"So what happened?"

Leslie was in the kitchen, perched at the center island, drinking another cup of tea as Alfred regarded her with his steady gaze and waited for her to gather her thoughts. She didn't answer right away, mostly because she wasn't sure how. What had happened? For much of the visit, she hadn't been in the room with Annabeth and Briggs, but she had witnessed enough of the social worker's posturing to surmise a great deal. She idly stirred her tea and then sipped, trying to buy time as she put her thoughts together.

"I think Briggs is going to make Annabeth's life quite miserable," she said finally. "I think she's going to investigate and interrogate and insinuate, and I think she's going to try very hard to keep Annabeth from getting custody of that little boy."

"But why? That's what I cannot fathom. And why now?"

"I've got a hunch."

Alfred looked past Leslie's shoulder, and Leslie turned around. Bruce had been standing in the doorway, and he now stepped into the room. "Sorry to interrupt. I just got back from the city. Jessica Waterhouse—she and her partner will be joining us for the dinner tonight, by the way—told me as soon as it hit the news feeds. A judge allowed Seth Percival to post bail today."

Appalled, Leslie and Alfred stared at him. Leslie was the first to find her voice, and not surprisingly, her focus was not on Seth Percival. "Where were you today? Was it truly necessary for you to be absent?"

Bruce chose to ignore this question, and instead turned to Alfred. "Percival's going to cause trouble. It's inevitable."

"You think that man had something to do with the social worker who came out today?" Alfred's voice expressed doubt, but even as he spoke, he knew what the answer would be. Bruce was very rarely wrong in his instincts.

"It depends. How did the visit go?"

Bruce had him there. "It was rough," Alfred admitted. "Annabeth could tell you more, but she's upstairs, resting, right now. Leslie was there for more of it than was I."

Bruce looked at Leslie searchingly, trying to extract more information, but she merely compressed her lips. He'd be getting no more information from her, that was obvious. She was deeply disgruntled.

"I went to the city because I had to get some work done," Bruce finally explained to her. "Lucius and Jessica were helping me strong-arm some last minute guests."

Leslie simply took another sip of her tea; her damning silence spoke volumes. She wouldn't dream of expressing it, but it was her opinion that Bruce's dinner party was ill-advised. What had he been thinking, with Annabeth just now getting back on her feet?

Sighing noisily, Bruce turned his attention back to Alfred. "Do you have a minute? I thought we could head into the dining room and discuss guest seatings, who we place where, that kind of thing."

Bruce had given Alfred that look too many times for him to mis-read it now, and so, with alacrity, he responded. "I was just going through the wine accounts, selecting some bottles to go with dinner. It can wait. Leslie, my dear, will you excuse us?"

She merely nodded; she wanted to be sour at Alfred, but her innate fairness compelled her to reserve her ire only for Bruce. Tactfully ignoring her disapproval, they left her in the kitchen, sipping her tea and stewing in her thoughts.

Of course, Bruce had no desire or intention to discuss where to seat the dinner guests. The two men walked right past the dining room, and on to the study. Once inside, Bruce closed the door and even locked it; it was only after that that he got straight to the heart of what was on his mind. "Alfred, have you been monitoring the police scanners lately?"

"No, Master Wayne. Not since you decided we should refrain for a while, given the events of the past month."

"Start doing it again."

"Now?"

"Now," Bruce confirmed. "You know that pager that we set up? The one that looks like it's from 1998? Page me if something comes up. And how long would it take to hack into Timmy's files with the CPS and Social Services?"

"A day or two, I would think." Alfred took in Bruce's tense posture, his almost-angry expression. "Is Seth Percival really going to cause problems?"

"I think he already has. He's a hateful bastard, and he won't want Annabeth to come out on top."

Alfred studied Bruce, but the younger man's face reflected nothing but the implacable will that Alfred had long ago learned to accept. Part of his acceptance stemmed from years of ingrained devotion to the Wayne family, but another, newer part of his acceptance stemmed from a certain maddening knowledge that Bruce possessed a keen instinct that rarely was proved wrong, particularly when the instinct was related to unhappy things.

Unhappy things. On cue, Alfred's thoughts drifted to Annabeth, who was even now resting off her latest unhappiness upstairs. "Do you really think Percival's behind this?"

Bruce nodded. "Aside from his pathological misogyny—although that's redundant, what misogyny isn't pathological?—he's a shrewd opponent and a nasty enemy to have. He hates Annabeth, and while he won't physically harm her, he'll try to destroy her all the same."

As much as they wanted to believe Annabeth was resting, their hopes were misguided. She was lying down, but that was where any resemblance to resting ended, for her eyes were wide open and her mind was racing. There was no actual rest, and perhaps there would never be again.

Annabeth rolled over onto her side and burrowed down deep into the bedding, hoping against hope that somehow, the downy softness of the duvet could protect her from the harsh reality of her current situation. At the same time, a few hot tears broke free from her eyes and trickled down to wet the pillow. But suddenly, absurdly, the luxury of her surroundings infuriated her. What the fuck was she doing here, living sequestered in a palace, while her carefully, painstakingly-constructed life was collapsing around her? Ridiculous!

No, a fair, sane voice whispered in her head. It's complicated all around, but trying to shift blame onto Bruce's shoulders for this latest shitstorm isn't right. He's not the cause of it. But he could soon be suffering the consequences.

He'd want to help, of course; Annabeth had no doubt that Bruce would immediately sniff out the best attorney in Gotham, and instruct that they never send her a bill. But it would be his involvement that could complicate the issue to the point of disaster. Briggs had made that clear, hadn't she? Bruce's presence in her life could be used as an argument against her having custody of Timmy. Annabeth knew, as well as any Gotham native, of the shenanigans, the wild parties, the acquaintances of dubious morals, the notoriety that Bruce had so carefully cultivated; the only difference was that she now saw them for the farce they were. But it wasn't like that to the rest of Gotham. And she knew that so long as she and Bruce were romantically linked, she was arming Briggs with a potentially lethal weapon, and not even the best attorney could be certain of disarming the self-righteous social worker.

There was another complication: if Bruce could not be budged from the place he had taken by her side, Briggs could always begin scrutinizing him more thoroughly—not just as Annabeth's gadabout boyfriend, but as a person, in his own right, with his own life beyond the public sphere. Two lives, actually—one being highly secret, alarmingly violent, and absolutely criminal. How much sniffing and snooping would Briggs have to do before she turned up anything that could jeopardize Bruce and his work? It would probably be beyond her abilities, but she could still hamper his movements, make life uncomfortable, keep him from his work. And there was always the risk, however remote, of discovery.

Dammit! No matter which way she turned, Annabeth encountered another obstacle that merely sent her deeper into the maze. With this unhappy realization at the fore of her brain, she finally managed to slip into a fitful doze. May as well try to get some rest while I can. It's going to be a long night.

"Eldest, I was hoping you'd be able to do me a favor."

Barbara Gordon Jr. gazed at her father over the top of her glasses—silly, thick-framed glasses they were, too, one of the few affectations of hipsterdom she'd cop to—at her father. Jim Gordon stood halfway down the stairs, just barely visible, just barely in her basement. He preferred not to come down there too often; he told Barbara it was because he wanted to respect her privacy, but she suspected that he was also slightly baffled by the many electronics and books that filled the room. Barbara was equal parts bookworm and gearhead; in her admittedly scant spare time, she was usually buried in a book or under a pile of wires and computer hardware.

Today, it was a book that was claiming her attention, but she set it aside readily enough. "What's up, Pops?"

"Are you free this evening?"

Barbara wrinkled her nose. "I wasn't supposed to be, but the dude I had a date with cancelled a couple of hours ago. At least he had the courtesy to tell me..." Seeing her father's vaguely amused expression, she returned to the matter at hand. "Why?"

"I've got a dinner that I've been invited to. That we've been invited to, actually." He noticed her lack of immediate enthusiasm, and continued on persuasively, "They were most insistent I pass the invitation on to you."

"Who's 'they,' anyway?"

"Bruce Wayne and Annabeth de Burgh. I gather they're having a dinner party out at their place in the Palisades, for people who'd be potentially interested in getting involved with Safe Haven."

"God, that place really is the cause du jour, isn't it? Sounds potentially tedious...but also potentially fascinating. I've always wondered, Dad, what's de Burgh doing with Wayne? She doesn't seem to suffer fools, and I got the impression that he's a bit of an ass-hat."

Gordon managed to hide his smile. "The man's odd, I'll grant you that, but I think he's got a heart of gold, and for that, I think Annabeth de Burgh will forgive any number of sins. Anyway, I get the impression that yours is the presence they're truly hoping for. They invited me for the sake of courtesy and propriety."

"'Propriety?'" Now Barbara did wrinkle up her nose at this word. "God, what's the world coming to? Alright, I'll come with you. But what about Jimmy and Hannah? It was your night with them."

"I already called the baby-sitter. She can come in tonight."

Barbara still was not persuaded, but she was close. Honestly, she has been a bit relieved that her date had fallen through...it was rare for her to have a night in. But the thought of a gourmet meal was tempting...and Annabeth de Burgh was a rather intriguing character...And then she remembered the vintage number she had picked up at the thrift store earlier in the week, a 50s=era cocktail dress in a particularly horrifying shade of pink. It would be perfect.

"I'll go."

"Will you go?"

Victoria Leigh Winston had the courtesy of asking this of her husband, but both she and Gregory knew it to be just that—a courtesy. Many years ago, he had entrusted their social calendar to his wife, and she had never once given him cause to complain.

Now Gregory looked up from the mail he had been sorting through. "I don't see why not. It's always rather dull around here in January, But I thought Wayne always disappears off to Aruba at this time of year?"

"He disappears, that much is true. But who's to say he goes to Aruba? Anyway, I understand that Annabeth is still staying there, so that probably curtails any swanning off he'd like to do. Alfred apologized for the short notice, but I gather it's all rather important for getting that women's shelter put back together. Dinner will be at seven."

"So early? Lord, Wayne's soirees never used to start that early. Annabeth must have really domesticated him."

"Perhaps they should just move the shelter to Wayne Manor." Victoria allowed a small smile at this flight of fancy, and then headed off to sort out an outfit for the evening.

The vodka tonic was already mostly gone, but Jessica Waterhouse had not yet fully relaxed. She gazed morosely at her dwindling drink and sighed. "It's aggravating. I work 'round the clock for the man already, and now I have to socialize with him as well?"

She was sprawled out in a capacious armchair, her leather pumps lying on the floor, under her feet that were slung over the armrest. She took another sip of her vodka tonic, and frowned as the ice rattled at the bottom of her now-empty glass. But her partner Sandra, long-attuned to her needs, had already prepared her another, which she now passed to her. Then she sat on the stool next to the armchair and began to rub Jessica's weary feet.

Jessica smiled her gratitude, and then carried on. "I spent most of the damned day on the phone with this person or that person, trying to round up enough guests for this dinner party of his, and then he poked his head out of his office and tells me that I'm to come, too, and to bring you. You're the civil rights attorney, why couldn't he just invite you and leave me alone?"

"That would have been rude, even by Bruce Wayne's questionable standards of courtesy."

"Lovely. So my boss decided to develop some manners today, of all days."

Ever the attorney, Sandra tried to be a devil's advocate. "C'mon, that's not fair. You said he's usually pretty nice."

"I know. And you're right. I'm just bitching at this point. But then, all hell breaks loose. Vicki Vale—you know her, that reporter that Wayne's in thick with—called and directed me to the newsfeeds. That asshole that tried to kill Annabeth de Burgh? Well, he's out on bail. Vale was calling to get Wayne's views."

"I heard about that." Sandra had decided this conversation had come to the point where she needed something to fortify her as well, so she took the glass from Jessica and took a hefty gulp of its dregs. "Percival's lead attorney is a soulless wreck, but she's good at what she does. And she knows the right judges. How'd Wayne take it?"

"Not well. I've told you what happens when he gets pissed off. He goes all quiet and his eyes—well, they get a little spooky."

Sandra couldn't help herself. She laughed. "Spooky? Jessica, this is Bruce Wayne we're talking about."

"I mean it, Sandra. You don't cross Bruce Wayne. I know you guys don't see it, but he's totally different at work sometimes."

"I'm sure when he's on the wagon, he's a hard worker. But when he's off the wagon, it's anybody's guess what he'll get into. Anyway, we'll go tonight. We can't let Bruce Wayne hog up all the opportunities for civic engagement."

Cocktails at 7 that evening, dinner at 8. By 7, everyone had shown up—Victoria and Gregory, Jessica and Sandra, Maya and her fiance Rush, Katie Moriarty and her husband the President of Gotham, a few other engaged and/or wealthy and/or powerful citizens. Jim Gordon and his daughter Barbara were the last to arrive. Alfred was buried down in the Cave, monitoring the police channels, so Bruce answered the doorbell himself

"Commissioner Gordon!" He offered Gordon a hearty handshake. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Not at all..." Gordon drifted off as Bruce turned his attention to Barbara and beheld her in all of her compelling oddness. She was kitted out in a dress that was a godawfully ugly color, but admittedly went far towards flattering her less-than-svelte figure, and Gordon could see that Bruce was admiring, perhaps against his own better judgment. "You remember my daughter Barbara?"

Gordon didn't expect Bruce to begin flirting with Barbara, not right under his own nose, and certainly not with Annabeth de Burgh so firmly in the picture. But he also didn't expect the strange look that Bruce gave her, either. Not hostile, exactly, but definitely speculative. Almost wary. "Miss Gordon, nice to see you again." His voice was respectfully polite, but contained none of the previous warmth with which he had addressed Gordon.

Either Barbara didn't notice, or else she didn't give a jolly damn. "Not Miss Gordon. Barbara's fine. And thank you for inviting us. But where's your sidekick Alfred? Isn't he normally on door duty?"

Bruce waved vaguely. "He's got a lot to do tonight. I help out where I'm needed. Come in and have a drink."

He drifted away, not bothering to close the front door; that was left for a uniformed woman—clearly hired waitstaff—to attend to. A second person in uniform relieved them of their coats, and a third promptly approached with a tray bearing flutes of champagne.

Gordon and his daughter glanced at each other, and each read in the other's eyes identical puzzlement. But Barbara was the first to move on. "He's a weirdo, Pops. But he's got good taste in champagne. Bottoms up!"

Alfred was not the only person whose absence was noted—missing as well was Annabeth de Burgh. Everyone noticed, of course, although none commented—none except, predictably, Barbara Gordon. She had the necessary impertinence to remark on it, but also, thankfully, the necessary common sense to wait until Bruce was alone before she did so. After watching him meander away, mid-conversation, from Gregory and Victoria, Barbara waylaid him. "Aren't you missing someone?"

Bruce managed to keep the grimace off his face. Alfred had been insistent that they invite both Gordon and his daughter, and Bruce had reluctantly conceded. A certain amount of stubborn pride prevented him from admitting that it was because Barbara had saved his skin, but both he and Alfred knew it. His aversion to Barbara was a multi-layered thing; he knew her to be too observant, too smart for her own good; she stood in awe of nothing and no one. Plus, she was simply a pain in the ass.

None of Bruce's opinions were evident as he smiled and responded with as much pleasantness as he could muster. "She was feeling a bit under the weather earlier this afternoon, and she decided to rest before dinner."

"Poor Annabeth." Barbara's sympathy was both quick and genuine. "She's really been to hell and back, hasn't she? But then, so have you. Are you holding up alright?"

It was an oblique reference to Annabeth's miscarriage, and to his annoyance, Bruce found himself touched by her innocent concern and surprising tact. But he resented her intrusiveness, too. For lack of any adequate response, he shrugged, and this time, he didn't bother to hide his grimace.

Barbara either understood, or else saw no need for him to extrapolate. She glanced at her watch. "Well, it's past seven. Did you want me to go get Annabeth?"

The thought of Barbara running around the Manor unsupervised was enough to make Bruce's blood run cold. "Why don't we go get her together?" he suggested, offering her his arm. "That way, I can show you some of the family heirlooms."

"Oh!" Barbara's eyes danced with merriment. "Are they all very old?"

"They are. Some have been in the family a whole five months."

If Annabeth was surprised to open her door and see both Bruce and Barbara standing on her threshold, her expression didn't show it. In fact, her face revealed nothing other than red, puffy eyes and a wanness that went beyond recent poor health. Bruce glanced back and forth from Annabeth to Barbara, but Barbara revealed neither surprise nor dismay.

"Hey, Annabeth. Long time no see. Bruce..." Barbara gently unlinked her arm from Bruce's and moved towards Annabeth, "would it be possible for you to keep the crowd entertained for a while?"

Bruce could build bombs and dismantle them with equal skill and ease; he could run a mile in less than seven minutes; he could fly planes and beat a pack of ninjas and actually read James Joyce for fun, but even he had to acknowledge that Annabeth needed assistance that he quite simply lacked the skills—to say nothing of the estrogen—to give. With a tender but distracted smile at Annabeth, he left her in Barbara's surprisingly capable hands.

There was little time to waste on anything other than the barest of courtesy. Barbara marched past Annabeth into the bathroom, turned on the sink faucet, and wet a washcloth with cold water. Tossing this to Annabeth, she gave terse instructions. "Wash your face and then put this over your eyes." Not waiting to see if Annabeth obeyed, she marched back into the bedroom and proceeded to turn on every light she could find. "We need to see what we're working with."

Five minutes later, she had Annabeth sitting at the beautiful vanity table as she vigorously ran a brush through her hair. One stroke, two strokes, three...not stopping until she reached one hundred, Barbara bullied Annabeth's lank hair into a miraculously gleaming mass of chestnut locks. "We'll pull it up into a ponytail. You'll look about twelve, but at least you'll look perky, too."

Her practical, brisk kindness nearly set Annabeth off again—she looked up at Barbara, her eyes filling, her lip trembling. Recognizing this as a potentially disastrous moment, Barbara put her hand on Annabeth's shoulder and squeezed, but not gently, digging her fingers in and capturing Annabeth's attention. "Whatever it is, Annabeth, keep it together. I mean it. You need to get down there and do your thing—there's no time to fall apart right now. Do not, and I mean do not, lose your shit."

It would have appalled Bruce to realize it, but Barbara's tough love bore a striking resemblance to Annabeth's style, and so her injunction resonated soundly enough to command obedience. In her seat, she unconsciously straightened her defeated posture and swallowed back the surge of lowly, fearful grief. Barbara saw and nodded approvingly, and there was something in the younger woman's approbation that stiffened Annabeth's spine even more.

"Good woman," Barbara smiled. "Now, what are the chances of there being any PBR tonight?"

Predictably enough, there were no hipster beers gracing the dinner-table. And while Alfred's absence was conspicuous, his presence could be accounted for in the careful selection of food and the flawless pairings of wine. As the impassive, impeccable waitstaff marched out course after course, a new type of freshly decanted wine followed it.

"Not having anything to drink tonight, Commissioner?" Bruce asked off-handedly, early on in the dinner. Gordon was to his immediate right, and the question could be asked with simple discretion.

"Nothing tonight," Gordon agreed. "I drove myself out here, and I'll have to drive myself back. And anyway, I'm never really off duty."

"Especially on an evening like this," interjected Victoria, seated to Bruce's left, across from Gordon. She dispelled any ambiguity with her next statement. "With that little man out of jail"—no one needed to inquire who she meant— "who knows what he'll get into next? I couldn't imagine that Annabeth would be able to sleep a wink."

All three of them looked down at the far end of the table, where Annabeth sat, talking occasionally with Gregory and more often—and animatedly—with Barbara. Although Bruce's dining companions were too kind to say it, they all had reached the same conclusion—it already appeared as though Annabeth wasn't sleeping a wink.

Gordon cleared his throat and desperately cat about for an alternative subject which didn't focus on Annabeth's fragile health, Seth Percival's presence outside of jail, or his own government's accounting for it. Fortunately, Victoria's ever-attuned social antenna picked up on his discomfort, and she helped him out. "Commissioner, your daughter certainly is quite an interesting young lady. What does she do?"

Here was a subject upon which Gordon could converse with ease. "Right now, she's enrolled in grad school, getting her PhD. And then there's her other hobby," he added ruefully. "She's a bit of a Batman-stalker.

Bruce snorted. "I would have thought she'd be too well-adjusted to waste much time on something that nerdy."

From further down the table, Barbara's sharp ears picked up on this conversation, and she spoke up. "It's not nerdy. Just esoteric. Although," she added peevishly, "he's not made it easy for me, lately. Not a sighting for weeks!"

Now Sandra, Jessica Waterhouse's partner, chimed in. In her low yet distinctive voice, she gave them all something to think about. "I don't know that I actually believe the Batman exists, but if he does, now would be a good time for him to start making the rounds. My personal assistant passed around the crime blotter and police stats this morning—can you believe, since New Year's, rapes and muggings are up? So are murders—already seven this month alone."

They fell into a respectful silence, the silence of all relatively-well-off people who are confronted with the gross economic disparity and violence that preyed upon their fellow, less-fortunate citizens. And then, once again, it was Victoria who gently steered the conversation back into less tempestuous waters—but not before Annabeth met Bruce's inscrutable gaze for a brief second.

"Speaking of violence in Gotham," Victoria said, "why don't we discuss Safe Haven? I know that it's a very strong concern of yours, Annabeth. And it sounds like there are plenty of opportunities for us to help."

With this perfect set-up, Annabeth and Maya needed little prompting to explain their dilemma: the women, adolescents, and children who were currently scattered across the city, the present lack of leadership, the chaos. "Right now, we can't even think of opening again," Annabeth told the table at large. "There's no one to direct day-to-day operations, there's no one to manage the board, there's really no board, even, just Bruce."

"God help you," Gregory interjected,. Bruce simply grinned sheepishly, and even Annabeth allowed a smile.

"So we're dead in the water. Without a board of directors, we can't even think about appointing a head of operations," Annabeth finished up.

"Why not you?" This came from Hugh Lundquist, a very boring man, yet a very conscientious accountant—invited by Bruce for specifically that reason.

"It's not really my skill-set," Annabeth answered him promptly and honestly. "Up until now, I've been more of a foot-soldier than a leader. I just don't have the experience. I could help with recruiting and interviewing—but even then, we have to have a board to make the final decision."

Bit by bit, Annabeth went into more detail about Safe Haven, and as she did, a little more color began to creep into her pale cheeks, and she grew more animated. It reminded Bruce, painfully, of the first time he had met Annabeth, just a few months prior, and she had shown him around her beloved place.

He had failed her. He had failed them.

Unbidden and unwelcome, this realization was not going to leave Bruce alone any time soon. It settled, heavily, on his shoulders, and there he knew, it would remain. But here was Annabeth, now finished with her spiel, looking at him expectantly.

"It's one of the most interesting things I've ever been involved in," Bruce told the table. "And certainly the worthiest. And god knows, we need help."

Had it been a large group of Gotham's elite, it would have been his use of the word "we" that would have sealed their interest—who would pass up the chance to be on the board of Bruce Wayne's pet project? But he had invited people made of worthier stuff for that particular reason—he wanted board members committed to Safe Haven for the sake of Safe Haven, not for the sake of their own status.

Predictably, Barbara Gordon—perhaps the one with the least resources to spare—was the first to volunteer. "What can I do?" She looked as though she was ready to roll up her sleeves and start working, right then and there, and even Bruce had to smile. And then Hugh Lundquist was falling into line behind Barbara. "You can count me in, too," he said in his quiet, dry way. "I suppose you'll be needing a treasurer?"

Bruce spread his own hands out in a gesture of boyish helplessness. "Hugh, you'd be perfect for treasurer. I can't be trusted with my own money, let alone Safe Haven's. Alfred has to give me an allowance." Then, before anyone could be reminded to ask about his missing butler, he called down the table, "What about you, Gregory?"

But the senator was shaking his head, and his regret seemed genuine. "As much as I want to, I'm already stretched too thin...and it's not the type of thing I'd want to outsource to an aide."

"I'm not an aide, Gregory," Victoria interjected briskly, and then said to Bruce, "Wherever you'll have me, there I'll be."

Political pull. Financial guidance. A connection to the police force. Annabeth gazed around the table with newly-speculative eyes, seeing for the first time the true potential of her dining companions. Her appreciation only strengthened when Sandra Sondheim added herself to the roster. "You can count me in, too. I need more pro bono work, anyway." But her eyes glowed with passionate zeal as she said this, and there was no need to guess where her altruism lay.

So it went—most of the guests were able and willing to step up and serve Safe Haven however they could. Long-term, they would have to form a different model of governance, perhaps, but for now, it was enough to help them along through the next several tempestuous months. Maya, who had up until now been sitting quietly as she observed the evening unfold, allowed herself to feel the first strong roots of hope seizing her. She looked down the table at Annabeth, and saw the same hope reflected there.

"We'll have to have a board meeting early in the week...until Safe Haven's back open and in business, we can meet at Wayne Towers..." Bruce drifted off as a strange expression settled on his face.

From down the table, Annabeth spoke up. "Bruce?"

"I'm so sorry," Bruce said to the group at large as he abruptly stood up. "I'm suddenly not feeling so well. It's that legendary Wayne family incontinence, you know..." And with that simple lie, he left the room.

Wayne family incontinence? Annabeth and Leslie's eyes met, and Annabeth knew that there was at least one other person in the room who wasn't fooled. But Leslie gave Annabeth a faint, rueful smile, and Annabeth knew that, exasperated though the doctor may have been, she wouldn't be the one to question Bruce's story.

But what of the others? Annabeth focused on the other dinner guests, whose reactions ranged from puzzled to amused to resigned—Jessica Waterhouse, in particular, didn't look surprised. Apparently, this wasn't the first time Bruce had left abruptly, and it also wasn't the first time he had used this excuse. .No doubt it was usually Alfred who was left behind to mend the social breaches, but now it was all up to Annabeth to keep the dinner and the evening running smoothly... What would Alfred do? Her eye fell on Barbara, whose face was perhaps the most transparent. She was working hard to keep a thoroughly inappropriate smile off of her face, but there was no hiding the mirth in her eyes.

This helped Annabeth to focus. She motioned for the waiter closest to her. "Next course," she told him quietly, and the young man immediately departed to fulfill her command. This, she felt, would be the best way to proceed: if Bruce could no longer be at his own dinner, there was likely a good reason for it, and so the sooner Annabeth could get rid of them all, the happier, no doubt, he would be—

A piercing, shrill ring interrupted Annabeth's thoughts, and she, along with most everyone else at the table, gazed around, searching for the offending party who had brought their cell phone to dinner.

It was Gordon. He made a gesture of helpless apology, even as he rose from the table. "It's my work phone," he offered by way of explanation, and then hurriedly left the room, presumably to see what fresh disaster was now claiming his attention.

Wait—wonder if that's what called Bruce away, too. Annabeth fervently hoped that no one would make the connection, but then, why would they think to? Leslie. Annabeth saw the doctor frowning thoughtfully, and so she began to cast about for something, anything to say. But her brain was suddenly numb—

"I'm so sorry," Barbara spoke up just then, addressing the entire group. "Now you see a little of what just about every evening is like at our house." She smiled winningly, and her surprising social skills helped smooth over the moment. A few diners obligingly chuckled, and she continued, "The good part of it is, Dad never knows how awful a cook I really am. He never has the chance to stick around long enough for dinner."

Gregory Winston picked up the thread of indulgent good-humor. "And after all, what kind of police commissioner would he be if he didn't answer his work phone?"

The kind that Gotham had had all along before Gordon, was the answer that was no doubt in most everyone's mind, but they were saved from an honest response by Gordon, who re-entered the room just then.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and he did look rather unhappy. "But something's come up back in the city, and I've got to head back now." He looked over at his daughter. "Will you be alright, Eldest?"

"I expected something would come up," Barbara responded smugly. "It's why I came on my own. Go, be a hero."

Her unconcern set the right tone, and so Gordon was able to leave with the minimum of fuss and attention. The arrival of dessert—a beautiful apple charlotte—just then helped as well, and Annabeth gave an approving nod to the waiter as she rose, as unobtrusively as possible, to escort Gordon out.

"I can find my own way," he protested softly as they left the room, but Annabeth only smiled. She had spent enough time with Bruce to know that he wouldn't want Gotham's police commissioner to go anywhere in the Manor unattended.

At the front door, he gave her an encouraging smile and a hearty handshake. "Thank you so much for dinner, Annabeth. And please thank Mr. Wayne for me, too. I hope he, uh, feels better."

Her reaction was a masterpiece of fine acting, she thought. Feigning unconcern, Annabeth shrugged and waved off his concern. "He probably drank too much."

"You're a gem." And then Gordon left Annabeth to turn and head back to see to her remaining guests.

Not long after this, the guests began to depart. Victoria and Gregory, with many thanks, were the first to go, followed quickly by Jessica and Sandra and Hugh. For each one, Annabeth summoned the social grace to smile, make the correct appreciative noises, and the promises to be in touch soon with more information. And after each one left, Annabeth felt a little more of her emotional stamina slip away. It had been an absolutely devastating day, and she was close to the end of her tether. She wanted nothing more than to slip away to a quiet place, and rest, and regroup.

Finally, the only people left were Leslie and Barbara and Maya and her fiance Rush. As Rush helped Maya put on her coat, Maya bubbled with ebullient energy, more than she had felt in what seemed like forever. "It went really well, don't you think? We should be able open up again really soon...we should hold a meeting as soon as possible...do you want me to come out tomorrow to get more work done?"

"Sounds like there's a lot to get done," Barbara interjected before Annabeth had a chance to respond. "Why don't I come out with you? If I'm going to be helping, I may as well start sooner rather than later."

Annabeth was too weary to object. "Works for me. Why don't you and Maya coordinate and come pout together...I'll see you both around ten?"

This was an obvious dismissal, and they were astute enough to realize it. She watched as Rush, Maya, and Barbara headed down the front steps of the house to their vehicles, parked out on the gravel drive. Barbara was the last to leave—she had her jacket to zip, her heels to swap out for boots, her helmet to secure—but finally even she had roared off on her bike, leaving Annabeth alone. Except for—

"That was well-played."

Leslie had joined her side. Leslie, who had become an increasingly invisible, silent presence in recent days, and who was now looking at Annabeth with eyes that saw things with uncomfortable clarity.

Annabeth closed the front doors, and it was then just the two of them in the Entrance Hall. "You think?"

"I do. You certainly know how to utilize the assets you have at your disposal. So, where are Bruce and Alfred? Alfred never even showed up at all, and Bruce left halfway through dinner."

"I don't know," Annabeth was able to tell her honestly. She had her suspicions, of course, but sharing them with Leslie was out of the question. "Who can guess? Bruce is still a bit of a flibberty-gibbet, and you know Alfred. Wherever Bruce is, Alfred's probably there with him, trying to keep him out of trouble."

"I see." Leslie looked distinctly unhappy with this answer, and it seemed to tip the scales of something that was preying on her mind. "I'm leaving first thing in the morning."

"Going into the city for the day?"

"No." Leslie put a gentle hand on Annabeth's arm. "For good."

Exhausted though she was, Annabeth was now completely at attention. "For good—but, why?"

"I don't belong here. Not anymore." Leslie's voice was sad, but her eyes gleamed determinedly. "You're better, yes, but that's not the only reason. I've no place in Bruce and Alfred's life here, either. And I don't want to stay on where I'm not needed, or where I'm in the way. I don't want to get sucked up into their...life. Their dynamic. I'd just as soon leave now. And to tell you the truth, Annabeth, you should leave too. Before you can't leave at all."

Annabeth didn't answer. She couldn't. She was finally at the end of her tether, and Leslie's words had tapped into something she had been trying desperately not to acknowledge.

"It's been an honor to help you," Leslie continued "I'm only sorry I can't help you with Timmy. All I can tell you is, think outside the box. And be prepared to act fast."

After all they had been through together, a handshake seemed too impersonal, and so Annabeth—normally quite undemonstrative—threw her arms around Leslie and gave her a hug that she hoped would say everything, because the lump in her throat wouldn't let her say a word.