If Annabeth's recovery had been remarkable before the social worker came to visit, it was nothing short of miraculous thereafter. Without meaning to, Danielle wrought a marked change; fueled with the determination to get better and claim her rights to her godson (ward? half-brother?) Annabeth doggedly struggled, day by day, to wellness. She began to take more of an interest in her surroundings, she attempted to move around more, she even tried to make idle conversation from time to time. Still, it was a struggle.
At the same time, Alfred struggled to make the Manor welcoming and habitable. And Bruce struggled to come to a mental place where he could be happy that Annabeth was joining them, however briefly; he tried to think of her in terms of a refugee, rather than an interloper.
"You seem rather preoccupied," Annabeth remarked one afternoon, just after Leslie informed them that she would be released within a day or so. "Are you sure this isn't going to be a problem?"
"It won't be." This promise ringed hollow to them both, and Bruce hastened on to try to explain himself. "I think the Manor is a fairly private place, all things considered. One could say that it harbors a few secrets..."
"And you're nervous about all the people who could be traipsing in and out," Annabeth finished. "Reasonable...but try not to worry. Just have Alfred escort anyone in and out. And I promise you, I'll be out of there as soon as I'm able. As soon as Leslie says so. And I promise, no wild parties. After all, that's Bruce Wayne's territory."
Still, Bruce didn't look too happy. And after a moment, he blurted, "What if I don't want you to leave?"
Until the day she died, Annabeth would not ever figure out who was more surprised—herself, or Bruce, who looked as though he intensely wished he had left the words unspoken. She blinked owlishly, trying to comprehend his words, and then after a moment, was only able to come up with "Uuuuuhhh..."
"Never mind." Bruce shook his head and looked a little sheepish. "I'm just talking crazy talk. I need some sleep."
"So do I, Bruce." The hint was gentle but clear, and Bruce picked up on it immediately. He nodded. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"I know."
After he left, Annabeth reached over and turned out the light by her bed. Instantly, her room went dark, with only a faint bluish glow fingering its way past the blinds from the city outside. Even fourteen stories up, she could hear the noises of the city; the honking of the taxis, the car engines, even the voices of pedestrians, she liked to think. It was a tiny grain of comfort—even when she felt so horribly alone, the people of Gotham were still there. They were most of them ignorant to her existence, but that didn't matter—what mattered was that she had spent years in service to them. Her life until now had been a labor of love, dedicated to making it a better city which could offer a better life.
And as she began to drift into an uneasy sleep, one more thought occurred to her: the same thing could be said for Bruce.
Just as Leslie had promised, Release Day came. Of course, given the capricious nature of hospital bureaucracy, Release Day was more like Release Evening: the sun was just beginning to set when the doctors finally gave Annabeth the all-clear and when Alfred steered the Rolls-Royce through the underground parking lot of the hospital, right up to the delivery entrance, where Bruce and Annabeth and Leslie all waited, well-hidden from the eyes of prying reporters.
Patiently, Annabeth sat in her wheelchair, waiting as Alfred inched the car as close to her as he dared. Behind her, Bruce stood, his hands on the handles of the chair; beside her, Leslie maintained a gentle, comforting presence. Even though it still surrounded her, the hospital was already beginning to retreat into Annabeth's past.
"Your ride awaits, my dear," Alfred said as he came around to her and opened the door for her. "Care for some assistance?" Annabeth was struggling get out of the wheelchair.
"Not a chance. I'm fine." Annabeth gave him a mischevious little smile—the most cheer she had managed in days—to take the sting from her words. "I'd like to try it on my own, if you don't mind."
Alfred nodded his understanding, and glanced sharply at Bruce, who looked very much as if he did mind, and also as if he were itching to join Annabeth's side and help her into the car. With admirable restraint, he refrained, and simply watched as slowly, carefully, she hoisted herself out of the wheelchair and across the twelve inches of space separating the wheelchair from the car. Carefully she settled herself into the back seat. "Fuss at will," she then told Bruce.
"No need for that," Leslie said briskly. They had all agreed that she would stay at the Manor for a few days, and so would be following behind them in her own car. "No fussing," she stated flatly to Bruce. "Let Annabeth tell you what she needs, and don't assume."
Bruce and Leslie engaged in a brief staring contest. Alfred winked at Annabeth as he tucked a soft blanket around her legs. "Alright, my dear?"
"Just fine." Annabeth peered out at Bruce and Leslie. "You two done? Let's leave here before before some doctors change their mind...or before the press figures out where we're at."
She spoke sense, and both of them saw it. But just before they parted ways, Leslie caught Bruce's arm. "They gave her a mild painkiller and sedative just a little bit ago. She might get tired or loopy. With any luck, she'll konk out soon. It'll make the transition a little easier." With that, Leslie darted off to her car, and Bruce went around to the other back seat, where he quickly settled in. Glancing over at Annabeth, he couldn't help but to ask, "You okay? Comfortable?"
"Just fine, Bruce." Annabeth saw that this was not a substantial enough answer for him, so she extrapolated. "Tired, but fine. I'll be glad to get to the Manor." She leaned her head back against the back of the seat and let out a tiny sigh.
Alfred took his place behind the steering wheel and started the engine. In spite of her weariness, Annabeth opened her eyes and lifted her head. "That's the best sound I've heard all day."
Alfred chuckled gently. "Worried that you wouldn't get released today?"
"Damned straight. They were supposed to let me out at noon, and then, hour after hour, one delay after another, they kept pushing it back. Being in limbo is exhausting. I can't imagine how people in Purgatory feel."
Annabeth and Alfred tried to keep up a careful, empty banter, assiduously avoiding any topic of substance. The topic of the weather was quickly exhausted, and since Bruce chose to gaze morosely out the window rather than contribute to the faltering conversation, and since Alfred's primary focus was steering through the crowded Gotham streets, the talk quickly petered out entirely.
Wearily, Annabeth leaned her head against the cool glass of the window and closed her eyes. It had been since before Christmas since she had been on the outside of the hospital, and now that she was "released," she found herself not quite equal, not quite ready...not quite free.
What is freedom, anyway? Where is it? Does it even exist?
Where the hell had that thought come from? She was out of the hospital for all of what, ten minutes, and already delving into existential, ultimately pointless questions? Had getting shot and losing her only chance at a child taught her nothing? Enough with the navel gazing, already. Not like it will lead anywhere good.
She began to doze, lightly, her body finally beginning to let go of the tension which had been building all day. In that half-dream state, an unknown time passed, as her consciousness drifted between awareness and oblivion, reality and imagination. Figures darted in and out of her mind; from time to time, sounds from the real world, such as Alfred's voice, or the blare of a horn, would weave themselves into her dream-realm. Just as she was starting to slip further into sleep, her dream intensified. Donna and Seth emerged from the other, faceless people; their dream-faces were unlined by the secrets and hatreds that had bound them together over the years. Silently they beckoned to Annabeth, and unwillingly, she began to follow them. Suddenly, there was a huge maze in front of them, surrounded on all sides by a menacing, thorny, impenetrable hedge. Donna and Seth set forth into the maze, and Annabeth knew she was to follow. She sped up, careful to always keep them in her line of sight. Thorns caught on her hair and scratched her arms, and overhead, she heard ominous rustlings and growls.
Fear began to grow within her.
Just as she followed them around a sharp corner, the maze ended abruptly and emptied onto the streets of midtown Gotham. Horns blared, drivers shouted, and all of the vitality and confusion of the city pressed in from every side.
And then the Batman was there, standing just behind Donna and Seth. They all looked at her expectantly. Donna, and then Seth, turned and began to walk away, deeper into the city crowds. The Batman remained, however, waiting, looking at her.
The maze pressed at Annabeth's back.
"This is your home." The Batman didn't move, but he had clearly spoken. "You're home now."
Without another thought, Annabeth turned and fled back into the maze.
"We're home now."
With a strangled, heavy breath, Annabeth jerked awake. "What?" she gasped.
Bruce looked as startled as she felt. "I said, we're home. We're at the Manor."
With the melancholic dream still tugging at her memory, Annabeth registered his words and peered out the window. They had passed through the City and Palisades and through the gates of the Manor, driven up the winding road, and stopped in front of the majestic stone steps leading to the front entrance. Bruce and Alfred had actually let her slumber on for another few minutes as Alfred had ascended the steps and opened the building, and as a result, the front doors were wide open, spilling light and presumably, warmth out into the chilly night.
"I think he figured this would be a nicer welcome," Bruce smiled. "Alfred's all about hospitality. You feel up to going up the steps? If you want, we can enter through the underground garage."
Annabeth shook her head, trying to rattle the remnants of the dream away as she did. "No...no. This is fine."
It was surprising, how fast Bruce moved; he practically hopped out of the car and bolted around, and then he was at Annabeth's door, opening it, offering assistance. Assistance wasn't actually the word for it; it appeared as though he intended to do everything for her. And suddenly, Annabeth was just too tired to give a damn.
She felt his hands unbuckling her seat belt and tugging it away; those same hands guided her out of the car, and only faltered for a brief moment when she leaned heavily against him; her arms, seemingly of their own volition, suddenly wrapped themselves around his waist as she steadied herself.
"You okay?" she heard him ask.
"Just tired."
Slowly they made their way up the steps to the door, Bruce's arm firmly around her shoulders, half- supporting, half-carrying her. Alfred patiently waited by the open door, sublimely indifferent to the biting cold of the night air. "Welcome to the Manor, Miss Annabeth."
"Thanks, Alfred."
Leslie had arrived by then, and was right behind them, her energetic presence almost tangible. "You're doing just fine, Annabeth. Just a few more steps, and we'll be inside."
And then they were inside, and the warmth of the Manor almost instantly revived Annabeth a little. She lifted her head and blearily took in the posh surroundings—had she been actually here before? It seemed like another lifetime. And in some respects, it was; at least one life had passed on since she had last been there.
What an odd thought. With a visible effort, Annabeth corralled her thoughts back to the present; she was aware that Bruce, Alfred, and Leslie were looking at her with trepidation. "These digs are nicer than the hospital."
She didn't catch the look that Leslie gave Alfred, who immediately, predictably, judged the situation with his usual accuracy. "I think we should probably get you settled into bed now, Miss Annabeth, what do you think?"
"Sounds good."
"I've prepared the Nouveau Suite for her, Master Wayne," Alfred mentioned off-handedly, ignoring the sharp look that Bruce gave him. Whenen they had re-built the Manor, Bruce and Alfred had remained true to the plans and décor that had gone before. That particular chamber was both Martha Wayne's old room, as well as an obsolete throwback to the days in which the master and the mistress of the house kept separate rooms. It was decorated just as Bruce's great-grandmother had had it appointed, in the florid, sensual curves of the Art Nouveau style. And more significantly, it was immediately connected to Bruce's room.
"Let's get her up there, shall we?" Leslie said briskly. "She needs to rest, and I want to do a quick check-up once we get her settled in."
Alfred nodded. "You two do that, and I'll prepare some light refreshments." And just like that, he slipped away into the depths of the Manor, leaving Bruce to slowly guide Annabeth up the stairs to the upper floors, and Leslie to follow slowly after.
"Watch the steps," Bruce said.
"What am I watching them do?"
To this, Bruce had no response; he merely tightened his grip on Annabeth's shoulder and continued the slow ascent up the stairs. Annabeth's head sagged for just a moment, as though she were overcome with exhaustion, and then she became alert again. "It seems like it's a long way away."
"The room isn't that far." Bruce was trying to concentrate on keeping her upright—as protective as he was, he still had enough sense to know that Annabeth would try to kill him if he carried her—and so wasn't paying too much attention.
"Not the room." Annabeth said this with a touch of exasperation, as though her meaning were obvious. "A normal life."
This remark took Bruce by surprise; even Leslie, who had been discreetly listening in, paused for this. Where the hell had that come from?
"Damned meds," Leslie muttered behind him. "Let's not encourage her to take any more of them."
"Sounds good to me," Bruce agreed.
Little by little, they made their way to the top of the stairs. Fortunately, Annabeth's designated suite was not too far beyond that, and Leslie had the presence of mind to hurry ahead, open the door, and turn on the lights. "Lord," she muttered after a moment of taking in its feminine opulence, "this is almost worse than the hospital."
Bruce ignored her, and immediately guided Annabeth toward the bed. She was almost gone at this point, and only made one remark as she settled onto the soft mattress. "At least this one doesn't have bed curtains."
"Sorry?" Leslie was beginning to sort through her bag of medical equipment. "What does she mean?"
Bruce grimaced at the painful memory of the stormy night they had spent together in Bellingham, wrapped up in the privacy of Annabeth's curtained bed. "Don't worry about it. Can you get her all set up from here on out?"
"I've got it covered." Leslie glanced at Annabeth. Without Bruce's arm supporting her any longer, she had simply toppled back on the bed, flat on her back. "She's pretty close to asleep. I'll meet you downstairs with Alfred."
Bruce exited the room as quietly as a 6-foot-2 mass of muscle and flesh could, closing the door behind him. Not three seconds after the door thumped softly closed, Annabeth jerked up again, nearly startling Leslie out of her skin.
"Is he gone?"
Realization fought with incredulity as Leslie gazed at a suddenly alert Annabeth. "Were you play-acting?"
"God, yes." Annabeth tried to smooth down her hair. "I cheeked those pain meds the nurses gave me—I don't really care to be under the influence of any sort of drugs. But I didn't want Bruce hovering and fussing. It'd drive a saint crazy, and anyway, he needs to rest just as much as I do. So I decided to act a little loopy."
"You're an odd bird," Leslie told her.
"It worked, didn't it? Anyway, the pain meds weren't really necessary. The pain's manageable."
"Still, maybe you should listen to the medical professionals." Leslie was donning her stethoscope. "Since you're so spry, you think you can change into your pajamas? I'll take your vitals when you're ready."
"What pajamas am I supposed to change into?" Annabeth pointed out. "It's not anyone gave me a courtesy heads-up, 'hey, you're going to be shot tonight at work, be sure to pack a suitcase for the hospital.'" She glanced down at the clothes she was wearing; it was nothing more than sweats and a flannel shirt that Janey had unearthed from lord only knew where. "Maybe I should just go naked."
Leslie cocked an eyebrow. "Sure you didn't take some of those pain meds?" Without waiting for an answer, she jerked her head towards a large armchair by the bed. "I think your Janey went to your house and packed a bag, actually. She swung by your place this morning, and then gave it over to Alfred earlier today."
"My place!" Annabeth actually perked up a little; it occurred to Leslie that the young woman was beginning to show actual signs of life. If getting her out of the hospital had been all it would take, they should have done it sooner. "Wait—my pets. Jed...and Wurzel...?"
"That must be the cat and dog Jason mentioned the other day. The animals are fine—Janey and Jason are keeping them at their place until you're back on your feet. Seems as though the cat beshat herself on the trip over. And that's a direct quote, I might add." Leslie's eyes twinkled with unseemly mischief.
"Sounds like Janey, alright...and like Wurzel..." Annabeth mumbled as she began pawing through her bags. Bless her, Janey had thought of everything, right down to her favorite pair of yoga pants and her special cleanser. But...what was this? Annabeth's face was a study in wonder as she pulled out a pair of wine-colored, satin pajamas. "These aren't mine."
Leslie shrugged. Her concerns weren't for misplaced sleeping apparel. "Guess they're yours, now. Suit up so I can check you over."
Ten minutes later, Leslie had finished. Carefully, she packed away her equipment and watched as Annabeth slowly settled back onto the pillows that had been artfully arranged on the bed. "Looks like you're in good shape, for the shape you're in. How are you feeling?"
"Tired," Annabeth admitted. "And..."
"In pain?" Leslie prompted her with a knowing smirk.
"Not too much. Right now, I think what I really want is to sleep." Annabeth rubbed her head. "It's been a rather abrupt transition. And I just want to rest and...and..." she searched, vainly, for the word.
"Adjust?"
"I suppose that's the word for it." Annabeth settled deeper into the pillows and pulled the luxurious duvet over her weary, somewhat-broken body. She listened to the sounds of the older woman packing up and exiting the room, turning off the lights as she went. Only after Annabeth was truly alone in the darkened room, alone but for her still-over-active mind and her potent thoughts, did she ponder the pressing question: How does one adjust to this kind of loss?
It was a painful question, and it was a question she had managed to avoid asking for quite a while. It was easy to do when so many people were swarming around her in the hospital, demanding her body or her attention or both. And now, in the quiet, solitary darkness of Wayne Manor, Annabeth found herself finally confronted with what everyone had, in their own way, unintentionally or otherwise, tried to shield her from since the night that Seth Percival had shot a bullet straight into the heart of her world.
In the darkness, in the solitude, there was no one to witness Annabeth as she slowly came to terms with the reality of her life.
As Leslie made her way down the staircase, she saw both Bruce and Alfred waiting at the foot of the stairs, their heads tilted upwards, gazing at her expectantly. Upon her reaching the foot of the stairs, both of them held out an arm for her to take, and so Leslie was escorted, in ludicrously high style, to one of the parlors off the entrance hall. There, Alfred had built up a fire, turned down the lights, and had set out a light repast. Immediately, Alfred set about preparing a plate for each of them, and as Leslie seated herself, Bruce made a beeline for a sideboard near the food. "Time for a nightcap, I think. What would you like, Leslie?"
Leslie debated for a moment. "A small gin and tonic, perhaps." She rested for a moment with her eyes closed, enjoying the fire, and missed the strange look that Alfred cast Bruce as the latter began to prepare the gin and tonic, and then two scotch on the rocks.
"A bit late in the night for you to be drinking, isn't it, sir?" Alfred asked pointedly.
"I'm in for the evening." Bruce passed Alfred a glass and then Leslie, before he cradled his own drink, his fingers slowly stroking the heavy, cut crystal. "Everyone drink up."
But no one did, at least not at first. Each of them were too preoccupied with their own thoughts. Bruce, in particular, was woolgathering. He did not seat himself, but rather chose to stand by the fire.
"How is she?" he asked after a few moments. "Really?"
Leslie took her time in answering. When she finally did marshal her thoughts and began speaking, her voice was carefully modulated in the neutral tones of a medical professional. "With the gunshot wound, she's fine. It's healing nicely." She paused and looked down at her drink, as though she were asking it to offer the correct words. "Regarding her miscarriage...well. I'm not a specialist, just a family practitioner. But I've looked at her medical records, both from this last week, and from before. And it was really by an absurd, highly unusual fluke that she got pregnant to begin with." Leslie turned to Bruce. "So it would be even more unlikely, especially given this miscarriage, that she'll ever conceive again. And you don't need a specialist to tell you that."
He nodded. Leslie was not telling him anything that he had not already known.
"Emotionally, it's harder to say. You both know Annabeth better than do I...I don't think she's in shock over this. But she's very withdrawn, as we can all see. She's not communicating overly much." Leslie grimaced. "At the risk of sounding trite, it's all rather textbook. She's having difficulty expressing her emotions about it—she doesn't cry, at least as far as I can tell. And while god knows I'm not one to say how one should handle the loss of a child, I do suspect that she hasn't really come to terms with this. All I can suggest is that we provide her routine, stability, and a support network, and urge her to get some counseling." Her eyes searched Bruce's face, and he knew she was assessing him, trying to judge his own reactions.
After all, he had lost a child, too.
It was a sudden realization, perhaps more painful due to its unexpectedness. Bruce cocked his head, trying to listen to thoughts that only he could hear. Yes—he had lost a child, too. All along, up until now, he had been running around, care-taking, putting out fires and worrying about others, mainly Annabeth, and waiting for Annabeth to show some reaction. He had been grieving for Annabeth and her loss.
It's my loss, too.
The meditative detachment he had taken such pains to cultivate over the years was no use to him now. It was not a situation he had ever thought he would encounter, and so, it was uncharted territory. He allowed the strange, aching sorrow to settle into him; he allowed the hollowness to begin to eat him from his core outwards. It was bitter, it was awful—and it was still only a fraction of what Annabeth was feeling. More to the point, he had been waiting in vain for Annabeth to give voice to her pain, when in fact, perhaps it was his own lack of awareness of his own pain that kept him from truly reaching out and connecting with Annabeth. They were both lost at sea at this particular juncture—it made sense to hang together. And if it was their mutual pain that bound them to each other...well, whatever got them through this.
"Excuse me," he said abruptly, setting his glass down onto the mantle. "I'll see you both in the morning." He gave no further explanation, but stalked out of the room.
Leslie and Alfred gave each other knowing looks, and then silently resumed their drinks.
As soon as he made his decision, Bruce wasted no time in making tracks to Annabeth's chambers. His pace was fast enough as he left Leslie and Alfred behind, but as he reached the foot of the grand staircase, he began to hurry. His shoes thumped against the cool marble; the sound echoed off the vast walls and sounded much more forceful than any of his own movements, on their own, could make it. And with each running step he took, he thought of all that Annabeth had told him—all of the stories of the people of Gotham, all of the people who were victims of tiny, domestic spats, or who had gotten lost in the system, or who were simply too poor or insignificant for most to notice. Until Annabeth had come along, he hadn't really thought about all of those overlooked people—those people of Gotham, whom he had vowed to help and protect and save, who had to pick through the ruins of shattered lives, or else lives only partially-lived, alone, unaided by anyone with power or influence.
He'd be damned if he made her pick through the ruins of her life alone.
Outside of her door, Bruce paused, for just a moment. Annabeth had set up so many boundaries in her life, physical and otherwise—would she appreciate him crashing through them, unasked, uninvited? Already Bruce was questioning his epiphany. She was probably asleep. How late was it? He glanced down at his watch, almost absently, and then went still.
10:47 PM.
He didn't tend to believe in fate, or meaningful coincidence; neither had much place in his world. But it was hard to ignore the insistently spooky coincidence—10:47, the time his parents were killed.
The Batman wouldn't hesitate.
With this thought scolding him, he knocked once, loudly, to do his best to let Annabeth know he was coming in.
And then he went in.
It was dark, as he had expected it to be. Most likely Annabeth was asleep...after all, she had been on the verge of passing out when he had deposited her there earlier. Still, it couldn't hurt to check. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and then drew closer to the bed.
Yes, he had been right. Annabeth was asleep, quite soundly, in fact. Her breathing was deep and even, and she was curled into the tight, protective fetal position at one edge of the bed. He couldn't, wouldn't disturb her...but he didn't want to leave her, either.
The answer was obvious and simple. Just like they were back in the hospital, Bruce settled into the chair nearest to Annabeth's bed, and tried to get as comfortable as he could. At least there, he could be near her. Why it mattered, he didn't even bother to guess. He simply closed his eyes and listened to Annabeth's breathing and allowed himself to experience the grief that he had finally stopped holding at bay. It was as though Annabeth's presence allowed the grief to exist, and at the same time, she kept it from being too great. Strange though it sounded, it was almost like Annabeth was his talisman, his protective amulet.
With this odd thought on his mind, Bruce began to drift to sleep.
Cheeking her sleeping pill had been a mistake. Annabeth realized this at about 3:30 in the morning, when she abruptly awoke, pulled from an uneasy sleep by an equally uneasy dream. For a moment, she felt a terrifying disorientation; pitch blackness surrounded her, and she had an instinctive awareness that wherever she was, it wasn't the hospital room which had become so familiar. Nor was it home. And then the events of the last day caught up with her, and she permitted herself to relax, just a bit—she was stashed away in some bedroom at Wayne Manor, where she had been delivered, like some sort of fragile package, to convalesce.
She shivered suddenly, and drew the duvet more closely around her body. Too late, she realized that the sedative not only would have made her go to sleep, it would have kept her asleep. Instead, now she was totally awake, and totally aware. Her circumstances came rushing back to her mind and heart, both of which were rather over-burdened, and she felt the by-now familiar, crushing pain start to press down on her chest. This was it—she was out of the hospital, and the only thing now standing between her and the ugly reality of her pathetic life was a week of so of being mothered and smothered by Bruce and Alfred. Beyond that point, she had to venture out, sift through the damage of Safe Haven and the wreckage of her life, and try to figure out where to go from here. And this task seemed entirely beyond her present capabilities. She was exhausted, broken, beaten, and clueless; to add insult to injury, she had no idea how to handle feeling like that. For as long as she could remember, she had been strong—not simply by choice, but by necessity—surviving, making plans, powering through. But her resources had finally run dry. She was tapped out.
The lump in her throat was burning, threatening to choke her. She had to do something—scream, or cry, or try to rip out her own throat. Now that she was finally acknowledging the extent of her grief, and her own inability to handle it, it seemed a mighty thing, a tsunami which threatened to engulf and drown her. The pain of it was exquisite. Her limbs shifted about under the heavy blankets, as though they were attempting to seek respite from the elemental, savage pain that radiated out from her core. But this was a pain that no medicine could cure, and from which there was no immediate escape.
The darkest hour is just before dawn. Now, why did that phrase come into her head at that particular moment? Well, it certainly seemed as though this was the darkest point—that time in the early hours when everyone and everything else in the world was asleep and untroubled, ignorant and indifferent to her existence. Now she was alone, in the darkness, with only this crushing loneliness and pain. Her breath hitched raggedly in her chest as the first hot tears rolled down her face and a sob choked in her throat.
Just then was when Annabeth realized that there was another noise in the room beside her own muffled crying. A muted rustling caught her attention, and she instantly stilled herself. But one treacherous sob had other ideas, and escaped before she had a chance to smother it.
"Annabeth?" Bruce's voice was rough from sleep, and he sounded vaguely disoriented. "Are you awake?"
What the hell was he doing in here? Annabeth wondered. And then scolded herself for wondering. It's his home, dumbass. And did you really think he wasn't going to hover? After a moment, in which she tried desperately to rein in her emotional outburst, she tried to answer. "I'm...yeah, I'm awake."
Another rustling sound, louder this time as Bruce sat up. She had a vague memory of having seen a chair by the bed, just before she had passed out; he must have come in at some point and settled into it. "Bruce, what are you doing here?"
Bruce didn't answer at first. And then, through the darkness, his voice sounded hesitant, even to his own ears. "I felt like I needed to be here."
She wanted to tell him that she didn't need him here, for the love of god, what could he possibly do, after all? That she'd be fine, go back to bed. That his presence wasn't equal to the horror of her current life. She wanted to say all of these things, but those words simply would not make it into her mouth. She was defeated by the darkness, by the lonely emptiness of the predawn hours, and by her own exhaustion, and as a result, the only thing she could say was the honest thing:
"I'm...glad you're here."
Such simple words, yet so heavily laden. Roughly, she brushed the tears off her cheeks and dug the heel of her palm into one eye, then the other. She was thankful that the lights were off, and therefore offered her cover in this moment of weakness.
"Do you want me to leave you alone?" His voice was stronger now, as though despite his words, he was growing more confident that he was welcome. She found herself wondering if perhaps he hadn't deliberately left the lights off—the more she knew of him, the more she realized how he embraced the darkness, both within and without. He seemed most comfortable when no one could see him, when he was a remote observer, assessing the situation.
Suddenly, Annabeth remembered that he had asked her a question, and was no doubt expecting an answer. "No. No, you don't need to leave." She weighed her next words carefully before spending them. "I want you to stay. It helps."
She would offer nothing more than this, and he wasn't about to ask. Fear and anxiety had pulled them together originally, but now, strangely, that same fear and anxiety, and grief as well, were now keeping them distanced from each other. And neither of them were ready to breach that distance, or else they didn't know how.
The darkness of the room did not lessen, so her other senses began to fill in the gaps. The faint rustle of clothing that she had heard before now became even louder; she guessed Bruce was shifting in his seat to get more comfortable. Suddenly, it seemed absurd, and she was just too tired and sad to shut up. "There's an entire bed over here. It seems pretty stupid to squish your super-hero self into the smallest chair in the room."
He was quiet for so long that Annabeth began to think that he was going to turn down her suggestion. "Of course, I'd understand if you'd say no. It's not exactly a tempting offer: shot-up, neurotic, infertile female with a family worthy of the Jerry Springer show, saying, 'Hey, billionaire man, come to my bed for a night of passionless comfort."
"Well, when you put it like that..." She heard Bruce rise from his seat, and a moment later, felt him sit down on the edge of the bed. "Are you sure?"
"Let's look at this from a different angle: Even if I asked you to leave my room, would you?"
"Probably not."
"Then you may as well get comfortable."
So he did, lifting up the duvet and sliding underneath it. As he settled in beside her, his low voice tickled into her ear. "Passionless comfort sounds pretty good right now, don't you think?"
Still, he was careful not to touch her. Annabeth noticed this and peered back over her shoulder, even though she couldn't see. "Bruce?"
She didn't need to extrapolate on her question; he understood. "I won't...hurt you, will I, if I put my arms around you?"
"You'll help more than you hurt."
His arms slowly crept up and enfolded her from behind as he pulled her back to him, carefully; she half-suspected he was holding his breath. She felt the tension coiled in his arms. "It's fine, Bruce. You won't hurt me."
Slowly, he relaxed, and Annabeth allowed herself to let go, for a moment, of the misery that had awakened her. "I am really glad you're here."
"What were you dreaming about?"
"Sorry?"
"Before you awoke, you were dreaming. What was it about?"
Annabeth wasn't ready to answer him. "How could you tell that I was dreaming?"
"You were mumbling and thrashing about quite a bit. Generally, people who sleep soundly don't indulge in a wrestling match with an invisible opponent. So what was it?"
Annabeth sighed. "It was the same dream as the one I had on the drive here. There was a maze. A dark, winding maze, and I was lost in it. At least, I felt like I was lost in it. But Donna and Seth were there, and I was following them. And then...the maze ended in Gotham, right in the middle of the city. Like, in the middle of rush hour on a Friday. And...the Batman was there, in the middle of the city. And they were all telling me that I was home." She paused, then added, "It was the maze, I think, that was bothering me. It was so dark in there, and lonely...but at the same time, once I was in the middle of the city, all I wanted was to be back in the maze."
"Interesting."
"Really? Seems like a garden-variety angst-ridden dream to me."
"No, it's not that. It's that you talked about dreaming about the Batman, not me."
"Did I? Huh." Annabeth shook her head, just slightly. "No idea why. You're one and the same. Or rather, two halves of the whole, but not mutually exclusive."
This view caught Bruce by surprise. "When did you come to that conclusion?"
He felt her lift her shoulders in a tiny shrug. "I couldn't even begin to tell you. I suppose it's been a gradual process."
There was nothing much more to say to this, not without invoking painful memories of the last few weeks, and Bruce would have faced the Joker a thousand times over before doing this. So he simply stayed silent after this, holding Annabeth, providing the only comfort he could. At any rate, she was no longer crying. And eventually, Bruce's deep, even breathing calmed Annabeth and gently pulled her back into the blissful oblivion of sleep, and only after he was certain Annabeth had fallen back to sleep did Bruce allow himself to do the same.
