Chapter Text
They say that when a person finds their soulmate, their Words turn from dull and translucent to bold and vivid with color, but not everyone is destined to even have another half. Many are born Wordless - no handwriting spelling out their soulmate’s first word or phrase directed at them on the inside of their right wrists, no matching pair somewhere else in the world.
As you push your way through the evening commute crowd, eager to get home as quickly as possible so that you can drown your sorrows in a bowl of cereal and ignore the pink slip burning a hole in your pocket, you suddenly wish you could be Wordless yourself. It sure as hell would be easier than finding someone whose first words to you are so generic that you’ve heard them a million times in your life already.
“Excuse me.” Someone bumps your shoulder as he hurries past you, cap yanked down over his eyes, and your heart does its customary half-hearted leap into your throat before settling back in your chest.
“Sorry,” you answer over your shoulder and selfishly imagine that the stranger pauses and looks back at you, but then he’s lost in the crowd again, and so you move on, instinctively thumbing at the words scrawled into your right wrist in messy, jagged handwriting without even needing to look down at it; they’re likely as translucent as they’ve always been.
You trudge your way up the open metal staircase leading up to your apartment just as the rain starts, unyielding and heavy as it falls from the gloomy sky above. You unlock your door, grimacing when you try to push it open and find it jammed before stepping back and kicking the door hard to dislodge it again. It swings open, slamming into the wall, and your neighbor thumps on the other side of the wall in response.
“Sorry, Mrs. Kafka,” you call guiltily and receive another disgruntled thump on the wall before Mrs. Kafka likely returns to her nightly cleaning routine.
You toss your rain-soaked backpack onto your couch, digging the pink slip you had been given on your way out of the diner at the end of your shift that evening out of your pocket to glance at it one last time - “due to overstaffing, we regretfully have to let you go and wish you the best of luck in future endeavors” - before tearing it up and tossing the pieces into the trash. Job-hunting is going to be a pain, but it’s nothing you aren’t used to.
You pull up a job listing site on your ancient laptop as you settle at your kitchen table with a pathetic dinner of cereal acquired, popping a spoonful into your mouth to crunch on while you scroll down the page and read through the titles in bold text.
Waitress - Entry-Level
You scoff, dismissing the position; “entry-level” never really means entry-level, after all, and you’re hardly looking to get back into waitressing after how much hell you’ve been through in your most recent job.
Hostess - At Least 2 Years Experience Required
You tap your spoon absently against your lower lip in consideration. You do have a few years of experience in the restaurant business, and you’re friendly enough to be the first face people see when they enter a restaurant, and with the recent floods, there has been an uptick of employers hiring people with brighter personalities in the hope of “boosting city morale.”
You dismiss it as well, though; customer service is rough, and you’re not looking to get shouted at the moment something doesn’t go the customer’s way.
Personal Assistant - Experience Requirement Flexible
That catches your eye, as does the name of the company associated with it - Wayne Enterprises. It’s a great deal better than working in a restaurant, so you check your resumé briefly to make sure it’s up to date and send it off to the job posting before draining what’s left of your cereal and milk; you can apply to more jobs tomorrow after you’ve slept a little and mentally decompressed from the terrible day you’ve had so far.
As you close your laptop and climb to your feet to dump your empty bowl into the sink, your sleeve falls from your wrist and a splash of color catches your eye.
“No, no, no, not now, not today,” you bemoan as you lift your wrist to your eyes, praying you’re only imagining it, but it’s impossible to mistake what you’re seeing - the formerly translucent “Excuse Me” is now scrawled across your skin in a deep navy blue, and you have no idea which of the dozens of people you’ve accidentally bumped into today is the reason for it. You’ve never seen your soulmate’s handwriting before, and you’re no closer to knowing their identity than you had been this morning.
Before you can wrack your brain for any interactions that had stood out today, a notification pings on your phone; you have a new email. Tugging your sleeve down over your Words to obscure them once more, you reach for your phone and read the email’s subject line, which makes your stomach flip for an entirely different reason than it had moments earlier.
Wayne Enterprises Personal Assistant - Interview Request
As you hurry to open your email and confirm the interview, you can’t help but wonder who on Earth is going through assistant applications well after usual business hours and responding to them. Your Words go entirely forgotten as you type out your interview availability, your mind already whirling through the best route through Gotham’s public transit system to reach Wayne Tower.
“If I may be honest, you’re rather over-qualified for this position,” your interviewer confesses as he sits back in his seat, surveying you over the top of his square-rimmed glasses. “It’s partly what drew my curiosity to you over the other applicants - I mean, a degree in Computer Science can take you many higher places than ‘personal assistant.’”
“I never finished my degree,” you admit reluctantly, doing your best not to grimace instinctively at the reminder. “And that tends to be a black mark on a resumé regardless of the reason for it.”
“Hm.” Mr. Pennyworth - “please call me Alfred, Mr. Pennyworth was my father” - takes a sip from the teacup in his hands before nodding to the matching cup in front of you. “Don’t let your tea go cold now.”
“Oh - right, sorry.” You take your teacup and swallow down as dainty a sip as you can manage with your nerves at such an all-time high.
“May I ask why you never finished your degree?” he asks once you carefully set the cup down, careful not to spill what’s left of your tea despite how badly your hands are trembling.
“It’s not something I’m proud of,” you answer; you know that interviewers prefer to hear about their candidates’ imperfections, but you’ve never liked admitting to your failure out loud. “But long story short, it comes down to financial reasons. Eventually, I’d like to save up enough to finish my degree, but right now, this is the best I can do.”
Alfred nods thoughtfully, taking another sip of tea. “As someone who grew up in Gotham, I’m sure you know of my employer’s, ah…eccentric nature.”
You bite down your instinctive dry response - “how could I not?” - in favor of something more diplomatic.
“I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“Indeed. I thought I’d bring it up to warn you upfront that he can be rather set in his ways.” Alfred eyes you consideringly like you’ve passed some sort of secret test. “Words per minute?”
“A hundred, sir.” You shrug modestly when his eyebrows rise on his forehead in surprise. “Not an overestimation - I took an online test to confirm it after we set up this interview.”
“Hey, Alfred, where - oh.” The unfamiliar voice makes you both turn to the man lingering in the doorway of the drawing room - honestly, you’re kind of convinced that any building with a “drawing room” is something out of a Jane Austen novel - as his head swivels back and forth suspiciously between you and Alfred.
This must be the “eccentric” Bruce Wayne, you muse to yourself. You’re not sure if he’s eluding just the paparazzi or literally everything in the world with the way he hunches in on himself like he’s trying to protect himself with nothing but a pair of expensive sunglasses, a faded black Nirvana T-shirt, and dark-wash jeans for armor. There’s also a black cuff around his wrist, which makes you wonder if he has Words of his own that he’s hiding behind it or if it’s just a strange fashion choice.
You don’t think you’ve heard anything about Bruce Wayne having a soulmate in the admittedly few tabloid magazines you had skimmed through over the years, but with how reclusive he is, you’re not all that surprised by it, either. He’d probably have every single person in Gotham throwing themselves at him for his money if they ever caught a glimpse of whatever his Words were - maybe some would even go as far as to tattoo his handwriting onto their wrists. Something about that notion makes you feel a little sorry for him; you’re not sure if it’s worse to be sought after for your money alone or to not have a soulmate at all.
“I wasn’t aware we had company,” he accuses, drawing you out of your observation of him.
“Ah, perfect timing, Bruce,” Alfred says, his tone drier than the Sahara Desert. “I was just about to find you so I could introduce you to your new personal assistant.”
“Assistant?” Bruce echoes warily. “I don’t need an assistant.”
“Actually, it seems you do,” Alfred deadpans even as he passes you a stapled sheaf of papers. “In case you haven’t noticed, you do in fact own your family enterprise, which means that you need someone to manage your professional day-to-day affairs since you clearly won’t do it yourself. Now I suggest you stop hovering and come in, you’re not a vampire waiting for permission to enter - though some days I do wonder,” he adds in a conspiratorial sotto voce to you, which forces you to bite back a grin.
Bruce opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it. You can’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, but you imagine they’re twice their usual size right now as he grudgingly steps into the room so that he’s no longer blocking your only exit.
“You’ll start Monday, so if you could read that contract in your hands and sign it by then, that will make the HR process much easier for both of us,” Alfred informs you. When you glance skeptically at him, he sends you a furtive wink before tilting his head pointedly toward the now-empty doorway. “I’ll meet you at the lobby just as I did today and set you up.”
“Thank you very much.” You climb to your feet, tucking the papers into the folder containing your resumé. “I look forward to working with you both,” you add politely even though you’d much rather jump up and down in celebration before turning on your heel to leave the room.
“What the hell are you up to, Alfred?” you hear Bruce fume behind you even before the door is shut behind you, and can’t help but smirk to yourself as you make your way to the elevator.
You’ve always enjoyed a challenge, and while corralling a petulant billionaire may not have been your initial intention while job-hunting, you certainly can’t help but take a little sadistic amusement in the idea all the same.
“You’re fired,” Bruce announces the moment he finds you set up in one of the former bedrooms of Wayne Tower, which Alfred had converted into an office for you over the weekend leading up to your start date.
“Have you been searching this whole tower for me?” you ask wryly, taking in his disheveled appearance. He’s at least gotten rid of his sunglasses and changed out of the Nirvana T-shirt you’d last seen him in, but his replacement AC/DC sweatshirt is equally wrinkled and faded, so it’s hard to say when he’d last showered. The dark circles beneath his eyes suggest that he probably hasn’t slept recently, either.
“Maybe,” he grumbles. “Alfred didn’t tell me which room he put you in.”
“Well, that’s probably a good thing,” you point out. “Considering your first instinct was to try and fire me - which, for the record, you’re not allowed to do.”
He bristles indignantly. “I’m not allowed to fire my own assistant?”
“Nope.” You tap the contract sitting on your desk with the end of your pen. “Read the fine print here - ‘as of this employee’s start date, I - Alfred Pennyworth - have sole discretion over their employment status. Any objection from Bruce Wayne regarding the employee in question will not be taken into consideration as he needs to,’ in Alfred’s words, not mine, ‘get over himself.’” You grin at the dismay on Bruce’s face. “As you can see, this contract uses nothing but the most legal of terms.”
He scans the offending fine print of your contract briefly to confirm it before scowling back up at you.
“This is mutiny.”
“Sure is.” You smile sweetly. “Now if you don’t mind, I have some calls to make on your behalf. According to this ledger Alfred’s been keeping, you’re long overdue for several meetings with the various department heads of your company, but I’ll be sure to CC you on the calendar invites.”
Bruce looks like you’ve punched him in the gut, his dark blue eyes suddenly wide and pained.
“Look, I’ll pay you whatever you want,” he pleads. “You’d never need to work again.”
“Are you trying to bribe me into quitting?” You pretend to balk, one hand plastering over your chest as you lean back in your seat. “Mr. Wayne, how dare you? I am a professional.”
He yanks out a checkbook from the pocket of his jeans, slapping it down on the desk in front of you hard enough that the sleeve of his sweatshirt slides up and the black cuff on his wrist is knocked askew.
“Name your price.”
You don’t answer him; you’re too focused on how “Sorry” is distinctly visible in your own concise penmanship along the inside of his wrist, the text standing out in dark blue against his pale skin like a vein. Shock and horror simultaneously wash over you like a bucket of icy water has been upended over your head, and a million questions whirl through your mind like a tornado even as Bruce uncomfortably tugs his sleeve back down until his Word and the cuff meant to conceal it are both hidden once more.
When had you bumped into him and exchanged Words? Does he know about the matching Words in his handwriting on your wrist? Would he care even if he did know? Should you say something?
No, you tell yourself. There’s no way he knows or cares, and you’re definitely not going to be the one to break the news to him when he’s currently glaring daggers at you.
“Well?” he presses, which jolts you back to reality as a grim determination you hadn’t known you possessed settles deep in your chest.
“I am not quitting,” you inform him primly. “Complain to Alfred all you want, and I’ll be happy to pack my things if and when he decides I am not fit for this role, but until then, I have work to do.” You make sure your own Words are hidden beneath the sleeve of your blazer as you gesture to the schedule open on your laptop screen to make your point before nudging his checkbook back toward him.
Taking the hint, he snatches up the checkbook and shoves it back into his pocket, scowling.
“Have it your way,” he snarls, and you think you ought to be intimidated, but you’re far too shell-shocked by your revelation and secure in your contract to care. “You’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
“Only if Alfred says so,” you answer pleasantly before turning back to your laptop in a clear dismissal, only allowing yourself to let out the breath you’ve been holding when the door slams shut in Bruce’s wake.
You think to yourself that the situation would be funny - downright hilarious, even - if it didn’t also make you want to bury your head into a pillow and scream yourself hoarse with frustration. Not only is your new boss your soulmate, but he absolutely hates you, and isn’t that just your rotten luck?