Still part of episode 2.13. I loved last night's episode—lots of material there for the next chapter or two. For now, here's this...

"Here comes the rain again,
Falling from the stars,
Drenched in my pain again,
Becoming who we are."

"Wake Me Up When September Ends" –Green Day

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

Margot woke with a start, her heart pounding in her throat, her clothes drenched in sweat. She was shaking. The worst part was, she didn't know why she was so distressed.

Leftovers of a bad dream, probably.

They happened sometimes, the nightmares. Usually she didn't remember them in the morning, and the panic soon faded. But for a few minutes while she was still trying to wake up, she felt the suffocating terror and crippling anxiety of not knowing where she was or what she was supposed to do. She only knew that she was in imminent, life-threatening danger.

That wasn't ever true—it was just a byproduct of the nightmares—but it felt real.

That morning was no different. After a few moments, Margot oriented herself. She wasn't overseas. This was Wayne Manor, her room, her bed. She was alone and safe.

And yet, a quick glance at the bedside table proved that she hadn't been entirely alone that morning.

Breakfast. It was waiting for her on a tray: muesli with fresh fruit and cream, buttered toast on the side, and a glass of orange juice that was still cold. If asked, Alfred would probably brush it off and tell her that it was simple to throw together, practically nothing. But for Margot… Well, she'd lived for years off of nothing more than cold cereal for breakfast.

In Alfred and Bruce's absence, she'd forgotten the butler's interest in the culinary arts. Now she realized how much she'd missed it. The meal even came with a small vase of flowers from the garden.

She touched one of the bright orange nasturtium blossoms with a fingertip and smiled.

Her eyes flickered to a small, folded card tucked carefully under the vase. She opened it and read:

Breakfast in bed, as requested. I didn't wish to wake you.

Checking the time, Margot felt a little jolt of alarm and hastily ate before she took a quick shower. She had plans for the grounds today, and she wasn't going to let her injury prevent her from completing them. If she was careful and took her time, she didn't see why she couldn't return to work.

Unfortunately for her plans, Alfred had the peculiar talent of being in the right place at the right time, or rather, the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on perspective.

Margot was in the kitchen, washing the dishes from breakfast, when he entered quietly.

"Good morning," he greeted her.

She jumped slightly, startled. "Morning," she replied. Glancing over her shoulder at him, she added, "Thank you for breakfast."

"Of course. You are on bedrest, after all."

She felt his eyes on her, looking over her wardrobe, landing on her mud-crusted work boots with accusing weight. Margot sighed and shut off the water, turning to face the man. "I'm fine," she insisted. "I need to see to the grounds. They've been neglected long enough."

He took her gently by the shoulders, his grip soft, but his expression hard and stern. "And what do you think the grounds will look like if you keel over and bleed to death? I don't need the hassle of finding another gardener."

"I'm tired of resting," she responded with a scowl.

"And I of all people understand that," he replied. "But we need you in good health, Margot, and that's not going to happen if you try to rush your recovery."

"You're one to talk," she muttered darkly, recalling his own rushed recovery.

He ignored her, insisting firmly, "Go on. Off to bed with you."

Margot resisted. "Alfred—"

"I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you there if I have to," he interrupted warningly.

"You wouldn't."

His brow rose, and he stepped closer, grabbing her by the waist. She hastily skipped back before he could lift her.

"All right, you big bully. I'm going."

"Good," he said simply. As she reluctantly retreated, he called after her, "I'm going into the city. Can I fetch you anything?"

Margot turned to him and saw the look in his eyes. He wasn't really asking her if she needed anything. He was asking if he could trust her on her own.

"I've managed perfectly fine on my own so far, haven't I?" she answered coolly.

"Right. Well then, I expect the grounds to look just as neglected when I return. Now off you pop."

Growling with displeasure, Margot turned and left.

Alfred seemed tired and troubled when he came to see Margot that evening. She could tell by the look on his face that it was Bruce. She wasn't sure how she knew; she just knew.

"What is it?" she asked as he entered her room. "What's wrong?"

The man shook his head quietly and sat on the edge of her bed. "How are you?"

"Am I going to have to answer that question every time I see you now?" she snapped irritably. "I'm fucking fine. It's fine. I wish you'd stop asking."

She immediately regretted her words and, more importantly, her tone. To see the hurt expression on Alfred's face, it was almost as if she had slapped him.

"Alfred, I didn't mean—" she began in an apologetic whisper.

He raised a hand to silence her. "No," he murmured tiredly. "As you said, it's fine."

"Look," sighed Margot, "I'm just fed up with lying around all day, being a burden." She reached for his hand and held it in hers, though he remained unresponsive. "I want to help. That's all. Please." She squeezed his hand imploringly.

Alfred glanced up at her. "Margot, you're not well—"

"Why are you suddenly all eggshells and fine china around me?"

"Because you're still fragile!" he insisted.

Margot was tired of circling around the same argument and getting nowhere. There was something else behind it all, something that he wasn't telling her. "Alfred, what is this really about?"

His face fell and he let out a long, unsteady breath. Finally, exhaustedly, he replied, "We almost lost you."

She bit her tongue before she could retort sarcastically and paid more attention to the way he was looking at her, the sadness in his expression. The fear. With that, she suddenly realized the reason for his concern, the heavy-handed insistence that she take care of herself. He was afraid of losing her. They'd never really talked about it, about what had happened to her, about what was happening between them. It was confusing, and frankly overwhelming, which was why they'd both tried to skirt around the issue.

Until now.

"I know," she sighed after a moment.

"I'm only concerned for your safety," he replied quietly. "I can protect the boy. I can't protect you."

"I don't need protection," she told him, ignoring the pointed way he looked at her. "We don't really have the luxury of being safe, do we? Not when we have to protect Bruce."

"No," Alfred admitted. "I suppose we don't."

"I've been giving it a lot of thought," Margot continued. "Those men had the drop on me, and they shouldn't have." Shaking her head, she growled, "I hate excuses, but it's this damn leg. I'm just not as fast as I used to be."

"Have you done that exercise I showed you?"

Margot fell quiet. "No." She'd almost forgotten the painful experience when Alfred had bent her leg farther than she'd ever thought it would bend again.

"Perhaps it's time. You're not a gardener anymore, Margot."

"You're right," she agreed. Pausing, she hesitantly added, "And I've been thinking that maybe I ought to start carrying a handgun."

He sat back a little, regarding her thoughtfully, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. She was surprised that he didn't immediately refute the idea. In fact, he gave it a quite a bit of consideration.

"I could've dropped them easily," she pointed out. "I could've protected Bruce better. I know it's not the most comforting thought, but maybe it's a good idea."

"A dangerous idea," he muttered.

"I know how to handle a gun," Margot replied a little defensively.

"I know that," Alfred reassured her. "But say some bloody berk got his hands on your gun and shot you."

"And if they had a gun and I didn't?"

"Margot, I don't want guns in the house."

"What about my rifle?" she pointed out. "And I know you have a gun—"

"No!" he interrupted with surprising force.

Margot fell silent, watching the man resentfully.

"Look, I'll think about it," he continued after a brief silence, his voice softening. "For now, you work on that leg." He glanced down at the limb in question and ran a hand over her knee and up her thigh.

She closed her eyes. After a moment, he leaned nearer, tentatively pulling her into a kiss. She let him. Kissing was far better than arguing.

"I never would have expected this job to be so dangerous," she commented as they parted. "If you'd told me my first day that we'd be having this conversation… Well, I'm not sure I would have taken the job."

He chuckled softly. "You're not going to try to quit again, are you?"

Margot met his gaze. "I tried that once," she told him. "I think it's a little late now, wouldn't you say?"

Alfred nodded. "Just a bit." He leaned in to kiss her again.

"You know what else it's too late for?" she whispered against his lips.

"What?"

She twined her arms tightly around his neck, tangling her legs with his. "For you to leave."

"Margot—" he protested weakly.

"Don't you dare tell me I'm too fragile," she interrupted, running her fingers through his hair, scraping her teeth over his earlobe. "It's been a really long month, and I'm not waiting any longer."

Alfred hesitated only a moment before growling, "Bugger it. Come here, you."

Margot woke in the middle of the night, still shaking slightly from the hazy remnants of a bad dream. She rolled over, expecting to feel a warm body beside her, somebody to hold until she felt safe again.

But Alfred wasn't there.

Glancing at her clock, which read 2:36, Margot cursed and sat up. It was too early to be awake, even for Alfred. Perhaps he'd returned to his own room to sleep. Or maybe he'd just gone to the bathroom. Whatever the reason, he was gone, and Margot was wide awake at 2:37 in the morning with a pounding headache.

She sighed, pulled on her skivvies and a shirt, and padded down to the kitchen for a drink to soothe her nerves and numb her head. As she approached, she saw light coming through the kitchen doorway. It seemed she wasn't the only one in need of a drink.

Alfred was at the table already, a drink in hand. He glanced up as she entered, mildly surprised to see her standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing up and about at this hour?"

"Wondering why you're here at this time of night," she replied, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and sitting down across the table from him. She pushed the glass towards him, and he dutifully filled it.

He was quiet for a bit, before he admitted, "I couldn't sleep."

She saw a familiar haunted look in his eyes. "Nightmare?" she asked.

He stared down at his glass. "You get them too," he noted. "The nightmares."

Margot nodded. "All the time." She grimaced and added wryly, "I guess our mental health was a small price to pay to keep people safe, right?"

Alfred scoffed. "Sometimes I wonder if that's what we were doing."

Looking at him curiously, Margot reached across the table and touched his hand with concern. "Is it anything you want to talk about?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "Best just to let it be."

She knew how he felt. It was hard to forget her time as a soldier, harder still to relive the memories over and over again. Some of the memories were pleasant—proud moments like receiving her eagle, globe, and anchor after boot camp; graduating sniper training; even receiving her purple heart for wounds sustained during her service.

But those didn't wake her in the middle of the night.

It was the other memories that haunted her.

She could feel them pressing in on her as she sat in silence, and with a glance at Alfred, she saw the troubled expression on his face and knew that his demons were there too.

Finally, she couldn't stand it, and she opened her mouth to say something, not quite sure what would come out.

"You know," she whispered hoarsely, "there were villages where we didn't know who was good and who wasn't. Some of our men used to place ammunition or bomb parts in the street, and they'd leave us—the snipers—to watch it. Anybody who touched the bait got a bullet in the head. That's how we weeded out insurgents."

Margot turned her glass in her hand, staring fixedly at it. She lifted it shakily and took a long drink, well aware that Alfred was watching her quietly. She avoided his gaze.

Shrugging, she continued in a dead voice, "It didn't bother me. Not at first. This one time, though…" She paused, having to clear her throat. "This one time, a fourteen-year-old girl walked right up to an empty M4. She picked it up without even thinking about it. Like a toy." Margot shuddered. "I still see her. Almost every night."

Alfred, still watching in solemn silence, took her glass and poured her a couple more fingers of scotch.

Then, as if she was tired of being serious, Margot scoffed, "I call her 'Lolita the señorita'."

The man frowned slightly, a little put off by her callousness. "You named her?"

She glared up defensively. "Everybody did it. The more ridiculous a nickname, the better. Laughing them off…it kept us sane."

His eyes met hers, searching her face. "And does it work, the laughing?"

"No," said Margot. "Not even a little."

They were silent for another few moments. Finally, she downed the rest of her drink in one gulp and slowly got to her feet.

"Off to bed then?" Alfred inquired.

"Yeah. You coming?"

He looked down at his glass, murmuring softly, "I'll be up in a bit."

Margot nodded and padded back up to her room, where she crawled into bed and wrapped herself tightly in the sheets. She closed her eyes, but she still saw the faces. The girl was just one of many.

After a while, she noticed the shadow in the doorway, heard soft footsteps cross the room, felt the mattress adjust as Alfred joined her. She told herself she was all right as she turned to the man, pressing herself into his embrace. But as soon as his arms closed around her, she came apart.

He held her quietly, unmoving like stone, while she wept.

Eventually, the tears stopped and the trembling subsided. "I'm sorry," she whispered in a voice that was hardly more than a breath. "God, I'm such a mess. I should have warned you I was insane."

A soft, sad laugh escaped the man. "No. You're not insane," he reassured her.

"Just seriously fucked up."

He traced a finger down her collarbone, letting it rest between her breasts. "Some scars can't be seen," he murmured. "And instead of healing, they eat you up from the inside."

Margot looked up at him, unable to see much in the darkness. "What do you do about yours?"

Alfred sighed. "I bandage them up very tightly and try not to look too closely."

"Sounds like a mental break waiting to happen."

"You'd be surprised how much it helps to have responsibilities, people to care for," he noted.

"Bruce," she whispered.

"Yes. That boy saved me."

Margot nodded slowly. "He's a good kid." A faint smile crossed her face and she added teasingly, "You're lucky to have him."

She could feel his smile as he pressed it to her brow. "I am," he agreed.

Lying there in Alfred's arms, Margot couldn't help but feel the same way. She was lucky to have Bruce. Lucky to have Alfred.

She didn't know what she would do without either of them.