Small Consequence
Haydee
Timothy Drake was most certainly having a bad day. Actually, it was probably more like a bad week. Or maybe just his entire life in general. Nevertheless, whichever it was, it was bad. And it all came to a climax when Batman pointed it out.
The problem, that is. The crux of the matter. The sore thumb. The festering wound. The particular cross he was being forced to bear, totally, completely against his will.
The Dark Knight, he supposed, had not actually been trying to twist the knife. At least, probably not. About an 85% chance. And, okay-- most of the time, Timothy Drake was what you would call a laid-back kind of guy. But there were some things that any self-respecting male of fifteen years of age simply could not endure, and the fact was that Batman had hit upon the worst of these things. And now, Robin was not simply irritated; he was mad. At who or what, he wasn't sure. The unfairness of life, the horrible injustice of it all, whatever served best. He wanted to punch something.
Although... when it came down to it, the matter really was diminutive compared to other things he had seen. Yes. Diminutive. That was exactly the word, and it made him wince that it was that phrase in particular that immediately manifested itself within his brain.
Because he was. Diminutive, that is. Short. Small. Skinny. *Puny.*
"I don't need you tonight," Batman had said. "You're too small. Get some sleep."
And Timothy was mad. He stormed into the bat-cave, swiping at the kickstand on his motorcycle with a foot and not waiting to see if it would hold or not before he started for the stairs, tearing off his clothes as he went. Alfred, who had been occupied for some reason or another in the cave, followed quickly, picking up after him.
"Master Timothy?" he queried lightly, attempting to maintain a friendly ambiance. "If you like, I've put a plate of cookies on the kitchen table. Chocolate chip, you're favorite."
Timothy tossed back a shoe, hopping up a step on one foot as he removed the other and letting out a short "argh!" of frustration when it did not come off immediately. "Thanks, Alfred, but I'm kind of not in the mood," he grumbled.
"Of course, sir, there's always the chocolate mousse in the fridge..."
Tim stopped at the steel door that opened up to the main house. He turned, squinting a little suspiciously. "Since when do you offer me anything with a calorie count over fifty?" he asked.
"I only thought perhaps--"
He laughed briefly, almost irritated. "Oh, right, when you want me to spill my guts so you know what's up before Bruce gets home, right?" There was only a moment of silence to that, so he pushed open the door and went in. A moment later Alfred followed, and they proceeded single-file down the corridor. "Well, don't worry, it's pretty much my problem this time. Just the kid, don't worry, it'll wear off. Puberty or something." He slid to a stop in front of the kitchen door, which was hanging open. The plate of chocolate chip cookies was directly in his line of sight. "Maybe I'll have one," he said, sighing slightly and glancing down at his boxers. "These all right in the kitchen?" he asked. Alfred was finicky about what did and did not belong in a proper kitchen.
"Perfectly appropriate for this time of day, young sir," Alfred returned solemnly. He had draped the Robin suit and accessories over one arm, and now began to remove items, folding them neatly and cradling them in the crook of his other arm.
"You are so good at this," Timothy said, waggling a finger at him before sitting down at the table and popping a whole cookie into his mouth. The dominant side of his personality-- the slightly sarcastic, humorous side-- was beginning to emerge in spite of himself.
"Good at what, may I-- oh dear, that's terribly inappropriate."
Timothy grinned savagely around bulging cheeks. "Sorry," he apologized in muffled tones, spraying bits of cookie.
Alfred frowned. "No apologies necessary sir-- only, please try to swallow before you speak." He set the suit down on another stool at the table and proceeded to retrieve the sponge, with which he wiped down the entire surface of the enormous table in the center of the kitchen.
Timothy attempted to chew quickly, and finally swallowed in one large gulp. "Good at weasling information out of people, getting them to spill the beans, I mean. You would have made a good interrogator."
Alfred bent to replace the sponge beneath the sink. "Hm," he said, straightening to peer into the recesses of the refrigerator. "I believe I was, once, for a short time, anyhow. Although I don't believe my subjects were aware of the fact."
"Well, I bet you were good at it." Tim watched the glass as the old man filled it with milk, then took a long gulp. "I mean, geez, look, I'm already cooled down, and I came in here ready to bite somebody's head off."
Alfred began to polish the silver tea set. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Shall you 'spill the beans,' as you so aptly put it, my boy?"
In spite of himself, the boy wonder was forced to laugh. "I will if you'd quit your obsessive cleaning and sit down at the table."
Alfred paused, the polishing rag. He looked down at the cup in his hand. "Nothing obsessive about it," he murmured, and replaced it with the rest of the set. "Very well. I shall sit. Bargain?"
"Yes, bargain."
Alfred sat. "Begin, master Timothy."
Tim drew in a breath, then let his head sink into his hands. For a minute, fooling around with Alfred, the entire day, week, issue, whatever, had escaped his mind entirely. But now it came back, and the frustration with it.
"Begin at the beginning, and..." prompted Alfred softly.
"Yeah, yeah, okay. Look, here's the deal. I'm fifteen years old and I look like I'm eight. All right?" He spread his hands, palms up, over the table. "There it is."
Alfred was silent for a moment, and Tim took it as assent.
"See? You know what I'm talking about. I'm five five, when the rest of the guys in my class must be like eight something."
"Sir," reasoned Alfred, "I'm quite certain there are a number of advantages to being smaller--"
Tim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know, I know-- but come on. I mean-- Alfred, look at me." He stood up and went around the table, presenting himself by spreading his arms. "I don't even look my age. You can be small and still look your age. Old ladies pinch my cheeks, Alfred, and bag boys at supermarkets ask me if I'm lost. Girls-- girls, Alfred, my age-- pat my head. Other guys are macho. I am 'cute,' and not in the good way. Okay, so there are advantages to being small-- let somebody else do it. It's lame."
Alfred was silent for another moment, considering carefully. "I can't help but wonder, Master Timothy," he said finally, in a cautious tone, "if that is the sum of your concern..."
Tim scowled darkly, glancing away. Then he let out a quick sigh of irritation. "Okay, fine, that's not everything," he admitted.
"Perhaps you might care to continue." Alfred pushed the plate of cookies across the table, closer to the boy.
The boy wonder picked one up, absently, and bit off a chunk, remembering to swallow this time before answering. "All right," he said. "Tonight, we're out on patrol. Bruce spots some of the AC/DC gang, hanging out in and around Veegees, and he decides we're gonna bust them. So we set up a watch-post, just to get the lay of the land, nothing big, no real danger, you know? Just a few thugs. And then Bruce spots somebody, I dunno, Derrick something or other, who evidently can give us info on where the boss is. So he says we haveta go under cover, you know, to talk to a few of his buddies, get the scoop-- and then her turns to me, Alfred, get this, and says, "I don't need you tonight. You're too small. Get some sleep.""
"I'm certain, sir, it was said with good intention--"
Timothy tossed the remainder of the cookie back in the plate and clenched a fist. "That's not the point, Alfred!" He struggled for a moment with a wetness in his eyes, and when he spoke again, he had mastered his voice. "He-- he-- thinks I'm small." He paused, and then whispered, "I am too small. Too small to work with Batman."
Alfred looked at the boy, and as he spoke, a kind of sympathetic light came into his misty old eyes. "My dear boy," he said. "Surely it was merely a momentary--"
Timothy shook his head savagely "Look, wiping my nose and treating me like a kid isn't exactly going to help things any, okay? So thanks but no thanks."
Alfred blinked and stood, pushing in his stool. "Ah, of course sir." He cocked an eyebrow. "What, then, do you plan to do to remedy the situation?"
Timothy shrugged ambiguously and glanced away.
"Such a reaction, sir, suggests that it is a course of action which neither I nor your mentor would heartily approve of." He began again to polish the silver.
"Look, I'm not saying I'm going to do anything, okay? I know it's stupid, but when you're a teenager you're supposed to think about doing stupid things, and sometimes even do them."
"Such as...?"
He shrugged again. "Okay, look. Today I was late for gym because I had a meeting with my soccer coach so he could kick me off the team for-- well, that's another story. Anyway, I ran into all the football jocks who are about ten times bigger than me changing in the locker rooms, getting all pumped up for the game tonight which I could not attend, seeing as I was out waiting for Batman to dismiss me. And they were-- you know."
Alfred frowned slightly. "I am afraid, sir, I haven't the slightest clue."
"Aw, come on. Popping pills. Ever hear of steroids?"
"Sir--!"
"Yeah, yeah, so you're shocked. Look, I told you I didn't say I was gonna do anything like that, okay? So relax, or you'll polish right through that handle."
Alfred's hands paused, and he snapped the cup back to the silver tray.
Timothy continued. "I mean, it just doesn't seem fair, you know? I work out at least an hour a day, mostly two, and pfft, nothing. And they take one pill and bam, a steel six pack. I don't get it."
"I am certain, Master Timothy," Alfred pronounced archly, "they shall get their just desserts soon enough, if not already."
"Yeah, well, that's what everyone says."
"You hold a differing opinion?"
He shrugged, more easily this time. "Aaron Michelson, the biggest guy on the team, is in my calculus class. So is his best buddy, the star quarterback. I know they both pop pills, and so far I'm not seeing too many brain cells wander off. This other guy I know says his dad used into his twenties and came out okay. I mean, maybe some guys go crazy on it, but for some people it just seems like... well, I mean, it doesn't seem like they end up really weird or anything. I mean, you have to try hard to get weirder than Batman, and that's pretty much where I'm headed already, right?"
Alfred glanced up, his interest suddenly piqued. "The master-- he was behaving strangely?"
"I dunno, kinda. More than usual, I guess, although what's usual for him?"
"In what way, sir?"
"Uh," Timothy squinted. "Just a lot more tense, I guess. Usually he doesn't say a lot, but what he told me on the rooftop was pretty much the only thing he said all night. He kept clenching his hands, too, sometimes slow and sometimes fast. He wasn't like moving around or anything during the watch, but his eyes were everywhere, kind of like maybe he wanted to. I guess I kinda felt that way tonight, too. Like I wanted to get some action, beat the crap out of the same kinda guys who push me around in gym."
Alfred replaced the polishing rag and the third cup he had somehow managed to pick up again. "I have a bit of business to take care of in the medical room," he announced, rather randomly. "Shall we continue our conversation there?"
Timothy pushed back and stood. "No problem."
"Then I shall ask-- why didn't you simply beat the, ah-- beat the other boys in gym?"
"Not allowed to. I can't fight at school, because I'm not Robin there. It would make people suspicious."
"Couldn't, ah, Timothy Drake be persuaded to join a small class in elementary self-defence?"
Tim mulled that one over as they walked down the hall. "I guess so," he said finally. "But I'll have to check it out with Bruce."
Alfred smiled privately, his back to the boy as he opened the door. "Of course, sir."
"Still, I mean, I can't exactly toss them in the garbage bins. At least.. not during school hours." He grinned. "Maybe I don't need to discuss it with Bruce."
"Ah, well, you must always use your own judgment, of course."
Timothy started slightly, and grinned at the old man as he crossed to the storage cabinets. "My own judgment, right. Sometimes I wonder how you always seem to get everything you want around here."
"What's to wonder about, sir? I had been under the impression that it was quite obvious."
Tim laughed. "Right. Alfred, you're the best."
"Thank you, sir."
He slid up on the full-length examination table and dangled his legs over the edge. "Still, I mean, I wonder. Maybe for everyone else, you end up a wacked-out druggie, but we, you know, kind of have access to people that aren't exactly your typical mortal physicians. I'm sure there's something out there that can make it all right to use. Maybe I could check with Dr. Fate or Wonder Woman or something."
Alfred, fiddling with something in a drawer, cleared his throat politely. "And perhaps you might, sir... but if I might point out three items..."
"Go ahead."
"I am not overly informed, but I believe that thought exactly may be what echoes in the empty attic of every drug addict's desperate mind as he abandons home and family for another fix."
Tim was silent for a minute. "Second item?" he said, finally.
"I shall quote Heinlein-- 'There ain't no such thing, sir, as a free lunch.'"
Tim grinned. "And I'm sure he meant to put the 'sir' in there to begin with."
"Of course."
"And third?"
"Hm?" Alfred turned to face the room. "One moment, Timothy." He strode to the door, carrying a small case in one hand, and as he opened it, a large hand slipped in from the darkness of the hallway beyond, and after it the arm and the body of Bruce Wayne, known in the hours beyond dusk as the Dark Knight of Gotham. He was dressed now in the relatively unassuming guise of a silk bathrobe, open slightly over the broad expanse of his chest.
Bruce glanced at his protege. "Timothy," he nodded.
"Hey, Bruce," he returned, managing to suppress the bitterness in his tone.
The dark eyes flashed to the butler. "Alfred--"
"Here you are, sir."
Bruce glanced at Timothy again, strangely, then took the small case from Alfred. "Thank you, old friend," he said lowly, and was gone. His solid, barefooted steps echoed down the long hall.
"What was that all about?" queried Tim.
Alfred closed the door quietly, and turned back to the boy. "That, sir," he said quietly, "was reason the third-- and it should be far and away enough for you. Now let us leave this room, and never consider this dreadful subject again."
* * *
In the early morning hours, when he should have been asleep, or, if insomnia reigned, at least studying, Tim crept down the slowly-brightening halls of Wayne Manor. He had left Alfred only minutes ago, not having realized until now what time it had gotten to be. But he was curious, in a cautious sort of way that made his heart sink a little, and followed silently after the footsteps of his hero, mentor, and sometimes-friend.
He was surprised to find that the sounds lead him to a far wing of the manor which he mentally referred to as 'the museum.' There wasn't really any official name for it at all, although Alfred seemed to take a perverse delight in referring to it as the mausoleum, but it was, in function, a museum, mostly of all the strange and exotic artifacts Bruce had procured in one way or another during his time abroad, before he had assumed the guise of the Bat. At least, that was what he had gathered from Alfred. You never could be quite sure with the old butler.
Nevertheless, he crept after Bruce, down the long hall of armor displays, along with aborigine pottery and basket weavings and all manner of crudely-constructed weapons. Tim could even see, studying these rudimentary examples, where Bruce had gathered inspiration to construct some of his more elaborate toys. Through another set of double doors, this time sealed around the edge, was a world-class collection of artwork, also compiled in that same frame of time. And finally, beyond that, a smaller room, darker than the rest, accessed by a small side door. It was where broken things went, as well as more delicate pieces which could not survive long under the light of day. It was musty and dark, and because Timothy knew why the Dark Knight went here, he waited only a moment before he carefully inched the door open and peered in.
It was a moment before his eyes adjusted, but he waited, motionless, and finally the room began to take shape before him. Various objects leaned up against walls and in corners, and file cabinets sufficed for smaller items. On the other side of the room, there stood a large, low table, meant for accommodating delicate documents and manuscripts, which was, at the moment, empty. And sitting at the table, his back to the door, was Bruce.
"Perhaps you might assist me," he rumbled.
Timothy started, and nearly closed the door and ran in the other direction. But he stayed, and finally slipped inside. "Uh, okay," he said, uneasily. He approached the table, stepping around the side, and sat down across from Bruce as his companion motioned to the empty chair. He looked down at the table, where spread between them were three small items, like spinning tops. "What are you doing?" he asked, puzzled.
"Attempting to put myself into a state of hypnosis."
Timothy paused. "Can I ask, uh-- why?"
"I must in order to counter a number of-- residual effects."
"Effects? Of what?"
He paused, swallowed thickly. "Venom."
"Ven--!" Surely not Bruce--
His mentor's words were quick, truncated. "The effects emerge in no predictable pattern; they are somewhat severe, but I posses the ability to, in effect, hold them a bay for some length of time. But only--" he sucked in a deep breath, suddenly, and brought a fist down upon the table, causing the room to shudder. He closed his eyes and seemed to let the air out slowly, and when he opened his eyes again the boy was staring at him, looking a little frightened at his mentor's loss of control. "I-- apologize," he said. "I am not-- angry with you."
"No, it's-- it's okay," Timothy said, gulping. He had never seen Bruce like this-- it was a small thing, yes, but for a man who maintained absolute control of his every movement...
"The psychoses build," he went on quickly, his voice stretched taut. "And I must enter a state of oblivion until the craving subsides. Or, if too much time has elapsed..." he glanced to one side, and Tim's eyes followed his to the small black case at his left arm. It lay open, revealing within the small syringe of milky liquid Alfred had prepared.
"Oh," said Tim, dumbly. He noticed now that even in the near-blackness, pale beads of sweat stood out upon his mentor's forehead, and seemed all even the Dark Knight could do to keep himself from clawing up the wall. "Well, uh, what do I do?"
Bruce was silent for a moment. He focused, solemnly, struggling against the demon inside of him, until the boy met his eyes. "Strength," he rumbled lowly, "means nothing, Timothy. It is only forethought which counts. It was a high price I paid for that lesson, and to you I give it freely. It would be foolish on your part to pay that price nevertheless. Do you understand?" His eyes were hard.
"Yeah," said Tim quietly, eyes a little wide. "I-- understand."
"Good. Then let us begin."
Haydee
Timothy Drake was most certainly having a bad day. Actually, it was probably more like a bad week. Or maybe just his entire life in general. Nevertheless, whichever it was, it was bad. And it all came to a climax when Batman pointed it out.
The problem, that is. The crux of the matter. The sore thumb. The festering wound. The particular cross he was being forced to bear, totally, completely against his will.
The Dark Knight, he supposed, had not actually been trying to twist the knife. At least, probably not. About an 85% chance. And, okay-- most of the time, Timothy Drake was what you would call a laid-back kind of guy. But there were some things that any self-respecting male of fifteen years of age simply could not endure, and the fact was that Batman had hit upon the worst of these things. And now, Robin was not simply irritated; he was mad. At who or what, he wasn't sure. The unfairness of life, the horrible injustice of it all, whatever served best. He wanted to punch something.
Although... when it came down to it, the matter really was diminutive compared to other things he had seen. Yes. Diminutive. That was exactly the word, and it made him wince that it was that phrase in particular that immediately manifested itself within his brain.
Because he was. Diminutive, that is. Short. Small. Skinny. *Puny.*
"I don't need you tonight," Batman had said. "You're too small. Get some sleep."
And Timothy was mad. He stormed into the bat-cave, swiping at the kickstand on his motorcycle with a foot and not waiting to see if it would hold or not before he started for the stairs, tearing off his clothes as he went. Alfred, who had been occupied for some reason or another in the cave, followed quickly, picking up after him.
"Master Timothy?" he queried lightly, attempting to maintain a friendly ambiance. "If you like, I've put a plate of cookies on the kitchen table. Chocolate chip, you're favorite."
Timothy tossed back a shoe, hopping up a step on one foot as he removed the other and letting out a short "argh!" of frustration when it did not come off immediately. "Thanks, Alfred, but I'm kind of not in the mood," he grumbled.
"Of course, sir, there's always the chocolate mousse in the fridge..."
Tim stopped at the steel door that opened up to the main house. He turned, squinting a little suspiciously. "Since when do you offer me anything with a calorie count over fifty?" he asked.
"I only thought perhaps--"
He laughed briefly, almost irritated. "Oh, right, when you want me to spill my guts so you know what's up before Bruce gets home, right?" There was only a moment of silence to that, so he pushed open the door and went in. A moment later Alfred followed, and they proceeded single-file down the corridor. "Well, don't worry, it's pretty much my problem this time. Just the kid, don't worry, it'll wear off. Puberty or something." He slid to a stop in front of the kitchen door, which was hanging open. The plate of chocolate chip cookies was directly in his line of sight. "Maybe I'll have one," he said, sighing slightly and glancing down at his boxers. "These all right in the kitchen?" he asked. Alfred was finicky about what did and did not belong in a proper kitchen.
"Perfectly appropriate for this time of day, young sir," Alfred returned solemnly. He had draped the Robin suit and accessories over one arm, and now began to remove items, folding them neatly and cradling them in the crook of his other arm.
"You are so good at this," Timothy said, waggling a finger at him before sitting down at the table and popping a whole cookie into his mouth. The dominant side of his personality-- the slightly sarcastic, humorous side-- was beginning to emerge in spite of himself.
"Good at what, may I-- oh dear, that's terribly inappropriate."
Timothy grinned savagely around bulging cheeks. "Sorry," he apologized in muffled tones, spraying bits of cookie.
Alfred frowned. "No apologies necessary sir-- only, please try to swallow before you speak." He set the suit down on another stool at the table and proceeded to retrieve the sponge, with which he wiped down the entire surface of the enormous table in the center of the kitchen.
Timothy attempted to chew quickly, and finally swallowed in one large gulp. "Good at weasling information out of people, getting them to spill the beans, I mean. You would have made a good interrogator."
Alfred bent to replace the sponge beneath the sink. "Hm," he said, straightening to peer into the recesses of the refrigerator. "I believe I was, once, for a short time, anyhow. Although I don't believe my subjects were aware of the fact."
"Well, I bet you were good at it." Tim watched the glass as the old man filled it with milk, then took a long gulp. "I mean, geez, look, I'm already cooled down, and I came in here ready to bite somebody's head off."
Alfred began to polish the silver tea set. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Shall you 'spill the beans,' as you so aptly put it, my boy?"
In spite of himself, the boy wonder was forced to laugh. "I will if you'd quit your obsessive cleaning and sit down at the table."
Alfred paused, the polishing rag. He looked down at the cup in his hand. "Nothing obsessive about it," he murmured, and replaced it with the rest of the set. "Very well. I shall sit. Bargain?"
"Yes, bargain."
Alfred sat. "Begin, master Timothy."
Tim drew in a breath, then let his head sink into his hands. For a minute, fooling around with Alfred, the entire day, week, issue, whatever, had escaped his mind entirely. But now it came back, and the frustration with it.
"Begin at the beginning, and..." prompted Alfred softly.
"Yeah, yeah, okay. Look, here's the deal. I'm fifteen years old and I look like I'm eight. All right?" He spread his hands, palms up, over the table. "There it is."
Alfred was silent for a moment, and Tim took it as assent.
"See? You know what I'm talking about. I'm five five, when the rest of the guys in my class must be like eight something."
"Sir," reasoned Alfred, "I'm quite certain there are a number of advantages to being smaller--"
Tim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know, I know-- but come on. I mean-- Alfred, look at me." He stood up and went around the table, presenting himself by spreading his arms. "I don't even look my age. You can be small and still look your age. Old ladies pinch my cheeks, Alfred, and bag boys at supermarkets ask me if I'm lost. Girls-- girls, Alfred, my age-- pat my head. Other guys are macho. I am 'cute,' and not in the good way. Okay, so there are advantages to being small-- let somebody else do it. It's lame."
Alfred was silent for another moment, considering carefully. "I can't help but wonder, Master Timothy," he said finally, in a cautious tone, "if that is the sum of your concern..."
Tim scowled darkly, glancing away. Then he let out a quick sigh of irritation. "Okay, fine, that's not everything," he admitted.
"Perhaps you might care to continue." Alfred pushed the plate of cookies across the table, closer to the boy.
The boy wonder picked one up, absently, and bit off a chunk, remembering to swallow this time before answering. "All right," he said. "Tonight, we're out on patrol. Bruce spots some of the AC/DC gang, hanging out in and around Veegees, and he decides we're gonna bust them. So we set up a watch-post, just to get the lay of the land, nothing big, no real danger, you know? Just a few thugs. And then Bruce spots somebody, I dunno, Derrick something or other, who evidently can give us info on where the boss is. So he says we haveta go under cover, you know, to talk to a few of his buddies, get the scoop-- and then her turns to me, Alfred, get this, and says, "I don't need you tonight. You're too small. Get some sleep.""
"I'm certain, sir, it was said with good intention--"
Timothy tossed the remainder of the cookie back in the plate and clenched a fist. "That's not the point, Alfred!" He struggled for a moment with a wetness in his eyes, and when he spoke again, he had mastered his voice. "He-- he-- thinks I'm small." He paused, and then whispered, "I am too small. Too small to work with Batman."
Alfred looked at the boy, and as he spoke, a kind of sympathetic light came into his misty old eyes. "My dear boy," he said. "Surely it was merely a momentary--"
Timothy shook his head savagely "Look, wiping my nose and treating me like a kid isn't exactly going to help things any, okay? So thanks but no thanks."
Alfred blinked and stood, pushing in his stool. "Ah, of course sir." He cocked an eyebrow. "What, then, do you plan to do to remedy the situation?"
Timothy shrugged ambiguously and glanced away.
"Such a reaction, sir, suggests that it is a course of action which neither I nor your mentor would heartily approve of." He began again to polish the silver.
"Look, I'm not saying I'm going to do anything, okay? I know it's stupid, but when you're a teenager you're supposed to think about doing stupid things, and sometimes even do them."
"Such as...?"
He shrugged again. "Okay, look. Today I was late for gym because I had a meeting with my soccer coach so he could kick me off the team for-- well, that's another story. Anyway, I ran into all the football jocks who are about ten times bigger than me changing in the locker rooms, getting all pumped up for the game tonight which I could not attend, seeing as I was out waiting for Batman to dismiss me. And they were-- you know."
Alfred frowned slightly. "I am afraid, sir, I haven't the slightest clue."
"Aw, come on. Popping pills. Ever hear of steroids?"
"Sir--!"
"Yeah, yeah, so you're shocked. Look, I told you I didn't say I was gonna do anything like that, okay? So relax, or you'll polish right through that handle."
Alfred's hands paused, and he snapped the cup back to the silver tray.
Timothy continued. "I mean, it just doesn't seem fair, you know? I work out at least an hour a day, mostly two, and pfft, nothing. And they take one pill and bam, a steel six pack. I don't get it."
"I am certain, Master Timothy," Alfred pronounced archly, "they shall get their just desserts soon enough, if not already."
"Yeah, well, that's what everyone says."
"You hold a differing opinion?"
He shrugged, more easily this time. "Aaron Michelson, the biggest guy on the team, is in my calculus class. So is his best buddy, the star quarterback. I know they both pop pills, and so far I'm not seeing too many brain cells wander off. This other guy I know says his dad used into his twenties and came out okay. I mean, maybe some guys go crazy on it, but for some people it just seems like... well, I mean, it doesn't seem like they end up really weird or anything. I mean, you have to try hard to get weirder than Batman, and that's pretty much where I'm headed already, right?"
Alfred glanced up, his interest suddenly piqued. "The master-- he was behaving strangely?"
"I dunno, kinda. More than usual, I guess, although what's usual for him?"
"In what way, sir?"
"Uh," Timothy squinted. "Just a lot more tense, I guess. Usually he doesn't say a lot, but what he told me on the rooftop was pretty much the only thing he said all night. He kept clenching his hands, too, sometimes slow and sometimes fast. He wasn't like moving around or anything during the watch, but his eyes were everywhere, kind of like maybe he wanted to. I guess I kinda felt that way tonight, too. Like I wanted to get some action, beat the crap out of the same kinda guys who push me around in gym."
Alfred replaced the polishing rag and the third cup he had somehow managed to pick up again. "I have a bit of business to take care of in the medical room," he announced, rather randomly. "Shall we continue our conversation there?"
Timothy pushed back and stood. "No problem."
"Then I shall ask-- why didn't you simply beat the, ah-- beat the other boys in gym?"
"Not allowed to. I can't fight at school, because I'm not Robin there. It would make people suspicious."
"Couldn't, ah, Timothy Drake be persuaded to join a small class in elementary self-defence?"
Tim mulled that one over as they walked down the hall. "I guess so," he said finally. "But I'll have to check it out with Bruce."
Alfred smiled privately, his back to the boy as he opened the door. "Of course, sir."
"Still, I mean, I can't exactly toss them in the garbage bins. At least.. not during school hours." He grinned. "Maybe I don't need to discuss it with Bruce."
"Ah, well, you must always use your own judgment, of course."
Timothy started slightly, and grinned at the old man as he crossed to the storage cabinets. "My own judgment, right. Sometimes I wonder how you always seem to get everything you want around here."
"What's to wonder about, sir? I had been under the impression that it was quite obvious."
Tim laughed. "Right. Alfred, you're the best."
"Thank you, sir."
He slid up on the full-length examination table and dangled his legs over the edge. "Still, I mean, I wonder. Maybe for everyone else, you end up a wacked-out druggie, but we, you know, kind of have access to people that aren't exactly your typical mortal physicians. I'm sure there's something out there that can make it all right to use. Maybe I could check with Dr. Fate or Wonder Woman or something."
Alfred, fiddling with something in a drawer, cleared his throat politely. "And perhaps you might, sir... but if I might point out three items..."
"Go ahead."
"I am not overly informed, but I believe that thought exactly may be what echoes in the empty attic of every drug addict's desperate mind as he abandons home and family for another fix."
Tim was silent for a minute. "Second item?" he said, finally.
"I shall quote Heinlein-- 'There ain't no such thing, sir, as a free lunch.'"
Tim grinned. "And I'm sure he meant to put the 'sir' in there to begin with."
"Of course."
"And third?"
"Hm?" Alfred turned to face the room. "One moment, Timothy." He strode to the door, carrying a small case in one hand, and as he opened it, a large hand slipped in from the darkness of the hallway beyond, and after it the arm and the body of Bruce Wayne, known in the hours beyond dusk as the Dark Knight of Gotham. He was dressed now in the relatively unassuming guise of a silk bathrobe, open slightly over the broad expanse of his chest.
Bruce glanced at his protege. "Timothy," he nodded.
"Hey, Bruce," he returned, managing to suppress the bitterness in his tone.
The dark eyes flashed to the butler. "Alfred--"
"Here you are, sir."
Bruce glanced at Timothy again, strangely, then took the small case from Alfred. "Thank you, old friend," he said lowly, and was gone. His solid, barefooted steps echoed down the long hall.
"What was that all about?" queried Tim.
Alfred closed the door quietly, and turned back to the boy. "That, sir," he said quietly, "was reason the third-- and it should be far and away enough for you. Now let us leave this room, and never consider this dreadful subject again."
* * *
In the early morning hours, when he should have been asleep, or, if insomnia reigned, at least studying, Tim crept down the slowly-brightening halls of Wayne Manor. He had left Alfred only minutes ago, not having realized until now what time it had gotten to be. But he was curious, in a cautious sort of way that made his heart sink a little, and followed silently after the footsteps of his hero, mentor, and sometimes-friend.
He was surprised to find that the sounds lead him to a far wing of the manor which he mentally referred to as 'the museum.' There wasn't really any official name for it at all, although Alfred seemed to take a perverse delight in referring to it as the mausoleum, but it was, in function, a museum, mostly of all the strange and exotic artifacts Bruce had procured in one way or another during his time abroad, before he had assumed the guise of the Bat. At least, that was what he had gathered from Alfred. You never could be quite sure with the old butler.
Nevertheless, he crept after Bruce, down the long hall of armor displays, along with aborigine pottery and basket weavings and all manner of crudely-constructed weapons. Tim could even see, studying these rudimentary examples, where Bruce had gathered inspiration to construct some of his more elaborate toys. Through another set of double doors, this time sealed around the edge, was a world-class collection of artwork, also compiled in that same frame of time. And finally, beyond that, a smaller room, darker than the rest, accessed by a small side door. It was where broken things went, as well as more delicate pieces which could not survive long under the light of day. It was musty and dark, and because Timothy knew why the Dark Knight went here, he waited only a moment before he carefully inched the door open and peered in.
It was a moment before his eyes adjusted, but he waited, motionless, and finally the room began to take shape before him. Various objects leaned up against walls and in corners, and file cabinets sufficed for smaller items. On the other side of the room, there stood a large, low table, meant for accommodating delicate documents and manuscripts, which was, at the moment, empty. And sitting at the table, his back to the door, was Bruce.
"Perhaps you might assist me," he rumbled.
Timothy started, and nearly closed the door and ran in the other direction. But he stayed, and finally slipped inside. "Uh, okay," he said, uneasily. He approached the table, stepping around the side, and sat down across from Bruce as his companion motioned to the empty chair. He looked down at the table, where spread between them were three small items, like spinning tops. "What are you doing?" he asked, puzzled.
"Attempting to put myself into a state of hypnosis."
Timothy paused. "Can I ask, uh-- why?"
"I must in order to counter a number of-- residual effects."
"Effects? Of what?"
He paused, swallowed thickly. "Venom."
"Ven--!" Surely not Bruce--
His mentor's words were quick, truncated. "The effects emerge in no predictable pattern; they are somewhat severe, but I posses the ability to, in effect, hold them a bay for some length of time. But only--" he sucked in a deep breath, suddenly, and brought a fist down upon the table, causing the room to shudder. He closed his eyes and seemed to let the air out slowly, and when he opened his eyes again the boy was staring at him, looking a little frightened at his mentor's loss of control. "I-- apologize," he said. "I am not-- angry with you."
"No, it's-- it's okay," Timothy said, gulping. He had never seen Bruce like this-- it was a small thing, yes, but for a man who maintained absolute control of his every movement...
"The psychoses build," he went on quickly, his voice stretched taut. "And I must enter a state of oblivion until the craving subsides. Or, if too much time has elapsed..." he glanced to one side, and Tim's eyes followed his to the small black case at his left arm. It lay open, revealing within the small syringe of milky liquid Alfred had prepared.
"Oh," said Tim, dumbly. He noticed now that even in the near-blackness, pale beads of sweat stood out upon his mentor's forehead, and seemed all even the Dark Knight could do to keep himself from clawing up the wall. "Well, uh, what do I do?"
Bruce was silent for a moment. He focused, solemnly, struggling against the demon inside of him, until the boy met his eyes. "Strength," he rumbled lowly, "means nothing, Timothy. It is only forethought which counts. It was a high price I paid for that lesson, and to you I give it freely. It would be foolish on your part to pay that price nevertheless. Do you understand?" His eyes were hard.
"Yeah," said Tim quietly, eyes a little wide. "I-- understand."
"Good. Then let us begin."