A/N: This chapter may not seem like much in the action department, but emotionally, it's a huge turning point. Vicki and Bruce make certain decisions. These events put Vicki straight in the Joker's hand. He'll definitely show up the chapter after next and stay a while.

Warnings: Usual coarse language. Weird-ass dream sequence. Lying to the police. Awkward break-up.

References: Buffy, Emma, Persuasion, Sense & Sensibility, Juno, Scrubs, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Firefly, The Beatles, and Grease.

CHAPTER TEN: A Fine, Fine Line

()()()()()()()()()()

There's a fine, fine line between a fairy tale and a lie;
And there's a fine, fine line between "You're wonderful" and "Goodbye."
I guess if someone doesn't love you back it isn't such a crime,
But there's a fine, fine line between love
And a waste of your time.

Kate Monster, Avenue Q

()()()()()()()()()()

"Yeah, cause rape: so passé."

-Penelope "Peg" Georgiana Olson

()()()()()()()()()()

They were on a camping trip. The sign said they were at the intersection of 98th and Holdrege. Dad was setting up the tent and Peg was gathering firewood. A monkey swung down from the fire escape and hopped onto the redwood tree in the middle of the clearing.

Vicki was tending to the fence. There was a meteor-sized hole in the wiring. It fell down. All she had in her hand was a shovel.

"Can you hear that?" Dad asked, pausing as the tent sagged down from the poles. It refused to stay up straight.

"It's so loud," Vicki whispered.

"It doesn't matter much to me," Peg interjected, dumping the sticks in a pile. "Whispers don't arouse my fancy. They aren't yours to know."

"I have to know," Vicki replied, stepping through the hole in the fence. The profusion of tree branches whipped at her face, but she kept one hand balled in a fist at her side; the other clutched tightly to her shovel. Peg and Dad called after her, but their warnings were little more than mumblings. "Disturbances should be dealt with…"

Vicki stepped over a gutter, where a little parrot was crumpled inside. The cold of the forest was swirling around and whipping past her ears, but there was no wind. The forest hummed and thrived, yet it stood still. There was something growling, like a wolf, drawing circles in the dirt. She followed them. They led to a big metal door, bars on the windows, no walls.

She took the shovel and swung at the door. It cracked. She swung again. It wiggled and the wind picked up. The door began to dissolve like sand. There was nothing. She dropped the shovel.

When she returned to the intersection, everyone was gone. The tent had deflated and the stick were scattered everywhere.

"They all left a while ago," Vicki realized.

She stomped backwards, stepping in potholes and gopher holes, hurting her ankles as she wandered.

A root popped up and she tripped over it before she found it. She was lying on something squishy and red.

They were strawberries. Vicki looked up and the sky was blue again and so was the water lapping at the bank. At the edges of her vision, strawberries dangled above her.

"Tangy and delicious," she said, reaching for one. A hand shot out and prevented her. It pulled her up and set her on her feet.

"Didn't I tell you that parable about women and juicy, red fruit?" Dr. Crane asked, wagging a finger. Vicki stuck her tongue out, but followed him as he stepped toward the river. The water was very blue; like blue raspberry. There was a boat, hanging around, surfing on the waves.

"That's a holey boat," Vicki complained. Crane shook his head at her.

"Panda, Panda, Panda…" he sighed. He turned to the boat, then back to her.

Rudge stared at her, boring holes in her skull. She wiped them away and fluffed her hair.

"You tore us apart and stitched us together," he told her, his mouth never moving. His hand drifted to the space above her heart. Heat emanated from him. She closed her eyes and leaned in, but she never touched him. "That's why it stopped beating."

Vicki opened her eyes. It was a warehouse, used for cheese storage. It was still warm. There was the growling again… She jumped up stairs, pushed open doors, climbed ladders, rode tractors, but she could not find it. Everything was empty and bare, concrete, metal, shiny. The growling was like a song; it crept closer to her ear, dancing.

When she made her way back to the main floor, a chandelier was hanging above. Down the stairs, people were congregating. Empire waist silk gowns. Suits, white calves and queues.

Shaking with fear, Vicki made her descent. Her foot collided with the floor and everyone began to stare.

"Miss Smith, how wonderful to see you've made the occasion!" shouted someone from the crowd.

"Harriet!" Ace ran up, shorter, in green silk gloves that extended to her and his matching gown flying in the wind. His eye was bruised. "You will be an old maid and that's so dreadful! I may be a cold-blooded jelly doughnut—but my timing's impeccable. Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home."

Peg came up behind him, pink velvet all over with red trimmings. When she spoke her mouth didn't move; her grin and her eyes remained bright.

"Harriet! She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs. Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity."

"Um, sorry?" Vicki asked. They grabbed her hands and led her around the party. People she knew and loved drifted in and out of her acquaintance, but she could really only wonder where Edward was. Vicki let them lead her as she searched with no tool but her eyes. The growling never left her ears, but it was dimmed by the thrum of everyone insulting her outfit.

Barbara II was running around in a cape and ears, bumping into everyone.

"I'm a bat, I'm a bat, I'm a bat!" she insisted, holding her hands out as she flew. No one paid her any mind.

Finally, Vicki came upon her own mother. She held a fan over most of her face, but her brown eyes peaked over, took a look at Vicki, and turned back to her party.

"I don't wish to make your acquaintance," her mother said.

"Mom? I made a half-monkey, half-pony creature to please you."

"You're not dressed properly," her mother tsked.

"When they were handing out costumes, I couldn't find the line. I was..." Vicki struggled for a word, "… busy."

"Oh yes, swimming, I remember," her mother said, rolling her eyes. "No wonder Edward doesn't want you."

Vicki shrugged away from her friends' hands. She backed through the crowd, which parted behind her until she reached the door. The growling was right behind it. She turned and pushed the door open.

()()()()()()()()()()

Vicki woke up.

A machine was beeping in the background, pulsing steadily to the beat of her breath. Her eyelids were crusted together. She struggled to open them and when she did, she was greeted with the sight of pastel blue walls basked in the glow of a sunset. Everything stank of sterilization and chemicals, making Vicki's stomach swirl with apprehension. Her limbs were stiffly set out over a hospital bed. Her right hand was throbbing dully with heat and pain.

When she tilted her head to the right, she became dizzy and all her blood started to rush. Her head was wrapped in gauze and incredibly sore.

Closing her eyes, Vicki concentrated on moving the rest of her body, restarting circulation and tensing her idle muscles.

"Hey there la bella durmiente!" Vicki looked up to see a short, curly-haired nurse in purple scrubs opening the door with a chart tucked in her hand by her side. "You're finally awake and not crazy."

"How long was I not?" Vicki rasped, attempting to sit up. The dizziness started again and she sank back into the bed.

"By sunset, woulda been your sixth day," the nurse told her, taking cursory glances at the machinery and making notes. "Don't even try getting out of that bed. They brought you in with a concussion, bruising around the neck, and glass in your palm. Luckily, they got your stitches in before you woke up and went all loca. Took us a minute to figure out you were all pumped full of the fear toxin the Scarecrow's using."

"What did I say?" Vicki mumbled anxiously.

"Somethin' about not leaving you alone," the nurse said off-handedly, taking Vicki's right hand and unwrapping the white gauze. "That or leprechauns, no se."

As the nurse unraveled some new gauze, Vicki caught sight of the stitched gashes in her hand and cringed. The nurse began to wrap the wounds in fresh gauze.

"Anyway, we had to put you under until we could get a hold of some of the antidote, which didn't even work because that cabron messed with his original formula." The nurse leaned in toward Vicki with a mischievously scandalized look on her face. "Then, a couple of nights ago, I was working the graveyard shift and there was a security breach. Turns out, it's your big, black guardian bat sweeping in with something even better. I mean, all he did was take his antidote to the Chief of Medicine, but I swear I caught a little bit of him as he was goin' out the door." The nurse shivered, a toothy grin overtaking her features. Then she hopped up and took her chart. "Anyway, that stuff should be outta your system by now. I'll go tell Dr. Reid you're awake."

The nurse left as quickly as she'd appeared. Vicki sighed, the memories of her abduction flooding back to her. She wished she was still asleep.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Why were you following him?" Detective Ana Ramirez asked.

"I… needed to ask Dr. Rudge something," Vicki said, unwilling to decode her psyche for some rookie cop. Ramirez's partner, a short, graying detective named Gerard Stephens was recording Vicki's statements with a detached submissiveness.

"And here I thought you'd vowed never to speak to him again," Vicki's mother interjected, stepping back in the room and leaning against the doorway. She'd been yelling at the nurses about her daughter's measly lunch.

The morning after Vicki had woken up, her parents had appeared—thanks to her father's prostate cancer, they were quite familiar with the hospital—and showed up just a few minutes before the homicide detectives had arrived to question Vicki about what had conspired in the college of dentistry the night of GSU's alumni banquet. Apparently Guerrero was practicing a form of selective memory, too traumatized to know what had gone on. Plus he'd been blindfolded.

"Well, people are allowed to change their minds, mother," Vicki sighed, narrowing her eyes at her mother. Her father, standing by her bedside, had an arm around her shoulders. He squeezed her shoulder in solidarity.

Detective Stephens cleared his throat, shooting Vicki an admonishing look.

"We got to the end of the hallway," Vicki continued. "Crane's thugs started tying up Guerrero, I turned around to run and there's Crane looming with Scaly at his beck and call."

"Scaly?" Stephens asked.

"Well… that's what I called him in my head," Vicki admitted, lowering her gaze in slight embarrassment. Ramirez looked amused; Vicki's parents stared at their daughter will ill-disguised shock. "So, I got past them and ran for it, but Scaly managed to catch up. He hoisted me over his shoulder and took me to the college of dentistry."

"Could you describe, uh, Scaly?" Stephens requested, flipping a page in his notepad.

"Like… really big," Vicki told him, scrunching up her face as she tried to summon Scaly's image. "He was maybe 6'8'', very bulky. Huge teeth, probably more than the usual 48. His skin was dry and a kind of grey-green color, ethnically Caucasian though. Oh, and he smelled like shit, like he lived in the sewer or something."

"Matches Quinzel and Russo's description," Ramirez murmured to her partner. Stephens nodded and Ramirez pulled out a photo of Scaly, nameplates in his hand, glowering at a camera. "Is this the man who took you?" Ramirez asked, handing the photos to Vicki. The blonde took a cursory glance and nodded. "His name's Waylon Jones, suspected on several counts of murder, never indicted."

"That's definitely him," Vicki murmured, leaning back into the bed.

"What happened next?" Stephens asked.

"Um, when I got there, Scaly—Jones shoved me into one of the empty cadaver carts and Crane started rambling about stuff, I didn't really pay attention. Rudge was there, he… he told me they weren't going to hurt me and then Crane shot him."

Vicki looked down at her fidgeting hands, unsure of how to feel about Rudge's death. She hadn't paid it much mind at the time. Now she was on the verge of tears and had to think of something to distract her.

Fishing. Polka dots. Bart Simpson. Indiana Jones. Nazis. Bart Simpson in a Nazi uniform. Vicki sighed and felt her father's reassuring half-hug contract around her.

"Crane shot me up, left with his nondescript thugs, and when Scaly tried to lock the cadaver cart I pushed it over and rolled out. He came at me, kinda picked me up by the neck and I managed to get a beaker and I broke it on his face. He started screaming and I got a scalpel to cut Guerrero's hands, cause they used those weird plastic cuffs that movers use… I don't remember anything after that."

"Do you have any idea why Crane targeted you?" Ramirez asked. "A grudge, perhaps, or unrequited affection?"

"… Nah, not really," Vicki lied. "I mean, I met him once in college, before he went off the deep end, but it's not like…" It's not like menaced me, sent me flowers, lured me, wanted me dead or anything. Nope. "It's not like… Nothing significant… Fuck, that concussion is really kicking in." Vicki cradled her forehead in her hand. Her vision was getting a little blurry, but she exaggerated the symptoms by moaning a little.

"If you remember anything more, you've got our number," Stephens said, stuffing the notepad in his pocket. Ramirez gave him a hard look, as if she wanted to continue the interrogation, but he jerked his head toward the door and she followed suit. "Thank you for your time, Miss Vale."

"S'all good," Vicki mumbled, shrugging out of her father's embrace and curling up against her pillows, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I swear, the damned security at that school is worthless," her father railed as soon as the detectives had shut the door behind them.

"Well, it is here too," her mother snapped. "I just checked; there were two security breaches in the last week, neither caught. Makes you wonder how many they don't know about."

"I bet they're selling the carcasses and the morphine out back," Vicki muttered sullenly.

"You're abusing sarcasm, dear," her mother scolded. Ever businesslike, her mother whipped out a briefcase full of medical and insurance forms. "Now, Victoria, we need to go over-" Vicki cut her mother off with a loud groan and shoved her head under a pillow. "We need to deal with this sooner rather than later, and if you don't, you'll end up paying it for the rest of your life. That paltry salary they give you at the Times isn't going to cover your medical expenses if you want to continue eating."

"Maybe we should do this later, Lottie," her father cut in, knowing that if he didn't diffuse the situation, his wife and daughter would likely devolve into passive aggressive screaming match.

"Like when I don't have a fucking concussion!" Vicki bellowed from under her pillow.

"I'm being pragmatic," her mother insisted.

"I'm being traumatized," Vicki growled.

"So, Vick," her father cut in, "how's that boyfriend of yours?"

Vicki stopped talking for the rest of the day.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Yes, yes, no, yes, no, and yes if I've been drinking," Ace said, pointing at each of the doctors gathered outside the door. He was situated at the end of Vicki's bed, pointing at them and telling Vicki which ones were cute enough for him to sleep with. They appeared to be interns, nervous and paying a lot of attention to an older man who was lecturing with a glazed look in his eyes, as though he had been made mechanical through giving lectures like this one hundreds of times.

"Aw, he's cute," Vicki observed of the one Ace had dubbed 'if I've been drinking'. "The glasses are adorkable."

"He's got a huge nose," Ace criticized.

"But he was in here yesterday with Dr. Reid, and he was so-o-o sweet," Vicki gushed. "His name is Sam."

"Well, guess Bruce better watch out," Ace said, rolling his eyes and sorting out the Skittles he'd brought for Vicki on her lunch tray. Vicki pursed her lips at the mention of Bruce.

"Hey, speaking of Bruce, has he been by yet?" Peg asked. She was sitting in the chair next to her bed, doing some of her Times work on a laptop. Ace and Peg had decided to spend the entire afternoon with Vicki, since she'd been going mad all alone in the hospital by herself.

"The nurses said he stopped by yesterday, but I was asleep," Vicki lied, downing a handful of purple and green skittles. This was another lie. Alfred had dropped off some balloons, but her infamous boyfriend was nowhere to be found. The nurses had finally stopped asking about him.

"Julian just informed me over Facebook chat that he wants to know when you're coming back," Peg stated, typing quickly.

"Why didn't he visit me," Vicki grumbled, gathering up the red Skittles.

"Well, he did," Peg reiterated, "you were just asleep. All six times."

"At this point, you're just ruining my smorgasbord for funsies," Ace complained, downing the yellow Skittles. Vicki snorted and raised an eyebrow at him. "Okay, fine, I'll make a real one. There's a vending machine one floor down. Any requests?"

"M&M's," Vicki demanded.

"Reese's Pieces," Peg added.

"Pretzels-"

"Ho-Hos-"

"Butterfingers-"

"Those cheesy chips-"

"Yeah, the cheddar-"

"Jesus, are you guys twelve?" Ace asked. Vicki and Peg nodded vigorously. "Okay, since I'm not Willy Wonka, will there be some contributions to this fund?" Vicki and Peg shook their heads vigorously. "Seriously?"

"Ho-hos are a vital part of my cognitive process," Peg insisted.

"You're the man," Vicki explained, "you're going to have to support us, for as womenfolk, we are weak and silly."

"Considering you're on the front page an average of once a week," Ace said, "one might make the mistake of thinking that you're financially sound."

"Well, I didn't get paid for it this week," Vicki replied, pointing to the door and waving wildly. "Now be off!" Mock-growling, Ace went out.

"So when do you wanna talk about it?" Peg asked, closing her laptop.

Everything went silent in the room as both pairs of eyes flew to the violently mauled copy of The Gotham Times lying on Vicki's bedside table. Two days previously, staff reporter Shawn O'Meara had marched in with the assumption that he had an exclusive right to a tell-all interview with Vicki because they were colleagues. Vicki had been skeletal at best with her details, unable to acquiesce to some of the more probing questions. As a result, his final article was peppered with salacious little details and speculations. Vicki had taken her anger out on the paper.

Just about everyone assumed the worst about her kidnapping because of Vicki's evasiveness, including her best friend.

"There's nothing to talk about," Vicki groused, grabbing the remote and turning up the T.V. She flipped between Gilmore Girls and infomercials, about to tear her eyes out from sheer boredom. She'd been awake in the hospital three days and was determined that once she was out, she would never watch daytime television again. It was terrible.

"Please," Peg said caustically, "I know you. Once you get something off your chest, you heal in half the time."

"Nothing utterly traumatizing happened!" Vicki insisted for the umpteenth time. "It's not like I was sexually assaulted or anything lame like that."

"Yeah, cause rape: so passé."

()()()()()()()()()()

Release day. Finally.

Looking in the mirror, Vicki realized that two weeks lying around in a hospital bed had exhausted her more than anything in her life. Her hair was mussed and disgusting, the skin under her eyes was an odd shade of navy blue, and even breathing was a vigorous exercise unto itself. She braced her hands on either side of the sink and stared at herself, heaving a sigh. Part of her wanted to run screaming from this damn hospital, where she spent too much time injured or tending to her cancerous father. Another part just wanted to lock the door, collapse on the floor, and sleep. Yet another part had not eaten all day and craved a huge gyro.

Vicki's make-up bag lay off to the side. The instructions about make-up she had given Babs on the night of that fateful banquet had come full circle. Her hands became too shaky to apply lipstick or mascara when they neared her face and now it was red and ruddy from washing away her mistakes.

For a moment, as she stared, Vicki's mind went blank. No direction, no thought, no purpose, just an overwhelming desire to be blank and stay that way.

Another sigh. Vicki backed away from the sink and sat on the toilet lid, rocking back and forth. Leaving the hospital shouldn't have given her a borderline panic attack. Dr. Reid's suggestion that she seek counseling for her ordeal began to look like an attractive prospect.

No. She just needed to get her mind in order. So that she could forget about all this. A mental list would do.

Get out of here. Eat food. Go home. Ignore cell phone. Vicki just wanted to have one day lacking the demands, worries, and awkward silences that her friends and family crowded her with.

Splashing one more handful of cold water on her face, Vicki toweled off, flippantly tossed her make-up bag in the trash, and exited the bathroom. She pulled on her brown, yarn bolero jacket, hoisted her overnight bag on her shoulder, and gave her room the finger as she left.

And there was Bruce, flirting with the entire nurse's station.

Vicki's first thought: Why is he here? Although they were dating, Vicki had known better than to expect him to visit her in the hospital. It was mostly because he'd already paid her a visit as his alter-ego.

Vicki's second thought: Goddammit, WHY? Bruce didn't need to be here. She looked terrible. Aside from her mussed hair, the lack of make-up, and visible exhaustion, she was dressed like a hobo. Torn jeans, faded brown sneakers, and her ratty Let It Be Beatles T-shirt was not the stuff of epic love tales.

Vicki's third thought: I hate my life.

"There's my girl," Bruce exclaimed when he saw her. Seven nurses were simultaneously disappointed as Bruce slid his finger under Vicki's chin to tip her head up and plant a gentle kiss on her chapped lips. His hand came around to her back just in time for her to feel weak at the knees.

"I'm not an autonomous human being now?" Vicki quipped, wetting her lips and pouting.

"Not when you've got a concussion," he chided, taking the overnight bag onto his own shoulder. He urged her toward the elevator, pausing as they waited to give the nurses' station a flirtatious glance. "Sorry I couldn't come sooner," he apologized as the elevator doors closed around them.

"It's for the best," Vicki replied. "I prefer you to see me sane and not deliriously screaming about leprechauns."

"Leprechauns?"

"Short, Irish, greedy—you can't tell me you don't fear them."

The elevator stopped at floor seven and a man in a lab coat with an enormous beard stepped on, leaning against the opposite wall.

"Bruce," Vicki whispered as the elevator set off again. "If it's okay, I was just going to walk home."

"Walk?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Alone?"

"Well, there would be a monorail ride involved," Vicki explained, "as well as a stop in Merchant's Square Park for a fantastic gyro from that one stand. There'll be other people around me."

"Why isn't anyone else here to pick you up?" Bruce asked. The elevator reached the lobby and they strolled out. Vicki spotted Alfred waiting down the block in Bruce's limousine, taking a brief nap.

"I may have told everyone else I was getting out of here in four hours…" Vicki said, trailing off as she stopped walking in the middle of the lobby. If she tried to talk too much, her little show of refusal would be charmed down by Bruce's impeccable persona. He stopped beside her, his arm still behind her back. "You know… Occasionally, though not very often, I've heard that couples go out in the daylight and spend time together. Without buying large real estate properties," she added hastily.

"Like a date?" Bruce said uncertainly. "Right now?"

"If you haven't got any pressing, y'know, business."

()()()()()()()()()()

"I had no idea you had such a thorough knowledge of the monorail system," Vicki remarked, waiting for her gyro to be made. It made sense though. Bruce had to know Gotham inside and out.

"I am a native," Bruce replied, handing the vendor a one hundred dollar bill. The man's eyes went wide and he was about to hand it back, but Bruce waved it away. "Keep the change."

The pair made their way down a winding bike path that led to the edge of the murky Gotham River that split Merchant's Square into a triangular area isolated from the rest of Gotham City. It was mid-morning on a Monday; visitors to the park were sparse. The occasional serious cyclist in blue spandex sped past them, while older couples and truant school children wandered around. The air was cold but still; Bruce had one arm around her, hugging her close to keep her warm—and propped up. Vicki was still feeling a few symptoms of the concussion.

They neared a row of benches on the waterfront. As they scoped for a good one, Vicki spotted a pseudo-hippie wrapped in an orange quilt with her nose buried deeply in a worn library book.

"A Clockwork Orange…" Vicki murmured, cocking her head to one side to read the title.

"Sadistic crap legitimized by inventive language and a tacked on reform," Bruce spat, rolling his eyes. "Tell me you're not a fan."

"I read it in high school," Vicki replied, shrugging. She was a fan, in fact. She took a large bite of her gyro and chewed very slowly.

They selected a bench three spots down from the hippie. For a while, they sat there, Vicki eating her gyro and Bruce sipping at an iced tea. The occasional tour boat sped by—Batman had boosted Gotham's tourism industry by 49 percent—creating waves that lunged at the edge. Vicki studied them, mesmerized, sagging against Bruce's hold as she felt the exhaustion take hold of her again.

"Vicki…" Bruce started, "Is there something I should know about what happened that night?" Vicki sat up pin-straight and frowned at him. He looked pained to even be asking her. "Anything you didn't tell the police?"

Vicki turned back toward the waterfront. After a moment, she inhaled sharply and spoke.

"What do you know so far?" she asked, picking at the last of her gyro.

"Dr. Crane sent out two decoys to distract the police and assembled a team with the purpose of ransoming Guerrero," Bruce recited. "Dr. Rudge lured Guerrero out of the banquet and when Crane went in, he took you as well. He gave you a liquid dose of his fear toxin, left to confront us, you got Guerrero out."

"And he pays me back by running away like a pansy," Vicki grumbled.

"Gordon caught the underlings, but Crane also hired a man named Waylon Jones. He has a skin defect that causes his skin to resemble scales. He's avoided the police for some time by using the Gotham sewer system. That's how Crane got away."

"You trust me with these details?"

"You don't seem eager to release them," Bruce shot back. "I'm not worried. I trust you."

"… Crane meant for me to be there," Vicki admitted after a pregnant silence. "I thought it was because I photographed you, but… he just really wanted to fuck with my head." She shrugged, on the verge of tears. Shoes. Eric Cartman. Corgi puppies. Hawaii. That episode of South Park where Butters finds his dad in a porn theatre. "Fuck," she whispered, pulling up the sleeves of her bolero jacket to dab at her eyes. "God, that's just the worst thing I could do…"

"What is?" Bruce pressed.

"Cry," Vicki said simply. "In front of you." She sniffled, breathing a little uneasily. "I don't think that helps but, uh, it does put a new spin on the whole thing."

"It does," Bruce said, nodding. "Why were you trying to leave the hospital by yourself?"

"Excuse me?" Vicki asked, a little confused by his sudden leap of subject.

"You need to be careful," Bruce admonished, worry creasing the premature lines on his face.

"No," Vicki said, shaking her head. "Crane's had his fun. He won't come after me again."

It was more than wishful thinking. It was a resolution Vicki had come up with during her confinement in the hospital. He must've been watching her, sending the cryptic gifts to see how she'd react until he could make his move. She'd read from the news that Crane hadn't gotten the money from his ransom demand, but he was more likely to channel his blame on Batman. She wasn't even upset about Crane, or being drugged, or the bruises and cuts and concussion.

"It's just…" Her breath started shaking. She pulled her legs up to the bench and gathered her hands around her knees, trying to concentrate on the water. "I feel like such an idiot," she said, forcing a harsh laugh.

Bruce didn't say anything. He seemed at a loss and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was unable to grasp how to comfort her, half distracted by the new angle that emerged from Crane's motivations.

"Rudge knew exactly how to manipulate me," Vicki murmured bitterly.

"What did he say?" Bruce asked.

"Just, vague things, threatening things," she told him. "He knew that if he made me curious enough, I'd follow him. I keep going back, trying to figure out why I was so fucking devoted to him."

"Were you two involved?" It was the one question Bruce had managed to avoid asking her about since their initial date and the one question Vicki had refused to answer to anyone.

"No," she breathed. "We talked about it, like it was hypothetical or some sort of inevitability. Like a joke…" Vicki felt more words, and tears, welling up inside her, and eventually they started to stream out. "When Crane shot him, he fell on me and his blood was everywhere." Vicki began to weep, covering her eyes, breathing heavily in an effort to calm herself. "I couldn't even feel a-anything." She started to tremble. "I wiped his blood on my dress…"

"You didn't have time to grieve," Bruce told her, moving his hand to the nape of her neck, rubbing softly with his thumb. "Your instincts took over."

"I hate h-him," Vicki whimpered, breathing harder and harder as the waterworks began to really churn. Bruce lifted her knees so that her feet were on the other side of his body, took her hand in his and leaned in so that their foreheads were touching. She tried to look him in the eye, but failed, and began to cry in earnest.

"It's all right to be sad that he's gone," Bruce assured her softly.

"He fucked me over-"

"He was your mentor and you admired him. You can't undo those feelings on command."

Bruce gathered Vicki to his chest and held her as she sobbed and raged and mourned.

()()()()()()()()()()

They were holding hands for the first time.

It was early afternoon. Vicki's tears had finally dried and Bruce was delivering her home. As they'd departed Merchant's Square, he'd taken her hand in his and led her along to the monorail entrance. They leisurely climbed the stairs, feeling the structure tremble slightly with the force of the cars jetting to and fro. The one that left for Reatton would arrive in four minutes.

They stood on the platform, hand in hand for the first time.

"Bruce…" He looked at Vicki, reserved as ever. "I don't think we should date anymore."

He didn't let go. His hand grasped hers tighter.

"Why?" he asked, frowning, neither sad nor angry.

"I think…" Vicki struggled to put her motivations in words. "The people close to me; they're starting to get suspicious." She held her breath, waiting for his reaction, unsure of what she wanted. Disappointment, maybe, or resistance, that was what would comfort her. But she knew his acting too well to expect that.

"If you think its best," he finally replied, looking sorrowfully into her eyes. He let go of her hand and pocketed his own.

"No." Vicki shook her head, running a hand through her hair, summoning the courage to tell him the truth. "That's not even what I think." He frowned and Vicki took a step back, unsure whether or not she could continue. She twisted her hands behind her back, forcing the words out. "Bruce, you don't like me nearly as much as I like you." Vicki had resolved not to use the big L-word. That would just be too cliché.

She bit her lip, waiting for a reaction. She didn't get one; he was stoic.

"And it's driving me crazy," she continued, falling down to a whisper.

"How can you know that?" he whispered, closing the gap between them, his hand sliding around to the nape of her neck again.

For once, she wasn't weak at the knees.

"Intuition. Majoring in psychology," Vicki replied flippantly. She looked up into his eyes, the corners of her mouth turning up ever so slightly. Her fingers drifted up of their own accord to his face, tracing his jaw down to his chest, where his heart was beating at a steady rate. "I think parts of you like me. It might be the part that dresses up like a bat," she giggled lightly, "or the gentleman that prefers blondes. But it's not all of you."

"And all of you likes me," Bruce guessed. His penetrating eyes searched her face almost eagerly for confirmation on a level higher than semantics.

"I don't compartmentalize," she said, nodding.

Bruce accepted this answer. Taking a deep breath, he kissed her on the cheek, allowing his lips to linger for a bit longer than he usually dared. Unable to leave her stranded on the platform, half sure she'd get kidnapped again, he stayed with her until the car arrived.