Work Text:
"Good morning Gotham, Gothamites. It's a lovely 70 degree morning here, overcast, foggy, going to warm up to 88 degrees later on today. But by the time the Wayne Foundation Annual Summer Ball comes around, things should have calmed down to a balmy 77 degrees. Speaking of the Ball ..."
Chelsea pressed mute. It was seven o'clock in the fucking morning, but that apparently wasn't too early to wax, wane and drool about Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne. Bachelor. Heir. Blah blah. She'd only been up for two minutes but she already knew the day was going to be hellish; hot, muggy and overflowing with too many people talking about Bruce, fucking Wayne.
It was hard not to have an opinion of the man. The word Wayne was everywhere. The Wayne Trauma Center at Gotham Central Hospital. The Wayne Foundation. Wayne Charities. Wayne Enterprises. Wayne Corp. Wayne owned half of Gotham. Kane owned the other half. Squeezed around the middle were ordinary folk struggling to make a living.
Chelsea sighed, she knew it was mostly the heat, the fact of summer, that made Wayne; the man and the multi-limbed organization, seem omnipresent and overbearing. It was the teenage girls in the library giggling and fantasizing over Dick Grayson. It was the older librarians talking about Thomas Wayne Sr and how much he'd have disapproved of his son. And then the thirty-something librarians talking about how Bruce Wayne had had so much trauma in his life, it was only natural he'd act out and it'd only take the right sensible woman to help him calm down and get him to trust that life could be more than glitz and glamour.
The Wayne Trauma Center was responsible for her ability to walk, the fact she only had a limp. Ordinarily she was grateful as hell that the place existed, that Wayne existed and that he had a particular care for the victims of crime. In another city, any other city barring Metropolis, she could have ended up just another mugging statistic.
Still, she didn't need reminders now for every summer.
----
"Five hundred dollars a head for nose bleeder seats, a thousand dollars to be near the dance-floor. Gotta wonder if the food's fucking worth it, yeah Bob? Who cares about the food, what I want to know is, do any of those rich women need a little something something on the side? I've got no problem being a kept man. Especially when the woman doing the keeping can afford the best plastic surgery and buy me the best cars !"
Chelsea rolled her eyes and sighed. "Turn that shit down, this is a library, remember?" The break room at the Gotham City Main Library was supposed to be almost as quiet as the rest of the place. But it never was in the summer. The a/c inevitably broke down and everyone crowded in to catch a breeze in the windows - the best thing about the large room.
Her co-workers mostly ignored her or rolled their own eyes. Chelsea didn't much care. Her knee and hip ached, her shoulder too, the entire side that had been slammed into the car when she tried to run away from her would be muggers. Her hand went automatically to her side where the knife had sunk in, barely missing nicking her lungs but getting her spleen. She'd been so lucky. Mugging at knife-point was rare in Gotham. It was too damn easy for the wrong people to get their hands on guns. It felt like every political year they made it harder and harder for a citizen to legally own a firearm; waiting time was fifteen days, then there was the background check. At the same time, she could walk out of the library right now, nod to the right hood on the corner and pass over fifty dollars for something with the serial numbers filed off. She knew because one of her very good friends had shown her, the one who was stupid enough to work as a teacher in one of Gotham's public schools.
"Hey, you need to smile sometimes." A bright cheerful voice said.
Chelsea looked up to see the familiar face of the library's longest re-applying computer intern. "I'll smile when I have a reason to, Ms. Gordon."
The young redhead spun in a circle, holding her lunch tray before sitting down. "It's summer, the sky is blue, the air is warm...."
"You're in love, or high." Chelsea added but did smile, barely, before biting into her sandwich.
"High on life." Barbara began to sit down, but then her cellphone rang. She glanced at it and then yipped. "My dress is ready. Gotta go."
There was no need for Chelsea to ask which dress. As the Police Commissioner's Daughter, Barbara would be at the Ball tonight. Barbara was the reason Chelsea even knew all those giggling teenage girls had no clue Dick Grayson was as flighty as his mentor; Apparently people of similar ages ended up talking at those things.
"Have a good time." Chelsea called out as Barbara, apple in her mouth, maneuvered her way out of the room.
---
A cool bath, a good movie, a very delicious half-pint of Cry for Death - Rucka Dairy's, baker's chocolate chunk, chocolate cake, vanilla swirl, chocolate ice cream - a sinful concoction, and Chelsea was almost feeling normal. Her dreads were drying, her aches were fading and for once, Channel 3 hadn't been interrupted by the Joker or some other idiot in the middle of a really good movie; one of the local oldies from the 60's.
The knock at her door at ten-thirty at night was startling. She picked up her cane and held it like a weapon as she stood near the wall by the front door. "Who is it?" Never stand directly behind the door in Gotham. Her roommate in the hospital had taught her that last year. Just like her physical therapist had taught her that using a cane could be as much a symbol of trouble as a confident sure legged walk; Gotham quirks.
"Chelsea, it's me. You do have a doorman y'know."
"I've got a super with too much time on his hands and a rickety desk. And how do I know you're not mind controlled or something else."
Oh the couch Chelsea's cellphone rang. It was the ring-tone for Barbara Gordon. She was second in charge of the interns and had all their contact numbers. Shaking her head Chelsea opened the door. "Aren't you supposed to be at a party? Excuse me - a ball."
Barbara smiled. "It got boring hours ago. Besides, it's a school night."
Chelsea arched a brow.
The younger woman in her doorway simply chuckled. "Computer technology waits for no woman." She held up a container. "They had cheesecake. I got you two slices."
Barbara leaned in and perfunctorily kissed Chelsea on first one cheek then the other. "Anyway, Dad's waiting downstairs. If I don't get down there in another minute he'll send a squad up. See you tomorrow, right?"
Chelsea blinked. They weren't friends. They were only sort of colleagues. Gordon dealt with computers. She, on the other hand, dealt with actual books, down in the basement binding and gluing Gotham's history back together again and occasionally when she had a free moment, carefully scanning the pages to preserve them and the knowledge they held forever.
She blinked startled at the barest scent of perfume and the after image of a pale green gown and a delicate updo of vibrant red hair against the grey and brown wallpaper in the corridor.
"Thank -- you."
Locking up, dazed, Chelsea Williams made her way back to her couch and sat down heavily. Her cellphone was still lit up. Flipping it open she saw that Barbara had texted her instead of calling her. There in black and white was a text message saying "You're Welcome :) "
Chelsea smiled.
A Wayne function had to at least have good catering.