Chapter 2: Decompression
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (excerpt)
DETECTIVE COMICS
The Batcave was unsurprisingly deserted when they arrived.
"Batman, I know you're going to say I should go home, but I won't," said Robin, meeting Batman at the back of the van with crossed arms. "I don't care if I have to sleep on the floor. I'm not leaving Steph."
Batman, who was detaching the gurney holding the again-sleeping Stephanie from where it had been secured inside the van, simply ordered, "Help me get this out."
Robin complied, still looking sour as they lifted the gurney and wheeled it to the medical area of the Batcave. Bruce would have been able to do it by himself, but he wanted to get a good look at Tim.
Even though Tim had said he'd taken a nap, Bruce thought the teenager looked ready to drop. His hair and exposed skin were still grimy from the war and he seemed to be staggering slightly, as if the adrenaline of the past days had finally been depleted.
"Bruce!" Tim's voice was almost shrill, his body language screaming his need to be heard.
Bruce paused in the act of taking off his cape and cowl.
"Then stay," he said. Tim stilled. Bruce knew he should be encouraging Tim to spend more time with his family, but what came out instead was, "Have a shower. Take all the time you need. Stephanie's not going anywhere—and you know there's always room for you here."
Tim seemed to sag as all the fight went out of his body. He sat down on a bench and removed his domino mask, revealing tired blue eyes with dark shadows beneath. Bruce studied the young face and mentally sighed. Was Tim suffering from exhaustion or just perpetual sleep deprivation?
"How long was Stephanie awake for?" he asked, much more conversationally than he would have said it if he'd still been wearing the cowl. Still, Tim jumped—a highly unusual reaction for one trained so carefully and so well.
Exhaustion, then. And… emotional shock?
"Um, about five minutes, I think. But she was alert, even if she fell asleep right afterwards. Do you know—have you heard anything about Dick?"
As if on cue, Alfred appeared at the foot of the stairs, distracting them both before Bruce had a chance to answer. "It's good to see you back, sirs. Master Dick is currently upstairs in a stable condition."
"Stable?" Tim echoed, immediately noticing Alfred's careful phrasing, as Bruce had.
"He is, however, suffering from a fever due to his gunshot wound," Alfred finished.
Tim blanched, causing the usually unflappable Alfred to frown almost imperceptibly. "Master Bruce, perhaps you could stay with Master Dick while I make Miss Stephanie more comfortable. Master Tim, if you'll come with me…"
Bruce watched Alfred escort a dazed Tim towards the showers. Was there weariness in the old man's steps, or was Bruce's own guilt causing him to see things that weren't there? Had he laid so much on the shoulders of the people around him that he caused them to bend and almost break?
Alfred had not said where Dick was, but Bruce knew Dick would be in the room two doors from his own, the one Dick occupied whenever he stayed overnight at the Manor—which was rare these days. Still wearing the Batsuit but sans the cape and cowl, Bruce eased open the door with some trepidation to find his son asleep but clearly in pain—whether solely physical or also psychological, Bruce could not tell. As he stepped closer, he realised that Dick's lips were moving, mumbled words escaping them. He had thrown the blankets off his upper body and was shivering, but when Bruce removed his gauntlets and pressed the back of his own hand to his son's hot forehead, Dick unconsciously leant into the cool touch, his flushed face relaxing slightly.
Bruce settled himself into the chair at Dick's bedside, taking note of the drip in Dick's arm and bandage on his right femur. The scar from Dick's other recent bullet injury—received as Officer Grayson—was starkly visible on his left arm.
"Stop… no… don't…" Dick mumbled, twisting weakly away from the damp cloth Bruce used to wipe his son's forehead.
"Shh, Dick, it's okay," Bruce soothed, but Dick only grew more agitated.
"Bruce… no… my fault… can't face… no… Bruce…"
Bruce froze, even as he reminded himself that Dick was not in a coherent state of mind by any means, and that any words spoken would be interpreted out of context. Clearly, something was troubling Dick, but that had been obvious ever since Nightwing had set foot in Gotham and rendezvoused with Batman.
"Thank you for coming," Batman said, acknowledging Nightwing's presence on the roof above him.
"Any time," Nightwing said, springing off the roof to land in front of Batman. "So, what're we looking at?"
Batman opened his mouth to answer, then paused, surveying his son. Dick was physically in one piece, but he was pale and sweaty, and his entire stance screamed that something was amiss. Even worse, Dick seemed determined to avoid eye contact—his body was turned towards Bruce, but his face was twisted away, as if he could not bear to meet his father's eyes.
"What's wrong with you?" Bruce asked bluntly.
Dick started, eyes a little too wide. "Me? I'm fine. I—well—actually, things have been a little… I mean, I—I—" He floundered, breathing quickening.
Bruce waited, but though a thousand thoughts appeared to pass through Dick's mind in the next few moments, Dick said only, "I'm fine."
It was a weak response, and Dick seemed immediately aware of his father's scepticism. He had never been skilled at lying to Bruce, and this was reflected in his next words as he amended hurriedly, "Really. I mean, not really, obviously, but I just—I just want to help, just—give me something to do. Please." The last word came out in a whisper.
Bruce was disconcerted, but Gotham was already breaking out into a gang war, and they had work to do. He sent Nightwing to Leslie's clinic to collect intel, but not before warning him, "Whatever it is you're not telling me about, make sure it doesn't follow you here."
Dick had looked ragged; however, even more worrying was Dick's clear reluctance to speak with Bruce. Almost as if he had something to hide… something that he was ashamed of.
Bruce cursed.
What had Dick not been telling him?
The figure in the bed looked so grown-up—a far cry from the distraught twelve-year-old Bruce had first met that night at the circus. At that moment, Bruce could keenly feel the weight of his own years pressing down upon him. He had an adult son. He mentored two teenagers and was about to mentor a third. And Jason—the first child he had adopted—
He'd be an adult, Bruce thought, and the old pain flared up for a moment, sharp and unwelcome, before he could dismiss it. If Jason had lived, he would not now resemble the apparition Bruce had seen at the clinic. He would be a grown man, perhaps tall and muscled and without his teenage scowl. Perhaps he would have given up the Robin mantle. Perhaps—
No. Bruce forced himself to put Jason out of his mind. He remembered that when Dick had been young—perhaps a year or so after he came to live at the Manor—he had received a Christmas gift from Bruce which became one of his favourite possessions for years to come. It was a non-fiction book titled Adrift But Not Becalmed, and it was an anthology of stories about people who had suffered great personal upheaval in childhood and been set "adrift", but refused to stay "becalmed". Instead, through resilience and perseverance, they worked to better their own circumstances.
The book—a flea-market find with a beautifully detailed drawing of a compass on its cover—had been Alfred's suggestion. Bruce had felt it was too on the nose, but thirteen-year-old Dick had adored the book so much that Bruce suspected he slept with it hugged to his chest in lieu of the stuffed elephant of his childhood.
Bruce wondered where the book was now. Dick had never been materialistic, and many of his childhood possessions had been left behind when he moved to Blüdhaven. Some had no doubt been lost when the earthquake had caused Wayne Manor to collapse; those he had taken with him were now gone forever, due to the destruction of his apartment building a few weeks ago.
Caught in the throes of a nightmare, Dick suddenly gasped, throwing his head from side to side and scrabbling at the sheets. Instinctively, Bruce leant forward and brushed Dick's sweaty hair away from his forehead, but this time, Dick pushed the hand away.
Bruce withdrew, trying not to feel stung. He had prior experience of the reaction Dick had displayed, but disregarding fear toxin, that reaction had only come from Jason—never from Dick, who had only ever known loving parents.
Bruce grew more uneasy and concerned. What happened to Dick?
"Master Bruce?" Alfred's gentle voice at the door interrupted Bruce's thoughts.
"How is Tim?" Bruce asked, wrenching his eyes away from Dick's wan face with difficulty.
"Master Tim is sleeping soundly in his usual bedroom," Alfred informed him—sounding satisfied, Bruce thought. He suspected that Alfred had slipped Tim a sedative.
"And Stephanie?"
"She is comfortable and resting in the room adjacent to his."
Upstairs, not in the Batcave, Bruce thought grimly. Stephanie would have to be told. Although, he had planned on telling her once she was well enough to appreciate the gravity of the fact. Bruce wondered briefly how Alfred had known his intentions, then dismissed the thought. Alfred had always been able to read his mind.
"Master Bruce, might I suggest you get some sleep?"
Bruce didn't budge. "You might suggest."
Alfred let out a tiny sniff. Ignoring him, Bruce reached into his utility belt and pulled out a spare com-link.
"Planning on going out, sir? A reminder that it has been over twenty-four—"
Bruce motioned for silence as he spoke into the com-link. "Batgirl, report."
"Things have… slowed down," came the taciturn response. "I stopped the worst. But I can still go for a few more hours."
"No. You've done enough—you've done well. Head to the Batcave. You should rest. We'll talk more when you arrive. Batman out."
He switched off the com-link before she had a chance to answer. He knew Cassandra might wonder why he wanted her to return to the Batcave instead of her own place, but she was unlikely to disobey him—even considering her recent behaviour—and he took full advantage of that knowledge.
Again, Alfred seemed to read Bruce's mind and frowned at him faintly.
"I'm not in the mood, Alfred," Bruce growled.
"For what?" asked Alfred, raising an eyebrow. "Shall I prepare a room for Miss Cassandra?"
"I… yes. Good idea."
"Indeed. Goodnight, Master Bruce." Alfred left Bruce and Dick alone, carefully shutting the door behind himself. Even at his most passive aggressive, Alfred never slammed doors.
Once he was sure Alfred was out of earshot, Bruce let out a tiny groan. Tomorrow's breakfast was sure to be burnt. No doubt Alfred would feel that Bruce deserved it—and, to be perfectly honest, Bruce thought he did. Ever since Orpheus had been murdered by Black Mask, attempts at restoring order to Gotham had gone straight to hell.
For a moment, the desire—the need—to don the cape and cowl seized him. After all, even if he stuck to haunting the night instead of venturing out during the daytime, there were still a couple of hours before dawn. Those hours could be cathartic for him… then again, would it really do much good, now that the gang war was over and its fallout immeasurable?
He stayed put, a silent guardian watching over his son.
Half an hour later, Alfred reappeared.
"Miss Cassandra is downstairs. I recall that you intended to talk with her before even considering getting some rest yourself?"
Bruce nodded, ignoring the icy tone but sparing a glance towards Dick, who had ceased his muttering but still twitched restlessly in his sleep.
"I assure you that I am more than capable of taking care of Master Dick," said Alfred, catching Bruce's eye.
It was extraordinary how quickly Bruce's spirits lifted once he left Dick's room; then again, Dick had a remarkable tendency to affect the mood of those around him. When he was happy and optimistic, Bruce found it difficult to keep a smile off his own face; when Dick was down, it was as if storm clouds were blocking the sun. But Bruce had never felt such intense distress radiating from Dick before, and it staggered him.
Cassandra was standing in the Batcave when he arrived. She had removed her stitched hood but was still clad in her distinctive Batgirl costume, short black hair just brushing her chin. When she saw him, she stepped forward almost cautiously, scrutinising him before saying, "You are not… angry."
"Should I be?"
She gave a tiny shrug—a mannerism she had picked up from Stephanie. "You were very… brief earlier. Sharp. I wondered if I had done something wrong. Again."
He studied her face and realised she was being serious. Cassandra had previously expressed her dislike of the com-links, Bruce remembered. After all, it was impossible to read body language when you relied solely on audio communication. But his harsh tone had belied his words. He was proud of her, but perhaps his message had not conveyed that sentiment as well as he'd intended.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he confirmed. I'm sorry that I've forgotten how to speak to my family without sounding like a dictator. I've never found it easy to tell any of you how proud of you I am, but I hope you know I can't bear the thought of losing you. "I was just…" concerned. "You are unhurt?"
She nodded, giving him one of her rare smiles. It was wide and brilliant, and it filled Bruce with warmth and strength.
"The police are still… hostile," she informed him. "But… too busy to shoot at me."
Relief flooded him. He had not fully realised how taut he had been all night—first for Stephanie, then for Tim, then for Dick and now for Cassandra. She was exceptionally capable, but that logical reassurance nevertheless did not entirely assuage the brief helplessness he felt when he thought of any member of his family facing a gun intended for them. And yet, they risked their lives every single night. What was so different about now?
He began his sentence before he knew its ending. "Cassandra, I…" Want you to stay here, so I know you'll be safe…
She spoke at the same time, beating him to the punch. "Where is Spoiler?"
Bruce suddenly felt sick. How could he have remembered to contact Robin but treated Batgirl as an afterthought? He knew they were good friends, perhaps even as close as Tim and Stephanie.
"She is stable and sleeping upstairs."
"Injured?"
"Yes." Badly.
"You should have told me." Quiet anger laced the words.
He bowed his head. "I know." I'm sorry. "I radioed you because I wanted you to stay here and rest."
"Here… downstairs?"
"Upstairs. There's a room for you in the Manor, for as long as you need it. I said the same to Tim. I just… I want…" Cassandra, I hope you can tell what I mean… because these are the words that I can't say out loud.
"What about my place?"
"It's still yours," he assured her. She had a point, but it was infuriating how all the difficulties he—they—had faced during the gang war were overwhelmingly easier to overcome than the simple act of explaining his motives to Cassandra, making sure she knew just what—just how much he—
"But…" he tried again, and she waited. Trying to find the right words, Bruce recalled the conversation they had had not long ago, directly after the Soul incident:
He sat against the rough stone, his arms wrapped around her as she clutched him tightly—like she had never done before—and whispered, "He never let me touch him… hold him… Just fighting… and hurting…"
Her head had been against his chest; now, she sat up, but she pressed her hand to his heart as if she could not bear to let him go. His own hand closed on top of hers as their eyes met and she continued, "You hurt me, too, when you sent me away."
"I need to know once and for all where your loyalties lie, Cassandra. With your father?… Or Barbara?" He thought he knew what her answer would be, but could not resist adding, "Or me?"
Her gaze shifted down, and he sensed rather than felt her small finger pressing the bat symbol on his armoured chest as she said, "No, not you. This."
Her answer had not been unexpected, and yet it had provoked an unidentifiable ache inside him. Hadn't he impressed upon her the importance of their mission? Hadn't she been disinterested in Barbara's attempts to help her lead a normal life? What, then, was the reason for his profound sense of loss?
Cassandra still stood in front of him, now, and he did not know whether she had seen or understood the multitude of emotions which had crossed his mind and perhaps might have crossed his face as well.
He had asked the wrong question, he realised. Loyalty was one thing. On the other hand…
"It's not that you're not… capable," he began. "It's just that—with the police against us, and Nightwing down—we have a lot of work to do, and it's best done by working together." That didn't come out quite right. "But, outside of that…"
Why couldn't he just say what he meant, damn it! "Outside of that, I want you to know that you are as much a part of the family as Dick and Tim." He took a slow, measured breath. "And that will never change."
Cassandra's brown eyes watched him for a moment, then she stood on her tiptoes and gently pulled his face down until she was able to kiss him on the cheek, which she did. The gesture floored Bruce; for a moment, he stood stock-still, mesmerised by the strength and sensitivity of this young woman whom he loved like a daughter.
"Going to clean up and rest," she said, flashing him another wide grin before departing in the direction of the showers. "You should, too."
Bruce hesitated, considering. Cassandra's perceptive gaze and simple words were more persuasive than Alfred's earlier admonishment. However, they weren't enough to make him forget his resolve. Perhaps he wouldn't go out as Batman, but there was still someone else he had to contact. Someone who had every right to ignore him after he how he had treated her recently.
Bruce grimaced.
Sources:
Being familiar with Devin Grayson's run in Nightwing (1996) #71-95 and Cassandra Cain as Batgirl in Batgirl (2000) #1-54 will provide you with some backstory, but everything you need to know will eventually be explained.
Canon is inconsistent about how old Dick was when his parents died, so I've chosen the age that I prefer, based on Batman #416.
Dick took up the mantle of Batman for the first time in Batman: Prodigal.
Dick was shot in the arm as Officer Grayson by Deathstroke in Nightwing (1996) #80.
Nightwing's conversation with Batman when they first met up during the gang war is from Nightwing (1996) #96.
A devastating earthquake hit Gotham and caused Wayne Manor to collapse in Batman: Cataclysm.
It's unclear in canon when Steph learns Batman's identity, but she didn't know it when she was Robin, as Batman told her, "You're on probation, and as long as that's in effect, you don't learn any of the big secrets," in Robin (1993) #126 and never took his cowl off around her. (Robin 80th Anniversary 100-Page Super Spectacular unfortunately forgets this detail.)
"Master Bruce, might I suggest you get some sleep?" and Bruce's answer of "You might suggest" are a direct reference to Batman #431, which takes place shortly after Jason's death.
Batman's conversation with Batgirl after the Soul incident is from Batgirl (2000) #50, which also contains the full significance of Cassandra kissing Bruce on the cheek.