A/N:: I supremely fucked up. I hate to admit I'm much more attentive to my AO3 account and had fixed the chapter cutoffs/timeline issue there, but forgot to do that here, too! Things TOTALLY JUMPED AROUND HERE AND I AM SO SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION.

Anyways, that being said, this should fix things. This is the NEW chapter 4. Chapter 5 will be repeat; Chapter 6 will be NEW as well. I'm so sorry .

Chapter 4: Stop and Stare

Birds sang. Sunshine streamed through her window. It was one of those mornings that, if forest animals came in and helped her get dressed while singing a Disney-esque tune, Caroline wouldn't have found it weird.

She rolled over in the bed, hugging the pillow tightly and sighing fondly. This bed was so comfortable, so fluffy. The idea of getting out of the bed was too preposterous, too silly, that her mind dismissed it quite quickly. Getting up with the sun was overrated.

Her critic, on the other hand...

Hey, wake up, her critic said, mentally flicking her forehead. Seriously, wake up. This isn't your bed, remember?

That made her open her eyes.

Oh yeah, Wayne Manor.

... WAYNE MANOR!

Caroline sat up like a shot and all the blood rushed to her head too fast, causing an ache. She groaned, massaging her temple as she looked around. This was indeed the same room she had been left in last night, and in the light of day, it looked more glamorous, grander than she recalled. Everything was so old, but taken care of; this was old-world money at its finest.

There was also a tray of steaming coffee, biscuits, bacon and eggs sitting on the table near the door. And that, to a working-girl's mind, is more valuable than the mahogany everything.

She jumped for it—a bit too quickly, as her head throbbed at the movement but she elected to ignore it—and sipped the coffee down, all while taking her surroundings in. Hanging behind the door to her room was her clothes, cleaning and pressed, ready to go. The rip that had been on her elbow was gone, carefully stitched up. Alfred had done all of this while she had slept?

Geez, she had to buy Alfred some flowers, or something. Or maybe a gift certificate to a spa; that man worked ridiculously hard.

As she sipped her coffee, she glanced over her clothes, and again at the Utilities map sitting on the desk by the food. Things had to get real again. Escaping like this was probably the most therapeutic thing she could've gone through, considering last night's events, but she had things to deal with. What on earth to tell the police? How far could she use Bruce's name to save herself, if at all?

She sighed and shook her head. No other way than to deal with it as it comes.

Now, Bruce Wayne's pants, her inner critic thought. How are we dealing with these? Return them, even though they've been worn, or steal them off for new car money? Angie would pay a fair price.

Oh, Christ.

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Walking into the office was such a gong-show that she felt downright embarrassed. Considering the stunt she pulled last night, she knew that walking in unnoticed would be impossible, but the fuss everyone made was unbelievable. At first all the girls shrieked at the sight of her, hugging her madly, fawning over her cuts and bruises. Angie even cried.

Brian was there, amongst the cops dusting the place, completely apologetic (even though most of them knew they had certain grounds for quitting, considering none of them would've been there if he hadn't dumped his work on all of them so he could go on his date) and Caroline wanted to let him know that she could care less how he acted because she couldn't quit her job right now, and no matter what he said to her, employed or fired, she would always think he sucked.

And then she was introduced to a sergeant of the crime division of the Gotham City Police Department: Jim Gordon.

He was a slight man, but a harder worker; that was easy enough to tell from just a glance. He was worn and weathered from years on the force, but his demeanor showed no signs of weakness or fatigue. Intimidating enough to talk to the lowest criminals, and scary enough for Caroline to fidget in her chair as he questioned her.

Jim pushed the glasses up his nose before flipping to a fresh page in his notepad. "And the ringleader of this group—what did he look like?'

Caroline shrugged. "I wish I could answer that; all I saw was the burlap mask."

Jim sighed, leaning back in his chair—Brian's chair, actually, as Jim was trying to interview her in a private space—and slapping his notepad against his hand a few times. "Even though I've never heard of a burlap-masked thief, that'll be hard to find in Gotham." Rather than let her respond, he looked through his notes and continued. "So where exactly did you spend the evening? We found your car out in the Palisades," he paused, looking up at her. "How did you get back into town when your purse was here at the office?"

This was the awkward bit that she didn't know how to answer.

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For lack of anything better to say—and to fulfill a desperate need to say something, anything—Caroline cleared her throat and noted, "I've never been in a Rolls before."

Bruce shook his paper after turning a page, trying to stop the crease. "You should see my other cars."

There was the slightest grin on Alfred's face, but Caroline missed it, as he was driving and she was in the back of the car with Bruce Wayne. He was back in his suit, yet every mannerism and inflection still radiated Casual Bruce that she met last night. Once she had dressed—and decidedly left Bruce's pants and clothes on her bed, after making it—she had gone back to the kitchen to find Bruce dressed to the nines and Alfred ready to go out. With some insistence, she was told she was getting a ride with them back into the city, back to her office, and they would be on their way to Wayne Tower.

For a moment, she stopped staring out the window—the windows in this car had curtains. Like a horse-drawn Victorian carriage—and picked at some spare lint on her skirt.

Bruce folded the paper up and set it aside. "There's nothing in the paper about your break-in, or the car chase," he said. He looked at her. "What's the plan?"

Caroline's eyes widened a tad. Has anything she's done in the last two days seemed to be according to some plan? What exactly was he expecting of her? Luckily for all of them, she had considered it this morning.

"I lie," she said simply. "Say I wandered the highway until I got picked up by a kind stranger willing to give me a lift into town."

Bruce didn't seem pleased by this idea. "You won't say you came to my house."

With a sigh, Caroline shrugged, feeling exasperated. "If this blows up and I have people tailing me, I don't want people coming after you, okay?"

"Caroline," and he reached his hand over to squeeze hers. The touch was unexpected, and her gaze went from the window to his fingers. Again, for a billionaire, they were surprisingly rough. "I don't want you to dig yourself a deeper hole just to keep me clean."

For a moment she didn't say anything. What was there to say? Bruce and Alfred had come to her rescue in so many ways in the last twelve hours. The least she owed them was their privacy... the same she wish she had now. No one needs a target on their back like she now had.

"I'll think of something." That was when she noticed they reached her block. She leaned forward, subsequently pulling her hand from Bruce's grasp and resting it on the front seat, to tell Alfred, "You can stop here, Alfred. It's okay."

After pulling to a stop, Alfred looked in the rear-view mirror. "Take care, Miss Hames."

She smiled at him. "You too, Alfred. Thanks for not being scared of the crazy person at the gate."

"Believe it or not, you're not the worst I've seen."

Caroline's smile turned to a smirk and she slid back, ready to get out. Once she opened the car door, it still took a second to gain the courage, but she eventually faced Bruce with a genuine smile.

"Thank you for everything, Mr. Wayne." Suddenly she smirked. "If you ever need Greystoke for anything-" her voice was far more jovial than it should be, but she was joking.

He laughed at that, the same open laugh from last night. "You're welcome, Carrie. Stay safe."

With that, she slid out of the car, closed the door, and watched the richest man in Gotham—and one of the nicest, most empathetic and humane, if she wanted to get detailed—drive away. Only a few seconds later the Rolls turned the corner and it was as if it never happened. As she stared after where she last saw the car, people walked in her view. Cars honked. Gotham moved on. The last twelve hours meant nothing to anyone else.

The city kept ticking—she wasn't even a cog. She wasn't even a screw that kept that cog in place. Just... space.

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"So you spent the night wandering the highway."

Caroline nodded.

Jim Gordon didn't seem convinced. He tapped his notepad a few times, absentmindedly, reviewing what she just told him. "You had a first-aid kit in your car—you took it with you after the crash. You walked along the highway and ducked in the ditch whenever you heard a car coming." If she hadn't had a better opinion of him, she was sure he had just rolled his eyes. "That's why none of my patrol cars spotted you. When you reached the first road-side turnout, you slipped into a bathroom and fixed yourself up."

Caroline nodded again, but winced when she dipped her head too far. The bruise on her temple had grown deep purple overnight, and was starting to hurt; she really needed to get to a hospital.

Slowly, Jim leaned forward, Brian's old chair creaking beneath the shift. He stared hard at her, through his glasses. He simply stared at her for a few seconds; with each passing moment, she was sure that she was keeping a straight face, but her heart was beating harder and harder in her ears.

"Miss Hames, you abandoned your car in the Palisades, the richest part of Gotham," he said slowly, in a quiet voice. "The only road-side turnout is twenty miles from the Kane Bridge."

... well, fuck. She should have looked at a map.

Now her heart was pounding, having been caught in her lie. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and she shifted in her chair, pulling her gaze away from him. "I-I... someone helped me out. And I don't want them to get in trouble."

Jim's gaze narrowed. "Why would they get in trouble?" His voice was light, honestly curious, not demanding.

Caroline bit her lip, trying to fight the tears of embarrassment—and ignore the growing fear filling her—looking skyward for a second before meeting his gaze. "The same way that I'm in trouble now!" She caught herself when her voice rose. "I don't need men with guns at my doorstep in the middle of the night, there because I ratted them out to the cops—especially when I can't trust the police to come save me."

The tiny office was quiet now, besides Caroline's sniffling. Jim simply regarded her.

"... I'm sorry you feel that way. As much as this may be hard to believe, there are people in Gotham that are trying to help." He flipped his notebook closed. "We just have a lot of competition."

Caroline didn't say anything. What was there to say?

"So... off the record. Who was it?"

There was a pause as she considered her options (few and all undesirable).

"... he... he just came back. He's been gone for a while."

"... has he been in the papers a lot these last few days?"

Caroline nodded.

"Well," Jim stood up. "I think your alibi checks out." That caught her attention and she looked up at him as he went to the door. She expected him to push more, to get more out of her. All the sergeant offered was a reassuring smile before noting, "You should really go to a hospital."

Numbly, she nodded. "I plan on it."

"Good." He turned back out to his men, who had finally finished fingerprinting everything. Caroline just sat there for a while, thinking about what happened. Her gut instinct, and all the horror stories she had heard over the years, told her that the cops were bought and paid for... but it didn't seem like Gordon was. Maybe she was too quick to judge him.

"Caroline?"

She sat up with a start when Angie stepped in. She smiled sympathetically. "We're all going to the hospital... to see Margaret. Do you want to come? Maybe get," she grimaced a bit when her eyes landed on the purpling bruise on Caroline's temple, "checked out?"

Honestly, after the day she's had, and the nausea that resided in her stomach after the nerve-wracking interrogation, she just wanted to be alone. But this meant a free ride to the hospital. Maybe she'd be cleaned up quickly and she could sneak out. "Sure."

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Except, when they got to Gotham General Hospital, Margaret wasn't there anymore. Whatever happened with the gas, it affected her brain. The nurses told them that Margaret's conditions became so intense she was even moved from the psychiatric ward to Arkham Asylum. Only family could visit her now.

In spite of this, and in spite of Caroline's protests, everyone from Greystoke Consulting stuck around, hovering by Caroline's bed while an emergency-room nurse properly patched her up. It was awkward as hell, as they've never been that close to begin with; maybe the severity of Margaret's situation had made them all clingy, aching for human contact, so they were all reluctant to leave. If that's what they needed to feel better, it was fine with her. For now,, she focused on the nurse's diagnosis. Thankfully, no concussion; she just looked like an eggplant, that's all. The nurse gave her a prescription for some painkillers and recommended plenty of rest the next few days.

It took about ten minutes, amidst glares and stares from his employees, for the manager of the company to finally speak up. Brian cleared his throat, as if to gain everyone's attention—as if they weren't waiting on him already—and ran a hand through his hair a few times. "So," his voice was tentative and not in the least bit confident. "Obviously, the cops want to go over the security footage from last night; and they aren't done with the office yet... So, um, you gals can take today off."

"With pay," Lauren said sternly, her eyes narrowed at Brian. Angie, sticking close to her work-buddy, had her best glare trained on their boss.

Brian had the gall to look taken back by the statement. "Of course with pay!"

"And Carrie gets overtime for last night," Angie also pointed out.

Caroline tried not to look surprised, especially while the nurse was putting stitches in her forehead—twitching her brows actually made it hurt a lot more. She didn't need people defending her, but this was a nice gesture. And since when was everyone on a 'Carrie'-name-basis with her? She was just the sometimes-supervisor; everyone called her Caroline.

And then she remembered that Bruce called her 'Carrie' before she left his car.

Of course, if the girls hadn't given him very intimidating stares, there was a good chance that Brian would've ignored the overtime altogether, but there was something to be said about strength in numbers (or even in a man's fear of the opposite sex). That was when he suggested taking them all out to a fancy dinner, too, at this fancy-as-hell restaurant in a hotel downtown. The girls seemed pleased with this, as now they could drink, on a Friday night, on the boss's dollar.

Which was all fine by Caroline—except she wasn't sure she had any fancy-as-hell clothing in her closet—so all she was worried about now was going home.

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Caroline finally opened the door to her apartment at 3:30, dropping her keys into the dish by the door. She kicked it shut behind her, about to hang her coat up when the smell of something burning hit her nostrils. The coat was soon forgotten and she quickly made her way to the kitchen.

Sitting at the small table by the window was an older man, bent over a plate of charbroiled grilled cheese. He stared up at her with the same green eyes she had, and smiled. "Hello, kiddo."

Caroline smiled warily. "Hi Daddy."

Mr. Edward Hames, a.k.a. Dad, looked how every almost-sixty-year-old father should: whatever scraps of hair he had left were grey, sometimes flying away from his head. When he grinned it was as if he had a secret joke and wanted to share it with anyone would listen. At the moment he looked ready for bed, in his pajamas and bathrobe, but Caroline knew he hadn't gotten out of those clothes all day.

After kissing him on the forehead she stared down at his sandwich. "Did you make that?"

He nodded. "Yes... a bit burnt, though."

"You don't have to eat it, you know."

"I don't want to waste."

Without asking she picked up his plate and made her way to the sink, grabbing a forgotten spoon from the countertop and scrapping away the black from the toast into the sink. This helped somewhat; at least he wasn't eating charcoal now.

"How was work?"

Caroline was glad he couldn't see her face at the moment; it fell when he asked that. "Um, work is fine. How was your day?"

"Well, the mailman wasn't the same as before," the disappointment was clear in his voice. "And your mother took forever in the bathroom this morning."

Caroline paused and turned to her father. Taking a calming breath, she waited until his eyes met hers. "Mom's not here anymore," she spoke softly. "Remember, Daddy?"

Confusion crossed the old man's face for a moment; recognition hit his eyes, and he bit his lips before nodding. "Right," he chuckled quietly. "Right. Silly me."

His daughter watched him for a second before walking up and setting his sandwich down. "Here, eat up," she told him, rubbing his back, but suddenly his hand caught her wrist.

"Carrie, what happened to you? Your face!"

Crap, she was worried about when he would notice that. She pulled her hand from his grip and put it on his shoulder, squeezing, trying to be comforting. "I got into a car accident this morning."

Mr. Hames frowned. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you know, Dad," she tried to be patient. "I'm fine, everyone's fine, it was the other guy's fault—" at least that wasn't a lie "—but the car's wrecked. We'll have to cab it to your appointment on Tuesday. Okay?"

Slowly Mr. Hames twisted in his chair, reaching up and cupping his daughter's face. "I could care less about the car, sweetheart—I just want you safe."

Her dad only called her sweetheart when he really remembered what was happening. This made her smile and she held his hands against her face. "I've been to the hospital—it looks worse than it is. I'll be fine."

"Good. Have you eaten?"

With a final pat on his hand, she pulled away and started to make her own sandwich, something simple just to have something in her stomach. She really hadn't eaten since Alfred's wonderful breakfast that morning. By comparison, anything in her fridge was boring and tasteless, but she'd have to make due.

While she prepared it, she decided to tell her dad about her news. "My boss gave us the day off work," she said. "And Friday night he's taking everyone for dinner."

"Did he piss someone off?"

Caroline laughed at his intuitiveness. "Yes, yes he did."

Her dad chuckled. "At least he knows the basics of the workplace." He waited for her to look at him before he elaborated. "Happy girls make for a happy environment anywhere in life."

She frowned, only half-heartedly, at him. "Dad, that's kind of sexist... but mostly true." Finally satisfied with her sandwich—and realizing it was as good as it was going to get—she came over to the table. "I'll remind you again tomorrow, and I'll leave a note before I go. Sound good?"

After a moment of thought Mr. Hames nodded. "That wouldn't be a bad idea."

She smiled and they began to eat in peaceful quiet. Unfortunately her mind wandered to everything else that happened, and what could destroy the peace of her home. Her gaze wandered over to the door, at the locks. Maybe she could buy some more—those kind with the steel bars that held the whole door back-

Her dad laughed for a moment. "You should take your mom out with you; she could use a night out! God knows she tells me how much I don't spoil her," he laughed at himself again.

After a moment of silence Caroline doubled back and made her dad look at her again. "Dad. Mom died eight years ago. Remember?"

The same action repeated itself; confusion, recognition, acceptance. "Oh, yes... right." And he went back to his sandwich.

Coldness swelled in her stomach. How on earth could she keep this safe?

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The cops had actually cleaned up some of the debris from the break-in; the smashed glass was gone. Probably taken away for fingerprinting, but nonetheless, at least the employees wouldn't have to deal with that.

A full night's sleep helped do wonders for Caroline. She was almost feeling like her old self; she looked like utter crap still, but she felt better. For the second time ever, when she walked in, everyone greeted her enthusiastically. They asked how she was, what she did with her afternoon off, if she was excited for the dinner—things they never asked her before. As far as she could tell, it wasn't an act, put on as a way to thank her for sacrificing herself to keep them safe. Every gesture seemed sincere. Never the less, it bugged her out. Even Brian was being decent and attentive.

Caroline had only settled in her cubicle when Lauren came in, waving The Gotham Post around. Her eyes narrowed in on her best friend Angie before she spoke. "Tell me you saw this today."

Angie only tilted her head and frowned. "Sorry to disappoint?"

If anything, Lauren seemed more excited that she was the one the break the news. With a speed Caroline had never seen from her, she hustled to Angie's cubicle and slapped the paper onto her desk. "Crime boss Falcone got caught!"

There were a few gasps and tsks of disbelief in the room, yet everyone gathered to Angie's desk to read the story. Caroline peered around the wall and caught sight of the cover; a man strung up on a spot light? Bat Serves Up Crime Boss?

"What Bat?" Caroline was the first to ask.

Lauren brought her excitement her way. "This guy—or a creature, some of the thugs say—he shows up at the docs where the drug deal is going down, kicks the shit out of every one of them, and ties Falcone up! For once, the cops have a case against him because he was there! At the scene!"

Caroline understood the excitement—Falcone was a name she'd heard around, even when she had been avoiding Gotham's scum, and to have him captured was... unbelievable. She didn't want to believe it, just so she could avoid the disappointment they'd all feel a week from now when the charges are dropped and Falcone walks away scot-free. This city couldn't change overnight.

Brian stepped from his office, hovering over Lauren's shoulder. "So this guy was a bat or he's dressed up like one?"

"I'm going for dressed up," Lauren admitted. "Those thugs could be hopped up on the drugs Maroni deals—I doubt they saw an actual "Bat Man.""

Caroline simply raised her brows, hummed with disbelief and slid back into her desk. Whoever caught the thugs, it could all be a ruse. The idea was nice, and maybe, just maybe, there could be some hope now. But it seemed unlikely. Maybe she was too cynical.

But it was hard to believe in heroes.

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Everybody else was excited about going to dinner. Once Brian told them the name of the restaurant, the afternoon went to waste while everyone googled the location and talked clothes.

All Caroline could do was get more anxious. The way everyone was talking, she knew for a fact that she didn't have anything fancy enough in her wardrobe. When she got home she saw the same tops, the same camisoles and sweaters and pants that she was familiar with. Some clothes had a decent sheen to it—there was a purple halter blouse that was nice—but considering her road rash was healing rather grotesquely, she'd rather keep that covered while people attempted to eat their food.

That was when her dad suggested she raid her mother's closet. He tossed it out there, like it wasn't a big deal, and women trade clothes between each other all the time.

Caroline stared at the back of his head while he watched television, silently praying for him to realize what he'd suggested. But there was no reaction, none other than chuckling at a sitcom on the screen before him. So with a hard swallow, she crossed the apartment, into her Dad's room, and moved to the closet in the corner, the one she had avoided for the last five years.

Mom had been a homemaker, but whenever Dad was home from one contract or another, he took her out dressed to the nines. The clothes were horribly familiar—as Caroline slid each garment aside, she remembered the last time she saw Mom wearing it. Those last few days were burned into her memory. Every last detail, as if there was something that could've changed to save her. But this was too much to handle before going out with co-workers; if she started now, she'd be a mopey mess for the rest of the night. So she pulled out the first black skirt she saw and a shiny charcoal top. It was like something off of Mad Men, lace all over, high collar with a tie to the side of her neck, and lace sleeves. With a red cami from her own closet, she may just fit in.

God, she hated skirts.

And she was so, so wrong.

It was as if every fashion-model-business-woman from Wayne Tower was at the hotel restaurant. Sure, unlike her visit to said tower the other day, her clothing was a bit more acceptable and at the same standard as theirs, but with the rash, her split lip and black-and-blue skin, she found herself hanging her head once again as she walked through the lobby, her flats silent in comparison to every other woman's high heels.

This was supposed to be a fun night out, damn it.

And she still hated skirts. They made it feel weird to sit at the table with everyone.

"Angie, tell Carrie what you told me."

Caroline looked up at the mention of her name, and then across the table. Angie was in the middle of a bite of very expensive salmon when she was asked to recount her tale, so it only took a second. "Okay, so you know the whole Falcone thing that happened last night? With the "batman"?" she really used air-quotes.

Caroline frowned but let her keep going, humouring her.

Angie picked up her wine and swirled the glass, giving an air of pompous pretentious... whatever-ness. The second she sat down in this restaurant, she was being a completely different person, laughing delicately and flourishing her hands and all that; while Caroline's instinct wanted to label her a fake, her critic offered something a bit more empathetic: maybe Angie was just as nervous in this environment as Caroline was. So, for that, Caroline made no more remark of it for the night.

But Angie was getting dangerously close to spilling her wine of her glass, the way she was swirling it.

"With all the stuff that the Batman left behind at the docks—that's where the whole thing happened," she paused to elaborate, "the authorities actually have enough to lock him away! For good!"

Lauren, a born-and-raised Gothamite, lifted her glass without even looking and clinked it with Angie.

Caroline couldn't help grimacing. "Really, though? I'm sorry to be doubtful, but," she paused and shook her head. "I've only been back a few years, but he's not the first mob boss I've seen get set free."

"Depends on who the attorneys are," Brian finally spoke. He was refilling his glass of wine, pausing to tilt the bottle her way for the third time that night. He was obviously getting sloshed if he couldn't remember the first two times that Caroline told him that alcohol and her painkillers won't mix. "Either way—this Bat guy."

Lauren laughed, still not looking up from her food. "You're liking that guy."

Caroline smirked at Brian flushing with embarrassment. "It's just nice to see something actually getting done around here, you know?" He shrugged, trying to get everyone off his back, before gesturing to Caroline. "It's like Carrie's said—everybody gets off easy in one way or another, and it's because the cops or the judges or the politicians are paid off. They won't act because they've got cash in their pocket. So this guy swoops in, literally, and does what everyone else won't dare to do?"

Caroline sighed. "This guy is crazy. Bat-crap crazy. Literally and figuratively. I mean, he's going to get killed out there, really soon." She had to state the obvious because it was on her mind constantly. Who was this guy friends with? What about his family? They had to be worried sick about his antics.

Lauren finally looked up, not at Caroline, but she glared at Brian. "You're suggesting that Commissioner Lobe could care less about cleaning Gotham up."

Brian stopped her, holding a finger up. "I'm suggesting that he wants to do good, but what good is a police force of hundreds when they're puppets of the mob? An army isn't useful if it's mutinous. Lobe's probably more concerned about one of his own killing him off."

Lauren leaned forward, and was starting to argue the deeper politics of the Gotham justice system, but Caroline found it hard to focus because her comment had been brushed off. This wasn't her argument; like she said, Lauren and Angie and Brian were all born and raised here. They knew the tone of Gotham and what it needed. All she could think about was the Batman, not adding much to the conversation. Someone trying to clean up the city, without the rules, but by doing what's right...

... maybe Jim Gordon was Batman.

Something familiar caught her attention as she was imagining Jim Gordon fighting crime; out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a man, in a crisp suit, white-blonde hair, and smarmy smile. Mr. Earle! She didn't want to perk up with recognition, but it happened, and Angie noticed easily-unfortunately she tilted her head and got into Caroline's line of vision.

"What's up?"

Caroline paused, forgetting she was facing her coworkers while looking over them all. "Oh, um—the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. I met him the other day." She nodded in Earle's direction, and of course the whole table twisted and turned to stare at him. Caroline hung her head with embarrassment until everyone went back to normal.

Earle had some guests with him; it was impossible to tell if this was a business dinner or a social one, filled with heiresses and the like. The trophy wives of CFO's and stockholders made the clarification hard. The party began to sit, everyone looking glamorous, and Earle was staring around the room—Caroline shifted in her seat to make sure his view of her was blocked by Angie's head—as if he was waiting for someone.

As interesting as it was to see what a CEO does in his spare time, the fact that it was Earle didn't elate her mood. She couldn't help remembering his fake laugh and that smirk, or his attitude regarding the perfectly nice Mr. Fox, so she pulled her eyes back to her food. Following her dad's advice, she ordered one of the most expensive things on the menu just to spite Brian a little bit, and that meant she had an enormous shank of lamb on her plate that, while delicious, was way too much for one sitting. She wondered if a place this nice had doggy bags.

A burst of bright colour amongst the darkness amongst the restaurant caught her attention again. Yikes, that was a short skirt—it was short on both of the women walking on either side of—

"Hoooooooly," Caroline managed to keep her cursing out of it and her voice low but once again, she had everyone's attention. Before they could ask, she said, "Bruce Wayne."

Lauren and Angie gasped like morons and spun instantly so they could look at their future husband. Without the husband angle, Brian was looking over as well. Caroline stared but for not the same reasons as everyone else.

He walked with one woman on each arm, hand dangerously low on their hips as he guided them to Earle's table. He greeted the CEO with a grin that was equal parts cocky and ignorant to everything else around him but himself. He acted like he owned the place.

This was... weird.

While the conversation at their own table became less interesting, as everyone kept looking over at the high-profile table too often to keep the chatter going, Caroline felt grosser the longer she looked at him. After the other night she would've described Bruce Wayne as honest, easy going, a good listener, caring, and that was only after spending a few hours with him. Even when he had put on the $5000 suit, he was still nice and genuine. That was the impression he left.

Now, that air he had when she met him in the R&D department was back, and it was worse. Every smile was smarmy, he brushed off conversation, he was bored and his eyes wandered, he'd grin like a horny teenager at his two socialite rent-a-girlfriends... who stood from the table and walked to the decorative pool. They were starting to take their shoes off.

"... the hell are they doing?" Lauren whispered, obviously staring in the same direction Caroline was.

To everyone's surprise, the two women slipped into the water, ducking their heads in and giggling. Angie's jaw dropped and her hand reached for her phone—if anyone was about to put out a Twit-pic of hot Gotham gossip, it was Angie. Caroline had a hard time hiding her sneer over the inappropriate behavior.

Right on cue, someone who appeared to be hotel staff came up to Earle's table, right beside Bruce. Once informed, he had the gall to look surprised, even at the girls in the pool. Suddenly a cheque book came out.

"You've got to be kidding me," Angie muttered.

With a (probably very enormous) cheque freshly shoved into the maitre de's pocket, Bruce picked up his drink and joined his lady friends at the pool—nay, in the pool.

Well, he acted like he owned the place—now he did.

The Bruce that liked peanut butter sandwiches—the Bruce who liked the old music and wore sweatpants and carried her to her room—he was gone. Maybe he never existed. Who was the real Bruce Wayne?

Feeling duped and manipulated and just all over gross—which, to be fair, may be caused by the painkillers because they can cause naseau—Caroline was ready to leave.

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"No, no, I won't hear it," Angie insisted as Caroline tried to step up to yet another cab, only for Angie to grasp her arm and pull her back towards the hotel entrance. She then passed her keys to the valet. "I'll drive you home. I insist."

"Yeah, I've noticed," Caroline said, but she gave her a smile and thanked her. After Brian picked up the tab, everyone began going their separate ways. Lauren had a connection at a local bar that could get her in ahead of the line; she was dragging a few coworkers to that. Brian went home. Caroline was obviously feeling like crap and just wanted her own bed, but apparently Angie wasn't up for a night out, either.

Caroline rocked back and forth on her heels as she hugged herself, arms aching slightly at the pull. Turned out the lace of her shirt rubbed harshly against her road-rash, so she had to put the dressings on before wearing the dress. The white gauze was obvious through her sleeves if you looked enough, but it did a good enough job.

"I love that shirt," Angie told her, pulling her from her thoughts.

Caroline smiled at the compliment. "It was my mothers. So's the skirt. And the camisole." Caroline shrugged and her smile fell. "Sheesh, if it weren't for mom, I'd only be out in my underwear."

Angie laughed at that before reaching out and lightly touching the bow. "It's suits you."

"I've been uncomfortable since we've sat down. I hate skirts."

"I hate stuffy restaurants."

After a cautionary stare, both girls held up their hands and gently high-fived.

Angie rolled her eyes. "I get that he wanted to spoil us good and well considering the fuck-up, but I told him the last place we should be is a shallow restaurant." She grimaced, apologetically, before looking her way. "I can't imagine you hated sitting in there just because of the skirt."

Caroline's shoulders sagged. "Being black-and-blue doesn't help."

"It'll fade eventually—and they did a wonderful stitch job." When Caroline raised her brow curiously, Angie shrugged. "My mom's a nurse. Best stitches in the city. Oh, there they are—oh, geeze, they gave them bathrobes?"

Caroline turned to stare as a roaring noise filled the front entrance. A gorgeous charcoal Lamborghini pulled up, and the two 'pool' girls were stepping in, no longer in their dresses but white, fluffy hotel robes. Bruce was talking with some woman in a black dress; she was familiar, too, though Caroline couldn't keep track in a place like this. Too many of Gotham's famous—whether notable or infamous—were here.

The gross feeling came back and Caroline tried to pull her eyes away, but couldn't. "Well, he owns the place now—they're his bathrobes anyway."

Angie scoffed in reply.

But Caroline couldn't take her eyes off the soaked billionaire. Something was slipping—with this woman, he wasn't acting overconfident and unbearable. He looked... sad. Unfortunately, instead of being hopeful that this was the Bruce she knew, now she had no idea who was who. She really just wanted to go home.

The woman turned and walked back inside; Bruce lingered on her retreating back before turning towards the car. He must've felt her gaze because he met it head-on. Caroline almost jumped, but her eyes just opened a bit wider, and stared at him. Wet suit, random women, new hotel owner... he didn't look too happy with himself.

For a moment he was caught looking at her, and there it was—embarrassment.

And then he ducked his head and went to his car.

With a quick glance forward, she saw that Angie hadn't noticed the exchange. Her valet was coming up with her car and she was fiddling in her purse for a tip. So she cast him one last glance, even as they pulled away, because she wouldn't give Bruce Wayne much more thought for the next six months.

No, she would get drawn back into her mundane life. She would still come into work and file her papers and try not to think about what could have been in her future. It's back to the daily struggle of worrying about her dad, hating herself for being unable to afford him the proper care, being completely frightened that she would come home one day to find him hurt, harmed, worse than before. But all she could do was keep calm and carry on.

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TBC

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