Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

fourteen

Bruce lowered himself slowly into his chair at the kitchen table, his tailbone aching after a particularly brutal fall from a warehouse the night before. He eyed the potatoes and gravy and other assortments of meats and vegetables laid out on the table— when was the last time he had eaten? Did he even have dinner last night? As far as he was concerned, food was simply a necessity, not a luxury, so he sometimes didn't bother to remember his last meal.

His mind had been occupied with his latest case on drug trafficking involving Killer Croc. He was up until around nine this morning working on a lead, so there was no time to eat then. Before that, he had gone to Meredith's office.

Meredith's office.

He knitted his brow, thinking about the previous night. Devin, much to Bruce's chagrin, had been right. Meredith couldn't be working with them. There had already been an attempt on her life once in the first five days of her partnering with the League, and he still hadn't figured out who hired Deadshot, on top of the new drug running rampant through the streets of Gotham. There was no time to eat. Or sleep. Or be sitting here thinking about everything he needed to do— he had to go out and do them. He needed his cowl and his car and he had to go to Belle Reve and question Floyd Lawton and—

Damian rounded the hall, striding into the kitchen with his hands clasped behind his back. The look on the small boy's face was the exact same one Bruce had on right now— that never got any less disturbing. He sat in his chair next to Bruce at the informal table that they used when it was only the two of them, instead of the usual long one in the dining room. Tim was away on business with the Titans, Dick had gone back to Bludhaven, and Jason was... off doing something that Bruce probably didn't want to know about. Sometimes it was better to live in ignorance.

Bruce's gaze settled back on the potatoes as Devin's words suddenly played in his head: I can not still be mediating your fights with Meredith because of your bullshit excuse of how she won't listen to you.

That's because Meredith didn't listen. It wasn't a bullshit excuse. Bruce was in a corner and couldn't do anything about it. Meredith and her nonchalant, half-assed answers. Her dumb coffee and the way she now knew whenever he was in her office, with her teasing smile and the way she chuckled at what he said— what Batman said. Meredith Elias should not be chuckling with Batman, and Batman should not be giving her anything to chuckle at.

He squared his jaw. He wasn't going to announce to the public that it was all a lie because that puts the reputation of the League at risk. Why didn't he push harder in her office? Why didn't he demand that she leave? He had snuck into her building twice now, both times with a speech prepared in mind, knowing exactly what he needed to say, and both times leaving with absolutely nothing accomplished.

And the way she touched him. She touched him. Why did he let her do that? Why did he leave when she decided they were finished with the conversation, dismissing him like some schoolboy? People didn't dismiss Batman.

Alfred walked around the island with two glasses of ice water in his hands, placing them on the table. Bruce noticed Damian's attention switch to the butler.

"Pennyworth?"

"Yes, Master Damian?"

"What can you tell me about Meredith Elias?"

Bruce's eyes snapped up from the potatoes. He saw Alfred pause whatever he was doing near the stove.

After what was probably a moment of choosing his words, Alfred responded. "May I ask why?"

Damian looked almost bored, cocking his head. "I met her the other day."

"Did you, now?" Alfred turned a hard look to Bruce, who kept his face blank.