Crossing The Bar
By: Dannell Lites
Sunset
and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning
of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
~"Crossing The Bar"~Alfred
Lord Tennyson
He was the one who identified the body.
It went swiftly enough, all things considered. He had, after all, done this before, hadn't he? Practice makes perfect. This was a much larger body, though. A man; not a fifteen year old boy named Jason wearing a gaudy colorful costume.
Jim Gordon stood close by his side as the Coroner drew back the pale, pristine white sheet that covered the face. For an interminable instant his world spun and twisted with a sickening lurch until he forced it to right itself with an effort of will. He found himself staring down into wide sapphire blue eyes with no spark reflected in their endless depths. His guts roiled and churned. He considered the irony that the other had met his end staring up unafraid, accepting even, into the burning eyes of the Angel of Death.
'Well, I suppose that means you have your answer, now, don't you? You were never Death, after all.' he told the dead.
There was no answer, of course.
His breath came slow and even, calm and unhurried, because he forced it to bend to his will. He'd spent his youth learning control. It threatened to desert him, now; he refused to let it. But the muscles of his jaw tightened, rolling like thick cords underneath his chill skin.
'You couldn't do it, could you? You couldn't kill him. And you knew you wouldn't be able to bring yourself to do it, didn't you? When you left me, you *knew* ... ' Unbidden, he heard that low, musical voice once more.
"... if I survive... "
"You'll hear from me. Or *about* me ... "
He looked so peaceful, the watching man thought. The dead man was smiling slightly. Like a tired, sleepy little boy on the eve of Christmas falling into reluctant slumber, eagerly anticipating the coming morning with its piles of wondrous gifts and mounds of sticky, sugary candy. Not even the many cuts and bruises marring the smooth face could change that. Absently, he began to catalogue them with methodical plodding, the ease of long practice.
It was something to do.
Heart shaped bruise over the left temple. Fumikiri geri, cutting kick, most likely. Long, jagged laceration along the right cheekbone. Nukite uchi -spear hand strike. Another laceration splitting the full lips. Crane strike or possibly willow blow. Massive bruise covering at least a quarter of the high domed forehead. Head butt.
And, yes there it was. Small, tiny almost, virtually unnoticeable. Less than the size of a dime, lurking just under the sharp chin. Barely even discolored. Ura Zuki - close punch. Deathblow. He didn't need the Coroner to tell him death came as the result of a broken neck.
"Batman?" Jim Gordon's voice was low and quiet, as if he didn't wish to intrude but could see no other choice.
The Dark Knight blinked, then nodded, slowly. "Yes, that's ..."
The frown took him unawares.
What should he name him?
Should he call him by the masked identity most familiar to others?
Or should he, perhaps, in death, give him his *name*; the name he fought so hard to acquire. Struggled so long and bled for?
He'd earned it, after all.
" ... Jean Paul Valley. Azrael."
Discreetly, the Coroner moved in silence to cover the battered face once more. One dark gauntleted, implacable hand reached out to prevent it. "W -were his eyes," the Guardian of Gotham began and then brought his betraying voice under iron control. "Were his eyes open like that when they found him?" The Police Commissioner of Gotham City nodded.
The Batman's hand did not tremble even in the least when he reached out and slowly closed those accusing eyes and he was very glad of that.
Another hand, naked and exposed, untouched or protected by Kevlar or Nomex, lay itself lightly on his tense shoulder in comfort. "I'm sorry," said Gordon's quiet voice at his side. "He ... was one of yours, wasn't he?"
It surprised him that he scarcely needed to think before he answered.
"Yes."
He turned away, then, and allowed the Coroner to do his job. "Tell me what happened, Jim," he demanded in a gruff, harsh voice he bitterly recognized as his own.
Jim Gordon slipped his horn-rimmed glasses off his aquiline nose and absently began to nervously polish the immaculate lenses with his handkerchief. Batman waited patiently. His thoughts gathered, Gordon pushed his heavy glasses back onto his nose and cleared his throat. He was on familiar ground, now, The Batman sensed. Making a report.
"The Tavis Country Sheriff's Department called us early this morning. Double homicide. They dispatched two officers in a black and white out to the old Mission Français grounds to check for damage after that violent storm last night. It's pretty isolated out there according to them, so they try and keep a friendly eye on it when they can. The officers found two bodies. Unidentified male, early to mid twenties, wearing some 'strange clothing'. Female, mid to late twenties, at the bottom of a cliff. The woman was later identified as one Lilhy Dumas. Last known residence: The top two floors of the Gotham Arms Hotel, here in Gotham City. So they contacted us for information."
"Did they find an abandoned car? Late model silver-gray Porsche?"
The Commissioner frowned, shaking his graying head. "No, they didn't," he answered.
The Batman moved to turn away, but Jim Gordon put out his hand. "What do you know about this?" he urged. "Let me help you, dammit!" The Batman stood very still for a long moment, not looking back and a frustrated Jim Gordon thought that he was going to be ignored. It seemed a small eternity before The Batman spoke again in that cold, harsh voice. Beneath his insistent fingers, Gordon could feel the steel muscles relax, as if a difficult decision had been reached.
"Tell the Tavis County Sheriff's Department to issue a warrant for the arrest of Jeremiah Ezekiel Thompkins on suspicion of murder. Premeditated murder. He'll be accompanied by an unknown oriental man wearing 'strange clothing'. Advise them that under NO circumstances are they to approach or attempt to apprehend the man in the costume. He's extremely lethal. Way out of their league." The full lips thinned themselves into a long white line. "Leave him to *me*. Tell them to expect me soon. I'll forward files and photographs from the BatComputer. You can pass them along."
The pause was a tiny, insignificant thing; easily overlooked by someone less familiar with The Batman than Jim Gordon.
"And ... have them issue an APB on a 1999 silver-gray Porsche SLX99, license number GC181766. The car's registered to Bruce Thomas Wayne, resident of Gotham City. Registration number 6A00073BTW. Their murder victim was driving that car. Since it wasn't found on the scene the odds are that Thompkins and his false Azrael took it when they fled."
Jim Gordon's eyes flew open wide.
No, he decided. Now was not the time to contemplate the full implications of what he'd just been told. No. Not now.
"Thank you." His voice did not shake. He was very proud of himself for that. "If there's anything else I can do ... " He let the inadequate words trail off feeling too much like a weary, foolish old man.
Since The Batman was cowled, with his back to the shorter man, Jim Gordon could catch no glimpse of the pain in those deep arctic blue eyes. But the voice, when it answered him, was soft and very, very human.
"No, Jim. Thank *you*. I'll be in touch."
Jim Gordon was as surprised as anyone when he left by the door this time.
**********He found them waiting in the chapel. Barbara Gordon and Leslie Thompkins; sitting in silence ... waiting. Waiting for him, he knew. Forcing steel into his weary, sagging spine, he walked in, the sound of his boot steps echoing off the sepulchral, noiseless walls. He was not at his best, here, in this place. Churches frequently made The Batman nervous. Churches were for happy six year old little Brucie. Sunday School, listening attentively to his beautiful mother teach the weekly Lesson, holding her hand, wearing his best suit and brightest smile, feeling so awfully, awfully grown up. Saying his prayers every night.
But, when it counted most, God didn't answer those prayers, did he? Pastor Cummings' soft answer to a tearful small boy's plea. "God always answers prayers, Bruce. Always. It's just that sometimes the answer is, 'No'."
Like now.
Again.
Leslie looked up, staring at him with dull eyes that stabbed at The Batman in wordless accusation. With a sharp intake of breath of her own, Barbara reached out and took the older woman's hand, as if to protect her from what was coming.
"Leslie ... " His voice was harsher than he'd intended, he discovered to his regret. Too late, now, though. Too late for so many, many things. He was always too late, wasn't he?
The doctor stared at her resting hands. So still and quiet. Not even a tremor. "Don't bother," she said. The Batman winced at the resignation and dull, steady pain reflected in that too calm voice. "It's Jean-Paul, isn't it?" She didn't even wait for his tiny nod of affirmation. "I knew." The Batman winced. Her tone was neither cold nor accusatory. Just ... dead. "From the very beginning, I told myself I was a great fool for caring. That it was bound to come to this. Every time he left, every time you summoned him, I waited for this. All the while castigating myself for my folly. But ... he slipped in under my guard, you see. Conquered me when I wasn't looking."
His hands knotted themselves into fists.
"He ... was good at that."
She met his eyes. "Like someone else I know ... " she said.
He looked away. His breath came in deep, ragged gasps until he calmed it.
Barbara must have released her hand, he thought later, because the small hand that reached out, cupping his chin, forcing him to turn and face her once more, was soon joined by another. She framed his face with her physician's hands, trained in the arts of healing and comforting those in pain and the dying. With a swift motion like a strong, wind, warm and soothing, she swept the cowl from his face and stroked the night dark hair beneath.
"Take off the mask," she insisted firmly. "Take off the damn mask. I don't want to talk to The Batman. I *can't* talk to The Batman. The Batman won't understand what I have to say. But Bruce Wayne will. I *hope*."
"He's listening." came the quiet response. But, to her dismay, the mask quickly replaced itself.
"Bruce," she pleaded, "don't do this to yourself. Please. Damn you, I won't let you. I won't lose you, too, do you hear me? I *won't*. God help me, I've fought for you since you were barely six years old. I've watched you smother Bruce Wayne, kill him inch by inch by bloody inch. All in the name of Justice. Well, where is justice for Bruce Wayne? And I can't watch it any more, I can't. You didn't kill Jean-Paul. And you didn't kill your parents, either. You were only six years old, for God's sake! You can stop punishing little Bruce Wayne for that, now. You didn't kill them!"
"Didn't I?" The bitterness ringing in his voice, like stale soured brine left too long to fester in its neglected oaken keg, surprised even him.
She shook him and he did not stop her.
"Stop it!" she cried. "Stop it! Jean-Paul's dead. There's nothing you can do to change that. Nothing. Neither can I. But what we can do is try to see that some good comes out of this horror. Jean-Paul would want that."
He thought of Jeremiah Thompkins' false Azrael.
"I feel I have to save him ... "
The weakness that made him lower his head onto her shoulder for a moment shamed him. Slowly, he rose and straightened the concealing cowl, his battered, almost breached armor, into its proper lines with sure fingers.
"I'll ... try," he vowed.
The small delicate hand that squeezed his larger calloused one was strong. The hand of a healer and a surgeon.
"I know you will," Doctor Leslie Thompkins said.
He knelt again at her side. "I promise you, Leslie, I'll find Jerry for you. I'll find him and then I'll get him help. I *promise*."
She closed her eyes for only a moment. But when she opened them again he was gone, melted into the gathering shadows as if he'd never been there at all. Barbara Gordon was almost smiling through the grief that ravaged her lovely face.
"Now I know how he does that," she murmured.
**********Alone on the hospital roof, he shot out a jump line and leapt out into the yawning void, free falling ...flying ... flying ...
Dick was right to love this so, he thought. The city ... *his* city ... spread itself out before him like an anxious lover and he embraced it with all that he had left to give.
He had one more stop to make.
**********Sharp ears brought him the sounds of soft music playing in the small apartment.
I sat within the valley green
I sat with my true
love
The dulcet tenor voice of Tommy Clancy lulled him for a moment, crouching there unseen on the small ledge. He was not a devotee of Irish music, but this song he remembered well.
My sad heart had to choose
between
Old Ireland and my love
I looked at her and then I thought
How
Ireland was torn
While soft the wind blew down the glen
And shook the
golden corn
It was the work of but an instant to jimmy the window lock and slip silent and uninvited into the small room. Dr. Brian Bryan lived frugally, it seemed. Immediately his nose brought him the stale scent of alcohol wafting from the rumpled figure sprawled unconscious on the comfortable looking couch. He wrinkled his nose. The half empty bourbon bottle, fallen to the floor from numb fingers, spoke with simple eloquence of the sorrow that lived here, now.
He searched the cabinets and found the coffee in the top one, hiding behind colorful blue and yellow boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. His hand betrayed him and shook slightly when he spied the label. Jamaica Blue Mountain. Jean-Paul's favorite. Alfred's fine, tasteful hand in that he'd always suspected.
Alfred ...
Someone *else* who was gone.
He found the Jameson's in plain sight in the lower cabinet and brought it out. When the coffee was ready he carried the aromatic cup and the whiskey bottle into the living room, sat them both on the living room table, and waited.
He didn't have to wait long. Within moments Bryan began to stir. Scrubbing his craggy face, the physician sat painfully up, lowering his head onto his knees when he saw the coffee and the whiskey awaiting him.
"It's up to you," said the harsh voice from out of the shadows and Bryan had the presence of mind *not* to jump. He wasn't really surprised, after all. "It always was. You can pick up either one of them; the coffee or the liquor. Decide."
Almost a full minute passed before an unsteady hand reached out to warm itself over the steaming coffee cup, breathing in the fragrance of the dark brew.
"Ahhh, you're a hard man you are, boyo," he declared, taking his first sip. "Come out of the shadows, for God's sake. You'll not be needing them here."
"I'm comfortable in the shadows," the voice replied, softer now.
"And now wouldn't *that* be giving dear old Sigmund a hard pecker, it would?" the older man smiled. Not a pleasant sight. When there was no reply, the psychiatrist's face clouded with his rage like a stormy day.
"Come out of the fookin' shadows, ye bastard!" he snarled, his accent thickening with his wrath. "I want to see yair bloody face! I want to *see* the man who killed him."
When he stepped forward into the light the lenses in his cowl adjusted themselves to the brightness, so he didn't even blink.
"Here I am, Brian," he said quietly.
And in the background, almost unnoticed, the song played on.
So blood for blood without
remorse
I've taken in the glen ...
I placed my true love's clayful
corpse
I've joined true Irish men
"Does it get any easier with time, I'm wondering?" Brian demanded. "The death and the loss? Identifying bodies, taking yair revenge, then calling the scales balanced? I'm thinking it must. How many others have you sent to their deaths, ye obsessed ghoul? A dozen? Twenty? More? How many soldiers lie dead on yair personal battlefield, buck-o? What's the body count?"
He stood rock steady; did not flinch at the word "soldier". Would not let himself.
Jason Alan Todd, the tombstone read. A Good Soldier.
And this newest tombstone in his garden of graves ... what would it read?
Jean-Paul Valley. Another Good Soldier?
"Doctor Bryan, I need your help." he said simply. And waited.
The muscles of the other man's face twitched and spasmed, working themselves violently, like a sun burning itself out in the noiseless void of space. The full bottle of expensive Irish whiskey flew across the room, shattering into a thousand pieces with an almost musical sigh, amber beads of savory moisture flowing slowly down the anointed wall, releasing the strong odor of peat and a warm crackling fire into the still calm air of the small room.
"Damn ye!" Brian cried and it was a broken sound like the remnants of the shattered whiskey bottle laying forgotten on the hardwood floor. "Damn ye to Hell ... "
"*Will* you help me?"
The stout, barrel-chested man sank back down onto the couch like a puppet with no strings to support its wooden weight. He buried his head in his broad hands. But even through that fleshly barrier, he could not block out the sight of the dark shadow cast by the other man.
And The Batman waited.
"What - what do you want?" Brian Bryan finally whispered.
Beneath his cowl, The Batman's face drew itself into lines of patience and burning intelligence, prepared to listen and learn.
"You kno - knew Jean-Paul better than anyone," he said. "Understood what it was that made him Azrael. I need that knowledge, doctor. You see, there's another Azrael out there ... the one who killed Jean-Paul. And I've got to stop him."
Brian Bryan, the self-confessed 'world's worst psychiatrist', took a deep breath and, after a moment, began to speak.
And, still unnoticed in the stillness, Tommy Clancy sang on.
But 'round her grave I wander drear
Sometimes in early morn
-And with breaking heart sometimes I hear
The wind that shakes the corn
...
Three Months Later:
The tall oriental man stood staring down at the grave for long moments, his face an impassive mask. In the hidden distance, sharp eyes watched him. He was motionless, still as a statue, the harsh winter wind blowing around him, leaving heavy wet flakes of snow to pepper the dark hair. The light dusting of falling snow covering the gravestone leant the recumbent figure of the fallen Angel straining upward toward Heaven a particular poignancy, the watching man decided. Silently, he read the chiseled inscription on the stone.
JEAN-PAUL VALLEY
Friend Fellow
striver against the Shadows ...
The standing man's shallow breath barely disturbed the frozen air, issuing forth only as a thin stream of white to announce itself.
Time to make himself known, the watcher thought.
"Hello, Azrael."
The figure did not spin or start. In fact, he barely moved at all. He merely crouched, automatically assuming a defensive stance and waiting for his unseen opponent to move.
Bruce Wayne stepped from the shelter of the concealing tree in the tiny graveyard of the sprawling Wayne estate, and considered the irony that neither of them were wearing their protective masks. No armor to shield either of them from the harsh reality of the other.
Or the harsh reality of the lonely grave at which they gathered.
Whatever happened here, he knew, would lie between Bruce Wayne and -
He did not know the other man's name, he suddenly reminded himself.
"Brian said you'd come here. That all I really had to do was wait. He was right, I see. As a matter of fact, you've been here four times in the last month. I've watched you."
The other man tensed, though he said nothing. But, then, neither did he flee.
Wayne smiled; a tiny thing almost invisible in the frigid air.
"Oh, that's right. I forgot. You're not much of a talker. Jean-Paul explained that about you. Neither am I, usually. But I think I can manage for the two of us. I've had some practice at that recently. I have another young friend who doesn't speak much. Her name's Cassandra. You'll like Cassie when I introduce you two. You've got a lot in common."
The other man almost seemed to relax a bit, then. Good, Wayne decided. He was being as deliberately non-threatening as he could. No small accomplishment for The Batman. Still, he did not approach the skittish youth any closer. No sense taking chances. And he did not want to pursue Azrael. Emboldened by seeming success, he thrust his chill hands into the deep pockets of his coat.
"Do you have a name?" he asked. "I mean, I can't just call you 'Hey, you!'"
The younger man lowered his eyes. "Azrael," he said, after a moment.
Wayne would not allow The Batman to frown. "No," he said softly, "I mean your *name*. Tell me your name. My name is Bruce."
Hesitation. War waged itself in those dark eyes. A war that Bruce Wayne knew all too well. A war for trust. *Would* Azrael trust this stranger Bruce Wayne? Trust did not come easily to either of them, it seemed.
A tentative hand perched lightly on a muscular shoulder. A deep, trusting voice ringing with the accents of Middle America. 'My name's Clark, my friend. Clark Kent.' The bottomless void that opened up in his roiling, churning stomach, threatening to consume him before he conquered it. The shaky hand that slowly pushed back the cowl. 'Hello, Clark. My name is Bruce.'
The passing moments crawled like cautiously advancing slug-like centuries until the answer finally came.
"Shang Chi." Blunt, killing fingers touched the middle of his chest to confirm the name.
Wayne made a slight bow; an inclination of the head. A courtesy between equals. "A fine name," he said in perfect Cantonese, the most common dialect of Chinese. It was not likely that the boy spoke Mandarin, after all. "It means, 'the raising and advancing of a spirit', does it not? An auspicious name, young friend."
Crouching, the adventurous millionaire traced the symbols of the fortuitous name in the snow and smiled. Cautiously, the Chinese youth crept closer for a better view.
"Eight letters. A lucky number. You are most fortunate." He looked up, his sharp blue eyes studying the younger man. "Were you born in Hong Kong? Kowloon?"
The onyx dark eyes widened briefly in surprise, but the nod of assent was small, almost imperceptible. Wayne nodded in return. Quickly, his fingers drew a wide circle, then quartered it, hastily filling the girth with the many signs and symbols of a Chinese geomancer.
"You were born in one of the years of the Dragon, I think. Your element is fire. Fire and destruction. Born in Kowloon you are oriented towards the West. Towards the Shouting Winds. Another sign of destruction. Feng shui advises that you must be especially careful entering and leaving large, inviting doorways. You must always enter them from the East ... towards the Calming Winds. The door leading into The Order of St. Dumas was huge, wasn't it? Irresistible. But you mustn't be afraid. The door leading away from them faces the East and is small and humble. My guess is that you were born in the Hour of The White Dawn. Around five of the clock. When the shadows are retreating; falling, vanishing before the coming Light. That's your salvation. It means that you have a powerful streak of loyalty and compassion to guide your strong chi in times of trouble. Times like these." Dusting the snow from his hands, the faux playboy rose.
"You ran away from him, didn't you? Left Jeremiah Thompkins to his madness and his crusade. Hid yourself. But you know where he is."
Azrael did not reply.
"That's all right," Bruce Wayne said nodding, his voice very calm. "You don't have to tell me where he is until you're ready. Or I'll find him myself. Without you he's not a very big threat. But I promised his sister Leslie that I'd find him and get him help. And I will. I think you'd feel better if you were a part of that. And ... well, I can't make you any promises, but ... I'm sure it'll go much better for you with the authorities if you help bring Jeremiah to justice and the therapy he needs. Under the circumstances, it should be easy for you to plead 'diminished capacity', especially if you cooperate with the court. I can introduce you to a smart man named Brian who can help with that. Lawyers won't be a problem. I know some of the best. And if The Batman testifies on your behalf, explains what was done to you ... I expect the court will be inclined to leniency."
The Dark Knight stepped closer and, surprisingly, the younger man did not retreat. One broad hand lay itself lightly on the tense shoulder offering comfort.
"I think you owe it to Jean-Paul to give yourself a chance. We - both do. He couldn't kill you. And you didn't want to kill him. You spared him once, in the desert. And you'd have done it again if you could have. But the voice of Jeremiah Thompkins was right there shouting at you. *Ordering* you. And Azrael *must* obey. No, you had no choice. You had no choice. But Jean-Paul did. He *chose* to die. So that you could live. You two were the only ones in the world who understood what it was like, being Azrael. He called you 'brother'."
Silent as a shadow, Shang Chi slipped to the frosty ground, covering his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. "... regret ..." he choked in broken English, " ... not want ... not want ... he say to me, 'Better that it is I ...'" To hide his shame, the youth buried his head against the warmth of a strong thigh, clutching at the dark cloth with frantic fingers as if it were the sole solace in his despairing universe.
Feather light, scarred fingers touched the sable head. Then, kneeling to look into the young man's jet dark eyes, Bruce Wayne cupped the strong chin with his hands. "You mustn't be sad," he urged. "Your brother wouldn't want that for you. Don't you see? Jean-Paul wanted this. He wanted me to help you. And ... and you to help *me*. There's a lot you could teach me. About caring and reaching out. A lot we could teach each other. Will you come and learn with me?"
Rising, the hero of Gotham held out his hand in invitation.
Long seconds passed before, uncertain and not quite trembling, another hand folded itself into his with great trust.
"You must be freezing," the squire of Wayne Manor observed, leading the other man to one of the many entrances to the Manor. "Don't you have a coat?"
Embarrassed, Shang Chi shook his head.
Without a word, Wayne slipped off his long cashmere topcoat and slid it over the other's shivering shoulders. "We'll take care of that soon enough," he smiled.
As they approached the doorway, the young oriental paused and stared with wide eyes up at the imposing edifice sprawling before him. Wayne chuckled. "Don't worry," he encouraged. "This door faces the East. And you can see that it's quite small and very simple. I picked it especially for you."
The smile that claimed Azrael's not so inscrutable features was a tiny thing, almost unnoticeable. But it was there, nonetheless. With only the slightest hesitation the youth stepped forward and then through the open doorway with firm purposeful strides of his long legs.
Seating his young guest in the kitchen, Wayne scrabbled through the voluminous cabinets, frowning, pushing aside aromatic bottles and boxes of exotic spices and canisters full of flour and baking soda.
"It's got to be in here somewhere!" he muttered, darkly.
"It's in the lower cabinet, over the sink," instructed a calm cultured English voice. "Next to the Earl Grey. You never could find anything in the kitchen, Master Bruce."
Heart pounding with wild joy, Bruce Wayne turned to face the slim, well-dressed Englishman standing in the kitchen door. His eyes sparkled. Clutching the tin of tea tightly in his hand, he drew a deep breath.
"Alfred. You came back," he murmured.
Laying aside his ubiquitous umbrella, Alfred Pennyworth smiled. "And just in time, I see," he opined. "Here, you'd best give me that," he said, reaching for the tea. Bruce handed it over gratefully. And if his hand lingered just a bit longer than was utterly necessary ... what of that? "Ginseng tea is quite delicate. I shudder to think of the mess you could make of it," the gentleman's gentleman remarked.
"Am I growing up, Alfred? Learning to work and play well with others?" Wayne whispered.
Alfred turned from the stove where he'd set the copper kettle on to boil. "Indeed," he replied. "And so you are, young man." He sounded pleased as he reached out to briefly squeeze Bruce's muscular forearm in reassurance. "Indeed."
Bruce swallowed. "I'm ... trying ... old friend, " he vowed. "I'm trying."
"No one ever asked more of you, Bruce," Alfred whispered in his ear as he pulled him close. For a long moment they embraced one another, basking in the warmth and comfort to be found in the nearness of another caring person. "I came as soon as I heard about young Master Jean-Paul," the valet said sadly. Before Bruce could reply, Alfred stepped away, regarding with hopeful eyes the quiet youth sitting at the table.
"I see you've made a new friend," he smiled.
Wayne nodded. "Alfred," he began the introduction, "This is Shang Chi. Azrael. He'll be staying with us."
Alfred bowed slightly from the waist, as was proper for one member of the family to another. "Welcome, Son of Heaven," he said. "The Middle Kingdom rejoices."
When the tea was ready, steeped to perfection, the butler poured three cups and joined the two others already seated at the table. He sighed, sipping the fragrant, calming tea.
They had a lot to discuss.
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