Previously on "We Live In Glass Houses"…

And curiosity pushed him forward, after all what could one lunch hurt? So he decided to call her; if he wanted to know about her he decided that he would ask her instead of invading her privacy without her permission.

So he dialed the number.

She answered. "Hanna Ming speaking. May I ask who is calling?"

And now presenting……

Chapter Two: Walls

Hanna POV

"Bruce Wayne speaking. How are you today, milady?" a cocky but slightly ajar voice sounded on the other end of the line. I walked over to my small couch and plopped down, confusion shaking my body. Anger, too. I could guess what he wanted; the news has the world convinced that Bruce Wayne was a playboy that always gets what he wants but I wasn't about to let him in. He was about to get a newsflash: nothing was easy, and Hanna Ming most certainly wasn't.

"Why are you calling me?" I asked, not bothering to hide the bitter distaste in my voice.

"I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me, just as friends."

"We aren't friends, Mr. Wayne," I said coldly. It briefly entered my mind that perhaps I was being unfair, but I pushed the thought away as soon as it entered my slightly unstable mind. Unstable, maybe, but certainly a mind stronger than the mind of any of the sane, if that makes any sense. Which it doesn't have to….make sense, that is.

I stood up, pacing back and forth in my room and stared at the open document on my laptop, which was sitting on my desk like a cold duck. I had been in the middle of what I called a writing-coma (which means I get so into my writing that I was really inside whatever story I was writing, a trancelike state that made my characters seem real and my ideas flow more freely) when my cell phone rang, and it frustrated me to know that the idea would be lost because that egotistical playboy had interrupted my writing spree and possibly destroyed the potential-novel.

"How did you get my number, anyways, Wayne?" I asked. Calling him Wayne made my adrenaline spike. Asserting my authority, or at least that was what I told myself. Let him know that I wasn't afraid of his wealth and popularity. That I certainly had no respect for him.

"Oh, I have my way, Hanna."

I wanted to smack him. No, correction, I didn't, because that would mean I was in the same room as him and I was too disgusted with him to be near him.

"I really don't have time for this, Bruce," I said. Had I just called him Bruce? What was happening to me?

"Just one lunch, Hanna," Bruce said.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a different world. A world of shadow and light, something beyond this emptiness inside of me. I need to be strong, there's no place in this world for the weak.

But what would one lunch hurt?

"Fine," I said. "But don't think this means anything, Bruce."

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Forty-five minutes later I was sitting inside Bruce Wayne's car and his butler, Alfred, was driving us to a restaurant. His butler did seem like a nice guy but I didn't know what I should think of a guy who has a butler do everything for him. From early on I had always preferred to do things the hard way. No task was an impossible task – if there was a will, there was a way.

So why was I in the car with Bruce Wayne? Was my subconscious telling me something? I briefly considered that thought but then scoffed, thinking, 'I think not.'

Briefly I looked down at my bare arms and wondered if Bruce would notice the long-faded scars. He wouldn't, though, nobody did. The best way to hide something is in plain sight.

"So why do you want to go to lunch with me?" I asked, studying Bruce's face, trying to discern motive in his dark chocolate eyes. I wasn't really good at talking so I considered winking but decided against it.

For a second I thought I saw something flash through Bruce's eyes but as soon as it was there it was gone, and there was billionaire playboy Bruce and I didn't want to get into something like this.

'Too late, Hanna,' I scolded myself internally.

"I don't know, you just seemed interesting. I've read your books," Bruce said.

If I didn't know any better I'd think Bruce Wayne seemed nervous, ha, that's so unlike the Bruce Wayne in the tabloids. 'Get a hold of yourself, Ming.'

"Did you like them?" I asked and then realized what a silly question that was to ask and I assured myself that I didn't care if I made a fool of myself.

"Sure, is it true that writers take from their own lives?" Bruce teased.

"Haha, Bruce, not true," I said, even though he was partially right (it wasn't like I was going to admit to it).

"You sure?" he joked with a crooked grin.

I don't know why I said it but I said, "You wanna find out?"

Right after I said it the car pulled up at the restaurant. 'Saved by the bell,' I thought, relieved. Before I knew it Bruce was out of the car and holding the door open for me. I felt awkward when he reached to hold my hand and instinctively I pulled my hand away. It was just an instinctive reaction and I didn't know if I should take it back or not. It was too late now anyways.

I turned to look at Bruce's face as we walked into the expensive restaurant and studied his angular jaw and his dark eyes, trying to see something that wasn't there, or trying to stop seeing something that was there. I didn't know which was worse.

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Bruce POV

I went to hold Hanna Ming's hand but she jerked her hand back and I was surprised by the power I felt in her hand. I could sense that she was reluctant to be seen with me but that was understandable considering what the world thought I was. Plus, I really shouldn't be getting involved with her – I had duty and this could only put her in danger.

Reporters with cameras swarmed us as we walked into the restaurant. We tried to dodge the blinding lights, but who knows, they might have snuck a shot or two in. I wouldn't put it past them – snapping their cameras like vultures swarming down on fragile prey with neither remorse nor heart. Cold, biting, the only care in the world being the money they would get from selling the pictures and spreading new rumors to the already cold, dark world.

The waiter lead me and Hanna to a table and handed both of us a menu. The restaurant was crowded and I hoped I didn't run into any socialites that would ruin this or give Hanna a hard time. It had happened before, which is another reason I usually avoided dating that actually meant something.

As we sat down in the redwood chairs at the table I studied Hanna's face and tried to gauge her reactions but I wasn't getting anything from her, her mouth was a line and her eyes didn't betray any emotions or fears she may be harboring underneath. Briefly I remembered what Rachel had told me a long time ago, "It isn't who you are underneath, but what you do, that defines you." I thought about the question I asked Hanna and wondered if her own life was as tragic as the novels she wrote; if what she "did" (write novels) shed any light to who she was underneath. And then I wondered why I cared so much and scolded myself for getting too close.

"You seem deep in thought," Hanna suddenly said, breaking me from my reverie.

"Just thinking of something an old friend once said," I said, trying to hide nostalgia from my voice.

Looking up from the menu, Hanna said, "And what was that?"

It was curious that she asked about the words instead of the person. But, she was a writer, so maybe that's all that is. I hesitated and then said, "She said that it's not who you are underneath, but what you do, that defines you."

Hanna seemed interested and was about to say something when the waiter appeared at the table and asked us what we wanted to drink.

"Just water," I said.

"Lemonade for me," Hanna said. There was a strange look on her face.

After the waiter left Hanna didn't say anything else about the previous topic. Silence penetrated the conversation but it wasn't completely an awkward silence. The drinks came and then we ordered our meals.

We had been eating for a while, not really talking much, when Hanna said, "What happened to her?"

"Who?" I asked.

"The person who told you that. That it's what people do that defines them," Hanna said. I deduced that Hanna was a very observational person if she could detect very subtle things such as the foreboding loss that must have rang through in my voice, no matter how much I had tried to hide it. Maybe some things just weren't possible. But I didn't bother to ask how she knew something happened.

"She died," I said.

"I'm sorry," Hanna said.

"It's not your fault," I said. 'Its mine,' I thought. 'I should have known that the Joker would switch the addresses.'

"Wanna talk about something else?" Hanna asked. She was perceptive, too.

"Sure."

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In the evening I patrolled for a few hours, stopping a few petty thefts and saving a young (faceless, really, just like Batman) girl from impending rape. It was as if the whole world was divided into the perpetrators of evil and the civilians I saved from evil, but in neither did I (nor could I) form any really connections, and I knew that Rachel was right, selfish maybe, but right – I could never be close to anyone because Batman was my real face and Bruce Wayne was my mask but for Batman to work Batman had to be faceless.

The truth was, I never would have asked Rachel to be with me, anyways. It was too dangerous. She died. Whether or not we were in a relationship. It seemed that simply having the feelings and being there to save her in the past had done the damage. How ironic.

Later the Bat Signal was on. I sped off in the Batmobile hoping Gotham wasn't falling into another crisis but knowing better, of course Gotham was. The street lights had long gone out and Gotham City no longer held any false illusions of grandeur and beauty. Evil did tend to disguise itself with beauty and temptation.

I appeared from the shadows on top of the building in front of Gordon.

"What is it this time?" I asked in a dark raspy voice.

"A new serial killer is on the loose, I'm not sure if he's killing for money or something else but I'm pretty sure it's not the mob, different MO," Gordon said, handing me a file to look at. From the description the henchman working for the main man seemed more experienced than the ordinary thug and at both scenes they left no evidence behind.

"Assassins?" I asked.

"Maybe," Gordon said.

"I'll look into it," I said, committing the information in the file to memory and then disappearing into the night.

TBC….

What do you think so far? Is first person working or is it too awkward? Should I change it to third person? Is it too OC heavy?