Sorry for the long wait! As always, season 2 spoilers. I was going to split this between a few more chapters, but meh, I decided it was better as a big chunk. Hope you enjoy!

"Oh, I should sing a little bit faster,
I'm to blame for this disaster.
I'm repairing my heart for you.
Oh, and I should breathe a little bit softer,
Oxygen reminds me I lost her,
I'm repairing my heart for you."

"Daylight" –Andrew Belle

Chapter Thirty-Six:

"I'm done waiting," the boy had said. And despite the growing feeling of unease in Alfred's gut, he'd gone along with it, taking the boy to see this Karen Jennings who lived just beyond the outskirts of the city. Because Alfred knew that Bruce would continue on, with or without him, and the butler preferred to be at his side, protecting him.

Except things were not only getting weirder, but more dangerous as well, and the truth seemed more obscure than ever. To top it off, it wasn't just Bruce in danger, but anyone around him. As if in reminder, the pain in Alfred's hand flared up. He glanced down at the bandage and noticed that the wound was beginning to bleed through. It was a relatively small—if painful—injury, nothing serious to worry about. But it had also been an accident of sorts, caused by a friend, not an enemy. If their friends were causing them such injuries, he'd hate to see what the enemy could do.

In fact, he'd seen just that night what their real enemies could do. He'd seen with his own eyes the destruction that the men they were pursuing had done to Karen, their one link to the truth. And she, hardly more than a girl herself, had resigned herself to it in the end. Probably because years of hiding in fear had exhausted her, drying up the reservoir of her resolve. And in the end she'd realized that the only thing to do was give up, if by giving up she could save the others, Bruce included.

And this was only the beginning. Alfred knew Bruce wouldn't give up, not until he'd expunged every last shred of doubt and mystery and finally brought justice to those who had caused his parents' murders. It was a good and just cause, yes, but at what price would it come?

Alfred had told Bruce there would be others. Others who would lose their lives in his pursuit of the truth. In his pursuit of justice. If Bruce couldn't handle that responsibility, then he wasn't ready.

He was always questioning the boy's readiness, not because he doubted, but because he feared the consequences the boy would have to face. As the danger mounted, as the stakes climbed higher, Alfred was slowly losing his ability to protect the boy. But the boy insisted, and the butler had to trust him. For Alfred, that meant being ready himself. Ready to risk everything.

Maybe that was why it was for the best that Margot had left.

Except that far on the other side of town, Margot was wondering if she had really made the right decision.

THWACK.

The sound echoed smartly over the nightly bustling of the city below, resounding in the chilly air.

Margot watched as the worn and dirtied baseball came bobbing back over the rooftop and within her reach. She snagged it in a hand and turned it over absently, staring at a patch that had been worn down and smoothed by frequent handling.

After a moment, she looked back up at the brick wall that protected the access stairway and, with a well-practiced movement of her arm, sent the ball spinning back.

THWACK.

It smacked against the wall and bounced back to her, rolling neatly to a stop at her foot.

She bent and, picking it up, threw it again.

THWACK.

"It makes no sense," she muttered mostly to herself, worrying the ball in her hand once it came back to her. "He made it crystal clear he wanted me gone."

THWACK.

She cocked her head to the side, almost as if she was listening to somebody. "No," she argued, "I don't care what he says. Did he really think I was going to hang around and keep working there after being humiliated like that? God!" she exclaimed with a frustrated laugh, "I actually believed we had something."

THWACK.

"Something different than all the others." She caught the ball as it rolled back to her. She ran her thumb over a part where the leather was coming free of the stitching. "I know I have terrible taste in men," she growled defensively. "You've never said so, but I know that's what you're thinking. You never had to say it. Mom always did."

THWACK.

The ball went soaring and smashed into the wall again. Margot couldn't help but recall earlier memories of that same ball on a different rooftop, where she and her father had practiced catch after dinner. They'd stay there for an hour or so, until the sun went down and it became too dark to play. She'd long since lost her glove, and her father, but the ball remained in her possession.

They'd always had conversations like the one she was having with herself now. Even as a fourteen-year-old, she'd never had trouble sharing her most private thoughts with her father. He'd been her confidante, her advisor, her best friend.

Until the construction accident.

THWACK.

"He's not like the others," she explained. "He's genuine. He's honest. Not that you'd like him. You never liked any of my boyfriends, and that was back when I'd only had three or four." Sighing, Margot drew her arm back and propelled the ball forward again.

THWACK.

"Look, he didn't do anything, all right? That's why I'm so pissed. He probably thought he was protecting me. Or Bruce. Or both of us." She absently picked up the ball and began to toss it from hand to hand. "You really should see the way he takes care of that kid. He's a rare one, Dad. I wish you could meet him."

Margot seemed to realize how silly it was to be talking to nothing but air, and her face fell. Gripping the ball tightly, she wound herself up like a pitcher on the mound and put all her force behind the next throw.

THWACK!

The ball struck the wall, the sound cracking almost like a gunshot in the night air. This time it didn't bounce back. It simply dropped to the ground and spun in a few wobbly circles. Frustrated, Margot approached and stooped to pick it up, only to find a loose flap of leather that had finally broken free.

She growled and shoved her hands—and the baseball—deep into the pockets of her jacket.

"I'm not going back there. I don't care if he wants me back." A flash of pain crossed her face and she snarled, "He broke my heart once—he's not getting another chance to do it again."

She didn't receive a response. She hadn't really expected one. Mostly, she came up to the roof just to pretend that her father was there, talking to her in her head, as if hearing her own advice in his voice would make it seem somehow better.

It didn't.

She was still just as angry and confused and brokenhearted as ever. It didn't help that her head was throbbing. She hadn't yet recovered completely from the disastrous confrontation at the bar.

But something still troubled her, and she knew she couldn't resolve it on her own.

Finally, Margot sighed. "Damn it, Margot, you sentimental sap."

She gathered herself together and stormed down the roof access, down the stairs of the dilapidated apartment building, and out onto the street below, swinging her leg over her bike and starting it up. She knew where she was going, stopping only to buy a cheap bottle of scotch—the only kind she could afford with what little money she had left. What she didn't know was what she would do when she got there. Either share the scotch or break the whole bottle over that bastard's head.

She'd decide when she saw him again.

The manor was quiet and dark when Margot arrived. Of course it was. It was the middle of the night. She wasn't sure what she was doing there at that hour, she only knew that her business couldn't wait until morning. She tried not to make too much noise as she approached, but her motorbike had probably already awakened everybody inside. She waited in the driveway for a few moments, waiting to see the inevitable flicker of lights coming on through the windows.

But the windows remained dark.

Frowning, she dismounted from her bike and limped around the back side of the manor, where most of the bedrooms looked out over the grounds. Margot counted the windows a couple of times, making sure she had the right one before she bent to pick up a handful of small pebbles from a nearby planter.

She had just pulled her arm back, ready to launch the gravel towards the second-story window, when a sudden shout to her left caused her to leap in surprise.

"Hold it right there! Hands where I can see them."

She raised her hands, pebbles clenched in one fist and the bottle of scotch in the other as she turned to the source of the voice.

Alfred stood a few paces away, illuminated in the weak white moonlight, his eyebrows knit together, eyes hard, a pistol clenched in his hands and aimed directly at Margot. As she turned and as he took a step forward, the man suddenly recognized her.

"Margot?" he exclaimed, dropping his aim immediately. "What the bloody hell are you doing skulking about at this hour?"

Now that she wasn't staring down the barrel of a handgun, she noticed that he was only in his shirtsleeves, his suspenders hanging loosely from his trousers. His hair was ruffled, his shirt wrinkled, and it seemed as if he hadn't gotten much sleep, even before Margot arrived.

She didn't answer at first, and Alfred came closer, inquiring in a slightly more even voice, "What's that in your hand?"

She glanced at her right hand and opened it, letting the pebbles fall from her palm. "Gravel," she explained. "I was about to throw it at your window. I thought you'd be sleeping."

Peevishly, Alfred stashed the gun in the waistband of his trousers and growled, "Not with you riding up on that bloody motorbike of yours. I should have known it was you." He paused before asking suspiciously, "What's this all about then? And why couldn't it wait until a more respectable hour?"

Margot shrugged, starting to wonder if she'd made a mistake. Right now, she was seriously considering the scotch-bottle-over-the-head approach to the situation. Instead, she simply replied, "I've been thinking about what you said, and I think we should talk." She lifted the bottle of scotch halfheartedly and added, "I brought liquor." Glancing at the manor, seeing how quiet it was, she asked, "Do you think you can sneak away for a bit?"

Alfred regarded her quietly for a moment. Finally, he offered, "Why don't you come inside?"

Margot wasn't sure how comfortable she felt, being invited inside. She knew she wasn't welcome there, that she didn't belong there, but it still felt too familiar, like a home, and that made her ache.

Despite her misgivings, she gave in after a moment, realizing that Alfred wasn't going to leave Bruce alone in the manor while he went off with Margot somewhere in the middle of the night.

"All right," she agreed.

In the kitchen, Alfred took the bottle of scotch from her and poured two glasses. She'd peeled the price tag from it after purchasing it, but the label still gave the game away. But, if Alfred noticed that it was cheap convenience store liquor—and Margot was sure that he did—he didn't show any sign of it. He simply pushed one glass her way, took the other, and sat at the table with her. Not across from her. Beside her.

They drank in silence for a few minutes before either one spoke. Finally, Alfred broke the silence.

Turned slightly towards her, he absently swirled the amber liquid in his glass and inquired, "What brings you here so late?"

Margot wasn't sure what she was going to say, but she figured she might as well start with the truth. "What you said the last time we talked…it made me think."

"So you've said."

Maybe it was late and she was tired. Maybe she was just still angry at him. But there was something about the tone of his voice, the calm way he spoke those words, that irked her.

She felt the furious heat building inside her again, and she had to tamp it down quickly before she started shouting. After a moment, she had calmed down enough to inform him, "Be patient with me, all right? I hate talking about this sort of stuff."

"What sort of 'stuff'?" he inquired with that infuriating calm.

Margot faltered a little under that piercing blue gaze. "Feelings and things. It makes me uncomfortable, especially around you."

The man considered her thoughtfully, taking a small sip of scotch. He didn't make a face as he tasted the liquid, but she thought she caught a bit of a twitch in his left eye that could have been a small wince. "Am I that difficult?"

"No," she admitted, staring down at her glass. "You're just…intimidating sometimes. And talking about feelings has never been one of my strengths."

His hand rested on her arm, drawing her gaze back up to his. "Just tell me what this is about," he encouraged her quietly.

A shuddering sigh escaped her. "Look, you and Bruce are the closest thing I have to a family anymore. Or at least, you were. I knew it was stupid to get involved with you, Alfred. I knew it would complicate things; I knew I'd have to leave if things ever went badly. But I hoped they wouldn't. I thought we had something that could…" she faltered again, hesitating before she finished, "something that could work."

The man was regarding her with a strange expression, both sad and thoughtful, and just the tiniest bit amused. Finally, he spoke after an interminable silence. "I thought so, too," he agreed softly.

The past-tense troubled Margot. "You don't think it's possible anymore?" she asked tentatively. Somehow, that depressing thought seemed to dampen her anger more than encourage it.

Alfred fixed his gaze on his glass, swirling its contents slowly. "Margot," he murmured, "I do." He looked up as he added, "But everything is bedlam. The world's gone mad and it's only getting worse."

Margot nodded, believing she understood the gist of what he was trying to say. "You've got more important things to focus on right now."

"While that may be true," Alfred admitted, "I do want you to stay." He smiled with faint encouragement as Margot glanced up to meet his gaze. "However foolish and selfish that makes me, I do want you to stay," he reassured her.

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get her hopes up too much, Alfred interrupted her.

"But I need you to know that if you return here, you're putting yourself in great danger."

Margot nodded. "So Bruce isn't letting up on his investigation, is he?"

Alfred shook his head. "No, he's not. And he's getting close, too. But," he stressed the next few words very carefully, "People have died, Margot." He let that sink in before he added, "Look, good help is hard to come by these days, and I certainly wouldn't turn down your offer if you wanted to return, but you need to know the risks."

She studied him for a bit. She'd always known that Alfred came with baggage, namely his dedication to keep Bruce safe that came before everything else.

"You and Bruce. Bruce and his mission to find the truth. You're saying that it's all inseparable. If I want you, I have to involve myself in this whole thing."

Alfred shrugged slightly and spread his hands helplessly. "It's a package deal, luv. You're putting yourself at risk just by associating with us."

Again Margot nodded, but she remained silent.

"It's a bit of a raw deal," Alfred confessed wryly.

Margot scoffed and shook her head. "Welcome to my life," she joked darkly. A shadow of doubt flickered across her face, and she inquired, "Do you really think I'd be all that useful to you?"

A wan smile crossed the man's face. "Honestly? We could use any help you'd be willing to give." He grimaced and added, "And anyway, it's not about usefulness, Margot. It's about loyalty, and if anything, you've proven to have plenty of that. Just the fact that you're here and you haven't bashed my head in with that bottle yet is proof of that."

She knew he was joking, but she couldn't help considering the bottle of scotch as she admitted, "I did consider that possibility on my way over here."

The man let out a soft laugh. "I don't doubt it."

Margot realized how much she'd missed his laugh. It sounded as if he hadn't laughed in quite some time.

He reached for her, placing his hand over hers, all traces of laughter gone as he assured her seriously, "Margot, we need you."

She couldn't help but remember the other night, when he'd told her that very same thing, and it brought a question to her mind, something she'd noticed but had been too upset to point out. "You said that to me the other night," she told him.

The man's brow furrowed curiously. "And?"

"It seemed like you were about to say something else."

Alfred frowned. "What do you mean?"

"When you said you needed me. You hesitated a little, like you meant something else."

"I meant what I said," he assured her, but he was still frowning. "It's just that… I also wished I could have…" Alfred paused, and it seemed as if he was considering something. Finally, he decided to throw caution to the wind. His glass came down on the tabletop with a loud clink, and his eyes burned into Margot's as he cursed, "Damn it, Margot, I love you."

A surprised shock of elation shot through her, despite the circumstances. She could feel her residual anger beginning to melt away. Still, she forced herself to remain calm and cautious. It would be foolish to leap headfirst into another heartbreak just because of a few words.

"Do you mean it?" she found herself asking.

Alfred seemed almost offended by her doubt. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't," he retorted.

"You almost didn't say it," she pointed out.

"Yeah," he contested heatedly, "Well I'm saying it now, aren't I?"

Margot nodded and realized suddenly that she was shaking. "OK." She couldn't quite figure out what to say next. All of the lecture and explanation and scathing censure that she'd intended to give the man seemed somewhat pointless by that point. So instead she looked at Alfred and confessed honestly, "I love you too, you know."

He moved nearer, whispering, "That's good to hear."

He was very close then, and Margot realized how long it had been since she'd been in such close proximity with the man. He still smelled the same, still radiated warmth, still gave her that small smile that began in one corner of his mouth and spread over the rest of his face.

Then he kissed her.

Margot closed her eyes and stopped noticing anything that wasn't the salty taste of his mouth on hers, the flush that rose over her skin, the stab of longing that pierced her in the gut, the soft quivering of his lips when they parted.

"What now?" she whispered after a moment, hoping he'd suggest relocating upstairs.

But Alfred, it seemed, was thinking more practically for the moment. "Well, I expect you'll be returning here, won't you?"

Disappointed, Margot couldn't help but string him along, pretending to mull it over. "I was hoping to stay in the city. I could keep my bartending job—"

She'd intended to continue, but the horrified expression on his face stopped her midsentence. Margot grinned and shook her head as she amended, "Or I'll just stay here."

Alfred seemed satisfied, but he added ruefully, "Although, with the way things have been going lately, we may find that you would be safer in that sketchy bar than here."

"I'll take my chances."

The man smiled and absently glanced across the room towards the small clock than hung on the wall opposite. He frowned suddenly and muttered, "Bloody hell."

Margot glanced over her shoulder, completely unaware of what the man was looking at. "What?"

"It's late," Alfred stated. "Or early, depending. It appears we've drunk the night away." He paused, regarding Margot with concern, and suggested gently, "Why don't you pop on up to bed for a quick kip?"

She hesitated. "What about you?" she inquired worriedly.

He shook his head. "Master Bruce will be up and about soon and expecting his breakfast." Still seeing her hesitation, he reassured her, "I'll be all right. This isn't the first time I've gone without sleep." He smiled wryly and added, "I doubt I could sleep anyway after a night like this."

And he kissed her again, pulling her close, holding her there long after the kiss had been broken. Margot, head spinning, eyes stinging from exhaustion, remained still, not wanting to leave. She was afraid that if she slept, she'd wake up and realize that it had all been a dream.

After a moment, though, Alfred insisted, pulling away and standing. He led her up to her room, even though she still knew her way. Once there, they stood in the doorway, Margot just barely inside the room, Alfred just barely outside, unsure of how to end the night.

Finally, Margot leaned forward and brushed her lips against his weathered cheek. "Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded. "I'll see you in the morning then."

"Better make it afternoon," she replied with a wan grin. "I probably won't even be conscious until midday."

Alfred chuckled and bid her goodnight, and though Margot was certainly tired enough to sleep through the next day, she found it difficult to fall asleep until eventually, long after dawn, her giddiness and the shaking had subsided just enough to let her drift off into a dreamless oblivion.