#bale!batman

Alfred… Pennyworth…? She thought to herself. Why did the name sound vaguely familiar? Perhaps he was the jeweler on high street. She had taken some old coins of Philip’s there to get apprasied-

“Hello?” Alfred cut in when she didn’t answer. Claire was lost in her thoughts, as usual, but his voice brought her out of the labyrinth of her mind.

“Yes, I- I’m sorry, Alfred,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me, my memory betrays me these days. Who- who are you?

Her memory betrays her. Ha. Well, if Alfred knew anything about Sinclaire Scott, he’d know that was a poor excuse for a 28-year-old girl. The reality of it was, she had spent too much time drinking these days instead of working or doing literally anything else productive. She told herself she was grieving, that it was her coping mechanism, no matter how poor. And while her therapist, Dr. Baker, was incredibly supportive, she did not approve of Claire’s growing dependence on alcohol. Not that Claire cared. Her days blurred together too much in the English countryside estate she practically haunted rather than inhabited.

On the other end, Alfred cleared his throat. “I am the butler and acting estate manager of Wayne Manor in Gotham.”

There had been a time when Sinclaire Scott was thee Sinclaire Scott, a renowned architect who could sketch floor plans from memory with the exact measurements after a single walkthrough. Her mind had once been sharp. So sharp, in fact, that her business, Scott Signatures, managed to attract the attention of thee Philip Barclay, a successful investment banker working at Gotham Wealth Management Group. He contracted her out for some work on his penthouse. They were married within the year.

One evening, Philip called Claire to tell her they’d have to push their reservation an hour at their favorite Italian restaurant downtown. Some acquisition wasn’t going the way he planned, and if she wanted him to buy that home for them in Paris, he’d have to stay. Claire, darling, I’ll be home soon. I know, I know, baby. Just give me an hour and I’ll be all yours. I promise.

It had to end in tragedy, though, right? Because Gotham destroys everything worth living for.

Just twenty minutes after that call, Claire and all of Gotham watched smoke pour from the upper floors of Philip’s office building. Philip Barclay died in the explosion along with dozens of others. He was 32-years-old. When GCPD showed up at the penthouse, Claire screamed loud enough to shred her throat raw.

And so, the woman with the sharp mind, who once managed multi-million dollar projects, now forgot names, ignored calls, and neglected the books at Scott Signatures completely.

The phone threatened to slip from her hand at the mention of the wretched city. Claire pressed her fingers harder around the receiver, a poor attempt at steadying herself.

“Oh,” she said, barely loud enough to hear. “I… live in London now, actually, I don’t-”

“Yes, I could tell,” Alfred said. “You’re beginning to sound like a proper Brit, if I do say so myself.”

She let a small smile come over her lips, but didn’t respond before he began again.

“Miss Scott, I must say, I am terribly sorry for your loss,” Alfred said with sincerity.

Claire’s smile left her immediately and the feeling was replaced by her chest tightening. All she could manage was a light “Mmm.”

In response, Alfred continued carefully. “Master Wayne knew Mr. Barclay. He always spoke highly of Philip and said that he was a good man. It’s a shame what happened to him, and I am sorry that he is no longer with us.”

Claire looked down at the floor and blinked away small tears that began to form. Alfred’s words meant a lot to her, but that wasn't why he was calling. When she was confident the tears would not spill down her face, she asked, “What can I do for you Mr. Pennyworth?”

“Wayne Manor is undergoing a rather… extensive restoration and expansion project. Master Wayne requires additional living quarters and several portions of the estate are in desperate need of modernization,” he said, and quieter now, “though I trust you will be certain to preserve the original architecture.”

Claire frowned slightly now, picturing the manor in her head. It was beautiful and a dream, but… “Me?” she asked. “I… I am no longer practicing. I could certainly recommend other firms, but-”

“It would be a live in position,” Alfred continued, ignoring her, politely, somehow. “Private accommodations would be provided on the grounds, alongside a generous contract, and a majority of the authority over the project.”

Claire exhaled and rubbed her forehead. “Mr. Pennyworth, that is very kind of you to offer. But I must decline. As I said, I can send some recommendations your way. I had… have, a few connections in the area that would be more than willing to take on the project. I would personally assure it would be handled with grace and respect.”

“Respectfully, Sinclaire… I mean, forgive me, Claire- I would much prefer you,” Alfred replied. “You are the very best at what you do. And Wayne Manor is a very special place, requiring someone capable of preserving its history, but also, giving it… a new life.”

She wanted to ask questions. She wanted to inquire about the manor, its current state, areas of structural weakness, the desired improvements… but all she could think about was the smoke.

“I…” she hesitated. “Thank you for the call and for the offer, Mr. Pennyworth. Truly. I’ll- I will think about it.”

“That is all I ask, Miss Scott,” he said, relieved, but composed.

Claire nodded faintly. “Right. Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”

She hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment after the call ended, silence slowly beginning to fill the room again. The fire in the hearth had died out hours ago. Claire sank into the sofa, finished off the glass of wine she'd been nursing, and pulled a crocheted blanket tight around herself.

She was not going back to Gotham.

The city had taken everything from her and left her hollow. There was nothing there for her besides memories she had spent the last two years trying to outrun.

But Philip would have told her to take the job. He would have smiled that easy smile of his, kissed the top of her head, caressed her face, and said something annoyingly optimistic, like “My love, this project was made only for you.”

It was hard to admit that he was right. She had worked on some beautiful places, but getting to step foot in Wayne Manor was the honor of a lifetime, let alone to restore it. She knew that. If she was the girl that she was what felt like a lifetime ago, she'd be stupid to turn down the offer but... she couldn't bring herself to consider it.

And what should she think of Bruce Wayne knowing Philip? I mean, they both knew him, of course. Everyone in Gotham did. He was a billionaire, socialite, and on the front cover of every tabloid if they had even a sliver of news about him or Wayne Enterprises. But Philip had never spoken of him. Gotham’s financial elite all knew one another in some fashion, sure, but Alfred’s words had sounded almost… personal?

And Alfred mentioned she'd have a majority of the authority. What did that mean? Claire had spent enough time working for wealthy clients to know that what was promised and what was delivered was rarely the same thing. Whatever his relationship to Philip and this project was, she did not need the Prince of Gotham breathing down her neck. But it didn't matter, now, did it?

Because under no circumstances would she ever return to Gotham. Probably.

The Joker has came in, demanding to know where Dent is. It takes everything in you to stay still on your feet, as you watch him and his little friends shove guns into peoples faces, trying to make them scared so that they’ll say something – without your suit, it wouldn’t take you long to be shot down.

But no one budged.

It wasn’t until the man had a knife against an old man’s face that Rachel spoke up.

That’s when Joker thought she was entertaining enough for him.

You blink and she’s in the same position as the old man once was, a knife pressed into her cheeks. He spoke silently to her, about a wife, whilst Rachel fought and squirmed against him the knife.

It’s when you finally moved. “That’s enough.”

“Hah!” He turns to you, knife ready. “I don’t take orders from a little secretary…”

He knows who you are.

“Isn’t Bruce gonna come save you now.” He steps closer to you. You don’t break eye contact, even though you can see Rachel standing behind him, shaking her head, mouthing something to you.

You sigh. “I’m not scared of you.”

He laughs in your face. His breath hot. “Of course, you’re not scared.” The knife is traced along your jaw.

“But I think the people around you, would be terrified, to see you bleeding out…” the knife presses harder. “Right at their–”

Before he could finish their sentence, Rachel had stepped behind him, raised her foot between his legs to kick him in the crotch.

“Oh..!” He turns to Rachel again. “You’ve got a little fight in you. I like that.”

A figure jumps down behind him. Batman. Bruce.

As soon as Joker is away from you and Rachel, she’s at your side again. She’s hugging you.

“You didn’t have to do that.” She’s saying in your ear.

“It’s fine.” You shrug it off.

You had to stand and watch as Joker and his remaining friends run off. The guests soon leave, too. As does Rachel and Dent, once they have a safe passage to somewhere safe.

It’s just you, Batman, and Alfred who’s sweeping up glass.

“Alfred, let me help you.” You felt useless.

“No, it’s quite alright, miss.” You ignore him, picking up large shards of glass into your hand. “We don’t need any more injuries–”

All he heard was a large hiss of pain from you as the glass cuts into your skin. He sighs.

“Sorry, Alfred.” You brush off the glass into a bin, before rushing into the bathroom, where Bruce stood, his chest exposed, wearing only the bottom half of the bat suit.

“Oh, my god. Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” He stops as soon as he can see the blood trickling down your wrist. “What happened? Did he–”

He, meaning Joker.

“No.” You’re quick to shake your head. “It’s just me being stupid.”

He shakes his head, leading you further into the very large bathroom. Bruce takes your hand under the tap, rinsing the blood with water.

His own hand was so warm, his whole body was radiating heat. You couldn’t help but rest your head on his shoulder.

He sighs. “You alright?”

You nod. “I’m sorry.. that I couldn’t help you.”

His thumb rubs at your wrist.

“Everything happened so fast.” You continue. “He had Rachel, and I couldn’t let anything happen to her, she’s your friend. You’d kill me if I didn’t save her.”

He pauses. He pulls you back. “And if anything happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

You snort. “Bruce, you’re the Bruce Wayne, you’re the Batman. I’m just your secretary, your little sidekick.”

He tuts. “You’re more than that…”

You inhale. Bruce’s eyes held such intensity, you couldn’t look away. “What else am I, Bruce?”

He leans closer, and you’re scared of where this is going.

“Oh, apologies!” Alfred. “I was going to see if miss [Y/N] needed stitches, or if you did, Bruce?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Just a few bruises, Alfred. However, [Y/N] might need your help.”

You let Alfred lead you to the kitchen, where he examined the cut. Whilst your heart tried to recover from whatever was going to happen in the bathroom.

Hong Kong was busy. Bruce and Lucius were occupying themselves in LSI Holdings, whilst you went actually sight seeing.

The shops were interesting, though you brought no proper currency with you to buy anything.

You left a shop, maybe with something in your pocket when you bumped into Bruce.

“Oh, hello.” He says, his hands fall onto your arms.

“Hello, Bruce.”

“Miss!”

You jump, looking behind you. An employee of the shop is walking towards you.

“Best be leaving.” You say, grabbing Bruce’s arm and rush through the shopping centre.

He laughs. “Seriously?”

You shrug. “Old habits die hard, Bruce.”

He shakes his head.

“Lucius has everything in place for tonight.” Bruce speaks, as you’re out of the doors of the centre. “Are you still up for it?”

You look at him, raising a brow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bruce sighs. “These men aren’t like the guys in Gotham.”

You nod. “And? I can handle myself.”

It’s his turn to raise a brow. “Can you?”

You slap his arm with the back of your hand. “Now, you’re just being rude.”

You stood on the side of the building, Bruce was on the other side, talking to you through the comms in your ear. The power goes out.

“Ready?” His voice crackles through.

You take a deep breath. “Ready.”

He jumps off his side, landing into the window.

You follow his move, jumping down, using a more safe approach, but you get on the floor, helping Batman with the gun-welding men.

They seemed to be more focused on Batman, and you used that to your advantage, sneaking behind them, knocking them unconscious.

Batman focuses on getting Lau, whilst you fight the remaining men.

When the police arrive, Batman and you are behind Lau, shooting out a flashing parachute for Lucius’ plane to pick up.

The next morning, Lau is sitting outside for Gordon.

The following evening, you’re standing in Bruce’s penthouse for Harvey Dent’s fundraiser, hosted by Bruce, himself.

You walked around the place, having a nosey at the paintings, the fancy vases, the very expensive curtains and bedsheets.

“Well?”

You gasp, turning around. “Jesus, Bruce!”

He laughs.

“You have to stop scaring me.” You move closer to him.

“Just wanted to know what you thought of the place?” His hand comes to your shoulder. “And look at you!”

You laugh. “What?”

“That dress, it is gorgeous.”

No matter how many times he compliments you, you always get flustered, ready to drop dead of a heart attack.

“Thanks.” You nod. “And the place is nice.”

“Nice?” He raises a brow.

You look around. “Well.. it’s very showy.”

He hums. “Not your taste?”

You shrug. “I don’t have your money to show off.” You mean to play it as a joke, not show that you’re shocked at how expensive those are, or how the bed sheets are clearly designer-made.

He looks at you with pity. You want to slap yourself.

“Sorry.” You whisper. “Sometimes I forget how rich the batman really is…”

He shushes you, raising a finger to his lip. “Can’t joke like that now, sweetheart. Not tonight.”

You nod. He takes back to the main room, where it’s gotten busier and louder.

Rachel and Dent, himself, are clearly the main attraction of the night, since they have put all the criminals into Gordon’s office.

You don’t remember when Bruce left your side to take a phone call, or when Harvey never showed up again, but when the Joker steps out of the elevator, the light in your pocket stops.

You had missed your chance to go with Bruce without it being suspicious. Rachel is at your side, looking ready to shit herself.

2007

Soon after Bruce revealed who Batman was to you, in your apartment. It had been awkward between you two – knowing when he had to explain to others about his bruises, when you know the truth now.

In some official-unofficial way, you’ve became his sidekick. The press button he gave became upgraded to a small signal to let you know he needed help.

He even gave you an upgraded suit. It was a much stronger material than what you had borrowed from Lucius old office. If you looked closely enough, it was almost a duplicate of his suit, except there was no bat symbol over your chest.

The mask he gave you was a small piece. It covered your eyebrows and went down with an arch to your cheekbones. No bat ears in sight.

When you arrived at the office, it was sitting at your desk. Bruce no where to be seen. Lucius had walked past to see you observing the box.

“I believe Bruce wants you to open that later, [Y/N].”

So when you went home that evening and tried it on, everything fit perfectly.

He sat as his desk when you walked in the next day. You leaned against his doorway, he looked up and smirked at you.

“Well?”

You snort. “How did you know my measurements?”

He shrugs and leans back in his chair, hands interlocked. His eyes never leaving yours. “I have a good pair of eyes.”

You shake your head. “What?”

Shrugging it off, you walk into the office, closing the door. “So, am I some sort of sidekick, now?”

He nods. “If you wish.”

You sigh, licking your lips. “Does that mean I have to stop my extra hobby?”

He laughs. “Sweetheart, if you want a raise, so be it.”

And he does give you a raise. Your night gear seemingly useless now that you’re out at night with Batman, with your own grappling hook, and personal training from him.

Even your suit had its own spot in his “batcave”.

2008

This morning you actually woke up in time, and was standing outside Wayne Enterprises way earlier than you usual would.

You had printed sheets that Bruce would need for the meeting with Mister Lau, and when you went into his office, he wasn’t there.

He arrived later that day, when Mister Lau was due to present his business in front of the board.

He sat next to you and looked clueless.

“Bruce,” you whispered, trying to keep up your professionalism. He leans forward. “Do you think the sheets I leave on your desk are for you to wipe your ass with?”

That makes him stifle a chuckle, and lean back in his seat, as you continued to take notes about Mister Lau’s points.

Five minutes later, you can hear snoring beside you. Lucius wrapped up the meeting, and led Mister Lau and others out of the room.

“Bruce!” You slapped his arm.

He shoots up in pain, grabbing his arm. “Fuck!”

Your brows shoot up. “Oh, shit, sorry.”

He sighs. “It’s fine.” Bruce stands up.

“What happened?” You follow him.

“Copycats, Scarecrow,” he turns back to you. “And dogs.”

You laugh. “Did a chihuahua nibble on you?”

He rolls his eyes. “No, it was one of those big ones. Y’know, the… I don’t know what they’re called. M‘not a dog person.”

He opens the door to let you out, following behind you.

“I prefer cats myself.” You reply, even if he wasn’t asking.

Bruce nods, hands in pockets. “Yeah, they’re alright.”

Lucius met you two from the other hallway. Bruce and him talked about how Lau’s business was too suspicious, and could be illegal work going on behind closed doors. Eventually, Bruce asked for a new suit.

“And [Y/N] needs a cape.”

You raise your head from your notes – that were now useless since Bruce wanted to cancel the deal. “I do?”

Bruce nods. “Both of us need to be able to float.”

You sigh. “I’m scared of heights enough.”

Lucius laughs. “Don’t worry, [Y/N]. Just close your eyes and hope for the best.”

As you stood in front of a mirror, trying on the new cape, it was black, red underneath.

“It suits you, miss [Y/N].” Alfred speaks.

“You think, Alfred?” You moved and it whooshed behind you. “I just think Batty is wanting a protégé.”

He laughs at that as your beeper on the small desk beeps and flashes white.

“Duty calls, miss.” Alfred grins.

You smile as you turn to leave, picking up your mask you leave.

You stood on the police stations rooftop, with Harvey Dent and Batman.

Dent didn’t see you arrive. Your skills of silent moving still comes in handy.

“Jesus!” He yelps when he sees you.

You nod. “Hello, Dent.”

“Another one, seriously?” Harvey asks the bat.

Batman nods. “Needed extra hands.”

“And what are you called, miss?” Harvey turns to you.

You look at Batman, then back at Harvey. “That hasn’t been discussed, yet.”

Harvey laughs in disbelief. “Great, another vigilante, who’s unnamed. You trust her?”

Batman nods. “With my life.”

You look at him, shocked by his answer.

Gordon walks through the rooftop door.

The discussion became about Lau, his journey to Hong Kong, marked bills, and distrust in both Harvey and Gordon’s department.

Gordon had seen you once or twice, so your presence wasn’t a shock to him.

When Harvey confirmed that if Bruce brings back Lau from Hong Kong, it wouldn’t be wasted. You and him both disappeared into the shadows.

2007

Work seemed to fly by. Bruce had meetings. You had a coffee and a cigarette outside with Lucius. You finally met this Alfred that Lucius kept mentioning.

When Bruce’s final meeting finally wrapped up, he lead the man out of the office. The man continued to speak with his back to Bruce, looking around the building and your desk.

Bruce caught you looking and mocked the man, rolling his eyes, sticking his tongue out.

You laugh, unexpectedly, which has the man looking at you. You pretend it was a barking cough, apologising for the interruption.

When the man left, Bruce went back into his office. You were itching for him to come to your desk and talk to you, make fun of all the meetings, compliment your hair, talk about your new heels – that you definitely did not buy.

His door opens again and he walks to you. “Happy birthday.”

You had forgotten about your birthday. The days of the week all blending into one. You’re twenty-four. One year older and bolder, as your mother used to tell you.

He handed you a small bag, which held the wine you liked at the restaurant. You smile at him. “Thank you.”

“I’d say take a night off the boxing, sit in and enjoy.” He replies.

Maybe one night off wouldn’t hurt. It’s not as if Batman is that vulnerable without you.

How you were so wrong.

You sat to a glass of the wine, drinking in small sips, to make it last longer, watching reality television. Some bits made you laugh, some bits made you cringe from how scripted it clearly was.

You had walked to your kitchen counter, pouring up another glass, as a shadow stood in your fire exit.

You had screamed, almost dropping your glass. Batman stood, one hand on your window, the other on his side.

You had ran over to open the window. “How did you find out where I live?”

“Questions later.” He spoke in short breaths. “Please.” He nods towards his side.

You help him in and onto your sofa. The tv get turned off and you run around like a headless chicken trying to find your first-aid kit.

When you finally get it, you’re on your knees in front of him - you had hoped it would’ve been in a better situation.

“Do you want to take off the suit?”

He shakes his head, his head falls back as he groans in pain. You press hard onto the wound to try and stop the bleeding, or to pause it for a minute to see what happened.

“Bat, what..” you sigh. “I can’t see shit.”

You stand up and go to your kitchen drawer, trying to find something that’ll help you, and not leave you with a dead body on your sofa.

“[Y/N]..” you hear.

You snap your neck, turning to him.

Your fucking boss sat on your sofa, trying to pull of his mask and suit. You felt faint, the wine in your throat, your dinner half way into your mouth.

“Bruce?” You sounded terrified.

“It’s okay, sweetheart…” he sighs, trying to sit up straighter. “It’s okay, it’s only me.”

You step closer to him, tape in hand to tape the gauze against his stomach. You wanted to cry. He could easily rat you out and no one would question him; he’s Bruce Wayne. He’s the Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne is on your sofa, bleeding out.

Then it finally hit you. Bruce Wayne is fucking Batman.

Your hand that was pressed against his stomach, was covered by his, squeezing your hand to bring you back to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you.” He says.

You inhale, trying to think if this is real or some really weird wet dream you’re having right now.

“I…” you try to say something. But he just nods.

“Your secret is safe with me.” He says. He leans further back into the sofa, blood continues to slip in between your fingers.

“Should we call Alfred?” You finally managed to get words out.

Bruce nods. “Just needed somewhere to sit for a minute.”

Bruce took over for a minute to hold the bandage against his skin, as he calls Alfred on your phone with his other hand.

You stood at the kitchen sink, trying to wash the blood of your hands, trying not to worry that he might speak about you to other people.

You turn and he’s there, trying to get closer to you.

“You should be sitting down.” Your hands on his shoulder. He sighs, almost like he wanted your touch against his bare skin.

“Alfred is coming.” Is all he says. “And please, stop worrying, sweetheart.”

You get him back on the sofa, his hand reaches out to your face. “For all they know, you’re just really bad at your boxing club.” He tries to joke.

You try to smile. “And you’re bad at polo.”

That makes him laugh and grimace in pain. “That’s m’girl.”

2007

You sat at the long table beside Bruce. Lucius stood at the head of the table, introducing himself, promoting what Wayne Enterprises would bring to the table.

The new business partners were all highly intrigued by the points made by Lucius, nodding along, making notes.

You leaned back in the seat, doodling on your own notebook. You tried your best to ignore how Bruce’s knee would bump into yours, or his thigh brushing against yours.

“Miss [Y/N] here is our highly respected secretary here,” you almost get whiplash from how quick you sit up straight to stare at Lucius. “If there’s any questions about our position on this deal, ask away to her or myself.” Lucius nods.

Bruce’s hand meets your side, to catch your attention, and it sends a shot of electricity down your spine.

“Relax, sweetheart.” He whispers. “They’re not going to bite.”

You bite your lip and turn over your shoulder. He’s a lot closer than you thought. He doesn’t move away from the closeness, but you do, or else you might as well have kissed him.

Whilst waiting for the elevator down, one of the business men shook hands with Bruce, making general small talk. You took in the conversation, trying to remember the notes – hobbies, wife, kids, interest in the company.

“You must be this amazing secretary that Fox mentioned.” The man goes to shake your head. You do so, nodding your head with a polite smile.

“[Y/N] has been with us for two years now.” Bruce speaks up, a hand on your shoulder. “She knows more about this than me!” He says with a loud chuckle.

The man, which you soon found out was a Mister Foyle, smiles at you, looking you up and down. “Pretty thing, ain’t she?”

You were taken back. You could tell Bruce was too, the way his hand tightened on your shoulder, almost a way to quickly pull you back if things get worse than this.

“Well, Foyle. I don’t think of my staff that way.” Bruce replies.

Foyle makes a face to say “come on”. “Of course, Bruce. Sure, we don’t. How young are you anyway, sweetie.”

That makes you vomit in your mouth. You don’t reply, the elevator door opens, you go for the stairs.

Bruce follows you.

“I’m sorry about that, [Y/N].” He says as you try to jog down the stairs – the best you could in heels.

“It’s fine, Bruce.”

He finally catches up with you when a turn in the stair happens. He makes you turn to him. Almost chest to chest.

“Just tell me you don’t want to see him ever and I’ll make it happen.” He says, in a quiet voice.

You scrunch your brows. “It’s for a business. It’s another few meetings and I’ll never see him again.”

Bruce sighs. “If he makes my best secretary uncomfortable, I don’t want to see him for those other meetings.”

You inhale. He gets closer. You want him to get even closer, so you can hear his heartbeat against yours.

Your own thought process takes you back. You take a step back. “Okay, Bruce.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Batman found you again that night. He needed your help.

The two of you stood above a trafficking situation, watching men that you could’ve sworn you’ve seen before, move people from cars and vans into shipping containers.

Seeing this upfront, instead of reading it on a paper, made your stomach twist.

Batman handed you weapons that were more suitable than your usual crowbar. He went down first into the shadows, teasing them into the dark to take them down.

When one man followed him into the dark maze of the shipping containers on the right, you went to the left. Hitting your new baton against the metal.

This got the attention of two of the men. You managed to get the shorter one down quick and easy before the taller one charged towards you, with what you could guess was a knife.

You took him on headfirst. The two of you hit each other against the metal of the containers, which echoed throughout the whole harbour.

He tried to bang your head, grabbing your cheekbones hard, tight. His nails digging into your scalp, as he goes to run into the container.

You kept kicking, punching, hitting his side, grappling his arms, digging your nails into his hands.

“Batman!” You scream.

This gets the man to let you go, immediately looking for the bat. You laugh.

He looks at you and you’re able to knock him out with the baton.

“You called?”

You scream in shock. He appeared out of thin air. You hit him. “Don’t fucking do that!”

Gordon soon arrived, to collect his suspects and to take the victims back to the station. He talked to Batman, as you stood in the shadows – trying to make yourself look invisible. All you needed was to be arrested.

“Who’s that?” You hear Gordon ask. You melt into yourself more.

“She’s a new helper.”

Gordon sighs. “Another you isn’t what we need, Bat.”

You can see Batman shake his head. “She only works for me.”

When the cops finally cleared the place, it’s when you finally spoke up.

“I work for you?”

You hear him laugh to himself. “In a way, yes.”

You nod. “Do you work for me?”

Batman shrugs. “I can if you want me to.”

That answer pleases you enough.

It was six in the afternoon once again. You cleared up your desk for the weekend, closing your drawers, logging out of your computer. You go to out on your jacket before Bruce is leaning against his doorway.

“Why don’t we go out for some dinner?”

You raise a brow. “I don’t think employee and employers can date, Bruce. Check the company policies.”

He laughs. “Just dinner. Me and you?”

You shrug. “Sure. Where to?”

It was far more expensive and fancier than you expected. Your office attire definitely didn’t match the sort of dresses other women were wearing.

Bruce ordered the steak which was sixty dollars. You gulped at the price. The waiter was waiting for you to speak for your order.

Bruce could tell what was wrong. “It’s on me, [Y/N.”

You nod, exhaling. “I’ll have the…” you couldn’t pronounce the word, but it sounded nice. You point towards it, the waiter nods and pronounces it perfectly.

He leaves, taking your menus and leaving a bottle of wine behind. Bruce pours you a glass each.

You take a sip and it tasted like money. “That’s good wine.”

Bruce chuckles. “Taste good?”

You nod. “Tastes like something I’ll never get to drink again.”

He laughs, shaking his head into the glass. He hums as he swallows the drink. “Should’ve toasted.”

He raises his glass. You do the same, raising a brow.

“To teamwork.” He smiles.

“Is this about the business model?” You shyly ask, wondering what teamwork he was talking about.

“Something like that, sweetheart.” He winks, clinking your glasses together.

That night, you let down your mental walls. Letting him ask about your family, your childhood. Answering questions about what highschool did you go to, which college. You asked a few of your own questions.

And when the question of where these bruises were coming, what hobby could do that. You just said you’ve picked up boxing again, which technically isn’t a lie.

And when you asked him about his bruises. He picked up polo again as an afternoon and weekend hobby.