Author's Note: First chapter was brief. Unsure of whether or not I intended to write further on the subject, but decided to continue due to prolonged boredom at work. Bruce and Dick enjoy one another's company whilst he is sick. Read and Review.

Comfort 2

My presence is required in a conference concerning accounting irregularities in some of our clients' books. It is necessary to expunge the company's reputation by cutting the less-honest components away. We must be seen as perfect to properly intimidate our rivals and this conference is an important step to realizing that ambition. I wake up on Thursday morning, intending to go to work at Wayne Enterprises. I shower, shave, dress in one of my more modest business suits and enter the kitchen all before seven A.M. Alfred has already prepared poached eggs on toast and a glass of orange juice. I sit down at the breakfast bar and begin to eat.

"When are you expected at your meeting, Master Bruce?" The old man asks as he cleans the cookware he had been using.

"It is due to commence at nine. Judging from the briefing notes I was given, I would think it should take no longer than two-and-a-half to three hours to resolve. "

"I see. In that case, can we expect you home for lunch?"

"No. Unfortunately, I need to go over a few financial reports with Lucius. He seems to believe the company is haemorrhaging capital without probable cause."

"Ah."

I look up from my breakfast to the old man. He is not usually so intrusive in my affairs. The fact that I regularly brief him on my daily schedule the night before should negate the need for repeated inquiries. And yet he is asking, for him, very searching questions. I am suspicious of his intentions. "Is there something you wish to ask me, Alfred?"

"It is really more of a request, Master Bruce, one you may consider or ignore at your leisure. Will you indulge me?" Alfred responds with a small smile on his face. I gesture with my hand.

"Please go right ahead." I am curious as to what the old man will suggest and why. He clears his throat before beginning.

"As you are aware, Sir, Master Dick is confined to bed…yet again. This is the thirty-seventh time he has been forced to endure a prolonged stay in his room because of injury. This will also be the thirty-seventh time he has had no other company besides myself to entertain himself with. I was hoping you might consider taking a day-off to spend time with the lad. I am certain he would appreciate your involvement." Alfred's reasoning and presentation of his offer is once again flawless. He has obviously thought about this matter a great deal and I am glad of his input. However, I feel such measures unnecessary.

"Alfred, while I appreciate your candour, I must say no to such a prospect. This meeting is far too important for the company's future to jeopardise by indulging a child. Besides which, as Dick reminded me last night, he is almost fifteen and quite self-sufficient. He does not need constant reassurance or my presence to be lifted of any burdens. I am sure that, were you to speak to him about the matter, he would offer the same reply." My retort is of equally sound logic and structure, the perfect foil to his argument. But I already know this is far from over.

"Sir, your child is ill in bed and unhappy about it. He has been in our company for almost three years and still have yet to stay with him once during one of these 'inconvenient days'. Are you positive Mr. Fox cannot hold the fort while you spend time with a young man desperate for companionship?"

"I feel you are pushing this issue rather too far, Alfred. You have requested I change my schedule, I have refused. That should be the end of these proceedings. Do you not agree?"

"So, I should telephone Mr. Fox and explain to him that you cannot make it in today?" The old man is pushing his luck far beyond its breaking point. I offer him a hard stare.

"You will have the car ready for eight-fifteen. We will arrive at Wayne Tower at eight-thirty-five. You will then -"

"No, Sir. You will go to Master Richard's room at nine A.M. You will spend the morning with him. At midday I will bring you both lunch and a report from Mr. Fox on key points from the meeting…"

"ENOUGH!" I shout, slamming a heavy fist on the table. The crockery rattles in place from the force. I am angry. Alfred is unfazed by my attack of emotion. He clears his throat.

"I have already arranged this with Mr. Fox, Master Bruce. In approximately ten seconds, he will phone you and confirm this." The old man's voice is firm and unafraid of my thundering. We regard each other in deathly silence. My cell phone begins to ring. I ignore it and continue glaring at the man who is supposed to be my servant. After a further twenty seconds, I begrudgingly answer the call.

"Bruce Wayne speaking."

"Hi Bruce, it's Lucius. Listen, Mr. Pennyworth told me about how Dick's all sick in bed. I just wanted to let you know that you wanting to look after your kid is no problem. I got kids myself as you know and I understand wanting to be with them when they're down. So, take as much time as you need. I can keep them dancing here."

"Lucius, I…"

"Say no more. Those financial reports aren't top priority and I can get Peterson to email you the meat-and- bones of the issues anyway. Have a good time with your boy!"

"No, Lucius, listen…"

"Bruce, I gotta go. I'm in the middle of dropping Robert off at school. I'll call you back later. Bye."

As I put the phone back in my jacket pocket, I watch the old man crack a triumphant smile in my direction. Alfred has sold me to Lucius as a dedicated family man very, very well. I would applaud his efforts if they were not in total contrast to my wishes. I forgot how clever and cunning the old man can be. He was, after all, a member of Britain's elite Special Air Service Regiment; he is very capable. This time and this time only, I will cow down to his wishes. I manage a sporting smile. "Nine o'clock, Alfred?"

"Nine o'clock, Sir."

I head up to the boy's room close to nine. I have removed my tie and jacket. I find him still asleep as I open the door. I take this opportunity to have a proper look around his room; I don't think I've ever really seen it in the daytime. I imagine his room is that of any typical teenage boy. He has posters of music bands on the walls amongst medals, awards and trophies. His bureau is covered in textbooks and half-finished assignments along with empty drinks bottles and sweet wrappers. His floor, although tidy, has mud, grass and other dirt ground into the carpet fibres. His TV has a mountain of DVD boxes stacked in front of it and many innumerable discs littered on the stand. His nightstand though has only three items on it. One is an antique lamp I gave him from my parents' room on his birthday while the other two are framed photographs. The largest shows him as a young boy of five or six flanked on either side by his parents. The circus is in the background. He came to the house with this photograph; it is his most treasured keepsake besides his circus outfit. The other photograph, smaller than its significant other by almost half, is of him with Alfred and myself on a trip. It was taken only six months earlier, but Dick believes it to be the best picture of us he has seen.

Alfred tells me he considers these two photographs to both be of his family and thinks of them as important as one another. To know that Dick considers Alfred and myself to be as much of his family as his own parents is truly gratifying. I consider the boy to be as much a part of my life as my parents were, as much a part of my family as Alfred is. When I think about Dick in these terms, the old man's argument for spending the day with him holds so much more weight. I have been neglectful of him when he is incapacitated due to injury. Perhaps this day will amend my mistakes somewhat. I draw up to his bedside.

"Dick?"

The boy groans before opening his eyes and regarding me in confusion.

"Bruce? Is it after six already?" He asks, his voice groggy with sleep and powerful medicinal effects. He mistakenly believes my presence means he has slept all day.

"No, Dick. It's only just gone nine in the morning. Sit up."

Dick painstakingly pushes his body to a seated position, resting his back against the headboard. Despite the nature of his injuries, his movement is remarkably fluid. His bruised eye's colour has darkened, but it is a positive sign. His head trauma does not seem worse either as I hand him a new round of pills to swallow.

"Don't you have a really important meeting to go to today?" The boy inquires as he knocks back his medication in one attempt.

"I got Lucius to front the meeting. I thought it would be nice for us to spend the day together." I reply deciding not to mention Alfred's heavy involvement in proceedings. The boy smiles as I offer him a tumbler of water.

"Great, but you heard Alfie; I gotta stay in bed the whole damn week. I don't think it'll be much fun hanging out in this place all day." Dick points out in between sips of water.

"I'm sure we can think of something to do. How about I help you with your homework assignments in Chemistry and Math?" The boy is trying to hide his enthusiasm. He has clearly wanted such an opportunity to happen for some time. He gestures to the bureau.

"Sure thing. Chemistry's in the red folder and Math is in the orange folder. Newest assignments are at the front."

The boy is organised. Alfred will be pleased to learn his advice on colour-coding books has been taken onboard. I bring both folders over to him along with relevant textbooks and writing materials. He shuffles to one side of his double bed as I can sit beside him. Once I am settled, he presents his Chemistry homework first.

"It's all theory-based and really, really heavy. I gotta find out the chemical formula for all the following compounds and organize them into a table."

"Have you considered referencing the Periodic Table?"

"I don't think the table's heard of Magnesium Sulphate or Sodium Chloride. Chemistry sucks."

"You know from experience that is not true. Let's think about the assignment logically."

I possess the equivalent of a master's degree in both Chemistry and Forensic Science. Due to this abundance of knowledge, I find the problems presented elementary to solve. However, I cannot simply give Dick the answers. He will never learn that way. We talk through each compound, sifting through the textbooks to obtain the correct answer. After the first few, the boy is confident enough in the process to finish the assignment without any further assistance. His finished table is of a good standard. He seems very pleased with himself. We graduate to Math.

"I don't get Trigonometry. See here-"

"Dick, it's almost eleven o'clock; are you sure you wouldn't like some breakfast before we carry on?"

"Nah. Alfie's meds make me lose my appetite. I'll eat something at lunch, promise."

"And how's your head doing?"

"It's still a little fuzzy, but I can manage." The boy looks from his folder to me and smiles. "It's sweet that you're concerned about me though. What I really want help with is Trigonometry though. You in?" I smile back.

"Let's get to work."

Dick is far more competent at Trigonometry than he realizes. After a few minor hints to steer him in the right direction, the boy grasps the three formulae required to solve the equations and proceeds to annihilate the assignment in less than twenty-five minutes. His work, particularly his method of working out the problems, is again of a high standard. I am pleased that his academic studies have not suffered under the stress of his other duties. I must also admit to enjoying being with the boy in such relaxed surroundings. It is nice to spend time with him and not concern myself with other burdens.

"Whoa. I did those really fast." Dick remarks once he has placed them to one side for Alfred's approval. The old man will not permit the boy to submit what he deems 'shoddy' work. I nod in agreement.

"That's because you're a good student." He pouts at me.

"Just a good student?"

"Well, I am being awfully kind in saying that."

Dick smacks me on the shoulder and tuts, "You're worse than the teachers!" We both smile at this light-hearted moment. They are unfortunately far and few between in Gotham's current situation, but when they occur they are all the sweeter for it.

As expected, Alfred arrives shortly after twelve o'clock with our lunch and Lucius' notes on the meeting. When he first enters the room, the old man is still in regarding the sight before him. We both watch as the smile of someone viewing something precious and beautiful crosses his lips. He is very pleased with himself. He then returns to a more professional manner in presenting us with home-made lasagne and a root-beer for Dick. As soon as he is relieved of the tray, the old man is upon the boy's homework without another word. We watch him quickly scan the assignments in silence. Every so often, he nods in what can only be approval and, once or twice, even manages a small smile. He is soon finished with both.

"Excellent work, Master Dick. Has Master Bruce's presence been beneficial?"

"The guy kicks ass, Alfie."

"Language, young man. I am glad he has been of some help. You may submit these when you are suitably convalesced. Here are your next rounds of medication." Alfred says handing over a new cluster of colourful tablets. "Try to eat them with…" The old man cannot finish his sentence. The boy immediately swallowed all his pills without a second thought. Alfred clears his throat to compose himself. "Never mind. I will return in one hour. Please have your dishes ready for collection."

"Thanks Alfie."

"Yes, thank you Alfred."

"Sirs." The old man vacates the room soon after his slight bow. Dick grins at me.

"I freaked him out, right?"

"I don't think it was a good idea to just chuck the entire medical cabinet down your throat."

"I didn't." The boy sticks his tongue out before reaching underneath it and producing all the pills he was meant to have just ingested. "Pretty neat trick, huh?" I frown.

"Did I teach you that?"

"Nope, totally self-taught. I used to use it back in the circus when I didn't want to eat something. My parents never found out.

"I trust that you do not use this talent on a daily basis?"

"I do eat my vegetables, Bruce."

"Well, then there's no problem." I return his smile and ruffle his hair, "Eat what you can manage."

I muse through the notes on the meeting during lunch. Lucius has successfully traced all our financing irregularities to their point of origin and taken appropriate steps. The board of regulators brought in to query the aforementioned discrepancies have left satisfied of Lucius' explanations and accompanying evidence. Therefore, Wayne Enterprises' reputation as a fair, honest and trustworthy company is intact. This is gratifying to know; I had been concerned as of late that my father's business had lost its way. With this particular incident closed, I no longer feel my family name is in danger of slander. Even though I have been reading the notes thoroughly, I have still cleared my plate. Glancing across, I see Dick has cleared the majority of his as well. It is a good sign for the boy's recovery.

Alfred's punctuality is faultless. Precisely one hour after giving us lunch, the old man returns to collect our plates. He complements Dick on his appetite, asks if we require anything else and then leaves. His organisation and manner supersede all others; he is the perfect servant. Now with the boy's homework behind us and the whole afternoon ahead, I am unsure of what to do next. Fortunately Dick poses a question that I have an immediate answer to.

"Is there anything you want my help with, Bruce?"

"Yes, our current investigation."

"The, uh, arms trafficking operation, right?"

"Yes. What was your impression of the shipments we intercepted last night?"

"Aside from the fact a lot of those guys hit really freakin' hard?"

His sarcasm has a time and a place; this is not it. My response of a hard stare tells Dick I want a sensible answer, an honest appraisal of our opposition. He shrugs his shoulders before offering the following:

"The shipments were too small. Who wants to buy just two hundred weapon systems and a couple of thousand rounds of ammo? It's not even like the systems were specialized or custom-built; just standard semi-automatic rifles, probably Russian and pretty cheap. If anything I'd say those shipments weren't shipments at all; they were hammy-downs from one gang to another, strictly in-house trading."

"Yes, that was my assessment too. And the men tasked with transporting these firearms were not expecting trouble."

"Yeah. They looked kinda shocked when we turned up. Getting the intelligence on the shipments from Gordon sort of point to the fact these guns aren't top secret. Could this be a set-up? I mean, as in one gang is setting up another for the fall? Did Gordon's sources all come from one side of the fence?"

What the boy is suggesting is that one of Gotham's gangs is deliberately selling guns to another, letting the GCPD know the details of when and where the shipments are being collected and then allowing their rival gang's members to take the blame? The fact that Jim's sources are almost exclusively anonymous tips supports the idea. It is certainly worth checking who the gang members we handed over to the police were working for, with or against and establishing a pattern or trend. I make a strong mental note to examine these leads later; I must remember where I am now.

"I'll look into it later. What would you like to do now?" Dick wrinkles his nose at something in disgust.

"Take a shower. I reek really bad right now."

"Alright. Just be careful of your injury." As soon as I say this, the boy looks at me expectantly and grins somewhat sheepishly.

"Can you carry me to the bathroom? It's kinda far."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather walk there yourself?"

"If you hadn't carried me last night I wouldn't have made it half-way up the stairs. Carry me please?" Dick spreads his arms out in a manner befitting a six-year-old. I cannot help but smile at his lack of self-consciousness; he accepts his current situation without false bravado and is not above asking for help. Humility is one of his many admirable traits. I oblige him. It is awkward manoeuvring his body off the bed without aggravating his injuries, but once I have cleared this obstacle the rest is far more straight-forward.

"Your shoulder okay?" The boy inquires as we cross to his wardrobe to select some post-shower clothes.

"It's fine. What would you like to wear?" I say slightly baffled by the sheer volume of clothing crammed into a considerably large space. Clearly this is where the bulk of Dick's allowance is being spent.

"That and those and that one there." For someone who claims he is becoming too old to be treated like a child, the boy is revelling in his current dominion over my actions. The items he selected by pointing are proving difficult to find. Eventually though, I take them in my hands whilst juggling Dick's weight and head for the bathroom.

"Are you going to assist me in getting dressed or should I yell for Alfie?" The boy asks once I have relieved myself of both him and his clothes at the bathroom door.

"Call us both. Whoever gets here first can get that particular honour." I reply to make Dick laugh. He instantly regrets it.

"Crap that hurts!" The boy yells clutching his ribs. He straightens back up and is still smiling. "Don't make me laugh, Bruce! It hurts to laugh!" I smile and leave him to his own devices.

"How is your day progressing, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks me once I have entered the kitchen.

"It seems pleasant enough."

"And where is the young master?"

"Taking a shower."

"Ah, I see."

There is a brief silence as I observe the old man cooking lobsters for tonight's evening meal. He is very attentive to every aspect of the process, forever monitoring the temperature and colour of the food to ensure continuing perfection. However, I break the silence. "When Dick is ill like this, do you dress him after a shower? Carry him around and such?" Alfred brings the pot back down to a steady simmer before turning his attentions to me.

"I do not dress him from head to toe, but, yes. It is often the case the lad's injuries are limiting enough that he can only just manage to put on his underwear without aid. As for ferrying him around the house, my age and his increasing bodyweight make this an increasingly rare event. When he was younger and I myself more sprightly, I took great pleasure in carrying him with me…as I did when you were his age. Do these things bother you in some way, Sir?"

"I just would not expect him to be so keen for my help with such intimate matters. He is growing closer to the end of his adolescence with every passing month."

"And he should be far more comfortable with my help than yours?" The old man's tone suggests he too considers himself unsuitable for such tasks.

"I am The Batman, Alfred. It is not unreasonable to assume he does not want to seem vulnerable in my presence. And yet, he is not distancing himself from me."

"Because you are not The Batman all the time. Yes, you may always be thinking on certain matters and yes, you devote many of your daylight hours to events that occur only after dark, but you are not always The Batman. You are Bruce Wayne and he, although like The Batman in many ways, possesses one great difference."

"Which is?"

"Bruce Wayne is a father. What child would hide their pain from their father? Master Dick is not afraid of being vulnerable in front of you because you are, for all intents and purposes his father and you love him. The boy understands this. That is why he is not reluctant for your help. And, if I were in his place, I would not hesitate either; you are a wonderful father."

The old man has an aptitude for the English language that outstrips my own several dozen times over. His subtle communications have a profound effect on my self-worth and self-belief that I have not found with anyone else. He makes me believe what he is saying, a useful if not rare talent. Perhaps I am a good parental figure. Alfred certainly thinks so. When the boy calls for assistance, I leave the old man to his cooking.

I find the boy lying on the bathroom floor, his boxers on and his pants past his knees. He has not managed any other clothing yet. When he sees it is me he smiles. "My hero. I was putting on my pants and just fell over. Typical story, probably heard it a million times before of a guy falling foul of his pants' unpredictable mind, right?" I help him to his feet and getting his pants up round his waist. He fastens them without any trouble. He then gestures to his socks. "Alfie usually starts with my socks."

I must admit, dressing the boy seems very strange. Had he been my biological son and had he been with me for his entire life, perhaps this would not feel so odd. As I help him put on his shirt, I feel I am too close to him. Should I be in possession of such anxieties? I cannot give an answer with absolute certainty. Dick buttons and tucks in the shirt himself, but I must again help him with his sweater. I suppose this situation could easily be a daily scenario if Harvey Dent had been more malicious and the boy not so resilient. Dick could be paralysed at this very moment, mentally disabled at this moment, from any dozen causes in his tenure as Robin. I should consider myself fortunate this is not the case. We are soon finished.

"You know you're actually pretty good at this." The boy comments as we leave the bathroom together. He elects to walk this time despite his soreness.

"What?"

"Taking care of me when I'm not feeling so hot."

"I would think I'm nothing but an amateur when compared to Alfred."

"Nah, you do okay." I feel Dick pat me on the back, "Good work, big man."

"Thank you, Dick."

"Yeah, no biggie. So what you wanna do now? There's a couple of hours to kill until dinner." As usual and, it must be said, predictably, my mind has drifted to only one subject.

"Fancy a digital look at our gunrunning friends?" I ask already knowing the boy's answer before he opens his mouth.

"Sounds like a plan, Boss-man; let's get to it."