"We are only as blind as we want to be." ~ Maya Angelou

The dark is such a peculiar thing; so often feared, twisted, villainized. It is so simple to besmirch and malign the unknown, uncontrollable, intractable. And yet, many a time it is not the dark itself that one fears, but either what is within it, or what it represents.

In the English language alone, there are bountiful connotations and interpretations of the dark. Some associate it with being 'left in the dark', or unknowledgeable on a subject they otherwise feel entitled to, others identify it with harrowing, triggering memories or pure, unadulterated evil. Then, there are those who hold more agreeable correlations or feelings with it, find comfort in nothingness, or work to twist the dark into their favour, terrorising the wicked with a force supposedly even more formidable and oppressive than them. Ultimately, however, the dark is as changeable as the human perception. It is something that can be made into anything. If a tale requires a villain, that it shall be, but it could as easily be converted into a hero. The dark can be anything anyone wants or needs it to be in that moment, and in Evangeline Winter's case, it is the ambiance in which everything of intrigue is born within, 'good' and 'bad' alike.

As of this moment however, she merely finds herself within its literal throes.

Groggily blinking away the sleep which weighs upon her lids like lead, the private investigator takes her time rousing from the involuntary slumber, indulging her scattered senses and memories for a minute as they respectively compose themselves. Cool clean cut metal against her back, persistent clicks and clacks of an overworked keyboard in the near vicinity, disgruntled bat squeals bouncing around faintly tailed by their cavernous echo, dampness permeating the air, the incoherent mumbling mingle of voices, a sharp sting crying for more attention from her busted lip, and an all too new yet undesirably familiar thrumming ache blooming on the side of Eve's head. These are the first sensations that make themselves known to the detective, long before sight is even brought into the equation.

Each muscle, bone and joint feels stiff to the North Carolinian, protesting against much movement as Eve brings a weary hand to her eyes, massaging them and wiping away the sleep gluing the lids shut. She likely isn't in any immediate danger, otherwise she'd be bound or dead, the detective concludes. All other deductions jump around like frantic leaves caught in the loud gales of a fervid hurricane, Eve attempting to reach out and grasp them but failing as a result of her still very much throbbing and spinning head.

She is, however, beginning to decipher the mumbling voices.

"You should have just taken her back home or to a hospital or something—"

"A hospital? For a concussion and busted lip? Come on Timbers, we get concussions every other week. Plus, if I took her to a hospital they would've wanted to know why Gotham's darling Guardian Angel is harmed and in my arms—"

"Don't get me wrong Dick, I greatly admire Winter, and her detective skills are unparalleled – sorry B – but bringing her here? Letting her wake up here? You've just given her an arsenal of ammunition against our secret identities—"

"I personally think she likely already knows who you all are."

"Thank you Babs. Wait... what –?"

"How's your head, Miss Winter?"

All voices cease as if the sound on a television was muted, Eve aware of all eyes in the vicinity burning into her in a manner that is likely akin to a deer in the headlights, despite her own eyes still wearily waking up and gazing heavily at a blurred cavern ceiling. Back to calling me Miss Winter I see, Eve notes immediately, a little disheartened at the fact. Groaning unintelligibly, the private investigator finally grasps at enough consciousness to possess a suitable amount of composure and perceptivity, rubbing gingerly around the blooming lump of pain the back of her head involuntarily adorns, and clearing her throat of sleep in order to respond properly to the familiar voice of a particular vigilante. "Constantly reminding me of my own blunder in a most uncomfortable manner, but otherwise still whole. So I can't complain."

Lethargically sitting up, short, tussled raven strands of unkempt hair hang limply in her focusing vision, the thirty-four-year-old woman running a haggard hand through the offending hair, glimpsing around for not even a few milliseconds before resting on the congregation of vigilantes stood around a sizeable towering station of screens and technology. Eve is vaguely aware of the catwalks and other elevated metal runways and platforms scattered around the spacious cavern, various other points of interest such as the infamous Batmobile amongst other things peeking at her in her peripheral vision from where they are dispersed around the area, but for now, she remains fixated on the cluster of crime fighters.

Batman. Nightwing. Robin. Oracle.

Bruce Wayne. Richard Grayson. Timothy Drake. Barbara Gordon.

Of course, with each of their respective masks veiling their identities, the only unlucky one proves to be Miss Gordon, who is seated plain as day in her wheelchair at the computer station, without so much as a domino mask to protect the Commissioner's daughter's identity. The three men are distributed around the young female, all staring distinctly at the private investigator.

The Dark Knight is the first to move upon her response, closing in on the small distance that lies between him and the North Carolinian on the first aid table, Eve mildly startled by how quickly he is in her immediate proximity. Gloved fingers, rough in texture but kind in touch, run tenderly through her hair, ghosting over the fresh lump blossoming on the back of her small head. It had stopped bleeding, bits of flaked, drying blood clumping strands of the obsidian coloured hair together around the wound. The Knight had examined her earlier, but it had been well over an hour now since Dick had come scrambling into the cave, Evangeline Winter unconscious and limp in his eldest son's arms, and Bruce wanted to evaluate the extent of the damage again, just to be sure. The split in her lip is also well dried now, an injury obtained even earlier in the night, according to Dick.

Bruce being Bruce, had obviously assumed the worst when the Blüdhaven vigilante summoned him back to the Batcave, only to discover the subject of his feuding thoughts unconscious in the last place he'd expected her to be. Three months had come and gone since he'd last been in the presence of the kind Evangeline Winter, but make no mistake, he had seen her. The positioning of her new apartment windows made it near impossible to peer in on her in the late hours of the night from neighbouring buildings, but he had seen her, and not just in the papers or on the news whenever she successfully closed a more notorious case. He had seen her entering and exiting the GCPD, confronting cheating spouses, collecting photographic and other evidence out on the streets, peacefully ambling down to the convenience store on the corner of her street, and even on her Friday night visits to the little dive bar three blocks down from her old apartment. She may have not seen him in the past three months, but he had certainly seen her.

It was not as if he did not want to see her, especially after she bestowed him with an open invitation to visit whenever he desired. No, the reason he has yet to take her up on the offer, is simply because her heart is too big, and all too quickly, was he finding himself becoming attached as a result of it. To label it as an infatuation may be slightly premature, but it is not often that Bruce allows himself to care about and trust people he meets. His sons and Alfred are different, they are family, Barbara just as much as them. But anyone outside that little circle? Clark, Jim Gordon, Diana, Selina, Talia Al Ghul, and many other names that he could spend a good time listing? It took a very long while to start allowing them to even worry about him, or care about his wellbeing, or trust them in the slightest. Even now, many of the names that come to mind he doesn't trust wholeheartedly, not yet. Talia and Selina are two women he's had on and off infatuations with in the past, and yet despite that, Bruce could never quite completely open up to any of them, and not just because intimacy such as that is hard for him to give, but rather their professions and moral code always left them at odds too great to ignore.

But, that is not the case with Evangeline Winter, is it?

Eve's moral code almost perfectly pieces with his own, like a puzzle piece. There are miniscule differences, such as her far more understanding and gentle nature in regards to the deplorable villains Gotham's underworld has to offer, yet it also that very understanding and gentle nature that Bruce has come to find – dare he say – endearing. It isn't just the safety of a person that matters to her, but their feelings as well. There's never just the hard choice between option A or B when push comes to shove, but rather a slightly kinder and unforeseen option C. And, as much as Bruce dislikes the very thought of it, Miss Winter has now survived encountering and conversing with the likes of Edward Nygma, Harvey Dent and Jonathan Crane, without so much as an ounce of violence from either side. In fact, according to his eyes in the Iceberg Lounge, by the very sounds of it, two of the three flagrant rogues have even potentially been somewhat amiable in her company, amiable by their standards, at least.

Bruce nearly outwardly sours at the fleeting thought, playing it off as concern for the lump on the detective's head. The Joker at the Winter Gala seemed intrigued by Miss Winter as well, and if four of his greatest adversaries have already shown an interest in the private investigator, it won't be long until more follow. Especially after tonight. Speaking of which...

"A mild concussion, it'll heal in a little over a week," the Dark Knight diagnoses, drawing his hand away from her tussled hair, Eve's head following his movements until she catches on to what she's doing, leaning back away. "I have come to overlook a lot of the stunts you pull due to trusting your extensive capabilities as a competent investigator Miss Winter, but what you did tonight was reckless. Infiltrating a heavily guarded dock yard full of armed, trained criminals with little to no self-defence training yourself, and no backup. If Nightwing wasn't there, you could've died tonight."

"Twice. Twice I could've died tonight, but I didn't," Eve amends, at least possessing the courtesy to act sheepish. "I understand my lapses in judgement, and have learned from them, but I wasn't going to idly sit around and wait for another attempt on my life as a result of Roman Sionis feeling undermined and threatened by my very existence. As much as I love Jim, going to him and requesting a detail of potentially bought off or corrupt cops wouldn't help either. All I needed was some incriminating photographic evidence to pass on to the press and—"

"You went into an unknown hostile territory unprepared and unaware of what lay within—"

"I already knew that within the past two weeks Roman Sionis had started dealing firearms to big criminal names in Gotham under Cobblepot's and Dent's radar before entrenching upon the dockyard myself, a dockyard that's registered under one his forged identities and an off shore bank account. Jonathan Crane himself recently visited and purchased firearms from Black Mask—"

"And that's another thing," the Knight cuts her off again, steely gaze pinning the investigator down from beneath the intimidating cowl. "You have already drawn far too much attention to yourself after dismantling Salvatore Maroni's empire. By associating yourself with the likes of Crane, Nygma and Dent you are declaring yourself as a worthy adversary and target to any other big names out there that have found an interest in you—"

"Well I would have been more than willing and ready to associate myself you instead but your absence the past three months has clearly conveyed the message that you wish to hold no association with me whatsoever so I had to make do," Eve evenly retaliates back, withholding the majority of the bite from her tone, but unable to hide the trickle of hurt and disappointment underlying it.

A tense silence befalls the cave, a silence so prominent that even a single breath sounds like a roar. Both detectives hold one another's gaze, neither willing to back down from their stare off.

A beat passes, and then...

"Ooft."

"Ouch, even I felt that"

By this point, Barbara Gordon has mastered the art of being able to reach up high enough from her wheelchair to slap the back of Richard Grayson and Timothy Drake's heads, the aforementioned boys whining in complaint and rubbing the offended spots. All three had been animatedly watching the exchange, and all three could tell by the manner in which Bruce had been admonishing the North Carolinian that he clearly cares for her more than he lets on. What had startled them the most, was the fact Miss Winter was able to keep up. Admit her mistakes, but not tuck her metaphorical tail between her legs and let the Dark Knight scold her. She fought with valid arguments and refused to back down, and it's not as if standing up against Batman is a walk in the park; the vigilante is a wall of muscle with a face of stone. There's a reason criminals fear him like no other.

Yet when Gotham's Guardian Angel retaliated with that last remark, Tim Drake and Dick Grayson's jaws just dropped. Even Barbara's eyes widen a fraction of an inch. Not just because it was, in itself, a very compelling response, but because it left Bruce standing there, staring unblinkingly down at the Southerner with a resolute yet slightly softer face.

And Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, the Caped Crusader, the Dark Knight himself, did not know what to say. Because he knew, he knew, there was no one to blame for that, but himself.

Sighing tiredly, Eve spares the vigilante from their intense stare off by glancing away and wearily rubbing at her eyes again. Batman takes the moment to survey the smaller woman, noticing how fragile and vulnerable she really appears before him. With the harsher edge to his voice now gone, the Caped Crusader's tone remains steadfast, but gentler. "It's not that. I've just been busy."

The excuse sounds pathetic, even to his ears. Robin, Nightwing and Oracle seem to think so as well, wincing at the justification.

Eve's laugh is quiet, quick and melodic, but not one out of amusement. Rather that of a hurt songbird. Because that is what she is; Evangeline Winter is hurt. Not despairingly so, but enough. She had really begun to enjoy the crime fighter's company, and despite the fact that she has not been willing or able to label her muddle emotions these past three months upon realising the vigilante had no intentions of taking her up on her invitation of friendship, she can't quite deny the unpleasant feeling now.

"Please, Mr Wayne, I entirely understand if you do not wish to divulge your reasons why to me, but do not think so little of me that you believe I am incapable of seeing through weak lies. I deserve better."

By that point, Tim and Dick's jaws really did drop open, Barbara mildly taken aback that her premise was correct, but not startlingly so. The Dark Knight merely holds Eve's steady gaze again, immovable and uncompromising. "What gave it away?"

Grayson nearly splutters at how easily his surrogate father caves, blinking at the hard man. When Tim had discovered their identities a year ago, Bruce spent a fairly long time attempting to convince the younger boy otherwise, that he was wrong. So for the uncompromising Dark Knight to just give in, just like that? It was unprecedented, unheard of.

"With all due respect, you are a little obvious, not overtly so, but enough so," Eve admits, brushing an unruly strand of hair out of her vision. "Point one; Batman appeared right around the time when Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham City after being absent for four years. Now, I'm aware of the principle that correlation is not causation, and that could just be a timely coincidence, but it helps build a base for my argument, so I'll start there." Sitting up a little straighter, the investigator continues.

"Point two; Your parents passed at such an early age for you – my condolences, by the way – because of a shooting; more than enough motive for someone to want to prevent such crime like that occurring again. It's an experience traumatic enough to mould you into the emotionally permanently state the Dark Knight is consistently in; brooding, cut off, reserved and independent. Point three; Batman simply must be well off financially, how else would you be able to afford the plethora of gadgets, high tech combat suit, your various modes of transportation, etcetera. That argument in itself narrows down the list of potential suspects to Gotham's elite, and upon factoring in the psychological profiles, personalities and moral codes of the well-known wealthy members of Gotham's socialites, that refines the list even further. Point four, and an elaboration on the third argument; the man behind that cowl has to either be highly proficient and talented with technology himself to engineer his abundance of gadgets, or is acquainted with someone who is. If you're a billionaire, which I hypothesized as highly likely before your confirmation just now, that could point towards you being a corporate billionaire, in which case, the likelihood of your company possessing an R&D Division or an Applied Sciences division is sky high. Said R&D Division or an Applied Sciences division in turn would be archived to avoid suspicion or inspections from employees without a high enough clearance. Wayne Enterprises' Applied Sciences division is archived. Now, you could've been a billionaire from a different industry, yes, but business or corporate seems more suiting to a brooding vigilante than doctors – who generally help people, not inflict them with a myriad of broken bones – or politicians and lawyers – who by all accounts should uphold the law – or any other industry with sizeable income.

"Point five; Bruce Wayne so happens to be the largest benefactor to Arkham Asylum, supplying incredibly innovative and highly advanced technology as security, and always supports and funds anything criminally related that would result in less criminal activity. Very invested in crime prevention, then, supporting my second argument. Point six; Batman and Bruce Wayne, even if they end up at the same function – where Joker or some other Gotham heathen hijacks it – never seem to be seen in the same room together. It's simply incredible how one of Gotham's favourite eligible bachelors manages to evade such dangers even when he was sighted at the gala or charity event or political campaign earlier that evening. Point seven; vaguely around the same time period that you adopt a son, a new Robin materialises. Three adopted sons, three different Robins with noticeably dissimilar appearances. Speaking of appearances, a fitting segue into my last and most conspicuous point; you. You are the most obvious giveaway of your own identity.

"I've only officially met Bruce Wayne once, but I don't forget people easily, especially their appearances. A person's body is what I read, it's the storybook of their lives. What they did that morning, what recreational activities they partake in with their spare time, what they do for a living, their attitude towards particular individuals or topics, and so on and so forth. Bruce Wayne's height, width, weight, facial structure, voice, eye colour, gait, inflictions of tone depending on his mood, posture, callouses, age and muscle proportions match perfectly with that of Batman's, and it's very difficult for more than one person within the same city area to perfectly tick off every one of those boxes. They may tick off a few, certainly, but not all. He – you – do."

Another silence settles in the damp air of the vast cavern, choking the respective reactions out of the vigilantes gathered. Timothy Drake, the most intellectually gifted of Bruce's three surrogate sons so far, favourably appraises the private investigator from afar, a smile ghosting the eighteen-year old's lips. Since the fall of the Maroni empire, Tim had been particularly intrigued by the North Carolinian, a fascination that is reminiscent of his initial curiosity and eagerness to learn under the notorious vigilante Batman when he was younger. For years Tim followed the Dark Knight and the two Robins before him in the media, yearning to study and train under the Caped Crusader's tutelage, but he knew he would have to prove his worth first. He had already deciphered the identities of Robin and the Dark Knight by this point in time – when Dick was still the Boy Wonder – a deduction surmised after exhibiting the eldest Wayne son perform an acrobatic manoeuvre that he had seen Richard Grayson display with his family, whilst the Flying Graysons were still alive and entertaining. After a few years of educating and training himself in an assortment of martial arts, acrobatics, detective skills, and scholastics to enhance and better himself in all aspects mentally and physically, did he approach Bruce Wayne, a couple years after the death of the second Robin, Jason Todd. It took no shortage of persuasion, but eventually the billionaire caved. Tim has only been Robin for a bit over a year now, but has never experienced such a sense of fulfilment before becoming a vigilante of Gotham, and truly revels in every second of it.

The young Boy Wonder had assumed that now, proudly under the tutelage of the Dark Knight himself – despite Bruce still struggling to grasp at the more familial, fatherly aspect of their relationship – that he would be content to remain firmly under his mentorship for a while longer, no other people of interest particularly seizing his intrigue. And yet, for the past three months, that is precisely what Evangeline Winter has done; garnered his interest.

The private investigator has become a person of interest to many players in Gotham since her stunt with Salvatore Maroni, all for a variety of reasons. In Tim's case, it's as a result of his desire and passion of wanting to learn more. Yes, officially, Bruce is the world's greatest detective, but the manner in which Miss Winter picks apart and analyses every miniscule detail, down to banal, bland specifics that many would overlook, is simply incredible. Bruce, Dick and his masks all have detective mode visors that aid them in piecing together a crime scene and, based on the evidence and state of the scene, render a basic visual of what occurred. But she doesn't even need a mask, or a visor. Her brain simply does the deductions all by itself. After witnessing the investigator deconstruct the presumably perfect, fortifiable wall that stood between their crime fighting identities and their civilian ones, Miss Winter only solidified Tim's official decision.

She was going to teach him how to do it, all of it. And, in turn if she would like, he would teach her some basic self-defence, so the middle aged woman wouldn't feel so helpless should she find herself cornered in an alleyway by calloused mobsters again.

The Boy Wonder nods, content, yet no one else seems to notice the outward display of an internal decision being made, the beginnings of a scheme brewing beneath the surface. Dick Grayson is too caught up lingering somewhere between impressed and amused after Miss Winter's explanation, Barbara Gordon is ruminating over the various points made by the detective, and Bruce Wayne and Evangeline Winter are far too preoccupied in engaging one another yet again in a stare down – or in Eve's case a stare up, the billionaire being six inches taller than the smaller Southerner.

"I trust you'll keep that information to yourself," the Caped Crusader ultimately responds after a beat, stern blue gaze glimpsing warningly at Eve. He trusts that she is certainly clever enough to know that, but it's a warning better to be spoken than left unspoken.

The softest, most assuring of smiles graces Eve's sore lips, pulling at the wound in the corner. Reaching out, she tenderly grasps Bruce's upper left bicep, lightly rubbing it in an attempt at comfort. "I would never jeopardise you or anyone you care about, I promise."

A noncommittal grunt lingers in the back of the Dark Knight's throat, searching gaze pinning Eve down a few seconds longer. The billionaire's personal interest in Evangeline Winter is contending with his vigilante's wariness of the newfound development in their relationship. Very very few outside of his crime fighting circle are conscious of his or his wards' identities, and as a result, Bruce knows he should remain on high alert around the PI, knows he should keep a watchful eye. But Eve, amidst all the kind words, gentle smiles, concerned glances and uncompromising, determined actions, has also maybe grown on the brooding, stony hero, and he's aware that may be obscuring his better judgment a little more than appropriate. It's difficult to not find the woman endearing though, even moments ago, as she sat before Gotham's most feared guardian of the night, a man sixty-nine pounds (thirty-four kilograms) heavier and six inches taller than her, with around one hundred and twenty-seven forms of martial arts training under his belt, and still refused to back down, staring straight into his eyes with a resolve that would've melted away the moment he too fixed his attention on her hazel gaze should she have been most other people.

He recognised a fire behind that gaze, one he hadn't seen from the North Carolinian in all the time he's known her thus far. Whatever transpired tonight, or whatever circumstances or events have shaped and toughened the private investigator these past few months, have shaken and pushed her enough to coerce her into action, and not the orchestrator kind of action she usually partakes in. She didn't call the GCPD tonight, or him, despite having his number for urgent matters, and being targeted by Black Mask twice is very much an urgent matter. No, she braced an armed dockyard of mobsters and cons, taking firsthand action against the man who has put out a hit on her. Brash, reckless, naïve. But also gutsy, tenacious, intuitive. The Dark Knight certainly doesn't doubt her intellectual prowess and sharp, instinctive wit, but her empathy and compassion could put her in a position incapable of making tough decisions, or put her in danger should she confront physically imposing, apathetic adversaries, as she did tonight.

And yet, that fire.

Bruce had begun to believe he had the raven haired woman construed, but he supposes, he believed the same of Harvey Dent before he lost his friend to the criminal element he fought so hard to lock away. The Batman isn't concerned about Miss Winter changing sides anytime soon however, her morals and humanity for those around her are too well ingrained in her being, but that flame burning behind her eyes is new, and growing. There's the wild, lawless, searing fire that roars from within him, as well as numerous other heroes – and villains – that sometimes threaten to go too far, to blaze a little too hot. It's a dangerous, unruly flame, one to be wary around, but Evangeline Winter's one is not that. Hers is warm, not hot. Inviting, not threatening. A cosy, comforting cabin fire on a biting, cold winter night, not a blazing house on fire at the centre of a deplorable crime scene. But she's willing to go farther, to do more than before, tonight just proves that, and that is what concerns him the most. He knows his limits, how far he's willing to go.

How far was she?

***

It was decided – and by decided, Eve means Bruce decided, despite her initial misgivings – that the private investigator would spend some time staying with the Wayne family at the manor, until Bruce was certain her own home was secure, and the thirty-four-year-old woman was firmly removed from Roman Sionis' unending warpath. They did return to her apartment – Eve eternally grateful that Dr Crane and Edward had long since vacated the premises – to pick up some clothes and essentials, as well as leave a note for any potential clients that decided to wander by that Angel Investigations was currently not taking any more cases for the unforeseeable future whilst she's on a 'break'. There was no sign of the men that supposedly came to her apartment to make a second attempt on her life, something Eve was thankful for. However Edward dealt with them, she did not want to know. For once in her life, she was content to stay in the dark.

With Rebecca living on the same floor, the detective obviously had to inform her companion of her current living arrangements. She omitted the part where she was residing with a family of vigilantes in a lush mansion for her friend's own safety, but did call Jim and fill him in on as much of the situation as Bec is privy to, the Commissioner assigning a police detail to the blonde psychiatrist, a sight that her co-workers at Arkham Asylum were apparently familiar with.

It's seven in the morning now, the delectable, enticing scent of bacon, eggs and waffles permeating the air as Eve pads down the ornate manor hallway barefoot, having only woken up fifteen minutes prior. Navigating the labyrinth of halls and rooms was no easy task, but the investigator soon learned to simply follow her nose, the sounds of low, lethargic chatter mumbling down the hall the closer she got to the dining room. Before entering the room, Eve feels a buzz from the cellular device held in her right hand, and upon sleepily lifting it to read the incoming message, she smiles.

Pure luck that meddling buffoon of 'hero' intervened last night. Ultimately, however, the hairless ape is partially the reason why Crane now owes me $60 after my fear-obsessed crony naively bet against your survival odds, so I shall hand the blundering Blüdhaven vigilante this one. – E. Nygma

Eve softly chuckles at Ed's evident distaste at handing anything even vaguely perceived as a compliment to Nightwing.

I suggest you steer clear of my abode for the unforeseeable future. It will likely be bugged, if I know anything about the Dark Knight by now, it's that he has a penchant for such a thing. – E. Winter

Pocketing the device in her long grey house cardigan, the Southerner hugs the item of clothing tighter around her, covering her cotton pyjama shorts and thin long sleeve as she tiptoes into the dining room, quirking an eyebrow at the entertaining scene.

Mr Wayne is more than content as he peacefully reads the morning paper at the head of the table, his eldest son Richard on his right, flinging a piece of bacon at a very disgruntled Timothy who hasn't even touched his breakfast yet, but instead is clinging to a cup of coffee like his very life depends on it, short hair sticking up from every end. Eve begins to question if the young teen is even awake, eyes so dreary, body so still – even when the bacon slaps against the side of his face – but receives her answer when he simply picks up the offending piece of meat, biting into it with his eyes still closed.

"Ah Miss Winter, I was hoping you'd be up. Didn't want your breakfast to go cold."

Craning her head to the left, Eve gently beams at the butler, Alfred Pennyworth, whom she had the pleasure to meet last night. Something about the elder gentlemen put the younger woman at complete and utter ease, Mr Pennyworth emanating this comforting, familial glow. Eve liked him immediately.

"How could I possibly sleep a moment longer with the absolutely heavenly scent of your cooking taunting me all the way from my bedroom, Mr Pennyworth?" Eve playfully gushes, honest in spirit.

"Please, Alfred is just fine my dear," the butler politely insists, nodding his head cordially. "Delightful to hear that someone in this household appreciates my cooking, however."

"I appreciate it Alfred," Dick happily pipes in, his own raven hair in a much better condition than that of his younger adoptive brother's, but still mildly dishevelled as he chomps down on a forkful of eggs. "Ish my favorite breakfasht food afterall."

"Ah yes Master Richard, you'll forgive me if your endeavours to use your breakfast as a projectile against Master Timothy convinced me otherwise," Alfred wryly responds, the evident familial quip ever so politely delivered.

The Blüdhaven defender fails at hiding his carefree smile at the rebuttal, the young third Robin across from him finally lifting his lids more than halfway open, regarding his elder brother in a groggy, perplexed manner. "Hm?"

"Everyone knows Tim doesn't really wake up until his morning cup of tea after his morning cup of coffee," Dicks turns to the North Carolinian to explain, Eve thoroughly amused as she takes a seat at the dining table next to her saviour from last night. "I would like to say that's what happens when you go out crime fighting the night before a World History AP exam, and then study until five in the morning, but even during the holidays with no school work to study or complete, Timbers here somehow manages to find a way to stay up to the early hours of the next day."

"Balancing school life and vigilantism I can imagine is no easy task," Eve sympathises, sending a gentle look towards the Boy Wonder. "At least you're in your last year of school though, yes? Something to look forward to."

"Mm," is the extent of a response Eve manages to coax out of the teen, an imperceptible inclination of the head in what she believes is his attempt at a nod tagged on not too long after.

"That's about as much as you're going to get out of him for the next twenty minutes," Bruce finally chimes in, neatly folding the newspaper in hand and laying it by him. He hadn't truly been reading it, not since she wandered into the room at least.

Already immaculately dressed in one of the finest suits Eve has ever seen with her own two eyes, the private investigator realises that each time she has encountered him, the billionaire's possessed a distinct need to always wear a mask. Whether it be as the Dark Knight or as Bruce Wayne, his identity always places him at the pinnacle of power in a room, a likely reason why wearing such a mask is perceived as a necessity for the man. As the Batman, he enforces it to strike fear into the felons of the city, as Bruce Wayne, he employs it as a means for others to recognise his position of authority in a corporate empire. Both are effective and well put together. She had only ever met Mr Wayne once without the mask, and despite that, she feels profoundly odd now, not uncomfortable but somewhere vaguely on that spectrum. The raven haired woman has seen Batman, as well as Bruce Wayne, but now? Now he isn't just a severe vigilante, or a playboy billionaire. He has shifted somewhere between the Dark Knight and Bruce Wayne, and Eve can't decide if she's sat before Batman without the mask, or Bruce Wayne the covert super hero.

Nonetheless, Mr Wayne regards her politely, the faintest of smiles tugging at a single corner of his lips, acting as if this new development in their relationship didn't just unfold very early that morning. The faintest of crow's feet sit at the corner of his eyes, the near indiscernible little age lines perfectly placed around his face, so faint you wouldn't notice unless you studied the man's face long enough. Depending on the placement of age lines, one can generally decipher what birthed them. Bruce Wayne's skin is quite clear, a testament to whatever products he uses as well as the stern expression that is his resting face. Happy people, people who laugh and joke and live without a care in the world, often have age lines in the corner of their eyes and marionette lines near the mouth. Constant frowning, as well as a lack of sleep, increases the chance of forehead wrinkles, for a lack of sleep results in less moisturization to the skin, lack of collagen production, and inflammation. These particular age lines marginally more palpable than any other on Mr Wayne's face. Overall though, people who often refrain from abundantly physically expressing themselves, tend to develop age lines a lot later in life – this isn't counting those with stellar skin genes, of course.

That simple, little titbit of information already gives Eve a very good idea of the kind of man Bruce Wayne truly is, now that they have upgraded from formal allies-acquaintances into something else, because despite his plethora of money, it's clear to see he hasn't had anything done, and his parents had begun developing age lines earlier in life than he, so it is not a case of genetics. Stress, perhaps, contributes to very light lines that are there when one looks close enough, but overall, the Wayne Enterprises CEO has a very clear face.

Eve can tell, as a result of it, that even outside of his vigilante persona, amongst those he cares about, that Bruce Wayne is a very reserved, distrustful, emotionally closed off man who has not experienced a lot of joy in life. He has been dealt joyous moments, yes, but not in spades. And that, that saddens Evangeline Winter.

Clasping his hands together as he rests his elbows lightly on the dinner table, Bruce's thoughtful inquiry pulls the investigator from her thoughts "How's your head and lip?"

"As well as they can be after a night like last night," Eve honestly answers, smiling her thanks at Alfred as elder gentleman kindly places a plate of bacon, eggs and a couple waffles before her. "The Tylenol this morning helped, so thank you for that."

"Tylenol can be a lifesaver after some particularly trying nights," Dick chimes in, empathetically regarding Eve. "Plus, the looks on the faces of the store clerks when we walk in, full hero attire, is pretty priceless. Did you know some of them have even started giving me discounts in Blüdhaven? Fantastic I tell you."

"Perhaps you should consider branching out, seeing if those discounts extend to a cup of coffee in twenty-four hour cafes. A few of the clients I've had have been kind enough to give me specials for furniture, lunch, clothes, legal advice and other commodities and services after I've helped them in the past," Eve suggests, starting off the suggestion playfully but ending on a more sincere note.

The Blüdhaven defender nods introspectively. "Huh, that does sound nice. Maybe I can get myself a nice nurse, would save having to patch myself up after a rough night."

"Or you could return to Gotham, where Alfred and I can help with that." The remark made by the billionaire is said so casually, that one would believe it to be an innocent enough suggestion. Eve, however, grows perplexed at the immediate drop in the mood, a palpable tension seizing the air tightly enough that even Timothy Drake's eyes open a little more, glancing warily between his adoptive father and brother.

Dick Grayson, a young man that has been spritely, charismatic and light-hearted for nearly the entirety that Eve has come to know him thus far, sours at the invitation, not vehemently, but almost disappointed. The light clink of the cutlery being placed down as he sighs, as if having gone over this conversation a million times before, suggests that perhaps this is a conversation that's been had several times over, Dick warning "You know why I won't, B."

"We work well together—"

"Work together? Is that what it is? Because I seem to remember always having to do things your way," Dick cuts off his adoptive dad, a sliver of ice coating his usually warm tone.

For once, Eve finds her tongue tied, not entirely sure what to do. Whilst she ordinarily prides herself on being able to deescalate tense situations, this isn't an ordinary situation. This is an unresolved discord between family, and despite the fact that Dick and Bruce have exhibited nothing but civility between one another thus far, it's apparent that it's a disagreement that still yet lurks in the recesses of their minds like an overbearing shadow, casting disunity over their relationship. The PI surmises that the first Boy Wonder spending the night in the manor last night must have been a rarity, a consequence of the fracture between Bruce and Dick, made evident by the conversation now as well as their actual breakfast. Normally, Eve assumes that to remain in the impeccable shape the three men are in, they would likely have protein filled meals, all abundantly healthy and rich in nutrients. Now the less healthy plate of food before her could be a result of her current residency here, for when one has a guest staying over, the host generally prefers to cook a nicer breakfast. But, judging by the young Grayson's earlier remark of the bacon, eggs and waffles being his favourite breakfast food, the North Carolinian speculates that perhaps Mr Pennyworth grew excited upon hearing Mr Grayson would be joining them for breakfast that morning, and elected to cook the twenty-three-year old's favourite meal.

Not believing it to be her place, Eve opts to remain on the sidelines for this one, exchanging a glance with a still remarkably fatigued Timothy Drake, who very much looks the part of a disgruntled brother caught amongst the throes of a family domestic.

"Ahem," Mr Pennyworth courteously disrupts the tense exchange, garnering all eyes on the butler immediately. "Perhaps, this is a discussion to be had another time, Masters Bruce and Grayson, when we are not graced with the presence of considerate guest."

Dick at least has the courtesy to wince apologetically, Bruce dropping his gaze along with the subject. Both mutter and apology to the butler, the billionaire instead concentrating his stern gaze on said considerate guest. "Alfred's right, I'm sure a family disagreement is the last thing your concussion needs Eve. One headache is enough I'm sure."

"It's quite alright, it's not like I've never had a family domestic Bruce," Eve endeavours to assure the vigilantes at the table, casting a gentle look their way as she cuts off a little bacon. "I'm a private investigator with a predilection for helping people and a distaste for violence, whilst my brother is a mercenary with a predilection for violence and a distaste for helping people, discounting me and those that pay him of course. I love him nonetheless, but we've had our fair share of... differences."

"The Black Dog," Bruce hums, expression inscrutable. "I'm aware."

"Black Dog legends are common all over the world. You find Black Dog myths in Siberia, North America, Europe, the British Isles and all over Asia," Timothy mutters his first full sentence all morning, startling everyone as he yawns wearily over the rim of what now looks to be a cup of tea, coffee mug long since drained. "They're a nocturnal spectre, and its appearance was usually regarded as an omen of death in the old myths. Your brother chose a fitting moniker."

"The Black Dogs of myth were often associated with electrical storms, crossroads, places of execution and ancient pathways," Eve dazedly proclaims, as if staring off into a distant memory. "Did you know my brother was born in a storm? Twice, actually, if you count the night Nathaniel Winter died and the Black Dog was born."

None bar the two Winter siblings know what happened the night Nathaniel Winter received his powers. Not because the elder Winter desired the origin story to remain a secret, but simply because Nathaniel Winter has no one to tell it to. No friends, besides his wolves. No family, besides his sister. Their parents weren't included in that circle; they never really had been.

Eve has never agreed with what her brother does, but has never shunned him for it either. When others spoke unkindly of his wrongdoings, she could not find it in herself to disagree, to defend the Black Dog. Nathaniel Winter she will always defend, he is family, but the Black Dog killed. The Black Dog was against everything she stood for. And yet, here she is, sat at the table of Gotham's most fearsome, skilled and dangerous vigilantes, and Eve can't help herself. Unsure whether she's defending Nathaniel Winter once again, or the Black Dog for the very first time, words unbidden pour from her lips, a story unspoken, a secret without the intent of being one.

"My brother's childhood was neither kind nor cruel, which makes his motives that much more inscrutable. Goodness can breed heroes, cruelty villains, but absence? What does a lack of something breed? What does nothingness create?

"To this day my own parents are my biggest enigma. They were there, yet they were not. We had parents, true, they're still alive to this day, but Nate and I never had any kind of connection with them, they didn't even have a connection with one another. It was like the four of us were ghosts, haunting the same home. The few times they were floating around the house instead of at work or elsewhere, we almost never talked. We weren't ignored out of hate or spite. Hate is a tangible human emotion that I can understand, but I never understood my parents. They didn't love each other, or us, but none of us hated one another either. I think they're the reason why everyone else is as easy to read as a storybook to me. I spent so much time staring at them, attempting to decipher them, to interpret and figure out a blank canvas, that when I took a look at any other person, any other canvas, they were bursting with colours and shapes and pictures, all of which were simple enough to piece together, to understand the meaning behind the art.

"I, at least, had friends in school. People who were kind to me, listened to me, sat with me, spent time with me. My brother did not. He wasn't bullied, but he didn't have friends. No one spoke ill of him, but neither did they try to include him in anything. Unlike I, who has an insatiable curiosity to understand and figure out the people around me that goes as far back as I can remember, Nate has had the opposite. He never tried or wanted to understand people, because they never tried or wanted to understand him, his own parents included. The only ones to ever show an interest in him was I, and our dog, Toby.

"Animals are beautiful creatures, my brother always preferred their company to humans. They're loving and loyal, without question. It's why he trained to be a Veterinarian after school, and moved on to work as one at a zoo for five years. Didn't make friends there either, not with any human co-workers anyway. The only person he talked to by this point was me, because I was the only one who tried.

"One day, a little into his fourth year working at the zoo, a pack of wolves was delivered to him. They all carried some disease, not a memorable one, but one that was deadly enough to kill off a few members of the pack. Amongst them was a litter of wolf pups, and whilst Nate was eventually successful in curing the pack, most of the pups died, except three. The plan was to keep the pack at the zoo for another year or so, see if the disease had any plans of returning, or any long term effects, before releasing them back into the wild. Nate had grown attached to them by this point however, the three wolf pups especially, naming one Lucifer for his strangely intense amber eyes, almost red in some lights, one Luna, because she was born blind so her eyes are glazed over white, and Black, the least creative one, but he had a fondness for Harry Potter at the time and I was always the more creative one anyway.

"One day he discovered one of the scientists that worked at the zoo had been testing on animals – including the three black wolves Nate had come to really grow attached to – so naturally, he endeavoured to put a stop to the cruelty. It was late, no one else around, lightning and thunder roared outside like an angry symphony, rain pelting and darting in all directions, caught in the throes of temperamental winds. Nate has always been a large, imposing man, so without a second thought a fight broke out between him and the scientist. The storms caused a blackout in the midst of their altercation, throwing them into darkness. The scientist knew the room better, knew where to strike at him, to shove him. It wasn't long until Nate was thrown against the cages that held the three wolves, creating a domino effect as the disturbed cages in turn knocked over cabinets of chemicals. All four of them almost died as a result of it, the scientist not bothering to stick around and discover the consequences of his actions. The only reason I found him and the wolves that night was because we were meant to have dinner, and if Nate wasn't at his flat, then there was only one other place he could've been. Naturally, I wanted to take him to a hospital, but he wouldn't have that. Instead I watched, wary and perplexed, as he demanded I take him and the three wolves back to my place, where they could recover in safety.

"It didn't take long to uncover his new abilities, a result of the chemicals and storm I'm certain. Now he has night vision, and is capable of making the lights in the room flicker off and stay off. The dark is now his domain. When he's in dark environments, his senses and reflexes heighten to peak human condition, perhaps even past it. The chemicals and blood samples taken of the wolves mingled in with each other and him, as a result, he can now see through each wolf's eyes on command as if he were the wolf. He's not capable of controlling them, not physically, but having four sets of eyes is still no small feat. The wolves themselves now have a prolonged lifespan, about the same lifespan of a human.

"After this entire debacle, Nate took up the mercenary business, not just because of his abilities, but because he wants the chance to rid the world of people like the scientist who did this to him. That's how it started out, anyway. Over time his distaste for humanity grew, not to hatred, but any semi-heroic notions he fleetingly had after obtaining his abilities fled after seeing the world for the dark place it is. He may not have been abused or hurt or cruelly wronged, like the Ridder, Scarecrow, Two Face, Killer Croc and a number of other Gotham villains were in their 'origin stories', and even then a vast abundance of people in this city have had unpleasant childhoods, including the people in this room, but my brother, Nathaniel Winter, the Black Dog mercenary, is not just another one of your city's villains. He's more complicated than that."

"Killing is wrong. That isn't complicated," Bruce plainly argues, remaining civil all the while.

"No, I suppose that isn't complicated," Eve agrees, steeling her gaze to meet his own. "But heroism and villainy are. Joan of Arc is named one of the greatest heroines in history, leading the French army to victory over the English, but she murdered people to do so, and yet she was canonised as a saint five hundred years later. Alexander the Great was a murderer, mass killer, and megalomaniac, but also enlightened, kind to his friends, and extraordinarily creative and brave. He brought Macedonia to new heights and spread Greek culture across the world, but he destroyed civilizations and cities and brutally suppressed any sort of resistance. Depending who you ask, either could be villain or hero. They both did things to warrant either title, as has my brother, but when someone does something wrong, it would be wrong to forget everything they did right. And my brother has done good things. They don't excuse his bad deeds, but they do, as I said, make him more complicated."

A stiff kind of silence settles amongst the members of the room, Timothy Drake and Richard Grayson trading wary, curious glances between one another and the two adults. Eve yet again holds the Dark Knight's gaze unwaveringly, the fire he spied last night flickering in her hazel depths, fuelling her resolve. Bruce and Eve are both aware of where each other stands; neither like murder, and neither would ever partake in it, but it's Eve's willingness to place her feet in the shoes of those who do kill and hurt others in an attempt to understand not just their motives, but them, as people, that sets them apart. She tries to look at the good they've done, if they've done any, whilst Bruce is more realistic. He first and foremost sees the bad, because that's his job. He identifies the bad, and delivers justice for it.

"And what of justice? You don't believe your brother should answer for his crimes?" The Dark Knight's question is not heated or aggressive, nor is it a continuation of his interrogation. This time, it's a question asked out of pure curiosity. Bruce knows where her morals lie, her ethics, but her opinion on the law and justice has thus far been vague, and he wants to know where her opinions lie in that regard.

"I think that he should answer for his crimes, but I don't know who should hold the right to determine what 'justice' my brother deserves. In this city you can buy justice for crimes that don't exist, it's happened often enough. Crime families setting an innocent up, buying the judge and jury, and sending them off to a prison they very well may be killed or raped in. I don't believe in the set parameters of justice, but I like the idea of it. Unfortunately, the idea of it is simply too different to what it actually is these days."

"So what is justice these days?" Dick asks, captivated by the conversation at hand.

Evangeline Winter shrugs, a sad smile pulling at her lips. "Justice is what we get when the decision is in our favour."

***

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas rests peacefully in the lap of Evangeline Winter, the detective comfortably curled up in the large cosy armchair of the Wayne manor library. Being restricted to the confines of the mansion like a child may have perturbed many others in her position, or made them restless, but after Mr Pennyworth overheard her make a passing comment to Tim about the enjoyment she finds in a moment of peace with a good book, the butler was kind enough to escort her to the home library that resides in the East wing of the manor. A little over an hour has since passed, Richard Grayson having matters to attend to whilst he's in Gotham, Timothy Drake currently at school, Alfred Pennyworth attending to a grocery shop, and Bruce Wayne lurking somewhere within the manor, preparing to leave for his day job Eve imagines. An imagining that is confirmed when the light tap of pricey shoes against timber flooring grows near, the North Carolinian glancing up at the suit-clad billionaire standing before the armchair.

"I've got business to take care of at Wayne Enterprises, but if you need anything, Alfred will be back within the hour, and my phone is always on," Mr Wayne informs the PI. After breakfast the crime fighter had given Eve his personal phone number to contact, this one not strictly set for emergencies like his vigilante number. Something about the gesture seemed oddly intimate to Eve, despite her being more than aware that trading numbers with friends is an entirely normal thing to do. With Bruce however, it didn't feel as simple as that. Being the closed off man he is, the gesture of bestowing Eve with that direct line of contact – one she can take liberty of at any moment, even to ask questions as banal as how his day has been – feels like a larger gesture coming from him than it would anyone else. A thought she seemingly shares with the Blüdhaven vigilante, if Dick Grayson's raised brow at the time was any indication.

Folding the novel to a close, bookmark saving her page, Eve uncurls her feet from underneath her, delicately placing them on the cool timber floors as she rises to a stand, all the while sparing the man before her a content look. "I'm sure there are a million and one ways to entertain myself in a house as large as this; wouldn't wish to be more of a hindrance than I already am."

"If you were a hindrance, I wouldn't have offered," Bruce sincerely disagrees, the Dark Knight's version of a comforting smile gently playing the corners of his mouth.

Eve smiles back, tenderly, arms crossed over her middle. "I realised I never thanked you last night. After breakfast, once you had left, I remembered my manners and managed to thank Dick, but I never thanked you. So, thank you, Bruce, for allowing me to stay in your home and for looking out for me."

Bruce Wayne nods once in acknowledgement of the gratitude, expression now poker-faced once again, Eve unsure why it would be, until the words come tumbling from his mouth. "I ignored you for three months, believing it would best if you remained distanced from me and the more notorious criminal elements in this city after Salvatore Maroni's fall, only to next see you passed out in the arms of my first ward, two unsuccessful attempts on your life committed in one night. By this point, I think it would be best that I keep you close, instead of pushing you further away."

Try as she might, Eve is unsure if she is successfully keeping her face from gawking at the man after his admission reaches her ears. Did... did Bruce Wayne just admit – in his own vague way – that he was wrong?

Though he does not appear uncomfortable, it's clear to see admissions of fault are not often uttered from the lips of Gotham's infamous vigilante. Sparing him from the tense moment, Eve doesn't even think twice about raising her hand and gingerly resting atop his bicep, lightly rubbing his upper arm in an attempt to alleviate the hero, to assure him that Eve holds no grudge or resentment for the negligence.

For the briefest of seconds, Bruce tenses under the abrupt caress, but only as a result of the act being unanticipated. Something about the presence of Evangeline Winter is just... soothing. Merely being around her calms him in a way he's never experienced before, not with Talia al Ghul, Selina Kyle, Vicki Vale or any of the other women he's been with in the past. He's always admired and been drawn to powerful women who can hold their own, whether it be in the form of Selina Kyle's unpredictable thievery and brazen flirtation, Talia al Ghul's iron fortitude and impressive fighting skills, or Vicki Vale's relentless motivation and startling fearlessness. Evangeline Winter possesses that kind of power to a certain degree, but it's softer. Not weaker, softer. And her tender touch, as plain and small as it may be, somehow convinces all the tension in his body to wash away, the man finding peace in the warmth behind her gaze; the cosy, comforting cabin fire on a biting, cold winter night.

"It's in the past Bruce. Point is; now I'm here, and you've shown me kindness. I won't forget it," Eve dusts his regret aside, staring up at the billionaire sincerely.

Hesitantly, Bruce's own hand rises to rest over the petite private investigator's, giving it the faintest of squeezes from where it sits on his upper arm. Her skin, strikingly smoother and softer than his own, is warm under his palm. No little scars or callouses, unlike the hands of many of the people he knows. Then again, many of the people he knows rely on their hands; they're fighters, heroes and villains. Evangeline Winter, on the other hand, relies on her head and her heart, and is intelligent enough to manoeuver her way through conflict without having to throw a punch. Most of the time, Bruce amends, recollecting last night.

"Anytime Eve," Bruce swears, allowing a sincere softness to fleetingly settle over his gaze. It hardly lasts a second before the brooding, stoic mask is back, though gentler than before. Drawing his hand away, and pulling hers with it, the crime fighter nods his head at the North Carolinian, stepping away from their close proximity. "I'll text Alfred's number to you should you need it before he returns from the grocer's. I'll be back before dinner."

Nothing else is uttered before his departure bar a brief farewell from Eve, and before long, does the private investigator find herself all alone in the impossible large abode. Fifteen minutes are spent emailing all the photos and footage from a secure email address on the detective's phone to the reporter Jacqueline Martell, a woman Eve has never met herself, but some time ago Jim had said she works for the Gotham Globe, and is one of the few reports worth trusting with a good heart in this city. Finding the email address was easy enough, the Gotham Globe's website has the contact addresses for particular reporters listed. The PI was nearly tempted to email the distinguished Vicki Vale instead, reporter for the Gotham Gazette, but if Jim recommended Jacqueline over Vicki it would've been for good reason.

Now, twenty minutes later, Evangeline finds herself tempted to peacefully return to her book and patiently await the return of Mr Pennyworth, despite that not being her initial plans. Never did she explicitly promise she would remain indoors all hours of the day, and despite putting all her cases on hold for the unforeseeable future, thus giving her a perfect excuse to remain within the safe confines of the manor, Eve can't help the restlessness within tickling away at her, knowing the idea formulating in her head could potentially be as bad – even worse – than her brash adventure last night. But, at the current moment in time, after having seen the alarmingly abundant number of weaponry at Sionis' disposal, it feels wrong for her to sit there and continue reading The Count of Monte Cristo like nothing is wrong.

With the vigilantes preoccupied for the day, Eve could turn to Edward, yet she doesn't wish to pester him, the enigmatic Prince of Puzzles still undoubtedly recovering from last night's successful prison break. Jonathan doesn't like her nearly enough to help, and even then he too is recuperating from his own injuries. Jim is a police commissioner; he has a thousand and one matters to attend to, it would be selfish of her to ask him for his undivided attention for the time being. Nate she is sure would chew her out for her recklessness, and attempt to stop her from going much deeper.

The last few options leave the detective more than a little apprehensive. She could turn to the crime families, but for all Eve knows, they've been supporting Sionis' new black market business. It's no secret that Oswald Cobblepot's prices are outrageous, if Roman has been charging even slightly cheaper, the crime families would more than likely favour the temperamental crime boss, regardless of whether they dislike him or not. That leaves Oswald Cobblepot himself, or Harvey Dent, and the answer seems pretty apparent to Eve.

Dent she knows, far better than Cobblepot. She's never even met the Penguin, but Two Face she has. Two Face, who hates Sionis more than anyone. Two Face, who honoured their deal and didn't kill her. Two Face, who not only warned her of the danger she's now in, but assigned men to look out for her, men who saved her life last night. No doubt they've reported her missing by now, scouring the streets trying to find her before their boss threatens them with some kind of bodily mutilation or another crude form of punishment. Yes, to the detective, it is overtly apparent who she must seek out now, despite her own misgivings about doing so.

And Eve has a pretty solid idea on where to find him.

A/N: Phew! It's been a minute since this one has been updated, anyone still lurking around in the comments? You have my sincere gratitude if you are.

It seems Bruce and Eve are getting a smidge closer, well, close by Bruce's standards anyway. I get so stuck writing him sometimes, I hope I did him, Tim, Dick and Alfred justice in this chapter. Such a wholesome little fam (sometimes).

Everyone's favourite bipolar villain returns next chapter! I missed writing them, Harv and Harvey can be sadistic sons of guns but damn if they aren't funny sometimes.

Are there any particular character interactions anyone is keen to see? I have most of the book already planned, but I may slip in something if I can. Always good to hear from an outside perspective.

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~T.L