by Mara

Summary: “It’s not a joke. Bruce Wayne is Batman and I used to be Robin.” (Sequel to “Change is the Only Constant”)

“What?” Wilson repeated, his voice cracking slightly. House had said a lot of
outrageous and downright bizarre things in his time, but this one…it was
unparalleled.

Raising an eyebrow, House looked at Bruce Wayne lying in the bed beside his
chair. “I thought I was pretty clear, didn’t you?”

Wayne frowned at him. “Don’t tease him, Tim.”

“Oh, but it’s such fun. Look how nicely he blushes.”

Wilson stared at the two of them, then shook his head. “Very funny. You brought
me down here to make a joke? You do know I have actual *patients* to see,
right?” Turning, he took a step toward the door, wondering why he put up with
House at all.

“Wait!” House called.

Wilson stopped, closing his eyes for a long moment before turning back. “Yes?”

House sighed a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not a joke. Bruce Wayne is Batman and
I used to be Robin.”

“Uh huh.” Wilson crossed his arms, glaring. “And I’m secretly Superman. I
commute between here and Metropolis.”

Wayne snorted. “Nope, you can’t be Superman. No spitcurl.”

“He *is* nearly as much of a boy scout as Big Blue, though.” House leaned on his
cane, head tilted. “If I didn’t know the truth, I might even believe it.”

Wilson ignored that, looking at Wayne. “Wait, you called him Tim.”

“It *is* his real name.”

“And we’re all about telling the whole truth, aren’t we, Bruce?” House scowled,
but it didn’t have nearly enough venom in it to be serious. “Yes, my name was
Tim Drake, but I gave that up when I was 16. I’ve been Greg House since then.”

“You’re insane.” Wilson stared at them, waiting for the punchline. “Utterly
insane.”

House and Bruce Wayne simply stared back, not backing down, and most certainly
not smiling. House didn’t even have on his sardonic grin, the one he always used
when he wanted you uncertain if he was telling the truth.

“Oh my god, you’re serious.” Wilson groped around for a chair and sat down. “I’m
not on Candid Camera or something?”

House shook his head. “Candid Camera hasn’t been on the air in decades. Keep up
with pop culture.”

“Don’t distract me! You’re trying to tell me that you used to be *Robin*–an
urban legend, for Christ’s sake.”

“No more an urban legend than Superman,” Wayne said, one corner of his mouth
tilting up.

“But…Robin?” Wilson stared at his friend, the cranky, misanthropic, goddamn
*bastard* who stiffed him when they ordered in the cafeteria just because he
could.

House shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” For a moment, Wilson closed his eyes and waited for the world to make
sense again. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. He opened them again. “You spring
something like this on me and all you can say is ‘Yeah’?”

“Yeah.” *There* was the sardonic grin, a little late, but familiar territory at
least.

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

House fluttered his eyelashes. “Say you’ll still marry me now that you know the
truth.”

Wilson studied House. “Why did you tell me this? I know you didn’t have to.”

House looked away and Wilson nodded, knowing he’d hit the crucial point. “It’s
old news,” House said, “but I thought you should know.”

Wayne’s mouth twitched in obvious amusement. “And you told Dick years ago that
you didn’t want to be like me.”

House glared at him. “Stay out of this.”

Turning to Wilson, Wayne leaned forward, expression much more serious. “He’s
never willingly told anyone this before.”

Wilson looked at House, who was twitching in annoyance. “Really?”

“Yes, you’re my first, now can we get on with this? I’ve had my fill of touchy
feely for the day and I didn’t even get a hand on Cuddy.” House stood. “Well, I
guess we’re done here.”

Wilson looked at Bruce Wayne, who said, “He’s changed.”

“What was he like before?”

House froze, barely breathing, before looking at the man he claimed was Batman.
“Bruce…”

“You started this, Tim.” He turned to Wilson. “He was idealistic. Told us all
that Batman needed a Robin and when Robin…couldn’t be there, he made himself
into Robin.”

Wilson blinked a few times. “Made himself?”

House turned away, tension in every line of his body.

“He wasn’t the last to do so, but he was the first. And the most successful. He
*believed* in the mission. Certainly more than I did at the time.”

Wilson recognized the look on Bruce Wayne’s face, because he saw it all the
time: It was the look of a man who’d lost family. House’s white-knuckle grip on
the cane said something similar. “Why did he leave?” Wilson asked.

“Hello!” House said, waving his hand. “Standing right here!”

Wayne took a deep breath. “He left because I screwed up.”

House froze again. He obviously hadn’t been expecting that. Slowly, he turned
back.

Wayne looked at Wilson, the pain more buttoned up than before, but still
obvious. “Tim left because…” He gritted his teeth. “I let someone he cared
about out before she was ready.”

Wilson blinked. “Out…you mean, in the vigilante sense.”

House snorted quietly, but let Wayne answer. “She was Robin for a short while. I
kicked her out. And when she tried to prove herself to me by going out on her
own, she was killed.”

“Steph should have known better,” House said, his voice hoarse.

“So should I.”

The two men stared at each other, and it was obvious at that moment that they
had once known each other extremely well, because there was some kind of
nonverbal communication going on. Wilson tried not to breathe, because he sensed
they’d reached a critical point and he didn’t want to interrupt.

House looked away first. “Yes, you should have, but I can’t keep punishing you
for that.”

Wayne looked at Wilson. “You might find it difficult to believe, but Tim had
quite a few friends in those days.”

House’s mouth tightened.

“Still has them, if he cared to call.”

“I left all of that behind me for a reason,” House said. Wilson noticed he
didn’t actually say what that reason *was*.

“Kon tells me that you once said you had friends and I had associates.” Wayne’s
voice was almost teasing.

“Friends are too much trouble,” House said. “Just ask Jimmy here how much
trouble I am.”

Wilson snorted. “Oh, he’s a lot of trouble.”

“I can believe that.” Wayne looked like he was suppressing a smile with great
effort.

House rolled his eyes. “Are we done torturing me yet? Maybe you’d like to try
poking my leg a few times for good measure?”

“No, I think we’re done,” Wayne said.

Wilson took a good look at him, noted definite lines of exhaustion, and stood.
“Well, you’ve certainly given me…food for thought.”

House raised a hand. “It goes without saying that this isn’t for public
consumption.”

Wilson blinked several times. “Are you kidding? Do you know how many laughs I’d
get if I tried to tell anyone you used to be *Robin*? It’d be easier to convince
them that you’re a melanin-challenged Mr. T.”

With that, he swept out of the room. Never let it be said, he thought, that
James Wilson didn’t know a great exit line when he found one.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Jack Drake gets an unexpected call.

When Jack Drake picked up the phone, the voice that came out of his receiver
sounded like a computer, and he expected to hear a credit card offer or perhaps
a suggestion that he buy life insurance.

“Mr. Drake?”

He blinked at the personalization. “Yes?”

“I’d like to talk to you about Tim and his life as Robin.”

“What?” Jack stared at the phone in shock. “Who the hell are you?”

“I…you can call me Oracle.”

“Oracle? Great, another goddamned superhero. I’m not interested.”

“Wait, please! Please just give me five minutes.”

“Did Tim ask you to call?”

“No, he hasn’t contacted any of us. But I have a somewhat unique perspective on
this situation and I thought it might be helpful.”

His hand twitched to hang up, but curiosity got the better of him. “What did you
want to say?”

“I used to be a superhero,” Oracle said, “until the day I was shot.”

Intrigued despite himself, Jack dragged a kitchen chair up behind him and sat
down. “Shot?”

“Yes. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The computerized voice
managed to sound resigned.

Behind him, he heard Dana. “Who’s on the phone?”

He waved a hand to tell her he was concentrating. “Go on.”

“My…significant other is still a superhero. I have a role to play, but every
night I face the possibility this person might not come back. So, you see I
understand your concerns.”

“If this is supposed to convince me to let Tim go back to that life, it’s pretty
pathetic.”

Laughter like a wheeze. “No, Mr. Drake, I just want to help you understand your
son. Will you let me?”

Jack swallowed. “If you can do that, I’d be grateful. But why are you doing
this?”

There was a long silence. “Because I wish someone could do this for *my*
father.”

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Alfred meets Lady Shiva. Unexpected things occur.

Lady Shiva circled the old man, noting his relaxed posture. Not the fake
relaxation that men (and women) often attempted in her presence–the kind that
masked nearly paralyzing fear—but the real thing. He reminded Shiva of his
master, actually.

“I know dozens of ways to kill you where you stand,” she said, her voice low and
menacing.

“I’m quite sure you do,” Alfred said, brushing a speck of dust off one cuff.
“Would you like some tea while you await Master Bruce’s return?”

She stopped prowling and stared at him. “Tea?”

“Perhaps you would prefer coffee? I can also offer you some pastries.”

The most dangerous woman on Earth blinked. “Just tea.”

“Very good, miss. Perhaps you would like to wait in the drawing room.”

Shiva followed him down the hall. No wonder Batman kept him–he was really a
most astonishing man.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: You’d think Bruce would know better than to let Ollie start thinking about certain things.

by Mara

Summary: Mothers worry for their children. Some with more justification than others.

NOTES: Okay, not the most original title for a “dreams” challenge. So sue me.
Written rapidly for DC_flashfiction.
DEDICATION: For my husband and my sproglet. ::hugs::

* * * * *

The bedroom was wonderfully cool, just the right temperature, and Martha Wayne
was grateful–she’d grown tired of being hot and sweaty all the time. She sighed
as Thomas slid into bed behind her, sneaking a hand under the covers to gently
rub her belly.

“Mmm,” she said, “Junior’s asleep, so don’t wake him. He’s got quite a kick.”

“He?” an amused voice breathed into her ear.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s a boy.” Nestling deeper into her pillows, she tugged on the
one under her abdomen until it properly supported the weight of her pregnancy.

“Last week you were convinced it’s a girl.”

She could feel the bed shift as he settled in, careful not to jostle her too
much. “I was wrong, it’s definitely a boy.”

Thomas was already falling asleep, exhausted from a long day at the hospital and
a sleepy murmur was her only reply. Martha smiled and closed her eyes.

Sleep was elusive this late in pregnancy, but she was–she yawned–so tired,
maybe she’d sleep for a few hours. One arm curled protectively around her
stomach, she imagined her little boy.

Dark hair. An impish grin. His father’s brains. What color would his eyes be?
Thomas had said they were most likely to be brown, but she decided they would be
blue. Bright blue like the sky on a spring day when the ever-present Gotham
clouds disappeared for a few hours.

Blue and shining in the sunlight as he smiled up at her. “Mama,” he said
solemnly, climbing into her lap as she sat in the grass.

Martha held him close, reveling in the softness of his hair and the grass stains
on his knees. He sat in her lap for a minute before becoming squirmy, and she
let him scamper across the grass.

Oh, he was running to his father. She smiled, her joy complete as Thomas picked
up his son, twirling him around, their laughter echoing.

Echoing?

It wasn’t laughter, it was screams. Why had she thought it was sunny? The dark
pressed closer, framing the small beam of light that somehow blinded her.

Where was she? Who was screaming? The jagged sound tore at her heart as she fell
onto rough pavement, breathing labored and painful.

Then she knew: Her son was crying; she had to go to him. She tried to crawl, but
nothing worked, limbs paralyzed, her son’s cries the only sound in her ears.

“No! No! Thomas, help me!” The words were torn out of her throat.

Suddenly his arms were around her, his voice murmuring in her ear. “It’s okay,
it’s okay, darling.”

Her surroundings were still dark, but now she could make out the familiar
features of their bedroom–faint moonlight through the draperies outlined the
dresser, the painting on the opposite wall.

“Darling?” Thomas sounded concerned and she realized she was shivering. “It was
a nightmare.”

“Yes. I’m…it was…” She took a breath.

A faint tapping at the door heralded Alfred’s entrance. He looked unruffled, as
always, but the fact he entered without waiting for their acknowledgement was a
sure sign of his concern.

“Master Thomas?”

Thomas stroked her back gently. “Everything’s okay, Alfred. Just a nightmare.”

Alfred nodded and turned to leave.

“Wait!” The word jumped from her throat and she was sure both men looked
puzzled.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Alfred…” She knew she’d be dismissed as a hysterical woman, but she had to
say it. “Alfred, promise to take care of my son.”

“Of course.” Definitely puzzled.

“No! I mean…I mean if something happens to us, you must take care of him.
Don’t leave him alone.”

Thomas sighed but she ignored him, straining through the faint light to see
Alfred’s face. He looked at her for a long moment, then inclined his head
slowly, face serious. “Ma’am, I can assure you that your children will never
lack for my care.”

“Swear.”

“I swear it.”

With that, she relaxed, leaning against her husband’s comforting presence.
Alfred bowed and left the room, and she eased back down to the bed, Thomas
supporting her as she shifted the pillows and blankets around.

He leaned over to kiss her temple. “It was just a nightmare.”

“It was very real.” She shivered again, not really wanting to close her eyes.

“They always are.” He caressed her cheek, probably checking for fever. “Do you
want to talk about it? That might help.”

“No.” She wanted to forget, blot out the sound of those screams, the fear for
her son. She clutched the blankets closer around her shoulders.

“If that’s what you want.” He curled up behind her again, sounding tired and she
felt guilty for having interrupted his sleep. Thomas worked so hard, he didn’t
need to be burdened with her concerns.

Surely everything would be fine. Everyone knew pregnant women had strange
dreams. One day she’d sit with her grown son and tell him how his mother had
worried for him. But he’d be a fine young man–smart and handsome, his whole
life ahead of him. Maybe a doctor like his father. Or he might go into business.
With his intelligence, he could do whatever he wanted.

Martha yawned. Her son would be fine, she told herself firmly. It was only a
dream, nothing to be concerned about.

Nothing was going to hurt her son.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Two well-known women get a chance to discuss their significant others with someone who understands.

NOTES: No continuity whatsoever. Don’t bother trying. Idea from the DC
random pairing generator.

————————————————————————

Lois drained the last of her beer and slammed the glass back on the
small wobbling table. “Oh, I’ve got one!”

“Let’s hear it,” Dinah said, waving at the waiterwho’d learned quickly
to respond when these two women beckoned.

“When Clark takes off his costume, he dumps it next to the laundry bin,
rather than in it.” She glared into her empty glass before smiling
sweetly at the waiter as he dove forward to put a new bottle down with a
thunk.

Dinah rolled her eyes. “God, yes. Can’t tell you how many times I come
home to find bits of green clothing strewn on the floor inches away from
the laundry basket. He can hit a gun hand from blocks away, but the huge
laundry basket opening is too tough to find.”

“And, of course, they’re never the ones who do the damn laundry, are they?”

“Hell, no.” Dinah took a slug of beer. “It’s always, ‘Honey, I was up
for two days tracking down that serial killer. Do you think you could
take care of it just this once?’”

“Right! Like we didn’t just spend the same two days on a stakeout trying
to catch a politician on the take!”

“Or in Burma busting up a drug ring, coming back in the luggage
compartment of some smelly airplane!”

Their voices rose. The night managerwho’d just come on dutyturned to say
something to them, but she was stopped by two waiters who grabbed her
arm, whispering furiously into her ears. She stopped in her tracks,
looking depressed, and went into her office instead, shutting the door
with a slam.

Neither Lois nor Dinah noticed.

“And cooking,” Lois said, “that’s almost the last straw. He can cook ten
times better, but somehow I’m the one scrounging in the kitchen and then
giving up and ordering Chinese.”

Dinah nodded sagely. “You bet. Except with mine there’s that damn chili.
I’ll never eat chili again, I swear.”

“Oooh,” Lois said with a shudder, “I’ve heard stories about the chili.”

“How about this?” Dinah refilled her glass, waving it so that the liquid
came precariously close to spilling. “Arrows abso-frickin-everywhere.
And when he gets bored, he does target practice wherever the hell he is.
Gotta keep a permanent stock of joint compound to fill the holes. Beat
that, babe.”

Lois laughed, taking another swig of beer. “Two words for you: Heat.
Vision.”

end

by Mara

Summary: “To be Batman, I must be in control. And I knew–as certainly as I’ve ever known anything–how to find that control again.”

CONTINUITY: I think it might be safest to say this is an AU.

SPOILERS: Hmm. Just for last year’s issues of Gotham Knights, I think.

NOTES: Batman demanded I write this. I swear. Thanks to Xandri and Illmantrim
for encouraging words that kept this from becoming drawerfic. Special gigantic
thanks to Penknife and Ozchick for their amazing betas of multiple drafts, which
prevented this from becoming a “Very Special Episode.” And, of course, thanks to
Avi for putting up with me while I obsessed over this. A lot.
DEDICATION: For those who suffer, with my hope that one day they will be free.

* * * * *

“Pain hardens, and great pain hardens greatly, whatever the comforters say, and
suffering does not ennoble, though it may occasionally lend a certain rigid
dignity of manner to the suffering frame.”

– author A.S. Byatt

To the rest of the city, it was another ordinary night in Gotham: attempted
rapes, muggers in custody, foiled break-ins, a husband stopped in the act of
beating his wife…

But I’ll never forget that night.

I crouched atop the bank complex’s tallest tower, listening to Robin narrate our
latest capture to Oracle, surveying the shifting city, my domain.

For an instant, the view blurred and I imagined us, decades later, sitting in
that same spot and doing the same things. How many thugs had I put in jail
during my career as Batman? How many drug dealers, pimps, murderers? And I
hadn’t even made a dent.

I put psychopathic killers in Arkham and they escaped like clockwork to commit
the same crimes. They were as locked into their patterns as I was.

I swung off my perch, heading down into the city on a wave of sadness. Could I
ever make Gotham safe? Robin–surprised in the middle of telling his story–
followed, and we headed north, where I was certain we’d find some crime to stop.

No, I’ll never forget that night: A familiar feeling returned, one I’d thought
gone forever. It began in my gut, a tension that wouldn’t be denied, that made
my punches a little harder, my moves a little more reckless. Robin saw it, of
course. After all, I’d trained him to notice everything.

Just this once, I wished he hadn’t learned so well. This…this was something I
didn’t want him to see, something I had to deal with myself.

As dawn approached, a jewel thief made the mistake of turning to fight me
instead of running or surrendering. Obviously not a local. Normally, I’d have
blocked his punch and tied him up. But…

I kicked his side, barely pulling back in time to keep from smashing his kidney
to paste. The pained sound he made when he slammed into the brick behind him
only made me angrier.

I stood over him, burning with the need to hit him again.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he whispered and I felt no pity for this criminal who’d
dared to work in my city. I could reach out and–

“Batman?” Robin called over the comm. “I’ve got the second perp. What’s your
sitch?”

The sound of his voice snapped me out of my reverie. My god, what was I doing? I
tied up the whimpering thief, doing my best not to look at him.

The rest of the night went by in a blur. I automatically fought, catalogued
threats, directed the team, but in my heart I knew there was only one solution
to the rising tide that threatened to smother me.

Once the patrol ended, it took Robin a subjective eternity to change and leave
for home, time I spent pretending to type. But my mind was focused on the far
corner of the Cave, my fingers itchy and my breathing shallow. I was so focused,
I barely managed to nod goodnight to Robin before I was on my way.

Moving swiftly, I stripped off the suit, tossing it aside as I reached for the
cabinet–that well-stocked cabinet, the one Alfred checks at least once a day,
replacing bandages, antibiotics, forceps, and…scalpels.

I didn’t want to do it. I never wanted to be there again.

But to be Batman, I must be in control. And I knew–as certainly as I’ve ever
known anything–how to find that control again.

The scalpel was sterilized, gleaming in the best lighting found in the Cave. I
rested the blade on the skin of my left arm just below the elbow, then with a
steady hand I cut a shallow slice.

The relief focused my wandering mind, drawing out the tension from inside to
stream down my arm in thin dribbles of scarlet.

My pulse slowed, my breathing eased, my muscles relaxed. I watched the sluggish
trail of blood, another in a long series of wounds incurred by Batman. I bowed
my head and concentrated on the feeling until I knew I was in control again.
Then I bound the wound, cleaned and sterilized the scalpel, and replaced it in
the cabinet.

Now that I was thinking clearly, I returned to my work, determined to get
something done before I had to sleep.

* * * * *

It took two weeks that first time, weeks in which Robin kept an eye on me, but
relaxed when I seemed normal to him. My focus was back, my moves precise, and
that was good.

Days and nights flowed as they always did, meetings at Waynetech as Bruce Wayne,
genial to one and all, out on the streets as Batman, fighting Gotham’s slow
slide into chaos.

It was two weeks. Exactly.

I was proud. I was strong. I was in control. A child died in my arms.

She couldn’t have been more than five, a tiny thing, born into poverty, living
in a household of dealers, junkies, and thieves. Her curly brown hair was filthy
with accumulated dirt and blood–her blood, streaming from wounds inflicted by
someone in that room.

Oracle summoned an ambulance for the girl, but before the sirens drew close
enough to hear, her breathing hitched and failed.

I began CPR immediately, desperately, but to no avail. Her chest rose and fell
as I blew air into her lungs, but through compressions and breaths, there was no
sign I was keeping her heart pumping. The paramedics I could hear nearing our
location would try this as well, but I knew it wouldn’t work–they would be too
late.

I laid her back on the carpet beside the dead roaches, taking care not to jostle
her more than necessary. When I stood, Robin said, “Oh no.”

I could hear Oracle saying something in my ear, but I didn’t care, stalking
toward the criminals–the scum–we’d captured. I’m not certain what I intended,
but before I reached them, Robin stood between us, face stern behind the mask.

I could have smacked him aside. I think I almost did, but something about the
way he believed he could stop me, well, it worked. I realized I was losing
control again.

The pain came back. The need.

I cut the evening’s patrol short and nobody questioned it. By the time Robin and
I were in the car on our way back, Nightwing was on the line, checking to see
how I was. Obviously, Oracle was concerned, since she’d contacted him on his own
patrol.

“Batman, I’m sorry to hear about the kid.”

I concentrated on my driving, ignoring the worried glances from Robin.

“Are you okay?” Nightwing asked finally.

“Fine.” Stupid question. Who taught him to ask stupid questions?

“Ah. Well, it’s good you’re taking the rest of the night off.” Obviously, Oracle
was coaching him.

“Batman out.”

Nobody questioned my desire to be alone. Robin had me drop him off at the
Clocktower and Alfred only spent a few minutes fussing over me.

It was nearly unbearable, but it would have taken longer if I wasn’t so used to
forcing them away, and if they weren’t so used to obeying. Everyone probably
assumed I planned a few hours of pounding exercise.

My rage was all-consuming, although I wasn’t certain if I was angrier with the
child’s parents or with myself for not saving her.

Just one more time. Just one more cut. I placed the scalpel an inch below the
nearly-healed slice and almost screamed when I made the cut. Not because it
hurt–I’m accustomed to worse injuries–but because the relief was so huge, like
lancing an infected wound.

It only took two weeks for me to find the rhythm, the justifications, the
excuses. Even though it had been two decades, I remembered and I relearned.

Turns out creating Batman wasn’t quite the permanent solution I thought it was.

* * * * *

The first time I cut myself, I was in the middle of puberty–a wealthy orphan
with no purpose and nearly boundless anger. I don’t know where the idea came
from, but I remember that I was upset and angry and ready to go on a rampage,
and I slashed at my hand with a straight razor.

I was shocked by the blood. That first time, I stared at the cut for a long
time, trying to figure out what had happened–why I felt better, calmer.
Eventually, I decided not to question what worked.

Wayne Manor was filled with unused rooms and abandoned storerooms; it was easy
for me to hide. The knives I kept behind statues, in closets, under window
seats. I moved them any time I thought there was a danger of Alfred finding
them.

Coming home, knowing another day had passed without my parents, another day I
had wasted in the futile dance of a wealthy Gotham teen, I would slip into one
of the back passages of the mansion, running until I found the right room.

Sometimes I did it slowly, intent on every twinge as the blade parted the skin,
forcing myself to feel it–letting the pain tell me I was alive. Other times I
was wild, slashing deeply in a swift move, venting my rage, my helplessness.

When I wasn’t home, I scratched, gouging at myself like an animal. Sitting in
the car one afternoon, I stared through the passing scenery, Alfred oblivious as
I picked the side of my head until it bled.

Another time I crouched in the bathroom at some fancy charity ball, shirt
unbuttoned while I clawed at my chest to keep from crying or screaming. I
couldn’t face the milling crowds–mindless and intent only on their own affairs,
without that comfort.

It was tae kwon do that ended all of that. There was a brief fad among the rich
and bored that year to take classes in self-defense, in case of kidnapping
attempts.

To his eternal regret, Alfred thought this was “a splendid idea, Master Bruce”
and a better use of my time than moping or extra studying. I believe he thought
I needed more social activities.

I was unenthusiastic about the idea at first, as I had no interest in watching
my posturing peers strut around a mat pretending to be Bruce Lee.

Three weeks into class, sensei used me to demonstrate several moves and I had my
first experience fighting someone who knew what he was doing. Although I was
thrown almost instantly, the experience was exhilarating. I bounced up off the
mat, eager to try again.

Sensei was impressed by how quickly I learned, how I asked for extra lessons. He
saw my drive, my determination, but not how I craved the punishment, the
discipline.

Something had finally caught my interest and the idea that became Batman was
born.

I had a purpose, a goal, a mission.

* * * * *

Somewhere along the line, the mission stopped being enough.

This time, I started out able to go for weeks between cuts. Robin was still
concerned, but I never gave him reason to think it was anything but normal Bat
angst. He’s good at ferreting out secrets, but I was sure I was better at
keeping them.

I would feel normal, but then something would happen, some failure, some loss,
some reminder, and the pain would build up again. And I would know I had to do
something soon.

One particularly frustrating evening began with a futile chase after the Joker
before we finally lost his trail on the East Side. I prowled the area for an
hour before Robin convinced me to find other prey.

I was hoping to find a nice, uncomplicated mugging, maybe some B&E, something to
make me feel the night hadn’t been a waste.

Instead we found two women laid out on the sidewalk.

We knew they were women from their clothing, or what was left of it. Without
that clue…I couldn’t have been certain.

The killer had left them displayed like trophies, as if proud of the
accomplishment. I actually choked when I first saw them. There was…they had
been tortured. Extensively.

Robin and I split up, calling for immediate backup and the police. The perp, I
thought, had better hope the cops found him first.

There it was again: murderous rage. I had to calm down. I had to do something or
I’d be no better than the people I chased. This was an emergency, there was no
time.

I crouched behind a dumpster–Robin three alleys away–clutching a batarang. I
stared at the edge, guaranteed to stay sharp through almost anything.

Robin was getting closer and I gritted my teeth, slashing the batarang through
the Kevlar on my left arm, stifling the hiss of relief by biting my gauntlet.

My pulse slowed, but I stared at the blood dripping to the ground, uncertain how
I would explain it. This had to be a one-time event and I had to restrict my
activities to the Cave, where I was in control.

After all, as long as I was in control, everything was fine. Right?

It was so easy for me to hide. Bruce Wayne always wears long-sleeved shirts and
suits and Batman’s suit covers a multitude of sins. I’ve always needed to cover
up my injuries, and this was another in a long line of lies. Except this time I
was hiding from everyone, including those who were normally in my confidence.

Even Alfred didn’t suspect anything, although occasionally he looked curious
when he glimpsed the edge of a bandage he hadn’t applied. But it wasn’t unknown
for Robin to patch me up in the field.

As long as nobody compared notes, I could continue as long as I needed. And I
needed. I needed it so badly.

Each slice through an arm or leg was a temporary relief. Not a rush, like
fighting, but soothing. Nobody understands that. They only think of pain, they
don’t see how the small pain can make the larger pain go away. But it does, damn
it, it does.

* * * * *

Despite what people think, it’s nothing like when Jason died and I recklessly
put myself in harm’s way, acting and reacting without thought.

Nobody sees how different that was. I *wanted* to die after Jason did. My guilt
was so strong that only my own death at the hands of some villain could wipe out
the pain. I didn’t want to cope, because that would mean living.

Somehow, they brought me back; *Tim* brought me back by reminding me why I
needed to live. And we regained the status quo: Batman and Robin making the
streets safe for the average citizen. Or something like that.

Why now? I don’t know. Maybe it was just one thing too many: Being accused of
murder, realizing that even the people who know me best weren’t sure I was
innocent, the investigation into Jason’s death, Alfred’s near-death.

All of these things could be the straw that broke the Batman’s back. No, we’ve
already done that, haven’t we? And I came back from that, too.

When does it become too much for any one man to bear?

* * * * *

Months went by. The scars were starting to pile up, my arms and legs lined with
rows of pale and plastic tissue. Some were short and tidy, others looked like
I’d hacked myself with a machete. They hadn’t healed cleanly, despite my careful
bandaging, because I scratched at them sometimes too.

I hid the scars well, although Robin gave me occasional odd looks and I began to
worry he might catch me. The thought of the uproar that would ensue was almost
enough to make me reach for the scalpel.

I never expected…I didn’t think about what would happen when I got a call from
the JLA.

They only call me for emergencies, so I don’t head to the Watchtower expecting a
walk in the park. But we were on our way to the outer reaches of the solar
system before I’d even gotten a briefing.

I was along to solve the mystery of an abandoned spaceship and its strange
contents, both hurtling toward Earth. When those contents proved to be gigantic
furry creatures in stasis, which awoke and attacked us, we all jumped to the
obvious conclusion.

After all, it often seems the universe is populated solely by beings who wish to
invade Earth.

I fought my way to the control center, engaged in hand-to-hand combat in narrow
passageways; the ship had to be turned away. Perhaps if Lantern had been
there…but he wasn’t.

The creatures were ungodly strong and even the powers of my colleagues were
barely holding back the attacks as I struggled with the ship’s computer. If the
creatures had had any sense of coordination, we’d have been lost through sheer
numbers.

I could hear shouting through my comm, but I blocked it out, forcing myself to
concentrate on the screen in front of me.

“On the left!” Wonder Woman called, her voice sounding strained.

If the orange circles represented conduits…

Flash yelled, “They’re here!”

Push this to make the power flow there…

“No!” J’onn said.

That was it! It was working; I could knock out the power to the ship, disable
it. That would give us enough time to figure out a better solution while the
crew fixed the ship.

**Stop!** J’onn called in our minds.

“What?” I said aloud. “The engines are going to blow. We need–”

An alarm screeched and blue lights flashed in the floor panels.

J’onn sounded frantic. “They’re children, Batman. Their minds are hard to read,
but I’ve managed to get through and they’re definitely children.”

Flash appeared in front of me and before I could react, he’d carried me to the
Javelin.

“We must stop whatever you’ve done,” J’onn said, slipping up through the floor.
“They can’t fix this. They only fought us because they were frightened.”

“I can’t stop it,” I said as Superman and Wonder Woman arrived, slamming the
hatch closed behind them. We stared at each other for a long moment, listening
to the alarm blaring.

Superman recovered first. “Then we’d better go find someone to fix it.”

“But we can’t…” Wonder Woman made an abortive move back to the alien ship.

J’onn held her arm. “In their minds, we’re invaders. They’re too frightened to
let us help. We must leave and find another way.”

Most of the ride back to Earth was spent transmitting all the data I’d
accumulated, tracking down the materials and manpower to fix what I’d done.

I felt my colleagues’ eyes on me as I worked. I shamelessly used the cover of my
costume and the fear I knew I inspired to keep them all away. Even Superman
couldn’t bring himself to bother me, so strongly was I projecting ‘leave me
alone.’

There was no time to get back to the Cave. If I didn’t do something, I was going
to explode long before I reached the transporter and got past the reception
committee waiting at home to be certain I was okay.

I would *not* lose control. I would not lash out at my teammates or those
waiting for me on Earth. I tried deep breathing, but every time I closed my eyes
I saw the creatures, the children of a distant race, those I’d nearly killed by
acting without sufficient knowledge.

I imagined their panicked cries as the power systems drained. Bile gathered in
my throat, acrid, burning, and not nearly enough pain to soothe me. There was
nothing more I could do. I’d done quite enough harm for one day.

Wonder Woman tried to say something when we reached the Watchtower, but I
brushed past, stifling the urge to hit her and wipe off the pity I saw. Flash
whispered something and they let me go.

I strode to my quarters, where I keep a first aid kit for times when I want to
avoid the infirmary. Even that didn’t seem unusual to anyone. It’s amazing how
years of habits can add up.

It was…odd. Despite my occasional efforts, the rooms remained distressingly
bright and, even with their size and light, being in outer space made me feel
trapped in a way the Cave never had.

I hesitated, but the pull–the feeling I was going to explode–was too strong. I
left my cowl on, but stripped my gloves and the top half of the suit to get to
my right arm. The waiting was killing me and I put up the strongest mental
shield I could conjure.

A long slice, exquisite pain, and I fell to my knees, almost crying out. It was
so intense, I forgot where I was.

Which was why I was so surprised to hear J’onn’s voice. “Batman!”

How the–

Nobody, not even J’onn, should be able to sneak up on me. All my senses scanned
the area, checking for other intruders. Nobody. But J’onn…

I found my voice. “Go away.” I had a hand over the most recent cut, but I knew
it wasn’t covering all the scars. I had to get away.

“But you–”

“I’m fine. I’ll bandage this and go home.”

J’onn’s hand covered mine before I could move. “No.” I had seen him in a great
many situations, but rarely had he sounded so uncompromising.

“Go. Away.” I refused to struggle–it was undignified–but I wanted him off me,
away from me. This was not his concern.

“Yes, it is. It is my concern if one of my friends is hurt.”

“Get out of my mind!” I jumped to my feet, forgetting my determination not to
struggle. J’onn let me go, his expression sad as I backed away.

“Bruce–”

“I’m Batman here, you know that.”

J’onn looked lost. You wouldn’t think he could still be surprised after so many
years as a telepath on Earth; perhaps it was just that it was me. “I’m sorry. I
wasn’t trying to read you, but you are projecting. Strongly. It was…I was
worried.”

He took a step toward me and I backed away, running through every exercise I
knew to block telepaths. J’onn winced, so it was obviously working.

“There is nothing to worry about.” It’s almost amusing that I could say that as
blood dripped between my fingers onto the metal floor, splashing like a leaky
faucet.

“Do not lie to me,” J’onn said.

“I’m not.”

“You’re bleeding and I could feel your pain from three floors away. That was not
only a lie, it was a clumsy lie.”

I couldn’t think. I needed to do something and he was standing there insulting
me. “I neither need nor want your help.” It was a struggle to keep my voice low,
harder than usual to keep from shouting my irritation.

“Another clumsy lie. That worries me more than the blood.”

I glared at him. “How many times must I tell you to leave me alone?”

“Until I believe you will not hurt yourself when I leave.”

“You have no idea what I’m doing.”

“But I know you need my help, even if you do not want it.” He morphed into the
shape of John Jones. “Would it be easier to talk to me in this form?”

I turned away, moving to the table with the first aid kit. There was a whisper
of sound behind me, but J’onn stopped when I picked up a bandage and went to
wash off my arm. My breathing was erratic, echoing in my ears.

I held my arm under the running water, turning the water as hot as it could go.
J’onn made a strange noise, but he didn’t try to stop me, so I ignored him,
concentrating on the water, on how it burned. It wasn’t as good as the cutting,
but it worked, and my customary focus returned.

When I felt able to face the world, I turned off the water and bound my arm.

Still not looking at J’onn, I put the suit back on, not even wincing as it
placed pressure on my new cut and the reddened skin around it. When I was fully
armored, I raised my eyes to meet his, which were once again alien.

“Do *not* attempt to restrain me, or you will regret it.”

Even J’onn can be cowed temporarily by the Batman and he bowed his head. I left
the room and transported back to Earth. And if I felt a deliberate brush across
my mind when I reappeared in the Cave, well, there was nothing more to be done
then.

Alfred and Robin were waiting, with Nightwing, Huntress, and Oracle on the line,
all eager to hear about the JLA’s latest mission. I think they were disappointed
by the brevity of my report, but I needed time to think, time to decide what to
do about J’onn.

I knew him too well to believe that he would keep silent forever simply because
I demanded it. But exactly what he would choose to do, that was more difficult
to discern. In some ways, J’onn is more human than I, and in others, so alien I
couldn’t understand him in a lifetime of trying.

* * * * *

J’onn did nothing.

That was almost worse than any action I could imagine, because it left me
waiting and planning. And wondering. A part of me wondered what he was up to,
another wondered why he hadn’t already taken action. A small voice asked if
perhaps he didn’t care, but I stifled that as irrelevant.

A week went by with no reaction from anyone. No Nightwing showing up on my
doorstep, no Superman looking earnest and concerned, not even unusually worried
stares from Robin.

Foolishly, I relaxed and resumed my routine. By this point, I was cutting myself
at least once a week, and one early morning found me in the Cave,
remembering…many things.

Head bowed, I held the scalpel over my thigh, below the tidy rolled hem of my
sweats, panting breaths making it hard to hold the small object steady as I
leaned against the wall. Just as the blade touched my leg, I sensed the presence
I’d been waiting for. Whirling, I found J’onn hovering behind me, his face
blank.

I found I was holding the scalpel between us, and I’d automatically dropped into
a fighting stance. “What do you want? Are you here to stop me?”

“No. I am here to witness.”

That surprised me enough to break through the haze over my mind. “What?”

“I’ve been doing research. I do not believe I can or should stop you. But I do
not wish you to be alone, either.”

I took a step back, my mind awhirl. The pain was still beating at me from behind
the shield of Batman, demanding an outlet, but the habits of a lifetime warred
with it.

“Get out of my home,” I snarled.

J’onn didn’t deign to respond. He knew that so long as he remained in his
intangible state, there was very little I could do to him. Of course, there was
always the chance that I might take one of those other options, one of the ways
I knew to incapacitate a telepath or a Martian, but I wasn’t that far gone. Yet.

I stood in unfamiliar indecision–he could follow anywhere I might go, no
material would stop him, and he was equally as stubborn as I. Sitting in midair
like a green Buddha, J’onn made no move to influence me.

Inside my mind, I screamed. J’onn knew damn well the thing I hated most was
others witnessing my weakness; he was wrong if he thought that would stop me. I
reminded myself that when you can make your weakness a strength, you will always
win.

I stood tall, my expression undoubtedly at its stoniest. “If you want to watch,
then watch.”

I didn’t bother to turn away, switching the scalpel over to the left hand,
bracing my right hand on the wall and slicing with the left. I held J’onn’s gaze
and he didn’t move, just watched me.

As I felt the warmth flow down my leg, the screaming in my mind subsided. I
wondered if J’onn heard it, since I couldn’t be sure of my ability to block. My
pulse slowed and I went to apply a bandage to my leg, refusing to limp as I
walked.

When I was done, I looked up at J’onn, who didn’t appear to have moved.

“Well, are you satisfied?” My voice and mind were quieter.

“No. Are you?” Now he held *my* gaze. I was fairly certain he wasn’t reading my
mind, but I concentrated on blankness.

“I’m fine.”

“You are far from fine.” J’onn hesitated. “Please, Bruce, the pain, let me–”

“Quiet!”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “You are hurting yourself.”

I crossed my arms and glared. That was a statement so obvious as to be unworthy
of a response. I wanted to walk away, but was certain he would follow until he’d
finished whatever he wanted to say.

“Bruce, I am concerned.”

“There is nothing wrong.”

“That you appear to believe this means that I have missed far too many warning
signs. We *all* have. We’ve grown too accustomed to allowing you your secrecy.
We have failed you and I am sorry.”

I was almost incoherent with the hatred that welled up. “Sorry? You…how dare
you…Stay out of my mind!”

J’onn sighed, sounding almost human. “I will leave now. Please try to think
about what I’ve said.”

He stretched and slipped through the ceiling of the Cave, leaving me alone with
uncomfortable thoughts and worse memories.

* * * * *

J’onn didn’t appear every time I cut myself. Even *he* couldn’t possibly monitor
me all the time, I suppose. I hated the idea that he was waiting, watching for
an emotional spike that must have been a beacon fire to a telepath of his
capacity.

But he came often enough. It was the same each time: He’d watch, try to talk to
me, not try to stop me. I wondered when he would finally give up and tell one of
the others, how they would react.

I began to obsess over it.

* * * * *

Another midnight in Gotham, another grimy alley and abandoned warehouse, another
set of clues leading me to a mass murderer.

This time, it was a trap. An obvious trap, so obvious Robin tried to convince me
not to go, his voice cracking as he argued with me. I couldn’t be bothered to
listen to his arguments, and he followed me in.

The click of a detonator is unmistakable to anyone who has heard it before.
Instinctively, we both dove out of the way, but not fast enough.

Everything was on fire, shrapnel falling in flaming sheets; I crouched over
Robin, using my cape to shield us. Oracle shouted in my ear, but I was too busy
staring at Robin unconscious, burned, bleeding.

Blood streamed onto his shoulder and it took long moments for me to realize it
came from me, until I could hardly hold my cape over us. I could hear Nightwing
yelling on the line, but the words couldn’t beat back the encroaching darkness.

Then the pain was gone and I let go.

* * * * *

Of the following week, I remember very little. Leslie says that’s for the best.
They had to tie my arms to the bed, because whenever I got them free, I tore at
the bandages, scratched my skin, and tried to reopen the closed wounds.

All that work to keep my secret, but now Leslie knew and the others guessed.
Batman might have many scars, but no one with half a brain could miss the rows
of scars I’d accumulated. I know J’onn spoke to everyone, although they’ve never
revealed what he said.

Apparently J’onn arrived as Batgirl and Spoiler made it to the scene of the
explosion; he transported us both to the clinic, and never left. He took charge
of the situation, Leslie tells me, like the leader he is, making all kinds of
arrangements and acting as everyone’s confidante. He told the JLA he was on
extended personal leave and had Nightwing make my excuses while I was
unconscious. It says something about the JLA (and me) that nobody then or since
has questioned those excuses.

Waking up was difficult, as much of my mind found unconsciousness more congenial
than facing what had happened. But I could only avoid it for so long.

Years of habit left my eyes closed while my other senses tried to figure out the
situation, and years of injuries meant that I recognized the sounds and smells
and textures of Leslie’s clinic almost immediately. Then there was the almost-
tangible presence of J’onn. My eyes flew open as everything came back to me.

“J’onn. Tim…how is Tim?” I pulled at the straps restraining my arms.

J’onn was hovering by the window, but came to free my arms. “He is well. His
injuries healed much faster than yours, probably because he is younger and his
system was under less strain.”

I closed my eyes, fought back tears.

“His greatest fear is that you will forbid him from acting as Robin. As you did
to Dick.”

A few tears leaked out despite my best efforts. I couldn’t deny my first thought
had been just that–protect Tim by pushing him away. In this case, there was
even more justification, since I hadn’t considered his safety as I led him into
a trap. Hell, when was the last time I *had* considered his safety?

“He also said you would blame yourself,” J’onn said. “Although he is not yet
aware of the…full extent of the problem, he is a very perceptive young man.”

That got my attention. “What…how much…do they know?”

J’onn’s form rippled, which I recognized as uneasiness. “They know enough for
the moment. They’ve known something was wrong for months, although the secrecy
and stubbornness you seem to breed in your associates prevented them from
confronting you.”

His words hit like a steamroller. “They’ve known…”

“Yes, Bruce. They’ve been covering for you, cleaning up things you left undone.”

I wanted to call him a liar.

“Problems they would ordinarily have brought to you, they’ve solved on their
own. Dick has been putting in extra hours to help Tim. Cassandra is even showing
some signs of the strain.”

“My god. How could I not see?”

J’onn pushed on. “They were uncertain what was wrong, but their instinct was to
protect you.”

My lips moved, but I didn’t even know what I could say. How many ways had I
failed them?

“Tim does not blame you for his injuries,” J’onn said as I tried to calm my
reeling brain.

“He should.” He knew it was a trap. Even if I had decided to go in, I should
have made him wait outside, but I was so wrapped up in myself, it didn’t even
occur to me. I could have gotten him killed, I nearly did.

“You made a mistake.”

“I don’t get to make mistakes.”

J’onn sank into the chair beside my bed, angling it to face me. “Perhaps that is
where your problems begin.”

I turned my head away and tried not to listen, helped out by a pounding
headache.

“I had hoped that I could reach you, help you, before anyone else was hurt,”
J’onn said. “If there is blame to be placed, you may as easily place it on me.”

“I put Tim in danger.”

“Tim chose to follow you.”

“We shouldn’t have been there at all.”

“Perhaps. But the fact remains that I knew there might be a problem, yet I did
not take action.”

I closed my eyes, despairing. What would I do now? What was there for me other
than Batman?

“Bruce?”

Ignoring him, I felt the urge. My fingers twitched. Without a knife, I wanted to
scratch.

“Bruce!” J’onn grabbed my arms and pinned them to the bed. I was so weak, I
couldn’t break his hold or use any of the thousand martial arts moves I knew for
such situations. “Bruce, listen to me.” His voice echoed through the roaring in
my head. “You can survive this, but you must want to. You must want to stop
hurting yourself.”

How could I? I’d stopped before, but that wasn’t through any effort of my own.

“You can. You will. Focus.”

There was pain and memory and guilt. The screams of everyone who’d died while I
was busy elsewhere.

“Focus!” J’onn sounded desperate, he sounded afraid. Afraid for me? “Focus on my
voice. Let me all the way into your mind.”

No! No, I couldn’t let him see–

“There is nothing in your mind that can shock me. Please let me help you. Trust
me.”

And I did. I had trusted J’onn for years, from the earliest incarnation of the
Justice League up through the present. For once, those years of habit worked in
my favor, and I let him in, his mental presence a familiar beacon in the
blizzard of my brain.

Images flashed by, almost too fast to see, a catalogue of failures, lives lost.
Jason called my name, my parents died for the thousandth time, the Joker laughed
as he gassed a roomful of innocent people. I saw Dick’s angry face as he left
the mansion, every woman I’d treated shabbily in the guise of the playboy,
countless anonymous victims I couldn’t save from Ra’s and Bane and the Riddler
and Ivy…

J’onn’s hand was on my shoulder, keeping me from being drawn into the maelstrom.
“This is what haunts you,” he said, “and you will have to face these things and
defeat them. But not today.”

He stood before me, and stretched out his arms. I could see light streaming from
him, filling the space between me and the memories, pushing everything else
back. The pain receded and I could feel my body gasping for breath.

“This is only temporary,” he said. “But it will hold for the moment.”

When my eyes opened again, I felt as if I’d gone weeks without sleep. J’onn
stepped back, looking weary. “Rest,” he said. “There will be time to talk
later.”

My eyes slipped closed, my last thought a fervent wish for dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

The next time I awoke, the sun was down and the only light in the room came from
a bedside lamp. It glowed on the features of Cassandra, who was curled up in the
chair, peering at a book.

She looked up at me and nodded. I didn’t know what to say, so I took my usual
tactic of saying nothing. She studied me, hopped off the chair, and disappeared
out the door. I closed my eyes again, only opening them at the sound of
footsteps.

J’onn strode in, disguised as John Jones, and shut the door behind him before
shifting to his more familiar form. “Cassandra said you were awake and looking
much better.”

“Did she?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Well, she said ‘Better.’ The rest was tone.”

“Ha.” I felt drained, empty, as my head dropped back against the pillow.

“Bruce? We must speak of this.”

I stared at the ceiling, counting cracks. “What is there to say?”

“I thought we might talk of your recovery.”

I looked at J’onn, then turned to stare at the dark window that reflected back
the lamplight and my gaunt face. “Recovery. That’s funny. Do you know how I
dealt with the Joker, the Scarecrow, and the other Arkham inmates all these
years?”

I heard the scraping of the chair. “How?” J’onn asked.

“By believing there was one fundamental difference between them and me: They
were crazy and I was sane. Now even that’s gone.”

“You’re not insane.”

I didn’t answer, just looked at my arms. It felt strange to see them bare, to
know that anyone who walked in could see them. I resisted the urge to pull up
the thin blanket.

“You’re not insane,” he said again.

“Then what am I?”

“Human, Bruce, very human. We forget that, but you are a human being who has
seen too much and needs help.”

I shook my head.

“There is no shame in needing help. You are not the first person to make
mistakes. Nor are you the first to be too stubborn to ask for help. But you are
my friend and I will help you anyway.”

“How?” It was a challenge, not a question.

“As I said before–you will face the memories that haunt you. Your actions are a
side effect of the emotional trauma.”

Snorting, I crossed my arms, refusing to wince at the pull on my healing chest
and back. “Psychoanalysis? I’d have expected better from you than ‘Tell me about
your mother.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one who thinks my problems can be solved by lying on a couch and
describing my dreams.”

“Bruce, I can only help you if you listen.”

I swallowed, feeling trapped between two unappealing options.

J’onn watched me struggle for a long moment. “Why do you injure yourself?”

My mouth opened, but no sound emerged. My brain felt sluggish. “I…I have to,
to be certain I don’t hurt others.”

“How might you hurt others?”

“Losing control. When I lose control, things happen. People get hurt.”

“That is true.”

“What?” I’d expected a denial.

“It’s true that if you lost control, people would get hurt. But that doesn’t
happen.”

“Because I keep it from happening by doing this!” I held out my arms, voice
thick with anger at his obtuseness.

Staring into my eyes, J’onn didn’t look at my arms. “No. Because you are too
strong. Batman does not kill. You’ve held to that through circumstances that
might have driven any of us past the point of control. You may be using this as
a crutch now, but you are capable of taking that strain on your own. You have.
And you will again.”

I shook my head, made speechless by the faith in those words.

“I know you, Bruce. You feared what I would see in your mind would make me hate
you. What I saw was what I expected to see: a man pushed beyond human endurance.
Or Martian endurance, for that matter. You blame yourself for things you tried
to stop, things you couldn’t have stopped.”

“I have to stop them. It’s my responsibility.”

J’onn ignored that. “Shall we begin?”

“Now?” My stomach curled into a knot.

“I see no advantage to you in waiting. This will be a long process.”

“I…”

J’onn placed his hand on my forehead and we fell into my mind.

I gasped as we landed in a typical Gotham alley, filthy concrete, a few rats–
and a cowering jewel thief. “Please don’t hurt me,” he said, staring up at me,
eyes wide like a panicked horse.

I took an involuntary step back, my stomach aching, breath caught in my throat.
“I remember this.”

“Yes,” J’onn agreed behind me. “What happened?”

“I was going to hit him. I wanted to pound him into the ground.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because Robin called me.”

J’onn came to stand beside me. “No, because you chose not to. You see this
moment as weakness, I see it as an example of your strength.”

I shook my head, backing away. J’onn stood beside me and with a flash of light
we were someplace else.

A hot desert wind blew across my face, scattering the splintered remains of a
building. In the center of the destruction lay a small broken figure. I sank to
my knees, the strength knocked out of me. “Jason?”

J’onn knelt beside me. “You didn’t fail him, you know.”

A tear streaked down my cheek and my stomach heaved.

“Tell me, Bruce. Why are we here?”

“How the hell should I know? You brought me here.”

“No.” J’onn’s voice was gentle. “We’re following your thoughts, not mine.”

“Then let’s go. I’ve seen this often enough.”

“Bruce–”

I jumped to my feet. “What do you want me to say? Fine, I hate myself for
letting Jason die. Is that it? Can we leave now?”

The sirens of the approaching police grew louder. Soon, I knew, they’d pull up
and find Jason, his mother, and me. I would pay them off and take Jason home.

“You blame yourself for Jason’s impetuous nature?”

“He should never have been Robin.”

“But he wasn’t killed as Robin, was he? He was looking for his mother. You
couldn’t have known what would happen.”

I stared at Jason’s broken body. “I couldn’t protect him.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Our surroundings flashed again, and we were back in Gotham. It took a second,
but I recognized the street, the moment in time.

“Bane!”

“He nearly killed you. Where is he now?”

“The east. Somewhere.” I watched the villain I remembered, pumped full of that
drug, stalking me.

“When you recovered, you could have killed him for what he did to you, to
Gotham.”

“No.” I shook my head, unable to look away.

“Instead you helped him recover from his addiction, find out about his family.”

I relived the fight, the moments leading up to that sickening crack of my–

“Bruce.” The scene froze and J’onn stood in front of me. “You are fundamentally
a good man. You’ve helped many people and there is much more for you to do. You
know that. But to help them, you must stop this self-destructive behavior.”

“I can’t. I don’t know how.”

“You do. Will you abandon those you’ve sworn to protect?”

“No!”

“That is what you have done.” As J’onn spoke, the street scene faded into a
blur.

“I need this. I need the release.”

“No, you’re stronger than that.” J’onn sounded so sure, I wished I had that same
certainty. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I…to make Gotham safe. Keep the world safe.”

“What do you want?” he asked again, patient, apparently ready to keep asking.

“For things to be the way they were,” I whispered.

“I don’t know if you can have that. But perhaps it can be better.”

“How?”

“Trust me. Together we will help you find that control. Shall we continue?”

I took a deep breath and watched the Gotham street fade into the Watchtower.

Time seemed endless as we wandered through the corridors of my mind. It’s not a
pretty place. Finally, an image started to appear and flickered into restful
pale blue walls.

“What happened?” I asked.

“It was time to rest,” he said.

I realized I was sitting in a comfortable leather chair, J’onn across from me in
a high-backed chair that looked like his seat at the Watchtower table–although
they hadn’t been there moments before. I leaned my head against the back of the
chair, feeling wrung out, exhausted. It felt like I’d spent a week gathering up
Arkham escapees.

“Now that you’ve begun the process of facing the things you’ve seen, we must
discuss what you will do when we leave here.”

I closed my eyes, not sure how to respond.

“Your problems will not be solved in one day.”

“I know that.”

“There are substitutions,” he said, “things you can do when you feel the urge to
injure yourself. Eventually, you will no longer need those either. All of this
is contingent, however, on your desire to change. Everything we have done this
evening will be for naught if you don’t have the determination to succeed.”

We were in my mind. J’onn could have easily found the answer for himself, but he
chose to wait for me to find it myself.

I thought about everything that had happened, from that first night until Tim
and I were injured. I believed I was in control, but in actuality I had left my
team, my family, in danger. With the perspective J’onn had helped me find, I
realized what I’d been doing was irrational, dangerous.

This was unacceptable, all of it.

“I want to change, J’onn. I *will* change.”

He smiled. “Yes, you will.”

“Thank you.” The words were wholly inadequate, but considering where we were, I
felt certain he knew how heartfelt they were.

“You are most welcome, my friend.”

* * * * *

Over the weeks of my physical rehabilitation, J’onn and I confronted the things
that had been torturing me. He was right, of course, and I gained a measure of
the control I’d been seeking. It was torturous, especially since I’m not by
nature an introspective person, nor do I like to think about my emotions. I
don’t even like to admit to *having* them, most of the time.

But gradually it worked.

At the beginning of this process, I had to talk to the family, which ranks among
the hardest things I’ve ever done.

I felt I owed Alfred the first conversation.

“Master Bruce, are you awake?” I’d heard his footsteps long before he spoke, but
a cowardly part of me kept my eyes closed.

I swallowed and opened my eyes. “Yes, Alfred. I just…has J’onn explained
what’s been happening?”

“Yes, he’s been most helpful.” He had on his best blank ‘I’m just a servant’
face, which meant I was in real trouble.

“I’m sorry,” I said, unable to find any way to ease into what I had to say. “I’m
sorry I frightened you.”

His blank face faded as I spoke. I’ll never forget the pain that replaced it, or
the feeling that I’d failed the man who raised me.

* * * * *

Tim didn’t look me in the eye when he slid into the room. We’d barely had a
moment to talk since the explosion, mutually avoiding having this conversation.

It didn’t help that I was still struggling with my guilt over putting him in
danger. That was bound to make us completely ineffective as a crime-fighting
team if we didn’t deal with it.

“I think we need to talk,” I said when he came into the room.

He and I winced together at the cliché, but he sat in the chair beside my bed.
My lap was full of printed reports, catching me up on everything that had
happened while I was unconscious.

Unable to look directly at Tim, I stared down at Oracle’s summary of new mob
activity in prostitution, the words wavering.

“What’s up?” he asked when I didn’t say anything.

“I…I get the feeling you’re still angry with me. For not listening to you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tim stare up at the ceiling, blinking a few
times. “That’s not it.”

I turned to face him. “Then what’s wrong?”

He crossed his arms and looked at me, the piercing stare he learned from me (or
possibly Alfred) firmly in place. “I want to know why you didn’t tell me
anything. If I’m your partner…”

God, that hadn’t even occurred to me. Just another failure on my part. “You are,
Tim, you are. I thought this was something I needed to handle on my own.”

“You were ashamed.”

That’s the problem with training your partners so well, you can’t control where
they turn their intelligence. “Yes.”

His stare softened and for a moment he looked his age. “I was worried about you.
You were acting so weird and we didn’t know what was wrong. I thought
maybe…there was something I wasn’t doing.”

“No, absolutely not. There’s nothing you could have done differently.” I put
every iota of certainty I could muster into those words. He had to understand…

I saw a flash of relief before he was staring at me again, aged well beyond his
years. “No more secrets.”

I inclined my head. “No more secrets. Partner.”

* * * * *

As difficult as that conversation was, facing Dick was a thousand times worse.

“Dick…” I trailed off when he turned away. His shoulders shook as he leaned
against the windowsill and I realized he was crying. “Dick, I’m so sorry.”

I could hear him swallow several times and he shuddered once all over before
turning to face me again. “Why’d you do this to yourself? Why the hell didn’t
you talk to me?”

Before I could answer, he began cursing, starting in English, moving on to
French, and finishing in Russian. All I could do was wait for him to stop.

“But you don’t talk to anyone, do you, Bruce?” He shook his head, jaw tight.

I hung my head, unable to argue with his assessment.

“That’s got to change,” he said. “If you do this to us again, I swear I’ll kill
you myself.”

* * * * *

Arms crossed, Barbara glared at me. “I’m disappointed in you. I knew you liked
to keep secrets, but how could you…” She broke off, lips tight with
disapproval.

I wanted to say something about her own self-hatred since she’d been shot by the
Joker, but discretion won out. “It’s complicated, Barbara.”

“That’s what you always say, just after you’ve nearly destroyed Dick.”

Unsurprising, I suppose, that she should mainly be focused on him. “I’ve already
talked to him.”

“I know.” Her glare softened a bit. “And we accept your apology. I just don’t
understand how you could…damage yourself on purpose.”

Both of us glanced involuntarily at her wheelchair.

* * * * *

Cassandra patted my arm with a sad smile, sitting in the chair next to my bed,
her lotus position an obvious suggestion that we meditate together. I think she
understands the self-loathing better than anyone–even Barbara–and she wasn’t
hurt by my silence like the others.

After we’d breathed together for an hour or so, she patted my arm again.
“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She nodded at me and was gone.

It was nice to have someone not demanding my attention. Much as I love the
others, they can take more energy than I have to give at the best of times.

But they all stood by me, even if they didn’t understand. I’m not sure I had
ever realized how much of a family we are until those days, until I saw them
support each other just as they supported me.

I swear I will do my best from now on to be the man, the hero, they believe I
am.

* * * * *

I wish I could close with “And they all lived happily ever after” but I’d be
lying. We’d all be happier if I could claim some miracle cure, but if there is
one, I haven’t found it.

I can’t take the drugs for my depression. Leslie is upset by that decision, but
accepting–I think she hopes I’ll change my mind. It seems to me that taking
drugs would be an acknowledgment of defeat, and I’m not ready to do that.
Besides, it’s too dangerous for me to take mood- and chemistry-altering drugs.

J’onn says I’m wrong about the drugs, too. I talk to him pretty regularly and I
know that he keeps an eye on me. I don’t trust that many people, especially with
secrets like this, but J’onn is…well, J’onn. And it’s not as if I can visit
any random psychologist.

I still think about cutting myself, find my fingers twitching, the pain building
in my chest. J’onn and Leslie say that will fade with time, as it did before,
especially since I’m trying to stop this time. Sometimes I even believe them.

I’ve learned other ways to get through the bad times, but I’m an expert on scars
and I know that I’ll bear many of these newest ones for the rest of my life,
constant reminders of what I’ve done.

The most important thing, though, is that Batman is back on the streets of
Gotham, terrorizing the criminal element. Robin and the others are by my side,
Oracle on the line keeping tabs, and Nightwing a call away.

I even call Dick sometimes, just to talk, especially when things are bad. He’s
forgiven me. Mostly.

Whether I’ve forgiven myself is another question.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Where words fail, a simple touch may succeed.

CONTINUITY: Somewhere in current Teen Titans comic continuity, but really all
you have to know is that Kon is Superboy and Tim is Robin. No spoilers here.

NOTES: In a weird way, this was inspired by Te’s stories “Dangerous to Reason”
and “And Talk Me Down Again.” Thanks to Illmantrim for helpful suggestions

* * * * *

When the battle was over and they’d straggled back to Titans Tower, Robin gave
the team his usual stern lecture, Starfire pointed out problems in their attack
pattern, Beast Boy cracked a few horrible jokes, and Cyborg left the wrap-up
early to go replace a chunk of his leg blown off by a particularly nasty laser.

Kon slumped against a wall behind Kid Flash, trying to look attentive and not at
all annoyed with the way Bart kept interrupting people and fidgeting and
generally being bratty. Try to be subtle, he told himself. Casual, even. It’d
probably be good to toss one of Beast Boy’s jokes back at him, keep up the
reputation. Joke around with Wonder Girl, who was fiddling with her lasso and
looking bored.

But his eyes kept straying back to Robin’s bruised left side. The visible
portion of the bruise stretched from his forehead down to the collar and from
what Kon had seen of the blow Robin took, it probably went farther. It looked
awful and he tried to imagine what it felt like.

It wasn’t as if he’d never been hurt, but…what with the whole Superboy thing,
he only had two modes: nearly indestructible and catastrophic injury. He had a
tendency to get knocked unconscious, but it wasn’t like any old villain could
cut him or blow him up. So it was hard to imagine the kind of injury that let
Robin walk and talk and pretend that half his face didn’t look like raw meat.

Robin and Starfire were arguing over whether the team should have spread out
more during their last attack and Kon folded his arms, looking around at the
others. Everyone else was practically unmarked–okay, there were some uniforms
that were going to need repairs and Cassie claimed fighting was hell on nail
polish, but basically the rest of them were okay. Even Cyborg’s injury, which
looked terrible, wasn’t really that serious. Hell, Kon had seen Vic fight with
what looked like half his face blown off.

Robin *acted* just like the rest of them, which made them all forget how easily
he could be hurt. Even now, with the ugliest injury Kon had seen that didn’t
actually involve blood on the outside of someone’s body, nobody seemed to even
notice. It was as if Robin was so talented at ignoring injury that he could make
it invisible to others. But that didn’t work on Kon. Not anymore.

Thanks to the intervention of Raven, Starfire and Robin finally agreed to
disagree and everyone dispersed to do whatever it was they did when the
adrenaline wore off. Robin watched them leave, then turned to Kon. “Yes?”

Face warm, Kon remembered that Robin always knew when he was being watched.
“Just wondering how badly you were hurt. You know, if you needed help or
anything.” Yeah, smooth. Real smooth. Here’s where Robin would smirk at him,
make some crack about nursemaids, and take off to beat the crap out of
something.

But he didn’t. Instead, Robin tilted his head and stared at him for a very long
moment while Kon tried to decide if he was in trouble.

“You busy?” Robin asked. When Kon shook his head, Robin turned sharply and left
the room, Kon following a step or so behind.

Kon was watching the unusual sight of Robin limping, so it wasn’t until they
were halfway to his own room that he realized that was their destination. He
managed to get his surprise under control by the time Robin pushed the door
open.

No surprise that Robin didn’t take him to his *own* room, though. At least Kon’s
room had personality–a picture of Superman and Krypto, a couple of CDs he’d
borrowed from Gar, stuff like that. Even Robin had to find his own barren space
somewhat gloomy at times.

Robin’s limp got worse once Kon had shut the door behind them. “Are you okay?”
Kon asked. “Should you be in the infirmary?” Bouncing on the balls of his feet,
he was ready to carry him if necessary.

“No. There’s no treatment except rest and more ice later.” Robin pulled off his
gloves and placed them on the dresser. Wincing, he unclasped his cape, folded it
with great care, and put it behind his back as he sat down on the bed and leaned
against the wall.

Kon dithered, then sat down on the bed, trying not to jostle him too much. Robin
took a deep breath, eyes shut, and became Tim. Kon couldn’t quite explain how he
knew that, but it was something about the almost ritual stripping of gloves and
cape and the lower level of tension in the room.

The silence was uncomfortable, at least to Kon. He suspected that Tim wasn’t
bothered by it at all, probably because nobody could do uncomfortable silences
like Batman. Everyone else was just an amateur.

Kon opened and closed his mouth a few times. “What does it feel like?”

One eye opened and narrowed. “What?”

A vague wave of his hand. “Getting hurt. Your face. I don’t know. Never mind.”

Still leaning against the wall, Tim turned his head to look at him, both eyes
open now. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just hurts. It’s kind of a dull
ache.”

“Oh.” Kon found himself staring. The bruising looked weird, mottled, not one
solid color. He knew it was blood pooling under the skin, but the more he
stared, the worse it looked, swirls and bumps and different colors–purplish-
red, green, sickly yellow. Like little alien things under Tim’s skin, eating
away at him.

He swallowed, his hand reaching out and brushing Tim’s cheek, feather light down
the bruised skin to where the colors faded into the collar. Tim didn’t move.

Using the backs of his fingers, Kon stroked down the uninjured cheek next,
finding it several degrees cooler. Tim didn’t even blink, watching him with that
unearthly stare that meant you couldn’t predict what was coming next.

It was nice to just touch him–it made Kon feel not quite so alone inside his
skin. He started to drop his hand, embarrassed by the thought, but Tim caught
it, bringing it back to his right cheek.

Kon wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. He concentrated on the
different sensations–how Tim’s fingers felt rough against his own, how the tiny
hairs on the back of his hand tingled where they brushed against Tim’s cheek.
His hand was warm where Tim clasped it, sweating, but neither of them let go.

It was an awkward position, his right arm stretched around, but Kon was afraid
to move, afraid Tim would notice that he was *touching* someone and run away.
But Tim didn’t. Closing his eyes, he held Kon’s hand and sat very still.

When Tim did let go, he didn’t open his eyes, just rolled his head back so he
faced forward again. Emboldened, Kon turned and scooted over so he was leaning
against the wall next to him.

Tim shifted so their shoulders touched lightly.

Kon responded by moving his leg so their thighs touched. The nerves on his right
side flared and it seemed as if he could feel every one individually as they
concentrated on Tim’s solid presence.

It felt momentous and Kon thought that was kind of odd, until he considered how
little touching there was in his life. The folks at Cadmus Labs hadn’t been big
on the nurturing thing, even his friends. Clark occasionally gave him a filial
pat on the shoulder or back and Ma Kent hugged him when she could, but that was
it.

Who hugged Tim? Certainly nobody hugged Robin.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Tim’s eyes were still closed. Maybe it
didn’t count if he wasn’t looking. But even Robins were allowed to need comfort
now and then. Right?

Robin looked out for them, made sure they trained and were as safe as possible
in their crazy lives, and Tim was there when people freaked out, his calm
certainty soothing teenage angst. (Kon wasn’t certain anybody else could see the
difference, but even with the mask on, it was always Tim who dealt with the
emotional stuff.)

He kept them all from losing it, but never asked for any help in return. Kon
thought he probably wasn’t capable of asking, except in the most sideways twisty
Robin kind of way. Like now.

Kon stared at Tim’s left hand, which sat inches away from his own, resting on
Tim’s thigh. Reaching out, he picked it up and brought it to rest between his
own hands, Tim’s elbow tucked under his. Tim twitched, but didn’t take the hand
back.

Gently, Kon began to rub. First brushing over the skin on the back of Tim’s
hand, then turning it over and doing the same on the palm.

Tim shuddered once all over and Kon stopped, listening to the sound of their
breathing, their beating hearts.

“You haven’t got any superpowers,” Kon said, his voice sounding loud to his own
ears.

“No.” Tim’s fist clenched and Kon wrapped his hands tighter around it. The
tension ran all the way up his arm and Kon could feel Tim vibrating like a low-
budget Kid Flash.

He held on, waiting for whatever was happening to pass. When the fist relaxed,
Kon resumed stroking, now running his fingers down Tim’s arm from the elbow to
the fingers. It was weirdly soothing, like petting Krypto, if Krypto could ever
sit still this long.

It was even more like meditation, everything narrowing down to the sweaty warmth
of Tim’s arm, the plastic smoothness of a long-healed scar, the fine hairs, the
way his elbow dug into Kon’s side.

With each careful and deliberate sweep, he tried to tell Tim the important
things.

Don’t get hurt.

Don’t get killed.

The team needs you around.

I need you around.

Tim didn’t talk about stuff like everyone else did. He didn’t complain about
school or his parents or even Batman, and nobody would have blamed him if he did
*that*.

All that mess had to be piling up inside somewhere, like the blood clotting to
form Tim’s newest bruises. Kon imagined every worry and bad thought and stress,
each one a hard knot of ache under Tim’s skin.

With each push of fingers along the muscular arm, Kon wished he could force all
of it out. For all his superpowers, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do for
his friend.

Couldn’t keep him safe.

Couldn’t heal his injuries.

Couldn’t make everything right.

Couldn’t even say this out loud.

Tim’s heartbeat and breathing slowed and Kon looked at him. Tim was asleep, his
jaw hanging open, face relaxed.

Maybe that was the best possible answer to everything he’d been trying to say
with his hands.

Tim trusted him, felt safe with him. And at this moment…that was enough.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: When the Teen Titans hit Gotham for a night out, Tim wonders where he can get fitted for a straightjacket.

CONTINUITY: This certainly happens before just about anything in the last year
of Robin or Teen Titans. Or it’s an AU, if you prefer.

NOTES: I love my anal-retentive Robin. A lot. Thanks to Penknife and Illmantrim
for betareading.

* * * * *

“No,” Tim said into the phone, glaring down at the innocent piece of metal and
plastic with loathing.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Kon said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“If you don’t come, the three of us will go without you.”

Tim was going to say ‘Fine.’ Then he imagined the havoc that could be wreaked on
the unsuspecting city if he wasn’t there to be the voice of reason. “We’re just
going to hang out?” he asked. “Batman’ll draw and quarter me if he finds out I
let you guys into Gotham.”

Sounding smug now that he’d won, Kon agreed. “Just hanging out. Normal teen
stuff. We’ll be Conner, Cassie, and Bart. I promise.”

With a sense of impending doom, Tim sighed. “Okay, I’ll go.”

“Awright!” Kon’s voice got muffled. “He went for it!”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Where should we meet?”

“Oh, um, yeah, that’s another thing. Can we borrow your dad’s car?”

* * * * *

It took all the patience he’d honed on stakeouts for Tim to not pace the living
room awaiting his friends’ arrival. Nothing to see here, he thought as he
watched Jeopardy with his dad and Dana.

“So, where did you say you met these friends?” Dana asked in the least casual
voice ever.

“At the coffee shop I go to with Bernard.” Tim mentally threw his hands in the
air. He was already doomed: There was an 85% chance Kon had some half-assed
story which he’d blurt out five seconds after walking through the door.

Dana shot his father a look. “Do they go to your school?”

“No, they’re from all around.” *That* was true, at least.

Dana was about to say something else when the doorbell rang. Tim was proud he
rose calmly from his chair and didn’t vault over the coffee table to get to the
door first.

Wrenching the door open, he hissed at the three beaming faces on the doorstep.
“Don’t volunteer *anything* and let me answer any questions.”

Startled blinks were his only answer and he turned to face the two people behind
him. “Dad, Dana, this is Conner, Cassie, and Bart.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Dana said brightly, her smile undimmed by
certain…unique fashion choices of Tim’s new friends.

His friends nodded and smiled and murmured greetings and Tim wondered if it was
too late to chuck it all and become a brain surgeon instead of a superhero. This
was much too stressful.

Especially the part where Kon had exchanged his “S” t-shirt for one that sported
a bat logo. Tim decided that Kon’s next month of workouts would tax even
superhuman strength and endurance. He’d make *sure* of that.

“So,” his dad said, “what were you guys planning?”

“Just hanging out,” Kon said.

“Something to eat,” Bart said. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re *always* hungry,” Cassie said, popping her bubble gum and shifting in
her silver high heels. Tim made a mental note to talk to her about taking a
disguise one step too far.

“Of *course* I’m always hungry,” Bart began.

“You’re a growing boy,” Tim and Kon said in unison.

Dana chuckled as Bart glared at them.

“I think we should get going,” Tim said, “if we’re going to get home at a
reasonable hour.”

Two people looked pleased he was worried about his curfew and three looked like
they wanted to say something snide about Batman’s patrol schedule.

Despite a strong desire to hide under his bed, Tim turned to his father. “Um,
the keys?”

Jack grinned. “Drive carefully,” he said, handing over the Gotham Knights key
chain. “I’m trusting you here.”

“I’ll be careful, Dad.”

“Nice to meet you,” the other three chorused as they followed Tim to where the
car was parked.

“Hey, it’s a Beemer,” Kon said. “Cool!”

“Tim, can I–”

“No way! I’m not letting you drive, Bart. I still remember the last time.” Tim
hopped into the driver’s seat and took a deep breath. He had to be positive.
After all, they were just going to hang out. What could possibly go wrong?

Tim suppressed a whimper. He was *so* doomed.

* * * * *

Burger Palace was crowded when the four superheroes got there, the grease-
scented air filled with voices and balled-up napkins being thrown from group to
group.

Bart made a bee-line for the counter and Cassie followed, muttering something
about a chocolate milkshake. Tim glanced over at Kon, who was grinning as he
surveyed the room. “It’s been too long,” Kon said.

“Too long?”

“I’ve been away from my adoring public,” Kon said.

Tim groaned. “Don’t give me that. First of all, you’re supposed to be more
mature than that now. Second, you’re not supposed to *be* Superboy tonight!”

“Quiet,” Kon said, wide-eyed and innocent. “You don’t want anyone to overhear
you.”

“I hate you.”

“I heard that.”

“I wanted you to.”

Kon punched his shoulder lightly. “C’mon, we’re supposed to be having fun,
remember?”

Tim leaned against the wall, then stood up straight hastily when he felt his
shirt sticking. “In what way is this fun?”

Kon stared at him, jaw dropping. “I can’t believe it.”

“What?” Tim almost looked down at himself, but he knew he wore the usual ‘normal
teenager’ costume–t-shirt, jeans, boots.

“You’ve forgotten how to have fun! When was the last time you did something
fun?”

Tim looked around. Several people were watching at them and he dropped his voice
to a whisper. “I can’t talk about that here.”

Kon rolled his eyes. “Not Gotham nighttime fun. I mean normal fun. Seeing a
movie. Hanging out.”

“We play video games at the Tower.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Because we all know you’re just marking time and waiting for training to
start.”

“Not true! I–”

“What’s not true?” Cassie asked, slurping at a milkshake.

Tim thought about asking what she’d done with her gum, but considering the
lengths to which she’d taken the disguise, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the
answer. “We are *not* talking about this.” Tim glared at both of them. “I know
how to have fun.”

“Fine,” Kon said triumphantly. “What’re we going to do next?”

Tim closed his eyes, counting to ten. Then he tallied up the number of current
Arkham escapees still on the lam. He was starting on all the times he’d seen
Batman and Catwoman nearly kiss when he heard Bart approach.

“What’s wrong with Tim?”

Tim wondered what they would do if he went insane on the spot. Would they be
able to tell the difference?

While Bart repeated his question–again and again–Cassie found them a booth.
Tim trailed behind as Bart dropped his loaded tray next to Cassie and Kon
strolled along, practically strutting.

Tim sighed as almost every female eye followed Kon, along with no small
percentage of male eyes. They’d no sooner sat down than three girls meandered
oh-so-casually toward them.

Blonde hair teased into identical artfully-tousled dos, the three were the
epitome of the average high school cheerleader, shirts cut down to their navels
and skirts cut up to approximately the same. Their teeth were cosmetically
white, which was obvious because they were baring them in Kon’s direction. Kon
responded automatically, preening and smiling back at them.

Bart had actually stopped eating to watch their approach, his eyes very wide.
Tim looked at Cassie, whose scowl made her look more like Wonder Girl and less
like a typical teen.

The three girls draped themselves around the booth and–not-so-incidentally–
Kon. “Hey,” one said, “haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Just visiting,” Kon said, waving generally in Tim’s direction.

All three looked at Tim, dismissed him as beneath notice, and turned back to
Kon. “Visiting from where?” the second asked in a grating little-girl squeak.

“He’s from Kansas,” Cassie said, voice cold. “And he’ll be going back soon
enough, so why don’t you run along?”

The third girl tossed her hair and sneered. “Why don’t *you* run along, kiddo?
I’m sure Handsome here’s got better things to do than hang out with *you*.”

Cassie snorted. “Bitch, please. I *know* he’s got better things to do than talk
to you.”

Kon looked at both of them and Tim tried to figure out how to defuse this
situation before it got any worse.

“Ah, why don’t we head out?” Tim said, in his best ‘meek, mild, and harmless Tim
Drake’ tone.

“Shut up!” Cassie and the three cheerleaders said.

Tim sighed and leaned his head back against the smooth plastic of the booth.

“Ladies,” Kon said with a grin, “no need to fight. There’s enough of me to go
around.”

Tim turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Stop enjoying this,” he said,
softly enough that only Kon’s hearing could pick it up. Kon’s grin widened and
Tim’s eyes got narrower.

Cassie, meanwhile, was sizing up her opponents, er, the other teenagers, and was
not impressed. “So, you’re representative of girls in Gotham? Where’d you buy
your clothes? K-Mart?”

Tim and Kon winced in unison. Bart ate a cheeseburger, seeming fascinated by the
conversation.

“At least I don’t have my hair done with a lawn mower.” The girls giggled.

Cassie leaned back in her seat, but Tim could see Bart and Kon tense up;
obviously all of them expected an explosion. “My grandmother,” Cassie said, her
voice so sweet it could attract bees, “has more fashion sense than you ever
will.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone dressed like a cheap wh–”

She didn’t even have to finish the word, laughing as Bart and Tim simultaneously
grabbed Cassie’s arms, Tim nearly flattening himself on the table in order to
reach her before she could make it out of the booth.

The three cheerleaders twittered and giggled, one leaning across the back of the
booth to reach Kon’s shoulders. “Babe, why don’t you ditch these losers and let
us show you a good time?”

Kon’s smile was still congenial, but Tim could hear the steel in his voice.
“Thanks for the offer, but I think my friends and I were on our way out.”

Cassie opened her mouth, but after a look at Tim and Kon, she slid out of the
booth, closely followed by Bart and Tim. Kon nodded politely, but slipped past
the three astonished girls, who were obviously unused to such abject failure.

Tim’s neck itched, unhappy with the feeling of turning his back on the enemy,
even as he reminded himself of the unlikelihood of a weapon being fired in this
particular engagement.

* * * * *

“What now?” Tim asked, already weary as they got into the car.

“I thought you were a master of fun,” Kon said.

“Shut up.”

Bart interrupted their glaring contest. “How about if we cruise around, since
we’re in this cool car?”

Cassie settled into the back seat with a sigh. “Sounds good. Roll down the
windows. No good cruising with the windows up.”

Tim started the car as Bart leaned forward. “Hey, now can I drive–”

“No!”

“Fine.” Bart crossed his arms. “No need to yell.”

Tim gritted his teeth and pulled out of the parking lot, automatically mapping
out a route to cover the most territory in the shortest time. Kon flipped on the
radio as they turned a corner, and he, Cassie, and Bart debated their music
choices.

“No. No way.” Cassie pouted, kicking the back of the seat. “I will *not* cruise
while listening to Mariah Carey.”

“What?” Kon twisted around in his seat. “You’d prefer ‘N Sync?”

“Puh-leaze.”

Bart, beating a tattoo on the seat, chipped in. “What about the Beatles?”

Kon started to say something, but he stiffened, head tilted to one side. Tim
caught the motion and flipped off the radio as he pulled into a side street.

Bart and Cassie froze, watching Kon.

“It’s a woman. No, two women. They need help.”

“Where?” Bart asked as Tim turned into an alley and everyone jumped out.

Kon listened for another moment, then turned to the right.

“No powers,” Tim hissed as Kon started to leap into the air. Kon growled and
started running, obviously struggling to restrain his speed. Bart’s face looked
even more unhappy, but the habit of obedience was thankfully too ingrained.

As Tim ran, he realized that Cassie was using her flying ability to move faster,
but since the untrained eye was unlikely to notice, he let it go. The four of
them skidded around a corner, the sounds of struggle now obvious even to those
without super-hearing.

Four men, wearing dragon-themed jackets showing their gang affiliation, were
taunting two women, whose torn clothing and terrified expressions were more
evidence than the Titans needed. Tim automatically catalogued three knives in
hands and one gun inside the pocket of a jacket.

“Hands off,” Kon snapped. Although Tim wasn’t looking at him, he knew what the
gangbangers and victims were seeing: the true face of Kon-El. Kon did a good job
of acting the fool and most people believed it, but moments like this brought
out the implacable half-alien who had never considered any career path but that
of a superhero.

One of the men laughed at the sight of the four teens. “How do you kids think
you’re gonna stop us? Throw cell phones? Call Daddy?” He waved his knife and the
brunette he gripped by the arm whimpered.

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to know. Let them go and you won’t have to
find out.”

The blonde woman cried out as a second man held his knife to her throat, and Tim
heard Cassie’s low growl. “Brave words, kid,” the first man said, “but maybe
you’d better just leave us to our fun before someone gets hurt.”

“Too late,” Tim said. He glanced at the other Titans. “Remember…”

He didn’t bother to finish as Cassie punched the guy who’d spoken, hitting him
so hard his knife went flying as he fell to the ground.

Tim took the next closest, kicking him back against a brick wall, creating a
satisfying ‘crack’ as he hit and slid to the ground. By the time he’d turned,
Bart and Kon had rushed the last two, knocking them away from the second woman.
They held the men prone against a nearby dumpster.

The men struggled–to no avail–and Kon looked hopefully over his shoulder at
Tim.

Tim sighed, looking at the two astonished women, who were still frozen in place,
unable to assimilate the flurry of activity. “Ladies? Are you okay? Do you need
an ambulance?”

The brunette just gaped at him. The blonde swallowed. “I think we’re okay. They
didn’t have much time.”

Tim nodded. “Good. We’ll call the police, but my friends would like to get out
some aggression by knocking these two unconscious, if you don’t mind.”

That got the brunette’s attention. “Do it!”

Kon shifted his position a little. “So…”

“Fine.” Tim shrugged and turned to Cassie as Kon and Bart punched their captives
and the two would-be rapists slid to the ground. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“Sure.” She tossed it to him and he dialed a very unlisted number, moving around
the corner so the two women couldn’t hear him.

“Wonder Girl?” a computer-masked voice asked, picking up after one ring.

“No, it’s Robin, Oracle,” he said. “I’m on Wonder Girl’s phone. Supposedly off-
duty.”

“Ah. What’s wrong, kid?”

He could hear clicking. She was probably checking on his status and running a
voiceprint to make sure it was really him. “Nothing wrong, exactly. Just
interrupted some criminals and I need to you to arrange a police pickup.”

“Can do. Gimme me the info.”

Arrangements made, he returned to the alley. “The police will be here in a few
minutes, everyone.” Here was where things got delicate. “Ah, we’d really rather
not get mixed up in this. The police only need your testimony.”

“But…what do we tell them?” the blonde asked.

“It all happened too fast,” Tim said.

Bart laughed. “This is Gotham. You could tell them Batman showed up.”

Tim rolled his eyes and made a mental note to download a virus to Bart’s
computer at home that would play the Barney theme song every time he logged on.
“Whatever. Let’s go, unless you want to spend all night talking to the police.
Don’t worry, ladies, these guys won’t wake up any time soon.”

The women thanked them profusely as the more-or-less incognito Teen Titans
disappeared around the corner.

* * * * *

All the way back to where they’d parked, Bart pestered Tim to ‘show them the
sights’ of Gotham, despite Tim’s strenuous objections that Gotham didn’t *have*
sights.

“Other than Arkham,” Cassie said with a grin as they reached the car. “Shotgun!”

Bart and Kon groaned as Cassie hopped in the front seat next to Tim.

“I’m not taking you to Arkham,” Tim said.

“Who said we wanted to go to Arkham?” Kon leaned against the back of Cassie’s
seat, trying to get past her to the radio.

“She said…” Tim sighed. “I’m just going to drive around some more.”

With the long practice of a team leader who knew how to prioritize, Tim ignored
Kon and Cassie smacking each other’s hands as they tried to get their own music
in favor of making sure Bart didn’t lean too far out the window.

“Is that a prostitute? She’s got a really really short skirt and I can see–”

“I don’t want to know what you can see.”

“But I’m just trying to learn–”

“Bart!

With a pout, Bart collapsed back into the seat, arms crossed. “Then what am I
supposed to look at? I mean, when you’ve seen one gargoyle, you’ve seen ‘em
all.”

“Hey, I never claimed Gotham was a great town for tourism.” Tim scowled into the
rearview mirror. “In fact, as you might recall, Batman would prefer you *didn’t*
visit.”

Bart sniffed and went back to looking out the window. Since he didn’t seem in
any danger of falling out, Tim concentrated on driving, while Kon and Cassie
continued to argue about music.

“Pull over!” Bart said suddenly, loud enough that even Kon and Cassie stopped
talking and stared at him. Cassie snapped off the radio.

“What’s wrong?” Tim asked, even as he neatly cut off a Mustang and slid into a
parking spot. “Don’t even think about getting sick in m–”

“That alley we just passed, the narrow one, I swear I saw several somebodies
climbing up a fire escape.”

Tim twisted around in the seat to stare at Bart. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Bart,” Cassie said, sounding hopeful, “are you sure it wasn’t, like, a
window cleaning crew or something?”

Kon snorted. “That’s reaching, Cass.”

“I agree,” Tim said. “Okay, I’ll go check it out. You guys stay here.” He jumped
out of the car before his teammates could argue with him, knowing that once an
argument like that began, it could go on until the eventual heat death of the
universe.

Traffic was fairly light, so he dashed across the street, ignoring the annoyed
voices of the Titans left behind. If the gods were kind, then Bart was imagining
things and Tim would be back in a few moments with ammunition to tease the
speedster for weeks.

Before he’d even left the car, Tim had begun a surreptitious scan of the area,
and he was fairly certain there was nobody to see him except his team and the
occasional passing car. He eased his way into the shadow–glad for the moment of
the large number of broken streetlights–and slid to the edge of the alley Bart
had indicated.

It took only a split second to assess the situation, another split second to
curse fiercely at whatever deities were supposed to be watching over him, and an
entire two seconds to whirl around and glare at the three not-very-abashed
superheroes who were running up behind him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give them
the lecture they deserved without alerting the miscreants he’d seen in the
alley, so he settled for a longer glare–which didn’t seem to bother any of
them.

There didn’t seem to be any point in using sign to try and convince them to stay
out of the alley, since the chances of being obeyed at this juncture were
practically nil. With a mental sigh, Tim gestured for Bart and Cassie to come in
behind him and Kon, and slid his way into the alley.

It was a matter of moments for him to clamber silently up the fire escape,
knowing that Kon would be pretending to climb, while actually flying, and Cassie
would do the same while carrying Bart with her.

The two men jimmying a window jumped in surprise when four teenagers surrounded
them, looking annoyed.

The men both had ski masks on, but it was still easy to see their looks of
shock. One began, “What the f–”

“Ah ah,” Kon said, wagging a finger in what he probably thought was an imitation
of Superman, “language.”

Tim snatched the pry bar out of the hand of the guy on the left, smacking aside
a weak attempt at a punch as he kicked the man’s legs out from under him. The
would-be burglar went down with an ‘ooof.’

Kon grabbed the other one and held him at arm’s length. “What do we have to tie
them up with?”

“I picked this up in the alley,” Cassie said, holding up a length of rope that
was grimy but otherwise useable.

Giving her a tiny smile of approval for thinking ahead, Tim nodded. “Go ahead,
then.”

Cassie and Bart quickly tied up the two men, Kon dusting his hands and looking
pleased with himself.

As the minor adrenaline rush died down, Tim sighed, waiting for Cassie to
finish. “I’ll take your phone again. We’ll leave these guys here.”

Tim handed Cassie back her phone after calling Oracle and the four of them
climbed back down the fire escape, this time conventionally, and headed back to
the car. By the time they crossed the street, Bart and Kon had begun a debate
about who would win in a fair fight between Superman and Batman.

Cassie groaned and glanced at Tim, tossing her phone from hand to hand and
giving him a strange look. “You *do* realize we could have just called the cops,
right?”

Tim blinked.

“I mean, it was an empty office building and there wasn’t any imminent danger to
anybody, so we could have called the cops and scrammed.”

Tim opened his mouth and closed it again. “Get in the car,” he said eventually.

“Just checking,” she said with a smirk.

Tim slid into the driver’s seat, briefly considering the merits of banging his
head against the steering wheel until either his head or the wheel broke.

“Okay,” Kon said, trying to pretend he hadn’t heard their conversation, “I think
we should stop driving around and actually go someplace.”

“I want to go dancing,” Cassie announced. The three guys all stared at her,
thought about what she was wearing, and swallowed. “There has to be a dance club
somewhere in Gotham!”

“We’re not exactly drinking age, Cass,” Kon said, looking very sorry they
weren’t.

“Isn’t there anyplace that’ll let us in? You know, one of those places where
they stamp your hand so you can’t buy a drink?”

Everyone looked at Tim. He started to say no, then decided that surely a club
was less hazardous than the four of them out on the street.

“Right. Club it is.” He nodded firmly, pleased now that he had a definite plan,
and pulled out into traffic.

* * * * *

Luck finally with him, Tim found a parking spot a few blocks from the club and
everyone piled out. Kon and Bart were now arguing about who was the coolest
character on Wendy the Werewolf Stalker, so Tim and Cassie walked ahead.

“So, do I wanna know how you know about this place?” Blowing a bubble with the
gum that had reappeared, Cassie looked at him sideways.

“What do you mean?” Tim scanned the side streets as they neared the bright
lights of bars and restaurants.

“I mean, I have trouble imagining you poring over the newspaper looking for live
music and dancing and clubs that let in teenagers.”

Tim ignored her and kept walking.

“So, how do you know about this place?”

Sighing, Tim gave in. “It was the center of an ecstasy ring last year selling
tainted drugs that killed three kids. I was undercover here every night for a
week.”

“Man, I am *so* cheated!” Cassie groaned. “Wonder Woman never sends me to hang
out. Nothing *nearly* that cool while I’m working.”

“Would you want to work for Batman?”

Cassie sighed. “Point.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Kon, I was right. You
owe me $5.”

Tim opened his mouth and then closed it again just as a dark shape stepped out
of the last alley, holding a gun.

“Gimme all–”

“Good *grief*,” Cassie said. “This is so stupid.”

Tim could see the would-be mugger’s jaw drop.

“Jeez,” Kon said as he and Bart came up behind them, “nice city you got here,
man.”

“Don’t blame me,” Tim said with a snort. “I do my best.”

“Well, this doesn’t happen to me in Smallville or Metropolis.”

Bart’s foot was tapping a mile a minute. “Are we going to the club or not? I
wanna dance off some energy.”

“Hey!” the mugger yelled. “If you don’t shut up and gimme your money, I’m gonna
start shooting.”

“Uh-huh,” Cassie said absently. “Seriously, Tim, I think this place has warped
you. Now I understand why you’re obsessed with crime. Gotham is insane.”

The mugger raised his gun and Tim flicked the car keys in his hand. The other
three watched with appreciation as the glittering ring arced through the air and
knocked the gun to the ground.

Bart dashed over–slightly faster than normal speed–to hold the gun down with
his foot, while the mugger gaped at them. “What should we do with this?” Bart
asked.

Tim waved at the mugger. “We’ll leave him with it. I’m sure the police can tie
it to some crime or other.”

Shock finally worn off, the mugger turned to run and Kon glanced at Tim. “Can
I?”

“Be my guest.” Tim watched as Kon took off–also slightly faster than normal
speed–and tackled the other man to the ground, ignoring an ineffective punch to
his stomach. “Cassie, give me the phone so I can call Oracle. Again.”

Tim looked at his watch as the phone rang, wondering if he could just go on
patrol instead, where his life was less eventful.

Oracle sounded like she wanted to laugh, but managed to restrain herself and Tim
tossed Cassie’s phone back when he was done. He was listening for sirens, but
trained instincts allowed him to hear a subtler sound. “Damn,” he said with
great fervor.

Kon–busy tying the mugger to a mailbox–was about to ask what was wrong when
the sound registered in his brain. His eyes widened and he seemed to consider
the merits of running away. Cassie and Bart just looked at them, confused.

From the shadows, a voice said his name and Tim decided that going insane wasn’t
enough: At this point he might want to consider asking Superman for asylum.

Sighing, he marched to his doom, slipping into the alley, leaving his worried
friends behind him. “Batman,” he said to the looming shape, crossing his arms.

“What are they doing here?”

Tim sighed again. “In theory, we were ‘hanging out.’”

“In practice?”

“Gotham hasn’t been on its best behavior.”

“And you let three metas work in Gotham?” Even in the dark, Batman’s glare
weighed a ton.

“They’re my team. The crimes were there and so were we. They did their best to
fight like non-metas. Should we have left those women to face their attackers
alone?”

Batman glared harder. “You shouldn’t have brought metas here to begin with.”

“I didn’t ‘bring’ Superboy, Wonder Girl, and Kid Flash. I brought my friends.”
The more he thought about it, the more annoyed Tim got. He shifted his stance
automatically, feeling the change from defensive to offensive.

Batman saw the difference as well and his voice got rougher. “You know why I
keep–”

“Please. Like Superman has never visited. Like Wonder Woman has never been in
Gotham. And you can’t tell me neither of them ever stopped a crime on their way
in or out of town.”

“That’s not the point–”

“That is *exactly* the point.” Tim allowed his voice to rise slightly. “You
don’t trust *my* team. If you don’t trust them, then you don’t truly trust me.”

“You know that’s not true.”

He’d hit a nerve, because that voice was much more Bruce than Batman. “In that
case,” Tim said, “we’ll go back to trying to act our age.”

He turned and marched out of the alley, leaving behind a stunned mentor. The
sight when he emerged was even better: Cassie, face pale and eyes wide; Bart, on
tip-toes, prepared to start running; and Kon, still holding the unconscious
mugger half-tied.

A tiny ‘whoosh’ from behind him and he knew Batman was gone. Kon found his voice
first. “You…you just told off Batman,” he said.

“Mm-hmm.”

“You. Told off. Batman.” Kon dropped the now-forgotten unconscious mugger, still
staring at Tim as if he’d grown a third arm.

“Yes, I did. Now can we get out of here before the cops arrive?”

That got everyone’s attention and Kon toed the mugger out of his way as they
took off for the safety of the crowded club.

“So, you trust us,” Bart said from behind Tim.

“Yeah.”

“Does this mean I can drive–”

“No!”

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Dr. Leslie Thompkins makes an acquaintance.

As she gazed over the hospital beds filled with recovering patients, Leslie was
surprised to see a figure looming in the shadows. “Batman, is that you?”

She gasped as the figure stepped into the light. He was very tall and pale, and
although he was in human form, she knew instinctively she did not face a man.

“I am sorry,” he said, “I did not mean to alarm you.”

“Who are you?” She moved forward with some vague notion of coming between him
and her patients.

“I am not Death, Dr. Thompkins. Believe me, my sister is much fairer than I, and
when you see her, you will recognize her. No, I am Dream.”

“Why are you here?” She looked around, only now seeing the room’s misty edges.

“I walk the world of dreams to be certain all is well. I wondered at the dreams
of a woman that were so simple.”

“Simple?” Hands on her hips, she shook her head in disgust. “I wish this was
simple. Here, everyone recovers, all the illnesses are natural, and nobody ever
comes in full of bullets.”

Dream bowed. “I stand corrected. Perhaps the word I sought was prosaic. Your
dreams feature no talking animals, strange powers, or Daliesque images.”

Leslie looked around her with a sigh. “But this is what I want. Waking or
sleeping, it’s what I dream of.”

“Admirable dreams, Doctor. But I believe some variety will help you.” Dream
paused, appearing hesitant. “Would you perhaps care to walk a ways with me? I
think you might enjoy the experience, even find it educational.”

He was lonely, she thought to herself. These patients weren’t real, but somehow she
knew Dream *was* real…in some way. Maybe she could help *him.* “I would be
honored.”

Taking his arm, she followed the Lord of Dreams into the rest of his demesne.

–end–