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“Ready?” You glance at Bruce expectantly with one hand on the handle of the car door, drawing your winter coat tighter around your exposed shoulders with your other hand.
“Hang on.” He chances a peek at the tinted windows surrounding the two of you before reaching out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear for you. You do your best not to memorize the sensation of his warm, rough fingers tracing over the curve of your ear as he draws his hand back. “There. Now we’re ready.”
You crack a grin. “Let’s give ‘em a good show, then.”
With that, you open the door and climb out of the vintage Corvette, arranging your expression into a grim one when the camera flashes begin to go off.
“Mrs. Wayne, look this way!”
“Mrs. Wayne, who are you wearing tonight?”
“Smile for the camera, Mrs. Wayne!”
The last one is what makes you deliberately narrow your eyes in a glare aimed directly at the camera lens in your face as Bruce slots in at your side after handing off his keys to the valet, his fingers resting gingerly at the small of your back to guide you away from the offending photographer.
“Well timed,” he mutters so that only you can hear him beneath the shouts of the paparazzi surrounding the two of you.
“If I have to hear one more sleazy prick tell me I’d look prettier if I smiled, I can’t be held responsible for any damages that follow,” you huff irritably through gritted teeth. To anyone else, it probably looks like you’re unhappy that Bruce is touching you, which you suppose is for the best.
Bruce doesn’t visibly smile at your annoyance, but he does let out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a stifled chuckle as he ushers you up the stairs.
“Just a little while and we can sneak out,” he reassures you under his breath as he takes your coat from you and hands it to the coat-check attendant, collecting the ticket handed back to him and tucking it into his pocket. “Alfred promised he’d have hot cocoa waiting for us at home.”
That, at least, gives you a reason to put one high-heeled foot in front of the other as the two of you step into the hotel ballroom Wayne Enterprises has rented out for the holiday charity gala; Alfred’s hot cocoa is the only thing you’d ever describe as “heaven in a mug.”
“Well, there’s something you don’t see every day,” a tall stranger says cheerfully as he separates himself from the other gala attendees to approach the two of you. There’s an easy smile on his face that directly contrasts the scowl Bruce usually wears at formal gatherings. “A Wayne actually smiling? To what do we owe such a rare sight?”
You hurriedly rearrange your expression back into a neutral one as you scramble for an excuse; you cannot tell a total stranger you’re just eagerly looking forward to nursing a mug of delicious hot cocoa later that night.
“Just happy to get out of the tower for a little while,” you answer mildly instead.
“I don’t blame you. From what I’ve heard, your husband keeps you locked up there like some kind of Rapunzel.” The man winks at you, which sends an uneasy chill down your spine even as Bruce’s fingertips press into your back. “What gives, Bruce? You can’t hide a pretty gem like this away.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m the one keeping her there, John,” Bruce answers stiffly. When you look up at him, you realize his jaw is tight as he stares the other man down unflinchingly. “Where’s your company this evening?”
“Probably wandered off to powder her nose somewhere.” “John” waves off the question dismissively before turning back to you. “John Daggett, owner of Daggett Industries.” He holds out a hand to you, and when you warily accept it, he lifts your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. “Lovely to finally meet you.”
You withdraw your hand the moment he loosens his grip enough to do so, deliberately stamping down the urge to wipe your knuckles on the admittedly very expensive satin dress you’re wearing.
“Likewise,” you manage to grit out, trying for something as polite as possible despite your deep discomfort.
“I’m gonna get a drink,” Bruce mutters as he untangles himself from your side, and you miss his solid warmth the moment he pulls away. “You want one?”
“Yeah,” you say instead of what you really want to - please don’t leave me alone right now - and force a tight smile. “Sure.”
He nods briefly in acknowledgment, his blue eyes darting warily between you and Daggett before he turns away to head across the ballroom to the bar.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Daggett adds to you, drawing your attention back to him. “You really do have a nice smile. It’s a shame people don’t see it often.”
You resist the urge to shrug; you’re at a gala, after all, not a casual get-together.
“I’m flattered,” you answer neutrally instead. “But I don’t really have much of a reason to smile at these things. I mean, the cause is wonderful, of course-” You nod to the banner displaying the name of the military veterans’ association Bruce’s donations will be going to that night. “-but I’m not really one for public gatherings.”
“So I’ve noticed.” Daggett’s eyes drift briefly to where Bruce is lingering by the bar on the other side of the room while waiting for his and your drinks, his eyes narrowed in your direction. “I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Bruce actually bring you anywhere.”
You give up on formalities and shrug one shoulder. “I usually ask him to leave me at home. Like I said, parties aren’t really my thing.”
“If you say so.” Daggett leans in abruptly, lowering his voice conspiratorially as he adds, “You’ll blink twice if you want out, won’t you?”
You’re so startled that you laugh incredulously, unable to help it.
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Daggett, but I’m very much fine where I am,” you reassure him.
“It’s just-” He hesitates. “You seem like a sweet girl, and I’d hate to see someone like you trapped in such a loveless marriage.”
“I’m not trapped.” You step back, your polite smile frozen in what you presume must look like a grimace now. “I’m-” You break off; you can’t tell him you’re the happiest you’ve ever been - painful high heels and uncomfortable dresses aside - and throw all of the hard work you and Bruce had put into creating your public image out the window.
“Well, if you change your mind, or if you ever want something new-” Daggett glances briefly at Bruce again, who is making his way back to the two of you with drinks in hand. “-feel free to give me a call sometime.” He produces a business card out of nowhere, extending it to you.
“I won’t be needing to take you up on that,” you reassure him grimly, making no move to reach for the card. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a drink with my name on it.”
You turn away, ignoring the eyes on your back as you meet Bruce halfway across the room.
“You just had to leave me alone with him,” you grumble, plucking the martini glass out of his outstretched hand.
“Sorry. If I was around him for another ten seconds, I might have lost my temper and punched him.” His eyes drift over the top of your head and fix on the man you had left behind. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself, though.”
You snort derisively under your breath. “You’re kidding, right? The guy tried to proposition me into cheating on you.”
Bruce’s gaze drops to you, and you can’t quite read the emotion behind the carefully cultivated neutral expression on his face.
“Oh?” His tone is odd.
“Yeah.” You take a much larger gulp of your Cosmopolitan - lighter on the vodka and heavier on the lime and cranberry juice, just like you prefer - than you had originally intended, relieved that you don’t accidentally aspirate on your drink as you swallow. “I assume the paparazzi already got their photos of us coming in, so how much longer do we need to be here?”
Bruce tosses back the clear contents of the glass tumbler he’s clutching before setting it on an empty table and raising an eyebrow expectantly back at you. You only barely manage to bite back a broad, relieved smile by disguising it behind your glass as you drain its contents.
“You good to drive?” you ask as you set your glass beside his abandoned tumbler.
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I was drinking water, don’t worry.”
You relax, relieved. “Good, because I really didn’t want to have to wait for you to sober up before we headed out.”
Bruce rolls his eyes again, but there’s a fondness behind it now as he slides his arm back around you to settle his hand against your spine possessively. For once, you don’t shy away from his touch, savoring the warm rasp of his callused palm against your bare skin where your backless dress has exposed it.
“Let’s go home.”
You catch sight of a sprig of mistletoe on your way out, artfully decorated with holly berries and twists of green leaves as it hangs in the doorway. You can see John Daggett’s eyes fixed on the two of you in your peripheral vision and taste the faint bitterness of vodka lingering on your tongue, the combination of which bolsters your confidence just enough to pull Bruce to a stop beside you.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, sounding genuinely bewildered, and you throw all caution to the wind as you stand on your toes to drag him into a firm kiss.
Logically, you know this shouldn’t make you as anxious as it does; you have every right to kiss your husband, after all. But the way Bruce freezes against you, his hands hovering awkwardly on either side of your waist like he’s not sure what to do with them, sends a shock of ice-cold realization through you as you pull away hurriedly. What is wrong with you?
“Sorry,” you manage to get out, your voice leaving you in a breathless rush of air. “Just - tradition, you know?”
You gesture upward feebly, and Bruce’s wide blue eyes follow the movement up to the mistletoe hanging over your heads.
“Oh,” he says awkwardly, but offers no other insight.
Selfish disappointment sinks in your chest like a stone; what had you expected to happen? Had you really thought he would kiss you back?
“I, um - you’ve got a little-” You reach up automatically, thumbing away a stray smear of vivid red lipstick at the corner of his mouth that you had inadvertently left behind, and that seems to jolt him back to reality as he clears his throat deliberately and drops his gaze away from yours.
“I think you got it.”
“Yeah.” You lower your hand again, and to your relief, he just places his hand back against your spine to lead you out of the ballroom without another word.
“I swear, whoever invented high heels must have had a sadistic streak,” you complain as you cradle your steaming mug of hot cocoa and flex your aching toes ruefully, stretching out your pajama pant-clad legs.
Bruce regards you quietly from the other end of the couch for a moment before setting his own mug on the coffee table in front of the two of you and gesturing to his knee. You blink bemusedly at him, and he sighs long-sufferingly.
“Your legs. Put them up.”
You stare at him, your brain whirling madly to try and comprehend the offer, before he gives up on waiting for you, reaching out and curling his fingers around one of your bare ankles before tugging it up until your heel rests on his thigh. Stunned, you let your other leg also drift into his lap, and the moment his warm fingers begin to rub your sore feet, you involuntarily let out a contented hum.
“Best husband ever,” you declare as you let your head fall back briefly against the arm of the couch.
Bruce snorts derisively as he traces slow circles into your heels.
“The standard’s set low, I see.”
“Not really.” You sip your hot cocoa as you send a silent, but fervent thanks to Alfred for leaving out a full pot of the decadent drink for you and Bruce to enjoy before going to bed. “You’d better leave me at home for these galas from now on because I really hate acting like I’m miserable around you.”
Bruce’s mouth twitches into a smirk. “That much of a stretch, huh?”
You dig your toes into his palms in retaliation, which makes him wrinkle his nose at you in response.
“Very much so, yes.” Your tone softens despite yourself. “You deserve better, Bruce.”
He drops his gaze away from you in favor of focusing on massaging your ankles.
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“That’s okay, ‘cause I do.” You nudge your heel against his thigh until he looks back up at you, his expression unreadable. “You’re really good to me, you know that?”
He flushes a faint pink. “I’m not.”
“You are.” You kick him again gently. “The fact that you don’t see it is mind-boggling.”
He’s quiet for a long beat before he admits, not quite meeting your eyes, “I’ve never seen you smile at anyone like that before.”
“Like what?” you ask, bewildered, before it hits you. “Wait, did you seriously think I was flirting with Daggett tonight?”
Bruce deliberately doesn’t answer you, but his hands briefly squeeze your ankles as he works slow circles into them.
“Oh my God, you actual dumbass.” You shift to set your mug aside. “The only reason I was smiling was because of how ridiculous it was that anyone would think I’d want to be anywhere but right here.”
Finally, Bruce drags his dark blue eyes up to meet yours.
“Yeah?” His expression may be unreadable, but his voice is small and hopeful, and it tears at your heart.
“Yeah.” You hesitate before drawing your legs out of his lap and shuffling across the distance between the two of you until you can wrap your arms around him properly as his hands find your waist to clutch you carefully. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” you insist as you bury your face into his neck, selfishly savoring the spicy, warm scent of the expensive cologne still clinging to his skin. “I wouldn’t have married you if you weren’t.”
His breathing hitches above you as his grip on you tightens slightly.
“Yeah?” he whispers again.
“Yeah.” You press your cheek against his shoulder. “Nobody else could ever compare.”
He hesitates before pressing his lips tenderly into your hair - a rare gesture that you’ve afforded him in the past, but never the other way around.
“I’m glad,” he says quietly at last, and your heart stutters in your chest.
I love you. I’m so in love with you. I wish you could see yourself the way I do.
You don’t say it out loud. Instead, you tilt your head up to kiss the underside of his jaw in return before pulling back again and nodding to his abandoned mug.
“You want some more cocoa?”
Bruce huffs a chuckle, and you deliberately ignore the dampness at the corners of his eyes as he nods.
“Yeah, I could go for another cup.”
You grin brightly as you untangle yourself from him, padding across the living room and into the adjacent kitchen to retrieve the pot of hot cocoa. Once the two of you are situated with fresh cups, you curl up again, this time against Bruce’s side.
“Besides, there’s one more reason I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” you inform him, and when he raises an eyebrow, you elaborate, “Who else is gonna drink hot cocoa with me at-” You glance at the clock. “-just past midnight after we were forced to be extroverts for the evening?”
He snorts derisively around a sip of cocoa and concedes, “Okay, fair point.”
You hum contentedly as his arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you in closer; your sentiment means more to him than he’ll ever openly admit.
“Are you planning on going out on patrol tonight?” you ask, and he hesitates.
“I was thinking about it,” he admits. “But to be honest…I don’t think I want to be anywhere else right now, either.”
You hide a broad smile behind a sip from your mug as you nestle your head against his shoulder.
“I’m glad.”
Neither of you mentions the kiss you had given him impulsively earlier that night, and you are content to let the moment slide into obscurity, instead focusing on the solid warmth of his arm around you and the taste of chocolate on your tongue.