Oh, yes. I have not up-dated this in a while, but I beg for forgiveness. It's hard writing this as well as a few other things for RMMB and the LOSH fiction. It's getting so I have only enough hours in the day to sleep for five…


-:-
Tattoo your name across my heart,
So it will remain.
Not even death could make us part…
What kind of dream is this?
-Sweet Dream or Beautiful Nightmare.


Silent for Years-:-

It is amazing that Bruce could remember the way back across the wide expanse of secret roads by himself, but he somehow did. He hasn't really driven himself anywhere since the joints in his hands started cramping for no particular reason, but today he is especially awake and full of energy. Not precisely good energy—God forbid anything could be good today with the media in a frenzy and that little retch preening herself in pictures—but it is energy enough to get out of the manor while Terry is still at school (probably napping during math class at this time before the nine AM bell rang) and he knows Barbara and Deidre are out of town to interview various people on some murders near the change of jurisdiction into Bludhaven.

The roads that lead away from the echoing sounds of the city travel well along the coast for about twenty minutes before coming to the three point fork in the road. One way lead back to the city, one was the main road he had once taken up to the old skeleton of a building that was Old Arkham—hundreds of times with Joker or Ivy or Crane and the rest; even sometimes having Jim Gordon as a ride-along—and the other one was so fine and untraveled that he could barely make out its outlines for tires. But he knows now where that leads and steers his long black car that way; some of the snow on the ground crunches below and echoes between the hollows of the tires.

It takes him about a half-hour to maneuver along the ancient and massive trees that the road curve to and fro from, two particular ones over hanging in such a downward slope that some of their long twigs and branches touch the roof of his black car and he flinches at the sounds of paint being scratched away. But, the journey is well worth it when he finally spots the huge, weathered yellow tree that stands out in the vast yard like a silent guardian watching all who would enter the two floor house.

Bruce parked and stepped out of the car, leaving his cane behind. He doesn't want anyone to know that he was here without someone else. It was rude enough that he made a copy of the key Deidre carried around on her neck like it was a holy relic, but it was even worse that he was snooping around this place that had been left untouched and all by itself since Harley had died and her grandchildren had begun to rage a war on each other and upon Gotham. True, Deidre had visited to clean house in a rather unhealthy way—he wouldn't judge her for that, however, as he had done something rather like that after his parents had died; changing the sheets in the bedrooms and dusting everything until he was sure that Alfred was ready to tear his hair out—every other week like a tiny maid, but other than that, the property had been left in silence. Totally alone.

Stepping onto the porch—long and spread out; a sort of veranda with scuffed paint along the banisters that held up the side of the next floor as proof that children had played there and probably did acrobats along the way—Bruce ignores, very plainly and firmly, the shaking in his hands as he took out the key from his pocket, thumb tracing the too-smooth line of teeth that made the key itself, and slid it into the lock of the doorknob.

The key clicked in and he turned it twice, the thing offering some resistance as though to say "imposter, this is not right, stay out, stay out" but eventually the door opened for him and the cold air of winter swept into the foyer and intermingled with the heat provided inside, thermostat left at a steady fifty-nine degrees to keep the water pipes from freezing.

He stepped in and closed the door before the one inch of snow on the porch tried to seep in like frosty fingers; the heat tracing along his cheekbones felt like the kisses Selina had given him before she died. His shoes left two small horse shoes of snow as he tapped them—toes first—to the floor and he moved further inwards, one hand to the wall and not bothering with the light switch as it was daytime and the windows along every available space of the walls let in plenty of almost unbearably clean sunshine that reflected off of the snow outside.

He didn't bother going into the kitchen—with its dishes in the cabinets, all nothing fancy but still beautiful and delighting to the eye—or the living room—with its piano and record player and radio, with the spot in the room that he knew she had died in, looking at the wall now repainted a fine Casino Green by Deidre and Terry so it was no longer in the spectrum of beige or blood turned the color of rust—but made instead for the upstairs. He had yet to see anything of the upstairs when he had come last with his ward and Barbara's.

He paused at the banister of the stairs and took in a small breath of air, 'Oh, it smells like her still…' and took the first step toward the unknown.

He didn't weigh as much as when he was younger, all muscle and stealth, but he still managed to make the boards in the stairs creak rather feebly every three steps. Bruce grinned a little at that, feeling with his shoes and instinct the way the wood was tilted just so and curved to make the noise. If he had been a normal person, he might think that it was from warping with age or shoddy craftsmanship, but he was Batman—and still is, and always would be—and felt that the creaking was built in like a warning system; a lesson to learn for little children that got up in the middle of the night to sneak into the kitchen and get snacks (bless the memories he still had of himself doing the same thing when he was about seven, for BEFORE and Alfred being at the bottom of the stairs to look upon him disapprovingly).

Harley certainly hadn't pulled any punches while raising her brood.

At that thought, though it made him happy, it also made him heartsick and he felt a little burn in the back of his eyes and bit his tongue.

The thought crept unbidden into him as he got to the last step and stopped at the lining of a long hallway and another. There were three doors that he could see in the one hall and he took a contemplative look down the other hall leading away from the other three. That way was probably to Harley's room, judging by the closeness it lay to the staircase and he turned down it.

The door was shut, but it wasn't locked.

His blue eyes shut and he took the plunge in turning the knob and opening the door like it was leading into a torture chamber or something, rather than the small, bright room it actually was.

Bruce looked about and found himself really seeing things as they most likely had been for the woman and her children when she had lived and lived in the house. This room had not been touched since before Harley had been killed—the blankets on the bed, large and fluffy, red and white with black lace trim, were still tossed about from the woman getting up to make breakfast or something; the book she had been reading was still laying with itself split near down the middle to keep in place, the title "The Yellow Wallpaper" standing out almost obscenely; and her bed slippers and night dress were flung onto the dresser placed into the corner furthest from the bed, three of the drawers still open and revealing socks, knitted shirts and her perfume cases.

The Wayne family head blushed a little at seeing some of Harley's underwear poking out from under some of her clothes and almost shut the door to leave entirely to look about the other rooms, if not for seeing—just cresting the edge of the carpet and shadow underneath the bed, a leather bound book, rather large and obviously made to hold pictures.

The family album?

"Oh, damn," Bruce muttered under his breath and through his gritting teeth. Of course, he would actually have to find something interesting in the room of one of his dead Rogues when he was about to duck out from self-loathing to even be in the place. If Harley was a ghost and watching him right now—and there was a good chance she was, after all Bruce was associated with Deadman and Etrigan, God only knew it wouldn't hurt to add Harley to the list of beings that still kept tabs on his from beyond—she would most likely be beaming at how he stooped down to pick up the book, knees grinding and back popping as he stood back up again.

There was no doubt that, as he blew away the dust atop the book, he would feel deliciously guilty later for invading a dead woman's privacy, but seeing as it was giving way to curiosity now, it could wait until he was back home. And, maybe a little longer if Barbara didn't call him tonight.

Nothing was written on the cover and his pale hand stood out frankly against the dark cover as he turned it. Inside, on the first page and bound up by that sticky plastic covering people used to use for cards to make appointments with doctors or lawyers, his blue eyes were quickly captivated by the image of a young woman that was neither Delia, Deidre, nor Harley.

This was probably Harley and Joker's daughter.

She was about fifteen or sixteen in the large 10x7 inch picture that took up the page like a plaque, and she looked no less like Harley than she did Joker. She stood tall and pale—not like chalk, but like certain rabbit pelts that turned more creamy with age—against what looked like a redbrick apartment complex. Her eyes were a green like Joker's hair, lips widely stretched out and ruby red just like the Clown Prince, and Bruce narrowed and widened his eyes to see if it would make any difference, but her couldn't tell if her hair—choppy, short, rather like Joan Jett when she was starting out—was died an acid green to cover up dark blonde hair, or was fading into green after being died bottle blonde. She was wearing a rather form fitting black leather jacket—like a Hell's Angel or a fighter pilot—torn and scuffed blue jeans and actual combat boots Bruce had seen more times than not on soldiers going out on a mission in Bangladesh. She looked terrifying and Bruce was suddenly glad he had never met her while she was alive.

He checked, but there was no name on the photo or the page. He didn't mind. Maybe some things were for other times.

Turning the page with one last blue eyed glare at the grinning woman, Bruce was taken suddenly by two pictures side by side; equal and perhaps more than that to Harley.

One of them was like the one that Harley had sent to him in her apology letter, sitting in the Batcave. Two little newborn girls were being held by Harley in a hospital room (not a trace or sign of their actual mother anywhere in the frame), but this one was a little different than his picture. The one girl that had been shrieking and holding onto Harley's hair was asleep and totally bound up in her blanket, while the other one was awake and looking up at Harley with the clearest blue eyes Bruce had ever seen besides on Dick or maybe Damian. It was a sweet difference and if Bruce ever got his shot, he would actually—verbally and with humility—as Deidre if he could bring this album back to the Batcave.

He looked to the other picture and his breath caught in his throat.

This picture was forty-something years old, a little crinkled at the edges, but no less important. In the frame, there was Harley, face a little tired and hair sticking to her face, but smiling quite genuinely in a hospital bed—though, apparently, not an American hospital, as he could see no medical trays, no plastic gloves, no IV in her arm and blood on what appeared to be a white nightgown worn to bed and not to any sort of sterile environment that she was wearing, and whom appeared to be three African woman (nurses, doctors?) smiling behind her and in frame—with a sleeping newborn in her arms. There were marks on Harley's arms like scarring and the picture was Sepia, very old fashioned—like in a third world country—but there was no doubt that when the camera had clicked and the frame was captured, she had been exceedingly happy.

Bruce closed the book and tucked it under his arm when he saw that for the next couple pages were nothing but naked baby pictures of the twins.

So maybe he wouldn't ask Deidre for permission to look over Harley's scrapbook. He was Batman, and a little embarrassment might be just the thing to lift her out of the angst the whole of the Batclan and some of the League and, of course, friends in general that they knew, had been in since they learned about how exactly Harley had died.

He was Batman, he could do as he liked.

But he still shut the door to Harley's room, found a broom and cleaned up the melted snow from the house before locking the front door as he left.