Dates and other downers
Two nights later, I got out of the Uber outside the city's most exclusive restaurant. As myself, I wouldn't get in the door, but a doorman held it wide for me after ascertaining who I was meeting. A maitre d' who looked like he was reserving judgement on me until later led me to Mr Wayne's table. I was the first to arrive and checked my watch. I was actually right on time. I bet myself that he'd have an excuse when he showed up that revolved around business, whether to reinforce his importance or as an actual reason, I wasn't sure.
I was a chapter into the paperback in my purse and had consumed a little over half of the not-ample breadbasket that the waitstaff had finally bestowed on me when I'd finally had enough and was about to call for an Uber driver. I found Wayne looking down at me with some consternation when I looked up at his arrival. I looked at my watch; fifteen minutes late.
"I was about to give up on you, Mr Wayne," I said pleasantly, closing the book and putting it and the phone away.
"Oh?" he looked startled. "Please call me Bruce."
"I figure I've been stood up if I don't hear anything from my date after a quarter hour. Call me Emma."
"I'd planned to," he said, still looking a little off-balance. We accepted menus and I saw that unfortunately, it was a tiny food restaurant with pretensions. There were no prices on my menu but lots of descriptions that included "scent" and "trace" and "essence." Geeze. I needed fuel for my metabolism, not a word game. I'd have to stop on the way home for takeout. I had a couple of mini Snickers in my bag that would probably tide me over. I could escape to the bathroom and eat them quickly. We made small talk as we decided what to order. An explanation of his lateness was not issued, which, frankly, was a bit of a mark against him. He ordered for both of us. I hate that. I know that it is meant as a courtesy, but it implies that the woman's preference has been vetted by her date and also that she can't order for herself. The waiter slunk away obsequiously, and the sommelier approached. My input was not sought; Bruce and the wine guy chatted and discussed, and finally an old bottle of red was brought forth. Bruce swirled and sniffed and sipped, and the sommelier finally poured me half a glass before leaving. Bruce mentioned the grapes that the wine was made of and the flavors I was supposed to be tasting. I mostly noticed the acidity and tannins. I'm not really much for wine; I prefer light, fruity whites to reds, a sweet sparkling wine to champagne and beer to wine in general. I didn't suppose there was a beer to be had here.
However, I was on a date here and it would be rude to make a fuss. Most women would swoon to be taken here by the city's preeminent bachelor. I decided to look at the visit as sort of a sociological outing. Bruce pushed the breadbasket closer to me. Really? A big guy like that and he's not even eating the itty little rolls? He had to have eaten before he came. Bastard. I ate the remaining two rolls (they were slightly larger than a quarter) before a composed salad was presented; my plate had five leaves from different plants, a thin crescent of avocado, a tiny section of citrus fruit, and a bold swirl of dressing smeared on the plate. I tried to make it last as we discussed the regional NFL teams, but there was only so far that five lettuce leaves will stretch. He wasn't a fan of hockey, and I wasn't a fan of baseball. We tried to find some common ground in other interests, but I think we were both relieved when the entrees arrived. I had two lamb medallions the size of a half-dollar, artfully sliced, with a pan sauce, three green beans, and an almond sliver.
I could have cried. After consuming my dinner (what there was was scrumptious) I excused myself and hid out in a bathroom stall while I snarfed down both Snickers bars. It helped. For dessert there was a drop of white chocolate mousse the size of a Hershey's Kiss, garnished with a miniscule mint leaf, which I also ate. It was too small to really determine what kind of mint it was. Small cups of coffee were served--decaf, I was informed, no cream or sugar was offered. I studied my dining companion. He seemed no more at ease with me than at the start of the meal and was remote. Depressing.
"So why did you ask me out?" I asked him, setting down my cup. "I'm sorry to say that you don't seem to have enjoyed our date very much." I'd tried to draw him out, told him a funny story about one of the dogs, asked about hobbies, of which he seemed to have none. He squirmed.
"You seem like an interesting woman," he said. "And I wanted to ask if you'd sell me your shares of Stark Industries." I couldn't help the disappointed, sinking feeling.
"I don't do business in a social setting," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "If you'd have asked before, I would have told you that my shares are not for sale."
"May I ask why? It's not exactly a secret that you loathe Stark. We could perhaps arrange a trade; an equal value of Wayne Industry shares for your Stark shares."
"I bought the shares for a reason." To protect Tony from himself when he got bad. "The reason still exists." Just because I want to hit Tony when I see him isn't anything new, and I'd promised that he wouldn't be forced out of his company. I didn't know Bruce at all and didn't trust him to have Stark's best interests. "Besides," I said, "Pepper is running the company now, which is good for the stock and my bottom line. I like to support women CEOs." Bruce ran his own company. Competently, to be sure, but I'm all about boosting women in power. He sat back, looking disappointed. The waiter cleared the table unobtrusively and placed a thin leather folder on the table.
After he'd signed, he stood and held my chair, which was nice. Outside the door, I thanked him for the meal and hopped into a cab. I had the driver drop me at a really good burger joint.
I took a bath as a treat to compensate for the date and Pepper called to find out how it went. "Oh, yeah, I always eat before I go there," she said.
"Why? That is crazy," I said , feeling crabby.
"I don't know, come to think about it," she said. "It's just the thing to do. Restaurants like that are more about who can get a reservation and the appearance of being an elite." I grunted. "So how'd you get along?"
"It turns out he just wanted to offer for my shares of Stark," I said moodily. She was a good friend, booing him and taking my side.
"So it was business instead of a date, he didn't apologize for being late, the wine was icky, and you didn't even get a good meal out of it," she sympathized.
"What there was was delicious, and I stopped for a burger on the way home," I said. "Yummm. Beef. But yeah. Kind of a downer. I wore my favorite outfit for no reason." We arranged to meet for lunch on Friday ("decent portions, I promise," Pepper pledged) and hung up.
I was kind of down after that and made it a point to go out as Poppy for a few evenings. After the first night, I came home and added straps to the corset top, which was still a little problematic. I'd finally figured out that the corset needed to be made from non-stretchy fabrics if I didn't want it to flip down under stress, and bought sturdy black cotton for a fall/winter version. It still had narrow mesh inserts along the sides, but it was just enough to provide some ease for catching my breath and not enough to let my boobs make a bid for self-expression. I was still going to put on straps, though.
Three of the four criminals I apprehended were pretty good about being taken down, but the fourth was another story. I was black and blue after we got through and I found myself wishing for the urumi, but not sharp. The next morning I ordered a bullwhip. The next night I came up with the idea of surveying the neighborhood I'd claimed as mine (not Brooklyn) from the highest spots to look for trouble.
Imagine my surprise when a whisper of movement drew my attention and I saw Batman on my perch. I was starting to feel territorial, and Batman usually was seen in the industrial areas and neighborhoods frequented by the seriously bad criminal class (not my neighborhood). "What are you doing here?" I asked, startled.
"Checking out the new wanna-be hero," he said. "I don't want to have to have to rescue some girl who can't take down a criminal without flashing her breasts."
"Deadpool," I gritted. Oh, he was dead the next time I saw him.
"No," he said. "I saw it go down myself." Oh, lord. My face heated up and I was glad it was dark. "While your breasts are attractive and nicely shaped, they'll lose their novelty and thus their effectiveness as a distraction." As he went on about tactics and strategy, I watched him. His costume was thick, reinforced rubber, difficult to hit hard enough to cause damage, but there was a cleverly concealed heavy-duty zipper that I would assume made it easier to pee. I concentrated on the metal teeth and broke it. I tuned in toward the end of the speech, just as he was turning away, and flicked my sash at his ankles. He went face down and immediately I pounced and restrained his wrists behind him with the sash. He struggled futilely. Silk is a very strong fiber, wet or dry.
"I'm not without skills," I purred as he tried to get free, kneeling on his back. "And I didn't even have to show you a nipple. Pontificating was your downfall." He paused the low stream of cursing a moment. I unwound his wrists and hopped off and down my escape route quickly.
"I'm letting you get away," he shouted after me crossly. I waved without looking up and vanished. Getting one up on the Batman cheered me up quite a bit.
So did lunch with Pepper. We dissected the date; Pepper was of the opinion that he was just so focused on his work that he didn't have time to develop genuine interests, including sex. "I don't think he's gay, straight by default, but I've never gotten the impression he realizes that his dick isn't just for peeing," she said thoughtfully, and I burst out laughing. We both had a good time at lunch; we resolved to meet every other week for a lunch, and she talked me into taking a yoga class with her; she was tired of Pilates and I thought I could benefit from more flexibility.
The jeweler's bench I'd ordered for my business was delivered along with the goldsmithing tools, electroplating system, enameling supplies, and casting equipment I was going to need. It took a couple of days to get things set up precisely as I wanted them; my bench by one of the windows so that I could take a break periodically and look out on the world, the tables with the other systems set up logically. A security company put excellent systems on the doors and windows with a couple of panic buttons in other places in the loft, and I got insurance for the business. The display cases, when I chose them, were going to be placed between my bench and the door since I wouldn't have any help unless the business really took off. I screened off the kitchen area and got a small table with a couple of chairs. I got a special delivery of sterling silver, eighteen karat gold--white and yellow-- and platinum that I immediately popped into the big safe that I'd had bolted to the floor. Then I went around town; I had appointments to view diamonds and other gemstones. These purchases also went straight into the safe, and at long last, I started to work on my jewelry designs. My first pair was a lacy pair of drop earrings with plique a jour enamel. I used bold colors for the enamel that contrasted beautifully with my white hair and wore them in public a lot. People noticed, and before long, I was handing out business cards and had hired a business to create a website that would go live when I opened my doors.
I wanted everything to be one of a kind, no duplicates or mass production, so building an inventory took time. I had sketches for little collections of jewelry as well as kind of random pieces. I wished I could produce a guilloched ground for some of the enamel pieces, but you needed a rose turning engine, and there weren't many of those left. I compromised with engraving the back of the pieces before putting in the enamel.
I woke up one morning feeling just awful. It wasn't just the bruises I'd had from a fight with a criminal the night before, my malady matched up with a report I'd seen on the local news that described a high number of cases of a flu-like virus. I'd washed my hands compulsively but it looked like I still had managed to pick it up. I made a quick trip to the store to make sure I had easily digested foods as well as a thermometer and appropriate medications--the symptoms were gastrointestinal distress, fever, and head and body ache. My temperature started to go up that afternoon and that night I gave in and just stayed in the bathroom. The dogs seemed to rotate in and out for comfort. Nothing was staying down. I thought I'd started to hallucinate voices. One was crisp, with a British-ish accent.
Then there seemed to be a lot of activity. I was lifted up and tucked into bed. The abrupt change of temperature from the warm bathroom to the cool sheets made me shiver, then I couldn't stop. There was a dip on the mattress and a big dog laid down beside me. I cuddled into the warmth, my head just pounding. I heard snippets of speech that I couldn't track very well, something about calling Sam, some special needles. The tones of voice were angry, maybe? Then there was a few new voices, a female saying that something was cute, then something was stuck under my tongue that beeped. "One-oh-four," a new voice said, and I was resettled to lie on my back. I moaned a little, and my hair was pushed off my face and a cool cloth slid gently over my face before ending up on my forehead. There was a pain in my elbow and somebody was told brusquely to "hold this up." I woke up briefly to see a familiar face, then it was lights out again.
It was almost dark the next time I woke up, and a man with dark hair was lounging at the foot of my bed. His smile seemed strained, and he jumped up to carry me into the bathroom, waiting outside considerately until I was done, then sitting me on the closed lid of the toilet and bringing me a bottle of water that was cool, not cold. I drank it thirstily, wincing and looking at a big-ass needle in my arm. I waited tensely, but unlike earlier, I could keep the water down although my stomach was still unhappy. The man leaned in the doorframe and watched me. I saw the metal hand and all at once my brain started to work sluggishly.
"Hey, Bucky," I said wearily. "Glad to see you, but what are you doing here?" My voice was raspy and my throat hurt from all the vomiting.
"We brought Loki out, the others are in town for a thing at the UN," he said. "That's where everybody is now, pretty much. What do you need?"
"Bath," I said dispiritedly. I felt absolutely disgusting.
"Sam said you could have a bath, it might help bring down your temperature," he said, and disappeared briefly. He reappeared with a meat thermometer, which he used to precisely adjust the water temperature, and threw in bottle of fresh-smelling Epsom salts. "He left strict instructions," he muttered, then helped me stand, looking at the ceiling as I stripped off the t-shirt and panties I'd put on at some point. Right, when I'd gotten vomit on my nightgown. Uck. I got in by myself and stretched out, sighing in relief, then asked for a clean washcloth; I usually grabbed one from the linen closet outside when I came in for a shower or bath. My skin felt overly sensitive, and Bucky had to hand me the detachable shower head to wash my hair, then he used a super-absorbent swimming towel to mostly dry my hair. I felt a little better when I got out, even if it was only the psychological relief of being clean. Then I realized I hadn't brought any clean clothes in with me, and Bucky whipped off his t-shirt immediately, putting the long-sleeved plaid overshirt back on. The t-shirt was soft and warm and smelled faintly like his aftershave. Then he put me back into bed, tucking me in and drawing up the blanket so I wouldn't be cold. He stopped me when I was about to yank out the needle in my arm.
"You still might need fluids," he said. "You had to have almost three bags, and you're just starting to drink again. We need to wait til Sam gets back to check you."
"Surprised I'm not in the hospital."
"There was some discussion about that."
"Was that the yelling?" I was getting drowsy again.
"Some of it, yeah. Now go to sleep." And I did.
I woke up later to hear some very emphatic whispers. I recognized Steve's voice, and Bucky, Sam, Tony, Loki and Natasha. I rubbed my head, which still ached and seemed to be spinning gently, which drew attention. I opened my eyes and saw them staring at me. Torburn was pressed against me, keeping me warm, and I patted him.
"How are you feeling?" Sam asked, nudging Natasha out of the way.
"Better."
"Open up." He stuck the thermometer in my mouth. "I still think she should be in the hospital. I'm not a doctor, and she's really sick." The beeping interrupted him. "One oh two. Coming down a bit. I want you to try taking some painkillers," he said directly to me. "They'll help with your fever, too." He handed me a couple of Tylenol and I washed them down gingerly with water. It seemed inclined to stay down, and I relaxed again.
Tony brought up a mug of chicken broth, which I sipped cautiously. I drank about half of it, then put it down.
A movement by the window attracted my attention, and I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't seeing things. "Batman. What are you doing here?" He turned his unsmiling regard on me, and I couldn't stop a soft snicker as I remembered him face down on the roof, brought down by a weighted hip sash. It made my ribs ache. The others hadn't noticed him crouched outside in the tree. I was drifting off again when I recognized the jaw. "Our date wasn't good enough for you to be lurking by my bedroom, Bruce," I mumbled as fatigue took over again.
"Bruce?" Tony said incredulously. "Bruce Wayne?"
"Date?" I heard Steve snap as the lights went out again.