Work Text:
i.
The baby has been fussy all night. Mara bounces him on her arm, quietly humming a song to get him to stop whining in her arms.
She curses her mother for being sick today, of all days.
She curses Wayne Enterprises for scheduling her important presentation in front of everyone in the company who’s even slightly important today, of all days.
She curses –
Someone clears their throat.
Her head swivels around.
Next to her, in the gloomy backstage area of the big, auditorium-like presentation room, is no other than Bruce Wayne himself, in a perfectly fitted black suit with his shoulders hunched forward and his head tilting down, eyes cast on the baby in her arms.
“Mister Wayne, Sir, I’m so sorry, I promise he’ll be quiet any moment now –” She stops herself from rambling on any longer. There probably isn’t a great excuse for her situation, anyway, or at least not one that Bruce Wayne will accept.
She doesn’t quite know how to react when, instead of giving her a dressing-down, he just tilts his head slightly. “Need help?” he asks, his voice very quiet. Mara gets the feeling that he wouldn’t be speaking much louder even if there wasn’t a presentation going on behind them on the stage.
She checks her watch.
The ongoing presentation should end in a few minutes, which means that she has to prepare herself to get on stage as soon as possible.
Mister Wayne is still staring at her son, who is now curiously gaping up at the unknown man. Mara checks her watch, again. Behind them, there’s applause.
“Would you? My presentation is only seven minutes long –” she says, already handing over her son.
Mister Wayne takes him from her with stiff arms, looking awkward and like he has no clue what he’s doing. Still, he is very, very gentle as he brings up a hand to stabilize the baby’s head.
Mara sends a glance on stage and sees the previous speaker make their way off the stage.
“Thank you so much,” she whispers, then rushes out onto the stage, ignoring the fact that not only all of her senior bosses are listening but also Bruce fucking Wayne.
When she gets off stage, mostly satisfied with her presentation, she finds Mister Wayne still holding her baby in that same awkward, stiff way. And yet, he is now also bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, rocking her son with the movement. Her son is perfectly quiet, eyes dropping closed in the rhythmical motion.
Mara feels her eyes widen.
When Mister Wayne notices her, he moves his face into a grimace that vaguely resembles a smile.
“Good presentation,” he says.
Mara ignores the fact that the heir of Wayne Enterprises just complimented work, instead focusing on something about this situation she can actually deal with right now that won’t send her brain into a tailspin.
“Thank you for looking after him. My mother usually takes care of him but she’s sick today and I couldn’t find a babysitter –” she leans over to take her son back out of Mister Wayne’s arms.
They stand in silence for a moment. Her son makes a noise between them. Then, Mister Wayne gives a curt nod and marches off without another word.
Mara is left standing backstage, staring after her boss, or, technically, the boss of her bosses.
A week later, she checks her phone as she is nursing her son to find a push notification from a local newspaper.
Wayne Enterprises to Expand Parental Leave, Offer Free Childcare to All Employees.
“Huh,” she says to the baby in her arms. “What do we say about that?”
Her son just chortles against her breast.
ii.
“Hey man,” José says to the guy who is getting on the bus through the door at the front.
The guy nods at him, then sits down in the row right behind him in the seat that’s diagonal from José’s place behind the steering wheel, slouching into the seat with the hood of a sweater pulled up to hide his face.
It’s the last bus of the night and apart from the one passenger the vehicle is empty and José is bored. So, he decides to engage. It’s the guy’s own fault for sitting so close to him.
“You have a good night?” he asks.
The guy shrugs, then murmurs something that sounds like “bike crashed.”
José frowns. “Damn, man, that sucks.
The guy shrugs again and in the back mirror José can see the hood he’s wearing slip upwards slightly with the motion. His face looks vaguely familiar. José’s eyes flick away to look ahead again, focusing on the street.
“You?” the guy asks, adding it as if it’s an afterthought.
José pulls a face. “All good,” he answers. “’cept for the shitty coffee in our break room, but there’s nothing to be done about that.”
The man is silent but he does appear to be listening. His hand is moving up and down his upper arm in a repetitive motion.
José continues his rant. “Can’t believe this entire goddamn city relies on us bus drivers showing up on time and not getting into accidents so that everyone can get to work, and yet no one makes sure we have decent coffee. It’s bullshit, if you ask me.”
The man hums in agreement – or at least that’s how José choses to interpret the noise.
They drive through the dark streets of Gotham in silence for a while. The lights of the bus reflect on the wet pavement as they slowly crawl towards the upper part of town, the streets growing wider and the buildings taller.
Then, the guy silently leans forward to press the stop button. José looks at the gleaming skyscrapers that surround them and frowns.
“You live round here?”
The guy nods, and José whistles. “Damn, man. You’re rich, then?”
The guy shrugs, and José huffs through his nose. “Yeah. With a shrug like that you’re rich for sure. Hey, maybe you can buy me a nice coffee someday, hah!”
He pulls up to the stop and opens the door. The guy gets up and off the bus, vaguely waving a hand in José’s direction on his way out.
“Night, man!” José calls after him. The guy falters in his step but doesn’t turn around, just raises his hand again in an approximated goodbye.
José shakes his head and shuts the bus doors. The vehicle remains empty for the rest of the route.
Two weeks later, he is taking his allotted break in one of the bus terminals and finds a crowd gathered in the break room. He pushes to the front and sees what they’re all inspecting – a brand new coffee machine, not too fancy to be over unnecessarily complicated but still fancy enough to definitely not be paid for by the bus company.
Giorgio already has a cup in his hand and nods in José’s direction as a greeting.
“You gotta try this, man,” he says. “Best damn coffee I’ve ever had. Apparently, Bruce Wayne donated coffee machines to all the break rooms around the city. No clue why, but I’m certainly not gonna look a gifted horse in the mouth”
José laughs, mostly to himself, as something clicks in his head. So that is why the weird guy was familiar. Seems like he took José’s joke about treating him to a coffee someday a bit too literal.
Well, if he managed to make a rich guy feel bad about his money and in return gets nice coffee regularly from now on, he’s not going to complain.
iii.
Bella Reál hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours. Dealing with a flooded city and the consequences of an uncovered corruption scheme in the government she has just taken responsibility for has kept her on her feet, fueled mostly by endless cups of coffee that aides keep pushing into her hands. The flood has drained into the sewers and the nearby water bodies by now, fortunately, but the destruction it left behind is still more than she knows how to deal with.
At least the current meeting is a productive one. Bruce Wayne finally returned her calls on the day after the flood, tentatively asking if there was any way for him to help. He showed up today with his lawyers and his what seems to be ever-present stoic expression, but when she shook his hand, the corner of his mouth quirked up into an almost-smile.
So far, Wayne Enterprises has promised several millions in donations to go towards rebuilding infrastructure destroyed by the flood and the victims of the water and various homeless shelters around town – everything accompanied by endless lists of clauses and stipulations to ensure that the money doesn’t get into the wrong hands, this time.
The meeting has mostly been his lawyers and her advisors talking, the two of them sitting vis-à-vis at the big table and following the conversation as well as they’re able – which, in Bella’s case, is not all that well. Her eyelids keep drooping and even pinching her thigh to keep herself alert doesn’t work anymore at this point. He, on the other hand, scribbles things onto a notepad throughout the meeting.
After about an hour, someone suggests a break, which everyone agrees to all too happily.
Bella picks up her phone, calls back her mother to reassure her that she’s taking care of herself. She thinks she mostly pulls it off and at the end of the five minutes that the call lasts, her mother tells her she loves her and hangs up with an audible smile.
Bella places her phone in front of her on the table and exhales. The conference room is empty, everyone having left to get fresh air, and in the quiet of the room it almost feels as though she can breathe again, take a moment to just observe the way her chest rises and falls rhythmically.
She gets interrupted by the door opening. She straightens up in her chair immediately and swivels around to look at who just entered only to find Bruce Wayne standing in the doorway, his shoulders hunched forward in a way totally unbecoming of his tall figure and his expensive, well-tailored suit.
He’s holding a steaming cup in each hand and, after a moment of hesitation, slowly makes his way over to her.
Bella doesn’t say anything, just watching his steps. When he reaches her side, he gently places one of the cups on the table in front of her and sits down on the chair to her left.
“Asked one of your aides about your usual order, he told me to get this,” he says.
Bella thinks it might be the longest string of words she’s ever heard him say.
“Thanks,” she replies, hands already wrapping around the cup.
“We can continue this another day, if you’re too tired,” he offers. It sounds as monotone and indifferent as everything else he says but the steaming cups on the table, one for him and one for her, tell a different story.
Bella hums. Maybe she isn’t hiding her weariness as well as she’d hoped.
They sit in companiable silence, sipping their coffees until the lawyers and advisors file back into the room, bustling as they take their places. Bruce – Bella has started to think of him as Bruce in her head, ever since she noticed him wincing when someone called him ‘Mister Wayne’ earlier – doesn’t move back to his chair on the opposite end of the table. Instead, he remains seated at her side for the rest of the meeting.
Now that she’s sitting next to him, she notices that his leg is constantly bouncing under the table, his finger tapping against the pen in his hand. The movements reveal him to be as human as everyone else in the room despite his otherwise quiescent façade and Bella finds it strangely endearing.
After fifteen minutes, he tilts his notepad in her direction, a motion almost unnoticeable to everyone else in the room.
Bella peeps over and has to stifle a chuckle when she sees that he hasn’t been taking notes at all, that the notepad is actually covered in doodles of dogs and sketches of possible designs for the new dam and a surprisingly good drawing of one of his lawyers.
In turn, she pushes her own notepad across the table so that he can see what she has been doing to keep herself awake – taking notes in the middle of the page and scribbling countless drawings of little fat birds into the margins.
She watches his face from the side. As his mouth twist into a tiny grin, so does Bella’s.
She heads home for the night after their meeting. The mayor’s residence is too big, too quiet for her all on her own and as she lays in bed, she can’t stop her thoughts from racing despite the tiredness that is seeping into every bone of her body.
After tossing and turning for a while, she picks up her phone and finds a text from one Bruce Wayne waiting for her.
Curiously, she opens it and huffs a surprised laugh as she reads,
in case you’re having trouble sleeping. -bruce
The message is followed by a link to a YouTube video titled ‘Rain and Thunderstorm – 1 hour – Relaxing’.
Figuring that it can’t hurt to try, she lets the video play from her phone, lets the sound of water hitting a roof and rolling thunder lull her brain to sleep. She’s out cold within minutes.
In the morning, she fishes her phone out of her mess of blankets and texts him back,
Thank you. -Bella
His reply comes almost instantly. It consists solely of the dog emoji.
iv.
The crowd outside is growing by the minute, reporters and photographers and curious onlookers all gathering to observe the reopening of Gotham’s Orphanage – or, more likely, to catch a glimpse of the reclusive Bruce Wayne.
Bruce Wayne, who is supposed to arrive any moment now.
Michael dabs the sweat from his forehead. Too much is resting on today going well.
It’s only ceremonial, technically. The nice billionaire who paid for the renovation of the orphanage gets to cut the ribbon and collect a few brownie points from the press and the public, Michael gets to shake his hand and receive truckloads of new clothes and bedding for the kids.
There’s not a lot to it, but Michael can’t fuck up. If he fucks up in some way, Bruce Wayne might get offended and pull back the generous, much-needed donations of money and resources. If he fucks up in some way, the orphanage might go back to how it was before, rust hiding in every corner in a shitty metaphor for Gotham’s political system.
As the crowd keeps enlarging outside, Michael reads through the itinerary one last time. Just as he reaches the end of it, someone comes up to him to inform him that Bruce Wayne has arrived at the backdoor of the building with the promised trucks of material donations.
Michael hurries over and tries to hide away the awestruck expression that threatens to settle onto his face at the sight of Bruce Wayne up close, wearing an expensive dark blue suit with a matching tie with white dots on it. The man is stood near the door, observing the people who are unloading the trucks, filling the back room with neatly labeled boxes.
When Michael approaches him, Bruce Wayne gives him a nod. He shakes Michael’s hand, too, briefly, letting go immediately after a squeeze. Even though he is slouching slightly, Michael is struck by how tall he is. He clears his throat.
“Mister Wayne, it’s an honor to have you here. I know I’m going to be saying all of this in front of the press in a minute but let me just privately express my gratitude, in fact, the gratitude of everyone here at the orphanage for your generosity.”
Bruce Wayne nods, again, face emotionless. Michael hopes he hasn’t said anything to offend him yet.
Nevertheless, he plows on, “I will, of course, personally make sure that the clothes do end up in the hands of our kids and not somewhere else, as I have already assured your lawyers.”
For a moment, they stand in silence. Then, Bruce Wayne opens his mouth and actually talks to Michael. Michael ignores the way his heartbeat quickens in his chest.
“I…” he hesitates for a moment, then, “I added a few boxes of my old comics.” He waves vaguely at the stacks of boxes around them. “Kids still read those, right?”
If Michael didn’t know better, if this wasn’t Bruce Wayne, heir to a fortune and worth billions of dollars, he would almost say the man sounds unsure of himself.
“Kids love comics!” he exclaims. “Thank you so much, Mister Wayne. I fear our library has been lacking new material for years.”
Bruce Wayne just nods, but some of the tension in his shoulders seem to dissipate.
A press person comes to gather them for the ribbon cutting ceremony. They head out in front of the gathered crowd together and, amidst the reporters shouting and the cameras flashing and the prepared speeches for the press, Michael barely has a second to talk to or even so much as look over at the other man.
Afterwards, Bruce Wayne disappears almost immediately through the backdoor and into his car with only the briefest of nods in Michael’s direction. It would almost seem like any other rich donator needing to fuel his ego by doing something philanthropic, if it weren’t for the three boxes that Michael opens that evening once everyone else has left.
They’re filled to the brim with old comic books, all of them dog-eared but also clearly well-loved and taken care of. Michael places them into the all-too-empty shelves of the library and grins at the sight. The children are going to lose their minds about the new reading material.
On his computer, there’s an opened article about Bruce Wayne donating clothes and money to their orphanage, not a word of the other gift, which makes sense because clothes and money are technically more important for the orphanage than some old comics. Michael closes the page.
He throws one last look at the newly-filled shelves and then turns off the lights, closing the door behind him on his way out.
He can’t wait to see the children’s reaction.
v.
There’s not a lot to be done when you’re on night watch at an empty crime scene.
Carlos Martinez knows this. He has spent enough time over the years sitting around in dark apartments full of yellow tape to know to be prepared for the mind-numbing boredom that comes with it.
Do a walk around the premise every thirty minutes, check. Look at your messages to see if you get any new instructions, check. Sit on a chair doing puzzles on your phone, check, check, check.
There are only so many times you can solve sudokus before that becomes boring, as well.
He closes the app on his phone, decides to have a walk around even if he could still technically remain seated for another ten minutes according to his schedule.
It’s not your usual apartment crime scene, tonight. Earlier in the day, someone had called in a bomb scare in an office building belonging to Wayne Enterprises. The bomb hadn’t gone off due to a faulty fuse, fortunately, but Carlos’ bosses still decided that someone had to keep watch until the culprit is apprehended to make sure that no one could install a second one.
The reason for the bomb placement isn’t quite clear to Carlos. Something about, what, Bruce Wayne donating too much money to the flood cleanup? Or something about the renewal fund being corrupt? Carlos isn’t sure how bombing Wayne Enterprises employees would help with that, but he’s not going to try to psychoanalyze someone who places bombs in office buildings.
It's eerily quiet in the empty hallways and conference rooms. One of the floors hosts dozens of empty cubicles, another one is filled with labs to develop whatever this particular branch of Wayne Enterprises develops, and everything looks creepy after having spent four hours alone with his thoughts already.
He turns into a hallway on the top floor, the sporadic flickering of the lights making it just ever-so-slightly more unsettling. He throws a glance at the interior of all of the rooms he passes and is almost at the end of the corridor when something moves in the corner of his eye.
Within seconds, he has his gun and flashlight raised and trained on the person only for it to be –
“Oh shit, Mister Wayne, hi, sir!”
The man in question is wearing a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up, his hair tousled. His suit jacket is missing entirely.
Carlos realizes he’s shining his flashlight directly into Mister Wayne’s eyes and he lowers it quickly.
“Sorry, I didn’t expect you,” he says.
Mister Wayne blinks.
“Just wanted to see where the bomb was.” He says, voice barely louder than a whisper. “It was this floor, right?”
“Yes! I can show you the spot!” Carlos exclaims and then immediately curses himself internally for seeming so overeager.
Whatever. It’s not every day you get to talk to Bruce Wayne himself. He doesn’t question why a guy as important as Bruce Wayne would come to check the crime scene when the bomb wasn’t even directed at him but at his employees, or even why he would do so at three in the morning. Maybe the guy is just a bit weird. At least he seems to care about the ongoings at his company.
Bruce Wayne, in turn, just nods in agreement and gestures for Carlos to lead the way. Carlos does so, moving them down the hallway to a big conference room. The door is blocked by yellow tape.
Mister Wayne moves forward, curiously leaning over the tape to look inside the room. Carlos diligently moves his flashlight over the empty tables and chairs, lingering on the table on which an evidence marker indicates the placement of the bomb.
“You on night watch?”
Carlos startles at the question, then nods.
“Anything happen?”
“Not really, Mister Wayne. I’m just doing my rounds, you know, and I don’t technically have to be doing one right now but I got bored doing sudokus, because it’s been a long shift and I still have three hours to go…”
He trails off. It’s stupid, talking off Bruce Wayne’s ear like this. He doesn’t care about what some random police officer is doing on his shift, what is Carlos even doing –
A glance at the other man makes him pause that train of thought. Mister Wayne’s face looks as neutral as it ever does, but the corner of his mouth is quirked up just a bit higher than usual. It nearly resembles a smile.
“Sudoku?” he asks, almost as if he’s teasing Carlos.
“Yeah, man,” Carlos replies with a shrug. “Got an app on my phone, but the sudokus are too easy at this point because I’ve done so many of them and I’m not gonna pay for the premium version. Not much else for me to do ‘round here, except, you know, catch billionaires sneaking around in their own office building.”
Mister Wayne huffs, his lips now definitely tilting into a smile. “That happen often to you?”
Carlos can’t help but grin in return. “Oh yeah, all the time.”
They’re walking down the hallway towards the elevators now and Carlos thinks he manages to hide most of his giddiness he’s feeling about the fact that he’s actually having a casual conversation with the infamously reclusive Bruce Wayne.
As they wait for the elevator, Mister Wayne turns to take one last look at the empty hallway, then gets on the elevator.
“I gotta finish my round,” Carlos says and remains in his spot, raising his hand in a wave. “Have a good night, sir.”
Bruce Wayne nods. Just as the doors are almost closed, he replies with a soft-spoken “Goodnight.”
Carlos is left standing alone in an empty hallway, wondering what the fuck just happened.
When he has slept off the night shift and returns to his cubicle at his precinct a day later, there’s a parcel waiting for him on his desk.
He opens it to find a stack of sudoku and crossword books, enough to last him for months, if not years. A card is lying on top, embossed with the Wayne Enterprises logo. On the back, something is scrawled in black ink.
For future night shifts – if there are no billionaires to catch, it reads, signed simply with BW.
Colin from forensics leans over the wall of the cubicle.
“What’cha got there?”
“Nothing,” Carlos replies, unable to remove the wide grin that’s spreading across his face. He tucks the card safely into his wallet.
vi.
Alfred runs a hand over his shoulder, stifling a groan. The healing process after he almost got blown up is going well according to the doctors, but it’s not advancing as quickly as he’d like. His shoulder still smarts most of the time, especially on days when it rains, which, seeing as he lives in Gotham, is most days. His leg, too, still isn’t reliable, buckling under him far more frequently than he’d like.
It’s all right, though. He just has to move a bit slower, breathe a bit deeper, make sure not to forget his new, hospital-issued cane when he leaves the building.
Supporting himself with the cane, he steadily makes his way down the hallway towards the library. There are always reports to be read and contracts to be inspected, especially now that Bruce has decided to step up as the heir of Wayne Enterprises.
A stack of paper awaits him on his usual desk, but when he moves to sit down, something is different.
He pauses, then realizes what it is when he turns to look at the back rest.
His usual armchair, an antique with a beautiful brown leather cover, has been replaced with a new seat, its sleek black design less aesthetically pleasing but definitely more ergonomic.
He leans back into it, takes in the way it fits against his back. Not bad, he thinks to himself.
The chair has little wheels and he pulls himself closer to the table, appreciating the fact that he doesn’t have to drag a heavy armchair with his bad arm.
Even though his back thanks him for the new seating situation, his shoulder continues to ache. He allows himself a little wince, then puts on his reading glasses and reaches for the first document on the pile.
He loses himself in the legal jargon, getting through the first report and half of the second one, at which point he allows himself a quick breather, rubbing his shoulder absentmindedly.
“Heating pads in the drawer,” Bruce’s voice comes from behind him.
Alfred doesn’t flinch, but he does chastise himself for not hearing the approaching footsteps.
He opens the drawer of the desk and, sure enough, there is a pile of small heating pads. He grabs one of them and activates it, pressing it against his shoulder with a sigh as the warmth flows through tensed muscles and scarred tissue.
Bruce moves closer, pulling up a chair to sit down at the table across the corner from Alfred. “Is it bad?”
Alfred takes in the sight in front of him. Bruce clearly hasn’t slept a lot in the past few weeks, dark rings under his eyes now present without any make up. His hair is disheveled and his shirt is the usual three sizes too big around his shoulders and even though most people would describe his expression as unmoving, Alfred can clearly make out the concern oozing from Bruce’s every pore.
“Don’t worry. A few more weeks and I’ll be right as rain.” He raises the hand that is holding the heating pad. “This helps, though. Did you put them there?”
Bruce shrugs. “They help when I pull muscles while doing Batman stuff.”
Alfred raises an eyebrow. “And the chair?”
“The old one looked uncomfortable.”
“Thank you, Bruce,” Alfred says.
Bruce nods. His fingers are tapping on his leg to a rhythm only he can hear.
Alfred waits.
Then, Bruce gets up in one fluid motion, crossing the library to get to one of the shelves in the back.
“Got something for you,” he calls across the room.
He returns with something that looks like a long stick. He hands it to Alfred, who accepts it gladly. Upon further inspection, it turns out to be a new cane. It’s made of some lightweight black material with a silver pommel, elegant and inconspicuous.
When Alfred looks back up at Bruce, he finds him with a rare grin on his face.
“Twist the pommel,” Bruce says, barely hidden glee in his voice.
So, Alfred twists the pommel and it comes off, revealing a dagger that was hidden inside the cane.
“Do you like it?” Bruce sounds as eager now as he did at eight years old whenever he got to give anyone a gift.
Alfred smiles, feeling the corners of his eyes crinkling up. “I do. Made it yourself?”
Bruce nods.
“You do know that I will now always have a weapon at hand to force you to eat more frequently.”
Bruce’s answering laugh is loud, boisterous against the hush of the library. Alfred’s heart feels warm at the sound.
He tucks the dagger back into the cane.
“Come one, then. Let’s give it a whirl on our way to some tea, shall we?”
He leads the way towards the kitchen with his new cane. Bruce follows close behind, falling into step with Alfred just as he has been doing ever since he was a child.
Alfred smiles. The warmth in his heart lingers.