The next time Annabeth awoke, it was as though she had moved into an entirely different world from the silent, dark room of the pre-dawn hours. Before, when she had awakened, she had been confused and disoriented, surrounded by a thorough and almost tangible darkness; now there was no question of where she was. Brittle but bright morning sunlight filled the room, glinting, gleaming, and glowing on or off decorative objects of gilt, ceramic, silver, and crystal. The collective effect was bedazzling, even to Annabeth's sleep-crusted eyes.

Of course, something else was different, not just the setting: Bruce was gone.

Typical.

But she wasn't alone.

"Good morning, Annabeth." Leslie was now sitting in the chair in which Bruce had sat during the nigh. The doctor smiled at Annabeth now, and she found it impossible not to return the expression, however feeble it was in comparison to the doctor's.

"What time is it?"

"Just now nine." Leslie gestured towards the fireplace which was positioned directly across from Annabeth's bed. "There's a clock up there on the mantle."

"There is?" Annabeth squinted for a moment, trying to discern the object to which Leslie had gestured. "You don't mean that pile of twisted, enameled swirly metal, do you?"

"That 'pile of twisted, enameled, swirly metal' happens to be an enamel and gilded clock, an original Czech design by Alphonse Mucha...circa 1913, I believe. I was treated to its entire history not half an hour ago, when Alfred came in to lay the fire. Don't call it a pile of twisted metal to his face, if you please—I really don't want to hear about Mucha all over again. Did you know that he died after the Gestapo got a hold of him? Poor fellow."

Annabeth nodded, but she was only half listening. Her gaze was shifting around the room, from one corner to another, taking in all the objects she had missed when she had arrived the previous evening. It was a rather overwhelming room, and the morning light pouring in through the windows only emphasized its glittering, feminine elegance.

"Did Alfred draw back the drapes when he laid the fire?" Annabeth asked with a sudden shrewdness, but she already knew the answer.

Leslie smiled, and it was an expression of equal parts love and indulgence. "I suspect Alfred tries to take advantage of any opportunity for an audience. He's put so much work into re-creating the Manor, and Bruce..." she drifted off, reluctant to speak disparagingly of him, and finished with a mere shrug.

Annabeth understood. For all his wealth and style and ostensible extravagance, Bruce seemed to pay very little heed to his luxurious surroundings. It seemed to be mere trappings—or perhaps props was the more appropriate word. Apparently, this was something that even Leslie noticed, but hopefully attributed it to either an entitled indifference to what he had always had, or else a simple, masculine indifference to décor and surroundings, particularly those of a feminine variety.

Deck the halls in capes of Kevlar, then he might notice, Annabeth mused to herself as she carefully hoisted herself upright and propped a couple of pillows behind her.

Leslie had resumed the previous thread of conversation. "Anyway, I think this room, in particular, is Alfred's masterpiece."

"Oh?"

"Before the old building burned down, this was the suite for the lady of the house." Seeing the bewilderment on Annabeth's face, Leslie clarified. "Bruce's mother, Martha Wayne—these were her rooms."

"Thomas and Martha Wayne had separate rooms?" God knew, Annabeth was no expert at healthy relationships, but even she could see the flaws in this arrangement. No wonder Bruce was an only child.

"Traditionally, yes, they had separate rooms." Leslie's eyes crinkled with knowing humor. "Thomas Wayne's set of rooms adjoined these. But he always complained of a draft in his room-that much was an obvious fabrication-and that there was a nest of bats, too. So he slept here in Martha's rooms, most of the time, which was just as they both preferred, anyway. Martha liked the Art Nouveau theme, and so she never changed it. And so I think Alfred put his all into re-creating a room that Martha would have loved."

Leslie paused at this point, and this gave both of them the chance to gaze once more around the room. Annabeth, in particular, drank in the details—every silver candlestick, every crystal bowl, every enamel vase, every floral swirl now seemed like something completely different—not another excessive display of wealth, and grandeur, but rather an effective and loving tribute. But..."

"So why isn't this Bruce's room?"

Leslie didn't bother to restrain her rather rude-sounding snort. "The man may come off as something of a fop, but really—can you imagine him living in this room?"

Annabeth smoothed down the duvet cover—it was a deep shade of lavender, with pale, silvery-lilac paisley swirls—and then her eye happened to fall on an ornate vase, which she suspected served no other purpose than to intimidate her into coming nowhere close to it. "It does vaguely resemble a Barbie dream house, I suppose."

"Even if he could get past that, I suspect it's difficult for Bruce. This was Thomas and Martha's suite of rooms, and it still feels like Martha, especially. I fear that Alfred outdid himself."

"Where is Bruce, anyway?"

"He headed into the city first thing this morning—he said his day was packed, but that he'd try to be back by mid-afternoon. He didn't think it was a good idea to be out on the roads tonight."

"Why?"

"It's New Year's Eve, Annabeth." Leslie didn't seem at all surprised that Annabeth had lost track of time. "I suppose it's hard to keep the time straight when you're bundled away in a hospital for days on end."

"Yes. Time is measured in the intervals that lapse between the delivery of shitty food and the injection and administration of mood-altering drugs." Abruptly Annabeth was seized with a surge of gratitude. "God, it's so good to be out of there! Thank you so much for springing me."

"Even if you're sequestered in Barbie's Dream House?" Leslie was pleased by Annabeth's slight lift of spirits, and couldn't resist teasing her a little.

"Even if." Annabeth's grin was self-deprecating. "And to be honest, this is probably the kind of princess bedroom I dreamed of when I was a kid."

During the many long, anxious hours they had spent in the hospital, Alfred had filled Leslie in on many of the key points of Annabeth's past, and so Leslie had enough information and good sense to pass over the reference to Annabeth's childhood. Instead, she steered the conversation towards a more pressing issue. "If you're awake enough now, I'd like to check you over, take your vitals."

"I'm awake enough."

As Leslie again went through the procedures of ensuring that death was not imminent, Annabeth passively submitted, not paying much attention as the thermometer was thrust into her mouth, the blood pressure cuff was velcroed around her arm, and the cold stethoscope was pressed against first her back, and then her chest. Leslie's hands were gentle and her movements deft as she felt Annabeth's glands, took her pulse, and briefly examined the entry wound and surgery scar. All of this, Annabeth was quite used to by now—she had begun to feel like the interminable days were scheduled around these routine checks. Trickier was the round of questions that Leslie fired at her after the physical exam—how was she sleeping? How was the pain? How was her mental outlook? This required a little more attention, but she had learned enough to be both terse and honest in her answers, and that generally satisfied Leslie. Then she could return to her inattentive indifference. It was almost pleasant, this passivity—she had only to be still, follow instructions, let others make the big decisions, and she could avoid the frightening prospect of various painful facts. It wasn't Annabeth's usual way, of course, but these were unusual times. For now, she was most content to float along, buoyed and steered by the efforts and decisions of others.

It was at this point that Annabeth realized that Leslie was looking her way expectantly, and that she must have asked a question. "Sorry?"

"I asked, what did you want to do next?" Leslie had packed away her medical equipment; obviously the exam was done.

"Avoid making decisions," Annabeth answered with a trace of her former bluntness. "At least for now."

This response did not appear to take Leslie by surprise, but nor did it please her. "I understand what you're going through, Annabeth—"

The flare of anger that ignited within Annabeth was a brief and startling departure from her previous malaise. "You don't know a fucking thing about what I'm going through." She hissed these words with equal parts outrage and indignation. "When was the last time you lost a baby and your only chance at a family?"

Rather than taking offense, Leslie did seem pleased with this. There's still some fire in there, despite everything, she noted in satisfaction. She's tough as nails, whether or not she knows it. "Perhaps I didn't phrase it right—I can completely grasp what you've gone through, what you're going through. I can imagine, I can sympathize. But you're right. I don't know. I haven't experienced it. But I've witnessed grief and trauma—some much worse than yours—and so I can understand. And I can understand that while your circumstances are unique—your pain isn't."

Annabeth blinked, temporarily taken aback by this bluntness. "Christ. You're not a professional grief counselor, are you?"

"Good lord, no. I'd go out of business in a month." Leslie smiled to soften her previous words, and the moment of tension passed. "My point is this—you're grieving, and that's healthy. But you will need to let yourself feel whatever it is you need to feel, and react how you need to. Don't fight it. But bear this in mind, too—you need to take care of your body, too, in order for you to heal."

The compassion and concern in Leslie's eyes added weight to her words, and Annabeth felt guilty for her outburst. "Sorry," she muttered, ducking her head. "Guess it's not politic to antagonize the person whose responsibility it is to heal you."

"Not particularly politic, no." Leslie smiled encouragingly, relieved that they had reached a more pleasant footing. "But not uncommon, either. I've seen plenty worse. Grief is horrific—but more pervasive than most of us could imagine. There's so much loss, especially in this city," she added, and amazingly, there was no bitterness in her voice, only resignation. "You see it again and again, as a doctor in this city...and then sometimes you experience it firsthand."

Not even Annabeth was this obtuse. "Bruce's parents."

"Tom and Marty, yes." Again, the resignation in Leslie's voice. "Tom was one of my first friends when I moved to Gotham. We volunteered at the same health clinic...would you believe, I didn't even know who the Waynes were?" Leslie smiled at her own ignorance. "Tom and I had similar approaches to work, and similar research interests, and we hit it off right away. He was younger than me by a fair bit, of course—" here a blush began to creep into Leslie's cheeks—"and it was fairly easy to be dazzled by him. But once I met Marty, and their son, it was impossible not to love them all equally."

Annabeth tried to imagine the charmed, charming Wayne family in the years before the violence which had destroyed them.

"Marty was..." Leslie paused, searching for the right words, "She was one of those perfect society hostesses. I gather that, before her marriage to Tom, she had been a bit of a high-flying party girl, but she settled down quite well and took to marriage. And all that socializing served her well—she could set anyone at their ease, converse, joke, draw them out, whatever it took. She had a knack for assessing her audience and judging what they needed and wanted to a nicety." Abruptly, Leslie laughed, perhaps at some memory. "Tom figured that out quickly, and they ruthlessly exploited it, especially when they were involved in some sort of philanthropy or charity or fund-raising event. Poor rich folks, I almost felt bad for them—they'd go home several thousand dollars lighter, but yet feeling like a million dollars. Marty Wayne could make you feel that special."

Once more, Annabeth took in her gilded surroundings. More and more, the room seemed to fit Martha Wayne's personality. A royal room for the Queen of Gotham Society. Which she, Annabeth, decidedly was not.

"Now Tom, he was a bit more serious than Marty," Leslie went on, caught up in her memories and oblivious to Annabeth's insecurity. "You know, raised as the sole Wayne heir, and all that. He only spent the most cursory attention to the empire—all of his love and energy and dedication went to his work as a doctor, to his Foundation, to Gotham, or else to his family. But in that, he and Marty were absolutely united."

"You make it sound like they had a very solid partnership."

"They did, oh, they did. But they could both be so stubborn, too. Dogmatic, intransigent even, when it came to what they believed. Committed, unyielding, even unforgiving—they few times they fought that I know of—lord, it could drag on for a while. More than once, Alfred was something of a go-between for them." Shaking her head and chuckling, Leslie still seemed able to recall this clearly, all these many years later. "I had so much in common with both of them; Tom and I shared a professional vision, but I found in Marty a true female friend. Similar tastes, similar outlooks, even similar mannerisms after a while." Leslie paused with a smile that was simultaneously sad and sweet. "It got to the point where I'd turn up at the Manor on my day off, and Marty would stroll down the staircase and we'd both see that we were wearing similar outfits."

Unconsciously, Annabeth nodded, and then caught herself doing so. How many times had she and Janey done the same thing? She had lost count when she had consistently lost thumb-wars to Janey as a way to decide who would be the one to change into something else

"And then, of course, there was Bruce. Their only child, and such a boy he was. Smart, and so self-contained. A bit of a loner, really...Rachel seemed to be the one close friend he had, especially...well, especially after Tom and Marty died."

"I was so young then...just Bruce's age, or thereabouts." Annabeth mused on this for a moment, softly, almost to herself. "I don't remember when it happened." Of course not—even then, she had been too preoccupied with own her fierce struggle to stay afloat in the wild, unpredictable currents of Gotham's foster care system.

"It was absolutely horrible," Leslie said flatly. "I think for Bruce it was—" Leslie suddenly cut herself off, and bit her lip as if to keep the words from coming out.

"What? What's wrong?"

Sheepishly, Leslie shrugged. "Just have to remember every now and then that you're the patient—"

"—and Bruce is the old family friend." Annabeth grasped the source of Leslie's hesitation immediately, and understood. "And to further complicate matters, you're probably wondering just what the hell I am, exactly, to Bruce? I'm willing to bet that wasn't something he bothered to clarify with you."

"No."

"That's fine—and anyway, I don't think either of us have a clue." Annabeth was dimly surprised with herself; why on earth was she sharing this? It was a morning of revelations and unexpected confidences.

"It doesn't matter what you are to each other, not now. What does matter now is how you two help each other through this."

Difficult though it was, Annabeth paused to recall the last ten days. Parts of it were fairly murky, recalled through a haze of pain and pain-killers, but the one thing that did stand out in her memory was the constant, strangely comforting presence of Bruce. If he hadn't been there, he had made sure that Alfred was. He had watched over her, raised hell on her behalf, tried to cajole her into eating, talking, resting; and sometimes he had simply remained there, an often silent witness to her recovery. "He's been an incredible support," she acknowledged, and as soon as she spoke the words, the powerful truth of them struck her. "He's been—a rock. I always thought that was such a stupid analogy until this happened. But not now. Now I see just how wonderful a rock can be—it doesn't shift or move. It shelters, it endures, it's completely reliable and strong. It never makes you guess. It never makes you think you need to guess."

Leslie quirked an eyebrow. "Not really the Bruce that most people see—not even the Bruce that I see, most of the time. I have to say, I was surprised seeing how he was this week. It was much different than how he's been the last few years. He's a different person around you, it seems."

Aware now of the treacherously thin ice upon which she now skated, Annabeth tried to gently steer the subject towards something a little safer. "Well, anyway, I don't know how much I'm helping him through this." Her attention shifted momentarily away from her own sorrow as she pondered the loss through Bruce's eyes. How much was he hurting? Or, good god, what if he was blaming himself? It was impossible to know just then, but she would have to find out. "I don't know that I'm helping him at all."

"Perhaps, in allowing him to take care of you, you are helping him." Leslie took in Annabeth's thin, frail form, now slightly hunched over as she sat on the edge of the bed, and felt a surge of protectiveness course through her. Very sensibly, she tamped this down. Annabeth had just found and lost her birth mother in a very cruel way, and probably wouldn't take kindly at misplaced mothering attempts by a childless doctor. "Now," she said, making the decision to switch from exchanging cozy family gossip to more business-like concerns, and finding herself on firmer footing as a result, "How about you tell me what you want to do now?" She added a prompt to help Annabeth out. "Are you hungry?"

Hungry? Annabeth reached into the depths of her brain—when was the last time she had felt hunger? In the hospital, she had dutifully eaten at least some of the food that they had brought to her, but that was more because of the fact that there was always someone there, beadily watching her, preparing to nag her if she didn't eat enough. But hunger? Didn't really register.

"Annabeth?" Leslie placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Suddenly, Annabeth snapped to attention and realized that she had spent far too much time ruminating over a simple yes or no question. Pull it together, woman. It's not a philosophical quandary. "Yeah, some food would be good."

This response satisfied Leslie. "Why don't you go ahead and take a shower, and I'll have Alfred bring up some breakfast for you?" Without awaiting further response from Annabeth, Leslie headed towards the bedside table, where there sat an old-fashioned phone. Annabeth briefly wondered if it had ever spent time in a Parisian brothel, but then was distracted from this as she watched Leslie pick up the phone. Curiously, she dialed no numbers, but rather simply waited for a moment, then began speaking. "Alfred? It's Leslie...she woke up a little bit ago, and she'd like some breakfast." She paused, listening to something on the other end, and then smiled as she hung up. Seeing Annabeth's surprised expression, she extrapolated. "Your room has its own line, and Alfred has programmed this phone so that if you simply pick it up and wait, it will ring through to his cell phone. A combination of old and new. Now—go shower. I'm guessing you'll want to get the hospital feel out of you for good. Bathroom is through the door next to the fireplace. "

Obediently, Annabeth turned to the direction to which Leslie had gestured. There was a door flanking both sides of the fireplace. "Which door—"

"To the right."

In the blissful privacy of the bathroom, under the pounding, steamy water which assailed her from the showerhead, Annabeth tried to process all the things she had learned just since awakening. It was a strange shift in reality—when considered in the light of day, the previous night with Bruce seemed like something from a dream. "He's gone into the city," Leslie had said, her face betraying no suspicion or anything which indicated a knowledge of where Bruce had spent his early morning hours. Lord, that man had a knack for disappearing.

Enough. Annabeth reached through the steam and groped along a ledge built into the wall; she had seen a line of bottles there when she had stepped into the shower. Her hands grasped one of these bottles, and she pulled it towards her, fully expecting the label to boast something like a shampoo formula boasting extract of sea-horse intestines, or some equally crackpot, pseudo-chi-chi claim. What she saw instead caught her off-guard. She held in her hands a bottle of her favorite shampoo—not her everyday drug store variety, but rather the good stuff from the salon, that she only indulged in once a week. She squinted and saw her favorite conditioner, too.

Odd.

She emerged from the shower feeling marginally more human, and as she began to towel off, her eye caught a neat stack of clothes that someone had, at some point, stacked on the counter by the sink. With some trepidation, she glanced over the items, but strangely, everything was to her preference, just like the shampoo—right down to the yoga pants she favored when puttering about at home.

It was as she was carefully working her way into these pants—her bullet wound scar was still in the angry, sore stage—that she happened to draw near the door leading back into the bedroom. Despite the aged, thick wood of the door, Alfred and Leslie's words floated through fairly audibly.

"Still depressed...moody. And passive...doesn't like making any decisions."

"...take time, I imagine."

"comes and goes...probably...more severe...keep an eye out."

"I am rather vexed with Master Wayne—honestly, what was he thinking? Business on New Year's?" Alfred's voice grew clearer as he moved closer to the bathroom door, and so did Leslie's.

"I agree, Alfred, it would be helpful if he were here. I suspect that Annabeth has not embraced the worst of the grief yet...I don't know if she's cried, even once. And when she does, it won't be pretty."

"It certainly cannot be healthy for her." For once, Alfred actually sounded fretful.

"I've yet to meet anyone who's really healthy-" Leslie put sarcastic emphasis on this word- "in how they handle their grief and their issues. As you and I both well know."

Annabeth went very still, the towel she had been using to dry her hair falling from her suddenly-ice-cold hands. She imagined Alfred having a similar reaction, but without seeing his face, it was impossible to tell. However, did his voice sound a little forced as he asked, "My dear Leslie, what on earth do you mean?"

"I mean that neither you nor Bruce have moved on."

This was dangerous ground, even for an old friend like Leslie, but regardless, she plunged on. "I've always worried for you, living here, but especially when Bruce spent all those years drifting the damned globe. But then, at least I saw plenty of you, so I didn't have a chance to worry too much. I thought that you seemed to handle things all right, and you certainly sought out my company, so you couldn't be too broken."

"And now?"

Even Annabeth, as obtuse as she normally was when it came to the nuances of human interactions, could hazard a guess where this conversation was going, and she cringed in sympathy. Oh god, Alfred. Leave—leave now. For the sake of everyone, get out!

"And now I hardly ever see you. Bruce turned up from out of nowhere—thank god, he was alive—and then all of a sudden, I never see either of you. But especially you. What the hell happened—was it something I did?"

So Annabeth's leap of intuition was true. She was equally pleased with her own perceptiveness and appalled, too. God, did love suck so bad at every stage of life? One would hope that, by the time one hit their sixties, they would be beyond the ridiculousness of it. Apparently, no such luck. This was not a cheerful chain of thoughts, so Annabeth turned her attention back to the conversation.

Alfred had to be feeling awkward right now. Yet his voice never betrayed it. "Leslie! Don't be absurd! There was nothing you did wrong. Nothing. It's not you at all, it's-"

Here Annabeth cringed again. He can't be about to say it! Even I know better.

"-it's Master Bruce."

Genius. He threw Bruce under the bus! Nice! Low but nice. "It's not you, it's my superhero billionaire employer who needs me to hold his hand at every step. That's why I'm commitmentphobic." I'll have to remember that one.

"That's just what I mean, Alfred! Bruce returns out of the blue, and suddenly the only times I ever see you, you're chained to his side, or else doing his bidding!" Leslie's voice was rising in uncharacteristic frustration.

"Master Wayne needs me-"

"No, Alfred. He's an adult. So let him grow up. You did right by Tom and Marty—you couldn't have done a better job with Bruce when he was a child. So it's not healthy, devoting your life to Bruce when he's an adult. You need to let him go—let them go."

It suddenly registered in Annabeth's brain that she was shamelessly eavesdropping on a very private conversation which no longer had nothing to do with her. Following hard on the heels of this guilty thought was the realization that she had spent the last few minutes thinking about something other than her own misery. Other peoples' misery provides a great distraction. Duly noted.

Alfred and Leslie's voices faded away; they must have moved further away from the bathroom door. Perhaps they had reached some sort of détente—no, Annabeth heard the sound of a door closing. So who had left?

Leslie must have been the one who decided to make the exit, for Alfred was standing in the middle of the room when Annabeth emerged from the bathroom. His back was to her, and he appeared to be staring off into space, lost in thought.

"Good morning, Alfred."

"Ah!" Alfred turned around and greeted Annabeth with a distracted smile. "Good morning, Miss Annabeth." He crossed the room, over to the large window. Before it, positioned no doubt to take in the view, was a small round table; while Annabeth had been showering, Alfred must have been hard at work. An elaborate, single place setting had been laid out, and accompanying this were several silver serving platters. It all seemed rather excessive to Annabeth, but she knew Alfred well enough to know that he didn't do anything by halves.

She settled herself into the seat that Alfred pulled out for her, and as she did, she couldn't resist asking, "Where's Leslie?"

"She had to make a business call..." Alfred's eyes suddenly narrowed. Her innocent tone of voice hadn't fooled him for long, and the smirk that she didn't wipe away quickly enough must have confirmed what he suspected. " Oh, dear. You heard our conversation, I suppose?"

"You suppose correctly." Annabeth watched as Alfred lifted the lid to one of the silver platters and began spooning delicious-smelling food onto the delicate china plate which sat before her. "I hate to say it, Alfred, but even I saw where that conversation was going. Why the hell didn't you take off?"

Alfred took his time in answering. He poured a cup of amber-colored, steaming tea and passed it to Annabeth, and only then did he tell her. "You heard the cryptic remark about how Master Wayne and I handle our grief. Perhaps it's paranoid, but I needed to find out what she meant. I needed to make sure she didn't know anything. Drink you tea, dear."

Obediently, she took a sip, but then put down the cup and saucer. "Wow...that's incredible dedication to Bruce."

"I don't see it quite that way. Or at least, it's just as much a dedication to his goals and ideas as it is a dedication to him, personally." He had finished heaping her plate with food. "Tuck in."

Food was now the last thing on Annabeth's mind. "So you do believe in what Bruce does?"

"Of course!" Alfred was too well-mannered to take offense, but his voice nonetheless betrayed him. "And I believe in who Master Bruceis. From the beginning, the utter lucidity of his plan was enough to convince me. And even if that were not enough, watching him do what he does, watching him make the choices that he does, watching how pure his dedication is—that is enough."

She never would have thought it possible, but Alfred's bearing became even more proud and erect as he delivered this pronouncement. "Bruce is lucky to have you, Alfred." Then, to prevent herself from saying anything else, she looked down at her plate and attempted to tackle the breakfast.

It was obvious that Alfred had prepared nothing short of a feast. All manner of tempting foods had been placed in front of her—a golden omelet, oozing cheese and mushrooms and accompanied by fat, juicy sausages. A bowl of fruit with an excess of berries and kiwi—all that fruit that she had once complained to Janey was under-represented in generic, grocery store-arranged concoctons. There was even a pitcher of orange juice, pulpy, just the way she loved it.

A suspicion began to take root in Annabeth's mind. She peeped into a linen-covered basket right by the juice. Yes, just as she thought—it contained her favorite breakfast bread: fluffy, decadent croissants.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Miss Annabeth?"

She recalled her favorite toiletries in the bathroom, and decided she wasn't imagining this. "How is it that everything here seems to be tailored to my unvoiced specifications?"

"Master Wayne and I were both most concerned that you should feel welcome, and we wanted to make sure you felt utterly comfortable, and wanted for nothing. To this end, your friend Janey was most helpful."

"I bet she was. You two probably earned some badly-needed points with her, too." Still, Annabeth was touched. "You put a lot of thought and effort into this." And the best way she could appreciate it, she knew, was to make a show of enjoying it. She began to eat, and after a moment, had to admit that this was not much of a sacrifice. A week of Alfred's cooking, and her appetite would return. Still...she paused for a moment, as curiosity overcame tact. "So, you and Leslie, huh?"

To his credit, Alfred became neither defensive nor evasive. "Master Wayne was gone nigh on ten years, Miss Annabeth. The Manor could be a lonely place. I had no idea whether he was alive or dead...I only had my own faith that he was safe, and my own efforts to keep myself from going mad. So yes, I did spend much of my time in Leslie's company."

"But not now?"

"But not now."

Annabeth took another bite of her delicious breakfast, and the time it took to chew gave her a chance to formulate her next thought. When it came out, it took Alfred off-guard. "That's silly, Alfred. Even Bruce has an occasional dalliance. So why not you?" She didn't know this, actually—but Bruce couldn't have gotten his playboy reputation by mere acting. As her predicament of the last six weeks was rather potent proof.

"I don't dally." Now Alfred actually did look offended, but his mild manner immediately asserted itself. "And to be fair, my dear, Master Bruce has been entangled with you since early September—almost four months. Scarcely a dalliance." He paused, and then with a mischievous smile that robbed the following words of their sting, added, "It would be considered more of a prolonged fling."

_Even on New Year's Eve, business didn't stop within Wayne Tower. But things did slow down considerably in the last ten days of the year, and the staff was reduced to a third of its usual size. Generous though Wayne was with vacation time—he had actually gotten personally involved with changing the policy, right after his return to Gotham—he was still a businessman, hence the presence of one-third the usual number of employees to at least keep the bare-bones running. Each year, every department rotated the "One-third duty" as it had come to be known, so no one poor sap got stuck working the Christmas holiday every year. And even if they did, they were handsomely rewarded: time-and-a-half pay for each of the ten days that they worked, as well as several catered lunches and surprise employee appreciation gifts.

In addition to generating some very satisfied employees, this program also engendered a strong loyalty within the corporation, as well as a sentimental love for Bruce Wayne. He may have been a clueless playboy, his involvement in the corporation his rich man's folly, but by god, the workers benefited. And he was harmless enough, really—he usually had a knack for bumbling through the building at odd hours, all affability and absent-mindedness. He was the "grunt workers"' unofficial mascot.

Of course, none of these pleasant reasons were why Bruce had gone to bat for the "one-third duty." He had done it because the Empire could easily afford it, and because it was both fair and generous—but more to the point, it meant that there were two-thirds less people around Wayne Towers, and that meant he was two-thirds more likely to be unobserved in the act of getting things done.

This Christmas season had been a little bit difficult. Most of his time had been spent with Annabeth at the hospital; as a result, work had begun to pile up at the office, even with Jessica Waterhouse's hard work and long hours. So finally, after getting Annabeth settled at the Manor, Bruce had reluctantly left her that morning and ventured into the City. As he guided his car through the almost-empty roads, he felt his spirits actually beginning to lift a little bit. Work, whether in the Batsuit or the business suit, was always a welcome thing. And really, it was New Year's Eve—even better! The one-third was more likely to be one-quarter, he could get things done, perhaps head down to R&D and Applied Sciences...

His good mood deflated when he stepped off the elevators and onto the 85th floor. He had expected the entire floor to be devoid of all human life—and yet there was Waterhouse, hard at work as usual.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne." Jessica Waterhouse barely glanced away from her monitor. "Managed to squeeze past all of the toadies?"

"They were toadying elsewhere, I think." Bruce sauntered over to her and sat on the edge of her desk. "What are you doing here—aren't you off the one-third duty this year?"

"I'm voluntarily exempt from the one-third duty, Mr. Wayne. Would you like some water, or coffee?" All of this time, Jessica kept right on typing. No, that wasn't quite correct—while still typing with one hand, she reached over with the other and pointedly tugged at the files he was sitting on. "Mr. Fox is in Pennsylvania with his family, and since you were also out this week, I thought it prudent to manage the office in your absence." She glanced over at him finally. "I took the liberty of opening and recording the various correspondence that looked personal—Christmas cards, mainly, but a few sympathy cards, too."

"Sympathy cards?"

"It appears as though some have read the tabloid article about the information that sleazy doctor leaked." Typical, that Jessica's minimal editorializing was limited to the doctor who betrayed Bruce and Annabeth, and not Bruce for essentially knocking up Annabeth. Bruce made a mental note to give her another salary increase. "I'm sorry for what you've been through, sir. Now, did you wish for me to assist you today, or will you be handling your own workload?" That was her tactful way of asking him if he wished to be left alone.

"For the moment, I'm okay with being on my own. Let's have a meeting around 1 PM, discuss any high priorities?"

"Fine by me." Jessica went back to typing, but paused again to watch as Bruce began to amble away. "Sir? That's Mr. Fox's office. Yours is next door."

"So it is." Bruce waved vaguely and went through the door to which she pointed.

Hour after hour passed, and Bruce slowly began to re-orient himself. It was sometimes difficult, playing the idiot playboy while secretly and simultaneously running and guiding the company to greater success. Lucius helped with that, immeasurably; he could often drive Bruce's agenda and paint it as his own. And in her own way, Waterhouse did the same thing. She knew there was more to her bosses than the dynamic they projected to the public, but Bruce suspected she simply didn't give a damn. She was like a bulldog, Waterhouse—she'd hang on to the job and get it done. That was all that mattered.

Actually, maybe less like a bulldog, more like a brainwashed soldier. Shuddering at this thought, Bruce began to sort through the documents and papers on his desk.

By noon, Bruce was caught up. By 1 PM, he was more than ready for his meeting with Jessica. And by 2 PM, he had completely lost all ability to pay attention. As Jessica went on about various departments and projects, Bruce found his mind wandering far away—back to the Manor, in fact. How was Annabeth holding up? He felt a twinge of guilt, leaving her so early like that, but there would never be a better time to re-emerge into the business world. He had wanted to do it as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.

"Mr. Wayne?"

Jessica was looking at him with a sort of subdued curiosity. "Everything alright, Mr. Wayne?"

"Everything's fine, Ms. Waterhouse." Bruce made up his mind. "Is there anything else here that's utterly pressing, or can I skedaddle? I think there was some sort of thing I was supposed to go to this evening, something with Chippendale models. What's a Chippendale, anyway?"

"Haven't a clue. I can look it up, if you want. But no, everything's fine; I'll manage quite well in your absence."

That was his dismissal, and Bruce liked Waterhouse well enough to oblige her. Still... "You won't stay too late, will you?" he asked as he lingered by the elevator.

"Not too late, no." Jessica felt no need to share the fact that she and her partner had cooked up some particularly amorous ways to bring in the New Year. "Happy New Year, sir."

"Same to you, Wa—Ms. Waterhouse."