Mid-February. Valentine's Day evening.
Wayne Manor sat peaceful in the gathering dusk, all Gothic spires and old money serenity. Inside, Prosecutor Harvey Dent and Commissioner Gordon occupied chairs near the fireplace, where carefully split birch logs crackled and popped in cheerful red flames.
Neither man was remotely comfortable.
Harvey paced. Gordon checked his pocket watch for the fifth time in ten minutes, the silver case clicking open and shut with metronomic regularity.
Alfred stood near the tea service, the picture of butler composure, until he cleared his throat with deliberate delicacy.
"Gentlemen, given that today is Valentine's Day, I feel obligated to point out one salient fact."
Both men looked up.
"Well." Alfred's expression remained perfectly neutral. "How shall I put this? Given Master Bruce's... popularity with the fairer sex, and the romantic significance of the evening..."
He let the implication hang in the air.
"He may not return for quite some time."
Gordon's gaze drifted to the massive French windows that dominated the entrance hall. Outside, twilight had surrendered to full darkness. The sun had set an hour ago, and Bruce Wayne remained conspicuously absent.
He sighed. "Harvey, should we try again tomorrow?"
No response.
Gordon turned. Harvey had stopped pacing and now stood transfixed before an enormous oil painting that dominated one wall—a portrait of a handsome man and a gentle woman, both dressed in formal wear that spoke of old Gotham aristocracy. The man's features echoed Bruce's bone structure with eerie precision.
Thomas and Martha Wayne.
"So that's Bruce's father, huh?" Harvey pointed at the portrait with his thumb, tone casual in a way that didn't quite land. "Alfred, you wouldn't happen to remember anyone named 'Falcone' visiting to see Dr. Thomas Wayne, would you?"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Alfred's pleasant expression faded like morning frost. Gordon removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, suppressing a groan. Subtle as a brick, Harvey.
The butler's gaze moved from Harvey to Gordon with glacial precision. "As I mentioned, today is Valentine's Day. I'm certain you both have other obligations. Commissioner Gordon—how is Mrs. Gordon? It's been far too long since we last spoke."
Gordon's face went carefully blank. That was a dismissal. A polite, perfectly proper, absolutely final dismissal. And Barbara was definitely waiting at home, wondering where he was.
Ring ring ring—
Harvey's phone shattered the awkward silence.
He pulled it out, checked the screen. "Hello? Jude? Yeah, I can talk. What's going on?"
Harvey made apologetic gestures at Gordon and Alfred, then stepped toward the entrance hall for privacy.
"Alright, I'm listening."
"I'll be direct." Jude's voice came through crisp and urgent. "Three things you need to know, and I'm only saying this once.
"First: I was working at Maroni's restaurant tonight. I saw Vernon Wells in the back office. He was meeting with Maroni, Harvey. Taking thick stacks of cash. I'm guessing you're being watched from the inside."
Harvey's knuckles went white around the phone.
"Second: The Holiday Killer hit Maroni's place. Four guards dead, car bomb, the whole package. Left behind a .22 pistol, baby pacifier, shell casings, and Valentine's Day chocolate. Maroni's already cleaned the scene, so don't bother rushing over."
Harvey's jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
"Third—and this is just gossip, really—I saw Bruce Wayne having dinner with Selina Kyle tonight. Looked pretty cozy. I'd guess they're planning a romantic, sleepless evening together." Jude's tone carried dark amusement. "Not that I'm jealous or anything."
Harvey closed his eyes. Which meant he and Gordon had wasted their entire evening waiting at Wayne Manor for a man who wasn't coming home.
He stood in the entrance hall for another minute, absorbing the implications. Vernon corrupted. The Holiday Killer escalating. Bruce unavailable. Every piece of news worse than the last.
When he returned to the sitting room, Gordon took one look at his face and stood.
"Harvey, what happened?"
"Nothing." Harvey shook his head, forcing his expression neutral. "Just work. I can handle it."
Gordon studied him for a long moment, then apparently decided to let it go. He sighed instead, changing subjects. "Harvey, please tell me you remembered to buy Gilda a Valentine's Day gift."
Harvey froze mid-step.
The color drained from his face. His hands came up slowly, covering his eyes in a gesture of pure despair.
"No. Oh God. Gilda's going to kill me."
"Harvey, you haven't hung up yet."
The voice came from Harvey's phone, still pressed against his ear. Jude sounded amused.
"Harvey? Commissioner Gordon? It's been a while. Listen—you're both very lucky. I made extra Valentine's Day chocolates tonight, and I'm on my way home anyway. I'll package them up and have them delivered to your respective addresses. Mark them as pre-ordered. Remember not to say the wrong thing when you get home."
A pause. "It's 9:07 PM. If you hurry, you can still make it home before Valentine's Day ends. Might even earn forgiveness from Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Dent."
Another pause. "Me? I'm done with work. Time to go home and enjoy my single life."
"That's all. Ciao."
The line went dead.
Gordon and Harvey stared at each other in mutual, stunned relief. Like two men who'd just dodged bullets they hadn't seen coming.
At least Valentine's Day wasn't a complete disaster.
"The delivery said you'd be home soon."
Barbara Gordon sat at their kitchen table, golden-haired baby James cradled in one arm, bottle in her free hand. The food had been reheated—Gordon could see steam rising from covered dishes. An unopened package sat beside her plate, brown paper and twine.
"So I warmed everything up."
Gordon looked at his wife—patient, understanding, still smiling despite his tardiness—and couldn't find words. She pulled him to the table, guided him into a chair with gentle insistence.
He reached for the package with fumbling hands, tore open the wrapping. Inside: a heart-shaped box of chocolate, beautifully presented, wrapped in red foil that caught the kitchen light.
"I know I've said this too many times already," Gordon started, voice rough. "But I'm still sorry. The job, the hours, I—"
Barbara leaned forward and kissed him, cutting off the apology mid-sentence. She took the chocolate from his hands, held it between them like a promise.
It felt familiar. Achingly familiar. Like the night he'd proposed all those years ago, nervous and young and certain she'd say yes.
"No matter how many times you say it," Barbara murmured against his lips, "I never get tired of hearing it."
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