'It's Only Fear' by Alexi Murdoch.

Pretty, pretty on the fence, in your pretty moment of innocence,
You do not see that I see inside, the quiet heart you're trying to hide
Don't hold your head too high, don't be afraid to cry
Because you know my dear, it's only fear, it's only fear
Keeps you locked in here.

Nothing Out There.

"So," she leaned over to put the plate in front of him. "You never told me about your home."

Sausages, rashers, scrambled egg, toast. He suppressed a small twinge in his stomach at the sight of all that food, prepared just for him. Cooked perfectly with care, with an effort to impress. He made a show of picking up his knife and fork as Alice sat opposite and sloshed milk over her honey nut cornflakes. Then, for some seconds, he chewed carefully, pretending to relish – actually relishing – the tastes and textures. His diet was not normally so luxurious. Not even in the penthouse. Certainly not as an inmate at Blackgate or Arkham, and not even before that, during his days as professor and then doctor. Food was a necessity for the body, and he'd never really cared for his physical self.

Now he could feel every nerve end tingling because her eyes were on him, searching, curious, and the breakfast was delicious because she had made it. This woman who had no idea who he was, and accepted him for it. This girl who hadn't yet ridiculed or ignored or injured him. Only frightened and intrigued him to a point where he felt altered, not himself.

What man could honestly feel 'like himself' after three thousand days in a cell without sunlight, deprived of the greatness due to him? This was the excuse he pushed like a barricade against his own treacherous thoughts.

"Which home? What about it?" he asked finally, after he'd swallowed.
"Your apartment here. The bland one."
"Yes?"
"Is there anyone else there?"
He coloured abruptly despite himself. "No, not really."
"No wife, no children?"
He laughed aloud. "No."
"No girlfriend?"
"Not for a while." He paused to inject some authenticity into his words. "There were a few. Over the years."
"No-one stayed?"
"Nobody really clicked."

A pause. She crunched and pondered. A small, stupid smile threatened the corner of his mouth.
He wanted to slap it from his own face.

"Friends?"
"A couple of close friends, yes. Nobody I'd like to get into trouble because of me."

She understood, and looked down. If she was caught hiding him – who she thought he was – there would certainly be trouble. But of course he couldn't leave now for her sake. He was her protector in case any of the big bad guys accidentally showed up in her flat. The irony of it almost murdered him.

"And yourself?" he steered away from his own pretended history. "I don't suppose you've had many husbands."

She laughed a pretty little laugh that ended with a small sad smile.
"No husbands."
"Boyfriends then, obviously."

It was so fascinating to watch her taking compliments.

"A few of those," she admitted.
"Let me guess," he spoke to his toast, "every time your heart gets broken you fly off to another city."
The sharp glance that she gave him was also an amused one.
"Every time it's in danger, actually. It's never been broken."
"There are men all over the world still wondering where you got to?"
"I don't like goodbyes."
"Did your family say goodbye?"

Now the look was anything but amused.

"No, they didn't get a chance."
"Sorry."
"No, it's okay. Feel free to pry. Just don't expect many answers."

She was making the game so enjoyable! He could have clapped his hands for delight.
But now it was her turn. She'd finished her bowl and was whirling the spoon around it aimlessly, frowning.

"I don't understand. You move to Gotham for Business, become a bookkeeping clerk, move into a bland old flat and get a couple of girlfriends – but you have Psychology as a hobby. Who has Psychology as a hobby?"
"Bookkeeping clerks."
"You could have earned more as a doctor." She levelled her gaze at him. "You're either stupid or boring, or both."
"Thank you."
"But you're not."
"How do you know?"

She didn't. She was just hoping he wasn't. Or second guessing.

"You're not, are you?" she murmured. "I think there's more."
"Is there?"
"I think you're afraid. To move forwards."

She shifted and crossed her legs. Her toes brushed him under the table for an instant.
Damn the girl, she was cutting right to the core of him through his alter ego of all things. At least his reactions would be more genuine because of it. He preferred playing the game the other way around, when she was the one under scrutiny – but if he wanted any help from her he was going to have to give as much as he took.

"I didn't have the greatest encouragement."
"From your parents?"

He nodded mutely. His eyes were firmly fixed on the plate he was polishing off, but he sensed the sympathy welling up in her like an untasted freshwater spring, rich and refreshing. And new. Something he'd been long deprived of.

"Why don't you tell me about them?"
He gave her a cheerless smile and shook his head. If she was going to play hard to get she could hardly expect him to start sobbing all over her about his 'haunted past' and his 'loveless childhood'. No. She was going to beg him for his secrets.

Another brush against his leg, this time hardly an accident.
"If you could do anything," she urged, "anything at all, forgetting fear, what would you do?"

An image of Gotham on its knees flashed across his vision. Gotham bowing to him. Only him.
And – a woman at his side. On his side. In cahoots, as it were. Still bowing, still submissive. But his, willingly, through and through. After he'd had his fun, after he'd scoured the last inches of her mind and toyed with her body, she would be his slave and his supporter and his comfort in the nights, a shield from everything haunting and undermining. His first friend.

But who was he without Ra's al Ghul, without Bane, without the League of Shadows?

"At the moment," he said eventually, meeting her gaze, "this is just fine."
And he meant it.

"I have to do my rounds," her voice lingered at the table as she danced away to wash up their things. "Information doesn't gather itself. I have lots to catch up on for the old book. You won't be too bored, will you?"
"I should be fine."
Alice nodded to the stack of novels on the windowsill. "Feel free to read those."
"And what's to stop me from reading yours?" he teased, gesturing to the hundreds of pages pinned to the walls.

"It's a first draft!" she cried. "Don't read it. And if you do remember first drafts are always awful."
She was dragging the chair away from the door, flinging on a coat.
"Alice," he stood up abruptly and crossed to the kitchenette.
"Yeah?"

Her whole frame stiffened as she watched him pick up the gun from the counter and advance towards her. She didn't want to look suspicious but it showed plain as day on her face. There was a little way to go yet before she'd trust him. And rightly so. Only as he placed the weapon in her palm and stepped away did she breathe again.

"Better take that with you," he mumbled, trying not to get caught up in her bright grey stare.
She beamed suddenly.
"Hold down the fort for me, there's a doll."
"Don't worry, I'll protect your novel with my last breath. It's worth much more than me."

Another backward glance, another titillating smirk, and she was off skittering down the hallway.

He sat down again, the immediate scent of her fading from the room, and pulled at his hair uncomfortably. Then he set off on the long journey of handwriting around her flat, approximately a thousand sheaves long, starting with a rather gripping prelude right next to the front door, and cutting off mysteriously and abruptly halfway through somewhere in the recesses of her bedroom.

Great things are coming up, if only I can find the enthusiasm to write them! Is anyone actually bothered about this? Should I just stop now?
Leave me a review if you're eager to see what happens!