Sometimes, morality mattered little when a man was pushed beyond his normal limits. When the orbital locked superweapons unleashed their hellish weather upon Gotham, Damian found himself forced indoors to escape the downpour, taking cover in the belltower of a large Catholic priory. Lifting a few casual civilian garments off the church’s slumbering inhabitants and a small blanket he spent the greater part of the night in fitful sleep between the rolls of thunder and howling wind, mulling over the irony of his predicament. The wealthiest person in Gotham, and one of the richest in the world by order of inheritance forcing himself upon the unknowing and most likely unwilling charity of those vowed to minimalism. Even if he’d wanted to utilize the vast resources left to him to try for a motel room, Federal offices had already frozen his father’s accounts. Seizing all of Bruce Wayne’s assets, using the untapped efficiency the bureaucratic state could only muster when it came to finance control. Even attempting to withdraw a single cent would trigger an immediate response from the authorities, who would bear down upon the unfortunate place of business bringing with them a full brigade of GCPD and Federal Agents. Or even worse, SHIELD. Thus ensnared in temporary poverty Damian wrapped himself in a ragged sheet and did his best to ignore his rumbling stomach and the constant atmospheric changes occurring outdoors.

	Early morning arrived all too soon, and Damian having barely managed an hour’s proper rest was rudely awakened by the shuffling of feet upon stone. Snapping upright, all sense of exhaustion forgotten Damian bundled the assorted Bat-gear under his blanket, shoving it all into the darkest corner of the belfry just a wrinkled face appeared at the door. “Oh, hello there young sir. Frightful weather we’re having, wouldn’t you agree?” A spindly old fellow stepped inside bringing a mop and yellow bucket full of soapy water behind him. He seemed rather unconcerned by the stranger residing here and began going about his work as if it were entirely normal for Damian to be there. He worked studiously, mopping the small stone floor with practiced ease, even going around, and leaving undisturbed Damian’s precariously concealed gear. He was no threat; he must have been at least sixty and showing his age poorly. His tired hands shook just moving the filled bucket. In short order he completed his task, before he looked back at the somewhat stricken Damian. “You know, we have proper quarters downstairs, where you can get off the streets and out of the weather if you have nowhere else to go. No need to burgle and hide amongst the rafters.”

	Damian glanced down at the blue jeans and long sleeve he had stolen last night. Imagine someone offering charity to a Wayne, to him of all people who should have toughed the conditions and honored his father’s legacy. A Wayne should not beg, but nor should he resort to becoming a common thief. Another disappointment to add to the list. Chalk it up to his own pathetic weakness on the steady onrush of failures that had been the last few days. “I cannot pay, so I will return them.” He swore it at once, but could he afford to? He needed these garments if he wished to approach Barbra without eliciting undue suspicion. He supposed he could consider an attempt during the night in uniform, but attracting her attention would be nearly impossible without also alerting James Gordon or the constant police presence around his home. Hell approaching her in civilian attire would be difficult enough.

	“No need son.” The old man waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. Damian almost wished he demanded recompense of some kind. It would be easier than accepting handouts. “I’m sure we could find the means to buy Matthew a new pair. The Church is so very generous after all with their donations, and I’m sure you need them more.”

	He felt sick to his stomach, and he bit back a sharp word of denial. Losing control would only worsen his guilt. “I cannot accept, I will return them and leave, just, you must go downstairs until I finish changing first.” Obviously, the old man had not recognized him yet. Most people probably wouldn’t outright. He had been just another one of Bruce Wayne’s many wards. Following a short-lived flurry in the tabloids the excitement around him died down, and he disappeared behind Bruce’s large shadow vanishing from the public eye. Or at least he had, now his face was no doubt circling the internet, and would very soon be back in the current conversation. Not that this old man used the internet much. He’d probably be safe for awhile. Still, if he changed into the bat suit right in front of him, that would most certainly turn into a story, and the last thing Damian needed was the entire world knowing that Batman was resorting to sleeping in church towers.

	The elder appeared troubled by Damian’s insistence. “You would rather steal than accept charity? Oh the foolish pride of youth.” He stroked his wispy white beard at great length, contemplating this unorthodox impasse. “Very well, consider them a loan. Once you have financially regained your footing, I expect their worth paid in full, plus one night’s stay and interest of one percent a month. Is this acceptable to you?” He waited patiently for the young man to absorb that offer, the boy seemed both shocked and uncertain about the idea prompting the elder to lesson his offer. “If that is too much, I could always reduce the price. Just the clothes paid for, and no interest-“

	“No!” Damian threw up and hand, stopping the elder before he could finish. “I find the first deal acceptable. I assume you are the prior who I will pay?”

	The old man laughed, taking up his bucket and mop he departed leaving the young man to himself. “No, no I am just the custodian, I’ll explain everything to Prior Andrew though. Remember, if you want to stay the night please come downstairs, I imagine this belfry is drafty during the night, and a stone floor is no substitute for a bed.” Chuckling he disappeared downstairs leaving Damian alone once again.