A/N: I realized I forgot to thank my super beta Bella (or buggerfck here on the site) – she's been with me the whole way on this and I definitely couldn't do this without her!

Also, I forgot to mention that I derived the title of this story from the song "Wise Up" by Aimee Mann. It's a fantastic, beautiful song, so listen to it if you have a chance.

AND I'd like to thank my first reviewers. It's nice to know that someone out there is reading this, considering all the hard work I put into it – and especially this chapter. I'm not a business mogul by any means, so hopefully the description of Wayne Enterprises' activities is up to scratch. If you happen to be a CEO or something, uh, read with discretion, please and thanks. ;)

FINALLY – er, I guess I tend to get a little carried away with my notes sometimes – if you take the time to read this, please take the time to review. I'd really appreciate it. A writer really can't better herself without feedback!

Oh, one more thing. Cookies for anyone who catches the reference to a certain Christian Bale movie that I'm rather obsessed with. :D

TWO.

Somehow, her desk seemed to have grown messier in the twenty minutes she had been absent from it.

Audrey Adams plunked down into her chair and surveyed the extreme disorganization, considering how the pile of reports waiting for her signature apparently had decided to explode in a frenzy of papers. The one on top had been due – what was that date? – she squinted; oh, a week ago. Damn.

She'd never been overly organized, she'd admit that, but the current state of her desk wasn't entirely her fault. The entire Major Crimes Unit had been wholly occupied with the engrossing Langford murders all week, and boring paperwork was the least of her worries at the moment. Of course, Captain Shepherd probably wouldn't agree with that, but he seemed less concerned with her organizational skills than her tardiness.

And that hadn't entirely been her fault either.

The previous night, Audrey had stayed up later than usual helping Rebecca review for an important exam that day; according to her younger sister, it was a "life-or-death" exam, and when Audrey had asked, "You mean if you pass, your patients have a better chance of living as opposed to if you fail?" Rebecca hadn't been amused in the least. Medical school had hardened the younger sister, in Audrey's opinion. Her sense of humor just wasn't the same anymore.

And so the night had turned into early morning, and when Audrey finally drifted off into a slumber filled with complicated medical terms and unpleasant brain charts, daylight was peeking through the blinds; the alarm had gone silent and forgotten. Breakfast wasn't even a possibility by that time, and though Audrey typically considered herself a morning person, she still needed her daily recommended dosage of coffee. After quickly wishing an anxious Rebecca good luck – "Keep them alive, Bec!" – she'd bolted down the street to the nearest coffee shop.

Being a detective for Gotham's Major Crimes Unit unfortunately didn't give her special clearance when it came to coffee shop lines, although in her opinion it should've been a perk that came with the job. So of course she had been forced to endure the wait, growing grumpier every minute she went without coffee. In the end, her order was actually swapped with that of the elderly woman behind her in line, but Audrey didn't care; she fled from the shop, waving down the nearest taxi.

The short car ride was spent in apprehension. Shepherd had mentioned some sort of meeting the previous day, and he'd had that self-important look on his face when he said so, implying to Audrey that he'd been given permission to address the unit himself. A meeting that would commence in – she'd checked her watch anxiously – twenty minutes. Oh, well, no problem, she'd thought, and thankfully, traffic had actually seemed light that morning.

But she hadn't been joking with Shepherd; conveniently, her taxi driver did indeed suffer an unexpected heart attack, and after a minor traffic accident, a misunderstanding with the 911 operator, and waiting for the emergency response team, Audrey ran the last few blocks to MCU in uncomfortable heels, cursing fervently.

The consequence had been a sharp reprimand and scathing look from her lovely boss.

Now, as the rest of Major Crimes finished trickling out of the conference room to return to their own individual tasks, Audrey surveyed her desk again, cringing. Compared to the previous four days, today would be nothing less than dull. The awaiting paperwork was the result of an exceptionally busy week for the department, and so far Shepherd hadn't commented on her procrastination, but judging by his current less-than-cheerful mood she wasn't going to push her luck.

Reluctantly, Audrey made a grab for the nearest report and began skimming over the stiff, professional wording.

After the first couple of paragraphs, she realized it was documentation from forensics concerning prints pulled from a knife – which case was this? What week? She'd been so focused on the Langford murder case lately that everything prior had become a collective blur. By the time Audrey reached the fourth paragraph, the report was clearly discussing that butcher's knife she'd discovered in the dumpster behind Hotel Monaco. When had that been? The previous week? The week before? Which knife again?

Frankly, her mind was far away from her desk, far away from Major Crimes, even; she honestly wasn't quite sure what she was reading at all.

Just as the week had been hectic, Audrey's nights had been restless, and it was beginning to take a physical toll on her. Insomnia had never before plagued her, but this wasn't so much insomnia as it was interrupted sleep. Recently, her nightmares had surpassed bizarre and were now borderline disturbing; they jolted her awake at odd hours to find her drenched in sweat and afflicted with disorientation. Rebecca hadn't noticed, thankfully – Audrey had a suspicion the aspiring doctor would feel the need to diagnose her immediately – but surely she wouldn't be able to ignore the dark circles complimenting her sister's usually bright blue eyes.

And every night, as habitually as the sun rose and then set, she saw their pale, expressionless faces, staring up at her, through her, begging the question, "Why couldn't you save us?" And Audrey would stare back, her gun hanging limply at her side, a useless object; she would mouth, "I'm sorry," as if apologizing could reawaken the dead, but it was always a futile attempt. The Langfords visited Audrey every night and they died every night, over and over and over, always the same way, always in the same place. And still they would ask the question she kept asking herself.

"It wasn't your fault," Shepherd had said afterwards. "Adams, you should be thrilled, you protected the children and detained the suspects before any of us could catch up. The Commissioner's very pleased."

But she had shaken her head, shivering in the unusually chilly night's air, watching as the Langford children were led away towards a car. "If only I had –"

"If only you'd what? Look, Adams, none of us knew they had moved the Langfords; we were led to believe that the location hadn't changed. It's a miracle we found them at all."

"I could've gotten there sooner," she'd whispered, ignorant to Shepherd's attempts at banishing her guilt. "I could've saved them."

"You don't know that."

And now she would never know, but repeatedly seeing the porcelain-like faces of innocent people they had failed to protect convinced her that she could have. In the three years she had thus far spent at Major Crimes, a case had never before affected her like this. She'd quickly learned that a detective wasn't allowed the luxury of empathy and emotion; both were hindrances she couldn't afford.

And this time, both were hindrances she had more difficulty concealing. This time, the guilt wasn't so easily dispelled, and as long as the Langfords paid Audrey their nightly visits, the guilt would persevere – a secret yet heavy burden.

"Your paperwork isn't going to do itself, Audrey," said a smooth male voice in her ear.

She jumped, the voice harshly pulling her back to the reality of the room. She looked up to see Miles O'Reilly leaning against her desk, his arms crossed and his trademark smirk plastered across his face.

"Neither will yours, Miles," she responded, matching his sickly-sweet tone.

He frowned for a split second but then hoisted the smirk back onto his face, barely missing a beat. "Listen," he said, hardly bothering to keep his voice down, "you actually proved yourself to be less than useless this week. Gordon may even suffer an aneurysm and give you a pay raise. I don't doubt it, you know."

She glared at him and scribbled her signature across the report without reading it. "Sure."

"So what better way to spend that money than to buy your favorite partner dinner tonight?" His smirk widened, if it were even possible, and his self-satisfaction threatened to suffocate Audrey.

She resisted the urge to drive her heel through his forehead and paused after initialing another paper. They both knew a pay raise wasn't probable – Audrey had only arrived at the warehouse before the others; in her mind, it wasn't heroic or brilliant and it didn't prove anything. It was her job, and she was still convinced she'd failed at it, anyway. But Miles hated being overshadowed by his own partner, and whenever Audrey would shine a little brighter than he, they would spend the following week bickering endlessly.

"I can think of a dozen better ways to spend my money, thanks," she muttered, scrambling through her papers as if he were interrupting something highly important.

The smirk on Miles's face finally slipped to be replaced by a rather ugly expression; a moment later, he was gone, surely off to harass someone else, but not without first knocking an entire pile of week-late reports onto the floor.

After bending down to scoop up the papers while simultaneously cursing Miles under her breath, Audrey took one last look at her paperwork and sighed, defeated. Her partner was right; it wasn't going to do itself, but she had now completely lost all ambition to sort through the clutter (not that she'd had much ambition in the first place). Instead, she leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes, an unusually stationary person in the middle of an endlessly bumbling department.

A phone went off loudly nearby and her eyes flickered open, adjusting to the comfortable, dim lighting of the room; a fellow detective at an adjacent desk raised the phone to his ear and began arguing with someone ardently.

In the aftermath of the explosion at Major Crimes, personal space had ceased to be a luxury, and one person's phone call became everyone's phone call. Makeshift desks had been set up in the only available, undamaged portion of the department, and Audrey's paperwork had mixed with Miles's paperwork (she was sure some of his reports were still floating around on her desk somewhere, but that was his problem), and oftentimes even Audrey's desk had been Miles's desk. Now, three months later, as Audrey absentmindedly watched the detective's wild gestures, she realized how cumbersome the repairs had been and how grateful she now was for the return to normalcy.

Apparently, however, privacy only existed in a limited form; the detective glared at Audrey and she quickly looked away, hardly realizing she'd been eavesdropping.

But try as she might, she couldn't find the willpower within her to focus on the task at hand. Her eyes kept straying from her desk; she watched as Shepherd briskly crossed the room towards the Deputy Commissioner again, someone was rapping on Gordon's office door, waving a report around, and Lisa Shapiro was being led to the interrogation room by Jason Bard.

"Adams, let's go," Miles suddenly shouted from about five feet away, reappearing behind a pair of forensics analysts.

"Wha – Miles, I already said no, I'm not buying you dinner or lunch or –"

He looked uncharacteristically annoyed; his usual roguish smirk was nowhere to be seen and had been replaced with a serious expression. "No, Gordon wants us to follow up on a new lead, so grab your things and come with me."

Audrey automatically felt her holster to make sure her gun was secure and jumped from her seat, thankful for the interruption. She had no qualms whatsoever about leaving her unfinished yet desperately overdue paperwork behind; putting it off for another few hours really wouldn't make much of a difference, right?

"Where are we going?" she asked, dodging people scurrying in the opposite direction in order to keep up with Miles.

He didn't answer immediately, and Audrey wondered if he'd heard her at all. When he stiffly halted to hold the door open for her, she caught a glimpse of his shockingly grave face as she passed.

"Arkham Asylum."

"Well, it is obvious that the Batman suffers from an acute case of antisocial personality disorder, which is often a result of abuse or neglect during childhood."

"And what diagnostic criteria can you cite, doctor?" asked the reporter.

"A reckless disregard for not only his own safety but the safety of others," the psychologist rattled off, straightening her glasses. "Irritability and aggressiveness, as is demonstrated through his constant need for physical altercation. He also exhibits a failure to conform to social norms in regards to respecting authority."

"Well, thank you for your time and insight, doctor," said the reporter, turning to face the camera again. "Tune in tonight at eight o'clock to see Doctor Cox featured on our special, 'Understanding the Mind of a Murderer.' This has been Marcus Northolt with Channel Seven News. Back to you in the studio, Martha."

As Martha reappeared on the screen, the door to the lavish, windowed office creaked open. Bruce hit the 'mute' button on the remote, but his eyes were still absorbed in the television as his mind repeated the words, "Acute case of antisocial personality disorder." Ah, well, it was just another mental illness he could add to Batman's increasing collection (according to Gotham's psychologists and doctors), wasn't it?

"Anything interesting in the news today, Mr. Wayne?" said Lucius Fox evenly as he entered the office and strode towards his desk.

"No, psychologists have never interested me much," said Bruce, tearing his eyes away from the television screen.

Fox took a seat behind his desk, flattening his tie as he did so and looking apologetic. "Sorry I'm late. Accounting is understaffed this morning and hadn't finished compiling the report by the time I got there."

Bruce shook his head, leaning back in the comfortable leather chair. "It's fine. Let's see what we have here."

Fox extracted a glossy report from inside his briefcase and pushed it across the polished table towards Bruce, frowning. "It's not as bad as we initially estimated, but the numbers still aren't good, Mr. Wayne, and Accounting checked them four times before they were satisfied."

Carefully, Bruce opened the report and ran his eyes down the page, his heart sinking. Fox wasn't joking – the numbers were shockingly abysmal, even if they differed from the original estimates. Page after page chronicled the analyses of Wayne Enterprises' expenditures in recent months, and according to a chart on page two, profits had now hit an all-time low in the entire history of the company.

"I think it's safe to say the company is suffering along with the rest of Gotham's economy," Fox said carefully, watching as disappointment consumed Bruce's face.

"That's one way of putting it," Bruce muttered. He frowned at a table on the fifth page that compared the recent and past successes of Wayne Foods. Apparently, the decline in demand for organic food within Gotham City had been hurting the subsidiary branch as of late; he had had no idea.

"Has anyone else seen this yet?"

Fox shook his head. "I'm planning on presenting these latest estimates to the board tomorrow morning, and I doubt they will be overly pleased."

Bruce inhaled deeply and then sighed, furrowing his brow. Although he looked the part of a high-powered company owner, from his sharp suit to his complimentary tie, he had absolutely no desire to actually be one, and he didn't find the idea of sitting in on such a board meeting appealing in the least. In fact, none of this was appealing at all; he didn't care for expenditures or profits or summaries from Accounting. He had no clue how Wayne Foods even functioned, let alone what sort of goods it actually produced.

But Wayne Enterprises was Bruce's responsibility; it was Bruce's job to further the progress of the company, to improve it, to use it to help the people of Gotham he couldn't help any other way. At least, that had been the perspective of Bruce's late father, and Thomas Wayne's only son would not shirk such a responsibility. He would not step back and let something his father had believed in flounder and die; he would not let the memory of his father flounder and die, not quite so easily.

Wayne Enterprises held the capacity for more than just producing commercial ships and manufacturing electronics; it was a means for Bruce to contribute. Looking down at the report, he now understood that more than ever.

And although he could still find no interest in the executive businessman persona, he was concerned; the company was floundering, and he wasn't quite so sure how to rectify the situation.

"Before we meet with the board, I was wondering if you had any preliminary suggestions, Mr. Wayne," said Fox.

Bruce frowned again, studying page two of the report, his mind whirling. "I'm not suggesting we shut down Wayne Aerospace, but according to this, our competitors are completely surpassing us. Ferris Air, for instance – they've struck permanent contracts with NASA while our experimental aviation branch is nearly failing."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," said Fox, nodding slowly.

"Maybe we can merge experimental and military aviation." Bruce quickly flipped back to page six, remembering a statistic he had skimmed over a second ago. "Drop out of the experimental competition with Ferris Air and LexAir, let them have some glory."

"Very plausible," agreed Fox. "If we're going to downsize, it makes sense to start there, and I think the board would concur."

"But the pharmaceuticals division," said Bruce, running his finger down the sixth page with the words WAYNE PHARMACEUTICALS emblazoned at the top. "I think there's potential here." He paused. "I think we should branch out of the country."

"Out of the country?" repeated Fox. "I don't see how that's possible. Our current budget doesn't really grant us so much flexibility."

"It's possible if we can terminate the research on reconstructive plastic surgery," said Bruce. "According to this report, it's eating up funds but isn't going anywhere, and Wayne Biotech can instead divert their focus toward their cloning research."

He looked up at Fox expectantly, feeling slightly optimistic and reprehensible at the same time – his mind was embodying that of a businessman's, almost too easily and without his conscious consent.

Fox looked doubtful but said nothing, allowing Bruce to continue his train of thought.

"I think we should look into international pharmaceutical deals. I really think it's worth a shot."

It was apparent he hadn't fully convinced Fox, but the rather impromptu idea seemed promising to Bruce. He wasn't exceptionally business savvy, no, but he was determined, and he didn't care much if Fox approved or not. Although he wouldn't openly admit it to himself, at least not yet, Bruce half-knew the reason for his sudden engrossment in the company; others had noticed too, of course, but the board members brushed it off easily, assuming that the young heir had finally come to develop interest in what was surely his calling. And Bruce let them believe it; that was the entire point. But he had a suspicion that Fox, who was not quite so gullible, knew his true motives.

The CEO of Wayne Enterprises was silent for a moment as he curiously surveyed Bruce, who looked a bit more bright-eyed than he should have. Then, with a defeated sigh, Fox reached across the desk and closed the glossy cover of the report. "All right, Mr. Wayne. I'll present the idea to the board and see what they have to say."

"Excellent," said Bruce with a small smile and a nod. The board was usually pretty keen on his ideas, which now fueled his confidence; he was optimistic that this would pan out, despite Fox's clear misgivings.

"There's something else I wanted to bring to your attention," said Fox. He leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses, and something in his stark expression suggested to Bruce that they were no longer talking about the company's expenditures.

"And what would that be?"

Fox glanced behind Bruce, toward the door, but Bruce knew Fox had shut it on his way in; one could never be too careful.

"Coleman Reese."

Bruce pursed his lips and studied Fox's face, curious as to where the conversation was headed. He had been wondering lately if and when the subject would again be brought up between the two of them; otherwise, he hadn't given it much thought at all and wasn't overly worried. His mind was rather preoccupied with other concerns at the moment.

"He's kept quiet so far, but that stint with GCN was a close one," said Fox, his voice barely above a whisper. "He comes in everyday normal as clockwork, not letting on that he knows anything, but –"

"But?" prompted Bruce.

Fox paused. "I just wonder how long it will last, Mr. Wayne." He looked deeply troubled again but now for reasons unrelated to the status of the company, and where Bruce should have felt similar concern he instead felt a brief wave of affection for the man sitting on the other side of the desk.

"I don't think Mr. Reese is anything to worry about," said Bruce lightly. But again, Fox didn't seem convinced.

"You know that he was questioned by the police," said Fox, his voice dropping another octave. "I heard the Commissioner argued against it, but they interrogated him nonetheless."

Bruce said nothing; he did already know, of course. Apparently, Major Crimes had hauled Reese in just days after he appeared on Gotham Cable News, and although the police tried to keep it below radar and out of the news, their attempts proved unsuccessful. Reese's claims of knowing the Batman's true identity weren't easily forgotten by Gotham's citizens. Although he was solely responsible for it, Reese quickly found himself in the media's unwanted spotlight, bombarded by curiosity from all directions. A credible, prestigious lawyer claiming to be in possession of irrefutable evidence wasn't something to be ignored; unfortunately, he had been taken seriously, and the attempt on his life substantiated the impression.

And although Bruce could not fully explain to Alfred or Fox his conviction that Reese would not compromise his masquerade, he maintained his beliefs. Both had been extremely concerned about such a dangerous aperture, but Bruce wasn't; in his opinion, if Coleman Reese still intended to publicize his claims, he would have done so already.

"And he admitted nothing," Bruce said, reiterating a particular fact not confirmed by Gotham's news channels or reporters but something he himself knew to be true through his own investigating. "As far as I know, he insisted his evidence had been defective and he'd been mistaken." And for Bruce, right now, that was enough.

Now it was Fox's turn to sit in silence, clearly still pondering the potential exposure risk. His hands were folded together in his lap, and although his demeanor exuded composure, as always, Bruce knew he wasn't so easily assured.

He finally opened his mouth and seemed to be choosing his words wisely. "Perhaps it would be best to terminate his services –"

"No," Bruce cut in with strong resolve. "That's not necessary. Reese stays."

Several tense seconds passed in which Fox again surveyed Bruce with obvious disapproval; but he then sighed, nodding, finally conceding although still not in agreement.

"All right," he said, a hint of exhaustion escaping into his tone. "I trust your judgment, Mr. Wayne."

"Thank you." Bruce nodded appreciatively, barely concealing a grateful smile. Then, feeling that the short meeting was now coming to a close, he stood to face Fox, eager to escape the confines of the office, however accommodating it was.

"Now, what do you say to some lunch?"

Still seated behind the desk, Fox looked slightly surprised at the invitation; otherwise, his expression was rather devoid of visible emotion, but he seemed to sense the abrupt change in conversation.

"I think I like the sound of that. What do you suggest?"

"Give me two minutes and I can get a reservation at The Dorsia on Third Street," said Bruce smoothly; he reached inside his jacket to retrieve his cell phone. "I think the manager likes me well enough. He seems to be under the impression that I intend to buy the place."

Fox chuckled at the comical glint in Bruce's eye as he speed-dialed the restaurant. A moment later, the manager was thanking Bruce for his generous reservation; the two men then departed from the office, chattering lightly as if they hadn't just spent the previous ten minutes discussing rather grave matters. Fox paused to inform his secretary of his leave, and Bruce flashed a particularly charming smile at her as he passed; she responding by blushing and suppressing a girlish giggle.

But it was also a particularly fake one, because truthfully, Bruce Wayne had not smiled in months.