The silence at the table was deafening.

Not the comfortable kind of silence that usually settled between you and Bruce over late-night diner coffee, but the kind that made the waitress nervously refill your water glass three times in five minutes before deciding to just... walk away. Slowly.

Bruce sat across from you, his fork hovering over the last bite of his pancakes like he was considering whether or not to weaponize it. His jaw was set in that particular I-am-not-pouting way that meant he was absolutely pouting.

All because of the check.

"I just don't understand," he said, for the fourth time, in that tone usually reserved for rogue aliens threatening Metropolis. "You literally watched me donate a wing to Gotham General last week. I own satellites. Why would you—" He gestured violently at the offending leather bill holder now sitting innocently by your elbow. "—do that?"

You sipped your coffee. "Because it's polite, Bruce."

"It's insulting."

"It's a waffle combo, not a diamond heist."

Bruce's eye twitched. "I planned this. I had the entire evening mapped out. Dinner. The rooftop garden. The symphony tickets in my pocket right now." He said it like you'd personally canceled the symphony by daring to hand the waiter your bucks. "You ruined the trajectory."

You couldn't help it—you laughed.
Big mistake.

Bruce's expression darkened to full Bat-glare levels. "This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny." You nudged the check toward him. "Tell you what. You can pay for dessert."

He stared at you. "...We didn't order dessert."

"Exactly."

Bruce Wayne, billionaire vigilante, defender of justice, actually growled before snatching the check and slamming his black AmEx onto it with extreme prejudice.

"We're getting tiramisu," he announced. "And you're not allowed to see the bill."