Author's Note: This is where I stopped writing, something like over a year ago. Thank you everyone for all the reviews, they have meant so much. I'm not sure if the story will ever be finished, but I'm glad that it was enjoyable for what it was.

Chapter 11

"Hello Burkham, and who's this? She's certainly not Mrs. Burkham!" Bruce Wayne shook hands with Pete Burkham, the head of the maximum-security personnel at Arkham Asylum. Meredith, though she had obviously heard the stories of the partying bachelor Wayne, was still somewhat surprised by such a greeting from the most powerful socialite in Gotham city.

"This is Meredith Walker, Mr. Wayne. She's my best worker." Pete glowed while he said it, and didn't bother with looking embarrassed when Meredith shot him a surprised, uncomfortable glance. "My wife's visiting her mother in England, couldn't make it."

Wayne turned his full focus onto her now, and she felt her stomach crawl into her throat—and die there. There was no question that she was not the most outgoing person around, but when it came down to it, some part of her felt that it wasn't just the common 'normal citizen meets celebrity' shock. What else would it be? She asked herself, and painted a smile over her distress. His interest in her seemed so sharp, so focused, so looking-for-something.

Don't be stupid, she told herself. It's the same kind of attentive charisma that makes him so charming to ladies. And you're not the kind to simper.

But that wasn't all of it, either.

Was there possibly, somehow, recognition in his glance?

He's seen me before, but I haven't seen him.

But that wasn't right.

"Hello, Miss—Missus? Walker-"

"Miss," She answered, smiling.

"Even better," Wayne grinned, and Meredith felt like she was looking at a portrait of a human, rather than someone flesh and blood. For the life of her, she had the strongest urge just to reach out and touch him, to make sure he was really there. "Miss Walker, I'm Bruce Wayne. Nice to meet you." He smiled winningly, a mouth full of perfectly straight teeth. But there's a bit too much of them showing in it. The smile's forced, though he's had a lot of practice.

Normal, though, wasn't that? Didn't a socialite, a celebrity, have to learn how to force smiles? Meredith found herself becoming more and more unsettled, more uneasy in Wayne's presence than she was in Isley's-

Or Harvey's-

­-Or Dent's.

"Charmed, Mr. Wayne." She smiled back at him and pushed the word from her mouth, though in actuality she felt like she was riding a wave of nausea. Meredith expected him to pass on by them then, onwards towards his socialite 'friends' and greeting other arriving guests—her level of discomfort only continued to rise as he remained in front of her, still forcing that smile that was so well-practiced that it was almost real.

"I'd love to hear about your work some time, Ms. Walker." He sounded sincere, and Meredith found herself searching for something inside of his eyes, scrutinizing him in a way she didn't even with her patients—he was telling the truth about that, more genuine in his words than his smile had been. So the rich boy wants to hear about crazies—what's surprising about that?

But—and damn, it felt as if there was always a 'but' snuck in her thoughts now—she didn't think that was the whole of it.

When he was at last drawn away towards other guests, Meredith breathed deeply. Pete Burkham had left, gone to socialize for himself, and she was alone to find other company. Pete wasn't really an inconsiderate man, but he was perhaps a shade on the side of absentmindedness. Meredith managed to be drawn into a few polite conversations, but after a couple of hours, felt a migraine encroaching on her psyche. After asking who appeared to be Mr. Wayne's butler, Meredith sought out the bathroom.

Collecting herself a bit, she decided it was time to stop hiding—the worst of the migraine seemed to subside (and she had resisted the overwhelming urge to go through Wayne's medicine cabinet, which was incredibly tempting at the thought of some possible prescription painkillers: he was a celebrity after all, right?). Meredith left the bathroom, and on her way back to the party, an open door (which she was sure had been closed when she first passed) caught her eye. I won't be missed, she thought, and slid into the dark room. Instinctively her hand sought out a light switch on the side wall, and met five separate choices—with a bit of exploring, she determined that two controlled dimming, two different sets of ceiling lights, and one the lights for the displays.

The displays were different warfare artifacts: each looking very old and very authentic. Though a pacifist, Meredith couldn't help but find herself intrigued. She walked forward, almost swaying in her heels, and began to inspect the different showcases as one might in a museum exhibit; there were even little plagues with information at the bottom.

Who is this man? She found herself asking. There is something deeper here, and I'm not seeing it. And then, Meredith scolded herself: Wayne? Deeper? Don't fool yourself Meredith. This undoubtedly all belonged to his father or grandfather, and I bet no one comes in here save for the butler, to dust things off from time to time-

She heard footsteps, and half turned to the sound of them. It was odd—like someone was trying to be heard, walking just a bit too heavily than a person normally would. Who's afraid of sneaking up on me, and why? Meredith turned fully at the thought, and found Bruce Wayne only four feet away from her, standing with his arms behind his back. Walked so I could hear him, but still got that close without me knowing. And then: What am I not seeing? Is this guy just some sort of weirdo, or am I really missing something?

"So you found my armory," Wayne offered, with a good-natured laugh in his voice (which was, Meredith surmised, fake).

"Sorry for wandering off inside of your home-"

"Don't worry about it, you're not doing any damage." He smiled, and this one was slightly more real, she felt.

"Parties were never really one of my things," Meredith admitted, lowering her eyes: embarrassed, as if she were caught doing something wrong.

"Would you believe me if I said the same?" His response was playful, but she sensed, again, that Wayne was only trying to lead her into thinking he wasn't telling the truth. What is it you heard once? Just because the water's still on the surface, doesn't mean there aren't crocodiles underneath?

"No, probably not." She smiled, and he laughed. "I don't mean to take you away from your event, Mr. Wayne, I'll return to the party so you don't have to round up a wayward guest."

"No, I actually did want to ask you about your work." And in spite of her previous image of him, he did get more serious, the focus of his eyes slipping behind a few more shades of intensity with an ease that was distressing. "Pete tells me that you work with Pamela Isley?" She felt her eyebrows arch slightly: he had used her real name, not the costumed one—she was surprised by this, but grateful.

"Yes, I do."

"How is that going? He's said that you've been able to get through to her from time to time, that she perhaps even respects you, as much as she can."

"It's going as well as it can, I suppose. As for respect—I don't know if I'd call it that." Meredith smiled weakly, not particularly liking to talk about her patients with this man, who was undoubtedly using his celebrity status to help feed some hunger for hearing about the darker side of things, the scarred side of Gotham-

-do you hear yourself? The scarred side of Gotham? Who does that remind you of?

She pushed the thought away. Anyway: if they were on the subject of Isley, she could introduce the idea of solar panels around the Arkham grounds, to help cut down energy costs.

"It's more that I'm willing to acknowledge her… interests more than other doctor's. Some of them call it fueling the flame, which I suppose isn't too far from the truth—but I don't believe that completely ignoring a patient's personality is the right way to handle things. For example, I give Ms. Isley a few magazines every month, each concerning environmental protection around the globe—and for that matter, I remove anything that's local, because I don't think she'd be ready for that." Meredith paused, trying to gauge his interest level, and the best way to proceed: she found that Wayne was watching her with superb concentration. Sensing that she was looking for some kind of reply to go on, he pulled the corners of his lips into a small smile.

"Of course: if she were to hear about local environmental skirmishes, she'd be too tempted to break away from Arkham." He nodded as he commented, having paid the toll, and she went on, more refreshed.

"She writes letters to head companies, though she is never allowed names or addresses—I am the only one to be in contact with her letters for mailing and reviewing purposes. I don't know how interested you are in the mechanics of what I'm trying to accomplish," Meredith was almost shocked by the intensity (though she thought that he was trying to hide it, too) with which he followed her words. "More or less what I'm trying to do is reform what negative, aggressive parts of Isley's psyche I can, without trying to break her personality. Which is, I believe, why she appreciates me, if I wouldn't call it respect."

There was a moment of silence between them, and Meredith had the distinct feeling that Wayne was storing away what she had just said, placing it all into his memory, before the conversation continued.

"And how does this work in cases like Harvey Dent—you work with him, too, if I recall correctly?" How does he know this? She thought with a touch of unease. Pete really told him all of this?

"Dent's case is different, and needs a different approach. Isley has connected herself with the pull of environmental issues, and thus it's possible to try to redirect her negative aggression into positive activism. Sort of how a whole river can be diverted, if you start at the mouth of it. Dent…" Meredith sighed slightly trying to think of a way to put it.

"His demons are internalized, not external entities like Isley's." He said it exactly, without any show or flash for the effort. Meredith was undeniably impressed, probably because she had been trying to convince herself that Wayne was simply listening for the thrill of it.

"Is there a reason you let people underestimate you, Mr. Wayne?" She asked, and though she smiled when she said it, she was unquestionably serious. He simply laughed, and she found it slightly odd that he looked away from her as he did. "Actually, there is a plan that I've been discussing with Pete and even Ms. Isley for Arkham. We were looking into getting solar panels, and more green, renewable energy for the asylum. It would be better for the environment sure, but it would also help us to pay less for energy in the long run—money that could be well spent on better facilities and patient care."

"I'm sure I could help with the funding, Ms. Walker." Wayne said, obviously knowing what she was reaching for. "So tell me, have you ever met the Batman?" He's digging for something here, trying to place me, she thought, biting the inner wall of her cheek.

"Maybe I've seen figures in the shadows once or twice, Mr. Wayne." Meredith offered with a sort of 'What-kind-of-woman-do-you-think-I-am?' tone of voice. The kind that said: 'look, I'm not crazy, all right?' "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity, mostly. And because the Arkham Asylum inmates seem to go where he is, or he goes where they are: one way or another." There was a careful, constructed heft in his voice that she couldn't mark. He really is just looking for good stories to tell his buddies. And I was stupid enough to think that there was something deeper there. Her mouth drew into a tight line, feeling almost cheated that she had divulged information about her patients (though it wasn't anything more incriminating than what he already knew, certainly) to a man who was just seeking some kind of petty excitement.

"For all I know about the Batman, Mr. Wayne, you two could be one in the same," Meredith said, none too gently. This however, seemed to grab his attention.

"Why would you say that? Maybe there's a small resemblance in physique-" He briefly flexed (though she thought it might have been half-hearted), and Meredith's irritation grew. Was he deliberately acting juvenile?

"Coming from someone who works with a patient who has a severe case of multiple personality disorder, I'd say that you'd be perfect. The… playboy image would cover the more serious one nicely, and would avert searching eyes—don't you agree?" Do not let yourself get too annoyed, Meredith. He's an important figure, and you don't want to mock him.

"Actually, I do agree. Go on," He smiled, flashy and again too full of teeth. He's enjoying this. Of course he is; being related to Batman would stroke just about any man's ego, wouldn't it?

"You have incredible access to any of the money you would need to purchase gear, or whatever the Batman uses—such as his fabled Batmobile." Which you saw—along with the other gadgets, like the tiny communication screen in Batgirl's gauntlet. "Even without the supply of ready money, you own WayneTech, which doesn't exactly specialize in Girl Scout cookies, does it?" Not that this man probably even inspects what his company makes—he probably has 'people' for that.

Even as she spoke and derided him in her mind, she dismissed the ideas themselves: though the 'evidence' was right on target, she couldn't, wouldn't allow herself to believe that there was any possibility that this was the man who she had met the night of her sister's death. She would not do the Batman the disservice of thinking that somehow Bruce Wayne was really there in the hospital, telling her that she did a 'thankless job in a thankless city'.

It was… inconceivable.

Wasn't it?

But there was that nagging, incessant feeling that she was missing something, something right under her nose. If you want to see the big picture, hun, you have to step out from the framework.

Wayne was now laughing, loud and carrying, and it grated her nerves in the worst way—as if she were there only to amuse him, and that had been her purpose the entire time. It did not occur to her that this was in an attempt to ward her off of the subject, to have her become flustered and angry, and make her walk away from him. Meredith set her jaw, her molars grinding against each other, and held on.

"But of course, Mr. Wayne, you have the most important aspect of the costumed-variety mentally deranged." This should shut him up, she thought, and before she could reconcile the idea, it was out of her mouth. "You have motive."

As soon as she said it, she winced, her eyes squeezing shut in a tight grimace. Too far. You took it too far. With her eyes closed, she did not see the look of stunned surprise on Bruce Wayne's face, his mouth a little a jar. He forced himself to let the laughter trickle to a stop, rather than halting it abruptly (and since it had been fake to begin with, it was harder to do the former). Before he could speak, she turned away from him.

"I'm sorry. That was low, and inappropriate. I apologize."

He stepped closer to her, and she felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder—exactly like…

exactly like…

She whirled, pivoting dangerously fast on her heels, and caught his arm. His eyes went wide, and Meredith focused, pried a little into them, urged herself to feel something there, pushing her small ability as far as it would go.

a flash of light, twice, each with a roar of a gun-

-something falling to the ground, small and round-

beads?

no. Pearls.

and then, with it, bats—bats bats bats, everywhere softly furred and

screaming and screaming and mom's dead dad's dead

brucie's dead

i am the night because

(criminals are a cowardly and suspicious lot)

brucie's dead.

Meredith's knees gave out—it was like plugging her mind into a raw electrical outlet. He caught her, held her up, without any effort at all. She could see it in his eyes: he knows that I know.

"I'm sorry," She whispered, and he held her up by her shoulders. Sorry for what, was not clear: sorry that she had tried to hurt him by implying that his parents death made him run around as a bat at night (which it did)? Sorry that it had happened? Sorry that she had briefly pried into the privacy of his mind? Sorry that she knew? Sorry that things were just so damn hard all the time?

"I'm so sorry."