atardisofourown

Harold

Bruce responds to the text messages that make it through to him, but he does it cautiously. They consistently prove useful, helpful and legitimate. He doesn't trust them because the tips themselves - not knowing who they're from, and the fact that they are being sent to him - are a red flag.

He is altogether too smart for that not to feel like someone's trying to lure him in.

Lack of complacency doesn't stop curiosity, though - it does the opposite, really.

So he keeps responding, putting out fires as he finds them, but he also starts digging.

What he finds is an abandoned library owned by... multiple shell companies.

It definitely feels an attempt to lure him in.

He's still curious, though, and he has an address.

He parks under a street light, half sits and half leans against the car of the dark bentley to wait. He looks for all the world like he's made himself bait in his own trap. If he were setting a trap for being mugged. ...He's not. Probably. Much.

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"I would have thought that was fairly obvious to man like yourself," he grumbles.

But yes, alright. He takes his hand away from the keyboard and shifts in his chair so he can really look at Bruce head on, to meet his eyes, if he can.

"To save lives, not to take them. To help people," he says, firmly. With remarkable earnestness, actually. Then he sniffs a little, gaze flitting away. "Not getting yourself killed in the process would be preferable," he adds, most waspishly.

Bruce's eyes are right there for the meeting; he's definitely not evading eye-contact.

It is an obvious answer, yes. To the degree that he could just be being told what he wants to hear - at least until that last point.

That last point (and more so it's delivery) makes him amend - or rather add to - his assessment.

He's rarely unsure whether someone's about to shoot him, stab him, gas him or offer him a cup of tea and deep disappointment that he's been shot.

Rarely - not never. Alfred sometimes toes that line, though Alfred's really only likely to put sedatives in his tea, after strongly disapproving of Bruce being stabbed again.

He still hasn't quite come to a conclusion, but he does come to a decision: "How good's your memory?"

He can recognize a decision made, when he sees it, although at the moment he can't really guess that decision it is. Not to kill him, it seems. Harold would have never sent his first message, if he believed Bruce was that kind of man, but-

He'd been prepared to be wrong about that.

"Excellent." He tilts his head slightly. "Why?"

"Because sending tips for Batman to Bruce Wayne is both odd and not a thing I'm a fan of," he says, dryly. He pulls one hand out of his pocket and puts a card with a phone number scrawled in black pen on the back in front of Harold. "Memorize that, then give it back."

"I thought you'd appreciate even more cryptic, or more direct, even less," he explains.

But, yes, this is better.

He takes a few seconds to memorize the number and then, yes, immediately hands it back.

He shrugs. "I would have shown up sooner, with a worse attitude and a car less likely to be stolen." In short, who you contacted is who you got.

He is tempted to eat the damn card just to see if he can get a strong reaction out of this guy, but while he's not exactly mentally stable, he isn't unhinged and there are limits.

Also cardstock in his molars sounds terrible.

So he just puts it back in his pocket.

"Good. Now can I look at the books?"

He understands keeping personas fairly separate but - his brow furrows slightly. There's something here, in that phrasing, that he suspects he's not quite grasping. He's choosing not to be alarmed about it, but he's filing away the thought.

"You're welcome to. It's largely the catalog left behind when the library closed, oh, 12 years ago?" A few things he's added for reference. Computer science. Geography and history of the city.

Bruce has personas. He also has rigid compartmentalization and a somewhat fractured psyche. His saving graces are that he is aware of absolutely all of that, the dangers inherent in that, and an inflexible moral code.

He can read the faint frown, guess reasonably well what it's about, and makes no attempt to reassure or brush it away. Text tips can work well enough but this is Gotham and Bruce is paranoid; they're going to interact more directly. If this man wants to help (instead of come after him), he's going to have to eventually get used to some shit.

"Twelve years is right." He would know. "Thanks. I'll put things back where I find them. I assume there's still organization in play?" Harold didn't strike him as the type to just throw books on shelves or shuffle them for a good time. But that was a guess.

"Of course," he replies, tone a little shy of offended. "Standard Library of Congress. Is there something in particular you're looking for?"

He asks, but even as he says it, he can't imagine why that would be the case. Surely Bruce Wayne can get his hands on virtually any book he likes.

A little more hopefully, he asks, "Or do you just like libraries?"

He can get his hand on virtually any book he'd like - but he can't get his hands on things he doesn't know exist. There is no... stumbling upon or discovery with just buying what he wants.

"I just like libraries," he says, with a smile that's faint but pretty sincere for it. "And this one's also a bit of a mystery, by virtue of having been closed for quite a while. I'll take a look around. Yell if there's anything I shouldn't be getting into"

Harold's smile back is also small, but nearly painfully sincere.

"Nothing inherently dangerous, Mr. Wayne."

There *is* a safe hidden behind a book shelf but it's honestly just mementos. Weighing the likeliness Bruce will go looking for it, if he mentions it, versus will immediately find it, in this sweep, Harold elects to simply...not.

"I'm not that paranoid. It's a library."

He is, and it could be anything, but once he wanders off, he truly is just scanning the shelves. Not prying, not looking for traps, or hidden safes.

He's walking through a library, looking at bookshelves. Occasionally looking up or dropping to a crouch, pulling a book off - of nearly any topic, or every topic - before putting it back.

He'll wander out to see if he has a car at some point, really he will.

When Bruce comes out Harold is taking a break, of sorts, very carefully doing some leg stretched. It's clearly strikepainful uncomfortable.

He pauses. "Find anything of interest?"

Bruce is gone for a while, because that collection itself is interesting -- though he leaves things on the shelves for the time being. The content of the library holds his interest all by itself.

He could spend days in here, quite happily, picking out individual titles to fall into.

He doesn't have that kind of time, though.

"Yes." He doesn't elaborate either. "What's wrong with your leg?"

His expression goes a little flat. "An injury that's still healing." If Bruce had turned up more quickly after those first few messages, he'd have found Harold in a wheelchair.

He should almost certainly be under better medical care than he has been, including letting a surgeon look him over. But well, he hasn't, and isn't.

"I never would have guessed," he says, dryly.

Weirdly it isn't at all harsh. Just makes a mental note to keep an eye on that in case he's in this man's physical presence again or it becomes more his business than it currently is.

"Be careful with Gotham and I will see you again soon, I'm sure."

He needs to go make sure he still has a car.

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Harold

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