Chapter Text
Bruce hated galas, the mind numbing polite conversations, the reporters trying to scrape every juicy detail about his personal life from him, the too bright lights ,the smell of the food and alcohol mixing together, overpowering his nose in a way that made him want to gag. But he could never bring himself to skip the ones for charity, it didn’t matter what charity it was, if it was reputable and Bruce could physically make it, he would. Charming the guests and reporters alike with his stupid, drunken facade of incompetence.
He stood in front of Margaret Dooley, an old friend of his parents, nodding along to whatever she was saying, sipping on the flute of champagne that had been placed in his hand. It tasted kinda weird, but Bruce just brushed it off, it was probably one of those weird ones with added ingredients to make it ‘fancier’. Did it even qualify as actual champagne when they added things that weren't from the region the wine was named after?
Mrs Dooley continued to talk about her kids, Bruce didn’t mind listening, well he wasn’t totally listening, more just nodding along and adding in small comments and questions on occasion, he was one of the only people willing to give her the time of day. At least he didn’t have to put in the energy to flirt.
After finishing a story about the time her and her daughter went to France, she decided to leave him to grab some food.
Bruce finished his champagne, placing it on one of the many tables that lined the hall's wall. Glancing around the packed room, his eyes caught on a tall dark haired man that stood in a corner, he was clearly a reporter, his suit being too big for him and the lanyard around his neck a dead give away, he was scanning the room clearly looking for something, or more likely someone. His silhouette felt familiar to Bruce, like it was on the tip of his tongue.
His studying of the reporter was cut off as his head felt like it was being filled with wet cement. His thoughts grew fuzzy as he careened sideways, his muscles gradually losing almost all tension as he slumped forward, putting most of his weight on the table. He hadn’t had that much to drink. Three, maybe four glasses at most.
He stumbled over to his discarded wine glass, picking it up and staring into it, his vision blurry and doubled . He was right, there was a small layer of a white chalky residue at the bottom of the glass.
He had been drugged. With what? was the important question.
He thought he had been careful, keeping one hand over his glass, not accepting drinks from anyone other than the waiter, even with the watchful trained eye of the batman scouring the room it still seemed to happen. Someone must have paid off a waiter.
But who?
Too many questions swirled around in his already foggy head. He hastily glanced around the room trying to spot an exit that wasn’t the main door, he really didn't want to deal with the press. He finally spotted one, spotting a bright green exit sign in a back corner beside the bathrooms.
Some random woman decided that now was the perfect time to start draping herself over him. Running her hand down his chest, whispering something that Bruce couldn’t quite make out. As her hand started to creep way too low for Bruce’s liking, he took a step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, clinging onto the table for dear life. The woman grabbed his tie and pulled him so close that he could feel her breath on his jaw.
“Aw comon Brucie, don't ya wanna have some fun” She breathed, her voice filled with lust. Like many people she wanted to see if Bruce really was the playboy the magazines painted him to be, if he really was as good as the rumors said he was. And truthfully he wasn’t, almost every rumor had been started by him, he was the one to release his own sex tapes. He had an image to maintain, but that's all it was, an image for the press.
Bruce tried to step away again, but his tie was firmly in her hand.
“Bathroom,” He rasped breathlessly “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh” She seemed a bit surprised as she took a step back finally releasing his tie. “Alright”
Bruce just wordlessly stumbled past her, surprised she had actually let him go, and made his way around the room, using the tables as a crutch, his legs felt like lead. His breathing gradually slowed and his eyelids threatened to close. He felt hot, sweaty and lethargic. What the fuck was in his drink?
One foot in front of the other
He looked over at the corner the tall reporter had been standing in only to see he had disappeared.
He finally made it to the exit. His movements were slow and uncoordinated as he opened the door. The cold gust of air felt like heaven on his clammy skin. He loosened his tie and shrugged off his suit jacket and discarded it as he slid down the brick alleyway wall ruining his expensive pants. He could almost imagine Alfred’s exasperated sigh as Bruce ruined another new suit. The puddle that he sat in soaked through his pants, he despised the sensation of the damp clothes touching his skin but he was too out of it to move again. He rested his head on the cool, metal bin beside him, ripping open the top buttons of his shirt.
He was doing his best to look for his phone and contact Alfred, feeling rather triumphant when he finally gathered enough dexterity to pull it out of his pocket, trying to make out the numbers on the lock screen as they all blurred together, when the door Bruce had exited from opened again revealing a grey haired figure.
“Ah, Mr Wayne” the figure said, in a clipped, older sounding accent that Bruce immediately recognised, Mr Astor. Mr Astor had always made Bruce uncomfortable, Astor didn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space especially when it came to Bruce, holding his hand after handshakes, slapping his chest playfully when he joked, standing a bit to close, sometimes just out right flirting with him, even when Bruce was still just a teen.
“Having phone trouble there” The older man cooed gently tugging the phone out of his weakened hand.
Bruce lurched forward a heavy hand swiping for his phone as Astor just looked on, chuckling when Bruce missed. How was he, the batman, the scourge of Gotham's underworld, failing at the task of grabbing his phone out of the hands of some 60 something year old, rich guy.
“None of that now.” He chided as if Bruce was a misbehaving child . The alleyway was suddenly lit by the headlights of a car, making Bruce squint. “Look, that's our ride” the driver hopped out of the car and walked over to him and Astor he reached down roughly grabbing Bruce by the shoulder, Bruce tried to fight him off to no avail, he was too far gone, his arms about as strong as half cooked pieces of spaghetti. The driver dragged Bruce unceremoniously to his feet. Mr Astor patted his cheek.
“We have a party to attend”
Bruce, who had been fighting to stay conscious, slipped away into unconsciousness as he was roughly thrown into the backseat of the car.