Fateful Beginnings (Battinson)

XVIII

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. Like a bad omen. 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 actions of Bruce Wayne. You smelled him before you heard him, a musky, clean detergent scent; he smelled just like he did back at Wayne Manor. 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.