I do not own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Martha Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Lucius Fox, or Gotham. Except for the painting of Gotham Bay, I used real works of art for the contents of Gotham Art Museum. I don't own these either.

This story is for entertainment purposes only. So please read and be entertained.

Alfred stepped through the doorway. He lifted an eyebrow at the sight of Madge with her head lolled to one side sliding a pencil point over a page of her sketchpad. The young lady spoke without looking at him. Her voice sounded as apathetic as her pose. "Hey teach. What are we doing today?"

Alfred turned towards the coat-rack and began unwinding the scarf wrapped around his neck. "I was informed I would wait on our gentle patient downstairs while you take the day off and go out, Miss Robertson."

Madge sat up and stared at the Englishman. "While I do what?"

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Madge looked up. Dr. Thomkins was striding down towards them wrapped in a coat, though its buttons were still undone. "You're going out with me today. Alfred will stay with Alice."

Madge's eyebrows flew up her forehead. Her complexion went pale as she remained where she was, gripping her sketchpad so the pages crinkled. Leslie turned her gaze upon Alfred and then back to the younger woman. "Don't worry about leaving the two of them alone together. Mr. Pennyworth has handled far more dangerous individuals by himself."

Alfred cocked one eyebrow at Leslie. She ignored it by continuing to look at Madge, who rolled her eyes at them both. "Where are we going 'out' to?"

The corners of Leslie's mouth quirked up. "Someplace I imagine you would rather be than in this house after staying in it for a month straight, Miss Robertson."

Madge made a face. Then she shrugged, slapped her notebook down on the coffee table, and rose from the couch. "Why not, let's go out."

Can't go anyplace worse than I've already been.

. . .

He needed to get out. Acting scared was not his style. Being out and about enjoying himself was. Still, perhaps not his usual scene, not just yet. He needed a place to help him think, where he could stay alert, someplace empty of the usual distractions. He glanced over the map he had used before and smiled when his eyes rested on a certain landmark.

. . .

Madge sat in the front seat of a twenty-year-old sedan in miraculously good condition. She felt like an impostor. The clothes Leslie had laid out for her had a classy, but mundane look. She would blend in, showing little skin. That combination had never been her style.

The young woman stared out the window as dingy buildings whizzed by. They reminded her of the clothes she was wearing, outmoded, but still commanding respect. The same could be said of her host and driver. A smirk played over Madge's lips at the thought. Leslie glanced at her guest before looking back to the road.

"What are you thinking about, young lady?"

The smirk widened as Madge sank back into the passenger seat. "Nothing."

A slight smile curved Leslie's lips. "Try to keep enjoying yourself."

Madge leaned further back in her seat. "So, where are we going, Doc?"

Leslie Thomkins nodded to a "visit Gotham" sign along the road. "There."

. . .

Bruce strolled down the hallway. He hoped the glued-on facial hair, faded and frayed clothing, and twitchy movements made him look like someone just trying to avoid going back outside. Since Gotham's economy sank far below national average, this museum, open to the public, was frequented by such types. There were security guards who attempted to sweep and remove such individuals under the clause of "No intoxicated persons allowed on premises" rule. The sober or almost sober found ways to keep moving against these security guards' routes.

Bruce told himself he should show disinterest in the displays surrounding him. But then, it was not impossible for someone seeking respite from extreme weather conditions to also appreciate art. He rather hoped that was the case. The thought of someone coming in out of the elements and finding themselves moved by an exhibit Martha Wayne had brought to Gotham for them pleased her son.

Some pieces Bruce did pass without a glance. He had not been impressed with these when he first saw them as a child, and they were as familiar to him as the portraits and landscapes hanging in Wayne mansion. Other pieces he did stop to study for the hundredth time.

Within view of the museum's front entrance hung an early depiction of Gotham Bay. Merchant ships sailed out from and into a ball of golden light illuminating all else. Dark waves lapped below docks crowed with fisherman, sailors, and those waiting to meet or see off a vessel. The piece spoke of mystery, adventure, optimism.

Bruce had expected to no longer be charmed by the piece. However, his feet paused and eyes fixed themselves to the scene. It was almost as if one of the fishermen had cast out a line that had then traveled beyond the frame, into the third dimension, and through a pupil of Bruce's eye snagging his attention.

"Can I help you sir?"

Bruce turned. Lucuis Fox stood beside him. The older man was wearing an amused expression on his face and a "tour guide" identification badge on his lapel.

Bruce looked away from the other man's gaze. He hunched more, itched at the back of his neck, and shook his head. The older gentleman gave a bland smile. Then he lowered his voice so no one else would hear him over the classical music playing through the building's speaker system."Don't worry. The disguise works . . . for the most part, but it doesn't hide your height and build."

Bruce jerked his head up and down in a nod. His colleague was correct. The boots of the bat-suit gave him another inch in height, causing him to tower over most. The ear-antennae on the cowl made him appear taller still. Adding height to a human figure was far easier than diminishing it. Appearing under six-foot-two through any means but poor posture was a challenge for him. As for build, adding was easier than diminishing there, as well. However, muscle mass was too great an asset to sacrifice for disguise.

Beside him, Lucuis looked from his employer to the artwork before them."Plus, you're staring at your favorite painting."

Without looking at the older man, Bruce mumbled under his breath and into his hand. "This was never my favorite."

Lucius stared at the painting for another moment, then gave a slow nod."Ah Yes. Turner's 'Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus' was."

Bruce nodded. Lucius lowered his voice further still. "This one must still have special significance."

Bruce nodded a second time.

. . .

His father's aftershave and mother's perfume drifted down to fill the five year old's nostrils. He was craning his neck up to see "Gotham Bay 1878." His father glanced down and picked him up. Once upon the man's shoulders, Bruce had to look slightly down to study the painting. Now his father's low, deep voice reverberated up to him. The pillar of the city spoke of Gotham's past, ships with sails instead of engines, dangerous voyages, and families that waited years for loved ones to return with foreign treasures.

His mother stepped closer to them and pointed out details like the stars on a flag and a whistle protruding from a sea-captain's lips. Words like "emphasis," "color," and "historical accuracy" echoed off the walls, floor, and ceiling. Martha Wayne's silver eyes shone. Her long fingers gestured toward the painting. Thomas Wayne turned away from the artwork to watch his wife with a smug grin as if to tell all observers "Yes, she's mine." Their son glanced down when his perch shifted beneath him, but then looked back to the disappearing ships daydreaming of the far-off places his father had mentioned.

. . .

Twenty-three year old Bruce blinked.

The museum's main doors were swinging open. Two women entered. One was in her mid-fifties to early sixties. The other was in her early to mid twenties. Both were dressed on the dowdy side. The older woman wore it a bit better than the younger. The latter moved as if she wasn't used to wearing flats, or not exhibiting her body, or having so many layers pull at her limbs.

Bruce took a few steps in their direction and then turned to lean against a wall and stare at the watercolor in front of him as if he didn't really see it. The newly arrived redhead was still standing in front of the doors.

She had considered disappearing, and then changed her mind. The former barely surprised him. The latter . . . encouraged.

Her body language contrasted with her disguise. She wasn't used to playing a mixture of proper lady and professional woman. She let her head swerve until she was staring at a particular work of art. Then she stepped closer to it. Her head tilted to the side.

Bruce's breath stilled a moment. Something tugged at the back of his mind.

. . .

"Mooooooom . . . this painting is boring."

The red-head's hands went to her hips, but her darker scarlet lips grinned as she looked down to meet his gaze. "Is it now? I will have you know the cost of insuring it makes this establishment's accountant blanch."

The boy huffed. Then he pointed down the hall. "Can't we go see 'Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus'?"

Mrs. Wayne attempted to hide her pride over how the seven-year-old said the painting's title without stumbling over a syllable in the names from Greek myth. However, the corners of Martha's mouth turned up. One dimple even popped into being. She did manage to keep the glint out of her eyes long enough to ask a question. "And who was that masterpiece painted by?"

Bruce smirked up at her. "J. M. W. Turner."

Martha's struggle to contain her pride now heightened further still. "And what is it about that particular painting of his that holds your interest so?"

A grin like Martha's own but wider flashed over the boy's face. "Its adventurous!"

Not only her eyes, but the woman's whole face lit up. She laughed and reached out to take his hand. "Yes, yes it is."

Bruce gripped her longer fingers in his own and bolted down the hall. As she strode down the hallways after him, Bruce kept tugging at his mother. A bit of alarm caught hold of him every time her head turned and steps slowed to look at a few other pieces of artwork they passed.

. . .

Leslie had paused before a tiny sign. Lucius bent over Bruce's bowed head. He whispered so someone within a few feet could overhear.

"Just try not to get in the way of this tour."

Bruce nodded. Lucius walked off to approach the two women. The older gave him a brief nod and stood with the relaxed poise of one familiar with the other. The younger stood a bit rigid. Her head snapped about to stare at the newcomer. Her eyes scanned him up and down. Lucius bowed at the waist to them both.

"May I offer you ladies a guided tour of the Gotham Museum of Art?"

The elder of the pair nodded. "Yes, I think we would enjoy that immensely."

The younger woman's eyebrows rose, but she said nothing. Bruce leaned against a wall and studied Madge's features as she passed him. The shape of her face was similar. The contour of the nose was different, though. Cynicism seemed to waft off Madge with her expressionless eyes and mouth. Yet, her posture was more open and less straight. These were near opposites of everything he could recall about the other red-headed art-lover.

He leaned back into the wall and looked in the opposite direction of Madge's retreating form, as one should occasionally do when following someone. No, there was really not much similarity. Even if there had been, it would only be an oddity.

Madge had stuck her hands in her pockets. Eyes scanning up, down, and side to side, she strolled by "Study of Two Heads." One eyebrow rose at the sight of "The Feast of Acheloüs." She took another step and froze. The other eyebrow flew up as her jaw tightened and nostrils flared.

. . .

Martha Wayne paused before the painting. Her usual grin fell away. Her brow furrowed, lips pressed together, jaw clenched, and grip tightened a bit around his hand. Bruce looked up at the painting and paled slightly. Then he tugged at his mother's arm again.

"Come on, Mom. Let's go see 'Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus'!"

Martha looked down from the canvas and nodded. "Of course." But as they left she glanced over her shoulder and glared again before looking back to where her son was dragging her.

. . .

After a few seconds, Madge turned away and tossed her hair. Bruce smiled before he caught himself. One should not smile in the direction of Ruben's "Massacre of the Innocents." There were a few similarities it seemed. Having a spirit like Martha Wayne's could carry Madge far. His usually tight muscles relaxed a bit. Perhaps this first trial of getting a stepped-upon Gothamite back on her feet would not end in failure after all. And perhaps he could come to trust Madge with her own life as much as he had found he could trust her with his.

. . .

As Lucius stood before and commented on "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," Madge glimpsed something out of the corner of her eye that seemed out of place. She turned her gaze in its direction. The red-head's brows furrowed. When she looked back to their tour guide he had stopped speaking. She made eye-contact with the guy in the suit and name-tag, before jabbing a thumb at the wall to her right.

"What are those?"

Lucius glanced in the indicated direction and nodded. "Ah." He strode across the hall and gestured to the squares of paper behind glass. "These are political cartoons drawn between the 19th and 20th centuries. Martha Wayne included them in this collection to show that art can reflect, display, and even epitomize the outrage of a time and place in history."

Madge first blinked, then stared, and finally scanned every drawing with her eyes. Her attention was grabbed by scenes of royals carving up the world, men eating men, and a tiger holding a woman face down in the sand of an arena. A few of the figures had impossible proportions, others were monsters, yet many were figures from history even she could recognize. But there was something else familiar about these drawings. She stepped closer to the depiction of the woman being pinned down by the tiger. An image popped into her mind of a dragon blowing fire into a familiar face.

I could do this . . .

Madge jerked back. Then stepped away from the display. The thought had been a whisper so quiet she almost hadn't heard it. The following response in her head was much louder. Yeah right . . .

Madge turned back to her companion and tour guide. "Are we going to look at anything else?"

Lucius turned to face the end of the hall. "This way." He began walking towards the doorway. Madge sauntered several paces behind him. Leslie shut her eyes, clenched her hands in her pockets, and sighed. She then also turned and followed behind Madge. Once the three had disappeared down a different hall, Bruce looked down to the toes of his shoes and began to amble towards the doorway to the same hall.

. . .

A door of the museum's main entrance swung open. A man of above average height and a sinewy build hidden beneath clothes of far-above average price-range entered. His eyebrows rose. His surroundings were neither as up-to-date nor as ornate as he preferred. He thought about exiting and finding another establishment to wander. Then he shrugged.

Ah well, the less reason to expect anyone else to think to look for him here. He stepped forward. The sniper glanced at a few pieces. He paused to raise his eyebrows and let a slight smile play over his lips in front of Ruben's "Massacre of the Innocents." Then he strolled through the doorway Bruce had passed through minutes before.

A few rooms later he wandered into a room full of sculptures, but his attention was caught by a form and face of flesh.

Well what do you know about that?

. . .

"This room is devoted to the works of Edmonia Lewis an internationally celebrated sculptor of the 1800s."

"Is this her?"

Madge was pointing to a photograph of a black woman. Lucius Fox stepped up to her side and nodded. "Indeed it is."

Madge started reading the information on the plaques underneath the photograph, and in front of the statues. At a few points her eyebrows flew up and she found herself more interested in the words than the artwork.

This is better than a novel.

"Hello there."

Madge jerked her head up to look at the guy staring at her. She frowned more at herself than him.

When did I get so bad about noticing a guy standing within a few inches from me?

Madge's body tensed. Her eyes scanned the man up and down with more attention than she had paid any of the works of art. He was tall, almost as tall as The Bat. Brown hair, brown eyes, chiseled face that hinted at a chiseled form beneath the suit, but she didn't like him. She recognized the way he was staring at her. His grin widened.

"So, where are you staying?"

"With me."

Leslie stepped up to her other side and made direct, unblinking eye-contact with the man. He looked away first, but only to look her up and down. Then he chuckled.

"You her mother?"

"A friend."

Madge felt a tickle of irritation at being left out of a conversation about herself. She looked to Leslie. "I'm fine mom."

"He isn't."

The guy laughed again, straightening up to his full height after leaning down on a railing in front of the display Madge had been reading the plaque for. He turned his back on the statue and met the older woman's gaze again. "And what makes you say that?"

Leslie didn't look away from his gaze as she replied or blink. "Experience."

He laughed again, then tipped his hat at them both. "Be seeing you both, real soon."

. . .

He grinned as he left the two girls behind with the statues, some of which had been of other pretty ladies he wished were flesh rather than stone.

At first he hadn't thought he could possibly be that lucky, but he was. That lady had been the one with her picture in the Gotham Gazette. He had just scanned the headline, photograph and moved on while reading his copy yesterday morning, but that was definitely her. And from what he had read, she was just what he needed. A plan began to form in the sniper's mind as he strode for the nearest exit.

Might as well get to work.

. . .

It was too much of a coincidence. His mind was playing tricks on him. Leslie herself had warned him about that. Perhaps, he should ask her if the man he had watched approach Madge and laugh at her had been real. But if he was . . . the height, the gait, the stalking of attractive females in his path, even the chill in his mocking laugh, everything fit.

Bruce pushed off the railing he had been leaning against and this time followed the man he only thought he knew, rather than the women he did.

Sorry this chapter took so long to post. I struggled to find inspiration and artwork that fit with the world, characters, and storyline.

Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They tell me what I did right, so I can do more of it and what I did wrong, so I can fix it.

God Bless

ScribeofHeroes