A/N WHUACK! I can't believe I FINALLY finished this chapter! I meant to have it up a lot sooner, but it went all sticky on me. I should have THREE chapters for all the time I've spent trying to get this one together! However, it's nice and long and I hope it was worth waiting for.

As always, THANK YOU reviewers! Your thoughtful comments give me the determination to keep plugging away, even when the characters tell me to bug off! (And a special thank you to all the anonymous reviewers of the last chapter, since I couldn't reply to your reviews.)

Disclaimer No rabbits were harmed in the writing of this chapter.

Chapter 12
In Which Several People Reach Their Boiling Points

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
- Robert Frost

Sarah Essen bent her head as the minister uttered a closing prayer. Barbara Gordon's funeral was over. The organist played a slow processional as the pallbearers carried the coffin down the aisle, the family walking immediately behind them. She stole a long, sideways glance at their faces, not wanting to gawk, but nevertheless feeling compelled to witness their grief. James (When did I start thinking of him as James?) came first, holding the hand of a small boy. The man's face was set and grim, the boy's was scared. Behind them walked an elderly woman and a teenaged girl. The grandmother – she had to be one of the grandmothers – appeared weary with grief, but Sarah got the impression of a determined woman, strong beneath her sorrow. The girl was crying as she walked, her slender shoulders shaking with repressed sobs. Her face was half hidden by bright coppery hair, but as she passed Sarah's pew, she turned her head slightly. For an instant, beneath the perfect veneer of the grieving daughter, something fierce flashed across the pale face.

Sarah shuddered and reached for her coat. Despite the rainy day, the air conditioning was blowing, and the people filling the seats weren't enough to offset the chilled air.

Only a select party would go to the grave site, and once they were gone, the rest of the attendees began to stand and move. It was a large crowd, and included a few city VIPs. There were also a lot of cops, most of them looking uncomfortable and relieved to be heading out. It was, she thought, a mark of the respect Gordon commanded in this town that the mayor and the lowly beat cop had both come.

As she stood and buttoned her coat, her eyes automatically continued to scan the crowd, and her attention was caught by a tall man in a dark coat. He was wearing a hat, and although he stood quite unobtrusively as he waited his turn to exit from the pew into the aisle, he kept his head down in a manner that suggested he didn't want to be recognized. Sara squinted, trying to make out his features. The profile seemed vaguely familiar, and as he turned to slip through a gap in the crowd, she caught a full view of his face.

Bruce Wayne? she recognized, startled. I would have thought he wouldn't be caught dead at a thing like this. Unless he was dead, in which case the funeral would be his...

O'Hara, who had sat beside her, tapped her shoulder. "You want to go and grab a bite? It's close to dinner time."

"Sure," she agreed. They ran into two other detectives just outside the church, and the four of them ended up in a smoky sandwich shop, squished around a tiny corner table.

"The chief still looked pretty shaken up," Detective Green commented before biting into his panini. "I talked to the officer who pulled him out of the car. She said he wasn't even coherent."

"Yeah, well you might not be either if you'd just found your wife with her neck broken," his partner informed him.

Green shrugged and swallowed his mouthful of sandwich. "Rumor had it she wasn't so thrilled to see him in any condition."

"Just because you're thinking divorce, doesn't mean you want the other party to end up dead." Curtis settled back in his tiny chair, causing it to creak ominously. "Take my second wife, for example. No arguments, no death threats, just a nice friendly agreement to split."

"I thought she put sleeping pills in your coffee."

"No, no, that was my third wife."

"How many wives have you had, Curtis?" O'Hara demanded.

Curtis looked innocent. "Just three."

"But he's working on number four," Green put in. "Problem is, he doesn't have a ring. Number three wouldn't give it back."

O'Hara chuckled and Sarah rolled her eyes. She had never understood people who threw themselves into one doomed marriage after another, like it was some kind of hobby.

"You think the chief will start looking for number two?" Curtis asked.

Green shook his head. "I don't know. He was married to this one for what – fifteen? twenty? years. That's a pretty good run for a cop. He might not want a replacement. You know what they say: If you take too long on your firsts, your seconds get cold."

"Who says that?" Curtis asked.

"Everyone."

"I never heard anyone say that. I bet you just made that up right now."

Green refused to be drawn into the argument. "The point is that he probably won't be looking to get re-entangled anytime soon."

"On the other hand, he's got two kids," Curtis pointed out.

"He can afford a nice daycare. Or he can ask the wife's mother to come and take care of them. She'd probably do it for nothing."

"Oh no." Curtis shook his head. "That's not even a last resort. Not if his mother-in-law's anything like mine."

"Which one?"

"Any of them. They all hate my guts."

"So he might get married to keep her out of the house…"

"Stop it!" Sarah snapped

Her three companions looked at her in some surprise. "What's the matter, Essen, you actually like your mother-in-law?"

"I don't have one. But I think we could speak a little more respectfully of a grieving family, especially when we just came from the funeral."

Green's face became curious. "You got a special interest in that grieving family, Essen?"

She looked at him coldly. "No. But just because I'm a cop, it doesn't I'm bereft of common decency." Glancing at her watch, she stood. "I've got to go. There was some kind of special bulletin coming in from Metropolis this afternoon." She tossed ten bucks on the table and grabbed her coat, ignoring the three pairs of speculative eyes that followed her exit.

"Babsie, can you sleep with me? Please?" Jimmy looked pleadingly at his big sister. "I'm scared."

Babs perched on the edge of the bed and smoothed the little boy's hair back from his forehead. "Why are you scared?"

Jimmy buried his face in his pillow so that Babs had to lean close to hear his words. "I don't want you to die like mommy."

"I'm not going to die, Jimmy," she said, a little roughly to hold back the lump in her throat.

Lifting his face out of the pillow, he stared at her accusingly. "You said mommy was going to come back."

Guilt washed over Babs. "I thought she was. I can't control everything that happens," she snapped defensively. Why does he have to be so difficult?

"So maybe you'll die. Maybe you just think you won't," he persisted.

"I am not going to die!" Babs shouted.

Jimmy's eyes filled with tears and his lips began to tremble. "Don't get mad, Babs."

She stood and took a deep breath, pushing the hair away from her face. "I'll sleep with you, ok? Just let me put my pajamas on."

"Ok," he whispered.

In her own room, Babs leaned against the door and twisted her knuckles against her shut eyelids until brilliant lights filled her vision. Why did he have to want her? What was wrong with dad or grandma? She grit her teeth, trying to push down the fury that had been building inside of her ever since her mom had walked out of the house. She was so angry – with her mom for dying, with herself for fighting with her mom, with her dad for never being around, with Grandma for not being more understanding, with Jimmy for being so needy. A cold washcloth felt soothing on her skin, but did nothing to cool the raging inside of her, and she changed into her pajamas slowly, hoping her brother would have fallen asleep by the time she returned.

But Jimmy was sitting up, waiting for her. After she had switched off the light and crawled in beside him, he snuggled up and whispered, "Babs, sing the bedtime song."

Babs swallowed hard and whispered back, "Why don't you sing it to me tonight?"

"But I don't know all the words."

"Sure you do. You've probably sung it a thousand times. I'll help you if you get stuck."

"Ok." Jimmy took a deep breath and began in a thin, little boy falsetto, "Sleep, my child and peace attend thee, all through the night."

"Go on," Babs urged when he stopped.

"I don't remember what comes next."

"Guardian angels," she prompted.

"Oh yeah. Guardian angels God will lend thee, all through the night. Soft the drowsy hours are creeping, hill and vale in slumber steeping. I my loving vigil keeping, all through the night."

Babs sighed in relief and closed her eyes. "Ok, now go to sleep." She closed her eyes and took long, even breaths, hoping Jimmy would do the same.

"Babs?"

"What?" she muttered.

"What's a vigil?"

"It's when you stay awake to watch for something."

"Like what?"

"Like danger. Go to sleep, Jimmy."

Thankfully, he subsided, burying his face in his dinosaur and cuddling up against her. Babs watched him sleep, both envying his apparent peace and wishing she could help him keep it forever. I my loving vigil keeping... The trouble, thought Babs as weariness began to pull her eyelids down, was that not enough people kept vigil. If the driver who killed mom had paid more attention to the light...if mom had looked to make sure the intersection was clear...if dad had noticed how bad things were getting at home...

Jimmy sighed softly in his sleep, and Babs felt her anger with him melt away. He was so helpless. Someone has to keep vigil over Jimmy. It may as well be me.

She snuggled her chin against her brother's soft hair, and gave in to her tiredness. Sleep hadn't come easily the last few nights. As she drifted off, the edge of a voice tickled her memory.

What if we organized and trained and watched for opportunities?...I'm offering you a path...a way out...

"You can let me move in, or you can fight me for custody."

James Gordon stared at his mother-in-law in disbelief. Doesn't she have the decency to wait until the day after the funeral? "Jane, these are my children."

"And my daughter was divorcing you for absenteeism. I've made up my mind, James. All that's left is for you to make up yours."

Having never gotten along well with his mother-in-law, who thought that police work was the wrong profession for her only daughter's husband, he should have expected something like this, but her cold determination was staggering. He knew from bitter experience that when she decided something, she was typically as immovable as the Rocky Mountains, but in this case, he was convinced the emotions of the afternoon had colored her judgment. Surely even she would see reason after she'd had a few days to calm down.

Biting back his acid anger at the unveiled move to control of his children, Gordon snatched his keys off the tabletop. "I'm going out for awhile. If that's all right."

"Quite all right. I'll leave the porch light on for you."

"Thank you," he gritted, and headed for his car. It was probably not a good idea to leave right now – it would look to Jane as though he were already deserting the kids – but it was either this, or launch into a fight that would make the ones he'd had with Barbara sound like cheerful banter.

The car had a full tank and he headed for the freeway, wanting long straight stretches and no traffic while he calmed down. His headlights sliced through deep shadows, and the tension between his shoulder blades began to ease. But as the anger died away, and the image he had seen day and night since the accident crept into its place. The memory of Barbara's broken and blood soaked body haunted him with guilt. If he hadn't been such a rotten husband, she never would have been in that intersection. She would still be alive and with her kids, where she belonged.

Maybe Jane is right. Maybe I'm not fit to handle the kids on my own. Maybe I'm not fit to handle them at all. His hands clenched on the wheel, and he abruptly swerved across two lanes of traffic onto an exit ramp. Even though his duties no longer called him to patrol, he still knew most of Gotham, especially the seedy parts, like the back of his hand, and he threaded his way through the narrow downtown streets until he was near the docks. Leaving his car in the filthy parking lot of a battered strip mall, he headed for the only business that was still open. When he came out of the liquor store, fourteen ounces of Jack Daniel's in hand, he ignored his car and turned his steps toward the harbor.

He found a spot beneath a broken streetlight and leaned against the shaky railing. The rain had finally stopped and the city lights reflected off the overcast sky, creating a red haze. Below him, the water shimmered darkly, mesmerizing.

Gordon opened his bottle and gulped, then shuddered and coughed as liquid fire burned down his throat. He wasn't a hard drinking man, unless you counted caffeine, but he was desperate for something to drive out that image of dead Barbara. Dead, dead, dead. Another swallow and a comforting warmth began to spread in his stomach. But as he lifted the bottle for third time, a picture flashed across his brain of himself staggering home drunk, or worse yet, not making it home at all. Jane would have packed up the kids and gone before he even hauled his hungover ass into the driveway. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he stretched out his arm and dropped the bottle into the harbor. It hit with a small splash, but it was too dark to see the ripples as the water swallowed his liquid comfort.

Gordon folded both arms on top of the rail and closed his eyes. Below him, the water swished rhythmically. Behind him, he could hear the ceaseless mechanical roar of the city, occasionally punctuated by bangs and snatches of music. Despite the days of rain, the harbor still sank, and he breathed in slowly, his nostrils flaring at the blend of sweet rot and acrid exhaust. Here, he thought, was the essence of Gotham. In this spot, misery became a thing of tangible sensuality. Gordon bent his head and felt the weight of a city smothering in its own filth and malfeasance, and for the first time, he felt a part of it. This then, was what he had been pouring out his life to save, this mass of shuddering despair, where you could drive twenty minutes in any direction and find a place that showed no reflection of the fact that there was a James Gordon. Or a Batman. This place didn't need to be saved. It needed to be put out of its torment.

"Chief?"

The voice sounded far distant, but when Gordon opened his eyes and turned his head, he found Detective Sarah Essen standing right next to him.

"Chief, are you … that is, can I help you with anything?" Her voice was uncertain and her face was worried.

Gordon turned his gaze back to the harbor. "Thank you, no. I'm just enjoying the delightful view."

His sarcasm didn't drive her away. Rather, she shuffled a little closer. "Chief, he's watching you," she whispered.

"Who?" Gordon asked disinterestedly, still staring at the water.

"The Batman." Essen turned her head slightly and lifted her eyes to the roofs of the buildings behind them.

Moving slowly, Gordon turned and deliberately lifted his face, openly scanning the rooftops.

"He's gone now," Essen breathed.

"He was probably making sure I wasn't going to jump," Gordon said, deep bitterness in his voice. "He hasn't squeezed me for everything I'm worth yet. Damn him."

Essen looked startled and a little frightened. Gordon shoved his hands in his pockets and blew out a long breath. "I'll walk you back to your car," he half told, half ordered her. "The docks aren't a good place to be alone." A roll of thunder seemed to emphasize his words, and the rain began sprinkling down again.

"I know," she said evenly. "I'll drive you back to your car."

Her reply irritated him, and he was about to give her a cutting refusal, when the worry in her face suddenly registered. He realized that she cared. She barely knew him, but for whatever reason, she stood here in midst of Gothams' squalor caring about whether or not he would get mugged on the way back to his car. And somehow, that small illogical fact was more warming than the whiskey.

Gordon nodded in acquiescence. "Thanks."

Niko followed Hector off the bus, through the rain into their apartment building. "You think it's ever gonna stop raining?" he asked as they trudged up the stairs.

"It better. We got a big soccer game planned for Saturday," Hector answered, pulling out his key and fitting it into the lock. "Those guys from forty-second street are coming over." He opened the door.

"Hector and Niko, thank heaven." Athena flew toward her sons. "We are taking Ari to emergency."

The eyes of both boys flew to the tall, silent figure of their father, who stood in the middle of the kitchen, cradling his carefully bundled daughter.

"You have to pick Demetrios up from Mrs. Simonson on Stavely Street. You know where it is?"

"Yeah, mom." Hector held open the door. "We'll get him, just go."

She fumbled in her pocket and produced a bill. "Here. Have a pizza for supper, but don't spend the change!"

"We won't," Hector replied, taking the money and automatically shoving it in his pocket, his eyes still on his sister. "Is she bad?"

"If she wasn't would we take her to emergency?" Athena snapped. "Kostos, come."

After they were gone, Niko dug the toe of his sneaker against a crack in the linoleum. "Shit," he said distinctly.

"She always gets sick when it rains so much," Hector reminded him.

"Yeah, but she hasn't been in the hospital since…" Niko frowned, trying to remember. "Christmas before last? Except for the knife thing."

"She'll be ok," Hector promised, sounding less sure than he had intended. "I gotta go get Demetrios. You want to pick up the pizza?"

"Sure."

Hector pulled Athena's twenty out of his pocket. "Bring back all the change or mama will skin you."

"I will, I'm not stupid."

They went down the stairs together, but Niko paused at the bottom to fix his shoelace that had come untied. As he bowed the ends, screaming erupted from the Martinez's first floor apartment.

"Siempre me pides dinero! I gave you money last week!"

"You think I can feed cinco niños con veinte dólares para siempre?"

"Quizás que comprases con mas cuidado, you wouldn't have this problem."

"Quizas que no bebas tanta cerveza, no sea necesario to starve your children!"

The last statement was followed by a sharp crack and a cry. The door of the apartment flew open and Mr. Martinez stormed out of the building, leaving a reek of alcohol fumes behind him. Niko shrank back against the wall until he was sure the man was gone. Mr. Martinez scared him. Whenever he was home, which wasn't too often, someone was always screaming, and usually someone was getting hit. Sometimes Pedro, Hector's best friend, would come up the fire escape and sleep on the floor of their bedroom.

Wailing drifted from inside the apartment, and Niko hurried out into the rain, gratefully gulping the wet air. There were enough overhangs along the way that he could keep out of the worst of the rain, but he was still thoroughly damp by the time he arrived at the pizza parlor. He ordered a medium supreme, and while he was waiting near the counter, a man stormed in, carrying a drenched pizza box.

"There's a hair on this pizza!" he yelled, slamming the box down on the counter. "This place is so disgusting – I don't know why I come here."

"I'm sorry, I'm very sorry," the cashier apologized, pushing the box to the side. "We'll give you a refund, of course."

"And a free pizza, that's your policy," the man reminded her.

"Certainly, sir, do you have your receipt?"

The cashier hastily completed the transaction, while the customer made snide comments about dirty little restaurants and the dirty little people who ran them.

A cook in an apron came out holding a pizza box. "One medium supreme."

"I'll take that," the man snapped, reaching for the box.

The cashier held on to it. "I'm sorry, sir, but this pizza belongs to another customer." She nodded toward Niko.

The furious man leaned across the counter so that his face was only inches away from hers. "First you contaminate my order, and now you make me wait for some little street punk?"

The cashier shrank back, looking frightened. "Sir, please just be patient…"

"Give me that pizza you little tramp, before I call your manager!"

"He can have it," Niko said hastily. "I can wait."

The man jerked the box out of her hands and stomped back out into the rain. The cashier let out a shaky breath and leaned against the counter. "Thanks," she said gratefully.

Niko shrugged casually. "No problem." He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, pretending not to notice that she was very pretty.

"That guy comes in here about once a month, always with the same complaint." She lifted up the box lid, shaking her head. "Look at that – he didn't even lift out a slice. There's nothing wrong with this pizza. He's just cheap."

Niko looked into the box and nodded in agreement. "What will you do with it?"

"Throw it away. We can't sell a returned pizza."

An idea sparked in the back of Niko's mind. "Can I have it?" he asked, even before his thoughts had full formed.

The girl glanced around, then nodded. "Sure, but don't tell anyone I gave it to you."

"You got it. Thanks!"

"Hey, thank you for getting rid of the jerk." She winked at him and Niko felt his face go hot. The cashier pulled a large bag out from beneath the counter and put the pizza in it, just as the cook reappeared.

"Medium supreme," he announced.

The girl placed it with the other one and handed over the bag. "Have a good night."

On the way home, his idea added flesh to its bones, and he stopped by Sims for a gallon of milk. Back in the apartment, he was relieved to find his brothers had not yet returned. Hurrying to his room, Niko pulled out his personal cash box, and, with a small grimace, counted out enough money to pay for the milk. Then he flipped open one of his school notebooks and hesitated, pen in hand, thinking. At last he printed in large capital letters, "Have a good night, Mrs. Martinez. A Friend." 'A Friend' was how they always signed anonymous letters in the movies. Niko stared at the note for another moment, and then, before he could change his mind, hastily added "of the Batman." There, that better make Ari happy.

Feeling nervous and, for some inexplicable reason, guilty, Niko put the pizza he had bought along with the change on the kitchen table. Then, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt, he crept down the stairs and placed the free pizza, the milk, and the note in front of the Martinez's door. Getting ready to run, he banged his fist on the door and darted back up the stairs, crouching on the second landing so that he could peer down the stairwell.

The door of the first floor apartment. "Sí? Hello?" a woman's voice asked and then gasped. Niko waited, tensed all over and unconsciously holding his breath. "Thank you!" she suddenly called. "Diós te bendiga." The door slammed shut, and Niko raced for his apartment.

Dick was supposed to be working on his biology assignment, but he had been staring at the same microscope slide for over ten minutes. A vague discontent was undermining his focus, and as much as he hated to admit it, it had to do with Batman. Bruce had put him in charge of keeping tabs on the bug in McGinty's mistress' apartment, but every time he went down to check on the recording, he had been troubled by uneasiness. He couldn't recapture his first sense of contentment in just "doing something," and even though he wasn't ready to acknowledge it, a kind of picture had been forming in his mind.

At last finishing with the slides, Dick cleaned up his equipment and went to find Alex. The tutor was sitting with Alfred in the small kitchen, having lunch and watching the news. Dick pulled a stool up to the counter where a sandwich was waiting for him, and began to eat quietly. He paid little attention to the news until a particular name caught his ear.

...and Councilman Jarvis McGinty began his campaign for reelection today with a speech at a groundbreaking ceremony for a new community garden, the anchorwoman announced. The screen flashed to pictures of McGinty digging a pickaxe into a stretch of concrete and then standing behind a podium.

Fellow citizens of Gotham, today we have witnessed the start of something good: A garden where the people of this neighborhood can come to sink their fingers into clean earth and appreciate the miracle of growth. This fall, a construction crew will remove the concrete and put down topsoil. In the spring, it will become a place where we can bring our children to teach them the importance of ecology and community. Five years ago, this project would not have been possible. Five years ago, the people in this neighborhood would have been afraid to let their children come to such a public place because the crime rate in this district was so high. But that is no longer the case, thanks in large part to the efforts of Chief of Police James Gordon. I have, and will as long as I hold this office, support the work of Chief Gordon to make our city safe, no matter how unorthodox his methods may be.

"Smart man," Alex commented as the news program moved on to the next topic.

"Why?" Dick demanded, transferring his frowning gaze from the television to his tutor.

"McGinty's making Batman a part of his platform. That's what he meant by 'unorthodox methods.' He represents a fairly poor district, and Batman has a lot of support with the working class."

"So if he says he supports Batman, these people will vote for him?"

"That's the idea. It's pretty ironic, actually."

"Why?"

"McGinty has every reason to support the Batman. He's a businessman, and since the crime rate started dropping, the city economy has been going up. But the benefits of this are going to the middle and upper classes."

"But isn't the city being made safer for everyone?"

"That seems true, although considering how fast and loose he plays with the law, some people would probably argue against it. But I'm talking economically. The kinds of criminals Batman, and the police, have been going after are the ugly members of the underworld – drug dealers, brothel owners, that kind of thing. But what's really causing Gotham's so-called depression is unfair labor practices and corrupt bureaucracy, and that our new forces of justice have done very little about. Maybe they can't."

Dick jammed his index finger through the corner of his sandwich, then pushed away from the counter. "Excuse me," he muttered, striding out of the room.

He found Bruce in the study, stretched out on the leather sofa with a sandwich in one hand and the phone in the other. "Yeah, I'm really looking forward to Friday night too," he was saying as Dick entered the study without knocking and slammed the door shut behind him.

"I have to talk to you."

Bruce took one look at his ward's angry face and sat up. "Listen, Tinka, I've got to go. I'll see you on Friday." He hung up and looked at Dick questioningly.

"Jarvis McGinty is using Batman as part of his campaign platform."

Bruce nodded slowly. "That's not … unexpected."

Dick folded his arms across his chest. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing!" Dick exploded. "This man is a criminal, he's probably abusing his position of power, he's going to use you to get reelected, and you're not going to do anything about it?"

"What would you suggest that I do?"

"Have the police release a statement that you don't support his campaign."

Bruce shook his head. "Whatever I might prefer to do, the Batman does not make statements and he does not get involved in politics. It's one of the reasons he can still do his job."

"What do you mean what you prefer to do. Bruce, you are him!"

Bruce flinched. "I play him."

Dick ignored the contradiction. "It's like Mr. Peaceable said, isn't it?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Peaceable?"

"You don't really help the people who need it, and you don't respect the law. That's what you've been trying to show me all along, isn't it?" Dick paused as the pieces of the past few weeks clicked into a pattern. "Those people we saw – the drug addicts and the prostitutes and the people who steal because they can't make enough at a real job – what you do doesn't help them. Even that guy we pulled out of the wreck – he was the one who caused it, not the victim! And how can you even say you're fighting for justice when you break the law all the time! How can there even be justice if there isn't a law that treats everyone the same, including you!" Dick was starting to cry, and his voice cracked helplessly. "You tried to show me, and guess what? You showed me! I get it. Batman's not a hero. He's just someone who fights to get what he wants, exactly like everybody else." Without waiting for an answer, Dick spun and ran out of the room.

Bruce sat frozen on the sofa, staring at the study door which had slammed back against the wall. This was what he had been working for ever since Dick had announced that he wanted to become like Batman.

This is what I want. Why do I feel like I just lost something?

He got up and strode over to the window, arguing with himself. Of course it was bound to be a painful experience for both of them. Dick had to be disillusioned, and he himself had to give up the idealized status he had held in the boy's eyes. But still, the depth of the disillusionment lurking beneath Dick's anger had been staggering, and he couldn't shake the feeling that in destroying his ward's faith in Batman he had destroyed something else.

It can't end like this.

The thought was a conviction. Bruce raced from the room and down the stairs, nearly running into Alex Peaceable at the bottom. "Have you seen Dick?" he demanded.

Peaceable eyed him coldly. "He just ran past here, in tears."

Bruce started off without waiting to hear more, but the tutor called after him, "What did you do to him, Wayne?"

Bruce stopped, then turned and walked back. "What did you say?"

The shorter man stared up fearlessly. "You heard me. We both know he doesn't upset easily, so what did you do to him?"

Bruce's tenuous emotional control snapped. He stepped closer, his eyes black with fury, and snarled, "Get out of my house."

Peaceable held his ground, but his eyes widened. "I…"

Bruce interrupted him, his voice soft but deadly. "Get out." Without another word, he strode down the hallway, forgetting Peaceable as soon as he was out of sight.

"Alfred!" he called desperately, bursting into the kitchen.

His butler looked over. "It's happened then, has it?"

"What have I done, Alfred?"

"What you thought was right."

"Well, I was wrong. The whole time, I was wrong!" Bruce took a deep breath and forced himself to remain controlled. "Where would he go?"

"The cemetery."

Relief washed over Bruce's face. "Of course." He started to leave, hesitated. "I should go after him, shouldn't I?" he asked, his voice broken by uncertainty.

Alfred gave a very small smile. "I always went after you, sir."

"So you did." For moment, an answering smile flicked at the corners of Bruce's mouth, and then he was gone.

To Be Continued

A/N Man, I almost made myself cry again with this chapter. Only almost though ;)

Just one chapter left! I'm going to try to have it up soon, because I'll be doing some traveling in the near future, and I'd love to have this story done before I go.

Several reviewers have mentioned that they weren't familiar with the novel Alex assigned. It's titled The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, and it's really a classic as far as adolescent novels go. It's about being an American teenager in the sixties and focuses on the feud between greasers (poor kids) and Socs (rich kids). It's short, easy to read, and I HIGHLY recommend it! Check it out!