He tells me his name – John Blake. Plain, stern-faced John who only looks his age when he smiles.

I figure I have some reason to trust him, at least enough to let my walls down and listen to what he has to say. If anything, an explanation is needed. How does he know my father? And if he is the man in the letter, then why does he need my help? Curiosity gets the better of me, and I let him lead me back to his car. I try to remember where I put my pepper spray as we walk across the gravel, the pebbles crunching beneath our feet. Just in case this guy turns out to be a creep who lies to poor, stranded women just to get them back to his apartment, I don't want to be caught unaware.

Or, I could always resort to ass-kicking, make good on the threat I'd made before.

He cranks up the heater when we get in. The car sort of rumbles idly for a while as he looks me over, slowly and carefully, and decides to hand me his jacket. That's when I notice I'm shivering.

"I'll be all right, thanks," I tell him, sticking my hands up against the hot vents. "Just drive. I can take care of myself."

We back out of the driveway, leaving the manor altogether. I watch it in the rearview mirror as the estate disappears, entirely, behind a thicket of overgrown trees.

"It's almost sad…" I trail off, still staring off into the lush wilderness behind us.

"What is?" Blake asks as he turns onto the main drive.

"Such a beautiful house, left to rot," I let out a mournful sigh and tear my eyes away from the lonely, forgotten property. "It should at least be sold, so it can be enjoyed by a new family."

"Don't feel too sorry for it," he assures me. "Its previous owner, Bruce Wayne, gave it up to the city before he disappeared. The manor's going to be turned into a boy's home."

My brow furrows at the news. No one told me that. Father never mentioned it once in his letter, though he was more occupied with my finding the house than learning anything of its fate. Perhaps he thought knowing too much about it might have driven me away. Still, it might've been nice to have been made aware…

"That is good news." I reply, and lean back in my seat as the first Gotham skyscraper rises up before us.

.

.

His apartment is small, but tidy.

Much of that could be attributed to the fact that there's barely any furniture. An old armchair makes up the bulk of the fixtures, but even it looks as though it's in the beginning stages of falling completely apart. There's no television set to be found, but a compact radio sits on the windowsill next to a wrought iron table streaked with bright scarlet rust. Stacks of papers are neatly situated here and there – on the table, on a writing desk situated toward the back of the room, nestled neatly into its corner. Even the kitchen countertop has its own stack, less orderly than the rest. With so few counter space, I wonder why he didn't keep the last pile of papers on an end table that I spot peeking out from behind a protruding half wall. That is, until I see yet another mass of paperwork occupies the space there as well.

I survey the wretched place with something akin to concern. It really is a miracle that the apartment hasn't caved in around him yet, though it certainly looks like it's about to. He appears quite comfortable moving around in it, dumping his keys on the wrought iron table and rounding another half wall so that he enters the cramped kitchen.

"Nice place." I try to sound polite, though I'm sure an edge of sarcasm wriggled its way in.

He must have heard it. "It's all I can afford on a beat cop salary."

"So you are the fuzz."

"I prefer the term police officer." He shrugs, casting an almost boyishly ill-tempered glance in my direction as he fills a kettle with water. "But you know, whatever suits you."

I continue to have a look around as he sets the kettle to boil and gathers a few cups from his cupboards. He's quite clean for a single man living on his own. There's no indication of a woman's presence in the room. No artwork hanging on the walls, no pastels or curtains to be found. It's altogether cold and impersonal, with an air of mystery tucked away behind slouching bookcases and dilapitated arm chairs. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something about John Blake that he keeps hidden from the world. He either doesn't know about it himself – or is very good at carrying the burden of pretense.

"So," he says, startling me out of my thoughts. "Are you still having trust issues? Or am I allowed to offer you tea?"

"Only if you take some."

"I don't drink tea."

"Then why did you make it?"

He looks sheepish. "Well, you're British…I figured it'd be polite."

"Stereotypical, but it's a nice gesture," I shrug lightly. "I'll take some if you do. I don't know if it's poisoned or not."

"So…yes on the trust issues." He returns to the kitchen. "Go ahead and sit down. We have a lot to discuss."

I meet him at his table, sitting carefully as I'm still not sure about the state of his chairs. He flops down into one, confident enough that it won't disintegrate into a pile of rust underneath him. His demeanor comforts me some, assuring me that I'm at least not sitting in a death trap.

He moves the papers to the nearest corner so we have at least some space to move around.

"Can I see your father's letter again?"

"You have some explaining to do first."

He folds his hands in front of him and they frame his steaming mug. "All right," he says. "What do you want to know first?"

"How do you know my father?"

"Alfred Pennyworth…he was Bruce Wayne's butler."

"Even I knew that," I say, impatient with his obvious sidestepping. "What I want to know is why he wanted me to seek you out. You must have some connection with him that goes deeper than acquaintance."

He doesn't blink as he answers, a very stern, guarded expression plastered over his face like a mask. "He wanted me to sort out Wayne's affairs."

"So why do you need my help doing that?"

Blake shrugs and the mask seems to fall. "I don't know…maybe they're difficult to handle and he thought, perhaps, I'd need assistance."

"Not good enough," I snap. "Tell me what you're hiding."

He opens his hands. "I'm not hiding anything. I promise."

"You promise an awful lot, Officer Blake."

"And you're pretty nosy for an outsider." He remarks pointedly.

A fair shot, I have to say. I guess prying isn't exactly the best way to go about digging whatever it is he's hiding out of him. Taking in a long, cleansing breath, I try to calm down and reign in the curiosity that's eating me alive on the inside. He trusts me about as much as I trust him – and that's not a lot.

"Fine, fine," I say at last. "You're right, I'm nosy. But, consider my situation. I took two planes to get here, only to find out the plane couldn't land at Gotham Airport because of some ruddy occupation that took place a month ago. I had to catch a bus to reach the city, pass through a hell of a lot of customs, and have been manhandled quite enough to last me the rest of my life. Now, seeing as I've come all this way, I'd like not to find out that I let myself be groped by strange men for nothing."

He smiles and his eyes almost disappear, black slits embedded in his pale skin. "That does sound unpleasant."

"You have no idea, really."

Sighing, he begins to fiddle with an ink pen, turning it around and around in his fingers. He seems to be thinking things through, weighing each thought in his head, so I try to be patient. It takes a lot of inner strength to stay quiet and keep my temper.

"I'm not quite sure myself, about what I'm supposed to do," he starts. "All I know is that I need to find a man named O. I don't have any more information other than he's old and Chinese."

"That doesn't seem so hard," I reply. "Can't you ask around?"

"Here's where it gets tricky." He says. "I can't be seen."

Here's where my heart starts to sink. Oh good lord, he's a notorious rapist, or some other kind of hardened, merciless criminal with a fondness for knives. Part of me wants to spray him in the eyes with mace and run out of the apartment screaming. But curiosity reigns me in, sits me down, and settles me enough so that I sit there and try to swallow past the panic building in my throat.

"Can't be…seen?"

"Yeah…you see, that's part of the deal. Mr. Wayne wrote to me himself. He wants me to lie low while I try to find this O guy."

"What's the point of that?"

He shakes his head. "I have no idea. The whole thing is very hush hush. I wouldn't be doing it if it weren't for the fact that Mr. Wayne was a good man and I trust his judgement."

There's a moment of silence between us. We're both trying to sort through what little information we've been given and figure out where we fit in. It's all very awkward. I'm still trying to decipher just what it is my father wants from me. Meanwhile, across from me, Blake is endeavoring to make sense of Mr. Wayne's demands.

"So…I assume you want me to find this O bloke?"

"Really? Would you?" A wide grin makes his eyes crinkle up again. "I'd even try to find a way to pay you for the help, seeing as you need a place to stay and…well, you need money for rent."

"On a beat cop salary?" I gesture to the apartment. "Doesn't seem like you could afford it."

"I'm sure we can figure something out."

My eyes narrow as I stare at him, trying to find the weak spot in his very well played game. "I still don't trust you."

"And I don't trust you," he replies. "I guess that makes us even."

.

.

I excuse myself to the bathroom and leave him in the kitchen. He points me in the right direction – go straight, take a right and there you are – and here I am, standing in front of the mirror, staring back at my own reflection.

Days of long, exhausting travel have left its mark. Perhaps it's only the awful lighting, but I seem to have aged years since leaving London. Heavy shadows hollow out my eyes, lines like parenthesis stretch around my mouth. Even my natural English pallor has deepened, losing its glow and taking on that sort of wan absence of color instead. The natural rosy blush has gone from my cheeks.

I run my fingers over a particularly deep line in my forehead. The price of conversing with mysterious strangers, I suppose. I bite my tongue and turn on the sink, letting the cool water run over my hands. I wait until it warms up to splash some over my face. Instantly, I feel a little better. Some of the anxiety drains out of me and I feel as though a weight has lifted. I can only imagine the good a hot shower would do.

The thought makes me yearn for a comfortable hotel room. After all this traveling, I'm jetlagged, tired and very hungry, and this John Blake character is not making circumstances any better by dragging out what has turned out to be a very frustrating discussion. I know he means well. He seems, on first impression basis alone, to be a man of good intentions. His secrecy is a strange trait, but one that can be expected of the fuzz. I can only assume this – he's the first police officer I've ever met.

Reaching for the towel, I first inspect its state in terms of hygiene. Fresh as a summer daisy, not an unsightly spot to be found. It really is bizarre to meet a single man with a proclivity for neatness.

I towel my face dry and fold it back up, putting it back exactly where I'd found it.

Looking back in the mirror one last time, I sigh and try to straighten my shoulders, but they just seem to slump forward of their own accord.

"What have you gotten me into, father?"

Blake is waiting on me. I really should return before he suspects me of mischief.

a/n: i just couldn't wait to write part two. hope you guys like it!

disclaimer - i don't own john blake or julia remarque. he belongs to nolan and dc comics.