Sometime late in the night, the storm spent its fury and ceased its violent assault on Bellingham Manor. In its wake it left a world encased in ice, silent, stark, beautiful, and wickedly cold; it also left many annoyed guests and impassable roads. Soon news began filtering in from the town; several properties had sustained no small degree of damage, and half the county was without power.

At least four people were unaware of these developments. In their beautiful bedchamber, the new bride and groom were tucked away in a warm bubble of honeymoon bliss, ignorant, indifferent, and very much enjoying their privacy. It would be another six hours before they would emerge from their chambers, and another few hours after that before anyone encroached on their isolated world of love with such quotidian matters as property damage and stranded guests. And in the guest wing, Bruce and Annabeth were not yet aware of anything. They were both—although not for much longer— protected from reality by the soothing, forgiving world of sleep.

Annabeth awoke first, disoriented and with a vague, niggling sense of unease. Why was it so dark? The previous morning the morning light had positively flooded into her room through the enormous windows. Ah, that's right. The bed curtains-we pulled them around the bed because it was so cold.

Wait.

We.

Oh, shit.

Slowly, slowly, trying to delay it as long as possible, Annabeth began to turn over, becoming aware of her own nakedness as she did. And then, of the delicious soreness throughout her body, long unaccustomed to the vigor it had undergone the previous night. Shit shit shit.

She peeped over her shoulder at the other side of the bed, and in what little morning light filtered its way through the bed curtains, she received all the visual confirmation she needed. Bruce had spent the night in her bed. And presumably, in other things, as well.

Oh, this is bad.

A few weeks back, when she had been up in the living quarters of Safe Haven, one of the women had been playing some music that had floated through her open door and down the corridor. It was a country song, which Annabeth did not normally care for, but there was something about the raw pain in the words that had stuck in her head. Now, unbidden, the words came back to her.

Daylight has found me here again

You can ask me anything but where I've been...

What the hell had they been thinking? Had they been thinking at all? She had been trying to tell him that they couldn't see each other any more; she had been about to send him back to his life, without her in it, she had wanted to walk—run-—away from him and all he represented: her own confusion, her vulnerabilities, the life she could never have...

And now everything was completely screwed up.

Looking for a place to hide,

A warm bed on a cold night,

I didn't mean to hurt you,

No, no, no...

She could tell Bruce was still asleep; his breathing was deep and even. His comforter-shrouded back was to her, and his shoulder rose and fell rhythmically with his breaths. When would he wake up? What should she say to him? What the hell had she been thinking?

Sudden memories from the night before flooded her head, and she had to give an involuntary smile as she recalled certain things. Well, she didn't know what she had been thinking, but she sure as shit knew what she had been feeling...

Sternly, she brought herself back to the present. Bruce was still sleeping, but for how long? How did she plan to gracefully disentangle herself from this? What were the chances that she would be able to exit the bed, the room, the Manor, the region without walking him up? One-night stands had never been her forte and now she remembered why: the awkwardness of the morning after, the dilemma of how to handle it, what to say, whether or not to even assume it was a one-night stand or the preliminary to something better...

Oooof. Oh, this was bad.

Any further debate came to an abrupt end as Bruce sighed and shifted positions, rolling onto his back. And then opened his eyes.

From Annabeth's vantage point, laying on her side with her head propped up against her hand, she could see the range of reactions cross over Bruce's face. First, disorientation. Then, alarm. Then—most disturbingly—his face went completely blank, devoid of any expression at all. And finally, as he turned over and faced Annabeth, he smiled pleasantly. But it didn't reach his eyes. "Good morning."

"Morning." Annabeth looked at him searchingly. "Did you...uuuhhh...sleep well?"

Much to his surprise, Bruce had. The nightmares had been there, of course, but more muted. But whatever benefits he had reaped from this restful slumber were completely wiped out as an internal voice in his head began screaming. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Not knowing what else to do, and more to stifle the instinctive panic rising within him, Bruce leaned over and gave Annabeth a thorough kiss. As much to his surprise as hers, she responded with eagerness, which only turned his kiss from a perfunctory, reactionary gesture into a much more lingering, passionate interaction.

Not what I was expecting, she thought.

What the hell did I do that for? he thought.

Finally, they pulled away, and Annabeth actually smiled sheepishly. "Well...that makes things infinitely more complicated."

Bruce's smile was uncertain. "What do you mean?"

Annabeth shrugged. "I thought..." she lowered her eyes for a moment. Awkward. I thought...well, I thought this was a one-night stand."

A reasonable assumption to make, especially given Bruce's reputation, but still, he was surprised to see how little that idea appealed to him. "Did you...want it to be a one-night stand?" Even as he said this, it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, these were things that they should have consulted each other about the night before. Christ, between the two of them, they didn't even make one functional person.

Annabeth snorted, more of a strangled laugh. "Bruce, I wanted nothing more than to break things off last night. I didn't have plans for any kind of stand—last, one night, nothing. But...in answer to your question...I don't like one night things. They're not my style. If they were, don't you think I would have..." here she paused, struggling to select the most fitting of the many euphemisms that sprang to mind "...jumped your bones a long time ago?"

Moot point, all of it is a moot point. A coldly rational voice within Bruce was speaking, but he was doing his damnedest to ignore it. He was one sorry, conflicted son of a bitch. "All this time I thought you were saving yourself for Alfred."

She laughed, but it was more of a dutiful chortle than anything else.

"Why did you want to break things off?" Bruce asked. He scarcely understood why he was prying. Wouldn't it be better if he just let Annabeth give him his get-out-of-jail-free card? In his most logical and detached moments, he still could not fathom a romantic life, but he knew that when he thought of his life without Annabeth in it, he didn't like what he imagined. Which meant...well, hell, those implications were a little too much for the present. "You're not happy with me? With where things have been going?"

"Happy." Annabeth repeated this word in a wondering tone of voice. "And just where have things been going, Bruce? Refresh my memory, but wasn't this originally some sort of business deal that somehow got way off track? Last I saw, we lost the road map a long time back." She had a point there, they both knew. "And anyway, what's happy, Bruce? Have you figured that out? Are you happy?"

The question was so foreign to Bruce's current worldview that he felt compelled to answer honestly. "No. Not happy. I don't think I've ever been. But...I feel better when I'm with you." He realized as soon as he said it that it, too, was the truth.

"I think I do, too," Annabeth agreed, grudgingly.

"Then..why?" Bruce reached out and ran a hand down her arm, enjoying the soft flesh, trying to memorize every mole, every freckle, every scar he encountered. "Why walk away?" Why am I pressing the issue? Run, Bruce! Get out of this before everyone gets hurt.

"Because you complicate things, Bruce!"Annabeth wanted to pry open his eyes. "We are two very different people, with very, verydifferent lives. You don't known the half of who I am."

"I could say the same to you," Bruce countered quietly, then looked away.

"Touché." She was humbled, at least momentarily. "But how can we pursue anything together when we've got such different ways of living our lives?"

Now would be the perfect time to tell her. Bruce recalled, for one painfully brief second, the relief he had felt when he had revealed his secret to Rachel. For that one moment in time, as they had stood in the smoking ruins of Bruce's past, as Wayne Manor lay in devastated shambles, just before she had walked away and rejected everything for which he strove, he had felt an incredible relief, a wonderful sense of connection that came with the knowledge that someone-some mate, some partner-knew his burden and loved him anyway. He could have that; if he shared his secret with Annabeth just right, he could have that.

But stupidly, he kept his mouth shut. And that would be his biggest mistake in a day which would turn out to be full of them. Instead of telling her what she deserved to know, he only chose to say...

"We have to try."

A few months prior, Annabeth would have not imagined herself in her current situation. She was one of the masses, one of the millions of Gothamites just trying to get on with life, trying to keep body and soul together, trying to maintain a sense of integrity in a corrupt world. She would not have imagined herself here, hobnobbing with minor celebrities, and laying in bed with Bruce Wayne, who appeared to be asking her not to leave him. Many other people—both men and women—would have happily sacrificed a limb, or their firstborn child, to be where she was presently. But Annabeth took an immeasurable amount of comfort that she still was not one of those people. She was Annabeth de Burgh, with her own ideas and values, her goals and her plans. Spending so much time with the bluebloods of Gotham had not yet changed that. Annabeth was safe.

As this revelation occurred to her, Annabeth smiled, and Bruce's spirits rose. "I suppose we have to try," she agreed. And then leaned in seductively, lowering her voice to a throaty whisper, "We have to try other things, too."

Bruce groaned, a sound of surprised, amused delight. And then he rose to the challenge.

More time had passed. How much, it was hard to say—engrossed as they had been in each other's bodies, Bruce and Annabeth had lost all sense of time. They had come together this time—times, actually—with wild abandon, as though they were both eager not to give themselves any space, any chance to back out. Their lips were bruised from the kissing, there were even a few scratch marks up near Bruce's shoulders, and both of them now lay in bed, completely spent. Annabeth was embarrassed to observe she was panting rather more heavily than Bruce; how on earth did he have such stamina?

She became aware of Bruce's finger on one of her arms, slowly, lightly tracing the design of one of her tribal tattoos, and recalled how transfixed by them he had been. Funny, considering how much she loathed them now.

As if he were reading her mind, Bruce chuckled. "You once said that you thought these looked like the rotting carcass of an ancient turtle."

"Did I?" Annabeth smirked. "That sounds like something I would say. I'm surprised you remember."

"With imagery like that, how can I forget?" Bruce continued tracing the patterns. "I know you don't care for these anymore, but they fascinate me. I really think they're beautiful on you."

"Why's that?" Annabeth closed her eyes and simply permitted herself to luxuriate in the sound of his voice and the sensation of his hands.

Bruce took a moment to carefully craft his response. "Most of the women I know are...perfect. Physically, at least. They've spent the majority of their lives taking care of themselves, preserving themselves, beautifying themselves, going out of their way to avoid anything that could diminish their physical appearance or age them. And they're sheltered...a little bit boring, really. Some of them starve themselves, or yack up their dinners; a few of them flirt with drinking or pills or drugs, but that's all. The ugly truths of life, they don't know about...they don't care. They haven't experienced anything physically or emotionally..." Bruce struggled for a moment to articulate his words. "Your tattoos, they're a sign of life. Not just life, but a life. You've lived, you've made mistakes, you've learned...it's a very sexy thing about you."

"So my tattoos are a psychological appeal, as much as a physical appeal? I can understand that."

"Oh, it's physical, too!" Bruce hastened to reassure her, which made her laugh. "What can I say? I think they're really...well, I think the common vernacular would be hot. I like a woman who looks as though she's spent time out in the world."

"I think that's common vernacular for a 'woman who gets around.'" Annabeth gave him an exasperated look. "God, you rich people and your euphemisms!"

"It's a problem," Bruce agreed amiably. "What time is it? It's probably getting pretty late in the morning."

"We'll be needing to head back to Gotham soon," Annabeth sighed. And with those simple words, the outside world came flooding back to their reality. Beyond Bellingham, their responsibilities, their burdens, their unhappiness awaited. It was one thing to contemplate an alternative life when they were sequestered away from everything unpleasant; it was another thing entirely to stand by that desire when they were facing the inevitable come-down from the high.

Bruce sighed, too, but there was nothing for it. "I should probably try to track Alfred down." With visible reluctance, he pulled away from the sweet warmth of Annabeth's curves, sat up, and pulled the bedcurtains back, letting in the bright morning light. "Well, at least the weather should be clear for the way back." He swung his feet over the side of the bed and began to emerge from the erotic haven he and Annabeth had unthinkingly established. "Although it would be nice if we could find a way to delay the return, don't you think?"

There was no answer, only a strange, heavy silence.

Confused, Bruce turned back towards the bed.

Annabeth was staring at him, her face deathly pale. "Bruce..." she gasped. "What happened to you?"

Too late, Bruce remembered his back. Still branded with the massive bruising from his last encounter with Boy-o, still healing, his powerful back displayed a painful, mottled patchwork of purples, blues, and blacks, caught in shocking relief in the bright morning light. And his chest wasn't much better. Hidden away in the shadows of the curtained bed as he had been during the night and the grey morning, Bruce's bruises had been an invisible non-issue, but in the cold light of day, they provided a rude awakening indeed. And now, too late, he remembered other, older scars. Dammit.

"Oh, god, Bruce," Annabeth whispered. "Your back...and your chest...they look..." She shook her head, unable to comprehend the sight. "You didn't get that last night from Seth Percival, did you?"

His derisive snort of laughter was entirely involuntary and equally ill-advised. "No." And then Bruce shifted his eyes away.

"Then what is it?" Annabeth's instincts were kicking into gear. She clambered out of the bed, not particularly gracefully, making no effort to modestly cover her nakedness. She had bigger concerns. "Someone's hurting you, Bruce. Don't protect them." As he remained silent, her mind began jumping from person to person, possibility to possibility. "It's not...Bruce, is Alfred...hurting you?"

Stunned silence greeted her query; Bruce was staring at her as though she had gone quite mad. And then, that strange, closed expression came over Bruce's face. He shook his head. "Don't be silly-no one is hurting me, especially not Alfred. I'm totally fine. There's nothing wrong."

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Annabeth demanded, her voice rising steadily in pitch. "Bruce, are you insane? You're hurt. Tell me who did this to you! We can make it stop. We have to."

"I'm fine," Bruce said stubbornly. "Really, I'm fine. You don't need to worry." Even as he said this, he knew this would be impossible for Annabeth to accept. She was loyal to those she loved, she fought hard, she protected those who could not protect themselves...and she had a nose for smelling out bullshit. Whatever Bruce said to the contrary, his body bore evidence which told Annabeth he was a victim.

"You're hiding things from me." Annabeth said this sadly. Disillusionment—how had she forgotten the bitter taste it left in her mouth, in her heart?—began to creep its way in. "I've gotten this feeling before, and I've tried to ignore it. Your moods...the way you act...there's something going on. And with those bruises, now I know it. But you won't tell me, you just keep on lying." She suddenly seemed to realize she was rather naked, and folded her arms protectively over her chest, closing herself off once more, trying to hide her vulnerabilities.

"I'm not lying," Bruce lied insistently.

The two of them stared at each other; it was a battle of wills that neither could afford to lose.

Tell her. The voice in his head was yelling at him, urging him to release the secret that was even now driving a permanent wedge between them. It was the same voice that had spoken and revealed itself to Rachel, and it was the same voice which had, internally at least, yelled in hurt and outraged rejection when she had turned away.

It was not a voice Bruce was inclined to listen to. He had listened to it earlier, as he coaxed Annabeth into giving them a chance...but now the coldly rational voice, the voice of the Batman, was the one which would be heard.

Bruce didn't tell her, of course. When he explained this to Alfred much later, after they had returned to Wayne Manor and descended into the soothing depths of the Batcave, Bruce retold the events—in abbreviated form—in a resigned tone of voice. The kind of tone which implied that there had been no other possible outcome; that of course he couldn't tell Annabeth. Of course.

The part of the story that Bruce left out was his own crashing hopes as he began to realize at what price his lie would come. Annabeth knew he was lying, and while she was barking up the wrong tree, he couldn't disabuse her of any notions she got into her head. He knew then, as Annabeth looked more and more concerned, then frustrated, then hurt, what his lie was going to cost him. He knew, before she ever said the words, what was going to happen.

"Bruce," Annabeth finally said, her voice beginning to crack. "I know you're lying. You're covering up for someone, or something. God knows I've seen this enough. But I can't stand by and watch you let yourself get hurt like this. I need to do something to help, and if I can't-I can only stand back and let you figure out what you need to do. You're my friend, and I can help you if you let me." Her eyes matched her pleading tone of voice. "Bruce, please."

"Nothing's wrong." Bruce's voice was flat, his expression giving away nothing.

Annabeth nodded; she had been around long enough to expect nothing any different. "Well...Bruce...if you can't respect me enough to tell the truth, I don't think you respect me at all. But remember: I'm your friend, and I can help, but only when you tell me what the hell is going on."

Her voice was final and carried with it an unmistakable dismissal. Still, Bruce knew there was still time to redeem himself, to rectify the situation. It was not something he was willing to do, however; it was not a chasm he felt he could cross. And so, as Annabeth stood at the window, her back to him, he moved about the bedchamber, gathering up his clothing they had so lustfully torn off the night before, and he quietly exited through the passageway without saying another word.

Only after he left, leaving her room an echoing, barren shrine to what had gone before, did Annabeth abruptly recall the last of the lyrics from that melancholy country song.

Looking out your window at the dawn

Baby when you wake up, I'll be gone

You're the one who taught me after all

How to find a soft place to fall.

Two hours later, the Rolls Royce pulled away from the cobbled drive leading up to Bellingham Manor. Gregory and Victoria had encouraged them to get an early start, for the roads were treacherous and the journey long. Before Annabeth had slipped into the car, Victoria, who had no idea of the latest developments, had hugged her unexpectedly. "You'll do just fine, my dear," she whispered into Annabeth's ear, and then saw with startlement that Annabeth's eyes filled with tears.

The younger woman had fiercely brushed them away, offered them once last bright, brittle smile, and then got into the car. She was dreading the ride back, but the one thing she could do to make it more bearable was to put on a brave front.

All good and well, but she soon realized that her only concept of a brave front was reverting back to the Annabeth of yesteryear. And so, she made no attempt to engage Bruce or Alfred in conversation, and in fact retreated into a cold, forbidding silence. Bruce very wisely made no attempt to engage her conversation, and didn't even bat an eye when she pulled out her briefcase and began reviewing case files. Alfred was concentrating on the road, trying to guide the vehicle away from the more hazardous obstacles, and so had no energy or attention to devote to frivolous conversation.

This didn't mean that he didn't have the ability to observe, and observe Alfred did, all the way back to Gotham. He observed the cold silence that shrouded the car; he observed the intense way that Bruce and Annabeth avoided looking at each other; and he observed that there was something very wrong indeed. The weekend which had started off so promisingly had somehow degenerated into some sort of worst-case scenario, and Alfred was in no position to try to pick up the pieces. All he could do was drive on.

And so he drove.

Gotham.

Only 48 hours or so had passed since their departure, but as the city's skyline finally came into view, Annabeth found herself curiously relieved and comforted. Her foray into new territories had been exciting and interesting, but ultimately unsuccessful—heartbreakingly so—and the looming, slightly foreboding visage of the city offered her a soothing sense of familiarity. It was a dysfunctional relationship she had with her city, yes, but at least predictable and consistent in its dysfunction. With Gotham, Annabeth always knew where she stood. For better or for worse, Gotham was home.

And they had come home not a moment too soon. The return journey from Bellingham had been excruciating—it had taken much longer on the way back, and the gentle, humorous banter which had whiled away the time on the way up was now noticeably absent. Instead, Annabeth did her best to concentrate on her work and ignore the significant looks Alfred was casting them both through the rearview mirror. As the hours had worn on, she and Bruce had grown ever more distant, coldly formal, and polite. The silence was heavy; oppressive, really, but Annabeth would make no effort to break it. She had said her piece that morning in her bedroom, and now the rest was in Bruce's hands.

But christ, it hurt. It didn't matter how much she intellectually understood Bruce's reticence and desire to protect who ever was hurting him—that much was textbook, as she well knew. But as a human, as a woman, emotionally, she couldn't accept it, couldn't understand why he didn't try to make it right. It was the secrecy more than anything that she found disturbing; that morning's encounter had finally brought the various little incidents of strangeness to a head, and she had not been able to hold back any more. But...but...who was it who had given him those injuries?

These thoughts were preoccupying Annabeth's mind as they slowly made their way back into the city. She had given up trying to work, and was gazing out at the window, yet not seeing the city scenery as it slipped past. The cold dusk was beginning to fall when the Rolls-Royce finally approached her neighborhood and rolled to a stop in front of her building.

And here was the part that each of them—Bruce, Alfred, and Annabeth—had all been secretly dreading. Alfred, because he knew something less than wonderful was unfolding, and Bruce and Annabeth, because as much as their relationship had crumbled in the past twelve hours, they were each loathe to part and solidify the growing wedge between them.

Not surprisingly, Annabeth was the first one to move; it would never be said that she let the grass grow green under her feet. She had immense pride, and she knew better than to hang around in an unhappy situation. As soon as she realized that they were close to her home, Annabeth began packing her things back into her briefcase, blindly shoving her things in any which way. A hard, burning lump was forming at the back of her throat, and her hands were shaking-the only visible betrayal of her sore and hurting feelings and growing disappointment. She could only hope Bruce didn't notice.

He did, of course.

As soon as Alfred had slowed the car to a stop, Annabeth's hand was on the door handle, and she neatly opened the door. Before either Bruce or Alfred could even exit the car, Annabeth was out on the sidewalk, hauling her belongings out of the back seat. She would be damned if they saw one ounce of weak tears squeeze out of her eyes.

Alfred quietly plucked her overnight bag out of the trunk. Bruce got out of the car, but remained on his side, leaning against the door, gazing at Annabeth. If there was an ounce of regret, of disappointment, it was not visible on his face—which appeared to Annabeth to be more achingly handsome than she had ever noticed before.

Enough. Unconsciously, she straightened up, stiffening her spine for the long and lonely days ahead. The disappointment was sharper than she could have imagined-what hopes had she harbored, secret even to herself? No matter. She accepted the bag from Alfred, offered him what she hoped was a gracious smile but what she knew in her heart of hearts was more of a death-grimace than anything else. And just before she turned away from him, from Bruce, from the car, from the wreck of the weekend, she caught in Alfred's eyes a look of intense sympathy. It was enough to nearly make Annabeth come undone, and she stumbled past him, not bothering to hide the tears welling up in her eyes, and made her way up the steps. Her keys were in her hand, and she managed to unlock the security door with surprising speed. And so, occupied with this, with making as dignified an exit as possible, she did not take the opportunity to look back. That wasn't Annabeth's style. If it had been, she would have seen the brief look of raw agony in Bruce's eyes, and the deeply disappointed look Alfred had given him.

But Annabeth didn't see this. She was safely in her building, and she wasn't looking back. She straggled over to the elevator, blindly punching the button for her floor, and as she waited for the doors to open, she concentrated on breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Exhale. Focus on that.

She still didn't look back, only boarded the elevator, marveling it could still move at normal speed; the burden of the lead weight in her chest seemed to be dragging her down.

Almost there.

The elevator doors opened onto her floor, and Annabeth took one more deep breath, strengthening herself for...for what?

The rest of her life. She didn't like to admit it, but Bruce had brought an added...sparkle? to her otherwise flat, sometimes grey life. And she had walked away from it, walked away from the love that she had admitted to Elisa what, only two days before? Now, life no longer sparkled. It lay out in front of her, dull, monotonous, isolated...her hands trembled as this thought crossed her mind, and she nearly dropped her keys as she tried to insert them in the lock. She briefly thought of the Rolls Royce out on the curb...and then ruthlessly pushed this thought back. They were long gone, no doubt. Bruce had not made any attempt to get her to stay; he wouldn't, or couldn't.

And beyond the door to her home, what was there? A cold, silent, empty apartment. Janey and Jason had taken her pets for the weekend, so there was not even her cat and dog—those stereotypical staples of spinsterdom—to greet her.

She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened her door. She had made her bed, and she'd bloody well better like it.

Her resolve lasted all of thirty seconds after she had stepped into her home and closed the door behind her. As the silence closed in around her and reality began to assert itself, Annabeth slowly slumped down to the floor and succumbed to the howling sadness within her. Silently at first, and then with growing strength and volume, she began to cry.
_

"Don't look at me like that, Alfred."

Bruce had been studiously avoiding Alfred's gaze ever since they had dropped off Annabeth. He had avoided it through the crowded roads of the city, through the less-crowded freeways, through the inky black tunnel out of the city (it was easier to avoid Alfred's eyes in the darkness), and through the winding country roads that led through the Palisades. It had become more difficult as they grew closer to their destination, because Bruce was becoming more and more aware of the fact that Alfred would not allow him to weasel past without divulging some information explaining the weekend's unexpectedly disastrous conclusion. Alfred would want to know, and Bruce would have to tell him. When Alfred wanted or expected information from Bruce, Wayne Manor could become uncomfortably small and tight-quartered, indeed.

And now that the car was parked in the over-crowded, under-utilized garage, Bruce could no longer ignore the pointed looks Alfred had been giving him. "Don't."

"If I don't, who will?" Alfred was peeved, which was unlike him. "With all do respect sir, what the hell is going on?"

Bruce didn't answer him then. He didn't answer at all; merely assisted Alfred with unloading their overnight bags. The other items—the emergency gear, supplies, weaponry, and armor—which had been hidden in secret compartments, away from Annabeth's curious, sharp eyes, would be left there in the Rolls, to await close examination and maintenance performed by a conscientious butler who constantly worried about malfunctioning equipment. Bruce didn't answer as they made their way into the Manor; he didn't answer as, of one accord, they made their way to the secret entrance to the Batcave, and he didn't answer as together they rode the lift down. He didn't answer until they were esconced in the cool, quiet cave, with all the familiar equipment around them. Only then, as Bruce began to regain a sense of...normalcy...did he feel safe and comfortable enough to answer.

"What is going on," he began, and immediately noted with detachment that his voice seemed to carry throughout the cave, "is that today was a day of reckoning. I think Annabeth and I realized we couldn't go on anymore."

"I see," said Alfred. And then, "Go on with what?"

"With...what? With us. Dating. She knows something is up. She doesn't know what, but she knows something." Bruce stood at his worktable, gazing down at his blueprints, his half-assembled "toys", his lists, his research, his powerful computer. All of it, the evidence of his other life—his real life. "She thinks you're beating me, for chrissakes."

"Well, the desire is there, from time to time," Alfred observed drily. "But I forebear."

Bruce chose to ignore that. "She saw my back this morning. She wanted to know how I had gotten injured, and I wouldn't tell her. She thinks someone is abusing me, and she wants to help."

If Alfred was curious about how Annabeth had come to see his bare back, he made no comment on it. And presumably, he was well-versed enough in the ways of human nature to accurately guess what had ensued after he had left them the previous night. He merely listened as Bruce described what had unfolded earlier that day. He listened with a heavy heart as Bruce—so stubborn, so fixated, so obsessed—simply stated it as the most obvious and logical conclusion that of course he hadn't told Annabeth anything. Alfred had remained silent through the entire explanation.

Superheroes could be so damned stupid. With a supreme effort, Alfred restrained himself from strangling his employer and settled, simply, for a deeply disapproving look, which Bruce pointedly ignored. Privately, Alfred's heart went out to Annabeth.

Alfred watched as Bruce leaned over his workbench, head bowed. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was much more going on inside the younger man than he was choosing to reveal. He knew there was pain there, and disappointment. He just didn't know how to help.

Finally, he decided to withdraw. Without turning around, Bruce asked, "Where are you going?"

"I thought, sir, I could give you some time to work. I was going to head up to the Manor and see how things fared in our absence."

"Wait, I'll go up with you."

Alfred prided himself on his unflappability, his refusal to be floored by anything thrown at him. But here again was something new. "Are you...alright, sir?"

Bruce finally turned around from his workbench, and for one troubling, fleeting moment, Alfred got a glimpse of what Bruce would look like when he grew old. For just a second, he looked like a bitter, unhappy old man, tired and defeated, his physical vitality drained away by the vampire that was Gotham.

"You're not going to work tonight, sir?" Alfred struggled to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "And you won't...be going out, either?"

"Not tonight." Bruce didn't find it necessary to add that he was exhausted. The day had been the most grueling he had encountered in a very long time, and he needed a chance to lick his wounds. Humiliating, perhaps, but true.

Suddenly, unbidden and certainly unwelcome, Annabeth crossed his mind. Was she doing the same? Licking her wounds, going over events in her head, unable and unwilling to embrace the "nightlife" she loved?

Ruthlessly he shoved this aside. He shoved it aside as he rode the lift back up, as he bade Alfred good-night, as he ascended the staircase to his master suite, as he slowly, dispiritedly prepared for sleep. But when he finally climbed into his huge, empty bed, when he finally the pulled the covers up over him, when he finally had a chance to be still and be alone, when he finally was able to gaze up into the darkness, there was nothing else to distract him or demand he put up a front. In his room, there was no Annabeth from which he needed to hide anything; there was no Alfred, for whom Bruce felt compelled to put on a brave front. There was only him, and so, his bravado and indifference abruptly departed, leaving him with some very unpleasant realities.

He had screwed things up with Annabeth. He had exasperated and worried and hurt her, and then ultimately had driven her away. And he had most likely irrevocably damaged a very good, very productive, working relationship. He had gotten involved with Safe Haven because he has suspected Annabeth of selling out her own women, but he had remained involved because Annabeth was a resourceful woman, a useful ally, and because she had enchanted and intrigued him.

Was it really only less than 24 hours since he was with her, in her bed? What an awful difference one day could make. In that amazingly brief time, he had managed to alienate her and drive her out of his life. Without him being aware of it, without her even trying, Annabeth had become a vital part of his existence. She was the human side of Gotham, she represented all that was worthy in his city, all that was deserving of protection. But more than that-he simply loved her.

Dammit.

But his decision was made, and in his mind, it had been made a long time ago, as far back as when Rachel had walked originally away. There was nothing for him in this life, save for his city. No man can serve two masters. Annabeth had known something similar, and had tried to remind him of that. It was his own fault that he had talked her into making a go of it, and so it was doubly on his head for being unable to follow through. But there was nothing for it. They had chosen their paths, and the last day's events had shown how little opportunity there was to take a detour through life and love.

When Bruce and Annabeth awoke the next morning, each in their cold and lonely bed, neither felt the effects of a soothing, restorative sleep. Rather, they had both been plagued with an unease which invaded their dreams and tormented their rest and had awakened them frequently through the night.

But they were both creatures of habit, and predictable ones at that. They rose to meet the day, their resolve cemented by their sorrow. They would carry on and serve Gotham, the only way they knew how...

Alone.