Batman: Lost To The Night--Part VII

Now

Dick arrived at Dr. Morgenstern’s downtown office a full ten minutes before his eight o’clock appointment. In addition to being a staff psychiatrist at Arkham, the doctor maintained an office mere minutes from Patrick Morgan.

Dick grimaced to himself. A year ago, in an effort to distance itself from Bruce Wayne’s legal situation, the board of directors of WE had officially endorsed a motion to change the company name to Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. It was close enough to the original that Dick had entertained the hope that the company could quietly go back to calling itself WE after awhile. Instead, more and more people had come to refer to the corporation as ‘Patrick Morgan’. Dick told himself that it was temporary—once Bruce got out, everything was going to change. But temporary or not, it still hurt.

He parked in the adjacent lot and bounded up the stairs to the front door.

Alex was standing in the lobby as the elevator doors opened. He greeted Dick cheerfully and gestured to the younger man to precede him. “I’m glad you asked for this meeting,” he remarked. “I was going to contact you later in the week.”

“Oh?”

The doors slid open on the ninth floor. Alex said nothing further until they were both in his office. Then he turned to Dick, his expression serious. “Let’s cut to the chase,” he stated. “How much do you already know?”

Dick thought for a moment. “I know there’ve been some major changes in him in the last couple of weeks.”

Alex stroked his beard. “Accurate if somewhat general,” he said. “I notice that you’re not rushing to call it an improvement.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. It is.”

The younger man grinned back. “I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.”

“Very sensible.” The smile fell away. “But it leads me to ask something of you that will be difficult. To be honest, if I were in your position with the capabilities that I would presume you have,” Alex said gravely, “I don’t know if I could agree to it. But I’m still going to ask.”

Embarrassed, he broke off with a chuckle. “I’m sorry; I should have invited you to sit down!” He waved Dick to a padded armchair before the desk. “Coffee?”

Dick took a seat. “No, I’m fine. Thanks. What?”

Alex sighed. “Correct me if I’m wrong. I think the records were factual on this much at least. The circumstance that led to Mr. Wayne’s commitment to Arkham was an emotional breakdown triggered by,” he counted off on his fingers. “His inability to save a loved one, his subsequent arrest, and the unauthorized administration of a stimulant, which caused him to experience nightmares and violent episodes, culminating in a physical assault on a close friend. Is that accurate?”

Dick nodded, not feeling the need to mention that Jason Todd had also died that night. It had been two loved ones.

“Good,” Alex said. “I’ve learned that records can err. Nice to know that this time, they didn’t. Alright. My personal and professional opinion is that at that point, Mr. Wayne came to the conclusion that he deserved to be locked away. He hasn’t willingly participated in any treatment plan until now because he genuinely believes that he should not be walking about freely.”

“You said ‘believes’,” Dick pointed out.

Alex nodded. “As of this moment, I still consider that to be so. Obviously, my first priority is changing that mindset.” He smiled self-consciously. “Not that my efforts are likely to bear fruit.”

Dick blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Ever read the T-shirt slogans in the malls?” Alex asked. “There’s one that I love. It reads ‘Why pay a psychiatrist to tell you what your problems are, when your friends and family will do it for free?’” He nodded at Dick’s amusement. “There are a few things wrong with that truism. But I do feel, very strongly, that any progress he makes will be due in large part to the support he receives from friends and family. Or to put it a different way, I can lead him to the water. I’m relying on the rest of you to convince him he’s thirsty.”

The two men shared a smile.

“How is he doing?” Dick asked seriously. “I mean, I can see the changes, but does that mean he'll be released soon?”

“‘Soon’ is relative,” Alex said. “Forgive me. Word travels. I’m cognizant that you have your own methods of knowing some of what goes on at Arkham. Are you aware of why Mr. Wayne recently chose to alter his behavior?”

Dick nodded grimly.

“And yet you didn’t interfere.”

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” Dick said. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and opened them again. “When Bruce was remanded to Arkham, I promised myself I wouldn’t raise any protests regarding his treatment program, no matter how I felt about it. But abuse is a different story.”

“I concur,” Alex smiled. “And you have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that bit about not interfering.”

“Oh?” Dick was suddenly nervous.

“Don’t worry,” Alex said reassuringly. “I’m not planning on prescribing anything as draconian as… as electroshock therapy. But here’s the thing. One of my mentors, Dr. Abraham Twerski, writes frequently about the hermit crab. The crab, you see, grows a protective shell, which shields it from danger. However, as the crab grows, the shell becomes increasingly confining, and uncomfortable. So, after a time, the crab sheds the shell, even though, in so doing, it renders itself completely vulnerable. It must take on faith that it will acquire another, roomier shell.”

He looked intently at Dick. “Human beings, unfortunately, have brains that are more highly developed. What the hermit crab does instinctively, we tend to think through. And very often, we conclude that it’s better to put up with the discomfort, than to risk being completely… exposed. That’s one of the things I’m working on with Mr. Wayne,” he added. “I’m attempting to convince him that it’s time to change his shell. Which means, I need to get him to focus on, well, his discomfort.”

“I understand,” Dick said.

“Do you?” Alex asked. “Because here’s where the difficult part arises. Once Mr. Wayne realizes how confining his current situation is, once he accepts that the status quo is not the optimum situation, my guess is that his first thought will be to attempt to leave. Perhaps a year ago, he might have been able to manage that on his own. Now…” He shook his head. “Maybe. But I sincerely doubt it. Much more likely, he’ll ask you to help him escape. If that should happen, I’m asking you not to.”

Dick felt as though a cold wind was ripping through him. “If he asks me, I…” His voice trailed off.

“I’d expect him to make that request in a last-ditch attempt to avoid really tackling the issues. Change is a scary prospect. Expecting him to change the behavior of a lifetime? It would have to be downright terrifying for him. But if we let him walk away at that stage, we risk undoing all the progress we’re making to date.”

Dick understood. But if Bruce asked him… It would be as though he were begging me. Could I really turn my back on him if he was that desperate?

Alex noticed his hesitation. “If you did get him out of Arkham, what then?”

I’d hide him, Dick thought to himself. Then he paused, to actually consider that scenario. How long could he do that? He’d have to keep Bruce hidden away for a very long time. Babs might be able to help with a forged identity, but would Bruce be in any shape to assume a new role? And the minute he turned up missing at Arkham… The police would come looking for Dick. If they couldn’t find Bruce with him, they’d watch him, follow him. Sure, Bruce had taught him how to lose a tail, but would Dick really be able keep that up for weeks, months, maybe years on end? He shook his head. Sooner or later, he’d let his guard down. And then, it would be back to Arkham for Bruce, while he… Dick chewed the inside of his lip. He’d probably be in Blackgate for aiding and abetting a fugitive. Or, no, wait. Maybe it was ‘accessory after the fact’. Harboring a fugitive? Probably all of the above, he thought grimly. Of course, he would be willing to go to prison for Bruce’s sake. But how much good could he do his surrogate father if he was locked up? No good at all. He sighed.

He could help Bruce leave the country. Maybe he could even go with him. But as fugitives… They’d have to cut all ties. No more pizza with Roy, or taking Lian to the circus. No more visits to Clark and Lois in Metropolis. Even phoning them would be risky. Garth… the Outsiders… Gordon… Tim… Cass… Amy… Clancy… his ‘family’ at Haley’s… He pictured them all, and he imagined never being able to see any of them again. Babs. She wouldn’t live in hiding. It would come down to a choice between a life with her… or a life on the run with Bruce.

He shook his head. If he had to, could he really make that choice? He didn’t want to. But, if he had to, he rose abruptly and crossed over to the coffee machine. He poured himself a cup and gulped it down on his way back to the chair, burning his tongue in the process. If he had to… he couldn’t believe that he was even thinking along those lines… but if it came down to a choice… there wasn’t one. Either way, he’d hate himself for having to make that decision, but if he had to… it would be Babs. Hands-down. “You’re really not giving me the easy stuff,” he joked feebly.

Alex shook his head in silent empathy. “No.”

“I thought you might enjoy this one,” Alex slid the hard-cover blue volume across his desk. “I mean if you ignore some of the ‘cheerier’ works,” he said with a wry smile.

Bruce’s curiosity got the better of him and he reached for the heavy tome. It was a high school literature text. “Cheerier,” he repeated, leafing through the contents.

“There’s a short story in there about a man who freezes to death, Noyes’ ‘Highwayman’, I forget which Edgar Allen Poe story is in that one, but—”

Bruce scanned the page. “‘The Cask of Amontillado’,” he said.

Alex shuddered. “I think I recall the plot of that one. I should have checked first.”

“Why?” Bruce asked. “Are you concerned that I’ll read too much into my own situation?”

“It crossed my mind.”

Bruce wasn’t sure what infuriated him more: Alex’s assumption that he somehow needed to be shielded from a short story about a man whose enemy entombed him alive, or his bland admission of it. “I’m not that fragile,” he snapped.

“Fine.” He paused. “You’ve read it, then.”

Bruce nodded.

“What did you think of it?”

Bruce thought for a moment. “His look into the mind of a killer was illuminating. And the planning that went into the scheme was…” His voice trailed off. He fixed Alex with a hard stare. “Very clever.”

Alex’s puzzled look gave way to dawning understanding. “I’m not trying to trick you into revealing anything, Mr. Wayne. I thought we established that at our first session.” He sighed. “I had the book at home and it occurred to me that you might like to read something a little more thought-provoking. That’s all.”

Bruce looked skeptical.

“Take it,” Alex said. “I promise I won’t test you on it.”

He glanced up sharply.

Alex nodded. “Dr. Arkham approved the request. You can borrow a book or two to read later.”

Bruce acknowledged the information with a slight nod in return. Then he set the text down on the couch, walked over to the bookcase, and picked up Over Sea, Under Stone.

Alex resumed his crossword puzzle.

Bruce tried to read, but he found his mind wandering. What was Alex’s angle? What did the man want? And why should what Alex wanted matter to him in the slightest? That was a real puzzle.

When the hour was up, Bruce carried both books back to his cell.

Montoya was as good as her word. Two days later, she slid an armload of file folders across the shelf to him. It almost didn’t matter that the only writing implements allowed to him were sixteen crayons in assorted colors. At least, he thought sardonically, they were sharp. If he was going to write notes, that much was essential. He discarded the yellow one. It didn’t contrast enough with the off-white pages of the blank scrapbook that the police detective had included. At Bruce’s questioning glance, she’d mumbled something about margin notes in colored wax being difficult to read. She had a point.

Bruce sighed. He reached for the uppermost folder. Susan Cooper’s fiction was a nice bit of nostalgia for him, but if there was any way that he could accomplish some good from this cell, that had to take priority. He read the top sheet. This one looked familiar. A memory surfaced: missing persons case. A two-year-old girl, presumed abducted. The mother was a seventeen-year-old emancipated minor. The maternal grandparents had unsuccessfully attempted to obtain custody. At the time that the little girl had gone missing, the grandparents had an alibi. A few weeks later, they’d left Gotham and not been seen since.

His eyebrows came together as he frowned. He couldn’t be everywhere. And the police hadn’t asked for his help on that one. This was the sort of case where he needed to question the suspects. He needed travel records… He shook his head. He didn’t have any of that, and the trail was five years cold. Every clue he could get was in the folder in front of him. Either there was something useable in that sheaf of papers, or there wasn’t, and he could go on to the next one. He turned the sheet over and picked up the investigating officer’s report on her interview with the grandparents.

“Um… Hi.”

Bruce looked up, startled. “Robin.” He put the folder down. “Sit down,” he added with a smile. He hadn’t seen the young man in months. “You… you look well.”

He’d come in costume. That meant that certain topics could be brought up without compromising the young man’s identity. Bruce himself was now, of course, beyond such concerns.

“Thanks.” Robin remained standing.

Bruce sized up his former partner. The boy was nervous, for all he was trying to hide it. “I’m glad you came.” He was out of practice. The ‘old’ Bruce… the affable socialite Bruce, would know how to put people at ease. He wasn’t used to making that effort anymore. Still, he supposed he should try. He owed Tim that much. “I missed you.”

Tim reddened. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I should have come more. Just… school and all. You know.”

He did know. Although, the thought surfaced, Dick had managed to find the time. Jim came by regularly. Even Barbara had been a more frequent visitor these last few months. Just recently, you were wishing they’d all stay away. “You finished your finals?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, relief palpable. Grades were a safe subject. “I got all A’s.”

Bruce smiled again, a real smile. “That’s… that’s good. I know you were worried about missing those months.”

“It wasn’t a problem.” Tim drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I got into SFSU. I’m moving to ‘Frisco next week.” It came out in a rush. “I’ll stay in touch, though. Honest.”

“Oh.” Bruce clenched his jaw. He hadn’t expected that. You wanted them to forget you and go on with their lives. He’s doing that. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I… I just thought I should let you know.”

Of course. Because if he secured Bruce’s blessing on the subject, that made it easier for him to leave, didn’t it? Bruce forced himself to nod stiffly. “Thank-you.”

Tim seemed to notice the stool by the window for the first time. He sat down. “So… how are things?”

Bruce mentally rehashed the last few weeks. Jeremiah threatening him, Alex, Haney… Deliberately he went back to the missing persons file. “You’re in the clear.”

“What?”

He looked up again. “Nightwing put you up to coming here, didn’t he?” Tim’s stricken expression confirmed his suspicion. “You came, Robin. You’re off the hook. I’ll tell him that if you like. You… you have fun in San Francisco. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

After five minutes, he realized that he hadn’t heard the stool scrape back. “Are you still here?”

There was no response. Bruce looked up to see the youth staring at him, jaw clenched. The mask kept his eyes unreadable. “Was there anything else?”

Tim nodded. “One question.” He drew a deep breath. “I didn’t have the nerve to ask you before, and sorry if my timing stinks… but I want to know… I have to know before I leave. What happened with Stephanie? Why did you make her Robin? You of all people had to know she wasn’t qualified for it. You did know… you fired her at least once before that.”

Bruce sighed. “I couldn’t talk her out of the costume. I thought with the proper training, she might stand a chance. Without it, she’d be dead within the year. It was a miracle she’d survived as long as she had. But I worried. One day, she was going to mistake luck for skill, and she’d challenge Joker or Ivy single-handed.”

“Or Black Mask?” Tim asked. He frowned. “That still doesn’t explain why you made her Robin.”

Bruce looked away. “You quit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You quit and she… showed up in a Robin costume.” He shook his head. “I know. I made a mistake. One of several. I told her that if she disobeyed me, she was out of the costume. Permanently. She agreed.”

“Sure she agreed,” Tim said. “She wanted the training. She would’ve walked through fire if you’d told her to.”

“She also would have walked through fire if I ordered her to walk away from it.”

Tim’s jaw set stubbornly. “You know, Bruce… after Cain got you cleared of those murder charges, and you put Steph through that so-called ‘test’ to prove to her that she wasn’t vigilante material… she came to me. And she asked me how I proved to you that I was good enough to be your partner. And I told her.”

Bruce went cold. “You told her. You told her… what, precisely?”

“That I saved your life. And what you told me: sometimes—not very often—and only when it’s justified—”

“—A hero gets to break the rules,” Bruce finished in a whisper.

“Exactly. So when you tell me that she would have walked through fire against your orders, I have to ask: were you by any chance caught in the middle of that blaze?”

Silence.

Tim shook his head in disgust. “You fired her for saving your life.”

“I fired her for forcing me to allow an assassin to escape.”

“I saved your life and you gave me the suit. She—” He broke off. “She wanted the costume. More than I did at that time. But that’s not the point. If she wasn’t qualified, you never should have let her go out in it.”

“Don’t you think…”

“No. Didn’t you think? You can’t just give away the suit and take it back. Any doubts you might have had? You should have figured them out before you told her the costume was hers.”

“Where is that carved in stone?”

Tim bit back a shout. “Forget it. You make the rules. You always did. And if Steph disobeyed them it’s her fault she died, isn’t it?”

“I never said that,” Bruce snapped.

“No,” Tim agreed. “You were too busy running to Africa to yell at Leslie. The hell with this. I’m out of here.”

“Ti-Robin…”

The youth shook his head. “Bruce… I don’t want to hear it. Maybe later. Maybe never. But not now. I know Black Mask pulled the trigger. I know Leslie withheld the medication that should have saved her. But she never would have been near Black Mask if she hadn’t thought she could win her way back into your good books.”

He hesitated, caught between righteous anger and a need to hear an explanation—any explanation that would paint his mentor in a better light.

Bruce lowered his eyes. There wasn’t one.

There were things he could say in his defense, of course. He could reveal that Stephanie had launched the ‘War Games’ protocol that had plunged the city into chaos… and Tim could respond that Bruce shouldn’t have allowed her access to that file in the first place. Besides, why was he trying to make excuses? He was at least partly responsible for her death. He’d trained her, and then he’d fired her for making a judgement call. And she had left thinking that she had acquired the combat skills needed to survive in a costume. Had she captured Scarab, Bruce had to admit that it probably would have cemented her as the new Robin. He’d never even thanked her for trying to save his life. No. For saving his life. Scarab had him blind as his proverbial namesake, wounded and on the ropes. There was no guarantee that he would have been able to escape without Stephanie’s assistance. And he had fired her. He’d taught her just enough to make her more confident, but that little learning had proven to be a dangerous thing. Bruce slowly shook his head.

Robin watched him coldly. Bruce could almost feel the boy’s glare burning into him. I taught him that.

The young man waited a moment longer for Bruce to respond before he finally turned his back. “Take care of yourself, Bruce. I’ll… write.”

As he walked away, though, they both knew that he wouldn’t.

Alex started to greet Bruce as usual, and then broke off. “Is anything… the matter?” He asked.

The rage that Bruce had done his best to control until the guards left the room surfaced. He all but slammed the open literature book down on the desk. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

Alex looked at the title. “I have to confess, I’m not familiar with that one,” he admitted.

Bruce shook his head in disbelief.

“I’m being completely honest with you. I haven’t read every work in here.” He sighed. “Now you’ve genuinely got me curious,” he admitted. “Do you want me to read it for myself, or would you rather give me a rundown of the salient points in,” he glanced down at the open book again, “Ms Berriault’s short story?”

“Are you trying to tell me,” Bruce drew a deep breath, “that you really had no idea what the story was about?”

Alex steepled his fingers. “None. If I ever had occasion to read ‘The Stone Boy,’ I didn’t retain it.”

The fire in his eyes receded, slightly. “If that’s the case, Doctor,” he said tersely, “I apologize.” Without another word, he strode to the bookcase.

Alex watched him for a moment before he returned to his puzzle book. After a few minutes, he looked up.

Bruce was watching him, a bemused expression on his face. “You’re not going to push me,” he stated.

“I told you at our first meeting—”

“I… know what you told me,” Bruce replied. “I’ve been curious as to how long you can pretend indifference.”

“Non-interference and indifference are two different things.” Alex was dispassion personified. “You haven’t cooperated with any of my predecessors. Why should I entertain the illusion that I’ll be any different?”

“So you’ve decided not to try.”

“How much psychology have you studied?”

“Excuse me?”

Alex repeated the question. “Informal education counts, too. There are methods… techniques that I’m trained to employ to encourage reluctant patients to open up. The problem is, in all probability, you’re familiar with them, and you’ll see them coming a mile away. I’m not going to insult you by attempting to trick you into working with me.”

Understanding dawned. “I thought Jer… Dr. Arkham would have informed you of his own… trick to ensure that I work with you.”

For the first time, Bruce thought he saw an expression of anger cross the psychiatrist’s face. It vanished quickly. “I’m aware of the situation. I’m not about to coerce you, either.”

Bruce couldn’t quite conceal the relief that came with hearing that assertion. “I do appreciate that,” he admitted. He felt some of the tension leave him. Something made him add, “it… may not be sufficient, though.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Now that he’s aware that his tactic can prove effective,” Bruce clarified, “he is likely to employ it again. I have been attempting to develop a contingen...” He squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment as the absurdity of the situation hit him. He’d all but asked his doctor how to thwart the asylum director’s efforts to induce cooperation. As though it wasn’t a conflict of interest.

Alex nodded. “I’m guessing,” he said seriously, “that you’ve been finding it difficult.”

“If you’re trying to tell me that there’s no countermeasure—”

“No,” Alex hedged. “There’s one that springs to mind. I only hesitate to bring it up because it could be construed as an attempt at manipulation on my part.”

Bruce looked up, curious.

“Well, if you’re willing, we could work on creating a buffer, of sorts,” the doctor explained. “You could… earn back some of the privileges you’ve had rescinded over the last year. If disciplinary action is warranted, the general policy here is to remove the most-recently awarded perks first. So, if you can accumulate a few freedoms that you don’t particularly mind losing…” Alex broke off. “Well, it was a thought, anyway.”

Bruce considered. It actually wasn’t a bad idea. Even if Alex probably was hoping that he’d enjoy the additional privileges enough that he’d soon be fighting to keep those too. That, at least, was not going to happen. However… “I… progress charts are juvenile,” he said.

“They are, aren’t they?” Alex smiled. “Well, I do have to have something quantifiable, something that I can show to Arkham if he asks me to justify any changes to your status.” He thought for a moment. “How about this: tomorrow, I’ll come in with a timer. You’re here for sixty minutes. For six of those—one tenth of the time—I’ll put away the crosswords, and we’ll talk. No pressure. No loaded questions, at least none on my part. Just talking. Any subject at all. Every segment of six consecutive minutes counts as one point. If you want to earn more points in a session, that’s fine, too. 100 points equals one privilege. I’ll bring in a list tomorrow so that you can pick a goal to work toward.”

He extended his arm across the desk toward Bruce. “No charts. I’ll make a note of each segment and let you know your standing any time you ask. If you don’t ask, I won’t tell you until you’ve actually hit a target. And if you change your mind at any time, no problem. You get a change of scenery, and I get an hour where I can be reasonably sure I won’t get doused with Smilex, discover a mind-control chip in my hat, or find out that my geranium has been crossed with a Venus flytrap and is currently doing an extremely convincing Audrey II impression.”

Bruce turned the matter over in his mind. Obviously, there was some risk involved. He’d have to be on his guard at all times. But it was a fair offer. Six hundred minutes equaled ten hours equaled a minimum of two weeks equaled one privilege. It was reasonable. It was attainable. He allowed himself a guarded smile as he shook Alex’s outstretched hand.

Bruce sat facing Alex, as he had been for the last fifteen minutes. The doctor seemed to be doing a word search today. Bruce idly wondered whether he’d gotten tired of the crosswords, or finally finished the magazine. He drew a deep breath, opened his mouth—and closed it again.

‘Any subject’, Alex had told him. There was no way that Bruce was going to talk about his parents, or Alfred, or Jason… he supposed he could talk about the weather. It’s cloudy today. Hmmmm… I think that will account for about five seconds. Eight, if I speak really slowly. He took another breath. “Getting started is more difficult than I’d expected,” he said.

Alex looked up. “Beginnings tend to be. I remember my first day starting here. I was settling into my office—not this one, by the way. Initially I had something a bit smaller, on the east side of the building where the van brings in the new arrivals for processing.” He set down the pen. “That was… well, I’ve long suspected that giving new staff office space in that part of the building constitutes administrative hazing.”

Bruce nodded. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“As we’ve established, beginnings are hard.”

Alex paused a beat. “I did read over ‘The Stone Boy’ last night. I had to spend about a half-hour browsing the stacks in the library, but I found a copy. “Fascinating stuff.”

“It made an impression,” Bruce replied.

“Frankly, I felt sorry for the kid.”

Bruce stood up. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to agree with you about how tragic it was that the boy couldn’t open up, and how horrible it was everybody treated him as though the murder was intentional?”

“Was it?”

“Yes,” Bruce conceded, “it was. But it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t responsible.”

Alex nodded slowly. “I don’t think he was either. It was a stupid, tragic accident.”

Bruce took a step away and strode to the window. “Family is supposed to support one another.”

Silence.

Bruce spun back to him. “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me what I mean by that?”

“I don’t have to,” Alex shot back. “I’ve met yours.”

That checked him. Slowly he made his way back to his seat. “Family is supposed to support one another,” he repeated, thinking of Tim, “but sometimes the strain is too great. When I read the story,” he continued, “I knew that the boy’s parents were misunderstanding the situation, but if I suspect that I would have done the same thing, does that make me a hypocrite?”

“Is this the point where I’m supposed to vehemently protest that it makes you human?”

Bruce smiled faintly. “Touché.”

“To be fair,” Alex added, “it might be helpful to remember that the family was in a state of severe shock at the time.”

“I know.” Bruce reflected for a moment. “They…” he began, “they weren’t wrong. But they should have… thought. Or not come in the first place.”

Alex blinked. “Sorry, what was that last?”

Right. That hadn’t been in the story. Bruce hesitated. Then he took a deep breath, leaned slightly forward and slowly, haltingly, he began to speak about his last visit from Robin.