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wr1tersblock42 · 3 years

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I never told you what I do for a living: Part Three - River of Deceit

Fanfic of The Batman set after the events of the movie. Bruce rescues a young woman from one of Penguin's thugs and gets a lot more than he bargained for.

In this chapter, Bruce & Queenie get uncomfortably close to each other's secrets.

When Queenie made her way to the kitchen just after two the next day, she wasn't expecting anyone else to be there. To her surprise, Bruce sat at the dining table, looking decidedly rumpled in yet another oversized t-shirt. At least he had pants on, unlike the last time they'd met in this room. And not just any pants. Baggy cargos. She shook her head from the doorway. This guy was perpetually stuck in the wrong decade.

"Good afternoon sunshine," she said cheerfully, not expecting anything more than a grunt in reply. She didn't even get that.

The curtains were closed, even though she was sure she'd seen them open this morning. She opened them by sharply pulling on the cord, flashing a wide grin at Bruce.

He blinked back at her, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of dark shades that she could have sworn were off the set of CSI Miami.

"Ah ha!" Queenie slammed her hand down on the dining table as she walked past. "I've discovered your secret."

Bruce actually looked alarmed at that, even behind those ridiculous sunglasses.

"Vampire," she hissed, lifting her hands into claws. "Watch out, Wayne, I stake vampires for breakfast."

He still looked unnerved, which only made her burst out into laughter. She was still giggling after she'd fetched the cookie jar from the cupboard and sat down at the table opposite Bruce.

His mouth had twisted into a grimace. But then she heard it. The faintest of sounds. Yep, she'd actually done it. She'd made the perpetually gloomy Bruce Wayne laugh. Well, more of a snort really, but she'd take it.

"Cookie?" She offered one to him even though he had a thin cheese sandwich he'd been taking the occasional nibble out of.

Bruce stared at it so long she nearly retracted her hand, but at the last moment he plucked it from between her fingers.

"Thank you," he said. That's what she assumed he said anyway, since his voice was barely above a whisper and still gravelly from sleep.

"They are your cookies," she pointed out. "But you are welcome regardless."

Alfred strolled into the room, rolling down the sleeves of his shirt. He stopped midway into the room and looked at Bruce in dismay. "You're not ready."

Bruce glanced down at his t-shirt, then looked back at Alfred with a shrug.

Alfred clicked his tongue in exasperation. "We need to go in twenty minutes. Go put on a shirt."

"It's my company. I can wear what I want." After saying more words that Queenie had ever heard him say, Bruce took a large obnoxious bite of the cookie in his hand.

Alfred rubbed his face and let out a sigh. "This was your idea. If you want to ensure the money from your father's charity is being used right, you need to create the right impression."

"And what impression is that? An old man in an ill fitted suit desperate to make the board like him?"

Holy. Shit. Queenie honestly didn't think Bruce had this much fire in him. Also wow, he was kind of a jerk.

Alfred's face had turned bright red, and the veins popped in his hands as if he was fighting back the urge to smack Bruce in the head. "Better than a sulky boy who thinks he can get what he wants because of who his father was."

Bruce dropped the cookie.

His chair scraped loudly as he pushed back to stand up and Queenie suddenly realised how tall he was.

"Uh, gentlemen," she interjected, standing up as well. "If you want to have a pissing contest, Penguin's club is the ideal place for it. But if you want to talk money to stuffy rich people, then you both need to lose the attitude and you," she pointed at Bruce, "need to lose the entire outfit."

She raked her eyes up and down him, giving him the most lascivious look she could drum up.

Just as she'd anticipated, Bruce's face went bright red.

"I can help you if you want." She threw in a wink for good measure.

"Uh… I…" Bruce paused for a moment, and Queenie wondered if he was actually going to take her up on that offer. Then he bolted from the room, his footsteps thumping on the wooden stairs.

She gave Alfred a flourished bow then sat back down. "And that's how it's done."

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Alfred stood still, looking stunned for a moment. Then he shook his head and finished buttoning up his sleeves. He headed towards the kitchen island, patting her head as past her. "I think we'll keep you on."

Queenie laughed. "Bruce might have something different to say about that."

Alfred scoffed. "He'll need to get through me first before kicking you out. Don't worry young miss. You're not going anywhere."

Queenie munched through another few cookies while Alfred made a cup of tea. It had just finished brewing when Bruce walked back into the room.

He had long black pants on, a white shirt untucked, and a blue tie with a loose knot. His hair was mussed, and his cheeks still contained a slight flush. In short, he still looked like he'd rolled out of bed, but to Queenie's surprise - and delight - it was in a take me to bed with you kind of way.

She let out a low whistle. "Damn, Grunge Boy. You clean up okay."

Bruce ducked his head and tugged at his tie.

Alfred put down his teacup, but Queenie waved him off. "Drink your tea Alfred. And maybe add something stronger to it. I get the feeling you'll need it." She stood up, pushing the cookies away, then brushed the crumbs off her hands "I'll sort this one out."

"I don't need-" Bruce broke off at her raised eyebrow.

"Give me the tie and tuck in your shirt."

Bruce yanked at the tie then tugged it over her head before thrusting it towards her. She took it and began unravelling the mess of a knot as he tucked in his shirt.

"Come here." Queenie reached up and flipped his collar up, then looped the tie around his neck.

Bruce went completely stiff, and may as well have been one of the marble statues in the manor's gallery room. She deftly tied his tie, tightened it, then fixed his collar.

"There." She stepped back to inspect her work. Frowning, she reached up even higher to fuss at his hair.

Bruce took a step back avoiding her hand and flicked his own fingers through his hair so it flopped into place.

Queenie turned to Alfred and gave him some jazz hands. "Ta da!"

Alfred's lips twitched. "Ready to go, Master Wayne?"

Bruce scowled. "Let's get this over with."

"That's the spirit. Out with both of you, no time to lose." She ushered them both out of the kitchen to the front door where a sleek black car was parked. "Go get that money, Bruce. Kick some board butt. And if they offer you food, check for garlic first."

"Garlic?" Alfred asked.

Queenie slammed the door shut in response.

---------------

While Bruce and Alfred were out, Queenie focussed on the reason she was at the manor in the first place.

She'd woken up this morning to seven large boxes sitting on the floor of her bedroom, a piece of paper sitting on top of one of them, weighed down with the kitchen knife she'd tried to stab Batman with.

The note was typed and short. Find out what you know.

Inside the boxes she'd found papers, journals and photos. She'd recognised the handwriting immediately. John. Her hands had shook as she'd picked up one of the papers, tracing the writing with her finger. He was alive when he wrote that. She could almost pretend…

At least it looked like Batman was keeping up his part of the bargain. She'd half expected him to keep the lot and go through it without her but he wouldn't have had time to do that. It looked like he'd cleared out the whole office.

The address she'd given Batman had been hired under a pseudonym and neither her or John were stupid enough to put their names on anything, but she the moment she'd seen the boxes she's suddenly felt nervous. Would he figure out who she really was? Queenie had made sure she was low profile, dying her hair and using fake names wherever she went, but a man known for wearing a mask wouldn't be thrilled to be working with someone like her.

At least she felt confident that he wouldn't have her murdered like Penguin would. She was one hundred percent sure of that. Okay, ninety percent.

Either way, she had a hell of a lot to go through and she'd enlisted Alfred's help in getting a large room to work in.

The evening had just begun to set when Queenie went from categorising the documents to starting to read through everything in more detail. After reading through some of the pieces of paper she'd put in the "drugs" pile, she sensed someone at the doorway and glanced up.

Bruce stood there, still mostly in the clothes he'd worn to the meeting. He'd lost his shoes, his shirt was now half untucked, the sleeves rolled up, and he'd tugged the tie loose and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. Bruce's shoulders were slumped and he had one hand on the doorframe as if he needed it there to remain standing. He looked as crumpled as his clothes.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

Bruce winced then shook his head.

"That bad, huh?" She curled one side of her mouth in sympathy. Poor guy looked like the meeting had sapped his life force. Ill or not, he clearly needed to be taking better care of himself. "Here, you can help me." She patted the couch beside her. "It will take your mind off it until dinner and then you can get some rest."

"I don't need rest," Bruce muttered, but he did sit on the opposite side of the couch, keeping a good distance between them.

"Sure, tough guy." Queenie handed him one of the reports John had written up. "Here, read this."

Bruce scanned it quickly. "What is it?"

"These are from your masked friend. They document Penguin's recent activities. Your vigilante buddy thinks whatever is happening might have something to do with drugs so I've categorised everything and this," she reached forward and patted a pile of paper closest to her on the floor, "is the drug reference pile."

Bruce frowned at the document. "What are you looking for?"

Queenie shrugged. "Fuck knows. Something to give me a clue to why there is a hit out on me? Something that could bring Penguin down?"

Bruce grunted, but appeared engrossed already. As he started going through the documents, seemingly happy enough to help, Queenie did the same.

There were transcripts from recorded conversations. Photos of money drops. Pages and pages of notes in shorthand. Nothing was tying together, it all felt random. Chaotic.

"Who is Annabelle?"

Queenie jumped at Bruce's voice. She'd almost forgotten he was there, he was so quiet. "Who?"

"Annabelle. She's been mentioned a few times. Have you noticed?"

"Yeah." Queenie started to dig through the documents she'd gone through so far. "Here. And here… and this one too. What of it?"

"You worked at Penguin's club."

"Yes…"

"Did you meet anyone named Annabelle?"

"No." She frowned. The references to Annabelle did feel a little weird.

"Maybe it's a code. A way to talk about something that they don't want others to understand."

"Show me." Queenie wiggled her fingers, prompting Bruce to put the documents he was referring to in her hand. She quickly read through them, the wheels in her head turning. "Damn. I think you might be right."

Bruce shrugged and picked up another piece of paper.

"You're good at this," Queenie said, creating a new pile for Annabelle references. "If you weren't a professional billionaire you'd make a good detective."

A smile twitched on his face, even as he stared more intently at the piece of paper he held.

She began to write down every reference in the large notepad Alfred had given her. Hopefully seeing them all together would help crack whatever code was being used. Between her and Bruce they managed to find several more references in that one pile. She stared at her notes, even twisting them upside down in the vain hope that it would make the meaning magically appear.

Frustrated, she threw the notepad down on the cushion beside her. Bruce picked it up, as it to start looking at it too, but Queenie stood up. Bruce looked exhausted. He was probably just being nice helping her, and the last thing she needed was a big dose of guilt at overworking him. "C'mon grunge boy, I smell food. That's probably dinner."

When he didn't look up from her notes, she clapped her hands. "Hey! Food. Now. I get hangry when I don't eat and since you're always in a grump and never eat I suspect that is half your problem."

Brunce looked up, his brow furrowed. When he opened his mouth, she wondered if he was going to have a go at her like he had with Alfred earlier.

"Some of these papers are yours," he said instead.

"What?" Queenie froze. Shit. She should have expected this. Bruce was shy and awkward and possibly sick, but he wasn't stupid.

Bruce fished out a piece of paper from one of the categorised piles and handed it to her. "This is your handwriting."

It was a paper written in shorthand. He wasn't just smart, he was fucking detective level observant to match her scrawled notes with her shorthand writing.

This was not good. He'd soon be as involved as she was. What had she been thinking, getting him to help her? If he knew too much, he'd be next on the hit list. Penguin would find him and torture him to get whatever information he wanted, and then he'd kill Bruce. Then kill her.

And get away with everything.

---------------

Queenie looked so horrified that Bruce knew he'd landed on something bigger than he realised.

She dropped the paper and crossed her arms. "You're a real genius, Wayne," she said in a tone that he was sure was meant to come across sarcastic. "But that's not my handwriting." Her voice was too high, her eyes too wide. She was lying.

Slowly, the cogs turned in his mind. "I thought…" He pinched the bridge of his nose before looking back at her. "I thought you were caught in the wrong place, wrong time, and that uh… Batman… got you out."

"That's right."

Bruce shook his head. "No, it's more than that." He didn't know what exactly, but he was sure there was more. She hadn't even told him her real name. There had to be a reason for that… But getting people to talk was not his strong suit unless it involved punching their head in. Talking was Queenie's thing. Hell, she'd pounced on him this morning declaring that she knew his secret and he was almost ready to spill it all!

She shifted uncomfortably in front of him. "I don't think you should be involved in this any more."

He shook the notepad at her. "I'm already involved."

Queenie snatched it out of his hand. "Drop it, Bruce."

"I want to help."

"I'm fairly sure I've already gotten the last person who helped me killed." Her breathing turned ragged. "I don't want another death on my conscience. Look, this was a bad idea." She knelt on the ground and began frantically packing up, putting some of the journals back in the boxes. "This whole thing, coming here was stupid. I should have left town."

Bruce recognised a spiral when he saw one but he had no idea what to do. When he got like this Alfred used to march him to a punching bag. Now, he got dressed up as a bat and punched bad guys.

He suspected that it wasn't a method of therapy that would work with Queenie.

"I'll leave now," she said, more to herself than him. "I'm sure I can find a safe place for a while. I'll figure this out, and then everything will be okay."

Cautiously he knelt down on the ground beside her and touched the wrist moving papers into a box.

Queenie kept talking as if he wasn't there. "Everything will be fine. Everything-"

"Breathe," he said. Breathing helped him sometimes, when it was really bad.

Queenie turned and smacked his chest with her other hand. "Don't… tell me… to breathe… asshole."

She pulled her other hand away from him, and he tensed, expecting another hit, this time to his face.

Instead she fell against him, wrapping her arms around his neck with a shuddering breath.

Bruce froze. As a rule, he didn't like close contact with people. Especially not hugs. They made him feel claustrophobic, like he had to fight his way out of them. But Queenie was soft and pliant against him, and not a threat. Not a threat, he repeated to himself. Slowly, he placed one hand on her back, patting it gently.

She started shaking against him and he pulled back in alarm.

"You're useless at this," she said, and he realised she was laughing. Laughing with tears in her eyes.

She sniffed and pulled away. Wiping her eyes, she stood up, facing away from him for a moment, before turning back. "Food?" she suggested weakly.

Bruce hesitated. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'll meet you there."

She nodded hurriedly, then began to rush from the room.

"Queenie?" He called out just as she made it to the doorway.

She paused, but didn't look back at him.

"You won't leave?"

There was a moment of silence before she looked over her shoulder at him. "Not without telling you."

Relief flooded through him, and as she left the room he told himself that it was because he still needed to find out why Penguin had a hit on her. To find out what was going down to stop it in time.

That was the only reason.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the batman #the batman 2022 #he's so awkward #at least he's trying #battinson #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth

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wr1tersblock42 · 3 years

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Out of Time Chapter 43: Wish upon a star… or a dragon!

It’s nearly the end of the road team! This will be the second to last chapter of Out of Time. I think I’ve been procrastinating about finishing this so much because I’m a little sad to say goodbye. It’s been quite a journey!

Getting to New Namek was simple, thanks to the coordinates Vegeta had gotten from Piccolo. Even though the actual journey only took four weeks, he may as well have been spending the time in a hyperbolic chamber it felt so long.

Trunks didn't help matters. He was a ball of nervous energy bouncing around the ship, excited one moment, angry and sullen the next. Vegeta dealt with it the only way he knew how… training until both he and Trunks were almost falling asleep where they stood.

It was a great relief when he came in to land the ship on Namek. He touched down smoothly on a piece of blue land, then commenced the shut down sequence. The door opened with a hiss, flooding the cabin with fresh air, and without saying a word, Trunks zipped outside, flying straight up into the sky as high as he could.

With a sigh, Vegeta finished shutting down the controls, then came outside as well, taking in a few deep breaths of the flowery scented air to centre himself. He'd specifically dressed in casual human clothing rather than the armour Bulma from the other time had given him to avoid reminding the inhabitants of the last time he was on a Namekian planet. Bulma would have preferred he got his way peacefully. But he was ready to fight, if need be, to get the dragonballs. He'd come this far and nothing would stop him from achieving his mission now.

"Whoo!" Trunks landed back down with a thud beside him. "This planet is real pretty. There's a village about five minutes that way." He pointed in a direction off to their left.

Vegeta patted the boy's head. "Good scouting. Let's go."

"Do you think they'll remember you?" Trunks asked as they took to the air.

Vegeta let out a sigh. "Let's hope not." But he didn't actually have any hope on that count. He was fairly recognisable, he'd stayed at Capsule Corp for months with them when Goku was gallivanting around space, and even if they didn't recall him from their time on Earth he was fairly sure they'd remember the Saiyan who murdered their people.

In the distance a small village grew closer. White, dome houses were scattered on the blue ground. In front of them looked to be a communal area with a large fire pit, and chairs and tables made from stones.

Several Namekians were outside, some gardening, others chatting. They all stopped to stare as the two Saiyans approached.

As Vegeta and Trunks landed, an older Namekian came out of one of the domes. He was stocky, and wore a white collar and pants, accompanied with a dark red vest that fell to his knees.

Vegeta stayed where he landed and placed a hand on Trunks' shoulder to tell him to do the same.

The Namekian stopped in front of them both and cocked his head, a frown on his face.

"Vegeta," he said finally.

Most of the Namekians looked the same, but Vegeta recognised this one. "Moori." He gave him a sharp nod. "This is my son, Trunks."

The Namekian's eyes widened as he took Trunks. "You must also be Bulma's boy," Moori said, breaking into a grin that transformed his wrinkled face.

Vegeta scowled at him. "What makes you say that?"

Moori let out a low chuckle. "Come now. I saw the way she looked at you when we were all on Earth. And that is a woman that always gets what she wants."

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Vegeta flushed. "Yes, well we've come to use the-"

"Dragon balls, yes, I know." Moori laughed again, the ushered Vegeta and Trunks to the stone circle around the fire pit.

They sat and he began preparing a drink. "Kami went dark a few years ago. We kept in touch regularly, you see, so I knew something was wrong." He handed Vegeta a cup of something steaming hot.

"There were these android's," Vegeta started to explain.

"And Bulma is not with you," Moori continued. "So, I gather you are here to wish her back."

"This guys good," Trunks whispered.

"That's correct," Vegeta said. "We want to make a wish and-"

"But there's something you should know about the Dragon balls."

"Look old man," Vegeta snapped, sick of being interrupted. "Will you help us or not?"

Moori blinked in surprise. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

Vegeta clenched the fist not holding the cup. "I don't know. Maybe because I killed half a Namekian village a decade ago."

Moori waved a hand. "Nonsense. No one here bears a grudge."

Vegeta glanced around at the Namiekians scattered around the village who all stood arms crossed and glaring. He raised an eyebrow.

"Do they?" Moori spoke louder.

There was a muttered grumbling of assent.

"See? Drink the tea."

Vegeta took a sip obediently, hiding a shudder at the butter taste.

"Can I make the wish?" Trunks asked, leaning forward to put his cup on the ground. "I've never seen dragonballs. Mama used to tell me stories though."

"You can make a wish but I will need to translate," Moori replied. "And we need to talk about the rules."

Vegeta's heart went to his throat. "Rules?"

"Unless they have been dead for less than a year, you cannot wish back everyone on Earth in one wish."

Vegeta and Trunks looked at each other in dismay.

"But," Moori continued, "you can wish back an individual who has been dead for more than a year. And you get three wishes."

Vegeta thought quickly. That could work. This was actually going to happen. "When can the balls next be used?"

Moori smiled. "Today, my boy. We've had the dragonballs gathered and ready for some time."

Trunks felt like he could burst at any moment. They were going to do it! He was going to see Mama again! He crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently as the Namekians brought the dragon balls over one by one.

Beside him, Papa was eerily calm. He stared at the growing pile of dragon balls without blinking, as if nothing else in the world existed.

"It's going to be alright, Papa." Trunks reached out and touched his father's arm.

Papa started. "What? Yes. It will all be over soon." As the last ball came out, he turned to Trunks. "You know what to do?"

Trunks nodded firmly. "Don't worry, Papa. I've got this."

At his father's nod, Moori spoke to the dragon balls in what Trunks assumed was Namekian.a bright flash of light exploded from the balls then shot into the sky. The sky swirled, then turned green, and out of the thick mist a dragon emerged.

It didn't look like any dragon Trunks had imagined. For starters, it didn't have wings, and the creature was huge! It blocked out the sky, looking more like a giant green mountain than anything else.

It spoke in a low voice that shook the trees and reverberated across Trunks' skin. He didn't understand it's words, but Moori turned to him.

"Make your first wish, boy."

"Uh…" Trunks swallowed as he stared up at the dragon. "Mr Dragon, I'd like to wish back Piccolo and Kami. They are one person. Sort of. Can that be done in one wish?"

Moori translated, and after the dragon replied, he nodded at Trunks. "It is done."

"Really?" Trunks looked around. "Just like that?"

"He'll be on Earth," Papa said gruffly. "Keep going."

"For my next wish, I want to bring Bulma Briefs back to life!"

"It is done," Moori said once more.

Trunks looked at his father, smiling so hard it hurt his cheeks. Papa looked a little shocked, like he hadn't expected it to work.

"We could wish ourselves home," Papa said before Trunks could make the third wish. "See her right now."

Trunks paused. That was tempting. After all this, having to fly for four weeks before seeing Mama would be the longest trip ever.

"But I suppose she'd tell us there are more important people to bring back first," Papa said with a sigh.

Trunks turned to Moori. "I have my third wish."

A ringing in her ears woke her. She made an attempt to open her eyes, but quickly closed them as bright light now only made the sound worse, but created a thumping in her head. She let out a low groan and tried to sit up.

"Bulma?"

Someone's arm helped her into a sitting position, and she blinked wearily, trying to clear the sleepy gunk from her eyes.

"Bulma, are you okay?"

"Gohan?" His face came into focus, a worried expression furrowing his brow.

She glanced around the room. If you could call it that. It was mostly rubble. The roof had caved in, and the window had a massive hole through it where one of the androids had thrown-

"Trunks!" She looked around frantically, scrambling to her feet. "Where's Trunks?"

"He's not here," Gohan said. "I can't feel his ki."

"You can't feel his…" Suddenly lightheaded, she gripped Gohan's arm to remain standing. "You mean he's…"

"I don't know." He closed his eyes, appearing to concentrate. "I can't feel Vegeta either."

"Oh, Kami." Her breaths started to come out in shallow gasps. "They can't be. The last thing I remember was…"

"We died." Gohan swallowed noisily. "They came here. They attacked us. I tried to… but they…"

"But we are back." Bulma looked at her hand, almost thinking it wouldn't be there, that she'd be invisible like a ghost from a supernatural movie. "We're back! That must mean-"

"The dragon balls worked," came a woman's voice from outside the broken window. She had long, black hair and wore a Capsule Corp t-shirt and cargo pants. Her face broke into a wide grin. "Honestly, I thought Vegeta had gone mad when he told me that he was going to see a dragon about wishing you back, but here you are, just like he said!"

Gohan and Bulma stared at her dumbly as she climbed gingerly through the gaping hole in the wall. She fished into one of her oversized pockets and handed Bulma a small bag.

"We took some of the supplies, but Vegeta said to give you the rest. Welcome back!"

With a shaking hand, Bulma accepted the bag. It jingled and she immediately recognised the sound of small metal capsules.

"You know Vegeta?" she managed to ask.

The woman nodded. "He and Trunks stayed with us for a while." She glanced around the room with a frown. "I don't think you can stay here. It's unlivable. I can get a crew over to Capsule Corp to help you rebuild though."

"Get a crew… Trunks… Trunks is alive?"

"Oh yeah. Can't keep that kid down for long," she chuckled.

"Who are you?" Gohan blurted out.

"Oh." The woman laughed. "Sorry! I'm Videl. You must be Gohan. Trunks told me about you."

"And the androids?" Bulma couldn't do more than get those three words out.

"Dead." Videl pulled an apple out of one of her other pockets then bit into it noisily. "Thanks to your husband." She used the apple to point at Bulma.

"We never married…" Bulma shook her head. "Do you know how long we were dead?"

Videl shrugged. "Two or three years. Keeping an eye on the calendar hasn't exactly been a top priority."

"So Vegeta and Trunks are…"

Videl pointed a finger at the sky. "Currently interstellar, I imagine."

"Well, shit," Gohan said, startling Bulma with his unusual use of a cuss word. "Vegeta did it. It's Piccolo. I can feel his ki! Vegeta got the time machine working and wished us back. Now we have the dragon balls on Earth too."

Laughter bubbled up in her throat until it exploded. She threw her arms around Gohan, tears pricking her eyes. "He did it! He really did it!"

#vegeta #Future Vegeta #Vegebul #trunks #namek #fanfiction #fanfic #outoftime

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wr1tersblock42 · 3 years

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This is exactly right. Comments have brought back a fic from death. They are my life source. Every single one is appreciated far more than you could know!

What makes a good comment? Is it weird to comment again on a re-read?

Friend, thank you so much for asking this question.

Commenting is such an important part of the creative process for writers, but there can be an element of uncertainty or even anxiety for readers who want to leave feedback and encouragement but feel like they don’t know what to say.

We’re going to take this opportunity to provide a handy set of suggestions based on our own experiences as writers, readers, and commenters.

The Farm Witch Guide to Commenting

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Unless the author has explicitly asked for constructive criticism, the comment section is absolutely not the place for it.

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Don’t know where to start? Go with what you were thinking about while you read it. “This is so funny/sweet/soft!” or “This was a wonderful story!” or “I loved this!”. Concise, simple comments are still very meaningful.

Pick out a specific line or moment that really spoke to you, surprised you, or gave you all the feels. Copy and paste that line into the comment and add why it caught your attention. (“This was so (character).” or “I never thought about (character) that way before.”)

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Don’t be afraid to be “rude”. Most writers will happily tell you some of their favorite comments are the ones in shouty caps and include curse words. Depending on your comfort level, go on and yell about all the stupid feelings you have now and that you can’t believe you’re crying over (whatever). Seriously, “fuck you (affectionate)” is really the highest of compliments.

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wr1tersblock42 · 3 years

Text

I never told you what I do for a living

Part 2: Redundant

Looks like there is more in me on the subject of sad, awkward Bruce Wayne. So here we go!

Part 1: About a girl

When Bruce woke up again it was seven o’clock once more, but thankfully the P.M. displayed on the clock showed that it was the evening. Even better, there was no music. He reached out and grabbed the same black t-shirt from the floor, about to throw it on automatically before he paused. Cautiously, he put it to his nose and gave it a sniff.

Yeah, okay. Maybe Alfred had a point.

After he’d showered and dressed he made his way through the manor. Most of the rooms were actually shut up. Maintaining a house this size wasn’t practical otherwise, and it gave a convenient excuse as to why certain rooms were locked. At this time of the evening Queenie would likely be in the parlour where the evening meal was served and the fireplace kept the temperature warm.

As he approached, he could hear laughter drifting down the hall. The parlour door was only open a crack, with warm light peaking through, and Bruce paused just outside it, tempted to just keep walking. But as much as Bruce would have preferred to go hunt something down from the fridge and avoid Queenie (and Alfred), he knew he needed to face the girl eventually.

Hopefully this time he could look like less of an idiot when doing so.

He pushed open the door.

Inside, a fire crackled, bathing the room in an orange glow. The parlour was set up for casual dining, with a mahogany sideboard that had seen better days dressed up with a lace tablecloth and laden with dishes covered in polished silver cloches. In front of the fire was a low coffee table, surrounded by four worn but still plush brown arm chairs. Each chair had an accompanying side table to eat off.

Two chairs had clearly already been sat in, their tables covered in empty plates. Alfred and the girl were no longer in them though. Instead, they knelt in front of the coffee table, hands poised over a pile of cards.

“Snap!” Queenie slammed her hand down and whooped then held up her hand of cards triumphantly. “I’m kicking your butt, Alfred.”

Alfred scrunched his nose. “It’s early yet, young lady.”

“Whatever old man. I’m lightning fast!” Her gaze lifted from Alfred and landed on Bruce, making her smile even wider. “Oh. Hello.” She cocked her head, her eyes narrowing. “You are real. I thought you might have been a figment of my imagination this morning, you disappeared so fast.”

Bruce clenched his fists, embarrassment flooding him. He looked to Alfred for help.

Alfred raised one eyebrow. “I’m not sure he is Bruce.” A mischievous grin passed over his face. “This man has showered. And put on clean clothes.”

Bruce felt his face flame, but chose to say nothing, recognising Alfred’s comments for what it was - payback for going off at him earlier for letting the girl have free reign of the house.

In the chair opposite Alfred, Queenie’ lips trembled with what he assumed would be laughter if she let it out. “There’s food on the sideboard,” she said instead, her voice light and airy.

Fighting back a sigh, Bruce stepped properly into the room, the heat from the fire enveloping him as he did so. Slowly, he walked over to the sideboard then lifted each silver handle to inspect each dish before taking a plate and then carefully selecting a thin slice of roast beef. He also placed one potato on his plate for good measure.

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Queenie was suddenly beside him, snatching the plate out of his hand. “You’ll never get well if you eat like that. You need greens, grunge boy, and lots of them.”

Get well? Grunge boy?

“Yes, I’ve seen your music collection. Not very diverse for a billionaire.” She patted his hand and he yanked it away from her, her touch scorching his bare skin.

If she noticed his reaction, she didn’t show it, and simply began piling his plate full of food. He soon found himself ushered to one of the armchairs and half pushed into it.

“Eat,” she commanded, placing the food on the table beside the chair. She stared at him until he finally picked up his fork, stabbed a bean, and put it in his mouth. Satisfied, she turned back to her cards.

Sudden relief at having her gaze off him made Bruce relax a little in his chair.

“Alfred tried to teach me chess,” Queenie said, gathering up her discarded cards. “And I am terrible at gambling. Don’t have a poker face. So, I’m teaching Alfred Snap. I can’t believe he’s never played it before!”

Even though he wasn’t looking directly at her, the whole time Queenie spoke, Bruce knew she wasn’t watching him - he would have felt the burn if she had - and he suspected it was purposeful. He gingerly pierced a baby potato and took a bite.

“I’m afraid the games I used to play were a little more high stakes, Miss Queenie… Snap!”

The sound of hands slamming down on cards made Bruce jump, and he nearly lost his potato.

“We could play Go Fish,” Queenie said, rising to her feet. She simply bubbled energy, as if she couldn’t stay still for more than thirty seconds. “It’s an excellent game to while away the time.”

Alfred chuckled. “I haven’t played that since I was a child.”

Queenie plucked a bread roll off Bruce’s plate, and began buttering it. “Have you played it Bruce? Don’t worry if not. It’s very simple.” She handed him the bread roll, pressing it into his hand firmly, then proceeded to go back to the cards, gathering them up and dealing him in without stopping to check if he actually wanted to play.

Bruce opened his mouth to object, but decided that would be more effort than it was worth. He took a bite of the bread roll instead.

“It’s a simple game. Loser clears the dishes. Try the broccolini, Bruce. We each start with seven cards.” She gathered some cards in her hand and waved them at his face impatiently until he took them. She continued to explain the rules as he picked at his food but he wasn’t really paying attention. He had no idea how to direct the conversation towards what she’d been doing with Penguin’s gang to find out what it was she knew. Hell, he had no idea how to hold a conversation in the first place.

“Bruce. Do you have any threes?”

He started, then met her eyes, confused.

“Threes.” She waved her cards. “Do you have a three?”

He dropped his eyes to his cards then shook his head.

“Go fish,” she said.

Bruce frowned at his cards.

“You’re meant to say ‘go fish’ if you don’t have the card,” she said.

“Go fish,” he mumbled obediently.

Queenie picked up a card from the pile in the middle. “That gravy will only keep those peas warm for so long. Best eat them while they are hot. Alfred, your turn.”

They continued to play, with Queenie prompting him to eat at every opportunity until he felt so heavy with food he was half concerned he wouldn’t fit into his suit tonight.

Bruce kept an eye on the clock on the mantle, knowing that at some point he’d have to extricate himself. But to his surprise Queenie made it easy for him.

After three games, she declared herself the loser and began to gather up the dishes. “You two boys really know how to party, but I’m beat. I’ll take these to the kitchen then head to bed.”

“Now, Miss Queenie you don’t need to-”

“Nonsense, Alfred. Loser clears the dishes. That was the deal.” And before they could argue she’d balanced the dirty places on her arms and sauntered out of the room.

Alfred let out a low whistle as he moved from the floor to the armchair beside Bruce. “Your girl sure is a firecracker.”

Bruce rested his head back and closed his eyes. “She’s not my girl.”

“No?”

He cracked an eye open to glare at Alfred.

“I’m merely saying,” Alfred held up his hands in defence, “that you haven’t listened to anything I’ve had to say for the last two years, but she spends one day here and has you clean and eating.”

“You’re the one who told me to shower.”

Alfred scoffed. “We both know you didn’t do that for my benefit.”

Bruce ignored that comment, not wanting to dwell on the truth if it. “Penguin has a hit on her,” he said instead. “I need to find out why.”

“Hm.” Alfred stood up and went to the mantle. He poured two glasses of scotch and handed one to Bruce. “Dutch courage lad. I think you’re going to need it since the only words you’ve spoken to her since she arrived are ‘go fish’.”

“That’s not true.” Bruce took a sip of his drink then put it on his table. “I’ve said… I’ve…” But as much as he wracked his brain, he couldn’t think of anything. Hell, Alfred was right. He buried his face in his hands. “Fuck.”

“Language.”

“Sorry.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Batman is going to have to talk to her.”

“You can’t hide behind that mask forever.” Alfred swirled his drink, staring into his glass. “At some point Bruce Wayne is going to have to live again. That girl took one look at you and thinks you have some kind of illness for goodness sake. And she’s not wrong. You are killing yourself by living like this.”

“We’ve talked about this, Alfred,” Bruce snapped. He picked up his glass then tossed the rest of it down, flinching at the burn.

“And you’re still not listening!”

Bruce slammed his glass on the table then stood and began pacing in front of the fireplace. “There are more important things at play here. The Penguin is up to something big, and I need to find out what it is before we end up with another Riddler situation on our hands.”

“There’s always going to be something, Bruce.” Alfred stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to stop pacing. “This is Gotham for goodness sake.”

Bruce wrenched out of Alfred’s grip. “You don’t get it! The Riddler was my fault. Mine. He destroyed half the city and it is on me.”

“You can’t blame yourself for the actions of a psychopath,” Alfred said as Bruce stalked from the room.”

“No?” Bruce paused in the doorway to throw a glare over his shoulder at the butler. “Watch me.”

———

The room that Queenie had been given at Wayne Manor was bigger than her whole apartment had been. It contained a large four poster bed with curtains that had seen better days and an ornate dresser with a mirror that had tarnished and warped. But someone had put some care and thought into the room, with clean sheets, fluffy pillows and a cheerful blue and purple rug on the floor.

What Queenie loved most about the room was that it had French doors leading onto a balcony that looked out on the overgrown grounds. She was on the third floor, and had seen enough security cameras around to feel safe leaving the doors open.

She sat on the edge of her bed, peering out into the darkness, lost in thought. It wasn’t raining for once, and an evening breeze lightly filled the room, making the net curtains by the doors flutter.

She’d been provided a place to stay, good food, and while some of the company was questionable, Alfred was nice enough. She’d even been given clothes to wear. The pyjamas she currently wore, a navy cotton with silver stars on them fit her perfectly.

Life was so good right now, she could almost forget that she was probably going to die when Penguin found out where she was.

And he would. She was one hundred percent sure of that.

Queenie knew that should leave. Bruce Wayne was not what she expected. He flinched at loud noises, couldn’t string one sentence together and looked like he was on death’s door. If The Penguin showed up here on a rampage looking for her, he’d likely die on the spot. And if Penguin’s thugs got their hands on him… she shuddered at the thought. It would be her fault.

She knew that she would feel guilty about it too, at least for whatever minutes she had remaining on this earth. Because despite his complete lack of social skills, she knew she could grow to like Bruce Wayne. He had hated every moment of the evening, but he’d made the effort of showing up. He’d played games without complaint and not asked her once why she was here. In fact, he was probably the first person in her life he didn’t want or expect anything from her.

It was… nice. Different.

She knew she should leave to protect him. Instead, Queenie climbed into bed. The Penguin would find her, but probably not tonight.

———

Through his mask, Bruce watched the soft rise and fall of her chest as she slept, sprawled out on the bed with one arm under her pillow and her other draped off the bed. Her blankets were a mess around her ankles and every breath came with a small snuffling sound.

She looked smaller in the large bed. More fragile. She was a fighter - he’d seen the way she’d fought back in the alley - but he hadn’t been thinking about the consequences when he’d brought her here. He had enough money to make her disappear. Set her up in a different state, with a different name. Penguin wouldn’t find her. But he needed her. And the longer she stayed, the more likely she was to get hurt because of him.

He stepped in from the balcony until he reached the side of her bed. How did one wake a sleeping woman? He was used to gliding in from the shadows, but it was usually to attack.

Gingerly, he touched her arm.

She reacted fast, eyes wide open, and the hand from under the pillow swinging out in a glint of silver.

The knife slammed against his chest plate just as he wrapped his hand around her wrist.

“What the fuck?” She’d sat up, her hair a wild mess around her head, eyes furious.

Bruce let her wrist go, and she moved the knife away. When he glanced down at his chest, there was the smallest of scrapes.

“Are you crazy?” she spat at him. “You don’t sneak into people’s bedrooms, you freak! Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

“We need to talk.” He kept his voice low, even though the chances of her recognising it were slim to none given he’d barely said boo to her.

The knife was still in her hand. It had a ‘W’ engraved on the blade. One from his kitchen he assumed.

“I don’t need to say shit to you.” Queenie placed the knife on the bedside table, swung out of bed and stood up. She pointed at the open French doors. “Get out.”

“It’s important.”

Her eyes closed and he saw her jaw clench. “Fine.” She opened her eyes and glared at him. “You have ten seconds. Go.”

“Penguin is up to something. I think you know what. I need to stop it.”

“I don’t know anything!”

Bruce resisted the urge to shake her until she told him what he needed to know. “Then you know more than you think.”

“Listen, Bat Man. I don’t know anything. You understand? Thanks for saving me from Frankie, but I can’t help you.”

Bruce crossed his arms and held his ground.

“It’s not like I haven’t thought about it.” She began to pace in front of the doors, gesturing furiously. “I’ve been in his club for months and haven’t managed to get any real dirt. Everything comes up clean. Too clean.” She ran her hand through her hair and finally stopped walking. “There’s something to find, but I wasn’t able to get it. If The Penguin had a reason for wanting me dead, then it’s because he found out about my brother, not because I know some big secret.”

Bruce closed his eyes, trying to take in her rambling words. “Tell me about your brother,” he said finally, looking back at her.

Queenie’s lips pursed and she crossed her arms.

Slowly, Bruce uncrossed his arms, trying to adopt the ‘friendlier’ posture that a therapist had once told him to do. “I’ll tell you what I know, okay?”

Queenie didn’t unfold her arms, but she slowly relaxed, before giving a nod.

“There’s a new drug on the street. It’s cheap. It’s everywhere. But know one knows where it came from or how it’s being manufactured.”

“That’s just Gotham on a good day,” Queenie said.

“Yes but this drug has a one in ten mortality rate. People are dropping like flies. It’s dangerous. It needs to be stopped.”

“And Penguin?”

“He’s involved.” Bruce clenched his gloves fists. “I know it.”

“Say I help you.” Queenie frowned at the ground before looking directly at him, her gaze piercing. “Will you do something for me?”

“Other than saving you, and giving you somewhere safe to stay?”

“Bruce Wayne is giving me somewhere safe to stay.”

He flinched at his slip. “Fine. What do you want?”

Queenie drew a deep breath, before letting it out In a rush of air. “I want you to find out what happened to my brother.”

That wasn’t quite what he expected her to say. But then again he knew nothing about her thanks to his complete inability to make conversation or ask simple questions unless dressed in a cape and mask.

“He’s a reporter. Said he had a story. A big one. Asked me to snoop around at Penguin’s Club. And then he… he disappeared.”

This was messier than he’d thought too. He should leave. Chase down a different lead. “Okay,” he said instead.

“Okay?” She looked at him earnestly, her eyes wide. “You’ll help me?”

Thanks Sure, why not? He was already in deep. Might as well go all in. “If you help me.”

Queenie stuck out one hand. He took it and shook, feeling like he’d just made a devil’s bargain.

#the batman #bruce wayne #avoiding eye contact is his superpower #Alfred is sassy #battinson #fanfiction #batman 2022 #batman

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wr1tersblock42 · 3 years

Text

I never told you what I do for a living

Chapter One: About a girl

It seems I have a thing for anti-heroes… I watched The Batman and fell in love with greasy, wet, awkward Bruce Wayne. I couldn’t help myself, I just had to write something. I love Zoe as Catwoman but I got a worm in my ear about this and had to get it down in writing. It’s set a little after the events of the movie and switches to Bruce’s POV part way through.

10 points if you get the song references!

———

The young woman peered through the light rain at the man in front of her. “Hold on…” Swallowing hard, she raised her hands slowly. “It doesn’t have to be this way, does it?”

The cool muzzle of a gun pressed firmly against her forehead. Shit. This was a little more than she’d bargained for tonight.

“Sorry, love.” The thug at the end of the gun gave her a half shrug, a smile tugging at his lips and the scar streaking across his cheek. “The Penguin wants to send a message.”

The safety clicked off, the sound reverberating through the damp alley. She flinched and pressed her back harder against the brick wall behind her, the damp dripping down the walls seeping into her shirt.

Sirens blared in the distance, but she knew calling for help would be a useless exercise. She was five blocks back from the main road, it was just after midnight, and anyone out here who did hear anything would just shut their windows. Such was life in Gotham.

Still, of all the ways to die, she never thought it would be at the end of a gun held by this dumbass.

“Come on Frankie. Is this about the car?” She made her eyes wide, batting her lashes with a playfulness she did not feel. “It was just a joyride.”

“It contained a hundred g of the good stuff before you blew it up.” Frankie scowled at her. “And I got the blame!”

“Yeah… sorry about that sweetheart.” She risked laying a gentle hand on the bulky arm holding the gun. “But you know that was an accident.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said gruffly. “But Penguin wants you out of the way. Says you know too much.”

Know too much? Fuck, after six months she still didn’t know shit. She’d got as close as she could - much closer than she’d ever wanted to get to monsters like them, but had still come away with nothing. Zilch. Nada.

And now she was going to be one yet another Goatham statistic?

Fuck that.

Using the hand on Frankie’s arm, she quickly moved her palm straight towards his prominent nose and ducked down under the gun to pull out the small knife in her boot. Before Frankie could even register that his nose was bleeding she stabbed the knife into his thigh and ran.

Frankie’s howl echoed behind her as she fled. Her boots clipped over the cobblestones, puddles of water splashing behind her as she went. If she could just get to…

A hand grabbed her by the collar of her jacket, launching her backwards. Another hand grabbed her hair and she cried out as her feet slipped out from under her.

“Nice try, beautiful.” Frankie twisted her around to look at him. Blood trailed down the front of his face, and when he grinned his teeth were stained red.

“Fuck you,” she spat out.

“No. We never quite got there.” He traced the side of her face with the barrel of his gun. “Such a pity.”

Biting back a sob, she struggled pointlessly against his grip. “As if I’d touch a creep like you!”

“Goodbye, darling.” Once again, the gun pressed against her head.

Closing her eyes, she waited for it all to end.

But it didn’t.

Suddenly she was on her hands and knees, Frankie’s gun lying on the ground next to her. In the darkness beside her there was a gargled scream, and then silence.

The silver gun lit up in the lone flickering streetlight. She scrambled for it and got to her feet, holding the pistol with both hands to point it at the shadows.

“Who’s there?”

Her voice echoed back at her. Slowly, she ventured forward until she could make out a body lying on the ground. Frankie.

“Penguin thinks you know something.”

The voice came out of nowhere. She whirled around with a gasp. Before her loomed a figure, covered head to toe in black. The demon with wings.

“You need to come with me.” The demon stepped forward, holding out his hand.

She tightened her grip on the gun. “Like fuck I do. Thanks for the assist and all, but I’m not going anywhere with you.”

The extended hand dropped. “Penguin has a hit on you according to him.” He gestured to the limp body.

“Then I’ll… I’ll leave town.” But even as she said the words she knew that wouldn’t work. Once there was a hit out from Penguin, there was nowhere to run.

The Bat knew it too. He stepped forward again and plucked the gun right out of her hands. Slowly and methodically he stripped the gun apart before dumping the pieces at Frankie’s feet.

“Is he dead?”

The masked vigilante stiffened. “No. Let’s go.” Without waiting for her, he walked around the corner, his movements sleek and silent, like a panther in the night.

Cursing under her breath, she followed. She didn’t exactly have many options left.

He led her down a few streets, his cape billowing in the sharp wind. She ducked her head down and wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she had on something warmer than her thin blouse. And maybe some flatter shoes. These boots were killing the soles of her feet. But she hadn’t been considering what to wear when escaping a hit man when she’d picked out her outfit this morning.

Finally, they arrived in front of a car, if you could call it that. Underneath it was a classic, maybe from the sixties or seventies, but it had definitely been modified to be… something more.

“Sexy.” She ran her hand across the roof. “Can I drive?”

The Batman cut her a glare that would have turned weaker humans to stone. He climbed in the driver’s side and started the car, making it roar to life and purr like a kitten.

“Talkative, aren’t you,” she muttered as she got in the passenger side.

They started driving through the streets of Gotham in silence. Awkward silence.

She glanced at the man beside her. He stared straight ahead.

Upon opening her mouth to speak, she quickly changed her mind. Figuring it was best to beg forgiveness than permission, she reached over and turned up the heat.

Finally, she let herself relax into the seat, the warm air soothing her trembling hands as she held them in front of the vents.

The dude in the Halloween costume ignored her. His eyes were fixed on the road like it was the first time he’d driven a car.

So, she turned the radio on. It was tuned to a police channel. Of course. This guy probably had terrible taste in music anyway.

And still, she got nothing from him. Not even a blink. It was like she wasn’t even there.

Annoyed, she turned the radio off. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

Cautiously, she cleared her throat. But what the hell did you say to a man in a cape who’d just saved your ass? “Uh… Where are we going?”

Gloved fingers clenched the steering wheel. He remained silent for so long she thought he was going to continue to pretend she didn’t exist. Until, finally, “To a friend.”

“Okay…” With a sigh, she leaned her head against the cool window. “Man of mystery. I get it.”

Gotham zipped by in a blur, rain streaking down the window panes. How the heck did she end up here? The night had started out so well. She’d finally gained their trust enough to be invited into the back room. She was so close to the answers she sought, she could almost taste them.

But it had all fallen apart so quickly.

“Do you have a name?”

She jolted at the words. A name? He barely uttered three words to her and now he wanted her name? Please. Like fuck she was going to tell some rando dressed in a cape her real name.

A Dairy Queen flashed passed and she grinned.

“Queenie. You can call me Queenie.”

He gave her a brief sideways glance. “Queenie.” He rolled the word around, as if trying it out.

“What about you?” She twisted in her seat to get a good look at him. “Is it first name Bat, last name Man? Or is it like Madonna, and Batman is your whole name?”

She could have sworn she saw a smile tug at the side of his lips.

Queenie opened her mouth to try to crack him, but he suddenly pulled into a long driveway.

“Holy shit.” She pressed herself against the window to make sure she was reading the sign correctly. Wayne Manor. “You’re friends with Bruce Wayne?”

“No.” He brought the car to a halt. “Can’t stand the guy. Get out.”

“Seriously?”

He settled another glare on her. “You‘ll be safe here.”

Queenie rolled her eyes. Wow, this guy was a real joy. “See you around, Bat Man.” She got out of the car and slammed the door as hard as she could. The Batman’s response was to drive off, the car’s spinning tyres flicking mud all over her jeans.

She threw up her middle finger, not caring that the rain was pouring now, and soaking her through.

“Are you coming in, Miss?” A voice called from the doorway of the mansion. That’s right. A freaking mansion.

She let out a laugh at the sheer impossibility of it all.

—

A fireplace roared in front of her. Queenie stretched out her hands towards it. She wasn’t cold any more, but she’d never had the luxury of a fireplace like this before. The mantel was ornate, carved from wood that simply oozed “rich people”. The rest of the house - what she’d seen of it at least - looked more like a fixer upper. Like some castle from Grand Designs that just needed a little love to bring it back to life. A gothic fairytale palace.

“Here you are Miss Queenie.” Alfred entered the room carrying a tea tray. “This will warm you right up.”

“Are you The Batman’s friend?” she asked as he set the tray down on a coffee table in front of her.

“Uh…”

“He said he was bringing me to a friend.”

Alfred hesitated a moment, then sat in an armchair to her left. “I’m not sure that he has friends.”

Queenie gasped in mock horror. “What, with that winning personality?”

A smile cracked through Alfred’s formal veneer. “Yes, well, I heard you were in some kind of trouble and this place has plenty of room.”

“Won’t he…” Queenie gestured upstairs “mind?”

“Master Bruce?” Alfred frowned thoughtfully, as if it was the first time he’d considered it. “He could use the company I think.” He cocked his head, looking her up and down. “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be happy to have you here.”

—

Bruce clutched the pillow to his head with a groan. Downstairs, upbeat music thudded in an annoying four beat rhythm that invaded his bedroom. Blearily he looked at the clock on his bedside table. The red numbers glared back at him. Seven am. He’d only rolled into bed an hour and a half ago.

What the hell was Alfred doing?

With a frustrated groan, he pulled on the black t-shirt from the floor next to his bed and stomped out of his room and down the stairs, following the ruckus to the kitchen.

“Turn that shit off Al…” he trailed off as he saw the mess of flour coating the benches, the many open cupboards, and the young woman dressed in an oversized jumper and leggings who was dancing in front of the oven top. Whilst cooking pancakes.

Pancakes.

In his kitchen!

With an uneasy jolt he realised that he’d completely forgotten about the girl he’d rescued from the alley. Why he’d brought her here, he had no idea. It was probably the stupidest thing he could have done. It could link The Batman to him. It could bring The Penguin to his door. It could…

It could mean he had to remember to be Bruce in his own home.

He wasn’t sure he remembered how to do that any more.

The girl (or woman - he couldn’t tell how old she was in the dark last night) flipped a pancake expertly, then turned around to put it on a plate.

Her eyes widened in surprise as her gaze landed on him. Quickly he looked away, fear that she’d recognise him flooding through him.

That quick moment had been enough for her image to be seared into his brain. Pretty, with elfin features and cropped hair dyed black with different coloured streaks fading out at the ends. She was younger than him, but not by much, but her eyes held the look of someone much older, conflicting with her outer appearance.

“Hello.” Her voice held an amused hint to it. She set the pan down then moved to the stereo to turn the volume down. “Sorry, did I wake you? I’m an early bird. Always have been. Do you want a pancake?”

Bruce looked down to avoid her eyes and with horror he realised he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. And to top that off he was very sure that the black grease around his eyes from last night’s excursion had not been completely washed off when he’d got home.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“They are blueberry pancakes.”

He risked a glance as she wiggled the plate at him.

Fuck. What had he been thinking last night? There was only one thing left to do now…

—

Queenie gasped in indignation as Bruce Wayne disappeared from the kitchen so fast she could have sworn he was actually running.

At least she assumed it was Bruce Wayne. She’d expected a billionaire to look a little more… well, more! Maybe wear a suit. And a monocle. But who she’d seen seemed more boy than man, pale and lanky, with too-long, black greasy hair, and dark smudges under his eyes that only enhanced the pallor of his skin tone.

Maybe he was ill. He certainly didn’t look healthy. That might explain why he was such a recluse. But that did not explain why he just fled her presence. Hell, he was ruder than The Batman!

—

Bruce stormed through the house, intent on finding Alfred. It didn’t take too long. Within a couple of minutes he rounded a corner and slammed into the man in the hallway leading to the parlour.

“Whoa.” Alfred placed his hands on Bruce’s shoulders as if to steady him. “Where is the fire, Master Bruce?”

Shaking with anger, and something that felt eerily similar to embarrassment, Bruce shook him off. “What the hell is she doing in the kitchen?”

Alfred raised one eyebrow. “Who, Miss Queenie? Eating breakfast, like a normal human being at this time of day I presume.”

“She was cooking.”

“You said to make her feel at home.”

“But… I-”

“You forgot she was here, didn’t you?”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe. But you should have known better than to let her run around the house unguarded.”

“You’re the one who brought her here. And I assume you had a reason beyond the goodness of your heart, Bruce."

"Yes, but-"

I'm not finished! Let me offer you some friendly advice." Alfred did not sound the least bit friendly. “If you are going to talk to her, as Bruce or the other one, I suggest taking a shower first. You look - and smell - like something the cat dragged in.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at Alfred. Ever since getting caught up in the bomb meant for him, the butler had been a lot freer with his tongue. “We don’t have a cat.”

Alfred blinked. And then laughed a sharp guffaw that Bruce hadn’t heard in over two years.

Bruce scowled at him, but even he had to admit that his comeback was lamer than usual. Hell, it wasn’t even a comeback.

“I’m going back to sleep,” he muttered, pushing past Alfred.

“Yes, yes.” Amusement lit Alfred’s voice. “It sounds like you need to.”

#the batman #batman #batman 2022 #bruce wayne #sad wet cat bruce #he’s not emo he’s grunge #slow burn #awkward bruce is the best bruce #battinson #so apparently I have a thing for smudged eyeliner

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