Chapter 9: Gotham's Guardian Angel

"There's no freedom quite like the freedom of being constantly underestimated." ~ Scott Lynch, The Lies of Locke Lamora

The English language is, perhaps, one of the most complex human languages with one of the most dynamic and richest histories. Old English – such as The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë or A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens – is written so intricately and beautifully with a certain finesse, that very few gifted writers are capable of properly executing it.

Some people communicate in these beautiful, elegant forms of speech as well. Yet, of course, in matters concerning the sophistication and tact of such a skilful way of expression, there will always be at least but one individual that refrains from even attempting such etiquette and delicacy. In the case of Evangeline Mendax Winter, that would, unfortunately and fortunately, be in the form of her closest confidant; Rebecca Daniels.

"Fucking shit balls piss—! Ange! Your face is spread all over these damn papers like jam on toast!"

Well, at least she possesses the decency to throw in a simile.

Eve, still in her cotton pyjamas after enduring the most peaceful and successful night of slumber since arriving in this fixer-upper of a city, runs a sleepy hand through her mop of raven waves, fingers dragging it to the edges of where it ends millimetres below the nape of her neck. Rubbing her lethargic hazel eyes, the North Carolinian momentarily neglects the over-energised blonde with the thick rimmed glassed as she, in a rare moment of inelegance, lumbers into the room, opting for her annual cup of early morning tea instead. "Mm, that's great Bec."

The blonde psychiatrist frowns, black rimmed glasses slipping down her nose in correspondence with her deflation. "You're not listening to me, are you?"

With the water now boiling dutifully, Eve carelessly throws a couple slices of toast into the toaster, absent-mindedly checking the setting isn't too high. "Mm, that's great Bec."

"No, it's not! Now all the Gotham criminals know what your face looks like! You're an official target not only with a name, but a mother fucking face!" Bec attempts to urge the seriousness of the situation upon her drowsy friend, yet doesn't dare to try and stand up to do so. Her legs are too entangled within the sheets of the sofa bed that with any endeavour to untangle herself, it would most likely end up with her landing face first onto the mat and floorboards.

"Mm, that's great Bec."

To hell with face planting, Bec scowls, tossing and tumbling like a gauche fish out of water until the confirming sound and feeling of face meeting floorboard graces the morning air of the Winter household. Maybe I shouldn't have been so hasty.

Springing up like a wack-a-mole, Rebecca Daniels strides over to the kitchen with the crinkled newspaper in hand, slamming it down mercilessly upon the kitchen island counter and abruptly standing in the detective's immediate line of sight to garner her undivided attention. "Riddler, Scarecrow and Two Face won't be the only ones you need to worry about anymore Ange. Don't you get it? I know you were aware of what you were getting yourself into when you started this, but this? You're a dead woman walking."

"Many people have told me I should quit, but I have not yet finished proving them wrong," Eve languidly mumbles, fair arms crossing over one another in front of her loose pyjama top. "I've only just started with this city. Edward thinks he's so smart, thinks he's been playing me since we met – but even he, one person I thought had refrained from underestimating me, is wrong. He thinks that being associated with me now that the criminals in this city are scrambling in chaos from the fall of the Maroni crime family is advantageous to him. And it is, I suppose, in a way. But he thinks that everyone will now have to confer with him if they wish to get to me. He didn't account for two other players on the board."

"Who?"

"Two Face and Batman."

When Bec blinks unfathomably in perplexity at her friend's answers, Eve patiently sighs and leisurely pours her cup of tea. "All of this Bec? I've planned it from the start. I knew Jim's inclinations to consult with the Dark Knight Detective would lead him to keep an eye on me. I knew that because of their friendship, I would also find an ally in the Caped Crusader. It's not manipulation, not exactly, because I do wish to find a future ally and possible friend in Batman, but I needed to catch his attention to do so."

"What about Janus?"

Eve snorts, sparing Bec an amused glance. "Janus?"

"Roman God that has two faces, I thought it'd be fitting," the blonde shrugs, rummaging gracelessly through the cupboards and pinching the Lucky Charms box out from one.

With her entertainment still apparent over her glazed eyes, Eve continues "Anyway, Two Face was formerly a wild card up my sleeve. Due to his instability and the chance that I may not be greeted with the appropriate Face upon the time of our meeting, I wasn't sure if I wanted to go any further with him. I knew that if I poked around his café and set up cameras around his business establishments that I would be notorious enough to grab his attention at one stage or another. The fact that Edward discovered one of said cameras and began his association with me probably saved my behind more than I realise, but either way, Dent would've approached me nonetheless. I knew if I could calm him down and talk enough reason into him that he'd let me do my work, and holding the blessing of the only notorious crime lord that is favourable to the rogues and the crime families should've and did allow me to do my work without any further disturbances. For three days, I was figuratively invulnerable to take down Salvatore Maroni. And now? Now he will either hold a grudging respect for me and try to arrange a deal where I don't pursue him and his men in exchange for leaving me alone or – by some miracle – even protection or a favour, or he'll try to have me killed. Having read so much about Harvey Dent however, the likelihood he'll talk his more erratic half into leaving me be is rather high."

"So you're telling me that you played Batman, Riddler, Two Face and the Commissioner to get you invulnerability and the help of not only those on the side of the law, but those opposing it as well?" Bec gapes, and Eve is rather thankful that there isn't any half eaten Lucky Charms currently in her mouth. "You played some of the biggest players in this city, and they – in turn without even realising it – played the rest of the big players all in your favour?"

"Well, that's a rather simplified version of it, but yes, yes I did," Eve confirms, blowing on her steaming cup of tea softly like it'd break under too much pressure.

For quite a few moments, Bec has to wrap her head around how much of a genius her best friend actually is. She wears the innocence and beauty of an angel, but twists and pulls at the strings of others like a marionette without the cause of having get her hands dirty once. Exiting the comfort of her own home to arrest Maroni herself was a courtesy – a tip of the hat to the other major player who deserved the respect between them. Yet even then she herself didn't pull the trigger, she had set it up prior to their encounter knowing he would return the scene of the crime; the one place where they are both familiar with, and where it all started.

She had visited Alberto Falcone in his cell last night as well; congratulating him on how he outsmarted the rest of the crime families and even his own father. Bec frowned when the investigator told her that, thinking that perhaps that wasn't quite appropriate, but Eve has always been sort of odd in that respect. Everyone is on an equal playing field to the private detective, and when individuals start to rise to prove otherwise, Eve ever so innocently knocks them back down to everyone else's level and applauds them for their level of intelligence to get that far. Sometimes it astounds the other North Carolinian how nice yet sharp her best friend can be, only reminding her to never get on her bad side (though, she's never scary in the sense of being angry – she couldn't appear scary by being angry even if she was converted into some kind of She-Hulk).

Their morning reverie is interrupted by a light ping from Eve's phone, alerting her of an incoming text. Evangeline notes it's from Jim, requesting her to come down to the precinct to talk about the predicament involving her face planted over every paper in Gotham.

Sighing, the private investigator is quick to finish her hasty breakfast and tea, merely throwing on a singlet, a crimson sweater, some jeans and her white coat before uttering a farewell to the psychiatrist as she slips out the door.

Upon arriving at the GCPD, she receives another incoming text, this time from the Prince of Puzzles himself.

I must say, I didn't think I'd see the day where the Maroni family would fall from an everyday peon of society such as yourself. I don't compliment people often, so consider this my congratulations. Someone has finally met my expectations. – E. Nygma

Her thumbs are quick to reply, skilled in practice as they slide and tap over the screen.

Then consider me flattered Edward. However, I do have one last request from you should you feel generous enough to tell me. Where does Two Face spend most of his time? I wish to share a few choice words with the man. – E. Winter

Edward appears to be an even more adept texter than herself.

It is unwise to pursue trouble and misfortune in such delicate times like these. – E. Nygma

I like trouble. – E. Winter

Very well, your funeral. Hell's Gate Legal and Waste Disposal Services would be your best bet. However, due to the current circumstances and uproar in the criminal underground you have created, I highly doubt you will need to search for them very far. – E. Nygma

Eve pauses, wavering worriedly. Them. He said them. Not him. Is he suggesting that the other crime families or rogues will seek me out as well? The thought unsettles Eve to no ends, greying her hairs in dread and restlessness.

How long will it take? – E. Winter

She knows she not need ask more than that, entirely aware that Edward is astute enough to understand her vague inquiry.

At the rate they're panicking, within 48 hours. – E. Nygma

"In the latest news, Private Investigator, Evangeline Winter, has taken Gotham by storm. Many are calling her this city's 'Guardian Angel' for being the first person to organise and execute a successful operation that was capable of dissembling and taking down an entire crime family inside the jurisdiction of the law. Being the brains behind the entire affair, Miss Winter –"

"I don't think I've seen the city this restless since you started your own crusade, Mr Wayne," Lucius Fox impartially states – with a pinch of amusement – as he approaches the billionaire pensively overlooking the city like a guardian through his wall of windows, an expression on his face that is seemingly unreadable, until you take a peek at the turmoil in his eyes.

The TV now plays unheard near them, background noise to their conversation. "I don't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"Can't it be a bit of both?" Fox offers, ambling to a stop right beside the vigilante. "The way I see it, all of this is simply an announcement, her announcement. She's making herself known to the other players on the board."

"This isn't a game."

"Never said it was Mr Wayne, but to characters like the Joker, it is. And she just crashed the party without an invitation. There won't be many who take kindly to that."

"I know. I've got it handled, I've got her handled," Bruce Wayne stoically assures, fruitlessly adjusting his already immaculate suit and dusting the non-existent dust and grime from its blazer.

That all-knowing smile briefly graces the elder man's lips. "I have no doubts. She'll need it, after all. Whether she realises it or not. A good way to keep an eye on her would be to actually attend the annual Winter Gala held by the mayor this year, tomorrow night."

The billionaire's dark eyebrow arches. "She's going?"

"The woman just stopped one of the worst mob wars this city has seen; you tell me."

"Better find a new suit then," Bruce mentally adds onto his checklist, eyes still enraptured by the world below he so faithfully defends and loves as the Bruce Wayne mask slips back on. The life of Bruce Wayne is nothing but a mask for the one, true life he lives when the night wraps around the city like a blanket. Bruce Wayne, however, is quite the favoured mask if he must adopt one. His position furthers his life as the Caped Crusader in a way that could never be accomplished should he have been born the average Gothamite.

Pondering over the night before, Wayne's lips thin. "The car was a bit slow last night Lucius. The tyres are losing traction as well."

"I'll look into it Mr Wayne," the CEO of Wayne Enterprises automatically guarantees, otherwise wordlessly conveying his farewell for now before pausing soundlessly in the doorway with a recollection of his former intentions. "Oh, and I took the liberty of looking at the company's funds this morning. It seems the Wayne Enterprises and the Wayne Foundation has a generous admirer out there; eight hundred thousand dollars from an anonymous bank account was transferred to each yesterday evening. A couple hours prior to Mr Maroni's arrest."

This piques Bruce's interest, for the first time drawing his cerulean eyes from the bustling life of the empire outside. "Anonymous?"

Fox's lips momentarily quirk, knowingly. "Anonymous. Seems like a guardian angel is watching over your business Mr Wayne."

"– has inspired many citizens around Gotham to do better against the incorrigible crime that ravages this city. Yet, many also fear that this feat will not have gone unnoticed by the other more colourful characters, notably the Gotham's Rogue's Gallery or more likely, the other crime families. How do the other criminals of this city feel about this? How do they feel about the balance that was once thought to be set in stone amongst their numbers? More on Evangeline Winter and Salvatore Maroni later. In other news, the Mayor's Winter Gala will reach new heights tomorrow night…"

To speak of the atmosphere spread amongst the few patrons within the aristocratic restaurant, one would instantly discern it as invariably strained and capriciously unsettled. Five men encompass a single table, the establishment all but scarce besides them and a handful of their men scattered here and there – none within a ten metre radius of the table of five.

Five. Five reasons why Evangeline Winter should fear for far more than her own life.

These five men know of her whereabouts at that very moment, at the very hour of midday; at the GCPD precinct with the dear Commissioner Gordon, labouring over the last of the paper work and arrangements for Salvatore Maroni and all his men's court hearings. These five men, these five reasons why Eve shall never quite experience normality again, know where she is down to the very room she is in, yet here they sit, each as highly precarious as the next.

"She's a problem. This shouldn't be up for debate – we deal with her just as we deal with any other problem."

Reason number one; Roman "Black Mask" Sionis.

Sionis is worn and haggard under his iconic, wicked mask; bottomless brown eyes unsettlingly unblinking underneath it, the only part of his face exposed for the world to see. Calloused, course fingers drum impatiently on the shared table, lunch untouched. White pinstriped suit is as immaculate and flawless as each suit on the man next to him and as each man after that. Black Mask is as easy a man to read as any, despite a mask conveniently concealing all expressions that may be conveyed. So each of the remaining four men at the table can tell when he has reached a volatile, temperamental mood – another reason why they often don't include him in their discussions, this proving to be an exception.

"But she's not like 'just any other problem', is she? As of yesterday, the Maroni empire is in complete shambles; an empire that has been around since the very beginning of this city. Is it wrong of me to find that impressive?"

Reason number two; Colin "Pretty Boy" O'Reilly.

O'Reilly wears milky, fair skin rough with stress despite not being that old, a slightly warmer hue from the remnants of the summer and autumn sun. Obsidian coloured stubble offers a 5 o'clock shadow as sharp as his tongue when he wills it, with dangerously reassuring azure eyes that tempt your trust and comfort like the sweet allure of a Venus fly trap to the common fly. In spite of being the friendliest of the five, to underestimate Colin O'Reilly would be, perhaps, the gravest and last mistake you could make. With a number of connections that would even make Carmine Falcone's head spin; there is nothing in this city that happens or will happen without either his say so or his awareness of it. Needless to say, he was the first man Two Face made an ally and possible friend out of the moment his life of crime commenced.

"It was… kind of her to clean up Falcone's son's mess, but that is as far as we can go with gratitude. I am not touching her with ten foot pole, but feel free to do so yourselves."

Reason number three; Dmitri "Mad Dog" Markovic.

With a temper as volatile as Sionis' that consequently results in many outrageous, unorthodox acts on his behalf, it is no wonder many merely refer to the Russian as 'Mad Dog'. Despite being raised in America, the semi-thick Russian accent that lathers the voices of his family members has still notably rubbed off on him. He adorns a sharp, short, dark haircut to match the severity of his tone and jawline, the common grey-blue hue of his irises just as uncompromising. The Markovics have never been ones to wield a crime family dependant on numbers. In fact, their numbers are the smallest of the now five crime families – still larger than any other gang or syndicate in the city bar the major rogues, but not nearly as vast as O'Reilly's. What men and immoral criminals that do form the crime syndicate however, are loyal and horrifyingly resolute to a fault, and are the most renowned and obstinate enforcers in the city. This, perhaps, is why Two Face made it his personal goal to also ally with Markovic the moment his career path turned over into a new leaf.

"You all rush to make decisions based on the momentary fear and instability roused by Sal's premature demise. The criminal underworld is still feeling the ripple effects of it. To act now would be hasty and unwise... Harvey, you have been uncharacteristically reticent. There would be much appreciation for some shared thoughts."

Reason number four; Carmine "The Roman" Falcone.

In Carmine Falcone, can Evangeline Winter find her strongest hope and most rebarbative concern. Don Falcone is not a young man at the staggering age of sixty nine – an age most in his line of work do not even have the fortuity to come near to – yet the accumulated experience and perception of the wise Italian makes him Eve's most troublesome adversary, or probable associate. With dark trademark Italian hair slicked back perfectly and peppered with the signs of mature age, a suit more expensive than the other four's put together, and the commonplace brown eyes that shift from that of a loving father to an unwavering business man and then a hardened, all-powerful criminal, Carmine Falcone adorns all the manifestations of his losses, wins, hardships and every unlawful experience in between like the most powerful mob man in the city should. Each gang and mafia syndicate – even the other big four – understand his place, a deep respect for him and his empire found within every single one of them – even Sionis. This is the man that could either make or break Evangeline Winter, or the city for that matter.

As is his habitual way, the half-mobster half-rogue twirls his chilling, iconic sign of certain death or life, the decisive coin, in between the callous fingers of his scarred hand. "I've been monitoring her for a little while now. She started poking around a few of my establishments, so I had a guy put on her. I had the pleasure of meeting her myself in the Iceberg Lounge three days ago." He pauses thoughtfully, the coin hovering between the middle and ring finger before decisively continuing to twirl between them again once his speech picks up. "She's smart. Too smart. She gave Nygma a run for his money. She always looks like she knows something you don't, yet it's not egotistically. She's too... nice."

And, of course, reason number five: Harvey "Two Face" Dent.

As is expected, Black Mask is the first to start an uproar at anything that happens to leave the other crime lord's mouth. "And you only thought to mention this now?" Sionis spits, a venom and ire he preserves for Two Face and Two Face alone lathering his tone.

Harvey's prudent gaze snaps into Harv's blood curdling glower within a matter of milliseconds. "We were in the middle of a fucking mob war Sionis. I'm sorry; did you want me to swing on fucking by with a basket of cookies to tell you of some broad who seemed unimportant at the time whilst you blew up another one of my fucking docks?"

"Now, gentlemen, let's keep a level head about us. Order amongst us is the only thing we have amidst times of chaos," Carmine Falcone – ever the mediator – calms the two roguish crime lords in a tone that never rises above room level, a certain eerie yet smooth softness about the ageing man.

As always, out of the appropriately earned respect the older mafia Don has accumulated in his lifetime, the others begrudgingly back off from one another, expanding the distance between them until neither are close enough to each other to rip the other's throat out like a savage dog. O'Reilly nearly childishly pouts at the Italian's request as the heat between Sionis and Dent dwindles into warm coals, habitually rubbing the stubble on his jaw in disappointment. "Was just getting interesting."

The brief sound of Dmitri Markovic smoothly cracking his neck resonates in the five men's ears. "Regardless of when Harv planned on mentioning small woman or not, we have come here to make conclusion of what to do with her, yes?"

"Put a hit on her now and the media will start an uproar. Gotham city is enamoured with her at the moment. Killing her right now could just make things worse," Colin O'Reilly solemnly sobers himself from his playful inebriation, mindlessly toying with the gleaming gold chain clinging to his neck, deep emerald dress shirt unbuttoned partway down his chest in a flashy display of his Simon Cowell worthy chest hair.

"You've met this woman before Harvey," Falcone addresses the aforementioned man, a practiced slickness weaving into his natural movements. "What would your recommendation be?"

Give her a fucking medal for disposing of that punk Salvatore Maroni and pay her to off Sionis next, Harvey hears his cruder half instantaneously grumble in his head, not an ounce of hesitation evident within the execution of his suggestion.

One, I highly suggest against voicing that strong proposition aloud, especially with said man at the table. And two, for someone who wanted her body in a body bag at the bottom of Gotham River three days ago, you're in oddly high spirits about her.

This is Gotham fucking City Harvey. Everyone here can talk shit as good as the next guy, but few can live up to their promises. She took down an entire fucking crime family in the three days we gave her. Tell me of anyone in this city that can pull something like that off.

Sounds like you're ready to build a shrine for her.

Bite me Harvey.

Don't feel like receiving any diseases today Harv.

"Like I said, she's nice. I can get to her through Nygma; he seems to have formed some kind of attachment with her. I think, if we approach this the right way, we can appeal to that niceness that seems to be imbedded inside of her and come to some sort of arrangement where she doesn't disturb our businesses without having to kill or threaten her in the process. With a woman like this, it's best to keep things clean."

A wry, sophic smile tilts the corners of Don Falcone's old lips up. As an old-fashioned mobster who prefers the approach of a business man before hoodlum, he has always respected Harvey Dent's manner of rationalising over Harv, even in his previous life as a DA. It's why he voted for him.

It takes little time after that for the five iconic crime syndicate heads to come to an agreeable conclusion they all feel, in the very least, content on. All find reason in Harvey's thoughtful proposal, raising questions of probable faults in the plan, contingencies and the destination this should be held at. All find reason, bar Roman Sionis.

Sionis broods and scowls and gripes where he can, the very idea of acquiescing with a scheme devised by Harvey Dent rousing a repulsive taste to sit unwelcomingly in his mouth. Majority rules leaves him defeated, but only here and now at this very table.

If Markovic, Falcone, O'Reilly and Dent think that Black Mask is merely going to wait idly by and let this woman take over the city one crime syndicate at a time, then they are very very wrong.

"Alberto Falcone, murdered. Quite a predictable move on Don Falcone's behalf, but disheartening nonetheless. That man has seen all the wars that tore this city apart throughout the age of the Gotham Rogues, having started his reign well before the Joker's arrival. I suppose the experience has hardened him into the kind of man the Falcone crime family needs, but to murder your own son..." Evangeline Winter's mindless mumbling breathes past her rosy lips as she slips her gold hoop earrings smoothly into place, staring aimlessly at herself in the mirror as her mind meanders completely on its own accord.

Eve enjoys dressing herself up as the next girl, but tonight isn't a night of pleasantries and revelling in the company of true friends. Tonight will be a night of planned pleasantries, of cleverly thought answers and practiced phrases, and of conscientious treading amongst the various eggshells of politics and the media.

Tonight, is the Mayor's Winter Gala.

A short notice for her – two days, to be exact – but after her triumph over one of the oldest and strongest crime families in Gotham two days ago, Mayor Marion Grange couldn't pass the opportunity to invite the media's new favourite subject to her annual gala. Eve has heard much about the woman; one of the better mayors of Gotham City, apparently. Not only did she appoint Jim the new police Commissioner the moment she became mayor, but during her campaign, she had Batman's endorsement himself.

Must be a promising lady.

The private investigator's plus one is evidently Rebecca Daniels, despite Edward zealously endeavouring to talk Eve into taking him instead – needless to say, the conversation didn't last long. Yet as the North Carolinian stands there, unblinkingly staring herself down in the mirror, an ominous, foreboding feeling of discomfort churns inside her like an undigested meal. The crime families were quick to amend their associations with one another. No more shootings run the streets red with blood – not more than the average amount of shootings Gotham experiences anyway. Maroni is to undergo his trial in a week's time with no hope of prevailing. Two Face has otherwise left me alone. All is well yet... To Eve, something is not right. It's too quiet.

With her blinding white, sleeveless formal gown that has it's slit up the side of her left leg and lace above her chest until the halter neck, as well as her assortment of gold jewellery and heels she wore to the Iceberg Lounge, Eve pauses in her preparations to deliberate how long is socially acceptable to stay at gala before she can leave. Never one for large social gatherings, the detective scrutinises her natural styled make up as she ponders over whether she would prefer to face down Salvatore Maroni again instead.

Rebecca strolls in after not too long, skin tight, obsidian coloured formal maxi dress showing the same amount of skin through the leg slit as Eve's does. With the aid of her one true confidant and friend, does Eve scurry to a ready and the two timely depart to the night ahead of them.

Arriving is rather like a red carpet ordeal – not that Bec or Eve would know how that feels – and the two North Carolinians are almost blinded by the numerous flashes of the cameras that attack their eyes like gunfire without the gun. Eve disregards the paparazzo's hunger for 'truth', dodging questions, accusations and praises as efficiently as Batman doges bullets. Arm linked tightly with Bec's as if it's a lifeline, the two women finally reach the entrance and allow the bustling staff to relinquish them of their coats and bags to be deposited in the cloak room before they eventually enter the overarching main room of the impossibly extravagant venue. The masses of the elite hauntingly remind Eve of the deplorable depths of the Iceberg Lounge, but, at least, at the Iceberg Lounge, the people wore their true intentions and faces unashamedly.

Here people adorn more masks than the Rogues Gallery. They wear tightly put on smiles and unpleasant pleasantries like a fit glove, their words speaking of one thing whilst their eyes another. For a tiring forty minutes after their arrival, Rebecca and Evangeline are almost repeating rehearsed lines and answers from the last introduction and conversation as rich family member after rich businessman after rich politician meet and greet the two, the Mayor being a momentary saving grace as she spoke of how she dreads events like this before being whisked off for her own greeting spree.

Checking her Michael Kors watch, Eve notes it has only just reached the one hour mark and is tempted to relinquish a sigh of contempt before reminding herself to be polite. Be polite. Be kind. Be courteous. Be careful.

Having lost Rebecca to the masses (and wine) ten minutes ago, Eve elegantly relieves a passing waiter of a champagne flute before taking a tentative sip instead of downing the entire drink like she initially intended. I could feign sickness. It's not too unbelievable; accumulated stress and exhaustion from a trying task such as taking down the second largest crime family in Gotham is a good enough reason than any to result in an upcoming sickness.

"Miss Winter."

Here we go again. Smiles Eve.

With a patience that could rival an actual angel itself, Eve amiably turns to the source of the deep, baritone greeting to find the familiar yet not personally so face of Gotham's favourite bachelor and billionaire. For the first time that night, an authentic smile graces the lips of Evangeline Winter. "Mr Wayne."

A charming, Bruce Wayne grin that glistens brighter than Eve's dress widens across his cheeks; a grin that would knock most women off their designer-heeled feet as he offers a hand to shake. "Bruce, please."

Eve cordially shakes his hand in return, his skin slightly rougher than expected for a billionaire who spends a lot of time at home. "Only if you call me Eve. Miss Winter makes me feel old."

Startlingly blue eyes make her feel immovable. "I wouldn't worry much Eve; you don't look a day over 20."

A brief break in elegance arises when a graceless snort of amusement passes through her nose, the line cracking her smile wider. "How often does that line work Bruce?"

"More often than you would think. Most women don't call me out on it."

An energetic, wildly grinning head pops up around Bruce's shoulder; the body attached stepping out from behind him not too long after as the two of them take their respective hands back. Shortly cropped yet still somehow untamed despite the minimal gel dark hair compliments the goofy grin of the young man, eyes equally as blue as his adoptive father yet filled with more life. "I was hoping you'd call him out on it, I've been trying to get him to stop using old, corny lines like that for years."

"Shouldn't take too much longer to grow out of it then," Eve playfully consoles, outstretching her hand to the boy who couldn't possibly be over twenty two. "Eve, lovely to meet you. Timothy Drake I presume?"

"The one and only," Tim elatedly confirms, accepting her hand but, much to Eve's surprise, bringing it to his lips and gracing it with a brief kiss. "Big fan of your work." The private investigator doesn't miss the warning look out of the corner of her eye that billionaire gives his adoptive son; she is a detective after all.

"Never had fans before two days ago," Eve admits the peculiarity and uncertainty she feels from the number of admirers she has evidently met tonight, bashfully smiling as she receives her hand once more from Mr Drake. "I'm usually more discreet in my work."

"For good reason I imagine," Bruce assuages. "Gotham is a dangerous place to be well-known in."

"I think what you did was brave. Not many people in this city are actually willing to stand up and protect others anymore these days. The criminals scare them too much," Tim chimes in, his input momentarily turning more serious.

An unidentifiable glint glazes over the North Carolinian's hazel orbs. "I don't know; I think the Bat family is braver than I. After all, it's Batman and Robin who brave the cold, harsh streets each night through rain, hail or snow fighting these criminals whilst I meander around my modest little abode."

A slight bristle of pride, near undetectable to the human eye, puffs Tim's chest out in slightest way possible, and Eve has to repress the smile threatening to break out again. Got you.

"Courage doesn't necessarily mean the job gets done," Bruce comments evenly before Tim is bestowed the chance to utter a comment of his own, Wayne's sculpted, broad shoulder, arm and chest muscles stretching his suit slightly when his shoulders ease back into a straight posture. "You accomplished something that neither Batman nor any of his allies could accomplish in the many years of their time here in a matter of twenty one days. Allow yourself, in the very least, a moment to be proud. You deserve it."

He has very nice eyes. Eve can't help but feel astounded at how blue they are, and how every man with blue eyes she's come into contact with so far has bore the same eye colour, yet they couldn't be more different. It's a shame that they're so guarded.

A small nod of the head and thankful beam from the private detective is exchanged with a brief crack of a real smile from a man with more secrecy surrounding him than the Batman – or, perhaps, the same amount of secrecy. "Thank you, both of you. Tell me though, do you—"

BANG.

The roar of fire and debris cracks through the air like a thunderstorm is in the actual room, ripping apart the far right wall as waves of masked thugs pool in with enough firearms to supply a small company of soldiers. As if by instinct, Bruce Wayne's hands gently yet firmly grip Eve and tug her into his chest as he spins to shield her and partially Tim from the rain of debris, but luckily for them, they're fairly far into the room, resulting in mainly pebbles and disturbed dust sweeping over his suit.

Before the dust has even settled to a tolerable amount, does the easily identifiable, bone-chilling cackle of Gotham's Clown Prince of Crime hauntingly echo in the ears of every person in the room. "Sorry I'm late ladies and gents, I seemed to have lost my invitation in the mail! Not to mention Gotham traffic at this time of night is simply murderous. Mary, baby! What a party! Can't officially kick it off without a bang though, can't we?"

A/N: So sorry it took so long to update; being the last year of school it's absolutely mayhem with assessments and school work. In fact, I'm in the middle of a double exams week right now so updating this is probably the last thing I should be doing, but eh, procrastination of studying at it's finest people.

Hope you liked the chapter, took forever to write. Didn't like it at so many points so I kept going back and re-writing it. Let me know if it feels right or not ;)

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~T.L