Part Seven

Two Years Later. Twenty-three Years Old

Path A

"I saw that article about you in the Times last week—interesting if not entirely accurate it would seem."

"You know how much I hate being interviewed. They make crap up; it's all garbage, Alf."

"Language, please. I must say I'm a bit surprised you've decided to throw your lot in with Master Roy again after everything that has passed between you over the years. And this new group; the Outsiders? I can't say I know if I like the sound of that. It seems a bit Cowboys and Indians, if I may say so."

Dick smiled, happy and glad to know how Alfred really felt as opposed to everyone else's semi-polite demurring comments. Barbara had rolled her eyes. Kory had half snorted, "THAT should last a good ten minutes." Donna had just said, "Oh, right." And Bruce had told him that with enough rope almost anyone could hang themselves. It hadn't been what you could call subtle. Or encouraging.

Okay, maybe he wasn't being overwhelmed with positive feedback, but at least he knew where he stood with everyone.

Of course he knew where he stood pretty much everywhere when you came down to it.

He was a cop in Bludhaven, a place on the list of contenders for armpit of the nation. In fact he was a rookie, the lowest of the low; he was pond scum. But, on the other hand, he was starting to make a dent in the corruption, had targeted a few of the worst offenders, was starting to make them uncomfortable and he was doing some good just as your average run of the mill, on the beat cop, too. That felt pretty good.

He liked his day job.

He and Babs were, well, they were something. They were friends, sure, but maybe they were more than that. Maybe they weren't, but either way he wished she'd get the bug about the wheelchair out of her butt and get past it. He was. He really was. He wanted her, he liked her, he wanted them to be an item in a major way and he could even see maybe coming home to her at night or dawn or whenever it was he managed to get home, peeling off whatever he was wearing, slipping into that big old bed she had and, well—you know—the usual. Several times.

He'd be happy to skip the warm milk and cookies, just so long as she was there and wanting him to walk through the door.

No, damnit, wait. That wasn't what he meant. He wasn't looking for Donna Reed or anything, but, hell—he just wanted to come home to her and eat dinner with her and hang out and sleep with her and not sleep with her and all kinds of other things he'd fill his mind with when he was on boring patrols and should really be paying attention to what he was doing.

Nightwing was having an impact as well. The local bad guys knew who he was and were afraid of him, which was the stock in trade he counted on. This was good. And he was doing the Outsider thing which he wasn't 100 about, but it had potential and was worth taking a shot on—and even if it all fell apart, he owed Roy that much, anyway. He owed him a chance.

Him and Bruce? Okay, that was as dysfunctional as ever but he had some hopes for the future there. There were some hints that things might start to be looking up and may actually change for the best. They could, occasionally be in the same room for more than ten minutes without coming to blows and once Bruce even called him to ask him to consult on a case he was having some trouble with. All right, Dick knew that was a lie, but it was still a gesture in the right direction and that meant Bruce was probably as upset about their estrangement as he was. It also probably meant that Alfred was behind it, but whatever it takes, right?

The whole thing with him taking Jason in still grated, truth be told. Sure, he never liked the kid who was pretty obnoxious most of the time and unpleasant the rest, but Dick still couldn't get past the idea that if he'd maybe helped the kid out, given him some pointers or something, maybe Jason wouldn't be dead. Yeah, yeah—maybe he would, but the 'maybe' in there was what Dick had a problem getting over and that sucked. That and the fact Bruce had appointed Jean-Paul to fill in as Batman really sucked a lot. More than a lot. It sucked tons and it was going to be a very long time before that stopped stinging whenever he thought about it. Sure—J-P had been killed and much later Dick had—way too belatedly—filled in, but damn.

Then there was the fact Bruce had actually adopted Jason. He'd filed the papers, changed his will, and started referring to the damn brat as 'his son'—the whole nine yards. That was what really got under Dick's skin. That was what really hurt beyond words.

In all the years he'd been dealing with Bruce, after all the crap he'd been through, all the pain and neglect and the years of being ignored unless he was the squeaky wheel or only being noticed when he screwed up—this what had hurt the most. This rated up there with his parents being killed and was, in its way, a much bigger betrayal and abandonment because it was intentional.

Bruce had over ten years to get around to filing papers for Dick if he'd wanted to but only bothered years after it was pretty much too late. Oh, sure, it was nice he'd finally decided it was time—when Dick was twenty-three years old, for Chrissake. How about calling the damn lawyers oh, say when he was twelve or thirteen and desperately needing a father? What would have been so hard about starting the paperwork when Dick was fifteen and he was in the middle of adolescence and wondering what the hell he was doing? The year he was floundering at Hudson, dropping out and questioning if he was doing anything worthwhile and wondering what to do with his life might have benefited by a solid show of support like knowing the man who'd raised him thought enough of him to make him an actual part of his family, but…

Water under the bridge, Grayson. Get over it.

So—now he was a cop. He was Nightwing. He was—sort of—seeing Barbara when she would let him and he was making progress in his work, in both jobs, and he was getting closer to being close to Bruce again—or as close as one could get to Bruce, that was.

And the adoption thing—that was weird.

So now he was Bruce's legal son and heir. He was probably going to have to step into Mr. Wayne's shoes over at the company headquarters one of these days ad he dreaded that enough he tried not to think about it. Pray God Lucius was still alive and kicking when it happened. Either that or the current crop of young hotshots lived up to their PR.

That would b nice; then he could back burner the whole idea for another few years.

Path B

"If I'd known I'd have found some way to pay off the loans."

"That was a couple of years ago, Dick, let it go—you've made up for it and then some. I mean, my God—a new house, a new car, a trip to Japan and enough Christmas presents to sink a ship. Give it up, Dick; you've made amends and then some."

"…But I could have stopped it happening if I'd had any idea. I could have given them the money I made with the stupid modeling or something. It would have been enough to make the payments…"

"And if they'd wanted you to know about it they would have told you, right? They knew what you'd have done if you thought they were going to lose the house—I'm telling you, get over it."

"But if…"

"I swear, you're still too Catholic and this guilt thing you have going is getting really tired. I mean, you've been going on and on about this for two years now and…forget it, will you, please?"

"Yeah, but…"

"For the first time since I've known you, you're boring me. Drop it, will you—please? Now?"

Dick was sitting in his office, door closed and talking to Amy who was in the Midwest this week with Ringling Brothers; they spoke fairly often, maybe once a month or so and were pretty much current with one another though they hadn't actually seen one another in about a year.

The summer internship had turned into a full time job, Dick worked with Lucius Fox directly, was getting promotions and raises faster than anyone in the company ever had before and things were looking pretty good. He had left for a year or so to finish his masters and doctorate over at Gotham U—taken off a year to really crunch the thesis and dissertation then came back to his promised position as a (very) junior vice president in charge of scouting new properties and ideas for the company to develop. Obviously he'd have a lot of eyes looking over his shoulders for a while, but this was about as fast as the fast track got and he was enjoying the ride for all it was worth.

He'd discretely asked around when he'd first arrived, wondering if Wayne's son—or sort of son—was being brought into the company and groomed to take over at some point. He'd been told, again discretely, that the supposed scion was a lightweight, a screw up and just like Daddy; always after girls and brainless but so rich he had to be listened to, or at least deferred to. His main interests seemed to be trying to kill himself on motorcycles or ski slopes, something he might well succeed at sooner or later. Plus, there seemed to be some bad blood between father and son, some kind of falling out, so don't hold your breath about meeting the kid any time soon.

Fine. Whatever. Just asking. He'd only recently met Wayne himself and his first impression was that he was an idiot who, luckily for him, had the sense or luck to hire some good people to do his work for him. His second impression based on nothing more than gut feeling, was that he wasn't as dumb as everyone seemed to think and caught a lot more than he missed at meetings. Or maybe not.

Dick was also about to give up living in a semi-crummy apartment to save money. The salary Wayne was paying him was enough for him to move to someplace reasonably decent, if not exactly the Taj Mahal. He was seeing Kim Peters, another young Turk—as they were obnoxiously called and while he didn't have plans to propose any time soon, they got along pretty well. She was, if possible, even more ambitious than he was and understood—while trying to find out what he was working on—when he was late or couldn't see her for a few days or weeks at a time. He didn't put it past her to swipe an idea or two from him, so he kept some distance between them. He liked her well enough, but…

So that was his life at the moment. He worked hard, coming in early and going home late. He traveled whenever they asked and never complained—at least out loud—when he was in Tokyo over Christmas or in London for his mother's birthday.

The new apartment, a duplex in a fancy high rise was right for when he had to entertain co-workers or clients and if he didn't have as much time as he'd have liked to work out and take a mental vacation on the high bar the way he'd done since he was a child, well, the sacrifices were worth it to make sure his parents would never have to go through the stuff they had to allow him to build his current life. That was a big part of why he did what he did—it always had been and his parents had been after him to stop worrying about them and do what he really wanted, though he insisted he was—this was what he wanted and he was happy.

They didn't believe him.

"I spoke to Dick this morning."

John looked up. They were on another of the Norwegian Cruise Lines ships; currently sailing the waters off Alaska on a summer cruise. They were part of the entertainment staff; performing an acrobatics and tumbling routine three times a week while the ship was on the water. They'd been doing this, on one ship or another, for a couple of years and liked it well enough. It wasn't flying, but the pay was good and steady and they were working. This was nothing to sneeze at in their line of work. "Oh? What did he have to say for himself?"

"He said he got another raise and that Mr. Fox thinks he'd be good working on some big project Mr. Wayne himself is involved in. He thinks that if he does well, it could be important to his career."

"Hmm." He turned the page of the paper he was reading.

"Meaning?"

"…Did you ever think, when he was growing up, traveling with us, performing with us, he'd ever end up working in behind a desk in a corporate office five or six days a week?"

"Well, no, but he made his own decision to study business and get his degrees. You know that. He's been pretty focused on that since he was in high school."

"I suppose."

"For God's sake, John, say what you mean."

"You know as well as I do that he did that for us, so that we'd have security, especially after we lost the house."

"Of course I know that, but he seems happy. You know how proud he sounds when he's on the phone."

"Mary, how long has it been since you've sat down and had a real talk with him? The way we used to when we were driving from gig to gig?"

She sat down on the lounge chair beside him. They were on the staff sun deck and pretty much alone at the moment. "So what do you think he'd rather be doing?"

"Probably anything else. You do know he's set up a trust fund of some kind for us through his company, don't you? I got a statement a week or so ago; there's over two hundred thousand dollars in it and it's growing every month. I think it was sent to us by mistake somehow."

"The son taking care of the parents?"

"So it would seem. What do you want to do about it? You know he won't listen to us."

"I know that. I'll think of something."

"Mr. Grayson? There's a Ms. Skellar for you? Do you want to take the call?"

"…Sure, put her though, Karen."

"Mr. Grayson? THE Mr. Grayson, youngest vice-president in the Wayne Organization and possibly the free world? Might you be free for lunch today?"

"Where are you, Amy?" He was smiling big at the sound of her voice. It had been a crappy morning and this was a fabulous surprise he was hoping would rescue him from another damn contract review.

"The lobby."

"Two minutes. I'll come down."

"So Ringling is doing the North American tour—you know the routine. We're here through Sunday night. You are coming to see the show, aren't you?"

"I'm busy, but I want to see you—maybe tomorrow? I have dinner free—oh, shit." He was checking a palm pilot. "Wednesday is better, maybe we could do breakfast? Seven?" Damn, she looked good. She was still pretty, of course, but she was more…something. She was more womanly or something, less like a girl now. She was a grownup and it looked good on her.

Her jeans still fit the way jeans are supposed to fit but usually don't and she had this tank top on that was modest enough, but—damn. He was suddenly very conscious of the formal suit he was wearing—navy blue, double breasted; he looked like a prig and he knew it and that wasn't the way he wanted to come across to her. He wanted to be like she used to think about him but better; more handsome, smarter, more successful and everything else that was good. He'd seen the look on her face when she'd first spotted him, the flicker of disappointment and it had bothered him.

"The last show ends at eleven-thirty and then I have to clean up for the night. You know what a touring schedule is like—when was I ever up at seven?" She looked at him, sitting there in a beautifully fitted suit and lace up leather dress shoes and with an obviously expensive tie knotted around his neck. He looked like just what he was; a young executive on the way up, smart, confident, maybe a little arrogant. The Dick she knew wore old jeans and tees with sneakers and no socks. He laughed and wasn't ever serious about anything unless he was thinking about his performance. His hair was what bothered her the most about him; it didn't look like him. The Dick she knew was always having to push his hair out of his eyes and would let it grow long enough he had to tie it back sometimes. This looked like he trimmed it every two weeks. Not a strand would dare blow out of place or allow itself to be mussed. She idly wondered if it stayed that neat when he made love. And he looked like even if he decided to laugh it would be a considered decision and not the way it used to be, with his eyes lighting up and that 'gotcha' smile on his face making everyone in earshot join in.

Now he looked like he didn't sweat or like he had his underwear pressed or something.

"Brunch?"

Dick Grayson wanting her to join him for brunch? Cripes, this was the official Twilight Zone. "Maybe you could come to the show when you get off work."

He nodded, looking a little relieved. "Okay, I'll have my secretary get tickets and…"

"I'll leave your name at the box office. Bring a friend if you want." God, he was so damn stiff. He didn't even give her a real hug when he saw her waiting for him. What the hell had happened?

"Good, thank you—so shall we get lunch, catch up?"

His cell rang, he answered, listened for a moment. "I'm really sorry. I really am, but I have to go back upstairs. Thursday brunch. I'll pick you up backstage at the Arena, okay? Eleven." He kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand before he turned back to the bank of elevators.

She noticed that his hands weren't calloused anymore.

"So we've been seeing each other for about a year now, but I don't know—she's all right, but I don't…"

"…Think you're in love with her?"

"…Pretty much." Dick took a drink of his water. They were up to dessert and Amy knew he worked too long, had no real life outside of his job, was worried about his parents having enough when the really retired and didn't have time to do anything about decorating his new place. He also wasn't in love with his supposed girlfriend and she wondered if he ever let his guard down any more. Everything he did seemed to be for some purpose now. Everything seemed planned, thought out, premeditated.

At least he was dressed down today, as though he'd read her mind. He had jeans on—designer, but they were denim, and a polo shirt with the little polo pony on his chest. When she'd teased, he'd had the grace to blush and admit it was a freebie from a shoot in the Hamptons last month. It was still an easy way to make money and Wayne Corp didn't care so long as it didn't interfere in his work or anything. "Do you ever fly?"

"…No. No time."

"Not even on a high bar? You seemed to love that when I saw you at Ohio."

"Yeah, well, that was for the scholarship and I never really…"

"Oh, bullshit. Of course you loved it just like you liked the guys on the team and the parties you went to with them and the girls who hung around and flattered you because of your modeling and gold medals. You used to spend an hour signing autographs if there were kids waiting or something."

"That was just because I didn't like to disappoint them, you know that—it was part of the job."

"A part of it you loved. C'mon, Dick, I know you too well to believe your line."

"It's not a line." He was getting mad and she didn't care.

"So you threw away doing what you loved and were good at to make a butt load of money so your parents wouldn't have to live on the streets, right? And in return you get sainthood and a live you hate surrounded by people who don't mean anything to you."

"I'm good at what I do now and I get along just fine with the people I deal with."

"Oh, good for you—you 'get along' with people. Big frigging deal."

He was about to throw back some retort which could have seriously damaged their friendship permanently but bit his tongue instead, took out his wallet—Cartier—and threw a couple of bills on the table. "I'll be at the show tomorrow and I'll come backstage later." Standing to leave, he kissed her cheek again and again, she noticed that his hands weren't just smooth, but it looked like his nails had been professionally maintained.

The show tomorrow was a problem but he knew that if he blew it off she'd be really angry with him and he honestly didn't want that. He had dinner with Wayne and Lucius after the meeting at five and then…ah, hell. He'd figure something out.

TBC

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