So, I started a chapter in another story but randomly went to this one and before I knew it, it was three hours later and I was finished. Anyway, here you go! Another introduction. Two things—I was never an art history major or anything, so I did what I could with what I like and the random knowledge I do have. Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts as we are now getting into the more AU side of things with everyone in different time periods than they were originally written in.

Hope you like it!

"Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger."
—Franklin D. Roosevelt, from his "Infamy Speech" after Pearl Harbor, 1941

December 7, 1941

"It's a serving platter, not part of a balancing act."

In spite of insisting this for the third time, Bruce Wayne couldn't help but laugh as he watched his ward's latest trick. The charity luncheon was scheduled to start any minute, and still the boy was more determined to entertain the house's three inhabitants than finish tying his tie. This time, nine-year-old Dick Grayson was in a complicated handstand, the silver platter—an antique, as Alfred kept reminding them—was balanced on his newly-socked left foot while his bare right foot kept spinning the platter on his big toe.

"Why can't it be both?" Dick asked, face flushed.

"Because it's been in the Wayne family since the early eighteenth century, and never before has it been touched with someone's foot," Alfred sighed.

Dick just laughed. "There's a first time for everything?"

At the look his butler gave him, Bruce shook his head and grabbed the spinning plate from his ward's foot. "Alright, that's enough. Finish getting ready and no more tricks. We need to be on our best behavior today."

"Right," the boy grumbled. "The stuffiest of the stuffiest are coming to pretend to be nice to people for a few hours while they eat Alfred's food and order him around. But, it's okay because it's for charity."

This earned him a look, a blush creeping into his cheeks. "Sorry. I just don't like the way they talk to people sometimes…"

"I know, chum," Bruce said, his hands settling on Dick's shoulders once the boy was properly straightened. "Remember what I told you? Just pretend you're acting a part in a play. They all do it, too. It's ridiculous, but it's a fact of life. This life, anyway. Besides, by the end of this, the Wayne Foundation will have raised enough to give a lot of the poor in Gotham a nice Christmas."

"What about those who don't celebrate Christmas?" Dick asked.

Alfred and Bruce exchanged a glance. Most of the wealthy in Gotham wouldn't think twice about those who weren't of the same ethnic and religious background as they were. Hell, it had been a scandal when they let an Irish Catholic and an Eastern Orthodox "something or other…" into the country club. Even the Drakes were still on the waiting list, and everyone knew it was due to Janet's Jewish ancestry.

Dick was different, and Bruce never stopped finding it refreshing, if not a bit difficult to respond to sometimes.

"Then we can make sure they have a nice holiday season, as well. Those that celebrate Christmas will have a nice Christmas, and those that don't will still have food for their table and enough to get clothes and anything else they may want or need."

Dick thought on his words before nodding, momentarily satisfied. Still, Bruce knew this wouldn't last forever. It was difficult to keep the news of everything in Europe and Asia from reaching the boy's ears, and the child absorbed it more than most of the adults in Gotham's high society. Arguably more than all of them, even. Bruce did what he could to ensure his ward still had childish entertainment to steer away the all-too-frequent bad news, but even the Green Hornet and Superman (he'd finally caved on that radio program, much to Clark's snarky entertainment) couldn't whisk the problems away.

Even with Gotham's criminal underbelly on his mind while masked as Robin and with the high-society prejudices nagging at him as "Richie" Grayson, Dick maintained that same sweet, bouncy persona. He masked his hatred of the galas and charity events once the guests arrived, and endured pinched cheeks and condescending comments like a pro. Bruce might have felt jealous if he didn't feel so proud.

"My goodness, he's getting so big!" Mrs. Paget said, giving his right cheek another pinch. If he didn't end the night with a bruise, it would be a miracle.

"I still have a long way to go if I'm going to be taller than Bruce," he quipped, earning a chuckle from the women around them.

"How are your studies coming, Richie, m'boy?" Mr. Grenville asked.

"All A's. I had some problems with science recently, though, but Bruce helped me and I almost got all the questions right on my last test."

Again, more mutterings of praise toward the precocious boy and his adoring guardian filtered through the crowd. Before they could get too deep into their ass-kissing, a bell rang and they began to depart to partake of the refreshments Alfred was laying out. Once safely out of earshot, Bruce leaned down to whisper, "You've got them eating out of the palm of your hand."

"Actually, I think Alfred has them eating out of the palms of their own hands."

Bruce laughed, ruffling Dick's hair. "It's an expression, kiddo."

"Oh… right."

Bruce gave him one more pat to the shoulder before looking up to see one person across the room not crowding around the food, as the rest pretended to "only take a nibble" while filling their plates and wandering ungratefully past their chef.

If there was a fact the man was entirely too aware of at this point, it was that people would constantly throw themselves at him and he just had to learn how to bat them away with as little collateral damage as possible. Every woman there between the ages of twenty and sixty had, at some point, offered him their number, or something considerably less decent. Every man there had offered him a business deal, or something considerably less decent.

So, in that moment, Bruce wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or shocked to find one person in the room whom he hadn't been propositioned by.

Her back was turned toward him, her long dress cinching at the waist, her long brown hair cascading down toward where the fabric pinched in the middle. A slit ran up the side of her dress, ending mid-thigh, leaving just enough to the imagination as Bruce's testosterone took over and he "imagined" just what lay beyond.

"Uh, Bruce?" Dick asked, shaking his guardian from his stupor. "You look like you're gonna be sick."

Bruce shook off his stare and laughed, patting Dick on the back. "Why don't you get some food and see how Alfred is doing? I'm sure you both could use some polite conversation that's not forced."

"You sure you're going to be okay on your own?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I'm positive, Dickie. Don't worry about me. Oh, and I have a hunch Alfred has some chocolate left over from the desserts if you want to visit the kitchen with him. He might even let you spoil your dinner."

That was all the boy needed to dash off, careful not to race too much in front of the society people and create gossip about his behavior. Once Dick was out of sight, Bruce turned back toward where the woman had been standing only to find empty space.

"Damn it," he mumbled under his breath. As one of the hired bar staff approached, he quickly grabbed a glass of champagne, downing half of it before wandering into the hallway for a moment of peace.

And there she was. Once again, her back to him, her eyes staring into one of the many paintings that decorated the walls. She, too, held a champagne flute, taking the occasional sip as she stared ahead.

He thought for a moment of leaving her in her thoughts. Clearly she was a lover of art, and it was equally clear she had no desire to thrust herself upon him. It seemed fitting for him to not thrust himself upon her, so to speak. That's what he told himself. It didn't stop him from stepping toward her.

"Two minutes, give or take," the woman says when he's a mere two feet away. She doesn't move save for another sip from her glass, her eyes still staring at the painting.

"Two minutes?"

She shifts, and he can practically see her smiling behind the wave of hair in front of her face. "Give or take. Since you've been standing there watching me. I wondered how long it would take for you to come speak with me."

Her voice was light yet somehow still commanding. From those few statements alone, he knew she wasn't the giggling, twittering type. She spoke in a slight accent, and it took him just a second to realize it was vaguely Persian.

"I didn't want to disturb you. You seemed to be appreciating my art collection."

"And, yet, here you are, disturbing me."

She turned to face him, and he could finally see her fully. The slight up curve of her lips gave away how little she minded the disturbance, and her deep brown eyes stared straight into his. They didn't scan over his features, taking in his attractive face or well-toned physique. He couldn't help but smile, once more marveling at the stranger before him.

"I decided to take the chance you wouldn't mind. Was I on the losing side of that bet?"

"I haven't decided yet," she replied, taking another sip from her glass.

He nodded before gesturing toward the painting. "You're a fan?"

"Of de Chirico?" she asked, turning back to glance at the work. "I suppose I appreciate expressionism and the metaphysical movement. A more productive outlet for emotion than most. Art as a whole is such a profound picture of the world in the time it's created. De Chirico captured it better than most during and after the Great War."

"So you appreciate how well it reflects a time of conflict?" Bruce asked, careful to watch the painting rather than stare at her.

"Every time is a time of conflict, Mr. Wayne. I appreciate those who recognize it, can make the best of it, but also understand how it alters those it touches."

Bruce frowned as he glanced into the eyeless faces of the painting, taking in the dark colors and the deep shadows. "You think anyone can really make the best of conflict if that conflict is war?"

"If good didn't come of it, war would never happen."

"I believe war happens because human nature is flawed and asks for more than it can have," he replied, turning toward her.

"And what of those on the other side? Do they not have a greater good? If war happens as a result of a flaw in human nature, then war is inevitable. Still, there will always be something we can learn from it. Something we can defend. Something we can create from the destruction."

Bruce's eyebrows knitted, though the woman's expression remained calm, almost serene if it weren't for the determined look in her eyes.

"You have an interesting view of the world, Miss…?"

"Al Ghul. Talia al Ghul, Mr. Wayne."

A surge of recognition rushed through him at the name. He managed to keep his face from contorting into confusion or, worse, horror, but he could see in her eyes that she knew what her name alone had done to him. There was no mistaking that she was related to Ra's, a figure Bruce had been well-acquainted with in his earlier years as Batman and whose orchestrations had caused a multitude of wars, revolutions, and coups d'etat.

He swallowed the range of emotions running through him. He had never met Talia formally before this evening, merely had heard her name in passing. Her name had not been attached to any of her father's plotting, at least. For most of Ra's transgressions she would be far too young to be involved with, anyway. Certainly the assassinations of Czar Nicolas II and Franz Ferdinand and their families, and any other bloody uprising prior. More recently, she was not attached to his toying with the Nazi occupation or Spanish civil war. Not that he could recall, anyway.

Innocent until proven guilty. Still, that did not mean he could not remain politely cautious.

Bruce gave a small bow of his head. "Pleasure, Miss al Ghul. But, please, call me Bruce."

"I suppose I should follow suit and request to be addressed as Talia."

"You don't have to request anything, Miss al Ghul."

She took another sip from her glass, before allowing a smile to touch her lips. "I never do anything I do not want to do, Bruce."

Bruce raised his glass to her and prepared to take another drink when the small patter of feet thudded the carpet. "Bruce?" Dick asked, his voice small at the realization he was interrupting. "Alfred said you should probably return to the party. There's an announcement being made on the radio. He thought you should hear it."

"I'll be right there," he promised. When he saw Dick looking at Talia, he offered, "Dick, this is Miss Talia al Ghul. Talia, this is my ward—"

"Richard," she said, giving him a smile and extending her free hand toward him.

Surprised when her hand didn't reach out to pinch his cheeks,, Dick grasped her hand and gave her a firm handshake like he had been taught. "Pleasure, Miss al Ghul."

"Likewise, Richard. Are you enjoying the party?" she asked.

Bruce kept his expression neutral, though marveled at how she spoke to the boy. In spite of him being nine-years-old, her tone did not sound sugary sweet and condescending. It wasn't much different than the tone she had used moments earlier when addressing the twenty-eight year old man. Dick seemed to notice, puffing up proudly in his tuxedo.

"It's nice to be contributing to charity," he said diplomatically.

"Though I am sure you would prefer if that charity included a few of those inside being trampled by elephants."

Dick laughed outright, his cheeks flushing. "I'd settle for throwing peanuts at their heads."

"Hand-eye coordination is a much-needed skill. I believe the practice would be very beneficial."

Before Dick's eyes brightened too much at the idea, Bruce rested his hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking his head. "No throwing peanuts at anyone's head. Come on, kiddo. We better return before Alfred comes looking for the both of us."

Dick nodded, offering a polite, "Nice to meet you, Miss al Ghul," before running back down the hall and into the ballroom. Bruce's smile faded once the door had closed, and he gestured for Talia to follow him back into the party.

"If you would like to join, of course," he added.

She hesitated, a fleeting look of anxiety brushing her beautiful features before she suppressed them. Without a word, she walked with him into the opulent ballroom.

Where the room had previously been filled with the sugar-coated bursts of gossip and intrigue, now the guests had been reduced to whispers as the radio scratched in the corner, the sound reverberating off the arched ceiling. As Bruce joined his guests, Talia right beside him, a few of the guests muttered behind their hands about the stranger and her "exotic" appearance, though the rest were preoccupied by the broadcast.

"The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by air, President Roosevelt has just announced. The attack also was made on all naval and military activities on the principal island of Oahu. We take you now to Washington."*

Gasps filled the room around them, and Bruce felt a surge of sickness and anger rushing into his stomach. He sensed Talia beside him tense, though her expression did not change. Conflict is inevitable her words repeated in his head.

As if sensing the rising accusation in his thoughts, Talia turned away, moving toward the balcony off the ballroom. The eyes of the other guests followed her, some sneering at the presence of someone different so soon after they had been bombed by others who were different. She could feel their ethnic barbs snaking behind their lips, though it only made her stand taller.

Different to people like Gotham's high society was always met with hostility, and hostile, ignorant people only viewed the world as "us" versus "them". It didn't matter what or where Talia came from. She was a "them" after the "us" had just been attacked.

Guilty until proven innocent.

She sauntered to the balcony door, preparing for a few moments' silence when she noticed the door did not immediately close behind her.

"I hope you don't mind company," Bruce said behind her.

She forced away a relieved smile. "It is your home, Bruce."

"But it is your time I'm taking. Doesn't matter when it is."

This time, she did smile, though kept her eyes on the distance. "In that case, I do not mind at all."

He nodded, watching the city as she watched it. From here it looked so untouched, so beautiful and so pristine in spite of the terrors that hid within it. In spite of the world that had just changed around it.

"I suppose you know," she started, "that he may have had some involvement in these events."

"I had my suspicions. Though, at the moment I am more curious of who else may have been involved in his plans."

She gripped the railing of the balcony, spine rigid. "I do not enjoy the tricks of some of these war games."

Bruce didn't move, didn't speak a word, but his even breathing and remaining presence spoke volumes. For now, he believed her innocence, and she hated the slight swell of happiness that came with it. Her father had spoken endlessly about the man behind Batman for years, but to not receive his disdain amidst her father's toying was a guilty pleasure.

Still, she knew the gears in his head were turning against her father, and her loyalties forced her to offer, "History tells us that those on the winning side are revolutionaries, while those on the losing end are terrorists."

"So how do you decide which side you are on before history tells you?" Bruce asked.

Talia looked out over the balcony, into the sunset over Gotham and the lights dotting the buildings along the horizon. "I trust my instincts."

"And make the most of the inevitable?" he asked. He could not stop the bitterness biting his words, leaving a acrid taste on his tongue. "Take advantage of human nature's flaws?"

She turned away, her jaw squared in anger while her eyes closed. For a moment Bruce thought he may have shut her off, though she soon shook her head. "I never said take advantage, Mr. Wayne. I said to make the most of what we cannot prevent. To fight for the greater good."

"And what do you believe to be the 'greater good' Miss al Ghul?" he asked.

"I suppose I am still deciding."

Silence stretched over them, the hum of conversation and classical music buzzing behind them as the party made its feeble attempt to continue in spite of the news that weighed heavily on them all.

She turned to face him, deep brown eyes meeting his icy blue ones. Everything about them spoke of their different worlds, their different beliefs, their different backgrounds. Yet, as she looked at him with that torn gaze, he understood her feelings without a word.

They were a de Chirico painting, their faces hidden behind mannequin masks, surrounded by beautiful statues and archways that cast a shadow over them. There was a darkness in the both of them, and still they searched for meaning in the horrors that faced them. They were a beautiful allegory whose meaning felt indecipherable.

"Do you love Gotham, Bruce?" she finally asked.

"I suppose in a way I do. It's my home."

"You're a product of it. Both sides of you. Isn't that so?"

He hesitated before saying, "I guess you could say that."

"You wouldn't be who you are without it. Even so, as good as it has been to you, it as been cruel. Done terrible things. Evil things. Do you still love it?"

Bruce took a deep breath, watching as the lights in the distance danced for him. He hated the underbelly of Gotham, the scabs and putrid wounds of Crime Alley and the Narrows.

But, could he ever hate it? No.

"I do. For better or worse."

She turned back to the city, her hands tracing the intricate etchings of the balcony railing. Nerves, he realized.

"Please remember, we cannot help but to love where we come from sometimes. Love it in spite of what it does, what it is capable of. It is another flaw of human nature. Conflict is inevitable, but so, too, is love and loyalty. It alters us. You know better than most how the inevitable can destroy us if we let it. You also know better than most how to fight that, to make the best of it. I prefer to make the best of it. To make the best of what I love and what it has wrought on the world. Do not judge me on what I love, and I will offer you the same kindness."

He turned his gaze on her, on the last hints of sunlight casting an orange glow on her olive complexion, on the way her hair brushed against her shoulder blades and the way her dress hugged her curves. Feminine and defined. More than the slit along her thigh, though, he peered at the strength in her features. Strength that only came from years of training, loss, and sacrifice.

And, in that moment, he believed her. It went against his nature, left him conflicted and confused, but he pushed the thoughts away. Perhaps it would prove to be his flaw, but at the moment he saw the greater good in Talia al Ghul and hoped history would show her on the side of the revolutionaries.

*Taken from a radio broadcast from CBS Evening News, December 7, 1941.

There you have it! Thanks for reading, and thanks for all your reviews, favorites, and follows! I really appreciate them.

-Defective