Chapter 4: The Division Bell
I murmured a vow of silence and now
I don't even hear when I think aloud
—Pink Floyd, "Wearing the Inside Out" (excerpt)
DETECTIVE COMICS
"No, thank you, Alfred; I've eaten." Barbara Gordon wheeled herself into Dick's room, shutting the door behind her. "Hello, Bruce. Did I see Cassie leave just now?"
"Yes." Do you have something to do with that?
Barbara sighed, apparently reading the question in Bruce's tone. "I didn't realise she was staying with you. I need to apologise to her again. Her last solo mission… we didn't end it on good terms. I lost my temper. Yelled at her for things I knew she couldn't help because I wished I could do everything myself."
"Hmm."
"That makes me sound like a hypocrite, I know." Barbara watched Dick's fluttering eyelids with a sad, pensive frown. "What I mean to say is… we've both made mistakes, Bruce. But I'm not here to talk about that."
Bruce waited.
"After you called me this morning, I didn't go to sleep. I was too angry at you and your horrible communication skills. But now, thinking about how burnt out I've been with juggling you and Cass and the Birds of Prey, not to mention breaking up with Dick…"
At the sound of his name, Dick twitched in his sleep, throwing an arm out from under the covers. Automatically, Bruce reached out to hold his son's hand, which was hot from fever.
"I didn't realise he was this bad," Barbara said softly, not taking her eyes off Dick.
"He's strong. He'll survive."
"Has… has he been lucid at all?"
"Not since Alfred brought him here."
"Look, Bruce, I don't mean to pry…"
"Then don't."
"… okay, I do mean to pry. Don't you think it's time to… maybe… take a break? You've given this city so much, and now you're back to square one. The GCPD's shooting costumed vigilantes on sight, and who knows where Black Mask is now. Dick's seriously injured. Stephanie almost died because she was so desperate to prove herself to you. And I'm sure Tim's going to crash, if he hasn't already. With the way he was overcompensating earlier—"
"You've made your point," he bit out.
She gave him a withering glare that could have rivalled one of Alfred's. "You've made your point? Is that really all you're going to say? Your family is coming apart at the seams and you're too busy playing war games to care!"
Bruce swallowed. The weight of her accusations made it hard to think. He knew there was much that he could have done better in the past few days or weeks or even months. But while she had chosen to visit the Manor, he remembered that he also had something he wanted to discuss with her—something she had brought up during the gang war that regarded both Dick and Tarantula:
"She murdered Blüdhaven's last Chief of Police. And frankly, I have my suspicions about what really happened to Blockbuster. It wouldn't be above Dick to be protecting her just because they've slept together. Have you even asked him what he—"
"You mentioned," he began, bracing himself for an acerbic remark that he was proving her point, "that you had your suspicions about what really happened to Blockbuster." Help me help Dick. Please.
She sighed again, as if resigned to the change in subject. "Yeah. There were no security cameras near enough to capture more than the ground outside the building that night, and Blüdhaven's police records are incomplete at best—and highly suspicious at worst."
"… And?" he prompted, sensing that Barbara bit her tongue at the last moment.
"I haven't been able to investigate further, but… word on the street is that Nightwing killed Blockbuster."
"Impossible," Bruce said immediately. The very idea was absurd. But Dick was immensely upset about something, and Bruce was determined to find out what it was. After all, when he himself had been framed for the murder of Vesper Fairchild, Dick had been the only member of the family who had held an unwavering belief in Bruce's innocence. "Give me facts, not speculation."
"Okay." Barbara took a deep breath. "Blockbuster was shot in the stairwell of the hotel Maxine Michaels—that's the journalist who was also shot dead—was using. I know that she was investigating Nightwing. Blockbuster was killed with a .38, but she was shot with a very different gun."
"Were you in contact with Nightwing at all that night?"
She shook her head, glancing away for a second. "No, it was awkward enough—look, never mind. I tried tracking him once I heard of Blockbuster's death the next day, but he'd either disabled his location signaller or it got damaged, I don't know which. When he finally picked up, I told him what had happened. I knew that Tarantula carried a hand gun, so I asked Dick if he knew whether or not she still had that gun."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing. He hung up. I didn't speak to him again until the gang war."
"But you suspect Tarantula shot Blockbuster."
Barbara raised an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted facts, not speculation?"
Mindful not to disturb Dick, Bruce kept his mouth shut until he could respond without irritation in his tone. "What is your theory?" he asked at last.
"I don't have a theory as such," she corrected. "There's no conclusive evidence. I know you have a one-track mind sometimes, but you must have noticed how awkward he was around her during the gang war. He was annoyed that you recruited her, but he was also… skittish. She has a talent for getting under the skin. I wondered, afterwards, if she was trying to hold something over him."
"You're right," he cut her off. "No conclusive evidence." But I'll look into it… and her.
"You did ask," she pointed out.
Silence held the room for a while, punctuated only by the sound of Dick's steady breathing as he slept.
Dick did vouch for Tarantula, but he gave mixed messages… his first reaction was to call her his "stalker", but once he found her trying to take control of the Latino Unified Gang, he said that he owed her a second chance…
"You know I've always been honest with you, Bruce…"
"I appreciate that."
"With everything that's happened recently, but especially last night… I've been thinking about leaving Gotham."
His heart thudded; for a moment, he could barely think. He had not fully realised how much he had come to rely on her authoritative presence and steady stream of intel until now—this moment when it could be snatched away from him.
"Barbara…" I'm sorry to hear that.
"No. Let me speak." Barbara's jaw was tight, blue eyes glimmering with emotion. It was several moments before she swallowed and looked down.
"You put me in a terrible position," she whispered, idle fingers tapping her lap in harsh, jerky movements. "I had to sacrifice so much to make you save yourself—to make you save me. The mainframe is gone. I have some files on safe location backup, but most of my data… it's history. Not to mention the originals of all my family photographs. Pictures my mother took and held in her own hands. Old… outfits I couldn't bear to give up."
Bruce's stomach lurched at the tremor in Barbara's voice.
"Families are built on trust," she continued. "This isn't the first time something like this has happened, but if I leave Gotham, I won't have to deal with the next time. Because I'm not sure that I can. Or want to."
"I understand." I wouldn't want to deal with me, either. God knows how any of you have put up with me for so long.
"See, Bruce… I need to know that for sure. Regardless—if you won't take a break, I will. As of today, Oracle is off active duty. You can reroute what's left of my systems into the Batcave, but I won't be available unless there's an emergency."
"I'll… miss you," he murmured. We all will.
"Oh, you're strong," Barbara replied, irony lacing her tone. "You'll survive." Her sardonic smile vanished as Dick stirred again, turning his face towards her in his sleep. Her slender hand reached out to stroke his cheek; he relaxed, but she drew her hand away as quickly as it had come. She took off her glasses and turned away from Bruce, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
When she spoke again, her voice had a tiny catch in it. "Look, I need to find Cassandra." She began manoeuvring her wheelchair towards the door. "Goodbye, Bruce. I'll keep in touch."
As far as Bruce knew, Tim didn't leave the Manor at all that day. When Bruce returned from a long afternoon at Wayne Enterprises, he found the house's occupants in much the same state as he had left them. The subsequent dinner was a quiet affair. Tim remained broody and pensive and Cassandra betrayed nothing in her face or actions. It was only when Batman met them in the Batcave that night that most of the tension dissipated.
"We don't know what the city will be like now," he began. "Tonight's agenda is to find out. Tim, don't bother putting that on. You're staying here."
Tim, who was dressed in his Robin gear and just about to apply glue to his mask, stopped and sputtered, "What? Why?"
"I need you here," Batman said simply.
Tim opened his mouth again, clearly ready to protest, but was chastised by Batman's intense glare and remained silent.
"Batgirl and I will patrol Gotham. Stay here. Alfred needs your help with Dick and Stephanie." I know you're capable, but I don't think you're in the right frame of mind just yet… and I'd feel much better if I knew exactly what it's like out there now.
"Could have told me before I got changed," Tim mumbled. However, a worry line appeared in his forehead at the reminder of Dick and Stephanie's conditions, and he made no further objection. When he had vanished up the stairs, Bruce turned to Cassandra.
"It is important to record everything so that we can identify crime patterns if and when they arise. If you are going to continue patrolling, I want you keep records of your cases." He did not add that most, if not all, of the case files in the Batcave's computer were typed documents, meticulously formatted and organised. "With that in mind… do you know what this is?" He showed her a small object, but she shook her head.
"It's a voice recorder." He clicked a button, making sure that her eyes followed his movement. "This is my journal." He clicked "stop", then "play", and they both heard the echo of his words in the broad silence of the Batcave: "This is my journal."
He gave her the recorder, then also a spare. "Keep it. Put it in one of those belt pockets you don't use. Tell me if it breaks or gets lost."
"Won't get lost," she corrected him, clicking the buttons experimentally.
That's my girl.
"Record everything that's important," he told her. "Evidence for your cases, yes, but also your thoughts and observations—the things you feel and notice. Keep a running commentary if you need to."
"It's good," Cassandra said. "I want to learn to… think better in words. This will help."
Because all you've ever known is movement, Bruce thought, and the anger from the night before flared hot under his skin. But it subsided as quickly as it had come, leaving him directionless and awkward.
"I know you've been learning to read with Barbara," he said, trying to keep his tone gentle. "How much progress have you made?"
He glimpsed her tiny scowl as she answered, "Not a lot."
Hating to ask, but needing to know, he said, "Are you—will you continue lessons with her?"
She looked down, away from him. "No. Where are we going tonight?"
Bruce stifled his sigh. "We'll discuss this later. You'll be working solo for part of tonight. I'll brief you further in the car."
A minute later, the Batmobile sped out of the Batcave and towards the Gotham gloom.
Crystal Brown was a former drug addict who worked long hours as a registered nurse at West Mercy Hospital. By design, Batman was at her house when her car turned down the driveway. He moved behind her as she stepped out.
"Mrs Brown."
She jumped, brandishing her keys at him before she realised who it was and sagged against the side of the car.
"I'd call the police if I thought it would do any good," she said in a low tone. "What are you doing here? Haven't you done enough damage?"
"Your daughter is safe," he said, eschewing her second question in favour of her first, and watching as the words sank in.
"Steph's safe? What—how do you know? Where is she?"
He hesitated. "What do you know?"
"I've heard nothing. She was barely home as it was, and then she disappeared with that ridiculous costume."
Nothing. Bruce had to force himself to speak without a bite in his tone.
"She needs protection because of her involvement in the gang war. She's under the care of a—a friend of mine. She'll be well looked after."
"Where? What friend?"
"That's confidential."
"I'm her mother—"
"Do you want to jeopardise her safety?"
"Then prove it," she demanded, and Bruce saw the same persistence he had witnessed in Stephanie. "I want to see my daughter."
"You can't. But…" He handed her a card. "Call this number. He will answer any questions you have. You can also ask to speak to Stephanie."
Still lowering, she examined the card, which also contained Alfred's initials. "I suppose the police don't know anything about this."
Bruce was saved from answering by a buzz in his ear.
"Sir? It's urgent."
By the time Crystal Brown had looked up from the card, Batman was on his way back to the car. "Alfred?"
"It's Nightwing."
"Has he woken up?"
Bruce sensed the hesitancy in Alfred's voice before the answer came. "His fever has risen again. He's increasingly delirious and quite agitated. I can't get him to stay in bed because he…"
Bruce waited, but Alfred seemed to have either trailed off or aborted that thought. "Repeat that last sentence," he commanded.
"I can't get him to stay in bed because he's insisting on seeing you. But he's not in his right mind."
Bruce's stomach dropped. Once he was speeding back to the Batcave, he asked, "How bad is it?"
There was a pause, then Alfred's voice, somewhat strained, came through the line. "You know I would not have contacted you if I did not consider it necessary, sir."
"Tell him I'm on my way." Bruce ended the call and opened another channel. "Batgirl."
"Here."
"Finish up the route I showed you. I'm heading back to the cave. When you're done, call the car to your location."
Back in the Batcave, Bruce stripped off the cape and cowl and hurried upstairs in the remainder of the Batsuit, heading straight for Dick's room. Alfred met him on the way.
"Bruce. Thank heavens you're back." Alfred looked frazzled—a sharp contrast to his calm words as he added, "I've had to attend to Miss Stephanie. Master Tim is with him now."
Fervently glad for his earlier decision to make sure Tim stayed home, Bruce hurried along the corridor to Dick's room.
Dick was standing unsteadily about a metre away from the bed, swaying on his feet and leaning heavily on Tim, who was trying to turn Dick away from the doorway while Dick struggled against him. Dick had evidently pulled out his drip; a thin line of blood trailed down his left arm. The fever had clearly taken a turn for the worse—Bruce stepped forward as Tim urged, "Come on, Dick, please just get back in bed—I'm trying to help you, but you need to wait for—"
"Bruce," Dick sobbed, pushing himself out of Tim's grip and reaching out for Bruce, who caught Dick's shaking hands in his own. Immediately, Dick became dead weight, slumping forward into Bruce's arms. "Bruce… Bruce…"
"I'm here, Dick." Let's get you back in bed. Bruce tried to hoist from under Dick's arms, but Dick twisted and trembled as he grabbed at Bruce's neck.
"Bruce. I need to… tell you… something. Bruce."
"I'm listening." Bruce swept Dick into his arms and laid him on the bed. When Dick inevitably tried to sit up, Bruce pushed him down again.
"Talk to me," he commanded. "What do you need to tell me?"
But instead of elaborating, Dick tossed his head from side to side on the pillow, mumbling words that were impossible to decipher. Alfred touched Bruce's arm, and when Bruce turned, he registered the deep lines on the old man's face.
"Sir, I'm inclined to call for Dr Thompkins—"
"No. We'll deal with this ourselves." As Alfred's lips pressed into a thin line, Bruce glanced back at the room around them. Tim stood wide-eyed in the corner, sweaty and seemingly relieved at the changing of the guard. "Send Tim to bed," he ordered in an undertone. He doesn't need to see this.
"Master Tim, it would be best if you—"
"Tim," murmured Dick, his voice rising as he pushed Bruce's hands away. "Timmy… where… I'm sorry…"
Tim stepped forward, grasping Dick's hands in his own. "I'm right here, Dick. Look at me. I'm okay."
Dick's eyes, glazed with fever, widened in recognition. "T-Timmy?"
"That's me."
"But… let you down…" Dick scrunched up his face and let out a silent howl as tears leaked from his eyes. Tim recoiled.
"Enough," Bruce said. "Tim, get a damp cloth for Dick."
Tim jumped up and dashed in the direction of the bathroom.
"He's exhausted," Bruce said to Alfred. "We'll sedate him. Dick, you need to rest. Calm down."
Once again, Dick resisted Bruce's efforts to make him lie still as Alfred cleaned his arm and attempted to reinsert the drip. "No, you can't… I'm poisonous…"
"Quite absurd, Master Dick," Alfred said lightly, but Bruce noticed the way his thin fingers shook.
"Let me do it, Alfred." When the needle finally went in, Dick let out a high, thin whimper that set Bruce's teeth on edge. He grasped Dick's hand while Alfred prepared the sedative.
Tim reappeared. Bruce took the cloth from him and used it to wipe the sheen of sweat from Dick's face. "Tim," he said, and the boy's head whipped up. "Go stay with Stephanie."
Tim nodded and darted from the room.
Only once Alfred had administered the sedative and Dick had fallen limp against the pillow did Bruce allow himself to release his grip on Dick's hand—which, he realised, had turned pale from the pressure of Bruce's gauntlet. He looked up to see Alfred's hard gaze, which was paired with a tense expression.
"What?"
Alfred gave a small sigh. "If I may speak without dissembling, sir…"
"Please do."
"Hmm." Alfred moved around the bed to tuck Dick under the covers, not looking at Bruce. It was not until he had finished and sat down again, beside Bruce, that he spoke.
"There was no need to send Master Tim away. He is capable of more than running errands."
"I know," Bruce said. "But I had it handled."
"Hmm. Master Dick was anxious to see both you and Master Tim. Frankly, I'm quite concerned about him."
Bruce frowned. "About Tim?"
Alfred exhaled sharply. "About Dick. His level of distress indicates he is affected by more than his gunshot wound, serious though it may be. You remember I visited him not long ago…"
Bruce remembered. It had been a mistake, not going to see Dick himself, but at the time he had been so caught up with events in Gotham that he had not made the time to check up on his son. Dick's apartment building had been blown up, leaving Dick stranded in Blüdhaven with nothing more than the clothes on his back. But he had not accompanied Alfred back to Wayne Manor, and Bruce had taken that to mean that he had unfinished work in Blüdhaven.
"He was distant and low-spirited then," Alfred continued, "and I fear that the short period of time between that traumatic event and the recent happenings in Gotham have given him little opportunity to process the changes individually. But that is not all that concerns me."
When Alfred paused for a significant interval, Bruce prompted, "Alfred?"
"I would otherwise think that it is not my place to mention this, but as it concerns my own duties, I would be remiss if I did not." Alfred's eyes turned cold. "Quite honestly, sir, I am appalled at your refusal to consult a medical professional to care for Master Dick and Miss Stephanie. While I am flattered at your confidence in my skills, I am neither a doctor nor a psychiatrist. It is my opinion that Dr Thompkins—"
Bruce's hackles rose at the name. "Leslie has enough to deal with."
"Nevertheless, she would be far more knowledgeable about Miss Stephanie's injuries—"
"She's not an option."
Bruce's words rang loud in the stillness. Both he and Alfred glanced down at Dick, but he was sleeping too soundly to be disturbed. Bruce shut his eyes briefly, but when a vision arose in his mind's eye of a bed with a figure covered by a white sheet, he flinched, his eyes flew open and he gripped Dick's hand to ground himself.
"…Sir?"
"This discussion is out of line," Bruce said in a low tone, as Dick's pulse beat under his fingertips. "That's final."
Alfred laid a hand on his arm, chilliness replaced by concern. "Are you all right?"
Bruce watched the gentle rise and fall of Dick's chest and made himself copy it, not daring to meet the butler's eyes as he said, "I'm fine, Alfred."
Sources:
Barbara broke up with Dick in Nightwing (1996) #87.
Bruce and Barbara's conversation in Dick's room is partially inspired by a flashback in Detective Comics #800.
The conflict between Barbara and Cassandra that Barbara refers to happened in Batgirl (2000) #54.
Barbara's misgivings about Tarantula that Bruce recalls are from Nightwing (1996) #97 (Batman: War Games).
Bruce was framed for the murder of Vesper Fairchild in the Bruce Wayne: Murderer? storyline.
Barbara's information about Blockbuster's murder and her conversation with Dick are from Nightwing (1996) #94.
Dick's reactions to Tarantula's appearance in Gotham are from Nightwing (1996) #96 (Batman: War Games).
Barbara's details of what was destroyed in the clock tower explosion are from Birds of Prey (1999) #75.
Cassandra's voice recorder and a bit of the dialogue in the Batcave are inspired by Batgirl (2000) #58.
Alfred visited Dick in Blüdhaven in Nightwing (1996) #91.