Aaaaaand here it is, the 3 full chapter of what is quickly becoming my favorite story to write. Phantom of the Opera fans, if you're reading this or have read my POTO fics, I AM finishing up chapters in those stories as well, I'm just a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to my stories. SPOILERS FOR BRICK: PLEASE SEE THE MOVIE! It is utterly amazing, especially if you love noir movies as much as I do. If you like Batman-which, assuming you're reading fanfiction for the genre, you do-then you should love Brick as much as I do. Please review and enjoy!

She wondered if it'd felt so strange for him to put his trust in her as she led him through the streets, if it was as strange as it felt to be led. It wasn't as if she didn't trust him—she trusted him probably more than she trusted herself, if she were honest—at least he was trained to serve and protect. More than she trusted anyone else she knew, at the very least. It just felt a little uneasy to be a follower again. She shook off the feeling with irritation at her own irrationality.

She felt her heart pounding, not with exertion or fear, but with a sort of surreal giddiness. The Commissioner Gordon had been considered almost a legend among everyone she'd known in the Narrows. Half the people in her care didn't truly believe what Bane had said the beloved Commissioner wrote, on that hellish day when he'd released the Blackgate prisoners. Denied a chance for parole or not, almost all of them had been convicted beyond any reasonable doubt of their guilt. Her heart stopped as the self-disfigured face of Victor Zsaz slammed into her mind's eye; she'd had the terrible misfortune of seeing him and one of his victims. She'd been lucky enough to miss the actual torture and killing, but what he'd done to the body—and to himself—had been scarring enough. She'd had to watch, trapped in some hidden dark corner while trying to will herself out of existence. It was a decidedly low moment of her life in Bane's Gotham. She remembered that Gotham had been filled with the screams of their victims as they once again gleefully mastered their playground. The sound of anguish and terror were almost as bad as Fear Day, a little over a decade ago now. Had it really been so long? She hadn't known time had slipped by so fast.

John's hand, so much larger than her own, was warm and stabilizing, like a groundwire for the thunderstorm of her thoughts. Each notion was as quick and intense as lightning, flashing from worry and concern about her poor sheep to the thrill of finally taking action against the monster who'd physically and emotionally leveled her home. After a few heartbeats, the people depending on her took precedence, as she figured they would. She'd have to impress upon them the necessity for haste—Sarah Markowitz was nearly due, and she wanted to be there for that. While she hadn't grown close to the woman—they were just too dissimilar—it didn't lessen her responsibility for Sarah and her unborn son, Samuel. The woman had been through enough lately as it was.

"We're almost there," he turned to her, eyes slanting but expression otherwise unchanged.

She smiled slightly, nodding, but didn't reply. There didn't really seem to be anything to say.

"So... I have a question for you," he hummed softly, muttering out snatches of thought and memory, tracking the patrols so they'd time it right. He gambled that they hadn't changed in the last few days he'd been gone.

"What is it?" she murmured, sharp eyes darting around, lips tight as she too tried to go through the steps she'd forced herself to memorize. Three men every day except for Thursday, armed, travel like a military formation. The blonde one, the usual leader, won't let them rape but encourages them to murder and violence. Can't be bribed, good on his feet with a mean swing, but a glass jaw. Biggest man is really a coward, the one in grey camos is a true believer—a martyr. Gay. Wants to die for Bane to prove his love. The blue-eyed one is way higher up, but every Thursday at 3:49 goes out on patrol with the three man squad. Him... you don't mess with unless there's no other choice. She bit her lip, hoping that the quiet man—Barjan? Barsad? Something like that—wasn't there today, that it wasn't a Thursday. He frightened her, with that calm, almost dreamy look in his eyes. He reminded her of something or someone, something she used to fear lived not under her bed, but existed somewhere in her own mind. That vacant, yawning emptiness inside of him terrified her, and she was ashamed of that fear. She supposed that would always frighten her—not hells or demons, but people who acted like their emissaries... what drove decent human beings to debase themselves into animals. She worried about this more than most; not just because living in the Narrows as a child had provided her with a unique viewpoint on human suffering, but also because that psychopath might lurk in her own soul. Alyth Gowan had always made it a point to be well-acquainted with her own demons.

And behold, the red horseman of War, she thought wearily, bitterness tainting her gaze. People were dying—and more people would die yet. Hell, they might all die if that fucking nuclear bomb went off. She thought of pretty little Sarah Markowitz, heavy and awkward with her son, who still tried to smile and pray for the dead. She kept telling Alyth that in the end, life would find a way. Sarah had her only her son left; a drunk driver had killed her parents and little brother a year or so prior, her husband missing, trapped with the rest of his squad in the sewers. "I believe God is merciful to those who wait. My people have endured far worse than Banes, Miss Gowan. We are a people born to endure suffering." The thought of her bravery gave Alyth strength to try and focus her rage. She didn't have the luxury of grieving or regrets. She had thrown her lot without hesitation in with John and Gordon, perhaps even before she'd met them. Now was the time to see it through.

"So, uh... what did you do, before all this? Before Bane?" he asked, eyes lit with curiosity like distant stars. The way his head was cocked at her, the intensity of his interest, made her acutely and painfully aware of the blush dusting over her cheeks. Thankfully most of it could be blamed on the biting cold, but from the smirk playing around the corners of his mouth she thought he'd caught it. Dammit. She fought the lopsided smile, and almost—but not quite—succeeded.

"You mean, like what was my job?" she chuckled. "Because I did a lot of things, you know. Busy modern woman and all." He rolled his eyes.

"Obviously."

She sighed, a touch melodramatically to see if she could make him smile. There, hovering in the crinkles near his eyes—as close as a smile as she'd get out in the open. "Well, if you must know... I was a civil servant," she replied crisply, voice switching to prim and proper. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand, but didn't manage to hide the grin completely. She felt more triumphant about that than she probably should've.

"As what, oh fair Miss Gowan?"

"Weeeell," she drawled, enjoying the game. "I was a librarian. Children's librarian, to be precise."

John raised his eyebrows, surprised. So 'little Rosie MacMannus' was really a little Rosie MacMannus. And it would explain the circumstances of their first meeting...

"You look shocked!" she hissed delightedly, nose scrunching up in mock horror. "Did you really believe me so illiterate as to have completely dismissed such an absurd idea?"

"Well, I didn't wanna mention it..." he trailed off, but his eyes were dancing and his shoulders had relaxed a little. When she was sure he couldn't see it, she let her gaze soften and roll over him protectively. She liked it when he smiled, when he was happier. He seemed like he'd had enough hurt to last a lifetime—and she knew a thing or two about that.

"Cheeky," she laughed quietly.

"I think that's the first time I've been called that," he muttered, hunching his shoulders over and jamming his hands in his pockets. "I've been called a lot of things, but cheeky is a first, Alyth."

She repressed a shiver at the way his voice slid over her name with iron will alone. She was getting in deep with him; she had an inkling where this was going if they didn't throw on some kind of brakes. Their own natures would prevent anything rushed or hasty; however, once their intensity caught fire, it would burn everything else like so much chaff. It would consume them or ignite their world—or both, knowing her luck. Yeah, and nearly all of it's bad, she snorted mentally. Both of them were damaged, inside; the other couldn't fix it or erase the past. She refused to let herself consider the possibilities of their mutual gravitation if they weren't looking for redemption in the burning. That sort of hope she most definitely couldn't indulge in. Perhaps, if they survived... yeah, then maybe.

"Nah, I just... I'd had you pegged for something different. You know a lot about what goes down around here. A lot more than I expected a kids' librarian to know, I guess."

Her eyes dimmed, like drapes gently falling down the proverbial windows to her soul. When she spoke, her voice was sad and a touch bitter.

"Most people, most abusers—they always warn the kids about the teachers, the cops. A lot of the time, they just kind of forget about us librarians. They think we read the kids stories, help them with their homework, and that's that. Kids are more willing to talk to us than the teachers they've been raised to fear... at least, in my experience. I've heard a lot from the kids of the Narrows—I've worked there almost a year now, and I tend to remember what I hear. I try to help them as much as I can, when I can. Sometimes there's—there's nothing I can do. Sometimes there is. And I read. A lot. As I'm sure you can imagine."

"A librarian? Reading?" he joked, pretending to be wryly shocked. "I would have never guessed."

"Apparently so!" she snickered. "I see that I've underwhelmed you," she griped good-naturedly.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he murmured, more to himself than to her. Her breathing hitched, but it evened out, calmed. The way his eyes pierced the shadows made her wonder what he was seeing in them. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know just yet.

"Third building to the left, the brownstone. Apartment 48F."

She nodded tersely, body coiling as they waited for some loitering drifters to move. She hated the paranoia that thrived in Gotham's new reality, that bred there. Nobody should be so distrustful of their fellow man.

"Come on," he muttered, yanking her closer to him as they darted for the broken door. Sprinting up the stairs, they panted a few flights up.

"We should probably wait the day out here, head out at night," he grimaced. She wheezed, rubbing her back, nodding with the little energy she could spare.

"I suppose... the... elevator's out?"

"Maybe I just wanted you to get... a little... exercise."

She let out a string of profanity, fixing him with a black glare. He applauded her well-rounded tirade with a sardonic twitch of his eyebrows.

"Ugh... Running across mostly-level surfaces? No problem. Running up goddamn multiple flights of stairs? Houston, we have an issue," she mouthed darkly to herself.

"Can't keep up?" he taunted.

"Just watch my back," she yelped, darting forward with a challenge on her face. He groaned as he watched her fly up the stairs, wondering where the fuck she kept her spare reserves of energy. He could use a little of that. Following at a much more sedate pace, he scowled at the sight of her smug look as Alyth waited in front of his apartment. He also noticed her heaving chest far more than he wanted to, attempting to be a good guy and look away. He couldn't help his eyes sliding over to glance every now and then as he turned the key. It'd been a long time since he'd been with a woman... and none of them had mattered since Em. Not since high school, when his last foster parents before he'd aged out, the Fryes, had taken him in and changed his name to try and make him fit into their family.

Not since he'd found Emily Kostich dead near the end of his junior year.

It hadn't worked—the family, the name change, or the relationship. He'd spent a long time since then trying to deal with the aftermath. John had had to learn the hard way between understanding and acceptance of his difficult nature. In the end, he supposed it hadn't mattered one way or another. Em had still died, taken the hit when she didn't deserve it, and taken something infinitely beautiful and fragile with her. Even in the sleepy suburb outside of Gotham proper, the city had poisoned it with drugs and gangs. He'd been determined to change it for the Emily Kostich's he could save in time.

The key turned, and he motioned for her to enter. As she did so, she reached out for him, stopping halfway through. He didn't want to know what she saw in his eyes right then. Gordon stepped back from behind the door, lowering his gun as he saw who it was.

"I'd almost started thinking the worse, Detective. Who's this?" Gordon smiled tightly.

"Alyth Gowan, sir," she introduced, extending her hand. He looked at it as if it would bite him, but eventually shook it anyways. "I've been helping people down in the Narrows."

"Yeah, Rooney told me that the Finley brothers were spreading a rumour around. Figured it was a smokescreen for their own movements," he muttered distractedly.

She pursed her lips but didn't affirm the statement. The fewer people who knew exactly what their intentions were—which admittedly were still hazy to her—the better.

"Not all of it is bullshit," she smiled easily, mask hiding her wariness.

"They got about sixty people there, Commish. Wanted to offer you safe haven. Alyth here's organizing a rebellion against Bane, and has got some interesting connections," John spoke quietly, enunciating significantly. Gordon caught the hint, eyebrows shooting up behind his glasses.

"Well I suppose you must be trustworthy if Blake says so," Gordon smiled blearily, the weight of Gotham resting on his shoulders aging him prematurely. As he looked at her and his detective, at the easy camaraderie and unspoken language between the two, the unconscious pull they held for each other, he whistled mentally. He'd almost, sometimes, had that with Barbara, before duty and this hellish city had destroyed their marriage. This Alyth, whoever she really was, on the inside—she was dangerous for Blake. When the last girl he'd loved had died, he'd torn down an entire drug ring and nearly caused a gang war. Kids had died;maybe not from him directly but surely as a result of his unorthodox investigation. From what he'd gathered in his digging, Emily Kostich hadn't even loved Blake—who'd been forced to take a different name for almost two years—and he'd doggedly set out to find the truth, consequences be damned. Gordon thought that if Blake and Alyth realized the banked firestorm that lay between them, if they fell in love (or their approximation of it), if one of them died...

He shuddered.

Blake could raze Gotham to the ground to get to Bane.

Gordon kept his eyes open, gears turning while making battle plans with the two. He didn't like the idea of using the god damned Joker's tactics, but it made a sick sort of sense. Bane probably wouldn't see it coming either, which was a very good point. The fact that Alyth, with something coldly burning and ancient etched into her eyes, had suggested it made Gordon wonder if she wouldn't be the more dangerous one if Blake was killed. Women had the potential to be much crueler than men, after all; women who had lost everything were worse still. He made a mental note to keep an eye on her.

Hours passed in plotting. She'd brought food—food-and some of his misgivings melted a little. Gordon had eaten slowly, enjoying the desperately needed nourishment. He felt a little guilty for being resentful of Blake having the opportunity to eat while he was away. He knows the rookie gave him the rest of the food he'd had that'd still been edible. Blake had gone without food probably two days when he'd left to scavenge. Gordon felt a pang of remorse. The kid was alright though—so he kept eating. He'd become drowsy, sleepy; not from any hidden drugs but from the energy his semi-starved body was expending to digest the rough meal. He quietly excused himself, figuring they could use some time alone to... do whatever people like them did.

There was weary stillness for long minutes after Gordon laid down in the guest bedroom. Alyth had moved over to join John on his couch, his arm sliding over her shoulders as if it was the most natural movement in the world. It could have been—neither one actually realized it had happened, not until John's head was resting on hers, breathing evening out with exhaustion, Alyth using his shoulder as a pillow. The two were fighting for consciousness, staving off the darkness of cooing sleep.

She's soft when she's tired, he thinks, his mind narrowing down into last-ditch attempts to stay sharpish and awake. Eases up some of the weight of her world. He breathed in deeply, incredibly comfortable in those minutes. He knew he wouldn't be when he woke up—back'd be popping, crick in the neck, the works—but for now, it was worth it. The smell of her, jasmine and mint, filled his senses with memories of summers spent with his grandparents, back when he was barely out of diapers. His mother (who wasn't even a ghost to him anymore, just a faint impression of warmth and laundry detergent) and his father (dad) had loved those summers. He thinks maybe his grandparents died, since they stopped going. He doesn't know—but what he does know is that he likes her smell; it's summer sunshine in the iciest circle of hell. His eyes drift closed, content. He believes his dreams will be gentler tonight. He hopes they will be.

She listens as his breathing deepens, steadies. He's solid and strong and warm against her. He smells like sweat, gunpowder, and Old Spice—undeniably masculine and attractive. Her lips tingle as if burnt at the searing memory of their kiss, a breathy sigh escaping her good intentions. His head is resting on hers, the slight weight comforting; his arm is protection against the cold, cruel world. The scent of his cheap aftershave is enough to make her dizzy. She berates herself, weakly, for being such a romantic, giddy little schoolgirl. She's older than that, better than that. Her overworked nerves settle down, sleep tiptoeing over her mind, blanketing everything in blessed darkness. Before she slips away, she thinks that this is the safest she's ever felt, next to somebody who's got her back, who can count on her watching his. She hopes his dreams are sweet, because if anybody deserves it, it's the man she's resting on.

Neither one of them remember their dreams in the morning, or even if they dreamed at all.