The Way Back #2

Barbara opened her eyes and immediately closed them again. The sun was bright, she realized. She must have overslept. She became aware of the light pressure of an arm draped across her torso. If the sun was that high in the sky, then…

"Hey." She nudged Dick gently. "Hey, wake up. You overslept."

Dick stirred. "Wha?" He rolled over. "'Nother few minutes, Babs. Tired."

"I know," she said, elbowing him a little harder. "But you just started in a new department last week, and even though it is in risk management, if you could manage to not jeopardize it…"

A groan emanated from under the blankets. "I'm the only one around here who's supposed to be able to toss off quips like that." He pushed back the quilt. "What time is it, anyw—agh! Babs!"

She pressed a hand to her eyes, trying to block the light that stabbed at them. "That bad?" She asked worriedly.

"Terrible," Dick groaned again. "It's 4:40."

"What?" Barbara sat bolt upright. "We actually slept the whole day away?"

"Four-forty A.M., Babs. We didn't even finish sleeping the night away." His expression hardened. With one swift motion, he reached for the cord and pulled up the window blind. He sighed. "Just as well you woke me." He pointed to the bat-symbol illuminating the night sky. It couldn't be more than twenty minutes to dawn, from the look of things. "I'll suit up. Again."

Barbara carefully maneuvered herself toward the edge of the mattress closest to the wheelchair. "I'll get coffee on."

"No time," Dick said. He was already opening the hidden door at the back of the walk-in closet. "Gotta run."

"Who said I'm making it for you?" Barbara retorted. "If that floodlight goes up, it means I have to, also." She shook her head. "Grab something for the office, too, in case you can't get back here before work. Your lunch is on the top shelf of the 'fridge, and there's a box of muffins on the bottom. The banana chocolate chip one is mine."

Dick grinned. "As long as I have another choice besides carrot oat-bran." He zipped the Nightwing suit into a garment bag and grabbed a navy-blue double-breasted, still in the drycleaner's plastic. "No time to stop at the cave—I'll get changed in the car." He blew Barbara a kiss, and raced out of the room.

Barbara was smiling as she hung up the telephone. "That was Dick. He's meeting us at the manor, after all," she said. "So we'll head out around two?"

Bruce helped himself to more salad. "I know I've been postponing this," he said, "but he doesn't need to leave work early. I can manage."

"He's not." She buttered a slice of rye bread. "The signal went up again, a little before five. After Dick went to check it out, he continued to the office. He has to give them eight hours a day, but they're pretty flexible on which eight." She smiled. "There've been a few times when he's gone into the office directly from patrol, then come home around one or two in the afternoon to sleep."

"Ah." He finished his plate in silence.

"Too bad Tim had to go back to San Francisco."

"The Titans need him," Bruce said. "It happens."

Particularly when Deathstroke comes to town, Barbara thought darkly. "I'll get that for you," she said, reaching for the plate as Bruce pushed his chair away.

Bruce shook his head. "There's been enough of that over the last two years. I need to get back to managing on my own." So saying, he deposited his plate in the sink.

Barbara shook her head. "It doesn't clean itself, you know," she said with some amusement as he turned around.

Bruce glowered. Then he turned back to the sink and ran the hot water. He knew that.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting. Ghosts, perhaps. Not ghosts in the sense of chain-rattling, moaning phantoms. He'd known since he was eight that there were different kinds of haunting. He supposed that he'd expected to walk through the door and be nearly physically bowled over by memories.

Instead… instead, it was like walking through any other vestibule. He recognized the carpets and the paneling. As he stepped into the front hall, he knew instantly where each room was situated, but where was the tide of nostalgia that he'd thought would overwhelm him? This was a homecoming, yes, but his return felt ordinary. As though he'd been away for hours, instead of years.

There was something else, too. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. The manor was as spotless as it had ever been. The woodwork gleamed, and the air even had a faint trace of the lemon polish that Alfred had always used. But despite the sights and the smells, the place was empty and sterile in a way that it had never been. Not even those times when Alfred had left for awhile.

He wasn't coming back. Bruce had understood this for two years. But until now, a part of him had somehow refused to accept it. Alfred was gone.

"Managing?" Dick asked.

Bruce nodded, forcing a smile. "Of course."

…At least, he'd been planning on a shower. He'd generally preferred them to baths. However, when he actually got to the bathroom, faced with a choice for the first time in far too long, he ran the tub. He'd rarely allowed himself the luxury of a long hot soak. Before Arkham, if he'd had the time for such an indulgence, he'd usually spent it working out or extending his patrol. And at Arkham, even long showers could not be taken for granted, unless one preferred them ice-cold with minimal water pressure. It had taken him nearly three months to determine the optimal time of day to take his and avoid such problems.

Nearly an hour later, he emerged, feeling a bit more human. This wasn't so bad. It was going to be difficult making the transition back to normal life, but if he'd adjusted to living in a monastery in Nepal and later, in a rundown apartment in Sao Paulo, he could do this.

The best place to start, he surmised, was to catch up on current events. While Dick hadn't yet restored the Crays in the cave, there was still the computer in the study. He spent nearly two hours reading various newspapers online before he realized that he needed to get ready for bed before they turned the lights out.

It wasn't until he was at the top of the stairs that he remembered that there was no "they". Of all the crazy, stupid… he punched the wall hard enough to knock the portrait of his parents askew. Horrified, he straightened it. This had been the last picture they'd taken together, nearly a month before that night. And, Bruce remembered with a pang, it would have been a picture of the three of them, had he not stubbornly refused to sit for it. His father had tried persuasion, then compulsion, but he'd had none of it. Dragged in front of the backdrop, eight-year-old Bruce had sulked, fidgeted, and made faces, until finally, and with some persuasion from his mother, Thomas Wayne had relented. "There'll be other photos," Martha had said. Except that there hadn't been.

Miserably, Bruce pushed open the door to his bedroom. It was exactly the way he remembered it, down to the folded quilt at the foot of the bed and the robe draped over the wooden desk chair. It didn't take him long to get ready for bed, and, despite it only being a little bit after nine, he was tired.

Sleep refused to come, though. Try as he might, he couldn't get comfortable. The mattress was too firm, the pillows too soft, the manor too quiet. This from a man who once slept on a concrete ledge, sixty stories up, he thought with disgust. He closed his eyes and tried a relaxation technique. He tried it again. He tried a different technique. Finally, he gave up and padded downstairs to the study. If he couldn't sleep upstairs…

He hadn't intended to go down to the Cave tonight, but the truth was he'd slept more nights there than he had in the master bedroom. In some ways, the world beneath the manor had been more of a home to him.

He was glad to discover that Dick hadn't changed the combination code on the clock. The door opened as it always had, and a whoosh of cool dank air surged forward to envelop him. He headed down the stairs. The Batmobile bays were empty. Dick must have moved the cars to the satellite Caves. Bruce sighed. Then he summoned the elevator and took it down to the command center.

Not that there was anything down there to command, of course. He hadn't realized how vast the area was without the Crays taking up space. Now, their empty bays gaped at him. He'd need to see if Dick could move the machines from one of the satellite caves over here. For what purpose? He isn't using this base of operations. Do you really need to divert them here? He shook his head. Batman needed the Crays. Bruce's computer needs could be more than met with the PC in the study.

He glanced over to his right, where the medical bay was located, and froze. Someone had gone to the trouble to make up a cot here, too.

Don't jump to conclusions, he told himself. It could have been like this when you left. He doubted it, though. When he moved closer to the cot, he made out a note propped against the pillow:

Thought you might be more comfortable, down here. Power's been restored, if you want coffee in the morning.

Bruce smiled faintly. He didn't deserve his family. He lay down on the cot. Much better. Except that he wasn't at all sleepy, now. It figured. The relaxation techniques hadn't helped before. Perhaps, reading might. That would mean another trip upstairs, to the library, this time. Bruce thought about that. After a moment, he got up and headed, once more, for the elevator.

He'd forgotten how many books he had in that room. Had he read them all? His eyes panned the shelves carefully, moving up and down along one bookcase, then past the casement window to the next section, then… then they snapped back. Bruce stared in disbelief.

There was a light on in one of the outbuildings.

It had taken years before Cassandra Cain had finally realized that being Batgirl was more than atoning for a crime committed when she had been too young to fully appreciate what she was doing. It was more than making a difference. It was even more than making sure that justice was served. No, what she had never dared to tell another living soul, was that being Batgirl was fun.

Tonight, she had interrupted the Ghost Dragons, as they were unloading a shipment from a docked cargo ship. It had come in under cover of darkness and, according to Oracle, cloaked from the Coast Guard's radar systems. Whatever it was carrying had to be valuable… and illegal.

She wasn't thinking about that now. Instead, she was dancing. Gracefully, she leaped high into the air her feet moving apart in a split-kick, which left two of her attackers staggering. Without a break in momentum, she dropped down and rolled forward, evading another young Dragon's swipe. She swept his legs out from under him, surged up and administered a nerve strike to the next assailant.

She loved this. Every move, every counter was precisely timed and planned. And yet, there was a certain unpredictability to the ballet which intrigued her. True, she could read her opponents' body language to determine how best to counter their attacks. There was still the instant of anticipation, as she waited to see what move they would try next. Sometimes, she even tried to guess, and nearly laughed if her prediction was accurate.

One of the Ghost Dragons was charging her from behind. She waited until he was too committed to change course before she leaped to one side. Then, she seized his arm, half-turned and neatly flipped him over her shoulder and into the side of one of the containers. It must not have been properly sealed, because it opened, spilling its contents to the dock. Cass blinked. Ice chips? They'd been carrying ice chips?

"Mung caa caa!" One young woman shouted angrily in Cantonese. Although Cass didn't understand the language, the snarling tone spoke volumes.

Most of the gang dropped to their knees and began pawing at the chips. Now why, Cass wondered, would they do that? She could think about that in a moment. There were still two of them left standing, but they were moving like seasoned fighters—less anger, more purpose. One suddenly whipped a small sphere at her.

She evaded it, of course. But suddenly, there was a loud bang and a flash of light. Startled, Cass cried out. Blind and deaf. She'd gotten careless. Suppressing a groan of disgust, she held herself very still, probing. Going by the vibrations she was picking up from the pier, her targets should be…

She ruthlessly suppressed a wave of dizziness. Quickly, smoothly, she hurled two batarangs. She didn't hear them connect, but she felt the intensity of the vibrations change. She flung two more and was gratified when the quivering of the planks told her that her targets were moving away. In fact, from what she could tell, the rest of the gang was clearing out too.

A sudden instinct made her duck. Something was whistling toward her. All at once, she sensed another presence standing barely a foot away. But she had felt no footsteps! How was that possible?

"…DOWN!" Someone said, loud enough for even her recovering ears to pick up. There was a CRA-A-ACK, and the whistling object went flying in the opposite direction. Even in her current state, she could hear a loud hissing as a cloud of steam began to rise.

Through the spots in front of her eyes, she saw a mass of bright orange and she smelled smoke. Whoever this person was, he obviously hadn't planned this well. "You…" She struggled to keep her anger under control. Nobody was screaming. That meant that the incendiary probably hadn't hit anyone on its way into the ice chips.

"No nee… than' me… 't-girl." Her hearing was coming back. "Par'ners gotta loo' ou' for each other."

What? Her partner? She'd never met this person before in her life! She was about to open her mouth to say so when the slight figure near her side giggled. "Later!" he sang out. And then, quite suddenly, she was alone. The Ghost Dragons had fled, and her unknown 'partner' had vanished as well. She hadn't even heard him leave.

Cass waited for more of her vision to return before she moved forward to inspect the open container. Her dizziness was fading as her hearing came back. She bent down for a closer look. That was strange. In the puddles of melted ice, there were some chips which seemed to be completely unaffected. She stooped to pick up a few. As she examined them, she inhaled sharply.

"Oracle. You there?" She waited for the acknowledgement. "Reporting. Ghost dragons are gone. The shipment was… diamonds. Hidden in ice."

There was a moment's pause. Then, "I'll notify the authorities. Good work, Batgirl." It took another moment for Oracle to realize that the channel was still open. "Batgirl? Is there anything else?"

"Yes. I had… help."

Bruce hurriedly pulled on his shoes. It occurred to him after he'd started walking the quarter-mile to the cottage that he might have gotten dressed first. He debated turning back, but decided against it. In all likelihood, Barbara was right, and someone had just forgotten to switch off a light. And if there was actually somebody out there, Bruce mused, the odds of it being a hostile were low. If it was an old foe out to settle a score, chances were they'd either have been clever enough not to announce their presence or daring enough to have tried breaking into the manor proper. Even more likely, they would have been in the house already this afternoon, waiting for him to arrive.

If it wasn't a hostile, though, Bruce wondered who it could be. Bristol wasn't the sort of neighborhood where transients passed often. And the odds of one of them homing in on his property and breaking into one of the outbuildings… Something didn't add up.

At least, not until he saw a familiar Volvo parked next to the cottage. He couldn't believe it. Steady. Assume nothing. He may have been intercepted leaving the grounds. It could be a hostage situation. As he cautiously approached the cottage door, however, it swung open and a familiar figure stepped out.

"Jim?" A mix of incredulity, relief, and irritation rose within him. "What are you…?"

The former police commissioner chuckled. "I was wondering when you'd come this way." He held up a legal-sized white envelope. "Here. This will explain. You may as well come inside where you can read it."

Bruce accepted the envelope and stepped, bemused, into the cottage.

"I'll be in the back," Jim gestured toward one of the doors at the far wall of the main room. "Take your time."

Bruce looked around. This wasn't the furniture he'd moved in here when he'd rebuilt after the No Man's Land. It did, however, look suspiciously like the sofa and chairs that had graced Jim's former apartment.

The envelope was unsealed and contained a thin sheaf of pages, stapled together. Bruce's eyebrows shot up. This was a lease agreement. Now he knew where Jim had managed to find an affordable place in Bristol. How much was Dick charging him? He skimmed down. Well, five hundred was beyond reasonable for this area, but… He frowned and reread the line. No. He'd missed a decimal point. Dick wasn't charging five hundred dollars. He was charging five. Bruce shook his head.

He got up and went through the door that Jim had exited moments ago.

"Finished already?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "It's not that I don't appreciate the thought," he said quietly, "but I can't let you do this."

"You're not letting me do anything," Jim pointed out. "This was my idea." He held up a hand. "Barbara worries about me more than she should. You know what that's like. I'm not quite ready for some seniors' residence." He smiled placatingly. "Look. I can meddle in their lives or I can meddle in yours. I thought you'd demonstrate your customary nobility and make the sacrifice."

"Jim…"

The older man shook his head. "I've been stubborn a lot longer than you've been," he reminded Bruce. "Listen. If this doesn't work out, then we don't have to renew the lease. Meanwhile, I've paid for a year, up front, and I mean to get my money's worth. You want your privacy? I'll respect it. You want to pretend I'm not around? Shouldn't be too hard. I'm willing to bet that you didn't even remember this cottage was here until you saw my light. But if—no, don't turn around, Bruce. Look at me. Listen to what I'm saying. I have been through something similar to what you're going through now. Maybe I can help you with it. Maybe that's the worst idea in the world, and the last thing you want to do is rehash things with me. That's your call; I won't push. But if I can help, I will. And if I can't," he smiled wearily, "I still think Barbara won't mother-hen me as much if she knows you're around in case of emergency."

This had to be Jim's revenge for all the times that Batman had left him hanging in mid-sentence, unable to get the last word in. Bruce tried to think of some argument against the whole idea, but his mind was blank. It occurred to him that, really, he didn't have a good reason to refuse, only a series of excuses. Weak ones. And there was one point that Jim hadn't brought up: a lease was a binding contract, and one that Bruce would likely need a lawyer's help to break. Bruce looked at the agreement again. Rachel Green's work. His own attorney had gone behind his back to…

Jim watched the interplay of emotions. "Bruce?"

Bruce exhaled. "Mind if I just… sit in the other room for a minute?"

"Take your time. You want anything?"

"No."

Bruce shut the door behind him but the walls were thin. Jim heard the sofa creak as Bruce sat down. A few minutes later, when it creaked again, Jim was ready.

"You don't have to," Bruce said when it was obvious that Jim was going to walk with him.

"I know. I could just use some fresh air."

The two men walked the quarter mile in silence. Bruce pressed down on the door handle. "Thanks," he said finally. "I can manage from here."

Jim nodded. "I meant it. I won't come by uninvited. But you have my cell phone number. Use it. I don't care how late it is—if I don't want to take calls, I'll turn it off. Got it?"

Bruce ducked his head once. "Good night, Jim."

"And to you."

Bruce waited until he was inside and Jim was out of earshot before he allowed himself to smile. "It is, now," he admitted. He yawned, stretched, and without thinking, headed upstairs for the bedroom. He was asleep almost the instant his head hit the pillow.