Chapter Text
Bruce doesn’t want to be here.
In fact, he’s sure the entire room is painfully aware of the newly-reinstated Wayne Enterprise CEO’s feelings towards tonight’s event.
As if standing in the corner, alone, was any indication.
Charity events do nothing for Bruce — not when the charity is clutching diamonds around the throats of the wealthy and laughing into glasses poured from $500 bottles of champagne.
However, Alfred made the appropriate point that the Prince of Gotham needed to be present if there was any hope in restablishing public trust in the Wayne family legacy. Bruce had hoped he could mend that legacy from the privacy of internal facilitation. It’s his second month as CEO — though the title is mostly more of a gesture than anything.
The Board of Directors hold his leash.
The sole Wayne shifts from foot to foot — and in his pocket, he digs at the raw skin of his hands. Someone laughs across the crowded ballroom, and the music drones on.
Bruce’s skin itches.
It’s getting late.
He should be out.
He’s about to down his champagne and drop the flute on the plate of a passing waiter when suddenly there’s a hand on the arm of his suit jacket. Blue eyes shift, and he realizes it’s Monet.
Chief Marketing Officer, Monet Mwangi.
A friendly face. A light in the dark.
The closest he has to a friend.
Her smile is wry — and just as dry as the look he gives her when she speaks.
“You look like you’re about to fashion a garrotte with your own tie, Mr. Wayne. Is that Armani?”
Bruce actually scoffs. In the months that Monet has gotten to know Bruce, those sorts of expressions were rare. He was exceedingly hard to read — something she had started to contribute to his general air of exhaustion.
He looks better tonight, but Monet muses that a good suit will do that to a man.
If only he consider any other color except black.
Bruce had become a bit of her passion project. With her management of the marketing Wayne Enterprises, and in turn The Wayne Foundation, she knew that if Bruce was to truly become the face of the company just as his father once was, he’d need a little help.
Nothing a haircut, a personal stylist, and a good brand of concealer hadn’t helped. So far, so good.
If only he would socailize.
Even now, as he looks out over the crowd, he seems entirely disinterested to rub elbows with Gotham’s upper echelon.
“How are you?”
“I thought you had the night off.”
It’s Monet’s turn to snort. “I’m celebrating.”
Bruce’s dark brow raises in a placid gesture of intrigue. She can see the ghost of dark circles beneath his eyes when he does so.
Monet sips her drink. “We finally found a promising administrative assistant. She’s interviewing Monday.”
Bruce hums. He’s quiet for a second, then in a slow rasp he offers up:
“You’re hiring a glorified coffee runner?”
Monet is laughing before she realizes it. There it is — the rare glimmer of the man he is beneath... all of it. The burden, the horror, the lonesomeness. Beneath the dark, there’s something else there. She can see it in the flash of a shy smile that is quieted when he bows his head.
“Honestly,” Monet finally offers with a smirk, “I dare you to ask her to fetch that sugar bomb latte you like so much.”
A disgruntled little hum. Sheepish, almost. “S’not that bad.”
“It’s gross.”
“S’mocha—”
“Like I said,” she says as someone calls her name and waves her down by the ice statue. Monet starts off, wagging her finger. “Monday. She’s interviewing at 10am. I hope you’ll at least make an appearence, Mr. Wayne. Let her see that the CEO is involved, yes?”
Bruce’s lips twist.
He nods, then.
And, alone once more in a sea of people, he slips away.
Wayne Enterprises is...
Well, what is the word for it?
Bustling — a city within a city. A hundred or more floors of life, of offices, of glass skywalks and orante decor. Modernity kissing the remnants of Old Gotham’s nouveau. Beautiful, really.
As you wait in the Wayne Enterprises’ marketing lobby, you can feel the gnawing bite of insecurity creep up your spine. You fiddle with your earring, hand clasped neatly over your CV and resume — printed on the expensive paper the Staples across the street offers. You’d nearly been mowed down by a taxi retrieving it before your 10am interview.
And here you are, fifteen minutes early.
Why did you do this to yourself?
What, so you could spiral quietly in the busy suite, being ignored by the copy writers and photographer and designer and various VPs running about?
You shift on the stiff leather couch.
“You’re early.”
You blink.
When you look up, it’s Miss Mwangi in the doorway of the marketing suite.
Your smile immediate — the handshake you both share is warm. Your immediate anxiety is eased by her easy going attitude.
“It’s habit.”
She leads you down a long hall with floor to wall windows. Outside, the sun is bright. Gotham swirls below. Up here, worlds away, it feels dizzying.
It’s in a bright conference room that she introduces you to a woman named Amanda — from HR — and another man named Philipe whose role is Communications Manager. Monet Mwangi refers to him as her second in command. They’re both nice, you recognize Amanda as the one who’d given you the phone screening interview five days ago.
You try to remember to sit up straight. To breathe.
They hum over your resume, and then the interview begins.
Meanwhile, Bruce is late.
He promised Monet and — fucking shit.
This door is a pull not a push.
He enters the marketing suite and hopes, at least, someone will assume he’s hungover and not see the truth of it — that he’s wrestling through a minor concussion.
Baseball bats will do that.
You’re in the middle of answering a question about your preferred method of constructive feedback when suddenly there’s a knock on the glass door behind you.
Even with the sunglasses, this entire suite is too bright. His eyes stay on the carpet. Bruce ignores the edge of a headache creeping up on him. The three Excedrin Extra Strength in his coat pocket are like a safety blanket.
Across the table, Monet’s eyes light up. You pause.
“There he is.”
You twist in your seat.
It’s in that moment that you come face to face with Bruce Wayne for the first time.
He’s tall.
Swathed in a jet-black wool jacket that looks like it cost double your rent. His hair hangs in his face, and his eyes are hidden by sunglasses that sit neatly on his crooked nose. Bruce Wayne’s entire outfit is void black, dark enough to swallow the light of the room as he moves slowly to push open the door and slide into the room.
Motorcycle boots pad softly on the carpet. Out of place.
He was in a rush this morning.
“Sorry—” comes a soft rasp from the man.
“Mr. Wayne, let me introduce you to our guest—”
When Bruce finally looks up, he feels like he’s been slapped across the face.
You’re standing there in the light, smoothing down your soft sweater and offering your hand with an earnest smile. You’re saying something, something about how it’s a pleasure — and Bruce is just fucking standing there staring at your hand as if he’s completely forgotten how to fire a single synapse in his brain.
...What are you doing here?
Maybe his concussion is worse than he thought.
Monet’s brows tighten for a brief second.
Bruce clears his throat. After a faltered moment, he takes your hand and shakes it. Immediately, you notice the callouses on his hands.
His breath holds steady in a moment of wary anticipation.
Would you know it’s him?
Would you know, if he spoke your name?
The truth is you don’t.
Not even when Monet elbows him, reminding him of his manners, and he straightens himself up in his chair. He removes his sunglasses. In the morning sun, his eyes are so blue you almost choke on your words — something about your sought compensation for the role.
He squares his shoulders and you realize suddenly he’s taller than anyone at the table. His posture, though, and his habit of shrinking himself, lends him to come across as smaller.
Throughout the interview, he rarely meets your gaze. Only when you look away do you catch the edge of his eyes. Then, they bound away.
By the time the interview is finished, you’ve settled:
Bruce Wayne is a bit strange. Aloof. The rumors about the Wayne son seem to be something of fact, then — the hermit Prince of Gotham is something of a weirdo.
...You like it.
When you leave, you feel confident about the interview.
You have no idea, that as you hail a cab, Bruce Wayne is offering Monet two words:
“Hire her.”