Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The soft, metallic glow of the transporter dissolved around Diana's form. The ambient glow of the Bat Cave's computer terminals, the only light her eye's have to adjust to in order to discern that she was in fact, alone.
Her prior arrivals had always been greeted with the warm welcome of Bruce or his most attentive attendant, Alfred. This time, her and Bruce's fifth "official" date, was most definitely lacking, in comparison. Diana quickly perused the platform...
The normally pristine area of the computer terminal was a disorder of disposable coffee cups and takeout containers.
It was only this morning that Bruce, rather Batman, had covertly slipped her a note during the League's weekly Founder's meeting, inviting (but truly in Batman's case, informing her) that she was expected at Wayne Manor at 7:00PM that evening for dinner.
Their first date had been a lovely dinner at the Manor. The request being presented as a delicate, hand-written calligraphic invitation sent to the Themyscarian Embassy, signed personally by Bruce Wayne. This was of course a part of a well-planned and orchestrated semi-public scheme to introduce to the public to the courtship of Bruce Wayne and Diana, Ambassador of the sovereign land of Themyscara. Subsequent "dates" were done to more public exposure. Two in New York at fashionable restaurants with goads of paparatzzi. The most recent in Gotham, at a glittering fund raising gala for a charity championed by Diana for the benefit of women working to bring themselves and their children out of poverty. Although this was not the most "traditional' means of courtship, carefully manipulated, media catching events, it was the most expedient way to introduce the the concept of a reformed, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. What other woman on planet Earth could amend Bruce Wayne from his roguish ways than the ideal embodiment a female empowerment?
Diana covertly unfolded Bruce's note, "7 pm this evening..." was written, not in the elegant hand of the first invitation but in Bruce's own impatient scrawl. Wrinkling her nose at the odor of stale food she made her way to the passage way that led to Wayne Manor.
Exiting the Bat Cave's entrance by the moveable ancient grandfather clock, Diana found the Manor's library was in no better state than the cave. Tossed over a leather chair was a wrinkled dress shirt and pair of leather-patent shoes sat on the rosewood coffee table.
Before Diana could form an inquiry in her mind as to what calamity could have befallen the majesty of Wayne Manor she was alerted to danger by the smell of...burning...fowl? And the distinct exclamation of a male voice.
"Damn!"
Following the mutual acrid odor and oration, she found her destination.
Wayne Manor's kitchen. In its decades long history, this bastion of culinary gentility had never had been the victim to such a violation.
There, hovered a billow of smoke, rising from a slowly dissipating flame. Its prior exuberance evident by the near ceiling high scorch marks rising from what was once a very dignified six burner stove. The culprit of this malfeasance, a man, who could handily disarm a dozen or more criminals without so much as breaking a sweat...but a roasted duck and accompanying side dishes apparently...
The perpetrator of culinary massacre turned to her, a concerned and befallen look upon his handsome face.
"You're early." His voice a foreign mixture of disappoint and … anxiousness.
Glancing at the wall-clock over his shoulder, which read 7:05 PM, Diana replied, "Actually, I'm late."
Bruce looked at his watch, then at Diana and then at the wall-clock. "Yes, well, I had thought..." His reply faded to a mumble as he he attempted in vain to wipe at the carbon scorches on the countertop in front of him and helplessly shift the roasting pan now smoldering on the trivet.
Diana slowly walked around the kitchen island to where Bruce was now in the process disgarding of the remnants of his hopefully last attempt at the culinary arts.
"Bruce, not that I don't appreciate this obvious...valiant effort but when will Alfred be back?"
"He left two nights ago... so tomorrow."
Diane recalled that two weeks prior, during a stakeout of a international arms dealer network, which Batman and Robin had been asked to assist with, Robin unceremoniously asked asked if he should pick up a few more takeout menus, in anticipation of Alfred's absence. Robin continued, unheeded by his foster-father's warnings over the open comms, that he would not be reduced to eating Taco Bell takeout and Ramen noodles until Alfred's return.
"He takes his vacation each year at the same time?"
"Every year since I can remember."
"And what does he do?"
"No idea." Bruce replied non-chalantly.
Diana was taken aback by this response and delved further.
"So you've never asked him?"
"No."
"You've never been curious about what he is doing?"
"No."
"And you've never tried to find out? Not once?" With this question Bruce finally lifted his eyes to meet Diana's as he replied, "Never."
Diana watched Bruce for a several long seconds before a tiny smile turns her lips.
"He's very special to you, isn't he?" she asked while placing her hand upon his.
Bruce narrowed his eyes in a near impression of the Bat then softened realizing her unspoken observation.
"What do you mean?"
"It's just," Diana's smile grew wider as she finally began to select some fruit from the breakfast platter, "I never imagine the 'great detective' would allow someone so close to him keep a secret for this long."
Bruce's face set in a manner wholly unlike any mask he wore as Batman or Bruce Wayne. A finite movement to his lips hovered, as if he was without a answer to her question.
It was at the moment that Bruce's private cell rang. He fumbled for it, again so uncharacteristically for a man that has a persona for any and all situations.
Diana was familiar with the ringtone. This was not the latest Wayne Industries smartphone used by Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy nor was it the encrypted communication device of the Bat Clan, rather a simple analog flip-phone. He answered it once when on one of their "dates" in New York. Tim, his foster-son and the present encarnation of Robin had called to let him know that he was staying past curfew to see a fellow female study-buddy home from a group study session for a History exam scheduled the following day. Bruce had gently but sternly given a 30 minute reprieve to the curfew, assuring that his ward would be home to the Manor and get enough rest before his exam and avoid any extra-curricular activities. This was, as best described, the family phone.
"Hello."
"Is this Mr. Wayne, Mr. Bruce Wayne?"
"Who is this."
"Please, I'm sorry but I must speak with Bruce Wayne. This is Celia Tarret."
"How did you get this number?'
"Mr. Wayne? Mr. Wayne...I'm..I'm a friend of Alfred Pennyworth. He told me to call you in case-"
Diana could see a dark shadow cross Bruce's face. Her meta-Human hearing allowing her to easvesdrop upon the communication she stepped closer to Bruce seeing as he griped the countertop for support. With his next words, it was not the voice of Playboy Bruce Wayne nor the Batman. Rather his voice was strained and if she had only heard it before to compare it to, fearful, like that a child lost in the woods.
"Has something happened?"
"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, there's been an accident."
