6. Cold Comforts
[February 10, 2015]
Bobby woke up to the patter of a hard rain beating at the windows. For a moment, he was disoriented by the view of the city and the cavernous space around him. He rolled onto his side and reached across the bed, his hand brushing over a steadily rising and falling, muscular chest.
Bruce, Bobby thought. He tried to hold onto the thought, but reality crept in the moment the happy fantasy brought a smile to his lips. He curled his hand on the other man's chest, and sighed. It was not Bruce Wayne, he knew, there was a different feel and smell to this person. Still, at least he was not waking up alone.
Bobby had been very skeptical when the Penguin had introduced him to alternative therapist and professed sadist Dr. Simon Hurt. In fact, he had laughed in Dr. Hurt's face at the appropriateness of his name. Simon was not deterred, being used to derision and mockery due to certain of the services he provided. Out of boredom and loneliness, Bobby had gone to a few talk therapy sessions with him, then delved into the lesser-traveled road of alternative therapy. He found himself opening up to Simon, far more than he had to anyone save for Bruce, and their relationship deepened. Not one to abide by the normal boundaries of professionalism, Simon eventually took the younger man on as a lover.
Simon stirred and his eyes opened. His eyes were brown, with a tint of red that some people had that gave the eyes an ember-like glow. He stretched his arms, long and lean with wiry, well-developed muscles. Simon looked at Bobby, smiled, and ran his fingers down the young man's spine. He rested his hand at the base of Bobby's back, caressing him there lightly.
"You're shivering."
"It's cold."
Bobby lay against the man for a few minutes, almost dozing off again. Finally he stretched and pushed himself off of him. He sat up as Simon ruffled his hair and climbed off the bed, yawning and rubbing the sand of sleep from his eyes. The rainy day ushered in a gray light that painted his loft into a dreary, static neatness. For the first time since moving into Gotham proper, Bobby missed his childhood home, the Halloran Estate just past the borders of Gotham City. Despite the high-end décor, despite the independence that the loft symbolized, and the importance its view from the high floor commanded, Bobby only wanted to go back home today.
Simon turned on the lights and turned the thermostat up before he went into the secondary bathroom to shower. Bobby grudgingly got out of bed and used the master bathroom to go about preparing himself for the day. He lingered in the warm water of the shower, letting the steam flow through him as if it could permanently chase away any chill.
The coldness was more mental than physical, however, and Bobby could not shake it. Even fully dressed, he had to fight to keep from shivering. Simon noticed, but did not say anything. They both knew that it was a cold day, indeed.
"Do you want me to come with you?" Simon asked at the door.
"No," Bobby said quietly. He wound a scarf around his neck and put on one of the hats that were coming back into fashion in Gotham. "No, I have to do this on my own."
"I'll be in my offices, then," Simon said. "You want to meet for lunch?"
"Yeah, okay."
They went in silence to the elevators, and left each other outside with only a brief kiss. Bobby greeted his driver, and gave instructions to be driven to HalloTech. He got in the car and watched the rain falling on the bleak city as the car moved along the streets.
There were multiple security checks at HalloTech, even for the acting CEO. Though Bobby bypassed the standard ID check by using his key card at the executive's entrance, he still needed fingerprint, facial, and retina scans before accessing the Research and Development floors. One wing of the basement's fourth level had been turned into a private hospital room, and it was here that Bobby directed himself.
Walter Halloran lay in the hospital bed, a ghastly yellowed ghost of himself. Despite his ailing body, Walter's eyes were still sparkling with life when he looked over at his son. Victor Fries stood from the bedside chair he had been sitting on and he poured a glass of water for Walter to drink. Walter sat up, making an obvious effort to grip the glass himself. Bobby felt his own throat go dry as he watched his father, formerly so imperviously strong, struggle to keep a glass of water upright.
"Well, you're here, so let's do this thing," Walter said without preamble. He handed the glass to Dr. Fries and somehow found the strength to swing his legs off the side of the bed. He inhaled sharply, took a moment, and managed to stand without taking Victor's proffered arm. "Let's go pop me in the freezer, Fries."
Bobby had to smile at his father's resoluteness. He did not know how men like Bruce and his father bit down on their fear and smothered it before it smothered them. As a youth, he had thought that these men simply did not feel as deeply as other people did, but now he knew differently; the men felt, they felt as deeply or more deeply than anyone else, but they accepted their feelings and controlled them. He wished that he had that capability, but no matter how many times Bruce had told him he did, he could never seem to grasp it.
Dr. Fries disconnected Walter Halloran from the myriad machines that were monitoring his decline and trying to stave it off. Walter stood stock still, ever the Marine, as the wires and needles were withdrawn from his body. He walked into the bathroom to finish emptying his bladder (he had emptied everything else a week ago and had fasted for the past three days) and dress in the specialized suit that would preserve him through the freezing process.
Walter looked very sparse in the skintight white suit, the curves of his skeleton showing through skin and suit both, the whiteness garishly contrasting his yellowed skin. He held his hairless head high regardless, and needed no help from Victor or Bobby as they left the room. It was Bobby that reached out to him in the hall, to take his father's hand as he had not done since he was a small child. Walter almost took his hand away out of pure instinct, but he looked down at his son then, smiled, and grasped his hand with a strength that belied his fragile appearance.
The cryogenic laboratory was frigid, and Bobby began to shiver once again. Victor's wife floated in her glass tank, like an eerie blue angel watching over them all beneath her lowered golden lashes. A twin tank beside hers awaited Walter, the blue liquid within deceptively still and serene. Bobby's eyes filled with tears the moment he saw it, and he had to take a deep breath of the cold air to keep them from falling. When he exhaled, his breath was visible as a small white cloud.
Walter went towards the tank, but Bobby held him back by the hand.
"Wait, dad, I … Just wait a minute, please."
Walter put a hand on his son's shoulder.
"I won't say 'goodbye', son," he said gently. "I fully intend to thaw out to perfect health, you know that."
"I know, of course, but … but in case … " Bobby stammered. He collected himself, not wanting his possible last words to his father to be more of the stuttering, emotional dribble that Walter had always tired of. "I just want to say something to you. Before."
"Okay, that's fine, Robert," Walter said. Though he showed no outward sign of pain, his grip on Bobby's shoulder tightened. "You say what you have to to me."
"I know I've never been the son you wanted," Bobby said softly. "All I've done is disappoint you, and disappoint myself. I can't apologize for being what I am, and I can't apologize for not being everything that I'm not. I was never going to be a soldier or a CEO like you were. I was never going to be a politician like granddad. You deserved a son like Bruce Wayne or Thomas Elliot, like all the boys that grew up to be better men than I am."
"Robert, no one is better than you," Walter said, surprising Bobby. He took him by both shoulders now. "Look at me, son. Just look."
Bobby met his father's eyes. Though Walter's were sunken and small, creased deeply at the corners, his brown eyes were still very much like Bobby's.
"I wouldn't trade you, Robert, not for any of those other boys," Walter said. "Were you the kid I expected? Well, no, no you weren't. And it's my fault for letting you think all these years that that meant I was disappointed with you, that you were some kind of disgrace to me. I disgraced our family, not you, Robert. When your mother left, I was afraid to lose you, too. I stopped disciplining you because I couldn't bear the idea of you hating me. I stopped spending so much time with you because loving you so much almost drove me insane with fear. I was the coward, not you. I was afraid to feel anything. You're afraid of a lot of things, I know that, but you've never been afraid to feel. You're so much like your mother in that … "
"Mom didn't feel anything when she left us."
"That was … out of her control," Walter said carefully. He paused for a long moment, his eyes showing some inner debate. "I don't blame her. You shouldn't, either. She loved you. I'm sure she still loves you, even if she can't be with you now."
Bobby frowned, wondering what his father could possibly mean. He spoke as if the woman had died, but she had simply walked out, hadn't she?
"I don't want any other son but you, Robert," Walter said. "I don't want you to believe anything else, no matter what. If I never do wake up from this permafrost, I just want you to remember that. I love you more than anyone else in this world, just as you are."
"Why?"
"Why?" Walter echoed, blinking. "Why do I love you? You're my son, and you're a good man."
"I'm a waste of space," Bobby sighed. He walked from his father to stand before the tank. "If I were put in this thing today, no one would care. Hardly anyone would even notice for more than a minute that I was gone. I'm twenty-seven, and what have I done? What have I accomplished? I'm standing in for you at HalloTech and barely managing. I opened a night club. Who cares?"
"You just lack focus, and that's my fault," Walter said, coming beside Bobby and also looking up at the tank. "I couldn't direct you into any path that I was familiar with, and so I stopped directing you altogether. I let you go, when I never should have stopped holding you close. I only hope that one day you'll forgive me for that."
"I don't blame you for anything," Bobby said. He drew a shaky breath, and the tears returned. "I never did."
"Well, I don't blame you, either. I love you, son," he said fiercely, drawing Bobby into a rare embrace. "I love you, and I'm proud of you. Don't ever believe anything different."
Bobby let the tears fall. They slipped down his face, onto the smooth white fabric of the cryogenic suit his father wore. A whirlwind of memories ran through his mind, and he thought abstractedly of the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey, the sight of his father sitting formidably behind his study's massive walnut desk, his father shaking hands in full military dress in the nation's capitol, his father shaking the hand of his old friend Thomas Wayne while his wife greeted Martha Wayne with a kiss on each cheek on the last Thanksgiving both families had spent together. The young man cried for it all, those moments that had been and never would be again, the familiar faces that had vanished one by one throughout the years, the ache of family separating.
Walter said nothing, letting the young man cry. He was nearly in tears himself when Bobby finally pulled back from him. He regretted the separation, thinking bitterly of the years he had wasted being uncomfortable with physical affection; it seemed such a petty, stupid thing now, the doctrine of isolation that had been drilled into him since boyhood, the rules of being 'a man'. He thought that he should have held his son more, should never have let so many tears fall without a word or touch of comfort to soothe them.
Bobby dried his eyes on a tissue that Victor Fries discreetly came over to hand him. He managed a brave smile, though his nose and cheeks were red from cold and emotion. He looked too young to be left without a father, Walter thought, a man yet still in many ways the boy he had always been.
"I will beat this thing," Walter resolved, more for his own reassurance than Bobby's. "And I'll be there for you when I do. I promise you that much, son."
"I know," Bobby said. "I love you, dad."
The open honesty of those simple words almost broke Walter. He had never deserved his son's love, but he had always known that he had it. Bobby was not only forgiving, he usually took all the blame for rejection upon himself. Walter was ashamed of how greedily he had taken that love for granted all these years, the wanton disregard of it that had driven him away from his son on so many tours and trips. Every moment wasted on foolish pride was another small dagger of regret in him now, and he let the pain consume him, knowing he had pinned each blade into his heart himself.
The cryogenics lab doors opened, and the three men turned.
"Amanda," Walter breathed in shock. "I thought you were in D.C.. What are you doing here?"
Amanda Waller was a tall, stately black woman of near middle age, elegantly dressed and immaculately groomed. Her long legs carried her into the room briskly, and she seemed impervious to the cold. She stood before Walter for a moment, her large dark eyes warming as she looked at him.
"I'm not going to tell you goodbye, General," Amanda said. She extended her hand. "Good luck."
Walter shook her hand firmly, and then pulled her closer by the hand. Bobby and Victor stared with wide eyes as the General kissed Amanda with a ferocity that heated the cold air. Victor averted his eyes and cleared his throat. Bobby watched, stunned, and began to bite at his thumbnail. He had to hand it to his father: he was a complicated and bold man right until the end.
"Exactly what was that?" Amanda asked, more amused than anything else.
"One more for the road, Amanda," Walter said with a smile that took years off his face. He winked at her. "Just one more for the road."
"Aha," Amanda said. She kissed his cheek. "It better not be the last one, soldier. I'll hunt you down in Hell if it is, so help me."
"It won't be," Walter said. "I promise you that."
Amanda smiled and stepped back from him. Walter looked at his son and his sometimes-lover (when had that happened, Bobby wondered) both. He smiled and saluted them, then turned to Dr. Fries.
"Well, any longer and I'll be frozen to this spot, doc," he said. "Let's get this thing done already."
Victor nodded. Walter was injected with a vibrant blue chemical. Amanda and Bobby watched as the liquid tensed the veins in his neck and hands, lighting them subtly with a deep blue glow. Walter's papery yellow skin took on a blue hue that made Bobby queasy to see. Even the white of Walter's eyes, previously jaundiced, turned a ghostly blue. Tranquility stole over him, and his eyes were faraway. His last conscious thought was that freezing to death was not such a bad way to go, compared to the horrible ways he had seen men die in the war and at home in Gotham.
Walter was put into a chamber beneath the tank and it sealed automatically with a rush of air. Victor busied himself at the control panel for some time as Bobby and Amanda stood in solemn silence. Everything was so still that Bobby almost felt himself lost in the cold serenity.
The sound of rushing liquid startled him out of the quiet. Walter was ejected from the chamber into the tank above. Bobby bit his bottom lip hard to keep from swearing or crying. Walter was unconscious by now, and he resembled nothing more than a husk in the tank's blue solution. The bubbles ebbed away and the tank grew still once more. Walter and Mrs. Fries floated in their respective tanks, suspended in an eternal winter.
Amanda Waller reacted first. She walked to the tank and held a palm to its cold surface.
"Good luck, General Halloran," she said. Then, more warmly, "I'll see you later, Walter."
Bobby could not bring himself to go to the tank. He thanked Victor Fries for his work and bid him to take care of his father. Amanda left with him, and Fries stayed in his frosty laboratory.
"I'm sorry about that," Amanda said in the hallway. "I didn't think your father would be so obvious."
"No, it's all right," Bobby said. "I just didn't know that you two were together. I mean, I kind of suspected, on that last trip to D.C., but he never said anything."
"He's a private man, your father."
They stopped at the elevators to wait. Amanda faced Bobby, looking the young man up and down with frank interest. She thought of all the times Walter had confessed the boy's (she only saw him as Walter's boy) sins to her, only to end every speech with, 'Don't get me wrong, Bobby's a good kid. I just worry about him so much.'
"He loves you," Amanda said. "He probably told you already, but don't think it was due to obligation. It's always been very clear to anyone that really knows him how much he loves you, Robert."
"Thank you."
"It's only the truth," Amanda said. "I'm sorry if my coming here upset you."
"No, I'm not upset," Bobby said. "I'm glad my father had someone before … this. He's been alone for way too long. Maybe after he beats the cancer, you two can spend more time together?"
"I would like that," Amanda said with a small smile. She had a serious face that was not meant for smiles, but the upturn of her full lips gave her a lovely warmth. "Although I still have a lot on my plate in Washington."
The elevator doors opened and they got in. The chill of the basement lessened as the little box climbed up towards ground level.
"I would have flown in to wish your father luck no matter what, but it's not my only reason for coming to Gotham, as it happens," Amanda told Bobby. "Now might not be the right time for you to discuss this, but there are some contracts that I've brought on behalf of the Department of Defense that the board should go over."
"No, we can do it now," Bobby said. "The board is in to go over some more details of the transfer of power to me in my father's extended absence. I think working will be good for me right now. You're good to go on up?"
Amanda took a tablet computer out of her jacket's inner pocket.
"I have everything I need right here."
"Good. We'll get to it, then."
"A man after my own heart," Amanda said. "There's some of Walter in you after all, isn't there, Robert?"
"I hope so."
Bobby spent the entire morning in the boardroom meeting, his mind thankfully distracted from the fact that his father was drifting into cold sleep in HalloTech's basement lab. The weariness of lunchtime returned his grief, however, and Bobby began to feel claustrophobic in the building.
Bobby did not escape HalloTech until past one-o-clock in the afternoon. His stomach was twisting with hunger by then, and he was miserable and spent. He drove himself to the building where Simon Hurt kept his offices, not even bothering to call beforehand. Simon did not appear to mind, finishing his current appointment and then accompanying Bobby to lunch at the exclusive Starlight Room.
Though he was physically starving, Bobby could hardly bring himself to eat. He sat despondently at the table, poking at his food with a fork. Though it was early, Simon called for a bottle of strong red wine for them. After having a few glasses, Bobby's appetite returned and he wolfed down his meal without hardly speaking a word.
"How was it?" Simon asked when the meal had slowed for the savor of dessert.
"I'm trying not to think about it," Bobby said quietly. "My father was always there, you know? No matter how much I screwed up my life, no matter if he was at home or overseas or in Washington, I always knew that he would help me out if I needed it. And all I've ever done was waste that by taking advantage of it. I could never make my dad proud of me, so I just gave up. I blamed him for everything and made it my life's mission to embarrass him. Why did I do that, Simon? Why did I waste so much time making us both so miserable?"
"You probably found it easier to get negative attention than positive attention, so you went with that," Simon told him. "It's a natural reaction to perceived rejection."
"I just wish I had more time," Bobby said. "We had just started understanding each other, and now he's gone."
"I'm sure you'll have more time with him," Simon said. "I've read a lot about Victor Fries's research and it's pretty groundbreaking stuff."
"I hope so," Bobby said. "I really do. I've spent so much time running away from dad, from home, from everything. Today, I'd give anything just to go home again."
"Why don't you?"
"What?"
"Go home," Simon said. "We'll go there right now."
Bobby managed a few more bites of cake before Simon scanned his credit card with the waiter to pay the bill. He ushered Bobby out by the shoulder, a habit that reminded Bobby vaguely of Bruce. For a moment, Bobby felt a hot streak of anger towards Bruce: it should be Bruce at his side during this time of childhood ending, not a man that Bobby had known less than a month, but Bruce was completely engrossed with that prosecutor. The last time Bobby had seen Bruce, the man had been as cold as a stranger.
They got into the front of Simon's car. The psychiatrist never let himself be driven anywhere, so they took the front seats of the sleek black car. Bobby huddled in the passenger seat, turning the heat up high.
"I haven't been home hardly at all since dad got sick," Bobby said. "I don't know. What's the point of going back there?"
"Closure," Simon said. "Whether your father survives this or not, your life won't be the same after this. You've moved out of your family home, you're CEO of HalloTech and you have a thriving night club. You've already started letting go of your past, but you can't finish doing that without facing it."
"I don't want to get rid of all of it," Bobby murmured, staring at his hands. "I was only happy when I was a child. I've had nothing but misery ever since I turned eighteen, except for-for those few weeks that I was with Bruce."
Bobby watched Simon out of the corner of his eyes. Dr. Hurt was an even-tempered man, but he made no secret of his disdain for Bruce Wayne. Bobby had not yet discovered the root of Simon's hatred, but he had no problem with it. It was cathartic to be with someone that disliked Bruce, given Bobby's frustrations with the man.
"You've staked your entire childhood on Bruce Wayne," Simon said, his dark eyes glinting with steely anger. "You love the idea of Bruce: the childhood friend that still loves you and still lets you be the boy you were. It's pure fantasy, Bobby, to the point of fetish."
"What's wrong with a little fetish?" Bobby asked, half-seriously. He playfully nestled his face in the man's neck and licked him. "You're not trying to go vanilla on me, are you?"
"No," Simon said, irritably pushing Bobby away. "Stop it, you're going to make me crash."
Bobby went to grope him, but Simon hit the back of his hand sharply. Bobby sighed, restlessly looking out the window. The rain had stopped, but it was still a dark, gloomy day.
"There is nothing wrong with fantasy, so long as a person is aware of a fantasy's falseness," Simon went on. "You're trying to fit a living, breathing man into your personal, fictional view of him, and that isn't healthy. Your entire childhood fetish is unhealthy. No one's childhood is perfect, no one's is better than their adulthood unless they force themselves to see it that way. You're idealizing youth so much that it's left you emotionally stunted."
"Am I going to be billed for your time now, Dr. Hurt?"
Simon looked at him, sighed, and said nothing. Bobby shrugged the conversation off and turned on the radio. It was a long drive out to the Halloran property, and the rain had broken out again by the time they were out of Gotham. Bobby dozed off to the music and the patter of raindrops on the car.
A sharp sting in his neck woke Bobby up. He slapped his neck, thinking that he had been stung by an insect. Simon was wrapping a disposable syringe in a plastic wrapper and putting it into the small trash receptacle.
"What the hell is that?" Bobby asked. "What did you give me?"
"It's a mild psychoactive drug," Simon said. He pressed a gauze pad to the injection spot on Bobby's neck. "I would tell you the name, but it wouldn't mean anything to you. It will help you relax and remember, that's all, Bobby."
"You could have asked me first," Bobby muttered. "Jeez."
Simon wiped the spot off and put a small, circular bandage over it. Bobby's vision blurred and doubled. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, though his mind went on spinning. When Simon helped him out of the car, he saw Bruce's face on the man for a moment.
"Stand still," Simon said, holding Bobby in place by the shoulders once they were inside the estate's gates. "Close your eyes and think back, Bobby. Think about your home, your precious childhood, your family, your friends. Let it all in."
Bobby did as he was told, and he was surprised by the assault of memories. He could feel the history of his family home enshrouding him like an old favorite blanket. The smell of the wet earth and falling snow melded with scents of hot chocolate, his mother's perfume, snow-moistened wool coats, the perpetual smell of cigar smoke on his father, the clean, soapy scent that mingled with Bruce's own personal smell. He could see and feel himself trying to make snowballs out of the slushy snow, laughing and running back and forth with Bruce and Thomas Elliot before taking refuge in the warmth of the mansion again.
When Bobby opened his eyes, he saw the mansion as the time capsule that it was. He was in a daze as he went through the sprawling front yard with Simon, seeing ghosts in every corner of the courtyard. His hands were clumsy as he got his keys out and unlocked the front door. It was cold and dark inside the mansion, the emptiness a shock to Bobby, who had expected to see his friends and family going about their daily business.
"No one's home," Bobby murmured. It was such a shock to him that tears sprung to his eyes. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "No, of course not. No one—No one lives here right now. Anymore. We all left. Everyone went away."
Simon rubbed his shoulder, and went about turning the lights and heat on. Bobby wandered from the foyer to the library, and into his father's study. For a pleasant moment, he could see Walter behind his desk, smoking his cigar and rustling through classified files. He went around the desk and sat in his father's chair, running his hands over the desk. He picked up a file idly and thumbed through it.
A name caught Bobby's eye: Floyd Lawton. He had a memory of the handsome man sitting on the couch on the other side of the office, cleaning his gun part by part, grinning that wolfish grin of his. Bobby stared at the paper for a long moment, his hazy mind trying to focus on the words. One line made everything abundantly clear: Floyd Lawton, Codename: Deadshot.
Bobby's mind turned back to the past November, that night Batman (No, Bruce, Bobby reminded himself, Bruce is Batman) had snatched him off of the street and used him as a foil for his father's plans to throw the country into war. Bobby felt it all again, the betrayal, the fear … and the way his father had thrown everything he was working for away simply for his son's sake. So that's why dad had Floyd Lawton here, Bobby thought. He was Deadshot, the assassin dad hired to take out that ex-terrorist. Bruce was with Floyd, which is how Batman knew that Lawton and Deadshot were one in the same. All these secrets, all these secret identities. Am I the only person that's only myself?
Bobby left the study and wandered to the den. Simon found him there and took him by the arm. He asked Bobby to take him to his room, and they went upstairs. The empty mansion was very quiet and upstairs it was dark. Bobby stuck close to the man, discomfited by the rain hammering down on the roofs and windows
Bobby's room had not been changed much over the years. The furniture was more adult, the toys were mostly cleared out, but the walls were still the same light blue and the model trains he had loved as a boy were still displayed. Bobby left Simon's side and walked through his room, touching old mementos, running a hand over the wall. He touched the carvings in the closet door that marked his growth from two feet to five feet to his final height of five-foot-ten. He had always thought that he would grow taller than that, closer to his father's six-foot-something, but like so many things, his progress had halted at some indefinable point.
"Bobby?"
"I don't want to let it go." Bobby turned to face Simon, but he saw a completely different man in his place. "I don't want to let any of it go, Bruce."
"Don't you want to grow up?" Simon asked harshly. He grabbed Bobby by the shoulders and shook him. "For two weeks, you've sat in my office and whined to me about how much you want to be respected, to be your own man. Were you lying to me, or to yourself? Did you mean it?"
"I-I don't know, I … I don't know what I want!"
Simon slapped him across the face, breaking Bobby's illusion of Bruce. He clutched his cheek, stunned, and tried to break free of him. Simon held him with an iron grip, shaking him again.
"What do you want, Bobby?" Simon asked again. "Tell me what you want. You want to be a child forever, don't you? That's all you really want, way deep down inside, isn't it? You're only happy to play the little boy for a strong master, aren't you?"
"No … no, I … I don't know. No, I don't want to be that person!"
"Yes you do, you do," Simon said, slapping him again. "Your grand attempt at being an independent man is nothing more than a sad submission to Bruce Wayne's desires. You want to be good enough to earn his love and respect, that's all."
Bobby bowed his head, tears streaming down his face. His face hurt and his brain felt like mush. All he wanted to do was run away, far away from everything and everyone. He wanted to sleep and dream of simpler times. He wanted …
"Bruce Wayne will never love or respect you the way you want," Simon told him. "He never will, because he sees you for what you really are: a spoiled, frivolous child. He won't buy your little act, and he certainly won't respect anything you do with the Black Glove, or even HalloTech. Bruce Wayne is a self-centered, arrogant man, and he knows that he's better than you. He might have some sentimental attachment to you, but he doesn't love you. Bruce Wayne could never love a weak, sheltered, simpering brat like you."
"I know that!" Bobby shouted at the man. "You think I don't know? I know that I'm not good enough for him!"
"Then stop pretending that you can be!" Simon snapped. He touched Bobby's warm cheek, tenderly soothing the reddened skin. "Give Wayne up. Give your father up. Keep your childhood, if you want, or shut the door on it if that will make you content. Just tell me, Bobby. Tell me what you want."
"I just want to … stop trying so hard to figure everything out," Bobby said wearily. "I hate this … this confusion. I don't know what to do."
"You want someone to tell you what to do, isn't that right?" Simon asked. He ran a hand through Bobby's hair and led him towards the bed. "You only want to be taken care of and loved, yes?"
"Yes," Bobby murmured. "Yes, that's right. That's all I ever wanted … from dad, from Bruce … but … they wouldn't waste their time. I wasn't worth it to them."
Simon sat down on the edge of the bed and sat Bobby on his lap. Bobby leaned his head on the man's shoulder. Simon was gentle now, caressing his arm and back. He removed Bobby's coat and jacket, kissing his forehead and cheeks as he did so.
"You're worth it to me," Simon said, though his tone was oddly curt. "Let me take care of you, Bobby. Forget everything you think you should be, forget all you've tried to do for Bruce Wayne. Let go and let me be the daddy you've been looking for since your father and your friend abandoned you."
Bobby sat in his arms for a long while, clinging to the man's strength and comfort. It was lovely to be with a man that expected nothing of him, wanted nothing from him. He did not have to consider every word he spoke, watch every gesture he made, stifle every untoward emotion he felt. He could simply be held tightly as he forgot about board meetings and acts to schedule and interviews to pretend his way through. He was safe at home with someone that wanted him, loved him, would protect him—wasn't that all that he had ever really wanted?
"You're right," Bobby admitted, chewing his thumbnail. "I never wanted to be anything else. I never wanted to have all these responsibilities. I'm tired of being tired. I'm sick of being miserable. I just want to be happy again."
"I know, kid, I know," Simon said, deliberately using Bruce's affectionate term. "Let me make you happy. You want to go back to when you were happy, don't you?"
"Yes, more than anything."
"Then, go back," Simon said in his melodically deep voice. He took Bobby's thumbnail out of his mouth, only to guide his thumb itself into the man's mouth. "There. That was how your nail-chewing habit started, isn't it? That's why you predominantly only bite your thumbnails, isn't it?"
It was true, Bobby realized, he had had a thumb-sucking habit in childhood that he had traded for his nail-biting habit in first grade. The drugs in his brain took him back to that time, and further back still. The progress that he had made in the past months degraded and fell away. He did not miss his ego, strangely enough, or even his age; he was at peace here with his memories and these stolen moments of a recaptured childhood.
Simon smiled as he saw Bobby's eyes glaze over and his thumb remain in his mouth. Bruce Wayne should have known better than to have let himself love such a weak child, but his mistake was Simon's opportunity. Simon lay Bobby back on the bed, where the young man curled up in a fetal position. Though Bobby was only a means to an end, Simon had to admit that he was quite an enticing means with his boy's face, man's body, and all that sad, desperate need. Simon stroked his hair at the hairline, caressing his soft skin, looking into his saucer-like brown eyes. Then he continued undressing him, as Bobby lay lost in his chemically induced regression.
I've taken Wayne's little lover, and it's only the start, Simon thought. He squeezed the man's ample buttocks as he pulled his pants off. I'll strip down and break everything and everyone that Bruce Wayne cares about. He has no idea the kind of hell that I'm preparing for him yet, but he will know once he sees the wreck I've made of his old friend.
Bobby was crying soundlessly from some memory. Simon took off his own coat, jacket, and shoes, then climbed into the bed beside him. He pulled the naked, shaking man into his arms and held him close. He kissed Bobby chastely, soothing him with wordless sounds and caresses.
"There, there, my boy," he murmured. "Sweet boy, it's all right now. You're safe. You're safe with me."
"Bruce?"
"No." Simon gave his bottom a slap and tilted his face up to his own by the chin. "No. I'm not Bruce Wayne. You know me, Robert. Look at me."
Bobby whimpered uncertainly. Simon gave him another spank.
"You know me," he said. "Tell me."
"Simon," Bobby whispered. He frowned. "You're Simon … Dr. Hurt. You're my therapist. You're my … lover. Simon. You're Simon … "
"That's right, Bobby," Simon said lazily. "Don't you ever call me Bruce again, hm?"
"No, you're not Bruce," Bobby said. He sighed in relief. "You're not Bruce."
"No. No, I'm not. I'm most certainly not Bruce Wayne."
[February 13, 2015]
Selina Kyle was in a mood. The Falcone family had locked itself up tight in the apartment building they owned that substituted for an impenetrable fortress. Since Harvey Dent's return from death and the arrest of Sal Maroni, Carmine had been careful to the point of paranoia. With Valentine's Day approaching, Carmine had withdrawn with all his people, closing ranks in hopes to deter Holiday. Falcone had even ignored losing a substantial amount of dirty money to the burglar known as Catwoman.
Selina had been contemplating helping the Batman with his war on the crime families, but he had mysteriously vanished. Sitting in the Black Glove with a drink, Selina thought back on the night the Riddler had accused Bruce Wayne of being Batman. She had long suspected the same thing, and despite Batman's sighting while Bruce was at the club, she still suspected it.
That Riddler is not as clever as he thinks he is, Selina thought, sipping her drink. She looked at the stage where it had all gone down, though it was currently occupied by a rock band playing live. There are facial prosthetics, robotic doubles, all kinds of ways that Batman could have been sighted while Bruce Wayne was here. He's a billionaire, if anyone could pull off being in two places at once, it's him. Bruce could still be Batman.
Not that it matters, Selina thought bitterly. Bruce and Batman have disappeared, coincidentally at the same time. Bruce is enraptured with that man, Luis Castell, out of the blue … and who knows where Batman is, if he isn't in the exact same place as Bruce. But if Bruce is Batman, how could he give it all up for one man? How could he just quit his crusade over something so tenuous as love? What the hell is going on with Batman? What the hell is wrong with Bruce Wayne?
"Men are so unreliable," Selina commented to her old friend, Holly Robinson.
"I, er, wouldn't know about that," Holly said with a smirk.
"You're lucky," Selina said. "They're much more trouble than they're worth. Oh, speak of the devil … one of them, anyway."
Selina slipped down from the bar stool and crossed the dance floor to greet Bobby Halloran. That young man had been behaving strangely lately, as well, clinging to his therapist and lover Simon Hurt as if for dear life. Selina wondered if there was something in the water that only affected the male population in Gotham, as if they needed any more reason to be generally insane.
"What is it?" Bobby asked, eyeing Selina suspiciously. He looked at everyone that way lately, the way a young child looks at adults. She could tell by his pupils that he was on some narcotic.
"I was wondering if you've seen Bruce lately," Selina said. "He hasn't been around much, has he?"
Bobby winced at the name, and Selina caught a blaze of anger in Simon's eyes. Bobby clutched the man's hand in his own tightly.
"No, I don't know where Br—where he is," Bobby said sullenly. "I'm not his keeper."
Selina was surprised by the hostility; whatever else he was, Bobby was normally an amiable guy. She did not stay around to argue with him. She had gotten what she wanted from Bobby: a reason to seek out Bruce Wayne.
Curiosity won't kill this cat, Selina thought as she drove out to Wayne Manor. I need to know if Bruce is Batman or not. He won't easily let that secret out, but I'll be able to tell the truth for myself if I get close enough to him. All I need is a hint.
Selina should have been surprised by Bruce greeting her with the same hostile suspicion that Bobby had, but somehow she had expected it. Bruce being Bruce, he covered his impatience with politeness even now.
"Selina," he said, eyebrows raised. "This is a surprise. What brings you all the way out here tonight?"
"I was wondering if you had seen Bobby recently."
"No, I haven't. We did break up a while ago, Selina," Bruce explained in the tone of a teacher explaining a complex matter to a slow student. "Bobby and I don't have anything to do with each other. Why?"
"Because he's acting strangely," Selina said. "I thought you would want to know that your ex-boyfriend is stoned out of his mind and acting like Simon Hurt's personal bitch."
"Bobby can do whatever he wants," Bruce said, backing into the house and moving to close the door. "If that's all—"
"No, that's not all," Selina said, holding the door open. "Bobby is your friend, Bruce. Don't you even care? Who knows what that freak Dr. Hurt has done to him?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," Bruce said. "Bobby is a grown man, even if he is an immature, air-headed, self-centered one. He can make his own choices, live his own life. Why should I care, Selina? Why do you care?"
"I've grown fond of the kid," Selina said. It was meant as a lie, but she thought there might be some truth in it. "And I thought that we were starting to become friends."
"We're not friends, Selina."
"Bobby is a mutual friend, at least," Selina argued. "I don't want to see him hurt, and you shouldn't want that, either. Can I at least come in?"
Bruce grudgingly invited her in. They stood drinking in the den for a minute. Bruce tapped his fingers on his glass impatiently, watching the clock.
"Listen, Selina, I can tell that you're worried about Bobby," Bruce said. "He does stupid things, puts himself in trouble, but he always knows when to run away before he's seriously hurt. He's a coward, he won't let anyone give him anything more than a few S&M-related bruises."
"You're not even the slightest bit concerned?"
"Life is too short to waste babysitting adults," Bruce said. "I tried to help Bobby, I tried like hell, but he threw me away the moment he found an excuse to. He saw me at my best and it wasn't good enough for him."
"At your best?"
"He knew my secrets, he saw me more clearly than anyone has in a long time," Bruce said bitterly. "I gave Bobby all of that, and he threw it in my face and left me alone. Fortunately, it was the best thing that he ever did for me. He left me, and I found Luis."
"The ADA?" Selina said. "I would have thought you would have gone for the real prize: DA Dent. He is alive, after all, and a widower, the poor man. There have been rumors of his being bisexual, and I always thought there was a spark between you two."
"Harvey Dent is too complicated," Bruce said. "He pretends to be strong, but he's broken. Luis isn't needy or damaged. He's a good man, and he won't disappoint me. I love him. I love him more than I've ever loved anyone."
Selina froze, staring at Bruce. When he spoke of loving Luis Castell, she saw a familiar green glint over his blue eyes. She kept her face carefully neutral and set her glass down on the dry bar. Oh hell, she thought. I've seen this before. It can only be the work of one woman: Poison Ivy. So she's playing the matchmaker now? Wonderful.
Luis Castell himself entered the den. He eyed Selina warily as Bruce came over to him and kissed him fervently.
"Ms. Kyle," Luis greeted her politely, shaking her hand. "Excuse me. I didn't know we had company."
"Obviously not."
"What do you m—oh!"
Selina took Luis by the throat. Luis dropped his glass and it shattered on the floor. Bruce moved towards them, but Luis waved him back with a hand.
"I've seen this before," Selina hissed at Luis. "What did you do to Bruce?"
"I haven't done anything!" Luis exclaimed. "I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Oh yes you do," Selina said. "The green bulging veins, the change of eye color, the relentless and tasteless love: you went to Poison Ivy, didn't you? Did you get her to make a special love potion for you? A mass market version of her passion juice? Hm? What did you do, Luis?"
"It wasn't my fault," Luis moaned, wincing as Selina's long fingernails dug into his neck. "I was desperate, I only wanted someone on my side! I-I needed him! Oh God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Selina did not have time to ponder Luis's seemingly genuine remorse. Bruce pulled Luis out of her grasp and protectively stepped in front of him. Luis looked at the two, and then ran. Selina heard the front doors slamming open and then shut. She tried to run around Bruce, but he grabbed her and threw her across the room. She hit the floor hard. Bruce was fast as he crossed the room to her, and he stepped directly on the spot where Tom Blake had stabbed her two months ago. The spot was still weakened, and she growled in pain.
He knew, she thought despite the discomfort. She rolled away from Bruce, desperately trying to get distance between them. He knew where I was injured. Only Batman could have known that.
Selina got to her feet and faced Bruce. He grinned, a hard and terrible expression. His eyes glowed unnaturally green, and his black hair fell around his face wildly.
"So," Bruce said, "The cat bears her claws."
"And the bat spreads his wings."
Selina went at him with all her speed, but Bruce blocked or avoided every strike. For such a large man, he was impossibly fast, matching her speed despite his extra weight. Selina had no doubts as to Batman's identity now: only one person moved like that in Gotham.
I'll never match him, Selina realized. She scowled, looking around the room desperately for a weapon. With my whip and an open space, maybe, but in here, dressed like this, without anything but my bare hands it's hopeless.
Alfred came in after Selina knocked over a large, heavy bookshelf to deter Bruce. His eyes went wide when he saw the scene unfolding. Bruce grabbed her by the wrists and she struggled with him. Alfred drew his gun and aimed it at Selina, though she saw no intention to shoot in the man's eyes.
"Bruce isn't himself!" Selina told the butler desperately. Bruce's hand wrapped around her neck and she could barely breathe enough to finish, "It's … poison … Castell … Castell got something from Poison Ivy! His eyes! Look at his eyes!"
Alfred saw, and Selina thanked her nine lives that he trusted her. Alfred shot his gun off at Bruce, only close enough to graze him. It was enough to distract Bruce and give Selina her chance. She drew one long nail across Bruce's wrist, deeply enough to sever the artery there. He released her and she ran to Alfred's side. Alfred held the gun on Bruce, though it pained him to do so.
"The poison has taken root in his system, but he'll bleed it out," Selina said. "Once it's subsided enough, you can stitch him up. He should be fine."
"Good Lord," Alfred breathed as he watched Bruce bleed green and red fluid. "You're saying that Luis Castell did this? And I thought that Master Bruce had finally found such a nice man."
Bruce was weakened by blood loss and the leaking poison dulled his rage. He slumped onto the floor, back against the sofa, clutching his wrist. Neither Alfred or Selina dared approach him just yet.
"Yes," Selina answered Alfred's inquiry. "He ran away, probably halfway to Gotham by now."
"I knew that Master Bruce had become inordinately enamored with the man, but I never suspected this," Alfred said. "That bastard!"
"Maybe," Selina said, thinking of the desperation in Luis's eyes. "Or maybe he had his reasons."
"I can't see any reason to chemically seduce someone in such a tawdry, insidious manner, Ms. Kyle," Alfred said stiffly. He crossed the room to fetch a medical kit. "And here I was thinking that Master Bruce would at least be immune to Ms. Isley's devices."
"Pamela has a poison for everyone," Selina said. "But how could a mere ADA afford to get something like that from her? And to what purpose? He hasn't taken money from Bruce? Company security protocols, information, anything?"
"No," Alfred had to admit. He knelt beside Bruce and began to clean up his wounded wrist. Bruce had passed out. "Mr. Castell has been very polite and kind, soft-spoken and owning more class than Master Bruce's usual type. He was a bit high-strung, nervous, but not more than any professional in the city. I never should have thought that he would do such a thing."
Selina considered this as she stood before a mirror to fix her hair and clothes. Bruce woke up with a grunt of pain as Alfred was cleaning the gash in his arm. His eyes were clear, though tired.
"Alfred? What happened?"
"Much and more, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "Before anything, I believe you owe Ms. Kyle a spot of gratitude."
Bruce looked over Alfred's shoulder at Selina. She turned to him, smirking a little in amusement.
"Er, thank you, Selina," Bruce said. He looked at Alfred. "What am I thanking her for, exactly?"
Selina took up the story of Luis's manipulation. By the time she had finished, Alfred had brought them tea. They sat on the sofa together over the steaming cups, both disheveled but mostly unharmed.
"I can't believe it," Bruce said ruefully. "I was completely convinced that I was in love, that I had finally found enough happiness to give everything up for. It felt real, it felt authentic … too authentic, now that I think about it. But at the time, I was … "
"It's what Ivy does," Selina said. "She must have changed a few things to make a poison that would attract you to Luis. Something for everyone."
"Not for long," Bruce murmured darkly.
"Oh?" Selina inquired. "And how do you intend to stop her?"
"Never mind," Bruce said. "Are you all right? I didn't hurt you, did I? I saw you limping."
"Old injury."
Selina saw the recognition in Bruce's eyes, the memory of the night he had stopped her from killing Thomas Blake. He hid it so quickly that it was fleeting as a ripple over water, but Selina caught it. There was no reason to torment the man with her knowledge, so Selina said nothing; it was more than enough to know.
"I'm sorry all the same," Bruce said. "I can't thank you enough for freeing me from that poison. If you hadn't come out here—Er, why did you come out here?"
"Your friend Bobby Halloran," Selina said. "He's latched onto this alternative therapy psychiatrist, Simon Hurt. He's been acting strangely, and he's high on something or other again. I thought you might want to have a talk with him. When you started telling me that you were over Bobby and he was free to live his shallow, reckless, stupid life, I was … concerned."
"I said all that?"
"I'm paraphrasing, but you get the gist," Selina said. "Don't worry, it wasn't you speaking, it was the poison. False love is always the most selfish."
"You've been paying more attention to me than I realized," Bruce said. "Bobby is frustrating, I very well might have been tired of—"
"Babysitting him, you said."
"Exactly."
"You're not the type to forget your loved ones," Selina said. "You don't see many people like that in Gotham, that's why I noticed. You're a good man, Bruce."
"You hardly know me."
"I know enough."
Bruce was disconcerted by her secretive smile, but he said nothing. Alfred had assured him that he had not spoken of Batman to Luis, even in the throes of false passion; thankfully, Bruce had given up his alter ego to spend all his time with Luis. Selina had always seemed on the verge of discovering his secret, and even after his stunt at The Black Glove to fool the Riddler, her suspicions had not died. She did not seem threatening, though, merely curious.
"Anyway, I suppose I should go," Selina said. "I drove straight out here from The Black Glove, and I haven't eaten. I should—"
"Would you like to stay for dinner?"
"Oh, Bruce, if only you meant more than that," Selina laughed. "Yes, though, I would love to have dinner with you. I wouldn't want to put poor Alfred out, though. I think I gave him quite a fright earlier."
"No worse a fright than if I had done something unspeakable under that poison's influence," Bruce assured her. "Alfred and I both owe you more than a simple dinner. Please, join me."
"Thank you, I will."