divine-my-own-future:

“Oh, I definitely think you’re all of those things. An accountant slash plumber slash carpenter slash undead assassin saving Gotham from itself.” A grin tugged at her mouth as she rested her chin in her hands.

“I almost forgot.” Digging into one of the pouches on her belt, Barbara produced a small brown bag. “It’s your fault if they’re nothing but crumbles.” Stamped on the outside of the bag was the logo for a small local bakery in North Beach. Once a month locals lined up, hugging sidewalks and buildings, the queue curling around for blocks, for the chance to purchase the matriarch of the Leuzzi family’s famous pizzelles.

North Beach was one of the few old Gotham neighborhoods to avoid gentrification. A hidden jewel among superstructures and towering metal. Barbara had seen first-hand the ill effects shifts of money brought to her beloved city. The neighborhood she had grown up in had been bought and sold three or four times while she was away at college. Urban redevelopment, that’s what the real estate investors called it, but it was little more than a money grab veiled in venture capitalist terminology. The playground she had spent her days exploring, her respite from the concrete jungle, had been demolished to make way for clean chrome and glass; the old oaks and cedar trees that lined the streets removed for fresh cement and fire hydrants. Gotham’s future, Gotham’s saviors, the newspapers proclaimed, but anyone that grew up in Gotham knew that neither was true.

“Next time don’t tackle me and maybe your cookies won’t be dust.” Barbara gazed up, observing the stars, like tiny pieces of rock salt scattered across the cloudy sky. It felt like there was electricity in the air, as if the city was awakening for the evening. The sensation prickled against the exposed skin on her face, bringing a rosy blush to the apples of her cheeks.

“Hey, Leuzzi’s! Score.”

He tore the package open, popping a small chunk into his mouth. It was true, he could have been gentler. But then again, she would never go easy on him. Ever. That was cheating, and she didn’t allow that.

“You know,” he said, holding up the wrinkled bag, “you could always try harder, and this wouldn’t be an issue. Or get better snacks. Like bread! You can’t crumble a good loaf of bread. Trust me. It’s sturdy food.”

He grinned, his eyes gleaming in mirth. 

“Or, like I said. Don’t lose. Your choice.”