The Way Back #34

Bruce had come close to death often enough to know that the cliché about one's entire life passing before one's eyes was not always true. And he wasn't close to death now. But seeing the red rash on his son's exposed skin, he was definitely having flashbacks: to an eight-year-old boy sobbing in the center ring, even as other members of the circus surrounded him, trying to block his view of the tragedy; to carrying Dick's battered figure into the cave after Two-Face had worked him over; to the night a bullet from Joker's pistol had entered Dick's shoulder, its momentum sending the teen plummeting over the edge of a 50-story building; to the day he'd received a telephone call from the Bludhaven PD. "Mr. Wayne, Officer Grayson has listed you as his next of kin. Sir, I need to tell you that he's been shot..."

His heart lurched. He was losing his son and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

"Do you hear me?"

Bruce blinked. "What?" Dimly, he realized that Mid-Nite was trying to get his attention.

"Bruce," the doctor said, "I'm blind at this light-level, remember? I need you to describe his symptoms to me."

Technically, that wasn't true. Dick could answer the question just as well; probably better. Mid-Nite's request did have the effect of bringing Bruce back to the present, though. "His fever was at 102.4 last night," Bruce said, fighting to keep his voice even. "This morning, it was down to 101. I checked when I brought in his breakfast, about an hour ago. As of right now, all visible skin is covered with red blotches."

Mid-Nite nodded. "But you say the flu test was positive."

"It was." Bruce grimaced. "Perhaps I should have run a second one to be sure."

A soft cluck made both men turn. A speckled hen ambled by, pecking at the cave floor with apparent irritation. Mid-Nite tilted his head. "Did I just hear a..."

"Chicken," Bruce said. "Yes. I told you, we've had little luck with PCR so—"

Mid-Nite shook his head. "You do know that you have to wait eleven days before trying to grow a virus culture in a hen's egg, right?"

"Eight to eleven," Bruce admitted. "I'm starting it earlier, hoping I might get some indication."

The doctor frowned but let it pass. "Can you call Superman, or shall I?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Mid-Nite sighed. "Bruce, from what you've described, it really doesn't sound like smallpox. I'm willing to concede that we could be dealing with a mutated strain. The odds are against it, but I'll agree that there's still a risk. The thing is, there is one simple clinical test that we can conduct, which should determine what we're looking at—but it can't be done from inside a hazmat suit. Since smallpox can't naturally infect native animal life, it's a safe bet that, as an extra-terrestrial, he'd be immune, too." As Mid-Nite explained, Bruce started shaking his head.

"You don't know whether his senses will perceive things the same way."

"No, but I'll lay odds he'll detect something different."

"Unless, just as some people are genetically incapable of smelling freesia, he'll—"

"Bruce!" Mid-Nite sounded exasperated. "So far, he's been on Earth for some... what... forty-odd years, give or take? In all that time, we haven't found a single instance where we were able to detect something he couldn't and a number of instances where the reverse held true. Now are you going to call him, or am I?" In a softer tone, he added, "Or we could just wait another day or so, to see what happens."

Bruce shook his head. He didn't think he could handle two more days, although he knew that he might have to. He turned back to the computer console and manipulated a few controls. "Clark," he said, "I need your help."

--

He wore the costume this time. "You need me to go in there to see whether I can smell the disease?" he asked.

Bruce nodded, but it was Mid-Nite who spoke. "Not the disease precisely—the cytokines." When Superman didn't reply, he continued. "Cytokines are protein molecules, secreted by—among other things—certain cells of the immune system. They act as messengers to white blood cells for the body's defenses. As smallpox progresses, it interferes with the cytokine's routine drifting and the body's defenses begin to fail. The immune cells react by creating more cytokines, which sends the body's immune system into overdrive, in what we call a cytokine storm. Essentially, because the body is creating too many cytokines, it then activates more immune cells, creating a feedback loop—which creates even more strain on the body. Plus, when the immune cells and fluids build up in the lungs, they block vital oxygen from getting through. Most doctors now believe that the majority of flu deaths occur when that happens." His tone was mild, but his expression was deadly serious as he continued.

"The term 'cytokine storm' has only been used within the last two decades, but the condition is one of the hallmarks of smallpox. The storms cause the patient's skin to secrete certain gases, which lead to a sickly-sweet smell—what used to be called 'the foetor of smallpox'."

Superman frowned. "And you need me to check for that."

"As the disease progresses, the odor intensifies," Mid-Night explained, "but even in early stages, doctors were able to detect it by smelling the patient's wrists and forehead. It's doubtful that you would need to get in that close."

"But you need someone who can enter the unit without wearing a helmet and face-mask, and I'm immune." Superman nodded as he spoke. "All right. Let's do this."

"For the record," Dick called out, "I've been showering."

Superman turned and smiled. "Good to know."

"You'll need to shower too," Bruce gestured toward the decon shower stall he'd set up midway down the passage that led to the quarantine unit proper. "You may be immune, but you could still carry something out with you."

"Believe it or not, Bruce," Clark said drily, "I do know a little bit about biohazard safety protocols. For what it's worth, I'm not picking up any sort of unusual odor from out here." He wrinkled his nose. "Except for those chickens," he added, as he advanced toward the mouth of the passage. "This should only take a minute."

--

As Superman headed into the quarantine unit, Mid-Nite drew Bruce aside. "Just so you know," he said sternly, "if I can detect the difference in your breathing, there's a good chance he can too. He just might not know what it means. How long have you been experiencing symptoms?"

Bruce glowered.

Mid-Nite cocked his head. "Bruce, if you're trying to intimidate me, it works better when I can see it."

Bruce sighed. "Variola isn't contagious until first symptoms manifest," he said, for what felt like the twentieth time. "Unfortunately, the flu virus isn't so obliging. Between ibuprofen, meditation, and biofeedback, I'm managing."

The doctor frowned. "And less than a year ago, you were in the ICU for smoke inhalation." He pulled out a device that was roughly the same size and shape as a cell phone. "That places you in a higher risk category for respiratory ailments. I'm putting you on Zanamivir—ten milligrams, twice daily—for the next five days."

"I've taken it before," Bruce snapped. "It interferes with my concentration; right now, I can't afford that."

"Most flu meds have that potential side effect—"

"—which is why I'm not taking them."

"Bruce, forgive me but from what you've been telling me, you've spent the last few days trying to diagnose Dick's condition. Time will make that clear in any case, and likely fairly soon. The only thing your tests might accomplish is your knowing the diagnosis a day or two earlier. Even if you were close to a cure, I'd be extremely reluctant to let you hold off on taking the medication, under those circumstances, but that's not the case here. Bruce, everything you're doing now is—"

"Don't," Bruce snarled. "Do not say it."

"I'm sorry, Bruce." Mid-Nite's voice was soft but firm. "You may not want to face it, but all you've been doing down here is no better than busywork." He heard the sudden intake of breath, the scuff-squeak of a rubber-soled shoe on metal deck plating, the rustle of fabric, and the change in air pressure as Bruce's arm came up, but the JSA doctor stood his ground. "Go ahead, Bruce," he said quickly. "Hit me if it helps. But fill the prescription." He braced for a blow which never fell. Instead, he heard ragged breathing, which was quickly followed by a dry coughing fit. "Thanks for turning around to cough," he said, when Bruce had finished.

Bruce waited until his voice and his breathing were both under control before he replied. "I can't just sit and watch," he said hollowly. "Patrolling is... not an option. I have a meeting with my," he grimaced, "my court-appointed psychiatrist, tomorrow afternoon, which was going to serve as a break—if only because I didn't see a way to avoid that..."

"You could have just asked me for a doctor's note, you know. It's not like you're faking being sick to get out of the appointment."

Bruce nodded, feeling some of his tension drain away as he did. It was quickly replaced by a great weariness, as the full weight of the symptoms he'd been struggling to control came crashing over him.

The sound of a throat clearing behind the two men caused them to turn as one to find Superman standing before them. "The only thing I picked up beyond normal cave smells, pheromones, and perspiration was disinfectant. If there is any cytokine build-up, it's not something I can detect."

Bruce exhaled. Another cough escaped him.

"Bruce?"

"It's under control," Bruce snapped back irritably. "Or at least, it will be after Pieter transmits a prescription to the Florgreens at Webb and Glen Cove Way."

"Transmitting now," Mid-Nite said, hitting a button on the device in his hand. "And," he smiled, "well, since it's not smallpox, there's no real reason I can't go into the unit myself to see what's behind that rash."

"Is quarantine even warranted?" Superman wanted to know.

Mid-Nite considered. "Probably not, but fighting the flu can take a lot out of a person. If Dick is comfortable where he is, there's no pressing need to move him if he doesn't feel up to it. You'd best get that prescription filled."

"In street clothes," Bruce added, seeing that Superman was about to leave.

"Oh, right." The Man of Steel had the grace to look sheepish as he headed into another part of the cave to change.

After he'd gone, Mid-Nite placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I'll check on Dick. As for you, call your doctor. Take the Zanamivir. And get some rest. In that order." He sighed. "Give your body a little time to heal now, or you'll find that your body will take a longer time down the road. And Bruce? You do know that you don't have to go through any of this alone, correct?"

Bruce closed his eyes as he nodded slowly. "Pieter... thanks."

Mid-Nite smiled. "You're welcome. Now go make that call. Oh. Kill the cave lights first? At least in this area? It'll make things easier. Better yet, show me the controls so that I can turn them back on when I finish."

There was no point in mentioning that if he was mistaken and Dick did turn out to have smallpox after all, Bruce's symptoms almost certainly indicated the same diagnosis. If they were dealing with a vaccine-resistant strain of the disease, their only recourse now was to seal up the manor—and pray.

--

Mid-Nite ran a finger gently over Dick's arm. "Does that hurt?"

"They sting when you touch them," Dick replied. "But they're more itchy than painful. I've been trying not to scratch..."

"Good idea," Mid-Nite said with approval. "Have you noticed whether the rash is worse in any specific area? For example, your torso, or your extremities?"

"Not really," Dick grimaced. He had to admit it was weird to be examined in total darkness. Even though he knew he wasn't alone, hearing another voice so close and being touched by someone he couldn't see was a bit unnerving.

"And it was like this when you woke up?"

Dick closed his eyes and thought for a moment. "I... no. Bruce brought in breakfast, checked my temperature, and took a blood sample. After that, I didn't feel much like eating, so I took a shower and changed into a fresh pair of PJs." He frowned. "Actually, I think I thought my hands were a little red, but they also felt like I'd been sleeping on them."

"Ah. Give me your hand, please?"

Dick held out his hand palm down. Mid-Nite grasped it.

"No rash or inflammation on the palms. Was there anything earlier?"

"No," Dick said, shaking his head. Keeping his eyes closed seemed to help restore his equilibrium. Maybe it was because that way, he didn't feel like he ought to be able to see.

"How about on the soles of your feet?"

"I haven't noticed... hang on," he kicked the bedclothes away. "Hide your eyes," he said, as he tapped a stud on his watch, illuminating the bed with a faint green light. "No. Plenty on the upper part, though."

Mid-Nite waited until the light was off. "Unsurprising," he nodded. "And—I know what it looks and feels like to me, but confirm, please—in your opinion, would you say that the rash has more the appearance of pimples, or welts?"

Dick didn't hesitate. "Welts. Definitely."

Mid-Nite nodded. "I suppose you've been expecting this one," he said with a smile, as he took out a tongue depressor. "No medical examination is ever complete without your doctor asking you to stick out your tongue and say 'ah'."

Dick chuckled in response before complying.

"You haven't noticed any sign of the rash inside your mouth, have you?" Mid-Nite asked, as he moved the implement away.

"No."

"Not on your tongue?"

"No!" Dick shuddered at the thought. "Ack! That sounds horrible."

Mid-Nite nodded soberly. "It does. But that's fairly typical for variola—or, if you prefer—smallpox." His smile returned. "Okay. Let's add it all up. You have a rash that resembles welts. It stings and it itches, but it's not particularly painful. There's no sign of it inside your mouth. It's fairly evenly spread out over your body, with the exception of your palms and soles. Does that sum it up well?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Good. Now let me share a few facts about a smallpox rash with you. A smallpox rash begins with redness on the face and arms. The red areas spread together and become blotches. Within hours, pimples erupt from the blotches. People who have experienced the symptom describe these pimples as being 'sharp' rather than 'itchy'—that's evidently how they feel subjectively to the patient, rather than their being objectively 'sharp to the touch'. A smallpox rash spreads over the entire body, but favors the face and extremities. It seldom spares the palms or soles either. And, as mentioned, it extends to within the mouth, as well. So. Taking all of that into consideration, and adding in that neither Superman nor I found any evidence of cytokine storm activity, I'm forced to conclude..." His smile grew wider. "You don't have smallpox."

Dick let out a long slow breath. "Then... what is this? Do you know?"

Mid-Nite frowned. "Yes and no. I do know what it is, but I'm not entirely sure what's causing it in your case. It's nothing life-threatening, though, for all I don't doubt it's making you miserable."

"Doc?"

Mid-Nite smiled again. "It's hives, Dick. They could be caused by an allergic reaction, or an infection, or a rapid change in temperature. Sometimes there is no apparent cause. But what you've described—and my examination corroborates it—is virtually a textbook description. Now, if you've introduced any new food into your diet recently or... or tried some new cologne or aftershave, I'd eliminate it for the time being and see if it helps. If the hives don't clear up in the next day or so, call me. But unless this rash changes markedly and starts taking on the characteristics I've mentioned, it's not smallpox."

He got up from his stool. "None of that alters the fact that you're still fighting the flu, you're still feverish, and," he frowned, "Bruce mentioned some of the pressures you've been under lately. They aren't helping your condition. For now, the best advice I can give you is, 'relax'. It's not smallpox. But it could still be dangerous if you try to push your recovery too fast. Just rest up and let this run its course. I'm putting you on Hydroxizine for the hives—that's an antihistamine, so don't be surprised if it knocks you out. If that's not enough, Calamine lotion should help too. You're over the hump with the flu, so I think we can let nature take its course on that one. I am going to leave you with a prescription for Zanamivir, but only take it if your fever spikes again. If this doesn't clear up in the next two days, contact me and we'll re-evaluate. Any questions? "

Dick shook his head. "Nope. Thanks, Doc." He grinned. "Really. Thanks."

--

Bruce bent over a Petrie dish and tried to ignore his aching muscles. He was so close, he knew he was. Just a few more tests... a few more... He was startled out of his work by loud voices.

"Hey! You can't just..."

That had been Jim's voice. Bruce looked up as he heard heavy feet pounding on the floor plates. They reached him in moments. He blinked and felt himself settle automatically into a combat stance. There had to be at least 30 strangers in the cave, all wearing hazmat suits and toting riot gear.

"I tried to stop them," Jim said, "but they have—"

"Orders," one of the men in front interrupted. "Due to the infectious nature of the disease, the threat must be contained by any means necessary." At a gesture, half of the team headed down the passage toward the quarantine unit.

Bruce started. The weapons were out and clearly ready for use. "No!" he gasped. He tried to stop them, but four men sprang forward to seize hold him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Jim was similarly restrained. He couldn't see Tim, but he could hear him cursing.

"Get them out of here!"

As they frog-marched him out of the cave, he could hear Dick screaming hoarsely. He fought to break loose, and was able to turn his head enough to see flickering patterns on the cave walls. Flamethrowers! They weren't moving Dick to some secure facility. They were...!

He smelled smoke. Dick was coughing now. Bruce struggled against his captors, as they hauled him out of the cave, out of the manor, and shoved him unceremoniously into the back of a squad car. The door slammed behind him. He didn't see Jim or Tim anywhere, but he pounded on the window for all he was worth. There was a metal grate dividing the front and back seat, but the front window was open.

"He's really agitated," Bruce heard a voice say.

"Yeah, better get him to Arkham for observation."

No, not Arkham! Dick needed him! As the motor started, he heard Tim screaming his name.

"Bruce! Bruce!"

"...Bruce! Bruce!"

Bruce coughed. "No. You can't! Dick..."

"Bruce." Tim was beaming and waving a printout. "Bruce, wake up! The last PCR worked!"

Bruce's eyes opened. "What?" He asked in momentary confusion. He was on the cot in the cave. In the lab. He wrinkled his nose as an acrid odor reached him. He looked around and grimaced. This was going to be the last time he tried to heat up leftovers over a Bunsen burner when he was too tired to see straight. No need to wonder what had prompted that nightmare, he thought ruefully. Between the smell of his burning lunch and his very real fears... All at once, he realized what Tim was trying to tell him. "You got the primers to bond?"

"They bonded," Tim nodded, thrusting the printout at him. "See for yourself. Quarantine's over. It's not variola, it's vaccinia!"

--

Dick was sitting up in bed and watching TV when Bruce unsealed the inner door of the quarantine unit. The sound made him turn. "No hazmat suit?" he asked.

Bruce shook his head, smiling. "No variola. The last round of PCR confirmed Mid-Nite's diagnosis. It's not smallpox. Just a combination of flu and hives." Bruce spun around and coughed into his sleeve. He turned back to see Dick staring at him in horror. "Don't blame yourself for this one," he said wearily. "I insisted that you come here, when you would have gone to a hospital. I," he winced, "postponed getting a flu shot, even though I knew it was advisable." He sighed. "I realize that your old bedroom has considerably fewer amenities," he ventured, his gaze taking in the athletic and entertainment facilities that he'd incorporated into the unit, "but I think Jim will find it easier to look in on both of us if he doesn't have to navigate quite as many stairs and elevators."

"Both of..."

Bruce's expression hardened. "You were wearing yourself out before this happened. You're not leaving here at less than one hundred per cent." He looked down. "And since," he mumbled, "I've never intentionally demanded more from you than I demanded from myself, it would smack of hypocrisy to start now."

A broad grin spread across Dick's face. "Oh, I'll stick around," Dick said, wincing as his dry lips started to bleed. "Nobody will ever believe you followed doctor's orders without a credible eyewitness!"

Bruce winced. "I wasn't exactly planning to publicize the fact," he said, covering another cough.

Dick started to laugh.

"After all," Bruce said as he beat a dignified retreat from the quarantine unit, "I do have a reputation to rebuild..."

It took a supreme effort not to reseal the door on the sound of Dick's laughter.

--

There was an email waiting for him when he got back to the console. He recognized the encryption instantly.

Just wanted to let you know we've been in the Solomons for two days. We checked into the Kaolo Sunset Resort on San Jorge. It's been almost 90 degrees here. Went to Savo early this morning to see the dolphins. Helena was more interested in the other tourists than the marine life. She misses you, though. Just like her mommy. How's Dick? How are you? I've been checking the Gazette online, and so far I guess it's too early, but I suppose, no news is good news? It's beautiful here. I'd like to come back and visit again someday. But for now, well, it's not really much of a vacation, though I'm trying to make it one. By the way, they have this dessert here. Indigenous. Bananas mixed with other exotic fruits, wrapped in pearl cassavas, and topped with whipped cream. I think I've seen it served with caramel, too. I have no idea what it's called, but Helena loves it! Anyway, it might be worth seeing if there's anywhere to get some in Gotham. Hope to be back soon.

Selina

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. Then, he hit 'reply'.

It's flu. Come back anytime. Phone before coming to the manor. Still contagious. Both of us.

That was all he needed to say. It was safe to come back to Gotham, but not to see him. He'd never been one for writing long letters. His emails read more like telegrams. Still, he hesitated, staring at the screen for several long moments, before finally typing:

Miss you both too.

Bruce

He clicked the 'send' button. Then he went upstairs to call Alex.

--

Alex took Bruce's declaration of illness at face value.

"There is a lot of that going around at this time of year," he said mildly. "Two of my youngest are down with it right now. So, I'll see you next week, then?"

Bruce confirmed it, fighting down a wave of irritation. If he was going through the trouble of jumping through court-ordered hoops, the least Alex could do was demand that he fax over the doctor's note!

"By the way, Bruce, if anything does come up between now and next week, please feel free to call. Some of my clients see these sessions as a chance to unwind, and find themselves under more stress if they have to miss a meeting—particularly if they hadn't been expecting to."

"I'll do that," Bruce said. He mentally added, When the Earth becomes a burned-out cinder orbiting a dead sun. Then he quickly shifted the mouthpiece away, as the urge to cough overwhelmed him.

"That sounded nasty," Alex said. "Just take it easy for a few days. And much as I know you resent it, I will need a doctor's note for your file. You can bring it next week."

Finally! "Not a problem. I can fax it—"

"No, just bring it when you come. My machine's been acting up. It can wait until you come in. See you next Monday."

As Bruce hung up the phone, he felt his strength ebb away. Putting up a stoic front before others was still instinctive, even when it better served his purpose not to—but now, with nobody to impress or to be strong for, Bruce knew he had to look as ill as he felt. His head, arms, neck and shoulders were aching as he dragged himself upstairs and into bed.

--

Two days later, Dick's temperature was back to normal. The hives, however, remained. If the antihistamine weren't keeping him drowsy, he would have divided his downtime between checking up on Bruce and working out in the cave. As it was, getting out of bed for the thirty-foot walk to the bathroom seemed to involve long minutes of internal debate as to whether he should get up now, or wait a few minutes longer. Walking to Bruce's room, fifteen feet in the opposite direction, felt like a major hike. Still, whenever Dick did have to get up, he tried to force himself to look in on him.

Late that night, when the itchiness kept him half-awake, he was jolted alert when his door creaked open. Automatically, he fumbled for his escrima, before he remembered that they were down in the cave, and not wedged between the box springs and the bed frame, the way they were at home.

"At ease," a hoarse voice rumbled.

"Bruce?" Dick struggled to sit up. "Is everything okay?" He fumbled for the small reading lamp, keeping his eyes closed against the sudden change in illumination. He waited another moment before he cautiously opened them.

Bruce was leaning against the doorframe.

"You look like hell," Dick said bluntly.

Bruce's lips twitched. "So do you."

Dick sank back against the pillow. "I called Mid-Nite this afternoon. He told me to give it another couple of days, and if they still haven't gone away, he'll run an allergy test. He said that some allergies only develop in adulthood."

"I know." He smiled wearily. "Sorry I disturbed you. This last week has been... stressful. I woke up and I just wanted to... that is to say..."

Dick grinned. "It's okay, Bruce. Half the time I've been lying here—the half I've been awake, anyway—I've been trying to let myself believe it's really over."

Bruce took a half step into the room. He paused, waiting.

"Come in, already," Dick said, motioning Bruce toward the desk chair.

Bruce sat down with a muffled sigh. "I can't believe I mistook—"

"Hey," Dick held up a hand. "We mistook. Jim was right. We knew I was exposed to smallpox, so when I got the flu, we assumed it was the early stages. We knew the next stage was a rash, and rather than actually look at what kind of a rash we were dealing with, we jumped to conclusions. It happens."

"I should have looked," Bruce said.

"And?" Dick sighed. "Bruce, you said it yourself. There hasn't been an actual case of smallpox on U.S. soil in over 70 years. The last natural manifestation on the planet was before I was born. So if, as you pointed out, medical professionals might not have recognized the symptoms for what they were, is it that unbelievable that we messed up too?" He closed his eyes. "I'm just glad it's over. Mostly over."

Bruce nodded. "I seem to be recovering as well. Which," he added, his tone lightening, "would appear to suggest that my lungs weren't permanently damaged last May."

"About time we had a little good news," Dick mumbled sleepily.

"Yes."

Dick closed his eyes. "The Hydroxizine is kicking in again. I think I'm done fighting it, unless there was anything else?"

"No." Bruce placed a hand on Dick's forehead. It was cool to the touch. "Your fever's still gone," he said, absently pushing a stray lock of hair out of his son's eyes. "At least, I think it is. Mine is... lower."

Dick's eyelids inched open again. "But you still have one? And you're up and moving around?" He rolled his eyes, smiling ruefully. "I thought you were trying to set a good example for me. Go back to bed, Bruce. I'll see you in the morning."

Bruce squeezed his shoulder. "Rest well."

"You too." He hesitated. "Hey. Thanks for checking up on me."

"It's no more than you've been doing for me. Good night."

"'Night."

--

Barbara came over the next morning, armed with a large picnic hamper. "I really wish you'd let the League know you're not going to run them out of Gotham on a rail if they set foot within city limits," she said, as she set the basket down on the vestibule bench. "I must've fielded about 30 calls in the last 72 hours."

Bruce frowned. He didn't think the Zanamivir was bothering him as much now as it had for the first day or so, but it felt like he was missing something. "Barbara?"

She sighed. "Looks like Mid-Nite got the word out about the two of you being sick, but Clark kept mum about your finally learning to cook! You've got chili from Ollie, pomegranate cookies from Diana, rhubarb pie from Clark—his mother baked it, so make sure Daddy gets some..."

"What?" He must have taken a double dose by accident.

Barbara sighed. "Thanks to J'onn—he sent Chocos, by the way—I now have a JLA transporter in my workroom. Just in case you run out of food. And why is everyone always worried about tripping your security?" she demanded in mock annoyance. "I've got systems, too, you know!" When Bruce still looked puzzled, she grinned. "The JLA sent you a care package, but even after three years, they still won't enter Gotham without your okay. And since you've actually been on bed-rest and not checking your messages, they've been going through me. Here." She gestured toward the picnic basket. "Enjoy. Or at least pretend you did when they ask you. How are you feeling?"

Bruce's confusion gave way to shock. "They sent—"

"Yes, Bruce. For both of you. And if you're not up for any of it yet..." She reached into the tote bag that hung on the arm of her wheelchair and extracted a large thermos, "I made this. It's chicken soup. How's Dick doing?"

"Apart from the hives?" Bruce smiled. "Much better."

"But his skin still hasn't cleared up." She sighed. "Is he awake? Can I go see him?"

"Yes and yes." He was still eyeing the basket disbelievingly.

Barbara smiled. "You can pick it up, Bruce. It won't explode." Her smile widened. "Even if I did have to do some rearranging to get everything packed down enough so I could close the lid. I'll see you in a bit."

--

"It's been lonely without you," Barbara said, as she helped herself to a Choco. Bruce had brought the package in a few moments after she'd gone upstairs.

Dick followed suit. "I've missed you too, Red." He carefully removed the upper cookie wafer, popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. "If I knew for sure what was causing this, and that it wasn't contagious, I'd be home already. It's just... we messed up big time assuming we were dealing with smallpox, but at least we messed up on the cautious side. I don't want to make the reverse mistake, assume we're dealing with something minor, and..."

"Should I leave, then?" Barbara asked archly.

"No way." He reached for another Choco, and removed the top wafer again. "I don't honestly think this is anything serious. Just, trust me: you don't want me sharing it." He looked at the two Chocos on his plate and pressed them together, combining the vanilla crème frostings. He grimaced. "You have no idea how badly I itch. All over."

"I thought the antihistamine was helping!"

Dick nodded. "It is. So imagine what I'd feel like without it."

Barbara sighed. "Maybe I'll go online later and see if I can come up with any proven home remedies. Are you using the Calamine, too?"

"Yes. It helps some. Until it wears off," he grimaced. "Not that I'm seriously wishing I could switch back, but I think I was in better shape when I thought I was in worse shape."

Barbara clucked sympathetically. All at once, she smiled.

"What?"

"Sorry, I was just thinking. You and Bruce really are a lot alike. When you're moaning this badly about the minor things, it's a sure sign you're nearly better. And you weren't complaining anywhere near this much when you had the flu."

"Give me a break, Babs. I was scared!"

"I know. And now you aren't. So you have time to be miserable." She giggled. "I should get back. Ollie probably whipped up another batch of chili."

Dick moaned. "I thought the idea was for me to get better."

"So use it to power your 'cycle. It's oily enough." They shared a laugh. "I'm just going to check in on Bruce for a minute. Do you need anything?"

Dick shook his head. "No. Yeah... actually. The robe hanging in the bathroom—I've been wearing it since quarantine. Could you just drop it off in the laundry room? The cleaning staff comes in tomorrow and they'll take care of it."

"Not a problem."

--

Bruce met her outside Dick's room.

"Well, at least he's in good spirits," Barbara said. "Think he'll be home anytime soon?"

"He is ho—" Bruce caught himself. "I'm sorry. If he wants to leave now, I won't stop him."

"He doesn't. Not until the hives clear up." She smiled wearily. "Guess it's been like old times, his being back here."

Bruce forced himself to smile back. "I know he has to leave eventually. I suppose, even if I invited you to—"

Barbara shook her head sadly. "It wouldn't work, Bruce, and you know it. Not only because we'd get on each other's nerves after awhile." She smiled, but looked away from the cameras. "I moved out of Daddy's house long before I moved in with Dick. Part of it was that I had to hide my computer setup, but a lot of it was... I love my father, but I need my space. So. With him in and out, you and me walking on eggshells to avoid getting in each other's hair—and, Bruce, this is your home. You shouldn't have to do that on your own turf."

"I can deal with that."

"Famous last words. I know you mean them, but you'll change your tune pretty fast. Anyway, sooner or later, we'd have a fight. Or Daddy and I would. Or Dick and I would. And stuff we'd normally work out for ourselves... someone would step in and make things worse. Or they wouldn't step in and they'd get blamed if things got worse and..." she sighed. "Bruce. Trust me on this. As big as the manor is, it wouldn't be big enough."

Bruce pursed his lips, but he didn't contradict her.

"Well," Barbara said brightly, "at least both of you are on the road to recovery. And neither of you need to be quarantined."

A shadow passed over Bruce's face, as he said, "I can't believe I had to put him through that."

"You were doing what you thought was right. Nobody can fault you for that." Her lips twitched. "Even if you want to fault yourself. Bruce, is it that important for there to be someone to blame in this? I mean, I guess you can blame those monkeys who tore his suit, but the latest word is they had to euth them anyway." She looked down at the robe in her hands. "Where's your laundry room?"

Bruce's eyebrows lifted. "You don't know?"

"Hey, I only used to access your security grid to keep tabs on you. Before all of this, when was the last time you did laundry?"

He had the grace to smile at that. "There are facilities in the Cave," he said, beckoning her toward the elevator.

"Oh. Dick said to leave it for the cleaning staff."

Bruce shook his head. "I still have the bedding from the lab and quarantine unit to wash, and the staff have enough to do with the general household cleaning." He grimaced. "Besides, it keeps Alex off my back."

"Ah, I see." The doors parted on the first level and the two headed into the study.

Bruce turned the clock aside.

As they headed down the ramp to the cave elevator, Bruce paused for a moment.

Barbara nearly rolled into him. "You okay?"

Bruce nodded, but he held up one hand, while he braced himself against the cave wall with the other.

"Bruce, why don't you go back to bed? I can take care of this."

"You just said," he wheezed, "you didn't know where the laundry room was. I'm fine."

They stopped by the quarantine unit to collect the bedding, before Bruce led Barbara to a small alcove situated partway between the Crays and the main security array.

"Okay, we're here," Barbara said. "Now will you please go back upstairs?"

Bruce was about to agree, but he caught himself. "I forgot about the lab cot. Wait here."

When he came back, it was to see Barbara looking at the shelf above the washing machine with a bemused expression. "Bruce... what I said earlier about you not being to blame for any of this? I... I may have been wrong."

To be continued...

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