Part 2: Water

Chapter 13: Secrets and Lies

You do not know what wars are going on
down there where the spirit meets the bone.
—Miller Williams, "Compassion" (excerpt)

BATGIRL

He's angry, Cassandra thought. But not… uncontrolled. For there was clarity in Batman's stance and tone as he growled to Black Mask, "Give it up. You've lost tonight."

"But I've won the war," countered Black Mask. "This is on you, you know. You're the one who encourages little misguided girls to play dress-up and almost get themselves killed. How is she, by the way—or have you thrown her away for this superior model?"

The words hit Cassandra like cold water, and despite her usual control, she felt herself stiffen minutely. Then, when Batman said, "Enough," she knew that he had seen.

But he was not talking to her. His focus was fixed on the unearthly spectre of Black Mask, and he said, "What do you want?"

"To thank you, of course. You handed me this city on a silver platter. But you had to ruin the best part! It's just too good to watch you squirm when there's nothing you can do to stop me."

"Your threats are hollow, Roman." Batman checked the tracer. Frustration showed in his hands and his bowed head, though he tried to hide it, and Batgirl realised that there was probably not enough time for the tracer to work.

Her first thought was to contact Oracle. Oracle would have known what to do, would probably have a solution ready before they thought to ask.

Would have. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

"Not threats, Batman," continued Black Mask, bleeding derision from every part of his skull, right down to the bared teeth and white eyes. "Warnings. This city is mine—but more importantly, I know your greatest weakness. It's always the innocents—the damn children. There's this one—and Robin—and the one who got away—any more up your sleeve I should know about?"

Black Mask's mocking words dissolved into a cold, cruel laugh, just before the connection cut. Batman jumped back as the hat exploded, shattering one of the large windowpanes and narrowly missing his boots. The tracer in his hands faltered, then failed.

The Mad Hatter's face began to fill with glee and scorn, but Batgirl halted his sudden raucous laughter with a nerve pinch, and he fell boneless to the floor.

The boy had stepped away from the wall and was watching her with his mouth slightly open. Batman went to him and touched his arm.

"It's okay," he said in a low tone. "We're not going to hurt you. What's your name?"

The boy ripped his gaze from Batgirl, looked up at Batman and blanched. "Uh…"

"Okay. Where do you live?"

"Uh… um… I dunno."

"Do you really not know or are you just scared to tell me?"

No, thought Batgirl, he's not scared, just… She couldn't find the right word.

"Scared? Nuh-uh." The boy shook his head. "I just think… you're just… so cool."

That was it. Starstruck.

"Well, you're in the minority these days," said Batman.

Batgirl moved noiselessly closer. "Hello," she said softly. "I'm Batgirl."

She had never had a younger brother, had never known what it was like to have someone so young look up to you in awe, and despite her poise, the boy's honest admiration sent a small thrill through her. Most people found her outfit more intimidating and unsettling than anything else.

"I'm… Jonathan."

"Good to meet you, Jonathan," said Batman, taking the boy's hand and shaking it.

Batgirl wished she could say more, but the words would not come. Nor was there time to linger. Sirens approached below—no doubt attracted by the explosion.

"Come. Let's get you out of here," said Batman. He dropped to one knee, indicating that Jonathan should climb up, which the boy did, throwing his arms around Batman's neck and casting wide, excited eyes upon Batgirl, who gave him a thumbs up. He grinned back, no longer—what was that word again?—nervous.

As quickly as they could, Batman and Batgirl escorted Jonathan to the ground, in time for a couple of police cars to race up towards them.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to go now," Bruce told Jonathan in a low voice. "Just tell the officers exactly what happened." He rested a hand briefly on the boy's shoulder, then grappled away with Batgirl, close enough so that they could hear the cacophony of police voices over the sirens.

"I need a canvas on a twelve-block radius, stat!"

"I'm Officer Wahl. Everything's all right now. Are you okay? What did they do to you? Did they hurt you?"

"They'll make sure he gets home safely," said Batman. They watched Jonathan answer the police officers, but when he finally drew breath, Officer Wahl interrupted him to yell, "Peter! We're gonna need a therapist here! The Bats really messed this kid up!"

Batgirl clenched her fists. Had Wahl even listened to Jonathan?

"They see what they want to see," Batman said shortly. "There's nothing else we can do here." He turned away and Batgirl followed, feeling helpless. She knew how sharply their relationship with the GCPD had deteriorated over the past few months, had witnessed car chases and shootings and seen the destruction of the Batsignal, but this was different. Personal.

"It's like in the beginning," Batman told her later, when they were back in the Batcave. It was as if he knew why she had been even quieter than usual. Or maybe he was just voicing his own thoughts?

"No police liaisons," he continued, his voice harsh. "No public support."

She shook her head. "Not the same."

He looked over at her then—he was still wearing the cowl, but she could see the thoughtfulness lining his jaw, the unyielding determination in the set of his shoulders.

"True," he acknowledged. "I know things now I couldn't have then—about my capabilities, about Gotham…"

"No," she contradicted him again. "You have… us."

You're not alone.

She had wandered the world for nine fear-filled, guilt-ridden, lonely years, unable to speak or even understand language. She knew what it was like to be alone, and was determined to never be alone again. Because if she was alone, that would mean that he had left her forever.

There had been something unknown weighing on Batman when he had summoned her to the Batcave after the gang war. She had seen it in his unmasked face, had sensed the way it bit at him and tinted his actions and perceptions. It wasn't the barely hidden relief, or the aching remorse, but something that had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with something else. Someone else?

"Yes," Batman said slowly, and again she saw the unidentifiable heaviness cross his face. He smiled a little, meeting her eyes with gratitude, but still the albatross hung from his neck.

A secret.

Whatever it was, Cassandra knew that she had to find out.

ROBIN

It had been a wonderful day, right up until Barbara's call. Tim relaxed in the passenger seat while Dana drove them home, reflecting.

It was she who had arranged the visit to Tim's new school. There were times when she felt that she had not done as much for Tim as he needed. Yes, she had helped him get back on track after his schooling had been interrupted by the earthquake, but she still had the impression that there was something he was missing when he was at home with her and Jack.

The obvious answer was that Tim still keenly felt his mother's absence, but that didn't seem right, somehow. Up until a couple of months before the gang war, he had spent much of his time away from home, whether it was at engineering vocational school on the weekends or working on an internship with Bruce Wayne, and seemed remarkably well-adjusted for a boy who had suffered extraordinary amounts of trauma and upheaval over the past three years. Then Jack had dragged Tim home from Wayne Manor several months ago and declared that both the engineering vocational school and the internship were off. Dana had tried to placate Jack, to talk to Tim, but the boy remained white-faced and silent as he went to his room and shut the door. Nor had Dana been able to get more information out of either Jack or Tim then or since.

Today's introduction to and subsequent tour of Gotham City High School had gone well, even without Jack, who had complained of a headache and elected to stay home, dampening Tim's spirits somewhat.

"Are you still seeing Stephanie?" Dana asked Tim at lunch, trying to cheer him up.

Tim, who had just taken a bite of his cafeteria hot dog, choked.

"Uh… yeah… it's kind of complicated," he said. "Steph hasn't been well lately. She was injured during the gang war."

"Oh, no! I'm sorry to hear that, Tim." Dana waited, but when Tim didn't volunteer any more information, she asked, "Did you want to make her some more soup?"

"Maybe," said Tim, sounding doubtful. "Well… I think she has better food that I could ever cook. She's recovering at the Manor with Bruce and Alfred."

Dana was surprised. She hadn't realised that Bruce and Stephanie knew each other, but now a lot more things made sense. "Is that why you stayed over there for a few days?"

He nodded, seeming slightly more relaxed. "I didn't mean to worry you," he said, so softly that she hardly made out the words.

He's sixteen, Dana reminded herself. Of course he wanted to make sure his girlfriend was safe. "It's all right," she told him, making sure she caught his eye so that he could detect the truth in the words. "I was worried, but I trust you to take care of yourself. And I'm glad that Steph has you and Bruce and Alfred to look out for her."

Tim was watching her while he ate, as if trying to tell if she were lying, and Dana wanted to reach out and touch his arm, reassure him that she only wanted the best for him and Steph.

"Tim," she said.

"Yes?"

"You can say no, but… I was wondering, would you tell me about when you were young? About your mother?"

Tim only continued to look at her without speaking, his face unreadable.

"I understand if you don't want to," Dana added. "It's just that there's so much of you I don't about, and I would love to get to know you better—not as a mother, but as a friend. As the woman who moved into your house and married your father." She was relieved to see the corners of Tim's mouth turn up at her last words, the tension between them dissipating.

"I… it's not all that interesting," Tim said. "One of my earliest memories is of going to the circus with Mom and Dad and getting a picture with the acrobats." He smiled a little, but whether it was bittersweet or just reminiscent, Dana couldn't tell. "I was really into Batman and Robin then—like most kids. When I got older, Mom and Dad started travelling more, and I went to boarding school until I was thirteen."

She didn't have to ask what happened when he was thirteen. Tim was looking past her, gaze clouded.

"After… after Haiti, while Dad was in a coma, Bruce and Alfred took me in, and I was homeschooled for the rest of junior high. Then, Bruce enrolled me in Gotham Heights High so I could be closer to Dad. He even arranged for me to study in Paris after Mom's funeral, take my mind off things—it's one of the best things anyone's ever done for me."

This was new information to Dana. She filed it away to remember later, along with the slight smile—she suspected it was unconscious—that Tim had when he finished speaking. "And then your dad went to a health resort in England, right?"

"Yeah," said Tim. "Bruce and Alfred went as well, and I stayed in Gotham with Mrs Mac. Then Dick came to house-sit at the Manor, so I hung out with him a lot. That's when we really got to know each other well." By Tim's tone, Dana sensed that there was more brotherly affection there than the words let on.

"I'm glad that you have so many people in your corner," she told him.

Tim nodded in agreement. It was only when they'd finished lunch and she was gathering their dirty paper napkins to throw out that Tim said, "Dana."

She stopped. "Yes, Tim?"

"I… uh…" Tim scratched his neck. "Thanks for—thanks for doing this. You didn't have to."

"I know I didn't have to, but I wanted to. I'm sorry your father couldn't come, but I hope I've been good company."

"You have," said Tim easily. "Listen, Dana… uh, after… all this…" He gestured at the school around them.

"Yes?"

"Do you want to meet my mom?"

Dana caught herself before she could let out any reaction that might spook him or make him reconsider. Instead she said, steadfastly ignoring the way her eyes had filled with tears, "I would be honoured."

Tim beamed.

Afterwards, on the way home from the graveyard, Dana watched Tim from the corner of her eye as she drove. She could see some of Jack in him, had noticed the shared jawline and thick black hair on the day they'd first met, but now she realised that Tim's clear blue eyes and finer features must have been inherited from his mother.

Her musings were interrupted by a beeping from Tim's pocket. Frowning, Tim pulled out a round, unfamiliar device and pressed a button on its side.

Immediately, a woman's voice, urgent yet controlled, said, "Tim, come in."

"Barbara?" said Tim, his eyes flicking to his left as he spoke. "I'm with Dana. What's going on?"

It had been a wonderful day, right up until Barbara's call.

DETECTIVE COMICS

"So, Black Mask's become Gotham's reigning crime lord—just fucking charming." Selina pushed up her goggles and sighed. "But that's not all you came to tell me. Is it, Bruce?"

Bruce shook his head. The two of them were standing on an East End rooftop under the overcast night sky. With the barest of details, he told her about Jack Drake's death and the conclusion of the Dibny case. Selina's face was pale by the time he finished.

"Damn. Is there any way I can help?"

"No. The case has been closed." Captain Boomerang was dead, and Jean Loring was in Arkham.

"That's not what I meant—I was thinking of the poor kid," Selina murmured, with uncharacteristically open sympathy. "He's staying with you now?"

"Yes—and his stepmother." How long that would last, though, Bruce had no idea. He shifted uncomfortably. "Has Leslie contacted you at all?"

"Not since you last asked."

Bruce reached into his utility belt, pulled out a letter and handed it to Selina. "This came today." He watched as her gloved finger traced the envelope's handwritten address: Bruce Wayne, 1313 Mockingbird Ln, Gotham City, NJ. There was an Ethiopian postmark, but no return address.

"She sent you a letter?!"

Wordlessly, he indicated to her to open it. He had known that she would recognise Leslie's old-fashioned handwriting. Alfred had, too… had handed Bruce the letter in stony silence, and then stood by while Bruce slit the flap and unfolded the contents—a single sheet of lined notepaper that read:

Dear Bruce,

I'm going to take the cowardly approach and only send this letter once I arrive in Africa. By now, you or one of your many associates will have discovered that the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic is closed for good. I'm working with an organisation devoted to fighting disease. Don't try to contact me.

Jason deserved a better life, and Stephanie does too. I can't stop you, but I refuse to enable you any longer. My conscience won't allow it. I know you're angry about the choice that I tried to make that night. I won't discuss it anymore—we've both made our feelings clear. Alfred can manage any further medical issues that may arise in your line of work—but if he can't, maybe you should take that as a hint.

I wish I could say I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm not sorry for trying to give a child a better life. I only wish I could have done the same for you, before it was too late.

Goodbye, Bruce.

Leslie Thompkins

Bruce had read the letter twice without stopping, then returned it to its envelope without a word to Alfred, who was watching him intently. Part of him felt relieved by Leslie's departure. He had dreaded having to explain why their reliance on her had been severed so completely, and now she had provided him with a practical excuse.

"She's relocated to Africa," he told Alfred brusquely. "Don't expect to hear anything else from her."

"Sir…" Bruce could see that Alfred had a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue, but as soon as he opened his own mouth, he saw Stephanie's bruised and still face, heard the shrill ring of the flatlining heart monitor and the terrible lie that Leslie had told him. His breath caught in his throat, and a moment passed before he was able to say, "There's nothing to discuss, Alfred."

Selina gave the letter back to Bruce. "That's cold," she said, and this time her voice had a hard edge to it.

His lips twisted as he nodded. Leslie's decision to mention Jason was unconscionable. Of course Jason deserved a better life. He had deserved to live. If somebody had somehow faked Jason's death for the sole purpose of separating him from Bruce, from his father… Bruce's stomach dropped as the familiar pain ghosted through him. How could Leslie have done that to Stephanie's mother—to Tim—to Bruce?

"What does Alfred think?"

Bruce crumpled the letter in his fist. "He doesn't know."

Selina stared. "You can't be serious. You took Spoiler away from that place without an explanation?"

"He knows that Leslie left Gotham. He doesn't need—nobody needs to know anything else." If Bruce had not been able to tell Dick what his childhood doctor had done—Dick, who was a grown man and whom Bruce trusted with his life—there was no chance that he would be able to tell Alfred, who had known Leslie as long as Bruce himself could remember.

If Leslie wanted Alfred to know, she would have told him, a part of him whispered.

Alfred deserves to know, no matter what, another part countered.

"I take it that I'm the only one you've told," Selina said flatly. "Come on, Bruce, if no one else, at least tell Spoiler. It's her health."

Bruce turned away from her, watching the grey skyline. "I didn't come to hear your advice," he lied.

"Then you shouldn't have made it my business," she argued. "This is huge. You know you can't keep it secret forever."

Why not? he wanted to ask, but he knew she was right. Perhaps when things were more settled—when Steph recovered, when Tim and Dana left, when Dick was well again, when Cassandra's adoption was finalised, when the crime situation in Gotham stabilised—he would be able to cast his mind back to that crucial night in the clinic, to think about Leslie without the rawness of her betrayal leaving him shocked and silent. Bruce opened his mouth and tried again to form the words, imagining Stephanie in front of him as he attempted to explain why he had suddenly removed her from the medical care he'd taken her to in the first place:

Leslie faked your death. She would have let everyone think that you were dead and then taken you far away from Gotham and everyone you know, all because of me.

Or…

There's something I never told you about the night Robin and I brought you to the Manor. Tim, you should hear this too.

And then Bruce saw Tim grinning bravely at Leslie while she checked him over with a frown, remembered how Leslie had worked tirelessly to save Dick after that terrifying night with Two-Face, how she had been so glad to see Bruce when he returned to Gotham after years abroad, how she had cared for him after his parents' deaths and in all the years since—until those weeks ago.

The rest of Bruce's fumbled explanations fled his mind. He could only say to Selina in hollow agreement, "I know."

Sources:

The opening scene is based on Detective Comics #800, and Selina's opening line in the last scene is from the same issue.

The supposed engineering vocational school, which was really Tim's weekends in San Francisco with the Teen Titans, was mentioned in Teen Titans (2003) #8.

Tim got his picture taken with the Flying Graysons in Batman #436 (Batman: Year Three), and this was recounted in Batman #441 (Batman: A Lonely Place of Dying).

The events in Haiti occurred in Detective Comics #618-621 (Batman: Rite of Passage).

Tim "studied" in Paris (as part of his Robin training) in Robin (1991).

The health resort cover story for Jack Drake's kidnapping is from Detective Comics #668 (Batman: Knightquest).

Dick lived in Wayne Manor while he was Batman in Batman: Prodigal.

Wayne Manor's address is 1313 Mockingbird Lane, according to Batman #648 (Batman: Under the Hood). Of course, this address is an Easter egg of its own.

"That terrifying night with Two-Face" is in Robin: Year One.