Sunday, February 13, 2000; 4:05am – The Royal Hawaiian; Honolulu, Hawaii

Pitch darkness greeted him. A low and steady rumble of thunder echoed through his subconscious, indistinguishable from its source.

The clicking of heels made the distant thunder background noise as a couple strode into view, sudden moonlight making them visible. The man was handsome, tall, strong, with a pair of sharp, wise blue eyes with a hint of kindness within them. The woman was gorgeous, wrapped tightly in a plush fur coat with bright pearls glistening from around her neck. They both stopped, smiling as if recognizing an old friend.

Two loud, sharp noises echo through the darkness like two planks slapping together. The man crumples in a heap. The woman falls beside him, the bright pearls bouncing freely around their bodies.

A third person approaches, unaware of the bodies in her path. Her heels click to a stop, familiar bright eyes staring straight at him as her beautiful smile appears, recognizing him.

Another gunshot shatters the distant thunder, and she crumples, too.

The thunder suddenly spreads to the foreground, becoming a roar as bats flood his mind before sudden silence—

"Don't be afraid, Bruce."

Bruce's eyes snapped awake to stare up at a rotating fan above him. No bats, no fallen bodies. Just a plain, white ceiling, darkened by the night.

He was breathing heavy, panting almost. And he relaxed his muscles, realizing that his nightmare had them contracted and stiff.

And then he noticed her.

At his movement, she shifted, curling up tighter into his side. Her head was on his chest, her arm lazily around his torso, and his own arm was around her body, their legs intertwined.

They must have fallen asleep.

He could see that the bottom of her dress was still damp, much like the ends of his pants felt. For not liking dresses, not only did she look beautiful in one, but she wasn't eager to get out of it. The suite they were in was stocked with a change of clothes, but then, he hadn't changed either. They had simply…fallen asleep, quite content as they were.

He considered moving, but thought better of it, for now. He wished he could stay in this moment forever. He wished he could have a happy life.

His nightmare was a reality check. He could never have a happy life. That wasn't what fate had in store for him.

Carefully, he brought his hand up to her bangs that fell in her eyes, brushing them back with one smooth swoop. Her lids fluttered a little at the touch, but grew still again, her eyes beneath them stirring with dreams. He wondered what she was dreaming about. It had to be something pleasant with the small smile on her lips.

He could wait, leave in a couple of days. Enjoy his time with her, make her happy. What harm did a few days do?

She suddenly murmured his name into his shirt, her arm around him subconsciously tightening.

That shot that idea out of the ballpark. If she was already dreaming about him, he'd done enough damage already.

Despite her tight grip, he carefully lifted her arm to slide out from underneath it, using his other arm to remain under her head until the last minute. Once relatively free of her limbs, he released her entirely and slid off of the still made bed. At the change, she simply rolled over and curled up tighter as if cold. Rounding the bed to get closer, he instinctively pulled up the blanket previously folded up on the end of the bed to cover her. Once it was securely around her shoulders, he gently brushed her cheek and kissed her lips ever so delicately one last time.

She was the most amazing woman he had ever met. She deserved more than him.

Finding that his phone was—thankfully—still in his pocket, he stepped out of the bedroom of the suite and quietly closed the door behind him.

Alfred picked up on the fourth ring, trying his best not to sound groggy.

"Yes, sir?"

"We're leaving." This time he said it, it was softer than the first. Not because he was trying to be quiet, but because he wasn't angry about it anymore. He accepted it. He needed to leave. For Ana's sake.

"Yes, sir," was the prompt, questionless reply.

Alfred was at the door barely ten minutes later, looking rather disheveled. But he already had their bags ready and packed, and a plane ticket for Ana was the first thing he handed to his employer.

Bruce hesitated as he looked over the ticket regretfully. Wasn't there a small probability of him being happy? Didn't the universe owe him that much?

Alfred easily noticed the hesitation and took advantage of it. "We don't have to leave right this minute."

At the sound of the butler's voice, Bruce snapped out of it and left the ticket on the decorative end table that lined the front hall of the suite. No note, no goodbyes. It was better this way. He had to convince himself that it was better this way.

With Alfred frowning his disapproval behind him, Bruce stepped out of the suite and headed down the hall without looking back.

Sunday, February 13, 2000; 5:20am – Somewhere over the Pacific

Bruce was staring out the tiny oval window at the early sunrise as they time traveled through time zones. The ocean, still touched with twilight, looked so still and serene from miles up.

It had looked just as beautiful the night before.

But she had made nature pale in comparison.

"Master Wayne, you have a phone call," Alfred interrupted, causing Bruce to blink away the images he saw hidden in the ocean below.

Resuming a business-like state, he cleared his throat as he took the phone the butler had offered him. "Bruce Wayne."

"Mr. Wayne?" He half expected it to be her, woken up early and calling him, demanding a valid explanation. He should've known better. She was too tame, too selfless to demand anything, something he was aspiring to be right now. She wouldn't be calling him. "Good morning. Glad I could reach you." Bruce's lips thinned in irritation at the small talk, his dark eyes darting back to the window. And as if sensing his irritation, the woman on the other end continued hurriedly. "My name is Brooke Johnson for the Gotham City Courts, and it is required that I inform you of Mr. Joe Chill's public parole hearing tomorrow, February the 14th, at three pm. Do you understand?"

Bruce blinked, catching himself gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles were white. "Why wasn't I informed of this earlier?" he demanded in nearly a growl, earning Alfred's sudden attention from where he had resumed his seat across from him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but we have been trying to contact you for a week now. This specific number was out of service and several messages were left on your home answering machine."

Bruce didn't even bother with any form of 'Thank you' or 'Goodbye' before hanging up as gently as he could without breaking the handheld's button. Then he calmly set it down on the small table next to his seat.

"Sir?" Alfred questioned curiously, and worriedly, with raised brows.

"We're not going back to Princeton, Alfred. Inform the pilot that we're returning to Gotham."

Sunday, February 13, 2000; 6:22pm – Wayne Manor; Gotham City, New Jersey

"Once this is over and done with, will you be heading back to Princeton, sir? Or can I persuade you to stay home for a day or two?" Alfred asked as he carried Bruce's bag through the hall, towards the marble stairs. He was clearly concerned, not only by the sudden sullen state of his charge, but also by the sudden disappearing act he had performed at the airport. And to arrive at the Manor in a taxi cab instead of calling him to pick him up. Whatever was going through Bruce's mind, Alfred hoped it would quickly pass.

All the furniture within the manor was still covered in white sheets, only serving to sour Bruce's mood more. This place wasn't a home. It was full of ghosts and unwanted memories.

"I'm not going back at all," he answered as he followed the butler up the stairs.

"You don't like it there?" Alfred almost sounded hopeful, looking for Bruce to say something—anything about Hawaii or Ana.

"I like it fine."

Alfred took a long glance at his young charge, looking for any hint of what he meant, before his eyes returned to where his feet were going, giving up. "I've prepared the master bedroom."

"No," Bruce replied simply, slipping his hands in his pockets and glancing up at the large covered painting on the wall at the top of the stairs. "My bedroom will be fine."

"With all due respect, sir, Wayne Manor is your house."

"No, Alfred, it's my father's house," he replied curtly.

"Your father is dead—"

"This place is a mausoleum, if I have my way, I'll pull the damn thing down brick by brick," Bruce demanded, his deep voice reverberating off the stone walls.

Alfred stopped on the stairs and turned to face him, the anger and disappointment clear in his blue eyes. "This house, Master Wayne, has sheltered six generations of your family."

Bruce glanced at him with a dark glare. "Why do you give a damn, Alfred, it's not your family."

Alfred paused as he looked Bruce over before continuing, "I give a damn because a good man once made me responsible for what was most precious to him in the whole world." Bruce hesitated, not finding anything to refute that with. No matter how sour his mood, he couldn't fight back against that.

Alfred looked back to the stairs and began to climb them again at a faster pace than before. Bruce watched him climb a few steps before following by taking two stairs at a time. "Ms. Dawes has offered to driving you to the hearing tomorrow. She probably hopes to talk you out of going."

Rachel had already called. Of course she knew, she was the assistant DA.

"Should I just bury the past out there with my parents, Alfred?"

"I wouldn't presume to tell you what to do with your past, sir," the butler began as he slowed to a stop, more meaning in that one sentence than Bruce could overanalyze. Bruce strode past him a couple of steps before turning to face him. "Just know that there are those of us who care about what you do with your future."

He paused as he looked at his oldest friend, his dark eyes clearly displaying the hurt he had caused himself in returning here, in leaving the one good thing in his life. "Haven't given up on me yet."

"Never," Alfred replied with a small smile before setting down his employer's bag and turning to head back down the hallway.

Bruce watched him leave for a moment before picking up his bag and turning to stride into his parents' bedroom. It was the only room without white sheets composing the scenery. Everything was still in place as he remembered it and after he set down his bag, his eyes found a picture of his parents, framed in a small gold frame. He sentimentally scooped it up as he ran my thumb over the glass. They made his resolution that he had formed on the plane ride home all the harder. The resolution that he had been subconsciously keeping for years. He had to go through with it.

As he set the frame back down, his hand moved to the object sitting next to it: his father's stethoscope. Opening the long black case slowly, he took a deep breath as the old memory came back to him. The memory of when he was only eight and things were still simple and happy, and he was trying to use it to check his father's heart as he watched his only son with a small, proud smile.

Bruce closed the case before heading over to his duffle bag that he had set on the bed. Zipping it open, he intentionally lifted up a couple of shirts to reveal the small hand gun he had placed there less than an hour before, on his way home—no, not home—from the airport.

He opened the cylinder to check the ammunition, and sure enough it was still fully loaded. He slipped it into his coat pocket before pulling off his coat and throwing it over the back of the chair still perched at his father's desk.