The house was dark except for the fireplace. But that was alright with me. I didn't really want to see the light. I just wanted to sit in the almost darkness and leave me to my thoughts and think about what exactly I had done tonight, and how stupid I had been tonight. I hadn't cried much, but enough. I never cried much when I was younger, and when I did, that was when I knew that something had gone terribly wrong. I realized tonight that I was playing a game of cat and mouse with my life and that's not what a hero does. I'm not a hero. I'm just a dumb girl who thought she was something she wasn't.

Alfred hadn't said much in the car, and he hadn't said much since we got back either. He had asked me if I wanted anything to eat, which I replied I didn't. He asked me if I wished to be alone, and I didn't answer. I wanted someone to sit down with me and explain to me exactly what happened tonight but I knew Alfred couldn't because he wasn't there. But either way, I knew he would be able to explain how I was feeling to me better than I could myself. But I didn't know if I was ready for that. I wanted to be alone, but I knew swimming in my sadness would get me nowhere. So I asked him to stay.

He sat down on the couch opposite me and the fire made half of his face look orange and the other half black. I had huddled myself under a blanket, not so much because of the cold, but because I felt ashamed, and I felt it necessary to hide myself in any way I could.

He didn't say much, and I thought that was strange. Even though he never struck me as the talkative type, Alfred was never silent. But I knew why he was. There was nothing to say. I had done something stupid, no matter my intentions, and I felt incredibly bad for disobeying him. I knew he was only trying to protect me, and I ignored him and put myself in danger, and in doing that, I also put my father in danger. The silence was too thick, and I couldn't take it. I turned to Alfred.

"I'm sorry I disobeyed you." His head turned slowly, reminding me much of an owl. His mouth was a line, and his eyes were deep, and it looked like he had aged within hours. But within seconds, a small smile formed and his eyes lightened, and I knew he forgave me.

"It's alright, Miss Alex. Everything turned out fine."

"How mad is my dad?" His eyes tore from mine momentarily, so I knew that was a good indication of quite angry. I was so angry at myself for upsetting him. More than anything in this world, I wanted to please my father, and I let him down in the biggest embarrassment, not only to myself, but to him as well.

"I'm not sure," he said as he glanced back towards me. "When he rushed out of here, he was more terrified than I had ever seen him." I looked away. I didn't want to see what emotion was on his face. "Miss, don't you understand how important you are to your father and myself? Why do you always try to prove that you belong in this family?" My eyes found his immediately like radar. His face was sullen and calm, but it also had a kind of sad on it, the kind of sad that you get when you just don't understand. I shook my head at him slightly.

I should have known better than to think that Alfred didn't know how I was feeling. He knew everything, and that wasn't much of an understatement. Maybe I resembled the way my mother looked before she left, and maybe that scared him. I didn't know what gave it away so easily, but I was kind of glad he knew and I didn't have to tell him. I wanted to smile at him, but I was interrupted by a sound that echoed from upstairs.

It was the front door shutting, and I knew my father was home.

Alfred and I exchanged a glace, a kind of glace that we exchanged a lot when we both noticed the same thing, a kind of glace that was not out of the fear of the unknown, but the fear of the known. There were footsteps on the stairs that led down to the den, and I saw Alfred stand up.

My father emerged from the doorway of the den, and the light from the fireplace glared off of him and I wanted to run and hug him and cry in the corner all at once. I wasn't so much scared for his words as much as I was for what he thought of me. Alfred turned to look at him, and I saw him look at me too, but I didn't pay much attention. My father's eyes drifted to mine, hidden halfway under the couch, and oddly, they weren't aggressive or filled with pain. They were soft and quiet, and I couldn't decide how to feel about that. Then again I was father away; I might have seen wrong.

"Alfred, could you give Alex and I a few minutes?" His voice was calm and normal, just the same way he spoke when he told me happy birthday or talked about his mother. Alfred nodded his head at him.

"Of course, Master Bruce." Alfred walked past my father, and I listened carefully for each step he took up the stairs until I could hear his steps no more, and it was just my father and I.

My father walked into the room deeper and stood by the end of the couch for a moment. He was back into his regular clothes, and by regular clothes, I mean real clothes, not his suit. His face was worn, but that could have been for any plethora of reasons, and somewhere deep inside of me I knew he wasn't angry with me. I think I knew that not too deep either, but I still felt small compared to him. I always felt small compared to him. And I don't mean in height. He put his hands in his pockets and looked at me casually.

"Mind if I sit?" I had been spread out over the whole couch, and I retracted my legs in under myself to make room for him. He sat down and looked forward, and I knew I had to apologize. I had known that from the night after the ball that I would have to apologize; I guess I just never got around to it.

"I'm sorry," I nearly blurted out. His head turned towards me, and I felt my eyes diverge from his if only for a second. I didn't know what it was about my father that intimidated me so badly sometimes; it wasn't a fear, but it was an intimidation that kept me wary enough to never want to know my father's fear. "I'm sorry for everything. For the night of the ball; I knew I shouldn't have stood up and ransomed my life. I knew it made you feel scared and I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I was training and going out at night, and I'm sorry I lied to you about the cut on my lip, and I'm just really sorry." I never knew how to end an apology; I wasn't very good at them.

He sighed; he was leaning on his elbows over his knees, and I could see that he was tired. I knew that now that he was older, fighting like he used to must not be easy anymore, and he looked way too spent to have just fought a few guys. "Did they hurt you?" He looked over at me and gave me a long look, as if he was trying to evaluate my sincerity. Eventually he shook his head.

"No, not really. It was just kind of tiring." I watched him twirl his fingers together; I think I got that from him. "I'm not what I used to be, Alex. I'm not as young anymore, I can't take as much." I wanted to ask if that was the reason why he stopped being Batman in the first place, but I felt the moment wasn't right.

"Aren't you angry with me?" I thought I saw his eyes flash before my own, but I would have just called myself delusional had I not seen it so clearly. All the muscles in his body were loose, I could tell, but something about him still felt very tense. Maybe it was the fact that he and I were still so far apart, despite the fact that we were sharing a couch. He didn't shake his head this time. But he didn't nod either, but he looked away, most likely into the fire.

"I was at first. I was furious actually. I was so angry that you would go out there and willingly put yourself in harm's way. As soon as Alfred told me you were gone, I felt everything in me drop, and I felt like I had been shot." He turned a glance at me. "And I've been shot before." Uncontrollably, I let a chuckle and smile escape me, but they both quickly faded. His eyes diverged again. "All I could think about was saving you and getting you out of danger. I didn't care what I had to do in order to do that. But once I saw you there in a mask, I realized I couldn't be angry with you. And I shouldn't have been angry with you on the night of the ball either. And I'm sorry for that. But it angers me when I feel like I can't protect you, and you know as well as I do that I've never been good with my feelings."

My father and I were as close as possible, but we very rarely had heart to heart, one on one talks like this. The last one I ever remember us having was the day that I heard all my friends talking about me in the garden. When I had run inside, I sat on his lap and told him what they said, but I didn't tell him what they said about me. I told him what they said about him; because that was the part that really upset me. I couldn't understand someone thinking that my father, my best friend, my superhero, could have been something bad. And he had told me that sometimes people are mean because they don't understand, and they fear what they don't understand. And then he told me he loved me and he held me while I cried.

But that didn't happen this time. And I didn't want to know what was so different between then and now. I was still me, and he was still him, but I guess things were just different.

Then I felt the need to ask my question, and I thought it was alright because the time seemed okay. He was calm and open, and that didn't happen much. Even being related to him, he was still a vault on most things, and could only be opened on certain occasions. I hoped this was one of those occasions.

I fiddled my fingers and curled my toes, and tried to look at him without making him want to look back. "Why did you stop being Batman?"

He looked back anyway, but his face wasn't wearing a mask of shock or offense. It was just his natural face, sweet and quiet, and I couldn't see what he was thinking. I liked to regard myself as someone who is skilled at reading faces and expressions, but when it came to the two people I lived with, as well as the only two people I really loved, they were endless puzzles that kept resetting themselves daily. He spoke suddenly, and a bit quickly.

"Do you think I'm a good father?" I stared at him dumbfounded.

"I think you are an amazing father."

"That's why." I scrunched my brows together and shook my head slightly. He wasn't making any sense.

"I don't understand." I saw him look at the fireplace as the embers sizzled and popped, and a sigh came out. I had been watching his sight on the fire before it turned to me. It was almost as if he couldn't seem to keep his sight on me, as if it was too hard.

"Think back to when you were really young. Am I in any of those memories?" I thought for a moment, until I came to a gruesome insight.

He wasn't. He wasn't in any memory from when I was young. When I try to think back to being a child, all that streams through my heads are images of Alfred and an empty manor. He was here and there, but barely visible in the photoset in my head, and I couldn't figure out why I never noticed or even bothered to remember that before. I can see his empty bedroom and empty dining chair. I remember coming home from school and seeing Alfred and asking where my father was, and only getting the answer of "he'll be home later." My father wasn't a part of my childhood because he was Batman. And he stopped being Batman because of me.

He was still looking at me, waiting for my reaction I suppose. I had felt my face slowly contort into one of sadness and depression, but aside from that, I think I was expressionless. My eyes slowly went to him, looking at them and trying to look deep.

"I'm the reason you stopped?"

"Please don't look so guilty, Alex. It was my choice to stop. I loved doing what I did and helping those people, but I had a daughter to look after. And I wanted to be a part of your life, and I wasn't. And that made me angrier than anything. And so, yes, I gave up being Batman. But also keep in mind, the city was in good times then, and didn't really need me much anyway." I did understand what he was saying. I didn't like it, but I did understand. But that was then. Gotham wasn't in distress before when I was younger. It is now, and it needs Batman again. It needs my father again. But I don't think he needed it anymore.

Alfred told me once how being Batman was like a drug to my father, like he was almost addicted to it, and he needed it to really keep his mind clear of anything unwanted. But once he quit because of me, that need and void was filled by me, and now he no longer needs it. But what happens when you don't need the drug, but the drug needs you?

"Don't you miss it?" I asked, and I tried to sound as cynical as possible. He didn't move, and he wasn't thrown off at all. Only the fire popping in the background distracted him.

"Yes. It was once a part of me, and will always be a part of me. But that's not who I am anymore, and I've grown to be alright with that." He didn't sound finished, and he looked hesitant to speak, like words were just waiting on the other side of his lips, but he wouldn't allow them to come out. I wondered if it was painful for him to talk about his past like this. It probably did, but I had never had the mind to picture my father and pain together, even though I knew everything about his childhood.

"It was nice being in the suit again tonight. But it only reminded me that that life is behind me. My time as Batman is up Alex." His voice was sad, and I could feel the pain in his words. I shifted myself on the couch slightly, and sat myself up rather than lying across. I inched closer to my father.

"That's not true, Dad. You could still do it. Gotham still needs you, and now that I'm older, I understand. You can go out and do what you love again." I wanted to sound hopeful, and I wanted to believe that by the look on his face he was seriously considering it, but I knew he rejected it when his head slowly began to go side to side. He then looked up at me, right in my eyes.

"No, I can't. Whether you understand or not, I'd still miss you, and I'd miss everything going on in your life. Being a hero is a fulltime job, and you're not allowed to take any days off. It's rewarding, but that's all people ever think. People, don't understand that it's stressful, tiresome, and generally drives you mad in some ways. That was why I stopped, don't you understand? My time is up. I'm too old to do it anymore anyway. It's time for someone else, someone new to rise up." His voice had elevated, but not in a yelling sort of way; in a trying-to-get-my-point-across way.

I knew he would be mad at me, I knew he would if I asked, but I didn't see the reason not to. We were already this far in the conversation, and I had nothing left to lose. And even after hearing what he spoke about, it didn't really alter my mindset. I might have failed tonight but that means nothing. I would make it mean nothing.

"What about me?" He stared at me confused.

"What about you?"

"Train me. I'll be the next hero that Gotham needs. But I need training. And no one better to train me than Batman himself, right?" My voice stayed light, as to I knew that I would have to keep myself more than anything calm if I ever hoped to get an affirmative answer. And by his face, I couldn't tell what he was thinking. It had started out small and slow, but gradually the smallest of grins appeared on his face, and grew into a smirk, and I couldn't tell if he was about to tease me or make fun of me.

"Why are you so interested in hero work so suddenly?" He was entertained, but I didn't really want him to be. I wanted him to take me seriously. Though, it was nice to see him happy, if only for a minute.

"Since the night of the ball."

"No," he shook his head, "I mean why are you so interested?" His smile left his face.

I twirled my fingers. I knew the reason why, but I thought it was selfish. And over these past few days, I had been trying to forget about the reason, but I couldn't. It was always there, weighing down on me like a ton of bricks, and it was so hard to ignore. Whenever I really thought about it, I wanted to cry. But I wouldn't cry in front of my father. I couldn't.

"It's selfish."

"I don't care." His eyes echoed the same words, but louder and stronger, and I knew that I could actually finally tell him.

"I'm supposed to be great. I'm a Wayne. I'm supposed to grow up to be this great and revered person who has done so many things in their lifetime. I know that everyone in the city thinks that about me. They think about what I'll grow up to accomplish, because I must accomplish something because of the family I was born into. I mean, just look at you and your dad. Your dad built the monorail system, and you, well you were Batman, as well as a rich man who always helped out charities and any organization in need. Every Wayne before me was everything they're supposed to be, and I just don't know if I can live up to that. And I figured that if I could help people like you did, then maybe I would be. I know it's wrong and selfish, but I just want to know that I'm supposed to be in this family. Because sometimes it doesn't feel like it."

I had spoken somewhat fast and in a tizzy; my nerves wouldn't have been able to handle it if I spoke slowly, but I knew my father heard everything. And he didn't say anything or do anything. He just looked from me slowly, to the fire.

"Did I ever tell you that I left Gotham for seven years before I became Batman?" I shook my head at him. I had no idea. "I did. I left because I didn't know what else to do. I ran away and I lived the life of a crook. I lived among thieves and murderers and criminals. I helped them steal things, and I got into a lot of fights, and I was in jail a lot. Does that sound like something that a great person does?" I remember Alfred telling me once that my father traveled before he became Batman, but I never knew the details of it. Despite the fact that I knew it was my father we were talking about, I shook my head at him. "Greatness isn't born, Alexandria. It's made. And do you want to know something?"

"What?"

"You're already greater than I'll ever be. Not because you didn't live the life of a thief, not because you haven't gone to jail, but just because of who you are already, and who you've always been." I smiled at him. I didn't really know where he was getting his facts from, but I didn't really care. It was just nice to hear, and it actually made some of the pressure on my shoulders lift because more than anything, I wanted my father to be proud of me, and if he was proud of me, nothing else would really matter. "And," he began, "that's exactly why I'm going to train you." My smile widened, and I closed the space between him and me. I went forward and wrapped my arms around him as much as I could reach. He placed his arms around me as well. "You were right, Alex. This city does need a hero. But it's not me."

It was bittersweet to hear his words. I still wanted him to be a part of the city, a part of who he used to be and who I know he still wants to be, somewhere deep down inside.

"But you could help. Batman is Gotham City, Dad. Without him, there is no city." I felt him smile beside me before I saw it.

"Batman lives in the city. As long as the city is here, so is the Batman." I smiled at him, and I felt the urge to tell him I loved him again, but this time I did, and he said it back, and it made everything feel a little newer and brighter, even though the room was the same dark fire-lit color that I was from the very beginning, except this time there was no reason to hide under a blanket.

There would be no reasons to hide anymore.

Thank you so much to all who read and commented. I hope you all liked it. And just because I know that some of you will wonder what is yet to come of Alex, I will write an Epilogue for you within the days to come. I'm sorry if this story is shorter than you would have hoped, but then that just leaves room for your imagination. But nonetheless I hope you've enjoyed it, I've enjoyed writing it, and I hope we meet again someday, as writer and reader or as friends. Fair winds.