Excerpt from the Sunday, September 21, 2008 edition of the Gotham Gazette, Society Column, Section B1:
Billionaire's Blunder Causes International Uproar
Due to the latest in a series of blunders and social gaffes committed by Gotham City's star billionaire, Bruce Wayne, the Pakistani Ambassador to the United States, Dawar Khattak, has cut short his visit to Gotham City.
The latest offense occurred at Saturday's International Peace Corps Dinner, in which Wayne allegedly prospositioned Khattack's niece, Ameera Khattack. Both were visiting Gotham City in their attempts to broker more harmonious relations between the United States, India, and Pakistan.
Muslims at home and abroad have begun gathering in protest of the "decadent and licentious" lifestyle of the West, and to decry the disrespect with which foreigners are regarded in the United States. As of this morning, the Pakistani Embassy in Washington D.C. was not returning phone calls for comment.
Bruce Wayne issued the following statement:
"It is with deepest dismay that I offer my sincerest apologies to His Excellency Ambassador Khattak and his niece, Miss Ameera Khattak. It's very unfortunate that this miscommunication caused such a rift, and please know that I would like very much to make amends and heal whatever damage has been done."
On Monday morning, Annabeth was lying in wait for Bruce. As soon as she heard his voice echoing down the corridor, she poked her head out her office door. "Bruce! Just the man I was looking for."
Bruce's face lit up. "Really?"
"Mmm." Her smirk was pure evil. "Maybe not. Got a moment?"
"I've got several." He ambled over to her. "An infinite amount, in fact. The only thing on my plate today is tee-time at three."
"This shouldn't take that long. You'll have plenty of time to chase the girls around the golf course." Annabeth returned to her desk, the ever-present barrier she kept between herself and the indefatigable Bruce. She pointed at the newspaper lying on her desk. "For the love of god, Bruce, what did you do? I swear, reading the paper was never this much fun before I knew you. It had to be bad, if Vale won't even specify."
Bruce settled in the seat across from her. "It was a...miscommunication."
"So you said in the paper. Just what the hell were you trying to communicate?" Annabeth actually grinned in anticipatory glee.
"Uuuh..." Bruce cast his eyes down for a moment; a sure sign of guilt. "I may have...um...suggested we try out some of the positions of the Kama Sutra...I think my exact words were, 'Your ancestors probably knew what they were writing about. Let's honor them.'"
Annabeth gaped at him, momentarily speechless. It was at that critical moment that Donna bustled her way into the room. "Good morning, kids...Bruce. Here again? My goodness. Not only do we get your donations, but we also have the charm of your constant presence." She didn't wait for him to respond; her attention was diverted to Annabeth, who was still sitting in aghast silence. "Annabeth?" She turned to Bruce. "I'm amazed—you rendered her speechless. That's it, you can have my job. I'm retiring. I've seen it all. Do I even want to know what you did?"
Bruce grinned sheepishly, but before he could respond, Annabeth had located her voice. "What he did, Donna, was suggest to a single, morally upright, Pakistani female that she should try some Kama Sutra positions on him. The Kama Sutra!" She shook her head in disbelief. "Bruce, the Kama Sutra is an Indian text!"
"Oh, you know it?" Outwardly, Bruce made no efforts to disguise his delight; inwardly, a very mischievous part of him was having quite a ball. "I've got a question about something I read in there. Maybe you could show me—"
"Not a hope in Gotham, mister. You propositioned a Pakistani female with an Indian sex book? Am I the only one making the connection here? I'm amazed there hasn't been an international incident!"
Bruce let the light of realization dawn on his face. "Oh...aren't India and Pakistan always fighting?"
"Yes, Bruce, YES. And let's not forget that you propositioned a Muslim woman! That's incredibly offensive...not only that, but she was the niece of the Ambassador!" Annabeth began spluttering with disbelieving laughter. "Were you high? Were you having an episode?Did your brain fart?"
He shrugged. "It was a mistake. I feel bad."
"I'm surprised that your companies have lasted this long. Have your investors not yet been clued into the fact that Wayne Enterprises is being run by a total and complete spaz?"
"Actually," Donna chimed in, "I think they've gotten the memo. Last I heard, Bruce, Wayne Enterprises is down another twenty-seven dollars."
Annabeth smirked. "It feels so nice to say 'I told you so.'" She turned to her computer and began checking her email; she had only so much time to devote to Bruce Wayne's nonsense.
Bruce responded with a groan. "Can't the press go easy on me for once? You'd think twenty hours a week at a battered women's shelter would give them a little something else to talk about."
"Hrm." Donna wasn't impressed. "I bet they probably just figure it's a low-effort way for Bruce Wayne to score some easy dates."
Annabeth couldn't resist jumping back in. "I know it's what I thought at first. Wait a second..." she frowned. "Why haven't you been trying to score some dates here?"
Bruce looked slightly offended. "You may think I'm a moron, Annabeth, but even I've got enough sense to know that the residents here have enough problems without me adding to them."
"Your consideration is astounding." Annabeth shook her head. "I don't think you're a moron, Bruce. I just think that..." What did she think, anyway? Come to think of it, it seemed like she was spending more and more of her time trying not to think about him. Dammit. "I just think you have a little too much fun pretending to be a moron." She turned back to her computer.
"You need to do some damage control," Donna told him. "Something to make you the media darling. You don't get it. You're rich, handsome, and not altogether an asshole. The media and the public want to love you, that's why they're so fascinated with you."
"I suppose you're right," Bruce nodded. "But what should I do?" He leaned towards Donna, oozing eagerness.
Donna frowned, gave a little shrug. "I don't know...I'm not a PR rep." She tapped her manicured fingernails against the arm rest for a moment, trying to conjure some ideas. "I think you need to be a little more circumspect. Keep your mouth shut a little more, drink a little less. Be a little more selective in your company, choose more carefully with whom you spend your time." Her sparkling eyes lit up with a brilliant idea, and she leaned forward, too, and caught Bruce's arm. "You should spend some more time in public with decent people. A carefully-selected lady. Maybe some nice, quiet, real-world type girl."
Annabeth had turned from her computer to her battered purse, in which where she was rooting around for her planner.
"A woman who's good-hearted, has a social conscience."
Annabeth then directed her energies towards her file cabinet and began methodically placing various papers in their respective folders.
"A hard-working lady with good sense and good class. Someone who isn't completely self-obsessed and trying to make sure she looks perfect every second."
Both Bruce and Donna had turned to Annabeth by this point. As they watched Annabeth, a chunk of her long brown hair slipped out of her messy ponytail, and as she brushed the hair out of her face, she left an inky smudge on her cheek.
"Someone who had enough common sense to make up for your glaring lack of it." Donna finished up, her smile triumphant.
Annabeth glanced up from her planner, where she had started to diligently plan out her day. "You two are still here?" She saw them both staring at her. "What? Am I missing something?"
Bruce gave her his most charming, winning smile, let his eyes twinkle appreciatively. "Annabeth, are you busy tonight?"
"Huh?" Annabeth was bewildered for a moment...and then she realized their plot. "Oh, no. No."
"Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?"
"Oh, christ." Annabeth buried her head in her hands. "Shit, shit, shit."
Bruce turned to Donna. "Not usually the reaction I get. This is a new experience."
"Annabeth." Donna invoked her "I-am-supervisor-hear-me-roar" voice. "Manners. Bruce is asking you out this evening. You should say yes."
Annabeth raised her head briefly. "I think this is considered sexual harassment in most civilized countries."
"She's got a point," Bruce conceded.
"Shush!" Donna admonished him. "Annabeth, listen. This is a favor-Bruce has helped us out, immensely. Now we have the chance to help him."
Bruce did his best to look like he needed help.
"Why don't you help him?" Annabeth was grasping at straws, but Donna was brushing away what few there were.
"Not me-they won't buy it. I'm on the social scene already, and I'm too old. A cougar. Too much of a MILF."
Annabeth threw Bruce a look of confusion. "What's a 'MILF'?"
He winced. "Don't ask. I'd rather you remain ignorant."
"Annabeth..." Donna wheedled. "Bruce has been really good to us."
Now Bruce was starting to get into it. "Come on, Annabeth. Just come out with me for a few weeks...just long enough to give the press something good to say about me. It'll be a business arrangement."
"Oh-ho!" Annabeth sat back in her chair. "A 'business arrangement'? And just what 'service' am I supposed to offer?"
"Annabeth." Donna's tone was sharp now. "Don't be like that."
"No, no," Bruce interjected. "She has a point." He turned to Annabeth, and once again, she was treated to the unnerving aspect of a serious Bruce Wayne. "Donna's given us a good idea, Annabeth. Look at it this way: spend some time with me, extracurricularly, over the next few weeks. Let the press write about that-let them assume there's something going on between us. You won't have to do anything to make them think it, just don't disabuse them of the notion. Let them think it's a romantic fling. Help me get a little good press coverage. Be my friend, for pity's sake. And you'll get a chance to meet more people."
He had hit the right chord, and had captured Annabeth's attention, if not yet her cooperation. "What kinds of people?"
"The kinds with large pocketbooks and political clout." Bruce dangled that in front of her; it was his last, best, and final offer, the best bait he had, and if he knew her, she'd bite.
Annabeth was starting to waver. "I'm not sure the press coverage would be that great, Bruce." She glanced at Donna. "If they do some digging, they'll find out plenty about me. And it's not good-if Gotham had trailer parks, that's where I would have been born and raised."
Interesting description, Bruce noted, and added it to the few other scraps he had gleaned about her. "It doesn't matter," he told her. "You're new, you're different, you're real. You're a social worker, for crying out loud. They'll eat it up. All you have to do is essentially be my friend, and let the press think there's more to it."
"You're already his friend, aren't you?" Donna pointed out.
"Well...I don't hate you. I suppose it's a step towards friendship." Annabeth still wasn't convinced, however. "I really don't see how hanging out with me in public is going to enhance your image."
"You don't read the tabloids," Bruce pointed out. This much, he knew was true. Decades in the limelight had made him wise to the inconsistent affections of the public and the press, and Annabeth simply was too superior to pay attention to either the publicity that surrounded most celebrities, or the reaction from the readers.
Wait...why had she been paying attention to all the articles about him lately? Was it at all possible that, despite her best efforts, she might be just the slightest bit interested in him?
This realization alone made him redouble his efforts. "Annabeth, please? We already go to the cafe together sometimes...we'll just be switching locations. Some swanky places, a few parties. That type of thing." Bruce struggled to think of what else might appeal to her. "Some fundraisers?"
She was almost there. "Just friends, right? No sex, no funny stuff."
"Just funny enough so that we can laugh at the press for having fooled them," Bruce assured her. "On my honor, as a gentleman."
"Hrmph." Annabeth shook her head. "That's no honor at all." She paused. "Okay, fine. For a short while, I will pretend to be your flavor of the month. Just long enough to repair your reputation...and short enough so that you don't drag mine through the mud with yours."
Donna grinned. Bruce looked absolutely ecstatic. And Annabeth wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into.
The Top of Gotham was the new "in" restaurant. It was hip, it was swanky, it was the place to be. The restaurant owners had poached the Head Chef from one of the best restaurants in New York, and rumor that was currently circulating through the city was that she had only been bought with the promise that she would inherit the business. The restaurant commanded stunning views of Gotham, and overlooked Wayne Towers to the south and Robinson Park to the north. To the east one could see the vast, dark expanse of the Atlantic, to the west one could, on a clear evening, find themselves the surprised spectators of a glorious sunset. Dinner usually cost well over a hundred dollars a person, not including wine or spirits, and those lucky enough to get a seat paid as much for the atmosphere as they did the food. Fortunately, on neither count did they ever find themselves disappointed.
However, all of this was lost on Annabeth. She sat, alone, in the best spot of the restaurant, a lovely, secluded booth facing west, into the fading pinks and oranges of a trademark Gotham sunset. She completely ignored the view. She ignored the menu that the supercilious host had placed in her hands, and she ignored all of the wealthy, beautiful people who filled the room. The only thing Annabeth was paying attention to was her watch.
6:15 PM.
Annabeth was not pleased. She had let Bruce and Donna wheedle and guilt-trip her into this hare-brained scheme, she had actually called off sick from the hospital to put the plan into effect...and she was waiting here as the minutes ticked on, and Bruce Wayne's non-presence irked her more and more. Apparently, tardiness was one class he must have excelled at in college.
"Miss, would you like some more water?" The waitress, at least, was a little more friendly and genuine than the host had been. Annabeth smiled up at her, and with deft efficiency, the waitress refilled Annabeth's crystal goblet.
Back in college, in some obscure history class Annabeth took to meet some equally obscure credit requirement, she became familiar with the concept of liminality...a period of transition between two points, in which one loses some of their identity and self-awareness. Vacations were liminal places, her professor had told the class, as were rituals. In liminal states, people relaxed their normal patterns of thought and behavior. And as Annabeth idly watched her waitress go about her work, it occurred to her-lately, her entire life had become a liminal state. She didn't even want to think what she was transitioning from, and what she was transitioning into. Liminiality meant transitioning, and transitioning meant change, and Annabeth didn't care much for that.
But...if she were in a liminal state...
"What the hell," she muttered, startling the waitress. Annabeth smiled up at her, flinging all reserve out the figurative window. "This happen a lot?" she asked the waitress. "Lots of ladies get stood up here?"
The waitress smiled at her. "Not too many. I wouldn't worry—if you start out alone, usually some guy comes along and invites himself to your table. The way it seems to play out, you may come here alone, but you usually don't leave that way."
"Lovely." Annabeth was going to kill Bruce, happily stomp on his pretty-boy face and tell him where to shove his fucking Kama Sutra. "May I have a glass of Merlot?" She squinted at the waitress's nametage. "Macy."
"Sure thing." Macy grinned and leaned in closer. "You don't come here often, do you?"
Annabeth smiled grimly. "Is it that obvious?"
Macy was already heading away, but she turned back for a moment. "You actually speak to the staff."
Once more, Annabeth was left alone, and not too much happier than before. There was only so much idle chit-chat she could make with Macy, and only so much she could take of this crowd.
Suddenly, Bruce appeared, standing at the table, impeccably dressed and bearing an ever-so-slightly-enticing scent of masculinity and cologne. He was dressed casually, for him; no tuxes, for once, and no Armani, just meticulously pressed black slacks and a wine-red collared shirt. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Alfred insisted that I change before I come...he said the tuxedo was overdoing it." He took in Annabeth's cocktail dress, and if he noticed that its style was from five years back, his appreciative glance gave no indication. "I think Alfred may have been wrong. "
He slid into the seat across from her and gave her a smile-not the absent-minded, trademark "Brucie" smile, but a genuine one that went straight to his eyes. "You look lovely. Where'd you get the dress on such short notice?"
"Donna." Annabeth's reply was short and terse. "She has a closetful."
"How'd that happen?"
"I told you, she was married to money. I guess she managed to come away with the designer clothes, too. Lucky for me."
"Lucky for me, I'd say. That color blue is stunning on you." Bruce continued to eye her appreciatively.
"Bruce." Annabeth's voice was sharp and commanded his attention. "I'm only going to say this once. I cut out of my second job tonight, on very short notice, because of this crackpot plan that you and Donna have hatched between you. And then you showed up late. I don't care if you were changing your tux or your tire, I don't care if you were curing cancer or killing that Joker guy, I don't care if the whole of Gotham is demanding your attention elsewhere, or if the entire Russian ballet just offered to give you a personalized lapdance. When you tell me you're going to be at a certain place at a certain time, you will be there. You will respect me and my time, or you find a new playmate. Understand?"
He nodded once, with utter solemnity. "I am sorry that I was late. It was really rude of me." And then his eyes crinkled with mischief. "Did anyone tell you how beautifully scary you are when you get angry? I find it disturbingly compelling, sometimes."
"I find you disturbingly repugnant, sometimes." Annabeth finished the parry by snapping open her menu and taking refuge behind it, but Bruce was having none of that.
"Don't be angry." His voice had that wheedling tone that she had long since learned to beware of. "C'mon, Annabeth. It's a beautiful evening-look at that sunset." For a moment, Bruce was surprised at himself—it had been a long time since he had appreciated a setting sun, or regarded it as the beginning of anything other than his usual nocturnal activities. But it was beautiful; the entire western horizon was ablaze with colors only nature could produce. It astounded him, how much more aware he became in her presence.
"Here you are." Macy the Waitress had reappeared, not with the Merlot, but with a bottle of Krug champagne. She gave Annabeth an apologetic smile. "I'll bring the wine out later. Mr. Wayne ordered this."
"I'm sure he did." Annabeth smiled through gritted teeth, and from her eyes flowed a river of poison rushing towards the impervious island that was Bruce. She sat quietly while Macy opened the bottle, poured, and discreetly withdrew. "Are you always this chauvinist?"
"Are you always this misguidedly feminist?" Bruce shot back.
It was unexpected, to say the least. Annabeth blinked, not quite sure she had heard him correctly. For the entirety of the brief time she had known him, she had been heckling, nagging, poking fun at his expense, and each time, he took it with good nature and nary a retort. It almost took the fun out of it...but now...
"'Misguidedly feminist'?" Annabeth repeated, pursing her lips. "How so?"
They stared at each other for a moment before Bruce spoke, and when he did, his words were slow, measured, well-thought out. "You're your own woman. That's good. You're independent, that's better. You're what women should be, you're what women should have been had men not been total assholes for...I don't know, centuries. At times, you embody exactly what feminists fought for all along. All of this is good. It's sexy." He let a little bit of 'Brucie' flirt his way back into the conversation to throw her off.
"This is going to come as a tragic surprise to you, Bruce. But I don't act the way I do as a way to entice men. It's not intended as sex appeal. It's just who I am."
"I know that. But it's still sexy, and it's exciting, too, because it's what things should have been like all along. And that's incredible...but...you've taken it to the other extreme. You don't have to emasculate every male in order to prove your own worth as a woman."
"And you don't have to jump around from woman to woman, seducing and flirting and bringing them to your bed and making 'conquests' to prove your own worth as a man!" Annabeth retorted.
Bruce smiled. "Touché," he said softly, and passed her a glass of champagne.
Annabeth wasn't quite through yet. "Do you even know how to spell emasculate?"
"Sure I do." Bruce smiled, unperturbed by her scorn. "It's in the dictionary...right before 'emu'." He raised his glass, and almost reluctantly, Annabeth followed suit. "Here's to new friendships and partnerships, and where ever they may lead."
"No where good, I'm sure," Annabeth responded dourly as they clinked glasses. At the moment they did so, a bright flash of light caught their attention, and both of them turned to see a couple of waiters hustling a photographer out of the dining room.
Annabeth turned to Bruce, her face a mask of dismay. "Already?"
Bruce shrugged. "Welcome to my life. You ready for this?"
Liminality. Annabeth took a large gulp of champagne, much to Bruce's surprise. "Does it matter?"
"Not really." He reached out and intercepted her hand as she was about to take another swig. "Slow down a little," he chuckled, pulling gently extracting the glass from her grip. "You haven't even eaten yet." He tapped her menu, and then opened his own. "Let's get some food."
"You going to order for me?" Her voice was challenging, but there was a little amusement sparkling in her eyes.
"I think an appetizer of 'incorrect assumptions', a main course of 'miscommunications', and a slice of 'humble pie' for dessert should take care of us both, don't you think?" He peeped at her from over his menu.
"A bit substantial for a first date, don't you think?" Now Annabeth was actually smiling. Good lord, she was a lightweight.
"Seriously?" Bruce put down his menu. "A truce? Suspend your disbelief and I'll suspend the jack-ass act. Just don't blow my cover, okay?"
"Why do you act like a jackass?"
"That's very substantial fare for a first date. Do you plan on telling me why you always act like a raging Amazon?"
"I accept your truce." Annabeth held up her glass, and they toasted again. "It's easier than having this discussion. Now, can we please order?"
After their verbal sparring had finally come to an end, the evening passed in relative peace. As the sky darkened outside, the mood became more quiet inside. Wait staff moved about, lighting candles that gradually gave a warm glow that enveloped the dining room. A string quartet began playing, gently, in the background.
At one point, Annabeth glanced up and around. "I can see why this place is so popular right now," she admitted. "It's really something. I don't know that I've ever been to a place quite this..." she paused, searching for the right word.
"Romantic?" Bruce prompted hopefully.
"No. I was going to say, dignified. Peaceful. Refined. Grand, even." She paused. "But maybe 'romantic' is the right word."
A moment's heavy silence followed her statement, as she took pains to look anywhere else but her table companion. She hadn't expected to enjoy herself so much...she had suspended disbelief, and found Bruce to be a fairly interesting dinner companion. They had stuck mainly to shop talk, planning the fundraiser. Every now and then, some fellow diners had stopped by their table, and Bruce had introduced her...in this manner, she had met two business executives, a City Councilman, a model, and a philanthropic couple. Each time, as they departed, Bruce whispered amusing commentaries on each of them, complete with salacious background material. She had found herself relaxing, laughing, being a little more talkative than normal...and then, at one point, caught herself studying Bruce's face in the glowing candlelight. There was a firm, almost glacial, set to his jaw, despite his ready smile; there were shadows under his eyes, despite the constant merry twinkle in them; he seemed friendly and accessible one moment, distant and indifferent the next.. Bruce Wayne was an attractive man, devilishly handsome, even, but his face was a study in contradictions, and for some reason, that made Annabeth very uncomfortable. The longer she knew Bruce Wayne, the less she knew how to read him.
Good lord, Annabeth realized with a start. I've been spending the last few minutes contemplating Bruce Wayne's physical appeal. She drained the last of her champagne glass. This is not good. This is not what I signed up for.
At that moment, the atmosphere was broken as a voice boomed above them. "Wayne! Glad you're still here!"
With profound relief, Annabeth jerked her gaze away from Bruce. A man and a woman stood at their table, smiling down at them and looking terribly familiar. She frantically searched her memory—oh, yes. Bradford Winston and his fiancée, Elisa St. Marie; he was a bit of a benevolent beefcake and she was a wiry, energetic photographer who seemed to love everything that breathed.
Bruce turned to her. "I ran into Bradford today and suggested they meet us for dessert. Thought maybe it'd break the ice."
"Doesn't seem to be any ice here," Elisa smiled. "Seems like you two are getting along pretty well." She glanced around as, out of nowhere, two waiters appeared with extra chairs, and soon she and Bradford were seated at the table, adding an air of easy good humor to the gathering.
As Bruce and Bradford began discussing various inanities, Elisa turned to Annabeth, her eyes shining with excitement. "Bruce told me that you and he are an item! I'm so thrilled! When I saw you two at his party, I just knew you were so right for each other!"
Annabeth restrained the urge to suggest that Elisa check into Arkham Asylum, posthaste. She glanced over at Bruce, who had a distinct smirk on his face. He certainly hadn't wasted any time in pumping up his image. She saw that he had overheard Elisa, and was beginning to tune into their conversation.
"Errr...yeah. It was really something!" Annabeth concentrated on the coffee that the ever-obliging Macy had brought her.
"So? How'd it happen? Did you just know, the first time you saw each other?" Elisa was all agog, eager to hear of a love story that had turned out as well as her own. "Did you just have that instant connection?"
"Not quite." Annabeth made the decision to embrace the moment, love the liminality. "Actually..." she glanced over at Bruce, made sure he was listening. She was going to make him squirm, and at that moment, she knew that he knew, and was bracing himself. "It was quite funny, really." She paused, letting her mind conjure all sorts of absurdities, and letting everyone at the table-including Bruce, especially Bruce-wonder what was coming next. "I mean...we were just colleagues at first, you know? But he had been helping out at my job for a few weeks. You know how he is with his philanthropy..." she smiled dreamily at Bruce. "Such a generous man, so big-hearted and compassionate. Well, anyway, a few weeks back...he came limping into my office. You know how he's got that awful athlete's foot, right?"
Bradford guffawed; Elisa giggled. Bruce smiled uncertainly. Annabeth leaned in closer. "Well, anyway, he's gotten some sort of infection out there on the golf course. Some sort of...I don't know, trench foot? Well." She smiled adoringly at Bruce again. "He came limping in, and he was in so much pain, I had to help him. I soaked his foot, and put a little antibiotic ointment on it, and soon enough, he was as good as new. End of story, right? Except that Bruce has a bit of a...um, how should I say this? A foot fixation?Fetish just sounds so dirty. And he just fell head over heels, if you'll pardon the pun." Annabeth reached over and grabbed Bruce's enormous paw of a hand and gave it a brief squeeze. She struggled for a moment to hide her surprise—it was a surprisingly meaty, solid hand, not soft and limp as she'd assumed. She turned her attention back to finishing up her tall tale..."And that's it...took Bruce a little while to work up the nerve to ask me out. But his feet won't be denied."
She began to withdraw her hand, but suddenly, Bruce tightened his grip and smiled over at their companions. "Let's hope our ending is as happy as yours," he told Elisa and Bradford, and each of them raised their glasses in a cheerful toast to the future. Elisa and Bradford began chattering away, describing their upcoming wedding plans, but Bruce noticed that suddenly, Annabeth seemed very preoccupied.
He leaned into her and spoke quietly, so that they weren't overheard. "You alright?" His eyes were gently inquisitive.
The look that Annabeth gave him tore at his heart. "Not ever story has a happy ending, Bruce."
Not long after, the two couples emerged onto the streets of Gotham. Elisa and Bradford hailed a cab, and as they ducked into the waiting vehicle, Elisa waved cheerfully to Annabeth. "I'll see you at the fundraiser! I adore you!"
Bradford's good-natured belly-laughs could be heard down the street as the cab drove off into the night.
Bruce turned to Annabeth, and she saw that he was trying to look snnoyed, and failing miserably. "Trench foot?"
Annabeth shrugged. "When you invite the devil into your home, you're in no position to ask him to leave. Seriously, you might want to get that athlete's foot looked at. I hear it can get quite stinky."
"Oh, look at this can! It's open, and who will clean up these worms?" Bruce rolled his eyes heavenwards.
"Try Alfred. I bet he cleans up all your messes." Annabeth was searching through her coat pockets for her metro card, and missed the guilty look that passed over Bruce's face momentarily.
Bruce glanced at his watch. "It's still early...want to go to a dance club?"
"No!" Annabeth's refusal was sharper than she had intended for it to be. She remembered their truce, and softened her voice. "I don't...don't like dance clubs. Too noisy, too crowded. It's time for me to turn in."
"Really? I thought this would be early for you, still."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Annabeth demanded.
Bruce held up his hands in surrender. "Nothing...I just heard what you like to do down in the Narrows at night. Some of the clients at Safe Haven were talking about it one night..."
Annabeth cursed under her breath. "Shit. They talk too much."
"Annabeth." Bruce placed a hand on her arm and drew closer to her. He ignored her attempts to draw back. "I may not know a lot about that side of life, but I do know it's dangerous down there. Just...be careful, okay?"
"I am. But...this is just something I have to do, okay, Bruce?" Annabeth looked up and down the street, eager to escape from this conversation. "And being my pretend-boyfriend doesn't mean that you have a say in what I do."
"The thought never crossed my mind. Far be it from me to challenge your post-modern, academe-trained feminist authority." Bruce smirked. "Now, how about a good-night kiss? Something for the photographers? I think I see some over there in that doorway across the street."
"I told you, no funny stuff." A thought occurred to Annabeth. "I'll give you something better. Just follow my lead, and then hail me a cab."
She backed away from him, her eyes demurely downcast, and then held out her hand. With an instinct born to any man with any sense, Bruce took it, bent double, and placed a feather-soft kiss on the back of her hand, which she had been expecting. But before she could withdraw, he had swiftly, firmly turned her hand over and placed another kiss, even softer, on her open palm.
For one brief moment, for both of them, all of Gotham ceased to exist. Bruce didn't move, but allowed himself to feel the softness of her hand against his lips, and Annabeth was absolutely frozen. She closed her eyes for a moment, unprepared for the shot of electricity that surged through her body. Her breath caught in her throat.
When he straightened up, he expected to see Annabeth attempting to kill him with her eyes. But he wasn't expecting the look of confusion, the brief second of panic, that crossed her features before that all-too-familiar poker face slid into place.
"Funny stuff, Mr. Wayne," she reminded him. "Be a good boy or you won't get another date."
Silently, he nodded, and then hailed her a cab. He helped her in, and then was gone before the cab had pulled away from the curb.
Another night in the Narrows—it could be any night, at almost any time of the year; in a place like this, where poverty, misery, and crime were par for the course, time ceased to matter, except that it dragged so much. But it was not any night for Annabeth; she had the luxury of leaving the Narrows any time she liked, and so had other ways of marking the passage of time.
It was hard to believe that Annabeth had just come from the Top of Gotham. It was actually rather poetic, in an obvious sort of way. She had gone from the top of the heap and descended to the bottom...and while she belonged in neither place now, she knew where she felt more familiar.
As Annabeth made her way through the poorly-lit streets, her eyes darting this way and that, her ears ever alert, she reflected on the misery around her...and, if she were honest, within her. Why else did she gravitate here, night after night? It was a fascination, a sick fascination, some thought. But she answered the call, night after night. Engrossed as she was in her angst, however, Annabeth failed to notice she was being watched and followed, by an ever-vigilant protector who was as fascinated with her as she was with the darkness around and within her.
More and more, the Batman was beginning to realize how similar he and Annabeth were.
Annabeth caught sight of a familiar group of women ahead, at the corner of Stateside and Lincoln. She hurried over, making a beeline for one of the youngest ones, Ruby. She was fifteen, and still relatively new, and didn't seem to mind Annabeth's occasional visits.
"Ruby!" Annabeth stopped short as Ruby turned around and regarded her through a swollen face and a distended eye. "Jesus, Ruby, what happened?"
Ruby shook her head, glancing nervously at some of the other prostitutes.
"Who's your pimp? Reggie? Did he do this to you?" Annabeth began looking around. "Where's Reggie? I thought he had more sense than that! Are you okay?"
Ruby spoke quickly. "Reggie's gone. And you need to get gone."
"What's going on? Who did this to you?"
One of the other prostitutes spoke up. "You heard her. Getcher ass outta here."
"Please, Annabeth." Ruby pleaded. "Get out of here. And stay away. You're not safe here. People have been asking about you."
"About me?" Annabeth was confused. "So what? It doesn't matter. Ruby, you're hurt. Let me help you!"
"No!" Ruby backed away. "Stay away from me!" There was fear in her voice, abject terror. From where he stood in the shadows, fifteen feet away, the Batman could see and hear it perfectly. It was more than the fear of a fifteen-year-old kid, old before her time and in over her head. It was the fear of a girl who was scared for her life.
Annabeth held out a business card. "Please, take this. It's my contact information. Take it, or give it to anyone who'll listen."
Ruby smacked them out of her hand, and the crowd watched as they scattered into the stagnant gutter- water. "No one's going to listen, Annabeth. You can't help us. Now get out of here! Please."
Long ago, the Batman had learned that a true warrior knew when to concede the battle, and when to momentarily withdraw and regroup. Annabeth was a tried and true warrior, he saw that night, and he learned that she knew when to make a tactical retreat. She was as much of a warrior as he had ever been.
Annabeth nodded, slowly, taking in the fear and hostility of the women around her, and began to back away. "I'm always willing to help," she told them softly. "Anytime."
She disappeared into the night, oblivious to her silent guardian, still following in the shadows.
Little by little, the tension left the prostitutes, and they began to re-focus on the business at hand. And Annabeth's business cards remained in the gutter, the filthy water soiling the pristine cardstock and bleeding the ink until gradually, Annabeth's name and contact information were completely washed away.
