Aren't You Glad - One (1/3)
'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.
Title taken from Spirit's song of the same name.
There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included this note just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger someone.
Life is not complicated. It's birth and death, and in between there is growth and decay. It's simple, intricate maybe, but not complicated, not incomprehensible. A person is not complicated, either. There are needs and desires, weaknesses, strengths, but nothing world-shattering.
People, though, are complicated. Societies are ofttimes baffling. With people, there are interactions, and from those come secrets, lies, betrayals. Life isn't a puzzle; people make it one. Usually, it's not even intentional. They are who they are, and generally people are just trying to find and hold on to whatever happiness and peace they can.
There are always outliers, however, and that's where the trouble starts-but it's not where it ends. The truth is, and it's taken her a long time to realize this, what's set in motion by human will never truly stops. People's minds, their actions and reasoning, are not subject to the laws of physics.
Of course, neither are their hearts.
***
Things could have turned out so differently. There are numerous points in her personal history, where, just by making another decision, her life would now be drastically altered from its present state. Simply through choice, she has had the opportunity to turn back or turn around many times already. Outside factors aside, she is who she is because of who she was at any given moment in time.
Maybe she should have studied philosophy.
Business is still booming. Technology is much improved, the cell phones tinier and faster than ever. The jet is a newer model; the car is not. The people too are still the same. They dress in new styles of clothing, and the hair is perhaps cut and pulled back differently, but underneath the finery and underneath the filth, Gothamites are Gothamites, and nothing here has really changed while she was-away.
The media is persistent, it seems. There was a break-in at the main offices the day news of her return first hit the waves. Some unlucky reporter was charged, and she smiled when Alfred told her over breakfast the next morning. It was in the Gotham Globe too, though thankfully pushed back a few pages in favor of actual news-but should have been, if anything, a tiny mention in the society pages and nothing more. All of this noise is ridiculous, and this she definitely did not miss. They want interviews that first week or so. She can't go anywhere without causing a scene, so instead Alfred calls people in. New clothes, a stylist for her hair, someone who shows her the best way to use the best makeup, and all of it's free of charge for this initial consultation, of course. She has a disgusting amount of money at her disposal now, or will soon when she's no longer legally dead, and she's the one who doesn't really have to pay for anything. It's nauseating.
The wheels have run relatively smoothly in her absence. The Foundation still gives but, when she requests and is given the paperwork for the last several years and has thoroughly reviewed it-not enough, not nearly enough. What isn't spent on kitting her out afresh instead goes directly to the Foundation's priority organizations. She herself signs off on it in her new office, formerly her father's, trying in vain to make her signature large and whimsical, but it's stuck on tight and jagged, and by the 'e' in 'Wayne,' she's given up. Her rationalization is that no one will care about the damned signature anyway. They won't be that methodical. It's the surface appearance she has to worry about, not the details.
People don't look too closely at the small things, and that's why they make mistakes and are taken by surprise. It's easy enough work fooling those desperate to be fooled. She is now in the process of becoming an external symbol, and it's not as painful as she'd anticipated, but it's a good deal more difficult nonetheless. It's time to think big.
Batman is already here, and this is merely the dress rehearsal. She's been ready for this-for a long time.
Brooke Wayne is another matter altogether. That's where she falters and draws a blank. Oh, she's familiar with the motions, but it's not a dance she ever had to really take part in, not long term like now. The costuming is a bitch, too. She's not the standard, and so certain measures have to be taken in order to conceal that fact. Dresses, heels, long hair, makeup, all of this she is expected to have perfected by now. The hair would be the easiest, as she used to wear it well past her shoulders and isn't wholly against letting it grow out once more, but even then it can't be worn just plain down or efficiently tied back. No, it must be conditioned and primed and styled and pulled up and then mussed and then scraped down again and then finally artfully sculpted into a truly defining piece of-hair. It's just hair! And the shoes are ridiculous, ridiculously uncomfortable and ridiculously impractical, and she looks ridiculous in them. Except, judging by people's reactions in the main office, she actually manages to pull heels off. Or, more likely, she's just returned from the dead, and the stilettos are still relatively low in terms of noteworthiness.
There are dresses, dozens of them, all offered up to her, all custom made, and never mind how the measurements were taken when she's been gone for seven years and back for barely two weeks. But, dresses are even sillier than heels-not to mention capable of hiding and disguising fewer suspicious markings, such as scars, wounds, and bruises. Few dresses make the cut, the lucky winners being something like a baggy white shroud, a purple wrap, some skin-tight metallic thing with a high collar and long sleeves, and the ubiquitous black dress. There's a bright print that she catches Alfred smiling at, so at the last second she grabs that one too, but all the other flimsy things are bundled off and carried away. No more dresses. It's one of the perks of being filthy rich and incredibly eccentric.
In the meantime, her real outfit is slowly being pieced together in fits and starts.
It comes to her one night in the manor, a bat chirping away in the hall as it desperately tries to find its way back outside. Alfred comes around the corner, tray in hand, and she has a brief flashback to when she fell down-
" . . . nest somewhere in the grounds," he's saying, walking close and assessing her in that way of his, taking notice of every minute detail without passing judgment.
. . . bats. Bats.
"I daresay," she quips, shooting him a quick smile when his eyebrows draw together. She then pats him on the shoulder and turns to go back into what was formerly her parents' bedroom and is now undergoing the lengthy process of becoming her own. Alfred trails behind, and it's a meal on that tray that he carefully, and very pointedly, sets down on a table near her spread out research. In response, she lifts the glass of orange juice she'd gotten from the kitchen hours ago and takes a long drawn out drink. Alfred shakes his head.
"Several new invitations today," he offers, still going for neutral, but she can easily detect the note of hopefulness in the elevated pitch of his voice.
"Any from someone I actually knew before?" she returns, turning away and dropping back down to the floor. She sets the orange juice to the side and once more drags Falcone's old case file into her lap. There's something about the photos that keeps needling her. They're the standard fare from half-assed GCPD stakeouts, but it's the angle of the second shot taken out at the docks that is bugging her. Too close, maybe, or too low, not shaky enough, something is just-off about it.
"No, Madame," Alfred answers quietly, and she looks up at him, something about his voice unpleasantly hitting a nerve.
"What?" she asks bluntly, and there's no need for any forced emphasis or pretending on her part-or his.
Alfred sighs, and she's sure that another disappointed lecture is on its way, but then he just shakes his head again, turns his back to her, and abruptly leaves the room. She can hear his steps receding, the soft clicking of his shoes on the marble hallway and then down each of the steps until he's gone.
Well, okay, and she picks up the photograph again, and disappointment is still on her mind, and that's when she remembers something else about That Night, someone else-disappointment, outside the norm, perseverance, the coat and its bloodstains. "It's all right," he'd said, or, "It's okay. It will be okay."
And now she's curious. This photo was taken by someone on the scene, but it's unique. There and yet not, alone, hurried but perfectly composed and utterly incriminating. It's a very small piece, but everything in it is clear. The backs of the trucks are open, and the scant lighting available showcases the illicit material inside, and the goons doing the transporting are indistinct, but the man leaning against the side of the limo is not. His profile is etched, carved, head held high and secure in his power and perceived invincibility, and, yes, this is personal to her-but it's personal to whoever took this photo too.
Gordon. She's sure of it without even checking. He was right there, has been there, maybe many times, but never with anyone behind him to back him up. There are risks he wouldn't be able to take. A man like that, he'll have family, perhaps a few friends, but maybe he would be amenable to having one more. Maybe they can use each other as backup.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Suddenly, she feels the need for a work out.
***
The headpiece that will double as a helmet comes in, all several thousand copies of it, with a flawed chemical composition which renders it practically useless. The rest she precisely custom makes herself-well, and borrows from R&D where no one will ever miss it. The suit isn't a perfect fit, designed and molded as it was with a man's frame as reference, but it's not too much of a stretch. She's proud to see her arms fill out the armor nicely, and the chest is, perhaps sadly, not that tight, and really it's the waist and hips that present the biggest challenge. The buckles only constrict or expand so far, and it will just take some getting used to until she can subtly get some improvements made. Running will be interesting for awhile. The good news is it's more of a success at hiding her sex than she'd dared to hope. The weakest parts are her chin, which still reads as too feminine, and her stance, which she's consciously working on but will likely prove tricky further down the line when she needs to be Brooke and not the Bat.
She's a big girl, all right, but she's also brave enough to admit she's a damn fine actor too, and the latter will cover up for the former when people attempt to put and two together with regard to the identity of the Bat and the coincidental timing of "him" appearing on the scene just as Brooke Wayne returns from the dead. There's also the fact that people are largely sexist, and influential, powerful men in Gotham have the dubious honor of being in her experience, almost to a one, incredibly misogynistic. They will never believe it could be a woman. It won't even enter into their minds as a possibility, and that more than anything is what will keep her safe. It's depressing that she's relying on the worst parts of men's arrogance and collective feelings of superiority in order to bring justice and integrity back to this city, and it seems more than a little hypocritical or at least self-defeating, but these too are the tools of her trade. It's why as Brooke Wayne she'll wear the goddamned high heels and tight clothing with low necklines and act the part of flighty billionaire socialite. It's degrading, and it will likely set women in this city back several years, but it's for the greater good. At least this way, there will be a long run, an in the end, an after the fact, a further down the line, and she can live with having her name used as a punch line because it won't be her, not really. She is something more, and her methods are therefore just as advanced.
The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. One day, they will see this.
***
The third weekend back, she quite literally bumps into Rachel as she's leaving her newly acquired hotel. Her clothes are soaking wet, and the two models have already resumed their combined seat in the passenger side of the car, and Rachel looks at her-and it's surprise and disappointment and vague disgust, and Brooke takes a deep breath and doesn't allow herself to look away.
"You look beautiful," she offers, but it's not lighthearted or quirkily, girlishly flirty. She means it, pushes it out through slowly constricting vocal cords, and she can see it on Rachel's face that she still doesn't truly get it. She doesn't believe it, and why would she? When has Brooke Wayne, this Brooke Wayne, ever said something serious? They don't even know each other anymore. She doesn't know what Rachel's favorite restaurant is or her taste in music. She knows her daily schedule, what route she most often takes back to her apartment, how often she visits her mother, whom in the past she's dated and the lawyer in IA she's been spending more and more time with and is likely meeting here tonight, but she doesn't know Rachel, not really, and it makes it hard to breathe. It's painful.
Rachel's eyebrows lift up, and her mouth compresses into a smirk, but it's like she's gone, floated out of reach-if she were ever truly there to begin with, which she never was, honestly. If Brooke could love anyone closer than from afar, it would be, or would have been, Rachel Dawes.
But, that ship seems to have set sail seven years ago.
"Did you get caught in a freak rainstorm inside?" Rachel jokes, and it's so bland and impersonal and awkward that it makes Brooke grimace.
She pulls at her top in apparent distaste, playing it up so the people watching will have something to tell later. "Went for a swim!" she explains, forcing a grin onto her face and a cheerful note into her voice. "Water was a bit cold, though."
Those eyebrows flick up in dismissive acknowledgment, and she's already checked out of this conversation. Still, for formality's sake. . . .
"You still trying to save the world?"
And she gets a closer, more examining look at that one, but it doesn't last. She's just too good an actor.
"'Trying' being the operative word there," Rachel retorts with a self-deprecating smile.
"Big job for one person," Brooke answers, but it's the wrong thing to say, coming from the wrong person at the wrong time, and instantly Rachel's tolerance and good humor vanish. Her face just closes down like a book snapping shut.
"Well, what else can I do, when others are too busy-swimming?" She flicks another polite smile at her and starts turning away.
And that's the end, the last word, the nail in the coffin of their friendship. It's better this way. Now, it's just Alfred she has to protect. And, really, what did they have in common-
"Rachel," Brooke says, taking a step closer and almost daring to set a hand on her arm but at the last second just leaving it hovering there in midair, "all of this," and here she gestures behind herself at the car and the models and the hotel and the entire façade of Brooke fucking Wayne, "it's not real. I am, underneath- I am more."
But, she still doesn't get it because she can't, because it's not enough, but it's all Brooke can give her.
Rachel looks and looks, and she's probably really trying, but in the end she shakes her head and steps back again.
"It's not who you are, Brooke," she says, and it rings as an apology and a rejection and stings like nothing else. "It's what you do that defines you."
Then she's gone, walking away, and Brooke stands there too long, swallowing back an endless slew of words and feelings that will never do anybody any damn good. And then she turns and struts out of the hotel, out to the car with Kevin and Bianca riding shotgun together and Brooke Wayne driving, and she has a hell of a time-one hell of a good goddamn time.
And later she takes off the mask. It's just a mask, after all.
Title taken from Spirit's song of the same name.
There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included this note just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger someone.
Life is not complicated. It's birth and death, and in between there is growth and decay. It's simple, intricate maybe, but not complicated, not incomprehensible. A person is not complicated, either. There are needs and desires, weaknesses, strengths, but nothing world-shattering.
People, though, are complicated. Societies are ofttimes baffling. With people, there are interactions, and from those come secrets, lies, betrayals. Life isn't a puzzle; people make it one. Usually, it's not even intentional. They are who they are, and generally people are just trying to find and hold on to whatever happiness and peace they can.
There are always outliers, however, and that's where the trouble starts-but it's not where it ends. The truth is, and it's taken her a long time to realize this, what's set in motion by human will never truly stops. People's minds, their actions and reasoning, are not subject to the laws of physics.
Of course, neither are their hearts.
***
Things could have turned out so differently. There are numerous points in her personal history, where, just by making another decision, her life would now be drastically altered from its present state. Simply through choice, she has had the opportunity to turn back or turn around many times already. Outside factors aside, she is who she is because of who she was at any given moment in time.
Maybe she should have studied philosophy.
Business is still booming. Technology is much improved, the cell phones tinier and faster than ever. The jet is a newer model; the car is not. The people too are still the same. They dress in new styles of clothing, and the hair is perhaps cut and pulled back differently, but underneath the finery and underneath the filth, Gothamites are Gothamites, and nothing here has really changed while she was-away.
The media is persistent, it seems. There was a break-in at the main offices the day news of her return first hit the waves. Some unlucky reporter was charged, and she smiled when Alfred told her over breakfast the next morning. It was in the Gotham Globe too, though thankfully pushed back a few pages in favor of actual news-but should have been, if anything, a tiny mention in the society pages and nothing more. All of this noise is ridiculous, and this she definitely did not miss. They want interviews that first week or so. She can't go anywhere without causing a scene, so instead Alfred calls people in. New clothes, a stylist for her hair, someone who shows her the best way to use the best makeup, and all of it's free of charge for this initial consultation, of course. She has a disgusting amount of money at her disposal now, or will soon when she's no longer legally dead, and she's the one who doesn't really have to pay for anything. It's nauseating.
The wheels have run relatively smoothly in her absence. The Foundation still gives but, when she requests and is given the paperwork for the last several years and has thoroughly reviewed it-not enough, not nearly enough. What isn't spent on kitting her out afresh instead goes directly to the Foundation's priority organizations. She herself signs off on it in her new office, formerly her father's, trying in vain to make her signature large and whimsical, but it's stuck on tight and jagged, and by the 'e' in 'Wayne,' she's given up. Her rationalization is that no one will care about the damned signature anyway. They won't be that methodical. It's the surface appearance she has to worry about, not the details.
People don't look too closely at the small things, and that's why they make mistakes and are taken by surprise. It's easy enough work fooling those desperate to be fooled. She is now in the process of becoming an external symbol, and it's not as painful as she'd anticipated, but it's a good deal more difficult nonetheless. It's time to think big.
Batman is already here, and this is merely the dress rehearsal. She's been ready for this-for a long time.
Brooke Wayne is another matter altogether. That's where she falters and draws a blank. Oh, she's familiar with the motions, but it's not a dance she ever had to really take part in, not long term like now. The costuming is a bitch, too. She's not the standard, and so certain measures have to be taken in order to conceal that fact. Dresses, heels, long hair, makeup, all of this she is expected to have perfected by now. The hair would be the easiest, as she used to wear it well past her shoulders and isn't wholly against letting it grow out once more, but even then it can't be worn just plain down or efficiently tied back. No, it must be conditioned and primed and styled and pulled up and then mussed and then scraped down again and then finally artfully sculpted into a truly defining piece of-hair. It's just hair! And the shoes are ridiculous, ridiculously uncomfortable and ridiculously impractical, and she looks ridiculous in them. Except, judging by people's reactions in the main office, she actually manages to pull heels off. Or, more likely, she's just returned from the dead, and the stilettos are still relatively low in terms of noteworthiness.
There are dresses, dozens of them, all offered up to her, all custom made, and never mind how the measurements were taken when she's been gone for seven years and back for barely two weeks. But, dresses are even sillier than heels-not to mention capable of hiding and disguising fewer suspicious markings, such as scars, wounds, and bruises. Few dresses make the cut, the lucky winners being something like a baggy white shroud, a purple wrap, some skin-tight metallic thing with a high collar and long sleeves, and the ubiquitous black dress. There's a bright print that she catches Alfred smiling at, so at the last second she grabs that one too, but all the other flimsy things are bundled off and carried away. No more dresses. It's one of the perks of being filthy rich and incredibly eccentric.
In the meantime, her real outfit is slowly being pieced together in fits and starts.
It comes to her one night in the manor, a bat chirping away in the hall as it desperately tries to find its way back outside. Alfred comes around the corner, tray in hand, and she has a brief flashback to when she fell down-
" . . . nest somewhere in the grounds," he's saying, walking close and assessing her in that way of his, taking notice of every minute detail without passing judgment.
. . . bats. Bats.
"I daresay," she quips, shooting him a quick smile when his eyebrows draw together. She then pats him on the shoulder and turns to go back into what was formerly her parents' bedroom and is now undergoing the lengthy process of becoming her own. Alfred trails behind, and it's a meal on that tray that he carefully, and very pointedly, sets down on a table near her spread out research. In response, she lifts the glass of orange juice she'd gotten from the kitchen hours ago and takes a long drawn out drink. Alfred shakes his head.
"Several new invitations today," he offers, still going for neutral, but she can easily detect the note of hopefulness in the elevated pitch of his voice.
"Any from someone I actually knew before?" she returns, turning away and dropping back down to the floor. She sets the orange juice to the side and once more drags Falcone's old case file into her lap. There's something about the photos that keeps needling her. They're the standard fare from half-assed GCPD stakeouts, but it's the angle of the second shot taken out at the docks that is bugging her. Too close, maybe, or too low, not shaky enough, something is just-off about it.
"No, Madame," Alfred answers quietly, and she looks up at him, something about his voice unpleasantly hitting a nerve.
"What?" she asks bluntly, and there's no need for any forced emphasis or pretending on her part-or his.
Alfred sighs, and she's sure that another disappointed lecture is on its way, but then he just shakes his head again, turns his back to her, and abruptly leaves the room. She can hear his steps receding, the soft clicking of his shoes on the marble hallway and then down each of the steps until he's gone.
Well, okay, and she picks up the photograph again, and disappointment is still on her mind, and that's when she remembers something else about That Night, someone else-disappointment, outside the norm, perseverance, the coat and its bloodstains. "It's all right," he'd said, or, "It's okay. It will be okay."
And now she's curious. This photo was taken by someone on the scene, but it's unique. There and yet not, alone, hurried but perfectly composed and utterly incriminating. It's a very small piece, but everything in it is clear. The backs of the trucks are open, and the scant lighting available showcases the illicit material inside, and the goons doing the transporting are indistinct, but the man leaning against the side of the limo is not. His profile is etched, carved, head held high and secure in his power and perceived invincibility, and, yes, this is personal to her-but it's personal to whoever took this photo too.
Gordon. She's sure of it without even checking. He was right there, has been there, maybe many times, but never with anyone behind him to back him up. There are risks he wouldn't be able to take. A man like that, he'll have family, perhaps a few friends, but maybe he would be amenable to having one more. Maybe they can use each other as backup.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Suddenly, she feels the need for a work out.
***
The headpiece that will double as a helmet comes in, all several thousand copies of it, with a flawed chemical composition which renders it practically useless. The rest she precisely custom makes herself-well, and borrows from R&D where no one will ever miss it. The suit isn't a perfect fit, designed and molded as it was with a man's frame as reference, but it's not too much of a stretch. She's proud to see her arms fill out the armor nicely, and the chest is, perhaps sadly, not that tight, and really it's the waist and hips that present the biggest challenge. The buckles only constrict or expand so far, and it will just take some getting used to until she can subtly get some improvements made. Running will be interesting for awhile. The good news is it's more of a success at hiding her sex than she'd dared to hope. The weakest parts are her chin, which still reads as too feminine, and her stance, which she's consciously working on but will likely prove tricky further down the line when she needs to be Brooke and not the Bat.
She's a big girl, all right, but she's also brave enough to admit she's a damn fine actor too, and the latter will cover up for the former when people attempt to put and two together with regard to the identity of the Bat and the coincidental timing of "him" appearing on the scene just as Brooke Wayne returns from the dead. There's also the fact that people are largely sexist, and influential, powerful men in Gotham have the dubious honor of being in her experience, almost to a one, incredibly misogynistic. They will never believe it could be a woman. It won't even enter into their minds as a possibility, and that more than anything is what will keep her safe. It's depressing that she's relying on the worst parts of men's arrogance and collective feelings of superiority in order to bring justice and integrity back to this city, and it seems more than a little hypocritical or at least self-defeating, but these too are the tools of her trade. It's why as Brooke Wayne she'll wear the goddamned high heels and tight clothing with low necklines and act the part of flighty billionaire socialite. It's degrading, and it will likely set women in this city back several years, but it's for the greater good. At least this way, there will be a long run, an in the end, an after the fact, a further down the line, and she can live with having her name used as a punch line because it won't be her, not really. She is something more, and her methods are therefore just as advanced.
The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. One day, they will see this.
***
The third weekend back, she quite literally bumps into Rachel as she's leaving her newly acquired hotel. Her clothes are soaking wet, and the two models have already resumed their combined seat in the passenger side of the car, and Rachel looks at her-and it's surprise and disappointment and vague disgust, and Brooke takes a deep breath and doesn't allow herself to look away.
"You look beautiful," she offers, but it's not lighthearted or quirkily, girlishly flirty. She means it, pushes it out through slowly constricting vocal cords, and she can see it on Rachel's face that she still doesn't truly get it. She doesn't believe it, and why would she? When has Brooke Wayne, this Brooke Wayne, ever said something serious? They don't even know each other anymore. She doesn't know what Rachel's favorite restaurant is or her taste in music. She knows her daily schedule, what route she most often takes back to her apartment, how often she visits her mother, whom in the past she's dated and the lawyer in IA she's been spending more and more time with and is likely meeting here tonight, but she doesn't know Rachel, not really, and it makes it hard to breathe. It's painful.
Rachel's eyebrows lift up, and her mouth compresses into a smirk, but it's like she's gone, floated out of reach-if she were ever truly there to begin with, which she never was, honestly. If Brooke could love anyone closer than from afar, it would be, or would have been, Rachel Dawes.
But, that ship seems to have set sail seven years ago.
"Did you get caught in a freak rainstorm inside?" Rachel jokes, and it's so bland and impersonal and awkward that it makes Brooke grimace.
She pulls at her top in apparent distaste, playing it up so the people watching will have something to tell later. "Went for a swim!" she explains, forcing a grin onto her face and a cheerful note into her voice. "Water was a bit cold, though."
Those eyebrows flick up in dismissive acknowledgment, and she's already checked out of this conversation. Still, for formality's sake. . . .
"You still trying to save the world?"
And she gets a closer, more examining look at that one, but it doesn't last. She's just too good an actor.
"'Trying' being the operative word there," Rachel retorts with a self-deprecating smile.
"Big job for one person," Brooke answers, but it's the wrong thing to say, coming from the wrong person at the wrong time, and instantly Rachel's tolerance and good humor vanish. Her face just closes down like a book snapping shut.
"Well, what else can I do, when others are too busy-swimming?" She flicks another polite smile at her and starts turning away.
And that's the end, the last word, the nail in the coffin of their friendship. It's better this way. Now, it's just Alfred she has to protect. And, really, what did they have in common-
"Rachel," Brooke says, taking a step closer and almost daring to set a hand on her arm but at the last second just leaving it hovering there in midair, "all of this," and here she gestures behind herself at the car and the models and the hotel and the entire façade of Brooke fucking Wayne, "it's not real. I am, underneath- I am more."
But, she still doesn't get it because she can't, because it's not enough, but it's all Brooke can give her.
Rachel looks and looks, and she's probably really trying, but in the end she shakes her head and steps back again.
"It's not who you are, Brooke," she says, and it rings as an apology and a rejection and stings like nothing else. "It's what you do that defines you."
Then she's gone, walking away, and Brooke stands there too long, swallowing back an endless slew of words and feelings that will never do anybody any damn good. And then she turns and struts out of the hotel, out to the car with Kevin and Bianca riding shotgun together and Brooke Wayne driving, and she has a hell of a time-one hell of a good goddamn time.
And later she takes off the mask. It's just a mask, after all.