Chapter Text
..⃗. [i can't handle change] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ
╰┈➤ ❝ [then you became the skin of all i am.] ❞
╰┈➤ elaine feinstein
A SOFT SIGH ESCAPED HER LIPS AS SHE SMOOTHED DOWN HER DRESS. It was an elegant silk periwinkle that hugged her curves - what little she had. You need to eat more, her father said. You need to stop eating so much, her mother said. Biting her bottom lip, she tugged at the soft fabric. Soft purple eyeshadow highlighted her brown eyes. She hated these events. They were always so shallow. Not that she wasn't shallow. She'd just rather not put on a show to the masses like she wasn't. It was hard not to be a little shallow when you were rich. Maybe that's why she didn't have many friends. Or maybe it was because no one liked her. So many possibilities.
"Siobhan!" Her father shouted from down the stairs. "We need to leave!" A deep sigh dripped from her lips as she neared her bedroom door, slipping on a pair of black heels and reaching for her perfume. It was floral and summery - one of her favorite seasons. As much as she loved the rain, she found herself yearning for the sun. Pushing pieces of her dark hair out of her face, she pulled her door open and made her way down the stairs. Both of her parents waited at the bottom of the stairs, their outfits more regal than hers. Her mother, quite a tall woman, wore a long black, velvety dress that accentuated the pearls her father had given her for Christmas ten years ago. Her father wore a classic black suit with his own father's silver cuff links. "We're already running late, Siobhan. Please do try to shorten your dressing process in the future."
Rolling her eyes, she followed them out of the mansion. Hers and her mother's heels clicked against the stone stairs that led towards the black cars waiting for them. Pulling out her phone, she opened a text from her friend - her only friend - Phoebe. 'This place sucks,' read the woman's text. A small smile grew on her glossy lips as she began typing her reply, climbing into the back of the car with her parents. 'Omw.'
"You'll never believe what Foster told me at the shareholder meeting." Her mother began. Her voice droned on and on as she recounted whatever business meeting she'd had earlier that day. None of it interested Siobhan. She didn't care about business. Her index finger reached up to gently rub the corners of her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup. "You're gonna get wrinkles, Siobhan." Her mother lightly smacked the young woman's hand before returning to her story.
Settling against her seat, Siobhan watched the city pass by her window. It'd become nearly unrecognizable in recent times. With Thomas Wayne's 'Renewal' project thrown to the wayside, Gotham had become a rat's nest. A cesspool for the worst. But were they really the worst? Or were they just products of their environment? Before her mother yanked her from college, she'd taken a sociology class that almost felt targeted towards her - like they were trying to subliminally tell her to change the city for the better. But what power did she have? Until her parents kicked the bucket, she didn't have any power of her own. She hadn't even had enough power to stay in college. Her mother called it a waste of time and money, that she'd inherit the company when the time came anyway.
It wasn't that she hated her parents. She loved them, in her own way. But they were... difficult to love. She wasn't even sure if they wanted her love. From the moment she could speak, Siobhan had been nothing but a prop. A cute toy to accessorize and exploit. It brought back memories of her tenth birthday party. All of the girls from her private school had been invited, all of them had shown up. But her parents weren't there. And the all of the girls played with each other, leaving her to sit on a table with her cake. Even the birthday clown hadn't approached her. Was she that unlikable? Had she been that unlovable that even a clown wouldn't come over and ask her if she wanted a balloon animal?
The car slowed to a stop in front of a grand building. Photographers and journalists littered the staircase behind the velvet rope. A deep frown grew on her lips as her mother nudged her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Siobhan opened the car door and exited the car. Her parents quickly took lead as the three made their way up to the building. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a deep insecurity at the flashes that surrounded her. A small smile painted itself on her lips in hopes of avoiding scandalous headlines in the morning. 'DUMONT DAUGHTER DEPRESSED' she could envision now.
The entrance to the building was grand and beautiful. Crystal chandeliers hung from the tall ceiling. Candles illuminated what the chandeliers could not reach. Suited men took coats just a few feet into the front door. A sudden shiver ran up her spine as she stepped into the large ballroom filled with people. It never got old. She wished it did. She wanted to be bored of these things. She wanted to be confident and distant and uncaring of what others thought. But as their eyes fell onto her parents and, inevitably, her, she couldn't shake the cruel insecurity that filled her every pore. Could they see the growing redness on her cheeks? Could they see the acne that had popped up on her chin? What if they saw the scar on her upper lip from her nasty fall off of the carousel when she was eleven?
Arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a hug. When the person pulled back, she was relieved to see Phoebe. "Thank fucking God you're here." She muttered as she pulled Siobhan towards the drinks table. They'd met in college. An immigrant from England, Phoebe was still working towards her Masters in English. She wanted to be an English teacher at Siobhan's old private school. It was almost impressive how many Oscar Wilde quotes the woman could memorize. "You'll never believe who's here."
"Who?" She asked without thinking. It was a bad habit her mother often pointed out - speaking without thinking.
"Bruce fucking Wayne."
"You're joking."
Phoebe chuckled and shook her head. Grabbing two glasses of champagne, she took a swig from one of them and handed the other to her friend. "That's what I thought... until I saw him in the flesh. Just as broody as ever." Her dark red lipstick left a ring on the edge of the glass. "He's over there." She nodded behind Siobhan. Turning, she could see him in the corner of the room, avoiding everyone's eyes. The fact that no one was talking his ears off was shocking. Having Bruce Wayne actually attend an event was a rarity. If you wanted to speak to him, now would be the time.
"Always too good for everyone else." Siobhan mumbled as she took a sip of her champagne.
"I'm shocked you're not drooling all over him." Her eyes widened, almost bulging out of her head. Phoebe laughed, rolling her eyes. "Don't you remember that guy from our class? Joseph?"
"Jonathan."
"Jonathan! Yes! He was... a bit emo." Phoebe laughed again. Her free hand tugged at the crimson dress that hung loosely. "You have a bit of a type, love."
"Fuck off."
The two women giggled, enjoying each other's presence. But the way that Phoebe’s pupils are dilated, Siobhan knows deep down that this camaraderie is a result of Phoebe’s little habit. "But seriously," Phoebe started, grabbing Siobhan's arms, "how've you been? You've been cooped up in that mansion of yours so long I almost forgot what you looked like."
Rolling her eyes, Siobhan tucked her arm under Phoebe's. The two looked out over the crowd of the rich elite and powerful people in Gotham. They all mingled, putting on false faces and presented pleasantries. All except the billionaire recluse in the corner. Their eyes met and their gazes hardened. It was no secret the two didn't get along. Even when his parents had been alive, they didn't see eye to eye. Maybe they'd hoped the two would become the nepotism couple of Gotham. How that backfired. Thomas Wayne was probably rolling in his grave.
"Do you know what you're going to be for Halloween?"
Her eyebrows furrowed as she ripped her gaze from Bruce. "Halloween isn't for another two months."
"It's the start of September, Shiv. It's next month." Phoebe rolled her eyes, following her friend's gaze over to the billionaire. A small smirk grew on her lips. "Maybe you should invite him to my Halloween party." She laughed as her friend nudged her side harshly. "I'm thinking of being Betty Boop. Or maybe Stevie Nicks. I don't know. It's stressing me out."
Slowly nodding, Siobhan took a sip of her alcohol. "Maybe you should be a witch."
"Funny. Fuck you."
The two girls shared giggles as they continued to look out over the crowd. A soft groan escaped her lips as she watched her father make his way over to Bruce Wayne. The young man clearly looked uncomfortable under the judge's eye. In that moment, she wished she could be a fly on the wall, listening intently to every word. Her heart nearly dropped as she watched her father look around the room. When his eyes landed on her, he motioned for Bruce to follow him. Curses spilled from her lips as she watched the two make their way towards them. Phoebe stifled her giggles as the two approached them.
"Siobhan," her father greeted, stepping to the side to allow Bruce to join his side, "you remember Mr. Wayne. It's been so long, I'm sure you two have plenty to catch up on."
Phoebe smiled as she pulled her arm from Siobhan's. Nodding towards Bruce, she joined Siobhan's father in leaving the two alone.
The two remained silent, occasionally sipping on their champagne. The silence felt tense and awkward. Maybe in another life they could be friends. But that was not this life. Those cards weren't in her hand. So she kept her gaze on her heels. "Surprised to see you here. We all thought you got lost in that mansion of yours."
Maybe she expected something a little more. A slight chuckle or even a polite smile. But she got a glare in return. "Maybe I just don't like being around people like you."
Her eyebrows shot up. Her mouth opened to respond but she was at a loss. She wanted to punch him so hard in that moment. More than she'd ever wanted to punch him before. Clenching her jaw, she glared up at him. "Just like a Wayne. Always too good to mingle with us peasants, right? I hate to tell you this - because I'm clearly the first to do so - but you're no better than the rest of us. You sit up in your ivory tower and watch Gotham burn to shit while you hoard your wealth just like the rest of us. So don't pull this high and mighty shit that you and your parents do, oh, so well." She hesitated for a moment. "Oh, sorry. Did so well."
His glare sharpened on her. If she'd let it, it could've cut through her - sliced her in half. But she felt an almost victorious smirk grow on her lips. Two could play at that game. If he wanted to go low, she'd go to the Earth's core. Morals be damned. She'd spent her entire life being looked down upon by men like him. 'You need to smile more,' 'you always look so angry,' and 'why are you so mean?' were common occurrences. It chipped away at her, wore her down. It made her mean and bitter. It made her miserable and wish the world to be just as miserable as her. The idea of voicing these emotions made her feel like the selfish, spoiled brat that Bruce Wayne thought she was. And she'd rather die than fulfill his thoughts of her. She'd rather die than fulfill any man's thoughts of her. So she chose to remain bitter and angry and biting.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched her father return to their side. "Mr. Wayne, would it be too much to ask you to take my daughter dancing? I believe she needs the companionship of someone other than Miss Boucher."
Both Bruce and Siobhan refused to take their eyes off of each other, both refusing to lose whatever glaring game they were playing at. After a fleeting, tense moment, Bruce slowly nodded. "Of course, Judge Dumont." He muttered as he downed the rest of his champagne. Her teeth ground together and her eyebrows furrowed. Why couldn't he have just said no? Saving face? Why did he care what her father thought of him? With a roll of her eyes, she downed the rest of her own champagne and set the glass on the side of the drinks table.
Bruce held the crook of his arm out to her. Her arm slowly looped around his, following him out to the dance floor. Powerful couples danced together on the floor as some Mozart song played. She could envision the pianist now, his fingers hitting away at the keys with ease. She wished she had stuck with her piano lessons. Maybe that could've been her, playing the piano rather than being forced to make niceties with the man who hated her more than anything.
The two found an open spot on the dance floor, stopping and turning towards each other. Her left arm wrapped around his neck while her right hand rested against his chest. "You just had to say yes, huh?" She spoke quietly, hoping the millionaires that surrounded them were too caught up in each other to overhear. "Couldn't make up some story about some jealous lover-"
"This is as painful for me as it is you." He mumbled under his breath. His left hand encompassed her hand on his chest. His other arm wrapped around her waist.
"Oh, I doubt that." She muttered as they began swaying to the piano. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she rested her head against his chest. Just get it over with, she told herself. One song and her father would - hopefully - drop all talks of Bruce Wayne. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine it was someone else holding her. She tried to picture Jonathan from their introduction to psychology class. He'd been so sweet, so shy. But her mind kept returning to the man who actually held her. The man who hated her guts. He was handsome, she'd be blind not to see that. She just wished his personality was better.
His arm tightened around her. There was a natural power that came with being around Siobhan Dumont. She just had an air about her. It made you confident. It made you want to show her off. Point at the others and say, 'you wish you were me right now.' It was hard to put into words. He hated her. He hated her snide remarks. He hated how she always had some villainous smirk on her plum-painted lips. Those plum-painted lips that he couldn’t stop stealing glances at. One thing he'd always admired about her was her confidence. She was unapologetically herself, whether that pissed him off or not. Or maybe he was just jealous that he couldn't ever truly feel like himself. Everything he did was a mask.
"Mind if I cut in?" A man's voice disrupted them. The two looked over to see an older man in a tidy suit, smiling at them. Bruce looked down at Siobhan, taking in her small frown. "Only if the lady wants, of course."
A small, forced smile replaced her frown. "Couldn't turn down the district attorney even if I wanted to." She attempted to pull away from Bruce's grasp, surprised when his arm remained around her waist. Her hand grabs his, yanking his gaze from the powerful man in front of them and back to her. She practically throws his hand with venom before turning back to the man, a false smile gracing her lips. Her arms wrapped around the man's neck, holding him close. Bruce made his way back towards the drinks table with a deep frown. Why hadn't he let go? His hand flexed before curling into a tight fist.
"I'm sorry if I caused any tension." Gil Colson, the district attorney of Gotham, offered a soft chuckle, keeping his gaze on Siobhan. His hands rested on her lower back, just above her butt. "Are you two...?"
"No," she shook her head, "our parents were close. I think my dad wanted me to marry him. Merge dynasties and all that. You know how it is."
"Do I?"
"Well, you're out here bumping shoulders with the elite. You're saying you wouldn't set your daughter up with one of 'em?"
"Not if she didn't want me to."
She hummed with a small smile. "I guess we have a real feminist in our ranks, then. Don't worry, I won't tell the others." The two shared polite chuckles as they swayed to the piano. As they spun around, her eyes caught a glimpse of Bruce standing by the drinks table, champagne in hand and another girl at his side. Her jaw clenched as she watched the girl giggle and grab his arm. What the hell had she done to him to make him hate her?
All of those jealous - though she wouldn't want to admit that they were jealous - thoughts disappeared as their eyes met once again. Biting her bottom lip, she pulled Gil closer. Her lips neared his ear. "Thanks for the dance, Mr. Colson." She whispered, her eyes never leaving Bruce's. "It was a pleasure."
With that, she pulled away from him and made her way towards the drinks table. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she grabbed a glass of champagne and resigned herself to the wall. Her father spoke to Commissioner Savage while her mother spoke to Phoebe's mother. Phoebe seemed to be flirting with whoever seemed single. Siobhan's hand reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Everything always felt like too much nowadays. Everyone's eyes, their voices, their hands. It was all too much. It weighed down on her like some boulder that she had to carry. It reminded her of Sisyphus, the man who was doomed to push the boulder up the hill for eternity. Whenever this overwhelming guilt began to chip away at her, she began to feel nothing. It all became a blur. People's faces were forgotten. Even her own. She hadn't recognized herself in years. The dark bags grew darker. The frown lines grew more and more prominent.
A scoff almost escaped her throat at her own thoughts. Christ, she thought, I sound like a fuckin' pity party. Her eyes grew heavy. Maybe it was the champagne or maybe it was the constant berating of socialization. Whatever it was, it made her want to hang her head and fall asleep against the grand wall pressed against her back. A shiver ran up her spine, awakening her. A soft curse escaped her lips as she looked at the grandfather clock across from her. Somehow they'd barely been there an hour. Fuck.
Looking to her left, she caught sight of a balcony door, hidden around a corner. Glancing around, she made her way towards the door. She pushed the door open and entered the warmth of the outside. The beginning of September always meant cool nights for Gotham, but summer had decided to cling onto them like some jilted lover. A small smile grew on her lips as she fished out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter from her bra. She leaned against the stone railing of the balcony and looked out over the expansive backyard. The fucking mayor. Richer than her family, somehow. She remembered looking out over her own backyard as a child and asking for a puppy or a swing set. Her father had told her that she'd never play with a puppy and that the mower wouldn't want to mow around the swing set.
Somedays she wanted to return to her childhood. For some reason, things just felt simpler then. Maybe they weren't always happier then but she'd been a stupid kid and thought maybe they had been. And she'd always held out hope that one Christmas a puppy would be under that tree. A class assignment popped into her head in that moment. An assignment where she had to write a one page paper on what she'd tell her younger self - her child self. God, that'd been almost five years ago. What'd she even write? Had she written about the puppy? Maybe the time her parents had fought so badly that plates were thrown?
Oh. She frowned as she placed a cigarette between her lips, lighting the end and taking a deep drag. Now she remembered. I'd hug her, she'd written, and tell her that the anger wasn't directed at her. That all that broken glass and screaming curse words weren't because of her. That she was loved, even if she didn't feel it. That people loved her and she wasn't wasting-. Her thoughts were interrupted as someone opened the door and joined her on the balcony.
Glancing back, a pit formed in her stomach at the sight of the one man who could make all of this worse. A string of curses repeated in her mind as he neared the railing of the balcony, only a couple feet to her right. The two remained silent, appreciating this small understanding. They'd come outside to get away from all of the chit-chat. No sense in starting any more. So she took another drag from her cigarette, holding the nicotine in for a few seconds before letting the smoke billow out. If he found the habit disgusting, he gave nothing away. She could see a swing set in the yard, a slide attached to it. A trampoline sits alone, maybe, ten feet away. Her frown deepens.
"Did you ever have a swing set growing up?" She asked, her voice soft and quiet. There was no hint of bitterness like before. Here, they weren't enemies. Now, they weren't rivals. They were just two emotionally and socially stunted adults who felt inadequate among their peers. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him staring her down. He had that habit, she'd noticed. He slowly nodded, silently answering her question. "I think I'm one of the only kids in Gotham who didn't get one. I begged my dad for one and one night, at dinner, he stood up from the table and..." She trailed off before taking another drag from her cigarette, watching the smoke dissipate in the air.
He fills in the blanks with endless possibilities. Did he hit her? Had he lovingly told her to stop asking? His eyes gazed over her, watching her stare down at the play set. In all his years of knowing her, he'd never seen her look so... sad. Angry, sure. Resentful and unwelcoming, nearly always. But sad had never really been on the table. And he'd known her for twenty-five long years. You started to count the days when you had to be around someone who hated you nearly every day.
"Why do you hate me?" The question hangs heavy in the air, punctuated by another drag from her cigarette. It's her turn to look at him, eyes burning into his skin. He doesn't like it. As much as he watches people, sees them, he hates when others do it to him. It's why he doesn't go to these things. Being seen by all of these people who know nothing about him. If there was a Hell, this was it for him. If she noticed his discomfort, she didn't point it out. And she didn't relent. She continued to stare at him, waiting for his answer. But he didn't have one. Because he didn't know. Hate was a strong word, a word he'd reserved for other things. He hated corruption. He hated the assholes in power who chose to do nothing about it.
He wanted to tell her that he didn't hate her. Only as much as she hated him. Maybe she did hate him. And he didn't know why. Had he done something? Something in his muddied childhood that he couldn't quite remember? "I don't... hate you." He finally spoke. It was his turn to stare down at the play set in the yard. It made him think of his old treehouse that was now broken down and dilapidated. How hard Alfred and the other housekeepers had worked to put it together. His father had insisted on hiring someone to do it but Alfred insisted harder. He missed his childhood more than anything. If he could turn back the hands of time, he'd do so in a heartbeat. Fix the mistakes he'd made. Be a little more grateful. Maybe a bit kinder. "I never hated you. Not like you hated me."
She laughed, loud and sudden. It caught him off guard. Not a lot of things did. But she did. She always did. Nothing she said or did was expected. And maybe he liked that. Or hated it. He didn't know yet. He liked looking at her. He liked the way her bangs framed her face and how her low ponytail was slightly loose, allowing uneven pieces to fall out. He liked the way her lipstick left a ring around her cigarette, fading the dark berry color to a more muted pink. His eyes trailed up the slope of her nose. From the side it was smooth, but facing straight on, you could see it slanted towards the right. It made him pinch the bridge of his own crooked nose. Though hers was genetic, his was from years of getting punched.
"I only hated you 'cause I thought you hated me."
The door to the balcony opened. Phoebe stood at the door, glancing between the two. A small smile played on her lips. "Uh..." she trailed off, her eyes remaining on Bruce for a few fleeting moments, "your dad sent me to get you. Wants you to talk to the mayor, I think."
With a deep sigh, Siobhan stamped out her cigarette on the railing, leaving it there. "Your tie's crooked." She spoke as she followed her friend back inside, leaving him alone on the balcony. His eyes stared at the purple ring around the cigarette. He wished he'd said more. He always wished that. The one constant in his life: regret. Staring down at the cigarette for a fleeting moment, he turned and re-entered the party.