Bruce Wayne read Summer Gleason's article over brunch. It was the earliest he'd been up in a month. Alfred feigned a heart attack upon seeing his ward in the kitchen at eleven a.m., making his own toast and coffee, no less.

"And what has fascinated you so, sir, that you're up at a hour previously unthinkable?"

"Just reading the paper," he said with a sly grin, sliding it along for Alfred to read. Usually, Alfred worked his meticulously neat way through the paper backwards and forwards before Bruce was conscious enough to ask for it. He was enjoying the reversal, getting to inform Alfred of things. Alfred took out his glasses and skimmed the article.

"Not welcome already, I see."

"She thinks I'm controlling the election."

"Well, to be fair, sir, you did make a sizeable donation to Mayor Hill's re-election fund."

"Did I?" Bruce munched his toast, smiling in that helpless, impish way he knew Alfred hated. It was as close to a dumb-blonde routine as a two-hundred-twenty-pound, six-foot-two ninja could pull off, and it worked damn well. "When did I do that?"

"I took it upon myself to see that the check was delivered."

Were it not for his absolute trustworthiness, Alfred would be a terrific crook. In the short time since his return to Gotham, Bruce had discovered that his butler faked his messy scrawl with more authenticity than he himself managed at times.

"Mayor Hill's not a bad person, sir. He's done wonders for the schools at the least."

"But he is the one who let Gotham slide over the years." He baited Alfred, pleased to see the old English temper and self-righteousness flare up.

"Not so, sir. That would be his predecessor. What Hill inherited was already half-way gone. He's done rather well, considering."

"Relax, Alfred. I agree." He wasn't as ignorant of politics as he pretended to be. As Batman, he couldn't afford to allow the corrupt to maintain or accrue more power any more than he could overlook a mugging on his patrols. Of the two candidates for mayor, he preferenced Hill to Fugate. Wayne Enterprises certainly relied on men like Fugate, but a fastidious know-it-all who adhered to letter rather than spirit of the law wasn't the champion of justice he'd want as mayor. Fugate was also a veritable unknown, and while he no longer feared the unknown, he had sense enough not to trust it either.

"As you're awake so much earlier than anticipated, Master Wayne, perhaps you might visit the construction site this morning?"

"That sounds like a plan," he nodded, finishing his coffee.

Wayne Manor's reconstruction was, despite his initial concerns and Alfred's ulcers over it, a surpassingly uneventful affair. The blueprints for the original were still on file with the city, but most of the old manor's dirtier secrets weren't in any of the schematics. The elevator shaft was cemented over without much fanfare or investigation, lost amidst a plethora of extravagant, eccentric requests that Bruce Wayne and his formidable bank account could inflict upon any grateful contractor. Alfred and he would work out how best to re-open that entrance to the caves later. If his great-great grandfather had managed back in the 1800s, he could certainly do, too. Unless the bats themselves acted up, there was nothing left to betray Batman's presence.

For now, he had the presidential suite on the top floor of Gotham Arms Hotel, a purchase made on a whimsy that had turned out to be most useful. Bruce's high living made being Batman that much easier; he had a room safe large enough to store his suit and accouterments. He watched as Alfred cleared away the hotel dishes, washing them and setting them aside to dry. None of the hotel staff visited the suite since his taking up residence in it, another quirk dismissed with shaking heads and low mutterings about 'those wacky billionaires.' Alfred would never have tolerated another cleaning up after him anyway.

"Before I forget, sir," Alfred toweled off his hands and retrieved a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "Miss Dawes called for you this morning. I didn't believe you were up yet."

He took the note, unfolded it and read off the brief summary of Rachel's call. She wanted to do dinner, his choice of location, to celebrate. Her request that he call her back was underscored by Alfred so it became an admonition; he hadn't called her in nearly two weeks. He'd been busy, but that didn't stop either of the two people he cared most about in the world from berating him for his negligence.

Looking up from the note, he found Alfred already extending his mobile phone, clicking the speed-dial to Rachel's office. Frowning and attempting to appear put-upon, he took it and raised the phone to his ear.

"Rachel Dawes."

"Good morning."

"Bruce?"

"Sometimes," he affirmed, pleased to hear her laugh at this. Very little about his divided lifestyle amused Rachel.

"It's good to hear from you. I usually get Alfred."

"So he's been reminding me. How are things?"

Rachel sighed, her breath rushing over the connection like a hurricane wind. "Not great. I'd prefer to talk later, if you're free."

"I always have time for you."

Rachel snorted. "Just not lately."

"No, but I'm getting better." He changed subjects, not really interested in pouring over his nightlife in vague double-speak. "Where and when would you like to have dinner?"

"I'm going to be in late tonight. Eight, maybe? I might be late no matter what time I tell you."

"Then I'll make it easy on you. Tell me a time, and I'll show up at your office and throw you over my shoulder and pull you out kicking and screaming so no one thinks you're slacking off."

Rachel chuckled again. "And you could, too."

"Would, Rachel."

"Right." He heard her shuffling papers. "Eight. Don't come up and get me, I'll find a way to get out and meet you. If you came up here, the entire office would implode."

"What do you mean?"

"We've taken on more interns to meet demand since I moved up." When her boss died, Mayor Hill had promoted Rachel to his position. The jump from assistant district attorney to just plain district attorney oughtn't to have been a huge one, but the DA's office was as busy as he was these days.

"What's that got to do with me?"

"They're mostly female interns."

"I'm flattered."

"Sure you are. But, seeing as I need my staff to focus, especially now, I'd prefer it if you didn't waltz in and pull a Prince Charming on me."

"I don't think you have to worry about me on that score." He tried not to sound bitter about it; it wasn't fair to her.

"I know that. They don't."

"I'll wait outside then. In the car. Promise."

"Good." He heard her jog her papers some more, an unspoken declaration that the conversation was coming to a close. "Say hi to Alfred for me. Is he making you get out of bed before sunset these days?"

"I'm awake by my own doing. I had a good night."

There was a long pause where he listened to her breathe and guessed at what objection or recrimination she would make. Instead, all she said was, "Glad to hear it. I can't wait to see the paperwork."

He hadn't guessed that one. Maybe she didn't mind Batman so much after all.

"We can not-talk about it some more at dinner."

"Oh no," Rachel said quickly, "no you don't. We're not talking about you tonight. Tonight is all about me."

"Sure," he said, relieved. "Alfred mentioned we were celebrating."

"We are."

"What's the occasion?"

"I'm getting fired."

"What?"

Alfred folded the newspaper in a hurry, casting a worried glance over at him. He tilted the phone away from his face.

"She says she's being fired?"

This visibly startled Alfred. "What's that, sir?" British obstinacy returned after a moment, and he disappeared behind his paper again, grumbling, "rubbish."

"It's a long story, Bruce, and I've got a lot of work to do. I'll fill you in later."

"You'd better." His mouth hurt, he was frowning so hard. Unquestionably wrong, violent urges sprang up and were slapped back down again. No Prince Charming, remember? He couldn't be her white knight, but he could be her friend. "I'm taking you out somewhere horribly expensive and getting you drunk."

"No thanks," Rachel sighed again. "I have a lot to finish up here and I'm going to need my brain. You are under orders to take me out somewhere moderately expensive and get me tipsy."

"Done."

"See you at eight." She hung up.

Alfred peeked around the paper. "Is everything all right, sir?"

"No." But he didn't want to fantasize about the million and one things wrong with a day that had started out so promising. "Let's go home, Alfred."

"Yes, sir," Alfred rose, leaving the paper behind while he fetched his keys and driving gloves.