Once again, less than a month after the initial drama that had occurred, the street on which Safe Haven was located was once more lined with police cars, their flashing lights reflecting off windows and illuminating many dark corners and alleys. Had any criminals or miscreants been attempting to hide in the area, they would have found their efforts quite thoroughly thwarted.

Of course, there were no criminals or miscreants to be found. They had long ago done their work and scampered off—but they had left their calling card.

Detective Montoya and Commissioner Gordon stood side-by-side on the sidewalk, gazing up at the big brownstone building of Safe Haven. Gleaming white and still wet, and with letters easily eight feet high, the simple phrase was quite easily visible, even in the darkness: Uppity bitches better watch out.

"Motivated little punks, weren't they?" Montoya remarked. "How'd they manage to access the upper stories?"

Gordon didn't bother to answer. For one reason, Montoya's question was rhetorical; for another, the mechanics and logistics of graffiti had always baffled him, too. So instead, he simply continued to take in the words.

The street was as silent and deserted as one could expect in this semi-respectable part of Gotham. Gordon had no illusions about potential witnesses stepping forward—anyone who had seen anything would say nothing and try to forget everything as soon as possibly convenient.

The sudden crackle of one of the patrol cars' radios pulled Gordon's attention away from the building. The noise was coming from Bullock's cruiser, and judging by the burly man's cross face and animated gestures, he was on the receiving end of some interesting information. Soon enough, he joined them and gave an update. "That was headquarters, Commish. Two more reports of vandalism—one at the House of Hope, near the Narrows, the other at Carlisle Place, that shelter near your neighborhood."

Montoya let out a low whistle. Carlisle Place was the largest, nicest, and best-funded shelter in Gotham—and it was also where several of the Safe Haven refugees were being temporarily housed.

But Bullock was still talking. "...and when you count the reports of the other shelters hit earlier tonight, this brings the count to five tonight."

"It's a campaign of intimidation."

The three of them turned to see the Batman emerging from the alley next to Safe Haven. It had been quite a while since he had made an appearance, but the time that had lapsed had done nothing to diminish his imposing presence. It didn't stop Bullock from blustering, however.

"Welcome back to the fold, stranger. Coulda used you a helluva lot more'n you been around." Bullock glared fiercely at the Batman. He was a straight-shooter, and he was a cop who liked things to be cut-and-dry, black-and-white—and so his ambivalence towards the Batman ultimately pissed him off. Jesus, why couldn't he just hate the guy, slap some cuffs on him, and have done with it?

Montoya knew how he felt, and at least in part shared his feelings. But she respected the Commissioner and his stance, too. "C'mon, beefcake. Let's check and make sure there's no other damage around the building."

The Batman waited until they were out of earshot before he began to speak again. "Intimidation. It's not a coincidence that Percival was released on bail this morning."

"No," Gordon sighed. "It's definitely no coincidence. And if the rumors I'm hearing are true, Donzetti and le Blanc might be allowed to post bail in another couple of days. My guess is that the three of them will try to harass and intimidate whatever witnesses they can access."

"What about the two key witnesses?"

Gordon thought of the icy, unflappable Trinity, as well as the spunky, obnoxious Stacy. "Both in hiding. They're fine. Not even in Gotham anymore. The feds took over, and we talk with the feds at least twice a day."

"So not in reach." The Batman wasn't necessarily satisfied, but it was at least one less thing to worry about. "What's the damage from tonight?"

"Nothing extensive. A few busted windows at the first place, but they started to tread more softly after that. Now it's just a bunch of graffiti. Honestly, the whole thing has an amateur feel to it."

"Percival's getting petty," the Batman agreed. "And amateurs are probably the only resource he has access to right now. How are you proceeding?"

"Patrol units at all five of the shelters that were hit tonight, and units on their way to four others, just to be on the safe side. But it's not a great use of resources."

"Why?"

"Read the papers. Crime spiked after the New Year—violent crimes up 60 percent from last January, property theft up even more. Part of it is economy-driven, but not all of it. And now I'm having to divert manpower to this during the most crime-infested time we've had of it since the Joker was playing hopscotch around Gotham."

The accusation was unspoken, and perhaps existed only in the Batman's imagination. To distract himself, he turned his attention towards a solution. "Why doesn't Safe Haven re-open?"

Gordon shook his head. "No governing body at the moment. I saw Annabeth de Burgh earlier tonight. She still looks rough, but she's chomping at the bit to get back into action. What are you thinking?"

"All the shelters that were vandalized were housing Safe Haven residents. They're the ones Percival is trying to harass. Get them back under one roof and concentrate your manpower there." There was little more that the Batman could do here; the crime had been committed, the solutions presented. "I'll keep an eye on Safe Haven, too," he told Gordon. "It's even more important that we keep an eye on things, since your daughter got involved."

"Meddlesome wretch," Gordon sighed, and it was unclear if he was referring his daughter or the Batman.

After the Batman took his leave of Gordon, he didn't use the Tumbler to navigate to his next destination. Instead, he flew.

Jesus, how long had it been since he had swung from building to building, feeling the night air sweep past him, watching the city lights swirl by in a blur of golden-white blazes? How long since he had last felt this unfettered?

Eventually, he alighted at the top of the 45-story Commerce Complex Tower. He lingered there for quite a while, gazing first to the south, towards downtown, and all its power and wealth, visible even at night and represented so well by the jewel of his own Wayne Tower, outstripping the other skyscrapers by at least ten stories.

Then he took in the more proximate midtown, home to Safe Haven, as well as many middle-class, solid, respectable buildings, as well as the somewhat-less-respectable City Hall and municipal complex. Here was where the majority of Gothamites lived, or else aspired to live.

Further to the north was Bordertown, the little district that clung so desperately to its shabby gentility, always trying to limp its way higher up the social ladder, and always failing because of its nagging (and permanent) proximity to Arkham, and beyond that, the Narrows.

Far to the south was the Naval Tricorner Yards; and far to the north, beyond Bordertown, the suburbs where Janey and Maya and the "bridge-and-tunnel crowd" all lived. But all of them, in Gotham's jurisdiction, just like the Palisades. All of them, in his charge. All of it— the big business, the bustling bourgeoisie, the obscenely rich, and the struggling poor, all of it, in his protection.

And you've been neglecting them all.

He didn't even try to ignore the voice of judgment, because he felt it to be true. He had been neglecting Gotham as he had tended to Annabeth—and yes, to his own grief and worry—and yet, he could not, would not regret it. But nor could he continue on as he had going. The time for grieving and recovering had passed; now, the need for action was beckoning, and he would answer the summons.

Thought was useless. Action was needed, yes. And so he flew through the night, feeling his wind catch in his cape and scour his face, and he let out a fierce, primal shout of release.

In the Narrows, Maggie McCormick had just tossed the last garbage bag into the dumpster, but she was in no hurry to head back into the tavern, despite the night's cold air. Inside the bar, all would be warm and dark, and there would be the comfort of company, but the montony and muted despair could get a little suffocating. Plus, there was a stray cat that had taken to lurking outside lately, and she wanted to get a closer look at it, see if it was feral, or merely an abandoned housecat, down on its luck. Maggie would die before she'd admit it, but she could do with some company that came in the form of something other than defeated barflies and cantankerous bartenders.

Speaking of unappealing company... "My, my, my." She eyed the Batman, crouched ten feet above her on the ledge of the wall that ran behind the dumpster. "Aren't you the sight for sore eyes?"

He nodded. "How have things been?"

Maggie snorted. "Without you around? I'd say almost dull, but that'd be a lie." Out of habit, she began to pat herself, searching for a pack of cigarettes. "Shit. I'm trying to quit, for the millionth time. I keep forgetting. Anyway, I wish things were dull around here. Where've you been, anyway?"

"Busy."

This terse response might have quelled the curiosity of someone younger, or softer, or less experienced than Maggie, but on her, it was wasted. She simply smirked knowingly. "'Busy', right. Had to be something important to keep you out of my hair. I guess other folks in this city need you, too."

"True."

The lack of stimulating conversation was the final nail in the coffin of Maggie's flagging resolve, and so she gave an almighty sigh and fished a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket. This was just as well, because after she had lit up and taken a long, satisfying drag, she became much more voluble. "Fact is," she said around a mouthful of smoke, "it's weird. Like the last few months never happened. Once word got out that you busted up the Arrows, the pimps and prostitutes were crawling all over the place, like flies in shit."

"And this is the positive outcome."

Maggie gave him a sharp look. From him, this was a speech of epic length, and delivered with sarcasm, too! "Probably positive as far as the hookers are concerned. But there are a few less pimps around, at least for the time being. There's still a few, though, and they're the same sleazebags they always were."

"What else?"

"You read the papers. You know the story. Crime's up again. Bar down the street got robbed two nights ago. Fred Worrley, one of my regulars, his daughter was attacked on her way home from work about ten days ago. And there's a couple of runaways doggin' the area, too, the poor shits. Plenty more sorry tales of shitty woe where that came from, but you get the drift. And I haven't seen our Annabeth around. I heard she got caught up in that mess out in midtown. Figured she's still recuperating. Good for her to have a break. And what do you know? Some secular outreach mission set up shop a couple weeks back. Now the whole area's lousy with whores and do-gooders." She punctuated this with a deep drag on her cigarette, and then resolutely threw it down and ground it out. "At least I didn't smoke the whole thing. I'm heading inside, and you should too, before you freeze your nuts off. Want me to put the word out that you're around again?"

"Good idea."

Maggie had one final thing to tell him. "It's good to have you back. We needed you."

When Bruce returned to the Manor, only Alfred was waiting up for him. This, Bruce saw as he emerged from the hidden passage into the study—like so many times before, his butler was passing the time by reading one of his beloved antiquarian tomes as a fire slowly burnt down in the hearth.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, Alfred?"

"Now that you're home, yes." Alfred carefully closed the book and focused on Bruce, taking in his tired appearance. "I think maybe it's time you get your beauty sleep, too."

Together they left the study and headed towards the stairs, each of them bowing under the weight of their own particular exhaustion. Still, Bruce wasn't too tired to ask, "Where's Annabeth?"

"She was in the study, waiting, when I came up from the cave around one this morning. But she left not long after." Alfred didn't want to mention her abstracted air or her weighty silence when he had encountered her, on his way up from the cave. She hadn't asked where he had been, or what he had been doing, and that had been the most disconcerting thing of all. "I'm guessing that she went to sleep."

The Manor was now practically deserted, a far cry from the small crowd that had populated it earlier. At that moment, it seemed almost as though Bruce and Alfred were the only ones there, as though Annabeth and Leslie and all of the attendant company had never been there at all. Just as it had once been.

As they passed the door to Annabeth's room, Bruce paused. He only distantly heard Alfred's tactful good-night as he continued on to his own room, much further down the corridor. Bruce had attention only for the room in front of him.

The door was closed tightly, as it had been every night prior to this; from beyond, he could hear no telltale sounds to indicate whether Annabeth was awake or asleep. Bruce tarried there for several moments, thinking, hesitating...and then he made his decision and continued on to his own room.

His sleep was light, plagued by dreams that came as a result of his mind working hard to process through all of the information it had gathered the evening before. Shortly after six—a mere three hours after he had eschewed Annabeth's bed for his own—Bruce gave up on his attempts to rest and rose to meet the day.

And so it was that he encountered Leslie as she was about to leave the Manor.

It happened when he came down the staircase on his mission to make it to the kitchen and the coffee pot before Alfred could guilt him into herbal tea. He was taking the steps quickly, almost jauntily, the thud of his shoes drowning out the rattle of the wheels on Leslie's little suitcase as they bumped along the floor. It wasn't until he reached the base of the stairs that he saw Leslie crossing the hall and heading towards the front door.

They both halted and looked at each other expectantly.

In a pleasant voice, Leslie greeted him as if nothing was amiss. "Good morning, Bruce."

"Leslie." Bruce nodded and waited to see if she was going to offer an explanation as to why she was dressed up in her warmest overcoat and burdened down with luggage. "Good morning."

After that, they both stayed silent, and the silence stretched out. It finally occurred to Bruce that on this morning, Leslie's will was stronger than even his own. So he gave in and asked the obvious question. "Why?"

"Same reason I gave Annabeth last night, after your little performance. I don't belong here, not any more. And neither does she."

Bruce didn't appreciate this news at all. "And you're an expert?"

His belligerent tone didn't intimidate Leslie, not even a little bit. "I know enough about this situation, yes. I've known you for decades, and I've spent enough time with Annabeth to know her pretty well, too. And I know enough to see that right now, the two of you need to get out of each other's way."

Leslie didn't know it, but her words hit very close—too close—to Bruce's own, increasingly unhappy thoughts, but he'd be goddamned if he was going to acknowledge it. "That's a pretty heavy does of misery to be prescribing, Leslie. You sure you know what you're talking about?"

"I know more than you do, I think. And I know you're unwilling to face facts, Bruce. How long have you kept Annabeth sequestered here? And how long has it been since you've gone into the city for work?"

"I went just yesterday!" Bruce knew, even as he made this protest, that the more engaged he became in defending his position in this debate, the more he only proved Leslie's point.

"You went just yesterday for the first time in how long?" Leslie wasn't fooled at all. "I know that company is your life and your legacy, no matter how much you swan about, acting like an extravagant idiot or a besotted fool. And I know, too, that you've got secrets. Don't—" she cut him off, sharply, as she saw him open his mouth to issue the inevitable denial— "don't you dare try to lie to me. You can and will lie to anyone, Bruce, but don't lie to me. I've known you longer than anyone has, except Alfred, and I know when you're lying. So don't insult me by trying. All I'm saying is, if you want to keep up with your little secrets—and judging by your creative exit strategy last night, you do—you shouldn't be wasting Annabeth's time by dragging her into it. And you shouldn't be keeping her from getting on with her own life."

Having finished this lengthy diatribe, Leslie found herself with nothing more to say, and Bruce certainly had no response. But at any rate, none was required, for Leslie 's expression underwent a most curious change as she suddenly focused on a point beyond Bruce's shoulder, up the staircase.

"Good morning," came Annabeth's voice from behind him.

There was no point in delaying it. Bruce turned to face Annabeth, and immediately saw, reflected in her face, the same haunting, unhappy choices that he had himself begun to ponder.

Leslie must have left, but neither of them noticed. They noticed nothing except each other. Annabeth studied him, taking in his troubled eyes—usually so unrevealing, but at this moment, painfully transparent—his beautifully-cut jaw, now clenched with some unseen pain, his arms folded across his chest, as though he was already trying to sternly hold himself together, or else block an anticipated anguish. That same incipient anguish began to settle deep in Annabeth's own stomach, and she swallowed hard, hoping that her strength was greater than his.

As for Bruce, now that he was facing Annabeth, he couldn't turn away. He felt the need to withdraw, yes, to pull back and run far from her, but then, he had felt that on some level or another since the very first time he had clapped his analytical eyes upon her. But his attraction had always beaten out his aversion, and she had time and again defied analysis, and while his time with her had given him an astounding measure of happiness, it had not been without complications or price.

When they had lost their child, he had thought they had paid the price in full. But now he realized that it had just been a deposit, and that payday had come.

"She's right, Bruce," Annabeth said, and the pain in her voice said everything else. Still, underneath that pain, he could hear the firmness, the core of iron that he had always known she possessed. He recognized that core of iron, for he had one just like it, and so he respected it. He had seen it, right from the beginning, that strength to do what was absolutely necessary, to pay the price that no one else—not even him—could. That core of iron had been the first thing that he loved about her, and so it was poetically fitting that it would be what ultimately drove them apart.

Bruce sighed and held out his arms to her, a simple gesture of acceptance, and understanding, and farewell. Annabeth understood and came to him, and she allowed herself to be enfolded in his hold, just this last time, and for the moment, there was nothing more to do, and nothing more to say.

They retreated to the Batcave. There, amidst all of the equipment and machinery and weaponry and supplies and computers and gadgets, they had the perfect setting in which they could try to tentatively establish a different sort of interaction, an oddly comforting hybrid of their early working relationship and their later, shared emotional history. As they discussed the prosaic details of their parting—Maya could haul Annabeth and all of her paperwork back when she came out later; Bruce would be in touch in a couple of days regarding the re-opening of Safe Haven—they deliberately avoided anything too raw or painful. They were both strong, yes, but even they had their breaking points.

But finally, there was little more discuss than the other, more delicate matters—matters to do with the case against the Arrows, and security, and obliquely, the Batman.

"You need to let Gordon know that you're coming back to the city," Bruce told Annabeth as he took a seat across from her at the workbench and spread a copy of the morning's paper between them. "That's why I took off last night." He pointed to the headlines announcing the vandalism of the various shelters. "Percival's trying to intimidate people. I'll try to keep an eye out—but it could still be dangerous."

He had expected anger, at the very least, or perhaps even alarm, but Annabeth surprised him with an unimpressed shrug and an actual smile—the first he had seen that day. "It won't be the first time, or the last. He reminds me of those online trolls. You know, the ones that say that feminazis are just bitchy twats that deserve a good dicking. It's the only way they can lash out at us, by trying to intimidate us through fear and implied threats. It won't work. We won't be silenced."

"But Seth Percival—"

"Seth Percival's going to get what's coming to him. He's fucked with me and my family long enough." There it was again, that frighteningly iron-clad resolve. "I know what you're saying, and I hear you. I'll call Gordon, and see where he thinks I should go. But we both know I can't stay here anymore. We both have things we need to do, and we need our space."

Christ. The classic break-up line. And yet—their eyes met, and they both had to smile, just a little. It didn't feel like a break-up line, though. It simply felt like a truth that they were only finally allowing themselves to acknowledge.

"I'll miss you," Bruce said, before he could decide not to say it. "I've loved you being here, and I love you. It took me a while to figure it out. But the hell of it is...the reasons I love you are the reasons why we can't work."

Annabeth nodded in complete understanding. "It's taken me a while, too. To figure out that I love you. And I don't want you to think that I'm leaving because I don't love you. I'm leaving because I do."

To anyone else, this would have sounded like illogic of the most insane kind. But because it was Bruce and Annabeth, it made perfect sense to them both. It didn't make either of them feel any better, but at least it made sense.

At noon, the doorbell rang. From where she sat in the study, Annabeth listened for the sounds of Alfred answering the door. But the doorbell chimed again, echoing throughout the entire ground floor, and Annabeth sighed and headed towards the entrance. Alfred had been mysteriously absent all morning, and Annabeth suspected he knew about the changes taking place, and was perhaps sulking just a little.

So it was she who opened the front door and let Barbara Gordon in. Not feeling compelled to play the hostess anymore, she greeted the younger woman with a hint of her old snark. "Jesus, you're like a bad penny."

"At least this penny got some beauty sleep," Barbara retorted, not in the least offended. She dropped the helmet and backpack she had been carrying, and they fell to the floor with a distinct thud. "Woman, you look like hell."

Ignoring this very accurate assessment, Annabeth scanned over Barbara's shoulder before she closed the door. "Where's Maya? I thought you two were coming out together."

"She called me this morning. Couldn't make it—she got the trots from eating all that rich-bitch food." Barbara shook her head at the waste; clearly, she had an iron-clad stomach, and no patience for those who didn't.

"Dammit." This mucked things up for Annabeth; Maya hadn't yet realized it, but she was going to be Annabeth's escape route. "I told him I'd be gone before he came back," she added, almost to herself.

"That's an odd promise to make to your boyfriend." Barbara pointed this out off-handedly; she was concentrating on a suit of armor that stood sentry near the front door. "I'm surprised he'd be willing to let his princess out of the tower."

"He's not my boyfriend." Annabeth snapped this without thinking, and her tone was sharp enough to claim Barbara's undivided attention.

"You're leaving Bruce Wayne." Barbara said it softly as she fit together the pieces of their conversation. "You wanted to go back to the city with Maya today."

"And maybe crash with her a couple of days." Annabeth frowned as she considered her limited options. After a final, reluctant good-bye, Bruce had gone into the city for the day, and like she had told Barbara, Annabeth had promised that she would be gone by the time he got back. Out of sight, out of mind. She didn't want him to come back to see her still here, breaking both of their hearts.

"Well, shit, if you need a place to crash, just come on over to our place." In Barbara's, this was a situation that was quite easily resolved. "When did you want to leave?"

Annabeth restrained herself from rolling her eyes—but then realized, why not? She couldn't stay with Bruce any more, but Gordon's home was probably the next safest place. But it still seemed a rather hefty offer to put out there so casually. "Are you sure? Is there enough room?"

Such pedestrian concerns hadn't before, and didn't now, cross Barbara's formidable mind. "Sure," she shrugged absently, "The place is a damned zoo anyway. A funny farm. What's one more animal in the mix?"

Her total lack of interest in the reasons behind Annabeth's flight—was it genuine, or an example of Barbara's enormous yet inconsistent tact? Either way, it was what Annabeth needed to focus. No mention of emotions or motivations, only practical logistics, and it was soothing. Barbara must have realized this, for she prompted Annabeth, "What do you need to take with you? I've got a small compartment in the bike. There's a spare helmet and jacket in there now, so when you've got that on, you can stow a few things in there."

Annabeth thought of the clothing and the boxes of paperwork she had accumulated over the last several weeks. "Bruce can send Maya back with most of my stuff."

"So he does know you're leaving? Good. No need for a 'dear Bruce' letter, then?"

"Nope. It's a mutual decision. But I will leave him a note and tell him where I'm going so he doesn't assume I'm with Maya." Annabeth gritted her teeth; this was getting perilously close to touchy, emotional subjects. "Give me ten minutes, and I'll be ready."

She didn't give herself time to think. She simply sped up to her room, where she gathered a few articles of clothing and shoved them into her duffel bag any old way. The toiletry bag went in next. Only then did Annabeth pause—she had little by way of personal possessions here, but god knew, there was plenty in the little office that Bruce had so painstakingly set up for her. What to choose?

Don't think. Just go.

So Annabeth didn't think. She pocketed her cell phone and scooped up her laptop, and as an afterthought, snatched up the rubber-banded pile of unanswered correspondence and the file folders that were on top of the desk—those were the ones she had been working with the most. Everything else could wait.

There was nothing else to pack, nothing else to do, nothing left to say, and nobody to say it to anyway. But at the door, Annabeth lingered for just a moment, and looked back at the elegant room. Here she had been surrounded and cushioned by more luxury and love than life had ever before allowed her.

And she was walking away from it all.

Hang in there, guys. Not over yet-just a few more chaps.