C҉R҉O҉W҉ | ᴍᴄᴜ x ᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

I V - 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊. 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍.

BRUCE SAT ALONE at the long, polished table, his gaze set on a plate across from him. Eggs, toast, a neat arrangement of sliced fruit. The other seat, however, was empty.

He barely shifted when he heard footsteps approaching, though he couldn't hide the brief look of surprise as Y/N rounded the corner, already dressed in his John Watson persona.

Tailored jacket, crisp shirt, his glasses set firmly in place.

Bruce straightened slightly, nodding in greeting, but Y/N's look remained cold.

"Morning." Bruce said, clearing his throat, breaking the silence with a casualness that sounded slightly rehearsed, "You, uh. . .you up to something?"

Y/N gave a short, humorless chuckle, glancing away for a moment. He adjusted his collar before looking back, brow raised.

"Yeah, actually." He said, voice tinged with sarcasm, "I've got work. You know, my real job. Some of us have actual things to do."

Bruce held his gaze for a moment before nodding, maybe just a bit too slowly. He cleared his throat and looked down at the plates.

"Right. Of course." He murmured, "Just thought you might want to. . .eat something first."

He gestured to the empty plate, a small attempt to reach across the lingering tension between them.

"Might help you function better." He offered.

For a moment, Y/N didn't move.

His fingers flexed briefly at his side, and then he exhaled, giving a slight nod.

He walked toward the table, but as he drew closer, his steps slowed, eyes narrowing. He looked down at the plate, then back up at Bruce.

"It's undercooked." His tone was flat, but there was a hint of amusement.

"Oh." Was all Bruce said quietly, gaze flicking down to the eggs before he forced a faint, sheepish smile.

Y/N shook his head, biting back whatever he was about to say. He turned toward the entryway, slipping his hands into his pockets.

He paused in the doorway and turned, adjusting his glasses.

"By the way, since I'm taking the bus, where's the stop? And which one do I take to get to Gotham Times?"

Bruce's head lifted quickly, surprised.

"The bus?" He replied, pushing his chair back and standing, "I'll drive you there. It's no problem."

"No." Y/N shook his head, waving Bruce off, "I'll take the bus. Thanks."

Bruce opened his mouth, about to press the point, but the look Y/N shot him was unmistakable. He stopped, jaw tensing slightly before he nodded.