, I don't ever have to see her again after, so."

"Are you sure? We can do it now, I don't mind." He sounded so genuine, suspiciously so, but you had no time to investigate or tease. You thought about how it would feel to be back in your room tomorrow night empty-handed with absolutely nothing having come from your time here. The thought was harrowing. Your degree was useless in this economy, Mar wasn't answering, and you'd gotten on the bad side of one of the most powerful men in America.

You needed anything you could get, and an interview with a notable figure was far from grasping at straws; it would give you a bit of a boost, something to put on a resume that could give you a much-needed leg-up over the competition... but trying to pull answers out of him would be a Herculean task. You stood awkwardly, looking vaguely in his direction. "You didn't really have answers for me before."

"I'll come up with something. Hit me." Anything to deflect from impromptu, hastily-shared vulnerabilities.

You looked around for a place to set the recorder, until you placed it on the ground. You pulled your knee up to rest the journal on it, but the balancing act had you hopping around nearly crunching the apparatus as you regained balance. Using a car window, bumper, or hood wouldn't do; you'd bumped into a few cars down here before, and they were uber sensitive... there was just no way. Would it be so bad if he knew where I lived for one night? The windows didn't open very well, he couldn't exactly swing in. The door was heavy and loud, and you'd be able to grab some sort of knife if he tried coming in the middle of the night. Christ... "We can go up to my apartment for a few, I guess." Get this over with. Finally! Done! Fucking done! Please!

"I don't want to intrude." He stood up slowly from the parking block, you didn't have any reserve in your patience to humor him. "I've got a fridge of perishables to eat through, if you can help me with that you'll do me a favor." You walked towards the elevator and heard his light footsteps follow. You felt a bit bad for him. His confession had been markedly vulnerable, and the box swiftly shut. Mar called them your 'mediator tendencies'; no matter how shitty you felt someone was, if they showed any meekness whatsoever you desired to soothe them like a sick, stray cat.

It was strange how quietly you both walked into your apartment. You flipped on your singular lamp, walked to the freezer, and had him choose a pint. Wordlessly he picked one, and within thirty seconds he was standing in your bedroom while you readied your things, popping open some Cherry Garcia. After you'd popped open your journal, clicked the pen, and positioned the recorder in his direction, you looked up to see him eyeing your armchair in the corner. His eyes flit back to yours and he immediately cast his eyes to the ground. "Ready." He nodded, but you didn't believe it.

You looked over to the armchair you'd sat in last night, feverishly finalizing these notes. Your mouth tugged into a slight grin. Bruce Wayne in the plush pink chair. You nodded your head toward it and he walked quickly, his legs taking long, sweeping, easy strides. He was extra tall with your heels off, plopped down on your mattress looking up at him. But as he walked past you noticed the gray, brown soak on his back, and hopped up. "I'll get a towel, wait." You trekked to the bathroom and grabbed your last clean one, groaning over why you'd bought white. Upon entering the doorway you tossed it to him, and it caught on the end of the spoon still in his mouth. He winced as a clack sounded, and you stifled a laugh. Even if he was being more humanoid tonight, he was still him.

Your bed felt extra warm after the cool bathroom tile, even with the chill of Bruce in the room. He broke the silence, which surprised you enough to turn toward him. He sat, looking about ten spoons deep into the pint. "I've never had ice cream like this." His brow was furrowed, much too seriously for the situation. You wanted to cackle again, but barely held it in by squeezing your fingers together. He sighed. "Alfred only gets Breyer's. Plain."

Maybe it was a coping mechanism, maybe it was your body dissociating from the stress of the rest of the night, of leaving, of a man you so disliked and so feared sitting alone in your apartment while you were otherwise defenseless, but you broke into furious laughter. You wanted to question him further but you couldn't. You fell onto your back and held your stomach. You couldn't see him but you knew he still had that look on his face, the one he always had with you. That bewildered, annoyed, specific fucking face. Stomach cramps plagued your fun, slowing your uproar and letting you sit back up to face him. A fucking pint? Of ice cream? He talked about it like it was alien. You made the mistake of glancing your eyes up to his, and he was making that face. You scrunched your face together tight, feeling like it was getting to the point of bullying the man.

"What?" Defiance coated his tone. He'd never seen you laugh like that, or really, at all. He shoved another cherry chunk into his mouth to abate his own grin. He didn't understand what was so funny, but it felt funny. You shook your head and picked up your pen. "It's funny because it's such a simple thing, and Breyer's is, that's, I don't know." The humor of it was beginning to leave you, and you heaved a sigh to recenter. "Are you ready to start it?"

"Are you?" He gestured with the spoon and you used every muscle in your face and stomach to reign in another laugh. His defiance had melted a bit. His next scoop sounded like it scraped the bottom, and you looked over, shocked. "Already?"

"Pints are deceptively small." He sat the empty cardboard on the desk beside him. "Not like Breyer's." The ghost of a snicker, the faintest smile tempted his lips. He cleared his throat. He played it off by biting the inside of his cheek. "You said you wanted me to clear it out...?"

You thought of the second pint sitting in your freezer, and signed it away to him in your mind. "Sure, get the other one." A moment later he was taking the lid off of a pint of Half-Baked. You waited for him to get situated and hovered above RECORD. "Can we start?"

He nodded, unable to speak as he chowed down, but he was moving the rest of the dessert off to his left. You pored over the questions left unanswered and unsaid, pain cinching your chest. This evening was so erratic. Frenzied. Fucking weird. You pressed the button and cleared your throat; it always made you anxious when the button hit, even when you did roleplays in class. It felt like signing a legal document, like someone could pore over your recording and read into every little thing. Dr. Vry had told the class to treat journalistic recordings with utmost integrity and professionalism, because if your name ever got called into question it could be incredible evidence to get you out of a tight spot, keeping your name and slate clean from people who may not have liked how they came off.

"Mr. Wayne." You felt uncomfortable saying it, but that's how it had to be done. "The public knows a great deal about your business ventures, your family history, and other professional pursuits. I want to dive a bit more into the personal. What do you hope to accomplish in your personal life, outside of career aspirations?"

Christ, he really didn't have an answer for that one. But he said he would, and after masking his mounting anxiety as 'thinking', he pulled something semi-accurate out of a lot of jumbled nothing. It felt strange to speak so formally, his voice twisting into shapes only ever bouncing off the walls of city hall. "I've put a lot of emphasis on helping Gotham; if I had to say, I would like to..." Nothing. It wasn't genuine. He hoped to eradicate violent crime in Gotham, but unless they knew he was also Batman, that would just be another career aspiration. Was Batman a career? He'd never thought of him that way. He didn't fully look up at you but he could see you glancing at him from the corner of his eye. Doesn't have to be genuine. More of a family name thing than anything. "In the next decade, start a family. Then live out the latter half of my years raising my children."

You stared at him, blank-faced. The way he'd choked that out was brutal; his face scrunched, his hands clenched over his knees, his foot was tapping obnoxiously against the ground... cool it, Y/N. Be grateful he's even doing this for you. You moved on to the next, then. You would've rather sliced off the edge of your tongue than ask this, but he'd tempted the topic and you'd deliver for all the teenagers in the world who thought they had a chance with the guy plastered to their wall. Be professional. "It's a question often posed in the comments of Scypher and across other social medias: are you currently in a romantic relationship? And if not, what do you look for in a partner?" Dr. Vry always said to throw in a 'smoothie' to every interview: something digestible and flashy to get the clicks, but still relevant. Something in popular discourse, Gen-Z. You didn't really know if she knew anything about 'Gen-Z' but—Bruce was staring at you, looking insulted. You shrugged and mouthed to him People want to know making him roll his eyes and sit stiffer in the chair. "Not at the moment. Currently very focused on getting through this election campaign and the Spring budget rollout."

Wonder how Scypher's gonna take that. You noted he refused to answer the latter half of your question, but the recording felt like a tight leash, giving no slack for side conversation. "Speaking about the campaign, The Gotham Times has speculated that you might have a mayoral stint in the future. Any plans?" This one should be easy for him.

"You never know." He let out a strained laugh you could tell was only meant to be transcribed in the article. Had he been media trained? He couldn't have... maybe when he was younger? Do little kids get media training? "My father would have made an incredible mayor. I fear I could never live up to that." He wasn't giving you anything extra; sitting there, still, looking the same as he did all evening with a bit more sweat, water, and wind having embraced him. Stoic. Unapproachable.

You checked the time; it was almost eight. You had to have enough time to write this, finalize it enough for the fucking world to see it, and have enough sleep to drive fifteen hours to get home just after midnight. "What's something that you wish more people knew about you?"

It was at precisely this point that he remembered he was debuting a new persona, a different persona, one that needed to be hyped up, more performative than genuine. The same refrain from the earlier conversation blurted out of him. Only after saying it did he realize you wouldn't get the reference, because you hadn't been in the group he was talking to. "Besides my appreciation for jetting to Dubai to work on my physique?" When you had no reaction but a dead stare, he rushed to explain, stopping just shy of anything escaping his mouth. The recorder in the corner sat like a menacing god. He gestured at it until you gave in and flipped it OFF. He waited for the red light to disappear completely to speak. "Do you, have questions written?" He was flustered, and noticed you fiddle with a beige paper when he said it. "I prefer writing things out."

Unconventional, sure, but it was hard to hide your laughs and even harder to witness him break his brain trying to concoct verbal responses. He spoke again. "Underline the questions you want me to answer." He was too embarrassed to act out Bruce Wayne in front of you, and too much was at stake to toss the boyish banter to the side. You felt the nervousness emanating off of him; how worried about ethicality could you be when you'd initially blackmailed him into doing it anyway? You acceded to him. "Sure." He buried the shock at your swift accommodation deep in his chest. As you underlined, you made sure to keep to the questions least interesting to you and most generalizable to the interests of the public. Who liked Bruce Wayne? Besides the many thirsting after him and the older people who had been enamored with his philanthropic parents, he catered to businessmen—people who thought if they only idolized him enough, they could become him.

Many thought your reclusive nature was due to hatred of the city that so cruelly took your parents, yet you seem to still have a passion for Gotham; what drives that passion?

As a burgeoning philanthropist, what was your 'aha' moment?

You're a very hands-on person. Does this drive your enthusiasm?

You do a lot of traveling?

How does your public-facing life now compare to your more private one before?

What do you think is the biggest challenge facing Gotham City today?

What values are fundamental to you, and why?

What's your favorite way to unwind?

As a celebrity from birth, how do you handle criticism?

What's a book that you'd recommend? Anything you're reading right now?

What do you believe in that others might not?

What's your favorite quality about yourself? Least favorite?

How do you spend your weekends?

What is your idea of happiness?

Any weird habits?

What's the best piece of advice you've been given?

You kept the rest untouched. Light, easy to format, mix of depths. Exasperation threatened to derail you completely; if they'd wanted a better interview, they should've cornered Bruce Wayne in a public setting themselves. You hopped off the bed and handed the journal, paper, and pen to him. "I have to finish packing. Lemme know when you're done." Being close to him felt like being on fire, and you splashed your face with cool water from the kitchen sink as soon as you escaped the deoxygenated room.

You meandered, wandered, skipped from wall to wall of your living room, occasionally stopping by for some grapes, a bite of apple, or a sip from the two different juices open in your fridge. Folded the blanket that was over your couch, stacked the pillows, rolled up the rug. Put all the silverware and dishes in a box, save the ones you would use in the morning for some last-minute snacking. Packed away some cans from the pantry, disassembled the lamp, dining table, and two of four dining chairs (why did you ever think you'd need that many?) before Bruce appeared with the journal in one hand, the empty ice cream in the other. "Finished." He set the journal and ice cream on the kitchen island's edge. His voice was low, his expression tired. He gestured with a nod of his head to the two standing chairs. "Need help?"

You wanted to say no out of some misplaced sense of feminism, but you needed to get writing ASAP. By now it was past nine, long past when you thought you'd start. "I just need these two broken down." In a blink he was knelt down beside you, expertly wielding the thick wood legs like he'd telepathically scanned the crumpled manual at your feet. In just a few more blinks he had the entire chair broken down and placed nicely on top of the other two. Without pause he shifted his weight toward the other chair, and within thirty seconds it was broken down. Each chair had taken you ten minutes at least. You bristled, but your curiosity outweighed the jealousy. "How do you do that so quickly?"

His voice was low, emotionless. Even less than usual. "I'm used to fixing things."

You bit back a snarky retort. This isn't fixing them, it's... You stood and walked to grab the journal while he heaved (well, very easily, like carrying an empty plate to the sink) the pile of wood into the large box with the other pieces. He started turning to face you and the rest of the room, and you quickly snapped the journal open to skim it. Your eyes bulged when your thumb kept turning page, after page, after page. You glanced up at him to see him studying your reaction. "Is it acceptable?"

Acceptable? He'd given you a damn dissertation. "Yeah, I mean," You kept flipping pages and noticed questions you hadn't underlined answered. You flipped more, more, and noticed he'd answered every one. The hour hadn't been long at all, if this was the case. "You didn't have to answer every one, I can't fit them all in." Shit, he'd even answered that one? You hurriedly shut the journal before you could dive too deep into whatever swirled around his head. "Um, thank you." Heat tinged your cheeks. "You didn't have to do that, you didn't have to do any of this, really." Had he written them to actually help you, or was he trying to make you feel guilty? Every passing minute you spent with him only added to his mystique.

He shrugged, just as emotionless and guarded, but somehow emptier. "I figured. Now you have options."

Now the both of you were at a standstill. You'd finally gotten what you wanted. "I'll have to take some artistic liberty on how things were expressed. Fill in some exposition."

He nodded. Stayed still as a statue in the back of your living room, the glow of the kitchen lights lighting half his face.

You skimmed the column requirements internally, making sure you didn't conjure up a question the second he left forever. "You seemed to be acting... social, and laughing. Do you want me to go toward that?" This wasn't usually what happened—usually you wrote what you saw.

His blue eyes were bright and heavy. "Use your best judgement." His eyes darted around the mostly empty room, and you wondered if he was picking up on microscopic hairs on the ground, x-raying through the walls, photographing everything with one look. He existed in uncharted territory between normal and superhuman. You rocked from side to side to self-soothe, anxiety bubbling in your gut. "Anything else you need help packing?"

Your head shake came before you'd even thought about if it was true. "I'm good."

Almost invisibly, he cocked an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Another autopilot response. "Yeah. Thanks though." This whole exchange felt surreal, between the weight of his presence and the weight of the column. You couldn't submit to your anxieties until you'd finished typing it or you'd freeze into a ball of overwhelm. Bruce walked toward your door with a slower, steadier gait, almost lingering, but there was no way you could internalize that. He doesn't want to stay, he wants to get the fuck out of here. How much restraint is it taking for him not to just bolt and say 'sayonara'?

... did you want him to linger? "Bruce." He turned across his shoulder, with his hand on the doorknob.

"Thanks again. This will really help me out. And the money, I'm still mad you didn't talk to me, that's messed up but," Quick, sharp exhale. "It's really helping my family." In the silence after, you wanted to tell him she was starting a new treatment, you wanted to tell him how it was going, you wanted to talk to him. After this you'd never see each other again, and it was... affecting. You still thought it was a bribe, you still thought it was to help you keep quiet, you still thought he was scary, and unnerving, and spoiled. But he hadn't hurt you yet.

He nodded, feeling like a 'you're welcome' would've been sorely misplaced. Seeing you stand in your kitchen, heels off, hair messy, dress wrinkled from cleaning, it all felt so normal. He felt an insanely persuasive urge to move toward that, to bathe in it, to finally let his chest relax, his shoulders drop and escape into everyday nothingness. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." The sound of both your voices in the abject silence was isolated and stark.

"Why do you hate Gotham?"

You fought the urge to sigh at him opening the can of worms again. "I'm just not built for it." He stared at you like you hadn't said a thing, his expression unchanged, still as a stump. You feared if you shrugged again your shoulders would pinch a nerve. "It's too fast. Can't keep up."

He squinted. "You can be honest."

"I am." But you quickly lost the defensiveness. "I have a friend here who loves it. She's thriving, she's not phased. But..." You stared at the wall beside him floating somewhere between here and Washington. The length of today, last night, and tomorrow was weighing on you. If you thought about this much longer you'd crumble back into your existential crisis. You didn't finish your sentence.

Bruce didn't know why his stomach clenched seeing you look sad, much like he didn't know why he'd felt the same pang at city hall... before you'd blackmailed him. But now you'd already done that, the interview was done, you were leaving the next morning, and the sensitivity remained. "What?" His voice was gentler, warmer. Your throat constricted, preparing for tears you begged your body to suppress. "She's tougher than I am."

He didn't miss a beat with his response. "You seem pretty tough to me."

"Yeah, sure." Please leave. I'm about to cry.

He was lingering, and at this point he fully knew it. He hadn't realized that, if he was successful with his newfound persona, no one else would ever know his identity. The thought was sobering, seeing how he'd taken for granted someone else knowing. The second he stepped out of the room he had no one to go to ever again outside of Alfred, and with his age... he'd be resigned to spending the rest of his life alone. Why was he worried about this? Why was he thinking about this?

He noticed the tears welling in your eyes. Was it your mom?

"What?"

Shit. The stress of the evening was wearing on him. He didn't make mistakes like that. "You don't have to answer that."

He'd said it like he hadn't intended to. His eyes searched the ground like he was searching for a way out. What the fuck's the harm in it now? The tears had been beckoned, you knew he saw you shaking... you almost gave in, but you couldn't even chance a look up at him under such wuthering eye contact, let alone talk about the complicated, insidious grief that was your mom's illness. You shook your head at him and leaned your hip against the counter, hoping he wouldn't say another word, praying he would just leave. Your heart raced, and only sped up further when you saw him take a step toward you. "Stop. I'm fine." It came out harsher than you intended, and you only doubled down on it when you saw his brow furrow through the crest of tears threatening to cascade past your waterline.

He wouldn't stop staring at you. You decided to face his eye contact unflinchingly, letting the tears stream down your cheeks without comment. His eyes squinted slightly, following the path of each tear down your cheek as if he were caressing each one, holding its weight, soothing it. His chest puffed like he was drawing in air to speak, and you intercepted, shame pummeling you indiscriminately. Fuck, his presence made you feel so vulnerable, so seen, it was excruciating and untenable. On impulse, you lashed out. "Can you just leave already?"

He looked away and nodded. You could barely see through drowning tears but he looked ruffled, sensitive, a bit upset. Almost like he was kicking himself for letting the question slip at all. He turned and opened the door to the empty, dark hallway, with its smattering of tiny nightlights an inch above the carpet. You squeezed your eyes shut tight, white-knuckling gut-wrenching sobs away. He paused halfway out the door, and your ears strained for any whisper from him, but nothing came. The click of the front door dropped you to your knees, choking out cries and stifling pained screams. The devastating loneliness was inescapably stitched into your side, stomping its dirty, muddy feet all over the parts of you that clung to hope.

In the same instant, the shame intensified; not only did you feel shameful feeling so vulnerable in front of Bruce fucking Wayne, the shame of casting him aside and being so curt mingled with severe FOMO of being able to tell someone who was willing to listen. He was willing to listen to me, and I fucked it. When will anyone else be willing to listen? You shoved yourself up off your knees and flung yourself toward the door, whipping it open to look down the hallway.

Silence. Unadulterated, empty halls. Punch to the gut.

You woke up the next morning plagued by the weight of the night before. After the sob session, you’d spent the next few hours typing, editing, formatting, and finally printing it at the 24 hour office a few floors below you. A solid hour was spent just reading through all of what he had written in your notebook: not only had he answered every question, he had given multiple paragraphs of answers to a few of them. Some of his answers had been so transparent you had to flip pages before more guilt visited about turning him away so coldly. What is your most treasured memory? was answered with this:

I remember camping with my parents once. It was the only time we went out as family in private. It was by a river, and I couldn't sleep because of the rushing water. My father woke up and walked me to it; we sat there in the grassy, dirty rock, and everything went quiet. He talked to me about the current, told me how it eroded the rocks underneath, pointed his flashlight at trout jumping above water. He let me dip my feet in, and I clung to his hand. It was steadying. I looked up and saw the stars—you can't see them in Gotham. It was the first time I felt real. I could see the size of the universe. He toweled off my feet before getting back into the tent. The next morning he got called for surgery, and we left. I asked him to come back, and he promised we would. Two weeks later they died. I haven't felt that feeling since. I cherish it.

You couldn't even think about publishing that. Most of it was relatively benign besides, as he answered much of the 'deeper' questions through the new playboy lens, talking extensively about yachting, spas, hunting trips, tennis, and other activities of the elite. The only other ones you'd felt had any real truth to them was What do you hope you grow out of? (He hoped to grow out of needing to 'save' everyone, which felt like a Freudian slip it was so candid), and the one that had caught your eye last night: What, if anything, makes you nervous? You were surprised he spoke frankly still; he was nervous about going to events, nervous when he put on the suit (that shocked you), and generally only didn't feel nervous when he was home with Alfred.

Except, there had been a question he left entirely unanswered: Say it's the end of the world: how would you spend your last day? You couldn't read too much into it before you slipped the copy into your backpack and set off to campus.

Dr. Vry will be thrilled. Finally, the first interview with Bruce Wayne! Finally, the journalism department could be saved! Huzzah! You snickered to yourself as you scurried through the last few blocks. Every footstep felt like a simultaneous step toward freedom and to the gallows; freedom from Gotham, imprisoned in small-town America destined to float around from dead-end job to dead-end job, with no friends and, potentially sooner rather than later, no family to show for it either.

Steps, steps, and more steps, then the old familiar hallway. I've made her happy. I did what I said I would. This is exactly what she wanted. You were stopped in your tracks by a spectacled man in the doorway of Dr. Vry's office. He looked over and motioned for you to come in, looking busied and lost in thought, even as he finished his sentence to her. Dr. Vry nodded for you to take the chair across from her, and you sidled past the stranger to slip into the seat. Like a switch flipped, all eyes aimed at you before you could even adjust in the seat. They stared at you a moment, and you held out your folder, plopping it neatly on the desk in front of her. You opened your mouth to tell her you'd gotten the interview, but the man intercepted. The folder laid untouched between you and your former professor.

"Ms. Y/L/N. My name is Dr. Jonathan Crane, I'm the lead psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. I wanted to meet with you this morning to discuss an urgent matter." He held out a stiff hand, and it was cold when you touched it; clinical, transactional. Thoughts swirled in the backrooms of your mind of how much warmer and more inviting Bruce's handshake was. You wondered what a psychiatrist was needed for; you stifled a chuckle thinking Dr. Vry was going to try therapizing you to persuade you to stay. Except the room was grim and heavy, and the silence weighed fifteen tons. You nodded at the both of them, your eyes shifting between in search of words that would close the chasm between what they knew and you didn't.

Dr. Crane took a horrifyingly deep breath, so deep there was a shudder at the end of his inhale. "Before we begin, this is highly confidential information that must be handled with the utmost care. In that spirit, in order to share this with you it is necessary to sign an NDA." The man with startlingly blue eyes unsheathed a stapled collection of papers from his bag that sat against the leg of the desk. The top of the paper read: RELEASE OF PERSONAL HEALTH INFORMATION – HIPAA REQUIREMENTS.

Dr. Vry nodded at you and bowed out of the room, saying she would be back as soon as 'Crane' welcomed her back inside. As soon as she shut the door, Dr. Crane announced he was going to be locking the door, and if you consented. You agreed, tentatively, adrenaline beginning to tense your muscles to fight. After the door clicked and the lock turned, he sat down a white noise machine by the door. "To enhance privacy." He gestured for you to look over the small packet, and you obliged.

There was a section underneath the title which had options, and one checked: If patient does not consent to release of records but professional judgement necessitates a duty to warn. Another box was checked underneath it, too: Imminent risk of harm to self or others. Your name was listed under the section Affected Parties, for which there were only two lines. The name right above yours: Alfred Pennyworth.

You looked up with your mouth fallen halfway open. "I don't..."

"You do not have to sign, but this ensures we stay as trauma-informed as possible for our vulnerable patients. This document simply states that you will not share or discuss this information with anyone outside of myself. The line for signature is on the third page." You skimmed the large-printed paper, and didn't see anything of note. You signed, but your signature was shaky, scrambled.

"Thank you, Ms. Y/L/N. We will make this quick, and I will only share information relevant to you." He stashed the document and took Dr. Vry's seat across from you. He looked very psychological, if someone could even look that way. Rectangular, rimless glasses in sterile steel; a scholarly suit that you'd imagine someone teaching at some place like Oxford would be outfit in. Brown blazer, white collared shirt tucked under a chunky knit sweater, a red tie peeking out. His fingernails were clean and trim, his face entirely smooth like he weren't even capable of growing a beard. You wrung your hands under the table, nervous that he was psychoanalyzing you as you both sat. His eye contact was unwavering; if you thought Bruce's was intimidating, this was terrifying. He didn't even blink.

"In preface, this is not an investigation. We are keeping things very close to the chest for the time being. We do not think you at fault for last night's events, this is purely an attempt at safety planning." By this point you were feeling dizzy. Heart-pounding. He paused too long, this wasn't right. Just as you were about to burst and shout for him to SPEAK, he clasped his hands together gently above the table and sighed. "Late last night at just past 10pm, Mr. Wayne attempted suicide."

You went still, tinnitus loud between your ears, fuzzing up the edges of your vision. He continued, as if you weren't visibly unable to process new information in such shock. "He's currently in the medical ward at Arkham receiving treatment. He'll be fine, for now."

The for now sat like a boulder in your gut. You sat further up in the chair and leaned your head down, bile rising in your throat. I'm gonna vomit. And vomit. And keep vomiting. You tried to speak but nothing came out, not even a squeak. Bruce had seemed sad when he left, sure, but he always seemed sad. Nothing alerted you to danger, but... you thought back to how he plopped down in the puddle, how weird the city hall meeting felt with him, the desperate humility tinging his aura and painting his behavior. A personality change. Suddenly you felt like an idiot. You felt like an idiot not taking more care when he opened up to you, not seeing it for what it was. His lingering. Was it a last-ditch effort toward connection? For someone to intervene? The unanswered question, you snapping at him... your gut knotted with guilt; you felt woozy. "I could've saved him, I met with him, I talked to him,"

"Hey." Dr. Crane reached out and placed a hand on your trembling wrist. "You couldn't have known." He gave a small grin that didn't reach his eyes. He had no smile lines there at all, actually. God, your mind swirled. "I know that he met with you, he told me. That's why I'm here, you were the last point of contact."

Your eyes snapped up to his from the now bloody hangnail you'd picked off during this conversation. He hadn't called Alfred for a ride? The thought of him leaving your apartment to wander around downtown, suicidal... fuck. Crane didn't waste time getting to the point. "He asked to see you. Multiple times, in fact. He said you worked for the Gazette, and I got in contact with Janay this morning."

"He wants me to see him?" Your face was scrunched with concern, your body vibrating with grief. Why would he want to see me? I was a fucking jerk. I probably pushed him over the edge, fuck, fuck. What did he do? Why did he do it? "What did he, what did he do?"

Dr. Crane shook his head. "I cannot disclose specifics unless he gives explicit consent. I only came here to safety plan."

Safety plan. He said that again. "What does that mean? You want me to see him?"

"Not quite." He adjusted his glasses and leaned closer. "It appears he's been in a mental decline for some time. He needs treatment, and in the meantime we need you to help monitor his safety."

He could see by your visible confusion you didn't have half the information you needed to make an informed decision. "I'm definitely not trained for that," Yeah, you weren't, but he didn't know that you were worried you had actively made his suicidality worse.

"If you agree, I will personally ensure you receive deescalation training and psychoeducation around psychotic disorders. You'll have my number, and if anything goes awry, I will respond swiftly and immediately."

It wasn't clicking. Why me? What about Alfred? But you were afraid to ask. Why had he asked for you in the first place? Why did he try to kill himself at all? Was it something you said? Something you didn't say? Was that insatiable urge to hug him a fucking cry from the universe to fucking do something?

"Janay informed me you were leaving your post here, and that you permanently reside outside of Gotham." Dr. Crane put a hand on the tabletop and peered at you with piercingly blue eyes. They were icy, and cold. Is that even legal for her to give out? "I say this with utmost delicacy, Ms. Y/L/N; you are at no fault for his self-injurious behavior, but my clinical judgement paired with his trauma history leads me to believe your leaving pushed him over the edge." He leaned in closer to you, his expression clinical, distant, with a tinge of rehearsed compassion from a one-week training on bedside manner.

Discordant guilt flushed through you. It wasn't your fault, but it was? You weren't at fault, but something you did made him decide to take his own life? "If he needs to be watched, I can't do that, he wouldn't even want that, I'm not trained," Hot, salty tears stung your lash line as your anxieties poured out of you. "I don't know him, I don't know how to help him,"

"You may not think so, but as far as his next-of-kin explained, he doesn't have many social contacts. You seem of particular importance to him." He glanced at the folder discarded on the table. "Even trusting you to give his first interview, impressive."

You sat, slumped in the cold, hard chair. The thoughts had quieted to a fuzzy, helpless sensation, but nothing concrete outside of the gripping, visceral feeling of I fucked up. Dr. Crane spoke again. "Believe me, this is certainly unconventional. However, his status as a public figure is critical context. He is refusing long-term care, and after the 24 hour hold there's nothing we can do to prevent this happening again."

"What about therapy, medication?"

"That's the very issue we've run into and why your cooperation is imperative. Mr. Wayne is refusing any medical intervention. As far as my assessment goes, he is not answering the risk assessments honestly. He's a smart man, knows how to work the system. I'm concerned if you do not agree to this, there will be nothing we can do to save the last member of the Wayne estate."

At this point you felt as if you were floating above your body. The stakes were too high, everywhere. Too high with your mom, too high with this, too high with the interview. How were you critically involved in the continuation of both Bruce Wayne's life and a major department at one of the biggest universities in the country? Anger boiled up in you, overtaking the shock and sadness. You were helpless; how were you supposed to say no? Whenever you stepped into this room you were made to feel like you had all the power in the world, yet you were so quickly discarded if you tried to take up any actual space. He sensed a clear shift, because he spoke up quickly. "This time is crucial and temporary. I have reason to believe that after no more than a few weeks, he will be able to stabilize with medication-assisted therapy. Then your post is finished."

"You want me to convince him to get help?"

"Precisely." He pushed up his glasses with his pointer finger.

"What about the other name on the form? Alfred Pennyworth?" Would be weird to name him as his butler.

Dr. Crane sighed, like he was giving up information he really didn't want to share. "I met with Mr. Pennyworth last night upon Mr. Wayne's arrival from Gotham General. I'm afraid he's already been trying to convince him for many months to begin therapy; Mr. Pennyworth worried that might have been a trigger in itself."

Fear ballooned in you. "Then wouldn't it be the same for me? I know him even less, I really don't think a single interview signifies..." you trailed off. How is me going to one city hall meeting a week enough? Does he know how often I see him? You imagined Bruce alone in some dark room, the walls covered in soft, spongy material. Chained to a bed. If those dark thoughts crept in again, at any other point in the week, there would be nothing you could do. You were afraid the responsibility of keeping him alive would consume you, and if it didn't succeed... christ. No matter what anyone told you, no matter if a higher power came down and denied your fault themselves, you'd never be able to forgive yourself.

Dr. Crane's face was grim, and he spoke like you'd already signed the dotted line. "All you can do is try.”

Hi! I just wanted to say I’m absolutely loving your series!! I just finished reading all the current chapters in one sitting because it’s so addicting!! You have so much talent and I’m so so excited for the future of this story 🫶

I’ve been rereading this comment all day !! 🥹 thank you sooo so much! I’m so glad you love it 💖 I hope the story continues to capture your interest, I’ve been toying around with some different plot points 🤭 veryyy excited to explore more of their dynamic and the greater hijinks of Gotham 👀

Fateful Beginnings

XX. “close call”

parts: previous / next

plot: your friend is set on knowing what you can’t divulge. Bruce is left conflicted about his next course of action; the next day at work, your boss tries to force your journalistic hand.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, arguing, alcohol, creepy men

words: 4.7k

"I'm coming to get you." Mar set down the phone and sounded like she was grabbing things to come there.

You panicked, wondering how you could tell her you were with Bruce right now without potentially giving his identity away to someone near the car. And what if she still comes and sees I'm actually with Batman?

"Mar." She wasn't answering. "Mar!" She still wasn't saying anything, and this time you heard a door. "I'm hooking up with someone and they're sleeping."

"Don't believe you." You heard the click of keys in a lock, and panicked further. She wouldn't be one of those Batman trackers, right? She wouldn't know you were near the Bat signal right now, right? You took a deep breath. "Just, stop! Stop!"

"Why? This is so fucking suspicious, what if you get fucking murdered?" She sounded genuinely afraid, and you heard a car door open. She already got a taxi? "Please, I know you care about me,"

"Fifth and Stark, please. Thanks." That was… extremely accurate to where you were sitting right now. Fuck!

"I know you care but please, I want my life to be my life. I don't want to be monitored, I am 100% fine." What would Bruce do if he found out I let his secret slip?

"Then you'll be fine when I get there. It's the middle of a fucking alley, Y/N,"

Even if you left the car and ran off into the night, she would get dropped off and see a car that was so obscenely expensive it had to belong to Bruce Wayne, and she would know. At this point your panic was eroding away into irritation, because she was starting to act like a helicopter parent. You put the phone on mute and frantically searched the empty car for some keys. Maybe I could just drive somewhere else while location is off. Where the fuck does he keep keys?? Does this car even have keys? Is it one of those card things?

"Y/N??" Mar had reacted even to your line going silent. Between the fear of giving away Bruce as Batman, your annoyance at being monitored so closely, and the residual fearful anger from the anonymous donor reveal, you snapped at her. "I want to live my own life without being suffocated!" Your words hung in the air a moment, then you felt sick. I shouldn't have said that. Fuck.

"Hello??" OH THANK GOD. You'd forgotten to unmute. You took a few regulating breaths, then unmuted. You saw her location as five minutes away. "How about I meet you..." On the map she was two minutes away from a queer bar downtown you and her had frequented in undergrad. It would probably be a ten minute walk from here. "At Mora's, in ten minutes."

"Do you know how much could happen in ten minutes?"

"I'll keep you on the phone." You looked around to make sure you hadn't accidentally lost anything, and she sighed. "I don't understand what's going on. But. Fine. Oh, and if you're not here in ten minutes I am calling the police, 'kay?"

"Sounds good." You muted yourself for a second just so she wouldn't hear you popping the door open. If you had to answer about sitting in a car it might move the conversation towards more sleuthing. A quick pop of the lever made the door swing open wide, and you were able to slam it shut and unmute before Mar had even realized you were silent. A few steps in the dusty alley made you turn around, wondering how the hell you might let Bruce know where you'd went. Did you even need to let him know? You feared he might stalk the city for you if he didn't. You noticed steam had accumulated on the windows from you being inside, just enough for you to maybe write out where you were going, or at least that you were safe. Pointer finger to wildly expensive glass, you wrote a quick note and evaporated into the depth of the dark night.

Bruce's inside wrist buzzed. UNL was in small blue text, signaling an unlock in the car. Gordon had just pushed up his glasses to look at the hilt, but pulled back to take a breath being so close to the stench, which was rapidly filling the room. Bruce grit his teeth and stared longingly at the knife handle before tearing away and walking across the room. "I'll be back." The detectives paid him no mind as he strode strongly past, breaking into a run down the hall to the staircase. Why did it unlock? Right when Gordon was about to look at the owls, too... He resigned to be back as swiftly as possible, flexing his fists on the way down until he burst through the door, sprinting toward the alleyway.

At first he didn't know if you were still there or not. The car was completely black, unable to even be seen until he was about ten feet away. The tinting on the windows was more severe than he'd thought, but it was highly effective. Even peering into the window with cupped hands proved futile. After opening the driver's side door and lowering the partition, he felt stuck. Where the hell were you?

This was the worst part of Gotham—an uphill walk so steep that regular patrons of the various businesses in the area made sure to rent apartments at the top of the hill; if you moved into one of the businesses at the bottom of it, you were financially doomed. This was why, though you could see Mora's sign glowing ahead, it would be another seven or eight minutes until you were able to heave yourself through the doors.

Bruce was at a standstill as he stood at the alley in front of his abandoned car. He sleuthed for evidence of a fight or unusually quick getaway—the dust pattern outside both back doors was consistent with a normal walking pace for one individual, and he was left puzzled. Had you gotten bored? Tried to prank him? He couldn't track you; after the argument about how invasive his previous searching efforts were, it would be treasonous to do so again. Though he couldn't see the building from here, he looked in its direction with utmost longing. The first owl in months had shown up, now readily accessible and able to be viewed by a trusted source. Maybe he could feel less crazy, or maybe he would feel absolutely insane if Gordon said he saw nothing there. Bruce tolerated fear well, but this was a slippery one, one that involved more than circumstances and threatened his psyche. As he changed back into his previous suit, he told himself he was leaving to find a citizen in danger, not being willfully ignorant of his own mental decline. He swung around to open the driver door when he caught a patterned glint off the back window. A dust devil danced in the background as a gentle accompaniment to the barely legible prose. Had 2 leave, am safe. He tossed his blazer atop his car and rested his hands over his head. He paced through the dust cloud that then dissipated around his ankles. Sloppy. I'm being sloppy. He couldn't change back into the suit, could he? Working protocol was to never change out of the suit in the same public location, but was this public enough to qualify? Could he go back in to follow up with Gordon? Would he drive around all night trying to see if you were honest, and not in danger? Would that be too intrusive? Probably. In a city this big, and this dark, that required facial recognition technology he promised he wouldn't use on you. Christ.

"Y/N." Mar usually greeted you excitedly, but now she stood with her arms crossed around a neon green blazer. Quite honestly it was the last thing your eyes needed to see after bland, gray concrete. She tapped her foot and glared at you, then gestured toward your phone. "Why were you being so fuckin' secretive?"

You had only barely begun to catch your breath, and followed her gesture with one towards the bar. "I need some water, Mar, that was fucking steep," She groaned but followed you in. The bouncer stared at your ID a little too long, which was usual—there weren't many IDs from other parts of the country here. Gotham was the city that people left, never a destination.

The bar was pretty busy, about the usual suspects for a Thursday night. Gotham's strong population decline apparently had not hit the partiers, because Friday through Sunday every bar and club was packed like sardines. Mora's was better on Thursdays, when it was still lively but not crawling with women and their straight boyfriends; whenever you or Mar walked past them they'd ask to watch you kiss. Thursdays were mellower, with synth pop or indie music floating from the speakers instead of EDM. On the first Thursday of every month there was a themed event, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd been here for one of them. Your favorite drink here was "The Sinnamon", a tongue-in-cheek drink consisting of cinnamon Fireball whisky, pulverized blackberries, and ginger ale. Mar liked "Hot Shot", a shot of tequila mixed with jalapeño brine. You thought hers was disgusting, and she thought yours was basic; whenever a game of truth or dare started, at some point both of you would dare the other to switch drinks.

"Wanna get our usual?" You tried to be chipper and distract from how you'd been in the back of Bruce/Batman's car, wanting so badly to avoid a conversation about him altogether and to forget that the richest, most powerful man in the city might have just bribed you into silence. You wondered when Bruce would be done, and if he would freak seeing you weren't there. Would he stalk you? Go back to his supercomputer to track the city cameras? Were you being a paranoid freak and he was simply a burgeoning philanthropist in unfortunately suspicious circumstances?

"Y/N." Mar was being short with you, and you started feeling tense. What was the line between care and surveillance? When did vigilance become paranoia? You cast your eyes to the floor and told her to find a seat while you ordered drinks. She stared at you without saying a word or making a sound, her eyes shooting daggers. You felt like a little kid. Thankfully a bartender had been walking to the back to get some supplies and happened past you. "Have you two been helped yet?"

Five minutes later you two sat in the upper lounge area on pink vinyl benches. Your thighs were sweaty from the walk and immediately stuck to the seat, painting swathes of red on the back of your legs where it peeled. Starting to remember why I stopped coming. The green walls were familiar, the same octagonal mirror loud against its backdrop. It felt oddly eerie.

Mar refused to touch her drink until the both of you talked, her stubborn nature both frustrating and soothing you. After taking a few gulps (honestly, half the drink or more) you set yours down as well, shaking your shoulders to rid tension. "Look,"

"You're keeping something from me." Mar was decidedly blunt, and it immediately made you feel caged. You shook your head at her gently, trying to avoid giving away specific information. What if she keeps up with Batman tracking and sees he was at that location, near me?

"I promise, it's nothing you need to know."

She shook her head back, refusing to entertain not being informed. "You were in an alley, you turned your location off, what the fuck? And you wouldn't speak loud to me?" Her voice was starting to raise, only slightly, but enough for you to worry about others hearing.

Your instinct was to soothe and reassure, hoping it would put out the fire brewing in her eyes. "I know it seems weird, but I'm fine. I was fine. I am fine." You topped it off with a grin and she rolled her eyes. She saw right through you, knew there were words unsaid, but couldn't quite make them out.

"I don't like you lying to me."

This struck a chord, but you knew you couldn't show it or she'd fight harder. "I'm not lying, I just don't need to tell you this."

"Like fuck you don't!"

Oh, we're being demanding now? "We barely talked before I moved back here. The whole last year of school you've just been partying, I didn't know you really gave a shit about me."

"Y/N. You're my closest friend here." Her tone was flatter, and her hands were now sitting together in her lap. Your brow furrowed. "I knew I was your friend, but,"

"Close friends don't hide things from each other."

Anxiety bubbled in your chest. This felt... manipulative? "I promise this was nothing dangerous, or sketchy, I just, want some things to be mine." Her glare hardened, so you continued speaking. "So you're not close with the people you see every day?"

She rolled her eyes again. You were starting to get a bit pissed off—that, or the alcohol was starting to hit and fuck with your emotions. "I can't talk to them, you know that."

"I don't know that. Because I wouldn't be spending most of my time with people I couldn't talk to."

"Girl... you really don't get the city." Another eye roll. Smoke was starting to come out of your ears.

"I don't. At all. It's fucking weird." You picked up your drink and had another sip, the cinnamon warming your tongue and edging off the sting of this conversation's undertone. Rumination percolated in the back of your mind about how you wished you'd never came back.

She held out her hand and counted to two, exploding her hands at the end of her sentence for added effect. "You have your going out crew, then you have your separate friends to talk to. People with substance."

The disdain was now apparent on your face, the alcohol relaxing your inhibition. "I hate it when you say stuff like that. Acting like you're better than them."

Mar laughed and sat back on the seat. "That's 'cus I am."

"These people are your friends, dude. They tag you in every photo, you go out for brunch, bars, didn't you even go to one of their weddings a few months ago?" Her smugness was infuriating.

"I don't need a lecture."

You paused. The conversation was devolving into something reminiscent of the one you'd had back home, right before the big blow-up, sans lies about your sex life. Am I the common denominator? "It just... it makes me think you talk about me like that." You clammed up, sifting through more thoughts of Is it me? and but she IS acting like a helicopter parent, not really respecting my boundaries...

"I'd never talk about you like that,"

"Why do you hang around people you don't like?" It puzzled you. It sucked being alone, but at least then you didn't have to be fake. It exhausted you picturing her smiling and laughing with people only to disrespect them in their absence. How much could you trust that she wasn't already doing that?

"The city caters to a certain type of person, okay? They'd say the same about me." At this point Mar picked up her shot and downed it. Loneliness had painted a fluffy pink cloud around your friendship with her, distracting from the reality of why you both had mostly fizzled out over the past year.

She'd always had flighty tendencies, running from one group to the next, and never quite shit talked anyone to you; she instead made small comments like that one, subtly positioning herself as better or more important than the people she spent all her time with. While the two of you had disagreements, it was more circumstantial that the both of you had fallen out of everyday contact; she had been a sociology major with you the first year, but after a particularly exciting political science course she'd moved more towards public speaking and general policy courses—she was into leading people and you were into knowing them. This was out of character however—Mar was all over the place, sure, but she was never so immovably standoffish.

"So what were you doing?"

She wasn't letting up. To cave or not cave... What would be gained if you stayed silent? What would be gained if you said you'd been with Bruce? If you were being honest with your feelings, you wanted her to know so you had someone else to bounce your fears off of, akin to a reality check. However, adding another person to the mix would only further complicate things—it was best not to act in haste. After a second of deliberation that she appeared peeved over, you decided to restate your inability to share, asserting the boundary before you became deliriously inebriated. If I truly wanted to share, I’d share it, not feel peer-pressured into it. "It didn't concern you, and I don't appreciate being forced to tell you. Everything's fine." What if I'd been buying her a gift? What if I'd gone into the alley to cry away my troubles?

"It makes me really suspicious, Y/N." She slammed the glass down on the small gold table and threw her head in her hands, like you'd just told her to go fuck herself.

"Not telling you doesn't mean I did something bad." She still sat facing the floor, exasperated. You sighed. "I know you want me to be safe, I appreciate that." You touched her back, and realized she was shaking. When she uncovered her eyes you saw her mascara was smudged, and her cheeks were wet.

"I feel fucking guilty about fucking inviting you to the fucking club." She hiccuped after trying to speak through stifled sobs. "You didn't respond after and it fucked me up, Y/N, I thought you fucking died and it was my fucking fault." She threw her hands over her face again and curled inward toward her stomach.

"Hey, hey," You pulled her into a hug and pressed your cheek to her shoulder. Her body wracked with sobs muffled by her shirt, and you only made out bits of what she said through it, one of them being a strained, pitchy "I'm sorry" followed by a volcano of tears. You very nearly cried with her, white-knuckling away the hot tears prickling your eyelashes.

"Here, I'll get napkins." You jogged to the bar and grabbed a heap, a heap she went through almost instantaneously. "I know I'm fucking weird right now, god." Her sniff was thick and hard. "You don't have to tell me."

Five minutes passed of more casual conversations. The alcohol had hit both of you at this point, leaving you both tipsy but not drunk. Bruce floated out of your mind. Mar, who could handle her alcohol about a thousand times better than you could, ended up going to the bar and ordering another round for you both. You sat alone on the sticky seat letting your eyes roam and people-watch. There was a woman sitting diagonally from you across the room surrounded by a gaggle of women, all admiring her (likely) new ring; you caught some of its sparkle, which rendered you a bit sad. They belong. I don't.

She came with the drinks faster than the first time, and downed the second shot before your glass had even reached your lips. "Ah. I need to piss and fix my mascara. Can you watch the drinks?" You nodded, and off she went. That was another good thing about this bar: the bathrooms weren't backed into a weird corner down a long hallway, they were able to be seen from across the room if someone tried to follow anyone. You watched her and the door like a hawk, clutching your drink in your cold fingers as you sipped at it absentmindedly.

Over the next hour you both sat in the haze of alcohol's glow, talking at length about any major events that had happened since the list time you'd been here (Mar had hooked up with ten different people, one of which, she reported, was the love of her life that she planned to ask to officially be her girlfriend on Halloween night; you briefly mentioned your mother's cancer, but kept the conversation in the land of hopes and dreams as for her prognosis) and by that time the bar was making you both quite dizzy. Mar had already ordered an Uber while the both of you giggled over random posts on Scypher, and before you had fully registered you'd even left the bar you were opening your apartment with Mar at your side. Exhausted, you popped an ibuprofen (Mar had taught you this—taking an ibuprofen with a couple large glasses of water took the bite out of hangovers) and nearly drowned yourself in hydration before taking a quick pee and jumping into bed. This place, though your eyes were admittedly hazy, still didn't quite feel real. The last thought before you both crashed was an eerie feeling you might never feel at home anywhere again.

BRRT. BRRT. BRRT. The alarm you'd set for yourself on Monday saved you from missing call time at Dr. Vry's office—9:45am. She'd told you to come with a 'spiked' hot chocolate every morning from the cafe a block from campus. Cafes don't put liquor in their coffee, right? Is it even legal to sell alcohol this early? But when you'd said goodbye to Mar and found yourself in line at 9:30, you realized it was nothing more than a hot chocolate with four shots of espresso. No wonder she's so talkative.

While you waited in line, now with the soothing wash of alcohol out of your system, your mind wandered round and round about the implications of Bruce having paid your parents debt, and the circumstances surrounding his payment. You knew a secret that would destroy him, and possibly land him in jail for the rest of his life—you distinctly remembered being in the police car realizing the cops hated Batman. He was a barely contained vigilante, only not caught because he left as quickly as he arrived; you figured his life would effectively end if you were to let anything slip. You vowed to do more research when you got home on if Batman had ever killed anyone, even by accident, or if there were any clues pointing toward suspicious 'disappearances' that could be in any capacity traced back to the bat. When the barista handed you the coffee, the heat in your hand brought you out of your head and back to the day's responsibilities.

"Ah hello hello!" Dr. Vry smiled at the coffee before she addressed you. Once you handed off the drink you smoothed down your trousers, to which she gave you a concerned once-over before tsk-ing. "Let's get you set up."

You were placed down the hall and to the left, in the room right next to the elevator; it was a small space that looked like it used to be a computer room. Frayed electrical wires jutted out from the stark white walls, and the thunking of the elevator was intermittent but so loud it never failed to scare you. The top of the singular student desk in the middle of the otherwise barren wasteland had a sticky film on it, like someone had spilled a caramel latte over it and left it for the summer just to fuck with the campus custodians. When you got out your computer and stared at the empty page, you worried about having enough to say; all that had happened was an introduction of the various people at the table, an overview of the candidates for mayoral election, and a few other small announcements you felt not entirely relevant to the city. Who cares if Little Me, Big Dreams was temporarily adding a dance class for toddlers that was already full, with no waitlist?

Three hours later you escaped the lull of your computer screen when Dr. Vry motioned for you to come to her office. She cleared her throat and had a smile so wide it felt like a dentist commercial. "Please, sit." You sat in the rickety chair that strained against your thighs for air, your eyes noticing the cobwebs in each corner of the ceiling. "What happened at the City Hall meeting last night?"

"Oh uh," You were a bit taken aback, but quickly summarized the draft you'd written. "Well, there are a few mayoral candidates that will be coming to the meetings, which I want to get an interview for each, and there was a lot of introducing everyone so, it honestly took up a bulk of the time, and then just some miscellaneous information from businesses across the city." Her smile had faded considerably. "I had a question about the latter too, would you like if I listed them in a bullet format, or—"

Disdain flooded her tone. "Did Bruce Wayne not make an appearance?" She sat back in her chair and stared at you with unblinking pale blue eyes.

The mention of his name was like a hot branding iron down your throat. "He did, but he really just introduced himself and listened to everyone else for—"

"You managed to get into a room with Mr. Wayne, the sole survivor of a family so illustrious, so prestigious, and did not so much as speak a word to him?"

You stammered. "I thought I was supposed to report on the content of the meeting,"

"Mr. Wayne is the content." She slammed her hands down on the table and stood up. Your chest hurt and you hid a wince. "The journalism department in this establishment is doomed. We must speak to what the people want if we are to rise from the ashes."

"And people want Bruce Wayne." You spoke flatly, your throat cinching. She nodded, heaving a sigh of relief. She blinked up a storm, then placed a hand on your shoulder. "Dearest. We must give the people what they want."

Was this just a column about Bruce? If so, you were quitting right now. "Should I include the other pieces,"

"If there's room." She moved to her filing cabinet to thumb through nondescript folders. "Did you even make contact with Mr. Wayne at last night's meeting?"

"Yeah." Your voice was small, defeat sunk you back into the chair.

"And what was the topic of conversation?"

"He showed me some notes he had. Talked a bit about Bella Reál and the candidates for mayor."

She paused for a few seconds with her fingers hovered above the cabinet drawer. "Hmm."

"I," Dr. Vry was deeply intimidating, but you felt a sore spot in your chest at the thought of abandoning the sprit of journalism in favor of a celebrity blog post. "I don't want to exclusively write about him."

"You'll do as you're instructed."

"No, I won't actually." You pushed your chair back, and she spun to glower at you. "I'm not putting my name on celebrity gossip."

She balked when you said 'my name', which made you want to curl up and cry, but you held your ground.

"Anyone else would die for your position."

"If Bruce Wayne contributes to the meeting, I'll add his contributions, but I'm not going out of my way to make him the focus."

"The audacity is striking!"

"With all due respect, this wasn't what was advertised."

"You're suspended without pay until further notice." She shoved the cabinet shut and wiped her hands of the dust. "The department will hold a meeting about your future at GU."

You bit back a million retorts and equally as many tears as you left her office, grabbed your things, and set off for The Moore.