Bruce entered the foyer late that evening and stood for a moment, waiting expectantly. …Okay, he groaned finally, I guess he's progressed to not even helping me with my coat. Shit.

It isn't as if you don't know where the closet is, Batman snarked, irritated from a day of moody back-and-forths that had intensified after the Commissioner called to inform Bruce that the Grayson murder investigation was being halted. Wanting to speak with Alfred privately about how to break the news to Dick and assuming that the boy would spend most of the day in the library, where he wasn't likely to overhear the television or radio, he hadn't called the house. If nothing else, he'd counseled as Bruce had wept quietly for the child, remembering what it had felt like to hear that his own parents' deaths were being swept under the rug, this may help our investigation. Now there's less chance of the police putting the people we need to talk to in Newtown on their guard, and hearing that GPD is marking the case as cold may make them relax, to our advantage.

Thinking about it again as he hung his own jacket up, the billionaire voiced a determined insistence. I have to be the one to tell him about this. You know that. You remember what it was like, I know you do. He deserves to hear it from someone who understands.

There was no answer for a moment as they walked down the hallway towards the clock. …I suppose Alfred wouldn't do it even if you asked, at this point, so fine. But you'll be quick about it, and while I recognize that a certain level of physical contact is likely to occur, you will not prolong it any more than is necessary for basic comforting. No pet names, and no promises.

Bruce grimaced. Fine. It was better than nothing; at least he'd get to see him, if only for a few minutes. I'm still fighting for you, kiddo. I'm just facing a very tough adversary. If I could make it go faster, I would.

A mixture of surprise and mild fear flooded him when he entered the cave to find the butler waiting for him. It wasn't unusual for him to be downstairs, but he was generally working, keeping the dust-prone space as clean as possible, tallying supplies, or any one of a million other tasks that the younger man couldn't even begin to imagine. Finding him standing stock-still at the base of the stairs with a flat, unhappy expression was disconcerting, to say the least. "Uh…hello," Bruce ventured, one hand rising to rub at the back of his neck nervously. …Does this mean you're talking to me again? Because I'd really, really like that, even if you do start it off by yelling.

But Alfred didn't yell. "Master Wayne, please sit down," he said, gesturing to the computer chair that he'd pulled over.

"…I have to go to Newtown tonight. I don't have time to talk," Batman overrode Bruce's attempt to do as he'd been told.

The Englishman closed the distance between them silently. Suddenly, it no longer mattered that the vigilante dwarfed him by several inches, because the towering anger rolling palpably off of him more than made up the difference. "Sit," he hissed, "down."

…You'd better listen to him. I've never seen him this mad before.

Batman sighed. "I can spare a minute, if it's that important," he muttered, moving to the seat he'd been assigned. "What is it?" he asked irreverently, crossing one leg over the other.

In a highly abnormal invasion of his employer's personal space, Alfred leaned in until their faces were only inches apart. The note of hesitation that entered the other man's gaze made a terse smirk cross his lips. Well, I see I didn't lie to Master Dick; I still have the ability to scare little boys, no matter how much they think they may have grown up. "…I have known you since the day you were born," he began slowly. "I daresay I raised you, more or less. Would you agree?"

"…I suppose you did, yes." What is this?

"Then I am deeply ashamed of myself," the Englishman said frankly. "I am mortified that a child I was responsible for bringing up has turned into such a cold, unfeeling jackass." With that, he pulled away and turned his back.

"You don't understand," Bruce tried, shoving Batman aside and feeling his eyes fill with tears instantly. Don't be mad at me, I'm trying…

"What I don't understand," Alfred whirled around, snapping, "is how you can do what you have been doing to that sweet, precious child upstairs when it is virtually the same thing that was done to you!"

"…Alfred…"

"Don't interrupt me. Listen." The seated figure went silent, obeying, but at that crucial moment he found he couldn't speak as he wanted to. …I made mistakes, Bruce, he thought guiltily. I admit that, and I'm sorry. If I could go back in time and have another opportunity to be what you truly needed in those first weeks, believe me, I would do it. I look at that boy, and I see so much of what you once were, when you…felt loved. I saw what he did to you this past weekend. I saw the way you lit up when you were with him. It was like getting a glimpse of the man you might have been had they not died as they did, and it was the most glorious thing I have ever seen. Now you're sabotaging it. I don't know why, and I don't want to know why; all I know is that I want you to stop. Because it isn't just you that I'm having to watch the light slip away from this time; it's him, too. I will not stand idly by and watch you repeat my errors. What kind of a father am I, and what kind of a father will you be, if I do?

He wanted to give voice to everything ricocheting around his brain, and yet he couldn't, his lips sealing themselves against the sentiments. The same problem as always with him, he mused bitterly. And I wonder where he learned it from. They stared at one another for a full minute before Alfred reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "This is a letter," he said slowly, "that I received earlier today. It is addressed to you…from your son." Bruce's breath hitched audibly at the use of that word, and the butler smiled softly. "Yes, I insist on referring to him as such, even if you still fail to recognize what he has already become to you. Not because of the paperwork," he waved off, "that's mere formality, but because of…something else," he shook his head. "I can't explain it, but it's glaringly obvious. Even when you aren't with him – even when you're studiously trying to ignore his very existence – he is always in the fore of your mind. Isn't he?" Silence. "Answer me."

"No…"

"Don't lie. You know better."

"…Y-yes."

"I don't know what happened when you two met, but something did, and it is marvelous, Bruce. If you could see yourself when you're with him, you wouldn't believe your eyes. And that is why I don't understand this. Can't you let yourself be happy, just for once?"

"It's too dangerous," Batman reasserted himself, still using Bruce's voice. "Give me the letter." Both wanted it, the billionaire desperate to gauge the boy's pain in order to measure his own guilt, the vigilante curious as to what an eight-year-old could possibly have to say to him.

"Everything you do is dangerous. The reward is guaranteed in this instance, so long as you seize it before the opportunity has expired, so why are you not leaping at it? You've never been one to let something good pass you by, and you've certainly never been prone to destroying innocence; what could possibly be driving this madness?"

Batman shook his head violently. "It's a precautionary measure. It will be over soon, I promise." This would be so much faster and easier for us both if you'd just stop fighting, he advised Bruce silently.

I'll never stop fighting. Not for him, I won't.

Foolish. Where did you learn that, anyway? he sneered.

…From you, of course.

That stymied the Bat for a second, but fortunately Alfred was talking, distracting him from turning that fact over all of the way. "It had better end very quickly. Both for your own good and for his." He held out the envelope, then pulled it back a few inches as it was reached for. "…I'll have you know that I read this – without his knowledge, I'm sorry to admit – and was astounded, as you will be." Hesitantly, he gave up the note, stepping back to watch as Bruce opened it.

Dear Batman,

We've never met before, but you might have heard of me. My name is Richard Grayson, and my parents were murdered two weekends ago here in your city.

Bruce had to pause at that, well able to imagine the amount of pain it must have caused the boy to write that sentence, and so soon after the fact.

I know you probably don't get many letters, but Mr. Wayne, who I guess is supposed to be my guardian (I hope I spelled that right, I didn't ask about the spelling because I want this letter to just be between you and me), said he heard a rumor that you might try and find the bad guys who killed them. When he first told me that, I wondered if I might be able to help you somehow, and now that the police aren't looking into it anymore I felt like I should actually offer.

"…How does he know that?" the billionaire moaned, his face distorting. "Alfred," he looked up tearfully. "…The investigation…Gordon called me this morning about it. I wanted to talk to you about how best to tell him, but…he already knows?"

The Englishman grimaced. "I made the mistake of turning on the radio while he ate his lunch this morning," he explained. "I had no way of knowing he would overhear such a thing. Why didn't you call immediately?"

"I thought I had time," he closed his eyes, fingers crimping the edges of the note. "God damn it, I should have been the one to tell him! He shouldn't have heard it from a fucking radio broadcast!"

At least now you can avoid potentially reconnecting with him over another shared pain. This is a good development. Batman sounded slightly uncertain, however; the emotion was so foreign in his voice that it took Bruce a moment to pick up on it.

You need to shut up and pay attention, he lectured. After all, he wrote this to you. Receiving no rebuttal, he returned to the letter, the childishly large but neat handwriting blurring as the occasional tear still swelled in his vision.

…I was there when Pop Haly was threatened. I mean, I didn't see anything, but I definitely heard plenty, and…well, I've been thinking about it really, really hard, and I know I could recognize those voices if I heard them again. And I've been thinking about some other stuff, too, these last couple of days since Mr. Wayne told me about you. I was thinking about him, and me, and all the other kids who have felt like we do because someone took their parents away. And I don't want that to go on anymore. I want it to stop. I want to make it stop, not because I want revenge or anything like that so much – although a little part of me does want to see the people who took my parents away in jail, I won't lie about that – but because no one else should have to feel like this.

So…anyway…I know you probably don't have a whole lot of uses for a kid, but I don't think Mr. Wayne would mind if you wanted to put me to work, since he doesn't seem to want me around anymore. Maybe you can talk to him about it; I kind of got the feeling you two know each other a little? It doesn't have to be anything special, I'll even just clean and stuff if that helps you have more time to catch bad guys, but I'm pretty good at a few other things that you might find helpful, too. I don't want to be a charity case, though; my parents worked hard for everything they had, and that's how I want to be, too.

I just want to be useful, Batman. I know there are a lot of people out there who have sort of lost hope, people like Mr. Wayne and…well…like me, too, I guess. I want to do whatever I can to give them that hope back, and maybe if I do I'll get some back myself (but that's not the only reason I want to help, don't get me wrong!). I want to help you do what you do, no matter what that takes. I hope you'll let me.

Sincerely,

Richard (Dick) Grayson

Bruce had to re-read the letter three times before he felt like he'd really absorbed it. …Well? he raged at the silent Batman. Do you see now what you've done? He thinks I wouldn't care if he ran off with – was kidnapped, more like – by an edge-of-the-law crime fighter. Are you happy?!

No. But I am intrigued.

…What?

His proclaimed reasons for wanting to help are interesting. He doesn't want revenge; he wants to keep others from feeling like they want it. It's not what I would have expected from an eight-year-old. From most anyone, to be fair.

Dick's special. I've been trying to tell you that all along. Do you see now?

I see where he might be useful in our Newtown case.

…Nothing else strikes you about the child who wrote this?!

…He has remarkably odd penmanship.

Oh, for fuck's sake! He's feeling completely rejected and receives bad news, and his first thought is 'how can I do something to keep other people from feeling this way?,' but instead of recognizing that incredible generosity you focus on how he makes his letters?!

…Yes.

It was a lie; Batman was impressed despite himself, not only by the letter but by the various characteristics the youth had evinced over the past few days. It was possible, of course, that Dick's words were just that – words, and words alone – but courageous and talented men usually started out as brave and skillful boys. If only the letter in his hand had been written by someone that his first responsibility wasn't so attached to, he might have been able to use him in the requested manner. As it stood, he couldn't see a way to do so without endangering the primary mission, but that didn't mean he couldn't keep turning the seed of an idea around in his own little private section of Bruce's brain. "…Did he ask how you would get this to me?"

"Yes, sir. I informed him letters to Batman are generally addressed to the police station, and are forwarded appropriately from there."

"Did he buy that?"

"He seemed to, yes."

"Mm." He stood.

"…Master Wayne? Going upstairs, I hope?"

"No," he shook his head. "I'm going to Newtown. I have to solve this case for him, as soon as possible." He paused. "Before the leads get any colder."

"…Did the letter you just read do nothing for you, sir? Because I don't believe it, not after what I saw last weekend. You adore him; show it!" the butler railed.

"What do you think I'm doing by going to Newtown?" he spat back. The statement was enough to clear out the cave, as Alfred paled, then flushed, and finally let loose an absolutely livid harrumph before practically stomping up the steps.

…My god, you meant that, Bruce sputtered. You do care about him, you cruel, devious son of a bitch!

I do not, Batman defended himself with an angry but weakened snarl. He is…a useful tool, much like your money.

And you're just a tool, in general, the billionaire threw back. It was bad enough that you were being so awful to him when you didn't give a shit, but…how can you? He needs me upstairs, the same way I needed someone!

How many times do I have to explain that you are the primary mission?! You, not Dick, not Alfred, not anyone else. He could be useful for the secondary mission, which as we both know is stopping or correcting injustices in general, as I noted before. Until I find a way for him to be of use to the main objective, you will keep your distance from him, exactly as you have been.

…So you are looking for a way to make him useful to your overprotectiveness, then? Bruce asked slyly, a note of giddiness in his thoughts at that faint ray of hope.

I didn't say that. And even if I was doing…that, he ground out, I make no promises. There is likely no role for him in the primary mission, and if I determine that that is the case you are just going to have to live with it.

…Only if he can, Batman. Otherwise, I'm not interested.

Author's Note: A couple more chapters to cuddles!