Chapter Text
“Firstly, I’d like to thank all of you for attending the 7th annual Water for Gotham Charity Gala. Your immense generosity has led to countless homes being refitted and has allowed the human right to clean drinking water in our community,”
Claire’s drugstore press-on manicure dug into the sides of the glass podium as she paused, the faint-hearted applause barely filling the cavernous ballroom of Gotham’s Museum of Natural History. Pushing past the thrum of anxiety reminiscent of being cold-called during 1L by Professor Godwin Matthews, she cracked a wry grin, “Secondly, thank you for the increased catering budget. After last year's unfortunate calamari incident, we couldn’t afford to take any chances. However, I was assured by inside sources that all guests survived,”
A polite ripple of laughter, and her white-knuckle grip loosened. She continued, not making lingering eye contact with any one person in the crowd. She listed off the figures on her notecard, sure to tickle the ears of benefactors and make them forget about the human rights violations their own companies incurred over the last fiscal year— feet of new pipe laid, gallons of clean water gained, and filter orders placed as well as the need to find a new filter supplier to keep up with rising funding approved and housing applications.
Every quirked appraising brow reminded her how far outside her own tax bracket she was standing. As it happened, she was already planning on how to receive compliments to her secondhand pity gift. A long-sleeved, high-necked yet backless dichotomy of a winter dress. “Oh, yes, isn’t it darling? It’s vintage. I just couldn’t say no to Doctor Tompkins when she insisted.” Even though she wasn’t sure how any black Givenchy dress could be considered a pity gift, with any luck, the tax write-offs would distract from any chance of noticeable fashion faux pas.
“And once again, our committee members and I thank you for your support for this project and for your initiative in promoting a better environment for Gotham and all her citizens,” she said and waited for the more enthusiastic applause to abate.
“And now, I’ll let you all be the judge of whether the catering budget extends to the champagne quality,” with a last wink and another ripple of laughter that turned into a wave across the ballroom and up to the second-floor balcony above, Claire Hawthorne made her dignified escape down the raised stand, praying to God her heels wouldn’t catch on the hem of her dress.
More than a few couples arrived to congratulate her on taking over her mother‘s position as chair. And when she found there was no way to escape by climbing the T-Rex display behind her, Claire nodded, smiled, and shook hands, enduring the predictable conversations which included:
“It’s so wonderful, admirable really, how you’ve taken the gauntlet for your mother and father, especially after…”
Claire nodded at the sympathetic purse, lips, and mournful stares. Yes, her mother lived in an assisted living facility due to “a small nervous breakdown,” and her father was dead. Killed actually. Prison riot. Or hit, whichever story you chose to believe. All in law school, as if having a Professor Snape wannabe wasn’t traumatic enough for 1L.
So, yes, she knew. Very sad, but she would have appreciated it if they had handled it like her Irish grandfather— by burying any and all emotions underneath thick cable knit and extolling Guinness. She smiled, tucking her clutch under her arm, letting the woman clear her throat and amble off. Then it was a blur of,
“ Your speech was marvelous… Do you handle the tax receipts or is it someone else now? Your mother was wonderful at taking care of everything,”
“Oh, I remember when I was able to wear dresses like those. Just wait until children,” before a mumble of, “Little bastards ruin everything,”
“I told Irving we needed to be checking into filters for the new garden fountains… They seemed a bit off, you know. You can never be too safe about the water for Calla lilies,”
“I’d like to see those chumps across the river. Try getting this past legislation. Good on you, kid,“
Claire was fairly certain that people in the city had somewhat transitioned away from total mob rule. However, this was Jersey, and even as a transplant from Virginia, she had learned to keep her mouth shut.
The polite smile turned brittle at the 13th tax break conversation. Her clutch became a riot shield, redirecting wandering hands away from the backless dress that she was beginning to regret. The rigidness of her shoulders tightened with every polite complaint directed at her and the decorations. Greenery perfectly matched the Natural History aesthetic, dammit.
She looped her response to end all inquiries. “No, no. No, it’s nothing I’ve done. Quite the opposite. It’s the actions of those like you, who care about the future of Gotham that are making the true difference here,” it worked better for money’s sake to flatter the ego and worry about her own sleepless nights later.
And with much cooing over the discussion of grandchildren, the casual confession of crimes, and offers to be set up with personal shoppers across the city, she was allowed to edge further to her finish line – the windows on the ballroom's far side. When she saw that most guests were entertained and that a hors d’oeuvre table lay unoccupied, she looked over both shoulders and ducked underneath the long white tablecloth.
She allowed herself a brief moment of shame. A grown woman, hiding underneath the table because silently counting to 10 wasn’t working anymore to control her temper when faced with Gotham’s finest.
On her knees and elbows against cold marble, she blew out a long breath. She wished she had worn her pearl earrings instead of the heavy statement jewelry. Faux diamonds dragging the floor made for an undignified army crawl. The tablecloth fluttered against her face, and she froze. The distant clatter of conversation competed with the tattoo beat of her heart hammering against her ribcage. Dress shoes peeked underneath the tablecloth. She recognized the deep rumble of Lucius Fox’s voice,
“Now, Mrs. Stein, think about the recriminations about that,” stern but good-humored.
“Oh, but Lucius, you know how I feel about those ferns. I just don’t know how…” their voice trailed off as they walked away.
Claire shook her head, willing away panic, “Lucius Fox, I owe you one,”
Claire crawled on, making a note to send a personalized thank you to Lucius’ office. She reached the end, and conversation lulled around her. The chill from the windows kept most onlookers away as she slid from underneath the table, brushing off her skirt. Nearby waitstaff offered champagne and a nod of solidarity, “Better you than me, girl.” Claire raised her glass in salute, drained half of it, and moved on to the window.
The champagne warmed her stomach, keeping away the worst of the January chill emanating from the windows. Rain cascaded down the glass; streetlights were streaks of flickering gold down the sidewalks. Taxi headlights obscured any chance of identifying stragglers entering the museum's front entrance. A blur of Jaguars, Rolls, and Mercedes, her fingers flexed against her champagne glass. They felt dirtier shaking hands here than when she’d been handed a muddy water sample gathered from Crime Alley two weeks ago—a mother with shaking hands and a son, Tyrone, in the ICU.
The paint on her office door— Hawthorne, Esq.— had barely finished drying when Sally Russell had come knocking. Gotham native and waitress who specialized in night shifts that involved tossing drunks out on their asses.
“You’re the water lawyer, aren’t ya?”
Sludge and sediment had swirled at the bottom of the glass. She was fighting for the people smothering in the dirt, but here she was, standing amongst the crowd slinging shovels full of it.
Setting her glass on a nearby table, she reached into her clutch, bypassing her lipstick for the photo against the side. Tyrone Russell cheesing for the camera in his muddy soccer uniform. Kinky black hair cropped close to his head— her thumb ran across his face.
“So you won’t forget,” she’d said.
Claire lifted her eyes, searching out the slow rolling river past the next block. Beautiful, filtered through fog and moonlight, but she remembered walking past it— the stench of gray water and kids playing close to sewage because there was nowhere else to go. Illegal dumping, industrial run-off— poisoning the water, the people…Tyrone, killing those who couldn’t afford to leave and those who spoke out against it, like her father had. Like she was going to. Free water was for everyone, as long as you had the money to clean it. Claire squared her shoulders like Ted Grant had taught her in the ring back in grade school. She’d been training for this ring her whole life. Her reflection stared back, green eyes hard and angry, as moonlight cut through the fog bouncing off the river.
A GCPD uniform reflected in the window behind her. Claire fumbled to shove the photo back in her purse, sliding the clutch back underneath her arm. She turned on her heel, a charming smile stretching her mouth. “Officer, has anyone offered you—,”
Renee Montoya smirked back, and Claire deflated, relief softening her smile. “Oh, thank God,”
She quirked one perfect, dark brow. “Evening already goin’ that good, huh?” She offered another glass of champagne, manna in the wilderness.
She took a bracing sip before answering, “Isn’t it every girl’s dream to fend off the Tommy Lee wannabe ass-grabber?”
Montoya snorted, joining her by the window. “Hmph. If it happens again, I’ll try to make myself known and tell him you’re my bitch,”
Claire’s shoulders trembled as she held back measures of undignified laughter. “Well, it worked in high school,”
“Bet your ass it did, Hawthorne,” she sniffed, raising her nose higher, looking down at Claire from the corner of her eye. “Nobody messes with my bitch,”
She bumped her shoulder, and Montoya finally gave way to a toothy grin, easing the hard lines on her face. Hair back in a tight, gelled bun, Montoya held her officer's cap under her arm, posture still Marine-ready even six months post-discharge. “Uniform suits you,”
Montoya looked away, shifting her feet, scoffing, “Damn well better for how much I coughed up for it,”
Claire shrugged, “Meh, you still wear it better than most of the other clowns tonight,”
“Yeah, the fat off Falcone’s table don’t really work wonders for the physique, does it?”
Claire’s head shook ruefully, “No. Nope, it really doesn’t,” she swirled the champagne glass. “Now, c’mon, what’re you doing here? You didn’t even save me from hours of social-anxiety-induced handwringing by calling me and telling me I’d have an ally?”
Montoya’s jaw worked, but her tone was light. “Your motion went through today. Publically filing your intent to sue. Takes guts,”
Claire refused to face the side eye she received. Her heart dropped. It was like being asked for a book report she hadn’t even started yet.
“HorizonClear Solutions,” Montoya shook her head. “You couldn’t a’started with a fender bender?” Claire’s hackles rose, but before she could defend herself, “Easy, Nancy Drew. I’m just sayin’ a phone call woulda been nice. Besides, somebody needs to check in on ya,”
Claire met brown eyes that softened around the edges. “I got you however I can, mama. But—,” she shook her head. “You sure you know what ya doin’?”
Part of her wanted to spew out every legal precedent and witness statement that listed a whole apartment block as plaintiffs. Instead, she shook her head. “Ain’t gotta a damn clue. But I know it’s right. And I can’t pretend that I’m not able to do anything,”
Montoya sighed before offering a reluctant half smile, “Yeah, well, I guess that rich butler friend of yours would know about getting sludge stains out,”
She laughed, “Seriously. Mr. Penny— oh, shit,” catching a glimpse over Montoya’s shoulder. Montoya’s head swiveled, mouth a firm line. A balding head popped up like a shark fin, and she mapped out escape routes. “For the love of—,”
“Mr. Grab-ass?”
She nodded, “Mr. Grab-ass,”
Montoya pulled her cap over her head. “Side stairs up to the second floor,” she instructed before marching off. “Doctor Fry, if you’ll come with me, sir. The valet has told us that—,”
Claire spun on her heel, crossing the hall to the marble stairs. Picking up the dress, she dashed up the red carpet, careful of uneven dips in the stone. She deposited her empty glass on the tray of the passing wait staff. The stringed quartet competed with a low echo of jungle ambiance in the next display hall. She thought it might have been the homo evolutionary stage exhibit. All stages of previous life forms that somehow still seemed more evolved than Dr. Fry, who thought it was a good idea to throw a tantrum at the bar, she thought with a wry grin leaning against the balustrade.
Without the congestion of the crowd, her next breath came easier. She ran her hand down the soft velvet of her dress, letting the champagne warm down her arms and legs. A cool breeze filtered from the next display rooms, and she sighed in relief, rolling her neck from side to side. The conversation became more like a dull afterthought as she let Vivaldi ease the tension from her shoulders.
A voice, deep and measured, identical to every press conference she’d watched of him, cut through Spring’s violent emergence.
“Miss Hawthorne?”
She refused to stiffen. She stood and turned. Jonathan Maddox, tall with impeccably styled salt and pepper hair and a ruthlessly tailored suit with threads that gleamed as silver as his hair. She had managed the invitation list, sent out, and approved every single one. He had not been on it.
He offered his hand and a perfect smile. She took it and tried not to snarl when he pressed a kiss to the top of her hand. “Mr. Maddox,” she returned in a steady courtroom cadence.
Both hands went to clutch her purse in front of her as she met his eyes with a calm smile. It was tactical on his part, showing up uninvited and seeking her out while isolated. She hadn’t expected him, but Claire only made these types of errors once. She wondered if he realized that.
He joined her by the marble balcony overlooking the gala. It was difficult not to feel like everyone was looking at them. Montoya was going to lose her shit.
“I hope I’m not interrupting your moment of solitude,” he said, icy blue eyes scanning over the crowd, sharp, and looking for blood in the water. “I know these events can be quite taxing for those used to solitude like ourselves,”
She forced a polite laugh, “It’s too early in the evening for the collusion of the hermits,”
She could admit he was beautiful, with all his sharp and lean lines, and she wondered how many women had suffered because of the fact. “Hermits from society are often those busiest, wouldn’t you agree?”
Her throat went dry, her heart rabbitting in her chest. Papers weren’t supposed to have been served until the next week, but she supposed a little detail like sealed records and procedures meant little to a man like Maddox.
“How so?”
He stepped closer, a gently beguiling smile in place. “I’ve heard you’ve been doing remarkable work since starting in your own practice. I’m sure the Donegal Firm regrets letting someone with your drive and tenacity get away from them,”
She demurred, “You’re too kind. I thought it was the organizer's responsibility to flatter the donors, not the other way around,”
He chuckled, sending a chill down her back, “Gotham is fortunate to have someone looking out for its citizens,”
“My parents set a high philanthropic standard. I can only hope that I’m living up to half of it,”
Below, the quartet hit a sour note, and the crowd’s discussion paused. Had she not been trapped in the world’s most juvenile staring contest, she would have looked over the balcony to see what caused it. Old people murmuring was nearly more dangerous than their muttering.
“It’s not every day I come across someone willing to undertake the dangers of throwing their gauntlet into the rings of injustice,”
She gritted her teeth at the shark's smile, eyes glittering in their enjoyment. “What can I say, I always enjoyed Round Table stories,”
“Even so, not many would undertake a challenge that so many actively avoid,”
Claire’s head tilted to the side, “And what could you possibly mean by that, Mr. Maddox?”
She enjoyed the unexpected pause before realizing it wasn’t because of her. A broad shadow fell across her. Her brow furrowed.
“Claire? Is that you?”
Her heart, stomach, and all other vital organs dropped at the unexpected voice-- smoother and deeper than Maddox’s. One she hadn’t heard in years, and honestly, one she had expected to never hear again because she had mourned that voice. Her mind blanked as her mouth dropped. Her body moved on instinct, turning to face him.
And it was him. There was no doubt it could be anyone else. The necklace hidden underneath her collar burned. His name left her on an exhale,
“Bruce,”
She had to look up a bit more than she remembered to meet his eyes. The blood drained so quickly from her head she was surprised her knees kept her upright. He looked just the same. Probably better, that bastard. Dark hair swept back neatly, shoulders that had broadened filled out the bespoke black Armani, the Guerlain Vetiver cologne-- fresh cedarwood and vetiver-- and his eyes. His eyes were just the same as they’d been the day she’d chased him down at the private airport before he decided to vanish-- sharp, blue, and utterly fixed on her.
His gaze flickered almost imperceptibly. Then he looked over her shoulder, and a veneer slipped over him. A wide, playful grin spread across his face, and Claire nearly recoiled. Bruce stepped in between them as Maddox remarked,
“Well, I’ll be. Isn’t this a surprise,”
Bruce winked, and Claire could only watch. This wasn’t-- couldn’t be Bruce.
“The prodigal returns,” Bruce said, hanging his head with boyish charm and matching every caricature they had ever made fun of. “I know, I know. You should’ve heard the board this afternoon,”
Maddox quirked a brow, “I can only imagine,” before looking between them. “And the two of you…know one another?”
“Yeah, of course,”
At the same time, “No,” Claire said, earning her looks from both gentlemen. She found it harder to force laughs the more she tried. “Oh, I only mean… no, we used to. It feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it, Bruce?”
She ignored the small line of tension between Bruce’s brows. Oh, he hadn’t liked that answer, had he? Well, fucking good. That, at last, sparked her temper because it seemed her first answer had been correct. She didn’t know Bruce Wayne. Hadn’t for a long while, and now, intended to keep it that way.
Bruce’s voice was light, almost airy. “When I saw the both of you up here, I knew I had to risk interrupting. Old friends on both sides and all that,” he laughed, running a hand through his hair, giving it that perfectly disheveled look. Claire wanted to throw up. “Besides, Mads, you’re still the small talk magnet. I’m sure Claire couldn’t have peeled herself away even if she wanted to,”
Her heart stuttered in her chest. Was it possible for someone to lose that many IQ points in such a short amount of time? God. Shut. Up. Bruce.
Annoyance flashed in Maddox’s eyes before he remembered to chuckle, shaking his head. “Ah, old Bruce. Never change,” then his eyes turned against her. He squeezed her shoulder gently, fingers trailing lightly up her neck, and she refused to flinch or take her eyes from his, even as her breath caught. Bruce stiffened next to her. “No, no. I was just making introductions to Gotham’s newest best and brightest,”
He slid past them, “I’m looking forward to watching your progress, Miss Hawthorne. Next time you’re in the neighborhood, let me know. I’ll make sure to clear my schedule for lunch,”
Claire swallowed but lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders. “We’ll have to make time for it. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to discuss,”
Amusement lit his features before he started toward the stairs, sending a wave over his shoulder. For a long moment, Claire stood, waiting until she could no longer see silver hair. Her palm went to her neck, rubbing overtop where his fingers had lingered. She regretted that last glass of champagne because now her stomach threatened to lose it over the balcony.
Another deep breath, and she remembered the other imposing presence at her side. The self-appointed prodigal himself. He’d be waiting for a while if he expected a fatted calf from her. And so, pulling from every junior high drama club experience she could muster, she plastered her best winsome smile across her face, forcing her hands to her sides, smoothing and gripping her dress in tandem.
“I’m surprised I haven’t picked up a Times issue with your picture across it, prodigal,” she said lightly, proud of her even tone. “News like that always sells,”
The muscles in his jaw worked as the cogwheels in his brain jammed so thoroughly that Claire was surprised smoke hadn’t started coming out of his ears. She could practically feel him considering whether he could get away with asking about the pissing contest he’d interrupted. And Claire could have answered that for him with a resounding, “Hell no,”
“No.” he shook his head. “No Times yet. Plane landed on Monday, and Alfred convinced me to keep a low profile until the quarterly board meeting this afternoon,”
A bitter scoff caught in her throat. “Alfred, huh? What’d he have to do, roll you into the room inside a steamer trunk?”
His mouth softened around the edges, and grief sucker-punched her in the stomach. “Claire, I--,”
“Bruce!” came the mating call of Vicki Vale from the direction of the stairs. “Brucie!”
Claire straightened, eyes darting away, and fuck her, if she was going to stick around for the press tour as her eyes started to sting. She cleared her throat, her polite fundraiser facade locking into place, this time more prepared to look into the eyes of a stranger. “Duty calls loudly these days, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t want to keep Gotham’s prince away from more interesting company,”
“I’m sorry. I needed a date on short--,” he stepped closer when she retreated, reaching for her elbow. “Claire, please,”
She turned sharply with an even sharper smile. “Enjoy the festivities, Mr. Wayne. I hope we can count on the Wayne Foundation’s usual donation,” before stalking off.
She didn’t look back at them, but in the exhibit glass reflection, Claire saw Bruce catch a tipsy Vicki around the waist, dipping to whisper in her ear.
She marched through the exhibit halls before reaching the ocean mammals and various other creepy crawlies. She reached the preserved corpse of a Humboldt squid before her knees gave out.
Catching herself on a plaque’s corner, she heaved in one short breath after another. She scrubbed a hand down her face, smearing immaculate eyeshadow, her rings catching on strands of wavy hair. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be happening.
Her voice caught as she pressed her palms against her eyes, “Damn you, Bruce,”
Her clutch buzzed, and she slid the rest of the way down to the floor. She struggled to make jelly legs cooperate. Her pager blared, and she fumbled to silence it.
‘MOM- NURSE,’ it read. She shut her eyes, leaning her head back against the squid box, and tapping the pager against her forehead. A nervous breakdown against a squid coffin, she huffed a watery laugh. Apparently, this was the least ridiculous thing to happen in the past hour. She exhaled shakily, looking back at the floating cephalopod.
“We’re just having a bad night, aren’t we?”
She wiped her eyes, yanked herself to her feet, and cursed prodigals to an early grave or to at least a surprise IRS audit. With parting condolences to the squid, Claire marched to the exit. She yanked out her earrings, tossing them into a nearby potted plant.
“I knew those damn things were bad luck,”