"What's a little birdie doing so far from home, hm?"
A scratchy high-pitched voice sings in my ear. The musty, coppery scent of blood, heavy in the air, mingles with the rancid milk stink of the Joker's breath. The world swims into focus. Dim light. Large space, full of crates. Crates full of drugs… Joker venom.
Sheila's vaccines are Joker venom. She doesn't know. Can't know. Gotta tell her. Tell… My head pounds as a flash of something…something that happened…expands into a scene.
Sheila's blue eyes, wide with surprise and then fear. Her voice, not so honey warm, telling me to get away from her.
"You stupid kid! Get out of here! You don't know what you—"
But it was too late.
He was there. He'd been there the whole time, waiting. I interrupted an exchange. Said too much. Her arms grab me, push me down as he fires. The bullet rips through her face, explodes through the back of her skull. Matter flies, she falls.
From the floor, I watch.
She…she pushed me down. Tried to save me.
My mom tried to save me.
Blood pools behind her head. Her eyes are open, dull and staring upwards. I reach out to her, because maybe I can fix it. I can…I can… Pain flares at the left side of my temple. Darkness sets in.
Until the Joker's nasal voice asks me where my daddy is.
Can't move my hands or feet. My wrists are bound tight behind my back, ankles taped together. And I feel funny. Head heavy, woozy. Drugged? Concussed? Don't know.
The Joker talks and talks. Raving about birds and bats and daddies. Like I give a shit. "Untie me. Let me kick your ass fair and square," I choke out somewhere between his cackles and manic shrieks for Batman to come and save his birdie. How Robin wouldn't have been caught like this. How Batsy would have come to get him already if he were.
"Poor little Falcon. Second best, hm? Or is it third, now, because there's a new baby bird? Hear he's the smart one. So, what does that make you? Not the bendy, flippy one, not the brains. You're the bait. The bait to bring the bat. But, oh, what if Batsy never comes for you. Oh, bird boy. I almost feel sorry enough to let you go."
Hands fist my hair, pulling my head from the ground. "Almost." Grating laughter.
Pain sears through my body as metal strikes me in the shins, knees, arms, shoulders, back, stomach, head. Black and gray. Black and red. Black and black.
Laughter.
Too much laughter.
Then too much nothing as I fade.
I want it to stop.
"Poor, unloved birdie. Poor, pitiful, unfavored laddie. Shame on Batsy, for shame."
He crows and laughs and hits. And hits, and laughs and crows, and I can't block the blows. Can't move. Can only lie here and listen.
Pain.
Pain and anger.
Anger and pain.
More anger than pain because how dare he?
"Unloved birdie…"
Sheila's on the floor, blood gone cold. Her fault.
She…information filters into my brain—stuff Dickie told me afterward that I shouldn't know right now, but I do because…because… I don't know. Why do I know that Sheila worked with the Joker on purpose, embezzled, killed patients, was a criminal, in this dream? I never know this. I always think she must be innocent. She has to be or why do I care that her head's blown open?
"Unfavored laddie…"
"Shame on Batsy."
Bruce… I want Bruce. But he's not here. He didn't come.
"What does that make you…"
What does it?
Unloved. Unfavored. Shame.
Sheila's cold blood.
Pain. Anger.
And laughing.
The fucking laughing that won't stop.
It has to stop.
Stop.
Anger burns, ignites, flames roaring higher, hotter, as if it doused with gasoline. The red, orange and blue of the hottest fires glow green with a rage that consumes me whole.
The fucking laughter won't stop…until I break the bonds. The fire gives me the strength I need to snap free. To rip the crowbar from the Joker's hands and to swing it, letting it connect with the side of his jaw. Blood spurts from his mouth as I catch him again on the other side of his face. As I bring it down on the crown of his head. As I smash him in the temple.
I bring the metal down again. And again.
The Joker falls, hits the ground, blood spatters the floor. His yellow teeth are red with blood. He chokes on his laughter as he gurgles, blood deep in his throat. He coughs and laughs, blood running over his lips and chin.
"Shut up!" I howl.
And bring the crowbar down. Again. And again. Over and over.
But it doesn't stop it.
Won't stop it.
The fucking laughing.
I swing harder, faster. Screaming. Screaming over the laughter that won't stop.
Stop!
Fucking stop laughing! It echoes in my ears, reverberates through my skull. Loud and wet and endless.
It won't stop.
It won't—
"Jason! Jason, wake up!"
I swing and a hand catches my fist, holding it…then arms wrap around me. "Shhh… it's just a dream. You were dreaming. It's okay."
The arms are big, strong. The smell of aftershave burns my nose, drowning out the lingering, phantom reek of blood and sour breath. There's no pain, no thick, wet feeling of blood on my limbs and face. The only dampness that clings to me is sweat. My t-shirt sticks to my skin, soaked in perspiration, my hair is a gross curtain pasted to my forehead. I slump back, relaxing into the large body supporting me, concentrating on the steady movement of Bruce's chest as it rises and falls. Slowing my own breaths to match his, because… I'm panting.
Like I've been running. My throat burns like I've been screaming.
Did I scream?
"That's better," Bruce murmurs, rubbing my arms. "Are you okay?"
I breathe with him as I ponder that. Am I okay?
"Jason?" Bruce tenses. "Are you…present?"
I moan. I get that question a lot. Dick says it's because I space out too much. But I'm not spaced out. I hear Bruce. I just…I need to think about the answer. "I don't… know."
"Don't know if you're present?"
"No." So confused. "I'm here. I'm just…" I listen hard for the laughter and sigh when I don't hear it. It stopped. Bruce stopped it. "Am I okay?"
Bruce holds me tighter. "You're fine." He sounds strange, like he's trying to convince himself. "Come on, let's get you washed up. Alfred's expecting you at the table for breakfast this morning. We can't disappoint him."
Breakfast? It's morning? Wait… "What day—"
"Monday," Bruce says. "It's a school day for Tim. Dick and Damian are going to spend some training time in the Bat Cave, but we all want to eat with you this morning."
Eat with me. Downstairs? I haven't been downstairs in… shit, I don't know. It's been two weeks since I woke up, I think. Unless Bruce tells me, I never know how much time has passed. I drift between here and there, awake but there, awake but here. I dig my nails into my skin to remind me of what's real.
"Are you hungry?" Bruce asks, releasing me to stand up. He folds back the rest of my blanket and gestures for me to swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I think about that. My stomach is calm, not empty, not full, but I should be hungry, starving. The last meal I ate was the dinner Alfred brought up last night, chicken and rice soup and buttered bread. I'd had one bowl, when in the past I could eat two, plus bread and dessert. My appetite is all but gone, but I haven't lost weight. If anything, I'm heavier. Alfie had to buy me new pajamas and sweats.
Bruce says it's an effect of the Pit, claims it fed my body while healing it and whatever sustenance it provided is still working in my system. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up without help. Residual Pit juice kept my muscles from atrophying in my coma and keeps them from turning flabby while my ass stays in this bed. I never experienced any real weakness, just…
…the nothing.
…the laughing.
"Do you want to try showering by yourself?" Bruce asks. Someone always helps me. It's been Bruce or Alfie running baths, staying by the side of the tub. I think because one time I forgot it was a tub, and sunk beneath the water, waiting to be revived. Waiting…
And then Bruce grabbed my shoulders and jerked me up. His face—he'd looked—he'd sounded… My stomach turns a backflip of shame. So, someone always helps me.
But this time that won't happen. I feel less floaty. I'm here. I told Bruce that. I did. I heard myself say it, and I know he heard it. Irritation pushes away my shame as I narrow my eyes at Bruce.
His eyes scream 'let me help you!' When he's not at work, he hovers, only leaving me alone if Dick or Tim are in here or I'm asleep. Once upon a time, maybe I thought I wanted attention like this from Bruce, but right now, it's…
Stifling.
Smothering.
…infuriating.
"I can shower by myself." I don't look at him as I head to my adjoining bathroom, but I listen carefully to make sure he's not following. My limbs feel like someone else's as I climb into the tub and turn on the shower. My whole body is foreign, more defined. I run my fingers along the ridges in my abs and trace my biceps.
Wonder what working out with the punching bags or lifting weights will feel like?
The punching bags.
Adrenaline surges within me as my fists clench, ready to strike the shower wall. Anything that I can put the Joker's face on. If Bruce is taking me down to breakfast, maybe he'll bring me into the cave after. Or I could just go. I… don't remember if I haven't been allowed to leave my room, or if I just didn't. Haze settles between my ears as I puzzle it out. I don't think anyone told me to stay put. I just… I never thought to go anywhere—but to the warehouse to see Sheila, or to the café in Benghazi or Tel Aviv.
Which was it? The warehouse, the café…
A single gunshot.
A hole rips through her forehead, above her eye.
Blood…spattering… bloody sandal.
Laughter. Fu—no.
No.
No.
Hot water pounds against my back. My hands are splayed on the shower wall, as my knees knock together. Water sluices through my hair, tickling the backs of my earlobes, trickling under my jaw on either side, running down my face into my mouth.
It's like I'm crying. But…
I haven't cried. Dick cried and Tim. Even Bruce. But not me.
Why not?
My mother was shot to death in front of me. The Joker beat the shit out of me—no, he beat me to death, because I died. Four times. Dick is adamant that he didn't save me. Bruce says he didn't save me. But they took me to the Lazarus Pit, so they did.
Or they didn't, because…
…nothing crackles between my ears in place of the haze—white noise, a static hiss, until I hear it. The rising hum of an insane cackle about to let loose. Shit. Shit.
I slap the wall, the pain in my hand echoing up into my elbow, bringing me back. The water is hot and soapy. My eyes burn as I spit out sudsy water. I rub myself down with more shower gel and rinse off quick, needing to get out. I shut off the shower and throw a towel around my waist, tracking water all over the floor as I stagger to the steamy mirror above my sink. There's a sheet over it. Bruce and Alfie covered it, because they thought—or think maybe—that I might not recognize myself.
Dick stares at me. Tim does. Bruce catches himself and finds other things to focus on. Alfred is a rock I can't read, but I want to know what they see. I know I have white hair, that I'm broader, maybe taller. But is there more? I peel the clammy sheet off the glass and let it drop onto the sink counter and look.
My reflection is altered by steam, wavy and blurred.
But what I can see isn't me.
I am broader, bigger. Not like Bruce, no, but…not like I was. And… I scowl at my face, my jawline, the white locks of hair in front. I look older, harder. I could pass for seventeen or eighteen now. Did time pass for me in the Pit? Did it steal years from me as payment for life?
Fuck.
And… and…
I touch the mirror, outlining the reflection of my eyes.
Green. They're green—but my stomach churns.
They're not right.
They… I poke an eyeball, sucking my teeth at the pain. They're too bright, like the grass color in the crayon box, like meta eyes.
Zombie eyes.
I squeeze my eyes—my wrong eyes—shut. No.
No. No. No.
A knock on the door.
"Jason? You okay?" Bruce. Can't he just—rage flares and I want to punch the sink, shred the stupid wet sheet draped over the counter, smash the awful mirror with my busted reflection, but I can't.
I can't because…because Bruce is worried.
Bruce is smothering.
Bruce didn't come.
"…for shame."
I rip the towel from around my waist and scrub the wetness from my body. "I'm fine, Bruce. Just need clothes. Maybe don't be out there when I come out."
He's seen me butt ass naked. Changed me when I was dead, unconscious. But there'd been nothing I could do about that.
"Sure, Jase. I'll just be outside. Take your time."
His voice is gentle. A voice I'm used to. He started using it months ago, when he wanted to be a better dad. When he asked me to be a part of Wayne Enterprises, to be the heir.
But he has a real kid now.
A real kid without Zombie eyes and who doesn't hear clown laughter in the shower.
Anger worms its way into my scrubbing. My skin's red by the time I'm dry and my teeth grind.
Fucking real kid.
Phantom flames fan, and my hands are fists again.
How did I get so pissed again?
I just—I fling the towel on the floor and shove the bathroom door open. I stomp around my room, slamming open dresser drawers, finding sweats to pull on—new sweats in my bigger size, carefully folded. They feel snug, even though Alfie just got them. I tug at the legs and sleeves, wishing I could stretch the fabric to the width and length needed and it'd just stay that way. What would Alfie think if he has to buy something else so soon?
I curl my hands in my hair, pulling until the sting in my scalp brings me focus, clarity. Breakfast and Bruce are waiting for me, and if I don't go out, Bruce will open the door. He'll open it when I don't want him to and—
Breathe.
I have to, because there's no reason to be this pissed. No reason at all.
But…
I punch my bed. Strangle the pillows. Want to tear one open and scream into it.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Everything.
My body is wrong. My hair is wrong. My head is fucked. Being here is fu…
Being here? Do I think 'being here' is wrong?
Being here—alive? Not part of the nothing…
…is wrong.
I turn to my dresser, pulling down the sheet that covers the mirror above it, and stare into it. This clear mirror shows me the white patch of hair in front, shows me bright green eyes.
Too bright.
I look like… I don't know.
I don't know.
A knock at the door.
"Jason?"
Fucking Bruce. I whirl and punch the bed again. Choke a pillow. Want to scream into it, but I don't. I don't, because I choose to set it down and calmly walk to the door. I open it and meet Bruce's gaze. He smiles but it's a fake one, because his eyes are sizing me up, judging me, trying to diagnose what's wrong with me.
What does he decide? Am I wrong to him too?
"Let's head down before Alfred comes up, hm?" He places a light hand on my shoulder and pushes me to walk in front of him, as he guides us down the hall, to the grand staircase. Cold air hits my wet hair like tiny needles.
I weave through a house I know, like a stranger in a new body with freak eyes and hair. The sound of voices becomes clearer as Bruce and I approach the dining room—Dick and Tim. They stop as we appear in the doorway.
Tim sits across the table from a pint-sized version of Bruce with dark tan skin and a scowl identical to Batman's as he spots me. Dick, who's sitting next to mini-Bruce, grins and jumps up, running to me. He grabs my arm.
"Jaybird! Finally! Alfie wouldn't let us eat until you came down." He drags me to the seat on the other side of him. Not my usual seat next to him, because mini-Bruce is in it.
In my chair.
I want to dump him out.
But I don't. I sit where Dick puts me and look to Tim across the table. Tim is dressed in his preppy school uniform, pristine and ready to go be a genius in his classes. Classes—eighth grade. He's in eighth grade now. And he's… he grew some. Dick's taller, Tim's taller. But it's not weird. It's normal growth.
Not like mine.
"Good morning, Jase," Tim says softly. He smiles at me, and I nod back. Dickie-bird is the one who returns smiles in the morning.
"Jason, I don't think you've had the pleasure of officially meeting Damian," Bruce says. He takes his seat at the head of the table. "I didn't think it best for you to meet under…certain circumstances. But this is good, us sharing a meal."
Bruce sounds hella nervous. Like I'm gonna stab Damian with the fork next to my hand or shove him out of my chair.
Because he thinks he's Bruce's heir.
I grip the fork.
"Damian's training to join patrol, but it'll be a while before he's ready," Bruce says, his tone all business.
Damian's joining patrol? Going to go out with Batman, and Robin and Red Robin and Falcon. Wait, no. Not Falcon. Falcon's dead, like I was. The Joker killed him for real.
Grief blacker than the nothing tries to drag me under.
"I am ready to go out now. I am fully trained and more capable than…" Damian's dark blue gaze lands on Tim and I bristle, floating above the brimming sadness for a dead and decaying Falcon. Is this brat talking shit about Tim?
I lift the fork, grip on it still tight.
"You were trained to be an assassin. This family does not take lives, Damian," Bruce—no, Batman, growls. "You will not join us until you learn to fight like us."
Damian makes a dismissive sound and is quiet. Dick frowns at him, like he wants to say or do something to comfort him. Stupid Dickhead, always too nice.
"Speaking of training," Bruce clears his throat—Batman has left the building. "Jason, we'll resume yours when you're feeling up to it."
Resume mine? I tilt my head, confusion tempering misery and anger. "What do you mean? For Wayne Enterprises?"
Bruce coughs lightly and nods. "Yes, yes, we will continue that. I've arranged for you to do your first semester of Gotham Business online, to give you more time to adjust. But we will resume your martial arts and strength conditioning before that."
I itch with anticipation. Anger and grief evaporate as hope rises. Hope because if Bruce wants me back in martial arts, then maybe Falcon doesn't need a funeral. Maybe… "Bruce?"
Bruce's swallows hard and cracks his knuckles. He's anxious, maybe guilty. "You were out of shape. Unprepared. If I hadn't stopped your training, made you feel like you had to sneak around to be a hero, then maybe you… You could have been stronger, faster, been more of an opponent for that…" He stops, breathes. "Maybe he wouldn't have snuck up on you. Or maybe, Falcon would have been flying with me and Red Robin in Bosnia."
I drop my fork, staring at Bruce. Tim and Dick are silent, staring at Bruce too. Damian looks ready to strangle his own fork.
"I made a mistake," Bruce utters.
And I swear the world stops as Hell freezes over, pigs fly and I become best buddies with Wally West. Because Bruce Batman Wayne just said he was wrong.
The shocked silence is broken by Alfred entering with a large tray of breakfast food. "I apologize for the wait, and good morning, Master Jason. It is wonderful to see you up and about."
He looks between us, tutting as he places the tray in the center of the table. "May I ask what has transpired between you all?"
"Bruce is possessed," Dick says slowly, eyes wide. "Do we still have that blessed water?"
"Oh dear."
"I'm not possessed," Bruce snaps, a brief flush staining his cheeks before it's gone. "I…" He sighs. "I'm fixing something."
"Falcon's not dead," I murmur. The Lazarus Pit saved me and him. "I'm back on the team?"
"Bruce, you want Jason in that costume again?" Dick asks. "He—"
"It'll be a superior costume. Upgraded. And you'll be faster, stronger, better trained. No one will hurt you again. No one will hurt any of you. All of your training will be increased and upgrades are being made to all of your uniforms. None of you will be caught unaware. Not like that. Ever." Bruce's face is ice. "But also, none of you will go back onto the streets until I catch that monster."
The Joker?
He's still out there. Laughing.
Fucking—no.
I want to catch the monster. I want to make him shut up. If I can do it for real—not in the warehouse with the bomb that says, "9:08" and the blood spatters—then he'll shut up. Forever.
I take my fork as Alfred instructs us to serve ourselves. There're pancakes and omelets, fresh fruit, potatoes and tomatoes. My brothers hesitate, Bruce sips newly poured coffee. Damian is the only one who reaches for any food.
"Are you okay, Bruce?" Dick finally asks.
"No," Bruce says, "but I will be, when you're all stronger."
Dick blinks.
And I remember.
Dickie doesn't want to be stronger. He doesn't want to be Robin, not anymore. He hasn't told Bruce. He can't have.
"It won't interfere with your upcoming audition, Dick," Bruce says suddenly. "I know how important it is to you, and when you pass the trial, and join the gym, we'll talk about reducing your Robin hours."
Shit. This… won't end well.
And…I'm derailed, thoughts spiraling in different directions, because…what audition, what trial and what gym? I nudge D-bird with my elbow. I knew he was doing something else in place of university, but he never goes into it.
Talk to me, D.
But Dick focuses on his empty plate instead of me.
Alfred chimes in. "Perhaps no more talk of 'work' at the table, so that you all can enjoy your meals." Alfred begins to serve us, since we aren't doing it, adding food to all of our plates, and decorating Dick's pancakes with fruity smiles.
"Um…" Tim cuts into an omelet. "I think I want to join the debate team. The first general interest meeting for it is after school today. May I stay for it?"
"Of course," Bruce says. "When is it over? If it's after five, I'll pick you up."
Tim nods. "Probably after five."
"Okay," Bruce says. "Debate, hm? What's triggered your interest in debate? I thought you wanted to join science club."
Bruce and Tim's conversation is decent background noise as I nibble on my food. It's as good as anything Alfie's ever made, and my appetite slowly sparks into being as I chew. Damian stabs his eggs and eats as if the food has committed a crime against him.
What? Is he pissed that Bruce basically said I'm reinstated, as Falcon, as the business heir? Anything anxious, fearful or angry drains from my system as smug victory sets in—wait. Am I having fucking mood swings? Anxiety starts to poke holes in my smug victory, and I don't want it to. I like smug. Smug feels good, better than anything else I've felt today, because I won—I win. I kick the nerves out and let in thoughts of being back in uniform—one not bloody or torn because no Joker will ever touch it—and making Bruce proud, like he was before, of me.
I smirk at the brat when he looks my way and he sneers.
He really is a little shit.
"Master Richard, food is made for eating not pastime."
Alfred's gentle urge turns my attention back to Dick who picks at his food. He doesn't eat when he's upset. His posture is tense, shoulders rigid. I nudge him again and this time stormy, blue eyes meet mine, laden with unspoken words. He kicks my shin, before going back to his food. He manages a few apples slices before he gives up and pushes away from the table.
"I'm gonna work on some apparatus skills in the cave."
I start to get up as well. That kick under the table had to mean 'come with me.'
"I will supervise." Damian cuts in before I can finish my move. He jumps up from his seat.
He'll supervise? What kid says shit like that? I open my mouth to tell him nobody needs him, but Dick laughs and pets the kid's head, then, stomps on my heart when he says to the brat, "What would I do without you, Coach Dami?"
Damian stands taller, small shoulders straightening as he looks up at Dickie-bird. "Struggle miserably. I have reviewed more training footage online and have some adjustments I would like to see applied."
Coach? Training footage and adjustments?—for the audition I don't know anything about, but Damian does? The fuck.
I glance at Bruce, blinking at his poorly repressed amusement, then share a look with Tim. My kid brother seethes in his chair. His eyes shine as Dick and Damian head out of the dining room, undoubtedly going in the direction of the cave. My eyes sting as well. Did Dickie-bird just blow me off?
"Tim, you'll be late for school if you don't hurry and finish your breakfast," Bruce says.
Tim flushes at being called out. "Right." He pushes food into his mouth as Bruce watches.
I don't know what I want to do. The food on my plate isn't as appetizing anymore. Not with demons spiriting my brother away instead of letting me talk to him, and my brother allowing it.
"Jason, I was thinking we could go down the cave today too," Bruce says. "Does that sound okay? We won't do any exercises, but I'd like you to start getting reacclimated. We can walk the gardens afterward as well, get you outside."
He sounds so cautious, like he's stretching his fingers out to a snarling dog that might bite him. The anger from this morning when Bruce had wanted to come into the bathroom with me climbs up my spine, but… didn't I want to punch things this morning? Didn't I punch things?
I am a snarling dog, but Bruce hadn't seen that. He'd been outside the room.
Or had he? Maybe… Did I look at him like I wanted to punch him earlier? I don't know what my zombie eyes do. Shit. Do I apologize, so he'll stop talking to me like that? It…the sound of his voice is shaking off all the good feelings I had earlier. Instead, all I can think of is Damian taking Dick away. Dick letting Damian take him away. My fucking zombie eyes and weird body. And Bruce, now, talking to me like I'm a drooling crazy pants Arkham patient that might gnaw his fingers to knubs.
"Jase?" Tim's voice is timid. Scared.
Fuck. All the rage dissipates at that. Don't be scared, Tim. Not of me. I close my eyes, take a breath. Take another.
"I'm okay," I say. I smile at him and he doesn't seem convinced. Kid's not easily fooled by anything. He's a good detective, probably better than both me and Dickface.
"Jason?" Bruce again. "Are you here?"
"Yes." The word sounds chewed and spat out. "I'm fine, Bruce. And yeah, let's go to the cave. I wanna see it. And…and the plans for new uniforms, and… maybe let's walk outside." Because I haven't been out of my room in weeks—months—and now I'm realizing what that means. I lost more time than I can remember, because in my head I was leaving my room. I was overseas, traversing countries, being killed in warehouses, drinking Italian sodas and eating pastry puffs, chasing Dickie-bird and shaking sand out of my shoes.
The low moan of laughter, wheezing and huffing like a decrepit motor chugging to life on a cold morning, hums in my ears. Ready to burst into a full-on fit of insanity. No.
I reach for the carafe in front of Bruce, touching its hot base, burning the pads of my fingers. The pain grounds me.
"Jason! What are you doing?" Bruce snatches the carafe off the table, both he and Tim gawk at me.
"I can't have coffee?" I ask, pulling my hand back without blowing on my fingers, reveling in the stinging pain.
"No, but you can have herbal tea," Alfred's voice comes from behind me. He places a hand on my shoulder and peers down, frowning gently. "Would you like some and maybe to sit in the den and look out on the lawns for a while, before going out with Master Bruce?"
The last thing I need is a relaxing cup of tea and another hour of sitting around losing more time. But I can't be rude to Alfie. I touch his hand but shake my head. "Maybe I'll have that tea later. I'm itching to move around. Bruce, I'm done with breakfast if you are."
Bruce sets the carafe down, eyes roving from me to Alfred still standing behind me. A silent conversation is had, before Bruce nods and gets up. "All right." He turns to Tim. "I'll see you after school. I'll pick you at 5:15?"
Tim looks unhappy. "Um." He fiddles with his napkin. "I..."
"Spit it out, Timmy. What?" I put my elbows on the table, then take them off at Alfred's slight cough. That doesn't stop me from leaning in. Tim's squirming worst than he did when he first got here and I couldn't stand his snitch-ass.
"Well," Tim sighs, sounding exasperated. "If Jason is having his first time back in the cave today, I want… I think… I should be there. It's not fair that everyone else is here, and I have to go to school all the time."
I want to clap. Tim juts out his chin. Tim's not big on speaking up when it comes to what he actually wants. Bruce looks taken aback. He clears his throat. "Tim, I thought we agreed that you starting school was a good thing, that you needed some semblance of normal."
"It is a good thing! I did need to…" he shoots me an apologetic look, "to get out for a while, but… I feel cut off, right now. Let me stay."
"But your debate meeting—"
"I can just ask the teacher over it to sign me up. I don't really have to go to that," Tim says. He loosens his tie. "Come on, Bruce. Please let me stay home today."
"Aw, Bruce. He's breaking my heart. Let him stay."
Alfred poorly disguises a chuckle, and my insides warm at that sound.
Bruce stares at us all before looking heavenward. "Okay. Fine. You can stay home. Are you finished with your food, or do we need to wait for you?"
"I'm done!" Tim is around the table and at Bruce's side in an instant, and they both join me.
Alfred starts clearing the table. "I'll come down with a mid-morning snack around ten, but do make Master Richard consume one of those terrible protein bars you keep near the med bay long before then."
"Yes, Alfred," Bruce drones. He pats my shoulder and Tim's and pushes us toward the door. My legs know the way to the cave. I let them lead as I gaze around the manor, noting that nothing's changed.
We reach the grandfather clock, and Bruce lets me do the honors. The cave yawns open and cold air rushes up to greet us all. I step down into my second home.
Hello, Cave.
And the tears I didn't cry in the shower, that I didn't cry when I woke up and learned I died, that I didn't cry when Sheila hit the floor, flow now.
I missed you.