She generally had better sense, and better things to do with her time, than appear on the arm of the reputed playboy, but this one night she allowed him to spoil her.

He did these things as a matter of course--the cost of doing business--but rarely did he enjoy himself.

Bruce held the velvet wrap, concerned for her protection against Gotham's December winds. She had needed to make a stop, to see someone bedridden, and he knew she'd never tolerate the same from him.

But her mission was more holy than his, better, in a way he recognized, but could not conform with. His mission was important too, and he was better equipped to take the abuse it doled out. It struck him, standing in the doorway of a dank, stinking one-room apartment, that maybe, just maybe, it was she who had chosen the more difficult route.

There was no time to dwell, however, because she was back, resplendent in the dress she wore every year, stepping into the wrap of velvet and his arms.

"Ready?" he asked, offering his arm.

"Of course, Bruce," Leslie Thompkins replied, accepting it.

Author's Note: Again with no author's notes. No real continuity there.