A/N Happy Halloween! And bunches of bat shaped balloons to all of you who left reviews and sent me such encouraging notes! Suffice it to say that if it hadn't been for them, you might still not have this chapter. Thank you!

By the way, because the timeline is skipping around a little here, I just wanted to remind everyone that the last chapter ended on Sunday morning.

Disclaimer See Chapter 1.

Chapter 15

My trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary, as great
As my trust was ...

- The Tempest

It was Saturday morning, and Rick was having a good dream. In it, he sat alone at the controls of the new plane, with an empty sky and no place in particular to go. His engines were all but silent as he banked to the left and then the right. He swooped down over Wayne Manor until the belly of the plane brushed one of the tall pines lining the drive and then he shot up, straight up through the clear blue sky in perfect silence until he could see the black of space through the thinning atmosphere. The machine was still effortless, driving up so smoothly it was though it were being pulled into space. The last wisps of cloud tore past and he was almost there … three … two … one …

Rick opened his eyes and grinned up at the ceiling of his bedroom. The dream was almost as good as the real thing had been last night. The plane was so tiny, so silent, and so phenomenally fast that it was better than having your own set of wings. And Yeager … the man might look like Raggedy Andy in a bomber jacket, but when he folded his floppy body into the pilot's seat and wrapped his hands around the controls, you couldn't imagine him being anywhere else. And the way he flew … After the first hour, Bruce, with Fox's help, had talked his way onto the copilot controls. And it wasn't that he did badly; the actual controls were simplicity itself, and Bruce caught on to the machine's particular nuances right away, even with Yeager hovering over his shoulder and muttering, "Lighter, lighter." Rick squinted at the ceiling in concentration, trying to articulate to himself the difference between the way the two men had handled the plane. Bruce's flying was very efficient. He gave the plane a command, and it obeyed him instantly and forcefully. But when Yeager had the controls it was more like he waited for the plane to suggest their next move, and only then did he add his own ingenuity. It was almost like dancing.

Rick rolled over and looked at his clock, which read 10 a.m. He yawned, trying to remember what homework he had to get done today, and then he remembered. Barbara Gordon was coming over. Suddenly filled with nervous energy, he bounded out of bed and threw on jeans and a t-shirt, ran into the bathroom to comb his hair, ran back out to switch to a button-down shirt, darted back into the bathroom to fix his hair again, and finally headed for the stairs and breakfast. Fifteen seconds later he burst back into his room, changed into a different t-shirt, and took his comb with him.

Alfred was sitting in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea. Rick sat down across from him and tried to eat breakfast slowly, reminding himself that two o'clock was still several hours away. Finished eating, he stood up and then, as though the thought had just occurred to him said, "Hey, when Barbara gets here, will you just show her upstairs? You don't have to stick her in the library and announce her or anything."

"Yes, Master Richard," agreed Alfred, not hiding his amusement.

"I just don't want her to think we're weird snobs or anything," Rick said defensively.

"I quite understand. I assume you will work in the schoolroom?"

"Yeah. Well, I'm going to start on my homework." Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Rick wandered away, elaborately casual.

He succeeded in accomplishing almost nothing at all on his homework, spending most of his time wandering aimlessly around the second floor. He found himself looking at things with new eyes, trying to imagine how they would seem to Barbara, and suddenly realized that this was the first time he could remember having a friend anywhere near his own age come to the Manor. If he hung out with other teens, it was at the country club, or a party, or some downtown hotspot. Not that there was any rule against bringing friends home, but there was no one he'd ever particularly wanted to invite. He thought suddenly of Niko Pappas, wondering what his reaction would be if he knew Rick lived in a house bigger than his entire apartment building. Angry, probably, at being misled.

He thought again of Barbara and then, irritated with himself, went down to the caves to pull up Ms. Simpkins' file. All of the faculty had extensive dossiers, and he'd been reading through them as quickly as he could, but, in true Bailey fashion, in alphabetical order. Now he skipped down the alphabet and opened the math teacher's file. Her credentials seemed ordinary, and she had accumulated several commendations for excellence earlier in her career. She had also, he noticed with some surprise, been teaching the advanced upperclassmen courses, until this year, when she had switched, or been switched, to mathematical elementals.

Curious, he searched through the file until he found a series of memos dated late last spring, documenting parent complaints against Ms. Simpkins. All of the complaints came from the same source, a Mr. Sterling Wren, and were regarding the teacher's alleged unfair treatment of his son, Trevor.

Rick leaned forward with new interest. Apparently, The Tren had been failing pre-calc until his father called the principal with the complaint that Ms. Simpkins harassed his son in class, making fun of him, and refusing him the help he needed to understand the material. Ms. Simpkins had denied the allegations, but a month before the end of the semester, she had been removed from the class. On a sudden hunch, Rick pulled up the school's financial records and discovered a sizable donation from Sterling Wren, along with one from a Paul Wren, school trustee and Sterling's uncle. A final search showed that Trevor had miraculously pulled a B in pre-calc.

Well, what do you know about that? The Tren's daddy had to buy him a math grade. Not that the information was of any practical use, but he couldn't help gloating for a moment over the thought of almighty Trevor failing something as basic as pre-calc. He felt sorry for Ms. Simpkins, though, who had apparently been exiled to animal math over her refusal to raise his grade. His mind returned to the main problem, and he frowned thoughtfully at the screen. Her demotion was humiliating, and she may even have grounds for a lawsuit against the school, but he doubted it was enough to push her into a state of violent psychosis. Still, it was interesting.

Glancing at his watch, he realized in surprise that it was after two, and then Alfred's voice spoke over the intercom, "Master Richard, Miss Gordon is in the schoolroom."

Rick ran for the lift. In the study he paused in front of a mirror, pulled out his comb and started to run it through his hair, made an irritated face at his reflection, chucked the comb in a corner and darted out of the room and up the stairs.

In the hallway outside the schoolroom, he paused for a second to recollect his calm. She's just a girl, he reminded himself firmly. Just another silly girl. The schoolroom was empty, and his eyes swept it in confusion for a moment before lighting on the connecting door to the next room which stood open.

"What's all this?" Barbara asked when she saw him.

Rick followed her gaze around the nearly empty room, trying not to think about how good she managed to look in a pair of jeans and an old sweater. The only furnishings were a table and two chairs and walls covered with whiteboards. Alex was a great believer in whiteboards for laying out complicated proofs, and shortly after he'd begun tutoring he had converted the room into a dry erase marker's dream world.

Currently, the boards were covered in the theory Rick had been working on with Monica in Wayne Tower, not pieces of the actual equation of course, which was not in any form to leave the premises, but supporting methodologies he needed to be able to read the proof. At Barbara's question he felt suddenly awkward and wished he had erased the boards before her arrival. He shrugged and said, "Math stuff."

"I can see that," she returned a little sarcastically, "but what's it for?"

A question he was under no circumstances allowed to answer truthfully. He really should have erased those boards. He did the next best thing and shrugged again. "I don't know. It's Alex's stuff."

"Who is Alex?"

"My tutor."

Barbara laughed. "You have, like, an actual mathematician to tutor you for high school math?"

"So?" he asked, a little defensively.

She shook her head. "Nothing. It's just … not my world, I guess. Hey, does your butler actually call you Master Richard?"

Rick felt himself turning red. "It's what he does. He's, you know, British."

"Yeah, I kind of noticed the accent." Shaking her head again she came back into the main schoolroom, and Rick gratefully shut the door on the telltale whiteboards.

SSS

Jimmy cast a look over his shoulder at the door of the schoolroom and reluctantly followed the old man in the suit down the hallway. To his relief, they only traveled a few doors down before stepping into another room. "You may play with anything in here that you like," the old man said, switching on the lights, "and if you need anything at all, just push this button right here, and someone will come."

Jimmy, staring in awe at the room in front of him, barely heard. The carpet was dark blue, almost black, and covered with figures of planets and stars. Along the walls stood wide shelves, not too high, that looked like they might have been lifted right out of the boy's section of Toys'R'Us. But what he couldn't stop staring at was the room's centerpiece: a broad, spiraling shelf curved upward, like a modernist Christmas tree, and on it rested the entire Star Wars universe, reproduced in Legos. There was the Millennium Falcon, both Death Stars, Luke's X-wing, Anakin's podracer, and dozens of cruisers and smaller fighting ships, not to mention a legion of battle droids, speeders, and everywhere, Jedi knights dueling it out with Sith lords and imperial troops.

Jimmy walked around the display with his mouth open, repeatedly whispering, "Cool! Oh dude, this is so cool!" After five minutes, he could no longer keep his hands away from the shelves and started pulling off ships with a view to constructing an epic battle. An hour later, when Alfred appeared in the doorway bearing a tray of milk and cookies, he was greeted with the sound of laser fire and the voice of General Jimmy Gordon ordering the rebel ships to "Retreat, retreat, it's an ambush!"

Alfred stepped carefully over a small cluster of X-wings and deposited his burden on a low table. "I thought you might care for a little snack."

"Thanks," Jimmy said happily, recklessly abandoning his troops as he discovered he was starving. "What's your name?" he asked as soon as his mouth was full.

Alfred settled into a chair beside him. "My name is Alfred."

"Mine's Jimmy," Jimmy said, finishing his cookie and reaching for another one. "Do you live here?"

"Yes, I do. I live and work here."

Jimmy nodded, and by some process of association in his third-grade mind found it suitable to declare, "My dad's the police commissioner."

"And a fine man he is for the job, too," Alfred declared warmly.

Jimmy nodded but had to swallow before he could add, "He catches all the bad guys in Gotham. Batman helps him."

"That's a lot of work for the two of them to do."

"Sarah helps too," Jimmy informed him, polishing off his third cookie. "She's a detective. I like her, but Babs doesn't."

"I see," Alfred replied noncommittally as Jimmy drained his milk glass and sat back with a satisfied sigh. "If you're finished eating, I thought you might enjoy a nice swim in the pool."

Jimmy's eyes grew huge. "You have a pool?" Then his face fell. "I don't have my swimsuit."

"I'm certain there's an old one of Master Richard's you can borrow. Shall we go?"

"Yeah!" Jimmy ran for the door, but stopped when he tripped over a battle cruiser. "I guess I should clean up?" he asked, looking ruefully around at the aftermath of interplanetary conflict.

"I think we can leave it, just this once," Alfred replied, winking slyly.

Jimmy grinned and bolted out the door before he remembered that he didn't know where he was going.

SSS

Moving with slow precision, Barbara gathered the sheets of their report together and stapled them. In three hours of steady work, they had not only finished the project, but using the obviously expensive computer and printer in the schoolroom had created supplementary diagrams and designed a fancy cover sheet. They were going to get an A+, Barbara knew, but she wished it had taken them just a little longer to accomplish. Her dad had said he would call when the play was out, to see if she was available for dinner, and to be safe she needed to avoid going home for another hour.

She carefully put the finished report in her folder and looked up to find Rick watching her. He was, she realized, waiting to see what she would do next, and she thought quickly. That he found her attractive had been obvious from the first time she had met him, and she had been annoyed, although he wasn't as bad as some of the boys at Bailey who didn't even try to hide their stares. But now she thought she might be able to turn it to her advantage. Smothering the small voice of her conscience, she offered a friendly smile. "I can't believe we got so much done. It's not so bad, having a sophomore for a project partner."

A faint flush stained his fair cheeks, but he smiled back and said, "Can't let anything happen to your four point."

"I appreciate that. So …" She stood and looked at him inquisitively. "Now that the boring stuff is out of the way, can I get the tour?"

"Of the house? Sure. What do you want to see?"

You had to have an awfully big house, Barbara thought, to be able to give a selective tour. Out loud she said, "Oh you know, all the stuff normal people don't have in their residences."

Rick nodded decisively. "Right. Nothing normal, got it. If you'll follow me, we'll begin our tour of the wild and weird in Wayne Manor."

Barbara rolled her eyes, but went. Anything was better than sitting across a dinner table from her dad and his girlfriend.

They walked a short ways down the hall and stopped. "Now," said Rick, gesturing to something that rested on a low table in a rather dim corner, "here you see something that I guarantee you no other house in Gotham, in fact no other house in the whole world, can claim to own."

Barbara leaned forward and examined the very ugly bronze bust of a woman with a long, hooked nose and what seemed to be a bird's nest on top of her head. "Is that a … hat?"

"Nobody is sure. Alfred thinks it was meant to hold flowers. Personally, I think it was just a mistake. Unfortunately, it was one of the few things to survive the fire seven years ago. Rumor has it that when Alfred discovered it, he tried to bury it back in the rubble, but a salvage crew uncovered it again."

"If everyone thinks it's so ugly, why don't you just get rid of it?"

"Because, when you've kept something for a hundred and thirty years, you're not allowed to throw it away anymore. Besides, it's modeled on the head of one of Bruce's ancestors and it's got her ashes inside."

Barbara looked from the bust to Rick. "You're kidding."

"Well, that's what Bruce told me. I suppose we could always break it open and see." He smiled mischievously. "Ever wanted to be a grave robber?"

"Not really." Barbara edged away from the urn. "You know, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

Rick looked at her innocently. "Oh?"

"Yes. I was thinking more along the lines of … the swimming pool. Or Mr. Wayne's car collection."

His look was blank. "You don't have a pool at your house?" Barbara stared at him in disbelief, but before she could say anything his look of astonishment melted into a grin. "Kidding! I'm kidding. I guess I can show you the pool … if you're sure you wouldn't rather tour the family cemetery."

"Somehow, I think my life will go on."

They headed down to the ground floor, and when Rick pushed open the door to the pool room, Barbara couldn't help a small gasp of wonder. The sweet, rich aroma of Alfred's amateur greenhouse swirled around them, and light from the many lamps, necessary to keep the plants healthy during winter, was caught and refracted by the pool water, reflecting back in showers on the glossy leaves.

She stepped forward to smell the blossoms on a small, flowering tree, and the next moment was jumping back as a hard stream of water caught her cheek. "Oops, sorry Babs."

Barbara blinked away the water to find Jimmy smiling at her innocently, a large super soaker cradled in his arms. She shook her fist threateningly. "James Gordon Junior, you are in big trouble." Shrieking, he ran away from her and jumped into the pool.

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Gordon," and apologetic British accent spoke at her elbow, and she turned to find the butler offering her a towel. "I'm afraid he's been playing war games all afternoon."

"Thanks, and don't worry about it." She mopped her face with the towel and remembered to smile.

Alfred looked inquiringly at Rick. "Will Miss Gordon and Master Jimmy be staying for dinner, sir?"

Barbara managed not to snicker at the 'sir.' Rick shrugged casually. "I dunno. You want to stay for dinner?" he asked, turning to Barbara. "We're having …" He looked inquiringly at Alfred.

"Chicken Kiev and braised asparagus, with lemon meringue pie for dessert."

Barbara's enthusiasm was not entirely feigned as she answered, "Wow, that sounds amazing. Let me just call my grandmother and let her know."

Dinnner was ready (or 'dinner was served' Barbara supposed they said here) by the time Jimmy was coaxed out of the pool and dressed. Barbara had had involuntary visions of the three of them sitting alone at a massive table hundreds of feet long, lit by candlelight and weighted with silver and crystal. There may have been such a room in Wayne Manor, but the table they ate at was small and round, lit by electric light. And if the silverware felt suspiciously heavy, there wasn't a crystal goblet in sight. They were waited on by Alfred, which gave Barbara the uneasy feeling she ought to leave a tip beneath the edge of her plate, but everything else seemed perfectly normal.

The problem of dinner conversation was taken care of by Jimmy, who couldn't even wait to take a bite of his chicken before demanding of Rick, "Are all those Star Wars Legos yours?"

"Yeah. You like Star Wars?"

"It's awesome!" Jimmy enthused. "You have all the best ships. Hey, do you remember that part when Anakin …" He launched into a detailed recall of his favorite lines and action moments, which took them all the way through the main course and into dessert.

Barbara supposed she should shut him up, but then she would have to think of things to say herself. And Rick didn't look bored—he was listening to everything Jimmy said, occasionally supplying the forgotten half of a quotation or some technical detail about starships. Barbara suddenly thought that Trevor would never have been so patient or so kind, and then she felt irritated with herself. What reason did she have to compare the two boys?

They were deep into their pie when Alfred reappeared. "Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Fox is on line one. He's asking for you and he says it's important."

"Thanks, Alfred, I'll take it in the library." Rick shot a brief, apologetic smile at Barbara as he stood up. "Excuse me."

Again, the involuntary comparison to Trevor flashed into her mind. T was charming, but he was not particularly polite, except when he was trying to impress her grandmother. She had to admit that for a fifteen-year-old male specimen of the species, Rick wasn't bad.

They had finished their dessert by the time Rick reentered the room. Barbara stood before he could sit down. "We really should get going. It's getting late."

He nodded and pressed a small button on the wall she hadn't noticed before. "Alfred, could you have the garage bring Miss Gordon's car around?"

"Of course, sir," a British accent crackled back out of the hidden intercom.

Barbara couldn't help giving her head a tiny shake of amazement before she said, "Thanks so much for dinner and letting us use your computer for the project."

He shrugged. "No problem. We can use it anytime we need to."

"Cool," she replied, a little uncomfortably. She doubted she would be coming back. Unless Dad tries to finagle me into another dinner. "Come on, Jimmy. Let's …" She turned around just in time to catch her little brother licking meringue off his plate. "James Gordon! You are not a dog!"

He set the plate back on the table with a thump and a guilty look. "Sorry, Babsie."

"Come on," she ordered, holding out her hand.

He reluctantly pushed away from the table. "Can we come back sometime?"

"Jimmy!" she exclaimed in exasperation.

Rick laughed. "You're both welcome anytime." He led the way to the front door, where Alfred was already waiting with their coats.

Warmly bundled, she said good night and took Jimmy's mitten to lead him down the steps to where the car stood, engine running and headlights on. The valet opened their doors, and when Barbara was seated she glanced at the instrument panel and saw that where the gas tank had registered half empty it was now full. "Unreal," she said out loud. "Completely unreal."

She put the car in gear, glancing back up at the front of Manor. The door still stood open, and she could see Rick silhouetted in the golden light that streamed around him, watching them. The prince in his castle, she thought at first, but then, as her eyes traveled up over the dark and looming house, she realized how very small he seemed as he stood there. She wondered what it was like to live in the midst of so much space, room after empty room with no one to turn the lights on and fill them with voices.

Letting her foot off the brake, she began the winding drive back to the road, trying to shake off the odd feeling of melancholy that had suddenly possessed her. In the back seat, Jimmy sighed contentedly. "Rick's house is the best," he declared. "Wait until we tell Dad!"

"It's pretty cool," Barbara agreed as the iron gates swung silently and magically open at her approach. "But you know what, Jimmy? I like our house better."

SSS

Rick watched Barbara's taillights disappear around the bend with a contented feeling. The afternoon had been very … nice. There had been nothing exciting and nothing catastrophic. Just hanging out. For a couple of moments, they had almost felt like friends. The only thing needed to make this a perfect day was for Bruce to magically appear and declare they were hitting the rooftops tonight. But that wasn't going to happen—his guardian had made it clear that the casino security and his status as celebrity guest made abandoning the party for a second night too risky.

Turning to Alfred Rick said, "I've got to go to Wayne Tower. Mr. Fox said he has a surprise for me."

Alfred looked curious. "An early birthday present, perhaps?"

"It's probably something to do with the think tank. Will you drive me?"

"Of course."

"Can I drive?"

"May I drive," Alfred corrected in a longsuffering tone. "And yes, you may, if you keep to the speed limit."

"I swear," Rick agreed, solemnly drawing a cross over his heart. He was as good as his word, keeping the needle pinned to the limit the whole way, despite the tempting hum of their powerful engine. "What's the point of having all this power if you can't use it?" he griped as he pulled into Bruce's reserved spot.

"To strengthen your self restraint," Alfred said prosaically as they climbed out. "Would you like me to wait, or will you call?"

"I'm not sure how long it will be, so I'll call. Thanks, Alfred."

Fox was waiting in his office. "Don't take your coat off," he said, standing up from his desk and reaching for his own outer wear.

"Where are we going?" Rick asked, confused.

"Back to New Mexico. Unless, of course, you'd rather not have a flying lesson from the best pilot in the nation."

Rick's jaw dropped, all thoughts of Barbara Gordon and Batman abruptly driven from his mind. "I-I'm going to … to fly? The plane?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes, you are. Happy early birthday from me and the R&D personnel of Wayne Enterprises. But we've got to get going or we'll miss our flight."

SSS

The alarm clock was blaring sixties rock. Groaning, Rick hit the snooze and rolled face first into his pillow. Five minutes later, the music was back, louder than ever. Snarling, he punched indiscriminately at the buttons until the racket went away. Why had he thought it necessary to get up so early? Did he have to go to school? A minute of hazy thought revealed that it was Sunday, and that he had to get up because he hadn't done any homework but Life Skills all weekend. Because he'd been hanging out with Barbara and flying The Plane.

Rolling onto his back, he felt his mouth stretching into a smile despite the fact that he was still half asleep. As far he was concerned, it would always be The Plane. Flying it had been easy, so very, very easy—just a few controls, a light touch, an awareness of what the computer was doing. And the result had been far, far better than the dream he'd had about it. You could feel the speed as with slightest shift of your fingers you broke the sound barrier. And then broke it again. And again, until you were going so fast that you were nothing but motion, that all of your atoms had disbanded into pure energy. He understood now why Yeager was so reluctant to yield the controls to anyone else—it wasn't concern for the plane, it was sheer selfishness. Fox had had to practically haul him bodily out of the co-pilot seat and back onto the company jet.

Exerting a supreme effort of will, Rick climbed out of the bed and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. At peace with all the world, he ambled down the stairs and wandered into the kitchen. "Alfred, life is good."

"I couldn't agree more. But perhaps it would be a little better with addition of bacon and eggs?"

"Please," Rick mumbled around a yawn. He sat at the breakfast bar as Alfred began cracking eggs into a skillet. "What's this?" he asked suddenly, picking up a plastic card that lay on the counter. There was no writing on it, just the magnetic strip and a silver swirl across the front.

"That is Master Wayne's room key. He left here when he changed clothes last night. Or this morning, I should say."

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. "Was Batman out last night?" Rick asked, his voice so quiet and calm it shocked him.

"The details are in the paper," the butler replied absently, waving toward the table with the hand not occupied in stirring the eggs.

Mechanically, Rick slid off the stool and moved to the table, picking up the morning edition of the Gotham Globe.

Blazing Building too Much for Batman

22 people were killed when an apartment building on the lower east side caught fire early this morning, despite the speedy intervention of firefighters and Batman …

"Master Richard? Is something wrong?"

Rick looked up from the paper, but he barely saw Alfred's concerned face. "He told me he wasn't going out last night! He lied to me!"

"Perhaps he had a good reason …"

Richard lunged to his feet, shoving his chair back so forcefully that it tipped over and smashed against the floor. "The hell with his reasons!" he shouted. "He needed me last night! There were hundreds of people in that building—he couldn't get them all by himself! He doesn't have any right to endanger their lives because he doesn't feel like taking me with him! So I got shot! So what? I'm not hurt and I should have been with him. He should have let me go with him!"

"Master Richard, lower your voice when you speak of such things," Alfred said, with more anger than Rick had ever heard directed toward himself.

He stared at the butler for a long moment, white-faced and shaking, then he snatched the key card off the counter. "Ok, maybe he has a reason. Why don't I go ask him, huh? Why don't I just go and ask him." He headed for the door.

"You cannot confront him outside of these walls," Alfred said sharply.

Rick spun back around, the color rushing back into his face as shock retreated, leaving only fury.

"What, so I'm just supposed to wait for him to decide to come home? He'll be avoiding me anyway. Half the time, I don't even know when he is here."

"Telephone him, then. Tell him he's needed. He'll come."

"Oh yeah? I'm not so sure of that. If it's something he doesn't want to hear, he'll just hang up. But he's not getting out of this one. Don't worry, I won't go giving away his precious secrets. But he's going to come home with me, and he's damn well going to explain why he …" Rick broke off and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled.

"Are you going to drive me, or do I have to take the train?"

Alfred met his gaze grimly, but Richard's eyes didn't falter. "Get your coat," the older man conceded.

Rick remained silent during the ride until they pulled up to the magnificent front of the casino, the telltale paper squeezed into a tight roll in his hands.

"Are you coming in?" he asked tightly, swinging open his door.

"I think it would be better if I waited with the car," Alfred replied. "He's in room 3209."

"Thanks," Rick muttered and slammed the door with more force than necessary. He stalked into the lobby, ignoring the stares of the desk workers, and used the room card to summon the elevator. Standing in front of Bruce's door he automatically lifted his hand to knock, then dropped it and jammed the key card into the lock. He's probably still asleep. Well, it's time for him to wake up.

A fresh wave of fury washed over him as he shoved through the door. "Bruce!" he shouted, striding into the suite. There was a splash of water to his right, and he looked over and froze in shock. There was a Jacuzzi and Bruce was in it and there was a woman …

Rick jerked his face away, wishing he could sink down through all thirty-two stories of the hotel into the cold obscurity of the parking garage.

A woman's voice, rippling with amusement, broke the painful silence. "It appears someone is here to see you," she said, "and I have to get going. I'll see you when I come back from Metropolis."

If Bruce said anything in response, it was too low for Rick to hear. There came the sound of splashing water as she climbed out, and after another few seconds, the suite door opened and closed again behind her.

Exhaling in relief, Rick looked back at the hot tub. Bruce sat motionless and expressionless, watching him. Rick's fury returned full force, and without thinking, he hurled the rolled newspaper with superb accuracy so that it hit Bruce full in the face and fell into the water. "You lied to me," he accused, his voice shaking.

Still expressionless, Bruce picked up the dripping paper and looked at the headline. "How did you get here?" he asked, in a voice too obviously controlled.

"Alfred drove me."

"Go and tell him to drive you back."

Rick just crossed his arms and glared. For a moment, Bruce's expression of control wavered. He leaned forward as though he were about to stand up, and Rick knew that he was furious. Good. Let's fight.

But Bruce remained seated. "Tell Alfred to drive you back home," he repeated in a strained voice. "I'll be right behind you."

Rick didn't budge. "I don't believe you."

Bruce was suddenly shooting out of the water and striding toward him. Rick tensed, but he didn't expect to be picked up by his collar and bodily propelled out the door into the hallway. "Go home," his guardian ordered once more, and then the key card was plucked from his hand and the door shut in his face.

Anger hadn't deprived Rick of all of his common sense. He wanted to beat his fists against the silent door, but instead he shoved his hands into his pockets and ran for the elevator. Back downstairs, he raced for the car as though he were pursued.

Alfred eyed his face in alarm. "Is everything all right, Master Richard?"

"He's coming home," Rick muttered, and refused to utter another word during the drive back to the Manor. Once there, he went straight to the study and opened the entrance to the caves, determined that Bruce would not be able to retreat there if he did keep his word and come home.

He didn't have long to wait. Barely fifteen minutes of agitated pacing passed before the lift machinery rumbled and Bruce descended in the iron cage. He was angry and didn't waste time pretending he wasn't.

"Didn't I ever teach you to knock?" he demanded, but the biting sarcasm in his tone only shattered whatever shards of self control Rick had reassembled on the ride home.

He heard himself shouting and didn't care. "You punish me without telling me why, you lie to me about it, and you're upset because I caught you banging some chick in the hot tub?"

Bruce's eyes were dark with fury. "You will speak of Miss Kyle with respect."

"I don't care about Miss Kyle. I want to know when you're going to start telling me the truth."

"What truth?"

"You told me you couldn't get away last night. That Batman wasn't going out. And then you sent me to New Mexico to make sure I didn't find out about it. Too bad the journalists blew your cover."

"You went to New Mexico to learn how to fly the plane," his guardian replied, attempting, and failing, to sound reasonable.

"Don't play games with me. I'm not eight anymore, Bruce. If you're going to put Robin out of action, then tell me and tell me why. Did you really think that if you shoved a new toy at me I wouldn't figure out what was going on?"

"You don't think flying the plane is a skill Robin might need someday?"

"Stop it! Just stop it and answer my question!"

"And what question was that?"

Rick grit his teeth until he thought they would snap off. "When can Robin fly again?"

"When we find out who shot him."

"Why?"

"Because I happen to be responsible for your safety."

"People shoot at Batman all the time. Maybe he shouldn't go back out until he knows who all of them are."

"That is entirely different."

"I don't think it is."

"Batman isn't a fifteen year old kid."

"I'm not a kid. I may be fifteen, but I'm not a kid."

"If you're not," Bruce said grimly, "then you should be."

Rick took a deep breath, tried to lower his voice and sound rational. "When I chose to do this, I knew it would be dangerous. I can't quit just because things are getting hot."

"It's not your choice. It's mine. When you chose to do this, you also agreed to obey me absolutely. Consider this a direct order."

"I will."

Bruce relaxed slightly. "Good."

"If," Rick continued, "you tell me why you lied to me. You could have given this order the last time Robin came in. Instead you avoided me, and you lied …" That word kept forcing itself off his tongue, ugly and brutal and inescapable. You lied, you lied, you lied. "How can I obey you if I can't trust you?"

The question stood between them like a wall, a wall against which Rick could beat his fists until they bled and yet make no dent. And then something flickered in Bruce's face. Opening or recognition or maybe despair. This is the truth, Rick thought. He is finally going to tell me the truth. He stood frozen in expectation, waiting. Then Bruce's face closed again, the moment of transparency locked away behind the perfect mask, and Rick knew that whatever he was about to say would only be more camouflage.

"I thought it was clear. I assumed that if you needed an explanation, you would have asked me. As for last night, nothing was planned. I had a chance to get out and I took it. Of course, you're not banned from research or observation at school."

"Or from flying planes, I get it," Rick muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets, and striding toward the lift. He thought he was going to cry, and he didn't want to do it here. But safely in his room, he didn't cry after all. He sat staring at the wall and felt the vastness of the space around him. Dozens of rooms, all empty, all shadowed by Batman. He hadn't realized until now how greatly that dark presence brooded over the Manor. Even when Bruce was Bruce, they were always aware of the secret hidden in the foundations, always under its strictures and its power.

He had trouble breathing, felt the weight of it all smothering him in the endless space of the mansion.

SSS

Bruce heard Alfred come up beside him, but he didn't look away from the mesmerizing spray of the waterfall. He was trying to sort through what had happened, but all he could be sure of was an overwhelming sense of failure. Why couldn't I tell the truth? he asked himself, and his gut rather than his brain provided the answer. He didn't know how to deal with the paralyzing fear that gripped him whenever he thought of Dick going out as Robin, so how could he explain it to anyone else, especially the kid in question?

"Alfred," he said slowly.

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"Am I turning into one of those creepy parents who's so wrapped up in their kid they can't see the real world anymore?"

"Not to my observation," the butler replied comfortingly. "You know, most teenagers fight with their parents."

"Not like this," Bruce muttered, at last turning away from the water. He had to talk about something, even if it wasn't the heart of the matter. "He says he's not a kid, and he's wrong. But he's also right, because in so many ways he's not. And then I start to worry that Rachel was right and that in adopting him I robbed him of something he should have had."

"Maybe she was and maybe you have," the butler conceded. "But you can't live like that. Everyone has a decision that haunts them with the might have been, but we can't give into it."

"What's yours?" Bruce asked, facing Alfred for the first time.

"Oh, I have a lot. But the one that bothers me the most is you." He paused and his face grew remote, remembering. "I had agreed to the terms of your parents' will, but I never dreamed I'd actually have to fulfill them. And so I couldn't help wondering whether, if your father had seen what would happen, whether he wouldn't have wanted you placed with a family that was whole, instead. I worried that, by keeping you, I was robbing you of something you should have had."

"You didn't rob me of anything," Bruce said quietly.

Alfred's expression became wry. "You spend your days pretending to be amoral and shallow, and your nights running around in a bat suit. It's no wonder I occasionally ask myself whether I couldn't have done better by you."

SSS

Niko was by himself in the lot, practicing his dribbling. The soccer ball hit a crack in the pavement and bounced unexpectedly away from him, so that he skidded on the ice in an attempt to recover it. When he had regained his balance, he saw Rick, holding the ball out to him.

"Hey!" Niko said cheerfully. "I didn't know if you'd be brave enough to come back after what Ari did to you last time." Rick tried to smile back, but it came off as more of a grimace. Niko eyed him and asked, "Is something wrong?"

Rick shrugged, hands jammed in his pockets. For a moment, Niko thought he wouldn't answer, and then he said, "I had a fight with the old man. Needed to get out for awhile."

Niko watched him for another moment and then asked carefully, "Do you need an ice pack?"

Rick looked blank, and then understanding dawned. "It wasn't that kind of fight. He … has this new girlfriend, and I … accidentally walked in on them."

Niko winced in sympathy. "Man, your dad must have been pissed."

"Majorly."

"Was the chick mad?"

"No. She thought it was funny."

Niko thought about this. "That's good, right? I mean, if she's not mad, then he'll probably forget about it, right?"

"Maybe." Rick didn't look convinced, but he clearly didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Are you going to pretend the ball's your girlfriend or are we going to kick it?"

Niko looked at the soccer ball cradled in his arms and threw it at Rick's head. "You're going down for that!" But Rick was already on top of the ball, driving it toward one end of the lot, and Niko had to use his top speed to catch up.

To Be Continued

A/N I'm really, really sorry about leaving you all dangling on a cliffie for two and a half months! Suffice it to say it's been one heck of a semester, with little energy left over for creative writing. It's not that I ignored this chapter—I don't know how many times I sat down to try and work on it and simply couldn't. I'm not sure when I'll be able to post again, but when I do, we'll finally be at the much anticipated Valentines' dance! Hurray!

For any Somerville fans, the inimitable Cecilia is currently making an AU guest appearance in "Spirit and Liberty" by the Gotham Knights.

Review? Even if I'm a horrible, neglectful authoress who should probably be fined by the fiction police? (Hmmm, now there's a story idea …)