Batfic: No, Sir, They're Not Aerodynamic
So a couple days ago on fuckyou_batman there was a discussion of fics where Bruce Wayne magically has a daughter. And I thought of certain little tasks he might have to do now and then. And someone requested that I follow through with one.
Please enjoy some crack.
Title: No, Sir, They're Not Aerodynamic
Rating: PG
Genre: Crackfic.
Warnings: Feminine hygiene.
Summary: Say, what if Bruce Wayne did have a daughter?
Chelsea rather liked the third shift at the only twenty-four-hour supermarket in Gotham City. There was a lot of maintenance, but it was quiet. She liked to be left to her thoughts while she worked.
At nearly three in the morning, she figured there were probably five customers wandering the entire store. She spotted a few while she slopped the mop across the floor by the coolers, glancing down each aisle as she passed them by.
There was that little old lady who always talked to herself. She was getting the usual: an entire cart of cat food. But never any litter. Chelsea didn't want to know.
Moppity moppity mop.
A few more aisles, and she spotted a group of kids roughhousing at the other end of the store. She knew better than to assume they were there with their parents.
Mop-da-mop-da-mop.
And then there was Batman.
The mop slipped out of her grip, and she scrabbled for it before it hit the ground, the wooden handle bouncing off her palms with each harried swipe. She managed to wrap her hands back around it before her worn sneakers could slip on the wet floor and send her sprawling. But the caped vigilante didn't seem to notice the flailing display. He stared intently at a section of shelves, one gloved hand coming up to scratch at an ear on his cowl.
She hardly realized she was walking over. She was just drawn by disbelief and curiosity, gazing at him like he had to be an illusion, carelessly dragging mop behind her. She stopped a few feet away, and only then did she notice what he was looking at: the pads and tampons. He even held a pack of each.
And then with a sudden stiffness in his shoulders, he looked at her.
She looked back.
He glanced at the boxes in his hands, then back at her again.
“Um...” Chelsea propped the mop against the shelves. “Can I... help you??”
More silence. For a second she wondered if he'd snap her neck so no one could speak of this incident. But he set the two boxes on the shelf and dropped his arms to his sides. His cape fell over his shoulders, cloaking all but his head, and he loomed over her.
“I need your expertise,” he rasped.
“Expertise?” she repeated, eyes still trained on him dumbly.
“I don't normally make these kinds of purchases.”
“Uh huh.”
“But tonight is an emergency,” he said ominously. “So I'm told.”
“... Okay?”
“So.” He turned slightly, as if to gesture to the shelves of assorted Stayfree and their pals. “These... 'wings.' Do they serve some kind of aerodynamic purpose?”
Chelsea could only imagine her own expression. She felt her confusion and awe fading fast under a growing awkwardness. “They're for, uh, overflow.”
“... Ah. Is that what I should get for the party in question?”
“'The party in question'?” she repeated.
“You know, like for a daughter, if such were the case, which it isn't. I am, of course, speaking hypotheticals.”
Chelsea nervously rubbed at the back of her neck. “Um, well, the 'party in question,' does she prefer tampons or pads?”
“I don't know,” he replied quickly, as if he were blocking the very thought.
“I guess it'd be safer to go with pads then.”
“Well, I mean...” He cleared his throat, but continued to speak in a gravelly voice. “What do you...”
She waited. “Yes?”
“Are they any good?”
She looked at him blankly. Was he asking...?!
“I mean, I presume...” He nodded to her slightly, and seemed to be doing his best to maintain an air of professionalism. “I presume you use these products. That you have a preference in what... in what captures the... flow...”
He wasn't...
“Not that I really want to know,” he added quickly. “I just... I have no experience in these matters.”
He was. He totally was.
“So if you, uh, have an idea. Of what's typically... good.”
Batman was asking her about her vag.
“Any recommendation at all.”
Mortified, Chelsea blindly reached for the shelves and grabbed the first package her hand touched. His hands parted his cape to take the box as she shoved it at his chest.
“Billy to the office, please,” a voice paged. “Billy to the office.”
“That's me!” Chelsea said, voice strangled. “Gotta go!” She ran off, abandoning the mop and leaving Batman to stare dumbly down at a box of pantyliners.
She got as far as the cereal aisle before she finally wondered what the hell she was doing. She should be calling the cops! Batman was wanted for murder. Hard to believe after their... conversation, but still!
She spotted her manager restocking the Honey Nut Cheerios and rushed over to him.
“Mr. Stevens!” she hissed, yanking on his arm. “Dude, Batman's here! He was asking me about the Kotex!”
He tossed her a confused look as he stocked. “What?”
“Batman! Aisle fifteen! Girly things!”
Mr. Stevens smiled wryly and continued to pack the boxes on the shelves.
“Uh...” She tugged on his arm again. “Shouldn't we call the cops?”
“Chelsea, use your head. Why would Batman come in here? And why on Earth would he be buying feminine hygiene products?”
“To... be prepared?”
“Besides, if I had a nickel for every time some jackass kid came in here with a cape, I wouldn't be working in this shithole anymore, let me tell you.”
True, Chelsea had never entertained the possibility that it might not be Batman at all, just someone messing with her, but that guy was no kid or random drunken jackass. And if he was acting, he was damn good at it.
Mr. Stevens interrupted her thoughts by waving his hand in front of her face. “Hello? Jeff needs his break. Go man the register.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
She walked briskly to the front, keeping an eye out for the Batman. Maybe he'd already left? After Mr. Stevens' reaction she was too embarrassed to ask Jeff if he'd seen a guy dressed like a bat leave with enough feminine hygiene products for an all-girls summer camp.
Fifteen minutes passed and no one came to check out. She kept herself busy by restocking candy. And just when she thought he must've left after all...
Oh, Christ, there he was, coming up with a basketful of Tampax and Always. Why did she get the feeling that if it wasn't an emergency, he would've been in the aisle for hours figuring out precisely which was the item he needed?
He stopped abruptly at the end of her belt when he noticed it was her. Another brief stare-off. Then, as if he was completely unaffected, he unloaded his basket, box-by-box, quickly and efficiently. Chelsea scanned them and threw them into a bag, and she tried not to look too awkward when he stepped up to the register.
There was something amiss with the last box's bar code. It was blurred; the numbers were too illegible to type in as well. She swiped it across the reader three times trying to get it to go through.
“I think that means it's free,” Batman said.
She froze, looking up at him through her eyelashes. He, the friggin' Batman, couldn't have possibly said something so banal. She couldn't even muster up her usual fake laugh. Though maybe she should've; the awkwardness increased twofold. He suddenly looked uncomfortable, a stunning feat for someone already so out of place, wearing kevlar to a grocery store. Somehow he thought exaggerated coughing would make it all go away.
Chelsea picked up the phone by the register and paged for help. “Price check on Tampax. I need a price check on Tampax Super Plus.” She peered at the description. “Unscented. Anti-slip grip.”
The vigilante looked like he was going to reenact the death of the Wicked Witch of the West, or perhaps light her on fire like the Scarecrow. After an age of avoiding his glower, her phone trilled, and Mr. Stevens gave her the price.
She totaled it up. “That's sixty-two ninety-seven.”
Still glaring at her, Batman muttered, “Debit.”
“Cash back?” she asked automatically.
“No.”
She hit a couple register buttons and he swiped his card through the reader. He was prompted for his PIN, but didn't enter it, just gave her a suspicious look. She realized she was staring and looked away as he covered the reader with one hand and jabbed at the buttons with the other. She fiddled with her hands while she waited for him to approve the amount.
Instead he grumbled, “I said I didn't want cash back.”
“Hm? Oh,” she said, reaching over to stop him. “That's not--” Too late. He'd canceled it. “That wasn't cash back,” she said irritably. “Please swipe again.”
“Oh,” he said, flustered, pulling his card back out.
More waiting. Entered his PIN.
“Okay,” she said, “now just confirm the-- No, that was the cancel button again. You want the green button.”
Everything went through again. The prompt returned a third time.
“The green button?” Batman said.
“Yes,” she replied desperately.
He pointed at the screen. “But the arrow indicates to this gray button.”
She gritted her teeth. “Either one works.”
“Okay.”
Finally, the transaction went through. She handed him his two bags with the biggest get-the-hell-out-of-here smile she could muster and chirped, “Thank you for shopping! Have a good night!”
He simply nodded and took the bags, somehow managing to sweep away dramatically, cape billowing behind him as he ran out the sliding doors. Through the front windows, she watched him hop onto a motorcycle and hang a bag on either handle. The engine growled to life, and he sped off into the dark.
“The end of an eventful night,” she muttered.
“Excuse me!” sang a cheery voice as someone else came up to the belt.
She plastered on her customer service smile and turned. “Yes, can I help... you...”
A man with tangled green hair and white face paint smiled back at her, the red paint over his lips continuing up the twisted scars in his cheeks. He dropped a full basket of chip clips in front of her. He snatched one up in a purple-gloved hand, chittering its teeny plastic teeth in her face. “Is this all you have?”
Please enjoy some crack.
Title: No, Sir, They're Not Aerodynamic
Rating: PG
Genre: Crackfic.
Warnings: Feminine hygiene.
Summary: Say, what if Bruce Wayne did have a daughter?
Chelsea rather liked the third shift at the only twenty-four-hour supermarket in Gotham City. There was a lot of maintenance, but it was quiet. She liked to be left to her thoughts while she worked.
At nearly three in the morning, she figured there were probably five customers wandering the entire store. She spotted a few while she slopped the mop across the floor by the coolers, glancing down each aisle as she passed them by.
There was that little old lady who always talked to herself. She was getting the usual: an entire cart of cat food. But never any litter. Chelsea didn't want to know.
Moppity moppity mop.
A few more aisles, and she spotted a group of kids roughhousing at the other end of the store. She knew better than to assume they were there with their parents.
Mop-da-mop-da-mop.
And then there was Batman.
The mop slipped out of her grip, and she scrabbled for it before it hit the ground, the wooden handle bouncing off her palms with each harried swipe. She managed to wrap her hands back around it before her worn sneakers could slip on the wet floor and send her sprawling. But the caped vigilante didn't seem to notice the flailing display. He stared intently at a section of shelves, one gloved hand coming up to scratch at an ear on his cowl.
She hardly realized she was walking over. She was just drawn by disbelief and curiosity, gazing at him like he had to be an illusion, carelessly dragging mop behind her. She stopped a few feet away, and only then did she notice what he was looking at: the pads and tampons. He even held a pack of each.
And then with a sudden stiffness in his shoulders, he looked at her.
She looked back.
He glanced at the boxes in his hands, then back at her again.
“Um...” Chelsea propped the mop against the shelves. “Can I... help you??”
More silence. For a second she wondered if he'd snap her neck so no one could speak of this incident. But he set the two boxes on the shelf and dropped his arms to his sides. His cape fell over his shoulders, cloaking all but his head, and he loomed over her.
“I need your expertise,” he rasped.
“Expertise?” she repeated, eyes still trained on him dumbly.
“I don't normally make these kinds of purchases.”
“Uh huh.”
“But tonight is an emergency,” he said ominously. “So I'm told.”
“... Okay?”
“So.” He turned slightly, as if to gesture to the shelves of assorted Stayfree and their pals. “These... 'wings.' Do they serve some kind of aerodynamic purpose?”
Chelsea could only imagine her own expression. She felt her confusion and awe fading fast under a growing awkwardness. “They're for, uh, overflow.”
“... Ah. Is that what I should get for the party in question?”
“'The party in question'?” she repeated.
“You know, like for a daughter, if such were the case, which it isn't. I am, of course, speaking hypotheticals.”
Chelsea nervously rubbed at the back of her neck. “Um, well, the 'party in question,' does she prefer tampons or pads?”
“I don't know,” he replied quickly, as if he were blocking the very thought.
“I guess it'd be safer to go with pads then.”
“Well, I mean...” He cleared his throat, but continued to speak in a gravelly voice. “What do you...”
She waited. “Yes?”
“Are they any good?”
She looked at him blankly. Was he asking...?!
“I mean, I presume...” He nodded to her slightly, and seemed to be doing his best to maintain an air of professionalism. “I presume you use these products. That you have a preference in what... in what captures the... flow...”
He wasn't...
“Not that I really want to know,” he added quickly. “I just... I have no experience in these matters.”
He was. He totally was.
“So if you, uh, have an idea. Of what's typically... good.”
Batman was asking her about her vag.
“Any recommendation at all.”
Mortified, Chelsea blindly reached for the shelves and grabbed the first package her hand touched. His hands parted his cape to take the box as she shoved it at his chest.
“Billy to the office, please,” a voice paged. “Billy to the office.”
“That's me!” Chelsea said, voice strangled. “Gotta go!” She ran off, abandoning the mop and leaving Batman to stare dumbly down at a box of pantyliners.
She got as far as the cereal aisle before she finally wondered what the hell she was doing. She should be calling the cops! Batman was wanted for murder. Hard to believe after their... conversation, but still!
She spotted her manager restocking the Honey Nut Cheerios and rushed over to him.
“Mr. Stevens!” she hissed, yanking on his arm. “Dude, Batman's here! He was asking me about the Kotex!”
He tossed her a confused look as he stocked. “What?”
“Batman! Aisle fifteen! Girly things!”
Mr. Stevens smiled wryly and continued to pack the boxes on the shelves.
“Uh...” She tugged on his arm again. “Shouldn't we call the cops?”
“Chelsea, use your head. Why would Batman come in here? And why on Earth would he be buying feminine hygiene products?”
“To... be prepared?”
“Besides, if I had a nickel for every time some jackass kid came in here with a cape, I wouldn't be working in this shithole anymore, let me tell you.”
True, Chelsea had never entertained the possibility that it might not be Batman at all, just someone messing with her, but that guy was no kid or random drunken jackass. And if he was acting, he was damn good at it.
Mr. Stevens interrupted her thoughts by waving his hand in front of her face. “Hello? Jeff needs his break. Go man the register.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
She walked briskly to the front, keeping an eye out for the Batman. Maybe he'd already left? After Mr. Stevens' reaction she was too embarrassed to ask Jeff if he'd seen a guy dressed like a bat leave with enough feminine hygiene products for an all-girls summer camp.
Fifteen minutes passed and no one came to check out. She kept herself busy by restocking candy. And just when she thought he must've left after all...
Oh, Christ, there he was, coming up with a basketful of Tampax and Always. Why did she get the feeling that if it wasn't an emergency, he would've been in the aisle for hours figuring out precisely which was the item he needed?
He stopped abruptly at the end of her belt when he noticed it was her. Another brief stare-off. Then, as if he was completely unaffected, he unloaded his basket, box-by-box, quickly and efficiently. Chelsea scanned them and threw them into a bag, and she tried not to look too awkward when he stepped up to the register.
There was something amiss with the last box's bar code. It was blurred; the numbers were too illegible to type in as well. She swiped it across the reader three times trying to get it to go through.
“I think that means it's free,” Batman said.
She froze, looking up at him through her eyelashes. He, the friggin' Batman, couldn't have possibly said something so banal. She couldn't even muster up her usual fake laugh. Though maybe she should've; the awkwardness increased twofold. He suddenly looked uncomfortable, a stunning feat for someone already so out of place, wearing kevlar to a grocery store. Somehow he thought exaggerated coughing would make it all go away.
Chelsea picked up the phone by the register and paged for help. “Price check on Tampax. I need a price check on Tampax Super Plus.” She peered at the description. “Unscented. Anti-slip grip.”
The vigilante looked like he was going to reenact the death of the Wicked Witch of the West, or perhaps light her on fire like the Scarecrow. After an age of avoiding his glower, her phone trilled, and Mr. Stevens gave her the price.
She totaled it up. “That's sixty-two ninety-seven.”
Still glaring at her, Batman muttered, “Debit.”
“Cash back?” she asked automatically.
“No.”
She hit a couple register buttons and he swiped his card through the reader. He was prompted for his PIN, but didn't enter it, just gave her a suspicious look. She realized she was staring and looked away as he covered the reader with one hand and jabbed at the buttons with the other. She fiddled with her hands while she waited for him to approve the amount.
Instead he grumbled, “I said I didn't want cash back.”
“Hm? Oh,” she said, reaching over to stop him. “That's not--” Too late. He'd canceled it. “That wasn't cash back,” she said irritably. “Please swipe again.”
“Oh,” he said, flustered, pulling his card back out.
More waiting. Entered his PIN.
“Okay,” she said, “now just confirm the-- No, that was the cancel button again. You want the green button.”
Everything went through again. The prompt returned a third time.
“The green button?” Batman said.
“Yes,” she replied desperately.
He pointed at the screen. “But the arrow indicates to this gray button.”
She gritted her teeth. “Either one works.”
“Okay.”
Finally, the transaction went through. She handed him his two bags with the biggest get-the-hell-out-of-here smile she could muster and chirped, “Thank you for shopping! Have a good night!”
He simply nodded and took the bags, somehow managing to sweep away dramatically, cape billowing behind him as he ran out the sliding doors. Through the front windows, she watched him hop onto a motorcycle and hang a bag on either handle. The engine growled to life, and he sped off into the dark.
“The end of an eventful night,” she muttered.
“Excuse me!” sang a cheery voice as someone else came up to the belt.
She plastered on her customer service smile and turned. “Yes, can I help... you...”
A man with tangled green hair and white face paint smiled back at her, the red paint over his lips continuing up the twisted scars in his cheeks. He dropped a full basket of chip clips in front of her. He snatched one up in a purple-gloved hand, chittering its teeny plastic teeth in her face. “Is this all you have?”