All up and down the Eastern Seaboard, the land finally began to emerge from what even the meteorologists were admitting had been an exceptionally long and hard winter. There had been a couple of false starts, cruelly-taunting warm spells in mid-March, which had quickly been defeated by a fresh onslaught of storms that had immobilized the entire region, delayed spring planting, halted commerce, blotted out the sun for days on end, and generally gave millions a bout of Seasonal Affected Disorder.

But finally, it appeared that winter had passed. Two weeks prior, the last of the dingy, grey snow had melted away, and now, in mid-April, the land was covered in a veil of green so vivid and delicate, it could almost hurt the eyes of those who had forgotten what color could be like.

Yes, winter had passed. Even in Gotham City, life was creeping back into the city. In the Naval Tricorner Yards, Barbara watched as the daffodils began to poke through the weary soil of their tired plot of land in the backyard. She thought briefly of trying to cultivate the area, but then dismissed it, figuring—rightly so—that the garden area would flourish more through her neglect than through her attentions. In midtown, people began to cultivate their window boxes, planting seeds and looking for th first timid shoots, the fragile evidence of the hydrangeas and tulips and mums to come. Downtown, the few trees began to bud and thrive, like the literary tree growing in Brooklyn, and up in the Narrows, even the weeds were once again feeling confident enough to make their appearance, peeping through the cracks in ill-maintained sidewalks, a typically shabby yet adamant fuck-you to the environment in which they emerged.

At Safe Haven, the newly-installed Ambershawn Truelove saw the signs of life elsewhere in the city, and not-very-quietly bemoaned the lack of verdant life on their own grounds. And once she finished bemoaning the issue, she set about trying to rectify it. Forewarned by Maya, Victoria was primed to offer up her Gotham estate grounds for weekend outings, and after a certain amount of prodding, Bruce made a similar offer. And Barbara led similar forays into Robinson Park a couple of times a week, herding small groups of children through the city and trying to ignore the protection detail that her father had insisted remain assigned to Safe Haven throughout the trials.

It was after Barbara returned from one of these field trips, a couple of days after Seth Percival's sentencing, that she finally ran into Bruce in Safe Haven. She had been hanging about as often as she could manage, but their paths did not often cross, other than at the monthly board meetings, and Barbara was perceptive enough to know that this was not entirely accidental—she suspected that he tailored his schedule to avoid encounters with her whenever possible. Since they had both assumed their positions on Safe Haven's board, Bruce had been nothing but courteous to her, prompt in his correspondence and respectful of her input, but there was little warmth and no familiarity between them. Barbara was too kind to admit it, but the fact was that this awkwardness stemmed entirely from Bruce—partly due to his instinctive and inexplicable antipathy towards her, which she had sensed from the very beginning, but most of it came from his anger towards herself and Maya.

Since Annabeth had left Safe Haven—and Gotham—two and a half months before, Barbara and Maya had maintained a conspiracy of silence, effectively shutting Bruce out from any and all information they gleaned about her. Whatever they knew of Annabeth's actions and whereabouts, they were not telling Bruce, and no matter how he had posed his questions, they had revealed nothing. It was hard for him not to be resentful when confronted with this non-cooperation, and even the gentle camaraderie he had pnce established with Maya had cooled.

But that day, as Barbara tromped her way back to the general staff room that most of the board officers used, she happened to pass by Bruce in the hall. "Hello there!"

As much as he wanted to, Bruce could not easily give anyone the cold shoulder when they stood in front of him, so earnest and friendly. So he arranged his face into what he hoped was a passably amiable expression. "Oh, hello there. Where'd you come from?"

As if there were any question. Her pale, freckled cheeks were ruddy from the brisk spring breeze blowing against them, and her eyes sparkled with fun and merriment. He hated to admit it, but in that moment, Barbara almost looked pretty. "Robinson Park. Took the little beasties on a scavenger hunt with the po-po not far behind. Fucking annoying. What about you?"

"Oh-" Bruce waved his hand vaguely. "I've been here and there. Getting stuff done, I suppose-" he fell silent as Barbara put a hand on his arm. "What's up?"

She answered with a squeeze, and her grip was hard. Only when she was sure this gesture had caught his undivided attention did she speak. "Let's have a moment of private time, shall we?"

Where Barbara was concerned, Bruce felt that private time spent with her was little better than private time spent getting to know the meaning of the word "waterboard." He tried to wriggle out of it, both literally and figuratively, pulling away from Barbara as he said, "I'm actually in a little bit of a hurry-"

"Who isn't?" Barbara dismissed this argument as the flimsy excuse that it was. "I'm busy and hurried too, and we both have the same number of hours in the day. The only difference is that I don't have the luxury of outsourcing my duties to a devoted manservant or a paid multinational corporation."

"I don't outsource everything!" Despite his aversion to Barbara, the woman could somehow provoke him into an argument with minimal effort. "I don't outsource this, for example. And I don't outsource my shoe-shopping. Or my con—Well. You see my point."

Barbara did see his point, and had no desire to venture any further down this particular road, nor to contemplate Bruce Wayne's choice in condoms. So she said the one thing she knew would shut him up. "It's about Annabeth."

This time, it was Bruce who gripped Barbara's arm, hard. He hustled her down the hall and into an empty room—fittingly enough, the office formerly known as Annabeth's. These days, only Bruce used it. Now, he brought Barbara in, flicked on the lights, and closed the door, sealing their conversation away from the ears of any passers-by. "Talk."

So Barbara talked—predictably, at great length. "First of all, I gotta tell ya—lay off Maya already. She was all for telling you a long time go, but by some miracle of god, she managed to keep her mouth shut. It was fucking hard for her, too. She's worshiped you like an older brother, and all you've been doing is giving her the stink-eye. She was only doing what Annabeth asked us to do, so give the poor chick a break."

"Alright, alright." Bruce held up a hand to forestall any further diatribes. "I know I've been difficult towards her—"

"You've been a dick to her, Bruce. And you're the president of the board, and technically, you could probably fire her. This is not an easy situation for Maya. You can't be like that. Apologize to her, and for the love of god, knock it off already."

Apart from Annabeth, Barbara was the only person who could go toe to toe with him and emerge from the argument having the upper hand. He could respect her for that, even though he couldn't like her. And so Bruce had enough humility to look suitably chagrined, as well he ought. "It's just this little collaboration you've all had going on since Annabeth left—neither of you would say where she's gone, or what she's doing-"

"Because Annabeth asked us to."

"I could have found her." Bruce knew he sounded like a petulant, thwarted child, but he didn't give a damn.

"I know you could have."

"I could have gotten on the phone and had some investigator find her five minutes after she took off." Actually, he could have done it himself, or had Alfred do it, but no need to share that with Miss Busybody. "I could have, but I didn't."

"I know. Annabeth said that you could, but that you wouldn't—that you would respect her wishes."

"And I did." Bruce glared at Barbara, who stared back, unflinching and unapologetic. "All you would say was that Annabeth didn't want to be found. And I tried to leave it at that."

"Tried, but failed," Barbara reminded him. "Every time you saw us, you'd ask about her. But like I said, Annabeth didn't want to be found. Not then." She placed a delicate emphasis on these last words, and it was enough to divert Bruce's attention.

"Not then," he repeated. "So that was then..."

"And this is now."

"But what's now?"

"Now that Seth Percival is well and truly fucked, and up shit's creek, Annabeth can breathe a little easier. I'll tell you where she is, but you'll have to tell her the rest."

But she didn't disclose anything more, not just yet. Bruce sighed. "There's a catch, isn't there?"

"Just a small one. An easy one. A truce."

"A truce?"

"I'm not talking the Treaty of Versailles, Bruce. No war guilt clauses." Barbara considered something and smiled a little. "Although, forcing you to pay reparations would be profitable. No, a simple truce, whereby you drop whatever grudge it is you have against me, and I try to be a little less eager to annoy you, and we try to genuinely get along and like each other. I'm not a bad person, Bruce. One day, you might actually be grateful to have me as a friend."

Bruce nobly restrained himself from curling his lip in disgust, but even so, his expression made it clear that he doubted this possibility could ever come to pass. Nonetheless, he managed a fairly strong attempt at a smile. "Truce."

This was enough for Barbara. "She's just outside Leesburg, Virginia, about an hour from DC. Managing a house there, and doing part-time lobbyist work. Go to her, Bruce."

Via the I-95, and then the I-70, Leesburg was about a five-hour drive from Gotham, but by the time Bruce had made it past Trenton, he had already grown tired of the traffic congestion and the industrial, urbanized bleakness that surrounded the highways. Knowing that it would only get worse, and knowing that Alfred didn't expect him to return at a specific time, Bruce made a spur-of-the-moment decision and took an exit that eventually led him onto a more rural, ill-maintained, but visually pleasing route. It took longer, of course, but it was a soothing drive, and gave him time to think and mull things over in his head.

As he headed further South, the few lingering effects of winter began to disappear, until the only evidence that remained were the occasional creek or river, still swollen and from their recent thaw. The farms, few and far between as they were, were the only indications of human habitation, but in the main, only field and forest lined the road.

By the time Bruce had crossed the state line into Virginia, the day was long past noon and well on its march towards evening. As he approached Leesburg, he became more tense, more alert, more observant. So this is what Annabeth chose. The address that Barbara had given him was fairly cryptic: "Willows House, Sterling Road, Leesburg, Virginia," and she had warned him that it was deliberately vague. "It's not even in Leesburg proper. And it's not the kind of place you can just sit down and Google or Mapquest. They wouldn't want just anyone to know where they are."

"Then how do you know?" Bruce had asked her, but Barbara wouldn't say. She merely gave him the directions, which she had written in a surprisingly neat, meticulous hand. "Security's tight there, too. Make Safe Haven seem like a kid's treefort in comparison. There's a guard gate, and if they aren't expecting you, they might not let you in."

Bruce had been skeptical. "Is this a shelter or Fort Knox?"

"Neither. And both. And something else entirely." Barbara could be annoyingly vague at times. But she hadn't been kidding about the location—it was difficult to find, and surprisingly remote-feeling for an area so close to DC.

"Just keep driving down Pleasant Fields Way for about seven miles," Barbara's instructions read. "Just past the old firetower, there's going to be an unmarked road on your right. That's Sterling Road. Turn there, head past the forest grove that looks like a fucking elven glen of Lothlorien-" it was this editorializing that had solidified Bruce's suspicions that Barbara had been here before- "And then you'll get to a clearing, and a gate house. After that, it just depends on if they'll let you in."

Of course, Bruce followed these specific instructions to the letter, and now his car was idling just outside the predicted gatehouse. Three guards—all of them obviously and alarmingly armed—emerged from the structure, although two stood back a little as the third one, slightly smaller in stature and therefore disarming and possibly even more threatening, approached the car and began to engage Bruce in conversation. "Are you lost?"

"No. I'm looking for Willows House."

"Is anyone expecting you?"

"No."

The man nodded, but became visibly more alert and on-guard. "Okay. You'll have to wait while we call through for clearance. Who are you hear to see?"

"Annabeth de Burgh."

"Your name?"

"Bruce Wayne." It was liberating, in a way, to move through a region unencumbered by local and casual familiarity with his name, fortune, and family history. It was possible that one of the gorillas had shifted slightly when he heard Bruce say his name, but Bruce's interrogator, at least, appeared not to know of him, and also appeared to not give a flipping fuck one way or another. If Jesus Christ had approached the gate house, Bruce had no doubt that without proper ID and twelve apostles and their IDs and maybe Mary Magdalene too, this guard would cheerfully tell them all to go straight to hell.

"Bruce Wayne for Annabeth de Burgh, huh?" With this unpromising remark, he disappeared into the gate house, leaving his meathead colleagues to stare impassively at Bruce. Bruce stared right back, unimpressed, and entertained himself by imagining how he'd incapacitate them both in a fight. After all, he was the original meathead.

But in a surprisingly short period of time, the first man reappeared. "You're clear, pending inspection."

"Inspection?"

"Routine. Step out of your car for a moment, please."

For Annabeth, he would oblige. The inspection was routine—a cursory wand scan and a brief, practiced glance over and through his car, the innocuous Volvo that Alfred had acquired last year. But the guard came up with nothing—after all, Bruce was simply Bruce at the moment, with nothing to hide.

"You're clear." And just like that, the guard became much more friendly. "Just head up the road about half a mile, and the house will be right there in front of you. You'd be a twit if you missed it. I bet your Volvo has decent suspension, but mind the potholes all the same. And if you're staying the night, just remind Ms. de Burgh to call down here and let us know."

Staying the night? Bruce hid his surprise as he thanked the guards. They were just doing their jobs, after all, and he was beginning to suspect that they were paid handsomely to fulfill their duties.

Beyond the gate, the road became bumpier, and the scenery changed from forest and trees and brush to, abruptly, a vast and open field, gently rolling, carpeted in the delicate green of spring grass. More than a few wildflowers were visible within the grass, and a gentle afternoon breeze rippled its way through them, making the yellow, pink, and red bulbs sway and nod happily, as though they approved of the temperate weather.

In the center of this open field, visible from quite a distance, stood Willows House, looking deceptively small at first. But as Bruce approached, he realized that Willows House was anything but—it was obnoxiously big, in the way that only McMansions could be. And that was exactly what this place was. Like many new structures, it had been built to look old (and of course failed), but unlike most of these structures, Willows House actually bore the traces of quality materials, and careful research, and talented craftsmanship. Not only was it huge, but it was the complete antithesis of Annabeth's origins.

Whereas Safe Haven had been a tall, narrow, shabby brownstone of a building, crammed in a row of similar structures, Willows House was a sprawling, beautiful monstrosity, most closely resembling a Victorian farmhouse with aspirations of grandness. A porch wrapped its way around the entirety of the first floor, and a deep balcony graced a large portion of the second. A steeply-pitched roof and dormer windows underneath it hinted at an attic, but Bruce suspected it was, in actuality, a third story. It was no Bellingham, of course, nor even Wayne Manor, but still, it was impressive.

Around the house were a few trees, mature and towering and now dressed in budding leaves. Further out from the house were several plots of freshly-turned soil, where no doubt the seeds of flowers and vegetables had either been, or were about to be, carefully folded into the welcoming earth.

What the hell?

But even as Bruce wondered this, he remembered something that Annabeth had told him a long time back—or at least, it felt like a long time back—one night when he had comer to her home with chicken noodle soup and confused intentions and no idea what the hell he was getting himself into. And she had shared with him one of her few ambitions...

"It'd be nice to open up a place out in the country. Maybe on an old farm. Some place where there's actual nature, and animals, and trees. Some place away from all this mess."

Well, it looked like she had made it happen.

There was a small gravel lot in front of the house, and so this was where Bruce parked his car. But he didn't get out right away. From this vantage point, he could see a few people on the porch by the front entrance—a young girl, playing with a toy car, and then, further off, two adolescents gangling about on a porch swing. None of them looked his way; they didn't seem to care who the visitor was.

But there was someone who had noticed. A woman emerged from the house, and Bruce recognized her instantly. Even from this distance, he recognized her posture, her dark clothes, her carriage. Annabeth.

Now, Bruce got out of the car.

It was a short walk from the car to the house, but by the time he had reached the bottom of the porch steps, Annabeth had come down to meet him. And several other more people had gathered on the porch.

Bruce glanced at the small crowd. "Don't you guys have cable?" he asked her—the first words he had spoken to her in two months or more.

"Yes, but you know this is so much better than reality t.v.." Amazingly, Annabeth laughed. And while it was this friendly laugh that set the right, easy tone, and circumvented the awkwardness of their reunion, it was also this laugh that sharpened Bruce's vision and helped him see—this was not the same grim, tired, world-weary Annabeth, child of Gotham, but someone born again, remodeled and very different. And there would be no going back to the person she had been.

Bruce smiled at her, for any other response would have been churlish. But he didn't expect this noncommittal, pleasant expression to provoke the following reaction from Annabeth: she hugged him. Spontaneously and strongly. But while Bruce was taken aback, he still returned the hug, and allowed himself a single moment to set aside his surprise and everything else and just feel her.

But it was he who pulled away, gently extracting himself from her arms after a moment. "You've changed," he said in a moment of total, uncalculated honesty, and it was true. She had changed, visibly, just in the last two months. Now that he had the time to study her up close, he could see the evidence—she had cut her chestnut hair; where once it had fallen past her shoulders, now it just reached her chin. And she had put on a little weight, too—she resembled, more closely, the curvy Annabeth that Bruce had first met back in the late summer, and it suited her far better than the haggard, drawn appearance that she had taken on by the winter. Also, her cheeks appeared to bear less of the Gotham-induced pallor that one saw in so many of the blighted city's inhabitants. Most striking, however, was something much less detectable unless one knew her: the smile that had come so much more easily to her lips, the less tense, hunkered-down posture, simply less of a preoccupied, unhappy air. "You're really changed."

"I know." Annabeth actually patted her ass and grimaced. "My wardrobe has too. And therefore, my paycheck."

It was bizarre, contemplating this lighter-hearted Annabeth. It was also strange to be doing so under the scrutiny of such an intensely curious group of people. But thankfully, Annabeth had decided that the time for public exhibition had passed. "Come on inside, and I'll take you to my office. We can have some more privacy there."

He followed her inside, and he was human enough to admire her confident stride and the way she filled out her jeans. But even as Bruce was admiring her figure, he was being reminded—getting away from Gotham had been good for Annabeth.

Within, the building was every bit as orderly and attractive as it had been on the outside. As large as it was, it resembled nothing so much as a rather grand inn, or perhaps an elegant boarding house. Annabeth led him through a foyer and past a sitting room, and while she didn't pause—clearly, giving him a tour was not high on her list of priorities—Bruce nonetheless caught intriguing glimpses of hardwood floors, well-maintained antiques, and tastefully decorative vases, dishes, and other knickknacks. A lot of money and effort had gone into making this a top-notch place.

Annabeth saw him looking around. "The building was completed about a year and a half ago. A large portion of our client base are working- and middle-class women and children, and some immigrants. But there's a small portion of well-funded women who have passed through these doors at certain points. They remember us."

They continued on until Annabeth came to a stop in front of door which bore a gleaming brass name-plate, still brightly new, with the words "Annabeth de Burgh, Director." But this nameplate was not the only thing the door boasted; it was reinforced with a sturdy deadbolt, as well as an electronic keypad. All in all, a far cry from the indifferent, flimsy security that had been the hallmark of Annabeth's office in Gotham. Of course, Bruce could have picked these locks almost as easily, but it didn't mean he would.

Would he?

He shoved this thought aside—it had no bearing on his current errand—and focused on Annabeth again. After unlocking the door and leading him inside, Annabeth gestured for him to sit down, and then seated herself at her desk. The entire scene was so drastically different from her Gotham office—there, her desk, in fact, all of her furniture, had been battered, old pieces, culled from various secondhand stores; numerous file boxes had lined the floors and crept up the walls; there was very little room for elegant wall art, or anything, really, of a personal nature. Now, her furnishings and décor matched that of the interior that Bruce had seen, and the place was unspeakably organized.

"I have a part-time personal assistant." Annabeth offered this explanation as she correctly guessed the source of his amazement. "She's no Maya, but she's damned good. And now...I just have to find the confidentiality and nondisclosure forms I need for you to sign. Remember those? But at least this time I won't threaten to rip off your testicles and feed them to the emus."

They had developed such a substantial body of history in such a brief period of time. Bruce smiled as he signed the forms, and then, as he pushed them and the pen back to Annabeth, he told her, "We donated the emu farm to an animal rights group. They're in the process of relocating the emus to other habitats. All expenses footed by the Wayne Foundation, of course."

"Naturally. But what can Gotham mock you about now?"

"They'll find something." Bruce waved off this question unconcernedly. "After all, the Prince of Gotham's usually caught up in some shenanigans or other,"

"Not from what I've heard lately." Annabeth's eyes told him what her voice did not: that he was feeding her a line of bullshit, and she knew it. "Sounds like the Prince of Gotham can't find his way out of the enchanted castle."

Sounds like someone's been keeping tabs on me, Bruce wanted to retort, but didn't. He was too busy trying to ignore the unworthy resentment that was now niggling at him, He had respected Annabeth's efforts to disappear; he had not gone to great lengths to try to find her. But was galling was that she had known where he was, and seemingly had kept tabs on him. But she hadn't reached out, hadn't broken the silence or bridged the distance. She could have, but she didn't.

Annabeth watched as Bruce's struggle with his thoughts, his emotions, and his sense of fairness played out on his face. She wanted, desperately, to reach out, to touch his hand, anything. But she wouldn't. She couldn't. "Bruce?"

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "What happened?" And there, in his voice, she could hear those two months of abandonment, and confusion, and yes, even hurt. All of it, the result of an unyielding silence on her own part that nonetheless said much—it spoke of secrets and alienation and misinformation. His voice was what, at least briefly, cracked Annabeth's resolve. Now she did stretch out a hand and catch Bruce's wrist. "I need to show you something."

The unexpected feeling of Annabeth's hand on his wrist temporarily silenced Bruce, and it was enough to give Annabeth the opportunity she needed to continue. "Come with me," she said, rising from her seat, and there was such unhesitant expectation that Bruce would obey, that he did. He rose, too, and followed her through a door that he had noticed before, and the transition was unsettling. It was as though he had stepped through a portal and emerged into Annabeth's home in her Gotham condominium. But on closer inspection, he realized this was not quite accurate—the surroundings were, themselves, quite different; it was simply the contents, the furnishings that were the same. Even the old, rickety sofa was present. And here, too, were Annabeth's dog Jed, who was even now joyously woofing hello, and her cat Wurzel, who gazed balefully at him from her perch on the top of a bookcase.

Nevertheless, there were other, unfamiliar elements to the space—furniture and accessories that echoed the style that was evident elsewhere in the building. Annabeth saw him eyeing a suspiciously-original-looking Mission-style dining table, and smiled at his curiosity. "The place came furnished, but I had the option of bringing some of my own items-"

"So you chose your couch?" Bruce couldn't help it, he had to laugh.

"It has character. I realized I couldn't leave it behind." Annabeth was laughing, too. "Anyway, the nice digs aren't a bad perk of the job."

This brought Bruce's attention back to the elephant in the room. "Which is what, exactly?"

"You saw the sign on my door. Primarily, I'm the director of Willows House, but I'm also a contracted consultant to a partner organization, the Boudicca Foundation for Equality. There, I'm essentially a strategic advisor."

"A lobbyist."

"You say that as if it's akin to terrorism. And it's only part-time." Annabeth knew she sounded defensive, but she had discovered to her own surprise that she enjoyed the work. "I operate out of DC once or twice a week. And Boudicca was what directed me to this job-"

"But why?" Bruce wasn't ready to move past that, yet. "You had a job."

Annabeth didn't answer this, not immediately. Instead, she indicated that he was to continue following her as she took him through more of her quarters, and despite his confusion and growing resentment, he followed,

"My room," Annabeth gestured towards one closed door. "And the guest room." She gestured to another. "Already, you see this place is bigger than my Gotham condo. And this—" she paused in front of a third doorway, but lingered there, and then opened the door, "This will be Timmy's room."

Bruce could tell from her aura of suppressed pride and excitement that this was important to her, and so he stepped into the room. And immediately understood her emotions. It was a room that surpassed the most hopeful imaginings of a young boy—the navy-blue walls showcased a galaxy of silvery-white constellations, and a special, child-sized telescope stood at the ready in front of a large window. A long, low bookcase bore several toy dinosaurs, building blocks, and other playthings, as well as a modest yet solid collection of books. Unsurprisingly, the child's bed was dressed in dinosaur-themed bedding, bearing the print of stalwart stegosauruses facing down comically fearsome tyrannosauruses.

"I hope to hell he likes it," Annabeth said, and now anxiety was audibly doing battle with her pride. "He was into dinosaurs last year, but I'm told that he's gotten really interested in stars and planets and the solar system."

"You're told? Why don't you just ask him yourself?"

"Because," Annabeth sighed, and Bruce suspected that this sigh presaged a long and unhappy story—well, with Annabeth, was there any other kind?—"I haven't been allowed to see or speak to him since January."

Incredibly, the tour of Annabeth's home wasn't quite done yet. She took Bruce into one final room, a brightly-lit, glass-enclosed sun porch, and it was here that they settled in for what they both knew would be a long and hard conversation. It was difficult, when they were surrounded by white wicker furniture, and lovingly-tended houseplants ("My assistant waters them," Annabeth admitted) and beautiful views of the surrounding fields, for them to step back into the sorry filth of Gotham.

Annabeth sat across from Bruce and began to recount the last two months, starting on the horrible day that Clara Briggs had brought Timmy to the Manor and begun to wage her war. Bruce remained silent, and slowly, his resentment began to diminish, replaced by his more standard respect for Annabeth and her lonely struggles. "She basically said she'd make life hell for both me and Timmy. And she knew how to do it—divide and conquer. Bitch was a brilliant tactician, I'll give her that. She knew you'd be a powerful ally, and so she dealt with that by threatening to use our relationship as a reason not to give me custody of Timmy. Living in sin, and all that. And she said she'd go digging and drag out every nasty little thing about you, and me, and us..."

"Just a minute." Bruce cut her off. "Do you mean to tell me you took off because you got spooked by a social worker threatening me?"

"I couldn't take that chance, Bruce." Annabeth was as convinced now as she had been then. "I wasn't going to risk losing Timmy or getting you discovered. I love you both too much for that."

"But I could have helped!"

"At what cost?" For the first time, Annabeth began to appear agitated. "You'd been putting me first for too long, and you and I were both starting to figure that out. You know that. But Bruce, our work—Gotham—had always come first, even the night we lost the baby. I came damn near closed to dying in that hospital, and you weren't there. You were where you belonged, out kicking ass and busting up human trafficking rings and saving lives and making Gotham a little better. And I was glad. I wouldn't have had it any other way. I understood what you chose, because it's what I would have chosen, too. And I did choose it, in my own way. I chose what was best for all of us. Isn't that what you've always done?"

Dammit, but she was right. Bruce knew it, and she knew it, and so she continued to press her advantage. "So I needed to distance myself from you, and I needed to get away, and Jim and Barbara helped. I stayed with them, and Jim pointed out that if I didn't live in Gotham, I'd maybe have a chance to get another jurisdiction involved, one that wasn't infected by corrupt people like Briggs. I know Percival was paying her off, and her boss, too. And then Barbara found out about Boudicca, and suggested that I let them recruit me. So I got back in touch with them, and explained what had been going on. And they offered me legal representation if I moved down to the DC area and came to work for them. Bruce..." here Annabeth paused in her story, struggling to find a way to articulate her struggles, her agonizing over her choices and sacrifices, "A hundred times I wondered if there was another way...but I just couldn't see any other route, and I was the only one who could decide."

They sat there for a while, not saying anything; Annabeth felt it was best to let Bruce process through all of this information on his own. So they remained quiet and watched the golden sunlight creep across the field as the shadows lengthened and the day began its descent into dusk. But then, finally, Annabeth worked up the nerve to speak again, and her voice was perhaps a little choked. "I wanted to call you, so many times. Just to hear your voice, to know how you were doing...but Barbara-"

"Oh yes. Barbara." Here, finally, Bruce allowed a small spurt of anger to permeate him. "She's been so helpful."

"Don't." Annabeth almost shouted this. "You think this was what she wanted—to be caught in the middle? But she did what the situation called for. She's been amazing. She's been the friend who did what I couldn't do myself. If it hadn't been for her and Jim, I'd probably still be stuck in some undisclosed location in Gotham, trying to negotiate every obstacle that motherfucker Percival has thrown my way for the past two months." Tears, finally, were beginning to gather in her eyes. "Don't forget, Percival is the enemy, and he has been all along. Barbara's been a friend and ally to both of us, whether or not you knew it. She never asked questions. She kept me up to date about you-"

"She kept me in the dark about you," Bruce snapped, but there was less venom in his voice now.

"Because I asked her to. I needed to lay low, and I didn't want you coming around, trying to talk me out of things or catching Clara Briggs' attention. I stayed down here and worked with Boudicca's attorneys and signed papers and filed motions and gave depositions and statements and prayed to god that it would be a war of attrition. That we'd outlast Clara, and the trial, and that Seth Percival would be convicted. And he was, and Clara Briggs lost her extra source of money, and for once in my life, I fucking won. And I won't apologize for a single goddamned thing." Her words had been coming quicker, and now she stopped, for sheer want of breath. But she still glared fiercely at Bruce, daring him to question her strategy and sacrifices.

Wisely, he didn't. "So now that Percival's going to prison...?"

"It's finished, this thing he's been doing. He can't fuck with me any more. As soon as the sentence was passed down, we got the call—he's been cut off from his funds, they've been seized by the FBI, and Gotham Social Services is dropping the fight. The State of Virginia will take over temporary wardship by the end of next week, and they'll grant me legal guardianship by the end of the month. Once Percival couldn't funnel any more money into Briggs' pocket, Gotham couldn't offload Timmy fast enough. That's more like the social services system I know and remember. And now I have the chance to keep Timmy out of that system. A chance to balance the scales."

It was fitting, Bruce had to admit. Donna Drake's first child, once left to the tender mercies of an overloaded social services system, now had the chance to save Donna's second child from that same system—a system now not just overburdened, but corrupt as well, willing to use a young boy in a pawn in a struggle of revenge and greed. Annabeth was right—it was a chance to balance the scales, to right one wrong and prevent another from occuring.

And hadn't Bruce made his own share of far more morally dubious decisions and sacrifices, in order to help Gotham and right wrongs and balance the scales? So really, who was he to judge? How could he hold it against Annabeth for doing the same thing he would have done, and how could he be angry with Barbara for having the courage to help? Of course, it certainly felt different now that he was the one to suffer from someone else's sacrifice, but perhaps this was a lesson he needed to learn. He thought of Alfred's silent worry, his aborted relationship with Leslie, of Rachel Dawes' unhappy rejection, of his own intransigence causing so much of this. So how could he blame Annabeth for engineering her own happy ending, the only one she could manage with the hand she had been dealt, the only one she could manage that wouldn't put him at risk? She had done what she could to protect him, and Gotham, and Timmy, and she had done it out of love.

"You made the right decision," he admitted. "You fought for Gotham right up until the end, even with a strategic retreat."

"I think it's the hardest thing I've ever done," Annabeth said softly, "If it's any consolation. But Gotham had taken so much from me. I wouldn't let it take Timmy from me, too. And I'm actually happy here. But...I want you to be happy too."

Happy. Had anyone else told this to Bruce, he would have rolled his eyes. But if anyone could talk about what it would take to be happy, it was Annabeth. But still... "I belong in Gotham, Annabeth. At least for now. The way that you belong here."

If Annabeth had been harboring some small hope for a meeting of the minds, or a tender reconciliation, his words left no doubt—at least at present, there was no room for that hope, not for either of them. But oddly, it felt right, at least for now. And who knew? Perhaps they would change in the future, change their minds and reunite as older, and more settled, and less fixated on their own lives and goals. But for now, this forgiving acceptance had to be enough. It was enough for Bruce, he realized, and it was enough for Annabeth, too, as her next words confirmed.

"I once told you that not every story has a happy ending," Annabeth mused as she watched the sun begin to dip below the distant treeline. "But maybe I was wrong. Maybe there are happy endings. Just not the ones we imagined."

"It'll be over by Christmas."

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it, and it's a double irony when it's a history major who doesn't remember it. That would be me, by the way. They said the Civil War would be over by Christmas...and yet some might argue that it's still going on! They said it about the Great War, too. And look how well that worked out for the Lost Generation. And I said, back in the early autumn of 2008, "I'll be done with this by Christmas."

At first, it felt like that. I kept pace. As summer turned to autumn, the same happened in Gotham. Annabeth and Bruce obligingly kept apace with me.

And then...well, life happened. I went through a break-up and the usual "what the heck am I doing with my life?" issues. I began to deal with some health issues. I met a guy. We got married. I became a rather psychotically dedicated public servant (as opposed to the rather more mundane workaholic public servant that I had been before). I developed other priorities. I developed silver hairs and a love for red wine and a very pickled liver.

But I learned a lot during these last four years. I became more adventurous in my creativity, and more accepting of myself. I came out of the fanfic closet. I began to appreciate the statement "Write drunk, edit sober," although I didn't always adhere to this maxim. I learned that a story becomes too bloated, too long, when you can no longer keep track of the details that you yourself have written. I know this now.

When I began this story, it was because I loved the concept of the Batman, but I was extremely annoyed by his smug insularity. It seemed as though he was willfully ignorant about the "small stuff." So I started writing about the voiceless, the underserved, the overlooked. (It's worth noting that I had the plot fleshed out before the Occupy Movement and before human trafficking became the cause célèbre.) It's no secret that I'm a raging feminist, and I would never aspire to be anything different. But I value empathy and honesty, and I can say, honestly, that my writing took on a tone of condescending misandry at times. I don't think there' s fully-fleshed-out male character of my own creation (i.e., non-canon) who wasn't a total pig from hell. I gave you plenty of decent females, but few males. Bruce, and Alfred, and Gordon, and Lucius, they are all DC's creations. Seth and Donzetti and le Blanc and Annabeth's father—they are all mine, and they are not nice people. I suppose there were a few nice supporting male characters, but they were almost Mary-Sueish in how decent and non-dimensional they were. And that was my own limitation, both as a human and a writer. Does it make me a shitty, reverse-shallow person? Maybe. But at least I recognize it. At least I'm willing to fight back against my innate misandry.

Four years have passed. "Hope and change" have happened, and then a certain amount of disillusionment set in. The economy tanked—it was tanking when I was writing the most, and drinking red wine, and laughing hysterically at Jon Stewart's take on all the shit going down—and god willing, we've all weathered it. At some point in the last four years, at least 19 Batman fans made the decision to attend the opening night of the last movie, and their lives ended as a result.

What I'm saying is, we've all changed. Annabeth changed, and I changed, and you changed. And here we are.

Thank you, especially, to members Speakfire and SerendipityAEY and Paola Hernandez and titebarnacle. You all made a huge difference. You altered my life.

Thank you to the Cyborg, my then-boyfriend, who neglected me (his neglect gave me so much time to write!) made me watch all seven seasons of "The West Wing". Annabeth Ghish's name was the one that first popped into my head when I was thinking about the protagonist.

It's worth noting that this story is dedicated to K. Believe it or not, K is a real-life person who underwent an experience similar to Annabeth's. And that's all I'm gonna say about that.

And, finally, here's a bibliography, if you wish to do further research.

Davis, L. (1991). Violence and families. Social Work, 36 (5), 371-373.

Fisher, B.S., Cullen, F.T., and Turner, M.G. (2000). The sexual victimization of college women.(NCJ Number NCJ 182369).Washington, DC: The U.S. Department of Justice.

Landsman, Peter. (January 25, 2004). The girls next door. The New York Times Magazine .

Malarek, V. (2004). The Natashas: Inside the new global sex trade. New York: Arcade Publishing.

Morton, T. D. and Reese, L. (2011). Domestic violence, the recession, and child welfare. Policy and Practice, 69 (2), p. 17-18.

Thrupkaew, N. (September 16, 2009). The crusade against sex trafficking. The Nation.

Tjaden, P. and Thoennes, N. (2006). Extent, nature, and consequences of rape victimization: findings from the National Violence Against Women survey. (NCJ Number 210346). Washington, DC: The U.S. Department of Justice.

VanNatta, M. (2005). Constructing the battered woman. Feminist Studies, 31 (2), 416-443.