Disclaimer: Not mine
Jogging was a good idea.
After the shower I find myself more relaxed, but still needing another distraction to get me out of this slight oppression I'm feeling in the stomach. I try with a book, because if it's good enough, it'll be able to keep me from thinking about Ollie's call before Clark left.
Clark loves reading, he literally devours books. With the little time he has left, super speed comes in very handy. Sometimes he even reads them twice. Lucky alien of mine, I don't have the time for such a luxury. Recently he's found a new fascination for Tolstoy, brought by his personal admiration of Mahatma Gandhi.
Surveying through Clark's books I hope to find something easy to read. Doing that using Clark's book collection is going to be a miracle, even if I skip the XIX and XX and go directly to contemporary books. "God, Clark, can't you have something light just to pass time?".
If it's a popular book, it's a long novel, and right now, if it takes like fifty pages to get in the story, I won't even pass the foreword.
If it's a short book, it's too introspective; not my goal.
My eyes catch Chloe's old collection of Agatha Christie's books. I already have enough suspense today.
Biographies, PhD dissertations, books of medicine, physical anthropology, chemistry...I go through all of them, and when my intellect is depressed enough, I end up as usual, in front of Clark's collection of comics. Pulitzer winning material, Asian comics and several compilations of newspaper vignettes. Normally one would think is to have some light and fun read. Clark will give you a philosophical digression about the anthropological and historical importance of such cynical and satirical snippets of reality. Yes, that's Clark for you.
Finally, I pick up an Iranian comic, an old present from Chloe.
I hear the noise of the window closing when I'm finishing the second volume.
"Clark?"
There's no further sound except for the familiar turning of the curtains. Leaving the book on the sofa I go to our room. Clark is standing there. His eyes are red and swollen.
"Baby, what's wrong?"
I don't have the courage to move, I don't even know how I've managed to get home. I hear Lois calling me as I close the curtains, but I don't want to go, I want to stay here, in the dark. I know she's been worried, and the way she looks at me when she sees my eyes just makes me want to tell her that everything's alright. But it's not. Rao, everything's just not right.
"Baby, what's wrong?"
How can I tell her? What can I tell her? I just stay there, I feel like a stray dog found by a good soul, but not knowing what to do. Thankfully Lois knows exactly what to do. There are no words said, no words needed. She comes to me. I close my eyes and let her hands touch my face. That's when I can't hold it any longer and I break, and I let Lois hold me hoping she'll be able to mend me.
Clark can't talk. It hurts like a thousand blows to see his pain. He closes his eyes when he feels my touch. My hand suddenly notices a tear, and I hold him in my arms, I hold him as tight as I can, not letting him go. He doesn't want me to let go, because as I feel his body shaking while he cries, he holds on to me, and all I can do is giving him my love hoping I will be able to take some of his pain away.
I left the computer working all day off-line, so there was no chance of anybody tracing it. I've been trying to contact Barbara and Ollie, but neither of them is picking up.
I've been out most of the day, and when I come back, I see the decryption is incomplete. Figures, Barbara was using her own system. At least my computer's still alive. Luckily I still have the old laptop to check my e-mail, but first I go to my bedroom. I forced myself too much in the gym and my stump is feeling sore, so I take the prosthetic leg off and use the wheelchair. I've done enough exercise for the day. I fix myself a cup of tea and open the laptop. There is an e-mail from Ollie, and I open it to find just a link. A link leading me to Gotham's Gazette front page.
"Oh God, no. Nonononononono..."
The wheelchair. I have to get out of the wheelchair, it suddenly feels as if it burns. I stand up as fast as I can, but I stumble and fall. Swearing, I manage to get up, and jumping on my leg I go to get my crutches and my coat. It's raining outside, but I don't care, I have to get out.
Opening her door, Ella left her small apartment, leaving the screen of her laptop showing the news of Barbara Gordon's murder.
Gotham greeted the last day of the month with sunshine.
Not enough to get into the people congregated before the dark coffin. James Gordon, Dick Grayson, Dinah Lance and her husband Oliver Queen, Helena Bertineli and Jason Bard. The only ones allowed in to avoid compromising Barbara's identity. There were also several policemen and other friends of Gotham City's commissioner.
Barbara's will was to be cremated, her ashes given to the three most important people in her life: her father, her boyfriend and her best friend. Before that, they had a small service held in Gotham's cemetery.
Not far from there, a shadow landed on the building Gothamites called the Clocktower. Bruce had not allowed himself to go to the funeral. Even if his public relationship with Dick Grayson would explain his presence there, he didn't feel like playing the role.
The silence inside the tower hurt. Her working space, hidden from the police visit the previous day, remained untouched; all her equipment broken by the attackers, by her murderers; the pool of dried blood still staining the floor.
It had been a job done by professionals; they had left no fingerprints, no evidence for him to follow. He only had the information she had stolen, paying the highest price of all for it, a price not worth paying, not ever. If she was following a lead as a personal request from Clark and that is what killed her, he would pay.
Bruce's eyes caught something on the floor, under the table. He kneeled and reached for it. A bitter smile drew on his face as he held the small Batgirl doll. He took the white rose he was carrying on his belt and placed it on the spot where he had found Barbara's lifeless body. Then took the doll and left as silently as he had arrived.
Author's notes: as usual, hope you enjoyed. As I said in the two previous chapters, I already posted in my profile a link to download the soundtrack of the fic.
Comic references: I used many books and comics to that small paragraph of Lois looking for a read to evade her mind. The Pulitzer winning comic is "Maus", By Art Spiegelman. The Iranian comic finally chosen by Lois is "Persepolis", by Marjane Satrapi (highly recommended if you haven't read it).
Music references: Following the title of the chapter, both tracks used are instrumental.
The Lois/Clark scenes were written with Michael Brook "Best Unsaid" constantly playing on my ipod.
The piece selected for Barbara's service is an instrumental piece with just violin and piano: Arvo Pärt "Spiegel Im Spiegel"
