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 Sixteen: The Dark Knight.

Once I knew Bruce was alive, I was gone.

I didn't care that he had told me to stay put; I didn't care that I could be in danger if I left Wayne Enterprises. The only thing on my mind in that moment was getting to the bunker as fast as I possibly could so I could be there when Bruce got back. I had to be there.

"Eleanor," Lucius called, stopping me on my way to elevator.

"What?"

The older man moved towards me, hand extended and a small and knowing grin on his lips. There were keys in his hand. "Take my car. You'll get there faster."

I gave Lucius a brilliant if impatient smile, a quick hug and breathed a thank you as I grabbed the keys and my bag—which I had almost forgotten—and ran. I jabbed the elevator button, but it didn't come fast enough so I took the stairs right to the parking garage, the smells of damp concrete and old motor oil hitting my nose as the door flung open; as it closed, the edge of the door caught my elbow painfully, but I didn't stop. The one-in-the-morning air was mild, but I barely paid it any mind as I continued at my pace across the level to where Lucius' black luxury sedan sat. I climbed behind the wheel and took off, faster than was legal, but not as fast as I felt was necessary to satisfy the impatience I was feeling; as I encountered hardly any traffic heading into the city, I was tempted to go faster but I refrained. Barely. I needed to be in that bunker and I needed to be there yesterday. I didn't need to be pulled over by some wayward cop for speeding. Yeah, I believed that could happen, even in the wake of the Joker disaster.

Showing his remarkable intuition, Alfred called a moment after I'd left Wayne Enterprises and put the headset on speaker so I could hear what was going on where Batman was. He said nothing beyond "I thought you might want to have an ear on things, Ms. Black." Oh, how right he was. I made a mental note to buy Alfred a present or clean for him one day or something, anything.

"The Joker won," Gordon was saying in a defeated voice. "Harvey's prosecution, everything he fought for, everything Rachel died for... Undone. Everything we've gained; everything you helped Gotham get back dies with Harvey's reputation. People will lose all hope."

I didn't know for sure what was going on, but I gathered that Dent was dead. Somehow, he had died. Or was severely injured. Or completely insane. In any case, the Harvey Dent who had been the district attorney of Gotham and had earned the title of Gotham's White Knight was dead and Gordon sounded hopeless, lost and worried about the fate of the city, his city. I wanted to offer words of encouragement, but knew I could not. For one, he had no idea who I was and for another, I was essentially eavesdropping on the conversation. I bit my lip as I drove, the highway turning into the side roads that would eventually lead me to the abandoned construction yard and the bunker.

"No they won't," Batman replied, his voice telling me he was in pain and fighting to appear strong. Something in my gut tightened. "They can never know what he did. Gotham needs its true hero."

"You? You can't—"

I picked up the meaning of the commissioner's words and what Batman was getting at. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Again, I had to fight the urge to drive faster.

"Yes, I can. You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain." Bruce sucked in a deep and pained breath and I winced for him. Hearing his pain in his voice, even as minimal as it was, meant he was hurting pretty badly. "I can do those things," he said with a curious finality. "I can do them because I'm not a hero like Dent. I killed those people. That's what I can be."

"No!" Gordon and I expressed at the same time. "You're not—" the leader of the police protested at the same time I muttered my currently favoured expletive again and smacked the palms of my hands against the steering wheel.

"I'm whatever Gotham needs me to be."

I reached the lot at that point and parked the car haphazardly in front of the bunker and ran into the container, the doors already unlocked and the platform waiting for me. The ride down seemed longer than normal, much too long. I jumped off the moving section of floor before it had clicked into the ground, stumbling slightly as my feet hit the familiar floor and almost dropping my bag, but I didn't let it slow me down. I didn't stop until I'd reached the computer terminal. I dropped my bag on the floor—it tipped over and spilled the papers and devices and other junk that had accumulated over time out into a pile—and leaned on the desk, breathing heavily for reasons I wasn't particularly sure off beyond the adrenaline pumping through my system. Bruce wasn't back yet.

"They'll hunt you."

"You'll hunt me. You'll condemn me, set the dogs on me, because that's what needs to happen."

I grumbled unintelligibly at the machine expelling Bruce's voice and cursed some more; Alfred ignored my cursing well, but he was probably well used to it by now. My hands were balled into fists on the desk. I was scared, angry, worried... I wanted Bruce back at the bunker. I wanted this to be over.

"Because sometimes the truth isn't good enough. Sometimes, people deserve more."

There was a long, heavy pause in which I could imagine Batman and Gordon staring at each other, Bruce's eyes enigmatic behind the cowl. As the moment passed, I heard Bruce's boots hit the ground in an unsteady rhythm as he started to run away. He was limping. He was badly hurt. As he ran, I heard a young boy's voice—Gordon's son—voicing exactly what I was thinking, albeit using much cleaner words than I did.

"Batman!" And then a few seconds later, a pained shriek. "But he didn't do anything wrong!"

Damn straight, kid...

All other sounds drifted off after that and all that remained were the noises of Batman running, breathing heavily, of dogs barking and police chasing him. Bruce's breathing became more laboured and painful as he moved; it was almost too much to listen to. I dropped into the armchair, the excitement of the past couple minutes catching up and sucking the remainder of energy from my bones. My head dropped forward into my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. Catching the hint, Alfred reached over and turned the machine back to headset only and slipped the earphones over his ears so I wouldn't have to hear it anymore. At least not until I was ready.

I looked down at my son, standing there, watching Batman's silhouette disappear into the fog of the very early morning and sighed. James was confused, trying to process why the police had to chase Batman when he hadn't done anything wrong, when the vigilante had just saved his life, my life and the life of his mother and sister. Every emotion was plain on his young face. I sighed again and wished there was an easy way to explain the situation to him. Regardless, I knew he wouldn't lose his faith in Batman. Ever since he'd shown up, James had been a fan; I smiled a bit at that. James was many things, and he was especially loyal.

"Dad... Will you have to arrest Batman?" he asked in a small voice that still held notes of panic.

"It won't come to that, James." I wished I was half as confident in that statement as I sounded. I was pretty sure Batman would remain one step ahead of the police, but there was that chance he would not, that chance he would be arrested. As I thought about it, I realized I would find ways to keep that from happening, I would do my best to help Batman anyway I could inside the law.

"I don't understand why you're chasing him."

"I know, son. Come on. Let's go get your mother and sister and I'll take your guys home." I took my son's hand and we walked back towards the rickety staircase that led down from the platform where Dent had kept my family. I watched James run into his mother's arms, watched my daughter embrace her bother and start crying, but I didn't get to join the happy reunion, I didn't get to hold my family—I was pulled aside by a patrolman, who didn't look pleased. His face was streaked with water—I realized absently that it was now raining—and his eyes were narrowed. "What is it?" I asked gruffly. I wanted to go home and sleep, spend time with my family, but the chances of that happening were next to none.

"We lost Batman."

I had to fight the urge to smile. Of course they lost Batman. But I had to pretend to be frustrated. I sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. "Send a couple of squad cars out in the last direction you saw him go. Then send a couple in the opposite direction."

The patrolman frowned, deep lines creasing his face. "With all due respect sir, this sounds like a wild goose chase."

"Well do you have any better ideas? Of course it's a wild goose chase," I muttered. "Just do it. I'm going to take my family home and then I'll be back to deal with this."

Without waiting for any response, I turned and walked towards my family. I sighed again, this time for real. Tomorrow, starting early, there was going to be a lot to do. Press conferences about Harvey's death and Batman's apparent guilt, I'd have to take the Batsignal down to severe the connections between the police and the vigilante... There would be some heated discussion with Barbara to deal with, more explaining to do to my children. I didn't want to do any of it, but I would have to. I embraced Barbara and took comfort in that gesture. I picked up my daughter and led the way to my car, savouring the feel of my little girl in my arms. There were many things to do tomorrow, but for that moment and for the next couple hours, I was going to enjoy having my family alive and whole and worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

I hoped Batman could do the same.

What was Bruce thinking? Could Batman really take the heat for all that had Dent had done wrong? Could he handle the police and continue to fight the rising crime in Gotham? Would he survive this? What was he thinking? I sighed and climbed out the chair. Alfred slid the headset down to hang around his neck, his lined face taking on the concerned countenance that seemed to have become its norm for talking to me, especially when Bruce was in any sort of trouble.

"Ms. Black, are you all right?"

"I'm just a little panicked," I snapped sarcastically. "How are you so calm?"

"My years of experience with Master Bruce have prepared me for most the anxiety that comes with being Batman's butler, Ms. Black, and I am sure you will adjust to this as well. You have improved in the past few weeks." The last comment was meant to be a joke, something to lighten the mood with a hint of seriousness.

I gave Alfred a half-hearted smirk because I appreciated the attempt at lightening the mood. "I'm not sure that's such a good thing." I sighed again, crossed my arms, and started pacing back and forth in front of the desk, aware of Alfred's eyes tracking me as I did so. "Can he do this, Alfred?"

"I'm sure he has plans in place."

"You're right; I shouldn't worry so much."

But I didn't stop pacing, and I wouldn't until I knew Bruce was coming back. I for sure did not stop worrying. After several long moments, I grabbed the other headset and pulled it on. The roar of the Batpod's wheels filled my head and my bones gave an involuntary lurch in remembrance of my terrifying ride a few hours ago. For another long moment, I just listened, still pacing in front of the desk, hands on my hips, and though I was pretty sure Bruce could hear me and knew I was listening in addition to Alfred, he didn't say anything. It was one of those moments of silent comfort that we had experienced and it didn't matter that it was over a headset. I gave a small sigh of relief. He was still moving.

"I'm almost there," he said and I knew the words were meant for me.

I couldn't think of anything to say, but I nodded at the headset. Bruce's voice was full of pain. The knot of worry hardened in my gut because, for the first time, I wasn't certain that Bruce was going to come back okay. He'd been injured before, but something felt... different. He'd never been shot before, for one thing. I know Lucius said the suit should take most of the damage, but somehow, that wasn't very reassuring knowing that Bruce was wounded, was bleeding and was in pain. A small whimper escaped my lips as my thought ran rampant with all the worst that could happen.

The motor of the door covering the secret road whirred, cutting my thoughts off. I ran out from behind the desk and was stopped by the headset getting caught in my hair and pulling. I cursed, untangled it roughly and made it to the Batpod as it slid into its normal parking spot. Bruce stumbled as he climbed off the bike. He tried to remain upright. I ducked under his arm to catch his weight; it took every bit of strength I could muster to keep us from toppling to the floor. Somehow, I managed to get him across the bunker and onto the table Alfred had set up. There was a trail of blood droplets leading from the bunker's entrance to the table and one side of Bruce's armour was covered in the sticky and semi-dry substance; as I helped him walk, some of it rubbed off on my shirt and I ended up with a large brownish-red splotch on my side. Alfred set to work immediately, removing the plates of armour to see what exactly was wrong; I ran over and turned off the police scanner, the bunker falling into silence except for the low noises of whatever Alfred was doing and the startling noises Bruce was making. I moved back to the table and stood by Bruce's head.

"I used a local aesthetic but this is still going to hurt," Alfred said. "Talk to him, Eleanor."

I glanced down to where Alfred was attempting to dig the bullet out of Bruce's side—evidently the armour had slowed it down just enough for it to get embedded in his flesh and stop it from coming out the other side. There was blood everywhere. I gave a shaky sigh before turning to look at Bruce again. "Bruce," I said, leaning in. His hazel eyes locked onto mine and suddenly I didn't know what to say. Here he was, really relying on me for something for the first time, and I couldn't talk. I could feel my jaw moving up and down, but no words would come out. Suddenly, I was just glad to be looking at Bruce, glad to have him alive, if not well, glad that the Joker or Harvey hadn't been able to take him away from me. "Bruce," I said again, my voice just above a whisper.

"Ellie," he replied in a strained voice as he squeezed my hand, "you're going to have to come up with something more interesting than my name to keep me distracted." As if to prove his point, his face scrunched as he weathered another wave of pain.

I coughed a laugh against my better judgement and leaned in close again, brushing some of his sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. I grabbed his hand with my other one and squeezed it tightly. "Are you sure you know what you're doing? Getting Gordon and his men to hunt you instead of marring Harvey's reputation?" I almost asked him if he could handle it, but stopped myself just in time.

"I know what I'm doing." He sucked in a sharp breath, new beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. His hand tightened painfully on mine, but I didn't let go.

I grabbed the damp cloth Alfred had set out and wiped Bruce's forehead. "I'm sure you think you do." I shifted position so I could look directly down at Bruce while still holding his hand. I had to shove my hair back to keep it from dangling in his face. "You're going to get yourself killed," I informed him as if he didn't already know that possibility. My voice came out barely above a whisper.

"You don't have to stay and watch."

I snorted and smiled down at Bruce, now rather close. The pain in his face made the back of my eyes prickle with tears, but I knew I couldn't cry. I had to help by appearing as strong as I could. "Oh, like I'm going to let you do this by yourself. We've been over this countless times before—I'm not going anywhere." Some of my reddish hair slipped over my shoulder, brushed across his bare chest. I shoved it back and re-plastered a smile on my face, my fingers lingering for a second on his cheek.

Bruce made a sputtering noise that could have been a laugh.

"Got it," Alfred said, the interjection of his voice into the conversation slightly startling.

Bruce grunted through clenched teeth and his hand tightened on mine again. I turned just my head and saw Alfred holding up what remained of the bullet between a pair of tweezers. I'd never seen a bullet after being shot. "It's small."

Alfred didn't respond with anything except a slight nod as he set the bullet into a small metal tray and then set about cleaning and bandaging the wound. Instead of immediately looking back at Bruce's face, I scanned the rest of his torso, taking stock of his injuries, eager to see if any of them required stitches. Already, his colour was returning. He looked marginally better. There were dark blue-purple bruises and minor lacerations from the hand-to-hand combat throughout the night, the worst of which I was sure came from the Joker, but all of those injuries were healing. However, a bruise on the side of his chest had turned reddish in the middle. I pointed it out to Alfred, who set about doing some sort of examination and leaving me to finish placing the thick bandage over the gunshot wound; I was pleased to see coagulation, because I may not have known much about medicine, but I knew when blood clotted around a wound, it was a good thing. Regardless of the healing wound, I managed to get blood on my hands.

I swallowed and wiped my hands on my jean shorts; if the blood didn't come out, it wasn't a big deal. They were just shorts, and I didn't want Bruce's blood on my hands. I moved to stand by Bruce's head again, focusing on that he was looking healthier.

"This is nothing to be concerned about, Ms. Black," Alfred said. "It is minor bleeding and should heal on its own by tomorrow night. Master Bruce has survived much worse."

"Okay," I said at the same time Bruce nodded. I looked down at him. He looked tired, but he gave me a small smile.

"You need to rest," Alfred said to his charge, before looking up at me, his light blue eyes exposing the relief he was feeling. He gave Bruce a couple of pills, which he swallowed without water. "If you take Master Bruce back to the penthouse, I will clean up here."

I watched Bruce's eyes close, but knew he wasn't asleep. "I have Lucius' car," I remembered.

"I will take Lucius' car back to him, Ms. Black."

"Okay."

While Alfred helped Bruce change and double-checked that none of his wounds were more serious than first thought, I cleaned up the contents of my bag, making a mental note to go through all the crap I'd collected so my bag didn't weigh fifty pounds. One of the things that had somehow worked its way into my bag was a picture of Bruce and me at some party, just standing there, talking and smiling. It was stupid, but something about the picture brought that prickly feeling in my eyes back and tears started streaming silently down my face. I sniffed and wiped my face before shoving the rest of my things back into my bag and walking over to where Bruce was now standing on his feet, looking at least a little more like himself than he had a few moments ago; the picture went into my pocket.

"Ms. Black, are you okay?" Alfred asked, picking up on my tears.

I nodded without thinking about it. "Just tired," I replied, going with the unintentional nod. There was no reason to tell them that I was overwhelmed and really just wanted to go bed.

Bruce grabbed my hand, but there was something in the gesture that said he was looking for physical support as well as giving me something to hold onto; that almost made me start crying again. "Let's go then," he said in a voice that wasn't any different than normal, except it was. It was missing something, some level of strength that was normally there. I chalked it up to the pills. We headed out of the bunker while Alfred started cleaning. When we reached whatever car it was the Alfred had brought that day, Bruce sat down on the back seat with the door open and looked up at me. "Are you okay?"

I blinked and looked at him. Those pills must have been extra strength, because he wasn't in the habit of asking if I was okay, or if anyone was okay. "Just get in," I said, kind of exasperated. I could feel the tears again.

Bruce obeyed, which was also weird. When Bruce and I finally reached the penthouse—about twenty minutes later, as there wasn't much traffic—it was clear just how worn out he was and I was positive that Alfred had given him a painkiller. It was almost as if he'd been bottling everything up inside while he chased the Joker and now that he had a moment to rest, he was letting everything get to him, letting it all weigh on him. The painkillers were only helping the repressed exhaustion come out. I sighed as I followed him upstairs, wondering how long he could continue like this, how long Batman could continue like this, before he destroyed himself.

He sat heavily on the bed, wincing slightly as something pulled. I dropped into the chair positioned beside the bed and stared at him. "I was scared," I said. "I thought Harvey killed you."

Bruce returned my persistent gaze, his hazel eyes oddly bright looking out from the dark circles around his eyes. There was something very Batmanish in the look, but it came as a comfort. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit—you're in pain. You almost died."

"I'll be fine," he amended.

I rolled my eyes and settled farther into the chair, pulling my legs up underneath me. I didn't look away from Bruce. I could tell he was debating telling me to go, to save my sanity or whatever, but he didn't say anything—I'd finally won that fight. A small smile slid across my lips. "Go to sleep." I closed my eyes and heard the bed shift as Bruce lay down. The chair suddenly became very comfortable and I felt I could sleep there for at least eight hours, something I hadn't achieved, in a long time, even in a very comfortable bed. "I'll stay here."

However, I was not in the chair when I awoke a couple hours later. It took me a minute to realize why I was lying on my side, but I was on Bruce's bed, and by the looks of the covers, I'd been there a while. My cobalt eyes found the bedside clock—four forty-five in the morning; I'd had about two hours of sleep. I looked beyond the bedside table to the chair where I'd begun the night, but there was no one there, and my bag was no longer on the floor where I'd left it. I strained my ears into the depths of the penthouse and heard someone moving, the slow shuffle of feet on carpet. I was inclined to believe the pills hadn't worked. As the only place in the penthouse with carpet was the "library", I pushed myself out of the bed and started heading in that direction.

I was halfway there when I realized I was still in my bloody clothes and the bedding was dusted with rust-coloured flakes of dried blood that had come off while I slept. Something about that bothered me greatly. It was Bruce's blood. I went down the short hallway and found my bag in the spare bedroom, found clean clothes of mine in the top drawer of the dresser. I changed into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of large flannel pants, washed my hands vigorously n the bathroom until the red tinge was gone, gathered the bloody clothes in my arms and returned to the bedroom where I gathered the sheets into my arms, yanking them quite viciously from the bed and rolled the whole lot into a ball and dropped it on the floor. I couldn't see anymore of the stains or blood dust. My hands were clean. I dropped to the ground with my legs splayed out in front of me and then lay back on the floor and heaved a sigh of relief. Two hours of sleep and a bit of cleanliness did wonders, apparently—I felt awake.

Bruce appeared standing above me. He looked better too, but he couldn't have had anymore sleep than me—he'd probably had less and he would be still addled by the painkillers. "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning," I answered without hesitation. "I didn't want to look at your blood on me anymore."

He sat down on the floor beside me, legs crossed underneath him. "I'm okay, Ellie."

"I know. You're indestructible—you're the goddamn Batman." I flashed Bruce the stupidest grin I could manage before I sat up and crossed my legs as I turned to face him, our knees almost touching. My smile turned genuine.

We stayed like that for a very long time, just sitting there in a private bubble of that comfortable silence. I had never heard the penthouse so quiet, but I couldn't recall ever having been in it at five in the morning when nothing else was going on, when there was no Batman issues to deal with and when there were no calls from Wayne Enterprises. It was weird, but it was nice, a moment of peace after the storm and before the next one began. I knew there would be another storm, another villain would come to Gotham and try and disrupt the city. But, as it began to rain and as the penthouse became a secluded box of bluish light behind water-streaked windows, I knew Batman would always be there to fight them and stop them and to protect Gotham.

It was his city—we were just living in it.

The news that morning was bleak.

After Alfred had awoken at five-thirty, taken the ball of bloody fabric away, and begun to make breakfast, Eleanor and I finally moved from the spot on the floor. It had felt good to sit there with her, in the silence and the clam, to know that she would be there for as long as I needed her, but it hadn't felt so good to move. The gunshot wound pulled sharply when I pushed myself to my feet and my much-abused muscles screamed for rest I couldn't give. Eleanor had stood less than two feet away while I waited for the pain to pass, just managing to hold herself back from running to my aid. It only took a second, but then I was ready to walk away. We moved into the living area, where we had sat after Rachel's death. Eleanor turned on the television, going immediately to the news—some things never change—and had found Gordon, standing in a very grey room, behind a podium, staring down at the cacophony of microphones arrayed in front of him.

He was talking about Harvey's death, forcing himself to accuse Batman for the district attorney's death and for the deaths of those he'd killed. I saw him swallow hard and then go on to say that the Batman was now public enemy number one and anyone with any information about the vigilante was to come forth at once so the Gotham PD could put an end to the threat he posed as soon as possible.

During the press conference, Eleanor turned to look at me several times, no doubt looking for any sort of reaction. Alfred brought breakfast out and settled himself in the last empty chair to join us. But there were still no words exchanged.

"Harvey will be greatly missed," Gordon was saying.

"What are you doing to stop the Batman?" one of the reporters bellowed.

Gordon sighed heavily, adjusted his glasses as he gathered his thoughts. When he looked back up at the camera, his face was set in a mask of frustration and anger—he was feeding his feelings towards the whole situation towards Batman, to what the press and the people wanted him to be angry at. "We have heightened patrols in the areas Batman was last spotted and we've created a special task force consisting of officers who have worked with the Batman and we are consulting with various experts to try and determine what else can be done. The so-called Batsignal has been destroyed as symbol of the severed contact between the GCPD and the Batman, and to send a message to him that his actions will no longer be tolerated."

"What about all the good he's done?" another reporter asked.

"Thank you, whoever you are," Eleanor muttered around her fork.

My mouth twitched in a small grin.

Again Gordon sighed. "His actions against the criminals of Gotham do not cancel out the murders he has committed. We cannot support someone who operates outside the law and undermines the authority of the police."

Eleanor looked at me again, a somewhat bitter grin on her lips. "I feel sorry for Gordon having to do this," she said.

I nodded, agreeing. Jim Gordon had done a lot to help Batman since I'd created the alter-ego and I did not feel good about putting him through this particular brand of torture. "I'll think of a way for Wayne Enterprises to donate something towards the hunt for Batman."

"You're going to help the police hunt you. Great." She flashed the brilliant and silly grin, a small chuckle escaping her lips.

"What better way to draw suspicion away from your nocturnal activities, Master Bruce."

"This just keeps getting better."

I couldn't help but smile.

I put the breakfast plates into the dishwasher and started the machine running, a quiet whir filling the kitchen. As I turned to grab the cloth and start wiping the counter, Alfred gave another small huff. "Ms. Black," he said, "You do not have to clean."

"Relax Alfred. I'm not going to get anymore sleep, so I might as well do something useful." I finished wiping the counters and draped the cloth over the edge of the sink—Alfred automatically moved to fold the cloth neatly—and leaned back against it, arms crossed under my chest. "Did Bruce get to sleep?" I asked as I grabbed an apple from the mysterious fruit bowl that was always mysteriously full.

Alfred nodded. "Lucius also informed me yesterday when I returned his car that he has postponed all meetings which required Master Bruce's attention."

"What did he give as the reason?" I took a bite of the apple and chewed as I ran the fingers of one hand back through my hair.

"That Master Bruce jetted off in the middle of the night for Europe."

I returned the smile Alfred gave me and even laughed a little. It was funny how normal things seemed to be, however temporary the reprieve was. Alfred set about making tea and once I had a cup in my hands, I left the butler in the kitchen and wandered back towards the stairs and then up to the more private area of the loft; most people didn't come up here beyond Bruce, Alfred and I. I was puzzling over what to do with the seemingly free day. I knew I would have to go get Blaze from my parents' house and take him for a nice, long walk, but what else? It was only seven. The city was just waking up, or just going to bed, beginning to recover from the Joker fiasco. I wasn't even entirely sure anything would be open today.

I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling walls of windows and stared out at Gotham, a small smile on my lips.

Author's Note.

So... spontaneous chapter title change!

Not like anyone cares, but whatever. You still get to know that I spontaneously changed the title of this chapter when I posted chapter fifteen. Don't you just love useless knowledge? You bet you do. Yeah, I just told you what you love. *devious grin*

Anyways, I'm going to rewrite/edit Slow Dancing in a Burning Room. Just so I can add in some things that developed while I was finishing this one. Read it if you want to and if you haven't already. No major plot changes will be made, I just want to add some more emotion.

Writing Gordon was haaard, but I thought I should give it a try, just as a closing section. Also, the last chapter was all from Eleanor's point of view, so I wanted to break it up a bit in this one. I've never written Gordon before, so I hope it's okay. I get a little squirmy when I write new characters that are already established and sometimes it doesn't come out well because I'm afraid to mess it up. I guess I just need to study the other characters as well as I've studied Batman.

Anyways, this is the end, there is no more. I will see you all again (in this Batverse) when the next movie comes out and I have plotted another story.

P.S. I was sad I couldn't feasibly fit Gordon's speech from the end of the movie into the fic. I love that speech.

Next Chapter: There isn't one! It's done! It's finished! It has expired! It has ceased to exist! It is no more! It's gone to meet it's Maker!

... sorry, Monty Python reference.