Chapter 2

Bruce Wayne's entire body hurt. He opened his eyes slowly, wincing as the light invaded them. This, he decided, was worse than being hungover.

Frustrated with the weakness of his own body, he started to sit up.

"Oh no you don't," an older gentleman's voice echoed from somewhere in the distance. "You're not going anywhere for at least another twenty-four hours." Alfred emerged from the next room, carrying a tray.

Bruce groaned and blinked. "What if I have to go to the bathroom?"

"In that event, I'm following you."

Bruce had to grin at the older man's determination. He couldn't say he blamed Alfred for worrying; God knew he was stubborn when it came to Batman, but even Bruce wasn't crazy enough to try to fight crime in his current condition.

Thoughts of reality intruding, he rolled over in bed and pressed a pillow over his head. Batman had been off the streets for two weeks now. He tried not to imagine how many violent crimes had been committed in that time, how many people had died who needn't have...

"Learn your lesson?" Alfred displayed his usual uncanny ability to read Bruce's mind.

"Fine," Bruce muttered. He had to admit Alfred had earned this I-told-you-so moment. He had neglected, time and time again, his caretaker's admonishment to slow down the pace of his vigilantism and give his body the chance to recover. The compulsion to protect the city was too strong; by the time he caved and took Alfred's advice, it was involuntary. He'd been running a fever of 104 and was mildly delerious.

"An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure," Alfred had chided him.

Okay, Bruce conceded. One night off a week won't kill me. Even through his pounding headache, he grinned at the irony of the thought. One night off a week might very well lower the chances of him dying.

He heard Alfred sit down in the chair next to his bed. From the sound of his posture, he knew Bruce wasn't sleeping, and he wanted to have a talk.

"As long as you're a captive audience," Alfred began, "we have another problem."

Oddly, hearing that perked Bruce up. Problems were something to do, something that could be solved--not like this infernal illness he was powerless to fight off. Tentatively, he rolled part of the way back towards Alfred.

To his infinite surprise, Alfred picked a brightly-colored tabloid up off the tray. The comedic of the old Englishman reading The Globe was quickly dampened when Bruce saw the cover. It was a montage of decidedly unflattering photos of him, caught dozing or daydreaming during his daily activities. Physical and mental exhaustion was evident in all of the pictures--he guessed that the photos had been tampered with to enhance the effect, but they were disturbing to look at nonetheless.

The cover title read "BILLIONAIRE'S DESCENT INTO ADDICTION."

Bruce groaned and slapped the pillow back over his face. He muttered something, but it was unintelligibly muffled.

"I agree," Alfred said, dropping the magazine with disdain. "Still, I suppose the supposition was bound to arise eventually, all things considered."

Bruce removed the pillow from his face. "Can we ignore it?"

"It would not be wise. Mr. Fox has done his best to keep the board in line, but they are itching to buy out your shareholdings."

Bruce actually straightened at this. The thought of actually losing his stake in Wayne Enterprises had never occurred to him. Him, without the resources he needed for Batman--and all those resources, in the hands of profit-seekers instead of under his control...

"Mr. Fox has had some ideas on how to remedy the situation."

Bruce relaxed. That was a relief; he certainly didn't have any, in his current state. He laid back and folded his hands behind his head. "What do we do?"

"First, we publicly announce that you've been recieving treatment for mononucleosis. The public was not previously informed because you did not consider your medical history to be anyone's business, but you are outraged by the accusations of drug use. Second, you sign a legally binding contract to get at least one night's uninterrupted sleep per week, on pain of losing your shareholding."

Bruce's eyebrows went up. He laughed. "Legally binding? With who?"

"With Mr. Fox."

Alfred is serious about this, Bruce realized.

"Okay," he resigned himself, making a mental note to argue about it later. "Is that it?"

"The third step..." Alfred's eyes narrowed intently, as though he were consulting some internal notepad where he and Fox had the whole plan written out. "Is a program of philanthropic public appearances. As soon as you recover--to our satisfaction," Alfred added, "you begin charming high society again, the board included. There's a charity banquet for Gotham Unviersity next week. They're raising funds to research a new and very deadly virus discovered in Africa. A generous donation to the cause would look very, very good."

Bruce nodded slowly. "I like the way Fox thinks. I--uh--when's the banquet?"

Alfred stood up, taking the tabloid but leaving a tray of food and medicine behind. "That," he declared, "is none of your concern right now, Master Bruce. You are not leaving this bed until I say so."

At the moment, that didn't seem so horrible a fate. Bruce rolled over and curled up, feeling suddenly like a teenage boy again. How long had it been since he had just relaxed like this, lying in bed late for hours with nothing to do? How long had it been since he'd allowed himself to be human?

There was a very good reason he hadn't, but he pushed that thought as far as he possibly could from his mind. He wouldn't be surprised if Alfred had a tranquilizer gun readied for any possible escape attempts...

Then, quite abruptly, Bruce was filled with an inexpressible gratitude for his butler and for Lucius Fox. Without the both of them, there would be no Batman.

Without both of them, he would be dead.

And so it was with an odd, euphoric sense of childlike euphoria, Gotham's caped crusader sank into a deep slumber.

It was after midnight when an old blue car pulled up to the corner of Fifth Avenue and disgorged a fairly ordinary-looking fellow. He looked anything but rich, and anything but fashionable; tweed suit and cloth coat, with a fedora perched awkwardly on his head. He walked with his head down, eyes focused on the pavement with a mild expression on his face.

Since Fear Night and his escape from police custody, Jonathan Crane had gotten better at keeping his head down. Much better. It simply didn't pay to have the appearance of power; the ones who appeared to be in charge were the first to fall.

And so he whistled off-key as he trudged down one of Gotham's classier avenues, towards a gated estate on the edge of the University campus.

He smiled harmlessly at the gate guard, who smiled back. He thought Crane was an intellectual friend of the professor's by the name of Jim Cole, an eccentric oddball without very much money. The professor had told Crane he'd be expected tonight.

Jason Woodrue was in the plush study, at the end of the hallway atop the marble staircase. Crane felt an odd mixture of loathing and fascination every time he took this route; the lavish expenditure of resources on something so useless maddened him, but at the same time there was something intriguing about this lifestyle. He'd never been rich and he suspected he'd grow bored of it quickly, but just for a few days, to have the experience...

He rapped on the door of Woodrue's study, knowing it was unwise to sneak up the man. "Come in," the pleasant-sounding voice came.

He pushed open the door. Within was a lavishly decorated room, red carpeting and mahogany contrasted by the bizarre modern art sculptures that adorned the mantel. Jason Woodrue was a thin man with graying hair, dressed as casually as Crane was. He leaned forward, good natured, and poured two glasses of brandy.

Crane smiled thinly and sat in the chair across from Woodrue's desk. Without a word he produced a bag that contained a dozen ounces worth of cloudy, blue-tinged crystals. He watched the other man's eyes fixate on the crystals as he slid them across the desk.

"Enough?" He asked, dryly.

Woodrue licked his lips, then pursed them. "It'll do. It'll do for this week. But I'm planning to expand my customer base; it'll have to be more next time."

Crane raised his eyebrows playfully. "More? My, professor, but you strain our production capabilities."

"The hell I do," Woodrue laughed. "You've got a bloody factory down there. If anyone's capabilities are being strained it's mine. Would you believe it's actually harder to filch chemicals as a professor than as a student?"

Crane smiled back, appreciating the joke. It was true, he knew from his own time at the university--the professors were watched like hawks, the students assumed harmless.

"Well my men could procure the chemicals," he offered, "if you'd kindly provide us with--"

"No!" Woodrue barked, then laughed. "No. How stupid do you think I am, Crane? For half the profit, you'd have me offed in a week if you had my half of the formula."

Crane smiled, relaxed, took a generous swig of brandy. "Right, right," he murmured. "You don't let your guard down for a minute, do you professor?"

Woodrue smiled back at him, but he was clearly still on his guard. "To profit?" he queried, raising his glass.

"To profit!" Crane toasted him, and continued to watch the other man closely as he drank.

Woodrue came away from the glass smiling. "You'll thank me after next week, Crane. I've got my sites set on Gotham's biggest addict. Or at least the one with the biggest pocketbook."

Crane made an inquisitive noise in mid-gulp, wiping his mouth with one hand.

"You read the papers, don't you? Then you've seen how Tom Wayne's precious little boy has has been tasting much more than wine?"

"You don't have any proof that he's ours," Crane retorted. "If Bruce Wayne were an addict, believe me, I'd know about it."

Woodrue shook his head, gesturing enthusiastically. "Look at the writing on the wall! The man's not sleeping and he's barely eating, and whatever he's spending his energy on it's not business. I doubt even his Italian supermodel friends could keep him that busy."

Crane sat back, considering this. There was a chance. Not a safe chance, but perhaps, just perhaps that wouldn't matter... "If you're wrong there'll be hell to pay," he warned Woodrue. "Everyone and their grandmother would crucify the man who Bruce Wayne turned in as a drug pusher. It'd be professional suicide."

Woodrue was confident. "I'm not wrong. What reason do we have to believe Wayne's not an addict? He's never done anything useful in his life except function as a figurehead for the board of Wayne Enterprises, he seems to have the discipline of a common housefly, and I can't really think of anything he does do except seek new absurd and expensive thrills. Not that I know the man personally, but his public activities don't exactly suggest a man of great moral fiber."

Crane settled back in his chair, smiling at the prospect. "If you get me Wayne, I'll be indebted to you."

"Don't worry," Woodrue murmured, gathering up the baggies of rocks and shutting them neatly in his desk drawer. "This stuff is the best. There's nothing like it anywhere in the world. Even if he's a first-timer he'll be hooked. And I have a plan to deliver it to him before anything appears...suspicious."

Crane raised an eyebrow, but Woodrue did not explain further.

"So," Woodrue inquired. "Where's the money?"

Crane shook his head, smiling slightly. "Next week," he promised. "I had an instinct about tonight. Apparently it was right. If we pay you and you get caught trying to hook Wayne, no one benefits. You get your half after that little rendezvous."

Woodrue snorted and glanced up at Crane. "I don't buy it."

"After Wayne," Crane assured Woodrue, and he meant it. "If you get me Wayne, you've earned it."

Woodrue nodded, but his eyes were narrow. Crane pursed his lips, knowing there was no way to assuage the man's suspicions at the delayed payment.

"Just remember, Crane: I'm your supplier."

Crane nodded graciously, stood and bowed. "Of course, professor. My enterprise could not function without you."

Some controversial plot choices here, obviously...we'd love feedback, especially on our characterizations!