Chapter 5: Duty of Care
I see life in a different light
From what I did before you came
—Edgar Guest, "The Responsibility of Fatherhood" (excerpt)
BATMAN
When Dick awoke briefly the following morning, he was no longer frenzied and delirious, but his fever still raged. His gunshot wound had been severe, and Alfred reported that it might be several days before he was completely lucid. There was no more mention of Leslie Thompkins, though Bruce detected a certain frigidity in Alfred's behaviour towards him.
After his dismissal from Dick's bedroom, Tim spent an inordinate amount of time with Stephanie, who would be confined to bed rest for another week, if not more. Bruce concentrated his energies on Cassandra, who had returned from patrol in the early hours of the morning.
"Gotham is quiet," she told him the next evening, down in the Batcave. "It's recovering."
"Good. You've done the interesting part." He led her to the Batcomputer. "Now comes the slow part."
He showed her how to extract and play back the voice recording she had taken, then began to painstakingly lead her through the process of creating a sufficiently detailed report of her patrol, relying solely on voice commands and dictation. By the time it was complete, he was aware of her growing frustration.
"So slow," she muttered, glaring at the screen and the finished report. "I just want to help. Be Batgirl." Not this.
"Then you need to improve your detective skills," he replied. "And, to do that, you need to keep records. It's not optional, but it would be a less troublesome task if you learnt how to read and write."
She made no reply, but her face darkened and she crossed her arms, looking away. Bruce put a hand on her shoulder, gratified when she did not shrug it off.
"Look at me, Cassandra."
Cassandra turned, and Bruce saw the mixture of anger and humiliation in her eyes.
"I won't force you to tell me what happened between you and Barbara," he told her. "But this is important. Your illiteracy is an enormous weakness, and not just in the field. It will be impossible to lead an independent life—civilian or not—if you cannot read."
"I know." She was pouting. "I did try."
Bruce took a pen and paper from next to the Batcomputer and printed Cassandra Cain in large, round letters. "Do you know what this says?"
"Is it… my name?"
Bruce read it aloud, underlining each letter as he sounded out the syllables. Cassandra made a face. Then he handed her the pen, which she took reluctantly.
"Think about what else you've learnt," he told her, as he prepared the Batcave's brain activity measurement equipment. "I want to scan your brain. See how you think."
An hour later, Bruce had gathered as much information about Cassandra's literacy skills as he could. She could write every letter of the alphabet, though the order and capitalisation were jumbled, and she could not name them. She frequently mixed up sounds and was confused by silent letters, diphthongs and digraphs. Dictation resulted in mirrored letters, phonetic spelling and a lack of clear spacing between words, and she took more than five minutes—with help—to read a single sentence. She could not read silently at all; even reading numerals was a struggle.
You should have progressed further than this by now, Bruce thought, reading over his notes with a pensive frown as he waited for the Batcomputer to finish the brain scan report. Cassandra watched him with trepidation, the pen gripped tightly in her small, calloused fist, as he tried and failed to think of what to say.
"Small children learn to read," she suggested in a tiny voice. "Maybe I can't anymore."
He shook his head. "That's absurd. The fact that you've progressed as far as you have is proof against that theory. It will take more time and effort, but it can be done."
The computer beeped to indicate the completed brain scan report. Bruce opened it, and relief eased the tension in his shoulders.
"Look at this," he said. "The language centres of your brain are all over both hemispheres. Not centralised like most people. When you try to read or write, your brain doesn't know how to keep it all cohesive. But, that doesn't mean that you can't learn. It's just a matter of figuring out how."
Despite his well-honed ability to compartmentalise, Bruce found himself preoccupied with the problem of Cassandra that night on patrol. He felt wholly out of his depth. Teaching literacy was not one of the many skills he had perfected—in fact, he had never before considered it. He had never taught anyone to read before; all the children who had lived under his roof had come to him equipped with the basic skills of childhood. He had dim recollections of reciting the alphabet at his mother's knee, and listening to her steady voice read Bible storybooks to him as he drifted into sleep. But he could not remember not knowing how to read, and it made him realise how much he took for granted.
After patrol, Bruce stayed up even longer, researching adult literacy programs until his head ached. Alfred tut-tutted at him the next morning and made a great show of offering to postpone Bruce's mid-morning meeting at Wayne Enterprises.
"Yes. I've got other things to do." Bruce groaned at the light from his bedroom window; Alfred had flicked open the curtains with ruthless efficiency. "Alfred, do we have any children's books in the house? Big print, easy to read?"
Alfred was occupied with laying out clothes for Bruce, but he paused to think. "I… believe there may be some among your childhood possessions in the east attic," he answered. "Might I enquire as to what is prompting this?"
Bruce avoided meeting Alfred's eyes by pulling his shirt over his head as he asked, "Have you ever taught anyone to read?"
"I have not, and if you are going to suggest that I add that considerable task to my already lengthy list of duties, which includes taking care of Master Dick and Miss Stephanie, I feel it is necessary to emphasise that it will most certainly be some time before regular lessons can begin."
"Hmm." Damn it.
"Unless you would prefer to wait?" Alfred arched a brow serenely, and Bruce caved.
"No, you've got enough to deal with. If you find any books, can you take them down and put them in my study? I'll have a look through them later."
"Certainly, sir."
Despite the memories they uncovered, the books themselves turned out to be largely unsatisfying to Bruce's practical eye. True, his parents had been more modern than some of their contemporaries, and so he had grown up with The Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs and Ham instead of Dick and Jane, but when he flicked through One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, he remembered how he had thrown the book across the room because of its absurdity. The collection of old-fashioned Bible storybooks contained childish language and rhetorical questions and so was hardly better. These might be classics, but Bruce doubted that they would appeal to eighteen-year-old Cassandra. Frowning, he turned to his computer and resumed his search for adult literacy materials.
He was partway through compiling a shortlist when he heard quiet footsteps, followed by a pause and a knock on his study door.
Judging by the sounds, Bruce knew it had to be Tim. He quickly pushed all the books back into the cardboard box they had been in and called, "Come in."
The door opened. "Bruce, can I talk to you?" Tim was standing in the doorway, an unusually serious look on his face.
"Of course," Bruce said easily, though his curiosity was piqued. "Give me a moment."
Tim settled himself in the comfortable armchair across Bruce's desk (Dick had often curled up there as a child, sleepy but still wanting to be near Bruce), while Bruce quickly saved the list he had compiled and made a note of his progress. Then he flicked off the screen and gave his full attention to Tim.
"What's this about, Tim?"
"It's Dick," said Tim slowly, as if trying to come to terms with his own thoughts. "I think he's… having problems?"
Bruce's curiosity deepened at the rising inflection. Stammering and uncertainty were uncharacteristic of Tim. "What kind of problems? Physical, emotional, psychological, mental…?"
"I—well… mental, I think. Or psychological. But it affects everything. He just seems to be in a really bad state. I think it started before the gang war. But, during the war, we ran into each other when we crashed the same nightclub at the same time. Somebody threw a Molotov cocktail past him at me. I was fine—I rescued some others—but when I turned around, Dick was on the floor with his head in his hands… shaking…"
Bruce's eyebrows creased with concern. "Was he injured?"
"No, but… it was like he couldn't hear me. I had to make him use a rebreather for the smoke, and it was then that I realised"—Tim bit his lip, glancing down for a moment—"he was crying."
But Nightwing's domino mask protected against smoke…
"He had a panic attack?"
Tim nodded. "At the time, I—well, it freaked me out. I had to go see my dad and Dana right after, but I realised afterwards that I should have stayed with him, really made sure he was okay. Then…" Tim's voice fell to a whisper. "Then, he might not have got shot."
Bruce leaned across the desk and gripped Tim's shoulders. "Stop talking like that," he ordered. "You can never know what would have happened."
Tim didn't seem to hear him. "It's my fault—Dick—Steph—Darla…"
Bruce stilled. "Tim, stop. You're overwrought."
Instantly, Tim's face changed. His features relaxed and he murmured, "I know. You're right."
Disturbed by the sudden change, but deigning not to comment on it, Bruce reflected that Tim had always been like this. He remembered being taken aback and somewhat impressed by how Tim had reacted to his parents' kidnapping when he was thirteen—before he had even become Robin. Tim had waited and meditated and thought carefully and even solved another case while waiting for Bruce to return. And then, when Bruce told Tim the news of his mother's death, Tim had still listened attentively and stoically. It was only when Bruce took him to see the unconscious and paralysed Jack Drake that he saw Tim break down.
No, Bruce corrected himself. Tim's not overwrought… he's in denial. He remembered collecting a report from Oracle—Barbara—during the gang war, when she'd expressed her concerns about Tim's coping skills:
"How's Tim doing?"
"Terrific. He's on fire. Earlier this evening, he single-handedly calmed a riot in Burnley. And now he just took out the Ravens."
"I knew he'd be back. He was born for this work."
"I'm not so sure. Tim just suffered a terrible tragedy—losing that friend of his at the school. And now, hours later, he's cracking jokes, while acting as a one-man commando squad? I'm worried he may be overcompensating."
"Tim's doing fine. I fully trust his tactical judgement in the field. And you have too many responsibilities to waste time practising armchair psychoanalysis. Concentrate on helping me win this war, Barbara."
Bruce had shut off the communication immediately after that, but he was sure that Barbara made a less-than-savoury remark in return, even if she knew he couldn't hear her. Their relationship had grown increasingly strained over the past weeks and months; he could only imagine how Barbara might have reacted if Stephanie had truly been thought dead.
Tim was watching him expectantly. Bruce plastered a smile onto his face.
"Your concerns are noted. I'll talk to Dick."
Tim nodded. "Thanks, Bruce," he said, sounding immensely relieved. He stood up, but lingered.
Bruce waited, until Tim finally said, the words coming out in a rush, "I think it has something to do with Blockbuster's death."
"Explain."
Tim sat down again. "It's not much, just… thoughts. Blockbuster was murdered right before the gang war, and Nightwing was at the scene. I mean, I don't know what happened, but I think it's worth investigating. Blockbuster was powerful and dangerous. No matter what he did, I don't see Dick taking his death lightly."
Bruce noted the careful phrasing, free from assumptions and placement of blame. I think you're on the right track, Tim. "It's a… complicated matter. A few days before the gang war, Dick's apartment building was destroyed in a bombing."
Tim nodded in confirmation.
"Dick was at the scene—as Nightwing," Bruce continued heavily. "Thirty-four casualties, and there was only one other survivor. Think about that for a moment. And then, think about how Dick reacted to the sudden fire in the nightclub, when he knew you were there."
Tim drew in a sharp breath, looking stricken. "There was a fire at Haly's Circus, too. Do you think that maybe… Blockbuster…?"
"Don't speculate."
Tim ducked his head, ears tinged red. "Sorry. I… I just want to help him."
Bruce leaned forward, making sure to catch Tim's eye. "And you are." Don't beat yourself up. "Er… How are you doing?"
Tim appeared to be taken off guard. "Fine, I guess. Look, that's another thing I wanted to talk to you about, actually. I want to go on patrol tonight. I haven't been out since the gang war ended."
"It won't be the same," Bruce said, in lieu of answering. "Costumed vigilantes are illegal in Gotham."
Tim gave him a sceptical look. "Like that ever stopped you before."
"Hmm. Does your family know about your plans?"
"My dad gave me his blessing during the gang war, if that's what you mean. But I've no intention of giving up Robin again now, regardless of what he thinks. He's just going to have to cope."
Bruce was startled by Tim's vehemence. But it wasn't a bad idea. Tim could probably do with a distraction from the sombre mood that permeated the Manor.
"Fine," he answered at length. "We'll discuss this later."
"You rang?" Catwoman stood on the edge of the roof, whip in one hand and a grapple gun—one of Batman's own—in the other. She was almost silhouetted against the grey sky, but her goggles were shiny from the Gotham rain and she wore a questioning frown. To Bruce, her simple beauty was intoxicating.
"Thank you for coming, Selina."
She approached him with soundless footsteps until they stood close together, somewhere between friends and lovers.
"Working solo tonight?"
"Batgirl and Robin are patrolling together." I came to see you.
"Hmm." Selina removed her goggles and mask and began tracing his jaw with feather-light fingertips. Bruce wondered if she knew how much he longed to lean into that caress, to kiss her until nothing mattered but the escape of the rooftop and the taste of the rain on her lips. A few years ago, the thought would have made him dizzy.
"Leslie told me what happened to your little kitten," she murmured.
Stephanie. Bruce jerked back from her touch, and she pulled her hand away as if she had been burned. "What is it?"
Damn it. How could he have forgotten what good friends Selina and Leslie were? "Nothing," he muttered, turning away. "This was a mistake."
She spluttered indignantly and snatched up his elbow, forcing him to halt. "You don't get to tell me what's a mistake and what isn't. I know you asked me to keep her out of trouble, but I can't be everywhere at once. And it's your fault for stringing that poor girl along in the first place."
His throat was tight. "Don't talk about it," he tried.
She let go of his arm, and he felt the separation as keenly as if she'd slapped him.
"How dare you," she hissed. "And now you've taken her away from proper medical care, as if she hasn't suffered enough!"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then, tell me."
This was all wrong. Bruce had asked Batgirl and Robin to work together, and then he had driven to the East End alone. He had intended to tell Selina that Stephanie was safe, and perhaps even thank Selina somehow for her help during the war. But the words he had planned were empty and inadequate, and he could not speak past the horrible lump in his throat that always appeared as soon as he remembered those moments when he had believed that Stephanie was dead.
"Bruce?" There was a note of uncertainty in her voice. "What's wrong? Talk to me."
"What did Leslie tell you?" He thought he sounded hoarse, but Selina did not comment.
"She said the clinic was overwhelmed, and you took away Spoiler despite her better judgement. And… she said that she'd made a terrible mistake, but that it was between you and her."
"Leslie blames me for the war," he told her, gazing out at a gargoyle on the rooftop across the street so he did not have to meet her eyes. "She—"
He choked on his next words and was immediately furious with himself. Why couldn't he just tell Selina what had happened?
"We're no longer working together," he tried instead.
"Yeah. No shit. Tell me something I don't know."
Again, he found himself unable to speak, but the truth still repeated in his head.
Leslie tried to fake Spoiler's death.
Leslie tried to fake Spoiler's death.
"What happened to Spoiler?" Selina looked torn between curiosity and impatience. "She is alive, isn't she?"
"Yes," he breathed, a tiny amount of tension releasing. She smirked.
"Not the first time a kid's wormed their way into your heart, huh?"
"Selina." The name was a whisper on his lips, and his gravity must have shown, for Selina lifted her eyes to his and silently waited until he managed to say, "Leslie tried to fake Spoiler's death."
"What? Why?"
"Some sick kind of punishment for me." The words were still burned in his mind; he forced himself to paraphrase. "She wanted to me to stop involving others—children—in the mission."
Selina swore violently. "Leslie said that?"
Bruce managed a stiff nod.
"But, how did you…"
He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the fortuitous apparition of his dead son that had prompted his actions. If it hadn't been for Jason…
"I—I had to be sure."
"My God. And you took Spoiler to the cave?"
"I couldn't leave her there," Bruce got out. It was crucial that Selina understand.
Selina's green eyes were wide and shocked. "Yeah," she said, and then swore again. "Bruce, that's fucked up. Leslie was wrong, you know that."
He was unable to speak.
Selina touched his arm, gently this time; he forced himself to remain still, even as he remembered how someone else had reached out to comfort him long ago, when he had been a shattered boy kneeling between his parents' cooling bodies in a dark alleyway. A few days ago, Leslie had tried to tear his family apart by faking the death of a child. It didn't make any sense. Bruce didn't know if it ever would, and in that moment the terrible hollowness and inexplicability of the world threatened to swallow him whole.
Distantly, he heard Selina gasp, then felt himself pulled into her embrace as she tugged his unresponsive body close to hers. The cowl was unbearably stifling; he pushed it back and buried his bare face in her hair. The precious memories of long ago were now tainted, and yet they played relentlessly in his mind, until he was scrunching up his face against the insurmountable pressure of the pain and misery inside him. But Selina's arms were around his body and her head tucked under his chin, over his heartbeat, and it was this, more than any training, that grounded him to the physical world of the Gotham night and a rooftop in the East End.
When they broke apart at last, it was Selina who wiped Bruce's face with a steady hand and asked, "What are you doing alone, Bruce?"
I'm not alone, he thought, perplexed. I have you.
Bruce put his cowl back on.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracked and rough. "I know Leslie's your friend too. It wasn't fair of me to tell you this."
"Shut up. Listen, you need a break. Let your little birds handle Gotham for one night."
She smelled of Chanel, wet leather and sweat. He wanted to get lost in that smell, in the electricity pulsing between their skin.
"I…" I can't.
"Come with me," she whispered, and then she was kissing him, and he kissed her back as if he could not bear to let her go.
"Selina…" he mumbled against her lips.
"Bruce," she breathed in return, and something in the way she said his name sent a shiver down his spine. No one else could speak to him the way she did.
"Fine," he gave in, and she put her mask and goggles back on before letting him follow her back to her apartment.
When she woke in the morning, he would be long gone. Bruce knew it was for the best.
Sources:
It's not essential to have read Selina's Catwoman (2002) comics up to this point (#1-36), but you should know that Selina and Leslie are (were) good friends.
According to Detective Comics #800, Gotham was quiet for weeks after the end of the gang war.
Cassandra's brain scan and some of Bruce's subsequent dialogue are inspired by a scene from Batgirl (2000) #67.
The panic attack of Dick's that Tim refers to happened in Nightwing (1996) #97 (Batman: War Games).
Tim's mother died in Detective Comics #621 (Batman: Rite of Passage).
Bruce and Barbara's conversation about Tim is lifted from Robin (1993) #131 (Batman: War Games).
Bruce and Selina's rooftop meeting takes some inspiration from a flashback in Detective Comics #800.