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Bruce let out a gentle chuckle, laughing along with the other aristocrats surrounding him, all wearing their finest, drinking champagne that cost more than rent in downtown Gotham.
Bruce counted the seconds, having learnt just how long he should keep laughing before letting his chuckle slowly die down to be replaced with a smile, which he would hold a couple seconds more before relaxing his face just a bit, but not too much, to keep his lips curved upward enough to seem like he’s having a good time, but not so much that he would unsettle his guests by grinning at nothing.
Every move was calculated, every pleasantry scripted, every facial expression rehearsed in front of a mirror. In order to keep away suspicions of his identity, he had to act as little like Batman as possible, as little like himself as possible. Now, he wasn’t Batman, he wasn’t Bruce – he was Brucie Wayne. Brucie’s neutral face wasn’t scowling and unreadable, it was smiling, approachable. Brucie’s voice wasn’t rough and monotone, it was bubbly and inviting. Brucie wasn’t quiet, didn’t prefer to keep to himself and listen to others in peace, Brucie was talkative, social, made small talk and told jokes, flirted with young women swooning over him, sometimes the older ones too, Brucie wasn’t picky.
Brucie loved hosting charity galas in the name of the Wayne Foundation. Bruce, not so much.
Alright, he liked the fact that they were able to raise a lot of money for good causes. He hoped investing in the poor, the homeless, the at-risk youth of Gotham, would in the long run make Batman’s job easier, perhaps even obsolete.
He just wished he didn’t have to parade himself around like a circus animal to get the elites to open up their bottomless wallets.
Bruce took a sip of his drink – non-alcoholic, of course, Bruce had been dead wrong when he thought his past addiction no longer controlled him, that he could handle a bit of wine in order to keep up appearances – and glanced at his watch, even that in a carefully practiced manner so no one would notice him checking the time. It was perhaps a very minor detail, but Bruce was a stickler for details. Brucie Wayne didn’t check the time, he never wanted the party to end.
Bruce didn’t sigh when he realized he still had to endure the torture for another hour and 53 minutes, instead flashing a smile and asking Mrs. Astor how business was going.
Miss Fridman was standing too close when she offered to spend the night with Bruce after the gala would come to an end. Bruce politely declined, giving the good old excuse of having an early meeting in the morning, before excusing himself to talk to other guests, acting like he wasn’t desperate to get the young lady’s hands off of his bicep.
Just trying to walk across the main hall of the manor, Bruce found himself interrupted every couple of steps by people wanting to talk to him, about business, about the charity, about his love life and whether he would be settling down any time soon. Bruce felt himself becoming more and more irritable with every word uttered in his general direction, but he bit his tongue, smiled, and made pleasant banter, as if he didn’t feel like throwing himself to the floor and willing all the people around him to just disappear out of existence.
His suit was too hot, shoes too stiff, necktie too tight, and god, how Bruce wished he could make that everyone else’s problem. But it was his problem, and that was how it had to remain. Bruce had a part to play, and he wasn’t going to drop the role now.
The chatter of the guests was too loud, every consonant hitting his ears too sharp, the crowd around him suffocating him, Bruce seemingly feeling the vibrations of their presence even when no one was touching him. Oh, how Bruce wanted to leave the party, just storm off and retire into his chambers, slamming doors like an overdramatic teenager. But he knew he couldn’t, even if he managed to leave without the majority of his guests noticing, he knew there was press at the gala, watching his every move, photographing him, writing down everything they’d overhear him say, and he knew how him storming off would look to a gossip magazine. Keeping up his image with the press was every bit as important as keeping up appearances with the other members of his social class, so Bruce would just have to endure.
A subtle glance at his watch. 38 minutes plus however long it would take for all the guests to file out so the caterers could start their cleanup and Bruce could excuse himself to the more private parts of his manor.
Bruce held back his frown when Mr. Morgan grabbed him by the shoulder to begin telling a joke, and he smiled at him like nothing was wrong.
Bruce’s shoulders sagged when he watched the last of the guests getting into their cars and beginning to drive away. He still held onto his subtle smile, for the sake of the caterers who were packing their things and picking up empty glasses, cleaning up the messes left by guests dropping their fancy fingerfoods on the floor.
“Master Bruce,” a gentle voice, usually so comforting but in that very moment grating the last bits of patience Bruce had left in him, called out.
Bruce let his face fall a little, biting his lips and trying so hard not to snap at Alfred now. He knew he wasn’t at fault for how he was feeling right now.
“I took the liberty to light the fireplace in the den. I will oversee the cleanup process, so you may retire and have some much needed privacy. If you’d like, I can also fix you up a cold drink once I’ve dismissed the catering company.”
Bruce nodded, no longer putting on his Brucie voice as he grumbled: “Thanks, Alf.”
He left Alfred and the caterers to it, abandoning the parts of the manor occupied by the gala and heading to his den, on the way practically tearing off his tie and suit jacket, throwing them onto an arm chair once he reached the quiet room, lit up only by the warm glow of the fireplace.
Bruce unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and sighed when he noticed Alfred had brought his slippers to the den, happily toeing off his shoes and replacing them with the fuzzy, comfortable footwear.
Bruce collapsed onto the couch with a groan, bringing his hands up to his face to rub his cheeks, reminding his muscles he didn’t have to smile anymore, didn’t have to pretend anymore. He could just be, just sit by himself, enjoying the quiet, the darkness.
Bruce no longer felt like he needed to scream at someone by the time Alfred entered the den, holding a big glass of iced tea in his hand. As a proud english man he probably hated making the drink, believing it to be a disgrace to the holyness that was proper english tea, but for his master, he was willing to put his pettiness aside. He knew Bruce needed something cold to ground himself, feel more present, and to refresh himself after feeling like melting in his tuxedo, and he knew he needed something sweet and sugary to wake him up and energize him after feeling like his entire soul and mind had been drained out of him like bathwater.
Alfred did not greet Bruce, did not ask him how he was doing. He simply put the glass down on the coffee table, slow and careful not to make too loud of a noise, and left the room without a word.
Bruce was grateful.