Bat Appetit XII

Bat Appétit
A Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B
Chapter Twelve

"Any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary." – Mark Twain

~

"You are making a terrible mistake."

Monty turned, her head tilted at Curtis suspiciously, as if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. The pair had been silent for a good minute or two, having just finished discussing the latest restaurant news… his remark was unexpected and sinister. Lips pursed, the woman finished folding the t-shirt she was holding and set it down on the table beside the others.

After a moment, the words found their grip on her tongue. "A mistake," she repeated in disbelief, knowing the topic had instantly changed without her consent.

"A mistake." Like a hallway echo with a deeper, ominous tone, her friend happily spouted back at her from his place at the kitchen table. "You've managed to convince yourself that you love him, is that it? Just because the man slept with you. You think that's a good enough reason to dupe yourself into believing lies?" He scoffed. "You can only trick yourself so long. You can only trick him so long." Absentmindedly, Curtis twiddled the smoking cigarette between his fingers, and briefly Monty caught a glimpse of a great dragon in the way Curtis let fire past his lips, spurting it back at her with just as much effort.

The sight was macabre.

Because Monty was so used to receiving this particular lecture, she paid it no mind and chose to reiterate the few counter-statements that were often used at this stage. While she spoke, her hands continued to fold clothes.

"Curtis, how old am I?"

She watched his eyes roll.

"You are thirty-two, Monty."

"Good. And how old is Mr. Wayne?"

"Thirty… thirty-five, I believe?"

"Yes." Dropping the last folded blouse on the table, Monty stepped away and meandered around to stand beside her friend. Like a teacher scolding a student, she peered down at him with a solemn glint in her eye.

"For the last time, you are not my father. You should not be telling me—"

It was so sudden, and so painful. Like breaking glass, like a screaming siren, like lightning hitting home, Curtis erupted. He slammed his fists on the table, sending his cigarette flying.

"I am your friend, goddamn it!" he yelled hoarsely. "Despite the age gap, despite everything, I have been there for you through everything!"

Monty remained perfectly still.

"I want you to be a better person, Monty! I'm trying to tell you that this is a mistake! Don't you see? You've lied to yourself all this time, assuring yourself that this was all for family, all for their sake, all for the restaurant." His voice rose. "But none of it has been for them. It's all been for you. The antisocial little girl wanted to prove that she could do something wicked. She wanted to demonstrate to her parents that she could be gregarious enough to exploit one of the wealthiest men on earth. She wanted to do something heroic, something no one could ever think she was capable of doing. And I tried." The thin wrinkles on his face, scratched with age, tightened and locked into one firm form. "Over time, I tried to tell you otherwise. I tried to convince you it was wrong. God knows your parents and grandfather weren't thinking right when they agreed to this plan. How could they have let someone so innocent commit a crime so heinous? I made a mistake in giving you the idea and not stopping you from following through. I should've known better then." His lips pulled into a pockmarked thin line, and his eyes narrowed accordingly. "Maybe I thought you were a better person than that. Maybe, after the explosion, I thought you'd strive your hardest to compensate for the loss of life there."

Curtis stood.

"You were once a good person with good morals and a bright heart. You were my friend. And now you've become this manipulative hellion who has robbed a wealthy man of his money. End it, Monty. Stop lying to yourself and end it."

Monty simply lowered her eyes.

"I love him, Curtis, no matter what you believe," she murmured, speaking to his dismay, "and I will never tell him the truth. That would ruin what we have spent so long constructing." Weakly, her gaze met his, and she noted the fury there. "Asking me to destroy it… I can't, Curtis. I can't. I won't. I refuse to. I'm done hearing you tell me how to live my life. I'm done with you disagreeing with me. I'm done with your attacks." She also found herself narrowing her eyes. "Leave me alone."

Perhaps Curtis saw no other option.

He removed himself from the table.

"Fine."

Picking up the burnt cigarette from the tabletop, the older man stormed through the kitchen and to the front hallway, muttering all the way. Monty could've sworn she heard Bruce's name somewhere in Curtis's grumblings, but she chose to pay it no mind, and instead followed a good distance behind him.

Curtis stopped at the door with his hand on the handle.

"You aren't going to tell him."

"Nope."

"You're sure?"

Monty pursed her lips. "I'm sure."

"Fine."

Again, the word stung like a blow of harsh winter air across her cheek.

"Bye, Monty."

The door slammed, and Monty retreated back to the kitchen, her head throbbing.

Was he right? Had she merely convinced herself that she loved Bruce?

No, he wasn't right. She did love Bruce. She was certain of it. Whenever she saw him, her stomach charged with frantic butterflies and her legs began shaking; her lips chapped and her fingers squirmed; her throat grew dry and her toes curled. He could easily make her laugh, and just as easily bring her to tears. Every instance where he touched her seared a new stamp of ownership upon her skin, a new brand, a new mark that could not be washed away with soap and water. A fierce seal, Bruce's mark upon her outsides as well as her insides choked the gloom from her world and erected laughter and warmth in its place.

They'd slept together three times. She'd stayed the night six.

She loved him.

"I love him."

And it was so.

Had she really done it all for family, though? Was Curtis right? Had Monty been searching for a way of fulfillment, an escapist's act?

Perhaps she was more at fault than she thought.

Monty contemplated this. She contemplated this as she cleaned her closet, as she made herself dinner, and as she watched TV. Though her hands worked, though her eyes stared, observed, received, Monty could not focus on anything but Curtis's words. His accusations burned almost as strongly as Bruce's fingers upon her arms.

She contemplated this all night.

She contemplated this until the phone call.

~

"Your move, Master Wayne."

Bruce studied his pieces, his expression furtive.

"I haven't played chess in ages, Alfred. You have to cut me some slack."

Both men grinned in equal measures, but Alfred's smile was more apparent. He gazed across the small table at the bearded man, studying the boy he'd spent so many years raising. For a moment, he watched Bruce ponder his next move, watched how his eyebrows furrowed and raised at different points in time.

"You look like your father when you do that," Alfred remarked, and Bruce looked up.

"When I do what?"

"Your pensive eyes… and your brows. Your father used to sit at his desk for hours with those same eyes. Sometimes his were aimed downward, at papers in his hand." Alfred paused, recollecting. "Sometimes they looked nowhere. In space. And his brows would do the same as yours just did. Lower briefly, and then raise out of nowhere. Curious."

Bruce returned to the chess set and made a move.

"Good one."

Alfred moved.

"Damn." Bruce frowned as Alfred removed a piece from the board. "You're good."

"I am."

"Alfred, what do you think about me… coming back?"

His words snapped the game in two.

"Coming back, Master Wayne?"

"To the real world. Becoming a public figure again. Five years is enough, right?" Bruce leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. "I've been… thinking about doing it. Making my appearance again. Showing up at a party in town to announce my arrival."

The corners of Alfred's lips twitched. "By any chance, would there be a young lady on your arm as you arrived, Master Wayne? A young blonde lady?"

Bruce's fingers formed a triangle over his lips and beard. "I've considered it."

At last, Alfred felt as if he could breath an enormous sigh of relief. He'd hoped the woman's presence would spur Bruce into action once more, bringing the hermit back into the land of the living.

It seemed to have worked.

"She inspired you to consider it, then." Alfred posed his statement as a light accusation instead of a question, hoping that would render a positive response.

It did. "Yes. She… has done wonders for me. My only way of thanking her would be to prove her efforts have not been in vain." Bruce licked his lips. "She deserves a great deal from me, Alfred. I care about her a lot."

"And she cares about you, too," Alfred responded, nodding. "I can see it in her eyes. She'd appreciate your return just as much as I would."

It was an odd time for someone to be ringing the doorbell; nevertheless, it rang, and Alfred excused himself from the table to answer the door. He smiled all the way, and Bruce, noting this, echoed the smile.

"Then it's decided!" Bruce called out to the butler. "I'll return."

He sounded happy, and that was all Alfred had ever wished for.

Finally, they were both satisfied.

Alfred, still chuckling, stepped to the front door and swung it open. Instantly, a nighttime chill hit him, and the moonlight cast a baleful glow on the figure on the doorstep.

"Yes?"

The man that stood there was middle-aged, with thin wrinkles and flashing eyes.

"I need to speak with Bruce Wayne," he croaked in a throaty whisper.

"I'm sorry." Alfred dipped his head. "He isn't taking visitors right now."

The man was persistent. "I must speak with him. It's urgent." He must've spotted Bruce over Alfred's shoulder, for he called out, "I know Monty."

"Monty?" Now came the sound of Bruce and his cane lagging to the door. "You know her? Is she all right?"

Pursing his lips in an almost unnatural manner, the man nodded.

"My name is Curtis. I'm her best friend. I need to speak with you."