When Master Bruce dragged himself in, well, he was certainly Bruce, and not at all any alter-ego. His eyes drooped with sleep, his limbs heavy. He had had quite a night, and was simply too worn-out to tell me anything that had happened. I expected I should read it in the news next morning anyhow. When I offered to help him out of his costume, not only did he accept my help, he didn't feel the need to correct me. (He prefers to call it armour.)
Well, he'd gone to sleep, and it being after two in the morning, I certainly had a mind to go back to sleep. I was in my bed, when a noise in the hall got me up. I threw aside the blankets. I think Master Bruce has left me paranoid, I rose so quickly, and I looked out the crack of the door before I opened it. He was already in the hall. I supposed, at first, he must have heard the noise too. It took me a moment to realize, of course, that he was the noise.
Master Bruce was panting, staring at the wall, his eyes so wide. Even with the lights out in the hall, I could see the perspiration trailing down his temple to his jaw. I was certain he had been poisoned again. It would not be the first time.
I took hold of his shoulders, and his eyes were bloodshot. "Master Bruce, are you all right?"
"Someone called my name." I could tell by his hushed tones he was still listening to hear it again, to find and pursue the source of the call.
"Master Bruce, I don't think that's possible. We're the only ones in the manor."
The moment it passed my lips, I became certain that it was the wrong thing to say. The door stood beside us, behind it a room still filled with the posters and angry media of adolesence. Jason Todd's murder was a raw wound. I missed his loudness sorely, but for Bruce, I think, it was unbearable.
His eyes flickered with it, searching me like that hurt, lost child I so clearly recognised. It was hard not to see it. I would not apologise, though; it would bring the hurt closer to the both of us. "I didn't hear anyone call." I amended my statement. "You look feverish. Might there be a chance you've been trudging about in dangerous chemicals again?"
"No," he stated, and I could see his exhaustion creeping back into him. "It was just a dream, I guess..." Nevertheless, I pressed my hand to his sweaty forehead. From all I could gather, Master Bruce was right.
We went to our beds again.
I woke an hour later to hear a door in the hall open. I do not deny the wild and irrational hope that sprang to me for a half second. Even before I rose that hope was gone – it was the kind of pleasant idiocy I fear I cannot maintain while awake. When I opened the door, there was a sense of deja vu – located a few steps forward of where he had been the last time, and this time clutching his familiar cowl, Bruce stood staring, listening intently like a hound.
I was too tired. I turned him around by the shoulders and pushed him back off towards his own rooms. At that hour I don't recall if either of us said anything...
But all the night, I found myself attuned to it. Every so often, I could hear him stir, and the manor must have been deadly quiet indeed for that. I did not rise again, but I could not find sleep.
Around dawn, I heard Master Bruce speaking, and I do not know if he meant me to hear. It sounded as if he were talking to himself. Sometimes I cannot be sure.
"They're calling me."
I thought I knew who they were.
"They keep calling me. The city won't let me sleep..."
