When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.
"I can't believe you're still alive," Rachel Dawes related in a hushed whisper, three months later. "When I filed that missing persons report I thought they'd gotten you for sure."
They didn't have much time-it had been a nearly chance meeting at best. Lately Chris had been frequenting the subways near the courthouse in the vain hopes of catching sight of her-and today he'd finally got his chance.
"It won't do for you to get seen now," Rachel breathed as the oncoming train rattled closer and closer to the stop, the harsh squeal of its brakes now filling the terminal. "I'm sure I'm being followed as well. Where can I find you?"
He'd thought about that-and had come prepared. It was an old sandwich wrapper he'd picked up from the street with his address etched crudely into the dull foil. She could open it, memorize it, then shove it into the first waste bin she saw and Falconi would never be the wiser for it; and if either of them had happened to drop it, they'd simply blend in with the million or so other litterers in Gotham City.
She smiled grimly, yet playfully as she turned and boarded her car. "See you tonight."
"Be careful!" Chris called as the doors hissed shut. Within seconds the train was hurtling down the tracks again, taking with it the only person in Gotham he could still call friend. He just hoped she wouldn't get killed for her trouble.
"It's not as classy as last time, but it'll do," Chris said with a wink. Dawes had treated him to Subway, the nearest-the only-restaurant for blocks that wasn't full to the brim with hoods of all races, sizes and ages. And that was only because the subshop was just a front for the cocaine-people would get suspicious if a long line of druggies stumbled to and from an abandoned building. But if you watched closely enough, you'd see it. All the nervous, sweaty, jumpy, filthy people bought sunchips...and the cash they handed over was considerably more than for a simple five dollar footlong. "But you're still crazy for coming down here alone."
"And you're crazy for living here. I can't believe you've been hiding here all this time and no one's ratted you."
"They're ex-paroles or illegals, mostly," Chris shrugged. "They don't want anybody-not even Falconi-dicking around their neighborhood. They're pretty tight-lipped to begin with, and you add the Latin Kings on top of that and you've got utter silence. No one in this barrio is saying nada." The Latin Kings were now infamous for grisly knifings and muggings, sometimes even in broad daylight. Each hit grew more daring, more bold and more violent as this newly planted syndicate struggled to make a name for itself and its warring would-be kingpins on the streets.
"I'm sorry I've put you through all this-" she began, but Chris waved her off.
"Look, I went to Chill's trial before I even met you, Rachel. I was already interested in all this stuff and resolved to try to figure it out before we ever met," he said kindly. "So don't flatter yourself by saying it was your pretty face."
She laughed. "Charmer."
"And besides, I'm getting great street experience. When all this is done, I'm going to write one sweet-ass book about Gotham's underbelly from the perspective of the homeless," he winked. "Pulitzer, here I come!"
"Well, if your award is all you care about, I'll have to take that sandwich back, Mr. Holden," she said, straight-faced. "I'm not sure this cuisine is authentic enough for your journalistic experience."
They shared a few silent chuckles and continued small talk. "You seeing anyone?" Chris asked.
She shrugged. "I don't really have time…a-and Bruce-"
"Yeah," Chris grunted. "Bruce."
"What about you?" Rachel asked with all the dignity she could muster.
"Oh, you know, being homeless and unemployed has its advantages. You KNOW it's true that girl's don't date guys just for their money when even hookers turn you down-" Dignity be damned, Chris thought, as Rachel Katherine Dawes snorted Sprite out her nose.
They began meeting more often, slowly growing bolder. After five months under the radar, perhaps Falconi, like everyone else in Gotham, had simply assumed that Mr. Christopher Holden would NOT be returning, thank you very much, and had deigned to leave a forwarding address with his secretary.
"Have you found anything new?" Dawes asked. She was dressed up-to Chris' chagrin and eternal delight-like a hooker to blend in on the streets. It was just cover, but damn, Chris thought. She had soft, shapely legs neither long nor short, and those thigh-high boots and that mini-skirt showed them off beautifully.
"Nice boots, by the way." He commented as he walked up beside her.
"Left-over from a high school Halloween party," she said. "Thanks."
"Wish I'd been there for that."
"No, you don't." Rachel assured him, with such a tone as to make it credible.
"What'd you go as? A dominatrix?"
She sighed. "You want the long version or the short version?"
Chris grinned. "Do you even have to ask?"
She settled down on the curb, legs splayed deliciously in front of her. "I bought these because I wanted to make Bruce notice me. I was his best friend, sure, but it was like he never even noticed I was female. I thought I'd make him jealous."
"Girls," Chris lamented. "Continue."
"Well, Todd Evans was team quarterback, and about the biggest jerk/jock you've ever met. He was such a creep-you could button your collar past your eyebrows and the guy would still be staring at your boobs. He was my chemistry lab partner, and the self-proclaimed best 'tit-rater' in the class. Even the guys thought he was a shmuck-especially Bruce, and he was a player back then, let me tell you. But I knew Vanessa would be pissed if Todd was staring at someone all night instead of her, and she'd dump him, and he was such a horny loser he'd ask me out not five minutes later."
"And Bruce would notice too, and hopefully by the end of the night you'd have him," Chris grinned. "Did it work?"
"Halfway." Rachel said, blushing pink. "I'd just psyched myself into going out to Todd's car to make out-girls are petty and fickle, Chris, that's all I have to say in my defense-when the police showed up. Vanessa's neighbor saw me and thought I was a professional…and she called the police. We're talking a private school party here: beer, bongs, sex, you name it, and GCPD Vice comes storming right in."
Chris chuckled. "How'd you get to law school with that on your record?"
"It never went on my record," she explained bashfully. "Bruce was definitely watching us because as soon as the cops pulled up he came storming out, grabbed me from the car and we took off running since by then neither of us were sober enough to drive."
"Never pegged you as the partying kind," Chris confessed.
"I wasn't," Rachel Dawes stated matter-of-factly. "But that night I was a basket-case of hormones, five days from turning seventeen, sick of watching the guy I loved snogging every girl in that high school but me, and sick of getting sass for being the only junior still a virgin. It was stupid, it was selfish, it was absolutely whorrish but I was out for blood one way or another and it just took me a couple drinks to get there. Chris, I've never puked so much in my life and I haven't touched the stuff since."
"Wow. Just…wow," Chris conceded, impressed. "That was honest and brutal."
"Brutal doesn't even begin to cover it," she assured him. "Todd was stupid enough he tried to drive away and they chased him-under-aged drinking and a DUI, mind-and suddenly Bruce is dragging me through hedges and over privacy fences and that's when I started puking my guts out. I was dizzy and sick, and every alarm that went off was like a knife sawing in my ears. I don't know how many estate security systems we set off in the Palisades that night, or how many people had a puddle of sick on their lawn the next day but it was more than a couple dozen. By the time the night was over the whole precinct must've been out after us."
"Wait, what year was this?"
"Why?" She asked suspiciously.
"Because I lived in the Palisades, and I remember that Halloween." Chris grinned, stroking his dirty red beard. "I might even remember that party."
"Wait, you were there?" Rachel asked, shocked. "That was a private party-how'd you get in?"
"I wasn't exactly there. I was across the street." He drawled.
"I probably puked in your yard," Rachel continued, but then she caught his meaning and her face turned a splotchy puce. "Christopher Holden, did you make that phone call-?"
"Well, you have to understand. A bunch of exclusive, private school pricks all making idiots out of themselves? It was a tempting opportunity-"
"Tell me the truth," she demanded. "NOW."
"No," he shut his eyes in blissful remembrance. "But my mom did. Best. Moment. Of my Life."
Rachel groaned and hid her face in her hands. "If I was sixteen again, I'd kill you. And her. And then I'd bring you both back to life and kill you again."
For several long minutes they shared a laugh, and tears, then silence. But he needed his source to keep talking, needed to hear the sound of a friend's voice. "I take it it didn't end well, then."
"End well? It never ended, Chris," Dawes groaned. "Alfred paid for my tuition at Bruce's school, and I begged him for nearly two years to let me go back to GCPSC. Everyone in that high school thought I'd wrecked their lives, and so did their parents. Sometimes it was worth it seeing them all in reflector vests picking up trash before and after school, but everyone, and I mean everyone, hated me. And to make it worse, Todd Evans spread all these ridiculous kiss-and-tell rumors about me (that didn't end with just kissing, mind you), and I got harassed for blow jobs between every passing period. It's why I became student body president-I had the principal's ear, and all of those douches needed good letters of recommendation to get into college with that party still on their record."
"I meant for you and Bruce." He said apologetically. "Him noticing you were a girl and all."
The tiniest little self-satisfied, sensuous smirk crept across her lips. "We spent the whole night cowering under somebody's Ferrari, praying to God each passing cop wouldn't spot us. It was pretty cozy under there," she whispered wickedly. "He might not have said anything, but he definitely 'noticed'."
For a moment all her audience could handle was stunned silence. But finally Chris chuckled, and she began to laugh in earnest. "God, I can't believe I just told you that-"
"It was high school. We all did dumbass things and we'll hope to God our kids aren't as stupid-or smart-as we were," Chris comforted.
"What about you?" Rachel teased. "What secret life are you hiding?"
It was Chris' turn to smirk. "A gentleman, Rachel Dawes, doesn't tell."
She treated him to dinner-more fast food, but at least it was food, and not the kind you had to scrounge through dumpsters for. When he was done with this-if he was ever done with this-he was writing a book on being homeless then donating the money to local food pantries. A year ago the idea would have seemed ridiculous, but his time on the streets had taught him the harsh truth-there were plenty of people who went hungry, even in Gotham City.
Never in his childhood had his parents ever graced a fast food franchise with their presence, yet now he was scarfing down MacDonalds cheeseburgers like manna from heaven. "This is god-damned delicious." He managed to blurt between bites of his fifth burger and a mouthful of greasy, salty, still-hot fries.
Rachel wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Chris, you do know that's disgusting, right?"
"Mmmph," he nodded, then began on the milkshake, eyes pinched shut in ecstasy.
"Should I leave you and the Mcflurry alone for a while, Mr. Holden?" She teased.
"Haha. No, I'm fine thanks. But do you have any idea how long it's been since I've had ice cream? Seriously?"
Her smile turned from playful to wistful-no doubt she was wondering the same for Bruce as well. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"All of it. You're homeless, your mom's fled the country, you have the Falconi family after you…I just don't understand why," she nearly pleaded. But the growing journalist saw past that question: what Rachel Dawes really needed to hear was why would Bruce Wayne be willing to give it all up. Because Bruce turning his back and walking away from billions was the only hope she had that he hadn't met the same fate as his parents.
But not anymore. He'd found something, perhaps some hidden truth buried in shadow and rumor, perhaps not; but it was hope, and hope brought her happiness. "Scoot over," Chris said, standing and switching to her side of the table. This was a private conversation, one it wouldn't do well for anyone to overhear. There was safety to be had in public places, yes, and anonymity, but there was always that chance, that slim, tiny chance that the grandma sitting two tables over had her hearing aids up too loud and knew somebody you could use your information for a price. "I followed a new lead," Chris said as she slid down the booth to make room for him. The cloth was still warm from where she'd been sitting, he couldn't help but notice, but he was male, currently single and utterly sex-starved, and if Rachel could talk candidly about Wayne's ill-timed boner he could swallow his pride and admit he wouldn't have fared any better under those conditions himself. "Some hood on my block knows a guy who knows a guy named Mario who specializes in illegal documents. Passports, social security numbers, you name it. This guy's got a reputation as good enough to outsmart the Feds, and as it turns out I'm not the first 'gringo' to come looking for him."
Rachel perked up at any hint of Bruce's name and left her meal uneaten. "He definitely mentioned Bruce?"
Chris shrugged. "Guy wouldn't say. Not for that much dinero, at least." He wondered how long they could do this, looking for her lover while pretending they didn't have feelings of their own. Chris wanted to find Bruce, at least he told himself that day after day, but in all honesty what Chris wanted was the truth. The truth was all that mattered, the truth was what he gave up his life and his money and his schooling for to live underground as another man because Christopher Holden was wanted by the mob. And the truth was Chris could now care less if Bruce Wayne was alive or dead, if Bruce had fled Falconi's presence then fled the country. The honest truth was Chris Holden was a little more than just in love with Wayne's old girlfriend, and now stuck with the agonizing paradox of both wanting him back so Rachel would be happy, or wanting him gone.
…Like permanently.
"That's incredible," she gushed excitedly, her dark eyes lighting up with this newest-found glimmer of hope. "I'll have to ask Gordon if he's heard of Mario."
"I don't like it," Chris countered.
"Don't like what?"
"This Gordon guy. What proof do you have he's one of the good guys?"
"Because James Gordon is a perfect gentleman who hates Arnold Flass even more than we do. He's disgusted by what the Police force has become in Gotham, but he has too much pride to just walk away. He's a career cop, Chris, and he's a good, honest man," she affirmed. "So it'll take more than your paranoia to change my mind."
"Alright then. We trust him," Chris begrudgingly consented. "What did you find?"
"A new witness. Bruce definitely went into that club."
"How do you know?" She'd already told him she'd driven off before seeing which way Bruce had gone, and Chris was shrewd enough never to question just what it was the two of them were doing down in that part of the Narrows in the first place. He had a feeling he already knew. "Judge Fabian was clearly upset when I pressured him to know if Bruce ever entered Falconi's joint that day-especially after I insinuated that I knew he'd lied to the cops during questioning about it. Gordon was able to tell me that a narcotics CI finally flipped and ratted to the cops in exchange for better prison arrangements that Bruce was actually on the premises."
"And?"
"And even though he was moved to private quarters in a federal penitentiary, he was discovered dead in his cell the next morning before he could give his official testimony," she added drily.
"So not a lot of help, then." Chris sympathized. But his surprise, she grinned.
"But Fabian doesn't know that. He knows the CI got killed for squealing, but what he doesn't know is what got spilt. And if I've…misled him to believe that it's evidence against him, it was completely unintentional." Rachel Dawes would make an excellent attorney, Chris told himself. She was little but fierce, with a clever streak a mile wide and just enough subtlety to pull it off. She rode that line between saucy and just plain bitch with unexpected poise, grace, and all the tenacity of a pit bull. Rachel Dawes didn't fool around-she had a goal, and she got shit done. He just wondered how much she'd done-perhaps even who-in the name of getting what she wanted. "I'm a law student Chris," she stated, misreading that look. "I have the greatest respect for the law even if Fabian doesn't. I haven't done-and I refuse to do-anything illegal."
"Not even if it gets Bruce home?" He countered.
Rachel Dawes bit her lips. "No," she finally stated. "Not even if it means that. Carmide Falconi already runs this city with crime. I won't let him run me as well."