Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?
Probably.
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"You were WHAT?!" Alexandera winced, regretting saying anything.
"Gene, I'm fine. It was only two weeks."
"Don't you downplay this! You were kidnapped! Are you okay? Were you raped? Did they get the guy? Noriko!" Alexandera could hear Gene making plans for The Chef to stay with them in Metropolis. "We can clean out the playroom, make it a guest room, you're not staying there anymore."
"Slow down, Afro Samurai, I'm fine. I wasn't raped, I'm healing, and that guy shouldn't be bothering me anymore." That last part sounded weak, even to The Chef.
"Healing?" The Chef sighed, cursing her somewhat honest nature.
"I... may have had a bullet in my shoulder." There was a thud, Gene probably dropping the phone, if his distant shout of 'SHOT?!' was anything to go off of. When the phone was handled again, it was Noriko.
"Are you a secret agent or something? You're very calm for someone who went through trauma." The Chef laughed, trying to cover it as a cough.
"I'm fine really, all things considered; I've had worse in the past." Gene could be heard in the background, voice high pitched as he mocked The Chef's words.
"Dammit, Lexie, you're so fucking... I don't think there's a word to describe how much stress you generate!"
"Wow, I made Gene curse, I hope Womb Nugget heard you."
"She's with her grandfather right now. Do you have everything under control there, though? Medicine, someone to help you in case you need it?"
"Yeah, the Boys have been looking out for me." Alexandera wasn't about to say which boys.
"Then just give us a call every other day or so, just to let us know how things are coming along." Gene spluttered on the other end.
"Ko, we can't just leave her there!"
"Sweetie, she's fine. Lexie is a grown adult, and a bad ass." The Chef interrupted with a 'damn right' before Noriko continued. "Just make sure if you feel overwhelmed, call someone, go to therapy."
"Yeah, yeah, I've got some shrink friends, I'll be alright." With great protest from Gene, they said their goodbyes before hanging up. The Chef, thankful she never told Gene her address. Didn't need them pulling a Damien and showing up unannounced. She already had one unexpected guest today.
"I've never would have expected you and Gene." Lex walked into the living room- the sleeves to his smart button-down rolled up to his elbow, suit jacket hung on a chair- holding a glass of amber liquid towards The Chef which she took gratefully.
"No one did, back then." Alexandera tried to savor the whiskey, but failed, tossing back the full glass. "Thanks for the liquor. Doctor Horrible apparently threatened Marcus into cock blocking my booze intake."
"My pleasure, Miss Fox, though I do need to get going."
"What? Didn't you come just to see little ol' me?" The Chef gave a shoddy pout. She never did have a good puppy face, scowl too ingrained in her lips. "I'm hurt."
"You know if I could, I'd be wining and dining you, but you need rest, and I need to finish business with Wayne."
"Oh? Bruce Wayne?"
"Have a crush? Do I have competition?" Lex grinned as he slid on his suit coat, adjusting the buttons.
"Fuck no. Give him hell." Lex chuckled, heading to the door.
"As My Lady wishes." He was already out the door, the pillow hitting the wall next to it, The Chef hollering.
"I'm not a lady!"
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The Chef had made a few escape attempts, after the first three days, but was thwarted every time. The neighbors were on Marcus's payroll, Riddler's girls had apparently been keeping an eye on her, and the last time she got drenched in the ever-present rain of Gotham, the late March rains cold. An old belief in the rule of three spooked The Chef enough not to tempt fate anymore. Accepting she was bound to her apartment until she was okay enough to work, The Chef busied herself. She ordered a dresser, finally, and with some help from Jervis, who visited every day, she put it together, before promptly kicking him out. Jervis was sweet, but his hovering was starting to grate Alexandera. Knowing it was in good intention, she chose to kick him out saying something about her period, instead of the alternative, snapping at him in frustration. He left a red mess, the blush and sputtering making her snicker once the door was closed. Men never seemed to handle a period well.
Alexandera took her time organizing her clothes. Tossing out old clothes she forgot she had that were too small, putting away the beautiful outfits Lex had gifted her, shoving stained clothes from work in a corner. Damien kept his promise so far, dropping by before the sun rose each morning, always as Robin. He never came in, just sat on her fire escape until she noticed him. All Alexandera would do to show she'd seen him was switch the light on or off, and he'd disappear. A grappling hook, Damien had shown it to her last time he was there.
The fifth day, after losing resoundingly at chess against Riddler, The Chef began the process of deep cleaning as best she could, putting Edward to work on dusting corners too high for her to reach with her arm in a sling.
"I didn't know you smoke." Edward was holding an old pack of cigarettes in his hand, taken from the top of a bookshelf. The plastic wrapping still sealed around the package.
"Yeah, no. I quit a few years ago. That's my emergency pack; in case I really need it." The Chef used her foot to kick a box of old bills to the side, trying her best to sweep with one arm.
"I'm surprised you haven't opened it yet, considering recent events." Alexandera shrugged, bending slightly to sweep under her coffee table.
"Honestly, I wasn't too worried."
"Why not? You had no way of knowing we'd come to your rescue." Edward returned the pack of smokes to its perch, grabbing the dustpan.
"Nah, I knew y'all would come. I'm the only one who'll put up with your shit." The Chef swept the dirt into the pan, kicking the box of bills back into place. "I've accepted the fact I'm in this for life."
"Really? Thought you had a chance of leaving?"
"Nope. Beating your ass that first time, I knew if I tried to leave, your vengeance would be swift."
"My vengeance?"
"Some demented Wheel-of-Fortune shit."
"Come now, if anything it would have been Jeopardy." The Chef actually laughed at that, knocking his arm with the broom handle, before putting it in a corner.
"What is bullshit?"
"None of us expected you to stay." Edward grabbed a near empty can of pine sol, spraying the stained table. "Or actually go along with it for so long."
"Yeah... Neither did I, but..." Alexandera grabbed a fresh trash bag from under her kitchen sink. "I don't mind. Y'all ain't so bad. Crazy, but anyone who lives in Gotham is."
"Don't tell that to Joker, he doesn't like being called crazy."
"Don't tempt me."
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The seventh day, Jonathon came by to inspect her wounds.
"You're healing well, but you can't keep trying to use your arm yet. Give it more time." His glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose as he wrapped fresh gauze around her shoulder. The Chef huffed in annoyance.
"I don't like having to ask for help. I know my limits."
"I'm sure you do, Miss Fox, but there are plenty of people who are willing to help, if you just ask."
"I'm bored, Jekyll. I tried calling Marcus so I could at least be at the diner."
"You would insert yourself in the kitchen, exasperating your wound more. The less you use your arm, the quicker it will heal, the quicker you can return to work." With the last of the tape in place, he stepped back, respectfully looking away as The Chef put her shirt back on. It would have been nice, him respecting her privacy, if it weren't for the chill literally running the length of her arm.
"Dammit, Hyde, stop!" The Chef swatted her hand in the air, but the chill didn't leave. Simply moved to the other side of her body.
"Fascinating. You can actually feel him." Jonathon watched as The Specter's horrific fangs stretched in a demented grin, trailing his spindly claws down her arms, The Chef swatting where he was, but never truly touching him.
"Kinda wish it was just a personality thing, not a tag-along. Fucking-" The Chef grabbed her hair away from The Scarecrow, whose hand started to tug on strands. "Stop! I'm tender-headed."
"More like hardheaded. Tell her Jonny-Boy." The Specter turned his gaze to Jonathon, the black pupils floating in a glow of red watching expectantly. Crane sighed.
"I'm not your mouthpiece."
"What?" Crane adjusted his glasses, delaying his answer.
"He called you hardheaded." Crane tried not to smile as The Chef huffed, grabbing an oversized hoodie, flipping the hood over her head. The Specter hovering, tugging on the sleeves, The Chef crossing her arms and holding the hood in place. "Would you like dinner?"
"Yeah, mind picking up some pho?"
"Same as the last time? Spicy?" Jonathon was already slipping on his disguise, it wasn't dark enough for The Batman to be roaming, but he was careful. "I'll be back shortly." Jonathon expected his Specter to return to him.
"I'm gonna keep an eye on the mouthy Bitch. Take yer time." Jonathon raised a brow, but decided against saying anything, curious as to what would happen. The Chef sighed when the door closed, thankful for the small reprieve, walking into the kitchen for a drink. She had enough time to sneak a glass of whiskey Lex had left her before anyone could catch her. When she returned to the couch, The Chef noticed her TV was on. She ignored it, too lazy to get back up, and not bothered by it until the sound increased, the static loud. It was then Alexandera realized the chill hadn't left with Crane.
"Dammit. What do you want?" The Chef asked into the air. Her finely organized stack of movies fell over. "Ugh. Hold on, you fucking spook." The Chef got up again, walking back to her kitchen, rummaging through her junk drawer, coming back with a notepad and pen, slamming it on the table.
"Quit making a mess and use your words." She didn't expect anything really, so was surprised when the pen hovered a moment, before scratching against the paper, the Specter writing.
'Bored. Movie. Horror.'
"Alright, hold on." The Chef gave an exasperated huff, before mulling over her movies. She had some horror, but it was older stuff, Hammer Films, old black and white movies, but she did have one in mind. "We're watching Bubba Ho-tep. Bruce Campbell B-movie horror cheese." And that's what Crane returned to. The Chef and The Specter, both cackling madly at the "horror" movie on the couch. The notepads page filled with insults to the movie, and The Chef defending it, hoodie still on to fend off the chill. Not that she noticed.
.
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Jervis, despite his hovering was a blessing. He was the most active in caring for The Chef, but she was most thankful for the semblance of normality that his impromptu tea parties brought. They sat at her coffee table, using pillows as seats.
"Would you care for more?" Jervis held the teapot aloft, gesturing to her cup.
"Sure, go ahead." Her cup was topped off, and the conversation resumed.
"So, will you be returning soon?"
"Yeah, I'll be good enough to work whether they like it or not. I can't sit here forever. I can't even go shopping without someone popping up and corralling me back here."
"We care about you, Alice. We just want to ensure your well-being." Hatter took a small bite of a scone The Chef had bought.
"Jervis." The Chef tried not to put too much frustration in her voice.
"Yes, Dear?"
"Alex. Not Alice."
"I'm quite aware, my Dear. You're Alex." Jervis smiled widely, the little gap in his teeth more pronounced.
"You called me Alice again."
"Yes. I did. I'm not down the Rabbit Hole now."
"Then why did you call me Alice?" The Chef was genuinely confused. He wasn't in the throes of Wonderland...
"You're my Alice. It's more of a title, a term of endearment for me. You're not THE Alice, just my Alice." Jervis smiled at the flabbergasted look on The Chef's face.
"Uhh... What?"
"My Dear, it must be obvious." He reached forward, grasping her hand once she had set her cup down. "You're my Alice. My Dear. I will not always be so clear headed as I am now, so I wish to let you know before I return to Wonderland." The Chef wasn't expecting the loving look in his eyes, how gentle his hold was.
Nor did she expect him to raise her hand, kissing the back of it softly.
So much for normalcy.
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Day ten, and The Chef was still pacing a rut into her floor. The whiskey bottle in her hand near empty, she had tried to make it last, but The Hatter's confession had emptied it. That, and the pack of smokes.
No, it wasn't obvious. Jervis was certainly more affectionate then she was used to, but she had chocked it up to her not being affectionate herself. She stared at the hand he'd kissed, cigarette burning. The wind howled in through the open window, rain pouring outside. It wasn't obvious, but now she couldn't ignore it. Caught up in her thoughts, the knock on her door made her jump.
"Come in!" No one answered, and no one came in. Odd. The Chef grabbed the vial Jonathon had left her, a refill of fear gas, before walking to the door and opening it. No one was there, and the hall was empty, but there was a box on the ground, sealed and marked by the postal service. She didn't remember ordering anything, but she could have ordered something in her drunken haze last night after Jervis left. Lifting the relatively light box, she brought it in, locking her door.
Grabbing a knife, she sliced the box's tape, opening it.
A red helmet sat in the box, cracked. A note sitting on top.
Your trophy. - R.H. J.T.
Fuck.
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It's happening! It's no surprise Jervis would shoot his shot first.
So, two people are VERY close to guessing what The Chef's fear is, but no one has been one hundred percent yet. I'll be picking the winner after the next chapter, so be warned!
Thank you King of the Dwarven Bards for beta-ing this chapter!
Stay safe, The World would be bleaker without you.