A/N: You may be wondering where I went. Or maybe you don't care and are about to stop reading. In any case, I'll grace my lovely readers with a response: The first week, I forgot. I literally forgot to update. I think I may have forgotten it was even Friday. And so the next Friday came and I realised I hadn't updated, but that's when finals kicked into full gear, as well as auditions (I auditioned for one show and got cast in two as two supporting roles - one as a gold-digging British cancan dancer who is kind of a whore, and the other as the manager of a 50's restaurant where I spend my entire stage time on roller skates). So long story short, I didn't update because I spent an entire week studying for my math final while simultaneously practicing my gold-digger voice.
Make sure to read the bottom for updates on an upcoming new story, and I am again TERRIBLY sorry for the wait!
Gotham General Hospital was an impressive place. Normally, Bruce wouldn't have been phased. But when worry gnawed at his gut, the hospital just seemed to grow bigger with it, eating away at his mind. The hallways that were in reality so simple felt to him like a labyrinth, twisting and winding and turning and swirling, though they were all rather straight and very grid-like.
Wally was probably with him. Bruce assumed that he was worried, too. The man was temporarily jealous of the ability to go through walls. If Wally was in the hospital, he was probably already with Dick.
Bruce had been so anxious that he had yet to even check up on Barry. Throughout the incident with the Joker, the lasers that hadn't cut Barry in half had been actual lasers, but they had only been lights. They had only been cat toys. So Barry was very possibly traumatised and still recovering from the mindset of nearly having met his end, but Bruce was starting to half convince himself that his son already had. His son not by biology and only by mutual loneliness, but his son nonetheless.
According to Jim, Dick had woken up last week ill and feverish. Jim had immediately checked Dick into Gotham General that afternoon, though it was honestly the first thing that he should have done. Yet, Bruce couldn't blame him for any of his actions. After receiving a friend, a child no less, when they've gone through such a traumatic event due to the abuse of the system, who wouldn't want to keep them as close as possible? If Bruce was completely truthful, had Dick been under his care, he would have taken him straight to Leslie. He didn't want Dick alone in another white washed room if he could help it, and at least he would have been able to stay by his side in the clinic. With Dick at Gotham General, Bruce hadn't even been allowed access into the room for the entire week.
It felt like everyone was staring.
They probably were.
A woman suddenly materialised in front of Bruce. He couldn't understand where she had come from, and that was a frightening thought, but she seemed to pose no immediate threat and at least he wasn't in the suit.
Well, he was pretty sure he wasn't in the suit. He had to glance down at his hands to check. With how off his game Bruce was that day, he wouldn't have been surprised if he had forgotten to switch personas.
"Right this way," she said, not even bothering to address Bruce by his name. He hardly noticed, only followed willingly like a lost puppy (and how sickening a thought that was) as she expertly maneouvered the endless squeaky halls.
A baby stopped crying and stared as they walked past, very much in awe.
They had just turned into an adjacent hallway when a door at the end of it abruptly burst open, and tripping through the doorway was a boy clad in a drab hospital gown. The image of the boy in such a mundane gown, stripped of all the gadgets and clothes and trinkets that added to his personality, was shocking and off, but Bruce had no time to marvel as the boy regained his balance from his stumble, the nurse a few feet from him letting out a sharp cry in alarm, and turned his head just enough in order to spot Bruce. The boy barrelled past the nurse and the next thing Bruce knew, he had an arm-full of grief stricken and mentally damaged teenage boy.
"I'm sorry, too," Dick whispered. Bruce hugged him tighter.
He had lost hope in Dick. He had lost hope, he had given up, and he had succumbed to the mundane acceptance that nothing was in his power. He had given up on Dick, and he was looking at the cost.
And then, what Bruce thought was the final straw to officially break his heart, Dick met his eyes through the rearview mirror five minutes later from the backseat of the Wayne Bentley. Bruce was driving that time. Many strings had to have been pulled to get Dick released so early, and it was only for the day because he had a check-up in the morning, but Bruce intended to take full advantage of the time that he had to make Dick feel welcome again at home. Dick was deathly pale, and at every turn of the car (Bruce tried to drive as softly as possible because of it) he squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his seatbelt as if he were going to hurl at any moment. With his sunken eyes and scrunched up body, his clothes hanging too big on his body from all of his lost muscle mass, Bruce was reminded of the nine year old boy that he had picked up from the circus five years prior. And Dick opened his mouth only to ask: "Are you real?"
Bruce swallowed past the lump in his throat and responded: "Yes. And so is Wally."
Dick seemed to have no energy to start crying. He just kind of choked, or maybe it was a hiccup, or maybe a chuckle, his eyes watering, and turned his head to look out the window. Still staring at the street, he waved.
The courtroom echoed disturbingly. Everything was clean and polished to every corner and sharp edge, and Bruce felt that if he shuffled just a little, the rustle of his clothes would bounce off of every wall and into the ears of every person. As someone who preferred to remain hidden, it chilled him to the bone, at the same time that he felt fire ignite beneath his heart. He was so angry it hurt.
Two weeks had passed, and Bruce had Dick finally checked out of the frequent hospital stays. He had managed to convince Dick to stay at home that day, though it wasn't as much of a difficult task as he had been expecting (or hoping). Talking to Dick was awkward again, just as it had been so many years ago (that time when every step that Bruce had taken had screamed wrong, wrong, wrong, because he himself had felt like he had still been a teenager with a much older mind - it was ludicrous to try and raise someone his own age). He had stuttered to Dick that he was going to court and Dick had asked no questions. Bruce had left him staring blankly at the fireplace.
Bruce despised that blank, haunted look, and the reason for it was sitting right before him.
Harleen Frances Quinzel was not draped in chains, much to Bruce's disgust. She was only handcuffed, sitting behind a great wooden desk in a great wooden chair with an oversized striped uniform and a makeup-less face that made her look remarkably frail. He wanted more than that. He wanted her to suffer. He wanted her wrapped up in a stiff white jacket and locked alone in a white walled room, forced meds after meds of poison that she didn't need nor want. He wanted her screaming for mercy. He wanted no one to give it to her.
Distantly, Bruce was a bit frightened by his own thoughts. Presently, he most honestly couldn't care less. He was only there for one reason, and he didn't even know if he could stick the trial through for that. Just looking at her made bile rise up in his throat and his belly hurt. Unfortunately, he really couldn't leave, considering the fact that he was the prosecutor.
"Miss. Quinzel, I've been told that the patients were perfectly normal before being admitted to the asylum. Is this true?" Bruce's lawyer asked, pacing in front.
"I'dun know. I'm not in charge," Harley frowned.
"Was Mr. Grayson healthy before you admitted him specifically, then?"
"No."
"What was wrong with him?"
"He was hallucinating," said Harley, in an exasperated tone that showed she had repeated that line hundreds of times.
"I have here that you had already been medicating Mr. Grayson at the time of his admission. Is this true?"
"Yeah."
"Can this medication cause hallucinations?"
No answer.
"Was this medication called Clozapine?"
"Yup."
"And can you tell us what this medication does?"
"It deludes the symptoms of schizophrenia."
"What are its side effects?"
"A lot of things."
"Like?"
Harley again gave no answer.
"Miss. Quinzel, what happens if a non-schizophrenic, underaged, unqualified teenager takes Clozapine?"
After a lengthy pause, Harley finally said: "They can get sick."
"What are some ways in which they can get sick?"
"Fevers," she said brokenly. "Dizziness. Headaches."
"All of which Mr. Wayne and the family butler, Mr. Pennyworth, claim Mr. Grayson was ailing from. It was also reported that Mr. Grayson was starting to exhibit symptoms of extreme paranoia. In fact, symptoms similar to paranoid schizophrenia, which includes believing everyone is going to kill him, believing he's being watched, believing in conspiracies, believing he's being poisoned, and social withdrawal. Are these not symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia?" the lawyer pressed.
"...They are."
"And is it possible that by abusing Clozapine, the medication didn't only not cure Mr. Grayson of hallucinations, but it created these hallucinations?"
"Clozapine can cause hallucinations if misused, but it wasn't being misused!" Harley insisted frantically, going so far as to try and stand up. A guard pushed her back down. "That's why I tried to help him with the medicine! To cure his hallucinations!"
"In his statement, Bruce Wayne claims that Mr. Grayson was admitted into your care for symptoms of depression due to the passing of his best friend, Wallace West, not for hallucinations. Is this true?"
"I-" Harley's lips opened like a fish for a second before she went on. "Yeah, but-but he started hallucinating later! He started thinkin' Wally was still 'round!"
"So you're saying that Mr. Grayson did not only start hallucinating after being medicated, but he was hallucinating before being medicated?"
"Yeah!"
"And what, Miss. Quinzel, do you say is your proof?"
Finally, there came the moment that he had been waiting for, amidst the back and forth babble that only stressed him further. Jim sat in the front row, leaning forward heavily in anticipation. The man couldn't have possibly known what Bruce was waiting for, but he was still most likely eager for the verdict to be announced. The sooner his conscience could be relieved, the better. Bruce knew the feeling. They both blamed themselves.
"Miss. Quinzel, why did you do it?" Bruce's attorney asked, a minute later. Harley was twiddling her thumbs. Bruce was enraged. "Miss. Quinzel?"
It was the turning moment. Harley looked up, and Bruce didn't quite know the expression on his face, but the woman wouldn't look straight at it.
Silence reigned in the courtroom. Jim coughed. Bruce's chest constricted with hatred.
Twiddle, fiddle, fumble. Harley twirled her hair awkwardly.
"All these rich people," she mumbled. "Ain't fair, 's all. Gotham belongs to the people who deserve it, who work for it. Not for the rich kids born to it." She looked pointedly at Bruce, analysing his reaction.
He kept it stone cold.
The trial ended quickly after that, with the bang of a gavel stricken by a judge wearing a repulsed face. Bruce couldn't decide which was worse; the fact that the insane asylum housed and tortured teenagers for lack of a clear reason, or that all of the teenagers wound up dead afterward. Harley was hustled out meanly by a pair of burly guards with two life sentences in Arkham Asylum over her head. She tried to lock eyes with Bruce, but the guard to her left wouldn't let her. He blocked her way, and Bruce was grateful to miss out on the chance to see her for another second. Still, Bruce felt frustratingly unsatisfied when she disappeared behind closed doors.
It didn't feel like justice had been served at all.
He moved sluggishly, robotically, his movements an act of the subconscious mind, until Jim intercepted him at the door. The Commissioner said nothing, or at least nothing that could pierce the heavy veil clouding Bruce's thoughts. Instead, he simply walked with Bruce, down the path with the irritatingly bright blossom trees that blew their pedals across the sidewalk, hands tucked into his pockets. Bruce didn't think he'd ever seen Jim contemplating something without his hands in his pockets. When they eventually reached Bruce's car, Alfred right on time as usual, Jim laid a firm hand on his shoulder.
"You did everything you could."
Bruce wished that were true.
A/N: In case you guys missed it in the court excerpt, basically what Bruce's lawyer was trying to do was convince the judge that Clozapine was the cause of Dick believing that Wally was still around, not only of his later paranoia. Supporting evidence includes the fact that Dick hadn't started hallucinating Wally until being put under Miss. Frances' care. This makes it (in the eyes of the legal system) seem as though Dick were completely sane before being put into psychiatry, and that Harley had deliberately caused him to go insane (which is true, but it wasn't exactly brought about by that timeline of events. In reality, Harley only found out that Dick was Robin after Dick was under her care, when that catastrophe at the bank occurred and witness reports mentioned Wally. At the beginning, she had treated him fairly).
OTHER NEWS: I recently started wondering about the whole...fantasy side of fanfiction. I had never really gone into it before. So naturally, I start thinking, and I go search up some merpeople fanfiction. Unfortunately, in the case of using keywords, I found exactly 11 fanfictions on the world wide web having to do with the Batman fandom involving merpeople and which was over at least 1,000 words, and I found exactly ONE I actually liked. I'm not very much into fantasy, so I love the idea of trying to incorporate myths with scientific facts, but what I love more is when characters stay at least mostly in character, which I've found is horribly difficult with the fantasy genre. Therefore, I decided that since I can't for the life of me find a story I want to read, I should write it. And I've started to. It hasn't turned out completely to my liking, though I still like it quite a bit, and I didn't incorporate total scientific reality (so yes, they have noses, and ears, and hair... My inner biologist shudders), but I've made it a challenge to write for every genre on this site, so fantasy it is. I'll start posting it when I've finished, as I'm only 100 pages done (POV is about 280, though it won't be as long as this) but I just wanted to give a heads up that that's happening. The main characters will be Jason Todd (I've never written him before! I'm syked!) and Dick Grayson, with supporting characters Wally West and Roy Harper and possibly Artemis Crock. It isn't slash (there's zero romance, period), but has lots of bromance so if you're super into Dick/Jason, you can imagine all the pre-slash you want. There are also homemade bombs involved. I'm so excited to post it.
Thanks a bunch for sticking around! You guys rock!