Dr. Amy Curtis almost looked like a librarian. She avoided the stereotype narrowly by eschewing thick-framed glasses and opting for contact lenses, a small concession to convenience more than vanity. Glasses bothered her and slipped off her nose, anyway
She was also too impatient to be a librarian. She didn't gladly suffer fools, freshmen and people who didn't know how to parallel park. She avoided meetings like the plague, finding any excuse she could for not having to sit through what she privately termed "useless exercises in watching people stick their thumbs up their asses and like it."
She rarely smiled, observed intently, and was a brilliant enough professor and researcher that the university hierarchy kept forgiving her idiosyncrasies as long as the grants kept flowing in.
Sometimes, the young men in her senior seminar would develop crushes on her, limping away from the mildest flirtation to nurse a new, life-long complex about older women. Male colleagues and graduate students learned that Dr. Curtis was all business, and that you'd get the business end of her sharp tongue if you suggested anything else.
She kept details about her personal life close to her vest. She lived in South Village in Gotham, didn't read the news, and really liked sushi – that was the most that anyone knew about her personally. She had no scruples about broadcasting her opinions, however. She believed in animal rights, disliked reality television, and thought Batman was a vigilante who had some serious psychological issues he was refusing to deal with.
Amy Curtis had a nice, well-ordered life where she could see her future stretching out before her in a line of pleasant routine and enjoyable research.
All of that changed the day she was forced to meet Bruce Wayne.
It had actually been an evening, a party to be exact. Bruce Wayne was throwing a fundraiser for the College of Arts and Sciences of Gotham University. As one of the star faculty, Amy's department head had ordered her to attend on behalf of the Religious Studies department. It wasn't unusual for Amy to be asked to put in an appearance, and she played the game the way the university wanted her to because she knew exactly who buttered her bread.
So, she put on the one black cocktail dress she owned, swiped some Chapstick over her lips and headed on over to the exclusive part of town where Mr. Wayne's penthouse was located.
The concierge admitted her to the building and keyed the elevator to take her to the penthouse. She looked down at her cell phone as the elevator doors slid open. It was 9:00 p.m. She was a little late, but all she had to do was stay about 45 minutes, have a drink and shake hands with Mr. Wayne. She'd be home in time to get a good hour of reading in before bed.
"Welcome, welcome," an elderly Englishman said, coming towards her with a tray of champagne. "And you would be Miss….?"
"Dr. Amy Curtis," she replied, nodding and taking a glass of champagne. "Gotham University, Department of Religious Studies."
"Ah! Well, well, very pleased you could come, doctor. I'm sure Mr. Wayne will be here any moment, and he will wish to meet you."
Amy gave him a look that plainly called the old man on his bullshit, then mockingly raised her glass. To her mild surprise, he chuckled as he walked away.
She sighed and wandered through the crowd, searching out the hors d'oeuvres. The chopping roar of a landing helicopter captured her attention – along with everyone else's – and she turned to see Bruce Wayne step out onto the landing pad, two long-legged, tan, mini-dress wearing beauties on each arm.
She watched disinterestedly as he sashayed in, grinning like a cat who found the cream.
"Well, I'm so glad nobody had any scruples about starting the party without me and drinking my booze," he announced, smiling.
"It was Alfred's doing!" someone yelled out, and the crowd laughed. Amy didn't laugh, as it seemed too much effort to pretend to be amused.
"I just want to thank you all for coming, to support the wonderful institution that is Gotham University," Bruce continued. "Our future depends on the education of our young people, and the College of Arts and Sciences at Gotham U. is one of the places where this critical task is being undertaken. So, even if you flunked out of Gotham, and I know some of you did," – more laughter – "I am asking you all to open your checkbooks tonight and make a generous donation."
Amy nodded her head slightly, as she couldn't applaud with the champagne glass in her hand. The crowd melted again into general movement, and she slid to the side of the room, watching for the right moment to jump in, shake hands and then skedaddle.
Thirty-five minutes more, max. Praise God.
Bruce Wayne really wanted to enjoy life. He wished he could really be "Bruce Wayne" sometimes, that the demons in him would fall into an endless sleep, that the nightmares would fade forever. He wanted to get a kick out of arriving an hour late at his own party in a helicopter, dripping with models, or driving sports cars, or dining at the finest restaurants wearing the finest suits.
But the nagging sadness would not leave him. His grief was bigger than the death of his parents. He now mourned for the world, for the evil in all men's hearts, for the fact that he could do so little to help.
And truth be told, he couldn't stand the women he dated. It was a chore that he dreaded, and only Alfred's constant reminders kept him from dropping the whole playboy persona. He wanted to be whole – to be either totally Batman, or totally Bruce Wayne, but his path was a highwire between two worlds, a constant tension that was wearing him down.
One of the models – Galiana, or was it Tatiana? Who the hell knew? – shoved a glass of champagne in his hand. He smiled and sipped it, his eyes darting around the room, taking note of every guest he could see. The same faces, the same look of entitlement, the same alcohol-flushed complexions, there was nothing new to see…
…except…
Her. Short, thin and utterly bored. Wearing a department store black cocktail dress. Thick blonde hair twisted into a ropey bun. Wide blue eyes looking around with utter disdain. Full lips slack with disinterest. Pretty but not classically beautiful. Certainly not glamorous. Interesting looking and looking like she could say interesting things.
Decision made.
He began to make his way over to her, noticing that she was actually starting to look sleepy, she was so bored. Just as he came up to her, Alfred appeared at his side.
"Ah, Master Bruce, nice of you to come," he cackled.
Bruce saw the woman's eyes snapped open, and she glanced around for a moment, finally focusing on him.
"May I present Dr. Amy Curtis of Gotham University's Religious Studies Department?" Alfred intoned.
"How do you do, Mr. Wayne?" she said coolly, extending her hand to shake his.
"It's a pleasure, Dr. Curtis," he replied, taking her hand. Soft but cold. He saw goosebumps on her bare arms. She smelled like Johnson's baby lotion. No earrings.
"On behalf of my department, we'd like to thank you for your generous support of the university," she said, as if calmly reciting a well-rehearsed line. "This fundraiser will enable us not only to pursue research that will keep us competitive, but also endow scholarships for underprivileged youth."
Fascinating. She was utterly uninterested in him, in anything around her, it seemed. She shivered slightly, probably from the air conditioning.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
"I'm fine, thank you."
It was like hitting a wall.
"Why don't you show Dr. Curtis the view from the balcony?" Alfred chimed in. "It's warmer outside."
Bruce smiled at Alfred. He had forgotten the man was there for a moment. He offered his arm to Amy Curtis, who looked displeased at the proposition but took it anyway. Hundreds of eyes on them as they walked to the balcony. She was stiff on his arm. Murmurs behind them.
The August night was humid but plenty warm. He led her over to the edge of the balcony railing, releasing her arm and leaning on the rail. He ducked his head to look into her eyes and was shocked to find what he saw there.
Fear. Utter, total fear. Borderline panic. Swallowing hard. White knuckles. Staring down into the endless drop down 45 floors to the street.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She coughed a little, as if trying to clear her throat. Words seemed stuck.
"Uh, yes," she said softly but he noted a touch of hoarseness from fear. "I…just…don't like heights."
Fear of heights. Duly noted. Gently, he wrapped his hand around her elbow and pulled her back from the edge, bringing her over to a set of chaises longs set back from the railing. He eased her down onto the seat, then sat down across from her, pleased to note that their knees were almost touching.
She noticed too, as she seemed to come back to herself, and scooted back on the seat away from him.
"So, what does your research focus on?" he asked, fixing her with his gaze.
"Voodoo."
Amy watched his face as she deliberately used the loaded word. She took a perverse pleasure in watching people's reactions to her research. She knew it was incongruous with how she looked, how people immediately thought of zombies, bad movies and black magic. She was content not to disabuse them of their misperceptions – it would take too much effort on her part. Let them sign up for her class, if they really wanted to know.
Bruce Wayne's reaction was unusual. He nodded slightly and scrutinized her more closely. His gaze was making her uncomfortable, a sensation that was rare and unpleasant for her. She looked away, trying to think of a way out of this tete-a-tete.
"So, do you specialize in Voodoo, Voudon or Hoodoo?"
His question snapped her gaze back to his. She thought her jaw might even have fallen open.
"How do you…" she sputtered, then pulled herself together. "Not many people are aware of the differentiations."
He smiled and shrugged. "I picked up a lot of random knowledge when I traveled."
"I guess you did."
He opened his mouth to say something else, but she saw her chance and jumped in.
"I really shouldn't keep you from your other guests, Mr. Wayne," she said, trying to smile and not really succeeding. She got to her feet. He stood up with her, towering over her, and she noticed just how close he was.
"I'd rather talk with you," he replied, smiling and leaning in a little.
"That's not being a very good host," she said, starting to edge past him. "And besides –"
She stopped cold, a feeling of surreal dread seizing her as her ears picked up the song being sampled by the band that had started to play.
"What's wrong?" Bruce asked, putting his hands on her bare shoulders and pulling her a little closer to him.
Amy stood still for another stunned moment, then promptly disentangled herself and deliberately stepped away from him, eyeing him with mingled fear and distrust.
"I have to go." She turned and walked as fast as she could back inside, toward the elevator. She steeled herself not to look at the musicians, not to hear the words of the song, to listen to the voice that sang it.
"Amy!" Bruce ran after her, catching her at the elevator.
"It's Dr. Curtis, Mr. Wayne," she snapped as the elevator doors opened.
"What's wrong? What did I do? What's going on?"
Amy flicked her gaze to the band, flinching as she saw the singer eyeing her, his rheumy, blue-filmed eyes seeing her even through his blindness. He grinned, yellow teeth against mahogany skin marked with age spots, crowned with a shock of white hair.
"Papa Justify," she whispered, then looked back to Bruce before turning and stepping into the elevator, hugging herself to keep from shaking.
Bruce watched the elevator doors gently close. He felt like he had been swept up in a five-foot hurricane. Extraordinary.
Extraordinary fear.
Fear of "Papa Justify." He turned and looked at where she had been looking before leaving. The band continued to play what sounded to him like old-time blues. He listened for a moment, noting that the words were a mix of English, French and Creole. The singer looked like a nice old man, almost like Lucius Fox in 20 years.
But something about the group frightened Amy. Not Dr. Curtis. Amy. He'd do some digging, just to see what was going on. And it would give him a reason to see the cold, recalcitrant, paranoid professor again.
A/N: First Batfic...please be kind if my "verse" is off. I have chosen to remove Rachel from the picture...and this is set around the time of Batman Begins. You may know me from Phantom of the Opera fics, and I will get back to those, I promise! But, I just saw TDK and rented BB, so I have to get this out of my head...
Yours in mischief,
Kate September