Quick intro: I suppose this could prove to be an AU or somesuch as I want to explore and toy with alternative structures of the Batfamily. Yes, there will be an OC, and I intend to use them to navigate a little differently through Batman's origins. Contrary to my typical lengthy chapters, I'll try to keep these shorter and a little more taut. Sometimes I wonder if writing this was a bad idea in the first place, but then again, bad ideas need an outlet every once in a while too, don't they?

Departure

"Tom. Tom, please…where…?"

As if plunging head-first into Arctic water, Tom was jarred into consciousness. All five sense fired into a state of instant mobility and he braced himself for the worst. But along with consciousness surfaced confusion. She...she was awake. Her face remained paler than the norm. And her lips were were dry, thinner. Her entire being was an antithesis of her innate composure. And then, despite all that he believed himself prepared for; her pleading gaze - her entire being at this very moment - it rendered him mute.

The news wouldn't kill her. Leastways, he didn't think so. Martha was a strong, confident woman. But it could very likely propel her towards a breaking point. God knows, he had felt as if he'd been toeing the line himself.

Three days. For three days he'd been immersed in an impossible quagmire of emotional torture. It was severely testing his fortitude. And if the fates were to roll cruel numbers and he was to lose the both of them, all the colour would drain from his world. Death would have proved infinitely preferable to an unendurable existence.

But you would still have Bruce.

But what kind of father would he have proved to be, really? Truthfully, he wouldn't merit the title. Tom was neither a pessimist nor an optimist. He possessed a pragmatic approach to what once felt like a blessed life. And his rationale even under fire was steadfast. At this juncture in life he was well aware of his capabilities, his limits. Given more adverse circumstances, if he'd have have lost both mother and child, his predicament was all but etched in stone.

"Where is she?" she appealed again.

You came back. To me. Just when I needed you the most. And now I have to greet you with sorrow.

"I...I think you know." Tom said softly; his hand reached out to grasp hers with a firm gentleness. His index finger brushed against the cold hospital bracelet and he pushed it aside so as to prevent nothing more to come between them. Skin on skin. Heart to heart.

She let out the sharpest of breaths, but it was near inaudible. She closed her eyes tight.

"Darling, I know. I know. It's okay to cry." consoled Tom as something all-too-familiar began to sting his eyes and coil tightly around his throat.

But she didn't cry.

Instead, she opened her pale blue eyes and met her husband's gaze. If it wasn't for the tumult of grief that conveyed reams through those eyes he'd always hold dear, one less accustomed to her character would deem her stoic, impassive. Indifferent even.

He, on the other hand, couldn't hold it in any longer. As soon as one trickle snaked down his cheek, the dam broke.

After far too many what-ifs of the past few days, despite the vehement agony and worry, tears had been denied him. Now, it was all he could do to prevent himself from sobbing loudly. She stretched out her hands in his direction from the cot, beyond the cold metal railings that separated them, and he awkwardly yet willingly fell into her embrace.

"I should...it's me who should be comforting you. Not...the other way around."

"I knew." she said. "Somehow, in between all these bouts of unconsciousness, I knew we lost her."

"They said she held on for two and a half days. They didn't even expect her to make it that far."

"What will we tell Bruce?" she whispered.

"What we tell ourselves?" cried her husband. "It hasn't even quite sunk in yet. My God, I thought I was going to lose you too."

She cupped his cheek in the soft palm of her hand. "We can't afford to indulge ourselves in what we've just lost. Not for very long, anyway. We still have Bruce. And Bruce still needs us. You know what we have to do."

He nodded slowly in reluctant agreement.

"I'm not telling you not to cry, darling," she went on. "This is our loss. Not the board's, not the businesses', not the charities' or even our friends'. It's our own, private grief. We'll come through this together and on our own terms. But the minute we get home, the second we walk through that door, we need to tell him the truth and be the parents that our son needs. Because that's what it all boils down to. It isn't about taking what you deserve because – "

" – life isn't about what we deserve." he finished for her.

"That's my boy." Her eyes finally moistened.

"We mustn't forget her though..." He fingered a rectangular piece of paper gently.

"I won't. You won't. And I'm certain Bruce won't either. Not even on our deathbeds." She grasped a corner of the same thick ream with thumb and forefinger. She made one more valiant effort to compose this tenacity that came so naturally to her, but her voice faltered as her eyes fixed on the sloping, cursive font of the name on the certificate.

Anne Robin Wayne. Born: December 7th 2003.