Holy inconsistencies, Batman! Sorry about this chapter before….I rewrote it after rereading my entire story that apparently I forgot (how embarrassing) and now I think I've got my notes back on track. Please pretend the previous incarnation of this never happened! Also pretend it didn't take me a year to do this. Thank you!
20: Thursday
Once a year, every year, Wayne Enterprises holds the biggest summer event in all of Gotham - the Wayne Company Picnic. Of course, the picnic is never actually in Gotham. Instead, the board executives rent a gigantic field, bigger than at least three football fields, as well as five gigantic tents, one gigantic stage equipped with fancy lights, and plenty of gigantic inflatable bouncy castles for the kids. All of this was set up thirty miles outside of Gotham, under the shadow of a mountain, letting the Gothamites escape to a sun-filled, peaceful valley. For a brief 24 hours, everyone forgets the darker side of Gotham city.
However, the darker side of Wayne Employees apparently cannot be suppressed and manifests itself in the form of one of the worst evils that frequently appears at picnics - the dreaded dunk tank. In the week before the picnic everyone at the company gets a chance to vote for the top fifteen people they would like to see sitting four feet above a pool of freezing cold water. The person with the most votes gets the first hour; the person with the second most votes gets the second hour…and so on. Thanks to my newfound popularity as the owner's girlfriend, I received the honor of being first. Apparently I am no longer an invisible and unknown archivist.
Frankly, I'd rather sort through a mile high stack of files than win a dunk tank opportunity in a popularity contest.
Unfortunately I was not given a choice, and foolishly did not bribe the correct people to get my name taken off the list like certain vain billionaires who will not be named, so minutes after arriving at the picnic I find myself perched above the tank, anxiously awaiting the inevitable. Thankfully, managers, secretaries, and other business personal turn out to have very bad aims.
After fifty eight minutes of cruel anticipation, during which I coerced Eleanor to stand beside the tank and set the timer for an hour, I begin to relax. With only two more minutes to go, who could possibly manage to hit the center of the target with enough force to send me flying into the water?
Seconds later, the answer to my question casually saunters up to the dunk tank wearing his usual Armani suit, and looking slightly out of place among the casual picnic goers. My hope drains quickly as I realize even a fancy suit won't hinder Batboy's strength or precision. No question about it, I'm going to be dunked.
A mischievous grin I've never seen before slides across Bruce's face as he expertly picks up a softball and tosses it lightly into the air. I send him a glare that definitely says, 'hit that target and you will wish you were wearing your Kevlar armor by the time I'm done with you'.
Bruce Wayne never learned to take a hint.
He lazily hurtles the ball towards the target, and I have a split second to squeeze my eyes shut, clamp one hand over my nose, and mentally prepare myself for the ice water, before I hear a loud "slap". I release my death grip on my nose, and peek out at the target with one eye.
He missed!
I open both eyes and stare at the growing crowd around the dunk tank, all of whom find this situation positively hilarious. Bruce is laughing as well and asks the guy running the tank for another try. He lets loose another softball and misses yet again. I laugh disbelievingly.
"Bruce, clearly you just don't have the guts to dunk your girlfriend," a voice drawls from the sidelines. Floyd Lawton casually plucks the softball from Bruce's hand and takes a few steps back. With an arrogant grin he makes an impossible throw with an aim so precise, one would think it had come from a professional baseball player. The tank lets out a large clank as the mechanisms send me tumbling into the water.
For a minute I'm completely submerged, my hair entangling across my face, my loose shirt and shorts billowing up. The next thing I know the shock of the sheer cold is forcing me to the surface. I shoot up, taking half the water out with me. Now standing comfortably in the waist-deep pool, I can hear the laughter as I pull my bedraggled hair out of my face. Wiping water out of my eyes, and my new contacts, I come face to face with an equally soaked Bruce Wayne.
"I guess I learned my lesson about standing too close to the tank," Bruce jokes to the entertained crowd, lifting his arms to try to shake water out of his fancy suit. I flop out of the tank and snatch two towels from the side, throwing one at Bruce. Bruce shrugs off the ruined suit jacket and tosses it at Floyd, "It's your turn now."
Laughing, Floyd dodges Bruce's soaked jacket, effortlessly climbs up to the dunk tank's seat, and swings himself onto it.
"I'll do the honors," Mary announces with a grin, having followed Floyd over. She ignores the softball Bruce offers and goes straight up to the target, throwing her entire weight against it. Floyd's cry of "that's cheating" gets drowned out by the water.
"I think I've had enough of the dunk tank for one day," I proclaim, "I'm going to change." I snatch up my bag and stomp off, a comical squelching sound coming from my shoes.
"I had better do the same," Bruce says, smiling his fake smile and waving at the crowd. He jogs up to me, an arm going around my waist possessively. I guess even fake boyfriends feel entitled to this public display of affection. Once we are out of range of the crowd however, Bruce's arm disappears. When we reach the public showers near the parking lot he leans in close again.
"I'm going to use the rest of the day to search for Feely," Bruce says quietly. He smoothes a wet curl of hair plastered to my forehead behind my ear. "Can you find another way home? I could always send Alfred out to get you, but you know how much he enjoys waiting in the bunker."
"Of course," I say, trying not to let the disappointment sound in my voice. I had hoped for a single day without having to worry about disappearing inmates, but I suppose that was just wishful thinking with Batman as my boyfriend.
Bruce plants a kiss on my forehead before he leaves, probably for the benefit of the spectators at a picnic table nearby. I smile weakly and wave at the table before going into the showers to change.
Comfortable and dry once again, I wander around outside, eventually finding Eleanor at a shady table with what looks like an entire afghan including eight different color strands. One person I didn't expect to see, Teresa Williams sits across from her.
"I see you brought your traveling project," I comment to Eleanor as I sit down next to her, carefully avoiding the tangled web of yarn.
"It's for a charity auction at church," Eleanor responds, "I need to finish it by next Sunday. And to do that, I need to learn to knit in my sleep. I think I almost have the process worked out."
I nod encouragingly.
"Voting for Harvey Dent?" Teresa interrupts, pushing a flyer across the table towards me, "Surely you support him."
"I don't know," I say truthfully, "I'm partial to Rachel Dawes myself."
"Rachel Dawes' policies are similar to her predecessor's. Carl Finch didn't crack down on the mob hard enough and she will undoubtedly follow his lead."
"Rachel Dawes is her own person," I reply, "I know quite a few trustworthy people who have complete faith in her abilities to clean up Gotham."
"Yet Harvey remains the only politician in Gotham willing to stand up to corrupt cops and officials."
"Harvey Dent accused a lot of people. Some of the accusations went unfounded. What about Anna Ramirez? Her reputation suffered from Dent's investigations and publicity. Yet, there was no publicity when she kept her job and was cleared of all charges."
"If she were entirely innocent, Harvey would never have looked into it."
"So, you're following him with complete blind faith?" I ask skeptically.
"No, I'm trying to explain why what Harvey is doing will benefit Gotham."
"Yet you just said you take Dent's word over the judgment of the people who made the final decisions on Ramirez's case."
"Because I believe in Harvey Dent! And that's what Gotham needs!" Teresa says, eyes shining.
"I thought that Ron Marshall, the developer behind the displacement of an entire city block of people, supported Harvey Dent?"
"He only says that because he thinks it will gain more support for his demolition plans. In reality, as soon as he is in office, Harvey has absolutely promised me that he will look into Marshall's shadier activities. Of course, by then it will be too late to do anything about the new development. So really it's a last chance option, but it's more assurance than I have with anything I've been working on. The protests and news stories don't seem to be inciting any kind of change," her eyes darken for a moment before flickering back into enthusiasm, "We might end up relying on Harvey Dent after all."
"I'm voting Dent," Eleanor barks from behind her afghan.
"Great!" Teresa says, pinning an 'I Believe in Harvey Dent' badge to the portion of afghan nearest her.
"Speaking of support," Teresa says, turning back to me, "I understand you are still interested in being involved in the protest against Ron Marshall. Since you're so close to Bruce Wayne, could you…" she trails off, looking hopeful.
"Get him to financially support your cause?"
"Exactly!"
A large snort escapes from behind the afghan.
"Since when has the prince of Gotham done any charity work?" Eleanor asks.
"Eleanor doesn't approve of my boyfriend," I explain.
"You could do better," Eleanor says.
"Well, whether he has a history of charity work or not," Teresa interjects, "I was hoping you, Lyn, could convince him that he should start with the area around Crime Alley. Or, perhaps you could introduce me to him and I can give my pitch?"
"He left a while ago," I reply, "Probably some other pressing business concern. But I'll try to talk to him about it."
Her face immediately falls.
"If Bruce Wayne's gone, there's no reason for me to stay anymore. That was my main reason for coming today. I'll admit I had hoped to use your connection to him to get some funding. We are running out of money. The more Marshall throws at his advertising, the more we have to fight back."
"You're leaving then?" I ask, jumping at the opportunity.
"Yeah, I drove my heap of junk car out here, and hopefully it'll be able to carry me back to Gotham."
"Do you mind giving me a ride back?" I ask.
"A ride back? Doesn't Bruce Wayne have a limo or something waiting?"
"Not really. I told him not to worry about it," I say defensively.
Another disgruntled sound from the afghan.
"Okay," Teresa says, not sounding convinced, "Let's go then."
Eleanor makes a face at me as I get up from the table.
"Do you need a ride?" I ask her.
"Of course not," Eleanor replies defensively, "I was thinking of getting that lovely, amiable man over by the tree to take me home." Taking a brief break from knitting, Eleanor smiles and waggles her fingers at the man, who I realize is Mr. Fredericks. Mr. Fredericks impulsively glances behind him, realizes he's the one being waggled at, and smiles back looking pleasantly surprised.
"So where do you live?" Teresa asks on the way to the parking lot.
"Currently, I'm staying at a friend's. But really I want to buy a new apartment soon. I haven't found anything worthwhile yet."
"Is that how you came across Ron Marshall's development plans?"
"It was. Before, well, the obvious dangers arose, I lived in the narrows. I hated having to leave my family home, and my friends. But the cost of living in such an area got so great I couldn't pretend it didn't exist anymore."
"Many other people in Gotham have much the same story. Which explains why I'm against Ron Marshall's plan and am supporting Harvey Dent. Gotham needs change. And the first step to change is deciding what ideals we want to reach. Without ideals, we'll never have anything to strive for. Harvey can give us those goals."
"I thought you were done campaigning for the day?" I tease.
She laughs, "Sorry, I guess it comes naturally for me. Or perhaps it's a bad habit I can't break."
"Ever thought of campaigning for you? I mean, if you're so good at it, why not put it to good use?"
"I'd never be able to do what Harvey does. I can stir up trouble, inspire some protests, and campaign all I want with some success. That's enough for me. I think I'm having some effect, wither directly or indirectly."
"Either way, it's working. I'm beginning to believe in Harvey Dent," I laugh, "Rachel may be realistic and very good at what she does, but maybe Gotham is truly ready for someone radically different and new: an idealist, similar to Batman. Do you think Batman helped to pull Gotham out of its slump?"
"Honestly, I think Batman is working wonders, even if he is a vigilante."
"I do too."
We come around the public restrooms and lurking next to the drinking fountain is the handsome man from the train on Tuesday, talking. I snatch Teresa's arm and pull her back behind a large van before he sees us.
"What?" Teresa asks.
"Shhh!"
Using a stick to prod the side mirror of the van into place, I study the reflection of the handsome man closely. I don't recognize him from any of the files on Wayne employees, so he must be a guest. The question was: whose? And who do I have to talk to in order to meet him? I was surprised Mary hadn't become attached to him already.
"Who is he?" Teresa asks, creeping closer to watch.
"No idea, but the last time I saw him he disappeared while going into Arkham Asylum," I whisper back.
I push the mirror farther, revealing Floyd Lawton as the second person talking. Immediately I see the family resemblance, and recall the fourth Lawton face on my painting.
"I need money," handsome man says lightly, laughing humorlessly.
"That doesn't answer the question. Why come home for money? You know father and mother wrote you out of the will."
"Edward Lawton," I whisper to Teresa, "The missing Lawton brother."
"And you know this how?"
"I'm painting a portrait for the family."
Edward Lawton looks uncomfortable with his brother's question, "I have other ways of getting money. Granted, the money comes from the same source, just a different method of getting it."
"I don't know what you're doing, but I want no part in it."
"Don't worry, little brother, I'm taking care of everything."
"Please don't be stupid enough to come by the house."
"I might stop by at some point. It all depends."
"Mother would be happy to see you, but you know father…"
"Do they still use the latest maid to exchange messages?"
"They do, and the most recent has only lasted one month."
Handsome man, undoubtedly Edward Lawton, laughs heartily.
"Stop laughing. I'm sick of it Ed. Their bickering is slowly driving me insane."
"Then follow my lead, and escape to a foreign country."
"And come crawling back for money when I discover I'm good for nothing except filling a useless position at my family's company?"
"I'm not useless, just broke," Edward laughs.
"Have you had any jobs since you stole what should have been your inheritance and ran two years ago?"
"I haven't needed any. That's the ingenious part"
"You're lucky father is so concerned about keeping up appearances or you would be in jail now."
"Father's foolish pride is exactly why my plan works. Who are you and what have you done with my little brother? You used to worship the ground I walked on Floyd."
"We were kids then, Ed."
For a fleeting second Floyd's eyes flicker towards the van's side mirror, and I catch my breath thinking he has made eye contact with me. But instead Floyd says bitterly, "You destroyed everything," and walks away adding, "You're not getting any money from me."
Teresa and I scramble away from the van, with her leading the way to her beat up, old bug. We duck into the front seats. She starts laughing with nerves, "That was a little exciting. Do you think he's really done something illegal? Something he wouldn't want us listening in on?"
"I have no idea," I say, my heart racing, "But something about that family is certainly not right."
"It seems all the rich families in Gotham have something to hide: the Marshalls, now the Lawtons. I hope you've had Bruce Wayne's background thoroughly checked out. You never know what skeletons could be lying in the richest man in Gotham's closet," Teresa jokes, starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot.
I laugh half-heartedly. In an effort to calm my nerves I pull out my sketchbook.
"Do you mind if I draw you while you drive?" I ask.
Teresa gets the hint and immediately changes the subject.
"Sure. It's awesome that you're an artist. I've always loved going to museums. I was at the Gotham Art Museum when Feely robbed the place," She says.
"I was too. And I'm only somewhat of an artist. Currently, my portrait commission business is small, but growing."
"Maybe after the Dent campaign and the Marshall protests are done, and I have more free time, I'll have to commission one, hang it up in my humble apartment, and feel important."
"Indeed, everyone should have a five foot tall life-size portrait of themselves hanging in their living rooms."
"I could even be holding a protest sign. It would embody my personality."
"I doubt if anyone, even one such as you with so much practice, could hold a protest sign for that long."
"Does it take you a while to do portraits?"
"Hours. Multiple sessions, even."
"Who are you painting now?"
"Nancy Earle and Genevieve Lawton are my two customers."
"If there was ever someone who embodied the perfect socialite, it'd be Floyd Lawton," Teresa comments, chuckling, "Even despite that little scene back there."
"Did you meet him at the picnic?"
"Yes, and in response to my question about the Marshall Company's developments, he gave me an entire litany of charities and causes he's donated to. He also gave me the number of his social secretary to arrange a meeting and decide how much money he could afford to donate. So, while my respect of him dwindles at the prospect of dealing with a foppish pretty boy, I have to admit he has a charitable side."
"I think you pretty much summed up all my observations of the man," I confirm, "He seemed fairly interested in Mary, though. She's a receptionist at Wayne Enterprises."
"You wouldn't think a member of the Lawton family would look twice at a receptionist."
"Exactly."
"Then again, a member of the Wayne family wouldn't be expected to look twice at an archivist."
"True."
"What's the story behind that one?"
"A long one. Truthfully, I don't think it will last," I confide.
"Call the tabloids, another of Bruce Wayne's relationships breaking off quickly!" Teresa laughs, "That will be a surprise."
"Yeah," I say, feeling a slight ache.
Teresa notices my lack of enjoyment in her joke, "My god, you really like him, don't you? I thought for sure that a smart woman like you would never date a guy of his reputation seriously. But your relationship is serious for you, isn't it?"
I sigh, "It doesn't matter what it is for me. He treats it like a joke."
"Then what are you doing with him anyway?"
"I keep hoping this other side of him will show up to stay instead of disappearing whenever I think I've finally caught it," I explain wistfully.
A pause settles over our conversation as we consider this.
"Ugh…that might be the most pathetic thing I've ever admitted to," I groan, nearly poking my eye with my pencil as I bury my head behind my sketchbook in shame.
"As pathetic as falling for the guy you're campaigning for?" Teresa laughs.
"Really? Harvey Dent?"
"Sadly, yes. His ideals are very attractive. Or perhaps he's just very attractive. Maybe that's our problem: we're too shallow, you and I. We fall for these attractive guys and then find them unattainable. Or, in your case, un-keep-able."
"That must be it," I agree, smiling, "Or maybe it's the money. A billionaire is quite a catch."
"Nah, can't be the money for me. Harvey's money goes directly to his campaign."
"Then let's face it, you would have fallen for him even if he looked like a Gotham sewer rat."
She smiles and nods, "It must be the ideals!"
"And yet for me the only positives remain the never ending cash and good looks!"
"It's not like I have any chance with Harvey," Teresa adds.
"I wouldn't know…" I reply.
"He's been…very gracious and friendly with Rachel Dawes, the competition. I can't help but wonder if he's taking the adage 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer' literally, or if he has an ulterior motive."
"Honestly…I think it must be more complicated than that," I admit, thinking of Bruce.
Teresa sighs, "I know. It was a silly daydream, anyway. He's too old for me. And I'm an unglamorous campaign worker."
"I'm sure he appreciates how ardent your support is."
"Oh, very ardent," Teresa says sarcastically, laughing.
"What are you planning to do after the election is over and Ron Marshall is kicked out of Park Row?"
"I haven't decided yet. I trust I'll find something new to occupy my time," she says, confidently, "I could always go back to school."
"Back to school?"
"Yeah, I went to a research university as far away from Gotham as I could get. But once there I got hugely involved in extracurricular activities and politics. The result was plenty of life experience and the worst grades imaginable. So, I decided to set my education aside temporarily."
"A big decision. I know, I made the same one. Only for me, it was partially already decided."
"Oh?"
Her interest surprises me. I awkwardly wish I had never brought the subject up, "Another long story," I brush it off.
"I see," Teresa says, nodding, "And where would you like to be dropped off? We're just five minutes out of Gotham."
"An apartment in Robbinsville. And thanks again, for giving me a ride. It's hard not having a car in Gotham."
"It's hard having a car in Gotham," Teresa laughs, "Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. But then I get opportunities to escape from the city for a day, and I remember what it means to have a car."
"Maybe after getting an apartment, a car will be next on my list of necessities," I smile.
"I highly recommend a good, reliable, old car like Betsy here," Teresa pats her car fondly. The car rattles and clanks back at her.
"Sounds ideal," I say.
When we pull up in front of Chad's apartment complex, I wave goodbye to Teresa and watch her car drive away. Then, I promptly head over to the nearest train station. I'm at the bat-bunker within minutes, sending a quick message to Bruce to let him know I'm coming.
Money and good looks indeed. If only people knew the truth.
"You're back early," Bruce says, greeting me in front of the container box. He's dressed in the familiar costume of orange hood and jeans jacket.
"The picnic lost all appeal after you left. I met Floyd Lawton's brother, though. How well do you know Floyd?" I ask.
"Well enough. I trust Floyd," Bruce assures me.
"From what I overheard, it sounds as if Edward Lawton did something illegal to get his hands on his parents' money."
Bruce shakes his head, "No. Floyd only said the best things about his brother."
"Yes, apparently Floyd idolized Edward when they were younger. Maybe things have changed…"
"Family affairs are the Lawton's business. I'm certainly not going to interfere."
"I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying Floyd might not be as perfect as everyone says he is."
"We should go," Bruce says, changing the subject rather abruptly, "I'm hoping to find Bob at the old subway station near the Bowery."
"Where the meeting with the scarecrow was held?" I ask, following along.
"Correct."
I'll just have to investigate the Lawtons on my own.
Bruce and I catch the train across town to Burnley, and from there to Bowery. We get off at a familiar stop and at the base of the train station Bob hovers over a burning trash pile, warming his hands despite the obvious warmth of the summer day.
"Hi Bob," I say, happily.
"Be taking you to the scarecrow's meeting," Bob says, "The scarecrow intends to reclaim territory."
"What territory?" Bruce asks.
"Crime Alley," Bob answers simply, "Follow." He leads us down to the lower level of Gotham, and through the maze of abandoned underground subway systems. The tunnel ends halfway up the wall of a large cavern, echoing with angry voices. Bob refuses to get any closer to the opening, gesturing for us to look down and then disappearing back the way we came. Bruce and I creep closer and crouch low on the ledge. Far below, in the center of the cavern stands a figure with a sack hood surrounded by hissing followers. The amplified voices carry as far as the ledge Bruce and I are hidden on.
"These privileged builders want to steal our homes we have lived in for years!" the Scarecrow yells, waving his hand emphatically. I notice a trail of smoke follows the path of his hand, suggesting that the people's fear and paranoia were not caused entirely by mob mentality. Jonathan Crane was intentionally calling attention to the homeless' grievances against Ron Marshall while using his fear toxin.
"We must draw attention to ourselves," Crane continues, "People need to take us seriously. How will we do that?"
"Breaking and burning!" someone calls out from the crowd.
A cheer rises up from the spectators, encouraged by the scarecrow's antics on stage.
"And who is trying to stop us? The establishment!" Scarecrow yells.
"Breaking and burning!" cheers the crowd. The panic emitting from the Scarecrow's hands overwhelms the crowd, causing uproar. They begin smashing walls and floors with clubs, stopping just short of hitting each other.
The Scarecrow waves his hand across the crowd one last time, reveling in the chaos. "And who will suffer for these crimes?" He asks, his voice nearly drowned out by the crowd, "The new DA elected tomorrow, Ron Marshall's supporter, and everyone else who stands in our way!"
Willing to destroy anything or anyone after being subjected to so much poison, the homeless people around Crane pay no heed to his last comment. But next to me, Bruce tenses.
"I've seen enough," he growls and slips back into the darkness of the tunnel.
Back at the bat-bunker I watch Bruce wearily shrug off his jacket and hoodie. He tosses it in the bin, sinks into a computer chair, and swiftly pulls up a calendar on screen.
"You know, with all your wealth, you would think you could afford a different disguise once in a while," I comment on the fraying orange jacket, falling into one of the armchairs myself.
"Jonathan Crane's threat was real," Bruce says, darkly.
"I found his threat lacking. No matter who is elected tomorrow, can he honestly get close enough to the DA to kill her…or him?"
"I'm not taking that chance."
The printer hums with activity. Bruce stands up, rips the still warm paper out of the machine and presents it to me.
"Rachel's schedule," He explains.
"How did you…?"
"I need you to switch your main focus for me. Forget Marshall, target Rachel."
"You realize this is borderline stalker-ish," I say, laughing and setting the paper aside without studying it, "You can't be serious Bruce."
"I need to protect her," Bruce leans over me and looks directly into my eyes with an intensity I've never seen before.
I'm stunned into a brief silence.
"Here is a camera," Bruce hands me a pen and a remote type device.
"Bruce, really?"
"You'll be on a paid vacation from work. The stress of handling two jobs takes some time to adjust to."
"Bruce, stop for a second and listen."
"Alfred has you on speed dial. If you have any trouble, contact him."
"So what, I'm supposed to trail Rachel Dawes, executive assistant DA, for a full day. And that won't look suspicious to her at all."
"For as long as it takes. And you're good at going unnoticed."
"Yeah, thanks," I let out a breath of disbelief, "Just good, old, invisible Lyn reporting for duty. I was fine with talking to Marshall, trying to find out his dirty secrets, but I'm not spying on Rachel."
"Why?"
"You know Rachel. And stalking her is personal, only for your benefit. That's not what batman is about."
"Because you know everything batman is about?"
"That's not what I meant. Bruce, please. Do not make me do this."
"I need you to do this for me."
"Bruce," my wall begins to wear down. A part of me caves in to his stubborn request. If he believes I'll be of some help in keeping Rachel safe, who am I to refuse? Hadn't I promised to help batman in whatever way I could? "What will you do while I'm busy stalking?"
"As my duty to Gotham, I have to make catching Feely top priority. But Jonathan Crane has threatened, and hurt, Rachel before. He wouldn't hesitate to do so again."
"Okay then," I reluctantly take the pen camera, "One time, and then I'm back on medical duty."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until I've been thrown in jail with a restraining order against me." I turn away from him and shift through the costume bin, wondering how I should re-create my image for such an assignment.
"Come up with a clever excuse," Bruce suggests, "Maybe you could be a supporter in her campaign."
"After telling Teresa I might support Dent?" I ask, laughing.
Bruce doesn't laugh.
"I'll go get ready for my big day tomorrow, then," I sigh, starting towards the exit.
"Wait," Bruce says, "I'm not planning on going out again tonight. You should get some practice time in." He pats the punching bag on the shoulder.
"I don't know. I have this dinner with Sam and Lawrence every Thursday night…"
"In the narrows? You shouldn't go there alone. I'll come with you." Bruce tosses a motorcycle helmet at me. He opens up a panel in the wall and pulls out his motorcycle gear. And then a second leather jacket.
"You didn't…" I start to say.
Bruce smiles and holds the new leather jacket out for me to try on, "I had Alfred guess your size."
I slip my arms into the smooth leather jacket. I've never worn leather in my life. The smell brings me back to the time when I was ten years old and awed by my grandfather, an avid motorcycle rider. I zip the jacket up and strike a pose, hands on hips, grinning like a fool.
"How do I look?"
"Ready to ride," Bruce says, walking out the motorcycle.
"The new jacket, the motorcycle lesson, and the offer to join me at Sam's are all bribes, aren't they?"
"Maybe," Bruce grins slightly.
I laugh, "Okay, fine. Let's go."
To finally be the one in control of the motorcycle is a heady experience. After the numerous sessions walking the motorcycle in the bunker, and a few rides around the shipyard, being able to ride through the city is thrilling. And I admit the calming touch of Bruce's hands on my hips adds to my enjoyment. Much to Bruce's amusement I follow the rules of the road and we reach my old home in three times the amount of time it would have taken him to ride there. Arriving in one piece was my top priority. As well as maximizing the time spent in such close proximity to Bruce.
I park the motorcycle behind the chain link fence around my father's old house and secure the lock. Letting myself into the house, I drag Bruce up to the attic before going into Lawrence's apartment. It's hard to discern his expression behind the sunglasses and baseball cap, but I can feel his puzzlement. In the attic, I hunt through a large costume trunk that my mother used to keep for me to play dress up with as a kid.
"Here!" I announce, pulling out the largest pair of glasses I've ever scene, "My dad had perfect vision. He only wore these when he wanted to impress people with his intelligence, so the lenses are not prescription."
Bruce tries them on, grinning.
"And this," I add, yanking out a mop of black hair, "is the wig my mother wore back in the 60's when she decided to go as a Beatle for Halloween."
"Which one?" Bruce asks skeptically.
"Paul McCartney."
"Okay," he takes the cap off, affixes the wig to his head, and replaces the cap.
"You look like a new person…from the hippy era," I say, arranging the hair so it looks more natural.
"As long as I'm not recognizable."
"Definitely not. Unless you suddenly get an urge to go around impersonating the Beatles as Bruce Wayne."
"Not likely."
Together "Larry" and I go downstairs to eat with Lawrence's family.
"How bad are the narrows getting lately?" Bruce asks after we finish eating and Joan and I are cleaning up.
Sam looks up from packaging up his famous lasagna into motorcycle-appropriate sized Tupperware containers.
"Very bad," Sam says, "If I could, I would move out tomorrow."
"Aren't the police doing anything?" Bruce questions, concern showing on his face.
"They try but the entire island is overrun by escaped Arkham inmates. Eventually they will round up everyone. It just takes time."
"I certainly didn't see any police catching inmates on our way here," I comment angrily, scrubbing a dish extra hard and causing a clatter in the sink.
"Because they aren't trying very hard. The cowards are more scared than any of us," Joan explains as she gathers plates from the tables. She nudges Bruce with a serving bowl, "Larry, go help Lyn dry."
Bruce appears behind me in the kitchen, wearing a slightly bemused expression.
Wiping my soapy hands on my pants I toss a towel at him.
"Dry the dishes and stack them next to the fridge," I whisper, "And try to look like you know what you're doing."
Joan comes back into the kitchen and dumps a new pile of dishes next to me. I wash five glasses and two plates. Bruce dries a single fork. When the drying rack is full, I make Bruce swap places. I finish the drying and Bruce manages to wash the salad bowl. We switch jobs again. Bruce dries a dish. Between the two of us we manage to get the clean up done, but I can't help think that Bruce was almost more a hindrance than a help.
"I voted for Harvey Dent in the hope that he can straighten out the narrows," Sam explains, "He promises to weed out corruption among the police. After that happens, you will see inmates being arrested here in the narrows."
"Let's hope Dent wins then," Bruce says, grinning.
"Speaking of trouble on the streets, you two should get going before the worst of them come out at night," Joan says, glancing out the window.
"Thank you for the dinner," Bruce says graciously, "It was delicious. The best I've had all week."
Sam positively beams.
At the door Bruce and I put on our motorcycle gear and jackets alone.
"Thank you," I tell him.
"For?"
"For coming to dinner with me. And complimenting Sam's cooking. He'll be glowing from that review for a week."
"You're welcome," he says, "In fact, I may come next week as well."
"I knew it!" I exclaim, opening the door.
Bruce raises a questioning eyebrow.
"I've gotten you addicted to Sam's cooking! Don't be ashamed, it happens to the best of us," I console him.
"I concede that Sam's lasagna has a special appeal."
"Well, this should last us for a couple days," I say, holding up the leftovers.
On the way down the front stairs Bruce pauses mid-step.
"What?" I ask, curious.
"Tonight was the first time I dried a dish," he muses.
"And how was the experience?"
"Exhausting."
I laugh.
"How you do it everyday?" he asks, smirking at me.
"You should see the dishes the busboy at Sam's restaurant has to do."
"I will make certain to thank Alfred as soon as I get home."
Bruce plods down the rest of the stairs and swings his leg over the motorcycle.
"I'll drive back since the sun is down," he says.
"I thought you were too tired from drying that dish?" I ask, securing the lasagna package to the motorcycle.
"I think I can manage."
I get on behind him and hold on tight as we speed away from the narrows, back to the bunker.