Jonathan slipped a dangling pearl earring into the lobe of his ear just as the door to the bedroom opened. He moved his gaze up, and saw Bruce in the doorway, a mixture of longing and desire on his face.

"Jonathan," he breathed.

The corner of Jonathan's mouth pulled up. He preened under Bruce's admiration. Picking up the back of the earring, he slid it on the post. Then, he studied himself in the mirror to see if he needed to add any finishing touches.

It had come together quite well, if he did say so himself. The dress was a powder blue flapper inspired number with a two-tiered scalloped waist and embroidered accents. The neckline dipped charmingly, and while Sugar had never been a busty girl, there was a hint of allure there. The soft blond curls of his wig framed his face, and his make-up–never overdone as some drag queens preferred–was soft and subtle. It made him look innocent and girlish, despite his age.

Bruce came up behind him and put his hands on Jonathan's bare arms. "I don't want to let you out of my sight." He pressed his lips against Jonathan's neck.

"Mm." Jonathan tilted his head, giving Bruce better access. "You are welcome to come to the party with me. It is your house."

Bruce didn't answer, but his jaw tightened. Although he was over the worst of his illness, his cough and congestion lingered, and he still tired easily.

Instead of answering, he said, "I have something for you. I thought this would go well with your dress." He pulled something out of his robe pocket.

"Oh, Bruce," Jonathan breathed as Bruce placed a string of gorgeous pearls around his neck. He lifted a hand and touched the pearls with his fingertips.

"They were my mother's." Raw vulnerability stood out on Bruce's face as he looked from the pearls to Jonathan's eyes in the mirror.

A lump filled Jonathan's throat. He swallowed around it and fought against trying to break the tension by saying something flippant. Neither he nor Bruce were good with being open, and Jonathan was feeling a bit exposed.

"They're beautiful," Jonathan finally managed.

"They're yours."

His breath caught. "Bruce…"

Bruce squeezed both of Jonathan's shoulders and rested his chin on the top of Jonathan's head. "I mean it."

Jonathan's stomach began flipping around, and his blood felt like champagne. Tears gathered in the corner of his eyes. He grabbed a tissue from the vanity and dabbed at them. "Um… I, uh, thank you." He gave Bruce a tremulous smile. "I love them."

"They look good on you." His fingertips trailed up and down Jonathan's neck, raising goosebumps. "There are some other things. Jewelry, I mean." He shrugged. "Maybe I should have given it to you before, I don't know. Let you wear it or…."

He rose and turned to face Bruce, putting his hands on Bruce's cheeks. "Now, now, don't go overboard. Exactly where would I wear real jewels? Certainly not Dreamgirls." He pressed his lips to Bruce's. "We'll save those for later, when we go somewhere special."

Bruce wrapped his arms around Jonathan's waist and pulled him close. "But the pearls?"

"Sadly, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. At least for tonight." He stepped out of Bruce's arms and turned back to the mirror to admire the pearls once more.

"Why?"

"This neckline draws attention to my Adam's apple." He gestured to the offending body part. "And the pearls pull the eye. Perhaps if the mansion wasn't going to be packed to the brim with police, I'd chance it, but, alas… I'm going to wear a scarf. But, when you're better, you can take me out, and I'll wear them."

Bruce smiled. "I'll take you up on that." He undid the clasp on the necklace. As he slid the string of pearls from Jonathan's skin, he placed a kiss at the base of his neck. "I'm going to put these in the safe. Be back in a minute."

Jonathan sat down again and picked up the scarf. It was a simple diaphanous white piece that he draped backwards over his neck so it flowed down his neck. He'd have to be careful not to let it slip off, but it was the best he could do on such short notice. The scarf didn't roll easily and would look awkward tied around his neck. He would just have to be mindful of his movements.

He turned in his seat and bent over so he could put his shoes on. When he sat up, Bruce was entering the room again.

"All set?"

Jonathan nodded. He stood and smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles. His heart pounded suddenly, and he could feel tremors start in his hands. That was not a good sign; he rarely got scared enough these days to set off the shakes. But, suddenly, the idea of walking into a party filled wall to wall with cops didn't sound like such a great idea.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

"I know."

"We could stay in. Have some fun."

He raised an eyebrow.

Bruce looked mischievous. "I, ah, took a little peek in the bag when the dress came. Looked like you got something else to go with it."

Jonathan pouted. "Oh, Bruce. Did you ruin your present?" He tugged the neckline of the dress down a tiny bit, just enough to reveal the lacy whiteness underneath.

Eyes darkening, Bruce stepped into Jonathan's space and kissed him deeply.

A moan escaped Jonathan's throat, but then he stepped back. "You'll ruin my lipstick." He took another breath. "How do I look?"

"Gorgeous. Careful not to attract too much attention. Some of those politicians are real creeps."

"I'll keep that in mind." Jonathan smiled and touched Bruce's arm. "I'll be fine."

"I know. Have fun."

He rolled his eyes, then turned and left the bedroom. As he left the east wing, locking the door behind him as he did, his heart began to pound once more. He had to focus on his breathing, on finding his center, on finding his inner Sugar, to help him settle as he made his way downstairs. By the time he reached the hub of the party, he felt more himself–that was to say, more like his alternate self–and less like he was walking into a trap.

"Champagne, miss?" a waiter offered.

He smiled and took a flute, lowering his eyelashes as he did. The waiter moved on. Lifting the flute to his lips, Jonathan scanned the front entryway.

The doors and windows were open, and an amplified voice echoed outside. Jonathan stepped through the front door. The tents he saw go up during the week were lit, flowers and plants arranged inside. People mingled under the tents, the majority standing on the main lawn facing a man Jonathan assumed was the mayor. The mayor lamented the idea of people trying to repeal the Dent act and the absence of Mr. Wayne, both of which Jonathan listened to with half an ear as he made his way across the lawn.

He scanned the crowd, but he didn't see Miranda Tate's face anywhere. Jonathan entered the main tent, his breath catching as he realized that Commissioner Gordon and other police officers mingled inside. As discreetly as he could, Jonathan faded from view, taking shelter behind a group of society women. He breathed a sigh of relief as the commissioner left the tent and took his place behind the microphone.

He looks nervous. More than just stage fright. Jonathan tapped his fingernail against his champagne glass. When Gordon announced that he'd written a speech telling the truth about Harvey Dent, Jonathan snorted. I will give my favorite red satin stilettos to one of the maids at this party if the next words out of Gordon's mouth are anywhere close to the truth.

Gordon folded the papers he was holding and stuck them in his jacket pocket. "But maybe the time isn't right."

Shoes safe, Jonathan huffed a laugh and turned his eyes to the crowd once more. He walked around the tent, studying faces and listening to conversations. As he made his way from tent to tent, a few men approached him and tried to charm him. Jonathan indulged them with a little light flirtation before casually mentioning his boyfriend and sending them on their disappointed little way. He was careful to avoid anyone who might recognize him–older police officers, political figures, etcetera–but he also didn't go out of his way to avoid being talked to. He wanted to be unmemorable, and to do that, he had to act like he belonged.

Finally, he'd explored every tent, finished his champagne, and was becoming chilled. Rubbing his bare arms, Jonathan went back inside only to see the woman herself, Miranda Tate, speaking to Alfred. Poor Alfred, who had been so busy all night, he'd only had time to send two death glares Jonathan's way. Still, there was no need to antagonize him, so Jonathan waited until Alfred excused himself before approaching Miranda, only to find himself out-sidled by a little worm of a man with a smirk on his face.

"Why waste your time talking to the man who threw away your investment on some save-the-world vanity project?" the man asked Miranda, looking self-satisfied. "He can't help you get your money back. But I can."

Jonathan watched Miranda's face as she replied coolly, "I could try explaining that a save-the-world project, vain or not, is worth investing in, whatever the return. I could try, Mr. Daggett, but you understand only money and the power you think it buys, so why waste my time indeed?"

A shiver went down Jonathan's spine as he watched Miranda walk away. His palm felt suddenly damp, and he pressed his hand to his dress.

What the hell just triggered me? He had to take a breath to push the shiver away. Something about the way she said that… the phrasing… It was very familiar.

He wanted to poked at it for a few minutes, but he didn't have the time. He could puzzle over that later. Instead, he moved swiftly after Miranda. "Ms. Tate? Ms. Tate?"

Miranda stopped and turned. She frowned. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"No, not at all." Jonathan smiled and tilted his head to the side, keeping his hands folded in front of him. Unless he was with someone who knew he was in drag, he didn't shake hands; although he looked delicate as a woman, his hands were decidedly not. "I'm Seana Miller. I'm a friend of Bruce's. He's told me about you, and the project you funded."

She raised her eyebrow. "Did he? Interesting, because he won't talk to me about it at all."

"He said that the project failed. What more is there to talk about?"

"What do you do for a living, Ms. Miller?"

Jonathan considered the question carefully before answering. "I'm a bartender."

"Hmm. So, you want to invent a new drink. The first flavor combination is wrong, and you give up?"

"We're talking about something a bit more expensive than alcohol."

"And I'm willing to pay."

Jonathan tapped his nails against his thigh, then said, "I did some reading on my own. I found an article saying that the type of device that Wayne Enterprises was making with your investment could be weaponized. It can be turned into a bomb."

Something sparked in Miranda's eyes. Her posture changed, becoming more alert. "You are very well informed for a bartender."

Jonathan acknowledged that with a shy smile and a dip of his chin. "Why would you insist on a project that could potentially lead to death and destruction?"

"It's the world's best chance for a sustainable future. Doesn't the world deserve that?"

Do you want an honest answer? Jonathan gave Miranda a small smile. "History has shown over and over again if you give humanity anything that has the potential to cause devastation? The world's going to take that opportunity without looking back. We're not ready."

"Ms. Miller, I think you've spent too long taking care of drunks." Miranda smiled sympathetically and squeezed Jonathan's arm, trapping the scarf under her hand. When she pulled her hand away, the scarf slipped off Jonathan's shoulder.

He quickly readjusted it, trying to make the move as casual as he could.

"Please tell Mr. Wayne I want to talk with him. I think he owes me at least one conversation."

"I'll let him know."

Miranda inclined her head. "It was nice meeting you, Ms. Miller. I hope to see you again." She met Jonathan's eyes, nodded, and walked away.

Jonathan watched her go and sighed. Turning, he walked up the stairs; it was late and he was tired. Time to go home.

As soon as Jonathan was through the doors and into the east wing, he slipped off his shoes. He went to the bedroom, but Bruce wasn't there. Setting his shoes down, Jonathan went back into the hall and followed the light to the drawing room.

"Bruce?"

"Hi, honey." Bruce popped his head from behind a low cabinet and smiled. "Did you have fun?"

"Loads and loads. What's going on here?"

He groaned as he stood, grabbing his cane as he did. Bruce leaned against the cabinet and rubbed his knee. "Don't get mad."

Baffled, Jonathan furrowed his eyes. Despite his words, Bruce seemed almost light hearted. Amused.

"We were robbed."

"What?"

Bruce shrugged. "It's a little complicated. One of the maids broke into the safe. She stole the pearls. Don't worry, I'll get them back for you."

Jonathan gave a little shake of his head. "Bruce, they're not really mine."

"Yes, they are." Bruce pushed away from the cabinet and limped to Jonathan. He slid one arm around Jonathan's waist and kissed him lightly. "They are yours."

Jonathan melted against Bruce. Lay his head on Bruce's shoulder. "Are you okay? You're limping."

"Eh, she kicked my cane out from under me. I'm fine."

"Point me in her direction. She's the one who won't be fine."

Bruce laughed and rubbed Jonathan's back. "It's not worth it. I'm fine, Jonathan." He kissed Jonathan's forehead.

The door opened and Alfred entered. Jonathan looked up, swallowing as Alfred's face soured.

"Why's the safe open?" Alfred asked, eyes resting accusingly on Jonathan.

"We've been robbed. One of the maids." Bruce put his arm around Jonathan and pulled him against his side. "Perhaps you should stop letting them on this side of the house."

"Perhaps you should learn to make your own bed, then. What was taken?"

Bruce shook his head. "What was stolen isn't the point. She was after my fingerprints. There's print dust all over the safe." He turned his head and looked at Jonathan. "But, she's not going to do anything with my prints tonight. I'll look into it tomorrow." He looked back at Alfred. "Do you need anything else?"

Alfred glared at Jonathan. "Oh, so many things, sir." He inclined his head. "Good-night."

When Alfred was gone, Bruce rolled his eyes and smiled. "Get anything interesting from Miranda?"

"Not really. But she reminds me of someone."

"Who?"

He shook his head. "No idea. But I'll figure it out."

"I'm sure you will." He pulled Jonathan around. Kissed him. Fingers teased at the zipper to Jonathan's dress. "I believe you said that you had a present for me?"

Jonathan bit the corner of his mouth, heart beating. "Do you think Alfred's coming back?"

"Oh, no. He's gone for the night. It's just us."

Okay then.

He stepped back and reached behind him. Unzipped his dress and let it fall into a puddle around his ankles.

"Oh, Jonathan," Bruce groaned.

Jonathan smiled. Ran his fingers along the edge of his lacy white bustier, down the middle of his torso to the translucent panties before coming to rest at the top of his stockings. "Do you like it, Bruce?" he asked in Sugar's dulcet tones.

Bruce nodded.

"Do you think it's pretty?"

"I think you're pretty," said Bruce, voice hoarse.

A smile teased the corner of Jonathan's mouth. "Well, then. Come unwrap me."