A/N: Hey! Yeah, this story was missing a few names so I added them in. That's all I've changed since uploading- sorry if I got your hopes up. Oh and Disclaimer blah blah blah, and WARNING! Feels. If you're not a feels person...well, yeah. You might want some tissues near you.

Buckle up, kiddies. It's time for a feels trip.

One day, many years ago, this little boy came up to me, tears streaming down his face. He couldn't have been more than ten years old. I asked him what was wrong, but no words came from the boy; he simply clung to my pant leg, sobbing. Feeling overrun with compassion, I held the boy close, ruffling his hair slightly. He'd been standing there, crying for almost a minute straight and I felt so helpless, his tears flowing in currents. Not knowing what else to do, I sat down there- right there- in the middle of the sidewalk, criss-crossed, holding this crying little boy in my arms...

"Shh, it's alright," I remember whispering. "It'll be okay. It'll work out." I spoke softly to him, not sure what to say, unaware of what made him so upset. I couldn't have known the horror that this little boy had just seen.

I'm still uncertain of how long we'd sat there. Could have been minutes, maybe hours. All I knew was that I wanted to make this little boy feel secure.

To let him know that not everybody was a bad guy.

I remember singing to him as he was calming down, an old tune that'd been passed on for generations.

I'd never had children of my own, you see. To this day, he's still the only other human being who has heard this song from me:

"Close your eyes,

see your happy place,

know I'm there,

waiting to see your face.

You are special,

nothing will change,

you are my darling,

oh please stay the same.

Nothing will hurt you,

I won't let it through,

nothing can harm you,

just know that it's true.

Sleep, sleep, dear child

you will need your rest,

sleep, sleep, my dear,

and I'll do the rest,"

The boy turned his head and looked up at me with the last verse.

I'll never forget that look.

The pure...Innocence! The sorrow that was held in those little blue eyes!

Another tear had slipped down his cheek, but this time I wiped his face.

"Don't cry, little man," I said, my own voice wavering. "You're strong. Lift your chin," I continued with a soft smile, tilting his head up with my index finger. "I don't know what happened, but I can tell you this: You're gonna be okay, alright?"

The boy sniffed and nodded.

I had to cheer him up. I had to.

I had no idea what to do. What could I possibly offer? Me, a homeless woman- who, by the way, was on her way to the soup kitchen before this happened- with no children of her own, and limited experience with kids? How exactly does one go about cheering up an upset child?

I smiled at him, and began softly, "Now first things first, what's your name?"

In retrospect, I should've guessed the answer, now that I think about it, it was pretty much staring me right in the face. The boy was well dressed, in a mini-sized tuxedo. With black hair and blue eyes, this kid looked like he belonged anywhere but Gotham.

Especially not sitting on the sidewalk with a homeless woman.

The boy spoke very softly, quieter than a whisper- like the voice of a mouse, "Bruce Wayne,"

Interestingly enough, the answer caught me off guard. Nonetheless, I continued my conversation.

"Hi, Bruce," I extended my hand- and like the little gentleman he was- he shook it. " I'm Alana. Alana Simms."

The boy nodded, and it was then that I noticed that his left hand was clenched into a fist tightly, holding something with a wicked grip. I raised an eyebrow, and had asked him what he was holding. His eyes grew fractionally rounder and he looked between his fist and me. After a few seconds, the boy opened his hand revealing the pearl necklace that was crumpled in his palm. He blinked back more tears.

"Mom's,"

I scarcely heard him, then it had registered.

I was taken aback- "Is she-? Wha-? Oh, oh! Oh!" Realization dawned on me, and immediately I hugged the boy. (even homeless people knew who the Wayne's were. They did amazing things for this city. Its a crying shame how the city thanked them.)

"They're gone. They- they're dead," The boy whispered, all to himself. He was in shock. I can't blame him.

I sure as hell would be too, if I had watched my parents die.

Concern and genuine sorrow for this boy overcame me (at least my maternal instincts weren't completely wasted, huh?) And I comfortingly rubbed his back. "Come on, let's get you to Gordon,"

I know it sounds weird, but Gordon and I have a kind of history. He's a good guy- helped me out of some sticky situations, I trusted him (and still do, to this day he still has my back. I even babysat Barbara.) And I had a feeling he knew what to do with this kid.

I stood and extended my hand, and without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Bruce reached out and took mine. So we walked down the street, hand in hand. What an odd picture that must have been!

A homeless woman in ragged clothes and a rich little orphan boy holding hands, walking down a dark, heavily littered Gotham street. Hah. Who woulda' thunk it?

Anywho, we made our way down to the police station in silence, our arms swinging with our steps. At random intervals, the boy would look up at me and just stare, but when I went to look back, he'd turn away.

As we entered the building, Bruce fell back a bit, walking slightly behind me, using my leg as a sort of barrier I suppose.

"Jim!" I called out. The man had been pouring himself a cup of coffee, and his head turned at his name.

"Alana? What're you doing here?" He pushed up his glasses with his free hand as he walked over to me, unaware of the boy.

I turned and looked at the child, "I would've liked to visit under better circumstances, but..." I remember trailing off, unable to finish the sentence. Gordon's eyebrows mushed together on his forehead and he craned his neck to see what I was looking at.

"Bruce?" The man asked. He then turned to me. "What's going on?" I bit my lip, reluctant to say it out loud. They were such great people! So kind and generous!

I leaned up and told Gordon what had happened, and the look on his face was too old for his years. He looked so...done. His face twisted with disdain; he was a close friend of the Wayne family. I can only imagine how disgusted he was with the criminal scum of Gotham that he deals with every day.

I'll never forget that look, either.

His eyes hardened and he barked out orders and random (to me, at least) police gargun to the officers that were standing by. "Bullock! Munós! Crime alley- double homicide! Go, now!" THe two officers in question scrambled to their feet and raced out of the building.

Gordon's eyes softened as he turned to the boy, "I'll call Mr. Pennyworth," Jim turned to me once more. "Would you mind sitting with him?" He mouthed this, not wanting the child in question to hear.

I remember sitting with the boy; I led him over to the plastic chairs near Gordon's office. The child sat down next to me, his eyes moist, his gaze blank, and clicking the pearls on the necklace together. That image of a sad little boy hit me like a ton of bricks- the world isn't right if this child- a mere child!- has to feel that kind of sorrow.

Once more, every now and again, I would catch the boy looking up at me- I didn't question it aloud, but the boy answered my question anyway.

"You look like her,"

I looked down at him, surprised. That was all that he said. No more, no less.

He just continued clicking the pearls.

In the other room, I could hear Gordon's hushed voice, saying farewell to the voice on the other end of the phone.

A few minutes later, a man practically ran into the building, his eyes darting around the room. He looked worried, frantic. His eyes locked on the boy, and he rushed over to us. "Bruce! Master Bruce!" The man called, and I had assumed that this man was Mr. Pennyworth. He was very pale, and his face was full of lines- it was as if the pain were etched on his face. The man didn't seem to notice me, and he kneeled in front of the boy, his hands clasping the boy on the shoulders. He was whispering to him; something I didn't quite hear.

Swearing to protect him, I think.

The boy whispered something back, and I watched the boy stand. He took one last look at me, mouthed "thank you," and allowed the man to lead him away.

That was 18 years ago, this day.

That was my saving grace. My one good deed in life.

The only thing I have to show for my life rested in the fate of that little boy.

And I don't know what the hell happened to him.

But with everything that happened, I don't think I would change a thing. I don't regret my decisions.

But there are people who do, apparently.

Being woken up by a kick to the face isn't fun for anyone. Blood swelled in my mouth and I was so dizzy I couldn't be trusted to tell left from right. I noticed it was still dark outside, no sign of the sun rising any time soon, and that certainly didn't improve my mood. I was dizzy, groggy, and internally bleeding. Great way to start the day.

"You filthy hag," A man's cold, bitter voice slithered to my ears. "It's scum like you that takes our money, asking for pity, standing in line for the soup kitchen with your flea ridden rags," he spat in my face. I blinked it out of my eyes, the saliva burning my retinas. I didn't recognize this voice, and I couldn't have even if I had wanted to. I couldn't concentrate on anything except for the pain. I tried to sit up, but my arm buckled underneath me. It was worse when I tried to talk-to ask him what he was doing, but I couldn't find the words. A string of unintelligible muttering came from my lips before the man replied oh so kindly with another swift kick to the gut. The wind was knocked out of me. While I was on the ground the man with no soul continued to beat me, his kicks and punches finding their target without fail. This merciless man had me bleeding from the inside and from the out- and then I got pissed.

I rose shakily to my feet, the fear and anger acting as a crutch. I'm homeless, I'm filthy, pitiful, I'm all those things he said... but no right does he have to put me down this way when I haven't done one thing to his ugly soul. I stepped slowly toward him and the man's eyes grew intense with panic. Even at my slow pace filled with agony, he feared me as if I were some kind of monster.

"Get away from me!" He shouted and I found myself on the ground again, now panting heavily from a sudden slash I didn't seem to catch sight of. My old jacket was torn, and I was surprised to find it matted with blood. I cautiously covered the wound with my hand, but when I looked up, the soulless man was already rounding the corner, leaving me here to die.

I could feel the life leaving me as surely as the blood was. Probably at the same pace, too. Despite the ringing in my ears, I heard a scream. It was from him.

Well, couldn't have been too bad, I figured. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And that was more true than I could've possibly known.

I closed my eyes, if only for a second. I was tired. So tired.

I had a strong feeling that the man wouldn't return- that kind of eased my mind. My eyes snapped open upon hearing footsteps, fear clawing its icy talons through my already weak system. The steps were faint, quiet, but I heard them. My eyes were closing not of my own accord now as I was faced with a different man. I forced my eyes open as much as I could... but that wasn't very much. The new man's figure was blurry, but every now and then my vision would focus and I would see him clearly. He knelt next to me, and very gently moved my hand from the gash.

Somehow, this man didn't scare me. I was scared shitless, but this guy made me feel more at ease...does that make sense?

The only negative thing I remember thinking about this man was about his wardrobe choice. Why was he dressed like a bat? He had this weird, leathery looking cape, some kind of a Kevlar chest plate with a bat insignia, and a...cowl. who in their right mind wears a cowl?

Then it hit me. This was the vigilante guy. The guy that Smelly Joe and Two Toed Tim always tell stories about. Batman, I think was his name.

He turned and called out, loudly, but not clumsily. "Gordon,"

The familiar name shocked me. Sure enough, Gordon- my Gordon- raced into the alley, his loud footsteps echoing through the asphalt and reverberating through my skull.

They said something to me- but I didn't quite catch it. Jim knelt next to me, and I saw the pain on his face.

I wanted to say something. To reach out and comfort him, but I couldn't.

Jim shakily put a hand to my face, shaking his head and saying something.

"God, Alana, my God," He kept his hand on my face, but he looked over the knife wound, his free hand fluttering, trying to help but not knowing how. He finally realized he had a walkie talkie strapped to his waist band. He fumbled with the button for a few seconds before addressing dispatch. "I need an ambulance on the intersection of Twenty-nine and Maine! "

Meanwhile, Batman began tending to the wound, treating it with antiseptic and I lightly laid a hand on his arm. If I couldn't thank him with my words, I figured a gesture might do. Then I saw his eyes.

As he looked at me, his eyes saddened. It was that same expression I saw all of those years ago.

I knew I'd never forget that look.

Realizing that this was the same boy I walked hand and hand with, I smiled. It was a small smile, just a lift of the corner of my mouth, but it was all I could've managed.

"Good," And it was. The little boy was improving the city. Good.

Bruce knelt next to the gravestone, placing the bouquet of flowers against the stone. Barbara and Jim stood with their hands clasped behind their backs and their heads solemnly bowed.

The funeral service was short, small. Only three people in attendance, but it was meaningful.

"She was a good woman," Jim remarked sadly, shaking his head.

"The best babysitter I'd ever had." Barbara smiled, remembering the good old times. She blinked back a few tears, "I'm gonna miss her,"

Bruce stood somberly near the grave, remembering how she had helped him through one of the toughest times of his life. He remembered walking down the street, how she looked just like Martha. How the sun hit her face and gave her a glow that made her look like his personal Guardian Angel.

He could've been hers if he would've been there sooner.