In theory, it had been a good idea. A pleasant date at a swanky little jazz club-something quiet, low-key, classy. Non-threatening, yet still sexy. A good dinner, a couple of drinks, the chance to enjoy each other's company, and close enough to Annabeth's condo and the city at large so that after he dropped her off, Bruce could slip into the night and commence other, less frivolous, activities. In theory, it had been a good—a brilliant—idea, and Bruce was pleased to have thought it up. Or, more accurately, to have seized upon the idea that Alfred had thought up. In theory, it should have worked out without a hitch.

But in practice, it was another matter entirely: in practice, Bruce was attempting to date a battle axe disguised as a woman, and so there were many obstacles before a date with said battle axe could come to pass—the main obstacle being that the battle axe looked as likely to decapitate him as go on a date with him.

"A date? Tonight?" Annabeth peered over at him. She had taken to wearing reading glasses while working, and despite the fact that it made her glare look all the more fierce, Bruce found it disturbingly attractive. "Bruce, it's Wednesday. The middle of the week!"

"A school night," he mocked her. Her dismay was a little daunting, but he shouldn't have been surprised. He was beginning to suspect that with Annabeth, it would always be an uphill battle. "Come on, Annabeth. We're both busy this week, let's grab a chance to go out while we both have some time. And it's a really nice place. Club Atlantis has been around for a really long time. It's one of the nicest jazz clubs in Gotham, and the food is amazing. And I've got a table permanently reserved there."

"Dinner? At a jazz club?" The tone of Annabeth's voice suggested that he had proposed dropping acid at a whorehouse.

"It'll be fun."

While she found this doubtful-sitting in a dark room, listening to loud and possibly bad music, watching people dance while dressed in stylishly ugly clothes? fun?-Bruce's persistence and eagerness were endearing, and she smiled reluctantly. "Okay."

"Don't be such a—what?" Bruce looked at her as though she had grown another head-which, apparently she had, one that spoke far more amiably and acquiescently than the original.

"You said you had a permanent table, there, right?" Annabeth thought about this for a moment. "So it won't be some sort of seedy little nightclub where we're crammed in cheek by jowl?"

"Well...maybe a permanent table was a bit of an exaggeration. But I'm sure I won't have a problem getting one. " Bruce was half expecting her to do another about-face. "Why'd you change your tune all of a sudden?"

"Oh." Annabeth wrinkled her nose. "For a second, I had forgotten that I wasn't supposed to be mean to you any more. Old habits die hard."

Passing by Annabeth's office, Donna paused and listened to the exchange taking place within. She shook her head and smiled to herself, silently marveling at the way in which Annabeth had somehow brought the Prince of Gotham to the point of wheedling. Countless socialites, actresses, and models at his beck and call, and he had chosen to bark up Annabeth's tree. And somehow, despite his oddball ways, he had succeeded in earning Annabeth's attention, if not yet her undying devotion. Ever since Annabeth had returned from her sick week, Donna had noticed a slight change in her protégé. Nothing pronounced, nothing noticable to anyone but herself and possibly Maya, but nonetheless, she had noted an easing of tension within Annabeth, a certain lilt to her voice that hadn't been there before. And it wasn't taking time off that did it, either. No, Annabeth was maybe, perhaps, just possibly letting herself fall for Bruce Wayne. The funny thing was that, judging by the sound of her voice at the moment, she wasn't quite aware of it. Not yet, anyway.

Some people, when they were hovering at the edge of the cliff, just needed to be bumped right over.

"Annabeth!" Donna made a show of just happening to pass by, and entered the office. "Good morning, and Bruce, hello." Her smile was as warm and genuine as ever, and it shamed Annabeth for her less than effusive reception to the man she was allegedly dating. Donna seated herself next to him, and facing Annabeth. "Did I hear you say that you were going to Club Atlantis tonight?" She gently kicked Bruce's ankle.

"Yes." Bruce spoke before Annabeth had a chance to. "In fact, Annabeth was just saying how much she'd like it if she could get out of here a little bit early. You know how she hates to be out late."

"Hmm, that just shows how much you still have to learn about her." Donna gave Bruce a conspiratorial grin. "Annabeth's a workaholic who never sleeps. She's about as lively as roadkill on weeknights. "

"I know. I think I've actually talked to celibate ninjas that were livelier," Bruce chuckled.

"Ahem." Annabeth decided it was time to reign this conversation in.

"I don't know about celibate, but the whole time I've known Annabeth, I've never seen her date anyone." Donna leaned in. "Sometimes I wonder if she maybe likes the ladies..."

"I'm right here!" Annabeth interrupted before her boss and...whatever Bruce was...completely re-wrote her life. "Donna, I am not a lesbian, and Bruce, you can wipe that little grin off your face, stop imagining, and both of you, I am plenty of fun."

"Oh yes," Donna agreed, her voice claiming anything but agreement. "You've been a barrel of monkeys since you've been back. For the love of god, Bruce, take Annabeth out tonight and get her out of our hair. She's barely left the office since she got better."

Suddenly chagrined, Annabeth hunkered down in her chair, but it wasn't enough to evade the suspicious look that Bruce threw her way. "Is that why you didn't answer your phone when I called last night?" he asked her. "You were here, weren't you?" He had expended a good deal of thought convincing himself to continue pursuing this incredibly odd dynamic with Annabeth, and how typical, as soon as he did, she decided to be the emotional gimp once more. Sometimes, it felt as though they would be perpetually out of sync.

"I'm sorry, Bruce." These words, coming from Annabeth, and very sincere-sounding, were enough to take both him and Donna by surprise. Annabeth glanced at her boss and smiled sheepishly. "Donna, would you give Bruce and me a minute? If I'm about to abase myself, I'd rather there not be any witnesses."

Hiding a triumphant smile and winking at Bruce, Donna gracefully made her departure, closing the door behind her and leaving them in a very loaded silence.

As soon as Donna left, she rose from her seat and made her way over to Bruce. He watched her, warily, silently taking in the subtle—very subtle, as there was very little overtly feminine charm in Annabeth's movements—sway of her hips and listening to the rustle of her suit's fabric as she sat down next to him, in the seat Donna had so recently vacated. Without her cluttered desk serving as a barrier between them, Annabeth looked very vulnerable, and yet also brave for deliberately taking that barrier away.

"Have patience with me, Bruce." She said this softly, almost imploringly, and the small smile she gave him was enough to soften his piqued feelings. "I'm sure you're an old hand at all this, but me? Not so much with the dating. I flunked out of girlfriend school, in case you couldn't tell."

Without knowing it, without meaning to, she always made him feel like a bit of a jerk. He didn't have much of a track record either, but Annabeth, along with about everyone else in Gotham, was still laboring under the deceptions that he had been carefully cultivating since his return. The guilt of these deceptions was what he had been trying to confront for the past two days, and as soon as he successfully laid the guilt to rest, poor oblivious Annabeth, with her sweet smile and her guarded trust, unintentionally resurrected it again.

Damn her.

Of course, damning her was not a particularly productive response to her tiny but heartfelt attempt to connect with him, and so Bruce did the only other thing he could think of quickly and that wouldn't lead to him confessing a secret passion love for Kevlar and hopeless causes. He kissed her. Of course, kissing had its own set of consequences...

None of which he was thinking about at that moment. Her sharp intake of breath told him that this was not expected, but her ready response told him that this was also not unwelcome. The position was awkward-Bruce leaning into her from where he sat-but soon enough, he sensed her shifting her weight, leaning in as well, her lips meeting his with an eagerness and a hunger that spoke volumes more than her more vocal reluctance ever had. He cradled her head between his hands, gently stroking her soft cheeks, and firmly locked her into the kiss as it became more intense, but she wasn't going anywhere. Tentatively, her tongue darted into his mouth, tasting sweet and promising of other, more sensual pleasures—

-and then both of them pulled back, a silent yet mutual decision to draw away from the dangerous flame that flared between them. They regarded each other-both of them breathing heavily, their eyes burning with a thwarted lust-and surprisingly, Annabeth spoke first. "Well. My goodness."

Bruce struggled to regain his composure. "You sure you flunked out of girlfriend school? Seems like the kissing alone would have gotten you a lot of extra credit."

It was a horrible joke, a wretched attempt to beat back the sexual tension in the room, but it was enough for Annabeth, who buried her head in her hands, partially in bashfulness, but after a moment, he heard her suppressed chuckle. After a moment, she lifted her head and looked at Bruce again, and was taken aback by the raw need she saw in his eyes. "Bruce?"

"Sorry." Bruce became aware of the intensity of his gaze, and toned it down some. "You're just...you bewitch me."

It was a powerful thing to say, and Annabeth clearly didn't know how to handle it. She smiled again, but there was hesitancy in it, an instinctive withdrawal. She actually physically withdrew, rising from where she sat and moving towards the door. "How about you take yourself off to wherever you go during the day, and later tonight, you try to reciprocate and bewitch me with this jazz bar?"

She opened the door, and it was a clear invitation for Bruce to leave. But her words, and the sudden look of anticipation on her face, were enough of an invitation for him to come back that evening.

However, not for nothing was Bruce an astute and savvy businessman. He knew when to strike when the iron was hot, when to sell, when to buy, when to press the advantage. As Annabeth stood by the office door, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling from the memory of his kiss, Bruce knew an advantage when he saw it. And so, as he passed her, he paused for one moment and looked down at her. "You're really short, you know that?" he teased her. As he said this, he moved closer so that his height seemed even greater in comparison. There was something elementally sexy about this, when he considered how small she was in comparison, and he wondered if it was something she found as compelling as he did. They were a solid fit of masculine and feminine, one of them all obvious strength and physical advantage, the other a deceptively small package of inner fire and adamantine tenacity.

The look Annabeth gave him was all he needed to know exactly how she felt-her eyes were almost black with a powerful, unspoken passion, and somehow, it conveyed to Bruce exactly what he had been hoping she wanted. This time, the kiss was one of controlled delicacy, and disappointingly brief—the whistles coming from Maya and two of the clients who happened to be nearby saw to that. Reluctantly, he broke away and took a step back. "How about I pick you up at your place at seven?"

She bit her lower lip in an unconscious gesture of bashfulness. "Okay. I'll see you then..."

As Bruce departed, Annabeth stood in her doorway and watched him head down the hall and to the elevator. She rolled her eyes as she saw him pull out his cell phone and say, "Alfred...? I need you to get me seats at Club Atlantis. Buy the place if you have to."

In the end, no major real estate transactions had to take place for Bruce to secure a table at Club Atlantis. According to Alfred, once the owner found out who was wanting the table, she was gratifyingly accommodating in assuring him that of course, sir, we'd be delighted to have Mr. Wayme here. No doubt the whole time she was so helpful and friendly, she was also calculating how much milage she could get from broadcasting that Club Atlantis was Bruce Wayne's latest favorite haunt. It was an obnoxious system of symbiosis, and everyone who was anyone in Gotham participated in some way or another, even himself. Nonetheless, he always felt slightly dirty when he perpetuated it.

Nevertheless, it would be worth it—he hoped. With Annabeth, it was always something of a crapshoot, which was possibly one of the reasons that he enjoyed spending time with her. One never knew how the evening would end. Bruce was beginning to suspect that he enjoyed the extra bit of emotional unpredictability that Annabeth had brought into his life, and he was fairly certain Alfred would agree with him.

In fact, despite his awareness of both Bruce and Annabeth's...quirks...Alfred very much approved of the recent developments in their dynamics. He certainly was pleased enough as he navigated the Rolls through the streets of Gotham, taking his employer to Annabeth's home. Alfred tried not to worry too much-in his opinion, worrying wouldn't solve much of anything, and he had gone too long in life to start shaving off any remaining years by shouldering the stress that worrying would inevitably visit upon him. But when he did allow his mind (his very refined, well-trained mind, if he was allowed to say so) to wander down the paths of troubled thoughts, it always landed on Master Bruce. He had devoted his life to the Wayne family, and he knew all too well how Master Bruce relied upon him. How long would he carry on this crusade? For that matter, how long could he? Master Bruce was only in his early 30s, so he had at least another ten years, but at some point, encroaching age would begin to slow him down, render him vulnerable. And that was if Bruce Wayne were lucky enough to make it to that age. There were a thousand things that could bring everything to a screeching halt, a disgraceful and scandalous end-a particularly dedicated criminal, a malfunctioning piece of equipment, a bullet trajectory at just the wrong angle, a very intrepid and nosy reporter-no, these were the things that could keep Alfred awake at night if he allowed them to. Is this what Thomas and Martha would have wanted from their son? Is it what they would have expected from Alfred?

And apart from the physical toll, the risks to Bruce's person and the family name, what of the psychological toll? This crusade had not removed the shadows that had stolen into Master Bruce's soul all those years ago; the shadows had only lengthened, their ominous reach creeping deeper and deeper into him, more often than not dulling the natural life in his eyes and replacing them with an eerie, fanatical fire. He needed more than this strange, twilight world which he had created for himself, and Alfred was beginning to feel that the best way he could serve Master Bruce would be to guide him towards a happier existence.

Enter Annabeth.

She was a curious girl, no two ways about it. As far removed from the rarified circles in which Bruce Wayne moved as it was possible to be, and yet she was not intimidated by those who considered themselves her betters. She was prickly and defensive and hard to warm up to, according to Bruce, but once one did, they were able to see the inner fire, the strong core of integrity, the courage, the strange ambition, the work ethic, the compassion, the soul blighted by circumstances beyond her control. Perhaps the two of them were each other's salvation.

"What are you smiling at, Alfred?" Bruce leaned forward and peered over at his butler. "I saw you looking at me and smirking in the rearview mirror."

"Nothing to concern yourself with, Master Bruce," Alfred assured him. "You know me, my mind wanders down a hundred dead-end roads."

"You're thinking of Annabeth, aren't you?"

"You're projecting, aren't you?" Alfred had no qualms about giving as good as he got.

"I am, actually," Bruce agreed with unusual openness. He settled back into the buttery-soft leather seats and gazed out the window at the streets of the city as they slipped silently past. How odd it was that both he and Annabeth had dedicated their lives to this strange, sometimes frightening city. The darkened streets were illuminated only by an occasional streetlamp, obscuring some of the harsher lines and details of the shabby setting, but at the same time, washing the buildings and various city elements—benches, scraggledy trees, phone booths, a pedestrian here and there—with a melancholy sort of dignity. "She told me everything, Alfred."

Alfred glanced back in the rearview mirror again. Bruce was still looking out the window, deliberately not meeting his gaze. Alfred didn't need to see Bruce's eyes to know that there was confusion there, and pain; confusion that anyone would willingly inflict pain and fear and humiliation onto another person the way someone had done to Annabeth, and empathetic pain for her. Bruce had somehow managed to internalize the pain of everyone in this damned city, it seemed.

Oh, yes. I'm supposed to say something in response. "I'm glad that she did, sir. I know you've had difficulty understanding Miss de Burgh from time to time. It helps to know where she's coming from."

Bruce "hmmmed" noncommittally.

"Do you intend to reciprocate, sir?"

"What do you mean?" This time, Bruce did turn his head and meet Alfred's gaze in the mirror. As the older man looked back at him, a shaft of streetlight illuminated part of Bruce's face, casting one half in a sickly yellow light and casting the other half in shadow. Even with only half of his handsome face visible, though, Alfred could still see the remote, detached expression suddenly cast a veil over him—it was how Bruce looked when he wished for no one to see or understand what he was thinking. Suddenly, Alfred could imagine how Bruce could look as an old man: as remote as ever, but horribly lonely, his handsome face etched with bitter lines scored in by decades of self-imposed emotional exile and isolation.

"I mean, sir, do you intend to reciprocate her trust and the confidence she shared with you?" Alfred kept his tone carefully neutral, but there was little point to disguising what he thought. "Do you intend to explain to Miss de Burgh just who you are?"

"Who I am, Alfred?" Bruce sounded amused, but Alfred knew all too well that he was treading on thin ice. As close as they were, as much as their relationship transcended that of father and son, master and butler, there were some lines that were better left uncrossed. But then, there were sometimes that those lines needed to be crossed, regardless. "Just who am I?"

The ready response Alfred gave made Bruce think that the older man had been pondering this for a while. "You're just a person who runs from any close relationships. You get close enough to the fire to feel warm, but as soon as a spark enters your soul, you flee...in case you end up losing them the way you lost your parents and Rachel, and your soul is left colder than ever."

Alfred's forcefully eloquent answer actually surprised Bruce into a temporary silence, but his mind was mulling over what he had said. Was it true? Was he just getting close enough to Annabeth's fire to achieve a temporary warmth, long enough to light his soul once more before slipping back out into the shadows of Gotham?

Suddenly, Alfred pulled the car over to the curb. "We're here, sir."

As quickly as possible, Bruce exited the car to fetch Annabeth, and the speed of his movements suggested to Alfred that Master Wayne was all too eager to leave the uncomfortable atmosphere and let the words be shut away in the car. But just because the words were left behind didn't mean that he wouldn't keep drawing closer to Annabeth's fire. Alfred could only hope that the extraordinary woman could give him some sort of life-sustaining warmth before his own fire burnt out for good.

All day, whenever Annabeth's mind had wandered towards the evening ahead, she had always gone back to the question of what, exactly, Club Atlantis would be like. A jazz club, Bruce had told her, but having never been to a jazz club before, she had no idea what to anticipate. She had plenty of eroneous, preconcieved notions, she'd be the first to admit-she had ridiculous ideas about that which she had limited encounters-rich people, for example, and swanky little jazz clubs. She was afraid of the unknown, like most of humanity, and so formed usually misguided ideas about what those unknown things were like.

A dark room, she had mocked Bruce. Loud music. People dressed in stylishly ugly clothes. Well, she was right on the first part, at least. As Alfred dropped them off in front of a nineteenth-century, red-brick building, Bruce had helped her out of the car (acting surprised when she actually accepted his assisting hand) and led her, his hand placed lightly at the small of her back, to the head of a staircase leading down to a subterranean door. So, this jazz club was in the basement of the building...how frightfully typical. She glanced over her shoulder at Bruce as she carefully made her way down the narrow steps. "Give it a chance," he said, and the look he gave her told her that he sensed her misgivings.

They emerged into the jazz bar, and Bruce watched in amusement as Annabeth slowly swiveled her head this way and that, taking in the surroundings. It was a dark place, yes, but much bigger than one would have assumed. And despite its dark interior, it was a beautiful and sensual place, resembling nothing so much as a Middle Eastern palace. As she took in the muted lights, the richly-colored cushions, and the swag draperies separating each individual table, Annabeth felt slightly overwhelmed. She turned to Bruce, who stood just behind her. "I'm kind of lost as to the central theme. Are you sure this is a jazz bar?"

"Positive," he assured her as the hostess began to lead them to their table. Once more, he placed a guiding hand at the small of her back, and Annabeth became pleasantly aware of the gentle, warm pressure there. "Every few years, the owners re-do the decor. Last time, they went for the theme of a Tuscan villa. I think the next theme they're talking about is a speakeasy. It's kind of their schtick. I think they should go for a petting zoo, personally."

The hostess had stayed quiet up until this point, but as she heard this, she turned around and smiled. "Only if you can provide the emus for us, right, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce smiled gamely but said nothing, and as the hostess seated them and walked away, Annabeth grinned suddenly and began to laugh. "My god, they're never going to let you live that down, are they?"

"The good people of Gotham have a very long memory." Bruce sighed as he said this, but there was a smile quirking at the edge of his lips. "It'll be a good story to tell their grandkids someday."

They fell silent for a moment as Annabeth glanced around, continuing to take in her surroundings, and Bruce watched her as she did. On the stage at the far end of the room, a pianist began playing, accompanied by a tiny little woman on saxophone. Annabeth stared for a moment. "How on earth can such a tiny little thing blow all that out?"

Bruce picked up a leatherbound menu and began to peruse it, but she heard his playful words all the same: "You know, I asked myself the same thing about you, once."

As the night wore on, Annabeth had to reverse most of her assumptions about Club Atlantis. It was a dark, swanky little place, but at the same time, not too obnoxiously trendy. The other club-goers were not the hip little wealthy divas and stockbrokers she had imagined, but mainly a more mature—and thankfully, better-dresse—crowd. The music wasn't bad at all, either, nor was it overwhelmingly loud.

At one point, Bruce glanced over and saw her smiling a tiny, secret little smile down at her glass of wine. She had ordered it as soon as she sat—Bruce had stuck with sparkling water—and nursed it all evening, almost as more of a social prop than anything. And whether it was the little bit of alcohol in her system, or simply a decision she had made to loosen up, somehow she was more relaxed, more loquacious than he had ever seen her before. And when he looked over and saw how privately pleased she was, his curiosity got the better of him.

"What are you over there, smiling about?" He asked it playfully, but he genuinely wanted to know-this was another side to Annabeth, a side that he could not have imagined emerging. So, perhaps he was not the only one with multiple personalities.

Annabeth shrugged absently played with her wineglass. He watched as her tiny fingers absently stroked the stem. "I just don't do this that often." Her eyes twinkled. "And for the life of me, I can't imagine why I don't."

"You know why you don't." His voice was surprisingly serious, all the more because he had been so good-humored just before.

"You're right, I know why I don't. It's a lot easier to bury yourself in work than it is to go out and meet people and get close to them." Her line of thinking was scarily close to his own. Oblivious to just how much he agreed with her, Annabeth continued on. "After all, getting close to people, it's hard. It takes work. And it feels selfish, especially when I think about all that there is to do. All that I need to do to help Gotham."

"Just you?" Bruce sounded disbelieving. "Pretty egotistical, don't you think? You're the only one who helps Gotham?"

Annabeth thought for a moment of Maya and Janey and Donna, and even of people like Elisa and her fiancé, and then she thought, too, of the Batman—as frightening and threatening as he was, he tried to help Gotham too. Hell, he even looked out for her. "I'm not the only one. Other people help, too. You help, Bruce."

"Shhh!" Bruce glanced around. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Annabeth actually giggled. "Please. You're a big softy that happens to like women. All of Gotham's got you pegged now as a big old pushover."

"Well. Still." He gestured towards her glass. "You want another?"

"No." Annabeth's voice was firm, and she drew the glass closer to her. "I'm fine, thanks."

"That's why you don't drink a lot, isn't it?" Bruce asked. "Because of what happened?"

She nodded. "I'm a little bit over-cautious about things like that. Getting drunk, even a little, can make a woman—or a man—terribly vulnerable. That's what happened to me."

"Do you think about it a lot?" Again, Bruce's curiosity was getting the better of him. He didn't consciously think of his parents a lot any more, but really, wasn't their murders the thought behind everything he did? Did Annabeth have a similar drive?

Annabeth seemed not to have heard him at first, for she did not respond immediately. She sat very still, gazing over at the musicians on the stage, and he took in her pale profile, eerily lit by the red lamp overhead, her eyes burning with some unknown thought. "I don't think about it all the time. But...it's always there. Somewhere, lurking. I think I told you, I still have panic attacks from time to time. And if I go through something-like a bad case at work, or if someone were to break into my home-that can provoke a lot of memories. A lot of nightmares, even. And even though I don't think about it, the fear's always there. Always there, in the background, at the back of my awareness."

"Fear or caution?" Bruce was finding this an interesting discussion, on a completely intellectual level. It helped keep certain dangerous emotions in check when discussing Annabeth's trauma. "Because, you know, caution is healthy—being cautious about how much you drink around strangers, for example, or being aware as you're walking at night. Fear isn't as healthy."

"Fear, as in freaking out the first time a man kisses me?" Annabeth grimaced at the memory. "It's definitely fear that I've got. But don't feel bad, I freaked out the first time I got close to my last boyfriend, Robbie. It's really nothing personal."

"What was he like?"

"Who, Robbie?" Annabeth threw him an odd look. "This is a strange topic for a date."

"I'm a strange man." Bruce smiled at their waitress as she brought out the food they had ordered-Bruce had opted for the duck, and Annabeth had gone for more traditional chicken fare. "Seriously, what was he like?"

Annabeth shrugged. "A good guy. Understanding. Supportive. Responsible. Steady."

"Completely boring?" Bruce said this innocently, but there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"After a while." Even now, long after they had parted ways, Annabeth remembered him fondly. It was obvious in her soft smile. "He was a really sweet man, a saint. He put up with a lot, but I just got to be too much of a workaholic for him." She shrugged and picked up her fork and began to poke at the winter root vegetables which had been so artistically arranged on her china plate. "Tit for tat, Bruce. Any former ladies I should know about?"

The look of pain that flashed across his face actually sent a quick shock of dismay through Annabeth, and she dropped her fork. "Christ, Bruce. I'm sorry, that was completely stupid of me." She thought of the legendary Rachel, dead many months yet still, somehow, haunting him. She reached over and placed a hand on his cheek, which surprised them both. Annabeth didn't withdraw her hand, though; instead, she gently stroked his cheek, feeling the faintest stubble, rough under her hand. She moved her hand upward and ran it through his hair, brushing it back from his face and feeling it softly wisp through her fingers. "I am sorry."

Bruce had closed his eyes, reveling in the unexpected touch of Annabeth's hand, and as she spoke again, his eyes snapped open again, an icy fire burning visibly within, causing her breath to hitch in her chest. "Don't apologize." He said this firmly, quickly, not pausing to consider the words as they spilled out. "Don't. I loved Rachel. And we could have had something, some day, but I wasn't enough for her. She couldn't like me or accept me for who I was. I always fell short. So I mourned for what could have been, and not what was."

A silence fell between them, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. Rather, it was the silence of two people who understood each other. In the background, the sultry jazz music played softly, with a heavy beat that seemed to pulse in time with Annabeth's heart. She poked at her food some more, and then looked at Bruce again. "I'm not her, Bruce. I'm not Rachel."

For so many reasons, he hoped not. But as he watched her watch him, Bruce couldn't help but to hope that she'd be so much more.

Oh, hell.

Their food disappeared quickly—Bruce hadn't been lying, it was incredibly good food. Absently, Annabeth wondered what other gems Gotham had been hiding all this time, and vocalized as much to Bruce.

"Gotham's not hiding anything," he told her. "You haven't been looking. A pity. Even crusaders have to eat."

"Very true." Annabeth ducked her head. "Maybe I should get out more. I think I've been cheating myself out of a lot."

Bruce actually gaped at her, his face a mask of incredulity. "Who are you? Did Donna hire a doppelgänger? Is the real Annabeth bundled into some broom closet at Safe Haven?"

"No." There was a dessert menu on the table, and casually, Annabeth reached for it, more to avoid Bruce's gaze than anything else. "What can I say? You push my boundaries, Bruce."

"Is that a good thing?" Bruce was surprised by her admission, but still, he seized the unexpected advantage. "Pushing your boundaries? I'm not pushing too hard, am I?"

At this point, such a considerate question coming from him did not surprise Annabeth at all. "It can be a good thing. Maybe I was ready to be pushed. I just...I..." She held up her hands. "I don't know, Bruce. I've just bumbled along for a long time, now, trying to live a quiet life, trying to do all I can to not live. Somehow, I guess I think lifeis for others. Me? I just exist. I exist to help others, to help them live. I feel like I'm just a passive tool of fate."

Oh, he knew all about that. And he wasn't about to lecture her on choices like that, when hadn't he made a similar, if unconscious, decision at some point, too?

"But now? I just don't know any more." Annabeth stopped fidgeting with the menu. "My foster mother—the last one I had—she once said that sometimes, we're just here to change others. And sometimes, others are here to change us. And while we're not here, forever, for each other, with each other, sometimes we're the better for knowing each other."

"Your foster mother sounds like she was a wise woman."

"She was." Annabeth's face brightened at the memory of her. "But enough about me, Bruce. What about you?"

Damn, damn, double damn. "What about me?" Bruce asked, and he hoped his voice was as casual and friendly as ever, and did not betray the sudden surge of apprehension and tension he felt within him.

Annabeth didn't seem to notice his evasiveness. "Who are you? Sometimes I feel like I only know what the rest of the public knows about Bruce Wayne from the tabloid stories. And those are about as true as Lex Luthor's income tax statement. So—what about you?"

"There's nothing to know. What you see is what you get." At that moment, Bruce was fairly certain he had reserved for himself a presidential suite in hell.

"Don't be silly. There's plenty to tell. You're Bruce Wayne. I bet you've done lots of fascinating things, seen everything in the world." Annabeth leaned forward, her eyes glowing. "Come on, 'fess up. What were you doing all those years you were supposed to be dead?"

"Ahhhh..." Bruce stalled for time for a moment, struggling to articulate a halfway sensible response. Honesty was out of the question...or was it? "Would you believe me if I told you that I traveled the world learning many battle techniques and studying many philosophies as a way to discover the nature of life and death and good and evil?"

In the silence that followed, Bruce could practically hear the wheels spinning in Annabeth's head as she pondered his words. After a moment, she grinned-an unexpected response. "So...you got your ass kicked by some sumo wrestlers and smoked a lot of hashish with some meditation masters in some obscure Third World country?"

So much for the truth setting you free. Of course, Bruce hadn't expected her to take him seriously. "No," he chuckled. "No hashish."Just some psychotropic blue flowers. "Seriously, I did travel a lot. All over the world. I saw everything-all of the cathedrals and castles and churches and hovels and slums. The richest and the poorest people you could possibly imagine, and everything in between. The most beautiful things, and the ugliest too."

There was a candle on their table, a small little candle intended more for the ambiance its beaded red holder gave than for the light it emitted. There was enough of a golden flame, however, to cast Annabeth's face in a soft glow as she leaned forward to catch his words. At that moment, there was only him and her and the words they spoke, and that tiny, bright candle which somehow cast their table and their words in a comforting blanket of intimacy. At that moment, the rest of Gotham became nothing more than a tiny reality, shoved to the back of their minds. Time and reality were suspended.

"Why did everyone think you were dead?" Annabeth was looking at him steadily, her eyes never leaving his face. She genuinely wanted to know, unlike so many of the people he had encountered since his return. To them, he was a novelty, a celebrity, a diversion. To Annabeth, he was a person. Just Bruce, whoever he was.

It was a very good question, and one that he had asked himself many times, without ever coming up with a truly adequate answer. But-"I wanted them to think that," he admitted. "I guess I went through...an identity crisis? I didn't want anyone to know who I was, or what I was supposed to be, or where I was supposed to go, until I knew."

Annabeth nodded. "I know what you mean. I wish I could do that from time to time...just...disappear until I figure things out. Who I really want to be, what the next incarnation of Annabeth de Burgh should be."

"You don't like the current Annabeth?" Bruce was teasing, but he could tell this was something she had thought about.

"She has room for improvement." Annabeth's smile was self-deprecating. "She certainly has a long way to go before she gets to the point where she doesn't try to emotionally maul every new man she comes into contact with."

"And doesn't talk about herself in the third person as a self-defense mechanism?"

She inclined her head in graceful agreement.

Just then, a waiter—not theirs—passed by their table, and on impulse, Bruce beckoned him over. "One of everything on the dessert menu," he told the amused man, and as he turned back to Annabeth, he saw her look of surprise. "Girls like sweet stuff, right? I thought it'd be a good way to ensure a next date. Leave a good impression...you know."

"You're a very odd person, you know that?" Annabeth's eyes lit up with an unexpected idea. "I've got a way that you can leave a good impression."

"What's that?"

The smile she gave him was alarmingly seductive-at least for Annabeth. "Dance with me." She almost laughed at him as she took in the utterly shocked look on his face. Bruce actually drew back for a moment and looked at her with suspicion, but the male instinct in him won out, and he slid out of his seat and extended his hand to her. As they made their way to the tiny dance floor, Bruce leaned in and murmured, his warm breath tickling softly in her ear, "You're quite an easy woman to please."

"Only sometimes." They reached the dance floor and turned to face each other, and both were secretly surprised at how smoothly each seemed to flow into the other. Annabeth placed a hand in his and forced herself to relax as he brought his other hand to rest, gently, on her waist-after all, she had made the decision to push some boundaries and challenge herself, and she was coming to realize that Bruce was a good choice for a person to do this with. He was smiling down at her now, seemingly pleased with this new side to her-this side that she barely remembered, the side she had quelled years and years ago-and she couldn't help but to drink in his smoothly handsome face, still surprisingly youthful and unlined and somehow, strangely innocent-looking because of it. After a moment, she lowered her eyes from his face and leaned into him, resting her head on his chest, feeling the expensive linen of his shirt rub against her cheek, feeling his body heat, comforting and alive, through the material. Again, male instinct seemed to dictate his motions, and without thinking, he brought his arms up and around her, holding her close.

She didn't try to break away. If anything, she leaned into him even more, and it was an intoxicating feeling, one that Bruce had not encountered recently, perhaps ever. It was difficult to remember that they were not the only people present, because strangely, it felt, once more, as though no one else existed.

Their "dance" was actually more of a gently swaying in time with the sultry music which filled the club; the rhythm of it seemed to beat through both of their bodies at once. As he continued to keep tiny Annabeth folded into his much-taller frame, Bruce began to see how music could be a tool of seduction, a way to drive passion forward; it did seem to work its way into the system and attune itself with the hormones, the blood, the nerves. It was almost as if the music invaded, molding itself to the body it entered. Sneaky music. He wasn't complaining, though. So much of his life was spent perfecting his body and mind, driving both on to new heights of ability and skill, that it was incredibly soothing, and intoxicating, to simply exist in the moment, to simply be, to let his body ebb and flow and attune itself to another's in an age-old ritual of courtship and mating.

Suddenly he became aware that Annabeth was looking back up again, tilting her head back to get a good view of him. Her white neck gleamed in the low lighting, and he took in its graceful sweep of it for a moment before he gave in to his baser instincts and brought his head down so that he could kiss the sweet, soft area where her neck met her collarbone. Her skin smelled incredible-not that he could identify any of the myriad scents that populated a women's perfume counter-and only served to further beguile him. He kissed and nuzzled sofly, content to have even this tiny little taste of her.

Annabeth actually moaned, so softly he wouldn't have heard it if he weren't already so close to her. But he did hear it, and that low voice served only to pull his kiss upward, up her neck and to her jaw, and then, a moment later, his lips found hers, soft and willing. It was a kiss of restrained desire, but he could practically taste her eagerness, and it was Annabeth who became the aggressor after a moment, kissing him more deeply, pressing into him, seeming to drink him in, seeming to swallow his passion while at the same time share her own. The desire in that kiss was mutual, and the pleasure equally so.

He pulled away, first, and came to his senses, realizing they were still standing on the dance floor, and most likely the spectacle of several amused, or possibly scandalized, dinner parties.

"Oh, my," he heard Annabeth say softly.

"I'm sure they've seen worse." Bruce slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. "How about we head back to the table? We can continue this...er, conversation...there."

Once more, he saw the bashfulness steal back over Annabeth, and she ducked her head shyly as they headed back to their table. Annabeth was a brave soul, but there was only so far she could push herself in one evening, and as they sat back down at the table, he watched as some of the old reserve slipped its way back into her attitude. She sat there, carefully looking at anything but him. It was frustrating, but at the same time, endearing.

"You're vibrating."

"Sorry?" Bruce looked at her in confusion.

Annabeth picked up the blazer he had worn in, and had shed earlier in the evening. "I think your phone's going off. Want me to get it?"

"No." Bruce's voice was firm, almost unfriendly, and she gave him a startled look as she passed him the blazer. As he dug the phone out of the pocket, Annabeth watched in bemusement as he underwent a fascinating alteration. His faced darkened and hardened into a frighteningly cold expression as he looked at the display, and a strange tension seemed to descend upon him. He looked at Annabeth, and the cold expression went straight up to his eyes. "Excuse me. I have to take this call."

And just like that, he shot out of their booth and hurried away.

It was only a minute or two later before Bruce returned, and he seemed a little bit more restored to his former self. "I'm so sorry. I had to take that call."

"Everything alright?" Annabeth looked at him, and the openness of her face somehow widened the gulf that had began to form the moment he had seen who it was that was calling.

"Actually, it's not." Bruce was digging his wallet out of his pocket and pulling out cash, placing it on the table. "Something came up, and I've got to go."

"An emergency? Is there anything I can help with?"

Christ, every word she said just made him feel worse. He offered her what he hoped was his warmest smile. "No...it's pretty confidential stuff. I feel really bad." He did feel badly, but he'd feel worse if he didn't leave immediately. Time was of the essence.

"Go." Annabeth said this firmly, and with an amazing understanding. "I know how important work is. Go, I'll be fine."

He was already backing up. "There's more than enough money there to pay for the meal. Annabeth...I am sorry."

"It's fine." Truly, it was, he could see that. She was bewildered but accepting.

"Don't walk home or anything. At this time of night, it's not safe. I'm sending Alfred around with the car, he'll take you home." And then Bruce was gone, quickly hurrying up the stairs and out of the building. The phone call had come through on his encrypted phone-it was Gordon, calling for the Batman, with the news of a possible break in the case. A violent murder, a witness, a suspect on the loose, and finally, the chance to catch him. There wasn't a second to waste.

If anyone had closely observed Bruce Wayne as he vacated Club Atlantis and headed for his closest lair-he and Alfred had been plotting them throughout the city for the past year-they wouldn't have realized it, but they would have been witnessing Bruce as he began the mental shift into the Batman. Bruce Wayne was left behind with his befuddled date, and the Batman was already in place, even if he did not yet don the suit to match the personality.

Back at Club Atlantis, Annabeth remained sitting in the booth Bruce had so recently abandoned, and if she were another woman, a more insecure woman, or simply a normal woman, she would have been annoyed, put out, and possibly angry. But because she was Annabeth, she was simply surprised, and perhaps mildly impressed. Who'd have thought Bruce Wayne was so dedicated to his company?

A waiter approached their booth, bearing a tray laden with a half-dozen desserts of oozing, sugary, heavenly decadence, and looked at her in poorly-disguised surprise. "All for you, madam?"