Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

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

Secret Garden lyrics by Lucy Simon and Marsha Norman. Copyright 1991 by Sony Music Entertainment Inc. Into the Woods lyrics by Stephen Sondheim. Copyright 1988 by BMG Music. "Heart and Soul" written by Hoagy Carmichael and Frank Loesser. Copyright 1939.

Chapter 15

Fights and Flights

Dick waved aside the plate of cookies that Callie held out to him. "Just out of curiosity," he snapped, "what would have been enough to get your people out there, tonight? Darkseid and Doomsday?"

Cal shook her head. "Actually, I almost had to physically restrain Jill."

"You did." He blinked.

"She gets a bit gung-ho about things like this," she admitted

Callie's mild response increased his confusion. "So… why…"

"Bruce."

"Bruce?" He stared at her, aware that his heart rate had suddenly quickened. Had something happened to Bruce, tonight? But even as his mind considered the possibility, it rejected it. Callie and Bronwen were behaving far too calmly. He glanced at Callie's older sister. She returned his gaze, keeping one finger down, to hold her place in the book that she had been reading before Dick had stormed into the north wing kitchen, a picture of righteous indignation.

Callie nodded seriously. "He said you'd be able to handle Scarecrow without Psion Force's assistance. From the reports, it sounded like he was right on that score."

Dick glowered. "Yeah, just barely." He shook his head in disbelief. "You know he told me he couldn't have a partner around because it was too dangerous. Every time we've worked together, since then, he's treated me like I'm still some wet-behind-the-ears kid. He didn't call me in, this time because he didn't want me facing most of Arkham--"

"And Tim?" Bronwen cut in, quietly.

Dick blinked in confusion. "Tim?"

"He's younger than you are. Less experienced. Yet, Bruce trusted him on the streets. Do you believe that he would have trusted you less?"

"No," Dick admitted. "That doesn't make any sense. But--"

"Actions often speak louder than words," Bronwen said mildly. "But motivation… that's something else again. If you don't mind, we could try taking a step back, and looking at the data. Maybe a working hypothesis'll suggest itself." Without waiting for an answer, she continued. "Fact: Bruce told you that he did not want you as his partner. Several years ago. Inference: things have been strained between you since then."

Dick set himself down in one of the empty chairs. He reached absently for a cookie. "That's another fact, actually."

"I didn't want to make donkeys out of the pair of us, but that was my initial assumption," Bronwen murmured. "Fact," she went on, business-like again, "you've just told me your opinion of his motives for that. Inference: he was aware of your views on the subject. Fact: despite a highly volatile situation tonight, he insisted that you would be able to handle things without standby reinforcements. Possible conclusions at this time would be, one: he really doesn't like you as much as you thought…" She struggled to maintain a deadpan expression. Her eyes betrayed her. "Or, two…"

This was his way of telling me he trusts me out there. Cripes, he told them as much! Why couldn't he have told me to my face, I wonder? He shook his head, amazed that he'd even thought of the question. When had Bruce ever said something like that to his face? And when, he reflected, was the last time he'd said anything to Bruce that hadn't led to a fight between them? Bruce wasn't a talker. What else was new? And what, Dick wondered, was his own excuse? Fear? Fear that after spilling his guts out to Bruce, Bruce would reciprocate, but say something along the lines of "I'm sorry. Bringing you in was a mistake. I tried to make the best of it, but at least, now I can stop pretending, stop living a lie…" Dick shook his head, as if he could shake those hateful words out of it. Because he knew, knew with a clarity that astounded him, that if Bruce were ever to say anything approaching those words, then that would be the lie.

From the moment that Tabitha had come to New York to apprise him of the situation, until the moment that he had seen for himself that Bruce was alive and likely to remain so, Dick had been berating himself, horrified that it might really be too late for he and Bruce to clear the air between them. And now, here he was, practically jumping at the chance to add another pollutant. Keep on performing the actions you usually perform, and don't be surprised if you keep on getting the results you usually get. Maybe, just maybe, he should work on himself, before he started expecting Bruce to change.

"Are you alright?" Callie asked, concerned.

Dick nodded. "I think so. Where's Bruce, now?"

Callie raised an eyebrow. "Sleeping, I would guess. He turned in about three hours ago."

"Scarecrow was still at large three hours ago. No way he'd be able to sleep, knowing that."

"Actually," Bronwen mused aloud, "herbal tea can be soporific. Particularly when a certain butler manages to dissolve ones sedatives therein."

Dick frowned. "Alfred wouldn't--" he stopped himself. In point of fact, if he thought it was warranted, Alfred absolutely would.

"Speaking of herbal teas," Callie said, "I was just about to get myself a cup. Did you want one, too?" She placed one hand over her heart. "Nothing but teabag, hot water, and optional sweetener and lemon."

Dick shook his head. "Maybe later," he said, biting into the cookie. His eyes widened. "This is good!"

"Thank-you," Callie smiled slightly, then frowned. "I thought the others would be back with you."

Dick swallowed the last of the cookie. "Tim went home."

Callie waited. She got up and filled a teacup from the hot water urn, then poured the water into a second cup. Dick was silent. She dunked a teabag into the cup. Still Dick said nothing. Finally, as she retook her seat, cup in hand, Callie said, "I gather something else happened out there that won't be in tomorrow's papers."

He nodded slightly. "Who is Azrael? How did he end up involved in all of this?"

Callie raised an eyebrow. "I've been waiting for someone to tell me. About all Tim divulged was that Bruce had asked him to give Azrael some training. I had other things on my mind, so I didn't exactly pry. As far as my own impressions," she hesitated. "Okay, I can tell you he's intense… driven… focused." She smiled self-consciously. "Fine, that probably describes most of the costumed crowd at one time or another. But… it's more," she frowned as she tried to find the right words, "like he's… pushing himself down a path… and he has no clue where it leads… and he's not the least bit curious." She considered. "He strikes me as a soldier. One who'll obey orders without questioning. And that scares me."

Dick nodded. "Whose orders, though?"

"I don't know," Callie admitted. "And that scares me, more."

Dick finished the cookie and reached for another. "Any more improvement from Bruce?"

Callie shook her head. "No changes since this afternoon. It's probably too soon to know. But--"

"You've never done anything like this before, so there's no real way to be sure," he finished wearily. "You sounded a lot more encouraging this afternoon, you know."

"Did I?" Callie raised an eyebrow. She sighed. "I suppose I did. Question, then: would you have any experience walking a high wire?"

Dick shot her a look comparable to one Albert Einstein might have employed had she asked him whether he was conversant with Newton's third law.

Callie blushed. "Silly question, sorry. Here's a more intelligent one: what do you do, in the event that you feel your body swaying overly toward the left when you're partway across?"

"You compensate by deliberately swaying right."

"But then don't you run the risk of toppling over on the other side?"

Dick slowly shook his head. "Not if you strike the right balance." Comprehension dawned. "That's what you're doing, here."

"Exactly. I don't want to build up false hopes… but I don't want to strike down legitimate ones either. And his outlook needs to be considered as well. Natalie told you his frame of mind when he first regained consciousness. If he believes that his recovery will be limited… well, chances are it will be. If, on the other hand, he thinks everything will come back, then there's the risk that he'll try to do too much too soon, and lose whatever gains he makes."

The young man nodded, frowning. "What else?"

Callie hesitated. "Maybe nothing. Hopefully nothing."

"But--"

She drew a deep breath. "Projecting has its drawbacks. But that's what I'm about to do. Because, bottom line, I don't know him. But I do know me." She paused again. "I skipped adolescence. Or experienced it outside of the normal sequence, at any rate."

Dick gaped at her. "What?" And what in the world did that have to do with anything?

Callie shrugged. "I was, for all intents and purposes, a single mother at the age of ten, doing my best to bring up my two youngest sisters. By the time I was thirteen, I might as well have been thirty in my mindset. Teenagers are supposed to be these whirlwinds of conflicting emotions, hormones, angst, and confusion. I… decided that I couldn't afford to deal with any of those. So, I didn't. Everything got suppressed, locked down, swept under the rug…until I couldn't remember a time when the ceiling hadn't seemed so low.

"Someone else can fill you in on the long version, if you're so inclined," she continued. "The short one is that I almost had a breakdown when I was seventeen. And it took a great support network, one major node of which is sharing the table with us, right now," she cast a grateful look at Bronwen, who lowered her eyes, and looked vaguely embarrassed, "to pull me back from that particular cliff." But, bottom line is that knowing what I was supposed to be going through, and making a conscious decision to… not go through it… or, at best, to 'blitz' through it, was a stopgap measure. And it only made things harder down the road." She waited for Dick to meet her eyes.

"Trust me. I'm not one to make the mistake of thinking that Bruce is stupid. The problem actually is… that he's smart. He has to know that after the kind of pressure he's been under… look, Alfred told me he'd been seeing the same doctor that's been looking after Tim's father… because he'd been burning out, even before Arkham happened."

He was seeing a doctor because he was burning out? Dick's jaw dropped. "Y-you mean, as in, a… therapist?" Tabitha had told him that Bruce hadn't been himself lately, but he'd never guessed…

Callie closed her eyes. "Let's just say I didn't prescribe his sedatives. Anyway, now, he has hope. And that's important. But if he's using that hope as an excuse not to deal with the other issues, if he's deluding himself that a few nights of uninterrupted sleep and a few days chatting with an upbeat six-year-old have fixed everything…" She opened her eyes again.

"Bron, I'm going to steal one of your analogies."

Her older sister grinned. "Let me guess. The hole in the roof?"

"I thought your talent was retrocognition, not clairvoyance; yes, that's the one." She drew a deep breath. "Old story, actually. There's a man with a hole in the roof of his house. So, when the rain comes pouring in, he suffers. And, in that downpour, he can't exactly fix it. But… when the sun comes out, he no longer has any incentive to fix it. Because he's not getting wet anymore." Callie gazed solemnly at Dick. "You do see where I'm going with this one, don't you?"

Dick frowned, nodding. "You're saying that his… issues are like the hole… everything that's happened in the last little while, up to--and including Bane would be the rain, and… hope…"

"If he doesn't fix the hole, it's going to hurt him down the road, and probably sooner rather than later."

"Is it possible," Dick asked hesitantly, "that whatever help he's been getting from that doctor, and from Alfred and you, and the rest of your family, has been enough, after all?"

"Anything's possible," Callie agreed with a sad smile. "Do you believe that it is, though?"

"How can I help?" Dick asked, ignoring her question.

"The way you have been, so far. Just… be there. Something else. And, again, this is me, not necessarily him." She cast a rueful glance at her sister. "Bronwen can vouch for this one. I did a lot of shouting--"

"Constantly--" Bronwen broke in.

"I threw things--"

"Heavy, sharp, pointy things--"

"And lashed out--"

"Vehemently--"

"Do you mind?" Callie asked testily, but her eyes belied the belligerence of her tone.

"Big sisters needle. Little sisters take it. Deal with it," Bronwen rejoined. "What Callie's trying to say is that if Bruce lashes out at you, try to remember he's not necessarily doing it because he's mad at you. He's probably doing it because you're there. If you think you can handle that, col ha-kavod." At Dick's puzzled expression, she translated, "more power to you. But if you can't, speaking as someone who has been in a somewhat comparable situation, if, chas veshalom, it were me in that wheelchair again, I'd rather you left before I got the idea into my head that you were sticking around for the long haul." She looked steadily at Dick. "I'd probably behave as badly as I could to give you an out, and once you didn't take it, I'd decide it was safe to let my guard down. If you walked out after that…" Seeing Dick's quick nod of understanding, she left the sentence unfinished.

Callie seemed about to protest, then reconsidered. "It may sound harsh, but I think she's right."

Dick absorbed that. "I'll… try to be there," he said softly. It wasn't going to be a picnic, though. "Thanks. At least that gives me a better picture of what we're dealing with, here."

Both young women nodded. Callie cleared her throat. "If you do need to vent, one of us is generally around."

Dick smiled faintly. "I'll keep that in mind."

Consciousness returned slowly, the next morning. It felt like his mind was wrapped in cotton, and his mouth was dry. What… Alfred. His thoughts cleared, as the elderly man entered carrying a breakfast tray.

"Good morning, Master Bruce," he said. "I trust you slept well."

Bruce glowered. "You made sure of that, didn't you, Old Friend?" He twisted the last words sarcastically, but their tone appeared lost on their target.

"Indeed, Sir. If I might point out that denying your body its necessary rest over a long period of time was part and parcel of the factors contributing to your previous condition of burnout--"

The scowl fell away instantly. "And my… immediate condition," Bruce said softly.

"I would not presume to state that, Master Bruce," Alfred said.

Bruce shook his head. "You don't have to, Old Friend. I know. I may have a… a blind spot about some things, but not that. I know." He watched intently as Alfred set the tray down on the nightstand. The older man's expression bespoke sadness and concern, but showed none of the anguish that would have been evident had things gone awry the evening prior.

"Is Dick up, yet?"

Alfred shook his head. "Young Master Dick returned home toward the wee hours of the morning, in a state of near exhaustion. I shouldn't expect him to awaken much before noon."

"But he's alright."

"Apart from a few superficial injuries, yes. Master Valley, however, did not return with him, and his whereabouts are currently unknown."

Bruce nodded, unconcerned. Jean-Paul did, after all have his own apartment in Newtown. In all likelihood, he had returned there for the night.

He waited for Alfred to exit, before levering himself into a sitting position, and taking a mental inventory of his physical condition. His injuries no longer hurt him to the same degree… or perhaps he had automatically started masking the pain again. Frustration and dismay warred with elation, as he realized that under its splint… his left leg was itching. Abominably. He was cognizant of the weight of the blankets over both legs, another promising sign. His hopes faded, however, when he attempted to move them. There's no yardstick against which you can measure the speed of your recovery. You know that, he thought furiously. Patience was a virtue that he had learned--not something that came to him naturally. And, in situations such as this, situations where he could not tell himself that by holding off on nabbing some strung-out street rat, he stood a strong chance of collaring a major dealer, situations where, to put it bluntly, he had no idea how long he would need to wait for results, his lessons deserted him. More to distract himself from his leg, he steered his thoughts toward the previous evening...

He was actually surprised by how much he had enjoyed the time spent with the Aaronson clan. Usually, his meals were of three sorts. First, were the society or charity dinners he was forced to attend for appearances sake, where he indulged in foods which he didn't enjoy, in order to occupy himself so that he wouldn't say what was on his mind when J. Devlin Davenport spouted one of his usual asinine comments about how the city poor would vanish if the Wayne Foundation loans didn't make poverty so attractive. He actually would enjoy tearing Davenport down, but of course, that wouldn't be in keeping with the good-natured airhead playboy façade. So, every time he got the urge to open his mouth to tell J. Devlin exactly what he could do with his economic theories, Bruce caught himself, and inserted another canapé, or piece of maki, or bite of steak Tartare, and wished that he was facing Hatter, or Riddler, or anyone else he could cold-cock without creating a social faux pas. At this rate, on top of everything else, he mused, he should have developed an ulcer long ago.

Parties aside, his meals were generally consumed in the kitchen, when he was alone, and in the dining room when Dick or Tim was around. Ordinarily, he ate in the kitchen. Alfred kept him company, but considered it improper to eat, himself, until Bruce had finished. In the past, Bruce had argued, but the elderly gentleman stood firm. In point of fact, Bruce was more uncomfortable being the only one in the room who was eating than eating alone.

Which was generally what happened. Alfred would bring a tray to his bedroom, or to the cave. Bruce would ignore it until Alfred left, and then he would eat… at least when he wasn't trying to mentally review a crime scene for the fortieth time. Or trying to predict Joker's next score… Or reviewing his cold case files…

Last night, for the first time in a long time, he had just sat and listened to the conversation around him, occasionally joining in, but mostly listening, and he had eaten and enjoyed. Before the meal, Jaime had taken pains to fill him in on a few things he hadn't known…

"After Uncle Brandon makes Kiddush, we all get grape juice… an' then we go wash our hands. And after we wash, we can't talk until we eat a piece of challah…"

"Finish your chicken, Jaime," Jill interrupted. Since dinner was unlikely to start before ten, the boy was eating the bulk of his meal early. "And Bruce doesn't have to do that if he doesn't want to." She smiled apologetically. "Of course," she told Bruce, "you won't have anyone to talk to, until we have a bite of the bread."

"I made it!" Jaime announced.

Bruce looked up sharply.

Jill shrugged. "He braided it, so he gets some credit. The rest goes to his mother."

"It's probably more than I could do," Bruce admitted. "Is there a reason for the silence?"

"When I asked that question, it was explained to me," Jill said, nodding, "that there's not supposed to be a pause between washing the hands and partaking of the meal. Since the meal officially starts with the blessings over the grape juice and the bread, any talking not relevant to the task at hand would constitute a break. If the bread somehow wasn't on the table, it would be fine to ask for it, though, since the asking would be relevant."

Bruce half-smiled. "What would happen if someone did speak at that time?"

"Oh, we get struck by lightning," Jill deadpanned.

"Jill!" Callie hissed, as Natalie burst into laughter.

"Sorry!" the younger woman exclaimed trying to stifle her own giggles. "But you should just see your face--" She took a deep breath. "Sorry. No, we just have to wash again is all."

"You can ask me if you want to know anything else," Jaime volunteered importantly.

"And you can ask Callie or Brandon, if you want to know the right answers," Maybelle broke in.

Jaime looked down. "Very funny."

Bruce put a hand on the small boy's shoulder. "Where do I sit, tonight?" He asked, although, looking at the table, he had a fairly good idea.

Jaime brightened. "See at the end of the table where there's a plate but there's no chair?"

Theory confirmed, Bruce noted with some satisfaction.

The time had passed swiftly until Brandon returned from synagogue, and they had sat down to the table. Once the grape juice and bread were consumed, Sophie cleared her throat. "Jaime," she said, "bedtime."

"I'm not tired," he protested.

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Please…"

"No whining."

"How about grape juicing?" Brandon interjected.

Jaime giggled. Sophie shot her brother a deadly glare. "You're not helping."

Callie drew a deep breath. "If you don't go to bed at a regular time, you'll be tired in the morning. It's already late. Go on."

Jaime sighed acquiescence. "Aunt Callie?" he asked, frowning. "Do you have a reg'lar bedtime?"

Callie blinked. She cast a rueful glance in Bruce's direction. Finally, she said "and if I were jumping off the roof, would you jump, too?"

Bruce recognized the fallacy of that argument the instant before Jaime responded thoughtfully…

"Well, since you're tel-e-kin-e-tic and I can lev'tate…"

Bruce actually saw Natalie pinch herself in an effort not to burst out laughing afresh. It might have succeeded, had Tabitha not rested her cheek to the tablecloth, pounding the surface with her fist. Truth be told, Bruce was finding it hard not to join them.

"Jaime!" Sophie said sharply. "Enough."

Jaime sobered. "Sorry, Ima," he said, throwing his arms around her. "Good night." Sophie bent down to kiss him. He returned the favor, and whispered something in her ear.

His mother nodded. "But, fast," she added.

Bruce watched as Jaime made his way around the table. "G'night, Aunt Tabitha… G'night, Aunt Jill… G'night, Uncle Brandon…" Each 'G'night' brought on its own display of affection. Bruce sighed mentally. He thought he must have been like that when he had been Jaime's age, although he was hard-pressed to remember. He felt a pang of sorrow for the boy he had been, until that night in the alley… and a small hand pressed gently on his. He looked down.

"G'night, Bruce," Jaime said, wrapping his arms around his neck, and planting a kiss on his cheek." Bruce automatically returned the hug, realizing that the boy must have floated to attain his current perch. How had he not seen that one coming? Everyone else at the table seemed suddenly preoccupied with their gefilte fish (or, in Tabitha's case, vegetable pate). After a moment, Jaime dropped lightly down. "G'night, Aunt Natalie…"

"We have got to talk," Dick said without preamble, as he entered the library.

Bruce pushed himself away from the shelf of forensic tomes. Might as well get this over with, he sighed inwardly, resigned to another verbal battle. Truthfully, holding Psion Force back last night had been one of the hardest things he had done in a long time… up to and including the events of the last few weeks. It had been a catch-22, no question about it. If he'd ordered Psion Force out, Dick would have seen it as a lack of confidence on Bruce's part. Not sending them would bring the accusation that he expected Dick to be Batman and shun outside assistance. A decision had to be made, and Bruce had made it, and stood by it. Now, he braced himself for the consequences. "Alright," he said steadily.

"Azrael's a complete looneytunes."

Both of Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "Explain."

As Dick proceeded to do so, Bruce's eyes widened. Speeding off in the Batmobile was one thing, but then… the savage attacks on the local riffraff… Yes, Batman did meet violence with violence, but always it was a calculated response. He was an enforcer, not a brutalizer. Bruce had listened to police band last night, heard the ambulance crew reports on the state of the victims, and hoped that none of his three protégés had been involved in that level of viciousness, but he'd had a suspicion… He closed his eyes, willing himself to face what he had deliberately overlooked, the evening before. Someone could have died at Azrael's hands. The fact that nobody had was sheer luck. Suddenly, his ears registered something that made him lean forward in disbelief. He hadn't just heard Dick say--

"Azrael did what?"

Dick broke off his tirade. "That's right, Bruce," he said evenly. "Scarecrow told the kid to kill himself, expecting Az to break off the attack and go save him. Az kept right on using Crane for a punching bag. If Anarky hadn't been there, maybe Robin and I could have gotten there in time--I'm not saying we couldn't have--but it would have been way too close to call. Where did you find this guy, anyway?"

"Switzerland," Bruce said. "Although it wasn't until Houston that we officially met." He sketched the details briefly: his investigation into the cause of a riot that had claimed the life of a lady friend whom he had casually dated, had put him on the trail of an arms dealer, and led him to the Order of Saint Dumas. "Azrael," Bruce continued, "is the name given to the member of the Order charged with… punishing… those members disloyal to its ideals. It appears to be a hereditary honour, with each… Azrael… training his son to follow in his footsteps."

Dick frowned. "So, you brought in a known murderer?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"No. Not in the way you're thinking." He hesitated. "'Training' was a poor choice of words. Valley Senior programmed the requisite skills and knowledge into his son's subconscious. It started in early childhood…perhaps younger. Jean Paul didn't choose that life." Bruce looked away. "In point of fact, he overrode the programming to save my life." He turned back to Dick again. "I thought that with the proper re-education, it might be possible to countermand whatever his father… did to him." He hesitated. "Who knows? It might be. But the risk of him being on the streets is unacceptable. When he comes back to the manor, I'll tell him as much." He drew a deep breath. "As things stand, if I order him away, he's likely to turn rogue. With additional guidance, it may be that things could work out differently. Initially, I had Tim supervising his training. I don't believe that's a wise decision anymore, based on your information."

"Are you asking me to--"?

"I'm suggesting that you might need a sparring partner to train with. Tim's not near enough to your level, and right now, I can't." He looked steadily at Dick. "Plus, if you were able to stop Scarecrow, last night, I have every confidence that you'll be able to handle Azrael, should the…System overtake him again."

Dick considered. "After we got the Herold kid back to solid ground, I… let Azrael know… in fairly direct terms… that I was ticked off."

"You hit him," Bruce translated.

Dick smiled quickly. "Only once. Just so you know, if taking you up on that suggestion means you want me to apologize for my… um… directness, it ain't happening."

A brief answering smile appeared on Bruce's face. "Fair enough." His expression turned serious. "I meant what I said, just now. Scarecrow is not an… easy one to defeat."

"Yeah," Dick agreed. "Well. I mean, I had Robin helping me, so it was a little easier. But it was still a long night."

Bruce nodded. "Nothing you couldn't handle, though."

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Dick shook his head, smiling.

Dick drew Tabitha aside after lunch. "Got a second?"

Tabitha nodded. She followed him down the stairs to the main floor.

"You're going to have to tell me," he said, "if there's any way we can talk without running into the situation we ran into in Manhattan. Because I don't think you want word getting back to Bruce ahead of time."

"Outside," Tabitha said quickly. "As long as we're near enough the house that someone can see us out the window, it's not a problem."

"Sure?" Dick asked with a frown. "You're not rationalizing or anything?"

Tabitha sighed. "No. The whole issue is that I can't be in an isolated place with you, where nobody could see us. It doesn't matter whether anyone does, just that it could easily happen. Otherwise, I'd have a problem any time I walked into a service station to pay for my gas. Outside in plain view is fine."

Dick nodded, and led her through a set of double doors to a drawing room. Tabitha's eyes lit up. "He's got a piano! Oh, wow, wait until Maybelle gets a look at this!"

Dick laughed. "Slow down. Nobody's touched that thing in years. It's probably so off-key it makes Edith Bunker sound like she's got perfect pitch. C'mon." He pushed open a second set of doors at the opposite end of the room, which opened into a larger, dimly lit space with a dark-paneled walls, and a polished floor. Upholstered couches and chairs ranged along the walls. Three chandeliers hung at intervals from the ceiling. Dick ignored them, strode purposefully to the French doors at the far wall, and bent down to pull back the bolt that latched the doors shut about a foot or so from the ground. He turned the key to release the main lock, and then reached up to twist the recessed latch.

"He doesn't take chances," Tabitha remarked.

"Remember, Bruce usually isn't home at night," Dick said. "He got worried about Alfred here all by himself." He tapped lightly on one of the clear panes set in the door. "Plexiglas," he identified. "Bullet proof, shatter proof, sniper proof. Don't let its looks fool you. This place is a fortress." Tabitha nodded, duly impressed. Dick held open the door, and gestured to the patio beyond. "After you."

Tabitha made her way to a lounge chair. Dick chose a second one. "I did speak with Gordon, last night, about your idea," he said. "He thinks he'll have something ready by Wednesday."

Tabitha blinked. "Seriously? They're going to actually do it?"

"Looks like it."

"How do you think Bruce is going to react?"

Dick shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I think this is the first time anybody's ever done anything like this for him."

"You never gave him a 'get-well-soon' card?"

"No," Dick chuckled. "You know, I don't think I ever did."

A sparrow lit down from a nearby tree, and perched on the wrought-iron table, some feet away from where they were sitting. It cocked its head at them and chirped softly.

"I don't suppose you've got any bread on you," Tabitha asked. At the sound of her voice, the bird flew off again. She smiled ruefully. "Oops."

Dick grinned in commiseration. "He'll be back."

"She."

"She?"

"The males have black chest feathers. Kind of like bibs. That one was all light brown."

"Okay," Dick raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'll bow to your superior wisdom. Speaking of which," he segued, "I think I'm going to visit Barbara in a little bit. Anything you want me to pass on to her?"

"No, I'll talk to her tonight. Oh, actually… are there any cookies left? Yesterday afternoon, I mentioned what Callie put in them, and she sounded like she wanted to try a couple."

"You told her about them?" Dick grinned in sudden realization. "I was wondering how she knew."

"Don't ask me that, Dick," Barbara snapped. "Don't you dare ask me to--"

"What?" Dick asked, mystified and more than a little angry. "Come by the manor? Maybe let him talk to somebody who--"

"Who what?" Barbara interrupted. "Who's also in a wheelchair? You think that little fact gives me more credibility than a trained professional would have?"

"No! Someone who knows about what he's done with his nights for the last decade or so, and has some idea what he's lost."

Barbara screwed her eyes shut. She gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles whitened. "Dick," she said in an entirely different voice, "I--what you're asking… you're right. But I can't. Not now." She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and exhaled slowly. "It's too soon. I'm sorry. Please. I can't."

Dick walked over to her, deliberately squeaking his shoes on the hardwood floor to alert her to his approach. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, too," he said finally. "I guess, I thought when you started up as Oracle, you'd--"

"No," Barbara said, shaking her head, but the rancour had gone out of her voice. "I started up as Oracle, because I needed to feel like I was still able to do some good out there. Stupid, really. I'd retired Batgirl almost a year before… Joker. It's not like I needed a costume to define myself, or anything." She paused. "Maybe you're right about something you said before. About me having something in common with Bruce: we both created a persona… that took on a… a mythology of its own. He picked a bat. I picked a different mask. And when I'm behind that mask, I'm a million times more capable than I ever was. Including," she added with a smile, "all of those times I spent hauling your bacon out of the crossfire, former Boy Wonder." She sobered. "But when I'm in Oracle-mode, I'm too busy worrying about the Suicide Squad's issues, or the JLA's issues, or the JSA's issues, to spare a second for my own issues." She paused again. "And that's what I'll have to address," she said quietly, "before I can think about doing what you're asking… to help Bruce with his… issues. And I am not ready to do that, yet. I'm sorry. I'm just… not"

Dick, thinking that she was finished, started to say something, but she cut him off. "I need more time," she said. "I can't tell you how much. But I'll work on it. Honestly." Her face crumpled. "Do you understand?"

He squeezed her shoulder, briefly. "Sure."

"And you're… you don't think I'm just being," she fought to keep her voice steady, "s-selfish?"

Dick moved in front of the chair, and took her hands in his. "Of course not. Take all the time you need."

(Tabitha)

Callie comes into my room about an hour after Shabbos ends. I'm lying on the bed, reading. My costume's handy, just in case, but I don't think I'm allowed out yet. The others are already on patrol, and Cal's holding a bundle of green and beige in her arms.

"I spoke to Bran about the situation," She says.

I sit up. "And?"

She sits down on the bed next to me, still looking serious.

I sigh. "He's still mad at me, isn't he?"

"Yes and no. He'd have been a lot angrier if you'd gone off on a whim, for no good reason. But, even though you did have a good reason--"

"I should have cleared it with you, first," I say miserably.

"Yes. Bottom line, he still doesn't want to work with you. The others don't really have a problem. But, I think, given the circumstances, your presence with the team might prove slightly distracting."

My big brother's code name ought to be Snitman. Right. I'm totally blameless in all of this. Sure. But Callie's got a point. If Bran's ticked off at me, unfortunately the team's… oh, call them 'rhythms', I guess, are going to suffer. Not a heck of a lot, but it's all cumulative. It's not fair! And just a little while ago, wasn't I promising myself I was going to try to look at the big picture a little more? Well, from a big-picture perspective, from a team perspective… Bran's right. He's wrong, but he's right. Fine. I look at Cal. "Am I off the team, then?" At least my voice didn't wobble.

Callie puts her arm around me and pulls me into a hug. "Well, for the next little while. But maybe that's for the best."

Whaaat? I start squirming to get away.

"At ease," she says gently. "There's something else I need you to do… if you're so inclined."

Oh. Okay. "What?"

"Reconnaissance. At the moment, all that we know about Bane can be summed up as follows: he's intelligent and methodical. He's also dependant on a performance-enhancing drug, called Venom. While under its influence, he has near superhuman strength and endurance."

Nice. "And this reconnaissance--"

"Before Bane was able to do… what he did to Batman, he did a fairly thorough study of his intended target. I think we owe him the same courtesy. I want you to find him," she says, "and then," she enunciates, slowly, "I want you to find out everything you can. His personal habits, his hobbies, his favourite colour… you name it--but--do not engage him. Do not be seen. If you even suspect that he has seen you, report back here immediately." She puts her other hand on my upper arm. "Think you're up for it?"

Am I? On a scale of one to eighteen, my stealth ranks seventeen. Ditto my espionage. I'm not off the team… just away for a little while. That's why she's going along with Bran's hissy fit. He doesn't want me around, so he's happy. We do need all the intel on Bane we can get, so me getting it will keep Cal happy. And as long as I'm not stuck here, twiddling my thumbs… I'll be happy. "Sure," I say eagerly. "When do I start?"

Callie smiles at me, and gets up off the bed. "Take one more night off, and start tomorrow. And, Tabitha," she adds, "please be careful."

"I will," I say. "Don't worry. I'll do this right," I grin, and project my voice a little louder. "Do you proud!"

She adjusts her grip on the costume. "Why don't you set yourself a real challenge?" she says, on her way out the door. "Do yourself proud."

I think it's Wednesday afternoon. When you're on summer vacation, it's sometimes hard to tell. We're all in that drawing room with the piano that Dick took me through on Shabbos, on the way to the patio. Well, all of us except Jaime, who's at day camp, and Bronwen, who has to work. Maybelle and Jill are givinga littleconcert. Dick was wrong, by the way. The piano's in perfect shape. Between the two of them, they've been running the gamut from classical, to jazz, to Broadway, to fifties torch songs. I don't know how Bruce is enjoying it, but he's been in here for an hour, and he doesn't look like he wants to leave any time soon. At first, I was hoping Jill would start running through all the musical numbers for the TRAFICK productions, but I saw her point about how most of the lyrics might make certain people uncomfortable. I mean, let's see. Secret Garden has lines like:

High on a hill there's a big old house with something wrong inside it

Spirits walk the halls and make no effort now

To hide it…

Or,

I heard someone crying

Who though could it be?

Maybe it was mother

Calling out come see

Maybe it was father

All alone and lost and cold

I heard someone crying

Maybe it was me

Cheerful stuff. As for Into the Woods, well, lines like

Do not put your faith in a cape and a hood

They will not protect you the way that they should…

And

No more questions, please

No more quests

There comes the day you say 'what for?'

Just… no more

Don't strike me as the best way to help Bruce take his mind off things. Not that Jill's singing, mind you, but there are a couple of things we need to remember. One: assume Batman knows absolutely everything about everything. It's safer. Two: Dick mentioned to me that Alfred used to be on the London stage before he came to work for the Wayne family. It's extremely probable that he'd know the lyrics, and barely possible that he might vocalize them. Still, Jill's managed to find a few gems in both scores. It's while she's going through "Winter's on the Wing," the ballad that Jeff's going to perform in the first act of Secret Garden, that Alfred leaves to answer the door.

A minute later, he's escorting Jean-Paul Valley into the drawing room. Bruce looks up. By now, we've all heard about what happened on Friday night. Valley saunters in, not seeming to realize he's in trouble. This should be good.

"Keep playing," Bruce says. For the first time since I got back to Gotham, he sounds like Batman. "If you'll excuse us, Jean-Paul and I have to talk." He jerks his head to indicate that Valley should follow him into the ballroom--at least that's what Alfred told me it was called, I didn't know--on the other side of the double doors. Darn. I'm not going to overhear something that's… well, really none of my business, I guess, but still... Bruce closes the doors behind them. It's not until Jill finishes the song that we realize the ballroom isn't soundproof.

"That's garbage!" A furious voice bellows. "He had to be stopped for the greater good! That's what we do isn't it?"

I can't make out what Bruce is saying, but he sounds angrier than Jean Paul.

Valley's voice, however, comes through loud and clear. "Your… rules? Oh, yes, Bruce. I know all about your rules. And look at where they got you!"

I did not just hear that.

"What. Did. You. Say."

Batman! So lovely to hear your voice again. Well, it is.

One of the doors opens, and Valley is standing at the entry, his back to the rest of us. "You're out of it," he practically sneers, "broken. Arguably, because you followed your oh-so-admirable rules." His voice drops an octave. "Is it not ironic, Bruce, that it was your own lessons that led me to that course of action? You, and that child you appointed as my instructor, taught me that to defeat a criminal, it is sometimes necessary to think like one. Taking a leaf from Bane's book, it occurred to me that Scarecrow would pose little threat to Gotham, if he were permanently," he pauses for a moment, drawing out the next word slowly, almost like he's savouring each syllable. "Disabled. After all," he adds, triumphantly, "it worked on you, didn't it?"

Oh, that tears it! That is it! I'm going to phase him halfway into the cave, and leave him in the ceiling! I'm going to hang him upside-down from that oak tree in the back and use him for shuriken practise! I'm going to hack the IRS and get him audited for the next forty years, and I'll make darned sure they find something new on him every single time! I'm going to--

Jean-Paul turns around, just then, and I see the smirk freeze on his face. I glance around the room. If looks could kill…

Is that what 'the glare' is? Think about everything you want to do to the other person, let them know what you're thinking, let them realize just how hard you're fighting not to cut loose… and let them worry that you just might lose that fight? Holy moly, I think I'm on to something.

As my mind goes blissfully off on its tangent, it's abruptly dragged back to reality by a crisp English voice saying: "Mister Valley, it would be prudent for you to leave these premises at once, as I can offer you no assurances as to your continued safety, should you choose to remain." He has one hand clamped firmly on Dick's wrist. Dick isn't struggling, but isn't happy about being held back, either. His other hand is around Tim's forearm, and his arm is across Tim's chest. Tim is protesting. I wonder why Natalie the bully-hater isn't jumping up. Oh. Yeah, if there were a telekinetic force-field around me, and I couldn't phase, I don't think I'd be doing much jumping either.

Stay out of this. It isn't your fight.

Stop shouting in my head, Callie. My mind isn't deaf. I get the message.

Jean-Paul tries not to let anything show on his face. Not a bad attempt, really. If he ever learns to mask his body language he'll have something. "Don't worry about me, Alfred," he says glibly. "I'm not looking to you for protection."

"Mister Valley," Alfred says, and right now his tone could freeze the pond in Robinson Park at high noon in August, "I was not offering it. Now, might I strongly suggest that you vacate these grounds while you still retain full use of your limbs."

I think I just found out where Bruce learned the Bat-voice. Even Dick looks stunned. Jean-Paul draws himself up straighter, and walks slowly out of the drawing room. Alfred releases Dick and Tim, and follows. "I shall show you to the exit," I hear him say.

Dick moves in the other direction. "I've got to see if he's okay," he mumbles as he brushes past. The double doors close behind him.

(Dick)

Of course the truth was that if I didn't run to check on Bruce, I was going to beat Valley so badly they'd need DNA profiling to identify what was left of him. (Note to self: verify if there's any way to neutralize that method. Just in case.) Anyway, I didn't think it would go over that well, me murdering Azrael after ranting to Bruce about exactly how the guy screwed up. Something about pots and kettles springs to mind.

I shut the doors to the drawing room. Bruce hasn't bothered to turn any of the lamps on. The only light in here is what's being filtered in through the drawn curtains, and the panes in the French doors. I don't have any trouble spotting Bruce, though. It's a little hard to miss a wheelchair in the middle of an empty floor.

"Bruce?"

He doesn't look at me. Doesn't even lift his head.

"Bruce?" I take a couple of steps closer. It's too quiet in here. My runners shouldn't be squeaking this loudly on the floor. And his breathing shouldn't sound this laboured.

"Leave me alone, Dick."

I'm trying to think whether I've ever heard him sound so… beaten. "Are you…"Are you sure? Are you okay? Are you actually going to believe the bile that brainwashed idiot just spewed at you?

"At least let me have that much say, damn it!"

Oh boy. Why didn't I see this coming? This whole having-to-depend-on-others business can't be easy for someone like Bruce. Hell, Babs has done everything she can to avoid it, but even she's had to give in on a few points. So. Do I stay, or do I go? Maybe he does just need some alone time. Give him an hour or two and he'll be fine. But, what if he's not? And how can I walk away from him, when he's like this? But that's what he's telling me to do. And one of the first things he taught me, back in the early days of vigilante school, was that making the rules was his job, and following them was mine. Maybe I should just… no. No, Bruce, I can't. Not when I can see you hurting, in a darkened room from twenty feet away. No more than you'd be able to walk away from me, if the situation was reversed.

I sit down on one of the couches closest to the door. I won't try to talk to him. I won't look at him. And the couch is far enough in the shadows that if he looks up, he won't have to look at me. But I won't leave him when he's like this. I guess you could call that a compromise.

He seems to realize that he hasn't heard the door open again. "Go away," he says. Right. Bat-rule number seventy-seven on an ever-expanding list: any attempts at a compromise that are initiated by any party other than Batman must be dismissed out of hand. "Now," he adds, and there's a hint of a snarl.

Believe it or not, I'm not planning a repeat of that reunion scene from last week. Truth is, I took a couple of stupid chances, and I think we're both lucky things worked out the way they did. If he's that insistent, then, maybe I should--

"Please."

That's it. I'm staying. Bruce waits for a minute. Then he spins the chair around, heading for the patio. "Fine!" he snaps.

I sink back against the velvet upholstery and close my eyes. They're burning anyway, and I don't want Bruce to know. He'll probably take a dim view of any emotional display on my part. I'm not going to follow him outside and chase him around the manor grounds, in any case. But, I'll be here when he comes back. Every other way inside is going to be locked--he'll have to come this way eventually.

Two minutes later, I realize that I can still hear him breathing. Correction, I can hear him cursing under his breath. In several languages. When I open my eyes and lean forward, I understand why.

The chair is parked in front of the French doors. The French doors with the security system that he designed. Standard deadbolt latch below. Good key lock at knob level… and recessed latch set six feet up. And he's staring up at that two-inch diameter brass disc, and realizing that he's trapped by his own…

…By his own defences. Figuratively and literally. Cripes, he's kept people at arms-length for so long, that even when he wants to reach out he pushes them away more. I watch him shaking. I think it's from fury, or frustration. I really don't want to dwell on the other possibilities, but it's all I can do to force myself to sit there. See, even I know better than to approach a person when he's feeling cornered. So, I sit. And I keep my mouth shut when he stretches his arm back and swings a fist forward to punch the… shatterproof Plexiglas. He remembers just in time to stop the blow from connecting. He's breathing hard again, and it's not from the exertion.

I sink back into the cushions.

It feels like hours pass before he speaks again.

"I suppose you're still there."

"Yes."

He wheels over to my couch. "I… didn't want you to see that."

"I know. I didn't watch."

He pats my hand. "Thanks."

I gently turn the hand palm-side up, and squeeze his. "Anytime."

He asks something, so softly that I have to strain to hear it. "What if he's right?"

About letting Herold die to stop Crane? Did Bane drop him on his head or something? "Wh-what?"

"Oh, not about it being acceptable to sacrifice civilians for the greater good. What if he's right about my… prognosis?"

Good thing I had all that time to think while he was swearing at the doors. I mean, he's been putting a brave face on things, but I know his rate of recovery is a little too slow for his liking, so I've sort of been planning for something like this. Because, bottom line, Bruce isn't looking for me to spout the usual platitudes about how we're all here for him, no matter what, etcetera. He already knows that. I take a deep breath. "Well," I say seriously, "in that case I think I'd have to hit the road. Go back to New York, or maybe set up shop in Bludhaven. Alfred would probably quit, too. I mean, if you can't walk, that just changes everything, doesn't it? I'm sure Tim will head out to Opal city to see if Ralph is taking on any trainees. Gordon's probably going to invite Roy to take over, here…" No, I haven't cracked. I'm waiting for Bruce to flare up again, and start defending himself. Hopefully he'll tell me in no uncertain terms not to write him off so fast just because he's in a wheelchair. At which point, I'll lean back, smile, and wait for him to hear what he just said. Of course, if this little scheme backfires…

Suddenly, there's a hand clamped firmly on my upper arm. "That's enough."

Good. I didn't want to bring Babs into it. I breathe an only slightly exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Your… ploy was effective." He actually looks sheepish as he takes his hand away. "I… shouldn't have let myself be affected to that extent."

I shake my head. "Not to any extent. Seriously, Bruce, you had me scared for bit, there." Another note to self: chess grandmasters of Bruce's level can probably detect your endgame a few moves early.

"Sorry."

Silence again, but less tense, more… companionable.

The aroma of Alfred's Tex-Mex lasagne is starting to permeate the room when Bruce nudges me. "I'm ready to head out of here if you are."

I stand up. "Did you want me to get the door?"

He nods. "The ones leading into the drawing room if you don't mind."

As we're walking past the piano, I mention that I'm surprised it's still in tune.

"Alfred takes care of that," he admits. "There've been a few social events, here, when someone has gotten the urge to play."

Oh. I don't play, myself. Not really. Never bothered to learn. Still, there is one tune I used to be able to pick out… I walk over to the keyboard. Let's see… I think it starts on Middle C… right… C. C-E-G. E. E-G-B. G. G-B-D. D. D-F-A. C. C-E-G. E. E-G-B. G. G-B-D. D. D-F-A…

I miss a bar, when Bruce starts playing the other part, one octave lower. He stops, frowning.

"Again," he says.

Now, hang on just one minute. This was supposed to be fun. I didn't think it had to be perfect. What is his…

I know what his problem is. He's trying to reach out. And he's failing at it miserably, but let's just keep that our little secret, shall we?

"From the top, then," I say. This time I'm ready when he joins in. "Do you know the lyrics?"

"Don't push it." Bat-glare, Bruce voice. Nice. I laugh. And, wonder of wonders, he smiles, as we somehow keep hitting all the right notes…

Heart and Soul

La-da-da-dee-da-da

Lost control

La-di-dee-dee-dee-da

Da-da

La-da-da-dee-dee-da

La-dee-dee-dee-dee-da-da-da…