For a few moments, they stood in the cold, watching Maya's car head down the drive as it began the long journey back to Gotham. But as soon as the car disappeared from their line of vision, Bruce recalled himself and the woman who was now shivering by his side. "Are you alright?"

This question—so simple, yet so loaded—penetrated Annabeth's reverie, and she managed to pull herself together enough to give Bruce what she hoped was a reassuring smile. She suspected, though, that all it did was reveal her utter weariness. "I'm fine."

Naturally, Bruce was not fooled. "You're exhausted. We should go back inside." He put an arm around her shoulders, firmly turning her away from the outside world, away from all the concerns and responsibilities that had come barging back into Annabeth's life that day, and towards the comforting, warm shelter of the Manor. It was damning evidence of Annabeth's condition that she neither uttered a word of protest nor shrugged him off. She simply leaned into Bruce and allowed him to lead her back into the house.

Across the Entrance Hall, up the staircase, down the corridor, all the way to her suite, Annabeth remained silent, remote, lost in her contemplations. Only after Bruce had opened the door to her room and gently nudged her in did Annabeth truly return to the present. "What time are we expecting the attorney for dinner?"

"Seven." Bruce glanced at his watch, which was largely a needless gesture, as he usually knew exactly what time it was. "It's just now five. Do you think you should rest for a bit?"

Did she? Days ago, Annabeth had thought she had ceased to require time to rest in the middle of the day; truly, she had believed her body and spirit to be healed as they would ever be. But now, the real world was beginning to encroach once more, and soon these lazy winter days would be only a memory, distant and perhaps strange, even foreign or dreamlike. In the meantime...

"Rest sounds good," she told Bruce. "I wouldn't mind a few minutes to catch my breath and collect my thoughts."

This was, evidently, the response Bruce had been hoping for; he rewarded her with an encouraging smile and a satisfied nod. "We've got a long evening ahead of us. And it's been a busy day. I'll wake you around six-thirty?"

"Sounds good." Annabeth leaned against the wall and released a shaky breath. "I think I'm more tired than I realized."

"Then rest is mandatory." His tone was firm, and gave no room for argument—this was less Bruce, and more the Batman, and Annabeth glanced at him in some surprise. It had been a while .since she had heard that voice "Sleep."

Even before he pulled the door shut, Annabeth was moving towards the bed. The linens were fresh—Alfred insisted on changing them every day—the pillows were plumped, the duvet turned slightly back. At that moment, it seemed like the height of comfort and luxury, and she was not about to deny herself this. Not even bothering to kick off her shoes, or troubling to burrow under the covers, Annabeth flung herself onto the bed and into the arms of sleep.

"Miss Annabeth."

The quiet, courtly voice wove its way into Annabeth's dreams, an incongruous element among the haunting images and noises that currently tormented her sleep. Why was Mayor Garcia dressed in a purple suit and speaking to her in a British accent? The dream setting of Gotham began to recede as the dream-Garcia persisted.

"Miss Annabeth."

She awoke far more abruptly than Alfred intended, and the suddenness of her awakening destroyed any benefits her nap had brought her. As Alfred leaned over and turned on the lamp by her bed, he grimaced apologetically. "I'm terribly sorry, my dear."

Annabeth had already sat up, and was running her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair. "Jesus. Don't worry about it, I'd feel like shit anyway. What time is it?"

"Six-thirty. Master Wayne sent me up—it appears that our dinner guest got his time wrong. He's been here since six."

"Since six?" Until now, Annabeth had been struggling to not fall back asleep, but this news was quite effective in jolting her awake.

"Yes. Master Wayne has been entertaining Mr. Llorta while I finished preparing the dinner, and they told me to let you sleep. But I suspected you would not wish that." Alfred paused, appearing to think for a moment before delivering the final bit of information. "I believe that Master Wayne is plying our guest with watered whiskey, garnished with questions about the legality of emu ownership."

Annabeth was wide awake now. "Christ on a cracker! You mean that Bruce is getting my attorney drunk?"

"So it would appear." Alfred headed to Annabeth's closet and pulled out the first items with which his hands came in contact—black pants and a wine-colored sweater. "Don't trouble yourself by spending too much time getting ready. Chances are Master Wayne will have him under the table before too much longer.

Annabeth leaned over her vanity and gazed in the mirror—she looked as shitty as she felt. "What's Bruce playing at?"

Already on his way out of the room, Alfred paused at the door. "You know Master Wayne. When he wants information, he throws at his guests charm, money, or booze. It works every time."

"Not every time, Alfred," Annabeth softly reminded him,

"No, not every time. That's when he puts on the batsuit." Having delivered this inarguable point, Alfred exited the room, leaving Annabeth to change.

Several minutes later, having dressed, brushed her hair, sprayed on some perfume, and gurgled some mouthwash—christ, the wine's going to taste disgusting at dinner—Annabeth emerged from her suite. Alfred had not waited, so she headed down the stairs alone. Even from the stairs, she could hear Bruce's voice, loud and jocular, echoing through the Manor; apparently, "Brucie" had come out to play. Annabeth cursed silently. It had been a long time since she had had to put up with that aspect of his personality. It was going to be a very long evening, indeed. Annabeth took a deep breath and started to head towards the library, but paused for a moment. It was mainly to give her another moment to collect her thoughts and prepare for the evening ahead, but it could have been a providential move, too. Because not more than a couple of moments later, she heard an unfamiliar voice—it could only be Llorta's—as it uttered words that doused ice-cold water over her heart.

"...not at all confident in Miss de Burgh's chances for custody."

As far as Gotham attorneys went, Robert Llorta was one of the cleaner ones. Of course, much of this could be attributed to the fact that he was rather a modest and unassuming man; his firm was small and only moderately successful, and his specialty was wills, trusts, and probate. With few grand ambitions and little by way of cases that could excite the interest and involvement of the rich, powerful, and corrupt, Llorta simply had little opportunity to become dirty. He was just another Gotham citizen, one of the millions of unimportant people overlooked by the mighty politicians, criminals, and captains of industry. Perhaps that was why Donna Drake had chosen him from among the thousands of attorneys who worked in the city.

He had voiced as much to Bruce over the past half-hour, little dreaming that it was information that was already in the possession of the goofy young man who was now entertaining him. He also had no clue that the goofy young man was actually a rather brilliant young man, a keen observer, and in possession of the knowledge that Llorta had a bit of a weakness for Glen Goriach scotch.

And for wine.

And for port.

Even the cleanest lawyers had chinks in their armor—and as far as Bruce was concerned, high-functioning alcoholism was one of the best chinks to have. It took minimal effort to penetrate the chink, and the price he had to pay—a mildly guilty conscience—was not a steep one.

This passed through Bruce's mind as he refreshed Llorta's drink once more and passed it back to him. Turning up the charm a notch, he offered a crooked smile. "Sorry for the delay...Annabeth should be ready soon. And so should dinner—but given Alfred's talents in the kitchen, it will be well worth the wait."

Llorta waved a dismissive hand. "Not to worry. I'm the one who came in an entire hour early, after all. I'm still so sorry about that—my secretary must have recorded the time wrong."

"Pleasure to have you here," Bruce grinned. "I'm just sorry I couldn't give you a tour, but Alfred's the one who knows everything. I'd just get us lost."

"I'm more interested in meeting Miss de Burgh, anyway."

"Oh?" Bruce rattled the ice in his tumbler, which was still filled with his first, untouched whiskey and water. Llorta didn't notice. This one-word response from Bruce was the only opening Llorta needed.

"I've heard plenty about her, of course, from Donna Drake, back when she was my client. And there's been plenty about her in the news. And that makes her case an interesting one. But problematic, too. You see, I think there's a strong likelihood that guardianship of Timothy Drake might be awarded elsewhere. I'm not at all confident in Miss de Burgh's chances for custody."

Carefully, Bruce set down his glass. "What do you mean?"

Llorta shrugged. "This isn't my specialty, so it's very hard for me to say. But Child Protective Services in Gotham have gotten quite zealous in recent years, and they are, some would say, overly careful about safeguarding the interests of the children. I'm going to recommend Miss de Burgh retain an attorney who specializes in this type of case."

Another complication. Bruce found that he was not totally surprised; poor Annabeth's life seemed littered with them. Inadvertently, she collected them the way other collected Pez, or teacups. Or scars. "Don't give Annabeth the details."

His sudden intensity caught Llorta off-guard. "What?"

"Just advise Annabeth to retain a specialist attorney. Don't give details." Bruce gestured toward the doorway leading through to the rest of the Manor, and allowed a little of his drink to slosh over the side. "She's had a long day, and she's just now getting back on her feet. She doesn't need to know all that now, not yet."

Perhaps it should have gone against Llorta's better judgment, but the pleasantly addled sensation brought on by the fine scotch, coupled with Bruce Wayne's unexpectedly forceful reaction, cowed Llorta into agreeing. "If you think it's best."

Even as the words left his mouth, Llorta was rethinking the wisdom of this approach. And later, of course, after he had returned to the reality of his own far more modest home, and after the effects of the drinks had worn off, he would regret his decision, but already it was too late.

"Am I interrupting?"

Annabeth's voice, from the entrance to the library, caught the attention of both men; she was leaning against the door frame. For one moment, Bruce's suave unflappability was almost shaken, but he almost immediately recovered and crossed the room to join her side. "Been there long?"

"No," Annabeth said, the lie coming off her tongue with such ease that it made her a little uncomfortable. Still, now was not the time to ponder her increasing ability to dissemble; nor was it the time discuss what she had just overheard, or Bruce's continued attempts to steer events to his liking. "Just woke up. I'm sorry I'm a little tardy," she added, raising her voice to address Robert Llorta. "Someone let me sleep too long."

"Just thought you could use the sleep." Privately, Bruce thought she could do with a few hours more. The shadows under her eyes were more pronounced than ever, and whatever color had come into her face over the last few days had been overcome by her usual pallor.

"Nonsense," Annabeth waved away his concerns. "And miss the opportunity to meet Mr. Robert Llorta? Highly unlikely."

Obediently, Robert Llorta took his cue and rose to greet Annabeth, and fortunately, he was not so enamored of his drink that he brought it with him. "Miss de Burgh."

"Annabeth, please." She gave the attorney her trademark handshake—brief, but hearty—followed by a tight smile. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise. I've been wanting to meet with you for a while, but you have quite an effective bodyguard."

"You have no idea," Annabeth murmured, glancing at Bruce. He had been anxiously studying her, and with that one response, he knew that she had overheard a great deal of the conversation that had taken place before her entrance. "But I've been indisposed before now." She settled herself on an extremely uncomfortable Victorian settee. "Won't you sit back down? Let's talk for a few minutes before dinner."

Without being asked, Bruce turned to the sideboard, which was positively cluttered with various bottles and glasses. With a few quick movements, he prepared Annabeth a drink, which he then brought to her.

"Gin and tonic."

"Thanks," Annabeth responded automatically, although she regarded the clear liquid and its lime garnish with confusion. Gin was not exactly her drink of choice...still, she took a sip, and her confusion only increased. Plenty of tonic, and nary a drop of gin to be had.What on earth? She glanced at Bruce, who merely winked at her as he turned his attention to once more refreshing Llorta's drink.

Soon enough she had figured out Bruce's game. Llorta had plenty of information, and whereas sober discretion may have prevented him from sharing his impressions, an alcohol-lubricated tongue was the perfect countermeasure. And it was best for Bruce and Annabeth to remain as sober as possible to hear what he had to say.

"Of course, I'm so terribly sorry to hear about what has happened to you in recent months-" sip "-It was a terrible course of events. I couldn't believe it when I opened the papers..." Sip. "I have to say, it didn't square with the Donna Drake that I knew."

A long, pained silence stretched across the room as his words sunk in, and as much to her own surprise as Bruce's, Annabeth caught herself giving him an agonized look. He could only respond with a gesture of helplessness. He had gotten the attorney drunk enough to be open and indiscreet—he may as well have gift-wrapped him, topped him off with a bow and stuck him under one of the damned Christmas trees that Alfred had refused to take down. That was as much as he could do—only Annabeth knew the questions she wanted to ask the man, and so only she could do the grilling.

She was a smart woman, his Annabeth, and it was clear that this was something she had already figured out. Slowly, she sipped at her tonic water, giving herself time to collect her thoughts and choose her next words carefully. "Maybe you could tell me a little more about the Donna Drake that you knew?"

Perhaps staying sober had not been the best move.

After they were seated at the dinner table—Annabeth and Bruce on one side, Llorta facing them, accompanied by Leslie, who had emerged just as Alfred was bringing out the first course—with Alfred rather absurdly insisting on serving himself—Bruce quickly began to wish that his drink was more potent in nature. And Annabeth's drink, too. It was quickly turning into one of the more painfully awkward meals he had ever endured.

For Annabeth, listening to Llorta share his impressions and memories of Donna was painful in the extreme. And for Bruce, watching Annabeth try to charm, cajole, and even flirt the information out of the attorney was beyond painful to witness. Her eyelash flutterings were weak, and made it look as though she were trying to dislodge something that had flown into her eye; her laughter was ill-timed and forced, and her attempts at light-hearted banter were very feeble indeed.

Bruce found himself beginning to envy Leslie, who steadily drained the glasses of wine that were placed in front of her, and even Alfred, whom he suspected was taking more than a few drinks from the decanter. How on earth had he ever gotten the idea that this was how to win friends and influence people? Fortunately, the wine in Alfred's decanter flowed liberally, and so it was that the attorney—by all accounts a clean and intelligent man, when not soused—never realized the extent to which he was being manipulated.

Over the first course (proscuitto wrapped scallops with a Napa chardonnay), Llorta told them about his first meeting with Donna Drake. "She was a very classy lady," he told Annabeth when she pressed him and then pouted when he hesitated. "You got the impression that she answered to no one, but she was always very gracious in her authority. She could have been a diplomat, or a...a CEO of a multinational corporation. Nothing fazed her."

During the second course (braised wild boar with a mushroom ragout, served over risotto, paired with a Merlot), he told them of when Donna had made the decision to have Timmy. "Of course, the only reason she told me in the first place was so that she could start changing the will, and so on. But her mind was made up, and she dared anyone to gainsay her. She sat across from me, dressed to kill in a charcoal grey suit, and spoke with absolute conviction. When I brought up concerns about her age, she wouldn't even hear of it. 'The doctors think I can do it, Llorta,' she said, 'and I'll make it happen.'"

And when dessert was marched in (raspberry panna cotta and a cabernet sauvignon, along with a large selection of cheeses), Llorta thankfully switched to water. But that was when he dropped the bomb: when he had first heard of Annabeth de Burgh. "Donna was absolutely insistent that no one else was to be Timothy Drake's guardian except for you. She said that there was no one else on earth that she trusted more than you."

At this point, Bruce accidentally knocked over his wine glass—the oldest trick in the book, even to Annabeth's less-than-worldly eyes. But the liquid splashed towards Llorta, it provided enough of a distraction for Annabeth to take a few deep breaths and brush away the tears that were threatening to spill. As Alfred began to mop up the mess on the table, and as Leslie helped Llorta clean up, Annabeth silently mouthed a thank you to Bruce. Wordlessly, he nodded, and underneath the table, his hand reached for hers and gave one strong squeeze.

For the remainder of the meal, Bruce carried the conversation from one inane subject to the next, and it wasn't until they retired back to the library—Leslie had remained behind to help Alfred—and settled down with glasses of port, that they returned to the main subject of the night: Donna Drake's legacy.

Miraculously, Llorta still had enough of his wits about him to reach for the briefcase he had brought along. From the depths of this, he extracted several file folders, and spent a brief period of time searching through them. "Ah, here we go." He glanced over at Annabeth, who sat stiffly upon the settee, and then observed Bruce, standing silently behind her. "As you know better than most, Donna Drake had appointed you Timmy's godmother and guardian, as well as next-of-kin. Two years ago she established a trust fund for him, and in the event of her death, requested that you be appointed head trustee." Llorta paused, choosing his next words carefully. "At the same time that she established the trust fund, she made final updates to her will, the contents of which are fairly brief, cut-and-dry, even. She leaves almost everything to Timmy, in trust, to provide for his support during his minority and then to fund his education. She has bequeathed her midtown condo to you, as well as the contents thereof, to dispose of as you see fit."

Annabeth nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. "You never thought to question why she would will me her property?"

"I am generally not in the habit of questioning my clients' bequests..." A smile, perhaps a little inappropriate, tugged at the corner of Lorta's mouth. "And as bequests go, this one was fairly tame. Furthermore, you were named Timmy's guardian and godmother; it seemed a reasonable bequest."

"That's what I need to talk to you about." Annabeth leaned forward, and Bruce silently braced himself. "When do I get to take custody of Timmy?"

The silence in the room was tense as Llorta tried to think of the correct answer, and as both Bruce and Annabeth watched him. Finally, Llorta chose an enormously diplomatic answer, one that was truthful, yet still acquiesced to Bruce's request.

He shook his head. "That, I couldn't tell you. I tend to focus only on wills and trusts and probate, so it's hard to say. But if it drags on too much, I'll be happy to recommend a good family attorney for you."

Annabeth wasn't going to let him escape that easily. "You think I might have to fight for custody?"

"I really can't say." Lorta held out his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "Again, I'm not an expert in family law. But I understand you will be seeing Timmy, and meeting with his social worker, tomorrow?"

Annabeth nodded. "They're coming in the morning."

"I suggest you talk with them then. That's where you're going to get your answers and see what your next step is going to be."

Restraining a sudden urge to completely freak out, Annabeth took a deep breath—and then the breath caught in her throat as she felt Bruce's hand fall on her shoulder and give one strong squeeze. This helped her to focus, and she managed to smile feebly at Lorta. "Thank you...I imagine this has been awkward for you, given the limited amount of information you have at your disposal."

Lorta's smile was equal parts sympathy and resignation. "It's no more difficult for me than it is for you, Miss de Burgh. Let me know when you're ready to access Donna Drake's condo, and start inventorying the contents. But I imagine you will want to wait and see how things promise to shake out with Timmy."

Annabeth didn't like the way he phrased that, not one bit. Shaking outimplied uncertainty, a question as to how the situation would unfold. Her unease was not helped by Lorta's well-intended but misguided words as he began to pack up his briefcase: "I'll have my secretary email you the contact information for some attorneys specializing in child custody issues."

They followed Llorta out to the Entrance Hall, where Alfred had appeared, once again demonstrating an unnerving sense for knowing when his presence was needed. "A driver is waiting for you, Mr. Llorta. And someone will bring your car around to your office tomorrow." Privately, he found it a wonder of the modern world that the man was still on his feet. Lawyers.

Once more, Bruce and Annabeth found themselves at the entrance to the Manor, watching another guest depart—and with him, the last of any confidence that had built up during the day. Annabeth found herself almost thankful to see the attorney leave; what she had thought would be an evening of answers had turned into an evening in which there were more uncertainties than ever.

As Alfred closed and locked the front doors, Bruce turned to Annabeth. "Where on earth did you learn to flirt?" he asked. "That waspainful."

Annabeth wasn't amused, and she ignored his jibe. "Come with me."

Nonplussed, Bruce obeyed. He followed her from the Entrance Hall, aware of Alfred's curious look behind him and Annabeth's determined walk before him. "Where are we going?"

It was an unnecessary question; he knew where they were headed. "Annabeth..."

"I heard what you and Llorta were talking about." She threw this over her shoulder, not stopping for a moment until they entered the study, and then she whirled around. "Llorta thinks that I won't get custody of Timmy, and you didn't want him telling me. Why?"

It had been a long time since she and Bruce had butted heads. He began to feel...what? Almost a sense of relief. "If you heard all of that, then you heard what I told him. You've had a rough go of it. I didn't want you to be upset."

Her response was a snort, followed by a roll of the eyes. "Too late for that, don't you think?"

Bruce remained silent. The expression he put on his face, Annabeth knew very well. Distant, detached. Arrogant, even, but not in the "Brucie" way. In the Batman way, the way that meant that he knew best, and he was calling the shots, and she should just sit back and hand the reins over to him.

"Had you even thought beyond hiding that information from me?" Annabeth asked, but she already had the answer. "Of course you did. You've probably already retained the best attorney, or else you're orchestrating a kidnapping. Bruce," she pressed, and the pleading of her voice ensured that he turned his eyes away from the fixed point in the distance at which he had been stubbornly gazing. "I'm actually not angry...not really. But I need to be the one who makes the decisions. I need to be the one who chooses what move to make. This isn't Gotham. You can save Gotham. This is me. And you can't save me. Only I can. How many times do I have to tell you?"

A reluctant smile played around Bruce's lips. "I wasn't aware that you had ever told me."

"Then you weren't paying attention the first five or ten or twenty times. Look, Bruce-" Annabeth caught his hand. "This is my battle. I need to be the one to fight it, not you. And I need for you to show me everything you have on Donna."

Bruce blinked in surprise. How did she know that they had gathered enough to write a biography on Donna's life?

"Come on, Bruce." Annabeth sensed his consternation. "Believe it or not, I do know you."

Stalling for time, even though he knew it was useless, Bruce challenged her. "What do you think you really know about me?"

"Maybe not you, personally. But I know your work ethic." Annabeth fixed him with her gaze. "I know that you would never leave a stone unturned. I know you well enough to know that, at least. And I know that you have a way of getting at any information that's out there. And I know that you and Alfred knew things about my family before I knew them. And furthermore," she added, seeing him about to interrupt, "you probably still know more than I do. And if you know more about my family than I do, then it's very possible that Social Services and Child Protective Services know more, too. I can't do battle with an opponent who has the upper hand in every way possible."

Battle. Opponent. Annabeth was either very shrewd, or very lucky; she had chosen just the right words that would resonate with Bruce. She must have seen she was gaining the advantage, because she pressed on. "So I need every piece of information about Donna Drake that's out there. So that I can help Timmy. I don't want any surprises." She wandered over to the piano, and laid a reverent hand on the shiny wood. "I respect you far much to go down there without your permission," she said, and before he could properly approve of her respect for his space, she continued. "But I am telling you—take me down there."

Interesting, Bruce mused as he plunked at the discordant piano keys and led Annabeth through the passageway to the lift. She can't flirt for shit. But for someone who never had a mother growing up, she sure has the mother voice down pat.

The cave looked the same as always...and yet...something felt different.

The same dim light cast eerie shadows into the countless crevices, the same muffled squeaks and flutterings echoed from where the bats conducted their nocturnal business. The same cold, damp air cloyed its way onto them. The same equipment, supplies, machines, computers remained in their usual spots—but it was here that Bruce increased his scrutiny. Here, actually, there was a visible difference. A very thin layer of dust covered almost every object, and Bruce regarded this with the same horror that a single woman would feel if a love interest had paid an unexpected visit to her messy home.

Fully conscious of Annabeth standing behind him, gazing about with avid curiosity—she had not yet spent enough time in the cave to have become accustomed to its wonders—Bruce tried to wipe away some of the dust without her noticing. How had all of this accumulated? Surely it hadn't been here the last time he had been in the Cave—Bruce frowned as his brain leapt to the next logical question: When had been the last time he had been in the Cave?

New Year's Eve, he realized. Right after Annabeth had come to the Manor. He hadn't set foot in the Cave since then, and actually had spent little time in it in the days before then, when Annabeth was in the hospital, recovering. Since all of that had transpired, he had been otherwise occupied, first at the hospital, and then with Safe Haven, and then tending to Annabeth at the Manor. So, all in all, there had been plenty of opportunities for the dust to settle in a most literal fashion.

Bruce took an ineffectual swipe at the main computer monitor, hoping that Annabeth didn't notice. "I'll boot this up, and it'll be ready in a moment. This is where Alfred stored the information that he gathered."

Annabeth nodded, but Bruce wondered if she had registered his words. "Annabeth," he said sharply, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you really sure you want to do this?" As he asked this, his voice dropped into his habitual growl, usually so commanding, but she didn't seem to notice. "Will it really make a difference? What can it help?"

"It can help me," Annabeth answered; apparently, she was listening after all. "Timmy's going to want to know about this someday, and I need to know everything, so I can know what to tell him. And when. He'll learn everything...in time..." Her eyes went out of focus for a moment as she pondered some unhappy truth. "I know that there's going to be plenty in Alfred's files that won't be pretty. And I know that it's going to cause me pain. But I will willingly undergo that pain now for Timmy. I'll do for him what no one did for me."

There was much logic there, painful though it was. Reluctantly, Bruce released his grip on her shoulder, and she nodded in acknowledgment. "I appreciate what you want to do, Bruce. But you can't keep out all of the demons. All you can do is help me find them and let me fight them on my own terms."

In response, Bruce was able to utter nothing more than a noncommittal grunt, and then turned his attention to the monitor as he began to pull up the files on Donna.

Here was an unwelcome surprise, which explained why the keyboard bore less dust in comparison to its surroundings: someone had uploaded new files. Alfred, presumably, and within the last week. Bruce could tell immediately that the files had been sent on by a private investigative firm, one contracted through the complex web of Bruce's shadow companies. From the looks of it, Alfred had taken it upon himself to commission more research on Donna—normally a laudable effort, but given that Bruce had not had the chance to vet the results, not entirely appreciated.

Sometimes he really hated it when Alfred took the initiative.

No chance of getting rid of these newest files, these unknown quantities. Annabeth was even now at his shoulder, eagerly scanning the information on the monitor. "Looks like your fellows are pretty thorough," she remarked. "There's a lot to read through."

Unhappily, Bruce agreed. "But I don't suppose there's a chance you'll refrain from reading through some of these...?"

"Not a sinner's hope in hell." Already, Annabeth's hand was inching towards the mouse, but Bruce wasn't yet ready to yield.

"Then will you at least promise me something?"

Annabeth couldn't help but to agree. She suspected that Bruce rarely compromised or negotiated. "Shoot."

He gestured towards the monitor. "See those files there? The ones with the date stamp of last week?"

"Yes."

"Save those to read last. And let me read those with you."

To his relief, Annabeth acquiesced with a single, curt nod.

After that, there was little Bruce could do but allow her to have her way with the computer. She practically jostled him out of his seat, and so he withdrew as gracefully as possible. "I'll be...over there..." he said quietly, gesturing vaguely behind him. "Let me know when you're ready to read the new stuff."

Annabeth barely heard him. Already she was engrossed, staring at the monitor. Bruce, the Batcave, the Manor, all of it fell to the back of her awareness as she plunged into the wealth of information that sat before her.

It was a story that began many years back, when Annabeth had been still too young to understand the forces at work around her. Her entire life, she had operated with limited information about her family, and therefore, her existence. It was strange, even surreal, to see everything finally revealed to her, and even stranger to think of how it was revealed.

As she had told Bruce, her mother—Donna, it was so hard to remember that they were one and the same—had left when Annabeth was two. One of the first items of information that showed up in the reports were bank records—or more accurately, the bank records of both Seth and Donna-or Gretchen, as she was known as back then. They had had a joint account, it appeared. At first, the money had come in slowly, and mainly in the form of cash deposits. As the years passed, the money increased, but the method of gaining it didn't change; always, it was the cryptic source of cash.

Other than that, the early years were, in the main, an unknown quantity. The only other information was the income tax returns for Seth Percival, which reflected a relatively modest—although always increasing—income. And then, the next item of note—the papers confirming the dissolution of the marriage between Gretchen/Donna and Annabeth's father.

Annabeth had a vague recollection of those divorce papers. Her father had flung them at her, one day, when she had tottered home from kindergarten. It was one of her first memories, actually; she could still recall the look of twisted anguish and hatred on her father's face; she also recalled that he had stormed out of the house not long after, leaving Annabeth on her own with only her innocent confusion and those papers. Not as though she could read them—many of her classmates already knew their ABCs and could read very basic words, but not Annabeth. It had taken her years to catch up, and then surpass, her peers.

Shaking her head to dislodge these memories, Annabeth surged ahead with her research. Next on the monitor were the name change documents, the critical information that they had finally uncovered that had finally disclosed all, and which reflected Susan Stratos' name change to Gretchen Rogers, and then from Gretchen to Donna. It takes more than a change of name to change who you are,Annabeth mused sadly. Had Donna find it enough? Did her new name shield her from the regrets of a life lost, a daughter relinquished?

Then there was the marriage certificate for Seth Percival and Gretchen Rogers. Annabeth noted immediately that Susan/Gretchen/Donna had not changed her last name to Seth's. Why not? Was it her mother's firm bid for a lasting identity, created only for herself? Annabeth would never have a chance to ask now.

On and on she read—Donna had gotten her Bachelor's Degree during her years with Seth in Chicago, and shortly after their divorce in 1990, it looked as though Donna had moved back to Gotham. Judging by the records they had pulled up on Seth, he had moved back at the same time. Bastard was telling the truth—Donna followed him back. Obsessed with him though she may have been, she had immediately gone to school for her Master's Degree. And then, later, she had established Safe Haven.

Annabeth paused for a moment to stretch her limbs and collect her thoughts. As she did, she noticed that Bruce was no longer beside her; rather, he had withdrawn to another corner of the cave, where he appeared to be engaged in some rather strenuous-looking repetitions on a weight machine. How long had he been at it? Never one to spend much time "reading into" the actions of men, Annabeth couldn't help but to feel absurdly flattered that he had left her to her own devices here in this holy of holies. Perhaps they were becoming more integrated in each other's lives than they realized.

Even as she watched, Bruce finished his last repetition and came away from the machine, breathing heavily as he did. At some point, his shirt had come off, and despite the dank chill of the cave, his chest and shoulders were covered in a sheen of sweat. Annabeth turned away, shyly, but uncertain as to why, but Bruce didn't seem to notice. "Where are you at?" he asked as he came to stand behind her and lean over her shoulder. Annabeth tried very hard to focus, not on his very strong, vital presence, but on the words on the monitor.

"Good timing. You're about where Alfred found the additional information and added it on," Bruce said. "Ready for this?"

She nodded, but in truth, she was less than certain. And as she began to read, she became even more hesitant. First were the police reports from Chicago—complaints from neighbors about screaming, witnesses describing physical alterations, restraining orders issued and violated and revoked, issued and violated and revoked. The investigators Alfred had hired would have put the Pinkertons to shame, Annabeth mused—or perhaps they are the Pinkertons. They had somehow managed to interview one of Donna's old neighbors. Bruce could almost feel her cringe as she read of the time that Gretchen Rogers had come knocking on their door late one night, face a bloody mess, pleading shelter. They had taken her in, given her ice, stopped the bleeding, begged her to call the police, to leave Percival. She had spent the night on their couch, but the next morning, she was gone. Whenever she passed them in the hallways after that, she kept her eyes down, as though in shame.

There were a couple of interesting medical records, too—both having to do with miscarriages; both times, Gretchen had been otherwise injured, claiming household accidents. Annabeth's jaw clenched as she read this, but ruthlessly, she continued.

The investigators had turned up college transcripts, too. With absurd pride, Annabeth saw that her mother had been single-mindedly dedicated, much like herself, and had excelled in her studies.

Newspaper articles, parking tickets, photographs, interviews with colleagues and acquaintances and old landlords and neighbors, a few more legal documents...on and on, Annabeth read, gradually learning more and more about her mother, but strangely, coming up with more questions as well. She had a perfect picture of the life that Donna Drake had led, but still precious little picture of Donna Drake as a person.

The final documents were wholly unexpected. I guess at the end, you start thinking about the beginning, Annabeth thought irrelevantly, as she gazed at the digital images of her parents' birth certificates. And then, below that, a very incomplete family tree.

"Neither of my parents had brothers or sisters," she unnecessarily remarked to Bruce as they gazed at it. "And my grandparents were all dead by the time I went to the County—believe me, they would have turned up any close relatives. But it looks like...my parents had aunts and uncles, and they had kids..."

"Looks like there's enough cousins and second cousins and so on to keep Timmy company for a while," Bruce observed quietly. "There's family enough, if you want to find them. Just say the word."

Family. It was such a foreign concept to Annabeth now; for as long as she could remember, she had schooled herself to rely on no one, to trust few and love fewer. Even as an independent adult, it had been difficult to get out of this mindset. "We'll see." She turned to Bruce with world-weary eyes. "It's a strange gift you've given me, but it's priceless."

Bruce looked away for a moment, unable to meet her gaze. He struggled to master his emotions, and when he did, and turned back to Annabeth, his expression was still pained. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you more—" he stopped for a second, and then gritted his teeth. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep it all from falling apart."

Right then, Annabeth made a decision: she turned away from the keyboard and the monitor. All of it, all of the evidence of her family's past, it would keep for another day; for now, the present was more important. She grasped Bruce's arm. "Stop. Just stop already. You can't be everywhere. And you can't do everything. And if you don't accept that, you're going to drive yourself insane. It'll get you killed. I can't tell you why everything happened, but I can tell you that it's me who has to live me life. I'm the hero of my life story, not you. You're just a supporting character. You've got to let me save myself, and you've got to absolve yourself from my life's tragedies."

Her eyes burned with the fire that Bruce had first fallen for; he knew she was right. And he knew, too, that she wasn't just talking about herself. She was talking about every single living thing in Gotham.

But suddenly, none of that mattered...because Annabeth was focusing rather intently on him. He cocked his head questioningly, but he had his answer a brief second later, as Annabeth took his face in her hands. "I mean it, Bruce. You think you're the keeper of Gotham, and everyone who lives here. But you're only the keeper of yourself, and your own life."

He didn't agree with her, not one bit. But it was late, and he was too exhausted, too drained to argue. "You should get some rest. Come on." He took her hand and gently tugged, and it was a testament to Annabeth's weariness that she rose and followed Bruce to the lift without protest.

Exhausted though she might have been, Annabeth was not about to go to sleep. A mere ten minutes after Bruce had respectfully left her in her own room with nothing more than a chaste kiss, she was moving through the passageway that joined their rooms. Why she was trying to move stealthily, Annabeth could not begin to guess—after all, who was to overhear? Alfred or Leslie, both of whom likely already suspected what she was only now trying to pursue? Chiding herself for her prurient reservations, Annabeth forced herself to open the door to Bruce's room without knocking.

It was dark, of course, as dark as a Gotham midnight, and for that Annabeth was thankful. She was unused to taking the role of initiator, and if she could do so under the cover of darkness, so much the better.

"Annabeth?"

Well, I am trying to seduce the Batman. Darkness doesn't mean anonymity.

Bruce sat up in bed, senses on high alert. He had not been asleep, but had been lying down, trying to calm his thoughts and chivvy them into a sense of order. But now Annabeth was here. She had never come to him before; always, he had either lingered in her room as it grew later, or else stole away to there. But now, she was here.

Without the hesitation—or was it common sense?— that would have held her back before, Annabeth treaded lightly towards Bruce's bed. Just before climbing in beside him, she shed her robe, letting it drop to the floor. A moment later, as she joined him underneath the warm covers, Bruce realized that she had need to shed nothing else. And then, with an energy that belied her supposed exhaustion, she was kissing him, unexpectedly, fiercely, commandingly. Her hands trapped his face, but it was not as though he was trying to squirm away. And then she felt his fingers softly brushing her neck and collar bone, and realized that his insistent mouth had migrated from her lips to her earlobe—shit, how did he know that this was a favorite spot of hers? Involuntarily, Annabeth gasped as she felt his teeth graze said lobe, and then nibble, so lightly, yet so insistently. Whatever restraint she had been exercising before was swept away in a violent gust of lust. She practically shoved him down onto the bank of pillows.

Usually before, Bruce had been the aggressor, but this time, he was thoroughly happy to let Annabeth take the lead. Instinctively, he understood that this was something that she needed to do. No doubt, reading through her family's history had been the catalyst—but this detached thought was completely obliterated as he realized that, no longer content with simply kissing, Annabeth had decided to let her hands go a-roving. And this was the final action which severed all that tethered them to common sense.

The time for rational thought had passed; the time for sensuality was at hand. In the darkness, with the anonymity that it afforded them, their explorations became ever more heated. Sitting up and pulling Annabeth onto his lap, Bruce felt her legs clench as her body melded to his, straddling him, pressing up against him, finding a rhythm that he instinctively met. She pushed on his shoulders, urging him to fall backwards onto the mattress, and he recognized her desire to be the one in control. Hers were the kisses that became more aggressive; hers were the hands that explored their way all around Bruce's body and guided his hands towards the places that would give her the most pleasure. She was the one who guided and encouraged him, and she was the one whose voice cried out and split the darkness with its keen joy.

Afterwards, they both collapsed on the bed, gasping, tangled in the sheets, completely submitting to the exhaustion which inevitably followed the intense lust that had torn through them. Tentatively, Bruce's arms stole around her, and when he felt Annabeth's yielding body snuggle more closely against him, he tightened his hold and buried his face in her hair. "You feel amazing."

The only response he got was a deep and satisfied sigh. Annabeth was already starting to settle into the sleep of a contented woman. A rare flash of humor hit Bruce—I feel so used—before he tightened his arms around Annabeth and allowed himself to fall into a deep, sated sleep.

Hello Folks!

I haven't forgotten you! I haven't forgotten Bruce and Annabeth, either. Like Mrs. Bennet's nerves, they've been my constant companions these many years.

Housekeeping business: this story will end. Probably in about a month-which is, of course, when the next movie is due out. Do I want to cash in on another wave of enthusiastic readers? Of course. But I want closure. And I want you guys to have closure, too.

But let me give you a storm-warning: in the next ten days, I am going to be making substantial changes to the story. I've been proofreading this story for the last two months, and the amount of errors and repetitions amaze and shame me (how often do the characters gaze cryptically at each other? How did Annabeth's dog change breeds? Why do I call Alfred ALBERT so much?). I will be combining and replacing chapters on this website. The text won't change much, but the number of chapters will: it will go from 85 to 55 chapters. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT THIS WILL DO TO YOUR PAST REVIEWS OR STORY ALERTS. BE PREPARED FOR FUCKED-UPEDNESS. If you want me to send you an email or a PM regarding imminent changes and whatnot, let me know.

Credits: I think I heard the line about "at the end you think about the beginning" in the Mr. and Mrs. Smith movie.

And before you ask, yes, I have read 50 Shades of Grey. Whether or not I enjoyed it is an entirely different kettle of fish.

Happy reading!

-Anonymous2004