It was getting late. Bruce could sense the time ebbing from the day like blood from a wound, despite the Batcave having no source of outside lighting. He couldn't rest yet: not until he had finished his work.

He stood back from his laboratory desk to afford himself a glance at the bigger picture. Methylate bubbled in a flask, letting out an acrid scent that began to penetrate the fabric of his fumes mask. Before his eyes the liquid began to coagulate, and to his disbelief, turn a murky brown.

"Blast."

With a pair of tongs, he lifted the flask from the tripod, placing it down on a cork mat. With a weary flick of his hand, he turned off the gas tap and the roar of the Bunsen burner fell silent. Another experiment, wasted.

It was too late to start something else, he told himself, even as he was opening the desk drawer and retrieving a vacuum-sealed bag. He looked at the discarded instrument inside with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. Where to begin with this? It would of course need a chemical analysis, to make absolutely sure that the DNA was a match.

Before he could tear the bag open, he heard the soft footfall on the stair, reminding him that now would be a sensible time to stop his experiments.

"How goes the antidote, Sir?"

Bruce sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Another failure, Alfred." He removed his safety gloves and slapped the down onto the desk. "I don't believe I can replicate the structure of the antidote without a sufficient sample of the infected blood."

"Perhaps you aught to retire for the night, Sir." Alfred's excellent posture gave him an air that was sincere rather than haughty. "And besides, I doubt that any villain will retry a scheme that led directly to the downfall of The Joker."

Bruce was undeterred. "There was plenty of Titan left around Arkham, waiting for someone to claim it."

"Was it not destroyed recently Sir? I believed you to be the proud owner of the last remaining specimen."

Alfred was a calm and measured man; something he had done well to pass onto his young ward ever since his duties had increased to Bruce's upbringing. His father had taught him that in times of dire need, a sharp wit and a calm head would be his only ally. There were certain things Alfred wished he could thank his father for, and his prescient gift was one of them. Calmness had been there when he had attended to the men from the trenches; screaming and covered in the red slick of life, limbs and muscles knotted or in worse cases, missing. His quick wit had put many a snooping eye off the course of finding Batman's true identity, and although his nerve had been worn thin as a hair when he had seen the broken body of his ward after an encounter with the madman Bane, it had not yet failed him.

Despite his wealth of knowledge, Alfred felt he aught to have known better than to question the young Master. Since his ordeal in the City, he had become distinctly more withdrawn. His handsome face was drawn, the skin of his cheeks hanging from the cheekbones like sheets draped lazily over a clothesline. It was sadly another thing he had encountered in the fallout of the war: although the bodies of some of the young men had repaired after the trauma of their battles, their minds never did. As Alfred moved, he felt the smart notebook in his pocket press against his ribs: he had been silently noting down Bruce's moods, hoping to decipher them. It was an offense that he was deeply ashamed of.

"I destroyed all that I found, plus Bane's personal stock. I believe there's no more out there, but I just want to be prepared."

"Foresight is a gift, Master Wayne," Alfred agreed.

"People are vulnerable enough without biological warfare," he reasoned through the scowl on his handsome face. "I don't want a repeat of what Joker tried to do to Jim."

"The very nature of The Joker's psyche was to prey on and exploit the weaknesses of others, with or without the aid of mutagenic chemicals," said Alfred sagely. "If anyone knows that, Sir, it is you."

Bruce smirked, but at the back of his mind there was a niggling thought, like an itch begging to be scratched.

"Alfred, while Joker favoured the exploitable-" The butler's grey, wiry eyebrows raised slightly, "Why do you suppose Joker kept the company of…certain individuals?"

"I'm afraid I don't know who you mean, Sir."

Bruce turned away from him and leant his fists on the laboratory table. This was a conversation he did not really want to have with Alfred, particularly if the butler was going to play ignoramus. He knew the man could see right through him.

"I'm talking about the psychiatrist, Doctor Quinzel. Better known nowadays as Harley Quinn." He sighed heavily through his nose.

"Harley Quinn, Sir?" mused Alfred. "Well, I presume that like most red-blooded males, he enjoyed a little female company from time to time." Alfred was in a rare, playful mood. "Need I remind you, Sir?"

The warm skin turning cold. The pained face and the life ebbing away from her eyes, warm blood trickling onto his black glove where he had held her. Bruce shook his head viciously to purge the trauma from his mind. Now was not the time to process it.

"Aside from that," he said through tightly clenched teeth. "Do you think he had another purpose for her?"

Alfred thought for a moment, his neatly-trimmed brows almost knitting together. "This is the way I see it, Master Wayne. Do you recall the fall of Caesar?"

"He chose a man with a somewhat criminal past to lead his Senate." Bruce was getting a little impatient. This was not the time for a history lesson. "And he was assassinated for his troubles."

"Precisely, Master Bruce. If The Joker had picked a second-in-command from his group of ruffians, he runs the risk of backing the wrong candidate."

Bruce remembered the arrogant Frank Boles, who had quickly been disposed of once Joker had realized that he was leading Bruce to him. As he recalled the Asylum, an image came to his mind: Harley stretched out across the bars of her cell, blowing a kiss out of her hand. "And a woman who is infatuated with him to such an unstable degree would never betray him."

"Correct. Also, if Joker did happen to pick a trustworthy fellow, he might be assassinated in days."

Bruce nodded. "Joker's men would fall over themselves to become his second-in-command." He remembered again the jeers of the inmates: calling Harley a 'crazy bitch' or talking about her as if she were laid out in front of them like a meal on a table.

"Sad as it is to see in this day and age, Master Wayne, women are still believed to be inferior by some."

Something gave a weak pang in his chest, like an old wound. He stood up straight, matching the lofty height of his trusted butler. "Alfred, I think you're right. I should retire for the night. My work here is done – for now."

"Very good, Master Wayne. Am I to fetch you anything?"

"No thank you." Bruce began to climb the stairs.

Alfred had been taught never to meddle in his ward's affairs unless explicitly invited to do so. He had also been taught to walk as if wearing blinkers, like a fire brigade horse: always looking ahead at his Master, never rooting around in his Master's business. In all his years of caring for the man climbing the stairs, Alfred could say with almost a hint of his usually prohibited pride that he had never meddled wantonly in Bruce Wayne's affairs. But his eyes were immediately drawn to something that Bruce had left on the desk. His good long-distance vision confirmed that within the sealed bag was a pregnancy test, reading positive.

Bruce Wayne had reached the top of the stairs. He stopped briefly to consider the ache in his muscles and the weight of his heart.

"Good night, Master Wayne," said Alfred, without so much as a tremor in his voice that gave his concern away.

AN: Thanks to everyone for your reviews, any feedback is encouraging! Next chapter is ready to go, so if I'm not too busy I'll have it up shortly after the weekend. xxx