Malcolm trudged his way towards the library after a — in his opinion — spectacularly disastrous breakfast. The thought of dry toast even now had his stomach violently cramping and his mouth filling with bile. Nobody criticized him for not touching any of the food Alfred set on the table. If anything, everyone seemed to understand he wasn't able to eat any of the truly amazing things the butler prepared. Miserably embarrassed by his body's inability to do something normal like eat scrambled eggs and toast, Malcolm sat staring at his empty plate.

A hand settled on his shoulder in much the same way Gil's would on the back of his neck. Offering silent support and comfort. A glance at Mr. Wayne — he hadn't gotten comfortable with calling him Bruce, yet — revealed the same understanding in his eyes there'd be in Gil's if he was there.

"Try some tea," he suggested. "It'll help settle your stomach."

He then went back to his newspaper. A cup of tea materialized next to Malcolm's hand, the minty smell wafting up to ease some of the tension twisting his insides into fiery knots. He didn't need to look to know the tea came from Raya. Alfred brought the pot of tea after setting a plate of fluffy eggs, crisp bacon, and roasted potatoes in the middle of the table. Jason tucked into the food with gusto, earning an amused look from Bruce and a soft word of caution to "chew his food throughly" from Alfred.

Dick and Raya went over math equations while the later slid pieces of fruit onto her mostly empty plate. Even Jason snuck a piece of toast onto her plate while she was distracted. The Wayne household operated differently from his own he realized as he sat there and quietly watched the interplay between them. Mr. Wayne didn't chastise him for causing a disruption to his household the night before. He also didn't criticize him for falling asleep in the library instead of the perfectly nice room given to him for his use while he stayed with them.

Nor did he order him to eat something or get upset when he didn't. The only thing Mr. Wayne said before departing the table a few minutes later was, "Alfred has a book full of recipes for sensitive stomachs. He will happily prepare things that might be easier on your digestion."

Malcolm went to protest, not wanting to put the butler out more than he was already, but Mr. Wayne simply squeezed his shoulder and assured him it was no bother before exiting the room. Despite Mr. Wayne's assurances, Malcolm expected Alfred would be perturbed when he found out he hadn't touched any of the food he made. To his surprise, and profound relief, the older man said nothing except: "Perhaps we shall have a nice soup for lunch." He gathered the dishes and placed them on a tray. "A hearty chicken noodle, in fact."

Malcolm swore to do his best to eat some of the soup the butler promised to make. It should be fine, he reasoned as he crossed the wide foyer with its array of decorations to the next hallway. Jackie makes chicken noodle all the time and it doesn't make me sick. In fact, chicken noodle soup always made him feel better after one of his episodes.

How did Alfred know that, though? Malcolm paused in the middle of the foyer, brow furrowed. Did Alfred call Jackie and ask her for some suggestions on what to make for me?

It wasn't unreasonable, he decided as a thud come from somewhere upstairs. Malcolm glanced up, hoping to see Dick or Jason come racing down the stairs.

Neither one did.

Raya didn't come skipping downstairs, either.

He found himself most disappointed by that.

Malcolm freely admitted Raya, Dick, and Jason were the one aspect of the Wayne household he couldn't figure out. The trio weren't like any of the kids at the latest boarding school his mother enrolled him in. They didn't mock him for being the son of a serial killer. They didn't make fun of him for being short, thin or "pasty-faced" as some of the boys at school liked to call him. They didn't tease him about his eating. Or lack there-of, he corrected, grimacing. None of them brought up his running out of the library, shouting at the top of his lungs, and violently fighting against them the night before. Nor did they stare at him with pity, fear or any of the other things he commonly saw in people's eyes after they witnessed one of his night terrors.

The three had circled him — Dick holding onto him from behind, Raya straddling his legs, and that image had yet to fade from his mind, and Jason to the right of them — while he fought the memories the shadow things used to torment him. They continued to shield and protect him until he managed to extract himself from the shadow demons grasp. The question Malcolm found himself asking as he made his way to the library was why. Outside of Gil, Jackie, Ainsley, and his mother, when she wasn't passed out from whatever mixture of alcohol or drugs she had taken, nobody offered him that kind of comfort and support. Not when he was in the middle of a night terror, anyway.

He had a private room at school because the boys in his class refused to share one with him. Malcolm hadn't wanted to room with anyone after what happened at his last boarding school. His back still bore the faint marks from the belts Brandon and his friends used to teach him about what "his place" in their school was. He didn't mind having his own room since it gave him a safe space he could go to when he was having a bad day. His own room also allowed him some defense against those who made fun of him for his night terrors.

Well, them, he amended as he passed a room with the door slightly ajar, and all the other things they tend to make fun of me for.

The verbal taunts and insults were things he learned to tune out after much practice.

Being called shrimp, small fry, lollipop, fairy, hurt. Malcolm didn't deny it didn't. He died a little inside each time one of the boys called him by one of their special pet names. Those names, though, hurt a whole lot less than fists to his stomach or being slammed into lockers did. Malcolm was about to enter the library when soft music drifted down the hall. Danse Macabre, Op. 40, he realized, slowly turning. Whose listening to that?

It definitely wasn't Mr. Wayne or Alfred. Mr. Wayne left before breakfast was finished. Alfred was in the kitchen. He didn't see it as something Jason or Dick would listen to. Raya then? It was a possibility given her adoration for Anna Pavlova. Curious, Malcolm moved back down the hall. The music poured out of the opening, tingling along his spine, and shivering deep within his soul. Memories, bittersweet rather than dark and morbid, rose up to lure him into the past.

"La Danse Macabre," his father whispered to him as dancers dressed in an array of costumes filled the stage, "is an old legend."

"It is?" Malcolm's eyes blinked wide as he stared at the dancers in their array of costumes. "Bout what?"

"Well, it's, ah, about Death, who appears at midnight every year on Halloween."

"He does?" Malcolm frowned as he stared at the shrouded figure lurking behind the others. "Why?"

"So he can call the dead from their graves to dance for him while he plays his golden fiddle."

"He plays a golden fiddle?" Excitement streaked through Malcolm at the prospect of seeing such a fantastical instrument. "Really?"

"Well, it's more a violin than a, uh, fiddle." A smile appeared through his father's thick whiskers. "But he will definitely play it and the skeletons will dance for him until the rooster crows to signal the dawn."

"Then what happens?"

"Well, they will all return to their graves until next Halloween."

Malcolm had been five at the time and unaware how the father regaling him with such a fantastical tale was a man who also dealt in death.

Twenty-three bodies to twenty-four orchestra instruments.

Diabolus in Musica.

The Devil in Music.

Only, Martin Whitly didn't murder his victims to music. At least, Malcolm didn't think he did. His memories were too fragmented, too convoluted. He did recall his father listening to the radio sometimes while reading over patient files. Nothing like this, though. No, his father preferred Jim Croce over that of Saint-Saëns's. Memories surfaced, none of them longer than a second in length, and set to his father's favorite song, Operator.

"Malcolm, you shouldn't be down here." His father's hand settled on his shoulder, gentle but firm. "You need to go so I can work."

He slowly turned as a voice whispered near his left ear, operator, well, could you help me place this call?

"My boy, we're the same." A smile wreathed his father's face as he bent his head to look at him. "Never forget that. We're the same."

Malcolm's hand spasmed against his thigh as that breathy voice billowed across his ear. See, the number on the matchbook, is old and faded.

His father's hand guided his towards a wriggling blob. "You make an incision in the chest wall here between the ribs…"

Panic was an icy poker jabbing through his belly. She's living in L.A. with my best old ex-friend Ray…

Malcolm almost jumped out of his skin when a voice, Jason's, he realized, interrupted the tidal wave of memories. "Raya won't mind if you go in and watch her practice." He spun around to face the eleven year old, his heart pounding so hard against his ribcage he was surprised Jason couldn't hear it. "Sorry." Contrition filled Jason's face. "Didn't mean to startle ya."

"Not your fault," Malcolm assured him as tremors rocketed from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. "I was just lost in thought."

More like he was lost in the past. He didn't tell Jason that. While he liked him — and Dick and Raya — there were things he wasn't comfortable telling them about.

I'll lose what friendship I have with them if I do.

"Musta been some deep thoughts." Jason's eyes studied him with a shrewdness Malcolm would have expected from someone twice his age. "I said your name like five times."

"I didn't hear you." Malcolm offered what he hoped was a sheepish smile and waved a hand towards the room behind him. "I was listening to the music."

"I don't like it." Jason's nose wrinkled. "No lyrics. I mean, how do ya know the story without lyrics?"

"The music is the story."

Jason's head cocked to the side. "You've heard the song before?"

"During a performance I attended with my parents, yes."

"Raya danced to it on Halloween and is gonna dance to it again New Years Eve."

"Raya dances?" Surprise and an excitement he couldn't mask tinged Malcolm's voice. "She's a dancer?"

Part of him hoped she did ballet. Not because he had any secret desire to dance with her. Well, I would like to dance with her, he amended, fingers trembling against his thighs. He'd just cut his toes off before admitting it to the smirking eleven year old in front of him.

"Raya's the bestest dancer in her class."

A smile, a real one, tugged at Malcolm's lips. "Not biased, are you?"

"Me? Nah." Jason flashed him a lopsided grin. "She is the bestest dancer, though. Don't care what anyone says."

"What about Raya?" Malcolm looked over his shoulder, saw the shadow moving on the wall. "What does she say?"

"Pft, you can't ask her."

Malcolm frowned. "Why not?"

"Cause she says she's mediocre."

Malcolm blinked. "Mediocre?" He didn't think there was anything Raya Kean did that was mediocre. "She thinks she's only a mediocre dancer?"

"She's goofy like that." Jason nodded towards the open door. "Go on in and see for yourself, though. She won't mind. Honest."

"Oh, I couldn't." No matter how badly he wanted to go in and watch her dance to the Danse Macabre. "I don't want to interrupt her during practice."

"Trust me." Jason's eyes sparkled with mischief. "You won't be interrupting her."

"How do you know?"

"Cause Dick's in there bugging her."

Malcolm's head cocked to the side. "Why's he bugging her while she practices?"

"Cause her hollering at him means she's okay." Soon as the last word left his mouth, he flinched. "Forget I said that, will ya?"

Not that Malcolm could.

"Raya's not okay?" His brows drew down over the bridge of his nose. "What's wrong with her? Is she sick?"

Was it him? Had he said something? Hurt her the night before? Guilt bubbled in his already sour stomach. Burned hotly in his throat.

"Uhm..." Jason ducked his head. "I'm not supposed to say anything to you about it."

"Why not?"

"Cause."

Malcolm's hand spasmed against his thigh as a plethora of reasons played through his mind. All of them about him. "Cause why?"

"Cause she don't want you focusing on her. Not after…" he didn't finish that statement. He didn't need too. Malcolm could perfectly figure out what Jason meant.

"She shouldn't suppress how she feels because of me."

"Focusing on you is helping her."

"How?"

"Cause it's keeping her mind off stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Yanno, stuff." Jason rubbed the back of his head. "This time of year ain't easy for her."

"Why not?"

"Uhm." Jason hunched his shoulders and dug the tip of his sneaker into the carpet. "Cause of what happened to her mom."

"Her mom?" Malcolm's head spun as he tried to piece together what Jason was saying. It was difficult to do given how none of the pieces were lining up. "What about her mom?"

"Okay, look, you didn't hear this from me, all right, but her mom was killed like seven years ago."

Malcolm's eyes blinked wide. "Her mom was killed?"

Why hadn't Raya mentioned that to him? Easy, a voice simpered from the shadows of his mind. She doesn't trust you anymore than you do her. Malcolm ignored the voice.

"Yeah." Jason's fingers curled and uncurled at his sides. "It was like the week before Christmas."

"Is that why Raya came to live here at Wayne Manor?"

"Yeah." Jason peeked at him from between his bangs. "Commissioner Gordon signed temporary custody of her over to Bruce while he was in the hospital."

"In the hospital?" A sliver of unease rolled through Malcolm. "For what?"

"From being shot three times in the back."

Another tremor rattled through him as Malcolm pieced together what Jason was telling him in a roundabout way. "He's hurt everyone important to her."

"Yep." Jason nodded. "Now, he's trying to go after you and it's got her all twisted up."

"He won't hurt me, though," Malcolm said with more assurance than he felt. "Batman won't let him."

"Neither will Raya." The intensity in Jason's eyes shook Malcolm to the core. "That's why Batman agreed to you coming here to live with us. He figured it'd keep her from doing something stupid."

"Like what?"

"Like confronting my father," came from behind him. "Which I am under express and clear orders to not do."

"Batman ordered you to not confront your father?" Malcolm asked as he slowly turned to face Raya. "Why?"

A shrug accompanied, "Because he's Batman."

"That's the only reason?"

Not that any other reason was necessary, he supposed. Batman was an intimidating force all by himself. Malcolm could hardly fault those who found themselves cowed while in his presence.

"Well, he also has Bruce and my uncle Jim on his side." Raya's lips quirked at the corners. "And your detective Arroyo, too."

"Gil ordered you to stay away from your father?" That surprised Malcolm. "Why?"

"Because he wants to see my father finally get what he deserves." Raya turned back into the room. "And yours if we can find the link that connects them."

"My father's in Claremont Psychoatric," Malcolm pointed out as he slowly followed her. "He won't be getting out at any point."

Not unless he breaks out.

Something Malcolm feared with his entire being.

"Martin Whitly is sitting in a cushiony cell in a psychiatric hospital," Raya replied as another song started to play. The Sorcerers Apprentice, Malcolm realized, excitement streaking through him. "He needs to rot in a prison cell for what he's done."

"Or in Arkham," Jason helpfully supplied as he walked over to sit on the floor by Dick. "Preferably in a cell with that pasty-faced freak."

"I'd pay to see Martin Whitly against the Joker," Dick said, head tipped back against the wall. "Think he'll find he's not in control of the situation really quickly."

"Joker will pretend Whitly is in control of him until he rips the illusion away." Raya executed a flawless arabesque. "Now, the Scarecrow and Poison Ivy would take control of him immediately."

"My father's greatest fear is losing power and control."

"His greatest fear is losing his hold over you." Raya's words were laced with velvet steel. "His one desire is to see you pick up where he left off."

"To become a killer like him."

The eyes that met his over her shoulder burned the same way Fenix's did. In fact, if Malcolm didn't know better, he'd think Raya was Fenix.

That was ridiculous, though. Wasn't it? A voice — one of the dozens — in the back of Malcolm's head warned him to not dismiss his suspicions.

"Enough chitchat." Dick clapped his hands. "Back to practice."

"Taskmaster." Raya pirouetted towards him. Her ability to stay on-pointe for more than a few seconds, the smoothness of her turn, and the way she extended her leg behind her all spoke of years of dedication and practice.

Malcolm found himself envying her. If he continued dancing after his father's arrest, he might have the same control Raya did. The same confidence and poise. He gave up dancing, though.

He gave up a lot of things.

All because his father was a serial killer. No more, he decided as Raya did a grande jeté. I'm not giving up anything or anyone else.

Especially the three people his age who didn't think him a freak.

Or a monster.