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It was funny, that a man who believed in the freedom of the press, whose best friend was a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, that Bruce loathed journalism.
The odd level of celebrity that Bruce Wayne occupied had made him overwhelmingly familiar with all types of journalism. The sensationalised story of a brutal double murder with a front page photo of a traumatised child. The tabloid magazines with sordid stories about his sex life with grainy pictures. The structured sit down interviews with hard questions that came with being the billionaire CEO of an international company. The clickbait internet articles with false facts about his life for the doomscrolling masses.
Bruce Wayne was a public figure, whether he wanted to be or not, and this was simply the price of that status.
He worked with it. He didn’t grant interviews about his private life, and he could carefully manoeuvre out of any such questions with a laugh and a suggestive line; Gasp! — Brucie would never kiss and tell! Wink wink! The majority of his interviews were strictly controlled by his PR team, every question approved and emailed to him days in advance. It was a dance between him and the interviewer; the feigned shock at questions, the pre-planned jokes, the approved answers. Interviews about Wayne Enterprises specifically were less choreographed, but they were also less about him. It was about the job, about new products and company practices, about goals for economic and employment growth in Gotham.
It was why Bruce hadn’t been ready.
The interview had been going well, if the positive expressions of his personal assistant, Alice and his PR manager, Caroline, were to be believed. It was about the Wayne Foundation, more specifically the Martha Wayne Foundation, and the opening of two new schools in the Narrows, which Bruce wanted to talk about. Gotham’s wealth divide was outrageous, but its education gap was just as egregious, yet rarely addressed. Bruce could pour money into Gotham, he could fund more jobs, more medical centres, more environmental clean-ups, but none of it would matter if Gotham’s schools were not fit for purpose.
He was smiling as he explained his intentions for the schools, and the interviewer, Michael, had been smiling too, asking all the right questions for Bruce to expound on his answers. There was a good rapport between them, and Bruce had let himself relax slightly, his posture easing from the ram-rod straight back he had begun with to something more natural. Michael had smiled, looking down at his notepad, scribbling something with his pen as Bruce had cited lowering youth crime in the Narrows as one of the potential benefits of the schools.
“Do you think this kind of initiative could have prevented the death of your youngest son, Jason?”
It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
“What?” Bruce breathed, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“Do you think these educational initiatives can curb dangerous, impulsive behaviour in the youth of the Narrows?” Michael said, as if Bruce had simply not understood him. “Your adopted son, Jason, famously grew up in the Narrows and he was killed when he ran away to a foreign country to find his birth mother. Would educational opportunities early on have prevented that level of reckless behaviour that led to his death?”
Bruce was already pulling the microphone off of his shirt, ripping out the cords tangled around his body.
“We’re done.” He snapped, his expression stony.
The interviewers eyes gleamed, delighted in his successful provocation. Bruce’s blood was in the water, and Michael was hunting.
“Or was it parental failure, rather than educational?”
“Fuck you.”
Bruce towered over Michael who’d remained seated and smiling blandly. He knew he should just walk away, the cameras were still rolling, the interview was still on the record, but God, having Jason’s name, having Jason’s memory be wielded as a weapon filled Bruce with a kind of rage he hadn’t thought possible. His entire body was trembling, his hands clenched into fists to try still the shaking.
“Mr Wayne-“
“Fuck you,” Bruce repeated, slamming the mic pack down on Michael’s notepad. “Fuck you. You don’t get to say his name. You don’t get to do that.”
He stormed out of the studio, people scattering to get out of his way the second they saw his furious face. Alice was chasing after him, but Caroline was nowhere to be seen; probably still in the interview room tearing a strip off of the so-called journalist.
“Mr Wayne! Mr Wayne!” Alice shouted, her heels clicking quickly on the tiled floor of the lobby.
Bruce ignored her, and he hated himself for it. She’d never been anything but nice to him, but right now he couldn’t be Mr Wayne. That interview had cut him open and flayed him, he needed to go home, lock himself away and lick his wounds. He needed to scream, to cry, to rage that even in death he could not protect Jason from the vultures. They didn’t know Jason, they never would. They didn’t know how big his heart was, his unending empathy. They didn’t know how smart he was, how he could run circles around Bruce without even trying. His little, baby bird.
He yanked the car door open with unnecessary force, slamming it behind him, Alice’s voice becoming muffled and distant. The driver — not Alfred, a chauffeur hired by Wayne Enterprises, didn’t speak after a cursory glance in the rear view mirror and seeing his face, and Bruce found himself grateful for it. God knows if Alfred had been the one driving, they’d be playing a game of twenty questions when all Bruce needed was silence to seethe.
The buildings blurred out of the window as they sped through the streets. Past the building where he and Jason had perched with their hamburgers and fries after a tiring night as Batman and Robin. Past the library he’d taken Jason to renew his library card because he loved the place so much, even though he now had access to Bruce’s own library. Past Gotham City Courthouse where Bruce had signed his name on Jason’s adoption papers, the boy stood next to him watching with big, blue eyes. Everywhere had memories of Jason.
Bruce closed his eyes, breathing in and out in careful measures through his nose, willing himself to calm down despite his heart thundering in his ears. He pressed his fingers against his watch, his father’s watch that Jason had repaired for him, the cold face of the glass grounding against his overheated skin. He recognised the familiar turn and bumps of his driveway, keeping his eyes closed until the last possible moment, throwing himself out of the car with a muttered thank you to the driver. Bruce stormed through the house, pulling at his tie like it was choking him, fumbling with the miniature buttons of his freshly pressed dress shirt. He threw his clothes to the floor like they had personally offended him, replacing them with sweatpants and a hoodie that might be Dick’s.
On the floor, his phone was buzzing incessantly, undoubtably messages from Alice and Caroline trying to do damage control on the entire situation. Bruce knew he should be responsible; pick up his phone and try and figure out what they were going to do next, but today, after everything, Bruce wanted to be selfish. He ignored his phone and went to sleep.
-
When Bruce woke up, his head pounding and his vision blurry, his phone was still buzzing. He huffed, his bones creaking as he forced himself to move and look at the screen.
Missed call from Chum (3)
Missed call from Barbara Gordon
Missed call from Clark Kent (5)
Missed call from Diana (2)
Missed call from Caroline Kaplan PR (32)
Missed call from Alice Devereaux PA (27)
Missed call from Lucius Fox (3)
Missed call from Oliver Queen DO NOT ANSWER (2)
Missed call from Dinah Lance
Missed call from Barry Allen
Chum: Let me know you’re okay
Chum: Bruce?
Chum: Whatever.
Clark Kent: Hey R U OK?
Clark Kent: LMK if I can do anything
Clark Kent: I’m sorry :(
Clark Kent: Plz call me when U can
Diana: I Have Seen The Interview. Please Let Me Know If I Can Offer Any Assistance.
Diana: I Am Here For You.
Diana: ❤️🖤
Lucius Fox: Call me.
Bruce ran a hand down his face, pressing his thumbs into his eyes, before moving into the news app, cringing when he saw a screen grab of him stood intimidatingly over the interviewer as the splash photo.
‘‘F—- YOU!’: GOTHAM BILLIONAIRE STORMS OUT OF INTERVIEW’
His index finger tapped the side of his phone as he decided who to call. His heart said Dick; their relationship had been so fractured since Jason’s death, with Dick refusing to speak to him. The fact he had called, that he had text to find out how Bruce was doing was an olive branch Bruce wanted to grab onto with both hands. It would be emotional, it would be messy, and it was something Bruce wanted more than anything.
He needed to solve this problem first, before he spoke to Dick, so that Dick could have his undivided attention. His eldest deserved that, after everything Bruce had put him through.
He called Caroline.
She picked up after one ring.
“Mr Wayne?” She asked quickly, as if she half expected him to immediately hang up again.
“Caroline,” He croaked back, voice gruff with sleep. “What’s the plan?”
Bruce couldn’t see her face over the call, but he could hear in her tone the way her face was pinched in determination.
“I’ve put together three options for your response, Mr Wayne, I’ll email them to you now. We’re going to make that man regret the day he ever decided to go into ‘journalism'.”
Bruce listened as Caroline explained her plans, his eyes drifting to his nightstand. Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, his hand moved to the book perched innocently under his lamp, a scrap of paper poking out as a bookmark. Delicately, Bruce pulled the scrap paper out, dog-earing the page, and ran his fingers reverently over the looping handwriting scrawled across the paper.
Bruce,
Will be home late tonight! Stopping at the library!
Have a good day!!!!
Jason :P
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~ ._ | ___ | | ___ | ~ 𖨆
That’s me at the library learning lots btw :D
“Thank you, Caroline,” Bruce replied, a small smile tugging at his lips as he traced Jason’s childish doodles. “Make him pay.”