It was not yet quite 4 PM when Bruce finally made it back to the Manor, but the sun was already beginning to set, bringing an end to the short winter day. As he guided his car into the underground garage, he briefly imagined Alfred, lighting the fires in the various rooms, even the ones that wouldn't be used. The man must be in heaven right now, entertaining guests.

Which of course brought him to thoughts of Annabeth. He felt a stab of guilt at leaving her to her own devices, but he couldn't deny, also, the sense of satisfaction that was underlying it all. It felt good, being back, working at Wayne Enterprises. Anyway, Alfred had sent him texts throughout the day, keeping him updated, and this alleviated his sense of guilt, somewhat.

Alfred's helpful texts were what directed him through the still dark and empty-feeling Manor when he emerged from the garage. He passed through the front hall, and made a beeline straight for the study. The study. Odd place to choose when trying to pass a quiet afternoon at the Manor, but then, it was Annabeth. She could always surprise.

And yet the scene was not particularly surprising: when Bruce entered the study, he was confronted by a view of Annabeth, curled up on one of the couches, covered with a soft mohair throw. She appeared to be sleeping. She wasn't alone in the room, however; Leslie was settled in an armchair, engrossed in what appeared to be an 1858 edition of Anatomy Descriptive and Surgical. Not too far away, Alfred stood at a side table, in the process of setting down a tea pot.

"Why on earth are you all in here?" Bruce demanded as he shed his coat and carelessly slung it over the back of a chaise. "Geez, Annabeth." He grimaced apologetically to Leslie as she raised a shushing finger to her lips. "Why the hell are you guys in this room?"

"Not like there's any other comfortable social room in the house, Bruce," Annabeth said, her voice slightly muffled by a cushion. "Did you, like, forbid Alfred from buying any furniture from the twenty-first century?"

"Somehow Ikea didn't have quite the style that would fit in with the Manor." Bruce looked askance to Alfred, who made his way over.

"She wouldn't wait anywhere else," Alfred muttered. "I think she felt closest to you here." He didn't say any more, as Leslie was right there, and blissfully oblivious, but there was no mistaking the hooded look he gave Bruce. He jerked his head towards the door, and Bruce took that as his cue to leave the study for a private conference. Alfred, and then Leslie, followed behind him. Once Alfred had closed the door, they spoke a little more freely.

"How is she?" Bruce asked, bypassing the normal social niceties without even the slightest thought. "What was she like today?"

"Physically, good." Leslie felt that the doctor's opinion was the first priority. "She's in some discomfort, but it's fading daily. Vitals are strong and healthy. But she's depressed. Lethargic. Passive. All completely normal, incidentally, but she'll have to move beyond that."

Alfred could only offer a little bit more. "She's eaten twice today. I took her on a little bit of a tour—showed her the guest wing, and the dining room, and the kitchens. Even the chapel."

"You showed her the chapel?" It was impossible for Bruce to keep the amusement out of his voice. "What'd you go and do a thing like that for?" He didn't need to even bother asking, however. Alfred was proud of the little chapel—a replica of the original, except that this one bore stained glass from an old condemned Gotham City cathedral. Back in their day, the Wayne family had been strong in their Episcopalian faith, but Bruce hadn't set foot inside the new chapel since re-constructing the house...and to be honest with himself, he hadn't been there since a long time before that. Possibly, he had been twelve when last he had contemplated his family's deity.

"She wanted to see the Manor," Alfred said in explanation. "No reason not to show her. And I'm beginning to wonder if a little spiritual comfort isn't unwelcome. She's so withdrawn...seems a little lost." His tone implied something else that went unstated: Much like someone else I know.

"Hmmm." Bruce knew he should go in to her, keep her company for a while. In fact, he had known it, and wanted to do it, all day, but now that he could—now that doctors and nurses were no longer swarming around Annabeth hour after hour, now that he was no longer trying to do battle with the most arrogant of them, now that there weren't an endless number of disasters claiming his attention—he found himself suddenly reluctant. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that of all the skills he possessed, sustaining healthy relationships with normal interactions did not number among them. "I'll keep her company for a while. Give her a concentrated dose of the Wayne family charm—" he grinned at Leslie, who rolled her eyes. "Sound good to you?"

"I could get started on supper," Alfred mused. His eyes suddenly lit up with the flame of inspiration. "It is New Year's, after all; why don't I throw together something special?"

"Whatever keeps you busy, Alfred." Bruce glanced over at Leslie. "Will you be alright, left to your own devices for awhile?"

"Quite alright, Bruce." Leslie studied him for a moment, seeming to search for something. What was it? Sincerity? Concern? Whatever she wanted, she must have found it, for she smiled reassuringly. "I need to check my email anyway, and work on a journal article. I'll be in my rooms if you need me...and...well, just remember. This is a difficult time for both of you. Be gentle. Don't stop her from feeling how she needs to feel."

Strange. It was as if Leslie had tapped into his own misgivings, and understood his hesitation. Having imparted this undeniably sound advice, Leslie took her leave. Bruce was too preoccupied to notice that she studiously avoided looking at Alfred as she hurried off. Alfred, for his part, was doing the same. Before he headed down to the kitchens, he offered one more piece of information. "When I took her on the tour, Master Wayne, I didn't show her everything."

"You left the surprise for me?" Bruce guessed. "Wonderful. That should provide us with a bit of a distraction."

"I imagine you two can think of more," Alfred said. Bruce couldn't decide if he was being suggestive or simply enigmatic, but his guess would be the latter. Being suggestive was simply too vulgar for Alfred.

Back in the study, Annabeth raised her head expectantly as Bruce entered again, alone. "Where are Alfred and Leslie?"

"Not here," he said shortly. He stood in the middle of the room, uncertain for a moment. "Would you mind coming with me? I want to show you something."

She was content enough to follow his request, and allowed him to help her up from the sofa. "Is this when you show me more of the batcave?"

This request surprised him. "No...I hadn't planned on it. Did you want to see it again?"

With a noncommittal shrug, Annabeth answered simply, "I wouldn't mind."

This was an interesting thought to ponder, but not at present. "Maybe later...now, I want to take you upstairs."

With a gentle arm around her shoulders, half-prodding her along, half-supporting, Bruce walked her slowly back up the stairs and back to her suite. Once inside, he smiled. "Everything to your liking?"

"Sure." Annabeth was a little confused. "Bruce, I've already seen this room. It's where I'm staying, remember?"

Bruce merely said, "Follow me." He headed towards the door to the left of the fireplace and opened it, swinging it inward. "Come on."

She obeyed, more out of simply a passive indifference than any actual interest. Bruce followed behind her as she passed through the door, and then almost bumped into her as she came to an abrupt halt.

"My god."

From one end of the room to the other, Annabeth's eyes swiveled, never coming to rest, as they tried to take in all that surrounded her. As far as she could see, the small room in which they stood had once been a sitting room, as luxuriously appointed as any of the other spaces in the Manor. But what made this room stand out was the utter incongruity of its contents: accompanying the antique luxuries that furnished the room was a shrine to a hospital gift shop. Every spare inch of desk-top, table-top, book shelf, and cabinet space was crammed full of flowers. Baskets and vases and pots of flowers, arrangements of every color, type, and scent imaginable. Upon closer inspection, Annabeth could see that it was not just flowers, either: here and there, a helium balloon floated, or a stuffed animal stood sentry.

"They've been flooding the hospital since Percival shot you." Bruce said behind her. "There was so much that the nurses just kept everything in a separate room, and Janey would send them home with Alfred each night. Old clients from Safe Haven; the Y where you volunteer; the Library; some of the other shelters in the City; the Winstons, some of the people you met through me...they all sent something. I thought it would be a nice way to make your office more welcoming."

Overwhelmed though she was by this immense outpouring of love and kindness, Annabeth still had enough presence of mind to be confused. "My office?"

Bruce's expression and shrug were both sheepish but genuine. "Technically, it's a sitting room that joins the master suites," he explained. He pointed towards a door on the opposite side of the room. "That leads through to my room. Anyway, I know you're going to want to get back to work on Safe Haven, and in the meantime, you need a base of operations. So we made this into your study for a while."

It was only then that Annabeth began to observe certain details that she had previously overlooked, overwhelmed as she had been. Her beloved laptop had been carefully placed on top of a massive desk, and sitting by the laptop was what appeared to be a multi-line phone. Several boxes of files were stacked on the floor by the desk. On a nearby side table, a fax machine had been set up.

"All calls to Safe Haven will be routed here, as of tomorrow," Bruce told her. "Maya sent over your work planner and calendar, too, and she wanted me to tell you she'll come out here to work with you as soon as you're ready. And now might not be the best time to mention it, but Commissioner Gordon wants to come out as well, along with the District Attorney...and some of the Feds. They're going to start taking your statements for the trial."

"The trial?" Annabeth repeated.

"Seth Percival." Bruce's voice had gone lower, harsher. "Among other things, he's being charged with attempted murder. Not to mention all the racketeering, extortion, and trafficking charges, plus god only knows what else that they'll dig up. The more they investigate, the deeper he gets in the Arrows. The man was a classic Gotham scumbag."

There was really nothing much to say to this, so Annabeth said nothing. And after a moment, Bruce changed the subject, at least slightly.

"There's someone in particular that wants to get a hold of you." He paused, weighing the words. "An attorney by the name of Robert Lorta. He's been calling here, calling the hospital. He...handled Donna Drake's affairs. I figured this would be a good place to start working out some of these affairs."

Annabeth continued to gaze around the room, contemplating the kindness and warm thoughts of the many people she didn't even know cared, and also the trouble and care Bruce had obviously taken to make her feel welcome. When had that ever happened before? Certainly not at any of her foster homes. The only thing that came close was when she began to work at Safe Haven. Donna and Maya had done what they could to make her office welcoming and cheerful. Now, considering the source, even that seemed to be rather tainted.

Dammit. Just like that, her mind had happened upon the subject that she had been trying to avoid. But she was smart enough to know that avoiding it would only make it worse. How had that woman actually been her mother? How had Donna managed to work with Annabeth day in and day out, never trying to connect? How could she bear the estrangement? How could she bear Annabeth's ignorance and be content without her as a daughter? Hell, how could Donna have ever left her to begin with? It was something that Annabeth could not even come close to understanding, especially in light of her own lost child.

One night, three generations destroyed. Annabeth unconsciously brought her arms up and clutched them around her now-barren midsection. It was a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Bruce. She knew he was stranding back, arms folded, watching her carefully. There was a distance between them, yes, but it was not insurmountable. Alfred had said that Bruce rarely showed what he truly felt— he was a man, after all, and to make matters worse, he was the Batman. No, the distance was simply physical, for she was absolutely certain that emotionally, he was suffering too, right by her side. And yet, even in the middle of his own pain, he had done everything in his power to ease Annabeth back into life.

Something in Annabeth was shifting. Since everything had happened and her life had turned upside down, she had been carrying her grief silently, like a block of ice at her core. Now, faced with Bruce's kindness, that block was finally beginning to melt. She felt a lump beginning to burn in her throat. She wasn't sure if she was going to cry or puke, but either way, she didn't want to do it in front of Bruce. "I need to...um...excuse me, for a moment, please. I want to use the bathroom." Carefully avoiding his eyes, she slipped past his protective position and out of the room.

It took Bruce a full five minutes before he finally figured out that Annabeth wasn't in the bathroom, and in fact, wasn't around at all. Somehow, she had managed to do a runner.


Alfred was in the kitchen, just beginning to start preparations for supper, when Bruce appeared. "Have you seen Annabeth?"

"She hasn't been in here." Alfred paused in the act of cutting up vegetables, the Henkels knife hovering over the eggplant for a brief moment before he resumed his task. "She manage to escape you, did she?"

"It looks like it."

Alfred couldn't resist the opportunity to bait him. "Interesting how the convalescent moves faster than you do."

"Your concern is underwhelming, Alfred. Are you going to give me a hand?"

"I'm fairly certain this will not tax your superior detective skills overly much, sir. Plus, I have a soufflé I must watch."

When Alfred got on one of his culinary kicks, it could be difficult to deter him. With a suppressed sigh, Bruce turned around and headed back out of the kitchen. Annabeth had to be in the Manor ...somewhere.

It took twenty minutes of vain searching through more than two dozen rooms—he never appreciated how overly-large the Manor was up until now—before it finally occurred to Bruce where Annabeth would be. Heaving a sigh that he didn't bother to suppress this time, and bearing an expression of distaste, Bruce headed off to the chapel.

Sure enough, that was where she was, sitting in the pew closest to the altar, her back to the entrance. Bruce hovered for a moment, as much from a lack of desire to enter as a lack of desire to intrude. But he saw her shoulders hitch up and shudder, and then heard the soft sobs echo in the holy quiet, and without any more hesitation, he moved towards her.

"Hey there," he said softly.

She froze for a moment, and then turned towards him. "Hi." Her voice choked with a sob that had been rising from deep within her gut.

Bruce sat down in the pew behind her, but leaned forward and folded his elbows against her seat back. He propped his head up on his arms, thereby staying close, but allowing her a little space. He didn't say anything, but simply waited.

After a moment, Annabeth spoke. "Really twisted time of year for this to happen, huh?"

He followed her gaze towards one of the panels of stained glass, which depicted the nativity scene of Bethlehem. One miracle birth didn't necessarily guarantee another. "Twisted is one word for it."

"I keep thinking, you know, I wasn't even supposed to get pregnant. How did it happen—why did it happen, if I was just going to lose it anyway?" There was anger in Annabeth's voice, anger at an unknown and possibly nonexistent god for allowing fate to toy with her so. "It just seems so pointless."

"I know."

Annabeth turned her attention back to the stained glass panel, and Bruce could guess the bitter nature of her thoughts. However, her next words weren't anything he would have guessed.

"What did it feel like? When your parents were murdered?"

Bruce had spent most of his life simultaneously re-living the night his parents died and yet trying to avoid the pain of that loss. He was loathe to bring up the memories and diminish their power by sharing them, but for Annabeth, he was willing. She was as lost as he had been once—perhaps still was—and he could not allow her to find her way alone...or worse, to not not find it at all. "It felt like the world was ending. I saw my family destroyed, just like that. The shock...well, the shock didn't last very long. And the numbness, that followed. And then the guilt, and the anger. And then the guilt again—forever." Bruce attempted a smile that was more of a grimace. "I didn't exactly follow the stages of grief in the correct order."

It was difficult to tell if his words had any impact at all. From the suddenly remote look on her face, Annabeth was once more attempting to withdraw into an isolated bubble of moroseness. He recognized it immediately. And the thought of her following in his path of unhappiness was absolutely repugnant to him. He couldn't let that happen. But how to reach her in her remote depths of sorrow? It wasn't as if he had any skills or resources when it came to providing emotional succor.

The answer, when it came to him, hit him like a Joker-driven semi. "Hey," he said softly, "Let's ditch this place. I've got something else I want to show you."

Obediently—or perhaps indifferently—Annabeth followed Bruce out of the chapel and through the Manor. Presumably, Alfred was still busy in the kitchen, and Leslie was no where to be seen; therefore, Bruce and Annabeth seemed to have the run of the place. Bruce's stride was brisk and determined, now that he had a plan to comfort and relate to Annabeth, but more than once he had to catch himself and deliberately slow his pace to match Annabeth's smaller steps.

Back into the study they went, and Annabeth, not being an idiot, had by this time figured out where Bruce was taking her. "Bruce, I wasn't serious, earlier—you don't have to take me to the Batcave."

The stern look he gave her was eerily familiar, which was strange in and of itself, seeing as how whenever he had given it before, his face was covered in the mask and cowl. Nonetheless, it quelled her protest, and so did his next words. "You weren't kidding, Annabeth. You were serious. So let me take you to my chapel. It's where I go when I need answers and comfort."

He closed and locked the door to the study, and then crossed over to the piano, where he played the off-key notes that would open the hidden doorway. "There's another way to open it," he told her. "You could turn the hands on the grandfather clock to 10:47." He didn't explain the significance, but Annabeth didn't need to ask.

As the lift bore them down the shaft and into the cave, Bruce glanced over at Annabeth. In the subterranean gloom, it was difficult to see her expression. He hoped he was making the right decision. But when they stepped out of the lift, another thought distracted him—when was the last time he had been here. It seemed...neglected. Forgotten, almost. He had returned the Tumbler, the night that Safe Haven was raided, but that had been the last time. He hadn't taken up the Batman mantle since that night.

A disconcerting thought, but not the top priority at present—which was, in and of itself, disconcerting. Bruce directed his attention back to Annabeth, who stood by his side in the middle of the Batcave. The look of dejected sorrow had, amazingly enough, left her; now she was gazing about, as awed and curious as the first night she had come to the Batcave. The night that she had figured out who Bruce truly was.

This thought must have occurred to Annabeth, too, for she tore her gaze away from her surroundings and glanced up at Bruce, who was still sticking to her side like a burr. "Different circumstances, huh?"

Suddenly her face crumbled, and she made a choking noise, as though someone had gripped her throat. Something within her—her ability to restrain her emotions—had suddenly broken, and now Annabeth made no attempts to fight it, as she had done each time before. She was simply too defeated and too adrift in an abyss of loneliness and grief to care. Bruce watched as her shoulders shook with the force of her tears, and for a moment, he was unable to move. He was relieved that Annabeth finally seemed to be coming to terms and acknowledging the loss of their child—but as well, he was conscious of a shameful dismay that she had chosen now, in his presence, to grieve. How could he possibly try to be a comfort to her, when he was barely able to process grief himself?

As Annabeth continued to cry, Bruce ground his teeth and acknowledged a rather substantial disgust with himself. This isn't about you,he snarled inwardly. It's about both of you—about all three of us. Yes, that was right, there was a third being involved in their pain. Bruce had never spent too much time thinking of the politics and ethics behind the arguments of when life began, and frankly, he still didn't know or even care. What he did know was that there had been a potential life, and it had been destroyed—along with a part of both himself and Annabeth. Seth Percival would be charged with attempted murder, but he had committed an even greater crime, and one which would never be punished—the destruction of a fledgling family.

This realization tore through him, even more violently than the loss that he had acknowledged the night before, and it was this which finally broke his momentary trance. This was a pain too crippling to bear alone, and so, desperate to both seek and give comfort, Bruce roughly pulled Annabeth to him, and finally allowed himself to add his own tears to hers.

They did not linger long in the Batcave. Instead, they headed back upstairs to Annabeth's room, where Bruce immediately took charge. He pulled back the blankets and fluffed the pillows, and then most remarkably, began undressing Annabeth.

"What the hell?" she barked as he started to lift up her shirt.

"Don't be a twit," he snapped. "You're getting into bed. Let me help."

So she did, passively allowing him to pull her clothing off and dress her in another pair of pajamas. All of this he did with a gentle, almost chaste reverence. Only one time did he pause, as he took in the scar on her abdomen where Seth's bullet had torn through both her skin and their lives.

Finally, Annabeth was in her pajamas, and Bruce helped her into bed. He pulled the duvet over her, and then turned out the lights.

"Are you leaving?" There was a note of surprise, panic almost, in Annabeth's voice, and despite himself, he could not help but to feel just the tiniest bit flattered.

"I'm not leaving," he told her quietly, his voice disembodied, yet reassuringly familiar, in the darkness. She felt the mattress shift and sag a little as he sat down upon it, and then carefully lowered himself so he was laying beside her. "I'm right here."

After a moment, Annabeth spoke up again. "Bruce?"

"Hmmm?"

"I want...I want you to tell me everything."

A pause, and then when he spoke, his voice was wary. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I know you know about Donna and Seth, and how they tied back into all of this. Seth told me that night. But I also know that you have ways of finding out so much more...so I want you to tell me what you found out about them."

She felt his hand, slowly stroking her hair away from her face. "Are you sure you want to know this? You have to realize it won't be pretty."

"I don't want to know this, Bruce. I need to know this."

She felt him lie back on the pillows beside her, felt his hand softly fall on her abdomen, where the scar was. And then he spoke.

"Alfred found out some of the stuff on Donna, right before Percival made his move. It's probably the same thing that he had told you—that your mother, Susan, left when you were two. She and Seth moved to Chicago, and she divorced your father and married Seth. She changed her name, of course, and the records were pretty well-buried—no doubt Percival paid off the right people." He paused for a moment, debating his next words. "Alfred kept digging, even after Gordon arrested Percival. He turned up all sorts of old police reports from Chicago. Turns out Percival had a bit of a heavy hand. Their neighbors would call the cops, but Donna never pressed any charges. There were broken bones...concussions...But she stuck with him a long time."

He felt, rather than heard, Annabeth's quiet, bitter laugh. "Abusive relationships have a way of enduring. Seth had his hold on Donna until the last, long after they divorced."

"They divorced back in the early nineties," Bruce told her, now determined to give her all the information she had asked for. "They both moved back to Gotham, each on their own..."

"...that's what he said, too..."

"And Donna got a pretty hefty divorce settlement. She had gone to college, back in Chicago, and got a bachelor's in psychology and a master's in business administration, so she used that, along with her money, to get Safe Haven off the ground. And she had Seth track you down." Here's where the story got more difficult. "Donna found out what happened in your freshman year."

Annabeth nodded, thankful that the darkness hid their faces from each other. Some burdens were just too painful for others to see. "Seth said that Donna had come to him and asked him to punish the men who raped me."

"I think he was good at his word." Bruce thought about the information Alfred had unearthed back in the autumn. "We did some research a while back, and every one of the men who attacked you were dead or missing within a year's time."

Through the darkness, it was impossible to see her reaction, and he found himself grateful. Was she relieved? Glad? Vengeful? He didn't really want to know—particularly because, when he thought of the men, and what he would have done if he had come across them, he felt a shadow of primal, protective rage that stirred within himself. "I think Donna made a bargain with the devil," he added.

"I know she did."

"From what we can gather, Donna followed your movements through college and grad school. She recruited you, and I have every reason to think that was planned too. I think she was trying to have you in her life, in whatever capacity she could. From that point on, you know the rest."

Annabeth did know the rest—the mentoring, the slowly-deepening friendship and trust. She remembered being in awe of Donna when she had realized that she had had Timmy, all on her own. She told this to Bruce. "She was forty-forty then, and she told me she had figured out this was her last chance to have a child. She had spent spent gobs of money being fertilized, and I think no one was more surprised than she when it took. But she was always so happy, so proud of him." Suddenly, Annabeth was crying again. "All that time, my mother was there. Right there."

Bruce held tight to her and felt the sobs convulse her body. "It's a cold comfort, but I think she did the best she could."

"I know she did," Annabeth managed to gasp out as she wept. "Now more than ever, I understand. I'll never forgive her for selling out those women, but god help me, now that I've experienced a life growing inside of me, I understand why she danced with the devil."

From that point on, she simply cried, and Bruce simply held her. Their sorrow was finally beginning to merge. More time passed, but neither of them noticed. Neither Alfred nor Leslie came looking for them, and so they were left to themselves, to find their way and guide each other through the pain.

"How fucking typical it is," Annabeth said at one point, "I go through most of my life having no family, and then I come this close to having an entire family, just to lose it all over again."

"You haven't lost everything," Bruce said. "There's still Timmy. He's your brother. And you're all he has now." And then he added, without thinking, "But we've both lost too much. It's time to hold on to each other." He pulled her close. "Let me help you through this."