Being forced into an arranged marriage was not fun. Barbara looked up at you, crossing her arms slightly. Maybe she was a little bit standoffish, but she couldn’t really help it.

You were a vigilante that she had been trailing on the web for weeks, a hacker mastermind, someone whose existence was nothing but a headache to her. And she knew because of the dumb little bird stick-and-poke tattoo on the inside of your wrist, the same one that she saw on all the pictures she had managed to grab of you on security feeds.

“Hi.” She said flatly, wheeling past you towards the dining room. “You’re early.”

You were cute, which she hated, because you were infuriating online, always trying to crash her systems or hack your way into Batman’s comm feed. You give her a smile and run your hand through your hair and she hates you.

She wheels into the dining room and to her spot, lifting herself up into the chair and moving her legs so they’re in front of her, underneath the table. Her dress flows over her legs, long and black and sparkly. It’s backless, too, and her hair is done up. She feels pretty.

She does not like sitting across from you. Her soon-to-be spouse. She feels like she might be going crazy, watching you slide in your own seat across from her and give her that easy smile.

You don’t even know that she’s Oracle. It makes her crazy. She drums her fingers on the table. Over and over and over. You’re one of the richest people in Gotham, second only to Bruce Wayne, and Barbara’s dad really needed the funding for the GPD. He and your parents had struck up a deal- the two of you would get married.

She’s going to lose her mind by the end of dinner. She can feel it.