Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Batman universe.
The stranger across from me is glaring straight into my eyes. Her forehead is wrinkled with disgust and malcontent. I pout at her, with her boyish, dirty blonde hair and her eyes the dull blue-grey color of blueschist. Her face morphs into the same sad, unsatisfactory look, and I feel the urge to shatter the stupid mirror with my bare fists.
I couldn't help sneaking a glance at Bruce's dates. They were tall and skinny, with long legs and exotic faces covered with an amount of cosmetics that could sink a cargo ship. Their skimpy dresses flattered them incredibly, and a pang of jealousy had shot through me. I will never be able to look like that.
Sure, I am tall, almost 5'10" and I am fit, my muscles hard as a rock now because of Bruce's wonderful home exercise machines, but I am anything but skinny or small or what today is considered pretty. My face is … plain. My nose is straight, could be smaller, and my face is round, with low cheekbones. Nothing about me sticks out, apart from my wings of course.
This self-loathing and lack of self-confidence I blame on those damn super-models. I try to focus only on Bruce's mood before he left with them, but then I can't get the picture of his fingers grazing one of their long legs out of my mind. How can any male not enjoy that? I decide that both he and I are full of bullshit. Me, because I'm acting shallow and him, because he is too.
Alfred had tried to convince me to go out for the evening, but I laughed at him. What am I supposed to do? Put on my best pair of holey jeans and baggy sweater and go bar-hopping?
So I sit around moping, waiting anxiously for Bruce to get home so that I can mope around him and make him feel bad.
"He is only doing this to protect his other public image," Alfred keeps reminding me, "He can not always be Batman."
"He shouldn't be Batman in the first place!" I shoot back at Alfred, and the old man opens up to me.
"Even I don't fully understand his actions," he tells me, "His reasons I do understand, but Master Bruce's mind is a complex one, and I am sure he justifies himself even as we question him. He is a good man, like his father, and he is just trying to make his mark upon this world a good one, like his father did."
"Yeah," I mumble. I'm not going to even try to put into words for Alfred what my thoughts are regarding this, so I change the subject, "Listen, Al, I feel horrible about letting you cook and clean for me. Isn't there anything I can help with?" I'm not used to being pampered, and to be honest, it's not all it's cracked up to be. I'm bored most of the day.
"Usually," Alfred sniffs, "I would decline such a ridiculous request and deem it an insult against my care-taking. But, since you called me Al, I will most certainly put you to work." He smiles kindly at me, and I know he's joking. At last, someone who understands my need for stimulation.
I giggle at him, and it's not forced. I briefly consider staying here for the rest of my days just so that I can live with Alfred. He's wonderful; all Bruce hyped him up to be.
"What can I do?" I ask, the laugh still evident in my voice.
Alfred mulls over his list of chores for a moment, and then sends me to the kitchen, where I will be cleaning the dishes and countertops and such.
I find him in the kitchen a few minutes later with a small radio in his hands, "For your enjoyment," he says, setting it down on a counter that I must wash and flipping the switch on.
"Kitchen Patrol reporting for duty," I say, throwing a smart salute to Alfred. He grins smugly at me, and waves his arm around the room vaguely.
"Have fun," he says to me as he passes me on his way to bigger and better and more glamorous things, like cleaning out the toilet. After I finish the long but pleasantly mindless job I decide to make myself a quick salad. I grab a bowl and a head of lettuce out of one of the fridges. I chop up the head quickly and sweep the shreds into the bowl, and then fish out some cheese, carrots, peanuts, raisins, and celery.
I am about to begin cutting the carrot when a piano intro crackles out of the radio, followed by a woman's soulful voice. I crank the volume dial as far as it will go, for this is my karaoke song, and belt out the words.
"And I grew strong. And I learned how to get aloooong!" I drop the knife in exchange for the celery and my salad fixings make for excellent drumsticks, "And so you're back. From outa space. I just walked in to find ya here with that sad look upon your face." I make it through the rest of the first verse and chorus without my voice breaking, and dive into the second verse.
"And you see me, somebody new. I'm not that chained up little person still in love with you! And so you felt like droppin' in, and just expect me to be free? Now I'm savin' all my love for someone who's lovin' MEEE!" Here, I lose it and my voice cracks thunderously, but I plow ahead. In fact, I am surprised that I held out that long. I don't notice my little audience in the kitchen doorway. I make it through the next chorus with little mistakes and pause for a moment, in complete synchronization with Gloria Gaynor, "Oh, oh, oh, oh."
"Go on now GO! Walk out the door!" I throw my hand with the carrot out in front of me dramatically, bop my head, lift up on my left toes, and drop my right hip all in time with the beat, giving my all for the last chorus. My voice is hideously loud and out of tune, but this is my song, and I don't give a care. "Just turn around now, 'cause your not welcome anymore! Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? Did you think I'd crumble? Did you think I'd lay down and diiie?! Oh no, not I!" I bring my hand back to face, curling it into a fist and closing me eyes.
"I will survive! Oh, as long as I know howta love I know I'll stay alive. I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give," I re-open my eyes and lift my clenched fist in the air, my voice as far from these next money notes as physically possible, "And I'll survive! I will surviiive! IIII will surviiiiive!!" I finish out the song jamming against the countertop with my now-ragged carrot and celery, and sigh happily when it's over and the DJ comes on to tell me about Gotham downtown district traffic.
I hear rousing applause behind me, and spin around, my cheeks two big red cherries on my face. Bruce is avidly clapping and Alfred is almost doubled over with suppressed laughter.
"Hey, Breezy," Bruce chuckles, "I didn't know you were a singer!" I am petrified to the extreme and almost escape past them to my room when Bruce grabs my arm, lightning-quick.
"Wait, wait a minute," he says with laughter still strong in his voice. I feel almost close to tears with embarrassment, but I turn around to glower at him, "Come on," he pleads, "That was great."
I scoff and pull away, but Bruce's grip is strong, "Really," he says, "You've just made my whole day. That was possibly the funniest thing I've ever seen."
A small smile leaps onto my face, and my blushing deepens, "Yeah, well," I cough to hide the raw emotion behind my words, "That's my karaoke song, you know? Everyone has one."
"Yeah, I know," Bruce smiles.
"So, how were the air-head supermodels? I noticed that you came back alone," I poke at him playfully.
Melancholy enters Bruce's eyes, and my quick smile turns into a quick frown, "What happened?" I instantly feel horrible for asking, because just seconds ago I had made him happy, and now he sinking back into the pit of despair he must have previously occupied before coming back here and experiencing my singing, yeah, that's what happens. You don't hear me sing, you experience it.
"Oh, uh, nothing," Bruce stutters.
"Yeah right," I cross my arms resolutely, letting Bruce know through body language that I won't move from my spot until he tells me what happened. And I know for sure that something did, because Bruce stammered and I know what it takes to make him nervous.
"I just saw an old friend there, that's all," Bruce says quietly, his visage turned miserable again.
"Who was she?" I ask. Bruce wonders about how I know that she was a she, I can tell by his glance, but I just know.
"Rachel Dawes. An old friend, like I said."
"Oh, did you guys have a falling-out or something?" I gander half-heartedly. I don't frankly want to hear about this Rachel.
"Yeah, I guess a seven year absence can do that to a friendship," Bruce sighs softly.
"Yeah," I yawn. It's been a long night.
"She … doesn't get me," Bruce continues as if he hadn't heard my blatant hint that it's my bedtime.
I give up on sleep for the moment and sit down on the nearest couch, patting the spot next to me. Bruce looks undecided, he probably has some Batman duty to fulfill, but he sits.
"When she saw me tonight, with those two girls wrapped around me and a check in my hand for the hotel, all she could see was my act. I wish she could see the real me, know that I'm still in here, and understand me like you can," Bruce empties his woes.
I am torn. On one glorious hand, Bruce appreciates me. But on the other, he would probably replace me if this Rachel was as I am, but I end up saying, "I don't fully understand, Bruce."
He looks at me in shock and then says, "I don't either."
I gape at him, and then giggle. And then giggle again. And then those little giggles avalanche into full-blown belly laughter. Bruce stares disbelievingly at me, and then joins in, and that's how Alfred finds us, three minutes later, doubled over and leaning against one another, fighting for the breath to continue the cleansing laughter.
"I know, Alfred," Bruce says before Alfred can find the words, "I'm coming."
Then he turns back to me and says, "I don't know how I can ever thank you for everything you've done for me." I just shrug, the words getting stuck in my throat. Bruce smiles that quirky, small, little smile of his and then leans in, brushing his lips against my own. It wasn't like back in the monastery, which was hard and urgent and fast. This was soft and gentle and over much too quickly. I am left alone on the couch studying my hands while Bruce readies himself to reveal his true side, become his true self, the self that I realize right then, I love.
Again, emotions choke me, and tears start to flow from my eyes, and I dart to my room before Alfred can see me. How else could this visit to Bruce be explained, or the jealousy I felt earlier in the day? I have never … been in love before. I have one or two friends that I love, but in a friend way. This feels different. Better, for one, and … just different. I try to think of all the cheesy ways people had described love in the very few romantic books that I've read in my lifetime, and they always said that the feeling was like flying high in the sky.
Well, they were wrong, because I've done that, and this has nothing on it. They say that you value your significant other's life more than even your own, but I don't feel that way, because in my mind Bruce will never die, can never die. I just think about him kicking ass on the evening news and I feel safe for him. They say your whole body gets warm and fuzzy, but if they mean sweaty and confused, then I'm with them. I contemplate this all while I'm snuggling under my covers, ready for sleep.
They also say that when he kisses you, the world stops turning. But for me, it speeded up, and happened to quickly and was over too soon. I don't know what they were talking about.
I just feel confused and happy and ignorant and embarrassed and scared all at the same time. And if I had felt like this at any other time, I would've added pissed to the list, because I know it doesn't sound very fun to have all those things going on. But I'm not. And that's why I think I might be in love. I sigh, these are truly strange days.
Author's note – Thanks to the wonderful Gloria Gaynor and her song "I Will Survive"for providing some comic relief :P