A/N I hate this chapter! I've been working on it for days and days and it hasn't been going anywhere…Sniff. deep breath, counts to ten

So, on the bright side, there's a little extra bonus included for your reading pleasure. Woven into the text of this chapter are three direct quotes from three different movies. The first person to identify all three and PM me with both the quotes and the movies they come from will win a special prize! Yay! I feel like Vana White! In the unlikely event that no one gets all three (they're really not that hard…at least, I don't think they are), the person who gets the most the fastest wins. Do NOT post answers in your reviews. (So that everyone does their own work.)

Disclaimer

Me: MINE! MINE! MINE!

DC Comics Lawyer: NO! NO! NO!

Acknowledgement To my screenwriting professor, who taught me that writing crap is better than not writing at all.

Chapter 15

Words, words, words! I'm so sick of words!

I get words all day through, first from him, now from you!

Is that all you blighters can do?

My Fair Lady

"Miss Somerville, why don't you tell me exactly what happened this afternoon."

Cecilia settled back in her chair and eyed the owner of Wayne Manor. Dressed in sweat pants and a wrinkled t-shirt, hair tousled, and cheeks lit with an unhealthy flush, he ought to have been in bed. But he sat upright in his chair, glaring at her with all the force his fever bright eyes could muster. Obviously, he had already decided everything was her fault.

"There's really not much to tell. On the way to the mall, I noticed a car that seemed to be following our movements, but it disappeared when we left the freeway, and I decided that I had been mistaken. When we left the market, the same car was parked next to us, and two men were leaning against the hood."

She paused, looking faintly embarrassed. Wayne's eyes narrowed. "And then?"

"I'm afraid I overreacted."

- - - - - -

Earlier that afternoon

She grabbed Richard's hand. "Run!" They spun around and darted through a narrow passageway between the side of the peddler's market and next door drug store. The area behind the mall was a maze of crates and boxes. Cecilia stuck to the backsides of the buildings, dragging Richard behind her until they came to a fire safety ladder built into the wall. "Up," she commanded, thrusting him before her, then scrambling up after him and pushing him flat on the roof.

Footsteps pounded behind them and a voice called, "Hey, lady, we just want to talk!"

Cecilia peeked over the edge and glimpsed the two men plunging into the maze of crates. She stripped off her watch and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. "If you hear anything strange, or if I'm not back in seven minutes, call Alfred or Mr. Wayne. Tell them we're at the strip mall on Crescent Street and that we need the police."

"Shouldn't I go with…"

"No," she said firmly. "Stay here and don't make a sound."

He looked like he wanted to protest, but subsided beneath her threatening glare. "Where are you going?"

"They said they wanted to talk, so we're going to talk." She slipped down the ladder and around a stack of crates. Certain she was out of Richard's sight, she felt under her generous padding of sweaters and produced a Beretta 9 mm. Cocking her head, she listened intently, then began picking her silent way through the maze.

"Maybe we should split up," the one in the gray overcoat suggested as he and his companion stood by the corner of an enormous packing box." His friend opened his mouth to agree, but the only sound that emerged was a strangled squeak as the cold muzzle of a gun was jammed against the base of his skull.

"Who are you?" Cecilia rasped, invisible around the side of the box.

The man at the other end of her gun threw up his hands. "Reporters. Just reporters from the Gossip."

She twisted the gun against his neck. "ID. But move slowly."

With trembling hands, the man dug out a wallet and offered it over his shoulder. She snatched it and flipped it open to reveal a press pass. After a quick moment of examination, she shoved it into his coat pocket. "So, Mr. Denton. What are you doing here?"

"We just wanted to ask a couple of questions. Maybe get a picture of the kid."

"Look, Mr. Denton, do you remember what happened to the guy last year who just wanted to ask a couple of questions?"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember," the reporter stuttered.

"Learn from history, Mr. Denton."

"Did Mr. Wayne make sure you had a license before he gave you that gun?"

"Mr. Wayne? I don't work for Mr. Wayne. And the people who pay me are not going to be pleased to find out you've been interfering. So get your friend and get out." She pulled the gun from his head and he took off like an Olympic sprinter. She followed just enough to make sure that both men returned to their car. As they sped away, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to make her hands stop shaking.

The gun again safely stowed beneath her sweaters, she walked back to the ladder. "It's all right, Richard." The boy's head popped over the edge of the roof. "How long was I gone?"

"Six minutes and thirty-two seconds." He scrambled down the ladder. "Who were those guys?"

"Just a couple of reporters. I told them we didn't want to answer any questions."

- - - - - -

Bruce hadn't enjoyed himself so much since Somerville first set foot in Wayne Manor. "Let me get this straight," he began, deliberately emphasizing the disbelief in his tone. "You saw two strange men you thought might have followed you from the Manor driveway. You grabbed Richard and, instead of running back into the building where the crowd would have provided safety, you dragged him to a deserted area and stuck him on a roof. You then proceeded to, all by yourself, confront two men who might very well have been dangerous?"

Somerville looked a little flushed. "I do not claim that my conduct was the most reasonable course of action. After the events of last Wednesday, I was…prone to overreaction."

"Overreaction? Overreaction! Overreaction means being extremely cautious, not acting in an irrational and irresponsible manner which actually increased the risk to the life of my ward! Miss Somerville, are you quite certain you are qualified to determine the futures of Gotham's children?"

He gleefully anticipated the expression of rage and the hail of sharp words that would mean that he had, at last, gotten under her skin. But instead of drawing her mouth into a prim line and shooting an icy glare through her wire rimmed glasses, her face fell into an expression that, had it been worn by anyone else, he would have called humble.

"Mr. Wayne, you are quite right to question my competency. I took very poor care of Richard today, and I'm sorry."

Bruce stared at her in mute outrage. Insults were not supposed to provoke her into apologizing.

"I think it is apparent," she continued, "that I lack the experience to deal with the situations that arise around the ward of a billionaire in Gotham City. It would be best if Richard and I did not go out alone again."

Bruce smiled over gritted teeth. "I am inclined to agree with you, Miss Somerville. But…thank you…for your…understanding."

- - - - - -

"Time to get out, Master Dick," Alfred called over the sound of splashing.

Dick spouted pool water like a whale and climbed up the ladder to grab the towel Alfred held out. "Alfred, can I ask you a question?"

At the serious tone in the boy's voice, Alfred set down his stack of towels and gave Dick his full attention. "Certainly."

"When I was talking to miss Molly today, she said she didn't think Bruce was a proper person to raise a child. And I wanted to show her he's really a good guy, and I almost told her…you know."

"But you didn't."

Dick hung his head. "I almost did."

Alfred laid a gentle hand on his towel-clad shoulder. "It's often a temptation for me as well. Because I know what a good man he is, I sometimes just want to shout it out, so that everyone will know. But you have to understand that having everyone think well of him is something that Master Wayne chose to give up. And we don't have the right to interfere with that choice, as much as we would sometimes like to."

"It's important to keep it a secret so that the bad guys won't find him, right?"

"Yes, and to keep us safe, too." Alfred watched the boy gravely. "Nothing would hurt Master Wayne so much as having bad things happen to the people he cares about."

"Like when my mom…like when my mom died, and I wished it was me instead."

"Yes. Like that."

Dick scowled fiercely. "I won't tell, Alfred, not ever."

"I know you won't." The butler smiled and rose. "And now it is time to dress for bed." He guided the boy toward the door.

Upstairs, after Alfred had mopped up the bathwater and Dick was safely in his pajamas, the boy asked, "Hey, Alfred, can I ask you another question?"

"Of course."

"What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree, and is very dangerous?"

Alfred almost, but not quite, rolled his eyes. "I haven't the faintest earthly conception."

"A sparrow with a machine gun!" Dick shrieked, and collapsed onto his bed, laughing hysterically.

Alfred patiently waited for the hysteria to end before saying, "And now it is time for me to ask you a question."

"Yeah?"

"Who is Miss Molly?"

- - - - - -

Bruce froze, one hand suspended over his computer mouse. "What?"

"Yes, sir, a friend of Robyn Grayson whom Dick refers to as Miss Molly. Apparently, he and Miss Somerville had quite a lengthy conversation with her. I take it Miss Somerville failed to mention the encounter?"

"She most certainly did." Bruce stood up, sending his wheeled desk chair slamming against the wall. "And I'm going to find out why."

"Not to sound trite, but perhaps you didn't ask her."

Bruce stared at him in disbelief. "A technicality that will shortly be remedied."

"I only meant that she may not have realized what significance the meeting held. And I'm afraid she's retired."

"What?" the master of Wayne Manor growled.

"She's gone to bed."

"She can get up again."

"Much as I sympathize with your desire to obtain the information as soon as possible, I feel compelled to point out that if you drag her out of bed by the roots of her hair, she will hardly feel inclined to be informative. Besides which, it will be a very black mark on your evaluation. But Master Dick is still awake if you would like to talk to him."

Bruce raked both his hands through his hair. "Alfred, I'm getting really, really tired of all this."

"Only eight more days, sir."

"Eight eternal days."

- - - - - -

Dick's bedside lamp was on and the boy was lying on his side, staring intently at something when Bruce pushed open the door. "Hey."

"Hey," Dick answered, "look."

Bruce followed the pointing finger. "What…The curtains?"

"No, Rachel Jr. She's crawling through the tunnel on her back."

Bruce's gaze dropped to the cage below the window. "Acrobatic rat."

"Gerbil."

"Right," Bruce agreed seriously. "Alfred says you ran into an old friend today."

"Miss Molly. She used to visit me and my mom sometimes."

"Did she work at the same circus as your mom?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Hey, do you think Rachel Jr. would like to live in a circus?"

When another couple of questions produced no information other than that Dick's mind was completely taken up with his gerbil, Bruce gave up and switched off the lamp. "Good night, Dick."

"Good night. Hey, Bruce? What weighs six ounces, sits in a tree, and is very dangerous?"

Fifteen seconds later, an irritated Bruce strode down the hall, the hysterical howling of his highly amused ward following him. Kids. Once again in his study, he slumped down in front of the computer and pulled up Google. Within a few minutes, he had half a dozen articles and advertisements describing the unique flea market visited by Dick and Somerville. For professional and amateur collectors of circus paraphernalia...Got the winter blues? Chase them away with the spirit of a summer carnival...A unique and delightful shopping opportunity...

Bruce sighed and clicked off his monitor. All those months of investigating circuses, and the answer was right across town. And how did she know right where to look?

"Any luck, sir?" Alfred's voice broke into Bruce's reverie.

"No. I didn't get anything more out of him than you found out. But tomorrow I'm going to that mall. After I talk to Somerville." He stood up and walked over to the piano.

"Not to be intrusive, sir, but where are you going?"

Bruce hit the three dissonant chords. "Out."

"Clearly you are determined to contract pneumonia."

"I don't have time to get sick, Alfred. I'll see you tomorrow."

To Be Continued...

A/N So, yeah. Lame, but it's over! We can move on to bigger and better things! My personal goal is to get the next chapter up by next Monday, which just happens to be a very special day. Huge Kudos (but no prizes) to anyone who knows what it is! See you then!

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