Life continued on in Gotham. Bruce continued to avoid Annabeth and Safe Haven, Annabeth continued to ignore the increasingly lurid accounts of his movements, carefully detailed in the Gotham Gazette's Society Column, and Donna continued to avoid the subject altogether. However, any concerns that he had abandoned his project were allayed one morning, the day before Thanksgiving, when Maya came hurrying into Donna's office. "There's an unauthorized delivery."
Donna raised an eyebrow. Given the sensitive nature of their work, there was always a slight risk inherent in what they did. Unauthorized shipments could be anything from an office supply order that hadn't been logged, to a nicely packaged little bomb. Annabeth usually handled these types of issues, but she was in an early meeting with the Mayor and Commissioner Gordon, and so it fell to Donna. She rose, but Maya's next words gave her pause. "It appears to be a rather large load of groceries from Bon Appetit."
"The gourmet grocery store?" Donna's voice was disbelieving. "Are they lost? And why do you need for me to handle it? It's a misdelivery."
"I don't think so...I think it might be from Bruce Wayne."
Their eyes met. Donna lowered her voice. "Why do you think that?"
"Because Bruce Wayne is at the delivery door."
Not for nothing was Maya a rather highly-paid assistant. Donna had no doubts that with her discretion and diplomacy, she would go very far indeed. "I'll take care of it, Maya, thank you."
By the time Donna arrived at the service entrance, she had wiped the surprise from her face, and presented Bruce with her mask of pleasant, unruffled professionalism. "Bruce! It's been far too long. Come in...it's terribly cold out here."
If Bruce was surprised by his warm welcome, he didn't show it...but he also didn't step in. "I can't really stay, Donna...I just wanted to swing by and see how things were going, and make sure you got the delivery of food for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow."
"Oh, is that what this is?" Donna glanced at the stacks of boxes which were quickly piling up around her; Bon Appetit's delivery crew moved with all speed. They had many more deliveries to make before the holidays, but of course Bruce Wayne had smoothly compelled them to place Safe Haven at the top of the priority list. Bruce began to shift the boxes, stacking them inside the door. Donna eyed him as he did, taking in his form, his thick, dark hair, his confident movements. What the hell had he done to drive Annabeth away? It had to be something pretty bad, for her to be willing to walk away from a fine chunk of manflesh...Enough. Donna sternly corralled her thoughts back to the present.
Bruce was justifying his gift. "I wasn't sure what you were all doing for dinner, so I thought I would make a gesture of..." Bruce paused, searching for the best word. "Reconciliation? Apologies for my recent neglect?"
"No apologies needed, Bruce." Donna gave him an assessing look. "You're a busy man...at least according to the papers."
Bruce winced. "I guess people really do read those rags, don't they?"
"Mmm. Are you sure you don't want to come in? Annabeth's not in right now, anyway." Donna had a fairly shrewd guess as to why he wasn't over-eager to linger.
"Thanks, but I really do have to go." Bruce smiled. "I have a rather long meeting with the board to deal with..."
A silence, not awkward, but certainly loaded, stretched between them. Donna tilted her head and gazed curiously at Bruce.
"How...how is she?" Bruce asked.
He didn't need to specify who "she" was, and Donna didn't need to ask. "Grumpy and working more than ever,"she sighed. "Bruce...what happened? She won't say a word one way or another."
Bruce appeared to weigh his answer before he told her. "We...had a misunderstanding. And you know Annabeth...and me, for that matter. It escalated..." he paused and ran his fingers through his hair. "Will she be okay?"
Donna nodded. "She's a trooper, our Annabeth. A right pain when she wants to be, but still a tough one. She's upset, I know she is—not that she'll let on, of course, but I've known her long enough to know when she's unhappy...unhappier. I blame myself"
"You?" Bruce was surprised. "Why do you blame yourself?"
"It's my fault you two started spending time together. It never would have happened if I hadn't pressured her into it."
"Thanks for reminding me that she wanted to vomit upon contact." Bruce smiled ruefully, but there was a pain in his eyes he could not disguise.
"You charmed her yourself, though, without any help from the rest of us." Donna felt the need to encourage him. "Still...give her some time. She might come around."
Bruce wasn't an idiot. "Have you ever known her to come around?"
"Well...no," Donna admitted. "Still. There's a first time for everything."
The boxes were all stacked up, and the delivery men were respectfully waiting by the truck, not wanting to interrupt. Bruce noticed them and briefly conferred with them, passing along a hefty tip and his thanks. After the truck rumbled down out of the alley, he rejoined Donna, who had been thoughtfully watching.
"I'm sorry you two don't seem to be working out." She said this gently, with the experience of one who had experienced more than her fair share of romantic disappointments.
Bruce shrugged. It was clear that he no longer wanted to pursue this line of conversation. "I wanted to let you know...there's some wine in those boxes. I hope it's okay...wasn't sure if Safe Haven's a dry residence."
Donna rolled her eyes. "Usually we are, but at holidays, we make exceptions, at least for those who aren't recovering addicts. Although it's a questionable act of judgment on my part," she added as an afterthought.
"What happens?"
"The recovering alcoholics get twitchy, the emancipated minors get sulky because they're still not allowed to drink, and Annabeth drinks all of two small glasses and gets maudlin and begins ruminating over how we're her only family. Sometimes there are tears involved. Want to come?"
"I think I'll pass, thanks." Bruce glanced back down the alley. "I need to get going. I hope you all enjoy the dinner."
"Don't be a stranger, Bruce," Donna said softly. "Our clients love you, and you've completely transformed things here. Don't stay away because of Annabeth."
"I'll come back," Bruce promised. "Just not yet. Maybe next week, I'll bring the newest version of blueprints. And you'll be coming to the charity gala next month?"
"We'll be there, Bruce. Thank you...for everything."
"Happy Thanksgiving, Donna." He gave her a half-smile, turned, and headed back down the alley, at the end of which Alfred presumably waited with the car idling.
Donna stood in the doorway and watched him for a long time after.
Were it not for Alfred, there would be no holidays at Wayne Manor. With the deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, Bruce's childhood had come to an abrupt and violent end, and he had lost all interest in the typical hobbies and pursuits of a young boy. Still, Alfred had persevered, year after year, arranging holiday meals and entertainments, trying to provide Bruce with as much normalcy as could be expected.
In Bruce's adult years, Alfred was confronted with more of a complicated dilemma. He had long since discharged himself of the duty to provide Bruce with a stable, normal life, particularly since Bruce had so thoroughly and willfully rejected said stability and normalcy. But Alfred was normal, liked holidays, and as devoted as he was to Master Wayne, he was not inclined to entirely forsake tradition.
Which was how, on that Thanksgiving, Alfred found himself shuttling a feast down to the Batcave, for him to consume and Bruce to ignore.
One, two, three, four, five trips up and down the secret lift, and finally, Alfred had brought down all the food, all the bottles, all the linens and china and cutlery needed for an elegant holiday dinner fit for the Waynes. Or Wayne, as the case may be.
Silently, Alfred set up one of the worktables, spreading a crisp white tablecloth, carefully laying out two place settings, even lighting arrow-straight candles carefully stuck into a 19th-century silver candelabra. The candles emitted a soft glow that brought a surprising amount of coziness to the dank chill of the cave, but even that was not enough to rouse Bruce from his tasks. Nor were the delicious smells emanating from the carved turkey, nor were Alfred's repeated, and increasingly annoyed-sounding ahems.
It was not a view that Alfred would have shared with anyone, but it was his own private opinion that Master Bruce Wayne could be more than a little obnoxious when he gave in to his obsessions.
He was certainly in the throes of his obsession that Thanksgiving Day. As Alfred quietly seated himself at the makeshift dinner table and proceeded to bore holes in the back of Bruce's head, Bruce himself was hunched over his personal worktable, researching something on his computer and occasionally making notes on a legal pad. In the past couple of weeks, since there had been no new developments with the Arrows or those who were quietly fighting against them, Bruce had focused his attentions more on Seth Percival. When he had gone after Annabeth, the man had unwittingly made a formidable and lifelong enemy of Bruce Wayne.
Eventually, Bruce looked up. While he had not been in the Batman's armor, he may as well have been; he was certainly in the mode for it. Alfred watched as Bruce became Bruce once more, as he temporarily stepped away from his research and reconfigured his awareness. And then he watched as Bruce became aware of the holiday dinner, and Alfred's semi-exasperated expression.
"What are you doing?" Bruce asked unnecessarily as he rose from the worktable. His knees creaked as he did, and he winced. Was he already beginning to show signs of age?
"Anyone's limbs will make that noise if they're in the same position for an infernal amount of time, the way you were," Alfred informed him, correctly divining his thoughts. "And I am simply waiting for you to realize that there is a very delectable holiday meal here, waiting for you." The unspoken rebuke was that the meal had not been the only thing waiting for Bruce to come out of his obsessed reverie.
Bruce had no desire whatsoever to put his research on hold, but even he knew when to uphold domestic harmony. With nary a word of protest, he joined Alfred at the table and silently watched as the butler rose and presented him with a plate heaped full of Thanksgiving goodness. His eyes narrowed as he watched Alfred then move his attentions on to a ice bucket by the turkey. "You know I don't like alcohol down here."
"Wouldn't dream of going against his majesty. You might throw some guano at me." Alfred pulled the cheap-looking bottle out of the bucket. "It's sparkling cider." You pompous ninny. Probably just as well you don't want alcohol down here, I'd be completely arsed by the time you get home in the morning.
As Alfred poured the liquid into the goblets, Bruce visibly relaxed for the first time that day. "You know, Thanksgiving isn't even your holiday. It's American."
"Yes, and it's a tragedy, what you bloody colonials did to the New World...but what else am I supposed to do with the day? Brainstorm more absurd society scenarios? Check on the price of emu stocks?" Alfred took his seat again and resumed consuming his rather gourmet—if he said so himself—meal.
"You could help me with research."
"We are stalled on that, as I mentioned to you last night, sir." Alfred passed Bruce the gravy boat before he had a chance to ask for it. "We've combed the public reports of Seth Percival's bank and analyzed the finances; it all is quite aboveboard. The other things—getting into his bank and credit accounts and sealed legal files—are illegal."
"And therefore unacceptable?" Bruce took a sip of the cider and winced. Perhaps it was time to re-think his stance on alcohol in the Batcave—and then entertained images of an exasperated and long-suffering Alfred thoroughly soused when the Batman returned in the mornings. Nope, no spirits in the cave, thank you very much.
"Of course not, sir. Not unacceptable—just more time consuming. When one breaks the law, one must do so carefully. One of the key points of breaking the law is not getting caught."
"When it comes to law-breaking, Alfred, you seem to speak with an alarming amount of authority." Bruce eyed him affectionately. "Anything I need to know about?"
"Don't ask, don't tell." Alfred smiled mysteriously.
"Because that's worked so well for the U.S. Military?" Bruce shook his head. "Anyway, to return to the subject at hand, you've turned up nothing new on Seth Percival?"
"Only the knowledge of some sealed court files, back from where he came from in Chicago. We can get them unsealed through the Spelunkers—" that was their name for the team of Colorado-based hackers that was employed by one of Wayne Enterprise's less renowned subsidiaries. In all truth, the Spelunkers were nothing more than two anti-establishment, sibling adolescent gamers who enjoyed their untaxed paychecks and knew better than to ask questions-— "but it takes a while. They're keeping me updated."
"Do we have any idea what's in the files?" Bruce was starting to lapse back into his obsession. "I think if we focus on Seth, we can crack this thing. He's the weakest link."
"Well, as to that, you know far more than I. But regarding the files, it's too soon to tell. Nothing too obvious has come up, but I think one of the young Spelunkers mentioned some traffic court issues. And they haven't hit the family court files; there may be something in there."
"Hmmm. Maybe because he was arrested during an attempt to introduce his wife to the back of his hand?" Bruce's eyes glinted in anger. "The sooner we find out the goods on him, the better this will be. What about his business associates?"
"No particular man or woman has been standing out. But there are quite a few." Alfred caught sight of Bruce's exasperated expression. "For pity's sake, Master Wayne, the man's a prosperous banker. He's going to enjoy a certain level of visibility around the city...probably outside of the city, too."
The two men fell silent as Alfred savored the food and Bruce simply consumed it. For Alfred, food could be an art form, a celebration of life; for Bruce, it was merely fuel, a means to an end. Still, Bruce felt the need—again, driven by an appreciation for domestic harmony—to compliment Alfred. "It's a wonderful meal, Alfred...it's just a shame that I can't really focus on it.
"No matter, sir. I'm sure the Safe Haven ladies are enjoying it...it's the same meal as the one you had me order from Bon Appetit." Alfred looked very pleased with his streamlined way of running things.
"You really think they'll like it?" Bruce didn't want to think too much about the "Safe Haven ladies", as Alfred had so quaintly phrased it, but he could not help but to ponder about one particular lady at Safe Haven. Annabeth, damn her, had lodged into his brain, and no amount of demonic energy invested into his work appeared to remove her.
Alfred was unaware of any of Bruce's morose ponderings. He was relishing a mouthful of smashed rutabagas with ginger-roasted pear relish. Only after he swallowed did he confidently assure Bruce, "I'm sure they are enjoying the meal every bit as much as we are."
"What the hell is this crap?"
The thirty-some odd women and children gathered around the dinner tables gazed in dismay at the feast that Donna, Maya, and Annabeth had prepared. Except the for the strident protest that came from Stacy, the smart-mouthed kid that Gordon and the Batman had entrusted to Annabeth, the rest of them were silent.
"It's a..." Donna glanced over at Annabeth, who had already consumed one glass of wine as they were warming the epicurean, prepared food. "It's a gift from Bruce Wayne."
Silence, punctuated only by a tiny hiccup from Annabeth. She reached for the Chardonnay.
Maya began carving the turkey, which thankfully still resembled the more bourgeois fowl most of their clients appreciated. "It's delicious, I'm sure. Just a little fancy-pants."
"Fancy-pants?" Stacy mocked her. "Christ, where I come from, we call it snobby and gross."
The rest of those at the dinner table maintained a diplomatic silence, but it was clear by their expressions that they didn't think much, either, of the smoked oyster and lotus leaf stuffing, the pureed yams, and the miso-rubbed turkey. Maya was beginning to dread the unveiling of dessert, a fig crostata that she had briefly contemplated passing along to one of the homeless folks on the street.
Rich people.
"It doesn't matter," Annabeth tried to cheer them up. "It was a nice gesture, anyway. And who cares about food? We're all here. I'm happy to be here, surrounded by the people I love and trust."
Maya and Donna cast each other knowing, helpless looks.
"I don't have family," Annabeth continued on, not noticing that her twelve-year-old seatmate at her left elbow had surreptitiously moved her wine goblet away from her. "It used to bother me a lot more than it does now, because now, I'm here. I'm lucky—to have Donna and Maya and the rest of you, I am truly blessed. I trust you all, and you're my family." She reached for her goblet, frowned, and then improvised with her water glass, which she raised high. "So here's to Thanksgiving, high-falutin meals, and surrogate families."
They all humored her and raised their glasses, but as soon as they lowered them, Donna focused her attention at the problem at hand. "So, we've got a meal that's not really appealing to any of us, and the cook is taking the day off...Maya, what's stockpiled in the kitchen?"
"Frozen pizza, instant mashed potatoes, and pop-tarts."
Like the irreproachable leader she was, Donna knew when to pitch in. "Perfect. Annabeth, come help me improvise an alternative dinner. The rest of you, stay put and try to eat what you can of this...it'd be a shame for it to go to waste. Except for you, Stacy—" she fixed the young punk with a sharp stare. "Since you objected so strenuously to the original meal, you can help us throw together the follow-up."
To her credit, Stacy followed them without protest to the kitchens, and helped them round up the food Maya had described. Annabeth actually found an unopened economy-sized jar of peanut butter and a fresh loaf of bread, and set Stacy with the task of creating a stack of sandwiches for the younger kids. Having thus occupied her, Donna and Annabeth began to heat up the pizzas and stir the potatoes.
"It was thoughtful of Bruce to send along that meal, though," Donna remarked, as though they had been speaking of it all along. "How's he doing these days, anyway?"
The wound that Annabeth had been so carefully tending had not healed, not by a long shot, but it didn't flare up in raw pain as much anymore. "I haven't seen him in a while, Donna, you know that. And what are you asking me for? You saw him yesterday." She was pleased to hear her own voice sounding so indifferent.
"Well, I wasn't sure if you had heard anything from him," Donna lied. "I just thought it was a little odd...you two seemed to be doing okay there earlier this month. I almost thought...I almost thought you two may have been...I don't know, falling in love or something."
Neither of them noticed that Stacy had abandoned her task of making sandwiches and was listening, fascinated.
"It doesn't matter, Donna." Annabeth's voice sounded less indifferent, and more clipped. "Do we have to talk about this?"
"Well, yes, actually, we do." When necessary, Donna did not hesitate to assert her authority. "Whether or not you're shagging Bruce Wayne, he remains the main support of this institution, and we need to stay on his good side. I don't know what happened with the two of you, but I do need to know that the two of you can maintain a cordial working relationship."
"Yes." Annabeth's voice was even more clipped, and her heart twisted. How much of her healing process had been helped along by the fact that Bruce hadn't shown his face around Safe Haven? And how much would he throw off her equilibrium if—when, more like—he started back again? Would she even be able to continue to work around him? This was all much more difficult than she had thought it would be. Would it be better for Safe Haven if she left? She had so many conflicting emotions twisting around inside of her when it came to Bruce—hurt, confusion, anger, disappointment, all of the standard run-of-the mill feelings that tormented all the lovelorn saps of the world—she wasn't sure she could be trusted not to yell, hit, or snap at him, or worse, try to shag him. She paused in her culinary task and bowed her head, overcome with a savage pain as she thought about leaving. But if it were for the best...oh god, the tears were starting to overflow.
"Annabeth?" Donna was prodding the wound. "I need for you to promise me you can work with him."
That did it. Annabeth, goaded beyond her already-limited ability to control her emotions, lifted her head and didn't bother to wipe the tears now streaming from her eyes. "Yes! Christ, Donna, what kind of high school girl do you take me for? I can handle myself around him, just stop nagging me!"
The two women stared at each other. It was difficult to say which of them was more surprised by Annabeth's outburst.
"God, Annabeth." Stacy's scornful voice brought their attention back to their surroundings. "Get a grip. Geez, why do you always have to be so bossy and bitchy and touchy? You on the rag or something?"
Donna hid a smirk.
Annabeth wasn't so amused. "Don't be crude," she snapped. "Think about what you're saying...it's okay for men to be assholes and bossy, it helps them get ahead in the world and they do it deliberately, but when a woman acts the same way, it's because she must be hormonal. There has to be an excuse for her to be like that, because god knows, she isn't normally like that..."
The anti-patriarchy soapboxes that Annabeth got onto could sometimes carry on for quite a while, and very few at Safe Haven paid her any mind. It was, as Maya had once commented, as though "someone wound her up, and the winder broke, so now she just goes." It was easier to just let her go until she wore herself out, and that was what Stacy and Donna did, simply carrying on with their tasks and registering every third word or so. They did that right up until the moment that Annabeth abruptly fell silent.
Stacy noticed first. "Annabeth? You okay?" She stared hard at Annabeth, who was very still, gazing down at the floor, lost in very deep thoughts.
"Annabeth?" Donna was paying attention now, too. "Is everything alright?"
The sound of her boss's voice was sufficient enough to bring Annabeth out of her reverie. She shook her head slightly and re-focused on Donna. "I'm sorry...I got distracted there for a moment. I was remembering...something someone said."
And just like that, Annabeth resumed her task. Soon after, the three females headed back into the dining room, bearing foods that were more palatable to the less adventurous of their clients. Amid the appreciate laughter and clapping, it was easy for Donna and Stacy to forget Annabeth's strange behavior and get caught back up into the festivities. It was forgivable that they didn't notice that, for the rest of that day, as the celebration and merriment swelled, Annabeth didn't participate much, and was very preoccupied indeed.