lyndseas

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 23:43:13 GMT

Writing is a weird process. What works on one writing project will fail horribly on another. Some pieces have to be plotted out scene by scene, or even paragraph by paragraph, and others only need for you to have a vague idea of the plotline. Sure, individual writers tend more towards one end of the spectrum than the other, but even then there's variation by piece. So writers- or at least writers who want to improve their writing and finish their works- have to continually expand their toolbox of ways to work with a story from the first idea to the last revision. Sometimes pieces beg to be worked out with a mindmap, or on index cards, or via pictograms on a dry-erase board, whether the writer has worked with that method before or not.

...Which is actually completely off-topic from what I was planning to say in this post, although it's something I do want to say.. Take 2.

Writing is a weird process. To a certain extent you always have to think about backstory- whether that's a completely original backstory or one which is partially created already (unless you're writing Truman Show fanfiction, and you live in the world where the Truman show is actually real, there will always be gaps...now I want some Truman Show fanfiction from that world). But thinking about backstory can go two ways (or probably more, but two main ways). The first being it's predictable backstory, at least to you the writer. You start thinking about the past of the characters and you don't have any times where you're surprised or shocked at it. The other way it can go is, you're thinking about their backgrounds and some of the details make you stop and wonder how in the world that got to be canon for the verse you're writing in. It feels right, but it's unexpected.

Family

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 19:23:15 GMT

Title: Family
Characters: Implied OC
Rating: G
Summary: Family on Earth wasn't anything like family on Atlantis.
Disclaimer: They belong to whoever owns Stargate Atlantis, I'm just borrowing.

Family on Earth wasn't anything like family on Atlantis. On Atlantis, family was biological family and team family and work family, and those-who-risk-their-lives-for-you family, so she could claim all of Atlantis as family, and the Athosians and those Satedans who were still living as distant family. On Earth, though, family was only biological family, culled to merely blood relations, and those connections thinned until blood was like water in comparison to what family meant on Atlantis.

Lantean Scientists

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 10:46:54 GMT

Title: Lantean Scientists
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Characters: unnamed Lantean scientists
Summary: Lantean scientists were not like Tau'ri scientists.
Word Count: 214

When the Tau'ri took the Lantean scientists hostage, they expected them to follow the Tau'ri patterns of science vs. military, to in essence still be Tau'ri scientists.
They expected the scientists to not know how to handle a weapon unless they were on a gate team, to follow the Daniel Jackson model of being a civilian scientist and prefer diplomacy to violence. To sit and do nothing with guns pointed at them while they waited for their military to either capitulate or retaliate.
Lantean scientists were not like Tau'ri scientists.
For all that they had mostly been born and raised on Earth, they weren't Tau'ri. All Lanteans had combat lessons unless they were on the injury list, from P90s down to hand to hand and everything in between. All scientists were in the militia which protected Atlantis when threats came to it. And the enemies in their galaxy couldn't be talked around with a bit of diplomacy, not even the human ones. The Lantean scientists had adapted to their circumstances, just as they adapted to the latest situation and in short time had the Tau'ri military on their knees, hands on their heads, with pistols pointed at them.
Pegasus was a harsher galaxy than the Milky Way, and the Tau'ri finally learned that lesson.

Multiverse

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 17:10:05 GMT

The multiverse is infinite, and if you get lost in it you can spend more than a lifetime trying to find your way home. Eventually your memories of your universe fade, and jumble together with every other universe. And then you won't know home even if you find it.

How It Begins

Sat, 25 Aug 2007 02:55:50 GMT

So apparently summer is a really bad time for me to get any writing done, because my muse needs maisiuil to be online to let me write. Which is kind of disturbing when I think about it. But anyway, I got sucked into writing Stargate Atlantis, which sadly doesn't come to me as easily as DCU.

Title: How It Begins
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Characters: John Sheppard, Rodney McKay, Teyla Emmagen, Ronon Dex
Summary: Their path is different, but the destination is the same.
Word Count: 2154
Betad by: maisiuil

It begins like this:

They step through the stargate into a new galaxy, into Atlantis. The MALP's video had shown a room, empty save for the control consoles, as dust-free as if it hadn't been abandoned for 10,000 years. Dr. Weir sends the last message back through the wormhole over the radio, and a bottle of champagne is rolled through before the gate cuts off, stranding them impossibly far from home.

"Welcome to Atlantis," an unexpected voice says, and they look up to find a man, dark hair sticking up in every direction, armed to the teeth, leaning on a door frame. "Are you traders?"

It begins like this:

They step through the stargate like they've done hundreds of times before, but something's different this time. The gate isn't outdoors; instead, it's inside of a building, like nothing three of them have seen before. The fourth knows immediately where they are.

"Atlantis," Mer breathes, part joy and part hope and part lust for the knowledge he's sure to gain.

It begins like this:

"I can't," Ronon says, looking away.

"Sure you can," John coaxes. "C'mon, even Teyla's joining us."

"I'm a Runner," Ronon says. "They're following me wherever I go and they'll kill you all if you're anywhere near me."

"They won't kill us," John says, a look of what might be joy on his face. "If they go where you do, that'll just make them easier to kill."

"You're insane, of course," Mer says. Teyla nods in agreement. Neither of them had expected anything else. They hadn't expected to live even this long after joining up with John again.

It begins like this:

It is the day before the ceremony which confirms Teyla as the leader of the Athosians, a position which she has held unofficially, under the guidance of her elders, for several years. Only now is she old enough to take the position officially. The fates being as perverse as they are, she should not be surprised when the Ring of the Ancestors opens and through it step John and Rodney- Mer- to turn her life upside-down.

"Teyla!" John exclaims and touches his forehead to hers. "We're going to go fight the Wraith like we vowed to before. Want to come with? We'll have a better chance if you join us."

"Much as I hate to admit it, he's right," Mer says, touching foreheads with her. "He doesn't have the survival instincts of…what's something that dies all the time? Oh, I know, one of those puddlejumpers, always hopping around on the water and then drowning. And I've had better things to do with my time than learn how to fight. Plus, you made the vow too."

"But tomorrow I am to be confirmed as the leader of my people," Teyla protests. "I wish to defeat the Wraith as well, but I have my own life to live. And besides, how would we defeat the Wraith? Many have tried over the years, but none have succeeded."

"Teyla," Halling says. "One who wishes to be a leader must never break a vow."

"I was but twelve summers of age when I made the vow!" she protests.

"Nevertheless." She suspects Halling wishes to take her place as leader, but she also knows he is correct.

"Oh, so you're joining us?" Rodney asks. "Good. I thought I wouldn't have anybody for company who hadn't completely lost their mind."

It begins like this:

"You know, this is actually kind of handy," John says.

"Running from the Genii, who have a lot more technology than they ever let on, is handy?!" Mer asks.

"Well, it got you here, didn't it? And now that we're together we can finally get around to fighting the Wraith like we said we would."

"Are you insane?! I already have enough potential to get killed without going after the Wraith, who, might I remind you, want to eat us."

"Come on, what do you have to lose? I know where Teyla is, it'll be just like old times."

"We only saw Ronon and Teyla for one day when we were kids, I somehow doubt it'll be like old times."

John looks at him, a pleading look on his face.

"Fine! You don't have to look at me like that. It's not like I have anything better to do," Mer grumbles. "If you get me killed, I'm going to come back and haunt you, by the way."

It begins like this:

John hears a noise where there shouldn't be one when he goes out to the barn. If he lived anywhere near other people, he would suspect it was a child who had gotten into the barn, but nobody's willing to live near the crazy man who doesn't go into the tunnels when the Wraith come, but instead stays out to watch the darts fly through the sky. He always promises himself next time, I'll go into the tunnels, but when the next attack happens he stands rooted to the spot, watching the darts fly like he can only wish he could.

He takes his gun with him, because just because he's never seen any dangerous animals on this planet doesn't mean there aren't. And somebody might have come through the stargate and decided it would be easier to steal from an isolated farm than from one grouped with others.

"All right, you can come out now," he calls, just in case it's a person. "And I have a gun, so no funny business."

He hears grumbling coming from behind some sacks of grain, then there's a crash and a man falls out into view, landing on his back. John barely keeps from shooting him. "Um, hi?" the man on the ground says weakly.

"Mer?" John says incredulously.

It begins like this:

It's the middle of the day when Mer finally makes his escape. He'd thought about doing it at night, but let's face it, he really wasn't cut out for the whole stealth thing after so many years in one lab or another. So he goes in the middle of the day, points out a major breakthrough he's been sitting on for weeks to the lab crew, and slips away when it's a big enough breakthrough to draw the guards in to see what all the commotion's about. Without any guards outside to stop him, he even has time to slather on his SPF 100 sunscreen (because he's always burned easily, and even more so after he's spent the past few years in an underground bunker) before he goes out into the really very bright sun.

They don't catch him before he goes through the stargate, but he knows he won't be able to live up to his scientific potential anywhere else, because the Genii won't stop looking for the man who singlehandedly made their nuclear weapons program feasible.

It begins like this:

Mer's been at this temple for a few months now. Not that he believes any of this religious mumbo-jumbo, of course, because it's even more ridiculous than the voodoo of medicine, but because at least here they respect learning and let him develop his theories without forcing him to take time off to hoe the fruits or something ridiculous like that. Today somebody from some backwater planet that probably doesn't even have domesticated animals has sent a delegation to trade with whoever does the trading at the temple. He doesn't know who it is; he doesn't even remember the name of the other guy who sometimes works in the lab. Somebody from the delegation's been in the room watching him all day, no doubt in awe of his genius (because who isn't?), but since they haven't gotten in his way he hasn't paid any attention to them.

That night, he's kidnapped by the Genii, who, as it turns out, are actually moderately advanced, so he doesn't really mind until he finds out that he isn't allowed to leave the underground bunker. Not that he'd want to, really, because it's safe and the labs are nicer than most of the places he's worked, but he's not going to stay there if he doesn't even have a choice.

It begins like this:

"You built this yourselves?" Ronon asks, obviously impressed.

"I made the plans, of course," Rodney says. "If it was up to John, it wouldn't even have a roof. And it probably would have collapsed by now."

"I have never seen anything like this on Athos," Teyla says.

"Everybody on Kyrrat lived in treehouses because of the flooding." John had lived on Kyrrat, before it had been culled so extensively.

Distantly, they hear the stargate opening. "I wonder who it is," Rodney says. "Normally we only get one group of traders at a time, I mean it isn't like this is one of the trading planets." Then they hear the whine of a Wraith dart, but it's too late to get to the caves before the culling is over, and they're less exposed in the treehouse than they would be running for them. They're all silent during the culling, knowing that the flashes of light they can see mean that people they know are being culled. John watches the darts like they're something amazing, intent in a way his relaxed behavior hasn't even hinted that he was capable of.

When the darts are gone, John turns to the others. "When we grow up, we should fight the Wraith together."

Ronon nods, and Teyla says, "I believe we could succeed."

"No way," Rodney says. "Leave me out of your crazy plans! I'm going to be a scholar, not one of you crazy soldiers!"

"But Mer," John says, emphasizing the name Mer prefers. "We need you. You're the one who'll figure out how to defeat them all at one, instead of one at a time."

"Fine," Mer sighs. "I don't know why I'm letting you talk me into this, but you're right, you will need me."

It begins like this:

"Rodney!" John says, shaking him. "Rodney, wake up!"

"It's Mer, Rodney's a girl's name," Rodney says grumpily. "And I was up late doing very important things you couldn't possibly comprehend, so go away and let me sleep."

"Important things?" John teases. "You mean fixing the chair before Faren notices you broke it?" Rodney groans, because he hadn't been able to fix it and he's been tossed out of a few (12) other fosterings and separated from his sister because of breaking things. Even though most of them he hadn't broken anything, he'd taken it apart and put it back together better than it had been. "Rodney, get up, it's traders."

"Traders?" Rodney asks, shooting up, wide awake. Traders are enough of an event that he can be awake even after ancestors-know-how-few hours of sleep, even if he'd eventually learned that asking his foster parents to trade for something he wanted only led to him being shuffled off to another house on another world. John's annoying (and has a funny name) but he's the closest thing to a friend that Rodney's ever had, and he doesn't want to lose him.

They sneak out, because they're not supposed to go anywhere without permission when strangers are around but it's not like either of them is good enough at following orders to obey (John's been through as many foster homes as he has, and for similar reasons except without taking anything apart). So they sneak out and try to get a look at the traders, any of them, but they're all in Yari's house with the rest of the adults who are interested in trading, and they can't see anything. They start to go around the house, looking for some way to at least look in, but when they round the corner they come face to face with a girl and boy their age (although it's possible the boy is younger; he's short). The girl looks absolutely thrilled, for all she's trying to pretend she's grown-up and not excited at all. The boy just looks terrified, like he's going to be sick any moment.

John smiles the smile that always makes him friends and gets him out of trouble. "Hi! I'm John Sheppard and this is Rodney McKay-"

"It's Meredith," Rodney says scathingly. "How many times do I have to tell you that? Or Mer, if you can't handle a whole three syllables."

"I am Teyla Emmagen," the girl says, and would almost have passed for serene if her eyes hadn't been sparkling and she hadn't been bouncing on the balls of her feet. "And this is Ronon Dex."

"Hey," Ronon says faintly.

"He does not speak often," Teyla confides.

"I'm sure Rodney will even it out," John says.

"Hey!" Rodney exclaims.

"We built a treehouse," John says. "You want to see?"

"All right," she says after a glance at Ronon, and right then he knows they're all going to be the best of friends.

Dead from Refugee 'Verse

Sun, 24 Jun 2007 20:21:40 GMT

My brain has been taken over by an epic in Stargate Atlantis, so I'm kind of dead right now. I can't think about anything else, and it's going to take me forever (hopefully not literally) to write. Just so you know. maisiuil, as I told you before, this is your fault. Also, I'm not quite sure how I'm going to post it, because I'm already writing backstory and sidestory (sidestory, in this case, being things which are technically spoilers for the main storyline but take place during it which I can't write from the POV that the main story's written from). Oh, futurefic which disregards certain events because I am lazy about canon, how I adore thee.

Déjà Vu

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 00:31:38 GMT

Title: Déjà Vu
Characters: Dick Grayson
Rating: G
Summary: Time travel isn't always reversible.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Word Count: 720
Betad by: maisiuil

It's actually ridiculously easy to get papers, but that isn't anything he hadn't expected. This is, after all, Gotham in the '80s, before it was cleaned up, and the "underground" operations are still relatively aboveground. The police force is more corrupt than it had gotten by the time he'd come here. The atmosphere of the city reminds him so much of Blüdhaven that he finds himself attending the police academy before the ink is even dry on his new papers. He shrugs and goes along with it. It isn't as though he can be a superhero without messing up the timeline, and at least this way he might do a bit of good.

It's easier the second time around. He doesn't have any reason to conceal his abilities at this point in time, after all, so he doesn't hold back.

It's strange, the first time he testifies at a case Harvey Dent is prosecuting. Strange to see his face unmarred, his hands sans coin, his personality whole, and know that he's the man who's killed so many, has tried to kill Dick, has caused so much misery for so many people, and to know that he hasn't done any of that, isn't that man, yet. He mentally coins the term "time travel vertigo" even though he knows he won't have reason to use it with anybody but himself unless he somehow gets retrieved. He isn't holding his breath on that one.

Gordon's young, in a way he's never been to Dick, and really hasn't been since he got shot. He's only a lieutenant, half unsure of his place in the world and in the department and in Gotham, and Dick wants to tell him he'll do all right, but he can't, he shouldn't even be in Gotham if he wants to make sure the timeline really is safe. But no matter how he resists what he really wants to do, he's sucked into the fringes of Gordon's fledgling group of people who don't, actually, have too much of a problem with the Batman.

Sometimes he's there when Batman comes, whether because of the Signal or to Gordon's office, and he can't help but stare, because he'd forgotten that Bruce had ever looked so young, before years on the job had beaten him down. Only, he isn't certain Bruce had ever looked this young when he'd known him. Certainly not any time recently. Fortunately, he's expected to stare. He is, after all, a young officer confronted with sudden evidence that at least one urban legend (though it's barely even an urban legend, at this point in time) is true. He makes certain he isn't watching (he could, but it would attract Bruce's attention to him) while he disappears, leaving Gordon cursing. The soft sound of the cape on the windowsill or the rooftop is enough for him to track Bruce by. The memory of the smell of Kevlar and leather and everything that, added together, is Bruce, makes him randomly break out smiling for a week afterward.

Nobody comes for him in the first year, or the second, or the third. Eventually he lets go of the small bit of hope he'd been clinging to (never a lot; he'd seen miracles happen many times in his lives, odds beaten, impossibilities come true; but he'd also seen the inevitable happen too many times not to know that, while the odds are sometimes beaten, most of the time they aren't) and stops waiting for rescue from the past and starts living his new life. It's hard letting things happen when he knows he can stop them (he takes a personal day on the day his parents die, and sits at home and cries and never goes on the roof with Gordon again), but for all the ugliness he could prevent there's a flip side. If his parents hadn't died he never would have become Robin, become Nightwing. If Jason hadn't died Tim would have just kept being the Batclan's personal stalker and wouldn't be the highly efficient Robin he is now. If Barbara hadn't gotten shot by the Joker…Every action has consequences, and he knows that even the worst things he can prevent have eventually saved lives, have eventually made the world a better place.

Nothing he tells himself makes it any easier.

Morse Code

Sat, 16 Jun 2007 06:29:20 GMT

Title: Morse Code
Characters: Tim Drake, Bernard Dowd
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An AU where Tim never became Robin again, but everything else happens the same except for Jack dying. Then Barbara dies.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Word Count: 8,577
Betad by: maisiuil

It's strange to be returning to the same school where one of his best friends was shot, especially knowing that she'd died from the wound, but Bernard was handling it well. Mostly. He hasn't hyperventilated or freaked out or anything, anyway. Yet. He's been spending a lot of time concentrating on only his breathing, and fortunately the teachers both don't expect much from him and are giving him a little – make that a lot – of latitude, since they know about Darla.

When he isn't holding to normalcy by force of sheer will he mostly watches Tim, who seems to be taking it a lot better than he is. That isn't, actually, saying very much, but Tim doesn't seem to be acting much differently than he usually acts, which makes him wonder how good of an actor Tim actually is. He sneaks a glance at Tim. Tim looks completely entranced in the lecture that's putting everybody else to sleep, and Bernard snorts mentally in amusement. Definitely a better actor than he'd even suspected.

Tim slides his hand totally innocently off of the desktop and into his pocket. He took his phone out, clearly intending to just glance at the caller ID, but his eyes just stop there and for a second an expression of what's almost certainly shock passes over his face before he wipes it clear and returns to his former position but with his hand in his pocket around his phone. There are only five minutes of class left and Bernard can hardly wait to grill Tim, but unfortunately Mrs. McMillian is one of those teachers who teaches up until the bell (and doesn't let you pack everything up until then either), so he doesn't have a chance until it sounds. And Tim rockets out of his seat like he's on fire or something because they aren't allowed to use their phones in the classrooms (or during school hours, of course, but those just ended), leaving Bernard to curse (mentally and under his breath; he doesn't want to get detention, and this is a high school for God's sake, not a nursery, he should be allowed to curse if he wants) and gather his stuff (which has spread out as usual; he's never been able to keep his mess contained) and follow as quickly as possibly, which isn't very because some people think doorways are appropriate places to stand and talk.

So he only catches the very end of Tim's conversation with whoever's on the other end of the phone, which tells him nothing except that apparently Tim sometimes ends phone calls without saying goodbye or any of its synonyms, just hanging up.

"Hey Tim," Bernard says, draping an arm over Tim's shoulders. Tim does that no-response thing that Bernard's halfway certain means he doesn't like it, but he ignores it. If Tim doesn't want to be touched he can just say so. "What was that about? You practically ran out of there. Not that I don't sympathize with the urge to get out of physics, but normally you don't seem to have it."

"Phone call," Tim says shortly and completely uninformatively.

Bernard sighs loudly and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I kind of got that. But with your busy social schedule surely you get called all the time?" He isn't sure if this is ironic or not. Tim's schedule has cleared up a lot lately, but on the other hand he still hasn't been willing to talk to Bernard much outside of school. And he's never seen any of Tim's other friends, if they even exist. Then again, he'd thought Tim had made Stephanie up, too.

"Not by her." Tim doesn't seem even a bit cheered up by Bernard, which means…

"Shit." It hits him suddenly. He's only seen Tim looking like this when something reminded him of Darla or Stephanie unexpectedly. "Is somebody else dead?"

Tim nods, once, and doesn't say anything, just twists out from under Bernard's arm and walks away quickly enough that Bernard knows the conversation is over whether he wants it to be or not.

***

Bernard has the skill to coax Tim into telling him at least some things. More than he'd ever expected, really. Like the fact that both the funeral and the will reading are on Saturday, which tells Bernard…something. That Tim's dead friend is older than they are, almost certainly, because she has a will, and he doesn't know of anybody in high school who does. That Tim was close enough to his friend to be mentioned in the will, or at least think he might be. Sometimes Bernard wonders about the parts of Tim's life that he doesn't see.

He doesn't call Tim on Saturday; even if he caught Tim at a time when he wasn't at the funeral or the will reading, Tim would be even less talkative than usual. Instead, he waits for Sunday, when Tim should be at least a little recovered and not nearly so busy. He pretends it's just a normal call, like he isn't bursting at the seams wanting to know everything Tim hasn't, and probably won't, told him.

"So, Tim…you want to go see a movie or something?" he asks. "I'm sure we can find something up to your standards in the theaters."

"Can't," Tim replies. "I've inherited a large amount of computers and I have to move them today."

"Today?" Bernard asks, brow arching involuntarily. "There's a time limit?"

"Not…technically, but it's really better the faster I do it." There's a lot unspoken there, and Bernard can feel it, but he has no idea what it is. Which is frustrating, as are many things with Tim.

"Well, I think I can figure out how to disconnect a computer, if you want some help."

"These aren't exactly standard, but…you mean that offer?"

"You know what they say: good friends help you move, great friends help you move bodies." Which was…perhaps in bad taste, considering. But there's only the usual (usual now, anyway; it's like he's gotten worse at being normal) socially awkward Tim Drake silence (like it takes him a second to realize it's a joke and figure out the right reply) before he retorts.

"And which one are you?"

"I don't know, Tim, you got any bodies you need moved?"

"I might, you never know…but seriously, it'd be great if you'd help. It'd keep the tension at reasonable levels, at the very least."

He's not even going to ask; sometimes even he knows better. "So should I come over now, or what?"

"Oh, right, you don't know where…you have a car, right?"

"Yeah…should I not meet you at your house?"

"We've already left. We're almost there, even."

"Uh, okay, where's 'there'?"

"You know the clocktower?" Tim asks.

"Yeah…" Bernard says. Everybody who's lived in Gotham for a while knows the clocktower, and most Gothamites have lived there for a while (sometimes he thinks there's something in the water that keeps them there no matter how bad things get). He waits for Tim to give directions starting at the clocktower. But he doesn't. "Wait, you inherited computers which were stored in the clocktower?"

"Barbara owned the clocktower," Tim says mildly, like it's a completely normal thing to know somebody who owns such a…landmark. "Just ring the doorbell when you get there and somebody will let you in."

"Sure," Bernard replies. "This had better not be a prank, though. Wait, scratch that, I think it would actually be reassuring if it were a prank."

"Noted," Tim said. "Prank you later, though; I'm at the clocktower."

"See you there."

***

Despite Tim being…Tim, Bernard halfway expects it to all be a big prank involving whoever owns the clocktower getting angry at him, so he's a bit apprehensive when he rings the doorbell. Not that he shows it; even if there isn't anybody watching (and he isn't entirely certain about that; the camera over the door is difficult to miss) he's not going to let anybody know how he feels. After all, nine tenths of success is appearance.

There's a buzz and the door unlocks remotely. Nobody pops up and says anything, or uses the intercom, but he assumes the unlocking means he's supposed to enter. Or at least that's the excuse he'll use if he gets arrested for trespassing. The door opens easily, anyway, so there weren't more locks than the ones which were just unlocked.

The door opens into a hallway. Elevator doors are sliding open at the end of it, like the clocktower's expecting him, and when he enters the elevator they close and the elevator starts to rise without him doing a thing. Just how wired is this place, anyway? And if the previous owner had been the one who'd wired it this much, what kind of computers had she left to Tim? The elevator doors slide open at what's apparently the top floor before the roof (which apparently also has elevator access), cutting off his train of thought.

What looks like a really intense "discussion" cuts off as the doors open, and everybody turns to stare at him like he wasn't expected, like they have no idea what he's doing here. But he recognizes Mr. Drake, so he knows he isn't in the wrong place. Tim darts forward (who knew he could move that quickly?) and pulls him into the room.

"Oh good, you're here," he says, quicker than Tim should ever speak. "I'll just introduce you around and then we can get to work. So, this is Dinah Lance, Helena Bertinelli, Dick Grayson, Jim Gordon, and you already know my dad." He's practically bouncing in place (okay, for anybody else it wouldn't seem extreme, but for Tim? Bernard wonders how much caffeine he's had, especially considering how much Tim seems to enjoy coffee in the normal run of things), and barely gives Bernard a chance to shake hands and say hello before he pulls him into another room crammed full of computer stuff and electronics Bernard doesn't recognize, even from the computer and technology magazines he'll never admit he reads. All of the chairs have been removed from in front of the desks, he assumes for easier access to whatever has to be packed up.

He can't stop the quiet "wow" which slips out of his mouth, and Tim smirks at him.

"I never would have taken you for a technogeek," he says, but with the caress he's giving the computer stuff with his eyes Bernard knows he'd be geeking out far more than Bernard is if he hadn't seen it all a hundred times before. After all, he actually knows what it all is. Presumably.

"I'm not," Bernard protests, knowing it's futile. "But I don't think there's a person alive who wouldn't be amazed by this, even if half of it's barely recognizable."

"Yeah," Tim sighs happily. He's in geek heaven. "Babs always had the best toys, but she never let me play with them, except when I wired the place and helped her test it."

"You wired the place?" Bernard asks, surprised. He would have thought it was done by a professional. "How wired is it?"

"More than you would believe," Tim replies. "It took forever because I had to do it mostly by myself."

"She didn't help?" Bernard tries to work out why. With this much technology, he'd have thought she could do the job herself.

Tim takes a picture from one on top of the desks and hands it to him silently. It's Dick Grayson from the other room with a redhead in a wheelchair, and he practically smacks himself. No wonder she hadn't wired the place herself. No wonder there's an elevator. No wonder there aren't any chairs in this room; it has nothing to do with packing. Sometimes he's just a bit slow.

"So…how'd you get to know her well enough to wire her clocktower?" Bernard asks. "Or do you secretly run a business that I don't know about on the side? Though if it was a business I don't suppose she'd have left you her computers."

"Hey, you never know," Tim says with a shrug. "Can you unhook that monitor and pack it in that box? Use plenty of padding." He starts unhooking a different monitor. "But no, no business. We met through Dick."

"Okay…how do you know him then?"

"Used to live next door to him."

"Now, when you say you lived next door to him, do you mean when you were at that boarding school, or during No Man's Land, or when you lived next door to Bruce Wayne?"

"The latter. Bruce adopted him just recently. I thought you read all those tabloids and gossip columns and everything?"

"What, really? I haven't really been paying attention lately, I guess."

"Things have been crazy," Tim says quietly, and they work quietly for a while, remembering everything that's happened to Gotham and to them lately.

***

"Hey, what's this?" Bernard asks, holding up a metallic sphere. "I think I see a button."

"Don't press it!" Tim yelps, snatching the ball from Bernard's hand before he can. "This is one of Dinah's, actually."

"Did I hear my name?" the blonde - Dinah - asks from the doorway.

"Yeah, we found one of your toys." Tim tosses it at her.

"I didn't know she had any more of these," Dinah says, tossing it casually from hand to hand. Bernard wonders if that's such a good idea, since Tim had freaked out so much when he'd been the one holding it. He thinks perhaps his feelings should be hurt, but at least it seems she knows what it is, which is more than he can say.

"Waste not, want not?" Tim offers with a ghost of a grin.

"Guess so," she says. They're quiet for a while, until the silence makes her shift. "It's going to be weird. Without her." She stops with a glance at Bernard.

"I know," Tim replies. "I might be able to help you with business. A little. But it won't be the same."

"No." She fidgets.

"Why don't you go use the holo-room?" Tim suggests, possibly just to get rid of her.

"It still works?" she asks. "I thought you turned all the computers off."

"It has a completely different set," Tim says. "And I'm not taking them."

"Really?"

"They wouldn't be much use to me without the room, you know."

"If you say so."

"Really, Dinah," he chides her. "You need to get over your technophobia. It's not as if computers are going to become less prevalent in the future, after all."

The noise she lets out is half way between a laugh and a sob. "You sound just like Barbara." She disappears from the doorway.

Tim twitches like he wants to chase after her and apologize, but he returns to packing up the computers.

"Holo-room?" Bernard asks.

***

Bernard has never before been told about anything which "officially doesn't exist, or at least not on Earth outside of a few research labs", but he knows that even if he had been he would have loved the holo room the most, simply because it makes Tim talk to him. And sure, half of the talking he's doing is warnings not to tell anybody about it and attempts to describe things as vaguely as possible (especially where his friend had gotten the technology from), but still. Tim. Talking. At length. Without much prompting at all, nothing behind a murmured mm-hmm. Even if he only has the vaguest idea what Tim's talking about, and half the time it's like his mom lecturing him, it's still Tim talking. It's impossible not to love anything which does that.

And he's always known that there's more under the surface of Tim Drake than he'll ever see, but that doesn't make it any less of a palpable pain to see Tim so alive, so talkative, and then just shut down completely when his dad comes into the room.

"Are you guys about ready to go?" he asks with cheerfulness so fake even Bernard can see it, and this is only the second time he's seen Mr. Drake.

"Sure, Dad," Tim replies. "We just have to take everything out to the car. Or cars; I'm not sure it'll all fit in ours."

"I can take some in my car," Bernard offers. "I think I can find my way to your house from here without too much trouble."

"Why don't I ride with you and make sure?" Tim says quickly, obviously not wanting to spend a lot of time with his dad. "Wouldn't want you to get lost and end up in Blüdhaven or something."

"Sure. If that's all right with you?" Bernard says to Mr. Drake.

He looks like he's going to say no (he kind of twitches, even), but he doesn't. "That's fine. I just hope we have enough space for all this at home."

"I'm sure I can make some."

Bernard has no idea what the deal is with Tim and his dad, but he knows that a) he doesn't want to know, and b) he wants to be as far away from them as possible because he doesn't want to be in the same room as them when their cold war erupts into violence (hopefully of the screaming kind, but he can't get Tim's old bruises and stitches and scars out of his mind). He grabs up a box and takes it into the elevator. They drop their almost-fight to do the same.

The nice thing about elevators is that they don't have to make as many trips up and down; they can fill the elevator, take it down, and unload it to the cars, and return for the remaining boxes and cases. Plus, no stairs, which is always a good thing except (the elevator's signs advise him) in case of fire. Unfortunately, he knows it won't be this easy at Tim's house. Tim's room is on the second floor.

***

It's always somewhat disturbing being in Tim's room. Of course, it's Tim, so disturbing (as Bernard is starting to realize) is not actually too unusual. But it's unnatural for a room to be this clean and neat, the bed made and wrinkle-free, everything obsessive-compulsively put away and, knowing Tim, probably alphabetized. Tim had sketched out a layout in the car and begins unpacking and putting everything in place as soon as they take the first load upstairs. He lets Jack, Bernard, and Dana bring everything else upstairs while he places monitors and computers and stuff Bernard doesn't recognize in places which look completely random until he has almost everything placed. He works without stopping even momentarily to consider placement until he just stops and steps back.

"Got it all placed?" Bernard asks. "Because I think it's about time to turn it all on."

"Yeah," Tim says, pressing a power button which turns everything on. "I just hope I can get in."

"What, the will didn't have a password in it for you?"

"Clearly you don't realize how much security is on these machines. Barbara changed her password a lot, plus there's various biometrics. I mean, hopefully she added the person she left the computers to to the security system, but if she didn't pretty much the only thing these computers are good for is scrap metal."

"Couldn't you reformat them? Or something?"

"She was big into computer security; do you honestly think she wouldn't protect her computers from that?" But the computers have no problem with Tim, booting to various operating systems as soon as they collectively scan his retina. Bernard doesn't recognize the names on half of the splash screens, much less the programs which start up automatically and minimize immediately.

"So I take it she was a power user?" Bernard asks, as if he doesn't know. He hadn't had any idea that Windows could be made to look like that.

Tim snickers. Bernard's never heard him snicker before, so it's possible he's boggling a little. "Oh, you have no idea."

"I think I'm starting to get one."

"You really aren't." Tim seems to remember that he doesn't want to tell Bernard a lot, even so obliquely that he doesn't have any idea what he's being told. "Hey, you want to play a game? I'm sure she's got a few not-yet-released games loaded on these, even if she never played."

"She was a beta tester and she never played? How does that work?"

"She was the worst kind of workaholic, and…not technically a beta tester." He hands a keyboard and mouse to Bernard (pointing at the monitor he now has control of) and pulls out a pair of gloves and a strange pair of glasses for himself.

"Is that some sort of virtual reality thing? I thought those were just science fiction."

"Bernard. You do realize we live in a world which gets invaded by aliens on a regular basis, right?"

"Good point. So why don't I get a set?"

"Because there's only one, and also they take a while to really master. Mainly because you absolutely have to touch-type with them, without the benefit of having anything to actually touch."

"Fine, fine, have it your way. Which game should I kick your ass at?"

***

Tim is actually really good at computer games (and they try several, because Bernard thinks it might just be a fluke at first, a game that Tim's played a lot), the result, he says, of having friends who play them a lot and used to drag him into them all the time. His closed-off expression tells Bernard that they're yet another topic he's not supposed to ask about. Tim's new computers are amazing. They play the newest games on the highest quality and they don't slow down even a little. Maybe in a few years, after the games are released, after they're getting a bit on the old side, computer enthusiasts will have computers which can play the games at this speed without cranking down the video quality.

It goes without saying (or even glaring) that he shouldn't ask for specifics about how Tim's dead friend had this technology.

"We have got to do this more often," he says, flopping back on Tim's no-longer-military-neat bed. "Your computers are awesome."

Tim's only answer is a smile saying just how aware he is of that fact. Knowing Tim, it also means Bernard has no idea how good they are.

"See you tomorrow."

***

Tim's hiding something. Bernard can tell because he's acting completely normal. This is Tim. Is normal even in his vocabulary? He does have a wide and varied vocabulary (he always uses all sorts of big words that are probably on the SAT and, like, in spelling bees, but he never blinks when Bernard uses the most obscure slang terms he knows in an attempt to get Tim to admit there's something he doesn't know), but somehow Bernard doubts it, unless it's defined there as just "not Tim". Bernard's known he was unusual since they first met. How long has Tim known? Surely he isn't so wrapped up in himself that he has no idea.

"So, Tim, what's going on?" he asks at lunch.

"Going on?"

"You know what I mean. You're acting…normal."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "You do realize what you just said, right?"

"Since when do you act normal? You aren't normal, not by any definition of the term."

"Maybe it's easier to…pretend."

"Is it?"

"Yes," Tim says flatly, not even trying to pretend he's telling the truth. It's like he has to lie to Bernard but wants him to know he's lying. Which, translated from Tim-think, doesn't mean he wants to tell Bernard. It means he has a secret so strange there isn't a snowball's chance in hell that Bernard will guess, or at least that's Bernard's translation.

Idly, he wonders if there's anybody else who's had occasion to develop a mental Tim-English dictionary. He wonders if they (whoever they are, if they exist) have a better one than he does.

He wishes he knew them so he could compare notes.

He's almost certain Jack Drake doesn't have one, or at least not one that's anywhere near accurate. The people at the clocktower, however…too bad he never bothered to remember their names.

***

Tim seems invested in keeping Bernard away from his dad, or possibly his computers, so for the next few weeks they spend a lot of time going to movies in theaters and eating at fast food joints and hanging out at the mall, even though Tim never buys anything, or even looks at it like he's considering buying it. They could, theoretically, go to Bernard's house, but the only thing it has in its favor is the computers and consoles, and he's been depressed every time he's looked at them since he played with Tim's computers. Besides, it probably does Tim good to be around people outside of school. God knows he doesn't get out of his house on his own, in a way that has nothing to do with being grounded and everything to do with Tim clearly wanting to be a shut-in when he grows up. Or possibly before.

They're in the food court, nursing a couple of sodas, when Tim tenses like he suddenly remembered or realized something.

"What's the matter, Tim?" Bernard asks. "Leave the stove on or something?"

Tim doesn't respond, and the way he's just staring into space and not blinking is now reminding Bernard more of people having flashbacks in movies, minus (of course) the guns and explosions and driving cars into things. But Tim's never been in a war, so any flashbacks he has have no reason to involve guns or explosions or anything violent.

Then again, he has no reason to be having flashbacks.

Wait, had Tim been in Gotham during No Man's Land? He'd never talked about it, but then Tim never talks about anything except, apparently, computers. And him being here during NML would explain his dad's possessiveness/protectiveness, if he's afraid he'll lose Tim if he lets him out of his sight. Maybe the clocktower people were part of the reason Tim was here? It would explain the hostility.

If it's a flashback they need to get out of here. And if it's about No Man's Land there's no way he's going to try to take Tim's soda away from him, even if his ever-tightening grip means his upholstery (and Tim's pants) probably isn't safe.

He manages to get Tim out to his car somehow. How, he doesn't know, because all of his attention is focused on Tim, on worrying about him. Because Tim's never been normal, but this is strange even for him. The cup goes, as he'd predicted, before they're even out of the parking space, so now they absolutely have to go home, because there's no way he's going to let the soda just dry there and ruin the upholstery, and Tim's a bit too far out of it to take him to the deluxe car wash where they clean the inside as well as the outside. And the $5 car wash does nothing for upholstery.

At the house, he shoos Tim out of the car, and he just stands there and does nothing about his pants even though they have to be uncomfortable in their wetness while Bernard dries the seat off the best he can, cursing. Not that he begrudges Tim his little moment of craziness, but he has to use the car, and the wetness is kind of annoying. Then he drags Tim inside before he can realize that Tim almost certainly has some sort of skills with which to defend himself if he really did survive NML. Fortunately, Tim seems content to let him drag him around.

"Take off your pants and put those on," Bernard tells him when they reach his room, pointing to a pair of his pants. Tim's zombie flashback mode is apparently also a follow-whatever-orders-he's-given mode because he starts taking his pants off immediately.

Bernard hadn't thought to guard against this, mentally, because while he knows he's attracted to Tim, Tim is normally way too modest to strip in front of anybody. It's actually amazing that he survived dressing out for gym without dying of embarrassment. Well, unless he actually did die, and became a zombie, and this is just his zombie side asserting itself. He shakes his head, and tries not to stare, because it's Tim. In boxers. Without anything over them. If Tim wasn't all zombified right now…but he is. He takes Tim's pants and puts them in the washer, then calls Tim's dad and asks if Tim can spend the night, using the soda incident and "a shower" as the reason Tim isn't the one calling, as well as the old "I thought if I left it up to Tim he wouldn't ask" to convince Jack. Tim isn't the only one who can lie, and it seems unlikely that he'll be together enough to go home at a reasonable time today.

When he returns to his room, Tim hasn't put pants on. After the sacrifice of pants he'd made, zombie Tim's snubbing them. He should feel insulted. He probably would, if the boxers weren't shorting out every thought in his brain.

"Tim, I know we aren't exactly the same size, but you do need to wear pants of some sort," Bernard says in as close to his normal tone as he can manage, holding the pants out toward Tim. He hopes Tim doesn't notice how little success he's having at not staring. The boxers hide nothing.

Tim grabs his wrist really tight. "Ow. Ow, ow, owowow," Bernard whimpers, dropping the pants. He's going to have bruises, and it doesn't look like Tim's even trying. Tim's hold lessens a little, enough that Bernard could maybe move a little without his bones getting broken, if he didn't know that Tim could tighten his grip at the slightest move he makes. "Okay, Tim, you don't have to wear pants if you don't want to. I mean, we're just in my house, not outside where you can get arrested for indecent exposure or anything." He's babbling, but Tim's scaring him and he talks a lot when he's scared, it's a defense mechanism…and he should really calm down. Even if Tim's having a flashback, maybe he can calm him down and make him let go of his wrist.

…Except he has no idea how to snap people out of flashbacks. And somehow he doubts Tim's going to let go of him so he can look it up on the internet. "Tim, you want to let go of me?" he tries hopefully. "I'm not going anywhere, you don't have to hold on to me." Tim doesn't let go. This is almost certainly the longest Tim has ever touched him voluntarily. Unless it doesn't count as voluntarily because he's so out of it. Without Bernard being the one doing the touching, anyway. "Can we at least sit down?" Bernard asks, edging towards the bed. "Maybe you can go to sleep and wake up, you know, not acting all weird? Or at least, acting weird in the ways you normally act weird, not in this way. I'm so not helping my case here, am I?" But apparently he is, because Tim sits down next to him on the bed, close enough that he can feel his body heat all up and down his side, not just where Tim is gripping him like a vise, like it's life-or-death that he keeps holding on.

Bernard keeps up a steady stream of talk, still trying to calm Tim down or at least get him to let go of his wrist, because the constant pressure on his new bruises isn't pleasant no matter how much he wants - craves – Tim's touch. His strategy has limited success. Tim doesn't let go, but his grip loosens as he pillows his head on Bernard's shoulder and falls asleep.

Gently, carefully, Bernard slides his wrist away from Tim's hand and massages it. Definitely bruised. If it had been a life or death situation…well. It wouldn't have been Tim who was the weak link, that's for sure. If he'd been dangling from a ledge or something, he would have been able to hold on until somebody got there to help pull him up, if he wasn't able to do it himself. It's yet another of those skills it's not entirely unreasonable to develop in Gotham. Bernard wonders if he'd developed it deliberately, if he'd ever had to use it. If he'd ever had occasion to really notice its lack.

Tim's starting to drool on his shoulder. They may be friends, but Bernard doesn't let anybody drool on him, no matter how good a friend they are. Carefully (because he doesn't think his wrist can take much more abuse, and Tim's going to feel guilty enough whenever he snaps out of this without breaking it) he maneuvers Tim into a lying position on his bed. It's a bit early, so he can put Tim's pants in the dryer and look up flashbacks online and then go to sleep on the couch and avoid Tim until he puts some pants on, because Tim's straight (he dated a girl Robin!) and not interested and even if he was right now it would be wrong to take advantage, like date rape or something. He tries to leave, but Tim, still sleeping, puts his arms around him and pulls him down onto the bed next to him, snuggling into him like he's one of those body pillows or Tim's girlfriend (well, okay, not Tim's girlfriend; there's little doubt in Bernard's mind that Tim's still a virgin, girlfriend or no girlfriend). He pulls Bernard down so that he's lying down too, so that they're spooning, and then Tim throws his legs around Bernard so he can't even move, and it's a good thing he went to the bathroom earlier because judging by the way Tim's holding on to him with all of his limbs he isn't going to get another chance anytime soon.

It's a very good thing his parents are out of town, Bernard thinks, because this is not the kind of thing he wants to have to have to explain. Or at least not when it's just because of zombie Tim. Now, if he could convince Tim to give him this much contact without him being all messed up in the head…perhaps they could work their way up to it? He wonders how he could even broach the subject to Tim. He couldn't even talk to Darla about his attraction to her, and asking somebody of the opposite gender out when they aren't interested doesn't freak them out nearly as much as asking somebody of the same gender does.

Speaking of attraction, it's really difficult to ignore Tim and his pantslessness when he's right there at Bernard's back, wrapped around him like…something that wraps stuff. Wrapping paper, maybe. Though he's so warm, he's closer to being an electric blanket. Wouldn't that be delightful in winter, a Tim ready and willing to cuddle? He takes a few moments to enjoy that thought before he remembers that the reason he's having it is because Tim's in the same bed as him (to understate things). Things are going to be awkward enough when he wakes up without getting turned on. So, change of mental subject. To…he chooses a subject at random. Vegetables! Vegetables are completely nonsexual. They don't have genders, aren't involved in sex, there's absolutely nothing erotic about them. In fact, they're so horribly boring he wouldn't be surprised if he dropped off right now. Except Tim eats vegetables. With every meal. Sometimes as a snack too. It's like he's a health nut or thinks he might get scurvy at any moment or something. Or like eating vegetables is some part of his religion, possibly all of it. Which totally fits with Bernard's theory about No Man's Land; he's heard that there hadn't been a lot of vegetables to go around then, and that after NML a lot of people who'd stayed had a newfound love of them. Like the almost worshipful expression on Tim's face when he digs into a nice plate of vegetables. Maybe there's some way he can get Tim to turn that expression on him.

Wait, no, that's the kind of thought he's trying to avoid. But what can he think of to avoid that kind of thought? Is it even possible, with Tim pressed into him so warmly? Ugly old people? His parents having sex? Math? He feels his eyelids growing heavier and welcomes the darkness that signals sleep.

***

He wakes up when the warmth at his back shifts. His side feels cold in a couple of places, and he knows that the warmth had been on them too, and now is gone. He presses back into the warmth in an effort to get it to stay, to not go anywhere.

"Um." Tim's voice says from behind him, and it all comes crashing back. He sits bolt upright and starts rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Sorry," he says, voice still thick from sleep. "Forgot about you."

"Um. Sorry?" At least it seems that Tim's back to normal. Tim normal, at least.

"You had a- a- flashback or something, and all you can say is sorry? How about you tell me what that was all about?" He turns to look at Tim for the first time since he woke up, but Tim is looking everywhere but at him, like he's fascinated by Bernard's room, like he hasn't seen it before.

"I can't," he says quietly.

"If you can't talk to me, at least tell me you have somebody you can talk to," Bernard says. "Because that? Was not exactly reassuring of your mental health, no matter how good a façade you put up the rest of the time. I'm going to have bruises."

Tim's eyes snap to him, like he can't help but look. "Did I- what did I do?" He sounds halfway terrified, and maybe there's something to Bernard's theory about abuse because he looks like people in Lifetime movies who are afraid of being second generation abusers.

"It's fine," he says, holding up his wrist. "You just held onto me like I was your lifeline or something. Not that I mind, except for the pain, but you really need to talk to somebody."

"I can't. I'm not allowed."

"Why not?"

Tim is silent.

"There's nobody you can talk to about…whatever's bothering you?"

A hint of a smile twitches the corner of his lips. "Nobody living."

"So talk to somebody dead! Talk to their grave or the air or write them a letter. I don't care how you do it. But you need to talk to somebody, even if they'll never be able to talk back or give you advice."

Tim looks shocked, but he nods like it's a good idea, whether it is or not. "Um…where are my pants?" he asks like he's halfway afraid of the answer.

***

The only word he can think of to describe Tim when he sees him next is "guarded". Of course, that could describe Tim at any point, but it's somehow more now, like he's been experiencing actual emotions and doesn't want anybody to know. And it's not because of his little freak-out the other day, or at least not just about that, because he'd been more or less Tim-normal when Bernard had dropped him off at his house afterwards, and now he's…guarded.

This is, actually, an improvement, because it means he has something to guard, as opposed to the terrible blankness of the other day. And it's like it's Tim's natural state to be guarded, because he does it better than anybody, well enough that Bernard only knows he's guarded because Tim lets him see that, even though he isn't anything close to letting Bernard see his actual emotions that he's guarding.

"Am I to assume you actually followed my advice?" he asks. "Is it snowing in Hell? Are pigs flying without mad scientists being involved?"

"It was…helpful," Tim replies, the pause meaning something significant, but as usual with Tim, it isn't anything Bernard can interpret. Sometimes Tim can be so frustrating…but today Bernard's content to just have him back to his usual enigmatic self.

***

~Months Later~

Tim's hurt, he went away for his vacation away from his parents and Gotham and he came back covered in bandages. Not Band-Aids, bandages, taped on and huge and white and Bernard knows that he isn't actually covered in them because Tim's been covered in bandages before (it's what made him develop the abuse theory), and this is nowhere near as covered as he had been then because it's only on his head, and those had been mostly on his body, where there's a lot more area to be covered. But he has bandages, and one of them is behind his ear, like if whatever wound Tim had gotten had been just a bit deeper his brains would have leaked out on the ground or whatever he hit his head on. Or if it had been more forward, he would have lost his ear. Bernard pokes at it.

Tim ducks out of the way, like he hasn't done on a regular basis since- well, since before Bernard met him, because somebody trained him to not mind when people around him get in his personal space and stay there. But it looks like he's only ducking because it hurts, not because he doesn't want – make that isn't willing – to be touched. Which makes entirely too much sense, and he really should have thought of that before poking at Tim's fresh wound.

"Sorry," he says, dropping his hand. "What happened? I let you go on vacation without me for one week, and what do you do? You get injured."

"I can't talk about it," Tim replies, tapping his also bandaged middle and index fingers on the wall in what Bernard's brain is insisting is a pattern, even if he can't work it out.

"You can't share the story of how you got horribly injured with your best friend?" Bernard asks.

"What makes you think you're my best friend?" Tim asks, and on anybody else that tone would be completely serious, but this is Tim, and he's had months in which to find Tim's sense of humor and learn when he's making a joke.

Bernard clutches his chest. "You mean I'm not? Oh, how you wound me!"

"Yes, I've ditched you for the company of a bear whose acquaintance I made in the woods."

"Is that what happened to you? You got a bit too close to the honey or something?"

"I told you, I can't talk about it, but there were no bears involved. I told my dad I fell while climbing." Which, of course, means that there was no climbing involved, at least in the injury, because Tim never tells Jack the truth, even when it would be smarter to. He may have climbed a little just to make sure he was acquainted with the process or something, though. His fingers continue tapping.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Bernard asks. If his fingers were hurt badly enough to be bandaged, he doubts he'd be tapping at every available surface.

"Yes."

***

Maybe Tim's a masochist. It explains the injuries, the old scars, the tapping with injured fingers. But he doesn't stop tapping after his fingers heal, and he always seems to take good care of his injuries and at least try to avoid getting hurt. Bernard could almost pass the scars off as clumsiness, but he's actually seen Tim move. There's nothing clumsy about him unless he's doing it deliberately.

The tapping is not some sort of nervous tic or habit; Tim had picked it up all at once when he'd gotten injured, and it gets faster as time passes. Maybe it's Morse code, with one finger for the dit and the other for the dah? But what's the point of sending messages to yourself in Morse code, especially when it's Morse code which makes no sense? Working off that theory, Bernard learns Morse code and attempts to decipher what Tim's tapping out. But neither BENPYR nor JTAXLK is a word, nor anything like a word, so either it's in code (he wouldn't put it past Tim to use a code in his Morse code conversations with himself, but he doesn't have anything near the ability to decode it if that's what he's doing) or it isn't Morse code, just some weird instant habit of Tim's. If anybody could pick up a habit immediately, it's Tim, so he stops even trying to comprehend Tim's actions.

He starts getting a lot of weird spam in his email account, emails all from different addresses. Most of them try to get him to take various quizzes, but some of them ask really personal questions which, when taken as a whole, seem to be rather pointed. Either somebody's trying to set him up with Tim or Tim's sending the emails. While he can't think of anybody who would want to set them up, the alternative is even more unlikely.

"I've been getting these strange emails lately…" he tells Tim.

Tim freezes, and a strange expression passes over his face. Maybe he had been the one sending them. But he starts muttering to himself. "I can't believe you did that."

"Hearing voices, Tim?"

"In a sense." Tim looks like he wants to jump out of the window to escape this conversation. They're on the ground floor, so he wouldn't get hurt too badly, but jumping through closed windows is never a good idea so Bernard makes sure he's between Tim and the window.

"So, what, you have multiple personality disorder and one of your personalities sent me the emails?" Bernard doesn't give him enough time to pretend that's the truth. "Please, how stupid do you think I am? And I know that you don't regularly berate yourself out loud in second person, so don't try to pretend you do."

"Sorry," Tim says, looking at the floor. "I have a friend who's, um."

"Trying to set us up?" Bernard prompts. Tim nods and doesn't look in his direction. "Well, I assume they at least bothered to find out if you're interested before trying, so…" he steps forward and kisses Tim. He can't get at Tim's mouth at first, because he's looking at the floor, so he kisses Tim's cheek, and then Tim turns his head and his lips slide along his cheek and then he's kissing Tim's mouth, and it falls open, and he can't keep his hands off of Tim, just has to get in contact with as much of him as he can, and it seems Tim has the same idea because he's licking the roof of his mouth and his hands are somewhere on Bernard's back and they're pressed together close enough that there isn't any space between them.

And then Tim's pulling away and saying something, not to him, but not to anybody else because there's nobody else in the room, and Bernard knows he should be focusing but his lips are swollen and possibly his brain is melted because he didn't know Tim was interested, or that he was such a good kisser, or that he could be so expressive. But then Tim turns his computer monitor on, and it isn't showing the usual desktop, it's showing video, and he doesn't think he should be seeing this, because it's the kind of video they never get on TV, video of some field by a farm, with superheroes really close, fighting what looks like Superboy, except that isn't his costume and he's right there besides, on the ground like he's hurt. And the video is being taken by one of the heroes, somehow, because there's movement, faster than anyone but one of them or a professional athlete could move, and there's no reason an athlete would be in the middle of nowhere for a battle like this.

Tim's into it, more than Bernard would have expected him to be, nails digging into the palms of his hands and biting his lip until it bleeds and looking like he wishes he were there even though, if that many heroes can't do anything, there's no way he could if he were there. He flinches every time one of them gets hurt especially badly, but he doesn't look away, just keeps staring like it's a train wreck, like if he looks away it'll just be worse. And then some interminable amount of time later the battle's over, all except the cleanup, and he kind of wonders what happens to the bodies of the dead heroes except that's so not a good thought to be having after watching that, because some of those bodies were pulped, and if none of the other heroes know their secret identities they'll have to be identified by dental records or fingerprints or DNA or not at all. He barely makes it to the bathroom in time.

He rinses his mouth out and returns, and Tim looks a little bit grey but he smiles like he'd just gotten here, like they hadn't talked about the emails or kissed or seen that video. And he can almost believe it was all a hallucination, because his computer looks like it hasn't been touched since last night when he'd checked his email, and Tim's smiling like nothing had happened, but there's a line of blood caked on his chin from when he'd bitten his lip, and his nails are red at the tip, where they'd been pressed into his skin so hard he'd bled. And he's grey, like he should be going into shock or fainting or something, and he's just smiling like nothing had happened.

"Shouldn't we, like, send that video to the news or something?" he asks, and his brain isn't melted anymore, it's frozen, like a block of ice, and he just can't go along with Tim's little charade right now, no matter how much closer it might get him to kissing again.

"What video?" Tim asks, gesturing at the computer, where pipes are endlessly being drawn across the screen.

"I can't deal with this today," Bernard says, to himself or to the air. He doesn't know. But Tim nods once and leaves.

***

It's on the news, later. There isn't any video, just bland descriptions and photographs of those who'd died. Some of them don't even have photographs, just names in the list, and he wonders if anybody knows them, if anybody mourns their deaths as anything more than one more hero who'd died today.

He sees Tim in school, and they're still friends, but Tim's always busy now, busy and not in his house, and when he sees Jack Drake he looks defeated, like he's not allowed to have his anger any more, and without it he has nothing.

Tim continues his enigmatic tapping, and his concealment of his emotions, and starts having bruises and cuts and broken bones all the time again. And Bernard knows that he can have Tim again, if he connects the dots, follows the breadcrumbs, deciphers the encoded Morse code he taps on every available surface.

Author's Notes
In case it wasn't clear (because Bernard doesn't know), Tim got an implant so that he can hear Oracle (I'm playing off of the idea of Oracle outliving Barbara through personality uploading which has been done by several people) and more in his fingers so Oracle can feel when he puts pressure on them or possibly when he just moves them (I haven't decided) and he's using rot-13 Morse code because making typing motions is a bit obvious and Morse code isn't obscure enough.

Partner

Fri, 15 Jun 2007 04:37:58 GMT

Title: Partner
Characters: Dick Grayson, Matt McGinnis
Rating: G
Summary: Part of the Former Robins' Club. Dick has a new partner on the force.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Word Count: 1,207
Betad by: maisiuil

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Dick asks, entering Lieutenant Wilson's office and ignoring whoever's sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He's old and his leg's acting up today so he's cranky, so it doesn't really matter to him that he's interrupting their conversation. Besides, he'd been called into the office, away from his work.

The lieutenant's been here long enough that he doesn't startle at being called "sir" by someone who probably should have retired years ago. Would have, too, if he wasn't every bit as much of a workaholic as all the other former Bats. What do people even do when they aren't working as many hours as physically possible (or at least as many hours as they're allowed to) in a day? If he had the answer to that one… "New partner. Richard Grayson, Matt McGinnis."

"It's Dick," he says automatically, before the name can register, and then he blinks as he shakes McGinnis's hand. He hadn't realized how little he'd been paying attention to what's going on with the newest Bats, but apparently it's little enough that this one has become a detective and moved to Blüdhaven without him knowing.

"Grayson will show you the ropes," Wilson says, sounding exactly like any of the lieutenants he'd had over the years. Any except for Amy, though perhaps the distinction is completely subjective.

"I'm looking forward to working with you," McGinnis says in a creditable impression of an eager rookie, but he's neither done a lot of undercover work nor spent a great amount of time in Bruce's presence, and certainly not before he dropped most of the act, so the signs are there for Dick to read.

At this point the Blüdhaven Police Department is looking for any excuse to get rid of him, so they can lower the insurance premiums or something (Dick's never been too clear on the reasoning, it's not like there isn't enough crime to go around, after all), so he pretends he doesn't see it. "Likewise. So, to work, unless there's something more-?"

"No, no, go ahead," Wilson waves them out of his office.

"Your desk," Dick says, pointing to the desk pushed up against his. It's empty except for the computer monitor and the overflow from his desk. No matter how long the "paperless office" has been pushed, his desk has only become a little bit less cluttered than it had been in the early years. There's a visceral difference between working with files on a screen and having them there, in your hands, getting coffee stains when you set your cup down in the wrong spot after a long day's work, rotating the crime scene photos so they make the most sense. "Shove those back on my desk and grab one to work on; I'll get us coffee."

"I can do that," McGinnis says, and it's really obvious that he'd only gotten into the game after Bruce's death because there's no way Bruce would have let him go through life without training him out of his instinct to try to pamper people just because they use canes and are old.

"If I thought I'd have a problem I wouldn't have said I'd do it," he growls, and McGinnis shrinks back because he's used to a different Batman than Bruce.

The coffee here isn't the same swill it is at most police stations (he knows; he's been to enough of them, sharing information and working together) because after a few years of putting up with it he'd quietly started making sure it was always stocked with the good stuff and that none of the coffeemakers were malfunctioning badly enough to change the taste. There's nothing he can do about people not changing the filter, but it's as good as he can do. And it's better than bringing his own thermoses (thermosi?) of coffee.

Amusingly, there is a mug here that has a robin on it (apparently it's from sort of wild bird museum or whatever it's called), so he fills that one for McGinnis as a joke McGinnis won't know he's in on. His mug was painted by Jody a couple of years ago, with all of the former Robins and subtle (he doesn't think McGinnis will notice) Robin theming.

This isn't the first time he's had to carry things with both of his hands since he'd gotten the cane, so he has a system worked out. His cane, when taken apart, fits in his pocket well enough that it won't fall out, and if he walks slowly enough it won't hurt too much more than it already does. His life has been a negotiation for less pain for far too long.

McGinnis seems to have learned his lesson, at least for the moment, because he doesn't fawn over Dick, or walk over to take his coffee from him, or anything. His lips quirk at his mug, and he oohs at Dick's. Dick's used to that reaction; Jody is a very successful professional artist for a reason.

"My niece painted it," he says proudly.

"Your niece?" McGinnis asks, half politely and half with actual interest.

"Adoptively, sort of. She has an exhibition in Blüdhaven this week if you want to meet her." Dick hands McGinnis one of the brochures he keeps a stack of on his desk. Jody being successful is nothing new, but that doesn't keep him from being proud every time he sees her work or hears it mentioned.

"Your niece is Jody?" McGinnis says incredulously. She goes by just her first name, professionally. "We learned about her in art class." Probably in the Cave, too, considering her powers, even if she'd never been even tempted to follow in her father's footsteps. She's too powerful for any of the Bats who are still Bats to consider doing anything other than monitoring her.

"She's a talented woman." Dick can't keep the smile off of his face. "So what do you say? Want to go to the exhibition tomorrow?"

"Yeah, that'd be great."

They work for the rest of the shift, and don't stay overtime even though there's always more work to do, because there's nothing urgent. Dick takes a few file folders of cases, even though they aren't supposed to do that, aren't supposed to work on cases in their free time, because his stack at home is starting to get low. It isn't like he's taking anything unique, anything that isn't duplicated at least three other places for redundancy. After so long, everybody's used to, and grateful for, the files which "mysteriously" appear on their desks when nobody's watching, crammed with post it notes in handwriting which has nothing in common with Dick's (not that everybody doesn't know it's him, anyway, but changing his handwriting gives him some plausible deniability).

That night, after dark, he watches out his window to where he knows the bad (or at least, even worse than most of the others) parts of the city are. If he watches in the right places (he knows exactly where they are, even after so long) he can see the pinpoint of light that means boot rockets.

He doesn't know if the smile on his face is happy or sad.

Symmetry

Mon, 21 May 2007 03:42:25 GMT

Title: Symmetry
Characters: Bruce Wayne
Rating: ?
Summary: It ends as it began
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: nobody, so let me know if this doesn't make sense, or if there are errors.

It seems fitting that he should die here, in a setting so similar to how it all began. He can still hear the gun roar in his ears, both the one from so long ago and the one that's just been fired. He wears Kevlar, but even that can't stop a gunshot at such close range. Everything seems distant, but this isn't the first time he's been wounded so he tries to keep moving towards the mugger. His foot, clumsy from pain and blood loss, slips on a pearl slick from the puddle of blood already spreading from the bodies. He goes down hard, his muscles not responding to his attempts to fall right.

He knows this is the end for him. Nobody else knows yet, but Oracle- Barbara- is scrambling a team and he knows his body won't be left on the pavement of Crime Alley. He wonders if there will be another Batman, since neither Dick nor Tim wants to be his successor. His eyes linger on the expression of the boy who just lost his parents, and he knows there will be, even if he never takes the name. He doesn't know if he should smile or cry as he slips into the darkness.

Novelty

Sun, 20 May 2007 01:30:44 GMT

Title: Novelty

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake
Rating: G
Summary: Bruce is secretly a bestselling novelist. I got the plotbunny from katarik, here
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: nobody, so let me know if this doesn't make sense, or if there are errors.

He publishes under what is obviously a pseudonym. Given the coded messages strewn throughout his books, some of the more obsessive of his fans spend months trying to decipher what the name means, trying to figure out who he really is from his choice of name.

The pseudonym is random.

The only one who deciphers the true code, or even determines its existence, is a ten-year-old boy, but since he'd long since found out that the real person who writes the bestselling, impeccably-researched crime novels is Bruce Wayne, nothing changes.

Alfred and Dick still don't know that not all of Bruce's computer time is spent chasing down criminals.

Steal These Ideas, Birthday Edition

Fri, 18 May 2007 22:55:18 GMT

So, it's my birthday today, and since I don't have any fic to give you guys (it's on the way, I swear, just not finished yet), here's a list of my recent ideas which I haven't used yet. Feel free to take them if anything grabs you. These ideas might or might not make any sense to anyone besides myself.

Fanfiction Ideas
Play on Scary Bat God idea
Gigantic crossover series
cliche we've-gotten-old fic
Bruce actually gets over his parents' death, to Gotham's detriment
Tim as a father
Cass in Batman Beyond
Tim, time looping long periods of time and doing better each time
Bruce never became Batman

Original Fiction Ideas
Person goes insane, is alone
person sees souls of people in comas in places which mean a lot to them and leads them to their bodies

Former Robins' Club Ideas
Terry in Tim's class
Wedding
Steph's kids @ Dick's gym *evil grin*
Dick's class
Musings on Death series
Christmas
Matt!Robin
Max as Oracle
Halloween
Tim & Bernard fight
What do the non-Tim former Robins think about Bernard?
Robins first realize Tim's wth Bernard
at one of Jody's art things
Things you'll never know
Bernard re: Tim's calluses and possibly scars
Dick @ Haly's Circus
Bernard re: Tim's (& possibly other Robins') night vision
One of Steph's kids has to make a family tree for school
Jason gets in a barfight after Selina dies
Selina tries to convince Jason to go to one of the Society parties
Bernard finds Tim's Robin voice sexy
Jack knows that Tim is responsible for the same reason he doesn't trust him
Tim always knows all the superhero news
Tim accidentally sneaks up on Bernard
Bernard and Tim at a party
movie about NML
T/B vs. public opinion of gay relationships

Garden

Thu, 17 May 2007 04:22:24 GMT

Title: Garden

Characters: Bruce Wayne, the Shade
Rating: G
Summary: Bruce makes a tribute to the life lost on Earth. This is a sequel to Memoriam, so read that first.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: nobody, so let me know if this doesn't make sense, or if there are errors.

He doesn't ask anybody for permission. He could, of course; however rarely the former inhabitants see each other, they still have each other's contact information. In the space of a few hours, Vandal and Shade and Eel and Slade could be there for a conference. He's not particularly fond of them, but he knows it would be the right thing to do to ask their opinions. Earth isn't his alone, after all. Technically. He doesn't bother, though. Earth is his in all the ways that matter, and he knows the others will just pass his rudeness off as just Bruce being Bruce (it was ridiculous to maintain a secret identity when it was only them, when he doesn't have anything to protect even from those he'd once called his enemies). On the empty plain where once a great city had stood, he sets to work.

It's delicate work at first; on most worlds, life had evolved slowly and naturally and had built the atmosphere as time passed, changing the world and being changed by it. It would be difficult for his plants to throw off the balance of gases in the air; after all, it's such a large planet and his garden is so small. But he's thorough; he plans to at least visit for the rest of his life, however long that might be. If an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, he's going to invest his attention, his diligence, in that ounce of prevention.

He creates a perfectly balanced ecosystem, hand-selecting everything down to the microbes, and tends it by hand until it's stable and robust and alive without need of his help. Nothing in his garden would be familiar to somebody acquainted with only what had been Earth biology, but there's nobody by that description any more. And much as he would love to see roses again, it's a relief just to see something alive on this planet again. Over a few short years, the former location of Gotham City becomes a wilderness even Isely would have been happy with, although the trees will take longer to really be trees. It's all right, though. He can wait.

***

The next reunion goes smoother than he'd expected. He had, after all, started in Gotham. For all that Gotham doesn't exist any more, still nobody dares try to tell him what he can and can't do in it. Gotham is his in a way nothing else has ever been, in a way that defies not only what's normal, but possibly also what's possible. The others have all moved on with their lives, with the exception of these occasional remembrances. He's the only one who stays.

Shade gives him clippings from his own garden, and he knows he has implicit permission (not that he needs it, but it's the thought that matters). His garden spreads through careful cultivation and species selection to encompass the world.

Memoriam

Sun, 13 May 2007 06:20:22 GMT

Title: Memoriam
Characters: it's a secret
Rating: G
Summary: All life on Earth was wiped out at some time in the past. Somebody who survived returns to remember.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: nobody, so let me know if this doesn't make sense, or if there are errors, or if you can't figure out who it is.

He flies in and lands on the empty plain. There's nothing but this wasteland as far as the eye can see. The only difference seeing it from space had made was that there's water in other places. Even the Event hadn't gotten rid of those, even though it had wiped out all life on the planet, except for a few of the more robust microbes and a small percentage of the metas and aliens who had called Earth home. None of them had even tried to pick up the pieces and rebuild civilization on this planet, even those who were most attached to it. There was too much pain and too little life here to even think of trying.

His boots crunch on the gravel. They're the same boots, or at least the same design (if it had been the same exact costume it would have long since crumbled into dust), he's worn for a long time. The whole costume is the same; he can't be bothered to keep up with the rapid change of fashions anymore, not when the years, the decades, blur together like the days had used to when he was younger. The centuries haven't yet lost their slowness in his perception, but he can tell it's only a matter of time. He fears he's lost touch with humanity (or whatever, since there aren't any humans any more unless you count a few immortals; other languages have words which are more encompassing, but he still thinks in English, even after all this time since he last heard it spoken even by himself); their lives seem so ephemeral to him now that he doesn't even try to connect any more. Not that it matters; he doesn't do the heroing thing any more, hasn't since the Event no matter how often he'd been asked. It just didn't seem right to try to save somebody else's world when he'd failed so miserably at saving his. And it had been his (perhaps it still is), no matter how little he'd fit in while it had still been alive.

There had once been a city here, but it's impossible to tell from just looking at it. Enough time has passed that even the buildings have been eroded to rubble. The Event had been so thorough that it had taken a long time; there had been no plants to cover the walls and tear them down, no animals to break the windows. For years after the Event the city had been a still life. Cold corpses had laid where they'd fallen in a grotesque parody of life, children playing, mothers in the process of preparing dinner, crime stopped in its tracks. With few bacteria left to decay the corpses, he'd had ample time to see everything before it had faded with what had seemed cruel slowness: every person he should have been able to save. His friends. His loved ones. People he'd known only vaguely. People he'd never met and never would meet. But eventually they were unrecognizable even to him. And then they were gone, and he almost wished they weren't because even seeing their bodies everywhere was better than seeing the city so empty, so devoid of anything that even resembled life out of the corner of the eye. He'd left Earth then, and only returned at intervals to remember, as one of the few who could, one of the few who still can.

The spot isn't marked. It never had been, but for anyone but him it would have been easier to find with the aid of streets and of buildings to use as landmarks. He's made the journey so many times that he never has even a moment of doubt about the location. He doesn't even step over the invisible lines delineating where the sidewalk ends and the buildings begin. He reaches his destination and closes his eyes at the rush of memory of years past, of the distant past, of those who'd died.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice harsh from only rare use. It sounds overly loud to his ears, even over the strong wind which had always been blocked by the buildings before they'd been eroded to rubble so that it could only be felt on the rooftops. He feels tears stinging his eyes, as he does when he comes here every year. "I'm sorry."

He pulls two flowers from where he'd secured them under his belt. They aren't roses; all the roses were destroyed at the same time everything else that mattered to him was destroyed. But they're the closest he can get. Gently he places them on the ground and walks back to the sleek black ship.

A Good Day

Fri, 11 May 2007 16:01:22 GMT

Title: A Good Day
Characters: Tim Drake, Bernard Dowd, Bart Allen
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Bernard sees Tim again years later, and they've both changed.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil

It's been a year since the end of the war. Bernard's accustomed, now, to seeing men and a few women with haunted eyes who dive for cover at any sudden loud noise, an adaptation which had been perfectly logical, perfectly natural, when they were in the warzone but which is out of place even in Gotham. Bernard's gotten over it for the most part. He still twitches when he hears fireworks or gunfire a few streets over, but he manages to stay upright. He doesn't think anybody who wasn't there even notices him react any more. But he was only a medic, doing triage not quite on the front lines. Most of the people he'd known over there, even the ones who'd come back before he had, still reacted more.

He'd never expected Tim to be one of them, but then again he'd met a lot of people he wouldn't have expected to be soldiers serving in the war. And he'd never known Tim very well.

He hasn't seen Tim since Tim's dad died, right after the gang war, so when he sees him walking down the street he isn't entirely sure it's actually him. Tim moved to Blüdhaven, why would he be back here? But something about the way he moves makes Bernard willing to risk embarrassing himself. It's not like it would be the first time.

"Tim?" he says hesitantly.

The man's eyes snap to his, and wow, how could he forget those blue eyes that seem to pierce into your soul? "Who wants to know?" He seems different, and not in a minor way. The Tim he'd known (he's sure this is Tim, now) had been the complete opposite of confrontational, breaking up fights he hadn't even been involved in. This Tim seems willing (eager?) to fight.

"It's Bernard, Bernard Dowd," Bernard says. "C'mon, Tim, I know I've changed, but I don't think it's been that much." He gives the grin he didn't feel like giving very often anymore because he knows (hopes) Tim would recognize it.

"Oh," Tim says slowly, relaxing. "Sorry, my memory's kind of…" he gestures vaguely toward his temple.

"Plus I doubt the scar helps," Bernard replies, fingering the raised skin where shrapnel had almost taken his eye out in a familiar motion. Sometimes it's hard to keep his fingers off of it, even though he knows that the more he touches it the more attention it draws to itself.

"Scars are…nothing major," Tim says, rubbing at his neck. His collar moves under his hand and Bernard sees a truly nasty scar across his neck. How had Tim even survived that? It looks old, though, so Tim didn't get it in the war unless he was one of the lucky few who got treated by one of the few metas who can heal. He doesn't have any problems not staring at the scar, which is rare even now, with so many people who were wounded in the war walking around. With his scar being so visible.

"You want to grab a cup of coffee?" Bernard asks. "Or whatever?"

"Sure." They're falling back into the old patterns, a little. Neither of them is the same, or even close, to who they'd been when they knew each other before, but it's easy enough to pretend they are. If he doesn't look at Tim's eyes darting all over the place. If he doesn't look at the windows, at his scarred reflection. If there aren't any loud noises to make them jump.

They order, and Tim chooses the table in the best strategic position, away from the large windows at the front of the shop but right next to the side exit. Where he can see everything that goes on in the coffee shop and can duck out quickly if he needs to. At first Bernard thinks this unconscious positioning is new, something he picked up in the war like so many others had, but when he thinks back to high school he realizes that whenever Tim had chosen their table he'd always chosen one like this. Bernard had never realized because he'd never had to think about how to avoid getting killed back then. Maybe Tim always has.

The silence stretches out awkwardly, and belatedly Bernard remembers that he'd always been more of a talker than Tim had been (how could he forget something like that? He'd always talked a lot). "So, Tim, what have you been doing?" he winces, knowing that can be a really bad question to ask people who were in the war. "I mean…" He can't think of anything to finish his sentence with.

Tim fidgets with a napkin, but there's something off about his fidgeting, about the way that he's completely still except for his fingers. He wouldn't be moving more than one of Gotham's gargoyles if he wasn't shredding the napkin very precisely. Bernard can't remember ever seeing Tim fidget like this (or at all). Seeing even this completely normal fidgeting on Tim is like seeing some of the more messed-up people he'd encountered trying to act normal. Like they know there are some things normal people do, so they do them, but something about the actions is just off. Nothing you can point to and say, "That's wrong", but just something that sets your teeth on edge and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

After a moment he realizes Tim isn't going to say anything. Maybe what he'd done is classified. Maybe he can't remember (he did say he had some memory issues, after all). Maybe he just didn't want to talk about it. "I was in the war," he says to make conversation. Not particularly cheerful conversation, of course, but what else are they supposed to talk about? Bernard, at least, hasn't found civilian life particularly engaging since he got back, and it's hard to just forget about something you've lived for years. "Just a medic, but, you know, I was there."

Their drinks are ready, and Tim goes and gets them without a word. Tim has always taken his coffee black (of course), but he raises his eyebrow at Bernard when he sees that he isn't the only one, now. There's a large difference between this and the triple grande vanilla non-fat with whip lattes he'd practically lived on back in high school. He blushes. "I don't really have a sweet tooth anymore," he explains like he needs an excuse for his tastes changing. Tim nods shortly and they drink their coffee in silence for a while.

"I wasn't," Tim blurts, and it takes Bernard a moment to remember where their conversation had left off. Tim doesn't look up from his coffee, and he doesn't seem inclined to say anything more.

"Then how'd you get like this?" Bernard asks. "I mean, no offense, but you look terrible."

Tim twitches, or maybe flinches. "I can't." He clears his throat. "I can't talk about it."

"Well, I hope you're talking to somebody about it," Bernard says.

"No." Tim looks up, finally, his eyes wide. "Nobody else needs to have my nightmares."

"Do you at least have somebody looking after you?"

"As if I could avoid it."

"And they let you just wander around the city? You look like you could have a flashback at any moment."

Tim laughs, one short ha! which contains no amusement whatsoever. It sends chills down Bernard's spine. "None of my flashbacks are lethal. Besides, they're keeping a very close eye on me even if it doesn't look like it." He waves at the security camera as if he thinks somebody's watching the feed in real time. With how weird Tim's acting, Bernard isn't sure if he believes Tim's delusional (which would be the safe bet in normal circumstances, but if Tim wasn't in the war who knows what he got mixed up in that messed him up so badly) or that somebody really is watching him. It's theoretically possible, since a lot of security cameras are now police-accessible over the internet, but it's very unlikely.

He's worried about Tim even after seeing him again for such a short time, but he isn't his mother, so he drops the subject. Unfortunately, that means they have nothing to talk about. Again. Bernard's always filled in the empty spaces in conversations with gossip, but he hadn't kept in touch with anybody from high school, so they don't know any of the same people any more.

Tim tenses in an all-too-familiar way when two women wearing head scarves sit down at the table next to theirs, speaking what sounds like Arabic. Bernard tenses too, ready for Tim to have a flashback. Hearing Arabic is one of the bigger triggers, in Bernard's not limited enough experience. And just because Tim claims he wasn't in the war doesn't mean he was telling the truth. But Tim relaxes as much as he has during the rest of their conversation after a second and drains his coffee.

"I should go," he says dully. "If I'm not back for my meds at 4 they'll start stopping me when I leave."

Bernard stands up and follows him out, still sipping at his coffee. "Can I call you?" he asks. "Or you could call me."

Tim shakes his head, just a quick jerk to the side. "Today's a good day. They're rare."

"They won't always be rare."

Tim's expression is guarded. His eyes only meet Bernard's for a second before resuming their darting around. Bernard thinks that, if it were anyone but Tim, he'd have an expression of hope. He doesn't know if Tim knows how to do emotions any more, or even fake them the way he'd used to sometimes in high school (Bernard wasn't supposed to notice, but sometimes he'd caught Tim out of the corner of his eye, expressionless, although he'd always been all smiles when Bernard had turned to him). He fumbles in a pocket and sorts through several scraps of paper before he finds the one he wants. That's new; Tim had never been less than organized (some, like Bernard, would say anal) back in high school. "Try this number," he says, shoving the paper at Bernard. "It isn't mine, but she might let you talk to me."

"Thank you."

"Don't get your hopes up."

Bernard opens his mouth to say something, but the sharp retort of gunfire cuts him off. He throws himself to the ground before he can even register that it actually is gunfire, not a car backfiring or somebody dropping a stack of plates. Tim doesn't duck and cover, though, he falls into a pose like he's ready to do karate on somebody, not like he's possibly in the firing range of a semiautomatic. Tim reaches for his waistband, and half of Bernard's thoughts are Please, God, tell me they didn't let him out with a gun and half of them are glad that he is armed (unless he only thinks he's armed, if this is some sort of a flashback and he actually doesn't have anything) because he can stop whoever's shooting.

But it turns out that Tim doesn't have a gun. He pulls something metal out of his waistband, and it takes a moment for Bernard to register that it's a shuriken, or rather several shuriken, and by that point they're flying through the air, the sun glinting off of them and half-blinding Bernard. He doesn't have time to think of even one reason shuriken are ineffectual in gunfights before they've lodged in the gunman's hand and arm and demonstrated that sometimes, at least, shuriken can be effective.

There's a sudden strong wind and suddenly there's a man in front of Tim, who's looking around frantically and clutching another shuriken. "Tim," the man says in a soothing voice. "It's okay, you got him. There isn't anybody else. You're having a flashback. Concentrate on my voice. Come back to the real world."

All at once the tension drains out of Tim, leaving behind a weary confusion. The shuriken drops from his limp hand. "Bart…?" His voice wavers.

The man puts his hands on Tim's shoulders and looks into his eyes. "It's me." Tim's frantic eye movement (trying to watch everything at once) seems to have stopped, perhaps because he's with somebody he trusts. It hurts, a little, to know that Tim doesn't trust him, but he hadn't expected anything else. They'd only known each other for a few months back in high school, after all.

"I did it again, didn't I." It isn't a question, just a statement full of resignation. Tim's perfect posture has collapsed, and he slumps standing up, only the other man's hands on his shoulders holding him up.

"Sorry I was so late," the other man apologizes, even though he'd gotten there within seconds of the first burst of gunfire. "Barbara took a bathroom break at just the wrong time."

So they had been watching him! Bernard really doesn't want to know what Tim had been mixed up in, now. But Tim's his friend, or was anyway, so he picks up the shuriken and stands up. He isn't an expert on shuriken, but this one looks handmade, not like the ones he's seen in knife shops and in the possession of some of the guys he'd known during the war. He holds it out to Tim silently, since even the noise he'd made standing up had attracted their attention to him and he's being looked at intensely by a pair of blue eyes and a pair of gold. Tim accepts it just as silently, but the other man grabs his wrist.

"Tim…" he says almost warningly. Tim doesn't reply, just tucks the shuriken back where it came from and doesn't meet the man's eyes. The man gives up, sighs and throws his hands in the air. "Fine. Come on, we have to go." He turns and walks off, Tim following silently behind him.

Bernard watches them go, fingering the paper Tim had given him in his pocket. This was a good day for Tim. He isn't sure he can deal with that.

Some Comas...

Wed, 09 May 2007 22:30:01 GMT

Title: Some Comas...
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Major character suicide
Summary: Bruce wakes up from a coma and isn't happy with how the world has changed.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil

The doctors had never expected Bruce to come out of it. Time and time again, they'd urged his guardians to pull the plug. First Alfred, until he had a heart attack and died. Then Dick, until he and Tim died in the same battle. In the years following they'd focused their attentions on Clark. Clark was, however, an eternal optimist, and so he came and visited Bruce frequently. Besides, he knew Bruce's views on euthanasia.

"I wish you'd pulled the plug while you could!" Bruce shouted, and threw his tray of food. Tried to, anyway; it only made it over the edge of the bed because it slid off.

"You don't mean that," Clark said. He was so relieved to have his friend back that even Bruce's anger was comforting. "You don't approve of euthanasia."

"I've recently had reason to change my opinion." The only emotion on his face was around his eyes. Clark's never learned to read that tell on Bruce; his cowl had been lead-lined after their first encounter, and he'd never had much contact with Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy.

"Why, Bruce?" Clark asked, his voice hushed. "You've always been so determined."

"Just go, Clark." He turned his face away from Clark in a clear dismissal. After a while Clark left. Bruce would snap out of his funk soon; he always did. Clark went to Asia to give aid to the people who found themselves in the path of yet another hurricane.

It was hours later before he next listened for Bruce's heartbeat. The familiar action had comforted him over the years; Bruce's heartbeat had always been there, strong and steady.

This time, it wasn't.

Clark rushed back to the hospital. Bruce had just masked his heartbeat somehow, right? He'd done that before, when he was in costume (uniform, Bruce insisted. "We aren't kids going trick-or-treating."). But even the knowledge of that didn't stop his heart from clawing its way into his throat, didn't stop him from being as terrified as he'd been when Bruce had first slipped into the coma.

When he got to the hospital, there was a man hosing off the sidewalk. The runoff was red, fading to pink as he watched, and he knew.

***

"I wish you'd pulled the plug while you could!" Bruce shouted, and tried to throw the tray. It should have flown across the room to the wall beside Clark. The Jell-o and the drink and the unidentifiable main course should have run down the wall, making a mess for some hapless candy striper or janitor to clean up, but his muscles had atrophied while he was in the coma and it only slid off of the bed. He hoped it had at least gotten Clark's shoes dirty, but it probably hadn't. Clark was always lucky that way.

"You don't mean that," Clark said. He looked happy. He looked like he thought Bruce should be happy, like he should just forget about Alfred and Dick and Tim and the Mission he'd never be able to do anything about again because his muscles have atrophied and besides he's too old. "You don't approve of euthanasia."

When he thought about all the pain he could have been spared by just not waking up…"I've recently had reason to change my opinion."

"Why Bruce? You've always been so determined." Clark knew why he'd always been so determined. He knew it had always been the Mission. Why couldn't he see how little Bruce had without that? He didn't even have his family.

"Just go, Clark." Bruce turned blindly towards the window, hoping Clark would leave soon. The last thing he needed was somebody who didn't understand hanging around. Some interminable period of time later, Clark took the clue and finally left.

When the television started showing Superman helping out in Asia, Bruce made his move and stood up. He'd worked with Clark often enough to know that this was one of the few times he wouldn't be listening to him with at least half an ear; Clark could be downright stalkerish at times (Bruce knew it was the pot calling the kettle black, but that didn't change the truth of it). Even the few steps to the window were nearly impossible; his legs were trembling with exhaustion by the time he reached it. But he'd soldiered on in the past. Besides, this was the last time he'd have to.

With trembling hands he opened the window and stepped out onto the ledge. The wind whipped him familiarly, almost comfortingly. This is where you belong, a little voice in him whispered. He thought of Alfred, of Dick, of Tim, and jumped.

He'd never called this flying like the others sometimes had. It had some similarity, but he'd never allowed himself to forget that it was nothing more than falling, even with the grapples and de-cel cable. Always before he'd slowed his descent with a cable or by grabbing onto something, or had been caught. This time he didn't save himself. This time no arms caught him, no brightly garbed superhero swept him into the sky in a rush of adrenaline and a quasi-embrace.

The only embrace he found waiting for him at the lowest point of his fall was that of his parents.

Sprain

Sun, 06 May 2007 07:49:58 GMT

Title: Sprain
Characters: Dick Grayson, Frank Nelson
Rating: G
Summary: Part of the Former Robins' Club. Dick sprains his ankle. For dragonbat2006
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil

"Hey Frank," Dick called as Frank entered the gym. Frank looked around, but he couldn't see where Dick was. "Up here." Frank looked up to see Dick balancing on one hand in the rafters.

"Hi Dick," Frank replied. "Should you be doing that?"

"Why not? As long as I use my hands instead of my legs there aren't any problems when I'm up here."

"You could fall and get killed."

Dick snorted. "From this height? Couple of broken bones and that's it." Either Dick's dealt with a lot of jumpers or he's thought about this way too much. He looked at Frank and sighs. "Fine, if it makes you feel better I'll come down." He started to move across the rafters, still balanced perfectly on his hands. Suddenly, there was a clank and Dick and the bar he'd been balanced on both started to fall. Dick grabbed something from his belt and threw it, and as it trailed out Frank saw that it was rope of some sort, with a weight on the end Dick threw. That end wrapped around one of the rafters and Dick swung down as if he was Tarzan or one of those swashbuckling heroes swinging from the chandeliers, except he did it better in some indescribable way. And yeah, part of it was that this was real and not just some actor pretending he was a hero, but another part of it was just that Dick looked right doing this. Even in the short time he was airborne some of the tension Frank hadn't even known was there until that very moment, tension which had always been there oh-so-subtly, melted away. And then Dick landed and rolled like he was used to doing it (and maybe he was; after all, he had that trapeze which he'd obviously used in the past, and he did a lot of gymnastic even now), only something obviously went wrong because when he came out of the roll he clutched the ankle on his good leg.

"What's the matter?" Frank asked.

"Sprained my ankle," Dick said in an everyday tone of voice, like he sprained his ankle all the time. "Do you mind getting the first aid kit for me?"

The first aid kit here was, of course, every bit as well-stocked as the one at Dick's apartment, but Dick just got out an Ace bandage and used it to wrap his ankle.

"How do you know it's a sprain and not a break?" Frank asked. "Maybe you should go to the emergency room."

"No," Dick growled. "This isn't an emergency. And trust me, I can feel the difference between a sprain and a break. I've certainly had enough of each." He started to stand up.

"What are you doing?" Frank demanded. "You can't walk like this."

"It's only a sprain," Dick said, exasperated. "I can handle a little pain."

"If you try to walk on that I'll tell the captain you didn't go to the doctor about it."

"You wouldn't." Dick sounded disbelieving.

"I would." Normally trying to stare Dick down was an exercise in futility, but Frank was sincere and Dick actually backed down.

He sighed. "There's a wheelchair over there somewhere." He waved off into the esoteric equipment corner of the room. Most of the equipment there was so obscure that Frank didn't even know what it was, much less how to use it. He had no doubt that Dick not only knew what it all was, but also that he was a master at using it. Even that corner of the gym was laid out neatly, though (he'd never thought of Dick as a neat or organized person, and he certainly wasn't with his files of with his desk, so perhaps he'd learned gym organization etiquette from somebody who was obsessive about it), and he found the wheelchair quickly.

It wasn't one of those institutional wheelchairs they force you to use in hospitals. No, it was a wheelchair which looked like it was meant for heavy use, for somebody who would be stuck in it for the rest of their life. The handles were removable, and Dick removed them as soon as he wheeled it over.

"Thanks," Dick said shortly, reluctantly, and left the gym.

Trust

Sun, 29 Apr 2007 15:58:33 GMT

Title: Trust
Characters: Tim Drake, Bernard Dowd
Rating: R
Summary: Part of the Former Robins' Club. Companion to maisiuil's Losing Sense.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil

"Close your eyes," Bernard says. He's trying to do the voice Tim uses sometimes, the one he can't help but obey. When Tim does it it's possibly the sexiest voice in the world and drives Bernard crazy, but he knows he can't do it correctly. A tiny smile plays at the corners of Tim's mouth. "Come on. Close 'em." Tim pauses just long enough to convey that he's doing it because he wants to instead of because he was ordered to and then closes his eyes.

Bernard leans forward and kisses Tim. Tim grabs him around the back of the neck and tries to pull him, to pull both of them, down, but Bernard has other plans and resists. There's no way he's going to object when Tim deepens the kiss, but he has other plans so too soon (it's always too soon, there's nothing he loves more than Tim but they can't be together 24/7) he breaks off the kiss and goes over to rummage in his nightstand where they don't keep the supplies because if they did they'd never find them in anything like a timely manner.

He finds what he's looking for and turns back to Tim and rolls his eyes because of course Tim's opened his eyes again. "You were supposed to keep them closed."

Tim shrugs and smirks a little in that way that only Tim can smirk. It's the smirk Bernard only sees when they're alone together, or with a few of Tim's other friends. Before Bernard really got to know Tim, he hadn't thought there could be an open smirk, but this smirk is completely different from his closed, public smirk. "Should have said so." He closes his eyes and Bernard crawls across the bed to him and kisses him again and slips the blindfold on.

It's like a switch has been flipped in Tim. He'd been relaxed- well, as relaxed as he ever gets- and now he isn't. He looks like he isn't sure if he wants to fight or run, and the deathgrip he has on Bernard's arm makes Bernard think he's leaning heavily towards fighting. Bernard kisses him softly on the stomach and he makes a noise Bernard hadn't even known he could make. "Okay?" he asks, and he's worried because Tim just doesn't freak out like this, he just doesn't. But he seems to be frozen. "Tim?" Bernard tries to soothe him, smoothes a hand over his chest.

Tim nods jerkily, once, but he still isn't relaxing so Bernard takes it slowly, kissing and petting and licking and rubbing every inch of Tim. "Tim," he says softly as Tim finally unfreezes a little. He can tell that Tim has issues with doing this, but the fact that he isn't pushing Bernard away, isn't removing the blindfold, but he actually trusts Bernard to get him through them, to keep him safe when he's blind and afraid. "Tim." Keeping people safe, having them trust him like this, isn't something Bernard's used to. Tim's the one with the ninja fighting skills and the urge to protect everybody he sees. Bernard's just an ordinary guy. And that trust in him is possibly the most potent aphrodisiac ever.

Sun, 29 Apr 2007 00:15:53 GMT

The first 10 people to comment on this post get to request a drabble (or longer) from me. In return, they have to post this in their journal. Post all fandoms you're willing to write for:
Only the batfamily at the moment, I don't think I could do anything else well enough.

Note that what I write tends toward G ratings.

A Mile in Your Shoes

Sat, 28 Apr 2007 23:51:08 GMT

Title: A Mile in Your Shoes
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Jim Gordon, Lois Lane, Rachel Green
Rating: R for violence/disturbing imagery
Summary: Bruce deals badly with Alfred's death. This is the companion of Death of a Thousand Cuts.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil
Warnings: insanity and a really disturbing scene
A/N: I think Rachel Green is only a criminal lawyer (correct me if I'm wrong), but I have her as a civil lawyer too in this. Feel free to tell me about any errors other than that as I tried to make this as accurate as possible but I'm not entirely sure I got it all right.

Clark has known Bruce for almost as long as he's been Superman. He's seen Bruce grieve (everybody who's seen Batman has seen Bruce grieve), not just for his parents but for his children, all of them. He knows how much Bruce loved them, loves them even now, but after they'd died he'd at least been functional, if a little more violent for a period after each of the deaths. He's never seen Bruce like this.

Alfred was one of those people who you met once and you immediately liked them, immediately made a place in your heart for. Bruce had been raised by him. With exceptions that, when added together, amounted to mere months, Alfred had always been there for Bruce, had been there to comfort the nightmares which happened with disturbing frequency, had been there to cook and clean and be a parent for Bruce. Clark doesn't know if Bruce even knows how to live on his own. When he first hears the news, he winces at the thought of the bruises and broken bones the criminals of Gotham will soon experience. Then he sees Bruce at the funeral.

Bruce is as impeccably dressed as Alfred had always made him, perfectly enough that even Alfred would have been proud of his appearance…clothing-wise. Bruce has always been pale, the cost of doing most of his work at night, but now he looks as if there isn't a drop of blood in him. He doesn't give a speech, even though he's the closest thing Alfred had to a son. He doesn't speak at all. He seems to exude an aura which keeps anybody from approaching. He looks through everybody as if they aren't there, as if he has Clark's X-ray vision. When the funeral is over he leaves without saying a word to anybody. He doesn't look at Clark.

The next week, Batman never shows up to the JLA meeting. He's never late, much less absent, unless something major has happened in Gotham. When something major happens in Gotham it's on the news. There's nothing on the news. Batman always calls if he's going to be late or absent. They never get a call. Everybody is worried. Clark is the only one who's worried about Bruce's mental state rather than physical. Nobody knows Bruce as well as Clark does, now. That thought is like a knife in his heart. He can only imagine what it feels like in Bruce's. Clark promises to check up on him and heads to Gotham.

What he finds is…not good. Bruce is eating, and it seems like he's just taken food out of the refrigerator at random. Clark hopes that's the case, because otherwise Bruce is eating a raw onion by choice. He knows Bruce has never been picky about food, especially after No Man's Land, but he's never seen him eat anything quite this revolting when he has a choice. Even if the refrigerator was empty (it isn't) Bruce could go to the grocery store, or call for takeout, or something. Bruce finishes eating and turns to leave the kitchen, and Clark catches a glimpse of his face, which is just…blank. There isn't a hint of emotion on it, not even that small amount he allows when he's being Batman. It's as if he's completely emotionless. That scares Clark more than Batman ever has, more than knowing that Bruce has access to kryptonite. It scares him more than knowing that Luthor has access to kryptonite.

He goes home to Lois, but he can't get the image of Bruce out of his mind. Bruce's coping mechanisms have never been normal (his first involved dressing up as a bat, after all), but before this they were always successful. Bruce couldn't, wouldn't, ever be normal, wouldn't ever be quite sane, but at least before this he'd been able to pretend. Before this he'd been able to deal with his issues at least to the extent that he could get up and function in the world. Now, he isn't coping at all, just sitting there and staring into space.

Lois suggests he should take care of Gotham while Bruce is how he is. "When he comes out of it he'll growl at you," she says. "But secretly he'll be grateful. You should fill his refrigerator too, and if he bitches at you later about not eating onions and moldy carrots and spoiled milk you can always tell him to pay you back." She puts a hand on his arm and looks him in the eye. "Just because you're his best friend doesn't mean there aren't other people who are worried about him."

So Clark refills Bruce's refrigerator (Ma is glad to help him prepare some actual meals) and begins stopping crime in Gotham. It feels wrong to do it at all, much less without Bruce's permission, without his orders. Gotham is Batman's city. Clark isn't the only one surprised that Superman is operating in Batman's city. The ordinary criminals react the same to him as they do anywhere else, but the major-leaguers seem almost disappointed every time they see that he isn't Batman. He knows the feeling.

He's distracted at work, listening to the heartbeat of a man in another city who never moves more than he has to, whose heartbeat retains the same even pattern throughout the day. He passes it off as being worried about a sick friend; the best lie is a truth. He lets the JLA know that Batman is indisposed and will be for the foreseeable future. They ask him questions but he doesn't answer them, merely informing them that it's personal. They ask him when Batman's going to return, and he doesn't have an answer for them. Increasingly, he fears that the answer will be "never".

It's been months since the funeral. Clark's been checking up on Bruce every day. The only change in him has been the length of his unshaven beard, the appearance of his clothes, and his odor. Bruce hasn't shaved, changed, or showered since before the funeral. Clark decides that enough is enough. He can't stand seeing his friend like this any longer.

He places himself in Bruce's path back to the chair from the kitchen. He almost thinks Bruce is going to run into him, but he stops before that happens. He doesn't raise his eyes. He doesn't speak. At this point, Clark would be glad to even hear one of Bruce's territorial growls, one of the ones that mean he's messed up, anything. His wish isn't granted. Bruce is silent.

"Bruce, this has to stop," he blurts out. He kicks himself mentally, not wanting to give Bruce the chance to misunderstand anything he says. "We know how much you miss Alfred, but it's been months since you've done anything but sit in that chair. We're worried about you." The last is almost a whisper, not because he's afraid of admitting his feelings but because it can't contain the true depth of his feelings. He reaches out a hand and puts it on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce hasn't been touched by anybody in months. Clark can't go even a day without touching and being touched. He can only imagine what it's like to have nobody to hug you, to not have brushed skin to skin even incidentally for months.

Bruce's heart rate and breathing speed up. Clark knows that if he could see Bruce's eyes, they would be dilated. In a move almost too fast for even Clark to see he reaches up and grabs Clark's hand and uses it to throw Clark into the wall. There's a table with a statue (doubtless something priceless) in his way. He's so surprised at what Bruce did to him that he lies in the wreckage for a moment. Bruce turns from Clark and goes through the door into the room with his chair. Clark gets up and looks at Bruce, and he's sitting in the chair as detached as he's been these past few months, staring into space. He's also shaking. Bruce has never gotten the shakes after combat, especially something as minor as that. This is not a Bruce who Clark thinks he can fix on his own.

Clark calls the Gotham police and asks them to check up on him, saying they'd had an interview scheduled but when he'd rung the bell there hadn't been a reply, and that Bruce hadn't answered his phone calls either. "It's probably nothing," he says, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "But nobody's seen him in months, and better safe than sorry, right?" When he hears them head out to the Manor (Jim Gordon's going too, because if it turns out Bruce is all right he's the best person to put a good face on things) he keeps one ear tuned to the conversation, to their cries for Bruce as they walk through the Manor, to their shock at finding Bruce so disheveled. He hopes none of them touches Bruce, since his combat reflexes seem to kick in when he's merely touched now. He knows they won't be able to restrain him if that happens, no matter how much backup they call in. He's ready to go to the Manor at a moment's notice if he hears that happen. He doesn't want Bruce to get shot, and he doesn't think Bruce knows how to stand down when he's in that state.

He hears the sound of Bruce's fist on Gordon's nose and is halfway to Gotham before Gordon gets up from the driveway. Fortunately Gordon convinces his men that Bruce doesn't need to be handcuffed, so Clark doesn't have to intervene. He wonders why Gordon is breaking procedure for a man he thinks he's only met in passing, especially one who's just punched him in the nose. He keeps an eye on Bruce with his telescopic vision until Gordon locks him into a cell at GCPD headquarters for observation and heads home.

"I just feel so useless," he says to Lois. "I can take down criminals and set things on fire with my eyes and lift heavy things, but there isn't a single thing I can do for Bruce."

"You got him in the care of people who can help him," Lois says.

"Aren't you supposed to be the cynical one?" Clark asks. "Do you honestly think they can help him? Do you think he'd let them?"

She considers for a moment and slowly shakes her head. "Why did you call them, then?"

"Because," he sighs, "at least it's a change. And we might get surprised." He gives her a small smile. "Bruce is full of surprises."

The phone rings and he answers it because he's closer. "Hello?"

"Is this Clark Kent?" He hears papers shuffling on the other end of the line.

"Yes it is," Clark replies. "What's this about?"

"This is Commissioner Gordon of the Gotham City Police Department. Are you aware that in the event of Bruce Wayne becoming incapacitated you have decision-making power?"

Clark had almost forgotten about it, but Bruce had insisted he sign the document, "just in case". This is one of many occasions on which he's been glad for Bruce's contingency plans, even if he'd thought it was pointless at the time. After all, Bruce had already had several people sign the document; Clark was the fourth on the list. "Yes…" he says. "Why, has something happened to Bruce?" He allows the smallest amount of the concern he feels to leak into his voice.

"We were asked to check up on him, so we did, and he's currently under psychiatric observation."

"Psychiatric observation?" Clark asks. "I don't understand." He does, of course, but he still has to play the game.

"I'd like for you to come in and sign some forms to have Mr. Wayne committed."

"Is that…necessary?"

"I'm not qualified to make that decision, but in my opinion it is. Why don't you come see for yourself?"

"I'm in Metropolis, but I can make it out there tomorrow," Clark says, reaching for a pad of paper and a pencil. "Where do I need to go once I'm in Gotham?"

***

It isn't any easier to see Bruce like this in a jail cell rather than at the Manor. If he'd had any hope that the catatonia was merely a result of being in the Manor where Alfred had been for Bruce's whole life, it had died upon seeing him exactly the same in a different setting.

"Has he been like this the whole time?" Clark asks softly. It's one thing for Bruce to act like this in the Manor, but for him to just stare into space like that in such a public area…normally, Bruce's eyes would be trying to take in everything, roaming over everyone and everything looking for potential threats, unless he was pretending to be the billionaire playboy, which requires a different type of eye movement. In none of Bruce's normal modes did he just stare at a spot for hours.

"Unless he's touched."

"And if he's touched?"

"He only gave me a bloody nose, but not because it was the most he could do."

"That doesn't sound like Bruce," Clark says. "He doesn't like violence."

Gordon gives him a look that makes him wonder if he knows. "Maybe he took martial arts when he was younger and the reflexes just kicked in. I've heard stranger things."

"I suppose that's possible."

"Come on," Gordon says. "You have to fill out some paperwork."

***

"He's going to be sedated for transport for Arkham," Gordon says.

"Arkham?" Clark says. "Isn't that for criminals?"

"That's what it's best known for, yes. But it also has normal patients, and all of the best psychiatrists in Gotham work there."

"I see," Clark says, and makes a note to go down to the Batcave and see the feeds he knows Bruce has of Arkham's cameras. Arkham might have the best psychiatrists, but the guards are another matter. Even in Metropolis Clark's heard about the abuse they sometimes give the patients. Bruce can defend himself, but other than his extreme reaction to being touched he shows no desire to. There are other forms of abuse than the purely physical. "How is he going to be sedated, anyway? Since he reacts so violently to being touched."

"We never even thought of that."

"Can I try?" Clark asks. If Bruce attacks him, he knows he won't be hurt. He can't say the same of anybody else.

"It's against procedure…but yes. He obviously trusts you. Maybe he won't attack you."

Don't bet on that, Clark thinks.

***

He takes the syringe from Gordon. "I just stick it in his arm and press the plunger all the way down, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay." He steps into the cell with trepidation and starts talking to Bruce in a steady stream of words that are just there so he's saying something. He doesn't know if Bruce registers anything other than orders any more. "Bruce, I know you don't like sedatives but they're insisting you be sedated. You're going to be put in Arkham which apparently isn't just for criminals, but don't worry, I'll keep an eye on you. Okay, I'm going to use this on you now but I'm going to try not to actually touch you so try not to freak out." He carefully slides the needle into Bruce's arm without touching him. Within a few seconds Bruce slumps as if he's a puppet whose strings have been cut. Clark catches him gently before he slides off the bed. He doesn't move at the touch.

They take Bruce to Arkham in an ambulance and Clark follows in his car. At Arkham, he signs the papers to have Bruce committed. He has nothing else to do there, so he gets back in his car and goes to the Manor. He needs to contact some of Bruce's people, such as his lawyer Rachel Green and Lucius Fox, and he doesn't know how. Hopefully Bruce had an address book or a list of contact information on his computer or something. Clark isn't taking this well; he's freaking out about little things which he probably doesn't need to. Knowing Bruce, he has files on his computer with not only contact information but everything from where they went to college to their youngest child's favorite color, because Bruce is just that thorough.

Clark feels as ridiculous as he always does parking his car on the driveway in front of the Manor. It's dwarfed by the Manor and seems out of place. The Manor should have sports cars and limos parked in front of it, not a several years old Accord.

He hadn't noticed it before because he was so worried about Bruce, but the Manor feels empty. Not just Bruce-is-out-for the-day empty, but nobody-lives-here empty. Clark supposes that makes sense; it had always been Alfred who made this a home, who made it lived-in. Bruce had always spent much more time down in the Cave or on patrol (not to mention the various charity and business events he'd gone to) than he'd ever spent up in the Manor. Still, it's eerie to walk through the deserted Manor and know that he's the only person here, that Alfred won't come out of the kitchen with freshly-baked cookies, that Bruce won't step out of the shadows to growl at him for being here. He finds himself walking faster than he has to until he gets to the study and the clock and realizes that he doesn't actually know how it opens. The process has always been blocked by Bruce's body and he'd never thought to use his x-ray vision to look anyway. He'd never expected to need to get into the Cave this way without Bruce being here. He fiddles around with it for a little bit until he gets the clock hands into the right position (10:47; he doesn't have to wonder what significance that has to Bruce, not with who he is) and it opens to reveal the stairs leading down.

The Cave still feels lived-in, although Bruce has been absent from it for longer than he's been absent from the Manor. This is, perhaps, an effect of the bats, the real ones (will there be Bats ever again? Clark isn't so sure), which hang from the ceiling as they always do. The guano on the floor is a testament not only to their presence, but also to Alfred's absence. Everything is dusty here, as it is up in the Manor. Clark blows the dust off of the keyboard and wipes off the mouse. The monitors have various camera feeds and alerts displayed on them. The computers have been working as tirelessly as always these past two months, displaying information which nobody has seen. Telling the empty air about every crime committed in Gotham, as if it'll bring Bruce back from wherever he is in his own head.

Clark hasn't used Bruce's computers before, but fortunately the search function is relatively easy to find and he has Rachel Green's number in a matter of minutes (relatively being the key word; this isn't Windows, it's some sort of unique Bat operating system designed by Bruce or Barbara or Tim or all three, and he doesn't know his way around it). He decides to use the Manor's phone to call her; things might be easier if she sees the Manor's number on her caller ID. He writes down her number and Lucius Fox's. Mr. Fox undoubtedly deserves to learn about this from him, rather than from tabloids and rumors when somebody at Arkham speaks. Somebody at Arkham always speaks. He doesn't know of anybody else from Bruce's other life; Bruce never talks about it.

"Rachel Green," she answers her phone.

"Ms. Green, this is Clark Kent. You're Bruce Wayne's lawyer, right?" He knows she is, but he doesn't know how to say what he needs to say, not to a complete stranger.

"Yes…what's this about?"

"I don't really know how to say this, but he's been committed to Arkham."

"Arkham! But why? And why wasn't I contacted? How do you know about it?"

"I'm his legal guardian now," Clark says. "He had a…a thing, you were there when I signed it, and now I'm his legal guardian because he's insane. I don't know why you weren't contacted, though."

"What do you mean by insane?"

"He just sits there staring into space and attacks anybody who touches him. I don't think he's taken a shower since Alfred's funeral."

"Alfred?"

"Alfred Pennyworth, his butler."

"Oh! I remember him." She says something to somebody on her end of the phone.

"I just thought you needed to know," Clark says. "And…I don't really know what I'm expected to do. I never thought this would happen."

"Tell you what," she says. "Why don't I look in on him and we can meet tomorrow?"

"Okay, what time's good for you?"

"How about nine?" she asks. "You can drop by my office."

"Sure, I can do that. Can I get the address?"

***

Clark leans back in the chair and sighs, his calls to Ms. Green and Mr. Fox completed, and then he calls Lois and lets her know what's going on. Hearing her voice is reassuring. There are places which aren't the Manor, people who aren't as messed up in the head as Bruce. When he hangs up he notices that the Manor doesn't seem quite so eerie any more, nor so deserted. Nothing has changed but his perception of it.

He goes out for a quick flight, but there isn't anything more than a few robberies to stop, so he returns to the Cave. Might as well see if Bruce's monitors have picked up anything interesting. Bruce isn't going to be Batman for a while; he should probably familiarize himself with the computers so he can stop the crime Bruce would stop if he could, instead of just whatever he sees or hears. If Bruce ever recovers, he at least wants to be able to say that he did things the right way. For Bruce, that means doing detective work to the point of obsession. If that's what it takes then so be it. Clark isn't about to do a poor job just because it isn't how he usually works, and besides he's an investigative journalist. He knows how, even if it isn't what he's known for.

He tries to familiarize himself with the computers, but it's difficult without a guide, without somebody being there for him to ask questions about. Of course there isn't a user's manual or a help file or anything; that would be too easy. And while everything seems to be well-organized (of course), the information and the resources on the computers are extensive, with mission reports and profiles and forensic results all carefully cross-referenced and thorough and with summaries. There are records for everything from muggings to multiple-person battles, DNA information for small-time crooks as well as major foes.

Clark sleeps at the Manor that night, in one of the guest rooms, wishing he could be with Lois, that he didn't have to be here. If he didn't have to be here it would mean that Bruce was all right. He has to be here. He wakes up in the morning, makes himself presentable, and heads down to Rachel Green's office. She informs him of his rights and responsibilities and tells him a little bit about how Bruce usually manages this side of his life, or at least the parts that she's involved with. Clark is grateful that Bruce has pretended to be an idiot over the years; it means that most of the control of his affairs is already in someone else's hands, primarily Lucius Fox's. Clark has never dealt with many of the things that Bruce (or his fiduciaries) has to deal with on a regular basis. He knows he's in over his head, but he'd be even more so if he had to deal with them too.

"What you need to consider," she says, "is that he's a public figure. One way or another, this is going to come out, and you need to control that."

He understands what she's saying. "I need to call a press conference?"

"Yes. I suggest you plan it with Lucius Fox so you can spin the news so it has the least impact on Wayne Enterprises. Have you ever held a press conference?"

"I've been on the other side," Clark says, dodging the question. He's held press conferences as Superman, but not as Clark Kent. He suspects the experience will be different. Even reporters respect Superman (not that it keeps them from asking the questions, they just do it more respectfully).

"There's a difference between being the one asking the questions and the one answering them. You should probably have somebody else make the statement and answer the questions, just be there in the background."

"All right." He doesn't hesitate; he knows the kinds of questions reporters ask, can make a good guess as to what they're going to ask, and he doesn't want to face that barrage if he can help it.

"You should have it as soon as possible. Tomorrow."

"What if he recovers? Won't letting everybody know about this be bad for him?"

"To some extent. But I don't think he's going to recover any time soon. He's probably been like this for the past couple of months, right? And this isn't the sort of thing someone just snaps back from."

"I suppose you're right."

"Go, set it up," she says. "Visit Mr. Wayne, talk to his doctors."

"I will," he promises.

***

There is, of course, no change in Bruce. By now Clark has stopped half-expecting one. The hospital staff did clean him up and change his clothes while he was sedated, though, so he looks closer to presentable. The beard still isn't attractive, though.

"He's being officially evaluated today, but I don't think there's much we can do to help him," Dr. Arkham says. "Not until he breaks out of the catatonia."

"Do you think he will?" Clark asks.

"It's difficult to say. He may be like this forever, or he may break out of it in the next minute. We will, of course, have our best doctors working on his case, but I suggest you don't get your hopes up."

Clark nods, resigned. Bruce has always walked the line dividing sanity from insanity. It makes sense that when he finally crossed it, he went all the way. Bruce does (did? a little voice in his head suggests) many things in that manner. He spends an hour talking to Bruce, about nothing and everything. He doesn't know if Bruce hears a single thing he says.

***

That night, the Bat-signal goes up. Clark isn't Batman, but he's the closest thing Gotham is going to get. He lands on the roof of Gotham Central, feeling like an intruder, like he's the last person who belongs here. Here on this roof, here in Gotham, here answering a very specific summons which isn't meant for him. He lands, and the police look into the shadows, expecting one of the shadows to reveal itself to be Batman.

"It's just me," he says. "Batman is…indisposed." They look a little surprised at that, but he doesn't blame them. Until recently, Bruce wasn't alone. If he wasn't available, he'd send Robin or Nightwing. He didn't allow other heroes into his city if it could possibly be avoided. It can't be avoided any more.

Gordon recovers first. In fact, he doesn't seem very surprised at the news. Perhaps he knows who Bruce is. If he does, he's probably already figured out who Clark is. "Joker's on the loose," he says. "He kidnapped a busload of kids going home from school and is demanding that Batman show."

"Where?"

"The Happy Time Factory on 5^th and Loeb. Are you sure you can handle it?"

It's unusual for people to question whether Superman can handle a non-meta, but Clark knows how tricky the Joker is. "Yes."

Gordon nods, and Clark has the odd feeling that if he was anybody other than himself Gordon wouldn't let him go without an argument. He hopes he can live up to Gordon's trust in him. He's heard Bruce tell stories about the Joker. Most of them have very bad middles. The endings, of course, are always Bruce taking the Joker back to Arkham, but that doesn't make the middle have not happened. Some of the stories made him ill just thinking about them. He can only imagine what it's like to be Bruce, to have actually seen the horrors he'd described. In this business everybody sees bad things, but there's a difference between what most of them see and what the Bats had to deal with.

Sometimes Clark wonders what Gothamites are thinking. They voluntarily stay in a city which is dirty and corrupt and in which you can be killed for an accident of naming. Gotham has gone through a plague, an earthquake, No Man's Land, and a gang war in the past few years and yet people still live here voluntarily, still consider it home no matter what happens. And they know they can get killed over something as arbitrary as a business name, but still they name their casinos "Double Down" and their cafes "Alice's" and their factories "Happy Time". Clark knows what it's like to see a city as home, but Gothamites seem almost suicidal about staying.

Clark lands and walks into the factory. He can hear the children crying and he follows that sound. The school bus is parked in the middle of the factory, the kids inside of it.

"You're not Batman!" a voice exclaims. The Joker. "Where's Batman?"

"He couldn't make it," Clark replies. "Release the children."

"I don't think so," the Joker says, and his voice isn't filled with the mirth it had been. "If Batman refuses to come out to play, I won't play either."

Clark hears a click, but he's too slow to even figure out what the sound is before it's too late. The bus explodes in a rush of heat and light and flying pieces of metal. Suddenly there is no bus and no children and Clark is splattered with blood and chunks and he's trying to avoid thinking about what those chunks used to be but it's impossible with the evidence right in front of him. Clark doesn't get sick unless he's depowered, but he vomits on the floor in the corner. By the time he recovers the Joker's gone. He's failed completely, in a way he hasn't often failed.

In shock, he flies back to the Cave (he's surprised he can find it, with the condition he's in). How could he let this happen? How could he underestimate the Joker by so much? How could he be so arrogant as to think he can defeat Batman's erratic enemies easier than Bruce can? At the cave he strips out of his costume, knowing he'll never wear that particular one again even if the blood stains can be removed. He burns it to ash with his heat vision. He doesn't need a reminder of how he's failed; the image of the children he'd failed is seared into his brain. He stumbles into the Cave's shower, grateful that for all of the items down here there isn't a mirror in sight. He doesn't have to look at his face stained red with blood except for where his tears have etched clean lines. He stays in the shower obsessively scrubbing himself for long after the water swirling down the drain has lost its color. He feels like he will never be clean again and wonders if this is why the water heater down here is so large and the hot water lasts for so long. He knows it probably is.

It's too late for him to call Lois, so he goes up and lies down on the bed he's claimed as his. He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep but after hours of staring at the wall he finally falls into a restless sleep plagued by nightmares.

***

In the morning, Lucius Fox takes one look at him and cut him out of the press conference. Fortunately he assumes that Clark's mood is because of Bruce's condition, so Clark doesn't have to make anything up. After last night he isn't sure he could manage anything coherent, much less convincing. He goes to visit Bruce instead. When they're left alone, Clark checks to make sure there aren't any hidden microphones and that nobody's within earshot and then tells Bruce about his night. He has to tell somebody, and as tough as Lois is he doesn't want to tell her about it in the detail he has to tell somebody about it. He feels nauseous just talking about it, but he can't stop the flow of words. He knows that if Bruce is hearing any of this he understands, even if he would never talk about it if he was in Clark's position. Clark's heard Bruce having nightmares. He's read some of the worse mission reports on the computers.

He stays for an hour, talking to a person so still that he might as well be an inanimate object, and when he leaves it's easier to pretend everything's all right, to pretend that last night he hadn't seen a busload of children blown up. He hasn't forgotten, doesn't think he ever will, but it's easier to pretend. He thinks he understands, a little, why Bruce is more Batman than Bruce Wayne, why Bruce Wayne is so much of an empty mask. Bruce Wayne can't be upset about things he doesn't know about, will never learn about, and although Bruce puts on a façade of stoniness, everything he does is because he cares so deeply, because every death he can't prevent wounds him, is catalogued and added to his inventory of psychological scars.

Lois calls him after she's done at the Planet, and he tells her some of what had happened last night, how ineffectual he was. "Bruce could have saved them," he says.

"Maybe you should change your strategy then," she says. "Being Superman works everywhere else but what can I say? It's Gotham, with everything that implies. Batman's rogues aren't exactly sane. If they insist on being beaten by Batman…maybe Batman should make an appearance."

"But he can't," Clark protests. "Or we wouldn't be having this problem."

"Who says Batman has to be Bruce?"

***

Clark can't believe he's doing this. There's an unspoken rule that you never dress up in somebody else's costume and pretend to be them without their permission. Relationships are difficult enough when you only know about half of somebody's life without adding multiple people with the same codename into the mix. Add to that the fact that his results are completely different from Bruce's and, well, he shouldn't be doing this. But he doesn't think anything else will work, not with the Joker. When the Bat-signal is turned on this night Batman answers the summons.

The commissioner is alone on the roof tonight, once he dismisses the woman who turns on the light.

"Commissioner," Clark says, stepping out of the shadows. He's being as much Batman as he can be, but he isn't sure he's pulling it off well enough to fool anybody, much less the people Batman has to deal with on a regular basis.

"You're not him," Gordon says as if he's looking for confirmation.

"No," Clark replies after a pause. "How did you know?"

"When he gave me a bloody nose it all just fell into place. I've only seen one person make that move before. You're his friend, then?" Clark can't keep himself from making a small sound of dismay, and Gordon smiles a little. "Members of the GCPD are hardly incompetent, despite what the papers may claim."

"I never thought you were," Clark says. "He's always had the highest respect for you. Even if he isn't the best at displaying it."

"That's the understatement of the century."

"So did you only figure it out because you know where he is, or can my acting use some work?" Clark asks. "I need to convince the Joker."

"You can't be seriously thinking about going after him after what happened last night!"

"I have to," Clark replies. "I don't think he'll play any nicer with the police than he did with Superman."

That stops Gordon in his tracks for a moment. A repeat of last night is the last thing either one of them wants. "First of all, you should get rid of that expression, or any expression which can be seen through the mask."

Clark doesn't have nearly as much experience at being expressionless as Bruce does; in either of his guises he's free to show the world what he's feeling. But he can do it if he has to, so he does. After years of dealing with Bruce, Gordon has several more useful pointers.

***

Clark returns to the Cave. The only blood on the suit this time belongs to the Joker, who's back in custody for as long as they can keep him. He was successful, but he doesn't feel good about it. Sure, he may have stopped the Joker from killing any more, but that doesn't erase the deaths he'd caused last night. It doesn't absolve Clark from responsibility for them. He falls asleep in the chair with the computer running a constant slideshow of the kids whose deaths he couldn't prevent. He gets the impression that Bruce has done this a lot in the past, Alfred or no Alfred.

He wakes up to the sound of a doorbell. He isn't expecting anybody, and he realizes he doesn't even know what time it is. He's surprised when he goes up to the Manor and the sun is streaming in through the windows because it's afternoon. The doorbell rings again. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he mutters.

He opens the door. "Lois!"

"Smallville," she says. "You look like hell."

He has no doubt that it's true. He might not have been exposed to Kryptonite, but his nights in Gotham have taken a toll on him. "Come in. What are you doing here?"

"It's my day off, remember?" she says. "And I'm worried about Bruce and you."

"I don't know how he does it," Clark sighs. "Night after night of darkness and atrocities. I've been Superman for as long as he's been Batman, but I just don't see the sorts of things he sees."

"Maybe it was a fluke," she offers hopefully. "Just the Joker being himself."

He shakes his head. "Bruce keeps very good records. I looked through some of them and…it wasn't a fluke."

Lois is his rock, his anchor. When he's in her arms he can feel comforted, even after what he hadn't managed to prevent.

***

Clark leaves Lois at the Manor and goes out to Arkham to spend another hour talking to Bruce (and a little bit talking to his psychiatrist, who has some ideas to try which Clark doesn't believe will work but you never know). He knows this is quickly becoming a routine for him. He wonders how he'll manage to do this once his personal leave is over. Clark Kent can't visit his friend in Gotham every day, since he lives in Metropolis; the commute is too long. But he also can't just desert Bruce. Sure, it doesn't look like it's having any effect, but Bruce has always internalized things. For all Clark knows, his daily visits are Bruce's lifeline.

When he gets back to the Manor (after a detour to stop a few crimes in Metropolis) there are two cars parked in front of it. One is Lois's, but he doesn't recognize the other. He walks into the kitchen (which is somehow still, as always, the most lived-in room in the whole mausoleum) and isn't entirely surprised to find Gordon sitting at the table with Lois.

"I hope you don't mind," Gordon says. "I wanted to talk to you about a few things, so I stopped by."

"I don't mind," Clark replies. "After last night I was hoping to have the chance to speak to you when we're not both working."

"I'm here to help," Gordon says, looking him steadily in the eye. "As much as I can. I owe him that much."

"As do I," Clark replies.

Death of a Thousand Cuts

Fri, 27 Apr 2007 17:20:31 GMT

Title: Death of a Thousand Cuts
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Jim Gordon
Rating: G
Summary: Bruce deals badly with Alfred's death.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil
Warnings: Many deaths happened before this story opens. Also, insanity.

Everybody dies. It's a lesson he first learned when he was eight, when a mugger shot his parents and he knelt in their blood as he ran away. Since then he's been forcibly reminded of the lesson on numerous occasions, by everybody from random people he's too slow, too weak, too human to save (accidents he only hears about on the news after he goes off patrol, fires which are too bright for him to run into) to his colleagues (it doesn't matter that Clark came back, it doesn't stop the lesson from being driven home once again like a knife to his heart) to those he cares most about (the Case seems to stare at him, seems to cast shadows beyond what should be possible with the case's dim lighting). Each new death hits him like a blow, like a new cut on his psyche, making him die the death of a thousand cuts from the inside. Dick's death is just another cut. As is Tim's. As is Barbara's. Alfred's death is the last. The last straw, the last blow, the last cut. It isn't a coup de grace. There isn't any mercy in it.

He attends the funeral. He doesn't speak. He has no more words to speak. He doesn't know if he ever will again. It's a funeral, so nobody tries to touch him. He isn't grateful; he doesn't think he remembers how to be grateful any more. He halfway believes he would be grateful if he could. He doesn't think he could stand anybody touching him. He doesn't know what he'd do if they did. When the funeral is over, he goes back to the Manor and curls up in a chair. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel any desire to patrol when darkness falls.

He doesn't go to the Cave any more. He doesn't patrol or go to the JLA meetings or figure out the Riddler's newest clues. Some detached part of himself knows that people are dying because he doesn't, but he can't bring himself to care. He doesn't go to Wayne Enterprises or to charity fundraisers or answer the phone. That same detached part of him notes that Bruce Wayne has always been a flake, that he won't be missed. He can't bring himself to care about that. He isn't grateful. He isn't ungrateful, either.

Every once in a while his stomach growls and he'll stumble down to the kitchen and eat whatever comes to hand, cold. It all tastes like ashes, anyway. After a while the detached part of him notes that the food he's eating almost certainly wasn't in the refrigerator when Alfred died. The food he eats is no longer moldy and bears a distinct resemblance to the food found at the Kents' farmhouse. Clark, the detached part of himself thinks. He knows he would normally be upset to know that Clark is in his city. Bats are territorial. Is he a bat any more? He doesn't know.

He's heading back to his chair when there's something in his way, the red, yellow, and blue almost hurting his eyes after so much time in the dim colors of Wayne Manor. He hasn't bothered to turn on any lights since he got back, so it must be daytime. He doesn't raise his eyes, just waits for the obstacle to move. He doesn't say anything.

"Bruce, this can't go on," the obstacle says. He doesn't connect the name to himself. He isn't Bruce any more. Bruce is from before. He doesn't know who he is anymore. Maybe he isn't anybody. It would almost be a relief. If he could feel anything. He waits for the obstacle to move.

The obstacle doesn't move. "We all know how much you miss Alfred," it says. "But it's been months and you haven't done anything but sit in that chair. We're worried about you." Its voice is filled with concern. He has always known that Clark would worry about him, but right now he can't bring himself to care.

The obstacle raises an arm and brings a hand down on his shoulder, and then he does care, because he kills everyone who he touches, everyone he allows to get close. He killed his parents, and Jason and Barbara and Vesper and Dick and Tim and Alfred. He can't allow anybody to get close to him. There's a crack somewhere to his side where there used to be a table and a statue but now there isn't, and the obstacle is out of his way. He's shaking and he goes and curls up in his chair again and stares blindly out the window. He hears Clark get up. After a while he hears him leave.

Some amount of time later he hears the doorbell ringing and knocking on the door. Nobody answers the door, though, because there isn't an Alfred anymore. He wonders who's at the door. He wonders if they'll go away. When they'll go away. He doesn't move. He doesn't blink.

He hears the door opening and the police announcing themselves. He hears Jim. He hasn't seen Jim since he took a leave of absence after Barbara's death. He wonders how long Jim has been back. He wonders if he's noticed the absence of Batman. He doesn't want Jim here. Jim's already too close to him. No matter how hard he's tried to keep their relationship purely professional, Jim is somebody he feels close to. Jim is one of the few people he feels close to who are still alive.

He tracks their progress through the Manor by their calls (apparently they're looking for him). He doesn't respond to any of them. The detached part of him knows that he should be worried that they'll find the Cave, but he can't bring himself to care.

Eventually one of them finds this room, and him, and then they're all clustering around and talking to him and waving hands in his face. He doesn't do anything until Jim asks him if he can stand up. He thinks about it for a moment. He doesn't want to stand up, doesn't want to do anything, but he can see the alternative would involve them touching him. He doesn't want anybody to touch him. He doesn't want anybody else to die because of him. He stands up.

Jim reaches toward him, to touch him, to lead him by the arm, but he flinches before the hand gets near him and Jim drops it and asks him to come with them instead. That's all right, he doesn't have to touch anybody, so he follows as soon as he processes the request. He doesn't really care what happens to him as long as he doesn't have to touch anybody, as long as nobody touches him. They lead him out front and after a moment of debate open the rear door of Jim's car instead of that of the squad car because of who he is, and Jim gestures for him to get in so he does, but then Jim does the hand on the head thing and he can't stand it, can't stand the thought of being touched, and he loses control and then Jim isn't touching him anymore, he's on the ground and his nose is bleeding and he's looking at him strangely. He was told to get into the car so he does.

Everybody except Jim wants to put handcuffs on him then, and he shudders at the thought of how they'd have to touch him to put them on. But Jim stops them and says it looks like it's just being touched that causes a problem and that he isn't a criminal and they need to treat him with respect. He doesn't know why Jim says that after he gave him a bloody nose and knocked him down but he thinks he almost feels a glimmer of gratitude through the numbness. Nobody tries to put handcuffs on him.

Jim sits in the back with him and talks to him throughout the drive, but he doesn't hear the words. He knows he could look out of the window or calculate from the turns where they're going, but he'll find out when they get there anyway. He's been to all of them in the past, as Batman. He's watched video feeds from them, mainly of escapes, often enough that he can probably distinguish them by the tiling. He doesn't really care where he's headed. He doesn't care why.

He gets out of the car when Jim opens his door, and trails him into the building. He's been here before, but for the most part he's only been up on the roof. The cells are familiar enough, though; he had, after all, spent time in one of them when he'd been accused of Vesper's murder, before he was transferred to Blackgate. It is, perhaps, ironic that both times he's ended up here have been because of the death of somebody he loves. He sits down on the bed and does nothing. The cell door closes and he hears footsteps moving away. Jim is violating procedure by not fingerprinting him.

After a time, a tray of food is shoved through the door, and he eats it as mechanically as he'd eaten the food in his refrigerator. It tastes the same to him, although he remembers that the last time he'd been in here only the cast-iron stomach he'd needed during No Man's Land had allowed him to eat this food. Prisons are not known for their gourmet food. He sets the tray back on the ground when he's done. After a time a guard opens the door (another covers him from the door with a taser) and, grumbling about "creaking crazies", removes the tray. He doesn't move.

The lights shut off, presumably at the usual time, and he must have fallen asleep because a guard is beating on the bars of the door and telling him to wake up and stop yelling. He hasn't remembered any of his dreams since Alfred's death, but he knows it's just more of the same nightmares he's had since he was eight. After that, he doesn't sleep. He's never slept much, anyway.

It's daytime when Gordon stops outside of the cell with Clark. At first he can't think of any reason Clark would be there. Hovering outside, keeping an eye and an ear on him, yes. Here, with Gordon, no. Then he remembers the papers he'd insisted Clark sign, just in case. He wishes he hadn't, now. Putting Clark in charge of him only makes it more likely that he'll get better. He doesn't want to get better. Being "better" only means he hurts all the time. Right now he doesn't feel a thing, as if he's surrounded by layers of soft cotton, cushioned from the impact the world has always made on him.

Clark comes in later, and speaks to him softly as he very carefully doesn't touch him and slides a needle into his arm and depresses the plunger. He feels himself go limp as the blackness he's spent so much time in slides over his vision like a blanket, like his cape, like the night falling over Gotham.

***

He wakes up in a different room and doesn't wonder where he is. He's watched feeds of Arkham's cells enough that they're burned in his mind, not to mention his visits for other reasons: escapes, the occasional interrogation, chess with Harvey. He'd been teased, before, that eventually he'd end up in Arkham. He doesn't find any humor in the prediction coming true. It's just another fact, like everything else in his life now.

Clark comes and talks at him for a while and then leaves. He doesn't think he has a very good grasp of time right now, but it seems like he stays for a long time. It fits perfectly with Clark's personality, so he probably did. After Clark leaves, he gets fed. Later, orderlies come in and try to make him go somewhere by grabbing him. Eventually they manage to sedate him, but not before he breaks at least one arm.

This establishes a pattern. He can't be certain (nor does he care) that it follows a daily cycle, but it seems logical. Clark comes and talks at him, he ignores Clark, the orderlies try to take him somewhere and end up sedating him. Eventually they stop trying to take him places. Sometimes people come into the room and try to get him to talk (or just talk at him; he doesn't pay attention). Sometimes he's given pills to swallow, so he does. He could figure out which ones they are by their appearance, but he doesn't bother.

He stares into space and doesn't think much. He doesn't feel at all.

Mon, 23 Apr 2007 06:41:29 GMT

So my friend and beta maisiuil, wrote this for me with Tim and Bernard from the Former Robins Club, and it's just so wonderful that I'm incoherent with joy.

Coffee

Mon, 23 Apr 2007 03:34:57 GMT

Title: Coffee
Characters: Jason Todd, Amy Rohrbach
Rating: G
Summary: Part of the Former Robins' Club. Amy and Jason are both concerned about Dick.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil

There's a knock on her door and she looks up from the ever-present paperwork. Nobody who works here bothers to knock. "Hey."

"Hey…" she says, trying to get him to say something. She has no clue who he is.

"I don't know if you remember me, but we met at the hospital."

She remembers him now. "Dick's friend." The one with the suspicious list she'd jotted the (useless) license plate number down on the back of.

"Jason." He fidgets a little. "Um, can I buy you a cup of coffee? Or something?" It's obvious he's asking to get them out of here.

"I can give you fifteen minutes." She stands up and they head out. She takes a moment to tell somebody she's going for coffee, just in case she's needed.

He waits until they're out of the precinct and on the sidewalk before he speaks again. "I just- how's Dick?"

"You haven't been speaking?" she asks. It seems odd, since they'd seemed pretty close at the hospital.

"Dick learned how to wall himself off from a master," Jason says. They stop talking until they get their coffee. "He even destroyed all the tracers."

She almost spills her coffee on herself. "You planted tracers on him?" Who plants tracers on their friends? For that matter, since when do civilians have access to tracers? Wait, no, scratch that. She knows what Dick used to do at night.

"Tracers have always been a way of showing we care in our fam-" he cuts himself off. "Uh. Circle of friends."

"You were going to say family," she accuses. He looks embarrassed.

"It's certainly dysfunctional enough to be one," he mutters into his coffee. "We aren't related."

"But you plant tracers on him and come to check up on him when he finds them?" She raises her eyebrows.

"Oh please," he says. "Some of those tracers were there for years. You think he didn't notice them in all that time? And…we're worried about him. He's cut himself off from everybody: us, Roy, Barbara…his mobility's always meant a lot to him."

"You think he might…" she doesn't complete the thought.

"No." His denial is swift. "This is hardly the first setback he's run into. If he was going to…he would have before now. We aren't worried about that."

"What are you worried about, then?" she asks, dreading the answer because she doesn't worry about it, so it will just be one more thing to add to the list.

"We're worried about him…not being Dick anymore," he says slowly, as if feeling the words. He stares into his coffee. "Dick's always been so physical and, and, friendly. And now he can't be so physical and he's cut himself off from his friends, and we don't know if it's just temporary or if this has changed him." He looks like he wants to bolt from so much discussion of feelings but is holding himself in place through sheer willpower.

She takes pity on him. "I don't think I've known him as long as you have," he nods in confirmation, "but in my opinion it's just temporary for the most part."

"For the most part?" He has a sick look on his face like he knows what she's going to say but wants the confirmation.

"So much of what makes Dick Dick is his inability to sit still. I'd be surprised if he stayed the same after this."

He nods. "That's what we figured, but we're all way too close to him to be objective about him."

"I'm his friend too," she rebukes.

"There are friends…and then there's family," he says. "Chosen or not, related or not." They walk in silence and it seems the subject is closed.

"So, why did you need night vision goggles and rope?" Amy asks, partly curious about what false answer he'll give and partly amused. If he wasn't friends with Dick…as it is, she feels secure in her guess that he isn't doing anything that hurts people, no matter how illegal it is. She wonders if he's a superhero.

"Nighttime mountain climbing," he says, deadpan. "You don't run into as many people that way."

He's definitely a superhero.

Watching

Fri, 20 Apr 2007 03:18:49 GMT

Title: Watching
Characters: the Robins thinking about Bruce
Rating: G
Summary: Part of the Former Robins' Club. They watch him from a distance. This is the flip side of Regrets.
Disclaimer: They belong to DC, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil

They watch him from a distance.

They've never, even when they were kids, been close to him. They'd worked closely to him, when they still wore capes and played rooftop tag, but nobody could ever call that close. Not on more than a surface level. Batman and Robin were partners, but Bruce and Dick, or Jason, or Tim or Stephanie…Bruce didn't exist, hadn't existed since he was eight and knelt in his parents' blood. Nobody was close to Bruce but Alfred, no matter how hard they tried, no matter how much they deluded themselves into believing they were friends.

At first they kept track of him through Alfred, his dry comments about Master Bruce not eating enough comforting in their familiarity. But Alfred has been old for as long as they've known him, and one day they have to find a new source of news about him. They haven't cut off contact with their old friends in the community; they've allowed themselves the luxury of having friends instead of merely allies, friends who know who they are when they aren't wearing the red and green. So for a time they're reassured by the usual complaints of Batman's allies (and Clark's non-complaints), until one day, after rescuing a kidnap victim, he disappears completely.

He still appears as Bruce Wayne, but increasingly rarely as he doesn't need to throw people off his scent, as there's no longer any reason to pretend to be an idiot billionaire playboy.

They wonder about him, sometimes, wonder if they should pick up the phone and call him at Christmas, if they should show up at the graveyard when they know he'll be there…but if they did, they wouldn't have anything to say to the legend, to their legend who is no longer anything more than an old man.

House Crossover

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 21:58:38 GMT

Title: House Crossover
Characters: Dick Grayson, Greg House, various other people who aren't integral to the plot
Rating: G
Summary: Part of the Former Robins' Club. Dick's in the hospital after getting shot. Have you ever noticed that both Princeton and Gotham are in New Jersey?
Disclaimer: They belong to DC and whoever owns House, I'm just borrowing.
Betad by: maisiuil

Dick steps out of the coffee shop into the bright sunlight, balancing the tray of coffee in one hand as he pulls his sunglasses out of his pocket and almost gets run over by a teenager violating the no skateboarding on the sidewalks law. Dick smiles. On days like these he's glad he doesn't have to chase after any lawbreakers he sees anymore.

Afterward, it never feels like time had gone quickly, or slowly. Perhaps because he'd been in similar situations before. He saw the car coming, just a bit too fast for this road, which isn't unusual, and he doesn't think anything of it until the window rolls down and he sees the gun. By then it's too late to do anything but drop the coffee before bullets are flying. He memorizes the license plate number, although the family car detritus in the windows lets him know the car is stolen and it's probably futile. Then he's falling, and why is he falling? He lands on his knees and blacks out from the pain.

***

He comes to in a bed, the antiseptic smell of a hospital in his nose. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling for a while. After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling and seeing patterns in the dots on the ceiling tiles (and finding them way more interesting than he should), Dick realizes that he must be on painkillers. Morphine, probably. He wonders why. He must be pretty injured to need this much; Bruce has always been careful about drugs. More so after Roy. Dick giggles at the pun of Speedy on drugs. Then he remembers that he doesn't work with Bruce any more, hasn't even spoken to him in years. He's a BPD detective, why is he in the hospital drugged up to his eyeballs?

He drags his gaze down from the ceiling. It seems to take an eternity to drop it low enough to see that he's alone in the room (one wall, the one with the door, is glass, he notes), and that it's his leg which was injured. Somehow. He can't seem to concentrate for long enough to remember how.

He can't even concentrate long enough to stay awake.

***

He wakes up and a nurse is there. Maybe a doctor. Pretty, anyway. He tries to speak, but his throat is too dry and it comes out as a rasp, which is possibly a good thing because he doesn't know what he was going to say. "You're awake!" she says, and brings him a cup of water with a straw. "How do you feel?"

He sips, and the cool water is soothing on his throat. "Like you've got the morphine drip too high."

She checks the settings on the infusion pump and adjusts them. "It was just on the normal amount, but I've lowered it so if you need more just push the call button." She makes a note on his chart.

"Thanks," he mumbles and retreats into sleep again.

***

Dick opens his eyes. He's clearheaded for the first time since the drive-by shooting (he actually remembers the shooting), and he isn't in pain, although he knows that he will be once he gets off the morphine. Both Jason and Amy are in the room and he groans mentally at the thought of them interacting. He wonders how long they've been there.

"Dick!" Amy exclaims, getting up. "You're awake."

"So it would seem," Dick says. "Did you get them?"

"Unfortunately, no," Amy replies. "Nobody even noted the license plate number." She makes a noise of disgust.

"NDB 31V," Dick tells her and she checks her pockets for paper and pencil. "But it was stolen so I don't think you'll have any luck."

Jason hands her a piece of paper and a pen from his jacket pocket. "Ignore the list." She doesn't, of course, and her brows raise at Jason's shopping list for his latest heist. Dick hopes there isn't anything too incriminating on it (he knows there probably isn't; if it was, Jason would have put it in code). She doesn't say anything, though, just turns it over and writes down the license plate number.

"Where are Tim and Steph?" Dick asks Jason.

"They have regular jobs," Jason replies. "Have to arrange time off, you know."

"What, Bludhaven isn't close enough to Gotham that they can just come visit?"

Jason clears his throat and shuffles his feet. "You're in Princeton."

Dick is confused for a moment before he figures it out. "Bruce?" Jason nods in confirmation. "I thought he'd stopped doing that sort of thing, at least to me."

"Apparently you becoming a cripple is enough motivation to bring him out of retirement." Jason's eyes glint with amusement in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that he knows exactly what it's like to deal with Bruce when he's like that.

Dick draws in a breath. "It's bad?"

"According to Babs," Jason says. Dick closes his eyes momentarily. That means it is bad.

***

Objectively, he hasn't been in the hospital for long, but subjectively it's been an eternity. So when he wakes up to the sight of hospital food instead of Alfred's food, and crutches within reach (okay, so they would have been out of reach for anybody other than him) he takes it as an opportunity to escape from the bed where he's been confined as effectively as if he was tied up by Two-Face (more so; Two-Face had never been very good at tying him tight enough). He stops the IV drip and gingerly removes the needle from the catheter in his arm, knowing that he won't have a lot of time before he begins to really feel the pain. Still, it should be long enough to find out who stole his food, he rationalizes.

Dick's had to use crutches before, so it only takes him a few seconds before he gets the hang of things again, before he sets up an easy gait which jars his knee the least. Then he begins wandering (can you really call it wandering when it's more like purposeful covering of as much ground as possible?) throughout the hospital, looking and sniffing for his food. He decides to avoid the stairs, although he's climbed them before with crutches, because his knee's bad enough already. He doesn't want to make it worse. He realizes the irony of that statement when he's hobbling about on crutches before they've even been officially been given to him. He's pretty certain that the hospital staff would rather he stayed in bed, or in a wheelchair if he must move, but he's never been any good at staying still.

He spots his doctor at the end of the hallway he's currently in, so he heads into the closest room. "Sorry," he starts to say to the occupants (a man in a coma or asleep and another in the chair), but then his nose catches up to his brain. "You stole my food!" he accuses the man in the chair.

"Quiet," the man replies. "Can't you see Coma Guy is sleeping?" He hoists a forkful of pie.

"Don't you dare," Dick warns.

The man puts the pie into his mouth and chews with very obvious satisfaction. "Still warm."

"Of course it's still warm, that's why the container's heated," Dick snaps. He probably shouldn't be so irritated over something so small (Alfred sends food out with everybody as well as when he visits himself) but his leg is starting to ache. He closes his eyes, does some breathing exercises, and tries to think about it rationally. It's just food. He's only in here because he didn't want to get caught by Dr. Cameron. His knee hurts. He sits down in the other chair and puts his leg up. "You can't just steal people's food."

"Really? Wilson lets me do it all the time."

"I'm not Wilson," Dick says. "Whoever he is."

The man starts beeping…oh, apparently that's a beeper. "Gotta go," the man says, standing and walking out with the help of a cane. "Have fun carrying those containers with the crutches."

***

Dick doesn't have too much trouble getting back to his room with the containers, all things considered. He has a lot of experience in carrying things, and in using crutches, and somebody in the elevator is willing to hold them for him until they get to his floor.

Unfortunately, it seems that his escape has drawn some attention. A cluster of four people, three doctors and the man who'd stolen his food, is outside his room. He tries to sneak around them without getting noticed, but one of the containers falls to the floor with a clatter and they all look at him.

He clears his throat. "Uh, can you get that for me?" Dr. Cameron bends over and picks it up.

"You idiot!" the man who'd stolen his food exclaims. "You got shot in the knee two days ago and you're traipsing around the hospital to find your food? Do you know how much pain you're going to be in? That morphine takes a while to work, you know."

"I know," Dick says mildly and goes into the room to lie down on the bed. The man doesn't follow.

Dr. Cameron reattaches the IV. "Sorry about Dr. House."

"He reminds me of someone I know," Dick says. "Sort of."

"Don't get up again," she tells him, and moves the crutches over to the other side of the room.

"Hey," Dick says as she's leaving the room. "Tell Dr. House that if he wants more of my food he'll have to come get it."

"Dr. House doesn't see patients," she says automatically.

"His loss."

The next meal Alfred sends has enough for Dr. House too, and it doesn't go to waste. Dick finds it kind of comforting to know that Bruce isn't the only person who's difficult to deal with, and being around Dr. House reassures him on that score.