"Good evening, Miss Dawes," Alfred greeted her with a tip of his hat as she pecked him on the cheek.
"Hello, Alfred," she gave his arm a squeeze and let him take her briefcase.
"Goodness, what are you keeping in here?" He grunted as he hefted it.
"Mostly bricks."
"I wouldn't have wondered if you did," he put a friendly hand on her back, guiding her into the open door.
Bruce was reclined against the far wall of the back seat, managing to look dressed down and casual despite wearing a suit that screamed both good taste and high price. His relaxed posture placed his face perfectly between the auras emanating from the street lamps just outside. At first, all she could see were dim reflections in the whites of his eyes.
"Hello, stranger," she said, softly, not entirely sure it was untrue. She jumped, startled, when Alfred shut her door, and a smile wrested the grim seriousness off Bruce's lips.
"Hello, yourself," his tone was all ease and friendliness, and she knew at once that something was up. She scanned him once over, gaze falling to where a manila folder lay on his lap. It was possible it contained nothing more than stock figures, updates regarding Wayne Enterprises' construction plans, or maybe even blueprints for the Manor.
She doubted, however, that the contents would prove to be so mundane. If it were business, he would have tucked it away, passed it to Alfred, shoved it aside. If he'd left it out, he'd done so on purpose, to send a message.
"What's this?" She jerked her chin at the folder.
"I wanted to know why you were being fired, and now I do." He paused, leaving her room to comment, and when she held her tongue, he said, "Harvey Dent."
She sighed. "So, you know all about it." It made things simpler, she supposed, though it took all the fun out of telling him. Of course, he would have it all figured out before she got the chance...
"No," he shook his head. "I know what the public record says. I have articles, I have pictures, and I even have his resume." When she raised a skeptical eyebrow, he elaborated, "I'm close to Mayor Hill. Apparently, I like what he's done with Gotham's schools."
She snorted at this, catching Alfred's twinkling blue eyes in the rear-view mirror. Bruce would no more have noticed Gotham public schools improving than he would them exploding. Not that he wasn't observant, but a private-school brat like him just wouldn't have the experience. It took someone with a little more worldly a view--say a member of the servile class--to appreciate such differences. Alfred would have to work a little harder on his contributions to Bruce's playboy alibi.
"What I don't have are two things."
"Okay, I'll bite. What's one?"
"Why is Harvey Dent bad for Gotham City?"
She pursed her lips, managing not to contain her vitriol through sheer will alone. "And two?"
"Why is he getting your job?"
She let out the breath she'd been holding. Damn, but he was good. Bad grades and misbehavior in school notwithstanding, Bruce was an excellent student and he always did his homework.
"All right," she took a minute to collect her thoughts, thinking how best to boil down her tantrum as effectively as he had concentrated his need-to-knows. "One: Harvey Dent isn't necessarily bad for Gotham City."
"Explain."
She bristled at this commanding tone, trying to pass off the shudder along her spine as indignant rather than chilled; his voice had dropped a register, become a growl--Bruce Wayne's environment only partially contained the Batman.
"Mayor Hill wants someone tough on crime who's also not in anybody's pocket for the trial coming up. Dent's his man. He's got a flawless record against the mafia, and he's an effective attorney."
"But," Bruce started for her, waving to indicate that she should finish.
"No buts about it, really." She shrugged. "When it comes to the law, Harvey Dent is unassailable. He gets tough sentences from judges more inclined towards leniency than the crooked ones. Hill wants a tough attorney because the terrorists' trial will get national coverage. And he definitely wants a winner. Harvey Dent is a winner, Bruce."
He remained undeterred, his expression sharpening. "You said 'when it comes to the law.'" He didn't need to ask; his tone suggested well enough on its own that her political theorizing had not distracted him.
"Yes. Harvey's got a way with the law. It's people he's not so good with."
"Define 'not so good with people.'"
"Oh," she chuckled, once, "right." Look who you're talking to. She coughed graciously once. "An old classmate of mine works as a public defender in Gotham County. He filled me in on some of Harvey's trouble spots."
"Trouble spots," Bruce repeated, dryly, tapping his index finger alongside his temple.
"Two years ago, Harvey Dent slugged an opposing attorney in a bar."
"Were there extenuating circumstances?" Bruce frowned at the file still balanced on his knee. "I didn't hear about this."
"It got lost in the election hoopla. His opponent was unpopular, and when he tried to make something of the incident, people thought it was mudslinging."
"And, I'm guessing, they were inclined to agree with punching out lawyers." His smirk irritated her, and she knew she ought not to let him bait her, but she couldn't let it slide.
"Bruce, Harvey put him in the hospital with a broken nose and bruised ribs." She watched this sink in, fascinated and desperate to ask a hundred questions he would never answer when he unconsciously touched his side. She could take for granted that he had a rough idea of what that felt like.
"That's excessive," he said, generously. "Unless the man threatened him first in some way?" He was probing, not antagonistic.
"My friend says no. Harvey flipped out because one of the public defenders got some DNA evidence thrown out on a case. If Dent'd tried to do that to a private attorney, he'd have been sued into poverty."
"Instead, the district hushed it up," Bruce finished for her, nodding with some finality. Matter number one: resolved. She avoided eye contact as the wheels and cogs of conversation moved to the heart of the matter, the reason for this evening's decadence.
She was saved by Alfred.
"Here we are, sir," Alfred called cheerily from the front as he stepped out to open Bruce's door. She stayed rooted to her seat, blinking stupidly at the restaurant's rich cerulean awning with expansive gold lettering that spelled out a word that she could read but not process. Bruce came around to open her door, and by then she'd recovered enough to scowl mightily at him.
"Dorsia? You got reservations here?" She felt like stamping her feet and throwing a righteous fit when he grinned. Smug bastard. She smoothed her skirt a few times then gave up; a leggy model strode by them with a fuck-me walk that left all the valets salivating, Bruce not-onerously pretending to join them until she swatted him. "I told you moderately expensive."
"This is moderate," he protested, exaggerated pout trembling as he smothered laughter.
"Moderate for the filthy rich."
"Yeah, I can see your point. They might not like my kind in there," he trumped her cheerfully, public and plastic smile firmly in place as he extended his arm to her. After a beat, she took it, unsure of how close to stand next to him, gratified to see he kept his distance; such awkward moments of aborted intimacy were probably part and parcel of why he'd avoided her of late. It was empowering, knowing that he routinely beat up armed criminals and yet looked nervous as hell offering her his arm.
Beaming at him, she hissed through her teeth, "I hate you."
"How could you? I'm Bruce Wayne. Everybody loves me."
"Commissioner Loeb might disagree." She giggled at his feigned expression of exaggerated shock, denying him a chance to take revenge. "Nope, we're not doing that tonight."
"That's right. Tonight's about you."
She cursed herself, then cast him a pitiful glance. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did." He looked past her for a second, focusing on someone behind her, then finding her eyes in a hurry. "Do you know that girl from channel twelve?"
"Summer Glllohhhh fuck," she muttered, turning to find the redheaded reporter strolling up to them with an affected hip swagger. Bruce's inane grin was in place already as she struggled to appear pleased to see Gleason.
"Why hello, D.A. Dawes!" The full wattage of Summer Gleason's personality bore down on her for a mercifully short instant before the intrepid journalist recognized the man standing with her. "And Bruce Wayne!" Gleason stuck out her hand, pumping the timidly proffered one Bruce held out. "It's so nice to meet you in person! I'm Summer Gleason!"
Rachel understood, with a pang of regret, why Kyle Finch had always hated reporters. They had a way of making every sentence sound like a rallying cry for bipolar people stuck on 'manic.' Bruce held his own, smile dimming and anxiety creeping into his wary posture.
"I recognize you from television. I like your hair."
Which Gleason then proceeded to toss about for his benefit; Rachel almost put her heel through Bruce's toe.
"Are you out for an evening, Mr. Wayne?" Her eyes flicked to Rachel and went right back to Bruce. "Getting awfully cozy with the politicos so soon after your return from abroad, I see."
"Rachel's an-an old friend," Bruce stuttered--stuttered! She wanted to die of shock or burst into hysterical giggles. She settled for gritting her teeth.
"You know," Gleason took a step towards him, invading his personal space. "You really ought to sit down and do an interview with me some time. All of Gotham would love to hear about what you got up to across the pond for seven years."
The. Woman. Was. Batting. Her. Eyelashes.
"I'll have to talk to my secretary and my lawyer about that," Bruce returned, timidity gone as he fell back on arrogance. He took a step back, withdrawing his hand with a fatuous, self-important sneer. "I'm a busy man, Miss Gleason."
"So's your friend," Gleason said, and Bruce's interrogation was over; hers was only beginning. Delicately made up green eyes cleared out the misty, girly-girl frost that had fallen over them, hardening when turned on her. "I hear you're going to be quite busy, Miss Dawes, getting ready for Harvey Dent's takeover."
"It's a partnership, Miss Gleason, not a takeover." Gleason rolled her eyes, but Rachel squashed her flare up of temper. "A man of Mr. Dent's integrity is sorely needed in Gotham City. I look forward to working with him." She'd have to remember that sound bite for future interviews.
"But not for long," Gleason shot back.
"I'm sorry?" Rachel could feel Bruce scrutinizing her even as he kept up a confused expression for Gleason's benefit.
"My sources tell me you're bucking for a transfer to the public defender's office."
"No comment, Miss Gleason." Bruce was boring holes through her head with his stare and yawning at the same time.
"Does this change reflect a shift of the D.A.'s office policy regarding the Batman?" Gleason's use of the reporterly plural tipped her off: this, not Rachel's impending career move, was what the reporter had been after from the outset.
"Our office isn't making a statement about the Batman at this time, Miss Gleason." And she certainly wasn't going to do so in front of Bruce, even if she had figured out her personal position.
"That's all right," Gleason waved her off, "I have an appointment with Harvey Dent tomorrow. I'm sure he'll want to go on the record regarding the Batman. He might need to have a statement handy for the future," Gleason said, coyly.
"Mr. Dent is in town to prosecute terrorists suspected of being involved in the destruction of the Narrows a month ago. I think he'll be focusing his energies there."
"And then returning to the suburbs?"
"No comment."
"Rrrright," Gleason rolled the 'r' and her eyes. A business card snapped up between her fingers, but she offered it to Bruce. "Call my office if you change your mind about that interview, Mr. Wayne."
"I'm sure I will," Bruce said shortly, tucking Gleason's card deep into his suit jacket.
"You better hurry, Mr. Wayne. There are two men I'm looking to pin down for interviews. Batman might just take your spot. Miss Dawes, always a pleasure." Gleason extracted herself with a slight bow of her head to both of them and strode off triumphant.
Bruce's forearm tightened under her hand, shaking her free of the whirlwind of confusion Summer Gleason left in her wake.
"You're leaving the D.A.'s office?" His lips barely moved when he spoke. "You're going to the public defender's office?" She nodded, not meeting his eyes. "Rachel..."
He sounded hurt, even betrayed, and what right did he have to feel that way after what he'd put her through in the past decade? Anger strengthened her, and she glared up at him, defiant and almost equal to his smoldering intensity.
"I know how you feel about it, Bruce," she said, voice low so as not to be overheard by the idle rich strolling past them into the restaurant. "Not everyone who goes to court is guilty. I'm not going to be working against you, I mean that." He said nothing, allowing her to justify herself. He owed her that much.
"Dent's a bad sign for all of us, Bruce. Hill and he will go one-hundred-and-eighty degrees in the opposite direction trying to smother crime in this town. It can't be done that way. It takes time, patience, and compassion, something politicians like Hill and hot-shots like Dent don't understand and can't afford. They'll want results immediately and they'll step all over innocent people to make it look like they're making progress. That's not justice."
His brow smoothed, and his sullen frown lifted. "No," he admitted at last, "it's not."
"Dent's been known to smother opposing attorneys in and out of court. If he gets his hands on Gotham after what's happened? Heaven help us all," Rachel muttered, uncharacteristically despondent. It moved him, the weariness in her voice and he rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, smiling reassuringly at her.
"You won't let it get that far."
"Damn straight," she snapped, one corner of her mouth ticking up as she poked him squarely in the chest. "And don't think I won't count on your help."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Mmm-hmm," she grunted, shaking her head; he was incorrigible.
They entered the restaurant, Bruce nodding to the maitre'd, who leapt at the chance to show them to a table without asking for their reservation. Everyone might not love him, but no one needed to be told who he was. An expensive white zinfandel waited on ice. He pulled out her chair, smirking at the dirty look she threw him at this casual, effete display of chivalry, and seated himself in the chair across from her.
She pursed her lips as their host poured them each a glass of wine and set the bottle back into the ice bucket. Rachel lifted her glass, sniffing it and testing the color introspectively. "I don't want to know how much that bottle costs, do I?"
"It costs a moderate amount of money."
Their waiter rhapsodized about the house specials, and she ordered the duck. Bruce opted for the same, waving the man off when he ventured to describe the various types of salad they were entitled to as a result of their entree.
"Just bring me something green."
"Very good, sir." The man bustled away, rubbing his hands; diffident and difficult customer that Bruce might be, he could afford to tip well.
"I didn't know you liked duck."
"It's all the same," Bruce shrugged. "Meat, vegetables, sauce."
"You used to be such a picky eater." Her mother was best friends with the Waynes' old cook, a bellicose Italian woman who used to cry herself into fits over little Bruce's impossible-to-please palate. When the cook chanced upon them stealing a midnight snack one night, she discovered the one meal he'd eat--peanut butter and celery with sardines on toasted wheat bread--she'd made it for his lunch for a month straight.
"I've been re-educated." He waved off the forecoming tide of inquiry, raising his glass to her. "To Gotham's best public defender."
Rachel smiled weakly, clinking her glass to his. "You're really okay with this?"
He sighed into his glass, the huffing sound making her ache and feel tired all over. "Not quite. Dent's taking your job, and you're giving up the position you've wanted since before I can remember. You're not fighting for it, which I don't understand at all. But it's your life." And you won't let me change your mind, he didn't say aloud.
She stuck out her chin. "I am fighting. Anyone can put away the criminals now that we have Batman's help getting them in the first place. I'm going to fight to make sure that criminals are the only ones who run afoul of the system."
"Checks and balances against corruption," he nudged her.
"Absolutely. Justice without compassion is corruption."
"On that, at least, we can agree."