Chapter 6

Despite Robins' wisecracking, Bruce didn't laugh. He stared at the space where the bookshelf had been just moments before, looking as if he had just discovered evidence of some great crime.

Robin- still lying on the floor- looked awkwardly away from his stunned face. She gently tugged at the cuff of his jeans. "Umm, Bruce. I can't get up."

Instead of helping her up, he simply stared ahead at the tunnel. Robin rapped his shoe. "I'm still here."

Slowly, a rueful smile cracked across Bruce's face. His eyes were glassy and distant, as if some long forgotten memory had suddenly breached, unwanted and uncalled-for.

"Bruce?" Her voice felt small in her throat. He bent down and lifted Robin into to chair. He retrieved the crutch, all without a word.

"He was telling the truth. All that time I thought he was pulling my leg, and he was telling the truth." He turned to Robin. "He always used to tell me stories about secret passages built into the walls, and I never believed him, even as a kid."

Robin stared. Was Bruce losing it?

Bruce disappeared between the bookshelves. After a moments' hesitation, Robin followed, leaning heavily on her crutch. The passage was dark and quite short, and she had passed through it almost as soon as she entered. And promptly smacked into Bruce.

The crutch skidded on the marble floor and Robin grabbed the crook of Bruce's elbow. With one sweep of his arm, he hefted her to his side and propped her against the wall. "Guess I can't help fallin' for you, eh?"

Bruce did not answer. His breathing was uneven; his face was contorted. He bit his quivering lip and closed his eyes. Slowly, feeling along the walls, Bruce walked on. Blinding light flooded the passage. "I guess we've found the light at the end of the tunnel," Robin whispered to herself. Shading her eyes, she hobbled into the room.

The room was the size of Robin's room, with the same vaulted ceiling. Just like the library, it was lined with shelves. Some held books, but most held-

"What is this stuff?" Robin poked the indeterminate lumps on the shelves. It spat out a cloud of dust; Robin gamely turned it over, making as little skin contact with it as possible. "Looks like yarn." She turned to face the many shelves lining the three other walls. "But who could have possibly wanted so much-" The look on Bruce's face stopped her.

Tears tracks marked a river on his dusty face. The solitary shaft of sunlight from the one high window cast a halo around him as he sat on the faded maroon couch. In his lap sat a lumpy, half-knit sweater, knitting needles still poking out. "My mother loved to knit." Bruce's voice was quiet. He stared at the dust-laden sweater, and Robin knew that he was not talking to her. "She was knitting this for me. She thought about taking it to the opera that night, but she…" His face twisted in painful ways. More tears streaked his face. "She decid-d-ded not t-to."

Fresh tears soaked the unfinished sweater. Bruce hung his head; hugged his knees to his stomach; shook with silent tears.

Robin bit her lip and swallowed the dry lump forming in her own throat. What did you say to a stranger at a time like this? Of course, Robin knew the story of his parents deaths; the Gotham Hawk rehashed it on a monthly basis. But… what to say to a man you hardly knew?

"My parents died too." Bruce looked up abruptly and Robin blushed. She didn't know she'd spoken until it was too late.

"They were in the circus… trapeze artists. The most renowned-" she sucked in a quavering breath- "in the country."

Tears were pushing unmercifully on the corners of her eyes. Her arm was numb and her shoulder aching. Robin made her shaky way to the couch. She scuffed her shoe in the carpet, stirring a cloud of dust. "It was so sudden- I was sitting at home… just watching TV or someghing." She stole a glance at Bruce. He was not looking at her, but Robin knew that he was listening. "My cousin- she wasn't really my cousin, just a family friend, she came into our apartment. I knew something was wrong because she'd come in the middle of the night- no one went out at night in Crime Alley. There were police in the hall, and they wanted to talk to me, but she wouldn't let them."

"She told me that there had been an accident at the circus and my parents were hurt. The police took me to the hospital to see them, but they were dead before I got there. That was all two years ago. I was fifteen then. They left me all but nothing. I would have been a ward of the state, but I ran away." She grimaced. "In retrospect, not the best choice."

Bruce didn't say anything, so Robin went on nervously. "You were right last night- about me being homeless. I lived in an abandoned cargo container."

Bruce lifted his head. "You must be very resourceful, living for two years like that. I didn't fare so well on the streets." He looked her in the eye now. "I ran away after my parents killer was given parole."

Robin was surprised. "You were homeless?"

"Yes," Bruce answered, and his mood became easier. "I was drowned in rage and guilt when the man who murdered them was granted parole- though I realize now that I was the one holding me under the water, not him." He shook his head. "I blamed my parents' killer for my own refusal to let my emotions go. I left the US after graduating from Princeton and lived the life of a street rat- he spat out the word like saltwater- I wanted to take on every bit of scum like him myself- but that's another story entirely." He smiled to himself, as if enjoying some private joke.

"But you obviously came back, so you must have learned to deal with it- I wish every day of my sorry life that I could," Robin was wistful, and she felt her own pessimism washing over her. "I wish the guy who killed my parents was dead."

"That's a dangerous way of thinking," Bruce said solemnly.

They both sat in silence; Bruce fingering the half-done sweater; Robin staring uncomfortably at her feet. The silence shattered abruptly when a far-off clock chimed loudly.

"That thing just chimed thirteen, didn't it?"Robin looked at Bruce, but he was already on his feet, oblivious to her words. "I'll tell Alfred where you are- I'll have him bring a wheelchair. Perhaps then maneuvering the manor will be easier."

"Wha- why are you- you're leaving?" Robin was nonplussed.

"I have to go- to a meeting." With the same hurried step as the night before, he strode to the door, where he turned to face her. "I won't be back until very late tonight."

Robin watched him leave, and then plopped back on the couch. "He told me his meetings were ending this afternoon-" she consulted her watch- "which would be now. Either this guy can't keep his social calendar straight, or there's something fishy going on."

And this time, she wasn't making a pun.