Chapter Text
guide me home
tell me i am not alone
we will never be more than twist in their sobriety
"What was your mother like?"
She asks innocently enough, her eyes hopeful as she pleads at him to tell her only what she wants to hear. He can't lie, nor sugarcoat the truth simply for her conscience, so he gives an answer that satisfies all conditions.
"Absolutely nothing like you."
She smirks, content with his answer, and cradles her hands to her stomach.
"If it's a boy, I'll name him after you!"
"John?!" He scoffs, thinking what an obnoxious and bland name.
She knows what he's thinking and shakes her head.
"There's nothing ordinary about it. You…there was nothing ordinary about you."
He inhales a deep breath, considering something, before deciding against it.
She sits by the window sill, holding her flat stomach and staring at it lovingly. He stands beside her, with enough distance between them that she can't reach out her hand to touch him. But, it wouldn't matter if she even tried to. She couldn't touch him.
He's not really there.
From outside the room, a man approaches with a doctor in tow, stopping just outside the open door frame. The doctor sighs, running a hand through his hair as he looks between the pretty blonde inside and his clipboard.
"The scars healed remarkably. With enough coverage, you can't even tell she was ever…" The doctor trails off. The man frowns.
"Her face isn't the reason she's here, doctor. What about her mind?!"
"Pseudocyesis," the doctor reminds him. "She just needs time to come to terms that there's nothing really there."
The man frowns. Phantom Pregnancy.
Something is haunting her alright.
The man stares out the open window and sighs again. He’s dragging his feet as he enters the ward room. Not that he doesn’t want to be here; it’s just…trying. He finally gathers his resolve, forcing a soft smile as he approaches the woman’s back.
"Isabel?"
"John?!"
She jumps excitedly, turning to face…not John.
No, this is her fiancé.
Her smile fades.
"Oh, Roger…Did you see John leave? I didn't hear him…" She trails off and returns her eyes to her belly.
Roger scowls.
Who is this John? Ever since the accident, Isabel would remark occasionally about some 'John'. Sometimes she'd absent-mindedly ask him for her imaginary friend, and other times she'd talk as if he was in the room with them—or had just been. On less lucid days, she mistook Roger to be John himself.
(Roger had considered this ‘John’ to be a paramour--a secret coming out after the tragedy-- but her friends swore against it. He'd snooped into her social media accounts and found no traces. No emails, no contacts, no pictures…)
There was no John.
Early on, a thought had occurred to Roger to play along with Isabel.
"Perhaps if you remind me of John's last name, I can look into his contact information. Call him here for you." Catch the bastard.
Isabel had just sighed at that.
"It wouldn't matter. It's not his name."
John was an alias?
The frequency of John’s ‘visits’ increased, though the staff swore that no visitors had arrived to see Isabel. This made weaseling information out about John more difficult. She no longer felt the need to share anything with Roger; why would she when John was visiting her himself?!
The doctor had suggested that ‘John’ was the name of the child she'd imagined, but the fantasy she lived in didn't add up. She spoke excitedly about telling John about the baby. She differentiated the two.
No, Roger swore that ‘John’ did exist—his name just may not actually be John. But where was this John? In Isabel’s hour of need, it was Roger who stuck by her side, who sat with her through therapy and held her hand after the reconstructive surgeries.
Roger bit his lip, resting his palms on his sides and trying to calm his frustration. It was difficult, trying to not be upset with Isabel—had she been unfaithful? But there was no proof of that. She was unwell—her psyche was fractured. Everything pointed to that this ‘John’ wasn’t real.
But Roger couldn’t shake the doubt that he was.
Who was John?!
Dick smiles brightly at Alfred when the butler opens the door.
"How's my favorite butler doing?"
Alfred gives him a weary smile, though he attempts to suppress it (poorly).
"In the seventeen years you lived under this roof, I was the only butler you ever had. I have been the only staffed butler of the Wayne's since before you were born."
Dick sighed.
"Just pretend I had any comparison to what a mediocre butler would be like and be happy to see me, Alfred."
Alfred feigned surprise.
"You assume I'm not happy to see you?"
Dick smirked, a charming look from the handsome lad, before hugging Alfred—careful not to crumple the small bouquet in his hands—and pulled the butler away from him just long enough to pat his shoulders, "I would never assume anything of you, Alfred. It'd make an as-"
"-language, Master Dick." The butler cut him off, familiar with the turn of phrase.
Dick pushed past Alfred, bounding to the room of his destination.
He swung the door open, catching it just before it could slam into the wall.
"Mornin' Jay-oh…"
Dick wasn't the only visitor.
Barbara smiled from her wheelchair at Dick as he shyly smiled back, entering the room.
"Is Bludhaven that slow on crime lately that you've taken to visiting twice a week now?"
"This is his third visit this week, Miss Barbara," Alfred corrected, entering slowly behind Dick. "And it is only Wednesday."
Barbara scoffed.
"You're putting me to shame, and I live in Gotham…"
"How must Master Tim feel, then?" Alfred muttered good naturedly.
Dick stepped beside Barbara, glancing down at the invalid.
Jason Todd remained comatose. He had for the past three months.
The moment Bruce attempted to take Jason off life support, a blur of events followed.
The others had been alerted to Jason’s room by the flat-lining monitor; a Banshee prophesying an inevitable death.
Dick had shoved Bruce to the floor, and then attempted to flip the supportive machine back on.
Tim had screamed at Dick to stop, reminding him that Bruce was the deciding vote. But, seeing in real time the death of his predecessor had terrified Tim and he'd quickly trailed off, unable to continue chastising Dick.
Leslie had made her way over, feeling for a pulse and anxiously looking between the patient and clock, ready to record the time of death. However, her hands twitched to do more; torn between stopping Dick or helping him. Barbara had wheeled her way in shortly after, and Alfred had collapsed just outside in the hall.
Dick had set the machine right again, but nothing was changing. Bruce sat motionless, staring not at Jason's body, but at the window.
He'd smiled.
Dick had seen this and in two short strides had reached Bruce, pulled him up by the collar, and was posed to deck him when…
Beep.
Everyone froze and--aside from Bruce who was lost in a trance-- turned to face the monitor. The flat line suddenly blipped; small peeks began to frequent the screen.
Beep.
Jason's chest suddenly rose, and with much more gusto than it had previously. Leslie was shocked. She quickly checked his vitals; the machines, his pulse—she was flittering about, trying to grasp the medical miracle happening before her eyes.
"He's…stable..." She said finally, perturbed by her own words; as if tasting iron on her tongue and being perplexed by how.
Tim fell to his knees. Dick was blinded by tears, dropping Bruce, and Barbara slumped in her chair. Alfred had passed out.
Leslie, still baffled, had mulled over everything she could; every possible explanation, or possible solution. Finally, her attention being pulled from the patient one too many times by the distracting witnesses, she began ushering everyone out of the room—though, they merely gathered in the doorway, on edge in anticipation to rush back in at a moment's notice.
Finally, after several minutes—or perhaps hours—she returned to the anxious onlookers, declaring,
"He's…recovering. Healing…"
No one was as baffled as her, but all eyes turned to Bruce. What had he done?
Bruce still seemed out of it. He’d been dragged from the room by Dick and Tim (the former having harshly dropped Bruce the second they’d crossed the doorway’s threshold). He merely sat sprawled on the floor, still looking beyond anyone present. He was somewhere else entirely, and Tim wondered if Bruce had heard anything Leslie said.
Dick was helping Alfred back to his feet, assuring the old man that Jason was still alive…he was more than alive, actually.
Alfred composed himself—barely—and after Leslie insisted they all sleep, helped carry Bruce along with Tim, returning the Wayne patriarch to his room. Bruce slipped easily asleep once the butler tucked him into bed, still saying nothing of the whole ordeal.
Leslie gave them all a sedative to sleep that night, swearing to watch over Jason herself. No one argued with Leslie outright, but several hesitated to actually fall asleep—what if the situation changed drastically during the night?
No one-- save Bruce-- found any sleep that night.
Come morning, the previous night proved not to have been a dream, as most of the mansion suspected. The close call with death had somehow—miraculously, ironically-- resurrected Jason. His vitals weren't completely out of the woods yet, but they were improving.
Alfred threw himself into chores—cleaning vigorously as if every germ was an enemy that would threaten his precious ward's recovery. Tim retreated to the library in search of answers to his many newfound questions. Barbara offered to take watch so Leslie could sleep in the guest room.
And Dick had made it just barely to the Batcave before collapsing in cries of prayers and gratitude to whatever guardian angel, god, or magic had brought about this miracle. The cave was the only place he was sure no one would hear him.
Bruce had remained sleeping.
And yet, after three months, Jason had not awoken. His body was healed, and results of every test assured them his mind was just as well. Still, he slept.
"It's just up to him," Leslie had declared after weeks had passed. She'd looked haggard and frail from her diligent care, but she'd deduced finally the one thing she'd hated as a medical professional to declare—there was nothing more she could do. "He'll wake only if he wants to."
No one brought up ‘the decision’--as it was unanimously known as--since that night. It was now out of the question. Jason's life was not, in fact, in their hands anymore. They'd made their choice collectively (albeit it had ultimately felt like Bruce's decision alone, and even then Dick had hijacked it) and now the result was as it should be—Jason would speak for himself. He would either wake, or he wouldn't.
Dick replaced the days old flowers in the vase beside Jason's bed with his fresh bouquet (not that the previous bouquet was unseemly; it just wasn’t the freshest it could be, and Dick would have nothing but the best for his brother).
Barbara smirked.
"You never bring me flowers."
Dick sighed.
"If you dare put yourself in any state resembling this one," he disregarded adding an 'again' as he avoided staring at her chair, "simply because you're jealous I don't bring you flowers… I'll march down to Bruce this instant and demand my inheritance right now, and buy up every flower shop from here to Metropolis."
Barbara smiled softly at the sentiment, even as Dick avoided her eyes. She’d missed banter like this—for so long after that night, they’d all been tip toeing on eggshells. Only recently could they greet each other with cautiously hopeful smiles.
Also, she knew Dick wouldn’t face Bruce. Not since…
"Why stop at the shops? Why not buy up the flower farms."
Speak of the devil.
Bruce leaned in the doorway, still unable to bring himself to cross the threshold. Dick bristled, but held back from saying anything. Barbara, recognizing the growing tension, was keen to keep the peace.
"I take no offense at all, Bruce," Barbara tentatively smiled. "I'd chastise him myself for wasting money, when he could just as easily amend this all by picking me wildflowers."
Dick sighed, forcing a smile.
"You don't even care for flowers all that much."
Barbara shrugged.
"You're right, I don't."
Bruce smirked, but it too was forceful. The air between the trio felt frigid.
It never was a comfortable moment when Bruce was near Jason. While no one mentioned it, the truth always hung above them—that Bruce had been the one to pull Jason's life support.
That fact didn’t fade away just because Jason had failed to die.
That first morning, when Bruce alone slept in, the younger members of their makeshift gamily had gathered and spoke in hushed voices. Dick had been furious, for only a moment, before Tim had reminded him that both Barbara and himself had been in favor of pulling the plug when their votes had been cast. Still, to Dick, it had come down to who really had triggered the switch.
And, why hadn't he told them of his decision.
But, with Jason's miraculous recovery, Dick had filed away his grudge, if only in consideration of Alfred’s nerves. He hadn’t been on speaking terms with Bruce for several weeks, and only lately had he acknowledged his mentor, so long as others were present in the room.
Perhaps the dark circles of guilt branded under Bruce’s eyes had, if not softened, at least given pause to Dick’s outward animosity towards the older man.
It was a contentious mood that settled between them and in the air, but no one wanted to confront either of them; least of all the two involved.
It was no secret Bruce felt immense guilt for everything, and at times he'd space out when the slightest thing reminded him of that night—that decision. Even now, Bruce rarely visited Jason, and he never did so alone.
Before, it had been a conscious move by the others—to always have a witness, a chaperone, hovering over Bruce in case he…
But, it was unnecessary. For now, Bruce only ever visited Jason's bedside when he was sure others were there. And he did so infrequently…
Dick felt more pity, rather than anger—though there was still anger-- towards his adoptive father. He ran a hand around the back of his neck, realizing how long they'd all been silently reminiscing, and no doubt along the same thoughts, before clearing his throat and attempting to strike up a new conversation; one that didn't target him for his lack of attentiveness towards Babs.
"Isn't there some event you're supposed to attend today, Bruce?"
Alfred had mentioned something over the phone, in hopes Dick might be warming towards his adoptive father again finally.
Bruce sighed, his eyes fixated on Jason.
"The Wayne foundation is insisting on some publicity stunt; a charity visit to a local hospital. I've also been told, in no uncertain terms, to bring a date."
"That always gets the tabloids most rallied. Who’s the lucky starlet?"
Bruce cocked a brow towards Dick, looking both pained and hopeful.
"Will I make a good mother, John?"
John smiled awkwardly; he meant well, but it was forced. Maybe because she couldn't ever remember him truly smiling…perhaps she had no true frame of reference.
"What do you want to hear?"
Isabel smiled at John, stroking her belly all the same. He always told her what she wanted to hear.
"Tell me I'll be a great mother."
"You'll be a great mother."
Tears stung her eyes.
"Tell me you'll stay with me through it all. The birth…I hear it's very painful. You'll be there the whole time, right?!"
John’s smile had fallen.
"It's so very painful," she repeated, her voice breaking. Her clear vision of him was beginning to falter.
John nodded, hesitantly.
"You'll hold my hand? Through it all?"
John nodded again.
"Say it," she whispered. She pleaded and begged. "Promise me. Promise you'll stay beside me through the pain."
She shivered now, trembling as her mind lost focus. Her meaning was muddled, but somehow not lost between the two of them; they shared one mind, after all.
John reached a hand towards her face, but she shied away. She knew her scars were visible; ugly. She still felt their pain sting as if she were reliving that moment.
The moment glass rained down on her.
Luckily, it hadn't hurt the baby.
"Tell me I'm still beautiful." She begged, her voice fully broken as tears dropped from her eyes. Her arms no longer cradled her stomach, but herself.
He'd never told her she was beautiful before. He'd said so little to her for as long as she'd known him. His eyes had done all the speaking, and those eyes only ever told her of sadness and death.
But still…
"Isabel?"
Isabel didn't turn to face the newcomer. She also didn't hide her disappointment. John would've slipped out again. He never liked being around when others were.
"Isabel, i-it's me...Lucy. Remember? We were friends...coworkers…"
Lucy. She was a fellow nurse; a coworker from when they’d both worked at…
Isabel inhaled sharply, bracing herself and throwing up a smile as she whipped around to face her old friend. Lucy jumped slightly, holding a potted plant with a card wishing “Get Well!”.
"Of course I remember you, Lucy! What brings you to visit me?!"
Bruce Wayne walked confidently down the halls of the hospital wards. He smiled at the nurses, sending them into whispered frenzies of "which one of us did he smile at? Was it me?!"
He shook hands with doctors and took photos with patients.
Dick hid his irritation, constantly tugging at his necktie as he nodded to everyone and waved at the nurses in turn. He appeared effortlessly charming, but internally he was yearning to be back at the mansion.
Alfred must have suggested this—there was no way Bruce had initially thought to invited Dick along with him for this publicity stunt. Dick couldn’t even openly refuse the request—not with Barbara and Alfred both there, looking expectantly at him. So, he’d bit the bullet, put on the tux that Alfred had suspiciously just ironed, and tagged along with Bruce Wayne to visit one of the many Wayne Foundation’s hospital recipients.
The reporters ate up every action of the two eligible bachelors' flirting eyes towards every woman—and, from certain angles, some swore a man or two—while photographers flashed as frequently as they could before staff ushered them to give the patients, and the Wayne's, privacy.
Bruce turned a hall only to bump directly into a frail frame.
"Oh! Excuse me, I'm…Bruce Wayne?!"
Bruce smiled.
"What a coincidence; I'm Bruce Wayne."
The small blonde before him blushed madly, shaking her head with embarrassment. Dick hid the roll of his eyes from the members of the media.
"N-no, I'm sorry-I…"
"Lucy?"
A man came rushing over, stopping when he saw Mr. Wayne before him. He quickly straightened his back, pushing his chest out with respect. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and he was in need of a shave. But, he was dressed impeccably, which suggested that his current stress was not of monetary origins.
"Mr. Wayne. A pleasure to see you…" he almost said ‘again’ but stopped himself.
Bruce, however, took note of the hesitation, as well as the familiarity of the face.
"We've met before, have we not?"
The man beamed, happy to have been recognized.
"Ah, yes…My name is Dr. Roger Elliot. We met briefly at the gala you hosted, honoring doctors with the Wayne Foundation-"
"-you were a recipient. I remember. You gave a fantastic speech championing for the achievements and improvements in modern plastic surgeries…and also gave an impassioned declaration for your…" Bruce looked to Lucy. "Wife? Was it?"
Lucy blushed furiously, shaking her hands in denial, but Dr. Elliot spoke.
"-Fiancé. Ah, this is in fact a friend of my fiancé's. Nurse Lucy-"
"I'm single!" Lucy blurted. Dick, who had now caught up to the trio, stifled a snort. Lucy was even more so embarrassed, correcting herself, "I meant to say, I'm not his…L-like he said, I'm a friend of his fiancé. I've come today to visit her, I…" feeling the necessity to change the subject, she jumped suddenly at the thought, "Have you seen his fiancé? You're visiting patients, are you not?!"
Bruce blinked, looking back to the doctor. He wasn’t dressed in his coat, so he clearly was visiting the hospital as a civilian, rather than on the clock. Dr. Elliot hunched slightly, embarrassed as he admitted softly, "She's being treated for…an accident. It happened three months ago, but there's been some…complications."
Lucy looked apologetic for bringing to light Isabel's condition, but Bruce Wayne, ever the gentleman, merely smiled warmly and said, "May I visit her? If it's not too imposing..?"
Dr. Roger Elliot lead Mr. Wayne and his ward, and a bashful Lucy, back down the hallway he'd just come from. The door was, as ever, open; so too was the window. He cursed under his breath—he'd just shut it when he'd been here but a moment ago.
From inside, he could hear Isabel speaking and the blood drained from his face.
"…What about it? You liked that book, don't pretend you didn't! I noticed you reading it…I'm ashamed to admit, once I left the asylum, I bought a copy myself. I couldn't put it down; I read the whole thing in one night! And then again the next!" Isabel giggled, her back to the visiting ensemble, engaged in a conversation with him.
Dr. Elliot stretched out a hand, stopping Wayne just as they reached the doorway. Lucy bowed her head. Roger was flushed.
"My fiancé…she's not crazy." Tears brimmed his eyes. He was bumbling for excuses, but also indignant with his own shame and even, perhaps, a hint of anger? "What you heard just now…it's not what you think. She didn't…she wasn't a patient at the asylum! She worked there at Arkham and…And she's just going through a rough patch now. She had an accident, and…and on top of that, Pseudocyesis-er, a phantom pregnancy…" He mumbled, trailing off. Mr. Wayne gently put a hand on the flustered doctor's arm, reassuring him.
"I don't judge your fiancé. In what position am I to? Many have claimed I'm crazy. And who doesn't talk to themselves from time to time? Especially after something tragic."
Again, Dr. Elliot flushed with embarrassment as he remembered the infamous history of the orphaned Bruce Wayne. How gracious and understanding this man was! Roger had always assumed that those in a class of their own were never burdened in such a way as the masses, but in this moment he was humbled and appreciative of the billionaire.
Bruce glanced at the name of the patient, marked beside the room's number. He smiled again and strutted past the gathered company into the room.
"Miss Rochev?"
Isabel didn't look at Bruce, still staring at her stomach, humming lightly. After a moment, she suddenly jolted, turning her head and excitedly saying,
"What about Jason?!"
Bruce had frozen.
Dick had rushed into the room, but hesitated and stopped only a few steps in, cautiously aware of the gathered company (the reporters, at least, had been held back by a colleague of Dr. Elliot’s, for the sake of his privacy)
Isabel wasn't looking at Bruce. She was beaming at, and talking to, the empty space beside her.
Bruce quickly composed himself again before the fiancé or the girl outside could notice. Dick cleared his throat, attempting to appear natural, as Bruce repeated himself.
"Miss Isabel Rochev?"
To this, Isabel did finally note the man standing behind her, turning to face him. Her face was marred with scars; pale stitches that jagged across her skin. Her eyes were bright, and they seemed to clear as her focus gathered on Bruce Wayne. Her hands fell from her stomach as recognition slowly dawned on her.
"You look like…?!"
Dr. Elliot was beside her instantly, amazed at how…normal…she appeared, gripping her shoulders gently as he encouraged,
"Isabel? You remember that night? We met Mr. Wayne briefly—he shook my hand when I received the award-"
Isabel suddenly lifted her hands to her face, conscious of her scars. Dr. Elliot grabbed her hands, shaking his head.
"You look fine, don't worry-"
Isabel stood abruptly, flustered by all the company she was receiving today. But mostly, she was irritated. John had just returned once Lucy left, and they'd been discussing potential baby names! And now he'd gone and left her again!
"I can leave if I make you uncomfortable," Mr. Wayne offered, looking between Isabel and Roger. Roger looked positively disgraced, but Isabel shrugged.
"It doesn't matter anymore. He's already left."
Roger, in hushed tones that were unfortunately still audible, quickly chastised Isabel, "Enough about this John! He was never here! Please, try to be respectable, this is the Bruce Wayne-"
"-I think I've interrupted something," Bruce cut in. He smiled at Isabel. "Forgive me for my rudeness."
Dr. Elliot looked mortified. Isabel didn't take note of anyone in the room. Lucy was hiding in the hallway, having backed out a few moments ago.
"It's about time we took our leave anyway," Dick offered, smiling reassuringly at Roger, though the doctor wasn't looking up from his feet.
"Have you ever read it, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce, startled by the sudden question from Isabel, merely smiled as he turned his attention back to her.
"Read what?"
She didn't answer, plunging straight into another thought.
"The sky cried. The night that I found out I wasn't…" her hands lifted to her womb briefly, then fell back to her sides. She stared aimlessly at the spot that no one occupied, and asked seemingly no one,
"Were they tears of relief, or of loss?"
Dr. Elliot was perplexed by his fiancé's sudden admittance of her nonexistent baby, but her attention wasn't on him. She lifted her head to stare at Bruce Wayne.
"The tears cut my face, leaving these scars. Don't you think my outside now reflects my inside?"
Her eyes grew wide, and like a fog rolling over a valley, her expression changed from calm to wild. She was suddenly breathing rapidly, her chest heaving as tears crept into her eyes. Still, with determination, she faced Bruce.
Dr. Elliot grabbed at Isabel's wrist, trying to calm her down, "Isabel, please! Breathe… Remember the exercise! Breathe for four…three, four. Now hold for seven-" but she yanked away from him, taking a step towards Mr. Wayne.
"So I ask you, were they tears of sadness or relief?"
Bruce contemplated this, not looking between the puzzled faces surrounding him.
"I couldn't pretend to know how to answer-"
"-don't say what you think I want to hear. Tell me what you think, honestly."
Bruce blinked.
"I think what happened has happened. You can't wallow in what could have been, or what didn't happen. You have to keep on living."
Isabel smiled at this, the tension in her body relaxing. Surprisingly, she chuckled. Then, she began to laugh.
"Can I trouble you with one last question, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce was staring at her eyes, not seeing the woman before him. He saw something maddening in her eyes—something familiar.
"What do you think of the name Jason? For the baby?"
She again cradled her stomach.
"…I think it's a wonderful name."
The drive home was quiet. Bruce stared out the window. Dick sighed.
"Despite what her husband, or fiancé, said…maybe she should be in an asylum. Though I wouldn't put her on Quinn's level; she had moments of lucidity…What are you thinking, Bruce?"
Bruce didn't answer immediately.
"Was it "Rochef" with an 'f' or a 'v'?" Bruce asked.
Dick blinked.
"A 'v', I believe." Dick squinted at Bruce. "Why?"
"Dr. Elliot, her fiancé, said she used to work at Arkham…I wonder…"
It took Dick a few moments, but finally he pieced together some semblance of the thought path Bruce was traveling down.
"Is it because she said the name Jason? You don't think they knew each other when…" Right, another sore topic. "…and that he revealed his identity to her?"
Bruce tapped his finger rhythmically on the door of the limousine.
"John…she spoke to a John…"
Dick cocked a brow. "What are you thinking, Bruce…?"
Bruce suddenly pulled a com earpiece out from his pocket.
"Oracle?"
The faint buzz of Babs’ voice in Bruce’s earpiece was hardly audible to Dick.
"I need you to look into the career of an 'Isabel Rochev'. She served at Arkham Asylum. There also should be some medical records…"
Within a minute, Dick could hear Babs clearly declare a "done" through the com. Dick tried to hide his jealously of being left out of the loop, wishing he'd brought an earpiece himself to join in on the conversation.
He could just make out the words "nurse", "Arkham", and "traumatic". He sighed, straining to listen in.
"Give me the dates she worked at Arkham,” Bruce suddenly commanded
Dick couldn't make out any of the dates Babs told Bruce. Bruce, however, frowned.
"That lines up…Have the files up on the computer for when I return."
Without a goodbye, Bruce disconnected the line.
"Well?"
"Her dates of employment coincide with…"
When Jason was a patient.
"And?" Dick asked, curious.
Curiouser was Bruce's response.
"…I'm not sure…"
"You embarrassed not only yourself, but me as well—all in front of Bruce Wayne!" Roger was pacing around the hospital room, enraged but keeping his voice low. He didn't need any more unsuspected visitors leering in on his private matters.
Isabel showed no sign of remorse or care. She just stared out the window.
"Goddamnit, Isabel—couldn't you pretend to feel ashamed?!"
Roger instantly felt regret at these words, as Isabel absent-mindedly lifted a hand to her scarred face.
"That's not…Isabel, you know that's not what I mean-"
"-you're ashamed of me," Isabel repeated, still not looking at Roger. "You wished I hadn't said the things I said."
Roger sighed. That was right, but his anger was quickly being replaced with shame—at himself.
"Isabel, I…" he can't bring himself to say he didn't mean what he said. "Isabel, please…breathe. Count with me, four…three-"
"-fourthreetwoone!" She spat back at him, annoyed. Roger threw his hands up. One moment, she’s calm and unbothered—the next, she yells at him as if he’s the unreasonable one.
"I'll see you tomorrow. Take the medications the nurse brings you," he snaps, grabbing his coat to leave. The attending nurse had expressed concern to him earlier that Isabel was refusing her meds.
"Do you want…" Isabel hesitated, stopping herself, before continuing. "Do you really not want a life outside of here?"
Roger shook his head slowly, unable to follow Isabel's train of thought. She was rambling again, and no doubt not even talking to him. He just walked out of the room.
Isabel listened after Roger's fading footsteps until the hallway was silent. Her eyes then fell to John, who stood beside the window.
"Don't you?" She questioned him.
Barbara watched Jason's chest rise and fall. She frowned, turning the page in her book and unfolding the corner so as to continue from where she'd left off.
"There comes…"
She paused in her reading, her eyes and mouth working quicker than her mind. She swallowed a lump forming in her throat and continued, however. This was for Jason, she reminded herself.
"There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled at last; and this brief condescension to evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul."
She hesitated, pausing after this quote and setting the book down.
"I'm sorry," she apologized to deaf ears. "I know the read was so short," she laughed nervously. Read? That was barely a sentence. "I guess I just don't feel like reading today. Forgive me, will you, Jason?" She squirmed uncomfortably, setting her copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde down beside the vase of Dick's flowers.
Bruce’s request had come in half an hour ago, just as Barbara was about to head out. The details, and tone of Bruce’s voice, had unsettled her. She’d delayed leaving the manor, instead back tracking to Jason’s room. She’d thought maybe his presence would quiet her concerns.
She rolled the name over in her mind—Isabel Rochev—and played back the brief facts she’d relayed back to Bruce. A nurse at Arkham, with dates corresponding to Jason’s internment, and a medical file that included several cosmetic surgeries to her face and enough psychosis examinations to impress Quinn. Barbara had a few theories on what Bruce was thinking, but a art of her didn’t want to know.
No one had informed her when Jason had come back. Tim had been off planet, but Barbara had been half an hour away in her apartment; she’d been a click away on the coms. Yet no one had told her Jason had returned from the dead, and was plaguing Gotham City.
No one had told her, even after he died for a second time.
…Or when he’d resurfaced alive again.
It hadn’t been until Tim himself—also a victim of being left from the loop—had followed the bread crumbs and unearthed Jason’s existence in Arkham that she’d finally been told. Well, no—she still hadn’t been told until after Jason had been threatened at Arkham, a ploy of the Joker’s to expose the identity of the Red Hood, and after Tim and Bruce had argued, leading Tim to runaway to Dick’s apartment. Only then had she been brought in on Jason’s revival and return.
Everyone else had spoken to Jason. Everyone else had confronted him.
Barbara had seen his grainy image via Arkham security cameras, and heard his voice through muffled coms. She’d tried to construct these details, matching them to the Jason of her memory; aging him up and maturing his features. She’d pieced together the patchy descriptions she’d accumulated, from distraught Dick and brooding Bruce, to prepare herself for who Jason had become.
By the time she finally saw Jason again--in the flesh-- he’d been dying in his childhood bedroom.
(He may not be in critical condition anymore, but he wasn’t that much better off)
And the guilt that sat like a stone in her gut weighed on her heavily, because…
Because this isn’t Jason.
She sat before a stranger—where was the bright eyed youth she’d known? The Robin who beamed at Barbara with finds of damaged books at garage sales?—and she did not recognize him. There was no trace of the old Jason, in her eyes, in the body before her. This was a grown, scarred man with no will to live.
She heard a distant door, and the mutterings of Bruce and Dick—not quite arguing, but heatedly discussing something. She blinked back the ghost of tears—they were never in danger of falling, she was too composed for that—and turned her chair around.
She silently apologized to Jason, promising to properly read to him next time.
Dick followed Bruce the entire way into the Bat Cave—Barbara rolling in step behind him-- exasperated as Bruce was back to his old habits; sharing nothing.
"What is it? What about that woman has got you all…stirred up like this?"
Bruce put a hand to his chin. They'd greeted Barbara at the door and Bruce had just as quickly sent her home. It was rather late. Alfred offered to take her, to which Dick was grateful. Normally, he'd have escorted Babs home, but tonight he needed to follow Bruce.
"I can't reason it but…but she was just so similar…."
"Similar? To whom?"
"Jason."
Dick thought on it, but shook his head.
"I don't follow, B…"
"Her eyes."
Dick scratched at his head.
"Weren't they brown? Jason's are green-"
"-not the color. They were…"
Dead.
Her eyes were that of someone who was dead inside.
Just as Jason's had been.
The nurse was either unprofessional, or new—well, both was possible, too. Isabel ignored her, even as she stared and flinched at Isabel’s scars—no proper, experienced nurse would so openly display disgust at a patient’s condition.
If Isabel had been alone, then maybe the nurse’s rejection would have bothered her. However, John watched from the shadows, and his presence comforted her. Isabel breathed in through her nose, careful to keep her lips pressed in a neutral smile—if the nurse was disgusted by the scars, she’d be disturbed by the Cheshire grin that Isabel was compressing.
The nurse left paper cups of water and pills. Isabel hadn’t touched either in the past few days. The nurse expected no different today, and yet…
“Thank you.”
The attendant jumped as Isabel graciously reached for the meds, throwing her head back, and popped the pills into her mouth. She took a long, slow gulp of water, and set the cups back on the bedside table.
The nurse openly stared. That was new.
Isabel being cooperative?
Isabel nodded at the woman, who practically tripped on her retreat from the room, eager to report the docility of the most notoriously difficult patient of the ward.
Isabel watched her leave. Good. Go tell your superiors.
When the footsteps faded, Isabel brought fingers to her mouth, carefully retrieving the pills from beneath her tongue and pinching them into the dirt of Lucy’s ‘get well’ plant.
"John…" she cradled her stomach. "You'll come to me, won't you? You promised…you promised to be there for the delivery of our baby."
She smiled, and the lights of the city--so alive despite the hour-- danced across her eyes.
She'd died so many nights ago, when the glass had rained down on her.
She saw death in that moment, and coming back from the brink of it only made her feel closer to her true love.
John Doe.
"I think what happened has happened. You can't wallow in what could have been, or what didn't happen. You have to keep on living."
She smiled at the remembrance of these words. Mr. Wayne was right. What had happened, happened. She'd let John go once before. This time, she wouldn't.
She stood slowly, bringing herself to lean against the window, peeking through the blinds.
"You're out there now, aren't you John? Something is keeping you from me, but I know you'll find your way to me. We'll be together again. This time, we'll be a family."
She giggled softly, caressing her stomach as the city lights danced like flames in her eyes.
"Four…three…two…"
Now hold.
let me be the one
to carelessly wander
why not fight for them?
We would win but :
we we are shadows in the dirt in their eyes :