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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He heads for the park, as he is quite homesick for his gardens at Wayne Manor. It is not, precisely, the same. Being outside with the cooling air is relaxing, however, and he appreciates the simplicity of it. The fact that it may rain soon does not bother Alfred.
Upon spotting one Rachel Dawes, Alfred calms further and walks over to her with a warm, concerned smile. After inclining his head slightly, he tilts his head to the side and his smile grows more concerned. "Hello, my dear. How are you?" Do not attempt to fib, Ms. Dawes. Alfred will give you a look and it is, assuredly, just as severe in Chicago as it was in Gotham.
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He'd still keep it there, even as she and Bruce grew up.
Her throat tightens at the reminder. "Hello. I'm..." she looks down at the journal in her hands. "I was going for a walk."
No, she isn't going to fib, Alfred Pennyworth. But she might stall.
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He is a patient man, however, and he is willing to wait as long as Rachel needs him to.
"It is a pleasant evening for a walk," Alfred says agreeably. After a comfortable silence, the man crosses his arms behind him, clasping his hands together and stands at ease...waiting. "Should you need an ear, I am at your disposal."
It really does appear as though it might rain, and Alfred remembers two little children, covered in mud, running through his kitchen and skidding to a stop as the sound of rain against the windows surrounded them. Forgive an old man his nostalgia...he is there to listen.
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But tonight is a different matter. Alfred isn't just anybody. And if Rachel takes into account the past few days - the moment she found Robin in that hallway and...everything that has followed - the sadness slides into unease and shows up as hesitation.
She remembers those days, Alfred, they've faded into that one photograph she still isn't sure what to do with. A bossy little girl running away from a gentle and quiet boy, somehow always leading them straight into the mud.
Rachel considers his offer and finally settles for a very simple, but very firm, "Only if you allow me to return the favor."
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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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He holds it out toward her, and then offers her sly smile with only a hint of awkward in it. They haven't spent any time alone together since the Incident in the Hallway, which is what he's been referring to it as.
It's only awkward if they make it that way, right?
He has to force himself not to look away from her face. She knows what he is. It doesn't mean she'll look at him with hate. While he logically knows that, it's hard to convince himself emotionally, and it's always about the emotions, isn't it?
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If she's surprised by his easy greeting, she doesn't show it. Rachel's more or less learned to take it all in stride when it comes to him.
It saves her the massive amounts of confusion.
"You're very thoughtful. Coffee's just what I needed." She closes her journal with the picture tucked inside as she looks up at him. "Hi."
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"My coffee, right? You needed my coffee. Clearly. I could see it in our face."
Because just any coffee won't do. Robin sits next to her on the bench. Fuck, it's been a long few days for everyone. A never ending stream. It's easier not to deal with anything real for even a moment.
He glances at her and then at the journal in her lap.
"Trying to get some air?"
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"Yes, Robin." She nods as the amusement outweighs her desire for rebuttal. It is very good coffee. She reaches for the mug. "I cannot tell a lie."
The smile doesn't leave her face but it falls a little at his question.
"Trying. I was going for a walk. I always end up here." She looks down at her lap before glancing up at him with a rueful smile. "It's where I just...appeared." Nearly two months ago. It seems longer than that.
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He raises an eyebrow at Phoebe.
"Who the fuck plays Twister in the park?"
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Or...maybe not yay. He doesn't look like he wants to join her.
"...I do?"
She brushes the hair out of her eyes. "I'd play back home but that's no fun and there's this dude who lives next door who is all about the emo. Seriously, he's always all oh noes mah life is the tragic while listening to Counting Crows."
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More to himself than to her. There are some weird chicks in the park that's for sure.
"But how is this any fun? People walkin by lookin at you like you lost your mind ain't my idea of a good time."
Rusty never understood the appeal of Twister to begin with so his opinion may be moot in this particular situation.
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She steps away from the mat, an earnestly confused expression.
"Don't really give a fluck what people think." She smooths her hair into a ponytail before placing her hands squarely on her hips.
"What is your idea of a good time then?"
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He can't help but spot Rachel on that bench, the bench where he'd met her when she first arrived. Harvey heads over and pauses next to the bench, unsure whether or not he should sit.
"Hey. Is everything okay?" he asks quietly. "You look like there's problems."
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She nearly forgot he is healed, and the sight of it is what brings that smile. "I'm all right. I was just thinking."
Over thinking. It's a problem of hers.
She motions to the space beside her on the bench. "Please, sit."
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"Thinking, huh?" That gets a quirk of a grin, and he sits down next to her carefully. "If I know you, I'd say you've been thinking about whatever it is for far too long. So what is it?"
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If there ever was a bittersweet sentiment. He really does seem to know her well, and it's hard to assimilate when technically, she's only known him for two months.
"Depends on what you mean by far too long," she says indignantly, but there's a smile. Verbal sparring? Never.
"It's a lot of things," she finally admits as she traces the edge of her journal with a fingertip. "I don't like lingering on what I can't change but sometimes, it sneaks up on you anyway."
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