Warning: This story will elude to the eventual events of the episode "Old Wounds". There won't be blatant spoilers, just general hintings.

Important Note: This story was originally going to be posted entirely in my "The War Goes On" story collection, but it had other plans... So for those of you who read this first chapter that way, you're not seeing double! ;) As of posting this, there is something brand new in "The War Goes On" to take this one's place.

A/N: What was going to be a substantial little ficlet for "TWGO" grew into this behemoth, so it deserves its own place. It could be said this is not my best work, but I truly am proud of how it turned out considering this topic is very complex. This short story will be in four parts. The remaining two of the four are completely written and currently being edited, while the fourth is halfway finished.

He was done; he was finally finished, and this time, it was no bluff call. No more games, no more dancing merrily (or not quite so) around the issue as if doing so would magically cause it to disappear. He was, at long last, quitting this impossible charade once and for all. Robin had been standing in the shadow of the Bat for long enough; it was high time that he finally be acknowledged as the capable individual he was.

If not by the citizens, then at the very least by the old man himself. After all he had done for Gotham and for Bruce, he deserved so much more than to be relegated to just another expendable extension of Batman's long-reaching arm of justice.

Dick Grayson had learned to let those feelings go in the past, however painful it was to bite back the hot words that often wished to spring past his tongue. After all, he had twelve years of practice in perfecting the act of bottling up his emotions.

But after the recent events of this particular evening, the realization came to him quite vividly that despite his feeble attempts to put his anger to bed for the greater good of all, the contempt he had unknowingly harbored toward his position as seemly just another one of Bruce's puppets to be manipulated as he wished had not dissipated as Dick had thought. In fact, it had mutated into something larger, something infinitely more impossible to ignore. He was bitter, angry, and his patience had at long last run dry.

On top of it all, he was getting the classic, Batman-style cold shoulder again, just because he had chosen a different approach other than the one blindly given to him without even acknowledging the possibility of his own input on the situation. So, instead of sticking his tail between his legs like he had always done before and yielding to the powers-that-be, Robin had acted on his own honed instincts.

His little defiance of authority (despite its apparent effectiveness in getting the job done) had earned him a Dark Knight-approved lecture on maturity of actions with the muted wails of the batmobile engine for background music as they sped back to the cave.

He was the one who needed to start acting "like the man he is and not the 'boy wonder' he used to be"? Perhaps it was Bruce who should have been on the receiving end of that particular quip up about "acting like a mature adult" which he himself spouted so often, as the man pouted petulantly every time a mission did not go exactly as he had planned.

Alfred often mumbled behind his tea towels and good-naturedness (or often shouted loudly enough to fill the entire cave when said good-naturedness was stretched thin) about his master's penchant for "brooding".

Dick had never agreed with the loyal butler's choice of words; Bruce pouted... like a toddler.

What had incited Bruce's current pouting session, which he was presently in the thick of while anchored at the seat of the batcave computer's main console, moodily staring the glowing screen into submission, had been a regular and very routine mission. Or so they had assumed from the way it had smoothly unfolded. It had begun, simply enough, with a spawning of new crimes in the city; the telltale sign of another criminal syndicate making themselves at home at the expense of the decent citizen.

Despite the fact that Dick's decision to deviate from the original plan of attack had caused him to step right into an unpredicted ambush attempt complete with a singing hail of bullets, the mission had not been a lost cause. In fact, it had been quite the contrary. The preemptive strike caused the soon-to-be newest addition to Arkham Asylum to lose all semblance of control over his rookie crew as the Dark Knight immediately swung into furious action, thus leaving all the evidence they would ever need open for the taking.

So despite the initial setback they encountered and the angry tear in his left arm carved by a stray bullet, the mission had been, in his opinion at least, a satisfying success. The case was closed, just not wrapped up in a pretty red ribbon like Batman had planned to tie himself.

As with most instances that spawned these increasingly frequent divisive episodes, the difference of opinion between the Bat and the Robin on the best course of action had caused that slight hiccup in the otherwise perfectly smooth workings of the last phase of Batman's "master plan".

This, of course, was unacceptable to the "ol' slave driver", as Dick had now become fond of coining him. And so, as was Bruce's wont in situations like these, the rest of drive back to the manor following his explosive lecture had been spent in stony cold silence, glowering disapproval coming off of the Dark Knight's shadowy form in tangible waves.

Dick had then mused, thanks to the abundance of thought-provoking time he had found himself with that evening as he attempted to buff the living daylights out of his motorcycle parked in the cave, that it had not been his original problem-solving that caused Bruce's latest and greatest of tight-lipped and stormy-faced episodes. No, it was this, and this fact only, that had the Dark Knight even more grim and growling than ever: it had not been his idea.

The student had surpassed the teacher for once (surprise, surprise!), and it was that little fact alone that seemed to gall Bruce the most.

Bruce Wayne, in his truest form, was a master tactician in numerous ways, chief of all being psychological warfare. He wielded his knowledge of both friend and foe not unlike the ancient samurai had, with ruthlessness and precision, exploiting the point where the opponent was weakest for his own ends. Unlike the samurai, however, who fought for honor and whatnot, Bruce did not fight for such noble causes. No, he fought for his own desires and nothing else; his own private crusade against crime, criminals, and all those that stood between him and his almighty "moral codes".

And if someone dared to steer him away from the dark path he intentionally kept beneath his feet, however loving the intentions, they were mercilessly thrown under the metaphorical bus. He would do whatever it took to manipulate people into doing what he wanted, all for the sake of his so-called "justice".

Long story short, if there was one thing that Dick Grayson had learned after twelve years of following the Bat, it was this: don't get in his way...

Perhaps in another life, Batman's tireless quest for freedom from oppression by the sick and sadistic would be a commendable crusade. But to Dick, after spending his younger years watching from behind the lesser shadows as his mentor battled the darkness from within and from around him, the darkness Bruce tried so valiantly to repress had tainted the very moralities he held so dear.

While he continually won Gotham's freedom time and time again, he also succeeded in severing the ties that had helped make that quest for freedom possible, all the while justifying his actions as necessary to their common cause. In his quest for something so pure and righteous a desire, he often committed the most unforgivable of sins to reach that destination.

Dick could take it no longer. Nothing could change the man's mind, could change a part of his soul that was so ingrained. And it was this lack of receptivity to change that caused Dick's respect for his mentor to dissipate not unlike ocean waves beating continually over a weathering beach. The Robin was ready to spread his wings and move on. It had to be done.

~oOo~

The swinging doors of the Wayne manor kitchen biffed against each other as unknown hands quickly sent them forward, signaling an entrance to the person who was currently hunched over the pristine metallic sink and waging his own private war on the mountain of suds in front of him.

"Hey Alfred, any more of that coffee left-"

Said butler, whose hands were buried deep beneath both steaming dishwater and a heap of foaming white soap bubbles, barely looked up from his engrossing task before responding to the footsteps that were quickly advancing towards the coffee pot in question.

"Any more of that poured into you, Master Dick, and there'll be more coffee than blood in your veins!"

A good-natured chuckle was the only reply Alfred would receive for his quick wit as the young man's long strides reached the coffee maker. The butler of Wayne Manor paused in his chore to see the amusing frown of disappointment that crossed Dick's face as he raised the empty carafe to eye level and shook it gently just in case the priceless caffeinated liquid had suddenly become invisible.

A disappointed and rather theatrical sigh escaped the boy's chest as the carafe was quietly replaced. He then leaned companionably against the counter top, catching the butler's questioning eye.

"I take it your errand was a success then," was the straightforward and pointed question Alfred posed to the young man opposite, his hands still busily scrubbing away.

The companionable smile that had been gracing Dick's features fell like a heavy curtain at his query, causing a pang of worry to stab the elder man's heart. Why could there never be simple answers in either of their lives?

Seemingly ignoring the question that had been posed to him, Dick walked forward and held out a hand toward the dish towel Alfred was currently using to scrub a casserole dish.

"Need a hand with those?"

Ordinarily, Alfred Pennyworth never wished anyone else to do his job. It was not because of any misguided or irrational fear that another could not do the quality of work that he believed was required of the caretaker of Wayne Manor, but because he felt that they were his responsibilities and his alone; the other inhabitants of the manor had many more important things to concern themselves with than sinks full of dirty dishes and cans of furniture polish.

Yet one thing that had always amazed him was how willing Dick Grayson was to put aside his own personal concerns to help another, even in the most menial of tasks. Even from a young age, the boy had always seemed to wander into the kitchen and take up the towel whenever he needed to talk something through.

And Alfred, as much as his heart was often reticent to admit, treasured those conversations made side by side in front of a sink full of suds perhaps more than even the boy did.

They were two people encapsulated in the same crusade by the same man; their lives all intertwined in a such a strong bond that could not easily be broken. And when the time arose when they needed someone who understood their fears, hopes, and sorrows, who better than to go to than the few people who could understand them as well each other could?

"It's not that simple," came the quietly murmured reply after several long moments of silence, Dick's eyes flicking from Alfred's questioning gaze to the tiny bubbles slowly climbing upwards toward his rolled up sleeves.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips seemingly unbidden as though the words he was about to say bore unspeakable weight and gravity. Alfred could not help but steal himself for the endless possibility of answers that the young man could give to clarify his initially cryptic response. Yet he knew that in all of those realms, there was definitely something foreboding about the way Dick was speaking. Something had to be seriously wrong for the normally upbeat and cheerful young man to be this down in the mouth.

"I just- I just can't do this anymore, Alfred…"

The butler had readied himself for a myriad of possible problems that this night could have dredged to the surface, but the strange admission from the young man opposite only served to confound him. Despite Alfred's personal curiosity towards the boy's strange reply, he immediately noticed the young man had since gone unusually quiet without making eye contact, apparently readying himself for the inevitable response he believed he was going to receive.

Instead, though Alfred knew deep down he must accept what Dick had truly meant despite what that revelation could entail for them all, he probed the young man further.

"Cannot do what, Master Dick?"

"I just can't play this charade any more, Alfred… At least, not after tonight anyway."

There it was…

The remaining confusion the butler had initially faced quickly dissipated, leaving a growing semblance of dread pooling at the bottom of his stomach as one of his greater fears began to take shape.

Though he had never believed in dabbling within the affairs of others, especially casting judgement on the actions of his employer and pseudo-son, that did not mean he did not keep a weather ear and eye open for possible troubles. And from this higher, uninvolved vantage point, he had watched the growing rift between Bruce and his ward spread wider and wider as each night and mission passed.

It was no secret that Bruce was a stubborn man, unwilling to bend or compromise his mission and ideals, but Dick Grayson had his own massive amount of bull-headedness to match. Perhaps in being so fundamentally alike, they drove each other apart. Dick's confession did not take Alfred by surprise, and yet he still could not fully believe that the possibility of this strange family unit they had come to enjoy together being severed could ever exist in his lifetime.

What did surprise the elder man, however, was the demeanor in which the young man was acting. In many times past, Dick had taken out his frustrations in not so dissimilar a way than Bruce had years ago, with shaking of fists and bellowed grumbling to rival any childish tantrum.

Yet to the boy's credit, after many an evening spent in the very task they were completing now, a good heart-to-heart conversation was all it took to bring relative calm back into his demeanor and allow some of that sunny disposition Alfred appreciated so greatly to return to the surface.

This time, however, despite the apparent hurt the boy was feeling, his voice was soft and his gaze diverted. Unlike the many threats made before in anger, this bode of a true confession, of a spirit so truly broken that what had before been merely a bluff had become a determined course of action. And this time, Alfred was at a loss for any encouraging words.

So the butler instead began at the only place he could: the beginning. At first the lad seemed disinterested in explaining what had prompted this new and improved revelation, only repeating his fervent desire to be finally finished with his mentor's games. Alfred listened quietly as the boy spewed forth the frustrations that being Robin apparently brought to him; he spoke of his desire to add to Bruce's methodology, of his own philosophies about crime-fighting. Yet he also spoke of his repeated suggestions and actions being ripped apart by the very man he wished to help.

"He pushes me aside, treats me like a stupid rookie. I can't keep on living like that…"

Alfred could only deduce what had happened that night to bring this apparent catalyst of emotions into play, but as he watched the young man's words and expression slowly grow more and more acrid as he spoke, watched the subtle yet telltale flinch that tremored across his face every time he reached out with his left arm toward the top cupboards to replace the clean dishes, he believed he understood what had driven the man he had raised to be as angry with his protégé as he apparently had been this night.

After the young man had vented whatever pent up emotions were roiling within his system, Alfred attempted to do what had always been successful in the past.

He tried to show Dick the other side to the argument, to somehow help him understand in perhaps a small way the workings of the Batman's mind. Despite the fact that Alfred had yet to truly understand the strange logic that dictated Bruce Wayne's actions, he knew the brash and increasingly defiant youth caused said man many a sleepless morning.

Yet as hard as he tried to show the young man how Bruce's actions, however misguided they often tended to be, were meant to protect him, the words only caused Dick's anger to steadily rise. This time, the words that had so often charmed him before had finally lost their power to persuade.

"You must understand, Master Dick. He's doing those things for your own good."

Finally cumulating in a tremendous clatter of silverware, a great splash of dishwater, and a loud shout that effectively startled the elder butler enough to drop the sponge in his hand with a wet plop, the young man bellowed, "You keep on saying that! For my own good? When will you both realize I'm not a stupid child anymore?!"

Alfred was speechless for a moment, looking into the blue eyes blazing icy fire that belonged to a boy who desperately wished to be treated like the man he was rapidly becoming. Yet the older man's gaze hardened, the vitriol of the boy's words overcoming the pity that had begun to gather in his heart.

To become a man was to put off childish attitudes, and this particular young man had proven in this very moment that he had not quite overcome that tendency yet.

"You were never a stupid child in our eyes, Richard. But by the way you're favoring that arm, I'd say he has good provocation to be on edge tonight…"

Dick's mouth immediately snapped closed mid retort at Alfred's chastising words, his eyes widening minutely in surprise and his right hand unconsciously coming forward to clutch his left arm protectively. How on earth could the butler have even noticed his injury despite his valiant attempts to conceal it underneath the clothes he had hastily put on? Oh right, field medic… Who was he kidding, trying to fool the man who spent his life patching up the Dark Knight in his spare time.

Besides, if Dick was honest with himself, it was not the butler's fault that Bruce was so ill equipped for acting like a normal human being with normal human emotion. Why be angry at Alfred for something he had no control over nor any say in the matter? It was Alfred's duty to back up Bruce's decisions. Heck, one could even say it was part and parcel of the job description.

Perhaps the decision he had come to while engulfed in the silence of the batcave earlier in the evening was not such a bad idea after all. He was foolish to think that they could all agree on so complicated a situation that they perhaps had yet to even fully understand.

"That's why I've decided to hang up the cape, Alfred. It's time for Batman's sidekick to move on…"

And as he heard those words being spoken, Alfred Pennyworth knew that, deep within his soul despite his fervent wish for the opposite to be true, nothing he could ever say would change the lad's mind. The Robin was finally leaving the nest and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.