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

XVIII. “indebted”

parts: previous / next

plot: employed as the resident Gazette journalist, your first night at City Hall leaves you panicked and reeling from a last-minute confession from Bruce.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, bribery, panic attack, mental institution

words: 3.3k

Mar had taken you to Nordstrom to peruse the sale rack for appropriate journalist attire. You'd settled on a black long-sleeve mini dress; you'd wanted to go midi, but she had insisted you be more risqué. "You don't have to hide your femininity to be professional." Now you were wearing it with matching pointed toe heels—with less heel than your old ones. The press lanyard dangled around your neck nearly obscured by hair that had taken you all evening to curl; the rain was hellish, weighing down your roots and frizzing out the lengths. Paparazzi waited and for a moment you stalled to wonder why they were here; that was until they started shouting "BRUCE WAYNE?!" and racing past you. You stopped in your tracks, and all you could hear was the pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums. Fuck. He's here already. The hectic, giddy flashes blurred your vision and created floating black specks as you made your way up the stairway. It felt... weird being at the beginning of it all. Like a bad omen. You walked to the appetizers to see if Rai was working it, but it was some random catering company with bland, pompous snacks. Caviar, Oyster and a billion other things you couldn't name.

As much as you wanted to wipe him from your mind, it was impossible to not know when Bruce Wayne entered the building. Everyone inside gasped under their breath and turned like he was a shark in the water, like cat to mouse, predator to prey. It would have taken you too much brainpower—you wanted to spend precisely none on him—to figure out who was hunting who. You grabbed some champagne and tried not to bump into any of the frail, callous rich people. As you surveyed the room (making sure to glide your eyes right past him) you noticed a few upgrades; the foyer housed fresh paint, a new rug, and an ice sculpture. You squinted your eyes to no avail trying to figure out what it was supposed to resemble.

On your gaze's loop you locked eyes with the man of the hour. Your cheeks stung with angry, embarrassed heat and you spun to grab an oyster. Anything to look busy. Anything at all. Excited voices became a passing buzz in your ear as you hyperfocused on the food in your hand. Slimy.

"You may enter now." A man in black pants and a crisp linen shirt opened the door to something vaguely resembling a conference room that vaguely resembled a dystopian art gallery. It didn't quite fit right in your mind, which sent the visceral reminder of loneliness down your gut. You made your way quickly toward the room, foregoing thoughts of where he might or might not be. A mantra pinged between your ears: I will not talk to him. I will ignore him.

Oh how bitterly inferior you were to the actions of Bruce Wayne. You smelled him before you heard him, a musky, clean detergent scent; he smelled just like he did back at Wayne Tower. Only now it was dancing with some... grapefruit? Mandarin? You held back a laugh at the thought of him shuddering whilst spraying cologne.

You were already laughing. He didn't want to see you here. When he walked in he thought it couldn't be you—you hated it here—but when you turned it was immediate. Panic lurched in his chest; you weren't supposed to be here. The word 'destruction' banged around his skull. The badge around your neck alluded to him not being able to avoid you for very long, so much to his chagrin he thought he'd brave the storm and break the ice. "Didn't expect to see you here." Dancing around it. Would you do the same?

You wanted to test his limits, see how he would react if you refused to be on your best behavior, so you resorted to fronting a rude persona. "I'd say the same but..." You gave him a once-over. The Dior stitched into his breast pocket nearly rolled your eyes to the back of their sockets, but you were in public, and he was Bruce Wayne—every room orbited around him. This wasn't the place to make a bad first impression, so you slapped a grin on your face that showed your teeth. "When it strikes midnight is your Dior gonna fall off? Fairy godmother on speed dial?" You lowered your voice a bit so no one would think twice about your conversation. You hid a wince; fuck. That first part had sounded weird. He looked down and put his hands in his pockets, huffing out exasperation. You know. You know. You know. He thought about telling you he didn't like this, to reassure you he did not enjoy the facade, but: he didn't owe you anything and you owed nothing to him. Mutually assured destruction, he thought, even though it didn't help him in the slightest. He didn't need to reveal truths to you, you were more or less even.

"Nice to see you again." He sensed your nerves and tried to soothe them, (were they because you planned to make a surprise announcement this evening?) but it wasn't coming off well. He stared at you with a tight-lipped grin to meet your squinted stare. So the schtick applies to me, too. He turned around to head toward the strange conference room and you stopped yourself from trying to 'trip' again, only holding back so Dr. Vry didn't steal the badge and send you home with no income. He scooted a few people over and took a seat at the front of the huge table. A few of the paparazzi tried to sneak inside but the man in the linen reached for something on his belt and they took off outside. Does this dude have a gun? Is this because of Prince Bruce?

"Welcome everyone." A man with spectacles and a gray suit stood to the direct left of Bruce, and he clapped his hands at the end of everything he said. It might have been frustrating if Bruce wasn't dominating that bandwidth. "Tonight marks the first City Hall meeting of 2024 after our summer interlude." He leaned in while saying it which got some chuckles from the other rich people. You took a quick note. First meeting since summer break.

"And this year we have a new member of the City Hall Board! Mr. Wayne, would you?" The man bowed to Bruce and he rose from his seat with a quick, polite wave. You shook your head and got your pen ready, knowing Dr. Vry would be salivating over whatever he was about to say now and later. You were able to get a good look at him from this perspective; his hair was maybe a bit lighter, much like at graduation, though his suit had become more tailored since then. "Good evening everyone, it's a pleasure to be here in this new capacity. I look a bit less green." He mimed looking down at his suit, and everyone started howling with laughter. Holy shit. You thought about passing out in a puddle of your own vomit. Is he the same human being? He continued, nodding off the rest of the laughs. "I look forward to meeting all of you and getting to know you better as time goes on. I'm excited to collaborate and invest in Gotham City. Thank you."

Everyone clapped like he'd just won an Oscar. He studiosly notated while the other members took turns introducing themselves. You scribbled down as many names and positions as possible with a plan to commit them to memory before next week's meeting. Someone named Fox, a woman named Laurie, a man named Larry...

At the end of the brutally long introduction the man nearest to Bruce, the head honcho, introduced himself. Miguel Convoy - interim mayor. Interim mayor? Mr. Convoy heaved a deep sigh (too deep) and performed condolences for Bella Reál's recent admission to Arkham Asylum. "Miss Reál, as you are well aware, began showing some symptoms of serious mental decline mid-July. The new mayor's elections are coming up this November, and on such short notice we only have a few candidates announced to be running. These include Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange, and Lincoln March. In the following weeks they will make appearances at these meetings, so make sure to give them a warm welcome."

Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange. Lincoln March. - mayoral election, November.

The rest of the meeting was wholly uneventful, with a bunch of meaningless small talk among the bourgeoisie. You made sure to write down everything, however, as Bruce was writing a novel of notes in a small journal. I can't know less than him. He'd never let me hear the end of it. When the meeting adjourned and people began filing out, you set a reminder on your phone to research the candidates for interview prep.

You waited for Bruce to walk past to catch a glimpse of what he'd written, but when he passed... christ. Your teeth ground against your heavy steps as you rushed to reach him. Heat flushed your cheeks and you grabbed his forearm to get his attention. He snapped around and restrained a startle response when he noticed it was you. "So you didn't write anything?" You couldn't stop the gall soaking your tone. "Just scribbles?" Maybe being rude to him wasn't a front, maybe it came naturally with how insufferable the man was.

He hid a laugh—well, he thought he did, but it must have appeared somewhere because you reacted to it immediately. You wrestled with what to say next bogged down by already saying too much. In the meantime he blinked at you, his stare unwavering from your shifting eyes. You had a conviction he'd done that—only written scribbles and wavy lines—to fuck with you, but with little evidence besides a hunch you decided to let it go. If he wanted to get some little jabs in, fine. You did know life-ruining information about him, after all.

He was disappointed you didn't follow the glint in your eye. During the meeting he'd anticipated a showdown, maybe even you snatching his notebook and ripping out a few pages. In his defense he had taken some notes, but quickly devolved to scribbling when he'd caught you glancing in his periphery. He thought it might get under your skin a little, just like you did with your eyes plastered to him. He always felt like your eyes were glued to him, even when you were thousands of miles away; it was a permanent side-effect of being found out. Was it so wrong to want you to share his dread?

"Have you heard of any of these candidates?" You were thumbing through your notes, which looked...impeccable to Bruce. He shook his head. "Too short notice."

"I'm sure you're soo busy." You flipped the spiral shut and held it at your side. He flashed back to when his notebook fell in front of Alfred, his face slipping, and your brows knit together. "It's not just a jab, c'mon." You paused as he looked just behind your shoulder, eyes beginning to glaze. Huh. Weird. You cleared your throat. "With all your, Dior stuff?" God, it took so much effort to act like his activities were of any importance to greater society. It didn't help that you'd had to avoid dozens of behind the scenes clips and photos from his latest shoot on every corner of the internet the past week. Still, your heart felt a bit bruised at the prospect of hurting his feelings for some damn reason. "Hello? Bruce?"

That startled him back. He'd forgotten you used his first name after the nearly three-month reprieve. "They were only announced this afternoon."

You stood there, your skin withering from the dryness of his conversation. Men. The very second your shoulders shifted to move toward the exit he vocalized. "What made you come back here?"

You stared blankly at him. You were a bit offended at how blunt he was being, and decided to be blunt back. "Money."

He was confused. "I thought—" he stopped himself, but you weren't letting him off. "What?"

"Nothing."

You stepped toward him. "It's something."

He wanted to step back, but refused the urge. "It doesn't matter."

"Then why aren't you telling me?"

How obvious was it that he had paid for your mom's medical bills? You saw him thinking and jumped on it. "What? Why do you think I don't need money?"

God, it was maddening not knowing how much you knew; where was the line between speculation and trying to catch him in a lie? You flustered him. "I don't think about money." Ooh, that was not the way to go. You wore your feelings on your sleeve, and his chest cinched when he noticed you scowl.

You refused to let up, feeling your limbs light up with tingles. "What were you going to say?"

He felt scolded, but you weren't scolding; Alfred scolded, sometimes, in an attempt to fulfill a parental role. The problem was he did have things he was going to say and you were picking up on it. The problem was that no one ever called him out in broad daylight. You didn't appease. He winced. "I thought paying your parent's debt would—”

"I knew it!" Bitterness and appreciation dueled in your chest. Your heart raced as the reality of it set in and Mar entered your mind with bright, pulsing letters: S T A L K E R. "How did you, what," He didn't know your family, he didn't know your last name, even. You felt naked.

"Mr. Wayne!" Mr. Convoy (what a rich name) stole Bruce's attention. The edges of your vision swirled and you stepped back to abate the wooziness. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. It was only a handful of seconds before Bruce apologized and asked to excuse himself, which you barely heard over the ringing in your ears. He shot a quick look at you before walking down the hallway towards the restroom. Begrudgingly you followed him this time, feeling forcibly tied to his ankles, and the second he was out of earshot he turned toward you, eyes darting across your face. "You left your phone in Alfred's study. It was open. I only looked at what I needed to." His hands were gripped tightly together, the folds of his fingers beginning to turn white.

You paused so long he nearly spoke again, but you shoved shaky, frustrated words from behind your teeth. "But you didn't need to." You felt shockingly affected; you'd suspected it was Bruce, but had apparently successfully deluded yourself into believing it was God himself, or an accident, or Alfred had accidentally seen some texts and it captured his old, kind heart. Bruce wasn't kind, meaning this wasn't kind. Your fingers went cold and the tips began to tingle—fuck, you felt like you owed him something again, him saying it reopening the guilt you'd tried desperately to disappear.

Bruce felt trapped. Your eyes had glazed over a minute ago; he felt like you were miles away. You were right. He didn't need to. "I thought it would help." He scrambled for anything else to say but came up short. You leaving to Pluto was exceptionally distressing and rendered him nearly incapacitated.

"I didn't ask for any favors,"

"I'm sorry." He stood there feeling foolish. Naked. Uniquely stuck.

A thought sunk down to your gut and nestled into the feeling of guilt. "Was it a bribe?"

His eyes flashed and he shook his head vigorously. "No." He saw you glance over your shoulder towards the paparazzi trying to lean inside for a photo and moved his back to them. You shifted uncomfortably. This vulnerability felt exploitive; you felt small.  Standing by the Burj Khalifa made you feel deeply insignificant. That fear came back again, tenfold. He noticed the shift, and he hated it. You were lost in your own head, spiraling again about how alone you were in the world, how much more alone you were going to be so soon, especially if she got the placebo, what Walter would do once she left, what you would do once Walter left, if you'd ever see them again, if this was the only shot you got, and if so, what the hell were you doing here in a city that hated you, in a city you hated; your life was being wasted with so little of hers left, there wasn't enough time, they could get in a car crash this minute, last minute, your phone could ring any moment, Bruce could be planning your demise—

You only noticed you were having a panic attack when Bruce gently grabbed your wrist. You only realized you'd been shaking when you felt his steadiness. You stared at his hand for a brief, still moment before ripping it away. You sniffed back a tear threatening to burst containment and turned wide, only making it a step before your shoulder slammed into a man's walking to the restroom. The collision caused the tear to slide down your cheek and you collapsed to your knees. A high-pitched sob slipped out and you bolted to the bathroom, into a stall, and pushed your back against the metal door right as the weeping started.

The man glared at the WOMEN'S bathroom sign as if he was thinking about following you. He intercepted. "How are you? I'm Bruce Wayne." Another plastered smile and Ken handshake. The man's eyes lit up and he rushed to take Bruce's hand, shaking it about ten times before Bruce slipped his hand back into his pant pocket. He pretended to laugh at the man's jokes, made small talk about the upcoming election, the usual suspects. Bruce knew what waiting might be twisted as, but the man's initial step toward you left him on edge. A few people stared at him as they exited, then leaned in to whisper something to their partners. He rubbed his head and mentioned a small headache coming on, saying he needed to be on his way. He leaned his head back against the rough white wall and shut his eyes after the man finished lingering, crossing his hands around his chest with a leg up for balance. Your reaction had been an oversight. Maybe you were right, again. What's the value of a dollar?

You popped out of the bathroom quicker than he'd anticipated and he startled when you flung the door wide. A small wash of humor at having unsettled him rapidly devolved to sourness. He'd been leafing through various solutions to your bribery claim, but everything felt hollow like the slick tear troughs under your eyes. He grasped for anything to ease the tension, for once even if it wasn't fully thought through. "Let me at least give you a ride."

You stared at him with your nose huffed up. Unshed tears pleaded to be freed. This dress was a silk blend, and you could hear just how heavy the rain was. You nodded curtly, afraid to say no, but thanking yourself for remembering to move your taser to your clutch. You'd get him to drop you off at a fake location, throwing him off your scent for where you actually lived. He nodded back. "I'll meet you around back."

since I finished crossposting my fic (ongoing!! dw!!) from ao3, I decided to go through and change the section dividers to a string of pearls, designed by @enchanthings 🫶🏻 I figured it looked more seamless and was a nice nod to Martha’s pearls with my Batman fic 🦇

posting the longest chapter yet today 📚👀

Fateful Beginnings

XXIII. “desperation”

parts: previous / next

plot: you receive a suspicious phone call. Bruce meets with your boss, and runs into a psychiatrist from Arkham.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, panic attack, gaslighting

words: 3.2k

Bruce awoke the next day to Alfred opening his blinds, accosting him with the sun. "The university president called. You have a meeting in an hour." He had to make sure he wasn't still dreaming, but the only word that found him was: "Why?"

Alfred flicked on the overhead light, which always drove the boy mad—he needed a force to jolt him into quicker action than his usual sloth speed in the A.M.. "Something about the university's journalism department. It's 11:02, you're set to meet her no later than noon." As he left the room to allow Bruce to ready himself, he called out some details. "Dr. Janay Vry, she said you'd met at graduation." If Alfred had lingered in the room a moment longer he would've seen his eyes widen, and Bruce jump out of bed to rush to his closet. Not even stopping to grab the toast the butler had made for him, no sooner than Alfred had readied a single scrambled egg for himself, Bruce had climbed into his vehicle and started off for GU.

The route given to him at graduation allowed him to take a back road to campus; there were very few in Gotham that weren't filled with pedestrians during the light of day, but he tempted the law by speeding and having increased his window tint beyond the legal limit. The route would lead him to an employee parking garage on the Northeastern side of campus. If he took the stairs to floor five, shot across a hallway to the right, then another hallway to the left, he could find himself at the admin office. He assumed her office would remain in the same location, and he was correct. After peeking to see if she was in the vicinity, he stepped inside and a screeching alarm sounded. It only ceased when he'd fully stepped out of the room, out of the doorframe, and into the hallway.

Dr. Vry showed up not thirty seconds later, but with enough time between for Bruce to catch his breath, rapid blinks reorienting him to the present setting. He didn't think he'd ever clawed his way anywhere as fast as he just had. "Mr. Wayne, you're early." She held a black card to the placard beneath her name on the door. A small Ding! sounded and she walked in with Bruce in tow.

The chair was the same, and the cobwebs remained. His thighs stretched against the wood and the webs swayed gently from the air conditioning. Even though it was overcast and dreary, it was still a sweltering August. His stomach grumbled, and he daydreamed fondly about the Mulligatawny in the fridge back home. Thankfully, she wasted no time getting to the point. "Mr. Wayne. I wanted to talk with you about your aversion to speaking with our journalists here."

Damn. He should've brainstormed answers on the drive. He was too consumed with hearing potentially devastating news of a local journalist's murder that he hadn't thought of a single thing relevant to what she might ask otherwise. "My apologies, I've been unexpectedly busy the past few weeks with the election coming up." Where are you? What does she know? Does she know anything?

"If you were busy with the election, wouldn't you want to speak with the candidates?" God this was frustrating. He needed to figure out what had happened with you yet here she was, refusing to divulge information as the only other person in Gotham who knew you existed. He cleared his throat to cover another stomach grumble and tried to stave off an interrogation.

"They should be coming to the next meeting."

Dr. Vry wasted no time interrogating him anyway. "Ms. Langley was our journalist last week, and she said you refused to speak with her."

"Doctor," Bruce was quite pleased when she interrupted him because he had no idea how he would've finished the sentence.

"You didn't mingle longer than a minute or so with Mr. March, either."

Who gave her the play-by-play? Bridgit? Did they train their journalism students to be hawkeyed? "As I said, I was unexpectedly busy." Be pleasant. He wrung his hands together under the desk, not entirely sure she didn't have super vision which allowed her retinas to pierce through mahogany.

She sighed, which made her peppered gray bangs flutter. Her lipstick was feathered around her lip line, a visceral reminder of the sour note you'd both left on the night you disappeared. Could one be tracked by lip print alone? "Did Ms. Langley do something inappropriate, Mr. Wayne?"

"No." He grit his teeth, then hoped she wouldn't notice. "She was pleasant." He hated how well he could lie. It was never comfortable, but he was able to grin and grit his way through any turn in conversation with unsuspecting ease.

"She said you asked for our former employee by name. Ms. Y/L/N." FINALLY! He tried not to visibly sink into the seat with relief. His ears had a pavlovian response to your name, interrupted by echoes of the word 'former'. As much as he wanted to follow that thread, he hoped she might extend it on her own grounds.

"I was under the impression it would be the same journalist every week." He paused, and she didn't take the space. "It appears I was too assumptive."

It was like he hadn't spoken at all. "Ms. Langley said you told Mr. March you were set to be interviewed by Ms. Y/L/N."

He paused, the both of them making uneasy, penetrating eye contact. "I was." So where were you? Home? Dead?

"Peculiar." She looked down and sighed. "I fired her under the pretense she refused to interview you. Yet you say you had one set."

Bruce wanted to sink into the floor making such a faux paus. He also stifled a jump and high-five because now he knew with confidence you were at the very least, alive. The dueling emotions threatened to spin out his vision. "I must have misheard, or misread something."

"She didn't seem keen on talking to you whatsoever. She refused to write about you in our column." She shrugged and sighed again, sinking dramatically into her thick leather seat. Bruce didn't care that you weren't going to write about him, even though you'd apparently denied the prospect so thoroughly it had led to unemployment. He no longer had to lug lifelong guilt at not having done anything to save you, because you didn't need saving. His body was light and tingly, and it was only when he felt the weight lifted that he realized how heavy it had been weighing him down.

"I didn't know the column included me." He didn't much care to humor Dr. Vry any longer, his brain going into autopilot now that his most pressing concerns were assuaged.

"You do not need to perform humbly here."

He stifled an eyeroll. "I assumed she was there to report on the meeting's content."

Dr. Vry laughed. It startled him. "It's as if you rehearsed it together."

"I do not understand."

"Must I remind you that you are Bruce Wayne?" She mimed handing him a piece of paper he could only imagine was intended to be a birth certificate. "Bruce Wayne taking on an active role in the community is the news. What do people want to read more than that?" She threw her hands in the air and leaned back again, the leather squeaking.

He began to speak when Dr. Vry questioned him more deeply. "What happened with the interview last spring?"

The one-sided rapport she'd developed seemed to be fraying at the edges. Keep responses benign. "It didn't work out."

"Will it ever, Mr. Wayne? Or should I pull the plug on the department before we get into more debt?" Her voice was raising and getting shrill. He was close to walking out—the only thing tethering him was the weight of his family name.

"I was unaware of the financial strain the university was under." Good. Basic. It was the first time in his life he hoped someone would ask him for money. A check was easy to write, easy to talk about, easy to segue from to a quick exit. His mask was threatening to slip.

"One exclusive interview, the first of its kind will sell. The credibility it would lend this university... priceless."

Bruce watched on as Dr. Vry became teary and fidgeted in her seat. She wrung her hands together palm-up, which exposed a hammered-silver ring with the tiniest of owls etched into the metal. Seeing the same symbol that had been on the knife handle, the same symbol that had been on her pin, it rung hollowly and deeply in his chest. One was gold, one silver, one etched into a knife. This couldn't be coincidence. His brow furrowed and he leaned inward. "Is that an owl?"

She stared at him, not once glancing down to the ring. "What could you mean?"

He pointed at the ring and leaned so forward in his chair he had to palm the wood to catch himself. "Your ring. Is that an owl design?" He hoped she was more of a fool at spotting his mounting anxiety than you were. It was beginning to take every crumb of energy from last night's dinner to regulate his breathing.

She followed his finger down to hers. "I have no idea of what you mean."

Bruce saw it clearly, like peering at the bottom of a sparkling, transparent lake. Defiance snuck into his tone. "What would you call that symbol, then?"

"What symbol?" She spun the ring around her finger, befuddled. His anxiety was melting into desperation. "There's a symbol etched into it." His stare bore into her, and he wished he could grab the ring off her finger and show her. She gazed down at it, moving it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger, fully exposing the owl icon. It even glinted off the light. She shrugged. "This is the wedding band my husband got me thirty years ago. I'd know if something had been 'etched' into it."

Bruce sank back into the chair, realizing he'd leaned until only an inch of ass remained on the seat. He let his face fall into frustration, and he didn't conceal his shaking head. What had been defiance drowned itself under his shame. His faculties were indeed failing him. It was so clear. So vivid. It made his chest ache and his soul bristle.

"Would you rather her or Ms. Langley?"

His eyes flicked to hers again, which stared at him expectantly. He paused so long she reiterated herself with further clarification. "Would you rather speak with Ms. Langley or Ms. Y/L/N?"

He blinked. He spoke slightly above a mumble. "I don't think it's appropriate for me to make your employment decisions."

"Very well then." She stood up and walked around Bruce to the doorway, and called out for Bridgit. She came careening around the corner like a dog whistled to at a park. It was peculiar, but he didn't have the capacity to follow that lead any longer. He didn't know what his capacity was currently, and how quickly it would be stolen from him entirely.

Dr. Vry and Bridgit stood at the inside of the doorway. "Have a good day, Mr. Wayne."

Silently he removed himself from the room. Dr. Vry was swift to shut the door, and Bruce lingered just long enough to catch a phrase. "We don't have all the time in the world and seeing as he wouldn't even speak to you,"

"Mr. Wayne! Fancy seeing you here."

A shorter, slim man with dark, ruffled hair spoke from across the hall. As he drew closer his light blue eyes shone behind sterile rectangular glasses. He wore a deep gray suit and tie with a plush sweater vest atop the usual white button-up. He vaguely recognized the man, but not enough for name recall. Bruce grinned. "Turns out getting more involved in Gotham means meetings with the president." Keep up the playboy facade. He stuck out his hand and the man took it, firmly.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane. I'm sure this will not be the last time our paths will cross, especially with your new venture to save the city."

He wanted to dig his own grave. "Ah, yes. You work at Arkham, correct?" Information was coming to him now, loose memories of seeing his name in court records, and seeing him coming out of the GCPD offices every now and then. As a psychiatrist he floated between the jail and the courts, but his home base was Arkham Asylum. There he would counsel, treat, and refer the patients to whatever outside services they needed. But what did it matter? He'd forget him soon anyway. Imagine him in some other form. Maybe in a few year's time everyone's heads would morph into an owl's.

"Correct. But today my services also require a meeting with Dr. Vry." He emphasized the salutation which Bruce could only fathom was due to his own educational background. His nerves were shot from the life-ruining confirmation of him hallucinating, and he quickly bid the man adieu. He went back down the hallways and stairways, and stepped out into the employee parking lot. It was empty, as it was when he arrived.

Suddenly a trembling, tingly feeling arose in his chest, bursting out to his fingers and down his legs; when his knee rendered unsteady he began to panic, his heart thundering profoundly in his chest. He struggled to breathe, to gulp breaths, but he couldn't find air. Tears erupted from their ducts and streamed down his face automatically, and he fell to his knees heaving toward the cement. He feared he might never stand up.

You awoke to the blaring sound of your ringtone assaulting your ear. DR. VRY lit up in pulsing green text. You cleared your throat and dove for the water at your side table to take a sip before picking up on the last ring. "Hey, Dr. Vry." It was the first time you'd spoken in days other than to call for Walter, which rarely happened as he never left your side. Your fingers shook a bit thinking on how this could be the start of immediate unemployment. You'd been telling yourself since you'd come home to expect the worst, and you'd begun to feel relieved at the prospect of being fired instead of having to quit. This would be good, splendid even; it would open up your horizons and give you a guilt-free escape. You'd break the news to your parents when they got back—but only after a few hours when they'd napped, showered, eaten, and had settled in for the evening. You hadn't thought seriously of how you'd break the news of the reasoning, but you knew that whatever you said you couldn't say the whole truth. There wasn't a single fantasy in where they did not have a very specific, and specifically annoying response to knowing Bruce Wayne was the reason you were fired, and that really, the only reason you'd been fired in the first place was being a stickler about wanting to engage with the man as little as possible. They'd think it petty, and immature, but they didn't know the whole story; they didn't know what it felt like to truly see Bruce Wayne, they only saw him gussied up to public satisfaction. They didn't know that he was Batman, they didn't know the dire straits you were put in every minute you rotted in Gotham—

"Y/N." Dr. Vry sounded impatient, exasperated even.

Oh. "What?"

"As I was saying, the board... and I... have decided against firing you. You may remain in your position until renewal applications open in the end of Spring. You shall take your post immediately." The words rushed out of her mouth. You briefly imagined her being held at gunpoint to re-hire you, and your immediate assumption was that the billionaire had something to do with it. Was he meddling again, after explicitly promising the opposite? The thoughts couldn't linger long, as all the color swiftly left your face and you fell back on the bed, dizzy. You felt it in your heart of hearts that you could not go back to Gotham, and little would work to convince you otherwise. Oh god. Telling the biggest Bruce Wayne fangirl in the city you weren't going to be her puppet wasn't going to be pretty. "Dr. Vry, I can't,"

"Ah ah." You visualized her wagging her finger. It was the same tone she used in class when someone who had spoken up too often raised their hand yet again. "The stipulations of your duties has changed. You no longer need to interview him once per week, but biweekly." The silence that followed her was thick. Before remembering she couldn't see you, you shook your head, your heartbeat quickening. "I'm sorry, but I can't, I really can't," She chimed in as quickly as she ever had. "Once per month. Only once."

She had you in a pickle. Before your resolve could loosen and you gave in, you declared yourself. "I'm not coming back."

Dr. Vry didn't speak for almost a full minute. She was absent from the line so long you had to check the screen to see if the call had dropped. "Hello?" Another minute passed and your finger hovered above END CALL.

"What would bring you back?"

"I don't think anything could." You huffed into the phone, letting it out. "The city is not mine. I don't enjoy it, I graduated, and I would like to be home."

"So nothing can convince you? Not even an increase in base pay?"

"I'm sorry,"

"A better apartment, perhaps?"

"Give it to someone who needs it. Thank you, but I am not going back to Gotham." You pulled the phone back from your ear and tapped the screen to wake it. A split second before you successfully ended the call, Dr. Vry spoke yearnfully. "One interview. Next week. Then you can be finished."

She was beginning to truly frustrate you. "Let Bridgit do it. I'm sure anyone else would jump at the opportunity."

"I'll be very clear. The department has until the end of this month before we're cut. If a student of this program was able to secure the first interview with Bruce Wayne, the combination of sales from the Gazette and credibility it lends the department at GU... it's our last chance."

"There are no journalism graduates?"

"He'll only speak with you.”

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.