Chapter 3
Helena looked around her empty apartment and wished she could stop thinking about Bruce Wayne. Alfred had dropped her off, the worst of her injuries healed and the rest covered up with makeup. Bruce had told her principal she had the flu; all of her sick days were gone, but she supposed that was better than showing up with two black eyes, swollen lips, and a split cheek. She could hide the broken ribs and the bruises that painted her body, but she couldn't do much with her face. There wasn't a particularly good excuse for looking like she'd been beat to hell.
It was Friday night now, in two more days her face would look fine-even to the probing eyes of school children. The makeup covered up the bruises sufficiently, but it would be better in a day or two. Her constant thoughts about Bruce Wayne, though, there was no answer to that she could come up with.
He'd hovered over her while she recovered. Sometimes achingly gentle and patient with her; sometimes short tempered and obviously put out. She'd found herself sneaking glances at him whenever his attention was held elsewhere, and asking Alfred about him when she had no reason to invade his privacy while she recovered. Being saved and tended to by him was wrecking her psyche; this was the Batman after all. The man for whom it was never enough. The slave driver and impossible grump. The figure she and Dick had mock toasted before passing out cold. A drinking spell he had driven them to.
And now she was in her apartment dwelling on him, remembering his face. The face without the mask; the handsome face of a man in peak physical condition. The body she had felt for just a second when he caught her; there had been more coiled power in him then any other man she'd known.
He hadn't said anything about her mistake; it was as if he'd known that she knew she fucked up. Maybe he was just that good of teacher that he knew when to stay silent. Whatever the case his silence hadn't helped either; if he'd berated her, been his usual annoying, overbearing self she could have fought him. Would have fought him. But instead he was quiet, unreadable, almost…likeable.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god," Helena repeated as she dropped to the bed and put her head in her hands. This wasn't a fantasy. This was a god forsaken, old school crush.
"I have a crush on Bruce Wayne," she told her empty room. "How can I have a crush on him? This is not good. This is so not good."
"There are probably worse things," his voice said from her balcony.
Helena let out a very unsuperhero-like yip as she spun around. He had picked her balcony doors and was crouched on the waist-high wall, peering at her from the darkness of the night.
"What are you doing here?" she screamed at him.
"Checking up on you," he replied. He still hadn't moved. He was perfectly still, perfectly implacable as always, his face impassive.
"You didn't…that is, you don't…" she was stammering. He had heard. He heard her admission. She blushed furiously and thought she saw the edge of his mouth turn up the slightest bit. It was gone as soon as it appeared, but she sure as hell hoped he had a sense of humor. He'd never had one before, but this was a time for prayers.
"I'm fine," she mumbled. "I'm fine, I mean. I mean, I'm fine. Shit. Shit shitty, shitty shit." Dear gods make it stop.
"I need a date," he said, still poised motionless on her balcony wall.
"What?" she said a little too loudly.
"Bruce Wayne needs a date," he amended. "To a ball. Tomorrow night. I don't have the time or the patience for a playboy bunny right now."
"Oh-okay," she stuttered, still confused.
"Alfred will pick you up at eight." And then he was gone.
"Wait!" Helena called out after him, but he had already disappeared. "You never even asked me. Jerk."
She fell back on her bed and stared at her ceiling for a long time.
"I have a hell of a crush on Bruce Wayne." She blew her breath out dejectedly. "Shitty shit, shit."
Helena spent most of Saturday shopping. She had a formal dress in her closet somewhere, but it exposed way to much skin to cover her bruises. She needed something that covered her torso without making her look like in-bred Victorian royalty.
She found a black number that was perfect. The back was high, the collar rising to the base of her neck, with long sleeves and a plunging neck line. The front plunged, stopping just below her sternum and revealing enough of her chest to keep the dress from approaching anywhere near dowdy. She knew with the right jewelry no one would be looking at her face long enough to notice all the makeup she would be wearing.
Alfred arrived at precisely eight o'clock, and Helena spritzed some perfume on, very lightly, before heading down to the car.
"Very beautiful, Ms. Bertinelli," Alfred complimented her as he opened her door.
"Thank you Alfred," she replied with a smile. The car was comfortable. Simple and expensive, just like anyone who knew Bruce would expect. They arrived at Gotham Towers and joined the cue of awaiting celebrities.
When Alfred pulled up to the red carpet, Helena took the warm male hand that waited to help her out of the car, and smiled into Bruce's eyes as light bulbs flashed. He put his arm around her and waved to the cameras, escorting her inside.
"You look beautiful tonight," he said in his best playboy voice. "An interesting dress."
Interesting her ass. If the dress didn't fit so snugly, she would have worried that a sneeze would free her girls from the very wide neckline that seemed to barely hold them in.
"It seemed the best choice in light of my," she paused, looking for the word, "week."
"I'm going to kiss you," he told her, still smiling as they reached the top of the stairs. "I need to throw some grist on the gossip mill."
"Okay," she said, hoping her voice didn't sound as breathless as it felt.
Without another word Bruce Wayne swung her back, his strong hand supporting her at the base of her neck, and placed his warm dry lips on hers. Helena closed her eyes, and went ahead and enjoyed it. She figured she could write it off as playacting if he got suspicious.
She opened her mouth at his urging, and nearly exploded when his tongue plunged into her mouth. He scraped lightly across the top of her mouth as he withdrew, pulling her back up, grinning like the idiot millionaire he was supposed to be, and escorting her inside. Helena felt her legs wobbling in her heels, and was exceedingly grateful women didn't show arousal as obviously as men.
It was going to be a long night.
