I do not own Batman. Sucks, don't it? I do own Eleanor Black and all the other characters and plot points that aren't part of the movie. Rated T for the same reasons the movie was rated PG-13. Enjoy.

Chances Are…
Chapter Thirteen: A Few Barrels Changes Everything.

Silence.

My head was buzzing with it, the bunker was humming with it—although, that could have been the fluorescent lights—and the headset was reporting nothing but God damn silence, silence and more silence.

Well, aside from the roar of the Batpod's engine and the whirr of the tires over pavement and several other surfaces that sounded a little less smooth. But those weren't the noises I was interested in. I wanted updates, something to go on other than what my imagination could come up with—none of which was good, I can promise that—I wanted words and I wasn't getting any, nor did I think I was going to.

I was standing in front of the desk, my hips pressed against the edge, the contact probably the only thing keeping me upright, as I was leaning so far forward. My jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles in my cheeks were starting to hurt and my eyes were staring to burn because I hadn't blinked in a long time, and like my cheeks, the muscles in my hands were beginning to go numb from holding onto the desk. I was staring at the communication system on the desk in front of me, glaring actually, for lack of an actual person to focus my ire on; every little bit of me was tense and it was beginning to become uncomfortable, but that sensation was in the back of my mind. I had given up trying to get Bruce to talk, which would have relieved some of the tension, as he was in a state of single-minded determination and nothing would break him of it. Beside me, Alfred sat quietly but he didn't look anywhere near as tense as I did. I wasn't fooled; I knew the butler was worried, but with his years of experience, he was much better equipped to handle it than I was.

I would get better with time, but whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen.

We were all worried for Rachel and for Harvey, for more senseless loss at the hands of the painted madman Gotham had come to know as the Joker. Rachel would be a personal loss, a piece of all our lives ripped away, but Harvey would be a city-wide loss. He had been the district attorney for hardly anytime at all, but he had already begun to affect the city in ways it would see for years to come and there could only be more good work in his future. Gotham couldn't lose Harvey Dent. But I knew Bruce would be irrevocably scarred by the loss of Rachel and that worried me far more than the fate of my city if the White Knight of Gotham was lost.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the Batpod slowed and the noise of the tires was replaced by the pounding of Batman's boots running into the building and the slam of metal on brick as he busted inside; I could picture doors slamming and jambs breaking, much to the bane of whomever owned the building or had to maintain it, if it wasn't abandoned. That area of Gotham was ripe with the empty carcasses of warehouses and office buildings and a few houses that had been taken over by the gangs and the drug users looking for a roof for a while, until the GCPD kicked them back onto the streets. I heard the staccato bursts of Batman's breath, the protests of another door and then the sharp inhalation of surprise. And then a brief second of more silence that was broken by the scream of someone who shouldn't have been there.

"NO!"

"It's Dent," Batman grunted over Dent's protests. I heard the anger, frustration, grief in his voice, but that was probably only because I was listening for it or because I knew it would be there. "He's wired to oil drums and connected to a timer."

"Is Rachel there?" I asked, even though I knew the answer. We'd been played.

"No."

I fell silent and then dropped back onto my stool, a marginal improvement over standing at the desk, my body suddenly too much weight to hold upright. My shoulders fell. I couldn't find any words—was there anything that could be said? I listened numbly as Bruce struggled to get Harvey out of the building and out of danger and I wonder, somewhere in my mind, if Gordon had gotten to Rachel in time, as I had no doubt she was wired to drums and a timer as well. I didn't like Rachel, but I didn't want her dead and I especially didn't want her murdered by some madman. I closed my eyes and resisted the urge to put my head down on the desk.

"No, no, no," Dent was saying. "You weren't supposed to save me!"

I heard a noise that may very well have been Batman grinding his teeth as he refused to answer. Then there was an explosion and a shriek, turning everything into static.

I was on my butt on the concrete floor and I didn't remember getting there. My cheeks were wet and my ears were buzzing. Alfred was standing, leaning on the desk, saying something repeatedly into the headset; I thought he might be yelling, but I couldn't hear anything beyond the drone in my ears, the constant note echoing through my brain. As I watched, he seemed to get whatever he was after and he settled back onto his stool for a second before he realized I was on the floor and knelt beside me.

"Ms. Black?"

About the fourth or fifth time he called my name, it made it through the noise and I turned to look at him, his fatherly face adorned with a warm smile and something very like relief in his eyes. "What happened?" I asked, surprised to find my voice rough and my throat a little dry, as if I had screamed or inhaled the smoke from the explosion.

"The building exploded. Dent was severely burned and is being rushed to the hospital. Master Bruce went to see if Ms. Dawes survived." Alfred's face fell as the last words left his mouth.

"We... should head back to the penthouse," I said after swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. "It's got to be getting close to dawn, and Bruce isn't going to be able to come here." I pushed myself to my feet and decided that focusing on business, on my job as Bruce's assistant, would be the best idea. If Rachel had survived, I was going to have appointments to move around—it was Monday... or was it Tuesday?—and if she hadn't... well, I was probably going to have appointments to move around for the next few days. Rachel wasn't a huge part of my life, but she was a huge part of Bruce's life and things would change drastically if she was gone; I couldn't dwell on that. I wiped my eyes against tears that stubbornly kept flowing.

"Ms. Black, are you sure you wouldn't rather stay here?"

I paused in my gathering of my things. "No. I'll be needed in the real world today." As if to confirm that statement, I pulled the headset from my head, untangling it from my hair and set it on top of the radio, catching sight of the time as I did so. It was five o'clock in the morning, but I didn't feel tired, or at least not the kind of tried that could be helped by going to bed. "You can head to the penthouse, Alfred. I'll meet you there after I've cleaned up."

"Very well Ms. Black."

I remained still until the lift had clicked into the ceiling behind me. As the silence closed around me, the high-pitched buzzing that had followed the explosion returned and I sat down in the chair and squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my hands over my ears trying to get away from that noise. I had a recurring image of Batman being blow backwards as Dent was engulfed in flames on the ground; I could imagine the smell of burning flesh mingled with diesel and burning wood and brick and dust. I knew Bruce and Harvey had survived the explosion, but I couldn't even imagine having been involved in one.

After a few moments, the drone subsided. I wiped my cheeks one final time and got to my feet and finished gathering my things. Without knowing how long I would be topside—it likely wouldn't be that long, but I couldn't guess—I packed my bag to take with me and then organized the desk somewhat. I don't know how well I did since my head was elsewhere, but I felt a little better with the desk surface uncluttered. When that was completed, I grabbed my bag and located both my flip-flops and then left the bunker, finding my car exactly where I'd left it, with a fresh thermos of coffee in the cup holder. I said a silent thank you to Alfred and drank a cup and a half before I started the car and started across the relatively city, meeting hardly any traffic until I was downtown. The only thought I could focus on as I drove was that I had really drank coffee at all until I'd started hanging around Bruce more and more.

As the elevator ascended towards the penthouse, I began to feel heavy, even with the caffeine thundering through my veins and keeping me in that tense/alert state only coffee could create. I had a nagging feeling in my gut that told me I wasn't going to run into good news at the top of the building. For the first time since Bruce had moved into the penthouse, I didn't want to be there, I didn't want to have to deal with what was waiting up there, and I knew how selfish I was being. But I didn't act on it. I kept the elevator going up and when the doors opened onto the main room, I stepped inside and tried to steal myself for what was waiting.

I had taken all of three steps into the penthouse when Alfred appeared from the kitchen. "Eleanor."

It was more that he'd used my first name that caught my attention, but it was the tone that told me everything I needed to know. Rachel hadn't survived. I felt a little nauseous, my knees a little weak. "Where is he?" I gasped.

"Upstairs in the living room."

I all but ran up the stairs to the corner where Bruce was.

He was sitting in one of the chairs that had been arranged in front of a television, but he was staring out the window, his face reflecting the bluish tinge the dawn had brought to Gotham. The plates of armour that made up the cowl and gloves were scattered on the floor behind the chair as if he'd pulled them off before dropping into the chair; the cowl was a little farther away, as if it had been kicked or tossed. I stepped carefully over the pieces of the costume and stood in front of the chair, not close enough to touch Bruce, but still fairly close. His face was tight with the emotions he was holding back, but both his hands were balled into fists, the skin mottled red and white. He radiated grief and anger.

I didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry" seemed inadequate and Bruce probably wouldn't buy it. He would never believe I wished her dead or wanted her dead, but he wouldn't believe I was sorry she was gone. What else was there to say? Could I qualify that "sorry"? My breath caught in my throat when Bruce looked up at me and I saw the grief in his eyes and I crouched in front of the chair so I could take his hand; he didn't pull away, so I took his other hand and squeezed. Tears started to sting the back of my eyes as I held his gaze. I loved him and he was hurting and I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. For several minutes, I just held his hands and his gaze and let my knees and thighs burn with the pain of crouching.

Eventually, some words came to me. "I'm sorry she died, Bruce," I whispered lamely. Apparently qualifying that sorry was the best I could do.

Something in his face changed and I thought he was going to yell at me. His hazel eyes darkened with anger and his lips pressed into a thin line. I opened my mouth to say something else, but Bruce cut me off. "I know," he breathed. His voice was tight and full of the emotion he wouldn't show on his face.

I bit my bottom lip to keep from crying and rose to my feet so I could lean forward and hug him. It was an awkward position, but it served. "I'll be in the kitchen with Alfred if you need me, okay?"

Bruce nodded and caught my hand as I walked away. He squeezed it and then let it go.

In the kitchen, Alfred was at the stove cooking breakfast. I leaned on the counter near enough to talk but not close enough to be in the way and crossed my arms over my chest and finally let the emotion well up and fall silently. I watched Alfred as I cried and wondered how the old man could be so awake at six in the morning, after suffering the loss of someone I knew he cared about deeply, and moving around quickly and assuredly. Even as the thought finished, I realized it was because he had to. Like I had to work—staring in an hour. Who the hell in the business world of Wayne Enterprises was going to be awake and functioning at six in the morning?—he had to work and his work was taking care of Bruce. I pulled my eyes from the butler and let them wander around the kitchen, finally coming to rest on the tray which Alfred would serve Bruce breakfast on and a small white envelope with Bruce's name written in a familiar hand on the front.

I crossed the small kitchen and wiped my cheeks on the back of my hand. My eyes seemed to be permanently set to leak. I picked up the envelope, found it unsealed and seriously considered reading it, even going so far as to finger the envelope flap, and I probably would have if Alfred hadn't said, "Ms. Black, that is not for you to read."

I dropped the letter back on the tray, tiny flame of curiosity extinguished. "What happened after the building exploded?" I asked as I turned around and found Alfred putting food on three plates.

"Mr. Dent was taken to the hospital and is in critical condition, although I understand he is stable. When Master Bruce went to see him early this morning, he said the left half of his face and his left shoulder were bandaged and he was asleep, although he was refusing sedation." Alfred finished serving the food and placed the dishes in the sink and then set about preparing the tray to take to Bruce. Like his work, the task of informing Eleanor seemed to occupy his mind. "Master Bruce retrieved the coin Mr. Dent was so fond of from the site of the second explosion and took it to the hospital."

"Has he just been sitting there since he got back?"

"Ms. Black, why are you in here and not out there with Master Bruce?"

I turned to look at Alfred and started fiddling with the ring on my thumb. "I... I don't know what to say, Alfred. I don't know how to handle this. I... I don't know what I can do for him."

Alfred stepped closer to me and wiped his hands on a towel as he said, "I think your presence will be enough to help, Eleanor." He picked up the tray from the counter beside me and headed back to the living room. I followed close behind, a plate of food in my hands and racking my brain for something that could be done to help Bruce.

I settled myself in the other chair in front of the television as Bruce contemplated his breakfast and I picked at mine; I didn't have much of an appetite and I was pretty sure Bruce didn't have one at all. After finishing what I could stomach I placed the plate on the table and slid the chair closer to Bruce so I could place a hand on his arm while I pulled my knees to my chest and curled into the corner. The silence stretched on, but this time it didn't bother me; this time it didn't make me want to scream. This time, it was comforting. I watched the steam curl away from Bruce's food as I rubbed my thumb back and forth on the tri-weave suit on Bruce's arm. Bruce remained still for a very long time, but at some point, he shifted his arm and grabbed my hand and held on tightly, like I was a tether of some sort, an anchor.

"This was my fault," Bruce whispered, his voice cracking slightly with disuse.

I turned my head rather sharply so I could look at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Rachel." His voice hitched at her name. "I brought this on her. She died because she knew me, knew Batman."

"Bruce—"

His eyes narrowed, but he wasn't mad at me, I could see that. I tightened my grip on his hand because it was all I would really be able to do, even as he said, "This is my fault, Eleanor. If she hadn't known me, if the Joker hadn't been able to link her to Batman, she would be safe, she would be alive—"

"Bruce," I said a little more forcibly, in order to get his attention. "You don't know that; you can't. The Joker could have targeted her because of her connection to Harvey. He's an important man in Gotham without your help. Hell, she could have been targeted because she's an important woman in Gotham." I leaned over the arm of my chair, still holding Bruce's hand, putting my face close enough so that he'd have to look at me or climb out of the chair and I knew he wasn't going anywhere yet. "The point is, you can't blame yourself." I slid out of the chair and walked across the room to stand in front of the window, holding onto Bruce's hand until the very last second. My eyes slid over the city, slowly waking beneath the penthouse and I felt the emotion welling inside agian, clogging my throat and burning my eyes, but I didn't let the tears fall. "It's not your fault, Bruce," I said, my voice quieter than before. "It's not your fault." When there was no response, I turned around and stared at Bruce.

And I saw, in that moment, how broken he really was.

When he felt my eyes on him however, his spine straightened slightly and his walls went up.

I sighed and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. There was part of me that was glad Bruce and I weren't fighting, but there was a part of me that wanted him to yell so I could yell back—that was normal. I didn't get nervous or uncomfortable around Bruce anymore, but one thing I did do was argue and yell, one thing we did was argue and yell. I knew how to yell at him, I knew how to function when our voices were raised. Hell, I would even be doing better if this scene was taking place in the bunker, somewhere I was comfortable. The bunker was a place where nothing was hidden, and it had become, in a weird way, our place. The penthouse was none of those things and the silence up here was unsettling.

"What's the plan?" I asked in an attempt to get him talking. Maybe, like Alfred and I, he would be able to function better if he focused on work.

It took many more minutes of silence. I watched Bruce remain completely still—how the hell did he do that?—and I watched the room get brighter as the sun finally made it over the top of the buildings around the penthouse. I did my best to remain still as well, but I, evidently, was much more impatient than Bruce and began pacing.

About the time I was making my third circuit, Bruce shifted in his chair and then said, "Find him and stop him."

"That's still the plan?"

"That's still the plan."

I looked at Bruce again, eyes narrowed slightly. I was searching for something and I wasn't sure what it was, but his eyes were dark and hollow and empty of anything except anger. "What about that project you have R and D working on at Wayne Enterprises?" I asked, deciding then was the right moment to divulge the information I'd found when I had unpacked the bunker after Bruce nearly revealed his secret: a folder, tucked away beneath a stack of order forms from the materials needed for the first Batsuit, a folder that held only a few sheets of paper detailing, in Bruce's handwriting, the specs for a construct based off the sonar technology Lucius had developed. I hadn't said anything about it, hadn't even given it much thought, because I had known it would come to the forefront eventually and there was no need to interrogate Bruce about a project when I could already guess what it did. "You're going to use that to find the Joker, aren't you?"

"You found the file."

"Yeah, I did. Putting aside the potential moral consequences that could arise from it, you were planning on using it to find the Joker, right?"

Bruce nodded.

"Is it finished?"

"I haven't checked—Eleanor, could you please just leave me alone?"

I sighed and pushed myself away from the window, where I'd once against ended up, and started towards the stairs, stopping in front of Bruce only to give him another long look. "I'll be downstairs if you need me," I said, letting my hand rest on his shoulder as I passed.

As my fingertips lifted from the smooth plate of armour, Bruce grabbed my hand, holding me still. He pulled me back towards him as he rose to his feet. His eyes were still angry, but there was heaviness to his face that told me he was letting me see what he was really feeling. He was broken and I understood that—he had just lost the woman he loved, the woman he thought he was going to end up with. I didn't like it, but I loved him and I didn't like seeing that pained look on his face, so I stepped into him and wrapped my arms around his neck, surprised but pleased when he returned the hug and sucked in a deep breath as he pressed his face into my hair. For one moment, I thought he was going to cry—I don't know what I would have done then—but he didn't, so I leaned into the embrace and cried for him.

Author's Note.

Okay, so I'm not sure about this chapter. There are things I really like about it, but some other things that I don't know about, but then again, my brain is somewhere in space with Battlestar Galactica, so pulling it down to Gotham level was a little difficult. Reading Bruce Wayne: The Road Home helped a lot though, but more so, I want to write the one-shot that I've got planned to go along with that. But I'm muscling through to the end on this one.

Sorry too that this chapter is a little shorter, but I couldn't push it any farther without bringing in things I didn't want to. Eleanor hasn't been overly vocal with me lately, so I just let it lie instead of forcing the issue. Hopefully this is still a chapter worthy of your time.

School's picking up with essays and assignments and stuff, so I might not be updating as much anymore and the numbers have already dropped. Also, I've been working more on my original fiction, but I'll keep a tendril in fanfiction and I'll keep trying to update as regularly as I can, promise.

Enjoy.

Next Chapter: Chaos.