Disclaimer: The characters herein doth not belongeth to me; they are the property of DC comics and anyone who's handed over enough money to borrow them. Turtle Wax brand isn't mine, either.


Batman surveyed the area silently from a nearby alley. Things were relatively quiet here at the site of Ra's al Ghul's demise and the wreckage of Thomas Wayne's famous train. The Narrows, he knew, would be more than enough to keep the remainder of the police force busy. He'd done all he could for the past seven hours – saving people from their own terror. He had almost questioned the practicality of his costume a few times, when he seemed to inspire more fear than hope in those he was trying to assist; but he had been able to do a great deal of good, stopping only with the approach of dawn. Batman had no place in the light of day, and so he was on his way home.

Assured of his solitude, he slipped from the shadows and crossed soundlessly to the Tumbler. Gordon had apparently walked, preferring his own two feet, or unwilling to draw attention to his part in the night's episode. Either way, Batman was thankful. It was much simpler to walk across the street and drive away than having to pass unnoticed through a large crowd of police and media.

He stopped beside the vehicle, his gaze passing critically over the second-hand car paint that ran along the length of the side. Gordon must have had trouble with control on the drive from the Narrows to Wayne Tower. He brushed a gloved hand over the contours of the car, knocking much of the broken glass that covered it to the ground. He paused, suddenly remembering that he'd given the remote to Gordon. Mentally he ran through the list of possible places Gordon could be, calculated the estimated number of uniformed officers and news cameras that would be gathered nearby, and decided that he should have brought an extra remote. If not for the harsh training he'd endured, the Batman would have laughed at his own stupidity; but he forced himself to work the problem instead. An old adage of Alfred's popped into mind, one that he'd heard often through his childhood, "Do not sit there like a gorilla, Master Bruce; work the problem." Anyone looking closely would have seen the corner of Batman's mouth quirk; but as no one was watching, his reputation was saved.

A quick inspection revealed the remote carefully tucked into the small nook on the side of the Tumbler and he was soon on his way home, his speed somewhat more respectable than it had been the previous evening. Despite what the criminal element may think, Batman wasn't entirely his own master; Alfred was still the voice of command in many aspects of their domestic life, and the dressing down he'd given Bruce Wayne earlier was still fresh in the Batman's mind. He was in enough trouble with the elderly gentleman already without causing a traffic pileup on the way home.

His thoughts shifted suddenly, the frightened face of Rachel Dawes appearing in his mind's eye and sending a shiver through him. He'd never seen her so utterly terrified – such a change from her normal brisk businesslike attitude or cheerful friendliness. It had shaken him more than he cared to admit. The sight of the antidote on the counter had been the most beautiful thing he'd ever beheld. He knew that by allowing the situation to get to him he was in violation of all his training, but he hadn't cared. Rachel was more than just another face in the crowd; more than just an ally in his war; she was Rachel, the only friend of his childhood, the reason for his crusade, and the single most important woman in his life.

He halted that thought, refusing to go any deeper into the issue until he had ceased to be Batman for the night and was once again simply Bruce Wayne. Batman could not allow himself to form emotional attachments; they were for Wayne, and Wayne alone.

He reviewed the night's events in his mind, going over each detail and searching for a way to improve his performance. One was never perfect, he knew; but he also knew that if he was going to live to see Christmas, he'd better make sure he didn't lose his edge. All it took was a lucky shot from some drunk with a gun and both Batman and Bruce Wayne would cease to exist and Gotham would be on her own again.

Not entirely, he reminded himself, the weathered face of Jim Gordon clear in his mind.

Gordon was proving to be a valuable ally. He didn't know many people who would have gone along with his plans like Gordon had. After all, he hadn't volunteered for the job, Batman had simply chosen him; and then told him to blow up the train. In an organization like the GCPD, actions such as Gordon had performed were grounds for suspension, termination, or even imprisonment. But the sergeant hadn't questioned his orders, or even expressed concern; he'd simply nodded, taken the remote and gone to work, giving Batman the time and assistance needed to bring down al Ghul and his minions. He knew that without Gordon's help it would have been much harder, though not impossible. He had several plans ready to be put into action by the time he'd reached the Narrows; but none that would have worked quite as efficiently without Gordon's willing aid.

He called to mind random faces from the crowds of fear-crazed people, analyzing their expressions and reactions with the intention of formulating a plan of action should he find himself in a similar situation in the future, a likely possibility given that Crane was still unaccounted for. The toxin had seemed to affect people in varying degrees; some had been terrified while others had been simply frightened. Could some people have a natural immunity? He'd have to ask Fox.

He suddenly remembered the boy Rachel had been protecting. He'd obviously been affected by the toxin that surrounded them all; but he had seemed better able to control his fear. The sweat covering his young face, the tremors that shook his small frame, and the tears of fright that shone in his eyes proved that he wasn't immune to the poison; but he hadn't screamed or cried, he hadn't run, and he had believed in Batman, even when everything else seemed lost. Rachel's courage and strength had seemed to pass to the child through some spiritual osmosis; but it hadn't kept the boy from clinging to Rachel like his life depended on her.

Bruce Wayne chuckled humorlessly in the back of Batman's mind. You and me both, kid.

Batman silenced him with a thought. Now was not the time for self-pitying humor.

He continued his analysis of the night's events until he reached the Cave and parked the Tumbler in its usual place. As the hatch opened, he caught sight of Alfred standing near the computer. "Master Batman," he called, "it is wonderful to see you back in one piece. I have prepared the bed for you," he added, pointing to the cot they'd decided to keep in the Cave for emergencies.

Batman simply nodded as he crossed to the costume vault and removed the cowl. After hours spent in the thing, it felt wonderful to finally have it off. He rolled his neck, listening with painful satisfaction to the various pops and cracks as he did so. "Have you slept, Alfred?" Bruce asked, swinging the cape off his shoulders and hanging it neatly on the rack.

"Of course, sir," the elderly butler answered, his tone clearly asking What else could I have done?

Dressed once again in the pajamas that he'd abandoned the day before, Bruce turned back to his butler who was really so much more. "I know you're probably really confused right now, Alfred," he started, struggling to stifle a yawn. "I can explain."

"After you've got some rest, Master Bruce," the loyal gentleman answered firmly. "I can live with unanswered questions for a few hours more."

"Yes, Alfred," Bruce replied obediently, crossing to the blanket covered cot.

"Sleep well, young man."


A dull roar was the first sound Bruce's sleep-fogged senses registered as he awoke, but it was immediately identified as the waterfall that hid the entrance to the Cave and dismissed as harmless. Next came the ever-present fluttering of the bats that occupied the higher regions of the Batman's lair, also dismissed. By the time he was fully awake, though with his eyes still closed, Bruce knew that he was lying on a cot two feet off the ground under a wool blanket in the area ten feet due west of the now useless lift car, and that Alfred was moving around near the Tumbler. His internal clock informed him that it had only been three hours since his return.

Deciding to indulge himself, Bruce relaxed into the pillow, allowing his thoughts to wander aimlessly for a few moments. He remembered mornings like this in his childhood, when Alfred would let him sleep-in while his parents were away for the morning. Breakfast-in-bed would inevitably follow, usually consisting of chocolate chip pancakes and hot chocolate with whipped cream.

The mere thought of putting food like that in his mouth now made his stomach turn. He was amazed he'd lived past age ten with all the deliciously poisonous foods he'd ingested. How many cans of condensed milk had he and Rachel swiped?

He shuddered and mentally changed the subject. Yesterday had been his birthday. It had to have been both the weirdest and most depressing birthday he ever had – even surpassing that one he spent shivering in the Swiss Alps feasting on marmot and Alpine salamander. After all, waking up from a two day delirium brought about by weaponized hallucinogens, saving Rachel from the same fate times three, taking part in a high speed police chase, pretending to be drunk and insulting all his guests, watching his ancestral home burn down around him, and saving the city from the evil designs of a man he looked up to almost as a father didn't add up to the typical billionaire's thirtieth birthday party.

Bruce mentally cringed at the thought of Ducard. After the years he spent roaming without a clear purpose, the offer from the League had seemed worth some investigation, at least. What he found when he reached the temple had far surpassed his wildest conjectures on the journey up the mountain. At first he thought he had fallen in with a band of very violent thugs; but the following days had changed him. He began to feel at home among the men that lived there, and Ducard became so much more than simply an instructor.

His knowledge of himself had increased significantly, and his skills as a warrior had definitely improved. He learned to perform feats he believed could only spring from the imaginations of the world's finest novelists, and Ducard gave him a purpose and self-confidence that had been missing all his life. For the first time in two decades, Bruce had actually been living. He believed in his mentor, and looked up to him with a loyalty he thought could never be shaken.

When he passed his final test, the sense of pride and accomplishment that flooded his soul had been almost overwhelming. He at last knew what the phrase "on top of the world" truly meant. He had done well by his mentor in the eyes of their leader, and together they would be rewarded. At last he could do good for the world. At last he could live up to his parents' ideals.

All of it had been shattered when he found that he still needed to pass the real test. They ordered him to kill a man in cold blood, and immediately the image that had haunted his every step – that of his parents lying dead in an alley – had passed before him, their sightless eyes begging him to refuse. He had no choice. Despite the urgings of his mentor, he couldn't bring himself to betray his parents.

The events immediately following – his fight with Ra's al Ghul, the destruction of the temple, and his mad slide down the mountain to save Ducard – were all rather hazy in his memory; but he could remember feeling abandoned, even as he carried his mentor to safety. A trust had been betrayed, whether by Bruce or Ducard he wasn't sure, and once again he was plunged into the desolation of losing a father.

It was on the long journey back down the mountain that his plan for Gotham had taken a firm hold. What Ra's said was true enough, he knew. Gotham was steeped in corruption, poverty, and crime; perhaps it was time someone did something about it. "As Gotham's favored son, you will be ideally placed to strike at the heart of criminality." Surely with all the training and experience Bruce had gained through the years, he could follow in his parents' footsteps and ease the sufferings of those less fortunate than he. However, he knew that what his father had done for the city wasn't enough. One man alone could do very little, no matter how rich he was.

"Theatricality and deception are powerful agents. You must become more than just a man in the mind of your opponent." And so Batman had been born, and within only a few weeks he had Falcone off the streets, the city saved, and his home destroyed. While he could have lived quite happily without that last, the other two did grant him a certain measure of that same pride and accomplishment that had meant so much a few months earlier.

He paused, reflecting on all that had happened since he'd come home. The sound of rubble shifting far overhead made him groan and cover his eyes with his hand. Why the house? Why did it have to be the house? He shook his head, Oh, suck it up, Wayne. It could have been worse.

"Ah, Master Bruce; I see you are awake. Unfortunately, all I can offer for your breakfast is bottled water and a can of surplus Army rations. The Batman does not seem to have an overly abundant cupboard."

It's worse.

"Good morning, Alfred," he mumbled, curling into a sitting position and running a hand through his hair.

Alfred was standing nearby, waiting patiently for instructions, a cheesecloth and a tub of Turtle Wax Rubbing Compound in his hand. "Shall I get you something, sir?"

"No thanks, Alfred; I need you to drive me into town, and we'll grab something on the way."

"Very good, sir," was all the old man said, but Bruce could sense the approval behind the statement. If there was anything Alfred loathed, it was prepackaged food. "I shall have your suit ready momentarily."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce replied, silently praising the butler's foresight that had resulted in several business suits being kept in the Cave for situations wherein Bruce Wayne was needed straight from the Bat's lair.

As he slid out from under the warm blanket and into his cold bathrobe, Bruce went over his plan for the day and came up short. "Alfred?" he called. "How are we going to explain my . . . uh . . . evening?"

"Do you mean the fact that you are checked into neither a hospital nor a hotel?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Oh, Master Bruce, a billionaire must have some secrets," Alfred intoned with his usual passive expression, though his eyes twinkled merrily.

The absurd irony of the statement wasn't lost on Bruce, and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Although he was dying for a shower and a toothbrush, he figured the day could only get better. After all, wasn't today the official date of Earle's termination?

The smile turned feral and he nodded to himself. Oh, yes; the day can only get better.