by Mara

Summary: When Scott loses a bet to Jean, she comes up with a…unique way for
him to pay up.

The sun was almost directly above the mansion and there wasn’t a cloud in the
sky. Under most circumstances, this would please Scott, but today he’d been
hoping for a violent hurricane. A monsoon. Maybe a tornado?

A light breeze drifted through the shrubbery, carrying the scent of azaleas.
Scott groaned and tried to step backward.

Jean patted Scott on the cheek as she herded him out the front door. “Look at it
this way: If you’re lucky, maybe Magneto will attack on the way there.”

“I *wish*,” he muttered, scowling at her as she leaned her head back and
laughed.

Ororo came down the stairs at a jog. “I could accompany you, if you need help.”

“Oh no.” Jean shook her head firmly, waving her back. “No way. He lost the bet
fair and square and he’s not wriggling out of this.” Ororo shrugged and turned
down the hall toward the kitchen, unsuccessfully hiding a smile.

Birds chirped in the trees, as if they were also laughing at him and Scott
decided the entire universe hated him. “If I’d known,” he said, almost pleading,
“that Jubilee and Angelo were *capable* of behaving themselves in class for an
entire week, I would never have agreed to the bet in the first place.”

“You’re a pessimist,” Jean said, crossing her arms.

“A realist.” Scott corrected her as he checked his pockets.

Heaving a sigh, Jean watched him. “The keys are already in the ignition. Your
driver’s license is in your wallet in your right pocket. The car is waiting and
you have to go now.”

Scott wavered. He could beg. Maybe if he offered back rubs for a month? To spend
less time working on the jet? Anything else?

Her smile beatific, Jean pointed toward the Ford Explorer sitting in the drive.
“Go.”

Scott manfully suppressed a whimper. “Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutamus.”
Turning, he trudged down the walk toward his doom.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Scott. You’re not actually going to *die*.” She closed
the front door with a resounding thud, which echoed in the courtyard.

Really, Scott thought, there was only one thing that would make this moment even
worse. He thanked whatever deity might be listening that Logan was still off on
his quest, then looked around hastily, lest the universe teleport him back in
time to witness this humiliation.

“C’mon, Mr. Summers,” Jubilee called, leaning out the window of the SUV, “it’s
almost 12 o’clock! The mall closes in nine hours and we’ve got a lot of shopping
to do.”

Scott rubbed his temples and got into the driver’s seat, glancing around to make
sure nobody was missing. No, there were Jubilee, Rogue, Kitty, Betsy, Monet, and
Paige, all lined up in their seats looking like cats with their eyes on a
particularly tasty fish.

Jean opened the door and leaned back out. “Oh, and try and look interested,
would you, Scott?”

Scott decided he hated his life.

* * * * *

Very few people knew that besides his unusual visual skills, Scott also had the
more common ability of passive absolute pitch: He could identify and name
individual notes or groups of notes. It was useless, he’d found, since he
couldn’t *produce* those notes on command, just recognize them–an extension of
his excellent memory.

All of which made for a great party trick and an absolute hatred of mall music,
which always seemed to be transposed to a different key or played at a
nonstandard pitch.

It gave him a headache every single time.

Scott paused at the door, glaring through the glass with loathing at the milling
hordes. Jubilee took his left hand and Paige his right.

“It’s okay, Mr. Summers,” Paige said in what was meant to be a kind tone, but
came out sounding like a parent trying to convince a child that shots weren’t
really that bad. “It’s just one day at the mall,” she said, “how bad can it be?”

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked as they led him through the doors.

“Okay,” Jubilee said, taking point. “We agreed we’d hit Hot Topic first, right?”

Monet sighed. “If you insist. However, I find the store quite wearying.”

Scott realized he was in the odd position of agreeing with Monet about
something. Proving that *anything* was possible at least once.

“I promise we’ll take you and Betsy someplace appropriately snooty before the
day is over,” Kitty said with a grin.

Betsy and Monet both sighed.

“As long as I get to go to Old Navy for pants,” Rogue said.

“Yes yes,” Jubilee said. “Let’s go. We’ve got important shopping to do, ladies.”

Scott followed in their wake as the strangely assorted gaggle of girls swept
semi-majestically down the corridor. He winced as the public address system
blared out a hideous instrumental version of “Stairway to Heaven.”

* * * * *

The procession came to a stop in front of something that looked like a
nightclub. “This is Hot Topic?” Scott said, his voice faint. “Are you sure–”

But the girls were already in the store and Scott dashed in, odd
lights winking off…was that a collar? A chain?

If he lived through this day, Scott decided, he was going to *kill* Jean for not
warning him that there was something that looked like an *S&M dungeon* in the
local mall.

There were *corsets* over there and satin things…and…

His students were happily congregated on the other side of the store looking at
jewelry and t-shirts. Monet and Betsy were laughing at Jubilee as she waved her
hands at a rack of t-shirts, and he decided to let them sort that out
themselves.

Paige’s mouth was pinched in mild disapproval and Scott went to stand with her.
“Not your favorite store?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know what my momma would think of it.”

“Paige, c’mere,” Rogue called. “I need you to look at these earrings.”

Scott hid a grin as Paige forgot her misgivings and dashed over to inspect the
apparently vitally important accessory. Then he resolutely turned his back on
the wall of terrifying unmentionables and concentrated on keeping Kitty away
from clothing that bared too much of her skin.

* * * * *

Fortunately for Scott’s nerves, Hot Topic was the most terrifying store they
visited. Victoria’s Secret ran a close second, but fortunately, when they got
*there*, the girls strictly ordered him to stand outside the entrance with the
fathers, boyfriends, and husbands.

Scott was irresistibly reminded of a doctor’s office, with a corner full of men
avoiding each other’s eyes and trying not to blush. Leaning against a fake
pillar, he was briefly glad that he couldn’t see colors, as the overwhelming
amount of pink would otherwise be sickening.

Although the pink couldn’t possibly be as bad as the fact that the music coming
from overhead had moved on to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Scott wondered if it
would really be a problem if he punctured his eardrums to survive the day.

It seemed to be days before his giggling students emerged from the store, but
his watch claimed it was only 20 minutes. He frowned at them, trying to decide
if he was supposed to ask anything. Certainly he didn’t want to *see* what
they’d bought. He squirmed at the thought. No, his responsibilities as the man
in loco parentis definitely didn’t extend to supervising the purchases of
unmentionables.

Jubilee grinned at him and the blush he’d been fighting promptly emerged. He
glared at her and she grabbed Kitty’s arm. “C’mon,” she said, “let’s go get
coffee!”

Scott sensibly dove out of the way as six girls made a run for Starbucks.
Fighting Magneto was one thing, but getting between teenage girls and a chai
latte was suicidal.

* * * * *

Betsy and Monet finally gained control of the outing and the group moved on into
the more expensive niches of the mall. Scott raised an eyebrow as he caught a
glimpse of the price tags in Lord & Taylor, and most of the girls were obviously
restricting themselves to window-shopping here.

Betsy, however, made a beeline for a complicated piece of black fabric that
seemed to have straps or…something. Monet tilted her head this way and that as
Betsy held it up in front of her, then started to mutter arcane incantations
concerning accessories and silk and…Scott walked over to where Paige was
pointing to a flowery dress that looked like nasty wallpaper.

“I’m telling you, my gramma had a housecoat that looked just like that,” she
said, covering her mouth to stifle the giggles.

Kitty nodded. “Mine too. Maybe it’s back in fashion.”

“Kitty,” Jubilee said, peering at the dress, “that pattern was *never* in
fashion.”

Scott jumped when someone sniffed. Reminding himself it might be a bit of a
giveaway to hit someone with his beams, he lowered his hand from his glasses and
looked at the woman behind him.

From the bun resting atop her head, to the glasses attached to a chain around
her neck, to the severe dark-colored suit, she was the very image of a
librarian, if hell had a chief librarian. Her tag insisted that she was the
floor manager in the store.

Jubes and the woman eyed each other warily and Scott wondered if he was going to
have to break up a fight.

“Is there a problem?” the manager said, her lips missing a sneer by a hair.

Scott opened his mouth but Rogue beat him to it. “No, ma’am, no problem. We’re
just looking at the clothing.”

“Perhaps,” the manager said, “if you don’t enjoy the clothing we sell, you might
move on to somewhere more suitable to your tastes.” She flicked a glance over
Paige’s denim and t-shirt, Jubilee’s yellow jacket, and Rogue’s enveloping
scarf. “Might I suggest the Wal-Mart down the street?”

Scott’s jaw dropped and there was a frozen moment where he didn’t know what
everyone was going to do.

“Pardon me,” Monet’s smooth and cultured voice said as she strode over. “Do you
work here?”

The manager smiled approvingly at Monet, whose long legs were encased in skin-
tight pants and her upper body draped in a maroon sweater. “Yes, I do. Can I
help you?”

Betsy came up beside Monet and smiled brightly. “Yes, you can.”

“You see,” Monet went on, “we were just about to spend hundreds of dollars in
your store, buying the latest fashions.”

“But then you insulted our friends,” Betsy said, still smiling. “So I think
we’ll go spend our money at Nordstrom instead.”

Monet gestured imperiously at Scott and the others. “Come along, everyone. We’ll
go to Nordstrom and then you must test the new Vera Wang fragrance at Sephora.”

She and Betsy swept toward the entrance in unison, looking very grownup and
graceful.

“Vera Wang?” Scott said, trailing after them. “I thought she did clothing?”

“Oh no,” Kitty said. “Don’t get M started please, or we’ll *never* shut her up.”

Behind him, Scott glimpsed the saleslady still standing where they’d left her,
jaw drooping and glasses sliding slowly down her nose.

Take *that*, he thought.

* * * * *

Old Navy was a relief, Scott decided, two hours later. It looked respectable. It
didn’t overwhelm his eyes with weird lights and reflections. It didn’t stink of
perfume and makeup and lotions. And the salespeople left you alone, which was
nice.

Most of the clothing was relatively harmless and the colors weren’t eye-
searingly awful. Scott took a deep breath and thought perhaps, just perhaps, he
might make it through the day.

Jubilee dithered over a rack full of cropped shirts, and Scott went over to try
and help. He figured it was simple self-preservation: If he helped her pick one,
it might not give him a heart attack when she wore it, and perhaps they could
leave the mall sometime this decade.

He glanced around and saw Paige and Kitty in the back of the store by a sale
rack of the odd skinny pants they’d seen everywhere, Monet hovering
(figuratively, not literally) by the door, and Rogue had her head bent over a
nearby pile of scarves, with Betsy looking on.

“I just don’t know if this color works on me,” Jubilee said. “What do you–oh,
never mind.” She popped her gum and waved at Rogue.

Behind his glasses, Scott rolled his eyes. He could never decide if she said
things like that on purpose, to needle him, or if she really kept forgetting
about the side effects of wearing red glasses. It was always hard to tell with
Jubilee.

There were several male voices a few racks away, and part of his brain paused to
listen to what they were saying.

“Dude, the one with the blonde hair is totally hottest,” one said. “I bet she’s
never done it. I could be her first.”

“No way,” another voice said, “the black chick is hotter. I’d totally do her.”

“What do you think the scarf is hiding?” a third voice said.

Jubilee was still talking to Rogue about the shirts, so she didn’t even notice
Scott sliding away and circling around the young men who were talking. All three
had the backwards baseball cap and baggy jeans look of boys trying to look like
gangsters, which wouldn’t have endeared them to Scott under *any* circumstances,
but especially not when they were leering at his students.

Not being battle-trained, they didn’t notice Scott until he stood directly
behind them. “You know,” he said, watching them jump with surprise, “any one of
those young ladies you’re eyeing could kick your ass with one hand tied behind
her back. And I wouldn’t need either hand.”

His voice grew lower as he spoke, and even the apparent leader–a particularly
repellant specimen in need of a bath–stepped back, nearly tripping over a
wheeled cart.

“In fact,” Scott continued, crossing his arms and flexing his biceps, “I would
recommend that you go somewhere else to ogle, because if you so much as stand
next to one of these ladies, I will return you to your parents minus at least
one portion of your body.”

Eyes wide, the boys stumbled away, tripping over each other in their haste to
get away from the crazy man, nearly knocking over piles of sweaters and vests.

A slow smile grew on Scott’s face. Now *that* was fun.

Betsy pushed through a rack of denim jackets and stomped up to him, scowling.
“You ruined it.”

“What?”

“I was just about to–”

“Wait!” Scott put up a hand to stop her. “Whatever you were about to say, I’m
sure it’s against school rules, so don’t tell me.”

She put her hands on her hips and waited.

“Unless…” He weakened. “Did it involve them seeing spiders?”

Betsy grinned. “Tarantulas. Big hairy ones.”

“I didn’t hear that,” he said with a firm nod. “Let’s go. I’m tired of this
store.”

Betsy grinned and efficiently rounded up her classmates to make their purchases.

Scott found himself smiling. His kids really *could* take care of themselves,
couldn’t they? And they took care of each other, which was even better.

* * * * *

Scott lost count of the stores they visited throughout the afternoon and early
evening, although he vaguely remembered something about eagles and an endless
array of stores selling music and…something about a debate over the coolness
of opaque stockings worn with shorts. That couldn’t be right, could it?

Hands laden with bags, Scott was about to elbow his way through the doors when
he stopped and tilted his head. The public address system was playing “I Will
Survive.”

With a chuckle, Scott followed his students into the parking lot.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Rogue asked as they stepped off the curb, and
she smiled at him from under her white streak of hair.

Scott slowed his walk to consider the question. Really, it hadn’t been all that
bad. They were good kids, even if he would never understand their music, their
dress sense, or many of their preoccupations. And it was sort of nice to get to
know them better. “No, it wasn’t so bad,” he agreed. “But you should still take
Jean or Ororo next time.”

Rogue laughed. “So…what are you going to do to get Dr. Grey back for this?”

Hands full, Scott couldn’t put a hand over his heart, but he projected sincerity
with all his might. “I lost the bet fairly, Rogue. I wouldn’t try and get
revenge.”

“Mm-hmm.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “So, what are you going to do?”

Shrugging, he looked skyward for a moment. “I don’t know. Logan’s still got my
motorcycle. Maybe for my birthday, I’ll take her motorcycle shopping with Bobby
and Peter and Angelo.”

“Ooooh.” Jubilee turned around and stared at him. “That’s cold.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Scott said with a straight face.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: When Wraith is away, the guards of Weapon X will play.

by Mara

Summary: What happens when Scott and Madelyne meet? (Story #3 in the roundrobin)

NOTES/DEDICATION: This is a sequel to Minisinoo’s “The Goose Who Laid the
Golden Egg.” It happens before Dyce’s “What’s Good for the Goose is Good for
the Gander” because Dyce writes faster than I do and I had to spend the evening
at the in-law’s I hope you enjoy this, because I missed my stop on the train
this evening because I was writing it.

**Telepathy**

****************************

I didn’t know where the guards were taking me, and I was pretty damn scared. For
all I knew I was going to come back blue like Hank (Jesus, poor Hank) or half-
dead like Wolverine. ‘Course, I was playing it cool, trying to look unworried. I
doubt I was fooling anyone, but it made me feel a little better. I guess we do
whatever we need to do to survive.

Anyway, I was expecting all kinds of things, torture devices, a mad scientist’s
laboratory, the seventh circle of hell. I was *not* expecting to see Jean.

Goon number one slammed me up against the blue-tiled wall as number two opened
the door and then tossed me in.

“Hello, Scott,” she said as I stood up.

I leaned up against the other side of the door and stared at her. “Jean, what
the hell is going on? You were in your cell with Nightcrawler a minute ago. When
did you have time to change clothing?”

“I’m not Jean.”

I’d been prepared for torture, but this crap was just too much. “What the hell?
Either you’re a shapeshifter or that’s the fastest brainwashing I’ve ever seen,
of course you’re Jean. Now snap out of it and tell me what the hell we’re doing
in…”

Okay, I’ll admit it. I hadn’t looked around the room yet. Obviously a few weeks
with these bozos and a knock on the head had caused all my training to seep out
my ears. But even the horrible things we’d done and seen in those weeks were
*no* excuse for my not noticing I was in a bedroom. With a bed. With fucking
flowered sheets. Great, now I was sounding like Logan.

She looked amused in a sad and strained sort of way. “What we’re doing in my
bedroom? I’m really not Jean, Scott. The faster you understand this, the easier
things will be.”

I slid down slowly to the floor, keeping my eyes carefully on Jean, who’d
obviously gone insane in the minutes since I’d left her. She sat down in an
armchair and ran her fingers through her short red hair. A few pieces drifted
down, as if it had been recently cut.

“You know, maybe he was right. Maybe I could have fooled you into thinking I was
Jean long enough. Maybe not.”

It had taken awhile, but my brain was back in gear. I caught the important
words. “Long enough for what?”

She paused, and my brain ran through the torture options again.

“Long enough for us to have sex and get me pregnant.”

That was really the straw that broke the camel’s back. I sputtered. I hadn’t
actually understood that word until then. “Sex…preg…wha…you…”

“I am *not* Jean. My name is Madelyne Pryor. I think I’m her clone. Don’t ask me
how that happened since Dr. Essex hasn’t told me.” Her tone sharpened on the
last few words, and she winced. That told me this doctor was likely to be
listening in. Or watching. Hell.

It also told me she wasn’t Jean. I’d never seen Jean look like that, so
resigned, even in the worst circumstances. And we’d *been* in the worst
circumstances, and this wasn’t it. Yet.

Then the content of what she’d said sank in. “Her clone? Why the hell am I
supposed to get Jean’s clone pregnant?”

She looked relieved that I finally seemed to believe her. “Dr Essex…well,
let’s just say our baby will be an extraordinarily talented mutant. Maybe more
so than my others. I don’t really know.”

The blows just kept coming. “Others?” I asked, trying to not imagine what the
Weapon X bastards might do with mutant babies.

“Yes.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but was afraid to. Hmm, if she
was really Jean’s clone…

I reached out with my mind, the way the Professor taught me. **Tell me.**

“No!” She yelled, jumping out of the chair and throwing up her hands as if to
ward off my thoughts. I stayed very still, trying not to alarm her further.
“No,” she said again, quieter this time, “I’m not allowed. I get in trouble if
I do that. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She was shaking, just a little. I tried to look as non-threatening as I could.
She wrapped her arms around her stomach and slowly moved back to the chair.

“Can we just get on with this?” she asked, as if requesting a routine physical
exam.

“Just like that?” I hadn’t even had time to process everything. Jesus H. Christ,
I’d certainly lusted after Jean’s body, I just thought it would come attached to
her brain.

“If we don’t, Dr. Essex will do it for us,” she said, looking even more unhappy
at that prospect. “That’s uncomfortable. I am most fertile today and tomorrow.”

Damn, it was all so tempting. To have a Jean of my own. Ready and willing to
sleep with me instead of the Wolverine. I wondered if this Essex knew that or if
he’d just gotten lucky.

“Look, Madelyne, it’s not that I don’t find you attractive, because I do, but I
don’t quite know what to do here.” Shit, now I was babbling.

Her look was pitying. “Haven’t you learned? You don’t have much of a choice.
Either we have sex or the samples are taken from us the hard way. That’s it.”

Damn it, there’s always a choice, even if she’d been stuck in this lab so long
she didn’t see it. Oh my god, was she *born* here? Stop thinking about that and
find a way out. Why couldn’t I think of anything? All the plans I’d been
confidently planning and not *one* dealt with the possibility of Jean’s clone
telling me to have sex with her. I hadn’t planned for Armageddon or Ragnarok
either.

Madelyne moved over to the bed. She looked so much like Jean, I couldn’t stand
it.

Slowly, I stood up and walked towards her. I wanted to cry at the hint of fear
in her eyes. I wanted to shout. I wanted to destroy things.

I wanted to wring Dr. Essex’s neck.

I vowed that when we left this place, if we couldn’t take her with us, we would
come back for her as well as her baby. My baby.

I sat carefully on the bed next to her. Her face was blank now. I felt like I
was about to rape her, but what else could I do? If we had to do this, at least
I could try and make it pleasant.

She’s not Jean. I wish to hell I knew who she really was. I wish I had time to
find out.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Hey, even House has his off days, right?

Author’s Chapter Notes:

This is a birthday present for DebC. It’s a suggested title I gave to
her, but I’m borrowing it back

“I can’t believe it,” Cuddy said, leaning back in her chair, trying to keep her
jaw from dropping.

“It’s true,” Wilson said, grinning madly.

“You’re not just saying this to make me feel better?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, you’re right.” Wilson shrugged. “But I’m telling the absolute unvarnished
truth.”

“Wow.”

“House not only made it through the case without pissing anyone off, the patient
and his family have sent a thank you for his care.”

“Unbelievable.” Cuddy paused. “Wait, what’s the catch?”

Wilson’s lips twitched. “Well…”

“Tell me.”

“The patient and the family don’t speak a word of English. Everything was done
through a translator.”

Cuddy took a deep breath. “You had me worried there for a minute.”

* * * * *

Cuddy generally kept ahead of her paperwork. In the back of her mind, she felt
as if letting her desk get too crowded meant that she was out of control–and
control was more important than just about anything else.

So woe betide the person who kept her from clearing her desk when it started to
pile up. Staff at Princeton-Plainsboro learned early on that when the Dean of
Medicine was tearing through piles of folders, the only reasons to interrupt her
were fire, flood, famine, or plague.

Which was why Cuddy couldn’t understand why a shame-faced Chase was spinning a
patently false tale about needing her help with something. Halfway through the
story, she stopped listening because it had House’s fingerprints all over it.

She considered sending Chase away with a lecture about not letting House send
him off to find a left-handed board stretcher, but as Chase’s sorry tale wound
to a close, she decided it was time for a break anyway.

While she was out of her office, several *actual* crises occurred, which made
her forget the original distraction entirely.

To Cuddy’s surprise, when she returned to her office, the pile of folders had
been greatly reduced, and her eyebrows went up in surprise. Could it be that
some of her department heads had actually taken responsibility for things?
Miracles did happen, she decided.

She never did look at the neat stack of folders in her secretary’s outbox, each
with House’s scrawled notes telling the doctors in question how to fix their
problems.

House did look entirely too pleased with himself for a week, but she chalked
that up to getting laid and didn’t ask.

* * * * *

The vase sat on her desk looking entirely harmless, but Cuddy frowned at it
anyway. There was a *reason* she kept her birthday a closely guarded secret, and
her family and friends knew to send everything birthday-related to her home.

So who in the world would send her a gigantic bouquet of flowers today of all
days?

She stepped closer and realized that not only were they flowers, they were her
favorite roses, an obscure variety called Fire and Ice. Even her *father* could
never remember to get her those.

Taking a deep breath, she searched the bouquet for a card, but found nothing.
There wasn’t even a note as to whom they’d been ordered from.

With a scowl, she stepped back. Who knew that–

A memory surfaced and Cuddy blinked. No. Absolutely not.

True, House had been present when Max had given her those flowers. And she might
very well have said they were her favorites. But he…

He wouldn’t…

He’d been so scornful of Max and caused such a scene that she’d blotted out the
memory. So he couldn’t…

Cuddy sat down heavily in her chair. Absolutely not. House must have…told
Wilson about the flowers.

Right.

* * * * *

As they continued down the hallway, Cuddy pointed toward an open doorway. “And
over here–”

“Did that man just say what I thought he said?” Leslie Arminh, the prospective
head of Radiology asked, craning her head around to watch House walk away.

Cuddy rolled the conversation back in her head. Oh. That. “Yes, he did. Don’t
pay him any mind. Dr. House is, ah, not one of our more conventional staff
members.”

“Oh. I see.”

“No, you really don’t.” Cuddy suppressed a sigh. “But he’s a really good doctor,
believe me. One of the best.”

“And when he says things like that…?”

“The best thing to do is ignore him. I know I do.”

* * * * *

Under the warm covers, Cuddy felt content and sleepy, obscurely comforted by the
way House’s fingers softly traced the path of her circulatory system.
Surprisingly, he’d managed to avoid saying anything annoying the entire time,
keeping his mouth busy with…better pastimes.

It had been a long road that got them to this point, but she couldn’t find it in
herself to regret it.

He grinned. “So, not half bad in the sack, huh?”

“Don’t push it, buster,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

When he laughed, she tackled him with a kiss bold enough that he forgot what he
was doing.

Yep, Cuddy thought, as she straddled him, there was *one* thing always
guaranteed to shut House up. And it was remarkably pleasant to boot.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Henry has a proposal. Mike’s weirded out. Vicki doesn’t react the way
Mike expected.

Henry Fitzroy leaned against the doorway to his apartment, looking elegantly
rumpled, and Mike resisted the urge to punch him just on principle.

“May I help you?” Fitzroy asked.

Mike gritted his teeth. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“Is this another conversation about my predilections for drinking blood? If so,
don’t bother.” Fitzroy’s tone was ironic and his face expressionless.

“No.” Mike took a breath. “Vicki’s barely talking to me since you and I last
fought.” He fought satisfaction as Fitzroy’s bored expression flickered. So he
was right, she’d gotten mad at both of them. “I wanted to see if we could get
over this.”

Fitzroy thought for a moment, then turned. “Come in,” he called over his
shoulder.

Mike followed him into the living room, sitting carefully on a chair as Fitzroy
sat on the couch he’d obviously vacated to answer the door. They sat in silence
for a long moment, Fitzroy seeming content to let him squirm as long as he
wanted, lounging even more elegantly. It was really aggravating.

“So,” Mike said when he couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“So,” Fitzroy echoed, looking amused.

Mike coughed. “Look, I want Vicki. I know you do too, but it’s not doing either
of us any good to fight over her.”

“I have noticed she’s not precisely flattered by the attention,” Fitzroy said.

“You can say that again.” Sighing, Mike forced out the words he’d come here to
say. “I’m sorry for what I said. You’ve helped her out and I appreciate that.”

Fitzroy raised an eyebrow. “I never expected you to say that.”

“Neither did I.”

Tilting his head, Fitzroy considered him. “I’m certainly willing to forgive and
forget if you are.”

“Good.” Mike began to stand up.

“However,” Fitzroy raised a hand, “I should note that there is another solution
to our dilemma.”

“Hmm?” Mike frowned at him.

“You’re correct that we’re both attracted to Victoria, but there is a solution.”
Mike’s hand twitched for the gun he wasn’t wearing. Fitzroy noticed and smiled
at him. “No, that wasn’t what I had in mind. Not that you haven’t tempted me to
kill you on a few occasions.”

“What *are* you thinking, then?”

“We could share her.”

Mike snorted in laughter. “What, like I get Monday, Wednesday, Friday and you
get Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday? Or maybe I get days and you get nights? Even if
she’d agree to that, it’s ridiculous.”

“No, that wasn’t what I had in mind.” Fitzroy leaned forward, eyes darkening.

Mike’s breath caught in his throat and he instinctively leaned back in the
chair. “Uh…I don’t…you’re not exactly my type.”

Still intent, Fitzroy smiled slowly. “That’s what I thought you would say.”

Mike decided he knew how that proverbial deer in headlights felt, as he froze,
unsure which way to run.

“I could make you do it, you know. I could make love to you right here and now.
And you’d enjoy yourself.” Fitzroy’s voice was smooth and low. “I have the power
and your mind is not nearly as strong as Victoria’s.”

It was hard to catch his breath. “Why don’t you?”

Fitzroy smiled and leaned back against the couch, eyes and voice returning to
normal. “Two reasons. One, whatever you may think, my partners have all been
willing for over 250 years, and two, Victoria wouldn’t like it.”

With great effort, Mike kept his voice calm. “And you care that much what she
thinks?”

“To my great surprise, yes, I do.” Fitzroy stood in a smooth motion and Mike
scrambled to his feet. “And you do as well, or you wouldn’t be here.”

Mike took a step toward the door. Not retreating. Absolutely not. “She was my
partner and friend before she met you.”

“True.” Fitzroy inclined his head.

“Well, that’s what I came here to say,” Mike said, walking toward the door.

Without making a sound, Fitzroy stood beside him, hand on the doorknob. “Leaving
so soon?”

“Yes.” Mike held himself very still as Fitzroy moved into his personal space.

Fitzroy smiled, as if at a private joke. “Then go.” He stepped back and waved
his hand grandly at the door.

Mike swallowed. And left.

* * * * *

His mind still a little shell-shocked and unsure what had just happened, he
found himself at Vicki’s door. It wasn’t the first time he’d wandered over at an
odd time of night, so she didn’t look *too* surprised.

“What’s up? Something wrong?” she asked with a yawn, waving him to her beat-up
couch, a far cry from Fitzroy’s elegant suite of rooms.

“No.” He slumped down, unsure what to say to her.

“So? Spill it.” She propped her feet up on the coffee table.

“I just came from Henry Fitzroy’s place,” he blurted out.

Her feet thumped to the floor. “Oh god, not this again. You came over here at
this time of night to start up the ‘He’s a dangerous vampire’ crap? I can’t
*believe* you, Mike.”

“Wait!” He held up a hand. “I went over there to apologize to him.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows rose. “Good for you. What did Henry say?”

A deep breath. Two. “He propositioned me. Said we could share you.” He waited
for the explosion.

Shrugging, Vicki leaned back. “Yeah, but did he agree to stop fighting? ‘Cause
I’m getting tired of it.”

He stared at her. “Did you hear me?”

“Uh-huh. He thinks you’re hot. Big surprise. He’s not exactly alone in that, as
you well know.” Vicki covered a big yawn with her hand. “Sorry, I’m a little
short on sleep.”

Mike had no idea what to say, so he just sat there.

Vicki sighed. “He’s a vampire who’s descended from royalty and you’re freaked
out that he’s *bisexual*? You’ve got some bizarre priorities.”

Mike leaned back on the couch and decided he hated his life.

“Just tell me you didn’t say yes.”

“What?” He bolted upright.

“Because if anyone’s going to share me, it’s going to be *my* decision.”

She grinned at him and he tried to decide if she was joking.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Mike does handyman therapy. Vicki and Henry wonder if he needs the old-fashioned kind. Sequel to “Heal But By Degrees.”

Author’s Chapter Notes:

This is *so* Cereta’s fault, since part of the idea was hers. Someday I’ll learn not to read Grading Hell Theater when I’m supposed to be working. ::sigh::

Continuity: Some indeterminate time after my fic “Heal But By Degrees.”

There was something deeply satisfying about spackling small holes in drywall, Mike thought as he carefully scraped away the excess. Nodding, he decided it was as flat as it was going to get without sanding, and moved on to a dent he’d noticed a few feet away, one that looked like it could also be solved with spackle.

Matching the paint would require some work, but he was sure it was doable. He was fairly sure he could find a beige paint just a bit darker and lighten it to the right color.

When the holes were spackled, he could move on to that drip in the sink, the kind of task that was too small to ever get a repairman in to fix. Mike hoped he had a seat wrench somewhere in his car, since he was sure Henry didn’t have one anywhere in the penthouse.

It was nice to do something that wasn’t life or death for once, Mike mused, pulling a little more spackle out of the can and inspecting it to make sure it wasn’t drying too quickly. Nice to have a tangible result too.

Mike sighed, wishing he could do something about that mitred molding that should have been coped, but that would have required a lot of time and tools that would wake up Vicki, sleeping in the bedroom. And he didn’t want to do that. If she woke up, she’d just ask–

“What are you doing?” Henry asked over his shoulder.

Mike sighed, annoyed he hadn’t even heard the front door open. “What does it look like?”

“It looks,” Henry said slowly, tilting his head to examine the wall, “as if you’re doing something that I pay the building maintenance fund many thousands of dollars to deal with.”

“Well, they haven’t dealt with it. Besides, building maintenance guys never do this kind of thing right. It’d be a crime to let them ruin these walls.”

“Then you can arrest them,” Henry said, plucking the can of spackle out of his hand. “Meanwhile–”

“Hey!” Mike grabbed the spackle back. “Working here. I don’t interrupt you when you’re drawing, so don’t interrupt me.”

“You’re…” Henry shook his head. “Fine. I’ll work and you can continue the menial chores.”

Mike glared at him as he walked away, then sighed. “Did you…?”

Henry slowed, but didn’t turn. “I’ve fed, yes.”

“Okay.” Mike turned back to the wall and took a steadying breath so he didn’t gouge the wall further in his attempts to create a flat surface.

Henry’s silence was full of meaning, but Mike chose to ignore it, and after a few minutes, he heard the tiny scratches of Henry hard at work at the table.

The silence eventually became relaxed again and they worked like that for half an hour, Mike scraping and filling and hand-sanding the high spots until he was satisfied that the walls were perfect again.

Finally he sat on the floor and looked at the walls, with their neat circles of white amid the beige, and felt a deep satisfaction. He realized that the scratching of Henry’s pen had stopped and glanced over his shoulder to find Henry looking at him. “What?”

“You really enjoyed that.”

Mike shrugged. “I used to do things like this for my mom after my dad died, but then she moved into assisted living.” He finished cleaning off the putty knife and put it down on the paper towels he’d been using to wipe up excess spackle.

Henry still watched him. “Fascinating,” he said. “This isn’t a side of you I’ve seen before.”

“What side?” Mike hadn’t meant to sound so combative.

Henry smirked. “Nesting. It’s rather cute.”

Standing, Mike put the spackle and putty knife by the door. “Forget it. I can’t talk to you when you’re in this mood.”

“That’s what I was going to say.” Henry leaned back in his seat.

“Children.” Vicki sighed from the doorway to the bedroom. “I can’t leave you two alone for a minute before you start bickering.”

“We’re not bickering!” Mike and Henry said at the same time.

“Uh-huh.” She yawned, rolling her neck until it cracked. “Henry, go back to work. The answering machine message from your editor sounded like he was coming for you with a stake. Mike, c’mere.”

“Hey!” Henry said.

“To talk,” Vicki said firmly.

Mike dragged his feet until he realized he *was* acting like a child, and he followed Vicki into the bedroom. She shut the door with a pointed glance at Henry that said, ‘I know you *can* listen, but don’t.’

Sinking down on the bed, Mike waited, staring down at the blue-gray sheets.

“So, what’s up? And don’t give me a smartass answer, or I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of the sarcastic vampire.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right.” Crossing her arms, Vicki leaned against the door. “Try that one on someone who wasn’t your partner for years. This,” she pointed at the door behind her, “is what you do when you’re freaked. You look jumpy enough to run, but since I think we’ve established that Henry and I won’t let you do that, why don’t we talk instead?”

“Vic…” He waved a helpless hand.

“Yeah yeah, you’re a guy, whatever. Let’s just assume we’ve already had that discussion and now you tell me what’s bugging you.” She pushed away from the door and sat down next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Automatically, Mike put an arm around her, relishing his ability to do it without her tensing up.

“What’s got you freaked?”

“I…” Words and thoughts that he’d been suppressing all evening churned in his mind. “It’s everything.”

Her sigh ghosted across his neck. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know. It’s like, one day I was a homicide cop trying to catch a killer and missing my old partner and now…” He looked helplessly around the room, with its large bed, soft sheets, and mood lighting.

“At least you’re still a cop.” The words were quiet and spoken into his shoulder, but he still heard them.

Mike squeezed her tight, then let go so he could look her in the eyes. “I don’t know if I can handle this.”

Her jaw clenched. “Mike–”

“How am I supposed to deal with this life? I’m just an ordinary guy. It’s not like I have a precedent. ‘Oh I know, it’s just like Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and their vampire lover, who lived down the street when I was growing up.’”

Vicki snickered.

“It’s not funny.”

She sobered. “I know, but I couldn’t help it.”

“It’s just…you’re asking me to deal with a lot here. First there’s the matter of the woman I love hanging out with a vampire. Oh, and by the way, we’d like you to join us in bed. But you know, every couple of days he’s going to go off and neck–if you’ll excuse the pun–with someone else in a club.”

Vicki was totally serious as she looked up at him. “I love you too.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, that’s not how I meant to say that.”

“I know.” She patted his arm. “But getting back to the point…are you telling me you’re jealous because Henry is getting blood someplace else?”

He threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know. I told you I have no idea how to deal with this.”

“He may use sexual attraction, but he’s only sleeping with us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” It was the same tone she’d used when he asked if she was sure Henry wasn’t killing women.

“Okay, but…”

“But what?”

“I have no idea.” He stared down at his hands, picking at a bit of spackle on his thumb. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I want.”

Vicki took his hand and tugged him forward until she could kiss him gently on the mouth. “Let us know when you figure that out.”

And she stood and left the bedroom. Mike wanted to call out after her, but he didn’t know what to say, so instead he watched her close the door behind her.

Then he put his head in his hands and waited for the shaking to stop.

* * * * *

Mike lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, trying to decide what to do. He did need to get some sleep at some point, if he wasn’t going to fall asleep at his desk. Maybe he should just head back to his apartment for the rest of the night.

Of course, Henry would probably point out that he was taking the coward’s way out of this. But to hell with that…Henry could get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. And he had Vicki.

With a groan, Mike sat up, but before he could get off the bed, the doors opened and Vicki and Henry came to sit on either side of him. “Going somewhere?” Henry asked.

“I was–”

“Don’t tease him,” Vicki said, leaning across to swat Henry on the chest. “Mike, didn’t I just say we weren’t going to let you run? Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?”

“What?” Henry and Mike responded instantly. Mike grinned at Henry before he remembered that he was supposed to be freaking out.

Henry sobered as well, looking Mike in the eye. “I’m sorry I didn’t thank you for your care of my home. That was inexcusably rude. As Vicki pointed out to me. At length.”

“That’s okay.” Mike shrugged. “I just…needed something to do, and fixing things always helps me.”

“Helps you what?” Henry asked, sounding honestly curious.

“Relax.” Mike avoided his eyes.

After a moment, Henry spoke slowly. “You were worrying about me.”

Mike shrugged again, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Vicki leaned against his shoulder. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I didn’t see it. You *weren’t* worrying that he was feeding on someone else.”

“Well, maybe a little,” Mike mumbled, feeling something beyond ridiculous that he didn’t have a word for.

Henry let out a breath. “Worrying about my safety is rather romantic of you. I think I’ll choose to be flattered rather than offended that you’ve forgotten what I am.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten at all.” Mike looked up, not turning at Vicki’s intake of breath. “How could I?”

Henry nodded, watching him. “I see.” And he actually did seem to understand, which was unexpected.

Vicki turned her head back and forth, looking at both of them, obviously hoping for an explanation. “Okay…”

Mike looked for words to explain it to her. “I need…to feel needed.”

She tensed up. “This better not be some macho thing where you want me to be a helpless female.”

Henry twitched and Mike’s thought processes came to a sputtering halt as he tried to imagine Vicki as a helpless female. “Uh, no. That’s definitely not what I meant.” Shaking his head, he tried to remember what he was going to say. “I mean that I need to feel like I’ve got a purpose here. In this…” he waved his hand, “whatever we have.”

“Some people might say relationship,” Henry said.

“Is that what this is?” Mike looked him in the eye.

“I don’t know. Several hundred years of practice hasn’t made this kind of thing any less confusing.” Henry held his gaze.

“Great. That’s encouraging,” Vicki said with a sigh, swatting both of them. “Now, if you’re done with the staring contest, can we go back to the part where you’ve figured out that it’s okay to deal with a little uncertainty while having really great sex?”

Mike’s brain was well and truly derailed and Henry was in no better shape, if the way he was breathing against Mike’s neck was any indication. Taking a deep breath, Mike marshaled his scattered mind. “I can’t help worrying. That’s who I am.”

“We know,” Henry said softly.

“And this is still weird.”

“Mm-hmm,” Vicki said, running her hand under his shirt.

“We can’t solve *everything* with sex, you know.” Mike did his best to not gasp as Henry’s hand moved down his stomach.

“Of course not,” Henry said, pushing Mike back on the bed.

* * * * *

Tempting as it was to stay in bed, where everything was simpler, Mike and Vicki both had to work, and they left shortly after dawn, when Henry slept. Vicki gave Mike a kiss on the cheek as he dropped her off at her office. “We’re good?” she asked.

“We’re good.” He stifled a yawn. “Take care.”

“See you tonight?”

“Depends on work,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll let you know.”

In fact, both he and Vicki were hit by cases that kept them almost continuously busy, and it was 72 hours before Mike found himself parking a few blocks from Henry’s building again.

The sun had set a few hours before, and Mike was tired, sore from chasing a suspect through back alleys, and ready to relax.

When he opened the door, Henry had a light pointed directly at one wall. He turned. “There you are. Come take a look.” He held up a small pile of paper.

Grinning, Mike held up a matching stack of paint samples. “I should have known you wouldn’t let me pick a color by myself.”

“Are you kidding?” Henry flicked a card at him. “A Neanderthal like you? This is a job for a real artist.”

“Really?” Mike looked around the room. “Too bad we don’t have one of those to help us.”

“Funny.”

“Hey, good thing Home Hardware has late hours. Wouldn’t want you turning into dust for the sake of paint matching.”

“Well, I’m just glad they have all the colors laid out on a rack, because what if you’d had to *read* something?” Henry grinned.

Mike made a face at him, pulling a chair up close to the wall. “Hey, blood boy, just start picking a color.”

When Vicki came in an hour later, the floor was littered with shades of beige, and the two of them were waving paint chips at each other.

“Forget it,” Henry said, “by the time you’ve added enough cream to it, you might as well start with Antiquity.”

“Are you kidding? Sconce Gold is the only way to go. It’s too easy to go too far with the Antiquity and then you’ve got a wasted tin of paint.”

“You know,” she said, standing between them, “this is getting old pretty fast.”

“This is important,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Do it wrong and you ruin the wall.”

Vicki shook her head. “The lights are so dim that nobody will ever notice the difference. Besides, these days it’s usually only us.”

“That’s not the point,” Mike said, waving a paint chip at Vicki. “It’s a matter of principle.”

She turned to Henry. “What about you? Are you insane also?”

“You just don’t understand.”

Sighing, Vicki flopped down onto the couch. “Fine. I’ll just…sit here while you argue about paint.”

“Great,” Mike said absently, staring at the chip in his hand. “Hey!” He looked up. “I just realized something that will make this easier.”

“Hmm?” Henry asked.

“We don’t need to worry about how the touchup paint color looks in sunlight.” Mike grinned, ducking the hail of sofa cushions and paint chips.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Détente is good, but a resolution is better.

by Mara

Summary: Vicki and Henry’s movie night is derailed by overseas visitors.

by Mara

Summary: You just never know what the Rift is going to drop in Cardiff.

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–