The night yields no leads, just an ugly shooting where a girl flying high on Freeze bleeds out from a neck wound while he tries futilely to pinch her carotid shut with slick gloves. She sings rockabye baby in ragged, toneless snatches as she dies, her eyes fixed on something behind the lowering sky. The picture in the locket around her neck is of a child no more than three, rendered androgynous by youth. Her license claims she is twenty two.
He hangs her killer by the wrists from a lamppost and leaves him to be discovered by the GCPD, perhaps before he's permanently lost the use of his hands, perhaps not.
##
Alfred's wordless offer of a newspaper with his morning coffee is never, ever a good sign.
Bruce takes a scalding sip while shaking the Gotham Post open, which is how he gets hot coffee up his nose. He's had taserings that were less painful. "Alfred," he coughs, blinded by the sudden clenching of his outraged sinuses, and shoves his way out of the bedroom in search of cold water; really, really cold water, or maybe tiny ice cubes he can snort.
"You all right, Mr. Wayne?" he hears, and has to hold perfectly still for a second against the urge to throw the paper and leave the room, because it's Montoya. He'd know that undertone of amused scorn anywhere.
He shoves down the stinging awfulness behind his eyes and clears his throat. "Detective," he says foggily. "How'd you get stuck with this duty?"
"I had a few questions for you, so I switched out with Davis an hour ago." He hears the rustle of clothing and a few soft footsteps: she took her boots off before sitting down. Unexpectedly polite, probably to set him at ease. Interesting. "Can you even see me? Your eyes are all puffy. Do you need help?"
She's right next to him and no, goddammit, he can barely see her or anything else. Montoya is a five-foot-eight shadow against the big bay windows and his dumb but highly trained muscles are trying to leap to his defense. Also, he's about to sneeze, and it's not going to be pretty.
Frustrated and furious, he brings the paper up to catch the explosion, and blows his nose fiercely. His sinuses crackle.
"Ugh," he says.
"You got that right," Montoya affirms, backing away fast, her face not quite blank enough to hide her disgust.
Bruce glances once at the now-splattered giant photo of himself and Mrs. Grumm arm in arm outside La Lune, and snickers. It surprises him, and it hurts both his face and the myriad bruises hidden under his tee shirt. He folds the paper over, takes a calming breath in preparation for dealing with Montoya, makes the mistake of thinking of the headline (DECEMBER-MAY AMORE? in 36-point gothic font; god, that ill-advised extra question mark), and snickers again. Montoya's expression, shading from revulsion to alarm, is the perfect sidebar to this moment.
"G'bless you," she says, suspiciously and from a prudent distance
Bruce leans on the arm of the sofa and laughs hard enough to curl his spine over his knees, paper hanging from one hand and the other spread over his face, stitches moaning into his ribcage, breathless and lightheaded and not sure if this is Wayne providing a heroic distraction from his nighttime alter ego or the onset of insanity. He's probably overdue for a psychotic break.
A wad of tissue appears in the edge of his view, and he grabs it without checking to see who offers and whether they're a threat (assumptions, Henri used to say, are the greatest failure a man can commit because they are the easiest to avoid, but Henri probably never snorted half a cup of hot Kona), and blows his nose again.
He's going to smell coffee for the rest of his fucking life.
"Thanks," he says, when he's reasonably certain he can speak. He doesn't yet dare to look Montoya in the eye: if she's still giving him what-the-fuck face he's going to end up on the floor, and he'll probably need new stitches. His abdominal muscles are shivery and loose, lungs a little too open, and nothing in his head is in the right place anymore. Fucking endorphins. He shuts his eyes and breathes.
"You look like hell, Mr. Wayne," Montoya says pleasantly.
"I feel like hell," Bruce sighs, and tosses the sodden paper on the floor for Alfred to deal with. He'll pay for that later, he's sure, in a thousand little annoyances, but right now he's too off-balance to give a damn. "Give me a minute, will you, detective?"
The cool water on his face feels wonderful. He looks like a tear gas victim, though, and his expression isn't even close to under control, so he decides to be rude. Montoya can handle it. He sheds the tee shirt and boxers and steps into the shower, where the steam soothes away a little more of the broiled feeling in his sinuses
"Sorry," Wayne offers smoothly, emerging half an hour later in jeans and a sweater; partially to Montoya, who has put her boots back on and is stretched out on the sofa in an obvious act of protest, but mostly to Alfred, who made the snot-soaked tabloid disappear but looks like he's plotting to sign Bruce up for a cheerleading squad for his next alibi.
"Oh, no problem," Montoya says lightly, staring up at the ceiling. "This sofa is more comfortable than my bed."
"I have several beds that beat that sofa by miles, detective. You're welcome to try them out anytime."
He sits, arms stretched over the top of the chair and knees spread wide, as Montoya pulls herself upright. Alfred, invisible behind her, rolls his eyes heavenward and reaches around to set a tea cup in a saucer on the table beside her.
"Somehow I don't think your mattress would match my sleep number," Montoya says dryly.
Wayne makes a sadface, leering, but only a little bit. "Afraid you'll miss the inner spring, detective?"
"No, Mr. Wayne, but your bed frame's so boring and straight." She sips her tea while he bites down on a smile, eyeing him with cool challenge. Her partner must be a very determined woman, either that or a saint. Alfred sets a steaming hot cup of coffee in front of him, eloquent and silent commentary, and Montoya grins delightedly.
God help him if these two spend much more time together.
"If I can just get your answers to a few questions, Mr. Wayne, I'll get out of your hair and you can go back to your afternoon."
He flourishes a hand just to watch her grit her teeth, takes a sip of the coffee to be contrary, and is grateful when it doesn't burn the inside of his face off.
Montoya pulls out a small notebook and a pen. "Have you or your company had any dealings with the following corporations?" She lists several companies in a wide variety of industries, all of them with headquarters in Eastern Europe. It's fairly clear what direction the investigation has taken. Bruce answers absentmindedly, turning over this fact, and trips over a question that he should have asked a long time ago, if he'd been paying attention.
"You can get better answers from Lucius," he adds, helpfully waiting until after she's scribbled a page's worth of notes to mention this. "So who tipped you guys that night, anyway?" he says, and by his butler's sidelong glance and Montoya's audible breath, says it with a little more prurient curiosity than he probably meant to. "Come on, detective," he drawls, leaning back into a lazy sprawl that looks much more comfortable than it actually is. "It's not a state secret, is it?" He sits up, raising both eyebrows. "Oh god, it is! It's not Senator Kirsch, is it? Because that whole thing was his wife's idea, I was just too polite to say no."
"Anonymous call," Montoya says, eyeing him narrowly. "Can we be serious for a second, Mr. Wayne?"
"I thought we were."
"I kind of doubt that."
His pulse ticks over. She's giving him cop eyes, hard and cold and cutting. Most people would fold themselves into origami cranes trying to figure out what she suspects them of, which is the whole purpose, of course. She's flushing the low bushes, waiting to see what comes flapping clumsily out of the natural guilt most people feel when a cop stares at them.
Montoya gives great cop eyes.
Montoya has a theory that doesn't put Wayne in a good light, and she's testing the water.
He has to work to damp down the smile he's wearing, which wants to get wider and harder and about as far from indolent, thoughtless Bruce Wayne lazing around his penthouse on a Thursday afternoon as it's possible to get without biting somebody. He should be alarmed. He should be a lot more careful.
He definitely should not be enjoying this.
"I'm hurt, detective," Wayne says. "I thought we had a real connection happening here."
"Uh huh. Look, I'd better get back to the station. Thanks for your time, Mr. Wayne. Please try to keep in mind we're trying to keep you safe, okay? It's easier for us to do if we're in the loop on things."
He watches her thoughtfully as she leaves, spine stiff, hips swaying… feet in those knocked-around boots stomping hell out of the floors. Alfred lets her out with the deference he'd show a duchess, which is, for Alfred, a little heavy on the sarcasm. Then his butler closes the door and sends him a look that underscores what a rookie Montoya really is in the cop eyes department.
"What?" Bruce says after a moment, because he's maybe still a little off-center, and also Alfred does the silent treatment like only an ex-MI5-agent-turned-butler who used to change his diapers can.
"It would be a mistake to underestimate the Gotham City Police. That young lady doesn't like you," Alfred says. Bruce huffs and stands, not yet sure where this is going but not willing to be a sitting target.
"Nobody likes me," he throws over his shoulder. "That's kind of the point."
"Yes, Master Wayne, quite. It is exactly the point. A man in your position ought to have a few friends, don't you think? A few people who can vouch for him. A few hangers-on whose company he actually enjoys, if nothing else."
Not this again. "I have handball and water polo," Bruce snarls- actually snarls: it's as unexpected as the sneeze, and equally in need of cleaning up. He sucks in a breath, reaches for the coffee, paces a few mental steps away from the adrenaline that's rolled into his veins. "Sorry about the mess this morning, Alfred."
Alfred pulls the cold coffee cup out of his hand and stares at him from a half a foot away, close enough for Bruce to see the sadness and the accusation in his eyes, the lines around them. "I'd gladly clean up a hundred like it, sir, if they were for the same reason."
"I'll make sure I'm seen out having drinks with a few of the guys from the water polo team," Bruce offers, and Alfred pulls in a slow breath, eyes narrowing, so he knows he got that wrong.
"Of course, Master Wayne," Alfred says politely. "You know best."
Oh, crap. "Stop that."
"Will you be wanting some tea to go with your brooding solitude, sir?"
"For christ's sake." He stomps into the bedroom to find a pair of socks: he needs air, and he has an appointment to keep. Alfred's perfectly capable of making himself heard from any corner of the penthouse when he wants, though. His voice carries just fine.
"Perhaps a glass of bitters and a plate of ashes, then? A man shouldn't withdraw from all humanity on an empty stomach."
"That's hilarious. Very nice. Where the hell are my socks?"
"In the sock drawer, Master Wayne. Shall I pack a picnic lunch for your sulk?"
Bruce yanks drawers open in grim, harangued silence until a rolled-up sock bounces off his ear, making him duck reflexively and reach for the nearest weapon. He catches its mate before it hits him in the face. There's a knife handle in his fist and the ghost of a squelched defensive reflex riding his muscles, pushing more adrenaline into his blood, dragging him off-center. Not that he's really been centered all damned morning. He slides the knife back into place behind the bed, trying not to think about how close he came to throwing it.
Alfred faces him from across the bed, expressionless and enviably unruffled, hands locked behind his back. "There you are, sir," he says, with flawless courtesy.
The knot in his chest is either a shout or another disastrous snicker, he isn't sure which, and he doesn't want to find out. Eyes never leaving Alfred, he slowly puts on the socks and straightens. "Thanks."
"Dinner will be at five, sir."
The threat is clear. Bruce pictures chicken cacciatore sailing across the dining room toward him precisely at five pm, and sighs.
"What is it you want me to do, Alfred?" he asks -braces, too. Asking Alfred this question is a peace offering, the only peace offering that works in the rare moments when Alfred digs his heels in. But it also means, invariably, getting a highly specific list for an answer. One that won't be easy to wiggle out of.
"Visit her grave, Master Wayne," Alfred says with cool precision.
For a second the breath is pressed utterly from his lungs. When they unlock and fill it's too loud a sound; he can hear how obvious it is, how raw, how far away from either Wayne's easy charisma or the Bat's cold reason. He can feel his face finding some new expression, one he doesn't recognize and didn't choose and can't, at the moment, stuff under a cowl: and he sucks in another, far more deliberate breath and snatches his coat out of the closet.
"I'll be back by five," he says.
"I'll be here, sir," he hears from behind him, and then he's out the door, walking fast, wishing for dusk and flight.