Dick angrily waved a shoebox at Bruce. "And shoes. Women's shoes!" The box was beginning to crush in his grip. "They aren't for me, are they?"
Bruce's smile stayed frozen in place. After a moment, he nodded, slowly.
"Geez, B. I don't want to do it. I don't. Can't you see that I'm too…"
"The only reason we might even get away with it this time, Dick, is if we truly practice the art of disguise. To its highest art, because you are most certainly not a girl."
Dick stared down into the open shoebox.
"Do they fit?"
"What?" Dick rubbed the back of his neck.
Bruce repeated himself, pausing between each word as though he were speaking to a five-year old. "Do they fit?" He stood, taking the box from Dick's hands, and pulling out a shoe. "You seem to have grown larger in only two weeks. Can your feet still fit into a women's size nine?"
"I don't know, Bruce, but that's not the—" Dick could have sworn the wine was making it harder to think, harder to argue.
"Sit down."
Without even thinking, just following the tone of the voice, Dick sank into the loveseat.
"Good boy." Crouching in front of him, Bruce patted Dick's left knee and reached for his ankle.
"Bruce, I don't want to be a girl again. I'm too old, and it—"
Bruce pulled off his penny loafer, then his sock. Holding Dick's foot by the heel, he slid on the woman's shoe, eyeballing it and rubbing the toe, trying to feel for Dick's foot through the leather. "This one's okay. Your right foot is a trifle bigger, though, so let's try it, too."
"Bruce, I don't-"
"Don't whine, Dick. It's unbecoming a master detective. Give me your other foot."
Crossing his arms over his chest, Dick stuck out his right foot and waited grimly while Bruce put on the other shoe, then smiled up at him from his spot in front of the loveseat. As he stood, he tousled Dick's hair. "It's okay, Dick. It's for the mission. Stand up now. You'll want to practice in them."
"What?"
Bruce reached for his hands and pulled him to his feet, then gave him a little push toward the balcony. "Walk to the door and back." He sighed as Dick grudgingly complied. "No, smaller steps. Much smaller. You know this, Dick."
"Oh, I know this, all right. That's the prob—"
"Tightrope and straight line," Bruce said, watching. "Put all of your weight in the ball of your foot, please."
Dick made it to the door, turned around, and returned.
"Now, can you waltz in them?"
"What?"
"There'll be dancing." Bruce was speaking very slowly again and it was becoming more and more annoying. "Can you waltz in them?"
"Probably, Bruce." Dick crossed his arms over his chest and sighed loudly. "The thing is, I don't want to."
"Mmm. I see."
"Why do I always have to be the girl?"
"I'm really not built for it, Dick."
"And I am?" He straightened, puffing out his chest. "Bruce, seriously. Look at me."
"You are a very masculine young man, Dick." Bruce said, patting his shoulder. "But this one time, this one last time, I need you to do this." Bruce crossed the room to the small, in-room radio set into the wall. He switched it on. Frank Sinatra was singing 'Nice N' Easy.' "And it's not for me, Dick. It's for your country."
Dick scrubbed his face, then held up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, boss," he said as Bruce reached toward him, "but this is the absolute last time."
"As you say, Dick."
Bruce's left hand was cool in his as Dick clasped it in his own right and raised it to eye level.
"Waltz?"
"You mean to the wrong kind of music? It's bad enough I have to do it backwards, and in high heels."
"Let's see if those dance lessons paid off. Miss Mitzi has always prided herself on being Gotham's best teacher."
"But the music's—I mean it's dance music, but it's not three-four."
"Foxtrot, then." Bruce placed his right hand on Dick's shoulder blade. "Such a purist. No wonder you were Miss Mitzi's star pupil."
Dick rolled his eyes. "I wasn't the star pupil."
"She loved dancing with you." Bruce teased. "Ready? Slow, slow, quick quick, right?"
"Right."
"On three. One, two, three." They began to move. "Dick? You're not leading. I am."
"Hey, you're not the one having to do things backwards, Bruce."
"And I don't have your grace, either," Bruce said.
"Grace? Bruce, that's not very manly word."
"I wasn't aware that the word 'grace' had a gender. I'm pressing my hand into your shoulder blade a little harder. Maybe that will help you remember to follow."
"Sorry. It's—I'm not used to it."
"I know."
Dick took a deep breath and willed himself to give up, to let himself be led.
"You're doing fine. That's it."
"My brain, the muscle memory—just making the shift is all."
"Dick, I knew you were the star pupil."
"Her perfume, it was so strong," Dick said, smiling despite himself as he relaxed, his movements becoming more fluid. "It'd give me a headache by the end of class, and then when I'd leave, I'd smell like her."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Do you remember the time—"
"The time that crook smelled it on me on the street?"
"I seem to remember you knocked him a little extra hard. After he said, what was it?"
"That I 'stank like a flower shop.' Jerk. I already had him nailed, on the ground and was cuffing him. I probably was a little too rough on him," Dick said, his grin rueful. "And man, I made sure I scrubbed down hard after every dance class after that. Good thing you only made me sign up for the six-week course."
"Every young man needs to know how to dance with a la—," Bruce began, then stopped himself, as he realized what he had been going to say.
"Or like one, right boss?"
"Hmm," Bruce responded, noncommittal. "It's very much a worthwhile skill, dancing. And isn't Cotillion coming up for you? Let's try a turn, please."
"Do we have room?"
"Wait. Let me move that table." He pushed the report-strewn table a few feet. "By the way, Dick. I reviewed the files for daily criminal activity," Bruce said, back in place. "Now," he said, spinning Dick gently. "Perfect."
Dick grinned.
"It seems there are quite a few mentions of Robin in the reports."
"Um, yes," Dick nodded as Bruce edged him backwards in the dance. "Supes needed my help."
"How so?" Bruce arched an eyebrow. "I thought I left you to study for mid-terms, perhaps spend some time with your friends."
"I did that, Bruce. But Clark needed me and—"
"Yes?" Bruce's mouth was drawn into a tight line.
"Superman's really, really great, he's strong and it's fun to fly with him."
Bruce's eyebrow went higher, and his grip got a little firmer as he turned his partner.
"But he's just not as smart as Batman."
Bruce's left hand and his jaw relaxed.
"He had to get me to show him every time he wanted to use the computer."
"Hmm."
"Do you know that he can't even run a perp list on the Bat Computer?"
"You don't say." Bruce's tone was impossibly dry. "I really must show him sometime."
Frank's song ended and 'Girl from Ipanema' poured into the room from the wall speaker. They both compensated for the tempo change with a slight alteration of step.
"Sometimes he thought I should go out with him, too."
"Because?"
"Well, he had a point. How would it look if it was only Batman with no Robin all of a sudden?"
"If I had wanted you to sacrifice your study time, I'd have brought you over here sooner."
"I didn't sacri—"
"It's just that I," Bruce turned him so hard Dick gasped at the suddenness. "I could've used your help, here, Dick."
"Well, that's different." They were both grinning, now.
"Did you get to spend some time with your friends?"
"A little. A bunch of us went to the movies. And out for malteds."
"Alfred mentioned something about that. He was pleased." Bruce smiled, his eyes a little distant. "He said he thought it was good for you. Let's try another turn, please."
Dick nodded.
"And isn't Cotillion coming up?"
"The spring dance? It's this weekend."
"Oh." Bruce froze, then looked down at him. "I'm sorry, Dick."
"Hey, it's the mission, right? Come on, Bruce. Don't stop now. This is the good part of the song."
"Did you have to cancel a date?"
"Well, kind of."
"Dick, I'm so sorry."
"Them's the breaks, right, Bruce?" Dick shrugged. He nudged Bruce with his knee to get him moving again. "It's not like you get to have a normal social life either…" Dick trailed off as Bruce's eyes widened and the grip on his hand became much too tight. "Oh. I didn't mean—I didn't…" Dick could feel his face flushing.
"Dick, I'm so sorry…." Bruce looked lost.
Believe me, Bruce. You're not the only one, Dick thought but didn't say.
Bruce's face—Dick had never, ever seen this look before and he never wanted to see it again. Shame didn't belong there, and the flush … were Bruce's cheeks flushing a little, too? This was completely new. And the most uncomfortable Dick'd felt since his last full physical. He compared the two in his mind. Worse, this was worse. Exponentially worse. He searched his brain for something, anything. Aloud he said, "Bruce, you think the only dance they'll do at this gig is the foxtrot? Maybe we should work on something else."
For a minute Bruce's mouth moved without saying anything, like a just-caught fish. But because of Dick, he got himself together. Bruce's jaw was tense, his mouth a thin line, and his hand was still gripping Dick's much too firmly, but at least his words were glib. "Let's try the Cha Cha Cha."
"Did my foxtrot pass muster, then?" Dick was only too glad to return to the present.
"If you can keep fighting your tendency to lead," Bruce said, lowering their hands to waist level as they both adjusted their foot position, "you'll do beautifully." He steered his partner across the newly cleared floor space. Ready? Slow, slow, quick quick, slow. And even if your foxtrot wasn't up to speed," he added, cocking his head toward the radio, "Papa Loves Mambo is much more amenable to something uptempo."
"Oh, Bruce knows his old music. Get with the times, Bruce."
"It's hardly that old, Dick," Bruce said. "Papa Loves Mambo is only about…" he didn't finish, clearly computing. "Well, I have danced to it many times before."
"If it's a Mambo, why are we doing the Cha Cha?"
"Do you know the Mambo?"
"Hey, star pupil here. We learned every dance," Dick laughed, executing a perfect turn. "The question is, do you?"
"That sounds like a challenge, Dick." Bruce said, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. "Let me show you. Forward first, please," he said, leading Dick toward him. "Now back, and one-two-three," he said, working the two of them toward the door. "And up now, one-two-three…"
"Not bad for an old guy."
"I'll show you 'old guy.'" Bruce said, squeezing his hand for just a moment.
"Sturdy hold's good, but it must be absent strain or tension, Bruce."
"Mmm hmm."
"That's straight from Miss Mitzi."
"Song's almost over. Ready for the big finish?"
"You bet." Dick laughed as Bruce dipped him. "Come on, Bruce. I've seen you do better."
"Really?"
"Only every time I've ever seen you dance. You're not dancing with me like I'm—" Dick grinned, shrugging, "Like I'm a girl. Give it a little flourish."
Bruce nodded, contrite. The next dip was perfect. Dick threw—very gracefully—his arm up and they ended the song with Dick suspended by his waist, back arched up, hand almost brushing the floor, Bruce smiling down at him. Accompanied by the sound… of applause.
Frozen in place, Bruce and Dick both looked up and toward the direction of the sound.
On the balcony, bright red and blue in the Paris night, stood a goofily grinning, highly appreciative, Superman.