He woke up coughing. His throat felt like sandpaper and jolts of fire were running down the length of his right leg. Martha had not lied about it still being there. Bruce was no longer sure he was glad of that.

Lian was sitting in the chair. Her eyes flicked up from a martial arts magazine.

"Awake?" she asked. He nodded. He noticed with distress the web of IV lines suspended around the bed and was uncomfortably aware of the presence of a Foley catheter.

"Water?" Martha had apparently rustled up a plastic straw. Bruce found himself unable to hold the glass himself. He managed a few sips, then looked past Lian towards the open bedroom door.

"She's getting some sleep in my room," said Lian astutely. She studied him for a few moments, before adding, "After the bloodiest, most grueling week of her entire life." Bruce did not know what to say. He shut his eyes.

"You need her?" asked Lian, who was clearly building up to something Bruce was sure he would not enjoy.

He mumbled, "I'm fine."

"Does your leg hurt?" Lian asked.

"Yes."

"That's good," she said brightly. "Means your nerves are working."

Bruce had the feeling she was just glad he was in pain. He had noticed a hospital-issue pain control pump near her chair, but Lian made no attempt to adjust it.

"Want me to catch you up?" she asked. He did not answer. He was beginning to feel nauseated, not only from the thundering pain in his leg, but from anticipation of an account of the past previous days he wasn't ready to hear.

Lian's description of the events following his disastrous battle with Flay was brutally vivid. His leg, she informed him, had looked "like one of those spiral turkeys – the boneless ones" or maybe just "like one of those big drumsticks at Disney World, after someone's thrown them on the ground and the pigeons have ripped them up."

She abandoned a third comparison when Bruce threatened to throw up.

Martha and some amputation expert had spent six grueling hours sewing up the holes in Bruce's blood vessels and re-attaching the muscles and ligaments, Lian continued. She herself had acted as a surgical assistant, holding retractors and passing instruments to the absorbed doctors as they struggled to make his leg whole again.

Afterwards, Martha thanked the surgeon profusely. Then she shocked both Lian and Superman by making a thinly veiled threat to have Meera Buhpathi monitor the man's thoughts and wipe his memory clean if he even thought of sharing his experience with anyone, even his wife.

"I don't think Meera can do that – the memory thing," said Lian. "But Martha that rude? How stressed out was she?" Bruce himself found this information surprising – but he was not sorry Martha had made the threat. If the underworld of Gotham found out he was injured, a criminal free-for-all could turn one nightmarish week into months of terror.

Lian concluded her report with the news that after Superman had helped move Bruce into Martha's bed and had flown the frazzled surgeon home, Martha had spent twenty minutes in the bathroom vomiting, a new and utterly miserable experience for her.

"Clark was here?" Bruce asked, desperately hoping to distract Lian from any evidence on his face that he had never felt more wretched in his life – a sentiment that had nothing to do with his screaming leg.

"Yeah, I think he was puking, too," said Lian. She looked at her watch. "OK. I can give you more morphine, now." She reached over to the infusion pump and punched in a few numbers. Then she turned back to Bruce with a ferocious look.

"I told you all this," she said fiercely, "So you would stop hurting my friend. She'd done nothing but try to help you. This time she almost killed herself doing it." Bruce opened his mouth, but he lost his reply somewhere in the rush of morphine.

"I know what you're doing," Lian added. "Next time just punch her on the arm and tell her she has cooties. It's much more mature and nowhere near as mean."

As he started spinning into unconsciousness, Bruce realized what Lian was trying to say. He opened his mouth to deny her absolutely absurd….

Bruce's eyes snapped open. "You're wrong," he said forcefully.

Roy Harper looked up from a book of crossword puzzles. "Bruce? Hey, you're up," he said happily.

"Where's Lian?" asked Bruce.

"She left hours ago," Roy said. "There a problem?"

She's a bitch, thought Bruce. That's the problem. He decided against sharing this information with Lian's father, especially as he appeared to be controlling the morphine dispenser. "No," he said. "Where's… Kent?"

"Martha?" asked Roy. "Her name isn't Voldemort, you know. Nothing bad happens when you say it."

"Who?" Bruce asked, suspecting the whole Harper family was insane.

"She's at Arkham," Roy said. "She called out for three days, until she was sure you were going to make it. She'll be back in a few hours. She's called like fourteen times," he added.

Bruce's eyes dropped to the blanket covering his legs. He tried to move his toes and thought he might have succeeded. Unfortunately, the effort sent waves of pure agony up his leg. His fingers dug into the mattress and he forced his teeth together to suppress a grunt of pain.

"Want some drugs?" asked Roy.

"Don't knock me out, though." It was time to get some answers.

Roy fiddled with the device. "How's that?" he asked.

"OK," Bruce said, hoping this would be true once the morphine kicked in. "What happened to Fray?"

"Who?"

Bruce tried to reach for a glass of water on the bedside table and almost knocked it to the floor. Roy hurried to hold the glass to his lips.

"Thanks. The guy who did this to me. Who killed all those people at Arkham and Gotham. The technopath. What happened to him?"

Roy looked uncomfortable. "I don't know."

Bruce's eyes bored into his. "Harper."

Roy contemplated the puzzle book, then said, "When Martha found you, there was a guy lying next to you. It was probably him." He looked back up at Bruce. "She had seconds to save you. She couldn't worry about him. Don't be angry with her."

Bruce stared at him. "How could I be?" he asked.

"Gren and Wally tried to find him," continued Roy, who was studying the dog-eared paperback again. "But it was too late. He was gone."

"It's OK." Bruce shut his eyes. "He's probably getting a lot of mileage over kicking my ass."

"Don't think so," Roy's voice became considerably more cheerful. Bruce opened his eyes again.

"Midori did a little fiddling with Martha's little holographic projector," Roy explained. "Batman has been seen in Gotham City. He's even made a few arrests."

For the first time since he'd awakened in Martha Kent's apartment, Bruce felt a surge of hope. "Brilliant," he said weakly. "Who's wearing it?"

"All of us," said Roy. "We're taking turns."

"Thanks," Bruce said quietly.

They were silent for a moment. Then Roy looked up with a crooked grin.

"Lian tell you Martha had to use her pajama top as a tourniquet?" he asked.

"No. Why?" Bruce couldn't see how this detail was important.

Roy shot a quick look toward the bedroom door and leaned forward. "She wasn't wearing anything under it. She flew you back here topless."

"Really?" The morphine must have kicked in. Bruce felt a rush of alertness.

"Yeah," Roy said his hazel eyes glinting. "Can you imag –" Meera Buhpathi wandered into the doorway, a severe expression in her eyes.

"I mean, it wasn't very erotic at all, with her being drenched in your blood and everything," Roy said quickly.

"Not at all," Bruce agreed, with the same false gravity.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," Meera said to Bruce dryly. "And you're a pig," she added affectionately to Roy, before returning to the living room.

"You wish you'd seen it," Roy yelled after her. Bruce looked at Roy, then back at the spot where Meera had stood.

"She's got the next shift," Roy explained.

"When can I go home?" Bruce asked, his fatigue returning.

"Ask Martha."

Bruce drifted in and out of sleep for most of the afternoon. Meera sat her watch in peaceful silence, occasionally responding to his requests for water. Her presence was calming; Bruce had the impression she was meditating on his behalf.

After a few hours, Meera left the room for a few minutes and returned with a sandwich. Not long after that, he heard someone jiggle a key in the front door. Bruce opened his eyes in time to see Martha stick her head into the bedroom.

"Hi." She looked a little tired, but relieved to see him awake. Turning to Meera, Martha added, "Hi, Meera. Do you mind if I take a quick shower?"

Meera waved a consenting hand and Martha disappeared. Bruce listened to the sound of the shower and tried to organize his thoughts. He did not seem to be able to hold onto them for long, an effect, he supposed, of the trauma and the pain drugs.

"That's a long shower," he said.

Meera smiled. "Women take long, hot showers to relieve stress," she said. "Although Lian says Martha always uses up the hot water."

A pipe groaned and the shower cut off. Martha padded through the door a few minutes later, wearing jeans and a turquoise tank top. Her hair was damp and tousled; her feet bare. Bruce saw pink polish on her toenails.

"Everything OK?" she asked Meera as the women greeted each other with a hug.

"Yeah. Great patient. He's had some water. Pain level seems to have stabilized." Meera squeezed Bruce's hand, careful not to disturb the IV. "Feel better."

"Thanks." He watched the women embrace again. They were a huggy bunch, he thought, as Meera disappeared with a final wave.

Martha pulled the chair up close to the bed and asked, "How are you doing?"

Bruce wasn't sure how to answer. "Alive. Grateful."

Eyes intent on his, she asked, "In pain? Wasted?"

He nodded. Martha said, "I need to examine your leg."

Bruce shut his eyes and nodded again. Martha lifted the blanket covering his right leg, careful to respect his modesty by limiting the exposure to only the wounded area. He was uncomfortably aware of the rubber Foley line that crossed over his upper thigh, but he knew that the examination was inevitable and his self-consciousness belated. Martha had stabilized him, prepared his for surgery and dressed his wounds afterwards. And he had little doubt as to who had inserted the catheter. It was a little late to be embarrassed now.

She cut away the gauze from thigh to knee – it stuck a bit when she pulled it away from his skin, but the morphine protected him from feeling more than a numb tug – and gingerly cleansed the area with antiseptic. Her gloved fingers were gentle as they traced the spiral line Fray had cut into his leg.

"Nice," Martha whispered. She looked up. "No infection so far. I have to move your lower leg little, Bruce."

"OK," he said, bracing himself. Even with the preparation, it hurt like hell. Bruce sucked in his teeth as Martha made the slight adjustment.

"I'm sorry," she said. "No more." Moments later, those dressings were also removed, his wounds cleaned. Martha applied antibiotic ointment to the entire leg and re-dressed it, then covered it with the blanket.

She sat back into the chair, looking frazzled. "It looks good," she said. "We can take out the skin staples in a few days."

Bruce wondered if he would have to stay here until then. He was grateful for everything that Martha and everyone else had done for him, but he wanted to be home. Alfred had decades of experience in tending his wounds – there had been several bad ones over the years. He would recover best in his own bed. He knew he was keeping Martha out of her bedroom and disrupting her already demanding life. And he wasn't used to people he knew seeing him this way: weak, helpless. It made him feel old.

"When can I go home?" he asked.

Martha had been expecting the question. "Dr. Cohen – the replantation surgeon – is coming to check your leg tomorrow. If he gives the OK, we can move you. Alfred has already got your room set up – hospital bed and everything."

She hesitated, and then added, "I know you'd have rather kept outsiders, well, out of this, but I couldn't have saved your leg. Maybe not even your life. Everyone tells me I should know my limitations. Well, I did this time."

"You did the right thing," Bruce said. After a moment, he added, "I'll make sure you get a copy of my medical records."

Martha laughed. "I've got'em now. Did a whole physical. What I didn't know could have killed you."

He should have realized. It would be foolish to be angry at her for performing a physical when he was unconscious that he should have let her do months ago. It would be foolish, right now, to be angry at her for anything.

"A lot of things could have killed me," Bruce said. "Looks like you're the reason none of them did."

Martha blushed and studied the IV in his hand. "I just thank God you and Lian have the same blood type." She frowned at an IV bag that looked perfectly fine to Bruce and started fussing with it.

"Do Buddhists believe in God?" Bruce asked.

"I do," Martha said. "It's optional."

"I don't think Pat believes in God," Bruce mused.

"Who's Pat?" she asked.

"Spent a few semesters at Notre Dame," Bruce replied. "He was my roommate. Comparative religions major. We're still in touch."

"Pat from Notre Dame was a Buddhist?" she asked, amused.

"Well, his real name is Jangbu Sangye. But he liked us to call him Pat." At Martha's flabbergasted expression, he added, "I guess he's kind of a famous Buddhist."

"Well, yeah," Martha practically yelled. "As he's the Dalai Lama."

"I'll introduce you," Bruce said.

Her wary look caught him off guard. "This is my job," she said quietly. "You don't have to be nice to me. You don't owe me anything." Bruce felt a little sick. He had been miserable to her and now she didn't trust him. Why should she?

Martha started to move away from the bed. Impulsively, Bruce grabbed her wrist. The motion caused him to shift slightly in the bed. He was hit by what felt like a tidal wave of pain.

"Hurts?" Martha asked, alarmed. He nodded frantically, sucking hard at the air.

She pushed the button on the morphine pump several times, and then took the hand that still clutched her wrist. "It's OK," she murmured. Her other hand smoothed a lock of hair off of his forehead. "It'll be OK."

Bruce's eyes locked onto hers. "I don't want this," he whispered.

"I know, Bruce," Martha said. "But you're going to get better. The pain will go away. Your leg's going to heal."

He did not think he had been talking about his leg, but the morphine was beginning to swallow him up and for once in his life, he wanted to be consumed.

Dr. Cohen appeared just after dawn the next morning via the air services of Grendel Gardner. Nervous as he seemed to be around Batman – Martha had helped Bruce slip on his mask just prior to the surgeon's arrival – Cohen grew visibly more confident as he inspected his patient's wounds. If Batman took extremely good care of himself and got the right physical therapy, he said, he would be walking in months, perhaps up to speed – or near so – in six. This seemed like a long time to Bruce, but he wasn't complaining. He thanked the doctor for saving him.

"I didn't save your life," he said. "The little girl did that." He nodded toward the living room, where Martha was talking with Gren. "Probably your leg, too. Though I'll take full credit for any movement you have in it."

"Where would a person compensate you?" Batman asked.

Taken aback, Cohen said, "A person just did. I won't take your money, Batman."

Batman started to argue, then closed his mouth. Alfred would help him come up with a way to repay the surgeon. Right now, it was too hard to think. He thanked the Cohen with all the sincerity his strength would allow. As an afterthought, he asked for the syringe that would help him remove the Foley catheter. He wouldn't need it. He was going home.

"Want me to do it?" Cohen asked, handing him the syringe.

"No," Batman said.

Alfred directed the green stretcher Gren had conjured into a room he'd had several days to outfit perfectly for the months of recuperation that lay ahead. Bruce's king-sized mattress had been replaced with the highest-tech hospital bed money could buy. Although Bruce never watched television in his bedroom when he was well, Alfred had a large-screen TV installed on one wall, in case the boredom became unbearable. The six foot screen doubled as a computer monitor and, Alfred assured Grendel, a game station.

Easing Bruce into the hospital bed had been as an excruciating experience as moving him into Gren's stretcher. It did not disappoint him to see Martha setting up the pain relief pump before any other medical gadgetry. He was grateful that none of his teammates cared to linger. Sleep was what he needed now. Gren flew Lian back to the apartment. Martha told him she'd see him that evening and left with Alfred. Being back at the manor was medicine in itself. Bruce was asleep before he heard the door click closed.

They had taken only a few steps down the hallway when Martha saw Alfred's professionally neutral demeanor disintegrate. He stopped suddenly, leaned back against a corridor wall and pressed his lids hard over eyes that were tearing copiously. It didn't work. A tear tricked down each of his cheeks and he let out several shuddering breaths.

"Oh, Alfred." Martha wrapped her arms around him. Over past months, he had become used to her greeting him with a hug – she knew it had been strange for him at first, but he didn't really seem to mind – but this time he seemed afraid he might collapse altogether. He turned his forehead to the wall and apologized for his break down.

"Why are you sorry?" Martha asked, a hand still on his shoulder. "My God, I don't know how you've contained yourself this far." She led the elderly man to the kitchen and brewed them both some of the white tea she'd been keeping there.

"It's far worse now," Alfred said. Martha could tell he was trying to keep his voice from shaking. "He's not a young man; he's been hurt more over the last five years than the previous twenty. Not this badly, of course. There was the one time he broke his back, more than twenty years ago. But nothing that horrible again… until now."

Martha took his hand. "But he'll be all right. He's still Batman."

Alfred's eyes filled again. "If I'm not still here the next time this happens…. Will you take care of him?"

Martha said uncomfortably, "Well, you know I…. He doesn't really…. I'm a psychiatrist….."

His pleading gaze did not waver. "And what else are you? How did you find him? How did you save him?"

She was almost relieved that he'd asked. During their meals together, Alfred talked freely about Batman's dual identity, always in veiled terms. Although most of his stories involved Bruce's childhood or his struggle to find himself after his parents' murders, occasionally the conversation came close to the curious association between Bruce and Martha's family. Alfred could never quite understand why Bruce would maintain a relationship with Clark Kent, a man he didn't particularly like and with whom he seemed to have nothing in common. Martha had trusted the old man since she'd met him, but her secret wasn't her own. To reveal herself to anyone was to reveal her father as well. She had never done that before, but now, as Alfred's eyes searched hers, it seemed like the right thing to do.

"Alfred," she said tentatively. "I have something to tell you."

A few days after Bruce came home, Martha announced that it was time to remove the staples that wound around his leg. Bruce nervously mentioned that it might be too soon, but she assured him that his skin had knit together well and removing the staples now would reduce what was already sure to be significant scarring. As Martha had pointed out to Alfred, she was a psychiatrist, not a surgeon. She could easily perform this minor procedure, but she did so slowly, trying to reduce the amount of pain it caused. This is what set her apart from actual surgeons, Bruce thought. He had had staples removed before and the doctors hadn't given a damn whether or not the process hurt him.

Silence settled into the room as Martha worked. Bruce spent the time trying to remember what he'd wanted to ask her, something he couldn't quite put a finger on since he'd returned to consciousness in her bed. The time he'd spent at her apartment was now a blur. The only clear memory was a conversation with Roy about how she'd flown him back to the apartment topless – and he couldn't be sure of that either. It sounded too bizarre to be true.

It came to him as she was easing out a staple from the underside of his knee. "How did you get a tattoo?"

Amused, she asked, "You remember that?"

He shrugged. Martha indicated the silver bracelet she had looped around a belt buckle.

"You know how this works?" she asked. Bruce nodded. "So I got a tattoo. Turns out it's temporary. My body's pushing out the ink."

"What is it?" he asked, repressing an urge to ask to see the tattoo again.

Martha resumed removing his staples. "A phoenix," she said. "I like to think no matter how many times I'm knocked down, I'll keep getting up."

"Reborn," Bruce said.

"Alive, at least," she answered.

Next Chapter: Doomsday. Not the apocalypse, the big bony guy.