True to the meteorologists' grim reports, a storm system worked its way into Gotham by nightfall. The short day ended even more quickly than normal; nary a single ray of sunlight had managed to break through the dense grey clouds, and even more, darker clouds were piling into the sky. Gothamites scurrying home from work cast occasional, anxious glances into the sky, hoping against hope that they would make the commute home before the nasty weather set upon them.

In most cases, they were lucky. It was almost 9 PM when the storm finally hit, bringing plummeting temperatures and a stinging lash of hostile sleet. By that point, most people were stashed away indoors, cozily sheltered from the worst of the elements, preparing for the impending winter holidays. And so there were really very few people left on the streets to witness those unfortunate enough to catch the brunt of another Gotham winter.

It was a cruel—and yet heartbreakingly typical—welcome to the caravan of unfortunates who arrived in Gotham that evening, led by Donzetti. One by one, the young women were prodded and yelled out of the vans that had been their home for the last week, and together they huddled against the freezing cold as the goons emerged from the sinister, dark buildings and Donzetti stood silently, threateningly in the background. Even more unnervingly, two other men joined him, and all three stood there, seemingly impervious to the weather, and certainly indifferent to the girls' suffering..

"Get 'em inside," Donzetti said, sharply, to the goons. He then turned to le Blanc and Seth Percival, who had turned out to see the delivery of the goods. Donzetti couldn't help but to preen a little—he had picked out a particularly lovely selection. His particular favorite, Zhao, was strategically huddled in the background, trying to avoid being noticed, just as he had instructed her to do. No doubt she was not thrilled to be his hand-picked favorite, but every smart whore knew which side her bread was buttered on. Soon enough, he'd pull her from the stash house and install her somewhere a little nicer. At least for a while

Silently, the three men watched as the cold, frightened females were herded into the stash house, and then they followed after them. But whereas the girls and women were directed upstairs, to the colder, damper, bleaker environs, the men simply headed down the hall, to the warm, orderly, brightly lit room where they did business. It was reasonably well-appointed, this room—certainly not anything in which one could entertain an ambassador, but the comfortable, leather armchairs, climate control, and well-stocked liquor cabinet ensured that no one would be miserable.

And no one was. le Blanc immediately headed to the liquor bar, where he poured out ample amounts of scotch. "I'm guessing you've no desire for vodka?" he asked rhetorically to Donzetti as he brought the glasses to his compatriots. He winked at Donzetti. "No more Russian drinks, right?" Together, the three of them clinked glasses.

Donzetti belched appreciatively, oblivious to the look of disgust Seth Percival cast him. "Oh, that's good. Damned good to be back in civilization."

"I gather traveling isn't your forte." le Blanc phrased this as a statement, rather than a question. "I'm grateful that you went; I needed someone I trust implicitly to get the lay of the land over there. Now that that's done, we can pass that burden on to Trinity."

"Speaking of, I need to head out so I can visit her. We got things we need to talk about, and anyway, I need to give her information about what she'll be doing over there...pass the info along while it's fresh in my head." There was no reason to add that, while he was moving on to greener pastures, he also intended to have a farewell graze in Trinity's fields.

"Before you leave, we need to discuss some things." le Blanc motioned the two men to seat themselves in the armchairs. "We need to make a few plans."

"What's that?" Donzetti cradled his drink and looked rather bored.

"Getting that little bitch out of Safe Haven," Seth spoke up, speaking to Donzetti directly for the first time that evening.

"What bitch?" Donzetti looked from le Blanc to Seth. "What are you talking about?"

"There was a witness the night that Boy-o killed that slut. She's stashed away at Safe Haven. That de Burgh girl got her hands on her before we could verify anything." Of course, it was because Annabeth de Burgh had stashed her at Safe Haven that they knew about Stacy, but that was besides the point. Nonetheless, Seth smiled as he thought of the poetic justice of it all.

Donzetti shook his head. "Should have known that damned place was in on this."

"I think on one level, we probably suspected," le Blanc nodded. "It was impossible to get confirmation, though, until Seth scrounged up some information."

Donzetti nodded at Seth. "Good job. This will make things easier for us."

"Indeed. We need to take care of her as soon as possible. Last I heard, Boy-o hadn't confessed, and if the chief witness is dead, the case against him—and the Arrows—weakens considerably." le Blanc glanced over at Seth. "Did your source give you any ideas about the best way to get to her?"

A second does not seem like a long time, but it went on long enough for certain memories to flash through Seth's head. Donna, promising to turn Stacy over to him within a couple of weeks; Donna demanding that no one else at Safe Haven be hurt. And of course, the knowledge of his own pressing agenda.

Seth shook his head. "She just said that Stacy was there at Safe Haven. My guess is that we need to do this soon."

"'We?'" Donzetti echoed suspiciously.

le Blanc cocked his head with sudden interest.

Seth Percival smiled, and it had a chill of midwinter to it. "Yes, we. Us. I'll be joining you." His smile disappeared, and his eyes turned hard. "I've got a score to settle."

Scores to settle were nothing new in the Gotham mob, and le Blanc and Donzetti knew better than to ask. Together, the three men began to plan.

The storm was fierce, but fortunately brief. Two and a half hours later, the worst of the weather had slackened off. The winds had died down, the sleet had ceased, the temperature had plummeted, and the city was swathed in a bewitching silence that only came when snow was imminent. In fact, the first flakes were beginning to fall as Donzetti arrived at Trinity's condo.

She had been expecting him—had spent the last three evenings at home, preparing for the possibility of him showing up. And so as Donzetti let himself in, he saw her, sitting blamelessly on her living room room floor, sorting out the Christmas ornaments she had so recently and drunkenly purchased.

"Well, ho ho ho." He said this jovially, but they could both tell that his heart was not in it. "This is what you've been doing since I've been gone?"

"Shopping? Yes." Trinity got to her feet. "And eating."

"I can see that." Donzetti eyed her body, which, while certainly still fashionably slender, had put on a few curves in his absence. In that moment, he felt distinctly less guilty about cutting things off with Trinity. He had distinct preferences when it came to his women. But still, he was a man. "How about a welcome-home kiss?"

Afterward, as they lay in Trinity's luxurious bed, gazing up into the darkness, Trinity spoke up. "That was the last time, wasn't it?" Her voice sounded sad, but inside, she was silently praying to a possibly non-existent god. Please, please, please let it be the last time.

Thankfully, god was listening. "Yeah, that was the last time." Donzetti sat up and began searching for the clothing he had so lustfully discarded. "I think we had a good run of it."

Trinity carefully arranged her face into a very disappointed expression. "Doesn't what I want matter?"

It was not a question that Donzetti could answer truthfully, and to his credit, he did not attempt to lie. "We've got something else in mind for you," he said instead, as though offering a consolation prize. "Did le Blanc tell you about it?"

"He did." Trinity sighed, sat up, and pulled the sheet around her. "I'm interested. It'll keep me busy, I guess. So...tell me about it. What should I expect? How many did you bring back? What was it like?"

Ironic, how quietly her "affair" with Donzetti ended, especially given the dramatic misery its beginning had induced in her. He was simply relieved that Trinity's natural intellect and grace had kicked in and seized upon the diversion he had offered, and she was secretly too relieved to do anything but listen to him talk while she silently prayed to whatever god was on duty that day that he would never rut in her bed again.

Apparently, some deity was actually doing its job. Thirty minutes later, Donzetti was dressed and had already mentally moved on from the concept of her as his lover. Now she was a colleague of sorts, and he was eager to show her the logistics of her new job. Trinity dutifully slipped into this new role as dressed in her warmest clothes and mentally steeled herself for what she was about to see. It was clear that Donzetti wanted to bring her back to the stash house and introduce her to her next career, and show her what he had been up to. No doubt he also wanted to discreetly show off Trinity's replacement.

Inwardly, Trinity sighed and prepared for what was no doubt going to be a very difficult night.

All afternoon, Annabeth had been anticipating the foul weather. She was a Gothamite, born and bred, but it didn't mean that she relished the entirely predictable clouds, chill, and sleet; she simply dealt. Turned her collar up, tightened her scarf, and got on with it, as it were. She had ushered Stacy back to Safe Haven, rushed through the last of her work there, and managed to get out early andavoid the chance to encounter Donna's probing questions—a double triumph. Ever since the Christmas charity gala, Donna had been looking askance to her, expecting information and answers about the predicament Annabeth had found herself in. Far from having any answers, Annabeth was only left with a thousand more questions, and so had spent a fair amount of time avoiding her boss. The day of reckoning would come, no doubt, but it wouldn't be on this nasty day.

The relief of having dodged Donna had infused an unusual excitement, almost ebullience, into Annabeth's blood. As she headed toward the subway which would take her back to her home in Bordertown, she actually ducked into a gourmet grocery store and purchased the makings for a cozy night in—Belgian hot chocolate, scented candles, some ready-made delicacies from the deli case, even a bouquet of amaryllis. She cringed when she got the final tally, and thought briefly of the time-bomb of responsibility which was gestating within her. And then, Screw it, she thought angrily. Ten years of denial and playing it safe got me into this mess anyway, why bother keeping it up?

So she arrived home forty dollars poorer, but with an armful luxuries to sweeten the winter evening. And so, as the sleet began to pound the city, as the temperature dropped, Annabeth was indifferent to it; she merely concentrated on relieving the tension and stress which had built up within her during the day.

Four hours later, she had achieved her goal. A long, steamy shower, warm flannel pajamas, a hot cup of cocoa, and some gentle music were certainly an effective defense against the wild weather of Gotham and her own emotional burdens. She realized this as she burrowed under a quilt on the couch and gazed around her living room. Jed and Wurzel were curled up beside her; Jed was sound asleep, but Wurzel gazed out at the candle which burned on the coffee table. Its flame reflected like a sinister jewel in her yellow eyes.

Not good enough. Suddenly, Annabeth didn't want to sit around any more; she wanted to do something. Moving carefully so as not to disturb the animals (shit, what was she going to do with them when the baby came?) she came out from under the quilt, headed into her bedroom...

...and ten minutes later, dragged out a three-foot-long box.

She had only put up her Christmas tree once or twice; most years, she simply forgot, or was too busy. And even if she wasn't busy, it was even less likely that she was infused with any sort of Christmas spirit. But tonight, and this year, something was going to be a little different.

Hell, who was she kidding? Everything was different.

Soon enough, the pathetic little tree was assembled. Wurzel immediately began chewing on the plastic needles as Annabeth hauled out two small boxes of ornaments and began to unpack them. Being in the mood for Christmas was not really an option; Annabeth was rarely in the mood for anything. But she did have a determination to get things done.

So she was getting things done.

By the time the sleet had ceased and given way to the more gentle snow, Annabeth's home was well on its way to transformation. What it was transforming into, however, was another story.

In dismay, she stared at her living room. What had been a fairly orderly and clean space somehow ended up being taken over by crumpled up newspaper, dustbunnies, and more than a few dead spiders. In addition to this, Wurzel had gotten into a losing battle with the tree, but not before taking out several dozen needles, which now joined ranks with the other mess. Half the lights on the tree were burnt out, and it was questionable as to whether or not the remaining half would cause a fuse to be blown.

Annabeth sighed and flopped down onto the couch. "What was I thinking?" she asked Jed, who had sleepily been dyeing the proceedings. "I should be packing things up, throwing things out...not unpacking."

As soon as the thought occurred to her, she sprung up again and disappeared into the bedroom. For the next ten minutes, there were a series of terrific bumps and crashes as, one by one, Annabeth hauled out of the closet a pile of boxes which had languished there since she had moved in. Her bedroom was tiny—how on earth was she going to fit a crib in there? Or a changing table? Well, maybe she'd be out of here before it mattered—so she dragged the boxes out to the living room.

The mess grew exponentially.

Wurzel, curious as ever, made it a point to investigate, and ended up perched atop the pile, closely watching her mistress. It wasn't the first time the cat had witnessed Annabeth behaving in such a frenzied manner, nor was it the first time Annabeth had voiced her thoughts to the cat, but there was something a little different...a fierce yet aimless determination emanated from Annabeth. She was going somewhere with this project, she just didn't know where.

So intent was she in her project of re-cluttering that she almost didn't hear the light rapping on her door.

Wurzel growled.

Annabeth groaned.

Not for the first time in recent months, Annabeth allowed herself a brief moment to fantasize about a non-Gotham life. A life where she would have been in bed already, asleep, possibly even sleeping with someone; where she didn't have to worry about unwelcome nocturnal visitors; a life where she would rise in the morning not feeling a constant, nagging pull to do more, be more, give more to that ruthlessly draining city.

What would a life like that be like? Annabeth didn't know which was more unnerving: that she continued to ask herself this question, or that she could never visualize an answer. However, none of this addressed the fact that unpleasant reality was currently at her threshold, seeking admission. Reluctantly, she abandoned her misguided attempts at seasonal decoration and headed to the front door. A glance through the peephole confirmed her suspicions; Trinity was at the door.

Which meant the Batman would be close behind.

I'll burn that bridge when I get to it, Annabeth told herself grimly as she undid the various locks and bolts on her door. God only knows how he's going to get in this time.

As soon as she opened the door to Trinity, she had her answer.

"How the hell does he do that?" Trinity demanded.

"Who does what?" Annabeth was confused. And then she realized Trinity was gazing over her shoulder, into her home. Already knowing what she was going to see, Annabeth turned around and took in the Batman—Bruce? Which should I think of him as? Shit, this is awkward—standing in her living room.

Rolling her eyes, Annabeth held the door open wider for Trinity to come in, and was grateful when her guest wasted no time in hustling inside. No need for the neighbors to see the company Annabeth kept...although it was hard to tell which they would object to more, the vigilante or the call girl. A question to ponder for another night.

Slowly, Annabeth turned from the door to face her company. To their credit, neither of them remarked on the chaos of the surroundings.

In fact, no one was making any remarks at all.

"This is an awkward silence," Annabeth said finally. "What's doing?" She shifted a pile of tangled garland from the couch to the floor, and took its place. Wurzel immediately hopped from her perch onto the armrest and delicately stepped down onto her lap. It was a cozy scene, except for the hulking black lump that seemed to take up half the room. Even knowing who and what the Batman was didn't change the fact that he appeared frightening, threatening, and preternaturally larger than life.

Finally, Trinity spoke. "The girls are all there. They're in place."Even saying these few words seemed to release an immense burden from her; her tense shoulders slumped. She glanced from Annabeth to the Batman, clearly expecting one or both of them to take the information, process, and plot. Her part in this was almost done...wasn't it?

Unwillingly, Annabeth felt her gaze drawn to the Batman. Despite the mask, she could tell he was staring at her intently, awaiting her response. It was as though he were respecting her authority within her own space...well, perhaps there was something to be said for having intimate knowledge of Gotham's vigilante.

This odd thought was not particularly helpful to the situation, but fortunately, it was fleeting. Unconsciously, Annabeth nodded as she focused. That was the signal the Batman needed—the final step, the final chance for air before they plunged in deep.

"How many women?" he growled.

"Women?" Trinity snorted. "Girls. I'd be amazed if there's anyone there who could legally drink. One or two looked—" here she stopped, remembering the frightened eyes of three girls who had been clustered together. She had a disturbing suspicion that they had not yet reached puberty. "Let's put it like this—they'll be needing child psychologists."

Without realizing she had done so, Annabeth had wrapped her arms protectively around her middle.

"How many?" This had come out more harshly than the Batman had intended, but he had seen Annabeth's unknowing gesture, and it had triggered a painfully human response within him.

"Around forty, give or take a couple, plus the other girls that were already there."

"How were they?" This came from Annabeth.

"Cold, hungry. Scared senseless. In some cases, already injured." Here Trinity paused for a moment. "I think some of them need medical attention. And I'm guessing, given how the Arrows and Donzetti were talking, the breaking-in process has already started."

Trinity didn't specify what she meant by that, and neither the Batman nor Annabeth needed to ask. What went unspoken was the observation that the Arrows had not wasted any time. In some ways, the damage had already been done.

But they needed to move fast to keep the damage to a minimum.

Enough already. Annabeth forced herself to look over to the Batman. "We need to get moving. Tomorrow I'm going to contact Gordon and press him to get the lead out regarding INS. You need to contact him tomorrow night and coordinate a raid—but something that's reasonably safe for the women. Our primary objective is to keep them alive." Her tone brooked no challenge. "I know you want to take down the Arrows, and I want to skin those fuckers alive, but right now, the women are our type priority. We keep them safe."

The Batman wisely remained silent. Annabeth had hit the nail right on the head—he wanted to end the reign of one more mob of worthless thugs, low-lifes, and goons, but at the moment, the safety of the women—hell, the girls, by the sound of it—trumped everything.

"I'm going to be spending the next few days at the stash house," Trinity informed them. "I think Donzetti expects me to break them, mentally and emotionally, while they're working on the physical side of things." Her calm demeanor, suddenly, began to crumble, as she ran a shaking hand through he hair. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?" she asked rhetorically. "I'm a career call-girl, dammit, not a madame. And now they want me to become a fucking slave overseer."

Annabeth nodded. "You don't want to do anything to damage these girls any more."

"Exactly." Trinity paused, then continued. "Hell, I don't claim to be a particularly good person, but jesus, not only do I not want to damage these girls any more, I want to help them. Like any normal person—give them help, or food, or comfort. This runs counter to every instinct I have as a normal human being. I honestly don't know if I can go in there and act like I want to crush them, and actually take measures to do that—just to keep the trust of the Arrows."

"So don't."

Both women turned to the Batman.

"Donzetti and Le Blanc may be halfway intelligent people, but that's it. They're as much brains as the Arrows get. And they're not going to question you. Tell them that it's important to gain the trust of the girls as part of the process. Earn their trust, then be cruel later. That's how you truly break someone."

Silence descended once more upon the little group as they contemplated the Batman's words. Realizing that he had an unusual advantage—it was rare for both Annabeth and Trinity to be quiet at once—the Batman pressed forward. "By the time you're ready to move onto the 'cruelty' part of the scheme, it will be over. We're going to raid in a few days, tops. So don't bother selling your soul."

Trinity turned to Annabeth. "He ever say this much to you before?"

"Ahhh..." Annabeth searched for an honest response, but before she could answer truthfully or otherwise, Trinity answered her own question. "Probably not. Sounds like he goes down on a food processor on a regular basis."

The Batman had cut his teeth on a woman snarkier than Trinity, and could not be provoked. He ignored her comment, and Annabeth's corresponding smirk. "What else can you tell us about the stash house?"

"There's about five groups of girls, each group in their own room. There's eight or nine in each group...from what I saw earlier, there's two groups on the second floor, three groups on the third. At least two men are in charge of each group. They're not always withthem, but they...I don't know, keep an eye on them. Keep them in line, give them food, whatever's needed. Plus, I saw about half a dozen more Archers in the building, and I'm guessing they're the security for the building itself."

For the next half hour, the Batman ruthlessly pumped Trinity for every detail she could recall—everything from names of the Archers to descriptions of the building, down to the possible windows in the holding rooms where the girls were being kept. He didn't stop there—he drilled Trinity about her recollections of the girls, a catalog of possible injuries and ailments that she may have noticed. He was relentless in his interrogation, and Trinity held up remarkably well, but eventually, she was done.

"I've told you everything I know." Trinity held up a perfectly manicured hand to forestall him from asking any more questions. "I know you need as much information as possible for this raid to go well, but for now, I'm tapped. I'm going back tomorrow, and I'll see what else I observe, but for now, this is all I've got. I can leave a message with Annabeth tomorrow with more information, and she can get it to you."

The Batman nodded grimly. He didn't like it, but he saw the sense in it. "I'll talk to Gordon tomorrow and I'll be back here by tomorrow night. Give her more info by then."

Trinity cast him a foul look. "Did they teach you the meaning of the words 'please' and 'thank you' in Vigilante School?" She tightened the sash on her coat and pulled her hat down low over her brow. "I'm exhausted. I'll expect to hear from...someone...tomorrow." She was resigned,of course, but her tone made it clear, without doubt, that she was not thrilled.

"You're leaving?" Annabeth's suspicious instincts kicked into overdrive. "Please, be safe." Even as she said this, she glanced over at the Batman. He nodded.

"I'll make sure she gets home safe."

"Wonderful," Trinity sighed. "A freak following me home." Still, there was no hiding the relief in her eyes.

Annabeth walked Trinity back down to the entrance of the building. They made an odd couple, alright—no matter what unremarkable getup she donned, there was no hiding the fact that Trinity was a striking woman. And next to her, dressed in her ratty pajamas and the overcoat she had hastily thrown on over them, Annabeth felt very short, very unglamorous, very frumpy. There were very few logical explanations for two such disparate women to be keeping company together.

Fortunately, Annabeth lived in a part of Gotham where people were inclined to mind their own business. It was a working class neighborhood, and god knew most people had enough problems to be thoroughly disinclined to borrow trouble from elsewhere. Who the short, fierce workaholic woman from Unit 1428 chose to spend her time with could not have been of less concern to the surrounding occupants.

Come to think of it, given this level of indifference, her current home perhaps wasn't the best environment to be raising her impending child in.

Annabeth pushed that thought to the back of her head as she and Trinity reached the front doors. They faced each other, and the serious expressions each saw mirrored in the other face was almost comical. Annabeth actually cracked a grim smile.

"It'll be over, soon," she assured Trinity. "It has to be. Gordon's tightening the noose, probably even as we speak. Just learn what you can—and don't get caught. Don't get injured. And don't do anything that feels wrong."

Trinity gave her an odd look.

"You'll know what I mean if it comes down to it." Annabeth gave her a gentle shove on the shoulder. "Now go home. You'll be safe—he's out there, waiting."

She didn't need to say who he was. Trinity nodded. "I'll be in touch tomorrow evening." She gave a resolute nod. "Good night."

"Good night."

Annabeth stood and watched as Trinity disappeared into the bitterly cold night. So far as Annabeth could see, there was no one else out—it was too cold, and too late. But Gotham could be a vicious bitch with a way of hiding all manner of vile lowlifes in her petticoats, and at this late point in the game, it was criminally stupid to risk Trinity. So long as the Batman was tailing her, she'd be safe.

It was also criminially stupid that no one—not Annabeth, or Gordon, or the Batman—didn't pause to consider that perhaps Trinity and Stacy were not the only ones at risk.

Back in her condo, all was silent and still, as though no one had ever disturbed her evening. Jed had resumed his nap, and Wurzel had managed to get her way into one of the boxes of ornaments. By the sounds that were now coming from the box, there wasn't a doubt that the enterprising cat was making short work of whatever spiders had taken refuge within.

The entire place was a wreck. And it was horrifically late. And she had had a long day ahead of her tomorrow. There was no other solution than the obvious one—stepping carefully around the boxes and messes, Annabeth began to prepare for bed. The lights went off, the doors were locked—not that it would do any good. Annabeth strongly suspected that she hadn't had the last of her visitors that evening.

The night wore on, and Annabeth dozed lightly, expectantly, with unformed half-dreams flitting through her subconscious and keeping her from sinking too deeply into rest. She had just commenced a vision of Gordon presenting the Batman with a guard dog—a chihuahua which had a strangely deep woof—when she woke up enough to realize that it was no rat dog barking, but rather her own Jed.

Sighing, she sat up in bed, reached over, and turned on the light by her bed. Jed instantly stopped barking as he saw that his mistress was alert, and so commenced with greeting the disturbance.

Her fucking dopey dog was trying to be buddies with the goddamned Batman.

"When this is all over, I'm getting a pitbull," Annabeth said rhetorically.

He was lurking in the doorway to her room, silent as ever. And then, surprisingly, he spoke. "Don't you think we should talk in a more appropriate place? The living room?"

Annabeth snatched her watch from the bedstand and squinted at it. "It's three-fucking-thirty in the morning. I'm exhausted and I'm staying right the fuck here. You can go talk wherever the hell you want."

"Okay then." The Batman crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. The wood creaked ominously.

"And another thing..." Annabeth was gaining speed. "I'm not talking to you any more until you take off that stupid mask. I know who you are, so right now, I feel like I'm in a cartoon. It's not necessary. So lose it, already."

The Batman was, simply, astounded. And then, a random voice of reason in his head pointed out, This is the need for secrecy. When people find out, they have power. They can call the shots.

"It's my home. I say what goes." Annabeth was sounding truculent now.

At first, the Batman didn't move. His mind was racing, and his body was unwilling to follow the orders Annabeth had issued. The instincts of the vigilante were screaming at him to leave this place, remove himself from this scenario; the rational and fair voice of Bruce was pointing out that Annabeth had every right to demand this, particularly as she knew about him.

And even more particularly, since she was bearing his child.

"Plus, it's just weird."

Slowly, slowly, he brought his gloved hand up to his head. He hesitated.

Annabeth held her breath.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he tugged off his cowl.

Wurzel meowed querulously. Annabeth exhaled.

They looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, but for what could have only been half a minute. Annabeth's sleep-blearied eyes met Bruce's blue ones, staring out at her from his exposed, strangely vulnerable face which hovered over his suited, armored body. There was inky black war-paint under his eyes, which she had noticed before was part of the costume. Bruce remembered it at about the same time she did, and began to rub it away. Annabeth regarded him silently for a moment.

"This is unique."

He didn't say anything.

They continued to look at each other for another moment.

Finally, Annabeth again took the initiative. "Why did you come back?"

Bruce broke his gaze from her and turned away. For a moment he contemplated her pets, who were now sniffing his boots. "I don't...I don't know."

But he did know. It had felt utterly ludicrous, interacting with Annabeth as the Batman, knowing that she knew who and what he was. And removing his mask was a way—perhaps the only way—to make it even, to make it more sane. Anything else felt...wrong. Did this mean that he wanted her to be part of what he did?

She watched him. She took in his armor, his gloves, the grey emblem on his chest; she took in the cowl that now hung limply from his hand. She took in his stoic expression, the faint scar under his right eye, the tense, alert posture that he held even now. And she took in the fact that it was Bruce who was staring out at her from the Batman's costume. She knew, instinctively, that she was perhaps the only person, besides Alfred, who had seen both Bruce Wayne and the Batman together, as the whole person.

If he was showing her everything, all the sides of him, all the vulnerabilities, well, she supposed she could do the same.

Annabeth cleared her throat. "Bruce..." She paused, then started again. "Bruce..."

Bruce went absolutely still. Her voice was small, tiny even, timid.

"Bruce, I'm really scared."

She didn't say what it was that she was frightened of, but he didn't need to know. He knew, without being told.

And he was scared, too.

But it wasn't about him. Annabeth sat there, in her bed, pale and small and looking out at him. She expected something of him, that much he knew. But what?

It was as if Annabeth could read his mind. "You're not stupid, Bruce. We're facing something huge...on so many levels. Right now, I'm totally alone. I don't know how to find my way out, and I'm not sure what to do."

After a moment, Bruce spoke, and his voice was not the gravelly growl of the Batman, but the quiet, contemplative voice that, in retrospect, she had come to identify with him in his most genuine moments. "I don't know, either."

When Annabeth responded, her voice was a little stronger. "At least we can be clueless together?"

The invitation was unmistakable.

Slowly, Bruce began to disrobe. Piece by piece, his costume came off—the cape, which fell to the floor with a gentle whisper; the gloves and the gauntlets; the guards and armor from his legs and arms and spine, which he set down more carefully; the utility belt, which he set down with the most tenderness. As he did all of this, Annabeth's eyes darted from him to his equipment and then back to him. She remained silent, and so did he.

Finally, he removed his protective vest, letting it, too, fall to the floor with a heavy-sounding clank. All that he remained dressed in was his undersuit. He hesitated for a moment, and then pulled the top portion off.

Annabeth now studied him, taking in his chest, arms, and shoulders. Far from appreciating the incredibly sculpted physique—that much, she had had noted in the seemingly long-ago night at Bellingham—she focused on his imperfections: the atlas of scars which crisscrossed over his body like so many confused, misdirected paths. But for those significant flaws, he would have been a damned near perfect specimen of a male.

He waited.

"We all have our scars," Annabeth said softly. She stretched out her arms, and even in the imperfect light of her bedroom, Bruce could see the pale, whitish scars that ran down her wrists. And then he remembered another scar, and peered at Annabeth's face. The scar near her eye was more difficult to make out, but he still knew it was there—he would never forget what she had told him about what had happened on that long ago night at the club, and the scar would not let either of them forget, either.

And then, some scars weren't visible to the naked eye. But he knew about them all the same.

"We all have our scars," Annabeth said again. Her voice was stronger, firmer this time.

Wordlessly, he moved to the bed. Annabeth shifted over and made room for him.

It was the last chance for him to back out, but there was no question of that. Bruce slowly sat down on the mattress, which predictably sagged under his weight. Nevertheless, he laid down and turned to Annabeth, who simply looked at him.

"I'm scared, too," he told her. And then, some instinct drove him forward—in his own view, he was the protector, and he should try to offer comfort, strength, solutions. But he simply didn't know how. What could he possibly say to Annabeth to make it all right? As the Batman, he could make things right. But as Bruce Wayne, he was at sea. Just a man. A man with billions, perhaps, but he knew as well as anyone that all the money in the world couldn't buy Annabeth perfect health, or resolution to their emotionally-tangled lives, but still—hesitantly, he put his arms around her, and gently guided her back down into a supine position.

Softly he whispered, "We'll figure things out later. But not now."

Annabeth sighed.

Bruce reached over and switched off the lamp. Even in the dark, he could sense Annabeth relaxing. And then, he heard her voice:

"By the way...I think that cowl gives you a double chin."

She could no longer see his face, but she heard the little huff of amusement and felt his lips curl into a tiny smile. And then, not to be outdone, he volleyed back.

"You're a shitty homemaker."

There was no response to this, as he was quite right. She simply smiled and remained still. They simply lay there, offering each other a very chaste comfort. Annabeth settled her head on his chest, taking in his body heat, his quiet breathing. After a moment, she felt him settle his enormous paw of a hand on her head and slowly stroke her hair.

Just before Annabeth slipped into sleep, she heard him whisper. "I can't stay here all night."

"I know," she mumbled. "What would the neighbors say?"