Fateful Beginnings

Fateful Beginnings

XXV. “Mr. Wayne”

parts: previous / next

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

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

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

words: 7.4k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bruce."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He spit the word out. "Pass."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N."

OFF. "That's not professional,"

"I never officially agreed to this anyway."

"What do you mean? Dr. Vry said—"

"What did she say?"

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

"Why would I only talk to you?"

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

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

"Why?"

"You left in the middle of the mission."

"I left a note."

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

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

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

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

This again. "Nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know."

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

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

"Because I know confidential information about you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You seemed to really not believe me."

"I was in my head."

"So what's it now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quick breath in, arms back to position.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fateful Beginnings

XVI. “sweetener”

parts: previous / next

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

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

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

words: 3.9k

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

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

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

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

Dear Miss Y/L/N,

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

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

We look forward to hearing from you.

Gotham City University Faculty Administrator

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dad, no, I'm tired,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can top me

BARK BARK BARK

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

daddy

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

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

Fateful Beginnings

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

XIII. “already spoken for”

parts: previous / next

plot: it’s the day of Gotham University graduation. things take a turn when you realize who they chose to be this year’s commencement speaker.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, grief

words: 3.6k

It was four in the afternoon before you pulled up to the steps of W, the city's highest-ranked hotel on the east side, and 4:30 before your parents had gotten settled in their room. While they finished unpacking, you hurried into your heels while trying not to smudge or sweat your makeup off. You lamented over not being able to find your sneakers in the half hour you had before leaving to the airport, resigning yourself to the same slightly muddy heels you'd worn at Wayne Manor.

"Hun," Your dad called. "What time do we need to schedule the ride?" The ceremony started at six, and you desperately tried to remember how long it might take to get to campus on a bad night. An hour? "Oh wow, never heard of traffic like that before." From the mirror you could see him put on his glasses and press some buttons on his phone. You'd never seen your parents in such a nice hotel before—they must have splurged on this. Is it for me? For my mom?

You were quick to finish getting ready. "My oh my, I've never seen such rain in my life." Your mother wrapped herself tighter in her rain jacket, one you'd picked up at the airport for her. Your parents had fought it, saying they didn't need jackets, their windbreakers would do. Now your dad was looking jealously at the droplets of rain sliding off of her.

You moved your parents from the edge of the sidewalk to the middle. You'd learned quickly when you first moved here that if you waited too close to the street for your cab, you would end up drenched as the tires propelled chemical mud up to your waist. Gotham was so rainy, and you could tell the streets were still trying to manage from the floodwater. Melancholy wrapped you like a blanket for the ride; ending this chapter meant starting a new one, a worse one. What would your life lead to now? What would you do with your life? Especially if... if you and your father were left alone to navigate it. Your thoughts trailed into nothingness as the masses of policemen caught your eye at campus drop-off. Huh? Someone call in a bomb threat or something?

"Nothing to see here, move along." A voice similar to the one you'd heard weeks before when you'd rang about the ride along boomed across the wet concrete. He smacked on his gum and looked rather unenthused. Your eyes narrowed as your father jogged to the trunk to get out her wheelchair. Couldn't be anything too serious then. They look more nervous doing a drug bust than right now.

The entrance split to the left and right. One labeled STUDENTS and one FAMILY AND FRIENDS. You hugged your parents goodbye and told them you'd meet them on the north side of the football stadium at the ceremony's end. As you got in line behind your fellow students to grab your cap and gown, you heard a type of whisper that made your head spin. Frantic, excited, mile-a-minute. Women touching up their lipstick with urgency, natural blush lighting their cheeks. Men rolled their eyes and groaned to each other under their breath. The fuck? He couldn't be here. No fucking way. He'd never. Then, confirmation.

"We get to shake his hand. AHH!" Two women jumped toward each other and squealed. Another one wagged their ring finger. "Maybe this is the start of Mrs. Wayne." Your eyes closed as if they were magnetized, squeezing shut while a deep pang rang through your throat to your abdomen. Blood pulsed in your ears to match the intrusive mantra of your lie blasting at full volume within your skull. I fucked Bruce Wayne. I fucked Bruce Wayne. I fucked Bruce Wayne. I fucked Bruce. I fucked Bruce. Fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

"Miss?" A student worker held a paper bag containing regalia. Flustered, you nearly tripped over yourself to grab it, nodding a quick thank you and slinking inside. They're wrong. He's not here. I'm not seeing him again! Not seeing him again. He's a recluse. Pop music rolled listlessly through old speakers, and you measured your breath alongside it. Tugged on the gown. Pulled on the cap. Tucked your hair behind your shoulders. Another deep breath. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. This is stupid. He doesn't even know. He doesn't even know you said that. If he even is here. Which is impossible. Another ridiculous rumor started by people who are too horny for anyone with influence. Closing your eyes and breathing, feeling the gentle whoosh of air as your gown twirled around your calves helped ground you back to a grin. If he was here, that'd be hilarious. You imagined him in that same old dusty wool coat hmm-ing awkwardly into the mic.

You followed a group in front of you over to seats on the field under a canopy. The chairs were listed alphabetically, and after finding your row you moseyed down to your seat at the end. When you looked up you noticed Bruce standing across the field at the entrance to the Humanities building, the white walls pronouncing his tailored gray suit.

Without conscious effort you gasped so suddenly it startled the student sitting behind you. That was Bruce?! "Shit, what?" They sat up behind you and leaned over your shoulder to your eyeline. They laughed as they followed your gaze to the eligible billionaire. "I know right?"

You bristled. Salivate more, I dare you. "I just didn't know he was the speaker." Arms-crossed you slid down in your chair. You moved your head to the left to appear like you were checking out the stadium—still keeping a twisted eye to his direction. His hair was... lighter? Or was it just dry for the first time you'd ever seen it? It must’ve been the one day of beaming sun illuminating his dark hair. The suit was much more shapely than his previous one. The maroon tie and handkerchief matched GCU's, meaning he'd put effort into it. Or Alfred had. How is Alfred doing? Is he here? Was he shocked when Bruce signed on for this? God. You wished you'd been there for his reaction. As far as you knew from the small moments of conversation, he'd conceptualized Bruce as a total homebody recluse, someone albeit socially inept. He seemed nearly de-aged with the fitted clothing and styled hair, like a man who was always well-rested. You wondered how many bruises were hiding beneath the formality, a cool shiver dancing down your spine knowing you were the only one who knew his secret.

Students filed around you until every seat was taken and the speakers began assembling themselves on the small stage in the middle of the field. Bruce moved from his spot by the building with a confident walk to the chair first to the left of the podium. You noticed Dr. Vry walk up behind him and place a subtle hand in the small of his back to direct him a few seats down, and you bit your lip. Of course he tried to sit closest to the podium. Full of himself. A woman sat to your right who was ogling at Bruce, almost genuinely salivating. You nudged her and broke the trance. She looked over at you and you introduced yourself with a small smile. You wanted to know what they saw in him. "Bruce Wayne is our speaker, huh? Did you know that?" You were so good at the whole fake smile thing.

She had thick dark hair falling down her back under her cap. Her thick lashes fluttered at the question, her pupils slowly constricting to normal size. "Of course, it was the only reason I chose to walk." She laughed a bit, moving her attention once again straight ahead to where he was settling into his seat. You saw her eyes trail down a bit and cleared your throat to recapture her attention. "Everyone here seems to be fawning over him."

She looked over at you with a small laugh, the tips of her ears turning red; the one ear that you could see anyway. "He's fucking hot, dude." She bit her lip and shook her head, staring down at the turf. She stayed that way, lost in some sort of daydream. You cocked your head at her and playfully nudged again. "C'mon, what about him is so hot anyway?"

"Have you seen him?" She was incredulous, her head whipping up to face you. "He's the type of guy that's everyone's type. Look at him." She pointed at him and you begrudgingly followed. Bruce was sitting at the farthest seat from the podium, presumably the last to speak and lead directly into names. Maybe, maybe today he looked passable. Someone you could picture drunkenly flirting with in the line for the bathroom at a concert or festival or bar. But then you'd wake up and see him lying next to you in bed and freak out, wondering where the hell your standards had gone before swearing off alcohol indefinitely. He ran his fingers through his hair, the upward movement rippling through his trim suit. Maybe? He isn't UGLY... but that didn't make him the hottest person to ever exist. Right?

Your eyes glazed over with the sheer amount of speakers. You naively assumed since the ceremony started at six in the evening, the ceremony couldn't last longer than two hours. Wrong—at 8:04 you checked your phone, which was right when someone cleared their throat over the intercom. "Good evening graduates, friends and family of graduates. We seem to be running just a bit behind schedule so I'll make this brief."

His hands shook behind the podium, grasping his paper speech. It was much too late now to fully include all of his plans, but the speech was much too long anyway. It was good, he needed to shorten it, but which parts? It was disorienting looking out into the massive crowd, as he could only make out vague faces from so far away and the graduates, though closer, were somewhat obscured under the canopy. What if they can tell, right now? What if when they all shake my hand they notice? They see me? He stiffened his back and went full-send into an improvised version of his speech. "If you don't know me, I'm Bruce Wayne. I wanted to celebrate you all today in your future, as well as the future of Gotham city. As many of you know, my father Thomas Wayne dedicated his life to the betterment of this city. You came here with bright eyes and a keen sense of responsibility, both to yourselves and your communities. Or for the reduced tuition rate." The crowd laughed. Yes, whew. It landed. "What will you do with this knowledge? Where will you go? Will you become teachers, empowering future generations? Will you go into healthcare, doing your best to help the injured and sick? Will you go into politics, trying with the best of your ability to make a more just world?"

You stared at him with a furrowed brow, probably the only one in the entire stadium. He sounded so... secure. Confident. Competent. A far cry from the sullen, quietly bitter man lurking throughout his manor just weeks prior. "My hope for you all is to not submit to the darkness around us. I know it seems cliche, but if you cannot find a light, be one for someone else. This city, this world needs it. It's bleeding for you, and I, to do all that we can with all that we have. This is why I chose to speak today. I want to forge a mutual promise: from this day forward, I will be taking an active role alongside you all. It is time to pay it forward. Now, decades later, the Wayne Foundation is being reevaluated and engineered to better fit our diverse needs. Funds will be allocated to those who need it, and I will personally oversee all committee meetings going forward. You are resilient. You are capable. The very fact that you are sitting here today is proof of your dedication and your power. Let's use those powers for good. To the graduating class of 2024, go inspire. Go Knights!"

The crowd erupted with applause and whistles. His hands were steadier now, though his vision was blurred. Through pure muscle memory he walked to the end of the platform where he'd been instructed this morning, willing his hands out of clamminess as the first row of students shuffled up to the stand. Oh my god. I did it.

Your jaw hung open until the first name was called. No fucking way. That was the most Batman-y speech... had Alfred written it? What was this about being 'inspired' to help the city? Something about funds? The woman next to you nudged you and whispered sweetly about how lovely the speech had been. "Wow. Looks, money, and intelligence? Unreal." Unreal was right. Where had this sudden shift come from? It was blasphemy to simply say it wasn't like him; it was the development of an entirely different persona. A pit in your stomach snagged on the fact he hadn't acted in this way before you'd found him out. What if it was you? It can't be. Impossible. He hates me. As he should. Besides, why would he risk more people seeing him if he was so worried about being found out? Wouldn't he want to hide more? Might be a psychotic break. Had to be.

He shook every person's hand and said a word to them, probably 'congratulations' if you could trust your lip reading skills. As everyone walked back to their seats after getting their diplomas, the men hid grins and the women were varying shades of red, with eyes so bright and big you thought you could see the solar system in their irises. Before you even knew it you were standing and following the line up to the stand. Your heels ached immediately, your ankles feeling unsteady resting atop heels. Don't trip. Do not trip. Do not fucking trip. You took quiet, slow, deep breaths to regulate as student after student matriculated. As you inched closer you began to hear him, in a tone you'd never heard before—so chipper, reassuring, affirming.

"Congratulations."

"Congratulations."

"Congratulations."

"Congratulations."

Now it was your turn. You'd scribbled your name down on a piece of paper at the end of the stage and handed it to the speaker to read. Just as your name began booming through the speakers his eyes met yours and you saw his pupils widen. Shock? He remembered you went here, right? The soft wind propelled you forward as your mind shut off. His face fell ever so slightly when it landed on you, and you couldn't get that out of your head. He stuck his hand out and nodded to you stiffly. "Congrats."

You took his hand and quickly removed it, moving swiftly down the ramp back to your seat. His limbs felt prickly. He'd forgotten you were a part of this graduating class. No, not really forgotten, more like drowned under a mountain of existentialism at the formation of a new public identity... a mountain you had created against his will with your laser perception. His hand and lips moved on autopilot, shaking every student's hand and congratulating them on their achievement. You seeing him in this way felt extra vulnerable. Wait. You heard the speech. What did you think of it? It didn't matter what you thought, it just would be interesting to know. Potentially. Possibly. For some reason. He began to sweat, feeling wet under his suit. Was his collar too tight? Tie strangling him? His eyes flicked up to see you move to your seat, your long hair falling behind you. Had it been that long before? Had you straightened it? Why am I thinking about this?

Fuck. You wiped your palms against the polyester gown on your thighs while you tried to balance your diploma on your lap. It took massive self-restraint not to throw your head back with a monumental groan. What had happened back there? Why had your brain gone completely silent? You weren't blushing, were you? You fished out your phone from underneath your gown and checked in the black screen—cheeks slightly pink, ever so slightly. Probably just from the chill. The rain. The wind. The weather. You had no reason to blush about Bruce Wayne, anyway. As you began to relax into your seat, Dr. Vry tapped the mic and caused a shrieking sound to blast from the speakers, stiffening your spine to attention. "And now, here's to the graduating class of two thousand and twenty four!" The stands erupted with applause, and you followed your peers in rising and tossing your hat. A small rush of excitement jolted through you and you couldn't help but grin. You'd done it. You had your degree, and you could finally go back home. And stay there.

You met your mother where you planned to at the northern end of the field. As your mother rolled up over the turf with surprising ease (at least one thing Gotham had gotten right—turfing), your brow furrowed. "Where's Dad?"

Your mother laughed and tossed a hand to the side. "He brought me down to the field and then left for the bathrooms. You know how he is." She stood up slowly from her seat and gave you a strong hug, the type of hug you remembered from your childhood. From before any of the madness of cancer, any of the scares or worries about not being together forever. She was beaming with pride. "Oh Y/N, I'm so proud of you. You did it." Her eyes moved from yours to over your shoulder, and you turned to see Dr. Vry walking over to you with an equally large smile. Her arms were outstretched and she pulled you into an enormous hug. "My protege!"

"Mom, this is Dr. Vry. She's—" you wanted to introduce her, but she introduced herself with eager interruption. "Oh dear, call me Janay. Hello, so glad you could make it. How do you like the school? Your daughter is—was—my finest student. She managed to get in touch with Mr. Bruce Wayne himself." Dr. Vry (you would never be able to call her Janay) directed your mom in Bruce's direction, not twenty feet away. "Our lovely commencement speaker. Wasn't his speech just incredible?"

At that very moment Bruce had accidentally let his eyes wander across the field and in her direction. In an instant, Dr. Vry was exclaiming loudly and waving her arms with unbridled excitement, almost like a small child. He looked down for a brief moment before dismissing himself, and you could tell he felt a bit uncomfortable. Doesn't like to be the center of attention. Why the hell did he ever sign up for this? Was it really that big of an announcement? The Wayne fund or whatever? You noticed he was walking toward you three, and panic took over. What the fuck? No. No! What's he doing? What's she doing? No longer than five seconds and he was over here with his long, tall strides. He held his hands in his pockets, looking casual and cool as a cucumber. Your eyes narrowed.

"Oh Bruce, I was just telling Y/N's mother all about you both." You noticed his eyes flash with something for a split second when she called him by his name. Keep it up, Janay. You were starting to like her more. Wait, 'you both'?

Bruce reached out for a handshake with your mother as he spoke. His smile was... glamorous? Beguiling? "I'm Bruce Wayne, pleasure to have your acquaintance."

Your mom laughed and returned the shake, looking a bit enraptured. "You bet. Say, Y/N, you never said you had a boyfriend!" Your cheeks immediately flushed bright red and you stammered before Bruce seamlessly intercepted with a kind chuckle. "I'm already spoken for. Your daughter interviewed me for one of her journalism courses, it was actually the first—" Your mother and him continued chatting but you couldn't hear.

Already spoken for? Tightness spread through your abdomen and your brain felt like it had melted. Who the hell would put up with Bruce Wayne? Likely someone after his money. Or his power. Possibly both.

"Ellie, the restrooms were a maze!" Your father interrupted your internal monologue about the psychology of someone who would willingly date Bruce. "The commencement speaker! Bruce...?"

"Wayne. Pleasure to meet you." Bruce extended another hand to your father and he pulled Bruce into a back-slapping hug. You could only imagine the vile things Bruce was probably thinking about hugging a commoner. "So are you the guy we've heard so much about?" Your father winked in your direction and Bruce looked at you with a subtly raised eyebrow. Your mouth dropped open in shock. "DAD!" You hadn't mentioned him once. Your mom slapped his arm and scolded him with rolled eyes. "Oh Thomas, they're not together!" She turned back to Bruce and shook her head.

"I've never—" you stuttered. Bruce laughed to himself, and you burned with rage. Why's he laughing, huh? Because it would be so embarrassing to be seen with me? Since I apparently stick out like a sore thumb? UGH! Something felt light in your chest — were they butterflies? They couldn't be. It was just... strange, oh so strange seeing Bruce Wayne smile. You did your best to rid your mind of the image.

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.