Author's note: First of all, to all you anonymous/not-signed-in reviewers, thank you! (and to all you signed-in reviewers, hopefully the new PM review reply thing is working!) Fair warning: there's a lot of Harvey Bullock in this chapter. My apologies to those of you who may not be so fond of "the detective who looks like an unmade bed," as Alfred so aptly described him. After this chapter, we see more of Gordon and Batman and get back to the action.

Anyway-- I meant to post this chapter in time for Mother's Day, but I got caught up with some other projects. Hopefully you all remembered to call your mothers!


Chapter three: unequivocal refuge

Finally it was 6:00am. She'd be awake by now. Taking a deep breath, Bullock lifted the phone off his kitchen wall, and dialed the number.

"…Hey ma. It's Harvey."

The phone warbled, and Bullock scrunched up his face in a scowl. "Yeah, 'that' Harvey. You got any other Harveys call you 'ma'?"

The beleaguered detective shuffled across the kitchen, yanking open his fridge as the phone chattered at his ear. "eh, I'm doin' all right," he said noncommittally after a moment. "How're things in the 'haven?" Bending down slightly and still holding the fridge door open, Bullock squashed the phone into his shoulder and reached for a jug of milk at the back of the fridge. "Yeah, it's snowing here too," he remarked, straightening up again with the milk jug in hand. "Hey listen, ma, I'm kinda in need of some motherly advice."

The phone immediately erupted into a long, high-pitched rant. Wincing, Bullock turned to place the milk on the counter, unwittingly wrapping himself in the long phone cord in the process. Next he retrieved a box of cereal from a cupboard, and rummaged in a drawer for a spoon. The tirade from the phone continued as Bullock, with mounting frustration, went to reclaim a bowl from the dirty dishwater in the sink and discovered that he had stretched the phone cord to its limit and was in imminent danger of pulling the phone right off the wall.

Like a block of concrete, Bullock took up a squared-off stance right in the middle of his kitchen, still tangled up in the phone cord. "Jeez, ma, enough already!" he exclaimed at last. "We've been over all that a thousand times! I ain't quitting my job, I ain't movin' outta my lousy apartment, I ain't getting' married and I ain't gonna lose weight. Now you gonna hear me out or what?"

With narrowed eyes and a grumpy frown, he waited for a response. When he got one, he sighed, and glanced out into his living room. "See, I've got this kid—"

The phone erupted again, squawking so loudly it was practically vibrating.

"Of course it ain't my kid!" Bullock shouted into the receiver. "--It's just some kid that, uh, that might be involved with a case I'm working. Yeah. The thing is, I think he's sick…"


About half an hour later, armed with a freshly acquired wealth of knowledge on how to treat fevers in children, and with plenty of apprehension evident on his grungy face, Bullock reached for Robin's shoulder.

"Hey, kid. Time to wake up." He shook the boy's shoulder, but Robin didn't stir. Bullock cleared his throat, and shook Robin's shoulder a little harder. "Kid. Let's go. Wake up."

Bullock frowned at the unconscious boy, who was still curled up in a ball on the couch. For the past four hours, he'd barely moved at all.

Acting on a sudden whim that he seemed annoyed at himself for not thinking of sooner, Bullock reached for Robin's mask, and attempted to pry his finger under the edge of it.

The kid's reaction was instantaneous. "No!" he gasped, both hands coming up to hold his mask in place.

"oof!" In the next split second, a blind, instinctive kick stabbed Bullock in the stomach, and he keeled over in pain. Robin, meanwhile, had scrambled to his feet, and was standing up on the back of the couch, poised for a fight. Bullock forced himself to suck in a breath, and held up his hands in a 'calm down' gesture. "Easy, kid, easy! I ain't gonna hurt ya."

"Buh… Detective Bullock," the boy said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"That's me," Bullock said, nodding. "Now, you wanna come down from there?"

The boy looked perplexed, and took a quick glance around the room. He was only standing on the back of the three-foot-high couch. It hadn't occurred to him that he was 'up' high enough to warrant 'coming down.' Bullock was standing a few feet away, tensed, hands raised towards him and face strained as if he were imploring someone not to jump off a bridge.

Suddenly Robin looked startled, like it had just dawned on him that normal people didn't consider pieces of furniture, railings, light fixtures and so forth to be interchangeable with the floor. But before he could make a conscious decision to start using various surfaces for their intended purposes, he blacked out. His skinny little legs collapsed beneath him, and Bullock just barely managed to catch him before his head smashed into the coffee table.

"Whoa! Kid!" Bullock exclaimed, completely at a loss for what to do with his armful of yellow-caped boy wonder. Eventually he decided to put him back down on the couch, laying him flat on his back this time.

The boy looked decidedly worse than before. Bullock had to wake him up, get him to drink some water. Once he explained everything, he was sure the kid would settle down.

Robin stirred, turning his head, and Bullock instinctively reached towards him, thinking that maybe if he just prevented him from jumping around, he could tell the kid what was going on. As his hand approached the yellow collar of the boy's cape, however, Bullock noticed something he hadn't before.

Bullock's heart ignited. Bruises on kids were the worst. Some lowlife had obviously tried to choke this boy, bruising his neck in the process, and in that moment Bullock wanted nothing more than to make that lowlife pay—even if it had been, as Bullock strongly suspected, Batman himself.

Robin stirred again and Bullock changed tactics. He retreated across the room, so as not to crowd the boy, and squatted down, hoping to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Wake up, kid." It might have been Bullock's imagination, but it seemed like the white mask-lenses brightened a bit as the eyes behind them opened. "Kid? Can you hear me?"

Grave-faced, Robin nodded.

"Just stay where you are, okay?"

The kid looked around, slowly. "This is…" he whispered, swallowing. "Where you live?"

Bullock held up his hands again, cautious. "Yeah. This is where I live. You showed up here last night. You wanna tell me what happened?"

The kid's face stiffened with the expression that was the universal precursor to crying. "No," he said in a broken voice. "I…have to leave."

"No you don't, son, you can stay right there," Bullock offered urgently. "Nobody's comin' for ya."

Robin's forehead creased. "You didn't…call…Commissioner…"

"I didn't call nobody." He grinned. "'cept my mother. She said I gotta make you drink lots of water. There's a glass for ya on the table."

The boy looked at the glass, and then back at Bullock.

Bullock's eyes went wide. "Aw, jeez, kid, I ain't gonna poison ya!"

Robin rolled onto his side and reached for the glass. It wobbled in his hand, some of the water spilling out.

"There you go," Bullock encouraged as the boy managed to take a sip.

That one sip of water seemed to bring Robin's world back into focus, and he lowered the glass until it rested against the couch cushion. "But… why are you helping me?"

Everything about the detective's answer implied that that had been the stupidest question he'd ever been asked. "Because I think you need help, that's why."

Robin was staring down into the glass of water. "…I thought you hated me."

Bullock looked flat-out offended. "What made ya think that? You ain't done nothin'. I just don't like your pointy-eared dad."

"He's n—" Robin began, but then pursed his lips, realizing that he'd already said too much. Whether or not he was really related to Batman was supposed to stay part of the mystery. No one was supposed to know for sure. But now… Robin took a quick breath, and looked up at the man who now knew part of the secret. What had he done?

There was a horrible burden of guilt all over the boy's face, and Harvey Bullock couldn't stand to see it stay there for another second.

"Relax, I didn't even hear ya," the detective shrugged. "Can't take nothin' you say seriously anyhow, on account of your fever and all."

Bullock was surprised at himself. He'd reacted without thinking, and had taken the sting out of the boy's mistake, offering him immediate, unequivocal refuge from his own failure. But what surprised the detective even more was the fact that the boy seemed to understand and accept what had just been given to him, without even thinking about possible strings attached.

Suddenly Bullock realized something, and in that moment it felt like the most terrifying and uplifting revelation of his life:

Oh my God. This kid trusts me.

The detective straightened, and reached for his trench coat and hat. "Take small sips," he instructed. "Corner store should be open now- I'm gonna run out and get a few things. You stay put and drink all that water, capiche? I'll be right back."

The door creaked, complaining as Bullock hurriedly pulled it shut behind himself. Ordinarily, the detective's pessimistic nature would've had him put money on the kid flying out the window within minutes, but Bullock's finicky sixth sense was acting up again, and because of it he felt confident that the boy would still be there when he returned.

And sure enough, back inside the apartment, Robin didn't even think about leaving. He just closed his eyes and focused on the water. He had to hold the glass with both hands to keep it steady. Small sips.

By the time he finally got around to wondering what he was supposed to do next, the water was gone.

What had happened to Batman?

Robin looked out the window, saw nothing but swirling snowflakes against a backdrop of white. He imagined a black shape materializing in that field of white, swinging towards him, and shivered.


When Bullock returned, the boy was curled up in a ball again, wrapped in that ratty afghan, indistinguishable from the piles of laundry except for his dark-haired head.

"You okay?" Bullock asked, still slightly out of breath from coming up the stairs.

Robin nodded, and Bullock moved into the kitchen with his bag of groceries. "Got you some ginger ale," Bullock announced. "An' some Tylenol, crackers and soup, and a pair of socks-- ma said no matter what, I have to keep your feet warm-- Oh, and some kind of sports drink. Ma said I should water it down for ya. Somthin' bout electrolytes."

Over on the couch, Robin tried to make sense of this. Detective Bullock had gone shopping… for him?

"One more thing," Bullock said, pulling his final purchase out of the bag.

It was a Gotham Knights sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, probably a little big for Robin, but definitely about ten sizes too small for Bullock. "Got you some clothes," Bullock grumbled. "Since I don't think any of mine would fit ya."

"Clothes?" Robin asked, confused.

"Yeah, clothes! Normal people wear them, instead of capes and masks and whatever the heck those green undies of yours are supposed to be. I figure if you're gonna be hiding out , you might want to ditch the costume."

Bullock dropped the sweats over the arm of the couch, and found himself fixed in an unbelievably soulful gaze.

"Thank you," the boy said, solemn.

Bullock looked peeved. "Hey, it's no big deal, okay? It ain't like I'm giving my life for ya or nothin'," he sputtered. "They were on sale and everything."

Robin tried to smile, but seemed to lack the strength for it.

"So, you think you can handle another glass of water? Maybe some of this sports drink stuff?"

"Sure," Robin said, carefully sitting up.

His hands were steadier with the second glass, and when it was gone, he closed his eyes and looked a little better.

"Need anything else? You hungry at all?" Bullock asked tersely, trying not to hover.

"No…" he was already drifting off. "Just… want to sleep… little more."

"That's alright, kid, that's good." Bullock looked around, and absently wiped his hands on his pockets. "I'll get ya another blanket." Wading over to the hall closet, Bullock pulled a blanket off the top shelf and carried it back to the couch.

Robin was already fast asleep. "Poor kid," Bullock muttered, draping the blanket over his scrawny little body. "You just sleep as much as you need." He looked around again, at a loss, and happened to notice a roach skittering across one of the walls.

"… Guess I could clean the place up a bit," Bullock grumbled to himself.

...to be continued!...