In Spite of it All

by Haydee

Has Alfred Pennyworth missed his last chance to win the heart of Dr. Leslie?

Alfred Pennyworth watched from the hall as young Bruce Wayne sat in the window seat, his face dropping miserably into his hands as, outside, rain drizzled down. After a moment, being yet a boy with a boy's natural restlessness, he shifted and sighed heavily. Surely, thought Alfred wryly, the world shall end today, for the master has nothing to do.

On any other day, Alfred's quick and nimble mind, just hitting the peak of its usefulness in middle age, might have engineered any number of interesting chores for the boy to set about, for certainly in a mansion as large as Wayne Manor, there was always work to be done. But today-- this morning-- was the dawn after the day of mourning, of small black suits and black ties and black socks, which even now still draped neatly over a little chair in the corner, ready to be washed and pressed. And, truth be told, master Bruce was still a bit more melancholy than usual.

Being the prudent gentleman that he was, Alfred knew that it would have been inappropriate to disturb the process, to try to 'jolly' the boy out of his sorrowful thoughts, for grieving was only natural, and it had only been two years and a day since that terrible night. Even the dignified servant himself was not beyond a misty eye now and then; in private, of course

Nevertheless, he hated to see the boy sit there, or elsewhere in the gloomy old house, moping about all day, his interest piqued by nothing. What, he wondered, might he do to rouse the young master from his funk? And then, as the boy shifted again, and sighed once more, he had it, and nearly snapped his fingers at the thought.

Quietly, the gentleman's gentleman retreated from his position at the slightly-open door, and hurried down the hall to the kitchen, where he picked up the phone. "Yes," he said primly, as he always spoke to the operator, "Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic, please. Yes, thank you."

When he hung up, the slender man clasped his hands together and congratulated himself on the imminent success of his idea. Dr. Leslie had, of course, been with them only that yesternight, but it had been in the sense of a chaplain, or a comforting priest. He was oddly conscious, of a sudden, that it was rarely they now saw the young woman in any other context. Yet he knew, from experience, and the first months of the greatest trial and tragedy of the family, than Leslie Thompkins was more than a comforting mother hen, for in rarer moments she flashed bright smiles, and always had a willing laugh tucked down her throat. She was just the thing for a lonely little boy.

And, Alfred was forced to admit to himself as he went to fetch a little pair of rainy-day galoshes, he himself would not especially mind seeing the young woman again, either.

___


Dr. Leslie, as all the little boys and girls and just about everyone else addressed her, came calling that afternoon in a rather plain little dress and a raincoat, a modesty for which she only looked the more beautiful. There was nothing, particularly, in her slender, womanly face to recommend her in any way, but because of her smile, and even because of the few gray streaks beginning early to show in her long brown hair, she was beautiful. In every way, for her plainness and her unassuming grin, she was exactly the sort of woman that children liked-- especially one solemn little boy who went by the rather grave and grown-up title of Master Bruce Wayne.

Dr. Leslie called him Bruce-dearie.

She might have called him Brucie, of course, as she knew his father and mother had, but Alfred had advised against it, and once, when it had slipped out quite by accident, she had known from the look on the boy's face that his keeper was correct.

So, "Bruce-dearie," she said, smiling broadly as he met her on the porch, dressed to the hilt in winter scarves and little coats and galoshes fully three sizes too large, "you look just like a little black sheep!"

Bruce said something, but it was muffled in the heavy wool about his face. Leslie bent quickly and unwrapped him, placing a long, warm kiss on his cold-blushed cheek before he had time to repeat himself.

"Oh, my darling," she cooed, as his dark little face peered out at her, "did Alfred dress you up?"

"I didn't want to," said Bruce, in a rather ruffled tone. "But he wouldn't let me come if I didn't."

Leslie laughed again, delighted at her friend's rather over-matronly care, and continued to unwrap the miserable little creature until finally little pairs of arms and legs emerged. "There you are, Bruce-dear. Now, I've come over to play; what shall we do?"

Bruce's enormous dark eyes squinted a bit, perhaps in the chill breeze, or perhaps because he didn't quite believe her. "Grown-ups don't play," he stated, firmly.

Leslie's eyes sparkled. "Ah, but indeed they do, my darling-- or some of them, anyhow. Doesn't Alfred play, sometimes?"

Bruce held the grim, prudent little line of his mouth, but in his eyes there was a mischievous sparkle that ladies would one day label "rakish" and "bold" "He tries," he admitted, after a moment. "But--" he stopped, not wanting to be rude in front of the lady.

Of course, Dr. Leslie understood, and, being unable to help herself, she wrapped him in another tight hug. "Well, then, Bruce-dear, from now on, whenever you want to play, have Alfred ring me up, and I shall be right over, quick as you can say 'Jack be nimble.'" She ruffled his head of black hair. "All right? Now, you were about to tell me what we were to play at."

Again, Bruce looked at her, met her eyes evenly, and there was in his gaze what one might have called skepticism, except that, of course, that children neither possess or comprehend such sophisticated emotional qualities "Anything?" he asked.

"Anything, dear."

His eyes slid away, out to the yard. "Can I climb the tree by the stables?" he asked, cautiously. This, he knew, by Alfred's own command, was expressly forbidden due to numerous safety issues which he never quite had understood very well.

"Well," replied Leslie, standing and taking his little hand boldly in hers, "I don't know-- *can* you?"

Young Bruce Wayne very nearly smiled at this, and consented readily to being led with quick, stumbling little steps across the frostbitten winter grass. At the midpoint of their short little journey, he risked a glance back, praying that he might not turn into a pillar of snowy salt, and thought that he glimpsed a rather familiar angular face peering worriedly out of a darkened upstairs window. He turned, and continued hurriedly onward, lest that same face and propriety catch them before they had done.

As it turned out, climbing the enormous oak was a bit more of a challenge than he had imagined; at least, it would have been simpler, were he as tall as his own fancies had lately made him out to be. But Leslie helped a bit, and he got up as far as the third branch before his arms and legs were too weary to carry him further. He did not slide down immediately, but sat for a while at that enormous height, enjoying the rather splendid view of triumph. It was not long, however, before he felt himself shiver, and wondered if perhaps it would not have been best to leave on all of Alfred's numerous coverings after all, for it was cold, and it was wet, just as he had warned He looked down at Leslie, his teeth chattering.

The young woman smiled, and beckoned to him with a wave of her hand. "Come down, Bruce-dear, are you ready?"

He nodded, and, with the curious dexterity of an unusually observant child, slid down from branch to branch without an ounce of fear, until he sat on the last limb, and dropped easily into Dr. Leslie's waiting arms.

She hugged him again, tightly, as if glad to have him back on earth, safe and sound, then put him down and clasped his small hand in hers. "We'll get warm if we run back to the house-- race, dear!" And they started out; not really much of a race, hand-in-hand, but it certainly served the purpose of warming their bones.

Awaiting them, they found inside, were two cups of hot chocolate-- little marshmallows, of course, on the side. Bruce popped his into the cup carefully, one at a time, and did his best to watch them dissolve away, although he missed much while enduring numerous tugs and pulls as Alfred led him to the fireplace in the library and began to strip off his sopping clothes, layer by layer. Leslie sat in the big armchair, making her look very small indeed, though brave and good, and smiled at him sympathetically, laughter in her eyes.

He very nearly smiled back.

That done, and gotten into his 'lounging pajamas,' as Alfred called them, Leslie stood, and whispered something into the studious butler's ear, which made him look at her for a moment, then disappear for what eventually became the entire afternoon. And, although Bruce had grown, though he didn't know it, to love his loyal caretaker, he loved him better for the brief absence, and for the time he spent with Leslie.

They played all sorts of indoor games in the library that day-- chess, of course, but also soldiers, entrenching themselves behind the sofa, and pioneers, building forts between chairs with Alfred's best silk sheets. And when dusk began to fall, the dear Dr. Leslie found herself in the corner rocking chair, a small, dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy with a serious expression sitting quietly upon her lap, listening somberly to the story of the ugly duckling as she read from the storybook before them.

When the story ended, she quietly hushed him upstairs to his bedroom, where she watched as he brushed his teeth and brushed his dark hair neatly before climbing into bed. She knelt beside the little cot, petting his hair gently, and gave him a small kiss on the nose. "Did you have a good day, Bruce-dear?"

He looked at her with his large, round eyes, and nodded very slightly.

"Ah, I'm glad. Good night, my darling, and sweet dreams." With that, she petted his hair once more, and reached out to pull the little string that turned the lamp off.

"Dr. Leslie?" Bruce whispered in the dark.

Leslie pulled the string again, and the light came back on. "Yes, dear?" she asked.

Bruce swallowed, gazing at her pensively, as though about to deliver, after years of fervent thought, some great oration. He sat up, thinking, perhaps, that it might be more appropriate for something of this measure. "Dr. Leslie?" he asked again, this time as a prelude. Now, now came the important part. "Dr. Leslie, will you marry me?"

Sweet, good Leslie nearly laughed, but her tender heart so went out to the boy, in his honest, heartfelt request, that she could not hurt his feelings so. Instead, she cradled his face gently, and smiled a motherly smile. "Oh, my darling, how I wish it could be. But I'm very much older than you, and I'd be an old woman long before you were a man-- not very much fun to play with at all, I'm afraid."

Bruce's lip trembled. "It's not fair," he quavered.

Now, she did laugh, softly, and held him close, feeling his warm little body shiver just once. "It will be fair, dear, soon enough, for when you grow up, you shall find a beautiful girl all your own, and she will make you very happy, happier than I ever would." She held him back a little, and met his eyes, her eyebrows raised. "All right, my solemn little man?"

Bruce bit his lip. "All right," he whispered.

"Good. Now go to sleep, for it is very late at night for little boys such as yourself." She covered him back up, tucking him in securely, and pulled the light-chain again.

"But I love you," Bruce whispered, when the door had closed quietly behind her.
_____


Leslie found Alfred in the library, hurriedly cleaning up the rather dismaying mess the little master and his guest had created, as though if the room weren't put to rights before midnight, he should never be able to sleep.

"Ah, Madame," he said, as she entered, pausing momentarily. "Tea, if you like-- on the table."

Leslie laughed and poured two cups. "Come on, Alfred, leave it alone, and come sit with me a while. It can wait."

Alfred looked as though he was certain that no, it could not wait, but when he met Leslie's eyes, they smiled so convincingly that he could not refuse. With a tolerating sigh he replaced one more book upon the shelf-- alphabetical by author, of course-- and accepted the teacup and saucer she offered before letting himself down neatly into the high-backed armchair across from the sofa.

It was on that particular piece of furniture that Leslie let her own self drop, with a happy sigh of relief that comes from getting off one's feet after a long day's work-- or play, in this case. "Alfred," she sighed, "thank you so much for calling. I had a wonderful time."

In spite of his worries about the general state of the room, which was quite inappropriate, Alfred found himself rather pleased. "Yes, Ms. Thompkins, you were precisely the thing."

"Oh, Alfred, don't be silly. How long have I known you? And we're practically co-workers! Please, just Leslie."

Alfred quietly sipped his tea.

"Well, he's just darling, Alfred; you've done well, although-- he does seem a bit-- well, it does seem as though--" Leslie did not want to be one to criticize.

"Boys need structure," Alfred said, both acknowledging her objection and refuting it.

Leslie quirked an eyebrow. "But they also need a bit of fun, and free reigns, now and then," she countered.

The gentleman's gentleman cleared his throat delicately "Precisely, Dr. Leslie, why I engineered your visit."

She had to laugh. Well, if you couldn't do something yourself-- "All right, I'll give you that."

"There are two kinds of knowledge, madame-- knowing the answer oneself, and knowing where to look for the answer, should one not."

"Are you always like this, Alfred?"

"Madame?"

She smiled gently and shook her head. "In that case," she said quietly, "never mind." She knew him. As she watched, from behind her own little cup of tea, Alfred finished his beverage and rose, setting it lightly upon the tray before returning to his pick-up work. The quaint old butler had always amused her-- although he was hardly old, if perhaps on the latter edge of the prime of his life. Yet he seemed so to her, not in a negative sense, but rather ancient in knowledge and wisdom, and especially so in tradition. It made her smile.

At last, a few minutes later, Alfred paused, and seemed to be content with the status of the library. He turned and stopped, suddenly a little shocked, perhaps, to see that she still sat, quite calmly, upon the sofa. Although, where else would she be? He cleared his throat, a little more forcefully this time. "Forgive me, Doctor," he apologized. "I'm afraid I haven't been a proper host. It's been so terribly long since anyone has frequented this grand old place..."

"I will forgive you-- if you'd just call me Leslie," she teased lightly, watching him as he stopped, halfway bent into the chair, to glance sharply at her.

"Ah--" he exclaimed faintly, letting him self down all the way. He spread his hands, giving in. "Forgive me-- Leslie."

"Done."

Alfred settled back in the large chair, crossing one long leg over the other, looking very nearly like a lanky tableau of a thoughtful Sherlock Holmes. "I do hope master Bruce didn't trouble you at all--"

"None at all!" she replied, laughing at the thought. "Oh, Alfred, he's such a sweetie. Just as I tucked him in to bed, do you know what he asked me?"

Alfred's expression was uncharacteristically amused, as though he indeed did not have any idea what his little charge might have said, but he was sure it was something... interesting.

"He asked if I would marry him."

And Alfred laughed. It was a small chuckle, really, though light and airy as only a British gentleman can make it, and seemed perfectly natural to him, although Leslie thought afterwards that she had never heard him laugh, before. "You have indeed, --Leslie," he corrected himself before uttering 'madame,' "made quite an impression upon our little man."
"It was because I let him climb the tree, wasn't it?"

"I believe it was," he smiled. "More tea?"

"Oh, yes, please."

They continued to converse for the next several minutes, Alfred relating a few odd anecdotes about his charge's rather naturally childish behavior; and though it was natural, Leslie didn't seem to tire of hearing him speak of it, and after these few minutes, it seemed as though they had been friends for a lifetime, and indeed they nearly had, although lately a bit distant.

Finally, though, Leslie stopped. "Wait, Alfred," she said. "I've been terribly selfish-- here I am, having tea with you, and all we've spoken about is Bruce. He's a dear, but you must ache to talk about something else, now and then. Let's do."

Alfred paused, silent, and gazed at the bottom of his tea cup before meeting her eyes. "I'm afraid I must apologize, Leslie," he replied quietly. His voice softened. "He... is my life, now."

Leslie met his solemn gaze, and felt, strangely, a little ashamed of herself in the presence of such a man. She remembered a time when this had not been true; it had not been necessary. It was not unexpected, but she knew that the shots that fateful night had robbed all of them of more than just the precious lives of Thomas and Martha Wayne. "Your devotion," she whispered finally, "is admirable."

He nodded once, in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Leslie."

"Is it--" she paused, her voice very small. "Does it exclude everything else?"

"It... very nearly must."

It was not the answer to her question, but suddenly she rose, slightly, and, leaning forward, grasped his hand. "You're a good man, Mr. Pennyworth," she said, fervently, and hurried from the room.

Alfred sat, a moment afterwards, finding himself a little puzzled. And then he started suddenly from his seat, an expression upon his placid Londoner's face that could not be described. With quick, long-legged strides, he followed after, and found her in the hall, slipping on her jacket. "I--" he said, and then, quickly, "Let me show you out, please." His deft, long-fingered hands helped the small woman on with her coat, and then held the door open, allowing a chill wind to gust through the entry. He was nervous, pensive, as she stepped out into the cold. "Perhaps I ought to accompany you to the car," he reasoned, peering at the looming clouds which obscured nearly every star in the sky.

Leslie, in spite of herself, smiled, and merriment returned to her eyes. "Perhaps," she echoed, shrugging. "If you like."

They walked together to the car, and Alfred held the door open. "Leslie--" he began, as she put one foot in.

She placed her hands on the top of the open door, between his, and looked up at him expectantly.

He faltered. "What did you say-- to master Bruce?" he asked finally, feeling at once very blunt and very foolish. "I-- neglected to ask."

A small grin tugged at the corner of her mouth, but when she spoke, it was solemnly. "I'm afraid I had to tell him that he wasn't old enough." She let out a small sigh. "But I wish," she said, "I might have told him 'yes.'"

Alfred found that, until she blinked, his eyes were fastened upon hers. He felt an idiot, a complete, utter-- and she blinked, and he took in a breath.

"He is a dear, isn't he?"

The gentleman found himself suddenly distant, as if he had been instantly relocated to some craggy mountaintop, and was now looking down upon this very little scene. When he spoke, his voice seemed to echo loudly. "He is all any..." and his voice drifted off, oddly.

Leslie smiled. "All any... butler could ask for?" she queried innocently.

He blinked. "Ah-- Quite, madame."

She laughed. "I wish you would come visit me at the clinic, now and then," she said. "It would be so good to have you."

"I should be delighted--" he began. "That is, the master and I should..." he stopped, and then sighed, "Oh, dear." He wondered, absently, in another little part of his mind, exactly how he had gotten out of his element so very quickly.

But Leslie only smiled again, quite as if she knew every thought marching through his well-organized mind, and slid into the driver's seat.

"Good day," he heard himself say, distantly, as the door somehow swung shut.

He stood there as it began to drizzle again, watching the little car wind its way back down the hillside, feeling yet as though he were ten thousand miles away.

Then he blinked, frowned slightly, and turned into the house, wondering what manner of foolish thoughts had apparently possessed him.

_____

Dr. Leslie pressed gently into the break at the bottom of the hill. "How long," she wondered aloud, "am I going to have to wait for that man?" Then she grinned a very patient grin, and turned the corner.


THIRTY YEARS LATER

"Leslie!" Batman's cry rang out over the rooftops, and, evidently, he was momentarily unconcerned about the impropriety of addressing her by her first name in his current guise. The man, for a scant space of time, thrust through the costume, and did not care. But there was not time to listen for a response, and he lunged, thrusting himself into the air and dropping down upon his victim like some ancient bird of prey, leather-winged and razor-toothed, to gorge itself. He did not gorge; only bound and tied, crouching as he did so, glancing about for further signs of danger. None came.

Ever cautious, he rose from his position slowly, glanced in all directions, and trotted loosely to the edge of the roof, where Dr. Leslie Thompkins was just recovering. His gloved hand grasped her arm with surprising gentleness. "Are you all right?" he asked, roughly.

Leslie looked up at her boy-- for a boy he was still, to her, even if parading around in his dress-up clothes, pretending to be frightening-- and smiled a bit wearily. "As well as can be, at my age, I suppose," she sighed, in good humor. A frail old hand reached up to tuck a stray strand of long, silvery hair back into the bun where it belonged, and then reached out for Batman's solid grasp.

He helped her up, intending to carry her, but she only smiled again, a bit amused at the thought, and allowed him to compromise with an assisting arm. "The stairs," he said, "are this way."

"Oh, thank goodness," she murmured. "I was afraid we were going to have to go down the way we came up." She paused, glancing back. "But what about--"

"I radioed the police. He won't be up for hours"

"Ah, of course."

He opened the door for her, but halfway down the narrow little stairwell she missed the sound of his footsteps, and turned. He had paused, his shoulder against the wall, shivering.

"Bruce dear--!"

He shook his head. "One moment-- I'll be fine."

She retraced her steps and felt his pulse. "Why, you're more exhausted than I am! Now, come along back to the clinic with me."

"I didn't mean--" he paused, another feverish tremor passing over his frame. "To involve you--"

"Oh, nonsense. I involved myself, and I've lived long enough to do as I please. And it's all over, in any case, no use crying over spilt milk. Now, do hurry down before you collapse and prove Alfred absolutely right."

"Right about what?" in spite of himself, Bruce winced as Dr. Leslie unwound a roll of gauze about his chest, both to stop the bleeding and to help the broken ribs. He shivered again, but this time because he was sitting on a stainless steel examination table in nothing but his underwear. It didn't seem awkward. Not with Leslie.

"And you've twisted your ankle, too, haven't you?" she accused, ignoring the question. "Well, I'm going to have to sew up that cut on your arm, first, so prepare to bite the bullet." She knew, of course, that asking if he wanted an anesthetic would be pointless, and did not, merely turning to get out the necessary equipment. Her hands went to work immediately, sparing no wasted time, and she sewed deftly, so practiced at the art that she did not even look at the wound, but examined his rather striking profile. "You might as well go ahead and say it," she prompted after a moment or two. "I can see it on your face anyway, and no one else is around."

He glanced at her, a distracted expression upon his face. Then he swallowed, and nearly smiled. "Ow," said the Dark Knight.

"There's a good boy. And you're going to need to say it again, right... now."

"*Ow,*" winced Bruce, in earnest this time.

She tied the knot and cut. "All done. Now the foot."

Bruce held out a hand, stopping her as she tried to approach. "It's fine," he rumbled.

"Bruce," she begged softly, her eyes pleading.

"Right about what?" he asked again.

Dr. Leslie paused, and then laughed, shaking her head "Boys. Just about the fact that if you didn't come to see me in the next few days, I was going to have to come looking for you, and that if I couldn't make you listen to me, you were going to end up lying face-down in some alleyway drowning in your own blood. And he was perfectly right, as always, although I am glad you chose to listen to me. You should listen to him, you know, and you might not end up here quite so often. At least not in this state." As she spoke, she knelt, and began to wrap the injured foot. "I don't know why I even bother to put this on," she chided herself. "I know it's only going to come off tomorrow night-- isn't it?" She glanced up at Bruce, who very nearly smiled.

"I thought as much," she sighed, and paused, looking at the battered limb. "You know, dear, you might try not to worry him so. The only time he calls is to warn against another immanent collapse, and he's been calling more and more lately."

Bruce stiffened slightly under her delicate hands. "It wasn't a collapse," he said. "And that was a long time ago." He wondered, after all these years, how she always seemed to come back to that point. He had learned-- it would not happen again. Unless it could not be avoided.

Leslie finished with the bandage and stood, letting her hand drift gently up to rest on his bare knee. She was a child beside him now, a pixie in the shadow of his enormous frame, the broad, rippling, powerful shoulders and arms. She looked at him, meeting his eyes for a long moment, until that stony, emotionless gaze of his melted, a little. "Sometimes, dear," she spoke softly, "I look at the pictures of you they get for the papers, so dark you can hardly see you, and I wonder-- 'what have you done with my little boy?'"

The grown man seemed to consider this, and, gently, reached out and placed his hand on top of Dr. Leslie's. "--Still here," he rumbled softly. "For you."

The good woman's sparkling eyes watered suddenly, but she only looked at him with an expression of mixed sorrow and joy.

Then he grunted, and reached to one side, pulling on the upper half of the suit in one easy motion-- until the injury caught, and he jerked slightly at the sudden pain. But he let Leslie's delicate hands help him, as they were always ready to do, and in another moment he was dressed, all save the mantle, which he never wore when they were alone together.

"I must leave," he said.

"I know." And then, without either of them knowing who had begun it first, they were hugging, Leslie as tight as she could, Bruce as gently as his powerful arms might allow. "Bruce--"

The unmasked Dark Knight set the little old woman gently on the edge of the table. Their positions were reversed now, she brought up a little more to the level of his height. "Leslie," and somehow, with her, she who had always cared for him, since that night-- not simply his welfare, but for his heart-- he never felt that he needed to hinder his words, because he knew that there was no risk in speaking to her, no danger that he or others would be hurt because of them. "Leslie," he said, lower, "I have always known that-- the path that I took was right, because if it had not been-- I would have been ashamed to look into your eyes."

Leslie's hand flew to her mouth, and she closed her eyes for a long moment. But Bruce waited, and when she looked at him again, he nodded slightly, and was gone.

"It may be right," whispered the gentle old woman, "but I still miss my little boy."

_______

"Sir, I do hope--"

"I'm fine," Bruce answered, stepping out of the batmobile and shedding his gloves. Alfred put out a hand and received the empty black shells as they collapsed limply.

"Perhaps, then, you might care to know--"

"Hey, Bruce, wassup?" called a voice so boyish it hadn't even begun to crack yet.

Bruce, like Alfred, was not in the habit of answering questions posed entirely in slang. "What are you doing here?" he queried bluntly, as Timothy Drake spun around once or twice in the big chair at the batcray.

"Just got in this morning. Dad's asleep, so I thought I'd just come down and see what was going on. Anything exci-- whoa, are you okay?" his eyes started nearly out of their sockets as Bruce pulled off the mask.

The Dark Knight reached up and felt the wounded eye "Only a black eye," he said.

"Yeah, no kidding! Sheesh, how'd you get that?"

"Clock King," he explained shortly. He began to shed the costume as he went, and young Timothy followed, gawking incredulously at the bandages.

"That? Geez, what, has he been working out?"

"Yes."

And Timothy came up short, startled as the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut in his face. "Well, uh, ...okay," he said finally, and turned to go back down. Maybe he would play a little pac-man on the computer, if Alfred promised not to tell.

____

Bruce Wayne shut himself in the library. It was not an unusual occurrence, and when the enormous mahogany doors were shut, he knew that no one in his household would dare enter without some urgent cause, and not even then before knocking. Everyone assumed that he was brooding-- it was no great secret from him that they knew-- over the enormous portrait of his parents, and most of the time that was true. Except tonight.

Tonight, or, this morning, rather, he sat down in the same chair he always did, his brow knit tightly, his fists cupped over one another, chin on top, elbows on knees, and gazed at the painting. Only this morning, it was not the two handsome, dignified parents he contemplated, but the third and typically neglected figure in the scene: himself, a boy.

Bruce did not approve of a great amount of self-examination. Like other people who assumed that he did, he thought it spoke of egoism, and if he brooded often, it was not upon the subject of himself, but the state of life in general; making things right that were wrong, rectifying the imbalance between good and evil. It was merely something he did out of a need, and he spent very little time wondering why. Mostly, it seemed obvious.

But this morning, he examined his own face, from so long ago, a face he had ceased to see in the mirror for years, although he knew, from time to time, not so long ago, he had glimpsed the boy occasionally. There was no shame in being a boy, but somehow he felt it, and the sincere little grin very nearly mocked him.

A man had to grow up, did he not? But what of that sense of wonder, of newness-- he knew, he knew, that it couldn't have gone with his parents, for he remembered days when it had returned, new and bright and whole, even if tinged with a sense of bittersweet longing.

He remembered, too, the early years of his ventures as Batman, quiet bouts of humor with both Leslie and Alfred, not expressed openly, as Alfred at least was far too reserved, and his surrogate son had, as a matter of course, adopted a rather similar attitude around Leslie... but where had it gone?

With Dick, or Jason...

Jason.

Perhaps then. Perhaps that was when the joy had ended, finally, though it had been diminishing for years.

But the question was, did it matter? His journey through life was about denial of self, the sacrifice for justice, as it demanded... did he have a right to demand such pleasure?

No.

He did not.

And he did not care what Alfred had to say.

As though the last thought had been an insight to future happenings, there was a hesitant knock upon one enormous door.

"What is it?" he snapped, knowing that it was the butler.

"The telephone, sir, it's--"

"I've got it." Without looking he reached out and snatched the receiver off the hook. "Wayne," he said.

"Oh, Bruce, thank goodness."

He blinked. "Dr. Leslie?"

Her voice was strangely thin. "Bruce-- something terrible has happened, please, come to the clinic--"

Bruce stood, knocking over the chair behind him. "I'm coming," he said, and the last word was said as the receiver hit the floor.

"Sir--?" Alfred began as he flew past.

Timothy did not see him at all, for he took the Maserati.

___

The clinic, as he approached from the back, was dark. There would be one nurse on duty inside, from the front, he knew, but typically Leslie met him in back, by the storage bins. Tonight, she was not there, and quickly he jimmied the lock and crept inside. The hall was dark, and quiet, but the door to her office hung open a few inches. He felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle slightly, and wondered briefly if he shouldn't have worn the suit.

"Leslie?" he rumbled quietly.

"In here, Bruce." The voice, wavering slightly in trepidation, came from inside the door.

Cautiously, Bruce pushed it inwards, prepared to fight, should it be a trap. But as the door swung in he saw that there was a light on inside, the small lamp in the middle of her desk. In the corner, she stood, a small, shadowed figure.

Bruce stopped in the middle of the room. "Leslie?" he asked again. "What's wrong?"

"I think-- no," she whispered. "I didn't think-- it was anything when it happened. I thought it was just dust, kicked up in the fight, but there isn't dust on rooftops, is there...?"

"Leslie," he said again, a little more firmly, "what happened?" There was grave concern in his voice.

"Bruce, dear, I--" she let out a small sigh, and stepped forward into the dim pool of light.

Bruce opened his mouth, and stopped. He backpedaled a step and felt for the light switch. And what stood before him was not the gentle grandmother he knew-- but a blushing, frightened young woman. Yet it was Leslie, he knew, remembered very well from the sepia-toned memories of childhood.

"Bruce," she whispered, "I feel so odd..."

He stepped forward, and there was a fire of anger and determination in his eyes. "I will fix it," he swore, and, gathering the tiny woman up, rushed her to the car.

_____

Bruce knew full well that it was not safe, not conducive to security, but he didn't care. If there was ever any woman in his life that he cared for as his mother, it was Leslie. She had not been his mother, no, but she had stepped into those shoes, carried the torch as faithfully as she might, so that his own memory of Martha Wayne had not died, but remained alive, burning within him. And so when his mother had gone, he had sworn that all the love that he might have given to her would now be Leslie's-- in thanks for all she had done, because he could never repay her.

And so he did not care about security, because Leslie needed help, and beyond that everything paled. He drove the Maserati into the cave and parked it behind the batmobile.

"Bruce--" Leslie objected softly, but he picked her up anyway, because there was no knowing what had happened, what pace her metabolism was running at, whether forwards or backwards, what she had inhaled and now coursed through her bloodstream, what it would do to her, if she moved too much, got her heart rate up--

Tim stood at the computer, gaping at what appeared to be Bruce Wayne coming towards him, out of costume, cradling a rather attractive young woman in his arms. An errant thought ran through a mind which had just gone blank: He's finally lost it.

Bruce ignored the boy, and went to the corner, carefully placing Leslie on the small white cot next to the medical equipment.

"Bruce--" she said again.

"Remain still," he commanded.

Timothy tried to speak, and failed. He coughed slightly. "Uh, Bruce?" he said finally, in a very small voice.

His mentor cast an errant glance over one shoulder. "It's Dr. Leslie," he explained. "Go get Alfred. I'll need him for tests."

Tim worked his mouth like a gaping goldfish for a moment or two. "Uh, yeah," he said, stumbling backwards. Leslie smiled at him, apologetically, but he turned and ran before she could speak.

____

Oddly, Alfred was waiting at the top of the stairs. "Uh," said Tim, bumping into him. "Bruce, uh..."

Alfred looked strangely pensive. "Is she well, Timothy?" he asked.

"Uh... kinda," he said, not really sure how to respond. "Depends on how you define 'well.'" He didn't question how Alfred knew that it was Leslie.

"Thank you, young sir." He stepped past Tim, composed now, down to the ground floor of the cave. "How might I be of service, master--" and he stopped, as Leslie sat, and looked at him, her long brown hair falling loosely out of the bun and about her face. "Oh my," he said, quietly.

Bruce spoke, his back to the two of them, bent over some preliminary blood tests that were already being analyzed at the computer. "Some sort of virus... not transmitted by air, which is why nothing happened to me. If it was dust, as you said, it was probably some sort of powdered culture that the virus was living off of until it could be ingested... Alfred, get out the culture case; I'm going to need to take a few specimens."

Alfred turned away from Leslie's eyes. "Of course, sir," he said. "I believe there is a more complete kit upstairs; shall I get it?"

"Yes, please." He continued to bend over the readouts, focused intently as Alfred departed and, a moment later, Timothy followed, after a small nod from a faintly smiling Leslie. He did not look up until he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and glanced back. "Leslie, please," he began. "Lie still--"

"Bruce," she said softly, "it's going to be at least eight hours before you get any results from a culture, most likely more. Whatever is happening to me is not going to be stopped by lying quietly."

"Leslie, I--" he let out a low rumble-growl, and then a sigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

She petted his dark hair, now tinged slightly with faint streaks of grey. "I know, dear. Please don't blame yourself. I'm the one who jumped into the fray"

"But if I hadn't--"

"No ifs, Bruce." She closed her eyes and kissed his forehead gently. "Now, can I help?"

He blinked and looked at the information before him, suddenly feeling a bit foolish-- he had forgotten, of course, that she was a doctor, and just as competent as he to put the facts together. "Here--" he stood, opening the chair for her as she sat down, then went to get another for himself.

A few minutes later, when Alfred returned with the kit, they were so both absorbed in discussing the details of the results that neither one noticed him at all.

_____

"So what's up?" Six hours later, Timothy had gotten a bit of sleep, and thus was in a better frame of mind to accept what had happened-- namely that the little old grandmotherly woman he knew had suddenly transformed into a young woman of twenty-something, who was actually rather attractive. It had taken him a few minutes to register that, inside, she was still little sweet Dr. Leslie, just as he knew her. Now they were sitting over milk and cookies, Alfred in the next room dusting or polishing or whatever it was he did to satisfy his obsessive-compulsive nature.

"It looks as though I've stopped..."

"De-aging?"

She smiled. "Ah, yes. For the moment, anyway. More than that, it's difficult to determine-- it's a fast-acting biological agent, but what kind, we can't tell until the cultures develop. Bruce has gone to... locate the 'Clock King' and see what else he can discover."

"So, uh..." Tim was a little bit squeamish about talking to 'sick' people about their ailments, although Leslie didn't look especially ill to him. "Are you okay? I mean..."

"Oh, I feel fine, Timothy... actually, quite wonderful. I don't wonder anyone would feel as I do, if they'd just found themselves thirty years younger. I can only hope it lasts until we can reverse the process, without any side effects."

"There are side effects?" Tim asked, a bit worriedly. He paused as he bit into his cookie, his eyes a little wide.

"I don't know-- but I've learned that nothing ever comes for free, and certainly not eternal youth."

Tim decided, as he stuffed the remainder of the cookie in his mouth, that Leslie seemed surprisingly calm and collected about her situation. He was pretty sure he would be freaking out. But then, if he de-aged by thirty years, he wouldn't even exist, and that would be a whole 'nother barrel of monkeys. "Oh," he said, and wondered if Bruce would beat up the Clock King before or after he got the information he wanted. "Well, it would be cool if there weren't any side effects."

"Wait," he said a single beat later. "Bruce went out? As Batman? During the day?"

Leslie nodded and shrugged slightly over her glass of milk.

Tim glanced out the window. "Well," he said, "at least it's raining." He supposed that would be okay.

Dr. Leslie smiled and reached across the table to pet his head briefly. "It's good to have another boy in the family," she said, and lowered her voice. "Honestly, they all get so serious when they grow up"

Tim grinned and then laughed. "Meaning there was a time when Bruce wasn't?"

"Well," admitted Leslie, "not Dick, anyway." She slid off the stool to the ground. "I should go back down and check on the cultures," she said.

"Okay," Tim agreed amiably. "I gotta do some homework. Call up if you need anything, okay?"

"I surely will, dear."

Tim thought it was kind of funny to hear words like that coming out of a woman that didn't look any more than fifteen years his senior. He watched her go and then finished his glass of milk in one gulp. Turning, he jogged out of the kitchen, and nearly ran into Alfred, a small porcelain vase in one hand and a dusting rag in the other. "Whoops, sorry," he said, passing on by.

Alfred sighed quietly and replaced the vase on the shelf.

_____

Bruce did not return until late that night, and when he came at last, he was not triumphant. In fact, he was wet, dirty, and tired, and instead of going directly to strip and shower, he merely sat down in his most often-used chair and let his head drop into his hands, smearing the cowl back wetly.

"No tea, Alfred," he rumbled, hearing faint shuffling from the stairs behind him.

"All right," replied the soft woman's voice, a moment later, as Leslie's delicate hands alighted one upon each shoulder.

Bruce turned, slightly surprised. "Where's Alfred?" he asked.

Leslie smiled and shrugged. "Actually I've no idea-- I slept all day and just now woke up. Thought I'd see if you were down here. Are you all right, dear?"

Bruce found it easier to talk to her if he didn't look at her face. It took him back, too far, into a place and time he did not want to be, right now. "I'm sorry," he said lowly.

"Bad news?" her voice was a little softer, very faint.

"Clock King had nothing to say. It was a virus, supposed to last a matter of hours. Meant for me, of course, although he wasn't bright enough to realize that being smaller doesn't mean I can't beat him. But viruses mutate. 'Didn't know,' he said. Stole it from the IPA."

"IPA?"

"It would be dangerous for you to know."

"Ah," murmured Leslie. "Of course. Couldn't you-- ask them? The IP-whatever?"

"They wouldn't know any more than we do right now. Information on the basic strain is found in any recent medical dictionary; Werner's syndrome."

"But that's a genetic defect, not a virus, and it induces premature aging, not..."

Bruce shook his head. "The IPA specializes in experimentation. Specifically, "repackaging" genetic traits into viral form..." as he spoke, he began to type, calling up a small screen at his elbow. "Oracle, still there?"

"As ever." Her face blinked onto the screen, covered in blue goop. "Dr. Leslie--" she said, a bit taken aback even though Batman had already informed her of the situation.

"You don't seem to be quite yourself either, dear," Leslie countered, in good humor.

Barbara touched her face. "Sorry. It's a facial cream Dick-- well, never mind. About the IPA, Bruce, I had no idea they were that far along in their research. Last time I heard, they were years away from any sort of breakthrough--"

"That was before Luthor 'acquired' it," Bruce rumbled.

"Right. Well, hacking now, sir. Hope you feel okay, Leslie. We'll see how fast we can get this wrapped up."

"Thank you, dear." She paused as Bruce shut down the connection and turned back to her. "Now, explain it, dear? They found a way to reverse the code, so it goes backwards instead of forwards, and packaged it as a virus?"

"No and yes. They have the technology to 'breed' viruses, but the technique is still new. Until the process is refined, anything they make is going to be a risk, with uncertain properties and a high chance of mutation. The Clock King stole something from them that was supposed to be the fountain of youth, temporarily. There's no knowing what he actually got until I can analyze this." With that, he pulled forth a small pouch, sealed.

"Is that--"

"Yes. But I will have to reconfigure my medical equipment to get an accurate analysis." He stood.

Leslie looked up at him, and saw the turmoil in his eyes. "But... you don't have the time to do that," she said, slowly. "Why?"

"Leslie--" he paused, and turned away. "The IPA has to be stopped. They are small, but they're dangerous. If the Clock King could steal this, the chances of something else getting out-- the consequences could be earth-shattering."

She understood, of course. Because what if the next virus-- or even hers-- went airborne? And what if it wasn't simply a de-aging agent, but something worse-- down's syndrome, or cancer? Who knew what kind of fire they were playing with, now that the code between viruses and genetics had been bridged? Even she recognized the enormity of the discovery, and she was not certain it was something mankind was equipped to handle. Certainly, it had the potential for enormous good, but the possibility for evil... outweighed everything else. "I know," she said softly. "Go. Find them."

But suddenly the monitor lit up, and there was Oracle, blue mask now covering only half of her face as she wiped at it with a washcloth. "Don't even bother, Bruce," she said dryly. "I just called in Clark."

A muscle in Bruce's jaw tightened, twitched. "Oracle--"

She shrugged. "Too late now. Go find a cure for Leslie." And the screen went blank.

He clenched his fists, tense.

"Bruce..."

He walked to the bank of medical equipment and began to work. After a moment Leslie turned, and retreated quietly upstairs.

Leslie found Alfred in the kitchen. She stood for a moment, watching as he hand-scrubbed the china in the sink, then carefully dried each piece before it could get water spots from the drying dishwater. He never would have a dishwasher in the house. Sometimes she thought him nearly as bad as Bruce had become, but she adored them both for their odd little traits, and it had to be agreed that Alfred's habits were, by far, the most innocuous of the two.

"Alfred," she said softly, when he had put down one dish and was reaching for another.

He turned. "Dr. Thompkins--" he said, slightly startled.

She gave a little sigh-laugh. "Oh Alfred, how many times do I have to ask? Two months and we're back where we started thirty five years ago."

Alfred paused, then glanced down as he dried his hands on the dishtowel. "I do apologize, Leslie," he said. "But one can never be certain--"

She smiled at the thought that popped immediately into her mind. "I'm always sure of you," she countered, teasing.

Alfred looked slightly uneasy. "Perhaps," he admitted, "with good cause."

"Alfred, I'm worried about Bruce."

"Aren't we always?"

Leslie gave a small half-smile at his attempted humor "I mean-- about me, Alfred. If something should happen, I'm afraid of what he might do."

The old gentleman pressed his lips together thoughtfully, and turned away to place the dishtowel on the small bar meant especially for that purpose. Then he threaded his fingers together, and looked down at them very carefully. "He will blame himself, of course," he said quietly. "As he did with Jason. ...Am I to conclude that, in fact--"

"Oh--!" Leslie spoke quickly, realizing immediately what he meant. "No, no, I'm quite stable. Please, don't worry. I just want to make certain, that if-- if it does happen... please, try to make him understand. --That I chose it."

Alfred straightened the cloth on the table. "Perhaps you might tell him yourself," he suggested meekly.

She watched his careful hands. "Yes," she said. "You're right. But after--" she paused. "We both know that Bruce has a tendency to forget things like that, or at least ignore them. He will need someone to remind him. Every day."

"Of course. I shall do my best."

"Thank you, Alfred. You always were the best of friends."

He paused briefly, in the midst of removing a bowl of fresh peas from the top shelf of the pantry, and turned, looking at her directly for the first time since she had come in. "Thank you-- Leslie," he said. Something inside of him leapt at the sight of her-- Leslie, thirty years younger, just as she had been when they had first crossed paths, dearly beloved friends of two dearly beloved people, and later, their chief mourners. He remembered well, but this sudden apparition, like a ghost of the past, stirred the memories freshly again to his senses, and, like dust billowing out of a long-abandoned volume, it nearly overwhelmed. The memories of all that had happened, then, that he had put away, and Leslie...

Between them, there was an awkward silence. Alfred turned back to the peas.

"I suppose," Leslie said after a minute, "I'll go down and talk to him now."

"I wish you well, Dr.," he said, belatedly, as she was halfway out the door.

______

When her foot touched the bottom stair down to the cave, Bruce turned with such an expression of mixed dismay and confusion that she had to laugh, for she had not seen such a face on her boy since childhood-- at least, not openly. "What is it, dear?" she asked kindly, approaching the place where he knelt on the floor by a select group of sensitive instruments.

He shook his head and turned his eyes away as she put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tense muscle beneath. Something within him was broiling, not quite to his satisfaction, and it confused him terribly, for if he could identify the cause, the separate workings of it were not made clear to him. He was, in short, enduring a state of turmoil.

"Bruce dear, what's the matter?" she prompted again, kneeling beside him. A readout sheet hung limply from one hand, and she took it gently, glancing at the results.

Before she could read more than a few words, Bruce's hands came up and clasped her own, gently, crumpling the paper beneath them. "Leslie," he said, meeting her eyes directly. It was not something that he did often, but when he did, his gaze was always intense, brooding. "Leslie," he whispered quietly, intently, "there-- are some people who are meant to be adults from the moment they are born, and some people-- should have been children for eternity."

She frowned slightly and shook her head a little, never faltering from his eyes. "What are you saying, Bruce?"

He grasped the paper from her hands, and smoothed it out, carefully, upon his knee. "It won't hurt you, Leslie," he rumbled. "You're-- fine, the way you are."

Leslie's heart skipped a beat. She had not even considered, not begun to consider, or allow herself to, the possibility that it would be permanent. She was an old woman, and could not let herself be beguiled by the fancies of youth. Nor had she been in danger of such; she was happy with her life, and accepted the wrinkles as marks of honor, the natural and pleasant consequence of her years of joy. But now, to be young, to feel it again, the life throbbing through her veins as it had not for three decades-- she had cautioned herself, for she knew that it could not last, and to give herself over to such vain little things would be foolish.

And yet here Bruce sat before her, palms spread, telling her that she, indeed, was young again.

Strangely, she was frightened.

"I-- don't know," she said, cautiously. "Do I have a choice?"

Bruce was solemn. "I might be able to synthesize an antidote. Leslie-- if you're cured, you won't be able to go back again."

"But--" her voice fell, softly, as it all ran through her mind, again and again, making very little sense at all, it seemed. "My life-- thirty years-- I can't simply go back..."

"No, you won't." Bruce took her shoulders, firmly, and met her eyes again. "You're still you-- all of your knowledge, your wisdom. Think of it-- thirty more years, Leslie, to work at the clinic, to help children, to help--" he stopped, suddenly.

Leslie drew in a short, soft breath. What he said made sense, tugged at her heart, her mind-- but there was something there, suddenly, in his eyes, that even he did not recognize fully. It had surfaced, for a single moment, amidst the horrible turmoil that raged within him, at all hours, and she had seen it. "Bruce--" she began.

But his hands dropped from her shoulders as if burned, and he rose, and was suddenly gone.

"Bruce--" she said again.

_____

Leslie fled to the guest room, the one specifically reserved for her, whenever she came, which was very rarely indeed. But when she opened the door, Alfred was there, changing the sheets. He looked up as she entered, and saw the look in her eyes.

"Excuse me," he pardoned himself quickly. "I shall--"

But she shook her head. "No-- Alfred, stay, please."

"Are you certain...?"

She let herself drop to the bed. "Oh, Alfred," she sighed, "I've never been in such a puzzle before in my life. You're always such a rock-- I know if anyone can help me, it's you."

"Well, I shall certainly do my best to try," he consented, letting himself drift into the overstuffed chair by the window.

Leslie let out a long breath. "I-- I don't know what to do, Alfred."

"That sounds quite unlike the Leslie I know-- if I may," he returned mildly.

"Well," said Leslie, with an uneasy laugh, "I'm sure I've never quite been in this situation before"

"Ah, point taken. What, exactly, if one may inquire, is your situation, presently?"

"Oh--" she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm just so confused-- Alfred-- Bruce says that I-- I can stay this way."

There was silence from the corner by the window.

"Alfred?"

The old butler looked out the window. "As you are, you say?" he asked, quietly.

Leslie pressed her lips together. "Yes. What-- what would you say?"

He was quiet for another moment. "I would say, Dr," he said finally, slowly, "that you have not one reason in the world to refuse the chance fate has presented you."

"...None?" she queried softly.

"None."

____

Bruce broke into the light somewhere three miles distant of the manor. He had strode into the darkness, and had not stopped since then, though he had been forced to climb and claw his way in virtual darkness, among things that fluttered and writhed in the dark. It felt right to him, satisfying. There was a kind of anger in his heart, deep within, that he could identify no cause for, and it felt right to struggle in the depths of the earth, as if against the silent fury.

He did not understand it, and he knew that it was the old anger, of childhood, that only came when he looked at her, in those eyes, bright and shining, and that lovely young face, beautiful and round as his mother's had been, and for some horrible, awful reason, it burned inside of him like fire.

So he fought it, desperately, until at last he met the end, and clawed and dug, up and up and up, until the earth broke in his hands and he lay, gasping in the sun.

"I--" he breathed, "don't-- understand." For he did not-- did not understand why he felt the need, now, that he had not felt in years, that strange burning hunger that only dissolved in exhaustion and pain.

Slowly, at length, he pushed himself up, and held out his hands, bloody and torn. What, he wondered, will Leslie think?

Then he heard soft footsteps behind himself, and did not turn. They stopped.

"When--" the first word was soft, but it broke the silence like a shatter of glass, and so she paused, waiting until it had dissipated, the ripples smoothed. "When you said," she whispered, "that some people are meant to be adults from the moment they are born-- who did you mean, Bruce?"

He shook his head, and did not look back. "It doesn't matter. You're the one who has a choice to make."

"I think it matters."

He ground a fist into the dirt. "It doesn't."

"Then why did you say it?"

"I--" he let out a breath of frustration, and pounded the fist. The hatred welled up within him again, strangely, and he hated himself for feeling it. It was not anger towards her, towards Leslie, but for something else. Something he knew, from always. That life-- life was unfair. And he hated it. "I don't know," he lied.

She had moved closer, without his knowing it, and put a hand upon his head.

"Do you remember, Bruce," she spoke quietly, "one day long ago, when I came over to play, and you climbed the tree by the stable, and we played soldiers in the library-- and at the end of the day, when I tucked you in bed, you asked--"

"Yes!" growled Bruce, cutting her off. He rose to his feet and turned, and enormous black shadow looming over the tiny young woman. "Of course I remember!"

And it wasn't fair, because he remembered the smile in her eyes, the laughter that had been there, very, oh, so very clearly-- because he had meant it, every word, and her words had struck him to the heart. "I'm too old," she had said, and it was not fair.

He turned his back upon her.

Because now, now she could not give him such kind excuse, and for all their lives they had lived as son and grandmother, never right, never as he wanted, and how could you get rid of that? He had forgotten so long, because he knew, in his conscious mind, that things were not so, could not be, and should not be-- but now, but now...

"I wanted to say yes," she said, quietly.

Bruce stood, for a moment, his back yet to her, his great, broad shoulders trembling, wondering if he had heard the words only in his mind. And then, suddenly, he knew they had been spoken, and he turned, sweeping her up into his arms--

"Bruce-- Bruce--"

He put her down, quickly, carefully, worry suddenly clouding his eyes, that he had done something foolish, terribly foolish--

She looked up at him, fondly. "Be gentle," she said. "Please. And slow--"

"Yes," he promised. "Of course, yes." And he knelt, carefully, and took her hand in his. "My dear-- Leslie--" he looked up. "--May I?"

For a moment, in her eyes, something seemed to be warring-- a gentle, hesitant question, between a memory, a thought, and now... for a moment, she was undecided. And then, she closed her eyes briefly, sweetly, and nodded.

Bruce Wayne bent his head, and pressed his lips softly against her hand. "I love you," he whispered.

"And I you."

He rose, in a single fluid motion, and stood awkwardly before her, a moment. "May I," he asked hesitantly, "hold your hand back to the Manor?"

She smiled a ladylike smile. "Of course."

They walked, rustling through the fallen leaves, until Bruce spoke.

"I-- don't feel like an adult, especially," he said.

Leslie smiled, and felt her heart beat young and fast again. "Good," she whispered.

And dusk was falling, and Bruce Wayne escorted her quietly to her room.

______

Bruce woke, as usual, to the hushed noises of Alfred making the day's preparations in his quarters: bringing in breakfast, laying out his clothes, setting out his daily planner and the paper, and, this time of year, stoking the glowing embers cradled in the ashes of the fireplace.

He stretched a little and then sat up to see what this morning's fare might be. He picked up the paper, reached for a glass of orange juice, and stopped.

"Alfred," he said, "what are you doing in here?"

"Sir?" Alfred queried. He did not recall any specific orders to leave the master alone, and he had been performing this same basic routine for more years than even he could count offhand.

"It's nine o'clock. Have you even been in Leslie's room?"

Alfred cleared his throat slightly as he emerged from the walk-in, a pair of brown loafers in hand. "Ah, no, sir. I was not aware that she--"

Bruce seemed inordinately shocked. "She's over there with no-- Alfred, take this breakfast tray over there this moment."

The elderly butler hurried to do his master's bidding, but was stopped before he could put his hands on the aforementioned tray.

"Wait," Bruce countered himself. "A piece of paper--"

Alfred retrieved a small yellow note pad from one inside pocket and a pen from the other.

That, however, did not seem to satisfy. "No, no," muttered Bruce. "Not that. Those little pink ones you always use for my..."

"Ah, of course." Alfred went to the desk and got out a small box of cards, pink with purple and yellow pansies on the front.

Bruce took one. "That's the one," he said, also taking the earlier proffered pen. Then he sat, pen in hand, suddenly lost in thought. His dark eyes bored through the card, as though somehow the lasers in his eyes might etch the words his heart had meant to say. "Ah," he said finally, at last, and scribbled hastily. Then he closed it, and slipped it partially under the as-yet-untouched napkin. "Okay, take it," he said.

Alfred bowed slightly. "Of course, sir."

______

Leslie was just stepping out of the shower when there came a soft knock on the door. "So soon?" she whispered, wrapping herself in a large white bathrobe she had found (among other things) in the closet. She went, hair dripping darkly down her back, and cracked the door slightly.

To her mild surprise, it was not Bruce, as she had expected, but his senior counterpart, the ever-distinguished Alfred. "Oh-- good morning," she said amiably, opening the door to let him in.

"If I've disturbed you--"

"Oh, no, please, I'll just dress in the bathroom. Come in. Is that breakfast?"

"Yes-- master Bruce wished me to deliver it with his compliments."

"Well, thank you very much. Set it on the table there-- I'll be right out." And with that, she whisked herself into the bathroom to dress. When she came out, Alfred was waiting politely by the door.

"If there isn't anything else--" he began.

She smiled brightly at him in the morning sunshine, sitting down on the bed next to the breakfast table and poking at the offered items. "No, please, why don't you sit down for a minute or two? I always do enjoy talking with you."

"Of course, Leslie. You appear in rather-- better spirits than that of yesterday. I trust all is well?"

"Yes, thank you-- I think so, anyway." She picked up the napkin to spread over her lap, and the little note tucked inside fluttered to the ground. She bent and retrieved it, a small, puzzled expression lighting her face, and flipped it open.

"'I do not know what I may appear to the world,'" it read in small, neat handwriting, "'but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing at the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.' --None has made fairer waves than you, Leslie. --Bruce."

Alfred saw the flush come to her face, like a pretty pink rose, saw her bite her lip gently to keep the smile from turning into a grin.

"If there's nothing else, Dr., I am afraid I have duties to attend..." he excused himself politely.

"What?" Leslie looked up a moment later, absently, and found that the old gentleman had gone. "Oh-- yes," she whispered. "Yes, of course..."

------

"Hey, Alfred. Alfred!" Timothy slid down the bannister, knowing it was the closest thing he could do to giving the old man a heart attack without actually doing any permanent damage. "Alfred, how about some chess?"

It was rainy, he was bored, and it was a Saturday Even chess with a finicky Alfred sounded good to him. The old man always would insist that knights didn't move like rooks.

"Perhaps another time, dear Timothy," he returned primly, continuing down the hall without a second glance at the probably fatally damaged bannister. "I've business to tend."

Timothy stopped, a little stunned. That hadn't worked out at all as he had planned, and when the well laid schemes of mice and boys did not work out, some investigating certainly needed to be done. He followed Alfred.

"Oh yeah?" he queried. "Like what?"

"If you will excuse me, young sir-- a bit of personal business."

Timothy pretended not to take the hint. "Oh yeah? Can I help?" Together, they stopped outside of Alfred's bedroom door.

"I am afraid, sir, that you cannot. Now if you please--"

Timothy saw that he was not going to get inside that room while Alfred could help it. So he shrugged and feigned nonchalance. "Okay, well, see you later then."

"Indeed, young sir." And with that, Alfred disappeared within.

As soon as the door closed, although he had been walking the other way, Timothy turned and tiptoed back to the door. He put his hand on the knob-- and from inside, the lock clicked. He snapped in frustration and walked away.

But he was not long. Now typically, Timothy was not the sort to pry. He had learned, in his time at Wayne Manor, that when secrets were kept, it was for a reason, and finding out about those secrets was very much looked down upon. More often than not, it also got him into quite a bit of trouble. But today, the tendency to pry was beyond his powers to keep in check. Not only was he royally bored, but Alfred's oversight of the bannister-sliding was absolutely unforgivable. Obviously, something was on the old gentleman's mind that he did not want to speak about-- but Timothy would find out. Indeed he would.

So when he returned, on feet as quiet as a cat's, he bore with him a small lock picking device he usually kept handy. He did not immediately let himself in; Alfred, he knew, would still be suspicious, and perhaps leave whatever 'business' it was for some small time later-- just in case Timothy was planning exactly what, indeed, he was. So he waited, cautiously, listening at the door to the small rustling sounds within, carefully poised, should the sudden need arise to take flight. It sounded as though Alfred went to the far wall, and removed something heavy, like a large book from a shelf. Then there was a faint creak, and he knew the old man was sitting down upon the edge of the bed. There were no chairs in Alfred's room; his quarters were so tiny as to be labeled a closet, save for the adjoining bathroom, and to hear him tell it, he preferred it that way. As it was, he was not often in his room, in any case. And whatever the reason, to Timothy's knowledge Bruce had never offered to upgrade the old man's q
uarters, and Alfred had never complained.

There were a couple more creaks, as the old gentleman shifted, finding a comfortable position, perhaps, or crossing his legs. Yes... crossing his legs. That would make it rather difficult for him to hide whatever it was he was up to in a hurry.

With lightning fingers, he slid the pick in the latch. It was a simple mechanism, a matter of seconds. He slipped through the door and flew across the room, to where Alfred sat on the bed. To one side was set an old scrapbook, enormous in size, and in his hand Alfred held a small newspaper clipping he had evidently just removed from therein.

Before the old butler could react, Timothy snatched the clipping from his fingers, holding it high and triumphant. "Ah-ha--!" he began to declare, and then stopped, frowning at the yellowed old print. It was an article, dated thirty years previous. "Inner-City Doctor Saves Lives," the headline read. And the picture underneath, faded black and white, was Leslie.

"Oh," said Tim.

Alfred occupied himself a moment with turning back the pages in the scrapbook that had been riffled in the wind of Timothy's entrance, until the blank page fell open. "Now, Master Timothy," he said quietly, looking frankly at the boy, "if your curiosity has been satisfied, perhaps you will do me the justice of returning my property."

Timothy bit his lower lip, somewhat ashamed as he returned the delicate slip of paper. "Sorry," he mumbled apologetically.

Alfred did not look at the boy as he slipped the article carefully away, and closed the book upon it. "We always are, afterward," he noted, almost sadly.

The boy opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then decided better. "I--" he pointed to the door. Alfred nodded, and he shuffled to it, opening it with a heavy hand upon the knob. He stepped forward, and then paused. He turned. "You love her?" he asked. "All this time?"

Alfred shook his head gently. "It matters not, my boy," he said quietly.

And then Timothy looked angry. "Stupid," he said, almost like a curse. "Stupid, just like Bruce."

"Perhaps," Alfred admitted softly.

"Then why don't you just--" he clenched a fist and growled in frustration, a small, boyish, bear-cub growl.

The old butler was moved to a faint, sad smile. "I am afraid, my boy, it is too late. When we do not act-- others often seize the opportunity, and rightly so."

Timothy let his fingers drop from the knob and took another step back into the room. "What are you saying?" he asked, puzzled.

"What I mean, dear boy, is that Leslie has been given a gift that none of us dare to wish for-- youth restored. And she has fallen in love, with--"

Timothy retraced his step, backward this time. "No," he said, his eyes wide. "No *way.*"

"It is not so very unnatural--"

He shook his head. "No. Okay, that is just weird. I mean--"

"Even I, Timothy," Alfred went on placidly, "must admit that they are well suited to one another. Had the obvious barrier in their relationship not existed from the start, I have no doubts that they would have quickly fallen in love. I nearly-- I nearly wish it had been possible, for then, perhaps, the master might have been persuaded to abandon his reckless crusade.."

Timothy looked down at the old man for a moment, studied him in his calm composure, and saw, somehow, the underlying grief as years of quiet fancies and self-doubts came to a sudden halt. He sat down on the bed next to him, slowly, and studied his feet for a moment. "So... you're just going to give up?" he asked in a small voice, glancing up briefly at the dignified old visage.

The heavily-lidded eyes turned down upon the boy, a child whom he had come, in the short months he had been at Wayne Manor, to love so very dearly. In a way, it soothed the loss. "Life," he told the boy, "offers us many opportunities, and many disappointments There is little use in destroying future opportunities simply in order to fight against that which may not be changed. We must continue onward, and trust that time will soothe the ache."

Timothy examined his shoes some more. Then, without looking at the old gentleman, he slipped his own hand into the long, parchment-paper, piano-player fingers of his friend. "Yeah," he whispered. "I know what you mean." And his thoughts went to his mother.

Alfred, in a move very uncharacteristic of him, put an arm gently about the boy, and held him close for a short while. After a minute or two, Timothy glanced up.

"I won't-- say anything," he said. "To either of them."

Alfred blinked quickly, and then looked down. "Thank you, dear boy," was his grateful reply.

------

Bruce could never quite say, looking back, what came over him in those days following Leslie's decision to remain young and beautiful. It was as though suddenly everything in his world had been set to rights-- the wrongness that he felt, deep down within him, had been corrected, or at least the balance set to rights. It was a need that had been filled, a need that somehow he had never been able to articulate, because previously it would not have been thinkable-- and yet, now that it had happened, he understood it perfectly; it seemed so very obvious. He was lightened, and felt it in his heart.

But he was not consumed by her; he felt, somehow, that he should be, but he was not. It was as though the need in him, the hunger to be consumed, had dissipated somehow, blown quietly away and replaced with a calm, solemn sense of want. He still roamed the night streets, still fought-- but the violence, the evil, did not bother him, in the pit of his stomach, as it once had. There was something, he knew, to counter it, and that made all the difference.

Nor did Leslie retire from her daily vigils at the clinic; he fixed it, the questions-- no matter how. He had made up something, and they had believed it, and Leslie returned to life as it had been.

They were, it seemed, who they were meant to be, and because they had the practice of years neither desired the other to be anything but what they had been intended... for it was life. But by day, he stopped by, to bring her a single rose, and, at length, kiss her gently upon the cheek in parting.

By night she waited, and when he returned, tended his wounds, soothed the fire that burned in his eyes.

As always, he did not listen to her warnings.

But sometimes he did.

Timothy noticed the difference immediately. His mentor's skill lapsed not one bit, not one moment was he any less alert than he had been before, but the evidence was plain, shown easily by the smallest incident.

They had been on lookout, and he had seen something.

"Boss--" he had whispered.

Batman had glanced down at him. "What is it, son?" he'd asked.

Timothy had just stared at him a moment. Four words, a most unassuming comment-- and yet it said it all Because Timothy had never, never been addressed so mildly, with such-- amiability. What he expected, what he had become used to, was a short, terse comment, almost irritated, as though his presence were merely being tolerated. Dick, he thought, could remember far back, when it had not been that way. But then Jason had-- and-- for him, Timothy, things had never been that way.

He thought that maybe it wasn't so weird, after all.

And Bruce and Leslie's romance was a gentle one, slow and graceful, like a delicate waltz, hardly like anything Timothy was used to. Nothing intense, but merely quiet gestures, a touch, now and then, of an arm or hand, and a quiet word. But when Leslie was around, Timothy knew, as it was obvious-- that Bruce loved her with all his heart.

And he did.

The only ripple in smooth waters was that Leslie asked him to make the antidote. "Just-- in case," she'd said, quietly.

Some evenings, she came to the manor, where he entertained her with thoughtful walks or drinks upon the balcony. One night, they wandered through the ballroom.

"You play, don't you?" she asked, gesturing to the piano.

Bruce winced slightly, remembering many furious contests with Alfred over the keyboard; he had refused, knowing it was useless, and eventually, somehow, learned anyway. "Not for a long time," he admitted.

She smiled. "I remember your quarrels. But you were a bright boy. Play something."

Slowly, Bruce let himself down upon the bench, which creaked uneasily at his substantial weight. Only Alfred played the grand old black anymore, and he massed not even half that of his master's bulk. The billionaire let his fingers drift across the keys, and slowly, the melodies came back, released at his bidding from the spiderweb-snare that was his mind. It was Rachmaninoff. He pounded, he thrummed, he let his fingers pace, up and down--

"No," said Leslie quietly, her gentle voice breaking through the thunder.

He stopped, and the music faded.

She touched his hair with delicate fingers. "Brahms, please," and he saw her smile in the black reflection.

He played, slowly at first, the lilting, lulling melody rising and cascading with waterfall grace. She sat beside him, and leant her head upon his shoulder, closing her eyes and listening through the vibrations in his arm.

Then he was playing with only one hand, half the melody, and with the other he brushed her hair gently, clasped her hand in his, making it disappear. "Dance with me," he said.

"But-- there will be no music."

"Alfred plays better than I do."

She smiled, and they sought out the old man, who was mending a pair of socks-- Lord only knew why-- by dim lamplight. They petitioned, and he, quietly, agreed, following them as they flew back to the floor.

He sat down on the bench, carefully, and moved it back in a little. His long, bony fingers worked soundlessly over the keyboard for a moment. "What shall I play, sir?" he asked, politely.

"A waltz," Bruce answered, looking only down into Leslie's eyes. "Doesn't matter which one."

She smiled up as he took her hands and arms, and then, quite naturally, stepped up onto his toes. "I don't know how," she explained.

That brought a faint smile of amusement to the-- now-- older man's lips. "It's easy," he assured, and took off as the music began. It was a slower waltz, for her to learn by, he assumed, and thus a somewhat melancholy one. It brought out the bittersweet within him. "Why didn't we ever do this before?" he asked. He had never in his life liked dancing so well as now. In fact, he had never liked it at all He could not remember liking much of anything, in fact...

She flushed slightly, in the dim evening light, the sunset glowing embers through the western windows. "Because I was an old woman, and..."

But she stopped, for he gave her a look that seemed to say, "And why should that have mattered?"

"My darling boy," she said. "I always did adore you. It seems strange, now, to call you that--"

"Not so strange," said Bruce.

"Do you think it's fate?"

"I never knew if I believed in fate. Never knew if I could, because..." his voice, low and solemn, drifted away as he met her eyes again. Because if he had believed in it, it would have meant that it was against him, and all was futile... Then his gaze lost focus, and he was looking beyond her, into another time. "I wonder if it really can be..."

Leslie smiled, and disengaged her lead arm to brush his face. "Sometimes, Bruce, it does end 'happily ever after.'"

"But I don't believe that--" the words came out, the natural, old response. He felt suddenly very young, very foolish.

The smile turned into a teasing grin. "I'll make you, Bruce Wayne. I will."

He swallowed. "Leslie, may I--"

Then, suddenly, the music faltered. They both looked at Alfred, a little startled. "I'm sorry, Master Bruce-- a slip--"

"Well," prompted the billionaire amiably, "go on, then."

Alfred nodded curtly and began anew.

"Don't be cross," whispered Leslie.

"I'm not," he said. "That would be very hard, right now. --Even for me." He smiled faintly to show that it was in jest.

"Bruce--"

He looked down, attentive.

"Bruce," she said again, whispering fervently, "I love more than anything in the world to see you this way."

His eyebrow quirked a questioning glance.

"Happy, Bruce. None of us ever quite knew how to make you happy."

The music swelled, and he swept her suddenly up. "Easy," he boomed. "Very--" he stopped, and whispered "Very easy."

And the chord struck wrong.

This time, when he glanced at the old butler, Bruce was slightly 'cross,' as Leslie put it.

"I am sorry, sir, I just-- it's only-- excuse me sir. Excuse me." And with that, the old man was gone.

Slowly, Bruce let Leslie back down to the ground. They both looked after their old friend, startled to have seen him so shaken. Then they looked at one another.

"Bruce--" Leslie pulled away, and started after her dear friend, upset that anything should trouble him-- but her companion caught her arm easily, and pulled her back.

"Let him go," he said. "...Let him go."

"But..."

------

When Leslie had departed for the evening, declining a late supper, Bruce strode immediately to the library, where he knew he would find Alfred. "Old friend--" he said, and the door banged open behind him.

Alfred was up on the bookshelf ladder, in the process of straightening and dusting the bookshelves. He did not turn, but continued calmly, his back to the master.

Bruce turned and shut the door, more quietly. "Old friend," he said again, his voice softer this time. "Old friend, I didn't know..."

"It is quite all right, sir," Alfred said curtly, keeping his back carefully to the master as he removed a copy of Rostand's Cyrano and turned it right-side-up. "Quite all right."

The younger man began to pace, his brow furrowing darkly. "Alfred, no-- no, it's not. I didn't know-- dear God, I didn't even think--"

Alfred stepped down, once, twice, three times, and stood upon the floor. Before turning, he looked down at himself and brushed off the scant traces of powdery white dust with a few short movements. Then he faced Bruce, entirely composed. "Sir," he said. "Please. Accept my apologies. I shan't intrude--"

"Dammit, Alfred!" Bruce nearly shouted. He stopped and turned to the old man. "Alfred, I can't do this to you." There was a fire of desperation in his eyes. He could not-- could not live with himself if he allowed himself to do something so selfish, so incredibly narcissistic as to leave his oldest, dearest friend-- "No," he said. But the fire was still there, because with equal desperation, need, desire-- "I love her," he whispered. "God help me, Alfred, I--" his voice broke off into nothingness.

"Then love her," the old man said quietly, his voice gentle, settled.

"It's out of the question. No. I-- I couldn't live with myself."

"Sir--" Alfred began, his voice maintaining an even, steady tone. It was the voice he had used on Bruce since he was a boy, when he wanted to calm him, make him know that everything was all right. "Sir, there are things which one wishes, and there are realities. The reality is that Dr. Thompson does not love me. Even if she should, the thought of it at this point would be absurd. You are suited. Take the chance that I passed over-- that has rightly fallen to you"

"But Alfred--" the fire was gone, and only pain remained. He was pleading with his friend, searching in his mind for some way to make it right, so that everyone might be satisfied, or at least everyone save him. "Alfred..."

But the old man stepped forward, and placed one careful hand upon his master's shoulder. With the other, he took right hand in right, as though preparing to swear an oath. He spoke slowly, and at last, a faint mist, barely discernible, came into his milky old eyes. "You have my blessing, sir. Only--" his voice, at last, caught-- but went on. "Only love her as I always feared to do." He met his master's eyes, firmly. "Promise me this."

Bruce looked down at the hand, old and wrinkled like parchment. Then he looked back at the eyes, earnest and undeceptive. "I will," he whispered.

Alfred released his hand, removed the other from his shoulder. "Very well," he said. "I believe I have a bit more dusting to do." And with that, he proceeded to mount the ladder again.

The young billionaire stayed a moment, at the base, looking up at his childhood nanny, his closest advisor and confidant. He nearly turned to go, but halted and looked back. "Alfred--" he said. "You'll-- be all right?"

The old man twisted to look down upon his surrogate son. "It may, perhaps, require a bit of time--" and here he smiled, not quite sadly, though not quite in joy, either. "But yes. Indeed I shall."

-----

Timothy was waiting outside the library doors when Bruce emerged, slowly. The older man was deeply in thought, and did not seem to see the boy until he nearly ran into him.
"Bruce?" he said expectantly, looking up with rather large eyes.

The Dark Knight looked down. The boy was so small; he wasn't as young as he appeared, he knew, but yet he was constantly forced to correct himself when thinking of 'the child.' "What is it?" he asked.

The boy winced uneasily and gestured to the doors. "Can I-- I mean--" he flushed slightly, unable to quite get the question out.

Bruce looked away, down the hall, and sighed imperceptibly. "Go on, son," he said, and seemed almost, for a moment, to be about to reach out, and muss the boy's hair. "Keep him company." He started to continue on.

"Bruce?"

He turned again, at the hopeful little voice, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Are we going out tonight?"

He nodded once. "Yes. Later." Then he was gone.

______

In the morning Batman landed with a subdued "whump" in the shadow behind the dumpster, down from the roof as Leslie was walking the short path from her car to the back entrance.

"Oh," she said, in the still early morning. "Robin--?"

"I sent him home at three. Falling asleep."

"He is a boy."

As he followed her stealthily inside, Batman's silence seemed momentarily to object, to offer a counter, an excuse. But-- "Yes," he admitted finally. "He is."

"And boys need sleep. Growing time." She smiled as she stowed her purse away in the little locker provided.

"...Yes."

Leslie turned, and found that Bruce had removed the mask. At this hour, the sun not yet up, there was no one at the clinic to see. And should anyone happen to be about anyway, they were inside, and Bruce would surely hear them coming long before they arrived. "Bruce, was Alfred all right? He seemed so..."

"Said something he ate didn't agree with him. Went to bed early." It was the answer they had decided upon, earlier that night when Alfred had found him in the cave, dressing down. Bruce didn't like to lie He hated it.

"But she mustn't know," Alfred had said, quietly, almost timid. Then he had seen Bruce prepare to object, that it wasn't fair to Leslie-- "It isn't fair to her to say anything at all," Alfred had returned. "She'd feel guilty, terribly so, and it needn't burden her. Beyond that, it is true sir-- I have ingested something rather foul today, and I believe I shall retire as soon as you depart."

But he still didn't like it.

And Leslie could tell. "Are you sure?" she asked, her eyes gently questioning.

Batman's gloved hand clenched, and Bruce Wayne's face looked away for a moment. "Yes," he said finally, meeting her gaze.

She nodded, somehow understanding and not understanding in the same moment. "All right."

From somewhere, nowhere, everywhere, Batman/Bruce Wayne produced a rose, just beginning to open, a soft pink. "Forgive us our secrets," he said. "We lead odd and-- lonely lives."

She put a hand to her face, surprised, as always, to find it smooth and silky, the wrinkles and blemishes of age gone like so many ripples in the sand. "Of course," she said. "Now-- what have you got for me to bandage this time?"

"Nothing."

Her eyebrows went up, and the light went on, exposing his visage to the scrutiny of day. "Nothing?" she echoed, making it a question.

Bruce Wayne nearly smiled, and then he did not. "Well--" he said.

"Aha, I knew it. You can't help yourself. Arm? Leg?"

He looked at the ground and felt very small and not a little foolish. "Heart," he said quietly.

Leslie looked at him. "Ah," she sighed at last. "Now that-- is a wound I have been working on for years."

"I know."

She caught his arm and pulled off the glove, so that she might hold his bare hand. "You've got to stop tearing it open again," she told him quietly.

His eyes found hers, for a flickering moment. "How?"

She needed no time for consideration-- she had known the answer for years, and had merely awaited the moment at which he would hear her. "Take life as it is-- with its flaws-- and move on."

He looked at the glove as she handed it back, pressed it to his palm. "Do you want me to stop--?"

"No-- no. Stop hurting yourself, Bruce. Perhaps-- that-- will come later, perhaps not. Helpful actions are rarely harmful in themselves-- what matters is the spirit in which they are performed."

Bruce seemed about to say something, and then he stopped, listening.

"What is it?"

The mask was back on. "Dianne Salgada," he said.

"Oh-- that's right. She needed to finish some paperwork. I'm sorry, I completely forgot--"

He clasped her hand, quickly. He could hear the other woman's footsteps, coming down the hall-- "Come," he said. "Please. Tonight."

"Of course--"

"I'll pick you up."

And then he was gone.

_____

"I dunno, Babs, it doesn't seem..."

"Aw, come on. Just do it. I promise it'll be good."

Timothy Drake frowned thoughtfully, trying to read anything, anything at all, into Barbara's grinning face. She was obviously playing around with something at home, because on the screen her hair shimmered in dim 'moonlight' and her eyes sparkled like they only did in movies. Plus behind her swam a couple of nasty-looking sharks. After a minute her hair began to float, as though she were under water. Timothy hated it when she fooled with the special effects. It was creepy. But at this particular moment, he was wondering if there were some sort of symbolism involved with the sharks. "I don't know," he said again. "I don't think even this computer has that kind of power, let alone the capabilities--"

"Look, don't you think I know? I rewired it myself. Honestly, if you're trying to get into the Pentagon, you've got to route around the main security tables in your own system first."

"Well--"

"Go on, it's really cool. Trust me."

Timothy bit his lip. "All right. But if you're lying, I'm going to--"

"I'm not!" she protested. "Honest!" Behind her, the sharks devoured a helpless sunfish. From somewhere below, she produced a mermaid's tail.

"Okay. Fine. Here it goes." Timothy tried the combination. Control, tab, F12.

And the fire sprinklers came on.

Somewhere on the other side of town, Barbara Gordon, otherwise known as the infamous Oracle, shrieked with laughter. "Got you!" she crowed. "I can't believe you fell for that one!"

Timothy glared at her from behind a slick of sopping wet black hair that was steadily getting wetter as the ceiling rained down in the Batcave. "You. Are. So. Dead," he growled.

Still laughing, Barbara scarcely heard him.

Timothy waited, fuming, until her giggles died down a little. "Mind telling me how to shut this thing off before the whole place floods?"

"Huh? Oh--" she broke down into little choking gasps of laughter again. "Sure, sure. Over on the wall-- the manual. Behind you to the left."
Timothy got up, shoved the chair back, and stomped over to the wall. He fumbled for a minute, and then the rain sputtered and died. He stormed back to the console, still dripping. "I hate you," he said, quite calmly.

Oracle bit her lip to keep the smile from coming, but it snuck in anyway when she spoke. "Sorry, kid. I-- I just couldn't resist."

He glanced around, and thanked God the computer was waterproof, as were most other things in the cave. But he'd spend a week mopping up the puddles.

"Bruce is going to kill me," he said in dismay. "Forget about you, I'll be dead before I get a chance to pay you back."

Barbara realized the kid really was upset, now. "Hey," she said, "don't worry about it. Just tell him it was my fault."

Timothy shook his head. "Like that matters. He'll still say I shouldn't have listened to you. And I shouldn't have."

"Aw, c'mon, don't get like that. It was a little joke. Tell ya what, I'll call him up before he can see, tell him everything, all--"

"Hold on, I think someone's coming."

On screen, Barbara glanced at something else. "Just Alfred," she said.

Timothy moaned slightly and reached to turn off the screen. "Hey--" was all Barbara managed to get out before she went dark.

"Timothy? The alarms went off upstairs, and I thought-- oh, my." Alfred stopped at the bottom of the stairs and surveyed the mess before him. "I do hope, sir, that those documents were not in any way vital--"

Timothy followed Alfred's gaze and let out a soft expletive. A desk in one corner had been piled with papers, most of them probably already stored in the computer system, but whatever they were, if it wasn't critical, it was certain to be an annoyance.

Alfred began slowly to pick his way through the puddles pooling on the hewn-rock floor, and Timothy didn't realize until a moment later that he was heading for the closet. "Hey, wait," he said, splashing across to head off the old man. He disregarded the puddles-- he was already so wet that it couldn't matter less. He stood in front of his elderly friend, blocking the way. "I'll clean it up, okay? Don't worry about it."

"Sir, I am quite prepared--"

"I know. But just let me, okay? It's my fault. I'll take the consequences."

Alfred studied him a moment, wondering, perhaps, if there were not some ulterior motive behind the boy's insistence. But finally, he seemed to sigh a little, and stopped. "Very well, master Timothy. But if you require any assistance, don't hesitate to--"

"I won't, I promise. If I need anything, I'll tell you." He watched as the old man nodded solemnly and started slowly back up the stairs.

When the door to the manor swung shut behind him, the monitor mysteriously rebooted itself and Oracle's face gazed out sympathetically. Timothy tried to ignore her and shuffled around in the closet for a moment before returning with a mop and a bucket. He started to work, hoping he could get things straightened up a little before Bruce came down for the evening.

"So," asked Barbara after a few minutes, carefully, "how's the old guy doing, anyway?"

Timothy didn't ask how she knew about things. He had gotten past that point several months previous. He shrugged, still a little sulky. "As all right as any guy can be just after he's seen someone else sweep the woman of his dreams off her feet."

"So you're siding with him on this one? Don't forget he did have more than thirty years of opportunity before Bruce came along."

"I didn't say I was siding with anyone. I'm just... confused."

"I hear ya, kid."

Timothy turned around, and they looked at one another for a moment. The sharks and the fish were gone, and Barbara, just Barbara, was looking at him. "Yeah," he said.

There was nothing either one could say, because they both knew the same things, felt the same way. Leslie was perfect for Bruce. And they all-- more than they wanted to admit it-- wanted to see Bruce happy. For once in his life. At least.

But they hated that it had to come this way. It made things bittersweet.

"Only thing I can think," said Tim, after a few minutes more of wringing the mop into the bucket, "is that maybe it's fate, or whatever." He spoke down to the floor, almost to himself. "I mean, it's not like she can go back to the way it was, you know? So now it's not really an issue because it couldn't..."

"Yeah," said Barbara. "That's what I was thinking, too."

"So maybe we should just try and forget it, like Alfred. I mean-- that's kinda already what he's trying to do."

"Yeah," Barbara agreed again. "I mean... she and Bruce are perfect."

"And he's different now."

"Not different," she qualified. "Just..."

"Human," Timothy supplied, appropriately. He let the mop clank in the bottom of the bucket and looked up at the screen again. "You know, I don't even think he'll be that mad about the cave."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far..."

Timothy bit his lip. "I like him," he whispered.

------

Alfred insisted upon driving Bruce to the clinic. "Alfred," he had objected, "I'm not going to have you--"

"Sir," the old man had replied primly, "I've driven 'Bruce Wayne' every moment of his rather half-lived life, and I shall not endure the shame of being evicted simply upon the premise of possible embarrassment. I am, sir, your chauffeur-- allow me to act the part, if you will."

Bruce had bowed elegantly at the door, ushering the butler through. "As you like it," he said, beginning to believe in his heart that perhaps the old man was not suffering too greatly. After all, if he had not been impassioned enough in all his sixty-something years to make a go at it, perhaps it was only slight infatuation.

Bruce, however, was in love.

So-- "Are you sure?" he asked once more, as the old man opened the door for him.

"Entirely, sir," Alfred returned curtly, and slammed it after him.

Bruce waited until the other man slid into the front seat. "Don't heave it like that when Leslie gets in, all right old friend?"

"The idea..."

The younger man laughed. He knew Alfred was all right when he started the banter again.

--------

Leslie was waiting on the streetcorner when Alfred drove up. She waited, politely, as he got out and opened the door. "Thank you, Alfred," she said, smiling thankfully. She let her hand rest on his, for a brief moment as she slid in. "Thank you."

He nodded once, briskly. "Of course, madame."

Her eyes met his, with a puzzled expression as the door closed between them.

"Good evening."

Leslie turned to face Bruce and accepted the single pink rose with a smile. Her collection was growing ever larger; she was glad he didn't show up every day with an entire bouquet. It would have been a shame to throw them out before they had wilted. As it was, her little home was perfumed with a heavenly scent. "I don't think I'll ever understand that man," she sighed, glancing to make sure the window between them was rolled up.

Bruce quirked a smile. "Alfred? He's got his own rules."

"A bit like someone else I know."

He glanced away. "Well."

She slipped her hand into his as the car pulled away from the curb. "Shall we resume our conversation?" She held the rose up and took a deep breath.

"I-- don't quite remember what we were discussing."

"Liar. Don't you think I know you have a photographic memory?"

He shrugged slightly and gestured, taking her hand along with his. "I know the words. I just don't know..."

"That takes time. A lifetime."

He gazed out the window, at the drizzling, misty rain that obscured dirty city sidewalks and dirty city streets, and seemed, after a moment, to sigh heavily. "If only we could all take..."

"Bruce?"

"What?" he looked at her, and seemed to come to himself. "Nothing. Leslie-- how was your day? What did you do?"

She smiled again, at his instant, boyish curiosity. "I had a wonderful day. Some boys came by-- to thank me, if you'll believe it. The had a ball and we played in the street--" her breath caught. "Oh, Bruce, do you know how long it's been, since I played ball?"

He leaned towards her a little. "I didn't know girls played ball," he imparted, confidentially.

She laughed. "Oh, come now. I'm wild about soccer You must have known." But Bruce only shook his head. "Well-- Alfred remembers." She leaned forward and rolled down the partition. "Don't you, Alf?"

"Madame?"

"Tell Bruce I used to play soccer. All the time."

"Quite against the rules, sir," he admitted. "Even in those days, Dr. Thompkins refused to be stopped."

Leslie grinned, then frowned. "Alfred, how many times do I have to tell you--"

"Ah, excuse me. Sir, there's a call coming in from Mr. Fox. Shall I--"

"Yes, Alfred, take care of it."

"Of course, sir." The partition went up again, and in the front Alfred's darkened silhouette picked up a cellular phone.

Leslie turned to Bruce. "I must have told him a thousand times to call me Leslie-- I thought I was finally getting through, these few weeks ago, and then suddenly we're all back where we started, except that I don't think I've ever gotten 'madame' before."

Bruce looked slightly uneasy. "I--" he tried to explain. He shrugged. "I'm 'sir.' So, now that-- I'm-- and you're--"

It dawned on Leslie. "Ah, matching titles, is it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, we shall just see about--"

Bruce put a hand out as she reached for the automatic switch again. "Let him," he said quietly. "I think-- he prefers it that way."

Leslie sat back, frowning. "Honestly," she sighed. "Men."

------

At the manor they pulled up chairs by a blazing fire, and Alfred went to boil water for tea. "Mmm," Leslie sighed, wiggling her stockinged toes mere inches from the blaze. "Every chilly day deserves a blazing fire."

Bruce studied her delicate profile in the flickering light. "I'm inclined to agree."

"You know, roses are my favorite flower."

"And pink is your favorite color. Yes." Bruce enumerated mildly.

She looked at him. "So you were listening to me, all those years."

"I always listened to you."

"Although you rarely took my advice."

He paused for a moment. "Advice... is for people who care."

"And now?" She smiled faintly.

He considered. "I'm taking it. With a grain of salt."

The smile spread. "No mixing proverbs."

"Sorry. Here's the tea."

Alfred carried with him a small folding table, and set it to rest between the chairs, placing the platter with kettle and cups on top.

"Thank you, Alfred."

"My pleasure, madame." He was gone quickly, and Bruce leaned forward to pour the near-boiling liquid. They sat back, moments later, and sipped quietly, staring into the dancing flames, not thinking anything in particular; just being.

"You know," Leslie said a few minutes later, in that half-murmuring, whispering voice of thought, "he-- Alfred-- used to take tea with me, evenings, when I came to spend the day with you. It was always in winter. We'd talk-- mostly about you-- and then he'd walk me out to my car. Never beyond that. But it was nice, and I missed it, a little, when you were too old to play." With this last, she glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes, and smiled slyly.

"Hmph," Bruce grunted gruffly. "I just realized the importance of study early in life."

"Too early, if you ask me." But she chuckled and leaned back, remembering his haughty rebuffs of early years. 'You're much too old, Dr. Leslie,' he had declared at age eleven, 'and I am getting very old very quickly.' And indeed he had. In fact, sometimes she had thought him ancient, as though he had aged a man's years in boys' shoes.

"I wonder," she said after a few moments in silence, "what he thinks, sometimes. Don't you? He's always so proper-- I've never seen him shaken, before, not once, even in the worst of circumstances. It's something to admire, but... I don't know. I wonder if he suffers for it."

"...Sometimes," Bruce murmured lowly. He stared into the fire.

Leslie glanced up, perhaps a little startled, from her teacup. "Oh--" she said. But he seemed not to have heard her, and only continued to stare into the fire.

Bruce came suddenly to himself, setting down his half-finished cup and rising. He glanced at the clock. "It's time. I have to--"

Leslie nodded patiently. "Go on. And be patient with the boy. He's doing his best to please you."

As an answer, Bruce pressed his lips lightly to the back of her hand. "If you need to go, Alfred will drive you home. If you stay... there's something I want to show you in the morning."

Her eyebrows rose. "Ah, a surprise?"

He shrugged, almost uneasily. "Of sorts."

"Well then, now I'll have to."

He bowed, and was gone.

-----

Timothy couldn't believe it when he heard the upstairs door open. He could have sworn, on his mother's grave (which for him was not merely an expression) that he had only just started cleaning a few minutes ago. But when he looked at the clock, it showed that he had been working for fully an hour and a half-- but as he surveyed his progress, he realized that he had, indeed, only begun to clean. This was going to take days.

And days he did not have. One by one, the telltale steps of his mentor thudded down the stairs, like a slow metronome beating out the rhythm of his doom. He knew it was-- there was no beating around the bush on that point. Bruce was going to kill him.

He sighed and considered bidding a final farewell to Babs, but decided after about half a second of deliberation that she didn't deserve that particular honor. After all, she was the one who had gotten him into this. And wouldn't she be sorry, when he was dead!

The steps came closer. Timothy had watched and waited and listened so many times for those telltale sounds that he knew the steps by number. Five, four, three-- coming out of the shadows-- two...

He swallowed and winced, shrinking back as he forced himself to look into those steel blue eyes. They flickered with a kind of ember glow, first to him, and then behind him, around, surveying the damage, analyzing and concluding in seconds what had happened. Now he was going to get it. First on responsibility. Then on listening to others critically. Then on proper uses of the computer. And then he would be banned forever. And then Bruce would kill him.

And the worst thing about it was that his boots were still wet.

But Bruce said nothing. He just looked, out, and seemed to be steeling some knot within himself, grinding and pushing it into a hard lump of coal, compressing, compressing-- Timothy wondered, in a moment of lapsed sanity (those often came in and out before death, he'd heard) if perhaps Bruce were going to calmly spit out a diamond.

But then his sanity returned, and Bruce was looking at him again. Timothy felt very small.

The great shadow looming above him drew in a tensed breath. Then he let it out slowly, and his fists were clenched at his sides.

Timothy's tongue suddenly lost itself. "I'msorryBruce," he rushed, "I shouldn't have, I knew she was-- and I'll never, ever again, and I'll clean it all up, I promise, you can have my allowance for the rest of the year and I'll wash the car and..." he trailed off, running out of steam, and realizing that Bruce wasn't listening anyway. "Bruce?" he squeaked.

Bruce-- Batman-- looked down at him. Very down. "Sometimes," he rumbled, "sometimes, Timothy... you. Try. My. Patience. Sorely."

And with that, he brushed bodily past the boy, to the rack of dripping costumes, and began to dress.

"Oh," said Tim, the force entirely gone out of his voice. "Oh, I--" he sank to the floor where he stood, his trembling knees no longer able to hold his weight.

Batman turned, fully dressed, although a bit damp. "Come on, son," he prompted. "Dress. It's late."

"Uh-- yes. Yes, sir."

-----

Awkwardly, Leslie walked in again on Alfred re-arranging the room. This time he was changing the bouquet of flowers on the mantelpiece. They were roses, like the ones Bruce brought her, but not store-cut. She noticed now for the first time as she stood in the open doorway that they were hand-cut, carefully pruned, with the natural and rather beautiful variations of a hand-grown garden.

"Are those yours?" she asked.

Alfred started slightly, and only glanced briefly back at her before concentrating on arranging the new set while the old lay in a delicate, dripping bunch upon the table, on top of a thin layer of the Gotham Times. "Indeed, Madame," he said, his speech hesitating naturally between movements.

"'Crimson supplication?'" she guessed. It had been a strange name for a flower, especially one as scraggly and frail as it had looked when he had first gotten it at the flower show, but through the years Alfred had tended it like a child, labored over it through winter and summer, daily. The buds had been seldom at first, but it had never quite seemed to fail entirely. Now and then, Alfred had presented her with one of its rather sickly specimens, each time quietly insistent that the next would be yet better.

He turned to place the arrangement upon the mantle, a faint, wistful smile upon his lips. "Your memory serves well, Doctor."

She crossed to the table and picked up one of the wilted blossoms. "Did it really put out all of these? In this dismal weather?"

Alfred looked uncommonly satisfied with himself. "Over the years, she has blossomed into the finest specimen on the property. Ten years ago I began pruning her into a vine-- she now arches into the gazebo, and blossoms can be found all the year round."

Leslie smiled and laughed softly. "Alfred, you are by far the most patient man I have ever known. Is there anything you don't wait for?"

He was silent for a moment, and began to wrap the old blooms safely away for disposal. "It's a way of life, I suppose. It seems... I can hardly help it, Doctor." He held up the wrapped stems a little. "Now, I must..."

"Of course. Thank you for bringing them, Alfred. I'll get up early to see them open."

He bowed carefully over the little package. "My pleasure, Dr. Thompkins. As ever."

------

"Bruce, are you sure you don't want to go to bed? You look exhausted, and your head--"

He fingered the swollen lump above his left temple. "Just a little bump. And the sun is rising. I'll go to sleep later."

Leslie didn't quite know what the sun's hesitant peeping over the eastern horizon had to do with anything, but it seemed that Bruce had been in a hurry to get home before daybreak. "Does this have anything to do with what you wanted to show me?"

He took her hand and started down the hall, away from the yawning abyss of the open grandfather clock. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see." He shook his head and changed the subject. "Did you sleep well?"

"Who couldn't, in that enormous bed? Although I keep having this dream..."

He held the back door open (one of many) and stood aside as she went through into the dawning light beyond. "What kind of dream?"

"Well-- I mean, not anything specific. It's just that when I dream, I'm who I really am-- or was, rather. It feels so natural, and then I wake up, and I look in the mirror, and what a terrific surprise! --Every morning."

He was leading her through the gardens now, but seemed purposed beyond that somewhere. His steps grew faster and faster, until she felt as though she was nearly flying between the rows of sleeping flower beds. "It's only natural," he said. "It should get better, in time."

"Yes, well, what I mean to say is that I don't know if I don't enjoy it..." her voice was soft as she said it, and trailed away as though she didn't know quite what to say next. Bruce didn't seem to have heard her, in any case, and so she let it be, and watched the flowers whisking by, until to one side she spotted a small gazebo overrun with green and crimson red, even so early in the morning. "Oh--" she said.

Bruce glanced back, and slowed a little. "What is it?" he asked, seeing her faraway expression.

Leslie blinked and came back. "Oh, nothing. I was only remembering..."

"Are you all right?" he stopped, a little worried now.

She smiled to reassure him. "Yes, yes, I'm quite fine. Please-- I'm very curious about where we're going."

"You'll see," he repeated, and flashed a tight grin of satisfaction as they plunged into the thick of the hedge maze. "That old tree by the stables died years ago... last winter it finally had to be cut down to save the roof. The spot seemed so empty-- I didn't know what to put there, and I didn't want to plant another tree."

They went on in silence again, Bruce leading, Leslie trailing behind by one hand. And then the hedge broke before them, and the view was unobstructed over the lawn.

"Oh--" a hand went to her mouth. "Oh my," whispered Leslie.

Bruce gestured broadly with an upturned palm as they walked forward, slowly, hand in hand. "I commissioned it two weeks ago. This isn't the final project, but it will be cast from it eventually-- I-- I had it shipped in last night."

Leslie slipped her hand out of his, and slowly walked around it, her voice failing her. It was a fountain-- no water as of yet, but for that none the less beautiful. The basin was perfectly round, sweeping up on all sides like some strange manner of leaf, the sculpted tin of the first cast rippled gently like veins. And from the center there rose the spout-- a delicate, beautiful rose, fully as large as she. It was perfect in every way-- and in the morning sunrise, the steel-wool burnished finish reflected a soft, baby-blush pink light of new day.

"It-- it's beautiful, Bruce," she whispered softly.

He circled the fountain, and met her, clasping her hands in his. "No-- it's nothing," he insisted intently, shaking his head. "Nothing compared to--"

"Oh, Bruce, I--"

"Leslie--" in a sudden, almost desperate movement, he knelt, his eyes lancing into hers. "Leslie, I--"

Suddenly, stinging, burning tears started into her eyes, and she pulled her hands away from his, clasping them to her mouth.

"Leslie?" Bruce looked confused, terribly puzzled--

"Oh," she said, the small sound coming out as her voice broke. She closed her eyes tightly. "Oh-- dear Lord," she whispered.

"Leslie? What's wrong?" Bruce asked now, concerned. "I don't--"

She could not look into his innocent, unknowing, unsuspecting boy's eyes, so honest-- "Oh," she sobbed, "--I've made-- a terrible mistake--"

And then she turned and ran, flying over the grass and plunging into the hedge, tears streaking down her gentle, soft-skinned face.

Bruce rose, quickly, and jogged a few loose steps after... but he stopped in the middle of the green, and merely stood looking after. And something inside of him sank.

-----

Leslie ran without knowing where she was going, not looking, but only seeing that beautiful, delicate pink rose-- so soft, fragile, innocent. She ran until her breath left her and she stood, gasping for air and wiping furiously at her watery eyes. It had all been so perfect, it seemed, and suddenly-- all wrong. Very, very wrong, because love wasn't pink, not pink at all It was--

And then her vision cleared, and she blinked, and found that she stood at the bottom of a set of three steps, and she climbed them, and sat upon a bench there-- and found herself caged in a tiny gazebo almost entirely overrun by roses. Red roses, the color of fresh blood, of passion and sacrifice--

Of love.

Leslie put her head in her hands and did a thing very unlike herself: she sobbed.

----

Timothy was stumbling down the hall, bleary-eyed and heading vaguely in the direction of the kitchen when he ran into Bruce. The odd thing was that although Timothy was only half-awake and not quite conscious, Bruce was the one who didn't notice him at all, and not the other way around.

"Oops, sorry," he mumbled, stopping and backing up.

But Bruce's brow was drawn in a furrow of intense concentration, and if he noticed the boy he did not acknowledge his presence. In fact, he merely continued on down the hall in his slow, purposeful steps.

Timothy shrugged and made for the kitchen without much further thought, as there was not particularly that much floating through his brain in the first place at seven o'clock in the morning. Actually, he wasn't exactly sure how or why he had ended up spending the night at Bruce's place anyway, but it probably had something to do with the mess down in the cave.

He only stopped just outside the kitchen because he felt a cool breeze waft almost painfully over his bare legs. He turned around, suddenly lucid as a chill ran through him, and found the door hanging open. He frowned and was about to close it when he stopped, for no particular reason, and stepped out.

Being dressed only in his boxers, and being that a chill wind was blowing (the rain clouds, it seemed, had cleared away during the night), he found himself pretty cold. He closed the door behind himself and stepped backwards along Bruce's heavy prints, which helped keep the mud off his bare feet. He followed them a little while, through the rows of flower beds, now just beginning to stretch open in the chill sunlight, and paused a moment when he reached the hedge maze. A gust of chill wind raised goosebumps over every inch of his body, and he seemed to hear something, a faint noise. He followed it, skipping quickly through icy wet grass.

The wind blew again and he stopped, listening carefully. The noise seemed to be coming from another direction now, and he adjusted his course until the gazebo came into view. It was so over shrouded with rose vines that he could scarcely see in, but it seemed that the noise was coming from that direction, and so he approached, and stepped up into the little pagoda.

"Dr. Leslie?" he asked hesitantly, not sure if it was appropriate to interrupt her. But she was sobbing quietly, into her hands, and she looked very lonely and lost, and he thought if he felt like that he wouldn't want to be alone.

She looked up, startled, her face wet and red. "Oh--!"

He crossed his legs, realizing only now that he was suddenly very, very cold. "Do you-- want some company?" He glanced back towards the house, which looked very warm and inviting from this distance. "Or I could..."

She reached out and clasped his hand. "Of course. Sit with me. I'm sorry, I just--"

He sat down, wincing at the cold bench, and didn't mind at all when she put an arm around him and drew him close. "It's okay," he said. "Mom-- used to cry, now and then. It's funny what you miss about women being in the house."

Leslie laughed and sniffed at the same time, hurriedly pulling herself together. She was not a woman to feel sorry for herself, and yet she had been suddenly overcome-- now that Tim had arrived, however, the world began to pull itself into some semblance of order. "Well-- I'm glad to oblige," she said, pulling half of her mouth into a wavering smile.

"Is everything okay? I mean, I ran into Bruce, and he looked kind of--" Timothy searched for a word. He wasn't sure, so he just left it hanging, fairly certain that Leslie would know what he meant.

Leslie choked out another little sob. "Oh, Timothy, I don't know. Everything was going so well, just wonderful-- and now, all of a sudden--"

"Yeah," said Tim. "I've had moments like that."

"I had the arrogance to suppose that as I got older, times like this would be fewer and far between." She sighed. "But I suppose that's the problem, isn't it? This is all wrong. I'm not a young woman, Timothy."

"Yeah, but--"

She shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "No buts about it. Life, Timothy, goes about itself in certain ways. We earn our wrinkles, and should be proud of them. It's experience, tempered by time, and our bodies match our wisdom. We've no business in changing that."

"But you weren't the one to..."

"Fate, I suppose, we blame it on." She sniffed in mild disgust. "We've no business calling something fate, or destiny. What's that to us? It may be true-- all of it might be written in the stars somewhere-- but if we don't know it for sure, what's it to us? Destined or not, to us it's our own choosing."

"But--" Timothy stopped. "Don't you-- love Bruce?"

Again, Leslie let out a long sigh. "I do, Timothy I love him dearly, perhaps more than I've ever loved anyone in my life. But I loved him as a boy, and he loves me in a boy's way. That will always be true. I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself for forgetting that, for trying to make it something different than it was meant to be. I hope-- I hope he can see--" and she hugged Timothy tightly, suddenly, rubbing his goosebumped arms furiously to keep them warm. "Oh, dear Timothy, how could I have done it to him? My baby, and now I've hurt him more than ever." Her lips began to tremble again, and Timothy looked up and saw.

"Dr. Leslie?"

"Yes, dear."

"My mom used to say that-- parents were always afraid of hurting their children, or making mistakes, because they are going to, no matter what, sooner or later. It's just the way things are. But parents and kids still love each other anyway."

Leslie hugged him again. "You're right, of course. But Bruce is not merely any child, and I am only his mother's shadow. It will be a long time in healing, I'm afraid."

Timothy bit his lip. "If it makes it any better," he said quietly, "I think-- I think Bruce knew. He just wanted it so badly, he tried to make it okay. He does that sometimes."

She pressed her lips to the top of his head. "Dear boy. Dear Timothy. What would the rest of us do, without boys?"

He smiled.

"I'll tell you something I've learned, dear. Love isn't about who loves you-- it's about who you love. A long time ago I put something away, set it down and just walked off without it, because I thought my love wasn't shared or returned. I see now I shouldn't have done that. I can't go back, but you can certainly go forward." She smiled gently down at him. "There's the wisdom of age. Take it for what you will."

Timothy blinked. Was she--? "But Leslie, he did--"

"Why, darling, you're positively frozen!" Leslie sat back, seeming only just then to realize that he was wearing no more than a pair of shorts in forty degree weather. "Hurry, run back to the house before you catch cold!" She let him go, patting his back, and he got up.

He bit his lip. "But Leslie--"

"Not another word more! Get inside. I'll be along soon enough. I just need a few minutes to think. Now go."

It was said with such assurance, and Timothy was indeed so very cold, that he found his feet propelling him back to the house at a breakneck speed. He thought perhaps he should turn around, and tell her, no matter what she said-- but then, what would be the point? he wondered. There's no point in telling her, now that it's too late. It would only make her cry more. And Timothy did not like seeing Leslie cry.

And so he bit his lip, frowned at the Fates, and went to take a hot bath.

-----

Leslie knew where she would find Bruce. Or, rather, his other person, the darker side. He was down here, in the dark, because it was where the darkness, like a black hole, sucked away the hurt and the feeling and left only a small black nugget in the center of his chest the size of a penny. But it weighed a thousand tons.

He pretended not to hear her when she came in because she did not want him to hear her. When she came up behind him and touched his shoulder he flinched away, but she flung her arms around his massive frame, to hold him down, keep him from fluttering silently away like a creature in the night. "Bruce," she cried.

He was very still and hard. A rock. And did not move.

"Bruce," she whispered, petting his hair. "Oh, Bruce, I'm so sorry."

He looked at his hands, laced together tightly, resting between his knees. He did not think. The touch of her hands, in his hair, on his shoulders-- he ignored, shuffled the cards in his mind and picked them out like a pair of aces and let them fly in the wind. He closed his eyes. "There's... nothing I can do, is there?" he rumbled, deep in that hollow chest.

Leslie pressed her lips together. "No," she whispered. "No, Bruce, there isn't."

Very slowly, he opened his hands, cupped, and picked out the vial within. He held it up, head bent, and it glinted in the frail light of the computer monitor. "Here."

"Is it--"

"Leslie, please think about--"

"I have, Bruce, long, and-- if there's any way you can forgive--"

"Nothing to forgive."

"Bruce--"

"Nothing. The fault was mine."

She hated the deadness in his voice, but could not touch him again, hovering just outside the pool of light that flickered about his bent form. "Bruce," she whispered, and waited until he did not interrupt. "...It's not... a sin to express emotion--"

He shook his head and pressed his fingers to his temples. "Take it," he hissed. "God, take it, if you're going to."

Leslie reached forward, but it did not slip from his grasp, and for a moment their fingers touched and they were and eerie marble tableau at the bottom of the cave.

"Leslie--"

"I have to, Bruce." And he let it go. She held it, cool and smooth, for a moment in the palm of her hand. "All of it?"

"Yes."

She slipped it into her purse. She stepped back, and then forward. "Bruce--"

"Go!" he shouted suddenly, but did not turn around.

She flinched. And then he turned, and his eyes were gleaming, wild.

"Go!" he roared, and for the first time in her life, she fled from her boy, not afraid-- but unable to bear the look in his eye.

Then she was gone, and he sank back into the chair. "Go," he said, "before--" his voice broke. "Before I hurt you any more."

----

Alfred stood, featherduster in hand, pausing a moment by the window as young Dr. Leslie fled down the drive, got into her car, and drove slowly down the hill. Then he realized he had ceased to do his duty, sighed slightly, let the curtain fall back, and went on about his business.

----

When Leslie had gone, Timothy found himself somewhat depressed. Other things aside, sometimes it got a little dull hanging around in a house full of obsessive-compulsive bachelors devoid of any mothering instincts whatsoever and all of whom were at least twice his age. He had enjoyed Leslie's presence, and even more, he thought, he had enjoyed the change in Bruce. He had started to think, just a little bit, that the remainder of his childhood would be middling-to-normal after all. Now he was back to wondering if there would be a "remainder of his childhood" at all. Sometimes he thought Bruce treated him too much like an adult, expecting him to act certain ways and do certain things that were just way beyond his "responsibility capacity," as he had overheard Dick yelling one night.

He wondered if sometimes they argued about him. Probably.

The funny thing was that it wasn't even like it had been with Dick-- he didn't live here twenty-four-seven, and he had another life, a home, a family, of sorts... although lately, before Leslie came, it had begun to feel like that was just some sort of reoccurring daydream, and the rest of his life a nose-to-the-grindstone struggle of endurance. Then Leslie had appeared, and things were better.

Now, he supposed, it would probably go back.

Only worse.

Feeling rather sorry for himself, he wrapped up in a warm overcoat and wandered back outside, hoping, he supposed, somewhere in the back of his mind that Leslie would still be there, in the gazebo, and he would beg her to stay, even if she wasn't in love with anyone-- just because she was a nice lady and he was a lonely little boy.

Timothy remembered a time when he would have rankled at the thought that he-- he, Timothy Drake-- could possibly be mistake for a little boy. But in his time with Bruce, he had learned that there really were some very terrifying, evil things in the world-- and that, indeed, in comparison, he was a very, very little boy.

But Leslie was not in the gazebo.

He sighed and wandered away, shuffling along the ground, and did not realize until he had been following them for a few minutes that he had found a trail of footprints in the soft wet grass. They were big.

Bruce's.

And he looked up, and in front of him was the fountain he had seen, the beautiful flower-- only it wasn't a fountain, not anymore. Because the beating, wrenching sounds that he had half-heard in the back of his mind were the delicate tin petals and leaves being bent and torn under a pair of massive hands.

Tim stood, open-mouthed and staring.

That time, Bruce did not have to say one word. He merely paused, and looked up, and a mist of condensation formed in the air before his nose and mouth as he breathed heavily. A drop of blood hit the ground and made a small noise.

Tim's eyes met Bruce's.

Tim turned and ran.

-----

"Alfred! Alfred!" he panted, when he burst into the house.

The elderly man appeared, alarmed. "What is it, young sir?" he asked, fearing the worst.

Tim was close to tears. He didn't know if it was because of Leslie leaving or the thought of Alfred being alone all those years or of Bruce hating himself, or maybe it was just all of that together, but Timothy was afraid. Afraid Bruce was going to do something bad.

"Alfred," he gasped, half-sobbing, "please, come quick, Bruce is-- is--" he pointed outside.

The old man grasped the boy's hand and dragged him, quickly, out into the garden. Now that he was paying attention, Timothy could hear the noises clearly, and they hurried towards what was left of the fountain.

"Oh dear," murmured the old man. "Oh, my."

The fountain was nothing now, a small blot of flattened tin in the earth, all sharp points and bent angles. But still, Bruce continued to beat it. Not in fury; in anguish, despair. In hatred of fate, that he could not make it be what he wanted it to be.

"Sir, please--" Alfred begged softly.

Bruce looked up, sharply. Then he straightened, and stood, and stepped quietly down to the ground, next to them.

Timothy was frightened of him; of the blood on him, and the sudden calmness.

"Alfred," Bruce said quietly, "what the hell are you doing here?"

The old man frowned. "Sir, I'm not quite--"

"She doesn't love me, Alfred. She loves you."

"But--"

Bruce looked for a moment as though he might strike the old man. And then he sighed, inwardly, and looked at the ground through shuttered eyelids. "She took the antidote, you damn fool."

Alfred gaped, and made a little sound in the back of his throat. "I-- sir, if you'll--"

"You're excused. Take the boy back to the house."

"Sir--" Alfred looked worried.

"Dammit, go!"

"Of course, sir." He grasped Timothy's hand, and led him back inside.

"Alfred, Bruce is gonna be all right, isn't he?" Timothy asked in a small voice, as they went into the old man's room.

He opened the closet and pulled out two suits. They were charcoal grey and navy blue, and Timothy did not think he had ever seen them before. In fact, he didn't think he had ever seen Alfred out of his butler's uniform, even at night. The old man frowned, looking from one to the other. "My boy, if there is one thing I have learned over the years, it is that no one can mend Bruce Wayne but Bruce Wayne himself. We may attempt to help-- but no more." And then he stopped, a hand to his heart, and seemed to falter for a moment.

Timothy acted quickly, and caught his arm as he sank suddenly to the bed. "Alfred?" he asked, hesitantly. "Are you all right?"

Alfred breathed carefully, and found himself trembling. "Dear Lord," he murmured, "what on earth am I doing? I can't simply walk in-- what shall I say? The suit is the least of it--"

Timothy found himself suddenly laughing, and felt the need to explain himself by pointing at the old man. "You sound just like my friend, Jenny. She always worries about that stuff."

"Oh dear," Alfred murmured. "No, I'm afraid I simply cannot go through with it."

Timothy laughed again. "Of course you can." He stood up and took the charcoal suit from the hanger. "Here," he said, "put this on. Do you have any cologne? Never mind, I'll find it." He went into the bathroom and came back again as the old man was buttoning the jacket neatly. "Okay, put this on, but not too much. There. That's basically all you need, okay? And you pretty much have a one-up an everyone else, 'cause you already know she loves you."

"Oh dear," murmured Alfred again, sitting down quickly. "You had better not say that too terribly often"

The boy grinned. "You'll get used to it. All right, I pocketed the keys to the Rolls, so take that, okay? It's definitely you." And with a few more words of helpful advice, he pushed Alfred out the front door.

He was back in five minutes.

"No!" protested Tim, trying to herd him back out. "You're fine! Go!"

But the tidy old gentleman would hear nothing of it "I'm sorry, young sir," he insisted. "But it's quite necessary. One thing. And then I shall go." And he pushed past the boy, and was suddenly gone. Timothy sighed and sat down, hoping he would, indeed, reappear. If he didn't, he would have a lot more work to do.

Fortunately he did return, through the garden entrance.

"Oh," said Tim.

Alfred raised one eyebrow. "I *do* seem to know a *bit* about these things, young sir," he commented, and was gone.

------

But by the time he got to the clinic, he had once again entirely lost his nerve. He circled the block once, wondering if it had all been a very unfortunate mistake, and preparing to return again to the manor, alone. Then he saw her, sitting on the back steps, crying.

Alfred parked the car at the sidewalk. He stepped out and shut the door, and froze.

Leslie, hearing the noise, looked up, wetness running slowly down her face-- her real face. There were wrinkles, many wrinkles, and her hair was a lovely silver, but they were her wrinkles and her hair and she was beautiful in them. Her sparkling eyes took him in, standing there in front of the car, entirely overdressed in his charcoal tux, holding a single red rose. Then, softly, she laughed. And smiled. "Oh Alfred," she sighed, "Do you know how many years I've waited for you to come after me?"

ONE MONTH LATER

Bruce looked up from his paperwork as Timothy came in. "I'm busy," he grunted, and this was nearly true. It would have been better, could he have removed to his downtown office to do the necessary paperwork that being head of Wayne Enterprises required, but it was necessary to maintain the popular public conception that Lucious did all his work for him. For the most part, it was true, but there were a few things he liked to research himself before "discussing" them with the unfortunate CEO. And it was necessary that he went over these things at home.

And, naturally, there were distractions, at home. He tried to ignore them, and most of the time it worked.

But Timothy, evidently, was going to be persistant today. "Boss?" he said, hesitantly.

Bruce sighed inwardly and put down his pen. "What do you want?"

The boy held up a paper in one hand and struggled with a large book in the other. "I was wondering, maybe, if you have time-- later, you know, you could, kinda, you know--"

"Timothy, the point, please."

"Help me with my homework?"

Bruce growled under his breath. "Where's Alfred?"

"He said, uh... 'no person in their right mind could be expected to submit voluntarily to the tortures of differential equations.'"

That meant that it was quite beyond the old man's capacity. He always had detested mathematics, instead quoting Yeats: "I hate reasonable people their brain sucks all the blood from their heart."

"Can't you call a classmate?" he queried pointedly.

Timothy blinked. "Boss," he said, obviously, "I'm taking differential from the Junior College. I'm fourteen years old." He seemed to be implying that Bruce, in his rigorous demands when it came to academics, was the one who had gotten him into this predicament in the first place, and ought to be the one to get him out.

Bruce sighed, audibly this time, beginning to reach his limit of patience. He wanted to be left alone. "Surely the professor has office hours--"

"I tried going. The line was a mile long."

The older man resisted the temptation to simply send the boy away. "Perhaps the internet--"

But the boy's large, pleading eyes stopped him. "Bruce," he begged softly, "you're the only one who can help me with this." He bit his lip.

Bruce opened his mouth, and then paused. Something inside of his chest had stirred that had, for four months, lain dead upon the cold slab within him. In parting from Leslie, he had disengaged himself from the human race, certain that there would be no return. And he had not cared.

Yet without knowing it, if Leslie's definition of love was caring for others, of giving herself to others, Bruce's was the reverse. Perhaps it was something formed within him as a child, that terrible night, or perhaps love is different for each child of man, but to him, love was a need. He could not, somehow, know what it was to share and share alike, but the need of others, because he was necessary to their lives, provoked something within him that was akin to loyalty-- but stronger. This, to Bruce, was love, although he himself did not know it. It was not a feeling, something to be traded and faltered over like children; it was a kind of transaction, a duty. And when the need was gone, he wounded himself, for a reason that will always be a mystery to men.

Nevertheless-- Timothy, in his own small, unknowing way, had supplied exactly what Bruce could not resist, and it was a single, tiny step towards grafting himself back into the mass of humanity.

Neither one, in the large office in back of Bruce's private quarters, felt these things clearly. Timothy only knew that if he did not recieve help, he would flunk his class, and thus make Bruce even more irritated with him than he already seemed to be.

Bruce himself knew even less of his own motivations, but nevertheless, he stood and came around one side of the desk, realizing strangely that he towered over the boy who, to him, sometimes seemed very old indeed. He put a hand down, and rested it upon his shoulder. "All right, son," he said. "Let's go into the kitchen."

And that was an end to it, but also a beginning.

The night was black; once again, Leslie had overstayed herself at the clinic. Not only that, but she would need her sleep that night; in the morning, she and Alfred were going out for coffee. Or tea, as the case might be. And she was not as young as once she had been.

She stepped outside, and nearly crushed something beneath her foot as she turned to lock the door. Instead, she stopped, bent, and picked it up.

It was a delicate pink rose. Attached was a note.

"Will you marry me?" it read.

Leslie pressed her lips together and the note to her chest, and her eyes searched uselessly in the dark.

"Oh, my dear-- how I wish I could say yes," she whispered.

There was a whisper and a flutter of dark and shadowed things. Then it was gone, and only faint words drifted back to her in the cool moonlight:

"That... is enough for me."


The End

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