"I'm coming to get you." Mar set down the phone and sounded like she was grabbing things to come back.
You panicked, wondering how you could tell her you were with Bruce right now without potentially giving his identity away to someone near the car. And what if she still comes and sees I'm actually with Batman?
"Mar." She wasn't answering. "Mar!" She still wasn't saying anything, and this time you heard a door. "I'm hooking up with someone and they're sleeping."
"Don't believe you." You heard the click of keys in a lock, and panicked further. She wouldn't be one of those Batman trackers, right? She wouldn't know you were near the Bat signal right now, right? You took a deep breath. "Just, stop! Stop!"
"Why? This is so fucking suspicious, what if you get fucking murdered?" She sounded genuinely afraid, and you heard a car door open. She already got a taxi? "Please, I know you care about me,"
"Fifth and Stark, please. Thanks." That was where you were sitting right now. Fuck!
"I know you care but please, I want my life to be my life. I don't want to be monitored, I am 100% fine." What would Bruce do if he found out I let his secret slip?
"Then you'll be fine when I get there. It's the middle of a fucking alley, Y/N,"
Even if you left the car and ran off into the night, she would get dropped off and see a car that was so obscenely expensive it had to belong to Bruce Wayne, and she would know. At this point your panic was eroding away into irritation, because she was starting to act like a helicopter parent. You put the phone on mute and frantically searched the empty car for some keys. Maybe I could just drive somewhere else while location is off. Where the fuck does he keep keys? Does this car even have keys? Is it one of those card things?
"Y/N?" Mar had reacted even to your line going silent. Between the fear of giving away Bruce as Batman, your annoyance at being monitored so closely, and the residual fearful anger from the anonymous donor reveal, you snapped at her. "I want to live my own life without being suffocated!" Your words hung in the air a moment, then you felt sick. I shouldn't have said that. Fuck.
"Hello?" OH THANK GOD. You'd forgotten to unmute. You took a few regulating breaths, then unmuted. You saw her location as five minutes away. "How about I meet you..." On the map she was two minutes away from a queer bar downtown you and her had frequented in undergrad. It would probably be a ten minute walk from here. "At Mora's, in ten minutes."
"Do you know how much could happen in ten minutes?"
"I'll keep you on the phone." You looked around to make sure you hadn't accidentally lost anything, and she sighed. "I don't understand what's going on. But. Fine. Oh, and if you're not here in ten minutes I am calling the police, 'kay?"
"Sounds good." You muted yourself for a second just so she wouldn't hear you popping the door open. If you had to answer about sitting in a car it might move the conversation towards more sleuthing. A quick pop of the lever made the door swing open wide, and you were able to slam it shut and unmute before Mar had even realized you were silent. A few steps in the dusty alley made you turn around, wondering how the hell you might let Bruce know where you'd went. Did you even need to let him know? You feared he might stalk the city for you if he didn't. You noticed steam had accumulated on the windows from you being inside, just enough for you to maybe write out where you were going, or at least that you were safe. Pointer finger to wildly expensive glass, you wrote a quick note and evaporated into the depth of the dark night.
Bruce's inside wrist buzzed. UNL was in small blue text, signaling an unlock in the car. Gordon had just pushed up his glasses to look at the hilt, but pulled back to take a breath being so close to the stench, which was rapidly filling the room. Bruce grit his teeth and stared longingly at the knife handle before tearing away and walking across the room. "I'll be back." The detectives paid him no mind as he strode strongly past, breaking into a run down the hall to the staircase. Why did it unlock? Right when Gordon was about to look at the owls, too... He resigned to be back as swiftly as possible, flexing his fists on the way down until he burst through the door, sprinting toward the alleyway.
At first he didn't know if you were still there or not. The car was completely black, unable to even be seen until he was about ten feet away. The tinting on the windows was more severe than he'd thought, but it was highly effective. Even peering into the window with cupped hands proved futile. After opening the driver's side door and lowering the partition, he felt stuck. Where the hell were you?
This was the worst part of Gotham—an uphill walk so steep that regular patrons of the various businesses in the area made sure to rent apartments at the top of the hill; if you moved into one of the businesses at the bottom of it, you were financially doomed. This was why, though you could see Mora's sign glowing ahead, it would be another seven or eight minutes until you were able to heave yourself through the doors.
Bruce was at a standstill as he stood at the alley in front of his abandoned car. He sleuthed for evidence of a fight or unusually quick getaway—the dust pattern outside both back doors was consistent with a normal walking pace for one individual, and he was left puzzled. Had you gotten bored? Tried to prank him? He couldn't track you; after the argument about how invasive his previous searching efforts were, it would be treasonous to do so again. Though he couldn't see the building from here, he looked in its direction with utmost longing. The first owl in months had shown up, now readily accessible and able to be viewed by a trusted source. Maybe he could feel less crazy, or maybe he would feel absolutely insane if Gordon said he saw nothing there. Bruce tolerated fear well, but this was a slippery one, one that involved more than circumstances and threatened his psyche. As he changed back into his previous suit, he told himself he was leaving to find a citizen in danger, not being willfully ignorant of his own mental decline. He swung around to open the driver door when he caught a patterned glint off the back window. A dust devil danced in the background as a gentle accompaniment to the barely legible prose. Had 2 leave, am safe. He tossed his blazer atop his car and rested his hands over his head. He paced through the dust cloud that then dissipated around his ankles. Sloppy. I'm being sloppy. He couldn't change back into the suit, could he? Working protocol was to never change out of the suit in the same public location, but was this public enough to qualify? Could he go back in to follow up with Gordon? Would he drive around all night trying to see if you were honest, and not in danger? Would that be too intrusive? Probably. In a city this big, and this dark, that required facial recognition technology he promised he wouldn't use on you. Christ.
"Y/N." Mar usually greeted you excitedly, but now she stood with her arms crossed around a neon green blazer. Quite honestly it was the last thing your eyes needed to see after bland, gray concrete. She tapped her foot and glared at you, then gestured toward your phone. "Why were you being so fuckin' secretive?"
You had only barely begun to catch your breath, and followed her gesture with one towards the bar. "I need some water, Mar, that was fucking steep," She groaned but followed you in. The bouncer stared at your ID a little too long, which was usual—there weren't many IDs from other parts of the country here. Gotham was the city that people left, never a destination.
The bar was pretty busy, about the usual suspects for a Thursday night. Gotham's strong population decline apparently had not hit the partiers, because Friday through Sunday every bar and club was packed like sardines. Mora's was better on Thursdays, when it was still lively but not crawling with women and their straight boyfriends; whenever you or Mar walked past them they'd ask to watch you kiss. Thursdays were mellower, with synth pop or indie music floating from the speakers instead of EDM. On the first Thursday of every month there was a themed event, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd been here for one of them. Your favorite drink here was "The Sinnamon", a tongue-in-cheek drink consisting of cinnamon Fireball whisky, pulverized blackberries, and ginger ale. Mar liked "Hot Shot", a shot of tequila mixed with jalapeño brine. You thought hers was disgusting, and she thought yours was basic; whenever a game of truth or dare started, at some point both of you would dare the other to switch drinks.
"Wanna get our usual?" You tried to be chipper and distract from how you'd been in the back of Bruce/Batman's car, wanting so badly to avoid a conversation about him altogether and to forget that the richest, most powerful man in the city might have just bribed you into silence. You wondered when Bruce would be done, and if he would freak seeing you weren't there. Would he stalk you? Go back to his supercomputer to track the city cameras? Were you being a paranoid freak and he was simply a burgeoning philanthropist in unfortunately suspicious circumstances?
"Y/N." Mar was being short with you, and you started feeling tense. What was the line between care and surveillance? When did vigilance become paranoia? You cast your eyes to the floor and told her to find a seat while you ordered drinks. She stared at you without saying a word or making a sound, her eyes shooting daggers. You felt like a little kid. Thankfully a bartender had been walking to the back to get some supplies and happened past you. "Have you two been helped yet?"
Five minutes later you two sat in the upper lounge area on pink vinyl benches. Your thighs were sweaty from the walk and immediately stuck to the seat, painting swathes of red on the back of your legs where it peeled. Starting to remember why I stopped coming. The green walls were familiar, the same octagonal mirror loud against its backdrop. It felt oddly eerie.
Mar refused to touch her drink until the both of you talked, her stubborn nature both frustrating and soothing you. After taking a few gulps (honestly, half the drink or more) you set yours down as well, shaking your shoulders to rid tension. "Look,"
"You're keeping something from me." Mar was decidedly blunt, and it immediately made you feel caged. You shook your head at her gently, trying to avoid giving away specific information. What if she keeps up with Batman tracking and sees he was at that location, near me?
"I promise, it's nothing you need to know."
She shook her head back, refusing to entertain not being informed. "You were in an alley, you turned your location off, what the fuck? And you wouldn't speak loud to me?" Her voice was starting to raise, only slightly, but enough for you to worry about others hearing.
Your instinct was to soothe and reassure, hoping it would put out the fire brewing in her eyes. "I know it seems weird, but I'm fine. I was fine. I am fine." You topped it off with a grin and she rolled her eyes. She saw right through you, knew there were words unsaid, but couldn't quite make them out.
"I don't like you lying to me."
This struck a chord, but you knew you couldn't show it or she'd fight harder. "I'm not lying, I just don't need to tell you this."
"Like fuck you don't!"
Oh, we're being demanding now? "We barely talked before I moved back here. The whole last year of school you've just been partying, I didn't know you really gave a shit about me."
"Y/N. You're my closest friend here." Her tone was flatter, and her hands were now sitting together in her lap. Your brow furrowed. "I knew I was your friend, but,"
"Close friends don't hide things from each other."
Anxiety bubbled in your chest. This felt... manipulative? "I promise this was nothing dangerous, or sketchy, I just, want some things to be mine." Her glare hardened, so you continued speaking. "So you're not close with the people you see every day?"
She rolled her eyes again. You were starting to get a bit pissed off—that, or the alcohol was starting to hit and fuck with your emotions. "I can't talk to them, you know that."
"I don't know that. Because I wouldn't be spending most of my time with people I couldn't talk to."
"Girl... you really don't get the city." Another eye roll. Smoke was starting to come out of your ears.
"I don't. At all. It's fucking weird." You picked up your drink and had another sip, the cinnamon warming your tongue and edging off the sting of this conversation's undertone. Rumination percolated in the back of your mind about how you wished you'd never came back.
She held out her hand and counted to two, exploding her hands at the end of her sentence for added effect. "You have your going out crew, then you have your separate friends to talk to. People with substance."
The disdain was now apparent on your face, the alcohol relaxing your inhibition. "I hate it when you say stuff like that. Acting like you're better than them."
Mar laughed and sat back on the seat. "That's 'cus I am."
"These people are your friends, dude. They tag you in every photo, you go out for brunch, bars, didn't you even go to one of their weddings a few months ago?" Her smugness was infuriating.
"I don't need a lecture."
You paused. The conversation was devolving into something reminiscent of the one you'd had back home, right before the big blow-up, sans lies about your sex life. Am I the common denominator? "It just... it makes me think you talk about me like that." You clammed up, sifting through more thoughts of Is it me? and but she IS acting like a helicopter parent, not really respecting my boundaries...
"I'd never talk about you like that,"
"Why do you hang around people you don't like?" It puzzled you. It sucked being alone, but at least then you didn't have to be fake. It exhausted you picturing her smiling and laughing with people only to disrespect them in their absence. How much could you trust that she wasn't already doing that?
"The city caters to a certain type of person, okay? They'd say the same about me." At this point Mar picked up her shot and downed it. Loneliness had painted a fluffy pink cloud around your friendship with her, distracting from the reality of why you both had mostly fizzled out over the past year.
She'd always had flighty tendencies, running from one group to the next, and never quite shit talked anyone to you; she instead made small comments like that one, subtly positioning herself as better or more important than the people she spent all her time with. While the two of you had disagreements, it was more circumstantial that the both of you had fallen out of everyday contact; she had been a sociology major with you the first year, but after a particularly exciting political science course she'd moved more towards public speaking and general policy courses—she was into leading people and you were into knowing them. This was out of character however—Mar was all over the place, sure, but she was never so immovably standoffish.
"So what were you doing?"
She wasn't letting up. To cave or not cave... What would be gained if you stayed silent? What would be gained if you said you'd been with Bruce? If you were being honest with your feelings, you wanted her to know so you had someone else to bounce your fears off of, akin to a reality check. However, adding another person to the mix would only further complicate things—it was best not to act in haste. After a second of deliberation that she appeared peeved over, you decided to restate your inability to share, asserting the boundary before you became deliriously inebriated. "It didn't concern you, and I don't appreciate being forced to tell you. Everything's fine." What if I'd been buying her a gift? What if I'd gone into the alley to cry away my troubles?
"It makes me really suspicious, Y/N." She slammed the glass down on the small gold table and threw her head in her hands, like you'd just told her to go fuck herself.
"Not telling you doesn't mean I did something bad." She still sat facing the floor, exasperated. You sighed. "I know you want me to be safe, I appreciate that." You touched her back, and realized she was shaking. When she uncovered her eyes you saw her mascara was smudged, and her cheeks were wet.
"I feel fucking guilty about fucking inviting you to the fucking club." She hiccuped after trying to speak through stifled sobs. "You didn't respond after and it fucked me up, Y/N, I thought you fucking died and it was my fucking fault." She threw her hands over her face again and curled inward toward her stomach.
"Hey, hey," You pulled her into a hug and pressed your cheek to her shoulder. Her body wracked with sobs muffled by her shirt, and you only made out bits of what she said through it, one of them being a strained, pitchy "I'm sorry" followed by a volcano of tears. You very nearly cried with her, white-knuckling away the hot tears prickling your eyelashes.
"Here, I'll get napkins." You jogged to the bar and grabbed a heap, a heap she went through almost instantaneously. "I know I'm fucking weird right now, god." Her sniff was thick and hard. "You don't have to tell me."
Five minutes passed of more casual conversations. The alcohol had hit both of you at this point, leaving you both tipsy but not drunk. Bruce floated out of your mind. Mar, who could handle her alcohol about a thousand times better than you could, ended up going to the bar and ordering another round for you both. You sat alone on the sticky seat letting your eyes roam and people-watch. There was a woman sitting diagonally from you across the room surrounded by a gaggle of women, all admiring her (likely) new ring; you caught some of its sparkle, which rendered you a bit sad. They belong. I don't.
She came with the drinks faster than the first time, and downed the second shot before your glass had even reached your lips. "Ah. I need to piss and fix my mascara. Can you watch the drinks?" You nodded, and off she went. That was another good thing about this bar: the bathrooms weren't backed into a weird corner down a long hallway, they were able to be seen from across the room if someone tried to follow anyone. You watched her and the door like a hawk, clutching your drink in your cold fingers as you sipped at it absentmindedly.
Over the next hour you both sat in the haze of alcohol's glow, talking at length about any major events that had happened since the list time you'd been here (Mar had hooked up with ten different people, one of which, she reported, was the love of her life that she planned to ask to officially be her girlfriend on Halloween night; you briefly mentioned your mother's cancer, but kept the conversation in the land of hopes and dreams as for her prognosis) and by that time the bar was making you both quite dizzy. Mar had already ordered an Uber while the both of you giggled over random posts on Scypher, and before you had fully registered you'd even left the bar you were opening your apartment with Mar at your side. Exhausted, you popped an ibuprofen (Mar had taught you this—taking an ibuprofen with a couple large glasses of water took the bite out of hangovers) and nearly drowned yourself in hydration before taking a quick pee and jumping into bed. This place, though your eyes were admittedly hazy, still didn't quite feel real. The last thought before you both crashed was an eerie feeling you might never feel at home anywhere again.
BRRT. BRRT. BRRT. The alarm you'd set for yourself on Monday saved you from missing call time at Dr. Vry's office—9:45am. She'd told you to come with a 'spiked' hot chocolate every morning from the cafe a block from campus. Cafes don't put liquor in their coffee, right? Is it even legal to sell alcohol this early? But when you'd said goodbye to Mar and found yourself in line at 9:30, you realized it was nothing more than a hot chocolate with four shots of espresso. No wonder she's so talkative.
While you waited in line, now with the soothing wash of alcohol out of your system, your mind wandered round and round about the implications of Bruce having paid your parents debt, and the circumstances surrounding his payment. You knew a secret that would destroy him, and possibly land him in jail for the rest of his life-you distinctly remembered being in the police car realizing the cops hated Batman. He was a barely contained vigilante, only not caught because he left as quickly as he arrived; you figured his life would effectively end if you were to let anything slip. You vowed to do more research when you got home on if Batman had ever killed anyone, even by accident, or if there were any clues pointing toward suspicious 'disappearances' that could be in any capacity traced back to the bat. When the barista handed you the coffee, the heat in your hand brought you out of your head and back to the day's responsibilities.
"Ah hello hello!" Dr. Vry smiled at the coffee before she addressed you. Once you handed off the drink you smoothed down your trousers, to which she gave you a concerned once-over before tsk-ing. "Let's get you set up."
You were placed down the hall and to the left, in the room right next to the elevator; it was a small space that looked like it used to be a computer room. Frayed electrical wires jutted out from the stark white walls, and the thunking of the elevator was intermittent but so loud it never failed to scare you. The top of the singular student desk in the middle of the otherwise barren wasteland had a sticky film on it, like someone had spilled a caramel latte over it and left it for the summer just to fuck with the campus custodians. When you got out your computer and stared at the empty page, you worried about having enough to say; all that had happened was an introduction of the various people at the table, an overview of the candidates for mayoral election, and a few other small announcements you felt not entirely relevant to the city. Who cares if Little Me, Big Dreams was temporarily adding a dance class for toddlers that was already full, with no waitlist?
Three hours later you escaped the lull of your computer screen when Dr. Vry motioned for you to come to her office. She cleared her throat and had a smile so wide it felt like a dentist commercial. "Please, sit." You sat in the rickety chair that strained against your thighs for air, your eyes noticing the cobwebs in each corner of the ceiling. "What happened at the City Hall meeting last night?"
"Oh uh," You were a bit taken aback, but quickly summarized the draft you'd written. "Well, there are a few mayoral candidates that will be coming to the meetings, which I want to get an interview for each, and there was a lot of introducing everyone so, it honestly took up a bulk of the time, and then just some miscellaneous information from businesses across the city." Her smile had faded considerably. "I had a question about the latter too, would you like if I listed them in a bullet format, or—"
Disdain flooded her tone. "Did Bruce Wayne not make an appearance?" She sat back in her chair and stared at you with unblinking pale blue eyes.
The mention of his name was like a hot branding iron down your throat. "He did, but he really just introduced himself and listened to everyone else for—"
"You managed to get into a room with Mr. Wayne, the sole survivor of a family so illustrious, so prestigious, and did not so much as speak a word to him?"
You stammered. "I thought I was supposed to report on the content of the meeting,"
"Mr. Wayne is the content." She slammed her hands down on the table and stood up. Your chest hurt and you hid a wince. "The journalism department in this establishment is doomed. We must speak to what the people want if we are to rise from the ashes."
"And people want Bruce Wayne." You spoke flatly, your throat cinching. She nodded, heaving a sigh of relief. She blinked up a storm, then placed a hand on your shoulder. "Dearest. We must give the people what they want."
Was this just a column about Bruce? If so, you were quitting right now. "Should I include the other pieces,"
"If there's room." She moved to her filing cabinet to thumb through nondescript folders. "Did you even make contact with Mr. Wayne at last night's meeting?"
"Yeah." Your voice was small, defeat sunk you back into the chair.
"And what was the topic of conversation?"
"He showed me some notes he had. Talked a bit about Bella Reál and the candidates for mayor."
She paused for a few seconds with her fingers hovered above the cabinet drawer. "Hmm."
"I," Dr. Vry was deeply intimidating, but you felt a sore spot in your chest at the thought of abandoning the sprit of journalism in favor of a celebrity blog post. "I don't want to exclusively write about him."
"You'll do as you're instructed."
"No, I won't actually." You pushed your chair back, and she spun to glower at you. "I'm not putting my name on celebrity gossip."
She balked when you said 'my name', which made you want to curl up and cry, but you held your ground.
"Anyone else would die for your position."
"If Bruce Wayne contributes to the meeting, I'll add his contributions, but I'm not going out of my way to make him the focus."
"The audacity is striking!"
"With all due respect, this wasn't what was advertised."
"You're suspended without pay until further notice." She shoved the cabinet shut and wiped her hands of the dust. "The department will hold a meeting about your future at GU."
You bit back a million retorts and equally as many tears as you left her office, grabbed your things, and set off for The Moore.