Author's Note: Long hiatus owing to personal issues now over. Resuming work with this instalment. Taking place after foiling another of the Scarecrow's attempts to destroy the city with his fear gas, Bruce finds Tim suffering from the effects a little more than the sixteen-year-old would want to. Bonding ensues.
Enjoy.
Tim 7
It's done. Jonathan Crane, better known as the Scarecrow, has finally been stopped. He is currently lying listless at my feet. He is lucky I only used one strike to render him unconscious. After what he has put the city through in recent weeks, I should have broken every bone in his body. His latest strain of fear gas proved far too potent. Many people died from prolonged exposure, driven to suicide and other unimaginable atrocities to escape their personal demons. Even the boy and myself were not immune to the chemical effects. Even now, I am being plagued by visions of my father's rotted corpse chastising me for being Batman whilst my mother crawls on her hands and knees in a vain search for spilt pearls. Blood pours from her chest like a broken tap. These are horrific scenes to witness in such visceral detail. I combat them solely by focusing all my attentions on Crane and what his experiments have cost in terms of lives lost. Others have died. That I have held my nerve long enough to stand atop of his prone body is incentive enough to keep pushing through further mental torture. I look past my father at Tim.
The boy looks frayed by recent experiences and highly agitated. His gaze is constantly directed to some unseen phantasm on his left. Every time he manages to tear his eyes from whatever is tormenting him, I witness a hard swallow and a series of calming breaths. He is fighting the toxin in his bloodstream as best he is able.
"You killed us, Bruce." My father says with plenty of venom to accompany an accusatory finger. I stare directly at him.
"And I'll kill you both again." I respond coldly. The hallucinations dissipate into nothing. My visions wish me to accept darkness, to embrace my guilt until I can torment myself. Unfortunately for the phantoms of my inner psyche, through extensive mental training, I was swallowed whole by my demons long ago. I do not need to accept darkness – I am darkness. My subconscious holds no real power over me now. Chemicals may unbalance my brain's equilibrium, but no part of my mind can keep me prisoner as a consequence, not even Jason. The hallucinations will reappear until the antidote is synthesised and administered, but for me, there are no lingering aftereffects anymore. I cannot be certain with the boy. Still, he is strong and capable. If that has been enough to keep him together so far, it will certainly carry him the remainder of the way.
"What's...what's the plan now, Batman?" Tim asks as I approach him from his right. I want him to focus on me for now. I am succinct.
"There are still fifty-eight living victims of Crane's gas. We need to return to the cave, create the necessary antidote from the samples recovered here and then distribute it to Gotham General. Commissioner Gordon and his men have been successful in preventing any other canisters from detonating in the Gotham Knights stadium this evening. Now, it is time for us to hold up our side of the bargain and provide the antidote. Let's go."
"What about..." The boy hunches over slightly and screws his eyes shut. More whispers. More accusations from the dead and the missing in his life. I wait patiently for him to regain his composure. More calming breaths steady the ship. He opens his eyes and seems collected. "What about Doctor Crane? We're not just going to leave him and his goons here...are we?" I look over my shoulder at Crane. He is handcuffed around a major support beam and still unconscious. The remaining hostiles, numbering six, have been hogtied by myself and the boy. None of them are going anywhere in the near future.
"GCPD have been radioed. According to dispatches, a wagon is on route, along with two squad cars. It will be taken care of. Let's go. Now."
It is six hours later. I have just finished delivery of the antidote and its associated formula to Gotham General. Synthesis took longer than expected. The strain proved particularly resilient to past formulas and dosages. Crane is being transported back to Arkham, where all privileges are being rescinded for the next four years. The final death toll from the fear gas was twenty-three. It is not expected to rise. By the time I return to the cave to formally close the investigation and retire for the night, it is bordering on five-thirty in the morning.
When I finally find myself passing through the library attired in my dressing gown and slippers, Alfred is in the midst of opening all the ground-floor curtains. It must be quarter-past six. The old man has been awake for forty-five minutes. I incline my head.
"Good morning, Alfred."
"Good morning, Master Bruce. Would you like some breakfast before retiring upstairs?" His question reminds me that I have not eaten in almost twenty-four hours, owing to the complexities of this operation.
"Please, old friend."
Alfred prepares me a six egg-white omelette, half a pitted avocado and a bowl of porridge oats that contains two scoops of casein protein powder. I forgo my morning black coffee to aid sleep. The old man joins me at the dining table. He opens conversation by informing me that Tim is still sleeping upstairs. He knows the boy's health after such a mentally taxing investigation was my primary concern. I am pleased to hear he is managing sleep. A typical side effect of such high exposure to Crane's compounds is temporary insomnia. That he is able to sleep proves the antidote was correctly calibrated. Alfred then asks after the patients at the hospital. I tell him they are being treated as we speak. The antidote should take effect within two hours of injection. I am certain it will be a feature in local news very shortly. Of course, after this dialogue, the old man asks a more intimate question.
"Did you see your parents or Jason this time?" He says candidly. No-one else could ask me such a question and expect an answer. But he has lost them too. Their deaths have hurt us both enough to render such exchanges almost normal.
"My parents. Although, I would imagine Jason would have made an appearance if we had been exposed any further. We were fortunate our respirators did not crack in combat." I explain putting down my cutlery on an empty plate. "Thank you for breakfast, old friend." I stand up. "When Tim awakes, kindly send him home before midday. I don't want his father and step-mother to worry."
"Of course, Master Bruce." Alfred replies already on his feet and gathering the crockery. "Goodnight, Sir."
I enter my bedroom, only to find my bed already in use. Tim is asleep on my preferred side of the bed, underneath the covers. It appears he is wearing Dick's old pyjamas in lieu of just his boxers. His face is not one of peaceful sleep and, in drawing closer, I note visible beads of sweat on his forehead. It would seem antidote calibration was not the perfect balance I believed it to be. I shake his shoulder gently. As anticipated, his eyes open immediately. Not deep sleep at all. The red snaps at the bottom of his eyes suggest he has not slept much since the antidote was administered. His whole body is tense upon seeing me standing over him. He does not want to be in this position. He fears being labelled as weak or unsuitable for the mantle with such behaviour. He does not need to speak for me to recognise these fears. His eyes tell me everything.
"I can't send you home in this state." I say with a sigh, "I don't know what your parents will think I've been doing to you if you are still this skittish."
"Probably rape." He responds matter-of-factly. He then corrects himself. "Sorry, I shouldn't say stuff like that." I shake my head.
"You're probably right to think they will suspect sexual abuse. How much sleep do you estimate you have had since going to bed?"
"Less than an hour. Fifty minutes tops."
"And...how much of that has been in my bed, Tim?"
"All of it. I was in my room until five, but couldn't sleep. I came to your room because...I thought, maybe you'd have been back by then. I just kind of, fell asleep waiting. Bed's really comfortable, you know?" He tries to offer a sheepish grin that does not quite work. It looks more pained than anything else. I have my theories why this boy is sleeping in my bed and on the side he knows I favour. The mattress I use, as well as the pillows, sheets and covers are identical to those found in the dozen other bedrooms this house contains, including Tim's. Comfort levels are not the issue here. The only difference between my bed and the others is the smell. Whilst other sheets smell of lavender detergent, my sheets smell like me and my preferred brands of aftershave and cologne. I have been told many times it is quite a distinctive aroma, one which apparently announces my presence from a short distance without trouble. I would imagine the smell comforts the boy in some way. Dick was the same, especially if stressed beyond breaking point.
"So, I understand." I say taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Perhaps you might like to take a cool shower, Tim. You do not look comfortable at the moment." The boy reaches up and touches his forehead before regarding the sweat now coating his fingers.
"It'll be the fear gas working its way out of my system. Yeah," Tim throws back the covers and swings his feet over the edge, "I'll grab a shower then go back to my own room to try and sleep it off." He tells me whilst standing up and checking the sheets. "I didn't sweat all over them. I guess Dick's jammies are used to absorbing a lot of moisture. I'll see you around midday, Bruce." He moves towards the door without looking at me, clearly embarrassed by this scenario. He should not be. He is still only a child.
"Tim." I call before he passes through the doorway. He turns to look at me. "You don't have to go back to your own room if you feel safer here. I would never judge you based on the aftermath of a fight with Scarecrow. He makes us all look foolish." Tim reacts to this with a heavy sigh.
"I chose this life, Bruce. I know Dick and Jason chose it too, but they were orphans. They needed a father figure. So, all this kind of stuff is acceptable for them. My dad's still here and he needs me, as much as he needs Dana. I can't...I can't pretend I have two dads I can pick and choose between for the things I need." The boy is logical and sincere in his desire to distance himself from me in order to keep his personal and professional life separate. But it is flawed. As Alfred told me last year, my latest charge will never be content with just a working relationship. He wants to help me process and move past Jason's death. He wants me to be sociable again. But in his efforts to help me achieve this, he has become more attached to me than he perhaps bargained for.
"Go shower, Tim. Then come back. We should have a discussion." I say. His eyes are wary of this invitation but his head nods regardless. He disappears. I test the dryness of my sheets. There is a faint, but distinct handprint on the sheet where Tim administered his own inspection only moments earlier. I place my own hand beside the imprint and marvel at the disparity in size and shape. Yes, very much still a child. By the time he returns, clad now in only pyjama bottoms, I have donned my own pyjamas and taken up residence on my usual side. The curtains are drawn and the room is suitably dark.
"Are we having a discussion?" He asks from the open doorway.
"Yes, when you and I have had some rest."
"I should go..."
"No. Close the door and sleep. This is what you need at this moment. So use it to your benefit."
"This still seems wrong."
"Fine. Go to your own room and wait six hours for me to finish sleeping. If you wish to suffer on principle, so be it." I tell him bluntly whilst settling into the mattress as I lie on my side. The door closes. I drift off before determining whether he has left or stayed. That is answered when I awake. Tim is sleeping on the opposite side. He seems wholly relaxed now. I observe rapid eye movement beneath closed lids and know he is dreaming deeply. Good. The toxin has been almost certainly flushed out of his system. I glance at my wristwatch and find it is three minutes to twelve. Five hours or thereabouts. It is adequate for current duties. I slowly get out of the bed, mindful not to wake him unnecessarily.
I have grabbed clothes and a bath towel from the armoire before realising the time. Tim should phone his father before he begins to worry. I pick up the receiver from the phone on the table nearest to the boy's side of the bed. I dial the Drake's home number and listen for the tone. When I am content it is ringing, I shake Tim to consciousness and put the receiver to his ear. "Tell your father you will be a little later than usual getting home today then go back to sleep. Understand?" I instruct him. He is borderline comatose but drunkenly grasps the receiver and mutters he understands. Satisfied, I leave him to shower and dress. When I return some half-hour later, the receiver is back on the cradle and the boy is fast asleep. I wander downstairs. Alfred is preparing lunch as I enter the kitchen. It smells like steak.
"Good afternoon, Master Bruce." The old man says without turning from the stove. I go towards the freshly brewed mug of coffee on the kitchen counter.
"Good afternoon, Alfred." I reply taking a measured sip. Strong enough.
"I take it Master Tim is still asleep in your bed, Sir?" Alfred asks without any of the judgements a statement like that would normally attract. I nod.
"Yes. I take it you went to find him early this morning?"
"I did, Sir. I found his room empty when checking at eleven o'clock. I naturally assumed I would find him with you."
"I hope you do not think that implies impropriety on my part, old friend?" I check only for him to scoff derisively.
"If I thought you capable of any such conduct, you would not have been allowed to adopt Master Dick, let alone foster a relationship with another two teenage boys. As we both know from previous instances, fear gas is a terrible thing for any mind's wellbeing. I trust you have gotten him to phone his parents?" The old man enquires whilst plating up an eight ounce sirloin steak alongside grilled asparagus and other green vegetables. I nod in taking another sip of my coffee.
"He has. I would prefer he have at least eight hours unbroken rest, but five and three will have to do. We'll send him on his way around four. That way, he can make himself presentable for going home." Alfred turns off the stove and wipes his hands on his apron.
"The most recent news broadcast claims all victims at Gotham General are now in the process of recovery and discharge. Commissioner Gordon has given a statement to the press regarding the delivery of the antidote. You are named as an 'outside research agency in biological and infectious diseases'." I smile at him. Always so modest.
"We are named as such, Alfred. You, myself and Tim all contributed to production of that antidote formula. In any case, we shall say no more about it. I know you would prefer a return to relative normality after the past month's chaos." The old man inclines his head.
"I would appreciate a dip in exertion levels, Master Bruce, yes. We shall see. Would you like to eat in the dining room or living room this afternoon, Sir?"
"Surprise me."
It is almost three in the afternoon. I am in the swimming pool, easing through my sixtieth length of a mile-long swim. My muscles ache, but not from the swim. After almost five weeks of dogged pursuit, it is only natural to find my body flagging somewhat. It is manageable. I become aware of Tim's presence upon completing my sixty-second length. He sits patiently in the bleachers until I exit the pool five minutes later. He is still clad in borrowed pyjama bottoms, but looks well-rested and far less tense or anxious than before. He smiles at me.
"Hey, Bruce."
"Hello, Tim. Feeling better?" I ask grabbing my towel and running it briefly over my face. He nods.
"Yeah. I'm a bit sore now, but I feel a lot better, thank you. It's been a crazy month, huh?" He adds as I sit down beside him with the towel in my lap.
"Without doubt. When is your father expecting you?"
"I think I told him four-ish. How are you feeling?"
"Manageable. I neglected to mention how stellar your performance was last night in all the confusion of synthesising a workable antidote. You maintained your composure admirably." He nods in silent gratitude.
"He had some serious chemicals at work in that batch. I thought the stuff last week was bad. This stuff was ten-times worse. Maybe you should just run Ace Chemicals out of town. At least that way, Scarecrow and Mad Hatter can't get ninety percent of the chemical agents they need to make their hallucinogens. It'd probably stop Joker making his laughing gas too."
"No, he can make it from common household cleaning solvents, but I understand your reasoning. Unfortunately, the company contributes significant time and effort to medical research and cancer drugs trials that greatly outweigh the sporadic security breaches it suffers. The hallucinations have stopped though, haven't they?"
"Oh, of course. They stopped around one a.m. Still remember them pretty vividly though."
"Just remember they are manifestations of your subconscious. They have no substance or basis in reality. Whatever you saw, whatever you heard, it was nothing but a whisper temporarily magnified to a thousand times its normal size."
"I know. I'm a scientist too, remember? I guess I just forgot that earlier. Kind of...thought with my heart a little too much. I'm sorry about crashing in your space like that. I know I wouldn't like it either if our roles were reversed. I promise I won't do it again." I clap him on the shoulder after drying my hands.
"Even I am not all-ice inside, Tim. No-one can be every minute of the day. And, despite your excellence as my partner on the streets, I am more fond of you as a person than I am as an asset. After all you have been through in recent years, you are more than entitled to some moments of unbiased comfort from those you feel safest with. It is natural."
"But I'm not your kid. And if I want comfort from anybody, it really should be my dad, not my boss. I feel like I'm prodding you into action when you don't want to be enlisted."
"I'm not just your boss, Tim. I hope you have realised that we have become more than colleagues in the past two years...we have also become friends. Do not apologise for being vulnerable, not after you helped bring the investigation and ensuing operation to a close without further loss of life or committing an egregious error. It is your emotions that make you human, that allow people to like you. You are fortunate in your choice of safety net too. Can you think of one person who would not feel safe sleeping next to me if they knew I was the Batman?" This prompts a smile from him. He sighs.
"Nope. But, I only feel safe with Batman on the streets. I feel safe with Bruce Wayne everywhere, and not just because I know Batman's pretty much just a suit and the real gadget is that supercomputer in your head. You're literally hands-down the most amazing person I've ever met. I don't want to ruin whatever we've got between us by overstepping the mark." I find the very notion he believes there is some barrier between us offensive. Here is a boy who forced himself into my life by deducing my secret identity, and that of his predecessors, without help. He then proceeded to fail his final unarmed combat exam during training for the mantle of Robin, confirming his unsuitability for such a physically demanding role, only to somehow make me reverse my decision and allow him to progress. He altered my opinion, my ironclad appraisal of his failings, with an intellectual argument.
But even these achievements pale in comparison to what he has done with me. Somehow, this boy has helped alleviate the burden of Jason's death. Somehow, this boy I did not want to know or train or endure, has become one of the most important individuals in my life. He is someone I love dearly. And still he thinks he can displease me. Astonishing.
"You're a genius, Tim. Perhaps that is why intellectual arguments do not work on you as they did on Dick and Jason. You understand I do not give praise or offer support lightly. You understand that physical comfort from me is an even rarer commodity. But, perhaps you need a more 'visceral' indication of how much I appreciate you in my life." I half-cradle him against my chest. This is the first time in our relationship that I have initiated such a gesture of affection. I find him oddly silent. "Have I misinterpreted the situation, Tim? This is too much?" I ask after thirty seconds pass into obscurity.
"No, no. This is good. I just...I didn't expect it to happen like this. I'm being hugged by a wet billionaire in his swim shorts. It's not the usual scenario you think of heartfelt gestures in."
"Yes. And you I take it are only wearing those pyjama bottoms?"
"Yeah. Maybe you could let go now?" I release him immediately. He sniffs his skin. "Yep, that's chlorine alright." He smiles at me. "I guess I knew the first time you hugged me of your own freewill wouldn't be normal. It's cool though. I think we both hate ordinary. Thanks for making me feel better, Bruce. Like you said, it always means more coming from you. Maybe next time though, we both wear clothes?" I smirk at him.
"What makes you so certain there will be a next time, Tim?" I tease only for the boy to shrug nonchalantly.
"Because you want there to be."
