Gordon, Dent, Bruce and I step outside the restaurant, still laughing. In fact, the only reason we weren't kicked out in the first place was the fact that Bruce owns the place. Ah, the perks of befriending a billionaire. Tripping slightly on a crack in the sidewalk, I stumble into his arms, still feeling as though I'm asphyxiating. We hold onto each other for a few seconds, and, sensing the warmth and strength lying just below his shirt, I reflect that there are many perks to this friendship. And instantly flush for thinking it.
We take a few minutes to calm down, taking deep breaths of the noxious Gotham air. In the silence, I look up and gasp, pointing at the sky. "Look, stars!" Bruce and Gordon follow my finger and we all crane our heads upwards like children, mouths hanging open at the rare sight. It's magical what a few twinkling sparks billions of light years away can do to a person, I think, and wish that everyone were looking up at this moment. Dent chuckles.
"Stars? At night? Impossible!" he says sarcastically, and the enchantment is dispelled. We all laugh a little more, recollecting who we are, where we do and do not live. Acting on my instinct to get out of the cold, I walk towards the limo, only to be restrained by Gordon's hand on my shoulder.
"Hey–– where are you going?" My mouth falls open again. Oh, right. I don't have an apartment anymore. I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed by my idiocy, and give an exaggerated shrug. They laugh softly, but I can see the concern in their eyes, and in the looks they exchange. I wave my hand in front of my face, smiling.
"It's no big deal, really, I'll find a Ramada or something." Dent snorts, and Bruce shakes his head.
"How long have you been living in Gotham?" Gordon says.
"Four years."
"And you still haven't figured out that motels are the first places these people check?" I turn deep red again.
"Well, its not like I'd sign with my own name! I'm not that stupid–– and besides, if it's the first thing they check, then won't they have moved on by now? Maybe?" God, I must sound so naïve. I smile tentatively into their sardonic faces.
"Without leaving a lookout? Not likely." Dent looks at me closely. "I thought you cared about your safety." The blush has spread throughout my body now, and I wouldn't be surprised if I exploded.
"I– I do, but, I mean, I'm not going to invite myself over to someone's house while a crazed"–– shudder–– "clown is looking for me. That's just wrong, especially since we've already established that I'm no one worth going out of one's way to protect." There is a long, still silence.
Then Bruce hits me on the back of the head. "Idiot. You don't get it, do you? It doesn't matter if you're a hero or an icon. We don't want you getting hurt!" I stare up at him, mouth hanging open. He sighs, and tries again. "We like you!"
It's like I've been filled with liquid gold. My eyes open wide and I can feel my cheeks becoming, if possible, even warmer. I hesitate, turn an even deeper shade of maroon, and stammer out my response. "O-Oh."
They instantly begin arguing about whose house I'll stay at, but I'm in too much of a daze to offer any suggestions. Gordon's instantly ruled out, however, due to his having kids and a wife to protect, leaving me stuck between the two young alpha males. They way they fought, though, you'd think they were teenage girls or something equally frivolous.
"If she stays with you, Harvey, won't Rachel become jealous?" Bruce teases mercilessly, I notice. I wryly wonder if he learned his talents on the playground. Dent is understandably irate, and counters hotly with something about my reputation being destroyed, but Bruce just smirks at him and tells him to worry about his own. This is escalating into a catfight.
"Ladies, please," I say, finally annoyed, "if you're going to bicker all night, I'll have to book a Ramada anyway. My reputation doesn't count for diddly squat, remember? Whereas you, Mr. Dent, have a lot to uphold. I'd stick with one to none rooming in your apartment for now." I smile sincerely, and clasp his hand. "Thank you for the offer anyway."
Bruce Wayne looks insufferably smug as he offers his arm, and he briefly nods to the others, indicating his goodbyes. I ignore the proffered arm, leaving him hanging awkwardly as I hug Gordon and shake Dent's hand in parting. Then, rolling my eyes at the others, I take him up on his offer and begin walking to the Lamborghini. "I'm not a prize to be displayed, Mr. Wayne," I whisper with mock indignation.
"That's what you think," he says, grinning as he opens the passenger door. And for once, I really have no response.
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We get back to Bruce's penthouse, laughing and joking around as he opens the car door and grabs my suitcase out of the trunk. Still giggling furiously, I turn to go through the doorway and slam into a pillar. Ow. Fuck, seriously Lord, can't I stop being a space cadet for more longer than a minute? I notice that some guy getting out of his car has stopped to point and laugh at me. We all just stand there like an operatic tableau for five minutes, listening to him crack up. I feel like dissolving, and then realize that the situation is so ridiculous that I start cackling again. I mean, honestly, who else does something like that?
And so, laughing heartily and holding onto each other for support, Bruce and I enter the penthouse, where I notice the piano for the first time. "Oooh!" I squeal, dancing to it like a little girl. "A piano?" I sit down and start running some scales. "If I knew you had one of these––" I pause. "––It probably wouldn't have made much difference. But its nice to know you have one! It means I have reason to really like you!" Bruce laughs again, pouring out two glasses of wine.
"And you didn't before?"
I blush furiously, taking the proffered wine. "Sir, a girl in my position is not allowed to like someone like you too much."
Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Someone like me? What," he says, leaning on the piano, "pray tell, does that mean?" I incline my head away from him, deliberately looking down at my hands as I quietly begin playing Chopin's Prelude in A. I'm afraid of the nonsense that will pour from my mouth if I look at him.
"Mr. Wayne, you cannot be oblivious to your effect upon the many fine young women of the world. I mean that both emotionally, and, as Mr. Dent noted, in regard to their reputations. You are not known for monogamy." I turn my head a slightly in his direction, still keeping my eyes upon the keys, now playing one of Satie's Gymnopédies. "You are a Don Juan, sir–– a seducer of young women, and therefore a danger to any young journalist who has been told never to stray from the path."
"To grandmother's house?" I smile.
"More like to grandmother-ship!" Bruce laughs warmly, and I make the fatal mistake of looking into his gorgeous blue eyes. They're exactly the color of the ocean, I think. And begin to splutter. "I mean, dignified grandmother-ship. That is, you know what they always say in Sex Ed–– about–– sedu––condoms––billionaires? Or something. Or nothing. Nevermind, nevermind!" I've gotten completely lost now both in my words and on the keyboard, God dammit. I slam the keys in frustration and embarrassment and snatch my glass from the surface of the piano, spilling champagne everywhere and looking like an idiot. Again. "Damn! I'll get towels," I shout, turning my customary shade of pink and jumping up, only to run into him, nearly knocking us both over. "Ahh, I'm sorry!" I yell, now losing it entirely. "I'll be right back, don't move anywhere I can run into you again, okay?" He only laughs at me, and I tear off through the penthouse––to get myself lost in about five seconds. I stand in the dark for a bit, delaying the inevitable.
"Bruce?"
"Yes Harriet?"
"Where, um, are the towels?" I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified.
"It's okay, Harriet, Alfred already cleaned it up." There's a long pause. "Do you need some help finding your way back?"
I answer in a very small voice. "Yes please."
Once we're back in the main room, I apologize to Alfred, who tells me not to worry. With nowhere else to go, I decide to return to the piano, and begin doodling out some of my favorite songs about insanity. Bruce returns, frowning quizzically at my choice of music. "I'm just thinking of our mutual acquaintance." The frown deepens. To explain, I stop and pull up the corners of my mouth with my fingertips. He laughs, though more uneasily.
"And what do you think of him?" I shrug.
"He's like a kid who never grew up and learned about gunpowder–– like if Peter Pan discovered explosives instead of Neverland." Bruce laughs again, and I do some rapid arpeggios. "He's not really the type for office work, really. He'd be so bored––and smashing things always gives more satisfaction than using them." He's giving me a strange look, and I laugh. "Well, its true. I mean, really, if you had a choice between an electric car and an entire roll of bubble wrap, which would you choose?"
He chuckles again, but admonishes, "People aren't bubble wrap, Harriet."
"Well, yeah, but try telling that to him! And that––" I say with great finality, "is why we're different!" I smile brightly and continue singing about a man with anger repression who cuts off his therapist's feet with a machete and uses them to kick him in the head.
Bruce grins, saying, "You act like a child yourself."
I stick out my tongue. "Yeah, but I'm much, much cuter."
Why didn't I invest in becoming a comedian? At this rate, I'll have the entire city laughing.
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The next day, though, the smiles, grins, and laughs have vanished.
In the mail is a large parcel from "A S-s-secret Admirer," and the brown wrapping paper is inscribed with the same maniacal laughter that I found on the playing card. Needless to say, I freak out.
"No, I'm sorry," I yell at Bruce, who is asking me whether I think we should open it, "I'm not good with these things–– I'm the sort of technologically backwards person who will um and er and making twitchy motions over a device for hours without figuring anything out. I think we should smash the–– the thing with a hammer. I think we should smash it with a hammer as soon as possible, because I'm warning you right now, I was out sick during the week we learned to disable bombs in Home Ec."
After convincing me that trying to destroy a package without knowing what it is is decisively counter-productive, we––as in Alfred and Bruce, with me babbling about red wire blue wire in the background–– spend several frantic minutes of tapping, listening to, and feeling for anything that could indicate its contents as explosive in nature. Interestingly, when we squeeze the thing, all we can hear is crinkling paper. Curious, scared, and wanting to end this terrifying farce, I finally rip the brown wrapping back to reveal a copy of yesterday's newspaper, badly tampered with by the unmistakable hand of the Joker.
In edition to drawing a bright red Chelsea grin and raccoon eyes onto every person in every photograph, he's "edited" the headlines, captions, and articles with paragraphs and words type-written on green and yellow paper and duct-taped to the page. The weather reading says UNSEASONABLY CRUEL MONSOONS, CHANCE OF ANARCHY. And the main picture is of me, hand pressed against my bleeding head, with the headline: Harriet Vince: Martyr in the Battle Against HANGOVERS. I have a crude thought bubble that reads IF BRUNETTES HAVE ANY MORE FUN, I'M GOING BLONDE!!
I can't help it. I start laughing.
Alfred and Bruce stare at me, and I shrug through my giggles. "What," I say defensively, "it's funny!" I flip through the paper, continuing to snicker. "I know this journalist, you guys, and he gets it totally right–– she writes complete drivel–– especially about you Bruce. This is like reading National Lampoon!" I walk a ways away and begin giggling again at the headline below the picture of Mayor Garcia: UNIBROW Must Be SHAVED. I turn around to grin back into their stunned faces and frown. "You guys, really. You have to admit that when he isn't blowing shit up, he could possibly live up to his name." I read through his parody of a whiny letter to the editor, and start sniggering again. "I wonder if he does stand-up?"
The silence deepens.
I spin around to face the two older men, now distinctly annoyed. "What? I'm sorry that I find this amusing, but I'm definitely happy that it isn't a bomb." Bruce finally sighs and pulls a facepalm, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
"You really can be an idiot sometimes, Harriet Vince." I nod serenely. I know this part already.
Bruce continues talking slowly, as if to a child. "This is clearly––" He stops as I giggle. Dent Cannot Believe IT'S NOT BUTTER. This man is hysterical! Noticing that the room's gone silent again, I look up into Bruce's disapproving face and drop the paper. He takes a deep breath. "This is clearly a threat–– if you go to work today, God knows what he'll do." He glances around at Alfred, who nods and goes to get his hat and coat. Bruce looks back at me, and I see myself reflected in his mature, serious eyes, looking for all the world as though I've been hit over the head again. He smiles grimly at me. "If you don't leave this penthouse, you'll be fine. It's the safest place in the city."
I attempt to voice my apology and disapproval at the same time, and it comes out in a strangled mess. "So–– so I just sit here? I just sit here, instead of doing the one thing I'm capable of helping this shithole city with? Goddammit, Wayne, I'm not a fucking damsel in distress! I'm just a coward like any other sensible person." He laughs at me, but I'm angry now, and I pull him back around by his shoulders. "Wayne, this is my job. I'll know when to run, okay?" I take a ragged breath, and feel the void of fear consume me. "What if they blow up the building, Bruce, and I'm not there?" Blinking back tears, I gesture wildly. "What––What if they kill all those–– all those people––for no reason?"
I suddenly find myself in a tight, hot embrace, like a heated accordion is squeezing the air out of me. He growls, "Your dying is no reason either" in my ear, and suddenly I'm alone, locked in the penthouse.