Disclaimer: I own no part of the Batman franchise and make no profit off this fiction. Everything belongs to someone else. (But I wish it were me!)


Batman slammed his fist across the man's face again. Blood spurted out of the man's nose and across the feet of the man tied up beside him.

"Tell me who you work for!" he roared into the hoodlum's face.

"Jesus, Ricky, just tell him!" the man's friend exclaimed.

"You tell him, rat!" Ricky managed to choke out around the blood in his mouth. "Hit me all you want, Bat…man, but I'd rather you haul my ass to jail than sell out those bitches," he finished with a strange wheezing noise. Batman dropped him and stood up. He looked at the other man and back to Ricky.

"Have it your way," he rasped. "I'm sure the Russians will enjoy knowing that you escaped the clutches of the Batman. I'll find someone else who'll talk." Then he turned and pulled out his grappling gun.

"Wait, wait- hold up, man, you're not taking us to jail?" the other man called out to him. Batman turned back around, a smile on his face.

"Why take you to jail and wait for the system to work when the Russians will do the job for me?"

Ricky got a wild look in his eyes. "Wait, you can't do that! You're the Batman! You can't-"

"There's no point to me holding you two if you don't know anything."

Ricky coughed up some more blood and leaned his head back. His friend looked from one man to the other, panicked. "Okay, okay, man! We'll tell you- we'll tell you everything!"

Batman loomed over them both. "Let's hear it," he growled.


Fifteen minutes later, he was dumping their unconscious bodies on the front steps of Gotham's central police department. He swooped up to the roof as officers swarmed out of the station to collect the gang members and paused at the top to turn back and oversee his latest handy work. The door to the roof opened and he turned his head.

"Commissioner," he said.

"Are you responsible for the two goons my men are bringing in? Wait, stupid question. Don't bother answering. Is this tied to the Russians?"

Batman inclined his head. "Yes. I have names. Vodyanoy. Heard of him?"

"No, but I can have my men run the name through our database-"

"Don't bother. They won't find him. It's a Russian word. The rough translation is Water Goblin."

"Water Goblin? Now that is a name I've heard. I thought it was just another crazy left over from Arkham. There were some rumors coming out of the Narrows…"

"I need to know what you know."

"You're taking care of it yourself-"

"I also need the case file on your teacher."

"Molly."

"She was targeted by a gang a few years ago."

"You think the same gang is involved now?"

"Don't you?"

Gordon eyed him and let out a sigh. "Fair enough. You want the files now?"

"I'll pick them up later tonight. Leave me the key and I won't break any locks."

"You'd pick them expertly anyway-"

"I'd rather have your full cooperation. I'm heading to the Narrows now. I'll check in tomorrow night."

"Alright- I'll have a copy made and waiting for you."

"Don't make any copies. There's no telling who else might be looking for that information."

Gordon ducked his head and ran a hand over his hair. "Fine. I'll see you-" he broke off as he heard a whoosh and looked up.

The roof was empty once again.


Deep in the underground garage of an abandoned warehouse along the waterfront of the Narrows, a rather large man was busy smirking at his underlings. He sat back in his chair, folding his hands across his heavily muscled belly and looked at his minions smugly.

"Who is this great Batman, eh? He doesn't even know I exist! And as for his alleged involvement in destroying our ties with the homeland, we have no need of Mother Russia; we are running the city without them perfectly well!"

"We understand your point of view, of course, Vodyanoy, it is just that some of our contacts are not as stoic about the turn of events as you are. Besides, there is the matter of this shooting-"

"Ah, yes, the shooting. And do we know which of our miscreant exchange students it was who pulled the trigger?"

"Sasha has confessed, sir, but I am afraid that there has been a…complication."

The man known as the Water Goblin sat up and eyed his henchman narrowly. "What…complication?"

"It's the same problem as before. He says there was someone else there- he didn't see them after he first shot the man, and afterwards he didn't want to stay on the scene any longer. He assumed whoever it was would not be able to identify them and it would serve as a warning, leaving someone alive."

"And what makes you think the circumstances have changed? This was a quiet operation until Sasha got his big ideas. He was out of line to have shot that teacher- he is simply making up stories now to save his own neck!"

The henchman stepped back and gave a careful nod. "I couldn't agree more, Vodyanoy. But the police and the Batman, as I said before, have begun to sniff around about the shooting more. They are not necessarily onto us yet, but I believe it is only a matter of time. They must have someone informing them. There must have been a witness!"

The Water Goblin closed his eyes in frustration and after some moments, forcibly relaxed his face. "Fine," he said, lifting his eyebrows and leaning back in his seat. "Find out more about this teacher. Perhaps that will lead you to a potential witness. In the meantime, I do not want to hear anymore about Sasha and his guilty, troublemaking conscience."

"What do you want us to do about him?"

Vodyanoy looked up at his henchman from beneath heavy lids and smiled lazily at them.

"Deport him."


Molly was awoken in the middle of the night by the sounds of heavy footfalls in the hall outside. She sat up in the bed and had just reached over for the light switch when she heard voices as well. One was Alfred. The other was hoarse, gravelly, and she didn't recognize it…or did she? Somewhat alarmed, she slid from the bed and walked quietly over to the door without turning on the light. Very slowly and softly, she turned the doorknob and opened it a crack. The hallway was dark as well, but she could just make out two figures- one supporting the other- and she could hear their voices more clearly now.

"And how did that approach work out for you?" Alfred asked, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"Alfred, if you'll just get me to the bedroom I can take it from there." The other figure suddenly raised his head and seemed to glance about. "Is Molly-"

"Asleep. And if you think for a second I'm going to allow you to take care of these wounds yourself, you are quite mistaken, Master Bruce."

Molly bit her lip hard to keep from gasping and kept her body as still as possible until she heard the voices fade and another door down the hall closed. Then she closed her own door again and made her way back to the bed, where her knees gave way. What was going on? Bruce had gone out after she'd seen him a few hours ago, that much was clear. But why? And how did he end up injured? Was he a member of some secretive fight club? She snorted into the dark and slid back under the covers. No, now she was being ridiculous. Perhaps he'd been out at a club and managed to wreck one of his precious sports cars. That was far more likely. And the approach Alfred had mentioned? No doubt he'd been trying to pick up the wrong man's girlfriend. After all, even with a live-in school teacher of a paramour, she supposed billionaire playboys had needs and reputations. Never mind that none of this was real to begin with. And with that, she rolled over and went back to sleep. Or at least, she tried to.


She awoke early the next morning while the sun was just rising and met Alfred, who was just bring up the morning paper. He took in her exercise shorts and sports bra and raised an eyebrow, but did not say a word. She smiled and walked past him into the elevator.

"I'll be back in forty minutes," she offered. Alfred waved the newspaper at her.

"How do you like your eggs?"

She laughed. "No eggs, please. Hasn't Bruce heard of cornflakes?"

Alfred watched the elevator doors shut and then walked back to Bruce's bedroom. He detoured through the kitchen to pick up his protein drink and then grimly opened the door. Setting the drink and paper down by the side of the bed, he walked over to the blinds and opened them enough to let the morning sun shine through across Bruce's face. The younger man groaned and rolled over.

"Bats are still nocturnal, Alfred," came a muffled response. Alfred smiled.

"I thought I would inform you that Miss Molly has gone out for a morning jog. I didn't see the bodyguard you'd hired outside, so I wanted to know what your plans for her protection are-"

"Shit," Bruce murmured, then shot out of bed. He walked over to the dresser, where he pulled out some long pants and a t shirt. The clothing would effectively cover his injuries from the night before, but he was moving stiffly and Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"You aren't thinking of accompanying her yourself, are you?"

"It's too late about the bodyguard- we didn't know her morning routine yet so I couldn't schedule one. I'll have to catch up to her."

"With all respect, sir, you're in no condition to go jogging this morning."

"Are you offering to take my place?" Bruce asked, turning around as he struggled into the pants.

Alfred looked very much as though he'd like to say something else, but he simply raised his hands in resignation and sighed.

"I'll put your drink back in the refrigerator, sir."

"Thank you, Alfred" Bruce murmured as he passed out of the room, still tugging the shirt over his head.

He collected his sneakers at the door and Alfred just rounded the corner in time to see the elevator doors closing once again.

"Of course, Master Bruce, it's not a problem. I'll just wait here for the fallout from your coming to Miss Molly's rescue every twelve seconds, shall I? Why, thank you, Master Bruce, I don't mind if I do have some coffee while I wait. Perhaps I'll read the paper as well," he said aloud to the empty penthouse. With a knowing smirk on his face and a glance heavenward, he swept back into the kitchen.


Bruce stretched in the elevator and then jogged through the lobby, nodding hello to the desk clerk and pausing outside to ask the doorman which way Molly had gone. The fellow pointed left down the street and Bruce took off in that direction. He'd barely gone half a mile when he saw her up ahead, her pale blond hair glinting white in the morning sunlight. He admired her form from a distance for a minute more: the straight line of her neck and shoulders and subtle curve of her hips and buttocks in the snug shorts. Shaking his head as he felt the stiffness in his own muscles being replaced with a slow burn, he sped up enough to overtake her. There was no sense in getting overly excited at the moment. Alfred was probably right, he shouldn't be out jogging in his condition- and if that was the case, then he really shouldn't be participating in any other sorts of athletic behavior. Not that he couldn't handle a decent beating once in a while- it was more like he hadn't expected news of his interest in Vodyanoy to travel so quickly after his collar of those two gang members and as such, hadn't expected the next villains he met to be prepared to welcome him with hunting knives…which was still one of the only weapons they hadn't quite figured out how to foolproof the bat suit against. Not to mention that even if it didn't break the suit, he could still feel a tire iron's impact. But hey, if he couldn't go jogging five miles the morning after a run in with a few hoodlums and a knife to the ribs and a few bruises, then he wasn't much of a crime fighter, was he?

He jogged behind her a few seconds longer, until she turned her head slightly and moved to her right a little to let him pass her, then pulled up beside her. She did a double take and frowned.

"Can't I even exercise in peace?"

"I'm not leaving you alone," Bruce ground out.

"It's thirty minutes!"

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

She snorted and sped up. "I didn't know you cared."

Bruce clenched his jaw and matched her new pace, though it caused him some pain. She eyed him and a smug expression descended upon her face. He decided not to take the bait and they jogged in silence for several minutes, until Molly took a right to start the jog back to the penthouse.

"So this is the route you plan on taking every morning?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, before understanding dawned on her. "Oh. So this is just a friendly surveillance jog, is it? Well, no, Bruce, I don't know if I'll keep the same route, so you'd better tell my bodyguard that and have him meet me in the lobby every morning." She looked over at him and smiled. "Or maybe I can just move out and we can forgo this entire stupid charade."

"Do you always talk this much when you jog?" Bruce asked through clenched teeth, the air hissing in and out of him.

She narrowed her eyes and looked ahead again. "Only when the man I'm supposedly sleeping with shows up at three a.m. with injuries and so sloshed he can't stand."

Bruce glanced at her in surprise this time and shook his head. "It's not what you think," he began, but she cut him off.

"I think you're hiding something from me. What that something is doesn't really matter to me. I'd just like the truth before I let you distract me with anymore kisses." She smiled grimly at him. "Now tell me it isn't what I think."

Bruce was silent one second too long and she put on an extra burst of speed, crossing a crosswalk just as the light was turning red. Bruce started out after her only to be impeded by a taxi and the angry horns and shouts of more than one driver. He shouted her name. She didn't turn around.

He was behind her by several yards the entire way back to the building, but she kindly held the elevator for him and despite the glares they sent one another they were silent on the ride up. Alfred looked up at them from setting the table as they reentered the apartment, Bruce moving slowly after Molly, doing his best to hide his limp. Molly thanked Alfred quietly for finding some cereal for her and set to her breakfast without any more words. Bruce eyed her with some hostility and Alfred put on as stern a face as he could without insulting his employer, telling him to have a seat.

"Here's your drink, Master Bruce. Miss Molly, may I pour you some coffee?"

"The juice is fine, Alfred, thank you."

The old butler nodded and shuffled back into the kitchen after exchanging another glance with Bruce. He appeared again a minute later, holding an ice pack.

"Is that pulled hamstring still bothering you, sir?" he asked Bruce as he handed him the ice and an ace bandage. "Would you like me to wrap it for you?"

"I can do it myself, thanks," Bruce practically growled, snatching the items from Alfred.

Molly eyed the scene serenely. "I'm sorry, Bruce. I wasn't aware you'd injured yourself so badly. I would've slowed down if you'd asked."

Alfred had trouble hiding the smile on his face and Bruce frowned up at him. "That will be all, Alfred. If you'll excuse us."

Alfred nodded again and smoothed his grin out. "Of course. I'll be in the kitchen," he murmured before leaving.

Bruce turned to Molly and smiled tightly- not a happy smile, not a sarcastic or joking smile…just tight. Angry. She lowered her spoon slowly and reached out a shaking hand for her glass of juice. Bruce put his own out and covered hers, stopping its movement. He noticed that her hand was suddenly trembling. So. She could act, could make the decision to be a hard-ass if she had to, but she had a heart, too. Well, he already knew that. Or was it the other thing? Was his demeanor frightening her in other ways? He wondered how long it had been since her last relationship with a man, since the last time she'd stuck up for herself to a man she was- well, almost- sleeping with. He turned his hold of her hand into a caress and she looked up at him. Her eyes were still hard.

"Does your loving gesture mean you're ready to tell me the truth?"

He pulled back and shook his head. "You're not ready for the truth."

"But I am ready to let you make love to me, is that the idea?"

"Molly…"

"Whatever, Bruce. I have school in an hour. Are you driving me again or is Bruno taking me?"

"Bruno?"

"That big idiot you've hired."

"His name is Ashley, actually, and yes, he'll have the car here whenever you need it."

"Are you ever going to allow me on the train?"

"Maybe. If you start taking your position seriously."

"I take my life seriously every day that I live it, Bruce Wayne," she hissed, but relented a moment later. "Look, I'm sorry if I made your injuries worse this morning, but I really, really need some space from you right now. I'll see you tonight." She stood up. "I'll probably be late. Drama Club meets tonight with our new co-sponsor, so we'll take a little longer to acquaint him with the kids and vice versa."

"That's fine. I may be late, myself." He watched her smile and then head back to her room. He called out to her suddenly, before she reached her door and she turned back to him.

"What is it?"

"I just…I just need you to know that it wasn't what you think, last night. I want you to understand that."

The smile disappeared and she shrugged. "Like I said earlier, Bruce, I don't really care what it was. All I understand right now is that you're keeping secrets when all my cards are already on the table." With that, she vanished into her room, leaving Bruce sitting at the table, a slowly melting ice pack in one hand.


AN: Ta-da! More Russian, Slavic and opera references. They seem to be creeping into a lot of my fanfiction these days, actually. I'm a little taken with the cultural superstitions at the moment. In pursuit of information, I was reading about the Baba-yaga character of the witch and how she appears all across Slavic culture. The description of her house in the woods sitting on chicken legs reminded me of a children's book I read when I was little: Bony Legs (which is, turns out, just a retelling of the story). Anyone remember it? Great illustrations.