3 Tuesday

The bright glare of cloudy Gotham City can be blinding. Today was no exception. I grab my sunglasses (extra large to fit over my regular glasses), and set off for the train wondering why Gotham can never seem to have a normal sunny day. Once I arrive at Wayne Enterprises, my morning routine begins as per usual. However, to make up for the slacking yesterday, I skip my five minutes of space-out time. By 11:50 I had every newspaper dissected and filed. Enormously proud of my productivity, I got ready for lunch early. I was just set to leave when the elevator pinged. The archives are suddenly and unusually popular lately.

"Lyn! Have I got a story to tell you!"

I look up to see Mary tottering over in her high heels, a huge smile on her face and the day's reports clutched in her hands.

"You're early!" I exclaim, surprised, "I was preparing to go out for lunch."

"I know," Mary says excitedly, "I had hoped to catch you. I'll just leave these here and we can go get a sandwich at that new place around the corner."

"Actually I…"

"No arguments, you'll love this," Mary protests, plopping the reports on my desk and grabbing my hand. She drags me, still dazed, to the elevator. "I know how you like to collect stories."

"Stories as in people's stories, Mary," I argue, "Not just sensational news."

"Well this is bigger then sensational news. Cause it happened to me!" Mary says. I don't think there is any way of getting out of this. As we're walking towards the café I try to force some sense out of her.

"In one word, what exactly happened to you?" I ask desperately.

"Really really hot guy wearing all black and a ski mask on my fire escape" She replies.

"Okay, not one word…but I'll admit you've got my interest," I say.

We reach the sandwich place and before I can stop her Mary has ordered two salads, water, and fruit for the both of us, pulled me along to a table, and sat down. I don't bother telling her I haven't the taste for salads.

"Do you mind if I draw while we talk?" I ask, with a slight hint of misery in my voice.

"Don't you always?" She asks, oblivious to the growling hunger in my stomach, "Anyway, let me go back to the start."

"So, you know how I've been stuck in this crappy apartment across from the Major Crimes Unit building, right?" She begins, "Well…now I find out it might not be too bad after all because just last night it was the scene of an extremely horrifying yet thrilling police escapade."

"Depending on how you look at it, sure," I agree, giving up trying to catch her ecstatic hand gestures and ending up scribbling a blur across the page.

"It somehow involved that mustached cop guy, Gordon I think his name was," she continues, "Because I heard him yelling and then saw him from my window. But that's besides the point. The masked guy jumped - yes jumped! - onto my fire escape from the top of the MCU. It was the craziest thing. You'd have to be insane to even consider it. But maybe he was an escaped convict…"

"Or maybe a lost bank robber…" I opinion, gloomily submitting to the fact that Mary's mouth was also becoming a blur.

"Oh but he was well muscled! You wouldn't believe! And I could tell even through that thick black suit he was wearing. Of course, all I could see of his face was his mouth but I'm sure the rest looks just as nice." She lapsed into a few seconds of dreamy silence.

"Getting back to the actual story…" I prompt, but am secretly happy for the extra minute of sketching time.

"That's about it, really. He jumped onto my fire escape, hit the window with an awful pound, and then climbed to the roof. I still have no idea why it happened. But I have theories. And maybe you're right, maybe he's a misunderstood bank robber who…"

I tune out Mary's fantasies to ponder my own. The obvious answer would be that the guy was some kind of criminal. But perhaps that was too obvious. After all, if he had been dangerous, wouldn't the cops have perused more aggressively? Not to mention it probably would have made at least the police blotter in the newspaper. I sigh and rest my head on my hands. Too many mysteries were occurring lately. As an archivist, I prefer when everything is known. Facts don't have to be straightforward - in fact most often they are not - I just like to have all of them.

"Lyn, what's wrong? Headache? I know the best cure for those…" She glances down then picks up my sketchbook I had set on the table, "Oh god what an awful view of me. I hope that one gets destroyed. No offence but the first one you did of me was the best."

I look at the blurry, moving drawing and almost laugh. It manages to capture her personality better than anything I'd done before.

"It has emotion," I say, and before she can respond we're interrupted by the salad dishes appearing before us. I stare glumly down at the limp bits of green scattered across my plate and hope beyond all hopes that tonight's dinner at Earle's is at least edible, even if I can't stomach the company.

"Do you think I should still plan on switching apartments?" Mary asks, "I mean, I'm probably safest right next to the police anyway."

"I think if, as Wayne Enterprises' receptionist, you can afford a better apartment, and if nicer surroundings is what you want, then you should go for it. You'll never see the bank robber again anyway." I say.

"True," she thinks on this for awhile. Then her face lights up, "But speaking of hot guys, have you seen Wayne yet? He smiles at me every time he comes in. I think I'm in love."

"Or he's just nice," I say cavalierly. But simultaneously I'm wondering why I have to work for those smiles.

"Maybe," she concedes, "And my dating chances with him are probably just as high as with the masked man."

"If I see anything in the paper, I'll let you know."

"About Bruce Wayne?"

"No, the masked man," I say, lost in thought.

"I knew you'd be interested!" Mary says, triumphant.

"It's just…" I start but Mary's cell phone alarm starts beeping.

"Time to go! If I don't get back to the desk in five minutes the entire business might collapse to the ground," Mary beams at me and glides out of her chair, "It was nice talking to you, and seriously keep a look out for any hot guys in masks."

"Promise," I say, hauling myself up and dumping my sketchbook back in my bag. As we walk back to Wayne Enterprises, Mary gives me a complete run down on the pros and cons of a new planner software she's been trying. I politely listen, holding back temptation to brag about my simple-yet-effective checklist system. All it takes is a doc file and bullet points.

"I know you think planners are pointless, Lyn, but you only think that because you do the same thing every day. The business people I work with have busy schedules that change, sometimes on less than a day's notice." Mary says.

Sometimes I think she reads minds.

"I like my routine," I say.

"I know," she laughs. We part ways, her to the desk and me to the elevator.

I punch the down button and the door opens to reveal Bruce Wayne. I stand to the side to let him pass until I realize he's not getting out.

"Going down?" he asks, catching the door before it closes.

"Yeah," I reply, "I just…didn't know you were."

He makes something between a grimace and a grin, and nods. The result is an awkwardly silent ride down.

"What hobby have you taken up now?" I ask as we step into the Archives.

"BASE jumping," He replies with a smug smile.

"Base jumping?" I ask, completely lost.

"You know, Building, Antenna, Span, Earth, jumping. BASE jumping," he says.

I'm speechless.

"Someone's been doing their own research," I say.

"Yup."

"You enjoy shocking people, don't you?" I ask in jest.

A startled pause on his end of the conversation. We reach my desk and out of habit I start to lead him through the short way to the back elevator without realizing it.

"Care to explain what base jumping entails?" I question.

"Isn't that what your archives are for?" he returns, eyebrows furrowed in mock concern.

I have a sudden urge to poke him. Instead I hit the elevator button with a little more force than usual.

"I'll prepare a supplies and safety list for you when you return, sir," I say stuffily, in my best butler imitation.

"I wouldn't expect less," he says, smiling, "And I think I like the long way better."

I stand in front of the closed elevator for a while berating myself for being distracted. Distracted by Wayne one-upping my archives. I head back, the long way this time, and immediately begin researching BASE jumping (the first thing I found out was that the random words he was spouting actually made up the acronym for the hobby). Apparently BASE jumping is an extreme sport or hobby more dangerous than sky diving or parachuting, and has a tendency towards being done illegally. Wayne certainly enjoys illegal activities. I make my safety precautions list extra long and include some examples of jumps gone horribly wrong in the hopes of scaring him out of this new hobby. Though, considering he's a guy, and he needs something to waste his money on, the death threats will probably be alluring rather than off-putting. Then again, perhaps that was my intent. I also include the many illegal places to BASE jump from. The Russian student Ossovski's attempt to jump from the Eifel tower receives a special highlighter color. Or Bruce might prefer Meru Peak in India where the world record for highest jump was set. I print the papers out and set them aside. I note the time. Wayne's visit to Applied Sciences is rather long today. Suddenly a loud boom, followed by a rumble underneath my seat causes me to jump.

My heart racing, I clutch the desk and survey the damage. I had overturned Mary's neat, neglected stack of reports in my panic. When Wayne got back up here, I was going to have to have a word with him about appropriate, professional conduct. One does not go blowing things up when one is below the Archives department. What if the small quake had knocked over a filing cabinet? I was sweeping all the papers up into one heap, calculating the number of hours Wayne's mishap was adding to my schedule, when the hateful assistance button began to beep. Fuming, I storm off to the elevator.

"What in the world were you doing down there!" I demand.

'Who me?' His innocent look says.

"The boom came from the floor below, it must have been you. Or Mr. Fox, but I believe Mr. Fox has some sense," I said, making it clear that I felt Wayne, in contrast, was senseless.

"Sorry, Miss Pearl, I have no idea what you're talking about," He responds.

I glare at him while he looks on, blamelessly.

"Then have fun finding your way back," I hiss.

I turn on my heel, head off in an entirely new direction, and sashay between dozens of filing cabinets to my desk.

Half an hour later, after all the reports have been neatly rearranged, Wayne shows up looking miserable.

"Okay, you win," he says, leaning against the nearest cabinet, "I promise to never get on your bad side again."

Unfortunately for Wayne, the cabinet he's leaning on is the one I've been trying to get the janitor to fix for years. A sad, pitiful creak issues from the cabinet's metal joints and it groans to the ground, almost in slow motion. As this is happening, Wayne realizes what he's done, looks horrified, and tries to stop the cabinet. But he's too late. I scream, "No!" as the files spill out onto the floor in a horrible muddle. I'm too shocked to do anything, let alone berate the man who just ruined my night.

"Or maybe I'll just order directional signs to be put up down here," Wayne muses.

"Do you realize what you have done?" I ask, accusation dripping from my voice, "I have a dinner party to go to tonight. And now there is no way I'll be able to get my work done in time. I spent all of yesterday's lunch researching for you, and you repay me by knocking over a cabinet and making things explode underneath me."

"It didn't explode…just boosted at the wrong time," Wayne corrects me, nearly laughing.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, exasperated.

"Never mind."

I make my way towards him in the sea of papers, trying to salvage a few. I'm scrambling around sorting when I notice Bruce Wayne, Gotham's prince and billionaire, is on his knees helping me stack files. Maybe I judged his character a bit too hastily.

"Thank you," I say, albeit a little grudgingly, when we're finished.

"I'll have a new cabinet sent down by tomorrow," He responds and smiles reassuringly, "In the meantime the files should be safe enough on the floor. I promise I will not cause any more…explosions in Applied Sciences."

I laugh helplessly. Getting to my feet, I pick out the BASE jumping sheets and hand them to him.

"And…ignore the stuff about Europe's best BASE jumping sites. I've decided you're not that bad of a guy to have around," I add.

"Trying to get rid of me?" He asks, feigning hurt.

"Keep up the explosions and I could change my mind," I say.

Neither of us are able to maintain a straight face.

"Lyn," Chad's voice pulls me away from Wayne. The gangly, be speckled executive stands awkwardly near my desk, watching us with surprise.

"Are you ready to go?" Chad asks me.

"Is it that late?" I ask, "I mean, of course, just let me get my stuff."

It's an uncomfortable moment when Chad, Wayne, and I share an elevator.

"Bruce Wayne, this is Chad," I say, "Chad…well…you know Bruce Wayne."

"I remember you from the meeting I interrupted," Wayne tells Chad.

"Oh?…oh," Chad says, "You work in Applied Sciences now, right?"

Wayne nods. Suddenly his frequent visits are explained.

"Are you going to Mr. Earle's dinner party tonight?" I ask, desperate for conversation.

"Regrettably, no," he says, "Prior engagements."

"Regrettably?" I ask, "I'll gladly swap with whatever you're going to."

"I don't think you'd enjoy it," He says with a secretive look.

"Business?" Chad asks.

"Of a sort," Wayne agrees.

The awkward silence sets in again. Thankfully the elevator pings open and we part ways.

"Bruce Wayne! Lyn, do you know his reputation?" Chad asks when we are out of hearing distance.

"No," I reply, "And he was only helping me put back files he knocked over." I emphasize the fact that the destruction of order was Wayne's fault.

Chad sighs, "Let's go, we have to stop by your house for you to change right?"

"Right."

We get into his car and drive off in silence.

An hour later, me dressed appropriately in a long skirt and sweater, Chad and I stand before the door to Bill and Nancy Earle's mansion. The butler takes our coats and leads us into the sitting room. Being promptly on time unlike us, the four other couples invited are already there. Since all the seats have been taken, Chad and I stand uneasily next to the floor lamp, feeling like pieces of furniture ourselves.

"Chad, Lyn, nice to see you as always!" Bill says a little too loudly. At least he remembered my name.

We nod, and grin, and pretend we are glad to be there. The topic of conversation immediately pounces on us as the newest, most interesting people in the room.

"So how long have you two been dating now, six years?" Melissa, wife of Dave asks.

"Only f…four really," Chad stutters. I can feel my face going red. It's starting again.

"Four is a long time!" Eric, an up and coming executive and Earle's pet, comments.

"Have you been thinking about taking the next step?" Christine, ever the gossip, asks.

"Oh yes! It would be wonderful to have a wedding to look forward too!" Melissa adds.

Chad, next to me, is becoming increasingly uncomfortable and withdrawn. He begins to fiddle with the fringe on the lamp.

"Once you hit thirty, you know it's getting time to settle down," Bill advises, "I married Nancy when I was twenty-seven." He smiles and pats her hand.

"You're, what, thirty four now, Lyn?" Nancy asks.

Now I know I'm beet red.

"Twenty-nine," I reply. Ten years younger than you, Nancy Earle.

"Oh, sorry, I loose track of these things," she titters.

"But you must be nearing at least forty now , Chad," Dave says.

"Nearly," Chad admits. He's thirty-five.

Sick of their gossip and teasing, I take matters into my own hands.

"Actually we just got engaged!" I announce, plastering a big fake smile on my face and slipping my arm around Chad's (while conveniently stopping him from tearing apart the lamp). Chad turns to look at me as if I've just let off a bomb in front of him. The room is quiet for a few seconds as I try to communicate silently with my new fiancé, saying 'play along'.

He winces and then pretends to grin, "That's right," he says weakly.

We'll never make it as a couple.

"Wonderful," says Bill, looking a little confused.

"Shall we move to the dining room now? I believe everything is set," Nancy asks a little too brightly. The oddities, Chad and Lyn, are swiftly and thankfully forgotten.

Chad holds me back while the others head in, chatting about some new victim of gossip.

"What was that about?" he asks in a whisper.

"I had to do something, the lamp was dying!" I protest softly, trying to make a joke of the situation.

A puzzled look flicks across his face, then he sees the destroyed lamp fringe and he sighs.

"Don't worry," I say nonchalantly, "We can have a spectacular breakup in a couple months. It'll give them something even better to gossip about. And they'll hate me forever, and I'll never receive a dinner invitation ever again. It's a win-win situation."

"You're acting immature," Chad looks very disappointed in me, and retreats to the dining room without another word. Realizing that I might have unintentionally hurt my best friend, I follow him in, feeling a little chastised. During dinner I'm unusually quiet, my snide remarks kept to a minimum. Chad, meanwhile, seems to have grown somewhat of a backbone. He laughs and talks as if nothing happened. I'm the one picking forlornly at the unidentifiable food with whatever utensil is nearest. The rest of the party doesn't realize anything is amiss and carries on like before.

"Lyn, did the food disagree with you?" Nancy asks, her face full of concern.

"Not at all," I lie smoothly, "The duck was delicious! I just ate a large lunch." Then, with a loud rumbling, my traitorous stomach betrays me.

"Now that you mention it though, I am feeling a bit queasy," I say and start to get up.

"Don't worry. I'll show you to the bathroom," Nancy says, smiling at me and taking my arm.

"Thanks," I say. Inside I'm wishing she'd let me get lost in the mansion so I could make my escape. Instead she clings to my arm the entire way as if I was an invalid. I let myself into the bathroom and decide to wait for her to leave.

"Lyn?"

She's not leaving.

"Lyn, truly I only wanted to speak to you privately," she says from behind the door.

I pull out my pocket sketchbook (full sized got left in the car) from my purse and sit on the toilet, ready for a 'therapy' session. Maybe orange hoodie guy with a baseball cap was onto something.

"It's about you," she says.

My head jerks up from my sketch of the bathroom potpourri in surprise. "Oh?" I ask.

"Are you sure you're ready to marry yet? I'm just saying, you're haven't hit your peak yet in your career, and marrying Chad would be tantamount to throwing it all away. Before I married Earle, I had dreams of leading the fast paced life of a business woman myself."

I'm in Archives, where does this woman think I have to go?

"I speak from experience here," a bitter tone creeps into her voice, "I gave up my career for ten years married to Bill and look where I ended up. Without kids, even."

I knew the 'it's about you' was too good to be true. Potpourri drawing resumes.

"Lyn are you alright? You're awfully quiet," Nancy asks.

"I'm fine," I say, "Feeling much better." I pull open the door and slip my arm around hers "You don't need to worry about me, Nancy."

"You're a sweet girl, Lyn. And you have so much potential. A college education and an acceptance to medical school. Don't let all that work go to waste."

I had no idea she knew so much about me.

"I think it's a little too late," I say, smiling wryly, "Besides, they'd be lost without me down in archives."

She laughs and we walk, arm in arm, back to the dining room. A week ago, if anyone had told me I could be friends with Nancy Earle I would have laughed them out of Gotham. I'm not so sure now.

Before we go in I tell her, "If you ever need to talk, feel free to call me. I don't get out much, but I'm a good listener."

"I hear you're a good artist too," She responds, "Someday I'll need portraits painted of Bill and I for posterity's sake. You do take commissions, don't you?"

"You'll be the first," I respond, grinning like an idiot.

"That would be splendid," She says.

We enter the dining room giggling like school girls. The plates have been cleared and everyone looks ready to retreat to the drawing room.

"Chad and I should go," I say, "I'm afraid I am just too tired. It was a hard day of filing."

We walk to the door and when the valet leaves to get the car Chad confronts me about my time spent with Nancy.

"You two looked like best friends, what happened?" He asks.

"She doesn't approve of my marrying," I say, "And she wants to commission a portrait."

"That's great!" Chad exclaims, "Well…except for the marriage part."

"Yeah, it seems I have at least one person who will be on my side when we split up. Looks like I won't be sliding out of dinner invitations quite so easily."

Chad smiles, but the valet arrives with the car and we lapse into comfortable silence. On the way to my house we fall back on our usual topic of conversation: history. However, before we can reach the house my empty stomach makes another protest.

"Was that you?" Chad asks incredulously.

"I forgot," I said, "I'm starving. Lunch consisted of a salad with Mary."

"Do you have food in your apartment?" Chad asks.

"Of course," I protest, "But nonetheless, if you could drop me off at Sam's, I'd be much obliged."

"Sam's?" Chad asks, "Now? It's not safe!"

"It's Sam and Lawrence," I argue, "I'm safer there than at home."

Sam and Lawrence were Italian immigrants who came to Gotham and established a popular, underground restaurant. The place was known for the best spaghetti in town. In addition to being the favored dining spot of notorious mob boss Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone.

"Th…those brothers cater to thugs and mobsters…literally," Chad argues.

"Which is why I never eat inside," I explain patiently, "They reserve special tables in back for favored guests or guests who can't afford to be seen with types like Falcone."

I befriended the brothers over college breaks and when I moved back to Gotham City. Each brother lived with their families in the apartments below me. Sam, a large, intimidating man, was the reason I felt safe at night despite living in the narrows. Now in his sixties, Sam is the closest thing to a father I have left. Both brothers are extraordinarily gifted at cooking. When I first moved into my flat, I found myself welcomed by a heaping dish of lasagna. I fell so much in love with Sam's lasagna that I've gone downstairs to his family's apartment every Thursday since. We have an arrangement in which I watch the kids Cecil and Larry on the weekends in exchange for a couple free dinners. Sam is largely the reason why I've been able to stay in the narrows. When he discovered who I was, and what it meant, he tried to get me to move to a better part of Gotham. 'You're dad's famous for the good he's done, girl. There's not a family who he helped who wouldn't help you in return,' Sam said. When he realized I wasn't giving in, he promised to look after me. Thanks to Sam's reputation as the best cook in the narrows, and maybe all of Gotham, Falcone has an interest in keeping him alive and happy. And thanks to some casual suggestions of my closeness to Sam's family, I've been pretty much left alone. Of course, my undervalued, uninteresting job helps keep me fairly anonymous too.

"Here we are," Chad announced, slowing the car to a stop.

"Thanks," I said, "I hope I didn't embarrass you too horribly tonight."

Chad shakes his head sadly.

"Take care of yourself, Lyn," He says wearily.

I give him a soft smile and head around to the back of Sam's. As always the kitchen door is wide open. Bright, warm light and the usual din of family cooking drifts outside. I plop into the nearest open seat and wait for one of the brothers to notice they have an extra guest. In the corner of my eye I spot a dark shadow moving in the alley across the way. I cautiously get up and start backing towards the door when I recognize a patch of orange hood. Curiosity sets in and I make my way towards the alley. There, crammed in between the restaurant and another building, stands a tall dark stranger whom I've met before.

"Mysterious orange hoodie guy, we have to stop meeting like this!" I exclaim loudly, so as not to surprise him. He tenses and looks ready to dart away but he has no where to go. The alley is blocked by the restaurant's large trash bin. He remains facing the opposite direction.

"Are you shy as well as rude?" I ask, leaning against the dirty brick with my arms crossed. I have no intention of leaving until I find out who this guy is. I've had enough mysteries for a lifetime.

"Go away," he says gruffly.

"Or just rude," I say, "If that was meant to sound intimidating, it didn't."

"I suppose you think you're clever," he says, turning slowly around to reveal a face that has recently become very familiar.

"Bruce Wayne?" I scoff in disbelief.

He raises his eyebrows at me, "What are you doing in the narrows?" he sounds exasperated.

"Me? I live here!" I hiss in defense, "What are you doing here?" What little information I know clicks into place; fake companies, bizarre and deadly hobbies, "You're not working for Falcone are you?"

He makes a face, "Falcone? No!" He seems offended that I could even ask such a thing.

"Then what are you doing hiding in Sam's alley?" I ask.

"Sam?" he asks in return.

"A friend, he owns the place, don't change the subject."

"I'm not working for Falcone. I can't tell you everything, but I'm getting information for a friend in the DA."

"Information the police couldn't get?" I ask skeptically.

"No," he says, his tone making it clear this is his final word on the matter.

"Isn't it dangerous? Seems out of character for a billionaire to risk his own skin just to get information," I comment.

"I like to do things personally," he says.

A pause. Somehow, quiet moments always come up in my conversations with this guy.

"Did you get what you needed?" I ask hesitantly.

"I believe so," he responds.

"Well, since you're here then, let me treat you to the best Italian food you've ever had." I offer, gesturing towards Sam's back door.

"I can't stay," he says brusquely.

"I insist," I say, leading the way back to the outdoor tables. He follows, looking unconvinced.

"I highly recommend the fettuccine with marinara," I suggest, handing him the menu.

"And if you're worried about being recognized, take these," I say, passing over my large sunglasses.

He takes the sunglasses with a sardonic look and puts them on.

I snicker.

"What?" he asks.

"You look like a bug," I tell him.

He's about to pull the sunglasses off when Sam appears in the doorway. Wayne hastily pushes the glasses back up his nose.

"Lyn!" Sam cries in his great, booming voice. He tromps over and scoops me into a hug. "Hungry?" He asks.

"Famished" I say, smiling widely. Behind Sam, a waiter comes outside with a red-checked table cloth and candle. He whisks it across the table, throws down silverware, lights the candles, and smiles at me.

"The usual, Miss Pearl?" he asks.

"Of course," I say, "And Larry here will have the same." I wink at Wayne. I can feel his glare behind the sunglasses.

"Of course," the waiter says. He and Sam go back inside.

"Larry?" Wayne asks in a low voice.

"You're welcome," I say smugly, leaning back in my chair, "I assume you want to remain anonymous. You're not a people person are you?"

"You have no idea," he says.

Another pause.

"Romantic setting," he comments, grinning.

I look around at the grimy back alley, "It could use some flowers," I counter.

He nods, "Flowers would add color."

I pull out my sketchbook.

"You've got to be kidding me," Wayne says, groaning, "Do you ever stop?"

"Since I know who you are now, it hardly matters," I reply.

He reaches across the table and pulls it out of my hands.

"Hey!" I protest, sitting up to grab it. He holds a hand out to stop me and begins leafing through the pages with the other.

"Interesting," he says, deep in concentration over my sketchbook.

"No one has ever looked through it before," I say aggressively, hinting at him to give it back.

Wayne ignores me completely.

"How long have you spent on this?" He asks.

"I began my first sketchbook when I moved here six years ago. Mary was my first entry while waiting for my interview at Wayne Enterprises."

"Mary?"

"Wayne Tower receptionist. Perhaps you should learn the names of people you see every day."

He looks up at me for a minute, then back at the book.

"I know your name, Lyn," he says.

I'm not quite sure how to respond.

"I see Bruce Wayne isn't in here," he comments.

"I only draw people who are interesting. Orange hoodie guy is a million times more exciting than Bruce Wayne."

He looks up at me again, this time to smile. He closes the book and hands it back to me.

"Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't deign to talk to you anyway," he says in an arrogant manner.

"I'm sure he wouldn't," I agree.

We're saved from another lull in conversation by Sam who has returned with two heaping plates of spaghetti. I dig into mine like I haven't eaten in a week. Though, to be fair, it has been over 12 hours. I stab another forkful of pasta, deftly twist it around my fork, and am about to take a huge bite when I realize Wayne is watching me with an amused look on his face. I pause, sit straighter in my chair, hold the fork in such a delicate manner that would make Nancy proud, and eat the tiniest bit of pasta. I set the still full fork down and daintily dab at my mouth with my napkin (which I had pulled from the table where it had been resting improperly).

"I apologize if my manners are ruining your enjoyment of your meal," I say, imitating Nancy's voice.

"I've just never seen a woman eat that way," he says with a lopsided smile.

"You must not know many women, then," I tease.

"No, they probably save those manners for when they are not in my presence," he adds.

"Heedless of committing a social error by eating heartily in front of…Larry," I say pointedly, "I will continue doing so because not one hour ago I was sitting at Earle's dining table staring at the smallest portion of the most disgusting entree I could ever imagine." Then I proceed to pick up my fork and eat my spaghetti.

Wayne, meanwhile, is laughing at me.

"Might I suggest you do the same?" I ask, mouth full.

He grins at me and tries a bite of spaghetti.

"This is really good," he says, sounding amazed.

"Told you," I say.

A half hour later, full to the brim with spaghetti, and feeling like rolling home, Wayne and I leave Sam's. I'm burdened down with a take home tray full of the night's leftovers for later. Sam's policy is that one can never have too much food.

"I'll admit it. The upper side of Gotham lost when Sam decided to set up shop in the narrows," Wayne says as he walks.

"He didn't 'decide' to start his restaurant anywhere. Nor does he 'decide' to remain here," I argue, "Falcone paid for Sam's move from Italy. Sam's in Falcone's debt. If he tried to establish an upscale business in the rich part of town, he'd be in trouble."

"So he is a Falcone thug," Wayne says darkly.

"Yes and no. He and Lawrence have their own leverage. Falcone is addicted to their Eggplant Caponata. No one makes it quite like Sam." I say in the brothers' defense.

"A formidable cook then," Wayne concedes.

"And a formidable enemy," I add, "He helps me out sometimes."

Wayne looks at me oddly, "Why do you stay in the narrows?" he asks.

"Why do you disguise yourself in orange hoods and baseball caps to go sneaking around at night?"

"It's not the same. If it's a question of money…"

"It is not a question of money, Mr. Wayne," I say resolutely.

Silence.

"It's this house," I confide, stopping in front of the elegant, roaring twenties style mansion, long beyond repair.

"My father grew up here, and he remained here even after all his neighbors fled to safer parts. He refused to give in to the mob and relinquish his childhood home. He wanted to remember his roots, he used to say. I grew up here too. At least, I did until everything got so bad that he sent me away to boarding school," I explain.

"Boarding school?"

"In California. I despised the whole experience."

"What made you move back?"

I shrug, "I just did. Maybe I simply…wanted to see this house again. Of course, by then it had been converted to apartments. I live on the top floor now."

"Will you be safe walking up there alone?" Wayne asks.

I laugh, "Unless you're offering to accompany me home every night after work, Mr. Wayne…I'll be just as safe as ever."

He nods, "I will see you tomorrow then."

"I look forward to being educated in a new, death defying hobby," I reply.

He smiles.

"Goodnight," he says.

"Will you be okay walking home alone?" I call after him, grinning.

"I think I'll manage," He calls back.

"Can you explain what you were doing back there?" I ask in one last ditch attempt to solve more of the mysteries surrounding orange hoodie guy.

"I can't. Not right now."

"Someday?"

"I promise you," he says, dead serious, "once its over, I'll explain, everything." His voice contains a hint of determination and perseverance in face of a long night ahead.

"I get the feeling that'll be a long time in coming. Whatever it is." I respond softly.

I watch after him until he turns the corner, then head up to my own room for the night, thinking about his vow.

But I don't know if I can wait that long.