The Way Back #5

The silence covered the room like a thick blanket. It wasn't unpleasant, or even necessarily uncomfortable, Jim reflected-at least, not until he allowed himself to realize that it hadn't been broken in nearly four hours.

After Bruce's session with Alex, the two had returned to the manor in Bruce's car, as planned. By mutual agreement, Jim had taken the bus into Gotham earlier. He hadn't anticipated Bruce's stony silence on the way back, even though he understood it. After a few unsuccessful attempts at small talk, he'd given up. Bruce would talk in his own time, and there was little that could be done to rush that.

Once inside the manor, Bruce had bolted for the den. He sat now, in a low-backed leather armchair, facing one of the bow windows. He hadn't moved from that seat since he'd come in. He'd barely even shifted position.

Jim settled back in his own armchair and exhaled. It wasn't a sigh, though in the near-palpable quiet of the room, it was almost as loud as one. Finally, he ventured, "I'm going to fix myself a cup of coffee. As long as I'm up, can I get you anything?"

He didn't expect an answer, so much as hope for one. When one wasn't forthcoming, he reached for his cane, and rose carefully to his feet. "I'll just be a minute." He waited, thinking that even a sarcastic 'Don't hurry back on my account', or 'Are you sure you wouldn't rather take the whole fifteen?' might be better than this pointed ignoring. Then, stifling a sigh, he headed for the door.

His hand was on the knob when Bruce spoke.

"What was that?" he asked, retracing a few steps.

"I said," Bruce repeated, still only slightly louder than a whisper, "that I will get used to this. Until I do, though..." he turned to face Jim and shook his head. "I never was good company. This situation isn't helping."

Jim nodded. "Anytime you want me to switch to remote, just say. I don't want to crowd you." As if to gainsay his words, he took another few steps closer.

Bruce watched his approach. "I know." His shoulders slumped. "It's not that I don't appreciate your being here. It's just..." He looked down. "I don't do well with other people's rules. I never have. The fact that I've agreed to abide by the restrictions imposed doesn't mean anything's changed on that front."

"I understand. If it helps, your doctor means to review the setup every couple of weeks. If you're coping, some of these regulations can be eased a bit."

There was no reply.

Jim hesitated. Then, he drew even nearer. Cautiously, he reached out and placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. As he did, he felt the muscles beneath his hand tense and then relax. "You'll get through this," he said.

Bruce nodded. "I know. But until I do..."

"Hey," Jim waited for him to look up. Then he smiled. "For about fifteen years, I dealt with your walking out on me in mid-sentence. I put up with weeks and months on end when I didn't hear from you. I managed to survive a parade of imposters under your cape..." He shook his head. "And then... these last two years. Bruce, if you're worried that I'll call this whole thing off because you aren't deliriously happy at the prospect of losing your privacy... stop." He stooped to Bruce's eye level. "I mean that. I'm here. I'm not going to up and quit the program just because you don't feel like shooting the breeze with me. And if you don't want me around, there're your cameras. There's me going into another room and looking in once every quarter-hour-"

"I got used to that in Arkham," Bruce said softly. "I was... looking forward to... no longer being used to it." He let out a long slow breath. "Well," he continued, "what I can't avoid, I'll have to endure." He shook his head. "You're not going to have an easy time."

Jim shrugged. "When have I ever?" He sighed. "If I didn't like a challenge, I'd have turned down the post of commissioner back when it was offered to me. And if you weren't ready to give this a go, you'd have bolted, locked yourself up in the cave, or turned yourself in by now. So can we please just cut the crap and presume that you're going to try this and I'm going to stand by you?" So saying, he thrust out his hand.

A moment later, Bruce took it. And his grip was strong.

...He braced himself against the chain-link fence. For some reason, it neither surprised nor concerned him that he was covered in fur. He tried to call out, but his voice refused to obey him. He flung himself again and again at the fence. It didn't hurt when the wire dug into his paw-pads. There was only a blunted resistance. It was like running full-tilt into a large pillow. Oddly, it didn't faze him.

Without warning, the fence lifted like a portcullis, leaving him free to exit the kennel. Tentatively, he took a few steps out, and then, when he realized that nobody was coming to stop him, broke into a run. The ground flew beneath his feet as the grass and trees blurred. With a surge of joy he leaped into the air-and a sharp tug on his neck brought him crashing down to the ground. He gasped, and clawed at the air as he went down. Then, he brought his hands-and they were hands and not paws, now-to his throat in an attempt to ease the sudden ring of pressure that cut into his air supply.

He felt another hard yank from behind as he began to slide back. His fingers-and he was not surprised to discover that he now had fingers-found a thick metal band about his throat. No. No, he wasn't free at all! He'd just been given a bit more space, but he was as much a captive as before. They were hauling him back now, and struggle though he might, the ground began to slide away from him. No. They'd let him loose. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! It...

"Bruce! Bruce, wake up. Bruce!" Jim looked on, alarmed, as the younger man continued to thrash about. "Bruce," he said softly, "it's time to get up. Easy, now. Easy..." Only the memory of what had happened the last time kept the former commissioner from gently shaking Bruce awake. "You're having a nightmare, son. It's alright. I'm sitting right here. It's okay. Easy."

Something must have penetrated through to the younger man's consciousness, for a moment later, Bruce slumped in his seat, spent. Cautiously, his eyelids fluttered open. "J-Jim?"

"Right here."

Bruce took a deep shuddering breath. He looked around. They were still in the den-he seemed to have dozed off in the armchair-and the sky outside was darkening. "What time is it?" he mumbled.

"A bit after nine," Jim replied. "You okay? That sounded like one hell of a..."

Bruce brought the back of his hand to his forehead. "I've had worse," he said. He grimaced. The details were already fading, however, Bruce didn't believe that he needed a book on dream interpretation to guess at the driving force behind this flight of the subconscious. "I believe that my mind was attempting to put my current... situation into its proper perspective." He got up, somewhat stiffly, and stretched. "I'm fine," he added in response to Jim's frown.

"Good to hear." Even if he had his doubts. He reached for his cane. "Bruce? I was just thinking. From ten PM to seven AM, I'm technically off-duty..." He paused.

Bruce nodded slowly, puzzled. "Technically," he repeated.

Jim bit down on the inside of his lower lip. "Which means," he continued, "that what I'm about to suggest is completely voluntary. I'm only mentioning because," he locked his eyes on Bruce's, took a deep breath, and barreled on, "because after I lost Sarah, for me the hardest time was... was coming home to an empty house. G-d knows you aren't me. And I don't blame you if you want me out of your hair after putting up with this idiotic business all day. On the other hand," he went on, "I don't have to leave, if you'd rather I didn't."

"I don't want your pity." The statement was very nearly a reflex, with no real heat behind it.

"That's good," Jim shot back, "because that's not what I'm offering. Tell me something: did you put that suit on all those years ago because you felt sorry for the poor overworked police force? Or was it because you saw that certain actions were necessary, and decided that it was up to you to undertake them?" He didn't give Bruce an opportunity to answer. "Well, what goes around comes around. And if it's necessary, I, for one, will be glad to stick around."

Bruce regarded him for a moment, nonplussed. When he spoke again, though, his voice was stronger than it had been since Jim had dropped the bombshell earlier. "If you turn left at the top of the stairs, the last door before the east wing is-was-Alfred's. The room two doors down from mine is Dick's, in the event that he needs to sleep here. You can take your pick of any of the others." He looked away, smiling faintly. "I wouldn't expect you to stay, should the situation become... untenable."

"I'll keep that in mind." He chuckled. "Now that you're in a better frame of mind, I was meaning to mention: keeping this place clean is going to be one hell of a job. I think, particularly in view of the fact that someone from Mental Health will be conducting surprise spot-checks-"

The sound coming from Bruce's throat sounded suspiciously like a growl.

"That won't scare them off," Jim remarked dryly. "Anyway, I think we need to hire a cleaning crew for the upstairs part of the house. I've been narrowing down the options in the Yellow pages, asked Barbara to dig a little deeper. I've got six on a shortlist."

Bruce glowered. "I don't want-"

"The place has to be spotless," Jim snapped. "For reasons that escape me, they seem to think that a messed-up living space signifies a messed-up mind. We either hire someone, or we spend the better part of the day doing it ourselves."

"What would a vacant living space signify?" At Jim's look, Bruce sighed. "Fine. Whatever. I'll look it over in the morning. Anything else?"

"I was thinking of checking out your gardens tomorrow." He grimaced. "If nobody's tended them in the last two years, I'm almost afraid to. Mind keeping me company?"

"Not at all," Bruce shook his head. "I'll show you where the equipment is in the morning."

"Fine."

"Well," Jim said dubiously, "Maybe this is a 'sorry you're out' gift from Poison Ivy?" The entrance to the garden was blocked by grass and weeds which rose higher than their waists.

"Doubtful," Bruce remarked. "I think this is just normal growth."

"I'll get the mower," Jim said, turning. Bruce held him back.

"I think it may be too choked up for that. And there's no way to tell if there are any rocks or branches underneath it all." He considered. "Before I do something unwise," he began, "did Alex mention to you whether there are any items..." he made a face. "Is it a violation of my parole for me to be wielding a machete, or not?"

"For you?" Jim scoffed. "The way I see it, either Batman doesn't kill-in which case, I wouldn't care if someone handed you a list of missile launch codes, or he does-in which case, you could manage it with your bare hands." He smiled. "In the interest of full disclosure, I did happen to mention that I was looking forward to doing some gardening and might need an extra pair of hands. He seemed to think you might find the physical labor therapeutic." He coughed. "Keep in mind that I wasn't entirely sure of the state of the greenery at the time, but if he had an objection to your using hedge-clippers, I think he would have said. Shouldn't imagine another big blade would be any greater cause for concern."

Bruce absorbed that. "Machete it is." He gestured toward the small garden shed several yards away. "There'll be gloves in there, too."

"Bug repellent?"

Bruce frowned. "I'll need to check. It should be there, but I'm not sure if it has a shelf-life." He smiled. "Alex might be right about the exercise. After Bane, in order to come back to what I was, in addition to relearning my combat techniques, I spent a lot of time chopping wood."

"Mmmm," Jim grunted. "Not much call for that in July, but I guess we can start piling up for winter if you're so inclined. He chuckled. After a moment, Bruce followed suit.

"So," Jim asked as Bruce unlocked the shed, "any chance of your relearning combat techniques after this?"

The younger man tensed. "I'm not thinking that far ahead right now."

He didn't speak again until they'd spent the better part of an hour trying to clear a path through the undergrowth.

Selina surveyed the disarray. She became aware that she was trembling, but not in fear. Someone had been in here, pawing through her personal effects! She shoved the top dresser drawer shut with a slam. Someone had been rummaging through her undergarments! Her papers! Her... she practically hissed. She felt so violated. At least her valuables were on her person. True it might look suspicious for her to be carrying a small fortune in unset gemstones, but she had expertly forged credentials to attest that she had inherited them. It was still unusual enough to carry them around that Selina was strongly considering renting a safety deposit box.

She grimaced. That would be a clear indicator that she was planning on settling down here for awhile. She still wasn't ready to take that step. Coastal Maine was a beautiful place to relax and catch her breath, but she doubted that settling down here permanently was in the cards. She loved the hustle and bustle of the big city too much. To say nothing of the impossibility of 'disappearing' into a small village where everyone knew everyone else. Cities were far more impersonal. Here, it was just a matter of time before someone started asking questions.

Not for the first time, she considered calling Holly or Slam, just to let them know that she was okay. More importantly, she wanted to get a message to Bruce, but she didn't trust herself not to leave him some sort of clue to her location. She tried to tell herself that this was what came of spending too much time talking with Nigma-this compulsion to tip off the other side, but the truth was that Batman had always had that affect on her. Any other cape she could avoid without even trying. She'd given Superman the slip on more than one occasion-compensating for his X-ray vision had given her pause initially, but she'd managed to pull it off in her own inimitable style. The junior bats could give her a run for her money, but Batman was the only one to consistently catch up with her. It had taken her some time to realize that she was letting him. Now, she couldn't afford to. It wasn't only that her daughter's safety was at stake, or that if Bruce crossed state lines chasing after her, he might be putting his parole in jeopardy. If she saw him face-to-face, if he asked her to come back now... she probably would. He opened himself up so rarely that when he ever did ask for something, there was a part of her that wanted to give in. Oh, sure, she could tease and banter and bargain and mock-but ultimately, she knew that if he asked her to come back to Gotham, she would.

She bit her lip. It didn't help matters that right now, she wanted, more than just about anything, to be back in Gotham. She hated herself for running out on him. But how could she gamble Helena's safety? She froze. If the person who'd broken in had been armed... and she and Helena had been in the room... yes, Wiscasset had a far lower crime rate than Gotham. That by no means rendered it safe.

There was a knock on her door. She opened it to find a uniformed police officer standing outside. "Ma'am, if you'll come downstairs, I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."

"Sure. I'll put him on." Tim handed the phone to Dick, who immediately broke into a broad smile.

"Hi, Bruce! How's it going?"

Tim wondered how the elder vigilante could sound so... natural after everything that the family had been through. He'd barely been back in Gotham for twenty-four hours, and he'd already witnessed some of the effects of the stress that Dick was under. When it came down to it, Tim had always believed that he and Bruce were the better actors. Dick could-and did-keep a lot bottled up. When it came to feigning an emotional state, as opposed to hiding one, however, Tim would have sworn that Dick wasn't up to the task.

At the moment, however, Tim was ready to nominate him for a People's Choice award-or any other acting honor that accepted write-in candidates.

"Sure," Dick was saying, "I get that. But maybe on the weeken-ah. Okay, fine. Dinner on Monday, it is. Did you want to make it like a potluck? No, I didn't mean it like... okay. Yeah, she's right here, I'll ask. Hang on."

He covered the mouthpiece with one hand and glanced at Barbara. "Can we swing Monday night at the manor?"

Barbara nodded. "Just you, me and Bruce?"

"And your dad."

Barbara nodded again. "Sure. Or," she winced, "as sure as anything can be, given what we do."

Relief flooded across his face. He grinned, then went back to the telephone. "We're on. See you Monday." All at once, the smile dropped to be replaced by a stunned expression. "No, I figured that," he said faintly. "Well... yeah, okay, I was looking forward to it, but I knew that letter threw you for a... No. No, seriously, it's fine. Yeah, Monday. Later."

"What was that about?" Tim asked as Dick returned the cellphone to his pocket.

Dick looked at Barbara. "Remember when I told you how he cut our lunch short the other day?" He still looked flabbergasted. "He just... apologized."

Dodge had been expecting that when they rendezvoused at Batgirl's home (apparently the only place that anyone was willing to let him see), they'd run a few tests on the evidence and go streaking off in search of the kidnappers, guns-or maybe batarangs-blazing.

Instead, he'd had to listen to Batgirl brief Harrier on the Ghost Dragons and on the conflict diamonds-and why the heck did she have such a weird way of talking? It would have been one thing if she'd had a foreign accent, but her intonations were pure Uptown Gotham. Like at that private school he'd flunked out of last year. What was her deal? It had taken her nearly an hour to give over what Dodge would have relayed in two minutes. And when she finally finished, had Harrier gone back to the computers to check the analysis? No, it would be at least twenty-four hours before they knew anything, he said!

Dodge couldn't understand it. It always took so much less time on the cop shows on TV! He walked cautiously over to the machines. "Hey," he called, "some of the blood work's ready!"

Harrier glanced up for a moment. "That's good, but it's probably from your brother," he said. "Since, from what you were telling me, nobody fought the kidnappers."

He felt his temper rising. "The creeps had Rory. What did you expect?"

"Exactly what happened," Harrier countered calmly. "Your folks went quietly and tried to protect you. Now, we're going to find them, but we can't run off half-cocked. The data is running. Meanwhile, we can either sit here and twiddle our thumbs, or start dealing with some of the other matters at hand." He took a deep breath. "Look. I know it's hard. When I was younger than you, my parents were kidnapped. And even though I wanted to be out tracking down the ones responsible, I didn't have the experience, so Batman handled it while I worked on one of his other cases. You have to trust us."

Dodge blinked. Then he nodded slowly. "Okay." He hesitated. "Um... Harrier? Batman saved your folks, right?"

Harrier tugged his hood forward, shrouding his face further in shadow. "He caught the kidnappers. And he saved my dad." He pushed back the hood. He was wearing a gray domino mask over his eyes, but although it obscured most of the upper part of his face, Dodge didn't think that the vigilante was much older than he was. "Sometimes..." He shook his head. "I wish I could give you a one hundred per cent guarantee that everything was going to be fine. I can't. But, we're doing everything we can to increase the odds in our favor. Now, I need you to sit tight and keep an eye on things here while Batgirl and I go on patrol."

"I'll keep you company," a dulcet voice chimed from one of the computers. "Just so you don't get bored."

Dodge got up hurriedly. "Who...?"

"Oracle," Batgirl supplied. "She'll watch to make sure you're... okay."

So he was alone, but under surveillance. "Great," he muttered as the two exited the cave.

"So," Oracle asked, "are you at all into computer games?"

"Do you have Global Thermonuclear War?"

There was a chuckle. "I really think you'd prefer a nice game of chess."

Dodge sighed and smiled bleakly. "Whatever."