Batman Begins/Dark Knight 1. Beginning of the End

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but for my own storyline, concepts, characters and general theme. Everything else belongs to Bob Kane, DC and Christopher Nolan!

**A/N**: Hello m'dears…and welcome! I hope that the New Year has been a good one to you thus far.

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* * *

"Why?" the boy asked his father. "Why is Batman running?"

As Batman raced across the rooftops of the blissfully ignorant city, no longer certain of who he was or where he was going, and only knowing the wounds he'd sustained during the course of the night would never really heal, James Gordon tried to answer his son's desperately phrased question:

"Because we have to chase him."

"But why, dad? _Why_ do you have to chase him?"

"It's what we-what _I_ have to do."

"Why though?" James Jr. asked in the persistent voice of a child who refused to merely accept _because_ as the reason for why. How did you explain to boy about why his hero had to be hunted like a dog? How could you make him understand this was what had to be—what needed to be? "What did Batman do that was wrong?"

_Nothing_, is what Gordon wanted to say; what he ached to say, in fact. Because nothing was the appropriate answer here; it was the real answer. It wasn't Batman who failed in the end, it was Harvey Dent. Dent allowed himself to be swayed, to be corrupted by the very madman who'd masterfully created him. Everything Harvey Dent stood for, everything he fought for, that Rachel Dawes died for, was undone. In the end, the Joker took who was supposed to be the best of the three of them and turned him into the worst of them. Not that Gotham would ever hear about that. What was truth and what was right took a backseat to necessity. It had too. There was just no other choice but for it too. The hope of an entire city now rest upon a _lie_.

How was a father to explain this to his son, though? Especially a father who prided himself upon teaching his children the difference between right and wrong? Gordon crouched down, settling not quite steady hands upon his son's trembling shoulders and looking into those accusatory eyes before saying, "Son, Batman is the hero which Gotham deserves, but not the one that the city needs right now. He knows that and chooses to make himself the bad guy in order to give the city what it needs the most: hope. So we'll hunt him, condemn him, and call him things which we know are not true. Because while Batman is not our hero, he is our silent guardian, our watchful protector... our dark knight."

His son slowly nodded, seemingly satisfied with his father's answer. Then he looked into his father's solemn eyes and asked, "Do you think he'll be back one day?"

Gordon heaved a soft sigh and did his best to give James Jr. a reassuring smile. "Yes, son, I do." He gave a nod of his head. "Yes, I think he will be back. When the time is right, and the city needs its dark knight to rise again, he'll be there to protect her."

Even as he spoke those words, though, Gordon found himself wondering about the man whose face he had never seen, but like all of Gotham had often wondered about. _Will I ever see you again_? He wondered, his eyes searching the shadows. _Will I ever be able to tell the world how it was you who saved the day, and not Dent_?

_Will Gotham actually see its true knight again_?


	2. Help Me

**A/N**: Hello m'dears…hope the week will be a good one to you!

Please, if you like this story, click the follow/favorite button. Also, reviews are deeply cherished!

**S/N:** I wanna thank NeoMiniTails for helping with looking this over and making some helpful and mucho appreciated suggestions!

* * *

Blood was pouring from the gunshot wound, warm and gooey like melted chocolate sliding down over the rigid contours of his midsection. His vision was beginning to fracture at the corners and his breath was coming in tattered gasps. The red fog he was dreading was slowly passing into gray. He could not afford to stop and rest though, could not even pause to call the one person, the only person left in this city who could come to his aide. He could not chance it, could not risk putting Alfred in danger should he be caught.

What he'd feared most had come to pass. He'd failed to save Harvey Dent, and failed to protect Rachel. He would not fail his city as well. He'd give them the hope they needed, and a martyr to believe in by allowing them to think of him as the monster who'd murdered dozens of innocent people. Gotham needed a hero with a face, even if that face was a badly scarred one.

_I'm not a hero, _he thought silently. _I'm not meant to be a hero. I am not meant to be anything but what Gotham needs me to be._

He was experiencing flashes of dizziness now. Pain rippled as he leapt from one cobbled roof to the next. He'd given up the Batpod and taken to the roofs when dozens of squad cars came out of nowhere to give him chase. He would not allow for any more innocent people to be hurt on account of him. He felt a honeyed stickiness from where the Joker stabbed him forming a film on his side, knew the wound had reopened, was weeping fresh blood.

This wound, much like the other one, was not superficial. It went deep, deeper even than the bullet which had pierced his armor. He needed medical help. He had no idea about how much blood he'd lost at this point, or about how much farther he could go before sheer physical exhaustion and trauma would tumble him into the oblivion lurking at the edge of his visionary field. He didn't have long, but maybe it'd be long enough for him to find some place in which he could lay low for a few days, recuperate and regroup. He gathered himself, went to leap to another roof but he didn't jump far enough-

His fall was broken by heaping piles of garbage and other refuse lining the alley below. As his body slammed into the mountain of trash, he spooked out an old gray tabby cat who'd been navigating the debris field for his nightly feast. Sylvester screeched as he tore his way outta the alley, his cry loud and tinny in his ears. He lay there among the fetid waste, gasping for his every breath, trying not to throw up the contents of his stomach while mentally scanning his body, seeking out if he had broken bones on top of his other injuries. None; at least, none that he could detect at any rate. He worked his way out of the mounds of offal and struggled to regain his balance. His head swam and he let out a low moan as he staggered down the street. A figure, hands held up, slowly approached from the shadows on his right.

"Hey, you okay?" he heard a soft, lyrical voice ask. "You just took a pretty serious fall there. Maybe you should sit down and let me call for some help."

Batman stepped into the light of a streetlamp-a haggard, black figure with blood dripping onto the pavement.

"Help me," he said in a hoarse whisper before sinking to his knees. Gentle hands grabbed him before he toppled face forward to the ground. Night blooming jasmine wafted up to soothe his offended olfactory senses, his frayed nerves. He tried to gather his strength, tried to push back to his feet, but his vision dimmed and his strength gave out. He sunk against the warm softness of his co-conspirator and gave himself over to the dogs waiting to claim his dark soul. The last thing he remembered before nirvana claimed him was that musical voice pleading, "stay with me, Batman."

* * *

Erin Tate dragged in a ragged breath and wrapped her arms about herself as she continued her slow pace beside the bed. In the overstuffed recliner by the fireplace would be a more comfortable position in which to continue her long nights vigil, but she didn't dare move even a few inches away from the man who was literally fighting the hounds of hell for his very soul. Outside the wind howled and slapped against the windows; she fought not to do the same.

She'd used what few modern medical means she'd had available to do what she could for him. She'd stitched the knife wound in his side, dug the bullet out of his midsection and cleaned as well as dressed the wounds. What precious little antibiotics she had left over from an abscess she'd given him the night before. Without a way in which to get more (it wasn't like she could either phone in a prescription or take him to a free clinic in order to get him better medical care) she had to rely on homeopathic remedies.

All throughout the long day and night since Batman collapsed in her arms outside her brownstone, she'd bathed his feverish body with water she'd infused with chamomile, lavender, jasmine, passion flowers and several types of mint. She'd painstakingly coaxed liquids into him. She'd made poultices from sea salts in order to stave off infection and promote healing. Whatever her mind, her mother's texts on homeopathic remedies and the internet said would help him with his fight against the hellhounds hunting him, she did.

Her minuscule and fumbling medical efforts had been enough to hold him to life thus far, but it was only the beginning of what Erin suspected was going to become a long, tiresome battle with the Grim Reaper. The only thing she'd been thankful for was that the bullet which had pierced his abdomen had not gone deep. She suspected the reason for that was because of whatever protectants he'd built into his suit. Whatever had slowed the speed of the bullet was the only thing which prevented that gunshot from being a fatal one.

Sighing, Erin turned and walked to the window. She was in need of a change in scenery. For a change in perspective. Thoughts were whirling round in her head, spinning faster than that Scrambler ride she'd loved riding as a kid. She couldn't concentrate on much of anything, really. She was far too consumed by the terrifying prospect that the man in her bed might not awaken from the deep sleep (she refused to even _consider _he was in a coma) he'd fallen into.

How was she to explain to the good people of Gotham about why she chose to bring the city's most wanted man into her home? How was she to justify to them about why she'd chosen to nurse his injuries when he stood accused of being an accessory to the murder of Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes and attempted murder of District Attorney Harvey Dent? How could she explain to them just why it was she was choosing to shelter a man who willingly operated outside the law and was the cause behind why dozens of innocent Gothamites were lying dead?

She couldn't.

She wouldn't.

Quite simply, Erin Tate did not hold with the general opinion about how Batman was to blame for the chaos which had so recently engulfed the city. Outside her brownstone, Gotham and her people were sweetly ignorant of the lies they were being fed by their city officials. Inside her tiny one bedroom apartment was another story entirely. Erin knew corruption and crime was like peanut butter and jelly- neither one tended to exist without the other. Not in this city at least.

Blaming Batman for the Joker's actions, for his pathological madness and hunger for anarchy was simply illogical in her opinion. Other psychotic murderers had ripped a path of homicidal mayhem through Gotham over the years. Some, like Victor Zsasz, had been terrorizing Gotham long before the Batman had first flown into their city. It was piss poor management on the part of their illustrious Mayor to put the blame for what was happening on the man who was passed out in her bed. Piss poor thinking and sheer, outright escape goating in her opinion.

_He didn't kill the Joker when he had the chance, _she thought while staring up at the silvery moon playing peek-a-boo with the smooth velvet night and the splattering of pillowy clouds dancing across the sky. _Nor has he tried to kill any SWAT members or police officers whenever they try to take him prisoner._

Not that the police or city officials who were calling for his head had stopped to consider any of those facts. Not that they cared she realized, a frown pulling dark eyebrows down over the bridge of her nose. Someone needed to pay for what had happened and so they'd chosen this man as the one who was going to do it. As if he hadn't paid enough was her opinion. She'd seen the myriad of scars marring that smooth flesh, felt the dozens of ridges and burrs which had told her his nocturnal career came with a hefty price tag. A fee he'd more than willingly paid for the last few years.

_He's only a man, _she thought as she rest her forehead against the cool windowpane. _And he can be beaten, bested and broken on any given night of the week._

She heard a soft exhalation of air come from behind her and turned to walk back to the bed. She laid her fingers against his cheek, and whispered nonsensical words to soothe him. As she comforted the fractious man she mentally reviewed her treatment, searching for any options she had not yet tried, for any herbs she had not yet used, and any other medical methods that might work. She'd done everything (as depressing as that realization was) she could.

Without having the power of a God, a pharmacy or an entire team of doctors at her disposal, she simply could not do any better than she had. Quelling a shudder, Erin resumed pacing by the bed, where she would always be, every moment, until he awakened. Until she knew he was safely out of the path of death's danger. No, Erin Tate did not care about what Gotham believed Batman had done or what they thought him to be.

All she knew was that beneath the pointy eared cowl (the only part of his armament she'd left him wearing out of respect for his privacy), was a man. A man who was currently fighting death with every ounce of strength left in his body. A man whose blood had coated her hands, stained her best sheets, spilled upon her apartment floor. A man who'd pleaded with her, a _stranger_, to "help" him. For her, his plea for aide was the only thing that mattered.

Somewhere near dawn, he began to mumble and thrash about in the bed. Fearing he'd tear his stitches, Erin hurried to his side, placing her hand against his whisker rough cheek to soothe him and found his flesh was burning to the touch. Her spirits plummeted as the gravity of his situation sunk home. A fever was the absolute last thing he needed at that moment. A fever indicated an infection. A fever would sap what little strength this heroic man had, pulling him closer and closer to the realm of death. The hands of the clock were already ticking when Erin set her scuffed and mangled teapot on the stove. Yet, it was the eerie howl she thought she heard as she added willow tree bark to the water which terrified her the most.


	3. Where are you?

**A/N**: Hello m'dears… hope the week will be a good one to you!

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* * *

Somewhere deep in the bowels of Blackgate Penitentiary, a man sat in his solitary cell, cackling a deep, throaty laugh. Not only were his the hands which had manipulated the strings of chaos and anarchy that had been wrought upon the city of Gotham five nights ago, but _he_ was also the puppet master who had taken the city's supposed White Knight and turned him Dark. His eyes glinted with his glee, and his mangled lips formed a smile which was so chilling that his arachnoid visitor quickly scurried into one lone crack in the wall in order to avoid becoming a casualty of this man's madness.

* * *

Jim Gordon had had a long night, and an even longer week. He crawled into bed just after three, lay still, got up, smoked a cigarette while he paced in front of his son's empty bed, laid back down and gave up pretending to even try to sleep by four-thirty. It was as good a time as any to go to work. He dressed and scribbled a note to Barbara (in case she changed her mind and came home), tacked it on the refrigerator at a quarter past five, and drove through the semi-deserted streets to the grotesque building which was the scene of _two_ gristly deaths.

There was nobody here to pay homage to the man and woman who'd had their lives tragically cut short by the manically manipulative clown currently sitting in a cell at Blackgate. The warehouse sat silent as the tomb it was, the secrets of what it knew nothing but a faint whisper upon the breeze which slid through his hair like ghostly fingers. What had really happened here five nights ago was a story he shared only with one other man, a man who'd sacrificed his own legacy and reputation in order to give the city of Gotham what it so desperately needed. Batman's selfless act, his choosing to become the villain was all that was preserving the name and reputation of Harvey Dent.

And it was all one big fat _lie_.

Fury and grief surged within him for the lies he was being forced to tell. Dent had been a man whom Gordon considered a friend, an ally. He'd believed in Dent and everything the District Attorney had stood for. He'd imagined the city as it was going to be once Dent managed to clear it of the filth littering its streets. Yet all of that ceased to matter the moment Dent put a revolver to his son's head and placed whether he'd live or die upon the toss of a coin. His son, his own precious son, had trembled in the arms of the onetime crusader, trying to be brave despite his obvious fear. How James Jr. managed to not cry while his father pleaded desperately with Dent to spare his son's life he did not know. Nonetheless, he was immensely proud of his son for not giving into his fear. However, nobody knew about this part of the story. It was a part of the truth he was forced to conceal in order to give Gotham the hope, and the hero it needed.

_Needed_, Gordon thought darkly. _Most definitely not the hero it actually deserves, though_.

No, the hero Gotham deserved was now an outlaw on the run from the very system he'd been fighting on the side of. It was another lie-one of a handful in which Gordon was being forced to tell in order to preserve the necessary illusion that was needed to be maintained so that law and order could be restored to Gotham. The only slight bit of truth he'd been able to tell was about how Dent had shot Batman with his gun after he'd been knocked to the ground. Even that, though, was coated in a half-truth which stuck in his throat every time he was forced to repeat the story.

_Will Gotham ever know the truth about what happened here that night_? Gordon wondered as he slowly turned his car and headed to the precinct.

_Will they ever know about what you did?_

And will they ever forgive us for the lies we've told?

Gordon sure as hell hoped so.

* * *

It had been five days since he'd last heard from Master Bruce and the worry was beginning to take a toll upon the normally staid and proper Alfred. He'd gotten a hasty call from Master Bruce and knew Harvey Dent had somehow become a pawn in the game being played by the madman terrorizing the city. Like the rest of Gotham, Alfred could do nothing but hold his breath while the police and Batman raced to stop the Joker from accomplishing whatever fiendish plot he'd concocted.

When Bruce had called to tell him Dent had been turned by the Joker, he'd been in disbelief. His skepticism gave way to shock when the news reports began slowly trickling in; all of them saying Gotham's white knight had been killed at the hands of Batman. Not for one minute did Alfred Pennysworth believe that his employer murdered the District Attorney in the cold blood the police and the news reports were saying. Master Bruce was many things, and some things Alfred routinely lamented over, but a killer was just not one of them. Something on the television caught his attention; a cheap looking Batman cowl sitting atop a coffin as it was being lowered into a grave. Alfred's heart stopped as the question he'd been dreading was splashed across the screen in big, eerily yellow letters.

**BATMAN DEAD?**

Alfred picked up the remote and turned up the volume. The image changed, from the macabre image of that plastic mask with its misshapen eyeholes staring up blankly from out of that hellish pit to a well-groomed anchorman who was saying; "Police have confirmed today that the vigilante known as Batman is dead. His identity has yet to be released, but the mood today at the Major Crimes Unit was a celebratory one. Investigative reporter Lindsay Vickers spoke with Detective Jeffrey Hol-"

Alfred switched off the television with a hand that was trembling. He told himself if Master Bruce was dead that he'd have known about it. The police would have knocked down the penthouse doors as soon as they discovered Batman's identity and arrested him as an accomplice. That left only three question's upon the mind of the butler: _who is the man the police are claiming to be Batman_? And even more importantly, _where are you Master Bruce? And why have you not returned home_?

* * *

Lucius Fox sat in his office, listening to the news broadcast while he looked out over the slowly waking city. He, too, did not believe that Bruce Wayne was dead. If he was, Lucius did not believe he'd be sitting in this chair and preparing for an early morning conference call. Not that he suspected Bruce would have named him as an accomplice. Oh, no. He did not think that at all. He might have doubted the man's nocturnal alter-ego and questioned the lengths to which Batman would go in order to bring a rotten bastard to justice, but he did not question the honor of Bruce, himself. That left two questions in Lucius's mind: _who is the man the police believe to be Batman_? And finally, _where is Bruce Wayne_?

* * *

Erin jolted awake on the fifth morning after Batman's long ordeal began. She'd fallen asleep on the floor by the side of the bed somewhere near dawn, her small and pale hand clenched tight by his much larger tanned one. With a groan she sat up, her head throbbing with a headache caused by a lack of sleep, stress and much too much caffeine. The fever which had overtaken Batman had burned steadily for the last four days. She'd used every technique she knew, tried every solution she could find in a book and on the internet for how best to bring his fever under control. In desperation, she'd called her mother (who was all the way in Ireland) in order to ask her about what more she could do (without giving away just who it was she was treating, of course) to combat the fever waging war upon his body. Her mother, a holistic nurse for the last twenty-five years told her she'd done everything she, herself, would have done and that all she could do now was to "wait and watch."

Erin had never experienced something quite as difficult as having to sit by a bedside and watch; listen as a man fought the demons pouring liquid hell through his veins and dumping liquefied petroleum gas upon the conflagration raging deep within the bowels of his soul. Erin lifted her head to stare at the masked figure. Her heart was a myriad of slices that were dripping red tears. The sight of his pain; the sound of it, had carved dozens of tiny holes into that soft muscle. She hated seeing anything, anyone, in pain. She sighed once as she laid her fingers upon his warm cheek. He was still a bit pale, the skin beneath her fingers slick with dew and warmed by a biological fire. His temperature was, thankfully, not as high as it'd been the night before. A scruffy beard had grown, concealing the gauntness of his cheeks. He looked more than faintly disreputable and quite unlike his usual suave and well groomed self.

Oh, yes, Erin thought now, she knew who the man beneath that black cowl was. How could she not know who he was? She silently asked herself. For the past five days she'd been the one he confessed his _sins_ too. She listened to him apologize to his dead parents for being a disappointment to them, heard him as he professed his love to the murdered Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes, begged a city full of strangers to forgive him for having failed to better protect them, and pleaded for forgiveness from a man named Alfred for not leaving the Joker to the police.

Who the man was beneath the cowl was a secret she, like everyone else in Gotham, had speculated about for the past year. Who their caped avenger was had been the fodder of the gossip going on at every water fountain in the city. She'd never counted upon learning who Batman really was though. Nor had she anticipated how it was Gotham's own prodigal son, its seeming wayward child who was the city's silent protector. Not that it mattered one way or the other to her.

Whether Batman was a poor man from the Narrows or the fabulously affluent Bruce Wayne changed nothing. He was still their silent guardian, still their dark knight, still the man who'd risked _his_ life in order to keep people like _her_, safe. _And he needs my help now_. What her knight was in need of was more willow bark tea. She winced as stiff muscles shrieked in protest when she climbed to her feet. She turned to limp into her tiny kitchen. Erin was in the process of filling the teapot with water when she heard him scream from her bedroom; "Rachel!"

Fearful he'd rip his stitches open while in another of his feverish deliriums, Erin dropped the teapot in the sink and scurried into the bedroom. She found him sitting bolt upright in the bed, his brown eyes glittering with fire, his skin slick with fresh perspiration.

"Rachel?"

"I'm not Rachel." She crossed over to the bed and checked to make sure he had not torn open his stitches. He hadn't. "Please, lay back now."

He looked up at her. His eyes were dilated with fever. "She was going to wait for me."

"Shh," she crooned while gently stroking his cheek. The heat from his skin nearly singed her fingers. Damn, there went her hope that the fever was going down. "She'll still be waiting for you when you are better."

It was a lie she'd told him the dozens of other times he'd imagined her to be slain attorney.

"No," he whispered, and the rawness of his voice hurt her to hear, the low, primal sound of his grief hitting her like an invisible fist to her belly. "She's dead. They're all dead." He hung his head. "All because of me."

Erin's heart constricted. The people of Gotham were blaming Batman for being the problem, and not the solution. Their own Mayor was saying he was a stain which needed to be cleansed from their city's streets. The police were hunting him because they'd been told to treat him like a criminal. Yet nothing they said about him, that they did to him, compared to what this man was doing to himself. His guilt was a tangible force laying cold and clammy fingers across her skin. Healing his physical body was something she could do. Healing his soul was something only time could do.

"Just lay down," she said gently. "Please."

"Hot," he rasped. "It feels like a fire is burning me from the inside out."

"Tis the fever," she told him. "Now, lay back and I will get you a damp cloth which will help cool you down some."

His eyes narrowed as they studied her face. "Who are you?"

"Erin Tate."

Her name was still as foreign to him today as it'd been the six other times she'd told it to him. Batman's face (what she could see of it) tightened. She saw the exhaustion haunting his features, the pale draw of it in his face. He leaned back on one elbow; he was so weak, his body shook with the effort.

"Why didn't you leave me in the streets?"

"Because you asked me to help you," Erin replied firmly. "And you are a man worth saving. You can't see that, not right now, I know." She gently pushed him back against the pillows. "But one day you will."

"You're wrong..." he whispered even as his eyes dropped and fell shut.


	4. It doesn't matter

**A/N**: Hello m'dears… hope the week will be a good one to you!

Please, if you like this story, click the follow/favorite button. Also, reviews are deeply cherished!

**S/N:** Sorry for the lateness of the chapter, had the muse attack on a couple of other projects!

* * *

_He was falling down a long dark shaft. There was a high pitched shriek, like that of a banshee, and the silky wet rustle of wings. Dozens of winking yellow orbs were studying him from the darkness. A black, winged figure loomed from out of the shadows, it's great gaping maw and glistening fangs looming closer and closer._..

Bruce finally managed to lever open his eyes, slowly regaining consciousness. Quite why his eyes were so heavy was still a bit of a mystery, but he'd finally gotten them to open as he'd demanded. Still a bit groggy, Bruce took a moment to evaluate himself and his surroundings. He was lying on his back on a soft bed. He stared upward at a ceiling that was painted (rather beautifully he thought) to reflect the zodiac as they appeared in the night sky.

Curtains in a faded shade of robin egg blue, a bit tattered and frayed at the seams were covering the window he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. Two bookshelves piled high with a sea of books in different shapes, sizes, and condition were directly in front of the bed. An old steamer trunk served as a nightstand, and the bedside lamp had a plain silver base with a shade hand painted to reflect fairies dancing through a forest. In all, the effects reminded him of a whimsical, simple, and very _feminine_ sort of room.

Deeper introspection revealed he was quite naked beneath the cool cotton sheets covering him. Where his Batsuit was, he did not know, but a cursory glance at that steamer trunk provided one possible location. His head and abdomen throbbed and his throat was parched. He felt whiskers scraping against his cowl when he turned his head, the raspy sound as loud as a marching band in the silence of the room. He tried to sit up, only to experience a jolt of white hit pain across his chest, through his lower abdominal area. He sank back into the soft ticking, gasping with his agony.

It all came rushing back to him then.

Dent. The warehouse. Being shot. Running for his life...

Someone stirred to his right, and he realized he wasn't alone in the room. He turned his head and spied a woman settled in a chair beside the bed. Her gaze was fixated upon the pages of the worn and obviously well loved book that was open in her lap. She was an undeniably pleasant sight to awaken too; he drank it in, let it soothe away some of his anxiety, as well as the lingering pain and lethargy which were gripping him in their grasp. Something about her was familiar, but he couldn't quite figure out what that was, or why.

She wasn't beautiful, not in the classical sense. Her hair was a flaming halo surrounding a face of rose and cream. There was a dusting of golden freckles sweeping over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. That nose was small and straight, her mouth wide and full. He saw faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth which suggested she laughed often, but also tended to frown when she was deep in thought. She was a pretty thing, of that there was no doubt. Slender and small-framed, small of features as well. But for those eyes. He'd imagined them to be emerald green to complement the burning nature of her hair, but they were not. They were long and dominant in that face of hers, and gray as the fog which rolled through the city in the early spring.

It shouldn't be familiar, he thought, frowning slightly. The elements of her face shouldn't trigger any type of feeling or memory in him whatsoever. Yet, there was a tingling at the back of his mind which said he knew her. He drew in a deep breath, and brought his gaze back to her face. He noticed there were smudges beneath her eyes, black as fresh bruises. She yawned at that moment, lifted a hand to smother it, then blinked her eyes wide as she refocused upon her book. Bruce frowned; his companion was undeniably pale, unquestionably drawn. His frown deepened as he speculated upon why that was. She must have felt his frown because she looked up; startled, the first thing she noticed was that his eyes were absolutely free and clear of the fever which had been plaguing him the last five days. Her heart soared, only to plummet a second later. He was frowning darkly. At _her. _He made again to sit up, but she stayed him by setting her hand against his chest.

"Don't try and sit-up," she said in that melodious voice he'd thought he'd only imagined in his dreams. "You could tear your stitches open and start bleeding all over again."

"Where am I?" he croaked in a voice he barely recognized as his own.

"You're in the Narrows." Her fingers fluttered over the lower part of his cheek for just an instant, like the flutter of butterfly wings. "In my apartment to be more specific," she said, smiling crookedly.

"Who are you?"

"Erin," she replied. "Erin..."

"Tate." He remembered now. He looked up into her face. "You asked me if I was okay."

"Yes," she agreed with a nod. "You'd just fallen off the roof of my building. You were barely able to stand up."

Bruce tried to gather his fragmented memories together, but the events were muddled by a pain so fierce it stole his breath away. Her hand settled, warm and gentle, upon his shoulder.

"You should rest."

"No," he gritted even as she blurred before his eyes, the darkness threatening to rise up and again claim him. "Why did you bring me into your home?"

"You asked me to help you right before you passed out in my arms," she replied. "My apartment was the closest, and safest place I could bring you given the condition you were in."

"You shouldn't have..."

"And what was I supposed to do?" she asked, a crackle of what might have been anger thickening the touch of the Irish he heard in her voice. "Leave you lying unconscious and bleeding in the street outside my house? I think not."

"I'm a..."

"A what?" she cut in. "A vigilante? A murderer? A criminal? Pah!" she waved a hand dismissively. "You be in my world now, Batman." She settled upon the bed beside him and began a cursory inspection of his injuries. Quietly she said, "Those are all words which have vastly different meanings here in the Narrows."

"How can those words have different meanings here in the Narrows?"

She glanced at him, and he saw those oh, so expressive eyes flicker with something. Something wet and dark and brutally familiar. _Anger,_ he realized. About what, though? he wondered.

"Here in the Narrows," she was saying softly. "You quickly learn how the lines of the law are not painted in black and white. Here, the good guys can also turn out to be the bad guys. And the bad guys?" Her voice was bitter with pain, and thick with memories that started to dance upon his senses. "Well, the bad guys just might be the ones who wear the badges, and call themselves the officers of the law."

In all his years, Bruce had never met with such cool derision, or such frothy disdain for the law. Those eyes which had been dove gray just a few moments before now glinted like hell smoke with barely contained rage.

"The law has failed you."

"The law has failed many in this city," she said bitterly. "That is why we believe in Batman."

"You shouldn't believe in me," he said with just a trace of his own bitterness in his voice. "I failed Gotham. I fail..."

"Pardon my French here," Erin said over him. "But that is complete and utter bullshit."

Bruce started. Not even Alfred would think to address him quite _that_ bluntly. Then he fixed her with a stare, one burning, blistering glare which should have cowed her on the spot. Erin surprised him by merely facing his glare with one of her own.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he rasped.

"The hell I don't," she growled right back at him. "_I_ dug the bullet outta your gut. _I_ stitched the knife wound in your damned side. _I_ have been the one to bathe your body as it fought from being engulfed in flames. _I_ have sat here at your bedside, around the clock for the past six days mind, painstakingly coaxing liquids into you and watching as you fought the demons trying to consume your very soul. So don't tell me I don't know what I am talking about," she bit out in a voice charged with emotion. "Because I know a damned sight more than you think I do. And a damned sight more than I should, I admit."

Bruce was flabbergasted. "How long have I been unconscious?" he asked hoarsely.

"Six days."

"Six days?" he stared over at the window, saw sunlight beaming through the curtains. Alfred would have worried himself into a state by now. He'd only been able to manage a thirty second phone call to the butler before he'd rushed into the abandoned warehouse to confront Harvey Dent. "I've been here _six _days?" he mumbled incredulously.

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod. "You have been."

"Why can't I remember so much time passing?"

"Probably because you have been either unconscious, or delirious from the fever for most of that time."

He looked at her. He wanted to ask about his delirious state and what he may have revealed while he was in such an agitated state, but he was afraid of the answer. She'd removed his Batsuit in order to tend his wounds. Yet, she'd left his cowl. Whether that was because she suspected he had something built into the cowl to prevent his enemies from discovering his identity, or chose to leave it as a sign of respect, he did not know. What concerned him at that moment was what she knew, and how much of it. Something told him it was a lot. Something also told him that asking her directly would gain him the answers he wanted.

"You removed my Batsuit, but you left my cowl. Why?"

"I left it on out of respect." Erin pushed to her feet and walked to the window. She moved the frilly curtains to the side and stared at the street below. It was empty save for a few older kids lounging on the stoop of the brownstone across from hers. "What was said was said while you were not in control of your thoughts, or your actions."

He let out a heavy sigh. "You do know who I am then."

"It doesn't matter whether or not I do know who Batman is. For me, knowing is about trust and respect. When _you _decide to tell me, to show me who the man is beneath that mask is when I will know. Until then I will continue to feign ignorance about your identity." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "I will say this, however. Whether Batman is a poor man from the Narrows or the fabulously affluent Bruce Wayne changes nothing for me. Batman is still this city's silent guardian. He is still our dark knight, our symbol of hope, our costumed hero. He is still the man who risked his life in order to keep people like me safe from a garishly painted freak. And he is the hero who stopped another monster from rising up to replace him."

"No," he whispered, and the rawness of his voice hurt her to hear, the low, primal sound of his grief hitting her like an invisible fist to her belly. "I'm no hero." He struggled to sit up. The effort nearly sent him tumbling back into unconsciousness. He hammered back the darkness with a force of will that had beads of sweat dotting his brow, and his upper lip. "A real hero would have stopped the Joker long before he killed so many innocent people."

Erin turned to see he'd pushed his covers back, was making to sit up. "Where exactly do you think you are going?"

"I need to return home." He bit out on a groan. "My being here places you in danger. They will arrest you, charge you as an accomplice at the very least."

She harrumphed. "Let them come and arrest me. There are plenty in this city who would willingly go to jail for helping you."

"I won't let you get hurt because of me," he gritted. "I won't let anybody else be hurt because of me."

"Yes, well," she said smartly. "You are not strong enough to manage getting home. The probability of you being caught by the dozens of police scouring the city for you is threefold what it is if you remain here with me for a few more days."

He raised his head and fixed her with a hard glare—one which had made many a thug tell him exactly what it was that he wanted to know. Erin again met his glare unflinchingly. Bruce hesitated, considered his options and how he was unable to move without agony punching him in the spine. Then he groaned, grimaced, and lay back down.

"You _may _have a point, Ms. Tate."

"Of course I have a point." Shaking her head, Erin walked over to tug the covers back over him. "You've been at death's door-_literally_!-for six days. You cannot simply open your eyes and-" she gestured wildly with her hands. "Put on your Batsuit and go traipsing through the city. It is simply not doable. Not this time."

No, Erin Tate wasn't beautiful, Bruce thought silently while she fussed over him. He'd had his choice of a number of great beauties through the years-as a billionaire playboy it was expected he'd consort with only the most sophisticated and loveliest of ladies. Yet there was something to be said about the understated beauty of faith. Even the flashiest of women paled in comparison to this one. Because they lacked her good heart and gentle soul. What little strength he had evaporated then and darkness rose up to again claim him. His eyes dropped and fell shut.


	5. The question is why?

**A/N**: Hello m'dears… hope the week will be a good one to you!

Please, if you like this story, click the follow/favorite button. Also, reviews are deeply cherished!

* * *

"You cheated!" Bruce stated while eyeing the bowl set on the bed tray balanced across his lap with revulsion. "There is no possible way you could have drawn an inside straight like that without having a few cards hidden somewhere up your sleeve."

"I did not have to cheat," Erin declared with a smug look. "_You_ are just terrible at poker. Which, given what your nocturnal career is, is ironic to say the least."

He snorted and dipped his spoon into the light, fragrant broth. "I tend to look at my nocturnal career as being like a game of chess."

"Poker, chess," she said, shrugging lightly. "They are both games of chance."

"Meaning that you cannot predict the outcomes because both have an infinite number of possible ways in which they can end."

"Yes."

He sat up, lifted a glass of water from the makeshift steamer trunk nightstand, and drank from it. "You realize that I have now lost playing both games."

She took the glass from him and left the room in order to refill it. Bruce hid a smile as he heard her muttering beneath her breath. She took serious issue with his stance that he'd failed Gotham. She returned a mintute later and handed him the glass.

"Problem?" he asked, one dark brow lifting.

"No," she replied. "Now be a good boy and eat your soup."

He wrinkled his nose as he once again stared at the hearty vegetable soup she'd brought him. "What's in it?"

Her lips curved upwards in amusement. For all that he was Gotham's strong and resilient warrior, he could certainly be a big baby when it came to being sick and injured. No matter, she thought as she moved about the room, putting away stray items. She'd nursed her eight equally as difficult brothers during their various maladies. She could certainly handle whatever crankiness this one could throw at her. "There be a plethora of nice and healthy vegetables in that soup. Vitamins and minerals," she added, "which will help you with rebuilding a strong and healthy body."

Bruce snorted. "It's not only a plethora of nice and healthy vegetables that I need to help me with rebuilding my body." His expression mutinous, he poked at a piece of zucchini with his spoon. "I also need to get out of this bed. I need to begin rebuilding my strength through some physical training as well." After a seconds debate, he set aside the spoon and glowered at her. "Its been a week since my fever broke, Erin."

"I know it has been a week." Turning, Erin met his gaze. "But you are barely capable of walking to the bathroom without that knee giving way beneath you." If she heard his grumble, she paid it no mind. She just went right on with her point by saying, "Just showering yesterday was enough to wear you out."

He made a face at that bit of truth. It was positively humiliating to him how a ten-minute shower had required a three-hour nap afterwards. "That is why I need to start exercising. Building my strength and endurance back through physical movement is as important as nourishing it with the right foods."

Erin sighed and struggled to retain her patience. "You are not ready to resume any type of training regime at this time, Bruce."

Hearing the way his name rolled off her tongue had his belly curling into slippery knots. It wasn't desire, he told himself. It was something altogether different. What though, he could not quite put his finger upon. The way his name sounded on her lips managed to settle and soothe him when he was feeling out of sorts. It melted the ice flowing through his veins, chased away the darkness piercing at his soul with razor sharp knives, and made him feel as if he was more than just a failure. He liked listening to her speak, especially when she was riled up. Her accent became more pronounced when she was either annoyed or speaking passionately about something she believed. He'd found himself sparking debates with her in order to rouse her ire just so he could have that lyrical cadence wash over him.

_And nothing sparks her temper better than pointing out how much I have failed as Batman_.

Bruce ran a hand over his face to hide the slight smirk his thought inspired. Since his awakening from his fever seven days ago, he'd learned there was no swaying Erin about her faith and belief in Batman as being a symbol of hope and strength for the people of Gotham. It was her dedication and unwavering support of him and his objectives that ultimately convinced him to dispense with his cowl. It was pointless to maintain the pretense of anonymity, anyway. Erin knew his identity as Bruce Wayne; she knew his every dark and tormented secret in fact. _She could have told the world_, he thought, studying her silently. _She could have made a fortune by sharing my identity and secrets while I was unable to defend myself. She didn't. And I am positive that she never will_. Deceit and selfishness were just not in this woman's nature.

"I am well enough to get out of this bed, Erin," he told her finally in a firm tone.

"You have lost a lot of blood," she stated, "and have wounds which are still healing and which you could reopen are you not careful." And then she glared at him. "You also had a fever attack your body and weaken it considerably."

"I know..." he began but Erin held a hand up to indicate she was not done talking. Bruce fell silent, but gave her a look that said he was not amused by her general like command. She didn't care whether or not he was amused by it. She wasn't overly amused at the moment either if the truth be told.

"With how high your fever was," she elucidated, "it would generally take a normal man weeks before he'd be able to get out of that bed and resume any type of physical training regimen."

"Weeks?" Horrified, Bruce could only stare at her. Then he said in a strong, clear voice. "I am not going to remain confined to this bed for weeks!"

Erin smiled at him reassuringly. He saw her expression, though, was no less adamant than it had been a few minutes before. "Injuries aside, you are quite a healthy man," she said. "That fact has greatly aided in your recovery. However," she said when she saw the triumphant expression flicker upon his face. "That does not mean you can hop outta that bed and immediately begin training as you would like." She set her hand upon his shoulder. "Take it day-by-day, Bruce. There's no rush."

Bruce glowered threateningly at her, but his glare drifted into a disgruntled sigh when he saw the militant look in her eyes. He'd come up against _that _look plenty this week. In a battle between her and the Joker, he'd almost prefer facing off with the Joker. There he felt more on even grounds and could slam the clown's head against the wall in order to expel some of the frustration coursing through him.

"Alfred," he said with a ghost of a smile hovering about his lips. "Will positively love you."

"Why?" she asked curiously.

"You don't let me run roughshod over you for one thing," he replied. "And you tend to yell back whenever I yell at you."

She snorted. "I am the youngest of nine children," she told him with a smile. "And I'm the only girl at that. I've learned how to not be dominated by cranky, overbearing and demanding men."

Bruce snorted and said, "I am not overbearing." After a second he added, "nor have I been demanding."

"But you admit to being cranky?"

"Alfred would tell you that I am a horrible patient."

She snorted a laugh. "I've learned that all on my own. Now eat your soup before it gets any colder."

He looked down at the bowl on his tray and poked at a carrot with his spoon. He then scooped up a spoonful and ate. Swallowing, he frowned at Erin, watching as she settled in the chair beside the bed with that infernal book that she habitually consulted when she needed new ideas for how to torture him.

"I am only doing this for you, you know."

Her lips trembled, curved at the ends. There was a spark of amusement in her eyes which had them softening into the color of fog. Bruce felt those knots become soft tendrils which glided over his senses, electrifying them. Then he heard her say, "I shall be eternally grateful for your sacrifice, _cara_." Some moments later, Erin added, the ends of her lips crooking upwards, "All of it, please."

Bruce complied. Aside from anything else, the soup was delicious and he _was_ hungry enough to eat a bear.

* * *

By the next morning, he really had had enough of bed rest. Being stuck in bed was his least favorite pastime, ever. He was not a man (despite his public persona) who was accustomed to lying in bed all day. At that moment, however, lying in bed was about all that he could do. There was no point in arguing with the woman about his getting up and moving around, either. He could not stand, much less walk, if his left knee kept giving out on him as soon as he put any weight upon it. Erin was convinced he'd damaged the knee in the fall which had subsequently claimed the life of Harvey Dent. Without an MRI machine, though, they didn't know the extinct of the damage or whether or not the injury was going to be a permanent one.

As far as he was concerned, he just needed to rehabilitate the damned thing. That particular point, given after she'd helped him off the floor the night before, had not done much to either incur her favor, or alleviate her anger with him for disobeying her directive to _rest_. He'd complied with her request today, told himself it was because his knee was throbbing like a bad tooth and not because he hated seeing that disappointed look upon her face. He'd managed to retrieve the burner phone he kept in a pouch on his utility belt (he'd been right that she'd hidden his Batsuit in that old steamer trunk) and contacted Alfred, finally alleviating the poor man's anxieties about his whereabouts and well-being. There'd been a note in his voice as they spoke that told Bruce there was a lecture about worrying an old man sick in his future. It was a lecture he knew he deserved.

"And are you ready to return home following your rest, sir?" the butler asked dryly.

"I was shot, Alfred. _Shot_. And _stabbed_."

"And been convalescing quite nicely in the company of a lovely young lady. Gotham high society would construe that as resting."

He let that go. He didn't much care what Gotham high society thought. "How do you know that Erin is lovely?" he quizzed. "You've never met her."

"A guess is all, sir."

Bruce snorted and thought, _a guess my left toe_. For a while, neither man spoke. Finally, he said, "You'll have to be careful when you come here. Where Erin lives is not exactly our neck of the woods."

"I know, Master Bruce. I promise that I will not come to get you in the Rolls-Royce. We wouldn't want some hooligan to steal the tires while we are visiting."

Bruce snorted a laugh and disconnected the call. He dropped the phone beside him on the bed before settling the computer that Erin had graciously allowed him the use of ("I have no secrets from you," she'd told him when he'd questioned why) while he was whiling away his time in bed. He contented himself with browsing the various news headlines, wanting to see what the fallout from that horrible night was despite his brain warning him about how he was better off not knowing. One headline in particular immediately caught his attention. Bruce felt his heart stop as he clicked on the link and saw the title of the article, dated from earlier that day, splash across the screen in big, bold letters.

**POLICE CONFIRM THAT BATMAN IS DEAD!**

The headline was accompanied by a long range photograph of him on back of the Batpod. A sidebar contained a chronology of Batman's career, starting with his takedown of the Falcone family. God it felt like that had happened a century ago rather than just the few years it had been. Quickly, Bruce scrolled past the blurb of Batman's alleged slaying of Harvey Dent until he came across the start of the story.

_Police confirm that the body recovered twelve days ago from an abandoned building is that of the masked vigilante known as Batman_...

Bruce looked up from the screen, reeling from the news. He had known the news was going to be bad, but he grasped the point of what he'd just read quite easily. And the implications of it were horribly, horribly clear.

"Erin?" he called out hoarsely. He cleared his throat, swallowed against the bile which rushed up, hot and acidic, to scorch his throat. "Erin!" he yelled, louder this time. She appeared in the door less than thirty seconds later, her eyes flashing concern and her eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline.

"What is it, Bruce?" she asked as she stepped to the bed. He responded by turning the computer towards her. Erin read the headline and felt the blood immediately drain from her face.

"God's blood," she whispered, "someone has murdered a man in order to convince Gotham you are dead. But," she said, looking at him. "Why? What point does making the world believe that Batman is dead make?"

"That's what we have to find out," Bruce said in the familiar throaty rasp.

* * *

**S/N:**

_Word translation:_

_cara_: friend in Gaelic


	6. Unexpected gifts

**A/N**: Hello m'dears… hope the week will be a good one to you!

Please, if you like this story, click the follow/favorite button. Also, reviews are deeply cherished!

**S/N:** I just want to make it clear that time is not skipping ahead, and I am not having the mayor announce the Dent Act, but the beginnings of what will eventually _become_ the Dent Act.

* * *

Things were rather quiet around the Major Crimes Unit that afternoon. Most of the on-duty crew was still in attendance at a press conference the mayor was holding downtown to announce the creation of the Dent Act, and those who weren't were scattered through the rest of Gotham's boroughs and handling a handful of petty B&E's, breaking up a couple of gang fights, investigating the odd homicide or two, interfering in a random domestic situation here and there. Only three cops were here, in the main bullpen at that moment, a twenty-year vet named Vacholmsky, rookie Dinah King and relative newcomer to the team, Detective Andrew Smith.

Detective Smith was the duty officer for the day, tasked with taking calls and directing them to wherever the hell they were supposed to go. He glanced at the boards, nodded, satisfied that all was quiet before he reached over to flip on the office television. He flipped to the all-news channel and sat down in a swivel chair near a row of silent telephones. Mayor Anthony Garcia was standing at the podium and speaking above the buzz from the crowd.

"Harvey Dent was a hero in every sense of the word. His courage and dedication in taking down the criminal empires who were ruling our city is what has saved us from ruin. It is appropriate, now, in the wake of his death that we honor his memory and what he stood for by announcing how we will soon be passing into law an act which will show that his sacrifice was not in vain." The Mayor paused to allow the raucous his announcement created to die down before he continued.

"This law was a dream of Harvey Dent's, and something he was working towards until his brutal murder at the hands of a masked vigilante in a cape. He wanted to see stricter penalties for the terrorists who are infecting this city. He wanted to make it more difficult for them to escape justice. He stood once on this platform and said that the inmates have been running the asylum for far too long. He was right. Well, with the formation of this act, we will take back the asylum and eliminate Gotham's need for costumed vigilantes. Thank you."

The mayor stepped down into the pit if waiting vipers that hissed and spit questions at him faster than an addict could shoot up. Clancy Matthews, a replacement for local big shot Mike Engels (who'd yet to return to work following his harried experience as a puppet of the Joker), shouldered his way to the front of the pack and stuck his microphone into the mayor's face.

"Mayor Garcia," Matthews was saying, "your office has been saying for the past month that the Batman is dead and that his threat is no longer a concern for the people of Gotham... but who's to say that there won't be another to rise up and take his place? Or that Batman wasn't working as part of a group?"

The mayor shifted, turning slightly towards the cameras aimed at him and said, "Well, we don't know that for certain..."

"Exactly! So I ask why your office has not then released the identity of the man whom you claim to be Batman? Why has there been all this secrecy for the last month if the Batman is truly dead?"

"Mr. Matthews, the Major Crimes Unit has kept the identity of the vigilante known as Batman a secret because the investigation is ongoing one."

"And why is it an ongoing one?"

"Discovering whether or not Batman has friends who helped him terrorize this city is important to bringing justice to the good man who was murdered as a direct cause of the vigilante's actions. Anybody who was involved in helping Batman will be arrested and tried for their involvement."

The mayor turned to walk away but Matthews fired off one more question before the man could escape into his waiting retinue of private bodyguards. "Are the police near to making any arrests then?"

Garcia glanced over at the reporter, his dark eyes flashing with impatience. "I have it on good authority from our Police Commissioner that arrests are imminent. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Smith turned his head away from the television and yelled out to Vacholmsky, who was glaring at his computer screen. "Hey, mayor says arrests in the Batman case are imminent."

Vacholmsky punched a few keys on the keyboard. "Is that so?"

"Mayor is under the impression that it is."

"Yea," Vacholmsky tossed a disgusted look over at the television. "Well, the mayor's full of shit."

"Mayor's always full of shit," Dinah King said, stepping over to where a coffeepot perched upon a burner. She poured black coffee into a plastic cup and went walking into the room where Smith was. "He ain't got a clue as to what's happening down here in the trenches, but always talks like he does." She handed him a sealed manila envelope. "This came a few minutes ago by special courier. It isn't addressed to anybody but I figured since you are the duty officer that it should go to you."

"Thanks," Smith said, opening the envelope with a forefinger. He pulled out a sheet of paper with a single word written on it: _TWO_.

"What the hell?" Smith turned the paper over. "Hey King, who delivered this? Do you know?"

"It was just some guy in one of those Mail-Ex hoodies," she said, shrugging. "Why?"

"C'mere and take a look at this shit."

King took the paper and studied it. "It says _TWO_ on it." She looked at Smith, her brow knitting into a frown. "So? What's so important about the number two?"

"I don't know what's so important about the number two. That's the problem."

"Just chuck it." King took a sip of her coffee. "It's likely nothing anyway."

"In my experience, what seems like _nothing_ is usually _something_."

"Check the envelope then," King said with a shrug. "Maybe there's something stuck in there that explains what exactly the two means."

Smith tore the manila envelope open and saw a small, rectangular shaped card with a blue pattern coating its backing come tumbling out onto the desk. He dropped the envelope and reaches over to pick the card up. It was the standard size and shape of a playing card. He turned it over to look at it, a Joker. He was about to toss the card into the trash when he saw neat handwriting scribbled across the bottom of the card:

_I KNOW WHO THE MAN IN THE MORGUE IS. DO YOU_?

Smith's eyes widened as the symbolism of that playing card and who it represented struck home. "King," he stated in a strangled voice, "call Commissioner Gordon. He needs to see this shit. _Now_."

King was already reaching for one of the phones on the desk. "Right."

* * *

Alfred Pennyworth, humming that bloody obnoxious Safe-Auto jingle that had been stuck in his head ever since they'd changed the oil in the Tumbler, moved through the Wayne penthouse, opening drapes, raising up shades, and stopping periodically to enjoy the spectacular view which could be seen from any one of the huge windows dominating the cavernous living room. He went into the kitchen, placed a carafe of hot tea, a glass of freshly squeezed juice and a bowl of oatmeal on a silver tray he then carried into the master bedroom. He stopped in the open room and frowned at the empty bed. The butler then heaved a world-weary sigh as he walked into a closet and pulled at a lever hidden in the paneling. A door popped open and Alfred entered the safe room, only the second time he'd ever entered said room since being shown its existence a few days prior.

A large, high-definition flat screen computer monitor dominated the wall across from the door. One Cray supercomputer hummed quietly, providing enough data storage and computing power for whatever his employed needed it for at that moment. Bruce was currently sitting at the computer terminal, watching GCTV, the local all-news station.

"It will be nice when Wayne Manor is rebuilt," he said in lieu of a greeting. He walked over and set the breakfast tray upon the top of a filing cabinet. "Then you can trade not resting and recuperating in a luxury penthouse for not resting and recuperating in a mansion."

Bruce glanced over his shoulder at the butler. "Figuring out who the man that the GCPD has buried in a pauper's grave and are claiming to be Batman is important, Alfred." He turned back and typed a few commands into the computer. "The man has a family out there who deserve to know that he's dead." Alfred saw his shoulders slump. "And they deserve to know why exactly he's dead."

"If I may say so, sir," the butler said while passing his employer a cup of tea. "But you weren't the one who killed this man. And it is not up to you to figure out who he is so that his family can properly bury him and mourn him."

"I know that I wasn't the one who killed this man, Alfred. But I am the reason for _why_ he is dead. What I want to know now," he scanned the computer through narrowed eyes before continuing, "is who the person behind the murder is so that the police can bring him to justice before any more bodies end up in the morgue."

"Answering that question is something that will keep until the hole in your side has had a chance to fully heal."

Bruce shifted in his seat, a faint grimace gracing his features before disappearing. "Erin did a good job in patching me up," he drawled. "The wound is very nearly healed in fact."

"Yes," Alfred nodded. "Yes, the wound is very nearly healed. But it would be a bloody shame if you repaid all of Miss Take's hard work by ripping open the stitches again, now wouldn't it?"

The ghost of a smile flickered across Bruce's lips. "I told her that you'd end up loving her soon as you met her."

"I do like Miss Tate," Alfred admitted without shame or reservation. "I like her quite a lot in fact. I had even hoped, given that she kindly took you into her home and nursed you while you were injured that you'd return the favor and invite her here for coffee."

Bruce turned away from the computer and looked at the older gentleman. "Is that your way of subtly way of reminding me about things like social norms and expectations of reciprocity?"

"It is my way of saying that Miss Tate is the sort of person that you need in your life right now." _Especially now, when you are feeling as if you have lost everything that truly mattered to you_, the butler thought sadly. "She's the type of friend you need helping you to deal with everything that is going on in your life right now."

_Is he serious_? Bruce wondered. Alfred was the one person he'd figured would understand what he was going through. "I lost the only friend I needed when Rachel died," he said quietly. "I don't want nor need anybody new in my life."

"You did lose a friend on that horrible night," Alfred agreed in a soft voice. Bruce saw the slight twinge that twisted the butler's face and assumed it was his own grief. Alfred had cared about Rachel as well, which was why it didn't feel wrong to talk with him about his own feelings at that moment. "But you do not see the great gift you are being given here."

One dark brow lifted. "And what gift am I being given exactly?"

"You have been given the gift of friendship by someone who does not care that you are either Bruce Wayne or Batman." When Bruce merely remained silent, Alfred continued. "Miss Tate accepts you for who you are, and not what. And she not only understands you are grieving, but has been as supportive of you as she can be throughout every inch of the process."

"Erin…" Bruce began but Alfred cut him off with a quietly uttered,

"Miss Dawes would not want you to grieve alone, sir."

_He's right. Rachel would not want me to sit here and grieve alone_, Bruce thought. _How am I to go on though? What right do I have to continue to live my life_? _Why should I be given the gift of friendship? I failed the only person who ever truly mattered to me. Who says I won't do so again?_

"You used to talk about a time when you would be finished with Batman," Alfred reminded him after a few moments of continued silence had elapsed. "You used to talk about a life that no longer included Batman in it. Well, you aren't Batman anymore. You have to find a new way, a new life. Shouldn't that life include such things as friends?"

Bruce shook his head. His dream of a life beyond Batman ended when Rachel's life ended in that explosion. "Why should I go on living when Rachel can't? What right do I have to a life and happiness when Rachel doesn't?"

"What would Miss Tate say about that if she was standing here in front of you?"

"She'd say it is complete and utter bullshit," Bruce admitted with a slight smile. "And add that the grief is making me think that way. And she'd tell me I'm wallowing in my grief and pity."He looked at the older man. "She'd also call me a stubborn ass."

The ghost of a smile flittered across Alfred's face. "Well, I won't say it quite so bluntly, sir."

"But you are in agreement with her."

"Yes, sir," the butler said softly. "I am. More so, I think _you_ are in agreement with her. And that part of you misses having the young lady around to trade barbs and insults with."

The hell of it was, Bruce realized he was right. He did miss Erin. He missed her argumentative ways. Even more, he missed the way her voice managed to settle and soothe him whenever he thought he was about to drown from everything swirling around inside him. That smooth, rich cadence always managed to chase away the darkness piercing at his soul with razor sharp knives, made him forget for a few moments about the grief hammering like a jackhammer at his heart, and convinced him he was more than just a failure. "Alright, Alfred," he said finally. "You win. I'll give Erin a call and invite her over for coffee at some point."

"Very good, Master Bruce."

Bruce turned back to the computer then and quickly became immersed again in the information taunting him on the screen.

* * *

Several hours later, James Gordon was sitting at his desk, studying the playing card and the sheaf of paper with narrowed eyes. What the Joker meant by two was anybody's guess. Nobody, not even Batman, was able to predict what that psychopath was capable of doing. Exactly how the damned clown had managed to get a message out, he didn't know. But Gordon damn sure planned on finding out. Detective Bullock rapped on the open door and poked his head in. "Hey Jim," he said gruffly. "Got something outside you are gonna wanna see for yourself."

Gordon frowned, not pleased with the interruption, but got up to follow Bullock downstairs. He pushed through the throng of excited citizens and police officers to the front steps of police headquarters. There, on the cement, in a crudely made black costume and a plastic mask lay _Batman_. He 'had' to be dead. There was a hole in the man's abdomen that Gordon suspected was going to match the ballistics on the gun which shot the other man presumed to be Batman. There was also a puncture wound in his side (which they'd never released to the press) that he knew would prove to be the true cause of death. A 4x8 notecard with an eerily familiar background, a Joker, was pinned to his chest with an ice pick he knew would fit inside the puncture wound. Gordon crouched so he could read the words, his blood already congealing in his chest at the implications already rising:

_Oh where, oh where has my little Bats gone? Oh where, oh where could he be_?

It took less than forty-five minutes in which to identify this second dead _Batman_. This time the fingerprints were in the system, and the man's identity one which left everybody stunned once the news began circling through the stationhouse. James Gordon could only stand there in stunned disbelief as he saw the name and file photograph that popped up on the screen ten seconds after the results came back: Ethan Tate, late of north Gotham, and one of the GCPD's newest and brightest police officers.


End file.
