A/N: I own absolutely nothing. Hope you enjoy.

Gotham Psycho

September 4th, 2009

Do NoT fOrGeT – WaYnE ChArItY FuNcTiOn AuCtIoN DiNnEr ThIs EvEnInG:

When I finished ironing my one and only favourite Gucci dress – it was white, with sheer lace sleeves – for the celebratory dinner, I took my purse of necessities into the bathroom and got started on my make-up. I looked at my face in the mirror, inwardly disgusted with my appearance as I attempted to brush through my tangled, damp hair.

Maybe it was the trick of the dense light in the bathroom, but my skin already looked sallower and unhealthy. It had the potential of being remotely pretty – after several coats of foundation, concealer and clumpy mascara – once the effort was thrown in.

Facing my reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was somehow lying to myself. Even attending something as formal as celebratory dinner tonight with my fellow co-workers, there was no way that I'd ever fit in. After all, I was seen as the shy, submissive, and boring type that all the female co-workers steered away from and all the men avoided.

I just didn't seem to have the ability to function well in group situations, and tonight would be no different. Physically, I wasn't blonde, tanned, or athletic. I was a brunette, pale, and had no muscle whatsoever.

Female co-workers swooned about other fellow male co-workers – Bruce Wayne was a favourite target of the clan – or spent their lunch breaks boasting excitedly about their new-work romance. I, on the other hand, hadn't had a steady boyfriend since year eight. I was just too socially awkward.

I didn't want to be too early for the dinner, so I took a detour to the Gotham City Local Library to find a new decent novel to read – I had already finished the previous tearjerker, as recommended by one of the library attendants – and found a novel on the intricate existence of bats.

When I parked in front of the lot, I found that a few co-workers were already inside the building getting refills of chardonnay and champagne, and whatever else it was that they were allowing this evening. Stacey Monty – a co-worker that was three years younger than me, with jet-black hair, and wide-set blue eyes – was already prancing on a few males.

I was relieved when I noticed a few co-workers in white suits, discovering that my white lace dress wouldn't stand out after all. I walked close enough to the food tables to eavesdrop on unsuspecting attendees while I ate some cheese from the platters. I hoped I wasn't being too paranoid when co-workers burst into applause.

I recognized the face of Bruce Wayne, who had just entered the building. To my relief, he too was wearing white, although the calibre of his suit was slightly higher than that of the other males; he was wearing Armani.

I joined in with another round of applause, and cringed inwardly as his dark eyes flickered to mine. It was unexpected. It terrified me beyond belief. My hands went so clammy that I dropped a slice of cheese, to the horror of my neighbour beside me on the table who frowned at me.

I looked away quickly, in a flash of embarrassment, and reached for the nearest glass of sparkling Chardonnay I could find. When I found it safe to look his way again, I saw him talking to Lucius Fox – the head of Wayne Enterprises – his lips moving quickly, though barely opening.

I wasn't the only one who was seemingly fixated by Bruce Wayne; half the women in the room were salivating for attention. Deciding to play it safe, I moved away from the cheese platter – and secretly, further away from Bruce Wayne's roaming eyes – and sauntered through the crowd. My glass of Chardonnay sloshed and splashed as I went, and as I peeked through the corner of my eye, he was still staring at me. At least, I thought he was.

He had a slightly frustrated expression – I hoped I wasn't making him angry for some reason – and moved further through the crowd. As far as I could tell, he didn't look at me again.

I went and stood next to Stacey Monty, who was already deep in conversation with Jessica Phoenix – a red-headed, tall, slim woman – about one of the female co-workers who was unable to attend the function tonight.

"It's too bad she couldn't come," Stacey was saying, though her expression made it seem like it wasn't too bad at all.

"Apparently she's heartbroken after what happened," Jessica replied.

"Yeah, but I would be, too," giggled Stacey. "He was a bastard - cheated on her with Michelle."

Whoever Michelle was, I wasn't certain; I hadn't been acquainted with many workers.

I gasped as I noticed Bruce Wayne approaching further along the crowd, and my glass sloshed up onto my dress. Suddenly, I noticed his stance went rigid and his eyes met mine again, and he had the most peculiar expression on his face – it was hostile, almost. I looked away again, shocked. What had I done to make him so angry? Obviously, my welcoming invitation had been refused.

I peeked over at him one more time, and instantly regretted it. He was glaring at me with so much revulsion. Did I repulse him? Was I not up to the immeasurable standards of these beautiful women?

At that moment, music rang loudly from the speakers, making me jump, sloshing more Chardonnay onto my favourite lace dress. I rushed back to the food table for a napkin, patting my dress delicately with the tip. It wasn't fair. I resolved the matter instantly by preparing to leave until a hand caught my shoulder, to stop me. I flinched.

"My apologies," a smooth voice said from behind me, and they instantly jerked their hand away at my reaction. I spun on my heel, and stared, flabbergasted, into the dark eyes of Bruce Wayne.

This time, his eyes weren't so hostile or repulsed at all. They were surprisingly friendly, and open. He leaned closer towards me, close enough that I could smell the stench of his cologne drifting off of him. It was a pleasant, exotic scent.

"I thought I'd formally introduce myself," he grinned, a smile so dashing that I could only stare at him like an idiot. "I'm Bruce Wayne. I appreciate your dedication to Wayne Enterprises by attending the dinner tonight."

"No," I said, flushing. "It's the least I could do. Thanks for keeping me from getting laid." I cringed in horror at the words that had just fallen from my mouth. "I meant, uh, paid."

I averted my eyes to the napkin in my hand, and proceeded to shred it to pieces. I glanced up after a moment and saw that he was staring at me, the same look of frustration back in his eyes.

"Foot-in-mouth," I blurted out unthinkingly.

"Oh." He nodded, and it looked as if he was wondering if I was mentally competent. "Well, thank you again for attending. The auction is being held in an hour, perhaps you could bet on something for the foundation?"

I suddenly comprehended what it was that he was hinting at. "Oh, yes, of course. The Wayne Charity Foundation. It's very admirable, what you're doing."

Bruce seemed relieved that I was able to hold an intelligent conversation. He sighed. "Really, it is my parents who deserve your gratitude. They founded the charity; I'm just doing my bit to keep it alive."

"Well, admirable," I gushed.

The look of frustration was back into his eyes immediately at once. "I have no intention of getting you drunk, but that is a fine, expensive glass of Chardonnay that you're not drinking." He sounded as if he'd expected as much.

I shivered. "I don't like the discomfort of waking in the morning to a blinding headache. The nausea, I can deal with, but the headache..." I grimaced. "Besides, we have a meeting tomorrow morning. I want to be prepared for the presentation."

Abruptly, his mood shifted; a mischievous, devastating smile rearranging his features. "Of course, I should have only expected as much from a fellow employee."

"I'm taking vow of sobriety," I admitted.

He ignored me, and snapped his fingers. A waiter immediately arrived, his face expectant. "Hello. I hope you are both enjoying the celebrations this evening. What can I get you both to drink?"

Bruce looked at me.

"Any non-alcoholic beverage," I shrugged.

"A non-alcoholic beverage," he repeated.

"I'll be right back with your drink, ma'am," the waiter assured me before giving Bruce an unnecessary smile. But he didn't notice. He was watching me.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked when the waiter left.

His eyes stayed fixed on my face. "I'm just curious as to how you're feeling?"

"I'm fine," I replied, surprised by his concern. I prayed I seemed competent enough for his standards.

"You don't feel anxious, dizzy ...?"

"Should I?"

He chuckled darkly at my puzzled tone.

"After this evening, anything will be possible."

As if right on cue, the waiter arrived with my drink. He stood with his back to me as Bruce accepted the drink gracefully. I watched as he smoothly handed him a fifty-dollar tip, impressed.

"Drink," Bruce ordered. He pushed the glass towards me, and I sipped obediently.

"Thanks," I said, my voice fervent with gratitude. I was surprised at how thirsty I actually was.

The hostess of tonight's party was a fellow female co-worker, and I understood the look in her eyes as she assessed Bruce through the crowd. She eventually came over and welcomed him a little more warmly than necessary. I was surprised by how much that bothered me. She was unnaturally blonde, and several inches shorter than I was.

Eventually, Bruce excused himself from my presence courteously and chatted amongst other co-workers in the room, mostly male. I noticed his eyes flicker towards me every now and then, as if oblivious of my ordinariness compared to the other female co-workers in the room.

I looked at the dance floor where a small gap had formed in the centre of the room. A few couples whirled gracefully, one of the men I noticed as the head of Wayne Enterprises, Lucius Fox.

I hadn't noticed Bruce had slipped through the crowd and to my side, but he spoke into my ear, "I'd like the pleasure of having you join me in the centre of the room for a dance."

"I can't dance all that well," I groaned. In fact, I didn't know how to dance at all.

"I'm popping the cherry of the dancing virgin then." He smiled slightly, but his eyes were hard. I giggled at his peculiar use of words, alarmed at how easy it was to let my guard down around him. He put my arms around his neck and lifted me into the air. And then he sent the pair of us whirling around the room, knocking shoulders with several unsuspecting co-workers.

"You should dance more," he murmured, pulling me closer than was necessary. I found it hard to breathe. "Especially to this song, a song so catchy. It isn't just about the pleasures of conformity," he whispered, almost too fast for me to comprehend. "It's also a personal statement about the band itself."

"Really?" I laughed after a few minutes of effortless twirling.

I was surprised to discover that I was actually enjoying myself, more than I usually would. I was certain, almost positive that this was all a dream. Because I was dancing with Bruce Wayne; the Bruce Wayne that co-workers swooned over, and demanded the time and attention of.

Finally, after the upbeat song had ended, Bruce set me carefully on my feet and took a step back. Suddenly, and without warning, I felt faintly nauseated. Bruce picked up the gist of my uneasiness.

"I think we should send you for a cab home now," he said, and he definitely sounded mad.

I turned slowly, unwillingly away from him. I didn't want to feel what I knew I would feel the next morning when I had to see Bruce again in the meetings. I couldn't believe the rush of emotion pulsing through me – all because he happened to take notice of me for the first time in the seven months of working at Wayne Enterprises. It was pathetic. I was pathetic.

I tried very hard not to be aware of Bruce for the two hours of the meeting the next morning, and, since that was near impossible, at least not to let him know that I was aware of him. It seemed to work effectively; he seemed more at ease than I had ever seen him before, lying on the faux-leather recliner seat, leaning it all the way back and closing his eyes. He was soundlessly still for the whole of the meeting, except for the few occasional snores that erupted from his mouth.

After being dismissed from the meeting, I turned into my office, half expecting it to be empty when I found the familiar, handsome form leaning against the side of my desk.

My expression was wary when I turned to look at him; his expression was stoic.

"Can I help you with anything?" I said, my voice guarded. I hoped he wouldn't take that literally.

"Oh, Christ," he said, his voice low and cold. "I'll call you." He enunciated every syllable, as if I was deaf. Anger flashed in his dark eyes, and his lips pressed into a hard line. He turned abruptly before walking back the way he had entered. "I'll probably be returning some video tapes," he muttered harshly under his breath as he left.

What was wrong with him? Did I do something wrong? Was he embarrassed or disgusted with himself for what had happened last night at the celebratory dinner? I stood, frozen, blankly staring after him. Usually I cried when left alone in my office like this. I promised myself then and there, that I would never get upset over something as petty as Bruce Wayne's mood swings.