Sunday

Riley Tueri yawned as she tapped the brakes of her tried-and-true blue jeep. It had been a long drive back from her father's property, and she was feeling it. She had had the week off from her studies at school and had begged and bartered with her coworkers and boss at the bakery to cover for her at work. She had promised she would make it up. She had put her break to good use; canoeing, hiking, and revitalizing at her father's home, and, although she loved Gotham, she was glad for it. It had been a long year, and the city's clouds got you down after a while.

She turned off the larger road onto her street, filled with small apartments. Hers was no Wayne Hotel, but it was certainly a leap or three above the Narrows. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard as she pulled into the parking garage. 03:36. Later than she had thought and she stifled another yawn as she turned the car off. She slammed the door behind her, and stretched to untie the knots that bound her black canoe to the roof of the vehicle. Weariness made her fingers fumble, and she mumbled at the knot as she worked. It eventually came free without her having to saw it off with her knife, and she carefully maneuvered the contraption to the tar, careful not to scratch the fresh paint job that her cousins and uncle had helped with. She opened the back door of the jeep and unloaded her baggage into the canoe, which she shifted onto a set of wheels that she somehow got into the elevator and up to her apartment.

Said apartment was small, but workable, and it was well furnished with a small TV, a couch, and a large and sumptuous kitchen that she enjoyed using. She looked longingly at the kitchen, but decided to wait for a decent hour to break her fast and, leaving her luggage in the middle of the living room for the morning, she went to her room and, her most favorite thing about the entire apartment; her bed.

Tuesday

Bruce Wayne turned his face to the wall and contorted it into a ferocious snarl before settling it back into a vaguely disinterested paste and turning to once again survey his surroundings. It felt good to let his face stretch into what it wanted to for a while, and to let it rest from the whole 'stiff upper lip' thing. The party was monotonous as usual, and even his usual mind games with himself (How many sequined dresses present? 26. How many Cuban Cigars? 13. How many tyrannical matrons trying to force innocent billionaires into marriage? Too many) couldn't wrest him from his boredom.

He stifled a grimace as he saw a high-society matriarch herding a young hopeful toward him. He reminded his face to be polite, and played it the best he could.

"Ah! Mr. Wayne! Have you yet met my dear young friend, Miss Jessica Hartlet?" Her tone was sweet and obsequious.

He replied as coolly as socially acceptable. "I believe I have not yet had the pleasure, Mrs. Watring. I presume this is the young lady?" He accepted her proffered hand and made as if to kiss it, while his lips never made contact with the translucent, limp, and manicured hand in his calloused grip. She was pretty; in a pale, listless sort of way, but her lips looked pasted on, and her skimpy dress did nothing to compliment her colorless skin. There was a gleam in her eyes that spoke of greed, and ambition; two things which he did not have time for. He glanced away, and furrowed his brow as if someone were signaling him, and then gave a smile and a nod. He turned back to the two females in front of him and graciously excused himself, "I beg your pardon, but I see an old acquaintance of mine, and I could not bear to go the evening without seeing them. If you'll excuse me."

He stalked off, as if making his way to his acquaintance, but of course there was none. He headed for the balcony, and, after a few twists and turns, he found it. He relaxed into the railing, and, with a furtive glance around, loosened his bowtie and shirt. It was stifling in there, although the temperature could not be more than seventy-five degrees. He supposed it was all the fakeness that got to him. Being in a room full of backstabbing bitterness and greed and hatefulness would get to anyone who wasn't a part of it.

All of a sudden, he felt tired. Not physically tired, just exhausted of all the intrigue and fencing games and insults. He wanted desperately to walk in a normal place, like a normal, honest, up-front-to-back person. He cast one final look around, to see if anyone was in sight.

All clear.

He hefted himself over and off the balcony, landing with a puff in the snow a story below. What had seemed so stiflingly fake while still in the house suddenly felt cold, and real. He snatched up a handful of snow as he trotted off the lawn toward the row of limousines, ignoring the strange looks from the chauffeurs as he rubbed the melting powder between his hands. He found his limousine, and Alfred. He opened the door and got in.

"Hello, sir. Back a bit early, aren't we?" Alfred said in his knowing way.

Bruce grunted. "I can only take so much of them before I start to feel my face freezing up." Alfred smiled, used to his charge's solitary nature.

"In that case... Home, sir?" Alfred asked, starting up the car.

Bruce thought for a moment, as he pulled off his jacked, bowtie, and white shirt, revealing a black wife-beater. "No, not this time. How about the Saxon Plaza." he decided as he rummaged under a seat for a different set of clothes that he carried for just these occasions.

"Right away, Master Wayne." Alfred was already driving. Bruce smiled and changed swiftly. The Saxon Plaza of Gotham, where shops and malls and parks were the norm. The plaza was the center of the middle class of Gotham, and he figured that a walk in a snowy park would be just the thing. Alfred dropped him off a block short of the main road, to avoid unwanted attention from the limousine. "Be safe, sir."

Bruce had just smiled and said, "As always, Alfred."

The park, hazed over with the falling snow, was empty. Bruce, hands stuffed in plain jacket pockets, trailed pensively along the snow-dusted pathways that criss-crossed across the snowy expanses. Trees towered high overhead, their dark green blackness accentuated by the pale shrouds draped over them; an overly salted meal. The night was a black purple, broken only by the lights of the shops in the distance. Other than that, the trees and the snow blocked out all other light; giving the park a surreal solitude that the lone walker savored and craved. If he were an artist, of the page or of the canvas, he might have attempted to capture it for future pondering. As it was, he was a kinesthetic artist, a master of movement and thought, and so he reveled in the vacuum of emotion that the park created, sucking away all the fake and sorrowful thoughts, leaving only quiet pondering in the midst of pouring snow.

Bruce sighed, his breath fogging on the cold, a soft wind blowing it away from him. He watched it dance and fade away. His eyes lingered long after it was gone; he could have sworn the park was empty. It seemed that he had been wrong.

A figure, lone as himself, was trudging lopsidedly away from the lights of the shops. If the shortish hair streaming behind was any help, the figure looked to be female, but it was hard to tell in this light. Bruce watched for a long moment, before he realized she was coming toward him. He looked away, pretending not to notice her as she traipsed toward him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed she had her face down. Was she-?

She was. He smirked. She had her nose in a book, carried in one hand. The other held a stack of binders, and her sideways gait was caused by the large bag slung over her shoulder. She looked to be in her early twenties, and her dark blonde hair was unfettered, gathering snow. Occasionally, she would blow across the page, and he supposed she was blowing away snowflakes. He smiled, in a bemused way. Who would be out walking, on a dark night, in the snow, carrying binders and a heavy bag, and still be reading. He shook his head ever so slightly as she continued toward him.

She was only a few meters away when her foot caught something, and she toppled forward. If he had been so inclined, he would have laughed at the look of surprise and shock on her face. As it was, he nearly leaped to help her off of her knees. She scrabbled about, trying to gather her things without getting them wet. It seemed just as she got one thing in her arms, something else fell.

"Here, let me help you with that." Startled, her head shot up, and she paused momentarily. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she ducked her head.

"You don't have too—I couldn't trouble you. " Her voice was soft, cautious. That made him even more determined.

"No really- Let me help you." He was already on his knees, gathering her binders skillfully, mindful of the papers inside. He was surprised she had lasted as long as she had without falling. The binders were thick, and it was no light novel she had been reading. He recognized it as a textbook. She must be on her way from school or something, but at this hour?

She kept her head down as she accepted his help, but he sensed it was not fear, but something else, that made her shy. Once he had her binders in a neat stack in his arms, and her bag was safely packed and on her arm, he stood, offering her a hand up. She hesitantly accepted, and he noted with surprise that her hands were calloused and strong. He pulled her up easily, and noticed for the first time her height. She was tall, maybe five feet and eleven inches, only four inches shorter than him. He carefully handed her the book, retaining the binders as he asked "Why so many books?" He made his tone gentle as he tugged her along; he wouldn't let her carry so much again. Out of the corner of his eye, she ducked her head again. His brow furrowed. Why so shy? He wasn't that scary, was he? Then he remembered he was in Gotham.

"I-I'm sorry to bother you. I just got off of work, and school was right before that, and… I needed to study during my break so…"She let it go and he understood. He noticed a slight twist of her words, the faintest of accents; not quite southern... western, maybe?

"Life can get pretty hectic for me, too. How far were you going to have to walk?" He was curious about this college student, who obviously disliked being a nuisance to others, and could read, carry, and walk at the same time.

She sheepishly answered, "It's really not that far…" Her guilty tone told him the truth. She had more than a few blocks to go.

"How about I walk you home?" Seeing her eyes widen, he rethought very quickly, "I mean, let me walk you to the road and see you safely into a cab." She relaxed at this, and smiled for the first time. It was small, but it was definitely there. Seeing it gave him courage. "By the way, what's your name? Not many people can read and carry lots of binders at the same time, and I like to catch the names of the skilled few." His gentle teasing drew a light chuckle from her throat. He found that he rather liked the sound of it.

"It's Riley, Riley Tueri. And who would care to make the acquaintance of a member of the skilled few?" She verbally poked him back. He grinned, feeling buoyed.

"Bruce Wayne at your service, and if I didn't have these binders, I would sweep you a charmingly smooth bow." He winked, and she laughed again. They were in the fringes of the park now, almost to the road, and he suddenly wished that they hadn't walked so fast. He wanted to make her laugh again.

"And I suppose that if I wasn't carrying this bag and book, and if I were in a dress, I would dip into a sweet ladylike curtsy, and flutter my lashes at you." She was really smiling now, and her cheeks, still faintly pink, got dimples.

"And then I would take your hand and kiss it, and compliment you on your embroidery." She smirked.

"And I would refinedly change the subject to the dashingness of your skill in the latest tournament." He winked again.

"But of course." They were at the main road now, and a taxi pulled up without even being flagged down. He opened the door for her, and she slung her bag inside, followed by the book. He handed her the binders, and she shoved them in, too. She turned to him and gave him a beautiful smile. It was the first time he had clearly seen her face, and he suddenly realized how blue her eyes were. Almost dazedly he took her hand and kissed it, smiling at her blush as he bowed low. "Good night, milady." His tone was somber, but soft as he helped her into the cab.

"The same to you, dear sir." Her tone was serious as well. She smiled one last time as he gently closed the door.

He stood there, hands thrust in pockets, staring after the cab long after it was gone.