The social worker folded her hands on the table. A sigh escaped her mouth as the man reached for the folder. The way his thick tie brushes the water stained glass was an unbelievable sight, nearly refreshing. It made her black blazer and slightly off black skirt from the thrift store no longer match.
He flipped the cover back, quickly before he could see the Arkham label. Inside was a lots of uneven typeface, with a lot of fields written on top of white out. A photo with a sepia tone that made the boy's grimace even more unsettled, and a little more fragile. He couldn't be any older than seventeen though the bags under his piercing stare said otherwise. Greasy black hair stuck to his eyelashes like some sort of mask, but Mr. Wayne was the kind of man who could read right through.
"Mr. Wayne," the worker demanded, " you do understand my legal exposure."
Bartholomew Henry Allen. Mr. Wayne wasn't sure how a young man like him could live up to such a name. Particularly considering his origin being boiled down to what little he currently has to manage with.
Barry, for short. He does not respond well to his full name. Must be an earful for the mouthful, especially with Henry. And Wayne understands completely.
His lips stumbled over the grayness, his eyes frozen like cement. The sepia of the picture was feeling like the most colorful thing in the world, though he knew it was quite the opposite. His eyes and the boy met, and would never part even when Bruce glanced up at the worker.
"Consider him under my protection."
The dim light bounced off of the worker's eyes. "Why, Mister Wayne?"
He wished he could tell her what exactly he saw in the burning eyes. If it wasn't so much for secret. Actually, he wasn't so sure that he even knew what it was. For right now, it would be, " I like to make friends.."
"That's the difference between you and me..."
He rose from his seat. Casting shadow over the table and on the wall when he passed the windows on the opposite wall. Beams from the cities prickled his face like his stubble, and the intensity of them made him realize that his car was the only car in the parking lot. And that the black Benz had light shooting directly through it, with nobody in the car to look back at him.
The social worker lifted her glass of blood red champagne. She believed in many things, but that didn't include friendship.
Wayne knew that he could have done better despite the need for friendship and intimacy seeming to be enough to explain Everything. If Diana had been in the car, she definitely would be walking through the parking lot now after waiting a good 40 minutes, coming in to say the perfect things.
His hand grabbed the door handle. "Good night."
" You look tired." She remarked that he should stop working nights.
He smiled over his shoulder.