You tried to be subtle with your double-take. His hair was so much darker when it was soaked from rain, and he was nearly unrecognizable in such oversized, bulky clothing. Your eyes wandered to a notebook clutched tightly in his hand. Is it slippery? His knuckles are white.

He pulled you quickly toward him and the gentle spray of what would have been an outfit-ruining tsunami grazed your ankles. As quickly as the car passed he let go and began walking across the street. "Follow me." Too curious for your own good, you followed. Only when you reached three blocks from the hotel did you stop and question the affair. He gave a gruff response to asking where you were headed. "It's only a few more blocks." He continued walking until he realized your footsteps weren't following, and hesitated to peek over his shoulder. Of course you wouldn't follow him. Of course you had to make this difficult. He very nearly pressed on without you out of spite.

He was unrecognizable to you from behind. His wet hair splayed in a haphazard frame around his face, this wasn't what a billionaire looked like. A glimmer of curiosity captured you. Why would a billionaire want to dress himself down like this? It was decidedly less glamorous when he was outside of the suit, and less pathetic than when he wore baggy black clothes to walk around his empty home. You remembered you were in seclusion in downtown Gotham with a rich man, a man so rich he could ruin you without a second thought. He could do anything to me and the world would let him. The possibility alone petrified you and you resigned to stay back.

He picked up on that resolution (though he thought it wasn't self-preservation but your resolution to his dissolution) and turned around, glowering at you. He noted that your feet were particularly dug into the gravel, your arms stiff to your sides. The chill of the evening air outside of your lips was the only evidence you weren't a statue. "It's just a few more blocks."

"I heard you." You crossed your arms to protect your chest and you saw his eyes track the movement. Heat rose in your chest. So fucking perceptive. It's like I'm prey.

"Are you coming?"

"No. My parents are expecting me back." He was just a random guy. Your mother was sick, your dad was probably unable to figure out how to work the remote and move from HDMI 1 to HDMI 2. You grit your teeth and he, of course, noted the subtle movement in your jaw.

What are you, twelve? He bit down on his tongue with a sliver of shame. You were just a random woman. Someone who had parents to get back to, parents that were waiting on you, parents who would be concerned if you were back too late, parents to spend time with, parents to see you, to know you...

A story was flashing across his eyes, even in the dark, but you weren't staying to figure it out. "I'm sure Alfred is waiting on you." You spun on your heel but didn't make it two steps before he retorted. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should spend time with him instead of stalking girls on street corners."

He didn't need you. You didn't know what you were talking about. "Don't act like you know anything about him." He wasn't letting you get out of earshot before defending himself. You don't know a thing about Alfred. A possessiveness snuck into his tone.

You spun around, your hands lazily following until they slapped against your thighs. "I got a good sense of your hospitality while I was there, you're ridiculously antisocial." You emphasized your eyeroll.

He huffed so firmly clouds of warm air obscured his face, making him for a moment a total shadow. "My apologies for not wanting a stranger loitering in my house that just threatened to blackmail me!" His voice had risen, but it wasn't quite enough for you to call him out yet.

You put your hands up in the air, dressing your words in as much syrupy sarcasm as they could hold. "God forbid someone stay in the giant empty mansion of the person hoarding all the city's resources for three days."

He turned around swiftly, menacingly. "I'm doing more for this city than anyone else."

You didn't bother to temper your scoff. It echoed off the wet brick. "Your ego is fucking insane."

He barked back. "What has anyone else done?"

You thought of your father who had so many aches and pains he couldn't count from his endless career work. The farm workers working in nearly inhumane conditions for meager paychecks, paychecks the Wayne family spent in a day even with just one man and a butler, the people putting food on Gotham's table. You thought of all the houseless people you'd walked past on your way here and couldn't help but laugh, but it was filled with so much tension it was painful. "You picked up a voluntary night shift, congrats, what cookie do you want?"

His chest constricted like his ribs had been welded together. "This is ridiculous. I don't know why I thought you'd be any help." He moved to turn but you ensnared him with another biting accusation.

"You are sitting on a mountain of wealth while people rot in the streets."

He rolled his eyes and committed to the full turn of his back to yours. "I'm not talking about this."

You scoffed again, your chest constricting with the beginning of adrenaline. "I made a point that you don't know how to respond to because you can't. And you're just leaving! Some fucking savior!"

God, who did you think you were? He spat the words out on the pavement with his back turned, eyes narrowed to slits. "You came here just to shit on my city and—"

"It is not your city. You are just a rich kid whose parents happened to live here. And you've done nothing besides saving counterfeit checks and people who have no other choice—"

"Oh, not this again." His smugness brought you right back to running to the city hall bathroom. He didn't know how easily he could massacre someone with his tongue. "Some of the people you take so much pride in scaring the shit out of are already scared. I guarantee if you just gave everyone food, shelter,"

"Money doesn't save everything." You. Didn't. Get. It.

"How can you possibly know even a fraction of the value of a single fucking dollar when you have billions in your bank acc—"

"I'm already allocating." He increased the distance between you two.

You snapped at him, seething at his audacity. "Don't you dare interrupt me."

"Money gets you shot dead on the streets." He continued without a care in the world.

"Don't fucking interrupt me."

He turned his head to peek a touch over his shoulder. Your sharpness has rustled him. He wanted to speak up again but your chest was heaving and splotchy red. Your hands were in trembling fists at your side. He averted his gaze and looked over at the wall while you both stood in silence. His heart was racing, but it wasn't showing—blood making a racket in his ears and practically drowning out all sound. He waited, and waited, and waited more, the adrenaline steadying him and giving him clarity. No one had ever been this mad at him outside of the suit... it was weird. It felt like he should be in armor, ready to dodge a punch and land one square in the jaw. He hated the way his eyes lingered on your jaw, nose, and the bottom of your ribcage. An enchantingly strong sensation of shame erupted from it. More combatant than human.

You noted his features softening, and with it yours slowed to simmer. It was impossible not to notice how sad he looked, and that pissed you off. Why do I give a shit what he's feeling? It was like there was a small box sitting in the corner of your chest, a slim panel hidden in the back of your mind. It contained something you couldn't reach. Every time you were around him it began to glow, but it was too hot. It burned your eyes if you ever tried to look right at it. Frustration had created a mist in your mind to try and distract you, convince you he was nothing of importance; Bruce Wayne could go fuck himself. Another part leapt out and tried to tell you, right then, your empathy was pure socialization. It's a woman's job to soothe, after all. Be easy, after all. The world catered to men, and here was the stereotype and living idol to the alpha male archetype. It repulsed you. Your eyes flit down to his journal as it slipped ever so slightly on the pads of his fingers. You squinted. Curiosity. That's what's coming up. You recalled Dr. Vry on the first day of your first journalism class. She'd opened the class with a speech.

You are all here because you were curious. Curious about this class, curious about writing, and curious about interviewing. I want you to hone in on that feeling; if you have a curiosity about something, anything, anyone, this unintelligible itch to figure it out, it's the sign of a story. A truth needs to be witnessed that you might be the only one capable of seeing. A truth you need to share with the world.

His eyes were the story; it elicited such a feeling of curiosity, his eyes. They were angry, and dark, and sad, and in a position unique to one in 8 billion. You were curious. You were curious about Bruce Wayne, and you hated him. You hated his clothes, his voice, his face, his gait, his position, his quiet arrogance. It clashed so hard with the embers of sympathy for his emotional darkness you felt you could burst. Still, you weren't about to follow him into the black abyss. "Why do you need to talk to me?"

Bruce's reaction didn't quite help you feel safe; he bristled at the question. There was something he wasn't telling you, that was obvious enough, but he refused to give any of it away. "I can't talk about it right here."

"I don't trust you."

He sighed. It made sense, as much as he hated to admit it. He wouldn't follow just anyone out into the corners of Gotham at night either. He shrugged over at you, opening his arms to flap them back down. "Want to check for weapons again?"

Again. You'd been genuinely petrified back in his basement; up until Alfred had arrived, you were certain you would have been meat to string along the ceiling for the bats to feed off of. It still didn't feel quite right, and you didn't feel quite safe, but you felt safer. Safe enough to not be agreeable, safe enough to not run away the second you saw him, but not safe enough to revoke suspicion. The thing on top of your mind now, taking up so much space it hurt, was hypervigilance. Every movement of his hand, his eyes, even the rhythm of his breathing was being tracked and gauged. You didn't know why this question came up, but it fell out of your mouth when it opened. "Do you really trust I won't tell anyone?"

Damn. He didn't, in truth. He'd said so back at the airport because it hadn't fully sunk in that someone knew. Now that he'd had to begin constructing this new persona, now that he had realized how someone could see past it, he was terrified. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head. "No."

It made you a bit afraid hearing that, not that him saying yes would've made you believe him. How could he trust you? If the roles were reversed, you wouldn't. "I don't trust that you won't hurt me."

"How can I convince you?"

Before you could answer your phone buzzed. It was your dad.

"Hey hun, everything good down there?" He sounded like he was munching on the hideously expensive bag of chips that had been provided by hospitality. You nodded before realizing he couldn't see you and your cheeks burned with heat at Bruce having seen it. "Yeah, I just got caught up."

"Caught up? Is that code for something? Do you need me to come down there?"

You glanced over at Bruce who was staring down at his shoes. He slowly looked up at you and lingered in eye contact briefly before looking down to kick at a pebble. Bruce Wayne kicking pebbles on the sidewalk. Get the paparazzi over here. "It's fine, dad. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He didn't miss a beat before a small shuffling and you heard him whisper. "She must have met up with that Wayne guy. Probably doesn't want to tell me." He came back to the line and you thanked god your speaker was off. "No it's, I'll be back soon. Bye." You hung up even though you could tell he didn't quite buy it, which made you have to hurry your exit even more. You plunged your phone in your pocket, avoiding eye contact. You answered him. "You can't convince me."

You both stood there in total silence, not even a car driving in background noise. Finally an ambulance mauled past and he let out a deep sigh. "How do we level the playing field?"

You shrugged, your mouth drying up. You rolled your eyes and sighed out some tension. "Mutually assured destruction, I guess." You didn't particularly like that, the threat of violence from him ever-present in your mind. He didn't like that either, in fact, he felt like he could vomit the second you said that. "I won't hurt you."

"I don't believe it."

"We're at a standstill, then." He straightened his back. "You could say we're even." God, it made him ill that he saw no route to convince you. Another reminder of his status, another reminder of how inhuman he was. You probably looked at him like his veins were thick with gold. He felt the need to give you another reminder, not wanting to hide behind the cloak of assumed violence for another second. "Even if you wrote that, I wouldn't hurt you."

Playing the nice guy, huh? You crossed your arms and shook your head vigorously, the cold chill starting to get to you. You needed to get home and couldn't have this conversation much longer. "You can't convince me, you just can't."

You still felt a twist in your stomach at how much privilege he didn't even realize he held, so much wasted opportunity and ignorance, but you nodded. How could you explain to someone that was born into it how much power he held? Was he actually ignorant of it, or did he just want people to think he was so they would get comfortable and let their guard down for him to strike? It still felt uneven, massively so, but you reassured yourself that you would be out of his reach soon enough. Your parents were waiting, your mom was sick, and you'd be gone in the morning for good. You spun around on your heel without a look back and sped on back to the hotel. Bruce glanced down at the journal that was nearly melted into a puddle in his hand and groaned. Whatever. Mutually-assured destruction.