Work Text:
Bruce Wayne was not having a good day. Or week, or year, or – whatever, you get the point. He hadn’t been getting enough sleep with the Batman thing, and when that compounded with the whole “Bruce Wayne” charitable persona in the recovery of Gotham – well. He hadn’t gotten more than four hours of sleep in a day in over a month, and it didn’t look like it was going to ease up any time soon. Selina had come back for a day or two at a time since the seawalls went down two years before, but he only saw her in the cemetery – giving her an update about Gotham’s recovery, trying to talk her back into giving Gotham another chance.
(Personally, he couldn’t blame her for moving away. For the love of God, he couldn’t figure out why he stayed. But stay he did.)
So, when Alfred had reticently allowed Bruce’s assistant past him into the front room of the mansion – where he had unceremoniously collapsed onto an antique but nevertheless infinitely comfortable settee two days earlier for a long-overdue nap – to tell Bruce that he was supposed to attend an ice cream social at the orphanage that he had restarted and restored, he had no choice but to drag his lifeless corpse up from his recumbency and step into his role.
(Alfred would call it a coma. The blackout curtains were his addition to the room, and he was very proud of how they blended in with the draperies.)
After one very thorough scrubbing in the shower, getting off the damn super stay eyeblack that the girl at Ulta had recommended, pressing some light pomade into his hair and attempting to stave off its inherent ability to get floppy and in his eyes, and dressing in his most comfortable suit (and a little bowtie that had ice cream on it that he had bought specifically for the event), he was ready to go. His assistant – FaceTiming his publicist – scanned him for approval, and with a sniff, he was deemed ‘passable.’ And so, into his incredibly bulletproof and also drown-proof car he clambered, trying to remember to not look quite so dour when there were other orphans involved.
When they got there, kids swarmed the front gate. There was at least one older teen climbing in the trees, one hanging upside down by his knees hooked over a tremoring branch that Bruce noted absently – he hoped that, when the branch finally snapped, the kid would have the sense to try to straighten up before he hit the ground. He climbed out of the low car – why his publicist wanted him to be driven in a car that was barely six inches off of the ground, he had no idea, but she would brook no argument as to a nice little Range Rover, stating that “the quiet elegance of the Rolls helps to keep people from thinking of you as a ragamuffin who has bags heavier than an elephant’s, so shut up and get in the car, Bruce.”
He was immediately besieged and climbed on by the kids. He’d realized, over the course of the past year, that they were some of his favorite people; he’d dedicated most of his time and charitable donations to the orphanage and to making connections with adoption agencies outside of Gotham. Not that there was anything wrong with Gothamites adopting, but… there were more adoptable kids in Gotham than there were families looking to adopt. The fostering system was still trying to recover from its dearth of funding from an embezzling middle-level bureaucrat, and Bruce just couldn’t stand to see any of these kids left behind.
(Behind the scenes, Bruce was trying to set up his own fostering profile – he had the space, the money, and the time to dedicate to raising a few of the older teens that were phasing out of the ‘desirable adoption’ age, and he would be damned if any of them felt as discarded as Nygma had.)
He laughed as one particularly precocious five-year-old sat on his shoulders and patted at his hastily styled hair, knocking it down into his eyes. The bus rumbled up behind them and the director opened the door, beckoning all of them in so they could go for their ice cream. The kids screamed and a pair of twins seized his hands, dragging him onto the bus in their wake.
When they finally arrived at the ice cream parlor on the wharf – newly restored, thanks to a “generous” donation from the iron factory on the edge of town – aka, the one that The Batman had discovered corners being cut, illegal dealings being done by the CFO, and “corrected” withing short order – the group of 30 children and 4 adults poured through the doors and up to the parlor’s ice cream case. The chatter of children filled the air, and Bruce hung back. He’d seen a few paparazzi hanging around, no doubt the product of his publicist’s carefully dropped hints and wanted to give them the opportunity to get their photographs without having to involve the kids too heavily. When one of the kids beckoned him forward, he ordered his usual – rocky road with chocolate chips on top. The orphanage’s director instructed all of the children (was she including Bruce in that? Damn, it seemed like she was) to go outside and that they would be eating in the park on the wharf. Bruce paid, left a generous tip (was a packet of hundreds stuffed into the jar overzealous? Maybe. Could ten thousand dollars change the lives of the family-run store? Definitely) and went outside, cone in hand. There were some more photos, posing with the paparazzi, and then he crossed the street to eat his ice cream. The kids were distracted by their ice cream, and those that had finished had run off to the playground, leaving him alone.
He sank onto the closest park bench and took a deep breath, feeling the smile slip off his face as the paps packed up their gear and left. He closed his eyes for just a moment and let himself savor the salty air and the sun on his face – it was a remarkably sunny day for Gotham in September. After a moment, he opened his eyes again, and leaned forward to take a bite of his ice cream – only for it to unceremoniously plop onto the ground.
He sat there, frozen, staring at his maimed ice cream cone. He heard the distinctive sound of an iPhone camera shutter clicking, and glanced over his shoulder, hair flopping into his eyes, at a stunned dog walker who had his camera raised. He sniffed heavily, willing the tears welling in his eyes back. This sucked. This whole summer had sucked, and he was having a bad day, and this was just the cherry on top of a suck sundae, and NOW, it was going to get posted on TWITTER. He stood, took his empty cone to the trashcan, wiped his eyes of any aberrant tears, and nodded at the still-frozen bystander. He had kids to play with and he wasn’t going to let an ice cream cone hold him back.
(Bruce Wayne did cry that night, at home, over a bowl of Rocky Road that Alfred had made up for him, with extra chocolate chips on top. He was fine, Alfred, he just needed this.)
(Bruce Wayne went viral on Twitter overnight, with one Cedric C. posting his vindication that “there is just NO WAY that my man Bruce Wayne is the Bat. I TOLD you he was one dropped ice cream cone away from a mental breakdown, and LOOK. A MENTAL BREAKDOWN. NOW SOMEONE GIVE HIM A HUG.” #givebrucewayneahug trended, first in Gotham, then worldwide. The picture of him about to cry over the ice cream became a meme. Ben and Jerry’s made a flavor named after him – ‘Bruce’s Rocky Roads,’ and sent him three large cartons of it. Selina didn’t stop sending him memes for months. His publicist thought it was the best thing since sliced bread, since it “makes you look more human, Bruce.” Alfred thought it was the best thing since sliced bread, since it “makes sure that people are less likely to guess that you are the Batman, sir.”
Bruce disagreed.)