The Way Back #24

"I was in the area," Clark said hesitantly. "I thought I'd drop by."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "If you're here because Dick or Barbara guilted you into it, then..."

Clark shook his head. "They didn't have to. The last thing you told me, before things went south, was to stay out of your city. At first, I thought that honoring your wishes was the best thing to do, so I kept away."

The other eyebrow shot up. "And now?"

Clark shifted uncomfortably on the doorstep. "I thought it might be about time I checked to see if that was still what you wanted."

Bruce's lips twitched. "You could have called."

"Would you have picked up?"

Bruce thought about that for a moment. "No."

Clark's shoulders slumped. "I was afraid of that," he admitted, starting to turn away. "If you ever reconsider—"

"Clark!" Bruce snapped irritably, "stop acting like I just ..." Uncharacteristically, words failed him. "Just... stop," he finished wearily. "Come in."

As the other man turned back, dejection giving way to incredulity, Bruce nodded and gave him a faint smile. "Come in," he repeated.

--

Bruce had just shown Clark into the living room, when Jim entered and placed the nursery monitor deliberately on the coffee table. "She's asleep," he rumbled. "It took five rounds of 'Puff, the Magic Dragon', but she's asleep." His eyes narrowed as he looked at the newcomer.

"I'll be heading downstairs," he said finally. "One of those cold cases Montoya dropped off for you looked familiar." He turned as if to go, then paused. "I'll be looking at the security arrays while I'm downstairs, if time... mandates it," he said slowly, without turning back to face them. "It's only fair to tell you that I can read lips moderately well. So... if there's anything you'd prefer I didn't find out, consider this a warning."

Clark frowned.

Bruce shrugged.

"I'm..."

"An old friend of Bruce's," Jim said firmly. "That's all I need to know. If you gentlemen will excuse me..."

He closed the door behind him, oblivious to Clark's appreciative smile.

The smile fell away as Clark settled back onto the sofa. "Are we friends?" he asked seriously. "You'd think a friend would have come to see you more than once, during those two years."

Bruce started to say something, then caught himself with a puzzled frown. "More than once? You were there?"

"About two months after you were admitted to Arkham. You were pretty out of it."

Bruce shook his head. "I don't remember."

"They had you under some heavy sedation at the time," Clark said. "I'm not surprised."

Bruce was, though. He could have sworn that he'd been aware of what was going on around him, for all he'd pretended otherwise. "Barbara told me that you were going through difficulties of your own."

Clark nodded. "It hasn't been an easy two years," he admitted. "Longer for you, I know."

Bruce made an irritated sound. "I'm not quite so egocentric that I can't understand how other people might be facing challenges. I'm used to living without metapowers. You aren't."

"Wasn't," Clark corrected. "They've been coming back slowly over the last few months. Maybe, if they'd returned sooner, I could have made a difference for Pa, I don't know, but I..."

Bruce leaned forward. "Your father? What do you mean?" He demanded sharply. Clark's silence told him everything he needed to know. Bruce shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said in a far softer tone.

"I thought you knew."

"No. Barbara only told me about the other matter. When...?"

"About six months after the League disbanded. Heart attack. Docs said it was quick. I..." His voice trailed off. "He had a good life. A full one. I know..."

Bruce got up from the armchair, crossed to the sofa, and slowly, deliberately, placed his hand on Clark's shoulder. "Children expect to outlive their parents," he murmured. "But we don't expect it to happen so soon."

Clark nodded. Then, wordlessly, he clasped Bruce's forearm in return.

--

As Cass passed by the volunteer office, Doug waved at her to enter. "I don't suppose you know anything about physio?" he asked.

She frowned and thought for a moment. It wasn't a word that she'd heard before... but she'd heard words that sounded similar. "Um... physical? Like exercise?"

Doug grinned. "Close enough. They're short-staffed today, and RT said they can spare you, so, if you'll follow me, I'll take you there now."

"By the way," he added, as Cass fell into step behind him, "did you like the manga?"

"Didn't start," she admitted. "Still reading mine. But... soon."

"No hurry." He took her past the elevators and toward a set of wide double doors, which parted as they drew nearer. "Welcome to E-Wing," he said, with a sweeping gesture.

As Doug led her down the corridor, Cass smiled as she saw the sign-plates on the doors they passed. Gym-na-si-um A... Gymnasium B... Lockers... Swimming Pool...

She saw a game of wheelchair basketball in full swing in Gymnasium C. In another room, a young woman was laboriously performing chin-ups while a hospital staff member whooped encouragement.

Cass's eyes lit up. She was going to enjoy this.

--

Clark tiptoed out of the nursery, Bruce close behind. "She's perfect," he whispered, as Bruce pulled the door shut after them.

Although Bruce smiled at the compliment, he sobered almost immediately. "I'm out of my depth, Kent. I have no experience with toddlers. None."

"It looks to me like you're doing fine."

Bruce sighed. "Appearances can be deceiving." He took a deep breath. "Clark... was it..." he stopped. Of course it must have been difficult. "How long did you wait before going through your father's... effects?"

He was half-hoping that Clark would tell him that he hadn't started yet. He knew better, though. Of course he would have already done it long ago. Super-coping, or some such.

Clark looked pensive. "A couple of weeks after the funeral, the neighbors came around. They took care of packing up most of it while Ma and I were downstairs, in the kitchen. They didn't throw anything away. They just loaded it all up in boxes, labelled the contents, and left. Maybe a month or so after that, someone asked Ma if she'd consider making a donation to the local clothing drive. She gave them most of Pa's clothes." He sighed. "It's not like anyone else was going to be using them." He hesitated. "I think it was easier for Ma, once it was all gotten rid of," he admitted. "She kept back a few things, of course—I have some, too. But it's not..."

"...Not a constant reminder," Bruce finished, nodding. "I..." he took another breath. "I need to do something similar. And 'having the neighbors come round' is... not going to be an option."

"How about your family?"

Bruce hesitated. "They would," he admitted. "But they aren't here, now. And, later... I might..." He looked away. "This isn't easy for me, Kent," he admitted. "Today, right now, I'm ready to start. If I called the others, arranged a time..." I'd spend so much time preparing myself mentally for that hour, that when it arrived, it would loom larger in my imagination than the situation truly warranted.

It wasn't an irrational concern. He remembered his first meeting with Shondra Kinsolving, years earlier. He'd been stressed, frazzled, verging on burnout. And, inside of fifteen minutes, she'd put him totally at ease. He'd actually been willing to try opening up to her—until she'd suggested revisiting the night of his parents' murder. True, that had been scant days before Bane had made his opening gambit. The truth was, though—Bruce could admit it now—if he had truly wanted to, even in the middle of the mayhem that Bane had unleashed, Bruce could have made time to keep those appointments. Huntress had been operating in Gotham, even then. Dick would have returned. Not turning to the JLA had been a decision forged mostly by ego... but partly by unwillingness to confront the past. Because, had he continued the sessions, he likely would have been discussing with Shondra many of the same issues that he'd been forced to deal with in his sessions with Alex. He'd had less emotional baggage back then. He turned to Clark, who was still waiting for his explanation. "I've been delaying this for thirty years," he said finally. "It's time. But I'd prefer not to work alone..." He turned away before he added wryly, "For once."

He took a step toward his parents' bedroom, but paused, waiting.

Clark fell into step behind him. "I'm in."

Bruce exhaled noisily. "Good. This way, then."

--

Just inside the bedroom, Bruce hesitated. Slowly, he let his gaze pan over the furnishings, the knickknacks, the artwork that he had painstakingly restored and re-hung following the earthquake that had nearly levelled the manor. He'd visited more than one art auction in a quest to recreate the room exactly as it had been. He closed his eyes. If he had been able to recall each detail so accurately, then he didn't need the physical reminders.

Clark was asking something.

"Sorry?"

"Boxes," Clark repeated. "We're going to need some."

"Oh." He nodded. "In the attic. I'll show you."

"Bruce," Clark ventured, as they walked down the hall, "I don't know if you were listening before, but I didn't sort through Pa's things, myself. And it... it wasn't just because Ma needed company. If you'd prefer, I can coordinate with Dick and the others and we can go through things when you're not here."

"You won't know what to keep and what to throw away," Bruce retorted. He pulled open a solid oak door to reveal a service staircase. "There should be some collapsed boxes stacked up in the northwest corner."

--

In a way, Bruce supposed, it was a good thing that he hadn't made a practice of coming in here that often. When he did, it had been always to look and never to touch. He could have told at a glance when an item was out of place, or missing, but to state that he had cherished memories of the thing was taking it a bit too far.

Clark held up a bottle of Charlie perfume.

Bruce glanced at it. "Toss it. In fact, toss everything but the Vetiver Guerlain and theL'Air du Temps," he sighed. He pulled open a nightstand drawer, and found a pile of old photographs. He picked them up, carefully. They appeared to have been taken at his eighth birthday. Almost reverently, he laid them in the 'keep' box.

"Storage," he said when Clark picked up the Lladro figurine.

Clark nodded and added it to the growing assortment. "About Arkham," he shifted uncomfortably, but didn't continue.

Bruce waited. "What about it?" he asked finally, and with some irritation.

"The... circumstances that sent you there." Clark looked away, studying a fixed point on the carpet. "I don't... none of your people were exactly forthcoming with what they were."

Bruce shut the drawer with slightly more force than he needed to. "Is it a slow news day?" he demanded. "Is there some gaping hole on page three that you're looking to fill?"

"Not that slow," Clark replied. "And," he mumbled, "I think the story I submitted this morning is going to make the front page tomorrow, actually." The tips of his ears were bright pink.

"Congratulations." Bruce shook his head. "It's old news, Kent. I can't see how it could possibly be of interest to anyone but me."

"Some people," Clark said, "were wondering about extenuating circumstances."

"Exten..." Bruce blinked. "What are you talking about?" When Clark didn't respond immediately, he picked a paperweight up from the night table and dropped it into the 'toss' box. "I got hurt in an explosion that killed Alfred and Jason. GCPD arrested me. While I was in custody, someone was able to... influence me into attacking a close friend. After that, I..." his lips twitched. "In addition to gaining some appreciation for the... difficulties involved in having to take responsibility for the... pain one inadvertently causes while not... not being in control, I..." he shook his head and continued in a softer tone. "I was too close to the situation, Clark. I wasn't thinking clearly. I blamed you when I should have blamed Lord. And then I blamed me, when I should have blamed Elliot."

"Elliot?" Clark asked blankly, trying to sort out Bruce's words. "Wait. Did you just apologize?"

Bruce's lips twitched again. "I suppose I did." His tone grew serious. "My overreaction might have been understandable under the circumstances, but that doesn't change the fact that it was an overreaction." He smiled then. "So, to answer your earlier question, yes, we are—at least, I hope we are—still...friends."

"I'm not so sure," Clark countered. "What I mean is, if it were only... that part, it would be one thing, but..."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "But...?"

Clark was back to studying the carpet. "I'm not the only one who wondered whether... extenuating circumstances... were at least partly responsible for your stay in Arkham," he said. "It's something that a few of us have been discussing. People like Ollie... Dinah... Zatanna..."

"Hold on," Bruce exclaimed sharply. "Are you asking whether it was the mindwipe that made me snap? Don't flatter yourselves. Besides," he added, "You had nothing to do with that."

"I don't believe this," Clark replied. "You'll hold me responsible for my actions when a telepath turns me into his puppet..."

"I told you. I was wrong."

"But," Clark barrelled on, "when it comes to wilful blindness, you're practically falling over yourself to excuse me? Bruce, I led the Justice League. I may not be a detective of your caliber, but you don't become an investigative reporter at a prestigious paper if you don't have a few skills along those lines. I should have known about all of it. Sue. Dr. Light. Zatanna. If I didn't, it was because I didn't want to, and for that, any apology would be an insult. I'm sorry I was too much of a spineless jerk to voice one word of censure after they did that? I'm sorry I lacked the moral strength to quit an organization that showed itself to be little better than the people they were fighting against?" He shook his head. "Maybe you did 'overreact', as you put it, to Lord's shenanigans, but I can't believe you're even willing to stay on speaking terms with me, after..."

Bruce shook his head. "It wasn't as big a deal as you're..."

"Don't even try to mitigate it," Clark snapped. "It was. And if it wasn't, you wouldn't have protested in the first place, when they pulled it on Dr. Light."

Bruce angrily opened another drawer and pulled out his father's pipe collection. He set aside a wood-and-vulcanite Bernstein, with bronze accents for the 'keep' box and dumped the rest. "Zatanna's actions had no bearing on my situation," he stated. "As for the other matter, I could forgive you. Easily. But I know from personal experience that it won't mean anything unless you can manage to forgive yourself."

Clark let out a long breath. "That's the crux, isn't it? I'm not sure how I can."

Bruce hesitated. Then, for the second time that day, he walked over and placed a hand on Clark's shoulder. "Welcome to my world."

--

"I think this is the last of it," Clark said, nearly two hours later.

Bruce nodded. "Thanks. I mean that."

Clark fought not to show surprise. "What about Alfred's room?"

"Already taken care of. During Arkham."

"Ah." He glanced out the window. "Is that... snow?"

"Gotham is a bit north of Metropolis," Bruce pointed out.

"Not that far." He hesitated. "Did you know that Christmas is only a month or so away?"

Bruce looked up sharply. "Yes."

Clark walked over to the window and looked out at the slowly drifting flakes. "Sometimes," he said softly, "the holidays can be... it's a time when you... when I... Look. Last year, we'd made plans to spend it in Smallville. I figured Ma could use the company. One day later, we were back in Metropolis. It was... I don't know about Lois, but Ma and I were half-expecting Pa to walk in at any moment. I know you and I aren't... wired the same way, but you're welcome to spend the holidays with us. I mean, if you don't want to be here."

Bruce was silent for a moment. "That's actually a tempting offer," he admitted. "But our situations aren't comparable. Duty might intervene, but I know that Dick and Barbara are planning something. And," he moved out of range of the closed-circuit camera, "this time of year is going to be harder on Jim than it is on me. His wife was murdered on Christmas Eve."

"Misery loves company?"

"More like a sorrow shared is a sorrow ha—" He caught himself. "Lessened," he amended.

"I understand." He heard Bruce behind him, shifting his weight slightly from one foot to the next, caught the almost-imperceptible increase in his heart rate, the intake of breath that was just a shade louder than it should have been.

"So, you come," Bruce said in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

"What?"

"You. Lois. Your mother. Any idiot could see I have enough room. You come here."

Clark turned around to face him. "We could do that," he said slowly. A small smile played on his lips. "I'll need to check with the others, but actually... we could." His eyes narrowed. "This isn't some ploy to get Ma to whip you up a home-cooked meal, is it? Because this is a vacation for her, too. She doesn't need to spend it in the kitchen."

Bruce fought back a smile of his own. "Don't worry, Kent. I'll be taking care of that aspect." It was worth it to see the Man of Steel's face blanch.

"That's um... a very generous offer, Bruce, but I couldn't let you go to all that trouble..."

Bruce stopped fighting the smile.

--

Selina let out a long-suffering sigh as Oracle brought the debriefing to a close the next morning. "Sorry, Red," she muttered as she picked up her purse from the floor, "but I haven't seen my daughter in over a week."

"Or Bruce," Dinah teased.

"Yeah, him too." She grinned. "Can't wait to catch up." She reached for her jacket.

"Say, Skipper?" Zinda asked. "I don't s'pose you have any newspapers lying around? I need to know what's going on with Mary Worth."

Barbara laughed. "I guess the strip's distribution's fallen off a bit, recently. Though I'm surprised you couldn't find a New York paper to carry it."

"The only paper the hospital got was the New York Times," Zinda smiled. "No funnies at all. Sad."

Barbara grinned. "I've been saving them for you. They're just on the storage bench. Um... Selina, could you pass them? They're right by your elbow."

"No problem," Selina grinned, reaching for the stack. Zinda grabbed for them.

"Whoops!" she exclaimed as several sections fell out of the bottom-most paper.

"I'll get them. Hey!" Selina exclaimed, seeing the picture on the bottom half of the front page. "I remember that guy. Ex-cop. Idiot. What's he doing back in the..." her voice trailed off as she saw the headline. She grabbed the paper back from Zinda and hastily scanned the article. "I'll kill him," she said, rising to her feet. "I am just going to kill him!"

--

"Selina!" Bruce exclaimed, opening the front door with a smile. "It's... good to..."

"Out of my way," Selina snarled, pushing past him. "Where is she?"

"What's...?"

"WHERE IS HELENA?"

Bruce blinked. "She's upstairs with Jim. Selina, what's the matter?"

She had already reached the foot of the stairs, but now she spun to face him. "You know, I could have asked Holly to mind her. She's done it before. Or Karon. But I honestly thought she'd be better off with you."

"What? Sel—"

"Don't even start. Damn it. I thought I could trust you not to go tearing off into the night when you had a small child to think about. What if I'd come home to find you in jail and her in foster care?" She waved a rumpled newspaper at him. "You painted a target on my daughter's back!"

"Our dau—"

"My responsibility! I left her in your care because I thought she'd be safe!"

"She. WAS!"

"Then why wasn't she with you?"

"It's a good thing she wasn't!" Bruce shot back. "Jim and I had to go out. I left Tim in charge—"

"Now you've started delegating?"

"And I saw Flass's cronies escorting Jim off at gunpoint! I..." he looked away. "I tried to follow and got nabbed, too. Would you care to imagine what they might have done to any child who'd been with me?"

Selina took a moment to consider that. Then, slowly, sadly, she replied, "Would you have tried to follow if she'd been with you?" She waited for his answer. When he lowered his eyes, she sighed. "That's what I thought. "

"Selina," he took a step after her. "Wait. Please. You're right. If she had been with me, I... I probably would have done things differently. I know I would have. But it's not like I left her unattended. What would you have had me do? Leave Jim?"

Selina shook her head. "No. I know you couldn't have done that. But Bruce? Suppose for a moment that she wasn't my daughter, but she was yours. And you'd entrusted her to my care. And then you'd come back to find out that I'd gone out to take care of some... business and very nearly got myself arrested. What would your reaction have been?"

"Selina... whether I should have taken Helena with us or not, the fact is, she was safe and Jim wasn't. What else should I have done?"

"Something." She turned away. "I... understand why you did what you did, Bruce," she said heavily. "That doesn't mean it's okay. I'm... I'm going up to pack up Helena's things and we'll be... off."

Bruce let out a long breath. "Will you be leaving Gotham again?"

"No." She kept her back to him, but Bruce saw her hand come up to wipe at her eyes.

"Will you... will you let me see you again? Both of you?"

"I... I need time to think." She turned back to face him, eyes glistening. "Please, Bruce, give me that time."

Bruce exhaled slowly. "Take as long as you need," he said tonelessly. "You've always had that prerogative."

Now, the tears in her eyes did threaten to overflow. "I know," she whispered, and made her way up the stairs.

When she descended fifteen minutes later, Helena in one arm and a valise in the other, she was half-hoping that Bruce would be waiting in the vestibule. If he had been, if he'd said one more word, she might have stayed, but he had disappeared behind one of the many closed doors that lined both sides of the hallway.

"Mama?" Helena asked, snuggling closer.

"I'm right here, Baby." She bit her lip and pulled the front door open. "I'm right here."

--

As he entered Penguin's inner office, Lonerghan noted irritably that his palms were sweating. This was silly. Penguin was down the hall supervising his loan repayments with Devilbane. Ms. Martian was standing guard, ready to alert him if anyone was headed his way.

The two teens had offered to obtain the information for him, but he'd balked. For all their abilities, at the end of the day, they were a couple of kids—and if anything were to go wrong, Internal Affairs would take a dim view of his enlisting minors to do his legwork. Besides, the Bats and their allies stuck their oars into police business often enough. The GCPD could still handle a few things without caped interference.

Cautiously, he shifted the wall painting, looking for a safe. There wasn't one. He straightened the picture and stepped back with a frown. Right. It had actually been slightly crooked. He went back and readjusted it.

The lock on the antique desk yielded easily to a piece of bent wire, but the drawers contained only Cobblepot's legitimate records.

Lonerghan thought hard. The evidence had to be somewhere! His eye fell upon the book case. Cobblepot had quite the collection of old ornithology texts. He scanned the titles: Neighbors to the Birds; A History of Bird Watching in America, Popular British Ornithology... Suddenly his eyes widened. "I wonder..." he said aloud. Carefully, he pulled on a medium-sized volume labelled Our Summer Migrants; An Account of the Migratory Birds Which Pass the Summer in the British Isles. His face fell when it turned out to be an ordinary copy. A moment later, however, he let out a low whistle. "Paydirt!"

"Hey! What are you doing in he—oh!" The angry security guard fell back, flustered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cobblepot! I didn't know you were here, too."

"Not at all, my good Sir," Penguin chortled. "I simply required something from my nest." He waved a negligent hand. "Your diligence is appreciated, but unnecessary." He removed his monocle and wiped it absently with a soft cloth. "You may leave us," he added in a bored drawl.

"Sure thing, Mr. Cobblepot." The guard backed out, closing the office door softly behind him.

Cobblepot replaced his monocle. Then, slowly, his portly figure began to elongate, his bulk melting to feminine curves. His tuxedo transformed into a short-sleeved white top, blue miniskirt, and matching blue cape. Auburn hair spouted from the crown of his head and his skin turned a brilliant shade of green.

"You found it?" Ms Martian asked eagerly.

Lonerghan nodded. "Tucked inside M.A. Healy's Report of the Cruise of the Revenue Marine Steamer Corwin in the Arctic Ocean in the Year 1885. Revenue," he smirked. "I guess that's supposed to be his idea of a joke."

"So now...?"

"Now, I leave this here and come back when I have a warrant. Which will hopefully be within twenty-four hours." He thought for a moment. "Um... say. Do you think you can keep an eye on things for me here? Let me know if anyone moves the evidence?"

Ms Martian smiled. "Absolutely."

--

"Daddy?" Helena asked for the fifth time in what felt like as many minutes.

Selina sighed. "You miss him already, don't you, honey?" She shook her head. "Well, so do I."

Again, she considered her options. If she chose the one that looked most attractive to her at that precise moment, in all likelihood, Bruce wouldn't want her back in his life, if he found out. Then again, after today, that could be a moot point. She didn't mean to waltz in and out of his life repeatedly, and she wouldn't blame him if he decided that it was more than he was prepared to deal with.

The truth was that she was jerking him around. Just because it wasn't intended didn't mean that it wasn't hurtful. She reached for the telephone, but halfway there, her hand froze. She hadn't been wrong about the risks to Helena, either. Getting into Bruce's sphere of influence was dangerous for both of them. Selina was willing to take the risk herself, but she would be damned if she would chance her daughter's safety. His daughter, too.

She reached for the phone again, but this time, it was to call a different number. She keyed the first six digits, and then stopped. If Bruce found out... And besides, Flass was only one in a very long line. She couldn't stop everybody.

Unbidden, a story she'd seen once on a wall plaque in someone's office came into her mind:

A man was walking along a beach, when he saw a young boy ahead of him. Every few steps, the boy would stop, bend down, pick something up, and toss it into the waves. The man asked the boy what he was doing.

"When the tide went out," the boy explained, "it left all of these starfish trapped on the sand. I'm throwing them back in the ocean."

The man looked at the boy in disbelief. "That's ridiculous!" He exclaimed. "There are miles of beach and thousands of starfish. What you're doing right now cannot possibly make a difference!"

The boy looked at the man. Then he looked at the beach. Then he bent down, picked up a starfish, and threw it back into the ocean. He looked at the man once more. "It made a difference for that one."

Selina bit down on her lip, welcoming the pain. It galvanised her. She knew that she'd never be able to keep her daughter safe from everything—nobody could. But she could deal with the immediate threat.

An incessant beeping came from the phone, and she hit the end button and started over. It rang twice before a voice disguised by an electronic voder picked up. "Yes?"

"I'm presuming you've already traced this call and know who this is, Calculator," she said, with a calm that belied her inner turmoil.

"Of course. And how are you this fine evening, Selina?"

She took a deep breath. "I need a favor."

To be continued...

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The Starfish Story is adapted from "The Star Thrower" by Loren Eiseley. The original version appeared in his anthology, The Unexpected Universe (Harcourt, Brace and World, 1969).