I neither own nor created Batman, Alfred, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Gotham City, or Deadshot. I did create Madge Robertson, Alice, Samson, and introducing Mrs. Redstone.

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

"And Thomas told me he could just pass down the beanie I made for him when he was a baby, and I said, 'No, Thomas Wayne, I am perfectly capable of knitting little Bruce his own.'"

Madge sat slouched in the living room's recliner. From there she glared across the coffee table at her and Alice's "babysitter." The woman in the rocking chair, clicking her knitting needles had to be one-hundred-years-old. Thick glasses made her eyes seem huge. Her conversation material made her voice sound like a dripping facet.

Alice seemed to like her. She was sitting up on the couch eyes locked upon the woman's wrinkled face as if the history of the Wayne and Thomkins clans was a daytime drama. Madge was convinced she would go insane and break those needles if she had to hear them go "clack," "clack," "clack," for three more minutes. Unfortunately, every time she got up, the 4'9" aunt of Whistler's mother asked "Do you need something, Deary?"

"No."

The lady would then respond with "Are you sure" and a list of possible things she could get or do, most of which involved some kind of drink or snack. What was she ten?

When Madge responded to this with "I'm just going up to my room," the woman said "Oooooooooh no, can't be doing that Deary, Leslie said I needed to watch you two girls."

As if you can see anything. Madge ground her teeth, sat back down in the chair, and grabbed her sketch-pad, which helped her stay half-sane for a while. Then …

"What are you drawing, Deary?"

Madge wondered how Dr. Thomkins and Mr. Alfred would take it if she threw one of the nearby throw-pillows at the woman. "Nothing."

"Oh, no piece of art is nothing. That's what Dear Mrs. Wayne used to say, may she rest in peace."

Madge lowered the sketch-pad and squinted at the older woman for a moment. "Do you think their son is dead?"

The old lady jumped in her seat. Then she blinked at her. The knitting needles had fallen silent. Madge's eyebrows rose. If I'd known I could get her to do that, I would have asked earlier.

The lady even put a hand to her heart as she answered. "No, Deary me, no! Mr. Alfred and Leslie would never let that happen."

. . .

"I'm going to kill you one of these days." Leslie rolled Bruce's pant-leg back down having examined his bruised shin. "Just to make sure none of those mobsters, armed robbers, or hired assassins can do it."

After picking him up at the telephone booth he'd used to call, she and Alfred had driven him to the clinic. On the way, she had tested him for memory loss. This involved him telling her what he'd been doing right before sustaining the concussion that had left him unconscious.

They had entered the clinic through a back entrance. Now, they were cloistered in the supply room. Bruce sat on the spare cot. He was being careful not to make eye-contact with Alfred.

The Englishman was leaning against the door to the hallway beyond. His warning of anyone approaching would give the three of them ample time to react. The hallway was long and shoes on its linoleum floor clicked and squeaked. Bruce knew his godfather and first teacher in the science of observation would be as happy about this incident as his godmother. His words were for both of them. "I thought someone was in danger."

The doctor rose to her feet and crossed her arms. "Someone's always in danger, Bruce, and it's usually you."

"He took me by surprise. He'll find that harder to do a second time. I know his face, voice, and motivations better than I did before."

"At a higher cost than usual. This is the same man who damaged your …" Leslie motioned with her hand over the right side of her head, before lowering her arm again with a shrug, "antennae."

Bruce remained silent. Leslie shook her head and then lifted both hands to the ceiling while lowering her gaze. "I don't know how much more of this I can take, Bruce. Bringing desperate girls to my house to drop them off for a life-change plan is one thing, but finding out my only godson is not just a target for every gun in this city, but is now the prime target of an international assassin is going to push me over the edge."

"He didn't know who I was."

"Exactly. And if he had you'd be dead now. Would Alfred and I even know where to find you then?"

Alfred coughed, but Bruce answered. "I have a tracer in my boot."

The furrow in Leslie's brow deepened. "Wonderful."

Bruce slid off the cot, looked her in the eye, and laid his hands on her shoulders. "We've already set a plan in motion."

Leslie's eyes swiveled to glance at Alfred without moving her head. "Of course. You two always have a plan now. Just like you had a plan when I didn't see you for five years. Now you include Lucius in them as well. Don't think I'm ignorant of why you only share the broadest possible outline of these plans with me. You know exactly what they will do to my blood-pressure. What you don't seem to realize is not knowing does the same thing."

Leslie's hand rose to massage her right temple. "For the sake of every last one of my nerves, Bruce. Find a saner way to help this city than threatening every killer within Gotham city limits while wearing a costume that makes you look like a giant, flying rodent." She opened her eyes and scanned his current wardrobe. "Or a man who spends his unemployment check on steroids instead of clothing."

"The cushioning in this hood Lucius and I developed performed well."

"Yes, it did. And I would appreciate it you would both stop using your body as the test subject." Leslie slammed a bag of ice down on the nearby table.

Bruce looked up and met his godmother's gaze. "I have the four people who care about me most and are experts in their fields looking out for me while I do this. Risk is always involved when attempting to improve the lot of your neighbor."

Leslie looked up at him. "Why did that have to be the line you learned from us?"

Bruce squeezed her shoulder and then let his hand drop back to his side. "You left your at-home patients with Mrs. Redstone?" Leslie nodded. Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You'd better get back there."

. . .

Madge sat up in her chair, smirking a little at Mrs. Redstone. Madge was finally having fun. "Some people think the butler offed the kid for the money."

The octogenarian's mouth pursed as her eyebrows met over her nose. "That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. My how some people talk, and about things they know nothing about!" The lady gestured at Madge with one of her knitting needles. "You listen to me young Missy, Alfred loves that boy with all his heart and has sworn to make sure he is nothing but safe all his life!"

…

"Would you care to explain in more detail, Master Bruce, how you received your concussion?"

Bruce swallowed a sigh in the back seat of Alfred's car. Along with being the manservant's personal vehicle, the brown sedan was a transport that gained no attention even when picking up a 6'2", muscled, homeless man. Even so, there was no sitting in the front seat when Alfred drove. There was also no avoiding his direct questions. Bruce slightly shifted the fresh ice-pack he held against the back of his skull. "I thought he had found another mark."

"And what 'mark' could an assassin of his reputation and pay-grade have been assigned in that neighborhood? A witness, debtor, mistress? Anyone who wished to have such a person killed could have hired a far cheaper assassin than an internationally known sniper."

"He has to be desperate to appease those who hired him to kill the Batman. He also needs to prop up his shaken confidence. And he's bored. That's why he wanted to shoot a run-of-the-mill mugger."

"All the more reason for you to have shown more caution."

"I made a mistake. It didn't kill me. I won't forget what I learned."

Alfred swallowed back all the rest he wanted to say as he gripped the steering wheel harder. "See that you don't."

"How are our plans falling together?"

"I've received word from my cousin. He'll be arriving shortly."

. . .

At the Gotham airport luggage check, a weary traveler stood with his hands in the pockets of a tweed jacket. An out-of-place voice made the man turn his head. A few yards away a gentleman with iron-gray hair, a monocle, and a cane was ordering a porter to be careful with what looked like the fifth case in a set.

What interested the witness most was the man's English accent. It perfectly matched his overall, high-class demeanor, but seemed quite out of place in mid-west America. What could have called him all the way out here?

The observer saw his bag come down the belt and grabbed it. He gave the Englishman another glance on his way out of Gotham airport. Then he turned back to thoughts of hailing a cab.

. . .

While Alfred was showing Madge how to fold towels properly, a smirk appeared on Madge's face. She giggled. "Is it true you turned pale when Mrs. Wayne handed you baby Bruce Wayne after his first bath?"

Alfred turned to stare at the woman. She took in the frown on his usually placid face and laughed. The butler forced his features in a haughtier expression and raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly did you hear this information, Miss Robertson?"

"If you don't want me learning such things, you shouldn't leave me and Alice with Mrs. Redstone."

Alfred turned back to folding laundry as he replied. "I assure you, we would not have had we any other options."

"What was the big emergency anyway?"

"If you are ever employed by a person with a job involving confidentiality, such as a doctor, Miss Robertson, you will need to keep yourself from asking questions about why they depart suddenly."

"Sheesh, fine. I still don't know why we needed a babysitter."

"Perhaps, we would not have thought it necessary had we been able to trust you to care for Alice rather than ending her life as you often say you should."

Madge growled and pressed down harder than usual as she smoothed out the wrinkles in the towel. "You should just let me kill her."

"Should we? She is both Dr. Thomkins patient and guest, like you."

"She's not like me. She's a dirty traitor and she'll get us all killed as soon as she can sneak out of here."

One of Alfred's eyebrows rose. "You seem to have a low opinion of our ability to take care of ourselves, Miss Robertson."

"Yeah, well you haven't seen her 'dear Sam,' or felt his fist."

There was a sudden flash in Alfred's eyes. His own motions became a bit stiff and quick for a few moments. "No. I haven't. However, learning how to properly defend your employer and their home is an under-thought-of and extremely important part of being a household employee."

Madge's eyebrows rose. "Will we cover that part of the 'curriculum' soon?"

"We will. As soon as I know you will not use such lessons upon your fellow house-guest."

Madge's lips pursed. They remained that way as she and Alfred finished folding the towels.

. . .

Dead-shot grinned as he put the unfamiliar weapon together. Not his usual tool of the trade, but a necessary one for this job. Like this new gun, the pieces of his plan were clicking into place. All he had to do was get her, and then he could get him.

After tomorrow night. It would all be over. Then there would be no more reason to hide, and his reputation would be firmer than ever. Deadshot lifted the weapon with both hands and showed his teeth in a smile while staring down the scope.

. . .

Leslie Thomkins sighed as she strode toward her dark-green sedan. It had been another long day, telling an irate woman not to smoke while she was pregnant, calming down a screaming five-year-old with a fever, telling a man who lived on the street he might have cancer. She paused to unlock the driver-side door and felt a sting at the back of her neck.

The doctor's eyes widened. She knew that sensation. Her hand flew to the spot. Her fingertips touched a long, cold, smooth surface. Leslie gripped the door handle and pulled. Her door opened. She slid inside and sat down just as her legs started shaking. Her vision was blurry, but after pulling it out she recognized the object in her hand as the light inside her car shone on it. Then her surroundings went black as her forehead hit the steering wheel.

. . .

Leslie came back to consciousness with a dry mouth. Her thoughts turned to the glass of ice-water she always set on the coaster with an Iris stenciled into it. She turned over in the direction of her bedside dresser. She'd have to be careful not to accidentally pick up the hand-held radio Bruce contacted her on while out on his insane escapades.

Leslie tried to reach for her beverage. Something was holding her hands together and behind her back. Her eyes flew open. She tried to move her feet. Her ankles were bound together as well. The sound of laughter made her turn back over.

A man was sitting at her bedside in an unfamiliar room. He looked about Bruce's age, maybe a little older. His straight nose, high-cheekbones, and dimpled chin made his appear handsome, but the way his dark brown eyes stared at her was … predatory.

By the impersonal, but luxuriousness of the carpet, furniture, and wallpaper surrounding her, Leslie assumed they were in a hotel room. If she had been a lot younger, Leslie would have thought she knew what this was about. Considering her age, the fact she looked it, and how her clothes were all still on as she had put them on this morning, Leslie didn't understand the situation. She managed to sit up and pin the man with a ten-second, unblinking stare. "Should I ask about your motive?"

The man leaned forward, grin still I place. "Well, well, well … I knew you were supposed to be a modern saint. I didn't know you'd be so … cold and dull."

"Now that you know, perhaps you will untie me."

The man's grin widened as he shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "No, no, no … It's a disappointment, but not relevant to my plans for you."

Leslie's eyes narrowed as a suspicion entered her mind. "How much do you want, because I assure you it isn't worth it."

The man laughed again, showing straight, white teeth. "You and your friends aren't going to be who pays me. Besides, this isn't really about money, but reputation."

Leslie's brows drew together. "How so?"

The man leaned forward. Lights shown in his eyes as his gaze grew intense. "Guess this might hurt your pride, but you're just bait, Doctor Leslie Thomkins of Gotham Mercy Clinic and General Hospital. I have a certain night-time critter I want to shoot and you should draw him out nicely."

Leslie's eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open. She wondered what her abductor would do if she had a heart-attack. Perhaps it would save Bruce's life.

Reviews are much appreciated and often responded to. They help me know what I did right so I can do more of it, and what I did wrong so I can fix it, or at least do less of it the next time around.

God Bless

ScribeofHeroes