A/N: Legions? Aw, you're cute... Thank you for the fantastic reviews. I'm a big fan of the exclamation points.

Let it be noted that I hate this chapter. I'm not sure whether I'm off form because college is challenging or because this chapter feels more like a device than part of the story. It feels like a cliché. If anyone has any tips or advice on how it might be bettered, I'm open.

Points go to anyone who can spot my very subtle nod to the comics, which I haven't read, but respect. I also filched a line from Showtime's Secret Diary of a Callgirl.

Warnings: Once again, Vicki has a really dirty mouth. And snoops.

CHAPTER FOUR: Three May Keep A Secret

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"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead."

Benjamin Franklin

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"Gotham is the angry middle child of a one night stand between Detroit and New York." – Barbara Gordon

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To: "Vicki Vale"
From: "Charlotte Hanford Vale"
Subject: Your father

I can't seem to get a hold of you on phone, and your office must have a pretty bad message system because I've left you three requests for a callback and gotten nothing. I know you're busy, but I have a rather urgent update on your father's condition. Remember that guy who raised you, tall, brown hair, hazel eyes, your father? He got pneumonia a week ago and, of course, that weakened his immune system, which with his cancer meds, made him even worse. Now the doctors want to send him to this treatment facility in Illinois. I haven't decided what to do yet, but this is a family matter. You need to be here for the decision. I'm not sure I can handle the stress of taking care of him and working full time at the firm. He won't say what he wants; he just gets crankier every day. I am sure having you here will calm him down. Please answer soon.

I love you so much, please reply soon.

Mom

P.S.: Do you have my potato peeler? I can't find it anywhere…

"Get your own fucking chips!"

"But I'm flat broke…"

"Lemme see it."

"You'll get it all greasy!"

Vicki hugged the 'JC Penny' bag to her chest as Peggy glared at her, wiping her fingers on a napkin. Lunchtime was almost over, and Vicki had just returned from a torturous hour of shopping with Constance for something to wear to the Wayne birthday party. Even on a "SUPER-EXTRA CLEARANCE SALE," the simple blue velvet number had cost Vicki 75 dollars and the hope that she would ever be able to support herself. She tugged the damned dress out of the protective sleeve and stood up, draping it over her body. Peggy, cocking her head to one side, scrutinized the dress with a critical seamstress's eye.

"It's okay," she stated, frowning as her eyes examined the cut of the dress. It had a halter cut top and a plunging V-neck that slid down into a pencil skirt, ending just above Vicki's ankle. She would have to wear flats, to say the least. At the hem, Peggy could see a few strands of thread straying away and curling up, beginning to unravel the weave of the fabric.

"Just okay?" Vicki exclaimed, pouting and curling over to see it herself. "Gee, thanks for the support…"

"I mean that you've got some serious boobage and child-bearing hips," Peggy clarified, laughing as she reached forward to thwack Vicki's breast playfully, making the downtrodden blonde sit back in her seat and shove the dress back in the bag. "The cut of that dress would be better suited for a girl with a skinner, less-womanly bod… Hey, can I have it when you're done?"

Vicki glared at her friend with all the heat of 387 suns. Peggy was 5'10'', three inches taller than Vicki, and although she was an avid eater—she was currently on her second bag of Doritos—Peggy never gained an ounce; she had the protruding collarbone and sharp iliac crests to prove it. Boob size was the one thing that Vicki could claim the advantage in, but, thanks to Peggy's background in clothing design—she'd been making her own clothes since she was 11—she always knew what made her look good.

"Sometimes I hate you a little," Vicki moaned, snatching a few chips off the counter off and scarfing them down.

"What, for the skinny thing?" Peggy laughed, "Miss, 'I-just-dropped-10-pounds'?"

"It's not that I have the discipline to not eat," Vicki insisted through a mouthful of chips. She swallowed them and sucked the leftover salt off her fingertips. "I just don't have the money."

"If you're so broke," Peggy asked, pulling the dress back out of its bag and running her fingers over the imperfect seams, snagging a nail at the hem, "why not apply for food stamps, or something like that?"

"Crack babies in the Narrows need them," answered Vicki. She got up and began to rummage through the refrigerator for some unmarked food to heist.

"Aw, Vicki Vale, humanitarian," Peggy cooed. "Hunger-striking for crack babies." She put the dress away as Vicki sat down with some frozen Sun Chips. "Y'know, I can run to the fabric store at three and fix this up a little better."

"Peg, you are Jesus-"

"Holy shit!"

Both women turned to see Julian tripping over a vase of daffodils just next to the break room door and crashing spectacularly to the ground. The two interns who followed him everywhere, Scott and Joanne, didn't offer any help. They were too busy staring at the bright yellow mass that took up half the break room.

Vicki had known she couldn't keep all those flowers in her apartment. Her pleading with the delivery guy had done nothing until she managed to get Hannah the Happy Hooker to go on a date with him; in return, Vicki had to provide her with an alibi and testify as a character witness should Hannah ever get caught plying her wares. Vicki then had to help him load up his truck with at least half of the flowers and transport them to the Times headquarters.

Originally, Vicki had intended to give them away, but Peggy came up with the idea of making money off of them; they'd set out a basket and made a sign that said "1 dollar per flower." They had about 15 dollars so far, but a few people were too cheap and just took off with the flowers without leaving any money. The mountain of corsages and boutonnieres had been reduced to a scattered pile.

Vicki was glad to see them go. She was still debating whether or not to confess everything to Peggy: the cryptic poem, her suspicion that it was Dr. Crane… Her life felt like a Gothic novel gone stark-raving mad.

Julian scrambled to his feet, sputtering obscenities.

"What the fuck is with all these flowers?" Julian hollered, kicking away the guilty vase and wiping at the water that had soaked through his pants.

"Vicki's got a secret admirer," Peggy giggled. Vicki slid low into her seat, embarrassment flaming in her cheeks and cold dread seeping into her chest. Once you got out of high school, secret admirers were not as romantic or anticipated; they were just creepy. She stuffed a handful of Sun Chips into her mouth without affirming Peggy's statement.

"I'll see you at three," she mumbled to Peggy, slinking out of her seat and tossing the stone-hard Sun Chips in the garbage. She picked her way past the interns, who were trying to help clean up the spilt daffodils from Julian's trip. Having interned at the Times himself during college, Julian had decided that the universe was morally obligated to repay him for his hardships in the form of his own interns to bully. No one bothered to steal his thunder by enlightening the interns about how unimportant he really was.

As Vicki started back to her desk, she felt someone grab her forearm. Taken aback, she yanked her arm away and whirled around, assuming a defensive stance with her hand raised in a fist. Her assailant, Julian, cringed back one step.

"Jesus, Vick!"

For a few moments, they remained locked in a standstill, hands raised at each other.

"So…"

"Yeah?"

"Uh… w-who, uh, sent you the flowers?" Julian asked, relaxing his stance, eyes darting to everything but Vicki. He rubbed the back of his neck, checked his watch...

"No idea," Vicki replied, shrugging her shoulders and thrusting her hands into her pockets. "Some creeper, paid with cash, didn't leave a card."

"Ah…"

With each second that passed by, the silence rang louder in their ears. Vicki shifted from one foot to another; Julian rubbed his chin.

"I, uh, heard you were gonna be at the Wayne birthday party tonight," he began. "I was just wondering… well, not wondering, more like inertly curious… are the flowers from him?"

"I told you, it was just some creeper," Vicki sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Are you seeing him?" he asked point-blank. The question blew away her giggles; she opened her mouth, but couldn't grasp for the answer. "Even though you and I-"

"No, I'm not," she interrupted, voice rising up a pitch or two, "But if I were, it wouldn't be any of your business."

"You've got to be kidding me!" he exclaimed.

"Julian, we're noteven friends!" His reaction to her statement was visceral, immediate. His eyes widened, his body tensed and loosened like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut. "We're barely even acquaintances," she elaborated, taking no notice of the interns and Peggy poking their heads out of the break room to witness the exchange. "I'm the drunk blonde you put up with in college, the one you were above associating with; but this isn't college anymore, and it's killing you to consider me a colleague, or an equal, or somebody worth respecting!"

"That… that isn't true," he sputtered a moment later. "Shit, how long have you been waiting to say that?"

"Regardless of how conceited I think you are," she snapped, "that's not the issue."

"I take it the issue is whether or not a relationship that consists only of fucking implies exclusivity," he retorted, folding his arms over his chest. "How many other guys do you have? Are they your friends?"

"Fuck you," she barked, hurrying down the hall; away from him.

"Yeah, well, guess I'll have to take a number!"

()()()()()()()()()()

Vicki's day did not improve much after that.

Peggy's alterations to the dress, however small they were, did work fantastically. The navy-blue fabric of the new ruffle at the hem was a little off from the color of the rest of the dress, but now Vicki got to pull out her silver heels from graduation, still intact, and wear them. The only thing missing from her new ensemble was the silver chain she'd left at home, but Vicki did not feel ready to go there just yet. Ignoring so many calls from her mother was already a stretch; if she breezed in just to get a piece of jewelry, her mother would switch from a pleading tone to a passive-aggressive one that would make Vicki sick with guilt.

Vicki wasn't ready for that and it would just annoy her father. His condition would only get worse, and Jesus H. Christ, not thinking about it was so much better than thinking about it. Like Aloe Vera on a sun burn. It feels so briefly relieving that you're willing to deny the burn is even there until it starts to peel and scab.

Despite the triumph of the dress, Vicki's mood soured when Constance rolled around to her apartment in her brand-spanking-new Volkswagon.

"A gift from Drake," Constance trilled as Vicki scooted in, referring to her new 'boy-toy' Mortimer Drake, a favored son of England who was in Gotham to expand his father's business.

The bad tension, created by Vicki's immediate resentment of the gorgeous car, the fact that Constance had been early—forcing Vicki to leave with only a sloppy half-up/half-down hair-do—and exacerbated by the fact that Constance would not stop gossiping, made smiling as they sauntered into the Wayne birthday party a torturous excursion in and of itself. Constance's bell-like voice sang like a piccolo at everyone they came in contact with, greeting everyone like old chums, singing out their titles and making a big show of complimenting them on anything she could think of, ranging from children to marriage to business deals to their designer duds. Vicki noticed that Constance never brought herself into the conversation—no mention of Drake passed her peach glossed lips—and every single guest was more than happy to open up their trap. They would do the dumbest thing on earth and unspool their exceedingly high opinion of themselves and their personal business to a gossip columnist.

Every single woman they ran into seemed to glitter with enough diamonds to pay Vicki's rent for two years solid. Vicki also suffered through having her ass grabbed no less than 10 times; Vicki estimated that at least seven of the ten were above the 50-year age limit Vicki had imposed on herself. It was disgusting.

What was worse, Vicki found herself somewhat of a novelty. When conversation finally ran out, Constance would gesture to a silent and awkward Vicki and suggest she take a picture with whoever she was talking to. Vicki felt like she was back in her sophomore year of college, a wedding photographer catering to people who knew the event was all about them and never let her forget it.

Yet this event was not about the socialites Vicki was forced to mingle with. It was about the absent Bruce Wayne. Vicki was stuck at this agonizing event without her single, needed photo of the billionaire eye-candy.

Two hours in, and he hadn't shown up for his own birthday. The butler, Alfred, had stood up in front of the room and informed them that Wayne was running late before proceeding to put them through five agonizing minutes of awkward joke-telling about the average air-speed velocity of a swallow carrying a coconut.

After a solid two hours of clenching her fingers in a pervading desire to melt into the floor, Vicki got the second-best option of the courtyard. She'd been wandering through a corridor, pretending to look for the bathroom, and found that one of the windows was a camouflaged stained-glass door to the gardens. Slipping through it, she was delighted to find herself ensconced in a bed of plain green bushes. Vicki wouldn't have been able to stomach any more flowers at this point.

The night air was frigid and Vicki rubbed her fingers together, hoping warmth would come with time and friction. She stayed in the pool of light emitting from the mansion's windows, but braced at the edge, straining her neck to see above the greenery to the tip of Gotham City in the distance. None of the noise—the honking, shouting, alarms—none of it could be heard in the crisp rural air of the Palisades. It was such a relief to settle into silence.

Someone was in the dark with her.

Vicki stopped breathing as her eyes adjusted to make out the form. The moonlight streaming down soon illuminated a statuesque man studying Gotham City with rapt intensity, unmoving. He probably hadn't even heard her come out. Vicki could just glimpse a sliver of his pale face; his arms were folded behind his back, giving him the aura of a European king. He was dressed in some sort of tunic. Like a sophisticated… ninja, Vicki thought to herself, suffocating a giggle. He was different from the society-types she had been locked up with inside the mansion.

She couldn't help herself. She pulled up her camera, very aware of the rustling it made against her gown, and snapped a shot of him.

"Gloomy, isn't it?" His booming voice called to her, like a growl, but too smooth and imperious to be considered as such. He sounded like he knew she'd been there all along. Vicki let out a small gasp and dropped her camera, letting the sling around her neck catch it.

"It's worse up close," she replied, stepping tentatively to stand beside him. A few more of his features came into view; his face was lined with a few wrinkles, bronze hair flecked with gray, a thin, unkempt goatee, and harsh eyes squinting toward Gotham. They flickered to Vicki for a second and then back to the city.

"Less a city than a mere abundance of greed and corruption," he continued. It was obvious he that wasn't from around Gotham; he sounded British. Vicki would have liked to have isolated herself from this odd gentleman, but her only other option was to go back inside, where the real abundance of greed was wallowing in itself. Folding her arms over her chest, she slipped into a casual stance beside him to study the city together.

"My professor used to say that Gotham was the angry middle child of a one-night stand between New York and Detroit." Her joke garnered a raised eyebrow. "It's dirty, grimy," she continued, trying to get on his wavelength of thought, "cutthroat, backstabbing, polluted; but it's home," she finished gently. Despite all of her best efforts, Gotham City had ingrained itself into Vicki's psyche and, most of the time she was reluctant to condemn it with such severe words. On this night, however, she was in an awful mood, and Gotham made itself an easy scapegoat.

"Why would you choose such a home?" the gentleman inquired, mellower than before.

"I grew up here," Vicki said. Uncomfortable silence followed when he made no reply. His single-minded stare was intimidating and unchanged, as if Vicki hadn't joined him. "My mom used to be this crusading civil rights attorney, product of the sixties and all," Vicki elaborated, for the mere sake of conversation, "so Gotham was the perfect place for her to set up shop."

"She is disillusioned," he announced, stunning Vicki. "Gotham has descended into little more than a hive for the criminal element. Now there is nothing left to fight for."

Vicki's felt her heart drop into her stomach, perplexed at the thought of her mother as the sad caricature this man thought her to be and his shrewd understanding that she was. First in her class at Vassar, her mother had left a lucrative career with the ACLU to work as a pro-bono civil rights attorney in Gotham during the tenure of Mayor Frederick Stewart, a popular politician who was nonetheless a relic of the 50's era repression. Later, she'd taken up public defending, which offered a meager salary and few moral returns; but when it came time to pay for Vicki's college career, her mother had switched to a position as corporate in-house counsel for a subset of Wayne Enterprises. Her father referred to it as her "Faustian suicide."

"She did stop fighting," Vicki replied when she'd found her voice once more. "But have you heard about the-"

"The vigilante, the 'Bat-man'? He's too late," he replied, his words echoing with a certain finality that grated on Vicki's nerves.

"Not quite," she snapped defensively. The gentleman turned to her, interested in her anger. The full strength of his eyes bore into her own, but she held his gaze. "He's changed things. Even if he doesn't succeed, he's made the city's future…" she turned to see Gotham again, simmering in the distance. "Uncertain. It won't necessarily make this 'descent' you're referring to."

"I shan't be staying to see it, anyhow," he said, pivoting toward the door without releasing his rigid posture.

"You're not the least bit curious about him?" Vicki queried over her shoulder, rubbing her fists together once again, realizing how cold she was. She was glad to be rid of the stranger's company; he was rude, off-putting, and so ensconced in his odd tunic wear, he could have at least offered the top layer to a shivering young woman.

"Why should I be?" he growled, the gruffness of his voice surfacing from beneath the cool, imperious façade.

"Curiosity is the first step to enlightenment," Vicki informed him, whirling around to face him. He was at the door, poised with it half opened. He frowned, as though he were perturbed at her wisdom. "Maybe the B-"

"Odd," he cut her off. "I always thought curiosity killed the cat." He shut the door behind him.

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When Vicki returned to the party, the atmosphere had not changed. If Bruce had shown up, people would have been talking a bit louder, women would be just a bit fainter, and everything would be just a bit more exciting. Before she could be spotted by Constance, Vicki ducked out of the ballroom once more and proceeded to wander up a short flight of stairs. She decided it was a legal thing to do; she still hadn't found the bathroom.

Vicki's high opinion of Wayne dissolved a little as she took in the marble palace he lived in, a gorgeous, gargantuan piece of art inhabited by only two people.

Stop being jealous that other people have money, she half-heartedly scolded herself. If you wanted money, you could have gotten your Master's and counseled these people through their Valium, sex, lies and illegitimate baby fueled lives.

Vicki settled for the first room she found, distracting enough with a television, a grand piano and a wall-sized bookcase. She removed her camera from around her neck and set it down next to the TV. The books on the shelves were encased in glass, some volumes arranged horizontally beneath clocks and antique knick-knacks. The shelves were decorated with an intricate design of white flowers, lacing through the spaces between books. Someone—the butler, most likely—must have been very bored to assemble it all.

She squinted to read a few titles at eye level. Gray's Anatomy, Anatomy Atlas, A Review of Microbiology and Immunology, and other assorted other medical texts crowded the shelf to the brim, reminding Vicki that Thomas Wayne had been a successful cardiovascular surgeon at Gotham General for many years. After breaking her collarbone in the third grade by falling off a swing, she'd had to sit in the emergency room at Gotham General and had studied every word of the Thomas Wayne Memorial plaque because it was all there had been to do.

On the next shelf, Vicki was greeted by her Psychology reading list from senior year. Somewhere below, the readings morphed into sociology and peace studies books. In between, the books were on a broad range of subjects; art, mechanics, American History, European history, Vietnamese language, assorted Greek philosophers, poetry anthologies, Sherlock Holmes, cooking, a version or two of the Bible, and a 'Beatles' encyclopedia that Vicki also possessed.

The last shelf seemed sparser, only half-filled. Books by Geoffrey Chaucer, Lord Alfred Tennyson, Kate Chopin, William Shakespeare, John Milton, Sylvia Plath, John Steinbeck, and Virginia Woolf were packed neatly onto one level; a summary of Ivy League undergraduate readings. It was most likely Bruce's shelf, judging from the pristine, 'barely-opened' conditions. Beneath it was the 'Lord of the Rings' trilogy, well used and dog-eared; beneath, 'The Chronicles of Narnia and 'Treasure Island' floated among a host of 'Star Wars' tie-in novels.

Vicki grinned to herself, imagining a 12-year-old Bruce curled up in a corner of this mansion, taking in Tolkien's tedious, in Vicki's humble opinion, prose as if it were oxygen. The next image that came to mind was Bruce leaping around with a wooden sword and crown, pretending to be Aragorn.

Vicki found herself sputtering so hard with laughter at that last mental image that she had to flop onto the piano bench. As she calmed down, she caught a glimpse of Mike Engel beginning his six o'clock broadcast out of the corner of her eye.

"Good Evening. This is Mike Engel with Gotham Cable News…" Vicki gave Engel's TV visage the finger and was about to change the channel when he said something of interest, a bit of a rarity. "… Dr. Jonathan Crane of Arkham Asylum has been arrested and locked into his own asylum following an appearance by the Batman and amid accusations that he has been in league with Mob boss Carmine Falcone. We're going to Trish, live on the scene. Trish, what's been happening?" It flashed to the only person with a soul at Gotham Cable News, on-sight reporter Patricia Yonekura.

"Good evening, Mike," she said, "Uh, the police are urging us to get off the scene, so I'll have to make this quick." Her speaking pace rapidly increased to five words per second. "I'm here outside Arkham Asylum, where police are investigating; there is a CSI team here studying the water piping of all things, fueling speculation that Dr. Jonathan Crane has been spreading something through the water supply. Crane himself was arrested one hour ago and is being questioned by Sergeant James Gordon as we speak. All of this began shortly after a phone call was made from an Arkham administrative assistant claiming that Gotham's new hero, the Batman, was inside. Police were on the scene immediately and I'm told we have some footage of the chase that followed, don't we, Mike?"

The screen flashed away from Trish and returned to Mike's eternally-constipated face.

"Yes, Trish, uh, the Gotham Cable News team got a helicopter over the chase, and here it is again for those of you just tuning in."

Again, the screen flashed, but now it showed spotlights shining down on the highway, a black tank being chased by several police cars.

Shit. She was missing out on the most exciting night Gotham had to offer.

The Batman had engaged the police in a chase that caused thousands in damage; Crane had finally been locked up, causing Vicki to shudder with joy at this development, and it wasn't even seven o' fucking clock! This story could last the night. She should've been there, not trapped in a mansion's upper room as she waited around for some playboy to show up for one fucking picture that would end up on page eight! Vicki became so enraptured in the sight of the chase, and in her own longing, that she was caught breathless when the butler came in and "Ahem"-ed.

"Miss," he said, interrupting the broadcast with his clipped, oddly sophisticated Cockney accent. "Miss Mooreston has enquired as to your location. I assume you are Victoria, correct?"

"Correct," Vicki confirmed, smiling nervously as she scrambled to her feet. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to intrude, but I couldn't find the bathroom, so I was just wandering around, and I caught the broadcast and-"

"Didn't want to take another dip in high society," he guessed, his curt mouth turning up at the corners. Vicki bit her lip and nodded. "It's understandable and yet, it is unavoidable," he advised her, gesturing toward the cavernous hallway that led back to the stairs and the party room.

"Sorry," Vicki mumbled as she swept out.

"No need to be," he chuckled.

It was time to be Constance's wing man again. Through the hallway, down the steps, and inside the lavish social event, Vicki parted through the crowd, slipping in between shoulders and hips and getting groped at for the 11th time, though this guy was below the 50-year line at least. She found Constance playing a game of cat and mouse with a striking young man who spoke with a heavy Welsh accent. The infamous Drake was preening for her attention, yet Constance was playing cool, as if she didn't know him, keeping her attentions on an aged Southern Bell named Regina George. Maybe I can convince her to let me out of here…

"Constance, can-"

"Victoria, darling, Mr. Drake here was just saying he'd love to meet you," Constance said, pulling Vicki into the conversation by the wrist. "Victoria, this is Mortimer Drake, son of Robert Drake, the owner of Prism Corp, the-"

"Glass manufacturing company, I've heard," Vicki supplied, extending her hand to Nicholas in an effort to hurry along the pleasantries.

"I am very pleased to meet you," he said, bringing her hand to his lips for a peck.

"He is just the most charming thing," Mrs. George interjected in a heavy Virginia accent, putting a hand on Nicholas's shoulder. "He was just explaining to me how his father came across the idea…"

Constance leaned over to Vicki's ear.

"Get him out of here, he doesn't understand being on the down-low," she whispered harshly. "And where's your camera? Wayne should be here any minute!"

Vicki clutched at her neck. She realized with sudden dread that her camera was back upstairs with the butler.

"I'm sorry, if you'll excuse me." Vicki ignored Constance's request, leaving her colleague to gaze at her retreating back, shocked mouth gaping like a fish.

Vicki grabbed a handful of her dress as she started back toward the piano room and hurried up the stairs as fast as she could in her constricting skirt. Being away from her camera made her nervous; she'd lost a few valuable ones in her early career. More than that, she felt naked without the protective lens. Overcoming her usual scatter-brained tendencies to keep track of her camera had crafted an odd bond with it.

As she approached the piano room, she heard brusque voices drifting out into the hallway.

"… I didn't have time to observe the rules of the road, Alfred."

Bruce Wayne was in there. Vicki stopped cold in her tracks. A private conversation; it would be very wrong to listen in.

"You're getting lost inside this monster of yours," Alfred warned.

Very wrong. So wrong. Most journalists would have leapt at this; Constance would have exploded with excitement if she'd come upon this chance, but Vicki believed in real news, and in courtesy…

"I'm using this monster to help other people," Wayne replied.

"But Thomas Wayne helping others wasn't about proving anything…"

Now it was devolving into 'Daddy' issues. Though curious to hear exactly what this 'monster' was—probably cocaine or scotch—Vicki took the high road. It took all of her strength to make herself turn around and tip-toe back to the staircase, trying to block out their conversation, but she managed.

Then her camera came back to mind. She stood at the top of the staircase for a split second, trying to pretend she was conflicted about listening in on more of Bruce Wayne's private conversation. Retrieving her camera was a reasonable excuse, he certainly couldn't blame her, and what did she care if Wayne thought she was a bottom-feeding journalist? The butler would understand…

Vicki tip-toed back toward the room.

"It can't be personal, or you're just a vigilante."

… Huh? Vicki strained her ears, leaning against the wall as she crept just a little closer, voices flashing in her head. Vigilante, monster, Bruce Wayne is back, Falcone? Name rings a bell, monster leapt out and dispatched them, you can just blow Bruce Wayne and he'll buy you Batman, expensive piece of espionage equipment, then for the past two days he's been MIA, radio-silence ever since…

"Is Fox still here?"

"Yes, sir."

It doesn't make any sense! He's a pampered brat, not the fucking Batman! No mention of Batman had passed their lips; the grim voices of Wayne and his butler didn't sound insane, they sounded logical and calculating; but there was only one vigilante in the city, and he'd shown up at almost the exact time that Wayne had reappeared, give or take a few weeks.

"We need to send these people away. Now."

"Those are Bruce Wayne's guests out there! You have a name to uphold!"

It happened fast, that was the least she could say. Bruce Wayne exited, straightening his bow tie, and spotted Vicki.

She was prepared, had been ready for this situation, for him to find her, and started toward him as if she'd been walking the whole time. As she opened her mouth to ask, "Is my camera in there?" she got to the "Is my" and the damned dress, which Peg had repaired with such care, which had been the one thing to go right all evening, went wrong. The navy ruffle wrapped itself around her heel and tangled up her feet, tripping her. Her knees, always in danger around Wayne, collided with the marble floor. A sickening THUD to echoed through the hallway as she landed on her ass and clutched at her knee, ignoring the stunned billionaire and butler, whose deepest secrets she had just overheard. Not that their secrets were on her mind anymore.

"Fuck!" Vicki bit her lip, breathing hard through her nostrils, trying to keep her tears at bay. Nothing felt cracked or broken, but pain was blooming through her knee and shooting through the nerves in her legs. A bruised kneecap, perhaps. "Son of a mother-fucking cunt-bitch…"

Wayne knelt beside her, shoving her hands away and pushing up her skirt to examine her knee. He took her knee cap between his middle finger and his thumb.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, pressing his index finger to the top of her kneecap. Vicki pressed her lips into a thin line and shook her head. He pressed toward the middle of her kneecap. "Does this-"

"Fuck yes!"

He let go.

"Miss Vale?" Alfred had come forward and was staring down at her like a grandfather who'd discovered her lighting up one of his cigars.

"How much did you hear?" Wayne asked gruffly, tugging the torn ruffle of her dress back down to her ankle. He reached for her chest; she recoiled. He raised an eyebrow at her, gesturing to her dress, and she looked down to see an exposed left nipple.

"Nothing," she replied, tugging her V-neck closed.

"Vicki, I need to know-"

"I didn't hear anything," Vicki insisted, sliding away from him. She pushed herself up onto her good knee and managed to force herself to a standing position. Alfred came forward and steadied her, keeping his eyes strictly above neck level as she fumbled with her outfit. "Even if I had heard something, there's nothing to tell," she added more quietly.

She locked eyes with Wayne; after a moment of consideration, and with a severe grimace locked onto his face, he nodded sternly.

They now had an understanding. Years later, Vicki would ask herself if that was where all the trouble had started, if becoming Batman's accomplice had led to so much turmoil. Then she would shake her head and absolve Bruce of any blame. She would remember that it had started much earlier, on the night of her fateful trip to Arkham.

Arkham was so strange a motif for her life, yet it a motif nonetheless. It had turned loose on the city when she was nestled in the safety of the burning Palisades. That wave of terror would heave and subside. Vicki would remember that the next wave—the anarchy, the undoing of everything rebuilt following that night, all of it—was her fault.