The flight landed right on time, and Dick awoke to find himself staring into the eyes of the pretty blonde mini-skirted stewardess. She was kneeling beside his first-class seat, shaking him awake. "We've landed, Mr. Mathews. You've reached your destination." He hoped he hadn't been snoring, grinned and blinked, then got his briefcase and trotted down the jet's stairway to the tarmac into the sunny Paris morning. He couldn't stop grinning.

Ducking into the airport VIP lounge, Dick checked his reflection in the bathroom. Was his mustache a little crooked, or was it his imagination? Better safe than sorry. The skin above his upper lip stung a little when he pulled it off and he pressed his finger onto the red line that momentarily appeared where the mustache had been. Working quickly, he cleaned off the adhesive residue from his face and the appliance before reapplying the glue and carefully aligning and attaching the pencil thin line of real hair back in place. Then he combed his hair, straightened the lapel of his hip new brown corduroy jacket and winked at himself in the mirror. "Grayson, you've it going on," he said, then caught himself and used his 'Dave Mathews' voice. And name. Twice. It was always hard to tell for sure, listening to yourself, but he'd practiced the voice at home, taping and listening, and he'd come away pretty pleased with the results. He smiled at his reflection and gave himself a thumbs up.

Dick headed for baggage claim and waited to collect his luggage, tapping his foot with impatience, a grin still plastered on his face. The smile barely dimmed, even a half hour later when the last of the bags were claimed by his fellow passengers and it looked like his had gone on to Rome. Good thing he had all the important stuff in his briefcase. He filled out a missing items form and hailed a taxi.

At one o'clock, the cab dropped him at 1818 Rue de Matin, the DuMarier estate at the edge of the city. A garden party was in session, and elegant guests were scattered across the green expanse of carefully landscaped lawn. Within fifteen minutes, Dick had infiltrated the waiter's station, pilfered and donned a proper jacket and apron, and commandeered a tray of champagne. Time to circulate amongst the international socialites and celebrities.

Zeroing in on his target, Dick approached a party of two playing croquet on the sunny lawn: a tall, handsome, impeccably dressed man and a slim, dark-haired girl in a yellow floral party dress. Silver tray balanced perfectly in one hand, Dick negotiated the slight roll of the carefully manicured landscape, catching bits of the couple's conversation as he grew closer.

"I'm gaining on you, Bruce," the young woman said, striking mallet to ball with a satisfying thwack.

"Not quite well enough, I'm afraid," Bruce said, striding languidly toward his ball, about ten feet away.

Voice aiming for a full octave lower than his usual register, Dick interrupted the couple. "Champagne?"

"Oh, champagne," the girl said, electric blue eyes darting to the fizzing crystal flutes Dick held aloft. "Oui."

Bruce didn't look up, squaring his shoulders and gauging the playing field. "Petit chou, I wonder if you are old enough?" He chuckled, low in the back of his throat. It wasn't an authentic laugh, and it wasn't even the millionaire playboy laugh. Maybe Bruce was tired, after two weeks of playing the part.

"I won't tell my parents, if that's what you mean," she said, pushing back a strand of dark hair and taking a glass. "You have to know I don't tell them everything."

"Mais oui, Lorena," Bruce answered. "And I believe I have some rather bad news, dear." He raised his mallet. The strike was perfect, and his red ball rolled with a smack into her green one, knocking it aside before rolling through two wickets.

Dick cleared his throat, then said, in flawless French. "Two wickets and a roquet on one stroke, sir. Very nice."

Bruce's eyes narrowed and flicked up to really look at the waiter. Then he grinned, as warm a smile as Dick had seen on his face in months.

With a fluid, perfect roll his arm, Dick extended the silver tray of sparkling drinks.
"Champagne, monsieur?"

"On second thought, yes." Bruce said, moving toward him, still grinning.

"And I'll want another glass, Bruce." The girl said, her voice bordering on a whine. "See?" She drained most of the flute she was currently holding in three little slurps, then giggled. "It tickles!" she said, stepping unsteadily toward her ball, her heels wobbly in the green grass.

Bruce's laugh was directed at her, and it was false, but his eyes, focused on Dick, were smiling, mischievous. He reached for a crystal flute. "Merci, garçon."

"But of course, monsieur," Dick said, continuing their little charade, in his best version of Alfred, were Alfred from another country. "But is the lady old enough to indulge in such refreshment?"

"Darling," Bruce said over his shoulder, his eyes still on Dick. "Darling, quell âge avez-vous?"

The girl, who'd been taking her shot, either didn't hear her companion or had decided to ignore him. Bruce shrugged, broad, muscular shoulders rolling up, then down in a semblance of helplessness. "It's no use, I'm afraid. She doesn't speak much French. Or English, if the words are more than one or two syllables."

"Bruce, what are you talking about?" she called. "Me?"

"He inquired whether you were of age, my dear."

The girl came closer, smiling vacuously her small fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass. "That's a bit cheeky for a waiter, is it not?" She glared at Dick, then smiled slyly at Bruce, batting her lashes a bit. "And after all, I'm in France, aren't I?"

"Indeed you are, mon petit chou." Bruce nodded, speaking to her but winking at Dick, while simultaneously digging something from his pocket. "As am I, so why not indulge a bit. Paris is lovely today. Why not toast to that?"

Bruce took a second flute, balancing them both between the fingers of one large hand, then used the other to place a few folded franc notes on the space the glasses had occupied. His eyes were dancing, crinkled at the corners with pleasure.

"Payment is not necessary, monsieur," Dick said, wondering what Bruce was up to, but playing along.

"Ah, but I insist, dear boy. I like to take care of business as I go. Attend to details. So I must give you a little something for your trouble." Bruce used his index finger to gently tap the folded bills, and the edge of something silver peeked out, shining against the white linen napkin that lined the tray. A key.

Dick scooped the bills and key into his pocket just before the girl got close enough to deposit her empty glass and take the new one Bruce presented to her. She clinked it against Bruce's. "To Paris, then. And all it's exciting new adventures.

"Mm," Bruce answered, his eyes flicking to Dick and then past him, scanning the lawn and a group of guests collecting near the rose garden. "I do believe we need to join our hosts for lunch, dear. And I'm afraid I won't be able to join you for dinner, after all, Lorena."

She frowned.

Bruce took her arm, patting it soothingly as he began to steer her toward the other guests. "I know, ma chère." He formed a moue of disappointment, but his eyes sparkled. "I have a friend meeting me at the Paris Ritz." Looking back over his shoulder at Dick, he winked, then touched his watch and threw what Dick thought for a moment was a victory sign, before he realized Bruce meant 2:00.

Dick grinned back.

Swinging open the door to Suite 512, Dick could only think that the Paris Ritz was very, very ritzy indeed. Done in yellow and ivory Louis XIV style, it wasn't exactly to his taste, but it was swanky. He wandered through the suite's sitting area, and was out on the sunny balcony, taking in the view of the Seine, when he heard Bruce come in.

"Dick, shame on you." Bruce grabbed him by the shoulders, grinning. "And Alfred is implicated too, I suppose." For a moment, Dick thought he was going to be hugged, but it passed, though Bruce's hands stayed, gripped like vises on his upper arms. "I've never been so surprised to see you in my life."

"I fooled you there for a minute, didn't I?"

"For a split second, I thought the DuMarier family had employed an inappropriately convivial waiter, but then I saw it was you—turn around, let me look." Bruce's hand on his shoulder shifted, pushing to steer him clockwise. "It's a good disguise, Dick. Well-chosen, good wardrobe, and the pencil mustache is an unexpected touch for you." He clapped him on the back. "Nicely played. Gordon gave you my itinerary, I suppose?"

Dick nodded. "He did."

"And how did you get out of school a day early?"

"Alfred called the principal and—"

"I can't believe Alfred would be complicit in helping you miss extra school."

"You already told the school I'd be missing the other few days, and that you'd make sure I studied," Dick rolled his eyes. "And my French teacher is in love with you for saying you'd make sure I took in some Parisian culture. Besides, it's just one more day and he knows it's for a good cause.

"And that is, besides you surprising me a day early at a garden party?"

"For whatever you needed my help with, that's what. You sounded so funny on the phone—"

"Really?"

"Really, Bruce." Dick waited, but Bruce obviously wasn't going to say anything else. Dick took a deep breath and decided to move on. "And—"

"Yes?"

"What?"

"Is there another reason?"

"Well, yeah, Bruce."

"You mean 'yes, Bruce.'"

"What?"

"Yes. Not yeah, please."

Dick sighed. "Yes, Bruce. I wanted to see if I could fool you."

Bruce cocked an amused eyebrow.

"I mean, I know I didn't fool you for long. But I did surprise you. I just wanted to," Dick hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "show you what I could do. Get to try out my disguise skills on somebody… like you."

"Indeed." Bruce brought his hand up to Dick's face. "Somebody exactly like me." He ran his index finger over Dick's upper lip, tracing the thin line of the false mustache. "Although you've done that many, many times before, Dick."

"Bruce, that tickles. And I've only ever been Robbie Malone before."

Bruce's eyes narrowed, his finger stilling. "Now, Dick, you know that's not exactly accurate. Really now."

"And a girl. I've been a girl," Dick cut in, just to get it over with. "Back before I was—like I am now." He took a very small step backwards, away from Bruce's ticklish finger, and looked down at the thick, expensive hotel room rug.

"Dick?" Bruce closed the distance between them, moving his hand to Dick's chin and raising it until he was staring right into Bruce's dark blue eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm too old to play a girl—now—Bruce." Dick took a deep breath and tried to plaster on his gamest smile. "Look at me. I'm old enough to wear a fake mustache and fool people with it."

"Ah." Bruce smiled. It was a small smile, and either very gentle, or very strained. His eyes weren't meeting Dick's anymore, but focused somewhere past him. Still holding Dick's chin, he absently stroked Dick's cheek with his thumb. "You are indeed turning from an exceptional boy into an exceptional young man."

Dick felt his cheek heat with a blush under Bruce's thumb. "Gosh, Bruce," he said, and pulled away slightly to get Bruce to let go.

"Mm hm." Bruce interrupted. He didn't seem to be really listening, and his eyes were still a little far-off. "Is it an homage to Matches?" he asked, testing the ends of the appliance, tugging gently, then rubbing the pad of his thumb against the grain.

"Um, maybe? I didn't really think about it." It was weird to talk when his lips were brushing against someone else's fingers. "Seriously, Bruce." Dick ducked his head to dodge Bruce's hand and escape the tickling sensation. "Wouldn't it be a great disguise for me to use on this job?"

"On a job, perhaps. Actually, I had something else in mind for this particular case."

"I thought you might—"

"So you decided to sway me into trying something else?" Bruce smiled indulgently. "What do you call this character you've developed, Dick?"

"Dave Mathews."

"Well, Dave Mathews, I have an appointment to keep, but I'd love to fill you in on all the details of this case. Perhaps over dinner?"

"Sure, Bruce."

Bruce checked his watch. It's three now. I have a suspect I'm shadowing with a three-thirty appointment at the Arc de Triomphe.

"Need backup, boss?" Dick asked, hopeful.

Bruce shook his head. "Regrettably, no. You need to be briefed first, and I won't have time until tonight. That's part of the reason I wanted you to come tomorrow. That, and I didn't want you to miss any more school than was absolutely necessary."

"It's really okay with the school, Bruce."

"Hmm. Says the young man who is 'all grown up'. Well, I did promise them I'd see to it that you studied while you were here. Where are your books?"

"The airlines lost one of my bags. Luckily," Dick said, rolling his eyes, "I had my books in the case I carried on." Dick gestured toward the small case in the sitting area.

Bruce clapped a hand on his back in commiseration. "Well, hit the books for a bit, Dick. I'm going to keep an eye on a dragon lady and her mystery contact."

"Sounds interesting! I'd sure like to hear about it."

Bruce shrugged. "It's nothing compared to everyday Gotham patrol, but we'll have a nice dinner together tonight and I'll catch you up on everything."

Dick tried to focus on trigonometry, then something for World Lit, but the Paris afternoon and the chaise lounge on the balcony lured him into a nap. He fell asleep with The Iliad open across his chest, and woke to find that the afternoon was turning to evening, the shadows were getting longer, and that one shadow in particular was looming over him, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over Bruce's face.

"Good book, Dick?" Bruce said, wryly cocking an eyebrow.

"Hey, I think I had jet lag." Dick yawned, stretching his arms. "How'd surveillance go?"

"Mostly a waste of time, I'm afraid." Bruce shrugged. "Dick, about these…" he held up a sheaf of papers he'd retrieved from the sitting room.

"Uh-huh. I put them out for you."

"I've read the first few pages."

"Good. You can see nothing has really—"

"You typed these reports." Bruce interrupted, pacing a few steps back and forth in front of Dick's chair.

"Yes…"

"You coded them." Bruce turned and strode inside, where Gotham's daily reports were fanned across the table.

Dick jumped up and followed. "Well, yes."

"I thought Clark was going to do that."

"Bruce," Dick said, sinking into one of the two the heavily upholstered couches. "He's just not as good at that stuff."

"Hmm." Bruce frowned, sitting down on the opposite couch. He gathered the stack of reports, then abruptly changed the subject. "Ready for dinner?"

"I guess so. Isn't it a little early?"

Bruce shrugged. "Going like that? The mustache makes you look older, I think."

"What if we run into your little friend?"

"Who?"

"Petit chou chou?"

"Lorena? I was only entertaining the poor girl because she seemed lonely."

Dick snorted, leaning back to flop down and lie on the couch. "Sure, Bruce."

"Actually, it's part of my cover here, entertaining Lorena."

"Yeah. Well, okay, boss. She did seem a little young, though. A lot young, really. But what if we see her?"

"She'll just have to think," Bruce's tone is playful, "that I prefer a certain member of the DuMarier help staff as my dinner companion, that's all. Unless you'd prefer I don some disguise as well? I could slum it a bit, too."

"Really? That would be so much fun, Bruce. But maybe not full Matches Malone, okay, Bruce?"

"Don't you like the plaid, Dick?"

"Well, it's just that I'm not Robbie tonight. I'm…Dave Mathews. An average Joe."

"Ah. I see." Bruce beamed at him.

"You did say I couldn't always be Robby Malone, Bruce."

"Indeed I did. Perhaps I can just be an average joe as well tonight. Something between Matches Malone and Millionaire Playboy."

"Neither one of them are average, Bruce."

"My point entirely, Dick."

"But closer to Matches than Millionaire, right?"

"On the spectrum, yes. I'll just part my hair differently, let myself show a bit of a five o'clock shadow, dress down a bit. We could go and see how the other half lives, over something plebian."

"Yeah!" Dick said, and then sat up. Mentally noting with a smile that somehow his brain was connecting poor grammar with poor posture, he sat up a little straighter, waiting for Bruce to correct his slang.

Bruce, however, was already heading to change clothes and didn't seem the least perturbed.

Dick called after him, relaxed silliness creeping into his voice. "We could get hamburgers!"

"I hardly think Alfred would forgive me for allowing you to eat like that in one of the great cities of the worl—"

"But we would be enjoying the local food," Dick yelled back, setting up his punch line, "if we got 'French' fries!"

Bruce's groan was audible, but Dick could only just laugh as he collapsed back into the couch cushions.