Monday, February 7, 2000; 3:10pm - The Palms Cliff House Inn; Honomu, Hawaii

He was starving. Whether it was dinner time in Gotham or breakfast in Sydney, whatever time it was here didn't matter.

Alfred had been on the phone for the past hour trying to negotiate a way for the needed jet part to arrive quicker than the mechanic had predicted. Though Bruce was unable to listen in, due to Alfred remaining on the patio downstairs while he made his calls, Bruce still figured that it wasn't getting the actual part that was the problem. Even with William Earle as acting CEO, Alfred still had enough connections to get what he needed without flashing the Wayne name around. The problem he now faced, however, was probably transportation. The east coast was getting hit by a blizzard and the part they needed was, conveniently, only in Gotham.

Grabbing his jacket and the rental's keys Alfred had left in the room, Bruce headed down to the car without bothering the old Brit.

Minutes later, he had followed the highway south to run into Hilo. The first place to eat he saw off the highway, he pulled into, which happened to be a small Mexican restaurant.

At 3:30 in the afternoon, the restaurant was nearly empty, just as he expected it to be. An older man sat at one of the tables close to the door while a young couple were seated farther in the restaurant. The place looked to barely have ten tables inside, but a quick glance towards the double doors on the other side of the restaurant hinted at a patio with more seating room. The place was poorly decorated, with red tile and red brick walls and the occasional picture hanging. It was too small to put anything else inside, though. With that glance around, Bruce assumed there was no host here and moved to the table in between the two groups, close to the edge. He was only feet away from the menus hanging from the walls. It took a couple of minutes, but finally a woman who looked to be older than him emerged from the door-less archway only a couple paces away from him and greeted him with a smile. She had dark skin, wore a flowery dress with a name tag reading 'Linda' attached near her shoulder, and her short hair pulled half back while the rest were in waves over the back of her neck. When she smiled, her teeth were crooked, but bright, and her green eyes seemed to brighten at the same time.

"Aloha and welcome to Reuben's. What can I get for ya?"

Bruce forced a smile, which seemed to brighten the woman's, causing the premature wrinkles around her green eyes to show. "Well, I'm not quite sure. Do you have any suggestions?" Truth be told, he'd never eaten Mexican food in his life. Sure, there was those Americanized Mexican restaurants in Gotham, but not only were they few in number, they were fake. This place looked a little more like the real deal. Even more, the menu across from him was in Spanish.

"Well, for someone like you, I'd recommend 'El Cholo'. It's one of our specialties ," she commented sweetly as she leaned closer. Now he could smell her perfume—a spicy, yet sweet smell that reminded him of the older women that attended the Wayne Foundation balls and gossiped over how handsome he was becoming.

It was a habit to be charming, probably something he inherited from his father—or even learned from Alfred, and it was something he did far too often—nearly every chance he got whenever he met someone new. People like Alfred and Rachel, the people who knew the real Bruce Wayne, hardly ever got to see that charmingly fake side of him. The downside was that his charm often worked too well. Here was one instance.

He nodded in agreement, without a clue as to what kind of food he'd get. "That sounds great."

Linda quickly disappeared with her grin and perfume trailing behind her.

As Bruce leaned back, his eyes began to drift again. Little details began to jump out at him. A small TV hung in the corner above the couple's table, tuned to a sports channel where reruns of basketball were being played. Small metal stars hung from the ceiling at random intervals. A small window above the condiments bar and soda machine located only feet from him revealed a view of the kitchen. And above all, the place was old.

His observing moved to the other restaurant patrons. The elder man had already finished and was in the middle of getting up when Bruce began to watch him out of the corner of his eye. He looked like a tourist getting away from an over-demanding wife for lunch. Or he was one of those permanent tourists, one who still dressed like the tourists you see in movies. He had the classic Hawaiian shirt with a deep maroon shirt beneath it and he wore long shorts and tennis shoes, despite the rain. A hat labeled 'Nebraska' across the top kept the rain from his face, and he was overall a pale, slightly overweight man in his early 60's, Bruce assumed. If Bruce ever managed to get that old, hopefully he'd live a quaint and content life like that. With reality knocking at a mental door, he knew that would never be the case.

Once the man shuffled outside, Bruce's attention turned to the couple beneath the TV. Or at least, he had assumed they had been a 'couple'. Closer observation hinted that they were nothing of the sort. The male looked like he'd stepped out of an Abercrombie ad. Not only did he have the looks—his dark hair with natural highlights was longer than Bruce's and kept falling into his eyes as he moved, his skin was darkly tanned, his eyes were a bright green, and he looked fit overall—but he dressed the part as well. Flip flops, tan and long shorts, a navy blue polo shirt, a genuine puka-shell necklace. A light brown windbreaker was draped over the back of his chair; he probably only wore it to keep his clothes from getting wet. The girl, however, who sat at the table with her back to Bruce, looked the opposite. She wore black sweatpants with both legs rolled up to reveal tan and toned legs, small ankles, and long bare feet, as she crossed her ankles beneath her chair. Her kicked-off shoes, located next to her feet, were black shoe-string-less Vans. A maroon tang top revealed more tan skin and how slender she was, as it hugged her upper torso. Her dark blond hair was pulled back into what looked like a bun, with stray hairs falling to the side at random.

The two suddenly laughed loudly, bringing Bruce to observe them both. The male was attempting to eat a large burrito, which was falling apart in the process—apparently what they were laughing about. As large chunks of meat and beans fell to his plate, the girl set down her quesadilla and handed him some napkins. He quickly used them all, which caused the girl to laugh again before she stood to head for the condiments bar opposite of Bruce to retrieve more. And as she passed, he managed to get a quick look at her face.

Scratch his thought of her being the opposite of Mr. Abercrombie. Aside from how she dressed, she could fit the part as well. Bright blue eyes, a gorgeous face that models Bruce knew in Gotham would be jealous of. And she looked tall. Her hips were a good few inches above the tables as she passed them by, hinting her height to be closer to Bruce's than anything else.

But before Bruce could take any more notes about the girl, Linda suddenly emerged from the archway carrying a plate with a large, steaming burrito, similar to the one that Mr. Abercrombie was having difficulty with. "Here you are, sir," she said as she set down the plate in front of him. "Do you need anything else?"

Hiding his shock at what he was about to attempt to eat, he plastered on that fake smile. "A drink would be nice."

"Oh, you can get a drink whenever you'd like right there, at the soda machine. But I'll get you something. What would you like?"

This had to be the most informal restaurant he'd ever been to. Well, it was a step up from McDonald's (which he'd been to all of once with Rachel, and the paparazzi had a field day with it). "That's fine, I'll get one myself. Thank you."

Her eyes dulled suddenly, but her smile remained full and she nodded before retreating back through the archway. As Bruce began to stand, he spotted her face near the small window, waiting to peek out at her newest patron. Bruce sighed as he approached the cups next to the soda machine.

The girl was still there, filling her cup with ice water with one hand and grabbing as many napkins as she could with the other. She hesitantly glanced sideways at Bruce and when their eyes accidentally met, she shed a cute, bashful smile before returning her attention to her nearly overflowing water cup. And then she spun out of his way, gracefully managing to avoid running into both him and the small army of chairs and tables about the restaurant.

Bruce, now, focused on the drink machine in front of him. Soda. Tea. Water. Even a half-empty pot of coffee sat off to one side. Opting for the sweetened tea, he quickly filled his cup, grabbed a few paper napkins of his own, and returned to his table.

Now he was faced with eating this…monster. If Rachel was here to see him, she'd be just like how that girl was acting with Mr. Abercrombie. Laughing as she helped. He scooped up the burrito with both hands and took a large bite into the gooey thing. Success. The back of the burrito hadn't burst open and he'd managed just a single, manageable bite of beef, beans, cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, and more things he couldn't put a name to yet.

Meanwhile, the girl returned to her seat, where the pair murmured just quietly enough so Bruce couldn't hear, even though he was distracted enough by his meal. After a couple more bites, he could hear them again at normal volume.

"So, now what are we going to do?" the male asked.

"How about you finish your burrito first? Or what's left of it," the girl replied with an audible smile.

"Fine. But then what?"

"If I take you back to my apartment, you're doing homework. And you're letting me at least get some of mine done."

"Ana, you take the fun out of everything."

"Someone has to act as your mother. Now finish so we can go, sheesh."

Bruce had finally managed to break open the back of the burrito, earning a similar mess to the one in front of Mr. Abercrombie. The mess made his inward laugh turn into an inward sigh. How could anyone eat these things?

Monday, February 7, 2000; 7:33pm - The Palms Cliff House Inn; Honomu, Hawaii

How did Alfred do that? No matter what expression Bruce wore, how he slumped his shoulders, how he shuffled his feet, even how he spoke, Alfred always knew what mood he was in. Always.

Maybe one day he'd figure out how he did it.

Bruce was good at hiding emotions—or so he thought. Alfred wasn't. That smile in his blue eyes was enough to know that he knew Bruce was in a better mood than when he had left. But other than that smile, the butler hadn't said a single word. And Bruce hadn't wanted him to.

Now, hours after the incident, Bruce was lounging on the king-sized bed, absent-mindedly flipping through channels. He wasn't in the mood to do anything, but he was restless. Even at Princeton, or Yale, or even Gotham U, he didn't stay cooped up indoors for long. It wasn't the rain that was holding him back, but Alfred. Bruce easily remembered the numerous incidents he'd put the poor butler through. One that stood out in his mind was when his impatience got the best of him and he took it upon himself to learn how to ski at night in a blizzard. Needless to say, that wasn't the only thing that didn't end well. Or end with him in a hospital.

Here there wasn't much to do, anyway. Especially nothing dangerous. Hike a volcano. Snorkel along the reefs. Unless he purposely went out of his way to do something dangerous, which was more often than not, it would be hard to end up in a hospital here.

But, nonetheless, he remained on the bed, flipping channel to channel. It was 73 degrees. Tour rates were being discounted. A new shopping mall was opening. There was going to be a Three Stooges marathon on Wednesday.

But though his mind absorbed everything that flashed on the screen, he thought of other things. Of past things.

Alfred entered the room while Bruce was on round three of channel surfing. He paused once the door was shut, allowing his blue hues to take in the scene in the dark room. He could easily see the television flipping from channel to channel, as well as his young charge propped atop the bed, his chin on one hand and the remote in the other. That blank stare made Alfred frown more than anything; he knew Bruce's thoughts were far from what was on TV.

"The rain has stopped, sir. Perhaps you're hungry for some supper?"

Channel 51. Channel 52. Channel 53.

"Very well, then," Alfred said as he turned for the door again. But he paused just short of reaching the handle, his shoulders slumped. Carefully he glanced over his shoulder, and still the only muscle that Bruce had moved was his finger. With a sigh, Alfred reached for the doorknob. "Perhaps if you didn't keep yourself cooped up indoors, you might find that you would enjoy a vacation," the butler mumbled as his wrist turned. But the outburst kept him from opening the door more than an inch.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bruce grumbled, the television finally finishing a conversation on a quiet volume while the remote lay abandoned under his hand.

When Alfred turned, he found those ice blue eyes set firmly on him. And while anyone else might cower, Alfred stood his ground. He knew Bruce inside and out, and the only thing that frightened him was the death wish he harbored. "I mean that you should be enjoying yourself. Most people would consider Hawaii a paradise."

"I'm not most people," Bruce muttered, his eyes darting back to the television. But the remote still remained untouched.

"And I know that, sir. But don't you think that you deserve a vacation? At least once?"

Bruce's expression hardened as it returned to the television. "No."

"Sir—"

"Alfred, why don't you take a vacation?" Bruce suddenly replied in a darker tone, making the butler's eyes narrow.

"If this mood of yours has anything to do with your parents—"

"And what if it does, Alfred?" Suddenly Bruce was on his feet, surprising Alfred by how fast the younger man could move. "What does it matter?"

"It matters because it is the only mood I ever see you in. Harboring some anti-social death wish is no way to go through life, Master Wayne."

Bruce cast Alfred the darkest glare he could muster as a reply and he swiftly stalked past the butler to reach for the door. Recovering, Alfred followed with an equally angered expression on his aging features. "And where do you think you're going?"

"Out," Bruce nearly growled over his shoulder as he expanded the distance between them.

Alfred hurried to follow, but stopped once he had reached the bottom of the stairs and Bruce was alongside the Chrysler. As the young billionaire quickly slipped inside, Alfred raised his fingers to rub the bridge of his nose in irritation. His blue hues eyed the car from over his fingers as it started with a purr before squealing down the palm tree-lined driveway towards a seemingly empty highway less than a hundred yards away.

In the driver's seat of the luxury car, Bruce fumed. But it wasn't at Alfred. He was never mad at Alfred, no matter what he said to get a rise out of him. But, yet, he didn't know what he was mad at. He knew he didn't want a vacation. There would be no more vacations for him. And he knew that he was probably only mad because of the mood he was in when Alfred decided to hassle him. But other than that, he really didn't know. Maybe if he circled the island enough times, he could figure that out. Let his anger run its course.

He floored it down the driveway, racing past the palm trees that lined the cement. And after one quick turn to jump onto the highway, he was speeding north.