dick grayson had faced assassins, alien invasions, and bruce’s silent disappointment.
none of it compared to the pressure of a daddy–daughter date.
he stood in front of the mirror in his apartment in blüdhaven, holding up two shirts.
“okay,” he called down the hallway. “blue or the other blue?”
tiny footsteps thundered toward him. his daughter skidded into the doorway in sparkly pink sneakers, hair in slightly lopsided pigtails he had very confidently done himself.
she squinted at the shirts like she was evaluating tactical gear.
“other blue,” she decided. “you look handsome in that one.”
dick placed a hand over his heart. “handsome? wow. i must have a really good stylist.”
she beamed proudly. “it’s me.”
he crouched down so they were eye level. “you ready for the fanciest night of your life?”
her eyes went wide. “we’re getting waffles.”
“fancy waffles,” he corrected seriously.
---
the little diner near the pier wasn’t actually fancy. it had sticky menus and a jukebox that hadn’t worked since 1998. but to her, it was magical.
dick pulled out her chair like she was royalty.
“thank you, daddy,” she said very formally.
he tried not to melt. failed.
she kicked her feet under the table while he cut her waffle into perfect little squares. “uncle jason says you fall off buildings for fun.”
dick blinked. “uncle jason says a lot of things.”
“is it true?”
he leaned closer and whispered, “only when it’s dramatic.”
she gasped. “that’s SO cool.”
he laughed, the bright, easy one that came so naturally to him. people always said dick grayson lit up a room. right now, the only person he cared about lighting up was sitting across from him with syrup on her cheek.
he reached over and wiped it gently with a napkin. “you’ve got battle damage.”
she giggled. “from the waffle war?”
“the fiercest war of them all.”
---
after dinner, they walked along the pier. she insisted on holding his whole hand instead of his pinky because, according to her, “i’m big now.”
he swung their joined fingers gently.
“you’re getting so tall,” he said softly.
“i know. i’m gonna be bigger than you.”
he snorted. “okay, let’s not get crazy.”
she stopped walking suddenly, looking up at him with complete seriousness. “daddy?”
“yeah, bug?”
“when i grow up… can i still go on dates with you?”
it hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken.
he knelt down again, brushing wind-blown hair out of her face. “you can go on dates with me when you’re five. when you’re fifteen. when you’re fifty. i’m not going anywhere.”
she threw her arms around his neck so hard he almost tipped backward.
“promise?” she whispered.
dick held her tighter, voice steady and warm.
“cross my heart.”
he was just a dad on a pier with sticky fingers and a tiny hand wrapped around his.
and that? that was the most important role he’d ever had.
blanc being an ipad kid is so hilarious bc i can fully imagine him helping jud navigate the internet. yes jud knows how to use messaging apps and youtube but i believe thats about the extent of it.
"blanc LOOK this is adorable..."
"thats ai, son. kittens do Nawt do backflips. at least as far as i know"
My prediction for the next Benoit Blanc film is that after Marta (accused of a murder, scared but works with Blanc), Helen (pretends to be a murdered person to work with Blanc), and Jud (accused of a murder, keeps trying to confess to it and has to be stopped by Blanc), the next in line is going to be someone who has not committed a murder, but really wants to do so and Blanc has to continuously talk them out of it while also trying to find a different murderer.
Watson #4, absolutely losing it: Everyone already decided I’m guilty, and all of my problems could be solved by just becoming the person everyone tells me I am! Don’t you see? I can fix this! I just have to kill him!
A very frazzled and exhausted Blanc: Ah don’t knohw how tuh tell you this buht… no. Do nawt do that.
just finished rewatching business proposal and i forgot how fucking good this was. i think what i liked about it the most was that it didn't pretend to be anything else than a cheesy romance drama. there was no serial killer plot, no drama about people plotting his downfall at the company, no politics, no terminal illness it was just laser focused on the romance and managed to give us not only one but two incredibly well done and adult romances all in 12 episodes wrapped up in a neat little bow without dragging anything out. amazing
ノ♡︎ ⬞ ׄ the times bruce wayne tried to date like a “normal” person and went off script
𝓘rene’s notes . . . I struggle to even call autistic bruce a headcanon like that’s just canon
It’s your first real date, and Bruce Wayne is doing the whole thing perfectly. The smile, the laugh, the effortless rich guy ease he’s been rehearsing since birth. You ask something half joking about Gotham architecture, not even looking for an answer, just filling the silence.
He gives you one. Then another. Then he forgets to stop.
Suddenly he’s talking faster, eyes brighter, hands moving like he’s mapping invisible skylines between you. Dates, materials, which buildings sank and why, which ones should’ve but didn’t. The charm melts into something sharper, more real, like you’ve accidentally switched him into a different mode.
You don’t interrupt because you’re kind of mesmerized.
He cuts himself off mid sentence. Blinks. Laughs awkwardly. Apologizes like he’s just spilled a drink on you instead of info dumped for twenty minutes straight. The smooth billionaire voice clicks back on.
You say, “No, keep going.”
And the way he looks at you then is different. Softer. Uncertain, but hopeful. Like he’s just realized he doesn’t have to perform a role, he can just exist and you’re still here. Still listening. Still choosing him.
Bruce insists on walking you to your door, it’s a formal obligation. Hand at your back, polite distance, perfect posture, the whole Gotham’s most eligible bachelor routine turned up to max. He keeps glancing around, subtle but constant, like he’s running threat assessments instead of thinking about you.
You assume he’s just being sweet. He assumes it’s about safety. Which, to be fair, it is Gotham.
You get to your door and you don’t move right away. You linger, keys forgotten in your hand, looking up at him in that way that’s supposed to mean something. He smiles back, charming and calm, clearly waiting for the next line in whatever invisible script he’s following.
Nothing happens.
So you sigh and say, “I want you to kiss me.”
He blinks like you’ve just given him new information (you very much have). Nods once, serious. “Okay,” he says, then hesitates. “Now?”
“Yes, Bruce. Now.”
And when he finally leans in, careful at first and then not at all, it doesn’t feel awkward or staged or logical. It feels like something out of a fairytale. Like he just needed the instructions before he could give you exactly what you wanted.
He starts talking in that voice again. The smooth one. The one that sounds like it belongs in a magazine profile titled Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor.
“I’ve always believed that connection is about timing,” he says, smiling just a little too perfectly, “and meeting someone like you makes me think that perhaps I’ve been waiting for the right moment without realizing it—”
You stare at him for half a second.
Then you laugh and kiss him mid sentence.
He freezes completely. Eyes wide, brain clearly rebooting. For a heartbeat he just stands there, hands hovering like he forgot what they’re for.
“…all along,” he finishes, softly, because the sentence was already lined up in his head and not saying it feels wrong.
You pull back, amused. “Were you flirting with me or giving a press interview?”
He blinks. “I was flirting. I think.”
You kiss him again, shorter this time.
The smile that comes after isn’t polished. It’s crooked, a little embarrassed, real. The playboy’s still there, but now he keeps tripping over the part of him that doesn’t know the script and doesn’t really want one.
You’re making out on Bruce’s bed, breath getting uneven, hands wandering in very ungodly ways. His hand is on your waist, warm and firm, until it suddenly stills.
You notice because his grip changes.
His fingers shift, slower now, rubbing the fabric between them with deliberate focus, thumb pressing just a little harder than necessary. He’s still kissing you, but his attention has split. “Is this satin?” he murmurs against your mouth. Then, more quietly, more absorbed, “No, silk. Different weave.”
You laugh, a little breathless. “Bruce.”
He hums in response, lips still on yours, his other hand sliding up your back like he never meant to stop. “I’m still kissing you,” he says earnestly, as if he needs to clarify. “I can do both.”
His fingers keep tracing the fabric at your waist, lingering now, less analytical and more appreciative, the curiosity has turned into something else. You pull him closer by his collar and kiss him properly, slow and intentional.
There’s no performance left in him. No charm, no polish. Just Bruce, distracted and curious and somehow still very clearly turned on, getting caught on how you feel under his hands and not bothering to hide it.
You’ve been flirting for ten straight minutes. Slow, obvious, leaning in too close, letting your hand linger on his arm like you’re daring him to do something about it. You’re giving full on fuck me eyes and are practically on his lap, like come on.
Bruce watches you, clearly processing.
Then he says, calmly, “If you want to have sex, you can ask directly.”
You freeze.
“…What?”
He looks genuinely uncertain, like he’s worried he’s misread the situation. “I don’t want to assume. But that seems to be what you’re implying.”
Your brain short circuits for half a second.
“Oh,” you say, then, because apparently honesty is contagious, “I want to have sex with you.”
He blinks once.
“Yes,” he says immediately.
No hesitation. No dramatic pause. Just yes, like you asked if he wanted coffee. And then his hand is on your waist, firm and decisive, and he’s kissing you with a borderline animalistic kind of hunger.
A moment later you’re not even walking anymore. He just lifts you, easy and careful and very focused, carrying you toward his bedroom while you laugh into his shoulder.
So much for being subtle. Turns out all he needed was the exact question.
The lighting is soft, almost too perfect, he arranged it himself. He’s standing there, words chosen, pacing measured, eyes locked on yours like it’s both a challenge and a performance. You can feel the rehearsed rhythm, the careful cadence he’s practiced in front of mirrors and empty rooms.
“I would like to be exclusive. Intentionally. Long-term,” he says, each word deliberate, precise, as if it’s a line from a script he’s been running for weeks.
You nod, smiling. “Yes. Obviously.”
He exhales, relief flickering across his face for the first time all night. But before the tension fully leaves him, before he even blinks, he adds, same tone, same unwavering gaze:
“There’s something else you need to know. I’m Batman.”
You laugh, short and incredulous. “Bruce, that’s… come on, really?”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t crack a smile. He just waits, still fully composed, still staring.
And before you know it you’re in the batcave, Bruce excitedly explaining everything in sight.
You’re sitting in the kitchen with Alfred, tea in hand, expecting nothing more than a quiet morning. He sips his own cup and then, as casually as if he were talking about the weather, says, “Master Bruce prefers routine. It’s part of being on the spectrum.”
You choke on your tea, burning your throat and making you cough like an idiot. Alfred just raises an eyebrow and waits. You swallow, still coughing, cheeks burning.
Later, you find Bruce in the study, pretending to read, perfectly composed as always. You sit across from him, arms crossed, glaring in mock accusation. “You told me you’re Batman before you told me you’re autistic.”
He blinks at you, genuinely confused, tilts his head slightly. “The first one affects your safety,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
You narrow your eyes.
Then his tone softens, quieter this time, a little more vulnerable. “The second one just affects me.”
And somehow, that’s even more unmasking than finding out he dresses up as a bat to catch criminals at night. You stare at him and realize there’s nothing left hidden, nothing staged. No Bruce Wayne, no Batman. Just Bruce, entirely himself, and entirely trusting you to see him.
one thing that works about the benoit blanc movies as a franchise that has tanked other franchises for me (aside from the stupendous acting, clever screenplays with meaningful commentary, and sheer passion for filmmaking done by people at the top of their game) is that the movies aren't connected at all. yes i want 12 more of them. no there cannot be one single mention of any plot point of any of the other ones in any of them (and thankfully there never will be). there's no fatigue of having to keep up with 20 characters' storylines, or remember anything that has happened previously. it's a blank slate every time. plus! they all admirably possess the same distinct style (thank you, rian johnson!) but at the same time are vastly different between them, in sets, costumes, types of characters, interactions between them, etc. so refreshing
despite the fact that jud's form and view of christianity is a very pleasant one, i appreciate that no part of benoit blanc is converted. it's not like i expected benoit to become a christian obviously, but i expected him to potentially stay for a service at the end, when invited. or to show appreciation for what jud is building at his church. even just appreciation that he's welcome.
after the whole movie, when benoit is given the invite, he still says there's nothing he wants less than to stay in that church. it's very, very reasonable and realistic of a traumatized atheist, but i almost never see it depicted in this way. usually they come around to "see the beauty" in one way or another. i just really appreciate that they didn't do that.
The masculine gaze is a man saying Daniel Craig has "let himself go" after seeing the new Knives Out film as if I wasn't admiring his Cuban heels and lovely three-piece suits and thinking to myself he looked better than he did in James Bond
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