The Way Back #33

Dick took a deep breath, and was almost immediately overcome by a coughing fit. When it passed, he fell back to the cot, exhausted. "So," he said dully, "what now?"

Tim shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next.

Bruce looked away. "I don't... from what I've read, smallpox symptoms invariably follow a pattern. They just do not manifest until—at the earliest—seven days after exposure. Twelve to fourteen is more typical. Had you started showing symptoms at that point," Bruce took refuge in dispassion, "then you could expect your current condition to last two to four days. After that, the next stage would be a rash, which gradually hardens to... to..."

Dick closed his eyes. "To pustules," he finished.

Bruce let out a breath. "Usually five days later," he confirmed. "But, Dick... You're young. You're strong. You've been vaccinated. There's an excellent chance that you'll..."

"...blitz through the stages at more than four times the normal rate? Because that's what it looks like." He started to cough again, and furiously turned his face to the wall. "Go." He waved his arm in their general direction. "Just go. Stop looking at me like you're waiting to see if the rash is already starting. Just leave me alone!"

"Dick, I..."

Dick closed his eyes. "Bruce. I need to work on beating this. I can't do that if you're hovering here like you're expecting me to breathe my last at any second." He forced himself to smile. "Don't you get it? If you're here instead of working in the lab, it means you think it's hopeless, and if I start believing that..."

"Oh for the love of..." A new voice broke over the cave speakers. "You know, for two smart people, you can both be incredibly dense sometimes."

"Jim?" Bruce called, startled.

"You did invite me to check up on you remotely, if you recall." A note of humor stole into his voice. "You even showed me how to use the audio."

Dick turned his face to where he knew the camera was located. "What do you mean... dense?"

Jim chuckled. "Well, maybe that was a poor choice of words. Though it is one that Bruce has used with me, on more than one occasion, for more or less the same reason."

Bruce frowned. "What?"

There was a pause. "I'm trying to recall the names. John Roddy was one. Then there was Martin Salgado, Therese Latendresse, Sam Yeong..."

Dick blinked in confusion. "The names sound familiar, but..."

"They're all people who were convicted—or nearly convicted—of crimes they never committed," Bruce said quietly.

"That's right," Jim said. "And each time, the officers who were assigned to the case were sure that they had solid evidence—and each time, you accused them of being so desperate to close the case that they were letting the evidence show what they wanted to see." He paused. "Or maybe they went into the case expecting the murderer to be the spouse, or the lover, or the recently-fired employee, because in the overwhelming majority of cases, that's who it is. Bruce, I'll be the first to admit I had a lot of bad apples serving under me when I took over as commissioner. I also had some damned good officers who—every now and again—messed up." The humor was back. "I'm not condoning the mistakes by any stretch of the imagination. Some of those mistakes could have been fatal." His voice turned bleak. "One was. But there are times when people go into a situation expecting things to follow a particular pattern. And sometimes, they're so convinced that they're seeing that pattern that they somehow disregard anything that doesn't quite fit."

"Is there a point to this?" Dick asked irritably.

"You tell me," Jim said. "Either of you. Any of you."

Silence.

"What are the early symptoms of smallpox?" Jim prompted.

Dick let out an exasperated groan. "Fever, aching muscles, exhaustion, headache... I've got all that."

"I don't doubt it. Only..."

All at once, Bruce's expression changed. "Those symptoms," he said slowly, "domanifest in the early stages of smallpox, but..."

"But...?" Jim prompted.

"But their presence alone doesn't confirm the presence of smallpox!" Bruce nearly shouted the realization. He took a step closer to the quarantine unit. "Dick, we know that you were exposed to smallpox, so we've been watching for those symptoms. But if they're showing up this quickly, then it may not be a mutation."

"It may not be smallpox!" Tim exclaimed. He frowned, as if embarrassed by his outburst.

"The vaccine has been known to cause similar symptoms," Bruce said, nodding, "but since you didn't experience them the last two times I gave you the inoculation, I didn't think it was likely now. It is a possibility, though."

"Okay," Tim said, all-business once more. "That's one idea. I guess our next step is to check what other conditions manifest flu-like symptoms. Dick, smallpox has a seven-to-seventeen day incubation period, but if it's something else, you might have been exposed to it even before you crashed that bio-weapons lab."

"Oh, I bet I was," Dick said, sitting bolt upright in bed. "Like maybe a few hours before."

Bruce blinked. "What?"

Dick coughed. "Hang on." He tottered to the bathroom. They heard water running. A moment later, Dick returned, sipping from a styrofoam cup. "Sorry. Dry throat." He took another gulp and set the cup on the stand next to the bed before he sat back down on the mattress. "The Outsiders' security system uses palm recognition technology." He shook his head and raised his hand to his brow. "And more than half the team is currently down with..." His cracked lips twitched. "You want me to name you a condition that can manifest flu-like symptoms after two days?" He paused a beat. "The flu."

"Which," Jim said softly, but with an unmistakable note of triumph, "I'll bet none of you even bothered to test for."

The three men exchanged rueful glances. Nobody said a word.

Jim's chuckle came clearly over the intercom. "That's what I thought. Sloppy work, there."

Bruce let out a long breath. "It's possible," he admitted. "Even likely. Unfortunately, even if we can confirm it, we can't rule smallpox out either."

"Oh for..." Jim's disgust was nearly drowned out by Tim's angry protest.

Dick held up his hands. "No. He's right." He sighed. "Even if it does turn out to be the flu, it doesn't mean I don't have smallpox. It just means we'll find out in sev—" He frowned, "in five to fifteen days, right?"

Bruce nodded reluctantly. "I'm hoping that the PCR analysis will give us an answer sooner than that, but it could take that long, yes."

Dick sighed. "Okay. So what now?"

"Now?" Bruce smiled faintly. "We test for flu..."

--

Forty-five minutes later, Bruce returned to the quarantine unit. "I have the results," he said softly.

Dick looked up. "Well?"

"Given the circumstances," Bruce deadpanned, "it's good news. The flu test was positive."

The two men shared a smile.

"How's the PCR doing?" Dick asked, a few minutes later.

Bruce made a face. "If my goal were to create a Kryptonian-human hybrid, I'd be closer to it. I'm sorry. I still can't tell the virus from the vaccine."

A harsh ring interrupted the conversation.

"Who's at the door?" Dick asked, as Bruce walked over to a nearby console.

"Clark," Bruce replied.

"Is he alone?"

Bruce nodded.

Dick sank back into the pillows. "Good. I don't mind company, but I think one of the reasons I let you talk me into coming back here—I mean, besides your being right and all," he added with a grin, "was that I didn't want to be 'that rare case in room 402' that everyone would be coming in to look at—not to help—mind you—just to see something they might never witness first-hand again." He closed his eyes. "Even when I was just a kid at Haley's, I couldn't stand seeing the lines for the sideshow. Everyone acting like they were at the zoo or something. Those people the crowds paid to gawk at? Those were friends of mine. I never knew how they stood it." He shook his head. "Actually, I'm a little surprised I didn't dream about that last night."

"Understandable," Bruce nodded.

The doorbell rang again.

"I'll get that," Tim said. He was already running for the elevator.

Bruce nodded an acknowledgement before turning his attention back to Dick. "You know this isn't going to stay quiet for long. Do you..." He stopped. "Confinement is... difficult," he said, slowly. "In my case, having visitors helped. But your current situation is not necessarily comparable to my previous one." He took another breath. "If you would prefer not to have company, that's fine. Just tell me."

Dick smiled wearily. "Clark and Roy are fine. They're friends. And if I'm not up for visitors, they won't push it. Actually, any of the Teen Titans are welcome, unless I tell you differently. As far as the others..." He coughed violently and reached for the water on his night-stand. "...Ask me first, okay?"

Bruce nodded again. "If someone overstays..." he ventured.

"I'll let you practice your glower; no problem." He looked past Bruce as another figure walked into view. "Hi, Clark. Long time no see."

--

Once Clark and Dick were talking comfortably with each other, Bruce retreated to the lab to check the latest PCR results. His scowl deepened.

"Again?" Tim said, shaking his head.

Bruce sighed. "The viruses are too similar," he said for what felt like the hundredth time. "It is possible that we'll be able to differentiate between them after a few more tests, but it's by no means guaranteed."

"I know," Tim said, with a sigh of his own. "I forgot how frustrating this whole thing was last time." He pulled up a blank lab report template on his computer. "I guess we've still got it better than the WHO did, back in the old days."

Bruce was silent for a moment. "Keep in mind," he said heavily, "that the World Health Organization's focus was on preventing the spread of the disease, not curing it. We're venturing into territory that is—by and large—uncharted."

Tim looked up. "Honestly, Bruce? I'm trying not to keep that in mind. It'll only discourage me. Okay," he took a deep breath. "What if PCR analysis isn't the best diagnostic tool in this case? What's the alternative? Tissue culture?"

"No," Bruce said, frowning. "With PCR, if we had the right primers—"

"—which we don't..."

"—which we don't," Bruce admitted, "but if we did, we would be able to distinguish variolafrom vaccinia. In tissue culture, it's impossible to tell them apart. They used to grow the specimens on fertilized hens' eggs instead," he continued, "but I don't see how—" He broke off, startled, at a sudden burst of cacophony. It sounded suspiciously like squawking. His eyebrows lifted. Clark was standing before him holding what appeared to be a wooden chicken coop aloft in both hands.

"There are fifteen," he said. "Plus one rooster—so if the eggs aren't fertile yet, they should be by tomorrow." He thought for a moment. "I guess you have a heater? If you don't, I can go back—Ma said..."

"Ma... Clark, did you just...?" Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Clark, why are you here in street clothes?"

"Huh? I didn't want to be conspicuous. Besides, as fast as I was moving, nobody saw anything. Why?"

"Because," Bruce nearly snarled, "the security cameras are on, and Jim may be watching now!" Pride be damned, he should have explained the reality of his situation to Clark in the first place.

Clark only shrugged. "If you need fertile hens, and I can supply them..." He shrugged again. "I was going to have to deal with it sooner or later. If he saw me, I guess now's as good a time as any."

"What?"

Clark set the coop down against one of the walls. "Look," he said softly, keeping his face pointed toward the ground, "you know Mr. Gordon and Ma were together a lot all last month. Well... a few months ago, Ma and I had a talk about... well, about how if she ever met someone new, I didn't want... certain things to keep her from getting a second chance at happiness. I may not spend as much time at the farm as I used to, but anyone Ma decides to share her life with would have to know about who I am. Gordon's not stupid. He probably has his suspicions already."

"He'll never tell you," Bruce's lips twitched.

"Probably not, but at least Ma won't have to worry about accidentally letting something slip."

"They've known each other less than a month."

"And this past month is the happiest I've seen Ma since Pa passed." He looked up.

"If you are listening," he said quietly, "I'm guessing that if you kept Bruce's secret all those years, you'll be discreet about mine too. If you aren't listening, well, we're getting worked up over nothing, aren't we?"

The speakers were silent.

"I told you," Bruce smirked, "he'll never tell you."

"I can live with that." His smile grew more sombre. "Especially if Dick lives, too."

Bruce swallowed hard. "It... it may make a difference," he admitted.

Clark nodded. Then, all at once, he frowned. "There's a bank holdup happening in Robinson Heights as we speak. Mind if I handle it?"

"Go. And Clar..." He blinked. Where Clark had been standing a second ago, there was nothing but empty space. He looked toward one of the cameras. "All right," he said softly. "That is annoying." He turned back to his work.

"Tim, get a heater. And then, let's set up for one more round of PCR. If that doesn't work, we'll start with the eggs tomorrow..."

--

Roy arrived an hour later with Wally and Donna in tow. They didn't stay long—it was clear that Dick wasn't in any shape to be sociable. As Bruce showed them to the door, it was Donna who asked if there was anything that they could do to help.

Bruce was about to refuse, when he realized what he was doing. "Gotham," he said finally. "I need Tim here. Catwoman is unavailable. It may be too much for Batgirl—especially with the Teen Titans in New York helping the Outsiders. If you want to be of assistance, keep an eye on my city."

The three exchanged glances. "We were thinking of that," Wally admitted, "but we weren't sure..." His voice trailed off.

Roy elbowed him in the ribs. "Way to get one of those fleet feet stuck in your mouth," he laughed. "What Twinkletoes was going to say was that we didn't know whether you'd be madder if we stepped in against your orders than if we just barged in without checking with you."

"Ah," Bruce said drily. "Well. Thank you for the courtesy." He should have expected the shocked looks, but he still felt his face grow hot.

"Bruce," Donna ventured, "if there's any change... you'll let us know?"

Bruce started to nod, but caught himself. "Dick has the final say on that one, for as long as he's able to make the call. With that caveat, yes."

Donna nodded. Then, impulsively, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Don't forget to take care of yourself, too," she whispered. "We'll be in touch."

--

"Do you feel up for some tomato soup?"

Dick roused himself at the sound of Bruce's voice. "Depends. Is it anything like what happened when you tried making chicken soup for Alfred?"

Bruce's lips twitched. "I considered the possibility, but discounted it when Tim asked for seconds."

"You gave him some of my soup?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "House rule: family members who are ill are entitled to royal treatment. That includes the service of a food taster."

Dick sat up in bed. "House rule? Since when?"

Bruce smirked. "My house. My rules. Subject to change without notice."

Dick burst out laughing.

Bruce's smirk became a smile. "Of course, had the quarantine unit been situated in... I believe you referred to it as Graysonland..."

"What? I would have had to taste my own soup? Speaking of which..."

"I'll bring it down." He glanced at the corridor that connected the unit with the rest of the cave. "It should be safe to bring it in without a hazmat suit—"

"Don't risk it," Dick shook his head. "If I start showing smallpox symptoms now," he frowned. "Is that even possible—having both at once?"

"I don't know," Bruce admitted. "Hopefully, in a day or so, we'll have a better idea of where things stand. You see..." he related his conversation with Clark.

Dick grinned. "Wait. You're telling me that there are chickens in the Bat-cave, right now?"

"I'm afraid so."

Dick thought for a moment. "Tell me the reason you didn't make chicken soup wasn't because you were afraid of traumatizing them!"

"We need the eggs," Bruce deadpanned. "Stressing the hens may impact production."

"Uh-huh. Suurre."

"Did you want toast or crackers?"

"Surprise me."

--

"I'm... sorry about yesterday," Dick said when Barbara came by.

"No, don't be. I..." she flushed. "I'd probably be asking the same thing in your place."

Dick nodded. "Hope you haven't changed your answer," he said lightly.

Barbara looked down. "I've been thinking about it—really thinking about—it all last night," she said. "I mean, it's one thing to say it wouldn't matter to me, but," she bit her lip, "I know what it's like to have people tell you that something doesn't make a difference, only to find out that, when push comes to shove, it does. I... I wouldn't want to lead you on that way." Her voice lowered. "It's worse than someone admitting upfront that there's a problem. So I spent most of last night trying to imagine what that kind of life would be like."

"I... see," Dick said heavily. He half-turned away from the Plexiglas, but kept one hand resting on the wall.

"Hang on," Barbara said sharply. "You didn't hear my answer."

Dick froze.

Encouraged, Barbara took another breath. "The answer is... I don't—yes. The answer is yes. It might mean we both have to get some sort of help to adjust, but we'll do that."

"Help. You're talking therapy."

"I needed it after Joker stuck me in this," she pointed out. "And maybe if I'd stuck with my therapist longer instead of stressing over how Daddy was going to be able to pay for it," she broke off. "I could have asked Bruce—I know that, but I was... angry. At him. At me. At life. I didn't want to be... weak. And Bruce was one of the strongest people I knew—and all I saw was that he did it all himself, so how could I ask him for help and not have him see it as weakness?" She smiled bitterly. "You don't have to tell me I should have known better. And don't think I never figured out that he was the one who set me up with my first escrima instructor—among other things. Anyway. Enough about me. Dick, I love you—and I will see you through whatever you might have to face, but I know that I might need some help to understand what's going on. I think we both will. Say the word and I'll call my psychotherapist in a heartbeat if we need to go that route." She smiled. "I'm not giving you up without a fight, CBW."

Dick turned back to face her, a ghost of a smile hovering on his lips. "Right back at'cha, Red. So," he said, turning serious again, "when did you find out that my booster wore off?"

Barbara sighed. "About an hour after you and Dodge left Manhattan. I was stressing a little—even though you told me you'd had the vaccine, so I did some checking and..."

"...and you didn't tell me?"

"Would you have turned the car around and come back if I had?"

Dick thought about that. "No."

"That's what I figured. I mean, it wasn't like you weren't taking precautions. You had the suit. You knew about biohazard protocols. And if I'd told you..."

"I would have had one more worry to distract me," Dick was nodding. "I'm just as glad you didn't—I had enough on my mind already, going in."

Barbara nodded back. "Do you need anything from home?"

"No, I think I'm good here. I'm just going to rest for a bit."

"Okay." She put her lips to the Plexiglas. "Barring the unforeseen, I'll be back tomorrow."

Dick smiled at the pink lipstick smear remaining on the wall. "See you then."

As Barbara wheeled her way toward the elevator, she cast a nervous glance at the lab area. Bruce's back was to her as he called instructions to Tim. Was it only her imagination, or was his voice too measured, too controlled? She bit her lip and rolled on, hoping that he hadn't overheard what she had said.

--

Bruce found Dick lying in bed staring at the ceiling. "Do you have a preference for supper?"

Dick turned on his side to face him. "I don't really have much of an appetite right now," he said.

"Still, if you aren't nauseous, you should try to get something into you."

"I know," Dick sighed, "but I'm not hungry."

"The latest PCR results are inconclusive," Bruce said. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to feeling this helpless—or at least not in this area. It's..."

Dick rolled over. "Look, Bruce? No offense? I'm sorry you're feeling helpless and you're feeling frustrated, and I don't want to sound ungrateful or anything, but you aren't stuck in bed, sick as a dog and waiting to find out if it's going to get worse, and you aren't wondering how many people are going to drop you if you end up disfigured for life, and yeah, I get that you're here and you're trying to do what you can but... I'm sorry. I can't lie here and feel bad for you because you're feeling helpless right now!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Dick knew that he shouldn't have said them. For a moment, he lay facing the opposite wall, before he nervously rolled back to face Bruce.

He wasn't overly surprised to find Bruce gone.

Dick closed his eyes. He only had himself to blame this time.

--

When he opened his eyes again, he saw a tray on his nightstand. On closer inspection, he found eight saltine crackers, spread with peanut butter, a banana, and a bowl of orange Jell-o. A tall glass of ginger ale stood next to it.

He looked around. Bruce was sitting at a nearby console, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard. As though he couldn't have done that from any terminal. Dick sighed. "Hey. Thanks."

Bruce swivelled around. "If you need anything else..."

"Not now. But thanks for picking stuff that still tastes decent at room temperature—it might have to sit here for awhile."

"There's no rush," Bruce said. "Just try to eat what you can."

Dick nodded. "Sorry I went off on you before. I know you're trying to..."

"Don't apologize," Bruce said wearily. "It's not as though you didn't have a point."

Dick reached for a cracker. "Bruce? How did you stand it? Arkham."

There was a long pause.

"It's okay," Dick said finally. "You don't have to answer."

"No," Bruce replied. "It's all right. I was just... thinking." He frowned. "I suppose the easiest answer to your question is that I... stopped. Thinking. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have stood it." He winced. "I... wouldn't recommend you try it."

"No worries. I don't think I'm planning to go that far. Just, what you were saying before about knowing what it's like being stuck in here. I don't want to do much more than lie down most of the time and it's rough on me after three days. I was just..."

"I understand." Bruce sighed. "It's not something I've wanted to discuss."

"It's okay," Dick repeated. "You don't have to."

"I haven't wanted to discuss it," Bruce continued, "because it's... not an easy thing to face. I'm sure you know the reason I didn't fight the decision to send me to Arkham. However, the fact remains: I... lost two years of my life. And I have myself to blame for at least half of that."

"Bruce..."

"One year," Bruce continued, "where I deliberately chose to withdraw. I'm aware that if I'd behaved differently at the outset, my release wouldn't have been immediate—but it would have been sooner. And then six months because... once I started thinking again, all I could think of was leaving—with or without court approval."

Dick sighed. "Bruce, you're a master escape artist, to say the least. Of course once you started... waking up, you were going to try to bust out. The only real shock was that you went back."

"I think," Bruce said slowly, "that might have been the reason I left. I... it was only when I escaped that I realized my confinement wasn't only me... punishing myself. I needed help. I'm not convinced that it needed to be as an in-patient, although since we both know that I wouldn't have sought help voluntarily, perhaps..." He shook his head. "I suppose I should be discussing this with Alex. Among other things. No, not everything," he said in response to Dick's unasked question. "I know we're doing everything properly. However, my actions could also be interpreted as preventing you from seeking medical care, my need for control running rampant, my..."

"So have Mid-Nite check me out," Dick shrugged. "He's a doctor. He can't cure me, but at least if Alex asks, you can tell him that someone's looked me over."

Bruce nodded slowly. "Hopefully, though," he said, "by the time I'm scheduled to meet with him, two days from now, you'll be on the road to recovery." He smiled and stood up with a sigh. "I'm going to get some sleep, myself. Do you need anything before I do?"

Dick shook his head. "No... yeah. I'm probably going to try to take a shower in the morning—I'm feeling kind of grungy. Could I maybe get some fresh sheets?"

Bruce nodded. "I washed some when I became aware of your circumstances. They're on the bottom shelf of the closet. Are you able to change the bedding yourself?" He asked apologetically. "It's not going to be that easy in the hazmat suit."

"Oh yeah," Dick smiled. "I think I can handle it. Where do you want the old ones?"

"Just leave them in the corner by the door. I'll collect them when I bring in your breakfast."

"Fine." He frowned then. Bruce was getting better at housekeeping, but... "Bruce? The sheets I'm lying on right now? You did wash them, right? I mean, they're not the same ones that have been on this cot for over three years?"

Bruce blinked. "They haven't been used in over three years. Why would—?"

Dick groaned. "Bruce sometimes... Never mind." He pushed himself off of the cot and stripped off the blanket. "What's done's done. Just don't do it again. I'll fix it now. Good night!"

--

Doctor Mid-Nite frowned as Bruce finished talking. "How is he today?"

"I'll let you examine him," Bruce said. "His fever was lower this morning. I've started growing the cultures on the eggs."

The doctor nodded. "There's something to be said for the old ways at times," he remarked. His frown deepened. "There's no evidence of a rash yet, is there?"

Bruce shook his head. "I know, Pieter" he said, closing his eyes."Sometimes, the temperature drops and the patient feels better just when the disease enters the next phase. I'm... hoping that's not the case here."

"I'll add my prayers to yours, then," Mid-Nite said. "All right. Take me to him, please Bruce? I'll have a look."

"This way." Bruce extended his bent arm to Mid-Nite. Mid-Nite took hold and allowed Bruce to lead him toward the quarantine unit. "Dick?" Bruce drew in his breath sharply. There were raised red welts clearly visible on Dick's face, neck and hands. They appeared to extend beneath the collar and sleeves of his pajamas, too.

"Hey," Dick said softly. "Hi, Doc."

The cave floor seemed to dissolve beneath Bruce's feet as his mind began to scream.

To be continued!!

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