It was as if you'd told her pigs could fly.

"Did you get prior authorization from Wayne Enterprises?"

Ah, shit. You knew she would balk at the idea if she knew you hadn't made contact with him yet, so you lied. "He agreed to it this afternoon." Feeling a tad guilty but trying to shake it off, you ended the call shortly after when she told you she'd meet you outside the venue with the needed supplies. Thankfully she was more knowledgeable about the goings of the city than you were, as she knew the start time: six. You had about an hour to shower, change, and do whatever hair and makeup you could manage.

And do that you did. The shower felt manic, scrubbing so hard and fast that the nearly-healed scabs on the palms of your hands reopened, burning and raw. You did your best to ignore the pains as you blow-dried your strands and brushed your teeth. You groaned when you realized the only 'formal' outfit you had was the dress you'd worn the night of the shooting. It had some snags which the color lightly concealed, and you had to take a spare toothbrush to the caked mud on your heels. Your hair was cooperating, much to your amazement, and you decided to put it back in a slick, middle-part pony for your shiny locks. Rummaging through your desk you found a pair of cubic zirconia stud earrings, hastily fixing them to your ears with one hand while your other smeared some foundation on.

5:45 rolled around and you had narrowly made it to your cab after hyperfixating on your makeup in the mirror. You left with only your phone and keys, pre-paying for a cab to and from so you didn't have to worry about losing your new wallet... again. You grew increasingly anxious the closer you got to the event, knowing full-well you would likely have to turn in a paper three days from now that was not an interview with the elusive billionaire. Consequences would have to be dealt with later, however, and you knew you could probably make up another lie to cover your first one, that he had simply stood you up. In fact, you had so little hope for him accepting the interview you hadn't bothered to think up a single question.

City hall was dramatically busier than anticipated. Swaths of both citizens and paparazzi huddled around the entrance, forcing your courage to shrink. Maybe it was a terrible, terrible idea. Maybe you'd make a fool of yourself. But that didn't matter—you'd be out of Gotham before the month was out. You didn't give a shit about the city's elite, anyway. But Bruce Wayne couldn't know that. You thanked the driver, keeping your head on a swivel for the professor.

"Ms. Y/L/N!" Greeting you greeting with such loud, unexpected warmth, you startled, Dr. Vry embracing you in a hug before handing you a recorder and badge. The glimmer in her eyes was intimidating, making the guilt in your chest glow. You felt nauseous. You didn't lie for these precise reasons. "I await your paper with bated breath. So excited to read his first interview."

Gulping back shame, you thanked her and wobbled your way up the stairs in your heels. The concrete slapped the soles which didn't help your baseline unsteadiness. The reality of your choice was setting in as you surveyed the entryway, packed full of Gotham's elite. The suits, the chandeliers… You didn't get much of a good look before you tripped on the final stair, throwing your arms out to catch your fall.

・。。・・。。・・。。・・。。・

Bruce got out of his car and handed his key to the valet, hiding a wince from the many photographers frantically screaming his name. His night-oriented eyes narrowed to protect from the harsh flashes of light reflecting off their lenses, dancing off the puddles littering the cobbled pavement. He focused on a dark strip of tar as he navigated toward the front steps, tucking his hands in either side of his rough wool overcoat. He hated these things.

Hordes of Gotham's elite climbed the stairs ahead of him, and he intentionally avoided eye contact with anyone who seemed like a Wayne superfan. He wasn't in the mood to be in public today, but it was a local government mixer, the cherry to pin the last City Hall meeting before the summer interlude; in other words, an excuse for the socialites to get drunk on wine the general public couldn't afford while still keeping up appearances.

As a Wayne, his attendance was nearly mandatory. In the past he had ignored Alfred's pushes to mingle and faced backlash. After a few scathing think-pieces in the Gazette, a mediating member reached out due to waning finances. More money than he knew what to do with, he'd signed on for a generous recurring donation which had caused a mass amnesiac event. Shocking. Only costs a few million to be in good graces.

The foyer smelled musty, the muddy puddles dragging in the scent of dirt and chemical rain by way of red-bottoms and kitten heels. Bruce refrained from reacting, his eyes moving him about the room with stealth. Wine tables. Servers. His gaze lingered toward the entrance where a group of men were eyeing women as they walked in. Before he could intercept, a sharp elbow slid across his lower back and someone grabbed his knee, a cell phone bouncing across the ground toward the refreshments. He buckled as his knee was pushed forward, falling swiftly onto his ass.

You hadn't realized who it was, embarrassment tinging your cheeks as you immediately rattled off an apology, shocked at how quickly you'd made an ass out of yourself. Or rather, you attempted to apologize—it seemed like all the blood in your body had left your brain and flooded your cheeks.

You pushed yourself up to a crouch and forced yourself to make eye contact with the stranger. You didn't particularly want to face a rich guy in Gotham you'd just pummeled into the ground, but it would have been worse to simply run off into the night. The man had dark brown hair that was now obscuring his face, and pale skin. You couldn't make out much more before you'd locked eyes with the Batman.

Oh fuck.

At this point the word "Sorry!" squeaked out, and his body became tense at the sound of your voice. That familiar guttural tightness consumed him as he looked forward and once again met those big, bright eyes. You! You stared back at him with your mouth slightly open and he froze, forgetting to fix his face for just a moment. It was an expression he'd only seen once previously when he'd come to Alfred after his first try-on of the suit. An expression he'd had nightmares about seeing again. His chest felt as if knives were sharpening themselves on the lining of his lungs, slicing his esophagus to asphyxiate him. No. No. NO!

Whoever the hell you were, you knew.

Your teeth went cold as shock washed through you, snagging at your chest and skipping your heartbeat. It registered like a narration, too big to neatly conceptualize or shelve away. What do you do when you realize the country's most eligible bachelor is also the country's most infamous vigilante?

He couldn't read you beyond your initial surprise, and it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him. The sound of blood pulsing in his ears deadened the sound of the crowded room, yet he was still highly aware of being surrounded by the last people he'd ever want to find out. He begged his thoughts for an answer on why you'd shown up right here, right now, and how the hell you'd figured him out.

His fear disarmed you, rendering you unsteady. You needed to gather yourself, starting to sweat under his piercing gaze. You felt faint, dizzy, feeling the world shifting. You spun around in a daze and went to pick up your phone, the throngs of people already back to their own conversations. You noticed it alight in the corner and made a beeline there, careful to lift your feet with every step to not have another incident, careful not to look behind you at the wreckage.

Twisted relief flirted with you as you knelt to retrieve your unscathed phone, feeling the walls of the booming foyer close in.

"Ay, what's a pretty girl like yourself doing in a city like this, eh?" You stifled a gasp at how close the voice was to your ear, and turned to see a taller, thicker man staring back at you. He had on a checkered suit with a white shirt underneath, and smelled strongly of tobacco. The peculiar scars painting his face had nothing on his accent.

He looked you over as he licked his lips, the gold caps on his teeth twinkling. You turned your nose up as he did nothing to hide the once-over he was giving you. The man didn't even notice. "Ain't seen you before, sweetheart. New girls make a killing at my lounge." His black eyes moved from staring at your chest to your face, a devilish grin plastered to his mouth.

You cleared your throat, putting your phone into your trouser pockets. You gave as professional a smile as you could manage and nodded at him, sensing from his bodyguard nearby he wasn't someone to mess with. "I'm actually here to get an interview," the absolutely atrocious vibes of the man made you forget about your realization for a brief moment. As you walked past, the unsettling man put a firm hand on your shoulder.

"C'mon," he egged, positioning himself closer. His voice was rough and jagged, every neuron in your body telling yourself to escape by any means necessary. He hummed on without shame. "You can audition for me in the room next door, huh?" His firm press on your shoulder shoved you toward a side door. Your heart began to race. "Sir," you scrambled. "I really have to get this—"

"Miss? Excuse me, miss?"

Your wide, nervous eyes snapped back to face Mr. Wayne, and you heard the stranger chuckle. A grating sound. "Ah, Mista Bruce Wayne!"

He wasn't looking at him, instead at you with a fervent gaze. He'd decided on approach that he would assume you knew, assume his interpretation of your gaze was correct. Otherwise, how would he have known about this? "I was told to meet you here for the interview."

Relief poured over you like sinking into a freshly filled pool in August heat. You opened your mouth to speak, but whoever the person was interrupted, yet again. "With all due respect, Wayne, we're in the middle of business."

Lacking so much hesitation as to nearly cut him off altogether, Mr. Wayne responded shortly. "I don't have much time so I'd like to start it now." Even if you were going to expose him, you didn't deserve to be groped in a closet by the city sleaze.

He held out his arm for you to take and you did so without reservation. You would've run into a lion's den. As you linked your arm around his, you couldn't help but notice the dense muscle hidden beneath the dusty wool, and the steadiness with which he guided you through the crowd. If you had any hesitation to trust your realization of his double life, it had melted away. No person was this densely packed with pure fight other than Batman.

Batman. Bruce Wayne was Batman? You didn't know much about either of them, and you couldn't begin to make sense of it while waves of surprise washed over you.

A part of you was excited. You'd felt so lost, but finally, finally you had been given a secret. You knew something no one else knew. Clued in to knowledge so many people wanted. Then, fear.

What if he tries to get rid of me? What if he's leading to a private area where there aren't witnesses? You knew he was viewed as a protector in the public eye, but as far as you knew no one had ever deduced what you'd noticed immediately. The fear in his face had been palpable, and—

He dropped your arm right at the door as soon as he remembered where he was and who he was. He wasn't in the suit, he was Bruce Wayne, and he had a woman on his arm. If Alfred saw any rumors of romance he'd have to deal with his delighted smile and repeat questioning. If the paparazzi noticed, you'd be more at risk.

Noticing he wasn't in the suit stunted his courage and kept him sheepish. He'd been a dick to you in the alleyway, leaving you hanging alone in the alleys of the city. He hadn't left, he reminded himself. He'd simply gone out of view and then followed you as you wandered through the city back to your apartment, to make sure you got home safely. But you didn't know that. He needed to be curt, but kind enough to ensure you didn't make a scene when he declined this interview for a second and final time.

"You should go." His voice was gruff, but only slightly reminiscent of Batman's. He did a good job separating his two identities... to everyone besides you, you wondered.

"The interview—"

He let out a strained chuckle. "That's not happening." You were really going to barge in and assume he would bow to you? Give his first interview to a student journalist? A stranger that had stalked him until he could be cornered in public? He laughed, hollowly.

His laughter unnerved you, lighting a fire in your abdomen. Who was he to be laughing? A soft rage boiled up to your throat, and you considered blackmailing him. I know who you are, you'd say. I could tell everyone right now about your double life. But you knew that was just your desperation and ego talking. Plus... you were a bit scared of him and what his body was capable of.

Instead you turned on your heel and walked back through the foyer. Rather, you tried to... but your heel caught on the lip of the entry mat and you lurched forward, Mr. Wayne catching you by your elbow. Frustrated, he snapped at you. "Would you at least try to stop tripping over everything?"

Shame tinged your cheeks pink and cast your eyes to the floor. You could count on one hand all the times you'd worn heels, and you only bought a pair to try and fit in with the Gotham scene. You were intimately reminded of how much you didn't fit in, and a flood of emotion cascaded through you. Tears stung at your eyes and threatened to spill over as you yanked your arm away from his grip. Through your periphery you noticed his face soften, his brows lightly knit in a v with what seemed like genuine concern.

He opened his mouth but before he could speak you rushed down a side hallway in search of a restroom. Him being concerned somehow made the tears come even faster. Don't cry in public. Don't cry in public. You threw yourself into a stall and put your back against the door as tears streamed down your face. Your body wracked with sobs; you missed home. The city was so dirty, crime was so high, and you just wanted to be back in your hometown where people were safe and kind. Even Mar was having a good time—you just weren't right for this place. It was too hard, too bad, too mean. Unyielding. As you thought about the failed interview attempt that rage burned inside you yet again. You had a secret that you could wield. Everyone else in the city would use it against him in a second. He thought he could be an ass to you and not get any recourse? He had another thing coming.

You stomped out of the bathroom after patting away the tear streaks in your makeup. To your surprise, Mr. Wayne was waiting in the hallway outside the bathroom. With narrowed eyes and clenched fists you sauntered over to him. "I could tell everyone in this room who you are." You crossed your arms and let your weight rest back in your right hip. His brows raised in shock. He was going to apologize, but certainly not now. His voice was low and menacing. "You wouldn't dare."

You ignored the rumble of fear that puttered around your stomach. "Do the interview or I write an exposé." You surprised yourself as it came out. It was true; either way you would be able to fill the pages. Whether or not you actually would write the second option... he didn't need to know. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I can't believe this."

"Which one is it? Hmm? I don't have all day." You didn't need to tack on that last part, but you thought it might get under his skin. It did. He wondered whatsoever could be so important that you would need to hurry him. "I actually have an event right now, if it weren't obvious—"

"It's your funeral." You hoped he wouldn't call your bluff and stormed halfway down the hallway before he called after you. "Fine." A pause. "But you only get ten minutes."

"Twenty." You countered, and he let out a groan of annoyance. He strode past you visibly angry, muttering, his mind a mess of so many emotions he couldn't pin down a single thought. "Get around back, then meet me at my house. Let's get this over with."