Having been abandoned for the secrets of the women's world, Alfred was slightly at a loss. Annabeth and Elisa were indisposed for what could possibly be a good long while...when Master Wayne had ordered him to follow Annabeth, Alfred was fairly damned sure he hadn't meant into the inner purgatory of the woman's loo, and so he had chosen discretion as the better part of valor. So there he stood, as Annabeth and Elisa wandered off in search of the most private bathroom. Following them was not an option, and so he returned to Master Wayme, deep in conversation with Seth Percival.

It took a gifted observer—thankfully, that was Alfred—to notice that this was not actually a conversation. Having a conversation implied some sort of reciprocity, some sort of dual and equal engagement. In this case, Seth Percival was the only one talking, and given the look of annoyed boredom on Master Wayne's face, this was less a conversation than a sales pitch.

Time to intervene. Alfred snagged another flute of champagne—where did the stuff keep coming from?—and sidled over to the two men.

"Pardon me for interrupting, gentlemen," Alfred interrupted, clapping a hearty, and no doubt unwelcome, hand on Percival's shoulder as he passed him the champagne. "I hope it was nothing important. But I simply had to come snag Master Wayne. I just spotted an old friend of his, you see. A charming lady with an even more charming accent..."

"Natascha!" Bruce's eyes lit up. "I must say hello! Especially before Annabeth comes back." Bruce winked roguishly at Percival. "You don't mind if we shelve this conversation, do you? It sounds...interesting, but I'll have to see what funds are available to invest. You understand, don't you?"

"Absolutely," Percival lied through gritted teeth. "But don't sit on your decision too long. This is a fleeting opportunity..."

Seth watched the two men depart, his eyes glinting dangerously. And then he went off in search of Linda.

"Any information?" Alfred asked as they went off in search of the nonexistent Natascha, who was no doubt half a world away, comfortably wrapped up in either furs or the arms of her new husband.

"Not much," Bruce admitted. "Damned fool was stupid enough to talk about a couple of other 'investors'. No names, however—I don't think he knows a lot of the details. He's working this from the corporate angle; the Arrows are actually taking care of the ugly details. We need to work the Arrows angle with Trinity, and whoever else has access to or information about the Arrows." Bruce paused, glancing back to make sure that they had put enough distance between themselves and Seth Percival. "Annabeth can't stand him, couldn't stomach him even before she found out about him being involved. She's got good instincts; the man's disgusting." And then his mind drew back to the present moment. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Elisa came by...she said she needed help in the bathroom." Alfred's brow was furrowed as he contemplated the inscrutable ways of women. "I think she needed help managing the dress."

"I'm not an expert when it comes to women..." Bruce mused.

"...but this could be a while," Alfred concluded.

The two men looked at each other, resigned.

"Well," Bruce sighed. "At least she can't get into any trouble in the bathroom...still, better go try to track her down."

They managed not to do irreparable damage to Elisa's gown, and smoothed it back down into its proper shape. "There," Annabeth said. "Right as rain. Let's get you back out to the party, before they think you've absconded with your dowry."

"Ha!" Elisa snorted. "My dowry consists of a parakeet, two tactfully absent parents and a burgeoning career in do-gooder photography. Victoria still doesn't know what to make of me!"

"Hrm." Annabeth didn't know what to say to that, and so decided to say nothing. Instead, she simply guided Elisa out of the bathroom—mercifully empty and isolated, by virtue of its distance from the Long Gallery—and began to lead her back to the party. They made it all of five steps before Elisa ground to a stop. "Oooooh!"

It had been a long time since Annabeth had dealt with a silly drunk woman. She sternly ordered herself to be patient. "What is it?"

Elisa gently broke away from Annabeth and began meandering back down the way they had come. "Look!"

Annabeth looked. Elisa was heading through a doorway which led into the conservatory Annabeth had seen much earlier that day. Through the glass ceiling, they could see the dark November night sky, every few seconds illuminated by lightning. Away from the noise and chatter and music of the revelries, the two women could now hear the ominous sound of rumbling thunder, which seemed to grow louder with each passing second.

Slowly, they wandered into the conservatory, which was blissfully silent and empty. It was colder in there, but...

"So beautiful," Elisa breathed, and Annabeth had to agree. It was certainly far more beautiful than the celebration of excess going on in the Long Galllery, and more peaceful, too. The rare plants and statuary were illuminated periodically by the brilliant whitish-blue lightning, and then were plunged back into darkness. "They said we were going to get stormy weather tonight..."

Almost unwillingly, Annabeth moved further into the conservatory. It was so peaceful...

...behind her, Elisa sighed. "I suppose we should get back to the reception." But before she could say anything else, the peace of the conservatory was shattered.

"...the hell were you thinking?"

"Jesus, leave me alone. Dammit, can't I get away from you for a minute?"

"You were away from me—and look what happened! I ask you to do one damned thing, and you get ditched by those silly bitches!"

Lightning flashed, illuminating Elisa's annoyed expression. "Seth Percival, I think, and poor old Linda. Sounds like he's got it in for the poor old girl."

"Sounds like it," Annabeth responded, but she was paying little attention to Elisa. Her hackles were up, and she sensed something unpleasant developing. Slowly she inched towards the voices.

"You're a fucking asshole, you know that, Seth? Is it ever possible for you to talk about a woman normally?" Linda's voice, louder now, seemed to rattle against the conservatory glass.

"I've yet to meet a normal woman. You and I need to have a little chat; I think you need to be reminded what I mean when I tell you I want you to do something. Come out here with me."

They heard his footsteps smack against the cold marble floor, and then the telltale creak of the massive door leading out to the Italian garden. Elisa's and Annabeth's eyes met; he wanted to go outside in this crazy weather? The man was deranged. Or drunk. Possibly both.

Linda clearly agreed. "Are you nuts? I am not going out in this weather. What's gotten into you, Seth?"

"Nothing more than my usual disgust with you. You're useless and you make me sick. Now come with me."

His voice had taken on a decidedly aggressive and vicious edge.

At what point did uncertain spectators become passive witnesses and accomplices? Annabeth had been at this point several times before, and was already moving after Seth and Linda. "Elisa-get Bruce and Bradford. No, wait. Just get help. Whoever's around and closest."

Years of taking charge and handling crises had given Annabeth all the authority she ever needed, and her tone was one that would have brooked no argument, even had Elisa been inclined to object. Not even pausing to question or second-guess her, Elisa turned on her heel and headed back into the Manor, hopefully to find help close at hand. Annabeth barely spared her a glance as she headed in the direction where she had heard Seth and Linda go. Awareness of her surroundings faded to the background; as she passed over the Italian marble floors and past the orchids and lilies, she may as well have been passing over the broken sidewalks and blighted shrubs of Gotham; it was all the same to her. Linda was in trouble, just like any Gotham woman, and that was the important point of commonality.

She banged open the conservatory door leading into the outdoor gardens, but the noise was lost in a rumble of thunder and a simultaneous gust of wind. The quiet, still conservatory had belied the wild weather beyond the Manor, and the blast of unexpected cold nearly took Annabeth's breath away. Worse than that, icy rain lashed down from the angry skies, pelting her skin. She charged into the night, heedless of this; all that mattered was finding Seth and Linda. She heard his voice somewhere in the paths ahead, and more worrisomely, did not hear Linda's.

An accommodating flash of lightning illuminated her surroundings, and Annabeth was able to see Seth just as he shoved Linda down in the middle of the path ahead. He hovered over her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and getting in one hearty smack before Annabeth slammed into him. "Get the hell away from her!" she bellowed. The thunder swallowed her words, however, and Seth was aware only of her physical interference.

What had she expected to happen? She would ask herself that over and over in the days to come. Why had she charged him and then backed off, as though she expected him to come to his senses, back off, apologize for his ungentlemanly behavior? Had she really spent so much time with the upper echelons of Gotham, that she expected them to somehow behave any differently than everyone else in Gotham she had encountered? Had her outlooks and expectations really been so altered that she believed a wealthy wife-beater was somehow different, better, classier, more open to reason and repentance?

Of course, Seth Percival did not pursue any such courteous behavior. What he did do, as he recovered his balance, and turned around, and saw Annabeth standing there, over Linda, glaring at him—but stupidly, not on her guard-was what any typical Gotham lout would have done in his same situation. He hauled off and smacked Annabeth hard. It was a good one, backhanded, high on her cheekbone, and it sent her reeling. Losing her balance, Annabeth stumbled, face first, towards the ground, knocking her eye into the handle of a stone amphora.

She hit the ground beside Linda. Temporarily stunned and in no small amount of pain, she was only dimly aware that suddenly, Seth Percival was not the only one standing over them.

Elisa hadn't had to go far to find aid; scarcely had she erupted out of the conservatory when she collided with Bruce, Alfred, and Bradford, the latter wishing to locate his inebriated bride who had, it had turned out, disappeared just before the cake cutting. The three men had taken in Elisa's unusually pale face and wide, anxious eyes and immediately headed into the conservatory. Unable to get a sensible word out of the breathless woman, Bradford and Alfred searched within; Bruce, on the other hand, decided to brave the elements and see if he could locate Annabeth out-of-doors.

It didn't take long to find Annabeth—in fact, he espied her almost immediately. Seth Percival was standing, seemingly oblivious to the rain and wind, and sprawled on the ground before him were Seth's wife and Annabeth, both of them looking more than a little the worse for wear.

Violent, deadly anger was coursing through Bruce before he was aware of it; it seized control of him and propelled him forward, drowning out whatever sensible voice may have been advising him to stay his hand. There wasn't a hope of it—Annabeth was under his protection, whether or not she knew it, and she was now hurt. Someone would pay.

Before he realized what he was doing, just before he was aware that Bradford, Alfred, and Elisa had followed after him into the wild night, Bruce had gripped Seth by his shoulder, jerked him around, and slammed his fist into the man's face, shattering his nose.

"Ow, Jesus!" Bruce exclaimed, shaking his hand. This was not just for the benefit of the audience he had just realized he had had; it was rare that he had reason to fight outside his armor, and while he could still land a mean punch, it didn't mean that his fist would feel great afterward.

"Annabeth!" Elisa cried. She glared at Seth Percival, who had doubled over, clutching his hands to his face. Bright crimson blood flowed freely through his fingers. "What did you do to her?"

Despite his broken nose, despite his voice being muffled behind his hands, despite the thunder rumbling overhead, they all heard him clearly. "Nothing the bitch didn't deserve."

This time, Bruce had neither time nor opportunity to attack, for Elisa's retribution was immediate and brutal; she planted her overpriced, Stuart Weitzman-shod foot smack into Seth Percival's crotch and watched in satisfaction as he dropped like a stone.

Bruce knelt beside Annabeth, noting in surprise that his limbs felt shaky. "Are you alright?"

Annabeth groaned. "That wasn't my brightest move." She turned her throbbing head and looked over at Linda, who was being helped to her feet by Bradford and Alfred. "Are you okay?"

Linda didn't answer, merely looked in alarm at Seth's prostrate, groaning form, and then looked accusingly at Bruce. "What the hell did you do to him?"

After that, things moved quickly, yet strangely in a haze. Annabeth was aware of Linda and Seth hurrying inside, of Bradford crying out in dismay as he realized Elisa now stood in her soaked, ruined wedding gown, of Bruce gently cradling his hand, of Alfred quietly keeping things together and trying to shepherd them all back into the conservatory. Victoria, with her almost-supernatural hostess's talent for sensing things amiss, had gathered Gregory and was waiting in there, her expression anxious, then bemused, then furious. Gregory's presence, surprisingly, offered a level of sanity and level-headedness Annabeth would not have expected from a politician.

And of course, Annabeth was now aware of her own physical discomfort. Bruce had helped her to her feet while she was still dazed, and as a result she had staggered back against him. She was dimly aware of his catching her—how did he have such good reflexes?-before she hit the ground again. "Oh, god," she had muttered. "Not exactly an independent woman thing to do, huh?"

Bruce had lowered her back down to the ground and knelt down beside her. "It doesn't matter." His eyes were concerned, but his manner abstract—Annabeth had caught him glancing ahead towards the direction that Seth had headed. But then he had focused back on her. "Come on, let's try this again."

Then they were in the Conservatory. The lighting was not much better, but it was bright enough for them to assess the damage. They were all drenched and shivering; Elisa looked like a drowned rat, so soaking wet was she; Annabeth's face was already starting to swell. Bruce took one lengthy look at her before he turned to Victoria and Gregory, who were clustered around Elisa. "Where did Percival go?"

Everyone stared at Bruce; his voice had gone low and lethal. Had Annabeth been more aware, she would have noticed how familiar it sounded. Alfred looked at Bruce in alarm.

"Percival and Linda went back inside, Bruce," Gregory said quietly. "You did quite a number on him." Was his voice approving or condemnatory? Annabeth couldn't tell.

Victoria took charge. "Are we going to call the authorities? We need to decide." If she was dismayed at the prospect of bringing the wedding and Bellingham Manor into the larger public spotlight, her voice did not betray it.

"I think we should," Elisa said firmly. She glanced at Gregory, who was wisely keeping quiet. "I'm sorry, Gregory. I know it doesn't look good for anyone here, but it's the right thing to do."

"It won't matter."

They all turned to Annabeth. She made a pitiful sight, as soaking wet and shivering as Elisa, but with a slightly mangled face as well. "Linda won't press charges."

Bradford looked shocked. "Why the hell not?"

Bruce spoke again, and his voice seemed more normal. "Annabeth's right." He had spent enough time with the inhabitants at Safe Haven to understand the sickness that kept them bound to their cruel and violent men. "I wouldn't place any bets on Linda Percival going against Seth." His face darkened again, and it was clear to everyone that, while he knew Linda lacked the independence to cross her husband, he would have no problems bringing down Seth Percival.

"I think we should probably try to salvage what's left of the night," Alfred suggested. He didn't look particularly happy with the options. "I imagine the Percivals will be making a rather hasty and tactful departure, but there are still a few hundred other people that are probably wondering where the bride and groom are."

"You're right." Victoria assessed Elisa. "I think we can probably salvage you, my dear. Fifteen minutes, and we'll have you as good as new. Annabeth..." she smiled gently. "Did you want to come with us, or...?" she left the question delicately hanging, as though she sensed Annabeth's disinclination to rejoin the crowds.

Bruce answered for Annabeth. "I think we've both had enough excitement for the evening." He put a protective arm around her shoulders. "Do you mind if we make a tactical retreat for the remainder of the evening?"

"It's probably for the best, Master Wayne," Alfred answered for Victoria. "The adoring crowds will probably just assume you're having a rather more exciting after-party."

A particularly loud crack of thunder captured their attention. "Actually, if this weather grows much worse, we might need to abort the reception," Victoria remarked. "Come, Elisa, let's see what needs to be done." She cast an assessing eye at Bruce, Alfred, and Annabeth. "Will you three be alright?"

Her experienced eyes told her she didn't need to ask. Bruce was hovering protectively over Annabeth, his attention entirely focused upon her. And Alfred, devoted man that he was, was standing aside discreetly and quietly, probably already thinking of ways to bring the swelling down. And so, Victoria's pragmatic mind moved on to more pressing matters-the logistics of the weather and the guests, turning Elisa back into a presentable bride and not a victim of the Titanic, and how to permanently blacklist Seth Percival from the Gotham social scene.

And so she ushered her husband, her son, and her daughter-in-law back into the Manor, knowing that she had left Annabeth in good hands. But as the Winstons moved on, an isolated island of family loyalty and love, its newest member, Elisa, cast one final, backwards glance at Annabeth. She still sat in the conservatory, hunched over on a bench, Alfred and Bruce hovering around her. She was wet, shivering, and completely dejected; Elisa had never seen strong, brave Annabeth brought so low.

That was her final image of Annabeth. And although Elisa had no way of knowing it then, it would be quite a while before she saw her again.

Fifteen minutes later, Annabeth finally felt up to the task of leaving the conservatory. With Bruce's firm arm around her, she began the long trek back to her bedchamber.

"Where's Alfred?" she asked quietly. So quietly, in fact, that Bruce had to lean in to hear her.

"He went ahead to get some...things." Bruce didn't feel the need to mention that Alfred, well-versed in the ways of first-aid, had taken one long and practiced look at Annabeth's injuries, accurately assessed what would be needed to treat her, and had immediately disappeared in search of the necessary items. What Bruce didn't realize was that Alfred had correctly sensed Annabeth's muted distress, and thought it wise to absent himself, at least temporarily. He had become friends with Annabeth, but it was Bruce who was devoted to her, and so it was to Bruce—ill-equipped though he was—that the task of comforting Annabeth fell.

They slowly made their way through the cold, empty corridors of Bellingham, the only noise being their own footsteps, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder. "Where is everyone?" Annabeth mumbled.

"All the guests are still at the reception, and I think it's all hands on deck for the staff, too." Bruce glanced down at her. "Does it matter where they are?"

"I don't particularly want to run into anyone right now."

"Well, we won't have to." Bruce squeezed her hand. "We're here." He swung the massive door inward and led Annabeth into her darkened bedchamber. As he led her inside, he let out a low whistle. "Good god, this place really is gloomy."

"Astute assessment."

He closed the door firmly behind them, and with that decisive act, the rest of the manor was closed off from them, and the bedchamber became their fortress. Even so, Annabeth did not spring in to any kind of action. She merely stood where Bruce had left her.

Strange.

With no other obvious choice in front of him, and with every instinct inside him crying out to do so, Bruce took charge. He left her momentarily and went rummaging around in the bathroom, emerging with a robe and towel in his hands. "You're soaking wet and it's freezing in here. Get out of those things while I try to warm this place up." He noted that while she accepted the linens, she made no move to follow his instructions. "Do you...need help?"

Enough of the old, indomitable Annabeth remained to give him a vaguely withering look, and she disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to skin off her useless evening wear. Meanwhile, Bruce set about trying to bring some light, warmth, and humanity to their surroundings, and focused on the massive fireplace. Much to his surprise, it had every appearance of being functional, and much to his pleasure, all of the necessary tools and kindling were close at hand. And so it was that when Annabeth emerged from the bathroom, wrapped up in her terry robe and clutching her crumpled finery, a merry blaze was beginning to grace the hearth.

With gentle hands, Bruce guided her to one of the armchairs that faced the fire, and pressed her down into the seat. "Are you okay?"

No answer. Beyond the windows, thunder rumbled. It was really a doozy of a storm.

Not knowing what else to do, Bruce dropped to his knees beside the chair and peered into Annabeth's face. She finally looked back at him, and what he saw in her eyes floored him: Shame. Sorrow. Loneliness. Misery. None of the burning courage, the fierce will, the determined resourcefulness, the manic energy he had come to associate with her. Only utter despair.

"This is why I work so hard," Annabeth said. "Because if I don't, if I were to stop, I could just give up so easily...It never ends, does it?"

Before Bruce could respond, a knock echoed in the room. It came, not from the main door leading out into the corridor, but from the door leading into the little passageway connecting Bruce and Annabeth's rooms. Before either of them could respond, the door opened and Alfred silently padded in. He was bearing a tray, which he brought to them and set down on a little table by Annabeth's chair. "The guests are beginning to depart," he informed them. "The weather is, if possible, worsening. It should be turning to sleet before too long."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said wearily. "I'll take care of it from here."

If Alfred read anything untoward in the statement, no indication of it passed over his serene features. He merely nodded and began to withdraw. "I'll bid you both goodnight."

It wasn't until Alfred exited the room and passed back through the private passageway that he allowed his expression to dissolve into worry.

Back in Annabeth's bedchamber, Bruce momentarily turned his attention away from Annabeth's blue devils and assessed the contents on the tray Alfred had brought him. The items upon it were simple enough: a washcloth, a bucket of ice, two crystal tumblers, and a decanter filled with amber liquid. Most likely some sort of expensive scotch, perhaps the Glen Garioch that Gregory had been boasting about. Well, his reserves were going to take a hit tonight.

With a deft and liberal hand, Bruce poured a tumbler for each of them, adding a few cubes of ice as an afterthought. "Here," he told Annabeth. "Get this in you and there won't be much wrong with you."

"Somehow I doubt that," Annabeth said. And then the remnants of her stoic facade collapsed, her face crumpled, and she began to cry. "I'm sorry...you just...I don't think you can understand..."

Bruce had encountered many situations in his life, but this was something entirely new. For a horrible moment, he feared he would not be equal to the task of providing comfort-this was not what he had had in mind when he decided to help and support Gotham. It was beyond the realm of his knowledge, training, and skill level...but then some basic, elemental part of him, untouched by Joe Chill or the loss of his parents or the ruthlessness of his own training or the loneliness of his emotionally barren existence, kicked in and took control. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, feeling the small bones, the tense muscles, the tightly-wound misery. Oh, he understood her far more than she would ever know.

The initial storm of weeping had subsided into the undignified but necessary gasps, snuffles, and incoherent apologies that inevitably followed such an unexpected outburst of emotion. Bruce wisely remained quiet as Annabeth slowly began to regain her composure and wipe her eyes-wincing as she absently made contact with the side of her face that Seth Percival had temporarily redecorated. Eventually she gave him a feeble, watery smile.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I wasn't expecting that."

"Nor was I," Bruce admitted ruefully, and took a welcome swig from his glass of scotch. He indicated Annabeth should do the same. "Do you feel any better?"

Annabeth took a sip of the scotch, pulled a face, and set the glass down gently beside the ice bucket. "In some ways yes, in some ways no." She fell silent as Bruce switched positions and took her face in his hands. "What...?"

Gently he tilted her face so that the injured portion was illuminated by the flames. Seriously, carefully, he studied it, taking in the bruise that was forming on her cheek, and the smaller cut near her eye, where the amphora had struck her. His eyes darkened with suppressed anger as he assessed, once more, Seth Percival's handiwork, and he wished fervently he had had a little more time alone with the man.

Forcing this upsurge of negative and unproductive emotion back down to his internal batcave, Bruce focused back in on Annabeth. "Any more dizziness? Headache? Nausea?"

"No, nothing like that," Annabeth mumbled. It was difficult to talk with Bruce's hand pressing lightly against her jawbone. "I don't have a concussion...just a bruised sense of pride." His hand moved up towards her cheek injury. "Ow. And a bruised cheek."

"Mmm, sorry." Bruce withdrew his hands and busied himself preparing a makeshift cold pack from the ice and wash cloth. "Why injured pride?"

Annabeth shrugged sheepishly. "My own arrogance. My own ignorance."

Bruce didn't immediately respond to this; he was absorbed in carefully bringing the cold pack to Annabeth's face. "Here." Almost tenderly, he took her hand and pressed it to the pack. "Hold this against your head for a while. It's for the swelling; for now, that's all we can do for it."

She smiled again, gratefully, and then followed his orders. Bruce, meanwhile, took another hearty swig from his drink. It wasn't like him to consume alcohol in such quantities, but surely this was an exception. It had been a while since he had personally—in the form of Bruce Wayne—encountered violence against loved ones—damn that phrase anyway—and the evening's events had left him shaken.

For several minutes, the two of them sat in a silence that was neither comfortable nor awkward. It was complete; each of them were attending to their own thoughts and wounds, which went deeper than mere words. However, Bruce and Annabeth were both human, no more and no less, and part of the human condition was to draw together, seek company and comfort, express themselves, and make a muck of it all, and it was only a matter of time before they commenced fulfilling their human nature.

The storm raged, the fire crackled, the room remained freezing, and Bruce and Annabeth sat, coddling their own thoughts. And then, finally, Annabeth spoke.

"It wasn't the first time I had gotten involved in a domestic dispute, Bruce. Hell, it wasn't even the first time I got my ass handed to me during one. But it was the first one that I went into it blind." She reached for her glass of scotch and took a tiny sip of it; it did not grow any more appealing the more of it she consumed, and so she set it back down with finality. "I completely fooled myself."

"What do you mean?" Bruce probed.

Annabeth snorted. "I've been spending too much time with this crowd. I went at that bastard tonight to get him away from Linda; I didn't want him hurting her more than he already had. So I attacked him in defense of her...and then what did I do? I got him away from her, and then I stood down. I backed away, like I expected him to realize who he was—what, a gentleman?—and stop hurting people." She looked over at Bruce, and he was alarmed to see that tears were pooling in her eyes. "That's not how people like him are, Bruce. It doesn't matter if he grew up in the Palisades or the Narrows, his kind are all the same. They want to hurt and control, and no amount of money or breeding makes any sort of goddamn difference."

Wisely, Bruce remained silent; no doubt the flood of words issuing from Annabeth had been building behind a dam of disappointment and self-judgment for a very long time, and it was better that she let it go.

"What the hell am I doing, Bruce? This isn't where I belong. I'm not like these people, not anything like them at all, and yet, a few months hanging around them, and all of a sudden, I get these ridiculous assumptions winkling their way into my head. And at the same time, the women have the same problems that the women do in Safe Haven-look at Linda! She's got the same sort of no-account husband making her life miserable, and she makes the same decision to stay with him. It's a nasty disease that's rotting our society from the inside out, from all levels. But I can't fight it at this level...that much I know."

Bruce thought he had a pretty good idea where Annabeth was going with this. As ill-versed as he was in the ways of the dating world, as little as he had suffered from rejection from any woman, he was pretty sure he could tell when it was staring him in the face. He remained silent, however, and ignored the pain beginning to clutch somewhere in his chest. From somewhere inside, he knew not where, he schooled his face into impassivity.

"I don't know what I thought was going to happen...I don't know what I was thinking," Annabeth concluded, and with that, she fell into silence and gazed dejectedly into the fire. The tears were close to the surface again.

Bruce took a final gulp of his drink and set the empty glass down on the table. "I think I understand...look, you've had a long day. Why don't you call it a night? Things will seem better in the morning." It was quite possibly the most inane thing he had ever said, but somehow, it offered a strange solace to his own raw, stinging emotions.

Annabeth was having none of it. "I don't want to feel better in the morning. I don't want to be part of this any more. I don't understand this, I don't understand you, I don't even understand me anymore!" Once more she subsided into brooding.

Slowly, Bruce stood. "I understand perfectly...but you still need your sleep. Come on, Annabeth. It's been a rough day." He plucked her hand out her lap and gave a gentle tug. "Come on. You need to go to bed."

Willingly enough, Annabeth allowed herself to be led to the bed. Once Bruce had brought her to it, she allowed herself to look at him, full on. "I'm sorry."

In response, Bruce cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead, as though in benediction. He pulled away slightly, and their eyes met.

And thus, they were undone.

Inexplicably, mutually, their lips met in a kiss, the likes of which they had only flirted with a few times before. But most of those times had been in much more neutral, public areas, in which there was little ability to carry it any further, and many reasons to restrain themselves from doing so. Now was a different story. Now was a situation that was anything but neutral: a roaring fire; a raging storm; absolute privacy; incredible, passionate, exploring, ill-advised kisses...and a bed. An enormous, warm, comfortable, inviting bed that was even now cushioning Annabeth as Bruce slowly lifted her up and gently pressed her down into it.

Despite what the weather forecasters had been saying, the storm grew worse. It thundered more loudly, the lightning was more brilliant, and the freezing rain ruthlessly lashed the grounds and the gardens of Bellingham. But all of it paled in comparison with the tempest that was unfolding in Annabeth's room.

Hungry hands, hungry mouths, hungry hearts went exploring as both Bruce and Annabeth found in each other a willing partner. For his part, Bruce had never imagined the supple, sensual, soft, pale flesh that was revealed as he slowly peeled away Annabeth's robe; for her part, Annabeth had never even stopped to consider the muscular, powerful physique that Bruce had hidden away under his designer suits. As they chipped away at the protective layers that each had consistently presented to the other over the past months, each was pleasantly surprised by what they discovered.

As Bruce finally succeeded in pulling aside the robe that he had just so recently given to Annabeth, he saw her skin break out in gooseflesh. And so he decided to undo the swags which held the bedcurtains in place, and draw them tight against the cold. But before he did this, he began to peel away his own garments, with the assistance of Annabeth's trembling yet eager hands. Before he pulled the curtains closed and encased them in temporary darkness, Annabeth saw his chest, awash in brilliant, glowing firelight, and blinked incredulously. Who would have imagined a layabout playboy with such a powerfully-built chest?

And then Bruce pulled he curtains closed around them, there remained only the tiniest of illumination, from the firelight which glowed even through the warm velvet material. This was enough for Annabeth to see and know it was Bruce; it was Bruce who was worshiping with his hands, his fingers, his tongue, god his tongue! She responded to his exploring, passionate kisses with a violence she had forgotten and buried long ago. Now unearthed, this was some entirely new, entirely different feeling. She brought her hands up and ran her fingers through his hair, tugging gently to pull him further into her, only slightly aware that he was reciprocating in kind.

What ensued was a mutual struggle, a dance as old as time, as both Bruce and Annabeth competed and strove for dominance, the chief role of pleasurer, the giver of incredible sensation. Neither had imagined either themselves or the other to be capable of such passion; for both, it had been a long and lonely while since they sought solace in the arms of another. For Bruce, it was possibly the first time he had ever opened himself up as unreservedly as he did; for Annabeth, it was probably the first time she had let herself go as she did in Bruce's arms. He was all that she could have hoped for and more than she could have imagined; a thrilling combination of aggressor, to reassure her she was desired, and tender lover, to keep her feeling safe, revered, and protected, but never threatened.

Both had known the physical act of pleasure, but neither had known the release that they achieved with each other...when Bruce, bringing his hand down Annabeth's stomach, down further, further, until he was slowly, slowly, slowly stroking her center until it felt swollen to the point of explosion, and then pressing just so gently, in such a way that sent her careening into a fit of convulsions which left her limp-limbed, gasping, and clinging to him as he held her against his warm, solid body. When Annabeth, having recovered sufficiently enough to reciprocate, began to explore his body with her mouth, her lips, her teeth, kissing, suckling, biting, bringing him right to the edge...and leaving him gasping and practically begging for her to continue.

Bruce lifted his head from where Annabeth had pressed him back against the bank of pillows, and his normally pale-blue eyes were almost navy, so intense was the passion within them. "That's...incredible..." he groaned, watching her as she lifted her head and smiled provocatively. "Oh, my god..."

And finally, the two of them ended the preliminaries and brought their disparate bodies together in the ultimate act of connection, the final, life-affirming way that every man and woman has to assure themselves that they are still there, still relevant, still desirable, still existing. Bruce had been pacing himself, trying to maintain an iron control, to keep from disconcerting Annabeth, but finally, he was taken aback by her own lust-darkened eyes. As he drew her close and began to lose himself in the sensual eternity of her soft, slick folds, he had the presence of mind to ask, "Is this alright?"

Annabeth's response was a feral moan of need. Her thirst, her need for him, her primal, visceral urges were surprising to them both, but both were happy to relish them and to push each other further.

This was not a disappointing coming together, as each had secretly feared; theirs was one of the rare unions that grew better with the final joining,that pleasure and not disillusionment after the build-up to it. Annabeth savored his large hands, his probing mouth, his tantalizing mixture of tender and cocksure and aggressive; Bruce let himself go in the feminine beauty and comfort that he had, for a long time, suspected she harbored within her.

Afterward, they were silent, and they held each other close, each of them loathe to relinquish, even for a brief second, the unexpectedly reassuring closeness each drew from the other.

It couldn't last. But for the moment, it was as good as eternity.