Disclaimer: Unfortunately, nothing is mine except Valencia Carter and this silly little fairy tale.
GOTHAM'S CINDERELLA
Chapter 8: The Godmother
There's only one person she knows who could call Bruce Wayne a stupid boy.
It's not official yet. No one in Gotham knows that Bruce Wayne is, for all intents and purposes, dating Valencia Carter.
There are rumors, of course — how could there not be after that scene in Wayne Tower, their dinner at the Fox Gardens, and the footage of him arriving at her apartment building the night it was burned? But though the city scrambles to remember why Valencia Carter is such a familiar name (Gothamite Magazine runs a six-page spread detailing her rise and fall), she's quickly dismissed as a fling that fizzled even before it began. It's hardly news when Bruce Wayne dates his secretary. The only curiosity is that she doesn't get fired afterward. But Miss Carter's filing skills and typing speed are, after all, unparalleled.
They are careful to encourage this way of thinking. He's seen with first this model, then that actress, with maybe an heiress squeezed in between. True, Valencia's become more of a personal assistant than just his in-office secretary, but that barely raises any eyebrows. Her mother had worked at Wayne Manor as a maid, so it was only natural her daughter would continue in service for the Wayne family. Sure, they have lunch tête-à-tête all the time, but it's the 21st century and servants don't necessarily sleep in the servants' quarters anymore. Hell, they could even be warming the bed of the master bedroom, but Bruce Wayne has better taste than that.
It was Alfred who insisted they postpone going public and wait before she declares herself Bruce Wayne's exclusive girlfriend. Bruce, on the other hand, had all been for using the rumors as the springboard for their relationship, and Valencia had agreed, but Alfred was adamant. As he didn't wish to lose an ally just when he had gained one, Bruce conceded to the older man's wishes, though he suspects Alfred is just buying extra time in the hopes that Valencia will come to her senses and back out of their agreement. No such luck on that front so far, however, and Bruce is strangely comforted by the fact that she seems to want this as much as he does.
And she does. She wants it so badly she knows it can't be good. Real life doesn't work like it does in fairy tales. She knows that. She'd tried it once, and it had failed spectacularly, and it's ridiculous to think this is her second chance.
Why did she have to go and be Bruce Wayne's secretary? And why did Bruce Wayne have to go and be Batman? Her life could have been relatively simple and straightforward if she hadn't let her curiosity get the better of her. But as soon as she thinks that, she knows she doesn't really feel that way. For the first time since she returned to Gotham, she feels like she truly has a purpose. She feels excited. She feel rejuvenated. She feels alive. She feels absolutely terrified. She feels—
Overall, she feels guilty. Guilty that her intentions aren't as noble as Bruce's. Guilty that a major influencing factor in her decision was imagining the look on Selina Kyle's face when they go public as a couple. Guilty that she's doing this in his memory when she's sure he wouldn't want it. Guilty that she's lying to everyone, even herself, that she can do this.
Console me in my darkest hour.
Convince me that the truth is always gray.
Caress me in your velvet chair.
Conceal me from the ghost you cast away.
I ain't in no hurry. You go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch.
Fill their heads with rumors of impending doom.
It must be true.
After spending a tedious morning opening a new wing of the Gotham Museum, Bruce drives out to the Palisades, where they will be spending the rest of the day going over progress at the Manor. She's already there when he arrives, catalogues and print samples poking out of her bag. She looks up from her phone as the purr of the Lamborghini's engine announces his arrival.
"Alfred didn't confiscate your key, did he?" he asks.
"What? Oh no, I was just trying to sort out that extra ticket you needed for Saturday night," she says, tucking her phone away as they go inside, footsteps echoing in the still empty hall. "They won't send one without your date's name, though I suspect that has more to do with satisfying Megara Ashland's curiosity than clearance checks." She gives him half a smile. "Are you sure your date wants to keep her identity a secret?"
"Well, that's up to you really."
Her eyes widen as she realizes what he's driving at. "The Million-Dollar Masquerade?" she says faintly. She remembers herself and adds briskly, "You don't know how to do anything subtly, do you, Mr. Wayne?"
"I didn't think we were going for subtle, Miss Carter."
There would be no event bigger or more high-profile than the Gotham City Police Department's annual Million-Dollar Masquerade Ball. All of Gotham's elite would be sure to attend the biggest fundraiser of the year.
"If you're going to persist in this awful plan, I suggest you start learning to call each other by your first names," Alfred says, coming out of one of the side rooms that had yet to be furnished. "And you, my dear, are going to need a fairy godmother if you're trying for this Cinderella nonsense."
"Are you volunteering?" she asks impertinently.
"I don't think things are as dire as that," Alfred retorts, opening the doors and gesturing them through.
Though she shoots a questioning look up at Bruce, he doesn't give anything away. She steps into the room and finds that an entire department store has been crammed inside. Racks and racks of clothes, from casual to evening wear (all designer, of course) line the walls, and boxes upon boxes of shoes fill the remaining space.
"Oh, is this how you do your shopping, Mr. Way—... Bruce?" she asks, trying and failing not to sound impressed. His first name comes out with difficulty, and he notes that they would have to work on that.
"Not all the time, Valencia." In contrast, her name rolls off easily, and he quells the urge to say it again. "Armani has my measurements, so..." He shrugs.
"God forbid you wear anything but Armani," Valencia mutters to herself, picking her way carefully between Chanel's fall line and a group of shopping bags overflowing with tissue paper.
Allowing himself a small smile at her comment, Bruce follows her to a card table laid out with masks. They're not your run-of-the-mill Halloween variety but rather beautiful little works of art resting in nests of cotton and tissue. She veers away from one covered in what looks suspiciously like diamonds.
"Don't you find this all kinds of ironic?" she asks him as she experimentally holds a glaringly fuschia mask up to her face. It clashes horribly with her red hair, and Bruce makes another mental note to never buy her anything in that color.
"You could say that about a lot of things in my life," he replies, eying the collection of simpler, more masculine masks reluctantly. He turns away from them to hover interestedly over her shoulder as she browses through the lace- and feather-covered pieces.
"Any preferences?" she asks, trying to ignore the fact that he's standing directly behind her, not unlike the way he had trapped her at her desk the day Selina had shown up at Wayne Tower. To distract herself, she turns over the mask's price tag and immediately wishes she hadn't.
"First rule, don't worry about the cost," he says, taking the mask from her and tossing it aside. "Until you can charge $500 to my credit card without blinking, don't look at price tags."
She tries her best to refrain from rolling her eyes as he nods toward a collection of crystal-encrusted masks.
"Was there a second rule?" she asks, picking up a relatively simple mask of black lace against a background of dark grey.
"No, not really."
She blinks at him from behind the mask. He absently tilts her chin up to better survey the mask on her. It lends her an air of dark mystery, her grey-blue eyes mesmerizing when framed by the shadowy colors.
He realizes too late that he's still touching her. He quickly retracts his hand, and she starts breathing again.
"Hadn't you better pick the mask to match the dress instead of the other way around?" he suggests, wondering why his voice sounded slightly rough.
"Yes, that would probably be the best way to do it," she agrees, restoring the mask to its nest. "What about you?" she asks, the solicitous secretary once more. "It's black tie, so you already know what you're wearing."
"People don't come to these parties to see Bruce Wayne in a mask," he answers, retracing their steps to the door. "They come to see Bruce Wayne."
The complete lack of arrogance in his statement finally convinces Valencia that she is in way over her head. It dawns on her that she is the most inexperienced player in a very dangerous game, and the stakes are incredibly high. Maybe she can keep up with Bruce Wayne when it comes to quips and comebacks, but how can she ever hope to live up to the high standard to which he holds himself when an entire city is watching their every move?
Something of her uncertainty must have shown on her face. "You don't have to do this, you know," he says seriously. "I know it's asking a lot of you, and if it's too much—"
"Too much for Valencia Carter? There is no such thing, you stupid boy!"
Valencia peers around Bruce to see the newcomer. There's only one person she knows who could call Bruce Wayne a stupid boy.
"And you stupid girl!" She catches sight of Valencia and charges forward. "I still have the last dress I made you hanging in the back of my shop. It's been there, waiting for you for six years, just like me. I'm okay with you not saying goodbye then, but I'm not okay with you not coming to say hello when you came back. I had to learn the truth about Gotham's prodigal daughter returning from Alfred Fancypants, here."
"Signora Infantino!" Valencia starts to object, but the name is all that she gets out before the pudgy, middle-aged woman is squeezing the breath out of her. The Italian name is more of a PR stunt than anything, but Gotham likes its couturiers with a flair of the foreign.
She pulls away abruptly and gives Valencia a good shake by the shoulders. "'Signora Infantino'? Whatever happened to good old Auntie Carmen? No more of this running away business, you hear? This is where you belong, Valley Carter. There's no getting around that, and I'm going to make sure everyone else sees it." She impatiently wipes some tears from her eyes and whips out a measuring tape.
Valencia throws a bewildered look at Bruce and Alfred. "You're going to make a dress in three days? I thought all this..." She gestures at the other clothes in the room.
"Hmph!" Signora Infantino dismisses them with a wave of her hand. She pushes aside the Versace rack and shoves at a stack of Louboutin boxes to make more room. "Bruce Wayne says I'm supposed to make something fit for the Cinderella of Gotham City, so I'll do just that." She forces Valencia to turn around. "And you and Mr. Fancypants can help me with the sewing."
"Apparently things are as dire as that," Alfred says dryly. He and Carmen Infantino had never been the best of friends.
"Cinderella needs a fairy godmother. Who better than her real godmother?" Signora Infantino retorts.
"Really, I think we're taking the metaphor a bit too far," Valencia interrupts. She still looks slightly overwhelmed. "This is ridiculous."
The designer takes a step back and starts circling Valencia, casting a critical eye at her from every angle. "Stop giving me that wide-eyed look. You look like a 16-year-old already without it, and we can't have that if you're going to date Bruce Wayne." She turns Valencia around again. "But it seems you have matured in some areas." The older woman's eyes twinkle at Bruce as she measures Valencia's bust. "She's not built like your other girlfriends, hmm?"
Blushing madly, Valencia bats the designer's hands away and hurriedly ushers Alfred and a grinning Bruce out of the room before the older woman can embarrass her any further.
"I'll sort out your ticket with Megara Ashland," Bruce says, still not quite managing to hide his smile.
"And I'll go get my needle and thread," Alfred grumbles, though he's mollified slightly by a kiss on the cheek from Valencia.
"Right, then," Valencia says, closing the doors behind them and turning to face Signora Infantino, her eyes beginning to glow with excitement. "Let's get started."
Console me in my darkest hour,
And tell me that you always hear my cries.
I wonder what you got conspired.
I'm sure it dons a consolation prize.
I ain't in no hurry. You go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch.
Fill the night with stories. The legend grows
Of how you got lost,
But you made your way back home.
You sold your soul, like a roamin' vagabond, yeah.
The Gotham Clock Tower tolls the hour: 10 o'clock. Valencia looks out the window of her hotel room (courtesy of Wayne Enterprises' top-notch insurance policy) and gazes down at the shadowy street some twenty stories below.
As the last chime fades to silence, Valencia turns to look at her reflection in the mirror. A stranger stares back at her. No, not exactly a stranger, she decides after a moment. Perhaps a ghost of the past Valencia Carter, a shadow of what she could have been finally come to life.
"Miss Valencia, why are you doing this?"
Alfred's voice startles her. She turns around and sees the butler outlined in the doorway of the room. Her lips curve upward, but the smile is empty.
"Shouldn't you be helping someone put on their Armani tuxedo?"
Alfred allows her a moment to avoid his question. "Contrary to popular belief, Master Wayne can dress himself."
"'Contrary to popular belief,'" she repeats. "The perfect way to describe Bruce Wayne."
"Miss Valencia..."
"Why am I doing this?" she asks for him as she turns back to the mirror. Her voice is airy, light, fake. "Oh, there are lots and lots of reasons, Mr. Pennyworth." She feigns a slight curtsey to her reflection to see how her skirt would behave. "But believe me, if Bruce Wayne gave you carte blanche with his credit card, you would consider being his girlfriend too."
"Miss Lenci, stop it," Alfred begs. "We both know that's not the real reason you're doing this." He pauses, wondering how best to phrase his next thought. "It's not... it's not a good thing to be fueled by revenge," he emphasizes.
"Coming from the man who helped Bruce Wayne become Batman—"
"Yes! I have seen him give up everything for his revenge: his reputation, his freedom, the love of his life — everything that defined him has been twisted to serve the purpose of the monster he transforms into every night. I have known both of you your entire lives, and I care about both of you as if you were my own children. If I can save one of you from making the same mistakes—"
"That's not what it's about at all!" she says passionately. "Batman allows Bruce to fulfill his potential, to be something he normally couldn't be, something more than just another person trapped in Gotham. Batman is Bruce, and Bruce is Batman. And maybe he is fueled by revenge, but he turns it into something good, something so much better."
She falters, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst of emotion.
"And he's doing the same to you?" Alfred asks. "Help me to understand, Miss Valencia. Is that it? He's turning you into something more than a secretary? But you could do that by yourself. You don't need all this," he gestures at her elaborate dress, "to do that. He wouldn't want you to be doing this, young Mr. Na—"
"This isn't about Nathan!" she exclaims. "For once, can't it just be about me? Yes, Nathan is — was a big part of my life, but he's not here anymore. It's just me and my life, and my choice about what do with it." Her expression softens. "I know we've put you in a terrible position, Alfred, but Bruce asked for my help, and I'm going to give it to him. And if I can get a little bit of revenge along the way? Well, it's a win-win situation! You don't get many of those in this city."
They are silent for a long moment.
"That's what Master Bruce said," Alfred admits grudgingly.
"You see? We're made for each other."
"And I see you've taken one thing I've said to heart and started calling him by his first name."
She smiles brightly because otherwise she'll burst into tears. As if on cue, Signora Infantino bursts through the door with Valencia's mask in hand, the last piece needed to complete her costume.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Fancypants? Trying to ruin my masterpiece?" she cries. She fans Valencia's cheeks, willing the heightened color to fade away, as Valencia blinks rapidly to save her mascara from any wayward tears. Once the crisis is averted, Signora Infantino begins the delicate operation of tying her mask in place, hiding the ribbons around Valencia's carefully styled hair.
Once she's finished, she steps back to survey her handiwork, reaching out every few seconds to smooth a wrinkle here, rearrange a curl there. Even with his misgivings, Alfred can't help but admire how lovely Valencia looks. He almost wishes he could be there to see her and Bruce stand beside one another... though he expects pictures of the couple will be on the front page of every newspaper in the city by morning.
"You look breathtaking, my dear," he says sincerely.
She's never been so glad to hear the endearment, but Signora Infantino intercepts her before she can give him a hug.
"None of that!" her godmother commands, handing her a purse dyed to match her mask and dress perfectly. She throws a glance at Alfred over her shoulder. "Did you bring the ticket, Mr. Fancypants?"
The butler withdraws an envelope from his breast pocket and hands it to Valencia. His eyes are twinkling, and she knows he has his blessing, albeit given reluctantly.
"Oh, and this is from Master Bruce." He takes out a velvet jewelry case and pops the lid open to reveal a silver necklace with a delicately wrought butterfly pendant of sapphires and diamonds. Valencia gasps, and even Signora Infantino is struck momentarily speechless.
"He doesn't know how to do anything subtly, does he?" Valencia whispers, reaching out to touch the necklace with her fingertips.
Signora Infantino swats her hand away and snatches the necklace from Alfred. She sweeps it onto Valencia's neck, and it rests perfectly in the space where the bodice of her dress dips down.
"All right, off with you!" her godmother orders, shooing her out the door.
"The car is already waiting by the curb," Alfred adds. "Good luck, Miss Lenci."
"Thank you so much, Alfred, Auntie Carmen. I won't let you down."
She gives them one more smile and a wave before she disappears into the elevator, her dress floating around her.
"If he hurts her in any way, Mr. Fancy Pants, I'll hurt him right back, I'm warning you," Carmen Infantino threatens.
"Don't worry, I'll do it for you if he does anything of the sort."
I heard you found a wishing well in the city.
Console me in my darkest hour,
And you throw me down.
I ain't in no hurry. You go run
And tell your friends I'm losing touch.
Fill your crown with rumors.
Impending doom, it must be true.
Sitting in the back of the hired car, Valencia clenches her hands tightly around her clutch. Her heart is beating so wildly in her chest, she's surprised the butterfly hanging around her neck isn't taking flight with each thud.
She's thankful for every red light they hit. It gives her a little more time play with the thought of asking the driver to either a) turn around and bring her back to her hotel or b) head straight for Gotham Airport. She won't do it, of course, but she tortures herself with what-ifs.
Her little argument with Alfred had shaken her more than she wants to admit. He'd provoked her into defending Bruce with a fervor she didn't know she even had. Does she really have such unshakeable faith in a man she hardly knows, yet knows so much about? Where had that passion come from? She hadn't felt that earnest about something in years.
And behind it all lies that guilt, amplified by her revealing outburst. Surely it couldn't mean anything that she spoke Nathan's name for the first time in years the same night she manages to drop the "Mr." and "Wayne" from Bruce's.
She'd always been able to move forward, to move on with life no matter what it threw at her. Her beautiful, flighty mother had always had her head in the clouds, so she had played the adult in their family, making sure the bills were paid and there was food to eat. She and Nathan had been so, so young, but it hadn't felt that way then, planning a future that could only end in forever. And after... after, she'd rebuilt a life in England, nothing spectacular but not that bad either. There's always the next step, the next stage, the next challenge to take on. But this feels different. This isn't merely the next step; this is something else entirely, something unknown, something new.
Nathan had been the driving force behind everything she's done in the last six years, but now that's changed.
For once, this is about her and only her. And maybe Bruce.
The car comes to a stop in front of the Gotham City Opera House, the ribbon of black velvet winding down the steps ending right at her door.
"Miss, we're here."
But you made your way back home.
You sold your soul, like a roamin' vagabond,
And about how you got lost, but you made your way back home.
You went and sold your soul, an allegiance dead and gone.
I'm losing touch.
—"Losing Touch" by The Killers
A/N: Please review!
