Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

thirty one

Forty.

When you were young, Bruce realized, that number seemed like a fantasy. A distant dream— an unimaginable period in your life that all adults would warn you about reaching as you grew up. You'd then wave them off, passively roll your eyes, and dignify your naivety with some excuse along the lines of "please, like I'll ever turn forty."

And now, as Bruce sat at the foot of his bed, eyes trained on the portrait of him and his parents, he realized that he'd finally reached that unimaginable number— that distant dream which had somehow become a startling reality all too fast.

The air in the Manor felt heavy and cold, just as it did every year on his birthday.

Forty.

Bruce Wayne wasn't supposed to be forty years old. Bruce Wayne was playboy extraordinaire— forever young and reckless; forever mischievous, drunken, and good-looking. And forever was supposed to be... forever. Not forty with four kids.

Every birthday for him was rough— a reminder of another event his parents wouldn't get to share with him. Another year of never getting a celebratory clap on the back from his father, or a warm smile from his mother.

This birthday, however, was particularly horrible, because it was the first year that Bruce made it to an age his parents never did.

They had been thirty-nine when they died.

Bruce was finally forty.

Why?

It was the one question he'd never be able to find an answer to.

Why them? Why not him?

He didn't even want to finish getting ready for the stupid party that stupid Devin was forcing him to go to. Stupid fucking Devin, with his stupid eyes that looked exactly like his Eleanor's. Stupid Devin who had parents that were alive. Stupid Devin with his stupid wife and stupid kid and stupid happy life in which he didn't run around one of the most crime-ridden cities in the world dressed as a bat because he felt he had something to prove. So fucking stupid.

And, to top it all off, there was some... wrinkle forming in between Bruce's eyebrows. An actual wrinkle. What the fuck. Wrinkles were for old people and Bruce was certainly not old.

He replayed the image of him earlier that day when he inspected the divot in his skin with confusion. He had pressed at it in the bathroom mirror. It hadn't gone away when he'd relaxed his face.

He then frowned, which had deepened the effect of the wrinkle and he finally realized that it was most likely the product of him being stressed all the time. So there were only two logical solutions to his problem: never move his face again, or invest in botox.

And he definitely wasn't going to think about botox because that was for people who accepted that they were aging, which Bruce was not. So he concluded that he was just going to have to never move his face ever again. Shouldn't be too hard. Batman wasn't even supposed to have emotions, after all.

There was a knock on his bedroom door.

A second later, it widened and the grinning face of stupid Devin Elias with his stupid eyes greeted him.

"There's the birthday boy!" Devin smiled widely, dressed in a sharp navy blue tux. "How are you feeling on this fine fortieth day of birth, Short Stuff?"

Bruce had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He couldn't move his face in fear of wrinkles.

Christ. That was so... lame. "Fear of wrinkles." Fuck. So now he was scared and old.

Devin walked in with languid strides, pausing to turn his head to inspect the portrait. The happy look slowly fell off of his face, and he glanced back at Bruce with the stupid sympathetic smile that Bruce hated.

Bruce was quiet as Devin sat down next to him at the foot of the bed. The older man leaned his forearms on his knees, eyes on the painting.

They sat in silence for a long while, which Bruce also hated because he couldn't even be mad at it. He couldn't wallow in self-pity because Devin, unlike most people who attempted to share sympathy with him, had known his parents— for longer than Bruce had, at that— and the loss of his parents was also a loss for Devin.

"You know," Devin began softly, a hint of a smile on his lips. He chuckled slightly. "Your dad was the first one to explain to me what an erection was."

Bruce broke his "no facial expressions" rule too quickly.

"Devin..." Bruce groaned in disgust, contorting his features into ones of disturbance.

The older man laughed, tilting his head upwards with his usual rumbling chuckles. "I figured you're finally old enough to know."

"Finally?" Bruce repeated. "I've been well aware of the concept of... arousal for quite some time."

"I know." Devin's laugh stilled into a sad smile. "I just like to try and save whatever stories I have of your parents so you can hear a new one every year."

There was a clenching feeling in Bruce's chest, right around his heart. Stupid Devin and the stupid way that he knew what words to offer to make Bruce feel... emotional. So stupid.

Bruce's face fell blank again, casting his eyes downward and letting his head hang with a long exhale. Devin snaked his arm across Bruce's back in the way that he always did, resting his hand on Bruce's shoulder. He squeezed it firmly, gently running his thumb back and forth across the white shirt collar at the base of his neck.

Bruce, although having always pretended as if he was irritated by the gesture, secretly appreciated it. Thomas used to comfort Bruce the same way. For some odd reason, Bruce felt like Devin knew that.

"I hate you," Bruce murmured, gaze still locked on the carpet.

Devin blew a sharp breath of air out of his nose. "I know. I hate you, too."

There were a few more moments of silence before Devin finally clapped his hand on Bruce's back, and got up with a groan. "Alright. No more moping around— you have the rest of the year to do that. We have a party to get to."

Bruce begrudgingly stood up, and Devin smirked, eyeing the top of Bruce's head.

"You're short."

Bruce glared at him. "You're a douchebag."

A chuckle. "Yeah, but I'm a tall douchebag."

There was no reply as Bruce entered his closet. He pulled his black suit jacket, courtesy of Giovanni, off the hanger and tugged it over his shoulders.

"We have a hell of a roster coming tonight, you know," Devin noted from behind. Bruce watched through the long mirror as Devin leaned on the frame of the closet door. "The Justice League... my sister... Prescott—"

Bruce scoffed as he opened one of the many drawers to find all of his ties neatly folded. He chose the sapphire blue one with his father's initials engraved into the tip lining. "You really had to track down Johnny Prescott and invite him?"

"Well, duh. And he wasn't that hard to track down— he's a doctor, apparently."

Bruce broke his no facial expressions rule again and stared at Devin through the mirror with raised brows. "Doctor? Of what?"

"Like, surgery!"

Bruce began to knot his tie. He narrowed his eyes. "That's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Because it's Johnny Prescott. He can't operate on people."

"Uh, yeah, maybe when you went to school with him twenty years ago. But people can learn how to do things in twenty years, you know, Bruce. Like being a doctor. Or a vigilante."

Bruce finished off with his tie and turned his attention to looking for a pair of cufflinks. "I still don't believe it."

Devin laughed and started going on some rant about how Bruce was "such a skeptic" as Bruce picked through his drawer of cufflinks. He tuned Devin out, suddenly staring at the black box he'd recovered from his attic with Giovanni's golden label pressed into the top. He bit the inside of his cheek.

Oliver, albeit very uncomfortably, agreed to come tonight. And while the black tourmaline cufflinks were still the ugliest things Bruce had ever seen, perhaps it would do him well to wear them.

He plucked out the box and opened it, unclasping the shiny jewelry and beginning to put them on. He heard Devin falter in his speech as he squinted his eyes at what Bruce was doing.

"Geez, Shortstack. Old age has given you bad taste."

Bruce rolled his eyes.

"No offense, though."

"Let's just go," Bruce muttered as he walked past Devin and out of the closet.

"Hey, whatever gets you out of the house is fine with me, even if it is ugly."

Bruce shot him a look as they entered the hallway, where Alfred was coming up the stairs at the end.

"Looking sharp, Sirs," the butler commented as he approached them.

"Thanks, Alf!" Devin chirped, before clasping his hands over his heart in feigned adoration. He smiled with a sickly amount of love in Bruce's direction. "Don't they just grow up so fast?"

Bruce scoffed again, pushing past the two men as he stalked down the hall.

He could hear Alfred chuckle from behind him.

"That they do, Master Devin. That they do."

* * *

Dick watched in amusement as Bruce exited a black Aston Martin with Devin. All cameras lining the steps of City Hall went wild, turning into a barrage of white flashes and shouts at the two billionaires.

Even for Dick, it was hard to imagine Bruce being Batman as he waltzed through the crowd with ease. Devin fell in line next to him, both of them clearly masters of being in the public eye with languid smiles and slow, powerful strides.

Devin was a little more cheerful, flashing the occasional wink to a pretty female reporter, while Bruce kept his eyes trained forward, a fake grin plastered to his face. They finally reached the doors, where Dick leaned on the inside of the frame. The smile fell off of Bruce's face.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Forty-Years!" Dick greeted cheerfully, just to purposely annoy Bruce. It worked as the man scowled.

Devin, however, laughed. He clapped Dick on the shoulder. "Dick! You look great!"

"Thanks!" Dick smiled. "You're not looking too bad yourself."

They didn't have much more time to converse before the paparazzi was shouting again.

A chorus of "Queen! Mr. Queen! Over here! Over here!" echoed from outside, and a moment later, a grinning blond entered the building dressed in a charcoal gray suit, holding a small box in one hand.

Oliver's eyes slid over to Bruce and the archer smiled. "Hey! The birthday boy!"

Dick was surprised— he didn't think Oliver and Bruce were on good terms after their massive fight in the Cave. Dick glanced back and forth between the two billionaires and wanted to chuckle at how Bruce shifted ever so slightly— the man was uncomfortable.

A strange silence fell over the group and Dick wanted to face-palm. Bruce was also so painfully awkward.

"Uh," Oliver seemed to realize Bruce wasn't going to verbally respond as the blond held out the box in his hand wrapped in black paper. "I got this for you."

Bruce blinked at the present. "I thought Devin told everyone not to bring gifts."

"Oh, I know." Oliver shrugged and placed it in Bruce's open hand. "I just figured it was, uh, appropriate for the occasion."

Bruce furrowed his brows and slowly peeled up the black wrapping. When he saw what was concealed inside, a genuine smile started to pull at his lips. Bruce looked up at Oliver with amusement in his eyes— a look that indicated an inside joke between two friends. Dick recognized it as one he would exchange with Wally West.

"Really?" Bruce questioned as he held up the box of cologne.

Oliver grinned, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. "I grabbed it on the way here— it's ridiculously expensive and'll make you smell like a prick."

Devin, who had been silent for the entire exchange, held a fond look on his face. He chuckled, nudging Oliver in the arm. "Bruce doesn't need to smell like one for everyone to know that."

Oliver broke into laughter and Bruce simply rolled his eyes.

Once they finally calmed down, Bruce nodded towards the archer. "Thank you."

Oliver waved him off as his green eyes darted down to Bruce's wrists. "Hey, pretty nice cufflinks you got there."

Dick looked to what the blond was referring to, finally noticing the shiny black stones clasped to Bruce's sleeves. They were... flashy, and definitely not something Bruce would've chosen on his own.

"I still hate them," Bruce deadpanned.

Oliver chuckled and held up his forearms, where he wore similar cufflinks to Bruce but in a green shade— most likely emeralds. "Great minds think alike."

Dick almost missed Bruce's smirk.

As everyone in the foyer started to realize Bruce Wayne had entered the building, a bout of "Happy birthday, Brucie!" and "Bruce! My guy! Happy birthday!" rang out through the large room. In moments, Bruce was quickly bombarded by a crowd of socialites, all dressed to the nines in gauzy fabrics and fitted tuxedos.

Dick fell into "billionaire's son" mode, chatting with Gotham's most elite for the majority of the next hour— governors and millionaires and aristocrats and older women desperate for attractive men's money— the usual.

He noticed Oliver and Bruce had met up once again and Dick started in their direction. As he neared the two men, he saw Oliver quickly slap Bruce's bicep.

"Holy fuck, I see him! I see him!" Dick heard the blond sharply whisper. "That's definitely him— oh my God!"

Bruce crossed his arms. "Where?"

Dick glanced through the room to see who they were referring to.

Bruce started to turn around and Oliver hit him again. "Don't turn around! That's so obvious!"

"Who are we trying to not be obvious towards?" Dick finally asked.

Oliver produced an almost child-like giggle. "Your father's mortal nemesis since, like, age nine."

"He's not my mortal nemesis." Bruce rolled his eyes.

"Tell that to your long list of suspensions because of him, Pretty Boy."

Bruce glared.

"Come on, we have to say hi," Oliver tried to reason.

"No, we don't."

"Yes, we do! Let's rub our money and success in his face."

"We're not twelve."

"We can professionally rub our money and success in his face, then."

"There is no way to professionally rub your wealth in someone's face."

"Okay, okay. I'll pretend I'm doing something so you can discreetly stare at him."

Oliver then looked down at the silver-plated watch on his wrist, and Dick watched Bruce slightly tilt his body. Dick finally saw a man standing amongst a group of people in a plain black suit, with a crooked smile and thin, curly brown hair.

He looked tall and semi-out of shape, with wrinkles littering his forehead and gray hair threading through his sideburns. He didn't appear to be anything special. The man then turned his back towards them and Dick noticed the obvious bald spot on the top of his skull.

Bruce immediately turned around with an almost... juvenile look on his face. He straightened out the lapels of his jacket. "We should go say hi."

Oliver slightly fist-pumped, following Bruce's lead as the two men approached he-who-had-yet-to-be-named. Dick trailed after them, eager to see what seemed to almost seemingly excited Bruce.

"Well, well, if it isn't Johnny Prescott!" Oliver was the first to loudly announce, sounding every bit like the pretentious asshole the media made him out to be.

Dick suddenly remembered Bruce's adverse reaction to seeing that name on the guest list. The man who was now named Johnny turned around, eyes landing on them. Surprise rippled across his face, and the smile that pulled at his lips didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Oliver Queen," Johnny drawled, holding out his arm. "It's been a long time."

Oliver clasped his hand in Johnny's and gave it a firm shake. "It has!"

Johnny turned his attention to Bruce. "And Bruce Wayne— I would say I'm surprised to see you two are still friends, but I figured you would be."

"Johnny," the way Bruce almost spat the name as they shook hands made Dick have to purposely will his eyebrows not to raise in surprise. The look on Bruce's face was that of a pure playboy.

"Jonathan, actually," the man corrected as they dropped their hands.

"Ah," Bruce tilted his head up. "My bad. Jonathan... this is my oldest son, Dick."

Dick plastered a smile to his face and politely shook Jonathan's hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You too." Johnny eyed Dick briefly. "He looks like you, Bruce."

"Oh, no, no. I'm adopted." Dick chuckled. "But I'll take the compliment regardless."

The man's laugh was empty— more out of social grace than anything else. Dick could sense the animosity amongst the group, wondering what the hell this man had to do to make both Oliver and Bruce act how they were.

"Devin mentioned that you were a doctor," Bruce said.

Johnny nodded, looking smug. "Yeah, I got my license after school."

Oliver suddenly chuckled, and everyone turned a questioning look to him. "I-I'm sorry, I just honestly can't imagine you being a doctor, I mean— well, you weren't exactly the most studious back in the day."

Johnny frowned at the way Oliver laughed. "If I remember correctly, neither were you, Queen."

Oliver's smile was almost sickly sweet. "Ha... right..."

"So," Dick interrupted the awkward staring contest between the three. "Jonathan, what are you a doctor of?"

"General surgery," the man answered smugly. "At GCGH."

Dick didn't move his face, but he knew the man was lying. Nightwing often brought many patients through the doors of Gotham City General Hospital after a night of patrol, and there certainly was never a Doctor Prescott around.

Bruce seemed to realize the same thing as his features contorted into ones of mock surprise. "Really? Because I actually do quite a lot of charity work at Gotham General, and I've never seen any mention of a Doctor Prescott."

Johnny appeared taken aback as he glared at Bruce. "Are you accusing me of lying, Wayne?"

Dick had to stop himself from hissing out a "yikes."

"No!" Bruce grinned as if he had been waiting for Johnny to get hostile. "Not at all— I was only surprised. You know, actually, Oliver and I were just thinking about hosting a fundraising gala in the next few weeks for GCGH—"

"That's right!" Oliver snapped his fingers as he caught onto the lie. "Oh my God, we were considering having some of their surgeons speak— ya know, it boosts morale and all— so we'd love you to give a speech!"

For the first time in the conversation, the cocky look on Johnny's face faltered.

"Oh. Uh, well—"

Johnny was interrupted by a stir in the crowd, and several people started walking towards the front entrance. Dick noticed a group of women next to him start to whisper harshly amongst each other. The youngest man looked to Oliver, who seemed equally confused, and then to Bruce, who had a dead stare locked on... something.

Dick turned back to the front doors, finally realizing what everyone was staring at: into the large room strode Meredith Elias, body wrapped scandalously in a black dress and lips painted her usual red. Dick's mouth fell open slightly. Wow.

Bruce had an unreadable look on his face. Dick snickered.

On the other hand, Meredith seemed incredibly unbothered by the way her name tore through the room. She halted in her strides and waited for another figure to appear next to her: Lois Lane, who was wearing a blue gown. The two continued walking and Dick lost sight of the pair as the crowd closed in around them.

"Is that... Meredith Elias?" Johnny broke the silence.

Oliver nodded.

Johnny looked at Bruce. "Did anything ever end up happening with you two? I remember you were obsessed with her."

Dick choked down a laugh behind his fist as Bruce scowled.

"No."

"Oh." Johnny raised his brows. "So... no ring? No kids? No... nothing?"

Bruce's irritated look began to wander into Batglare territory. "No."

"Huh." Johnny grinned. "Well, then. If you'll excuse me."

The alleged doctor walked off in the direction of Meredith and Oliver started laughing. The blond nudged Dick in the arm. "This night is gonna be so fun. Just you wait."

* * *

"I'm not sure if I ever mentioned this, but I... I really like your dress tonight, Lois."

"Aw, Clark, thank you! I'm hoping a certain someone else will be watching over me tonight and he'll notice, too."

Clark's face fell at the mention of some other man. "Oh. Who? I-If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Lois' face flushed red. "Well, I figured it's the same color that Superman wears, so..."

"Oh! It's, uh, Superman?"

"Well, yeah, I know it's stupid..."

"It's not! I li— I mean, I'm sure he likes it."

"Really? You think?"

Meredith stared at the two reporters in sheer disbelief as they both bumbled uncomfortably through their conversation. How the hell Lois— the Pulitzer prize-winning journalist— was such a moron was beyond her. It's not like Clark did a particularly good job at concealing his identity either, considering it took all of ten seconds for Meredith to figure out who he was.

They were currently sitting through what felt like a thousand-course dinner, and the banquet hall was dressed lavishly. Orchestral musicians played string instruments in one corner, and waiters buzzed throughout the room, carrying silver platters of expensive food.

Clark smiled. "He'd be an idiot not to notice how great you look tonight."

Meredith wanted to slap her forehead, and then slap both of them. She might've done it, too, if she knew she wasn't going to break her hand on Clark's face.

Lois blushed again, swatting his arm. "Stop it, Clark. You can't possibly know what he thinks."

Meredith felt so incredibly irritated as she glared at the other woman. "Seriously, Lois?"

Lois tilted her head towards Meredith, who sat beside her at the circular table. "What? He can't!"

From behind the female journalist, Clark stared at Meredith with a look of desperation.

Meredith rolled her eyes. "Oh my God."

"Are you trying to tell me something, Meredith?" Lois narrowed her eyes.

The billionaire poked at the potatoes on her plate and leaned one forearm on the table. "Of course not. Besides, you'd know it if I was, right? You are a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist— it's not like you totally wouldn't miss something sitting right in front of you or anything. Don't mind me."

Lois huffed and turned back to Clark with a smile, who, if he could sweat, would be dripping bullets out of sheer panic.

Meredith stabbed a steamed potato with her silverware and turned her head to the right. A few tables over sat Bruce, Devin, and Oliver along with other notable socialites.

She had caught eyes with Bruce when she'd walked in. He looked incredibly handsome, not that that was a shock, dressed in a fitted suit and Thomas' favorite tie. She also noticed he'd been stealthily glancing at her throughout the night— in particular, when none other than Johnny Prescott, apparent doctor, which Meredith didn't believe, just by the way— had come over to talk to her.

Meredith thought the dress she and Diana had chosen for her looked good— pitch black and detailed in sequins with a low neckline. It'd been a long time since Meredith had worn something so incredibly form-fitting, and so she was grateful for the movement that the slit on her leg allowed her.

The businesswoman drummed her free hand on the tablecloth. She'd been on edge for the majority of the event. Batman was allegedly supposed to be in attendance tonight, and she found herself continuously wondering if he'd been eyeing her like Bruce was. Meredith kept an eye out for a mysterious man glancing her way, but so far had found nothing.

Maybe there had been a bank robbery or a murderer on the loose that needed his attention, and she'd put on smokey eye makeup and red lipstick all for nothing.

Laughter met her ears again. She brushed her hair out of her face to get a better view of the three billionaires all chuckling at the other table. A small smile tugged at Meredith's face as she watched even Bruce's shoulders shake gently, no doubt in part to the near-finished bottle of champagne sitting between the three of them.

She supposed she had been watching him in return. Bruce politely laughed with Gotham's elite all night— fake laughter, stupid teetering chuckles all perfectly choreographed over the years to fool people into thinking it was real— never quite reaching his eyes or the corners of his mouth.

Meredith had always been jealous of Bruce's real smile— so solemnly used, but pearly and white and warm on the rare occasions that it came out. She wished he hadn't been such a serious kid growing up, because Bruce was always a hundred times more handsome when he truly smiled, at least in her opinion.

And, it was a very pleasant surprise to walk in and find Bruce standing next to Oliver of all people, and then catch the men making strange faces at each other throughout the night.

She didn't know what had happened, or who said what, but it was almost addicting to watch the two of them interact— falling into step with one another and moving about in perfect synchrony as if they'd been attending events like this together all their lives and hadn't missed a day, much less years.

The businesswoman looked back at Lois, who was gushing about Superman to Clark like an idiot, and then Meredith looked at Clark, who seemed conflicted as to whether he should be flattered, or hurt at the fact that she wasn't technically talking about him.

Meredith couldn't take their stupidity anymore.

She stood up and plucked her glass of white wine from the silky crème-colored tablecloth. "I'll be back."

The billionaire made her way over towards the three men, the end of her dress brushing around her shiny black heels. She finally approached them, and didn't need much introduction once Devin noticed her.

"Sis!" He smiled, getting out of his seat and wrapping an arm around her. He pulled back and eyed her dress. "Pretty, uh, interesting choice of attire! I'm sure dad would love it."

Meredith glared and pushed him away. "I'm thirty-nine, asshole. I can wear whatever the hell I want."

Devin put his hands up. "Didn't say it didn't look good. But what kinda brother would I be if I didn't give you some crap for dressing sexy?"

She smacked his arm.

"Okay, okay!" he chuckled as he stepped away.

She decided it was better to ignore her dunce of a brother and nodded towards the other two men— Oliver, who grinned, and Bruce, who didn't quite meet her gaze.

Meredith supposed she had to acknowledge him. "Happy birthday."

Bruce smiled like someone was twisting a knife in his back as he finally looked up at her. His voice was clipped. "Thank you."

She refrained from rolling her eyes.

"Take my seat," Devin said as he ushered her into the chair between the other two men. "I'm going to snag a few more bottles from the kitchen and also make sure everything's still looking good. I'll be back in a few."

Devin walked off and Meredith turned over to Oliver. It was too weird to talk to Bruce. "So, I saw Johnny Prescott earlier. He's..."

"Balding!" Oliver giggled. "We were just talking about that! And he's still an asshole, too, but that's such a shocker, right?"

"Not what I was going to say, but alright." She laughed quietly. She shouldn't have been laughing— she had to look composed. "Do you really buy the doctor bullshit?"

The blond scoffed. "Ha! Do you?"

"God no." She took a sip from her glass. "He can barely save himself in a conversation, how the hell can he save someone's life?"

Oliver burst into laughter. "Yes! Exactly! And I—"

"Oh, Meredith!"

They paused their conversation and turned in the direction of the new voice to see a brown-eyed, strawberry blonde adorned in a blush-colored gown.

Meredith smiled at the woman. "Laney!"

The woman chuckled, and Meredith gestured to the figures next to her. "This is Oliver Queen, I'm sure you know him, and this is Bruce Wayne." Meredith looked at the two men. "This is Delaney Elias, Devin's wife."

"I'm well aware." Oliver stood up and pulled the woman into a warm hug. "Good to see you again, Lane."

Laney welcomed the affection. "You too, Oliver. And Happy Birthday, Bruce, it's wonderful to finally meet the man my husband talks so highly of."

Bruce stared at the woman as if he'd just seen an alien before following in suit of Oliver and standing up to shake her hand. "Uh, yes. Of course. Pleasure is all mine."

Laney smiled again and turned back to Meredith. "Sorry I'm a little late, my jet was delayed on the runway for technical issues. I was just wondering if you'd seen Dev anywhere?"

"He ran to the kitchen, but he'll be back soon," Meredith explained. "Who's watching Adeline?"

"Your parents, actually. I was kind of surprised— why aren't they here?"

Silence fell over the group. The tension between them and Bruce became strained again. Meredith finally shrugged. "I don't know."

Yes she did. They all did. Of course her father wasn't going to show up to Bruce's party— besides, Devin had barely convinced her to show up and only by bribing her, at that. Meredith was sure her mother put up a fight about not attending, but Gregory had a certain way of convincing his wife not to get involved with Bruce— a trait his daughter had inherited as well.

"Hey! Look what I scored in the back! I have—" Devin appeared again, two bottles of what looked like champagne in his hands. He glanced up. "Oh! Hey, babe. I didn't think you were gonna get here until later."

Laney said a short hello and pressed a kiss to his cheek as he set the bottles on the table.

Devin gave a lopsided grin. "I see you met Kid-Number-One and Kid-Number-Two. And Mare. I guess she can be Kid-Number-Three."

"Yes." She chuckled, eyeing Bruce for a moment. "And I promise I'm a very devoted wife, but you really are as handsome as they say in the news, Bruce."

"Hey!" Devin's mouth dropped, putting a hand over his heart. "What about me!"

Laney shrugged mischievously. "You're alright, I guess."

"Thank you," Bruce smirked softly.

Devin glared. "Hey, watch yourself there, Handsome." He poked a finger into Bruce's chest. "I was the one who taught you what a woman even was."

Meredith sipped her wine as she watched the two banter back and forth. It was easy to fall into the comfort of the situation— it felt awfully similar to when they were younger, sitting in the kitchen of the Manor, where Bruce and Devin would argue over pointless things just because they thought it was funny.

She studied Bruce's face as he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, flippantly saying something to Laney which made her laugh. Devin shoved the younger man's shoulder in protest. Meredith smiled slightly. She sipped the wine again. She suddenly noticed the small scar on Bruce's top lip, casting right between the dip in his cupid's bow. It was almost minuscule, but she remembered the story behind how he'd gotten it— he was four and Devin had dared him to slide down the stair banister, where he'd inevitably split his lip open at the bottom.

The scar was barely noticeable anymore— she briefly wondered if he'd done something to get it that way. Maybe laser. Meredith wanted to chuckle at that.

"Meredith!"

She snapped out of her thoughts to see Trevor Furnsby, fellow conglomerate owner, grinning in her direction. She stood up with a smile, excusing herself from the group.

"Trevor! Welcome back to the East Coast! How's everything going with..."

* * *

For all of Clark's knowledge of high-society events, Bruce's party was going along swimmingly. The birthday boy seemed to be mostly preoccupied with Devin Elias and Oliver Queen, and Clark could've sworn he'd caught the glimpse of a real smile from Bruce at least a few times that night.

The three men roamed through the crowd of socialites with all the grace of true billionaires, occasionally throwing around the name Meredith Elias— not that Clark was listening in on their conversations, because that was rude, and Martha Kent had definitely raised him better than that.

Meredith, in particular, looked rather stunning, and Clark was very sure Bruce had noticed, judging by the side-eye he cast her way every so often.

No one could ever say Clark Kent wasn't an observant man.

They were currently on the rooftop patio of Gotham City Hall— decorated with lights and a bar off to one side, music playing in the back. Only less than half the attendees were invited to the so-called "after-party" which still left a hefty sum of around a hundred people.

Clark heard a familiar heartbeat in his ear and tilted his gaze to see Bruce making his way through the crowd. It was the first time Clark had seen the bachelor alone all night.

Clark smiled at him. "Bruce!"

Bruce looked perpetually annoyed, offering a flat "hello."

"Happy birthday!" Clark ignored the Bat's usual brood. "You don't look a day over thirty-nine."

Bruce stared at him blankly. Clark was startled by the smell of champagne coming off of the other man's breath. Bruce didn't ever drink, so how Oliver and Devin managed to convince what was arguably the most stubborn man on the planet to break one of his sacred rules was beyond Clark.

"Um, anyway... your party has been great so far! Devin did an incredible job. I also noticed the elusive ten-tier chocolate fountain, that's pretty neat, right?"

"Right." Bruce's voice was void and cold, eyes trained elsewhere.

"Okay... uh, well, I saw you talking to Oliver earlier! You two seem to be getting along well."

"A huh."

"I also saw you drinking some champagne earlier. Didn't think you did that."

Bruce's eyes scanned the crowd. "Devin brought a bottle he'd been saving since we were young. I didn't have much of a choice."

Those... were not words Clark usually heard coming from the man. Bruce was typically not one to be easily forced into decisions.

"Oh! That's good to hear. What kind?"

"1841 Veuve Clicquot."

"Wow! Sounds fancy."

"Mhm."

"Great... uh, what are you staring at?"

Clark turned around, following Bruce's gaze to see a man with curly brown hair in conversation with Meredith. Oh. Clark raised his brows. "Meredith looks stunning tonight, doesn't she?"

Bruce made eye contact with Clark for the first time in the conversation, eyes narrowed into slits.

"Do... you not think so?" Clark asked cautiously.

A pause. "What does it matter."

"I was just asking? You don't have to answer if you don't have to."

Silence fell over the two.

"Who's the man talking to her?" Clark tried again.

"Someone irrelevant."

"Okay... does this 'someone irrelevant' have a name?"

"Prescott."

"Prescott what?"

"Johnny Prescott."

"Oh. Do you, uh, know him?"

"Unfortunately."

"That... doesn't sound too friendly."

"I'm not friendly."

"I can see that."

Bruce glared at him.

"Am I wrong?" Clark questioned, raising a brow.

Bruce slid his eyes back to the two figures talking.

"I take it you don't like this Johnny Prescott figure."

"What gave it away."

Clark shrugged. "Just a feeling."

Silence.

"Do you want to talk to Meredith?" Clark asked.

"No."

"I could just pull him away from her, you know."

"I don't want to talk to her."

"Then why do you keep looking at them?"

"Because he's a liar and I don't trust him."

"So... you want me to pull him aside?"

"No."

"Do you... want me to listen to their conversation?"

Bruce didn't reply.

Clark, after years of knowing the man, took that as a yes. He fixed his hearing on the two of them, quietly repeating to Bruce what Johnny was saying. "He's telling her about being a doctor... and... how he's making a lot of money? She's laughing but doesn't sound genuine. He's... oh."

Clark didn't want to relay what he was hearing.

"He's what?" Bruce asked sharply.

"He's, uh..." Clark trailed off and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Talking about how he saw you earlier, and how he... um..."

"How he what, Clark?"

"How he thinks you're... uh. In his words, not mine, a try-hard."

Bruce didn't respond but Clark could hear his teeth grinding together.

"Meredith still seems not genuine, and he's now... asking her to dinner tomorrow night. And... yikes. Meredith said no." Clark paused to gauge Johnny's reaction. "He's now trying to convince her. She's rolling her eyes, and telling him to go away, but he's not going away and now Meredith's getting upset and he now sounds a little mad and—"

Clark couldn't finish before Bruce was storming off in the direction of the two. Clark cringed slightly and quickly followed him.

"Prescott," Bruce nearly seethed, overtly sweet and full of irritation.

The brunette looked equally as annoyed. "Wayne."

"I need to borrow Meredith."

"Well, I'm talking to Meredith right now, if you can't see."

"Well, I have something more important to talk to her about."

"Like what?" Johnny laughed. He reeked of alcohol. "How many women you've slept with?"

Meredith sounded irritated. "I'm leaving."

"No, you're not," Johnny snapped.

Clark widened his eyes.

He heard Bruce's blood pressure rise. "Don't tell her what to do."

The businesswoman scowled. "Don't speak for me, Wayne. I can handle—"

"Why not?" Johnny asked, ignoring her and slightly stumbling forward towards Bruce, voice dripping in defense. "She's clearly single."

Clark twisted his brows, deciding to interject. "Uh, that actually doesn't have anything to do with—"

"Who even are you?" Johnny turned his furious gaze towards Clark.

"Ignore him." Bruce stepped in between the two. Clark stared at the situation in absolute confusion. "I'm going to talk to Meredith and—"

Johnny scoffed, laughing emotionlessly. "The world doesn't revolve around you, Wayne."

Clark realized this was all going severely downhill when Bruce started laughing. "This is my party! You realize that, right? Today is literally my birthday."

A few nearby people heard the arguing over the sound of the music and paused to watch the two. Meredith apparently realized that, too.

"Just walk away," she hissed, reaching out to grab Bruce's bicep. "You don't need to cause a scene."

Bruce gently twisted out of her reach, not taking his eyes off of Johnny. "I'm not the one causing a scene, I'm just trying to have a conversation. Prescott's the one—"

"You haven't changed, have you, Wayne?" Johnny groaned in annoyance. "You're always involving yourself where you don't belong."

Bruce had a straight vile look on his face and a wicked smile. Clark couldn't say it wasn't slightly scary.

"Why? Because I'm such a try-hard?"

Johnny looked taken aback. "How do you—"

"At least I'm not the one who's lying about being a doctor and committing medical malpractice."

"I'm not fucking lying!" Johnny practically screeched. "Stop calling me a liar!"

Bruce's laugh sent a shiver down Clark's spine. Meredith, however, seemed utterly unamused by the entire situation. Suddenly, a man broke through the crowd, which Clark recognized as GCPD Commissioner Jim Gordon. He was dressed in a black tux and glared at the scene in front of him.

"Are you seriously fighting with Prescott again, Wayne?" The older man asked. "You two couldn't find it in yourselves to at the very least be civil after twenty-something years?"

Bruce seemed to selectively ignore him and glared at Johnny. "So you don't want me to tell the truth, then?"

Johnny scoffed again. "It's not the fucking truth, but even if it was, I don't know who the hell would've taught you to do that! I mean, it's not like your parents—"

Even Clark wasn't fast enough to grab Bruce's fist before it crashed into Johnny's face and the brunette when flying to the ground.

"Bruce!" Meredith shouted, gripping onto his shirt. Bruce tore out of her grip and kept going towards Johnny.

"Christ, Wayne!" Jim stepped forward and pushed Bruce back, who hardly stumbled.

Johnny stood up, his face bloody and fuming with rage. Clark finally stood in the way and gave the brunette a hard stare. "You need to calm down."

"I don't even know you!"

The crowd was clamoring around them and Meredith was still shouting at Bruce.

"You don't need to know me," Clark tried to reason. "But I need you to calm down."

Johnny was not as fast as Bruce, and Clark easily watched the man wind back a punch. Clark would have caught it, could've step-sided it and spared the man a broken hand, but he did insult Bruce's parents, which was very low and very rude, so Clark supposed the man deserved it.

Once his fist hit Clark's jaw, the sound of shattering bones rang in Clark's ear, and Johnny started screaming. Clark pretended to rub his jaw as if it hurt more than a faint nudge. Luckily, the surrounding watchers were in too much chaos to notice.

Security guards were now making their way through the crowd. Three men dressed in black suits started to pick the screaming man up from the floor and began dragging him away.

Clark tilted his head back to Jim, who was still glancing back and forth between a steaming Bruce and Johnny. "That's a hell of a right hook, Wayne," Clark heard him say. "Where'd you learn that?"

"Well, we aren't all old dogs, Jim," Bruce commented absentmindedly amidst the chaos, shaking out his right hand, not taking his eyes off of Johnny.

Clark noticed the commissioner scrunch his eyebrows in confusion. At the same time, Bruce's eyes flickered with regret as he realized what he'd just said.

"How do you know I call myself an old dog?" Jim questioned.

Bruce met the older man's eyes with a blank stare. Clark could hear Bruce's pulse falter for a single beat. Meredith had moved on to shouting at... Clark wasn't exactly sure anymore, but she was definitely shouting at someone.

"Because there are only three people I refer to myself like that with," Jim continued slowly, crossing his eyes. "And you're not my daughter or Head Detective Graham..."

Cameras started to flash and wolf-whistles rang out into the air as Johnny was pulled through the doors and back inside. Clark suddenly understood what was going on— the other person who Jim referred to himself as an "old dog" with, must've been—

Jim's face paled and his eyebrows shot into the sky at the same time as Devin Elias broke through the crowd, whispered something in Bruce's ear, and started pulling Bruce away.

The commissioner looked as if he was about to pass out. "Wait— you're not—!"

Bruce stumbled into someone as Devin tugged on his hand. Clark almost almost laughed as Bruce turned his head back to the Commissioner with a smirk on his lips and winked before disappearing into the crowd.

Jim appeared utterly shocked, mouth repeatedly gaping, eyes desperately darting around. They landed on Clark, who offered a confused smile, although he knew exactly the realization the older man was currently coming to.

"Are you alright, Commissioner?" Clark asked innocently.

"I..." Jim put a hand over his heart. "I need to sit down."

Clark nodded, putting a hand on the man's back and guiding him towards the bar. "How about a drink?"

Jim didn't respond, looking hollow.

"Anything you'd prefer?"

The commissioner glanced at him weakly. "Whatever has the highest alcohol content."

Clark laughed. "We can do that."

* * *

Devin thought everything had been going well.

Bruce was here, mostly having a good time, hanging out with Oliver, actually having a glass of champagne, staring at Meredith the entire night like the dog that Bruce was and he genuinely laughed a time for two, which was as good of an indication as anything.

The food was immaculate, the dinner had gone amazing, the band sounded superb. Everyone complimented the chocolate fountain (and Devin especially liked that). They all eventually filtered upstairs to the rooftop patio— the weather was great, the stars were out, the bar was overflowing with drinks and overall people just seemed to be having a fun night.

And then, of course, the one moment Devin and Oliver stepped away to thank the kitchen staff for catering the event, they see security sprinting by the doors, and they arrive back on the roof to find that Bruce had broken Johnny's nose, Meredith was now screaming at seemingly everyone, the crowd was in utter chaos, and Clark and Jim Gordon were trying to deescalate the entire situation.

"How the fuck does he manage to make a mess in five goddamn minutes?" Devin growled at Oliver over the rioting of the people. "I'll get Bruce if you go figure out how badly Johnny's hurt."

"Do I have to?" Oliver complained, and Devin shot him a look.

The blond rolled his eyes. "Fine."

They went separate ways, and Devin pushed people out of the way to put a hand on Bruce's shoulder.

"Come with me, idiot," Devin hissed, gripping Bruce's wrist and starting to tug him away.

Bruce struggled for a moment, and then begrudgingly followed him. Devin pulled him through the doors, hearing Johnny's screams echoing down the stairs and seeing Oliver disappear behind them. Devin pushed open the door to the men's lounge, holding it open for Bruce before letting it close.

The sounds of the party were dull in the background.

Devin put his hands on his hips and stared at Bruce.

Bruce's face was blank.

"Well?" Devin prompted.

"Well, what."

"Well, what the fuck was that?!" Devin gestured widely with his hands. "I didn't have fist fighting on the schedule tonight, Bruce!"

"He was pissing me off."

"Wha—! Wel—! You—!" Devin sputtered in shock. "You're not wearing a cape and mask right now! Are you aware of that? You can't just go punching out anyone who's ever made you angry!"

"He brought up my parents."

"Oh, come on. You're just pissed he was talking to Meredith."

"I was not."

"Yes you were!"

Devin watched him walk into the attached bathroom, large and grand like the rest of City Hall. Bruce turned one of the sinks on and started washing his knuckles off, which were slightly bloody from Johnny's face.

Devin sighed, crossing his arms and staring at Bruce in the mirror.

Eventually, Bruce looked up. He rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"Don't ask a question you don't want an answer to."

"Ugh."

They fell into silence.

Devin tapped his foot. "Did you at least get him good?"

Bruce looked back up. He shut off the tap. He shrugged. "Broken nose. He shattered his hand on Clark's jaw."

"Still such a douchebag." Devin couldn't help but snicker. "Why was Meredith yelling at people?"

"When does Meredith not yell at people."

Devin nodded slowly in agreement. "Fair."

They fell into silence again as Bruce took a towel and began to dry his hands.

Devin leaned on the wall, inspecting the other man carefully. He snorted. "You wanna know what Oliver was telling me when we were walking down to the kitchen?"

"Hm."

"It's a secret though, Bruce. You can't tell anyone. I already told Ollie I wouldn't tell you."

Bruce disposed of the towel in a basket and stared at him as if saying, you know who I am, right?

"So." Devin lowered his voice mischievously. "Allegedly, and this is very alleged, nothing's confirmed, but allegedly, Meredith likes someone."

Bruce furrowed his brows. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"And according to Oliver, this alleged man who she allegedly likes is tall and dark and mysterious and may or may not be animal-themed."

Bruce's face was blank.

Devin frowned. "Are you not getting this? I'm saying she likes Ba—"

"I know what that means," Bruce hissed. "Define like."

The older man shrugged. "Oliver just told me she thinks he— or, you, I guess— is attractive."

A pause.

"How do you know Oliver isn't just full of it?"

"Well, from my understanding, Meredith told Lois told Clark told Oliver told me told you. It's, like, a primary source."

"That's not what a primary source is."

"How would you know what a primary source is and isn't?"

"I'm a detective."

"Self-proclaimed."

Bruce huffed, turning around and staring at himself in the mirror. He leaned his hands against the counter.

Devin hoped that would possibly give Bruce the push that he needed to consider doing something with Meredith. Not that Devin should be trying to set his younger sister up with someone— Mare was nearly forty and could choose a suitor for herself— but it was no secret that Bruce always had a thing for her. Plus, Devin had that "older brother sixth sense" which told him the younger man still most likely harbored some feelings for her.

"So...?" Devin purposely sounded like a patronizing school teacher. "What do we do when we learn that a woman finds us attractive?"

Bruce hesitated before immediately reaching up and ripping the tie from his neck. He shoved it in his pocket and started to unbutton the first few buttons of the white-collared shirt.

"What are you doing?" Devin stared at him in confusion.

"She can not like Batman," Bruce growled as he ran his hands through his gelled hair, effectively messing it up. "So I have to make sure there's no way she can connect Batman to Bruce Wayne.'

"Which means...?"

Bruce paused his self-pampering and glanced at the older man. "I'm going to act like an asshole."

He brushed past Devin and walked out of the bathroom.

"No— wait— Bruce!" Devin strode after him. "That is not what we do when we learn that a woman finds us attractive!"

They exited the lounge to see Oliver approaching them from back up the stairs with a grin. "Hey, dude! Nice hit! His nose is sooo broken! Ha!" The playful face then fell off of the blond the closer he got. He shot a bewildered look at Bruce. "Uh, what happened to you?" Oliver glared at Devin. "Did you really let him have sex while I was gone?"

"Wha— no!" Devin protested. "I didn't let him do anything!"

Bruce scoffed and started in the direction of the patio.

"Where's he going?" Oliver asked.

Devin sighed. "To act like a prick."

"Why?"

"I— I don't know. He's a detective or some shit."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"It means I'm gonna need a drink."

* * *

Bruce waltzed back out onto the rooftop patio, adjusting his posture. The cold breeze floating through the crowd felt nice on his stinging knuckles— not that it wasn't a good sting because fuck Johnny Prescott, but the wind was still nice nonetheless.

He sorted through the sea of people, looking for one person in particular.

Bruce couldn't get what Devin had told him out of his head.

Meredith... Meredith found Batman attractive?

He was immediately conflicted. There was a part of him that hated it— that said it wasn't possible— that said that Arthur had been right about her eyeballing Batman during meetings, which wasn't okay, because when did Aquaman know more than he did?

That part of Bruce also said that Meredith Elias should not find men dressed as bats attractive— that she simply wouldn't because Meredith Elias was... better than that. She knew better. She had to. Begrudgingly, Meredith was brilliant— she wouldn't stoop so low as to actually like Batman.

And then there was another part of him, maybe a part that was juvenile and young and rash, a part that Bruce thought was long gone, where he felt an odd sense of... excitement blossom deep in his chest because Meredith liked Batman and Batman was him.

He shook his head and focused back on the wind. He had stupidly accepted more than too many glasses of that stupid champagne— not that Bruce was the easiest to get drunk, considering he had purposely trained his body to resist such things— but Devin had somehow managed to con Bruce into maybe a little over half a bottle, and it had been a long while since Bruce properly drank anything alcoholic.

The feeling that formed in the back of his brain started to irritate him. It was the dullest buzz, nothing even close to the toxins Bruce encountered on the streets of Gotham every night, but unlike those, this was a nice buzz— one that had prompted him to haphazardly rip his tie off in the bathroom— one that subtly reminded him of when he and Oliver used to drink copious amounts of anything with relative alcohol as teenagers.

His eyes cast over the crowd and suddenly he found the woman of the hour— arguably the best-looking one, too, judging by the way all male gazes seemed to drift in her direction. Bruce scowled. He didn't like that.

He found his feet moving, purposely positioning himself in front of two socialites that stood next to West Coast conglomerate owner Trevor Furnsby— who Bruce knew she was going to talk to.

Bruce chuckled politely with the couple, all while watching the black fabric of her dress sway out of his peripheral. He wanted her to move near him so he could irritate her with his suave playboy facade, just to catch a closer glimpse of the smooth skin exposed at her back.

There were so many things wrong with that situation— so many levels of what the fuck was he doing— that it made his blood boil. He didn't disappear for five years and learn how to make his self-control become an unbreakable wall, only to stand there and act like a teenaged boy trying to get a chance to talk to the pretty girl because he was Batman and she was Meredith Elias and the way that her body wrapped in black made his skin crawl was not right in any way, shape, or form and—

"Excuse me." She was suddenly walking past him, just as he had predicted. Her wrist brushed his hand and the fabric of her dress swirled around his shoe as she gave a smile to Trevor. Her hair was curled today, dyed darker, and cut shorter just like when they were younger. It spilled around her shoulders, framing heavier eye makeup and thinned brows. Not that Bruce noticed such things.

After another minute of mindless conversation with the couple, he excused himself, putting on his best billion-dollar grin and turning to Trevor.

"Trevor!" He greeted, putting a hand on the man's warm shoulder.

The CEO nodded, pausing his conversation with Meredith. "Bruce! Happy birthday! How's the hand doing?"

She glared at him, narrowing her eyes that looked especially blue against her makeup. Bruce turned his lips up in a condescending smile. It wasn't a positive reaction, but he couldn't say that he didn't enjoy her attention now being on him.

"Alright." Bruce chuckled. "You should see the other guy, though."

"I did." Trevor gave him a knowing look. "Pretty nasty right hook you have there— remind me to never piss off Wayne Enterprises again. What did the poor guy even say to you?"

"Not sure." Bruce shrugged passively. "I was a lot drunker thirty minutes ago. I sober up well, as you can see."

Trevor laughed again before starting on something about the latest development from Wayne Enterprises' applied sciences division and Bruce nodded in agreement. He didn't have a clue what the other man was saying. Bruce watched Meredith out of the corner of his eye as she put her hands on her hips, tracing the curve of her body.

He paused, forcing himself to listen to Trevor.

Through the itching of his fingertips, he came to the realization that wanted to put his hand on Meredith's waist. That was it. He just wanted to be reminded of what it felt like— and a part of him wanted the reassurance that he could still manage to get her to allow him to do so.

And that's what a douchebag playboy would do. Because that's what he was going for. Had to lead her off his trail. This was purely strategic.

There was the sound of a notification, and Trevor was pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket. He sighed. "I need to go find someone, I'll see you two later."

As he walked away, Meredith turned to Bruce with her arms crossed. He had to actually put effort into not eyeing her plunging neckline, which dipped so low he almost bit the inside of his cheek. The soft music changed in the background— it was a song he was familiar with.

He gave her his usual billionaire grin, but tried to adjust it with a little bit of a genuine smile. Meredith would see through it if he didn't mean it. He held out his hand. "Care to dance?"

She raised an eyebrow and his smile almost faltered. "Why?"

"Why not? I like this song."

"Because you just punched someone in the face. That's why."

He hesitated, quirking a brow. "For you."

"I don't need you to break noses for me, Wayne. I can handle Prescott perfectly fine on my own. We aren't still fifteen."

There was silence. Charm alone wasn't going to get Meredith to dance with him, but it's not like he didn't already know that. He was prepared for her answer.

"What if I give you some of my Lockheed Martin shares?"

Another pause.

"You want to dance that badly? There are a hundred other women here."

He wished she was one of the other hundred women— then he could grab her by the waist, twirl her around, play it off as him just being Brucie Wayne, and leave.

"I'll give you ten percent."

She stared at him.

"Fifteen, and you have a deal."

"Thirteen."

"Fine. Let's get this over with."

He dramatically held out his arm, stepping back and slightly bending at the waist. She rolled her eyes as her hand curled around his bicep and he led her off to the floor of dancing couples. He found a spot amid the crowd, away from all prying eyes and anyone who would want to step in.

She faced him, expression unreadable, and ran her arm up to his chest, resting it by his neck. When he slid his fingers down to reach her waist, he hated how he wanted to shiver in delight. It was soft and warm and she had some sort of perfume on that made him feel a little hazy and he couldn't remember the last time he had so thoroughly enjoyed dancing with a woman.

Just one song. That was all he was going to allow himself to indulge in. That would be enough time to say some offhanded comments, piss her off, and it would be back to business as usual.

"What do you think of the League funding plan?" she questioned evenly. "I haven't gotten the proper chance to ask."

He turned his lip up in a quarter smile. "I think it's... efficient. It works."

"I'm saving you a few million a month, and all you have to say is it works?"

"Well, it does, doesn't it?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What happened to your tie?"

Bruce shrugged at the sudden change of topic. "It's a little warm."

She eyed the open sky and then glanced back at him with confusion.

"Knocking someone out tends to get the blood flowing," he explained.

"I wouldn't consider it knocking someone out," she challenged. "He did get back up."

He raised a brow. "Oh, my bad. Want me to go find him again and do it correctly this time?"

Meredith chuckled slightly, shaking her head.

The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips and suddenly the Bat was shouting in his head— this isn't the plan. This isn't the plan. This isn't the plan because you're supposed to make Meredith hate you—

But there's time, Bruce reasoned. The night was young and he technically didn't have anywhere to be; the champagne was still buzzing at the base of his skull and Meredith's laugh was nice. He had all the time in the world to make her hate him, so would it really be that horrible if he talked to her for a little longer?

The song changed.

"How's Tim doing?" he asked.

She hesitated for a moment. "Well. He's smart. And driven. He's good at what he does. Though, how such an intelligent kid came from under your influence I have yet to understand."

Bruce reeled his head back slightly. "I'll have you know I contain rather extensive knowledge."

"Limited to botany, mechanics, and booze. So impressive."

"Well, if you're ever drunk and your car breaks down and your plants are dying, I wonder who you'll call."

"A mechanic or a gardener. And if I happen to be driving whilst under the influence— the police."

He blew a sharp breath of air out of his nose. "We can't all be as perfect as Meredith Elias."

"I suppose not. Such a shame— imagine our society if everyone were."

"Ah, yes. A society full of classist control-freaks. Perfect."

She scoffed. "There'd be no classism if everyone were equal, Wayne."

A genuine chuckle spilled over his lips. "It's horrible that you acknowledge it, you know that?"

"I'm a self-aware classist control freak." Her eyes then darted behind him. She wrinkled her face. "Ugh. Mary Chesterfield's dress is hideous."

Bruce glanced to the side, where he saw the mayor's wife Mary dressed in purple. "Because that's not judgemental at all."

"Tell me I'm wrong. It's a horrible color. It's like... spoiled grapes."

"What?" Bruce found himself laughing. "Have you been drinking?"

"No!" She narrowed her eyes. "I'm just observant.

"It's purple."

"It's ugly."

"You're critical."

"I'm honest."

"Brutally honest."

"Agree to disagree." She said passively. "What have you been drinking? I saw you and Oliver earlier."

"1841 Veuve Clicquot. Devin had a bottle."

"Oh, so he really brought out the good stuff for you tonight, then. It's delicious— I have some at home."

Bruce nodded, noticing the couple behind them were getting too close. Bruce gently pulled Meredith towards him ever so slightly and maneuvered them away from the couple. Solely for logistical reasons, not because he wanted her to be closer to him— he absolutely did not. Meredith would probably just yell at the couple if they ran into her, so technically Bruce was saving everyone a hassle.

"Regardless, it's surprising that you and Oliver were even talking, much less drinking."

A pause.

"We're on better terms these days."

"That's good to hear." Meredith didn't press, which Bruce appreciated. "What do you think about Devin's wife?"

Bruce thought about his words for a moment. "She's nice. Pretty, too. Too pretty for Devin, in my personal opinion."

"That's rude." Meredith laughed, her head falling slightly forward and almost touching his chest. The nonchalant look on Bruce's face wavered for a moment.

The song changed again.

"I mean that's nice for him, I guess," Bruce said. "You should always date up."

"Oh, so that's as good as he's ever gonna get?"

"Well, he is married, so I'd hope so."

"Touche." She paused. "It's hard for me to 'date up' these days, though."

"Really? Who've you been seeing?"

"No one, but even if I was, how does it get better than me?"

Bruce scoffed in disbelief, muttering under his breath. "There's the ego that I missed."

She playfully tilted her head. "You missed it?"

"It's a saying."

"If that's what you want to believe."

He narrowed his eyes. "I didn't miss you."

"I never specified me."

"I still didn't."

"Mhm."

He glared. "Meredith."

She smiled. "Bruce."

He experienced a strange feeling at the way she said his first name.

She suddenly started chuckling again. "You're stupid."

A counter was all too quickly slipping off of his tongue.

"You're stunning."

He froze. He didn't mean for that to come out— it was a knee-jerk reaction when he danced with women, and the thought had been lingering in the back of his mind throughout the conversation. All things considered, though, it did go along well with his work-in-progress plan of sounding like an asshole.

"I know." She stared at him in the teasing way in which Meredith occasionally did. That wasn't the reaction he had been hoping for. Her hand around his neck slid down. "You've been eyeing me all night."

And just like that, irritation was searing through his veins, his hand on her waist getting slightly less comfortable.

He pressed his lips into a curt smile, repeating her earlier quip. "If that's what you want to believe."

She hummed in amusement as the song changed. He studied her face. Everything about Meredith always just looked... good. He hated it.

She looked up at him again.

He couldn't help his shoulders stiffening. There was the urge to press his lips down just a few inches. Much to his chagrin, his brain wasn't absolutely repulsed at the idea. He was suddenly fifteen again— not almost forty with four kids— staring at a dark-haired Meredith Elias and thinking about her lips.

No one would notice, either. They were tucked away amongst the crowd— everyone around them was too invested in their dancing partner— it wouldn't be hard to steal a kiss before the song ended and leave. His hand felt like it was on fire and he was acutely aware of the distance between them.

"What are you doing after this?" he asked.

"I have work to finish at my office. Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Hmph. Trying to get an invite, Wayne?"

He shrugged for the umpteenth time. "Maybe. Maybe not."

This wasn't going how he thought it would. Meredith seemed to be almost feeding into the playboy personality, which was unusual for her. She never flirted with anyone. She never used her looks to get what she wanted, or humored men in any way— she thought it to be beneath her. It was obvious she didn't like him, and if she didn't want anything, then what angle was she playing at?

Just as the song was ending, her lips were suddenly a few centimeters from his, and his breath hitched in his throat. He wanted to hit himself at the involuntary reaction.

She smirked. "You're easy, Wayne."

She pulled her hand away from his chest and she widened the gap between them. "Thanks for the dance."

As he watched her saunter off into the crowd, he bit back the growl which rose in his throat. He was regretting positioning himself to talk to her— nothing involving Meredith ever went his way. Why Bruce had never quite seemed to learn that was beyond himself. Anger simmered beneath his skin. His hand felt empty and cold. He clenched his fist.

Meredith fucking Elias.

* * *

The clock on the wall read 1:38 a.m.

Meredith glanced at the silver device as she pushed open the door to her office. She sighed. It was late— not the latest she'd ever been there, not by far— but she felt slightly... defeated. She hadn't spotted Batman at the party that night— no mysterious, handsome, brooding man with gorgeous muscles and an intellect to rival her own— just her brother and Johnny Prescott and Bruce Wayne, all of which were not even close to being the elusive Caped Crusader.

She needed to work and distract herself.

Work. Yes. Work sounded good.

With one hand on the door frame, she reached down to slip off her heels. She exhaled in content as her feet pressed flatly into the cool floor.

Meredith sat down at her desk and opened her laptop, brain buzzing with white wine and body clad in a black dress, and got to work. Proposals and planning and crunching numbers and statistics, so much to do and so little time— Meredith's favorite thing.

Around two hours later, her wine fog had worn off but her eyes were still wide, peering at her computer screen with only the warm glow of a singular lamp in the corner to provide her some semblance of vision.

As she reached for a paper on her desk, the light flickered out.

Her hand paused mid-air.

Meredith's eyes glanced around her office, now only cast in dim moonlight from the large windows behind her.

A breeze flew through the room.

She exhaled out of irritation and possibly relief. "Can I help you?"

A dark shape appeared in the center of the floor, seemingly morphing out of the shadows and into the silhouette of a man. Two points sat atop his head. His cape draped over his body.

The rumbling, modulated voice echoed across the room. "I have information on the Deadshot incident."

She raised an eyebrow, pulling her hands away from the keyboard and sitting back in her chair. "Regarding who hired him?"

"The prime suspect is Luthor."

She furrowed her brows. "Lex?"

His silence seemed to say do you know another?

Meredith weighed her words, slowly pushing herself out of her seat. "And what leads you to believe that?"

"He was angry when you rejected his request to back his presidential campaign, and also when you derailed his announcement speech with your public initiation into the League. It would make sense for him to hire Deadshot to fake an abduction so Lex could, in turn, publically save you and force you to partner with him."

She didn't respond as she twisted around her desk, dress now evidently trailing after her since she lost the height of her heels. She crossed her arms, watching the way the moonlight filtered across his cape.

Was she shocked that Lex would hire someone to feign a kidnapping to get his way? No. Would she have to get him back for it? Most likely. Would she—

Meredith paused.

She looked up and furrowed her brows. "How do you know he asked me to back his campaign?"

There was a moment of silence. Hesitation. Why was he hesitating?

"It was obvious, given the way he attempted to announce you as one of his supporters."

She sat back against her desk. Who knew about Luthor asking her that?

The list wasn't long. Other than Lex himself, the only time she had ever mentioned it was during the Bizarro attack, when she told the Flash, who she now knew as Barry Allen, and Bruce Wayne. And Damian Wayne overheard her talking to Lex on the phone in Bruce's office...

Perhaps Barry had told Batman...

Or, perhaps Bruce had told Batman, seeing that the vigilante was Bruce's way into the League, and Batman didn't want to expose the billionaire?

And then Damian. Why did it seem that all the Wayne's were always involved in her business?

"Do you think he'll try again?" she suddenly asked. "Deadshot, I mean."

Her eyes trailed down his body, resting on the dark utility belt clasped around his waist. What would a man such as Batman keep in there? She knew he had those bat-shaped throwing stars, that grappling gun—

Smoke bombs, her mind answered.

It would make sense for someone like him. Useful for quick getaways and appearances, gives the illusion of mystery—

Where would he get smoke bombs?

Wayne Enterprises, she figured. Their weapons division made them for the military. She remembered... she remembered Bruce having one. That day in the street. She had pulled it from his pocket. He'd freaked out and tried to take it back. It had exploded.

Which brings her back to the question she had asked long ago: what the hell was Bruce Wayne doing with a smoke bomb?

"No."

His voice pulled her from her thoughts and she glanced up.

"What makes you so confident?"

Batman gave her an answer she didn't quite catch, instead busy studying the outline of his body. He was tall. So many muscles. The muscles only a man with all the time in the world would be able to have— where he could spend the entire day on his physique, with no time for some trivial nine-to-five, no time to properly feed himself, no outside stresses that the average person would have. The muscles of a billionaire with a butler who fed him upwards of three meals a day, to be specific.

She recalled what Damian had said in her office about how Bruce had apparently taken up boxing. "It's a recent endeavor of his."

Why would Bruce take up boxing?

She had simply excused it with the fact that Bruce had always been a fighter—

A fighter.

Bruce had always been a fighter, hadn't he?

Her chest hurt. There was an itch in the back of her skull that she couldn't quite scratch. It was an itch that, if she thought about it, always appeared when in the presence of Batman.

And now, she was back to another question she'd asked not long ago: who exactly was the man beneath the cowl?

She tilted her head down and turned her body.

Meredith wasn't a religious person— she didn't enjoy the idea of some mystery man in the clouds dictating her every move— but now she prayed to every god she'd ever heard the name of, that if he pulled up the cowl, he wasn't the man who she was starting to realize he was. Because for the first time in her life, Meredith did not want to be right.

She could get it off of him if she wanted to. After all, she had extensive experience in finessing billionaire playboys, and what couldn't Meredith Elias do?

"I'm nervous," she suddenly said as she crossed her arms. Not exactly a lie, but not exactly the truth.

There was a long silence.

"Why." It was never much of a question when he asked such things, more a statement.

"I..." She let out a long sigh and leaned her arms on her desk. Thank God she was a good actress. "The Deadshot incident... shook me more than I like to let on."

Lie.

He didn't respond.

She let out a breathy chuckle and turned her head back to him. "You know, Batman, after some thought, I've come to the rather unfortunate realization that you and I are more similar than we want to believe." She twisted her body and let her weight sit against the desk. "I think... I think we're both victims of paranoia— a pretty nasty monster in my opinion, but, I mean, you get it, right? Distrusting of everything and everyone, having to spend long days and sleepless nights awake calculating every possible outcome because if we don't, who will?"

Meredith sighed, brushing down her hair. "And all of this hero business— men who can fly and out-run race cars— skilled marksmen for hire who hunt people down and fight Bat-themed vigilantes at nights... it's..." She paused and bit her lip. "It's not in my wheelhouse."

Lie.

"And as the control freak that the media says I am," she continued. "It's scary. Because I don't know how to control it. And while I appreciate your confidence in the fact that Deadshot is safely locked away for now... you can't tell me a man as smart as him won't get out eventually. And what if he decides to finish the job? And you also can't tell me there won't be others like him— others who will want more than just to abduct me—"

All lies. Lies and lies and lies. Meredith Elias wasn't scared of some costumed men with guns. But she did know how to stroke a certain playboy's ego in all the right ways— and he had always been a sucker for pretty women in need.

She couldn't help but notice the way he had somehow moved closer to her throughout the little spiel. She couldn't exactly pinpoint the emotion she felt because of it.

Maybe hope was a good word— hope that he wasn't who she thought he was— but that was slim to none, because she was never wrong. Ever.

"It's not your job to worry about that." His tone was quieter.

She choked out a brief laugh. "It's my job to worry about everything."

"It's mine— and I'm good at what I do. You need... you need to trust me."

Meredith stared at him, stunned.

She laughed again. "You really are telling me— fellow victim of paranoia, queen of calculation and pretty white lies— to trust you? A man who I don't know anything about other than his obsession with small mammals? Please, Batman. It's not in the character of people like us to say such ludicrous things— it's a little unbecoming of you, to be honest."

It was such intense stillness— the firmness of the desk pressed against her back and him standing a mere foot away— his shoulders broad and cape cascading down his arms, shrouding his body and her peripheral vision in midnight black.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

There was that long silence again.

"You know," she started softly. "I went to a party tonight. That one I was telling you about— Bruce Wayne's. And..." She chuckled. "The idiot punched a man in the face because he wouldn't leave me alone, like we were in junior high all over again or something. I think he was also drunk, mostly because of my brother and Oliver Queen, who Bruce actually seemed to be getting along with. Not unwelcome, just... surprising. I'm sure after a bottle of wine or two I'll get what happened between them out of Oliver."

She eyed his heavy boots with a slight smile on her face. She shook her head. "And then Bruce asks me to dance. What's wrong with him? He breaks a guy's nose and then expects me to dance? What a loser."

A pause.

"I mean, I still did, mostly because he bribed me with more shares of this company I've been vying after for a while, but also because I was a little drunk, and, maybe I still am—"

Another lie.

"—And maybe Bruce looked handsome— not that he always doesn't— but don't tell him I said that because it'll only inflate his ego into the clouds— and I guess if I was going to dance with anyone it should be someone easy to look at, right? But that's not my point, my point is that we actually talked for the first time in probably twenty years— really talked— about something other than business and it was... shockingly enjoyable. And I'm not sure how I feel about that."

She watched his shoulders fall ever so slightly out of their usual square, firm posture.

And she finally had him. Hook, line, and sinker.

She noticed his cape had flipped up on the corner as it sometimes did. She slowly reached her hand up to fix it, and he didn't move to stop her. The Kevlar material was warm beneath her touch.

Meredith had to bite back a smirk. Her earlier statement had been right— he was easy.

"What..." Her voice was hushed— confused. Her eyes studied the cowl. She couldn't tell if he was actually getting closer or if she was just imagining it. "What are you going to do if someone actually takes me?"

There was a long silence, one where she could hear her heartbeat in her ears and the low hum of the air conditioning throughout the office. The lights were still turned off; murky shades of gray danced around the walls and she suddenly took note of the way his chest rose and fell.

His gloved hand ghosted down the slope of her waist and her confidence wavered.

"They won't."

His modulated tone was a rumble from his throat, spilling into her ears and down her torso and sending tiny, brilliant shocks through her toes— swirling in her brain and making her thoughts one big, idiotic jumble. She suddenly couldn't think straight. She couldn't remember why she was here or why he was here or why he was attractive or why she couldn't allow this to keep going in the direction it was currently going—

"And what if you couldn't?" she breathed slowly, and Meredith pulled herself together just enough to realize that he had definitely moved closer, because his head was tilted down towards hers and her body seemed to be swamped by his frame and she felt like she was on fire and suddenly she was moving a hand ever so slightly across the symbol spread on his chest, motioning like she wanted him to stop but not being able to bring herself to push him away but she should've because she was Meredith Elias and he was Batman and this was all so wrong—

She noticed a motion below her and saw his other hand rise out of the folds of his cape. It brushed up her body, grazing her jawline, and finally landed just beneath his chin, where he started to tug on the black material.

Her heart came to a stop as he pulled it up just enough to reveal his mouth— and in the dim light of the moon— covered in clouds or maybe city smog, they'd never truly know— she caught a glimpse of pale, milky skin and pink lips, all too familiar, parted gently below a small scar on his cupid's bow and suddenly the world shattered around her because she had been right.

Of course she had been. Meredith Elias was never wrong.

"I would," he purred, voice still purposely low and dripping in playboy billionaire.

The smell of 1841 Veuve Clicquot drifted from his lips and ghosted over the bridge of her nose.

Her face was blank and her eyes drank in the shape of his lips, leading up into what she knew was a Roman nose and steel blue eyes and a strong brow, all dusted under a raven hairline.

Then his lips somehow made their way in front of hers and he smelled of sandalwood. It would've been comforting if he was dressed how he usually dressed at their meetings in her boardroom.

"How do you know?"

His breath fanned her face and his other hand still rested just above her hip, not too high, and not too low, just like the Son of Gotham was trained to do.

"Because I'm Batman," Bruce Wayne said.

There was unbearable silence.

Her eyes fell shut and suddenly Meredith was the one to press her lips up into his.

It was anything but chaste— it never was with him. His mouth was hot and tasted like champagne— and Bruce Wayne really was the biggest idiot on this planet because he didn't even bother to cover up the fact that he kissed her how he used to, as if she somehow wouldn't notice— smooth and languid, like he was drunk off of physical touch and she couldn't say she didn't enjoy it because she reciprocated with equal intensity and she wasn't sure why—

She moaned softly because she knew he liked it and his grip tightened on her waist and his tongue swept across her bottom lip— all very Bruce, not Brucie or Batman or whoever the hell else he played every day.

And so Meredith let him explore her mouth because it was all part of the act, not because she wanted to, because this was just her plan to seduce the Bat and nothing more. Nothing at all.

The ridge of his mask was preventing her from deepening the kiss and she furrowed her brows, reaching up and starting to push it back over his nose.

A hand was immediately around her wrist.

Meredith pulled away and opened her eyes. His lips were stained in red lipstick. He breathed heavily. She supposed she did, too.

"I—" His tone was dripping in his bedroom register and he seemed to forget he had no voice modulation. "You can't."

She slowly took her hands off of him. "I know."

Meredith brushed past him and to the other side of her desk. She flattened out her dress and pulled back her chair as if nothing had happened— as if she didn't just uncover the biggest secret in Gotham City and then make out with it.

She inhaled. "See you next week, Batman. Let me know if there are any more updates on Deadshot."

He was frozen for a moment, white slits boring into her head, before he slipped the mask back over his chin and disappeared.

She stared at the contents on her desk for what seemed like an eternity, and finally let out a trembling breath as her hands shook, still warm from his chest. They ran through her hair as she somehow managed to sit down, and then they caught her head as she let it hang sullenly.

Droplets of water splashed across her keyboard and accompanying papers.

Meredith cried.

* * *

Hi everyone! Sorry for such a long wait, I've just been super busy with school/life and I was deathly sick with a cold for like three weeks haha. Also, this chapter was incredibly long with a lot of moving parts, but I'm really happy with how it turned out! Thank you all for 45k and I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far :)

xo Alexa