Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

Chapter 12

The Meal's the Thing

5:45 P.M.

The fragrances of fresh bread and roasted chicken mingled with those of soup, potatoes, and something involving peaches and cinnamon.

"Shall I shut the door, Callie?" Maybelle asked. She gestured to the massive oak door at the end of the corridor, which separated the wing from the rest of the manor. It was currently wide open, allowing the aforementioned aromas to permeate the rest of the house.

Callie glanced at the long table, now spread with a white cloth, and covered with a layer of clear plastic. Jill was in the process of setting down the Royal Chinette plates and Dixie cutlery. She noted the two extra place settings and smiled approval at her brother's wife.

"Leave it," she told Maybelle. "It's the only way I can think to phrase the invitation."

Alfred, in the midst of spooning beet horseradish onto the fishplates, glanced up at that. "My compliments on your... perspicacity, Miss Callie."

A smile flickered briefly on her lips. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Pennyworth."

"You don't really need to do that, you know," she added, gesturing to the plates. "There'll be plenty of extra hands around in short order."

"Perhaps," Alfred admitted, "but, if you'll pardon my saying so, you yourself seem less than meticulous in assuring that you merely do what's necessary."

Callie lowered her eyes, conceding the point. At that moment, she heard a door shut down the hallway, and recognized the soft footfalls padding down the carpet as belonging to Natalie. Looking up only confirmed it. "How're you feeling, Sweetheart?"

"Headache," Natalie replied. "Major one. Where's the ASA?"

"Where would it normally be?" Callie countered.

Her younger sister rolled her eyes, but made her way back down the hall to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Returning to the kitchen a moment later, she pulled carrots, cucumbers, radishes, and cherry tomatoes from the crisper, and, armed with a cutting board and sharp knife, set herself to chopping. "Phones back up, now?" she asked.

"As of ten, this morning," Callie confirmed. "Took them long enough."

"Well, with the rioting going on the first couple of nights, I guess they had a backlog or something," Maybelle suggested, swiping a handful of cherry tomatoes.

"I'd best be going," Alison said. "Daniel and I haven't seen much of each other all week."

And Alison's husband was more than patient, considering that he, unlike Sophia's husband, had no idea about Psion Force's activities. "Go on, then," Callie nodded. "Shabbat Shalom. Oh, and Ali? Thanks."

Alison grabbed her purse. "For what?"

Callie smiled faintly. How many times had they had this exchange over the years? She waved her colleague on.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

(Tabitha)

It took a while, but meditation finally beat the headache. Now I can think.

Bran hasn't said two words to me since I got back. It's not like he's being obvious about avoiding me, it's more like wherever I am, he isn't. And this is a pretty big house. Heck, it's a pretty big wing. It makes it relatively easy to evade someone without going out of your way to do so. Makes me wonder about whether this is why Bruce lives here, instead of in some penthouse in the heart of downtown.

If I keep wandering off on these tangents, I'm going to have to seriously think about changing my codename to Rambling Rosie. No, on second thought, I'd better leave it. They'd probably mix me up with Roxy Rocket. Bottom line: I've never been a big-picture person. I tend to pick one little detail, and I do mean little, and dwell on that one. You know, like for instance, let's just suppose that some refugee from the WWE beats the tar out of the main protector of the city. Do I start thinking: "gee, the criminals are going to come out of the woodwork and start going crazy, now?" Or when my brother goes and actually explicitly states same, do I pay attention? Do I think that maybe the kids at the youth centre I run in one of the worst parts of town could be in trouble, and that they have a right to depend on me? Does it occur to me that perhaps the news reporter messed up and some local wacko was feeling depressed, decided to take a nose dive, and thought dressing up in a Hallowe'een costume would make some kind of statement? Or do I instead think, "someone's got to notify next of kin, this second, and it had better be me?"

Now that I reflect back, this isn't the first time I've pulled this sort of stunt. Oh, sure, it's my first major no-holds-barred muck-up... for a while, anyway... but, actually, doesn't it all go back to the early days when Callie tried to leave me home safe, and I grabbed Jill's oversized sweatshirt, tied one of Bronwen's long scarves around the waist, and drew a mask over my eyes with Maybelle's Covergirl My Papaya lipstick? Then, I threw another scarf over my head, and used one of Natalie's stretchy hair-bands to hold it there, kufiyah-style. I must have looked like a pint-sized masked extra from Lawrence of Arabia.

On the whole, it wasn't that bad an effect. I only made two major mistakes, that night. Firstly, that sweatshirt I borrowed wasn't Jill's—it was one of Alison's. That Jill had taken. Without asking. And, secondly, when I caught up with the rest of the team and helped them take care of the disturbance—turf war actually—at a paintball arena out in suburbia, and some punk got lucky and spattered said sweatshirt, well, actually about eighty-five per cent of my surface area, but most significantly—said formerly cream-colored Ralph Lauren sweatshirt—with a violent mixture of orange, green, and eggplant-purple, I hadn't yet mastered the art of trying to steer the combat away from the video feeds. Sooo... Want to guess who made the eleven o'clock news, that night? Want to guess who watched the eleven o'clock news, that night? Want to guess who ran tearing into her bedroom to ransack her clothes bureau, that night, hoping frantically that her favorite sweatshirt was neatly folded in the drawer where it was supposed to be after she saw that particular melee? Want to guess how Ali got involved with us in the first place?

That worked out for the best, too, I suppose. Eventually. Despite me endangering my life, blowing Callie's best-laid plans out of the water, and endangering Jill's life twice in a twenty-four hour period. The first time was in the heat of the battle. As for the second time... well, when the team got back to the apartment around a quarter to one in the a.m., (I phased through the roof into the bedroom and pulled up the covers, pretended to be asleep, and hoped nobody would notice that the paint and lipstick mask weren't wiping off...) want to guess who was sharing the sofa with Kay Berger? You know, the same Kay Berger, who was supposed to be babysitting me, and nearly had a conniption when Ali called her and told her to check if I was in bed? Oh, good. You guessed. I was afraid I might not have been obvious enough.

After Alison calmed down, and Jill promised to handle the sweatshirt restoration process—at least it was washable paint—she and Kay handed Callie an ultimatum. They both wanted in—or Jill's parents would hear about what we were up to.

So, in the long run, we got ourselves the beginnings of a strong support network. (Ali's now a doctor and Kay's planning to specialize in whatever section of the law deals with vigilante crime-fighters, in case one of us is ever taken into custody. If that area falls under 'criminal law', I think I'm insulted...) Short-term I single-handedly compromised our identities, blew Callie's strategy away to heck and gone, nearly got Phasma hurt protecting me, and ruined a designer sweatshirt. And between now and then, there've been a few more times I've pulled junk like that. The fact that things generally work out in the long run doesn't excuse my messing up in the short.

Bottom line, I used to be a cute, precocious kid. Bottom line, that shtick has outlived its usefulness. What we do, some nights, it's fun. Some nights, it's exhilarating. Some nights, it's even depressing and painful. But it's not a game. And I'm not a kid anymore. I've never been a big-picture person. Hey. Four years ago, I'd never studied Kung Fu. And when a certain expert fighter got wind of that, he had only one word for me: learn. And I did. I'm scarcely a master at it, but I have a few solid moves by now. Quite a few.

It's up to me, isn't it? I can take the path of least resistance, like I've done all along, keep my gut instinct in the drivers seat, and strap foresight, planning, and logic on the luggage rack for the ride, or I can invite at least one of those three to sit up front, maybe even take the wheel now and again. If not... If not, then it's time to admit that Bran's right and I don't belong out there with the rest of the gang. Callie's only half-joking when she says that the reason she let me onto the team when I was five was because she was getting sick of coming up with contingency plans based on when she was anticipating I'd wade into the fray. Now, if she starts thinking that she needs to come up with backup plans for every outing based solely on the anticipation that I might not go wading into the fray... Yeah. I can see her point.

I get up from the bed. Time to take my lumps.

In the kitchen, Callie's mincing vegetables. She used to do that a lot when we were kids and she was angry. If she was stressed and felt like she was going to cry, it was onions. She thought that that way, we'd be fooled into thinking that her tears were a normal chemical reaction. Of course, there's only so many times you can have onion soup, confetti vegetable salad, and pasta with caramelized onion sauce in a row before you figure out something's up. And if you're really slow on the uptake, maybe the onion brown-sugar cake and the apple-onion flan can be your wake-up calls. Cal doesn't glance up from the poor celery stalk now bearing the brunt of her emotional state. It's a good thing Poison Ivy was recaptured last week, or I think my sister would be having the fight of her life, right about now. The counter is kind of like an ironing board with a solid base: jutting out from one wall. I've heard of 'island counters'. Would that make this one a 'peninsula'? Whatever it is, I stand in front of it, facing her while she thwacks the knife down on the helpless vegetable.

She points to a pile of cucumbers, cutting board, peeler and knife. Rule number one: when Callie's in the middle of preparing food, and you want to talk to her, you have to help. I peel a cucumber deftly, lay it down on the board and start slicing. "Thinner," she warns me, before she adds in a different tone: "I'm listening."

She always says that. Usually she's already drawn her conclusions, but she's ready to hear your side anyhow. In this case, unfortunately, I don't have a real 'side'. I take a deep breath.

"I messed up. Royally. It won't happen again." Here's the problem. I'm trying to apologize like a mature adult. Somehow or other, though, it comes out a little too nonchalant. Just a little too pat—like it's a speech I memorized. Or like a broken record.

She looks up at me. "You didn't check in for almost five days."

"I know."

"We needed you."

"I know."

She puts down the knife. "You know, you know. What's it going to be next time, Tabitha?"

What am I supposed to say to that one? How can I promise never to do it again? Something unexpected always comes up. How the heck am I supposed to give a blanket assurance? "Next time," I say slowly, "I'll tell someone what I'm planning instead of sneaking off." Why do I suddenly think that all of the flexibility I've gained turning capoeira cartwheels (technically, they're called 'aus'. Off-topic, that's the same sound the average mook utters when he blunders into the way of one), has only made it easier for me to jam my foot into my mouth?

Callie lays the knife down next to the mutilated salad component and gives me a hard stare. "We'll discuss this after Shabbos," she says, finally. "I'll need to think."

What she means is that she's not going to let Gotham suffer because she has to teach me a lesson, if she thinks I've already learned it. But there are going to be repercussions. I remember something.

"Um... about supper," I start to say.

She looks up at me. "Burgundy bean stew, and there's ginger basmati as a side." She picks up the knife again. Whoa. She still made me a vegetarian entrée. I don't know if she was trying to be a good mother or trying to make me feel guilty, but she's accomplished both. They're not necessarily mutually exclusive, now I think about it.

"How's Bruce?"

She puts down the knife, and looks at me. "You were planning on going in to find out, regardless, weren't you?"

Yeah, but "I'm just trying to do my reconnaissance, first."

Ok. Now, I know she's not reading my mind. One thing she's made sure of is that we all know how to block her out. Or as she puts it, if she wouldn't want someone poking around in her head, she sure as heck doesn't want us to think she's poking around in one of ours. All the same, when she leans over the counter and stares me in the eyes, it sure feels like she's looking around in there. After a minute, she seems to relax, just a little. She looks down at the chopping board, pushes away the minced celery and reaches for another stalk. She nods to herself and starts chopping the fresh piece. Not attacking, mind you, just chopping. "You'll have to ask him," she says.

Back when I said I'd rather face Bruce than Callie? Clearly, that wasn't an either-or proposition. She's right, though. I do need to talk to him. Right after I finish these cukes.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

(Bruce)

There was no precise moment when things began to go... downhill. I have been injured before, stymied before. I haven't always managed to put every street punk I've come across out of commission in a single night. But, even before Bane, I was slipping. I knew it. And, instead of examining the issue, I suppressed it... boxed it off... decided that I would deal with it later, when there was time. And suddenly... there wasn't. Arkham's inmates were on the streets of Gotham and I had to hunt them down. Myself. Robin warned me. Alfred warned me. Even Bane warned me at our first meeting. I took none of them seriously.

I should have called Dick myself. As soon as Azrael proved to be less than a match for Killer Croc. No outside interference. My city. My rules. But Dick is scarcely an outsider. And he knows my rules better than any other. I taught them to him. He's spent the last three years proving that he's his own man. I had no right to bring him back into this. Funny how easy it was to concern myself with his rights, when the reality was more that I was... uncomfortable... admitting that I needed help.

By the time I realized my error, I was already over my head. Now, I can acknowledge this fact. Recent events are largely due to my efforts to spare myself a few barbed rejoinders. (You're saying you need help, Bruce? Sure! Hang on, let me just turn this report down—apparently Satan's blocked off by snowdrifts and the imps are taking ice-skating lessons! ) Those rejoinders may have been the only consequence I did manage to evade. As Callie so eloquently stated under different circumstances, 'some victory. Yay, me.'

Callie. She understands without needing me to explain. "If I was in your place I'd be terrified right now; that doesn't mean you have to be..." I don't recall much after coming back upstairs from the cave and finding Alfred injured on the floor of the den and Bane, standing in the shadows, waiting for me. We exchanged words. I had enough time to replace the cowl and shrug the robe off of my costume. I believe, that I must have landed a few blows, although I cannot confirm having done so. I can, however, remember landing...

...Landing headfirst against the grandfather clock. Landing at the foot of the steps leading down to the cave, after Bane half-pushed, half-threw me down them. Landing against consoles and monitors, too spent to dodge his blows. Landing on floor, pinned under the giant penny, then dragged out from beneath it, and thrown against the trunk of the Batmobile, too dazed initially to roll out of the way when Bane bore down on me using a stalagmite as a makeshift club. So many blows overlapping, blending with those I sustained in earlier fights. New injuries inflicted on top of those barely healed, opening older wounds. I remember...

"Beg for mercy! Scream my name!"

I meant to hurl defiance in his face. But instead, I heard a voice I barely recognized struggle to whimper, "Go back to Hell." There was no defiance in that voice. That was not a voice to strike terror into the hearts of criminals. That... that was the voice of a proud stubborn fool who had nothing left in him but his refusal, and a certainty that no matter what he did or didn't do, said or didn't say next, he was a dead man.

That was one more miscalculation, in an increasingly long line of lost steps and oversights. The last thing I remember was Bane lifting me in both arms... almost gently... almost tenderly... and then... nothing.

Nothing, until I felt the breeze on my face, blowing under the cowl, through my shredded costume. Nothing, until I found myself falling, hearing the wind whipping the shreds of my cape upward around me. Nothing. Before... he told me I was nothing. And that time, I believed him. And then, I was lying on the pavement...

-"We have EMT units on the way. Can you hear me?"

-Woman's voice. Young. Familiar. Answer her. Answer her. No ambulance. Hurts. Hurts so bad I want to die. No ambulance. Mask has to stay on. Answer her. Tell her send Leslie. Leslie. "Uhhh..."

-"Hang on. They're on their way.

Hand on my chest. Warm. What is she... checking my pulse. Smart. Smarts. Hurtshurtshurtshurts. Hurts everywhere. Everywhere? No. Something's wrong...Just want to sleep. NO! Don't sleep. Don't go into shock. You sleep you don't wake up. Sounds... like a pla—

-"Master Bruce, we'll be moving you in a moment. Do hold on."

Alfred? How? How doesn't matter. He's here. Relax. Wait! No hospital. No hospital. Have to tell him no hospital. "Unnhh..."

-"Don't try to talk, Sir."

Firm mattress. Good. Motor starts. Smells like antiseptic... something else... bread? How? Bakery? Unnhh! Ribs feel every movement. Hurts to breathe. Legs... don't hurt. Good. Good? No... they should hurt. Something is... very... wrong... Can't think. Just want to sleep. No hospital, Alfred...

-"I..."

What? Who? Bread smell again. That's all wrong. Good smell but wrong.

-"I don't know if you can hear me, or if you know what's going on, but just in case you can hear, I want you to know that you're among friends. Alfred and Tim are back here with me, and Jean-Paul is driving the ambulance. And, I don't know if you remember me but I'm Callie. Or Silver Dragon."

Can't think. Hurts too bad. Alfred... here? Good. No hospital. Should sleep but... have to know what he did to me. Him. Bane. How bad am I hurt? How bad did he beat me?

"I can't pretend to know what you're feeling right now, but if I were in your place, I know I'd be terrified..."

She's right, too. I am...

"Mr. Wayne?" The voice startles me back to wakefulness. I suppose it is not unsurprising that my body, so long denied its need for sleep, is seizing every opportunity to acquire it now. I open my eyes. I still smell the bread, over and above other aromas. And while I don't doubt Alfred is capable of baking bread, it's not something I can recall him doing before. I pull my thoughts to the individual poised in the doorway.

"Tabitha, isn't it?"

The girl, a young woman now, technically, nods nervously. Interesting. Both at our first, and at subsequent meetings, she's been more self-possessed. "How... how are you? I mean..." She stops. A hand flies to her cheek. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," I tell her. "I was thinking." I pause. "Was there something you wanted?"

She nods again. "I just wanted to... I didn't... I mean," she looks away scowling. Then she looks back. "If you're mad because I went to get Dick, fine, but don't blame Callie. She had nothing to do with it."

"I know."

"You do." She phrases it as a statement.

"You timed your departure well."

She blinks, then nods. "It was a small window of opportunity." She looks down. "I spend a lot of time trying to put myself in someone else's shoes," she says quietly. "If it'd been me, chas veshalom, I would have wanted my family around me. I jumped to conclusions. I just came by to apologize."

I shake my head, slowly. "Not necessary." I wait for her to meet my eyes. "Pull something like this again at your peril. But this time, you were right."

She smiles, but confusion is still apparent in her eyes. "But, I thought... I mean I overheard when I came upstairs... Bran and Callie were talking..."

Oh. So that's what Callie was planning. She should have told me. "My initial reaction was less favorable," I tell her bluntly. "She bore the brunt of it."

Tabitha nods understanding. "I should've known," she mutters. "She always does this."

"This."

"Comes down on herself harder than anyone else—you included, no offense—ever could. I'm sorry I bothered you, Mr. Wayne."

"It's no bother." My stomach growls. She pretends to ignore it. I frown. "I assume that the cooking smells are coming from the north wing?"

She nods.

"The door leading into that wing is open, at the moment."

She nods again, smiling faintly.

"Will you close it when you head back?"

She looks away. "Callie asked me not to. She said the air isn't circulating so well for some reason, and that if you have an issue with it, you should talk to her."

Granted, I don't know Callie that well, but from what I have witnessed during the past week, that phrasing seems a bit uncharacteristic. As do her actions. Up to this point, without being obvious about it, Callie has gone out of her way to avoid antagonizing me, even to the point of being prepared to leave without argument or excuse when so ordered. She has managed to keep her temper when she would have had every justification to lose it. So, for her to suddenly display such an evident lack of sensitivity on her part... It takes me a moment to recognize what she has planned.

"Tabitha, will you advise your sister that if she wants me to join you for dinner, next time she could simply ask me?"

She grins. "She thought you might prefer to nobly suffer alone and in silence," she says, affecting a melodramatic pose. "But if you somehow found a pretext to head down our way, and found a place already set for you at the table, she figured you might... um..."

"Think it churlish to refuse?" I feel a smile beginning to form. If anything, hers gets wider.

"You know, I think Dick may have been right about why you chose to become a detective."