Title: This Isn't About The Batman

By: Triple Pirouette

Category: Angst, Post TDK

Rating: PG-13/T

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are not mine, they belong to their respective creators.

Distribution: and my site. Anywhere else please ask first.

Summary: Short one-shot. "In that back alley, in the dead of night, he did something he never did before, something he would never do again: he took off his mask." Warning: Original Character death, you may need tissues. Also- this IS a Batman fic- please read to understand the title.

Author's Note: This was supposed to be short... just a little scene that popped into my head. It got longer. I hope you enjoy. Oh, and this IS about Batman- you'll get the title when you read the story. Warning: Original Character death. Thanks to Michael for the fabulous beta!

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*~#~*

In that back alley, in the dead of night, he did something he never did before, something he would never do again: he took off his mask.

He'd stumbled upon the crime at the small shack that the three person family called a house in the Narrows just a little too late, just in time to see the father bleeding and broken on the concrete in the alley outside the back door of the row houses. He could hear the screams of a woman and the sniffling cries of a child as he shifted his feet along the building ledge to get closer to the home.

There were no concerned neighbors calling the police or peeking out the windows around him. In those windows the curtains were drawn behind bullet proof glass and bars, hiding their occupants from the slum around them, hiding them from the responsibility of being a good neighbor. It was one more little thing that helped them pretend that everything was just fine in the moonlight. But it wasn't.

His boots touched down onto the pavement quietly, sidestepping the pool of blood there. He could smell the wafting scent of rancid alcohol in the air, the slurred voices of two men shouting from inside a clue to the source. He slid through the open door, moving as fast as he could without making a sound. He found them in the tiny bedroom- a small girl of no more than six huddled in the corner, her mother on the bed clutching shredded clothes to herself as she tried to send bravery to her daughter through her eyes as her life quickly slipped away. The criminals ignored them, fighting quietly in the far corner over how much the now dead woman's jewelry was worth. He saw it all from the corner of his eye as he paused in the doorway long enough to take a silent breath before he struck.

He'd stopped thinking and acted, moving like a fierce shadow into the room. Three strides took him around the bed into the far corner, a sweep of an arm, the pound of a fist… A wild gunshot rang into the darkness as he overtook them. In only a few seconds they'd stopped resisting, limp and unconscious.

The gunshot had surprised him, and he could almost feel the echo of the sound pulse through him now that the air was still again. Even the unmistakable sound of gunfire wouldn't draw any attention from the downtrodden occupants in the buildings around them in the middle of the night.

The criminals were on the floor, unconscious, and he was tying them up when he noticed the absence of sniffling and hitched breaths. He'd planned on dealing with the child once he could shift his entire awareness to her, when there was longer any danger to her. He turned his head and saw she wasn't there. Fairly certain that the men wouldn't wake up or get out of their half-finished confinement; he stood and slowly crept out, looking through the shadows and listening for her soft crying. Then he saw the fresh trail of blood on the floor.

He found her standing on the tiny stoop outside the back door, her back to him, looking at the lifeless body of her father. As he watched her shabby pink dress turn red with blood he forgot to breathe. There was too much blood and it was too fast. He could hear it bubbling in her throat as she struggled for a breath.

She was dying. She had but minutes… he'd seen it before.

His hand fumbled at his waist before it found and then hit the button on his utility belt: the one that sent an anonymous text message to Gordon with his location. He hit it again, and again. The clinic on Fourteenth Street was the closest, but it had closed a month ago after its third armed robbery in as many weeks. He doubted there would even be a clean bandage left there since the looting. He hit the button again, his legs unwilling to move until he could recall a plan, any plan, that wouldn't result in this child dying tonight. The first aid supplies in the tumbler were too few and the nearest hospital was too far away. He hit the button a fifth time in frantic desperation. The girl's knees began to buckle and he ran to her, scooping her up in his arms before she could hit the pavement.

They were outside now- carried by momentum to just steps away from her father as he crouched with her in his arms. She looked up at him with wide eyes, but was shaking and he didn't have to guess that she was already deep in shock. It did surprise him when she spoke.

"My back hurts." She whispered quietly through trembling, pale lips, with no more concern for her injury than if she'd bumped or scraped her back. She probably had no idea, he realized, that she'd been shot.

He didn't know what to do, what to say. The color was draining from her face and she felt slippery in his armor-covered arms. His hand gently probed her back, pressing down when he felt the tear in the dress, the tear in the flesh, hoping to slow the inevitable. He could feel the blood bubble through his fingers with every shaky breath she took, and knew that trying to move her would only push her closer to the inevitable. His throat tightened with effort, not quite the tone of his alter-ego when he spoke. "I know. Help is coming." Gordon had come every other time he'd pressed that button, with three or four cars behind him and enough police to take down an army. He had no reason to doubt that someone would come; he just didn't think they would get there in time.

A little voice in the back of his head told her that no one could get here in time; no doctor could save her now.

"Aren't… you help?" she said, reaching up and running a limp finger over his mask. Her trust was gained so easily, so unequivocally that it forced the air from his lungs in a burst that he tried to hide from her.

Damn it, where was Gordon? Where were the police? Where was the ambulance? They couldn't save her- but she deserved someone that could try… someone that could really help. "I tried to help," he whispered. If he thought it would do any good he'd put her in the tumbler and walk her into the hospital himself, gladly hand the "notorious" Batman over to the authorities if it would give her a chance. But he could hear the rasping of her breath, could see her lips going pale, and knew there was no time left to take her anywhere. He couldn't bear the thought of moving her, of causing her pain in these last moments when he was so sure it would be for nothing. He'd seen death seconds away before- but never on someone so young, so innocent.

"Mo-" She took a deeper rattling breath, "Mommy says… that as lo-…long as you try your best… then you… did a good job." She looked up at him with such trust, such innocence. He could feel tears prick his eyes.

"I tried," He whispered, dropping the last vestiges of the Batman tones in his voice, unable to keep them even if he wanted. "Those men, those bad men- they'll pay for what they did."

He couldn't give her anything but that. Her eyes started to close, and he panicked. He would do anything, anything for someone else to be here to hold her- he couldn't comfort her as Batman- he was supposed to inspire fear, not hold dying children that he hadn't saved... that he may have caused to have been shot.

"Hey!" he whispered frantically. "Hey!" He shook her a bit, and her eyes blinked open. "What's your name?" It was all he could think of, all he wanted to know so that it wouldn't be a surprise when he read it in the paper tomorrow.

"Mi-Michelle. 'Lizabeth." She pushed out the words, the light fading from her eyes too quickly.

Then he did it. It was like a lightning strike in his mind, and even years from now he still wouldn't contemplate if it was a good or bad idea, or what would have happened if Gordon's men came when he needed them to and found them. In that back alley, in the dead of night, he did something he never did before, something he would never do again: he took off his mask. He reached up a blood stained hand and removed the only part of the suit that made him more than a man with a few gadgets. Batman couldn't hold a dying child, couldn't comfort her like she needed, but Bruce Wayne could. Bruce could smile at her, not the Batman. She needed a person to be the last thing she saw, not a symbol of vengeance. "My name is Bruce."

"You're not… a bat?" she asked, eyes widened and a little amazed at seeing his sweaty face and flattened hair, his skin red and ruddy from the emotion and the exertion.

She reached her hand up again, much more limply than before, not quite making it to wherever she intended to put it. Bruce hurriedly pulled his glove off with his teeth, spitting it carelessly aside as he gently grasped her tiny hand in his. Her hand was cold despite the warm spring evening, and he smiled even though it made him want to scream. "No, I'm not a bat."

"You tried… really hard… to save us…" she whispered, closing her eyes.

No words, before or since, cut him so deeply. They were the last, dying words of a child who deserved so much more than to watch her parents die, than to die herself in the arms of a wanted vigilante.

He grit his teeth as he laid her down on the pavement, held back the tears as he let her small, limp hand fall from his own. He turned away from the end of the alley that opened to the street- he could hear the siren just a few blocks away, a few minutes too late. He reached down to pick up his glove and cowl, forcing down the unsteady breaths.

*~#~*

Gordon's heart pounded in his chest as he ran down the alley, gun drawn, the sound of his back up skidding to a halt behind him barely registering. He should have waited for the back up but was compelled to press forward by an urgency he couldn't shake. He had received message after message from his mysterious friend in only a few seconds' time, convincing him that something horrible had, or was, happening. He stopped short in surprise as he saw the matted hair of a man whose identity he never wanted to know slip back beneath the mask he knew so well.

Gordon felt like time stopped as he watched a dark shade of sweat soaked hair disappear into the cowl as the hero pushed it over his head. He'd never really wondered the how's of the suit before, but in this moment he wanted to know. The hands, one bare, one gloved, twisted the black helmet into place, falling slower than they should have to the Batman's sides. His cape hung limply behind him, revealing a defeated slump in the figure's shoulders. Time seemed to regain momentum and Gordon continued to move forward, slowing when he saw the bodies. It was the girl's body that made his heart skip a beat.

The Batman was pulling on a glove as he turned back to Gordon, solemn, but somehow more defeated than the officer had ever seen the hero. "What happened?" Gordon asked somberly, as if anything but whispering would disturb the dead.

"Two men broke in. They're tied up inside. I didn't make it in time." His voice was raspy- but not in it's usual tone. Almost, Gordon thought, almost choked with tears.

"In time for what?" Gordon asked.

"In time to save them," the vigilante rasped. In the dim porch light Gordon could see a shimmer on the black of the man's uniform. When he dropped his eyes he could see that it was blood- blood that stained the ground and led to the small form of the young girl. He must have seen where the commissioner was looking, because his voice, his words, shook the old detective when he spoke again. "…in time to save her."

Something, some words, some syllable must have escaped Gordon's lips, because the Batman began to speak again. "You weren't here yet. No one was here. I couldn't let her..." When Jim looked up at the man, he could see the tense set to his jaw, the stress in his shoulders, the confusion as to why he was even talking, "She didn't die alone."

Gordon looked at the girl, the vision of the man donning his mask as he arrived making sense to him now. It was an image he'd remember for the rest of his life; an image that would remind him that there was a man beneath the mask. He looked back to try to comfort the shaken hero before him, but all he saw was the darkness of the street. He was gone.

*~#~*

Alfred watched the television as Commissioner Gordon took the podium at the press conference, pretending not to notice as Bruce quietly stepped in the room. He listened with feigned attention at the 'official' statement that was being put forth about last night's triple homicide. He had not been able to get Master Wayne to discuss it, but knew that it cut him deeply. He paid attention however, when he heard a reporter's question.

Commissioner Gordon, what about the rumor, and the supposed statement by the perpetrators, that the Batman was involved? Is there any evidence that points to him as being the third, unidentified person on the scene?

Alfred listened to Bruce's sharp intake of breath behind him. He watched the mustached man squirm uncomfortably. He wanted to know what had happened that night, but didn't have the courage to come out and ask.

It is a matter of public record that the perpetrators believe they were incapacitated by the Batman, but we have no evidence at this time to confirm that.

The next reporter's question made even Alfred cringe.

Is the Batman wanted as an accessory to the crime?

Gordon cringed visibly, as well, though he tried to hide it. Alfred heard Bruce move further into the room.

It is official policy that the Batman is a wanted vigilante. Gordon took a deep breath, and stared at the cacophony of reporters. The little girl, Michelle Elizabeth Garner, died from a .22 caliber bullet in the back, a match to the gun of the men already in custody. The evidence we have of a third person at the scene only suggests...he stopped, choked up, looked away ...only suggests that someone held the child as she died. Then he looked back at the reporters, firm and scolding. In the Narrows no one ever sees or hears anything. There are no witnesses, no willing informants to step forward, no one that wants to do the right thing right now. But someone- maybe a neighbor that will deny it, maybe a homeless person who happened to be in the alley and is half-way across town by now- hell, maybe even the Batman, made the decision to not let that girl die alone.

Gordon paused, and Alfred turned to see Bruce's head hung low, unruly strands of hair obscuring his face. The crowd of reporters was unusually quiet as they were being chastised.

This isn't about the Batman. Gordon continued, and Bruce and Alfred both looked at the television. This is about a city where a family is murdered for a few hundred dollars in jewelry and electronics in a crowded neighborhood and no one hears or sees anything. This is about the tragedy of that. The tragedy of a six year old girl dying in a stranger's arms. The tragedy of a city so gripped by fear that we're becoming inhuman. That we won't help each other. That we won't fight for one another. He stopped, visibly disgusted. We have the two perpetrators of the crime in custody and they will go to trial. I don't care who that third person was. They did something human in the midst of something inhuman. I think we all need to start doing better.

Commissioner Gordon mumbled that he wouldn't be taking any more questions and left the podium angry and agitated. Alfred shut off the television and walked over to his young charge, his friend, intent on at least understanding the tension in the air if he couldn't dispel it.

"I took off my mask," Bruce whispered, looking up to him, "so she wouldn't die alone." Before Alfred could even try to say something, he was speaking again. "But I think- I think I may have caused her to get shot in the first place." Bruce rubbed his face with disgust.

"But it wasn't intentional." Alfred didn't have to ask, he knew.

"No. A wild shot. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He sighed, "But I was too late to save any of them."

"But you tried," Alfred said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. He didn't know how eerily close he was to the young child's words. "And you stayed. Wondering 'what if' all day and night will get you nowhere. You had a choice at that point; to leave or to stay. And you stayed. Then you had the choice to be Batman, or to be Bruce Wayne. I think you made the right choice, on both accounts."

Alfred began to walk away to let the young man sit with his thoughts. He turned at the doorway, speaking to Bruce's back. "Tragedies are never good things. But maybe that young girl, and the mysterious third person, and Gordon, can inspire some action, some sense of responsibility in these people. Batman- he gives them hope that someone will help them, that someone is willing to fight. Maybe this will show them, however unfortunate and terrible it is, that if they don't fight themselves, if they don't stand up for their neighbors and their neighborhoods, things will never get better."

Alfred walked away, his footsteps echoing through the hallways of the manor.

In the years to come, Bruce Wayne would never wonder if it was a good decision to take off his mask that night. He would never, in fact, do it again. But he did get to watch as people in the Narrows brought flowers to the back door of Michelle Elizabeth's home, then set up neighborhood watches in her name, and he watched with pride as they began to stand up for what they deserved, not settle for what they got. So when, four years later, Wayne Enterprises was able to open a brand new satellite office down the in the Narrows for some of its divisions, Bruce was able to cut the ribbon knowing that this wasn't about the Batman, it was about a city saving itself.