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werdlewrites · 11 months

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Are You Happy? (Bruce Wayne x OC)

summary: And despite the tears, the drunken nights, and the pleading for the pain to end - she never tossed it over the bridge like she dreamed of. But could never explain why she continued to wear it beneath long sleeves, hidden from curious eyes and even more sneaky cameras hidden around corners. Maybe it was a reminder that a girl like her could have a love like that, despite losing it like some tragically written novel. warnings: post breakup ouchies, mentions of two oc's falling out (i'm only mentioning it because it seems out of place BUT IT'S FOR THE STORY) wc: 1623

"Are you happy?"

The words play on loop. They run through her mind on track until the circuits begin to fry, letting the world around the two of them begin to fall into a standstill. The gears are burning, and she's unable to process anything outside of this small bubble. The chaotic mass of people dressed to shimmer and shine in the unruly grit of the city had become a blur, her attention zeroed in on the man before her. His face somehow stone cold, yet filled with sincerity and a genuine need to know the truth. The real truth, no matter how hard it hit, or how delicately she held his frailty in her palms. Like a wounded bird searching for care and warmth.

The chatter and thunderous sound of heels to tile had been drowned out by her own heartbeat, flooding her senses as it pushed blood with force. She swears for a moment her vision fills with crimson before blinking it away, idle fingers roaming over the intricate bracelet he made her swear to keep even at the end of all things. And despite the tears, the drunken nights, and the pleading for the pain to end - she never tossed it over the bridge like she dreamed of. But could never explain why she continued to wear it beneath long sleeves, hidden from curious eyes and even more sneaky cameras hidden around corners. Maybe it was a reminder that a girl like her could have a love like that, despite losing it like some tragically written novel. Maybe it was to keep nightmares at bay while she slept, filling her nights with only dreams as she walked through memories with him.

He's patient with her, watching. Seeing the twitch of her skin just beneath her eyelid paired with a knitted brow, and he knows what it all means. She’s upset to see him, and rightfully so. His face had only been seen on the screen or in papers, and even then was it a rarity. It had been a long time since she walked away, her rage leaving a scorched path along the steps of his home while he watched in silence, a fist at his side and regret in his heart. How long had it been, exactly? He held no concept of time as it all seamlessly blended together, his nights spent out there - deep within the city and days trying to understand the meaning of it all. He was glad she wasn't there to see him become this thing - something he had always been destined to be. Yet all the same, he wonders if he would find more willingness to sleep if he knew she was only a few feet away, safe.

"Yes," is her cool reply. Her chin out straight, shoulders pulled back with confidence and hands linked just over the velvet dress. His mind wanders, creating only a moment for the man to bask in - a fantasy, where he walks by her side with a hand gently at her back to feel the soft fabric against his fingertips. Yet she stands alone, tall and proud amongst the crowd. One could easily look over her as she blended in with all of the fineries, like she belonged - and she did. But his eyes always found her - a honeybee to a freshly bloomed flower, dusted with pollen and sweet nectar. He needed her, no matter their distance. No matter how far he had pushed her away. And yet the flower thrived, needing only the water and sun as she danced in the wind. She was happy.

She can't see the clench of his teeth or the fist in his pockets, but he nods in acceptance. Taking it for what it was and knowing it had all been for the best. "Good, you deserve to be."

The woman's fingers are clenched together, knees forced to lock in place beneath the gown to keep her from stumbling forward. She had to remind herself to remain grounded, to stay strong the moment she locked eyes on him - his presence earth shattering as he moved through the space with all eyes on him, hushed whispers of his unannounced arrival. Each move he made was typically monitored through media and spread throughout the city like wildfire, leaving a flock of sheep to follow just to get a good look at the mysterious man, the enigma. He had no invitation for the exhibition, and never needed one as he passed through the doors without question. He owned every step she took, and each breath that filled her lungs.

He owned her in more ways than one. She carries herself high above the rest to stay afloat as the flood of heartache washes in, all the while knowing someday she’ll surrender to its current and admit her truth. She was unhappy.

He had gone, leaving her nights cold, empty and skin burning for a familiar touch yet to be satiated. A year's worth of heartbreak unable to find ways to mend itself, though finding ease as his face sunk into the shadows for weeks at a time. Each photograph of his face ripping the wound wide open until he sunk away once more. And then, a long-time friend now distant, hardly heard from with purpose. A clear miscommunication as arguments tore them further apart, like a twisting thread until the tension snapped. They tried to tie the pieces back together with a coffee date, or a simple phone call - and more often than not, someone had stormed out with that rope growing thinner. The woman was constantly surrounded by people yet no one all the same, all speaking about business and without care for her. But this is what he had wanted, and this is what she was giving him, no matter if it killed her.

“You -” he pauses, eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape, or to see who had all been watching - and there were many.

There were wandering eyes, looking to the art, to their friends, then back to the duo before gossiping about the interaction. Their time spent together had reached multiple headlines, paparazzi following their every move much to her dismay. Their separation didn’t keep their faces out of the prints, instead it fueled the city's curiosity, and each newspaper that landed on his steps was tossed into the fireplace. The world had nothing better to do than spread rumors on something they were clueless about.

“You - uh,” Beautiful. He wants to say, “You look beautiful,” but the words are caught on his tongue, trapped by the fear of her response as she lays him out for all to see, shaming him. Trapped by the lack of confidence he once had when he held her in his arms - now out of practice and uncertain if he should say anything at all, after what he did. He chooses a safer route, watching her shoulders deflate to something more relaxed, though disappointed. “It was good to see you.”

Her lips pursed together, gaze falling down to stare at nothing in particular but more so to avoid his gaze for only a moment, searching for the same strength she held before he walked into the hall. But there’s nothing. She finds herself shaken, a mere shadow of the woman to boldly shake hands with strangers, eager to speak on pieces she’s spent weeks to months creating before they placed a heavy price for purchase. “Yeah, you too, Bruce,” she replies, a gentle but feigned smile shining beneath the dim lights. She’s unsure if it’s convincing, but the public eats it up and takes it home for something to talk about for the next few hours. And it’s enough to pull the smallest, crooked smile from the man before turning his back on her, moving through the exhibit slowly to drink in the sight as he eases his way to the main entrance.

When his back vanishes amongst the crowd, that’s when she finds herself weak against the rushing water. Her grip is loosening, a piece of her wanting to follow after him and say, “We’re a team. With and without the mask,” and refuse to take “no” for an answer. Sit her stubborn ass down in the rubble where he worked, absorb his frustration expressed in silent rage as he ripped equipment from the desk. Shit he could afford to break. He could lie and say he hated her, never loved her, never needed her - all in hopes to get her away from the darkness he surrounded himself in. But he was as stubborn as she was, and the fight for a peaceful resolution would last until every star burned out and the world went cold, and silent with death. So she stays behind, allowing their worlds to grow and flourish on different paths no matter how many weeds they come across.

“Ms. Whitlock?” The woman turns from the scene at the door, finding her assistant with clipboard in hand and a weary smile on her face - having stood in the distance with great patience, watching, and waiting for an appropriate moment to speak with the artist. “There’s a company manager that would like to speak with you. He has..offers for a commissioned piece.” The younger girl is timid, head hung low with eyes avoiding contact for shame of coming to her in such a sensitive moment. But the woman straightens her dress and pulls at the long sleeves, her shoulders now back as they once were with a forced assurance, shaking away the disturbance her old love brought with him. “Lead the way, Darcy-”