I have plans. Hmm....grand plans. And I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. We got some personal things to straighten out with everyone, i.e. Bruce and Helena. Am I right? Of course! :)

Chapter Sixteen

Grin

Wednesday
8:30 a.m.

"The prodigal journalist returns." My co-worker, Steve, greeted me. He had apparently taken residence in my office the past few months. "I, uh, spilt some coffee on your carpet earlier this month. Sorry."

"No harm done. Just remember that I let you use my office while I was gone. I'm back now." I was carrying a box of belongings into the room—nothing more than a few pictures (some of which I took in Italy), a plant, and some dossiers I considered "too close to home" to get rid of. "Mind giving me a hand?"

Steve opened the door to my office and propped it open with his foot as I marched past him. He drank out of the same coffee mug every morning since he began his job. It was good to know that not much had changed in the three months I was gone. "You been watching the news, Bert?" Steve was full of nicknames for me: two of which he used in the past few moments.

"Of course."

"Election is coming up." He took a sip of his coffee. "Everyone wants to know if you are going to cover the mayor's re-election campaign."

"We'll have to see. I just got here. I need some time to settle in and get myself organized first." I inhaled deeply and then gagged. There was a foul odor in my office. "Oh…God! What is that?!"

"What?" Steve stared at me, clueless.

"Don't "what" me! It smells like…barf and cigarettes!"

I dropped the box on my desk and followed my nose to the most prominent stench—a drawer in my desk. I grabbed the handle and jerked it open. "Get it OUT!" I screamed, glancing at what was once half a sandwich. Only God knew what it had become after countless days, weeks, or even months sitting in my desk. My desk.

"Oh…you know, I didn't think I ate all of that. Go figure." He reached into the drawer and pulled out the sandwich, grimacing as he did so.

"That explains the barf smell. What about the cigarettes?"

"Well, you know…" Steve walked out of my office mumbling something incoherent. As he did so, he was sure to keep the sandwich as far away from him as physically possible, not even daring to look at it. Almost as soon as he left, there was a knock on the door. Ricky's head popped in.

"My favorite girl!" He scooted close to me and gripped me in the tightest bear hug possible. It was something completely uncharacteristic of him. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing well—ready to work, that's for sure."

"That's great news, Helena! Great news! I'm just as sure as can be you'll be able to dive right back in. Lots of stuff going on in the news business!" Ricky smiled at me. There was something definitely…off.

"Are…you okay?" I questioned, slightly concerned about his demeanor. Ricky and I—we argued. We butted heads. We fought. There, of course, was as level of respect and fondness between the two of us that wasn't necessarily understood by our co-workers, but it was there, nonetheless. Our relationship was different. But it was ours. And this new attitude—the smiles, the eagerness, the term "favorite girl"—this certainly was not "ours".

"Oh, I couldn't be better, Helena! I'm…" he released me from the hug, "I'm just glad that you're okay, that's all. Knowing you, you've probably been bored out of your mind sitting at home all day." I assumed now wasn't the best time to tell him about Sal. Or the self-defense classes. Or anything, really. "I wanted to stop by and visit. Really, I did. But we've just been swarmed with work. The mayor's campaign for re-election has already begun. We've had our best out in the field, but they're nothing compared to what you can do."

"…All right, Ricky. I guess I'll cover his campaign as much as possible. Are there any fundraisers coming up for him?"

"There is one on Friday. They say it's going to be huge: about 2 to 300 donators are expected to arrive. Are you interested?"

"Absolutely. Who's hosting?"

"Promise you won't flip out on me?" There's the Ricky I always knew.

"Ricky?"

"Bruce Wayne." I sighed and began to sort things out on me desk, attempting to ignore anything else said by Ricky. There was no such luck. "Now, look, Helena: Bruce specifically extended an invitation to one of our journalists, and you did say that you wanted to go! He personally called my office asking if you were going to be back in time for the fundraiser!"

I scowled. "Wasn't that just lovely of him?"

"I don't know what happened between the two of you, but you need to straighten this whole thing out with him!"

"He didn't call—didn't visit."

"You told him you never wanted to see him again!"

That was true. "I wasn't serious! I just…don't want him bugging me about my personal life."

"Then you should tell him that."

I sighed. "…I will." There really wasn't anything else I could say to Ricky. "I will."

Friday
9:00 p.m.

Once again, I had found myself at a fundraiser attended by the obnoxious, boastful, and egotistical socialites of Gotham. My hair was tightly wound in an up-do, my high-heeled shoes caused me pain, and my dress was too low-cut. The last time I found myself in this situation, I met Bruce Wayne for the first time. Now, he was hosting the fundraiser…and I was trying my hardest to avoid him until I had a detailed speech planned out in my head. It went something along the lines of, "Bruce…I'm sorry for being cruel and saying I didn't want you in my life." But my pride was the hardest part to swallow, and I was still trying to find more ways to not actually say the words "I'm sorry."

I had seen him around the gala. He was handsome—more than I remembered. His hair was neatly slicked back, but not disgustingly so. There was that smirk: it wasn't a cocky smirk. Something about the way he grinned was not how I remembered it, either. It was as if he was putting on a show. There was a veil there, covering something up, and I was the only one who could see past it. Everyone else just laughed and grinned right along with him.

A distinct feeling crept up in me as I watched him. He was scoping the room, looking for me. At least, I thought he was looking for me. It could, very well, have been someone else: perhaps another petite ingénue that was specifically brought to the fundraiser so she could be strapped to Bruce's side, but had wandered off. The story I had come up with in my head about the ingénue sounded legit until Bruce's wandering eyes landed on me.

The smirk returned. I was beginning to think it wasn't a smirk at all. The word "smirk" carries with it negative connotations, like other words—arrogant and conceited. Tonight, Bruce wasn't cocky. He wasn't rude or sarcastic (not as far as I could tell). He was…human. And he was handsome.

He was standing on a higher level than I was. A few steps led up to the landing. One hand was in his pocket as he slowly marched his way down the stairs, not taking his eyes off of mine. He finally reached the floor and was mere feet away from me. Still staring. Still grinning.

I had to say something—what, I didn't know. It was too awkward and too…unnerving. "H—Hi." Great. I stuttered.

"Hey," he responded, just as cool as ever.

"How are you?"

"Better now." Don't do that, Bruce. Just don't! When those words came out of his mouth, I felt as guilty as ever for what I had done to him.

"You, uh…you look great."

"Thanks…you do, too. But, at the same time, you look pretty miserable." Was I that easy to read? "How are you feeling?" He took another step forward.

"The recovery went well." I clutched my handbag, feeling my heart skip a beat. Was he always this intense? "I'm still having trouble with mobility in my shoulder, but it's getting better."

"At least it's progress, right?"

"Right." Silence. He took another step closer.

"How's that case of yours going?"

"It's not." Bruce narrowed his eyes questioningly. "The trail just…died. My work as a private investigator is now, officially, over."

"You can't be serious." To hear him say that was a little shocking.

"What do you mean?"

"You were so passionate about it."

"I think my passion slowly turned into obsession. I scared off the few people in my life that truly cared about me. If you didn't know, that number is very tiny." I had a feeling he knew that he was included in that number.

"What about justice?"

"Some people never get justice. Batman can't save everyone."

"Don't you understand?" Another step closer. The gap between us was only about two or three feet. "Haven't you figured it out already? Batman is just a symbol. He takes it to the extreme, yes, but this is what we all should be doing. No one, including you, should stand by and let injustice take over."

"Right," I scoffed. "Are you included in this?"

"Of course, I am."

"Then what are you doing? How are you bringing justice to vigilantes? You throw giant fundraisers, Bruce, for mayors who are rich. You donate money to charities that keep most of the proceeds for themselves." I took a breath, gaining back the control that I had just momentarily lost. His expression didn't change—we were nearly a foot apart now. "I didn't come here to insult you. But you have to understand: in this world, in this city, no one wins…especially those who fight for justice. There is no justice."

"That's sad, Helena. You've given up, and you know what? The Joker won. He's won by convincing you that the good guys never win. But they do. You can win. You just gave up too soon."

I closed my eyes, the truth pounding me like a fist. I did give up. "I can't expect you to understand, Bruce." My voice was barely above a whisper, but somehow I think he heard me. The noise of the party slowly dissipated in the background. I could no longer hear it. I had a feeling he couldn't, either. "He found me, and I knew he would. But…it didn't register with me until some time later, in the hospital, that he could find anyone. He could find Ricky. He could find my cousin, Marcello. He…he could find you. Don't you see, Bruce? I had to stop—not because I wanted to. But because I had to." Opening my eyes, I could see that he was closer. I could feel his breath tickling my cheek.

"Helena—"

"Wait, please. I…I need to get this out. This is my reason for coming here tonight. I…" my mouth went dry. "I'm sorry for what I said to you before. I never meant any of it. It was just the heat of the moment, you know?"

"That was three months ago."

"I know. But guilt lasts a long time."

"Well, in that case," he placed his warm, calloused hand on my shoulder. I wondered what he did to make his hands so rough. "I'm sorry, too. I won't delve in to your personal life anymore."

When his hand touched my arm, I melted. I wanted to tell him everything, from the Gotham City Mafia, to my crook of a father; my inheritance to my training sessions with Sal. "I have a better idea."

"What's that?"

"How about a give-take relationship? You share with me, and I share with you."

"I can't tell you everything, Helena."

"Same here, but it's a start, at least. Don't you agree?"

And there it was again: the grin.