He sat bolt upright in bed, gasping, and found himself in Bruce's arms.
"Hush," the word washed over him as a hand drew circles on his back. "It's all right." The billionaire closed his eyes tightly as his son leaned against him, still breathing roughly as he came down from whatever had woken him so unpleasantly. He, too, had been disturbed by a nightmare, the same one that had plagued him for nearly two months now. This exact beach probably wasn't the most brilliant of destination choices, he rebuked himself, convinced that their jaunt along the sand the evening before had been responsible for the vividness of his own dream. Fueled by the vision, he had slipped over to the other bed for the simple purpose of checking on Dick, and had realized that the teen was working up a night terror, too. He had been about to wake him when he'd snapped out of it on his own. "It was just a dream."
"Ugh," he whispered, keeping his face buried in neck of the man holding him. "Stupid nightmares."
"Yeah. I know."
"…You, too?"
He nodded. "An old one."
"Not like that makes it any better."
"No. It doesn't. Was yours old, too?" he inquired, wondering if it was related to the reminiscing about his parents that he'd been doing in the car on their way to town.
"…No. Mine was new." The hesitancy in his voice caused a frown to appear on Bruce's lips.
"Want to talk about it?"
He sighed, pulling away and laying back down. "It was the little girl that Erwin took. You know, the one you told me about earlier?"
"The tenth death?"
"Yeah. Her."
"…What about her?" he pushed, trying to curb the rage that rose inside of him every time he sensed that the ex-CPS agent was still affecting the boy.
"It was just…everything that they did to her. Erwin, Pezzoli's goons, his clients. I was there the whole time, but I couldn't do anything. I couldn't help her. She kept looking right at me and begging me to do something, but…I couldn't. All I could do was watch them destroy her. I wanted to stop them so bad, but…I couldn't."
"You can't blame yourself for what happened," Bruce told him forcefully, knowing that this could become a slippery slope if he started feeling responsible for what had been done to the other children. "You had no way of knowing that something like that was occurring right under everyone's nose. It's not your fault."
"…I went to see her," he confessed.
"What?"
"I went to see her. In the hospital. That afternoon a few weeks ago when Alfred couldn't find me and called you home from the office?"
Bruce gaped at him. "That's where you were? Dick, you practically gave us both heart attacks."
"I left a note."
"You left one sentence that said you were going for a walk. Four hours is a long time to go without checking in after you just take off like that. We thought someone had snatched you off the street or you'd been hit by a car or something when you didn't answer your phone."
"They ask you to turn them off in ICU. That's why I didn't answer. Anyway, I took a cab to the hospital and went up to see her. She wasn't awake or anything, but…I just talked to her. I wanted her to know that he wasn't going to be able to do the things he'd done to her to anyone else, ever again. It…it was really sad, Bruce. I saw her mom. She looked like she should have been admitted, too, just from exhaustion and stress."
"Why did you put yourself through that? Besides telling her about Erwin, I mean."
"…I guess I just needed to pound it into my head how lucky I was that it wasn't me lying there in a coma and you shuffling around like a zombie," he shrugged, looking away. "That's probably a really terrible reason, but…it's my reason." He sniffled, a few tears succumbing to gravity. "I didn't mean to scare you, I was just afraid that if you knew where I was going you'd stop me."
"I would have at least insisted on going with you."
"And that wouldn't have been what I needed."
"Damn it," the billionaire muttered. This has to end. "So, the dream."
"Yeah. The dream. I dunno, Bruce. Every time I think I'm done having nightmares about Erwin and the things he did, something else comes up. I hate it."
"Do you want to talk to a psychologist about it? We could try that."
"No," he shook his head. "Psychologists…they don't get it. There's so much that I can't tell them that they're pretty much doomed to not being able to help from the start. Honestly, talking to you about stuff is what works, because you know. You understand things that none of them possibly can, because you've been there, you've seen it, too."
"Okay," he whispered. He loathed the fact that the teen was still having such terrible nightmares, but hearing that he was the only person he wanted to discuss them with certainly didn't hurt his ego. "Do you want to talk about it some more right now, or do you want to try and get a little more sleep?"
"…What time is it? I think we have to get up soon, don't we?"
Leaning over and checking the alarm clock, he groaned. "You're right. It's 3:15."
"We've still got a quarter hour," Dick pointed out, his eyes already closed again. "I don't think that's enough time for another nightmare, so…"
Bruce glanced over at his own bed, disheveled and empty, and then laid down behind his son on the narrow mattress, pressing his back against the wall and pulling the boy close to prevent him falling off the other side. He didn't even try to doze, instead just savoring the weight in his arms. How much longer will you let me do this? he wondered. Dick was far more open than most of his peers seemed to be with their parental figures, but he didn't dare hope that would last indefinitely. How many more months before you protest when I lie beside you in an effort to keep your dreams – and mine - from spiraling out of control, or begin to resent when I want to be told the specifics of an issue you're facing? What am I going to do when that day eventually comes? I don't want it to. I want to fight it, but I know I won't win. And I hate that. As wonderful as it is watching you grow up, I wish I could make it stop, for my own selfish reasons.
When the clock turned to 3:29, he reached over and switched it off to avoid the jarring alarm tone. "Dick?" he said quietly, rubbing his arm. "C'mon, it's time."
He sighed. "Okay. I'm up." The motion on his arm ceased, and he frowned. "You didn't have to stop."
"How were you going to get up if I didn't?" Receiving a huffy silence as an answer, he resumed the petting for a few more minutes, then levered himself upright and slipped down off the foot of the bed. "All right, spoiled. Let's go."
"I'm coming, I'm coming." Keeping his eyes shut, he stood, yawning, and followed Bruce's lead in changing into the daytime clothes Alfred had set out for them the night before. "Where does he think we're going this morning, Antarctica?" he griped as he pulled on a pair of long johns.
"He seems to have done this before," Bruce reminded. "I'm thinking we're going to be grateful for the layers once we get out on the water."
"You're probably right, but it's still annoying. My pants feel tight with these things on underneath."
"All that lobster," the billionaire ribbed.
"It makes me feel fat."
"You are not fat. My god, Dick, don't be stupid." He stopped dressing and stood, arms crossed, glaring at him mildly. "Hey?"
"What?" he said begrudgingly.
"You don't really feel that way, do you?"
"What, fat?"
"Yes."
"…I guess not."
"Good." He picked up a soft, unfamiliar shirt and peered at it in the dark. "Since when do I wear flannel?"
"I thought we were going to be grateful for the layers," Dick smirked, enjoying the thought of his guardian being stuck in plaid all day. "Oh, man," he lamented, his attitude switching from amused to morose as he raised a garment of his own. "I am not a lumberjack, Alfred!" he called out, hoping the butler could hear him from wherever he was in the small house.
"What? Don't tell me you have one too?"
"Jesus Christ, Bruce, I think they match."
"…He wouldn't dare." Tearing the button-up from the boy's hand, he carried both shirts into the small pool of light cast by the bedside lamp, emitting a relieved sigh a few seconds later.
"So, do we still have a butler?"
"Yours is green. Mine's blue."
"Oh, thank god."
"But other than that, they're the same."
"…This calls for pranking."
"Later. I think he might be able to hear us, the acoustics in this place are strange."
"Right." As they trooped down the stairs, both shot the obviously delighted Englishman evil glares.
"I see you're both in high spirits this morning, sirs," he remarked with absolutely no sign of sarcasm as he set their plates on the table. "Ready for a day of hard work on the high seas?"
"…Alfred, did you hit your head on something?" Dick asked, his loaded fork halfway to his mouth.
"Certainly not, Master Dick. Why do you ask? Am I acting strangely?"
"'Hard work on the high seas?' Are you serious?"
"And the shirts," Bruce added.
"And the long underwear."
"The woolens are for your comfort, I assure you. You'll be quite cold this morning without them. As for the shirts, are they not to your liking?"
"When have either of us ever looked twice at plaid in anything but disgust?" Bruce inquired.
"Oh, I don't know, sir. Master Dick has a rather striking pair of red and black plaid trousers that I've seen him wear several times. I do wish you'd take the bondage straps off of them before you go out, though, I always worry you'll need to run for some reason and be unable to."
The billionaire nearly choked.
"Those are for punk shows only, Alfred!" the teen said, covering his face with his hands. "Not for everyday wear. And you said you wouldn't say anything about them!"
"Why do you own bondage pants?" Bruce groaned. "Stop, wait, don't answer that," he held up a hand. "Don't want to know."
"It's a fashion thing, that's all," he insisted. "I wouldn't know what to do with them even if someone wanted to use them the right way," he added under his breath.
"And now this conversation is over, thank you."
"Agreed." They chewed silently as Alfred, hiding a smile, returned to the kitchen.
Both Bruce and Dick passed out in the backseat of the car almost as soon as the engine started. Unobserved, the butler let a triumphant grin slip onto his face for almost a full minute, watching them in the rearview mirror. He'd chosen his charges' fishing clothing with extreme care, aiming to make their attire as close to matching as he thought he could get away with. It was probably a rather strange thing to do, he admitted to himself as he regained his usual neutral mien, but it was such fun to see the expressions on their faces. Besides, he allowed, they do look rather adorable.
They arrived at the marina twenty minutes before they were due on the boat. "Coffee," Bruce droned as they stepped onto the sidewalk. "Need caffeine."
"I believe the café we visited yesterday is open, Master Wayne," Alfred said, leading them towards the welcoming light coming from the store's windows.
"…Who opens up this early in the morning?"
"Coffee shops in fishing towns, sir. Many mariners start their day around this time."
"…Again, you seem to know a lot more about this whole rough-and-rugged coastal living thing than I ever would have suspected, Alfred."
"And again, Master Wayne, I would remind you that I did not spring fully formed from a databank of dedicated servants on the day that you were born."
"…That sounds like something from an Asimov story," Dick frowned. His nap on the way into town had left him relatively clear-headed, considering that he was waking up around the time he'd frequently gone to bed in recent weeks, and he was feeling confident that it was going to be an amazing day. "Only you'd be a robot. You aren't, are you?"
"The last time I checked, Master Dick, I was capable of disobeying all three of Mr. Asimov's Laws of Robotics," the butler played along gamely, glad that the young sir's less-than-exemplary breakfast mood seemed to have lightened. "I merely choose not to, most of the time. I believe that clears my name, does it not?"
"Hypothetically. Your lack of fashion sense is suspicious, since something subjective, like fashion, would be one of the few things I would think a robot could be really bad at."
Bruce stopped at the door and glanced between the other two. "You know, he makes a good point."
"You do need caffeine, Bruce," Dick laughed. "I was joking."
"Additionally, sirs, my fashion sense is quite on par. Your dislike of plaid flannel does not alter the fact that it is admirably serviceable for the task at hand, nor that it suits you both quite well."
"So where's yours, Alfred?"
"Plaid has never worked with my coloring, Master Dick."
"Oh, sure. That's convenient, isn't it? We're stuck looking like…I don't know…Northwoods hobos, or something, and you get to wear a more tear-proof version of your normal clothes."
"The perks of being the being the person who does the shopping for forays such as this one are extensive, young sir."
The billionaire rolled his eyes skyward. "Why?" he asked the ceiling. "It's too early. Why am I here? Why do I put up with this?"
"Cause you secretly love it," the teen grinned, bouncing up to the counter. "Can I get a triple shot mocha with fat free milk, please?"
"Fat free milk?" Bruce raised an eyebrow. "We had this talk already once today, didn't we? Put regular milk in it," he ordered the barista.
"Bruce! Really? Hijacking my drink order? Not cool."
"You'll burn it off fishing," he replied. "Black coffee. Alfred?"
"I'm quite all right, sir."
"…Uh-oh," Dick said, his eyes going wide at the thought of calories.
"What now?"
"We're supposed to bring our own food for the day. I, uh…kind of forgot to mention that."
"You're kidding."
"I'm sorry, I was distracted by…well, you know," he finished, realizing that in a town this small there was a good chance that several of the people within earshot knew Gina personally.
"It's taken care of, sir," Alfred calmed them both. "There are two full coolers in the trunk of the car. Neither of you will go hungry or thirsty today."
They both visibly relaxed. "I think that almost makes up for these atrocities," Bruce said, fingering the collar of his shirt.
"Almost," Dick clarified.
"…Actually, yours doesn't look all the bad," he replied, considering the boy's outfit.
"Oh, please."
"He's right, honey," the barista offered her opinion, handing them their drinks and taking Bruce's money. "It's cute."
"See? I told you. Even girls think it looks good on you."
"…Maybe you just need to untuck yours."
"Not a chance. We're in public."
"Spoil sport. But hey, at least with girls liking this shirt my concerns that Alfred is actually a robot have been more or less eased."
"I'm quite flattered, young sir, that you once again view me as a fellow human being rather than an automaton."
"No problem," he laughed, sipping his drink.
They arrived at the boat's slip at exactly 5 a.m., trailing two laden coolers on wheels and looking exactly like all of the other charter-goers moving along the docks.
"Couer de Lise," Dick read. "This is it. I remember the name. Hey, Bryant! Are you up there?"
"Master Dick!" Alfred lectured, looking shocked. "Such manners!"
"Hey, he told me to call him Bryant," the teen shrugged. "I started out calling him Mr. Graves, but he didn't like it."
"He's not lying," the fisherman backed him up, stepping onto the ladder set up beside the boat and descending. "Morning, Dick. Glad you made it in time, Gina was worried."
"…She's here?!"
The captain grinned. "She volunteered to be the bait girl today so we can drop a few extra lines for the boat. Thought it was kind of strange, since she said last summer that she hates that part, but I'll take all the free help I can get. Go on up, she's waiting for you."
"Thanks!" Halfway up the ladder he stopped, feeling two familiar stares on his back, and came back down. "Sorry," he said, blushing deeply. "That really was rude of me. Bryant, this is Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth." Introductions complete, he really wanted to run off and find Gina, but he sensed that it wouldn't be in his best interest given the – in Alfred's book, at least – serious faux pas he'd made a minute before.
"Pleased to meet you both," Bryant said, offering his hand.
"Mr. Graves," Bruce shook.
"Just Bryant, if you don't mind. I don't stand much on ceremony. It's never been our way," he explained, turning to Alfred.
"Mr. Graves," the butler intoned, his face a mask. Looking at him at that moment, Dick couldn't tell if the Englishman really liked or really hated the man.
"Now I see where the kid got it," he jested kindly. "If it makes it any easier, some folks call me Captain."
"You have shark fished before, Captain Graves?" Alfred asked, wanting to verify what they'd heard the day before.
"Yup. Been doing it almost since I can remember." He looked him hard in the eye for a second. "I'd wager you've pulled in a couple of nasty ones yourself," he stated.
"…You would not be incorrect in assuming that, Captain," he verified, his face twitching almost imperceptibly at the ease with which his secret had been discerned. "It has been several decades, however."
"Ah, shark fishing's like riding a bike. You never really forget how, same as you never really forget the thrill. This is perfect, we'll have plenty of experienced hands on deck when it comes time to go after those beautiful beasties." He clapped his hands together. "Well, let's get your supplies up and get out on the water. We'll start with the tuna, then switch over to sharks when we get bored or hit our limit. It's about an hour and a half ride out to the grounds, so we should be dropping lines at about daybreak." Turning, he saw Dick bouncing up and down, waiting for him to finish speaking, and his smile widened. "Go on up and let my girl know you're here, would you? If three grown men can't handle a couple of coolers, we're going to have serious issues hauling in what we're chasing today."
Dick required no further prompting to scramble up and disappear onto the boat. Eager to find Gina and get what was likely to be one of the most fun days of his life started, he completely missed the way Bruce's eyes narrowed at the fisherman's back.
Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter was supposed to be a lot shorter and include the events of the actual charter. Once I started writing it, though, the repartee just flowed and I couldn't help myself. I promise, tomorrow's chapter will bring in the action and mystery.
On another note, a guest reviewer asked for elucidation on the dream that Bruce keeps going back to. That dream is detailed in chapter 18 of 'The Ache of Cowardice.' While 'To Catch A Predator' can be read as a stand alone story, there are certain references and nuances that will be missed by anyone who hasn't read the preceding tale.
On an Asimov fangirl level, there actually is one of his stories in which a robot learns a sufficient amount about trends in fashion and home design to wow a group of human women. It's called "Satisfaction Guaranteed," and is very much worth your time. You have to admit, though, there ARE aspects of Alfred's character that sometimes make him seem a little metahuman, if not a robot...:)
