bat of gotham

Bruce: I hear he has a crush on you

Clark: What?

☀ @waynetowered  ⇢  continued from [ x ]

    That bastard.

        Internal or not, language of that sort would’ve caused Clark to cringe ——- had it not been for the fuming bitterness. That arrogant son’of’a… he’s less interested in sitting here to stew in the rejection, but rather ready to confront him head on. This was ridiculous -— HUMILIATING -— and a total waste of his time. Just another nail in the coffin on this one; red flags he should have predicted and used as his reasoning for avoiding this mess altogether. Why he ever bothered agreeing to this  in the first place was…beyond him. Damn that man’s convincing charm; his logic —- damn his everything.

        He ditches the restaurant, but leaves behind an apology to the staff and a tip that emptied his pockets ( though by their standards — poor ). The single FLOWER he’d brought with him, as part of the charade ( no other reason, obviously ), is tossed to the curb as he takes off for a dark alleyway before flight. It won’t take him long to reach Wayne’s house —— so he does a few spins around the globe just to cool off.

       Alfred lets him in, and takes him down to the cave in silence. Thoughts of shoving a fist in that perfectly squared jaw runs through multiple times, but once he’s in the cool, calm of the cave -—- he sucks in a deep breath, only to let it out once he’s directly behind him and his stupid chair.

         ❝ You didn’t show up. I kept waiting.❞ Short and sweet; a courtesy he didn’t think Bruce really deserved. And with the hopes of this turning into a civil discussion, Bruce half turns to face him —– offering up a response that brings Clark’s blood to a BOIL.

        He blinks a few times in response; taken aback by the simple, impersonal response. He should have expected this —– it’s Bruce. Bruce only does things when it benefits him, or Gotham. It’s always on his time. His terms.  An irritant Clark left alone, for the sake of their collaboration -—- at least until today.

          ❝ Cut the crap, Bruce!❞ He grips the corner of the chair and forces him to face Clark fully, and then leans in. ❝ Where were you, huh? SCREW the apology -— I want an explanation. You dragged me out here, pretending —- for you! And you make me look like a friggin’ idiot! Some puppy-love moron waiting on the Prince that never shows. I agreed to go along with this, to help ——- NOT at the expense of my dignity, or time. Which you’re wastin’. ❞ A huff, which is concerning enough as it is. The reaction Bruce elicits from him alone is embarrassing. That, and the fact that he had to clear his throat and try to casually pull back from their close proximity.

He hadn’t planned it this way.

Bruce had booked the restaurant for seven, a respectable time; with no real intention of showing up earlier than a quarter past the hour, an apologetic smile placed neatly onto his face, his hand already finding Clark’s behind his back, a charming, easy aptitude that would make the maitre d’ forgive him and seat them far back enough so that those paparazzi wouldn’t quite see them through the frosted glass (-- he is Bruce Wayne, after all). He’d order for them, as he’s done countless times before, choosing a Malbec and pouring their glasses for them; heavy-lidded and tart, brushing his fingertips over his by way of inappropriate casualness, just enough to presume, not startling enough to be overt. Charm the waitress with a smile, but never quite take his eyes off Clark -- who’d be wearing something ridiculous, probably -- his gaze soft enough to be foolish; sharp enough to be appreciative. Dinner would end and he’d insist on leaving a tip large enough to pay for half the restaurant, finding his palm in the small of Clark’s back, warm breath against his ear; they weren’t quite sure what to make of them, not just yet -- Bruce Wayne and his new friend -- picked up from the heavy night by ten, only a little tipsy, mouth red from the wine and later, later --

As it is, things change.

The call had come in at half-six, a muffled static reading of Russian swear words and garbled, fast coordinates. He’d steepled his hands together by his head and listened -- idiot had run the call through four different networks, but still hadn’t found his bug (like he would’ve anyway --); watching as the pertinent information was scrawled across his screen in blue, triangulated on his map within seconds, pinpointed and secured by the time the minute was up. Those idiots never learned.

He supposed he had meant to call, somewhere by the time the clock had reached eight, and Bruce had been squinting at his computer screen for the better part of the past two hours. It wasn’t unlike him to be late, and he’d grown accustomed to the look on men and women’s faces -- that broken annoyance as soon as he’d come into view, that scrambled, useless thought that he was bound to turn up eventually. Irregardless, it was their fourth outing; nothing special. Just a busy restaurant up near Old Gotham, too arrogant in itself for the food to be that good (not to say he wasn’t thinking of buying it, but --). The news reporters would be satisfied, it’d be a delicious twist in their tale -- the flirtation between the charming, innocent Daily Planet reporter and Gotham’s favourite playboy, had it reached a turn for the worst? It was enough, certainly, to keep the attention off them for a few days, at best. He supposed, but he didn’t. Clark had rather slipped his mind.

Cut the crap, Bruce. It’d be funny, almost, if it weren’t for the look on his face. Bruce arches an eyebrow, altogether more surprised by his vehemence than his sudden appearance. “It was just dinner, Clark,” he says, coolly, tilting his head a little as if to get a better view of his person. He does, annoyingly, look good; those sharp blue eyes boring into his and -- why is he so close? “I pull this kind of thing all the time.” It’s blasé, and Bruce motions with one hand, carelessly, to prove it, his tone verging on bored. “I’ll just have to make it up to you. Something bigger. Flashier.” He shrugs. “The press will like it.”

ah, yes. one of those –––  what did she expect ? did she honestly think just because he was sitting in a library at 2am rather than out getting trashed with the rest of them he would   NOT   be one of those self-righteous assholes ?  macchiavelli. seriously, who even touches that without being forced to do so ?  ( gets intense.    gets intense !!    prick.  –– like she doesn’t know ) don’t judge a book by its cover, sure, but judge a man by the books he picks at his bedtime lecture at 2 in the freaking morning.

and above all that, she knows ( she knows because she’s donna and she notices things !)  that he’s already read the stupid book. multiple times over, actually. and yet he’s keeping both of them here for what ? fun ?

she doesn’t buy it for one second, this whole   totally-caught-off-guard   thing. strangely enough, though, there’s a part of her that almost admires the effort ( credit where credit is due: at least he’s decent enough of an actor. might have fooled anybody else –– but not her !! )    “ let me repeat it, then. ”  voice too sweet for her, smile too bright. for the untrained eye, this might look like a rather weak attempt to charm him ( and she’s sure plenty of girls have tried   that  . bruce wayne is not one of the more unknown guys on campus ) but there’s annoyance boiling underneath the surface, threatening to break through at any moment now.  “ i said you are the only thing keeping me from my bed. and as much as i hate to interrupt your    intense    reading ––– i have to kick you out. ”  this time the smile is more genuine. perhaps because she’s enjoying this a little too much, putting cocky guys in their place.

she let’s her gaze wander over his face, briefly wonders how he doesn’t look tired  ( actually hopes she doesn’t look half as tired as she feels ) and there’s a split second when her eyes find his that she feels less confident, almost caught off guard ––   it doesn’t last long, because she’s donna and she is always in control of situations like this.  “ take it home…  please ? ”  

Her expression doesn’t change, and Bruce hides the twist of a smirk on his mouth. Certainly, his machinations don’t work on everybody, but it’s been a while since one has been so shrugged off, and quite as fast. 

(He decides, then, quite promptly, that he likes her.) 

She’s annoyed, and he allows the smile on his face to grow despondent, if understanding. It’s been hours, now; together, with only the slow click of the clock hung somewhere down the hall to break the silence; the shuffle of paper against paper, thumb against ink. If she hadn’t come over he would’ve been happy to sit there all evening, stretched against the library chair; memorising line after line, collecting it all into strings of words and phrases, to store in the cache of his head. (It isn’t enough, it’ll never be quite enough --) “That’s fair. Wasn’t keeping track of the time.” Another lie. Although perhaps explaining what he had been doing there in actuality would’ve been altogether far messier, so he leaves it at that.

Bruce easily moves; pushing his feet off the desk where they’d been resting, and pressing a dog-ear for a bookmark into the book’s already folded page -- he’d deal with Alfred’s reprimands later. “I promise I didn’t mean to keep you from your evening, ah... It’s -- Donna, right?” Bruce arches an eyebrow, shouldering his satchel. “I think we have calc together.” (This one isn’t really a lie -- but after making an appearance at the first lecture, he’s never been back. Doesn’t need to. He’s still top of the class.)

“I’ll never understand the mindset of businessmen,” she says in a hushed tone. Businessmen, even more strange than her first encounter with man. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. This place is more like a little hole in the wall. Burgers, fries, things like that.” Not the first place one might assume to find someone like Diana. “I don’t believe you own anything of that nature, do you?” An eyebrow raises with a slight tilt of her head in his direction.

it is 2am.    2 ––– in the goddamn morning !! and yes, she could have thrown him out about three hours ago  ( four, if she sticked to the actual opening hours ), but she’s been going through some books herself. shakespeare, mostly, because she wants to memorize it all. there are people who know every goddamn play by    HEART    and really, how’s she gonna compete with that ? sure, she’s good  ( really good ! )  but if she doesn’t start being absolutely serious about that, she’ll never end up on the big stages of the world… and really, the upside of working here –– despite the good money they pay –– is that she has a lot of free time when it’s not time for exams. only a hand full of students even show up here to begin with and most don’t stay long. except for   him  . 

 oh, she knows who he is. she’s donna, she knows   EVERYBODY   on this goddamn campus      ( well, everybody you  should   know. and bruce wayne is definitely the kind of guy you’d want to keep an eye on.   he’s a promising young man    is what her boss said… of course what she meant by this is:  he’s rich  ).   he’s weird, actually, and she has yet to figure out whether it’s the good kind of weird or the  i-definitely-do-not-want-to-be-stuck-in-a-library-with-you-at-2-am   kind of weird. she’s about to go find out !

❝  so… ❞   does he even notice her ?  she’s leaning against the far end of the desk he’s sitting on, a small pile of books almost protectively pressed against her chest.  ❝ i’ve noticed you tend to be most active at night, and i really admire how diligent you are but maybe you want to take those –– ❞  she nods towards the books stacked in front of him ❝ somewhere else ? i don’t know if you knew but you are literally the only thing that’s keeping me from my bed. ❞  her tone is playful enough, the actual tiredness in her voice very, very well hidden  ( ACTING, HAH! )          ❝ it’s saturday !    HOW    do you have nowhere better to be – if you don’t mind me asking ??  ❞   a party. at home.  or in a soft, beautiful, cozy, warm     b e d.

@waynetowered

He’s doing it on purpose.

Not to say, of course, that the thoughts and machinations of Macchiavelli upon a certain Borgia son aren’t particularly fascinating, let alone inspiring; but Bruce has read this book front-to-cover approximately twelve times in the past two hours or so, and the girl behind the desk isn’t -- moving. In fact, she’s barely inclined her head from whatever Shakespeare play she’d idly picked on a few hours ago (-- Othello, if she was sensible; Hamlet, if she was boring). 

Bruce likes the library here. Hardly as grandiose as Oxford, where each desk was usually littered with a Adderall-addled student or two, the walls stretching higher than one could even conceivably see, covered with books and ledgers and tomes. This one is -- it’s simpler, certainly; and occupied only by himself (which he prefers insurmountably), save for her. Donna Paulsen, if he’s not mistaken. (He never is). Something of an actor, something of a know-it-all. He knows her, because it’s his job to know her, as he knows everyone on this damn campus. Memorising faces, attributes, quirks. Everybody -- everybody -- boiled down to a few lines of simple description, to be stored cleanly away in his head, and kept.

He’s caught up in staring as she comes over; eyebrow quirked as he reads, for perhaps the hundredth time, the same sentence -- so that when he pretends not to hear her coming, his reaction is somewhat genuine. “Hm?” Bruce looks at her, thumbing his place in the book as he finds her gaze; the entirety of what she had just said lost to the quiet surrounding them.