Flustered, you wandered down the hallway to see if it happened to lead to an exit. No, it couldn't be that easy. The exit was nowhere to be found, it just led to a men's room strangely situated in the corner. You checked in the camera of your phone to see if the tear streaks were really gone, and faked confidence as you walked through the foyer again. As you wandered past the refreshment table a familiar sound startled you. "Welcome in!" You didn't miss the cheekiness in his voice, whipping around with the first real grin you'd had in ages. It almost hurt your face to move those muscles again. "Rai!" He went in for a hug and you did a few minutes of chatting, nearly to the point of forgetting what was in store for you. He showed you which dishes he had brought, including a few from his deli, and helped you to a sample portion of each. He offered you more, but your hunger cues were fucked after the level of stress you'd been under this week. Bidding him regretful adieu, you went out the front steps trying to avoid the paparazzi. It was successful, as Bruce Wayne had walked through the throngs minutes earlier leaving many of them still hitchhiking back from a short car chase.
In what unfortunately closely resembled the alley from before, you swallowed back a rush of anxiety. The alley was deceptively long, leaving you ample time to form semi-coherent thoughts about what had just occurred. Bruce Wayne was the Batman? It didn't make sense. But it did. But it didn't. But it was true. Your mind caught fragments of thoughts as they flew by. He was an asshole. Kind of. Why did he save people? Why didn't he want to talk to the people he saved? How come he had never done an interview? Had no one really recognized him before, or had they all been murdered?
An unfamiliar car was parked behind the building. It looked like something your dad would have gawked at back home, something vintage or retro. It looked like an old Cadillac, with sandy beige paint and a brown leather interior. A note was pasted on the front seat which you read after opening the unlocked driver's side.
Park it at the side of the entrance, the first alley on the right before you enter the grounds. Turn the lights off before you make the turn.
Never having been to Wayne Tower before and having no clue how big the grounds were, you put Wayne Tower into Google Maps. You thanked god as you buckled that this wasn't a stick shift, and sped off through the alleys of Gotham. The last time you had driven a car had been before you transferred here, back in Washington, where you had free, open streets to roam for endless miles. Gritting your teeth with frustration you were still not yet free of this place, you hit the gas and hoped the directions weren't leading you to your demise.
The grounds were... massive. It was deceptive, and you had to circle around a few times before finding an alley. The tower faced the opposite side of the giant lawn, the alley thick with tree overhang. The car managed to slip right into it like a glove, just as you remembered to dim the lights. Hope that didn't fuck anything up. You were confused as you drove down it, wondering where the hell it led to until you noticed a pinprick of light in the distance. Another grin spread across your face as you floored it, zooming close to seventy, when a figure entered your vision in the middle of the street. You slammed on the breaks which were ridiculously responsive, nearly tipping the car over backwards with the velocity. Once the car settled you met the glaring eyes of the prince himself. Let's get this over with.
The paper flew out with the force of air from whipping the door open. Suspicion crept into your bones. "Hey, this was just, sitting there." You shouted. It twirled in the air between you. He just stared and shrugged. Irked, you continued. "If this is a secret entrance to your home, wouldn't you have been more discreet?"
"No one knows my handwriting. The car could have belonged to anyone." Bruce Wayne's voice was rough like sandpaper, far removed from warmth or allure. You bit back a retort about the car looking like it cost a hundred grand as you sulked past him toward an iron door. Either he was more arrogance than man or the average Gotham resident was dense as a rock. Shooting a look back at him you tried to rip the door open. It ripped at your shoulder instead and you cursed, fingers flying to massage the socket. He chuckled to himself and your cheeks burned with embarrassment. He stepped forward with unearned confidence and the door came open with ease. "It's fingerprint sensitive." He sneered. "But I did enjoy watching you try."
Dick, you thought. Just get the interview done. Get your questions answered so you can be rid of this rich asshole. You shut your eyes tightly every few steps to remind yourself that you would be gone in a week; in one single week you would have a diploma in-hand and be on a flight back home. To your room. Your family. Your friends... who hadn't kept in contact much since you'd left. A wince of pain curdled your stomach as you suppressed thoughts of your friendships only existing due to proximity. Was there anywhere you wouldn't be an outcast?
Before stepping in, you hesitated, and his footsteps stopped after a few steps for him to glare at you over his shoulder. "I don't have all night."
"Take off your coat." You demanded. His eyes narrowed. "What for?"
You crossed your arms. "I need to know if you're armed."
He groaned and took off his jacket, leaving him in just his suit. Still, he could have been hiding something... "Your suit jacket too." The anxiety was real; if he could hide the fact he was Batman, he could surely hide bodies.
"I don't have any weapons on me." His tone was ever so slightly softer, less jagged. It only served to make you more suspicious of him.
"I don't believe you." There was silence for a few beats. Then a huff.
"Do I have to do this too or you'll blackmail me for it?" You didn't say anything in response. He turned around and flashed the inside pockets of his suit, then spun and showed you the back. "You happy? I'm not taking it off."
"Fine. But if you kill me I'll have you know people will look for me. And I won't go down easy." You took off your heels and walked through the thick door; it shut automatically as you walked in. Bruce pressed forward.
"Couldn't imagine anything with you being easy." He grumbled.
The end of the hallway opened to a balmy, wet sort of garage. There was a long table in the center with a few computers and other gadgets, with various boxes and tech scattered across the cracked concrete floor. He walked over to the desk and moved papers from the one chair in view, pushing it toward you. "Fifteen minutes starts now."
You scoffed. "What happened to twenty?"
"What happened to leaving the event when I asked you to instead of dawdling?" His jaw was set tight and you ignored him, talking a slow walk to the chair. The only thing he had on you was making his snide comments—you had the real shit, the info you could leak at any second to massive scandal.
He leaned against his desk just a few feet in front of you, palm flat. You cleared your throat and tried to drum up some questions to make it seem you'd come prepared. You flicked the recorder to ON and cleared your throat. "Bruce, tell me—"
"It's Mr. Wayne." His voice loud, biting.
"Tell me about how you spend your free time." You completely ignored him, continuing on. He adjusted, his jaw locked together. He shoved his hand in his pant pocket. He didn't know how to answer it, and it angered him to be referred to so casually by you. He thought about how Alfred would answer that could fit Bruce Wayne. It was hard to pretend he cared about his answers enough to get his brain whirring. More pressing things were on his mind, like how someone in the public now knew his identity.
"I like to read historical fiction, engage in physical pursuits, and," he paused as his mind did. Stalk the criminals of the city, stop the criminals of the city, clean up Gotham's streets one by one...
"What type of 'physical pursuits', Bruce?" You chimed.
The tips of his ears turned red with frustration. "It's Mr. Wayne." He stared at you with narrowed eyes and tense muscles. Where did you get the right to... he walked away from the desk to stand closer to you. Curious fear shot into you as you noticed how densely he was built. You'd nearly fallen prey to the average Gothamite, no way you could fight off the vigilante himself. But... maybe you could kick him in the balls. He spoke through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"
Your eyes blinked with confusion. "What?"
His fists clenched and unclenched along with his jaw. "Your silence. What do you want?"
"I need to ask you more questions."
With a dramatic eye roll he leaned back against the desk. He signified his impatience with rapid tapping of his fingers. "I have a home gym. Cardio, weight training, endurance. Can't really just jog around the street."
"Women know the feeling." You felt his eyes on you but you ignored it. "Why don't you go in public more often? Surely your cardio and fiction don't take up every waking hour."
"Aren't these supposed to be questions, not judgements?"
You simply stared back at him with an empty gaze. Was this the first time he'd ever been challenged outside of the suit? You watched as he ran his hands through his hair and his chest caved from a deep exhale. He answered your next questions with robotic ease. Renewal fund things. Got a degree from Yale Law. Never pursued it due to waning interest. His favorite dish is... soup. Mulligatawny, to be exact. Whatever that was. Often vacations to Rio and Greece.
By the time you'd asked a meager handful of questions he was near imploding. You needed a question you could focus in on. "What's your stance on the masked vigilante, the Batman?"
His eyes shot to yours with a fierce glare and you gestured down to the voice recorder. God, he couldn't believe your audacity. "What is there to say?" He rose to pace slowly between the desk and wall. More specifically, he thought, what is there to say that can't be twisted in your paper? "This 'Batman'... he's a complicated figure. I don't like that he's interrupting with our justice department. Meddling. He's taken the law into his own hands. However..." a sharp breath. "He's not necessarily harming innocent civilians. I try not to think about him."
His presumptive comment elicited a snappy response. "So you think some people are deserving of harm? What about structural inequalities that force people to steal, intimidate,"
He interrupted you with biting tone. "And that gives them the right to steal from everyone else?"
"Okay Mr. Billionaire. "
"No, really!" He turned to you with his hands on his hips which pushed his suit jacket behind him. His face was alight with frustrated curiosity as he strolled over. "Do tell me, Miss Journalist," he leaned down and with your faces on the same level you could feel the heat of his breath. His demeanor was darker now. "How that man in the alley was innocent."