12
Bruce and Jack were munching on nachos and listening to the radio as Jasmine worked the pretty boy. Alfred was polishing a coffee pot with his usual unperturbed demeanor, as calm in the hidden storage area as in Wayne Manor.
"She feels undressed without her weaponry." Bruce commented, trying to fish a jalapeño out of the melted cheese with a limp corn chip.
"Like father, like daughter," Jack mused, making doodles in his bowl of dip.
A laugh came over the signal that made them stop for a second, until they realized it was for the target's benefit. "Nice of her to call and fuel our little war," Jack surmised, wondering if he could flick a drop of cheese into Bruce's hair without missing, then decided against it since Alfred would see and spoil the effect.
"I can't deny the information is useful," Bruce admitted. "It can't be easy walking in as herself, and pretending to be something she isn't at the same time."
"You would know," Jack drawled in his rough garble. Bruce flicked a chip into the man's face.
A few minutes later, the fatal blow was dealt and the boy hauled away. Jasmine would fill them in on the interrogation later. Turning off the monitor, the men pulled out some maps and files to jot notes on.
The apartment was dark as Jasmine locked the door behind her. She peeped over the back of the couch to see her dad snuggled under his wool blanket, and arm draped over his eyes.
Walking softly to the bathroom, she cleaned off the make-up, and studied her face in the mirror. With her hair pulled back out of the way, the scar was clearly visible. Heaving a sigh, she went to her bedroom and tumbled gratefully into the mattress, asleep before she landed.
The smell of Alfred's exotic coffee woke her, plus a curse from her father as the bacon popped and scalded his arm with the hot grease. Rolling onto the floor, Jasmine staggered towards the sound of the radio playing the opening markets and local new bulletins. "You know, Daddy, I really did mean to be up in time to do all this." She apologized.
"Not a problem." He said mildly, his blue eyes turned to his work. "It's good for the soul to cook breakfast every so often."
"Soap opera line?" She asked, pouring a cup of coffee and clutching it gratefully.
"More like, something your grandfather would tell us growing up. He was a better cook than Grandma, to be honest." He handed her a plate of stir fried hash browns, veggies and eggs.
Staring down at the yellow, white, green and red pile, she asked, "How did you learn to cook?"
'"The military."
Deciding not to follow that subject, Jasmine set the platter on the table, and moved the forks to the left side of the plates. She smiled, remembering doing the same thing every meal while growing up. The visit from her dad would be a good thing, she knew. If only to get back in touch with everyone, it would be worth it.
They sat in silence as they ate, probably the calmest time she'd had since Jack showed up again. She glanced at the calendar and nearly dropped her fork.
"Oh, man! I'm due at Wayne Enterprises today, and I'm late. Dad, I'll clean up when I get home, it'll only take a few hours," She said in one breath.
"Relax, princess, don't worry. I know you didn't have time to plan for my visit.' He seemed sad and grudging in the admission, but at least he seemed to understand.
In fifteen minutes she had vanished, and Brian wandered the apartment aimlessly, trying to learn who this woman was that had replaced his daughter.
The paintings and art didn't tell him much. She dabbled, hanging her experiments on the walls to see if they had worked. The one of the silhouetted man caught his eye for a moment. The place had books and magazines, mostly about art or firearms. A few classic novels and the usual films and television shows graced the cases, but nothing revealing. She seemed to prefer a double sided existence, one of the common kind, the other of an edgy cop. Her bedroom held the usual jumble of scarves, shoes stacked in a corner, and some of their family pictures on the dresser. A few cases of shells for her hand guns were stored here and there, along with whetstones to sharpen a knife, but he saw no knife. She must have taken it with her. In the bathroom was an economy sized bottle of everything, lotion, shampoo, conditioner, and so on. The only thing expensive was a tube of prescription scar treatment cream.
He had nearly forgotten about her stay in the ICU of the hospital. He'd been called away from an important case to come. He'd had no sleep, was scared to death, furious because his work was falling through legally, and completely baffled why jasmine had insisted Zeke was to blame. The doctor had said that if she was mistaken, it would be the shock speaking. But he seemed to believe her.
What had he said to her while he was there? He couldn't remember, other than informing her Zeke was not to blame. She been heavily wrapped in gauze and lightly sedated some of that time, at least he thought she had been.
He could remember nearly every job he'd ever had, every detail of them. Why couldn't he remember the time he had spent with his own daughter in the hospital?
A buzz brought him back to earth. Pulling out his cell, he allowed his face to relax at the name. "Hello, Zeke… Yes, I'm in town… Yeah, I'm staying with Jasmine for the week… No she's fine, just got a big workload… Listen, how about lunch?... That sounds great, see you then."