Author's Note: Okay, so I'm asking, now that you've clicked here, please read all the way through this chapter and PLEASE review. I want to know if you'd wish me to continue. I also appreciate constructive criticism. Now, I do not own anything from the DC Universe, including Batman, Montoya, the Mad Hatter, or the Joker, who will all make appearances in this story. I do, however, own Val. She is mine. I created her. What do you think of her? This is mostly in Nolan-verse, although a few things may be a little too out-there for that. Enjoy!

Mad as a Hatter

The room was dark, for the most part. The only source of light was a single, vanilla scented candle placed on the floor by the girl's feet. She sat quietly, her legs crossed in the lotus position. The only sound in the room was her deep, steady breathing. She sat facing the door, waiting. She knew he was coming. She had seen it earlier that morning. Her palms moved from their outstretched position in midair to the floor, where they rested open on the cool ceramic. As her fingertips made contact with the tiles, she could feel his footsteps on the stairs. He was taking his time, no doubt wondering how to introduce himself. He certainly wasn't in costume; he would have used the window if he was, though he need not worry about revealing his identity to her. Very suddenly, as if he had made up his mind, the footsteps began to thunder up the last few steps. She folded her hands on her lap and blew out her candle just as he knocked on her door.

"Come in," she said, not bothering to raise her voice. She was perfectly sure he had rather good hearing. She listened as the door creaked open and he stepped inside. He had barely taken two steps into the doorway.

"Good evening," her ears were met with a gruff voice, clearly a disguise.

"Close the door," she instructed, waiting until another two steps had been taken and a second creak signalled obedience to her request.

"Miss Brite?"

"Why do you ask if you already know the answer?" she smirked and moved to stand up. Immediately, she heard him shuffle over to help her and she brushed him away. "If I needed help I wouldn't live alone," she told him with a sharp voice, "And please, call me Val."

"Val," said the gruff voice, his helpful hand releasing her arm, "Can you help me?"

"You haven't even introduced yourself yet," she grinned, "What should I call you?"

"Batman," was the response. Val raised her eyebrows, a grin on her face. She got no answer and figured that now was not a time for humour.

"And what do you need help with?" Val asked, brushing off the legs of her black yoga pants.

"It's difficult to explain," he said.

"Would you care to show me then?" Val reached out and touched his arm, feeling the soft material of an expensive suit. Immediately, the man, whoever he really was, stiffened.

"Montoya warned me about the way you see things," his voice was unsteady, as if he was worried about offending her. She gave a quick, blunt laugh.

"Montoya's the one who sent you here?" There was no response to her question for a moment before the gruff voice delivered a sheepish 'yes'. Val laughed, figuring the Batman had nodded his answer before remembering her predicament.

"How is she?"

"Miserable," the answer was very frank, "She's a drunk."

"And you're going to take advice from a drunk?" Val raised her eyebrows once more.

"She's the only one that'll help me." There was definitely pain behind that raspy voice. Batman needed help. No surprise there; he was a vigilante, wanted in the city he was trying to protect.

"Then why are you here?" Val asked, "Why, if Montoya's the one who's helping you."

"She wants to give up," he answered, "Told me I should come here if I wanted real help." Val was silent for a moment before taking a step toward the Batman, her bare feet barely making a sound as they moved.

"Will you let me see?"

"Can I trust you?"

"What choice do you have?" Val felt the man before her kneel down. She placed her hands on his head, running her fingers through his hair. She slowly lowered herself onto her knees and pressed her forehead against his. Her palms gripped the sides of his head, her cool skin against the beads of his sweat.

Within a moment, she pulled away from him, gasping. Shakily, she stood up, holding out her hand to help the Batman. He did not take it, but she heard him shuffle as his position changed to upright.

"So?" his voice sounded almost upset, as if she had somehow violated him. Val reached a hand out and rested it over his heart, feeling the place where the expensive suit gave way to an equally expensive dress shirt. Again, his body tensed at her touch.

"He likes to be called the Mad Hatter," Val whispered. Slowly, she ran her hand down the breast of his jacket.

"What else did…?"

"And Montoya wasn't kidding," Val interrupted his question, picking a strand of curly dark hair off of his jacket, "She's got a bottle of Vicodin in the cupboard above the bathroom sink…." She twirled the strand of hair around in her fingers, "I'd hurry over there if I were you."

There was silence for a moment, before Val heard the striking of a match against wood and smelled the flame; a scent which had turned to vanilla before the Batman was halfway down the stairs outside her closed door.