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Mischa Faure. A twenty year old college student and with nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon. At least that's what she told herself.
She was scouring the streets of Gotham for someone friendly-looking enough to interview. Her sociology professor, Dr. Lidia Bolkvadze at Gotham U, decided that it would be a weekly video journal assignment despite the risks. She should’ve trusted that professor rating, in hindsight, ‘this professor put me back on antidepressants’ was a clear-cut warning. Open-ended and without a prompt, Mischa meandered the sidewalk with her volunteer cameraman, lingering near the entrance of the library.
She was well aware of the dangers of Gotham. Hell, that's why they chose the library. Coming from the other side of the pond to study sociology had always been a dream of hers, but Gotham really made her rethink the decision. Certainly, the library-goers would be more docile…?
Sighing, she perched herself on the railing, her cameraman (and roommate) trailing behind. Everyone who'd passed by either scanned her like a threat (sue her, it was a solid five degrees and she didn't know puffers were so feared) or flat out ignored her.
A tall, broad-shouldered man exited the library, carrying a tote with no more than two books and—oddly enough—looking the friendliest of the people she’d seen today. He shot her a curious glance, reminding her that she was wandering around the crime capital of America with a chunk of equipment easily worth two thousand dollars.
Deep breaths, Mischa. The worst thing he could do is stab both of us in the gut and take off running with the camera.
Not reassuring at all.
With her courage rallied (somewhat), Mischa stepped up to the man.
Standing at least a head and a half taller than her, he was a rather imposing figure despite being bundled in a deep navy trenchcoat and a dark grey sweater. The bright white of a dress shirt peeking out from his piceous black scarf, tied around the man’s neck in a manner resembling a balaclava.
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Yes?"
"May I interview you? It's for my class, and—"
"Of course."
"Well," he was oddly open to this. "What's something you think about that most people take at surface value that you disagree with?"
The man paused before he began, contemplating his words. “‘I remember’ is more romantic than ‘I love you.’”
“How so?” Mischa was intrigued by the sudden seriousness of the man in front of her.
“I was in a relationship for three years, and he loved me in all the ways I was supposed to be loved. He had the motivation, the patience, the consistency,” he ticked the words off his fingers like a list. “I convinced myself that should've been enough, but what I was missing was the fluency.”
“He didn't remember things about me the way that I remembered things about him, and I know it sounds silly, but I would buy his favorite mouthwash because I remembered he liked the taste.” Eyes downturned, the man shoved his hands into his pockets as he carried on his explanation.
“I wouldn't cook with apples because I remembered he hated them. I didn't realize how much I needed that to be reciprocated until a year ago, when I reconnected with someone I met from a…job.” The man’s eyes wandered past her, past the camera, to somewhere further. He paused, clearing his throat before continuing.
“There was a tentative alliance between the two of us. It was merely surface level at first, but after he–” his breath hitched, “–after he was gone, I realized how much he was missed. Hardly a foundation for a relationship, in my opinion.” The man scoffed at that, an air of reminiscence about him as his eyes wandered from the camera once again. “When we met again, though, he caught me off guard with such a simple statement. He'd probably meant it as a question, but in the moment, it didn't come out as one. ‘Let me make you dinner, I can make your favorite.’ I'd responded with, ‘Just reminding you, it’s mulligatawny.’”
“Even though we hadn't spoken in over seven months, he'd said, ‘Don't worry, I already mastered Alfred’s—My father’s,” he paused to address Mischa, clarifying the uncertain role, “—recipe,’ and I had just stood there, in this man's kitchen, because I have never been in love with this man, and he has never been in love with me; but in that moment, I felt strangely seen and loved because it wasn't just, ‘Oh, he remembered my comfort food,’ nor the fact that he’d asked for the recipe. It had been that, after seven months of silence, there were still details about me that felt worth holding on to and that felt more intimate than any partner saying ‘I love you’ to me.
“Declarations of love are just words, but remembering is the action of love because you can fake loving someone, but you cannot fake remembering, and most importantly, it implies that I think of you in your absence, whether it's convenient or not, like when you're going about your day and suddenly there they are. I am a mosaic of everyone I have ever loved, made up of memories and decisions that are ever so small. I find you in the mouthwash aisle. I find you in the fruit bowl. I find you in a thousand small, subconscious choices I make, because even though I don't want to, for the rest of my life, I will remember my ex hated apples.”
“What was your name?”
There was a smile evident in his voice now, the smallest uptick of his mouth visible to the camera. “Bruce.”
“Mischa, nice to meet you.” She held her hand out for a handshake, a strong, calloused hand gripping her own. Odd, she thought, for a man so done up for leisure in the middle of winter to have such rough hands. The two shook hands, in both greeting and farewell, before Mischa’s cameraman gave her a solid thumbs up and the interview wrapped.
Bruce gave her a small nod as he dropped her hand and turned away, walking in the direction of a SUV where a similarly built man stepped out of the driver’s seat to greet him. They exchanged greetings and a kiss before eventually settling back into the car, now with Bruce in the driver’s seat and his tote placed gently into the back seat. Mischa’s eyes followed the couple as they drove off, smiling at the interaction.
“Misch,” her cameraman prodded her, “Do you have any idea who you just spoke to?”
“…Should I have?”
“That’s Bruce Wayne.”
“Who?”
“…What kind of gargantuan rock are you living under?”
“The one that killed the dinosaurs. Now, who is this ‘Bruce Wayne’ supposed to be?”
The two began to wander back to Gotham U, to the student center, where the cameraman would point out the plaque honoring the source of the overseas transfer program, the student center, and a number of other programs offered.
Unbeknownst to them, one Clark Kent would be narrating this exchange to his partner.
“…You knew exactly how this would play out, didn’t you, Bruce.”
A noncommittal hum followed the statement.
“You personally greenlit her application.”
Another hum.
“Is this your roundabout way of telling me you like my cooking?”
“Perhaps.”
Smiles graced both men’s faces, a blinding, sunny smile and dusty blush paired with a small grin that reached his eyes, crinkling into a kinder, softer vision.