As always, heartfelt thanks go to beta readers arg914 and the Five Foot Ninja.
Gren was placing the last Steri-Strip on the cut on Martha's check when a tiny cloud of dust tumbled down her face. He pulled back his hands and snapped, "Leave her hair alone until I'm finished, Lian."
"Sorry," said Lian, as Grendel gently rubbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball around the wound, fanned the area dry and re-applied the strip.
"Thanks," Martha rasped. They had inclined the Jav's medi-couch to ease her labored breathing, but she was still having trouble. Lian slipped a tentative arm around her neck to give her a loose hug, but Martha winced and threw up a hand, gesturing for her to stop.
"Collarbone's broken," she said as Lian withdrew her arm. "And some ribs."
"Why?" Lian asked worriedly. "Why aren't you healing?"
"Your bruises haven't changed at all," Gren added.
Roy stepped past Batman, who was leaning on a bulkhead halfway across the shuttle, his eyes glued to the small, battered form on the medi-couch. Roy glanced at him casually, then did a quick double-take, this time allowing his eyes to linger on Batman's intent features.
"She'll be all right," he said. Batman didn't answer, nor did he move his eyes from his wounded teammate.
Despite his reassurance to Batman, Roy looked worried as he approached the medi-couch. "We have to take off," he told Martha apologetically. "Can we buckle you down without hurting you?"
"I'm OK," said Martha without opening her eyes. Her struggle for breath suggested otherwise. "You smell like a cough drop."
"I'm fine," Roy said, sounding a little embarrassed. He looked at Grendel. "Be careful how you strap her in."
By the time they made it back to their upstate New York headquarters, Martha had diagnosed herself with traumatically induced swelling to the part of her brain that controlled her super powers. Sunlight and rest, she declared, would have her back to normal within a day or two, but it might not be a bad idea to give her a little Mannitol while her skin could still be broken by an IV needle.
"What's that?" asked Lian. Gren scrubbed the back of Martha's hand with an alcohol pad.
"A diuretic," Martha replied, flinching as Gren pushed the needle into place. "It'll help bring down the swelling."
It would very shortly be dawn. Martha needed to get back to her apartment without her neighbors noticing. Everyone in their building knew that the crime fighter Quiver lived on the second floor. Martha kept a lower profile. She was content to be known as Quiver's roommate. Her role as the Justice League's doctor was not a secret, but it wasn't common knowledge, either.
Had Meera been open to using more of her powers, concealing a stretcher-bound Martha and a contingent of internationally known superheroes wouldn't have been a problem. But the telepath had already been pushed past her usual boundaries at great cost to her peace of mind and Arsenal would not even consider asking her. It was finally decided that Gren and Lian would sneak Martha into the apartment while Batman ran interference with any witnesses. The plan had the added benefit of seeing the League's Gotham contingent home. The rest of the team could check on Martha later.
They managed to get her into the apartment without incident. Somewhere over New Jersey, Martha fell asleep on the green stretcher Gren had conjured. Her face contorted in pain when he and Lian eased her into her double bed, but she did not wake. Once Martha was settled, Lian followed Gren into the living room and looked out of the window. The taillights of the Batmobile were swerving around a corner. In seconds they had disappeared.
"Say goodbye, why don't you?" she muttered.
Gren dropped into a kitchen chair and closed his eyes. "Got a beer in there, Lian?"
"At 5:30 in the morning?" asked Lian, appalled. She didn't drink at all.
"Martha's gotta have a few Coronas in the fridge," said Gren. He started to get up, but Lian waved him back into the chair and brought him a mini-bottle. He regarded the small glass container with amusement.
"It's probably expired," she said. "She only drinks them in the summertime."
"We should put one in her IV," Gren said. "This stuff helps you pee."
"What a role model you are," Lian said wearily.
"Look who's talking," he answered.
After the youngest members of his team and Batman left the infirmary, Roy rummaged through the medicine cabinet for a bottle of Nyquil. He unscrewed the cap and took a long slug of the gooey liquid without bothering to measure the dosage. He grimaced at the revolting taste, flipped open the tap at the infirmary sink and stuck his head under the faucet to gulp down some water. He was wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm when Meera came in.
"Midori's going to give me a ride home," she said. Roy studied her face. She was still upset about what had happened at SuperMax. He put a hand on her shoulder.
"We'll talk," he said. "You did good."
"I almost stood there and let my teammate die," she said. She smiled bitterly. "My teammate and my friend. And I'm still not sure I did the right thing."
"You did," said Roy. "And Martha's going to be fine."
Meera's eyes met his. "It doesn't take a telepath to know that you don't know that," she said. She rested her forehead against his muscular upper arm for a moment and said, "Take care of yourself, Roy. You need to get into bed for a couple of days."
"Stop propositioning me," Roy said. "I'll tell your wife."
Her smile this time was genuine. Roy leaned back against a cot and watched her leave the infirmary. When the door swung closed behind her, he looked down at the inviting white pillow and told himself he would just lie down for a couple of minutes.
Roy flung an arm over his eyes to block out the rush of sun, but a green-gloved hand uncovered his face.
"Wake up," Gren said tonelessly.
Roy reluctantly opened his eyes and sat up. "What time is it?"
"Eight," said Gren. "Midori didn't want to wake you."
"But you did," said Roy, noticing that the infirmary curtains had been opened. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and scowled at Gren.
"Yeah," said the Green Lantern. "We gotta talk about Meera."
"There's nothing to talk about," said Roy instantly. "She decides how she wants to use her powers – or not use them. It isn't up to anyone else."
"That's bullshit," said Gren. "Martha almost died today because Meera was too scared to act."
"She acted at the expense of her own convictions," said Roy. He shuffled over to the medicine cabinet and started rummaging through the bottles of medicine.
"At the expense of her own fears," said Gren, annoyed to be talking to Arsenal's back. He watched the older man pop open a large white bottle and shake out a few pills. "Nothing's ever happened to suggest if Meera stretched her wings a little, she'd go power mad. You can't let her consign herself to being Lt. Uhura when she's got all that –"
"That's up to Meera, not us," interjected Roy; he downed a few Ibuprofens and stuck his head under the faucet again. Then he turned back to Gren. "You want to blame someone for Martha almost dying? Blame me. I should have had her wait for you."
Gren shook his head. "Martha could have trashed the girl we fought in Minneapolis with one hand tied behind her back. Something's happened to her."
"Something happened to Pillan, too," said Roy. He and Gren exchanged a troubled look.
"You think they're experimenting on prisoners at SuperMax?" asked Gren in a less confrontational tone.
"We'll find out," said Roy darkly. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair.
"Meanwhile, you've got to do something about Meera," said Gren. "A leader encourages people to make the most of what they've got."
"A leader," said Arsenal steadily, "Doesn't force people to do things that make them uncomfortable."
"That's exactly what a leader does," snapped Gren. The look of concern they had exchanged a minute earlier had turned into a glaring match.
"I trust Meera to draw her own lines," Roy said finally. "I've seen people with powers like hers lose control and it isn't very pretty."
"Other people," said Gren. "Not Meera. She's fine. Look," he added. "Either you trust her or you throw her off the team.
"I had a dear friend named Raven," Roy said. "What happened to her –" His eyes drifted across the room as he re-lived something unmistakably painful. "– can't happen again."
"I know about Raven," said Grendel firmly. "Meera's Meera. Not Raven."
"Don't dismiss the similarities," said Roy.
"Don't dismiss the differences," Grendel countered. "Meera needs to give us more. Not just for us. For herself."
Some of Martha's bruises had faded slightly by the next evening, but Lian wasn't sure they were healing any faster than a normal person's might. Martha's collarbone looked worse – in part because she had tried to set it herself – and she had refused to let Lian see her ribs, which meant they were now probably sheets of mottled purple. There was something else wrong, but Lian couldn't put a finger on what it was and Martha wasn't talking.
Everyone on the team had been to the apartment to see how she was, except for Superman, whom Martha had insisted no one call, and Batman. Even Wally had shown up for a few minutes, sneaking off the cruise ship while Linda was showering. He had sped over the Caribbean and across the East Coast in order to offer his get well wishes.
"He felt kinda guilty," Lian told Meera as they drank coffee together at the kitchen table. "You know – if he had been there, maybe it would have been different."
Meera nodded. "He fought Chatichai last time. But she's much stronger now. He would have had a hard time, too," she said. A funny look passed over her face – Lian couldn't tell whether it was discomfort or surprise – and her eyes flicked toward the bedroom door where Martha lay sleeping. Then she glanced out of the kitchen window into the dark night and said, "I wonder what's keeping Grendel."
"I'd like to know what's keeping Batman," said Lian bitterly. "You and Wally come from a thousand miles away to see Martha and he can't spare the time for a 15-minute drive. After everything she did for him last year," she added, the memory making her even angrier.
Meera hesitated for a moment, then stood up and gestured for a puzzled Lian to follow her out into the second-story hallway.
"He's in there right now," she said after Lian closed the front door behind them.
"What? He's like – hovering over her bed?" Lian started angrily back into the apartment.
Meera grabbed her arm. "He's not hovering over her bed. He's standing in the corner by the window. He's – upset."
"Dysfunctional pervert," muttered Lian, no longer meaning it. She cocked her head at Meera. Gren had been right about her. There was a lot more to her powers than Lian had realized.
It didn't scare her. Like Gren, Lian trusted Meera. And she had no qualms about asking the reluctant telepath to barge into Batman's psyche in order to answer a few questions that had been nagging at her all year.
"How do you know he's upset?" she asked.
"I didn't read his mind," said Meera quickly. "It's coming off of him in waves."
Lian began to ask what else was coming off of Batman in waves when the sound of footsteps in the apartment made both women jump. Lian opened the door and peeked around it, hoping mightily that Batman hadn't caught them talking about him.
She let out a sigh. "It's only you," she said to Gren.
"Who did you think it was?" he asked. "And what are you doing out in the hallway?"
"Nothing," said Meera, stepping back into the apartment. "Are you ready to take me home?"
"Yeah," he said. "And I'm gonna give you hell the whole way back."
"I'll wipe your mind," Meera threatened pleasantly.
"Good," said Gren. "That'd be a start."
It wasn't the subdued laughter coming from the living room that woke Martha up, although that was the first thing she heard. There was someone in her room. Years of training prevented her from panicking, but she couldn't hold back a jerky intake of breath as her eyes strained against the darkness.
"It's just me," said Batman quietly.
She slumped against her pillows, feeling the anxiety ooze out of her. "Section 1210 of the penal code… ever hear of it?"
"I'm not stalking you," he said, moving a little closer.
"I know," said Martha. She nodded at a chair that had been placed next to her bed. "Sit down?"
It was the same chair she had been sitting last April, when he awoke to find himself still alive and in possession of both of his legs. He sat restlessly on the edge of the wooden seat. Neither of them spoke for a while.
"You're not getting much better," he said finally.
"A little better," said Martha. She tried to remember to keep her breath shallow so her ribs wouldn't hurt quite so much. "But you were smart to come while it's dark. I don't look so hot."
"I can see you," Batman said. Silence fell between them again.
"How's Alfred?" she asked, groping for a topic that would make them both feel more comfortable.
He eased back onto the chair. "Completely ignoring doctor's orders. He's running around the mansion at full throttle."
Martha smiled. "That's my boy."
"I… um…." Batman's eyes moved from Martha's face to a pile of shadows at the foot of her bed. It was probably her collection of stuffed superhero dolls. "I haven't told him that you… you know, that you..." He didn't finish the sentence.
"Good." said Martha. "I don't want him worrying about me."
"Greenberg must be pretty upset. About how beat up you are," he added, his eyes still fixed on the dolls.
She sounded surprised. "I can't let him see me like this. Lian called Josh and Persky and told them I was away on Justice League business."
He nodded in the darkness and she asked hesitantly, "You were… here last night?"
There was a scuffling noise on the other side of the bedroom door. Batman rose in a single fluid motion. Martha managed to grab the tips of his fingers before he stepped away.
"Come back tomorrow," she said. "In the daytime. Lian's really pissed at you for not showing up."
"I don't care about Lian," he said, as Martha's fingers slid away from his. He backed toward the window and his eyes moved from the door to her battered face. "I'll see you tomorrow," he mumbled, and disappeared.
Fray hadn't minded killing a couple security guards, but he'd wished it had been for better digs. There were no beds in the abandoned Catholic school Joker's increasingly trying sense of whimsy had led them to, and the criminal clown insisted they hole up in the basement, even though most of the classroom windows were encased in plywood. But there was a kitchen and a large gym in the basement, and once Fray got the boiler going, it was fairly comfortable. A few of the Joker's goons had complained that it was too hot, but fuck them: After weeks in that frigid halfway house, Fray was going for the tropical experience.
While the Joker amused himself in a closet full of dusty plaid cobweb-encrusted girls' uniforms, Fray supervised the setting up of their new headquarters. At least Joker had given him that much authority. Fray guessed that the criminal community's exposure of itself as a great big bunch of wussies had made the boss appreciate him more. He was the only one willing to have anything to do with this wonderful plan of the Joker's.
"They'll get no Christmas cards from us this year," the murderous jester said, when Fray reported to him later in the musty boiler room. The Joker reconsidered. "Or maybe they will."
"If you'd listened to me in the first place, we'd be dancing on those Justice League losers' graves by now," said Fray, eying with distaste the small pleated skirt Joker had draped shawl-like around his shoulders. "How much time did you waste trying to bring those has-beens on board?"
"Seannie," said the Joker sourly. "You're beginning to sound like a broken record." As an afterthought, he added, "You do know what a record is? They outlasted the eight-track but lost the battle against the compact disk."
"Of course I know what records are," said Fray. "DJs use them all the time."
Oh, yes, those rap people," said Joker. "I'm afraid I stopped listening to that sort of music during that dreadful period where they were so disrespectful to women."
Fray stared at him. "You've offed thousands of women."
"Yes," agreed the Joker. "But I was always a gentleman."
Fray wasn't sure how to respond to this. As he opened his mouth to return the conversation to its original subject, a flat voice boomed out from behind the boiler, causing Fray to spin around and the Joker to raise an arched green eyebrow.
"I guess I don't make your A-list," the intruder said. Fray goggled in disbelief.
"Well, you would have, definitely," said the Joker. A maniacal leer traversed his mangled features. "Except for the teensy little fact that we thought that you were dead."
Next Chapter: Strawberries, nightmares and a nasty surprise.