Bruce looked over with a heavy scoff, and you bristled. Before he could react you continued. "Alfred is kind, and thoughtful, and obviously helps you because you were calling out to him again and again." This elicited an immediate response.
"Don't tell me about Alfred." He spoke through gritted teeth, the color coming back to his face with red heat. You wanted to step away but swallowed the lump in your throat. Alfred says he's so compassionate, huh? Doesn't seem like it. "You don't have to keep up this tough guy facade, you know."
His sarcastic laugh boomed in the hallways and you could've sworn you heard Alfred wake up. "Facade. Big words."
"Dick!" You turned on your heel and stomped up the stairs, then heard a low sigh. "I'm sorry." He spoke. You didn't turn to look at him; it was triggering hearing a man mock you so openly, especially in his own home. Being a vigilante billionaire didn't absolve him from being a human being. "That's not fair fighting, and I didn't mean to imply—"
"That I'm some mousey, stupid woman?" You whipped back around, all but hissing at him. He met your eyes carefully from the bottom of the stairwell. He gave a small nod, looking smaller now. "Nothing like that. I apologize." His swift recognition of wrongdoing did make it sting a bit less, and you had to remind yourself you were essentially camping out at his place. You leaned against the top railing, staring down at the masses of brown marble flooring. The moment felt just tender enough for honesty. "You can be scary, Bruce... Wayne." You hovered on his last name, hoping it might act as an olive branch.
Bruce didn't want to be scary. Sure, to criminals he wanted to be, but hearing you say he brought it home hurt. It sank into his chest a bit like a branding iron. He didn't like hearing you say his last name; it already felt foreign in your voice. He looked over at the puddles of water he dragged in and shifted the convo. "The flooding seems to be letting up. You'll be able to get back to your apartment soon."
You took that more personally than was necessary. A thought glued to you. "Wait, will I be able to see Alfred again?" You felt ridiculous as soon as you said it, knowing you were about to graduate and move across the country permanently. You wanted out of this city more than anything in the entire world. Now you were concerned about missing a random old guy? You walked over to the top of the stairwell and sat crosslegged, putting your head in your hands. Bruce shifted uncomfortably, not knowing quite what to say to you, and wondering why the hell you'd decided to sit with him on the stairs. You assumed he wasn't going to respond to the Alfred comment, and you didn't really want him to. You thought about how Alfred had said Bruce was worried during your reaction and decided to pay it forward. It took a lot more effort to verbalize than you thought. "Do you want any pain meds or anything?"
It felt like a breeze shot through Bruce's stomach. A weird rippling sensation. His leg was burning in pain and he wanted to say no, he needed to say no, he wouldn't accept help from you... except seeing you with your guard down was... pleasant? If he forgot you were about to expose him, which he immediately remembered. His momentary lapse in annoyance ended with his next comment. "Are you still going to expose me?" You didn't say anything, and after about thirty seconds of silence he looked up at you. You slowly and discreetly shook your head. "No."
Bruce cleared his throat, trying to hide his relief. "I'm good on meds, yeah." He slowly rose from the stair and limped his way up. It was more bearable now that his body was lit up and electric—you weren't going to tell anyone? He wanted to trust you, it sounded genuine, this felt genuine, and usually he could trust his read of a situation... but it was you. You were different than everyone else. You'd noticed him immediately. It didn't even take a full second for years of practiced concealment and tracking two separate identities to fall apart. You scared him, too.
You stepped aside as he rose to the top of the stairwell. He looked at you from his periphery and gave a small nod. "Night." His voice was raspy and quiet, and then the only other sounds were of boots against ground and your own heels as you padded back to Alfred's office. The next half hour you whizzed through the formatting, scheduling an email for a few hours later to Dr. Vry. You got ahead of her disappointment by writing: Good morning Dr. Vry, I hope this email finds you well. Unfortunately Mr. Wayne rescinded his offer mid-interview, so I interviewed someone else. The paper is attached below. My sincerest apologies, and thank you again for getting me the journalism materials. They will be returned swiftly in the AM. If you would like confirmation that I did meet with Mr. Wayne I can put you in contact with his manager. Best, Y/N Y/L/N.
・。。・・。。・・。。・・。。・
Sleep was hardly restful. You tossed and turned the next few hours, wired from finally turning in the last paper for your degree. You'd received an email back at 8:49am, where Dr. Vry expressed deep regret at your lack of follow-through on what would have been Bruce Wayne's first ever interview: Ms. Y/L/N, thank you for turning in your paper. However, it would be remiss to not acknowledge my disappointment at what would have been such a spectacular frontier in journalism. I look forward to hearing from Wayne management to confirm your meeting. Regards, Dr. Janay Vry.
Fuck. Now you had to elicit Alfred to send a 'sorry' email. You sat up in bed, promptly hearing a strong knock. "Can I come in?" It was Bruce. You hurried your greasy hair back into a ponytail with a rubber band you'd found and sat expectantly on the edge of the bed. "Yes?" In walked Bruce, presumably fresh from a shower. He had your phone in-hand. Your brow furrowed. He nodded in anticipation. "You left it in Alfred's study. He's making breakfast now. No peaches." Bruce paused, avoiding eye contact. "Uh, and he wanted to tell you the flooding has died down enough to drive you back to your apartment." He tossed your phone to you and nodded before shutting the door. You sat, feeling the rage of hunger in your stomach. The first thing you did was look for flights back home: there was one from Gotham to Seattle at 11:45am, a five hour direct. With the time difference you might be able to make your mother's chemo appointment. Tentatively, you booked one of the last seats and bolted out to breakfast. It was 9:03. You needed to get home and shove all your belongings back into your luggage.
"Someone had a restful night!" Alfred was cheery, and placed an omelet in front of where you sat yesterday at the table. Bruce was already dished up and sidling into his chair across from you. "The ingredients are only egg, green and red bell pepper, spinach, olive oil, salt, and pepper. All good?" You gave him two thumbs up and thanked him, walking over to your side. You felt bad hurrying them. You waited for Alfred to dish himself up and sit down, tucking into a few bites before you broached the question. "I actually booked a flight today, back home. My mom has a uh, thing happening and I needed to be back. Bruce—Mr. Wayne said the flooding had gone down, and I was wondering if I could get a ride back to my apartment."
Bruce side-eyed you when you corrected his name. It still felt weird hearing you say his last name. It was weird hearing you say his first. It was weird that you knew he was Batman. It was just... weird. He finished chewing and gestured to you. "What time's your flight?"
It was unnerving to have such normal conversations with Bruce Wayne. After both your walls had begun to settle the night before, you felt the weight of his reputation. You blushed, and could tell he noticed. "Um, around eleven. Like two hours." Bruce's eyes nearly bulged out of his head "Couldn't have told us sooner?"
Alfred spoke, his face fallen, ignoring the man's antics. "I actually can't this morning, some men from accounting at Wayne Enterprises scheduled an emergency meeting. I'm so sorry. I'm sure Master Wayne can manage, however." He shot a glare at Bruce and Bruce rolled his eyes, starting to tear into his omelet with urgency. "Yeah fine, whatever."
You squeezed your eyes shut tight at feeling like such a burden. The next fifteen minutes you scarfed down as much food as you could, then went back upstairs to gather your shoes and phone. You noticed Bruce standing expectantly at the front door, wearing sunglasses as he peered at what you assumed to be a newly-delivered paper. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, making you hustle down the stairs.
Without a word he slid through the open door, but you reached your head around to see Alfred cleaning up the kitchen. You ran over to him and gave him a hug, quickly telling him about the email thing. He agreed to send the email shortly, and even offered to return your journalism supplies. Looking at the time—9:45—you had no choice but to take him up on it. He told you not to be a stranger and sent you off on your way. Your heels ached the arches of your feet, but you weren't taking a chance with the sewage water still taking up an inch of real estate on the concrete. Bruce was already pulling out of a matte black Lamborghini, the passenger door opening automatically as you walked to it. You slid into the leather seat and tucked your feet in as he sped off.
You watched out the window as trees and grass turned to buildings whizzing by. The car was quick and steady; the tinting on the windows seemed a bit excessive, but you understood the need. After a few minutes of silence he startled you with a question. "Why didn't you write the exposé?" He tried to make his voice strong, his tone nonconfrontational. You shrugged. You were still a bit bitter about the night before and his comments about your smarts, but if this was going to be your last time seeing him you figured there was no shame in being honest. "I didn't want to jeopardize the city. As much as I hate to admit it, you make it better." You let out a heavy sigh trying to rid of the tension. His hands stiffened on the wheel. It was the first kind thing you'd ever said to him; it was the first time someone other than Alfred had mentioned Batman to him... because you were the only one outside of him who knew. A small smile curled up his lips. Music to his insecure ears. Did he really make it better? Really? He wanted to. He really, really wanted to. Did you really mean it? Actually?
"STOP!" Your shout caused an immediate braking, and a worried mother clutched her kids as they rushed across the crosswalk. Bruce tensed, eyes wide. He'd never come close to hitting a pedestrian. His heart pounded as he glanced at you beside him. You stared with a tight-set jaw, your hands clenched together in your lap and eyes as wide as his own. He moved his attention back to the road and kept on, refusing to entertain any more potentially lethal thoughts.
It was 10am on the dot when you pulled up in front of your apartment complex. It had been such an awkward ride you hadn't questioned how he knew your address, but you didn't have time to pester him. Bruce got out just as you were jogging to the lobby doors, and your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as you hissed at him. "What are you doing?! Someone could see you!"
"Traffic is always bad around this time at the airport. We need all the time we can get, I'm helping." His tone was flat and he adjusted his sunglasses... as if they could distract from the Lambo in front of the complex screaming BRUCE WAYNE IS HERE! You pushed through the lobby and rushed to the elevator, Bruce calmly in tow. The doors opened and you both stepped inside. He sidled in next to you now, and you looked over at his outfit. Unlike the last elevator ride together, he was just wearing a black tee and trousers. He glanced at you from his periphery and you quickly moved your line of sight to the floor with a subtle blink. A subtle aroma of pink pepper and musk lingered in the air, mixed with a little bit of sweat. Your sweat. You hadn't showered in days, and did a little shift of your weight away from him. Embarrassment washed over you.
"What?" He turned his head, noticing your movement away. "Looking for more lint?"
No, I just smell bad. You thought. I probably smell like ass and I don't want that to be your last memory of me. It became apparent to you how terrible of an impression you would leave on the man—forcing your way into his home with blackmail, being forced to more than overstay your welcome, now he was helping you pack while you smelled like sweat and spit. It was embarrassing. Very embarrassing.
The DING of the elevator doors opening to your floor was like a call from heaven, and you rushed past him so he couldn't get a good sniff. You fumbled with the lock and thanked god how poor you'd been as a student; your apartment was small and minimalist, making it easy to throw everything into one or two luggage bags and move yourself back home in a jiffy. Trying your best to forget that a billionaire was standing in the middle of your studio, you went to your small closet and pulled out the large checked-luggage bag your dad had bought you two years prior. You hadn't been able to fill it then, but were grateful now for the extra real estate.
"What do you want me to do?"
You looked around the room, running through a short list of everything you'd have to do in the next half hour. The bedding needed to be removed, bathroom ransacked, kitchen food trashed, and clothes packed. Oh. And you needed to go down to the lobby and break the lease.
"Uh, can you clean out the fridge? I need to get to the lobby." You bit your lip hard, anxious as you grabbed your keys and rushed downstairs, ignoring the elevator in order to try and metabolize some of the stress. You only had about ten dollars left in your checking, and you'd forgotten that breaking a lease would mean an extra fee. When you made it to the receptionist, it was a new person you'd never seen before. She looked sour, and rolled her eyes when you walked up. "Hey uh, I need to break the lease."
"Name and unit number?" She smacked on gum as she sat up and started typing. You obliged, and after agonizing silence she shook her head. "Your lease ends this month anyway and you already paid the rent. We'll be sending a check to your permanent address after you have returned the keys with your deposit if everything is good."
Oh thank GOD. You thanked her profusely, somehow still out of breath, and went back up the stairs. Jesus. Thank god. If you had to ask Bruce Wayne for MONEY? You would've rather jumped off the Gotham bridge to your untimely demise. You put the key in your lock and opened the door to him standing with the bedding removed, fridge open and cleaned out, and half your clothes packed into the bag. Half of you wanted to be angry at him touching things without your consent, while the other was begrudgingly impressed. Almost like he read your mind, he spoke. "I didn't look at individual items, I just picked up armfuls and shoved them in."
Looking at your apartment now, the only thing left was the few toiletries in the closet (which could be recycled) and whatever was in your bathroom. You checked your watch: 10:20. "Thanks uh, can you wait in the car? I think I want to shower real quick."
He chuckled, plopping the last of your clothes into the bag. "I'm sure your seatmate will appreciate it."
You gasped under your breath. "Really?" It hurt. You didn't want it to, but it did. You wanted to shoot something back at him, like you were only trying to smell like him or some shit. But it stung. For some reason. He chuckled again, shaking his head with a sly grin turning up his cheeks. "Nah. But you believed it."