Chapter two

It had been awhile since he'd been to the docks, in civvies at any rate, but it was an easy enough trip, at least physically speaking. Fairly good road for most of the way, and at this time of night, not a lot of traffic. Even the weather was cooperating, and the storms that had been building all day did little more than make rumbling threats and produce a few scattered bursts of rain. Not a bad drive, all in all. He had the address from Alfred, and truth be told, he'd often driven past the old warehouse that served as Nightwing's lair, while on patrol in the Batmobile. It should have taken him an hour at the most.

Tonight, it took three hours. He needed the time to think.

What had happened between him and Dick had been shocking at the time, but in retrospect, he could see that it had been a long time in coming. Sure, he'd always maintained that they were partners, but deep down, he'd known it was a very uneven partnership; he was the adult, after all, the one in control, and Dick was a child, his protégé, his ward, and subject to his decisions. Live under my roof, obey my rules, that was his byword, and for a long time, it had worked. But as Dick had so eloquently put it, no one can remain a Boy Wonder forever. He should have seen it coming, but he'd been blind to the truth.

Sometimes, even he had to admit, he carried this bat theme a bit too far.

There had been signs, he knew that now. The rebelliousness, that had been the start of it. True, most youngsters went through a rebellious stage, and most parents are prepared for it, at least on some level. It was a normal part of becoming an adult, after all; pushing the limits, seeing what will work, and what won't, expanding your boundaries past the protective walls constructed by loving parents. Most parents, he'd since learned, were prepared for it, because they'd lived through it themselves.

That, he thought, was probably a large part of the problem. He'd never experienced that with his parents - they'd been long dead by the time he reached the rebel years. He'd never felt the need to rebel against anyone, mainly because there'd been no one to rebel against. Oh, sure, Alfred had been around, but you just couldn't rebel against someone who deferred to you, and called you "Master Bruce." Besides, Alfred's philosophy had been more Zen-like; let the young master do what he wished, he'd come out all right in the end. And frankly, Bruce had been far too busy planning his long-term revenge against the type of scum who'd murdered his parents to be much concerned with rebellion of any other sort.

Yes, he was sure a psychologist would agree with him on this; hell, hadn't more than one said as much to him? It was the pivotal point in his life, his parents' murder, and everything he had done, or ever would do, could be traced directly back to that night. But even so, Bruce knew that he couldn't place all the blame on that incident, traumatic though it had been.

The blame lay firmly on his shoulders, and he knew it. He had not paid attention to what was blatantly obvious to the rest of the world; Dick was no longer a ten-year-old child. He was an adult, a young man now, and had been for some time.

It had really started when Dick went away to college. He could have stayed at home, and commuted, but no, he insisted on living in a dorm room, and then in an apartment off campus. He needed his space, he'd said, he needed to be on his own, like everyone else his age. Bruce had argued against it, but in the end, even he couldn't stand against the combined forces of Dick and Alfred. So, he'd acquiesced, and for awhile, it had almost been enough, or so he'd thought. Dick came home every other weekend, and still fought by his side as Robin.

But it was very hard on both of them, and they both knew it. The visits home became battles. Why had Dick become such a slob, he couldn't even dress for dinner? Why must he sleep so late? If he must listen to that godawful music, did he have to have it so loud? And the counter arguments from Dick - What did he have to get up early for, it was Saturday for God's sake! Why did he need to put on a clean shirt, this one was clean this morning, it only made more laundry for Alfred. Why did he even bother coming home, the dorm was noisy, but at least it wasn't a gulag.

And so on. They tried to compromise, and managed to keep peace in the family, at least for the duration of weekends and holidays. But it wasn't enough.

It all blew apart that one night. Batman and Robin were out on patrol, and chasing after yet another nameless, faceless criminal. Batman followed the suspect right into his home, and threatened the man in front of his family. This, for Robin, had been the last straw. That night, he quit being Robin. Just like that, he quit, threw his mask at Batman and stormed upstairs. It hadn't mattered that Batman himself had realized how wrong it had been, or that Bruce Wayne had given the man a job the next day. The damage had been done.

After that, they had very little contact. Dick scheduled his visits home for weekends when Bruce had out of town business, or too many social engagements to be home much. Batman patrolled Gotham alone, until joined by a stunning stranger calling herself Batgirl. Robin disappeared, but soon a new crimefighter appeared, Nightwing. Batman pretended not to notice, but in the end, he was no more convincing at it than Bruce was.

If Robin's disappearance affected Batman, he didn't show it. He went out on his patrols, did his part to let Gothamites sleep a little better every night. He had Batgirl now, to join him in his crusade, and after all, crime paid no heed to his personal woes.

Bruce didn't handle Dick's absence nearly so well. He showed up at the office less and less, and virtually disappeared from the social scene. Rumors filled the gossip columns for a while, but soon even the most rabid columnists grew bored with the story of reclusive millionaire Bruce Wayne. It was generally accepted that he had, for reasons known only to him, decided to withdraw from public life.

Alfred knew the truth, of course, and did his earnest best to convince Bruce of the dangerous road he tread, but his pleas fell upon deaf ears. Things came to a breaking point the night Bruce woke up in Wayne Memorial's ER, with a punctured lung and seventeen stitches in his back. Jim Gordon managed to keep it out of the papers, and a few thousand dollars to the owner of the biker bar and the other participants in the fight made the assault and battery charges disappear.

That, at least, had made Bruce wake up. He straightened up his act, dried out for the first time in months, and returned to a semblance of what passed for normal life, for him.

Not long after that, another young orphan had appeared in his life, and suddenly, things looked a bit better. Fate had brought Tim into his life, and the boy had taken over the role of Robin like he'd been born to it. Truth to tell, Batman had not been entirely thrilled at the prospect, but on the other hand, for Bruce, it had been just what the doctor ordered. He came to the realization, that first night Tim had come into his life, that he needed to be needed, not just as Batman, but as Bruce.

When Dick had shown up, welcoming the newcomer to the family, as it were, Bruce had thought that everything would fall neatly back into place. And, it had been almost like old times, for awhile. They'd all celebrated, more or less, an impromptu welcome-to-the-family party for Tim, and a welcome-home party for Dick, sitting around the kitchen like a normal family.

Then, after Barbara had gone home, and Tim had been tucked into bed, and Alfred had also retired, Dick and Bruce had been left alone. They'd talked some, and it had seemed the most natural thing in the world for Dick to follow Bruce up to his bedroom, to continue the conversation. After all, they had a lot of things to talk about, and they were both in too good a mood to let pass the opportunity for a reconciliation.

Bruce could still see it, in his mind's eye, the exact details of that moment. Leaning against the door frame, Dick standing next to him, both of them laughing at some stupid comment, perfectly ordinary, perfectly innocent. Then, Dick had leaned over and had put his arms around him and had kissed him, fully on the mouth. And Bruce had reacted without thinking, and had wrapped his arms around Dick, and pulled him into a tight embrace. It had felt so right, so perfectly, completely right - until the reality hit him.

Then, he'd reacted not as Bruce, but as Batman. Shoving Dick away, too forcefully and without preamble, and then, compounding the insult by denying that it had happened. He could still hear his own voice, as if he were someone else listening in: "This isn't happening. This didn't happen. No." And Dick's argument, and then his anger, the pain evident in every biting, acid-laced word. And of course, Bruce trying to assert his control over the situation, sending Dick to his room, as if he were a ten year old caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

And the look on Dick's face when he'd left. Bruce knew, in his heart of hearts, that he'd never erase that image from his memory.

He broke himself out of his reverie, and slowed the bike to a stop. Time to stop stalling. He made a highly illegal U-turn and headed back toward the warehouse on the waterfront.

It was a testament to his determination - some might call it stubbornness - that he did not turn around and head back.



Chapter Three

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