Hi! :) How Many Chapters Are You Planning On Having In Fateful Beginnings?

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

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

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

Fateful Beginnings

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."

Fateful Beginnings

XIII. “already spoken for”

parts: previous / next

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

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, grief

words: 3.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congratulations."

"Congratulations."

"Congratulations."

"Congratulations."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fateful Beginnings

XXII. “gone missing”

parts: previous / next

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

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, anxiety, talk of mental illness

words: 3.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Call me Bruce." Play nice...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wayne? Hello?"

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

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

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

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

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

Fateful Beginnings

XVII. “orientation”

parts: previous / next

plot: back in the godforsaken city, you attend orientation and set up your new apartment.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+

words: 2.3k

It could've been the sun blasting from your windows waking you up, but you lived in Gotham—instead it was the sound of shouting and piercing whoops with a sprinkle of taxi honks that made you rub the crust off your eyes. Mar was already awake and stood impatiently by the door. She looked up at you and grinned when she saw you sit up. "I ordered some donuts for us, figured you might wanna eat."

She almost looked like a little dog waiting to be let out; she was short with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, rearing to get out the door and feel some adventure. Huh. She reminds me of a cocker-spaniel. The clock read 11:05, and you jumped out of bed to get in the shower. You thanked her for ordering them before rushing to get your body clean. The water in the W’s shower was absolutely scalding, and it reminded you of another inequality in the city—only the rich people got fast-heating water. You cringed as you put the hotel shampoo and conditioner in your hair, then fought with the hair dryer that was too closely connected to the wall, and stepped out to Mar's lap covered in powdered sugar. "Here! I saved you these."

Since you signed everything virtually, Mar insisted on taking your bags to your new apartment for you. Much to your chagrin (you were feeling strangely jet-lagged from the day before) she was being convincing. "Just let me take them so you don't have to worry while you're at orientation. That's rent you're wasting!"

"I don't have a bed, I don't have anything to even sleep on in there yet, Mar." You shoved your arms through a sweater and pulled up your trousers.

"Won't they be giving you that welcome stipend or whatever today? How long is orientation?" Mar was always ready to get things moving, and you vacillated between appreciation and admonition.

"I mean I think so, and it's only until three." You furrowed your brow. "Maybe we could go to Target after and pick out some stuff?"

She clapped her hands and squealed. "Mmhm, perfect. Meet me at Jonson Street Target at 3:30?"

In the taxi to GU, you emailed her the information and messaged the apartment about a guest coming to get your things set up. You arrived at 11:58 and rushed to the Challey building, arriving sweaty and out of breath but on time. Dr. Vry was wearing a black velvet (?) sweater with a leather skirt, and had bright red lipstick. Her gray hair was up in a ponytail that sent a wash of neroli-scented air your way. "My protégé!" She wrapped you in a hug and led you by the elbow down the hallway to her office. Why does she keep calling me that? I didn't even get the interview with her billionaire.

"I'll be here. You dear, will be down the hallway just so." She pointed a few doors down to a vacant room with a sturdy desk and chair. You could've sworn it used to be a study room, and even pictured you and Mar studying for an exam there on class conflicts and inequalities.

The orientation was lackluster, but you hadn't expected much anyway. The doors creaked just as much, the cobwebs were still very much present, and the hallways were completely devoid of life. Your position was extremely straightforward: come in at least 8 hours a week to be available for any clerical work she had, and the other seven would be used up at weekly city hall meetings (two hours) and remote work. She took you down to the print room to meet one other lonely soul, Bridgit, explaining that you would bring your column to her by the end of the workday Thursday for printing. "The only thing you have to worry about is writing about whatever is happening at the meetings per week. And staying below the fifteen-hundred word count of course." She laughed like it was supposed to be funny and you and Bridgit followed suit.

By 2:30 you had completely exhausted even your boss's endless capacity for conversation, and she sent you on your way. Right as she was going to shut the door to her office you remembered the check. "Oh, Dr. Vry, the uh, I'm sorry, was I supposed to receive the initial payment today?"

She laughed again and shook her head. She waved her hand in dismissal only someone with six figures in their savings could manage. "It will be mailed to your new apartment by the end of the week." She smiled at you and shut the door. You held your raincoat limply in your hands. You only had twenty dollars in your account.

You got a taxi back to the W. 2:45. You went to the front desk and prayed this would work. "Hi, when I scheduled online I booked out through the end of the week but I don't need the room anymore. Can I cancel and get a refund?"

"Name?"

You told him and he clicked away. "Room 208?"

"Yes." You sat your hands on the edge of the desk behind a row of pens and flyers. There was a children's play at a private school close by. The Muppets. You wondered how they would accomplish that.

"Card ending in 5620?"

Fuck. "Oh I'm sorry, that card doesn't work anymore. Is there any way to get cash?" You bit your cheek to keep the anxiety at bay.

He shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, but we have to... well, I could..." The man leaned into a mic nearby. "Manger to the front desk please."

A lady with a plastic smile arrived swiftly. Her eyes met yours with a blank, wide stare. "How can I help you?"

"She says the card she booked with doesn't work anymore and wants a cash refund."

"Oh, was there a problem with your stay?" Her teeth were blindingly white and ridiculously straight. You nearly had to squint back at her.

"No no, I just don't need it anymore." You gripped the edge of the desk hard barely out of their gaze. Please please please. The manager clicked a few buttons on the computer and scanned her badge. She flashed another beaming smile at you before skirting away. After what seemed like an hour but was likely only a few minutes, the manager entered. “Yes ma’am.” After a very tense nod, the desk clerk opened the register and began counting hundreds. "One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred,"

When he handed you 1800 dollars you felt faint. You handed over the key and thanked him before pocketing the cash and taking a taxi that had just dropped off a couple at the hotel. "Jonson Target, please."

3:01 you pulled up to the curb. Mar was perusing the dollar items when you walked in, and you both made quick work of finding your way to the home aisle and packing everything into a cart. A mattress, a frame, a sheet set, a comforter, pillows, a throw rug, a lamp, hangers, a bedside table, and two beanbag chairs cleared off that section and the cart. You grabbed another and headed to the hygiene section, grabbing toilet paper, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, toothbrush, toothbrush holder, toothpaste, lotion, cleanser, moisturizer, towels, and finished off with some multi-surface cleaner, rags, and a swiffer. The total came to just under a thousand, leaving ample room for Ubers and food until your first paycheck. Exhausted, you ordered an Uber Pickup to take you to your new abode: The Moore.

The driver was a big, burly man with a big, burly pickup. You both squeezed into the back seating and he blasted some music neither of you had ever heard. When you pulled up to the front steps he was kind enough to help you out, bragging the entire time about his muscularity. "You know, city folks don't know much about this but I spent all my summers bucking hay in Georgia." You both humored him, since he was able to carry both the mattress and frame in one smooth trip. 5:30 and you and Mar were just getting out the mini toolkit provided by apartment management to begin assembling everything.

The apartment was massive compared to your last one. No longer a studio, you were upgraded to a bathroom with a full XL tub and a one-bedroom master. The queen bed fit well, and after everything had been assembled (much to your exhaustion), the apartment still looked somewhat empty, but inhabited. When you and Mar finally settled into the beanbags in the living area, you groaned about forgetting a tv. Mar asked if she could take a shower, and you moved to the bedroom and set up your iPad in the meantime.

Hi hunny. How is the new place? Your mother wants pictures ASAP ( as soon as possible ).

It's good! I'll send some pics in the morning, I'm tired from setting up the place all day. Orientation went well too. Doesn't seem like I'll be too drained there.

Mar stayed the night again, and you pestered her about if she really wanted to stay here or not. This wasn't the longest you two had been together—during your first year of undergrad here you both had been exceptionally close, sometimes spending a week flip flopping between the other's apartment. "I just don't want to be asking too much of you." You threw the comforter over you and grabbed your phone. She was slathering on some moisturizer. "Y/N." She gave you a look as the pads of her fingers pressed along her cheeks. She's right. She's never had a problem with being straightforward. She skipped over to bed with you and got under the blanket. "This gives us time to talk about the juicy stuff."

Oh no. Mar had been trying to get you a partner since the first time you both had a conversation. Extremely flirtatious and non-monogamous, her most used apps were Tinder and Uber. It had taken you a minute to get used to that coming from a smaller town, and only ever having been on a smattering of first dates and had a brief 'boyfriend' in high school. "Are you finally in a relationship yet?"

"No." You shrugged and tried to change the subject to a funny meme you'd just seen on Scypher. She shook her head and leaned in closer. "What about Ryan? Jade?" With every shake of your head she grew more exasperated. "C'mon Y/N! Get it together!"

"I'm good on that." She gave you another look and you reaffirmed. "I'll even pinky swear."

Mar held out her finger with a knowing look. You put out your pinky and moved to her hand, but stalled. You let it fall back into your lap and then pulled the covers over your head. "Okay fine. I don't completely hate the idea of dating." This created an hour more of conversation detailing all your past dates, including the coffee situation with your friends back home, and culminated in such a dense feeling of loneliness you nearly wanted to cry. The moment was short lived however due to her inclusion of the most frustrating man alive.

"I know you don't want me to say it, but what about Bru—"

"Absolutely fucking not." You mimed throwing up and passing out and she playfully slapped your arm. "Christ, dude. Last time you were here he literally chased after you."

"Last night you thought it was stalking."

"Yeah but the more I thought about it," She looked off into the distance for dramatic effect. "I wouldn't mind being invited to Paris for your birthday."

A laugh slipped out of you which eased the tension. Mar was persistent but not rude, and she had sensed this was a soft enough spot for you she didn't push it past that. You both fell asleep quite similarly to how you did the night before, but this time you didn't have to wake up for anything. Dr. Vry had told you work did not officially begin for you until Thursday evening when you were to go to the first city hall meeting to gather report. She hadn't given very specific instructions, just handed you a PRESS badge for security clearance and told you to use your phone and a notebook. She called it 'adapting to the times'. You tried not to focus too much on the logistics as you fell asleep—would you interview someone or would you simply give a summary of the meeting's happenings—and most importantly, you made sure not to zoom in on a particular aspect of the affair Dr. Vry was especially fanatic about: Bruce Wayne's attendance. You loathed how he was the last thing you thought about your first two nights back. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, and it certainly didn't make you want to stay here any longer. What would you say? What would you do? Would he pretend not to know you? Would you pretend not to know him? What if you tripped again?

The rumination lingered in your dreams and you woke up the next morning feeling like you'd napped about five minutes. Checking your phone saw that you had slept until noon, and Mar was still sound asleep in bed. You got comfortable. This was going to be a long week.

we’re getting a taste of playboy Bruce Wayne in the next chapter 👀