The summer session flew by and before anyone knew it, the fall semester was upon them. Dick, Raven, and Garfield found themselves in mostly different classes now, depending on their chosen majors: criminology, eastern studies, and zoology, respectively. They would be seeing less of each other, which by the end of the summer they had decided was probably a good thing. Friends can only spend so much time together before nerves get frayed and feelings stepped on.

There was one exception: psych class. Introductory psychology was required for each of their majors, and so the three of them dragged themselves to class Monday morning at eight. Garfield was mostly asleep and put his head down on his desk the moment he sat down. Raven was more awake, but her naturally stoic nature made one wonder at times just exactly how closely she was paying attention to the world around her. Dick appeared to be the most awake for this class, but then, he had been looking forward to it ever since learning who would be teaching it.

Well, there was the slight matter of their first meeting wherein Dick was passed out on the side of the road, but this was his chance to make a more favorable impression.

He glanced at his watch, eager for class to begin. Dr. Cabrini was five minutes late. Anyone should be given the benefit of the doubt for the first time they had to be somewhere at eight a.m., so Dick wasn't all that concerned.

That's when he noticed the lectern.

Well not so much the lectern per se, but the small red pinpoint light shining on the inside of the lamp attached to it. Only years' worth of training prevented him from bursting out laughing. Dr. Cabrini was videotaping the class!

Dick had read most of the good doctor's work when he was about twelve; Bruce had handed him a pile of books as well as several loose-leaf binders as part of his apprenticeship homework. The world-renown psychologist was most notably credited for his work in psychological profiling, having given various police department and government agencies the working profiles on everyone from Ted Bundy to the Joker. It was seeing his name in the college's online catalogue as head of the psychology department that was the deciding factor for his decision to attend Hudson University.

Dick concealed his smirk rather well as he pulled out his notebook. If he guessed correctly—and he was fairly certain that he had, this held the beginnings of a profiling exercise. Dick, eager to improve the professor's opinion of him, decided to get a jump on the probable class work/homework and began jotting down a few notes…

About twenty minutes later, when Dick had just about finished his note taking, the professor finally arrived. His pace was brisk and he didn't stop to greet the class as he strode purposefully towards his desk. He deposited his briefcase beside the lectern and took a long swig from his extra-large coffee thermos before crossing to the blackboard.

"Good morning," the professor greeted without looking at the class. He then wrote his name hastily in chalk, scratching and screeching as he went. "I am Doctor Xavier Cabrini." At this point he turned around. "And since I'm not yet bald," he focused directly on Garfield, who had a comic book concealed beneath his notebook, "you will NOT call me Professor X."

Half the class burst out laughing as Garfield covered his surprise with a seemingly dejected snap of the fingers. Even Raven was smirking. Dick just shook his head.

Dr. Cabrini then walked over to the far wall and flipped two switches. A white screen lowered itself into position at the front of the class, obscuring the blackboard, while the professor went back to his briefcase. He pulled out a stack of papers, divided the stack into five piles, and dropped a pile on the first desk of every column.

"This is your syllabus. You'll note my email address and office phone number listed with my office hours. I'm a busy man—appointments are better. I always check my voicemail every morning, and my email several times a day. There's no excuse for your not being able to contact me, and I would appreciate being informed when you have been too stupid to drink enough water, either after alcohol consumption, or—" a pointed glance at Dick, "—through over exertion, to crawl out of bed in time for class."

Dick pursed his lips but said nothing. After all, he's received worse taunts, and that one he probably deserved.

"You'll also note that I have listed everything you will need to have read, completed, or generally thought about in order to be prepared for each class. I do not except late work without an excuse note from the county coroner, and since you are all high school graduates I will assume that you are all able to read. It would behoove you to practice that skill with this textbook. It's a fairly interesting read. I should know; I wrote it. Of course, if you should have any problems with the material, having the author on hand to answer any questions you may have is a rather uniquely beneficial situation, wouldn't you say?"

Dick just smiled slightly and shook his head as he perused the syllabus. He'd already noted that their introduction to the world of psychology was 'understanding personality,' which fit with his hypothesis of a profiling exercise.

"Now I'm going to take attendance. When I call your name, please verbally express yourselves so that I can check you off." With lightning speed and uncannily accurate pronunciation the professor read the roll. Several people he didn't wait to hear from, including Dick, because he had recognized them. This didn't surprise Dick at all. He was already well aware that his first impression was a lasting one, from the earlier comment alone.

"Very good," said Dr. Cabrini as he shoved the attendance roster back into his brief case. "Now that the essential housekeeping has been tackled, it's time to begin today's lesson. Please direct your attention to the projector screen." He grabbed a remote control from some pocket in his briefcase. "No doubt you all are wondering where your humble professor was during the first twenty minutes of class. I'll tell you; I was in the café drinking coffee and eating a cheese Danish. However, my absence served a purpose. Or more to the point, your presence served that purpose." He hit the play button. The video projector mounted at the back of the classroom blinked to life and soon the projector screen was filled with an image of an empty classroom from the viewpoint of the professor's desk. Or more accurately, from the lectern.

Dr. Cabrini proceeded to walk the class through the twenty minutes of video, briefly highlighting each student. He pointed out what each student was doing at the given moment he focused on them and had the class offer reasons for why they were engaging in such activities, from Garfield Logan's reading a comic book to Raven's reading the text book to Dick's constant writing.

"Working on an essay, Grayson?"

"Not exactly," Dick answered casually.

"Class, what do you think he was doing?"

"Writing a letter to his girlfriend!" Garfield piped up.

"A letter to mommy!" Another student called out from the back.

The professor noticed a shadow momentarily darken Dick's face—something so slight that not many others would have perceived it. He also saw Raven wince slightly from her seat in the back before looking to Dick with the barest hints of concern.

"He's probably just working on our assignment for Professor Long," another student muttered.

Class continued in this fashion for nearly an hour as Dr. Cabrini covered the entire twenty-minute video. When it ended he powered down the projector and lofted the screen.

"Well I hoped you all enjoyed the introductory part of class," he said. "Now for the fun part. Take out your notebooks."

Dick smirked as he reopened his. Thankfully he was far enough away from the front row that the professor couldn't see what was written there.

"I want you to take note of two students sitting near you; beside you, in front of you, behind you, whatever. Now, based on what we've just discussed regarding actions and body language as keys to understanding personality, I would like you to write simple profiles of two students sitting near you. Be as thorough as you can, and feel free to use the textbook to help you better apply what you learned from the video. You may leave when you've finished this assignment, but be aware that we only have thirty minutes left of class time." Dr. Cabrini made sure that his instructions were clear before returning to sit at his desk, taking a long swig of cool coffee, and pulling a John Grisham novel out of his briefcase.

The students wordlessly complied, some sighing slightly in dejection as they grabbed their textbooks from their bags. Most, like Garfield, opened their textbooks to chapter one and began reading, hoping to find something within the first chapter to help them. Others, like Raven, didn't bother to refer to their books and simply began writing.

The one oddity was Dick. He clicked his pen and added a few things here and there to his earlier notes. Five minutes later he tore five sheets of notebook paper along their perforated edges, dog-eared them together, and put his name on them. Then he packed his notebook into his bag, grabbed the 'assignment', and promptly dropped it on the professor's desk.

"What's this?" Dr. Cabrini asked, startled out from behind his book.

"The assignment," Dick informed him. "See you next Monday."

Cabrini put his book aside and grabbed Dick's collection of papers. A note in the top margin read:

Here's what I was working on before class. You really should hide your surveillance equipment better next time. I overestimated the assignment, so I put a star next to the ones you can focus on.

It was signed with a smiley face.

The professor glanced up from the completed psychological profiles of the entire class that Dick had just handed him, but Grayson had already left the classroom.


Dick, Raven, and Garfield sat in a booth in the back of Omega Pizza. This was only their third day of 'real' classes, and they had decided to celebrate their quasi-graduation from the summer program (which they had learned very quickly wasn't exactly geared for students of their particular backgrounds) into 'real' college.

"Hey guys! I'd like to propose a toast."

Both Dick and Raven looked up from their pizza with expressions of bemusement. Well, Dick looked bemused, Raven appeared disinterested.

"I'm serious!" Gar defended. "We just came from our first Monday of college! That merits celebration!"

"It does?" Raven asked dismissively.

"And what do you call what we did all summer?" Dick added.

Garfield rejected that notion with a wave of his hand. "Naw, dude, that was the summer program. You know, where they send all G.E.D rejects and dumb jocks who got in on scholarship? This is real college now. I think it deserves a toast."

"Uh, Gar, I'm one of those G.E.D. rejects," Dick pointed out.

"Ditto," Raven droned.

Garfield simpered and sat back down again. "Heh heh, yeah well… I still think we should celebrate the start of fall and stuff."

"You won't be saying that come midterms," said Dick.

"No… but for now I can say it, so I am. So… who's with me?" He raised his cup of soda invitingly.

Dick shrugged and clinked—er, tapped, glasses with him. After a considerable pause Raven gave in and joined them.

"Good. Now that that's over with, what did you guys think of that psych class?"

"I like the professor's style," Raven answered definitively.

"You mean how he began the class with an experiment, or his plain and simple no bullshit attitude?" Dick asked her.

"… Both."

"Yeah but what about that assignment," Garfield piped up. "You don't find it the least bit creepy that the dude videotaped us for twenty minutes?"

"Guilty conscience?" Raven deadpanned.

Gar glared half-heartedly. "I'm serious. He leaves us to sit in class and twiddle our thumbs and then pulls out that he got it on tape. I mean, we could have just walked out, since the guy was like, a no-show. He could have gotten to his class and found it empty. Not a good way to start the year."

"Actually, Gar," Dick interjected, "he still had another five minutes before we could have legally walked."

"Huh?"

"Department head. We're supposed to give them twenty five minutes before we can leave," Raven explained tonelessly. "And since he was a world-renown psychological profiler before he settled into a teaching job, you can bet that he already knew that. Not to mention how small the odds were that people would walk on the first day of class."

"World renown?"

"Oh yeah," Dick chimed in. "He's written books, won all sorts of awards, and done some serious profile work on some of the nation's worst criminal minds—Harvey Dent, Ted Kazinski, Jonathan Crane—"

FLASH!

A scrawny kid, crying, chased by a pack of bullies.

FLASH!

"Dude," Garfield's voice snapped Raven back to the present. "Guy sure got around."

Raven's eyes narrowed in thought. She seemed to be scrutinizing Garfield with more vigor that usual. Dick stared at Gar oddly for a second, pondering.

"I wonder if we'll actually get to look at any of his profiles," he mused aloud.

"Probably not," Raven answered. "They're classified."

"Speaking of profiles, what exactly was that novel you handed the professor?"

Dick laughed. "A profile…" Dick answered cryptically with a slight grin.

"Dude, who did you profile that quickly?"

"You," Dick answered casually.

"WHAT?"

Raven smirked.

"And you," he redirected.

The smirk quickly left her face. "I wasn't sitting near you," she said, her voice bordering on threatening.

Dick's smartass reply was cut off by the sudden ringing of his cell phone.

"Hold that thought." He stood up from the table. "I'll be right back."

Raven and Garfield were left to stare off after him, their questions unanswered.

Dick had recognized the ringer instantly: Rule Britannia, the one he had set for Alfred's cell phone. This was Monday around six p.m., Alfred wasn't scheduled to call until Wednesday at eight. This unexpected call was either good news, or—

"Hi Alfred." His tone was guarded. A few tense seconds and then he audibly sighed in relief. "No, it's just that I wasn't expecting your call… Just eating pizza with some friends of mine… No, no, I can still eat… Yeah… Yeah, that sounds great, Alf… Wait, what do you mean? My left? … Oooooohhhh." Dick grinned like an idiot as he waved to Alfred, who was parking the Jag across the street on his left. Then, back into the phone, "I'm just going to go tell my friends I'm leaving."

"So… who do you think called him?" Garfield broke the long silence at the table.

"I have no idea," Raven answered.

"Probably his girlfriend back in Gotham," Gar insinuated.

Raven's look darkened. "He doesn't have a girlfriend."

"And how would you know that?"

"How do you?" she redirected.

"Uh, have you ever seen a Gotham tabloid?"

"Have you ever heard mention of a girlfriend?"

"Dude… ette, when does he ever talk about his personal life?"

"Some people like to keep their personal lives personal." The mini-debate was then broken up by Dick's return.

"So how's your girlfriend?"

Dick smirked. "That wasn't my girlfriend—"

"See!"

"That wasn't an admission."

"Yeah but it wasn't a denial, either."

Dick blinked in confusion. "Uh… did I miss something?"

Raven and Garfield exchanged glances but said nothing.

"Okay… Well anyway, I'm going to dinner with my…" Butler? Grandfather? Manservant? "Alfred!"

"Dude, you have an Alfred?" Gar was too confused to insinuate anything.

"Yeah. Doesn't everybody?"

Raven stared in deadpan while Gar blinked a few times.

"If not, then they really should. Everybody needs an Alfred."

"Are you ready, Master Dick?"

The gentleman in question walked into the pizza shop. Raven briefly touched on his surface thoughts and caught glimpses of a menu at some high-scale restaurant as well as a general feeling of pride towards Dick concerning his summer session grades. Satisfied, Raven backed off.

"All set." Dick was about to leave when he suddenly remembered it was Alfred taking him out. That meant—"Oh, yeah. Alfred, this is Raven Roth and Garfield Logan, some friends from school."

"Ah yes," said Alfred, recognizing the names. "So nice to finally meet Richard's friends from university. However, you will have to excuse us. I've made reservations for seven."

Dick flashed a smile and waved goodbye. "See ya later, guys. Help yourself to my pizza." And Dick and his Alfred exited the pizza shop, leaving Garfield and Raven in not quite comfortable silence once again.

"Aw man, I wish I had some old guy to take me out for expensive dinners."

Raven glanced at him.

A brief pause.

"Do you realize how wrong that sounded?"


Dr. Franklin Beach was revising his syllabus for his criminal investigation class. Apparently more than half the class was on the football team, and it was his official duty to the school to make his class schedule neatly coincide with their travel schedule. That meant no large projects could be due on Fridays (when half the class would be absent for away games), which meant major syllabus revision.

He was interrupted by a knock on his office door.

"Am I interrupting?" Dr. Xavier Cabrini stuck his head in the door.

"Yes," Dr. Beach answered. "And thank you."

Cabrini chuckled and entered fully into the office. "What are you working on?"

Beach sighed. "Syllabus revision."

Cabrini frowned. "The football team?"

"Why can't they just stick to geology and sports medicine?"

"Because that would make life easy."

Dr. Beach turned off his computer monitor and sat back in his chair. "What can I do for you, Xavier?"

Dr. Cabrini claimed the chair beside Beach's desk; the one that students would sit in during office appointments. "You wouldn't have to have a kid by the name of Grayson in class, would you?"

Beach considered for a moment. "Grayson… The name sounds familiar."

Cabrini smirked. "It should. He's a criminology major."

Beach snapped his fingers. "Of course! Thin, quiet kid, blue eyes."

Cabrini nodded.

"I'm his advisor." Pause. "Why do you ask?"

"Do you remember me telling you about my little experiment for the introductory students?"

"Vaguely," Beach admitted. "You were going to videotape them for profiling, or something."

"Right."

"And did you?"

"Of course," Cabrini confessed with a laugh. "It worked splendidly, too."

"Oh?"

"The students were more than willing to hypothesize about their fellow classmates in the face of undeniable video evidence."

Beach had to chuckle at that. "I'm sure. So what's this have to do with Richard Grayson?"

Cabrini sighed, his expression turning serious. "What do you know about him?"

Beach laughed outright. "You mean you don't know? What with all your time in Gotham I would have thought—"

"Thought what?"

"He's Bruce Wayne's kid."

Cabrini's eyes bugged. "Bruce Wayne? The billionaire?"

Beach nodded.

"But I didn't know he had any kids."

"Well Richard isn't really his," Beach explained. "When his parents were murdered Wayne took the kid in as his ward."

Cabrini chuckled and shook his head.

"What's so funny?"

"I remember now. I was up at Arkham working with Gordon on Harvey Dent's profile. Wayne fought for custody of the boy because he felt they shared some sort of bond, what with their parents meeting similar ends when they were at similar ages."

"Makes sense," Beach conceded. "But why the sudden interest in him?"

"Frank, why do you think a kid—the son of murdered parents, who grew up with one of the world's richest men as his guardian, would want go to school for criminology?"

"He wants a career in criminal justice," Beach provided, even though the question was rhetorical. "We talked about it during his interview. He said that he wants to help ensure that other children aren't left orphaned."

Cabrini nodded thoughtfully. "Law?"

Beach shook his head. "I highly doubt it. He has a weird aversion to lawyers."

Cabrini snorted. "With all the corporate goings on he got to be privy to during dinner conversation I can't say that I blame him. Law enforcement?"

"That would be my guess."

"Cop or FBI?"

Beach shrugged. "Not sure. Didn't really ask."

Cabrini grabbed his briefcase and pulled it into his lap. "Did I tell you what I was going to have them do for an assignment to go along with this lesson?" he asked.

Beach shook his head. "Damned if I remember. I stopped keeping track of your sadistic methods of torturing students years ago."

Cabrini pulled Dick's completed assignment from a folder within. "I was going to have them use what they saw on the tape as the basis to write simple personality profiles of two of their classmates."

"Sounds like something you would do. Let me guess, Grayson's profiles were descriptive and accurate."

Cabrini nodded. "He used the Briggs-Myers typological system and even included citations."

Beach chuckled. "So the kid's well read," he dismissed. "Who'd he profile, you?"

To his complete and utter surprise, Cabrini nodded seriously and tossed Dick's assignment onto the desk. "Along with every student in the room, including himself."

Dr. Beach's jaw dropped slightly as he reached for the collection of loose-leaf paper. He flipped through it, skimming each page. A rough personality profile sketch was written up for every student—including himself and Dr. Cabrini. A few of Dick's observations made Beach laugh.

"Any of these accurate?" he asked when he was done.

"I've read his profiles over a dozen times. I've even restudied the tape. I'm inclined to agree with most of what he said in there." Cabrini indicated the paper. "His take on things is a bit cynical for my tastes, but…"

Dr. Beach couldn't help but laugh. "What's with the naming system?" his trained eye also noted that the students were assigned identification numbers that corresponded to a five by seven figure matrix (row by column) for where each student was seated in class. Some had names written next to the number while others had their names filled in at the end.

"He started with the front left desk and moved by column," Cabrini explained. "The names he added at the end I can only assume he learned during roll call."

Beach let out an impressed whistle. "And he did all this before class ended?"

Cabrini shook his head. "Before it began," he corrected. "Read the note at the top."

Beach did so. "Where did you hide the camera our friends at the bureau lent you?"

"In the lamp attached to the lectern."

Beach's eyes bugged again. "In the lamp? How the hell did he spot it?"

Cabrini shrugged. "Hell if I know. My best guess is that the recording light reflected in the brass of the lamp."

Beach pursed his lips in thought. "Well, Grayson's probably lived with security cameras most of his life. It's only natural that he'd be adept at spotting them."

Cabrini nodded thoughtfully. "What do you think, Frank?"

Beach shrugged. "Grayson's not your average student," he mused. "He spotted the camera, deduced the assignment, and completed it in spades." A thoughtful pause. "What was he like on the tape? During class?"

Cabrini sighed. "Well, he walked into class with a few other students. He sat next to Garfield Logan—you know, the child actor? They shot the shit for a few and then Grayson pulled out his notebook and Logan stuck his nose in a comic book. Then suddenly Grayson started writing. He pointed out the camera's location in my profile—makes a rather cheeky observation about it, and about what my inclination to watch the class on closed-circuit TV says about my personality."

Beach laughed outright. "He did, did he?" Another thoughtful pause. "He knew you were watching in the other room?"

Cabrini shrugged. "I guess he deduced that, too. Maybe because he noticed that I knew exactly where and when to direct that students' attention to a particular classmate."

Beach laughed again. "How were his comments during the discussion?"

"Well that's just it," said Cabrini. "He didn't volunteer any opinions. He didn't even take notes! All he did was sit there and pay attention to his classmates. Even when they offered rather crudely humorous profiles of him. He laughed some, but mostly he was just attentive."

"He wanted to blindside you, eh?"

"That's my guess. He admitted to a certain level of arrogance in his own profile. I think he wanted to offer a more favorable impression than when we first met."

Dr. Beach sat up straighter. "Oh?"

"I found him half passed out on the side of the road last July on my way into work one morning—early. He'd been out jogging… over five miles from campus."

Beach paled slightly. "Didn't he live on campus?"

Cabrini nodded. "I dropped him off at the dorm myself."

Beach shook his head in disbelief. "If that was my first meeting with a professor I knew I'd be taking classes with, I guess I'd want to make a more favorable impression, too."

Cabrini snorted a laugh. "We both know of the… quality… of work that students of the summer session are generally capable of. I suppose I did just take him for another dumb jock—Lord knows we give enough scholarships away to them. I even razzed him about it at the beginning of class—all in fun, of course."

Beach laughed and shook his head again. "Well I'll bet he was just raring to one-up you then, wasn't he."

Cabrini accepted the observation. Then he turned serious again. "I pulled his admissions files," he said.

Beach frowned; professors—even department heads such as themselves, weren't generally allowed to go mucking about in admissions.

"He has a G.E.D from someplace called Brentwood and scored 1520 on his SATs. I wish I could have gotten a hold of his entrance essay; the English department must have it somewhere."

"He's a sharp kid," said Beach. "But we've already proven that. What's your point?"

"He's one of yours," said Cabrini. "Encourage him. Maybe point him towards the bureau. A mind like his…"

Beach laughed again. "The kid shows you up in front of your whole damn class and you sound like you're ready to adopt him."

Cabrini frowned deeply for a moment. Beach's humored look suddenly turned to one of apology and regret.

"Xavier—"

"Forget about it," he dismissed easily. "Frank, the kid has a brilliant mind. I want him to be encouraged to use it. He shouldn't waste his gifts by following in his guardian's footsteps and becoming the figurehead C.E.O. of Wayne Enterprises."

Beach nodded, seeing how serious his friend was. "As his advisor, I shall do my best," he promised formally, earning a disarming grin from his long-time friend and colleague that said without words you're full of it, Frank. The two of them laughed and Cabrini stood from the chair.

"Well, I have papers to grade, and Alice wants me home for dinner on time tonight."

"It's been fun, as always," Beach returned, earning him a repeat performance of the half-hearted glare. He stood as well and the two gentlemen shook hands. "Oh, and have Alice call Shelly when she gets the chance. Something about casserole recipes."

Cabrini smiled and nodded that he would before heading for the door.

"Oh, Xavier?" Beach called after him.

"Yes?" Cabrini stuck his head back in the door.

"You aren't going to start next Monday with another experiment, are you?"

Cabrini smiled a Cheshire-cat smile. "And what? Try and see how many of my designs our little prodigy can outfox?"

Beach rolled his eyes. "I had to ask…"

"Good night, Frank."

"Night, Xavier."

Dr. Xavier Cabrini left his old friend's office and shut the door. Dr. Frank Beach reclined in his chair and thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

"I wonder if the kid's as brilliant as his adoptive father was."


Alfred took Dick to one of the more upscale restaurants on Long Island. Apparently Bruce frequented it whenever he was in this neck of the woods for Wayne Corp. business because Alfred knew the maitre' d by name and had their 'usual table' already waiting.

The meal was pleasant and they made adequate small talk conversing about such things as were appropriate for the setting they were in; and since they hadn't spoken face to face in months, they had a lot to talk about.

Finally the conversation wore down.

"So what brings you to Long Island, Alfred?"

"What? Can't I take one of my boys out for a decent meal every now and then? I know how that dormitory cuisine can be."

"Oh, I'm all for the spontaneous excursion for good food, but it hardly seems your style, Alfred. Especially since you showed up with one of the sedans. Someone important needed a luxurious back seat?"

Alfred paused for a good moment, and then slowly a smirk touched the corners of his mouth. "I'm quite pleased that you haven't become lax in your detective skills, Master Dick. Indeed, my primary purpose was to shuttle Master Bruce off to an important board meeting in the city."

"Figured as much," Dick replied, not really sounding happy with his brilliant deduction.

"He's currently entertaining some foreign visitors at some other upscale restaurant and hotel," Alfred continued. "Thus leaving me free for the evening."

Dick smirked in return. "It's nice that his busy schedule left you time to visit me." The smirk fell. "Bruce didn't tell me he was going to be in town."

"He does not believe that you would want to see him," Alfred returned matter-of-factly.

"Since when does he care what I want?"

Alfred couldn't repress a sigh, and decided to change the subject. "The manor hasn't been the same since you left."

"Well you know, Alf, if ever you feel like moving out of Gotham, my dorm room could really use your help."

Alfred managed a small scowl at the comment. It's so like Master Dick to cover his true emotions with banal humor.

"If I haven't taught you anything of basic housekeeping by now, Master Dick, I'm afraid that you're already beyond hope."

"Like Bruce?"

Alfred scowl deepened. "Actually, Master Dick, I don't think it's possible for anyone to be as bad as Master Bruce. You can at least tie your own tie without help."

Light laughter settled into silence.

"How long is Bruce in town for?"

"We're supposed to leave tomorrow morning," Alfred answered, his face losing the unbecoming scowl at last. "But I don't think it would be too hard to convince him to take a few days off and remain here."

"And miss the Gotham night life?" Dick dismissed. "I wouldn't bet on it."

Alfred chose not to comment on the cynicism. "He really would like to see you, my boy."

Dick's fierce resolve to be angry and bitter didn't really stand a chance against Alfred's blatant sincerity. "Where's he staying?" he gave in and asked.

Alfred smiled a genuine smile. "He's in his suite over in the Pennsylvania. Shall I tell him you'll be dropping by?"

Dick smirked. "Actually Alfred, I think I'd like to surprise him."


Dick pulled into the parking lot of the Pennsylvania Hotel and Suites around ten thirty that night. All he had to do was show his credentials as a major shareholder in Wayne Industries in order to be granted permission to park. He left the car in the garage and went up to the lobby. Once again, all he needed to do was show positive ID and he was given a key to Bruce Wayne's penthouse suite.

Dick used the key card to access the express elevator. However, he bypassed the eighteenth floor, where the suite was, and continued on to the twenty-fourth. From here he easily 'found' his way to the roof access stairwell. After tricking the alarms, Dick made his way to the roof of the hotel. This is where he ditched the oversized trench coat and donned the eye mask. He still wasn't quite used to the weight and feel of this new suit, but he was learning fast. Lots of time in the gym working on acrobatics with weight bands was seeing to that.

At least all the good toys were included… along with a few new ones.

Especially the grappling gun.


Gotham's favorite playboy billionaire walked into the living room from the bathroom, wearing a terrycloth robe and towel-drying his hair. He hated these meetings that Bruce Wayne had to attend. At least this time it was only a dinner meeting, as opposed to a long day spent in some upper boardroom in the New York headquarters building.

He meandered over to the end table to check his messages. He was certain that the phone rang while he was in the shower, and only too late did he remember that Alfred wasn't there to answer it. What was it about board meetings that made him more exhausted than an entire night's patrolling?

He had picked up the receiver and was about to dial his voicemail box when he suddenly sensed a cold draft waft across the room. A narrowed gaze caught the slight movement of curtains through the shadows. Then a disembodied voice came from somewhere to his right.

"If I were a sniper you'd be dead by now."

Bruce Wayne relaxed a bit—it was only Dick. Then his anger boiled. It was Dick.

"If you're wearing a costume, you'll be dead shortly." Thevoice.

Robin stepped out of the shadows. "Aw, but you made it so nice," he mock-whined. "The Kevlar itches a bit, but other than that…"

"So do powder burns. What are you doing here, Robin?"

"I had a reliable tip that you were lonely this evening."

"The company I was hoping for would have come in through the front door."

"If you were the one to ask him to come, he might have."

Bruce's eyes narrowed to slits. "I might have, if he didn't have the nasty habit of ignoring my phone calls."

"If you'd have bothered to leave a message I might have called you back."

Bruce snorted a laugh. "Might."

It wasn't a question.

A tense silence hung in the air.

Finally Robin broke it. "So was there really a meeting, or did you finally devise the perfect excuse to come and check up on me?"

Suddenly and surprisingly, the stony gaze of The Batman left Bruce's face. "No, but if that were true… you really didn't leave me any other options."

Dick smirked, unaffected. "What? Just dropping by without pretense out of the question or something?"

"Would you have believed me if I did?"

Dick sighed and ran a hand through his spiked hair. He really didn't come here to fight with Bruce. Or, well, maybe he did, but still…

"Look, you wanted to see me, I'm here. We can either talk, or I can leave, but standing here and pissing each other off isn't the way I wanted to spend the evening."

Bruce seemed to nod. "Take the mask off, and we'll talk."

Dick snickered. "That's a funny request coming from you."

"I thought you said you didn't want to stand here and piss me off?" The voice again.

Dick back-peddled a few paces, slowly, towards the open window. "Well could I still use my crime-fighter voice?" he asked in a mocking tone that resonated very much like Batman's.

Bruce couldn't say anything to that, so he didn't.

"Well it's been real nice seeing you again, Bats," Dick continued, "but this conversation has given me the desperate urge to go jump off a building." Then, faster than Bruce could react, Robin launched himself backwards and exited the window, head first on purpose just to piss off the Batman.

Bruce made it to the window in time to see Robin freefalling, head first with his back towards the pavement below. Bruce gripped the windowsill white-knuckled and watched in slow motion as the stories ticked by—ten (any second he'll pull out the grappling gun)… five (Dick, now would be a damn good time!)… three (mother of—)

WOOSH-CLINK!

Dick grabbed the gun from his belt and fired at a streetlight. It wrapped around the crossbar and Dick retracted the cord as he fell. In a sweeping arc his toes nearly dusted the two feet of pavement between two cabs before his momentum carried him back up and around the crossbar. He reeled himself in some more and made another loop around so that he could bring himself into a perch atop it. Robin spared a slight wave in the vague direction of Bruce's window before detaching the grappling hook from the crossbar and reloading it into the gun. Then he was flying off into the night and out of view.

Bruce seriously considered going after him… if only he could pry his fingers from the windowsill.


Alfred Pennyworth keyed himself into the suite. He had been hoping to hear the happy sounds of conversation, indicating that Master Dick had indeed stopped by. Instead he heard only silence, and he sighed.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred saw across the living room that the door to the master bedroom was ajar. He was on his way there when he noticed that the door to the liquor cabinet had been left opened. "Oh dear…"

Then he noticed the nineteen-year-old bottle of single malt scotch was sitting on the table, its volume a little lower than Alfred remembered. "Oh, dear…"

Steeling his resolve, he went over to the master bedroom and knocked on the door. "Master Bruce?"

"The suit looked good on him, Alfred."

Alfred took that as permission to enter. He saw Bruce, standing in his bathrobe holding a half-finished glass of scotch and staring out the window.

"He's been training."

"Did you really expect him not to, sir?"

Alfred approached with guarded footsteps and came to stand beside Bruce, who took another sip of scotch. His face contorted slightly, proving how seldom he drank.

"I had hoped."

Alfred knew he needed to tread carefully. After all, he's only seen Bruce drink something more powerful than wine once before: the night after Dick woke up in the hospital.

"I doubt that his reappearance as Robin would have been enough to send you running for the Oban."

Bruce snorted without humor.

"May I inquire as to what happened?"

"He wanted me to see… what he saw. Feel what he felt."

"Master Bruce?"

"At the circus."

It took several moments for meaning to sink in. "… Good heavens..."

"He dove out the window head first and stayed in freefall until he was passing the third floor… His back was to the ground; he had to make the grappling shot blind. I didn't even see when he grabbed it from his belt."

Silence stretched for many moments. Bruce took another grimacing sip of scotch.

"Did the two of you talk?"

More silence.

Alfred sighed tiredly. "I think I'll turn in of the evening. Good night, Master Bruce."

He had made it to the door when Bruce called out:

"Find out when Dick's free tomorrow."

"Very good, sir."


AN-Dick Grayson is the 2nd best detective in the world, behind Batman. And of course he isn't being a good little vigilante and disguising his skills so as not to arouse suspicion. Expect this to come back and bite him later.

Also, criminology is what Dick feels will best help him with crime-fighting, psych and philosophy—especially eastern philosophy and religion, is what Raven will use to simultaneously help her deal with Trigon and the world around her, and Zoology seemed like the perfect thing to have Beast Boy study.