It all seemed like a normal afternoon scene, except that Bruce found himself sitting across from a stern detective, who now observed him from behind red-rimmed glasses, her stare discerning. Everything about her was perfectly put together—not a single wrinkle in her clothes. Her black hair was pulled back into rows of orderly braids that formed a thick ball on top of her head. No curl seemed out of place.
Bruce tried to figure out what category to put her in. He’d met few people in life who weren’t either cozying up to him in an attempt to get something or bullying him out of envy. But the detective—she didn’t want anything from him, she wasn’t jealous of him, and she certainly didn’t seem to have any ulterior motives. Right now she wasn’t trying to hide how much she disliked him. He wondered about her work, what cases she must have investigated over the years.
Draccon tightened her lips at the light of interest in his eyes. “An officer at the precinct told me he still remembers you as a small boy. Definitely didn’t see your publicity stunt coming.”
“It wasn’t a publicity stunt,” he replied. “I get enough attention already.”
“Oh?” she said in a cool, calm voice. “Is that so? Well, you’re not very good at avoiding it, are you? Lucky for you, you have an army of lawyers to help you get off easy.”
“I’m not getting out of anything,” he protested.
Alfred cast Bruce a warning glance as he placed the cheese platter and a tray of tea on the coffee table between them.
Detective Draccon leaned forward to pick up her teacup, crossed her legs, and gestured once at Bruce. “Have you ever done menial work in your life?”
“I used to help my parents in the garden, and my dad in the garage,” he answered. “I volunteered with them at soup kitchens.”
“So, in other words, you haven’t.”
Bruce opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. No. He hadn’t. Alfred managed a staff of a dozen employees to keep the mansion perfectly maintained; they were paid well to do a professional job and to keep out of sight as much as possible. Dirty dishes vanished from the kitchen, and fresh towels appeared folded and ready in the bathrooms. Bruce could recall the occasional sound of a broom in the halls, a pair of shears snipping at the hedges outside. But, with a twinge of shame, he realized he didn’t know a single staff member at Wayne Manor.
“Well, you’re about to do some real menial work,” the detective went on. “You’re going to be under my supervision for your community service, Bruce. Do you know what that means?”
Bruce tried to keep his face calm as he met her eyes. “What?”
“It means I will make sure you never want to run afoul of the law again.” Draccon took a delicate sip of her tea.
“And where are you assigning me?” he asked.
She put her cup down on its saucer. “Arkham Asylum,” she replied.
“Arkham Asylum,” Harvey mused as he and Dianne lounged around Bruce’s kitchen island that evening. “Doesn’t that prison house the criminally insane? I didn’t know a place like that could even be a community service option.”
Bruce picked at his food. He had ordered burgers and milk shakes for them so that they wouldn’t have to go to the diner, but none of them seemed able to work up much of an appetite.
“I heard the inside of Arkham is a nightmare,” Dianne added with a frown. “Does Draccon really think it’s okay to send you there? How are you going to concentrate on studying for finals?”
“You’re studying for finals?” Bruce gave her a wry grin. “Most dedicated senior I know.”
“I’m serious, Bruce! Arkham is dangerous. Isn’t it? My mom said those prisoners are guilty of some of the most horrific crimes in Gotham City’s history. And there are always jailbreaks and fights….”
Harvey grunted as he glided a quarter back and forth along his knuckles, his movements slick as water. He flicked his wrist once, sending the quarter into a perfect spin on the island counter. “No different from the world outside,” he muttered, slapping the coin down on the surface when it refused to topple over fast enough. It came up heads.
Bruce tried not to cast a sympathetic look at Harvey. His friend was here for moral support, of course, but Harvey was also holing up at Bruce’s mansion because he was avoiding his father, who had stumbled home again tonight as a drunken mess. When Harvey had tried to hang up his father’s coat, which he’d tossed onto the floor, the man had turned on him, yelling something about how his son didn’t think his father could take care of himself. There was always some tiny thing that set him off. The bruise on Harvey’s jaw had already turned purple.
“You’re staying the night, right?” Bruce asked as Harvey started flipping his coin along his knuckles again.
Harvey messed nervously with his blond hair, his eyes downcast. “If Alfred doesn’t mind,” he said. “Sorry I keep—”
“You don’t need to apologize. Stay as long as you want.” Bruce jutted his chin in the direction of the living room’s staircase. “Guest room in the east wing’s all ready for you. Just watch the shaky banisters on the stair railings. There’s a closetful of clothes for you here, all ready to go.”
“I can afford my own clothes,” Harvey replied sharply as he pushed up the sleeves of his worn hoodie.
Bruce cleared his throat. “What I meant was, you don’t have to grab anything from home. It’s all here. If you need anything else, just ask Alfred.”
“Thanks. I’ll only stay the night. Dad’ll expect me back tomorrow. He’ll be sober by then.”
Dianne exchanged a glance with Bruce, then reached out to touch Harvey’s arm. “There’s no rule saying you have to be there in the morning,” she said gently.
“He’s my dad. Besides, if I’m not there, I’ll just make it worse for myself.”
Bruce tightened a fist against the table. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d reported Harvey’s father to the police, but every single time social services went to visit their home, the elder Dent seemed put together and calm. “Harvey,” Bruce tried again, “if you report him, you won’t have to go back home. You can just—”
“I’m not turning on him, Bruce,” Harvey interrupted, spinning his coin hard enough to send it skipping off the counter. It clinked on the floor tiles.
Bruce sighed inwardly. “Well…you can stay longer, okay? If you want.”
“I’ll think about it.” But Harvey was already shrinking away from the questions, and Bruce knew that lingering any longer on the topic would be going too far. On his other side, Dianne was giving him a pointed look. Leave him be, she was trying to say. Suddenly, the punishment of doing community service inside Arkham seemed light, even trivial, compared with what Harvey had to face every time he went home.
Harvey bent to retrieve his coin and started spinning it again. “So,” he muttered, changing the subject, “did the detective say why she was sending you there?”
“She didn’t need to say anything,” Bruce replied. “I think she picked a place where I’d be most likely to learn my lesson.”
“What’s your lesson?”
“To not help the police?” he guessed.
Harvey sighed. “To not interfere with the police. It’s not up to you to save the world, Bruce.”