Chapter 3: Flotsam and Jetsam

And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.
—William Butler Yeats, "A Prayer for My Daughter" (excerpt)

BATMAN

Although the clock tower had been destroyed—and all of Oracle's equipment with it—Bruce knew that Barbara kept a specially encrypted cell phone on her person at all times, in case of emergency. It was this phone that he attempted to call now, sitting alone in the chill of the Batcave in front of the computer. He and Barbara had not been on the best of terms for a while now, and their last meeting had cemented that.

Pull yourself together. You need to fix this.

His call was answered after the third ring.

"Hello?" The word was hushed, but he recognised her voice.

Bruce took a deep breath. "Barbara, it's Bruce."

"What?" There was the sound of shuffling, and when she spoke again, it sounded slightly different, as if she'd moved to another room. "For God's sake! Do you know what time it is?"

The clock on the computer read 0342. "I doubt you were asleep."

She let out a tiny, mirthless laugh. "Somehow, I don't think it would have mattered to you either way."

"Where are you? Are you safe?"

"I'm fine. I'm at Dad's place. Actually, I—never mind. What do you want?"

Bruce paused. The words that he had managed to force out earlier when speaking to Tim and Cassandra did not seem to come this time. Barbara was different in some way—perhaps because she was older, perhaps because she had never allowed him to treat her like a child.

He thought of the determined girl he had reluctantly taken under his wing more than ten years ago, and he thought of that terrible year which had taken so much from both of them. He remembered the steely resolve in her eyes earlier that night as she blew up her livelihood and forced him to abandon his self-imposed kamikaze mission and save her life, and he hated himself because he did not know what to say. He had never known what to say.

I want to thank you for never pulling punches… I want to apologise… I want to—

His silence had been too long; he heard her breathe out sharply through her nose. "Or am I not good enough for the Big Bad Bat anymore?"

"Barbara… are you all right?"

"I… what? I'm fucking homeless! Do you THINK I'm all right?"

Communication was like chewing sandpaper. He instinctively wanted to press his lips together, but he forced the words out instead.

"I'm sorry." For everything…

On the other end of the line, Bruce was sure he heard a sharp inhale. Then, Barbara sighed. "Bruce, I can't have this conversation over the phone at four in the morning, okay? I need time to decompress and figure out where to go from here."

"B—"

"No, you listen to me for once. I'm twenty-eight. I have a job. I'm damn good at what I do. And if you can't get the stick from out of your ass enough to learn the difference between making the best use of my skills and treating me like a glorified telephone operator, then something's going to give."

He swallowed thickly, trying to formulate an answer, but not for the first time that night, his thoughts were interrupted.

"Bruce… what happened to Stephanie?"

"She's safe," he answered, perhaps a little too hastily. "Stable and resting at the Manor."

"Okay." Her tone was softer. "And… how is Dick?"

"He'll recover."

"Okay," she said again. "Let's talk tomorr— later today. I'll come over." Bruce opened his mouth, but there was a faint beep, and the line went dead.

She had hung up on him!

Bruce leant back in his chair. Interrogations were one thing. He knew just the right words and body language to make the toughest perpetrators tremble. He was also familiar with portraying the breezy, confident Bruce Wayne who threw galas and was late to board meetings. But he had never been good at conversations in which he was forced to communicate the thoughts and emotions that he rarely acknowledged, even to himself. In the past, he had simply avoided such topics, but he had already made that mistake too many times.

The monitor in front of him was blank, reflecting only the walls of the cave. Staring into the familiar darkness, Bruce recalled Cassandra standing before him, clear and sturdy as an oak in the wind and saying, "Going to clean up and rest. You should, too."

He took her advice. Slowly.

He shed his boots and gauntlets and the heavy layers of the Batsuit. He stepped into one of the cave's showers and scrubbed until he was finally free of the sweat and dust and grime of the past days. Then, he turned off the water and dried his aching body. The stubble on his jaw and neck was beginning to annoy him, so he took out a razor and shaved as well. Despite having remained Batman for a prolonged period this time, he found that the scrapes and bruises that littered his skin were surprisingly few. This did not reassure him at all. Just another way in which others had suffered more from the hubris of his gang war contingency plan than himself.

After showering, Bruce did not go upstairs, but instead turned on the computer and began the habitual process he had taught his own charges: writing a detailed, impartial, factual report of the night's events. Usually, he would have insisted that Tim produce a report of his own before leaving the Batcave, but Bruce had deliberately let it slide tonight, and so was surprised when he noticed that Tim had in fact saved an unfinished report, ending with, Sorry, Bruce—will finish tomorrow. Presumably, it was then that Alfred had persuaded the teenager to go to bed.

Bruce had discovered, over the many years since he had first become Batman, that on the rare nights in which he stayed home for one reason or another, insomnia often seemed to strike at the same time. In fact, it was in the fleeting hours just before the dawn that he was the most impatient, the most wide awake. However, as with everything else, he had developed a solution that was key to temporarily soothing his restless soul.

Working from youngest to oldest, he checked on Tim first. The room that Tim occupied was a comfortably sized guest room down the hall from Bruce's own; it had been set aside for him ever since Wayne Manor had been redesigned and rebuilt after No Man's Land. But it never been used with any regularity, and this was reflected in its bare walls and impersonal décor. A handful of books on the nightstand. Perhaps some clothes in the wardrobe. None of the colourful posters and hand-picked furniture that Dick had insisted on as a teenager (much to Alfred's chagrin).

Tim was sleeping so deeply and lay so still under the covers that Bruce was certain Alfred had sedated him. However, a faint frown still creased the teenager's brow; gently, Bruce reached out a thumb and smoothed the worry lines away. Then, he waited, just listening to the sound of Tim's even breathing in the darkness before he bent and pressed a kiss to Tim's forehead.

He had never done that before, and his own impetuousness shocked him for a second, so that he had to quickly exit the room and pause in the dimness of the window-lit corridor. What are you doing, Bruce? You know you're not the boy's father.

No, I'm not, he conceded, wrestling with something he could not name. But I'm as good as… or I could be.

Immediately, he aborted that train of thought. Tim's father was alive, and Bruce knew that whatever faults Jack Drake possessed, Tim still loved and respected his dad. It would do everyone involved a disservice if Bruce entertained fantasies that would never take wing.

Right now, the most important thing is a father knowing his son is okay.

Bruce was sure he believed that, but nevertheless… he could not deny his own enormous relief at Tim's wellbeing. What that revealed about his own relationship with Tim was a bridge he was not prepared to cross. Not yet.

As Alfred had said, Bruce found Stephanie next door to Tim, in a guest room much similar to the previous. She looked marginally better than she had at the clinic, though Alfred had inserted a drip and connected her to a heart monitor from the Batcave's medical area. Her face was clean and her hair washed, with the high level of attention to detail that Alfred possessed. Bruce checked her vitals while he tried to rally his thoughts.

Tomorrow. He would tell her tomorrow. After all she had suffered, after how he had manipulated her… she deserved that much.

Further down the hall, Cassandra was in the room opposite Bruce's own. Quieter than ever, he eased open the door and stepped inside, careful not to let any new shadow or light cross her face. Even though she had made enormous progress since they had first met, he didn't doubt her ability to spring into action at the slightest hint of danger. But now, she was still and peaceful, and this simple fact satisfied him the way almost nothing else had for the past few days. There were no worry lines here. Cassandra, who could understand so much about other people by reading the way they moved, still revealed nothing in her own countenance.

Bruce dared not risk disturbing Cassandra by kissing her in the same way that he had kissed Tim, and yet the possibility still entered his mind. Instead, he studied her face as if she would vanish if he looked away. Asleep, she appeared several years younger; the contrast between her multitude of scars and the youthful roundness of her face sickened him. His eyes ached with tiredness, but he did not leave until he had memorised every single scar, until he felt a burning rage sizzling under his skin for the crimes of one David Cain.

But you're my girl now, he promised her silently. Not his. Not ever.

Finally, he returned to Dick's room. Alfred was dozing in the chair beside Dick's bed; Bruce crept past, but the old man still stirred. However, Alfred didn't say a word, but merely watched as Bruce checked Dick's vitals, re-tucked the blankets securely and then ran a hand through Dick's hair, which was curling from sweat. He wanted to stay by his son's side for the rest of the night, but when he raised his head, he met Alfred's steady, meaningful gaze.

Alfred opened his mouth, but Bruce was quicker.

"Yeah, I know." He straightened, making his way to the door regretfully. I'll get some sleep, just… take care of him.

Alfred nodded. "Good night, Master Bruce."

"Good night, Alfred."

And then, at last, Bruce slept.

When Bruce awoke, he met Alfred in the kitchen.

"Good morning, Master Bruce." If Alfred was surprised at Bruce's early arrival, he did not show it. "Your breakfast will be ready shortly."

"Don't worry about me. Have you seen any of the others this morning?"

"Master Dick is unconscious and delirious—"

Worry spiked in Bruce's heart. "Still?"

"He's feverish, but I'm also concerned about the haemorrhaging in his leg."

"And the others?"

"As far as I know, they are still in bed, though probably waking soon." Alfred picked up an assembled breakfast tray. "Excuse me, I must take this to Miss Stephanie."

Bruce took the tray out of Alfred's hands with some difficulty. "I'll do it." He quickly left the kitchen before Alfred could protest. Stephanie was awake, he realised as he approached her door. Tim's voice could be heard inside.

"Steph, I told you, I'll get him if you just—"

Bruce eased the door open, silent as a ghost.

"Get who?"

Tim spun around. He was sitting on a chair beside Stephanie's bed, wearing an old tee shirt and mismatching shorts that obviously doubled as pyjamas. His thick black hair stuck up even more than usual, causing him to resemble a porcupine. "Bruce," he said weakly.

Stephanie was propped up against the pillows, body weak but mind obviously wide awake. Bruce noted that Alfred had changed the bandages on her head the night before, and her face had more colour than it had had at the clinic. He stepped forward and set the tray on the night-table.

"Good morning, Stephanie. My name is Bruce Wayne."

Stephanie's mouth dropped open. "Bruce Wayne?" she whispered. "OhmyGod… Batman is Bruce Wayne? Wait, am I supposed to put the pieces together or not? I mean, Batman brings me to the Batcave but then I wake up in a strange house, but Tim is here—but Tim is Robin… If you don't want me to know, maybe you can wipe my memory or something—I mean, I know you don't have superpowers or anything, but I—"

"Steph!" Tim's face was pink. "Stop panicking. It's okay."

Stephanie turned big blue eyes upon Bruce, who was impressed by the alertness of her gaze. "But… why here? You took me to Dr Thompkins' clinic. I thought…" Her face lost what little colour it had held.

Bruce completed her sentence with little difficulty. You thought you were going to die.

Stephanie burst into tears.

Bruce froze. Tim's eyes widened as she buried her head in his shoulder, but he began to rub Stephanie's back—gingerly, Bruce thought.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," Tim soothed, shooting Bruce a meaningful look over Stephanie's shoulder—at least, Bruce knew it was a meaningful look, but he had no idea what specific meaning it held. Hesitantly, he sat down on the end of the bed, pulled out of his pocket a clean handkerchief that had belonged to his father and held it out to Tim.

Tim gave Bruce another indecipherable look, but took the handkerchief and offered it to Stephanie, who sniffled before blowing her nose. However, the tears still flowed as quickly as she wiped them away.

"Am I g-going to die?" she whispered, twisting away from Tim's embrace to address Bruce. "Is that w-why I'm here? What about my mom? D-does she know where I am?"

Bruce's ire from the previous night returned, but he made sure to keep his voice low as he asked, "How much did Leslie tell you?"

Stephanie hiccuped. Another tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto the handkerchief in her lap. Even in the tidy, comfortable pyjamas Alfred had procured for her, she looked a sorry sight.

"She—she didn't tell me anything. Not that I remember."

This time, Bruce's anger must have shown on his face, for Stephanie flinched at his reaction. He was forced to look away and take a long, steadying breath before speaking again. Both teenagers were watching him intently.

"You're not going to die." At this, Tim and Stephanie visibly relaxed, and Stephanie dried the last trails of tears. "You're here because it's safer for you than at the clinic. Your mother does not know where you are. For your safety… the fewer people who know your location, the better."

"Can you tell her that I'm safe? Please?"

He had been planning to do that anyway. "Of course, Stephanie."

"You can just say Steph," she said. "Since I'm here as myself, you might as well call me what everyone else does… Mr Wayne."

Bruce accepted the olive branch by offering one of his own. "Call me Bruce," he corrected. All the others do.

To his horror, Steph's eyes turned watery again. "But—I just—why are you here?" she wailed, between tears. "You're wasting so much time—I've already messed things up enough—you need to stop him!" She buried her face in her arms as if trying to induce Bruce and Tim to leave.

Tim blinked. "Did we not… Steph, the war's over."

Steph raised her head. "W-what? What about Black Mask?"

"Well… he and Batman were fighting, but we couldn't find him after the clock tower blew up—Oracle's fine," Tim added hastily, seeing Steph blanch.

"If he's alive, he'll resurface sooner or later," Bruce interjected. "That's not your concern. You're safe here."

"But I have to make things right! There must be some way I can help!"

Tim sucked in a breath.

Bruce stiffened. You've done enough were the words that jumped to his lips, but he swallowed them just in time, forcing himself to remember Stephanie's plaintive, half-delirious words in the clinic.

I screwed up so bad. It was all me.

"No," he told her. "Right now, the best thing you can do is recover. I don't want you causing trouble for Alfred. He has enough to deal with at the moment. Is that clear?"

Stephanie swallowed and nodded, dry-eyed. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Tim," Bruce addressed the boy haltingly, "When you… get a moment, I want you to finish your report."

Tim nodded. "Okay. I mean, yes, of course."

Once Tim had positioned the breakfast tray on Steph's lap and begun to help her eat, Bruce stood and made to leave. Steph let out a tiny giggle at Tim's sudden awkwardness; Bruce caught sight of a smile tugging at the edge of Tim's lips. The parting image buoyed him as he eased the door shut behind himself and made his way to Dick's room.

Alfred was already there, tucking the blanket over the unconscious and feverish Dick and checking his vitals. Bruce's own breakfast tray sat on the night-table beside the empty chair from the previous night. But Bruce had not expected to see Cassandra perched on the corner of Dick's bed, dressed similarly to Tim and eating a large bowlful of what Bruce recognised as Tim's favourite cereal.

"Master Bruce, I presumed that you would take your breakfast in here with Master Dick?"

Right as always. "Yes. How is he?"

From the bed, Cassandra tipped her chin up and half-smiled a good morning at Bruce, who returned the greeting, though without the smile.

"The same as I reported to you in the kitchen, though this medicine should help with the fever." Alfred finished his ministrations and left the room.

Bruce sat down in the chair and observed Dick. Although not as vocal or agitated as the night before, Dick still twitched and murmured in his sleep, occasionally throwing his head from one side to the other.

"He is… troubled," said Cassandra softly.

Bruce nodded his agreement. I wish I knew how to help him. He reached out a hand and tenderly pushed Dick's hair off his forehead, stroking his son's hot skin. In a jealous, possessive way, he half-wished Cassandra were not in the room. He had spent many nights at Dick's bedside, watching his son grow into a young man before his very eyes, and few things hurt him more than the recollection of their biggest fight, which had culminated in a silence between father and son lasting several stiff, heart-aching years. Dick was his first child. The others that had since come along were no less precious or loved, but Bruce and Dick's connection was—had been—intimately unique.

Cassandra watched his movements with an unidentifiable stare. "How did he become hurt?" He knew she was already aware of the gunshot wound, and was therefore requesting a more detailed summary.

"It was the police," Bruce told her. Undesired, vivid imaginings rose to his mind; just as quickly, he forced them out to make way for what he knew. "When I split us up at the theatre, I sent Nightwing to cover the west side. He quickly got in a fight with Firefly. The police shot at both of them. Nightwing was hit in the leg. Alfred retrieved him and brought him here."

Cassandra herself had been painfully wounded more times than either of them knew or cared to remember, but Bruce detected only sadness in her expression as she processed the words.

What he said next was much more Batman-like, both in tone and in message. "He won't be back on his feet for weeks. I'm relying on you to help me keep Gotham under control."

"What about Robin?" she asked, tilting her head.

If it were up to Tim—and Bruce believed that it should be—then Tim would be Robin without a second thought. But Tim deferred to his father's judgement, and Bruce had no way of knowing if Jack Drake would allow his son to continue his night-time activities now that masked vigilantes were explicitly illegal.

Bruce simply shrugged. "I don't know."

"Catwoman? Onyx?"

"No word." Selina…

"Oracle?" This was said with some trepidation.

"Undecided. You know the clock tower was destroyed."

Cassandra continued to eat her cereal. The silence stretched on, broken only when Alfred appeared in the doorway.

"Sir, Miss Gordon has arrived. Where will you be meeting?"

Moment of truth, Bruce thought. "Send her here, Alfred." He met Cassandra's eyes and was surprised to see her moving silently towards the door.

Sources:

Barbara's encrypted cell phone is my own invention. If its existence creates any canon plot holes, let's just say that it's a very new installation.

"That terrible year" is the one in which the Joker shot Barbara (Batman: The Killing Joke) and murdered Jason (Batman: A Death in the Family).

It's canon that Cassandra eats Tim's cereal. See Robin (1993) #138.

Bruce's description of what happened to Nightwing is based on Nightwing (1996) #98 (Batman: War Games).

Alfred retrieved Nightwing in a flashback in Batman #634 (Batman: War Games).