Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
Rachel Dawes has spent the past forty-eight hours holed up in one of the conference rooms at the Conrad. Eating and sleeping take a backseat to gathering as much information as she possibly can. It's only until she realizes she's read the same sentence of her research notes at least ten times that she decides she needs a moment to recollect herself
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Den slides onto the bench beside her, just close enough to not seem intimate. He lifts one gloved hand to touch her cheek, and then drops it to his lap and looks sheepish. "Quite upset, actually."
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"Mr. Clarkson. I haven't had the opportunity to thank you for the books."
There's guarded curiosity more than there is gratitude in her tone when she asks, "How did you know where I live?"
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Relate to her exhaustion, sympathize with her sorrow--all it takes is a turn of phrase, corners of his mouth tugging into a smile that melts back into neutrality before it can be read as anything but a movement of his lips. "And I suppose I do owe you an explanation on that front--your journal entry. I'm-- Well, shall we say I share a certain amount of understanding with the newcomers to this city. You said common room, I think it was, and I just assumed the Conrad. Some friends of mine who stayed there for a time have talked about it, and the Gauche is so impersonal. I don't know that they have common rooms as such."
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The frown on her face softens, though she remains skeptical. It isn't him, precisely or anything he has done. It's the lawyer in her, her suspicious nature, the state in which he's found her. Chicago, she's come to learn very quickly, isn't all that different from Gotham.
In fact, it may just be that more dangerous.
"I suppose that makes sense." She doesn't ask outright if he's a Wanderer, not in the park where they may be overheard. "Is everything all right?"
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I can say how night-long I have lain under the stars and
Heard mountains moan in their sleep. By daylight,
They remember nothing, and go about their lawful occasions
Of not going anywhere except in slow disintegration. At night
They remember, however, that there is something they cannot remember.
So moan. Theirs is the perfected pain of conscience that
Of forgetting the crime, and I hope you have not suffered it. I have.He laughs like wind tugging at a bell. "Chicago is full of long days, Mi-- Rachel. It seems as though you've burden enough with your own ( ... )
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She has a very good memory. A lawyer should have one.
"I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.Quiet lingers after she has finished, and she looks tired and older than she really is ( ... )
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And once she's standing, once he's bowed over her hand--half the motion, a quick lean forward, respectful as a salute and genteel--he lets go and turns away down the walk, his umbrella left swinging around her wrist by its cord.
Just in case.
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Rachel has always firmly believed she can take care of herself. Whether it's in Chicago or Gotham, it doesn't change the fact she's used to being self-reliant. It isn't until he turns to leave that she realizes he's left his umbrella with her.
"Mr. Clark, you - "
She sighs and starts her walk back to the Conrad, just when it starts to rain.
Curious, that.
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