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Bruce always rocks up to the office exactly on time unlesss the night previous has been particularly cruel to him—thankfully, there’s always a welcome sight waiting for him.
This would be you, in your neatly-pressed office attire, your docket with the agenda for his day promptly prepared for him in one arm. In the other hand usually waits a cup of coffee or other little snack to help revitalize him before another big day of swimming in Gotham’s murky waters with the other sharks.
You’re the first and last thing he sees and, although he is loath to admit it out loud—no, connections and even more so admittance of connections are things he must always avoid—you’re a sight he’s fonder and fonder of every day.
However, as of late, he’s noticed that when he’s been walking into the 25th floor where his office is, you’ve been present with the company of others.
Exhibit A, when he walks in on Wednesday morning as the chrome doors to the elevator slide noiselessly open.
You’re always the first thing that he searches for with those piercing blue eyes. Usually you can be found already approaching the doors to him, with a steaming mug and that clipboard of yours decorated with a collection of stickers that have begun to cover the acrylic surface.
It always brings a small smile to his face that he’ll neither admit nor acknowledge as he watches you stride over in those confident bearings, his little assistant. His.
And as the doors open for him today, you’re already saying that friendly, “Good morning, Mr. Wayne” as you approach. Yet rather than finding just you in the empty expanse of office desk, he finds his eyes settling upon the other figure that is casually leaning back on Martin from Accounting’s desk.
And while his name is on your lips, he finds the circuitous rhythm of the routine disrupted as you walk towards him. After all, your head is turned back, over your shoulder, to the present company you share.
“Hey, pops,” Tim says as he lounges back on the desk, giving a little lackadaisical wave, “Good to see you.”
“Tim?” Bruce asks aloud, because saying mine and drawing a proprietary hand around you is not work-appropriate behavior, much less before his son—guess he hasn’t woken up fully yet. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t I come by and say hi to my old man?” Tim asks with a grin that is definitively friendly—only his eyes are tracing the curves of your figure as you stop before Bruce, holding out his customary mug of the day. Bruce doesn’t even feel the scalding burn of the sides as he palms it into his own.
“Tim said he would keep me company until you got here,” you explain in that hushed, practiced tone you’ve perfected to a tee. “I’ve been keeping everything running as normal.”
It’s not you he calls into question, but Bruce isn’t going to verbalize this as he takes a sip and locks eyes upon Tim, who is still locking eyes upon you. Subtle.
“You’re always welcome,” Bruce says, keeping his tone pleasant as Tim finally deigns him with a smile, “But it is a welcome surprise.”
“Well, wouldn’t want your assistant to get lonely while they wait for you to turn up.” Tim says, and it’s delivered lightly enough that a passerby would think it a wholesome joke. You even offer a genial, polite laugh as you return back to your desk to swipe something for Bruce.
The look in Tim’s eye as he turns to watch you informs Bruce of all he needs to know.
“Oh, is that so?” Bruce asks as you return with the files he asked you to round up last night.
“Of course,” Tim smiles. “Speaking of which—“—he says your name, making you turn back to him with that cultivated patience—“—See the Rogues game last night?”
The groan you make indicates that yes, you are still suffering over the farce between the Gotham Rogues and Metropolis’ Guardsmen last night.
“Of course I did,” you reply to Tim, and there’s a trace of genuine emotion that bleeds through, beyond the polished veneer you wear around Bruce. Something about it, the fact that this was coaxed out by someone else, is making him feel oddly territorial.
Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s still not awake yet. He takes another sip and steels a glare over the rim of the cup.
“I can’t believe Ross dropped that pass in the third quarter,” you grimace as you hold out the folders to Bruce. “Here’s the files in order of month, Mr. Wayne.”
“Excellent,” Bruce says, but as he is about to say something to get the train back on track, Tim pipes up again.
“Pretty crazy, huh? Especially when Adams was wide open like that.” Tim tsks at the upset. You nod emphatically.
“Absolutely—I’m livid they kept him in the game after that.” You reply evenly, remembering that you are in a public sphere. You reach out to take the mug from Bruce in a trade, some intrinsic sense urging you to do so—another thing he’s grateful to you for. Another thing he’d like to appreciate, alone.
“Well, you know, they drop a couple hundred million on him,” Tim shrugs, “They’re gonna want to keep him out there.”
“Yeah, but Priest’s all healed up now.” You reply as you circle back to your desk with your exchanged goods—Bruce watches as Tim watches you. “It would’ve been good to see if he’s ready for the court again.”
“Oh, I bet.” Tim says, and his eyes are drifting far enough down your back that Bruce feels like it’s time to make a call.
“Tim,” he says in a voice he reserves for difficult meetings, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Nope,” Tim replies, and hops off the comfortable perch he’d been making on the table. “Just wanted to stop by and check on you.”
The fact that the ‘you’ seems left up to interpretation is not easing Bruce’s nerves. Even as this interloper known as his son makes his way back towards the elevator he just emerged from.
On the way out, Tim passes by you, pausing long enough for the two of you to exchange smiles—jovial enough, affable enough. On your end. And then he stops.
“You know, if you’d ever want to see a game together,” Tim blithely says your way, “I’d be happy to take you to one in person.”
You smile back. “That’s very sweet of you to offer, Tim. I’ll have to let you know.”
It’s only your tactful grace that keeps a vein from bursting open in Bruce’s temple. Tim lets your response roll off him like water off a duck’s back.
He gives you an easy, “Sure—I’ll stop by again sometime so you can get my number.”
“Sounds good, Tim.” You reply neutrally, because even though you’re caught in the odd territory of being asked out by the boss’ son, you are also still expected to play nice.
Tim nods and then smiles Bruce’s way as he leaves. “Be seein’ you, pops.”
Bruce has a headache for the rest of the day. You make sure to slide him some of the good painkillers you keep tucked away in that second drawer of yours on the left.
Bruce knows Jason doesn’t have to return anything. He’s never once borrowed anything off of Bruce except his time and patience. Yet here he is on Thursday, during your lunch break, which means that all Bruce can do is pretend he’s reading the docket you’ve prepared for him at your desk.
And Bruce refuses to let you out of his sight, especially after that offensive attack yesterday. Especially not after the way Jason slunk in through the doors with a sleek, menacing, “Hey, dad—”—and then went straight to your desk.
No, Bruce is staying right here, flipping pages at what seems appropriate intervals of time as you sip on your lunchtime smoothie and entertain his middle child. Entertain being the operative word for the way his eyes, much like his younger son, seem to openly roam over you.
“You hear about that new exhibit they got over at the Wills?” Jason asks, his voice like a rough, jagged note in the synchronicity of the Wayne Towers atmosphere. Bruce doesn’t like the way that you brighten at his question.
“Oh, the bike exhibit—”—you nod eagerly, a genuine smile on your face at its mention—“—The one on loan from Star City?”
“Yep—heard there’s a lot of classics they have on display.” Jason replies smoothly, watching your reaction closely.
You make a wistful sigh as you adjust your reusable straw. “I’ve been dying to get a chance to go see it. I heard they have a 1973 Kawasaki on loan.”
“‘68 Norton Commando too.” Jason says, an appreciative glint in his eyes for your knowledge. Amongst other things, Bruce reckons as he sweeps his eyes up from the paper that is crumpling under the grip of his hand.
“Ugh,” you gripe, “I’ve been trying to get my hands on a ticket, but the window closes up so fast—I’d kill for a chance to see one of those bikes up close.”
Jason scoffs, “You ever actually been on a bike yourself, sweetheart?”
You offer a coy smile, not one to back away from the challenge. “Do I have to be an expert to admire fine art?”
“Maybe you should have hands-on experience before you call yourself an ‘expert.’” He returns calmly, daring you to argue otherwise.
“I have eyes—I can handle myself.” You reply with a smile.
“That’s what they all say until they hop on.” Jason challenges back, crossing his arms over his chest. You take a sip, clearly amused at his brashness, but let him continue.
A corner of his mouth turns up as he says, “Delicate thing like you might not be able to handle the ride.”
“And who’ll be the judge of that, Jason?” You ask. “You?”
“I wouldn’t mind nominating myself,” he replies dryly. Bruce thinks it’s about now that he should step in.
“Jason—”—Bruce asks, closing the docket shut with a snap and feeling that familiar clenching pain around his temples, “What do you need?”
Jason looks to Bruce as though he’s displeased at the interruption but still entertained at the glower wracking across his dad’s face. Besides him, Bruce can see the composed impartiality return to your face as you watch this silent exchange.
All Jason says before he departs with a wily smirk is, “Don’t think you’d like it if I told you.”
You make the coffee extra strong for Bruce to prepare him for navigating the rest of the afternoon.
Friday morning, Bruce finds company waiting besides him on the bottom floor of Wayne Enterprises, ever-present for the arrival of the elevator.
“Hey, daddio.” Dick greets him with a rather jaunty pep in his step. He’s smiling, which is cause for both good and bad things—but Bruce is always happy to see his eldest.
“Dick, I didn’t know you were coming so early today.” Bruce states with a note of genuine surprise, because it’s true. Dick’s supposed to roll up sometime at the end of the day, for the night shift. Not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the wee hours.
“Early bird and all that.” Dick offers as a non-explanation, and then as the doors crack open, tacks on, “There’s just—something I have to handle.”
“Such as?” Bruce asks as they step in. The doors seem to close more ominously behind them than they have as of late.
“I’ll tell you later.” Dick grins back at him, and so they’re subjected to an odd, tensely silent lift up. Bruce doesn’t think he’s seen Dick shift weight from foot-to-foot since they first started patrol together decades ago. He radiates a nervousness that belies his age, as if he’s readying himself for uncharted territory.
When the door slides open to the 25th floor, Dick slips through as soon as he’s able, tossing over his shoulder, “Don’t wait up for me—I’ll meet you in your office.”
Bruce is all but stymied for the better half of an instant until he sees who Dick makes a beeline to, sitting pretty at a neatly organized desk, coffee waiting for him as usual. He feels as if he’s walking in slow-motion as he steps out of the carriage and watches as his son goes in for the kill.
“Oh, hi, Dick!” You smile cheerfully as you watch Bruce’s eldest approach you, rising to your feet from behind your desk.
“Hey—”—Dick says your name with the radiance of a thousand suns—“—Got a minute?”
“Sure I do, but I think your dad is expecting me—”—you say, because you’re already clocking Bruce’s wrathful aura from the mere yards away where it gestates.
“He doesn’t mind waiting,” Dick easily lies, making you turn warily away from your boss and back to his progeny. “A little birdie told me you’re a fan of classic movies—”
“Sure I am, I love a good Bergmann as much as anyone.” You say, sufficiently distracted enough by this. Dick’s smile grows.
“Well, funny you should mention it—”—he pauses for good measure, already wading into the last of the reserves of Bruce’s patience—“—I heard Seigel’s showing The Seventh Seal next week.”
“Oh—that’s a good one.” You nod obtusely, as though you can’t see the direction this conversation is inching towards. “I’d say it’s his best.”
“Me too—and the person I was going to have go with me just had something come up.” Dick makes a passable acting attempt at appearing disappointed. “So I was thinking—”
“Thinking of what, Mr. Grayson?” You ask, and perhaps it’s the way you use his surname that makes Bruce relax a tick as he leans on the balustrade by the elevator. You’re friendly, yes—but he sees the calm way you’re operating. You know how to handle this. But still—
“Thinking if you’re free, then maybe I should take you out next week, if you want.” He braves forward.
“Dick—”—Bruce summons the voice he uses during the night shift—“—Get in my office.”
Dick, to his credit, only stiffens a little, his smile failing to waver. “Ah, the sounds of childhood nightmares. You can tell me when I should pick you up—when I swing back on the way out.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Grayson.” You finally smile, as you watch Bruce and Dick retreat back to the island of his office. It’s only until the door shuts behind them that you can let out the breathless laugh that you’ve been holding in.
You see yourself into Bruce’s office at the end of the day, taking care to close the door behind you with a muted click. He’s already waiting for you, his fist propped against his temple as he leans an elbow on the surface of his great desk. His eyes are like flint as he regards you.
“Mr. Wayne, I should let you know—”—you say, smoothing out the wrinkles to your pants—“—One of your sons asked me out.”
“Which one?” His voice is stark.
“Well—”—you hesitate as you search for the best way to word it—“—All of them, actually.”
“Hmmm. That does make it a bit…awkward.” Bruce says as you round the corner of his great desk. He watches you only with his eyes as you lean a hip on the desk, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth.
“A bit, or a lot when they find out I’m already dating their dad?” You ask wryly.
“It depends.” He returns, holding out an imperious hand that you freely walk to. His fingers curl around your hip, pulling you to him so that you find yourself being eased onto his lap, his other arm wrapping possessively around you.
“Maybe I haven’t been making my intentions clear enough.” He says, settling a grave stare upon you. You opt to be prim in your response as his hands snake down your thighs.
“You’ve been quite right to be professional, Mr. Wayne—”—you reply as he lifts up your hand, to press a slow kiss to the inside of your wrist.
“Bruce, darling.” He mouths over your pulse, squaring his eyes upon you. You grin as you correct yourself.
“—Bruce—”—his eyes dart back down, satisfied—“—Especially at your place of business.”
“Why should I?” He asks, and you inhale sharply as you feel the scrape of teeth over your skin. “Seems to me like I should let them know who’s boss.”
“Was that a joke?” You tease, but your last word comes out pitched as you find yourself pulled closer. His hands are roaming down to explore parts of you most certainly not suitable for the workplace.
“Come here and find out.” He says, voice slipping into a register you’ve come to know quite intimately after hours. You feel a shiver slip up your spine as you let him have his way.
“As you wish.” You smile, ever his happy, obedient assistant.