The Way Back #28

Selina took an immediate step backward. Joker waggled a gentle finger.

"Ah-ah-ah, Catty. Mustn't walk out on your old pal. Or," he gestured toward the occupant of the overstuffed armchair, whom she hadn't noticed in her shock at finding Joker on her couch, "maybe that should be pals."

"Holly!" The younger woman's face was almost unrecognizable beneath a layer of heavy white greasepaint. Above the white cloth gag, her eyes were wide with terror. Over the gag, Joker had scrawled a bold red smile, using one of Selina's lipsticks. The corners of the grin extended sloppily past the gag, smearing the oily makeup on her cheeks. Her hands were bound before her and further coils of rope held her arms fast to her sides.

Selina's upper lip curled back. "Joker, if you've hurt her..."

Joker giggled. "Does she look hurt to you yet, Catty? I gotta say, you're a hard woman to track down these days. A man might even think you were trying to avoid him." A note of menace crept into his voice on his last sentence.

"What do you want?"

His eyes gleamed. "Just wanted to meet your little darling," he cooed. "I love making babies smile."

Her heart thudded. "She... she's not mine," she said steadily. "I've been looking after my neighbor's little girl a couple of afternoons a week."

"Oh, really?" Joker's smile took on a more sinister cast. "Do tell."

"There's nothing else to tell," Selina retorted. "I wasn't exactly equipped for a toddler, so I bought a few things, my neighbor gave me a few things and..." she shrugged feebly, "here we are. And why are you here again?"

"Just looking for my poor lost little harlequin," Joker said deprecatingly. "I know she was going to meet with you tonight. I came by to surprise her, but the only person I found was your little friend here." He bounded over to Holly, danced behind the armchair and brought both hands down hard on the bound woman's shoulders. "SURPRISE!" Holly flinched.

"Harley's not with me." Selina was amazed at how calm she sounded. "We did have coffee, but I don't know where she went after that."

Joker sighed. "Well, that's too bad. You see, I sent her off to Pammy to get something for me. She never came back. And I'm just dying to know what's keeping her. In fact," the menace was back in his voice, "if she doesn't put in an appearance shortly, there will be quite a bit of dying going on around here." He picked up a letter opener from the coffee table, bounded back to Holly and set the point experimentally against her throat. "How about it, Cookie?" he said. "Aren't you dying to know where my partner is? Well, you will be, soon..."


--


Dick hated to admit it, but he was stumped. He'd been trying to figure out who was behind the East End burglaries for nearly two weeks, but he'd failed to turn up a single lead. Even if Montoya had been wrong about there being a hidden connection between the victims, even if the burglar was targeting the East End because he—or she—happened to live conveniently nearby, Dick thought that he should have been able to uncover something that might point to a suspect.

He sighed, and turned to begin another patrol of the area. Then he stopped. Maybe he'd been scrutinizing the situation too closely and gotten to a point where he couldn't see the forest for the trees. Selina lived in this neighborhood. And she had probably finished whatever business she'd had with Harley. At any rate, it couldn't hurt to drop by her window and see if she had any ideas.

He fired off his jumpline and headed off in the direction of her apartment.


--


Joker's grin was absolutely malevolent. "Here's how it's going to work, Catty," he chuckled. "You're going to look for Harls. I'm going to begin... entertaining... your friend." He walked in front of the chair and looked at Holly. "You're looking forward to that, huh, Toots? I can tell by the size of the grin on your face."

All at once, Holly's eyes flashed fire, and her foot shot up toward Joker's groin. Unfortunately, he was too far away for her to connect. Mockingly, the clown danced even further out of her range. "Uh uh uh," he giggled. "There'll be time to play 'This Little Piggy' while we wait for Harls to make her entr—"

A bullwhip snaked through the air and coiled around Joker's wrist. Selina shifted her weight, braced herself and tugged hard, yanking Joker away from Holly. As the clown reeled toward her, instead of fighting the momentum, he brought up his other hand, still holding the letter opener and lunged.

Selina had a split second to realize what was about to happen. Then her bedroom door burst open, and a batarang flew out and clipped Joker's hand. The letter opener dropped. An instant later, Batman sprang out and lunged to clamp one hand around Joker's wrist and wrap his other arm around Joker's throat, yanking him away.

Without pausing a beat, Selina leaped forward and raked her fingers down the immobilized clown's cheek.

"Aaaagh!" Joker screamed. "You've maimed me for life! You... you... huh?"

Selina made a disgusted noise. "I knew getting a manicure yesterday was a mistake." She kicked Joker in the shins. "Mind you, the pedicure doesn't seem to be cramping my style too badly."

Batman smiled. "You ladies okay?"

Selina looked past him to Holly and nodded. "I think so. " She took a deep breath. "Come back when you're done taking out the trash. I need to talk to you."


--


"Thanks," Selina said, when Dick returned, nearly an hour later. "That was closer than I liked."

"How's Holly?"

Selina walked to the counter and poured herself some coffee. "Want?" At his nod, she took a second mug out of the cabinet. "She's showering," Selina said, with a nod toward the opposite wall, where they could both hear the sound of running water, "trying to wash off that clown paint. Among other things."

Dick nodded again. "Is she going to be...?"

"I hope so." She shook her head. "He knows. About Helena. Oh, I told him I was babysitting for a friend, but I don't know if he believed me." She carried the two mugs to the table and passed one to Dick. He thanked her.

"So..."

Selina took a gulp of coffee and winced as she scalded her tongue. "That's what I've been trying to figure out." She took a deep breath. "Unpredictability is part of Joker's... charm. But if there's something that he can do to affect Bruce... he will. That's about the only constant when he's involved."

"He hasn't tried anything so far," Dick pointed out.

"I meant Batman. But Bruce as Batman, not you."

Dick considered that for a moment. "Okay," he said. "I'll give you that. At least, it makes sense—which probably means that we're barking up the wrong tree." Seeing the misery on her face, he corrected himself. "Meowing?"

She smiled wanly. "No matter how I try to slice it, I keep coming back to this: sooner or later, Joker is going to get tired of waiting for Bruce to put the cowl back on. He'll try to force things. He... might have meant to do that tonight, I don't know. He said he wanted me to find Harley. If you want to find a missing person... you call in a detective. I'm just saying."

"But given your history..."

"Yeah. I'm a target." Her voice was oddly calm. "Much as I hate being in that position, I can handle it. But if he finds out about Helena—if he even suspects that Bruce cares about her, then..."

Dick nodded. "What are you going to do?"

Selina's face seemed to crumple. "The only thing I can. I just hope it'll be enough..."

"Selina?"

She shook her head. "Look. Tell Bruce I'm okay, but I think it would be best if I stayed away for the next little while. If he needs to reach me, he can contact me through Oracle. I'll get in touch with him the same way, once I have a better idea of how to cope with this."


--


Bruce clenched his fist and rapped it angrily against the leather armrest.

"She's right," Dick said. "Isn't she?"

Bruce's head snapped up. "Of course," he nearly snarled. "I should have seen this coming a mile away. I should have—"

"Daddy?"

Startled, Bruce glanced down into his daughter's wide blue eyes. His expression softened as he scooped her up and settled her on his lap.

"Even if you had," Dick said quietly, "we'd be in the same situation we're in now: me doing the legwork, and you and Oracle analyzing his moves—hoping that, for once, he'll actually follow a logical plan."

"He will," Bruce said bleakly. "Selina called it. He'll go after her... or you... or one of the others, to get to me."

Dick's expression hardened. "We'll be careful. But Bruce, if he somehow does get the upper hand..." He lowered his eyes. "Please, don't make me finish the sentence."

Bruce smiled wearily and shook his head. "I know," he said. "There will be no repetition of my earlier actions."

Dick's frown gave way to a relieved smile. "Well, that's one more load off my mind." He leaned forward. "Look, there's still a chance he really was just trying to get to Harley, not you."

"You don't believe that anymore than I do."

"No. But it's still a possibility." Dick clapped one hand on Bruce's shoulder and chucked Helena under the chin with the other. "I'm going to head out on patrol. Call me tomorrow."

Bruce nodded. After Dick headed down to the cave, Bruce looked fondly down at his daughter. Dick was right. His first priorities were to keep her safe—and himself free to look after her. There could be no repeating the events of last month. Balancing Helena on his hip, Bruce walked over to his desk and turned on the computer. It only took him a moment to bring up the rough costume sketches he'd been tinkering with a few days earlier. If he needed to take a more hands-on approach, he had no intention of being recognized this time!


--


Cass read the sample text for what felt like the tenth time.

Dear Ms Bowring,

(A)

(1) I would like to apply for the front desk reception position advertised in the Monday, October 4th edition of the Northanger Free Press. (2) My work experience and education combined with your need for an experienced front desk receptionist have resulted in a relationship that...

For what felt like the tenth time, her eyes glazed over. "Why not just say, 'I want a job'?" she asked aloud. "Too many words." Her gaze dipped below the letter to the multiple choice questions.

Which correction should be made to sentence 2?

Her face fell. "Add comma to...? Change 'have resulted' to 'would result'?" She shook her head. "Hopeless." She was never going to get this right.

She turned over several pages and looked at the social studies section and found a short passage on immigration. These questions were worse than the first ones in the language arts section.

When she turned to the science part, though, she was pleasantly surprised. The text—something about soil characteristics-was clear and concise. The questions that followed also seemed to be more straightforward. It was... She smiled. If this was training exercise, she thought, and Dick was explaining terrain and what to expect... it would be almost like this. That was an idea. Pretend it's a mission. Me. Alone in wilderness. There are different kinds of soil nearby. So... if I want to use as... as lining to stop water from leaking out... then I want soil that is more clay than sand. Yes. Okay. That makes sense. Not to mention that understanding soil characteristics was probably more useful than knowing where to put a comma!

"How's it going?"

Cass started as Tim's face appeared on her monitor. She shrugged. "Science is okay." She set the test aside with a mental sigh. "You need something?"

"No," Tim shook his head. "I was just wondering... I saved my high school text books. If you want to review them, I can drop them off for you this evening, before patrol."

She made a face. "Hard enough to get through sample questions. Reading textbooks would take me... forever."

Tim's eyes widened. "Hold on. You mean you're just reading the practice exam? You haven't actually looked at the subject matter?"

"I have." She countered. "On the test." She made a face. "I have to pass it all? Not just... science? I don't need so-social studies for PT."

"It doesn't work like that," Tim said with an apologetic smile. "But Cass... the GED is a test you pass to show that you've pretty much learned everything most students have to cover in four years of high school. You... it's like you're so intent on getting your black belt that you're only studying the advanced techniques without covering basic drills first."

She knew what he was getting at. Still, "I learned stick fighting in one day."

"Yeah. After you'd covered about a million other combat skills. But do you think you could have picked it up in one day if you'd never learned any kind of fighting before? Because, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you've ever really tried studying before."

"But..." He was right, she realized with some consternation. She took a deep breath. "Help me?" She asked.

Tim grinned. "Sure. I can be by in an hour or so with the textbooks. Just sit tight until then."

Cass shook her head. "Been sitting all day. Time to work out now. Until you come."

"Oh. Is an hour going to be enough time for you?"

Cass thought about that for a moment. "Yes," she said reluctantly. "I need to learn... this."

"Okay. I'll see you in a little while."


--


"Mommy?" Helena tugged at his pants leg.

Bruce shook his head. "She's not here." He reached down to pick her up.

She shook her head right back at him. "Mommy!"

"She's not here," Bruce repeated. "I'm sorry."

Helena threw back her head and began to howl.

Bruce bent down to her level and placed his hands on her shoulders. "No, don't cry," he murmured. "It's o-OW!" He fell back rubbing his nose. Toddlers weren't supposed to be able to punch that hard... were they?

He moved back to the computer and tried to ignore her wails, even as they grew in pitch and intensity. It was impossible to focus. Finally, he sighed. "I think you need a nap," he said gravely, as he hoisted her over his shoulder.

In answer, Helena shrieked and pounded his back with her small fists. Bruce winced, but carried her firmly out of the study and into her new bedroom.

She was still screaming when he pulled the door shut behind him.


--


Jim found him in the cave an hour later. "Helena's crying."

Bruce didn't look up from the computer. "Still?" he asked wearily. "I thought she'd have tired herself out by now." He looked up sharply. "She's not hurt, is she?"

Jim shook his head. "No, I think she just misses her father."

"Her mother," Bruce corrected. "That was what set her off in the first place."

"Ah." Jim nodded. "I guess we can't fault her for that. You should probably go up to her."

"Soon." Bruce brought up a new file. "I'm working on something down here."

Jim looked over his shoulder and frowned. "Grounds security? I thought that was under control."

"If Joker is trying anything—"

"Joker's in custody."

"At the moment," Bruce conceded. "I can't count on that state of affairs lasting. And Quinn is still at large. While she might not be a match for my systems on her own, I can't discount the possibility that she could enlist the assistance of an individual who does have the capability to neutralize them."

"Meanwhile, Helena is crying."

Bruce gave an exasperated grunt. "She'll have to wait." He leaned further over the console, a clear indication that he considered the conversation over.

Jim waited for a moment. "Bruce..."

"She's fine." Bruce gave his attention to the security grid, willfully closing his ears to any further entreaties. He was aware that Jim was murmuring something—likely something uncomplimentary-under his breath. He paid it no mind. Jim meant well, but at this moment, the safety systems were of paramount importance. Before he did anything else, he needed to know that the manor was secure! He wheeled the swivel chair closer... and the entire array went dark. "What in...?"

"Do I have your attention now?" Jim demanded. He was slapping a doubled length of heavy black cord lightly into the palm of his hand. It took Bruce a moment to recognize it.

"You unplugged the Crays?" He asked in disbelief.

"You weren't exactly leaving the other avenues of communication open. It was this, or ask Barbara to hijack your systems. I figured if I was going to infuriate you anyway, I might as well hog all the blame for myself. Now. Your daughter is crying. She needs you. Go."

"The systems—"

"—will keep," Jim cut him off. "She's a baby. She doesn't understand 'in a little while'. She needs you now."

"If the manor is attacked..."

"Then, according to what Barbara just told me, you'll get a perimeter warning before anyone gets within a mile of the property line. You want your daughter in your life? Start acting like a father."

Bruce glowered. Jim glared back. Without breaking eye contact, Bruce stalked over to an intercom situated several yards away from the darkened consoles and pressed a button.

Helena was still crying, but her screams had subsided to ragged whimpers. As the sound carried over the cave speakers, Bruce's face seemed to crumple.

"I'm on it," he said softly.

Then he ran for the elevator.

A few minutes later, he returned to the cave, balancing a sniffling Helena on his hip. "Do you think," he asked slowly, "that we could secure a play area in that corner?" He gestured toward an area bordered by cabinets and a large sink. "A couple of exercise mats would block the chill from the floor, there aren't any stray electrical wires..."

"And you can keep an eye on her first hand, instead of via the vid-cams," Jim nodded. "Which means that if she does manage to get into mischief—and she will—you're right there. Only, how do you intend to keep her in just that one part of the cave?"

"A safety gate between a couple of filing cabinets ought to work."

Jim nodded. "It should. So, I guess you'll train physically while she's sleeping?"

"No, she'll..." He stopped. The training area was two levels down from the computer arrays. "It might be possible to set up a zone for her there, as well. I'll see. I... don't suppose you could...?"

Jim took a deep breath. "Bruce... I'm not the one who needs to bond with her. If you want to get technical, you are the only person I'm here to look after. Now, I don't mind keeping an eye on her for a few minutes if you need to answer the phone, or get up for a stretch, or something, but I'm not going to turn around one day and find out that I've somehow become groundskeeper, cook and nanny, all rolled into one. I didn't sign on for that."

Bruce blinked. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I don't mean to..."

Jim sighed. "I know you don't. And I'm sorry. But I'm not Alfred. And I'm not about to try acting like it."

Helena began to stir then, and Bruce shifted his hold. "It looks like we have some... things that need to be addressed, then," he said softly. He was speaking to Jim, but his eyes were focused on the dark-haired little girl in his arms.


--


"I see a big difference," Alex said, as he shut the door to the master bedroom behind them.

Bruce said nothing in return. As much as he knew that Alex was simply doing his job, this inspection still irritated him.

It was odd, he reflected. Krait had come by three days earlier, and Bruce hadn't resented that visit nearly as much. Krait had gone through the checklist, scratching off each item as he went, and had little else to say beyond 'keep up the good work'. But then, Krait hadn't seemed interested in forcing Bruce to step outside his comfort zone.

Bruce couldn't say the same for Alex. The psychiatrist seemed to delight in setting newer, higher expectations. Come to think of it, Bruce wasn't sure why that bothered him as much as it did. Certainly, Bruce had never been one to rest on his own laurels before. It didn't make sense that he'd want to walk away from a challenge now. And yet, the truth was, he did.

"How long did you spend on this?" Alex asked.

Bruce shrugged. "The better part of an afternoon."

"Alone?"

"No."

Alex waited. When Bruce failed to elaborate further, he took a few steps down the hall. "And the other room?" he asked, as he turned the knob to Alfred's door. He blinked when he saw the new railing on the bed and the nursery rhyme artwork on the walls. "You've moved the nursery?"

"Not exactly," Bruce replied. "Helena sleeps here now. Most of her toys are still in the other room." He forced himself to sound nonchalant. "If she needs me in the night, my room is right next door."

Alex nodded approval. "She's with you full-time, now?"

"For now. Her mother's work forces her to travel a great deal." He barely had to think before adding that statement.

"I see. How's that working out?"

Bruce hesitated, finally opting to be candid without sounding as out of his depth as he felt. "You could say, it's a learning curve," he said. "We're managing."

Alex smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. I think we're ready to make a change to your supervised hours. From what I've seen, you should be ready to go down to weekdays only."

That brought a genuine smile in response.


--


'Managing' turned out to be an unrealistically optimistic assessment. As the days wore on, it seemed that Helena was every bit as stubborn, willful, and unpredictable as her mother. And Bruce's methods for dealing with adolescent temper outbursts were effectively useless against a toddler. Helena couldn't be reasoned with, she couldn't be threatened with loss of privilege. Ignoring her was feasible for brief periods of time—or it would have been—except that all Helena needed to do was scream, and he would come running.

As difficult as it was for him to accept, he was being played—by a twenty-month old. He had to respond when she shrieked, if he didn't, if just that one time, it were to turn out that the reason she was screaming was because Scarecrow had penetrated the manor and invaded the nursery, he would never be able to forgive himself. So... she screamed, and he ran. He tried to make it appear that he was playing the doting father, but he—and Helena—both knew better.

Still, things continued in this vein for nearly three weeks. And then, one day, Bruce realized that it was five days before Christmas, that the Kents would be arriving within four, and that nothing was prepared...

--


Three years ago, Bruce reflected, he would have known better. If Alfred had been away, assuming that the butler hadn't prepared and frozen Christmas dinner far in advance, Bruce would have availed himself of one of four options: he would have ordered in, he would have gone into Chinatown, or some other area of Gotham that didn't close down on the twenty-fifth of December, he would have volunteered for JLA monitor duty, or he would have fixed himself a sandwich and spent the night out on patrol.

If he hadn't impulsively invited Clark and his family, Bruce still might have gone for the last option—although after nearly two years of sandwiches at Arkham, twice—sometimes three times-daily, every day, he had to admit the notion held less appeal for him than ever before.

If Clark hadn't exhibited such... trepidation at the thought of Bruce cooking, Bruce probably would have arranged matters with a caterer. So what if Clark... and Martha Kent... were used to home-cooked meals? Lois would probably understand. But after that reaction... now Bruce had something to prove—if not to the Kents, then to himself!

He could serve chicken and rice, again, he knew. He had added a couple of basic vegetable soups to his repertoire, by now. Fresh fruit and sorbet would suffice for dessert... but none of this would be traditional.

With a sigh, he reached for the pad Jim kept by the telephone to jot down messages, turned to a blank sheet, and wrote:

Smoked Duck and Walnuts with Winter Greens

Roast Beef

Cranberry Chutney (It hadn't originally been part of Alfred's menu, but nine-year-old Dick had fallen in love with the condiment at his first Thanksgiving at the manor, and prevailed on the butler to include it for Christmas as well. Even after Dick moved out, Alfred had continued to serve it.)

Yorkshire Pudding

Roasted Potatoes

Roasted Brussels Sprouts

Trifle

He thought for a moment. It seemed to him that there was something wrong, something he needed to remember. He frowned. Then, he added, Christmas Pudding. He hadn't had it in ages. Alfred had made it, served it, and subsequently converted it into an ice cream dish and presented it at the first Wayne Manor gala of the New Year. That particular tradition would need to change, seeing as he had no idea when he'd host another gala...

Bruce pulled the cookbooks down from the shelf. Thoughtfully, he selected the one with the most-creased spine and opened it to the index at the back. Sure enough, he quickly located four of the dishes he meant to prepare. Bruce took a new sheet of paper and began to make up a shopping list, still unable to shake the feeling that he was forgetting something important.

--


"How can you be sold out?" Bruce demanded, trying hard to keep his voice level. "No, Helena!" He scooped up his daughter before she could open the lower cabinets and resolved once more to find a childproof lock that he could install on those doors. He had liked the customized knobs when Alfred had suggested them, however, their unique design kept them from accommodating the safety locks he had attempted to install so far. He was nearly at the point of setting up electronic keypads—although the cleaning staff would likely resign en masse if he expected them to start memorizing codes, on top of their normal duties.

"Sorry," he said into the phone. "So, you're telling me you have no smoked duck, no dried fruit, and your drivers are completely booked until tomorrow." He sighed. "Fine. Put what you have aside for me. I'll be there to pick it up. Bruce Wayne."

There was an audible gasp on the other end. Bruce kicked himself. He knew he should have given an alias. He was about to hang up when the party on the other end timidly asked a question.

"Yes," Bruce replied, somewhat bemused. "I suppose I am... the Bruce Wayne."

The response was a flood of apologies. Bruce began to smile as the realization hit him. The grocer's reaction had nothing to do with Batman or Arkham, and everything to do with the family name.

"It's alright," he said when he could get a word in edgewise. "You didn't know. You don't have to do that," he said sharply. "Just tell me where... are you sure?" He shook his head in disbelief. "You're actually willing to scout around for two and a half pounds of raisins and currants and drive my entire order up here yourself if you can't get it on a truck? Um... that would be... fine." He smiled. "No, don't worry about the duck. I should have realized that with the bird flu epidemic, there'd be a shortage this year. I'll just have to have something else as a first course." His eyebrows shot up. "Well, I have to admit that does sound good—are you sure your sister-in-law won't mind parting with the recipe? Well, thank you. Yes, I'll expect you before five. Thank you."

He was still shaking his head as he ended the call. So much for the traditional Wayne Christmas dinner, unless he wanted—he grinned—to send Superman on a wild goose chase for smoked duck. With a sudden pang, he wondered whether Alfred had ever been forced to run from grocer to grocer in search of elusive menu items. He'd never thought much about it before; gourmet dishes had routinely appeared on the table, as though by magic. And how many of them had Alfred taken away, untouched, with only an occasional word of reproach? He closed his eyes.

Almost immediately, small fingers began probing his eyelids. Bruce waited a moment, before opening them. "Let's get you into your high chair, Helena. It's almost lunchtime."


--


The groceries were there at three. By four-thirty, Bruce was ready to check the Kents into a hotel with a restaurant that would be open on Christmas day.

The Yorkshire puddings hadn't puffed up the first time. Bruce had half-expected that when he'd forgotten to preheat the oven. The second time, they at least looked like they were supposed to. They'd even tasted right—perhaps a bit too right, since he'd finished three of them before he'd realized what he was doing. That had left nine—grounds for another batch. He'd just slid them into the oven, when he'd been alerted to an odor he remembered all too well from his earlier rare attempts at cooking. He got to the dutch oven just as the smoke alarm went off. He'd forgotten to turn the meat so that it could brown on all sides. One side was now black and stuck to the cast iron pot. The roast was probably still salvageable, though, if he sliced off the burned part.

He'd turned around to discover that Helena had somehow managed to bump her high chair a few inches closer to the kitchen table—near enough that she was just able to stretch for a handful of raisins. She knew raisins. She liked raisins. And under most circumstances, Bruce would have been delighted to give her raisins. Unfortunately, the raisins that she was reaching for were the only ones he currently had in the manor, and they were intended for the Christmas pudding.

"Helena!" Bruce pulled the highchair away, staving off a howl of protest with a Yorkshire pudding.

There came a hiss and a spattering noise from the stove. Bruce turned to see that the cranberries were boiling over. He grabbed a potholder and removed the pan from the heat, setting it down on the counter.

The timer went off, signalling that the roasted potatoes were ready to come out of the oven—and the Brussels sprouts were ready to go in. He supposed he could have cooked them at the same time, but it had occurred to him that if something were to go wrong with the vegetables, he'd rather ruin one recipe than both. Did Kent like Brussels sprouts? Bruce smiled. It would be ironic if he were preparing the one vegetable that the vegetarian wouldn't eat.

Bruce felt the blood drain from his face. That was what he'd been trying to remember before! Clark was a vegetarian! His eyes flicked to the pot roast on the stove top, and then to the smoked trout that the grocer had urged him to substitute for smoked duck. Wait. Was he vegan? Eggs in the Yorkshire pudding, whipped cream and vanilla pudding in the trifle...

Great going, Bruce. You've just stumbled into the one area where you never anticipated needing a contingency plan! But he would have bet half his fortune that Alfred would have had one...

A loud crash startled him, and he whirled to discover that Helena had gotten herself back to the table—and to the glass mixing bowl filled with dried fruit—which she had just managed to knock to the floor, leaving two and a half pounds of raisins and currants scattered in a minefield of broken glass.

That was when the smoke alarm went off again.

Helena began to wail. Bruce contemplated joining her.


--


It got dark early in Gotham in December. Dick was just as happy that he wasn't patrolling tonight—it meant that he and Barbara could sit down to supper at six, instead of four. It beat scarfing energy bars on the run by a long shot.

They'd just started digging in to the baked ziti, when the intercom sounded. Barbara frowned, but she wheeled over to the panel and pressed the button. "Hello?"

"Barbara? Can we come up?"

"We?"

There was a pause. "Helena is with me."

Barbara hit the buzzer. "So much for our quiet dinner for two," she said ruefully.

Dick nodded. "I hope everything's okay. This is the first time he's ever stopped by without our dropping him an invitation first."

Barbara nodded back.

Bruce came in with Helena sleeping on his shoulder. "I..." He hesitated. "She was crying. I thought, perhaps, she might calm down faster in the car." He took in the barely-started meal on the table. "I'm interrupting," he said, consternation on his face. "I should have thought."

Dick half-rose from his chair. "Bruce?" He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him so uncertain. "Are you all right?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "What if I told you that I wasn't?" He asked softly. "What if I told you," his voice rose, "that some nights, I've awakened in a cold sweat, not because of the old familiar nightmares, but because I dream that I'm back in Arkham, so sure that I deserved to be there that I forced myself into a box to make sure that I wouldn't try to break out? What if I told you that some days, I feel myself falling back into my old thought patterns and wonder if Alex or Krait will see past the act and send me back there?"

Helena began to stir, and Bruce immediately started stroking her back, as he rocked her gently back and forth. "And what if sometimes, part of me actually... thinks it might be easier for everyone if they d—"

All at once, Dick was pulling him forward into a tight embrace. "It wouldn't be easier for me," he said harshly. "And you are not going back. Not to Arkham, and for damned sure not back to that... that block of wood I spent a year talking to."

Bruce closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I did say 'what if'," he pointed out with a wan smile. He hadn't fought the hug, though, Dick noticed.

Bruce sighed. "I actually didn't plan to say all of that," he admitted. "Anymore than I planned to drop in on you. I was just... driving, hoping she'd fall asleep, and when I noticed that she had, I realized that I was only minutes away from here, and..." He stopped. "I should have called."

"So next time you will," Barbara broke in. "If you remember. And if you don't... well, I guess you'll just have to run the risk of our not being home." She grinned. "I think I'd better set another place at the table." She started to wheel away, but then she stopped and rolled back. "Bruce... look, it may be hard to admit, but after two years at Arkham, it's not that off-base to say you got used to the routine. And now, you're out, and a lot has changed."

Bruce frowned and shrugged off Dick's embrace. "If you're implying that I've become institutionalized..."

Barbara waited for him to finish.

"No. You didn't imply it. I've seen it myself." He slumped. "Actually, I encouraged it in myself. After what happened with Ji—with your father," he said, "I came to believe that Arkham was... the right place for me. If it was... then I had no reason to want to leave. So I did everything I could to avoid discharge."

"Which meant becoming a block of wood," Dick said, tightening his grip on Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce nodded. "And resisting therapy, ignoring—and eventually losing—privileges. I wasn't there to be comfortable, you understand. I was there because it was the only way I could be sure that I wouldn't... hurt people." He shook his head miserably. "Physically, at least. I... It didn't occur to me that... that..."

Dick wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "The main thing is, you're out now. And that's past. And you're not exactly living in a vacuum. Or in isolation."

Barbara placed a hand on his wrist. "If there are things you want to deal with on your own, fine. But if there's any way that we can help..."

"Actually," Bruce admitted, "Since you asked, if you're truly willing, there is."

"Name it," Dick grinned.

Easier said than done. Bruce took a deep breath, willing himself to speak the words. "Co... Calinda," he said. "I need to practice with a partner." He did, but that wasn't what he'd meant to say.

Calinda? Dick's mind reeled. He wants to work on Caribbean stick fighting? He gave a mental shrug. "Sure. No problem. Anything else?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "C-cooking. I... I've been trying to prepare Christmas Dinner and... I think I've... no. I know I've taken on more than I'm able to do on my own. I.." Closer, but still not what he'd intended.

"Sure," Barbara grinned. "No problem. Is that it, or is there more?"

Just say it, already! Bruce took another breath. "Coping." It was nearly a whisper, but once he got that word out, the rest was easier. "I... am not coping as well as I need to be. I don't know what—if anything—you can do, but..."

The grips on his wrist and shoulders tightened almost simultaneously.

"Sure," Dick said.

Barbara chimed in. "No problem."

To be continued....

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