They drove in silence to the Wayne Manor. He knew that what he was doing was essentially telling Page that Batman was Bruce Wayne. Any normal human would have gone mad over this choice, but all he could feel was serenity. She was not going anywhere, and Batman was already more acquainted with Page Monroe than his fair share, being an avatar of a cosmic entity and all.
But it wasn't just that, it was also because he had just slept with her and he had made her declare that she was his. She had done it, she'd told him and he'd gotten his way. It was that same night, and that still she was wearing her Calendar Girl outfit.
The Batmobile sped down the secret drive of Wayne Manor right into the enormous chamber of the Batcave. The lights came on, shining over the enormous room of high-tech gadgetry and the silver and black sheen of many Batsuits. It was nothing Page had ever seen, never in her life. She stared dazedly as he guided the car into the designated parking space.
It was Batman who emerged first from the sleek Batmobile, his actions smooth and calculated which spoke of routine. He reached out to help Page disembark, and she descended, look of awe and terror on her face. She was not oblivious to the coldness of the cave air, a world away from the warmth of the passion they had just shared.
"So, what do you think?" Batman said in his Kevin Conroy voice, the door to the Batmobile shutting behind him.
"Breathtaking," Page gasped, her eyes large as she adapted to the room filled with blackness. "I feel like I've just stepped into a page of your life that's strictly 'classified'."
Batman grinned, the edge of a smile flashing over his mouth. "You could say that," he agreed, his tone dropping back into the softer, more intimate range as he leaned in her direction. With a snap of his wrist, the cowl on his own costume sprang wide and he tore it off his scalp, the all-too-familiar face of Bruce Wayne shining up from beneath.
Page's eyes were wide as if she'd just beheld something illicit. "You're... you're Bruce Wayne," she stared, her eyes wide. The shock was a blow to the gut, but it also felt... right. Like the pieces of a puzzle she hadn't even known she'd been assembling slid into place.
Bruce just smiled, maintaining his patience. "Page," he started, politely, "you need a place to stay. Somewhere safe. This," he gestured around the Batcave, "is where I work. But there are places upstairs in the manor that you can call your own until you decide what you're going to do with your life."
But Page was already shaking her head. "No, Bruce," she replied firmly, her voice unwavering. "I don't want to be anywhere else. You're all I need. You're everything to me now."
Bruce was stumped for a moment of what to say. He'd just revealed his deepest secret to her, and her reaction was so... conclusive. It was like she'd just accepted it like it was nothing, something he'd never even thought about doing until now. He began to form his mouth to argue, to inform her she needed more than one man in her life, but it was frozen on his lips as she leaned over and kissed his mouth with so much fervor his breath was left broken.
Before he could even register what he was doing, he was poised to bend her over the shiny hood of the Batmobile, his hands on her hips, his eyes jet black with lust. But just before he could get to that, however, a throat clearing rang out across the enormous room.
They both took a step back, catching their breaths, to find Alfred standing at the far end of the stairway leading up to the manor. He was impeccably dressed in his standard butler's suit and was holding a tray that was uncannily like tea and biscuits.
"Master Bruce, Miss Monroe," he began, his voice just a tiny bit above his normal register, "I wasn't expecting such fervent receptions down in the Batcave."
Page's face had turned rosy red once she saw just how vulnerable they were situated but never did Bruce's eyes leave hers, his appetite still present. "Alfred, this is Page," Bruce managed, his throat hoarse.
"Miss Monroe," Alfred bent his head, his gaze flicking with something very much like amusement. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Page stammered out her words, attempting to regain her composure as she adjusted her costume. "Al- Alfred, nice to meet you," she stammered out, her gaze flicking between the butler and Bruce once more.
Alfred kept his hold on the tray, his gaze on the two for a second. "I see," he stated, his voice even. "I'll be upstairs preparing your room, Miss Monroe. Should you require something, please do not hesitate to inform me." He smiled kindly on his way out, then proceeded to go up the steps, leaving them to stand by themselves once again in the Batcave.
Not exactly how Bruce had imagined getting his point across to his butler, but there they were. He was smart enough to see that his butler was not angry; the man was merely too controlled to be that way. But he was sure he could see the concern beneath his butler's face, his body stiffening as he held the tray. The butler gave him one last look that well enough told Bruce that he was going to get an earful later.
But for the moment, there was other business to attend to. He turned back to Page once more, her large doe eyes looking up at him. At first, he was willing to go for another round with her but Alfred's arrival had made him realize how tired he was. The night had taken its toll on him, his duties weighing on his shoulders.
"I could use some sleep," he said to her, starting to work on unbuckling his utility belt. "It's been a long night."
Page watched him, her own fatigue admitted in the slump of her shoulders. There was determination there too, however, one that had never left her since he'd claimed her. She went to him, her hand extended to halt him. "Let me do this," she said to him, her voice gentle.
Bruce gazed down at her, the Dark Knight armor shining in the glow of the fake cave. He froze for an instant, wondering if this was another line he'd never intended to cross. But he breathed out, stepping back from her so she could remove the belt from him. She touched it with unexpected gentleness, laying it next to his other gear.
"You need to rest too," he added, his tired voice rough. "Alfred will bring you to your room."
But Page wouldn't stand for it. She came up on her toes before him, her hands flat on his chest, her eyes looking up into his in determination. "I'm not going anywhere, Bruce. I want to stay with you. I need to," she said on a note of desperation.
Bruce sighed as determination crept into her jawline, the same determination it was that had attracted him. He knew that she was driven by a fear of abandonment, so he had to help her. "Fine," he surrendered, his tone low with reluctance. "But only because I'm too tired to argue."
He led her in up into the manor, his body worn down from last night's labors. As they went up the steps, cold cave air was replaced by the warmth of manor, kept comfortably in spite of the cold outside streets of Gotham. They went down the long halls passing by family portraits and expensive tapestries that whispered secrets of the Wayne legacy.
The moment he was inside his room, Bruce was quickly getting into his black pajama pants and white tank top, his muscles moving with the motion. Page was devouring him with hungry eyes, her clothes shifting into a complementing lingerie set that clung to her body like a second skin. She was a sexy shadow, and Bruce could only clench his fists so tightly in fear that he might not be able to help himself to her once more.
They crawled into the huge, plush king-sized bed, the plush blankets a relief from the rigidity of the armor he'd just shed. Page snuggled into his side, her head on his chest, her legs wrapped around him. Bruce could feel her on him, and for a moment the rest of the world with all its evil and violence did not matter.
**
The following morning, the sun hadn't fully risen when Bruce was awakened by the sensation of Page's arms wrapped tightly around him. She still clung to him like a lifeline, and Bruce couldn't help but feel resentful at the disruption of his normal routine. He'd had his share of drama for a night. But looking down at her, he saw the serene look on her face, and his resentment melted away as if it had never existed. She was so innocent and fragile when she slept, so unlike the erotic presence she had been the night before. He was the only one now standing between her and complete loss in this new world of hers, and the weight of that was heavier than any suit of armor.
He began to extract himself from within her grasp not wishing to rouse her. He had work to finish as Bruce Wayne now, reputations to maintain, and how the blazes to explain her situation to Alfred. The bed was chilly without the warmth of her lying next to him as he extracted himself from the bed, his naked feet slapping the chilly hardwood. He rolled up the crumpled Batsuit of the previous evening, neatly bundling them up to stash away in the hidden compartmet of his closet.
He donned one of his suits, adjusting his tie in the mirror, regarding himself as if searching for the boy that he had once been. He found none of that, only the Darkest Knight in the mirror. He brushed his teeth with sophistication that only a billionaire can afford, splashed his face with cold water, before leaving the bathroom.
Page slumbered on, her chest rising and falling with the breath she inhaled and expelled. Bruce experienced the bitter-sweet sensation of a variety of feelings—desire, the urge to protect her, the flash of eroticism. He knew he couldn't ignore her much longer, so he leaned down to kiss her softly on the forehead. "Morning," he whispered.
Her eyelids flashed open, and she stared at him, sleep still lingering in lashes. "Hi," she whispered, sleep thick in her voice. She sat up, her hands around the nape of his neck, and pulled him down to kiss her. It was all but platonic.
Bruce felt his will fade, the body yielding to the gentleness of the touch. He was far too acutely aware that if he did not establish some parameters now, it would all be that much more complicated later. He pushed her back, his gaze locked onto her. "We need to talk," he told her, his tone firm but gentle. "I can't have you following me around everywhere I go. You need to keep a low profile."
Page objected, obviously not happy with his choice, yet she nodded. "I understand," she whispered. "But can't I be of service to you? I want to be by your side, Bruce."
Bruce sighed, propping up her cheek in his palm. "I know." He paused. "But I don't need your help at every moment. There are times that it would be preferable if you remained here, hidden. Gotham is a dangerous city and there will be those not pleased to discover that I am with you."
Page nodded again, but the obstinacy remained in the corners of her eyes. Bruce realized she would not be pleased at being detained, but for now, his concern was her safety and his way of life. "I'll be back soon," he reassured, stooping to kiss her once again before exiting the room.
As he descended the grand staircase, Alfred was already waiting for him in the foyer, his face of distaste and assumption. "Master Bruce, is Miss Monroe settling in?" he asked, in his proper tone.
Bruce nodded briskly, jerkily. "Yes, Alfred. She will be staying with us for a while."
"I see," said Alfred, his alert eyes in stark contrast to his stoic demeanor. "And might I ask the length of the stay?"
Bruce breathed deeply, trying to choose his words wisely. "It's... complicated," he started, his gaze drifting up to the portrait of his parents above the fireplace. "Page has been through a lot. Her career ended abruptly, and her agent dropped her just because she turned 30."
Alfred's face softened by a fraction, his disapproval being replaced by understanding. "Ah," said he softly, "the price of beauty in a society that worships youth."
Bruce nodded, still studying the portrait. "It's worse than that," he said. "Page's whole identity was wrapped up in her career. When it was taken away, she didn't just lose her job; she lost herself. She's been fighting these demons for years, and it's only gotten worse with time."
Reality struck the face of Alfred. "Abandonment issues," he said, "and at that age."
"So you see," said Bruce, at last turning to face Alfred. "She has lost everything, and I can't leave her out there all alone."
Alfred nodded grimly. "Master Bruce, I can see your concern. But you must take your actions' aftermaths into consideration as well. Bringing Miss Monroe into our lives, uncovering your true persona, would be catastrophic."
He sighed, working the base of his neck. "I know," he admitted, "but I trust her Alfred. She won't be trouble. She needs this."
"Trust is a delicate thing, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "Particularly when secrets as profound as yours are concealed."
Bruce nodded, hearing what Alfred was saying. "I know it's a risk," he said softly. "But I believe that she's worth it."
Alfred's expression was unreadable as he handed Bruce a steaming cup of coffee. "Very well," he said, his tone still formal. "Miss Monroe will be treated as an honored guest while she's here. But be cautious, young master."
"I will, Alfred," Bruce promised to him, gulping down the brown liquid, the fire racing through his veins. "I've got it under control."
Alfred glanced around the room for a moment, nodded once. "Very well," he said, turning away to take up his duties. "Breakfast awaits."
Bruce walked into the dining room to find a king's breakfast right before him—scrambled eggs, bacon, a plate of toast with a side plate of marmalade, and a second cup of coffee. It was wonderful-smelling, and his stomach grumbled at his neglect. He sat down to eat, his hunger biting at him just the way the guilt all too often bit at his evening rounds.
He hoped he had spent a lot of time sitting at this table, but Wayne Enterprises was beckoning. He cleaned up, rising from the dining room, walking through the door onto the parkway where a black, sleek Rolls-Royce was waiting. The motor humming like a contented cat, the vehicle was the very picture of luxury and power.
"Ready, Master Bruce?" Alfred inquired, his face inscrutable as he swung the vehicle door open.
Bruce nodded, settling in comfortably in the soft, velvety backseat. "Let's go," he said, psyching himself up for the day ahead. He knew that the moment he left this vehicle, he would need to be a different person altogether—the playboy billionaire, the dashing philanthropist that Gotham had gotten so familiar with.
It was a wild ride to Wayne Enterprises, and when the car pulled up to the curb, Bruce got out, smiling. The paparazzi swarmed, cameras clicking like an army of furious hornets. Bruce grinned at them, milking the golden boy charm for all it was worth. The suit was second nature, a shield of sorts to keep at bay the anonymity that seethed just under the skin of the city that was home.
Through the lobby of the steel-and-glass skyscraper, his head bobbed in genially exchanged greetings, kidding around with the staff, his instincts always kept well in check at all times. The exigencies of the Darkest Knight thundered all the louder, to attack, to uncover the corruption that festred like an open ulcer at the heart of Gotham, yet he knew himself better than to yield to that temptation here and now.
The elevator ride up was a mute struggle between his two personas. Bruce Wayne, the charming heir to a fortune, and the Darkest Knight, a darkness almost impossible to articulate. He emerged into the office that carried his name, a fortress of mastery in the chaos that raged around him, of which he knew raged even behind doors. One of his secretaries, smiling graciously, nodded in welcome, eyes not quite rising to his, as she handed over a stack of files.
"Mr. Wayne, you have a very full schedule for today," she stated, in expertly rehearsed words of courtesy and professionalism. "Mr. Fox has called twice. He is interested in speaking with you regarding the new project."
Bruce nodded, his eyes scanning through the papers that she left on the table. "Send him in when he arrives," he said, his tone cold and clinical. As much as he hated playing this game, he knew it was necessary to keep up the façade. The Darkest Knight was a formidable being, yet Sir Bruce Wayne had his own armory—his charisma, his wit, his enormous fortune.
He spent the day in a haze of conference calls and meetings, all of them a dance of manipulation and deception. He listened to the muttering of the high brass, their tones thick with greed and malice. They spoke of backroom politics, of lives destroyed for the price of extra zeroes in their checkbooks. The silver-tongued billionaire facade never faltered as he smiled and nodded, his thoughts all the while taking mental notes for the night ahead.