A/N Well, I didn't quite get it done over fall break, what with book shopping and blockbuster free movie coupons, and two papers, not to mention a certain DVD that was recently released! Although, I was quite disgusted to discover that all of the special features are going to be on the deluxe addition. Stupid marketing ploys.

Disclaimer It's probably actually pretty safe for me to claim I own Batman, because I'm not worth the lawyer fees it would cost DC Comics to sue me…

Acknowledgement I would to thank Betty Crocker, whose chocolate cake and brownie mixes are some of the little things in life that mean so much…

Chapter 9

If he jumped over a cliff, would you jump over a cliff?

-My exasperated father

"I'm afraid the doctor sent Miss Somerville to bed, but Master Dick is in the kitchen, sir." Alfred escorted the police lieutenant to the kitchen, where Wayne and the boy were seated on stools at a marble counter top, devouring massive slices of chocolate cake. "Would you care for a piece of cake, Lieutenant?"

"Sure," Gordon agreed, sliding onto a stool across the bar from Wayne. "Evening, Mr. Wayne. I guess this must be Richard."

"Yes. Dick, this is Lieutenant Gordon."

The boy looked up, icing smeared across his upper lip. "Hi."

Gordon sighed appreciatively as the butler set a plate in front of him. "Would you care for a cup of coffee, sir?"

"I guess that wouldn't go down wrong." Gordon enjoyed a blissful bite before asking, "How old are you, son?"

"Eight."

"Eight. I reckon you're in what…second grade?"

Dick nodded, his mouth too full to answer.

Gordon brushed crumbs from his mustache. "I just need to ask you a few questions about what happened today. That ok?"

The boy glanced at Wayne, who nodded. "Sure."

"Start from when you first saw the robbers and tell me everything you can remember until you got home."

"We heard them shooting when we were waiting at the dentist…" Dick continued without interruption until he reached the part where he and Somerville had left the small room at the warehouse. "And then one of the robbers came to get us out. I think it was one of the robbers. They all took their face paint off, except for…um…"

"The Joker?"

"Yeah, him."

"So you saw their faces?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"I only remember the one who came to get us out."

"Still," Gordon muttered, "that's something. You think you could describe him?"

"I guess," Dick mumbled, poking at cake crumbs with his fork.

"And then what happened?"

"We got in the car in the truck and we drove for a long time. They took out the car at that place with all the stumps. There was a little house, too. The truck drove away, and after awhile Miss Somerville shone a flashlight out the window."

"Why did she do that?"

Shrug. "I think he told her to. After that, she told me to crawl out of the car into the field. And she told me what to do if she couldn't find me. So I crawled out, and after a long time the car blew up. Then there was another car that drove away. And Miss Somerville was on fire. And then Batman came."

"Wait…Somerville was on fire?" Wayne demanded.

"Just her sweater. She lay in the snow to put it out."

"Did Miss Somerville explain why the car blew up?" Gordon questioned.

"No."

"And Batman took you home?"

"Yes." Dick wiggled uncomfortably on his stool. "Can I go to bed, now? I'm tired."

Wayne shot a questioning look at Gordon, who sighed. "Yeah, I'm done." The butler helped the kid down and led him out of the room. "I'll send an artist up first thing tomorrow, see if he can describe the one he saw." Gordon shook his head, licking the last bit of icing off his fork. "Running out there like he did…that's one gutsy kid you got on your hands, Mr. Wayne. Gutsy…or crazy."

- - - - - -

"Alfred, he ran into the middle of a shooting!"

"I know, Master Wayne." Through the partly open door they could hear the cheerful voices of Dick and of Rachel, who was putting the boy to bed. "And I am just as concerned as you are. But you can't deny that it was very brave."

"Brave? It was stupid! He's an eight-year-old-kid."

"He was trying to help."

"He was trying to get himself killed."

"Oh no, I don't think so, sir. Master Dick is not of a morbid turn of mind."

"That is not what I meant."

"Mmm. Are you familiar with the proverb that says people who dwell in glass houses shouldn't throw stones?"

Bruce's jaw dropped. "Are you trying to tell me that this is my fault?"

"The foundations of this house, sir, have a distinctly glassy look."

"I've had enough joking around for one night, Alfred, kindly say what you mean."

The butler looked slightly insulted. "You can't punish him for doing the same thing he imagines you do."

"It's not the same thing! I have equipment…training…"

"Equipment and training are all very well, but it's the spirit I'm talking about, and the will. And in those respects, sir, you are very much alike."

"Alfred. He's eight. And I'm not going to punish him. I'm just going to…"

"Discourage him?"

"Something like that."

There was a soft knock on the door and Rachel stuck her head through. "Dick is ready to say goodnight."

Bruce walked down the hall to the room where Dick lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. "So, what did you think of Lieutenant Gordon?"

The thin shoulders shrugged against the pillow. "He's ok. He kept getting cake in his mustache."

Bruce grinned. "I noticed. I think he's a good cop, though."

"Alfred never gets cake in his mustache."

"How do you know? Have you ever seen Alfred eat cake? Or anything else?"

"No." Dick's eyes grew huge. "Is Alfred a robot?"

"No!" Bruce gasped, trying not to laugh and wondering how the conversation had gotten so far off track. "He just doesn't like people to watch him eat."

"Why not?"

"I dunno. Listen, Dick, Lieutenant Gordon thinks you're pretty brave, running out to help that woman like that." He paused but got no response. "But he also thinks it was a little crazy. I mean, you could have gotten hurt pretty badly, just running out there with all those guns shooting…" Bruce broke off, with the distinct impression that he was being ignored.

"Bruce?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about…when Miss Somerville came and I said…I like it here. I like it a lot." Dick turned so that his voice was muffled in the pillow. "I don't want to go."

"I don't want you to go either." Bruce reached out and carefully brushed the hair away from Dick's eyes. "It's ok about the other day. I understand."

"Thanks." Dick sighed heavily. "So I guess we should be really nice to Miss Somerville, huh?"

"I guess so," Bruce said dryly.

"She's not so bad," Dick offered. "She was really smart about the car blowing up. I didn't know it was going to explode."

Bruce's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Yes, she was, wasn't she? I'll have to ask her about it tomorrow."

Dick yawned, his mouth squishing his cheeks against his eyes. "Goodnight, Bruce."

Back in the study, Alfred was nonchalantly straightening a bookshelf, while Rachel stood in front of the piano, arms folded tightly against her chest. Bruce stopped in the doorway and looked cautiously from one to the other. "I think I'd better…"

"Oh no you don't," Rachel snapped. "I have a few things to say to you, Mr. Wayne. This whole day was obviously the result of your influence."

"That's just what I remarked myself," Alfred said cheerfully.

"You see! If Dick weren't constantly exposed to such a…a dangerous environment, he would never have dreamed of such a…a dangerous thing. And then, there's that woman…"

Bruce's grateful glance fell on the telephone's flashing voice mail light. "I have to go." He scooted around Rachel and flipped up the lid on the piano.

"I am not finished!" Rachel snapped, spinning around and missing the opening bookcase. "And you do not know how to play the piano, so don't pretend…"

She turned just in time to see the bookcase swinging shut. "Come back here!"

------

The voice on the phone was furious. "And when I think of the way I am sticking my neck out for you...How could you let this happen?"

Gatsby's slender fingers tightened around the telephone receiver, but his tone remained detached. "The problem has been dealt with. It will not happen again."

"It should never have happened at all. What if the boy had been killed?"

"It would have been unfortunate, certainly, but not disastrous?"

"Not disastrous? That boy is point of everything we've been doing for the past month."

"No, he is only one of several intriguing possibilities." Gatsby was growing impatient. "Do you have anything real to report, or may I stop wasting my time?"

The voice on the other end was beginning to whine. "All I'm saying is, why do we need him? Everything is under control."

"The people I choose to employ are none of your concern," Gatsby snapped. "Concentrate on your job. That seems to be quite enough difficulty for you." He slammed down the phone and stared moodily at the crystal bowl on the corner of his desk, where a pale fish swam restlessly back and forth. "Some people are beginning to have too great an opinion of their own importance." He reached out a finger and gently tapped the bowl. "Mephistopheles, what are we going to do about that?"

A/N Huge thank-you's to all reviewers! Responses can be found by going to my bio page and clicking on the homepage link.