Chapter 3 – It's Good to be Home
It was half past ten the next morning when Bruce was finally able to sink into the Jacuzzi, head and muscles aching. He didn't feel like himself, that was for sure. Last night's criminals weren't any worse than average. If anything, they were child's play, especially compared to his infamous Rogues Gallery villains. So why on earth was he fighting such a throbbing headache eight hours later? He hadn't suffered this much brain fog since inhaling some Joker gas last year.
His eyelids flew open. Joker gas. Toxic inhalants…
Plenty of his arch-enemies used psychotropic agents, whether inhaled or absorbed. And there was one whose seductive attacks left him in pheromone-heavy comas for hours, sometimes days.
Poison Ivy.
He stared at the bubbling water jets, willing himself to regain clarity of mind. Poison Ivy… what were the odds that she might've been somehow involved with his date with Selina?
It would certainly explain the intoxication he'd felt in her presence, the difficulty he'd had controlling their conversation, and now, the strange aftereffect echoing through his brain. Fool. How was I so foolish not to realize it sooner? Either Selina bought some perfume from Ivy, or she… she was Poison Ivy herself.
That thought turned Bruce's stomach as violently as if he'd been hung-over. Sinking down up to his nostrils, a chill ran through him despite the hot water. A few more minutes of self-loathing and he hastily toweled off before heading downstairs for brunch.
At the table, Alfred tossed the morning paper in front of him. "Your work, acknowledged with the usual fanfare."
Bruce eyed it with an ambivalent grunt.
"What, didn't they capture your good side?" quipped the butler.
Bruce's frown deepened. "You know I couldn't care less about the photographs."
"Then it must be my quiche giving you rapid-onset indigestion."
"The quiche is fine," Bruce pushed it around on his plate.
Alfred raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Well, while you're enjoying it, now seems the perfect time to discuss the events of last night."
"Ah yes, of course. I'll bet you've been looking forward to this."
"I'll admit, I'm far more intrigued than with your other dates," Alfred admitted. "And I was fascinated well before the date itself. A million dollars… that's quite an auspicious start!"
Bruce snorted. "You're telling me."
Taking pity on his master, Alfred paused a moment. "Please tell me there were at least some redeeming moments to be had?"
"Some, yes."
"Which would you say was the best?"
Chewing his food with a bit of spite, Bruce carefully considered his answer. "The opera. She was… surprisingly cultured."
"Splendid! You're always saying how difficult it is to find women who appreciate opera – or rather, who genuinely appreciate it," Alfred encouraged.
"'Genuine' may not be the best word to describe Selina."
"What would you prefer I use instead?"
"Beguiling," Bruce took another spiteful bite.
"Mm, a touch of a mystery about her, then," Alfred suppressed a smile as he refilled Bruce's coffee. "One might say, a woman truly well-matched for a man such as yourself."
"Mmnngh!" moaned Bruce suddenly, dropping his fork.
"What's the matter?"
"I bit my tonghh…" he forced out through a grimace.
"Here, let me get you some ice water," Alfred quickly poured him a glass. "Better?"
"Unhh…" Bruce held his jaw.
"You have my sympathy – and, while you're forced to listen, the rest of my opinion on this Selina matter," Alfred squared his shoulders and took a breath. "I know you're inclined to ghost Miss Kyle, but that is an absolute rubbish thing to do – and I'll give you three good reasons why. First, she belongs squarely in your league. Anyone can see she has more class in her pinky finger than the whole lot of women who've tried to charm you. Second, you know she's not just after your fortune, not if she can afford a million-dollar date. And third, any woman who has enough self-respect to walk out on you, Bruce Wayne, billionaire bachelor, is as authentic as they come."
Shaking his head, Bruce couldn't help but chuckle to himself.
"Exactly which part of that did you find amusing?" Alfred demanded.
"You, using the term 'ghost,'" Bruce confessed. "In the correct modern context and everything!"
"Yes, well, glad I could amuse you with such urbane humor."
As his laughter faded, Bruce's expression turned sober again, though much less brooding than earlier. Finishing the last of his quiche, he leaned back in his chair and appraised Alfred silently.
"Why do you have to go and complicate things, old man?" he sighed. "Life is so much simpler when you just leave me to my own devices."
Alfred matched his steady gaze. "Hmm, and where has that gotten you, that 'simple' approach to life? Always breezing through every encounter, assessing it in record time, buttoning it all up before rushing on to the next one. Jump at the bat signal, subdue some criminals, sign a few seven-digit checks, rinse and repeat."
Bruce's eye twitched. "What's wrong with that?"
"Maybe nothing. But don't you think after all these years, you owe it to yourself to examine the answer to that question? To truly ask it of yourself, and answer it honestly?"
The sound of brunch service dishes being cleared away sounded like a freight train. Immobilized, Bruce felt almost like his eight-year-old self all those years ago, with his psyche rendered abruptly vulnerable. And it wasn't some aftereffect of any Poison Ivy pheromones. It was Alfred's incisive lecturing at its finest.
"Give yourself a day or two to reflect on it," Alfred finished polishing the table. "Then call Miss Kyle back."
