The Way Back #35

As Barbara explained what she meant, Bruce's jaw dropped. Then his expression hardened. He opened the dryer, lifted out an armload of clothes and dropped them unceremoniously back into the washing machine. "The bedding," he muttered, as he added detergent. "I've probably washed all of the bedding at least once since I've been back. The infirmary cot was the only..." he slammed the lid of the washer down, set the controls and tore out of the laundry alcove at a run.

"Bruce," Barbara called after him, as she hurried to keep up. "Wait! Where are you going?"

"The spare bedrooms in the east wing," he called back, without turning around. "Or the west—it doesn't matter. They may not have been washed in years, but given the circumstances..."

"Hold up," Barbara panted, pushing her chair hard. "We don't know for sure, I mean, just because I'm allergic to that brand of fabric softener doesn't mean he is."

"Which is why I'm looking for bedding that hasn't been through the dryer cycle with the stuff," Bruce shot back. "If you're right, we should know soon." He barely held the elevator doors long enough for her to roll inside.

As they entered the study, Barbara turned to him. "Do you want me to get them?" she asked. "You don't look so hot." She winced. "Or rather, you do. In the feverish sense."

Bruce winced. "That would be a help," he admitted. "I'll get Dick settled on the couch in the meanwhile, and as soon as that wash I put in is done, I'll have him change."

"You're going to tell him right now?"

Bruce hesitated. "We've had enough false hopes and false alarms in the last few days. For now, let's keep our hypothesis to ourselves. If it turns out not to be the fabric softener, he'll be no worse off than he is now, and Mid-Nite can still run that test. And if it is, we should get confirmation in short order."

--

The laundry took an hour and a half. Two hours after he'd changed into a fresh pair of pajamas, Dick stopped itching. Two hours after that, his hives had faded noticeably. Forty-five minutes later, Bruce walked into the den, apprehension visible on his face as he sat down in the armchair next to the sofa on which Dick was reclining.

"I'm guessing I'm allergic to your laundry soap?" Dick asked.

Bruce let out a long breath. "Fabric softener. You can thank Barbara for catching it; it seems that she has a similar issue with that brand." He closed his eyes. "If you want to hit me, I won't blame you in the slightest."

"Now I know you're still feeling sick," Dick grinned. "Look, unless you deliberately used that fabric softener to try to keep me here..." His eyes narrowed. "You didn't, did you?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Okay, just checking. As I was saying, you didn't know I was allergic, because this is the first time you've ever done my laundry. I didn't know I was allergic, because Babs never buys that fabric softener. Even Babs didn't know, since we weren't living together when she found out that she shouldn't be using it."

"And," Jim said, walking into the den, "I had no idea of any of this because I never buy fabric softener in the first place."

"Right," Dick nodded. "So, seriously, Bruce, you're off the hook on this one."

"I should have suspected..."

"Right. Between the flu knocking you out on your feet and the flu meds interfering with your concentration..." He broke off, hearing a knock on the open den door.

Tim was standing in the doorway, smiling wearily. "Does anyone need anything before I grab a nap? Cass and I are patrolling tonight, so I thought I'd get a few hours of shuteye before dark."

The three men exchanged glances.

"Let's blame him!" Dick whispered. His eyes took on a mischievous gleam.

Jim guffawed.

Bruce smiled.

Tim swallowed theatrically as Dick tossed a sofa cushion at the open doorway. Then he fired it back.

Three more pillows converged on him as he fled, laughing down the hall.

"If the cameras caught this," Jim rumbled, "I want a copy."

--

The next evening, Dick went down to the cave. This time, he gave the quarantine area a wide berth and headed directly to the main workout space. When he looked at the ceiling, however, he blinked in surprise. The rings and trapeze were gone. A quick survey of his surroundings told him that the other gymnastics equipment wasn't where it belonged either.

"I haven't had a chance to move them back yet," Bruce said from behind.

Dick sighed. "Well, I'm not going back into sickbay so fast; not even for a workout. Guess I'll stick to floor work. Unless," he smiled hopefully, "you're not up for a spar yet, are you?"

Bruce hesitated. Then he gave a regretful sigh. "Ask me again in a day or so," he said.

Dick nodded. "I shouldn't have even suggested it. Okay..." he ran at the mat, planted his hands firmly and turned a cartwheel. He did a series of flips before he kicked out from a handstand, twisted, and fell to the mat.

"Are you all right?" Bruce asked.

Dick nodded. "Maybe I should just keep to the basics for a little longer," he admitted. "And forget about patrol for a few days."

Bruce nodded back. "It's difficult," he said. "Finding your way back. Even if, in your case, it's only been a slight detour."

"Guess you'd know about that," Dick said, getting up from the mat. "This isn't the first time something like this has happened. For either of us."

Bruce frowned.

"Blockbuster."

"Ah."

Dick sighed. "Okay. Current standings of today's bout are, Mat: one, Grayson: zero. Guess I'll head upstairs and see if maybe they'll be showing a Happy Days rerun I haven't seen."

"You know," Bruce said slowly, "if you'd care to look over some of the cold cases that Montoya's been bringing over, I can shift part of the pile your way. Of course, if you'd rather watch television..."

"How big is this pile?"

"At present? Thirty-two cases, excluding the three that I was making some headway with before all of this happened."

Dick grinned. "That should be good for an afternoon or two."

--

They worked side by side in relative silence. Dick was used to that. Bruce never had been one for conversation, preferring to wait for all the evidence to be in before sharing his conclusions—if then. And Dick had eventually tired of trying to carry a conversation on his own. Now, however, the silence had a different quality. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce lay down his pen several times and look at him, as if he were about to say something. Each time, though, he seemed to stop himself and go back to whatever he was working on. Finally, Dick set down his own pen and turned to Bruce with raised eyebrows.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Bruce grimaced. "There was a time when people seemed to think they were worth more than that," he said dryly. His shoulders slumped. "Now, I wonder if they even rank that highly."

Dick frowned. Bruce hadn't sounded this low since right after he'd come home. "Did Krait call up with some new stipulation?"

Bruce laid down his pen. "We were fortunate," he said softly.

"Yeah," Dick blinked. "So...?"

"Fortunate that Lucius was willing to send over the materials I wanted when I asked for them," he clarified. "I realize that ultimately, they weren't essential. However, next time, they might be. And next time, Lucius could be unavailable."

Dick set aside the case that he was working on. "Well... I mean, wouldn't the League's files have a lot of what you need?"

"A lot," Bruce nodded. "Not all." He took a deep breath. "Initially, I didn't protest when the Wayne Enterprises—excuse me," he winced. "...when the Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises board of directors made it clear that I was no longer welcome on the premises. I had other—more pressing—matters to deal with. I still do. But I think it might be time to revisit the situation. A day might well arise when I would need some prototype or other, and I'd prefer not to have to break into my own company." His eyebrows drew together. "Or to have to beg Lucius for a favor that could get him fired, if the board found out."

Dick frowned. "I meant what I said before about backing you," he said. "But shouldn't we wait until your hearing before we start rocking that boat?"

"Absolutely," Bruce nodded. "But before that, I think it's time to test the waters. I never had time to read the society pages before, and I'm willing to admit that having been out of the loop for so long, some things may have changed, but..." he squared his shoulders. "I know that 'President Emeritus' is just an empty title the board bestowed on me to soften the blow. Notwithstanding that, I don't believe it would be completely unwarranted for me to put in an appearance at the next fundraiser. It might be time to come out of retirement from," he coughed, "civilian life."

Dick grinned. "Somerset General needs a better CT scanner. The Wayne Foundation is going to host a gala dinner, with a commitment to match whatever's raised through private donations. I think the invites were mailed this week, but there should also be full-page ads in the Post and Herald. Watch for them. Now, I'll have to double-check the date and get back to you, but I believe it'll be the first week of March. What do you think?"

Bruce considered. The first week of March was more than six weeks away. That was plenty of time to prepare. He smiled. "Perfect."

--

By Wednesday morning, Dick was ready to go home. Bruce too was well on the road to recovery, although Mid-Nite insisted that he finish out his prescription. By mutual agreement, Dick consented to wait another few days before attempting to patrol.

On Thursday, the ads for the gala were in the morning papers. Bruce waited two weeks before he called Lucius' direct line.

He shouldn't have been surprised to find Lucius in his office at 8:15. He'd hand-picked him years ago, impressed by his abilities, his work ethic, and above all, his dedication. Still, there was no reason why the current CEO had to be in the office before nine. And Lucius certainly didn't have to take his calls.

"I'm glad Dick's back at work," Lucius said. "You don't know the scare I—check that. Of course you do. Is there anything further you need?"

Bruce told him.

There was a long silence.

"Lucius?"

"Are you sure," the CEO ventured, "that you realize what you're letting yourself in for? If the board even suspects that you're—"

"There's nothing to suspect," Bruce said quietly. "Somerset General is a fine institution, and I'd like to show my support. I can either do so as an honorary officer of the company, or I can purchase a ticket privately."

Lucius let out an explosive breath, which was almost a laugh. "After all the fanfare with which we announced your current title after your release, do you seriously believe we want the media reporting that you couldn't get a seat at one of the Foundation's tables?"

Bruce smiled. "Actually, Lucius, I don't believe that anyone wants that. Not PMWE," he didn't stumble over the company name, "not you personally, and certainly not me. Somerset General needs that scanner, and I mean to see that they get it, but the last thing I want to do is be a source of embarrassment to the company."

There was a smile in Lucius Fox's voice as he replied, "You know, you could just send a donation. The board might wonder why you're opting not to."

"They might," Bruce agreed. "They'd have a point, too. Well, Lucius, I think we both know that I have more money than I know what to do with. Seriously, if the board prefers that I not associate my name with the company, I have no problem shelling out the $5,000 for my own plate. But if they'd prefer I make a private donation, well, I can accommodate that as well. That scanner you're looking to purchase retails for... what? About two million?" He pretended to think it over. "I can have one delivered to their door by tomorrow. That would seem to obviate the need for a fundraiser, though." He paused for a moment. "Which would be a pity. Especially now that the invitations have gone out and the RSVPs must be starting to trickle in."

"No doubt, no doubt," Lucius confirmed. "Of course, we can still hold the gala. I mean, the hospital must need funding for other projects."

"Yes, but you know Gotham high society almost as well as I do," Bruce said. "Certain causes command higher capital. A concrete goal like raising two million dollars to buy a top-of-the-line medical imager? That's something many of Gotham's elite will be happy to get behind. But saying that you want to raise the money for 'research'? It's not fair, and it's not right, but when it comes to more nebulous goals, in general, it's harder to raise those funds." He forced a note of nonchalance into his tone. "The fact is, I'm personally committed to investing two million dollars in Somerset General, this year. One way or another, the hospital will get its scanner. It's up to the board whether they also get their research funding. What do you say?"

Lucius chuckled. "I believe that the Foundation will be reserving eleven tables that evening, instead of our anticipated ten. At eight to a table..." his voice turned firm. "All right. My wife and daughters will be attending the gala with me. That's half a table right there. You, Dick, and two others will comprise the other four. Do you have names for me?"

Bruce barely hesitated. "James Gordon and his daughter, Barbara."

"Dick's invitation went out two weeks ago. I imagine he'll be listing Barbara on his reply card. Check that with him. I'll have a local courier deliver the other two to the manor tomorrow, before noon. Good luck, Bruce."

"Thanks, Lucius. It's been a pleasure chatting with you."

"Likewise. See you on March third."

--

Cass looked at the list of sample essay topics again. She reread the instructions. Then she looked up from the recreation room computer helplessly.

Dr. Jeremiah Arkham frowned. "Is there a problem, young woman?"

Cass pointed to the page. "How much?"

"Did you read the instructions?" Arkham asked. He stopped. "Do you require me to read them to you?"

Another time, she might have bristled at the implication. However, when she wrote the real test, the testing center would provide similar assistance. Knowing that made his offer somewhat more palatable. At any rate, that wasn't the issue. "No. I read them," Cass said. "But... it says 'I have 45 minutes to write'. How much is that..." she tapped her sheet, "on paper?"

"Ah." He frowned and bent over her screen. "You're quite right," he admitted. "That information is absent from the test instructions. So..." he nudged her aside, opened a new tab on the web browser and began typing words into a search box. "GED essay..." he murmured, "word count. Ahhhh." He turned back to Cass. "There is no longer a mandatory word count. It does seem to state that your essay cannot comprise more than one double-sided page. I've seen that your handwriting is large, but since you will be dictating your answers to a scribe?" He looked to her for confirmation.

Cass nodded.

"Well then. We'll assume that the essay should not exceed 500 words. They are more concerned with the quality of your work than the quantity of your words."

Cass sighed. "Trouble, then."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It may surprise you to realize that you already have one advantage over many people who will be taking the test."

Cass blinked at him. "Yes?"

"There are two common errors associated with writing essays under this sort of pressure. Either the writer has so much to say about the topic that they waste the allocated space on their introduction and never develop their key points, or they have no idea what to write but know that they need to write," he rolled his eyes, "something... anything. The result is an incoherent mess. Your speech is unsophisticated," he admitted baldly, "but you do make your points clearly. If you can write the same way, you will have something."

Cass mulled that over. She thought about her patrol two nights ago, when she'd happened on a lone burglar with a gun. In a fit of panic, he'd fired on her. Cass hadn't even bothered to try to evade the bullets. She was garbed from head to toe in Kevlar. The bullets had stung a bit, but she was used to that. The barrage had barely slowed her down. Instead of revising his strategy, the youth had continued to fire blindly, hoping that some of his shots would somehow connect. When she'd apprehended him, he'd been frantically trying to reload.

He hadn't known how to fight. He'd just kept shooting, hoping something would connect, until he ran out of time.

Cass grimaced. She wasn't about to make that mistake if she could help it. She looked at the instructions again.

You must write on the assigned topic ONLY.

She knew that much. She chewed on her pencil as she skimmed past the instructions to only write in her answer booklet. She ignored the time constraint and focused on the marking criteria.

The evaluation will be based on the following features:

· Well-focused main points

· Clear organization

· Specific development of your ideas

· Control of sentence structure, punctuation, grammar, word choice and spelling

Cass frowned and looked at the topics. One caught her eye.

How do you define courage?

In your essay, describe what it means to be courageous. Give specific details to explain your views. Use your personal observations, experience, and knowledge.

Cass thought about that. Then, she took a deep breath and picked up her pencil.

Courage, she wrote. Then she crossed that out and wrote, How I define courage is. She stopped. Courage was... was...

Courage is being brave. Courage means to not fear.

She stopped. That wasn't an essay—not the way Barbara had explained it. She looked at the instructions again. Main points. Clear organization. Specific development. She crossed out what she had written.

Courage means doing what is right. Sometimes this is hard. Sometimes you do not want to. But you know what is right and so you make yourself do it. Sometimes you fail. Sometimes you only think you will fail but thinking that you will fail makes you afraid to try. When you have courage you do it anyway.

Sometimes when you fail you need courage to keep trying. Sometimes you need courage to stop trying if people want you to keep doing it and you hate it. You don't want to do it anymore but you are afraid to hurt them. To say no I dont want to do this takes courage.

Sometimes it takes the most courage to say that you need help because to say you need help is to say that you can not do something on your own. If people keep telling you that if you want something done you should do it yourself and make you feel like a baby when you say you cant then it makes you afraid to ask for help when you really need it. But if you do not ask for help then you will not always know how to do things right. Sometimes you make things hard for yourself because you are afraid to ask if there is an easier way.

I am afraid that people will think I am stupid. I was afraid to ask if this test could be made easier for me to write. I did not want to be different. I am not stupid but I do need help. When Doctor Arkham told me that I could get help I was still afraid to ask but I did. I do not know if I can pass this test but I do know that because I have help I will do better. And I know that if I do not pass I will write again and again until I pass. I am afraid to fail. But I am also afraid to give in. I have problems. But with courage I can face them.

She looked at her work. Including the lines that she had crossed out, she had nearly one and three-quarter pages. She set down her pencil. "Done," she said.

"Are you?" Arkham sniffed. "We shall see." He picked up her page and pulled out a pen. Then, frowning, he began to read.

Cass watched him apprehensively. His hand seemed to blur as it flew over the paper. His frown deepened. From time to time, a sigh emanated from his lips. "Bad?" She asked finally.

Jeremiah looked up. "My assessment?" he sniffed. "Well. Let's see. You need to review your commas and apostrophes, as they are sadly absent. You have far too many run-on sentences, particularly for such a short piece. When writing a paper of this nature, it is preferable to use 'a person' or 'one' or 'people' rather than 'you'—as in, 'Sometimes one does not want to.'"

Cass flushed. "I never knew!"

"I realize that," Arkham said testily. "Unfortunately, the testing center will not take that into consideration. Your sentences are trite and repetitive. Here," he stabbed his pen down on the sheet, "one is fragmented. Your concluding paragraph is meant to summarize your thoughts, not introduce new ones. Your example is valid, but it belongs in the body of the essay, not the final paragraph..." He smiled thinly. "On the whole, though," he said, "for a first attempt," a note of warmth crept into his voice, "I find this surprisingly good. You express your thoughts clearly, and your overall analysis is sound. Your spelling and grammar are quite competent. You have a great deal to say. Where you need to improve is in how you say it."

"How?" Cass asked, still trying to process what he was telling her. Had she done well or not?

There was no mockery in Arkham's smile. "Practice."

--

"Ah, come in, Derek." Les Paxton smiled at his protégé. "What can I do for you?"

Derek ran a hand through his short blond hair and drew closer to the wide oak desk. "You told me to keep you abreast of certain developments," he said in a conspirational tone. "There's been an amendment to the number of Foundation tables at the Somerset gala."

Paxton's eyebrows shot up. "You're keeping tabs on that too? I would have thought you'd have your hands full with the company. Anyway, I'm not sure I see the relevance."

"I volunteer for the Foundation in my spare time," Derek explained smoothly. "It helps. Anyway, besides the extra table, there's been a new name added to the guest list. I thought you might find that to be of interest, too."

When Derek gave him the name, Paxton's expression hardened. "Thank you, Derek. I'll take it from here. But please, keep me informed of your observations."

He waited until Derek was out of the office before he picked up his phone. "Mike? Les. There may be a situation developing—a potentially serious one. No, I don't think we need to convene the entire board, and certainly not on company property. Are you familiar with my cottage near Hamburg? Yes, that's right, just a stone's throw from Mountain Creek. I think some of us should head out there this Saturday to check out the slopes. I believe that one of them may prove to be somewhat... slippery. Excellent. I have a few more calls to make. I'll see you then if not sooner. And Mike? This conversation stays between us. Pleasure."

He smiled to himself. This was the second time that Derek Powers had come through for him. The young man was a real tiger, but he would bear careful watching. Tigers had been known to turn on their handlers before.

--

Bruce hated it when the phone rang during mealtimes. He had just slid his scrambled eggs onto his plate when he heard the long-distance tone. Sighing he picked up. "Hello?"

"Bruce?"

All thoughts of breakfast fled. "Selina? Is that you?"

There was a theatrical groan on the other end. "I think so. After 38 hours in transit, it's hard to tell." Her tone sharpened. "Helena! Come here! Don't go running off." Then, softly, "You sound good. Really good."

"So do you," Bruce returned. "When did you get back to Gotham?"

"I didn't," Selina replied. "We're stuck at LAX for another three hours, waiting for a connecting flight. Could you meet us at Goodwin around 5-ish?" She let out a long breath. "Why are 'remote locations' so far away?"

Bruce smiled. "I'll be there."

"Purrfect," a sultry note crept into her voice. "We'll see you then."

--

The plane got in at 5:45, but it was nearly 6:30 before Selina emerged from the baggage claim area, pushing a luggage cart with one hand, while her other clasped Helena's. As Bruce gave Selina a one-armed hug, Helena wrapped both arms about his calf and buried her face in his pants-leg.

"Help me get her bundled up before we go outside?" Selina asked. She indicated the snowsuit, hat, boots, and mittens that lay atop the two suitcases on the cart. "She wouldn't let me dress her on the plane, and I didn't feel like causing a scene."

"I'm parked underground," Bruce said. "She should be warm enough. He lowered his voice. "The reason that she was staying with me in the first place hasn't changed. If the two of you come back to the manor, we'll be going from one indoor garage to another. That might be wisest. If you'd prefer to take her home with you," he gave a long-suffering sigh, "I think I still have a few pairs of earplugs in the glove compartment. We may need them before we try getting her into that ensemble."

Selina arched an eyebrow. "Earplugs?"

"Dick has... interesting taste in music. I choose my battles."

She laughed. "Think you can walk with a 34-pound weight clamped around your shin?"

In answer, Bruce bent down, gently loosened his daughter's arms, and scooped her up. She immediately transferred her grip to his neck.

Selina sighed. "If there are any problems at home," she admitted, "after over 46 hours in transit, I'm probably not ready to deal with them." She started to push the luggage cart. Bruce followed a half-pace behind. "I... Fine. If you're positive we won't be imposing, Bruce, maybe it would be best if we both spent tonight at the manor. We can figure out what we're doing in the morning."

Bruce looked down at the little girl in his arms, and then to the beautiful woman walking beside him. "It's no imposition," he whispered. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

Selina blinked. Then she let go of the luggage cart, wrapped an arm around Bruce's shoulder, and rose to her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. "In that case, handsome, it's a date."

--

"Maybe we're reading too much into this, Les." Ron Chester normally fussed with his tie. Today, however, he wasn't wearing one, so he fiddled with the buttons on his cardigan instead. "Maybe Wayne is just... bored."

"You don't honestly believe that any more than I do," Paxton snapped. "No, he's planning a return. This is just a reminder that he's out there. First he puts in appearances at social events. Then he starts talking things over with Fox, providing input. Next thing you know, he's running things behind the scenes."

"That's the thing, though," Ross Hendricks said, frowning. "Even before his... troubles, he was letting Fox run the show. Why should we worry that anything would change?"

"And what about your source?" Michael Abbot questioned. "Is he trustworthy?"

Paxton smiled. "Who, Derek? I think so. I've mentored him since his college days. He named his kid after me. He's also the one who found out about Grayson's little creative accounting trick. But getting back to the matter at hand," he leaned forward. "Okay. At the end of the day, Wayne is still the majority shareholder. There's nothing we can do about that at the moment, but in the grand scheme of things, it's not really that significant. I mean, frankly, I don't mind if he wants to show up at our parties with a beautiful woman or two and swill down some of our scotch. Hell, I don't even care if he has to leave to answer that spotlight in the sky. However, if there's even a chance that he means to slip back into the CEO's office—officially or otherwise—we need to stop it now. Before he has a chance to move further. Are we agreed?"

He looked at the other six people in the room.

Sonja Arnold nodded first. She was quickly followed by Ron Chester, Michael Abbott, Theresa Korning, and Sean Vansickle. Finally Hendricks nodded too. "All right, Les," he said heavily. "Maybe you're right. So. Assuming you are, do you have any suggestions on how we deal with this?"

Paxton smiled. "As a matter of fact, I do."

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