Christmas in Gotham! Christmas in the city!
Gotham's celebration of this pagan holiday had no equals—at least as far as Gothamites were concerned. By the day after Thanksgiving, the majority of the city was prepared for the holiday, much as though it was an army battalion kitted for battle. The stores were stocked and the good citizens of the city were prepared to do their patriotic duty and shop until their credit card statements bled red ink.
The Nutcracker was scheduled for its sixtieth annual performance; the Christmas charity events were planned; the ice skating rinks were in full swing; the Salvation Army volunteers were poised with their mournful bells and their gently-applied guilt. The bakeries and caterers were already taking their orders from time-poor, money-rich families who wanted to impress with lavish dinners and extravagant parties. The carolers were gearing up, harmonizing, and trying to find new ways to outdo the previous year's performance.
And everywhere, everywhere, were decorations. The sidewalks and buildings were bedecked and bedazzling; the Solomon Center Christmas tree was a record-breaking 98-foot-high Norway Spruce, and a "green" one at that-not only in its LED lights, but the tree itself was "green". In typical Gotham fashion, no one questioned this rather strange claim but merely boasted of itss "greenness." The stores designed tantalizing displays of their most brilliant, luxurious merchandise; fairy lights were strung everywhere, on every street corner. In the more elegant Gotham residences, interior designers were consulted and color-coordinated decorations duly purchased and installed (never by the families). In the more humble households, mothers and fathers and children consulted and put up the general hodgepodge of elegant, new ornaments, old and hideous family heirlooms, and equally hideous but even more beloved handmade decorations made by the enterprising children in school.
It seemed as though every building, from the exalted Wayne Towers to the more humble Safe Haven, was doing its bit to put a brave face on what everyone knew—but no one admitted—was a potentially bleak holiday. The bank failures and unemployment lines of the autumn brought back to many the unhappy memories of the Depression of more than twenty years ago. The city's struggles were a reflection of the country's at large, but being in good company was not nearly enough of a comfort. And so everyone did what they could to make it a happy Christmas.
At Wayne Tower, an unexpectedly tense board meeting resulted with a rather grudging unanimous vote to light up the trademark "WT" with alternating red and green lights. During the height of the objections, Bruce briefly considered hurling plastic explosives at the chief opponent, whose main objection appeared not to be regarding expenses or based on religious objections, but rather the possibility that it would bring down the "classy" facade for which they strove.
Fortunately, cooler heads—and Lucius—prevailed before Bruce could seriously entertain forceful intervention.
In the Naval Tricorner Yards, Gordon and his eldest daughter conspired to make Christmas as enticing and special as ever for the younger Gordon offspring. Gordon baked—with predictably awful results—and one snowy night Barbara Jr. hauled home a particularly beautiful and fragrant Christmas tree. They both helped Jimmy and Hannah as they laboriously composed letters to Santa, they read Christmas stories, and they succeeded, more or less, in distracting the children from pondering their first Christmas without their mother. For Jim Gordon's wife was still closeted away in rehab, and not expected home any time in the near future.
In the Narrows, Maggie did the same thing she did every year: tiredly, she strung up a few lights and set out red and green dishes of chocolates and nuts. She had seen many Christmases, and would see many more; nothing special about it. The only reason she paid any notice to it at all was because, between Christmas and New Year's, her clientele—and therefore, cash intake—more than doubled. Christmas was great for misery, and misery was great for profits.
Wharfside was another story. In Little Mexico, the devout Catholics took time to prepare for the holiday, but elsewhere, no one could be bothered. Particularly not the goons safeguarding the Arrow's stash house, and especially not the increasingly frightened, malnourished young girls who had been charged to their tender care. Closeted as the girls were in their darkened room, they were scarcely aware of night changing into day, and Christmas was but a distant memory, and not something which existed in their current world of fear and pain.
That was one of the few, very few exceptions in Gotham. It was a city filled with worried, calloused, downtrodden people, but christ they knew how to party. What was Christmas but a license to party all month long? To celebrate, drink, eat, dance, and spend to excess, to enjoy one's self and to prove that, crime and economy and budget cuts and layoffs be damned, they would remember they were alive.
Even Trinity did her part to join in the seasonal cheer. Late one evening, in a wine-induced fervor of spending, she purchased a few hundred dollars worth of decorations and ornaments—inexplicably, in a Florida theme, complete with flamingos, palm trees, and speedo-clad santas—and then, two days later, watched grimly as the delivery men trooped in, one after the other, laden with the boxes.
Trinity believed in living with her mistakes. So she purchased a tree, unpacked the ornaments—and vowed to hide the credit cards the next time she chose to drink at home.
And of course, Safe Haven went on its own little Merry Christmas way, cobbled together by its inhabitants and employees, and unsurprisingly, became the recipient of a fair amount of bright, shiny Christmas cheer. And not surprisingly, its source was Bruce Wayne.
In the days following Annabeth's disturbing news—and Alfred's less than thrilled reaction to it—Bruce had spent a great deal of time thinking about how best to proceed with the situation. Alfred joined in, too, once he overcame his initial shock and disappointment, and proved to be his usual comforting, reliable sounding board self. He hustled Bruce up to the Manor and into the kitchen, where together the two men discussed the options as Alfred prepared breakfast.
"The problem is that you won't man up and tell her about your other identity," Alfred pointed out, "and you can't tell her that you know without revealing how you know."
"But I can't not do anything, either," Bruce responded miserably. "It's not right, on any number of levels. It's mine...ours," he corrected himself, almost anticipating Annabeth's anti-patriarchal retort, "and I've got a responsibility to do what's right...whatever that is."
Alfred had looked at Bruce expectantly, but Bruce did not extrapolate on what he thought "right" was...particularly when he did not yet know. Give money every month? Be a father? Head for the hills?
"She wouldn't..." Alfred paused, searching for the least distasteful phrasing. "She wouldn't try to...ahhh...seek a medical remedy, would she?"
Bruce took a moment to think before he responded. "I don't think so. She wanted a child, I know, but didn't think it was possible...not after what she went through in college. I don't think she'd throw away a chance like this."
"If the press gets hold of this, it will be a fiasco," Alfred mused. He poured cup of tea for Bruce and passed it to him. "I can't imagine what would happen."
"That's the least of my problems," Bruce sighed.
"It shouldn't be!" Alfred snapped. "The press would be crawling all over the Manor, the businesses, to say nothing of Safe Haven and Annabeth. And how do you think all that extra scrutiny will help along your nocturnal activities?"
"Sounds like you actually can imagine what would happen." Bruce snapped back. Tiredly, he lifted the cup of coffee and inhaled its fragrant, eye-opening steam. "It's not exactly something for which I have a contingency plan."
"Perhaps fortunately. I'd be worried if this was a scenario you had concocted a while ago." Alfred fell silent for a while as he contemplated the present predicament and the various options open to them. Finally, he was forced to admit that he had no brilliant ideas. "You've really backed yourself into a corner with this one, Master Wayne. The only thing that's certain is that this...baby...is one secret that won't stay that way."
Bruce poked at his breakfast. And then, more because he was grasping at straws, he said, "Well...just because she hasn't told me yet doesn't mean she's not going to, right? Maybe I should just give her the opportunity."
"This is true, sir. And you've not exactly been accessible lately. Perhaps it's time to make an appearance at Safe Haven?"
"I think it's time," Bruce agreed. And even if it wasn't, he still needed to be there, try to drag the truth out of Annabeth...because the alternative, admitting that he already knew, and then allowing her to realize how, was clearly no alternative at all. But still...at the end of the day...he still had to figure out what to do.
They certainly hadn't taught him to prepare for this scenario during his time with the League of Shadows.
"It's ruined." Annabeth was utterly disconsolate.
"Maybe you can fix it?" Maya was trying to be optimistic.
"What's the point? It'll just need fixing again. And again. It's worthless. Honestly, he was never that attractive to begin with."
"Well, if you're going to be like that, then clearly there won't be anything for you this Christmas. No wonder he decided to quit."
Donna had happened upon the two younger women as Maya made this last observation. "What's up? Dissecting Annabeth's love life?"
"Hardly." Annabeth rolled her eyes at her boss. "The glowing treetop Santa broke again. I think this time for good."
The three women gazed at the Santa in question. It was plugged into the wall, but its red suit—now faded to an unsightly burnt-orange—stayed resolutely dark. Every now and then, the rotund Santa face flickered, but each time it did, the outlet sizzled ominously.
"Well," Donna sighed. "I bought the damned thing at a rummage sale for a dollar—I'm amazed it lasted this long. Poor old thing had already seen better days."
"Why'd you get it, anyway?" Maya wrinkled her nose. "He's hideous."
Donna and Annabeth glanced at each other, and Annabeth's countenance took on a decidedly sheepish expression. Smirking, Donna told Maya, "When Annabeth came on board, she insisted we needed to be as nondenominational and undivisive with our Christmas decorations as possible. And so we got a bunch of generic, inoffensive ornaments. This little guy was the result."
"I don't know," Maya was unconvinced. "I'm pretty offended by him."
Annabeth smiled in spite of herself. "Well, there was certainly nothing divisive about this little guy...he united everyone in their loathing of him. It's tradition to make fun of him...was, anyway. No more, I guess." She gave the Santa a little kick, whereupon he burnt out completely.
The box from which the Santa had been unearthed contained several other Christmas decorations, all purchased long ago from dubious thrift shops and rummage sales. There were several more boxes still waiting to be sorted through, and as the fearless leader, Donna took it upon herself to kneel dwn and begin scrounging. "That Santa's probably a harbinger of doom for the rest of this crap. Looks like we'll have to ferret some money out of the general fund for some new stuff."
"Just about time, I think," Maya remarked, pulling out a headless elf. "I think the Avon ladies sold these...back when I was a kid."
Slowly, they began to work their way through the boxes, occasionally remarking upon how so many things could fall apart in the course of one year. By the time they reached the end of the task, there was a small pile of functional and not-hideous decorations, and a much, much larger pile of items which had been consigned to the rubbish heap.
Donna sighed. "Time to hump all this stuff down to the trash. Annabeth, why don't you and Maya do that while I start trying to conjure up some money for decorations?"
"Shouldn't be too difficult."
The three women turned around to the male voice which had unexpectedly chimed into the conversation. To no one's surprise but Annabeth's, Bruce Wayne had decided to pay a visit.
"Bruce!" Maya recovered first, and actually hurried over to give him a hug. "We haven't seen you in forever! I was beginning to get worried—I wanted to send you an invitation to my wedding, but I wasn't sure where to send it."
At the utterance of the word "wedding," Annabeth jerked around and began to be quite absorbed in digging around the cartons of decrepit ornaments. Bruce actually looked a little panicked, too; neither of their reactions were lost on Donna, who remained tactfully silent.
"Well, how about we meet later about it?" Bruce asked after a moment. He glanced over at Annabeth, who pointedly ignored him.
"Sounds good." Maya was a refreshingly happy person, and also perhaps a little self-absorbed, so she was quite oblivious to the misery in the room. "Why don't I go ahead and take this junk out, Donna, and you and Annabeth can meet with Bruce and get him caught up?" Happiness may have made her self-absorbed, but it made her generous, too. Unfortunately for Annabeth.
"Lovely idea," Donna smiled. "Annabeth, why don't you go ahead and gather your notes, and we'll all meet in ten minutes."
"Wonderful," Annabeth muttered. And then realized that the only one beside herself left in the room was Bruce, looking enigmatically at her.
In the few weeks which had lapsed between now and when they had last spoken and seen each other, Annabeth had worked diligently at banishing Bruce from her heart and mind. She had worked many late nights, she had spent time with Janey and Jason, she had even indulged in hobby-like things like cooking and recreational reading and exercising. She had cleaned her condo until it shone; she had begun the behemoth task of cleaning and organizing her office; she had worked herself to physical and intellectual exhaustion and come home many nights to collapse into her bed and fall asleep before she had the energy to think on melancholy matters.
In fact, her level of exhaustion was unusually high, even with her energy-sapping lifestyle. She hadn't questioned it at first. It wasn't until Thanksgiving dinner, when Stacy had made the comment about being on the rag, that Annabeth had realized, horrified, her period was almost ten days late. A hastily-procured home pregnancy test confirmed Annabeth's most unlikely suspicious: she was pregnant. An equally-hastily arranged doctor's appointment merely served to further underscore this strange fact.
"Most unlikely," the blithering wench of a doctor had remarked. "But improbabilities are still possibilities. Still, I'm surprised...we'll need to keep a close eye on you. There's plenty of room for complications. I don't like the look of your blood pressure, and you're a little older, and given your history-" the doctor had cut herself short. "That was foolish of me. I should have asked your plans—to keep or not to keep?"
Keep, of course. It was the one simple decision in all of this clusterfuck her life had unexpectedly become. It was everything else that was going to be harder. And now, seeing Bruce Wayne, the goddamned father of her unborn child, hovering around and casting brooding looks at her just made life even more difficult. She had not yet figured out how to broach the subject with him, and to complicate matters, his presence suddenly brought back some rather unhappy knowledge Annabeth had done her best to keep at bay: she was still in love with the damned man.
Silently she cursed herself, cursed her sweating palms, the leaden feeling in her stomach, the anxiety that was making her heart clench. Dammit all.
"How are you doing?" Bruce asked quietly.
"Fine," she answered, the curtness in her tone taking even herself by surprise. She began to head back to her office. "I'd ask about you, but according to the tabloids, you're doing just fine." Even as thr words were coming out of her mouth,she found herself momentarily stunned, and then embarrassed, by her own waspishness. Now where the hell had that come from? A remark like that only showed her hand—showed how bothered and e even jealous and piqued she was. Time to make a quick escape. She brushed past him, studiously avoiding his eyes. "Excuse me."
Bruce watched as she stalked down the hallway. It didn't take a genius to be able to tell that she wasn't going to make things easy for him, and she wouldn't be taking him into her confidence anytime soon...but then, when had anything in his life ever been easy?
The fact that he was most usually the source of his own difficulties was neither here nor there, of course.
The meeting in Donna's office was no less tense or awkward than their initial greeting had been. Annabeth remained resolutely, stonily silent for the majority of it, and Bruce made every effort to avoid looking over at her. Patiently, Donna took them through the key points of the meeting, and with commendable forbearance, tried to ignore the Atmosphere. This was rather difficult, as they were attempting to make the final preparations for the Take Back the Night rally, and there were still many little details to which they had to attend. They went through the checklist that they had prepared several weeks prior, discussing the various items which still needed their attention. Annabeth simply took notes.
At one point, Bruce finally caved. "It's coming together pretty easily, don't you think?" he asked Annabeth. "Particularly given Mayor Garcia's initial opposition."
"Mmm." Annabeth didn't look up from her notes.
A strained silence fell over the group. Bruce shot Donna a pleading look, Donna glared at Annabeth, and Annabeth blithely ignored them both. She had reached an almost zen-like state of supreme indifference. Each day she became further and further removed, emotionally, from Gotham, from Safe Haven, and therefore, from Donna's expectations and pressures. Annabeth was not long for the world of Gotham.
Finally Donna spoke, to alleviate the tension and to distract from what she saw as Annabeth's appalling rudeness. "Once the mayor was neutralized and we got Gordon in our corner, it was smooth sailing," she agreed. "Useful to know how easy things are when municipal bureaucracy isn't getting in your way."
"Speaking of Gordon," Annabeth piped up now as though it was an entirely normal conversation, "I've got an appointment with him over at MCU in less than an hour, and I know I don't want to be late." She started to rise, but Bruce's voice gave her pause.
"That's too bad—I was hoping I could take you and Donna to lunch." He hadn't been, but he was surprised to realize how much he wanted to prolong contact with Annabeth.
"Nope." Annabeth began to gather up her things.
"Can't you reschedule?" Donna was looking increasingly peeved. "I don't think I need to remind you that your Safe Haven duties come first."
"I don't think I need to remind you," Annabeth countered in a sickly-sweet voice, "That collaborating with the police is one of my Safe Haven duties."
Bruce had dropped any studied disinterest by this point ans was avidly observing the tense exchange between the two strong women. It was a strange role-reversal, to be sure: Annabeth appeared supremely unruffled, and even serene, while Donna grew pale with rage and her mouth tightened with annoyance. Clearly, her favored protégé had gone rogue, and it was not at all to Donna's liking.
And just like that, Annabeth was gone, leaving Bruce and Donna behind in a rather surprised silence. Bruce actually gave Donna the sympathetic look she usually reserved for him. "Feisty."
"I don't know what's gotten into her!" Donna exploded. "Bruce, please accept my apologies. There's no way I can even try to make nice and be diplomatic; you're completely within your rights to tell us to fuck off. God knows I'd take myself to far more grateful recipients-"
"Don't worry about it," Bruce said smoothly. "I'm not going to make anyone here suffer because of a fit of pique. Annabeth..." Here words failed him. "Well, anyway, the Wayne Foundation and I are completely behind you. I believe in what you're doing here."
"Tormenting billionaires?"
"Well, maybe most of what you're doing here," Bruce amended. "But who knows? The world would probably be a better place with more uppity women, anyway. Now—how do you propose we turn Safe Haven into a winter wonderland?"
It was perhaps no coincidence that, other than the Narrows, the one other place in Gotham that lacked the Christmas spirit was the one place which was dedicated to spending an inordinate amount of time fighting crime within the Narrows: Gotham City PD's Major Crimes Unit.
In its overcrowded, underfunded quarters, there simply was no room for fripperies like Christmas trees or gifts. And there certainly wasn't time, either, to indulge in such nonsense.
Annabeth took note of this; relished it, in fact, with misanthropic satisfaction, as she waited in the tiny lobby of the MCU. As a rule, she had no love lost for cops, but the complete indifference these hardbitten cops showed to the holiday was perversely pleasing to her.
"Annabeth?"
She snapped out of her strangely serene state of scrooginess to see a woman standing in front of her, gazing down, seemingly amused by her cross expression. Detective Montoya, she seemed to recall, was her name. Gordon's right-hand man, as it were.
"The Commissioner's ready to see you now. I'll take you to him."
Montoya held open the door which led through the Bullpen, the cramped, communal area where the majority of MCU's hardbitten investigators worked. Annabeth trailed after Montoya, gazing around at the various detectives as they moved around, occasionally hovering over a desk or making a beeline for a file cabinet here, a Xerox machine there, or the coffee pots, which seemed to be everywhere.
It was a far cry from what Annabeth remembered—these hardworking detectives were nothing like the crass, cruel Flass who had tormented Annabeth when she had come seeking justice. Certainly, some of these detectives she saw now were undoubtedly corrupt, but many more were probably Gordon's men and women, loyal and devoted to the concept of a better Gotham.
At least, she hoped they were.
"Sorry you had to wait a few minutes," Montoya said. "Things are a little crazier than normal."
"What's normal for Gotham, anyway?" Annabeth smiled. "Anything wrong?"
Montoya stopped so abruptly Annabeth actually ran into her. The detective's face was troubled.
"Yeah, actually, something is wrong." Montoya glanced around at the detectives. Satisfied that they were all too absorbed in their own tasks to pay attention to the women, she started speaking in low, hurried tones. "Remember when the Joker was raising hell?"
"Of course."
"One of the dirty cops, Anna Ramirez, got put away for a good long while for the part she played in all of that." Montoya frowned at the memory of her. "Well, looks like Ramirez's time cooling her heels in state prison is finally starting to drive her fucking nuts. She just did an exclusive interview with the Gotham Gazette—coming out this coming Saturday—on how Harvey Dent was really not the white knight everyone made him out to be. She's going to sing like a canary and expose him...and therefore, the little story that the Batman and Gordon cooked up to save his reputation."
"'Little story'?" Annabeth echoed.
"What, you didn't know? The Boss and his pal decided that Dent would have a better impact on Gotham than anyone else, so they covered up his...errors. All good and well in theory. But now that Ramirez is talking, Gordon's going to look incompetent at best and dishonest at worst."
"I'd figured there was more to the story than we were getting," Annabeth shrugged. "But this is good—the Batman's name will be cleared, right?"
Montoya rolled her eyes. "Great. Another fan. Yes, the Batman's name will be cleared, but at what cost? And even then, it's not like Hollywood's going to come around, give him a hug, and make a film out of him. There's a hell of a lot of people in this city that thought the Batman was bad news from the get-go. Damned bitch Ramirez just made things a hell of a lot harder for us. So we're in the middle of doing damage control before it hits the papers."
Just then, a lanky woman streaked across the room, catching Annabeth's attention and effectively stifling any response she was cooking up for Montoya. Annabeth watched as the woman made a beeline for the nearest coffee pot and poured the steaming black liquid into a styrofoam cup and downing it immediately. Only after she got her fix did she take a look around.
Right away, Annabeth knew who she was. With her brilliant, coppery-red hair, her disconcertingly level gaze, her various body piercings, and her slightly flamboyant manner, Annabeth knew she was beholding the legendary Barbara Gordon, Jr.
And Barbara was beholding her, too. She gave Annabeth an appraising look and immediately sauntered over to her. "Hello there," she said. "Detective, who's this civilian?"
"Out of bounds," was the immediate, crushing reply. "And watch who you're calling a civilian, cheeky. You're a graduate student. . This is Annabeth, and she's here to see your dad."
Barbara grinned. "Then we already have something in common. I'll take her in to see him, Detective...I was just swinging by to drop off some paperwork." She gave Annabeth a roguish wink, and was quickly on her way again, leaving Montoya looking resigned and Annabeth amused.
"Go on, follow her," Montoya said. "She's a force of nature, and it's just easier to roll along with her. Better hurry up, though, or you'll get lost."
So Annabeth followed Barbara—actually, followed the sound of her voice, strident and raucous, as she called out greetings to various colleagues of her father. By the time Annabeth caught up to her, Barbara was knocking on a door, presumably leading into one of the few private offices in MCU. Seeing Annabeth's surprised expression, Barbara smirked. "One of the few perks of being Commissioner." As the door swung inward, revealing a rather drawn-looking Jim Gordon, and a very cluttered, messy office, Barbara added, "And a dubious perk, at best."
Jim Gordon knew better than to question his daughter about the nature of her remarks. He also did not seem surprised to see Annabeth and Barbara turning up together at his office—but then, Annabeth assumed, being the father of Barbara probably inured Gordon to a great many of life's quirks and surprises. No wonder he kept company with the Batman.
"Hi, Pops." Barbara leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Just wanted to drop off the paperwork for Mom's health insurance—I drove out there this morning to pick up the signed forms. I can see you're busy, and as much as I'd love to stick around—" here she smiled at Annabeth again, "I've got to get back. Doing a research symposium this afternoon that I still have to do for."
Without giving Gordon a chance to respond, she spun around, gave them an absent wave, and disappeared back into the melee of the MCU.
"You look shell-shocked," Gordon remarked. "It's alright, Barbara does that to everyone the first time she meets them. She drives me crazy, but she's putting a big part of her life on hold to help her family. Couldn't ask for a better girl."
"I'd definitely want her in my corner," Annabeth agreed. "Good morning, Commissioner."
"Ah, yes. Business. Come in." Gordon stepped aside to allow her past, and then shut the door firmly behind him. "Have a seat." He waited until Annabeth had settled herself into one of the battered chairs before he took his seat, too. "Are we ready to get this thing done?"
Annabeth had spent too much time around prevaricating politicians to immediately accept such a can-do attitude. "I suppose it depends on what you mean by 'get it done.'"
Gordon actually smiled, and the warm expression did a great deal to banish the careworn lines which had slowly made their way into his kindly face. "A fair point. I understand that you have some critical information for me?"
"I do." Annabeth frowned and assumed her most no-nonsense, formidable expression. "And while I'm aware that there will be nothing legally binding about this agreement, I want your word that after I give you this information, you and your department will do your best by the victims of the Arrows."
Gordon's eyebrow quirked up. "Sounds intriguing. How many 'victims' are we talking, here?"
"Hard to say. Maybe more than fifty—and that's if we act soon. If we sit on this, it's only going to get worse."
"How bad are we talking here?" Gordon's face had resumed its previous grave expression.
"God only knows. Commissioner...you know that human trafficking is a major problem here in the US—elsewhere, too, but let's focus on the domestic side—not the least reason being that generally the cops take out the traffickers and deport the victims while ignoring the demand which creates the business. Not exactly a thorough and studied treatment of the issue, is it?"
Gordon had long since trained himself to sit back and observe when Annabeth got herself wound up. "No. Not at all."
"The victims are the ones who are punished—almost every time. We can't send them back to Eastern Europe, or whatever fucking hellhole they came from, Gordon." Annabeth leaned forward, her eyes burning. "Come on, help me here. Help me make a difference."
There was no denying her—when Annabeth decided to pursue something, she would never fall off the trail. She was faithful to her cause, and she would force others to bow to the justice in it, too.
Gordon sighed, and Annabeth knew she had won—not that it was a particularly difficult battle. She knew Gordon was one of the good guys. "Before we move ahead on this, we'll need to get the Feds and the INS behind us on this," she added.
Working with one bureaucracy was hard enough—but working with Gotham City, in addition to at least two federal bureaucracies and a nonprofit? Gordon personally considered herding feral cats to be easier than that. And apparently, Annabeth sensed his reluctance, for she delivered her winning card. "If we don't get all the help we need, Stacy will consider withdrawing her testimony."
Shock, then anger, and then grudging admiration crossed over Gordon's face as he considered Annabeth's words. Without Stacy's witness statement and testimony, they lost some of the essential incriminating information about and against Boy-o—and they needed Boy-o. As distasteful as it was, a plea bargain would most likely be the order of the day—Stacy incriminated Bo-yo, Boy-o incriminated the Arrows. And Annabeth was willing to risk it all to protect the Arrow's next batch of victims. Was she bluffing?
Gordon studied Annabeth's face and decided not to take that chance. The woman had a spine of steel and a flinty will, and it simply wasn't worth the risk. When it came down to it, Gordon would rather go against the entrenched bureaucracy than Annabeth de Burgh. "Fine," he sighed. Seeing her triumphant smile, he added, "I'll do everything from my end...but I can't promise that the Feds will cooperate."
Annabeth smiled grimly. "I can't ask for anything more than that."
The impasse now circumvented, Gordon moved on to the details. "We won't be able to do anything until we get confirmation that the women are here in Gotham, and how many there are."
"As soon as I hear anything, I'll tell you. I'm waiting for the information, myself." Indeed, at that particular moment, Annabeth looked as though she were hovering just above the streets of Gotham, watching, waiting for her move. "And once we get that information, you'll go ahead with the bust?"
"Within a day or two. " He grinned as a thought occurred to him. "I'll see if I can get the DA to incict Boyo at the same time—it'll help if we can roll this all into one big media brouhaha."
"For once, I think we're on the same page."
Gordon's brain was jumping from one logistic to another. "Will your friend want to be involved?
"My friend?" Annabeth drew a blank for a moment. "Ah. You mean my cross to bear? The winged rodent? I'm sure. And I'll let you clue him to the details." She rose from her seat and began to gather her coat and purse; as far as she was concerned, the interview was over.
Gordon was surprised. "You don't want to fill him in on the details?"
Annabeth gave him a twisted smile, almost more of a grimace. "Something tells me he'll know them before either of us have a chance to tell him. And anyway, I've had about all I can take of any male, superhero or otherwise, for a while."
With that, she departed, almost gracefully, leaving Gordon exasperated, bemused, and with twice the amount of work that he had before. Still, he reminded himself as he began to tackle the immense task ahead of him, it was still less than Annabeth dealt with.
It wasn't even quite mid-afternoon when Annabeth returned to Safe Haven, but the place was strangely quiet, as though all of the occupants had gone to sleep, or else disappeared. As she walked through the halls and noted how everyone seemed to be elsewhere, Annabeth grew suspicious. And her suspicions were confirmed as soon as she stepped into her office and saw Donna awaiting her return. The older woman's face was like a thundercloud, and Annabeth correctly surmised that their residents had all, prudently, retreated to less public—and therefore removed from Donna—areas.
This didn't faze Annabeth in the slightest. "Hello!" she greeted her boss cheerfully, carefully setting her purse down and hanging up her coat. Not waiting for Donna to return her greeting, she plopped herself down at her desk and commenced orienting herself—checking her email, glancing at her phone (six missed calls), eying the pile of mail which Maya had delivered—without inquiring about Donna's presence.
"Annabeth."
Of course Annabeth turned to Donna—anything less would have been rudeness and insubordination of the highest order. But as Donna took in Annabeth's expression—again, that strange serenity—she was struck by the unhappy awareness that maybe, just maybe, Annabeth had moved beyond her sphere of influence. It was very possible that Annabeth, quite simply, no longer gave a damn about what was proper, and had decided to follow her own conscience.
God only knew where it would take her.
"Annabeth," Donna said again, with every ounce of power and authority she could summon. It wasn't enough to bring Annabeth to heel, but it was at least enough to make her listen. "What in god's name are you about here?"
"Doing my job."
"Since when is it your job to go around, trying to piss off our single most generous benefactor?" Donna demanded. Even as she spoke, she could feel her control over her anger starting to slip.
"Since when it is my job to whore myself out to him?" Annabeth volleyed back. "Because as I recall, trying to romance billionaires wasn't something we covered in my job interview."
"It's covered by 'other duties as assigned' in the job description. Annabeth, give it a rest. Whatever beef you've got with Bruce Wayne, you need to get over it on your own time. But here-" Donna gestured around Annabeth's tiny office, noting as she did that it seemed less crowded and disorganized than it normally did. Annabeth had been cleaning house. What the hell? When did Annabeth ever do that? "Here," she continued, "here at Safe Haven, you do what it takes to get the job done. And in case you forget," Donna added, seeing Annabeth begin to open her mouth, "The job is to help our clients. The job is to get the money to help our clients. The job is to make nice to the people who can pay to help our clients. And with that definition, you've been doing a pretty piss-poor job lately."
"Yeah?" Annabeth seemed distinctly unruffled, the exact opposite of Donna. "Well, I think the best solution is for you to find someone else to do the job then. Because I'm done." She calmly rose from her office chair, ignoring Donna's outraged expression. "It seems that your vision for Safe Haven differs dramatically from mine, these days, and I don't want to be an obstacle. And I also don't want to be the disposable date for whenever you want to start courting the next wallet."
Her pronouncement was met with stunned silence. Donna was at a loss for words, torn between fury, shock, and instantaneous regret. As Annabeth proceeded to calmly gather her belongings, however, Donna was galvanized into action.
"Jesus, Annabeth, you don't have to take your toys and go home." Donna collapsed into the chair facing Annabeth's desk, aware that the younger woman had paused and was looking at her. "I'm sorry. I was...harsh."
Annabeth didn't respond. Donna glanced up at her and saw that her eyes were brimming over with unshed tears, and her hands were trembling. "Annabeth?"
Anabeth bowed her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. Before she could stop them, the words tumbled out. "I'm pregnant."
Had Annabeth raised her head, she would have seen a progression of very strange expressions dance over her employer's face. Surprise, joy, and sadness each fleetingly passed over, finally to be crowded out by a grave seriousness as she took in the implications. When she spoke, she struggled to keep her voice from betraying the reproach she longed to give to Annabeth. "How much do you earn in a year?"
"Not enough."
"How much does Bruce Wayne earn in a year?"
"Too much."
"And between the two of you, you couldn't cough up five dollars for a rubber?"
Annabeth laughed, and then coughed, choking on her tears. "I know. This wasn't supposed to happen."
"You think? You're not even supposed to be able to get pregnant!"
"Needless to say, I fired my ob-gyn." Annabeth looked helplessly at Donna. "What on earth am I supposed to do?"
"You're asking the wrong woman, Annabeth. The only child I've ever successfully raised was Timmy, and I'm doing that on my own. You and Bruce will figure it out." A thought occurred to Donna. "What's Bruce think about this, anyway?"
Annabeth mumbled her answer so quietly that Donna had to ask her to repeat it—and then again. Finally Annabeth snapped, "He doesn't know!"
If she had thought that that would be enough to silence Donna, she was sorely mistaken.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Donna demanded. "That's the most selfish—the most foolish thing I've ever heard. If you think for one minute Bruce would stand by and let you take his child away without saying, without knowing anything about it-"
"It's Bruce, Donna." Annabeth gestured to the stack of newspapers which had been piling up on her desk. "Something tells me he doesn't lose a lot of sleep at night worrying about his love children."
"I think you're sorely mistaken, and I think you'll regret it." Donna looked grim. "In fact, I think we'll all regret it—I think Bruce Wayne will be personally responsible for making sure that happens. And I am not going to be in the line of fire if that happens, and neither will Safe Haven." A thought struck her. "And I'm not going to let you commit the biggest fuck-up of your life, either."
"What are you talking about?" For the first time, Annabeth looked uncertain.
"Bruce Wayne's Charity Gala is going to be on December thirteetnh—I've already said you will go, and you will go. If you haven't told him by the end of that night, so help me god, Annabeth—I will."