One week later...

Alfred paused on the landing as the sound of Bruce's laughter reached him. It wasn't a bellowing guffaw, or even a full-throated chuckle. Just a little huff of amusement. But it was the most levity he'd heard from the taciturn young man in...years.

His chest clenched at the thought that maybe - finally - Bruce was healing.

And it was all down to Beth.

She'd brought light into Bruce's life. Or, more accurately, she'd brought life into Bruce's existence. Before she'd come on the scene, Bruce had been so single-minded in his focus - his entire being devoted to the mission to fight the crime of Gotham - that he barely slept; barely ate. Didn't interact with a single soul while not under that mask...

Alfred had been scared that the Bruce he knew - the kind, sensitive, intelligent boy - would disappear, be consumed by the Bat. That there would be nothing left but a hardened vigilante who would give his all to the city which, in return, would either turn on him, or use him up and discard him.

But then Beth had come along and pulled him from that abyss with nothing more than her smile and her innate goodness. These days, Bruce lingered over dinner...because she was next to him. He would eat serving after serving while she chatted to him about nothing and everything. Instead of working himself to exhaustion, Bruce now spent time relaxing with Beth either down in this lair or by the fire in the penthouse, sometimes talking with her, sometimes in peaceful silence.

He was finding balance, thanks to her.

Tonight, Bruce leant against his car, suited up in his vigilante gear but seemingly in no rush to leave. He was apparently too engrossed in the story being told by the young woman curled up in the chair beside the workstation.

"...so then they sent me to this camp for orphaned teens - way out in the sticks. Like the setting of some horror movie. And it was a horror movie, as far as I was concerned. All I wanted to do was sit inside and read a book but they kept forcing me out side. Kayaking. Fishing. Camping! Ugh!

Another huff of laughter from Bruce. Alfred smiled at the sound, and at Beth's exaggerated disgust.

"But then they introduced us to horse-riding...and I loved it. I was in the saddle for hours every day. Until I tried to jump a fence at a gallop and was thrown off. Snapped my right leg and had to wear a cast the rest of the summer. I got my wish in the end - I was stuck inside reading my book."

"So you were a bit of a daredevil," Bruce commented.

Beth smiled up at him and shrugged. "I guess. I liked going fast."

Alfred saw the perfect opening to intrude. "So did Bruce," he said, making his way down the stairs. "He used to race cars as a teenager."

Bruce looked at him in surprise. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. You weren't as stealthy as you thought. Thank god, you've improved given your current proclivities." Alfred gestured to the suit.

Beth laughed.

"Did you need something, or did you just come down here to spill secrets about my past?" Bruce asked, but there was no animosity in his voice. Beth's presence was having a positive influence on their relationship too.

"I just wanted you to know that Samantha Sterling's medical bills have been taken care of, as requested."

"Thank you, Alfred."

Beth looked towards Bruce. "You did that?"

Bruce shrugged. "She's a victim in all of this. I can't blame her for Newsome finding out about you. So I let her know - anonymously - that you were safe and I paid off a few bills. Its no big deal."

She tipped her head and regarded Bruce fondly. "That was really sweet of you."

Bruce ducked his head, as if embarrassed by the praise, and pushed off from the car. "I-I better get moving." He shrugged into the oversized coat he used to hide his identity while travelling to and from the tower then clambered onto his bike. He looked at Beth and hesitated. "I'll see you later?"

She nodded and smiled in return. "I'll be up. Happy hunting."

Alfred watched as Bruce sped down the railway tracks and into the night. He turned to Beth, and wasn't surprised to see that her smile had morphed into an expression of concern. "It doesn't get any easier, I'm afraid," Alfred commented.

"Sorry?" she asked.

"Watching him ride off into danger. I've been doing it for over two years, and it doesn't get any easier."

"Was I that obvious?"

He leaned against the workstation bench and smiled down at her. "Just to me. You hide it well from him."

Beth picked at a thread in her sweater. "I do worry about him out there. But I don't want him to know. I don't want him to feel that I'm...," she seemed to struggle for the right words. "That I'm asking him not to go. I get that this is something he needs to do. That it's a part of who he is."

"I understand. If its any consolation, he's being a lot more careful now."

"What do you mean?"

Alfred paused, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of sharing his fears about Bruce's previous near-suicidal disregard for his own safety. And about how relieved he was now that Bruce had a reason to come home in one piece every morning.

That was a lot of responsibility to place on Beth's shoulders.

So he told a partial-truth instead, the one he'd been thinking of earlier. "He's eating and sleeping a lot better since you came to stay with us. That will help keep him alert out there."

"I'm glad. It's good to know I'm helping, and not just being a burden."

"You are the opposite of a burden. You've brought light and laughter back to this place. Back to Bruce. I can't thank you enough for that."

———

Flashlight beams spearing through a darkened store drew Bruce's eye as he crouched on a rooftop, searching the streets below for trouble.

He rappelled to the ground and approached the store front from the shadows, recognising the sign above the window. It was Brixman Family Jewellers, an institution of Gotham, that had been supplying its rich denizens and middle classes alike for decades.

And now a couple of thieves were raiding its wares.

They weren't being subtle about it, either, the smashing of glass cases audible from the street. Bruce sped up, and ducked through the alley beside the store to enter through the back door. Emerging into the display room, he made no move to hide his heavy footfalls.

At the sound, the two men spun to face him. One was a short, scrawny man with a long, greasy ponytail. The other was his polar opposite - a hulking beast with a bald head that reflected the light shining in from the streetlamps outside.

The ponytailed thief cursed. "Fuck! Use the gun!" he yelled to his companion.

The bald man dropped his bag stuffed full of jewels and fumbled in his belt for a sawn-off shotgun. He stepped in front of his much shorter partner and took aim at Bruce.

But Bruce got there first. He yanked the gun out of his hands and threw it behind him. Then he hammered a quick 1-2 punch into the man's face. He collapsed to the ground, out cold.

The bigger they were, the harder they fell.

Ponytail stumbled backwards, ready to run. But Bruce caught him before he could bolt, whipped him around and kicked the back of his knees. He dropped to the floor and Bruce quickly secured his hands behind his back with a zip-tie.

The whole thing was over in seconds.

Bruce spent a few more moments securing the large, unconscious man, then he stepped behind the counter to activate the silent alarm. Satisfied the authorities would be arriving soon, he made his way to the back of the store, grabbing the shotgun on the way to remove the cartridges - just in case the thieves somehow got free.

But when Bruce opened the weapon, instead of the usual shells, he found delicate glass containers loaded into the barrel. He clicked on a flashlight and lifted one up to the light.

It contained a familiar red gas.

"Shit," he muttered. If the hulking brute had managed to fire off a round, this would have exploded in Bruce's face, incapacitating him again.

This was far more dangerous than the canisters he'd previously come across.

The weapons dealer had upped his game.

He dragged the ponytailed man into a seated position and showed him the cartridge. "Where did you get this? Who's the supplier?" he growled.

The man glared up at Bruce defiantly and spat at him. "I'm not telling you shit, freak."

Bruce punched him, but the man just laughed in response. He got ready to deliver another blow when he heard the other thief stir behind him. Bruce crouched next to the larger man and yelled into his face. "Tell me where you got these?"

Whether it was the lingering confusion from the concussion or the sight of Bruce's masked face looming into his vision like a nightmarish spectre, the man babbled out an answer over the objections of his colleague. "Jimmy gave us a bunch. Jimmy Summers."

Armed with a lead, Bruce left the two bound men, just as the police sirens started to sound in the distance.

An hour later, he brought Gordon up to date by the floodlight signal.

"I know Summers," Gordon responded. "Jack-off-all-trades type of lowlife. Enforcer, dealer, you name it. He was one of Falcone's crew but I'm not sure who he's running with now. I'll try and find out."

"I'd appreciate it," Bruce murmured, as he walked with the lieutenant down to their vehicles, slowing his pace to match the older man's limp. He needed to find whoever was supplying Gotham with those gas canisters. If they ended up circulating throughout Gotham, it was only a matter of time before one went off in his face again.

He likely wouldn't survive the second attempt.

"I take it there are no leads on Newsome," Bruce asked as they reached the ground.

"Nothing. What about you? Anything on our missing pathologist?"

Bruce thought back to Beth's smiling face as she'd wished him happy hunting that evening. She'd switched to a more nocturnal schedule over the past week, so she was awake when he was and slept when he did. Which meant they spent a lot of time together.

Only a couple of weeks ago, that would have freaked him out. But it was as if they were living apart from the world, out of step and out of time, where the future - and the potential pain that came with it - didn't exist. He felt free to just live in the present and enjoy the now.

And he was enjoying it, much to his surprise. Her presence in Wayne Tower made it feel like more of a home. One he actually looked forward to returning to at the end of every night. Where he would see her, have dinner with her, talk to her, or just sit quietly with her in front of the fire while she read and he played around on the guitar.

"No," he lied, in response to Gordon's question. "No sign of the doctor."

Bruce turned to leave, but the crackle from Gordon's patrol car radio stopped him in his tracks.

"Reports of a high-speed pursuit on Highway 9, past exit 43. Deacon's crew members driving a stolen black BMW sedan, travelling the wrong way on the northbound expressway. Two collisions already confirmed. Suspects identified by unit 354 as Marlon Jones, Casey Walker and George Ryan. Repeat, all units respond-"

George Ryan.

Bruce jumped on his bike and took off, racing towards the highway, his mind anguished with thoughts of the young boy.

Alfred and Bruce had set up an anonymous fund for George's single mother weeks ago, helping her provide for her son without having to be at work all hours of the day and night. And they'd found him a new school in a better neighbourhood...

Why was he still hanging with the Deacons?

Bruce screeched to a stop on the overpass overlooking the highway.

He was too late.

The BMW was on its roof, crushed against the barrier on the outside lane, surrounded by cop cars. An ambulance pulled to a stop near the crash site as Bruce looked on, feeling helpless. He watched as the first responders pulled an unconscious figure from the back seat of the car.

A thin, frail boy.

George.

———

A distant thumping noise pulled Beth from her book. She was curled up in the wingback chair in front of the fire. It was a cosy nook in the midst of the sprawling penthouse and it had quickly become 'her' spot.

For the past week - since she'd awoken to find Bruce crouched beside her in front of this very fire - she had taken up vigil here every night.

After years of working night shifts during her residency, her body clock had quickly adjusting to the unusual hours the Wayne household kept. She would sleep until early afternoon, have 'breakfast', then spend a few hours with Bruce down in the underground lair before he set out for the night. She would watch him tune his car - he was never satisfied with how it was running - or help him trawl through search results and police databases looking for any hints of Newsome.

When he eventually sped away down the railway tracks and into the city, she would return upstairs where she'd try to fill the night hours. She wasn't used to having so much time on her hands. She was a workaholic, and it was strange being so idle...and useless. She had no purpose right now beyond 'staying alive' and it was making her a little stir-crazy.

So she found ways to occupy her nights, and her mind. She played chess with Alfred. She chatted to Dory, the housekeeper. She commandeered the kitchen and experimented with baking. She'd even started teaching herself how to play guitar, using the instrument she'd found propped up against the staircase.

Bruce had caught her with it the other night - much to her embarrassment - when he returned home.

"Your index finger's in the wrong position."

Startled, she'd looked up from where she was hunched over the guitar. Her hand was awkwardly wrapped around the fretboard as she tried to mimic the chord being demonstrated on the video on her phone.

Blushing, she sat up straight. "I'm sorry. I was just bored and-"

"It's okay," Bruce replied, coming over to crouch next to her. He went to adjust her fingers but she yanked her hand away just in time.

He sighed. "Sorry."

"No problem. I was just messing around anyway." She placed the guitar on the floor.

He sat in the chair beside hers. His damp hair was slicked back off his face and he was wearing his 'off duty' clothes of a jeans and a black tee.

He picked up the abandoned guitar and demonstrated the correct position. "See?"

She nodded, then watched as he started strumming a random series of notes. It soon morphed into a familiar song, his long fingers gliding quickly and confidently over the strings. "You lied to me," she said.

"Hmmm?" He replied glancing up from the instrument. His brow creased in confusion as he registered her accusation.

"You said you didn't have any hobbies."

He laughed softly. "I guess I do have one."

"That's good. I was gonna suggest you take up knitting, but this suits you a little better."

He laughed again. "I started playing in high school. Alfred said I needed an 'outlet for my feelings.' He must have gotten that from one of his psychology books."

He often shared bits of his past with her during these witching hour conversations. And she ate up every morsel of information.

"It does help me let off steam when I hook it up to the amp and let it rip."

She laughed and gestured to the high ceilings and the wide open space around them. "I bet it sounds amazing."

"The acoustics suck, but all I care about is being as loud as possible...so yeah."

She wanted to ask him to play something else, to plug in the amps and fill the space with noise, but Alfred appeared soon after with food.

Tonight she was reading to pass the time, taking advantage of the extensive library, and relishing the feel of antique first-editions versions of her favourite novels. But that erratic thumping sound interrupted Elizabeth and Darcy's verbal sparring, and she set off to investigate.

The noise was coming from upstairs, from an area of the apartment she'd left largely unexplored - Bruce's suite. As she crept down the hallway, the sound became more distinct - it was the muffled slap of a fist hitting a leather bag over and over.

Bruce was boxing.

He'd returned home, but hadn't come to find her. Instead, he was sequestered away up here, beating seven shades of shit out of an inanimate object.

Something was wrong.

She stepped into his training room. Alfred had included it in her 'tour' the first night, in case she wanted to use the equipment for exercise. Not being a fan of that kind of thing, she'd stayed clear of the room since then.

She spotted Bruce in the far corner, beyond the rowing machine and treadmill. He was facing away from her, dressed only in a loose pair of sweatpants. The muscles shifted under his bare, scarred back as he delivered a flurry of punishing hits to the leather bag.

Something was very wrong.

She moved further into the room, not making an effort to disguise her footfalls - she wanted him to know she was there. She took a seat on the benchpress to his right and watched his punches get weaker as he tired himself out.

With one final hit, he staggered into the bag and hugged it to regain his balance. Then he sank down to the floor and dropped his face into his bandaged hands.

She couldn't bear to see him in such obvious pain. She fell to her knees beside him and wrapped her arms around him, careful to keep her hands tucked into her long sleeves. His muscles were tight and his skin was damp with sweat; she could feel tiny tremors running through him - all signs that he'd pushed his body beyond the point of exhaustion.

"What happened?" Her voice was a whisper.

He didn't respond. But she felt him start to relax by small degrees, until he tipped his head to the side to rest lightly against her chest.

She wanted to run her fingers through his hair. She wanted to smooth her hands over his back. She wanted...

She wanted to kiss him.

She wanted to take him into her arms and kiss him, and make him forget whatever was tormenting him.

It was at that moment she realised she'd fallen in love with Bruce Wayne.

He'd been a threat to her heart from the first moment they'd met, when she'd been so intrigued by the man under the mask. That threat had grown into a real possibility once she'd seen his true face and gotten to know him.

She'd been teetering on the edge of falling for weeks - maybe even months - despite trying desperately to cling to solid ground. But this past week she'd dropped off the cliff.

The barriers around her heart had dissolved in this place; she was in his world, surrounded by him, immersed in him...it was inevitable.

There were some things impossible to resist.

And loving Bruce was one of them.

Which is why her heart broke seeing him so distraught. She wanted so much to take away his pain with her touch...

But she couldn't do that.

She'd never hated her gift so much in her life.

After several long minutes, he raised his head again and shifted out of her embrace. He turned to face her and she mirrored his crosslegged position on the floor.

"It was a bad night," he said, his voice hoarse.

"I figured," she replied softly. "If you don't want to tell me, I understand. But I'm here if you do."

He nodded. And began explaining in broken sentences. "There's this kid. George. I met him a while back. He- he wanted to be part of this gang down in the Hill. I thought I'd changed his mind. Alfred tried... but he was joyriding with them tonight. The cops chased them. The car flipped..."

"Did he...?" She couldn't form the words.

He shook his head. "He's in bad shape. They took him to Gotham General. Head injury."

He clenched his hands into fists, the bandages bloodied from his split knuckles. She gently took one of his hands in hers, avoiding his bare skin. His fingers relaxed at the contact and she started unwrapping the bandages to expose the wounds. "It's not your fault, Bruce." It was obvious from the way he'd been punishing himself with that punching bag that he felt guilty. "You're not responsible for every bad thing that happens in this city."

"But I could have done more to help him."

"You tried. Which is probably more than anyone had ever done for him. Sometimes people can't be convinced to do what's right for them."

"He's just a boy," he whispered.

And that was the heart of the matter. He saw himself in every traumatised child. With this George; with the Mayor's son; with the body in the mortuary the first night they met...

"I know," she replied. There wasn't anything else to say. She doubted any words could help him just now. So she would provide comfort in another way.

The only way she could.

"Wait here, I'll be right back."

She ran to collect first aid supplies and made a quick stop in the kitchen before returning. He was right where she left him, staring down at the bloodied ribbons of fabric on the floor. She sat back down in front of him and handed him the crystal tumbler she carried in her left hand. The ice clinked as he took the glass of bourbon from her.

"I'm not much of a drinker."

"I figured. I would have brought a tub of ice cream with me - that's my go-to on bad days - but you're kitchen is woefully understocked."

He smiled sadly and sipped at the dark liquid.

She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and set about cleaning and re-bandaging his damaged hands. As she fixed the final piece of gauze into place, her eyes caught on the faint scar on his right forearm. Without thinking, she traced her finger over the raised mark.

"Crowbar."

She glanced up to find him watching her. "What?"

"That scar. It was one of my first nights out in the suit and I was still refining it. Car jacker got me in the arm with a crow bar. I added the gauntlets after that."

She touched her fingers lightly against the circular dent below his right collarbone. "And this one?"

"Bullet. Got passed the kevlar plating."

She bit her lip as her eyes roamed over the patchwork of scars marring his chest and arms. 

"You need to be more careful. You're only human, after all." Her resolve to keep her concerns to herself weakened at the sight of his damaged body.

"You sound like Alfred."

She remembered back to her conversation with the older man. "Well, he worries about you. You're out there getting battered every night-"

"Hey, you should see the other guys."

She glared at him. "It's not funny, Bruce. You need to start taking better care of yourself. This...mission...you've dedicated yourself to is making a difference in the city, and what you're doing is admirable...but you're only one man. You'll burn out if you keep going the way you are. And I don't want to see that. Alfred isn't the only one who worries."

He rested his hand on one of hers. "I worry about you too."

She scoffed. "The only thing I'm in danger of these days is getting a paper-cut from one of your old books."

"I meant before. I would worry about you being alone in the M.E.'s office. I- I would check up on you at night, to make sure you were home and safe."

She raised an eyebrow at his confession. "Creepy."

He looked away and removed his hand.

"Hey." She put her palm on his face to gently move it back. "That was my turn to make a bad joke. I'm sorry. I- I actually like the idea of someone caring enough to check up on me. So thank you."

He said nothing, just stared at her with those haunted eyes. She dropped her hand and started babbling under his intense gaze. "I actually did the same. To you. I cyber-stalked Batman. A ton. To make sure you were still alive at the end of every night. I actually joined social media for you, which - if you knew me - is saying a lot."

"But I do know you, don't I?"

He was still looking at her intently. She swallowed, aware that something was shifting between them.

"Yes," she replied, her voice slightly shaky. "Better than anyone."

"And you know me. Better than anyone. You've seen me, in a way no one ever has." He put emphasis on the word 'seen' and she realised he was talking about her ability, and the memories of him she'd read.

Where was he going with this?

She just nodded and bit her lip.

"So..." he said, lifting his hand. "Would it really be so bad if I did this?" He tried to place his hand on her cheek, they way she'd just done to him.

She jerked back before contact was made.

He froze, looking confused. "I guess it would be bad."

"Of course it would!" she spluttered. "Are you crazy?"

He still looked confused. "But you've already seen my entire life-"

She shook her head. "It's not about that."

"Then what is it?"

She answered him with a question of her own. "Why do you care?"

"I just...I hate seeing you shy away from the barest hint of skin. I want you to feel comfortable around me, instead of constantly second guessing every movement. I want you to be able to touch at least one goddam person on this planet!"

Tears sprung to her eyes as she was hit with a barrage of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she thought it was sweet that he was so concerned about her inability to experience touch. The fact that he was willing to sacrifice his thoughts and secrets to allow her that type of connection proved what a good man he was.

But at the same time, she felt an overwhelming sense of rejection. She thought maybe he was starting to feel the same way she did; that he was starting to look upon her with more than just friendly concern. That maybe he desired her as much as she did him, and that he wanted to touch her just to feel her skin...

But no. He was just being kind.

This was the perfect illustration of why she couldn't - wouldn't - allow him to touch her. She would have the ultimate proof that her love for him was one-sided.

It would be impossible to bear.

But she couldn't explain that to him without revealing her feelings and insecurities. So she opted for a partial truth.

"It wouldn't be fair to you, Bruce. I told you before, I haven't seen your entire life, or all your secrets. But with enough contact, I would. There would be no equality between us. Every passing thought would be mine. I would know every embarrassing or shameful things you've ever done. You would have no privacy at all and you'd start to resent me for that. And..." She tailed off, unsure if she should continue. There was another reason to avoid his touch; it was a valid one, but she worried it might hurt him.

"And what?" he prompted, his voice tight.

She stared down at the floor between them, unable to meet his eyes. "And I would see everything you do when you leave here at night. Every fight; every crime you try to stop; every case you investigate. All the brutality and pain. It would stay with me. And I get enough of that with my own work. I- I don't think I could handle more."

It was the truth - something she did worry about. But it felt cruel to admit it aloud. He was offering himself - his touch - out of generosity and compassion, and she was throwing it in his face because she didn't want to see what horrors his skin might reveal.

"I see."

She squeezed her eyes shut to stem the tears. He sounded as rejected as she'd felt moments ago.

She tried to fix what she'd done. She lifted her head and took one of his hands in hers. She could feel his warmth through her thin gloves, and tried not to imagine what it would be like to feel the texture of his skin. "I'm so grateful you want to help. But you don't need to worry about me. I've lived like this my whole life. Its just the hand I've been dealt." She shrugged and forced her lips into a smile. "Having you in my life - having your friendship - is already more than I ever thought I'd have. So thank you."

He sighed and twisted his hand beneath hers until he was holding her in return. "Your friendship means a lot to me too."

She rubbed her thumb against his and her smile turned bittersweet. "I'm glad," she replied.

She felt a single tear escape and trail down her cheek, and quickly wiped it away.

———

Bruce sat on the floor and watched Beth leave the training room. She'd claimed exhaustion and said she needed to get to bed. She'd given him one last bright smile and a cheerful 'Goodnight' as she'd made her escape.

But he was learning to see through her act.

She was a naturally optimistic person. Someone who tried to make the best out of life. But she wasn't as sanguine about her circumstances as she tried to let on. Her smile had been brittle tonight, and that tear had betrayed her.

She'd admitted it to Alfred last week: she was desperate for human connection. She was desperate for touch, for something the whole world took for granted. But she was denied it because of her gift.

It was true what he'd told her earlier - he wanted her to have one person on this earth she could be free with. That he was willing to be that person for her. Willing to let her see all of him, if it meant she could experience human contact.

But that hadn't been the truth in the moment. When he'd raised his hand to cup her cheek, it had been a purely selfish act. He'd wanted to touch her...because he wanted to feel her skin against his.

Tonight had been a nightmare. Watching George's small, thin body be removed from that wreck of a car had been a moment of helpless terror. He'd returned home feeling angry and guilty and pent up with frustration. He'd taken that frustration out on the punching bag, working it until his muscles had screamed and he'd lost all momentum. But it hadn't helped.

The only thing that had helped was Beth, when she'd put her arms around him.

It was the first time in years that he'd felt that kind of embrace and he'd collapsed into it, powerless to resist.

In that moment, he admitted to himself how much he wanted - needed - to be touched.

And how much he wanted to touch someone else.

No, not just someone.

Beth.

He'd wanted to touch her, to prove to himself that she was real and alive and safe...and that he wasn't alone.

And more than that...he'd wanted to touch her, to simply enjoy the feel of her warm, soft-looking, golden skin.

So yeah, a selfish act. One that served only to remind her of what she couldn't allow herself to have.

A reminder that had made her cry.

He cursed and scrubbed his face with his hands, wincing as the action tugged on the fresh cuts over his knuckles.

He eyed the punching bag, struck by the urge to go a few more rounds. Wanting to punish himself again tonight - for a wholly different reason. But he rubbed his fingers over the bandages so carefully applied by Beth, and went to bed instead.