A/N Yay! One of more week of school! And my projects are going well! I actually have time to write fanfiction in the midst of it all!

Disclaimer I cannot be held responsible for any hatred toward Monday which may develop as a result of reading this chapter.

Chapter 10

In Which Bad Things Happen on Monday

There isn't a Monday that would not cede its place to Tuesday.

- Anton Chekhov

It was around five o'clock Monday morning when Alfred was awakened by the continuous ringing of the intercom. Climbing out of bed, he checked the light board and found that the summons had come from the poolroom. Pulling on his dressing gown over his pajamas and shoving his feet into his slippers, he made his way calmly but quickly through the Manor halls. The door to the pool stood open, although the room behind it was lit only with the usual security lights. Inside, a most peculiar sight met the butler's gaze.

Bruce stood on an upended plant pot which was balanced on a chair which was placed on a small, glass topped table. The object of this, apparently, was to allow him to reach a cable from which a number of plants were suspended. Bruce was carefully hanging various articles of sopping wet clothing over the line.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred called.

Bruce ignored him, busily adjusting a pair of boxers that were dripping into a pot of alyssum.

Alfred walked closer. "Master Wayne, what are you doing?"

Bruce looked down at him, or rather, down past him, his gaze vague and unfocused. "Today is Monday," he announced, and returned his attention to a pair of mismatched socks.

"Yes, of course." The butler took another step forward as the pot and chair arrangement tilted dangerously. "I've got another load of laundry upstairs. Why don't you come down and we'll go up and get it?"

Bruce hung his last sock and jumped gracefully to the floor. Without a word, he walked past Alfred and out of the room. By the time the butler caught up with him, he was lying face down on his bed, as soundly asleep as he had been during the entire episode.

Alfred pulled the blankets over his employer and went back down to the poolroom. He shook his head mournfully over the aspidistra that had been heartlessly evicted from its pot and used a stepladder to remove the laundry from the cable. "Today is Monday," he muttered, lifting a very small orchid that had been arbitrarily set on top of the intercom switch. "Monday, washday."

If a man with a dangerous double life was going to sleepwalk, then surely washing clothes was one of the least distressing things he might do. Nevertheless, Alfred resolved to begin locking the poolroom at night. He didn't know whether Bruce could swim in his sleep, and he didn't want to find out.

Niko Pappas hurled his last newspaper with perfect accuracy onto the front step of a beautiful suburban home. Sighing with relief, he shifted the almost empty canvas bag to a more secure position on his shoulder and peddled furiously down the street. Delivering papers would be a better job if he could have a route closer to his home, but a kid took what he could get. If he went fast enough, he might have time for thirty minutes of sleep before his mother made him get up for school.

It had rained during the night, and his bike tires made whirring noises as he whizzed through puddles. He was only five minutes from home when a truck, going at least twenty miles over the speed limit, roared past and sent an arc of gutter water cascading over him. Niko indulged in a few choice expressions which his mother had forbidden him to ever, ever use, and rode home in deep gloom. Now he would have to wash the filth off, which meant no time for a nap.

Everyone else was still in bed when he walked through the front door, conscientiously taking his wet shoes off in the entryway. He set his canvas bag on a kitchen chair and gingerly pulled out the saturated newspaper inside. He was always given a couple of extra papers to carry on the route, in case of accident, and if he didn't need them he got to keep them, a fact his father appreciated. Niko spread the wet pages on the table, hoping they would dry enough by the time his father left for work so that he could read the paper on the subway, and was about to head for the bathroom when a small back page article caught his eye. Bat's Sidekick Reappears.

His breath catching with excitement, Niko struggled to make out the slightly blurred printing. The article said that several days before, the Batman had been spotted at the scene of a car accident, allegedly helping one of the victims. With him, or so claimed the eyewitness, was a small person dressed entirely in black and wearing a ski mask. The writer (probably under pressure to fill space) speculated that this might be the same individual who had assisted the Bat at the pawnshop robbery and, given his or her small size, thought that perhaps the Bat was training a youthful army of vigilantes to fight crime and corruption. At that point, the writer reached his word minimum, and the article ended.

Niko delicately tore the article out of the page and hurried to the kitchen. Ariadne's bedroom was actually a large closet which had been originally intended to hold a washing machine and dryer. The appliances were never installed in the apartment, but the space had been converted into sleeping quarters for Ari who, as the only daughter, presented a problem in a two bedroom apartment.

Niko pulled open the folding doors and whispered excitedly, "Ari! Wake up!" She moaned and turned over, so he reached out and shook her shoulder. "Wake up!"

"Niko?" she asked sleepily. "What do you want? You smell funny."

"That boy was seen with Batman again," Niko hissed, ignoring her comment about his smell.

Ariadne sat up abruptly. "What?"

"It says so in the paper." Niko read her the article. "Do you think it was the same guy?"

"Probably. I wonder why the newspaper writer thinks there's a whole army?"

"I don't know. Maybe he made it up. But wouldn't it be awesome, if it was true? All kinds of kids all over the city working for the Batman."

"Would you want to work for him?"

"Duh!" Niko exclaimed. It was just like a girl to doubt his answer to that question. "But why would the Batman ever recruit me? He probably wants kids who like, know judo and stuff."

"Just because you don't know judo doesn't mean you can't do stuff," Ariadne argued. "And listen, Niko, I've got an idea."

Niko eyed her warily. You could never tell about Ariadne's ideas. Sometimes they were really good and sometimes they were just plain weird. "What is it?"

"You remember how Demetrios painted the sun catcher for Mrs. Portokalos, and Hector hung it outside her window?"

Niko groaned. "How could I forget?"

"I heard her talking in the hallway that day. She said it was the nicest thing anyone had done for her in a long time."

"So?" her brother impatiently demanded.

"Well, why can't we do stuff like that? Nice things, I mean, and keep them a secret? Then we'd be just like the Batman."

This was not one of her good ideas. "Ariadne!" Niko exclaimed in exasperation. "The Batman does not go around being nice to people. He catches criminals!"

"Well, that's nice! For the people who aren't criminals, I mean," she amended. "And he does other stuff too, like rescuing people in trouble."

"Yeah, important stuff! Not dumb stuff like hanging some stupid painting on a window."

"Doing nice things for people is not dumb!"

"Maybe not for girls," Niko conceded. "But it would be dumb for me. What would the guys say if they found out?"

"Why would they care?"

"Believe me, they would."

"Please, Niko! I can't by myself, and Demetrios can't keep secrets, and Hector's too busy."

"I'm busy too," Niko informed her.

"Please?"

"No."

"There was a poem in this book," Dick said accusingly as he handed over his essay.

"Oh, you noticed that?" Alex asked innocently while Dick rolled his eyes. "What did you think of it?"

"It was terrible! I mean, hello! Green is not gold. At least it explained later what it was supposed to mean."

Alex sighed. "I meant the book in general."

"Oh. It was good. I liked it."

"That's a positive sign. Why did you like it?"

Dick thought for a moment. "It seemed like it was true, you know, even though it was made up. I mean, it seems like stuff that really happens to people – being poor and fighting and people dying and not being able to do anything to stop it."

Pretty deep thoughts for a kid who lives in the world of beautiful people, Alex thought, impressed despite himself. He asked, "Did anything in the book surprise you?"

Dick shrugged. "Not really, except for the poem. That surprised me, and I don't mean in a good way." He made a face.

"Why do you think the author included the poem in the book?"

"I don't know. Why didn't she just say what she said at the end about still believing in good things without dragging the poem into it?"

"Believe it or not, sometimes ideas have more power when they're in a poem than when they're said straight out."

Dick shrugged, his favorite response when discussing poetry. But then he said thoughtfully, "My mom believed that, about still looking for the good things when everything seems bad, I mean."

In the months they'd been working together, this was the first time Alex had heard the boy mention his mother. He stayed quiet, listening.

"And Alfred believes it," Dick continued, talking softly, as though to himself, staring at some point over Alex's shoulder. "And I believe it. I think … I think Bruce believes it. It's hard to tell sometimes." His eyes swung to his tutor's face. "Do you believe it?"

"I do," Alex affirmed.

Apparently that was all Dick had to say, because he remained silent and after a moment started fidgeting with a rip in his jeans.

"Enough English for now," Alex decided. "Let's get to work on those equations." He picked up the book and passed it to Dick, who grabbed it and winced. "How's your arm?"

Dick looked startled. "My arm? Oh yeah, my arm. It's still a little sore."

Alex watched the kid settle at his desk, a pesky thought nibbling at the edge of his mind. He could have sworn that it was Dick's other arm that had been injured.

For once, Bruce was home for lunch, and after the meal was over he led Dick into the study. "I hope you didn't have any other plans for this afternoon," he said, opening the elevator and motioning his ward inside, "because we have work to do."

"Nope," Dick said cheerfully, trying to be casual. This was the first time they had done Bat stuff in the middle of the day. "Are we going out?"

"No." Inside the caverns, Bruce opened a program on one of the computers. "The information that's transmitted from that bug we planted is recorded, and then the computer makes a transcript of it. But it's not always completely accurate, so what you have to do is listen and made certain the transcription is correct."

"Got it." Dick settled down with a printout and began fooling around with the audio controls. There wasn't much to do once he got those fixed. The computer was fairly accurate, aside from mixing up the occasional /b/ and /d, and although the bug had been recording for a few days now, most of the noise was the television running. It was tedious, but Dick didn't mind. He again had that sense that he was doing something, that he had finally arrived at somewhere he'd been trying to get to for a long time.

When he reached Sunday night, things finally got interesting. Three people appeared on the recording, two men and a woman. They watched a baseball game, and then the woman announced she was going to bed. "Staying tonight, sugar?" she asked.

"Definitely," the man called Jarvis replied. "I just have some business to talk over with Hank."

"Well, don't be too long," she cooed, and Dick made a gagging noise at the computer.

There was the sound of a door closing in the distance, and then Jarvis asked, "How's business?"

"It's good, it's good." Springs squeaked as Hank apparently settled back in his chair. His mind flashing to the condo, Dick mentally positioned him in a tan recliner. "In fact, it's so good, I almost got more money than I know what to do with, if you know what I mean."

Jarvis chuckled. "Never a bad problem to have. I'm sure something will come up. A new investment, perhaps?"

"That would be ideal. It would be great to find something in the next week or so."

"I'm sure you will."

The springs squeaked again, and then Hank said, "I'd better get home before Myrna calls the cops on me. I'll see you next week."

There was the sound of footsteps, and then Hank's faint voice said, "How about those Red Sox?"

"Never count on the Red Sox," Jarvis told him, and shut the door.

There was no conversation on the rest of the recording. Dick shut off the audio player and stretched stiffly. Although he had been able to skip over large sections of the recording, he had still been at the computer for nearly three hours. He stood and looked around for Bruce.

The billionaire was sitting at a nearby table, patiently sorting through a mountain of printouts with a highlighter in hand. "Anything interesting?" he asked as Dick walked over.

"Just this." He handed over the part of the printout that contained the Sunday night conversation.

Bruce scanned it. "Interesting, indeed."

"What does it mean?" Dick asked, dragging up a chair so that he could sit next to his guardian.

"Jarvis is Jarvis McGinty, the city councilman. The other man is Hank James, an entrepreneur. The police suspect James of being involved in a variety of illegal activities, but they haven't been able to actually tie him to anything."

"What kind of activities?"

"Everything from brothels to moving black market goods to illegal booking operations."

"Like the kind of stuff we saw that night?" Dick asked slowly, remembering all of the televisions they had helped load on the van and the prostitute standing beneath the streetlight.

"That was the dirty end of the business, but yes, that kind of stuff. Recently, we've begun to think that James has a silent partner, someone respectable who helps him launder the profits."

"You think it's this councilman?"

"Yep," Bruce answered, his eyes going back to the printout.

"But what did that conversation mean?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say James is making more money than he can safely launder through his current channels. He's asking McGinty to set up some new contacts for him."

"That makes sense," Dick agreed, looking at the recorded words in a new light. "Will you give this to the police?"

"No."

"But they could use it to catch McGinty and James!"

"Yes, but no D.A. would prosecute on this evidence. For one thing, it's extremely insubstantial. For another, it's illegal."

"Illegal?" Dick demanded, shocked. "But…you're deputized. Don't you have permission to investigate people?"

"Even a federal employee needs permission from a judge to wire someone's house or tap their phone line."

"But … if we're breaking the law, how does that make us any different from them?"

Bruce looked at him evenly. "In some ways, we're not."

Dick dropped his gaze to the printout. "If you can't give that to the police, what will you do?"

"Tip them off to watch any new investments Hank James makes in the next couple of weeks. They'll know what to do from there."

Gordon parked his car and climbed out, ducking his head against the rain that sheeted down out of grim skies. Darting into the entrance of the coffee shop, he paused and took a deep breath before he scanned the room. Barbara was already there. She had a chosen a corner table and her back was to the wall. Aware that she had seen him, Gordon didn't bother with ordering anything but went straight to the table.

"How's your mother?" he asked quietly, sitting across from her. His wife looked tired; her high cheekbones stood out in sharp relief against the shadows beneath her eyes.

"She's fine. Angry with you."

That wasn't exactly a surprise. Gordon took a breath and plunged into his prepared speech. "Barbara, we both know this is my fault. I've been the perfect model of the absent husband these past few years, and I know that. I can't begin to express how sorry I am that it took you actually leaving to make me realize how far I'd gone. But I have woken up. I'm going to change, Barbara."

She turned her coffee cup around in her hands, her slender fingers caressing the ceramic. The light caught the rings that she still wore. "Jim, I don't mean to sound cynical, but you've said that before."

Gordon gripped his knees beneath the table and did his best to keep his voice steady. "I should have said, I am changing. I've handed the casino case over to O'Hara, and I've told several other lieutenants that I'm going hands off on their projects." Barbara's head remained bent over her coffee, but by her stillness he knew that she was listening. "I've also found a marriage counselor who's willing to work with us if you …" He fumbled in his jacket pocket. "Here's her card."

The cardboard rectangle lay next to her saucer where he had pushed it, but Barbara made no move to pick it up. "I don't know, Jim. Sometimes I think that what you do is what you have to do. But I can't do it with you anymore. I'm sorry." Her voice trembled slightly on the apology.

Don't panic, Gordon told himself fiercely. "You may believe that, but I don't. We made promises when we got married, and even though I've completely broken them, I don't think that means I've been released from them. My first loyalty is at home, with you and the kids. It always should have been. It was dead wrong to let police work take priority, no matter how important it might have seemed."

Lifting her head, Barbara finally met his eyes. "You say that now, but will you still be saying it in two months?"

"I am asking for one more chance. If I screw it up, you can go and I won't say a word. You can have the house, if you like, and I won't …" Tears burned the backs of his eyes, and he had to pause to gain control of his voice. "I won't fight you on custody."

"And if I don't offer another chance, will you battle custody rights?"

Gordon let out a low, weary sigh. "I don't know. Maybe. Because I still think I can learn to do things differently."

Rain slammed against the window as the wind changed direction, and Barbara glanced at her watch. "You told the kids I'd pick them up at school?"

"Yeah." Gordon's stomach grew heavy, as if he'd swallowed cement. Is this it?

Barbara met his eyes one more time. "I'll think about it," she promised, and picked up the card.

It was more than he deserved – he knew that and went limp with gratitude. "Thank you."

She nodded and stood, buttoning her coat. "I'll call you."

"I'll be waiting."

Gordon watched her duck out into the rain and head toward her car. His hands were shaking. I need coffee. Black, black coffee. The cashier had just handed him a steaming mug when the harsh sound of grinding metal and breaking glass echoed in the street outside.

Without knowing why, he dropped the cup and ran, vaguely the registering the sound of ceramic shattering on the tile and the cashier's shouted protest. Auto accidents happened every day in Gotham, especially when it rained. As a cop, he'd seen more wrecks than he could begin to count, so he didn't know why this one had sent fear pounding through his veins like adrenaline. I'm going to feel very stupid in about five seconds.

His shoes slipped on the slick pavement, and he caught himself against a wall, pausing for a second to survey the scene ahead. Two vehicles lay crumpled in the middle of the intersection – a red Toyota Land Cruiser had t-boned the driver's side of a silver Chevy Malibu. Barbara drives a silver Malibu. His mind informed him that there were probably a thousand of that exact same car in Gotham City proper alone, not counting the suburbs, but his feet were running again. He shoved into the crowd that had already formed and darted into the street, where he could see the plate number on the Chevy.

Oh, God.

An impenetrable network of fractures covered the windshield which miraculously remained in the frame so that he couldn't see into the car.

Please, God. Don't let it be.

Running to the driver's side, he jerked the door handle. It was locked. "Barbara!" he shouted tugging frantically on the handle. He could see her through this window, slumped over the wheel. His fist pounded against the glass, but to no avail. I'm a cop. I can't even get in the car... Somehow, he remembered that he had a key.

It took two tries to fit the metal strip into the slot, but he was finally throwing the door open and kneeling on the passenger's seat. "Barbara?"

Her neck was bent at an unnatural angle as her head lay on steering wheel. Blood soaked her lap, and a thin stream trickled down the side of her face. Gritting his teeth, he reached out with two shaking fingers and set them beneath her ear, feeling for a pulse. There had to be a pulse. Where is it? Oh God, where is it? "Barbara," he pleaded, not recognizing his own voice. "Just be breathing, baby, just be breathing."

He didn't know how long he knelt there, waiting for her pulse, before sirens screamed outside and someone laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Sir, you need to let the paramedics help her." Dazed, he turned to look into the face of a young patrol officer.

"Chief!" she exclaimed, startled.

"It's Barbara," he explained, although surely that was obvious.

Numb, he let himself be helped from the car. A paramedic took his place on the passenger's seat, while another draped a blanket around his shoulders. He wondered why – he hadn't been in an accident.

He kept his eyes fixed on the paramedic inside the car. After a minute, the man emerged, met his colleague's eyes, and shook his head.

No pulse.

Barbara.

To Be Continued

A/N I feel like a sadistic murderess! Honestly, your honor, the canon made me do it!

I actually made myself cry writing this chapter, something that, to my memory (which is notoriously faulty), I have never done before.

Review if you liked anything about this chapter!