Author's Note: Story set just after Dick's arrival at Wayne Manor. In this narrative, the twelve-year-old is as yet unaware of Bruce's secret identity but starting to wonder if he made a mistake coming to live with the invisible man. Bruce's POV. Not particularly happy with it, but felt like putting something on the end of Up High.

Enjoy.

Moon

I am growing annoyed. Zucco is still underground, still hiding well enough to elude my efforts. I am running out of lowlifes to squeeze and press for information or any useable intelligence. Now Edward Skeevers has fled into the dark corners of this city. I need to find him if I want to get at Zucco. I need to find him…but I can't. This is unacceptable. Unacceptable. Dejected by my failures, I return to the cave shortly after midnight. The moon hangs bloated in the sky as I drive home. Its light seems to illuminate everything but my objective. During the course of the evening, I intercepted eighteen separate crimes across three boroughs. Thirty-one suspects were subdued and apprehended. Nineteen of those were repeat offenders. Parole violations guarantee longer sentences in Blackgate. I take no pleasure in any of these accolades. I judge success by getting my hands on Zucco. In that regard, this night can only be considered abysmal.

In the cave, turnaround of equipment and ancillaries is hampered slightly; the blood on my gloves and gauntlets is proving difficult to wash clean. After ten minutes of scrubbing, it is finally gone. I replace my equipment, shower in the cave and change into my dressing gown and slippers. I should not continue trying to find Zucco or Skeevers tonight. Such work requires a clear and focused mindset, a trait I severely lack in my present state. As such, I begrudgingly begin scaling the stairs to the library. Despite the full moon, the house is dark as I cross the parlour. Alfred has evidently closed all curtains. The old man is adamant strong moonlight damages the furnishings, a notion that is as absurd as it is superstitious. Still, we both have our habits. I will not draw attention to his, if he agrees to not draw attention to…

There is a thin sliver of moonlight emanating from underneath the door to the kitchen. I frown at the error. It seems Alfred is growing forgetful in his advancing years. I decide to do him a courtesy and close the kitchen curtains. I open the door and am confronted with an unusual sight. The curtains that cover the lattice windows over the sink are fully open, flooding the room with ethereal blue light. The boy is sat, or rather slumped, at the breakfast bar, his head resting in folded arms on the table top. I do believe he is asleep. In current conditions, the scene is unsettlingly reminiscent of several crime scenes I have seen in the past. I flick the light switch to shun this dynamic. The boy still does not react. I could not be sure earlier, but now I can clearly see he is attired in nothing but his boxer shorts, despite the cold weather. I cautiously approach the bar.

I lean in close and hear the unmistakable sound of soft snoring. There is a mug close to his left elbow, still half-full of a white liquid. I sniff and identify milk. Touching the outside of the mug reveals it to be lukewarm in temperature. Warm milk. Warm milk to help him sleep. It is an old trick, but evidently effective. I take a seat to his right and gently stroke the back of his head.

"Dick?"

He stirs slightly, but does not wake. I feel uncomfortable touching him anywhere else given his current state of undress, but move my hand from his head to his shoulder and shake it softly. This provokes a response of him flaring his elbows out. Before I can react, the mug has been knocked off the table. The resulting smash of ceramic on tile jars him to life as he suddenly jerks to a sitting position with bleary-eyed bewilderment.

"What's…what's going on?" He asks in a barely coherent voice whilst looking around the room. When his blue eyes find mine, he frowns. "Am I dreaming?" My hand is still on his shoulder, but he does not seem aware of its presence. I shake my head.

"No, Dick. You were asleep though." He blinks myopically at me, as if trying to place my features. His frown intensifies.

"You look like Bruce, Alfie." He says to surprise me. I was under the impression the old man and I look nothing alike. I offer him a smile.

"Why do you think that might be?"

He seems to consider the question for a moment before half-lidded eyes open fully. He smiles sheepishly at me. "Because you are Bruce." He corrects himself. I nod whilst rubbing his shoulder.

"And you are asleep in the kitchen when you should be in bed. Where are your pyjamas?" I ask. His smile fades, replaced rather abruptly by melancholy. He looks away and shrugs.

"Laundry basket."

"And why are they there, Dick?"

"They're all wet." He jerks his head back to me, "Not because I wet myself or anything. I stopped doing that when I was six." He adds defensively, as if that would be my first thought on the matter.

"I didn't think that about you. How did they come to be wet?"

"You know, if you just want Alfie to deal with this, it can wait until morning. I know you're a busy man…" He says seeming to believe I have other concerns at a little over twelve a.m. I squeeze his shoulder.

"I am not going to leave you alone down here. Please tell me what's wrong." His expression still suggests he is sceptical of reaching out. His jaw clenches as words almost pass his lips.

"Promise you won't get mad?"

"I promise. So?"

"Ever since they…you know, died, I've been having these really bad dreams. And…most of the time, they're so bad they wake me up in a panic. And, when I wake up, I'm always really sweaty. It's like I've been swimming in my PJs." Nightmares about his parents' deaths. I should have guessed that immediately. I must be exceptionally tired this evening. I suffered the same effects for years after my own parents' murder. It is another reason I must find Zucco sooner rather than later. At the moment, the boy believes it was an accident. I feel that, if he has someone to blame, someone held accountable for their deaths, it will be better for him. Perhaps he will suffer less.

"And, have you told Alfred about these bad dreams?" I inquire. He shakes his head.

"Nope. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm a closet bedwetter or something. I sweat so much some nights that I leave patches on the sheets."

"I am certain he can tell the difference between the two phenomena. Does the warm milk help?"

"Not really. I like the smell though, reminds me of my mom. She used to give me it on nights when I couldn't sleep too. Sometimes, I'd fall asleep right there in her arms…" He pauses and frowns. I think he has just realised the absence of his drink. "Where's…"

"It was the noise that woke you up." I say indicating the floor on his right. He looks down, horrified at what I imagine is a sizeable mess.

"Oh God, I broke it? I'm sorry. I'll…I'll pay for it." He says frantically. I find it slightly amusing that a twelve-year-old boy is offering to recompense a billionaire for a piece of ceramic, the cost of which likely totals less than six dollars. The very idea is absurd. I move my hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck.

"It was an accident, Dick." I assure him kneading the flesh on his nape carefully, "You are not paying for a mug. We're not exactly short of them in this house." He gifts me a nervous smile.

"I just…don't want to trouble you guys too much. This place isn't exactly kid-friendly. Today it's a mug, tomorrow, maybe a vase?"

"I doubt that will ever happen."

"How come?"

"I don't have any vases to break." My attempt at humour is met with an appreciative smirk.

"I just mean…I'm really grateful to be here, instead of in a children's home. I don't want you to change your mind about being my guardian." He explains. He seems convinced his continued presence in this house is based on merit. The boy appears to think that, if he behaves himself by not complaining or instigating issues, that we will somehow regard him more favourably. I regret nothing in bringing him here.

"Why do you think I would?"

"I never see you. I thought after the gym, things would be better, but they aren't. I still never see you. I keep thinking it's because you don't like me, like I'm annoying or something." He tells me with an honesty I am seldom met with from anyone but Alfred these days. His comments are a sobering indictment of broken promises. I have not been the most attentive of guardians over the past few weeks. I should be thankful he does not have a worse opinion of me. I am keen to set the record straight.

"You are not annoying." I respond, appraising the condition of his skin. It is clammy to the touch.

"You must be quite cold at the moment." I say. He offers up another sheepish smile and nods.

"I'm freezing my butt off here."

"I'd offer you my dressing gown, but…"

"Then you'd be the one sat here in your underwear, I get it. Thanks anyway." He says before inspiration seems to strike him. He now appraises me, a curious expression on his face that I cannot read. "I got an idea. But it's all on you." I am slightly uncomfortable being in the dark, ironic as that may sound, but acquiesce.

"I am willing to help in whatever way I can." I tell him. He smiles mischievously.

"That's all the permission I need." He proceeds to hop the short distance between us and crashes down into my lap, the suddenness of which catches me off guard. I stiffen as the kinetic force of the action travels through my legs, but soon relax. Even with his added muscle mass, the boy's weight is negligible. I routinely shoulder-press dumbbells heavier than him for my warm-up set. "Okay, now we move this here…" He says taking one of my arms across the front of his body, "and the other one over here like this." He crosses my other arm over his body in the opposite direction so they sit atop of one another. "Human cocoon!" He exclaims with a giggle whilst shifting himself further into my chest and pulling my arms tighter. "That's awesome. You know my dad had to stop doing this when I turned eleven? He said I was too big and heavy for him. I knew you could take it though. I mean, one of your arms is like half the size of my whole body." He says, suddenly very lively and talkative. I am glad he is happy in my company.

"I am glad you find my girth so amusing."

"You're not fat. I mean look at this thing…" He says putting a hand on either side of my right bicep and squeezing it through the dressing gown, "That's just crazy. It's like the same size as my whole waist."

"I am certain that is an exaggeration. Do you think you are ready for a return to bed yet?"

"Not yet. This is nice for me." He says resting his head back against my body, "You're comfy to sit on. Ever consider a full-time career as a chair?"

"No. I feel…somewhat overqualified for the position."

"Pretty sure my parents felt the same way. They still moonlit as one for like ten years with me though. My mom had a comfy lap too. How about your parents?" I struggle to remember the sensation of sitting in my mother's lap as a young child. I know I do so, but how that actually felt have been lost to time. I believe I only sat in my father's lap a handful of times. He found the practice awkward I think.

"I'm afraid I can't grade their comfort level. It was a long time ago now."

"How about Alfie? Ever park your butt in his lap?" Before my parents' deaths, I used to frequent the old man's lap many times in a week. He enjoyed telling me stories and bouncing me on his knee. After the funeral…I made the conscious decision to never sit in his lap ever again. It felt too much like indulgence. I was not much of a child from the age of eight onwards. I loathed admitting weakness, even to Alfred. Looking back, I am certain it was a mistake to isolate myself so much. At least Dick is willing to open up to other people.

"Once or twice. At the time, he did not seem to mind."

"Ever had a kid sit in your lap before? You know, since you became a grown-up?" He asks unusual questions. I find them quite refreshing. I shrug.

"Only for publicity photos. I support a lot of children's homes in Gotham. Although, I do remember they were much younger than you."

"Is it not cute? Think I'm too old for this?" He asks without much indication he believes he is too old. I am inclined to agree with him. While I would not insult him by naming his actions 'cute', they are most definitely endearing. I am diplomatic in my response.

"I think you are entitled to some concessions given what you've been through. I don't mind the practice."

"You do like me, right, Bruce?"

"Of course, I do. You're a wonderful boy." I admit freely.

"Then why don't you spend more time with me?" This proves more difficult to answer. My primary reason for not devoting enough personal time to him stems from my intense investigations on Skeevers and Zucco. This is not an open secret and so my explanation falls flat as a result.

"I…forget sometimes, that I have you to care for. I promise I will make a bigger effort in future."

"Look, Alfie's great. I love Alfie and everything he does for me. But…he didn't persuade me to take a chance here at the funeral, you did. And…I don't give a crap about your money. Couldn't care less if you worked as a janitor and lived in a shack, just as long as you paid attention to me. My dad always said that money isn't a substitute for affection. So, if you're really promising you'll be better tomorrow, you have to mean it. Kids hate it if grown-ups lie to them." He says pointedly. I understand the message and its thinly veiled ultimatum. He is a good boy who deserves better than to barely glimpse me twice in a week.

"Let's re-join this discussion tomorrow. I think it's time we both went to bed." I say parting my arms and gently pushing him off my lap. He takes the hint and stands up. I join him and, after remembering to close the curtains, we begin to walk towards the parlour.

"How come you were up anyway?" He asks as I turn off the light to saturate the room in darkness. I consider how best to cover my sudden appearance.

"A phone conference with a client in Beijing. They were very particular concerning the time of the meeting." I say as we scale the master staircase. "And who at the company they spoke to."

"Are you just going to leave that mess for Alfie?" The boy asks as we reach the summit and turn towards his bedroom.

"No. I will go and clean it up myself, once you are settled." I assure him. Dick audibly scoffs at this.

"You're the weirdest celebrity I've ever met."

"How is that?"

"You're kind of, human."

Once he is in bed, I move to close his curtains and block out the still intense moonlight shining through. He says he wants them left open. When I ask him why, he says it reminds him of travelling with his parents in sleeper cars. I leave them be. When I sit on the edge of the bed, the boy is gazing out the window at the full moon hanging in the sky. It seems less bloated and more majestic in appearance now, though I am convinced it has not changed remotely in the past hour.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" Dick says. I nod slowly.

"Yes. I suppose so."