The room was silent except for the constant clicking of a keyboard, or rather, the fingers that have never learned to gently tap it's buttons. Every once and a while, the typer, an austere man named Vic Sage, would mutter under his breath and reach for a cup of coffee nearby that had long ago grown cold. In the dim light of the computer monitor, where he'd been working for the past four hours, his rumpled appearance didn't have near the sex appeal it had when she'd first arrived...four hours ago...to have dinner...with her boyfriend...Vic Sage, known to the Caped World as the Question, the man with no face, the ugliest man in the league, and one bad mama-jamma.
Or so Helena liked to think to herself in times of great distress when he was really working her last nerve. It gave her great consolation to know what a sexy beast he was, even if the other women who knew him either didn't see, or knew better than to even try to see Helena's man as a sexy beast (damn Wonder Woman and her curiousity).
Grumble, grumble, grumble, went the overworked faceless man.
"What?" He asked distractedly, not really paying attention because he'd only just now gotten into narrating the web of connections between Reese's Pieces, the candy, and the Joker, the villain, and their connections to the intricate network of mind-controlling substances currently marketed to the villain corporations, which was going by the codename of "Nabisco". It involved a rather lengthy investigation into the candy-making business, and just what was in "candy-coating".
Helena pouted at him, though he wasn't looking and couldn't appreciate the appeal of her beautiful lips. "I'm hungry."
"I got food."
Helena stopped pouting, and started to glare. "No, you don't."
Vic looked up and vaguely in the direction of the kitchen, his eyes dimmed as he searched that vast memory of his. "Oh, I ate it."
"No shit, Sherlock."
He shrugged before turning back to his computer. "We'll order takeout."
Helena smiled for the first time since she got there and found him embroiled in a new theory. "Chinese?"
"Too much MSG. Clogs the arteries, releases endorphins, and causes religious ideas. The Catholic Church is currently investigating to see if there's a way to use it to form a deeper symbiotic relationship between parishioners and the church via MSG in the Body of Christ wafers they give out."
Helena sighed and started to dismantle the crossbow she'd used tonight when she'd patrolled Gotham as Huntress. It had blood in the strings, something she'd never really relished having to deal with. Was it her fault the damn criminals thought rushing the woman with a crossbow aimed at their chests was a good idea? No, it wasn't, stupid criminals. "Italian?"
"With the genetic mutations used to force the tomatoes to a more red color instead of the natural green-ish red tomatoes should have, which recent secret tests done by the FCC has proved can lead to uncontrollable and possible permanent facial blushing and, or, hair-growth on the posterior...no, thank you."
Helena wondered briefly how Vic could recall all this information whilst still typing 200 words a minute on that damn computer. "Thai?"
"Gives me the runs."
"Sour Kraut is a left-over Communist plot to subvert-"
"I get the idea, babe," Helena interrupted. "Japanese?"
Vic actually stopped typing so that he could look over his shoulder at her incredulously. "Seriously?"
"Do you really want me to say it?"
"Are you really going to make me explain it again?"
"Are you really going to make me go into detail about the Japanese World War II subversive plot to undermine the American government with small robotic nanites placed in live fish that are programmed to be caught in the Americas and served to politicians, who are then programmed to-"
"Oh, God! I get it, no SUSHI!"
Silence. He returned to typing his exposé on the perils of candy-coating, though not before muttering just loud enough for her to hear, "And we all know the World War isn't over...it's just gone quiet and nuclear..."
Helena rolled her eyes and put away her Huntress uniform and weapons in the small concealed closet he'd cleared for her. Finally, with all her own keep-up of the small, completely secure, and psychotically monitored apartment of Vic's done, her stomach started to growl in earnest. She bowed her head, and from beneath the fall of her dark hair on her face, she growled at Vic.
"I'm not going to eat there again."
"Because I don't want to."
Vic was still so tuned into his damn report that he didn't hear her take off her shoe, or even detect her throwing it at his head.
"Ow! What did you do that for?"
"Cause you're an ass!" She replied, walking over to add a hard smack to the shoe-hit.
"Just cause I like-"
"Because that's always what we eat when there's no food here. Always, Vic! Always."
She sighed, and refused to looked at him.
"Helenaaaaaaa?" He wheedled at her, ignoring the continuing thoughts of candy and it's repercussions on the America's children that danced in his head.
"And a chocolate shake," he finished with a smile, dragging her down so that he could lay a small kiss on those lips, the oh-so-beautiful, but perpetually pouting ones.
"I guess I'll drive over and get it," she said snidely, catching a glimpse of what he was working on. She grabbed the keys and headed for the door, and just before she left, she said casually over her shoulder, "And Vic, I do hope you realize that M&M's have candy-coating too."
Vic smiled and shook his head...
Then his eyes widened...
And he let out a silent scream of horror.
"NOT MY M&M'S!"