…0…

Only in the frictionless vacuum of a nonexistent abstract world can

movement or change occur without that abrasive friction of conflict.

- Saul Alinsky

…0…

Chloe was just getting to the part of Gone With the Wind where Rhett carries Scarlett up the stairs when the doorbell rings. Grumbling, she hits the pause button and sets down the carton of cold noodles she ordered for dinner on top of her stack of pregnancy books.

Dick looks her up and down when she opens the door and grins. “You cannot wear that.”

She glances down at her pajama bottoms and the voluminous Gotham U sweatshirt Tony bought her, and on down to the fuzzy slippers Lois had given her for Christmas. Frowning, she tilted her head to the side and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well excuse me for not knowing that my uncle’s living room had a dress code.” For the first time she notices that Dick isn’t dressed as he usually is. Instead of jeans and a sweater like he typically wears, he’s dressed in what looks like a military uniform, all dark wool and shiny buttons, holding an old fashioned hat in his hands. “When did you enlist?”

With a small roll of his eyes, he steps into the foyer and plops the head on his head which gives him an almost uncanny resemblance to Gregory Peck in Night People.

And with that thought she realizes she has officially been watching too much TCM.

Spreading his arms wide in a way that makes his trench coat open more in the center, he does a slow twirl on his toes, showing off his outfit. “You like?”

Despite her best efforts, the corners of her lips twitch and Chloe giggles. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” he says, bowing his head in her direction.

“So why are channeling a GI anyway? New look?” She moved toward the kitchen, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the books on the end table beside her uncle’s comfy chair.

He gives her an incredulous look. It was almost as if she had suddenly lapsed into Swahili or told him that she thought pedophiles should run for Congress. “You’re serious?”

“Obviously.”

Dick shakes his head, chuckling, and Chloe feels like she’s on the wrong side of an inside joke. “Tonight’s the Policeman’s Ball,” he states, and she knew that. It was the main reason she was home alone on a Saturday night. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

Well that one’s easy enough. “Because I’m not going.”

“You can’t not go,” Dick says, as if the event were mandatory.

Sure, there are lots of people in Gotham who would have loved the chance to get all dressed up in a costume and watch tipsy detectives attempt to slow dance with scantily clad socialites, but Chloe wasn’t one of them. For one thing, she was getting harder and harder to fit lately and for another, her wig recently started itching along her hairline and was driving her full out nuts.

“Dick,” she says flatly, “I’m not in the mood for a party tonight.” He starts to protest so she holds her hands up to cut him off. “Even if I did want to go, I don’t have anything to wear.”

Dick’s face, pretty as it was, widened into an unholy grin that had Chloe’s hand itching to reach out and slap the side of his head. She knew that look. She had experience with that look and the type of guys who used it to soften the boom before they did something that would inevitably make you want to pull your hair out.

Holding up his index fingers, Dick dashed out the front door and back in a few seconds later, too quick for her to even think of being confused. He held a garment bag with the logo of Harlequin Costumes down the side out to her.

Eyes narrowing, she unzipped it. “What is this?”

A huge smile breaking his features, Dick shrugged. “That is what you’re wearing.”

…0…

It took close to an hour, but Chloe reluctantly agreed to accompany Dick to the party-on the condition that he would have her back home in no more than two hours.

Stumbling slightly over her ridiculous shoes, Chloe glared at Dick as he helped right her. “I hate you.”

“Now if that were true,” he quips, “you wouldn’t be here.”

With murder in her eyes, she stood and straightened her mask and prayed her uncle wouldn’t go ballistic when he saw her outfit.

Of all the possibilities for costumes, Chloe could not wrap her mind around why Dick would have chosen this particular costume for her. She had expected, going off his own outfit, that he had brought her some 40’s era dress, something akin to Lauren Bacall or Katherine Hepburn from Hollywood’s heyday. That she could have dealt with.

But after lots of whining on her part and even more wheedling on Dick’s, she had finally relented and donned the female Batman outfit he had brought her.

“I’ve seen you researching Batman at the library when you think no one’s around,” he said in response to her horror at the outfit. “I knew it was perfect the second I saw it.”

Perfect isn’t what Chloe would call the canary yellow go-go boots she could barely walk in, or the matching mask that all but totally obstructed her vision. More like ludicrous. The only part she was grateful for was that her belly was for the most part concealed. Though she still wasn’t obviously visibly pregnant, since she entered her second trimester she had started to gain more weight and there was now a strip of bare skin between her shirt and pants whenever she wore a shirt that was a little too tight. Luckily Gotham was a good ten degrees colder than Metropolis on a good day and she could get away with heavy sweaters and layered cardigans and scarves. Scarves were actually very handy at hiding a bump she’d learned. At least her cat suit, or bat suit rather, was spandex and not leather like she would have expected, and the bright yellow faux utility belt covered her stomach from the front and the billowing cape worked on the sides.

It wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but at least her secret was still safe.

And the longer she went without telling Dick, the more it felt like a secret.

“I look like an idiot,” she insisted, whacking the end of her ponytail away from her face.

“You look fantastic,” Dick contradicted. “I bet if Batman could see you he’d want to take you on as a sidekick.”

The word hit her straight in the chest and she turned her head to the side sharply, trying to stave off the tears that were burning up behind her eyes.

Damn hormones.

A hand landed on her shoulder. “Babs, you okay?”

“Yeah.” She plastered the biggest, most fake smile on her face she could manage and squared her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dick smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

…0…

As predicted, Jim wasn’t pleased with Chloe’s costume, or with the good natured chuckles that came with learning that the Batgirl was the Commissioner’s niece.

“I’m sorry,” she hissed in his ear. “It wasn’t my idea.”

Most of the officers had opted to wear their dress uniforms instead of costumes, and Chloe realized that her uncle looked much more official and intimidating in his dress blues.

“Just have fun,” he told her, ushering her away from the receiving line towards Dick.

“I’ll try,” she muttered under her breath and joined Dick, who led here towards a small crowd at the edge of the dance floor.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Trust fund babies. Prepare for stock talk.”

Which was exactly what she got-along with discussion of portfolios, liquid assets, and equitable property.

And then the conversation turned to her costume.

“It’s just…darling,” was the comment from a tall blonde in a painted on white Marilyn Monroe dress and perfect curls. The brunette with the enormous blue eyes declared that it was ‘adorable.’

The guys in the group had more suggestive comments, prompting Dick to get up in the face of a man a good three inches taller than him, who had to outweigh Dick by at least fifteen pounds.

She pulled on his arm. “Dick, drop it.”

They walked away, and Chloe noticed the other man’s shoulders visibly relaxing. From what she’d gleaned about Dick’s background (both on her own and secondhand) in martial arts, he could have dropped that guy with a flick of his wrist.

A man in the corner was signaling for Dick to come over. Not wanting to suffer through any more small talk, Chloe excused herself and went outside for some fresh air. It was late April, and the nights were still cold but not to the point where Chloe was afraid that merely stepping outdoors without her coat would lead to hypothermia. Standing on the top of the steep steps leading into the Gotham Museum of Art, she took a deep breath and removed her mask. It was a beautiful, if foggy night, and the stars overhead twinkled brightly against the jet black sky.

A feeling like corn popping in her stomach drew Chloe’s attention and she looked down at her stomach with a soft smile. She placed her hand on the upper curve of her protruding stomach above the top of her belt and rubbed a small circle. “Guess you like it better out here too, huh?” More popping occurred and she chuckled.

The way Chloe sees it, pregnancy is a tradeoff. As soon as one horrendous thing ends another would crop up, interspersed with a few things that were actually pretty cool. Once morning sickness and chronic fatigue gave way to weight gain and cravings, she was supposed to feel better. Which she was. For the most part. No longer did she wake up with the feeling that she had run a marathon the day before instead of sleeping the ten hours or so she had actually gotten in. She attributed a lot of that to getting the caffeine out of her system at last.

And then, about a week ago, the best part of pregnancy had happened. She felt the baby moving.

As the days wore on it moved more, and more. And felt more like a baby than a situation.

Her brief maternal moment was interrupted by a loud crash around the side of the steps. She peered over the edge but all she could see was a few vague dark shapes moving around. But then she heard the sounds of scuffling and a grunt and knew that somebody was in trouble.

Chloe went down as fast as she could manage in her boots without breaking her neck and saw what looked to be two men, one with what looked to be wing like sleeves, trying to force another into a van despite the impressive fight he was putting up.

How was no one else seeing this? Over half of Gotham’s police force was less than a hundred yards away and she was the only person away of an attempting kidnapping in progress. Digging into her belt, she grabbed her phone and sent her uncle a text to get outside ASAP and bring backup. Then she blew the whistle her dad had given her for the summer she spent interning at the Planet to get their attention.

Just because her belt didn’t come equipped with grappling hooks and smoke bombs didn’t mean it was entirely useless.

“Hey!” She yells, everything in her telling her that she was being an idiot.

The men look up at her, glaring and the one without the wings advancing on her. “Look at the Batgirl. What’s wrong; the big man too busy to come out and do any of the work himself, he has to send a little girl?”

A loud thump and the sound of bone cracking drew both their attention and she sees the man with the wings doubled over on the asphalt, blood seeping through his full facial mask and covering his face and neck. The kidnappee stood, panting, drawing himself up to his full height and Chloe sees that it was Bruce Wayne, his once immaculate tuxedo covered in mud and blood and who knows what else. Wiping his face on the back of his hand, his eyes meet Chloe’s and his face went blank, unreadable, as their gazes lock until the cops barreling down the steps break her reverie.

…0…

Four days later Nancy asked Chloe if she minds staying a little late to help her catalogue a new shipment of children’s books that had just come in that day. Both Beth and Ross had been out since the week before with a virus, and since Chloe was pregnant Mrs. Billings insisted she take a few days off so she wouldn’t catch it. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t even care, but with the option of taking even over the counter medication being off limits she isn’t willing to risk it.

‘A little late’ had turned into almost nine o’clock and Chloe walks out cranky and tired, her back aching and her ankles swollen like grapefruits.

All she wants in the world right then was her bed at her uncle’s and the leftover chicken picatta JJ swore he would leave for her. And maybe she can wheedle a foot rub out of him if she played her cards right. Her mood swings the last few days were a nightmare and all three of her relatives were only too happy to accommodate her whims.

It’s nice. She likes being a little power hungry.

“Miss Gordon.”

Hand on her chest, Chloe whirls to find Bruce Wayne walking slowly toward her, hands buried in the pockets of his black overcoat. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

She snorts. If?

“I take it that I did,” he quips dryly. “Again, my apologies.” He lays his briefcase on the hood of her car and pops it open. Handing her a folder, he fixes a steely gaze on her that reminds her eerily of Lex, back when they first met and she considered him a friend and not the face of evil on Earth.

“What is this?” she opens it up and sees a picture of herself, complete with short blonde hair and minus her glasses staring up at her. Her blood running cold in her veins, Chloe looks up at him and feels the world fall away from beneath her feet.

He knows.

“Before you say anything,” he begins, “I’m not going to do anything with this.”

She glances up at him, tears swimming in her eyes and making her vision blur, Bruce a fuzzy blob of black in front of her. It’s hard to believe him when he’s just handed her everything she’s been trying to leave behind her.

He keeps talking, taking a step closer to her and lowering his voice. “I have to admit, I’ve been a bit curious about you for a bit now. Dick talks about you all the time and even though you told him about your husband, he’s not going to let go. He’s crazy about you.”

Chloe closes her eyes against the words, the tears finally spilling over. “How much do you know?”

“Chloe Sullivan,” he says, and begins to recite her life history like a board report, “born in Granville, Kansas, former Met U student and Daily Planet reporter turned champion of the meteor infected. You have a history with the Luthors and a pretty impressive track record of showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Well, that’s true.

“The rest is purely speculation on my part.”

At that she looks up at him, curiosity and dread vying for a place in the forefront of her consciousness. “Speculation?”

When his eyes tick down, her heart plummets through her feet. And it must show on her face for he nods slowly, looking resigned. “You’re pregnant.”

Chloe nods. “Dick doesn’t know.”

“And I won’t tell him,” Bruce assures her. “It’s not my place to tell, it’s your business. But Dick is family to me, and I’m only looking at for him. That’s yours,” he motions to the file. “Do what you want with it.”

He turns to leave and her breathing comes easier, opening her car door to just get out of here.

Bruce’s voice floats back to her, and she looks over at him, hesitant to hear what else he could have to tell her. “I owe you for the other night. I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”

She can’t help it, she smiles-just a smidge.

“But it was reckless in your condition, and I have a feeling I’m not the only one who would think so.”

Now her interest is peaked. He sounds so sure of himself, so confident, so like every other billionaire she’s met that she cocks her head and glares at him. “I didn’t do a single thing to harm my baby. I wouldn’t.”

Nodding, he admits that it’s true, but not what he meant. “Just be careful, Miss Gordon,” he says. “Judging from those photos, I’d say there’s someone who would agree with me.”

Turning, he walks a few paces and disappears into the shadows, nothing more than a ghost in the night. She opens the folder and digs through it, near frantic.

Basics mostly. Transcripts, medical records. An article about Lionel Luthor’s trial, her engagement announcement, Jimmy’s obituary.

And then she finds them. The photos and clippings of her and Oliver out in Metropolis back when they caused such fervor. Paper clipped to the upper corner of what looks like a surveillance shot of her and Oliver walking to the coffee shop down the street from Isis, Oliver’s head next to her ear, looking every inch the boyfriend whispering sweet nothings, was a photo of two boys, no older than fifteen, in matching blazers and ties in front of an ivy covered building.

She knew those faces. They were younger than she was familiar with, but unmistakable.

Bruce and Oliver, in their prep school days. Clearly, he wanted Chloe to know that he knew. Everything.

“Damn it.”

…0…

I know the Batgirl costume is a little hokey, but that’s the canon first meeting of Bruce and Babs way back in the Detective Comic days so there you have it.