Sundae

Sometimes I think I must be crazy. I have to be; there's no other explanation for my actions. I got stabbed less than a fortnight ago. It was bad enough to keep me in bed for a week. Most people would not go out at night after something like that. Most people would be scared of it happening again and do anything to avoid putting themselves in that situation again...

But not me.

At the moment, I'm surrounded by a gang of at least ten knife-wielding thugs, all of them eager to know the colour of my insides; it's just a typical night in Gotham City. I should be afraid, but I'm not. I should run, but I won't. I must be crazy. Enough philosophy though, Timmy boy, it's time for action. The first opponent to try his hand is clearly braver and the most assertive of the group, maybe even the leader. He swings at me with a back-handed motion, keeping the blade nice and horizontal in his hand. I dodge the first swipe, ensuring I do not step backwards but side-step. The second swipe follows in quick succession and again, I dodge out of its path. On the third roll of the dice, I make my move. Halting the motion of his arm takes both my arms, my block having to be a stronger hit. The hand nearest his wrist seizes control of it while my other hand jars his elbow, forcing it to bend at a ninety-degree angle. Driving forward with my momentum and jerking his elbow past his shoulder joint gives an audible pop and an audible scream. I then deliver a side-kick to his abdomen, ending his night early. The others converge to avenge their fallen comrade. Big mistake.

All of them are angry and scared at the same time. They aren't thinking clearly and they have no collective strategy. These factors mean they are dead meat. It takes me only eight moves to put them all to sleep, my collapsible staff lending a well-needed hand to proceedings. Why did I need to confront these lowlifes? It's partly because they're responsible for selling drugs to kids in playgrounds and have been linked to twelve drug-related deaths in the past four months. But it's mostly because the boss told me to. Whatever he says, I follow. Seeing as my boss is a giant bat and I'm a bird, I must be crazy. Nobody sane would take orders from a guy dressed as a bat. But I do and I do it dressed in tights. Gotta be crazy.

I alerted the GCPD before I engaged these guys in a brawl. I told them to give me five minutes and then dispatch a car. I wait five minutes and then two cars show up at once. I don't run and hide; that's his style, not mine. Weirdly, Jim Gordon gets out of one car's passenger seat. I wasn't expecting the commissioner to inspect the scene for himself. He's a nice guy, always treats me with respect despite my age. He waves at me before gesturing to the uniformed officers with him to clean-up. He wanders over once the first of the scumbags are being loaded into the back.

"I suppose we'll have to call for another car...and maybe an ambulance." Gordon says lighting his pipe. He doesn't sound concerned; he knows I practice restraint. "I take it you've got the necessary evidence to implicate these dirtballs?" I gesture at them.

"They're all carrying concealed weapons, bags of pills, cocaine and ecstasy. I haven't removed any of it." He nods in approval before reaching out and patting me briefly on the shoulder.

"Thanks for the help, son." He says before taking a drag on his pipe. He exhales before speaking again. "How are you feeling anyway? Your friend in the cowl said you'd been unwell recently. Nothing serious I hope?" I can hear the concern in Gordon's voice. The man's got a heart of gold. I shrug my shoulders.

"I took a fall. But I'm okay now."

"Good, glad to hear it. Where is he tonight?"

"He's got business in the Bowery district. Tying up loose ends, you know...the usual."

"I see. Does that mean you're pulling a late one round his route?"

"No later than normal. What are you doing here, Sir? Don't you ever sleep?"

"Not in this city, son. Not in this city. We can finish up here; you can shoot off if you like." I usually like to disappear on cops, like he does. But I won't do that to Gordon; a man like him deserves a proper good-bye. I nod my head in gratitude.

"Thank you. See you 'round commissioner." I fire my grapnel to the rooftops and a moment later, I'm gone from his view. One day I'll teach Bruce the value of proper manners. Not today though. Because I found those guys so quick, I've still got hours left on patrol. I think about joining Bruce in the Bowery, but think better of it. He wanted to handle matters alone down there. And he wanted me to handle everything else tonight. After diffusing three potential rapes, a burglary and an attempted assault, taking down close to forty very nasty men with an obvious dislike of teenagers in the process, I'm starting to think I've been fleeced by him. My first night back on the job feels more like a medieval gauntlet than standard routine. Maybe I'm just out of practice. Or maybe it's because my abs are still a little sore from Alfred removing the stitches; either way, my night's finally over.

Using the bike, I get back to the cave before three in the morning. As usual, I arrive back before him. And, as usual, there's no point hanging around until he gets back; he could be gone for hours yet. Typical Bruce solves one problem and then goes looking for another; the man just never wants to stop working. In some ways, you admire his dedication. Mostly though you remind yourself how lucky you are not to think like him; every day is a rainy day to him. So, I take off my costume; drop it into Alfred's laundry pile (he's started keeping a basket in the cave), change into normal clothes and then head up to the house. Alfred is waiting in the library. I roll my eyes.

"I told you not to bother waiting up for me, Alfred. A guy who works as hard as you needs his sleep."

"A very touching sentiment, Master Tim, but a lad like you requires some attention given that you are returning from injury."

"I'm fine. I'm just..."

"A little sore?"

"Heard this one before, huh Alfred?"

"And many times before that. Bearing that in mind, I have taken the liberty of drawing you a bath."

"I was just going to take a shower."

"But now you're going to take a bath, aren't you?"

I smirk at him, nodding my head. "Yes, mommy." Alfred does not appreciate my remark, giving me a hard stare eerily similar to Bruce. It makes me wonder who copied who? When I get in the bathroom, I have to admit the bathtub does look very inviting. The water's kind of purple and stinks of lavender, but that only means Alfred's been nice enough to add half-a-bottle of muscle relaxant for me. He knows I like lavender better than the lemon crud Bruce enjoys. When I test the water by jamming my hand in it, I nearly melt; nice and hot. I know guys are supposed to be all manly and not like scented bathwater, but we all secretly love stuff like that. And, once the door's closed, who's gonna know anyway?

I get in slow to savour the sensations. This feels so good right now. I let the water envelop me until only my head is above it and barely at that. I am soooo relaxed…

KNOCK KNOCK

I jerk my head up from the back of the tub; did I fall asleep? I look down at my wristwatch on the bathroom floor. It's ten past four in the morning; I've been sleeping for nearly an hour.

"Yeah?"

"Tim, It's Bruce. If you're done indulging yourself with scented baths, I could really use your input on this investigation." Is he kidding? First, how does he know what I'm doing in here and, secondly, theorizing at four in the morning? I know it's the weekend but come on!

"I'm kinda tired, Bruce. Can it wait until tomorrow maybe?"

"I understand, Tim. I guess I'll have to eat Alfred's hot fudge sundaes on my own in the cave. Sorry to have distur-"

"You're evil! You know that? Evil!" Having a dad know all your embarrassing secrets and weaknesses is one thing, but having the world's greatest detective and crime fighter know everything about you is ten-times worst; I don't have to say a word and he can still figure me out like a puzzle book that's already been solved. Hot fudge is my biggest weakness, especially when I'm low on sugar. Who blackmails their son into working homicide investigations with them? All I can say is there better be fudge; if this is a trick, I will hit him.

"Happy?" Bruce asks as I sit in his chair in the cave, a colossal sundae in my hand. I take a bite and try not to look like I'm having an orgasm; nobody makes dessert like Alfred, nobody. I shrug my shoulders.

"It's okay. What do you need my input on?" He gestures to the current computer display. The screen has four separate homicide reports showcased. I scan them briefly for pertinent information. All Caucasian ethnicity, all middle-aged, all with residential addresses listed in The Bowery area. All four victims were killed with different calibre bullets targeting different areas of the body; one to the head, two to the body and one to the heart. No correlation on ballistics and no pattern suggest it is not the work of a serial killer. The victims share no common relationships or have any associations with one another. I take another bite of the sundae and shrug.

"Domestic disputes?" I offer to be clapped on the back of the head.

"Sensible answers or I'm taking the sundae away." Bruce informs me. I hold on to the glass tighter and re-scan the reports.

Three of the victims had never been married and the one who had was separated from his wife. No help. All four had prior criminal charges levied against them, mostly petty theft, one count of drug possession…hello. All four had a history of cocaine addiction.

"Cocaine trafficking, right? These individuals probably stole some product and got what was coming to them." My revised reply is met with approval by the big guy. He nods his head.

"Better. The question is why were the traffickers so desperate to silence these people? They're certainly not the kind of people who could pose a significant threat to the drug trade in Gotham. And it is also not difficult to cover such an insignificant loss of product; the victims had not stolen more than a sample of the drug according to my sources."

"Maybe it's a new product, something only available from one dealer. You don't want people figuring out the secret and ruining your angle, right?" Bruce leans on the back of the chair.

"That is what I assumed. However, I can find no evidence of a new product on the street; two of these murders occurred almost a month ago. The product should be marketable now."

"Refinement. Probably don't want the stuff to kill people on the first hit; want at least a few sales out of the junkies."

"Hnn. Give me a bite of your sundae."

"No. It's not my fault if you ate all yours."

"I believe I'm entitled to some more."

"Why's that?"

"Because I saved your life."

"Are my thanks not enough for the brave knight? You want to take my sundae as well?"

"Just a bite, Tim."

I sigh and reluctantly pass my sundae and the spoon back to him. "Don't you dare finish it all." I warn him while scrutinising the reports further. He hands it back…with some left. I nod in approval before finishing it off. "No more for you, fat boy."

We continue working for the next half-an-hour. Using my intelligence reports, we shortlist a group of drug distributors operating exclusively out of The Bowery area and concentrate on those whose main source of income is cocaine-related. Amazingly, there aren't that many. Only two names stand out: Michael Duncan and Jerry Sellers, both big players in the narcotics racket in Gotham and both with a spider web of connections to other illicit ventures. Bruce and I have dealt with Sellers before, putting him on trial for murder and drug trafficking raps on three separate occasions; he managed to beat them all with jury tampering and some other underhanded tactics. At the moment, the guy is underground. According to the computer archives, Bruce had encounters with Duncan during Jason's tenure as Robin. They apparently collapsed his little empire twice inside of three years, despite Duncan's attempts to freeze them out. The case files say Jason's role in the investigations was crucial, one of the few times Bruce explicitly praises my predecessor.

After a short argument that almost degenerates into a debate class exercise where we argue the merits of each candidate, Bruce decides Sellers is the more likely of the two. Seeing as I was arguing on behalf of Sellers, I win. Following a sketchy plan of action for the next few days, we call it a night.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce inquires when we're climbing the stairs. I nod.

"Okay. Glad to be back on the streets again." I pause before adding, "Thanks for the sundae."

"Thank you for the input. It has helped move this case along tremendously."

"You could've figured it all out on your own."

"Perhaps, but I would not have enjoyed myself quite as much." That actually means a lot coming from him. Since the adoption and everything, Bruce is a lot more open with his feelings than before. Of course, the majority of the time he still keeps them to himself, but it's always special when he offers something up for me to savour. I don't say anything in response to his last statement. It's obvious how I feel and how he feels about me. When we reach my door, he pats me on the shoulder before walking off down the corridor to his own room.

"Goodnight Tim."

"Night Bruce."