DC: Freaky Love ch. 19A

CHAPTER 19A, OR, HOW ROOK MET LANCE

[Rook's POV]


Signs and buildings fly past us as I stare out the window of the boss's van, anticipating the job, drumming my fingers on the armrest.

"Would you stop that?" Riddler asks me none-too-gently, baring his teeth.  "It's getting on my last nerve."

"Sorry, Riddly." I answer, dropping my hand.  "Just anxious, that's all.  So…not to sound like I wasn't listening the first time—"

"It wouldn't surprise me if you hadn't been." he remarks, a tad cold.

"—but tell me again why I'm doing this." I finish.  Sheesh, talk about making a guy feel guilty.

"Mr. Pendragon feels that after being attacked by Gotham's newest leather-wearing vigilante, he's not safe, even in his own home." he explains, "And I have another matter to check up on tonight, so I'm going to need you to be a good boy and look after our wealthy beneficiary."

"You mean, Wraith?" I chuckle, making him scowl under his green domino mask and black lipstick.  I just recently met Wraith, and man, she's hot!  I can't blame Riddler for having a soft spot for her, because I've heard nothing but good stuff about her other personality, Guen.

See, here's the breakdown of this big old mess: Jonathan Crane, better known as the Scarecrow, escaped from Arkham a couple weeks back and kidnapped Miss Guenhivyre Pendragon.  Shortly after, they resurfaced and pulled a job on some cop banquet, with Guen introducing herself as his understudy, Wraith.  By this point, the boss had already been contacted by Mr. Pendragon, who says he's Guen's older brother.  Riddly, the Penguin, and that Trick Deck have been trying to keep tabs on Guen for Mr. Pendragon since then.  There's also this other guy, Incubus, new vigilante in town, says he's Guen's older brother, and he's working with the Bat.  And as if that isn't bad enough, just last night, Guen, Ink, and some of the girls had this big slumber party bash thing.

The first issue there, is that they didn't invite me.

The second is that they were attacked.  Apparently Guen has some creepy stalker  who nearly strangled her to the point of fainting, but he didn't count on her having a split personality.  He also didn't count on Incubus showing up to stop him.

At that same time last night, Mr. Pendragon had left his office.  No one knows why.  All anyone heard was that he went to pay a visit to Dr. Kirk Langstrom, to ask about some files or something that Langstrom had.  He wasn't there very long before Incubus showed up and attacked him.  That's a bit of a mystery to me.  What does the vigilante have against some snotty rich boy?

So that's where we're heading.  Riddler's going to drop me off long enough to introduce me, and then he's heading off to go check up on Wraith.

"What's the story there, anyway?" I ask him.  "What's so special about her?  I mean, aside from the wings and rockin' bod."

"Forwards it is heavy, backwards it is not." he shoots back.

Ahh, another riddle.

"Come on, Ed, just tell me."

"Forwards it is heavy, backwards it is not." he repeats firmly.

I already know this one.  "A ton.  The answer is a ton."

"To both questions." he states.

Meaning he's got a lot of reasons why he thinks Guen's special and he's not sharing any of them with me.

Damn, and just as I thought we were getting to be chums.

"We're here." he adds, parking the van.

So we are.  I unbuckle my belt  and climb out, stunned by the sheer size of the Pendragon building.  I've seen taller, but it's not just the height.  And there's a posh, forbidding air about the place too.

"Well?  Are you going to gawk around outside all day?" Riddly asks me, already heading up to the doors.  I shake myself loose of my staring and go after him, watching his long dark hair blow about in the breeze.  Inside, a secretary glances up, nods at him, stares at me for a moment, then points us in the direction of the elevators.  I can't help but stare at the fountain in the middle of the lobby—a fountain!  Rich little twat!  So wealthy he can afford to be eccentric!—as we make our way there, and during the entire elevator ride, something from a Mozart opera is playing.  The Magic Flute, I think.  The doors open to a hallway done in chestnut wood panel siding and black, rose-patterned carpets with a few ornamental decorations here and there.

"Here we are." says Riddler, and he approaches a door and knocks on it three times.  It's a rapid, quick set of taps, and then a voice says "Enter."

It's an incredible voice, for a man.  Kind of like Ville Valo, but without the smoker's rasp.  Riddly pushes the door open and we walk into a large office, where we see a man sitting at a chair, his back mostly toward us.  He spins around and my first thought is, Oh isn't this lovely?  Another pretty-boy rich snob.

He definitely looks the part.  Very long dark hair, almost as long as Riddler's, perfect alabaster skin, and dark green eyes that give even me pause.  He's not smiling, nor does he seem surprised to see us, considering the boss didn't call him before coming.  Then again, as I take another look at him, he doesn't seem like the type to ever smile.  Guess he's so rich and good-looking, he can afford not too.

Then I see the bandages.

He's wearing a white, button-up shirt completely open, and underneath, covering his torso and left shoulder is a long strip of bandages, with four red bloody lines slashing diagonally across it.  He stands up from his chair and strides toward us, not even wincing, like he's not even aware he's hurt.

"Ahh, Mr. Nygma.  It is an honor to see you again." he says, slowly inclining his head before looking at me and extending his hand for a shake.  "And who might this be?"

I don't know why I do it, I've got no clue it's happening, but the next thing I know, my gun is in my hand, pointing directly at the bandaged chest, shaking a bit.  It's not a panic attack, but something else.  Warning bells are going off in my head, and at the same time I'm yelling at myself for a fool, pulling a weapon on the boss's new business partner.

But again, Mr. Pendragon doesn't seem surprised; and to my astonishment, he reaches an arm across his waist, takes a step back, and draws a gleaming, gorgeous sword from a scabbard I didn't notice before, holding it at the ready.

"Pendragon!  Greene!" Riddly yells in shock.  Pendragon looks at me disdainfully, thrusting his chin up in the air haughtily.

"Only a heathen brings a gun to a swordfight." he remarks, cocking an eyebrow at me.

"HA!  And only an idiot brings a sword to a gunfight!" I shoot back.  I'm not even sure where that came from.

"You tread thin ice, Mr. Greene." he says, both eyebrows narrowing.

"Ask me if I care!" I spit.

"ROBERT!"  Riddly squawks, grabbing my arm and trying to lower the gun.  "Leave Mr. Pendragon be!"  I sigh and drop the gun back into my holster, while the boss smoothes things over.  "I apologize, sir.  We've both been a bit on edge lately."

"Understandable." Pendragon says, sheathing his sword, and I think I see a corner of his mouth quirk.  Is he attempting to smile…?  "I am quite used to putting people on edge when I first meet them."

"How in the world do you manage to make it as a business tycoon then?" I scoff, and Edward smacks a hand against his face.

"I like him." Pendragon remarks, giving me a small nod.  "He'll do."

Wait, what?



Two hours later, I find myself sitting at a table across from Mister Pendragon, awaiting lunch.  It turns out to be some kind of cucumber-and-chicken-salad little sandwiches served on an enormous platter.  Talk about tastes.  I kind of wish there was something a tad more…proletarian to much on…

"Are you not hungry, Mr. Greene?" Pendragon asks out of the blue.

I haven't touched the sandwiches.  I'm not sure I want to, and now that he's bringing it up, I'm a little suspicious.  He's watching me like a hawk, an eyebrow raised.

"It's uh, a little um, rich…for my taste." I answer, then add as an afterthought, "And Rook will do, sir."

"I see.  Then is there anything else you would desire to have one of my chefs whip up for you, Rook?" he presses.  I'm not sure I want to take him up on the offer, but something about those little chic sandwiches just doesn't seem appetizing.

"I could use a burger, now that you mention it." I answer, and he presses a button on an intercom machine.

"Yes, Mr. Pendragon?" someone on the opposite end asks.

"I require a hamburger—"

"And some steak fries!" I throw in.

"—And a platter of steak fries—"

"Oh, and a chocolate milkshake, hold the cherry!" I add.

"—And a chocolate shake, no cherry, to be brought up for Mr. Greene." he finishes.
"Yes, sir." the servant on the other line says before there is a click and the intercom turns off.  Pendragon slowly interlocks his fingers and rests his elbows on the table, studying me closely.

"Not the pickiest eater, are you?" he muses, and I say nothing.  "Please," he says, nodding toward the plate of sandwiches, "Feel free to help yourself while you are waiting."

"Why are you so eager to see me eat when you haven't touched any of the food either?" I ask, still suspicious.

"I never begin eating before any guest of mine does.  It's impolite." he answers in a way that says he expects me to have known this already.

"Really?" I shoot back.

"That," he says, "And I do not trust anyone who doesn't immediately begin eating in front of me."

I was kind of expecting that, sir.  You've got that look to you.  But why, exactly?

"And why is that, Mr. Pendragon?" the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but he just gives me the barest amused ghost of a smile.

"Perhaps one day you'll see, Mr. Greene." he answers.

"Rook," I repeat, then ask, "And do you happen to have a first name I can call you?  Because I'm getting a little tired of this 'Mr. Pendragon' crap all the time."

Still that amused hint of what might be a smile.

"You may call me Lancelot, if I may call you Robert.  Or Lance, for short." he answers.

Lance, huh?  Not what I was expecting, but it'll work.

My food arrives in a few minutes, and I almost fall on it when it's set before me, but I stop and wait until the server leaves, then look him in the eye.

"I'm not sure I want to start." I say.

"I do not blame you in the slightest." he answers, but neither of us make a go for our sandwiches.  Instead, we wind up in some kind of a staring contest, which I lose because the guy stares like a cat.

"Parlay," he declares out of the blue, "Let us begin at the same time."

"Sounds good to me," I mutter, taking a bite of my burger at the same time he chomps into one of his girly-girl sandwiches.



Night has fallen, and still no sign of any alleged attackers.  I'm beginning to wonder if Lance Pendragon doesn't suffer from some kind of paranoia.  I've offered several times to play a game of chess, but he keeps turning me down.  What's this guy's damage?!

I pace around the room, polishing one of my guns lovingly, while Lance is busy reading over some legal documents and signing a couple.  He looks up at me every once in a while, but says nothing and soon returns to his work.  Finally I get tired of this endless loop and decide to make a stab at conversation.

"So, this is the high life." I say loudly, and he looks up from his papers with a puzzled "Hmm?"  "All the regular joes wanna be rich, but all it is day in and day out is a bunch of paperwork and these sissy cucumber chicken salad sandwiches!"

"Depends on what you mean when you say rich.  Some lead a so-called glamorous life, while the rest of us struggle and work to keep our inheritance from falling asunder." Lance says, blinking slowly.  "I inherited Dragon's Blood, Inc. from my father when it was nothing more than a small publishing company ready to hit rock bottom.  I've since pulled a few strings and striven to make it into the business empire it is today."

Ho-hum.

"But for the most part, you are right.  A life like this isn't exactly what most commoners have in mind." he goes on, signing another form.

Talk about a snob!

"I rarely have any time these days to focus on my hobbies, my interests…my family, what little of it is left."

Say what?

"What do you mean?" I ask.  The subject of family is touchy with me, considering my history…so I'm hoping he stays on the topic of hobbies and interests.

He says nothing and abruptly stands from his desk.

"Come with me." he says, walking toward a door on one side of the room.  I'm still a little leery around him, but I figure I ought to humor him.  After all, he's paying the man who pays me.  He leads me into an adjacent room, completely different from his office as can be.  There are paintings on the walls, bookshelves all over the place, glass display cases here and there of armor and weapons that look Celtic in design, and off in one corner, alone upon a raised section of floor in all its pristine glory—

"A grand piano!" I gasp.

I've seen them before, but I never would have guessed that the humdrum Mr. Pendragon would keep a beauty like this.  It's gorgeous, a soft brown in color, and from the way it shines, I can tell he has it kept in perfect condition at all times.

"You play?" he asks, looking mildly surprised, the first time I've really seen him so.

"Yes." I murmur.  "Do you?"

Instead of responding, he climbs the raised dais and seats himself at the piano bench.

"I'm a great lover of classical music," he remarks, pulling off his overshirt and cracking his knuckles, "But I could never dare befoul the world with my attempts at playing a piece composed by one of the great masters.  However…"

He closes his eyes and begins to play.  The tune sounds familiar, but definitely not older.  I climb the dais and watch, fascinated.  Lance has large hands that look uncoordinated, but his fingers are skilled and fly over the keys with no difficulty.  Even his face is intense with concentration, despite the closed eyes.

I know what's going on.  He doesn't need to look…because he just can feel the music.

Tentatively, I lower myself on the bench beside him and watch, listening to him play for a moment, trying to find this song.  After a bit it hits me.  "Sacrament," by a Finnish band called HIM.

And then the music takes me over.  I throw my own shirt and tie off and out of the way as I take the other half of the keys and begin to play with him.  At first I'm off-rhythm and he opens his eyes to look at me, but soon I find the niche he's in and we begin to play in perfect harmony, the song sounded twice as awesome this way.

Lance opened his mouth at one point and began to sing the words to the tune, stunning me for a moment and making me lose the beat. No fair that some pretty-boy can be rich, AND play piano, AND have an amazing singing voice.  Then again, I did say he sounds like the singer, right?

He opens his eyes as he sings, and there's a far-off look there I can't read.  There's something else too.

Sadness.

I can't help myself at this point.  My voice isn't the best, but I open my mouth and begin to sing along with him.

I'm not sure how long we play and sing.  I'm not sure I care at that point.  For once, someone understands how I feel when I play the piano.  Such a deep, sweet sadness with such a beautiful, pure sound.  So bittersweet.

"The sacrament is you…"

Finally we both stop and let the last notes fade, their voices echoing so stunningly in the acoustics of the room.  I turn and look at him, and he gives me a nod of approval.

"You play well." he says.

Coming from him, I'm saying that's high praise.

"You do too." I respond, and all is quiet for a moment.  Then someone begins to clap.  It's slow and mocking in a way, and it makes me jump.

A man is standing in the doorway we came through, staring up at the dais with a sardonic smile on his face.  He's got a hooked nose, a brunette bowlcut, a white lab coat over his blue shirt and black slacks, and an overall nasty air to him.

I hate him on sight.

"Brava, Mr. Pendragon.  Brava." he says with a sneer.

"Dr. Milo." Pendragon says coldly, raising from the piano bench with a dark scowl and stepping down from the dais to approach the man.  "What are you doing here?"

"Coming to check up on you, Mr. Pendragon." the man returns.  He's got a creepy voice that makes me gnash my teeth.  I'm about ready to tell him so when I notice something that strikes me as peculiar.  As I see Lance approach him, I can't help but notice the colored ink marking his back.

What's this then?  The straight-A rich boy has a tattoo?  Why does that seem like he's violated some taboo or something of the upper class society?  I make a mental note to ask him about it.

"What's this then?" this Milo person says it out loud, and for a second, I think he's also referring to the tattoo…until I see him pointing to the bandages wrapped around Lance's torso.

"I…was unable to retrieve what you needed from Langstrom.  Incubus interfered," Lance spat out the name with venomous disdain, "And got a little carried away with stopping me.  Seemed to think I was out to kill Langstrom."

Wait, "what you needed"??  What was going on here?

Milo's face darkens.  "You disappoint me, Lancelot."  he snarls, withdrawing a syringe and a stoppered vial from within a pocket of his lab coat.  "Believe me when I say this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you."  An ugly smile spreads over his face as he lifts the vial to eye level.

A frightening change comes over the otherwise stoic Lancelot Pendragon.  His eyes widen with shock and horror, his face drains of all color, and he backs away, starting to tremble violently.  "Th-that's—!"

"Silver nitrate." Milo sneers.  "Should work well enough to teach you a lesson about failing me, my friend."

Oh, do I hate this guy!  My hand reaches for my gun and I fire, just past his shoulder.  He jumps and looks up at me, eyes widening as he actually notices me for the first time.  I feel anger creeping from my skin as I stand from the bench, seething.

I like Lance.  Yeah, it took me a while to decide that, but for a rich totty, he's okay.  I have few friends as it is.  And no one's going to threaten him on my watch.

"What the hell…?  Never took you to hire a themed male hooker, Lance." Milo scoffs, crossing his arms.

"Name's Rook, sunshine!" I snap, jumping down from the dais and taking aim at him.  "I've been hired to watch Mr. Pendragon's back here!"

"Really?" he sounds bored, and just stares at me with these frigid brown eyes.  "Would've been nice if you'd thought to introduce us, Lance."

"Doctor, leave him out of this." Lance suddenly says.  "I apologize that I was unable to get the files, but that doesn't mean—"

"He almost shot me." Milo snaps at him.  "Of course I'm not going to leave him out of it!"

I chance a look at Lance and nearly jump out of my skin.  If I thought him looking scared was a frightening change before, it's nothing compared to what's happening now.  The green of his irises are bleeding into the rest of his eyes, the pupil, the white, all of it, and there are cracking noises coming from the area of his jaw as he scowls.  Milo notices too, and starts taking steps back, his eyes going wide.  I'm not sure whether I should step back or not, but I know what I am going to do.  I reach toward my pocket and pull out my cell phone, flipping it open and hitting speed dial.  Please oh please let him pick up…

Lance surges to his feet, and his hair, so carefully slicked back before with only three bangs making up his fringe, flies all over the place wildly as he lets out an inhuman snarl.  Then, I'm not quite sure what happens, but he's suddenly black all over, the same shade of his hair, and…furry?!  His face elongates into a muzzle, and his mouth is full of sharp animal teeth.  My heart is pounding as I'm hearing the phone ring on the other end.  Damn it, Riddly!  Pick up!

Lance throws his head back and howls upon completing his transformation, and then starts toward Milo, who's quickly making tracks backward, looking like the devil's come to claim his soul.

Riddler picks up at last.

"Robert, what is it?" he hisses angrily.  "Now is not a good time!"

Gee boss.  Thanks so much.

"Boss, you're not going to believe this," I say, my voice a bit higher-pitched than normal, "But Lancey here—"

"Who?"

"Mr. Pendragon!  His first name's Lancelot!"

"Lancelot?  Are you sure it's not Logann?"

What?  What kind of stupid question is that, boss?

"Positive, boss!  And I'm not so sure Lancey needs around the clock protection!" I say as Lance lunges toward Milo, who cowers and squeezes his eyes shut.  Riddler's silent on the other end of the phone for a bit, and I'm about to yell at him when he asks me something again.

"What makes you say that, Robert?" he asks.  He doesn't sound sarcastic for once.  What's up with that?  Why the hell am I having this weird night?!  I watch as Lance rips the bandages from his chest, which shows no sign of injury, and swallow over the lump in my throat.

"Lance is a werewolf, boss.  I shit you not, a genuine, certified werewolf!  Ears, tail, the whole nine yards!" I squeak.

There's silence on the phone, then Riddly lets out a stream of curses and the line drops.  Again, that's different.  No teasing me and saying I must have eaten some bad fungi?  Definitely a weird night.

"L-Lancelot, stand down!" Milo says, still looking like he's facing down Dr. Lucy Phur.  What the Jonah Hex is up with this guy?

Then, surprisingly, Lance backs off, though his hackles are still raised and he's growling from deep within his barrel-like chest.  I watch as his ears lay flat and his tail swishes back and forth, his legs ready to spring.  Not good signs.

"Lancelot, you know what'll happen if you kill me!" Milo reminds him, and the ears prick up, the tail stops moving.  Lance lets out a keening whine then turns his back to the guy and sits like a dog, the effect of which is odd, since he's more human-shaped than wolf-shaped still.  He huffs and sticks his nose in the air.

Even as a werewolf, he's a snob!

"Do NOT do that again, Lancelot!" Milo snaps, looking like he's regaining some of his previous bluster.  I take aim at him and he freezes, but his eyes are narrowed again.  He's not afraid of me, which I intend to rectify.  Everyone on my bad side should be afraid of me.

"Gee, I'm intrigued!" I say happily, walking up toward him and shoving the barrel of my gun against his chest, though it does nothing to rid him of that defiant face.  "Just what exactly is going to happen if I shoot you dead?"

Milo just glares at me and doesn't say anything, and suddenly Lance side tackles me out of nowhere.

You ever run sidelong into a brick wall?  Then you've got some idea of what it's like to be tackled by a werewolf, except they're much fuzzier and it's more like the wall is running at you.

I yelp and try to get out of his grasp but he's got me pinned to the floor and my gun pointing safely away toward a window.  He's not pinning me too hard, but I'm on the verge of a panic attack anyway.

"Do…not…shoot…Dr. Milo…" he says, bringing his muzzle down where I can see, staring at me with green eyes that are more animal than human.  "He is…a fool…and deserves all the anger…he brings on himself…but don't…do not shoot him."

I chuckle dryly.  "If you're going to feed me some bullshit about how I shouldn't lower myself to that level, werewolf, need I remind you I'm a professional gunman?  I've taken lives before."

Lance shakes his head, green eyes sad.  "For my sake…please…do not shoot him, Robert.  Please…stay your hand."  And slowly he releases me from his grip and lets me up.

"You've made the right choice, Lancelot.  I'm positive your sister will thank you for it later on." Milo says, brushing nonexistent dust from his lab coat.

"Wraith?" I stammer.  "What's Wraith got to do with this?"

Milo smiles at me and it makes my skin crawl.  "Everything." he answers, and suddenly sweeps from the room.  I race to follow, to bring him back, but he's disappeared at the office door.

"Let him go…" I hear Lance say behind me, and I turn to see him already shifting back to his human form.  "He's blackened my doorstep enough for one night.  I do not wish to have him here any longer than is necessary."

Now that the fur is gone I can see his tattoo clearly as he walks back to the dais to retrieve his overshirt: a curling ivy vine, twisted in the shape of a frame around the words "His Wrath Undoes the Wicked."  The quote tickles at the back of my mind, so familiar, and I notice something else, too: high on each of his shoulders is a beautifully cut crescent-shaped scar.  As he starts to slip the shirt back on, he looks over his shoulder and notices me staring, and I jump, worried that he's going to kill me.

"I know you probably have questions, and I'm willing to provide answers, but one at a time." he remarks, pulling the shirt on all the way.  Automatically I take a deep breath in, then out, trying to regulate my breathing.  I pick the easiest one first.

"A werewolf?"

"For lack of a better term, yes."

"The tattoo?"

"A quote about Lancelot, the knight of King Arthur.  I feel I must live up to my namesake, so I had the legend embedded in my skin."

"The crescent moon scars?"

"Silver is the only metal pure enough to scar so excellently."

These aren't quite the answers I'm looking for.  For saying quite a bit of words, he's not really telling me much at all.  Still, I press on.

"The walking bowlcut?"

"That's complicated."

"Why'd he back off like that when you transformed?"

"He's afflicted by Lycaonphobia.  Fear of werewolves.  Ironic, considering he needs my assistance for his plans."

Somehow, I wouldn't mind introducing these two to old Jonathan Crane.  He'd get a kick out of this.

"And what's Wraith got to do with any of this?" I ask again.  For some reason, I feel suddenly worried for the punky little girl with wings.

This apparently, was the wrong question to ask.  Lance regards me coldly with those green eyes, and I'm worried he's going to transform again.  But he only sighs after a while and sags his shoulders.

"As Milo said, everything."

"What's his damage, anyway?  Sounds like it's just an issue between you, him, and Dr. Kirk Langstrom.  Why drag her into it?" I press on, angry that such a cute girl would be the victim here.

"No, Robert."  Lance says in mournful tones, like he's getting ready to attend a funeral.  "My sister, by no means or designs of her own, is the root of the matter where Dr. Milo is concerned.  There is no simple way to explain it, but you just need know that his obsession with Guenhivyre is old, dangerous, tenacious, and runs deeper than a vein of metal in the earth."

Talk about disturbing!  I really didn't need to hear that…

"If you are quite done with your interrogation," he adds, "I believe some rum is in order."

"Rum?" I ask a little hopefully.  I could use some alcohol after tonight.  "Got any whiskey or anything?"

"I imagine Gerard might be able to find something suited to your tastes in the cellar." is all he says.  We went back into his office, where he promptly buzzed for the drinks over the intercom, and within a number of minutes, a servant appeared with two bottles, one a clear coconut rum, the other a large container of whiskey.  He offered us glasses, but Lance waves him out of the room.

"Knock thyself out, Robert." he says, opening his rum and throwing his head back for a long swig.

I grin and decide I definitely like Lance Pendragon, rich, stuck-up pretty boy or not.  I open the whiskey and pause.

"You're not going to check my ID or anything?" I tease.

"As far as I'm concerned, you've been through enough that you shouldn't need to worry about such trivialities.  Arthur and his knights would no doubt drown their sorrow after a battle, wouldn't they?  So then shall we."  he responds, taking another long swallow.  I smile and toss back my head, swallowing some whiskey, which burns my throat like liquid fire.

"I like that line of thinking," I say, "So why didn't you tell the boss you're a werewolf?"

"That's not exactly a fact one wants to publicly go announcing everywhere, now is it?" he drawls, wagging a finger at me.

"But you've got no problem letting me see?" I ask.

"I trust you." he answers, and I feel the pit of my stomach sink.  He trusts me?  But I'd already gone and opened my big mouth to Riddler about it.  I had a feeling that I would lose his trust when he found out, and I was going to get hell about it from Edward anyway.

Oh, man.  I could have just ended their partnership with that.  Shit, I'm really in trouble now!

"Don't look so pale!" He snaps, making me jump.  "I'm not deaf, you know!  I could hear your entire conversation with him.  It was only a matter of time before he found out on his own anyway, genius that he is!"

"You psychic too?" I asked, taking another drink, feeling a pleasant buzzing sensation start up in my head.

"I can smell your worry." he answers.

But of course…?

"The rest is simply lucky guesswork," he goes on.

"I'm probably in big trouble with the boss now." I say, staring at carpet sadly.

"Right now, actually, you aren't.  You probably will be in a few hours.  For the time being, I say we drink to your health." Lance remarks.  I stare at him.  The guy's an enigma, but for once, I don't think I much mind.

I raise my bottle and clink it lightly against his.

"To your health too." I say.

"Our health, if you wish to be grammatically accurate." he says with the barest hint of a smile.

"You know, Lancey," I say, grinning at him, "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship!"