Author's Note: Bruce explores the price of obsession.
Dedication
I have been back in Gotham for almost an hour. A business conference in Zurich – a totally unnecessary luxury for a shareholders meeting in my opinion – is responsible for my three-day absence. In my stead, Tim has been over-watching the city. Alfred has told me of the boy's capabilities in such a demanding role. The old man finds his talents commendable. From what information I have been able to obtain, Tim is doing an excellent job. The boy is different from the others. I find him very interesting. My arrival back at the manor is greeted by Alfred who takes my luggage without a word. He knows what I am about to do. He is intuitive like that. I head down to the cave.
I am not surprised by Tim's presence. The boy is in civilian clothes and sat at the computer terminal, apparently mired in thought. It is almost midnight – my return flight was delayed by poor weather conditions – and yet my partner is still hard at work. He must be glad it is Friday night. When I draw closer, Tim notices my presence and jerks his head to look at me. His serious expression fades. A happy, unforced smile appears. He waves. I wave back.
"Enjoy your holiday, Bruce?"
"I would hardly describe it as such."
"Yeah, you enjoyed it alright. I'm just finishing up here so if you want the cave to yourself..."
What are you working on exactly?"
The boy seems tense. I notice the awkward way he is sitting, with his right leg up on the chair seat and hunched forward; he has sustained injuries. My eyes focus in on his split lip and the bruise forming by his right eye. He is aware I have observed these incongruities. He gestures to the screen.
"There's a guy I've been following. He seems connected, ties to several illicit operations including racketeering and prostitution. I'm just stuck trying to figure out where he fits in with the other big players in the city. All the other criminal elements involved in those areas don't have him on their payroll."
"Have you ever considered you may be mistaken?"
"Bruce, I'm telling you this guy is involved. He is deeply involved. And he's weak; apply the right kind of pressure and this guy will crack, give up his associates, give names and numbers. The proof is here, the hard evidence is here. I just have to find it."
I believe the boy, naturally. His detective instincts and analytical skills rival my own. If he has a lead, a credible source to trace, I will support him. But I can also notice his obsession. No doubt he has been here, thinking, for hours. He is visibly tired and suffering. Despite his maturity and intelligence, he is still only fifteen; he needs sleep. I find it very odd to have to remind him of these facts.
"I am sure it can wait until tomorrow, Tim. Go home."
Tim shakes his head and then his finger before tapping it against the desktop. "I know it's there. I've almost got it, almost, almost got the answer. I swear it's on the tip of my tongue, literally." I respond my resting my hand on his shoulder. He stops thinking and simply stares up at me, waiting.
"I would really like you to go home and get some sleep. Don't make me order you, Tim." I do not say it with any kind of irritation. The boy can see this and nods.
"Yeah, you're right. Sorry. How about before I go, you tell me about your trip?"
"I can assure you Tim, it was exactly the same as every other continental congregation I have ever been to as Wayne Enterprises CEO." I say it in such a way as to suggest any further discussion on the matter will not be wise. I do not care for dull small talk concerning affairs the boy has no stake in. It is immaterial. Tim is of a different opinion. He is...not as intrusive as Dick or as frustrating as Jason, but there is something that disagrees with me. I sometimes believe it to be the growing concern we share more than intelligence and deductive reasoning; he is also often serious to the point of farce...like me. But I do not think this often. It is more likely his nervous, youthful energy and natural curiosity that I find irritating; the boy must know everything.
"And what are they like?" Tim asks, having decided not to recognize my hint.
"Ask your father."
"I'm pretty sure he's never been to Europe in his life, much less a boy's club meeting at some private retreat. Nice try though. Why don't you want to tell me?" Tim is attempting to force me into a conversation he controls. He does it often, but fortunately seldom succeeds. This time I will indulge him somewhat.
"Because it looks like it hurts for you to take a breath, let alone talk." What I have said is true. The boy's breathing is laboured to the point I feel he must have cracked or broken a rib earlier in the night. I am certain Tim can hear the concern in my voice because he frowns at me. It is a sign he is embarrassed by his perceived weakness.
"It was this guy I've been talking about. He sucker-punched me with brass knuckles. Can you imagine? Just one lucky left-hook and I'm down on my ass. Sucks." I frown as a name for his suspect instantly enters my head. The man is Antonio Palazzo and he was once a high-level enforcer for crime boss Luciano Fognini, a former major player in Gotham whom Dick and I put away some years ago. Palazzo also shared the suspect's penchant for a cheap shot with brass knuckles. It is a conceivable link. I pull up a chair and sit opposite my partner.
"Describe him for me."
"He was a big guy, maybe six-five, bald and built like a bull for his size. He must've been a boxer or something because his body attack was so strong it was unreal." Tim says clutching his right side after a particularly sudden intake of breath. That is Antonio Palazzo. He has returned to Gotham after a lengthy incarceration. The boy is right: leveraged from the right angle, Palazzo will talk against his current employers immediately. Loyalty is just a word to him, not a virtue. I regard Tim's visible injuries again. I do not like to see him hurt this way. His distress upsets me though I continue to project a calm aura for his sake.
"I know who you are looking for, Tim." The boy stares at me in an even mix of astonishment and expectation. For the moment, his injuries are forgotten as he awaits my answer. "The man you're after is called Antonio Palazzo, a former associate of crime boss Luciano Fognini and Olympic Heavyweight Gold medallist at the World Amateur Games in boxing. He has just finished serving two-thirds of a ten-year tariff in Gotham State Penitentiary for extortion, attempted murder and illegal arms trading under Fognini's rule." Tim nods in understanding.
"I haven't studied the Fognini case files yet. All this is in there, isn't it?" He checks. I nod.
"Yes. However, we can find a contact or residential address for him tomorrow. You should go home now. Alfred has treated you I take it?" Tim nods again.
"Yeah, he gave me medication as well. I still need to take it." The boy says producing several colourful pills from his shirt pocket for my inspection. They are all powerful painkillers, ones easily capable of quelling his body's agonised cries from every shallow breath. I frown.
"Why have you not taken them yet?"
"Alfred said they make you drowsy: I can't think when I'm all cotton-headed." Neither can many of us, however that is rather the point of such medication. They allow the sufferer to relax as well as cut stress levels so the body can heal effectively. I have taken many of them in my tenure as Batman, although it is often that my mind remains unimpeded by the drugs' side effects. I do not like the idea of my partner suffering unnecessarily for the price of a lead. It is a price not worth paying, despite the potential benefits. Again this is obsession manifesting itself. I do not want this for him.
"Well, take them now then." I suggest whilst reaching over for the untouched tumbler of water no doubt left by the old man some time ago. I reach over and hand him the glass. Tim inclines his head before knocking back the pills with a swallow of water. He closes his eyes for a few moments and a familiar silence falls on us as I wait for them to open again. When they do, I give him a nod of satisfaction. "Good boy."
It is close to one in the morning. I have taken the Bentley and given my partner a ride home to save him the trouble of aggravating his wounds. He is already nodding as I kill the engine. The medication is beginning to take hold of his brain and encourage it to sleep. When it becomes clear that Tim is unable to walk himself to the front door, I choose to assist him. I round the passenger door, unfasten his seatbelt and support him out of the car. I encourage him to lean on me as we approach the door. Despite the influence of the drugs in his system, it is readily apparent to me how exhausted he is. He is having trouble co-ordinating his feet as we walk. Eventually we reach the door. The boy drunkenly fishes for his house keys in his back pocket before handing them to me. I open the door and silently enter the apartment with Tim in tow. To save time and minimise the chances of waking Jack Drake, I scoop him up in my arms and carefully carry him to his room. He does not object to this action, being too close to unconscious to care much. I remove his shoes and lay him down on top of his bed.
"Thanks Bruce." He mumbles to me in a faraway voice.
"It's important to rest now Tim. I shall call you tomorrow if you're needed."
"'Kay."
"Goodnight Tim."
"Night."
It has just passed two A.M. I am in the living room, contemplating the extent of my new boy's workaholic tendencies and what possible impact such unhealthy dedication would have on such a mind. All I can as a potential outcome is myself. I do not wish Tim to follow in my footsteps and have this existence consume him like oxygen to a hungry flame. We can share traits and method, but not obsessions. Those are mine and mine alone. I must make a greater effort with his development, encourage other social outlets for him to pursue. There must be clubs or groups with whom he shares a common bond. He needs to seek them out for the good of his health. I do not want to find him down there in such a state ever again.
"Is everything alright, Master Bruce?" Alfred inquires from behind my shoulder.
"Have I chosen the right partner, Alfred?" I ask staring into the fire I have just stoked.
"Undoubtedly, Sir." The old man says without any hesitation. I frown.
"I fear for him."
"You shouldn't."
"And why is that, old friend?"
"Because the boy is more scared for you than you are for him." I blink at his explanation. His statement does not seem to make any sense, no matter my interpretation.
"I don't understand."
"His dedication does not stem from obsession like yours, but rather the desire to free you from beneath its burden. Master Timothy wishes to help you bear the load. He hates to see you brood: I can see it in his eyes."
"Are you suggesting he is only working himself so hard so that he spares me some of that same work?" I say trying to supress the incredulity I feel from such a notion. I cannot fathom a more twisted kind of favour than what the old man is suggesting.
"Let me ask you this: would you have been working down there right this very moment if the boy had not been?" Yes, of course. There is always work to do.
"Perhaps."
"The answer is 'yes', Master Bruce. You are obsessed beyond reason, despite your attempts to change. Now he is trying to help you by applying the same logic you do: if he works longer, you are required to work less." It is simple logic, the sort that is so basic that it appears entirely flawless. Perhaps it is. I shake my head.
"I can't allow him to continue this."
"He is rather more difficult to dissuade from a course of action than Dick or Jason, Sir. His stubbornness rivals yours in many respects." I smirk.
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Begging your pardon, Master Bruce, but I was always led to believe only you could contend with a prodigal genius." He says. I turn to look at him. We both smile. Tim is a born genius and will one day overtake me as the world's finest detective. It is an inevitable future that both the old man and I believe in. I shrug.
"Usually they're on the opposing side."
"Well, maybe you should take your own advice and sleep on it. Inspiration is often said to come to those in dreams."
"I suppose you are right." I say getting to my feet. We stare at one another in a short silence. He knows exactly what I am going to do now.
"You're going to the cave, aren't you Sir?"
"I need to conduct some research." Alfred sighs before nodding in understanding.
"Of course you do, Master Bruce, of course you do."
I am a creature of habit. Neither he nor anyone else can change that. Dedication and Obsession are similar but they do not go hand-in-hand as inseparable entities. My crusade is an obsession: Tim is merely dedicated to the cause. As I begin my descent into the dark recesses to further feed my compulsions, I am comforted by this distinction. At least the boy can see the light. Mine disappeared a long time ago.