Title:  My Father's Words

Author:  DC Luder (bonds_martini_glass@yahoo.com)

Summary:  On a rather eventful night, Dick thinks back on his 
collection of paternal advice he has been given by both of his fathers.

Rating:  PG-13 maybe, some language and such

Author's Note:  My first full length NIGHTWING TALE! And nobody dies in 
this one!  <Pats self on the back>  You're getting there, DC, you're 
getting there.

***

It has been one of the most effective methods of relaying information 
from one generation to the other.  It came about before the computer, 
the telephone, the printing press and even the written word.  Speech.  
Words, language, grumbles, laughter and symbols.  

As a part of the Flying Graysons, I had relied on physical as well as 
verbal expressions to perform and survive the trapeze acts my father 
designed.  In practice, he would call out when to bend or flip or 
straighten out.  After every successful session, I would hear the same 
thing from him as he picked me up and threw me up onto his broad 
shoulders.

"Way to go, Dick.  Soon I'll be getting orders from you."

The relationship between my dad and I was great.  We were both kids at 
heart and gave my mother more "heart attacks", as she claimed, than 
realistically possible.  Crazy stunts and tricks we carried out kept 
the whole circus on their feet.  We were the "Grayson men."

Men.

I had been barely five when I first took the spotlight forty feet above 
the ground, swinging with ease as spectators below cheered in awe.

Shortly after, I was a part of the regular show.  Come see the Flying 
Graysons!

And then I was only ten when I saw the rope snap.

When my parents fell to their death before my eyes.

That was when I became a man.  How could I possibly be a child after 
that?  Pop Haly and the others were still my family, but they couldn't 
have helped me.  No one could.  

Except that great big man who knelt before me in the sawdust floored 
ring and let me pound my fury into his chest with my fists.  Who held 
me as I collapsed in exhaustion at the realization of it all.  The 
giant man with the black hair and icy eyes.  Had I known going down the 
drive that lead to Wayne Manor for the first time that my life would 
have been like this………

Perhaps I would have made them drive faster.

Agreed, many bad things have happened since that day that I took up 
residence at that mansion.  Many things that I never will forget and 
could only pray to have prevented.  Joker shooting me.  Jason dying. 
Barbara.  Tim facing the Clench.

Bruce's loss to Bane.

That perhaps seems to be one of the most troubling memories I have.  
Knowing that Bruce was at his end, but never stepping in to help him.  
I never did know why I refused to go to his city, to his side to aid 
him.  Was I afraid?  Angry?  Regretful?  Perhaps all of them.  The 
simple thought of him being in the Cave, alone with Bane, being 
thrashed about like a rag doll…….

I still have nightmares of what I envisioned him going through in that 
dark piece of Hell.

But he survived.

Just like he taught me to.

Having Bruce step in for my father was quite a jump.  I went from a dad 
that held my hand when I was nervous and tickled me until I cried with 
laughter to Bruce's awkward pats on the back, unsure smiles and 
uncomfortable silences.  Bruce tried to do as much as possible, but he 
had no clue.  Thank God for Alfred.

He had raised Bruce nearly on his own after he was orphaned.  So when I 
came home, he was well versed in the care of sad young boys.  Alfred 
knew when I wanted to talk or if I wanted to be left alone just by 
looking at me.  He always knew what shirt I wanted to wear without me 
telling him.  And the best part, if he knew I was down in the dumps, he 
would bring me a plate of steaming chocolate chip cookies and milk and 
ask me about silly things.  

My favorite had been, "Master Dick, I've always wondered.  How much do 
elephants actually eat in a day?"

And whenever Bruce and I were at odds, he would make sure I was set for 
the night and then lecture my mentor.  Reminding him that I wasn't a 
soldier to domineer, but a young boy who needed guidance.  I never 
would hear Bruce's responses.  I doubt he ever had a good one to argue 
against that.

But where Bruce lacked in physical support, he made up with verbal.  I 
could write a dictionary of "Bruce's Words of Wisdom."  They ranged 
from how to court women to how to throw the perfect roundhouse/jab 
combination.  But for every time he told me that I needed to keep both 
eyes open to throw a ninja star correctly or that if I tucked my elbow 
when rolling out of a moving vehicle to prevent road rash………

He never said what I was so used to hearing after working so hard.

"Way to go, Dick.  Soon I'll be getting orders from you."

He never said he was proud of me.  I was lucky to get a "good work" out 
of him let alone that he was awed with me.  I had to hear those sorts 
of things from Alfred.  He was always making excuses for Bruce, saying 
how he wasn't skilled in the arts of affection.  That Bruce was truly 
impressed with my skills and thought of me as a star pupil.

But never did Bruce say that.

I suppose it all came down to the fact that Bruce had no intentions of 
replacing my father.  That he didn't want to get too emotional in case 
I thought he was indeed becoming more than a teacher to me.  But that 
wasn't what I wanted.  At first, I almost hated Bruce for taking me 
away from the circus.  Then I learned that his parents had died when he 
was a boy, so I thought maybe he would show me how to cope.  As I grew 
older, he became everything to me.  

But I never told him.

I was too scared he wouldn't return the expression.

He was more than my savior.  He was my father.  I was his son.

I sat in my car, both hands glued to the steering wheel.  I glanced 
beyond the nose of the vehicle to see the wrought-iron gates of Wayne 
Manor.  And three miles up the winding drive, past perfectly landscaped 
lawns and well-maintained water fountains it sat like a grumpy old man.

Wayne Manor.

Although I had taken this drive a gazillion times, I was still 
intimidated by the mansion.  Massive, even after the 'quake destroyed 
it.  It still held all of its glory in the five-story walls and 
masonry.  I counted only three of the massive windows to be lit.  One 
was the den that over looked the cliff, which was always lit, even in 
the dead of night.  Another appeared to be the master kitchen, where no 
doubt a hot meal sat on the counter.  

The last was the third floor bedroom that I had only been in a handful 
of times in the last sixteen years.

Bruce's room.

I had gotten the call early this morning, how he had been injured.  
Barbara had been my informer and no matter how many times I tried to 
make a joke a about him being "Swiss cheese man", she would sigh and 
remain silent.

The fact was that he had been banged up pretty good.  And by none other 
than Zsasz.  I had called Alfred at noon to check in and finally got 
the entire story.  Batman had surprised Zsasz during a hostage 
situation at some private party in a hotel.  Some thing about his 
celebratory thousandth hash mark, and how he was going to hit at least 
a thousand and ten before the night was over.

Bruce had been successful at bringing down Zsasz after a vicious knife 
fight.  With a broken jaw, the killer dropped to the floor unconscious 
while Batman exited through a fire escape.  Although he evaded police, 
he did not escape without injury.  An eleven-inch gash on his chest 
wasn't too bad, but the deep stab wound in his back had nicked the 
renal artery.  If he hadn't made it to Leslie's when he did, she 
assured everyone he would have died.

And where had I been during the entire mess?

On a date.

I felt like a jerk when I found out, and I bet Babs had, too.  While 
Bruce had been lying near-death on Leslie's operating table, I had been 
sharing a bottle of wine with Barbara.  Afterward, I had returned to 
Bludhaven to patrol and she had gone to boot up the computers.  And 
still no one knew of Bruce.

Except Zsasz.

It wasn't until I sat down at my desk this morning that I had found 
out.  When I got the call.  And it wasn't as if I could just leave 
work, we were understaffed as it was.  And I sure didn't want to raise 
any suspicions.  So I spent the morning in complete agony, pondering as 
to what happened.

I may have grown distant to Bruce, but he was still my father.

And there I sat in the sedan, parked next to the twenty-something car 
garage.  I looked down at myself on to see that I had never changed out 
of my officer's uniform.  I winced as my fingers brushed the butt of my 
gun.  Well, I smiled, perhaps Bruce will still be on happy drugs and he 
won't see it.  After exiting the car, I crossed over and headed for the 
side entrance.

The entire house was silent, and yet I could hear drips in pipes, 
creaks of old wooden floors and of course the hum of electrical wire.  
I checked the kitchen first, smelling the chicken primavera yards 
before I pushed the door open.  A beige ceramic plate held two servings 
of the dish as well as two large slices of garlic bread.  After 
blessing Alfred for the billionth time in my life, I grabbed a bottle 
of milk from the fridge and dug in.

With a good belch, I finished the milk and put my dishes in the sink.

Time to get to work, Grayson.

The main set of stairs is a massive dominating structure at the rear of 
the main hall.  There, it separates into a "T".  One set leads to the 
East wing and the other leads to the West wing.  I lived in the house 
for most of my life, but I have never gone beyond the top of the East 
wing stairs.  No one ever told me not to, but I just never felt brave 
enough to go up there.

There were thirteen rooms in that wing.  A master bedroom, three large 
bedrooms as well as four guest rooms.  Beyond that, four of those rooms 
had their own bathroom as well.  And of course, the last room was that 
of a playroom, full of late seventies styled toys.  That wing had been 
where the Waynes lived.  The only person I'd seen that went up there 
was Alfred, and it was just to clean.  Bruce's bedroom was the furthest 
on the West wing.  As I made my way up the stairs to his room, I undid 
my tie and let loose a few buttons on my shirt.  Might as well get 
comfortable.

The double oak doors that lead to Bruce's quarters were wide open.  
Light poured into the dark hall, revealing a discarded medical gurney.  
As I approached it, I noticed dark blotches at the center of its white 
sheets.   After a deep breath, I knocked.

Leslie's voice came weakly, "Come on in, Dick."

I adverted my eyes from the bed and looked at a dozing Alfred on the 
couch near the bay windows.  He was dressed in a sweater and slacks and 
dark green socks.  A light blanket had been draped over his form.  I 
then looked at Leslie as she sat in an easy chair adjacent to the bed.  
She was still in dark blue medical scrubs and slippers.  Her face was 
pale and tired.  When was the last time you had a night off, Leslie?

Never.

Just like Bruce.

"He's almost stable.  We had to do another blood transfusion to get his 
pressure up, but everything is looking good.  No serious damage to the 
artery itself, but he did slice a bit of the kidney."

"Did you save it?" I asked, my voice suddenly drained of courage.

"Yes," she paused, "Forty-six stitches in his chest.  Even if he wanted 
to hit the streets anytime soon, he wouldn't be able to bend or twist 
without ripping them open."

When she fell silent, I finally looked at him.  His face was sweaty, 
but lost in the serenity of drug-induced sleep.  The covers sheltered 
his lower abdomen, but left his upper torso revealed.  With a blue silk 
pajama top unbuttoned, I could see his chest was wrapped from his 
armpits down.  A faint tinge of red could be seen in a near straight 
line.

I sat on the edge of the bed and continued to look him over as Leslie 
said something about getting some coffee.  Three IV lines were 
connected to his left arm. The stand they were connected to sat behind 
a small oxygen tank.  The small clear tubes of air snaked their way up 
onto the bed and ended in a cannula under his nose.  A nasty bruise had 
formed at his right temple.  I searched the amongst the premixed IV 
bags, syringes, gauze rolls that dominated his nightstand and found a 
still cool ice pack.  Carefully, I applied it to his injured brow.  I 
jumped when he winced.

"I'm sorry…….  I didn't know you were awake."

"No," he rasped.  "Not awake.  Dead."

I watched as his lips quirked into a brief smile and faded to a 
grimace.  A rare expression of pain.  He took a deep breath as I asked, 
"What's wrong?"

"Catheter."

I smiled.  I had only had one inserted into my body once and I had been 
very much unconscious for it.  I could only imagine how much that would 
hurt when awake, even when loaded on drugs.  Some places were just nor 
designed for needles and tubes

Leslie returned a moment later and smiled warmly at Bruce, "Well, how 
are we feeling?"

"Not.  Schizophrenic."  His words came slowly and labored.  

"Are you sure?" she asked as she took his wrist to check his pulse.  
When she was done, she let it drop limply.  "Slow, but better."

"Slow.  Better than.  Fast."

"Sometimes, yes," she replied as she pulled the blanket down to his 
hips.  The bandages continued all the way to his navel.  As I stared, 
Leslie asked, "Dick, push him up on his right side would you, I want to 
check the drainage tube."

I offered a weak smile at Bruce and then positioned him.  He growled in 
pain and I thought I detected a curse under his breath.  As I watched 
Leslie score his body, I noticed Alfred standing behind her.  When did 
he ever get up?

After a curt nod from Leslie, I laid Bruce back down as he grumbled to 
himself.  That was another thing Bruce ingrained into my then young and 
impressionable mind.  Resist assistance.  It never did stick 
completely, but I could get to be quite the whiner about people 
flustering over me when I'm hurt.

I watched as Leslie and Alfred stepped away and talked their "doctor 
talk".  I was about to relocate to the chair, when Bruce grabbed my 
arm.  I winced, not because he was being forceful, but because there 
was no strength behind his grasp.  "What, Bruce?"

He shook his head, "No.  Stay."

"I'm just going to sit on the chair."  I moved slowly and looked down 
at him.  His eyes squinted as if to focus on me.  How much had Leslie 
given him?

"Talk.  With you."

I sure hoped this wasn't going to be some sappy thing.  I sure wasn't 
in the mood.  "Bruce, what do you need?"

"Not what.  Who."

I paused, "All right.  Who?"

His face suddenly sorrowed in a grimace of pain.  I felt the urge to 
grab his hand but I suppressed it.

Never express physical emotion when unnecessary, isn't that what you 
taught me, Bruce?

After a few deep breaths, he whispered, "Gordon."

"Jim or Barbara?"

"Jim.  Meet him.  Talk."

I nodded.  Here were a million files in the cave, but I'm sure at least 
ten had to deal with Zsasz.  "All right.  I'll talk to him for you."

He acted hurt by my words, "No."

That set me off a bit.  He was telling me about something and then 
didn't want me to do anything about it.  Usually if he even mentioned 
an item it had been my sole purpose in life to tend to it.  I blamed it 
on the delirium.  He had a fever, he'd had two blood transfusions and a 
liter of Codine.  It was acceptable if a person was acted out of 
character after that.  Even for Bruce.

"Can't," he shook his head slowly as if he were resisting sleep.  "Not 
you."

"You want Tim…….?"

"Me."

I sighed and covered him up again.  Why couldn't you just let the 
medicine work?  Anyone else as hurt as he was would be sleeping and 
dreaming about bunnies and rainbows.  Not Bruce.  No, he had learned 
how to fight the effects of sedatives.  "Bruce, I think you are a 
little out of it to go rooftop-hopping right now."

His eyes were now closed, "Me.  Him."

Oy vay.  "Him who, Bruce?"

My words fell on deaf ears, for his head had lulled to one side and 
sleep had taken over.  Yet another nightmare to add to my collection. 
Not wanting to fret on it, I removed the ice pack and waited for the 
Docs to return from Medical Jargon Land.

That was a ten-minute wait.

Alfred walked over to my side, looked at my shirt and then tended to 
washing Bruce's face.  I stood to keep out of his way, "What's the 
matter Alfred?"

"You sent your shirt to the cleaner's I see."

My eyebrow arched, "How'd you know?"

"They over starched your collar and you left the bill pinned to the 
inside of your pocket."

"Alfred…….."

"Yes, sir?"

"It was an emergency."

"Well, I do hope that the fire was put out or the bank robbery was 
ended.  That shirt is ruined."

I almost said something to the fact that he was over reacting but then 
I remembered he was Alfred, and it was his job to over react.  I turned 
to head towards the bay windows when my eye caught a reflection of 
light on the end table of the far side of the bed.  I walked over 
slowly and found three photographs in silver edged frames.  One of his 
parents on their wedding day.  Thomas looking exactly like Bruce, with 
a moustache, sported a handsome tuxedo and wide grin.  And next to him, 
standing six inches shorter than him, was Martha, enveloped in a 
massive white silk sleeveless gown.  A bouquet of roses rested in her 
one arm as the other wrapped around her husband's back.  

The next was me when I was maybe eleven years old.  It had been my 
first formal affair where I had to wear a tux.  With my hair slicked 
back and face scrubbed clean, I sat on the banister with a foolish 
smile and squinty eyes.  What a dork.  Next to me was Bruce, wearing 
the larger version of my suit.  His head was slightly tilted towards me 
and a true smile graced his face.

The last was a small, three by five frame that held a picture of Jason 
Todd on his bed, passed out over a stack of history texts and 
notebooks.  Jay the Grind.  He was wearing a gray long-sleeved tee and 
bright red and blue Superman shorts.  A portion of his room could be 
seen beyond the blue sheets of his bed.  White walls decorated with 
newspaper clippings.

I had done the same thing as Robin.  If I ever saw my name even 
mentioned I would cut out the article and read until it was committed 
to memory.

I smiled, remembering the wild teen that had taken up the mantle for 
such a brief period of time.  It was then, thinking of Jason's unruly 
hair, Thomas and Martha's first day as husband and wife, and my self as 
a young boy in awe of the man beside me, that I made a rash connection 
between all of the people in the pictures.  

Bruce had lost them all.

It angered me how he would always torment himself with his memories and 
constantly regret what he had done and he could have possibly changed 
things.  But just how Alfred demanded to starch my shirts, Bruce needed 
something to remind himself why he does what he does.  Why he would 
take the brunt of an attack from a killer in order to save a few lives.  

Why he would defeat countless Arkham inmates after their release and 
then bravely face his greatest foe even thought he wanted to lay down 
and die.

Why he would fire me in order to protect me.

Words of wisdom had followed me from one life to another.  But it was 
my father's words that stuck with me.  No matter how much he had 
drilled me or yelled at me or threatened me, it had been all for a 
purpose.  He wanted me to succeed.  Not too long ago, after Gotham was 
leveled by Mother Nature, we'd spent quite the evening out on patrols.  
On a windy rooftop he had said something that was the closest thing I 
would ever get to an expression of pride or love.

"You're better than me, Dick."

To be anything of equality to the Batman was enough to run about the 
room like a fowl that had been beheaded, but to excel beyond him?  
That's "run around with your shorts on your head" happy.  It wasn't 
that I was a better martial artist or detective, though.  I was a 
better person than him.

And the only way I would have become that person was through him.  If 
Zucco hadn't sliced the ropes, if my parents had lived and if I had 
never ridden up the drive to Wayne Manor, I wouldn't be Dick Grayson or 
Nightwing.  As Bruce had pointed out, they were indeed different, but 
neither had dominated my life as it had for Bruce.

With my breath caught in my throat, I left the room and headed 
downstairs.

Words of Wisdom # 34,675:  When in doubt and/or emotionally stressed, 
either beat the life out of a punch bag and/or the life out of some 
serious scum.

In no mood to sit in the 'Cave all night, I opted for scum.

***

I returned two hours before dawn, tired, sweaty, but happy.  Alfred was 
surprisingly there to greet me with a glass of apple juice and a towel.  
After thanking him, I changed and sat at the computer consol.  He left 
after bidding me good night.  

There was a strong urge to go up to check on Bruce.  I had been gone 
for nearly seven hours, perhaps he was feeling better.  Work before 
pleasure, Grayson, I reminded myself.

Just as I approached the end of logging the night's activities, a rough 
voice asked from the stairs, "It's not good for your eyes to work in 
the dark."

I jumped involuntarily as lights flooded the cave.

I turned and faced him, "Well, my old man always said, 'Use them and 
then lose them.'"

He slowly descended the stairs, one at a time.  He still looked 
horrible, but I supposed it was better to get moving to get the blood 
pumping.

"I wasn't referring to eyes when I said that."

As I walked over to meet him halfway, I smiled, "Really?  What were you 
referring to, then?"

"Wome……   Well, there are lots of things that would be applicable."

The snort that escaped me couldn't have possibly been held in, even if 
I had tried.  He grimaced something that might have been a smile and 
continued, "Busy night?"

"Not entirely so.  Missed a fun deal down at Aces High."

"The underground casino," he mumbled as he shifted his weight slowly.

"Not anymore.  They moved on up to the big deluxe apartment in the sky.  
Looks like a donated lease at the Plaza Tower."

"I was waiting for them to make the move."  He paused and studied the 
screen's contents.  The determination in his eyes was unnerving.  
Barely in any condition to sit, let alone to walk around and I'm sure 
he was already formulating little plans for his next night out.

After listening to bats shriek for ten minutes I cleared my throat, 
"So, any better?"

He walked past me and then sat in his chair, his fingers flying over 
the keys.  He still wore his blue pajamas, but had buttoned them to 
cover the bandages.  His black cotton robe made me think of his cape.  
But I doubted that his loafers had and cool gizmos in them as his 
regular boots did.

I began to head for the stairs, thinking he was ignoring me when he 
said, "Thanks, Dick.  For stopping in."

I nodded, "Anytime.  Bludhaven's not that far away."

I heard him sigh, "How's the job going?"

He hadn't questioned my work in far too long.  After taking a few steps 
in his direction I replied, "Not bad.  Keeping busy though."

He nodded in agreement.

Any time we spent alone together always got to this point.  Either of 
us would try to be civil to make conversation but it would never carry 
on far.  Talk about your awkward silences.  I've had better 
conversations with trees.

Recalling our delusional conversation from earlier in the evening, I 
said, "Never met Gordon tonight.  He wasn't in his office or at home."

His turned slowly and his face was in utter confusion.  His eyes asked 
me to explain myself.

"The meeting.  You said to talk to Gordon, but then you said you wanted 
to do it."

After his gaze returned to the screen, "Oh."

"Oh?  Well, where is he?"

"Thanks for coming, Dick."

I felt a twinge of anger in my muscles, "You're impossible," I muttered 
and headed for the stairs.

As I reached the thirteenth one, he called out.  "Coffee, Dick.  I was 
going to meet him for coffee."

I paused briefly and looked down at him, hunched over the keyboard, his 
face obviously waned in pain.  I noticed one hand to be typing while 
the other was wrapped at his abdomen.  Without a second thought, I 
marched down the stairs and moved over to behind the computer.  Bruce 
knew what I was about to do and stood enraged, "Dick, don't you even 
dare!"

"Oops," I muttered as I yanked the massive plug from the wall.  The hum 
of the computer slowly ceased, as if it was dying slowly.  When I faced 
him, his pain was still evident but masked with frustration.  "Well, 
good night, Bruce.  Hope you feel better."  As I walked by him, I 
almost missed his foot coming out to trip me.  Almost.  I jumped just 
in time and laughed as I jogged away.  "Nice try."

His glacial eyes bore holes into my forehead.

"Oh, go to bed, jeesh.  If I want to be stared at I have Alfred to 
glare at me about my damn shirt."

He didn't move.

I doubted he was even breathing.  His eyes focused on mine.  I thought 
it had been anger.

But it had been pain.

When I went to turn and leave, I saw it.  A dark liquid was pooling at 
his left foot as it ran down his pant's leg.  I stared at it long 
enough so that Bruce gazed as well.  A hand slowly went back to his 
side and returned in front of him dark with blood.

"Shit," I whispered.

I went to help him, but he moved away and returned to his chair and 
removed his robe.  The shirt covering his entire lower back on his left 
side clung to his body and shimmered with wetness.  Unsure as whether 
to help him or run to get Leslie or Alfred, I simply asked, "You all 
right?"

"Fine.  Sprung a leak."

If the time had been different, I might have laughed at that.  If the 
sutures had torn or he had thrown a blood clot, both of which would not 
be surprising, he could have been bleeding to death in front of my 
eyes.  Think fast, Boy Wonder.

I did.

With a rush, I raced over, picked him up out of his chair and then ran 
towards the stairs.  He cursed at me and jabbed at a pressure point 
above my collarbone, causing his weight in my one arm to be unbearable.  
But you taught me better than that, Bruce.

No matter how much it hurts, if others are in trouble, remember that 
you don't matter.

Pain does not exist, it is a weakness and weaknesses cannot save 
people.

By the time I reached his room, he was unconscious and breathing 
irregularly.  Alfred and Leslie were in the process of changing his 
sheets when I paused at the doorway.  I was covered in blood, as was 
Bruce.  They both stared at me in shock as I said, "He………  Sprung a 
leak."

***

I had been right on the money with my guess.  

I sat on the kitchen counter, munching on some horrible type of raisin 
and oat cereal that was too healthy for me.  Tim was at the counter, 
sitting at a stool, his face cupped by one hand as the other stirred 
his bowl of the retched breakfast food with the other.

Bruce had thrown a blood clot the size of a quarter, which had torn 
right through the internal sutures.  And since Leslie had inserted a 
drainage tube to prevent infection, he was instantly turned into a 
human water fountain.  But a few more stitches and a week of bed rest 
would allow Bruce to live on his merry life.

After slurping up the milk in my bowl I jumped off the counter and 
kicked Tim's stool out from under him.  He had been in such a daze that 
he nearly fell on his backside.  He glared at me and then picked up his 
seat and rested himself on it.  I had gone to Brentwood and kidnapped 
him from his bed at four-thirty in the morning and he was none too 
happy for it.  Especially when I told him about Bruce.

Barbara said she would try and come up today to see our wounded mentor 
and bring up actual food since all Bruce had was fat-free-this and 
tofu-that.  My cabinets, when I remembered to go shopping, were stock 
with Spaghetti-o's, cheese puffs and a never ending supply of Ben N 
Jerry's in the freezer. Nothing like have New York Super Fudge Chunk 
ice cream for breakfast.

My stomach growled, demanding the calories, but I told it to shut up.

Leslie had left shortly before eight, claiming Bruce was fine, resting 
comfortably on a morphine drip.  Is there any other way to rest when 
flying through clouds high on morphine?  She had made Alfred go to bed 
so we were not to disturb him unless it was an emergency.  I hugged her 
and said I would drop by tonight and update her on how he was.  She 
smiled at Tim and then left.

As we made our way to the den, I yawned, "What a night.  I am beat."

Tim remained silent and collapsed into the leather sofa.  He was 
usually sensitive to whenever anyone was hurt, but with Bruce, I knew 
he went over board.  He had seen so much more than I had at his age.  
Even though he still had a part of his family left, he felt alone.  But 
that was where I came in.  To be the big brother that he always needed.

I sat next to him and threw the remote at him.  "Are cartoons on Friday 
mornings?"

"Yeah."

"Really.  Well, that should entertain us until the Babster shows up 
with edible food."

He remained silent as he turned the television on.  After settling on 
some actually decent anime, he sighed, "He almost died."

I leaned back, "Yeah, he has a habit of doing that, doesn't he."

"No, Dick.  Like he almost really died.  What if you had left him in 
the cave?  He would have died all alone……."

That hit me lick ice water.  I hadn't even had time to ponder the what-
if's of last night.  I suppose he could have phoned Leslie or Alfred 
for help.  But would they have come in time?

"Well, I was there.  He's alive and happy.  The end."

Tim turned and faced me, "You saved him."

I looked down at my hands.  Lesson #56, 987:  Avoid eye contact, 
whenever possible.

Thanks, Bruce.

"Tim, I can't tell you how many times he saved my derriere………"

He nodded, most likely revisiting all of the times that Bruce had swung 
in at the last minute to the rescue.  Nothing like a little suspense to 
keep a partnership on edge.  After an hour of my eyes being glued to 
the screen, I stood and stretched my arms and back.  "I'm gonna go 
check on…….."

Tim was dead to the world, mouth gaped and had soft snores escaping.  I 
pushed him down on the couch and covered him up.  God I wanted to get 
some sleep.  I took the stairs languidly and it took me ten minutes to 
get to Bruce's room.  The gurney was gone and the doors were closed.  A 
sliver of light escaped from under the door.  I considered knocking but 
then decided against it in case I woke him.

Tough luck.  Bruce sat on the couch that Alfred had been sleeping on 
not even twelve hours ago.  The bed was in a disarray of twisted 
blankets and squished pillows.  The cannula lay on of the rumpled 
pillows, but I smiled to see that he had dragged the IV stand with him.

The illumination originated from the windows themselves, where Bruce 
stared at the ocean as it sparkled in the light.  Since his head was 
tilted to the left, I thought he was asleep and slowly crept over to 
see him.  I wasn't two yards from him when he said softly, "What a 
night."

"My thoughts exactly."  After pausing at the side of the couch, I saw 
him in fresh pajamas, but no robe or slippers.  One sleeve was rolled 
up to the elbow and the IV insertions had been secured with medical 
tape.  A small quilt covered his abdomen and most of his legs, but his 
bare feet stuck out at the bottom.  Without much thought, I sat beside 
him and watched the water.

We were silent for nearly an hour.  I was transfixed as the water 
slapped up against the cliff in massive waves.  Out of the corner of my 
eye, I saw him smile slightly.

And then I felt a hand rest on the back of my neck.

It was the best conversation we ever had.

***  the end ***