Birds of a Feather

IX - Not So Respectable Publications And The Problems They Cause


Crane waited for the cover of darkness; it wouldn't do either of them much good for him to be arrested visiting Elms Elder's most infamous patient. The hours passed slowly and, despite Sakura's phone calls assuring him that night would come soon enough, he doubted that the sun had moved at all since noon. Only when the sky burned with the fire of sunset did he truly allow himself to relax. Even Scarecrow, tucked away into the corners of his mind, afforded him some peace and calm.

He knew he'd get worked up all through the big day, but this was downright insanity. The usually still and calculating Crane had become a bundle of nerves, jittering with every tick of the clock. When twilight fell, it took all his willpower not to leap into the elevator; he was a dangerous fugitive and he needed complete darkness, not just thin shadows, for his trek out into the city. The clock struck nine with the finality of the executioner's ax, sending a shudder of excitement through his body. And then the phone rang. In his sensitive state, Jonathan nearly fell over at the shrill noise.

"You can't leave just yet."

By now, he recongized Maroni's voice quite easily.

"And why the hell not?"

Maroni scoffed. "Kid, I'm giving you a pass today, but don't push it." He didn't expect an apology and didn't wait for one. "Now, go to the window."

"Alright." Jonathan's tone turned impatient; he didn't have time for this.

"Look down."

Even from his great height, he could see the teems of reporters swarming around the entrance of the building. There were sporadic bursts of tiny flashes, like lightning. Photographers. "Shit."

"Yeah. Must be a slow day, because every station's got a reporter down there for the nine o'clock news." Jonathan could hear the smirk in Maroni's voice. "Now you're the most wanted man in Gotham for two reasons."

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me. So how am I getting out of here?"

"My advice is to stay put, but-."

Jonathan sighed, though the sound was more alike to a growl. "On any other day, I might agree with you."

"-But I knew you wouldn't like that. And Kura would have my head."

The doctor chuckled, at both the notion and the nickname. "So, how am I getting out of here?"

"Service entrance. I've got an unmarked Town Car waiting in the service garage. No reporters, no photographers, no news crews."

"And what about the hospital? I imagine it's worse over there."

Maroni guffawed loudly. "This ain't Elms' first rodeo. They got precedents for celebrity stuff like this. Trust me, getting out of the apartment building will be the hard part."

"Good. I-," Jonathan hesitated, the words tasting sour in his mouth. "I owe you one."

"You don't owe me nothing, kid. Like it or not, you're just about family now."

He didn't really know how to respond. "Right."

"And don't take any chances, Crane. Get a hat, sunglasses, the works. Just in case."

"Right," he said again.

Maroni could hear the disbelief in the doctor's voice. "Lighten up, kid. This is what we do," he cracked, before hanging up.

Entering the elevator, Jonathan Crane frowned as he adjusted his sunglasses. He was not a 'kid'. Even if he was wearing a Gotham Goliaths baseball cap.

True to Maroni's word, a black car idled in the service garage, parked between a maid service van and gardener's pick-up. The dark of the sublevel complex, paired with his shaded glasses, made it near impossible to see, but Jonathan managed alright.

"Hop on in, Mr. Smith," the driver said, his voice thick with a typical mafioso accent. Jonathan did so, springing quickly into the leather backseat. They were off in a flash, careening up the service ramp to the street. Jonathan ducked his head, just in case, but his identity was more than safe behind the almost black glass. Only a few photographers and a single reporter with her crew crowded the back sidewalk; needless to say they had more than a few stories to bring back to their bosses. But the driver was slick, turning the corner without slowing, affording them only a few photos of the black car before it cornered again, speeding out of sight.

Elms Elder was cross-town, in the high-end commercial district, but the car was fast and handled easily. The driver was at least careful, or instructed to be; he observed every rule of the road, never giving a cop a reason to follow. It slowed things down but, in the long run, was worth the effort. He didn't slow as they passed the hospital front and Jonathan stared, slack-jawed, at the media circus outside. Reporters, news crews and paparazzi all fought for the best positions. People were being interviewed on the sidewalk and at least three stations were on air, providing their shows with live feeds. GCN had the largest set-up of all, with Mike Engel headlining in the place of honor by the entrance.

"Obsessed," Jonathan breathed, almost pitying them. Then he glanced at the driver, "There's a private entrance, right?"

"Yep. Up around the block. It's between the Gucci store and some spa." He deftly spun the wheel, sliding up along the curb. "Right here, matter of fact. Keep ya head down, Smith." Jonathan nodded and clambered from the car. He realized his hands were shaking.

Indeed, there was a door, stylish but unassuming, made of fogged glass and polished silver. As he approached, Jonathan wondered if it would be open at all, or if he would be stuck pulling at a locked door all night. It swung open on silent, greased hinges that flooded him with relief. There was a small marble antechamber, complete with a guard and a receptionist, both of whom averted their eyes. The more they saw, the more they knew, and then the less their lives were worth.

"Welcome to Elms Elder Hospital, Mr. Smith," the receptionist said, her voice quiet and eyes downcast. She pushed a button and the door beside her swung open, again silent in its motion. Behind it lay a long hall, bright with clouded marble and silver light fixtures. Jonathan pressed on, his pace brisk, and found the hall sloped downwards; the hall was a tunnel, running below the shops and street to the hospital. It ended at an elevator.

He smirked to himself, trying to dream up what precedence required such secrecy. "Thank God for Brangelina."

As before, the elevator attendant had been alerted to his arrival and greeted him as the others had. "Mr. Smith," he murmured, tipping his hat in greeting. Still, Jonathan remained silent, content to hide behind his hat and glasses. The attendant kept his eyes forward and punched the single button on the elevator wall, reading P. Private. The ascent was blissfully swift, as the elevator had been constructed strictly for such private use. With a light ding, the doors slid apart, revealing a plush, warmly-lit hallway more suited to luxurious apartment building rather than a hospital.

The wall opposite held a single set of French doors, made of fogged glass and mahogany, flanked by Maroni's burly men. They stared straight ahead, not even acknowledging Jonathan's presence. Even if they'd been hostile, Jonathan doubted they could stop him now that he was so close. He stepped forward, ignoring the elevator attendant's good-bye, and pushed open the door with quivering hands and a pounding heart.

"Nice of you to drop by." Sakura smirked up at him from the large, white bed. Her face was pale, drawn, but she was glowing, her eyes alight with pleasure.

Jonathan felt his insides turn to ice as his eyes dropped from her face to the bundle in her thin arms. She smiled, the action proud and genuine. "Well, don't just stand there, Daddy," she purred, pulling the baby closer, "Come say hello."

His limbs felt foreign and he nearly stumbled his way to her side. He caught himself in time and precariously lowered himself down next to her, not so mean a feat whilst his eyes were drawn elsewhere. He stared, for lack of a better word, like a man bewitched. In essence, he probably was.

The girl was small and soft, made even more so by her fluffy pink attire. She was nearly hairless, with only the smallest hint of black fuzz crowning her round head. Her features were neutral, but he recognized Sakura's full lips. She yawned in her sleep, exposing empty gums. In spite of himself, Jonathan knew then he was a goner.

"God," he breathed, raising a hesitant hand to her cheek. Her skin was warm and smoother than the sweetest velvet; heaven to the touch.

Sakura bit her lip, unable to speech. Jonathan never really was one for tenderness or love yet here he was, melting at simply the sight of their baby. "Hold her," she whispered, edging the child closer to her father. He didn't need to be told twice and took the baby girl from her mother, moving so slowly he might have been made of stone.

She fit easily into his arms and he supported her head with a gingerness Sakura didn't know the clumsy Crane was capable of. "Hey there," he murmured, "Hey there, baby." Again, the girl yawned. Jonathan felt his breath catch. The baby stirred, squirming gently in his arms until she woke, her eyes blinking quickly in the light. And then her father gasped aloud, "You- you didn't tell me-."

Sakura smiled, letting her exhausted self fall back against the soft pillows. "I thought you'd want to see for yourself."

His smile was wide, reverent and recklessly happy, as if he were looking upon a goddess rather than his daughter. She stared back at him, her eyes wide, vibrant, an icy and familiar blue.

"That's your Daddy, Saffron."


Usually, Alfred never bothered Master Wayne with the tabloids. Usually, the tabloids never bothered the butler. And usually the tabloids knew better than to bother Mr. Bruce Wayne at home. But all things normal, usual or ordinary had been tossed out the window when a few lucky photographers snapped the photos of their lives outside Brecker.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred hated to wake him, especially since Bruce had been having such trouble sleeping lately. "Master Wayne?"

It didn't take much to wake Bruce; he was a light sleeper at best, even after a night of crime-fighting. "What is it Alfred?"

"Well, sir..." Bruce frowned, easily picking up on the butler's veiled hesitation. "Sir, it's the tabloids." Alfred held out his customary tray, set with breakfast and a small selection of grocery store magazines.

Bruce smirked, reaching for a glass of orange juice. He ignored the brightly colored tabloids. "Still going on about that model? It was one date and it was two months ago."

But Alfred did not withdraw his tray, "I'm afraid not, sir."

"Please, Alfred, it can't be that bad," he muttered, reaching for the first magazine. His eyes, skeptic a moment before, widened when they fell upon the headlines.

A photo of himself and Sakura, rushing from Brecker, stared up at him from beneath a blazing, hot pink title: Prince of Gotham and Princess of Crime.

"Whoa!" he chuckled, almost laughing at loud at the tabloid's accusations and Alfred's expression alike. "That's a new one. They must have run out of socialites to tie me to."

The butler was less than amused. "Indeed, sir. I assume you're going to want to call the lawyers."

"Lawyers?" Bruce gulped at his orange juice. "It's just one tabloid. It's nothing."

Alfred only sighed in his loud, disparaging manner. He disappeared with ease, as butlers were wont to do, and returned just as quickly, his arms filled with different newspapers. "One tabloid, I can live with." He stopped at the foot of the bed and allowed the varied periodicals to cascade onto the down comforter. "But all of them?" He gestured to the tabloids, magazines and newspapers in the impressive pile. "I don't even want to think about the internet."

"Well." Bruce took a moment to gather his thoughts. His cavalier attitude concerning his own reputation prevailed. "I must say, these guys work fast." Alfred frowned, his wrinkled mouth crumpling into his patented, disapproving grimace. "I guess it can't hurt to take a quick peek at the, uh, articles."

His butler nodded, his movements curt as he handed Bruce a newspaper, the Gotham Times. "Even the most respectable of publications couldn't stay away from you two."

"It's not often I make the Times," he said with a smirk, "for my social agenda, at least."

Alfred remained unamused. "Just read it, sir."

"If you insist."

Usually an afternoon lunch at Brecker Steakhouse & Spirits includes five star service, mouthwatering steaks and a three figure check. Yesterday, however, patrons complimented their meals with a glimpse of none other than Gotham's most coveted bachelor, billionaire and notorious playboy Bruce Wayne, lunching with the most unlikely of characters: Sakura Falcone, niece of jailed crime boss Carmine Falcone, and heir apparent to the Falcone crime family. Falcone, 26, and Wayne, 31, have never been photographed together prior to yesterday, a fact made all the more interesting by Wayne's efforts to keep himself clean from most, if not all, criminal ties. Nonetheless, most criminal experts would agree that Ms. Falcone poses little, if no threat to Gotham. In fact, Commissioner Loeb stated only recently that "Sakura Falcone was little more than a diversion to distract from the Falcones' illegal dealings...and (the police) are in the process of removing her from the criminal watch list."

According to Gotham Daily's Falcone Clock (unofficial), Falcone is approximately eight months pregnant. Despite the efforts of reporters and paparazzi alike, the paternity of the child, as well as the sex, is unknown. Ms. Falcone has, on multiple occasions, declined to comment on her pregnancy and has yet to officially confirm she is, in fact, with child. However, photos taken over several months time (p. 6) show irrefutable evidence concerning her condition.

Waiters and patrons alike agreed that the pair appeared quite cozy as they spoke over drinks. According to one server, who preferred to remain anonymous, both were "laughing and joking" for the first few minutes before the conversation soured into a "whispered argument". The exchange lasted a few minutes before Wayne quickly escorted Falcone from the restaurant. She "appeared to be in great pain" and Wayne "held her arm, supporting her all the way to the door". The maitre d' offered to call an ambulance for Falcone but Wayne declined, opting instead to "drive her himself". It appears, from the witness' account, that Falcone and Wayne's argument induced early labor.

Photos taken at the scene (p. 6) reveal Wayne and Falcone leaving in a black Lamborghini, presumably belonging to Wayne, only to arrive at Elms Elder Hospital a few minutes later. According to reports, Falcone checked into Elms' renowned maternity ward with Wayne at her side. Various family members, including new Falcone boss Salvatore Maroni, arrived within the hour. Maroni married into the Falcone family twenty-two years ago when he wed Carmine Falcone's sister, Adrianna. There are no reports of Wayne or Falcone leaving Elms Elder Hospital, but Maroni was spotted exiting the facility from a private entrance three hours after he arrived.

Neither party has contacted the press concerning their relationship or Falcone's current condition. The Times can neither confirm nor deny that Sakura Falcone was or currently in labor, or that Bruce Wayne has any claim whatsoever over the child. However, undisclosed sources close to the pair state that "both Sakura and Bruce have been meeting for quite some time and it's very likely that Bruce has fathered (Falcone's) child".

No further details were available at press time.

"Well." Bruce coughed. He didn't know what to think. "Well."

Alfred nodded. "Indeed. One can only hope Miss Falcone reacts as calmly as you."

"Only can only hope," Bruce echoed, throwing down the paper. "You know what, Alfred, I think I will call those lawyers."