After an excruciatingly long drive from one end of the city to the other—a drive in which Montoya had plenty of time to ruminate over her mistakes and worry about her colleagues—she finally made it to The Alleycat. She didn't go in right away, however; for a moment, she leaned her forehead against the steering wheel and tried to collect herself. She didn't want to go in there dragging with her the stink and shame of failure—it was her job to keep Stacy safe, now, and being distracted by her own previous fuck-ups was a sure way to screw up again.

And she sure as hell didn't want to fuck up in front of the boss's daughter again, either.

She thought of her colleagues, even now probably charging into harm's way, and it scalded her heart that she wasn't with them. Not just because she wanted to be there, but because she needed to be there. She belonged with Gordon, backing him up; she belonged by Bullock's side, watching his back. And instead, she was exiled, away from the danger that she herself had unintentionally brought down on them.

Just then, a group of people—noisy, raucous college kids, by the look of them—passed by her patrol car, laughing and ribbing each other, and the sudden noise brought her out of her miserable reverie. Sighing in resignation, she unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door, and exited into the cold night air. As she checked her gun and concealed it in her shoulder holster, she happened to glance up and take in the night sky. Clouds were crowding in fast, blotting out the city lights and the little bit of starlight strong enough to be seen within the city.

Terrific. Another storm. Already the meteorologists were talking about the unusual number of winter storms which had already assaulted the region; speculation was that it was going to be a difficult winter, harsher than most. Judging by the current ominous look of the sky, Montoya was prepared to believe them.

With that not-particularly-encouraging knowledgge to fortify her, Montoya headed into The Alleycat.

It was a typical neighborhood watering hole, a dive of the highest—or more accurately, lowest—order. But it was warm and fairly non-threatening, and amusingly, judging by the number of flannel shirts and skinny jeans that assaulted her eyes, it had a little bit of a hipster flair. But the music wasn't too loud, the patrons appeared harmless, and best of all, Montoya spotted Barbara Gordon and Stacy right away. They were huddled at the bar, where Barbara gazing up at the television mounted to the wall, and Stacy was watching a game of pool being played a few feet away. Although, judging by the covertly come-hither looks she was sending in that general direction, her interest had less to do with the billiards and more to do with the scruffy young men playing them.

"What's a girl like you doing, slumming here?" Montoya asked as she approached the two females. Stacy looked up, alarmed, but Barbara merely smiled. "Glad to see you could make it."

Montoya sat down beside Barbara. "Everything okay here?"

"So far." Barbara glanced around. "I come here 'way more than I should, and the benefit of that is that I know most of the regulars. And so far, no one out of the ordinary."

"Good." Montoya caught the eye of the bartender. "Mineral water, please."

The bartender glanced at Barbara. "New girlfriend, Babs?"

"Bryce, I told you if you called me that again, I'd put a boot up your ass." For the first time since Montoya had known Barbara, the younger woman looked genuinely annoyed. "I fucking hate that name. It makes me sound like some sort of...I don't know, sixties-era wannabe valley girl who can't be taken seriously in her own right. It's fucking degrading." She paused, then continued. "And no, she's not my girlfriend."

"Not after unleashing that stream of petulance anyway," Bryce agreed as he passed Montoya the mineral water. He seemed impervious to Barbara's rants. Montoya instantly divined that the bartender and the Commissioner's daughter had slept together at some point.

"He the jealous type?" she asked Barbara mischievously.

Barbara showed neither surprise at Montoya's intuition nor embarrassment at her guess. "Not at all, thank god. And fortunately, he's as commitmentphobic as I am. Now," her expression became serious. "How's my father?"

"He's fine," Montoya reassured her. "Spread a little thin at the moment, but coping. How's the kid?"

"Fine, so long as she doesn't hear you call her 'kid'. I'm sorry I took off with her...I just figured that it was better to get her out of there rather than stick around."

Montoya's smile was grim, yet genuine. "I won't arrest you for interfering. Besides, if it weren't for you, god only knows what could have happened..."

When she wanted, Barbara could be every bit as intuitive as Montoya. "Dude, you can't be beating yourself up over it. It was a pretty good ruse, how they got in. And there should have been more surveillance, which wasn't your fault at all." She shook her head sympathetically. "Although, it won't do much good, me reassuring you. When I made my first big mistake on the force, it haunted me so much my supervisor sent me into counseling."

"Yeah? What happened?"

Barbara didn't need to dig far to uncover the memory. "Back in Chicago, me and my partner were responding to a domestic disturbance call. When we got to the house, everything seemed fine. The wife answered the front door, seemed normal, apologized for the misunderstanding. Said that she had been watching a movie with the volume turned up really loud, and the neighbors must have heard the screaming from the television and mistook it for people. I swear to god, Montoya, everything seemed normal, both me and my partner thought so. She wasn't upset, not crying, not tearful, no injuries, the house seemed immaculate. So we left."

"What happened?"

"A week later, another patrol was called out. This time—the woman was hysterical. And her kid was dead. It had been her boyfriend; he was a raging drug addict. The first time we had been called out, he had been hiding in the hallway, out of our line of vision, with a gun to the kid's head. We hadn't been suspicious, so we hadn't tried to investigate. And then, within seven days, the asshole had killed the kid in a hallucinogenic fit."

Montoya exhaled a pent-up breath. She had known, of course, that the Commissioner's daughter had been a cop for a few years, but had never really thought about it. To her, people fell into two groups—cops and civilians. Cops, she related to. Civilians, she protected, but they were apart from her, different. Other. Unable to understand the burdens she bore and the life she lived. But she had little experience with cops-turned-civilians—most of the cops she knew were lifers. It was strange to hear these experiences from a civilian, especially one with an appearance as off-beat as Barbara's.

Briefly, Montoya wondered how Barbara had fit in, on the force.

Barbara was continuing on, oblivious to Montoya's thoughts. "Anyway. That was the first really big mistake. And it wasn't the last, either. It was the only one that got someone killed, thankfully. But jesus, it was tough. After a while, I got sick of it."

By this point, on her other side, Stacy was listening in as well. "So, like, you were a cop once?"

"I was." Barbara gave her trademark crooked smile. "How else do you think I could put up with you? I've protected a lot worse."

Stacy ignored the jibe. "Why'd you quit?"

"Pretty much for the reason I told Montoya," Barbara sighed. "It can get to be too much, after a while. And then..." she paused, then grinned. "I developed a hidden love and penchant for computer hacking, and I didn't feel comfortable staying on the force and also doing potentially illegal things."

Both Montoya and Stacy smiled at this statement, and Stacy went back to watching the billiards game. Montoya watched her, and listened as Barbara spoke quietly about her. "She's not so annoying, once you find some common ground." Barbara nodded at the empty bottle by Stacy's elbow. "I've been plying her with non-alcoholic beer all night, and she's still too naïve to know the difference, surprisingly enough. So she's fine. A little worried, but fine."

Montoya glanced up at the television. "What's the news been saying?"

"Not much. What do you know?"

"Not much, either. Director of Safe Haven was killed, and Annabeth de Burgh was shot. Still don't know how she is, but it was pretty serious. Now your dad's out in the Narrows, trying to raise hell with you-know-who."

The transformation that Barbara went through was almost amusing. Her relaxed posture and slight affectation of urbane ennui disappeared as she sat straight up. "The Batman?"

"Ssshhh!" Montoya glanced around. "Jesus. Yes, the Batman. What's the big deal? You carrying his love-child or something?"

"No, no. I'm just fascinated with him. I totally dig what he's doing."

"You would." Montoya couldn't help but to roll her eyes. "He's a vigilante, Barbara."

"And my father happens to be pretty cozy with him," Barbara retorted. "Careful who you're judging."

"I know. And as much as I don't approve of what he's doing..." Montoya bit her lip, thinking about it. "I mean, let's look at this from a completely intellectual standpoint. We live in a democracy, and we have a system in place. As a people, we have agreed to work within this system. We've adopted it as the way that works. And so to have someone go outside the system is to undermine the system. It can undermine democracy."

"You're saying that the Batman is subversive?"

"I'm saying that he's a help as well as a hindrance. Like your father, I can't work with black and white. I work in the grey. Hell, I exist in the grey. And I know that he's been an incredible help—I would even say he's saved this city. But that's short-term, and I'm worried about what's going to happen in the long-term."

"Subversive people have been vehicles for social change for centuries," Barbara pointed out. "In my mind, evolution and revolution hinge on subversiveness. At least from a historical perspective."

"But we're not history right now. Not yet, at least. We're living this, and we're going to have to live with the effects of it. And so will everyone else. And that's the thing—we're essentially working outside the system. We're a small group of people making choices that effect a large group of people, that others don't know about and might not want us to make, and haven't authorized us to make them. And how will we be held accountable when things go wrong? Where's the accountability, where's the transparency? Where's the democracy in this?"

Faced with such a passionate argument, Barbara had no immediate response. In fact, she was usually quiet as she took in Montoya's words. She sat quietly, processing it, and in fact remained quiet for so long that Montoya nudged her. "Barbara?"

"Sorry." Barbara shook her head slightly. "I got lost there for a moment."

"What were you thinking?"

"Honestly? You'll hate me for it. I think you just gave me an idea for my doctoral thesis."

"Jesus." Montoya couldn't decide whether she wanted to laugh or pursue the conversation further, but she didn't need to make the decision. Just then, a news update flashed past on the television, capturing the attention of both women. Nothing much new; in fact, other than briefly announcing once more the hostage situation that had transpired earlier, the news anchors seemed to have lost interest in it, and quickly moved on to the approaching winter storm.

"Anyway," Montoya sighed. "It's all rather a moot point right now. Right now, we need the Batman. Again."

"I hope my father's alright," was Barbara's only response.

"I hope he's got people he can trust," Montoya answered.

"He's got the Batman," Barbara volleyed. "I think it can't get any better than that."

In what now seemed like another lifetime, the Batman had jumped out of a skyscraper to save a woman's life. Not just any woman, mind, but Rachel, who had been until recently the only woman he had ever truly loved. Without a plan, without a thought, he had hurled himself out of a window and plunged into a yawning darkness, stretched out his gloved hands—and actually managed to hold death at bay.

Hold death at bay—but not forestall it altogether. Death had come for Rachel, regardless.

He hadn't realized that at the time, of course. At the time, he had been propelled by instinct—save Rachel, save yourself—and fueled by adrenaline. And after, when Alfred had tended his wounds (it had not been, obviously, a comfortable experience, falling several hundred feet and using his body to cushion Rachel), he had been electrified by his own success, and perhaps just a little bit arrogant. He had faced death down and emerged the victor. And the words he uttered to Alfred then haunted him now.

"I didn't think," he had said. "There was no time to think. If I took the time to think, to plan, we'd both be dead."

And as the Batman faced the current situation, he found himself wondering—to think, or not? To stratagize, or not? According to his bat-cams, there were more than 40 women packed away in the attics of the stash house, a mere handful of men scattered through the rest of the rooms. There were also Gordon and several apprehensive MCU rookies, and two oddball Federal agents. The question was—were they going to be assets or liabilities?

Assets, whispered his all-too-human voice inside his head. Pool your resources.

Liabilities, hissed the Batman. They'll just raise the body count.

The internal debate was short-lived, and as it turned out, completely moot. Gordon was tired of waiting and felt the need to assert some measure of authority. He was, rumor had it, the Commissioner, after all.

"Top priority is the women," he said abruptly, addressing the gathered people, from the Batman down to the rookies. "Chances are that the men you encounter will not be key players—they're probably expendable, and they know it, and will not be willing to stick their heads out too far. While they need to be neutralized, the women matter more. Make sure they're safe, make sure they can't run. These ladies have most likely been brutalized, and them running loose through the Narrows will not help them." He paused, and stared at the rookies. "They're victims—you remember that, you respect that. If you don't, or if you treat them like criminals, or I will personally end your career."

Everyone remained silent, taking in Gordon's words. On that typically bleak, freezing night, the Batman had no way of knowing yet whether Annabeth was alive or dead. But regardless, her spirit burnt brightly; she had managed to instill some of her beliefs and values into the Batman and Gordon, the two most valuable allies that one could have in Gotham.

"Enough planning." The Batman growled this; even the bumbling Feds could tell that he was getting restless. As far as he was concerned, if there was ever a good time to act, now was it. "I'm going to create a diversion, draw the Archers out and together. "You two—" he pointed a gloved finger to the Feds, "back me up."

They looked surprised, as well they might. They had no way of knowing that he had gauged them to posed the smallest threat; he had studied the training and fighting styles of Federal Agents, and knew it inside and out—certainly well enough to take them out if they turned. As for Gordon—well, he'd have to deal with his own.

Apparently, Gordon felt the same. He turned to his rookies. "You officers are with me. We go in through the fire escapes; once they create the diversion, we protect and evacuate, understand?"

In unison, the rookies nodded. This was likely the most action any of them had seen since they had graduated from the academy.

"Good. I told you—I can and will end your career if you fail to follow my command, or if you go weird on me in any way. But if this goes down right—if we keep these women safe—then I will personally see to it that your career follows a one-way trajectory: up."

One of the rookies, a skinny woman had acquired the ironic nickname of "Curves" in the Academy, piped up. "What's the diversion?"

Beyond the dark, empty spot where the Batman had been standing only a moment before, they heard his voice. "You'll figure it out."

The Feds had enough presence of mind to scramble off into the direction where they had heard his voice. Gordon, fighting back an evil smirk, herded the rookies down the block, into the direction of the alley behind the stash house. Won't do to give them the chance to think.

Without knowing it, Gordon had come to the same conclusion his caped comrade had been struggling with earlier: The time for thinking and planning had passed. Thinking meant hesitating, and hesitating could get themselves killed.

Within the freezing darkness of the uninsulated attic, Trinity was struggling to maintain a sense of order. By nature she was a solitary kind of person, not a leader, and so it was not something that came naturally to her, keeping control of a group of people. This was not an easy task—literally and metaphorically, she was as much in the dark as the females she was supposedly in the process of breaking.

But judging by the current state of affairs within the attic, she had sucked, royally, at her "job." General chaos reigned as some young women cried, others prayed, and yet others comforted each other. A surprising number of them were calling down curses upon Trinity and her entire bloodline. At least, that's what it sounded like—her Russian skills were shaky at best, her Czech was limited to idiomatic terms, as well as crudities and slang; and her Slovak was limited to a mental note of "might be helpful to learn someday." Still, she was getting the gist of what they were saying to her, and as much as they hated her at present, regarded her as a female Antichrist, she found herself oddly pleased. They still have spirit—that's good. Of course, at present they seemed to have forgotten the many small kindnesses she had done, and only focused on the fact that Trinity, too, was keeping them here.

At least one of the girls wasn't cursing Trinity. Lupe clung like a bur to her side, seeing in the older woman the only remaining stability left in her horrific existence. She didn't say much, terror having long ago robbed her of most of her powers of speech, but it didn't take a genius to see why Lupe stuck so close to Trinity: so long as Trinity was around, Danny the thug couldn't hurt her. And he had already hurt her plenty—Trinity was no nurse, but she suspected cracked ribs, at the least. In addition to this were several infected burns from the butts of cigarettes with which Danny had burned her, and god only knew what harm had been done to her that wasn't showing.

Whenever an Archer was around, she would cringe and try to make herself as invisible as possible. When they weren't around, she would cry and tremble, or else fall completely, almost catatonically quiet. And all of the other girls, as much as they were abused and controlled and fearful and looking out for their own selves, seemed to band together to care for Lupe. It was both heart-warming and heart-wrenching to watch.

"Fuck it," Trinity muttered, shrugging out of her coat. She had actually gone back to the lounge to grab it, after deciding to "retreat" to the attics, and now she was grateful she had done so. Carefully, she draped it over Lupe's broken body. The girl didn't seem to notice. "It's going to be okay."

Who am I trying to reassure? Trinity asked herself bitterly. Lupe or me? In either case, I don't think it's working.

Nearby, one of the other young women stood, watching Trinity, not saying a word. Her name was Oksana, and she was a classic Russian beauty. She also possessed exceptional English language skills and a deep sense of concern for the other girls who were imprisoned with her. In the past, she had remained silent, choosing instead to administer comfort through hugs and her formidable presence, but now, she spoke.

"I think more is going on than here you have been telling us, yes?"

"I haven't told you anything,'' Trinity began to respond, but was cut off as she heard a muffled explosion. The floorboards trembled slightly, but that was all. Trinity guessed that whatever had happened had done so on the ground floor, near the main entrance—fairly far off in the building. Nevertheless, hope sliced into her chest, and she found herself beginning to pray that her instincts had been correct.

It was a double-edged sword. While Trinity knew it for hope, the others only saw it as an explosion, another danger in a tiny, dark world already fraught with too many perils. Even the calmest were beginning to appear rattled.

Not Oksana, though. She nodded. "I think the big bang is all I need told to me."

Through the thin floorboards, Trinity could hear the faint shouts of the Archers, presumably as they were heading towards the explosion. Idiots. By now, she was fairly convinced that the Batman had managed to launch an attack, and...

...and what? Was she supposed to just sit here, like a helpless princess locked away in a tower, waiting to be rescued? Fuck that. It wasn't her style. Of course, running into the middle of a showdown between Gotham's Dark Knight and the Archers wasn't her style, either. Looking around, straining into the dark to see the terrified faces of the forty women that she was trying to protect, and then hearing another muffled explosion, Trinity made the decision to stay put. Out there, she would only get in the way; in here, at least she could try to help.

"Everyone over here," she called in a low voice. In Russian, she added, "все сюда !"

To her surprise, most of them listened to her. They gathered in close, and in the dim light, Trinity could see them looking expectantly at her. "Oksana, I want you to translate for me."

Oksana gave her a skeptical look, but nonetheless obeyed as Trinity began to speak.

"If something happens to me, I want you to stay together as much as possible. Those of you who are stronger, pair up with someone else who needs help. Stick close to Oksana. Some cops might be coming in soon—hell, something freakier, maybe. But they are going to help you, I promise." She felt Oksana's eyes upon her, suddenly curious, and she nodded towards her. "Keep translating. I know that you think cops bad, but not these people. They're going to help you. Demand to be placed under the custody of no one else but a man named Gordon." Again she looked at Oksana. "Understand?"

"Gordon," Oksana repeated, nodding firmly.

"Good." Trinity lowered her voice so that only Oksana could hear. "Don't let any of the girls loose. Gordon's going to take care of you all. Trust him."

"Why should I be trusting you?" Oksana asked, not unreasonably. "You have been the one who has watched us suffer and have not been helping us."

Another explosion rumbled, this one slightly closer.

"Some day, Oksana, if we get out of this mess alive, I'll take you out for the best bottle of Stolichnaya I can find and tell you exactly how I got into this shit to begin with." Trinity frowned as she tried to herd the rather large crowd closer to her. "But for now, let's just say that most days, I'm just a luckier, better-dressed version of you gals."

Oksana nodded. "For now I trust you. But what will be happening to you?"

"I don't plan to leave you all. But you never know when plans change."

When she was speaking with the investigators later, recounting the evening, Oksana found herself surprised that, before that particular moment in the conversation, she hadn't noticed the gun tucked into the waist of Trinity's designer jeans. But when Trinity moved to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, Oksana certainly did see it. She considered herself a tough bird, made even tougher by her travails, but seeing that firearm gave her quite a chill.

"One more thing, Oksana?"

"Yes? What is it you are wanting now?"

"Keep an eye on Lupe got me."

Just then, the door leading into the room burst open, and Danny stormed in, breathing hard, his eyes wild. "He's here!"

"Who?" Trinity kept her voice cool. She saw Oksana observing the situation, and saw the calculating look on her face.

"The Batman! He's come to grab you all!"

Trinity barely had time to be astounded by his utterly inept—and unexpected—attempt at propaganda before Oksana began shrieking, a high, demented noise which echoed eerily in the darkened room. "The Batman! боже всемогущий ! God help us!"

Up until that point, Trinity had not entertained the thought of pulling the gun. But with Danny present, and so clearly a loose cannon, and with Oksana providing such a useful and well-staged diversion—not only that, but several of the other girls, with probably more sincerity, began to take up the chorus...time to act.

Trinity was one in a million. Whether she was flirting, or cooking, or learning a new language, or dancing, or pulling a gun, she did it all with incredible grace and efficiency. Before Danny had figured out what was going on, she had the gun out, the safety off, and the weapon aimed right at him.

He pulled his eyes away from Lupe, who had gone catatonic once more. "What's this, Trin?"

"What's it look like, dickweed?" Trinity's grip was steady and her eyes blazing. "Last time I checked, le Blanc put me in charge of these girls, and as far as I can see, everything is going to hell in a hand basket. Yet you've got the nerve to come running in here like a scared little pussy, waving that gun around? Get where you're supposed to be!"

"Like you even know how to use that."

"Danny, you really want to bet on that? I fucked the President of the NRA for fourteen months. Try me."

He never had a chance to answer her. Just then, in a heart-stopping rain of shattering glass, several dark forms smashed their way through the windows.

"Police! Freeze!"

"Drop the weapons!'

Neither Trinity nor Danny listened. Trinity, however, did inch her way clear of the girls—no need to get them hurt in the crossfire, not when they were so close to being rescued.

Both guns discharged at once. Trinity's aim was remarkably, poetically true: Danny fell, alive but bleeding from the groin. That she had missed any major arteries was a miracle. Danny's aim, while less effective, nonetheless hit an unintended target: the bullet ricocheted and struck one of the cops in the shoulder. The cop hit his knees but remained conscious.

"Officer down!" bellowed one of the cops into his two-way radio. "Wetzel's down!"

"Barely," grunted the injured officer, presumably Wetzel. Upon closer inspection, Trinity couldn't tell if Wetzel were a man or a woman. Pain had an interesting way of rendering its victims sexless.

Trinity dropped her gun and put up her hands. One of the cops approached her; judging by his weathered appearance, his grave face, and his aura of leadership, Trinity suspected she was looking at none other than Commissioner Gordon.

"Trinity Whitney?" he asked.

"I am."

"Commissioner Jim Gordon." He glanced back at the groaning form of Danny and grimaced. Most of the cops were beginning to attend to the girls, but one was attempting first aid on Danny. "Looks painful. Hell of a situation, here. Looks like self-defense to me."

Trinity thought for a moment. "Uh-uh. No good. You know what you need to do..." she lowered her voice. "I'm probably safer in custody."

Gordon sighed. "Trinity Whitney, I'm placing you under arrest..."

Oksana had watched this entire exchange, and remembered Trinity's words to her only minutes before. "If something happens to me..." She headed over to where Lupe was huddled, and a cop was attempting to talk to her. "Is Jim Gordon, yes?" She gestured to where Gordon was handcuffing Trinity. The cop glanced over at Gordon, and then at the fierce Russian young woman. "Yes."

"So you are the men of Gordon?"

Gordon had fallen silent to hear the response.

"We are."

Gordon wasn't the only one to hear this response. From the shadows, the Batman heard this, too.

With almost insulting ease, he had taken out the Archers guarding the building. His plastic explosives had succeeded in surprising and disorienting the men, and what strength they had in numbers was quickly outweighed by the weakness of their collective slow-wittedness. Thankfully, the Federal agents had proven clean, and were even now busy restraining the Archers and gleefully reading them their rights. He had quickly assessed the rest of the building and found it to be empty, and so headed to the top floor.

There, things were falling into place. The girls were safe, Gordon was arresting Trinity—god only knew why, but he trusted Gordon's instincts—and the officers appeared to be declaring their allegiance to Gordon.

Unexpected though this was, it was gratifying. He watched, silently, as the scene unfolded, as the girls comforted themselves and each other and in some cases, appeared to not believe that the ordeal had ended. He watched as Gordon issued orders, talked into his radio, and began to move through the room, making sure everyone was relatively safe.

It was too soon to relax, of course, and certainly too soon to believe that the ordeal was anywhere near over. Montoya still had to bring Stacy in for protection; Bullock still had to report back on his arrests of le Blanc and Donzetti, Safe Haven was in metaphorical shambles...and then, too, there was Annabeth.

As his mind shifted over to this particular problem, the Batman felt an ominous shiver. As the Batman had been carrying out his duties, Bruce Wayne could not, therefore, be where he rightfully belonged—by Annabeth's side. When would the sacrifices stop?

He had carried out his duties here. It was time to attend to them elsewhere. And so, as he caught Trinity's eye and saw her nod once, in acknowledgment, he silently slipped away.

It was past two in the morning before Jim Gordon finally made it home.

He arrived just as the latest winter storm was beginning to break overhead, lashing sleet down onto the Naval Tricorner yards, along with a bitter wind which seemed to be scourging everything in its path. Wearily, he closed his front door against the nasty weather, and leaned against it, his eyes closed, his mind trying desperately to tuck away the memories of the difficult evening.

Down the narrow hall, he heard the shuffle of footsteps, and after a moment, his eldest daughter emerged, backlit by the cheerful, warm yellow light glowing from the kitchen. "Hey, Pops." She looked expectantly at him, almost like a child expecting a scolding.

"Hello, Eldest." Wearily, he began to shrug his way out of his coat and scarf, and then noted, in vague surprise, that Barbara was there, helping him shed his winter garb. "Better watch out, daughter. Some man might get accustomed to this kind of treatment."

"Doubtful."

They faced each other, head-on, then, world-weary father and spirited daughter. Barbara cocked her head expectantly. Instead of giving her the dressing-down she so clearly anticipated, Gordon squeezed past Barbara and headed toward the kitchen. Bemused, Barbara trailed in his wake.

"How are Jimmy and Hannah?"

"Fine." Barbara watched as he sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, and then began to busy herself at the stove. "Birdie didn't mind staying late. And I sent her home with a hefty little bit of money. It was a lucky thing that it was her night to baby-sit anyway."

"Yes. Lucky."

It was difficult to tell if Jim Gordon was paying any attention at all to his daughter; his gaze followed her as she moved from cupboard to refrigerator to stove and back again, but at no point did he really seem to comprehend her actions. For her part, Barbara acknowledged nothing out of the ordinary; as far as she was behaving, it was normal for both of them to come in at any old odd hour. And who knew? Perhaps it was.

But finally, her busy actions stopped—right as she placed a steaming beverage in front of her father, and sat down across from him, with a mug of her own.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Mulled wine." Barbara inhaled the spicy, comforting scent that wafted up from her mug. "I've been working on this recipe for a week now—I wanted to get it right for Christmas. Drink up, it should help you sleep." To underscore her point, she took a hefty swig.

"I need to be back at MCU in five hours," Gordon pointed out ruefully, but Barbara was undeterred.

"All the more reason to get a good night's sleep when you can. Drink up."

So Gordon drank up.

Barbara watched as slowly, her father drained the mug. "Tough night?"

Gordon grimaced. "You know as well as I do. What time did you get home?"

"About an hour ago. Montoya and Stacy got called back to MCU, and I figured I did as much as I could."

"Damned right you did," Gordon grumbled. He glanced up at his daughter, and for the first time that night, he allowed his exasperation to manifest. "How the hell did you end up getting involved?"

Barbara chewed her lip and contemplated her response, but finally decided that truth was the best way to go. Despite her photographic memory, she didn't care to try to keep track of too many lies. "Annabeth de Burgh had invited me to check out Safe Haven, maybe volunteer, and I was curious. So I decided to swing by. And then when I got there, I saw Montoya doing surveillance, and then... it just kind of went from there. It was all about the timing, I suppose. I saw Stacy heading down the sidewalk...hey." Barbara's eyes grew brighter. "Where is Stacy? How is she? Montoya said she was taking her back to the station once she heard from you."

Gordon rolled his eyes heavenward. "The most incompetent Feds you could possibly imagine whisked her into witness protection. Hopefully she's safer now..." His tone belied whatever confidence he may have been trying to project.

"Wherever that kid goes, I think she'll be okay." Barbara didn't appear to be too concerned, but instead picked up her father's mug and refilled it with more wine. "She's a tough one, that Stacy is."

The silence stretched out before them for another few minutes, as Gordon sipped his mulled wine and both of them listened to the storm raging outside.

Surreptitiously, Gordon studied his daughter. Her expression was in its normal, default state of amused awareness, with a little bit of kindness and harebrained courage twinkling in her eyes for good measure. Barbara was a force of nature, a unique woman who valued information and the freedom to gain it, but even more than that, she valued justice and honor...and she had chosen to take her honorable life and live it, once more, in Gotham. Without realizing it, Gordon sighed. What had he brought his daughter to?

Barbara took another swig of her wine. "I've been thinking..."

Gordon cocked his head. This should be good.

"I think my generation wonders, when do we grow up? When do we become adults? Or rather, when do we realize that we left youth behind?" She lapsed into silence once again, considering, thinking.

"Well?" Gordon prompted her. "What did you decide?"

The smile that Barbara gave him was tender, sad, and resigned. "I think one becomes an adult when they are in a place where they can help their parents...when their parents need their help...when they and their parents are facing the same kind of problems."

It was insightful and true, perhaps, but it did not make Gordon feel any better. "For the sake of the entire free world, I hope you can come up with some better solutions than I did."

"Unlikely," was her stout, fearless response. "I've learned from the best."

For a while, they both sipped on their drinks and listened to the wind as it whipped through the branches of spindly, feeble tree which grew just outside the kitchen window. Every now and then a nasty gust would thrash its bare branches and scratch against the panes.

Finally, Gordon sighed. "What a mess." It was unclear whether he was referring to the weather or the events of the night, but Barbara decided to assume it was the latter.

"I heard that someone got shot at Safe Haven," Barbara responded. "Is everyone okay?"

"No. Not at all. Annabeth de Burgh is in the hospital...I called in a while ago, and she made it through surgery. The rest is up to her. But Donna Drake, her boss—she was shot and killed. Seems like the entire incident was engineered by Seth Percival"

Barbara nodded, and sent up a quick, silent prayer for Annabeth. She recognized a fellow fighter when she saw one, and she sincerely hoped that de Burgh would live to fight on another day. But... "Seth Percival? Have I heard that name?"

"Probably. He's one of those men around town—a banker businessman-type...who apparently had connections to the mob. And as it turns out, at one time he was married to Drake." Gordon paused for a moment to wonder why he was spilling all of this to his daughter, but what the hell? It would probably be all over the news by the next morning. "And it's looking more and more likely that Drake was, unknown to Annabeth, her biological mother."

Barbara whistled low. "That sounds...absolutely bizarre. Kind of like backwoods Kentucky meets General Hospital. Or something on Lifetime for Women."

"It's bizarre alright. But when compared with the other crazy shit that goes down in this city, it seems almost refreshingly mundane."

He had a point there, but Barbara was already moving on. There were more pressing matters to investigate... "Was the Batman there?"

Her too-casual tone didn't fool Gordon. "Yes...he showed up."

"Showed up? Or saved the day?" Barbara saw right away that she had, finally, crossed an invisible boundary and hastened to make make amends. "I'm sorry, Dad...that was low. I know better than that."

Gordon acknowledged her apology, but honesty compelled him to admit to her perceptiveness. "You're right, though...at least a little bit. He saves the day too much...I rely too heavily upon him."

"I wouldn't beat myself up too much if I were you..." Barbara's gaze grew distant, thoughtful. "I'd just be grateful he's here. And if I were him, I'd be grateful to have such an honest cop to work with. You two make a pretty good team." There was no disguising the envy in her voice, and Gordon's gaze grew shrewd.

"Don't go getting any ideas, Barbara. It was bad enough you got involved tonight...you could have been arrested for interfering with an investigation. Thank god you've stayed out of things before now." His eyes narrowed as Barbara began to look distinctly uncomfortable...almost guilty. "Barbara? You haven't gotten involved, have you?"

Barbara hated lying to her father; in fact, tried to avoid it at all costs. "I'm not...involved, as you put it, now. I maybe meddled a little a while back."

"Meddled?" Gordon echoed. He didn't like where this was going.

"Meddled is definitely the word for it." Barbara had the decency to look abashed. "The Batman definitely didn't want me there. That night that he came to the house...I followed him out to the Narrows right after. It was the night you arrested that Boy-o goon, remember?"

Dazedly, Gordon nodded.

"Let's just say I gave the Batman a little hand." Modesty—and common sense—restrained her from disclosing that she may very well have saved the Batman's life. "He was good and pissed, I promise you."

Abruptly Gordon got up from the table and began pacing through the kitchen. "I can't believe this. Would it sound archaic if I told him to stay away from my daughter?"

"Dad, it wasn't a big deal. He didn't want me there, didn't ask for me to be there." She added something after this in an inaudible tone, and while Gordon couldn't be sure, he suspected it was something along the lines of "goddamned patriarchy."

Gordon leaned against the counter and gazed down at his daughter. "Let me ask you something, Barbara Junior."

She winced. When he brought out the Junior, she knew there could be trouble. It was like she regressed to the age of twelve, all over again.

"Would it make a difference, any difference at all, if I were to forbid you to get anywhere near that man?"

Dammit, he wants more honesty. "Dad, you know the answer to that. It wouldn't change a thing." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "I want in."

She had no way of knowing that someone else had said those same words to Gordon, with reference to that same topic. I want in.Idealistic, intense Harvey Dent had demanded it of him, had circumvented him when he had stonewalled him. He had wanted in, he had gotten in, and he had gotten himself corrupted and killed.

Gordon knew his daughter well enough to know when to fight, and when to make a strategic withdrawal. He sighed in weary defeat. "The man's practically a frickin' home-wrecker, you know that?" It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. "Why do you want this, Barbara?"

"I believe in what you're doing—both of you. And you both need allies."

Barbara may think that she had outgrown her youth, but her father knew differently. To her tender, twenty-five-year-old eyes, it was all very simple, even this morally murky area. And in her eyes, there was still possibility and hope. It broke Gordon's heart, right there. And what broke it all over again was that he knew his daughter was right. But still...this was his daughter. "If you get involved with him, Barbara...if you try to aid him...and I catch you, I won't be able to protect you. I will have to arrest you. I will arrest you. Both of you."

Barbara smiled, and it was a smile in which sadness and pride both shone through. "I know, Dad. I wouldn't expect you to do anything else."

Father and daughter fell silent once again. Beyond their home, beyond the walls of their snug little place in the Naval Tricorner Yards, all was uncertain and frightening. And even within the walls was a fair degree of the same angst. Upstairs, young Jimmy and Hannah slept on, unaware that their mother had all but abandoned them, unaware that their father courted a rather considerable amount of mortal danger every night, and unaware that their eldest sibling was trying to throw herself head-first into the very same danger. The two innocents knew none of this. But Barbara and her father both did.

And that, Jim Gordon realized, was exactly why he had asked his eldest daughter to return home to Gotham. Her seemingly endless reserves of energy and spirit had certainly sustained him at various times over these last couple of months, particularly when his own energy was flagging and his own spirits totally wasted. He knew that he and his wife could only claim credit for a small amount of their daughter's capacity for selflessness; much of it, she had developed long before she had come to them, a heartbroken, orphaned waif, still reeling from the sudden death of both of her biological parents. That selflessness, that strength of spirit, had already taken root, even then. It was one of the many reasons why he loved her; why his pride in her was so great.

Given those parameters, given that personality, he had to take the good with the bad—and he had to accept the fact that, despite her callow idealism, his daughter was well and truly grown-up. She had to make her own decisions, her own mistakes, and he had to let her. And he had to learn not to shield her from the consequences.

Although, judging by the fierceness in her eyes, the slightly amused twist to her mouth, and the steadiness of her demeanor, he didn't think she would need anyone to shield her. She could handle her own life, and she wasn't afraid of it.

The pain was great, but the love was greater, and all the more bittersweet for it.

Oblivious to Gordon's thoughts, Barbara broke the spell as she gathered their mugs and carried them over to the sink. As she turned on the faucet, she glanced out the window. "It's a bitchin' night out there."

"I know," Gordon sighed, "It was pretty bad." His mind moved once more from the realm of domestic affairs to the world of crime and violence. "It's been a pretty bad night for a lot of us. I hope Annabeth de Burgh pulls through...she's a tough kid, and she didn't deserve any of this."

"Very few people do, Dad," Barbara pointed this out with genuine regret. "But I think she'll be just fine. I think Annabeth is the kind of person who would live forever...just to piss people off." She paused for a moment as she contemplated the strange circumstances that surrounded Annabeth. "I just hope she's got good people to help her through."