Beth opened her eyes as the roar of the wind and traffic was suddenly replaced by an echoing silence, filled only by the purr of the bike's engine.

She should have been freaking out over the threat to her safety; or annoyed that her life had suddenly been put on hold while she effectively went into hiding; or at least curious about where she was being taken...

But pressed tight against Bruce's back, her arms clenched around his body, her thighs bracketing his...it was the most contact she'd had with another human being in years. And touch-starved as she was, she'd decided to close her eyes against reality and pretend.

Pretend that she was a normal girl, going for a ride with a normal guy.

Pretend that she wasn't a freak. That her life wasn't in danger. That the guy actually cared about her, and wasn't just acting out of some warped sense of heroic responsibility.

It was nice while it lasted, but the real world inevitably intruded.

She sighed as the bike came to a stop, and reluctantly removed her hands. She sat back and felt the warmth between their bodies dissipate.

"Are you okay?" Bruce asked, his voice flat. He hadn't made a move to dismount, and was staring straight ahead.

She hated not being able to see his eyes. They were so expressive, she was usually able to gauge his mood from looking into them.

But she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling right now and it was driving her crazy. If he really did regret their friendship, did he resent having to help her now? Did he hate the idea of bringing her here, into his private space?

"I'm fine," she said curtly, swinging her leg off the bike. She stepped away from him to survey her surroundings. They were in an enormous underground cavern, the space lit at the far end by spotlights situated under an arching staircase. It was an abandoned train station, she realised, noticing the lettering on the arch and the railway lines under her feet.

"Where are we?" she asked, curious despite the awkward situation. She wandered over to the car in the corner noting that someone had been working on the engine.

"Underneath Wayne Tower," he mumbled. He made a beeline for the workstation beneath the arch and started flicking through information on the monitors. The crackle of a police radio filled the silence between them.

She felt uncomfortable and out of place, and he was acting so strange - cold and distant.

He must really hate that she was here, intruding into his life.

"Did you find him?" a voice called from the floor above. An older man descended the stairs; his hair and beard were greying but his eyes were sharp and he looked lean and fit beneath his shirt and waistcoat.

Bruce didn't look up from the screen. "Not exactly."

"Then why are you-" he spotted Beth the moment he reached the floor. His double-take would have been comical under any other circumstances.

"Hi," she said, offering him a nervous smile.

"Hi," he responded slowly. "Bruce?"

"Alfred, this is Beth. Beth, this is Alfred, he's my...he's Alfred." Bruce's eyes flicked between them, then he shut down his computer and moved back to the bike. He called to Alfred over his shoulder. "I need you to get a room ready for Beth, she's going to be staying here while Newsome's loose."

He mounted the bike and started the engine. She ran over to him, suddenly angry. "You're just leaving me here?"

He flipped the hood of his jacket up, creating shadows that hid his face from view. "I'm gonna try and track Newsome. The sooner I catch him, the sooner you can go home."

She heard the hidden double meaning: The sooner you can leave me alone.

Hurt replaced the anger, and she didn't say another word as he spun the bike around and shot down the tracks.

———

Bruce stared at Beth in the bike's wing mirror as he rode away.

She looked lost and confused. And he hated that he was the reason why. He knew he was acting like an asshole, but he didn't know how to handle this any other way.

The decision to hide her in his home had been an impulsive one, made out of fear and desperation. But if he was honest with himself, it was an impulse he'd been suppressing for weeks - since the moment Newsome had put her in his crosshairs. It was medieval and overbearing - the desired to lock her away in an actual tower - but it was the only way he knew to keep her safe.

He just hadn't counted on how it would make him feel to see her in his space.

He'd watched her out of the corner of his eye as she'd wandered around the underground lair. As she tipped her head back to take in the ornate staircase; as she ran her fingers along the workstation table; as she peered at the engine he'd been working on earlier that night...

It was surreal having her there. But it was even stranger how right it felt.

And that worried him.

He didn't want to get used to her being there. He didn't want to come to rely on her presence.

He didn't want to get any closer to her than he already was.

The thought of her being in danger already evoked bone-shaking fear, and he'd only known her a few months. It would be infinitely worse if they became any closer. He wouldn't be able to handle that.

So he'd left. It was true that he wanted to start tracking Newsome...but there was a larger element of self-preservation involved in his sudden departure. He didn't want to be the one to take her upstairs and show her his home. He didn't want to see her reaction to his private world. And he definitely didn't want to get used to seeing her there.

He would just have to avoid her as much as possible.

No matter how much he wanted to do the exact opposite.

Shoving that dilemma to the side, he continued on to Beth's building and took up position on 'his' rooftop across the street. He didn't know how long it would take Newsome to find her address, but he would be here waiting.

He dug out the binoculars from his pack, allowing himself a small moment to marvel at how quickly things could change. Three months ago he'd come to this spot for the first time, hoping to catch a glimpse of a mysterious girl...and now that girl was in his home.

And he was here looking to find a very different target.

He focused the lenses on the window of Beth's apartment. No light was coming from inside, but the moon was bright overhead, allowing him to see that something was...off.

The curtain rail was cutting a diagonal line across the windowpane, as if it had been torn from the wall.

Shit.

He was too late.

He grabbed his gear and jogged across the street, making sure to keep his face covered by his hat and hood. He entered Beth's building and ran up the stairs.

Her door was ajar.

It was déjà vu all over again.

But there would be no battered woman behind a couch this time. Newsome may have found Beth's house, but he would never find Beth.

And Newsome had likely figured that out, judging by the rage-filled havoc he'd wreaked on Beth's apartment.

There wasn't a piece of furniture untouched; the couch cushions were shredded, the coffee-table smashed, the desk surface scratched by the knife now jammed into its centre. Every mug and plate in the kitchen had been thrown to the floor. The artwork on the walls was defaced.

Bruce ventured into the bedroom, where the destruction continued. Clothes were strewn all over the floor, the mattress of the bed was tipped on its end, and in massive letters over the headboard, Newsome had spelled out his feelings in thick black marker: BITCH!

Bruce was nearly weak with relief that he'd gotten to Beth so quickly - that she hadn't been here when Newsome arrived...but he wished he could have spared her this. Her home - her refuge from the world that was a sensory minefield for her - was destroyed.

———

Beth woke late the next morning. With all the worry about Newsome, Bruce's weird behaviour and her strange surroundings, her brain hadn't shut off until the early hours. She sighed and turned on to her back, admiring the ornate gothic woodwork that dripped from the ceiling like stalactites in a cave. The whole penthouse looked like a slightly dishevelled 19th century cathedral. Like Bram Stoker meets Miss Havisham.

She kind of loved it.

It was like stepping into the pages of Brontë or Shelley, which was pretty cool for a book nerd like her...but she worried about Bruce in this environment. She'd hoped his home would be a sanctuary for him, offering him the comfort and warmth he needed after spending his nights mired in the harsh, cold heart of Gotham. But this place was just as cold and harsh, a stark mausoleum instead of a home.

Her neglected stomach growled at her, interrupting her thoughts. She'd declined Alfred's offer of dinner last night - feeling too uncomfortable and nervous to eat - but now she needed to find food. She hiked up the bottoms of her borrowed pyjama pants and padded out into the hall. The clothes must belong to Bruce - given the length of the trousers and the Tyres & Wheels logo on the black t-shirt. She couldn't imagine the very proper Alfred rocking this look. She felt awkward wearing them while traipsing about his house, but she had nothing else.

Downstairs, she found breakfast items laid out on a octagonal table embossed with a large 'W'. Everywhere she turned, she found the monogram. She was someone with no knowledge of her past or heritage, yet Bruce was immersed in his. She wondered how that felt - having such a name to live up to.

She took a seat and glanced around, but she was alone. Sunlight flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows to her right, but it couldn't banish the shadows from all the corners and recesses of the room. The place still felt oppressive and dark, even in the daytime.

She touched the side of the silver tea pot, relieved when it felt hot. She poured herself a cup and nibbled at a berry from the dish beside it.

"Good morning." Alfred walked into the room, leaning on a cane and carrying a stack of newspapers with his free hand.

"Good morning," she replied. She gestured to her teacup. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. I was just about to make some toast. Would you like some?"

"Yes, please."

He smiled, placed the newspapers on the table and continued on to the kitchen. Seconds later, she heard footsteps again. "That was quick," she teased, glancing over her shoulder.

But it wasn't Alfred.

Bruce entered the room and stopped short seeing her at the table. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. He didn't say a word as he changed trajectory and moved towards the stairs. It was if he'd forgotten she'd be there.

"Aren't you having breakfast with us?" she asked as he walked past the table.

He paused, but didn't turn around. "No, I'll get something later."

She quickly got up from her chair and moved to stand in front of him. "I don't want to disrupt your routine or make you feel uncomfortable in your own home. You eat, I'll go to my room. Or I'll find somewhere else to stay."

He shook his head and pushed the glasses up to rest on his head. The action dragged his hair off his face, allowing her to finally see his eyes. They looked tired. "You can't do that. Its not safe."

"You didn't find him then." It was a statement, instead of a question.

"No."

"Can I at least grab some clothes from my apartment? Alfred took what I was wearing yesterday to wash and all I have is this." She plucked at the borrowed t-shirt. He seemed to notice that she was wearing his clothes for the first time; his expression looked tortured.

She felt like she'd been punched in the gut.

Was he really that annoyed that she was here, and having to borrow his stuff? It was his idea in the first place!

"Why are you being like this? What happened to make you hate me so much?"

He screwed up his face, looking even more anguished. "I don't hate you, Beth."

"Then what's going on? One minute we're friends, then the next thing I know you're ignoring me completely. Now you insist on keeping me here for my safety, but you can't seem to stand the sight of me!"

"I can't do this right now." He turned away from her. Without thought, she grabbed his arm to stop him.

His bare arm...with her bare hand.

She gasped and let go, but that fleeting contact had been enough. Enough for her to catch a glimpse of the truth he was trying to hide.

She stared at him, fury overtaking the hurt she was feeling. "Are you kidding me?"

"Beth-" he looked pained.

"All this time, I've been going nuts trying to figure out what I did to push you away or make you regret being friends with me...and there was nothing! You pulled away just because you're scared."

"It's not that simple," he said through gritted teeth.

"It is! You were just too much of a coward to admit it. But that doesn't-"

"Am I interrupting something?" Alfred stood in the doorway, a stern and disapproving look on his face. She felt like she'd been caught misbehaving by the school Principal.

She glanced back at Bruce, surprised by the way he was looming over her, his face bent close to hers. She was up on her tip toes, trying to match his height.

When did they get so close to each other?

He seemed to notice their proximity at the same time. He stepped back and took a deep breath. "I'm going to bed."

She watched him leave, and took a deep breath of her own, trying to tamp down her anger.

It didn't work.

"Join me, will you, Dr. Carraway?" Alfred's request felt more like a command.

She sat back down and murmured her thanks when he passed her a plate stacked with toast. "I'm guessing you heard most of that."

"Mmhmm," he replied, smearing his own slice of bread with jam. "Don't worry about your secret. Bruce told me what you can do, and rest assured I won't tell a soul."

She hadn't even processed the fact that Alfred had seen her 'read' Bruce. Which just proved how scattered she was feeling. "I appreciate that. And please call me Beth. It seems I'll be here a while longer." She sounded like a sulky teenager.

"Which I think is a good thing, despite the circumstances."

She stared at him in confusion. "Good how?"

"Bruce was determined to distance himself from you, as you just discovered. It'll be a lot harder for him now, with the two of you under the same roof."

"But why was he so determined? We've all lost people - its a natural part of life. Why would he cut himself off from his friends just because of that?"

He whispered something under his breath and shook his head with a wry chuckle. It sounded like he was repeating the word 'friends'.

She ignored that and kept talking, needing insight on the man upstairs. "I don't remember my parents." Alfred looked up, surprised at the segue. She was surprised too - she didn't normally open up about her past to relative strangers - but there was something so kind and trustworthy about Alfred. She felt like she could tell him anything.

"I have no family," she continued. "And because of my...ability...I've never been able to get close to anyone. And I'm desperate to." The last was said on a whisper. It was such a deep, hidden part of her that it was a struggle saying the words aloud. It was a great irony that one of her favourite quotes - the one she'd recited to Bruce under the stars - spoke of existence only being bearable through love.

Because she'd never felt love.

She'd never loved, nor been loved. Which meant that sometimes her existence was unbearable.

And it was that deep hidden secret that made it so hard to accept Bruce's choices.

"I don't understand how he can voluntarily turn his back on that type of bond."

Alfred sighed and leaned back in his chair. "His parent's death affected him greatly. He's been living with survivor's guilt and an intense, atypical grief reaction for more than twenty years."

"You sound like a psychologist."

He laughed softly. "I was never able to get him to see one of those. So I did some reading, to try and help him."

"He's lucky to have you." She could hear the wistful note in her own voice. She'd had social workers that had cared about her. A couple of psychologists, and some fosters families that never worked out in the end...but she'd never had an Alfred in her life.

"I'm not so sure. I tried...but he kept me at arm's length for a long time. It was only last year that even I grasped just how deep and traumatising his fear of loss is."

Beth was silent for a moment, absorbing that revelation. If Bruce's fear really was that profound...then she owed him an apology. It didn't completely excuse the way he'd been treating her, but she needed to be less judgemental. They were both damaged in their own ways.

She was desperate for connection...but unable to get truly close to anyone.

He was terrified of connection...so was trying everything to distance himself from her.

———

Bruce trudged into the penthouse, his footfalls heavy with fatigue. He'd gotten very little sleep after his confrontation with Beth yesterday and had spent the better part of the last ten hours sifting through Gotham looking for signs of Newsome.

But the man had gone to ground.

He'd met up with Gordon around midnight, but the GCPD had no clues or leads to share. They were too focussed on Beth.

"You don't think its strange," Gordon had asked, "that the pathologist we brought onto the case was the person who found Samantha Sterling? And now she's in the wind, just like Newsome?"

"You can't possibly think they were working together," Bruce countered.

"It's just not adding up, man. This whole case is a mess."

Bruce agreed with that. But for completely different reasons. He tried to steer Gordon away from his suspicions. "I don't think Dr. Carraway is the key to this. We need to concentrate on finding Newsome."

Which he'd done for hours afterwards, fruitlessly searching known boltholes and safe-houses, before calling it quits.

He was tired and hungry and frustrated; and now that the search was over for the night and there was no more work to distract him, all the thoughts he'd pushed to the back-burner sprung to the fore.

And they all centred on one thing: Beth

A faint golden light caught his eye as he moved towards the stairs. He followed its source to one of the fireplaces, where a few smouldering logs glowed in the hearth. Curled up in the leather armchair in front of it was the woman in question, fast asleep.

Her head rested awkwardly against one of the wings of the chair, and her arms were wrapped around her bent knees as she clutched them to her chest. A blanket had fallen down around her feet. She was still dressed in his clothes, an old pair of jeans this time - rolled up at the ankles - and a grey sweatshirt that swamped her figure.

As it did yesterday morning, seeing her in his clothes affected him on a strange primal level. It was as if the alpha male buried deep inside of him had woken up to stake his claim on her.

Unable to resist, he moved closer and crouched down beside the chair. Her skin seemed to glow in the light thrown from the dying embers in the fireplace. She always looked slightly tanned, as if the dull skies of Gotham could never quite succeed in leaching all the colour from her. Her hair was golden and her eyes were like the sky on a warm, clear day.

She was sunshine and summer...and he was darkness and shadow.

He was Hades, and he'd stolen Persephone and brought her to the underworld.

He ducked his head and shook it. Sleep deprivation was making him melodramatic.

He raised his head again. Her eyes were open and watching him. "Hi," she whispered.

"Hi," he replied just as softly. "What are you doing down here?"

"I was waiting for you."

"Why?"

She shifted into a more upright posture but kept her legs pulled up, as if maintaining a protective position. He rose and sat on the ottoman in front of her, wanting to be on her eye level and not below it.

Maybe he felt the need to protect himself too.

"I wanted to apologise," she said. "For getting angry at you yesterday."

He stared down at the floor between them. "You had a right to be angry. I didn't handle things well, and I treated you like crap. I'm the one who's sorry."

He'd hidden on the balcony above her and Alfred yesterday and overheard their whole conversation. A part of him had resented how easily she opened up to the older man; another part of him was annoyed at Alfred for spilling his secrets...

But mostly his heart ached for Beth.

"I've never been able to get close to anyone...and I'm desperate to."

He'd felt like the biggest piece of shit on earth after hearing that confession. He knew he'd hurt her when he stopped contacting her and ignored her calls...but he figured she'd get over it in time.

He should have known better. He'd seen for himself how isolated she was, how solitary her life was. She'd even joked about her lack of companionship: "Well, I don't really know from experience, but I hear that friends drop by whenever they want." She hid her insecurities and her sorrows so well behind that cheerful smile and teasing voice that he'd fallen for the act.

When the truth was, their tentative friendship meant as much to her as it did to him. Maybe even more.

And he'd ripped it away from her. Because he'd been scared.

She was right to call him a coward.

And now she was apologising to him.

"But I still should have been more understanding," she said. "I was projecting my own...issues...on to you. I'm sorry."

He shook his head again. "Please, stop."

She bit her lip and looked wary.

"Can we just go back to how things were before I acted like an asshole?" He asked.

"Is that what you really want?" she whispered.

He took a deep breath. "Yes."

It was the truth.

He'd been trying to protect himself against future pain by distancing himself from their relationship. But that wasn't fair to her. She had no one else in this world. No one who understood her; no one who knew her secrets. Only him. He couldn't - he wouldn't - hurt her anymore and subject her to that isolated life again.

And he wasn't just saying 'yes' out of concern for her. He missed her. And he wanted to be near her. There was no one else in the world who knew him and understood him like she did.

They were two of the most lonely and broken people in Gotham...and yet they'd found each other.

He wouldn't throw that away again.