Miraculously, Annabeth was able to arise at her normal hour the next morning.

Six-thirty a.m...only three hours had passed since Bruce had come to her. The sun had not yet quite risen, and so her bedroom was still dark, but Annabeth could tell that she was alone, once more. The only other living creatures in her home were Jed and Wurzel, who were curled up in their customary places beside her. No doubt they had not appreciated being evicted by a strange man, and hadn't hesitated to reclaim their spots when he finally vacated the room.

So strange. She had to force herself to recall the unexpected visitation and conversation, to believe that it had actually happened. She remembered feeling Bruce's hands, gently stroking her hair. And then she recalled something else—right before he slipped out of her bed, he had placed his hands carefully, almost worshipfully, on her belly.

And then he had left, taking all evidence of his presence with him. Except for one thing: a hastily-scrawled note, which he had placed on the top of her scraggly tree.

Charlie Brown would be ashamed. Get a real tree.

Unwillingly, she smiled. Punk.

Quickly, she showered and dressed, and with equal speed, threw together a fruit salad and brewed a pot of herbal tea, trying all the while not to think about the coffee she had given up for the length of her pregnancy. She fed the animals and took a few moments to clean up the worst of the previous evening's mess, and she managed to get out the door by a quarter till eight. She didn't have to be into the office for a while yet, but she felt unusually charged and energized. Who knew what the day had to offer? Plus, there was always plenty to do, and plenty to justify her arriving early.

The morning was predictably cold, but all of the clouds had disappeared before the bright sun, the freshly-fallen snow was dazzlingly bright. The pollution, soot, and dirt of Gotham had not yet had a chance to spoil the crystalline beauty, and Annabeth actually paused for a moment to take in the scene. A snowplow noisily chugged past, and in the clear, brittle air, she could easily hear the chiming bells from St. Magdalena's, three blocks over. Across the street, a woman hurried her two children along, no doubt running late on her way to take them to school.

Could that be her in a couple of years?

"Christ, de Burgh, pull it together," Annabeth scolded herself. "One semi-romantic interlude and you're practically picking out the wedding gown."

A man dressed in a crisply-pressed suit threw her an amused glance as he sped past her on his way to the subway.

What nonsense. Squaring her shoulders, she added a little speed to her walk and became, once more, just another citizen of Gotham, charging ahead with a purpose, on her way to work.

But there was no denying the fact that something had changed within her.

And not just her, either.

"Stop looking at me like that, Alfred."

Obediently, Alfred turned away from Bruce, but not before the younger man saw the smirk on his wise butler's face.

The two of them were in the massive kitchen at Wayne Manor, where Alfred was preparing a fortifying breakfast for Bruce. He had turned up not long before Alfred arose at six. This, in and of itself, was not remarkable, but the fact that Bruce was so obviously...not his abnormally neurotic self...had tipped off Alfred that perhaps the Batman hadn't been up to his typical maraudings and hijinks the night before.

In fact, Alfred had a fairly strong suspicion that last night was less about a bat and more about a tomcat.

No, he corrected himself silently, that wasn't quite right either. It wasn't a fair or accurate description of either Bruce or Annabeth, both of whom were two of the most un-promiscuous people Alfred knew. But he was no fool, and was in fact well-versed in the ways of human nature, and between that timeless knowledge and his keen sense of smell, which had immediately picked up an unlikely whiff of lady's shampoo on the Batsuit, Alfred was fairly confident that he knew exactly what company Bruce Wayne had been keeping during the night.

And so Alfred permitted himself one or two knowing smirks.

And Bruce glowered.

All in all, because of the many things that went unspoken, it was a fairly silent early morning in Wayne Manor. Alfred wisely kept his thoughts to himself as he went about brewing the extra strong coffee that Master Wayne preferred, as well as his own favorite tea, then set out the makings for omelets. After this, he ignited the kindling he had laid out in the enormous fireplace the night before, and watched as the fire crackled to life.

"Pretty damned useless, a fireplace in the kitchen," Bruce grumbled good-naturedly. "It's not the nineteenth century any more."

"You were the one who ordered we restore the Manor, brick for brick, to its original condition," Alfred retorted, unperturbed by Bruce's harmless griping. "Besides, I find it rather elegant."

There was no denying that the fire added a cozy element to the kitchen, which was not exactly the warmest room in the house. Its largeness and its stone floor saw to that. But with the lively, bright flames and the tea kettle singing away on the stove, it was a surprisingly pleasant space.

Bruce watched as Alfred moved about the kitchen, setting out plates and silverware, measuring ingredients, fetching items from the enormous refrigerator. He moved with a measured, patient grace, born from years of—what?

Working for him. Waiting for him.

How much of a life could Alfred have possibly had? It seemed that most of it had been in the service of the Wayne family, such as it was. And yet he rarely complained; he simply continued to assist, continued to provide gentle guidance and succor. As strange as Bruce felt his own life was, sometimes he felt that Alfred's was even stranger.

Alfred caught Bruce gazing at him thoughtfully and cocked his head in a questioning manner. "Something on your mind, Master Wayne?"

"No more so than normal."

The two men resumed their silence.

Soon enough, Alfred had set before Bruce a plate heaped with food. "Tuck in, Master Wayne. I imagine you're quite hungry after last night's excursions."

Bruce glared at Alfred, who simply smirked again and commenced with cleaning up.

"Alright, alright, enough with the loaded comments," he snapped. "Yes, I was with Annabeth last night."

"I gathered as much," Alfred responded, his tone neutral. But there was curiosity alight in his eyes, and Bruce did not fail to notice this.

"Nothing happened."

"I see." Still, Alfred's expectant gaze bore into him.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

Bruce shook his head. "Never mind."

"Of course, Master Wayne."

Alfred resumed cleaning, and Bruce resumed nursing his coffee.

After another moment, Bruce spoke again. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

Bruce chose his words with care. "Do you...ah...that is, does it..."

Alfred knew Bruce Wayne to be many things—more of a gifted actor than even himself, possibly one of the smartest people in Alfred's acquaintance, as well as one of the most unforgiving and proud men he had ever met. He was stubborn and neurotic, extremely articulate, and very rarely at a loss for words. So it was, to say the least, unusual—and somewhat amusing—to watch the young master stumble. But Alfred was a firm believer in a certain bit of humility, and he believed that sometimes, people needed to stumble through the question and find the answer for themselves. So he merely raised his eyebrows questioningly and listened.

Finally, Bruce blurted it out. "Do you get lonely around here?"

Whatever surprise Alfred may have felt regarding the abrupt question, he did not reveal it to Bruce. He turned to the sink, where he began scrubbing some dishes that had accumulated there. It gave him a moment to gather his thoughts.

After a moment, he turned back to Bruce and leaned against the counter. "No more or less than you do, I imagine."

A clever answer, and one that parried the conversation back into Bruce's court. He had never been particularly adept at discussing emotions. But he had to acknowledge them now, to receive confirmation from Alfred.

"It gets...quiet around here," he finally conceded.

Alfred nodded. "It never was a particularly thriving place. But at least when your parents were alive...there was more entertaining. And then there was always you and Miss Rachel, running around..." he fell silent, sensing the pain that such a recollection would bring to Bruce.

Indeed, Bruce's eyes went distant for a moment, as his mind went to a far-off, long-ago place, remembering. And then he nodded. "It was a little bit better then." He lifted his head. "But now...the Manor is really a hollow shell."

"It doesn't have to be."

"No." Bruce fell into silence, and for the next five minutes, offered no more conversation. Alfred finished cleaning, poured more coffee for Bruce, and began to plan the tasks for the day ahead. Bruce continued to eat, but it was clear that his mind wasn't on food.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"Since you're around the Manor more than me, I think you should have a say in this."

"A say in what?"

"How would you feel if...maybe an additional tenant came to live at the Manor?"

A smile tugged at Alfred's mouth, but he fought it back. "Just one tenant, Master Wayne?"

He's not making this very easy, Bruce thought crossly. Well, why should he? "Well...two tenants, but the second one wouldn't be immediate."

"Two tenants, Master Wayne? Just people?"

Damn the old man. "Ah...well, the Manor is fairly large. I think we might be able to fit a cat and a dog in here, too...stop smirking!"

Alfred turned his face away until he was able to gain control. When he finally turned around, however, he met Bruce's gaze with a stern expression. "You'd better be certain, Master Wayne. There are a lot of people whom this will effect."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I'm not even sure Annabeth will go along with it. I think she's just as likely to move to a commune in San Francisco and try her hand at child-rearing there."

There was no answer to this, as Alfred knew enough about to Annabeth to agree with Bruce's assessment. He merely smiled in silent, appreciative agreement and began to make his way out of the kitchen.

"Where are you off to?" Bruce called after him.

When Alfred turned around, his face was no longer blandly agreeable; rather, there was mischief alight in his eyes. "I'm going to start decorating for Christmas today."

"What?" Bruce nearly fell out of his chair in genuine astonishment. "Oh, hell. Not you too!"

It would be a few hours before Bruce needed to be anywhere, so, for lack of anything more pressing to tend to, he followed Alfred out of the kitchen and through the manor. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Oh, I most certainly am, sir." Alfred gestured around him. "Of course, we decorated for the charity ball, and all of that was quite fine and festive. But rather impersonal, don't you think? We had professional decorators come in, for pity's sake."

Bruce scratched the back of his head, trying to follow Alfred's chain of thought. "What's wrong with that? Can billionaires really be expected to decorate their homes themselves?"

"No, particularly not if the billionaire in question is a scrooge who moonlights as an emotionally-stunted caped crusader," Alfred retorted, unperturbed. "However, the billionaire's butler can reasonably be expected to tend to these matters. Hence, I am."

"Damned waste of a day, if you ask me," Bruce grumbled. And then remembered the wreck of Annabeth's home, the previous evening. What on earth were they thinking?

"Not everyone is as single-minded and...indifferent to life...as you, sir." Alfred pointed this out with a tone of exasperation. "And were you, or were you not, just contemplating opening your home to additional elements of life? I think it's only safe to presume that other...ah, residents won't necessarily share your disdain for the traditions of humanity. Particularly if one of the other residents happens to be a child."

Shamed, Bruce remained silent...until he followed Alfred into the study.

The study which led to the Batcave.

"Really, Alfred? Really?" Bruce shook his head in disbelief. There were already several boxes sitting about, ruining the Old World order and splendor of the room. As well, an eight-foot Douglas fir now stood sentry very near the grand piano. "How many rooms does the manor have? And this is the one you've decided to personally decorate?"

"I find it quite fitting, sir." Alfred knelt by one of the closest boxes. "I had my niece over in London ship these decorations to me. Some of them were from my childhood...some of them, she found in antique stores. And some of them come from an artisan in the Cotswolds who specializes in reproduction Victorian Christmas decor."

He glanced over at Bruce, who had settled himself into an armchair and attempted to look deeply unimpressed.

"Do you care to help, Master Wayne?"

Bruce stretched out his legs. "No. I intend to watch until you get bored and find some other way to make my life complicated."

"Odd. I often find myself saying the same thing about you."

Alfred turned his attention to the task of decorating the study, and Bruce sat back and watched.

Within fifteen minutes, Alfred had managed to unpack and organize the majority of the boxes. As he began to start in on the last two, he heard a gentle choking sound behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Bruce stretched out, his head tilted over the back of the armchair. He was emitting slow, quiet snores.

Alfred smiled and continued to decorate.

And so the morning unfolded, and began to creep towards the afternoon. Bruce slept on, and Alfred managed to do just as he threatened: turn the study leading to the Batcave into a scene from a Dickens Christmas story. He had just finished fastening the last of the electric candles to the tree branches when the peace was finally shattered.

From deep in his pocket, Bruce's cell phone rang. Alfred watched as Bruce jerked awake, first in bemusement as he took stock of his surroundings, and then with increasing awareness as he checked the caller ID. "It's Lucius."

"Interesting," was Alfred's only remark—but his eyes darkened in worried anticipation.

Bruce answered. "Lucius. Good morning."

"It might be morning to you, Mr. Wayne. The rest of us call it early afternoon. Surprising that I got you this early."

"I simply didn't sleep last night. Too many parties, too many people to see, "

"Indeed. Is there any chance you can fit one more into your busy schedule?"

"Possibly. What have you got?"

"Coleman Reese."

"You're shitting me."

Alfred gave Bruce a sharp glance. It was unusual for him to make a remark in that vein.

"Not at all, Mr. Wayne." The amusement in Lucius' voice was audible. "You really think I'd turn him loose? I buried him down in accounting right before I left, and when I came back, I resurrected him. He's an enterprising little weasel, I'll give him that. He can sniff out any sort of..." he paused, then said "Hang on."

Bruce listened as Lucius covered the receiver with his hand. A muffled, brief conversation was carried on the other end, but Lucius quickly returned. "My apologies. Mr. Reese wants to make it clear that the information he is providing to us is merely the product of one of the duties enumerated in his employment contract, and in no way does he expect or will accept compensation outside of the designated salary paid for by Wayne Enterprises."

"Huh?"

"He's not blackmailing you."

"Ah. I see."

"So can you come in to talk with us?"

Bruce frowned. "Can I send Alfred in?"

"I suppose so. You have somewhere else you need to be?"

Bruce glanced over at Alfred, who was feigning inattention—badly. And then he glanced around the enormous kitchen, and quietly considered the echoing mansion beyond. "As a matter of fact, I do."

Alfred and Lucius had known each other for a long time. Besides harboring a genuine regard and respect for each other, they had nurtured a solid working relationship over the years. More recently, a mutual empathy and understanding of what the other had to put up with regarding Bruce had enriched their friendship even more. It certainly didn't hurt that they often found themselves working together on the same projects. So Alfred wasn't the least bit confused that Bruce sent him into Wayne Towers to look into the information that Lucius had provided.

Jessica Waterhouse didn't bat an eyelash, either. She had long since grown accustomed to the quirks and oddities of Bruce Wayne and the strange habits that he introduced to the 85th floor, and she personally enjoyed the dignity and courtesy of the Wayne family's butler. She gave Alfred her usual cool smile and friendly nod as Lucius led him into the board room, and then went back to her tasks.

But she couldn't help but wonder what that little twit Coleman Reese was doing in there with them.

Inside the board room, Alfred was wondering the same thing.

"Last I heard of you, you were trying to blackmail my employer with some bizarre allegations," he remarked mildly to Coleman Reese.

Coleman glanced over at Lucius. "Um...water under the bridge?"

Lucius smiled encouragingly. "Fact is, Alfred, Mr. Reese has put his remarkable research skills to good use. We may just be indebted to him."

"I'm perfectly content with what I earn," Coleman said hastily.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Coleman Reese is one of our attorneys who specializes in researching the financials of other companies."

"I'm aware of this," Alfred said cautiously.

"But what you might not know—in fact, I wasn't even aware of it until fairly recently—is that Coleman here also has extensive training as a forensic accountant."

"I see." Alfred didn't see, at least not yet. Lucius smiled.

"I had him assist me with some of the financial information of some businessmen we've been needing to research. In almost all scenarios, Coleman managed to dig up potentially damaging information."

"That is impressive," Alfred said sincerely. He nodded at Coleman. "Well done."

"Thank you."

"Unfortunately, very little of it pertains to the entire reason for the research." Here Lucius began to speak obliquely; as far as he was concerned, Coleman Reese didn't need to know who had commissioned the research, or why. Although, if he was truly the industrious weasel that Lucius and Bruce had portrayed, he'd figure it out.

"If nothing pertains to what we were searching for, what's the issue?" Alfred was confused.

"I didn't say nothing. I said very little." Lucius reached for the slim file folder which sat on the table and passed it to Alfred. "Coleman did find one or two things that might be of assistance."

Alfred flipped through the folder at the same time as Coleman explained the contents.

"Bank records for Seth Percival and another woman, dating back to 1983. Nothing remarkable in and of that..."

"No," Alfred agreed. "But it's surprising that we didn't find this earlier."

"The bank went under in 1990, and the majority of the clients and their records were absorbed by Chicago Mutual. So you dug up the records for Chicago Mutual, which explains why you didn't dig deeper and come up with the older, archived bank records. And then when Percival switched over to Chicago Mutual, the woman's name was dropped from the accounts.

"The woman's name was...?"

"Gretchen Rogers."

Lucius shrugged. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"It actually does with me." Alfred searched through his memory. "I believe that Seth Percival was married to this woman. I recall coming up with the marriage certificate and the divorce papers when I did research on him."

Coleman nodded. "That would explain why her name dropped off the bank account. I just thought it was worth noting since she hadn't come up in any of the other digging I did." He looked slightly disappointed, as though he were hoping that his discovery would yield something more significant.

The three men remained quiet for a moment, and then, individually, the same conclusion dawned on each of them.

"Wait-" Lucius started.

"Isn't it odd..." Alfred frowned, but didn't take the thought farther.

It was Coleman, surprisingly, that voiced the thought that was taking root in each of their brains. "A seven-year marriage, and Gretchen Rogers' name only comes up three times? Isn't that a little unusual? Jesus, my marriage only last three years and the paperwork was the size of a small forest."

Alfred swore. And then he stood and hastily gathered the papers. "Thank you, Lucius. And you, Mr. Reese."

"Where are you going?" Lucius asked, worried. Alfred's face was pale.

"Back to the manor. I have more research to do."

After he had sent Alfred into the city, Bruce headed up to his room for a long shower. Having bathed and dressed, he fortified himself with one more large cup of coffee, and then hunted down the keys to one of the cars. It only took a moment's deliberation to choose the Volvo—he knew that Annabeth abhorred ostentation, and the last thing he wanted to do was to wave a Ferrari or a Lamborghini under her nose.

The funny truth of it was, he had no intention of doing anything momentous—not that day, anyway. But he did want to see Annabeth again, and more to the point, he needed to talk to her about something.

And, to be embarrassingly honest, he was a little nervous about seeing her again, so soon after last night.

Of course, the moment he stepped into Safe Haven, his nervousness passed. Thomas waved him up, but not before giving him one brief roll of the eyes. He looked stressed.

"Tough day already?" Bruce asked in sympathy.

"Man, and you don't even get paid to spend time with all this estrogen."

Bruce stepped into the elevator, laughing appreciatively.

Of course, the working floors of Safe Haven were in a predictable state of chaos. The phone was ringing off the hook, and several children, no doubt excited by the impending Christmas holiday, were running about, shrieking with glee. Bruce wasn't surprised in the slightest that Maya sat, calm and collected, amidst the chaos, seemingly undisturbed.

Her face lit up when she saw Bruce, but before she could say a word, the phone rang again. "Safe Haven Consulting...no, she's not available...I can forward you through to her voice mail if you'd like...No. I can hand deliver a message, but she can't talk right now." She rolled her eyes at Bruce, who grinned.

After a moment, she hung up. "Some lady from a business called Boudicca, Incorporated. She's called three times this morning, for fuck's sake. She has to speak with Annabeth. Persistent woman, I'll give her that."

Bruce smiled crookedly. "Aren't they all?"

"Touché. You want Annabeth or Donna?"

"Both, eventually. But I'll start with Donna, if she's around."

"For you? Always."

"I'll wait here while you call."

Maya leaned back in her chair, threw back her head, and bellowed: "DONNA!"

She turned back to Bruce and grinned. "What's one more noise in this zoo?"

"Jesus christ, are the phones broken again?" Donna emerged from her office. "I'm pretty sure every Donna on the block just answered."

"Phones aren't broken, but that might change if that woman calls one more time." Maya had already resumed her typing.

"That woman from Boudicca? Bloody stupid name. For fuck's sake, what the hell does she want with Annabeth?" Donna shook her head. "I'm fairly certain it qualifies as stalking."

Briefly, Bruce wondered if Annabeth got her language from Donna and Maya, or vice versa. But before he had a chance to pursue that train of thought, Donna turned to him. "Bruce, come on back to my office."

As they headed down the hall, Bruce asked, "What's Boudicca?"

"Oh, some lobbyist organization based out of DC. They're not as influential as NOW, but give them time. Very up-and-coming; if they change the name they might go somewhere."

"Boudicca," Bruce repeated. "Wasn't that some sort of Celtic queen?"

"Yes. Roman Britain. Her daughters were raped by the Romans, and so she and her tribe revolted and routed the Romans for a while. Of course, she was defeated, but it's still rather inspiring as women empowerment stories go...but why do I have the suspicion you already know all this?"

Bruce shrugged sheepishly. "Seems a little presumptuous for a man to tell the story."

Donna laughed all the way back down the hall.

Half an hour later, Bruce emerged from Donna's office. Their meeting had been mainly to go over what had already been decided for the Take Back the Night Rally, but it was the excuse Bruce had needed to come to Safe Haven. And now for the actual reason...

Annabeth's office door was open, and he could hear her voice on the phone. He tapped on the door jamb and leaned against it—much as he had done in her home not twelve hours before—and Annabeth glanced up and signaled him in.

"I understand she's your mother, but it was her choice..." her voice sounded strained, yet patient. "I can't release that information...only she can." She held the receiver away from her head, presumably to shield her ear from the shrill squawking which was issuing forth. After a moment, the squawking abruptly stopped, and Annabeth slowly hung up the phone.

"I can only assume she hung up on me," Annabeth sighed.

"What's all that about?"

"Aurgh." Annabeth propped her elbows on the desk and buried her head in her hands for a moment. "It happens every year. This year—a sixty-two year old grandmother, Bea, shows up. Three days ago. She's been faithfully married for forty years to a man who has, with equal faith, beaten the shit out of her for every year of their marriage. This Christmas season, he decided she's spent a little too much on some of the grandkid's toys, and so he proceeds to beat her senseless."

Bruce shook his head.

"With a china doll she had purchased for her granddaughter." Annabeth added, smiling grimly. "I almost have to credit the bastard for resourcefulness. Anyway, he breaks her nose—and the china doll too, so her face got pretty cut up. Her youngest son, a bit of a black sheep, especially now, talked her into coming here. The rest of the family found out, and now they're fit to be tied."

"And the grandmother? Bea, you said her name was?"

"Still in shock that she finally grew a pair after all this time. But she seems to be bent on sticking with her plan to leave the husband."

Bruce didn't bother to mask the admiration in his eyes.

"ANNABETH!" Maya's voice rang down the corridor. "IT'S BOUDICCA AGAIN!"

"Tell her to leave a message, like everyone else!" Annabeth bellowed back. To Bruce, she asked rhetorically, "For fuck's sake, who is this woman?"

"A Celtic rebel, I think," Bruce offered helpfully. "Maybe she wants lessons in castration?"

Annabeth smiled but didn't answer. Instead, she beckoned him into the office. "Close the door behind you."

He obeyed, and then took a seat on the other side of her desk. Only then did he notice how clean her office had become. The boxes and piles of papers and file folders and books that had cluttered the tiny space had disappeared in recent weeks.

"Cleaning house?"

"Mmm." Annabeth shrugged noncommittally.

"Well, it's cleaner than your condo."

Annabeth gave him a dirty look, then smiled. "Is this a social call?"

"Actually, no." Bruce leaned in. "I need to ask something of you."

It was an indication of how far their tenuous relationship had mended that Annabeth didn't protest or snark. "Okay."

"Over the next couple of weeks...I need for you to lie low."

"'Lie low'?" Annabeth repeated.

"I'm serious, Annabeth." Bruce leaned in and caught her hands. "I know you've got a vested interest in what's about to go down. I understand that. I don't think anyone has worked harder than you. But—I need to know you'll be safe." He paused. "I need to know the baby's safe."

It was the first time he had referred to it. Their eyes locked.

Annabeth sighed. "I'd already decided that. I don't...I can't take any chances. Things are going to be hard enough, I think."

Up until now, Bruce had attempted to maintain a neutral expression, but now his eyes widened in alarm. "Why? Has something happened?"

"Not yet. But I'm not exactly at a young, healthy age for a first baby." Annabeth's eyes were full of worry. "And I certainly have had my share of problems down there. So it might get to be a bumpy ride...no pun intended."

"I'll find the best doctor," Bruce promised. "You'll get the best care."

"Um...sorry to broach the obvious subject, but what does all this mean, Bruce? It's not like we've exactly sat down and had a talk about what's going to happen."

"And we will. Soon. I promise. But I wanted to make sure we were on the same page with this one. I don't want you to get hurt, you or the baby. If I could...I'd hide you away in the Manor until this is all over."

Annabeth rolled her eyes. "It's not necessary. Until you...er, until the Batman and Gordon raid the stash house, I'm going to be either here or at home. I'm not going near the Narrows. I already had decided that." More softly, but firmly, she added, "I don't want to lose this baby."

"I know. I don't want you to, either." Bruce smiled gently. "I'll...the Batman will be keeping an eye on your place, too. If Trinity's coming and going from there, there's always a risk."

"There always will be, so long as we live in Gotham," Annabeth pointed out.

There was no arguing with that, and Bruce didn't try. They sat there, quietly, for another moment, and then Annabeth cleared her throat. "Thank you...for last night. It was—well, I know it was difficult for you."

"It was," Bruce conceded. "But it was necessary."

"Can I ask you something?"

"What?" He was instantly wary.

"It's a stupid question...but do you want it to be a boy or a girl?"

Bruce looked floored for a moment. "I hadn't thought about it. At all. I just...hadn't gotten that far."

"Understandable."

"I mean, I wasn't even sure you were going to let me near it. I'm still not sure where we stand."

"Me neither."

"But..." Bruce paused for a moment and thought. "I really understand why people say 'so long as it's healthy'...and I agree. And so long as you stay healthy. That's even more important to me." He looked over at her, took in her pale, wan appearance. "I worry."

"I know."

A thought occurred to Bruce and he blurted it out before he could stop himself. "Although, a girl would with both of our genes could be a formidable opponent, indeed."

Annabeth snorted, but before she could answer, there was a loud rap on the door, and it thrust inward to reveal a harassed-looking Maya. "Sorry to interrupt, but that woman called again, and she's threatening to fly up here if you don't answer."

"Patch her through," Annabeth sighed.

Bruce rose from his seat. "We'll have that talk very soon. I promise. And I'll see you tonight." He mouthed this last part. "Let me know if there's anything you need."

He headed out, but not before he heard her phone ringing and her answering.

"Annabeth de Burgh here..."

The weather may have cleared up, but it certainly didn't make driving conditions for Barbara Gordon any easier. She uttered a long and colorful string of oaths as she encountered yet another long traffic back-up. Gotham drivers were a hardened lot, for certain, but absolutely incompetent when it came to the elements. And there were still enough piles of snow and ice slicks to make driving hazardous.

Not for the first time, she cursed the traffic law that forbade motorcyclists from lane splitting. She had very little use for California, but the one time she had visited that nutty place, she had been deeply satisfied with her ability to zip around the scads of gridlocked traffic. No such luck in Gotham. And so, because she was—more or less—a law abiding citizen, and had no desire to sink her drinking and book money in a pointless traffic ticket, here she sat.

Damned waste of time.

From what the weather guys were saying, another spate of winter storms was on its way, and she had a narrow, 16-hour window of opportunity to avail herself to the good weather and run some errands. Barbara loved her bike, and that was the only way she allowed herself to get around—except during the inclement winter months. And even then, she seized whatever opportunities she had at her disposal.

She had intended to hit the bank, the pharmacist, the DMV; she had planned on a leisurely lunch at one of her favorite pubs, and she had fully plotted to head out to that stupid rehab place and give her adoptive mother a piece of her mind. And then she would top off her day by a lengthy research session in the Library's archives..

But here it was, getting on to be three o'clock in the afternoon, and the day appeared to be a bust. Already, the feeble winter sunlight was fading. The DMV had been inexplicably closed ("furloughs," one disgruntled citizen had speculated as he had stalked away from the locked doors, "Fucking people don't want to pay any more taxes but then they all bitch when services get cut."), and the trip to the rehab facility looked like it wasn't going to happen, either. Instead, she was stuck in traffic with a surprisingly strong urge to punch someone. Something of a pity, really—she'd be perfectly happy punching her adoptive mother. Her father had told her what Barbara Senior wanted, and that didn't sit well at all with his daughter and self-appointed champion.

Her stomach growled, pulling her attention away from such cross thoughts. Perhaps an early dinner would solve a few issues. And then what...? A thought suddenly occurred to her. She checked her mirrors and cut over a couple of lanes, guiding her bike into a narrow space that wasn't exactly intended for parking. Well, she might not follow all the rules of the road. Hopefully, she'd only be there for a minute. She fished out her phone from deep within the pockets of her leather bomber and paused to think. Now what was the name of that place where Annabeth works?

A moment later she had her answer. And thankfully, it was in the exact opposite direction of all of the traffic...and not too far from her favorite pub, either.

Bruce found himself in a similar gridlock as he attempted to navigate his way out of the city. Fortunately, he didn't mind nearly as much as Barbara did. The enforced idleness gave him time to reflect on the latest developments with Annabeth.

He hadn't expected her to be so amenable to sitting things out, but then again—why should he really be surprised at all? At one point, Annabeth had wanted to be a mother, but had been told that it was unlikely. Along with that unlikelihood was a certain amount of risk—Bruce didn't need to be an OB-GYN to figure that much out. She was no fool, and understood the risks to her person even better than he did. It didn't take a genius to see that, while she didn't have a clue about how to proceed, she had every intention of keeping the baby.

The major question that remained was, what part would she allow Bruce to have? What part did he want to have? What was he willing to fight for?

And would he even need to fight? Her behavior over the last day hadn't exactly been discouraging.

"We'll talk about it later," he had told Annabeth, and he meant it. At some point—ideally sooner rather than later—they were going to have to sit down and figure out their options. He hadn't wanted to discuss it right then, in the middle of Safe Haven, because he had not yet quite worked out in his own mind what he wanted, and he certainly hadn't been able to tell what Annabeth wanted, and there was no point in talking about it until he had some ideas planned out. But maybe he wouldn't get things figured out alone; maybe he needed to hash them out with her. Together.

Now is as good as time as any.

His cell phone trilled.

Maybe not.

It was Alfred. "Are you still in the City?"

"Not for long. Once I get out of traffic, it should be a straight shot. Why?"

"I think maybe you should stay in the city."

Alfred's voice, normally so unruffled, betrayed a certain amount of agitation, and Bruce's radar immediately went off. Trouble. "What's up?"

"There's something we missed."

Bruce saw a small motor accident on the shoulder up ahead, and smoothly switched lanes. "Go ahead."

"Coleman Reese dug up something, bank records for Seth Percival and his previous wife, Gretchen Rogers. We've been focusing entirely on Percival, so we completely missed the fact that this wife of his completely dropped off the face of the planet once they were divorced."

"Okay..."

"But what's also interesting is that, prior to their marriage, she does not seem to exist anywhere, either. Gretchen Rogers had a social security number and a birth certificate; that much I can tell from the marriage application and license. But other than that—no drivers license, no work history, nothing. I'm beginning to suspect those were fabricated documents."

"Is that even possible?"

"Master Wayne, you and I both know that with enough money, anything is possible."

"Very valid point. But still, odd. I suppose it's worth looking into."

"That's the problem, Master Wayne. I've gone as far as I can get with my research—the software we have here is only so sophisticated, and while it can get into most networks, it takes time. And our hackers out west only have so much by way of resources. We need something faster and more powerful. "

Bruce didn't even need to think about it. "Wayne Towers—down in R&D. We've got Undertow there." Undertow was the name for the extremely powerful computer system that Lucius had commissioned for some of their more...sensitive...research needs. "Meet me there in an hour."

"Right you are."

Alfred disconnected, leaving Bruce with a deep sense of unease.