Chapter Text
Present day
Wayne Tower, Old Gotham
Contrary to popular belief, it's Wednesdays that are arguably the worst invention in human history, worse than Mondays. Or maybe it's emails. Conference calls are also high up on the list… Bruce isn't exactly sure which of these things he hates the most as he sits in his office on the top floor of Wayne Tower on a Wednesday night, working his way through a report from his marketing team, but he's sure that he does hate Wednesdays. Very much so. Surprisingly, it has nothing to do with the presentation he's clicking through, about how the ad campaign they launched the week before has been received so far. It's also not the fact that he has to use that data to try and estimate how much revenue this new product line is likely to generate so he can use that money to set some of his more elaborate plans for Gotham into motion. After all, there are more than a few orphanages and youth centers around the city in desperate need of funding.
No, what Bruce hates about Wednesdays—and emails and conference calls—is that, in his experience, something unexpected will inevitably happen every single week . He doesn't know how or why, but something will always come up that derails his plans for the week. It's happened often enough to become a pattern, which is incredibly irritating, and if Bruce knew how to do it without sounding like a child, he would ask Zatanna if there is some kind of cosmic force at work on Hump Day.
In any case and in true Wednesday fashion, Bruce is knee-deep in his spreadsheet when he hears a knock. Frowning slightly, he looks up from his screen. The sound didn't come from his door. He turns around and—
Superman. Ah. Bruce isn't really surprised, to be honest. He'd known that a member of the Justice League would approach him sooner rather than later, ever since the news broke that Wayne Enterprises was planning a line of Justice League action figures. It was inevitable. That doesn't mean that Bruce has to like it, or that turning around to find an angry looking Superman floating outside his window like a displeased god isn't the definition of throwing a wrench into his plans.
Not that Superman has a reason to be angry. Bruce on the other hand… After the way their last League meeting went (another Wednesday disaster) he has every right to be furious. Kal didn’t know he was insulting Bruce Wayne to his face, sure, but Bruce didn’t pride himself on being reasonable. Not all the time, anyway.
He simply stares at Superman a moment longer before he gets up. And maybe it's petty, a selfish little bit of revenge, but he takes his sweet time approaching the balcony door. He can see Superman's jaw working as he floats alongside him the entire way, narrowed eyes fixed on Bruce, and it's such a contrast to the way they usually act around each other that it manages to throw Bruce off a bit. He's used to people disliking the Brucie Wayne he presents to the public, but it's different somehow to face that kind of animosity from someone like Kal. Someone Bruce has come to think of as a friend, someone who usually always sees the best in people even if they don't deserve it.
Wrestling the strange feeling rising in his chest back under control, Bruce pulls the balcony door open and steps back to make space. “Superman,” he says. “What an honor.”
Kal doesn't answer, and instead continues glaring at Bruce, who Bruce suppresses a sigh, and returns to his desk, deliberately painting the picture of casual indifference as he leans against the edge of it, his feet crossed at the ankles and his hands stuffed in his pockets.
In contrast, Superman looks stiff and uncomfortable, like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world as he stands in the middle of Bruce's office. He's got his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, shoulders pulled up to his ears and an impressive frown on his handsome face. His hair is windswept, that one stubborn curl hanging into his forehead, cheeks slightly reddened. He looks unbearably beautiful.
Not helping , Bruce reprimands his libido, and firmly gets his head back in the game. Still, it takes effort to keep his body from reacting like it usually does, his heart wants to pick up its pace whenever he looks into Kal's eyes, and that only serves to make Bruce more prickly than usual.
“Not gonna talk to me, handsome?” he asks, one eyebrow arched imperiously for the sole reason that it will piss Superman off. “If this is supposed to be some kind of riddle for me to figure out why you're here, it's not very good. No offense, but maybe you should ask Riddler for help next time.”
Predictably, Superman's expression darkens further. “This isn't a joking matter, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce laughs. “I should hope not. But why don't you enlighten me what kind of matter this is , hm? I'm a busy man and I don't usually take unscheduled meetings,” he says, and as his own anger gets the better of him he adds, “Not that I could've stopped you.”
The blow lands as intended and Superman's posture instantly loosens up as he takes a step back, giving Bruce space. However, it doesn't feel like much of a victory. Not when Kal doesn't even know that the harsh words from the week before still hang between them. He has no clue that Bruce heard every single judgment he passed on him. But even if he knew… Kal's worst nightmare is people being scared of him, and it was cruel of Bruce to use it, immature. He doesn't regret it, though, not really, and what kind of person does that make him?
“I'm sorry to intrude on you like this,” says Kal, and it grates because he so obviously means it. Despite his animosity, he genuinely feels bad for inconveniencing Bruce. Perhaps that feeling roiling in Bruce's stomach is regret after all. “But we—that is, the Justice League—have an important matter to discuss with you, Mr. Wayne. A matter that cannot wait.”
Bruce debates playing dumb, like Superman undoubtedly expects him to, if just to make this encounter as irritating as possible. Ultimately he decides against it, however. He's made enough of an ass of himself and it's better to have this over with quickly.
“The action figures, I'm aware.” Bruce waves his hand dismissively. “I've been waiting for one of you capes to contact me.”
Superman blinks. “You have?” The surprised tone is beyond insulting. It shouldn't get to him, but Bruce actually has to grit his teeth and count to ten, before he can answer in a normal tone. “I'm the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. I have dealt with trademark issues before.”
For a second, Superman seems taken aback, clearly, the idea of Bruce Wayne having dealt with anything himself is novel for him, but then he nods. “You know that we can't just let you produce and sell action figures of us. It's against everything the Justice League stands for.”
Bruce pushes away from his desk and walks towards Superman. “Well, maybe you should have taken steps to prevent it then. Besides, the argument is moot. The idea is out there and if I don't do it, someone else definitely will, I guarantee it.” He stops right in front of Kal and reaches up to brush nonexistent lint from his shoulder, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “So aren't you just lucky that I'm willing to include you in the process?”
Frowning, Superman takes a step back, out of Bruce's reach. “What exactly do you mean by including us in the process?”
Bruce sighs. “I'm not explaining this more than once. Let's schedule a meeting with the rest of your friends and I'll relay the legalities. Well, I'll repeat what my lawyers told me, but if I understood it, then I'm sure you will, too. Then you can ask all the questions banging around that pretty head of yours. I'll even let you pick the location. Just don't make it too early, I need my beauty sleep.”
Superman's mouth flattens into a line of displeasure, prompting a sick sense of satisfaction from Bruce. He didn't think Kal's low opinion of Bruce Wayne affected him this much, but clearly, it did.
“Fine,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “We'll meet on Friday, at six pm. On the Watchtower. A League member will pick you up.”
Bruce scowls. He wants to snap that he can find his own way and doesn’t need any help. But not only does no one in the League know his identity, they also don't know that he's the one who built the damned Watchtower in the first place and thus is perfectly aware of its location. Logically, he should allow one of them to pick him up. But then again, he remembers the conversation Batman and Superman had the Wednesday before and pettiness wins out. “No need. I'll find my own way there.”
Predictably, Superman looks annoyed. “You can't do that, Mr. Wayne. You don't even know where it is! And even if you could get there on your own, I'm not about to give you directions.”
Bruce smirks. “Oh, but I'm not going on my own. I said I’d find my own way, not that I’m doing that alone. Batman will take me.”
Now Superman looks downright furious, but after a moment of deliberation he gives a curt nod. It’s impressive how he manages to control his ire. “Fine. I will ask Batman and as long as he agrees–”
“He will,” Bruce cuts in with a wink, before he lets his expression morph into a bored mask. “Now, if you would be so kind as to leave me to my work, Boy Scout. There is a lot to do before the action figures can go into production.” He turns, and without looking at Superman, sits down at his desk and pulls up his spreadsheet again.
Kal lingers for a moment, hands curled into fists at his side. He clearly wants to keep arguing, or maybe his ego is a little bruised because he was dismissed by a ‘shallow, self-centered airhead’—his words, and they still make Bruce’s blood boil in a way they really shouldn’t—but eventually he strides out onto the balcony, closing the door behind himself before flying off.
A part of Bruce (his wounded pride mostly, not that he will admit to it) thrives on the victory, but another part of him dreads what he will have to do now. He’s effectively maneuvered himself into a corner, one he can’t get out of on his own. Because Bruce Wayne and Batman will have to be in the same place at the same time and after what happened during the last League meeting, he's not about to reveal his identity to any of them. So with a heavy sigh and a headache building behind his eyes, he picks up his phone and dials. It only takes a few seconds for the call to connect.
“Bruce?”
“Hello, Dick. Are you free this Friday? I need your help with something.” Bruce rubs at his temple. Maybe it's Fridays, after all, that are the bane of his existence…
™™™
2 months earlier
LexCorp, New Troy, Metropolis
“You have four minutes before the security guards are circling back to your location, sir.”
“Understood,” answers Bruce as he slips through the door to the server room and quietly closes it behind him. He works quickly and efficiently, copying as much data as he can in the short timeframe. It would be easier to establish a standing connection but not only would that take more time than Bruce has right now, it's also more likely to be discovered, which could cause Luthor to change his plans and would defeat the point of this whole maneuver. Bruce needs to know what Lex is up to.
“One minute, sir,” comes Alfred's warning, and Bruce hums to show he heard. He's about to pull his data drive out and leave when a file labeled ‘Justice League’ grabs his attention. It's not encrypted. Bruce frowns, briefly debating if he should take it—it might be a trap after all—but in the end he decides the potential reward outweighs the risks. He'll take measures to protect his own system, but if this file holds a clue to what Luthor is planning, Bruce needs to have it. So he quickly copies the file as well, knowing he will definitely run into the guards now, but he can come up with a believable excuse.
Pocketing the flash drive, Bruce tugs on his clothing and ruffles his hair, makes sure he looks suitably disheveled, and then slips out of the server room. He hasn't made it two steps before the guards spot him.
“Hey!” one of them shouts. Bruce makes sure to sway and stumble as he turns towards the man.
“Hello there,” he slurs, grin bright and lopsided, and he knows he looks more than a little bit drunk. He feels a flare of satisfaction when the guard rolls his eyes heavenward in exasperation before coming closer.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Wayne?”
“Looking for the bathroom,” he improvises, and ignores Alfred's derisive snort at the uncreative excuse. “There was this reporter, a real cutie, you know? He wanted to meet me there for an interview , if you know what I mean.” Bruce waggles his eyebrows and drunkenly waves his hand around. He lets the movement nearly overbalance him, catching himself on the guard's shoulder, who lets out a grunt followed by a huff as he helps to steady Bruce.
“Don't know about any reporters, Mr. Wayne, but the bathroom's this way. May want to take it easy on the champagne when you get back to the party, yeah?”
“How thoughtful,” comments Alfred dryly, which Bruce ignores as he thanks the guard profusely and then stumbles off through the door the guard indicated. Once inside, Bruce makes sure that he's alone and checks the room for any surveillance equipment – He wouldn't put it past Luthor to bug the bathrooms. Finding nothing, he pulls out the flash drive and inserts it into the hidden port on his phone.
“Can you access the data?”
Alfred hums. “I am downloading it as we speak, sir.”
“Good. I'll have to get back to the party before anyone gets suspicious. Tell me if you find anything interesting?”
“Of course, sir.”
The rest of the night sees Brucie Wayne making a spectacle of himself. Bruce would never admit it out loud, but he's having fun doing it. Maybe it's because this is Luthor's party he's ruining, and bribing the DJ to play Billy Idol's Dancing with Myself as Bruce crashes the obnoxiously large ice statue of Lex himself to the floor feels like a bit of revenge for all the grief Lex has caused the Justice League over the years.
Bruce already knows that Kal, specifically, will get a kick out of it, and it's another thing that Bruce would never admit to but it's that thought as much as the vein popping out of Luthor's forehead that makes him topple the champagne fountain as well.
“Having fun, sir?”
“You keep telling me to, so I thought I'd give it a try,” answers Bruce, hiding his mouth behind yet another champagne flute on his way out. “What do you have for me?”
“Apparently, Mister Luthor has plans to create a line of children's toys, sir.”
Blinking, Bruce takes a sip of his drink to cover his surprise. “Toys?”
“That's right. The last file you uploaded contains plans to produce children's toys of the Justice League.”
Bruce suppresses a curse, fighting his eyebrows trying to furrow. “That's a PR nightmare waiting to happen. Has Luthor filed for a trademark yet?”
“No, sir. Shall I call Miss Ergun and ask her to get the process started?”
Bruce scoffs. “You know very well that Merve is already at home. I'll head into the office and do it myself. Nice try, though.”
“It was worth a shot, sir. I'll send the car around.”
Humming his agreement, Bruce makes his way towards the exit, but he's not really listening anymore. He's preoccupied with the trademark, pissed that he didn't think to file for it years ago. At least there's still time to remedy that, before LexCorp starts to profit off of them.
So Bruce spends the rest of the night filling out the necessary paperwork and then all of the next day trying to come up with something to do with that trademark. The problem is that he actually has to use it in commerce now or risk losing it again. But what of the Justice League is there to sell? The mere idea goes against everything the League stands for.
In the end, he figures that Lex didn't have such a bad idea of it. Children's toys are probably the least deplorable thing a company can do with the names and faces of the Justice League, and it gives Bruce the perfect excuse to start on a few of the charity projects he's been planning.
By the time Merve comes in to say goodbye for the day, Bruce has finally—with the help of his lawyers—set everything into motion to steal the trademark right out from under Lex's nose.
Seeing him still at his desk, Merve rolls her eyes with a huff. She crosses the distance between them in a few short strides, the colorful fabric of her hijab rustling, and then she slams her purse down in front of Bruce's keyboard. It's only Bruce's lightning fast reflexes that save his fingers from getting caught under the heavy bag. When he glares up at her, she doesn't look the least bit fazed.
“You will go home right now,” she orders, and Bruce really should protest—she’s his executive assistant, she works for him— but he’s never quite figured out how to do that. It’s what makes her so good at her job. Well, part of it. She’s also highly intelligent and probably the most competent employee the offices of Wayne Enterprises have ever seen.
“I haven’t even taken a look at the proposals you’ve sent me,” he tries, but Merve only raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and Bruce instantly caves. “Alright, fine. I’ll head home.”
He shuts off his computer and stands, much to the displeasure of his back, apparently, because a twinge of pain moves up his spine. Trying not to wince, he stretches subtly and proceeds to gather his things, but he can tell by the way Merve is smirking that she definitely noticed. “It’s almost like sitting at your desk for nearly twenty-four hours is bad for your health,” she comments, and Bruce grumbles.
“As soon as Neziah is old enough, I’m firing you and hiring her. At least then I’d get to attend the occasional tea party.”
Merve scoffs to hide her smile. “You know as well as I do that my daughter would be a lot harder on you than I am.” She grabs her handbag and herds Bruce out the door with practiced ease. “She is obsessed with you.”
Bruce grins, feeling more relaxed now that the Justice League’s reputation won’t be ruined by whatever PR nightmare of a children's toy LexCorp would’ve produced of them. “She has taste.”
“She thinks you’re incapable of taking care of yourself. There’s a difference,” corrects Merve, the twinkle in her dark eyes softening her words, but then she grows more serious. “You do work too hard, though. You should think about taking tomorrow off, get some rest.”
“I will,” answers Bruce, though they both know he won’t. Merve never stops suggesting it and Bruce never stops considering it without actually following through. It’s part of their routine by now.
They part ways in the lobby shortly after, with Bruce headed towards the garage and Merve stepping out into the busy streets of Gotham. Now that he’s not hyperfocused on his task, Bruce realizes how tired he is. But thanks to Merve, he now has enough time for a nap before he has to be at the Watchtower for monitor duty.
He really should talk to Lucius about giving her another raise.