Always a Plot Twist

It was late in the afternoon when Connor left his home in the Narrows. The good-byes were dispensed with, the night before, over beers and poker. It was a game he hadn't yet figured out, and he was content for his old... friends was too strong a word... associates, then - he was content to let his old associates win, having taken so much from them, in the first place. Only Mo remained, half-baked beside his radio, he tilted his head, measured him up, and said: "I'm gon' miss yuh, Stretch. Promise me somethin', alright? Never come back."

The sun was low, and painted Pete's Quick Stop in shades of orange and black, like a painting. And, like a painting, the place was still, lifeless. There was a weary punch-drunk slouch to the building that he'd never quite noticed before, like a seasoned fighter, long past its prime, staggering towards the next inevitable bout. When he took one last look, from the corner of the empty street, he had a feeling that when names like Mo, Turk, and Owlish were long lost to memory, Pete's would still be standing. And his old room, with its flaking drywall, and the smell of feet, would be keeping some other lost soul safe through the night. A sigh, of equal parts nostalgia and relief, drifted over dry lips. He adjusted the strap of his duffel, turned, and passed beneath the shadow of a lurching train.

There were four other people on the bus to Old Gotham. He took a seat furthest from the drunk, who belched into a brown paper bag at regular intervals, and muttered about someone called Fiona. A couple rows in front, there was a thin greying woman, with skin as dry and yellow as old library books. He recognised her from previous journeys, she was always very polite to the driver. There was a young girl, a waitress, maybe, who always wore the same uniform. She never looked his way. The other person was new. His hair was so short a stiff wind would finish it off, and although he wore a large winter coat, he somehow made himself shrink inside of it, like he didn't want to be seen. With every hiss of the breaks, his gaze snapped to the front of the bus, and Connor recognised that look, at once: that was a man with something to hide.

Outside, he watched the Narrows drift by, fishing memories from familiar sights: there was business at Bojack's Franks, Old Mariah's patch was conspicuously absent, and it looked like the record place, where Owlish once took a stray bullet to the foot, had closed down. The journey to Old Gotham had become so routine, of late, that it wasn't until he noticed the distant glare of Miller's Harbour, aflame from the setting sun, that he realised he was free. The Narrows was behind him, and he was never going back. His grin was tucked behind a fist, and he drank in the looming horizon of high rises. His thoughts raced ahead, to Oliver Queen, to something normal, to school. He shook his head, incredulous.

At the Clock Tower, he waited. The first hints of rain tapped the tin roof above, to articulate his shrinking patience. The second bus was larger, and crowded with people who did everything with their mouths but talk to each other. He was fine with that, although he could have done without the kid on the back seat, whose enthusiastic chip-munching fell upon his ears like the sound of a calving glacier. There was to be no relief from the munching, the crash and clatter of jewellery, the sandpaper chin-scratching, or the atomic bomb coughs for a whole 10 minutes, by which point, Connor practically charged from the bus into the thick stew of Gothamites, outside. Another sharp hiss, and the bus departed, clearing the way to what had become his favourite place in the city: Gotham Library.

Connor was not exactly studious, but he enjoyed the quiet, and the library offered him the opportunity to be surrounded by people, to watch them, and not be annoyed by them. And there was also a certain librarian that he was quite keen to see.

Barbara Gordon blew a thick strand of errant red hair out of her eyes, the state of her ponytail in momentary disarray as she leaned over the computer terminals and cautiously went over them with a bleach wipe. Eileen would be prune-faced with disapproval if she could see her dishevelment, but the head librarian was in her early seventies and always went home at 4pm on the dot.

She straightened up with a sigh, pulling the thin nitrile gloves off of her hands inside out, leaving the cleaning wipe carefully inside the rubbery bundle as she dropped them straight into the garbage. Barbara's eyes tracked to the big clock suspended above the stacks near the center of the library as she pulled the tired elastic out of her hair. It was time for her last break of the evening, and she was ready to put her feet up for a bit, metaphorically and literally.

As she walked toward the coffee stand, eager to get a cup of the good stuff, a commotion by the front drew her attention. Barbara ran her hand through her hair, rubbing her scalp where the tight ponytail had caused pain, heading up to see if she could help out. Bobby the security guard was requesting to look into someone's oversize bag before they could bring it in, and as the man in question turned his baseball capped head toward her Barbara rolled her eyes.

"If you won't let me inspect it, sir, you will have to leave." Bobby was using his firm but fair voice, a step below c'mon son, which was itself on the way toward his booming now you gone and done it tone which Barbara had only heard on a few occasions.

Connor was gripping the duffel bag tightly to his chest, opening his mouth in order to better jam his own foot inside of it, when Barbara swept up, her shoulder length hair swinging rebelliously free. "He's with me, Bobby. It's ok. I vouch for him."

Despite the growing tension, Connor found himself distracted by the security guard's impossibly smooth and glossy head. It glistened like chocolate mirror glaze, and captured the light from every corner of the library. His mouth had been open for some time before Barbara's intervention; the familiar voice released him from Bobby's thrall. His eyebrows leapt into the rim of his cap, and, suddenly recalling his predicament, pinned all of his hopes on the redhead's unquestionable reputation.

"Her," he said, as if that settled the matter. He looked to Bobby expectantly, and wrestled his own smugness into a choke hold, "I'm with her."

"Is that right?" Bobby's words trickled out like poison-laced honey, he fixed Connor with his unwavering gaze, and lingered just long enough to induce second thoughts. Then, he stepped aside, wearing a ghost of a grin, "He's all yours, Miss Gordon."

Gordon. Connor's step faltered; the new information registered like seismic tremors. He was quick to right himself, however, and play it off like it was nothing at all. Barbara valued her privacy, and it was not in Connor's best interests to betray that. Besides, what was in a name? Barbara Gordon. He gave a mental shrug. Sounded just like anybody else, to him. Not that she was, of course. Barbara, the petite librarian, was a picture perfect example of why appearances were considered misleading.

"Hey," he said, and, short of sweeping the Bobby debacle under the rug, he threw a thumb over his shoulder, "Thanks for the help."

“No problem,” said Barbara, smiling thanks at Bobby as she at Connor made their way further inside. “I thought you’d be here earlier. When we made plans to meet today, I figured it would be during the, ya know, day.”​ She gestured vaguely at the giant skylights far above which were clearly darkening.

She gave his giant bag a look. “Bringing back a lot of books today?”

Her sarcasm earned her a glance of practiced reserve. Though he enjoyed her humour, Connor was reluctant to concede points for every wry observation and acerbic remark, of which there were often many coming out of Barbara's corner; there was something appealing to him about being, what Turk referred to as, a 'tough crowd'. It kept people guessing, and prevented him from appearing to be some sort of easily-pleased simpleton, when, in reality, he didn't understand half the jokes he was told. Besides, he'd studied his reflection at length, and concluded he wore cool indifference much better than vacant confusion.

"I don't remember saying anything about us meeting in the day." His eyes followed the gesture, to consider the inked sky, above, "Besides, I happen to know you get off at 6."

They were drawn inexorably towards the beating heart of the library, which came alive with the gargle of frothing milk, the tinkling of spoons, and the rich smell of coffee. A beat of uncertainty followed, dislodged by only the whisper of a shrug from beneath layers of loose-fitting clothes. Despite the fact that he only ever ordered the grande americano with cream, for Connor, he browsed the chalkboard menu with unwavering dedication; eye contact was not an option.

"Figured we could go out tonight. You and me. You know, to celebrate."

I thought that was what we were doing - was what she almost said. Barbara managed to keep the quick reply off her tongue, and looked more closely at Connor. He was decidedly not looking at her, reading the menu instead, and her eyes tracked over to the big clock suspended nearby. She would be off soon - he’d arrived so late in her shift it wasn’t really worth it to try to take a full break right now. “Yeah... okay. Sure.”

Barbara smiled, pretending to ignore whatever reaction he had to that as she stepped forward and ordered a shot of espresso. She turned back to him and shrugged. “We do have a lot to celebrate. A successful collaboration!”

Connor had prepared his arguments in advance, that she must be hungry after a long day in work, and that they deserved to enjoy some downtime, to talk about things other than thugs and stolen goods for once, and that it was totally not a date. What he had expect to deal with was Barbara's trademark sarcasm, maybe some sort of uncertain objection, or a joke at his expense - that, he was prepared for. But this? He looked her way, to read the shape of her face, the lift of her eyebrows, and the curl of her lips, but he found nothing but sincerity in the expression she was wearing. He gave a nod of approval, "You're right. We do."

He pulled his attention away from her long enough to order his americano, and to insist on paying for both drinks. Running with criminals was profitable, if nothing else. And Turk had always said that if a guy like him wanted the company of a good woman, he should expect to pay for it. Connor figured this was what he meant. And it was just enough of a stall to furnish him with the words to continue:

"There's this great Italian place on Little Castle Street," he said, mustering the confidence of someone who'd actually been there, "And it's on me. Please. You trusted me when you had every right to call the cops, or kick my ass. I want to thank you for that. Properly. And who doesn't love Italian?"

His brow creased with the passing of a new thought, "You do like Italian, don't you?"

"I'm pretty sure I did kick your ass, at least once," she said flippantly. "And who doesn't like Italian?" Oh God, what was she doing? Did he think this was a date? It wasn't a date. Not that he isn't cute. But no, he said dinner, not date... oh God.

Their drinks arrived at the counter mercifully quick, and she scooped hers up and ensconced herself at one of the wobbly tables that surrounded the coffee stand. When he joined her, she nudged his bag with her foot. "What's with this? A bit big for a purse."

Ok. So she liked Italian. So far, so good. The next step was being able to hold a conversation long enough to get them there. While conversation was not exactly one of Connor's strengths, he found himself undaunted. When he took his seat, and glanced across the table at his red-haired companion, he saw something other than a person-shaped minefield of social disaster just waiting to be triggered. That was other people, not Barbara. In the short time they'd known each other, they'd been through a lot - much more, he guessed, than your average couple... of friends. They'd taken risks together, flirted with violence and crime, and came out on the other side both unscathed and victorious. There was a trust between them, now. And, in Gotham City, trust was an expensive commodity.

"That..." he began, his gaze shifting to the duffel at their feet, "That, uh-"

A hint of a grin surfaced for the most fleeting of moments, as he contemplated his answer. There was a secret in that smile, so tangible, in fact, that he could almost feel it in his hands. Unspoken, it was something small, fragile, flickering like a tiny flame; words made it real. He wanted Barbara to know - she should be the first - but to say it aloud was to make a commitment to a life that he was, perhaps, not yet ready for. In the scant seconds between words, he considered the sum of his time spent on either side of the law. A man is known by the company he keeps - he'd read that somewhere. He considered Turk, Owlish, and Mo, and then he considered the unlikely ally he'd discovered in Oliver Queen. He considered Barbara Gordon, and took a bracing breath.

"That's my stuff. All my stuff. Figured I'd make a go of it, with the rest of the good citizens of Gotham," he gave her a nod, and this time, the secret broke through, with a grin, "I'm out, Barb. I've left the Narrows, and I'm never going back."

"Wow." Barbara blinked at the bag and back up to Connor's grinning face. "That's great! But you know the people who live in the Narrows are part of Gotham too, right? And many are good citizens." Her eyes sharpened a bit, even as she knew she wasn't saying the right thing; that this was not the time to take a stand for the mistreated poor, but instead when she should be saying something supportive.

She held up a hand before he could reply, and closed her eyes. "Sorry, sorry." Barbara met his gaze again, and shook her head apologetically. "It's like my mouth just started talking without asking permission. You were in a tough place, and this is great news. Really. Where are you going to live now?"

"I... uh... Robbinsville."

From the shrieking clatter of colliding thoughts in his head, Connor plucked an answer. He gave a nod, more for his own benefit than Barbara's, who had succeeded in derailing his train of positive thoughts with one well-placed sentence. The trick was to act like it didn't matter, to pretend that he didn't care about the misunderstanding, and to deny the urge to defend himself. Barbara had done the hard work for him, he guessed, diffusing the tension before it set like a concrete wall between them. If he didn't reciprocate and steer the conversation in a more positive direction, things were going to grind to an awkward silent halt, fast.

"Nothing fancy. Just a small place on the edge of town, but it's mine." His smile was sincere, he liked the thought of not having to wake up to the sound of Mo's snoring, anymore, "I have enough to stay for a while, find a job, buy my own silverware."

For a fleeting instant, he toyed with the thought of inviting Barbara to check out his new home with him; the offer was there, perched on his tongue, until he decided to silently retract it. Sure, it could be cool. He'd never had a guest, before, and it would be nice to have someone share the moment with... No. She'd probably think it was weird. First, get cutlery, then fresh sheets, furniture, a coffee table, maybe, one of those French presses that he saw in a magazine, and then he could invite her over. That would be much cooler. But, before all that, a job. A thought passed over him like a storm cloud.

"I've never had a real job, before," he said, brow creased under the weight of this new concern. Before his doubts could lead him too far afield, his gaze returned to Barbara, expectantly, "What do you think, Barb? Any decent gangs in Robbinsville?"

"Har har," she retorted, taking a sip of her coffee. "That's really great, though. Congrats on moving on up!" Barbara contemplated him over the rim of her paper cup. "Probably a lot of retail jobs to be found in that part of town. You've got some... experience in ringing people up," she teased, remembering when they'd first met in the mini mart.

"Don't remind me," he said, wincing as a flash of the shameful memory came to mind. What a first rate asshole he'd been, lashing out at an innocent stranger for daring to buy soda from Pete's Quick Stop. Barbara was only teasing, of course, but he never explained his behaviour. And how could he? Where would he begin? Frustrated by his own sheepish silence, he discarded the suggestion without ceremony, "I never want to work in another shop for as long as I live."

It wasn't him, after all, was it? The whole customer service thing. Even he was self-aware enough to know he lacked that bubbly kind of brightness expected of people working in the retail industry, transforming normal human beings with regular emotions into grinning husks full of sweetness and light. It was... unnatural. Wherever Connor ended up, he knew it would have to a job that valued manual skills over people skills, like brick-laying. Yeah. He could build houses. That would be cool. But then, another thought sprung to mind. He frowned.

"What about this place?" he said, considering first their immediate surroundings, then back the way they came, "Reckon I could give Bobby a run for his money. What do you say? Put in a good word for me?"

“Who? Oh, right.”

Barbara glanced over at the friendly security guard who was joking with a couple high school students as they checked out their books. “I can try, if you want me to.”

Her eyes slid slid off the coffee stand and landed on Eileen the Senior Librarian in on her day off, who, mercifully, had her back turned. The sight was still enough of a shock that Barbara choked and spluttered into her coffee.

“Sorry!” she gasped, reaching for a napkin to dab at her watering eyes and clean up the errant droplets of coffee she’d ejected from her mouth to the table.

“Hot,” Barbara said, eying her drink and trying to recover some dignity. “My break’s almost over. But, should I just meet you at the restaurant later after I’m off?”

Barbara's offer caught him by surprise. There was a time when the very idea of them working in the same place, of him invading the non-crime fighting sanctum of the library, would have had her turning white with horror. But now? Even as he teased her, toying with the idea of getting a job in her library, she didn't flinch. She shrugged off the idea like it was nothing. Connor's eyes narrowed as he considered the girl across the table from him; things had changed between them.

Or perhaps not. As Barbara choked on her coffee, he pinned his back to the chair and attempted to ignore the startled old women on the neighbouring table. He reached out tentatively to pat her on the back, but thought better of it and withdrew. Once she was done spluttering, he attempted an "Are you ok?" but she was already moving on, making plans. He took it in, jaw slack, unable to find the right words of protest. The plan, as he understood it, was for them to leave the library together, and make their way to the Italian place on Little Castle Street... together. But now, it seemed, Barbara was blowing him off.

"Sure," he shrugged, rising from his seat, "I, uh, I got some stuff I gotta take care of anyway. See you there, I guess."

La Trattoria, Little Castle Street

La Trattoria was a hidden gem, tucked away down one of Gotham's many side streets, not ten minutes' walk away from the library. Connor first heard about it, eavesdropping on the conversation between a young couple, making plans for the weekend. He did that a lot, even though he knew he shouldn't. It was his way of catching up. And he could see why the young couple held the humble Italian restaurant in high regard: it was small, understated, and intimate. So small, in fact, that he originally walked past it without realising. La Trattoria was little more than a hole in the wall, a long narrow cavern of red brick, wood, and candlelight, it had one clear run down the centre with enough room for only one table on either side. There were 12 tables in total, and only 8 of them were occupied. It was, after all, a week night.

Dinner went well; the most difficult part was choosing from a menu where everything sounded great. Well, that and the actual ordering part: he got as far as attempting to fumble his way through Funghi Trifolati before Barbara mercifully interceded on his behalf, and saved him from the ominous mouthful of Petto di Pollo alla Griglia. But as unwieldy as it had been on the tongue coming out, going in it was pure bliss. And so garlicky, too. And, as he saw Barbara sitting across from him looking so... red-haired, he found himself wishing he'd ordered something less pungent. Perhaps a little gelato might cleanse the palate. They had each received a copy of the dessert menu, when Connor recalled the strange and sudden shift in Barbara's demeanour in the library, a reaction that found itself wholly at odds with the natural ease with which they talked over dinner. Because they had something to be proud of, something to be pleased with, and to laugh about: shutting down the Crows had been no mean feat, but they had achieved it, together. All of which made that one niggling doubt all the more pronounced, and it had to be addressed before he went crazy with the second-guessing:

"You know, back at the library, when you decided to spray coffee all over the table, you started acting a little... strange," he then gave a shrug, as if what he was about to say was no big deal, "As if you wanted to get rid of me."

Abandoning all pretence of searching for a Dolci, he put the menu down, and gave their surroundings a cautious once over before lowering his voice, "Listen, Barbara, I know we got off on the wrong foot at first, but that's in the past, right? Do I make you feel... uncomfortable?"

Roused from the depths of the dessert menu, Barbara stared at Connor a little blankly before his question fully registered between her ears. She flushed, embarrassed at her display from earlier, and at being reminded of it.

”What?! No, no, it wasn’t anything - I mean, it was because of you, but it was just the Senior Librarian, she doesn’t approve of her girls fraternizing, not that we’re her girls, I mean, David is a librarian too, and he’s a guy. Obviously. But then, she doesn’t approve of him either, I guess. She just startled me because she wasn’t supposed to be in today. Like looking over your shoulder and seeing the Crypt Keeper staring at you.” Barbara shuddered, quite aware of how badly she was rambling but unable to stop as Connor frowned, trying to follow what she was saying.

“Not that we were fraternizing. Whatever that even means! Sometimes I think I’ll come in to work and Batman will have strung Eileen up in the rafters for crimes against humanity. Not that I think she’s evil...but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was, you know. In league. Or something.”

Barbara awkwardly stuck her nose back into the dessert menu, even though she was way too full from her fettuccini, trying to hide from Connor’s confused blue eyes. “So, no, you don’t make me uncomfortable. Really.”

Current situation notwithstanding I suppose! Barb you’re such an idiot.

She looked back up, trying to think of something more reassuring to say, something to salvage whatever it was she’d just been blathering on about, but came up with nothing except an awkward pause.

With little else to do but sit back and allow the tsunami of crazy talk to wash over him, Connor reined in both his bemusement and amusement, and settled for a conservative nod of acknowledgement, "Okay. That's... that's good."

So he had his answer, after a fashion. It wasn't him that put Barbara on edge but the presence of her boss, the Crypt Keeper - that was a good name for a villain, he thought - and what she might infer from seeing them together. That made him a bad influence, then, and he kind of liked that. Books and knowledge were all good and well, but they both knew that what Miss Gordon really craved was the siren call of danger, the lure of dark alleyways, and the promise of justice delivered at the end of a fist. And he understood that, for all her goofy bluster, deep down Barbara Gordon was a real tough cookie.

"I want you to be able to trust me, Barb. And trust is earned. You gotta give a little to gain a little, right?" He could tell this new direction had taken her by surprise, so he managed a smile, keeping the swell of fear and excitement at bay, "So I'm going to be honest with you. I want to tell you something I've never told anyone before."

This was it, he thought. The truth, at last. She could handle it. She might even think it's cool. Another quick glance at their surroundings to be sure there were no unwelcome listeners, and he leaned in close. And spoke in an urgent undertone:

"Thing is I'm different. Okay? I- I- I'm not like those other guys you beat up, that night. Or like any other guys. I... I, uh... it's genetic. You know?"

There was a tremulous undercurrent to his words, which Connor was almost certain was the same machine gun fire of his own heartbeat. In the uncertain silence, he searched her big green eyes, and found himself wondering what shape they might take when she looked on in fear, or disgust.

His mouth was dry. He shook his head and said, "This is much harder than I thought it would be."

Barbara met his eyes, confused and searching, until she thought she knew what was happening and understanding dawned. She reached out and took his hand, her own a little colder than she would have liked. Poor circulation, probably.

"It's okay. You might feel alone, but I'm sure there are lots of other guys out there like you." She smiled encouragingly. "And different isn't bad, okay?"

At that moment the server arrived to top off their waters. "Any dessert tonight?" He smiled widely, and Barbara released Connor's hand to hurriedly scan the menu.

"Uh, maybe the ... tiramisu. And two forks. Thanks!" The server nodded and backed away, and Barbara shrugged at Connor. "Hope that's okay." She smiled encouragingly at him, hoping he could find the words to say what he was trying to say to her. It was an important moment and she felt honored that he'd entrust her with his truth.