A/N: This may or may not be the only update this week because of things, but it is long, and it is definitely rated M. :O Hope you enjoy...

"Is it you I want, or just the notion
Of a heart to wrap around so I can find my way around?
Safe to say from here,
You're getting closer now,
We are never sad 'cause we are not allowed to be.
Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day,
All the world is waiting for the sun."

"Rain" –Breaking Benjamin

Chapter Twenty-Five:

Margot noticed that both Alfred and Bruce seemed pensive and troubled about something the next day, but she was too tentative to ask. It wasn't her place to intrude. If they wanted to tell her, they would.

Still, that afternoon, when she entered the kitchen for a drink, she found Alfred sitting there at the table, staring grimly at his hands. He hardly seemed to notice her. Maybe it was his bleak expression that drew Margot nearer. Whatever it was, it stopped her and forced her to face the man.

"You look like you could use an ear," she suggested quietly.

He glanced up at her with a soft scoff. "You're not an ear. You're a mouth, and a damned impertinent one at that."

She didn't move, and after a moment he sighed and nodded at the chair across from him.

"Sit."

"What is it?" she asked with concern.

"It's Master Bruce." He was silent for a while, then his hands suddenly clenched into fists and he growled, "The boy has enough bloody things to deal with without everybody in Gotham trying to take advantage of him." He stewed for a few moments, absently turning the ring on his little finger before he said to no one in particular, "Just let him be a child."

"Who's trying to take advantage of him?" Margot inquired, feeling her hackles rise at the very thought.

"It's that Galavan bloke," Alfred explained wearily. "Wants Master Bruce to sign over Wayne Enterprises. Says he knows who killed his parents and that he'll tell him if he sells him his shares in the company."

She shivered a little, remembering the unusually tall man she'd seen through her scope, the man she'd almost killed. And she'd wondered why. She'd asked herself why somebody like Penguin would want him dead so badly.

"Alfred…" she said quietly, trailing off, wondering if she ought to tell him.

He looked up at her expectantly.

She sighed shakily. "You should know, there's something not right about him. Galavan."

Alfred frowned, the creases on his face deepening. "What do you mean?" He didn't seem as surprised as she'd thought he would be. Granted, when a grown man asked an adolescent boy to hand over his multi-billion-dollar company, that was a red flag right there. A flag that Alfred had obviously noticed.

Margot didn't meet his gaze. "I'm not sure. I just have a feeling." She considered telling him the entire truth, that she was sent to kill the man, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it.

"How do you know?" he inquired with suspicion, knowing that she knew something he didn't.

She shrugged. "Have you met him?" Waiting for him to nod, she then asked, "Don't you feel...a little odd around him? Almost like he's too friendly?" Margot had personally never met the man, but she'd seen him, and knowing that Penguin wanted the man dead was enough to raise her suspicions. Once she'd noticed, it was hard not to see it.

Something was wrong with Galavan.

Alfred cursed under his breath and sat back in his chair. After a moment, he clenched his fist and struck the table with it. "Damn."

"What?"

He shook his head. "I'm to take Master Bruce to see Galavan tonight. He may just sign the company over to him."

Margot sat forward in alarm. "You can't let him do it," she insisted.

"And how am I to stop him, eh?" the man retorted. "It's his decision to make."

She couldn't argue. "In that case…" She rubbed her face tiredly with her hands and looked up at the man. "Be careful, Alfred."

"No need to tell me that," he responded, getting to his feet. He turned to go, but paused and turned back for a moment. "Thank you, Margot, for confirming my suspicions."

She nodded, listening to his footsteps as they receded.

Bruce and Alfred returned earlier than Margot expected.

In fact, she was still in the kitchen, perusing the cupboards with the intentions of making herself something to eat, when Alfred entered, shedding his coat and draping it neatly over the back of a chair.

"Back so soon?" she asked hesitantly, searching the man's face for any hint of emotion.

He went to the cupboard and pulled down a couple of glasses, then reached for the half-empty bottle of scotch on the top shelf, which he plinked down on the table, pulling out a chair for Margot.

She took it tentatively and let him pour her a glass.

"You were right," he finally admitted in a soft growl as he sat across the table from her.

"And? What about Bruce?" Margot inquired, more concerned about Bruce than with being right about Galavan.

Alfred looked up at her, a small smile growing on his face. He understood her. He felt the same way: Bruce first, everything else second.

"He did not sign away the company," he informed her, barely able to contain his relief and the quiet pride he felt for the boy's decision. "In fact," he added, "you may be surprised to know that hardly five minutes into our visit, the GCPD showed up to arrest Mr. Galavan."

Margot reached for her glass with a trembling hand and took a sip. Her voice sounded calmer than she felt as she murmured, "Somehow, I don't find that surprising."

"Care to know what the charges were?"

She waited for him to enlighten her. He leaned forward on the table, turning his glass between both hands. "They said he'd kidnapped and tortured Mayor James."

"What?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes." He sighed and leaned back, taking a long draw of his drink. "You knew something was wrong. How? And don't give me that bullshit about weird feelings."

Margot met his gaze. She knew she would tell him—lying was not an option—but she worried for a moment about his reaction.

Finally, staring down at her glass, she confessed, "I was sent to kill him."

"And you didn't think to mention this before?"

"Look, I don't really like to talk about those jobs," she replied quietly.

Alfred didn't look at her for a while. Eventually, he noted, "You didn't kill him."

"No."

"Why not?"

She finished her drink in one gulp, not sure she felt brave enough to tell him the truth. She did, though. "You called."

He frowned, opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. After a moment, he inquired, "You answer your bloody phone on a job?"

His voice was gruff, almost unfriendly, but Margot knew that tone well. He'd used it often enough with Bruce, hiding softer emotions behind a rough, growling voice. She could tell he was surprised by her answer. Could it be that he was pleased by it as well?

That thought gave her the courage to admit, "I just…saw that it was you. It was stupid, yeah, but I wanted to hear your voice, I guess." She scoffed and shook her head with chagrin, trying not to let herself get her hopes up. The last time she'd shown any emotion for the man…well, it had gone poorly.

Alfred watched her silently from his place across the table, his eyes burning into her. Margot would have given anything to know what was going on in his head at that moment, what exactly the man was thinking.

But she couldn't read minds, and the silence was beginning to feel awkward, so she slid her chair back and got to her feet. "I should probably go," she said with a wan smile. "You look like you want to be alone."

She turned away, only to hear Alfred's chair scrape back on the floor and feel his hand on her arm. He gently, firmly turned her around to face him.

"No, Margot, I don't," he murmured hoarsely. "I really don't want to be alone."

She looked at him, saw the expression in his face, the way his blue eyes stared fixedly into hers. He was closer than usual, and even as she noticed this, he started to pull her even closer, and suddenly he was kissing her—hard—pushing her up against the counter and grinding his body into hers, and she kissed him back with just as much force, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his waistcoat, pulling him as close as possible, like they were trying to occupy the same space at once and almost succeeding.

God, it was incredible the way he kissed her, like a dying man at the fountain of life, frantic, frenetic, desperate. Hell, it was a small miracle to Margot. She never would have imagined…

Alfred suddenly seemed to realize how forceful he was being, and he took a step back. Margot stumbled a little, stepping more firmly than she should have on her lame leg. She nearly lost her balance. She had to hastily grope the counter to remain upright, flinging her arm out to catch herself and knocking over a crock of utensils, which clattered noisily onto the floor. The crock itself landed on Alfred's foot.

"Bloody hell!" he moaned, holding his leg and wincing.

Margot tried to apologize, but he cut her off.

"Come here," he growled, grabbing her and dragging her out into the corridor, up the stairs, and towards his room. He seemed intent to do so while maintaining as much body contact as possible, turning their migration into some strange and awkward mating dance, punctuated by the occasional collision with the walls.

They paused for a moment, Margot pressed up against the door, Alfred pressed up against her, kissing her while his hand groped for the doorknob.

"I should offer you dinner at least," he murmured into her neck.

"It can wait," Margot replied just as the door opened and swung inward behind her.

Alfred caught her before she could fall. Of course he caught her. It was just the sort of thing he'd do before casually flipping on the light and kicking the door closed behind them.

A part of Margot didn't believe that she was really there, stumbling backwards and tumbling onto Alfred's bed, joined by him, their hands intertwined above their heads while he stretched out over her, the buttons of his waistcoat catching on the zipper of her jacket. She couldn't quite explain how they'd gotten there.

With a lot of tripping, she thought wryly.

Stop joking, she chided herself.

This was serious.

But she wasn't able to keep from feeling ecstatic, giddy as Alfred descended down her throat, his lips following the line of her collar as he slowly unzipped her jacket, opening it, removing it, his hands sliding under her shirt, pulling it over her head, his rough palms scraping softly over her torso, raising goosebumps on her skin.

God, she felt hot.

A knock suddenly sounded at the door, and a small voice called through it.

"Alfred?"

The man froze, his gaze shooting towards the door as he hissed, "Bugger!"

The next thing Margot knew, she was on her feet, ushered hastily across the room, and deposited in the closet. The door closed, opened, and her clothes were thrust into her arms before the door closed again.

"Master Bruce," said Alfred moments later, sounding completely unruffled as he answered the boy's knocking. "Come in."

Margot heard Bruce's soft footsteps on the carpet, a quiet thud as he dropped into a chair. "Alfred," he murmured in a troubled voice. "About tonight…"

Bruce trailed off into hesitant silence.

"You made the right decision," the man reassured him.

"Did I? Was it worth it?"

"Master B—"

Margot wanted to listen, but she was suddenly distracted by the fact that her bra wasn't in the bundle of her clothes. She vaguely recalled feeling it snap open beneath Alfred's surprisingly nimble fingers, but when had it slipped from her shoulders?

Oh, God.

Had it fallen off between the bed and the closet? Was it just lying on the floor, waiting to be noticed? What if Bruce saw it?

"Shit!" she hissed softly.

Apparently sound carried better through the door than she'd expected, because there was a silent pause in the room outside, and then Bruce's quiet and confused query.

"Alfred, were you aware that somebody is hiding in your closet?"

Margot froze, mortified.

Alfred sighed and was silent for several moments.

"Yes, Master Bruce," he finally admitted, knowing he'd been caught. Raising his voice, he added, "You can come out, you lairy minx."

Margot heard him approach and hastily threw on her shirt, greeting the man with an apologetic shrug when he opened the door.

He let her pass with a defeated kind of air about him.

Bruce had risen from the chair, and seemed pleasantly surprised to see her.

"Margot," he greeted her with a smile. "What are you doing in Alfred's closet?"

"Borrowing a…" She glanced hesitantly at Alfred, who simply stood in stoic silence. "…needle and thread?"

"Oh," said Bruce, eyeing her skeptically for a moment. He turned to his butler. "Alfred."

"Yes, Master B?"

"You might try a tie on the door handle next time," he suggested calmly. "I've heard it's quite effective."

Alfred flushed and cleared his throat. "And what would you know of such things?" he inquired sharply.

Bruce shot a look of long-suffering at the man. "I read a book, Alfred." And with that, he bid them both a polite goodnight and escorted himself from the room.

Margot dropped to the floor immediately to search for her missing bra, which she found half-obscured under the bed.

"This was a terrible idea." Alfred sank with a heavy sigh into the chair that Bruce had recently vacated.

Standing, Margot slipped out of her shirt and strapped on her bra. "It wasn't a terrible idea," she reassured the man. "It was just…executed poorly."

He looked up at her with chagrin, glancing away when he saw that she wasn't yet completely dressed.

"I'm assuming you're not up for continuing where we left off," she noted with a hint of amusement, pulling her shirt back on.

"And I suppose you are?" he retorted with wry disbelief.

She shrugged. "Worse has happened. I'd settle for dinner, though, if you're still offering."

The idea seemed to smooth at least some of Alfred's ruffled feathers.

"Yes," he agreed with a nod, rising to his feet. "I believe that's a reasonable alternative."

Margot smiled and let the man lead her back down to the kitchen. She curiously slipped her hand through his. His whole body went rigid at her touch, but she didn't let go, and he didn't pull away, at least not until they reached the kitchen.

"Do you like Italian?" he inquired, pocketing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves.

"I like spaghetti," she replied with a shrug.

He snorted as he tied on his apron. "Right. And I suppose you like pizza, too." Alfred tossed her an onion and added, "Start slicing."

She reached for a knife and dutifully began to cut up the onion, though her eyes strayed for a bit when he bent to pick up the utensils that she'd scattered across the floor the last time they'd been in the kitchen.

He caught her watching him. "Oi! What are you staring at?"

Margot hurriedly turned her attention back to the onion, unable to hide a smile.

Alfred knew his way around the kitchen. She'd noticed it before, but she was still surprised by how quickly he threw something together, and how exquisite it tasted.

"What did you say this was?" she asked midway through her plate of pasta.

"Fettuccini alla carbonara," he replied quietly, watching her with a mild expression of pleasure as she ate. "You like it, then?"

Margot nodded. "Where'd you learn to cook anyway?"

He shrugged. "I picked it up."

She laughed softly and shook her head. "Is there anything you don't know?"

Alfred pursed his lips and regarded her curiously. "I don't know quite what to make of you," he said after a moment.

Margot looked at him in surprise before admitting, "I could say the same about you." She paused, frowning for a moment as she added, "To be honest, I thought you'd never..."

"What?"

She avoided his gaze. "Forgive me."

He watched her calmly, with a bit of a furrow between his eyebrows. "You told me once that there was always a war in Gotham, we'd just never noticed it. You were right." He sighed and shook his head as he added, "You know as well as I that in war, it just takes one bloody mistake to get everybody killed." His eyes flickered up to hers and he murmured, "You quite nearly did just that. Of course I was upset. I was furious, because you're not one to make that kind of mistake."

"I know," she agreed. "Believe me, I wouldn't have done it if I'd thought I had any other choice. I just wanted to help my mom."

He nodded watching the light play through his glass of wine as he tipped it back and forth. "Yes. And you left to protect Bruce. Margot," he looked up, "that's why you're here right now. As long as you're willing to do anything to protect the boy, I can work with that."

"It sounds like you're training me to be some kind of bodyguard," she joked.

"Bruce needs people that will defend him," said Alfred seriously. "Your instinct to protect, that ferocious loyalty—I need somebody that can put him above everything else."

"Like you do," she noted.

"Yes."

They sat in moderately comfortable silence for a few moments, before Margot reached out for his hand. "Thank you," she whispered, "for the second chance."

He inclined his head, mulling something over for a moment before he finished off his wine. A small, suggestive smile touched his mouth as he leaned forward. "Speaking of second chances…"

Margot grinned.

She helped him clear the table, thinking with amusement that drying the dishes he washed was much less romantic than climbing all over each other and leaving behind destruction in their wake. But she still felt a familiar flutter in her stomach when he reached for her hand and led her quietly up to his room.

He shut the door, locked it, and turned to her, pulling her close and bending his head to kiss her. It was a gentler kiss than the others, and when they separated, he remained near, putting his lips to her ear, as if he were about to whisper something sweet.

"You kiss like a bloody soldier."

Margot looked up at him sharply. "What the hell does that mean?" she inquired defensively.

"It means you're combative and stiff as a board," he replied. "Loosen up, luv. Your tongue's not a bloody bayonet."

"Oh, like your technique's perfect," she retorted with a scoff, adding with an arched brow, "Maybe I like a bit of combativeness. And I could do without you judging everything I do."

Alfred's eyebrows shot up as he protested, "I'm not judging. Giving you a bit of friendly advice, perhaps—"

She grabbed his waistcoat by the lapels and ripped it open, letting buttons scatter across the floor. The man's wince disappeared before it could really form as Margot snagged him by his braces and growled in his ear, "Stop talking and fuck me."

"Right. Come here, you little minx."

Alfred lifted her right off the floor and deposited her onto the bed, where he undressed her the same as before, tossing her shirt and her bra aside and letting his hands wander over her skin, exploring the curves of her body.

He held her breasts in his palms, squeezing just to the point of discomfort, but not past it, slowly brushing his thumbs across them. Smiling slightly, he bent his head and lowered his lips to them, his breath hot against her skin, his tongue warm and wet and surprisingly agile. She arched upward into him, gasping quietly, wondering how long it had been since she'd let a man touch her like that.

Quite some time.

Margot was only worried about one thing. She'd told herself that it would be all right, that it had to happen sooner or later, but she still cringed as she felt the man slowly descend down her front, leaving a damp trail of kisses behind. He reached her jeans and slowly unbuttoned them, carefully sliding them down her legs. She kept her eyes closed tightly, not wanting to see his face when he saw them.

"My God," he whispered quietly.

Both legs were severely scarred from the burns and the trauma of nearly being blown apart. Her left leg was by far the worse of the two, smooth and waxy red from mid-thigh down, with ridged white filaments that spider-webbed across it, and a long scar that hooked around her knee, where a jagged piece of shrapnel had torn it open. They were horrifying, even to Margot, who saw them every morning when she dressed. The scars were something she'd never get used to; she could hardly expect anyone else to simply ignore them.

Margot tentatively opened her eyes, knowing what she'd see on Alfred's face—the very same expression she received from anybody who saw her scars, the same expression she saw on her own face when she looked at herself in a mirror.

Pity. Horror. Disgust.

When she finally felt brave enough to look, though, she saw something completely different, something that made her even more uncomfortable. It was a tender expression that she had trouble defining.

"Now you know why I don't wear shorts," she joked weakly, trying to dispel her own discomfort.

Alfred glanced up at her, meeting her gaze, but he didn't smile. He ran a hand slowly, gently up her left leg as he bent and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then an inch higher, another inch higher. His lips sent shivers coursing through the sensitive nerves in her leg. She would have enjoyed it very much indeed if she hadn't been so embarrassed and self-conscious of how ugly the scars were.

"God, Alfred, please don't," she pleaded, wanting him to just forget about her leg and leave it alone.

He looked up. "Why?" His eyes looked straight through her and into her insecurities. "Margot," he murmured, moving up to join his mouth briefly with hers. "It's just a scar." He stripped down to his undershirt, which he pulled up and tossed away. "I have quite a few of them myself."

He did, and he let Margot touch them. Some were faded and almost impossible to see. Others, like the fairly recent knife wound, were still quite obvious. She noticed bruising, too, and briefly wondered what that was from.

He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth.

"Scars like that mean you did something important, Margot. Something worth risking yourself for."

She nodded, though she still didn't seem convinced. "I guess."

He smiled warmly. "Come here. I'm not through with you yet."

Margot let him kiss her slowly, searchingly, as he lowered her back down onto the mattress, cradling her head in one hand, running the other hand softly over her body. It was hard for her to worry about scars when Alfred seemed so intent on demonstrating his affection. His fingers slid down her abdomen, brushing over her hip, pulling her a little closer before slipping into her damp skivvies.

God—to feel Alfred's hand cup her, his fingers gently exploring, stroking, curling into her. Her breath hitched in her throat, one hand clenching the bedsheets tightly, if only to keep her grounded while she dug her other fingers through his short, coarse hair. He was firm, gentle, and quick to pick up on what she seemed to like. With his body so close to hers, she could feel his warmth, the slightest movement of his muscles, even the telltale bulge in his trousers.

"Alfred," she moaned his name, pressing herself into him, biting her lip hard. He had her so close to the edge already, his middle finger deep inside her, the pad of his thumb rubbing against that raw bundle of nerves with just the right kind of pressure.

He chuckled—a deep, thick sound in his throat—and pulled away right as she reached the edge, careful not to let her go over it.

"Not yet," he whispered against her skin, giving her a cheeky kind of smile as he dragged her skivvies down her legs and held them up curiously.

"Military regulation?" he inquired, dangling the black briefs from one finger.

"Old habits," she replied breathlessly.

Margot was now completely exposed in front of the man, trying not to worry too much about what he was thinking as he briefly let his eyes trail over her.

She hadn't opened up like that in a long time, not since before her injury. She didn't like feeling weak and vulnerable, even if it was just Alfred. Hell, especially since it was Alfred. She admired him more than anybody else she knew, and was therefore that much more intimidated by the man, even when he was half-naked and his hair was ruffled and sticking up at odd angles.

Well, at least he was quickly becoming less than half-naked, already sliding out of his trousers with a look in his eyes that said he was done playing around. He finished undressing and reached into the drawer of his nightstand, removing a small foil packet from within.

"Two months," he told her, raising an eyebrow. "That's how long I've wanted to use this."

Margot couldn't help but smile, a little surprised by his forwardness. "Two months?" she inquired softly, trying to remember what, if anything, had happened two months ago. Before her mother's funeral. Before she'd met Penguin. Right before graduation, as a matter of fact. "Why didn't you say something before?"

"It never felt right."

"And I suppose now it feels right?" she responded wryly.

"Let's find out, shall we?"

And he took her into his arms, smiling at her, drawing the back of his curled hand down the side of her face.

"You all right, luv?" he asked quietly, noting with a hint of concern, "You're trembling."

"Nerves."

"What the hell do you have to be nervous about?" he whispered.

She shook her head and let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. "I don't know. I really don't know."

"Yeah? Well, stop it. You're making me nervous."

Margot laughed a little more easily this time. Alfred, nervous. Now there was a thought, even if he was just saying it to make her feel better. She looked up at him, met his gaze, saw a smile on his face, felt the gentle, reassuring squeeze of his hand on her waist.

He didn't need to say anything else. She knew that he thought she was capable and strong and worth a second chance.

She was grateful for that.

She was grateful for him—for his gentle, understated strength, the way he moved with her, considerate of her lame leg, the way he drew her into him, held her close, as if she was his only concern. Their meeting was just rough enough and just gentle enough to be what she needed: slow and controlled at first, then not, her arms thrown around his neck, holding him near, his head so close to hers that she could smell the faint scent of the pomade in his hair.

He didn't let go, not even when she collapsed, trembling, into a heap onto the mattress. He fell with her, joining her in one last tender kiss, his lips quivering slightly, his body inextricably tangled with hers.

That's probably why she didn't start scrambling for her clothes and leave immediately, as she was prone to do in such situations. She avoided eye contact as they pulled apart, but when he settled quietly on his back under the sheets, she moved into the space he left for her, letting him drape an arm around her shoulders as she rested her head on his chest. She liked being held by the man, feeling his warmth surround her.

Alfred suddenly let out a soft laugh, the sound resonating beneath Margot. She lifted her head curiously. "What?"

"It's nothing. I'm just remembering something a mate said about you."

"It wouldn't have to do with pretzels, would it?" she replied suspiciously.

He glanced sharply at her. "You heard that?" She nodded, and he moaned with a wry chuckle, "Oh, God."

She laughed and laid her head on his chest again, absently trailing her fingers down his torso, stopping to trace every scar. In a way, he reminded Margot of her combat boots, the ones that had survived three tours and seven years of training and combat. Well-used, with holes worn in them, and a few places that had been duct-taped closed, they weren't pretty at all, but they'd been broken in perfectly. They had been the most comfortable pair of shoes she'd ever owned.

Alfred was like that. Flinty and particular, sarcastic and sometimes downright surly—not the kind of man she'd ever imagine herself with. But she'd never felt so comfortable in a man's arms, as if she fit there because he'd been broken in just for her.

Granted, she couldn't help but remember suddenly that her boots had been destroyed by the bomb that nearly killed her. Wasn't that always the way with good things? They never lasted. Margot wondered with a hint of worry just how long this good thing would last. Was it already over? Had this simply been a one-time adventure and then tomorrow he'd be distant and cold to her again?

"You look pensive," Alfred noted quietly, brushing his thumb over her furrowed brow. "What is it?"

"I was thinking about combat boots," she replied, eliciting a perplexed laugh from him.

"Dare I ask?"

She smiled and shook her head, pressing herself farther into him. She didn't want to ruin a perfectly amicable moment with her selfish worries. His arm slipped from around her shoulders down to her waist, his fingers curling in the small of her back, tracing shapes softly over her skin.

"I don't think I've ever felt like this," she admitted in a whisper.

He glanced down at her. "Like what?"

She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his breath, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, wrapped in his warmth and the smell of his sweat and his cologne, the sheets cool and damp around the both of them.

"Safe," she said.

Because that's what Alfred was. He was safe. He was a defender, like Margot, and she wanted nothing more than to feel protected for once, rather than being the one doing the protecting.

"You'll always be safe here," he reassured her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

She could live with that.