From the headlines of the December 13th edition of The Gotham Gazette:
The Two Faces of Harvey Dent: An Imposter Revealed
In the days and weeks following the death of Harvey Dent and his fiance Rachel Dawes, as well as the destruction and chaos wrought by the criminal known as Joker and the vigilante known as the Batman, the citizens of Gotham drew enormous strength and comfort from the knowledge that the city's honor was ultimately upheld by the noble Dent. This man, we believed, had devoted his life to the public service of Gotham, and suffered an untimely death for the same reason. It was unjust, unexpected, unwarranted—and all too common in the history of Gotham.
And it appears that we, the citizens of Gotham, were horribly mistaken.
New information has come to light about the chaos which unfolded during that time, and the part in it that Harvey Dent played. Gotham City PD-MCU has, up until this point, portrayed Dent as a victim in a crime spree engineered by the Batman, but within the last week, a former investigator for MCU—herself imprisoned for the role she played in the crimes—has stepped forward from her jailcell with damning testimony of the truth behind Harvey Dent.
(Story continued on Page A3).
Even in her wild, heedless days of college, when she threw caution to the wind and tasted the nectar of freedom for the first time, Annabeth had not needed deadlines. She had slaved away at her studies, written her papers, turned in her assignments, all with plenty of time to spare, because even when Annabeth had been hungover, she was no fool: she knew her education would be the key to her survival.
So, deadlines were a previously useless, foreign concept. And yet, on December 13th, for the first time since she could remember, Annabeth was confronted with a deadline. And she had no clue as to how she could make it.
It had been looming over her all week, since she had told Donna her news...and since Donna had thrown down the gauntlet. Objectively, Annabeth knew that Donna was right; Annabeth may have been a ball-buster, but she had a strong sense of ethics and knowledge of what was just. Bruce deserved to know about her...predicament, however he ultimately decided to handle it. She knew that...she just didn't know how to tell him, particularly since she had not exactly left the way open for harmonious communications. And...how on earth was she supposed to find the opportunity to tell him tonight, of all nights, when he was hosting another enormous party, and everyone would be demanding his attention?
These were the thoughts that slammed into Annabeth's brains as soon as she awoke on the morning of the Christmas charity party. And then, as she became aware of the angle of the sunlight streaming in through the condo windows, another, more immediately dismaying thought slammed into her brain. Oh shit. I overslept.
She grappled about on her nightstand for her alarm clock—almost 9:45! She bolted up and instantly regretted it as a wave of dizziness swamped her. "Pregnancy's going to kill me," she muttered to herself. "Dammit." She was supposed to have met Janey for breakfast at 8:30; clearly, that ship had sailed. Reaching over for her cell phone, she immediately saw that there were several missed calls, all of them undoubtedly from her stood-up best friend.
She was distracted from this as her ears caught the sound of keys rattling and the front door being unlocked and opened. It could only be Janey, grown tired of waiting and so hunting her down with the power of the copy of keys Annabeth had given her ages ago.
Sure enough, "Good morning!" Janey's voice rang out through the condo, galvanizing Jed and Wurzel out of the bed and into the hallway, making species-appropriate noises as they begged for food. Wearily, Annabeth followed them.
Janey was kicking the door shut behind her as she carefully juggled a thermos, a rather large brown paper bag, a backpack, and a gown still in its dry-cleaner wrappings. "Good lord, woman, here I am, up at the ass-crack of dawn to track something down for you to look good in tonight—no easy task, I might add—and then you don't even have the decency to meet me and buy me breakfast as a thank-you? Ungrateful bitch."
Annabeth was already taking the brown paper bag, from which enticing smells were emanating. "Wench," she answered absently. "What'd you bring me?"
"Tea, hot muffins, fruit salad, and turkey bacon, still hot." Janey smiled affectionately as she watched Annabeth set the bag down and begin pawing through it. "And a nice dress that I picked up off the clearance rack down at Nordstroms. Although how much longer you'll be able to fit into it remains to be seen."
Annabeth nearly dropped the container of fruit. "What?"
"I was kidding," Janey grinned. "It'll be at least another month or two before you start to show."
"What...how...?"
Janey made her way into the kitchen and began to pull dishes out of the cupboard. "I'm a nurse," she pointed out with some asperity. "Sometimes I think I can tell more than the damned doctors can. I can put two and two together...and I know when one plus one equals three, too, I might remind you." She flashed a sharp look at Annabeth. "You tell Bruce yet?"
Annabeth shook her head, trying to get over how stunned she was. "No..." Seeing Janey's face of disapproval, she added, "If you've got any bright ideas as to how, let me know—I've got to tell him tonight."
Shrugging, Janey started doling out the breakfast foods. "That's a tough one. Any chance you can just have the baby and leave it on his doorstep?"
"Unlikely."
"Anyway, telling him should be the least of your problems. Holy christ, Annabeth, you're pregnant. We didn't think this could happen."
"I'm still trying to figure it out, myself. I'm switching ob-gyns—I want the best care possible. I think there could be risks still." Worry—as though she didn't have enough of it already—began to creep into her mind.
Janey saw the shadow cross over Annabeth's face. "It's going to be okay. You'll have a safe, healthy pregnancy and delivery, and soon enough you'll kiss a full night's sleep goodbye and curse the luck that got you pregnant."
"I'm not there, yet. Once I get past tonight, I'll focus more on that. But for now..." Annabeth cast a look at the gown Janey had brought in; it was a silent and dreadful reminder of the ordeal ahead.
The two women began to devour their belated breakfast, but before they could become too set into their normally silent meal, Janey blurted, "Oh! Oh!"
"Eh?"
"Since you overslept, I guess you didn't hear the news..."
"Not unless it was piped into my dream cycle. What's the latest—Bruce Wayne fathers love child with emu?"
"Better." Janey leaned in and grinned triumphantly. "It appears that your friend of the night has been exonerated."
"What are you talking about?"
Janey hauled up her backpack and began rummaging through it. After a moment, she emerged with the day's newspaper, all rolled up. She spread it out on the counter so that Annabeth could have the full benefit of the headlines screaming out at her. "The Batman. He's the good guy again, it seems."
"Lord." Annabeth was momentarily distracted from her own personal predicament as she read the lurid details: Harvey Dent going off the deep end (no surprise, there), rampaging against innocent and guilty alike, ultimately attacking the Commissioner, his family, and the Batman before dying. "A lot's going unsaid here, don't you think?" she said as she read through the details. "This woman, what's her name? Ramirez. She's in prison now for her role in this...why's she talking now?" She remembered what Detective Montoya had told her the other day, but she was still suspicious.
"Who knows? I think it's the truth, though. Killing Dent and the Mob bosses and all those others, that's not exactly the Batman's MO, is it?" Janey pointed out. "You've worked with the man, what do you think?"
Annabeth shook her head. "I think there's no one truly innocent in this city. But I think that while he's not innocent, he's also notguilty. And I think that, for once, the conversation at this shindig tonight will be mercifully interesting."
"Thank god for small blessings," Janey snorted. "Now, let's get you showered and trussed up in this dress and think of all the unlikliest of ways you can say 'Hey, congratulations, you knocked me up.'"
"Actually," Annabeth frowned musingly, "that's the best phrasing I've heard yet. Think I should try it?"
"Only if I'm there and you plan to do this in public. In front of everyone. Otherwise it just wouldn't be worth my time." Janey had already moved on to the more pressing logisitics of Annabeth's appearance. "However you end up telling him, the only thing that I'm concerned about is that you don't look like a slattern when you do. Now get in the shower."
Several hours later, Annabeth was navigating Janey's car down the lonely Palisades roads, once more making her way to the home of Bruce Wayne. She was driving slowly, carefully, but this had more to do with the fact that she was putting off the moment of her arrival as much as reasonably possible. She had no idea what the night held in store for her, but the one predictable element would be Donna. Her interfering boss had promised to be there the entire evening, keeping a watchful eye upon her. Making sure Annabeth sealed her own fate.
"She's right, you know," Janey had said unexpectedly to Annabeth earlier that day as she had diligently struggled to work Annabeth's hair into some sort of elegant style. Seeing Annabeth's querying look in the mirror, Janey extrapolated. "Donna. She's right about forcing you to do this, to tell Bruce. I don't think you would have told him, otherwise.
"I think you're probably right," Annabeth had agreed, nodding. This movement only earned her a gentle smack upside the head from Janey. "And don't look at me like that—I know he deserves to know. I know that it's the right thing to do. But what's right isn't always easy—"
"And what's easy isn't always right. Yeah, yeah, I've heard that one before. No excuse." Janey jabbed a bobby pin into Annabeth's head. "You know what's right. You'll do it, I know you will. You always do what's right and fair. You'll just bitch a lot beforehand."
She was right, of course. Annabeth would do the right thing. She had grown up without parents, without family, and she wouldn't deprive her child of the little family it would have.
If she managed to have it.
That was the rub, the truly frightening thing that eclipsed everything else, even the problem of telling Bruce. Annabeth was focusing more on how to reveal things to him, so that she could avoid the real problem: managing to give birth to a baby with no problems, no complications. When she actually paused long enough to think about the potential risks involved, her insides froze with a fear that she had never before encountered.
Enough. One problem at a time—she still had no idea how she was going to tell Bruce. And even more alarmingly, she had no idea how she was supposed to have a conversation with Bruce that wouldn't remind her of the fact that she was still unhappily, and probably obviously, very much in love with him.
Suddenly Wayne Manor loomed before her, ablaze with thousands of tastefully, artfully arranged fairy lights, looking benevolent and inviting against the cold, wintery twilight. It was time.
If you've been to one Wayne party, you've been to them all. As snarky as this thought was, it didn't make it any less true, Annabeth realized. Same valet attendants. Same enthusiastic sense of revelry. Same extravagantly dressed crowds. Same bitchy boss waiting to ambush her right outside the main entrance...
Oh wait. That's new.
Donna joined Annabeth's side as the younger woman stepped out of Janey's Honda and passed her keys on to the valet attendant. "You came."
Annabeth looked at her boss, bedecked in a floor-length gown of black satin and quite at ease. "Hello," she said cautiously. Relations had not been particularly warm between them since Donna had issued her ultimatum. "I suppose you're here to spy on me?"
"That's one way to look at it," Donna smiled. Then she linked her arm through the crook of Annabeth's elbow and guided her forward. "So, yes. But also, I figured you could use some moral support tonight. You're not the first person in the world to go through something like this...and so there's no reason why you have to go through it alone, without a friend."
The look of gratitude Annabeth gave Donna expressed far more than simple words ever could. At the end of the day, Donna was her ally—quite possibly the only one she had.
"Any idea of how you're going to tell him?" Donna muttered in her ear as they joined the throng of party-goers lining up to pass through the entrance.
"Haven't a clue. The thought of giving him a 10000 Baby Names book crossed my mind." They both flashed their engraved invitations to the impeccably-dressed but threateningly stoic security guards at the entrance and stepped into the light and warmth of Wayne Manor. Just beyond the bouncers stood Bruce Wayne, with Alfred at his side...and several females surrounding him.
"Not exactly sure how this is going to happen," Donna hissed. "But if ever you have operated with discretion, now would be the time to do it. Keep your mouth shut until we get them away from those harpies. Bruce," she added in a louder, warmer tone as they drew close. She leaned in and proffered a cheek to him, which he dutifully kissed. "So lovely to see you."
"Likewise." Bruce's eyes, revealing nothing, danced away from Donna and took in Annabeth, standing back silently and letting Donna do the talking. "Thank you for coming." This he said to Annabeth.
A moment of tense, expectant silence stretched out between them. Annabeth felt Donna's grip tighten on her elbow. Her throat constricted, she could not talk—but she forced herself to meet Bruce's gaze and give one, brief nod. And then they were sweeping past, heading into the Manor, joining the revelries.
"It was fine." Donna was leaning in so close that no one else could hear. "You were remarkably...not an asshole to him. And then wasn't the right time to tell him. We'll find a way to do it tonight."
It was so far removed from her hostile ultimatum of earlier in the week that Annabeth could not help but to draw back and stare in amazement. "Sometimes I don't know whose side you're on," she remarked.
Donna smiled sadly. "Sometimes I don't, either."
If you've been to one Wayne fundraiser, you've been to them all.
Vicki Vale made a mental note of this, and then laughingly, silently scolded herself for internalizing the same ennui that seemed to emanate from the very clean, well-maintained pores of every monied attendee in the Manor. She was not one of them, and so there was always the possibility of seeing something new.
And at any rate, it was a chance for her to wear the new stilettos she had snagged with part of her Christmas bonus.
Her eyes darted around, skimming over the usual suspects (really, Gotham society did become a bit limited after so many of these parties) and seeking out new blood. Bradford Winston and his new wife were not present—all sources were in agreement that the obnoxiously happy couple had taken a honeymoon trip down to Africa to celebrate with Elisa's missionary parents. There was Annabeth de Burgh—now that was a little surprising, but not completely unexpected. She was circulating with a tall, blonde woman ("of a certain age, but well maintained" was Vicki's diplomatic way to describe her) that Vicki knew to be her boss Donna Drake, and who was no stranger to the social scene. Despite Donna Drake's presence, Annabeth's appearance was most advantageous. There was a story there, and Vicki had been sniffing it for a while...
Ah, who was that? Vicki could not help to notice the tall, gangly young woman who seemed to tower over most of the other women in the room. She was dressed in a vintage gown—so out of fashion it was in fashion, in a rather annoyingly hipster sort of way—sporting a spiky hairdo, and sticking close to the side of Commissioner Gordon. But there was nothing uncertain about this young woman, Vicki could tell. Her eyes were twinkling and she had a ready smile and a rather braying laugh for anyone who paused to speak with her. Socially hopeless, of course, but no less fascinating. Vicki moved through the crowds and headed over to her.
And so it was that Barbara Gordon Jr. came to the rescue of Annabeth de Burgh and Bruce Wayne without even meaning to.
While the food, the people, the entertainment, even the decorations were a little rote, a little...predictable, the one thing that was different was the conversation. As Annabeth had predicted, tongues were wagging all over the Manor about the news of the month: the unexpected exoneration of the Batman.
More than a few men and women looked askance at Commissioner Gordon, silently wondering what role he had played in the strange events and the stranger revelations that had only just come about. Most, however, were more focused on the glamorous aspect of the situation, and the burning question that they were all wondering: would the Batman be publicly cleared? Would he resume the high-profile activities which had first catapulted him into the city's spotlight, as it were?
"No need for him to come around anymore," one garrulous and clueless older man said to Donna and Annabeth. By his florid face and occasional hiccups, he was already deep in his cups. "Crime's down, we certainly don't notice anything, do we?"
"Don't you think," Annabeth asked sweetly, "the lack of crime you notice might have something more to do with where you live, and your socioeconomic status?" She felt Donna's fingers dig warningly into her arm, and made sure to punctuate her point with an equally sugary smile.
The man shrugged. "I think it's more likely that the lower your socioeconomic status, the more likely it is that you're going to be involved in the crimes that are still being committed."
"More champagne, sir?" Alfred miraculously appeared, bearing a tray of the offered liquid. The man helped himself and promptly wondered off, no doubt in search of more tractable company. The three people he left behind simply looked at each other for a moment, each with their own private thoughts.
Finally Alfred smiled. "That was Grant Forrester," he told them. "Great-great-grandson of the business tycoon Fitzwalter Forrester, and heir to the family fortune, if not the family brains. Not exactly known for enlightened or empathetic business strategies."
Donna took one of the flutes of champagne that he offered, and passed Annabeth a flute of sparkling water while she was at it. "We appreciate the intervention. And actually...may I leave Annabeth here in your company for a while? I see a few acquaintances I need to say hello to, and I'd hate to drag Annabeth all around the room. She's feeling a little under the weather."
"Certainly," Alfred smiled. "It's been a few weeks, so we'll have plenty to discuss while I keep Miss Annabeth out of trouble."
It had to happen, Annabeth knew that. Donna was forcing her further along into the quest of meeting the evening's deadline. It was only a matter of time before Bruce came around looking for his butler...she swallowed nervously and noticed that her mouth had gone dry with dread and apprehension. A heavy feeling of dread began to take root in the pit of her stomach, and she felt her heart rate increase.
Alfred smiled benignly down upon her. He was about to speak...
"Well, hello there!" Katie Moriarty, wife and puppetmaster to the President of Gotham University and one of the more useful contacts Annabeth had made within the last few months, suddenly appeared at Annabeth's elbow. "It's been too long. Where have you been?"
"Ah...holidays," Annabeth offered lamely. She smiled at the woman who accompanied Katie, yet another blonde woman. "April, isn't it? I think I met you at a fundraiser earlier this year." Not very stimulating conversation, if she recalled, but that wasn't surprising, and she had long since ceased to hold it against these people.
April nodded, and dull conversation or not, she certainly had a warm enough smile. "You're right, I'm April. Katie's sister-in-law. Thank you, Alfred," she said as she too helped herself to the champagne. "Katie and I were just talking about the Batman."
"Who isn't?" Katie rolled her eyes. "My lord, I've said from the beginning that the man wasn't bad. Remember? That night at the hotel? I told you we should give the man a medal."
April screwed up her eyes, trying to remember. "Wasn't that the night that Bruce hopped into the fountain with a couple of models? And then bought the hotel?"
"That's the night," Katie agreed. And then, glancing at Annabeth, tactfully steered the subject into less awkward territory. "Anyway, I said it then, and I'll say it now: he's done this city a lot more good than most of us have done. Give the man a medal and let him go on his way."
April was done agreeing that Katie was the sharper woman. "Yes, well...hopefully he won't be turning up at tonight's party."
Katie snorted. "He only did that the once, right, Bruce?"
To Annabeth's dismay, Bruce had surfaced and joined their group. He glanced around, took them all in. "Only the once," he agreed. "With the Joker guy. Wrecked a damned good party."
April laughed, and for the first time, there was a slightly challenging edge to her voice. "Not that you'd know—you hit the panic room before the Batman ever showed up."
Bruce ducked his head sheepishly but made no effort to deny it. "I'm not great in combative situations."
Never known for her tact, April offhandedly asked, "Wasn't that the last time we saw Rachel?"
A tense silence fell over the tiny group. Annabeth watched Bruce's expression carefully. That blank look, the one she had come to know and dread, slipped over his face for a moment. "That was the last time we saw Rachel socially," he agreed.
Katie was giving April dirty looks.
Rachel. How could Annabeth forget? Even when she and Bruce were at their closest, Bruce had always seemed to carry a private grief for her. Rachel. Rachel Dawes. Dead and gone, not forgotten. And Annabeth suspected that a flame still burned very brightly in Bruce's heart, in memory of his almost love. What was it that he had said, so long ago, that night that they had first kissed? "I would have walked on a bed of nails for her, jumped out of a thirty-story building, even." Damn, she was a fool to have forgotten and ignored it.
Quite unaware of Annabeth's agonies, clueless April was still prattling on. "God, I'll never forget that night. I think a few of us thought, for one sick second, that the Joker coming in was some sort of warped prank of yours." She shuddered. "There's not a doubt in my mind about what he would have done if-"
"If the Batman hadn't shown up and fought him," Katie pointed out patiently.
"Whatever, he still did enough damage. But you're right, thank god the Batman was there—he jumped quick enough to save Rachel when that bastard threw her out the window. I'll give him that. Didn't hesitate for a second to jump out of a thirty story building."
Annabeth spat out a mouthful of water.
Instantly, Bruce realized what had happened. He, too, remembered the night he had said to Annabeth what he would have done for Rachel. And he saw, just now, the stunned expression on her face as the last, damning connection was made.
Sweetly clueless as ever, and completely indifferent to the fact that her Jimmy Choos now sported a mixture of water and saliva, April thumped Annabeth on the back. "You poor thing, I think it went down the wrong way. Are you okay?"
Desperately, Bruce put an arm around Annabeth. "I think she needs some air. Alfred, can you give me a hand?"
Alfred knew something was very, very wrong. He immediately set his tray down on the closest table and came to Annabeth's other side. "Excuse us, ladies."
Katie and April watched in surprise as the three of them began to wind their way through the crowds.
"Touchy girl," April remarked to Katie. And then glanced down in dismay as she finally noticed her shoes, but not before adding, "She looks like she just saw the Batman."
Speechless with shock, Annabeth meekly allowed Bruce and Alfred to steer her through the scented, bejeweled, grand crowds of revelers who had no idea of the potential drama which was unfolding before their very eyes. Bruce and Alfred didn't pause for a second; in fact, as Alfred peered over the top of Annabeth's lowered head and saw Bruce's grim face, Bruce simply mouthed "She knows," and that was all it took for Alfred to speed up his pace.
Without conferring on this point, and as of one accord, they found themselves heading towards the study. The study. Deep enough into the Manor to be out of the way of most of the guests, and of course, right there at the entrance to Bruce's biggest secret. Mercifully, the study was empty, and Alfred guided Annabeth to the nearest chair. She slumped forward and buried her head in her hands.
"I'm going for some water," Alfred murmured to Bruce, and gave him a meaningful glance. "I think you two need to talk."
That much was patently obvious, but what to say?
Annabeth answered this question for him. As Alfred quietly made his departure, she raised her head and focused on Bruce. "You...you. You're...him."
Bruce simply stayed where he stood and looked at her. Waited.
"How can you be him? The Batman?" Even as Annabeth asked this question, her brow furrowed in thought, in recollection. One memory after another, one strange action after another, one cryptic remark after another, all of them crowding into her head and demanding her acknowledgment.
"You both...came into my life around the same time," she muttered. Looked at Bruce to confirm, which he did with a terse nod. "You were investigating me, weren't you?"
Another nod. His eyes were as hard and cold as Arctic ice; his face was an expressionless mask. For that, for intruding into her life in two different guises, he would not apologize.
"Donna had said...you were in the city a lot, pulling a lot of late nights. The bruises. Is that how you get hurt?"
A pause, then, "Yes."
"And that's why you didn't tell me." Annabeth fell silent again, her agile brain trying very hard to connect these two very different realities. "I just never imagined..."
He laughed, an abrupt, harsh sound. "That's precisely the point. Looks like I'm doing my job right."
Another thought occurred to Annabeth, the most pressing one that had, temporarily, fallen to the back of her mind. The baby. Her baby. Their baby. Oh god, she had told the Batman. He knew. She doubled over again, clutching her arms protectively over her stomach. Everything was going to hell in a handbasket.
He saw her gesture of defensive protection, and tried to soften his expression. After all, he was the one who had perpetrated a series of lies, and even though it was for her protection, it was still a violation of trust. And now she knew he knew about the baby, and however she had planned to tell him—if she had intended to tell him—he was certain this would not have been the way that she would have chosen.
Oh yes, and the father of her unborn child was a vigilante with a penchant for costumes and forceful persuasion. Not exactly ideal circumstances for her. Impulsively, he squatted on the floor by her chair. "Annabeth."
She was still going over the last few months in her head, trying to re-define, re-process, and re-interpret everything, and so at first she did not realize that Bruce was right there. He gently placed a hand on her knee. "Annabeth."
Just then, Alfred came bustling back into the room with a glass pitcher and a goblet. "Everything alright, Master Wayne?"
Annabeth answered before he had the chance to. "What the hell do you think, Alfred?" She glared over at him. "You've got a woman here in your house that knows your secret—and I'm guessing you're in on it too, yes?"
In hindsight, Bruce could see that Alfred's reaction was just what was needed in that potentially volatile moment. He didn't answer Annabeth right away and refused to be baited. Rather, he imperturbably poured water into the goblet; the ice and water clinked against the crystal agreeably and elegantly, and seemed to bring a sense of gentility and order back into the situation. Only after he had passed Annabeth the goblet did he answer. "I assist Master Wayne with his duties, yes."
It was a modest answer, perfectly worded. Duties. The word hung on the air, a noble word, implying honor and sacrifice and a sense of rightness. And it took Annabeth aback. She glanced at Alfred, and then at Bruce, and then back to Alfred. "So you know? You've always known?"
"He has. But none of this is Alfred's fault." Bruce's voice, quiet and firm and not quite as stern as before, dragged her attention back to him. "Don't be angry with Alfred, he's been telling me to tell you for a long time. Be angry with me, if you have to."
"You two have much talking to do," Alfred pointed out. "But now isn't exactly the best time..." he glanced over at Annabeth, who was cradling her head in her hands again. "Miss Annabeth?"
"Annabeth?" Bruce's tone was sharp again, but with worry. "What's wrong?"
"A little dizzy," she mumbled. "Too much excitement, I guess."
The stakes were raised, the risks much greater than they had ever been. Gently, Bruce tugged Annabeth's arm and guided her up from the chair and over to a sofa. "Lay down. Stay here for now...should we call an ambulance?"
Annabeth actually rolled her eyes. "It's not that unusual. I'm okay for now, I just need a minute..."
As usual, Alfred came to the rescue. "May I suggest, Master Wayne, that you return to the guests for a while? Let Donna know that Annabeth will be staying here for a while...and then, perhaps, cause some sort of scene? Feign illness? Announce an orgy in the West Wing? Something to get the guests out of the Manor so you can continue...straightening things out here."
"You'll stay here with Annabeth until I can get back?" Bruce didn't look happy with this idea, although it was clearly a good one.
"Won't leave her side," Alfred promised.
It wasn't the best of plans, but it certainly was more than anything Bruce could think of at the present. Ironic, he thought as he headed back to the party. He and Alfred and Lucius spent so much time preparing for any eventuality that could possibly unfold and complicate the Batman's life and work, but they had directed absolutely no resources towards addressing the possibility of a compromised or discovered identity. And now they had to deal with the fallout. Which, oddly enough, was an entirely different issue from the other matter—Annabeth and the unborn child which had already defied all odds in being conceived.
Apparently, it had inherited its parents' talent for tenacity and complications.
Back in the study, Annabeth and Alfred were left in a strained silence. Annabeth cast him occasional accusing glances and Alfred puttered around the room, finding that his conscience did not sit easily in the loaded atmosphere. Finally, she spoke.
"How long have you known?"
Alfred sighed. So he was the one who would have to answer the first onslaught of questions. Bloody typical. Still, he couldn't blame Annabeth; for all she knew, he was as much the Batman as Bruce Wayne was. "Since the beginning. Master Wayne told me about it from the beginning, when he returned to Gotham...he needed my help."
"He trusted you."
Alfred did not disagree with this observation. "He did. He does."
Goddamn. Annabeth shook her head, as if she could somehow physically martial her thoughts into some semblance of coherency. So much made sense now...but at the same time, she could not yet accept it as fact. The two men...Bruce Wayne, so refined and urbane and a little bit foppish...was also the Batman, the hulking, raw, elemental force of urbanized nature? "It's not exactly believable," she said softly, almost to herself.
Nonetheless, Alfred heard her. "That's exactly the point, my dear. No one is supposed to believe Bruce Wayne to be capable of something like that—no one should have any reason to make that connection. The two men are completely different."
"Which one is the real one?"
A good question, although Alfred refrained from saying so. "Both are real. But I have to say...there's a third facet to his personality, the most genuine facet, and I see it most often around you."
Before Annabeth could respond, Bruce re-entered the room. He looked every bit as grave as when he left. "The guests are handled...I told them that I've been called away on unexpected business to Aruba, and that they were to have free reign over the wine cellar."
"Bloody hell," Alfred swore. It was the closest Annabeth had ever seen him get to losing his composure. He wasted no time in beating a hasty retreat to defend the vintage collection he had spent months building up. Bruce allowed himself a ghost of a smile before he turned his attention back to Annabeth.
"I guess we've got some catching up to do."
Above ground, in the public rooms of Wayne Manor, the party carried on. Alfred quickly realized that the endangered wine cellar had been a ruse to draw him away from Annabeth, and so, not without some misgivings, he bowed to Bruce's wishes and continued watching over the festivities. The band played, the youngsters danced, the older women gossiped, the older men wheeled and dealed, and everyone ate, drank, and made merry, completely ignorant of anything else
Down in the Batcave, a very different scene was unfolding.
Bruce stood quietly by, his arms folded, his face inscrutable as he watched Annabeth. She stood in the middle of the Batcave, occasionally turning around, looking up, down, all over, taking in the peculiar surroundings. She looked at the cavernous ceiling, from which more than a few bats hung and fluttered about; she looked over at the hulking Tumbler, large and black and solid and seemingly unmovable; she took in the massive wall of computers and surveillance equipment, the medical station, the work benches, the makeshift library of overflowing bookshelves.
"Well," she said softly. "I guess things make a little more sense."
Behind her, she heard Bruce release a heavy sigh, as though he had been refraining from breathing, awaiting her words. "This wasn't ever something that I intended you to find out about."
"Clearly," Annabeth said dryly. She turned and forced herself to look at him—really look at him, seeing both the Bruce Wayne and the Batman of his character for the first time. "This is a lot to take in."
His eyes met hers, and for the first time since they had parted ways after Bellingham, each met the other's gaze with honesty. Their expressions matched completely; each face reflected a poignant combination of vulnerability, wariness, sorrow. And neither knew what to say.
Still, Annabeth took a shot. "Does anyone else know?"
An unexpectedly savage pain shot through Bruce. "Lucius Fox. And Rachel...Rachel knew. I told her."
Annabeth nodded. The pain was visible on his face, and she tried to ignore the completely useless sense of jealousy that niggled at her awareness. What the hell? That should be the least of her concerns.
"She didn't approve," Bruce added. And then, before he could stop himself, he asked, "Do you?"
Annabeth didn't answer, not right away. She gazed around the cave again, and then over at Bruce. He had kept a distance—no doubt deliberately—from her during this revelatory process, but his tension emanated off of him in heavy waves.
"I don't know what to say," she said softly. "How can I answer this when I don't even know what to think?" She exhaled a pent-up breath and shook her head. "This is...completely, totally...I don't even know. I'd say insane, but that would make me insane too, wouldn't it? After all, I've been consorting with your alter ego for months, and you lied, you deliberately deceived me, you kept it a complete secret. Like some sort of goddamned game."
Stung, Bruce retorted, "I'm not the only one keeping secrets. Seems like you know about something that could change the rules of the game quite a bit."
And with those well-chosen, impulsive words, he took the wind right out of Annabeth's indignantly puffed-up sails. He was right, and it was the same thing that Donna and Janey had been saying to her for the past week. Bruce's eyes bore accusingly into her skull, and for the first time, she could see the rage in them directed at her. It occurred to her, rather belatedly, that this was not the best place for her to be sequestered, alone, with Bruce Wayne. And it occurred to her, as well, that her view of him had changed, perhaps forever.
"We have some things to figure out," Bruce said quietly, his words hanging on the chilly air.
Annabeth shook her head. "Bruce, this is...way too much for me to take in right now. I'm probably in shock, and the last thing I need to do is try to get cornered into a decision about my baby."
"Our baby," Bruce corrected her fiercely, and this time, the anger in his voice was evident. "We both had a hand or...something else...in this. We both get a say."
They glared at each other for a moment, and not surprisingly, Annabeth was the first to break off the gaze. Her standards of honesty were strict, even with herself, and she knew she was in the wrong on this one. She glanced around the cave, and seeing a stool tucked underneath Bruce's workbench, she dragged it out and settled herself upon it. "Well. Since we both get a say...then maybe you should start talking."
For one of the first times, Annabeth saw Bruce less than totally prepared. He actually gaped at her for a second. "Pardon?"
"Talk, Bruce." Annabeth gestured around the room. "Seems like you've got plenty left to tell me, and since you don't approve of secrets, I'm assuming you want to share."
The cave was ominously silent as Bruce stared at her, his protective reserve doing battle with the common sense in what she said. Wildly, he glanced around, as though looking to his expensive equipment and supplies to yield answers, or better yet, to do the talking for him. For the first time, he had an audience other than Alfred, someone curious, someone demanding answers, not visibly judging him...and he had not a clue as to what to say. Quite literally, he was uncertain if he could even speak.
Annabeth nodded; his reticence spoke more volumes than anything he could have actually vocalized to her. "Looks like you've got a ways to go before you can really pass judgments about secrets, Bruce." With as much decisiveness as when she had seated herself on the stool, she now vacated it, and headed towards the lift. "Tell you what...when you can talk, we'll talk. Not until then."
Somehow, she made it into the lift without looking back, or even looking around at the wondrous cavern and all its many strange treasures. Somehow, she kept her composure as the lift creaked its way back into the study, and somehow, she kept her composure as she passed by Alfred, quietly keeping vigil outside the study door. She kept her composure as she made her way past the revelers, all of whom were too absorbed in their own lives and merriment to notice Bruce Wayne's former dalliance, looking very much as though she had just seen the Joker tap-dancing around Gotham Square Station. She kept her composure as the valet brought her car around, and she kept her composure as she got in and navigated the car out of the Manor and down the road.
Annabeth kept her composure for about another half-mile after that, and finally, on the dark, winding road that trailed through the Palisades, she lost every shred of her iron control, pulled over, and wept. She had no idea what she was crying for, but she knew enough of her life and its complications to know that this would probably not be the last tears she shed over the bizarre situation in which she had somehow enmeshed herself. She was in the dark, both literally and figuratively.
And so, of course she did not see Bruce, keeping a silent vigil from the nearby brush, and of course, she had no way of knowing that he, too, was trying to find his way through the dark, to find a way to make things right.