Gordon slowly took in the destruction all around him. Devastation was what he saw. Simple, absolute, unyielding decimation. Power lines were down, glass and bits of mortar were everywhere, fires still burned in trash cans, and cars left vacant as their owners surrendered to their deepest, darkest fears.

The nearest gutter was clogged with rushing water, leaves and bits of other debris. He assumed the water was coming from the pipes that burst after the Scarecrow detonated his toxin bomb. Hundreds of pipes and water mains, he realized with a sigh. Every one of them a conduit the Scarecrow had been able to use to fill Gotham with his hallucinogenic mist.

If he hadn't known better, he would have thought the city had been hit by a massive storm. Instead, it had been the victim of a calculated attack by a madman in a gas mask. And yet the sky above him was crystal clear. The outline of the moon, visible against the crimson backdrop was big as a flying saucer before it slid the rest of the way into the horizon. The stars looked like little diamonds. They winked at him before fading into slumber.

It was a peaceful end to another hellacious night in Gotham.

We're a city of survivors, he thought as he reached up to adjust his glasses. Nothing the monsters of this city does will ever stop us from picking ourselves up, dusting ourselves off and going on with our lives.

"Long night, Jim?"

Gordon grunted and glanced up to where a dark figure hovered in the shadows between two buildings.

"Shouldn't you be at home?"

"I was helping to round-up the last of the inmates that Scarecrow released." He didn't growl it. No, the Dark Knight just sounded as exhausted as he felt. "It was the only thing I could do to help."

So, that's the way of it, Gordon thought with a soft sigh. He's seeing he failed to protect and save the city from Scarecrow's attack. Well, he'd absolve him of that ridiculous notion right quick.

"I know you are blaming yourself for what happened, for the people who couldn't be saved the effects of Scarecrow's toxin." Gordon took off his glasses and stuck them in a small case he produced from a pocket inside his trench-coat. "Don't. You're not to blame for what happened any more than I am. We did our best with the hand that we were given. And," he added as he slid the case back into his pocket, "it was a crap hand, to begin with."

"Does that make the guilt any less, Jim?"

Gordon had to give him that point.

"No," he admitted. "It doesn't. Nothing will ever make the guilt less. Or make us wonder what we could have done differently."

"We need to have a contingency plan in place for when this sort of situation happens." Batman lifted his head to look at him. "People suffered tonight that needn't have."

"I agree." He nodded. "I absolutely agree that people suffered tonight because we were ill-prepared for an attack on this massive of a scale. What could we do, though? We're not omnipotent." He cast a mildly amused look at him. "Even if one of us tries to act like he is."

Batman didn't smile but there was a slight softening to his mouth. As far as encouragement went, Gordon took it. "We weren't prepared this time," he agreed with a slight nod. "We need to make sure that we are next time."

"How can we prepare for this sort of attack?"

"I will figure out a way."

And with that, he was gone. Gordon found he had no reason to continue standing next to his car. It wasn't like he had waited for word on the Scarecrow's whereabouts. He already knew the psychotic freak had managed to sneak away in the chaos he created.

He, much like the Dark Knight, knew the Scarecrow would return as soon as he had a new batch of that damned toxin of his ready. For now, he was gonna call it a night. He'd go home, call and make sure Barbara was okay, crawl in beside Sarah, and get a few hours of some desperately needed sleep.

…

This was all her fault, he thought peevishly. If the little brat wouldn't have fought him, if she would have given into her fears like everyone else in this godforsaken city, if she would have given him what he wanted without any qualms, none of this would have happened.

He was supposed to have gotten the girl back to his underground research facility hours ago. He was supposed to have convinced her to turn over all of Dr. Berkeley's research notes on the behavior modifying agent the doctor ridiculously named Inceptive. Even now, he should be making his first batch of his new and improved fear toxin.

Instead, he found himself wandering the streets of the city he had taught the meaning of fear.

While he wandered, he realized he had a bit of a problem: he didn't know where he was. That little brat's attack had left him completely disoriented. He looked around. The mist obscured all familiar landmarks from view. He had to do something, anything. He chose to continue walking. And while he walked, he planned his vengeance upon the girl who so determinedly thwarted his capture.

The Scarecrow didn't know how long he walked, or where exactly he was even walking too.

He stopped at an intersection. The street to the left was blocked by a series of abandoned cars. A dozen men and women blocked the street on his right. In the dawn's early light, obscured by the thick mist his toxin mist created, Scarecrow could see most were wearing the dingy orange overalls of Blackgate inmates. Others wore torn and muddied clothing. Some stood staring at the sky, others babbled incoherently, and others still sat rocking in the middle of the road.

He stared at the murky road directly in front of him, debating where he should go. Certainly not Arkham Asylum. No, the asylum would be crawling with all sorts of activity. The city morgue? No. That would be one of the first places that Batman would think to check. His original destination once he had the Berkeley girl in his grasp had been a small warehouse down by Gotham docks.

His... partner had converted the basement of the warehouse to a state of the art research laboratory. That could prove an option still. How to get there without being seen by the police or worse yet, by Batman, could prove especially difficult. However, the mist and legions of infected people would keep them busy for hours.

Where to go, where to go...

He felt a shift deep with himself. Felt Jonathan Crane struggling to rise to the surface and take back control from him. From him! That simpering, sniveling, spineless side of himself swelled within him, trying to oust him, to seize control, to send him back into the very shadows from which he had been born. As if he was going to allow that to happen! He had things to do, research results to gather and papers to write! But then he heard that refined little voice say, "return to the lab."

Yes, the lab, Scarecrow thought, lips stretching wide beneath his mask. Yes, that was perfect! Brilliant even! Nobody would think to look for him in his former lab at Gotham University. They wouldn't believe he would dare to return to the very place he started his research in the phenomenon known as fear. He cackled, long and low, and was about to turn in the direction he presumed the university was when a deep voice came from behind him.

"Doc?" he heard. "Dr. Crane? Is that youse?"

No! he wanted to scream at the voice. Not Crane! Scarecrow! And yet, there was a part of him that wondered if was he really either one more than the other. Was he the Scarecrow now more than he was Jonathan Crane? Or was he still Jonathan Crane more than he was the Scarecrow?

If he was anything, it was a combination of Jonathan Crane and the Scarecrow. It was quite nice now that he thought about it. Most of the festering cesspool called the human race only possessed one identity. Wasn't it fitting that a superior being such as himself had more than one? Shouldn't a man of his refined taste and intellect not be worlds above the rest?

"Doc?" The voice called again. "Doc, is that youse?"

He pulled off his mask and became Dr. Crane again.

"Yes, I am Dr. Crane," he called back to the speaker. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Like, give you a taste of the oblivion found at the end of fear? He plastered on a pleasant smile as he turned to see a figure walking towards him. He could make out nothing in the fog but for a dark shake. When they were a few feet away, he could see the faded gray jumpsuit and recognized the pudgy face and bald head: he was a former patient named Carson.

"Mr. Carson," he simpered. "How lovely to see you."

"I saw youse walking around in this damn fog and thought I'd check to see if youse was okay," Carson said. "I never got the chance ta properly thank youse for helping me. Youse the only one at the asylum who was ever nice ta me."

Was I nice to him? Crane wondered. I can't remember. Not that it matters.

"That is very kind of you to say, Carson."

"Are youse lost, Doc?"

"Terribly," Crane admitted. "You wouldn't happen to know where we are, would you?"

"Sure. We're near the Industrial District."

The Industrial District. That was close to the docks. So, the small warehouse it was. At least, temporarily.

"Can you lead me to the warehouses by the docks?"

"Sure, that's where I'm headed. My brother-in-law has a fishing boat tied up down there. Was gonna use it ta get the hell outta the city."

A boat, Crane thought. Now, there is an interesting idea. Getting out of the city for a while could allow him the time to regroup, to decide what he should do next, and prepare another batch of his toxin. Once he had another batch of his serum he could begin his life's work again.

And get his hands once and for all upon Inceptive.

"Mr. Carson," he said. "I have a business proposal for you..."

…

In a bar somewhere down in Gotham's East End, Harvey Bullock was capping off what had been another craptastic night with a double whiskey. Flannigan's was dead, the usual bunch of beatniks and wastrels who littered the place either having gotten themselves gassed by that nutcase, the Scarecrow or passed out in some alley, drunk as skunks. Either way didn't mean a hill of beans to him. No, what mattered to him at that moment was the fact he failed to protect the sprocket from the monster in the dark.

Jim gave me one lousy job to do tonight, he thought as he stared at the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass. He asked me to get the sprocket somewhere safe, to get her home before anything crazy happened. And did I do it? Hell's no. I let myself get knocked unconscious by some goon posing as a cop.

Guilt settled like a lead ball in his belly. Over and over he saw again how Scarecrow stretched out a hand towards the sprockets face. Saw her smack that hand away with a vehement snarl. Saw how that sick, twisted monster pressed a button on his machine that turned all of Gotham into one huge ball of fear.

My fault, he thought as he drained the last of the whiskey from the glass and signaled for another. The kid got gassed by that freak because I wasn't right there ta stop him.

"Hey, Bullock." He turned his head and watched Ethan Tate slide onto the stool next to his. "Thought I'd find you here."

"What're you doing here, Tate?"

"Thought you might need some company."

Bullock picked up his drink and took a hefty swallow. "Ain't much for company at the moment, kid."

The bartender, a man named Roark, ambled over to see if Tate wanted anything. The younger man took a moment to order a coffee before he turned to Bullock.

"Wanna talk about it?" he asked. "Getting whatever it is off your chest might help more than whiskey."

The last thing he was gonna do was admit he was a complete failure.

"Ain't nothing, kid," he said as he took another swallow of the smoky brew. "Don't worry about it."

A chipped white cup was set in front of Tate, stopping him from replying. He took a moment to stir his coffee in silence. Finally, he set the spoon aside and looked at Bullock.

"Look, I know you're blaming yourself for what happened to the Commissioners niece. Don't. It wasn't your fault."

"I had one damn job given to me," Bullock gritted. "I was to protect the sprocket. And I didn't do it."

"Did you ever stop to think that what Raya needed the most was to see she could protect herself?"

It was a valid point. The sprocket did need to know that she could protect herself. However...

"She's just a kid." Bullock shot a look at Tate from the corner of his eye. "She ain't old enough to be fighting creeps like the Scarecrow."

"She's the same age as Robin," Tate pointed out. "And he's been fighting the likes of the Joker and the Scarecrow for the last couple of years."

"Robin ain't the Sprocket."

He didn't add that he didn't think the Boy Wonder should be out there and fighting freaks like the Joker anymore than he did the sprocket. His opinion on that was well-known.

"He could be, though." Tate lifted his cup and took a long swallow. "That's the thing. He could be Raya. Or she could be him. And either of them could end up facing someone like the Scarecrow and have no adult there to help them."

"Yeah..."

"And isn't it a comfort to know that she can take care of herself in a situation like that?"

He nodded. "Well, yeah. But..."

"Tonight, I watched something magical happen. Do you know what that was?" Bullock turned to him, arching a brow in silent question. Tate leaned close and said in an emotionally charged whisper, "I watched a girl rise up to fight the monster in the dark. And she won, Harvey. She won."

She won. His sprocket won. She sent the freak packing. She saved herself and the kid who ended up in her care by beating the monsters back into the darkness. Pride surged, chased away the guilt and lingering bits of fear caused by his own exposure to that toxin loaded most.

"She's Jim's kid through and through."

Tate smiled. "I think there's a bit of the bulldog in her, too."

"There's a bit of all of us in the sprocket, kid. We've all had a hand in raising that girl."

We made her strong, he thought as he finished the last of his whiskey. We made her a fighter.

…

During his short flight back to the penthouse, he placed a call Lucius Fox and, in his Bruce Wayne voice, issued some instructions. Although it was close to five-thirty in the morning, Fox sounded like he was fully awake.

They spoke for only a few moments, but once Bruce concluded the call, he was comforted knowing that Fox was already in the process of shipping out what antidote they had on hand to the hospitals overflowing with people gassed by Crane and ordering the production of more.

He set the Batplane upon its landing platform in the bunker before he slowly made the transformation from exhausted vigilante to the just-coming-home-from-a-date-playboy he used as his cover. Alfred was waiting, just like always. And he had made tea, a cup of Earl Gray for each of them.

Then he helped Bruce with removing the suit.

Between the two of them, they got it off and put away in one of the cases. Alfred took a moment to check for signs of fresh bruises, scrapes or burns. There were no outward signs of physical injury, which was unusual given the physical nature of his nocturnal career, but it provided the butler with a small bit of relief.

"Uneventful night, sir?" he asked dryly as he set their empty cups back onto the tray. "Or did you take better precautions than usual?"

Bruce glanced over his shoulder at him. "It was not as physically demanding a night as I usually have, no, Alfred."

"Small miracles do happen then."

"Funny."

Bruce moved his arms, legs, rolled his shoulders, stretching sore and stiff muscles. Even though it had not been a physically demanding night, it had still been a very long, emotional draining one.

"Where are Raya and Dick?" he asked as he crossed to the elevator. "And our houseguest?"

"All three are resting comfortably, sir," the older gentleman replied before pressing the button for the penthouse. "They fell asleep about thirty minutes before you arrived home, in fact."

Bruce's lips curved at the corners. "And how did you slip them the Benadryl this time?"

"It was in their hot chocolate."

Bruce swallowed a laugh before asking, "Were you able to track down the housekeeper that Raya says normally takes care of the boy when the Drakes are away on business?"

Alfred nodded. "She is currently recuperating at Gotham General." He looked over at Bruce, his expression grave. "She was given quite a knock on the head but was not infected by the Scarecrow's toxin." He sighed. "Thankfully."

"Were there any problems in getting permission for the boy to stay here with us for the next day or so while the housekeeper recuperates?"

"None, sir," Alfred replied. "Mrs. Mac, in fact, seemed quite satisfied with having Master Timothy stay with us while the police work upon contacting the boy's parents."

"Do they have any idea about where the Drakes are?"

"Detective Bullock did some inquiring and apparently Mr. and Mrs. Drake are on an archaeological dig in South America." Alfred sniffed once, indicating his displeasure. "They left word at Gotham University that they would be out of contact for the next eight weeks or so."

Bruce imagined that piece of information had not gone over well with Raya. His imp had become quite outspoken about things like domestic violence and parental neglect since her mother's death.

She tended to ferret much of her free time between school, gymnastics and her training sessions with him to various organizations and charities that sought to aid those in abusive situations. She had become quite the crusader in the last few months, channeling her rage and grief into helping others who found themselves in situations like her own.

Just like him.

He had supported her in her endeavors, encouraged her even. He even supported her decision to learn more than just basic fighting skills. He, more than Gordon and even Alfred, understood that learning how to defend herself, protect herself from men like her father was something she needed to overcome the abuse she suffered at his hands.

For Raya, it was another step in taking back what her father had stolen from her. Agreeing to train her had come with stipulations, of course.

The first and foremost one being that she was not to go out on patrols with him and Dick.

She would never dawn a mask. Or parade around the city with him. Her talents and skills would be utilized behind the scenes. After the events of that night, though, he wondered if Raya would raise the subject of allowing her to finally go out on patrols. A part of him, the one which he knew was the vigilante, couldn't help but be proud of how she had handled herself that night.

Not only had she overcome the effects of the Scarecrow's toxic mist by sheer will, but she managed to keep Timothy Drake safe until he could get to her.

She had been in danger, more even than what she faced the night of her mother's murder and yet she remained cool and calm, thinking logically and rationally and doing whatever she thought necessary to keep the boy and herself safe. A small tingle of pride surged at the way she handled the Scarecrow.

Using the flare to not only signal her location but to make him run off had been pure genius. A part of him, the one who saw himself as her dad, hoped she wouldn't bring the subject of going on patrols up. Putting her in the field was not something he or Jim Gordon could ever allow.

Not with men like the Scarecrow and the Joker on the loose.

Once the elevator doors opened, he crept over to check the three figures stretched out upon the huge sectional in the middle of the living room. The penthouse may have been swamped in shadows, but he had no trouble navigating the sea of furniture in the pre-dawn light. He looked down at the peacefully slumbering trio and felt the bands around his heart slowly unfurl at the sight that greeted him.

Dick's arm was curved around Raya, who was sleeping with her head cradled on his shoulder, her hand curled upon his chest. The little boy, Timothy, was snuggled between the back of the couch and Dick's other side, his head resting comfortably on the older boy's chest, his thumb in his mouth. It was the sight of their hands, resting upon the boy's back, their fingers interlocked that untied the knots he had been in ever since learning it was the Scarecrow behind everything that happened that evening.

Emotions, raw and rabid, surged at the sight of the simple, warm and affectionate gesture. He knew the two were best friends. They had become close the moment they met, bonding over the losses of their parents, and the changes those deaths brought to their lives. However, this said more than anything how closely bound their relationship was. Dick would walk through fire to keep Raya safe. And he knew she would do the same for him. However, they wouldn't just wade through hell for each other.

They would also do it for the little boy under their care and protection until his housekeeper recovered from her injury. The night had interceded and put Raya at the GCPD so she could save Tim from the Scarecrow. He fully believed that. However, he also saw that the night, in its wisdom had given them something the other lacked: a sibling.

Timothy Drake had no older siblings to look out for him and neither Raya or Dick had a younger brother to dote upon or help buffer the dark days that came from just being a teenager. Alfred must have sensed his thoughts for he cleared his throat before speaking.

"They have rather taken to the boy."

"They've changed so much since they came to us."

"They are not the only ones who have changed in those years," Alfred pointed out. "You have changed as well, sir. You're happier than you were."

Bruce cast a glance over his shoulder at the older man, a wry smile on his lips. "They work hard to keep me from brooding."

"Perhaps you should ask to have Miss Raya move permanently into the Manor with you and Master Richard. Especially now that the Scarecrow has made it clear that he wants Dr. Berkeley's notes on Inceptive."

It was a valid point. And something he would consider long and hard before mentioning it to Gordon.

"They've brought joy and light into my world, Alfred. The Manor does not seem the same lonely, sad place when they are there. And my life," he admitted with a faint smile, "doesn't seem so empty now that they are part of it."

"I would say their lives do not seem so empty now that they have you, as well, Master Bruce."

Bruce reached down to tuck a stray curl behind Raya's ear. Skimmed his fingers over Dick's cheek.

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost them."

"I do not think that is something you will ever have to worry about, Master Bruce."

"A father always worries about that, Alfred," he said as he stepped back. "If he's a good father, he always worries about his children. Thomas Wayne taught me that."

He taught you much more than that, Alfred thought as he followed Master Bruce from the room.

A/N: Hello, and goodbye, all!

Hopefully, those of you reading along have enjoyed the journey as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Please, if you liked this story, favorite it! Also, feel free to comment below if you liked the story (or didn't).