"Everything is dark.
It's more than you can take,
But you catch a glimpse of sunlight
Shining, shining down on your face."

"In My Veins" –Andrew Belle

Chapter Thirty-Three:

Alfred thought that if he kept himself busy, his thoughts wouldn't turn to the people he'd pushed away—Margot somewhere on the streets of Gotham, Bruce somewhere on the streets of Gotham. Well, technically he hadn't pushed Bruce away; the boy had left of his own free will, but Alfred still couldn't stop the guilt from telling him that if he'd just been a little more vigilant, if he'd done a little more, Bruce would still be there, and the manor wouldn't seem so abysmally silent.

Being busy didn't distract him at all. It was mindless work, tasks he'd done for years, tasks that didn't require any real concentration. Cooking made him all too aware that he was cooking for one, tidying the rooms only reminded him that Bruce wasn't there to unsort the butler's sorting—nothing changed, except perhaps for the gathering dust, which testified to the emptiness of the house. And when he left for a respite from the cloying silence of the manor, to prune the shrubbery, weed the garden, or to simply take a walk, he heard her voice in his ear, teasing, chiding, humming.

She hummed all the time. Or at least she had, when she'd been there. Whether she was working or just reclining on the sofa, half-distracted, she'd hum with tuneless pleasure. He didn't think she was aware of it. He'd never told her. It had bothered him, at one point, but he hadn't said a word. It was one of those little things he'd let slide, because it was more important that she was there and that she was happy than it was that he had peace and quiet.

In fact, he was starting to realize just how much he hated peace and quiet. Now that she wasn't there, he wished for nothing more than to hear that tuneless humming, to find those dirty footprints on his pristine kitchen floor, to follow them all the way out into the corridor and down to the study, where he'd see her on the sofa, legs outstretched, muddy boots propped up on the table, eyes closed. Bruce was there too, in his imaginings, just on the periphery of his vision, standing behind the desk, thoughtfully considering the photos and clippings on his corkboard.

Even in Alfred's imagination, the boy was still fixated on figuring out the mystery behind his parents' deaths. The butler knew by then that it would always be that way. There were key points in a person's life that determined who they were, fixed points that molded them, and this was one of Bruce's. That was why Alfred wasn't chasing the boy through the streets of Gotham, shadowing him, dragging him back to the manor if things got too dangerous. He knew that nothing could stop the boy from becoming the kind of man that found justice by whatever means necessary.

So, despite the toll it took on him, he left Bruce to his own devices, trusting that Miss Kyle knew how to protect him, that she would be strong enough and clever enough to keep him safe. Bruce trusted Alfred to respect his wishes, to not come after him. Alfred wouldn't betray such trust.

But he'd made no such promise to Margot.

He sat in the shadows of the dark town car, kitty corner to a bar on Gotham's East Side. Bar was a generous word. It was more like a pit, an entrance into the cesspool of humanity. People trickled in and out, shifty characters that were dodgy at best. Some looked positively criminal.

He'd been waiting there for a couple of hours already, watching, but he hadn't seen her yet. Still he waited; it wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

Finally, as the sky grew dimmer and the street lights began to flicker on, just as Alfred was beginning to doubt the information he'd been given, she stepped out.

Margot peered warily around before crossing the street hurriedly. Alfred ducked lower into his seat, not wanting to be spotted. Not that she'd be able to see him. The black car was nearly invisible, sitting just out of the street lamp's reach.

Why was he there? he asked himself. It was foolish and frankly a little obsessive. But there was a part of him that had to know that she was all right. That's why he'd reached out to his sergeant friend in the GCPD, asked him to do a little investigating. That's how he'd found out that she was bartending, that she lived in a small flat just a few blocks from the bar.

It wasn't long before she'd mounted her bike and sped off, leaving him there alone, still twisted up in knots. Was she all right? He didn't know. The only thing he knew was the guilt of second guessing himself and the regret that came with it.

He didn't often regret things, especially not when it came to protecting Bruce. Alfred had been Bruce's defender for so long that it was second nature to him. Anybody that posed a threat to his safety was strictly and summarily dealt with. But Margot didn't pose a threat to Bruce. She posed a threat to Alfred. No matter how many times he'd tried to convince himself that Bruce needed another defender, he'd never really believed it, not deep down. It was his special place in the boy's life, his true purpose. Sharing that with another person was nigh impossible.

At least he'd thought so. Now he was starting to realize that no matter what he did, he wouldn't always be the boy's sole protector. Right now, he had to trust that Miss Kyle would protect Bruce while teaching him about Gotham's dark underbelly. He hated the thought, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

Of course, that wasn't entirely why he'd ended things with Margot. He wasn't sure he even knew the exact reason. One word kept popping up repeatedly in his mind as he mulled it over.

Strategy.

Alfred knew a good deal about strategy, about tactics. He was a thoughtful, precise man. The more he thought about it, the more he understood. Neutralizing a threat before it became a danger. Avoiding risky situations when possible, rather than confronting every problem head on.

Margot was the threat. The risky situation. The problem. She upset the balance of his perfectly ordered life. She'd found a way through armor he'd spent years crafting and perfecting, and he wanted her out. Out of his life, out of his heart before she destroyed it.

She was reckless and impulsive. She was downright foolish at times. She made mistake after mistake, and neither Alfred nor Bruce needed that kind of influence in their lives. She was dangerous. Untrustworthy.

That's what he told himself, at least.

Alfred worried the car key between his fingers for a moment, staring thoughtfully into the darkness, before he turned the key in the ignition. He knew better than to remain in the East Side after dark.

He didn't intend to return again, not now that he'd seen her for himself. She'd be all right. She didn't need him.

Alfred was over the bridge and more than halfway home when he felt the buzz of his phone in the breast pocket of his jacket. He slipped the phone from his pocket and let his eyes flicker down at the name of the caller, a name that nearly sent him off the road and into the weeds.

Bruce.