Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

thirty two

The Batmobile came to a stop in the center of the Cave.

Bruce couldn't bring himself to press the button to open the top of the car with his usual sense of authority— instead he weakly hit it with the side of his fist and let it slide open. His exit of the vehicle wasn't smooth and effortless, just him pushing himself up and swinging either leg over the side, tugging his cape after him.

There was no determination in his step, no drive behind his actions, no motivation to go back to his computer and get to work— his boots just felt awfully heavy and he hated his fucking full cowl and this tight goddamn suit and he just wanted out.

He trudged towards the large computer, haphazardly pulling the mask from his face and exhaling as the cold air hit his face. If he squinted, he could just barely see his breath against the gray-blue wall of the cave.

The computer had gone dark— it was around 3:30, maybe 4:00 in the morning, who knew at this point and who cared— and as he reached to turn the large device back on, he suddenly caught himself in the reflection of the screen.

His hair was mussed. His forehead shone with a layer of sweat. His lips were sloppily coated in red. Red.

Fuck.

Bruce's hand fell to his side right before it touched the keyboard. He ran it over his face.

He reached up to unclasp his cape from either side of his shoulders and then draped it over the back of the leather chair. There was now a faint shade of color streaked across the tips of his gloves. He bit the inside of his cheek.

He turned around and found himself walking in the direction of the elevator

Bruce had broken at least three of his rules in the last five hours: no alcohol, no kissing businesswomen named Meredith Elias, and now, no Bat paraphernalia in the Manor. A man who broke his sacred rules was a man without morals, he knew, but something in the back of his head then reasoned that he was also a man who dressed as an animal and sent children out to fight corruption in one of the most crime-ridden cities in the country, so what did he really know about morals?

He entered the elevator and leaned on the curved, metal wall, still completely clad in most of the Batsuit, with the cowl hanging limply around his neck. He couldn't even pull from his previously thought-to-be-endless reserve of self-control and manage to change before heading upstairs— no, he just needed...

He wasn't exactly sure what he needed, but it definitely wasn't to sit alone in the Cave with his thoughts.

His body felt warm and his chest felt hot and his lips felt like they were about to burst into flames at any given moment, and he attempted to carelessly wipe at them with the back of his glove because he didn't want any reminders of what had happened.

Bruce's head fell back against the wall with a thud.

He was a fool.

He... he acted like some kid, lusting over a pretty girl in a dress and getting buzzed off of champagne and the sound of her voice and the feel of her waist and her lips—

His hand slammed against the wall as the doors opened and he stomped out of the elevator, boots feeling foreign against the dark carpet of the Manor. There were a few lights dimly lit in the otherwise dark hallway, and he supposed the only appropriate place to go would be the kitchen. After all, it's not like he could go to bed like this.

Bruce made sure to avoid the creaky spots in the floor— only, and not that he would willingly admit it, because Alfred would definitely yell at him for wearing his suit in the house.