Mar had taken you to Nordstrom to peruse the sale rack for appropriate journalist attire. You'd settled on a black long-sleeve mini dress; you'd wanted to go midi, but she had insisted you be more risqué. "You don't have to hide your femininity to be professional." Now you were wearing it with matching pointed toe heels-with less heel than your old ones. The press lanyard dangled around your neck nearly obscured by hair that had taken you all evening to curl; the rain was hellish, weighing down your roots and frizzing out the lengths. Paparazzi waited and for a moment you stalled to wonder why they were here; that was until they started shouting "BRUCE WAYNE?!" and racing past you. You stopped in your tracks, and all you could hear was the pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums. Fuck. He's here already. The hectic, giddy flashes blurred your vision and created floating black specks as you made your way up the stairway. It felt... weird being at the beginning of it all. You walked to the appetizers to see if Rai was working it, but it was some random catering company with bland, pompous snacks. Caviar, Oyster and a billion other things you couldn't name.

As much as you wanted to wipe him from your mind, it was impossible to not know when Bruce Wayne entered the building. Everyone inside gasped under their breath and turned like he was a shark in the water, like cat to mouse, predator to prey. It would have taken you too much brainpower-you wanted to spend precisely none on him-to figure out who was hunting who. You grabbed some champagne and tried not to bump into any of the frail, callous rich people. As you surveyed the room (making sure to glide your eyes right past him ) you noticed a few upgrades; the foyer housed fresh paint, a new rug, and an ice sculpture. You squinted your eyes to no avail trying to figure out what it was supposed to resemble.

On your gaze's loop you locked eyes with the man of the hour. Your cheeks stung with angry, embarrassed heat and you spun to grab an oyster. Anything to look busy. Anything at all. Excited voices became a passing buzz in your ear as you hyperfocused on the food in your hand. Slimy.

"You may enter now." A man in black pants and a crisp linen shirt opened the door to something vaguely resembling a conference room that vaguely resembled a dystopian art gallery. It didn't quite fit right in your mind, which sent the visceral reminder of loneliness down your gut. You made your way quickly toward the room, foregoing thoughts of where he might or might not be. A mantra pinged between your ears: I will not talk to him. I will ignore him.

Oh how bitterly inferior you were to the will of Bruce Wayne. You smelled him before you heard him, a musky, clean detergent scent; he smelled just like he did back at Wayne Tower. Only now it was dancing with some... grapefruit? Mandarin? You held back a laugh at the thought of him shuddering whilst spraying cologne.

You were already laughing. He didn't want to see you here. When he walked in he thought it couldn't be you—you hated it here—but when you turned it was immediate. Panic lurched in his chest; you weren't supposed to be here. The word 'destruction' banged around his skull. The badge around your neck alluded to him not being able to avoid you for very long, so much to his chagrin he thought he'd brave the storm and break the ice. "Didn't expect to see you here." Dancing around it. Would you do the same? You wanted to test his limits, see how he would react if you refused to be on your best behavior, so you resorted to fronting a rude persona. "I'd say the same but..." You gave him a once-over. The Dior stitched into his breast pocket nearly rolled your eyes to the back of their sockets, but you were in public, and he was Bruce Wayne—every room orbited around him. This wasn't the place to make a bad first impression, so you slapped a grin on your face that showed your teeth. "When it strikes midnight is your Dior gonna fall off? Fairy godmother on speed dial?" You lowered your voice a bit so no one would think twice about your conversation. You hid a wince; fuck. That first part had sounded weird. He looked down and put his hands in his pockets, huffing out exasperation. You know. You know. You know. He thought about telling you he didn't like this, to reassure you he did not enjoy the facade, but: he didn't owe you anything and you owed nothing to him. Mutually assured destruction, he thought, even though it didn't help him in the slightest. He didn't need to reveal truths to you, you were more or less even.

"Nice to see you again." He sensed your nerves and tried to soothe them (were they because you planned to make a surprise announcement this evening?), but it wasn't coming off well. He stared at you with a tight-lipped grin to meet your squinted stare. So the schtick applies to me, too. He turned around to head toward the strange conference room and you stopped yourself from trying to 'trip' again, only holding back so Dr. Vry didn't steal the badge and send you home with no income. He scooted a few people over and took a seat at the front of the huge table. A few of the paparazzi tried to sneak inside but the man in the linen reached for something on his belt and they took off outside. Does this dude have a gun? Is this because of Prince Bruce?

"Welcome everyone." A man with spectacles and a gray suit stood to the direct left of Bruce, and he clapped his hands at the end of everything he said. It might have been frustrating if Bruce wasn't dominating that bandwidth. "Tonight marks the first City Hall meeting of 2024 after our summer interlude." He leaned in while saying it which got some chuckles from the other rich people. You took a quick note. First meeting since summer break.

"And this year we have a new member of the City Hall Board! Mr. Wayne, would you?" The man bowed to Bruce and he rose from his seat with a quick, polite wave. You shook your head and got your pen ready, knowing Dr. Vry would be salivating over whatever he was about to say now and later. You were able to get a good look at him from this perspective; his hair was maybe a bit lighter, much like at graduation, though his suit had become more tailored since then. "Good evening everyone, it's a pleasure to be here in this new capacity. I look a bit less green." He mimed looking down at his suit, and everyone started howling with laughter. Holy shit. You thought about passing out in a puddle of your own vomit. Is he the same human being? He continued, nodding off the rest of the laughs. "I look forward to meeting all of you and getting to know you better as time goes on. I'm excited to collaborate and invest in Gotham City. Thank you."

Everyone clapped like he'd just won an Oscar. He studiosly notated while the other members took turns introducing themselves. You scribbled down as many names and positions as possible with a plan to commit them to memory before next week's meeting. Someone named Fox, a woman named Laurie, a man named Larry...

At the end of the brutally long introduction the man nearest to Bruce, the head honcho, introduced himself. Miguel Convoy - interim mayor. Interim mayor? Mr. Convoy heaved a deep sigh (too deep) and performed condolences for Bella Reál's recent admission to Arkham Asylum. "Miss Reál, as you are well aware, began showing some symptoms of serious mental decline mid-July. The new mayor's elections are coming up this November, and on such short notice we only have a few candidates announced to be running. These include Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange, and Lincoln March. In the following weeks they will make appearances at these meetings, so make sure to give them a warm welcome."

Sebastian Hady, Marian Grange. Lincoln March. - mayoral election, November.

The rest of the meeting was wholly uneventful, with a bunch of meaningless small talk among the bourgeoisie. You made sure to write down everything, however, as Bruce was writing a novel of notes in a small journal. I can't know less than him. He'd never let me hear the end of it. When the meeting adjourned and people began filing out, you set a reminder on your phone to research the candidates for interview prep.

You waited for Bruce to walk past to catch a glimpse of what he'd written, but when he passed... christ. Your teeth ground against your heavy steps as you rushed to reach him. Heat flushed your cheeks and you grabbed his forearm to get his attention. He snapped around and restrained a startle response when he noticed it was you. "So you didn't write anything?" You couldn't stop the gall soaking your tone. "Just scribbles?" Maybe being rude to him wasn't a front, maybe it came naturally with how insufferable the man was.

He hid a laugh—well, he thought he did, but it must have appeared somewhere because you reacted to it immediately. You wrestled with what to say next bogged down by already saying too much. In the meantime he blinked at you, his stare unwavering from your shifting eyes. You had a conviction he'd done that—only written scribbles and wavy lines—to fuck with you, but with little evidence besides a hunch you decided to let it go. If he wanted to get some little jabs in, fine. You did know life-ruining information about him, after all.

He was disappointed you didn't follow the glint in your eye. During the meeting he'd anticipated a showdown, maybe even you snatching his notebook and ripping out a few pages. In his defense he had taken some notes, but quickly devolved to scribbling when he'd caught you glancing in his periphery. He thought it might get under your skin a little, just like you did with your eyes plastered to him. He always felt like your eyes were glued to him, even when you were thousands of miles away; it was a permanent side-effect of being found out. Was it so wrong to want you to share his dread?

"Have you heard of any of these candidates?" You were thumbing through your notes, which looked... impeccable to Bruce. He shook his head. "Too short notice."

"I'm sure you're soo busy." You flipped the spiral shut and held it at your side. He flashed back to when his notebook fell in front of Alfred, his face slipping, and your brows knit together. "It's not just a jab, c'mon." You paused as he looked just behind your shoulder, eyes beginning to glaze. Huh. Weird. You cleared your throat. "With all your, Dior stuff?" God, it took so much effort to act like his activities were of any importance to greater society. It didn't help that you'd had to avoid dozens of behind the scenes clips and photos from his latest shoot on every corner of the internet the past week. Still, your heart felt a bit bruised at the prospect of hurting his feelings for some damn reason. "Hello? Bruce?"

That startled him back. He'd forgotten you used his first name after the nearly three-month reprieve. "They were only announced this afternoon."

You stood there, your skin withering from the dryness of his conversation. Men. The very second your shoulders shifted to move toward the exit he vocalized. "What made you come back here?"

You stared blankly at him. You were a bit offended at how blunt he was being, and decided to be blunt back. "Money."

He was confused. "I thought—" he stopped himself, but you weren't letting him off. "What?"

"Nothing."

You stepped toward him. "It's something."

He wanted to step back, but refused the urge. "It doesn't matter."

"Then why aren't you telling me?"

How obvious was it that he had paid for your mom's medical bills? You saw him thinking and jumped on it. "What? Why do you think I don't need money?"

God, it was maddening not knowing how much you knew; where was the line between speculation and trying to catch him in a lie? You flustered him. "I don't think about money." Ooh, that was not the way to go. You wore your feelings on your sleeve, and his chest cinched when he noticed you scowl.

You refused to let up, feeling your limbs light up with tingles. "What were you going to say?"

He felt scolded, but you weren't scolding; Alfred scolded, sometimes, in an attempt to fulfill a parental role. The problem was he did have things he was going to say and you were picking up on it. The problem was that no one ever called him out in broad daylight. You didn't appease. He winced. "I thought paying your parent's debt would—"

"I knew it!" Bitterness and appreciation dueled in your chest. Your heart raced as the reality of it set in and Mar entered your mind with bright, pulsing letters: R. "How did you, what," He didn't know your family, he didn't know your last name, even. You felt naked.

"Mr. Wayne!" Mr. Convoy (what a rich name) stole Bruce's attention. The edges of your vision swirled and you stepped back to abate the wooziness. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. STALKER. It was only a handful of seconds before Bruce apologized and asked to excuse himself, which you barely heard over the ringing in your ears. He shot a quick look at you before walking down the hallway towards the restroom. Begrudgingly you followed him this time, feeling forcibly tied to his ankles, and the second he was out of earshot he turned toward you, eyes darting across your face. "You left your phone in Alfred's study. It was open. I only looked at what I needed to." His hands were gripped tightly together, the folds of his fingers beginning to turn white.

You paused so long he nearly spoke again, but you shoved shaky, frustrated words from behind your teeth. "But you didn't need to." You felt shockingly affected; you'd suspected it was Bruce, but had apparently successfully deluded yourself into believing it was God himself, or an accident, or Alfred had accidentally seen some texts and it captured his old, kind heart. Bruce wasn't kind, meaning this wasn't kind. Your fingers went cold and the tips began to tingle—fuck, you felt like you owed him something again, him saying it reopening the guilt you'd tried desperately to disappear.

Bruce felt trapped. Your eyes had glazed over a minute ago; he felt like you were miles away. You were right. He didn't need to. "I thought it would help." He scrambled for anything else to say but came up short. You leaving to Pluto was exceptionally distressing and rendered him nearly incapacitated.

"I didn't ask for any favors,"

"I'm sorry." He stood there feeling foolish. Naked. Uniquely stuck.

A thought sunk down to your gut and nestled into the feeling of guilt. "Was it a bribe?"

His eyes flashed and he shook his head vigorously. "No." He saw you glance over your shoulder towards the paparazzi trying to lean inside for a photo and moved his back to them. You shifted uncomfortably. This vulnerability felt exploitive; you felt small. Standing by the Burj Khalifa made you feel deeply insignificant. That fear came back again, tenfold. He noticed the shift, and he hated it. You were lost in your own head, spiraling again about how alone you were in the world, how much more alone you were going to be so soon, especially if she got the placebo, what Walter would do once she left, what you would do once Walter left, if you'd ever see them again, if this was the only shot you got, and if so, what the hell were you doing here in a city that hated you, in a city you hated; your life was being wasted with so little of hers left, there wasn't enough time, they could get in a car crash this minute, last minute, your phone could ring any moment, Bruce could be planning your demise—

You only noticed you were having a panic attack when Bruce gently grabbed your wrist. You only realized you'd been shaking when you felt his steadiness. You stared at his hand for a brief, still moment before ripping it away. You sniffed back a tear threatening to burst containment and turned wide, only making it a step before your shoulder slammed into a man's walking to the restroom. The collision caused the tear to slide down your cheek and you collapsed to your knees. A high-pitched sob slipped out and you bolted to the bathroom, into a stall, and pushed your back against the metal door right as the weeping started.

The man glared at the WOMEN'S bathroom sign as if he was thinking about following you. He intercepted. "How are you? I'm Bruce Wayne." Another plastered smile and Ken handshake. The man's eyes lit up and he rushed to take Bruce's hand, shaking it about ten times before Bruce slipped his hand back into his pant pocket. He pretended to laugh at the man's jokes, made small talk about the upcoming election, the usual suspects. Bruce knew what waiting might be twisted as, but the man's initial step toward you left him on edge. A few people stared at him as they exited, then leaned in to whisper something to their partners. He rubbed his head and mentioned a small headache coming on, saying he needed to be on his way. He leaned his head back against the rough white wall and shut his eyes after the man finished lingering, crossing his hands around his chest with a leg up for balance. Your reaction had been an oversight. Maybe you were right, again. What's the value of a dollar?

You popped out of the bathroom quicker than he'd anticipated and he startled when you flung the door wide. A small wash of humor at having unsettled him rapidly devolved to sourness. He'd been leafing through various solutions to your bribery claim, but everything felt hollow like the slick tear troughs under your eyes. He grasped for anything to ease the tension, for once even if it wasn't fully thought through. "Let me at least give you a ride."

You stared at him with your nose huffed up. Unshed tears pleaded to be freed. This dress was a silk blend, and you could hear just how heavy the rain was. You nodded curtly, afraid to say no, but thanking yourself for remembering to move your taser to your clutch. You'd get him to drop you off at a fake location, throwing him off your scent for where you actually lived. He nodded back. "I'll meet you around back."