The title to this chapter references something from the earlier chapter called "Misery Loves Company".
WARNING: LANGUAGE . . .
Elle was simply putting Dick's socks away. That was all she was doing when her hand bumped the small box in the back of the drawer. She wasn't snooping when she discovered it. She hadn't been looking for anything really, so it wasn't her fault that Dick wasn't more creative when hiding stuff. Didn't he know that everyone in the world hides stuff in the sock or underwear drawer? It was one of the first places that burglars look! She knew this because she had watched CSI and reruns of Barnaby Jones; why didn't he?
Still he lived alone, mostly, so who was going to go through his sock drawer? Only those he trusted to mind their own business. And that was what Elle was going to do . . . Mind her own business! The box was stuffed in the back of his sock drawer, after all, and not sitting out on the coffee table as a conversation piece. If he wanted her to see it, he would have left it out.
Elle ran a frustrated hand through her hair. But if he didn't want her to see it, he should have hidden it somewhere else when he had noticed her folding his clothes and matching his socks for him. She had practically announced to him right then and there that she was going to be opening his sock drawer at some point during the course of the day. He was Nightwing, for God's sake! He was supposed to be observant!
And so it was that Elle found herself sitting at Dick's kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee, and staring at the small box from his sock drawer at nine o'clock in the morning.
It was a really nice box, she thought. Like a box you would give jewelry in. But what would Dick be doing with a small jewelry box? What kind of jewelry would Dick even have?
Cuff links!
The answer was so obvious that Elle grinned. This was either a gift from Bruce to Dick or maybe it was a gift from Dick to Bruce! Christmas was just a little more than a couple of weeks away!
It was a gift to Bruce, then, she determined. Why would Dick hide a past present from Bruce, after all? He wouldn't! But then again, why would he leave expensive cuff links out on top of his dresser? She hadn't actually seen any other types of jewelry in his apartment, and it wasn't like he wore suits a lot. Only when he came to see Elle sing, in fact, but she didn't actually remember whether or not he was wearing cuff links then. And cuff links were worn more for fancy occasions like weddings and parties; not for going to a club to listen to singing.
Bruce went to more parties than Dick, what with his social calendar and all. These had to be cuff links for Bruce!
Elle smiled at her detective genius.
Dick wouldn't begrudge her a little peek at Bruce's Christmas present. She set her coffee to the side and reached for the box that had filled her every thought since she first found it two hours ago. She lifted the lid and pulled out the black velvet case inside. It was the same size as ones used to give cuff links . . . And it was the same size for the ones to give a pair of earrings!
But why would Dick give Bruce earrings? Elle laughed at the thought. Of course they were cuff links!
She ran her thumb appreciatively over the velvet material. It was also the size one would use to give an engagement ring . . .
Elle sucked in her breath. Where did that thought come from?
Who would Dick give earrings to, let alone an engagement ring?
He had only known her a few short months. They had only been dating since October! Despite the bonding, that wasn't long enough to warrant such an expensive gift, let alone a ring! Of course, they were in love with one another, and they were pretty much guaranteed a wedding at some point . . .
It was cuff links for Bruce!
Elle smiled again as the issue was resolved once more to her satisfaction in her head. She opened the case and gasped.
It wasn't cuff links!
Or earrings . . .
A large solitary diamond ring sat proudly on a bed of velvet.
She snapped the case shut for a moment as she stared at nothing in particular, stunned. Her mind was a blank. She hesitated for just a moment and opened the case again. The diamond winked at her in the morning sunlight as if teasing her.
After a few minutes one thought entered her head. This belonged to someone else. She couldn't have explained how she knew it, only that she did. This ring wasn't for her. Dick had bought this ring for someone else.
Her fingers trembled as she picked up the ring. What the hell was she doing? She shouldn't be doing this! This didn't belong to her. If Dick wanted her to know about this ring, he would have told her. She knew he had women in his past. She knew that! She didn't care about them. If this woman had made him happy, then they would have still been together!
Wouldn't they?
She remembered the woman Dick had brought with him to the club for dinner and to watch her sing. She remembered because the woman had made such a fuss upon leaving; and Dick, she remembered noticing him for the first time then. He hadn't even noticed that his date had left. He hadn't heard a word the woman had said to him quite loudly. Elle had actually heard a bit of it, and she had been on stage singing at the time. But Dick had been listening only to her; not the woman he had brought with him.
Did this ring belong to her, then?
Had he planned to give her this ring that night? Had Elle caused Dick to withhold the ring? Had she broken the couple up? Elle breathing grew rapid as the disturbing questions raced through her mind. Then, she noticed writing on the inside of the band. Elle held it up to the light and squinted to read it.
Dick & Babs 4ever . . .
Babs . . . Where had she heard that before? She knew for a fact that Dick had never mentioned another woman to her by name. Babs . . .
Her eyes widened as she remembered. After their first date, when Dick had been so sick and she had come over; Dick had talked in his sleep! What had he said?
"Babs! I'm sorry." Elle whispered.
Babs! Not Bob as she had thought naively. Babs!
A sob caught in her throat as a flurry of emotion crashed over her at once. Horror, Sadness, Anger!
Elle jumped to her feet and flung the ring away from her. "Not Bob," she yelled. "It's not Bob!" Not Bob, but Babs!
The ring hit the wood floor with a *PING* as it skittered away. Elle watched in horror as she suddenly realized what she had done! She knocked the chair over as she raced to catch the piece of jewelry. It bounced as it hit the wall near the window and clinked when it hit the metal grating of the heating vent.
Elle threw herself forward, but it was too late. The ring made a second tiny *CLANG* before disappearing down the vent with an echoing rattle.
"Oh no!" She cried. "Oh no, no, no, no, no!"
She scrambled the last couple of feet and peered down inside of the vent. She caught a glimpse of something shiny.
"Damn it," she groused, slapping the floor with her hand in aggravation. The ring shifted and slid a bit further, almost out of sight!
She gasped. Oh No! "Shit! Shit! Shit! Fuck!"
Elle slapped a hand over her mouth. She almost never swore and she never said that word, but if ever there was a moment when that word was appropriate, now was the time. If her grandmother were here right now . . . Oh, God! If her grandmother were here, Elle would never have opened the case in the first place.
Dick was going to kill her! He would be so disappointed . . . And then he would kill her! She had to get the ring back! She had to get it back, put it back in its case, back in the box, and most importantly back in the sock drawer; preferably before he came home from work!
She didn't know if he looked at the ring every day in regret or if he had tossed it there and forgotten it, but surely he would notice that it wasn't there. He changed as soon as he came home from work. Showering and then throwing on some clean jeans and a t-shirt. He might go barefoot, but then again it was kind of cold along the floor; the old building allowing in drafts that slithered along the floor in an effort to freeze unsuspecting feet. He might want to wear socks tonight!
Elle scrambled to her feet and rushed to the kitchen. Everyone had a junk drawer in the kitchen with loose coins, tape, spare shoestrings and batteries, and sometimes . . . Sometimes screwdrivers!
Dick was unlike every other man she knew, but in this, thank God, he was like everyone else in Middle America. She rummaged through the necessary junk that tended to collect in a spare kitchen drawer when you didn't know where else to put it.
Flashlight! Woo-hoo! She was going to need that!
Bingo! Screwdriver! Yes!
Grabbing the two items, Elle raced back to the vent; grunting as she smacked her elbow when throwing herself down too enthusiastically. She set the flashlight aside and moved to unscrew the plate. She stared in dismay at her Phillipshead screwdriver and the screws that required a flathead screwdriver to open.
Seriously?
She ran back to the drawer, but no amount of rummaging produced a flathead screwdriver.
What. The. Hell?
Who didn't have a flathead screwdriver? Then Elle bit her lip. She wasn't exactly sure that she even had a screwdriver; in either of the two forms. She only knew she had a hammer because she had hung pictures when she moved into her apartment. She ran back to the vent with a butter knife and tried to use it, but only managed to bend the tip of the knife and was no closer to removing the screws.
She thunked her head on the floor in frustration, and groaned when she heard the ring slide a bit further with a metallic sound. She was so dead . . .
Taking a deep breath, Elle thought about what she could do next. She could tear the place apart searching for a flathead screwdriver or she could try to borrow one from someone else who might just be better organized than her boyfriend. Pushing herself back to her feet, Elle winced at the stress on her healing ankle and rubbed gingerly at her elbow as she headed to the front door.
It took a few minutes, but eventually Mrs. Haskell opened the door to her apartment. The woman blinked up at Elle through her thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Elle smiled. She wondered if the woman realized that those glasses were back in fashion and considered very retro.
"Good morning again, Mrs. Haskell," Elle greeted her. "Did you enjoy the cinnamon rolls?"
It was everything Elle could do not to grab the poor woman and shake her while screaming 'Flathead screwdriver! I must have a flathead screwdriver!'
"They weren't bad, Miss Hamilton," she said, peering curiously past Elle's shoulder into Dick's apartment beyond. Elle had left the door open. "Not like my mother used to make, but quite tasty nonetheless."
"Please, call me Elle," Elle told her graciously.
"Elle?" The elderly woman tilted her head quizzingly. "What kind of name is Elle?"
"It's a nickname, Mrs. Haskell," Elle explained semi-patiently. "A shortened form of Arabella."
"Arabella? I've never heard of that name before," Mrs. Haskell announced. "Is it foreign?"
"Ah, uh, I suppose that maybe it is," Elle said. She really needed that flathead screwdriver, but it wouldn't do to annoy the person who might be able to loan it to her. "I don't know for sure if Arabella is strictly an Italian name or not, but my mother was from Italy."
Mrs. Haskell leaned back as if Elle had just announced she was from Pluto. "Italian, did you say? But your surname is . . ."
"Hamilton, yes," Elle continued to smile. The muscles in her face were getting sore from the strain. "My father's side is from Scotland."
Narrowed, bespectacled eyes met hers.
"My father is American, however," Elle assured her. "It was my great-great grandfather that came over from Scotland."
"Italian and Scottish," Mrs. Haskell repeated.
"American," Elle corrected. "I was born in Chicago."
Mrs. Haskell stared.
"I'm a melting pot, Mrs. Haskell," Elle explained. "Surely the very definition of an American." Elle wondered if she were going to need to prove her antecedents in order to borrow a cup of sugar in the future, let alone the all-important flathead screwdriver.
Mrs. Haskell looked back over her shoulder at Dick's apartment.
"Your . . . Young man," the old woman began. "Is he Italian? I noted that he seems quite tan all year round when most people are pale throughout the winter months."
It was Elle's turn to blink. "Ah, I don't know for sure. I suppose there might be some Italian in there somewhere . . . maybe . . . If you look hard enough. Does it matter?"
"I had heard somewhere that he was . . . You know, one of those people."
"'Those' people?" Elle didn't know where the woman was going with this. "A police officer?"
"No, no, dear," Mrs. Haskell waved a hand in the air. She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "One of those people . . . Gypsies! And his parents were circus folk. His mother was some kind of fortune-teller."
Elle couldn't help it when the snicker escaped. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Haskell. I don't know where you get your information, but it couldn't be more faulty. Dick's heritage on his father's side is Romany." Gypsy was just the more common term for it, but she bet old Mrs. Haskell didn't know that. "And his mother, I can assure you, was not a fortune-teller."
The woman looked relieved. "Oh, that is a relief."
Elle smiled serenely, but enjoyed clarifying Mrs. Haskell's misconception. "Dick's parents were trapeze artists."
"Trapeze artists? But aren't they found in . . ."
"Yes," Elle told her. "In a circus."
"Oh, I heard tell that . . ."
Elle interrupted her. "You shouldn't believe everything you're told, ma'am. Not everyone is a stereotype. Your neighbor is one of the kindest, most honest men I have ever met. And he is an officer of the law. If ever you were in trouble, he would be the person you would turn to for help. You should consider yourself quite lucky to have him for a neighbor. You would be even luckier if you could consider him a friend."
"Is that so," the old woman asked.
"As God is my witness," Elle crossed her heart.
"Hm," was all the woman said, but she was considering Elle's words. "Well, then, what is it you wanted, Miss Hamilton? I am certain that you didn't knock on my door to tell me all about your young man."
"Then, you'd be mistaken," Elle said. "Thank you. Sorry to have troubled you. Have a wonderful day."
Elle walked towards the stairs, pausing only to close Dick's door behind her. Better to check with the superintendent of the building for the screwdriver. She felt Mrs. Haskell's gaze upon her as she went. It wasn't until Elle disappeared around the corner that she heard the old woman's door close.
Prejudice . . . Same thing as ignorance. Perhaps with a little education, Mrs. Haskell would be a happier, more trusting person. Of course, this was Bludhaven . . . It might be healthier for her to remain suspicious of everyone.
Elle returned to the apartment armed with a flathead screwdriver and her determination. She carefully set each screw into an empty coffee mug and put it to the side so she wouldn't knock it over. Once the vent covering was removed, Elle peered once more into the hole. The ring was just barely visible.
She thought that maybe, just maybe, she could reach it. Elle slid her hand down into the vent, turning her head away from the small puff of dust that flew up. She coughed, but continued on with her quest to save the ring and get it back into the sock drawer before Dick got home.
She didn't want him to know she had snooped in his stuff. She felt so guilty and embarrassed, but on top of it all, she was afraid. They had just determined that their feelings for one another were real, and now she found herself wondering anew if what Dick felt for her were his own feelings or if he was being compelled in some way. What if her singing had somehow made him break off his engagement or stopped his proposal?
Elle felt the edge of the ring with her fingertips, but when she tried to grab it, it slipped from her fingers and slid a little further. She growled in irritation, and shoved her arm further into the vent. There it was . . . Just at the end of her reach. She couldn't pick it up this way; it was too far, but maybe she could slide it closer until she could.
After several minutes of trying, Elle huffed in annoyance. Maybe the vacuum cleaner would have been better . . . She moved to pull her arm out of the vent duct and discovered suddenly that she was stuck. Her sleeve was caught on a sharp edge or something. She tugged again harder, but there was no give at all.
Maybe she could rip her sleeve and escape?
She pushed against the floor with her free hand as she pulled. There was a rip sound all right, but she felt the sharp edge tear her skin at the same time. Elle yelped and froze. She relaxed her arm and tried to wriggle it away from the sharp metal, but all she managed to do was wedge her arm in there tighter.
Damn it!
She twisted around so that she could see the clock. Her eyes widened. It was almost eleven o'clock already? How? Where had the time gone? Dick would be home in four hours and here she was, stuck in the heating duct! His ring somewhere beyond her grasp at the moment. What to do? What to do? What to . . .
Her eyes widened. Her phone! She could call for help!
It was nestled in the back pocket of her jeans!
Unfortunately, it was in the pocket on the side her arm was stuck! She would have to reach around with her left hand into her right back pocket to get it out. It required a little bit of contorting, but she could do it.
Ow! Okay, she could do it without pulling on her arm too much, maybe.
Her phone fell out of her pocket and onto the floor. Elle got up onto her knees and tried to reach under her body for it. It hurt her shoulder, but there was no other way. When the phone was finally in her left hand, she was exhausted.
Who could she call? 911 was out . . . Dick or one of his buddies would hear it go out over the scanner and recognize his address. She didn't know the fire department's number off hand. Who did when you had 911? She didn't know the Superintendent's phone number and she didn't want to yell for help. Someone was bound to ask Dick about it later. Edward and Hugh would help her, but they were in Chicago and more than an hour and a half driving time away.
There was someone else closer. Someone who might know how to get her out of this. She looked up the number in her contacts and hit send.
REACTIONS?
She was bound to find out sooner or later . . .