Work Text:
"Did any mail come for me this morning?" you ask distractedly as you check something on your phone - emails, Bruce has to assume, because he's not sure what you do other than work.
He pauses with his coffee mug in hand, the side of the ceramic warm against the pads of his calloused fingers as he slides you your own mug across the table - a routine built through habit, nothing more.
"I haven't checked yet," he responds easily as you sit across from him. "Alfred would know. Are you waiting for anything important?"
"Nothing urgent," you shake your head, taking the coffee from Bruce with a murmured thank you, and clearing your throat when your fingers brush his. "Just student loan repayment stuff. It's ridiculous that they don't just email it, I mean - what's wrong with you?"
Bruce is staring at you, some sort of mix of confusion and horror painting his face as you stare back.
"You have student loans?" he asks abruptly.
"Yes," you respond slowly. "I'm not sure where you thought that poli-sci degree came from."
"Why didn't you tell me?" he blurts out, and you shoot him a bemused look through the steam rising from your coffee.
"I just did? I don't know, Bruce, these things don't come up often."
"Do you not -" he falters, and you think that maybe you should call someone, because he seems to be having some kind of breakdown in front of you.
"Does the card I gave you not work?" he finally manages, and you rub a finger over the spot between your brows to ward off your oncoming headache.
"I don't know?" you admit. "I haven't used it. I didn't think I needed to test it - if your cards are declining, I think we're all in trouble."
"You haven't used it at all?" Bruce asks earnestly, and your concern grows at his apparent dismay.
"No? Did you not know that?" you ask, your own confusion rising.
"I'm not -" he breathes deeply. "I don't check. I'm not keeping tabs on your spending. It's your money."
"No," you say slowly. "I'm really very certain it's yours."
"We're married," he stresses. "It's yours."
"Ok," you say cautiously. "Well, I'll buy myself a car if you really want."
"I would like that," he responds honestly, and you open your mouth to say that you were joking, but he's staring down at his breakfast like he's truly distraught by the whole ordeal, so you're not sure how to break it to him.
"I'd like to pay off your student loans, too," he adds, and you sigh, flipping your phone face down on the table as another email notification chimes.
"No," you say firmly, and he looks at you a bit imploringly.
"May I ask why?"
"Because I didn't marry you for money," you say gently, and he presses his lips together, a knowing sort of look shot your way.
"Not that kind of money," you amend honestly. "If you'd like to fund my campaign, that'd be more than appreciated, but -"
"I will," he says quickly. "I do."
"I know," you insist. "You're good about it, you… you live up to your side of the bargain well. But that doesn't mean you need to fund my life, Bruce. I do make my own money, you know."
"I know you do," he says gently. "But there's no need for you to worry, or… or go without."
"Um," you start, your eyes flickering around the lavish dining room. "I'm hardly going without, Bruce. I couldn't if I tried, these days."
"Well, that's good," he muses. "But, still - you take too little."
"You give too much," you counter, and it sort of just falls flat between the two of you. You stare down at your coffee, fixed the way you like it by a man who wears the same wedding band as you - and, really, you wonder if you're made for each other at all.
"I don't want things to be like that between us," you say quietly, honest enough that Bruce stares at you intensely.
"Like what?"
"Like… we're keeping score," you say slowly, and he frowns.
"I'm not keeping score."
"That's because you're winning," you point out, but he just shakes his head, holding his hand out across the table, palm up.
You stare at it - probably longer than you should. Because why is he crossing a line like this right now? Why is it so odd for your husband to hold your hand?
But Bruce, you've come to realize, is patient - still and calm and waiting until you eventually slide your hand into his, the warmth of his palm pressing against yours.
"I'm not that kind of man," he says evenly, and you look up at him in question. "I'm not keeping score."
"I didn't mean -"
"No, listen - please," he says firmly. "I don't ever want you to feel like a stranger in your own life. Or like you're… living on borrowed money. I don't want you to worry that I'll… I'll take anything away from you."
"I don't mean to make you some sort of villain in this, Bruce, I hope you know that," you sigh, pulling your hand from his. You're surprised by his leniency - and then a tugging sort of guilt sets in by your own shock, your own assumptions.
His hand stays where it is on the table, resting palm up, and you're not sure what's possessing you when you reach back to trace over the pads of his fingers gently.
"You could never do that," he says softly, your touch soft as you walk your gentle touch over the lines of his fingerprints - like you're learning him, like you're etching his touch into your memory before he's ever even gotten a chance to really touch you. "You're too kind."
You pull your hand back.
"I'm not sure you know me so well."
"I don't need to to know that," he insists, and you flip your phone face up to scroll through emails again. A wall built, brick by brick, taller and taller.
"You should eat something before you leave today," Bruce says thoughtfully, standing with a fond look that you miss with your gaze turned down.
But maybe it's a kindness, you think, that he lets me run away like this.
"Real breakfast," he clarifies when you tap the side of your coffee mug, and the smile that flits across your lips, you find, is wholly involuntary.
"You're not paying my student loans," you call after him as he turns to leave, and it has him pausing - turning ever so slightly to look at you over his shoulder, like a flower leaning into the sun.
"But…" you continue. "If I get another coffee today, I'll test out that card of yours."
"Yours," he corrects you softly. "Please do. See if you can add a lunch order to it."
"I'll do my best," you murmur, tracing the handle of your mug idly, wondering how you got here - to Bruce, making you coffee in the mornings and worrying about whether or not you eat lunch.
You think, as his footsteps retreat and leave you alone in the vast dining room that you now supposedly call yours, that maybe there's a sort of love here, after all.