Once more, Annabeth was coming home to Gotham.

As they drove away from Wayne Manor, Annabeth had clung to Barbara and felt the icy winds buffet them about the country road, and was grateful that Barbara seemed to possess an unnatural body heat. It was as though the younger woman had an excess of energy that her tightly-coiled body converted into a higher temperature. Preoccupied as Annabeth had been on this numbly pleasant thought, she hadn't had much chance to consider what she was leaving behind, and what she was returning to. But as they had neared the outer city limits and merged into the heavier traffic, they had slowed down, and Annabeth became more aware of her surroundings. Here was Gotham, and here she was.

Coming as they were from the north, and heading towards the Naval Tricorner Yards at the extreme southern end of the city, Barbara opted to take the loop around the city, rather than drive through its heart. So Annabeth's exposure to the Narrows, Bordertown...in fact, all of her old stomping grounds...was nonexistent, and her exposure to the towering skyscrapers of downtown was limited to them darkening the skyline, which was of course, dominated by Wayne Tower. Annabeth tried hard not to look. Realization was beginning to set in, and it wasn't feeling great.

And then Barbara exited the freeway. For a short while, they drove through some dubious-looking neighborhoods filled with equally dubious-looking warehouses, but soon the scenery began to smooth itself out towards the older houses and brownstones that were so ubiquitous in blue-collar Gotham.

The bike puttered to a stop in front of one of these narrow, old houses; it was a freestanding building with an impressive front stoop, and a walk-out basement just below street level. On either side, there was a narrow alley, and after Barbara and Annabeth hopped off the bike, Barbara guided the bike into one of them. A dark, unmarked sedan was parked there already. "Dad's home."

Only now did Annabeth begin to entertain belated misgivings. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I've never been known to have a bad idea. Come on in." With this rather grand statement, Barbara pulled Annabeth's belongings from the bike and marched up the front steps to the front door, Annabeth trailing passively in her wake.

No one could ever say Barbara didn't fully embrace whatever course of action she embarked upon. When she swept into the house and down a dimly-lit hall, she bellowed, "Dad!" so loudly Annabeth had to wince. But there was no question of backing out, because Gordon could hardly fail to answer a summons that commanding—or loud—in nature. Not only did he respond, but he did so with almost comical alacrity, emerging into the hallway almost immediately. "You're home already, Eldest...?" the rest of his question hung on the air as he realized that his daughter had not returned alone. "Annabeth."

"That's me," Annabeth said foolishly.

"Annabeth needs to stay with us a couple of days," Barbara told her father. "There's plenty of room down in the basement, don't you think?"

Either Gordon was a flawless actor, or he was in possession of a profound amount of simple human kindness, for he scarcely batted an eyelash. To Barbara, he only said mildly, "We'd better get out the spare sheets, then." And to Annabeth, he gave a crooked smile. "It'll feel like you came from the Ritz to the Gotham Flophouse, but you're welcome here."

There was no opportunity for them to exchange any more words, for the loud pounding of children's feet running down the stairs announced that the younger Gordon children had clued into their eldest sister's return. Annabeth's breath caught in her throat for just a moment as she watched Barbara disappear under a flurry of childish hugs and shouts and shrieks of laughter.

And Jim Gordon, who despite all unperturbed facial expressions to the contrary, was very curious as to why Annabeth de Burgh had removed herself from the protection of Bruce Wayne, suddenly remembered the favor that she had done for his family, and vowed to help her however he could, and ask as few questions as humanly possible.

"A zoo," Barbara had called her home, "a funny farm." She hadn't been exaggerating, as Annabeth soon realized; there was no way to exaggerate the constant traffic, the thin walls, the incredible amount of noise that four active adults and children could make.

"It was worse when my mom was still here," Barbara said to Annabeth as the two of them made their way down the stairs into Barbara's basement. "For such a tiny woman, she sure as shit could bang around a lot. Why close a door when you could slam it? I think that was her creed. At least things are somewhat quieter now."

Annabeth didn't answer; her attention was captured by her gloriously strange surroundings.

"Oh, yeah," Barbara added, "welcome to your quarters."

All of the noise overhead dimmed into the background as Annabeth slowly took in one detail, and then another. Electronics, wires, cords, speakers everywhere. The purple walls were dark, lit only by little fairy-lights along the ceiling, but it was enough illumination for Annabeth to see that in many places, the absurd eggplant color had been obscured by periodical articles and photographs that someone, presumably Barbara, had tacked up. The one unifying subject of every item on the walls appeared to be the Batman.

Jesus christ. I just can't get away from him.

But there was more to this wonderful, bizarre living area. At least three seven-foot-high bookcases were crammed with books, and several more stacks littered the floor. A queen-sized bed, incongruously covered in a mass of decadent-looking pillows and blankets, took up one corner, and a full-sized couch faced what had to be, in Annabeth's inexpert opinion, a 65-inch television screen. It, more than anything else, dominated the room, and certainly screamed of penis envy most loudly.

Barbara saw Annabeth gazing back and forth between the television and the Batman media and grinned sympathetically. "I feel your dilemma. Which to drool over? I got the television after two years of work on the police force back in Chicago. But the Batman stuff I got through six months of research and it didn't cost me near as much. Anyway, welcome to my home." She gestured towards the couch. "I don't sleep much, so I can take the couch. The bed's all yours. And we have wireless—" Barbara grinned, knowing this would be of paramount importance to her guest. "The code's written down on my desk over there. Plenty of food in the fridge, so help yourself, but I'll try to cook something—emphasis on the try—around six or seven tonight."

And that, it seemed, was that. Barbara plopped herself down on the couch in front of her television, but rather than reaching for the remote control, she instead picked up a rather hefty book and opened it up to some previously saved spot. Annabeth, Barbara's actions made clear, could take care of herself. And after the nicely-intended but sometimes rather suffocating cosseting that Annabeth had just left behind in the Palisades, this was a comforting change. And surprising, too, in how comforting it was. For the first time in weeks, Annabeth felt free from the constant, concerned surveillance of Leslie, Alfred, and Bruce, and it felt as though a rather hefty expectation—to be brave and strong, to get well—had been lifted from her shoulders. Now that she didn't seem to need to appear strong, she could maybe focus on how to actually be strong, and how to regroup.

Annabeth sat down at Barbara's desk and started to think.

Having come from a fairly modest, middle-class background, Maya's tastes in food ran towards the conventional. Filet mignon, or lobster thermidor; either of those would fit her idea of a really delicious and extravagant meal. So when an impassive waiter has presented her with white sturgeon caviar the previous evening, she had gamely given it a try, but not without some misgivings. Alas, her misgivings had proven accurate when, at four the next morning, she had woken up with an unfortunate case of what could only be described as "First World dysentery." In the future, she'd stick with the fish and chips, thank you very much.

Now, half a day later, she had recovered. She hoped. Her recovery had much to do with the fact that she had spent the majority of the day laying about in bed, alternately dozing and watching daytime television. When Rush had brought her some toast and tea at noon, and Maya was able to keep it down—and in—she counted herself sufficiently recovered, and vowed to herself never to agree to another dinner at Bruce Wayne's until she had a chance to vet the menu.

As it turned out, her recovery was a fortunate thing, for the offending host called her cell phone around four that afternoon. Maya had long ago been indoctrinated in the ways of catering to major donors, and wouldn't have thought of ignoring the call. "Hey, Bruce."

"Hey, Maya. I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Is there food involved?"

"What?"

"Never mind. What is it?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and when Bruce spoke again, his voice was a little quieter than normal. "Annabeth left today."

This, Maya hadn't been expecting. "What? Like, went to the city for a day or something? Or left?"

"Left. It was pretty much mutual..we're still on good terms, I think, and we both felt it was for the best." Bruce's voice grew a little more confident as he said this, but Maya had known him long enough to know that his confident voice could also be known as his bullshit voice. "I think she was going to head back into the city with you, but Barbara Gordon brought her back instead."

"Yeah. I was a bit...under the weather today." Maya shook her head and tried to process this strange turn of events. "Are...you okay? Is Annabeth okay?"

"I'm fine, I guess. Place seems pretty empty right now. And you know Annabeth, she'll be fine. But this is the favor: she left a bunch of stuff over here at the Manor, stuff to do with Safe Haven, and asked that I either give it to you, or have you come pick it up, and bring it back to her. I was wondering...could we pass this stuff on to you today?"

"Today?" Maya glanced down at her shabby pajamas at the same time that she ran her hands through her greasy hair. "I'm not sure that today's the best. I'm not exactly in peak condition."

"Oh...well, we could bring it to you. Just leave it with you at your place."

Maya had a very strong hunch where this was going. "Bruce?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you by any chance on your way to my place now?"

"No."

"Okay, let me rephrase that: Are you here at my place now?"

"Pretty close. Ah. Now we're here."

By now, Rush was leaning against the door frame and listening to Maya's half of the conversation as he tried—and failed—not to smirk. Maya shot him an exasperated look as she heaved herself from the bed and padded her way over to the window. Pulling back the curtains, she saw the Rolls Royce parked by the curb, five stories below; both Bruce and Alfred were already getting out. "Bruce...do I even want to know how you knew where I lived?"

"No. But never mind. It'll only take a minute."

It took more than a minute, but with Rush helping, the three men had pulled the load out in under five. Maya gazed at the boxes with a mixture of familiarity and annoyance. "I guess we can go ahead and put them in my Bug. It's just parked down the block a little."

She made no move to help, though, and it was left to Rush and Alfred to haul the boxes while she and Bruce watched—or rather, while Bruce watched them, and she watched Bruce. He looked pretty good for someone who had just been dumped—but then he turned to her and gave a small smile. No, there was some sadness, too. It was hard to detect, but it was there nonetheless. "I'll be fine, Maya, I promise. And Annabeth and I can continue working together amicably."

"What happened? Things seemed fine last night."

"In a lot of ways, I think Annabeth and I are too much alike. And we don't want to get in each other's way." This was all Bruce would tell her on that subject, and the tone of his voice said as much. "I think she's staying over with the Gordons until the Commissioner can get some protection detail worked out for her. Maybe when you feel better, you can bring all those boxes over to her? I've written down the address and texted it to you. And I was going to call in a couple of days to set up a board meeting date."

Alfred and Rush rejoined them at this point, and there seemed nothing else to say. Bruce shook Rush's hand and gave Maya a quick hug. "I'll see you guys soon." When he pulled away, he smiled, but it was a surprisingly vacuous expression, like the Bruce Wayne that Maya had first met, months ago. It was not a soothing thought.

"Well," she sighed as they watched Bruce and Alfred drive away. "So much for a quiet evening recovering."

"Why?" Rush smiled tenderly at her and thanked god that his relationship with his future wife was relatively uncomplicated. "What's on your mind?"

"I've got to take a shower—and while I'm doing that, I need you to go to the store and get a liter of vodka."

"Not exactly a great way to recover from last night is it?" Rush had his doubts, but he'd do what he was told.

"Fuck my recovery. This is for Annabeth's."

Since Barbara Gordon has returned to the nest, Jim Gordon had grown accustomed to seeing all sorts of odd types show up at his home, looking for his eldest daughter. And after she had turned up that day with Annabeth in tow, it wasn't at all surprising for yet another woman to turn up that very same evening. What was a little more surprising was that she turned up with several boxes, and was carefully cradling a brown grocery sack.

"Am I waiting for the U-HAUL next?" were his words to her when he opened the front door.

Maya smiled timidly at him; although she had spoken with him several times, including last night at dinner, she wasn't yet at ease around him. He was the Commissioner, for chrissakes. But he had kind eyes and a few little smile lines creasing his face, and he was the father to Barbara Gordon, one of the most delightfully irrepressible people she had ever met. "Hi...Bruce Wayne told me that Annabeth was here?"

Gordon stepped aside to let her pass, and immediately began shifting the boxes over the threshold. "You came to the right place. She's in the kitchen with Barbara, helping get dinner together."

"I'm sorry, maybe you mis-heard me. I said I was looking for Annabeth."

"I know," Gordon said good-naturedly. "She's in the kitchen, cooking."

"Then you'd better call the pizza delivery place now."

Sure enough, Annabeth was in the kitchen, although helping was perhaps not the right description of what she was doing. She appeared to be mainly standing off to the side, watching as Barbara struggled with a pot of something on the stove.

"...this shit's had it, I think," Barbara was saying. "What the fuck made me think I could make alfredo sauce from skim milk?"

"Pizza for sure," Gordon said from where he stood behind Maya, catching the attention of both women by the stove. Barbara smiled, seemingly not at all surprised by the appearance of another guest, but Annabeth was a little more floored.

"Maya...what...?"

"Your boyfriend...excuse me, ex-boyfriend...asked me to bring some stuff over to you. And I had to come over here and see this for myself." Without being asked—because clearly, this was not a house that stood on any sort of formality—Maya pulled out a kitchen chair and plunked herself down at the table. "So...what the hell?"

Barbara had taken it upon herself to start sorting through the grocery sack that Maya had brought, but she paused in her snooping long enough to fill Maya in. "It's true. Our little Annabeth over there flew the coop today. Oh, good! You got Ketel One. That stuff never gives me a hangover."

"Shouldn't you be trying to put out that fire?" Maya asked innocently, glancing over at the abandoned Alfredo sauce, which was beginning to smoke alarmingly. Barbara yelped, and became distracted long enough for Maya and Annabeth to have a brief, semi-private conversation.

"I had to get out of there, Maya. I've got a major battle on my hands, and I can't fight it all the way out there at Bruce's place. And I can't drag him into this fight, either. It would blow up in both of our faces." Strangely, it was only now that Annabeth felt the tears beginning to form behind her eyes.

"We're blowing something up?" Barbara had abandoned her attempts at cleaning up and begun to set up the tools to make boozy and effective drinks. "I do like a good fight."

"No fighting, please." Gordon now came into the kitchen and surveyed the three of them, and the bottle of vodka that had become the evening's main course. "I ordered a few pizzas. Should be here in about half an hour. I'll keep an eye on the kids tonight."

"Good idea, Pops. You're a trooper. Want a drink?"

"God, no. Someone needs to stay sober around here."

What Babara Gordon lacked in culinary skills, she more than made up for with her bartending abilities. This much was clear by the time they were half-way through their second round of vodka tonics and realized that their buzz had set in quite soundly.

Admittedly, it wasn't the best time for Annabeth to start sorting through her paperwork, but then again, if she hadn't done it then, perhaps they would not have had the brainstorm that they did. As Barbara began to regale Maya with a tale of one of her exploits from Chicago—having to do with a rogue hot-dog cart and a hedgehog gone wild in the Oak Park neighborhood—Annabeth briefly disappeared. When she re-emerged into the kitchen, she was dressed in pajamas and carrying one of the file folders she had grabbed when she left the Manor earlier that day.

Barbara cocked an eyebrow, but continued on with her tale. "...so by this point, the hedgehog's in with the hot dogs..."

Work, as it always had done before, soothed Annabeth's weary heart. She tuned out Barbara's raucous voice and Maya's encouraging giggles, and began to lose herself in the demands of the many tasks and jobs that required her attention...Of course, with between the vodka-induced buzz and the distraction of the company, even Annabeth could only do so much. Within twenty minutes, she had abandoned her paperwork and was tuning back into the conversation.

"Alright." Barbara set her glass down with a decisive clunk. "Enough pussy footing around. Why'd you walk out on your boyfriend?"

Maya snuck an apprehensive glance at Annabeth, who took a hefty swig from her own drink and gave the question some consideration before she answered.

"That's part of the problem. He's not 'my boyfriend.' He's Bruce. And I'm Annabeth, not 'Bruce Wayne's girlfriend.' We're each our own people, with our own identities, our own goals, our own names. And I think we were losing sight of that."

"That sounds..." Barbara took a gulp of her drink before she continued, "either like a very deep philosophical statement, or else a cop-out."

"It's neither." Annabeth recalled the last couple of days—her battle of wills with Timmy's dreadful social worker, the increasing alienation both she and Bruce had felt towards each other, the choices she had had to make. "Just listen..."

And so, as Maya polished off her drink and as Barbara began to snoop through Annabeth's correspondence, she told them about the visit that the horrible Clara Briggs had paid, along with Timmy; she told of Clara's veiled threats and Timmy's distress at being parted, and Clara's implications that no matter what Annabeth did, she would lose. "If I retain legal counsel with Bruce's help, they'll say that I'm 'living in sin' with him or something stupid like that. And then they'll start digging into Bruce's life and dragging his name through the mud." Of course she didn't explain about his alternative life, but then, Bachelor Bruce Wayne's life was enough to curdle the blood of any social worker. "But if I fight Social Services on my own, they'll tear me apart, too. Workaholic single woman from a troubled family background, living in a lower-middle class area of Gotham. That bitch said, so long as Timmy and I live in Gotham, we have to abide by Gotham's laws."

"Well, that's easy enough to fix, isn't it?"

The three women turned to the doorway. How long Jim Gordon had been standing there, it was impossible to say. But he had been there long enough to get the gist of the conversation, because he offered the most obvious solution of all. "You need to move away from Gotham."

Just then, Barbara looked up from a letter she had been reading. "Who the hell is Boudicca, and why's she practically sending you love letters?"

Three more chapters, plus an afterword, to go. I'm writing the last chapter tonight.