Summary: Could a man dedicated to the night have it all?

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Rating: T

Chapter XI

"I thought I might bring you some supper," Alfred said, quietly entering Karen's bedroom, carrying a tray of Minestrone soup, and crispy, hot toast. He hadn't seen her the rest of day, not since she'd heard the tragedy that had befallen her ex-fiancé.

Searching the room, he found her sitting on a padded ledge built into the ceiling high window, a ghostly expression on her face, as she stared out into the city. Mouth turning grim, Alfred brushed aside a pile of wadded Kleenex tissues, setting the tray on a desk.

He straightened and looked at Karen. "Right."

As he turned to leave she spoke. "Alfred," she croaked, her voice weak, broken.

"Yes, Miss Miller?" he asked facing her.

She was pale and her eyes were red from ceaseless crying. Raking a hand through her brown hair, she threw her legs over the side, rising uneasily to her feet. "It was my fault Alfred…Steven needed me. I knew he was addicted to heroin…I just didn't know how to help him. When I tried t-to…reach out to him one night…he… he…hit me…I couldn't take it anymore. So I…I used his numerous infidelities…as an excuse…an excuse to leave him. If I was only there…he wouldn't have gone…to…to that place!"

Alfred went to her. She was literally falling apart, ranting, nearly falling to her knees. Distressed, he gathered her into a warm embrace, before she dropped to the floor, shushing her, then stared into her mesmerizing dark eyes.

"There was nothing you did…and nothing you ex-fiancé did." He tipped her chip and Karen looked up at him with haunted eyes. "The person who murdered him is responsible for his death. It was them and them alone. Do you understand?"

She lowered her head, wanting to believe Alfred, but anguish and guilt stirred. Part of her was devoted, still loved Steven despite his faults. He had his moments in the sun, where he was positively wonderful, and always eager to open her eyes to culture, music, and the arts. Being brought up in the lowliest area of Gotham, Steven offered her a world she'd never seen. Nevertheless, it came with a violent temper and an addiction he couldn't master.

Braving a smile, Karen patted Alfred's chest in reassurance. "You're right."

"Good." He gestured to the desk, where the soup lay cooling. "I hope you're hungry."

"Famished actually," she whispered, going over to desk, and sitting down in the chair. She spooned some of soup into her mouth and smacked her lips. "Hmm, delicious."

"Trade secret," he said, smiling down at her.

After she'd eaten her fill, he collected the tray, asking if she required anything else for the night. She kindly told him no as she slipped into bed, drawing the plush quilt over her head. Alfred stood in the middle of room several minutes, watching the sleep take her over, and then withdrew, shutting off the lights.

Heading to the kitchen, he spotted Bruce sitting on a stool planted before an island counter, munching on an apple. He walked to the dishwater and deposited the dirty bowl, plate, and tray into the machine.

"How is she?" Bruce asked tonelessly.

"Barely holding it together," replied Alfred. He set the washer into rotation and turned around. "She's extremely upset."

"I know the feeling," he muttered, devouring the remains of his apple, tossing the core in the trash.

Anger consumed Alfred. He was well aware of what had Bruce in such a foul mood when he stumbled across his and Karen's conversation in the kitchen earlier. "I hope you'll try to extend a little courtesy in light of Ms. Miller's situation."

"I have Alfred."

"Have you?"

Bruce darkened. "I've brought her into my home didn't I?"

"For her protection as you claim," said Alfred, an edge of disappointment in his voice. "Or was it merely a ploy to gain her favor?"

"You've never questioned my honor before Alfred," Bruce said tersely, a crimson shade flustering his face. Embarrassment putting him ill at ease. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a conversation with Alfred. In fact, he couldn't recall one. "I don't know why you feel compelled to do it now."

"Because you've never brought home a woman as charming as Ms. Miller before," he said quickly, "A woman who, in some ways, reminds me of your mother."

The servant observed the way Bruce's face steeled, and lowered his eyes, never meaning to speak of the dead. "My apologies sir, I spoke out of turn. If you won't be needing me, I'll be turning in." With a curt nod, he started toward the door.

"Alfred," Bruce called out and he turned.

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

Bruce's mouth curled into a smile. "She is great isn't she?"

"Delightful."

Bruce paused before Karen's bedroom door, hesitant, deciding whether or not he should go in. Slowly turning the knob, he opened the door, and entered. It was dark except for moonlight drifting through the gossamer curtains hanging over the window. He stepped quietly into the room, stopping beside her bed, and peering down at the sleeping woman snug underneath a heavy quilt. A bit of the pale cool light touched her face.

His heart quickened. Reaching down, he brushed a silky tendril off her cheek. Karen stirred, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she rolled to other side of the bed, burying her face into the pillows. He noticed a bottle of Valium on the nightstand. Alfred must have provided it to calm her nerves. She would be out for hours. He heard her mumble something incoherent and retreated to the far side of the room. Unable to bear the close proximity any longer.

What was happening to him? Why the sudden urge to protect a woman, in truth, he barely knew?

Bruce glanced her way again, his brow furrowing. What did he really know about Karen? She was somewhat rambunctious, a hard worker, had a smart mouth, and was quick to give an honest, straightforward opinion. Other than that, there was nothing. The list was short, almost barren.

The only deep, personal aspect of her life he was sure about was that she graduated top of her class at Gotham University, her mother was dead, and now her ex-fiancé. He didn't know what her favorite color was or if she liked lettuce on a tuna fish sandwich.

He released a pent up breath, rubbing his neck. What if Alfred was right? What if he'd hoped to gain something out this whole trauma? What if he'd simply wanted to get her out of his system? A sexual release she alone could provide. He looked away, ashamed. She was gradually becoming a part of him and that was something he couldn't allow. Not as long as the city was lost to corruption. Not as long as he was Batman.

This was the path he'd chosen for himself, his destiny fashioned out of pain and torment. He would never forgive himself if she'd gotten hurt or killed. Nevertheless, her life was already at stake. Nicholas Pannelli wanted her dead. Why? What could he possibly hope to gain from this woman's death. She was a mild mannered, taxpaying citizen. She wouldn't harm a fly, unless provoked. He had to get to the bottom of this and fast.

Suddenly, a signal attracted his gaze and he withdrew to his bedroom. Fastening the bolt on the door, he went to his closet. He approached the compartment containing a vast number of his designer shoes. Slipping his hand behind the wall unit, he gave it a hard tug, and it swung open to one side. Residing on a mannequin, the dark mantle he bore.


Harvey Dent stood impatiently on the rooftop of the Gotham Police Department, casting a glance every so often at his watch. It was fifteen minutes after the ten, and still the Batman was a no show. But he would wait. He would wait until dawn if he had to.

A face to face with the Batman.

He'd yearned for this opportunity for quite a while, long before he was elected Gotham's District Attorney. Finally, after weeks of goading, he'd managed to sway Gordon into letting him meet the infamous Dark Knight.

"Is he normally this late?" he asked the Lieutenant standing beside the large projector beaming out a massive pillar of light.

"Some nights he doesn't show at all," answered Gordon honestly.

Harvey let out a snort. "Terrific."

Hands on his hips, he moved from corner to corner, looking out across the city. Once in awhile, he lifted his head to peer at the black sky. Watched a gigantic bat float on dark clouds slowly gliding in the heavens. He turned his eyes to Lt. Gordon casually sipping a cup of coffee. His mouth pulled into a smirk.

"I should've taken you up on that coffee."

"You're wise not to," Gordon gagged after a careful taste of the hot brew. "It ain't that great."

The D.A. threw his head back in a riotous laugh, which was instantly silenced when he saw a figure emerge in the shadows. Harvey's smile dissipated as he made out the Batman in the blackness. Poised, shrouded in darkness, the Dark Knight met his challenging eyes, then thrust his gaze to Gordon.

"I was wondering when we'd meet," Harvey said boisterously, closing the distance between himself and the enigmatic being sworn to rid Gotham of evil and depravity. He extended his hand in greeting. "Harvey Dent."

Batman dropped his eyes to the outstretched offering. "I know who you are," he rasped, moving away from the dignified lawyer.

"I might've known," Harvey grinned, retracting his arm. "And I've certainly heard a great deal about you."

"What have you heard?"

"Just about everything that could be said about a man who dresses in a Halloween costume and fights crime." Harvey noted the Dark Knight was not amused by his humor and switched gears. "I'm not here to pass judgment," he smiled. "I just wanted to meet you."

Batman tipped his head, his eyes eerily glowing like hot coals in the night. "Why?"

"It's safe to say we're both coming from the same page, an abhorrence to crime, though we tackle it differently."

"We're not the same," Batman growled, almost to the point of disgust. "If we were, men like Maroni, The Chechen, and even Nicholas Pannelli wouldn't have been able to build criminal empires here in Gotham."

"Granted, you're right about that, I do have my work cut out for me." Harvey admitted, seeing he had a tough road ahead.

Every day the cries of the public filled his office. The people were hungering for justice, and fairness in the courts. They were restless of hardened felons getting off with the slap on the time, due to wise cracking, expensive attorneys, and corrupt judges on the mob's payroll.

His back was against the wall.

While interviewing several attorneys to take up the Assistant D.A. seat, he was already coming under fire from the Mayor's office. Commissioner Loeb was barking demands, and threats on his life had increased. He wasn't afraid to die, but he was not ready to leave this world either. He raised his eyes to the Dark Knight.

"We could help each other." He offered, walking steadily to him. "Help me, help you."

Batman angled his head, eyes narrowing. "I don't need your help." He moved to leave, climbing onto the ledge.

"Oh, I think you do." Harvey remarked and the Dark Knight swung around. The D.A. stared hard at the mask shielding a face from plain sight.

His brain flared as he gazed deep into hooded eyes, wondering, guessing, partially impressed by the man who dared to take a stand. "You're not exactly popular. In fact, you're more wanted than Salvatore Maroni. I understand if you don't trust me, or even like me. I'm not exactly favored among some cops. Like you, they've got a nickname for me too, but I believe we can help each other."

"What can you offer me that I don't already gain from Lt. Gordon?"

Eyes falling on the officer residing in the background, a brow arched. He'd been right. There was a silent partnership between the self serving officer and the masked avenger. "Immunity, of some sort. Help dress up your image before the eyes of the public, easier access to the police force…"

"I'm not here to be liked, nor do I require more friends. It's not a luxury I care to have," Batman said facing the city.

"Someone has to be the hero that Gotham deserves."

The Dark Knight looked at Harvey. "I can't be that hero."

"But I can." Harvey stepped closer. "Together we can make this city into a better place."


"That little whore gets away! She slips out of our grasps and into the hands of the Bat and the police!" Nicholas Pannelli fumed, glaring at the imbeciles in his employ. He started to imagine if any of these idiots had brains larger than a peanut. They stood around the private suit of his deluxe yacht, his last refuge, a place where the Gotham police had not driven him out.

For seven days, he was stranded on the filthy dock, sea sickness beating him to submission. Time after time he fled to bathroom to empty his stomach. He was unable to keep anything down. He hated the water; the swaying motion gave him such terrible headaches, and the terrible stink of rotting garbage floating in the bay made him nauseous.

Upon his capture, Zsaz, the traitorous bastard, blew the whistle, admitting he'd been hired by him to do in the Miller girl. He grounded his teeth in rage. He should've known. Without Falcone to nurse his hide, the weight of his past sins, and this new indictment spelled more than a sweet life at Arkham. Harvey Dent ensured he would be getting the death penalty.

What was even worse? His opponents were getting bolder, using this crisis to muscle in on his turf. He knew it pleased Maroni; he was looking for a way to get rid of him for years; seeing him as stubborn annoyance. A visage of the past that needed to die. Salvatore Maroni should be careful. He and others like him ruled Gotham while he was just an itch in his daddy's pants.

His stomach lurched and he belched. A young underling handed him a glass of water and Alka-Seltzer. He dropped the effervescent tablets into the water. It sizzled.

"I should have let you go Ian," Pannelli exhaled, downing the medicine. "You never fail me." The stoic male grinned, his blues eyes glimmering, as he stood off to Pannelli's right. A vigilant sentinel. Tall, imposing, he'd been the Italian mobster's bodyguard and right hand for ten years.

"I want her dead," Pannelli cried. "She knows too much and that piece of shit, Zsaz, I want his head on a silver platter. I want Harvey Dent in pieces!"

"What about Wayne," someone said. "He's got her cooped up in that fortress. His death could spell big trouble…"

"Who gives a shit?" Pannelli roared. "That fuckin' pretty boy should've known better than to stick his nose where it don't belong. Take care of it!"

A/N: Pieces of the movies in this chapter. Still deciding if I'm going to bring in the Joker. Thanks for all the reviews. Keep them coming.