October 25th, the day of the fundraiser, finally arrived, looking anything but promising. By 9 AM, as the carnival rides and booths began to be set up by the surprisingly clean, toothy carnies, the sun had yet to make an appearance. Bruce stood at the window of his bedchamber and gazed out the lead-glass panes at the buzzing activities on the grounds, and then up at the iron-grey sky. Well, what could he expect? Gotham City was nothing if not predictable in its persistence in adhering to the most depressing setting possible. It didn't matter; short of rain, nothing would spoil the fun of Gotham's finest and their children.

His shower was long and steamy; a couple of times, he nearly dozed off on his feet. He had been out until almost four in the morning, kept busy averting various petty crimes. The streets were unusually devoid of anything major, and that made him uneasy, and filled what little sleep he got with anxious dreams of unnamed dangers.

By the time he was out of the shower and getting dressed, Alfred was entering his bedchamber prepared with fresh idle banter. "You know, Master Wayne, if a bomb were to fall on Wayne Manor today, Gotham City would be paralyzed."

Bruce stood in front of the mirror, smoothing back his hair, and as Alfred made his remark, their eyes met in the glass. "You can be a real killjoy, you know that, Alfred?"

"I merely follow my master's lead," Alfred smiled. "In all seriousness, Master Wayne, you've got the Commissioner, the Mayor, and several state and local politicians here today. It's rather fortunate the Joker's locked away in Arkham; he'd have himself quite a ball."

"Now you're just trying to jinx things." Bruce turned around. "How do I look?"

Alfred eyed the young man, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. "You look like someone who's about to frolic with a hundred children who are descending on his property like so many hellspawn. Not nearly as compelling as your night-time garments."

"With any luck, those garments won't need to be used today." Bruce straightened the cuffs on his shirt. "All of the public rooms are ready?"

"All, sir." Alfred looked offended. "Have I ever been remiss in ensuring that Wayne Manor offers nothing but the most impeccable hospitality?"

"Settle down, Alfred." Bruce smiled as he headed out of the master bedchamber, Alfred following hard on his heels. "I just want to make sure everything runs smoothly today."

"With all due respect, sir." Something in Alfred's voice compelled Bruce to pause in his stride. "Is this part of an elaborate scheme to reform Gotham from the bottom up...or is this an elaborate scheme to win the heart of Miss de Burgh?"

"Neither." Bruce's grin was mischievous. "It's an elaborate plot to find you a date." But he avoided answering Alfred's question, and continued down the corridor towards the grand staircase. "Annabeth and her boss Donna are going to be here any minute." He hurried off, leaving Alfred at the head of stairs, gazing thoughtfully after him.

"My god, these are some posh houses."

Annabeth did not respond to Donna. She was curled up in a tight ball in the passenger's seat of Donna's Jeep Cherokee, holding on for dear life. It had been a long time since she had ridden along with Donna, and now she remembered why-her boss was hell on wheels. She drove like a maniac.

Donna glanced over at Annabeth and rolled her eyes. "Pull the stick out of your ass, Annabeth, and stop being a wuss. Mommy's not going to get us killed, is she, Timmy?" She directed this last part to Timothy, her beautiful, tow-headed son who sat in the back seat, happy to have his busy, glamorous mother for a whole day. He giggled in reply.

The little boy had been born to Donna four years ago. He was the apple of his mother's eye, her pride and joy and living, breathing proof that a single woman could rear an intelligent, well-adjusted child. He was sweet and sunny of disposition, and there were times when Annabeth wandered how he had been born into Gotham. He seemed too good for this place.

"Jesus!" Donna ejaculated. "These houses are enormous; they must have hundreds of rooms in them. And I bet the people who live in them only have one or two children, tops."

"Waste," Annabeth grunted, then clamped her mouth shut once more, not trusting herself to say anything else. She was beginning to feel a little wave of nausea building within her as she watched the stately trees and majestic houses swoosh past.

"It is wasteful. And it's so far from the city!" In Donna's opinion, this was the most offensive and tasteless part of it all. "And I bet most of these people have penthouses in the city and live there most of the time, just like Bruce does." She kept a sharp eye on Annabeth as she delivered this last remark, and sure enough, Annabeth's curiosity overcame all else.

"Bruce still stays in the city most of the time? How do you know?"

"People talk," Donna said cryptically. "Well, it makes sense. He's at Safe Haven some of the time, and he's at Wayne Towers even more...add in his social life, and I guess it's a long haul back here to the Palisades. But from what I hear, he pulls a lot of very late nights."

That Bruce spent a fair amount of time at his penthouse did make a certain amount of sense...but Annabeth still had the suspicion that something wasn't adding up. This suspicion was confirmed a moment later as Donna carried on. "What's going on with the two of you, anyway? I could swear he has a thing for you, but at the same time, it seems like he's still playing the field..."

Donna was fishing for information, but Annabeth didn't take the bait. "Bruce and I are doing just what you wanted us to do. We're giving the press something nice to talk about." If he was still playing the field, at least he was being discreet about it. When it came time for them to "break up", hopefully it wouldn't make it into the tabloids.

"Ann-Beth has a boyfriend?" Timmy piped up from the backseat.

Annabeth gave Donna a dirty look, and Donna shrugged. "What can I say? He's too smart for his own good."

Turning back to smile at Timmy, Annabeth told him, "I don't have a boyfriend. I have a friend. Just a friend. His name is Bruce, and you're going to meet him soon. He's very nice."And handsome and kind of sweet and obscenely rich and a little too appreciative of women, damn him.

Timmy considered Annabeth's words for a moment. "Are you guys gonna kiss?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Donna!" Annabeth said accusingly. "Can't you muzzle him? He's going to embarrass me." She turned back to Timmy. "No one is going to kiss. We're not kissing friends."

Donna smirked.

"Why not?" Timmy asked. "Mommy has kissing friends-"

"Okay, Mister, that's enough talk about kissing. You've got a few years left before that's your problem." Donna decided to nip this conversation in the bud. "Our Bruce is quite the enigma, don't you think?" she asked Annabeth in a lower tone of voice.

Annabeth "mmmed" noncommittally.

"He's a playboy philanthropist." Donna found this an amusing combination. "That, we knew. But...he's actually smart. And he lets people assume otherwise. He plays up to it, actually. I bet that serves him well in the boardroom. And yet...I know next to nothing about him. He's an unknown quantity. Have you gotten to know him?"

"Not really." Annabeth thought for a moment. "He lets you get so close, and then—that's it, you know? No closer."

"My word, you two must have so much to talk about." Donna smiled gently. "You two are more alike than you know."

"That curdles my blood. But actually..." Struggling to put her thoughts into words, Annabeth was hesitant to say the wrong thing. "You know, I get the impression sometimes that he's a very unhappy person."

"He watched someone murder his parents when he was eight years old, Annabeth. He watched his parents bleed out all over the sidewalk. I doubt that really does a lot to stabilize a person's psyche and emotional well-being." Donna's voice was beginning to rise a little, and she caught herself, glancing back to make sure Timmy hadn't overheard. But he was busy staring out the window, absorbed by the scenery. "I just want you to watch out, Annabeth. I think Bruce Wayne's a good guy, but I don't know what his story is. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Oh, that's rich!" Annabeth crowed. "You threw me into his path. You told me to spend time with him, go out on pseudo-dates with him. Now you're telling me what, exactly? That he's an emotionally unstable womanizer? That I'm going to get hurt?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. Just...from one woman to another, be careful. You're not only my employee, Annabeth, but my protégé and my friend, and I don't want you to get entangled or in over your head."

Annabeth's lips curled up in a sneer of amused scorn. "You're basing all this on the assumption that I'm falling for Bruce Wayne, and that's where you're misguided."

For years, Donna had worked side-by-side with Annabeth, had come to know her and her baggage and her quirks; had grown accustomed to the younger woman's prickly standoffishness, her aversion to relationships, her emotional distance. She knew Annabeth well, and she knew now that Annabeth was lying-to herself more than anyone.

Every human being wants to feel as though they have a purpose. Every person wants to feel that there is a point to their lives, that they are making a difference, that there is a reason for their presence upon the earth. Everyone wants to leave a legacy, achieve a certain measure of immortality. Not everyone can articulate it—whether through a lack of education or introspection, or else through a misguided sense that something, be it money or birthright, or power, has already established for them a purpose. But regardless of whether or not one is aware of this need, or whether they are capable of articulating it, it exists all the same.

Even in the case of the wealthy, the powerful, the celebrities, this compulsion exists. Bruce and Alfred both knew it; both understood it, both had witnessed it many, many times in their lives, and they ruthlessly exploited it when the opportunity arose. The aimless, idle rich needed a purpose, an outlet for their thwarted energies-why not throw a fundraiser to make them feel worthy and virtuous? Offer a damned fine party, offer good food and entertainment and an opportunity for a tax write-off, and everyone came out of it happy. And a fundraiser for the Gotham PD? What worthier cause than that?

It was difficult not to harbor a certain hostile cynicism towards the fundraising scene. Bruce did his best to keep a pleasant, jocular face through the entire event, but inside, he was filled with disgust at the ostentatiousness and the waste. As he watched the scores of wealthy guests mingle, gossip, laugh, and celebrate their own perfect lives, he made a mental note to ask Alfred the final costs and then write a check to some charity for the same amount. This was ridiculous.

By eight o'clock that evening, the majority of the guests had arrived. In addition to the many wealthy and titled guests, close to five dozen Gotham City police were there with their partners; their children were still frolicking their way through the carnival being held out on the Manor grounds. The Mayor was there with his beautiful and somewhat icy wife; also present was Commissioner Gordon, although his wife was conspicuously absent.

Waitstaff circulated with trays of beer and champagne; a very talented and regionally famous cover band was playing in the background. Amazingly, despite the deep economic divide between the wealthy and the cops of Gotham, they were having no difficulties in mingling; there was too much fun to be had for anyone to hold themselves aloof.

Annabeth and Donna appeared on the scene a little later. They slipped in, unnoticed, and Annabeth scanned the crowds until she spotted Bruce at the edge of the room, engrossed in conversation with the Mayor and the Commissioner.

"Come on," she muttered to Donna. "I think he's setting the trap."

Together the two women made their way through the crowds, Annabeth concentrating on keeping her breathing deep and even. She was determined not to be overwhelmed by the crowds tonight. After a few moments, they approached the group of men, and while Donna simply sidled up to the Mayor and the Commissioner and introduced herself, Annabeth chose not to announce her presence to them. Instead, she simply placed a hand on Bruce's arm. "Hey. Sorry we're a little late."

He smiled down at her. "What was the delay?"

"Timmy," Annabeth explained. "He ate too much cotton candy at the carnival and got a bellyache, so we had to sit with him for a bit. He's asleep in the bedchamber that Alfred took us to earlier."

Bruce had enjoyed meeting Donna's precocious young son, although..."I didn't even know Donna had a son," he remarked quietly to her as they watched Donna begin to charm the Mayor.

"She doesn't broadcast the fact. She's an awesome mother, though, and she dotes on him." Annabeth grinned as she admitted, "I do, too."

"Who's the father?"

Annabeth chuckled. "No one you know—well, maybe that's not true. Donna went to a sperm bank for Timmy. Whoever the dad is, he's got some good genes."

"Timmy looks a little like you." Bruce thought for a moment. "Not much, just around the eyes."

"You know, you're not the first person who's said that. I don't see it, though." Pride shone in Annabeth's eyes for a moment. "He and I took to each other as soon as we met. Donna made me his godmother and guardian, did you know that? I take my duties very seriously. He learns a lot from me."

"I see. Is that where he learned the term 'kissing friends'?"

"Oh, christ." Annabeth reddened. "Did he-? I mean, what did...oh, dear."

Bruce laughed. "The funniest things embarrass you. Don't worry, he just asked me if I had any kissing friends."

"Four years old, and he's asking that." Annabeth shook her head, and then she redirected her attention to Donna, the Mayor, and the Commissioner. Bruce followed suit, and gently interrupted.

"Mayor Garcia, Commissioner Gordon." He waited until he had the attention of everyone in the group. "I'd like you to meet Annabeth de Burgh. A colleague of Donna's, and a good friend of mine."

Jim Gordon nodded. "We've met, haven't we, Annabeth?" He smiled gently, and Annabeth blessed him for his tact. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Mayor Garcia seemed less friendly. He merely nodded at Annabeth, his dark eyes glittering. "We've been hearing a lot about you lately, Miss de Burgh. You certainly seem to be making a few appearances in the press." He was clutching a crystal glass filled with amber liquid, and Annabeth suspected that this was not his first drink of the evening. Garcia turned back to Bruce. "You certainly do like a charity case to be dressed in a skirt, don't you, Wayne?"

An awkward silence settled on the group as the mayor's implications uncoiled and bit at them with the venom of a deadly adder. Annabeth looked incensed, Donna mildly surprised, Gordon distinctly uncomfortable. But it was Bruce Wayne who deftly smoothed over the rough atmosphere. He shrugged and gave a goofy grin. "I have to admit, it's a lot easier to listen to social issues when the person talking about them is easy on the eyes." He put an arm around Annabeth's waist and drew her close, and it was only the sharp glare of Donna that kept Annabeth from jerking away. "But Annabeth and Donna have really opened my eyes to a lot of the issues in Gotham. That's why I'm having this fundraiser; the Gotham police can certainly use the funds, can't they?"

Gordon eagerly stepped in to help out. "We can, Wayne, and we appreciate it. More than you can possibly know."

A waiter bearing a tray of champagne flutes passed by, and Bruce summoned him over and relieved him of his burden, distributing the glasses among the group. As he passed Annabeth the glass, she caught a look at his eyes; with a jolt of awareness, she saw the anger blazing in them. Garcia had made an enemy, whether or not he was aware of it.

Gordon was still talking. "It's incredibly generous of you, Wayne. Not only for sponsoring this, but for the example you're setting."

Garcia took a hefty gulp from his glass, apparently unaware of, or indifferent to, the fact that he was now double-fisting drinks. "Don't be too grateful, Gordon. Wayne's got something up his sleeve-I do think Donna here was just about to enlighten us."

Annabeth had only just met the Mayor, and already she wanted to punch him in the head. Usually it took her a whole ten minutes to develop the urge.

Donna and Bruce glanced at each other, and a message of understanding passed between them. "Well, Mayor..." Bruce paused to take an actual sip of his champagne. "There is something we wanted to propose to you..."

The night wore on. Annabeth quickly realized that Bruce and Donna had their "proposal" covered; if they could jolly Garcia into a better mood, if they could ply him with enough drinks, if they could get Gordon on their side, they would be able to convince the Mayor to sign off on approving a Take Back the Night rally. In all honesty, Annabeth did not question the outcome; in two months, she had begun to trust in Bruce's ability to charm and cajole and buy his way into the good graces of just about anyone. Her presence only seemed to undermine Bruce's credibility, so after a little bit, she discreetly detached herself from the group and began to wander about.

Several people nodded, recognizing her as Bruce Wayne's latest "girlfriend"; one or two actually smiled and waved. Annabeth did her best to pleasantly acknowledge all of them, but in all honesty, she felt like a fish out of water. Longingly, she thought back to the last fundraising party at Wayne Manor, and began to wish for the unflappable Alfred, but he was busy circulating through the crowd, supervising and keeping a watchful eye over the event.

She was still clutching the flute of champagne Bruce had passed her earlier, and almost absently, she took a sip of the light, bubbly liquid. Perhaps she could just squirrel away a bottle, find a quiet room, and have her own party...

It was not to be. "Annabeth!"

A moment later, Elisa St. Marie emerged from the crowd, waving as she approached. "I knew you'd be here. I've been looking for you for the past half hour!" She eyed Annabeth's sleeveless burgundy satin gown, which swept to the floor and accentuated her curves. "You look great..." Her eyes caught the tattoos. "Well, well...I'll be damned."

"Oh god. What is it with you people and tattoos?" Annabeth fought the urge to cover her arms with her hands. "You and Bruce. Both of you are obsessed!"

"Bruce, too, huh?" Elisa smiled. "That's surprising. I've always thought he'd bring home some good, wholesome, leggy socialite." Her tone indicated this was not a desirable thing.

"Instead he's taken up with a tattooed, trashy social worker." Annabeth sipped more of her champagne, and noted with surprise that she was feeling relaxed.

"I wouldn't say you're trashy, not at all. Just...real. Engagingly real." Elisa scanned the crowds, taking in the designer gowns, the glittering jewels, the well-maintained men and women. "And other than the cops and their partners, you're about the only one at this party worth talking to."

They remained clustered together, making idle chatter and taking sips of champagne. Every now and then, Annabeth would glance over at Bruce and Donna, still talking in earnest to Garcia and Gordon. It was difficult to tell from this distance how the conversation was going...She redirected her attention back to Elisa, who was talking about her upcoming wedding.

"...Bradford's parents want to have it at their place in the Berkshires." Elisa rolled her eyes. "I'd just as soon have it at City Hall, it's not like I can afford anything else, but Bradford's mom about had a heart attack when I suggested it. So we're doing a ceremony at their house up there next month; it's going to be a big weekend thing, a country house party. Bruce is coming..." She hesitated for a moment, then plunged on, "I'd really like it if you could come, too. The whole thing's going to be over the top, but I've got barely any friends coming, and my parents are overseas..."

Annabeth was absurdly flattered, and could understand, all too well, the pain of not having family or friends of one's own at a major life event. "Of course I'll come...just give me the details, and I'll be there. Maybe I can travel up with Bruce."

Elisa gave her an odd, questioning look. "Of course you'll come up with Bruce. You're a couple, why wouldn't you?"

For one moment, Annabeth was greatly tempted to tell Elisa the absurd truth—but if she were to be honest with herself, she barely knew what the truth was, anymore, other than that the more time she spent with Bruce, the less certain she was about anything, least of all herself.

Any further existential speculation was interrupted as the most beautiful woman Annabeth had ever laid eyes upon approached them. Annabeth was almost certain she had seen this woman on various glossy magazine spreads, modeling diamond-encrusted bras. Fortunately, tonight she was dressed in something a little more appropriate—although not by much. Her teal dress covered very little of her seemingly-endless legs, and the color complemented her perfectly-tanned, flawless skin beautifully.

"Are you Annabeth de Burgh?" she asked.

Annabeth glanced at Elisa quickly; Elisa shrugged. "I am," she answered cautiously.

"Lovely." When the woman smiled, she revealed a mouth of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, framed by equally perfect, glossed lips. "I'm Renata Llewelyn."

"Nice to meet you." Annabeth had no idea who this woman was, or why she was speaking to her, but she knew enough to be pleasant. "This is Elisa," she added.

Renata smiled and nodded at Elisa, but her attention was completely directed towards Annabeth. "I've been so curious about you."

"Seems like I've been getting that a lot lately," Annabeth said ruefully.

"I imagine so." Renata smiled again, and there was some warmth in the smile, but an undertone to her voice-curiosity, perhaps? Or something more sinister? "You've been quite the talk in some circles. How'd you manage to catch the attention of Bruce Wayne?"

"With competition like you? I have no clue." Annabeth tried to play this off lightly, but the woman's question was so dangerously close to her own line of thinking, she was certain Renata could sense it. "But you know Bruce...he's so varied in his tastes." She glanced down at the flute she clutched-it was empty. She needed more champagne to fuel this foray into new depths of awkwardness.

Renata laughed. "You've got that right. He certainly does have—what did you say? Variable tastes." She leaned in closer, and Annabeth could see the pity, the well-intentioned kindness in her face. "You're a sweet woman, Annabeth. Everyone can see that. Just be careful; don't let Bruce Wayne get too close. He loves all women, and he'll break your heart."

Elisa bristled defensively. "You speak from personal experience?"

"Hardly." The thought seemed to amuse Renata. "I've got enough sense to stay away from him. He's a charmer, and he's nice, and funny, but he's got no clue about how to handle with care. You know as well as anyone how he bounces from one woman to another." She stared at Annabeth intently. "You're so different than his usual choice, I was worried you might not know the score."

Annabeth shifted her weight. "If we're going to continue this conversation, I'm going to need more champagne."

"No need," Renata waved off the idea. "I just wanted to drop a friendly warning. I'm on my way now, and will leave you two to hate me as you will." And then she wandered off, waving to various people as she left Annabeth and Elisa behind in a strained silence.

After a moment, Elisa spoke, her voice comforting. "Don't listen to her, Annabeth. I think she's just jealous-along with every other socialite and celebrity in Gotham. They're all pissed off that Bruce Wayne chose you over them."

Annabeth shook her head. "Come on, Elisa. You've known him longer than I have, and we both know Bruce Wayne is a womanizer."

"He's been...friendly...with a lot of women," Elisa said reluctantly. "But I don't know how serious it's been in the past…generally, he just flirts a lot. I seriously doubt Bruce would intentionally mislead anyone. And he really seems completely into you. Look at the way he's lobbying for your work."

"That's just it, Elisa!" Annabeth's voice had risen a little, and several people nearby glanced their way. She smiled sheepishly, and said in a lower tone, "No one takes Bruce seriously because they all think that he's just being typically stupid, interested in whatever hisgirlfriend-" she said this with contempt "-is into. They think I've seduced him into helping out."

"They do not!" Elisa was outraged. "I know Bradford and I don't, and neither do his parents. Neither do a lot of people. They think you've been really good for Bruce."

And it's all a sham, Annabeth thought bitterly. "Seriously, I want more champagne."

As Wayne-sponsored fundraisers went, this one would go down as one of the most successful in recent memory. The food was excellent, the alcohol plentiful, the guests either important or interesting (rarely were they both); more to the point, Bruce could tell the checks would come in fast and thick for the beleaguered Gotham City PD. And, of course, they had achieved their underlying aim-he and Donna had secured permission for the Take Back the Night rally. Mayor Garcia had given in with much ill grace, and Bruce sensed that the man was waiting for money to cross his palm. The thought made him grind his teeth in anger; had corruption once more permeated to the highest levels of the city's government? But Commissioner Gordon had come down on their side, and between the three of them, they had worn down Garcia. It was a bittersweet triumph, however-they would have to work with the Mayor extensively, through this event, and Bruce could think of nothing he wished to do less. The man was possibly corrupt, more than a little offensive, and hostile towards women. His thinly-disguised contempt for Annabeth was an off-putting thing, to say the least.

Annabeth. For once, she had exercised good social sense and absented herself from the "campaign", although where she had gotten to, Bruce had no idea. Donna had caught sight of a couple of Safe Haven sponsors, and after sharing a brief smile of victory with Bruce, she made her way over to them, no doubt to charm and schmooze. The woman was a pro.

Bruce glanced down at his champagne flute; to his surprise, he had drained it. It wasn't often that he drank-especially in the evening, when he had to be prepared to suit up at a moment's notice, and he couldn't possibly be the Batman if he was as drunk as a lord. But in his efforts to win over Garcia, he had apparently suspended the rule. He shrugged half-heartedly as he realized this, and then went off in search of a waiter with a tray of champagne. In for a penny, in for a pound.

From where they stood, halfway across the room, Elisa and Annabeth watched him disappear into the crowd-"No doubt to find his next girlfriend," Annabeth muttered sourly, and realized, with surprise, that it was a tiny seed of jealousy which spawned the remark. Elisa looked at her in surprise, but didn't have a chance to respond, because just then, Commissioner Gordon approached the two women.

"Annabeth," he said warmly.

"Commissioner," she nodded, with much less warmth. The last time they had been together had been when he was questioning her about her suspected involvement in the murders of the Arrows women. "Commissioner Gordon, this is Bradford Winston's fiancée, Elisa St. Marie. She's a local artist here in Gotham."

He nodded and smiled to Elisa, but once more, Annabeth was the person being sought. "May I speak with you in private, Annabeth?"

Elisa had been on the social scene long enough to know when to make a discreet departure. "I'm going to see what Bradford's up to. Nice to meet you, Commissioner..."

Both Annabeth and Gordon watched the young woman meander off. "Nice girl," Gordon remarked. "She'll be a credit to the Winston family."

"Indeed. Hopefully, they'll be a credit to her, too." Annabeth was suddenly happy she had gotten herself more champagne. "What can I help you with, Commissioner?"

She was surprised when he took her by the elbow and guided her gently away from the crowds. "I need your help with something," he told her, and the note of quiet desperation in his voice was enough to make her go completely still.

"What's wrong?" Annabeth studied Gordon's face; she did not know him very well, but it seemed as though he had aged rapidly in the last few months. It was nothing she could put her finger on, nothing acutely visible, just a sense that the many of Gotham's problems had converged onto Gordon's shoulders, and he was finding it a burden not to his liking.

"You work with different...agencies in your work, don't you?"

"Sure." Annabeth didn't know where this conversation was going, but she decided to go along for the ride. Whatever resentment she harbored towards Gordon, she knew, was completely unfair-he had to do his job, same as anyone else in his position. "We liaise with a lot of different agencies and organizations, political, private, public. We help each other out."

"What about...rehabilitation facilities?" Gordon glanced around as he said this, as though he was checking to ensure no one was eavesdropping.

"Of course. A lot of our clients have substance abuse issues, and rehab is the best place for them. We work with quite a few rehab facilities, within the city and beyond, depending on the situation." Annabeth inched closer to them. "Do you need...?" She let the question go unasked.

"I need a recommendation for a rehab facility." Gordon didn't enjoy saying it, but it was the first time he admitted it aloud, and he felt a fractional sense of relief. "Some place discreet, with a high success rate."

"I know of a few places." Annabeth paused as she considered a way in which she could frame her words carefully. In her most professional, neutral, compassionate counselor voice, she asked, "Is this recommendation for you, or for someone else?"

"My wife...she isn't well. It's gotten worse since all that happened with the Joker, but..." Gordon hated to admit it. "I think she's had a drinking problem for a while."

"Has she agreed to go into rehab?" Annabeth felt incredibly sorry for the man in front of her. "If she hasn't, you'll have to get a court order to compel her to go. And that could be awkward, all around."

"I know. But...we have children, and they have enough problems without Barbara adding to them."

Annabeth nodded. "They need their mother sober. I'll contact you first thing Monday with some places you might try; a lot of facilities have advocates and counselors that can explain and help you through the process of having Mrs. Gordon admitted, willingly or not."

Gordon looked down for a moment. "I'd be grateful to you, Annabeth...and...I'm sorry we had to question you...about everything."

She smiled ruefully. "It was your job. I would have been worried if you didn't question me, come to think of it. But did you have to sic the Batman on me?"

He looked startled. "Pardon me?"

"The Batman paid me a visit not long after you did. Maybe he thought he could do his own investigating?" It had to be the champagne making Annabeth so chatty. "Come on, Gordon, it's no secret you've worked with him in the past. Looks like you still are."

"The investigation against the vigilante..." Gordon paused. "Oh, screw it. The man comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes he comes my way. And apparently sometimes he goes yours."

Annabeth laughed outright. "Don't worry, Gordon, I don't give a damn what you do, or how you do your job, so long as you do it honestly. Just solve those murders, alright?"

"Your reputation for bluntness is well-deserved." Gordon smiled, almost tenderly. "You actually remind me a lot of my daughter."

"Your daughter?" Annabeth was confused. "Isn't she just a kid? Seven or so?"

"I have an older daughter...named Barbara, too. She's maybe a few years younger than you." Gordon thought of her for a moment, his impossible, fierce, flame-haired hooligan girl. "She was my brother Roger's daughter. When he and his wife died, we adopted her."

"Would that we were all as lucky as her," Annabeth remarked. Her respect of Gordon was growing by the minute. "She must be a good woman."

"She is. A hellion-tattooed and pierced and fierce and a bit wild." Gordon didn't bother to disguise his pride. "But one of the smartest women I know. She was a cop for a few years, but now she's getting her PhD. I bet you two would get along. Anyway, she's fascinated with the Batman-I think he appeals to the rogue streak in her."

It was at moments like this, when Annabeth heard a parent talk about their child, when she heard the love, the pride, the exasperation in the parent's voice, when she was truly struck by her own orphaned state. No one on earth believed in you the way your father and mother did, no one advocated for you, supported you, loved you with such wholesome love as a parents should. And when that was lacking, there was simply a hole within you. Suddenly, absurdly, Annabeth hated the young, wild Barbara Gordon and all her cursed luck.

Gamely, she battled the emotion down-it was stupid, it was self-pitying, it lessened her. "I'll be in touch on Monday about rehab facilities," she told Gordon. "And you'll want to think about getting counseling for your children, too. Substance abuse can tear them apart, too."

Gordon smiled sadly. "I'm beginning to see that."

Toward midnight, the crowds began to thin a little. The older crowds began to wear out and depart, or in the case of those who had traveled from farther afield, they headed up to the bedchambers Alfred had prepared. The younger crowd began to depart, headed for the night scene which was just kicking off in the city. However, a fair amount still remained-the Gotham cops and their partners were reluctant to depart from such free hospitality, and so lingered on, getting increasingly inebriated; many of the middle-aged politicians, businessmen, investors, and socialites stayed on as well, wheeling and dealing and networking and, in some cases, keeping a watchful eye on Bruce Wayne. No doubt more than a few women were circling like jackals, waiting for their opportunity.

Elisa had rejoined Annabeth, and the two of them sat with Bradford, making pleasant conversation. The more time Annabeth spent with the young couple, the more she liked them-Elisa was down-to-earth, and Bradford surprisingly unpretentious and incredibly in love with his bride-to-be. As they sat, sipping on their bottomless flutes of champagne and watching the thinning crowds, a man approached them.

"Seth Percival!" Bradford boomed, getting up and giving the man a hearty backslap. He beckoned the man over to Annabeth and Elisa. "Ladies, this is Seth Percival-he bought out Gotham Mutual about ten years ago...a relative newcomer to the city. Seth, this is my fiancée, Elisa St. Marie, and our friend, Annabeth de Burgh."

Seth smiled thinly. "A pleasure to meet you both. You're an artist, aren't you, Miss St. Marie?" He didn't wait for a response, merely redirected his attention to Annabeth. "And Miss de Burgh...ah, yes, the belle of the ball."

It didn't take a particularly observant person to see that Seth Percival was not desirable company. His demeanor was oily, and his appearance did nothing to reassure-he was tall and thin, with a pinched mouth and small eyes. Head of an investment firm? Annabeth wouldn't trust him with her dry cleaning, let alone her money. Nevertheless... "A pleasure to meet you," she said, hoping insincerity wasn't dripping from her words. "Although I'm hardly the belle of the ball. That would be Bruce." She glanced around. "Wherever he is."

"If you see him, will you let him know I'm looking for him? I'd like to discuss some investment opportunities with him." His smile was patronizing. "Or perhaps I can tell you about them, see if you'd be interested in passing along a good word to him?"

Annabeth laughed-not too rudely, she hoped. "You're better talking to him yourself."

"Indeed?" Seth cocked a suggestive eyebrow. "I thought you might have very powerful methods of persuasion."

And with that, he departed.

Bradford saw Elisa and Annabeth looking at him accusingly. "Seth's a..." he struggled to find the right words.

"Smarmy bastard?" Elisa suggested.

"An oily son of a bitch?" Annabeth's anger was practically palpable. "Why is it that everyone thinks I'm just a piece of ass that manages to talk Bruce into everything when I'm done sucking him off?" She got up. "Excuse me."

Bradford and Elisa watched Annabeth stride off, her head held high, her eyes gleaming dangerously.

"I don't think Bruce is going to be getting any tonight." Bradford glanced at Elisa, saw her withering gaze. "What? What did I say?"

"You just proved her point, you chump." Elisa shook her head sadly. "And you'd better watch it, mister, or you won't be getting any tonight, either."

Bruce had spent the last fifteen minutes searching for Annabeth, scanning first the partying crowds in the Grand Salon, and then, when that search proved fruitless, heading further afield. After canvassing the foyer, the dining room, even the kitchen, he headed towards the southeast wing.

And that was where he found her, standing in the study which led to the Batcave, gazing up at the enormous portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

"Hey." He knocked on the doorframe to alert her to his presence, but she didn't turn around. "We wondered where you scampered off to. Donna had to leave—she checked on Timmy, and he still wasn't feeling well, so she took him home." He moved closer, an expression of concern crossing his features. "The crowds weren't getting to you, were they?"

Annabeth didn't speak, but she turned and looked at him. Her expression caught him unawares-her face was an inscrutable mask, as it had been in the early days of their acquaintance.

He tried again. "Success. We got the Mayor to agree to the rally. I think we probably raised at least half a million for his city's police force-he wasn't really in a position to deny us. Although he tried. I think I'm going to have to see who his opponent is in the next election."

Annabeth smiled, but it was not the genuine smile that he had come to know. "That's great." She turned away again. "Just chalk it up to the debts we owe you."

Bruce's eyes slid toward the half-empty champagne flute in her hands, and then he thought of the three glasses he had consumed, himself. It wasn't a significant amount, but he didn't drink often, and he could feel the effects, and clearly, she was feeling the effects, too.. "You don't owe me any debts," he told her quietly. "You know that. I'm actually the one who owes you. You've opened my eyes." He meant it, too-as Bruce Wayne, as the Batman, she had gotten to him, brought things home for him on a personal level. "You've made me aware of so much—I knew all of this existed, but I guess it never really mattered to me before."

Annabeth snorted. "I'm not sure that it matters to you now."

It was the hostile tone in her voice that hurt Bruce even more than the words. She had been exasperated with him in the past—annoyed, perplexed, standoffish, reserved, but he had never encountered this. It was as if there were an unspoken accusation lying between them, and although he did not, could not know what it was that she was thinking, he could sense that it was barbed and poisonous.

"Have I done something to offend you?" he asked.

Annabeth began to pace. "Other than being you? Nothing out of the ordinary." It was then that she realized how exhausted she was, and also, she noticed a scratchiness at the back of her throat. Lovely. What a wonderful time to come down with a sore throat, which would most likely lead to a headcold. This made her even more pissy. She glanced around, took in the wood paneling, the grand piano, the tapestries, the marble fireplace, the opulence. "Did you have fun tonight, Bruce? Did you feel like the most magnanimous lord of the manor?"

Wisely, Bruce remained silent, although his gaze became wary.

"All of this," Annabeth gestured in the direction of the Grand Salon, "All of your friends, all your generosity, what's it all about, Bruce? Are you just toying with us? Are you just trying to see how 'the other half lives'? Is it just some sort of little diversion until your next project comes along?" Suddenly her voice grew hoarse, choked with some suppressed emotion. "Are you just toying with me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Bruce's voice was cold, masking his confusion. He knew Annabeth was a bit neurotic, but this was more than a little unexpected, even for her.

"If you don't know what this is about, Bruce, you're about the only one here who doesn't. Everyone else seems to know it, and they all had such a fine time making insinuations." Red splotches were beginning to creep onto Annabeth's cheeks as she grew more angry. "Everyone seems to think I'm your whore or your dupe. Half of the crowd tonight thought I was seducing you for your charity funds, the other half of the crowd thought you've been seducing me with your charity funds."

"And what do you think?" Bruce realized, with a detached surprise, that there was anger building within him, now, too.

"I think this is all some game to you." Annabeth looked around once more with scorn. "You're bored with your wealth, your pointless life, so you turn up at Safe Haven, looking for a charity case, a diversion. I was just some sort of bonus prize."

"Yeah?" Bruce drew closer and glared at her. "I don't see it as a bonus at all. There's no prize in a self-obsessed, self-righteous workaholic who doesn't even know how to express gratitude." He spat the words out as though they were venom in his mouth.

"Gratitude? You want gratitude?" Annabeth narrowed her eyes. "What does gratitude translate into in your circle of friends, Bruce? How much sex does gratitude entail? Three fucks? Half a dozen?"

Bruce was disgusted, and he let it show. "That's ridiculous, and you know it."

"I don't know anything! But I do know that you've got no idea about what's going on outside your own little insular world, and I think that all of what you've been doing is just a little project, a little game."

Over the years, Bruce had learned to master his anger; he had learned to channel it into a smoldering rage that became part of his soul, directed at no one and nothing other than the nebulous concept of crime and criminals. He had learned to ignore, rationalize, overcome irritation, annoyance, pettiness, and smallness; he had learned that those insignificant causes and sources of anger were just that-insignificant, and unworthy of his energy. But as Annabeth stood there and scorned him and his existence, all of those years of training simply melted away in the white-hot rage that boiled up within him.

"You don't think I know what goes on outside my 'own little world'?" His voice was low and gravelly, harsh even, and strangely, sounded familiar to Annabeth, and that was what made her truly pay attention. "Where the hell have you been the entire time we've spent together? Look." He gestured to the portrait of his parents gazing down on them. "You don't think I know about pain? You don't think I know about crime and death and the awful things that happen to children? I might not live in the Narrows, I might not be a welfare recipient, I might not know the fear that your clients have, but I understand it." He snatched a silver-framed picture off one of the tables. "You see this?" He shoved it into her hands. "Take a look."

Reluctantly, Annabeth glanced down: it was a black-and-white photograph of a young woman. Annabeth recognized her almost immediately-Rachel Dawes, Bruce's childhood friend and the late Assistant D.A.

"The only person I've loved in years was killed not long ago." Bruce's anger was still surging. "I loved her. And I miss her every day. And let's not forget, I watched my parents die. So what if I don't know exactly what it's like to be poor and disenfranchised? I know what pain is like, I know what loss is like, and I know what it's like to lose everything that matters, everything you care about." His next words were deliberate and cruel, and fell like the executioner's axe. "You don't know a thing about that, because the only thing you care about is your own damned pain."

In the entire time Annabeth had known Bruce, he had never spoken to her like that; he had never treated her with anything other than respect, or humor, or gentle flirtation, and so the way he spoke now shocked her into a chastened silence. For lack of anything else Annabeth could do, she looked down at the photograph in her hands. Rachel Dawes stared back at her, unsmiling and fierce.

She walked over to the table and carefully replaced the picture, and then she approached Bruce.

"You loved Rachel Dawes?" she asked, her voice soft in the silence.

Bruce looked at her, and there was no more rage in his face, only a bleakness that tore at Annabeth. "I loved her. I would have walked on a bed of nails for her, jumped out of a thirty-story building, even. But it was unrequited. I...I wasn't good enough for her."

"I doubt that." Slowly, Annabeth approached him and took his hand. He glanced down at her, surprised. "Bruce, I'm sorry. You're right, about everything. It's just that...you're a dark horse. I have no idea who you are. But it seems like it's only a matter of time before you waltz off to your next woman, your next charity case."

"Is that what this is about? Your hostility...this fight? You think I'm just going to bail?" Bruce was disbelieving. "I was under the impression that you couldn't wait to see the back of me."

Annabeth spoke so softly, he had to strain to hear her. "It's just that...I should know better than to fall for a man who can have whatever woman he wants."

"Except you, it seems." Bruce spoke quietly, too, but she heard him, nonetheless. He squeezed her hand and drew her closer to him, so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his tense body. He saw an awareness flash into her eyes for a brief moment before he leaned in and kissed her.

Annabeth hadn't been expecting this, but she didn't pull away. After a tiny second, she responded, kissing him back, parting her lips just a little, encouraging him. If this surprised Bruce, he didn't let that alter his gentle attack upon her mouth. It was a blissful sensation, feeling his lips and tongue gently press into her, exploring, encouraging, teasing. The kiss became more urgent after a moment; he brought his hands up and ran them through her fragrant hair, then cradled her head as he continued the kiss. Annabeth was dimly aware that she was plummeting into him, into a part of him she had never before knew existed... He could hear her breath quickening, he felt his own doing the same-

And then Annabeth wrenched herself away from him. "No-I'm sorry-" she looked at him, stricken. "That was really stupid of me. I'm so sorry-it's the champagne-" With no further explanation, she turned and fled, leaving Bruce equally aroused and disturbed. After a moment, his shock wore off and he took off after her. "Annabeth!"

The crazy woman must have positively run out of there; by the time he caught up to her, she had emerged into the Grand Salon and made straight for Elisa. The younger girl stared in surprise at Annabeth, standing before her, looking pale and disheveled. "Annabeth, what's wrong?" Elisa glanced around, saw Bruce standing at one of the entrances to the Salon, looking slightly out of breath and incredibly perturbed.

"Can you give me a ride back to the city?" Annabeth asked desperately. "Please?"

Quite sensibly, Elisa had stopped drinking champagne some time ago. "Sure." She put a protective arm around Annabeth. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just...I'm not feeling well." That much was the truth. But after a moment, a choked sob rose up within Annabeth as she considered what had just unfolded, the fight and the kiss and her own stupid neuroses. Elisa looked alarmed and hurried her off, but not before Annabeth threw one tearful, agonized look back over her shoulder and saw Bruce staring at her, confused and hurt.

"I've really screwed things up, Elisa," Annabeth blurted as they exited the Manor. "I think I've really upset Bruce."

"Looks like he's really upset you, too." Elisa didn't look happy. "Look, let's get you home and get you sober. Things will get better, I promise."

But Annabeth couldn't see how they'd ever get better again, because despite what she'd told Bruce not ten minutes before, she had done exactly what she said she couldn't do-she had fallen for him, the enigmatic, unpredictable Bruce Wayne. And she was terrified.