Knock-knock knock knock-knock.

Bruce jumped awake, his muscles taught and ready to fight. But no. He'd fallen asleep in the library again last night, not that he could remember doing it. And it was just Alfred. It was always just Alfred. Except that once, when Catwoman managed to open both of the huge oak doors with her whip and then she took the whip and... well, it was almost always just Alfred.

"Good...morning, sir," said Alfred. That meant it was at least noon. Bruce ran his hands over his face. When he looked up, he saw that Alfred had the day's paper balanced delicately on the edge of the gleaming silver serving tray in his hands. His muscles tensed again as he reached out for it.

"Is it...?"

"It is. Page 8 of section E. Here you are."

Ignoring the carefully prepared breakfast (as usual, thought Alfred to himself), he nearly tore the pages in his excitement. Page 3, page 5, page 7...page 8. And there it was, just as he'd written it:

PROTECTOR IN THE SHADOWS...SEEKS ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS THAT DEEPEST OF IRONIES...THAT THE FIGHT AGAINST THE DARK...MUST SOMETIMES BE FOUGHT IN THE SHADOWS. WILLING TO TRAIN. YOU...MOTIVATED, HEIGHT/WEIGHT PROPORTIONATE.

Alfred peered around the edge of the paper to look at Bruce. "I believe they count each ellipsis as three characters. Raised the cost unnecessarily, if I may say so."

"Mmm. Not really a concern, Alfred. That will be all," Bruce mumbled.

"Very good." And then he was gone. Bruce never understood how Alfred could do that. Bruce spent hour upon hour training, every single day, and still he was easily outgraced by an aging butler.

Bruce slumped back in his armchair and then looked up. He had so much. Everything in this room together was probably worth more than the GNP of certain third-world nations. But everyone left, everyone always left, and this was what he'd been driven to.

"I'M A BILLIONAIRE, YOU KNOW!" he yelled, still staring straight ahead at the endless rows of books.

The newspaper lay, folded into quarters and marked up with Cheeto-colored thumbprints and Sharpie, on the table between them. It was open to the Help Wanted section; one item had been circled rather enthusiastically and surrounded by arrows and exclamation points.

"Dude. Look. Look at this. This is awesome."

Sam looked. "What? No, Dean, that is not awesome. That is lone backwoods-shack psycho. At best."

"What about this part, about fighting the dark in the dark?"

"Are you gonna start hanging out with every crackpot who pulls it together enough to place an ad in the paper? 'Cause I'm just saying, there are a lot. Like, a lot. You'll want to get going soon if you're going to make good time. And hey, what about the Incarceration Connections section here?"

"Sam, come on." Dean's voice grew louder by the word. "This sounds...I don't know. Legit. Like this guy knows what he's talking about. Like maybe he's a hunter."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "I'm just saying, I can Googlemap the state pens between here and Gotham for you, if you want."

"Are you kidding me? You love this 'hunches' and 'feelings' bullshit. But only if they're yours, I guess."

"Dean, seriously."

Dean rolled his eyes and snorted, and then grabbed a handful of leftover fries from his brother's plate. "Yuh duh wun duh thsh fn buh um chknu uh ow," he said.

"...what?"

He swallowed. "You don't want to do this? Fine. But I'm checking it out."

Sam felt a dull pain begin to creep up along his temples. He got this headache a lot. "I knew I shouldn't have gotten you the Fortean Times subscription for Christmas that year," he muttered.