Fateful Beginnings

XIX. (im)mortality

How could he convince you it wasn't a bribe?

You met him out back where he pulled up with the headlights cut. Not terrifying at all. The alley was dark and leftover rain was spilling down through gutters. The sun had already set, not making more than a few shades of difference to how Gotham looked during the day. I want to go back home. I hope I survive the drive. You stepped toward the passenger seat and grabbed the door handle, but stopped with your hand clasped around it. Your shoulders tensed, your stomach felt like it halted digestion, and your eyes darted around the area, every new crumb of environmental information nearly sending you back into a panic.

You looked afraid, no, absolutely terrified. He picked up on the stress you held in your body like it was his own. He rolled down the passenger window which made you startle like a cat, the sound of the pulled handle snapping back to position. Your face was getting harder to see by the second, and his mind went blank. He had no words to reach for, no expression, no cloak of anonymity. It was rare his mind turned completely off, impossible for him not to have every next move choreographed. It only served to make him look more unsure, and less safe.

"I'm getting an Uber." You forced down the lump in your throat and started for the side of the building. You heard a door slam and Bruce call after you.

"It's not a bribe."

You halted, tucking your chin over your shoulder. It stung to look at him but, thankfully, he was cloaked in shadow. In more usual circumstances that might have scared you even more, but you were close enough to the main street should someone need to hear your screams. That same peculiar sense of safety crept up and let you turn around. "Why not? I know about you."

He sighed. "It would've been more if it was a bribe."

The thought have you bribed anyone before? germinated, but curiosity wasn't getting the better of you. It was all too fresh how he'd looked at you the last time you'd been in that building, and you could still feel the small wash of air his scoff had made against your cheeks. You were shocked you hadn't fallen back into acute panic. "You wouldn't just throw money at someone you hate."

He didn't hate you; Bruce didn't think he could hate anyone besides the people who killed his parents... and Falcone. He hated Falcone, but that could have been one and the same. He answered as simply as he could through grit teeth. "My parents have similar history." That same feeling was encroaching as the last time you and him had been in the alley, when you'd first asked Batman for an interview. Regulate. Breathe. Regulate. Breathe.

"So it's not a bribe, just more philanthropy? A tax write off?" Your voice began to rise. He shoved out a half-baked thought. "You still got the money, didn't you?"

Fucking... Your fear did a hard right into exasperation. It was important he understood he couldn't just do that, that rich people couldn't waltz around doing whatever they pleased without reprimand. Knocking the People's Prince down a peg seemed like your life's mission. "But it's dehumanizing, it's so fucking invasive."

His response was swift like the punch of guilt to his gut. "And I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have."

"Uh huh."

His voice was firmer, louder. "I mean it. It won't happen again."

"Unless you think I'll tell someone."

He hated having his character misinterpreted; he'd journaled about this before, this nagging feeling of no one fully seeing him, no one understanding his intentions. Once again you nestled right into a crack. "I don't do bribes."

"You could've had a conversation with me."

"It won't happen again." He hesitated, just long enough to sign the contract in his head. "Promise."