Well...don't know what this was, but it happened, and now it's here. Thanks for the reviews/faves/follows! Always appreciated. :D

"Everything will change;
Nothing stays the same.
Nobody here's perfect,
Oh, but everyone's to blame.
Oh, all that you rely on,
And all that you can save,
Will leave you in the morning,
And find you in the day."

"In My Veins" –Andrew Belle

Chapter Thirty-Two:

Still no news from Bruce.

It had only been three days, but Alfred was well aware that things could change very quickly. The events of a single night had drastically changed Bruce's life forever. Alfred's too, if all truth be told. The butler couldn't help but dread an imagined phone call, not from Bruce, but from the GCPD. The boy gone. The butler alone.

"Alfred's a worrywart."

The boy's words echoed in Alfred's mind, and he shook himself from his thoughts. Bruce was right. Here he was, highly skilled, well-trained, a killer, reduced to nothing more than a quivering bundle of nerves, all out of worry for the young man's wellbeing.

He'd determined to respect Bruce's wishes. That was, after all, what the late Waynes had wished for their son. Would they still believe that, knowing that he was out gallivanting on the streets of Gotham?

Alfred wondered how long he could last before he was reduced to a puddle of anxiety and stress. He had always known he cared for the boy, but his absence was now filled with a pain so acute it was like being stabbed in the gut—and Alfred had a pretty good idea of how that felt.

He tried to focus on other things, his responsibilities. Even without occupants, the manor still required a good deal of upkeep. But the tasks were meaningless, empty, just like the house. They offered no distraction. Even at night sleep evaded him, withholding any respite from his constant state of concern.

So he paced through the empty corridors in the dark, pondering, plotting, imagining the many ways he could find Bruce, protect him, even from afar, without drawing attention to himself.

It just so happened that this particular evening, he was making his rounds through the manor, chasing his thoughts, when he passed by the study. He'd avoided it since Bruce left. As bad as the empty house was, the study was worse. Its emptiness filled the entire room, where the boy's presence was missed the most. The scattered files, the corkboard with all of the pictures and notes, the dark fireplace.

Alfred intended to pass without a glance, but a flicker of light caught his eye, and he felt his heart stop for a moment. Indeed, his entire body froze, and he peered through the doorway, half expecting to see Bruce seated on the sofa, smiling calmly up at him, teasing him for being such a worrywart.

But, to his immense disappointment, the room was empty. The flicker of light was simply just a flutter of the gossamer drapes, brushed aside by a soft breeze, letting in a sliver of moonlight.

Heart sinking, Alfred was about to turn away, but something made him stop for a beat. His pulse quickened, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Something was wrong.

He was certain he'd closed each and every one of those windows.

He entered the study silently, carefully reaching for a cane that was propped up against one of the tables. A cursory investigation proved that the room was devoid of life. Going to the window, Alfred cast his gaze over the grounds and saw nothing. It wasn't until he reached to close the window that he noticed a small bit of dirt scattered over the sill, scraped from the shoe of some intruder. An intruder who could still be in the manor.

Closing the window, he turned and began to scour each room, each corridor, the cane held defensively in front of him. He wasn't necessarily afraid, or even concerned. Mostly he was curious.

Was the intruder a simple cat-burglar? Or, speaking of cats, perhaps it was that lairy minx, on some errand of Bruce's, sent to fetch something he'd forgotten. Or did the intruder have more sinister intentions?

He started to mount the stairs when a sudden noise alerted him to the presence of another person nearby—a soft thump and a muffled curse. He moved swiftly up the rest of the stairs and ran toward the source of the sound.

His room?

As he approached, he saw a light flicker on, radiating with a gentle glow from under the half-closed door. It wasn't the bedroom light, but the closet light, he realized as he slowly pushed the door open.

There she was, the intruder, standing in his closet, silhouetted in the doorway, still and quivering, as if she were preparing to bolt. She was like the deer he sometimes saw through the window in the early morning, just shadows in the mist, scattered across the grounds. Quiet and stoic, but fleeting, frightened away by the slightest sound.

"Margot." Her name was like a whispered gunshot, piercing the silence.

"Alfred," she replied just as quietly, avoiding his gaze. "I was just…" she trailed off and stared fixedly at the floor.

He knew why she was there, her purpose clenched tightly in both hands. The gun case. Her rifle. He didn't know how she'd known where it was; he supposed it didn't matter.

She seemed to find her voice again, prompted by his silence, and she explained with great discomfort, "I just came for the rest of my stuff."

"Why all the creeping about?" he inquired.

Margot shrugged, looking up at him and meeting his gaze, her hazel eyes suddenly accusing. "Forgive me," she replied with a hint of acid in her tone, "for wanting to avoid a confrontation like this one."

"Margot—" he murmured with a shake of his head, not sure what he was going to say.

She didn't even give him a chance. "Forget it. I was leaving anyway."

She took a step forward, intending to brush past him, but he caught her by the arm, holding her in place. "Margot, I never said you had to leave."

She turned to stare at him incredulously. "No," she retorted, "I'd hate to be a distraction."

He looked at her, noticed her clenched jaw, her loose, tousled hair, her white-knuckled grip on the rifle case. Mostly, he noticed the hurt expression in her eyes, the one she was hiding behind the sharpness of her anger.

For a moment, Alfred was absolutely certain that he could kiss it away, first the anger, then the hurt. Pull her nearer, press his body to hers, kiss her gently, then harder. Feel her react, surprised, indignant, angry even, then soft. Soft and yielding because she still wanted him. He could see it, sense it. And there was nothing he wanted to do more than give in and kiss her.

But he didn't.

Finger by finger, he loosened his grip on her arm and lowered his gaze, silently listening as her uneven footsteps carried her swiftly and quietly from the room and out of his life.

Because he was sure she would never come back.