With one movement, Bruce caught George's left arm in a steel grip, and fired his grappling gun with his free hand. The moment the anchor bit into the concrete building, the two of them jerked to a stop.

"Ahhh!" Bruce cried, as pain seared through his right shoulder. George's added weight and the sudden deceleration had wrenched his shoulder from its socket. Gritting his teeth against the piercing agony, he lowered himself and the young boy to the street below.

He sliced through the zip-tie with one of the tactical knives embedded in his chest plate, and George used his freed hands to whip off his blindfold.

"Holy shit, you're Batman!" he exclaimed, staring up at Bruce in awe.

Bruce grunted in reply as he looked over the kid. His face was grimy with tears and he'd probably have a hell of a bruise from where Bruce had caught his arm...but he looked otherwise unharmed. "You okay, kid?" he checked.

He nodded, his face breaking out in a smile. "That was awesome! Wait till Sammy and the others here about this!"

"I though it was going to be our little secret?"

George's face fell. "Oh, yeah." His boyish enthusiasm melted away at the thought of what the Deacons would do to him if they found out.

Bruce saw his chance. He crouched down so he was at eye-level and tried to convince the kid to rethink his choices. "George do you really wanna be part of a gang that would do this to someone? They left you up there, knowing there was a strong chance you could die. They don't care about you."

George looked down. "No one does," he mumbled under his breath.

Bruce grappled with something to say in response, his heart aching for this poor, neglected boy. But just then, a police siren blared from the end of the street. The sound spooked George, who took off running.

Bruce watched him go, then disappeared back into the shadows of the alley as the patrol car passed him.

His shoulder throbbed.

Shit

His motorbike was stashed nearby, but there was no way he could ride it home with his arm hanging useless by his side. Alfred would have left for Capitol City already, so he couldn't come get him...

And taking a taxi dressed as a 6-foot-tall bat would not be the sanest idea.

There was only one option he could think of.

Or, at least, only one option he wanted to think of.

———

Beth took a sip of wine and checked the time on her watch. It was well past midnight and she should probably go to bed...but her book was just getting good. She nestled deeper into the couch and turned the next page.

But she was abruptly drawn out of the world of regency-era England when she caught sight of the large shadow passing by her window.

Someone was on her fire escape.

She slowly put down her book and grabbed the decorative vase from the coffee table - the nearest heavy object. Gripping the glass weapon firmly, she quietly approached the window.

The shadow shifted...

...and the moonlight overhead illuminated a tell-tale set of ears.

It was Batman.

She set the vase down and opened the window.

"There was movement this time, so this definitely constitutes 'sneaking'," she called out.

He stepped fully into view. "I'm sorry."

"What are you doing out there?" she asked, glancing around to see if any of her neighbours had noticed the tall vigilante pacing her fire escape.

"Debating whether I made the right decision."

"And what decision was that?"

He sighed. "I came to ask for your help."

She raised an eyebrow. What kind of help would Batman need from her at this time of night? Then she noticed the way his right arm was hanging motionless at his side...

She gestured to it. "Does it have anything to do with that?"

He nodded.

"No need to debate any further. Just come in." She pushed the window up as high as it would go, and stepped aside.

He ducked down and stepped through the gap and into her apartment. If she'd thought he looked somewhat incongruous in the mortuary, it was nothing to seeing him in all his caped glory in the middle of her cosy, candle-lit living room.

His eyes flickered around the space. "I'm sorry for interrupting your night."

She shrugged as she looked him over for any more injuries. "It's just a night like any other." She gestured to his arm again. "What happened?"

"Dislocated shoulder."

She winced. "Ouch."

"I've had worse. And I wouldn't normally ask for help-"

"Shocker," she teased.

He ignored her. "But there were...circumstances...beyond my control."

"Hey, it's okay. I'm happy to help." She stepped closer and examined the thick metal pad covering his shoulder. "But I have to warn you, its been a while since my ER rotation. I can't even remember the last time I treated a live patient."

"I can," he said softly.

She glanced up to see him staring at her intently.

"Two months ago. When you saved my life."

She swallowed and held his gaze. The moment felt...charged. Intimate. Here he was, in her space, looking at her like she was the only other person in the world. The candlelight caught on the stubble covering his sharp jaw, and she wanted to rest her hand against it. Feel its texture against her skin.

But that would be bad in so, so many ways.

So she took a half step back and put her professional face on.

"That was just first aid. For this, I'm gonna need you to remove some of this armour." She tapped the shoulder pad lightly.

He unsnapped the shoulder segment with his good hand, and she caught the heavy guard as it came away from the leather suit underneath. "I need to check for nerve damage. Do you have any loss of sensation in your hand? Any numbness or tingling?"

He removed the gauntlet and glove. His hand was wrapped in bandages, like a boxer. He flexed his fingers. "Feels fine."

She cautiously grasped his hand in hers, careful to only touch the bandages, and examined the exposed skin of his fingers. The colour looked good, with no sign of vascular compromise. "Okay, lets do this. Take a seat." She gestured to her couch.

His leather suit squeaked quietly as he settled on to her sofa. She sat next to him and carefully took hold of his elbow and wrist. "Try and relax as much as possible, and let me know if the pain gets to be too much."

He grunted softly in response.

For the next few minutes, she gently manipulated the joint, until finally she felt it click into the correct position. Batman exhaled at the same moment - the only sign that he'd been in any discomfort.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"No problem," she whispered back, staring into his pale blue eyes.

His wrist flexed slightly under her hand, and she realised that she was still holding on to him. With a start, she dropped his arm and stood up. "I'll be right back."

She quickly grabbed some pain pills from her bathroom and returned to the main room. To find him holding her abandoned book and examining the half-dressed male model on the front cover.

"I can feel the judgement radiating off you," she called over her shoulder as she filled a glass with water.

She brought over the meds and he swallowed them without complaint. "No judgement. Just curiosity. Its not what I expected you to be reading."

She settled into the couch next to him, her back against the arm rest and her legs folded between them. "My job is kinda depressing," she explained. "I deal with death and tragedy day in, day out. So in my off-hours, I try to avoid that. I watch comedies and read stories with guaranteed happy endings. I don't care that its not exactly 'high-brow', I just want my serotonin fix. I think I would go crazy without it."

He nodded, still studying the book in his hands.

"So, what's yours?" She asked.

He looked at her. "Hmmm?"

"What's your outlet? What makes you happy after a night dealing with the dregs of Gotham's humanity?"

———

The answer came to Bruce in an instant.

You.

You make me happy.

Well, not exactly happy - he hadn't truly felt that emotion since before his parents had died - but she made him feel more alive.

Less alone and disillusioned with the world.

It was the true reason he'd spent all those weeks perched on the building opposite hers, binoculars in hand; the reason he'd spent hours trying to find excuses to talk her; the reason he'd sought her help tonight.

Being in her presence brought him comfort. It was as if she'd become a sort of touchstone for humanity. A bright spark of colour and warmth to help him keep going when the battle for the City's soul felt hopeless. After so many nights - more than two years of them - spent in the shadows and immersing himself in the filth of Gotham's underworld, he was at risk of losing perspective. Of forgetting there was good amongst the evil.

She reminded him of that good. She was proof there was still kindness in this world.

But he couldn't tell her any of that.

"Is there nothing?" She asked when he remained silent.

He shrugged.

She frowned at him. "That's not healthy. You need something other than this," she gestured at his suit. "Otherwise you'll burn out or go insane."

She sounded like Alfred - they'd had similar conversations in the past - but neither of them knew that he had something now. A tiny light in the darkness, guiding him away from potential despair.

He studied her, acutely aware of the contrasts between them. She was curled up on the sofa, an oversized cardigan wrapped around her; her hair was up in a messy bun, and glasses were perched on her nose. She looked soft around the edges, her clothes and colouring complimenting the golden candlelit glow of the room.

He was made of sharp angles and blackness.

He should leave. She'd said it herself - she got enough darkness and misery in her day job. She craved happy endings.

And there wouldn't be one with him.

The conflict he felt around her - the push and pull between wanting to be with her and wanting to protect himself by keeping his distance - would ultimately only end one way.

The pain of losing someone wasn't worth it. He would never allow himself to get close to her. He would content himself with watching her from afar, or indulging in these brief interactions...but there would be nothing more.

So, he should leave.

"Have you had any luck with the potential serial killer case?" She asked, before he could make his excuses.

He shook his head and explained the trouble with tracking the drug.

"That sucks," she said. She yawned and rested her head against the back of the couch. "I wonder why there was such a long gap between victims this time."

"Maybe there wasn't a gap. Maybe we missed one. Or even more than one." He stared out the window as he let his thoughts flow. He'd been wondering about this exact thing. "But if we didn't...there are only a couple of reasons why a serial killer would pause their activities. Either they move out of state, or they go to prison for something else. They can't stop any other way. Its a compulsion for them."

Beth was silent, so he glanced back at her.

She was asleep.

He smiled ruefully. Hopefully the late hour was to explain...rather than him boring her into unconsciousness. Either way, it was nice knowing that she felt comfortable enough around him to let her guard down.

Being careful not to wake her, he gathered his discarded armour and let himself out the window.

He took one last glance at her sleeping figure...then descended back into the night.

———

"No."

"It's just one dinner."

"I said, 'No', Alfred."

"You said you would give my plan a go."

"Yeah, when I thought I'd just be photographed at a party or heading into a nightclub. I didn't think I'd have to go on a date with a complete stranger."

"Lolade Musa is one of the most famous supermodels on the planet. She's hardly a stranger."

"She's a stranger to me."

"But not to the paparazzi. Or the gossip rags. Or the public. If you're seen out with her, it'll be a major sign that Bruce Wayne is well and truly leaving his reclusive past behind."

"And a non-recluse dating a supermodel couldn't possibly be Gotham's mysterious masked vigilante."

"That's the idea."

Bruce saw the merit in Alfred's plan, but spending the evening on a fake date felt like a waste of his time right now. He had a plan for hunting down the serial killer and he wanted to run with it. It was actually his conversation with Beth the other night that had sparked the idea. Instead of trying to track the drug, he was going to track the killer - by assuming he'd either been in prison, or out of state for the past year.

Step 1 was checking national databases for similar crimes.

Step 2 was checking all prison inmates released in the last few months for backgrounds in pharmaceutical training or drug manufacturing.

It would be tedious and time consuming work. So he needed to get started now. "Alfred, I can't go tonight. I need to start these searches-"

"I can do that, and I'll fill you in when you get back."

Bruce glared at his butler for a few long moments, but relented. His shoulder was still healing, so he couldn't suit up tonight. And Alfred was right - he could manage the searches easily enough.

"If I go, I need you to do something else for me. There's a kid I want you to track down - name's George Ryan. 12 or 13 years old. Lives near the Deacon's patch."

"Do I get to know why?" Alfred asked, after jotting down the information.

"I just want to know what his story is. See if there's a way to help him. Financially or something."

Alfred stared at him for a few moment, a look of cautious hope on his face. "So you're finally starting to see the good you can do out of that suit."

"I'm not in the mood for another lecture, Alfred," he said, wearily.

"Okay," he replied. "Back to tonight - the date has been arranged with Miss Musa's publicist, and I've made reservations at Chez Vous for 8pm."

Bruce sighed, resigned to putting in some work salvaging Bruce Wayne's reputation. Which apparently involved having dinner with a beautiful woman.

"Who knows," Alfred called out, as Bruce went to get changed, "Maybe you'll even have fun!"

He didn't.

Lolade was beautiful. As beautiful as she was ambitious. She was keen to boost her profile in America, so the date was as much a ruse for her as it was for him. She went through the motions for the cameras - smiling widely as he greeted her at the restaurant; touching his arm occasionally during dinner; kissing him on the cheek before getting into her car - but there was no attempt at real conversation.

And that suited him just fine. This charade was a means to an end. And he didn't want those means to involve leading-on unsuspecting women.

As Bruce waited for his car, he stared back at the restaurant, at the 'real' couples seated by the window. The lit candles on the tables caught the laughter on their faces, the clasped hands, the loving smiles...

And he had a moment of wondering what it would be like. To not be consumed by this drive to make the city a better, safer place. To be able to pause every now and then and enjoy life.

To have the courage to open his heart to someone, and share a life with them.

A few months ago, such thoughts would have brought Selina to mind. But could he really have shared his life with her? She didn't seem to understand why he did what he did as Batman. And based on her pointed remarks about privilege, she was unlikely to want much to do with Bruce Wayne.

It was different with Beth. He could imagine sitting at one of those tables with her. The conversation would be effortless. He would smile as she teased him, and she would blush when he told her how beautiful she looked...

"Here you go, Mr. Wayne." The valet handed Bruce his car keys, interrupting his 'What if?' moment.

"Thank you," he mumbled, climbing into the vintage Corvette. He merged onto the main road and accelerated quickly, desperate to get back to Wayne Tower.

And away from the fantasy.

———

"I think I have something."

"On our serial killer?"

Bruce handed Gordon the file and summarised the findings. "Yeah. Patrick James Newsome. 27 year old. He was a chemistry major but dropped out of college his sophomore year when his twin brother died. After that, he got a couple of blue collar jobs but had trouble staying employed - apparently he 'doesn't work well with others'. He got in some trouble trying to make ends meet and was incarcerated for robbery last year. He was paroled three months ago."

Gordon nodded as he skimmed the contents of the file. "Sounds promising."

After more than a week of painstaking research, Bruce had come across Newsome in the list of newly-released inmates from the Gotham State Penitentiary. He had the science background, and the timing of his incarceration fit with the murders. He even had the right psychological profile.

He was definitely a promising suspect.

More than promising; Bruce was sure it was him.

He'd studied his photographs for hours and had even followed him home last night, wanting to see him in the flesh. There was a coldness in his eyes, and an intensity that radiated off him...it unnerved Bruce.

He was sure it was him.

He told Gordon as much.

"You may be right," Gordon responded. "Like I said, I trust your instincts. But we need more to go on. We'll start surveillance and try to get a warrant."

Bruce nodded, frustrated at the slow pace of the investigation. He was itching to break into Newsome's place and confirm his suspicions...but he knew things had to be done by-the-book from here on out. He didn't want to risk Newsome getting off on a technicality down the line.

Luckily, the extra evidence came just a couple of days later, when the GCPD officer tailing Newsome caught him buying a supply of one of the drug's ingredients.

It was enough to convince a judge to issue a warrant, and Bruce turned up to Newsome's house just as the police descended to execute the search.

"You shouldn't be here, man," Gordon said apologetically when he caught sight of him. "The judge specifically said you weren't to be involved. The DA's office is getting antsy about you potentially compromising cases going to trial."

"I'm just here to watch."

Gordon sighed and shook his head. "Its bullshit anyway. You helped us take down The Riddler, and you practically served up Newsome on a platter. They should be thanking you."

Bruce shrugged. He wasn't after recognition. He just wanted to make sure Newsome was put behind bars.

Gordon left Bruce standing across the street, out of the glare of the streetlight, and marched towards the front door. Newsome's house - technically his grandparent's old house which they they left to him in their will - was a slightly run down semi-detached on a crowded cul-de-sac. The back yard melted into an overgrown wooded area which spanned the length of the street. The silhouettes of trees loomed behind the houses either side of Newsome's, the green of their leaves washed to grey in the low evening light.

Gordon banged on the front door and announced himself. "This is GCPD. We have a warrant to search the premises. Open up."

There was no response.

Just as the cops were preparing to break down the door, Bruce caught a flash of movement on the roof of the house. A figure was emerging from the skylight.

"He's on the run!" Bruce yelled, but Newsome was already in motion - he jumped across the narrow gap between his house and his neighbour's and landed on the roof. Bruce ran along the street, following him as he leapt from house to house. His peripheral vision caught Gordon and the other officers also in pursuit.

Suddenly, Newsome changed direction and jumped down behind the house at the tip of the cul-de-sac.

He vanished from sight.

Bruce cursed. He quickly swerved to run along the gap between that house and the next, and jumped the fence. He landed in a crouch in the back yard and watched as Newsome entered the woods. He gave chase, his cape snapping behind him.

Grabbing the flashlight from his belt, Bruce swung the powerful light side-to-side as he ran through the dense, dark thicket, hoping for a glimpse of Newsome. The crunching of feet over dry branches and the shouts from the pursuing officers drowned out Newsome's steps, so he had to rely on sight.

There!

A glimpse of Newsome's red checked shirt disappearing behind the large oak just ahead.

Bruce sped up, but just as he reached the oak, a gunshot rang out from that direction. He quickly ducked down and switched off the light.

Another shot fired. And two more.

Bruce heard a pained sound from behind him. One of the cops had been hit.

"You're surrounded, Newsome!" An officer called out. "We have more cops on the highway beyond these woods. There's no escape. So come out with your hands up."

Bruce crept to the right, trying to come around Newsome's flank while he was distracted by the cops. He edged closer, step-by-step, until Newsome came into sight. His back was pressed flat against a large tree trunk and he was resting his weight on one foot. He must have injured himself; that was why he'd stopped running and started shooting.

His gun was clenched in his hands, the barrel aimed at the sky, and he panted softly with exertion.

"Newsome!" The officer called again. He sounded closer now.

Another sound was also getting closer - the whomping of a helicopter's blades. Bruce looked up and saw the nearing aircraft, the massive search light attached beaming down and lighting up the woods ahead.

Newsome saw it too. And Bruce caught the moment he realised he was well and truly trapped. He squeezed his eyes closed and slowly tilted the barrel of the gun until it rested in his mouth.

He was going to shoot himself.

Bruce couldn't let that happen - not when there were so many unanswered questions surrounding this case.

He quickly detached one of the knives from his chest and threw it at Newsome. The blade sank into his forearm, causing him to cry out and stumble away from the protection of the tree trunk. The sudden movement startled the cops. "Freeze!" several of them yelled, their guns up as they advanced on the killer.

"Don't shoot!" Bruce called, but it was too late. Seeing his chance for death-by-cop, Newsome raised his weapon...and several guns fired in response. Bruce ran in front of the fire, his suit deflecting the bullets. "Stop firing!"

When the bullets stopped, he whirled to face Newsome, who was now sprawled on the ground, a red bloom spreading from the wound in his chest.

Newsome smiled up at him, blood staining his teeth from where it bubbled up from his chest. "Now you'll never find her..." he whispered in a sing-sing voice.

Bruce stared in horror, as Newsome's eyes closed and he went limp.