Wednesday, August 26, 2009 – 3:35am – Gotham Century Towers; Gotham City, New Jersey
Thirty-nine arrests in two weeks. Mostly low-level inmates, and associates of the Russian and Maroni mobs. It's not enough.
Zsasz. Lawton. Crane. Joker. Duvall. Still missing.
The police report of the explosions was still delayed. Either the usual politics or, more than likely, dirty cops were covering evidence. Yes, Harvey's "death" and the resulting policies led internal affairs on a crusade through the GCPD, but unfortunately this was Gotham, and Gordon was still out of commission for at least another two weeks.
All it takes is one down-on-his-luck cop with a weakened spirit and the right offer on the table. Like Ramirez.
He straightened up at the thought, the muscles in his back tensing. He couldn't afford to overlook anything. Not this time.
He hadn't been able to do his own investigating because he knew he was being watched. They were being watched. Alfred and Leslie unwittingly condemned Anastasia the moment they invited her. Now he couldn't let her out of his sight. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
In all things the mean is praiseworthy, and the extremes neither praiseworthy nor right, but worthy of blame.
Bandages, Glocks, and Aristotle.
It wasn't Zsasz—he didn't use guns. Lawton didn't seem the type to read Aristotle in his free time. It wasn't Crane, either. Aristotle seemed a little too… ethical for the Joker, and he would have no incentive to hide his face like this mystery man did. Either another rando from the Asylum, or a new player was in town.
A new player who knew he was Bruce Wayne.
He couldn't run detailed fingerprint ballistics on the bullets pulled out of his torso—he had contaminated the evidence. The weapon used was just a standard G41 Glock—one of the many Glocks standard issue to the GCPD and available for purchase at any gun store. Security cameras in the area just saw the same thing he saw with his own eyes—approximately 6' in a trench coat with his face hidden. He disappeared from the security footage of the surrounding buildings two blocks away when he dipped into the East End, where security cameras were scarce.
The mystery bomber in bandages was a dead end—other than the fact that he could be watching.
For two weeks he had paraded Anastasia around on his arm, told Alfred to call ahead to his destinations so they could give the paparazzi a tip, appeared at every social function Bruce Wayne and/or Anastasia Williams was invited to. "Dating" the star of the movie about Batman-let that be one hell of a message.
He wanted to send a message to the mystery bomber. To let him think he was busy, even scared. And it kept Ana in his sight, under his protection. He wouldn't let what happened to Rachel happen to her.
He watched the gentle rise and fall of Ana's shoulder with her quiet breathing, the delicate curve of her silhouette contrasting against the glow of the television. She'd fallen asleep waiting for him again. She kept trying to catch him leaving or returning from the bunker—trying to figure out where he went every night. Probably trying to confront him about it, too, knowing her—it wasn't the first time.
They'd spent a lot of time together over the past week, as if they hadn't been separated for a decade. He had forgotten how calm she was, how quick, how beautiful-mostly how different she was from Rachel.
He gently padded his way towards the sofa, reaching for the remote as he neared. An empty wine bottle and accompanying glass teetered ominously next to the device. Once the television was dark and his eyes adjusted to the dim accent lights of the room, he knelt to scoop her up in his arms. She shifted at the movement, her eyes fluttering open as her arms instinctively went around his neck to brace herself.
"There you are…" she slurred, her eyelids fluttering furiously as she tried to force them open against deep REM sleep.
He cast a quick glance at the empty wine bottle. He hadn't recalled her drinking heavily since she'd been there.
"Where do you go?" she murmured, hugging herself closer to his torso as he gingerly maneuvered around the couch and towards the exuberant spiral staircase.
He ignored her as he started up the stairs.
She nuzzled deeper into his chest, murmuring, "Why don't you tell me anything… Secrets don't make friends…"
He couldn't help but shed a small smile at the last part of her drunken murmurs. Leave it to her to be a stupidly adorable drunk.
She kept muttering things he couldn't quite make out as he made his way to the guest room she was staying in. When he reached the bed, he gingerly began to set her down. But as he went to let her go, her arms held his neck tightly—tighter than he expected. She lurched forward, planting her lips firmly on his and he blinked in surprise for a quick moment before firmly gripping her shoulders and pushing her back.
Now she blinked in surprise for a moment, the sleepy gears behind her blue hues trying to adjust to her situation. Then her eyes narrowed in frustration before she leaned back into the bed, twisting to be on her side with her back to him.
He hesitated, watching her for a moment in case she moved again—or spoke. But she just let out a short huff of a sigh before silence, her breathing quiet and regulated.
He hesitated longer, wrestling with his emotions. He couldn't let her in because it was dangerous. He couldn't let her out of his sight because it was dangerous. He was dangerous. Why couldn't she understand that? Why couldn't she just hop back on a plane and go back to Los Angeles, where it was safe? Why was she so damn stubborn. Why did he have to care for her so damn much-
He blinked at himself in surprise, startled by the realization. He did care about her. More than just out of a sense to protect her.
He reached for the blanket at the end of the bed and pulled it up over her shoulder, his hand lingering there for an extra moment.
Finally, he stood to retreat back to the bunker. Back to the bombings. Back to whatever clues he had. He had to figure this out so he could keep her safe.
Author's Note: Holy fuck. I updated. It's only been FIVE YEARS. Holy fuck.
I re-read this shitstorm of a story a million times. I re-wrote what the hell is going on afterwards a million times. I THINK I FINALLY have a direction and a pace that doesn't completely destroy what character integrity (as much as an OG/BWayne crossover can even have to begin with) I've been trying to maintain. And the biggest part—I think I FINALLY have the creativity to actually write pretty(ish) things. Ya'll should've seen some of the bullshit I was writing the last five years, trying to update this. Ugh. It was gross. It was like comparing a Microbiology textbook to Shakespeare (not like I'm capable of writing like Shakespeare, you literal fucks, but you get the idea). Alas, I'm sure this isn't the same tone—style—syntax—whatever-the-fuck-you-English-nerds-call-it, but it'll do, pig.
I'd like to thank my husband (yes, I'm fucking married now, wtf) for this update, because he pushed me to calm the fuck down and find some kind of outlet to chill the fuck out (clearly watching my language wasn't it). I'd like to thank the public education system in Arizona for being the shitshow that it is and making me hate life and quit teaching after just one year, leaving me with absolutely no idea what the hell I'm gonna do with my life (hey, and we're back to angsty insomniac college Alyssa). And I'd like to thank Batman #50—BECAUSE BATMAN & CATWOMAN ARE BAE. And now I'm all inspirationalized and shit.
Oh, and I'd like to thank Chrome for remembering my damn login because IT'S BEEN A HOT SEC.
Fingers crossed, more to come… And please, for the love of all things Batman, leave a review. Praise this shit. Rip me a new one. Tell me your deepest thoughts and feelings. o_O I want to hear everything-except for you Grammar Nazi English nerds, WHO CARES IF I MISSPELLED SOMETHING OR USED THE WRONG SYNTAX, OR WHATEVER.