Chapter 2

"There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will."
- Robert Service, from "The Men that Don't Fit in"

It took Alfred three hours to clean up the blood.

The thought of it still made his stomach churn.

And the apartment still seemed overshadowed with the tragedy that had taken place inside of it.

He surveyed it sadly, hands limp at his sides. It had once been a cozy home for a young woman, decorated with a seemingly random assortment of photographs and paintings tastefully placed. It had been immediately evident that Miss Barbara had picked out and bought all of the furniture herself.

Just like Miss Barbara: classic, but warm.

The furniture wouldn't do in the new home, of course. Dr. Thompkins had been kind enough to brief him on the needs of paraplegics, and every single piece of furniture had one thing or another wrong with it. The couch was a little too high, the chair not stable enough for a transfer out of a wheelchair, etc.

He doubted Miss Barbara would want the old furniture, in any case.

The apartment itself would never do, either. The building was not accessible, and the counters and bathroom would have needed to be remodeled. That was something to consider when he found her a new home. Master Bruce had made it quite clear that money was to be no object before he left.

Alfred took a moment before sighing and standing up straight.

He would need to sell the furniture or donate it to a charity. That left personal possessions which needed to be organized and packed. He would also go through the mail and pay off any bills Miss Barbara had received while she had been in the hospital.

He had bent down to reach for a box when someone knocked at the door. He paused for a moment, startled, then briskly walked to the entryway.

As he reached for the doorknob he was struck with a sudden sense of déjà vu. This was how Miss Barbara had opened the door… unaware of the monster on the other side.

He chided himself for being silly, but was unable to shake the sensation.

He looked through the peep hole.

Master Tim was waiting awkwardly, still wearing his backpack from school.

Alfred's eyes widened in surprise. He took a moment to school his expression back to neutral before opening the door.

Master Tim smiled a little in greeting, but the tension never left his eyes. "Hey, Alfred," he said, leaning around the butler to glance into the apartment. Some of the weight seemed to come off his shoulders as he sighed in relief.

Frowning, Alfred turned around to follow the young man's gaze and realized Tim had been afraid that the blood would still be on the floor.

Alfred tried to steel his expression as he looked at the sad young man. "Master Tim? I wasn't aware you were coming to Miss Barbara's apartment this afternoon."

"You weren't at the manor," Tim explained, hoping it was enough. "I used to come to Babs' apartment with Dick, and when I saw the Bentley parked outside the building… I figured you were here."

"Ah," Alfred said, his eyes softening. "Is there something that you require?"

Tim shook his head and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"Then perhaps you could assist me with packing Miss Barbara's belongings," the kindly butler said, stepping out of the doorway. "I should be glad of some company."

Tim's shoulders sagged in relief and he nodded gratefully. He stepped into Barbara's apartment and dropped his backpack out of the way next to the door. "What do you want me to do?"

"Perhaps we could start in the kitchen," Alfred said, already leading the way. He stopped to pick up one of the boxes from the assortment he had brought from the manor and also pulled out a large white garbage bag. He handed the latter to Tim and continued through the small hallway to the kitchen.

"The refrigerator will likely have several things that need to be thrown out," he said, putting the box on the counter and opening one of the drawers. "I will begin packing the cutlery."

Tim nodded and opened up the refrigerator.

"Whoa!" he cried, immediately shutting it again before his eyes could start to water at the intensity of the fumes. He shook his head a couple of times to clear it before he looked up at Alfred ashamedly. 'That's why Dad and Dana are always throwing stuff out from the refrigerator.'

Alfred raised an eyebrow and looked at the teen calmly.

"You called that one," Tim finally said emphatically.

"Will you be needing assistance?" the butler asked politely.

Tim's nose wrinkled at that… or maybe it was just the remembrance of the smell.

Tim shook his head. He could handle this. He'd been to a million crime scenes. He'd traveled to hot, tropical countries where no one had heard of deodorant. Heck, he'd even found bodies that had been decaying for weeks. Surely he'd smelled worse things as Robin, right?

Right?

Alfred was still watching him with a bemused smile on his face… or at least what Tim was positive was a bemused smile on the inside. Tim turned back to the refrigerator with a look of grim determination. That... stuff that used to be food… was going down!

Tim had cleaned out two shelves, taken one trash bag to the dumpster out front, and had found out that milk did nasty stuff if you left it alone too long, before Alfred spoke.

"How was your day at school, Master Tim?"

"It was fine," he replied automatically, finding a bag of carrots and putting it the trash bag. Mentally, he smacked himself. What did he say it was fine for?

"Ah. And how was the chess club?"

"I… uh, didn't go," Tim admitted. "Gibson wasn't gonna be there, either."

Alfred didn't stop his packing of the butter knives, but he immediately caught the seemingly random piece of information for what it was. "And why didn't he wish to come?"

Tim dropped a piece of cheese (thankfully in its original, sealed wrapper) into the garbage bag and continued to face the refrigerator, staring at nothing. Now that he had brought it up, he was having trouble saying the words. Finally he heaved a mental sigh and turned around to face Alfred, who was watching him patiently.

"Gibson is friends with Helena, Alfred," he said, looking the butler straight in the eye with an expression somewhere between worry and despair. There was no need to mention which Helena he was talking about.

"What happened, Master Tim?" came the quiet question.

Tim ran a hand through his hair and leaned back resignedly against the counter. "She hasn't stayed at school an entire day since her mom died. Today I was walking in the hall and I heard her talking to the guidance counselor. He said-"

The words caught in Tim's throat as he remembered callous adults giving him the same advice. He closed his eyes for a moment and ran through a quick relaxation technique to clear his mind.

Alfred put down the box he had been using and waited patiently. When Tim's eyes came back up to meet his, he could tell that in a matter of seconds the young man had come to terms with whatever pain he had been feeling, acknowledged it, and put it to the side. The butler made a mental note to check up on him more often. There were some habits of Master Bruce's that Alfred would rather young Master Tim did not emulate, and that was one of them.

"The counselor told her that her behavior wasn't about her mom," Tim finally said, relieved when he saw compassion in Alfred's eyes. You could always count on Alfred to understand this stuff. "Yeah, she didn't take it all that well."

"What happened?"

"She walked right out of his office, and then out of school… not that I blame her," Tim said, shaking his head sadly. "Gibson was worried about her and tried to get her to talk to him, but she was still too mad. He asked me to talk to her."

"Did you?" Alfred asked.

"No," Tim said. Then his gaze jerked up towards Alfred's and he quickly added, "it's not that I don't want to. But I didn't know her before all this happened… I mean, Gibson probably introduced us at some point, but we weren't more than acquaintances. If I say something to her now, it'll just sound like all those other clueless people thinking that they have the right to talk to her because she's hurting."

Alfred nodded knowingly, inwardly saddened that the teen had already learned about such emotions at his young age. "It would sound a good deal like pity, Master Tim."

"Exactly," Tim said, relieved. "I told Gibson that she needed someone to be there for her, so he's going to try to find her after school."

"That was a wise thing to do," the butler said warmly, looking Tim straight in the eye. "Miss Helena does need someone, and I hope Master Gibson is up to the task."

Tim nodded and looked away, but didn't turn back to the refrigerator, so Alfred also neglected his chore and waited for what was truly bothering the young man. He only had to wait a few moments before Tim spoke in a very quiet voice, still not looking up.

"Is he really gone?"

Alfred had to blink back tears at the barely controlled despair that echoed his own. Bruce was his son, in all but name. He had never encouraged the self-appointed crusade he had chosen, but he had quietly rejoiced when it brought people into his life that led his soul back from the pit. Now half of those people were either dead or shattered, and, as Bruce had not been able to save them, he was not able to save himself.

And now two more young men and one young woman were scrambling for their footing as the only foundations they had ever known crumbled right out from under them. And Bruce – his son – had left them to the pit they had pulled him out of.

"He is, Master Tim," he finally said gently. "He is."

Tim bowed his head for a moment and turned back to the refrigerator, tears stinging in his eyes.

Alfred walked up behind him and placed his hands on the teen's shoulders. "But I am not," he said firmly. "I'm still here."

Before he knew what was happening, Tim had somehow turned around and was hugging the man closer to him than his own father. He cried silently for several minutes. Finally, he pulled away, rubbing at his eyes absently. "Better get back to the fridge" he said, looking anywhere but at the butler.

"I suppose it shall not clean itself," Alfred agreed wryly, "nor shall the drawers."

Tim laughed half-heartedly and picked the trash bag back up as Alfred resumed his packing of the silverware.

Things went smoothly after that. The refrigerator was quickly emptied and the cupboards packed. Alfred sent Tim downstairs to get Barbara's mail. As he left, Tim noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine in the entryway.

"Hey, you should probably check Babs' messages, too," he commented as he shut the door behind him.

Alfred frowned. It was probably better to listen to the messages while Master Tim was out. As a young woman, there could possibly be… information… recorded that Miss Barbara would not appreciate the young master hearing. Having decided, he approached the machine and pushed the button to play the messages.

: You have five new messages: an oddly sounding male voice told him. : First message.:

: Hey, Babs, it's Dick. Look, I know you're probably celebrating right now but… the computer picked up some police chatter with the right words and automatically recorded-:

There was a pause and then Dick started talking again, sounding chagrined, but very obviously distressed. :You know that. I know you know that… but… Babs, someone's been hurt. Selina Kyle has been stabbed. Bruce is already on his way… but I know you're close to Helena. She's going to need you… look, get to the hospital as soon as you can, okay:

Alfred closed his eyes tightly and leaned against the wall for support. Barbara had come straight to her apartment after the Joker's capture. According to the police reports she had just taken a shower when the Joker came for her… She had been in the shower when Dick called. If she had gotten the message, then maybe-

Alfred abruptly cut off that train of thought.

: Second message: the machine informed him.

: Miss Gordon, my name is Moira and I'm a nurse at New Gotham General. I was given your phone number by Helena Kyle. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but your friend Selina Kyle was stabbed tonight and may not make it. Please call or get here as soon as you can.:

: Third message.:

: Barbara, this is Dad. I… don't know how to tell you this, but your friend Selina was just stabbed right in front of her daughter. It… it doesn't look like she's going to make it. We're at New Gotham General… just call me when you get this message, okay:

: Fourth message.:

: Ms. Gordon, my name is Jake Rutherford and I'm an attorney hired by Ms. Selina Kyle. I'm sorry if I'm the one to tell you this, but she recently passed away, and I need to speak with you as soon as possible. Please call me as soon as you get this message. My number is 555-2740.:

:Fifth message.:

Alfred heard someone outside of the door, but Tim came in before he could shut off the machine.

: Ms. Gordon, this is Jake Rutherford again… Ms. Kyle's attorney. I need to speak with you right away. It's urgent.: There was a pause, and then the lawyer continued softly: You're listed as the person to take custody of Helena Kyle in the event that anything ever happened to Ms. Kyle. Please call me as soon as you can.:

Alfred's hand jerked towards the machine to shut it off. Tim was looking up at him wide eyed and slack jawed. And, despite Alfred's training as a gentlemen's gentleman and his forty years worth of rigorous discipline, he knew Tim's expression only mirrored his own.

Once Helena had calmed down enough to stop running, she realized that she had no idea where she was going. She couldn't go to the Children's Home, that was for sure. They'd find out soon enough that she'd ditched, no need to advertise that fact by getting back hours before school let out.

And there was no way she was going back to school.

She had been tempted for a few moments to go home… the house she had shared with her mother. But it had long since been rented out to another family. She didn't want to see a happy little family living in the house that was still her home. That just… made everything more real somehow - more depressing.

Ditto the cemetery.

For a moment, she actually considered trying her father's manor. Granted, he wasn't there, so it made a little bit more sense for her to consider it. The butler had seemed nice enough… probably nice enough to let her crash at the manor for a while.

Suddenly, the mental image of Bruce Wayne's face the way it had looked the night her mother had been stabbed came unbidden into her mind. He'd looked angry and broken, all at once.

Like he'd been pushed too far.

Helena realized she was beginning to relive the memory and yanked her thoughts away from that path… that night.

When she looked up, she found herself at the duck pond where she'd gone ice skating with her mom every winter. It was in the middle of spring, so it wasn't frozen over, but that didn't really matter. The whole place was deserted, which only made it that much more attractive for her purposes. She slowly walked up to the pond and sat down on the ground, leaning her back against the seat of a bench.

She was still sitting that way, on the grass with her knees hugged tightly to her chest and her backpack beside her, hours later. In her mind, the water was frozen and there was snow on the ground, and the crowd around the pond was thick with laughing families.

Briefly she wondered what it would have been like to have her father there as well as her mother. Finally, she shook her head. She just couldn't picture it. The Bruce Wayne in the newspapers and magazines, sure. He would've probably had a stupid smile on his face the whole time and would have laughed at things that weren't even funny. But the Bruce Wayne she'd seen in the hospital that night… no way anyone could get that guy to go ice skating.

Helena closed her eyes as she wondered which man was the one her mother had loved. She shook away those thoughts, too. Nothing good could come from those. When she opened her eyes again, all thoughts of her father were pushed down deep where they wouldn't bother her anymore. With a strength of mind born of quiet desperation, she turned her thoughts to happier times.

There, where that clump of trees reached down over the pond, was the place where she had begged her mom for hockey skates. And there, where the water met the grass, was the place where she fell down all day long and all the adults that knew her had laughed so hard. Who would have expected that Helena, who skated so well in figure skates, would have so much trouble even standing up in hockey skates? And there, away from the pond and near the street was where the little hot chocolate stand would go… where she had told her mom about her very first crush.

Her eyes occasionally blurred with tears, but that only made the memories stronger.

"Helena, what happened? Is everything okay?"

Startled, Helena's gaze jerked upwards to see Gibson standing only a few feet away. His forehead was creased with obvious anxiety as he waited for her answer.

She would have snarled at him, but she didn't have the energy. 'Oh, yeah,' she remembered belatedly, 'that's the spot where Gibson always tagged along. Should've known he'd do it again.' That would have been a time when her father would have come in handy. He would have never put up with Gibson the way her mother had.

Helena rolled her eyes at him and then stared straight forwards, pointedly ignoring him.

Gibson stood there awkwardly, playing with the strap of his backpack, for a few moments. Finally, he took a deep breath and decided to take his life into his hands by sitting down on the ground next to her.

This time Helena did snarl.

Gibson pretended to ignore it.

Helena reached for her backpack and almost stood up, but she didn't really feel like it. 'Must be because I remember Mom here,' she thought, leaning on the bench resignedly and pulling her knees up to her chest again. For a while, she and Gibson just sat there in silence. It was almost nice.

"Are you okay?" Gibson asked again.

Helena rolled her eyes.

"Right. Stupid question."

"Stupid questioner," Helena pointed out.

Gibson was silent for several moments. Then he changed tactics. "What are you thinking about?"

Helena started to reply, 'Picturing my dad kicking your ass,' but realized that it would imply that she needed help to do that… besides, Gibson was at least trying to be nice. That more than she could say for most of the other people she knew. Finally, she answered, "Thinking about my dad."

Gibson blinked. "Really? I thought you'd never met him."

Helena looked down for a moment, and then watched some ducks swimming in the water. One of them dived beneath the surface as she started to talk. "Naw, I met him. The night my mom was… I mean, in the hospital. He was there. I don't know how he heard, but he came."

Gibson's mind was whirring quickly. He remembered hearing that Bruce Wayne had vanished. Well, not vanished per se, but he had cancelled all business meetings and social engagements, made sure Wayne Enterprises could continue without him, and then dropped off the face of the earth. That was the morning after Helena's mom had been murdered. He shook his head and valiantly struggled not to ask Helena if that was the reason the billionaire had left.

"I talked to him that night," Helena continued. "I knew who he was, and when I told him… he just looked at me like it didn't make sense. That lasted for a few seconds, and then he just looked at me like it did."

"What happened then?" slipped out of Gibson's mouth before he could stop it. He cringed, but Helena didn't seem to mind the question… although she didn't look at him either.

"I asked him to find out who had killed my mother," she ground out, her eyes brimming with tears. "And to make the bastard pay."

Gibson was leaning forward. "And then?"

Finally Helena made eye contact with him and a lone tear trickled down her cheek. "He said he couldn't."

"I'm sorry," was all Gibson could think of to say.

"Me, too," Helena said, looking at the pond again.

Gibson didn't know what to say to that, so he just sat with her.

Helena didn't mind.