"Another Death In The Family"
Rated PG-13
"Get out of here, Bruce!"
I hissed and turned my wheelchair away from The Batman. I'd neverrealized the human voice couldhold such venom before until I heard it in my own. He didn't move amuscle. He just sat there in theiron patio chair on my balcony, that face a mask of cold calm. Waitingfor me to get myself backunder control. Nothing touches him; nothing. Damn him.
"Dick is dead and *you* killed him. Get out! Get out!" I was almost screaming.
"I didn't kill him, Barbara," he said softly.
He seemed to be resigned to whatever abuse I wanted give him. What Icouldn't figure out waswhy he was here in the first place. Duty? His version of a friendlycop consoling the grievingwidow? Tying up loose ends? Bruce was always neat. I didn't want tosee him. He *knew* that.My back was terribly straight now and my voice had stopped shaking.
"No," I said dully, "you didn't. But someone very much like you did."He was silent. There wasreally nothing he could say to that, was there?
"In the end," I said bitterly, "it doesn't really matter. Dick is stilldead."
"I know that, Barbara," he said, perhaps more sharply than he had intended. That was the onlycrack I ever saw in that perfect, cool facade. Was the stress beginningto tell just a bit? "I was theone who identified the body."
I was tempted to laugh. The irony was exquisite.
"Bruce," I told him. "there are some things that should never come topass. A father should neverout live his son. And Dick was your son just as surely as if you'd beenhis biological father. He wasthe son of your spirit. You made him. And when you didn't like whatyou'd made you threw himaway like used furniture. He loved you. I like to think that in yourown limited way, you loved him.Why didn't you ever tell him that? No, you kept your silence and yourheart intact. And now it'stoo late. He'll never know now, will he?" He didn't even have the graceto look uncomfortable.
"Barbara I came her because ..." He paused slightly in his conversational sojourn. As ever, thosearctic blue eyes are a shield beyond which very few are allowed topass. On occasion I have beenone of them. But not now. "I thought you might need something." hesaid finally.
"From you?" I asked calmly, surprised. I shook my head. "No, Bruce Idon't need anything. Notfrom *you*. And if I did you wouldn't know how to give it to me."
"Barbara ..." he began. I tried to ignore the trace of a resigned pleaI heard buried in the recesses ofthat deep baritone voice. I think I succeeded rather well.
"I won't tell you again, Bruce," I warned him, low voiced. "If youdon't leave right now, you'll wishyou had. I'll find some way to hurt you, I swear I will." He lookedaway. I waited patiently forseveral moments before I made good on my threat, I did. I gave him achance. No one can say thatI didn't. But he made no move.
"Tell me something, Bruce," I said with perfect deliberation into the spreading silence, "when youidentified Dick's body was it easier for you than identifying Jason?After all practice makes perfect."
His eyes narrowed and he sat straight up in the chair as ifelectrified. His grip on the arms tightened.That was it. The sum total of his grief as far as I could see. But hedid leave. Silently, without evena rustle of his cape to mark his passing. I closed my eyes for aninstant, no more, and he was gone,faded into the dying night. But then, it was almost daylight and don'tbad dreams always fade withthe morning light? Wearily I wheeled my way back inside my emptyapartment. Into my now emptylife. I tried very, very hard not to think, a hard fought battle.
I lost.
I know a little about men like Bruce. In some ways, Dick was sometimeslike that. Not surprisingunder the circumstances. The Batman is laconic, except for occasionaloutburst of anger andviolence. "Never let then see you cry, Barbara," he advised me once.But beneath that stoic, silentfacade, something ominous sometimes roiled perilously near the surface."Why does he do that?" Ihad once demanded exasperated with the man. Surprisingly, it was Dickwho had the answer forme.
"Not everybody bleeds on the outside where you can see it." he had said.
I hadn't openly scoffed, at least. Dick, who loved Bruce would havebeen very hurt by that. Still itwas hard for me to imagine anything touching the monolith that was TheBatman. In it's own way itwas almost tragic. For most superheroes it was their costumed personasthat are the red herrings,the false front with which they deceive the world. With The Batman it'sjust the opposite. As far as I had ever been able to determine "Bruce Wayne" died when he was about six years old in aspreading stain of his parent's blood.
Eventually I fell asleep siting at my kitchen table. I have no clue howlong I slept but when I lookedout the window night was falling. The thing that woke me was a noise.It sounded exactly likesomething landing lightly on my balcony. For an instant I rememberedthe sound from the beginningof so many wonderful nights and my heart gladdened.
"Dick?" I called softly. But there was no one there to answer me, of course.
There was only the sound of the night wind, its lonely sibilant moansmourning the loss of the light asthe sun set.
A lot like me.
After that sleep was impossible. Still restless, I drifted back outonto my balcony. It was so muchcooler there Through the windows the lights of Gotham, that neversleeping engine of destructionshone and sparkled in the night. Feeling the need to breath the cool,clear air for a bit longer, Iwheeled herself over to rest by the chair that Bruce had abandonedearlier. Closer now, I bent toinspect it's white painted iron arms. I ran suddenly shaky fingers overthe cold metal. The iron ofboth arms lay bent and twisted, crushed with the force of a strength andpassion it was hard toimagine. And along both sides where The Batman had lain hands on it thewhite expanse of metalwas marred with a bright stain of blood.
"I told you," I seemed to hear the ghost like echo of Dick's musical voice, "not everybody bleedson the outside where you can see it."
The End
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