Your parents eyed you while you looked at him with disdain. No one got you riled up like this; the spunk, the sass. It made your dad crack a smile, unbeknownst to you. You were acting petulant, almost like a child—in a fun way, a way he hadn't seen in ages. He wanted to keep this going. He wanted to keep this 'Bruce Wayne' around. "What about we all go to dinner, huh? I hear there's an Olive Garden about twenty minutes east!"

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, then snapped them back open to stare at Bruce. What initially felt like shame morphed into daggers shot at the billionaire. No. There's no shame in Olive Garden. And if he thinks so, he's an asshole. Much to your surprise, he didn't flinch. It was a bit amazing, actually, how much of a 180 he had done in such a short time. Amazing if it weren't so suspicious.

"I'm afraid I'll have to regretfully decline." Bruce gave the slightest shake of his head and shifted his eyes downward, as if filled with actual regret and shame, a feeling you didn't think he knew. Your dad then smiled at him and shook his hand, speaking about how he needed to come see Washington sometime, but you couldn't focus. After who knew how many seconds, or minutes, your father took your mother's chair and began walking them both toward the parking lot. "Meet you in the car, Y/N." He winked and your mom slapped his arm again as she settled into the seat. Christ. Your eyes flit over to meet Bruce's that were shifting around the turf until he saw you were reoriented to reality. You hadn't a clue as to why he was so shifty, but presumed it nothing more than residual nerves from speaking at his first public event... ever?

"Thomas!" Your mother's voice rattled between his ears and he shifted his weight from hip to hip, trying to pace his breathing. A common name. An unfortunate, ridiculous coincidence it happened to be your father of all people. The only time he ever heard that name in Gotham was in pitied whispers. You nudged him and he looked away. "You go to acting school or something?"

Bruce's brow furrowed, his defense kicking into immediate action. God, why did you do this to him so easily? "Why?"

"This new character of yours. It's like you think you're a playboy or something."

Not wanting to get into another argument he tried to diffuse it. "No, I haven't gone to acting school." He kept his tone flat, hoping you wouldn't further push him—but of course, you did.

"Then why are you acting like that?" You moved in front of him and kept a neutral expression, your voice low. No one needed to know you were interrogating the man. When he played dumb it only frustrated you further. "Like what?"

He had to have a plan. This isn't him. "Like a normal human."

Bruce's scoff returned as if he were still alone in his empty house. The one you had stayed at against his will after blackmailing him into oblivion. "Maybe because I am a normal human."

Your glare was impossible to wipe off. He wasn't normal, he was anything from it. Weird, strange, reclusive, rich, famous, a goddamn vigilante. Of course he wants to play this card. Of course he does. "But you're not. You're you." A billionaire. Nepotism baby.

He hid how much the comment stung. "And 'me' isn't human?" He loathed being reminded of how larger-than-life he was. His reputation preceded him, or rather, his parent's legacy. He never got to make a name for himself, never got to make a first impression. Everyone's mind about him was already made up.

You noticed the slight slack in his face at your insinuations, and a similarly sized pang in your gut. Your voice quieted even further, rounding out the edges of your words just enough to soften the frustration. You were acutely reminded how he probably didn't even want to know you but had to, all because of you wanting him, a stranger, to be the subject of your assignment. It was easy to forget you weren't a saint while unimaginable privilege and wealth, both unearned, stood unchallenged before you. "I'm just saying. You're, like, smiling."

Yeah, and my face hurts like hell because of it. He chanced another moment of contact with your gaze before shoving his hands in his pockets and twisting back toward the stage. His lips were tight and hands clenched. You were the reason he was in this predicament; the reason why his jaw ached, the reason why he had to carve out a public persona for Bruce Wayne, the reason his calendar was rapidly filling with event after event after event... it'd only been a few days and he was impossibly exhausted. Unable to fully recover from his long nights now, he felt the burning in his wounds and the tearing of scabs splitting with every step. This time he squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars, rushing words out of his mouth before he simply stormed off and made another ass of himself. "Look, it's your big day. We shouldn't be arguing like this."

"Yet I get two syllables from you and everyone else gets five." Your cheeks flushed red at how whiny it came out, and crossed your arms for good measure. he side-eyed you, still not turning to fully face you. He spoke under his breath with hardly a movement of his lips as he surveyed the field of people taking covert pictures of him. Your instinct wanted you to shrink away, knowing you would end up in so many photos on so many people's phones. Something as simple as a conversation that lasts a little bit too long, or a bit too familiar could lead to wild speculation...

"I didn't think you'd be walking." Low and quiet. Slightly sarcastic.

You darted back under your breath as you got out your phone and pretended to take a call. Maybe it'll distract from the fact I'm standing next to Bruce Wayne. "Is that the only reason you came? Thinking I wasn't going to disgrace you with my presence?" The black screen was cold against your cheek.

He visibly bristled. "I thought when you said you hated Gotham you meant it. You seem to mean every other word you say to me." More sarcasm. More barely-concealed groans. Why. Wouldn't. You. Just. Leave.

You felt the words he wasn't saying, the anger boiling in both of you. He has no right. "What's your problem with me being here?"

It was like you were two children arguing on the playground over the swingset. "What's your problem with getting two syllables?"

Fuck! "UGH!" You pretended to listen on the phone for a minute longer before ending the call. Your cheeks were bright red, his glare was set. "I'm leaving, it was not a pleasure to have your acquaintance." You gave a subtle bow to him and stomped off the field, toeing the line between obviously pissed and someone who might just be in a hurry. Tears stung your eyes and it only made you walk faster, your teeth grit more until you felt the early ache of a headache. I'm only worth two syllables. And some bullshit passive aggression.

He watched you rush away. His first thought was Wow, shocked she's able to walk so well in those now but he stopped himself before the thought sat fully in his mind. God, why do you do that to me. The aggravation was filling his body like you were pouring into him and he was just a cup, a cup you filled with frustration, annoyance, noticing... he turned back to the throngs of people waiting on him and his stomach split in two. Christ. What did I sign up for. A crowd of women ran up to him the second he was free, big white veneered smiles holding out papers and pens, and snapping tons of pictures. "Can I kiss you for a photo?" "Can I get a hug Bruce?" "Mr Wayne, can I be your Mrs?" And a bunch of chuckles. He smiled through it and prayed no one saw how paper-thin it was. As he quickly signed all of their gear and smiled alongside them in selfies, he couldn't stop the bass of his internal monologue. Why do they like me? Is it just my money? No one has ever ran up to me like this. I haven't made myself available, sure, but... wow. More women. Even more. Do I need dedicated security? How am I going to escape?

After what felt like hours, his feet ached and his wrist felt like it was twisted off his body. Had every single person on the planet wanted his autograph? The crowd was mostly dissipated, and he found himself with just a few other professors and Dr. Vry standing in the middle of the stadium as the lights flickered on. The chill of the night air was biting at his neck, and he longed for the cowl. His eyes had nearly glazed over when she spoke to him directly. "Thank you Bruce for coming out with us tonight. Always good to see your family out and about, and to finally see your handsome face." As she said it she gently cupped her palm around his jaw and then moved her hand down, but not before he noticed a twinkle on her wrist. It was silver, much like the pendant he'd seen on her lapel before. Don't ask. His mind screamed at him, and he resumed eye contact. He ignored that she'd just caressed him and excused himself. "My pleasure. Thank you for allowing me. I'd better get home, I've got a pledge to keep." He shook her hand, which she pulled into a hug, and he strolled off the field to where his car was parked.

He jumped in the driver's seat and floored it onto the main road, taking the first right onto a side road. He tucked his car next to some bushes and got out, his Dior shoes crunching against the gravel and popped up the trunk. He pulled out black sweats, black boots, and a black hoodie. He stripped quickly and tightened the strings on the hood, obscuring his face from view. He grabbed his journal and a pen from his glovebox, and jogged out toward the edges of downtown. While he waited at the crosswalks he slowly sketched together the owl from his memory. It was a plain owl, nothing too spectacular or detailed if his memory served him. Should always wear my lenses when I'm out. Bruce can enter places Batman can't. He penned a reminder above the sketchy drawing, swiftly shutting the journal as rain pelted the city.

He decided to jog back to his house. He needed to release the pent up energy from having spoken to you, from having spoken in front of that many people, and from having to smile so much. By the time he reached the front steps he was exhausted, more drained than he'd felt in years, with a strange desire to learn everything he could about that owl pin. Without his key he knocked, and Alfred was beaming upon Bruce's arrival through the main doorway.

"Master Wayne! How was your speech? Any glowing reviews?" He lowered his voice as if to tease and leaned toward him. "Any thrown tomatoes?" He held in a chuckle to himself—he was certain the speech had gone impeccably, he'd always excelled in those classes as a young boy. But tonight Bruce's mind was elsewhere, and he didn't even register that Alfred was trying to joke with him. He stared ahead at the staircase blankly, lost in exhaustion. He mumbled a response. "Uh, no. It went as expected."

Alfred cocked his head at the boy. The tension in his gaze was palpable, and he could tell Bruce was lost in a world of his own again. "What's the matter?" The silence that followed was just long enough to be too long, and stirred suspicion in the old man. The mumbling continued, this time with a shrug. "It just ran a little long. I had to trim it." His eyes shifted away from the top of the staircase to the floor in front of him. He's coming back, Alfred thought. Just needs a bit more coaxing. "Come now," Alfred motioned for him to hand over his soaked hoodie, but he shrugged away and pushed past him. His voice was terse, defensive. "I'm fine, Alfred."

The house felt extra chilly. Alfred had known these moments before—moments he was sure the boy journaled about long into the night before his Batman shifts. As often as he'd longed to look inside one of his many journals, he knew the kid didn't need any more peeking into his personal life. However, that didn't mean he couldn't urge Bruce to open up; it wasn't as if he'd come in trying to hide his internal turmoil. He cleared his throat. "Can you assure me these are just residual nerves?" Nothing but the sound of his hair dripping onto the cherry wood. "Bruce?"

He winced at Alfred using his first name. He didn't particularly like Master or Wayne, but they at least felt familiar in the man's mouth. Calling him by his first name was like when his parents had called him by his full one. Bruce Thomas! His dad's commanding tone rang in his ear like it was just said. He began up the stairs, frustrated that Alfred had pestered the memory out of him. "I'm fine, Alfred. Just a long day." He didn't yet know enough about the owl situation to bring it to Alfred's attention, and he didn't have the energy to explore it further tonight. He just wanted to sink into bed.

Alfred's eyes caught on a sopping wet journal clutched tightly in Bruce's left hand. The pen's nib was still open and glistening, even in the low light. Why would he go out in the rain with his journals? He never leaves with his journals. A pang rang through his stomach and came through in his voice. "It pains me to badger you so much, boy." This time he didn't linger in the silence at all. "Then stop. I don't need babysitting." He began to jog up the stairs.

It seemed the rushed defense had caused his grip to slip with the journal falling out of his hands and opening to the last crease, displaying an inky sketch of an owl. Bruce knelt down immediately to scoop it up, but not before he'd fully risen he noted Alfred's face fall and gather. Bruce rose slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. "What?" A quickening heart rate forced him to turn around and stare into him, past the gray lashes. Alfred tried to pass it off with a small shake of his head and a quick clap. Bruce wasn't going to dismiss it. The temperature in the house had just dropped ten degrees. "Your face. It fell."

Another shrug. This wasn't usual of him. "Just an interesting image, that's all." His chuckle was so strained it insulted Bruce, who bristled at it. "Didn't expect your next hobby to be artiste!"

"You know something. Tell me." Bruce stepped toward him and Alfred stepped back. Bruce's brow raised in surprise. What the hell? Alfred put his hands up to his chest with his palms out, feigning innocence. "As long as it doesn't concern you, it doesn't concern me."

His fingers brushed the rough wet leather on the journal backing. His heart was pounding in his ears, eerily similar to the rush he got as he caught wind of another crime. He swallowed back a nervous lump. "And what if it does concern me?"

Alfred's blue eyes looked back at Bruce's with pity. Bruce suddenly wanted to vomit. Alfred sighed and looked down, his voice tempering. "Well then. Maybe we'd have a conversation." The foyer was boiling with something under the surface, a secret unsaid, a something Bruce was terrified to know. Why was it to the owl? Alfred didn't look like this. The house didn't feel like this. Adrenaline overtook his fear and he shoved the words past his teeth. "Been seeing owls a lot lately."

That same reaction—a short twisting of face, a blank stupor behind the eyes, all gone within the same second but not soon enough. Bruce's suspicion turned to gritted teeth and he turned to glare at the man. The silence between them was loud; so loud, in fact, it darkened the blue in his eyes to a cloudy gray. He stepped forward again, and Alfred stepped back. It stung. "What do you know?" Anxiety was fluttering in his chest and the old man looked down, then gestured to the stairway. "Let's come into my office."

・。。・・。。・・。。・・。。・

In Alfred's office he sat across from him at the desk while Alfred rifled through a dusty cabinet. He tried not to let his thoughts run. He thumbed through the green cardstock until he paused at the back and pulled out a slim file titled ALAN WAYNE. He plopped it across the desk in front of Bruce and paused a moment. He sounded hesitant, but resolved. "I didn't want to say anything but, better to catch it early."

Bruce stared at the weathered pages. Barely concealing shaking fingers he flipped it open to see an old newspaper clipping from the late 1800s. The black ink was worn, with what looked like old tear stains running through the paragraphs. "What's this?" His eyes took it in but his mind didn't. It was sprinting now, fizzing toward a short circuit. Deluded Owl Man Found Dead. He blinked, then blinked again, and a sigh from across the desk tethered him.

"That's your great grandfather." Another sigh. Bruce went cold. "As your father told me—upon organizing his office ages ago—he had an illness which manifested into seeing owls."

Bruce read the rest in his head, his mind white and blank. Alan Wayne of the esteemed Wayne family has died this past Thursday, the 19th of October. Witnesses say he emerged from Wickham Alley where he soon died from fall wounds. A. Wayne was known in the year preceding his death to be deluded by a particular bird of prey. His eyes skipped lines and noticed a page tucked behind the paper—a death certificate. ALAN THOMAS WAYNE. DECEASED. CAUSE OF DEATH: PRECOCIOUS DEMENTIA. His brow furrowed and he gestured to Alfred. "Precocious dementia?"

Alfred nodded. "That's what they called it at the time, yes. I believe it's modern-day Schizophrenia."

This caused Bruce's brow to furrow further, his cognitive processing turning on. He didn't care to interrogate whether it was a defense mechanism or not. "They say he was sixty five when diagnosed. That's unusual, correct?"

The man nodded. "Right. Not typically. Usually in puberty or just after." He scanned the boy's face for signs of distress, but didn't see any. All he saw was a boy with his detective hat on. Not the boy. He deserves more. "Perhaps we can get in with your old analyst. Treatment has expanded dramatically." He lended a small laugh to break any tension.

"What else did my father say?" He ignored the callback to his childhood therapist. Alfred adjusted on the creaky wood burrowed into by the heavy chair that had been there for nearly a century. "He said his grandfather was a very normal, happy fellow until one day he came home talking about owls. Then he went, well, you can see what happened there." The grin he gave was watery and grim.

He turned to the back of the death certificate to see autopsy report. Tightness cramped his abdomen and he pushed the file back toward Alfred. His heart was thundering in his chest. Why hadn't Alfred told him? Why was this happening? "I'm going out."

"Bruce," He was probably going out to do something reckless. He wouldn't let him. "You've had a big day,"

"I'll be back before sunrise." He slammed through the office doors and hurried down the stairs, ignoring Alfred's calls the entire way down. He pulled his hood up over his head again and rolled up his journal. He shoved it into his pocket and jogged back toward downtown. So disgusting. Vile. Sudden. His feet slammed harder against the wet concrete, grinding his joints together while he could still run, while he could still think...

・。。・・。。・・。。・・。。・

Already spoken for. That phrase followed you the rest of the evening. Your parents made themselves at home in the hotel room, settling into the king bed to watch some television together. They convinced you to watch, too, and you sat on a nearby recliner as you absently stared in its direction. You had an attached room next door—supposedly it had actually been cheaper to get a pair of rooms, a single King and single Queen, than one room with two beds. Your mind fumbled with emotions too complex to name, and a deep tension knotted your stomach to where you couldn't relax. Already spoken for. Who would he be with? Who was this mystery woman? Or man?

"That Wayne guy was really something. You sure you two aren't together?" Your mother probed you when your father left to go to the bathroom. She shifted excitedly, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I defended you at the ceremony, but I couldn't help but notice the chemistry between you two!"

Your laugh startled her. You? With HIM? "Mom, no." You shook your head and crossed your arms over your chest, leaning back with another cackle. "He's..." You tried to come up with a word somewhere between arrogant and ridiculous before your dad came back with renewed curiosity. "What's that, honey?"

"Oh, nothing." Your mom quickly backpedaled, which you appreciated. Your dad shifted toward you much in the same way your mom just had and you struggled not to roll your eyes. "Is this about that commencement speech guy?"

"I don't know why you are both so convinced we're together. He's... aggravating. Trust me. I'd rather die." You shifted back in your seat and gestured with your head back towards the screen but they weren't having it.

Your dad chastised you. "Don't say that, c'mon!"

You felt close to snapping, which wasn't entirely their fault, Bruce simply took up too much of your brain space, so you tempered your response. "Didn't you both want me to come back from here? That Gotham was too dangerous?" You wondered how much of potential guilt weighed down the city for you... and then promptly remembered how rude he'd been when you two had first met face to face.

Your mother shook her head. "Of course dear, the crime here is unbelievable! But he's quite an accomplished, handsome fella who could sure afford to move somewhere safer." She grinned at you like you both a) wanted to be with Bruce and b) dating a billionaire was as easy as asking him out. You scoffed. "If you count inheriting billions an accomplishment..."

"Come on now." Your father glared softly at you. You looked down with a sigh. "Do you need anything from the corner store? I'm gonna take a walk." Pushing yourself out of the seat was creaky and awkward, and you cringed putting on your old slippers to walk in the wet rain. Had Walter hidden my sneakers? He must have.

Your dad protested, not wanting you to go out alone this late at night. He first offered to go down with you, then told you to take a flashlight. They both said they didn't want anything, and said to be back ASAP. "If you aren't back in half an hour I'm calling a search team!"

When you stepped out of the lobby you squinted down to see the corner store was actually two blocks away, which made you more nervous than it should have. You started on your walk and braced yourself for any catcalls. I forgot how scary it is here. I can't wait to be back home. You stepped in a puddle and the splash went up your entire leg. Cursing, you waited for the intersection to clear, but the light was taking an incredibly long time. You looked around to see a few bars, a club, and the corner store just ahead. People here care more about partying than food. You couldn't remember seeing a single club in a twenty mile radius of your house. When the white walk signal lit, you remembered the sudden screaming of bullets the last time you'd went clubbing. Maybe Mar would want to chat, maybe I could text her when I get back to the hotel.

A voice startled you until you almost fell into the street. "Oh my god, Y/N!" You turned to see a soaked Bruce wearing a baggy hoodie, his hair obscuring his face under the hood. His chest was heaving like he'd just sprinted over to you.

The second he'd noticed you standing at the corner he turned around. He didn't want to talk about what had happened earlier, or feel any more embarrassment about giving his speech. It felt frilly. He wasn't meant to appeal, he was meant to challenge. And yet he'd more or less traded in armor for custom designer. For now. What made him turn back around was thinking about the suit; you were the only one who knew him. It would be weird to talk to you but weirder to talk to someone on the street. You could help him. Maybe you'd seen some owls too.

He looked... frantic. The intensity of his already palpable gaze nearly cracked the sidewalk. "I need some help."