A/N: New York was fun, but this week was kind of an emotional roller coaster since my boyfriend broke up with me, then decided that was a bad idea, and begged my forgiveness. A very confusing ordeal. Fortunately I have Bruce Wayne and Lyn to write about. But, my apologies if this chapter is not up to the usual standards of editing, I was a bit distracted. Read, review, and help me feel better? Thank you!
24: Monday (worst day of the week):
The sluggish feeling of my brain needing extra power just to perform simple tasks lasts all morning. I stay awake all night last night to save the life of my boss, yet I can't escape the obligatory appearance at work on Monday morning. As I read through an endless amount of boring reports, I sneak furtive glances at my cell phone. Alfred promised to call me if Bruce's conditioned changed. When I left in the morning Bruce had been sleeping deeply and looking much better. Thinking about Bruce sound asleep in bed makes me ache with envy. I cradle my head in my arms, preparing to catch a few minutes of rest.
"Late night yesterday?"
The question jolts me upright. In front of my desk stands a handsome, well groomed, alert, and smiling young man. Drake looks annoyingly opposite of how I feel.
"I'm sorry, Drake," I reply, "I completely forgot you were coming in today."
"Yes, you certainly look like you could use an assistant," he replies, "I brought my resume." He hands me his documents.
"I thought I hired you already," I say, taking the rather short looking packet and sticking it in a pile on my desk.
"I thought you might want to confirm your good choice."
"Your actions on Saturday did that," I explain, "I don't think I can thank you enough. Actually, I believe you might be wasted on archives. Why not go work for Apple, or Google, or something if you know so much about computers?"
"That would require moving to another city. I already tried that for college, " Drake laughs and shrugs, "And anyway, I don't want to work with computers. It's more of a hobby."
"Well, what do you want to do?" I ask.
"Play football. But I can't do that anymore thanks to a shoulder injury," he explains.
"I actually meant, do you want to file or sort through the day's reports?" I continue with a smile.
"Ah," he says. He seriously studies the two piles sitting between us and decides, "Filing." he takes a stack, glances down at the top page, and automatically turns to the correct row of cabinets, as if by instinct. I've only known one other person to be able to acclimate to the Archives so quickly. And that was me.
As he disappears into the maze, I shuffle the reports around on my desk, hoping the papers will magically arrange themselves in alphabetical order. The society section of the Gotham Times slips out and flutters to the floor. On my way to Wayne Enterprises, I had picked up an early copy of the paper to read the front page story: "Batman Saves Cardinal from Killer Crocodile". The newspaper, of course, got most of the facts wrong. I sigh, bending down to pick up the wayward scrap of newsprint, intending to put it back on the desk. The paper never leaves my grasp. There in my hands rests proof of my surprise date with Floyd Lawton on Saturday. In the full page photo Floyd gallantly kisses my hand, looking very dashing while doing so. I, on the other hand, appear very confused with a dense expression on my face. Underneath the photo is a scowling, blurry snapshot of Bruce Wayne with the headline: "Bruce Wayne Faces Competition in Love". I hastily skim the article…
'…begs the question, what exactly does Bruce Wayne see in such a nonentity? Lynnet Pearl seems to be collecting men of fame and fortune, with her latest conquest being Floyd Lawton. Lawton, who recently lost his older brother in a tragic accident, retained his good humor and generous charm at various parties over the weekend. But perhaps the pleasant smile masks a deep mourning for his brother, leading him to seek comfort in the arms of…"
I abruptly stop reading and slam the paper down on my desk. For someone who is such a nonentity, I'm getting my name in the paper an awful lot lately. Inspired by energy coming from righteous adrenaline, I snatch out my scissors and hack at the photo. The article immediately goes into the trash, but I pin the photo, angry jagged edges and all, to my cabinet under the photo of me and Bruce. Might as well add to my 'collection'. I vaguely wonder if anyone else has read the paper yet. Thankfully, I'm fairly certain the busy CEO of Wayne Enterprises spares no time for such trifles. Receptionists, however, can sometimes have too much time on their hands. I put my head down on my desk and fall asleep to escape my worries.
Within minutes I'm woken up by the ping of elevator doors. Any hopes of Mary bringing the newspapers down without reading them first are dashed as I force my eyes to stay open long enough to observe the furious receptionist storming towards me. She slams the tabloids down on my desk. My brain jumps into function, and I stare down at the incriminating photo of Floyd and me at dinner.
"How could you do this to me? To Bruce?' Mary says, her shoulders shaking in anger.
"One dinner. It meant nothing…"
"Nothing? A…coffee break is nothing. A casual conversation at a party, a brief lunch, is nothing! This, an intimate dinner at a fancy restaurant after being stood up by the guy you are supposed to be dating, is most definitely something!" She dumps the rest of the papers on the edge of my desk, clearly not wanting to cover up the evidence of my infidelity and betrayal.
"First you take Gotham City's number one most eligible bachelor, but I suppose that wasn't enough for you, was it?" Mary continues her tirade, "No, you had to have number two as well, never mind all the hearts you step on along the way, which is the same old story, I fall for some guy, I think he's great, but then he turns out to be yet another jerk on the long list of jerks I've dated, and you turn out to be, by far, the worst friend ever."
She takes a breath and throws her hands up in frustration, "Lyn, I don't understand you. I've tried to help you out. I get you contacts, teach you to dress in ways that flatter your figure, go to great pains to throw you in the path of Bruce Wayne, turn you from social recluse into the socialite of the year as Prince of Gotham's scandalous new girlfriend, and this is how you repay me?"
"You tried to turn me into you," I say the first words that come to mind.
"Exactly! Wait…what? No!," she starts waving her hands furiously, "I would never, ever, never, have ever, even considered accepting any of Bruce's offers for a date, back when he did offer, and, wow, did he offer, standing at my desk and flirting shamelessly. All I thought about was how much you seemed to like him, and billionaire playboys were usually overrated anyway, and I said no! Why couldn't you?"
"Mary, I really can't deal with this today," I say, rubbing my pounding head.
"You have a hangover I suppose," she accuses, "Did you spend the night drinking with Floyd? Or with Bruce? Either way, as far as I'm concerned, you're on your own now. Don't come crying to me when they both dump you." She swivels on her heel and stalks back to the elevator. The door pings again and she leaves.
I groan, dropping face first back onto my desk.
"Good morning, Ms. Pearl," Mr. Fox says, having come out of the elevator as Mary went in.
I offer up another groan as a greeting. Mr. Fox takes my response genially.
"No need to worry about the confidential files in Applied Sciences, by the way," Mr. Fox says and twitches the tabloid around on my desk to get a better look, "After Drake started programming at age 11, I've had ample time to perfect my computer security methods keeping him from discovering things he shouldn't."
"Oh. Thank you!" I exclaim quietly with a breath of relief, "I haven't even had time to think of that."
"Not a problem," Mr. Fox says, "I'm letting him work on a new project for the 'army'. Should be fairly innocuous. Send him down when he's done here."
"Okay," I agree.
Mr. Fox lifts the tabloid up and raises an eyebrow at me.
"Don't ask," I say in warning.
"Wasn't going to," he says, a nostalgic glint in his eye, "Reminds me of my own wild youth in the 70's. Tabloids, scandal…"
He heads off in the direction of Applied Sciences, leaving me with that slightly unwelcome tidbit of information. Desperately trying to banish the image of a young Lucius Fox in a disco outfit permanently ingrained in my mind, I start to sort through the day's work. Unfortunately, thanks to a series of nap breaks, I don't get very far before I'm interrupted when my cell phone loudly demands attention.
"Hello?" I ask after knocking over a few newly sorted stacks in my haste to answer.
"Good afternoon, Miss Pearl," Alfred says calmly.
"Is it afternoon already?" I sigh.
"Nearly 1:30," Alfred confirms, "And Master Wayne is up and walking about."
"I'm glad to hear he's doing well, but shouldn't he still be resting? A full day of recovery wouldn't hurt," I say.
"There's no stopping him, I'm afraid," Alfred says.
"Put him on the phone," I sigh.
"Very good, Miss Pearl," Alfred says, sounding distinctly pleased with himself.
"Hello?" Bruce asks after a few minutes of silence.
"Bruce? Alfred says you're out of bed," I say.
"I am. And I feel fine. Ignore Alfred's worries," he says.
"The knife wound is okay? And you're head doesn't hurt?" I ask anxiously.
"Both okay," Bruce confirms. The phone is briefly muffled, "Alfred, the gray suit please."
"Certainly, sir," says a disappointed Alfred.
"I'll be in Wayne Enterprises soon," Bruce tells me.
"Do you remember anything about last night?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
"I remember being nearly knocked out by a bible," Bruce says, sounding slightly distracted. I can hear the swish of fabric as Bruce gets dressed. He lets out a hiss of pain, probably from jarring a still healing injury.
"I have better aim than that," I protest, "I hit the creature square on the head!"
Bruce chuckles, "Get back to work. I'm not paying you to chat on the phone."
"You're also not paying me to sew up crocodile bites, but I don't hear you complaining about that," I retort. I can feel Bruce's smile through the phone before he hangs up. Setting my phone down on the desk, I proceed to re-sort the files I knocked over.
An hour later the elevator pings once more. Eagerly, I find myself sitting straight up, expecting Bruce. To my disappointment I watch as none other than Floyd Lawton strolls up to my desk.
"I think Mary may be angry with me," Floyd says.
"What could possibly have given you that idea?" I ask and turn back to my work.
"She instructed me to take the elevator to the top floor to find the Department of Archives," he says, sighing.
"And did you find it there?" I ask sarcastically, not feeling sorry for him in the least.
"No," he answers, "Luckily, I ran into Bruce. He directed me down here."
"Did he?" I ask. I can guess why he sent Floyd down here. Now I have to come up with a way to work Feely's envelope into the conversation.
"He did," Floyd smiles, "I told him I wanted to give you this." he hands me a package wrapped in a Gotham Art Museum store's bag.
I put on my best forced smile and take the package. A typical gift. As soon as people find out you're an artist, immediately everyone starts buying you anything art related. I prepare myself to fake surprise and excitement as I open the plastic bag and pull out undoubtedly another oversized art book on Monet or Van Gogh.
However, once I see the words on the cover, my face freezes. The book is a collection of portraiture by Jonathan Singer Sargent, my favorite artist.
"Oh," I whisper, breathlessly. I open the cover and turn each full color page delicately. Portrait, after portrait, after portrait of America and Europe's wealthiest clients stare back at me. I come to my favorite painting of a little boy fidgeting in his chair while a very put-upon governess sits in the background. "How did you know?" I ask.
"Maintaining a strong art history background is essential in high society," Floyd explains grinning, "You're always drawing portraits, and Sargent is one of the best. I thought his relatively loose style might have inspired yours."
"It definitely did. This is beautiful," I say, caressing the book, "Thank you!"
"You're welcome," he says, "It's the least I could do after your original painting was viciously destroyed by my ungrateful father. I don't think I apologized for that before. I am truly sorry."
"It's all right," I snort, "I've experienced worse destruction of my artwork before."
"Sounds tragic. Your art is wonderful," he says.
I laugh uncomfortably. Floyd is laying on the compliments a little thick. I wonder if even a simple archivist would fall for this ploy. I suppose the nonentity who fell for the notorious Bruce Wayne probably would.
"Thank you," I say, attempting a flirtatious expression and probably failing.
"What are you doing Wednesday night?"
"Um," I stammer. The perfect moment to dig for answers to the mysterious envelope just presented itself, "Nothing, why?"
"I happen to have reservations at a very exclusive restaurant on the boardwalk next to the amusement park. What would you say to a night of exquisite food and crass entertainment?" he asks, leaning over my desk and letting his hair artfully fall across his forehead. His eyes travel from my face to a spot slightly over my shoulder. I stand up gracelessly and attempt to block his view of the newspaper photos with my body.
"Sounds wonderful!" I exclaim.
"Perfect," he says, "I'll pick you up at 6:00."
"Perfect," I echo faintly.
He sails away grandly. I sit back down heavily.
"Who was that?" Drake asks, leaning up against a cabinet and staring into the space Floyd had just filled.
"Floyd Lawton," I reply curtly.
"He's gorgeous."
"Please, take him off my hands."
"Gladly, do you have his number?" Drake jokes.
"Actually, yes," I hunt around for the business card in my purse.
Drake takes it, looks at it, and returns it to me with a sigh, "Unfortunately, if he was flirting with you, it means I'll probably have no luck."
"He's too old for you anyway. Nearly my age."
"That man? Can't be older than twenty five!"
"Twenty eight."
"Same thing."
"And you look like you're 18."
"Twenty one!" he protests, laughing.
"Old enough to know when to get to work and stop ogling," I scold lightly.
"I finished filing," he says simply, shrugging his shoulders, "What next?"
I swivel in my desk chair, my mouth dropping open. I had expected him to get hopelessly lost by the tenth file.
"Finished?" I repeat.
"Yeah, wasn't too bad. I figured out the system," he says.
"I helped make that system, and I have been the only one to navigate this department that quickly since my predecessor. The system was designed to be impossible for a reason," I state with disbelief.
"I have a knack for solving impossible systems," Drake says, "I'm told I get it from my dad."
"Drake Fox, you will be a valuable new addition to Wayne Enterprises!" I say happily, "Now, help me organize these reports."
We sit together swapping stories while we sort and catalog every page on my desk. With two people working, we finish in half the time I usually take.
"Your dad wants you down in Applied Sciences," I tell him after placing the last orderly pile of paper on my desk. Giving my current helter-skelter life, finally having some organization provides me with a pleasant sense of control.
"Okay," Drake says eagerly, "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early!"
"Don't remind me," I say. I wave to him, sling my bag over my shoulder, and wearily take the elevator to the lobby. Since I'm done two hours early, I decide to stop by my supposedly temporary home that I haven't seen for a while.
When I arrive back at Chad's apartment, I curl up on the sofa with my lovely new Sargent book. I run my hands gingerly across the pages. I could spend hours studying the artist's brushstrokes and compositions. Instead, I barely make it through a quarter of the book before Chad comes home and interrupts me. He offers no greeting and immediately walks into his home office. The slam of the door makes his feelings known. I get up and pad softly over to the door, intending to find out the source of his anger. I have my suspicions, considering Mary's talent at spreading gossip.
"Chad?" I inquire, knocking softly.
The door flies open inward. Chad, looking a little taken aback at his own force, stands in the doorway. He gently pushes me out of the way and walks into the kitchen, where he proceeds to pace back and forth.
"Lyn, explain to me why I spent my entire lunch break and half of the day attempting to comfort a rather hysterical, heart broken Mary?" Chad asks quietly.
"Because you are a very kind and understanding person," I answer, sliding onto a bar stool.
He stops in his tracks and gives me what probably amounts to a glare. Chad's face and disposition were not built for anger.
I sigh, "She is under the impression I have stolen Floyd Lawton from her."
Chad leans on the counter and peers into my face, silently judging me.
"I didn't do anything," I protest, "Floyd came and took Bruce's place at a dinner one night, the tabloids picked it up, and the rest is history."
"Floyd took Bruce's place? Where was Bruce Wayne?" Chad asks.
"Business," I lie, blinking to break up Chad's incessant stare.
"I don't believe you," Chad accuses, looking severely disappointed in me.
"Well, if you think he's lying, why not ask him?" I argue in Bruce's defense, "I believe him."
"Lyn, Bruce sleeps in every meeting I've ever seen him attend. He hired Lucius Fox precisely to avoid thinking about business. But I'm not going to ask him, because he's not the one lying to me right now," Chad pushes his glasses up his nose.
"I don't know what you mean," I say, my gaze traveling longingly down the counter to the Sargent book on the couch.
"I know you well enough to tell when you are lying, Lynnet," Chad says, "Your eyes go all wide and you look like you're trying too hard. And I'm sick of the lying. Lying about where you stay until the early hours of the morning, about visiting Eleanor, and about everything."
I take the criticism silently, determined not to let anything slip.
Chad laughs scornfully, "You have nothing to say, because you know I'm right! Mary made and observation that caught my interest in between the rubbish of her crying over a guy she's only known for a couple of days. I think it sheds light on the real reason she's so upset by this incident between you and Floyd. She claimed ever since Bruce Wayne deigned to return to Gotham and waste his father's money overhauling the entire city, you've changed, and not in a good way."
I shift in my seat uncomfortably.
"I think Mary's right," Chad continues, "I've ignored it up to now, simply because the small changes seemed easy to ignore. But you're trampling on everyone, Lyn. You have been brushing me off constantly, Rose is concerned that you never visit her at the library anymore and was hurt by how cold you were after the disaster at the children's museum, and now Mary? I don't know what has been going on; I don't even need to know. But if you want to remain friends, if you want to continue to stay here, you need to reciprocate more than you are."
I take a deep breath. Then I make a much more impromptu decision than such a problem requires, and say, "Okay. I'm sorry Chad. I'm sorry for taking your generosity and friendship for granted. You're right, a lot has been happening, very rapidly, and," a slight panic swells in my chest, "I'll leave tonight."
I get up from the stool and walk back to my borrowed bedroom, feeling unsteady on my feet. Chad doesn't move. Memories of the last time I was kicked out of my home come back to me, fresh as the day it happened. I pack quickly, throwing everything into my trunk. The final item to go in is my new book. Madame X glares haughtily at me over her shoulder from the front cover. I throw a towel on top of it. Thanks to my rather wayward packing, I have to sit on the lid to close the trunk. Heaving it onto its side, I lug the hateful thing into the living room only to discover Chad has disappeared back into his office. I'm stuck dragging the trunk alone out of the apartment, into the elevator, and onto the plush carpeting in the apartment lobby. I end up standing there awkwardly with no foreseeable home to go to.
Fortunately I happen to have a certain butler on speed dial. I suppose there are perks to choosing Batman over everything else. I'll have to wait to see if the perks outweigh the cons.
Minutes later Alfred pulls up in front of the building.
"Thank you," I tell Alfred, handing off my trunk.
"You're welcome, Miss Pearl," Alfred replies, shoving the trunk into the back of the car.
"I think you might be chauffeuring me around more than Bruce," I comment.
Alfred chuckles, "No trouble at all."
"Thank you again, Alfred," I repeat as if I were a broken record, "And sorry about the heavy trunk. I think the excessive metal decorations add twenty pounds."
"Miss Pearl, a small fraction of the items required for Master Bruce's upkeep couldn't be forced into ten trunks of this size. When you called me requesting help moving out, I was grateful I did not need to hire a truck," Alfred replies.
"Yes, well, thanks also for not asking too many questions and saving me from embarrassment," I add, "I doubt if your employer will be so considerate."
"Will I be bringing you to the penthouse?"
"No, that could get awkward," I admit, "The bunker will suit me perfectly. I can paint whenever I want."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. My friendship with Bruce is confusing enough. The last thing I need right now is to go destroying that as well."
"Very well then, Miss Pearl," Alfred agrees, "Sometimes I wonder if Master Bruce adopted the bat's poor visual acuity in addition to the wings and ears."
At the bunker we unload the trunk and Alfred obligingly drives me to the nearest store to pick up supplies. Alfred's eyes light up when we enter IKEA. I strongly suspect the limitless organizational possibilities contained in a single store appeal to him nearly as much as they do to me. Afterwards, laden down with bundles of cardboard boxes, I choose a more secluded corner of the bunker and spend a very happy hour pinning up floral bed sheets with multicolored, heavy duty duck tape. Together Alfred and I set up a cot with a mattress, a nightstand, a little bookshelf, and a yellowed lamp whose design probably dates back to the invention of electricity which we found stashed in the bunker. For the finishing touch I plaster my collection of impressionist art Calendar cutouts to the walls. At the end of the bed I leave my trunk, with all my clothes still piled in it. I figure most things end up in a heap on the floor after a couple days, so might as well let them start off that way. Wrinkles are not exactly a pressing concern for me anymore.
"Cozy," Alfred pronounces upon seeing the end result.
"Cozy? What's going on back here?" Bruce asks from behind a curtain. He sweeps it back and his eyes widen when he discovers my new room.
"Alfred has been helping me move in," I explain, lounging on my new bed.
"Move in?" Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed and takes in his surroundings. Alfred discreetly disappears behind another curtain.
"Unforeseen circumstances made it necessary to leave Chad's apartment without much time for planning, so I decided staying here for a while would be ideal. If you end up coming back at four in the morning with a gaping wound, I can just stumble out of bed and fix it. It's only temporary."
"What will you tell people?" Bruce asks.
"I'll tell them I'm living with my boyfriend," I tease, "It's true, in some sense."
"Which boyfriend?" Bruce asks, his eyes more serious than his tone would suggest.
"Let's say the one who ranks highest in Gotham's fine society," I retort, "I suppose I might be moving again soon if Lawton continues to upstage you in the chivalry department."
"Why?" Bruce asks.
"I told you. I figured this would be convenient."
"I meant why did you leave Chad's?"
"An argument came up. Nothing big, but I thought it would be easier if I stopped imposing on him."
"Lyn, the truth."
"And I'm telling you…"
"No, your eyes are practically bugging out; you're lying. Tell me why."
I sit up straight, wondering if I've always been so obvious.
"Since when can you tell if I'm lying?" I question him.
"Stop avoiding my question," Bruce responds.
"Alfred was much more tactful when he came and picked me up. I told him you would ask…" I say.
"Lyn," Bruce interrupts again, warning me with his tone of voice.
I shrug, slumping back on the bed.
"Don't you think you're getting in a little too deep?" Bruce asks.
"Aren't you being rather hypocritical with that question?"
"I chose to live like this. Gotham is my city. I can't stand by and watch crime and corruption take control. You can have a normal life, even while helping me. But not if you stay here."
"Gotham is home to thousands," I argue, "Don't fool yourself into thinking that just because your parents owned enough wealth to practically buy and sustain the entire city, you own the place and its people along with it. Has it ever occurred to you that I, or others, might long for the power to right some wrongs done in Gotham too?"
"I refuse to watch Batman take over your life," Bruce says darkly.
"Like it's done yours?" I ask, stunning Bruce into momentary silence.
"Bruce Wayne, I've made the decision to help you because I believe the good Batman is doing for this city extends farther than either of us could reach as Gotham's spoiled prince or an anonymous archivist burrowed deep in files," I continue to say.
"I thought…" he starts to say, but trails off and looks away.
"Thought what? Thought that you were the only one who has been hurt by Gotham city?"
"No!" he sighs, "I don't know what I thought. I think you're making a mistake."
I stand up forcefully, frustrated at his response. "You know, I have spent all day getting diatribes from people about what I should and shouldn't do. I'm sick of it," I tell him. Grabbing my bag and motorcycle helmet, I storm out of my makeshift tent.
Bruce follows me, "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to the only place where I know I'll get exactly what I expect," I answer vaguely, swinging a leg over the motorcycle and driving off.
Arkham Asylum's grounds are refreshingly silent as I pull into the driveway. I leave the motorcycle next to the only other car in the empty parking lot. By the time I push my way through the heavy front doors, my bad mood has shifted to a weary exhaustion. It's becoming harder and harder to just take a break from life for a while. The lack of sleep is probably not helping matters.
"Frizz!" Harley greets me, offering a wide, genuine smile.
I smile back and lean up against her desk, "Hey. How are things going here, since your security guy took off with an inmate?"
"Perfectly fine," Harley says happily, "In fact, our new guy claims security has never been tighter."
"Great!"
"I do miss Jack and Feely though," she adds. Harley's eyes darken for a split second. Before I can figure out if it was just a trick of the light, she brightens and bounds out from behind her desk.
"You're just in time to help me put up some new patients!" she exclaims excitedly.
"What?" I stutter, slightly taken aback.
"I'll just buzz for someone to take over the desk for me," Harley presses a button under the desk, "We're a little short on staff. New hires aren't coming in like they used to."
"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," I comment wryly.
"Anyway," Harley throws an arm around my shoulders, "Now you get to meet all my old friends."
"How wonderful," I grin at her enthusiasm, "Where are these friends?"
"In the Long Gallery," she says, propelling me towards the stairs.
At the top of the stairs we go through the tallest doors I have ever seen. Behind them lies a hallway longer than a football field but no wider than the doors. The overall effect is quite strange and imposing.
"Meet the patients!" Harley proclaims, stopping just inside the hall and gesturing to the walls.
"Harley, these are portraits," I say, confused. Above me, on either side, are hundreds of frames. The paintings and photographs nearest me are clustered together with almost every inch of the wall covered. The density decreases as we walk down the hallway until we get two thirds of the way down, after which the walls are empty. Harley swings a hanging ladder out and pushes it towards me.
"Usually Jack helps me, but today I have you!" she informs me cheerfully.
I let her load my arms with portraits and follow her up the ladder. One at a time, she pounds a nail into the wall and hooks a portrait up. The perfectionist artist in me cringes as each portrait hangs more crooked than the last. We make our way up the wall, which must be at least three stories tall, and Harley puts up six portraits.
"The number of new patients is also getting smaller," Harley says, "It dropped once poor Crane left. Mostly we just get old friends who got lost, were rescued, and brought back here. But they already have portraits." She waves widely in the general direction of the older frames.
"Why do you put these up?" I ask her, returning to ground level and examining the nearest photo of a woman with droopy eyes.
"That is Carlen," Harley informs me, joining me in staring at the woman's face, "She's still with us. A tragic case of extreme OCPD and OCD combined. Killed her husband by slitting his throat. Addicted to gambling." Harley adjusts the frame with a fondness, "The portraits are hung to make our patients feel like a part of our family."
"She's still with us…meaning some of these people are dead?" I conclude.
"Well, if they die in the Asylum, we keep the portraits up to commemorate them. But if they leave, we take the portraits down."
"I see." I move on to another portrait of an inmate I distinctly recognize. "Hello Feely."
"Yes, I haven't had the heart to take Beely down yet," Harley says, looking soulful, "I have a feeling he'll be joining us again one day."
"Don't worry," I tell her, "He will. Count on it."
Harley clasps her hands to her chest, "Can you find him for me? He did seem to enjoy your company!"
I nod. Feely's face grins back at me, contemptuous even in a photograph.
"Come here, this man is one of my favorites," Harley says, dragging me back towards the doors and pointing to a painting that looks as if it came from the 1900's, "Martin Hawkins. He beat his father to death in revenge for his father's abuse."
"How horrible," I say. Upon closer inspection I can see strange scars trailing up the man's face, starting at the mouth and ending at the ears like a spider web.
"He then became a serial killer. He cut up people's faces and cut out their organs. He was one of my great-great grandfather's first patients."
She continues on down the line of patients, pointing out people she knew or found especially interesting. I follow her and listen to every word. The stories become more and more unbelievable as we go on down the hall.
"And this is Crocodilly," Harley announces, stopping in front of another familiar face.
"Crocodilly?" I ask.
"No one knows his real name. Or where he came from. They say he grew up in the sewers and filed his teeth down to razor points to eat the rats," Harley explains.
"I think I met him, or it," I say.
"Him," Harley says, "Crocodilly is a man. He just has an unfortunate skin disease and personal hygiene problems."
"When did he escape?" I ask.
"Oh, he died," Harley replies, "Months ago."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," I say.
I'm not quite sure myself about how to respond to the hall of 'family' portraits. The idea of having to work with people such as Hawkins makes me sick to my stomach. Harley's strange mannerisms must be her method of finding a balance between normality, and Arkham Asylum's insanity. Perhaps she needs a brief interlude as much as I do.
"Harley, have you ever ridden a motorcycle?" I ask.
"No, I've only ever ridden the train," she replies. Her eyes glaze over, lost in a memory, "Once."
"Would you like to?" I ask, on impulse.
"No, I don't leave the asylum." Harley starts to look uncomfortable.
"But you did with Jack. Come on, just a ride around the parking lot."
"No, I like it here. And Jack is very…persuasive."
"The parking lot is not technically leaving."
"I don't want to," Harley says, ending the discussion. She glides back to the doors we came in from and throws them open, "It's getting late, you should go."
"Okay," I say, "But the offer is open, if you ever feel the need to escape this place for a while."
"Escape?" Harley asks, laughing, "How absurd! Who would ever want to escape?"
Together we walk down to the main lobby. A dour attendant at the desk barely glances up as I leave.
"Come back soon!" Harley yells after me.
As I walk out the door I'm too busy waving back at her to notice the oozing man lying on the steps in front of me before I trod on his foot. I curse creatively and leap backwards.
"Crocodilly!" Harley cries. She dashes outside and shoves me out of the way. Crouching down to check her patient, she screams for someone inside the asylum. The attendant and a few other nurses arrive to help. The asylum front steps are engulfed in a flurry of activity as various people run in and out fetching things to tend to the injured man. In the harsh floodlights I recognize the green half-human, half-reptile as the thing responsible for abducting Cardinal O'Fallon. Well lit, the crocodile looks much more like a man than I had previously thought. I also guiltily notice he is missing an eye. I hadn't considered the permanence of my actions in the heat of the moment last night.
I suppose if I can run away from conflict, Bruce Wayne is allowed to release his frustration by apprehending dangerous criminals. A shadow flutters slightly in the corner of my eye. I carefully skirt around the crowd on the stairs and slip into a darker alley between the two main buildings.
"I came to thank Batman on behalf of Harley Quinzel for the delivery," I tell the shadow. Behind the darkness I can see the tumbler waiting. Batman turns to face me. I cross my arms and lean against the brick wall, waiting for some kind of response. I'm not quite ready to forgive him. I've proven my abilities plenty of times. It's time he accepted me as being completely a part of his covert life.
"I'm sorry," he says, stepping closer.
I laugh humorlessly, "So what, you can only apologize while hiding behind a mask?"
He towers above me and I realize we are all alone, as close as we were last night, in an alley behind an asylum. It seems I'm only allowed to have intimate moments with Bruce at night, in some kind of disguise, while surrounded by insanity.
"If the gift of the Killer Croc was intended for me, I think you might want to get your ideas from Floyd next time," I say in an attempt to lighten the mood.
My flippant humor fades when our eyes meet and memories of certain sensations come back to me in an embarrassing rush. Batman reaches up to touch my face. I watch him carefully, trying to discern whether he's remembering the same thing behind the mask. His gloved hand is rough, with patches of slime left over from his recent accomplishments. It leaves a trail across my cheek. Hastily he pulls away, snatches up my hand instead, and briefly brushes his lips across it. That done, he turns, his cape billowing behind him, and stalks back to the tumbler.
"What was that for?" I call out after him, grinning slightly.
"Saturday," he gruffly calls back before he disappears into his vehicle.
Apparently Bruce Wayne did read the tabloids today. I sigh and wait until the tumbler rumbles away before seeking out my motorcycle.
On the drive back, a combination of twilight and pollution turns the sky over Gotham pink. The roads in the narrows are deserted, but no one bothers a speeding motorcyclist in black leather. I reach the bunker and return to my makeshift bedroom. I'm about to undress when I notice a new addition sitting on my nightstand. The smell emanating from the vase of flowers provides a nice change from the usual musty stench of the bunker. I roll my eyes and secretly grin, wondering if this is Bruce's idea of a better apology gift, or Alfred's idea of a house warming present.
"You left without getting to hear who showed up in my office today," Bruce says, his face half hidden by a hanging bed sheet. I mentally berate myself for being completely unaware that he made it back before me.
"You must have been speeding the entire way home," I accuse, noticing that he's dressed comfortably in lounge pants and a shirt.
"Rough terrain vehicles don't need to use roads," he explains with a smirk.
"Well then, tell me who came to visit you in your office" I say, sitting down. "And thanks for the flowers," I add.
"I can't take credit for those. A demonstration of Alfred's gratitude that I will no longer be alone when I come back late with an injury," Bruce remarks, "As I was saying, Eleanor came to Wayne Enterprises this morning."
"May I preemptively apologize for anything she might have said, or done, to you?"
Bruce laughs, "She gave me that package on the bed. And instructed me to tell you to call her afterwards next time you leave her to chase after monsters, so she can be sure you're still breathing."
"Only when I chase monsters, or did she mean more generally?"
"I believe she meant any life threatening situation," Bruce responds, smiling down at me.
"I suppose I can remember to do that."
I pick up the cardboard box and shake it slightly, hearing a softened thump.
"Probably knitting," I confide.
"Open it," he suggests and joins me on the bed, "I've been dying of curiosity."
I rip open the packaging tape and dig through a layer of Styrofoam peanuts to find a knitted, greenish-brown lump. I shake the fabric out and lay it on the bed between us. It sits there, ready to be snapped in a photo and posted to the 'worst of' UKO (unidentifiable knitted objects) thread on Ravelry.
"Is that…a suit?" Bruce asks, looking perplexed.
"Or the pelt of a gigantic frog run over by a tank," I offer my theory, my mind still on the crocodile man, "Actually, it's kind of shaped like a karate gi," I explain, pointing out the side flaps. I get up and try to put it on over my clothes but the fit is too tight.
"There's some kind of stiff lining underneath the knitting," I say. I strip down to my underwear without hesitation. After modeling for life drawing sessions, I'm fairly lax about personal nudity. Bruce, I notice with amusement, hastily turns his face to the wall. I slip Eleanor's suit on. The fit is perfect.
I test the suit by sitting down. Even with the added stiffness of whatever mystery material lies underneath, the knees and elbows of the suit bend with surprising ease. I stand back up and pull what appears to be a hood attached to the back over my head. The hood manages to hide most of my face in shadow without obscuring my view. The overlarge turtleneck of the suit successfully covers the rest.
"I wonder why she made it using brown, dark gray, and evergreen colored yarn?" I muse.
"To ensure you're prepared to take refuge in a forest?" Bruce considers.
"Forests haven't been seen in Gotham for ages," I squash his theory.
"Maybe she wanted to make sure you matched the monster," he adds.
"It smells funny too," I say, holding an arm out for Bruce to sniff.
He recognizes it immediately, making a face, "That's flame retardant."
"Flame retardant?"
"It has a very distinct, pungent smell."
"Why would she drench it in flame retardant?"
"In case someone starts a forest fire?" Bruce suggests with a playful grin.
I laugh, "I guess I'll have to pay her a visit tomorrow and ask."
Bruce nods and then turns away again when he realizes I'm digging through my clothes trunk for my pajamas. Getting the suit off proves to be more difficult than getting into it. Finally, with my pajamas on, and feeling much more comfortable out of the suit, I sit back down. Bruce picks up Eleanor's creation and examines it carefully.
"I think that might be Kevlar underneath the wool," Bruce informs me.
"Kevlar is not something one usually comes across in one's average, local yarn shop," I say with surprise.
Bruce shrugs, leans over to slip the suit into my trunk, and props himself up on the end of the bed with an elbow. I sit cross-legged next to him in my oversized T-shirt as I watch him occupy himself by fiddling with a tassel on my afghan. An afghan lovingly knitted by Eleanor. Neither of us knows what to say next, but Bruce doesn't appear to want to leave.
I flop down on my back and close my eyes. Bruce merely moves himself so my feet are no longer in his face.
"What exactly are 'Happy Trees'?" Bruce asks spontaneously.
"hmm?" I ask sleepily, and then realize what shirt I'm wearing. Bob Ross' unmistakable face smiles up at me from my front. The words 'Happy Trees' march across the fabric underneath his paintbrush. "You don't know Bob Ross?" I ask incredulously.
"Who?" Bruce asks.
"I don't know you anymore," I announce, turning my back to him.
"Lyn…" Bruce laughs pleadingly.
"Happy trees are when you paint a tree with the branches tilted upwards in a sort of smile. Bob Ross believed you should never paint happy trees because branches naturally droop downward," I explain, pretending to take the discussion very seriously, "Except when I was learning to paint from Ross'videos, I refused to follow this rule because I didn't like my trees to be depressed."
"How considerate of you," Bruce acknowledges.
"At the age of fourteen I went through a tree period in my artistic career. I drew nothing but twisted roots and sprawling branches for over two years."
"What prompted you to move on to portraits?"
"A tree can't smile," I explain.
He indulges me by grinning.
"I found it was more fun to draw my friends," I add, "Back when I had friends. I'm beginning to understand why you seemed closed off from the world when we first met. After all the lies and intrigues, the only friend I have left, other than you and Alfred, is Harley. And the only friends she has are kept locked in padded cells or exist only in dead-eyed portraits on the wall, so what does that say about me?"
"It says you're learning to make sacrifices for something you believe in," Bruce answers, smiling grimly.
"Or that lack of sleep is turning me into a persnickety old woman before my time. Maybe this is why Eleanor sleeps in so often. Seeing as it's nearly midnight, if you could turn the lights off when you leave I would be very grateful," I tell him and settle back into my pillows.
"And if I come back with a life threatening wound?"
"Turn them back on and wake me up."
Bruce stands and I listen to the tumbler rumble out the door before falling asleep.
Sometime in the night the lights flare on, I wake up, unquestioningly tend to an exhausted Batman's various cuts, stitch up a rather jagged wound, and then fall back into bed. Having my bedroom in the bunker is already doing wonders for my sleep schedule.
To my surprise, I feel Bruce collapse onto the bed next to me after a couple minutes, leading me to question the motivation behind Alfred's insistence on two pillows for my bed.