A/N: A few familiar characters popping here and there, plus another one, pay attention to Mr. Geffy... Enjoy and have a great weekend!
Winnifred was too tired to slap her portfolio with full force on the table, so instead she just quietly lowered it down. Reese wiped her hot-blonde hair to her colleague.
"Hey, did you hear the news?" She asked, eyes wide in burning desire to talk. Winnifred sarcastically raised her eyebrows.
"What, Judge Faden's clerk was bribed?"
"No, dummy," Reese snapped in exasperation. "Young Wayne's back! He took back the company!"
Winnifred processed the information for a second with slightly pursed lips, then shrugged and calmly sat down.
"Cool."
"My Lord, Winnifred, don't you understand the significance of this?" Reese moaned in irritation. Winnifred smirked, flipping her papers.
"As long as it doesn't concern me, it doesn't have any significance," she hid her smile while punching in numbers in her calculator.
"Think about it! We're being transferred from an old, boring fifty-year old to a hot, eccentric twenty-nine year old!"
"Oh god, that's how companies fall apart," Winnifred sadly exhaled. "I'll have to start posting advertisements in the papers."
"This is not a joke," Reese growled, noticing Winnifred's cheery face.
"Of course it's not," Winnifred easily agreed, covering her face with her papers to hide the grin. Luckily, her phone rang at that moment. Winnifred shot Reese one last joking glance before picking it up.
"Yes...the documentations about the companies financial status for the past two...of course. Alright. I'll be here right over."
"Who is it?" Reese asked as soon as Winnifred lowered the receiver.
"The head honcho," Winnifred sighed, gathering up some documents from her drawer.
"Damn, why is it always me who has the documents?"
"Maybe you're lucky," Reese shrugged, turning back to her computer and curling her hair over her finger. Winnifred gave her a strange look and walked by.
Jack's bank and Gotham Outskirts Financial Unit was nothing compared to this massive giant of glass and style. Thousands of hallways, lavish elevators, lobbies and cabinets with wall-long windows. Winnifred always felt uncomfortable as she walked in this building. It made her feel small and insignificant. And despite the understanding that the humanity is itself insignificant to the galaxy, Winnifred still didn't like to feel like a petty, little, useless fly.
The elevator swiftly stopped in front of her. The door opened with a light swoosh. The elevator was cramped with people. Winnifred pressed down a sigh and wordlessly walked in. Old janitor Mister Rodriguez glanced at her.
"Which number?" He gruffly said in his thick Mexican accent. Winnifred desperately tried to keep her body from the doors' sliding pathway.
"Fifty five, please," she shot, heels balancing on the edge. The doors shut behind her. Winnifred pressed her folder to her skirt, trying not to look at the person she was pressuring from the front. The elevator wordlessly shook. Rodriguez's cart uncomfortably poked Winnifred into the side. Winnifred tried not to breathe so loudly, eyes glued to the side on someone's shoes.
"Thirty-five," the woman's voice dictated. Winnifred pressed her lips. The doors opened, and she walked out, allowing the janitor cart, Rodriguez, and two more people to roll out. Winnifred then instantly took the open place near the left wall next to a young man. Five more people entered. The elevator doors closed once more. Winnifred felt her folder getting wet from her sweat and quietly cursed inside her head. Something has to go wrong one way or another. Winnifred impatiently shifted from one foot to another.
By the fiftieth floor, there were just a couple of people left. Sighing, Winnifred allowed herself to tilt her head back at the wall. From half-open lids, she glanced at the man next to her. Strange, he seemed new, even for Winnifred's poor ability to memorize faces. Winnifred smirked, closing her eyes. Maybe he's Bruce Wayne, the billionaire who has been dead for seven years. Oh well. He's not as hot as her guys at the Outskirts.
"Fifty-five."
Winnifred pushed off and walked out, well aware that the young man followed her. More so, he followed her even as she turned the corner. Damn, the probability that he is the billionaire Bruce Wayne was getting more and more realistic. Despite her sweaty hands and fading courage, Winnifred smirked. Heath's voice echoed in her head; try to think of more creative options. Then you won't feel nervous because the person's real identity is way off your monstrous creativity.
"Good morning, Muriel," Winnifred greeted the secretary at the door. Muriel tiredly looked up.
"Hey there. Boss's having a meeting."
"Well, Boss asked me to come with this," Winnifred lifted up her folder,"so screw the meeting." The young man quietly smirked behind her. Muriel glanced over Winnifred's shoulder.
"And the lad?"
"The lad..." Winnifred turned around, trying to find the words.
"Boss asked me to come too," The Lad hastily helped her out.
"Yeah," Winnifred quickly concluded, turning back to Muriel.
"Well, Muriel?"
Muriel shrugged.
"Go ahead."
The young man was already at the door, holding it open for Winnifred. She shortly smiled and entered. The room was quiet when she walked it, so Winnifred assumed she fittingly entered at a pause. Her eyes quickly found CEO William Earle standing next to one of the chair.
"Sir, I fetched you the documents you asked for," Winnifred quietly walked over, handing over the folder.
"Thanks, Lewly," Earle curtly thanked her, eying the young man behind her.
"Can you also grab the documents from the records institution?"
Winnifred lifted her brows. That was a block away.
"Don't you have secretaries to do that?"
Earle silently glanced up at her. Winnifred swallowed her pride.
"Do you need them immediately, sir, or can I take my time?"
"I need them before the work day ends," Earle grouched and turned away from her, indicating that their conversation was over. Winnifred sighed and turned around to leave. She passed the young man, shortly glancing at him. He answered her with a curious, sympathetic look. Winnifred couldn't hold back from rolling her eyes and flung the doors open. She gritted her teeth another fifty five stories down in a cramped elevator, before practically running towards her desk next to Reese.
"Where you going? Don't forget, we're meeting up with Robbie at Joey's" The blondie asked in dull curiosity. Winnifred tightly pulled her waistband around her grey, checkered trench coat.
"Records Institution."
Reese whistled, chuckling at the same time.
"So to fat-old Gefoltert," Reese shook her head and smirked.
"Who?" Winnifred raised her eyebrows, tucking her scarf in her collar.
"Geffy," Reese drawled with a broad grin. "One of the big bucks in town. Early doesn't know of course."
"And you know?" Winnifred specified, flinging her bag over her shoulder. Reese indifferently shrugged, chewing on the tip of her pen.
"Don't tell me you never had any business with the mafiosi," she responded, pushing of the table's leg and twirling in her chair. Winnifred smirked, deciding not to answer, and walked out of the desk. Reese abruptly stopped herself by clinging onto the table's edge.
"Wait, you did, right?"
"Maybe, maybe not," was the airy answer, dulled by the sound of shutting doors.
Winnifred heavily sighed, her breath forming into a small cloud which dissipated into thin air. It was cold. Winnifred had a feeling that it won't be long before winter. She automatically tucked her hands into her pockets, crumpling her fingers into her cold palms. The wind swatted the small, billowing parts of the scarf which weren't fully tucked into the coat right into her face. Winnifred pushed the flapping scarf down in irritation, stopping in front of the intersection. Her eyes quickly passed over the words carved onto the street signs. Willows Avenue, Fourth Boulevard, Harold Street. Automatically translated into This Way, That Way, The Other Way. Winnifred decided to use That Way, so she quickly crossed the buzzing road. Hardly making it out of the car's way, Winnifred fixed her coat and glanced at the buildings in front of her. Painfully recalling her memory, her feet uncertainly walked her over to the...was it the third or the fourth? Damn it, all the skyscrapers look the same. It was so much easier back there, Jacob's house had geranium literally all over the left wall, Sammy had a old hovel bursting with all of the possible junk like broken bicycles, Lottie always had some laundry out while light, yellow from age curtain laces blew out from the window of Billy's apartment...Cut it out. Who cares which skyscraper it is? After all, if she goes into the wrong one, she'll simply excuse herself and go to the other one. Problem solved.
Winnifred, suddenly gritting her teeth, knocked the door of the third skyscraper. Instantly, she knew that she entered the wrong one. What mafiosi would ever decorate their walls with such...phenomenally hideous wallpaper having no contrast with the red, velvet carpet? Nonetheless, Winnifred walked up to the receptionist, keeping her eyes of the walls to suppress her disgust.
"Good morning, is this Wayne Records Institution?"
The male secretary glanced up at her.
"Yes. How can I help you?" Oh. Surprising.
"I need to see Mister..." Winnifred bit her lip, trying to remember the name.
"Mister Geffy, please."
The secretary raised his eye brows.
"Are you from Calavera?"
"What? No, I'm from Earle. Wayne Enterprises" Winnifred stumbled over her words. The secretary indifferently nodded and stood up.
"Very well. Follow me, I'll lead you to Mister Gefoltert." Gefoltert. Gefoltert, Gefoltert, Gefoltert, Winnifred kept on replaying in her head. In a moment, she was face to face with Geff-Gefoltert. Winnifred's eyes quickly darted him over, lips mumbling something about Earle and documents. Her eyes never stopped moving. Gefoltert was a tall, bulky man with six chins and a shiny suit. Nothing different from an ordinary rich business dealer. The world sure knows how to be sarcastic.
His fingers thoughtfully twirled the deep purple flower, the petals falling in and out of the shadows. This little flower contained the toxin he has been fabricating and perfecting for years. His lips twisted into a cynical smirk. It's ironic sometimes, when everything you've done your entire life is reduced to ash in a couple of seconds.
Johnathan sighed and tossed the flower on the table. That strange man, Raz al Ghul, offered an entire fortune for a fear toxin. His eyes slanted to the left on the letter lying right next to the flower. It was a short letter from Raz with with only five words: Falcone will transport the flower. A nerve twitched near the edge of the lips, acutely reminding Johnathan of the contagious, bloody smile. He didn't know if it was Falcone or some other thug dealer who cut Heath up, but he didn't want to know. Falcone did enough.
Sighing, Johnathan quietly closed the door behind him. The yellow-haired intern was waiting for him outside.
"Patient 328 is still cowering in the corner," she promptly notified him, glancing at her clipboard. "Still thinks that the Bogeyman will get him."
"That makes five days," Johnathan quietly muttered to himself, quickly checking his watch.
"Will you see him?"
"No, that's enough patients for today," Johnathan glanced up at the young girl.
"Make sure to check up on Patient 36 and 185."
"Yes, Doctor."
Johnathan thanked with a nod. He quickly grabbed his coat from his office and, putting it on on his way, stepped out of the asylum. It was around six o'clock. The traffic was bad as ever, the city illuminated with a kaleidoscope of red and white car lights. Johnathan warily eyed the cramped street and hurriedly walked around the cars, ignoring the honks and gestures the drivers saluted him. Johnathan tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, breathing in the scent of tiptoeing winter. In a couple of weeks, everything would be covered in snow. Johnathan didn't like the winter. He didn't like the feeling of the ground sinking under him. The young doctor glanced upwards at the sign of the building. JOEY'S LITTLE BAR. Johnathan pushed open the door.
The scent of wine and music was so abrupt that Johnathan had to stop and adjust his senses. Squinting, he looked over the familiar room, packed from wall to wall with talking, laughing people and their glasses with drinks. The walls were draped in dark, berry-soaked red, draped lamps erecting from the walls. The speakers were blasted light pop. Johnathan quickly walked up on the second floor, more centered on lonely tables framing a dance floor. Dancers occupied most of the space. Johnathan chose the small, squared table next to the large window. A waitress instantly approached him.
"Would you like anything to drink, sir?"
"Coffee, please."
The waitress disappeared into the crowd. Johnathan wearily rubbed his forehead and absently flicked his lighter. The small fire waved from the hole, almost invisible in the bar's vibrant colors. Johnathan tiredly observed it for a few seconds, before raising his eyes up on the crowd. The red, round-faced bar tender was pouring in the heavy beer into a tall glass. Tow bulky man in black leather jackets and torn jeans were loudly talking to each other on the end of the bar stand. There was a couple dancing next to the wall, their faces so close together that it was impossible to tell their features. The furthest table across Johnathan was playing poker. A young woman with deep, dark-brown hair and blue eyes absently smiled at a joke...Johnathan's eyes narrowed before widening in recognition. At her left was a young man with thick, brown curls. In front of her sat a woman with dyed blonde hair. She somewhat covered her table partner with her back, yet not enough for Johnathan not to recognize. Freddie Lewly. Johnathan thoughtfully raised the cigarette up to his lips, not sensing the nicotine with his numb tongue. She was so mature. Her hand absently propped up the left side of her head, eyes locked somewhere in the distance. Cards rested on her thin fingers, arm resting on the table. The smoke cooled in Johnathan's mouth, and he absently breathed it out. Her self control was remarkable; only an expert psychologist or an overly-intuitive individual could see the skinny veins of boredom in her eyes. The man said something funny. The blonde girl went kneeling on the table from laughter, while Winnifred roughly smiled. Johnathan frowned. He could not recognize her. All of her usual addictive vigor seemed to be suppressed in that cold, unauthentic grimace. The curly man suddenly turned his head towards her and quietly offered her something. Winnifred, actually, smiled and shook her head. Then, she nodded towards the blonde, coupling her gesture with some remark. The young man blushed and politely turned towards the other girl. The blondie happily stood up and the two left towards the dance floor, leaving Winnifred alone. Johnathan felt unusual anxiety scramble up his throat as Winnifred tiredly tossed the cards on the table and leaned back on her chair. This was his chance. The short cigarette crumbled out of his fingers. Johnathan stood up and started making his way towards her table. In the meantime, Winnifred was wearily flipping cards upside down and moving them around, obviously not interested in what she was doing. Johnathan gripped the chair where the blonde one sat, silently watching Freddie. She did not look up.
"Do you mind if I sit here?"
Winnifred abruptly looked up, the queen of diamonds between her fingers.
For a moment, she didn't say anything, too astounded to speak.
"Johnathan?" Winnifred quietly asked, slowly lowering down the card. Johnathan wordlessly drew out a chair and sat down in front of her.
"I am very glad to see you," he kindly said. Winnifred's eyelids quickly rose upward, before lowering down again, and her astonishment melted into a timid smile.
"So am I," she softly replied. Her eyes carefully avoided meeting his, as if uncertain how to hold themselves. Johnathan's face shadowed, eyes trying to penetrate her mask.
"You don't seem very comfortable with me here."
For the first time, Winnifred lifted her eyes and held the gaze.
"It'll go away." Her lips stretched into a smile, a genuine smile. "After all, I thought I'll never see you. Especially since you don't like writing letters."
Johnathan chuckled. This time, it was his turn to look down.
"I'm sorry. I should have."
"No. I mean, it wasn't necessary. I couldn't write anyway."
"Why not?"
Winnifred thoughtfully looked at him. In the dim lighting of the bar, her face seemed to be swallowed by the shadows, making her large blue eyes look hollow. Her hand, pale and laced with green veins, began to tremble. Johnthan caught the motion. Carefully, he stretched out his hand and gently lowered it on hers.
"It was horrible," she quietly said. "It was-" she squeezed her eyes together, and clear tears ran down her cheeks.
"Freddie-" Johnathan started, but Winnifred interrupted him.
"No, Johnny you don't understand. You will never understand. He killed us. One by one."
Johnathan's hand slowly slipped off of hers. Through the tears, Winnifred expectantly stared at him as his features sharpened, as if his skin was sucked inside.
"I don't believe it." It was not what he was supposed to say. But he had nothing else. He could not believe it. Winnifred painfully smirked, looking away and sniffing her tears into her sleeve.
"Then you see we missed nothing when we didn't write to each other," she whispered. Johnathan's eyes wandered across the room. Rugged, red lamps, women in flashing dresses, light beams from the projectos falling on the glasses, clear champagne…. Heath's contagious, blood ripped smile and wild eyes looking for that dead crow appeared inside his mind.
"Why did he claim he did that?" He finally asked. Winnifred glanced at him in disgust.
"There's nothing better you can ask?" She inquired in disdain.
"No."
Winnifred sighed. It echoed above the table, over the napkins and the glasses' round surfaces, over the forgotten cards.
"He didn't say," Winnifred quietly replied, fingers unconsciously tapping on the table. Heath's distorted, agonized eyes slashed across her brain.
"He wanted to do something. But he couldn't." He wanted to kill you, Johnathan immediately thought. Judging by her face, Winnifred was thinking of the same thing. Sighing, he stood up. Her face immediately lost its sadness.
"Where are you going?" she anxiously asked, not wanting to let go. Johnathan sadly smiled.
"For a walk. C'mon, let's go."
Winnifred hesitated, but then took his hand.
It was refreshing to go out into the freezing air. Arm wrapped around Johnathan's elbow, Winnifred's eyes aimlessly traced the passing cars and the switching traffic lights. She did not know what the man next to her was thinking. But, despite the bitterness, for once, she was…..not happy, but rather satisfied.
"Are you a doctor now?" Winnifred asked, watching with belated entertainment how a cloud of air comes out of her mouth.
"Yes. I work at Arkham Asylum."
She raised her brows in surprise. That was unexpected.
"So you did make it out of that university job?"
"I did," Johnathan decided not to go in detail about his real reasons for leaving the university.
"And you?" Noticing how Winnifred frowns in confusion, Johnathan hastened to make himself clear.
"I mean, where do you work now?"
"Oh. Wayne Enterprises, top accountants." Johnathan nodded his head.
"Profitable?"
"Quite."
They reached a crosswalk. Shivering in her coat, Winnifred pressed closer to Johnathan.
"I never want to see him again," She quietly said. Johnathan glanced down at her. Her face was red from the cold, and her eyes were glassy. She was thinking about Heath the entire walk. Johnathan smirked to himself. Damn, even he was thinking about Heath the entire walk. And that he should have contacted him after Hallow's Eve. Why, why does he realize everything after it already occurred?
"You do," he answered instead. Winnifred raised her head, eyes shimmering both with defiance and hidden fear.
"He's a murderer," she enunciated with a shaking voice.
"He's your friend. That's why you didn't report him to the police." Johnathan sighed. Winnifred looked away, fingers pressing into his arm. Johnathan knew she would never do that. He himself would never do that. Despite everything that happened, there was that painful and sickly string of friendship that tied them together.