Out Hunting

[Barbara Gordon]

Tapping the tip of her pen against the table, Barbara had begun to grab the attention of her younger siblings while her eyes scanned the apartments for rent. Hunting for an apartment in Gotham was hard enough as it is, without the woes of having to double check with her family where it’s located. That was probably the worst of it all – the looks on her parents’ faces when she said the street name or district. There were cases where she simply wasn’t able to call the landlord to talk to them because her father declared it a ‘no’ and her mother gave no words of help. Her foot was shaking with the aggravation of needing a place, wanting to move out of her family’s small apartment and unable to find a place that made everyone happy.

“UGH,” she groaned loudly while slapping her pen on the table and lifting her head towards the ceiling. Her brother immediately let out a giggle causing a playful glare to be broadcasted his way; he, in his years of knowledge, turned and made a run for it while Barbara fumbled out of the chair to chase him down.

“Aurora!”

“Oooh, mom…” she grunted out as her hand nearly missed her brother’s full head of blonde hair and she spun around to face the red headed woman. Her teeth clenched inside her jaw at the name, but she had long learned not to fight her mother on her birth name. Like she did years ago as a teenager, she crossed her arms defensively and raised her light colored eyebrows on her head, physically asking her what she wanted.

“Have you found an apartment?”

“I’ve found plenty,” she shot back with the same serious tone, her arm leaving the tight cluster across her chest to wave at the dinner table. “But you guys keep denying them all!” When she finished her lead on sentence, her mother rolled her eyes and the younger red head grabbed her long pea coat, wrapping it around her body with a sigh.

“I’m going to get more newspapers and some magazines. I’ll be right back,” Barbara sighed in a defeated manner, trying to diffuse the fight before it escalated and kissed her mother on the cheek before leaving the door. Closing it behind her, a natural roll of her eyes occurred and she close to ran down the stairs into the street before her mother changed her mind. Stepping out of the apartment complex, she took in a deep breath – which was a huge mistake. She immediately gagged on the garbage smell and pulled a white handkerchief (aka tissue) from her pocket, covered her mouth and stormed off the dirty street.

As she turned a corner, she grabbed the apartment magazine for a cover, paid the yellow toothed man with a look of moderate fear on her face before marching down the street for some sort of distraction.

[Bruce Wayne]

Bruce Wayne, the provincial libertine, was always good for a distraction. In fact, it was one of the few things that he prided himself on. The flippant immaturity he delivered to those in Gotham who cared enough to notice it was incorrigible. He bought things that weren’t for sale, said things that were decidedly not policitically correct and expressed opinions that he knew well but which weren’t entirely his own. Every so often, however, these things all became a bit much for the real Bruce to stomach and he found an ever increasing need to get out. It was in these rare but natural daylight moments that he felt like a caged animal and began to wonder if he was really doing any good by dressing up and slipping into the nighttime shadows of the city. It was in these rare but natural daylight moments when he felt the express need to be free. Unfortunately even whilst being uninhibited, Bruce couldn’t help but make an impression.

He had left the underground parking lot beneath Wayne Tower that morning leaving a flurry of business people staring after him as he zoomed up the ramp and into the streets of the business district on the back of his red Ducati motorcycle.The high-performance engine emitted a finely-tuned whine as he weaved expertly between the gridlocked cars. Revving the engine with a flick of his wrist as he pulled in the clutch to hover at the head of a traffic light column, Bruce staged a glance at the sedate beige Mercedes on his right. The woman behind the wheel curled her lips in an unimpressed expression and glared at the face undoubtedly behind the mirrored visor of the black helmet. As soon as the lights dropped to a green he shot out of his idling position like a rock out of a slingshot, the front of the bike proving too powerful and he controlled the torque into a long, arrogant wheelie.

Taking a planned detour, he flew past the Gotham City PD building and down the sloping causeway that lead past the Vauxhall Opera Shell. He normally avoided this part of town when feeling anything other than ‘flighty’, but today he ignored the transition of the business sector into high-rise housing as he geared down through the projects. Gordon’s place was out on Tricorner Island, and as Bruce sped up towards Dixon Docks he flipped up the visor of his helmet and let the salty tang of the ocean invade his nostrils. It was chilly for an Autumn day and even beneath his polo and black leather bomber combo Bruce could feel the biting breeze that crept in from the channel. He had to hand it to Gordon. Not every cop could be made Police Commissioner and not let it go to his head. Rather than living in government-appointed housing in a cushy building close to the PD, Gordon had opted to remain in his adequate accommodation near the shipping yards. Bruce was largely a creature of habit as well, so he could understand the sentiment and safety found in one’s familiar surroundings.

As he turned into the avenue that was stocked with redbrick apartment buildings and the usual conveniences that Gordon considered his ‘home-turf’, his ever-wandering eyes caught sight of a young woman with red hair wearing a pea coat striding confidently along the sidewalk. With a grin that was concealed by the lower half of his black helmet Bruce revved the engine of his bike he pulled in beside her, clutch at drag point so that he could follow along slowly as she walked. “Excuse me,” he asked politely, his green quinting slightly. “Do you know the quickest way to get to the Yacht Basin from here?” Knowing full well the Yacht Basin was located on the complete and utter opposite end of town, he waited for a respons. Hey, it had worked for Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, right?

[Barbara Gordon]

Grabbing glimpses of the city Barbara once had to run from, she attempted not to look like a tourist, though anyone visiting this city for a vacation was a lunatic. Something about Gotham’s skyline felt like home no matter how corrupt, ridiculous and crazy the city became around her. Stuffing the tissue and magazine into her pure, she started searching for the half empty gum pack she had tossed in the bottom of her purse. Struggling to find her source of freshness, her pace began to slow down and she maneuvered around a few passers-by without looking up. Just as her fingertips seemed to recognize a small package, she heard the voice from the side of her ask for directions and while her face was still hidden in the downward direction of the purse, she rolled her eyes.

Did he think he was the first man to figure that out? That asking a woman for directions when he most probably was not lost was a good ice breaker? Or did he simply think he was the first with her? Not only that, but the creepass was following besides her on, no doubt, a beat up motorcycle! Ugh, men were ridiculous. While her face was still concealed by her fallen hair while looking into her purse, she rolled her eyes and grabbed the gum. Letting her fingers fiddle with the package for a piece, she took in a deep breath in preparation for a long “no”. Turning her head to her left, she lifted the gum package to point it at him and opened her mouth … but nothing came out.

Oh my, he was not the usual perv of Gotham’s streets. The “no” had been prepared for some over weight, balding, yellow and / or missing toothed man with a stained shirt and jeans from high school; obviously, Miss Gordon hadn’t had the greatest luck with Gotham’s men in the past. This – this man was entirely different, despite his face being hidden under the helmet… which could be a sign. Making a mental note of that, she pushed the piece of gum into her mouth to avoid looking like a slack jawed moron, and gave the bright red motorcycle a small shrug.

“I usually walk,” she admitted honestly, letting her eyes wander only briefly over the bodies of the man and bike before looking forward again. Dropping the package back into her purse, the moment of silence allowed her to realize her pulse was rising. Cursing herself, she kept her normal pace besides the bike and slipped a hand into her coat pocket. She might be smart enough not to jump at any man’s calls, but she wasn’t arrogant enough not to flirt and boost her ego. “Or take a cab.”

[Bruce Wayne]

There was something honest about the way she scrambled through her purse. Bruce, who was usually a good judge of character, noticed it from the off. She was the kind of girl who wasn’t afraid to say what was on her mind or go after what she wanted. It was in the confidant stance she adopted and the way she finished what she had started doing before allowing her attention to be diverted by a stranger. When she finally turned to answer him, he allowed the amusement that he already felt at her expense bubble over and manifest itself as a tiny snort of laughter, barely audible thanks to his helmet. As she relented to her gum and Bruce gave in to his arrogant side, he revved the engine again and zoomed ahead perhaps 15 yards before he pulled in to the kerb. Leaving the bike running he unclipped his helmet and pulled it off, running a hand through his hair before she could catch up to him.

“Ever taken a bike?” he asked the approaching woman with the hint of a roguish smile. “I need to be there by 10…” he pretended to steal a glance at his watch. “And it’s 9:47.” He paused, looking around at the city surroundings as though he were trying to get his bearings. If he hadn’t been scaling the building on the corner last night he might have even felt like he was out of his depth. “I wouldn’t normally ask,” he told her. “But it’s kind’ve a big deal.” He held the helmet – the only one he had with him – out to her imploringly. “Please? I’ll be your best friend.”

[Barbara Gordon]

At first the loud noise of the engine was unwelcoming, as it sounded harsh and aggressive. It was hard to remind oneself that inanimate objects didn’t express the person’s true feelings, but her eyebrows flinched at first when the noise reached her left ear. Her curious eyes darted to the side to see him speed in front of her and for a split second she felt a sense of disappointment he was leaving. Barbara did her best to hide that on her face with some moderate success, but when he jolted the handlebars to pull up to the curb, she did not do well to hide her surprised expression. Her eyebrows lifted and the chewing stopped momentarily to eye the bike before her feet continued towards him like a bad game of chicken. Instinctively her hand tightened on her purse – which made no sense because by the looks of that motorcycle, he was in no need of money. A small grin flashed on her face as she realized what he was doing and, attempting to maintain the cool behavior standard she had set up, she gave him the ‘your-face-better-be-good’ look.

Which, of course, it was.

It took a lot of effort not to open her mouth and let out a grunt, like she often did when walking the streets and noticed an attractive male. Her friends had caught onto this loud habit of hers and began mimicking it, as it was a great signal that someone hot was spotted. Facing the very man she would grunt at, however, meant no noise was socially possible. Clenching her jaw tightly to avoid that awkward situation, she walked up until about a meter from the bike and spotted walking, putting her free hand on her hip. A red eyebrow lifted at his continued persistence (meanwhile losing herself in his forest like eyes) and his statement did make her realize something: she had never been on a bike before. Releasing her grip on her purse, she reached out to grab the helmet with a wider grin on her face and leaned in.

“How about this?” she began in a serious but playful tone; if she was going to walk away from this with dignity (and hopefully her first bike ride), she was going to risk it by calling him out – there was a moment’s pause for a silent prayer this worked. Because if he really didn’t know where he was going, this would turn very awkward very quickly. “You stop pretending you don’t know where to go, and I’ll let you drive me around.”

[Bruce Wayne]

Bruce, straddling his bike with his hands on his thighs and his eyes on the girl, definitely had to hand it to her. At first she had seemed lost, fumbling in her purse in this part of town wasn’t exactly a wise idea. The tell-tale grin she had graced him with, followed by the coy manner of her address and the bold words she expressed amused him no end. He squinted up at her in the midmorning sun-haze as she took the helmet, his smile accompanying the cheeky tone she’d already set. His mossy hued eyes connected with her arctic ones as she leaned in, and he wasn’t able to stop himself from laughing in time. A handsome kind of snort was just audible over the idle purr of the engine and he shrugged, betraying the blow his ego felt at being overpowered – for now.

Raising his eyebrows as he seemed to consider her proposal, Bruce nodded. “Sounds fair,” he agreed, with a grin of his own as he scooted slightly forward to allow the girl room on the pillion seat. Leaning back and to the right, he flicked out one of the footpegs before doing the same on the left, looking up at the girl again when he was done. “Your carriage awaits,” he told her, gripping the handlebars with his gloved hands and rolling his right wrist forward to bring up the revs while carefully balancing the clutch with his left digits.

[Barbara Gordon]

Watching each movement in his face, her stomach returned to its normal position as he indicated she had been right. Unwilling to let her face betray her, she let the grin widen in her accuracy but she had silently thanked Lady Luck and anyone else listening. It wouldn’t have been the first time Barbara had made a fool of herself to a stranger, but it wasn’t as if she was looking to keep adding to that number. Her eyes lingered on his face even when he looked away and prepared the bike for her arrival. Her fingertips rubbed on the helmet while she realized just how handsome this man was and how dangerously risky taking a ride with a handsome man was.

Ignoring her intuition, a very unfortunate trait at times, she donated a small laugh to his comment and carefully stepped onto the footpeg with her right foot. Swinging her left leg over, oddly similar to getting on a horse, she firmly situated herself behind him and then took the time to put on the helmet. As it was raised to her face, she momentarily stared in to see any signs of sweat (none, so far) and then slipped it over her head. Pulling it down, she clipped the helmet securely on and leaned forward.

“Be gentle,” she announced over the roar and incorrigible revs. “It is my first time.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the sound of it, not because it was her first time on a bike however. After years of watching others ride in pairs, she knew where her hands had to go and didn’t hesitate to wrap them around the man’s lower chest. Barbara was much more concerned about not falling off and dying than the implications of hugging a stranger from behind. She did have a short image of her father popping out of no where, guns at the ready and yelling at her for being so stupid. Somehow, that only encouraged her to want this ride even more.

[Bruce Wayne]

With his practised suave grin already in place, Bruce looked back once over his shoulder to ensure that his new friend was settled in before he saw a break in the traffic. The confident hands overlaying his leather jacket made him want to shake his head at her sassy comment but he merely smirked to himself, releasing the clutch and squealing the back tyre as his bike struck main street like a viper attacking its prey. He changed gears flawlessly, snaking between cars and all other manner of street machines with ease until they pulled up smoothly to a red light. Upon slowing his brown hair fluttered in the breeze caused by the speed and fell back to his head, flopping again as he looked at the sassy redhead in one of his side mirrors.

“How are you holding up back there?” he asked her, mindful of the shaking head of an old lady in a car right next door. Offering the onlooker a wink which only served to infuriate her more, Bruce arrogantly didn’t wait for the answer to his question as the light fell green. He took off again, the g-force of gaining so much speed in such a short amount of time causing the pair to sit closer than strictly proper as they zoomed through the outer skirts of the city and onto the highway that would lead out to Wayne Manor. He deliberately avoided his original plan of going out to the Yacht Basin; she had known he was lying and he might as well check on the progress of the house while he was heading out of the city. The bike angled easily out onto the expressway and within minutes they were drifting through the green-tunneled woods that lined the road to his childhood home.

With a defiant roar the bike squelched to a stop on the pebbled drive in front of the large house, now almost rebuilt to its former glory on the outside. Inside was a different matter. The sound of saws, hammers and the like echoed from the large open windows and Bruce held the bike steady with his legs while the girl got off. He grinned at her impudently, wondering if she would be annoyed or thrilled by his motorcycle skills, or both.

[Barbara Gordon]

“Shit!” she whispered under her breath as the motorcycle took off and her arms clenched around the man. She immediately dipped her head down and closed her eyes, completely unaware how fast these things could take off (despite hearing them constantly out her window). Perhaps it was naïve to think he wouldn’t show off while she was on. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head and opened her eyes to enjoy the view, no matter how fast it was going by. It didn’t take too long for her to settle into the speed, which, of course, was just as he started weaving in between cars. Barbara’s eyes widened as she realized she was sitting on the vehicle her father complained about often. She grinned at that thought and at the few faces she caught of angry drivers and surprised passengers.

Her grip lessened as she felt the bike slow down and her head was facing the direction of the aggravated old woman. She laughed to herself quietly and glanced about the area, trying to get a good idea of where they were and where they were going. When he asked her, she purposefully did not respond immediately in hopes that silence was the best answer for such a ridiculous question. When the few seconds settled in, she opened her mouth to respond when the bike drowned out any hopes of a reply and zoomed forward. Almost swearing again, her arms collapsed around him once more, tighten than before and her eyes grew three times their size. The force of their ‘take-off’ caused his own body to shift uncomfortably close between her legs and though she felt the rush of blood to her cheeks, she enjoyed it all the way. Not needing to lean that forward, she grinned and shouted over the roar: “Are we in a hurry?”

As no response was necessary and she didn’t expect one, she used the rest of the ride to watch where they were going. As the green shaded their stroll, she quickly realized they were just about leaving Gotham all together. Her eyebrows furrowed as she wondered his intentions and with slight worry, as he was her only ride back (well, unless she embarrassingly wanted to call Da – nope, not an option). Her head was initially turned away from the house they were approaching and when he announced their arrival with a tire roar, she turned her head to see the sight. She slowly lifted the helmet off her head and stepped down, her legs slightly wobbly from the ride, so she put a hand on his arm while she stared. Silent for about a minute, she turned back to him, still not entirely aware of his identity and the situation.

“Is this the new Wayne mansion?”

[Bruce Wayne]

Knowing full well from experience the jelly-leg syndrome one often happened upon after not riding for a while (or ever, in this beautiful stranger’s case) Bruce lifted his own hand to her elbow in an attempt to help her regain her land-legs. He looked around, craning his neck to see the house over his shoulder as though he hadn’t realised it was there. He had forgotten the impact his father’s home often had on people who hadn’t seen it up close before. He looked back to the girl, her vibrantly red hair shining in the sun and he nodded nonchalantly. “Yeah,” he offered simply. “Two years in the making and they’re only just getting the inside finished.”

He looked at the house for the first time, or that is perhaps to say that he really saw it for the first time. With the large stately columns that upheld the first floor balcony and the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conservatory that nestled itself above the garage it was quite a site to be seen, gleaming white masonry and sensible black tiled roof shining in the sun like a castle from some fairy tale still waiting for its happily-ever-after. “Those columns are the originals,” he heard himself saying, repeating a memorised lecture his father had given him years before. “They’re over a hundred years old.”

A lone gardener emerged from around the corner of the house industriously toting a small trolley over the building sand. In the trolley were a half dozen small oak trees, a shovel and other tools of his trade. Upon seeing the owner of the property standing in the drive he hastened his step, offering a smile and puffing out his chest. For all Bruce’s shenanigans, the Waynes were still highly regarded by many of Gotham’s citizens and once they had deemed the only living Wayne acceptable they seemed reluctant to relieve him of his elevation. If only they thought of Batman so highly, Bruce pondered wryly.

“There you are, Master Bruce,” the gardener greeted him, stopping short of the couple and eyeing the girl curiously as he wiped his grimy hand on his work overalls before offering it to the apparent homeowner. Bruce took it without hesitation and shook; a firm, grateful gesture. He appreciated the time of everyone who worked on the home his father had striven to provide for him. “You’re just in time,” the gardener was saying. “These are the oaks to shelter the conservatory. Would you like them evenly spread, or something a little less contrived?”

“Less contrived,” was Bruce immediate answer, remembering his father’s appreciation for the natural order of things. The gardener, pleased with this decision, nodded and went on his way to plant the saplings. Bruce looked at the girl standing by his side. “Sorry,” he apologised. “This won’t take long. They kind’ve want me to make a few decisions about things. I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?”

[Barbara Gordon]

Barbara was immediately impressed with the information of the columns. There wasn’t much in the United States that was older than fifty years, let alone one hundred. Her eyebrows lifted up as she eyed the splendid windows and columns, taking in the view with a small hint of jealousy. Not only was Bruce more rich than the city of Gotham put together, but he could afford to burn it down and rebuild a new one. What the city wouldn’t give to have that sort of money – but it would undoubtedly go into the pockets of criminals and cops rather than to those that truly need it. Squinting as some of the details, she initially ignored the gardener as he approached them, sincerely hoping he wasn’t going to ask what they were doing there.

She was, for lack of a better word, flabbergasted when he spoke to the mysterious man to her side. Her eyes widened slightly though she remained staring forward, trying to hide her shock. She had spoken with, insulted and rode with Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne? Ah, though she would laugh at this later, she certainly wasn’t now. When he turned to explain to her, she turned to him and poked him in the chest (playfully).

“YOU’RE Bruce Wayne!” she declared more than asked, wondering how this big piece of information had not only alluded his lips but blinded her. Her mouth dropped open to keep going, but she suddenly realized she hadn’t exactly introduced herself either. Raising a red eyebrow, she withdrew her finger and gave a sheepish smile, taking that same hand to scratch the back of her head.

“Yeah sure – I mean, no I’m not busy,” she stumbled briefly before turning her head away from him. Geez, flirting with this guy had been a lot easier before she knew he was Bruce Wayne.

[Bruce Wayne]

Bruce supposed it was easy for him to really forget sometimes that he was something of a celebrity. When his thoughts leaned on heavier crutches like social justice and how to right the wrong he saw in the world, something as silly as him being someone important paled into significance. It was a tool for him, something he used just like his car or his cell phone, and it was just something that – when he no longer had a use for it – could be cast aside. This sense of disposable notoriety had never weighed all that heavily upon him until now. The people who mattered had always known him for what he was and so he had accepted it as the norm. When people like this young lady at his side seemed surprised, even shocked, to discover his identity it tended to sadden and amuse him all at once.

“No,” he denied, straight faced as the gardener ambled off. A hint of his mirth hovered around the corners of his eyes, threatening to tug his lips into a smile that his heart probably wouldn’t feel. “That gardener has been crazy for years. They only keep him around because he has the most incredible green thumb.” Finally unable to help himself, Bruce smirked at her. “I’m glad you’re not busy,” he told her honestly. “This sort of thing is so boring, but someone has to do it. Maybe a new perspective would give me more of a taste for home decorating.” His overcast forest eyes swept over the facade of the house, wondering where to start and then realising, foolishly, that he should start at the beginning.

“My manners are atrocious, if you read the Times. I’m Bruce. And you are?”

[Barbara Gordon]

If she had read the Times? Hah, she had made a living out of reading the Gotham papers and none of them were friendly to him. Even when he donated money and helped rebuild parts of the city damaged by lunatics, they said he was trying to compensate for his playboy tendencies and mindless spending while the city suffered. It seemed most of the city had a jealous view of the man, though she did recall her father thinking a bit well of him – which was usually enough for her. Plus he didn’t seem as arrogant and womanizing as the papers would’ve wanted her to believe.

Glancing back to him, she smiled honestly as she realized he had dropped the awful act back when he picked her up. She liked this Bruce a bit more. Reaching her hand out, she may have liked the man so far, but decided all was fair play. He could go a little longer without knowing exactly who she was.

“Barbara,” she simply said with as the pair shook and she glanced over to the gardens in question. Nodding in their directions, she shrugged a bit. “Well, I’ve never had a garden before – there aren’t many in Gotham. But I’ll be happy to give my amateur opinion.”

[Bruce Wayne]

Luckily for Bruce Wayne, the immensity of his ego hardly depending on what some hack had to write about his assumed persona in the city newspaper. He did, however, play up to their expectations which served its purpose well. No one would ever suspect the rake that was Wayne to devote himself to a cause enough to don the mantle of Batman. He extended his arm to take her hand, surprised at the strength of her grip and the underlying determination in her gaze. Returning her smile, he followed her gaze to the gardens for a second or two before looking back to her. It seemed to him that something about the way she held herself reminded him of someone.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Barbara,” he said, slipping his hand into his pocket as he started to walk up towards the house. “And an amateur opinion would have to be better than mine. Although I’m not here to discuss the gardens.” Looking at his watch on the opposite wrist, Bruce noticed that he was a teensy twenty minutes late. Oops. He climbed the sweeping sandstone steps that lead to the imposing double front doors of his rebuilt family home, annoyed that he had ever bothered to recreate something he cared nothing for. This had been the house of his father, of his ancestors. They had never known Bruce, nor would they ever. Not even Bruce was sure he knew Bruce.

The door opened before his hand could leave his pocket to reach for the doorknob, a maid in a grey dress with a white apron standing immediately to one side to grant them both admission to the un-furbished home. Even in its hollow state Bruce could admit to himself that it was a house to be reckoned with; complete with furniture and the fine trappings of a man with too many dollars and not enough sense it would be downright frightening. A man appeared at the top of the stairs, a navy suit with a lurid, lime green tie waiting dramatically on the landing for Bruce to enter the house so far as to prevent easy escape. Fixed in the man’s regal eye, Bruce looked back to Barbara.

“Bruce Wayne!” the man called in a ringing tone that made Bruce wince. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for centuries. Time is style, and it ebbs away constantly my dear boy!”

Raising an eyebrow and waiting for Barbara to reach his side on the stairs, Bruce quirked a single mousy-colored eyebrow and tossed the woman a sly, softly spoken comment through the corner of his mouth. “Thank God I found you,” he smirked. “Last time I was alone with him, he asked me out on a date.”

[Barbara Gordon]

Barbara simply couldn’t understand how this man had gotten such a bad impression with Gotham. He seemed cordial, kind and had a decent enough sense of humor not to think she was a wacko at her reaction to him. Crossing her arms over her chest instinctively, she followed his lead both in step and eyes, glancing out over the gardens. However, when he admitted the pair wasn’t there for the gardens, Barbara stopped for a split second to stare at his back warily.

Great, this is why Gotham hated him. He was a rich, psychopathic serial killer with enough money to cover it up and enough charm to keep the woman flowing through his front door. Her arms tightened a bit as her imagination exploded with the real reasons the previous house had burned down:

The stories of his drunken escapades on his birthday were written everywhere among the social crème. He insulted them and threw them out minutes before the fire started. Immediately she imaged his bedroom full of Gotham’s daughters and prostitutes who were charmed to his bed. Someone walked in on him, someone of importance and he had to ruin the evidence before they revealed his dark secrets…

An eye squinted as she walked behind him, obviously not believing her own creative history for the man, but had absolutely no idea what he had meant. A small smirk had started forming in the right corner of her mouth at the image of this man burning his entire house because of that poorly written scene, so naturally when the stylist made his grand debut, Barbara’s mouth was in perfect position for a smiling mouth in open disbelief.

And, of course, he had to make a joke. Not wanting to offend the man by laughing at him, she grabbed Bruce’s arm and turned her face into it, trying to choke her laugh and hide the grin. Squeezing his arm, she found it much harder to stop than originally anticipated. This was also due to the fact that she thought he was some crazy mass murdering lunatic instead of trying to avoid the over zealous stylist. Putting her opposite hand on his arm to pat it as the laughter was barely dying down, she cleared her throat while pulling her head away, quirking an eyebrow while holding her mouth sturdy.

“Are you sure? I could always wait in the kitchen,” she asked rather loudly on purpose for the man to hear, trying to get him back for making her laugh at a stranger.