She sat on the chair in the lounge just off to the left of the foyer, grasping her hands together. Her clothes were neat, clean, and expensive. New, of course. Or at least she hoped. Who knew, when it came to Bruce Wayne. Immediately, she berated herself. No, that was not the way she viewed the "playboy" at the moment, now that she knew what all those late nights were spent doing and what a good part of his fortune was going to.
She looked down briefly at herself, feeling not a little ridiculous. She was wearing clothing fit for some kind of wealthy woman in the twenties – wide legged pants, a sleeveless shirt that crossed demurely over her collarbone in a "v," all in pastel shades. She felt like an invalid – well, she was an invalid.
Rosa Ducard was not used to this kind of treatment – like she was worth… she didn't know… her weight in gold? Like she was an egg, easily cracked. Well, she wasn't. If there was one thing Rosa knew about herself, it was that her "egg-ness" was hard-boiled. Uncrackable.
Today was the first day she had been able to move on her own, but she almost decided to stay in bed when Alfred laid out the clothing. "Who do you think I am, some kind of princess?" Rosa had said, propped up on pillows, watching with a disturbed face as he folded each item of clothing carefully and placed it on her armchair.
Alfred ignored her, of course. "Will you need assistance getting dressed, Ms. Rosa?"
"No I will not, Alfred, thank you very much!!" She felt even more ridiculous after the offer. She knew she hadn't transmogrified from her Rosa suit to the comfortable pajamas. She wasn't stupid or naïve.
"Very well. Sgt. James Gordon will be paying a call on you this afternoon, would you like to receive him in here?"
"And have Jim see me all dolled up and tucked into bed? Hell no! It isn't like I live here, Alfred. I'm just…" she lay back against the pillows, "… here for an unexplainable reason, and not able to leave for that same unexplainable reason. Just. Dandy. What am I supposed to tell Gordon, for Christ's sake?"
Alfred coughed mildly.
"Oh, right, like 'Master Bruce' never cusses. If you want to hear more, I'll gladly oblige you." She opened her mouth to voice a choice favorite of hers, but Bruce entered the room.
"Are you feeling better today?" he asked quietly.
"I was, before I learned that one : I apparently can't cuss here, and two : I'm supposed to wear that." Rosa pointed with derision at the outfit on the chair. "I bet it doesn't even fit."
"Actually," Alfred began, "I took part of your – ahem – suit, to a local tailor. They were quite happy to tell me that you are a size twelve, shirt size medium."
"Did they tell you that I'm not really comfortable with two men that I hardly know knowing my personal clothing sizes? Because that would've been really helpful information."
Alfred turned to leave the room, and whispered to Bruce, "Sarcasm. A true sign she's feeling better," and Bruce suppressed a laugh.
"So," he said. "D'you need help to get those on?"
"No I do not!!"
"Erm, good. So I'll just… leave you to it then."
"Yes. That'd be nice."
With one last glance at the red-faced figure on the bed, Bruce Wayne smiled as he turned and exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
oooooo
Sergeant Jim Gordon pulled up into the circular gravel parking zone in front of Wayne Manor. His face was set determinedly as he shut off his car and put the keys in the front pocket of some worn-out jeans.
Gordon was off-duty, and Gordon out of work wear was quite a different site from Gordon in work wear. He wore a white t-shirt, and over it, some plaid button-up in forgettable colors. An old baseball cap graced his head, its bill practically bent double.
He got out of his years-old car, slamming the door shut, and looked up at the huge mansion with a measure of awe and a measure of confusion.
What the hell was Rosa doing here, of all places? How did she get here? If someone had hurt her… well, let's say they wouldn't be doing it for much longer. Rosa knew that Gordon felt like she was some kind of surrogate daughter, and Gordon knew his limits. Once they – the innumerable "they" whom he could fight against and track down and even, once in a while, imprison – got to family, Gordon was not responsible for his actions.
He breathed out heavily through his nose and set to going up the steps to the giant front door of the manor.
He was here to get some answers, and no playboy "Mr. Wayne" was going to fob him off with anything – money, lies, what have you. Nope, Jim thought. Wayne, you're on your own.
oooooo
Rosa looked out the front windows just in time to see an irate Jim Gordon making his way up them.
She rose from her chair immediately, throwing aside the "lap rug," ("I'm sorry, I'd just rather have the whole frickin' rug instead of one cut in half.") Over at the window, she could just see Gordon raising his hand to knock on the door. She was ready to confess all – the weird chemical, the flying, the…
But then she realized.
She wouldn't tell Gordon about Bruce Wayne's secret, because of just that. It was Bruce Wayne's secret, not hers. If Bruce wanted to go around informing half the city of his Bat-like tendencies, then I'm sure he would have. But he hasn't. So neither will I.
But then… What was she supposed to tell Gordon? The whole "chasing after bunny rabbits with drugs" story was out. She tried to think of it from Gordon's perspective. She was here, at Bruce Wayne the playboy's house. She had been here for six days. More importantly, she had been here for six nights. And Gordon would know all that.
Well, Rosa, she thought. You're such a great talker, get ready to talk yourself out of this one.
Yeah, as if that's going to work.
oooooo
Alfred opened the front door as soon as Jim Gordon's finger was off the button.
"Good afternoon. You are Sergeant James Gordon, I presume?"
"Yeah," Jim started, preoccupied. "Where's Rosa?" But what he really wanted to shout was, "Where the hell's Rosa, and what the hell has your boss been doing?!" But Gordon held himself back.
Before Alfred could answer, a figure came sliding out into the main hall. "Alfred, this slipper things are sweet." Then Rosa looked up, and broke into a huge smile. "Gordon! You came to rescue me, how good of you. Look at this get-up! And to think of all the persuasion it took to get me in that dress. I guess I can't talk back so much when I don't enough energy to talk back, hey?" But the exhaustion was starting to take over again. She could feel it pulling down on her muscles. Gordon seemed to notice, so he jogged up the steps and put an arm under Rosa's shoulders.
"Thanks, Gordon. Always be prepared, right? Here, come with me into Le Lounge of Chez Wayne, and let me tell you all about this thingymajigger."
Thingymajigger? Alfred thought as he watched Jim Gordon half walk, half carry the Rosa back to… how did she call it? 'Le Lounge?' Well, Alfred had to admit, she's very good. Very good.
oooooo
"… So you're trying to tell me that you're alive because of Bruce Wayne."
Obviously, Gordon wasn't too keen on believing the story.
"Gordon. I'll repeat it again if I have to : Batman was gone by the time I got there. Guess you don't get caught in traffic as much if you fly everywhere. I arrived just in time for the ceremonial dumping of the lovely mixture of leftover medicine from the Asylum. That stuff's sort of slippery, as you may know – I tripped, I fell. 'I've fallen and I can't get up,' Jim. It was some serious sh-" Rosa looked to her left and spotted Alfred, "-ort. Short time to get out of there, and I just wasn't fast enough. Hey, could you help me with this pillow?"
Gordon picked up the appointed object and put in behind Rosa's back.
"Thanks." Her voice got quiet. "They just kept dumping the stuff on me, I don't think they even saw me. Jim, I thought I was going to suffocate. I thought I was suffocating."
Even Gordon couldn't deny that she was serious about this part. He hugged her for a moment, smoothing down her hair and whispering comfits into her ear until Rosa calmed down again.
Rosa sniffed loudly and ran her arm under her nose.
"Always such a lady," Gordon said softly.
"But," Rosa started back up, "I guess that Bruce saw me from a different angle, or something. I remember his headlights were on, so that probably helped. And he just sort of… pulled me out. I don't remember a lot after, I guess I must have swallowed some of that muck. The next thing I knew four and a half days had passed and I was waking up in a bed with Egyptian Cotton sheets."
"Then I brought in the doctor," Bruce said, "and he gave her some sort of ultra-antibiotic, I'm not going to even try to pronounce it. He – the doctor – said she'd be okay after a while. I didn't know where she lived, or who she was, so she just stayed in one of the guest-bedrooms."
"I'm so sorry, Gordon," Rosa said. "I knew you'd be worried." She leant in to hug him again, and whispered, "You owe me two new guns and a knife. Plus a mask." She kissed him gently on the temple. "I'll feel better soon; I'm feeling better already," she said as she pulled away. "Is it okay… if I stay here till I'm up to snuff? I swear, whatever's in the air up here, besides it being smogless, is doing wonders for me."
"Kid, you're twenty-six. You can stay wherever you want."
"Thanks, Gordon. Love you too."
oooooo
"I hate lying to him," Rosa said. She was back in her room, back in her bed, lying down and looking at the ceiling. "He doesn't deserve it."
"No, I don't think he does," Bruce Wayne was sitting in the armchair, a book lying open in his palm. "But… thank you. For not telling."
"Gotta find some way to build up that link of protection, B-Man. Now, keep reading. And remember to do different voices for all the parts."
Bruce shook his head, looking down at the book. It was probably worth thousands of dollars – a Tennessee Williams collection of plays, first edition, autographed. But the cost didn't really matter right now. All that mattered was that this incredibly rare book had been taken out of its place, had had the dust blown off of it, and was now being read aloud from.
"Come closer, I can't hear you."
"That's probably because I haven't started yet," Bruce muttered, but clambered over to the other side of the bed, and propped the pillows up. He lay back, one arm behind his head, one keeping the book open. "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," he began. "Tennessee Williams. The Players…"
Big Daddy had just returned for his birthday party when Bruce heard a slight noise next to him. Is there a coffee-maker in here? He thought wildly, but looked down at Rosa. She was deeply asleep, snoring softly. She had also managed to meld herself against Bruce.
"Well this is fun," Bruce said. He lay the book open to the page he was on and turned it upside down, cracking the spine as he put it on his chest.
He carefully reached over to the lamp on his side of the bed, and pulled the chain. The light went out, and Bruce closed his eyes. The hand behind his head moved from its position to outlining Rosa's back.
He couldn't know it, but his lips were tucked up at the corners. Bruce Wayne was smiling.
The book's worth was now ruined.
But the worth of Bruce Wayne was slowly being rebuilt.