prompt: (Y/n) persuades her boss to take a needed break

warning: mild language

word count: 1.5k

pronouns: she/her

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second-person point of view. . .

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It would have taken someone less qualified and experienced weeks to pick up on all the signs. It had been subtle at first. He had begun asking you to repeat things and you had to start reminding him of important dates and deadlines and had yawned repeatedly during meetings. Unfortunately, the little things became bigger things. The bags under his eyes turned darker, he moved slower and had less patience. You voiced your concerns and he chalked it up to a migraine.

You knew better--you had always known better. Over the years you had worked by his side, you had honed the skill of reading him like a book with considerably legible font. It was far easier to pin him than he would like to think. But you had spent every weekday of the last five years meticulously planning a schedule that would best suit his tendencies, observing his personality, and tailoring your guidance techniques. 

Being his secretary was more than transferring calls and delivering memos, at least in your eyes. Over time, your responsibilities had evolved from merely office work to more personal matters. He trusted you to return calls he missed when he had been too preoccupied. He asked you to greet his sons in the lobby when they dropped by and accompany them to his office. You brought him coffee in the morning and ensured he took an allotted lunch break.

That was another tell-tale sign: he had started to skip lunch. This particular pattern of behavior led to consequences he himself could not anticipate until it was too late. You could recognize and anticipate the negative impacts of his poor choices. To an extent, it was not your place to comment on as his mere secretary, but you considered yourself just a step more than an employee.

Your worries came to a head on Friday at roughly nine-forty at night. You were working late, two and a half hours past the official closing time of the offices. The cleaning crew had gone and began their work, most other employees had gone home to be with their family or go out with good friends. You, on the other hand, had some filing to catch up on so you would not need to come in on the weekend.

A shallow stack of papers sat on your desk; your final task. You scooped it up and carried it down the shining hall, your low heels clicking against the tiled floor. You pushed open the heavy doors to the centerpiece of the top floor of the highrise. Much to your disappointment, you did not find a dark and empty office. The lights were on and someone sat behind the expensive, polished wooden desk. You stopped in your tracks.

"You're still here?" You sighed in irritated displeasure.

Bruce looked up from his desk, sparing you a tired glance. The pen in his hand paused its fluid motions on the paper which had his current attention. His eyes drooped back to the paperwork.

"I could ask you the same thing," he retorted, as he often so easily did.

"I took the day off yesterday and someone didn't do a very good job covering for me," you specified, beginning to approach his desk. "So I was makin' sure everything's in order for Monday. You have no excuse."

Bruce looked at you skeptically and wearily. He opened his mouth to provide you with some justification for his overtime, but that train of thought was derailed when he took notice of what you carried in your arms. His expression changed to one of confusion.

"What are those?" He wondered aloud.

You stood before his desk and placed the stack of paperwork on top of the perfect wood in the only empty space you could reach. You kept your hand overtop the first page, blocking the text from his view.

"These are for Monday morning," you clarified sternly, though you still wore your easygoing smile with a small gesture to the rest of his work. "And so is the rest of this stuff."

He looked up at you, contemplating whether or not he should argue with you. He had taken that avenue in the past before. It had not ended well. He stared directly into your eyes, analyzing your (e/c) irises. There was no hope of victory and he knew it.

"Have you eaten dinner yet?" You asked, more accusatory than compassionate.

"No," he admitted plainly.

"Alright, come on," you sighed deeply, gesturing for him to stand.  "I'm taking you to dinner. And no, you do not have a choice."

"I thought I was supposed to be the one in charge,"

"Officer hours have been over for almost three hours," you declared, folding your arms over your chest.

Eventually, Bruce gave in. You convinced him to leave the office in its disorganized state. The lights were turned off, the doors were shut and locked. You grabbed your coat and left the highrise. You crossed the street to enter the parking structure, though he offered to drive his Porsche. You laughed in his face. Respectfully, of course. Your run-of-the-mill vehicle would surely suffice, certainly for the plans you had in mind. And, you did not trust him to drive at the level to which he was overworking himself lately.

You took him to your neighborhood, knowing the precise location of your destination. It was a somewhat odd experience for Bruce to be out on the town without the cape and cowl. He observed carefully are you pulled into the parking lot of a small diner with a neon sign. You locked the car once you got out and walked to the front door of the establishment. It opened with the ring of a small bell.

The smell of classic American food wafted through the atmosphere of the restaurant. There were very few employees in the building but even fewer patrons. Bruce watched you wave to the woman behind the counter, wearing a cliché uniform that looked like it came right from the 1950s. She returned the greeting with a smile, picking up her notepad from the apron around her waist.

You pulled the large man who stood beside you into an off-white and red vinyl booth. He relatively stiffly sat across from you as the waitress you appeared to know arrived at the table. She spared you a playfully knowing glance as if to silently say: okay, (Y/n), I see how you roll.

"Kitchen's just about closed," the waitress informed you both, "so we can get you burgers or grilled cheese."

It did not take very long for your plates to be placed in front of you. It was such a relief to eat after a relatively extended period of fasting. Your enjoyment was halted, however, when your eyes flickered across the table. Your entire body froze as you watched in awe at the billionaire CEO sitting across from you. 

"What...?" you mumbled. 

Bruce held a fork in his right hand and a knife in his left, discepting the sandwich he had in front of him. He suddenly stopped to look at you with a perplexed face.

"What the hell are you doing?" You asked him in disgust.

He knew instantly what you were referring to. The cutlery slipped from his grasp and was placed softly onto the table. If you had not known any better, you would have described him at that moment as sheepish. You began to giggle.

"Do you really need to laugh at me?" Bruce wondered with a deadpan expression.

"I'm not!" You insisted, an irresistible grin on your lips. "I'm not laughing at you! It's just--It's cute!"

Bruce fixated on that single word: cute. He had only ever been described as that in a sarcastic tone, especially during times he was attempting to be intimidating. He was unsure how to feel about the matter. He thought he liked it, in a strange sort of way. You had always been so... normal. It had taken several weeks for you to grow comfortable in his presence. Once you had, you were refreshing to be around.

Hours every day spent around people who had an idealistic reverence for him or a secret jealous hatred for him was exhausting. It was exhausting to be everything for everyone every day. That exhaustion ran deeper than you knew, for the company was not the only one who needed him--the streets of Gotham did too.

You could always identify that exhaustion in a heartbeat. And somehow, you could always find a way to ease the fatigue. You had almost always treated him like an average person; something about your aura facilitated those you were around to feel at peace. Casual language, soft smiles, routine jokes, etc. Maybe you were like that with everyone. Maybe you had empathy for his unspoken struggles with his façade. You looked out for him in a way an ordinary secretary would not. 

He would be lying if he claimed he had never considered asking you out. He would never actually go through with it, but he thought about it. It would be an abuse of power, which was a tricky thing for a man of his capacity to avoid. Not to mention, it might reflect poorly on you in unintended ways. Romance seemed unrealistic, but at the time being, it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered that night was how swiftly his stress had left him and the sound of your laughter.