batman snz fic, 3.1k. technically pt 3 of this, but could stand alone
Bruce plastered an awkward half-smile on his face as he walked through the door.
It was considerably warmer inside. He had all of a second to register the way it made his nose run before Jeffries turned around and beamed at him, raising a hand in greeting.
Bruce ducked his head immediately, reaching into his pocket for his phone and bringing it up to his face. Behind the cover of its too-bright screen, he licked his upper lip. The salty warmth was not altogether unpleasant, but his skin crawled with it all the same.
It was, perhaps, the most distasteful thing he had ever done to maintain a deception. A new low, salvageable only because at least no one had seen it.
He looked round, as though it wasn’t obvious that the now rapidly approaching Jeffries had spoken, and in the process accidentally made eye contact with Laren. She winced at whatever expression he was making. He wiped it from his face and looked away, resigning himself to empty flattery and yet another unsubtle attempt to circumvent Lucius’s approval.
But before either of them could speak, Laren said, “Oh! Mr. Jeffries?”
He stopped, a split second of aggravation crossing his face before it was gone, and there was only the obnoxious toothpaste-ad grin. “Yes, Alesandra?”
“We’ll need to re-authorize your pass.”
He turned back around to face her. “I haven’t had any trouble with it.”
“System glitch,” she said apologetically. “It’s happened to one or two others, since the security switchover. If you could…?”
Jeffries sighed, but walked up to the desk.
Bruce furrowed his brow. The security transition had been three months ago. There had not, to the best of his knowledge, been any glitches.
Laren met Bruce’s eyes fleetingly, then glanced aside, strangely sharp. Then a second time. He followed her gaze.
With a tiny nod and a tinier smile, he hastened for the elevator.
As the doors began to slide shut, he made to stow his phone and retrieve a tissue. But a hand slipped through the gap before they could close entirely.
At least it did not belong to Jeffries.
Maxwell stepped inside with a quiet thanks and punched in her floor number. She stiffened a little, when she stepped back and glanced at him, but said only, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Ms. Maxwell,” he said, with a better smile than earlier. It still felt clumsy, but at least didn’t have the feel of a grimace.
She nodded, and said nothing more. For a terrible moment, Bruce thought he would need to dredge up some inanity to talk about—all relevant options were terrible, no one wanted to be accosted for an update on current projects in the elevator, and no one felt comfortable griping about the coffee on offer with the CEO—but she turned her attention to the files she kept under one arm, instead.
Just as well. It gave him the chance to fix his face.
Mistake. As soon as the tissue touched his nose, he felt like he might sneeze. Not instantly. But…soon.
He grimaced, behind the tissue. If last night’s incident reocurred in a box like this, Maxwell was done for. And maybe anyone else who used it over the next few hours.
He crumpled the tissue in his fist. He should have taken the stairs.
As it was, he settled for holding his breath as the numbers ticked upward. It was agonizing. One floor…two…three…four—
He stifled twice, buried in the tissue, and Maxwell feigned ignorance. Her shoulders gave her away.
He inched backwards, but her shoulders didn’t ease. Probably because he was staring, a bit. He averted his gaze and counted the seconds until the elevator stopped.
A few floors before Maxwell’s stop, it did, and dinged open to reveal open to reveal a small crowd. For a split second, Bruce weighed the relative merits of staying, then bustled past the newcomers with an apologetic smile. It felt more like a grimace. Maybe he’d have been better off with a dead-eyed stare.
Something to consider later. For the moment, he put it out of mind and slipped away to the stairwell.
He sighed in relief and began climbing. Two flights up, he stopped, one hand pressed flat to the wall, and stifled without a sound. And again, belatedly remembering to cover. And again, pinching his nose shut. The fourth escaped him, echoing horribly in the quiet.
A startled noise, from somewhere above him, then a muttered “Jesus!”
His ears burned. He pressed his knuckles underneath his nose and began climbing again, determinedly looking at his feet.
Footsteps drew nearer as the other person continued climbing down, then halted for a couple of seconds before continuing on again.
Bruce ignored them, now counting the steps as he went. With any luck, they’d follow suit, and there’d be no small talk in the stairwell. As conversational ambushes went, it wasn’t the worst sort—there was a clear escape route, at least if you were going opposite directions—but still numbered among his least favorite.
Five steps away, they’d said nothing. Four steps away, still nothing. Three steps away, Bruce relaxed. Two steps away, he sneezed, just barely ducking into his elbow in time.
Another startled sound. Then, “Oh, bless you!”
He grunted in annoyance, then caught himself, smiled in their general direction—he didn’t recognize them, so either they’d never met or they’d styled their hair differently today—nodded, and hurried past them before they could say anything else.
Rude of him, certainly—manners take only a few moments, Master Bruce, said the Alfred that lived in his head—but it couldn’t be helped. He didn’t trust himself not to sneeze again.
Bruce waited in his office for a while, but people kept coming in and out, wanting his opinion on this or that development, or worse—wanting to talk.
He managed to avoid sneezing in front of anyone, and by sheer force of will kept from sniffling, but between the pretense at confusion and the idle chatter and the slow, inexorable drip he kept having to hide behind his hands or his phone or whatever file was to hand—
Best to leave, he decided, before he snapped at someone over a spreadsheet.
He found a storage room and made himself at home.
It was pleasant enough. Empty. Quiet. Fully stocked with tissues.
José slipped in, after about half an hour, nodded at him as though it was completely normal for the CEO to be hiding in the corner on the floor with an entire box of tissues in his lap. He took a pack of paper towels and a bottle of disinfectant from the shelf, stuck them in his cart, and left without a word.
Bruce made a note on his tablet. Expedite the raises for Sanitation. Send José a gift basket, in the meantime.
The meeting, when it finally arrived, was…better and worse than he’d been expecting.
He arrived precisely one minute late, avoiding the usual pre-meeting chatter but earning a raised eyebrow from Lucius. He mouthed an apology as he scanned the room for a good seat.
There was an empty chair right by Lucius—no, he was busy enough without catching whatever Bruce had. Another between Maxwell and Siddig from Engineering—no, they were both eating. One to the left of the head of Finance—absolutely not.
For a moment, he couldn’t see any others, and very nearly resigned himself to an hour and a half of chewing sounds. Then Lucius’s new assistant—Rel, their name was Rel—leaned forward to pull a box of tissues from the center of the table to rest instead by their laptop. When they leaned back, Bruce noticed two things. First, that there was an empty chair to their right. And second, that she had a tissue crumpled in her left hand.
Bruce slipped into the chair beside them, motioning for Lucius to continue.
After a beat, Lucius did.
After another, Bruce picked up his copy of the meeting agenda—a single sheet of paper helpfully nestled in a simple folder—and flicked it open, carefully angling it to shield the lower half of his face from view. Content with this precaution, he then gave Lucius his undivided attention.
Somewhere between the fourth and fifth slides, a thready itch crept up the bridge of his nose. When it lodged itself just under his left eye and began to swell, he raised the folder higher and flinched forward with a silent sneeze. Then another, which made his nose run.
He lowered the folder just enough to peek over the top of it. All heads were still turned attentively in Lucius’s direction.
Siddig had abandoned her meal in favor of glaring at the head of Finance—whose name Bruce still could not quite lay a finger on, something like Lox, or Locks—who seemed not to notice.
Or…no, she wasn’t glaring. Just looking, but with a slight pinch between her brows. Tightness to the lines of her mouth. Tension in her shoulders, curved inward, back stiff. Eyes halfway to squinting.
…Like she had a headache.
Bruce’s own mouth flattened, behind the papers. He looked back at Lockley—because that was his name. It rang less like a bell and more like a fire alarm—specifically the awful, shrill one from his short-lived attempt at university, which had always left him clamping his hands over his ears like he was a quarter of his actual age.
He often wanted to do much the same, when forced to share space with Lockley. A singularly unpleasant man, from the moment they’d met—he’d been operating on two hours of sleep, when he’d shaken Lockley’s hand, and Lockley had been drenched in the world’s worst cologne.
Bruce wrinkled his nose and inhaled deeply, aiming for discreet. A galling, liquid sniffle cut through the room.
Lucius paused mid-sentence, turning to look at Rel. Rel glanced sidelong at Bruce. Lucius’s eyebrow rose imperceptibly.
Okay. Slipping wholly under the radar was right out. But plan B might still—
He laid the agenda back on the table, hunching his shoulders sheepishly and revealing the horrific shine of his upper lip. He snagged a few tissues from Rel’s box and motioned for Lucius to continue with with his free hand.
“Sorry,” he whispered, his gaze darting away to Lockley and back.
If Lucius caught on, he made no indication of it, only cleared his throat and resumed speaking without ceremony.
Bruce dabbed at the underside of his nose. After a moment or two, he crumpled the tissues in a fist and made a show of rubbing his eyes a little—carefully, so as to avoid smudging his concealer—then pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand, silent, not meeting anyone’s gaze. To his displeasure, there was actually pressure building at his temples—faint, but undeniable.
He logged the new symptom and kept the annoyance from his expression. Wanted an unobtrusive display, just the barest suggestion of silent discomfort—not irritation, not complaint. Honey, not vinegar.
He drew more than a few stares.
When the number of eyes flickering towards him began to drop, he sniffled again, more sharply than before. Forced himself to duck his head with a sheepish little smile, as though he thought it was kind of funny and he wasn’t torn between crawling out of his skin and throttling Lockley, who was definitely wearing that stupid cologne again, he wanted to crawl out of his skin.
He indulged in a brief vision of compromise: slamming his own head through the conference table. It wouldn’t help anything, but it would make him feel marginally better.
A briefer vision, with less compromise: slamming Lockley’s head through the conference table.
He dismissed it, forcing himself to focus. On the screen in front of him, quarterly goals. Out of the corner of his eye, Siddig, steadily wilting. Plan B.
Lucius was three words into the second topic when Bruce’s breath caught.
He let his brow tug up, up, up, his mouth part, his eyes crumple shut, waiting. Held his breath in the way that sometimes suffocated the urge, and sometimes spurred it on explosively.
It faded. Bruce supposed addressing Lockley directly was better than making a fool of himself, even if it would have been two birds with one stone, and sighed, turning to do just that.
But sighing made his nose run.
…In for a penny, he thought, and sniffled. Like clockwork, his breath caught again, sharper than before, audible, and he spun his chair to face the wall, sneezing desperately into the still-crumpled tissues, one, two-three-four, five times. A ragged breath, and he started to turn back to the table even though he knew he wasn’t done yet—then spun back around with a shuddering, wet sixth.
Silence, for a solid fourteen seconds.
“Wow,” he said with a laugh. He pressed the crumpled tissues to his nose and turned back around. “Not even a—?”
“Bless you,” Rel said hoarsely.
Bruce laughed again, and regretted the way it made his sinuses burn. “Thanks. Whoo, that wuh…was…?” He doubled over with the next sneeze. “Guhh. I…we’re…not doing anything new with goats.
It wasn’t a question, but he made sure it wasn’t not a question, either.
One brave soul said, “No, Mister Wayne.”
“And nobody here has a pet goat.”
“So it’s not that. But it—” He sniffled thickly. “—feels like, umb….” Another sniffle. “I think—is someone wearing cologne?”
All eyes turned towards Lockley, who seemed to be trying not to scowl. His ears were almost alarmingly red.
Bruce committed the shade to memory, then plowed on with the performance.
“I think I might be just—uh…” He allowed his face to screw up in irritation. Snatched a handful of tissues from the box just in time for a heavy sneeze. “Gh. Just a tad—” He faked another, just for effect. “—allergic.”
“Are you sure it’s not something else?” Lockley asked. “I could swear I’ve worn this before, and you didn’t—”
Bruce faked yet another sneeze. “Have you?” he asked, faux-muzzily, even as satisfaction flickered in his jaw.
He absolutely had. Twice at least, and that was only counting meetings Bruce had been present for. In fairness, of course, it had never made him so much as sniffle. But he remembered keenly the second time, when he’d introduced himself to the then-new head of Engineering—Siddig—seen his own headache reflected in the pinch between her brows, and promptly found an excuse to cut the meeting short.
He also remembered, just as keenly, the memo that had been published thirty minutes later.
“But aren’t we, what’s it, uh…fragrance-free?” He dabbed at his nose politely. “I know I’m not exactly up on all the recent paperwork, maybe something’s changed, Lucius? But I thought….” He gestured vaguely with the tissue.
“In honor of your late mother, yes,” Lucius said, without skipping a beat. “Of course that is still policy, Mister Wayne.”
The room went still and quiet.
One of many reasons he liked Lucius—the easy way he picked up threads Bruce had left dangling invisibly, and tugged on them just so.
Bruce nodded with a precisely timed sniffle, glanced around the room. Tallied the reactions. A handful were nodding in recognition—Siddig, of course, and Maxwell, and a few others. The rest were nodding along, but with little signs here and there of surprise, embarrassment, like they hadn’t known but weren’t about to admit it.
Lockley, for his part, had gone a rather splotchy red. The tension in his shoulders said indignation, not surprise.
He’d known. Hadn’t cared.
“She didn’t talk about it a lot in public, but she got—” He just barely covered a sneeze. “S-sorr—” Another, well-muffled. “Gh. Umb. Bad headaches. Migraines. Perfumes and things could set them off. A sort of, um…oh, sorr—” He stifled so violently it hurt, a pulsing ache spreading from his sinuses upward. “…Ngh.”
He wanted dearly to massage his temples, but after what he’d just said, people might draw the wrong conclusions, and the idea curdled his stomach. Invoking her name to get someone else out of a bind was one thing. But invoking it for the purposes of a deception, insinuating they shared something that they did not, and never had….
He shook his head, blinking dazedly. “Umb. What was I saying?” A sheepish laugh covered his discomfort well enough, drew a few titters from his audience.
“Fragrances being a migraine trigger,” Siddig said. There was no sympathy in her voice—matter-of-fact as ever—but something of it in her eyes.
It made his skin crawl, but he gave her a grateful nod anyway. “Right, yeah, that.” He sniffled loudly, in the hopes that it would—perfect. “And uhh…” He let his expression grow hazy, sniffled again. “…otherstuff, Lucius?”
“Fragrances can be a problem for those with asthma or other lung conditions, yes,” Lucius said, raising an eyebrow at him fractionally.
Bruce raised his own in return, and took another tissue, willing the vague itch to bloom into something useful already.
“As well as those with sensory sensitivities,” Lucius continued, “and—”
Bruce blew his nose just a little too loudly. “Sorry,” he said, sniffling again. “Please contihh—” He sneezed three times, each a little louder than the last. “…Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Ah,” he said sheepishly. “Right. Well, umb. If it’s still, uh…” He sniffled sharply. “Still policy, then—” A fake sneeze, and then a real one, right on its heels. Then three more. “…Umb. What was I saying?”
“I believe,” Lucius said smoothly. “You were suggesting subsections A through D be carried out.”
Bruce furrowed his brow. It was one thing for airheaded Brucie to remember a general policy tangentially connected to his mother. It was another entirely to have the minutiae memorized.
“Subsection B states that any affected parties are free to take the remainder of the day as sick leave.” Lucius raised an eyebrow slightly. “The rest, I believe, are matters for HR and Sanitation.”
Bruce nodded, sniffling again.
Lockley still looked more furious than worried, which was a bit of a disappointment, but ultimately fine. He’d be sacked before the hour was out. It had to be the third infraction at least.
“...Well. I guess I’ll take advantage of subsection B, thehh—” Another sneeze, hatefully real and hatefully wet, just barely covered by the tissues. “I think it’s best if I track down something to…fix this. Might re-join virtually.” He looked at Lucius apologetically—tried to. It was cut short by another sneeze. “…Might not.”
Another round of titters.
We’ll adjourn for now,” Lucius said. “Those of us staying will reconvene in fifteen minutes.”
Bruce nodded and left immediately. He took the tissues with him.
