Work Text:
The neon sign of Bijoux de Gotham flickered with the sort of expensive, quiet hum that only a boutique catering to the top 0.1% could afford. It was 2:15 PM on a crisp Tuesday afternoon.
Bruce Wayne was currently staring at a velvet tray of diamond-encrusted cufflinks with the intense, slightly blank concentration of a golden retriever trying to understand a calculus textbook.
"See, Arthur," Bruce said, leaning over the glass counter so far his nose almost touched it, turning a pair of heavy platinum studs over in his manicured hands. "I like these shiny ones. But Dickie told me that if I wear this much silver near my face, I’ll look like an expensive disco ball. He said it clashes with my aura. I don't even know what color my aura is, Arthur. I think it’s beige."
Arthur, the veteran jeweler who had worked at Bijoux for thirty years and survived four separate Joker gas attacks, a localized Freeze-ray event, and the Great Riddler Flood of '22, offered a deeply patient, paternal smile. He loved Bruce Wayne. Everyone who worked retail in Gotham loved Bruce Wayne. The man tipped in four figures, never looked at the price tag, and once bought an entire display of tiaras because he thought they would look "dashing" on Alfred’s prize-winning chickens.
"I think the platinum looks excellent on you, Mr. Wayne," Arthur said gently. "And Mr. Richard is simply being dramatic."
"Right? Thank you!" Bruce beamed, a dazzling, completely vacant smile that could blind a lesser man. "I'll take twelve pairs. In case I lose them in the soup again."
Before Arthur could process the logistics of losing twelve pairs of luxury cufflinks in soup, the glass front doors of the boutique didn't just open—they shattered.
Three men in tactical vests and cheap plastic hockey masks burst into the showroom. They were brandishing submachine guns and shouting the standard, boilerplate robbery slogans.
"Nobody move! Hands where I can see 'em! Empty the cases or we start painting the walls!"
It was a textbook Gotham stick-up. The tragedy, however, was that two out of the three thieves had absolutely no idea what kind of ecosystem they had just stepped into. The leader, Marv, and his second-in-command, Leo, were transplant muscle from Blüdhaven who thought Gotham would be an easy target because the local billionaires were notoriously soft. Only the third guy, a local kid named Pete, looked like he was about to vomit the moment he realized who else was in the store.
The three other customers—a high-society matriarch named Mrs. Dowd, a wealthy local dentist, and a mid-level accountant—immediately sighed, put their hands up, and looked profoundly annoyed. It was already mid-afternoon. If this lockdown took more than an hour, they’d be stuck trying to get home right during the sunset rush hour, which was peak timing for villain blockades and rogue gas attacks. They just wanted to wrap this up so they could get inside before dark.
Bruce, however, processing things at the speed of a heavily concussed sloth, slowly turned around. He looked at the shattered glass, then at the hockey masks, and finally at the guns.
"Oh, wow," Bruce said, clapping his hands together delightfully. "Is this a flash mob? Are we doing a musical? I love Stomp! I can be the guy with the broom!"
Marv stared at him through the eyeholes of his mask. "What? No, you idiot, it’s a robbery! Get on the floor!"
"Oh." Bruce’s face fell, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout that had successfully gotten him out of three separate speeding tickets and one SEC investigation. "But the floor is dirty. I just got these slacks. They're Italian."
"I don't give a rat's ass about your slacks! Down!" Marv yelled, waving his gun.
"Marv, wait," Leo whispered, aggressively nudging his leader. "Dude. Look at him. That's Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne."
Marv blinked. He looked Bruce up and down. The tailored suit, the floppy, perfectly styled hair, the total lack of survival instincts. "Holy shit. The billionaire? The one who got caught swimming in the public seal exhibit last month?"
"The very same," Bruce said, puffing his chest out proudly, completely missing the danger. "The seals were very polite. One of them stole my watch, but we're friends now."
Marv’s eyes lit up with dollar signs. "Forget the display cases! We just hit the jackpot! We take him, we hold him for ransom, we ask Wayne Enterprises for fifty million! We're set for life!"
Marv lunged forward, grabbing Bruce by the lapels of his pristine jacket.
Now, inside Bruce Wayne's mind, a highly trained, hyper-analytical super-computer was calculating forty different ways to disarm Marv, break his collarbone, and incapacitate his two partners using nothing but a velvet jewelry tray and a loose sapphire. He could do it in 2.4 seconds.
But Batman couldn't be here. Only Brucie could.
So, Bruce let his knees go completely weak. He let out a high-pitched, pathetic squeak and collapsed backward into a display of silver gravy boats, sending them clattering across the floor. He scrambled backward like a crab, his eyes wide with theatrical, weaponized terror.
"Please don't hurt me!" Bruce gasped, clutching a velvet display pillow to his chest like a shield. "Take the cufflinks! Take Arthur! Just don't shoot! I have a very fragile constitution!"
"Hey!" Arthur barked from behind the counter, completely ignoring the gun pointed at him to glare at Bruce. "Mr. Wayne! What did I say about offering me up to criminals?"
"Sorry, Arthur! Self-preservation!" Bruce wailed, burying his face in the pillow.
Marv marched over, looming over the billionaire, enjoying the absolute power trip. He pointed the barrel of the gun right at Bruce's forehead. "Shut up! Both of you! One more word out of you, trust-fund boy, and I'm gonna put a bullet right between your pretty little eyes. You think you're special just because you're rich? You're nothing but a spoiled, soft little prince who’s never faced real life."
That was standard thug banter. Bruce was entirely prepared to fake-whimper and pass out.
But then Marv, entirely ignorant of the holy, unbreakable laws of Gotham City, decided to keep talking.
"You rich bastards think you're untouchable," Marv sneered, spitting on the floor near Bruce's bespoke shoes. "Crying over a dirty floor. You're pathetic. I bet when you die, nobody's even gonna care. You're gonna end up just another dead piece of trash in a Gotham alleyway, completely forgotten, crying for your mommy."
The entire boutique went dead, utterly silent.
The air pressure in the room dropped by about forty pounds.
Mrs. Dowd snapped her head toward Marv, looking at him with the kind of expression you save for a man who has just willingly stepped into a woodchipper. Arthur’s face went from professional annoyance to a mask of absolute, apocalyptic fury. Even the mid-level accountant lowered his hands, staring at Marv in shock.
Bruce froze.
For a fraction of a second, the mask of Brucie slipped, and the terrifying, cold void of Batman peered out. But Bruce caught himself. He couldn't fight. He had to play the part. And honestly? The thug had accidentally hit the exact emotional tripwire that Bruce’s entire psyche was built upon.
So, Bruce decided to lean into it. He amplified it to eleven.
A massive, trembling gasp left Bruce’s throat. His eyes, naturally expressive, instantly flooded with genuine, glittering tears. His shoulders began to shake violently.
"In... in an alleyway?" Bruce whimpered, his voice cracking into a devastating, childlike register. "Like... like them? On the cold pavement?"
"Uh," Marv said, suddenly feeling a strange, creeping chill in the room. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."
"I... I always knew it," Bruce openly sobbed now, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, his face turning a perfectly pathetic shade of pink. He curled into a tighter ball behind the velvet pillow. "I always knew I'd die just like my mommy and daddy! In the dark! With mean men holding guns! I try to be good! I buy the chickens tiaras! I donate to the libraries! But the alleyway... the alleyway is waiting for me!"
He let out a loud, heartbreaking wail, burying his face in the pillow, his entire body wracked with deep, agonizing sobs. It was a masterclass in theatrical trauma, fueled by just enough real pain to make it sound terrifyingly authentic.
Marv smirked, feeling victorious. "Yeah, that's right. Cry, you little—"
"Are you out of your absolute, godforsaken mind?!"
Marv choked on his own spit as Pete, the local Gotham kid who had only joined the crew last week for quick cash, grabbed Marv by the shoulders and violently yanked him back. Pete’s hockey mask was pushed up, revealing a face pale with pure, unadulterated terror.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Pete hissed, his voice cracking with panic.
"What? I'm intimidating the hostage!" Marv argued, confused.
"You didn't intimidate him, you psycho, you brought up his dead parents!" Pete yelled, gesturing wildly at the sobbing billionaire on the floor. "Do you know who that is?! That's Brucie! You made Brucie cry!"
"So what? He's a billionaire!" Marv barked.
"He's an orphan, you idiot!" Arthur shouted from behind the counter, his voice shaking with rage as he reached under the desk—not for a silent alarm, but for a heavy silver candlestick. "His parents were murdered in front of him when he was eight years old! Everyone in this city knows you don't bring up the alleyway! What is wrong with you?!"
"Oh, sweet mother of God," Leo muttered, taking off his mask entirely to reveal he was sweating profusely. He had lived in Gotham just long enough to understand the hierarchy, and he was realizing Marv had just signed their death warrants. "Marv... Marv, we gotta go. We gotta go right now."
"Why?!" Marv yelled, completely bewildered by his crew's sudden mutiny. "We have the perfect hostage!"
"You don't understand how this city works!" Pete shrieked, clutching his head in sheer panic. "The heavy hitters never touch Brucie Wayne! Do you know why? Because Wayne Enterprises writes the checks that keep their operations viable! The Penguin handles all his money through Wayne Enterprises shell accounts—he's not going to let some low-level thugs mess up his banking! Poison Ivy explicitly avoids destroying Wayne properties because Bruce is the only billionaire funding the Gotham Botanical Gardens and the wetlands initiative! Even Two-Face refuses to rob him, because half of the funding for the Harvey Dent Rehabilitation Wing at Arkham comes directly out of Brucie's pocket!"
Pete swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the entrance as if expecting the worst. "And the Joker?! Oh, God, Marv, the Joker will skin us alive! Two years ago, some idiots tried to hijack Brucie’s limo, and the Joker blew up their entire safehouse by midnight. He literally broadcasted a video saying Brucie was his favorite toy to confuse and that nobody else was allowed to break him! If the Rogues find out we made Brucie Wayne cry about his dead parents and threatened his life, we won't even make it to the GCPD! They will hunt us down themselves just to keep their insurance policies and punchlines valid!"
"He's right," Mrs. Dowd chimed in, her voice dripping with ice as she glared at Marv. She reached into her Chanel purse, pulled out a heavy brick of a smartphone, and began aggressively typing. "I am currently texting my nephew, who is a captain in the GCPD. But before that, I am posting this on Gotham Chatter. You are done. Your families are done. The entire East Side is going to be hunting you down by sunset."
"Look what you did!" Leo screamed at Marv, pointing at Bruce, who had now transitioned into a soft, hyperventilating wheeze, perfectly mimicking a panic attack. "He's having a flashback! You broke the billionaire! You brought the bad juju down on us!"
"I didn't know!" Marv stammered, suddenly looking at Bruce not as a payday, but as a ticking radioactive bomb. "You guys said Gotham was soft!"
"Well, welcome to Gotham, you absolute moron!" Arthur yelled, finally leaping over the glass counter with the silver candlestick raised high.
At that exact moment, the shattered front doors were flooded with blue and red lights. Sirens wailed to a halt outside.
"GCPD! Put down your weapons!" Jim Gordon’s voice boomed through a megaphone.
Usually, when the police arrived at a robbery, the criminals tried to take hostages or negotiate. Instead, Pete and Leo immediately threw their submachine guns across the room, dropped to their knees, and laced their fingers behind their heads.
"We surrender! We surrender!" Pete yelled toward the door. "Please lock us up! Put us in maximum security! Don't let the public get to us!"
Marv stood there, utterly paralyzed, holding his gun loosely as the GCPD SWAT team swarmed the room. Within seconds, tactical officers had Marv pinned to the ground, his face pressed against the shattered glass.
Commissioner Jim Gordon strode into the boutique, his trench coat billowing, his gun drawn. He took one look at the compliance of the robbers, then at the furious civilians, and finally, his eyes landed on the pathetic, trembling pile of expensive fabric in the corner.
Gordon’s face went instantly dark. He lowered his gun and marched straight over to Marv, digging his boot heavily into the man's shoulder blade.
"What did you do?" Gordon asked, his voice low, gravelly, and terrifying.
"I just... I just told him he was gonna die in an alley," Marv squeaked.
Gordon closed his eyes, let out a long, exhausted sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "God damn it. You out-of-towners are a disease." He looked up at the SWAT officers. "Throw this one down the stairs on the way to the transport van. Accidentally. Three or four times."
"Copy that, Commissioner," the lead officer said, dragging Marv up with an extra-painful wrench of his arms.
Gordon sighed, holstered his weapon, and walked over to the corner. He knelt down in front of the sobbing billionaire, his gruff demeanor softening into something remarkably gentle. He had known this boy since the night in the theater alleyway. He had wrapped a jacket around those same shaking shoulders thirty years ago.
"Hey. Bruce," Gordon said softly, reaching out to pat Bruce’s shoulder. "Hey, son. It's okay. They're gone. The bad guys are gone."
Bruce slowly peeked out from behind the velvet pillow, his eyes rimmed with red, his face wet with tears. He looked incredibly young, incredibly fragile, and profoundly thick in the head. "Jim? Is... is the flash mob over?"
"Yeah, Bruce. The flash mob is over," Gordon said patiently. "They're going to jail for a very long time."
"He... he said I was gonna die like my mommy," Bruce sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve—a gesture that probably ruined a three-thousand-dollar cashmere blend, but nobody cared.
"He's an idiot who doesn't know how things work," Gordon assured him, helping Bruce to his feet. Bruce stumbled slightly, playing up the shock, and Gordon caught him by the arm, steadying him. "You're safe. Gotham’s got you."
Arthur walked over, immediately handing Bruce a pristine linen handkerchief. "Here you go, Mr. Wayne. Breathe. Don't worry about the cufflinks, I'll have them delivered to the Manor personally. On the house."
"Thanks, Arthur," Bruce muffled into the handkerchief, looking like a tragic, beautiful disaster. "You're very nice. I'm gonna buy you a boat."
"You don't have to do that, sir."
"I'm buying you three boats."
Outside, as the police led the three robbers toward the armored vans, a crowd of hundreds of Gotham citizens had gathered behind the yellow police tape. The news had already spread on social media via Mrs. Dowd’s scathing post.
The moment Marv stepped out of the boutique, the crowd didn't just boo—they erupted into a terrifying, unified roar of pure hatred. People were throwing hot coffees, heavy purses, and literal chunks of asphalt.
"You piece of trash!" a construction worker screamed, shaking his fist. "Leave Brucie alone!"
"He paid for my kid's asthma medication, you bald bastard!" a woman yelled, throwing a high-heeled shoe that smacked Marv directly in the back of the head.
The GCPD officers escorting Marv practically walked at a snail's pace, deliberately allowing the public to get as many free throws in as possible before shoving him into the back of the van.
A few minutes later, Bruce Wayne emerged from the shop, flanked by Jim Gordon and two officers. He looked properly chastened, his head down, holding his ruined jacket over his arm, looking like a kicked puppy.
The crowd instantly fell silent. Then, a collective, soft coo swept through the populace.
"We love you, Brucie!" someone shouted.
"Don't listen to them, Bruce! You're a good boy!" another yelled.
Bruce looked up, offering a small, fragile, watery smile to the crowd, waving a timid hand. The crowd cheered, practically weeping at his resilience.
>>>
An hour later, the heavy oak doors of Wayne Manor clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the city. The theatrical limp and the watery-eyed trauma vanished instantly. Bruce shed his ruined jacket, tossing it onto the entry table with a smooth, effortless grace that bore absolutely no resemblance to the bumbling billionaire who had just panicked over a velvet pillow.
Alfred appeared from the dining room, holding a silver tray with a glass of sparkling water and a tablet already displaying the evening’s tactical updates. He took one look at the faint smudge of soot on Bruce's trousers and raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow.
"I take it the afternoon shopping excursion was a success, Master Bruce? The local news is currently hailing you as a triumph of the human spirit."
Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he walked toward the grand staircase. "Arthur handles the jewelry, but he really needs better security. And some low-level muscle from Blüdhaven tried to give me a lecture on mortality."
"How dreadfully uninspired," Alfred said, following him with a crisp step. "I presume Batman won't be required to pay them a visit tonight, given that the Gotham public appears ready to dismantle them themselves?"
"No, Gordon's got them in maximum security. Mostly for their own safety," Bruce said, already unlocking the grandfather clock to the Batcave. He paused, looking down at the fabric of his trousers, remembering the dirty floor of the boutique. "Oh, and Alfred? Cancel the rest of my appointments for tomorrow. And we need to call the tailor in Milan. I'm going to need new Italian slacks."