[fic] batman, "imago"
Jun. 13th, 2008 10:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
damalurbackupTITLE: Imago
CHARACTERS: Rachel, Alfred
NOTES: Set in the "Batman Begins" universe.
SUMMARY: Rachel pays a visit to an old friend.
IMAGO
She’s able to keep it to herself for a good long while, but the seed is there. It festers in the back of her mind and inflames her brain tissue and infects her life until she can’t ignore it any more.
She thinks about going to Bruce. Then she thinks about his eyes, steel eyes, wolf eyes, and how they are alternately shallow and hard but never something in-between.
She goes to Alfred instead.
-
It’s awkward, showing up like this. Once upon a time she had skinned her knees on these steps, racing up and down them with Brucie. Now she feels just feels intimidated, even though the house itself is only half rebuilt. It feels foreign. The dark doesn’t help.
Alfred answers the door, of course. As far as she’s aware, he’s the only staff member left, the only one to run this monstrosity. “Miss Rachel,” he says, and smiles at her.
“Hi, Alfred,” she says back, and barely refrains from scuffing her shoe against the doormat.
“Master Bruce isn’t home, I’m afraid,” Alfred says, but offers no excuse for where Bruce is. That’s okay. She’s glad she doesn’t have to listen to Alfred lie.
“Actually,” she says, and then spews the words out, “I’m here to see you. If that’s alright.”
Alfred is as solid as ever. “Of course, Miss Rachel,” he says, and leads her to the kitchen. She settles herself at the scuffed wooden table that is probably an antique, possibly worth more than her own apartment, and Alfred pours her a cup of tea, pours himself a cup of tea, and then settles across from her.
“Now,” he says. “What can I do for you, on this despicably gloomy night?”
“I know,” she blurts. Alfred gives her an inscrutable expression, and she adds, “About Bruce. I know about him.” Her eyes drop to her teacup; she twists it around on the saucer, fiddles with the spoon, adds a bit of sugar. She thinks about putting lemon in her tea. She doesn’t actually like lemon, but she’s always wanted to like tea with lemon, because it seems proper.
“I see,” Alfred says at length. “Well. How much do you know?”
She lifts her eyes almost shyly, just a hint of the fierce lawyer flickering around the edge of her gaze. “I know that he’s…” Her voice drops superstitiously, almost to a whisper. “He’s Batman.”
“Well,” Alfred says again, and then, impossibly, the corners of his mouth turn up. “It is something of a relief, I suppose.”
She finds herself smiling back in agreement as the anxiety rushes out of her. “Yes. But…how? And why? Did he just…get back from Europe or wherever he was and…?”
Alfred’s mouth twitches again at her rush of questions, but as he leans back to think his face schools itself into solemnity. “Master Wayne,” he says carefully, “is a man who prefers his privacy.” He fixes her a fierce look, as if he can bore his own loyalty into her. As if it is necessary. “I need hardly emphasize the importance of secrecy.”
“Of course,” Rachel responds, and she does understand, enough to know if Bruce’s secret were leaked then Alfred would be dead only moments before she herself.
“There’s not much I can discuss,” Alfred says. Rachel nods, and he sighs and sets his teacup down. “I suppose it’s reasonable enough to tell you that he wasn’t in Europe, at least not the whole time. As near as I can gather, he was either being a criminal or being trained in some obscure martial art. Probably both, at some point.”
This is…surprising. She’s talked to Jim Gordon enough to know that Batman can fight, and well, but being a criminal?
“He has scars,” Alfred adds. She realizes abruptly that this is even more cathartic for Alfred than it is for her, and the thought frightens her a little.
“Scars?”
“Mmm. Yes. Quite a number, actually, some rather ugly.” He pauses, sorting out in his own mind what he can tell her and what he can’t. “Master Wayne has always been a bright young man.”
“Irritatingly so,” she agrees.
Alfred chuckles a little. “Yes. His intelligence is rather daunting. I remember as a boy – but no, now’s not the time for an old man’s reminiscing. Suffice to say that after seven years he turned up in a small village in the Himalayas and told me that he had a plan to put fear into the hearts of criminals. He’d acquired a staggering array of skills while he’d been gone, too – everything from, oh, lock-picking to applied forensics to the aforementioned martial arts. And here we are.”
“Here we are,” Rachel echoes. They sit in silence long enough for Rachel to pour another cup of tea and add sugar.
“He’s not really Bruce anymore, is he? Not like…not like he was when I knew him. What everyone else knows as Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, is just an act.” The admittance is difficult.
Alfred looks a little bit like he’s a proud father and a little bit like he’s at a funeral. “That’s true enough. He’s very single-minded, is Master Wayne. There’s little room in his life for anything that doesn’t fit under the label of his mission.”
A sound escapes her that might be a sob. “There goes that childhood fantasy,” she mutters below her breath, but Alfred hears her. Of course Alfred hears her. He leans forward and takes one of her hands gently.
“Miss Rachel,” he says, and in his voice is a world of sympathy. “The boy you knew died at the age of eight, when his parents were brutally murdered before his eyes. The man who is left is paranoid, dangerous, driven, obsessive, sometimes angry, occasionally depressed, and in no way a suitable companion for a young lady such as yourself.”
“That’s not all he is,” Rachel says, and is astonished to find that there are tears gliding down her cheeks.
“No,” Alfred agrees. His lips twist ironically. “He’s also the finest man I have ever had the honor of knowing.” He squeezes her hand and then releases it.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.” Alfred watches her for a moment, and then stands up and takes her teacup to the sink.
“I think, Miss Rachel,” he says, “that you might want to be getting home. You look quite exhausted, if you’ll pardon the observation, and I think with a little rest and a good breakfast, you’ll feel much refreshed in the morning.” He presses a handkerchief into her hand, and when she looks a little more present he leads her to the door. His smile is kind and a bit melancholy as he bids her goodnight.
“Good night, Alfred,” she replies, and, “Thank you.” Then she drives home and puts on flannel pajamas and crawls into bed and does not cry anymore. When she wakes up in the morning she goes to the diner on forty-ninth and orders a full breakfast – ham, eggs, biscuits, and hashed browns.
Later that day, Harvey Dent asks her out to dinner.
More importantly, she doesn’t tell him no.
CHARACTERS: Rachel, Alfred
NOTES: Set in the "Batman Begins" universe.
SUMMARY: Rachel pays a visit to an old friend.
IMAGO
She’s able to keep it to herself for a good long while, but the seed is there. It festers in the back of her mind and inflames her brain tissue and infects her life until she can’t ignore it any more.
She thinks about going to Bruce. Then she thinks about his eyes, steel eyes, wolf eyes, and how they are alternately shallow and hard but never something in-between.
She goes to Alfred instead.
-
It’s awkward, showing up like this. Once upon a time she had skinned her knees on these steps, racing up and down them with Brucie. Now she feels just feels intimidated, even though the house itself is only half rebuilt. It feels foreign. The dark doesn’t help.
Alfred answers the door, of course. As far as she’s aware, he’s the only staff member left, the only one to run this monstrosity. “Miss Rachel,” he says, and smiles at her.
“Hi, Alfred,” she says back, and barely refrains from scuffing her shoe against the doormat.
“Master Bruce isn’t home, I’m afraid,” Alfred says, but offers no excuse for where Bruce is. That’s okay. She’s glad she doesn’t have to listen to Alfred lie.
“Actually,” she says, and then spews the words out, “I’m here to see you. If that’s alright.”
Alfred is as solid as ever. “Of course, Miss Rachel,” he says, and leads her to the kitchen. She settles herself at the scuffed wooden table that is probably an antique, possibly worth more than her own apartment, and Alfred pours her a cup of tea, pours himself a cup of tea, and then settles across from her.
“Now,” he says. “What can I do for you, on this despicably gloomy night?”
“I know,” she blurts. Alfred gives her an inscrutable expression, and she adds, “About Bruce. I know about him.” Her eyes drop to her teacup; she twists it around on the saucer, fiddles with the spoon, adds a bit of sugar. She thinks about putting lemon in her tea. She doesn’t actually like lemon, but she’s always wanted to like tea with lemon, because it seems proper.
“I see,” Alfred says at length. “Well. How much do you know?”
She lifts her eyes almost shyly, just a hint of the fierce lawyer flickering around the edge of her gaze. “I know that he’s…” Her voice drops superstitiously, almost to a whisper. “He’s Batman.”
“Well,” Alfred says again, and then, impossibly, the corners of his mouth turn up. “It is something of a relief, I suppose.”
She finds herself smiling back in agreement as the anxiety rushes out of her. “Yes. But…how? And why? Did he just…get back from Europe or wherever he was and…?”
Alfred’s mouth twitches again at her rush of questions, but as he leans back to think his face schools itself into solemnity. “Master Wayne,” he says carefully, “is a man who prefers his privacy.” He fixes her a fierce look, as if he can bore his own loyalty into her. As if it is necessary. “I need hardly emphasize the importance of secrecy.”
“Of course,” Rachel responds, and she does understand, enough to know if Bruce’s secret were leaked then Alfred would be dead only moments before she herself.
“There’s not much I can discuss,” Alfred says. Rachel nods, and he sighs and sets his teacup down. “I suppose it’s reasonable enough to tell you that he wasn’t in Europe, at least not the whole time. As near as I can gather, he was either being a criminal or being trained in some obscure martial art. Probably both, at some point.”
This is…surprising. She’s talked to Jim Gordon enough to know that Batman can fight, and well, but being a criminal?
“He has scars,” Alfred adds. She realizes abruptly that this is even more cathartic for Alfred than it is for her, and the thought frightens her a little.
“Scars?”
“Mmm. Yes. Quite a number, actually, some rather ugly.” He pauses, sorting out in his own mind what he can tell her and what he can’t. “Master Wayne has always been a bright young man.”
“Irritatingly so,” she agrees.
Alfred chuckles a little. “Yes. His intelligence is rather daunting. I remember as a boy – but no, now’s not the time for an old man’s reminiscing. Suffice to say that after seven years he turned up in a small village in the Himalayas and told me that he had a plan to put fear into the hearts of criminals. He’d acquired a staggering array of skills while he’d been gone, too – everything from, oh, lock-picking to applied forensics to the aforementioned martial arts. And here we are.”
“Here we are,” Rachel echoes. They sit in silence long enough for Rachel to pour another cup of tea and add sugar.
“He’s not really Bruce anymore, is he? Not like…not like he was when I knew him. What everyone else knows as Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, is just an act.” The admittance is difficult.
Alfred looks a little bit like he’s a proud father and a little bit like he’s at a funeral. “That’s true enough. He’s very single-minded, is Master Wayne. There’s little room in his life for anything that doesn’t fit under the label of his mission.”
A sound escapes her that might be a sob. “There goes that childhood fantasy,” she mutters below her breath, but Alfred hears her. Of course Alfred hears her. He leans forward and takes one of her hands gently.
“Miss Rachel,” he says, and in his voice is a world of sympathy. “The boy you knew died at the age of eight, when his parents were brutally murdered before his eyes. The man who is left is paranoid, dangerous, driven, obsessive, sometimes angry, occasionally depressed, and in no way a suitable companion for a young lady such as yourself.”
“That’s not all he is,” Rachel says, and is astonished to find that there are tears gliding down her cheeks.
“No,” Alfred agrees. His lips twist ironically. “He’s also the finest man I have ever had the honor of knowing.” He squeezes her hand and then releases it.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.” Alfred watches her for a moment, and then stands up and takes her teacup to the sink.
“I think, Miss Rachel,” he says, “that you might want to be getting home. You look quite exhausted, if you’ll pardon the observation, and I think with a little rest and a good breakfast, you’ll feel much refreshed in the morning.” He presses a handkerchief into her hand, and when she looks a little more present he leads her to the door. His smile is kind and a bit melancholy as he bids her goodnight.
“Good night, Alfred,” she replies, and, “Thank you.” Then she drives home and puts on flannel pajamas and crawls into bed and does not cry anymore. When she wakes up in the morning she goes to the diner on forty-ninth and orders a full breakfast – ham, eggs, biscuits, and hashed browns.
Later that day, Harvey Dent asks her out to dinner.
More importantly, she doesn’t tell him no.
