The Long and Winding Road

Chapter Three

DISCLAIMER: Unless DC Comics decides to be really, really generous all of a sudden and give Batman and Robin to me as Christmas gifts... and we all know what the odds of that are...they're not mine.

Ummm... please be nice to me here. I've never really written Superman/Clark Kent before. All I know is what I've read on this site and from the very, very few (as in two) episodes of the 50's series that I saw several months ago. I'll try it, though, and if anybody has any suggestions or corrections, feel free to speak up! Just no flames--it's the holiday season, so be nice, everybody. Thanks!

That first night, things were pretty quiet for the most part. The only excitement we had had was when a couple of morons decided to try to rob the bank. Boy, were they surprised to see Superman in Batman's place. They allowed themselves to be distracted by that, so they were easy to beat up and arrest. Amateurs.

It was around midnight. I didn't know where Clark had gotten to, so I was standing there all alone on the roof of police headquarters, watching the streets below. My thoughts began to wander. Yes, I know I should have been paying attention while on patrol, but I couldn't help it. There was too much to think about.

First, how weird was it to be there all alone? If Batman was there, he would have been breathing down my neck every three seconds, never allowing me to be off my guard. But I knew he'd never be doing that again, unless some miracle occurred. But I doubted I'd get a miracle. I was just an ordinary kid. Ordinary kids don't get miracles.

Second, I had to think about our… my… city. It seemed so strange to think of it as such, but wasn't it true? Robin, the Boy Wonder, lone protector of Gotham. Ugh. That's what I'd be in a couple of days. And if I goofed, like I usually did, there wouldn't be anybody left to save me or—

"Robin!"

I jumped about ten feet in the air, startled at the sound of Superman's voice. It was far from being as dark as Batman's, but still pretty formidable when you think about it.

"Uh… you called?"

"Yes. Only about twenty times."

Shrugging a bit, I turned around and went back to staring out at the city streets. It was a bit tough for me to make things out in the dark, but it was fairly easy to tell that all was peaceful and quiet. A complete contrast to my own life. It just wasn't fair.

"Robin," he said again, turning me around so that I had to face him, "I know how hard this must be for you."

I sighed. Then, in a quiet voice, I replied, "No you don't. Everybody says they understand, but nobody really does. Sorry if this sounds kind of corny, but… I mean…" Glancing around to make sure we were completely alone, I sank my voice even lower and continued, "Hasn't Bruce been through enough already? Why can't anything good ever happen to him?"

In an equally soft tone, Superman answered, "If you ask me, he's already gotten something good enough to last him a lifetime."

"Yeah? Like what?"

Giving me a (thankfully) light smack upside the head, he said, "Like you, that's what!"

He sounded like he couldn't believe I hadn't grasped that on my own, but all I could do was look up at him skeptically. Was he out of his mind?

As if reading my thoughts…

"Yes, you. You think Batman broods now; you should have seen him before he took you in!" After a brief pause, Superman apparently changed his mind and told me that I really didn't want to know after all. "But whether you believe it or not, Robin, you're one special kid. And don't you dare forget it!"

Despite the sincerity of his voice, I couldn't bring myself to accept this. It all seemed too extraordinary to be true.

Turning to face the east, Superman announced that the sun would rise in about a quarter of an hour, and that he had to be getting back to Metropolis. And don't ask how he knew exactly how long we had before sunrise, because I have yet to figure that out myself.

"Will you be able to get home alright?" he inquired.

"Sure. The Bat-cycle is parked not far from here," I told him.

"Robin, you don't even have your license yet."

"You don't tell and I won't." I grinned for the first time in what seemed like forever. "Besides, what cop in his right mind is going to pull over the Boy Wonder?"

Even as I began to make my way down the side of the building, I could hear Superman chuckling to himself as he flew away.

—

It was nearly six in the morning by the time I got home. As I might have expected, Bruce was sitting at his desk in the study, waiting for me to return.

"It went fine," I answered before he could even ask. "There was an attempted bank robbery, but by the time we got there those amateurs hadn't even found the safe."

"I'm sure they wouldn't have been as easy to take down if they hadn't been surprised by the fact that the Boy Scout was there instead of the Dark Knight," was the somewhat bitter reply.

Drawing myself up to my full height, I just told him that I didn't want to talk about it and then attempted to leave the room. But Bruce wasn't about to let me off that easy… or was that easily…?

"Are you still trying to run away from the truth, Dick?" he asked. Maybe it was just my tired mind, but I could have sworn that his tone was a bit on the sneering side. But I don't take that kind of insult from anybody, no matter what the tone is.

"I'm not running away from anything!"

"Yes, you are," he insisted. "Don't you think it's about time you just accepted the facts? I have."

That did it.

"No, you haven't!" I shot back hotly. "You haven't accepted it any more than I have! For once in your life, why don't you quit being stubborn and ask for help? No man can go through life alone—what makes you so different?"

Slowly, Bruce rose to his feet. I could tell he was more than just a little ticked off with me, but I couldn't really bring myself to care. I was sick and tired of having to watch him feeling sorry for himself, and not just about his recent blindness, either. I could understand that because the wound was still so fresh. And while I didn't expect him to ever fully recover from his parents' murder, constant brooding was just plain ridiculous.

I knew he probably intended to chew me out for saying as much—I never talked back to him like that—but I wasn't about to give him the chance.

"Ever since I can remember, you've done nothing but think of yourself! Sitting there brooding all the time, without even thinking about the people around you—now I'm sorry your parents were killed. Really, I am, but mine are just as dead as yours and I don't sit around feeling sorry for myself, do I? No! I got on with my own life, just like you need to get on with yours!"

And so, with that final (and very rude) comment, I stormed from the room. I didn't even wait to hear Bruce's retort. I was tired of hearing him make excuses for himself anyway.

Here's another thing I was tired of: my conscience. Which, by the way, happened to kick in the second I slammed the door to my bedroom. It was just like in those cartoons with the guy watching the angel over one shoulder arguing with the devil over the other—half of me was glad I had finally gathered enough courage to tell Bruce off, but the other half was feeling terribly guilty over all the cruel things I had said to him.

But this was one time that I was determined to stay stubborn. I was determined not to go crawling on my hands and knees begging for forgiveness. Why should I? I'm always the one to cave in first. No, not this time. This time was I going to stay firm.

And it worked. Until that evening after school, anyway. I hadn't seen Bruce since our fight, but then I saw him sitting in the living room that afternoon. All stubbornness went right out the window. I don't even know what happened. All I remember is going straight up to him and instantly apologizing for my rude behavior earlier that day without giving myself time to feel embarrassed over being the first to crack. Again.

Well, Bruce forgave me. Again. He said that I had been under a lot of pressure lately and that he knew I was bound to lose my temper eventually and that he also knew how I hadn't meant what I had said. Or something to that effect.

But, although I didn't show it, I was mad. I had too meant what I said! I still thought it was ridiculous for a person to spend his whole life brooding over something that wasn't even his fault! But, not wanting to start another argument, I said nothing.

Before I could lose my temper again, I headed into the kitchen to help Alfred with dinner. Sure, there was homework to be done. But it's impossible to do homework when you're furious, while it was so easy to let out your frustrations while chopping onions or the like. I'm not too handy in the kitchen, to be perfectly honest, but Alfred would never kick me out unless I literally set something on fire. Or came dangerously close to chopping off a couple of fingers. Or both.

"Hello there, Master Dick."

"Hi. Mind if I help?"

"Of course not, sir. But please don't set the kitchen on fire like Master Bruce did when he was your age."

"He did?" I snorted, thoroughly amused. It's hard to imagine Bruce in the kitchen. Although once, when I was eleven years old, the blender broke and we ended up with globs of unidentified foods all over the walls. At least, that was Bruce's story. Personally, I think he just didn't know what the heck he was doing and hit the wrong button.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he did," Alfred confirmed. He handed me a knife and a couple of tomatoes before continuing, "He forgot about a pie in the oven and the next thing we knew, we were calling the fire department—and the insurance company. The fact that he turned the heat up too high certainly did not help matters."

Good ol' Alfred. Whenever I'm feeling miserable, he's always knows exactly how to lift my spirits again.

"By the way," he continued.

"Uh-oh," I said.

"I received a call from Dr. Beauregard this afternoon."

"The optometrist? What did he want?"

"I think you know, Master Dick."

I just looked at him expectantly. Yes, he was right. I did kind of know what Dr. Beauregard wanted: to tell us whether there was any hope for Bruce's eyes or if… you know.

"Well, what did he say?"

"He seemed to be under the impression that all it would take to repair the damage would be an operation."

Dropping the knife, I grabbed Alfred's sleeve and asked him to repeat what he had just said.

"Now don't get you hopes up too high, Master Dick," he cautioned gently. "We still need to find a doctor who will be able to do the operation."

"But it's still a chance, right?" I said, practically begging for something to hope for again.

"Of course. And speaking of doctors that reminds me—you have an appointment next week at two o'clock… now don't look at me like that. It's just a routine check-up."

"Can I go tell Bruce about it? What Dr. Beauregard said, that is."

Alfred nodded his consent. I practically ran from the room. Surely this would make Bruce feel a little better, and if it didn't, he couldn't possibly be human. Although I could name a few people who already thought that.

"Hey, Bruce!" I cried. "You'll never guess what Alfred just told me!"

I didn't even wait for a response, I just plowed right on and told him all about how he was going to see again.

"Maybe," Bruce corrected quietly.

"Must you always be the pessimist?" I grumbled good-naturedly. Unfortunately, as testy as Bruce was those days, he took my remark quite seriously.

"I'm just trying to get the facts straight," he commented somberly, "unlike someone else in this room. I thought that five years of working with the Batman would have taught you not to jump to conclusions."

Feeling a little annoyed and a lot hurt, I responded crisply, "Well, pardon me for trying to be a little cheerful, unlike someone else in this room. And if you think I'm such a lousy crime-fighter, why am I defending your precious Gotham City all alone then?"

"I never said you were a lousy crime-fighter; you did. And no matter how good you get—"

"'There's always room for improvement'," I jumped in. "Yes, I know that, you've told me. About a hundred million times."

Then came the unkindest cut of all:

"Well, if you'd just remember things, then maybe I wouldn't have to repeat them 'a hundred million times'."

"Oh, so now it's my fault!" I yelled, letting my hurt feelings show. "Well how about your faults—why aren't we ever discussing them, Mr. Expert? Like how the only thing you care about is fighting crime? Yes, I know—that's not true, right? Then would you care to explain why you—"

Someone cleared his throat quietly from the doorway. I instantly knew it was Alfred trying to be discreet while breaking up a needless argument. I took the hint and stormed from the room as soon as he announced that dinner was ready.

As you can probably guess, I was officially out of my previous good mood. I hate to admit this, but I felt a lot like crying.

I didn't, though.

And so it went for the next few days. Even with the potentially good news of Dr. Beauregard's soon-to-be-returned test results, Bruce and I couldn't seem to stop arguing. At first, we had reasonably good excuses for the constant fighting, but then they just got stupid. I remember once, we actually starting bickering over feta cheese (do NOT ask. You do NOT want to know how that one started).

It always hurts to argue with Bruce. It hurts even worse after the fight ends and we're still not speaking to each other. But I tried not to let it show too much, especially not around Alfred. I just went out on patrol every night (by myself), attended school every weekday, and stayed away from the house on weekends. That last routine was just selfishness on my part, since Alfred really did need me to help Bruce adjust to his… blindness… but really. I just couldn't do it. In fact, I was beginning to think that Bruce hated me. Of course, now I know that that was just nonsense. But back then, it seemed like a very reasonable excuse for the constant squabbling.

I went to that appointment Alfred had made for me. Upon checking me out, the doctor said I was pretty much okay, but there was just one little thing that was troubling her. So she dug out the name of a specialist and set up an appointment for me a week later.

We were both sure that I'd be alright. We both believed that nothing was seriously wrong with me. So, immediately upon writing it down on my calendar, I forgot about it.

Until finally, a week later…

…the phone rang.

Dick (sarcastic, melodramatic): (gasp) Oh, no, the phone rang! (choke, gasp)

Me: (growl) Ecch, this chapter just didn't want to end. But I MADE IT END! Bwahahaha...!

Dick: How would you like to spend Christmas at the local insane asylum?

Me: Well, thank you so much for that little bit of holiday cheer.

Dick (cheerfully) You're welcome!

Me: Just do the replies already. I've got pictures to draw and stories to write!

(Marches off valiantly as Dick sighs.)

Reviewer Replies

60's-bat-fan--Okay, well this isn't exactly within the two days, but if you break her arm, then she won't be able to update for at least three weeks. So that probably isn't such a good idea (maybe).

Lil' Kanny--Aw, thanks! Although I'm not sure that I like how she writes Bruce, the rest is alright... maybe... and I guess we pretty much know now about Bruce's eyes, huh? Let's hope!

kokomocalifornia--Whoa, a sequel that's better than the original! There's something you don't see every day! Thanks for the review!

batfan7--Yay, a new reviewer! I don't think I've seen you around here before... well, glad you enjoyed the chapter! 8)