"Good afternoon, Alfred." Anya greeted.
"Anya, to what do we owe the pleasure?" He ushered her forward inside the entryway.
"Work, of course."
"When will you visit simply for the sake of visiting?" The butler teased.
Anya smiled. "I doubt Bruce would like that very much."
The man's reply was mumbled, but Anya thought he'd said something along the lines of: "Never say never."
"Mr. Wayne is somewhere around here. Would you like to wait in the office while I fetch him?"
Anya nodded.
***
Anya was a firm believer in finding who a person was based on the media they consumed, most importantly: through what they read.
She wondered over to the bookshelves lining Bruce's office walls. They were all leatherbound and dusty as if they had not been touched or read by a person in decades.
Alfred seemed quite committed to his duties as a butler, even the brass doorknobs were shined spotless. It was a wonder that he would let such debris cover any surface of the home.
Virginia Woolf. William Blake. Bronte. Shakespeare, of course.
She wondered if Bruce had ever read these books. Had he ever run his hands over the words of Jane Eyre. The dust suggested no, but perhaps once, many moons ago.
Her eyes trailed to another shelf, picture frames.
In one frame: a drawing. Three stick figures, two with line bodies, and one with a triangle body. The figures were labeled: Mom, Dad, Bruce.
She turned to the next.
A woman on a beach: a bright, wide grin on her face, and a child in her arms.
Anya immediately recognized the woman as Martha Wayne.
A throat cleared.
The sound startled her. Anya looked back to see Bruce leaning against the doorframe.
She felt a blush creep up her neck.
"Just looking," She turned back to the books, so he couldn't see her guilty expression. "Are these all yours?"
Though she couldn't see him, she heard him walk over, and felt his presence when he finally stood next to her.
"My father's." He replied.
"Of course. I forgot you favor American literature." Her eyes darted to the photograph then back to the books. She hoped he hadn't noticed.
He did. Of course, he did.
His hand reached for the frame, bringing it closer, so they both could observe it.
"My mother."
Anya nodded. "She's beautiful."
"She was."
Anya watched his face. His expression was soft, but there was something in his eyes: longing, aching for the mother he once had.
She didn't know what to say. She'd lost her parents, too. Her mother at a much older age, she was well into medical school by then, but her father was lost at a time she didn't even understand the significance of death- the finality of it.
Bruce's eyes trained on the photo, a snapshot of a previous life, and Anya's eyes trained on him.
Bruce finally set the photo down.
"I'm sorry." She said, because what else could she?
"It was a long time ago."
"It never feels like a long time ago."
Bruce looked at her, an unsaid question on his lips.
Anya responded anyway. "Both my parents. Dad when I was a kid, and mom a few years ago. Cancer."
They stood there a minute: two orphans, reminiscing on parentage.
"We should get to work."
"We should."
___________________________________________________________________________
Author's Note: I know we need more Anya and Bruce interactions. I KNOW! I'm working on it. I just wanted to post something small for today, and I feel like relating over their parents is something that will allow them to get to more personal interaction. Next chapters will have more of them, I promise. I'll have the next chapter up sometime this weekend, maybe tomorrow. - C
IMPORTANT QUESTION. PLS ANSWER: Do you guys prefer shorter chapters like this one (600-700 words) or do you like my longer chapters (1000+ words) or a combo of both?