Disclaimer:
All characters are the property of DC comics. No financial benefit is being derived
from their use. “House of Cards” written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter
on her album Stones in the Road, released 1994. Used without permission
but with sincere admiration. “Land of the Living” lyrics by
Wayland Patton and Tia Sillers.
Recorded by Pam Tillis on her Greatest
Hits album.
A/N:
Reference is made to events taking place in recent issues of Batman and
Nightwing comics, as well as to scenes previously depicted in Batman #614
(during the HUSH arc), as well as to Identity Crisis. The reader may
also wish to look at Batman: The Killing Joke, A Death in the Family,
Batman: No Man’s Land, Vol. 5., Robin: Unmasked, and Outsiders
#17.
A/N:
It’s not very often that I dedicate my work to anyone, but the second chapter
is an exception. People
who know me on the DC message boards, know that I’ve said in a few threads that
my fan-fics are of two kinds. There are the Psion
Force stories—and then there are the ones I write in reaction to something
penned by one of DC’s official writers—because it hits me that they aren’t
going to depict a scene that I feel needs to be shown. And, the thing is, every single time I
show one of those scenes, somebody sends a review that goes something like:
“you've managed to make the down fall of poor benighted Nightwing not seem
quite so irreversible as the naysayers
would have us believe.” (Thanks, Simon920!) Or “frankly, while I doubt we'd
ever get that kind of heart to heart in the comic, I wish we did. This would
have fit in nicely.” (Phoenix83ad, that means a lot!). And that tells me that
I’m not the only one who had that reaction upon reading the story that served
as my inspiration. And it feels great. You all… get it! So, when a story
that I thought was a single-chapter standalone generates five requests
for a second part… well, I start brainstorming.
Having
said that, the second chapter is dedicated to Knottaclue,
giveGodtheglory, Simon920, nightgirl,
and cmar. Because I really would
not have written it, without your feedback.
***
The Wind About To Blow
By Esther-Channah
And now I feel
the wind about to blow, and baby I'm so scared
You're repeating the past instead of letting it go
And I don't wanna go back there
Now we're
standing here face to face, afraid to move or else
I wanna prop up this fragile place, I can't do it all by myself
'Cause when we dream, it's of the wind, blowing cold and hard
When we wake up we still live in a house of cards
--Mary Chapin
Carpenter, “House of Cards”
***
Chapter One: Guilt
“…And as we grieve,” the minister’s voice
intoned solemnly, “we ask ourselves why? Why were
these talented, dedicated young men, beloved and respected by their families
and peers, taken from us?”
I wish I had an
answer for you,
the man said silently. He was standing several feet behind the rest of the crowd,
his figure partially obscured by the shade of the trees beneath which he had
sequestered himself. He was not a person at whom one would normally look twice.
A knitted cap covered his head, stopping a scant half-inch above dark eyebrows.
An authentic-looking knife-scar marred the man's left cheek. Three-day stubble
adorned his jaw line, and he wore an army jacket, zipped up over a
charcoal-grey top. Camouflage pants and combat boots completed the ensemble.
Anyone passing him on the street would probably walk past without even
registering his presence. Which was, of course, what he had
planned on, when he had donned this particular costume.
Planned. He frowned. Planning was
what had caused all of this in the first place. Planning for a worst-case
scenario, and failing to create a contingency failsafe in the event that said
scenario was prematurely or improperly activated. And now, Officers Michael
Brett, Samuel Loucks, Manuel de Pareja
and twenty-four of their police brethren had paid the price.
In the last ten
days, he had paid his respects to twenty-one of these fallen. Tomorrow, there
would be another service for the remaining three. More than a dozen still
remained in the I.C.U.’s at various hospitals in the
city. The man hoped—no, actually ‘prayed’ wasn’t too strong a word, this
time—he prayed that tomorrow’s burials would be the last. He could see
Akins walk over to a woman who was tightly clutching the hand of a young boy,
perhaps eight or nine years old. De Pareja’s
widow and son. The police commissioner’s back was toward him, preventing
him from reading Akins’ lips, but the woman, a forced smile on her face, nodded
mechanically, pulling the little boy closer. The child’s eyes screwed tightly
shut, and he turned away.
The man closed his
eyes in empathy. When he opened them, they met the boy’s squarely. The boy
frowned slightly, unsure, then looked back at Akins.
That tore it.
Without realizing what he was doing, the man took a step forward. Four steps
more would carry him away from the relative safety of the trees. His fingers
fumbled at the zipper on his army jacket. One inch lower and the bat-symbol on
the uniform beneath would be revealed. You want me, Akins? I’m right here.
Go ahead. Snap the cuffs on—God knows I deserve it. But his fingers froze
on the zipper-pull. And his legs refused to take another step. And after a
moment, Akins passed on, unseeing.
Bruce Wayne watched
the rest of the service in detached silence. As the three coffins were lowered,
the sun continued to shine brightly down. That seemed all wrong. It should have
been raining. That would have been the perfect weather for today. But it had
only rained three days out of the last ten, and sun was predicted for tomorrow
as well.
He waited for the
crowd to thin before retreating back through the trees, to the parking lot,
where a five-year-old Dodge Neon, kept on hand specifically for those rare
occasions when he needed to appear in public as neither Bruce Wayne nor Matches
Malone, awaited. Once outside the gates of the cemetery, he accelerated fifteen
miles beyond the speed limit. No sirens blared behind him.
***
The noonday sun,
coming in through the window, beating down on his closed lids finally forced
Dick Grayson awake. As usual, a pain in his leg as he shifted position reminded
him of the bullet wound—days old now. It was healing nicely, according to
Alfred. A short while longer and he would be back in costume.
Doing what? He
shook his head, sitting up. Balancing on his crutch, he headed for the
washroom. He splashed cold water on his face. Feeling the cobwebs clear, he
made his way back into the room and rummaged through the bureau, pulling out
shirt, pants, and socks at random.
Alfred entered
carrying a covered tray. How did he always know when to come in? Dick wondered
wryly. The elderly man wished him a good afternoon as he shook his head, eying
the assortment of clothing on the bed. He set the tray down on the table,
pulled out a different shirt and pair of socks, and exchanged them for the ones
Dick had selected.
Great. Not only had he failed to
prevent Blockbuster’s death, not only had he handled himself like a rank
amateur during the recent mob war, but now it seemed that he couldn’t even
coordinate his wardrobe.
Blockbuster’s
death.
Dick cringed inwardly. He was going to have to talk to Bruce about that. The sooner the better. Before Bruce found
out for himself. And will you bring up what happened afterwards? On the roof? He shook his head slowly. He didn’t know if
he’d ever be able to tell Bruce about that one.
“Is he in the cave,
Alfred?” Dick asked casually.
“Master Bruce had a
mid-day appointment,” Alfred responded. “He is expected back shortly.”
Dick frowned. “On a Saturday?”
“Indeed, Sir.”
Dick sighed, more
than a little relieved.
“Master Dick? If
there is any way in which I might be of assistance…”
Could you tell
me the best way to let Bruce know that I walked away from a man, fully
cognizant of the fact that as soon as I got out of the line of fire, Tarantula
was going to blow his head off? How about the best way to
‘fess up that I neglected to mention that minor detail when Tarantula followed
me back to
On second
thought, Alfred, I’d better not ask you for your advice. See, I don’t think I
could handle it if you and Bruce both knew how badly I’ve let you down over
this. And I know that Bruce would keep this to himself—if only to spare
you.
Dick shook his
head. “I really have to talk to him.”
Alfred looked as
though he wanted to say something more, but restrained himself. “I shall tell
him so when he arrives.” He looked Dick over again. “Master Dick, while I
realize that I might obtain more obedience from the average brick wall, I feel
constrained to point out to you that your wound would heal far more rapidly if
you would only rest that leg.”
Dick forced a
smile. “Duly noted, Alfred. Thanks.” Well, as long as
he was penned up in the manor…. “Could I see today’s paper?”
Alfred frowned.
“Master Dick, I really think…”
“What?” His smile
became more genuine. Sadder, but more genuine. “It’ll
depress me? Alfred, even as much as you and Bruce have been tiptoeing around me
for the last week and a half, I’ve picked up a few hints. At this point, if I
don’t get the facts about what’s really going on out there, I’m just going to
start imagining something worse. C’mon!”
The older man
sighed, turned and left the room. He returned a moment later carrying a folded
newspaper. “Somehow, Master Dick,” he stated, depositing it next to the
breakfast tray, “I doubt that it would be possible.”
As Alfred departed,
Dick turned the paper over to the reveal the headline Civilian death toll
rises to 38. His eye dipped cautiously below the forty-eight-point type and
byline. Anita Blain, 30 succumbed early this morning to gunshot injuries
sustained in last week’s pitched battle between… He forced himself to read
on. The press was clearly playing up the events as much as possible. Dick
suspected that had this happened in Metropolis, the coverage would have been
more balanced. Who was he kidding? Had this happened in Metropolis,
Alfred was right.
Just now, he couldn’t imagine things being worse. Dick pushed the paper away
and sat lost in thought.
***
Dick balanced the
tray, with its half-eaten breakfast on the palm of the hand not maneuvering the
crutch. Alfred hadn’t returned for it yet. No matter. He could probably handle
the journey down to the kitchen without mishap. He reached the top of the
stairs without incident. Now came the tricky part. Dick thought for a moment,
then leaned the crutch against the top of the railing, and used the banister to
negotiate his way down. At the foot of the stairs, he hesitated. He could
probably make it to the kitchen with the tray, but if he was wrong, Alfred was not
going to appreciate the fragmented crockery that would almost inevitably
result. Things were already in enough of a mess for him, without causing
another one that would land him in more trouble. He set the tray down on a nearby
end table.
He looked back up
the stairs, grimacing. Now, the crutch would come in handy. He could
hear voices coming from the den. It sounded like Bruce was back. Dick drew a
deep breath. Now. He had to tell him now. While he was still psyched up for it. He followed the
voices, hand brushing the wall for support. The voices became clearer as he
advanced. Suddenly, he froze, listening.
“You heard me the
first time, Alfred. I don’t think you have any idea how close I am to turning
myself in to GCPD. Probably for my own good.”
“Sir! Quite understandably you’re
distraught, but I hardly think—“
“Distraught?
Alfred, more than sixty deaths can be chalked up to me as of today. The
press may have the details skewed, but they’re right about the main idea.
Virtually everything that went wrong over the last two weeks can be attributed
to the fact that I gave a… a terminated worker unsupervised access to my
computers to clear out her personal files, and neglected to lock down any other
data that I didn’t want her copying on her way out of the cave.”
“You couldn’t have
known, Sir.”
Bruce laughed
unexpectedly. “When Waynetech has to let people go,
Alfred, do you really think we expect them to steal our product specs before
they leave the premises? But we can’t afford to take chances. So, our security
monitors every key they hit, every file they copy. I’ve insisted on it
since I took charge. But somehow…” He exhaled. “I made a mess of it, Alfred. All of it. Hacking the airwaves, hijacking the GCPD,
somehow failing to notice that it was Black Mask under Orpheus’s
helmet…” Softly, he continued. “I failed, Alfred. I failed
Bruce’s voice had
grown progressively lower as he spoke, so when Dick heard the loud thud, it
startled him. Books, he identified automatically. Knocking
the reading lamp off the desk on their way to the floor. A muffled yell
followed, then a sliding sound and another bang, which indicated that the desk
blotter, complete with pens, paperweights and sundry notepads must have
followed suit. “All! My! Fault!” It took Dick a moment
longer to identify the origin of the third crash: a hollow globe impacting an
oak-paneled wall. He continued on to the den, moving as stealthily as he could,
although he doubted that anyone was paying attention.
“Sir! Bruce!”
Dick started. He
didn’t remember ever hearing Alfred just call him ‘Bruce’ before. It was
always ‘Master Bruce’, or, more formally, ‘Sir’. Slowly, he eased the
door open wider. Bruce was standing behind the desk,
his eyes squeezed shut, both his hands gripping the hardwood surface. Dick
wondered idly if he was planning to throw that, too. Alfred moved toward Bruce,
making just enough noise to alert the younger man to his approach. As he
reached him, Bruce shook his head. “I failed, Alfred. Everyone.
Utterly.” Alfred placed a hand gently on his shoulder
blade. Bruce slid away from it. “Don’t touch me,” he whispered. “I—it’s all
unraveling… my fault… I… Dick was right, before. I… drove… them all away
again.” He shook his head. “Maybe, it’s better this way. I’m… poisonous—“
“No!” The
syllable burst from Dick’s lips before he even knew that he was going to speak.
Both men turned as one to see him standing in the doorway, trembling. “Bruce,
that is not true. You didn’t execute the scenario—“
“It was my
scenario!”
“And you opened
fire on the crime bosses to set this whole thing off? You saw one of them pull
a gun and you walked away?” Ouch. That was a slip if ever there was one, he
noted. He forced himself to continue. “Bruce, listen to me.
“It would probably
be Arkham,” Bruce muttered.
Dick rolled his
eyes. “Oh, that makes everything alright, then. What was I thinking?
Look, it’s like Alfred’s been trying to teach both of us for I don’t know how
long—you make a mess, you clean it up.”
If he had been only
a few years younger, Dick probably would have clapped a hand to his mouth right
about then. As it was, he paled a few shades. Bruce started, then
glanced automatically at Alfred. The older man surveyed the disarray
surrounding them and his lip twitched. He turned abruptly to the window.
Bruce looked over
to Dick, again, his expression pensive. “The last time I was as… cut off as I
am now,” he said quietly, “it… wasn’t good. I’m not sure things would improve
were I to repeat the experiment.” He closed his eyes, then
opened them slowly. “Robin and Batgirl are in Bludhaven, right now. I
understand if you feel the need to keep an eye on them.”
Dick smiled, but
the smile faded almost instantly. “Bruce,” he said steeling himself, “you’re
not the only one who’s… made a mess of things lately. And I don’t know if it’s
fair for me to dump this on you, now. But, there’s something you have to
hear. And if I don’t tell you now, I might not have the nerve to do it later. I
don’t know if there’s anything you can do… or if you’ll even want to… but you
need to know what’s been going on before you… start asking me to volunteer to
stick around.”
Bruce advanced
until he stood less than an arm’s length from his… his son. Then he
placed both hands on the younger man’s shoulders. “Go ahead,” he said simply.
“I’m listening.”
*****
Chapter
Two: Exculpation
“…And all I could think,” Dick continued dully, “was that he was right.
It was never going to stop. If I wasn’t going to kill him, I was as good as
signing the death warrant of everyone else I knew. But I couldn’t do it. And then I heard her…
Tarantula, telling me to move. She told me all I had
to do was get out of the way, and she’d take care of the rest.”
He
studied a fixed point on the carpet in the den. Bruce hadn’t said a word since
he had started talking. He had begun with the fire at Haly’s, and continued
through with the murders of the 35 people unfortunate enough to be at home when
Mouse and Giz had destroyed his apartment building.
No, Bruce hadn’t said a word. His body language, however, spoke volumes.
Especially his eyes.
Dick couldn’t meet them now. “I
could see she had a gun. I knew that right at that moment,
I was the only thing keeping Desmond alive. Worse. He
knew it. He was laughing, saying that even then, after everything he’d told me,
I was still trying to come up with a way to save him from her. And I was. And then… we can look for excuses, like I
tried to do the last time, with Joker. I was beyond stressed. I wasn’t
analyzing things closely—if I had been, I would have made a copy of his
confession disk so I’d have a backup in case
He
closed his eyes and hunched forward on the sofa, elbows on knees, forehead
buried in hands, waiting for Bruce’s weight to leave the sofa… for the
footfalls indicating that he was picking his way through the jumble of debris
that had previously been arranged atop his desk, for the door to click shut
behind him. He hadn’t anticipated the arm, which wrapped itself fiercely around
his shoulders, drawing him close. Dick
drew a shuddering breath. “I killed him. She pulled the trigger, but if I hadn’t
gotten out of the way—“
Bruce’s
response was to stretch his other hand out to pull Dick’s away from his
eyes. “Look at me,” he ordered softly.
Quiet though the voice was, Dick knew that tone. He
forced himself to comply. The mask was
quite definitely up, he noticed, but he read neither hatred nor revulsion in
the older man’s eyes.
“I
think,” Bruce said, “that this may have been one reason that I didn’t want you
to stay with the police department. Sooner or later, it was almost inevitable
that we would be discussing something of this nature… and it’s not a conversation
to which I’d been looking forward.” Alfred had brought down Dick’s crutch
before leaving the two alone. Bruce reached for it now, and handed it to
Dick. “Walk with me,” he said, getting
up and indicating the elevator down to the cave.
Uncertainly,
Dick rose to his feet. Bruce was moving a little faster than he needed to. It
was an effort to keep up. Seeing this, the bigger man slowed and waited for
Dick to get inside the elevator car before stepping in after him. A moment later, the doors parted on the third
level. Bruce ignored the computer
station and strode briskly toward a bank of filing cabinets standing against
the far wall. Unlocking one of the drawers, he pulled out a cowl—one of the
newer ones he’d been wearing for the past year or so. He tossed it to Dick.
Dick caught it one-handed, and looked at it, confused.
“I’m
stumped,” he said after a moment. “Why am I holding this?”
“Did
you take a good look?”
“One
of the ears is missing,” Dick replied, shrugging. “Is that supposed to mean
something?”
“Yes.
You’re going to tell me what it is.”
Dick
glanced up at him. “Excuse me?”
“Do
it.”
Dick
frowned. But he held the cowl closer,
examining it closely, first with his eyes, then with his hands, paying careful attention
to the stub where the missing ear had been.
All the while, he could feel Bruce’s gaze resting on him. Now that he
knew that there actually was something to find, it didn’t take him long
to look up. “This has been shot off,” he
said.
Bruce
nodded. “By Jim.
The night I thought the Joker had killed Tommy Elliott.”
“So
he fired at you? Jeez, Bruce, I told you sooner or later he’d get fed up with
that disappearing act you always used to pull on him.” It was a feeble joke, at
best. Dick remembered an instant later that James Gordon was moving away from
Bruce
waved a hand at him, dismissing the comment.
“He tried talking to me first. I didn’t listen. All I could think about was… tearing that…
stupid leering grin… off of that pasty face… once and for all. I thought about
Barbara. And Jason. And my hands seemed… inadequate.
I… so help me; I wished I had a crowbar.
I think Jim fired twice. Once clear over my head. The second shot… he
was standing at point-blank range, so it wasn’t as incredible a feat as it
would initially appear, nicking off that ear.
That was what it took to stop me from following through with… what I had
started.”
“I
remember,” Dick said finally. “Afterwards. In the cave. But, Bruce, you didn’t kill him.”
“And
you haven’t been listening. I didn’t kill him because at the crucial moment,
somebody was there to pull me back. And trust me, I didn’t give in easily.”
Dick
handed him back the cowl. “I understand
what you’re trying to do, but let’s face it, that was spur
of the moment. You weren’t thinking straight. I was.”
“Were
you? From what you’ve been describing,
you’d had little sleep, less food, and more… excitement in the week or so
leading up to Desmond’s death than you’d had for quite some time.” Dick opened
his mouth, but before he could utter a sound, Bruce continued. “Before you try
telling me that you were coping well with that situation, I want you to think
very hard about exactly whom you’re addressing.”
A
brief smile flickered on his lips as the import of what Bruce was saying hit
home, then faded. “Bruce, even if the pressure was getting to me, I knew damn
well what was going to happen when I got out of the way. Are you saying I was right
to step aside?”
Bruce
shook his head. “No. I’m saying that…” He broke off. “What you did was… understandable. Not right.
Understandable. When Joker murdered Gordon’s wife… I
remember thinking that… if I had ended things after Jason… it wouldn’t have
happened. If I’d ended them the night Barbara was shot, Jason would still be
alive. A few months prior to that, and Barbara would still be walking. I’ve sworn—repeatedly—that I would never take
a life. And some nights, when I think about the lives destroyed because I
uphold that vow, I wonder just how badly I’m fooling myself. And after
everything that’s happened recently…” He let his voice trail off. A moment
later, he continued.
“When
you told me that you were joining the police force, I knew that sooner or
later, deadly force would have to become a necessary option for you. And I was
expecting that one of two things was going to happen. Either, you would fire on
someone in the line of duty, and try to come to grips with that, or… you
wouldn’t. And as a result, someone, maybe your partner, would pay the price.”
He waited for Dick to meet his eyes again. “I didn’t want you to have to deal
with that. And on some level, I thought that getting you off of the force would
resolve the issue.”
Dick
shook his head. “And all this time, I
couldn’t figure out how you trusted me to chase ninjas over rooftops twenty
stories high, but thought me being a cop was too dangerous. That wasn’t it, was
it?”
“No.
Although, I admit it was a tense moment when Alfred told me you’d been shot.”
Dick
nodded. “I can see that, now. Bruce… about that time before… with Joker… when I
thought he’d killed Tim…”
“That
time, someone was there to fix things. This time—“
“I failed
you.” Both men spoke simultaneously, then stared at each other, one
incredulous, one adamant. “How?” Dick asked, just as
Bruce fired out
“NO!
You listen to me, Dick. You have not failed me. Do you think that
Barbara doesn’t—didn’t pass word on about what happens in your life? Alfred was
at the funeral for the people in your building. Did you suppose that he had
gone behind my back? The fire at Haly’s may not
have made the Herald’s front page, but Alfred circled the article and
left it where I’d see it. But I assumed that if you wanted my help, you’d ask
for it. If not, Bludhaven is your city. You’ve shown me in the past that
you had a handle on things. It occurred to me to find some excuse to stop by,
regardless, but—“
“Something
came up,” Dick finished. Something always came up. Some charity function, or Bat-related business or… oh. Oh… crud. “Sue Dibney.”
Bruce
nodded. “And then the attempt on Jean Loring. And—“
“Jack
Drake.” Well, no, actually, that one had come after the mob war. After Blockbuster. So
what? You want Tim to ever hear you say that one doesn’t count? He
shook his head. Between the shockwaves running through the JLA, the normal
crime situation in Gotham, this whole business of having to adjust to having…
and then to not having a new Robin… factor in all of the shouting
matches he’d had with Bruce over the years when he had accused Bruce of not
believing that he, Dick was capable of managing on his own… Dick couldn’t
exactly blame him for not being there this time.
“I
thought I did have a handle on things,” he said, softly. “And then,
almost overnight things just—“
“Spiraled
out of control,” Bruce finished. “It’s
happened to me on more than one occasion.” One corner of his mouth quirked
upward. “Less than two weeks ago.”
Dick
smiled back in response. “You know, you’re taking this a lot better than I
expected, considering. I guess, from what you said, you’ve been planning for
this for a while.”
Bruce
frowned. “That’s not entirely accurate,
you know.”
“Yeah,”
Dick agreed. “From what you were telling me before, you were expecting me to be
a little more of an active participant.”
Bruce
turned away. “No.” From his body language, he seemed to be
struggling to resolve some dilemma. Finally he squared his shoulders and turned
partway back toward the younger man.
“You were feverish for five days. Delirious. You… talked. Extensively.”
“Oh.”
Okay. People did tend to babble on in that state. So he must have mumbled
something or other about killing Blockbuster. But, Bruce shouldn’t be acting
this… nervous? No, that wasn’t exactly right. Confused? No. Unsure.
That was closer. But why… Dick blanched. I couldn’t
have gone into… “Bruce? Was Blockbuster all I talked about?”
Bruce
bowed his head. “No.”
Oh,
man! “I… what
did I say?” If that doesn’t sound like I’m trying to make up some other
story, I don’t know what does.
Bruce
forced out the words. “Enough for me to make certain…
inferences. Given the nature of the people with whom I frequently
interact, it is possible that my perceptions have been colored. It could be
that I am incorrectly jumping to a conclusion that is… less than savory. Are
you able to clarify?”
“Do—“ Why was his voice suddenly coming out in that squeak? “Do
I have to answer that right now?”
Bruce
slowly shook his head. “You just have.”
Dick
closed his eyes. “I’m sor—“
“Don’t!”
He interrupted. “Look at me.” He waited for Dick to comply. “Don’t you dare
try to apologize.” He ducked his head so that his eyes
were level with the younger man’s. There was anger, there, yes… but overlaid
with a pain so profound that Dick had to force himself not to look away. “Are you hearing me? What happened with
Blockbuster was one thing. What happened after that was not your fault.”
“But,
I should have fought her!”
“Dick.
You were in shock. You were exhausted. You had just made a difficult decision
and the consequences were sinking in. In that state—“
“I
still should have fought!”
“Fine!” Bruce shouted back. “Suppose that you should have. Are you
telling me that because you didn’t, what happened next was somehow acceptable?”
“No,
I’m not saying that!”
“Then
what are you saying?”
“I
don’t KNOW!” His eyes were burning. No, damn it! He wasn’t going to
cry. For the second time that day, Bruce’s hands were on his shoulders, gently
easing him down into one of the swivel chairs. Funny.
He hadn’t even noticed the pain in his leg flaring up again. He sank back
against the seat cushion. Bruce handed him a handkerchief—not a tissue, he
noted with surprise. This was a real, honest-to-goodness linen handkerchief.
Did they actually still make those things?
Monogrammed, yet. He shook his head,
disbelieving, then passed the fabric across his
eyes. “I didn’t mean to shout,” he
mumbled. “Sorry.”
Bruce
sat down next to him. “No. I am. Sorry I just put you through that. And… two
nights ago, I was out on my rounds. And I saw her. She was outnumbered, outclassed, and
outgunned. Literally. I watched her. She has a few
good moves, that the majority of street-fighters wouldn’t know, but she relies
on them too much. Twelve against one. She ran out of
ammunition, dove for cover behind a dumpster, and I still watched. Remember, at
that time, all I knew was that she was involved in Desmond’s murder. I suspected
the rest, but until you confirmed it just now, I didn’t know. I stood there, and I saw the look in her
eyes. She knew she only had a few seconds left before they’d have her. And I
remember thinking about how I’d heard you mumbling that she said that all you
had to do was… walk away. And I couldn’t help thinking about… poetic justice.”
“But
you didn’t.”
“No.
But I hesitated. And if I were out tonight, and saw the same situation, I can’t
tell you that I’d react as quickly now as I did then.”
Dick
stretched out a hand and laid it on the older man’s forearm. “You shouldn’t have to. I—when I drove out that night, I had it out
with her. She’s not in
“Good.”
There
was a long pause, before Bruce spoke again.
“Alfred
thinks it’ll be another few days before the bandage comes off of that,” he
pointed to Dick’s leg. “After that… it’s up to you. Whether you want to wear
the suit again or not, this place is your home for as long as you need
it to be.” He realized that Dick’s left hand was still on his arm. Following
his gaze, Dick made as if to remove it. Before he could, however, Bruce covered
it with his right. “What happened with Desmond” he continued, “if you need to discuss it, I’m here. The other matter falls…
too far… outside the scope of my expertise.” He waited for Dick to meet his
eyes, again. “But it is something
that you need to address. Maybe it’s something that you can do alone, I don’t
know. But if you can’t… then, you shouldn’t have to. What I’m trying to say is…
when Drake threatened to go public with our identities, I told you then that
there were other aliases waiting for all of us, should the need arise. If you
need to talk about what happened with somebody, and feel that you’re getting
close to talking about other activities in our regular lives, don’t let
it deter you. We’ll manage.
“Actually,”
Dick said slowly, “there’s a woman I’m working with in the Outsiders who might
have some idea where I’m coming from. She’s not really the kind of person I
would have normally picked as a good listener, but recently, I found out that
she’s got some pretty intense things in her past—things that make me think
she’ll probably understand.” Thanks for making that offer, Bruce. It means a
lot. Really. It does. But let’s wait before we do
anything drastic, huh?”
“If
you say so,” Bruce said. “The offer stands.”
Dick
nodded. “You’re going out tonight?”
Bruce
hesitated. “I was planning on it. But if there’s something you need to—“
“No,
I was just wondering if you wanted me to stay down here for a while. If I’m
going to be sticking around, I should probably bring myself up to date on
what’s been going on lately. And if you did need something researched
tonight, I could probably handle that for you.” He grinned. “I mean, if you’re
sure you still want to put up with me, and all."
Bruce
clapped him on the shoulder. “The sentiment is mutual.” He turned on a monitor.
“Let’s get your passwords reset.”
***
Come
down from that dark cloud
What's done is done
Don't you go down believing
You're the only one
That ever felt heartache
Turn to regret
We've all got something
We'd like to forget...that's right
Just hurry back
To the land of the living
Things have changed
Since you've been gone
The world is turning
In the land of the living
Take a deep breath
Life goes on...life goes on
Pam
Tillis—“Land of the Living”