It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man holding a certain amount of power within a workplace must be in want of more power. This truth is so well fixed in his mind, that he will consider as his rightful property the power of some one or other of his colleagues. Moreover, he will jealously guard his own power with such zeal that it is inevitable that he will encounter attempts, real or imagined, of said colleagues trying to rob him of his power and reduce his status.

Dr. Andrews was, of course, no exception to this universal truth. If anything, he was the poster child of this truth. He was a talented surgeon, certainly, but also was in possession of more than the usual amount of arrogance, and also more than the usual amount of ambition. His eye was on the much-coveted position of Chief of Surgery, and it was a goal he intended to achieve sooner rather than later in his career. He had wined, dined, and charmed the right doctors, donors, and board members; he had encountered an unusually low number of medical malpractice suits in the course of his career; and he usually managed to temper his arrogance with the requisite amount of competence. All of his efforts had resulted in a career which had followed a fast, upwards trajectory, and which had, up until now, seemed assured.

And over the course of the past few days, the results of all of his careful work and cultivation had begun to crumble around him.

It had started with Annabeth de Burgh coming into his surgery. He saved her life; didn't that count for anything? Not only that, but she was speeding along in the healing process at a remarkable pace. Bullet wounds in the abdomen were notoriously tricky things, and through his own skill—as well as the antibiotics they had been pumping her with—de Burgh had managed to ward off infection and pull through.

But the problem with her was that she was the girlfriend of the richest man in Gotham—perhaps the eastern seaboard—and whatever the media had painted the man out to be, it certainly wasn't the man that Dr. Andrews encountered. He had expected a vacant, pretty-boy sort of man; instead, he quickly realized that Bruce Wayne was observant, serious, and overly-protective of Annabeth.

Wayne had brought in another doctor—according to gossip, an old family friend, a dignified dame who knew her medicine and had an impeccable bedside manner. Dr. Andrews didn't like other doctors horning in on his patch, and so he had sped, hot-footed, up the chain of command to protest Leslie Thompkins' involvement.

The powers that be, prudently enough, overrode his objections, no doubt believing that it was more important to be on the good side of Bruce Wayne than it was to be on the good side of Dr. Andrews. And so, for the past couple of days, he had endured—more or less—the presence of Dr. Leslie Thompkins. She was always there, hovering, watching, tweaking, questioning, and generally making Dr. Andrews feel very threatened. It didn't help that he was well aware of the nurses, orderlies, and other doctors witnessing this continuous undermining of his authority.

By the third day of Annabeth's hospital stay, Dr. Andrews had had enough. With each passing hour, his stores of patience and charm depleted more and more; he grew shorter and shorter with Dr. Thompkins, and ever more taciturn towards Annabeth herself. He suspected some of the nurses were taking bets about when he'd blow a fuse. Something had to be done.

He made his first move soon enough. He bustled into Annabeth de Burgh's room on the morning of Christmas Eve, attempting to radiate smiles and good cheer. "Happy holidays, happy holidays!" he blustered.

Three people looked over at him—the nurse taking Annabeth's vital signs, Leslie Thompkins, who sat by Annabeth's bed, and Annabeth herself. She was sitting upright in her bed now, and some color had come back into her cheeks. Still, she had spent most of the past few days lying in bed, largely silent and listless and generally uninterested in anything. In a rare moment of unity, both Dr. Andrews and Leslie had sharply curtailed the visits of her support network; Maya, Janey, Alfred, and Bruce were only allowed brief visits, one at a time. While this had given everyone the chance to rest and refresh themselves—frankly, her friends had started smelling a little ripe—and it had given Annabeth's body a chance for more rest and recuperation, it also furthered the inevitable depression and isolation that she was experiencing.

Now, "happy Christmas," she mumbled indifferently.

"Great news!" Dr. Andrews grinned at them, but none returned the smile. Still, he was undaunted. "I've been reviewing your files, and I think it's safe for us to move you out of ICU, down to the Trauma Medical Unit."'

This was his latest strategy—redirection. Remove the obstacle and place it elsewhere. He had given it much thought, and had decided any sort of outright confrontation was pointless. This way, de Burgh would be out of his hair and in someone else's, and his career was safe. Brilliant.

But for some strange reason, Dr. Leslie Thompkins did not see it in the same light. "Oh dear, Dr. Andrews—I didn't realize. Is there a shortage of beds here in the ICU?"

Shit.

The nurse who had been tending to Annabeth had heard this entire exchange, and wisely decided to make a discreet withdrawal. She excused herself and slipped from the room, but the only indication that Dr. Andrews noticed was that he waited until the nurse left before he answered Leslie.

"It's not that at all, Dr. Thompkins," he said, doing his best to keep a pleasant tone of voice. "It's that down in Trauma, they're far better equipped to assist Annabeth through this phase of her recovery."

On the surface, his argument was sound. Still, Leslie knew that they were a thorn in his side, and that his primary objective was to be rid of them as soon as possible. She didn't like the fact that he was placing that goal above Annabeth's recovery—she didn't like it, not one bit.

The two doctors stared each other down in a mute struggle for power; Dr. Andrews with a barely-disguised air of anticipation; Leslie with exasperation. And then Leslie remembered Annabeth, still laying there, listening and observing. Looking animated, in fact, moreso than she had done for days. And that was what decided it for Leslie.

"Have it your way, Dr. Andrews," Leslie said. "I want Annabeth's records to reflect that you're authorizing this against my advice." She looked at Annabeth again, and noticed that even more color had flooded into her face. "Are you comfortable with this, Annabeth?"

Her answer took Leslie by surprise. "Will Bruce be able to stay with me longer?"

Dr. Andrews didn't wait for Leslie to respond. "Absolutely...he'll be able to stay as long as you both want. That's one of the benefits of moving you—the Trauma unit is geared more towards rehabilitation, and they're better equipped to deal with the needs of patients who are no longer critical. And really, Annabeth—what it boils down to is that your rate of recovery has been remarkable. That you're alive at all is a miracle, and now that you're recovering, we need to place you where they're equipped to help you along. Up here, we're all about the initial stages, keeping you alive. We've done that, and now it's time to send you on." He flashed her a freshly-minted smile. "So, this is the best Christmas gift we could give you."

For the first time, Annabeth seemed to rouse herself out of her torpor. "The best Christmas gift you could give me, you clueless motherfucker, is my baby. Seeing as how you dropped the ball on that one, I'll settle for you getting the hell out of my face." The effort it took to spew this vitriol apparently drained her, for she fell back against her bank of pillows, breathing heavily.

All pretense at amiability abandoned Dr. Andrews. "I'll start the paperwork, and they'll be in to do the transfer in a couple of hours," he told Leslie. To Annabeth, he said nothing else at all—perhaps wisely, for she was currently in the grip of a cold, helpless rage.

After Dr. Andrews left the room, Leslie closed the door behind him and turned to Annabeth. "Getting angry isn't going to help, my dear," she said, kindly but firmly. "You've got a long recovery ahead of you; negative emotions will only make things worse. Might even make you feel more physical pain."

"It's not the physical pain that bothers me at all." Annabeth's face was frozen into a mask of desolation. "It's everything...god. Why's it all so fucked up, Leslie? Why?"

Even with all the wisdom and compassion Leslie Thompkins possessed, even with as much of the world as she had traveled, and all of the human nature she had witnessed, even with all of her years of medical experience, even with all of this, she had no way of answering Annabeth or providing the medicine to heal her broken spirit. She could only sit there and hold Annabeth's hand as, once more, weary defeat overtook her once more.

The wheels of officialdom moved with surprising speed, and Leslie and Annabeth had little to do but sit back and observe as nurses and orderlies began to troop in and out of the room, packing up the few belongings that Janey had brought from Annabeth's home, checking and double-checking her charts, losing and finding and re-losing her charts, altering her charts, arguing quietly amongst themselves about her charts. The entire time, Leslie continued to sit by Annabeth and watch the proceedings with an eagle eye. Two nurses had just come in to take Annabeth's vitals and study her charts—again—when into this controlled chaos, Bruce and Alfred waded, their expressions of surprise comically, and unknowingly, identical. But while Alfred wisely kept quiet, Bruce's reaction was a little more earthy.

"What the hell's going on here?"

Leslie had made a wise decision in limiting the amount of time he could spend with Annabeth. While it meant that he spent far more time working with Maya to restore Safe Haven, it also meant, inevitably, that he spent at least a little more time resting. The shadows of fatigue no longer lurked under his eyes, and he was once more fully energetic, aware, and ready to take on Gotham. Or at least hospital bureaucracy.

It was Annabeth who spoke up. "They're moving me, Bruce. Said I was recovered enough to come out of ICU." She managed a weak smile, but it was replaced with confusion as Bruce abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Alfred tried to fill the gap that Bruce had left. "That's wonderful news, Miss Annabeth. I know we'll all be much happier once you're out of the hospital entirely-" he was abruptly cut off as a bellowing voice resounded through the room. It was coming from down the corridor...and it sounded suspiciously like Bruce Wayne—if Bruce had decided to take steroids and decided to go on a murderous rampage.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, MOVING HER? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE PLAYING AT?"

The two nurses glanced at each other, and then over at Leslie, who sighed. "Excuse me, Alfred, Annabeth." She rose and quickly exited the room, both nurses trailing in her wake.

"-SHE NEARLY DIED, SHE LOST HER CHILD, AND SHE SHOULD BE HERE FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER WEEK. I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL SEE YOU GO DOWN FOR THIS-"

Bruce's tirade abruptly ended as, presumably, Leslie and the nurses arrived on the scene and intervened. In the room, Annabeth looked askance at Alfred. "Was he acting?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Alfred admitted. "I know he's trying hard to maintain the loose cannon public persona...but at the same time, his emotions are running high."

"Emotions?" Annabeth looked as surprised as her current energy and pain levels would allow. "Haven't really seen the emotions before now, I have to say."

"You know as well as I do, Miss Annabeth, Master Bruce doesn't exactly do well with showing them. He's trying to be strong for everyone...for you."

The compassion in Alfred's eyes was almost more than Annabeth could bear. She knew what he was going to say next.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Annabeth. For everything. And we're going to help you in every way we can...but sometimes the best help is just listening. So if you want to talk, know that I will be here. I listen very well."

"Thanks, Alfred...but I can't talk about it now. It's still too fresh, too goddamned sick and cruel for me to talk about it. When I think about it, I just feel like something's twisting up inside of me, killing whatever hopeful, human part of me survived all these years in this horrible place. I'm beginning to wonder if Gotham's trying to destroy me. I'm in pain, I'm having nightmares when I sleep, I'm lonely as hell and lost when I'm awake...I can't stop thinking about everything."

"Everything?" Alfred prompted softly.

"Everything. My parents, abandoning me. My...what happened to me in college. The lies that Donna fed me, year after year, and the trust I had in her. The infertility, the work in the Narrows, all of the love and effort I put into Safe Haven...take, take, take, that's all Gotham's ever done to me. It just won't stop taking. And I lost my baby—no, this fucking city took my baby, and I swear, it feels like a goddamned sacrifice on the altar of this hellhole."

"Gotham may always be taking, my dear...but I'll tell you the same thing I would tell Master Wayne: perhaps it's time that you stop putting yourself in a position to keep on giving." Alfred paused to let his words sink in, and then after a moment, continued. "I'm no psychologist, but it's clear to me...Your mother and father failed you, and since then you've always been too ready to give, in order to get some sort of sense of acceptance or belonging. My dear child, I never had a daughter...but if I did, I know I'd be a very lucky, honored father if she had turned out like you. Perhaps all that there is left for you to do is simply pity your parents for having lost the opportunity to raise such a woman as you."

A few minutes later, a highly-annoyed Leslie and a somewhat-chastened Bruce came back into the room, to see Alfred sitting in the chair Leslie had so recently vacated. Beside him, Annabeth was lying back in bed, her eyes closed again. She missed the meaningful look that Alfred gave Bruce, and the dutiful way in which Bruce bowed his head. But she was aware of Alfred's older presence rising from the seat and retreating, and Bruce's younger, more solid presence as he sat down by her. And she was aware of his hands as he slowly, almost fearfully, stroked her cheek one single time, and then quietly withdrew it.

Not long after that, they transferred Annabeth to the Trauma unit. They had doped her up for the transition, but as the orderlies began to wheel her bed out of the room, she was still awake enough to sense Bruce walking alongside her, and Alfred and Leslie following closely behind. She was aware of the Christmas lights in the hall, already beginning to swim and blur lazily in her line of vision as the drugs slowly took effect. And she was aware of several nurses, all of whom paused in their routines and tasks and stood straight and proud and as the little procession passed by. It was a tiny gesture of solidarity, a gesture of appreciation, and a gesture of love towards the fierce woman who had passed through their unit, and who nearly hadn't made it out of there alive.

As she slowly slipped into the netherworld induced by the deliciously strong sedatives, Annabeth's last clear memory was of Bruce, gazing down at her with the closest thing to tenderness that he could manage. What was it that Alfred had said? Emotions... "Master Bruce does not exactly do well at showing them."

And then she was out. But even after she was under, Bruce continued to look at her, taking in her tiny form and the haunted expression that hung over her even when asleep. So intent was he on watching over Annabeth that he was completely unaware of Dr. Andrews, still pale with rage and indignation, lurking in the background and stewing in a pot of freshly-brewed hatred.

Elsewhere in the city, others were celebrating the Christmas holidays with slightly more glee.

Trinity, in particular, was feeling rather happy. Incredibly, she had opted not to post bail, and instead remained in the city's jail, kicking up her heels and socializing with some of the less hard-core female criminals. The conditions were not uncomfortable, and as far as she was concerned, she was a damned sight safer in the jail than at home. God only knew what violence Donzetti and le Blanc would try to engineer, even from where they were stashed away, in the county lock-up.

So for the time being, she remained uncomplainingly in custody. She had spoken with Gordon more times than she could count; with her defense attorney a fair number of times, even some Feds. From what she could gather, the DA was quite disinclined to press charges against her—and no doubt the information she had gathered would be quite useful in engineering some sort of plea bargain. Whatever. A little time in jail would be worth it for trying to kill that goon, on the night of the raid. She had enjoyed many things in her life, but that took the cake. So for now, in the city jail she stayed.

The main issue, as far as Trinity could see, was the boredom. Jail simply didn't offer many diversions. And so she spent plenty of time, quietly lost in thought—thinking about her lovely home, and wondering when she could live there, safely, again; thinking of her mother in West Virginia, thinking of Annabeth and the terrible price she had paid. Commissioner Gordon had told her about Annabeth's miscarriage, and Trinity couldn't help but to feel guilty. She had had no way of knowing that Annabeth had been pregnant, but still...

A woman's drunken, off-key singing filled the corridor beyond her cell, and Trinity's attention was diverted from her melancholic ruminations as a police officer led the newest inmate past. Although the words were rather garbled, it appeared that the woman was attempting to belt out "Good King Wenceslas." Obnoxious as hell, but it also gave Trinity some badly-needed inspiration.

Fifteen minutes later, word had spread through the jail like wildfire. Several officers trickled into the holding area, listening in amazement, and then, finally, joining in as the strikingly beautiful woman who had dared defy the Arrows now led her co-inmates in a surprisingly melodic number of Christmas carols.

Out in the suburbs, Maya was completely indifferent to the holiday. That morning, her long-suffering fiance Rush forced her to remain in bed, and it really took very little forcing. Maya spent the entire day in bed, slumbering, only waking to take a phone call from her parents, or rising to go to the bathroom. Late in the day, she finally awoke and hoisted herself upright. Rush was instantly there, propping her against a bank of pillows and offering to make her tea.

"You're a gem," she told him gratefully, but wasn't able to say anything else—a yawn nearly cracked her face open.

"Merry Christmas," Rush smiled ruefully. "I ordered in some Chinese. Should be here soon."

She smiled her gratitude, but said nothing else. He sat down on the bed beside her, and gently stroked her tangled hair away from her face. "Looks like you got some rest."

"I probably have some energy now for something else." Maya's words were as coy as her tone and her smile both teasing and inviting as she reached for Rush, who certainly wasn't protesting.

Afterward, as they lay in the tangled, slightly-sweaty sheets, they talked seriously, for the first time in days.

"I don't know what's going to happen," Maya admitted. "It's all chaos right now. We've got the women placed in different homes, and a cleaning crew has come and gone. I think all we're waiting for now is for the cops to finish gathering the evidence. The problem is..."

"The problem is the manpower," Rush finished for her. "Your boss is dead, and Annabeth won't be back in for a while. So who can run the show? There's you—essentially an extremely competent secretary and administrative assistant, I grant you, but only one person—and Bruce Wayne. He's actually quite a stand-up guy, from what you've said, but he's just a wealthy man involved in philanthropy. You two aren't exactly skilled in managing a non-profit community organization."

He was right, of course. Rush had a way of assessing a situation accurately and efficiently, and he didn't spare anyone, not even his future wife, from the truth as he saw it. It was both useful—and humbling.

"I know." Maya closed her eyes and allowed herself to luxuriate in the warmth of his arms. "But until someone tells me to throw in the towel, I'm going to keep on keeping on."

"No wonder Donna hired you," Rush said admiringly.

Down in the Naval Tricorner Yards, Jim Gordon and Barbara Jr. had just managed to get the two children to bed. In a fit of seasonal generosity, they had allowed the kids more Christmas cookies and fudge than was advisable, and the resultant sugar high had been an extremely stressful thing to behold. After several hours of shrill laughter, too much indoor rough-housing, and more than one squabble, however, they got their reward—both children were fast asleep and tucked into bed by 7 PM.

"I don't know which is more of a miracle," Jim commented to his eldest daughter as they wearily tread down the stairs, "that we got them to bed, or that I don't have to work tonight."

Barbara, like most true Gothamites, had a very dim view of religion and miracles. "I wouldn't call it a miracle by any stretch—but it's certainly luck. Put your feet up and I'll make us some 'nogg."

He made no protest to this pleasant offer, and a few minutes later, when Barbara emerged into the living room with a tray bearing a pitcher of the promised beverage and a couple of glasses, she saw that he had built up a fire and dimmed the lights. "Way to inspire the holiday spirit, Pops." She set down the tray and poured him a glass. "Here...bottoms up."

The egg nogg was pleasant and smoothed Jim's tangled thoughts, at least for a moment. All in all—if one could get past the fact that his soon-to-be-ex-wife was whiling away her time in rehab—it was a fairly decent Christmas holiday. He was spending time with his children, and he had not been called into work. "I'll give this to the Batman," Jim said to his daughter, "at least he had the good sense to wrap all of this up before Christmas."

"Hmmm." Barbara settled down beside the hearth and enjoyed the toastiness of it. "Maybe he had some big plans or something."

Father and daughter both actually laughed at this thought.

"Something tells me that's fairly unlikely,"Jim said. "I haven't a clue who the man is, but something tells me he's probably not partying it up tonight."

"Wherever he is," Barbara said softly, "No, whoever he is, I hope he's safe and happy."

Both of them knew, although didn't voice, how unlikely this possibility was.

In some ways, Annabeth's new home down in the Trauma ward was not nearly impressive. Back in the ICU, hers had been a private room—small, of course, with only the one bed, but quiet, out of the way of foot traffic. Her new room was much larger, a shared room, and close to a busy corridor. Thankfully, the other bed was empty, but the mere absence of a roommate simply served as a silent threat of the possibility of a wretched addition.

Still, even with the noise and the lack of privacy, Bruce soon began to notice that moving Annabeth down to the Trauma Ward was making a difference. She emerged from her sedated sleep more quickly, she became more rapidly alert, and when the nurse brought in the evening meal, she ate more of it than she had done in the past. Although...

"It freaks me out, how intently you're looking at me eat," she told Bruce quietly as she paused to transition from her soup to her salad. "A girl doesn't like to have her eating habits scrutinized."

"If I didn't scrutinize, would you eat at all?" Bruce challenged, even as he began to butter her roll. "You want to get out of here, the best way to do it is eat, and rest, and get your strength back."

"What's the point?" Annabeth said. She abruptly put down her fork. "I get out of here, what then? What do I go back to?"

There was an unaccustomed note of self-pity in her voice, and while Bruce certainly couldn't blame her, he knew enough about it to know that indulging her wouldn't help matters. "Whatever you choose to return to."

The conversation had taken an unexpectedly serious turn, and Bruce didn't have any idea where it would lead. Moreover, he was not at all certain Annabeth was up to it. He passed her the roll. "Here, eat this. And don't worry about all the other stuff—there's plenty of time to think about it."

Annabeth had not become the woman she was by being protected and mollycoddled. It wasn't something she was used to, and she didn't want to become used to it. "You don't have to protect me from whatever's going to happen next, or from talking about it. We'll have to talk about it eventually; it's inevitable. So is pain."

Instead of answering, Bruce rose from his seat and walked away from her bed, giving himself a chance to collect his thoughts. As he walked around the room, he noticed a window tucked away in an awkward corner. Here, too, was another improvement over the previous room—the window in Annabeth's ICU room had been absolutely tiny, and blocked by various machines and rolling carts. The window in this room was enormous in comparison, and as he drew back the curtain, he saw that there was actually a beautiful view of the city and the twinkling lights.

And then he saw something small and white drift past the window. It was snowing again. He saw then some of the city lights reflecting against a leaden grey sky—no doubt it would be a white Christmas.

He turned back to Annabeth, who was watching him, her eyes huge and dark in her white face. "You're only partly right—we will need to talk about it at some point...but I do need to protect you. It's painful for both of us, and I want to keep as much of the pain from you as I can, as long as I can. It's about the only thing I can protect you from. I couldn't protect you from anything else—so let me do this."

For a moment, Annabeth was silent, and Bruce wondered if perhaps he had somehow deeply offended her. But then she nodded, once, briefly, but firmly. And then, amazingly, she ventured with a soft statement that he hadn't been expecting. "You saved us—most of us, anyway. We owe you an incredible debt...I don't blame you, not at all."

That simple statement, coming from her when she was racked with so much pain, dealing with a profound sense of betrayal, would have driven a lesser man to no end of grief. As it was, Bruce found himself temporarily driven to a bluntness he did not often allow himself.

"You may not blame me," he said, "but I do."

Far removed—in spirit if not physical proximity—from the residential and wannabe suburbs of Gotham, the Central Business District was almost a graveyard on Christmas Eve. The stockbrokers, the advertising and PR execs, the real estate moguls, the power brokers and movers and shakers, all of them had boarded up shop early (if they even bothered to come in at all) and returned to their homes or their revelries.

Only a couple of buildings still showed signs of life; one being the local news network, the other being the headquarters of Gotham Gazette. Even there, at the main news publication of the city, they weren't exactly humming with life. Everyone who could beg off of work had done so, leaving a bare-bones crew of people: a couple of pimply-faced interns from Gotham University (one Jewish, the other Ba'hai), one senior reporter (not Jewish or Ba'hai, but going through a painful divorce), a few hard-cores in the printing area...and Vicki Vale.

She was, perhaps surprisingly, one of the youngest reporters—and the last one hired before the reality of the Internet had come crashing down on the newspaper industry a few years prior. That, coupled with the more recent hiring freezes caused by the tanking economy, ensured that she was the reporter with the least seniority, and invariably got stuck with some truly awful holiday shifts. It didn't matter to Vicki, not really—her family was local, so visiting them on Christmas Day would not be a cross-country production. Furthermore, she had a cheerful outlook which invariably jazzed the evening up for everyone else. She actually made a game of it—anyone who uttered the word "Christmas" had to put a dollar in a collection jar; the proceeds would go to a 3 AM run for Chinese food. They all studiously avoided any radio stations that played Christmas carols—this limited them to 99.7— "Gotham's Premiere Death Metal station," and she insisted that it added a unique flavor to the evening.

Still, it felt a little like Purgatory.

To make matters worse, Christmas Eve tended to be a slow news evening. She could stomach working it if something were actually going on, but that was rarely the case. The religiously diverse interns were working the police scanners, and absolutely nothing appeared to be going down. Tragically, Vicki was finding the most entertainment she'd had all evening in a game of Computer Solitaire.

"Vale!"

The grumpy divorcee pulled Vicki from her concentration. "Security called—said that someone's here to see you."

"I wasn't expecting anyone," Vicki said, a little lamely. "Who the hell comes to the newsrooom on Christmas Eve?"

"A Jehovah's Witness, maybe?" The divorcee cracked a smile. "And that's one dollar for the kitty."

"Shit," Vicky said absently. As she excavated a dollar from her wallet, she asked, "Who's this person, anyway?"

"No idea. But he said he was a source." The woman wandered off again, no doubt to dupe money out of the other luckless saps.

Not too long after she left, Vicki saw the newsroom door open, and a tall man come striding in. No doubt the "source." He paused and glanced around the room; as soon as his eyes alighted on Vicki, he made a beeline for her. "Ms. Vale?"

"Just Vale is fine," Vicki said. "You are...?"

"Doctor Andrews." He paused, as though he expected Vicki to know him right away. When she made no noises of recognition, he sighed. "A surgeon at Gotham General."

"I see."

Apparently, Dr. Andrews didn't find her as welcoming as he had expected. He glanced around, and then gestured for the closest empty seat. "May I sit down?"

"Sure."

She watched as he seated himself. Unable to help herself, she took in his features: conventionally handsome, certainly. Very well coiffed, with dimples, an unreadable face—but small eyes. She remained quiet as he watched her expectantly. Finally—more from a desire to get him out of her cubicle than anything else—Vicki prompted him. "What's up, Andrews? What brings you here on Christmas Eve?"

"Another dollar, Vale! Pay up!" This came from the Ba'hai, lurking in the next cubicle.

"Dammit!"

With that dubious encouragement, the doctor began to speak. "I imagine you are aware of...recent violence that took place at one of the city's leading halfway houses?"

"Safe Haven? Seeing as how I wrote the lead article only a couple of days ago, yes." Already Vicki was eying him warily. "What about it?"

"And you're aware that Annabeth de Burgh was badly injured?"

"Again, yes."

"Annabeth de Burgh...current love interest of Bruce Wayne?"

Alarm bells were ringing loudly in Vicki's brain. "Andrews, are you a surgeon or a society columnist?"

"A doctor, I assure you." He leaned forward. "Would it be of any interest to you if I offered a little more information that hasn't hit the public yet?"

The alarm bells were going off still, but Vicki's inner journalist had come to attention. "It would depend on the information."

"What if I were to tell you that Miss Annabeth de Burgh had been carrying a child when she was injured?"

Suddenly his small eyes looked positively beady.

"I'd ask what happened to the child," Vicki said softly.

"And if I were to tell you she lost the child?"

"I'd say it was a sorrow that I couldn't begin to grasp."

"What if I were to tell you the child was Bruce Wayne's?"

Vicki had already seen where this conversation was going, of course, so didn't show any surprise. "I'd say that would be the logical conclusion, given the fact that they've been publicly involved for a while."

This was not the answer that Dr. Andrews had been expecting. "You don't think this is newsworthy information?"

"To a certain class of readers, perhaps, and a certain class of papers." Vicki chose her next words with care. "But I fail to see how a very private tragedy like theirs pertains to the legitimate news."

"You're a gossip columnist!" he blurted in sudden outrage.

"I fill in as a society writer, but I'm also a features writer," Vicki informed him coolly. "I'm paid to write stories that our readers will appreciate and find both informing and entertaining—and I am fairly certain, Doctor Andrews, that both my editors and my readers will take a rather dim view on reading an article which came about as a result of a doctor violating patient confidentiality."

She had scored a point, that much she could see in his slightly guilty expression. "Let me guess...Wayne's a bit of a difficult fellow, yes? Calling him a loose cannon pisses off cannons everywhere. So he got a little overprotective of his girlfriend, doled out a little humiliation on you, and you figured this is the way to get him back? Am I right?" She didn't even do him the courtesy of checking to see if she was. "So you figured, pass along a little private information, cite yourself as a protected source...trot along back to your hospital and no one's the wiser? If Wayne gets upset, he'll sue us instead? "Vicki's temper was really beginning to rise, a development even the clueless Dr. Andrews could see. Unfortunately, his temper was rising, too, and it was made worse by the fact that he was completely wrong-footed...and he knew it.

"I beg your pardon, Vicki," he said her first name deliberately, "Somehow I wasn't expecting to encounter a muckraking journalist with such a strong moral stance."

"And I wasn't expecting to encounter a doctor with no moral stance whatsoever," Vicki snapped. "Until you can learn an ounce of professional ethics or a shred of common decency, why don't you take your 'story' and fuck the fuck off?"

Fuck the fuck off was exactly what the dejected Dr. Andrews did, but not before the incensed Vicki Vale took a final, parting shot:

"Merry fucking Christmas, you goon! Why don't you harass the Virgin Mary and see if she lost her kid, too? I bet that would make a great news story!"

As he slunk out of the newsroom, the grumpy divorcee sauntered her way over to Vicki's cubicle. "What the hell was all that about, Vale?"

Vicki's temper was still running high, but she knew better than to sass one of the many people who ranked higher than her on the food chain. "Honestly? Just some shithead with a personal vendetta that he needs to drop."

"Well, you certainly sent him packing." The senior journalist smiled at Vicki. "And by the sound of it, your better angels prevailed. I'm surprised."

"So'm I," Vicki admitted ruefully. "Hope it doesn't bite me in the ass."

"Probably will. Oh, and that's another dollar." The other woman had already lost interest and was heading off. Vicki made a mental note to call Wayne and give him a heads-up...

But just a few minutes later, one of the pimply lads picked up on a 911 call reporting a holdup at a midnight mass uptown, and into this unanticipated drama, Vicki was immediately swept. And by the time she remembered to give Bruce a call, it was too late.