[fic] The Pleasures of Civic Duty 1/2 (Golden Age, Bruce/Dick & Batman/Robin)
One fine morning last week, there was this picture on my homepage. I showed it to petronelle, who observed, "That sounds like a Silver Age book." So this all her fault, except it really isn't. Because it's Golden Age, see?
Title: The Pleasures of Civic Duty
Fandom: DCU: Golden Age.
Pairing: Bruce/Dick, Batman/Robin
Summary: "Just a boy good at heart, more brave than a man -- too brave to *become* a man."
Rating: Adult.
Disclaimer: Kane & Finger, not I.
Warnings: Intergenerational content some most readers may find disturbing and (thankfully) *obsolete* social values that everyone should find disturbing. I'm not kidding about the Golden Age setting, okay?
Notes: Summary from Batman #496. Contextually, Bruce is talking about Jason. But metatextually, it's about *Robin*. Cut-tag text from Fields & Kern. Enormous thanks to Petra for encouraging, indulging, and audiencing and thenotoriousg for rolling up her sleeves and beta'ing the hell out of this.
*
Commissioner Gordon looked up from his cluttered desk. "I'm glad you're here." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily.
Robin tilted his head. "Gee, Mr. Gordon, you seem upset. What's wrong?"
"Yes," Batman said, squeezing Robin's shoulder. He had often told the lad that he was quite sensitive. It was one of his most endearing traits. "You're unusually glum."
Gordon pushed away a stack of papers. His mustaches drooped dejectedly. "It's these g-- d-- perverts. First the reefer gangs infiltrated the schools, now we have these *artistes* congregating in the East End."
"There's that new opera house on Post Road and Wiltwyck." Robin rubbed his hands together. He tried to concentrate on his excitement, letting pass unnoted Gordon's uncharacteristic vulgarity. "They're opening next month with *Otello*!"
"Robin's very musical," Batman noted. Robin looked up at his best pal and grinned.
"Yes," Gordon replied. "I have tickets for the wife and me opening night. Can't say I understand the fun of listening to them warble along in a foreign language, but --" He licked his lip nervously. "Look here, men. May I speak frankly?"
"Of course!" Robin leaned in eagerly, pleased as ever to be included among the men.
"I'm all for culture, as much as the next man," Gordon started, then looked down at his hands. "But I'm *baffled* why an upstanding citizen like Bruce Wayne would fund this sort of..."
Robin tried not to wring his hands together. Luckily, Batman always knew what to say. "I imagine," he said and cleared his throat, "that he believed an opera house would contribute to the moral uplift of the populace."
Gordon flushed a deep red. "That's just it!"
"You mentioned a congregation of...perverts, was it?" Batman asked gently.
"These theatrical types! They're everywhere! In *coffee-houses*!" Gordon spluttered. "And booze-cans! Having...*meetings*."
Robin knew that the detective's best option was to listen and observe. He did so, sparing only a few worried glances up at Batman.
"Would you like us to keep an eye on them?" Batman patted Dick's back and the touch helped the boy relax slightly.
"Yes," Gordon said, rather morosely. "I know this isn't your regular sort of thing, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm at a loss here." His thick eyebrows drew together over his nose. "They aren't gunsels or mooks or even J.D.s. I fear they're *worse*."
"We'd be happy to look into it," Batman said.
"We'll do everything we can!" Robin said and scurried around Gordon's desk to pat the man's arm. "No job's too small."
Gordon gave him a small smile. "Gotham's changing, my friends."
Robin had the urge to chuck the Commissioner under the chin, much as Bruce did when Dick fretted over his math homework. "Not if we have anything to do with it!"
*
Dick had a lot of homework that week. He kicked his desk in frustration on the third night, only turning around when he heard Bruce 'hmph' softly.
"Steady on," Bruce told him over the top of his newspaper. Bruce read fourteen papers a day, both morning and evening editions. While their butler, Alfred, often flagged notable stories for him, Bruce still diligently read every item.
Dick waved his arms. "The principal exports of the Panama Zone?! The list doesn't even mention the marijuana and we busted that shipment just last week!"
"Hmph," Bruce said again. "Here's something."
"What is it?"
"Finish your geography," Bruce told him, "and then we'll go downstairs."
Dick could see Bruce's large, strong hands gripping the paper rather more tightly than usual. The paper trembled as Bruce's neatly-manicured fingers curled.
The prospect of descending down to the cave was more than enough to spur Dick through the rest of his homework. The cave was his favorite place in the manor, aside from this little study just off their bedroom. Down there, they had *work* to do. And while work could be oftentimes even more frustrating than Western Civ and the quadratic equations, it was worth it.
"Done!" He tossed down his pencil, then remembered his manners and placed it carefully in the thick porcelain mug that held his pens and protractor.
"Let me see --" Bruce stood behind him, bent slightly at the waist, to inspect Dick's papers. He rested his hand lightly on the back of Dick's neck, his thumb moving slowly. He'd put on his reading-glasses.
Dick used to tease Bruce about those glasses until Alfred mentioned one day over breakfast that it was not "done" to mock other's frailties, however small. "No matter how vain the recipient is," he'd added with a significant Look at Bruce's empty chair.
Dick straightened his posture. Bruce squeezed his neck, just once, before setting the papers back down. "Well done."
Dick grinned up at him. Bruce was the smartest person he'd ever met. He made Dick's teachers look slipshod. "It's all about concentrating."
"Indeed." Bruce's thumb slipped down Dick's throat and came to rest just over his pulse point. Dick held his breath and closed his eyes, wondering what Bruce was considering. "Now, shall we?"
"Um, yes," Dick said, releasing his hands from the fists he hadn't noticed making. "Go downstairs, you mean?"
Bruce was already at the door. He stuck his head back in. "Yes. Unless you're having trouble concentrating?"
"Nope." Dick sprang up and followed Bruce out into the hall and down the stairs. While Bruce spun the lock behind the grandfather clock, Dick took the opportunity to adjust the hang of his slacks and return his breathing back to a regular rate.
It was a welcome relief to don his Robin suit. With the cape fluttering behind him and the shorts holding him snugly, Dick felt much *stronger* than he ever did in his civilian outfits. He doubted he'd ever understand how Bruce managed to look at once imposing and at ease whether he was being Batman or relaxing in one of his purple velvet house robes. Maybe it was one of those things that came with age, as Alfred and Bruce kept telling him.
"Is there a gang to bust? Mob conspiracies to break open?" Robin bounded over to Batman's worktable and stopped short when he saw that Batman had the scale-model of Gotham City opened.
Batman was bent over the East End. The opera house had not yet been added to the corner of Post Road and Wiltwyck. That was because it wasn't finished; in its place, a toothpick model of its frame rose instead.
"You're worried about the opera people?" Robin squatted down until he was eye-level with the model. From this angle, he could see all the way down Wiltwyck Avenue. It was one of the brighter spots in the East End, quite broad with evenly-spaced, formerly-grand buildings. Once, on a slow night, he had walked on his hands across two blocks' worth of those buildings. He smiled at them now.
"Yes, I am," Batman said. "Commissioner Gordon does not excite easily, as you well know."
Robin winced. He remembered all too well how poorly their surprise party for the commissioner had gone last year. *That* disaster had made Batman's prank on Superman's Arctic fortress seem like a winner in comparison.
"Look down Post Road, if you will," Batman added.
Robin complied. Post Road sported much more irregular rooftops, tenements and twisty alleyways that often confounded even the most hardened mugger in his flight. "Oooh," he breathed.
"Precisely." Batman clucked his tongue, once, against his teeth and Robin beamed up at him. "Good work, Robin."
"Thanks, but it's obvious once you see it --" He removed the glove from his right hand and pointed to where Post Road took a sudden jog, angling back to meet the mews abutting the back of the Opera House. "That's where Red Natasha's boozecan was!"
"Yes. Word on the, ah, 'street', as it were, is that she's back in business." Batman clapped him on the shoulder. "Robin, you're going undercover."
He gaped as Batman strode to the triple-wide wardrobe which held their costumes.
"You'll blend in nicely," Batman told him. Robin was never quite certain *how* Batman knew what he was thinking. Especially with his back turned. "I'm afraid that Bruce Wayne's face is rather too well-known."
That was true. Bruce's photograph often featured on both the business and society pages. Robin's scrapbook was proof enough of *that*.
Regretfully, Robin stripped off his costume and waited, shivering, while Batman flicked through the hangers.
Batman selected an odd disguise, the elements of which Robin had never seen before. He was never going to be sanguine about the resources that Batman commanded; he didn't *want* to be.
"Ahh," Batman said when he handed the trousers to Robin. His mask wrinkled as he gazed at Robin's midriff, then...lower. "Do you require some aid?"
Robin wanted to bite his lip. He did not and instead returned Batman's look. "I'm all right."
"Are you ashamed?" Batman's voice was quiet, far more similar to Bruce's own than seemed appropriate for the cave.
Robin took a deep breath. "No. It's just." He closed his eyes, missing his own mask. "A physiological response. To stimulation and, and."
"Precisely," Batman said. His touch -- one hand on Robin's shoulder, the other in his groin -- was firm. Robin felt the muscles in his thighs twitch as Batman ministered to him. The gloves were smooth and hid the heat that Bruce's hands always held, but their grip felt just as good. Only different.
Robin chewed the inside of his cheek and let out a high-pitched sigh as relief overcame him.
"Very good," Batman said, then held up his sticky glove to lick it clean. Onanism was one thing, but cleanliness was always important. "Now, try on that disguise, would you?"
Shivering a little, goosebumps raking his chest and arms, Robin did so. The disguise consisted of tight, pegged pants and a nylon shirt. His cheeks were very hot and he squirmed against the unfamiliar textures.
Somehow, illogically, it seemed that dressing as a girl was more comfortable.
"Excellent." Batman next dipped his fingers into a pot of pomade.
Robin wrinkled his nose. "That stinks."
"Yes." Batman's bare hand hovered between them, as if waiting for permission.
"Put it on," Robin said. "All part of the disguise, right?"
After combing Robin's hair into a messy ducktail, Batman cleaned his hand and cupped Robin's cheeks. "How do you feel?"
"Um," Robin said. "Not like *me*, that's for sure."
Batman laughed fondly. "You're not supposed to."
"Good, I guess." Robin touched the side of his head and grimaced at the greasiness. He looked like one of the older boys, the ones who hung around outside school, smoking and whistling at girls and discussing their cars' horsepower. He squared his shoulders and looked up at Batman. "Are we ready?"
"Do you have everything?"
Robin patted his pockets. "Stun spray, wallet -- you didn't need to give ten dollars, sheesh, that's *a lot* -- yep. Everything."
"Radio-Memo-Watch?"
Robin held up his wrist. The gadget told time, sure, but it also transmitted to Batman *and* contained a miniaturized recorder for his notes and observations. "Got it."
"Well," Batman said. "I'd say you're ready."
Yet he seemed to hesitate. Robin bounced on his toes. Batman smiled vaguely at him, his body still as if preparing for flight, then clapped his hand down on Robin's shoulder.
*
The Bat-Mobile let Robin out eight blocks away. He sauntered towards the site of Red Natasha's, letting himself enjoy being out alone in the big city without a mask or cape. At the end of an alley, a narrow door cut into the back of a grimy woodframe building waited for him.
A large Italian man guarding the door asked for the password.
"Sob sister," Robin said in his best East End accent. Batman had refused to tell him how *he* knew the password.
The doorman grunted, barely looking up from his racing sheet, and pushed the door open. Robin traversed the long, narrow hallway in utter darkness. As a crimefighter, he had been in plenty of gin joints and taprooms, but they nearly always were rooms that opened right up. This was the first *hidden* one he'd ever seen.
Finally, the passage ended at another door. Robin pushed it open and slid inside.
It took him a long while to grow accustomed to the atmosphere. At first glance, this bar was no different from any other. Bouncy music played on a jukebox and several couples danced with varying degrees of grace. A long counter at the back of the room sported beer taps and shelves of alcohol, while small tables were clustered around the other three walls.
He bought a snort of brandy and sat with it at one table. Gradually, the *strangeness* of this place began to sink in. The bartender was a woman -- Red Natasha had black hair, cropped close to her skull -- and the dancing couples were all of the same sex. Men with men, women with women.
He remembered the first time he'd seen black men dancing with white women. Batman told him then that society was often unjust and that it was their job to help it along the rocky path *toward* justice. So Robin did not allow himself to be shocked. Much.
What's more, the bar's clientele wasn't simply sex-segregated. He observed well-dressed young men who wouldn't be out of place on a college campus or downtown at one of the office towers dancing or chatting with rough-hewn blue-collar types. Some of the women looked absolutely trashy, yet they spoke much more than amiably with lovely girls who were clearly their social betters.
Robin was confused. He was, however, here on a mission. It was his duty to look, listen, and *learn*.
As the night wore on, he found himself enjoying his visit. He met a really older guy named Gilbert who studied Classics at Gotham University and was very excited about a friend named Al Sibiades. Robin supposed that was an immigrant name, perhaps one of the dockworkers in the corner. He danced with a tall young man who worked at Wayne Industries in their accounting division as a calculator.
"I'm Robbie Ma--" Robin started when his partner asked his name.
"No last names, sugar," the calculator said with a smile.
Robin nodded as wisely as he could and said something vaguely blaming the brandy.
He wasn't actually drinking, of course. Aside from Bruce's extensive collection of French wines, alcohol was a refuge for the weak-willed and hopeless. Robin hoped that he was neither.
He proved to be quite popular. One of the older gents, wearing a shabby topcoat and canvas tennis shoes, told his friends that it was "fresh chicken night". Robin didn't know what that meant, and he didn't have time to ask, because someone else was asking him to dance.
This suitor -- the term made Robin giggle when he spoke it into his watch, but it was, really, the most appropriate -- was fair-haired and hook-nosed. He seemed slightly familiar, but Robin could not place his face. He danced, however, like a dream, an Astaire in this smoke-wreathed place, and Robin snuggled close to his fragrant vest.
"Enjoying yourself?" the man asked.
"I love this tune!" Robin said. He drifted on the sweet melodies, enjoying the sway and warmth.
He was startled out of his reverie when a yellow light behind the bar flashed on. His partner swept away and Robin found himself suddenly dancing with a large girl who stepped on his feet.
"Hello?" he said with much bewilderment.
"Hey there," she said. Her voice was deeper than his own.
"Uh, ma'am? You're --" Robin had been shot at and beaten and, once, dropped to the bottom of the harbor trussed up like a pig. But her mauling of his toes was some of the worst pain he'd ever felt.
She laughed throatily. "Don't call me ma'am."
"Sir?" he tried and she spun him around, laughing some more.
"Just hold tight, little one." She breathed into his ear. "And *do* try to butch it up, will you?"
Robin didn't know what *that* meant, either.
Heavy footfalls were coming down the passageway. The door burst open as Robin was twirled and dipped. Three beat cops strode inside.
With Batman, Robin frequently worked closely with the police. They were the protectors of the citizenry, the maintainers of order and the defenders of justice. The sidewise glances and cloaked sneers they were receiving now from the bar's populace baffled Robin. Surely these policemen were simply checking on the liquor license and safety of the denizens.
He recognized one of the cops as Kerr, who'd walked this beat for a good twenty years. Normally, Kerr had a big smile for everyone he passed, and hard candies for the kids. Now, however, he glared around the room, billy club in hand.
"Something to wet your whistle, flatties?" the bartender -- bartendress -- woman behind the bar asked.
Kerr and his men did not reply. Robin hid his face against his partner's ample bosom and continued to dance.
It wasn't much fun any longer.
After a long, strained silence, the cops turned to go. Robin saw Kerr speak to the barmaid, who passed a small envelope his way. He reminded himself to make a note of that into his watch when he was next alone.
When the bar closed shortly after one, Robin made his way back to the rendezvous point. He waited idly on the corner, hands in his pockets, whistling as he rocked on his heels.
Soon enough, a voice from above said, "Robin, report."
He did not look up. Instead, he muttered, "Gimme a gasper, old man."
Batman chuckled as he swept down from his perch, grabbing Robin around the waist and hustling him into the alley where the Bat-Mobile waited. "Still in character, I see."
"Hitting on all eight," Robin said, climbing into the passenger seat.
Batman did not say anything. He didn't even laugh. Robin scowled for a while until he didn't.
*
Back in the cave, Robin pulled off the disguise as quickly as he could, changing back into Dick's clothes. They felt a lot looser, more natural, than the disguise.
Batman sat at his grand desk, transferring the tape of Robin's observations to the Cave's memex device.
"Did it work?" Robin asked, joining him at the desk. "I tried to include descriptions, but --"
"Other than the ambient noise, yes," Batman said. When Robin yawned hugely, Batman spared him a glance. "Tired?"
"A little," Robin admitted.
"Go to bed, then."
Things were so much more *simple* back here in the Cave. Batman, like Bruce, always knew the right thing to do and say.
Gratefully, Robin grinned and hugged Batman around the neck. "Okay. See you soon!"
"Bathe first," Batman said as he stiffened. "You reek of...that world."
"Oh." Robin made his way slowly up the stairs. In their suite, he soaked for a long time in the bath, until his skin was pink all over, scrubbed as clean as he could make it.
He was exhausted and crawled into bed. He was asleep when Bruce came in, waking only when the mattress dipped slightly. He rolled over and snuggled against Bruce's wide, warm chest. Bruce wrapped his arm around Dick's body and pressed his face into his hair.
"Clean now," Dick murmured sleepily.
"Yes." Bruce's fingers stroked down Dick's back. "Did you have a nice time?"
"It was all right. Lots of dancing."
"I see." Bruce breathed softly over him. Dick felt, distantly, his damp hair stirring. He dozed again.
*
Dick aced his geography test the next day. Alfred baked his favorite spice cake in congratulations.
Later that night, he returned to the strange underworld bar, again as Robbie Malone. This time, he felt much more confident. He moved with a swagger in his step, modeled on the dockworkers' stride, and danced with anyone who asked.
One of his partners was a gorgeous lady who claimed her name was Belle. Contrary to tradition, she spoke her whole name -- Belle de Bahl -- which Robin dutifully repeated into his watch.
She had candy-floss hair and scarlet lips. Robin squinted up admiringly at her, certain that she would not be out of place on Bruce Wayne's arm at one of his many festive functions. Just put her in a nicer dress and she'd be the toast of society, even prettier than Jean Harlow.
"Sweet kid," Belle said when he told her that. When she kissed his forehead, Robin almost swooned from the warmth of her lily-of-the-valley toilet water. He didn't understand why such a pretty lady wanted to dance with *him*, not here, not when there were several handsome women with sleek hair and sleeker suits.
He didn't understand, not until the yellow light flashed again and Belle yanked off her wig and wiped a napkin over her mouth. With a start, Robin realized she was a female impersonator. As a man, Belle was droopy and dishwater-pale; all her dazzling glamour had winked out.
Later, he tried to explain the pang that gave him, right in the center of his chest, but Batman interrupted him. "Keep to the facts, Robin. Was there any subversive talk? Any mention of politics?"
Robin flipped down from his handstand and landed several paces away. "Nope. Gilbert asked if I'd ever heard 'Lady in the Dark' by those German fellows --"
"Brecht is a notorious Red," Batman said. "Good catch. Go on."
"Thanks!" Robin balanced on one foot and bent backwards until his legs were in the air again. On his hands, he paced back and forth in front of the desk. "-- but it turned out he just wanted to invite me over to show off his hi-fi."
Batman was silent. The Cave itself was never silent, not with all the bats and drip-drip of various underground streams, but Robin halted his pacing and watched Batman, waiting for him to speak.
Batman's broad shoulders changed their angle, slanting slightly into his body. He was looking down at something, either on the desk or in his lap. Robin flipped back to his feet and cocked his head.
He would have moved closer -- all his instincts, all his *habit*, urged him to move closer -- but he did not wish to irritate Batman with the bar's smell. Not again.
"Anything else?" Batman asked at last. He turned his head, his cheek twitching with a smile when he saw that Robin was walking the top of one bookcase like it was a high wire.
"Nope." Robin jumped down, turning a single somersault before he landed. "Honestly, Batman. They're real nice folks."
"Very...inviting?" Batman pushed back his mask and Robin blinked at the weariness on Bruce's face.
"Yep! But, um --" He moved forward just enough to capture Batman's gloved hand in his own. "You shouldn't be out there alone."
Bruce rubbed the back of his neck, then his forehead. "I'm sure I'll survive the loneliness."
It hadn't occurred to him that Bruce *or* Batman could even get lonely. He was a terrible friend and before he could stop himself, Robin threw himself forward, hugging Batman around the waist. "I'm sorry! So sorry!"
Batman patted his hair and rubbed circles under Robin's cape. "Nothing to apologize for, lad."
"But you said --"
"Irony." Bruce smiled down at him. His blue eyes folded up like fans at the edges. "Nothing to bother yourself over."
Robin sniffled, once, but he was no baby. He squared his shoulders and met Batman's eye. "Promise?"
Batman pulled off his glove, so it was Bruce who pressed his hand against the R on Robin's chest. "I promise."
Robin pulled off his own glove, then untied his mask and draped it over his shoulder. Hands and face bare, he covered Bruce's hand with his own and nodded. "Okay. I believe you."
He hoped Bruce couldn't feel his heart thumping against his rib cage. He suspected, however, that Bruce *could*. Bruce and Batman could do just about anything.
*
Despite the occasional pang of guilt, Robin very much enjoyed his visits to Natasha's cabaret, especially the conversations. Everyone was so interesting and had such strange stories to tell. Edward, for instance, had worked for the Gotham City office of the Department of Commerce until very recently. Now he was a waiter at a diner on Samson and regaled them with tales of the early-morning breakfast rush. Belle lived with her ailing mother and great-aunt all the way across town, near the Tricorner yards; she could only go out those nights when her sister took over their care.
He continued to be surprised -- in the most pleasant sense, naturally -- at how easily the patrons got along. They got along with each other -- though of course Dick was familiar with manly friendship -- as well as with the women. Moreover, the regulars came from all walks of life, yet they mixed and teased and conversed with great comfort.
Perhaps things changed once you were out of school. Robin was used to the much stricter divisions and hierarchies at school. It started simply with girls versus boys, and then within each group, rigid gradations and cliques. Boys could be athletes or scholars, hoods or normals. Because he had been lucky enough to meet Bruce, Dick Grayson ate lunch with the well-off kids. He made good grades and played shortstop on the junior varsity baseball squad. Exerting his considerable athletic gifts to make varsity would not have been fair. He didn't mind that much.
What he had seen of Bruce's world seemed to be a microcosm of his own. The same people attended each and every party, the men congregating in the west library for cigars while the women chatted outside in the garden.
Here, however, in the smoky, flushed haze of the bar, very few lines obtained. He found it terribly exciting.
*
One night, Robin arrived at the bar earlier than usual. Batman had needed to be down at the docks to meet an informant, so he dropped Robin off before heading over.
"You're sure you don't need me?" Robin asked. "Snitches can be terrifically wily, after all --"
"Don't fret," Batman replied. "I'm sure I can handle it. Besides, you have important work to do."
It didn't feel very important. He wasn't making any progress with his investigation *and* he was leaving Batman without backup.
Robin tried not to scowl as he pushed into the bar's main room, even though a scowl would not have been out of place in his disguise. In his distraction, he almost bumped into a slender young man in a shabby suit, carrying a ladies' hat box and small satchel.
"Creesus, I'm sorry --" he said, and winced at the curse as he retrieved the hat box. It was unusually heavy, which confounded him and aroused his suspicions until he handed it back to the man. He recognized the angular lines of the man's face. Without cosmetics, however, those features were a little blurry, dishwater-pale. "*Belle*, is that you?"
Belle gave him half a smile. "Not yet. Give me ten minutes, honey."
Laurence and Gilbert hailed Robin then, and he hurried to join them. They were both physical culture *fanatics* and wanted his opinion on the upcoming heavyweight fight. Robin sipped seltzer water and tried to restrain his enthusiasm for Ted Grant's chances. Laurence disagreed, but his reasons for preferring the challenger, Spunky Spence, were unclear.
Robin chatted with them a little longer, until Gilbert got up to dance. Robin waited at the bar for another fizzy water, tapping his fingers and feet to the swelling, romantic music. Natasha was occupied, huddling behind the bar with a figure Robin could not make out. He leaned a little closer and slid down the bar, looking for all the world as Laurence frequently described him: "Lad on the make, that's our Robbie."
*Our* Robbie: the term made Robin's head throb in an unusual, vaguely painful way. The folks who came here seemed such nice types. A little worn around the edges, to be sure, and they often rattled off argot that Robin could not penetrate, but they didn't *seem* to be any worse than any other group in Gotham. He had to remind himself, sternly, with something of Alfred's stentorian tone, that they were all suspects. What's more, they were all *degenerates*. He did not belong to them, no matter how well they danced or how charmingly eccentric their conversations proved to be.
Natasha tapped him on the shoulder. "What'll it be?"
"Seltzer." Robin handed her the glass and squinted after the retreating figure of her interlocutor. The fair, sparse hair on the back of his head suggested Officer Kerr, but Kerr was surely walking his beat, not visiting this place in plainclothes. He was far too much a flatfoot to become a detective now.
"Eyes to yourself," Natasha said under her breath as she passed him back the glass. "Remember what happened to the cat."
Robin blinked at her. "Catwoman, you mean?"
Throwing back her head and laughing, Natasha slapped him on the shoulder. She was strong, nearly knocking him off balance; the seltzer slopped over his bare arm. "You're all right, kiddo," she said, tossing him a rag.
"Thanks," Robin told her, mopping off his arm, though he had no idea *why* she was praising him. Out of the corner of his eye, a vision in tulle and platinum approached. Belle slid onto a stool next to him, leaning slightly so he could kiss her check. "Belle!"
"That's right, sweetness." Belle waved an imperious hand and Natasha moved to mix the usual Brandy Alexander. "How's my favorite little hood tonight?"
"Swell," Robin said, lying through his teeth. The discomfort evaporated, however, the longer he gazed at Belle. "You look *toothsome*."
Belle smiled, her shiny, cherry-red lips moving like Superman's cape. "That's the idea, yes." She sipped at her cocktail delicately. "Romance, though, it's an unpredictable beast. Sly and devious, always slipping just out of reach."
Robin nodded. "You can say that again."
"What's the bother?" Belle set aside her drink and took Robbie's arm. "Let's dance our troubles away."
"You're on!" He led her to the dance floor and reminded his feet that he was leading this time. Pressed up against him, Belle felt like a warm, familiar pillow, brightly painted and smelling *so* sweet. It was almost impossible to square this gorgeous, graceful creature with the sad, drab young man he'd seen earlier. Belle was like Cinderella, Robin thought, trapped by mean relatives, only escaping to the ball for a brief time. Little did she know that this ball was a nest of vipers.
"Belle?" he asked when the song ended and she waved her hand before her face, pleading tiredness. "Why do you come here?"
She pinched his cheek. "Same reason you do. Friendly faces."
Robin rested his cheek on his hand, mulling that over. "Friendly faces," he said, more for the recording watch than anything in front of him. "Dressing up to go out at night as someone else --"
"Someone else?" Belle laughed, a tinkling sound like crystal and snowfall. "You can't honestly tell me you're not yourself. Not *here*, of all places."
Robin did not know what to say to that. Anything he might have said would, he knew with a weighty, certain *force*, turn her frock back to rags, her coach to a pumpkin. Instead, he asked her to dance again and basked in her dazzling smile.
*
The next night of Robin's undercover work began under a cloud and only darkened from there.
On the drive through Old Gotham to the East End, Batman was more curt than ever. Robin felt truly guilty for cavorting in a bar while leaving Batman to do all of their *real* work. Then, at the bar itself, the calculator -- whose name was Francis -- got into an argument with one of the working stiffs, a huge man named Ned.
Robin watched in amazement as Red Natasha and Gertie, the largest of the suit-jacketed women, separated the two men. He wanted to cover his ears against the stream of vulgarity issuing from both of them. Accusations and recriminations flew fast and furious until the large doorman, Tiny Tito, lumbered into the bar and threw them both out.
After that, the mood in the bar became morose shading to utterly glum. Robin had to swallow his need to cheer everyone up. That wasn't his place, not here. He tried to remind himself, further, that these people were not his friends, but suspects; that attempt failed. while the former succeeded.
He remained in a tight-knit group in the far corner from the door, listening to Gilbert and Edward debate the potential longevity of Schoenberg's atonal revolution while Laurence contributed the occasional wry remark.
When Edward departed for the restroom, the conversation paused. Seeing his chance, Robin asked as casually as he could, "What about opera?"
Laurence rolled his eyes heavenward. "Wayne's folly? It will close in a month!"
Gilbert laughed and carefully wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Either he was not using his real name or he'd purchased the handkerchief in a secondhand shop, because the monogram read *JMK*. "Now, now, that's not entirely fair. Our own Sylvia --" He tipped his head toward a stooped, portly man hovering at the edge of the dance floor, the least likely looking Sylvia Robin could imagine. "-- is in the chorus."
"What's wrong with the opera?" Robin leaned forward. He planted his elbows on the table, a sight which would have made Alfred clutch his breast.
"Nothing, nothing a'tall," Laurence replied and caught Gilbert's eye. "That is, if one appreciates cant, treacle, and retrograde ideals of art."
"Mm." Robin turned his wrist, making as if to check his watch, but actually hoping it was picking up this conversation. "You don't say."
"Enough of this *kulturpolitik*," Edward announced as he retook his seat. He pulled it in a little too close for Robin's comfort, slinging his arm around the back of Robin's own highbacked chair. "Down to the nitty-gritty. What *do* you think possessed our fair Francis tonight?"
They set to gossiping like upstairs maids, an expression he'd heard from Alfred, and barely glanced up when Dick managed to extricate himself from Edward's advances. He joined another table, mostly women, and tried to talk about opera some more. Unfortunately, the girls were far more intent on discussing the state of the local economy. Robin had to shake off the feeling of failure and was able, at least, to get the names of several union leaders and other labor agitators.
When the Bat-Mobile picked him up, Batman's blank face mirrored, Dick thought, his own gloomy mien. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
"Some nights are better than others," Batman reminded him in the cave's dressing room. "A mugger slipped through my hands. What happened to you?"
Robin unbuttoned his shirt, waiting until he'd hung it up to reply. Nothing of import *had* happened to him. That was the problem. "Not sure," he said at last, stepping out of the sharkskin trousers.
"It can be useful to go through the night in sequence," Batman said. He hung up the cowl and cape and when he turned around, wearing just his undershirt and shorts, he was Bruce again. He smiled warmly at Dick. "What's the first thing you remember?"
"A fight," Dick said, taking Bruce's hand. "Francis and Ned had a fight."
"And who are Francis and Ned?"
Dick shook his head. "Just two men."
Bruce led him upstairs, steering him gently into the study. "Were you hurt?" he asked as he pulled Dick onto his lap.
"No, no, nothing like that." Dick twisted around until he had his arm around Bruce's neck. "The things they *said*, Bruce. It was horrible."
"Hm." Bruce rubbed the goosebumps on Dick's calf absentmindedly. "Anything you care to repeat?"
"No," Dick said firmly. "It wasn't so much what they said -- that was bad enough. They were so *angry*. Like...like they wanted to claw each other's eyes out."
"Well, you've seen what rage and violence can wreak," Bruce said gently. "It's never pretty."
"True." Dick lay his cheek against the knob of Bruce's shoulder and traced the line of Bruce's jaw with his index finger. "I guess they were very good chums. Francis and Ned, I mean. To get so angry at each other."
"Erm --" Bruce shifted a little, the snaps on his drawers catching the back of Dick's thigh. "Something like that, I suppose."
Dick drew a little ways back in order to see Bruce clearly. "You don't agree? But, oh, Bruce, if you'd seen them --"
"Sssh," Bruce said and pulled Dick up against his chest again. He passed his hand over Dick's hair. "Perhaps they were."
Dick drew a deep breath, full of Bruce's own particular scent. Lime aftershave, the faint tang of sweat, and something that was just *Bruce*, something that he'd given up on naming. "I hope we don't fight like that," he said, his fingers closing in Bruce's undershirt and holding on. "Never-ever."
"You think..." Bruce's voice trailed off into a sigh. He resumed stroking Dick's hair and the shell of his ear. "We're nothing like them, Dick. You must remember that."
Dick squirmed a little closer and relaxed his hold on Bruce's undershirt. "I'm trying to."
Sighing again, Bruce slid his hand under Dick's buttocks and rearranged him. He squeezed Dick there, fingers resting just under the snug hem of Dick's jockey shorts.
"What's wrong?" Dick asked sleepily.
Bruce said nothing for a long while. Finally, just as Dick felt his legs twitch and warmth begin to pool in his groin, he said, "The consequences of this may have been --" Bruce took a breath. "Underestimated."
Dick did open his eyes to that. "I'm trying, I truly am."
"Of course you are, lad." Bruce pecked Dick's cheek and tightened the hug. "I don't doubt that for a moment."
*
The next day, Dick met Bruce at his office. Such visits were rare treats, but Bruce had had a long day, Alfred told Dick in the car. He could do with some cheer.
"I'll do my best," Dick said, tearing open the wax paper that held his after-school sandwich. He was excited to tell Bruce about that day's history lesson -- the English Civil War was one of Bruce's enthusiasms -- and physical education, where they had started to learn the fox trot.
Dick already knew several dances, classic and modern, but he thought he might be able to get Bruce to practice with him. As homework.
"Call down when you're ready to leave," Alfred told him as he opened the door. Dick usually tried to beat him to that courtesy, but today he was weighed down with his school satchel and half-eaten sandwich.
"Sure thing!" He slid off the seat and grinned. "Thanks, Alfred!"
Dick always caught his breath when he entered the Wayne Building. As one passed through the narrow revolving door, its lobby opened up like a jewelry box. Wide expanses of marble were offset by glittering brass ornaments. The new mural, commissioned from a student of Rivera, stretched across the back wall. Entitled "The Triumph of Personal Industry and the Pleasures of Civic Duty", it was nearly thirty feet long. Squinting, Dick could pretend that the figure in the lead was Bruce. While Bruce had refused all appeals to *pose* for the work, the figure's dark hair and broad shoulders clearly indicated its source.
Though it was a good hour until the offices started closing, the lobby swarmed with people rushing about their business. Dick waved to his friend Ronnie, who manned the newsstand in the corner, as he got caught up in the wave of people making for the elevators.
"Twenty-eight, please," he said when the elevator man asked for floors. The crowd quieted and Dick stood up a little straighter. The elevator man's thumb hovered over the top button for a moment longer. When he depressed it, Dick smiled. "Thank you."
The carriage stopped at nearly every floor. On the nineteenth, Dick saw his friend -- no, suspect -- no, that wasn't right, either. On the nineteenth floor, he saw Francis. Drab in a gray flannel suit, with sloping shoulders and thin mouth, Francis walked briskly down the hall. He might have seen Dick; it was unclear.
At any rate, Dick could hardly greet him.
It was all quite *vexing*. All the more so because Miss Hoyt, Bruce's secretary, made Dick wait for what seemed like hours before buzzing him inside.
Bruce sat at his desk, looking for all the world like Atlas. When he saw Dick, however, his expression at once brightened and sharpened.
It was always slightly confusing to see Bruce shift between his public face and what Dick thought of as his Manor one.
"What's wrong?" Bruce pushed away from the desk and patted the windowsill. After tugging off his school sweater, Dick jumped up on it, hugging his knees to his chest, perching like a cat.
"Nothing," he said. Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I saw...someone."
"Ahh."
"From --" Dick looked around. "The *place*."
"Here?" Bruce asked. He sounded genuinely surprised.
"It's different," Dick said. Bruce loosely gripped Dick's ankle, rubbing a soothing tattoo into his calf. Exhaling slowly, Dick smiled at him. "Thanks. Sorry. Being silly."
"Not at all. What's his name?"
Dick bit his lip. "Um, why?" He was trying to sort out *why* he felt so off-balance; he'd expected that Bruce would help smooth out his confusion. But Bruce seemed to be thinking along an entirely different track.
With his free hand, Bruce reached for his corporation Rolodex, one of three on his desk; the others were dedicated to civic and political leaders and social contacts. "Because if someone like that is working for me, I need to know."
Worry went spiky in the center of Dick's chest. "I don't know his name. Probably he was just visiting. Maybe he's a courier."
Bruce's hold tightened slightly on Dick's ankle, then eased. "All right. Now, how was school?"
Dick swallowed once. Lying to Bruce would be a terrible thing. *Waiting* to tell him the truth was nearly as bad, but in the interests of his mission, perhaps it could be justified. "School was great! Mr. Lenahan talked about Oliver Cromwell for half an hour and did you know that his head blew off its pike in a storm and someone *sold* it?"
Bruce's hand slipped up inside Dick's pantleg and he tugged Dick forward until, finally, Dick could hug his friend. "Yes, I did know that. But your enthusiasm is, as ever, infectious."
"It's just so disgusting!" Dick wriggled a little and hooked his legs over Bruce's, his usual signal to get Bruce to spin his chair. Bruce laughed and complied as Dick beat his heels against Bruce's legs. "Faster -- whee!"
*
A few nights later, Robin found himself dancing exclusively with a tall, dark young man named Pedro. He hailed from Mantegua and spoke with a sultry lilt. Although Robin could not let slip that he had, in fact, visited Pedro's small, fiercely beautiful country, he was able to ask after its Presidente, dear Señor Camaran.
Pedro's face darkened at the mention of Camaran. "He was a tyrant without equal! My people are lucky to be rid of him. Worm! Vampire!"
Robin looked anxiously around. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, so he continued dancing. "He was very nice." Pedro shook his head, dislodging his sleek black hair; disheveled, he looked to be all of twenty years old. "In the papers, I mean. When he visited."
"Soon los Mantegueanos shall be truly free," Pedro continued, as if Robin hadn't spoke.
Here, at last, might the subversive agitation that Robin was duty-bound to uncover. With great effort, he managed to tug the fuming Pedro over to a free table. "You don't say. Liberation, eh? Maybe even..." He looked around, just once, and lowered his voice. "*Revolution*?"
"Sí, sí!" Pedro nodded vehemently.
"And you're in Gotham to aid this effort?" Robin's mind danced with the possibilities -- gunrunning! White slavery! Money-laundering!
"Ah, I can only dream," Pedro said sadly and took Robin's hand. "Alas, I am only a student in exile, seeking -- how do you say? -- congenial company."
He kissed Robin's hand. Very elegantly, it must be said, and Robin found it quite distressing that interrogation should be so much easier when he could kick and punch. His hand tingled warmly while his head swam. "Oh. I'm very glad that you --" Pedro's fingers slipped up the underside of Robin's bare arm. It felt very nice. It felt -- "*Wow*."
Luckily, at that moment, Gilbert crashed into their table, setting the drinks flying and soaking the front of Pedro's shirt. Highly inebriated, Gilbert appeared to be simultaneously weeping and singing.
Robin extricated himself from the cursing Pedro and helped Gilbert out of the bar, and from there, to the quiet side street where he lived.
"It takes *this*," Gilbert lamented, gesturing at his bedraggled clothing and tear-stained face, "to get you to come home with me. Oh, Robbie, I -- this world -- so terrible, cruel and lonely --"
"There, there." Robin patted Gilbert's arm and hurried them across the street.
Gilbert wailed and stumbled, flinging out his arms and clutching his throat as if he were choking. He certainly was a *passionate* man, but Robin could not help thinking that liquor was far from a good idea in the face of such passion.
They made it up six flights of narrow, high stairs with Robin begging and cajoling Gilbert to be quiet all the while. Gilbert sank against Robin's shoulder and fumbled open the lock.
Robin could not hide his shock when he finally saw Gilbert's room. Gilbert seemed so sophisticated, so *refined*, that it should have been impossible for him to live *here*. Tenements overcrowded with immigrants were far more better kept than this hovel. It was a squalid single room, barely wide enough for the single bed that abutted a cold-water sink. Clothes were strewn over every surface, while ashes and cigarette ends covered the floor. The air smelled damp, slightly mildewed and entirely shut-up.
Gilbert drew himself up haughtily and pawed at his hair. "I'm not quite set up for entertaining, I'm afraid." When Robin did not reply, Gilbert fell back dramatically across the bed, covering his face with his hands. "Oh, beauty! Oh, youth! What you must think of me..."
Robin tucked a blanket over Gilbert and brought him a smudged jelly-glass full of cloudy water. He turned the radio to WGBS's Songbird of the Wee Hours and hummed along. When Gilbert had dozed off, Robin quickly tidied the room. If he snooped while he did so, pocketing Gilbert's leatherbound address book and a few lurid paperback books, that was because this was his duty.
He did not enjoy performing that duty. Not tonight.
Robin kept quiet, after meeting Batman at the usual rendezvous, and all through the drive home. Batman appeared to respect that silence.
It was not until they pulled into the Cave's garage that Batman touched Robin's knee. "Everything go smoothly?"
Robin rubbed the back of his neck, something he'd seen Batman do a thousand times. "Maybe I'm no good for undercover work."
Batman switched off the ignition and tousled Robin's hair. "Nonsense." When they entered the main area of the Cave, he pushed Robin toward the exercise mats. "Now, why don't you work off some of those doldrums while I do the filing?"
"Okay." Robin stripped off Robbie's bar clothes and stood for a moment, bouncing on the springy exercise mats, at a loss for what to do first. A bat tumbled from the ceiling, twisting in midair before it started to beat its wings, rising back into the dark. It had been too long since Dick had really *flown*, and so his mind was made up.
From a running start, he jumped straight up, grasping the rings and swinging for a bit. He ran through a series of basic exercises, mostly strength holds and inverted crosses. Hanging upside down, this far off the ground, felt...*right*.
It always had and, Robin suspected, it always would. Bruce fit behind a desk and Alfred fit the entire manor, but Dick and Robin belonged up here. He wasn't immune to gravity, not like Superman; instead, he played *with* gravity, teasing its insistent tug, swinging just a hairsbreadth beyond its reach.
"Robin."
This high up, Robin could not quite make out Batman's tone. After two more Maltese crosses, he dropped and crossed over to the desk. "Here."
Batman did not turn. He had the Dictaphone's earpiece cradled against his shoulder and tapped it once, indicating that he was listening to Robin's tape. "Who is Pedro?"
"Manteguan national. Possible revolutionary, but I don't think so."
"Is he in your report?"
"Of course." Robin bent at the waist and wiped his face. "Why wouldn't he be?"
Batman toggled off the player and replaced the audio receiver in its cradle. Then, and only then, he turned around.
Everything appeared to occur with great deliberation and slowness. Robin bounced once on his tiptoes, longing for the air.
continues in part 2
Title: The Pleasures of Civic Duty
Fandom: DCU: Golden Age.
Pairing: Bruce/Dick, Batman/Robin
Summary: "Just a boy good at heart, more brave than a man -- too brave to *become* a man."
Rating: Adult.
Disclaimer: Kane & Finger, not I.
Warnings: Intergenerational content some most readers may find disturbing and (thankfully) *obsolete* social values that everyone should find disturbing. I'm not kidding about the Golden Age setting, okay?
Notes: Summary from Batman #496. Contextually, Bruce is talking about Jason. But metatextually, it's about *Robin*. Cut-tag text from Fields & Kern. Enormous thanks to Petra for encouraging, indulging, and audiencing and thenotoriousg for rolling up her sleeves and beta'ing the hell out of this.
*
Commissioner Gordon looked up from his cluttered desk. "I'm glad you're here." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily.
Robin tilted his head. "Gee, Mr. Gordon, you seem upset. What's wrong?"
"Yes," Batman said, squeezing Robin's shoulder. He had often told the lad that he was quite sensitive. It was one of his most endearing traits. "You're unusually glum."
Gordon pushed away a stack of papers. His mustaches drooped dejectedly. "It's these g-- d-- perverts. First the reefer gangs infiltrated the schools, now we have these *artistes* congregating in the East End."
"There's that new opera house on Post Road and Wiltwyck." Robin rubbed his hands together. He tried to concentrate on his excitement, letting pass unnoted Gordon's uncharacteristic vulgarity. "They're opening next month with *Otello*!"
"Robin's very musical," Batman noted. Robin looked up at his best pal and grinned.
"Yes," Gordon replied. "I have tickets for the wife and me opening night. Can't say I understand the fun of listening to them warble along in a foreign language, but --" He licked his lip nervously. "Look here, men. May I speak frankly?"
"Of course!" Robin leaned in eagerly, pleased as ever to be included among the men.
"I'm all for culture, as much as the next man," Gordon started, then looked down at his hands. "But I'm *baffled* why an upstanding citizen like Bruce Wayne would fund this sort of..."
Robin tried not to wring his hands together. Luckily, Batman always knew what to say. "I imagine," he said and cleared his throat, "that he believed an opera house would contribute to the moral uplift of the populace."
Gordon flushed a deep red. "That's just it!"
"You mentioned a congregation of...perverts, was it?" Batman asked gently.
"These theatrical types! They're everywhere! In *coffee-houses*!" Gordon spluttered. "And booze-cans! Having...*meetings*."
Robin knew that the detective's best option was to listen and observe. He did so, sparing only a few worried glances up at Batman.
"Would you like us to keep an eye on them?" Batman patted Dick's back and the touch helped the boy relax slightly.
"Yes," Gordon said, rather morosely. "I know this isn't your regular sort of thing, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm at a loss here." His thick eyebrows drew together over his nose. "They aren't gunsels or mooks or even J.D.s. I fear they're *worse*."
"We'd be happy to look into it," Batman said.
"We'll do everything we can!" Robin said and scurried around Gordon's desk to pat the man's arm. "No job's too small."
Gordon gave him a small smile. "Gotham's changing, my friends."
Robin had the urge to chuck the Commissioner under the chin, much as Bruce did when Dick fretted over his math homework. "Not if we have anything to do with it!"
*
Dick had a lot of homework that week. He kicked his desk in frustration on the third night, only turning around when he heard Bruce 'hmph' softly.
"Steady on," Bruce told him over the top of his newspaper. Bruce read fourteen papers a day, both morning and evening editions. While their butler, Alfred, often flagged notable stories for him, Bruce still diligently read every item.
Dick waved his arms. "The principal exports of the Panama Zone?! The list doesn't even mention the marijuana and we busted that shipment just last week!"
"Hmph," Bruce said again. "Here's something."
"What is it?"
"Finish your geography," Bruce told him, "and then we'll go downstairs."
Dick could see Bruce's large, strong hands gripping the paper rather more tightly than usual. The paper trembled as Bruce's neatly-manicured fingers curled.
The prospect of descending down to the cave was more than enough to spur Dick through the rest of his homework. The cave was his favorite place in the manor, aside from this little study just off their bedroom. Down there, they had *work* to do. And while work could be oftentimes even more frustrating than Western Civ and the quadratic equations, it was worth it.
"Done!" He tossed down his pencil, then remembered his manners and placed it carefully in the thick porcelain mug that held his pens and protractor.
"Let me see --" Bruce stood behind him, bent slightly at the waist, to inspect Dick's papers. He rested his hand lightly on the back of Dick's neck, his thumb moving slowly. He'd put on his reading-glasses.
Dick used to tease Bruce about those glasses until Alfred mentioned one day over breakfast that it was not "done" to mock other's frailties, however small. "No matter how vain the recipient is," he'd added with a significant Look at Bruce's empty chair.
Dick straightened his posture. Bruce squeezed his neck, just once, before setting the papers back down. "Well done."
Dick grinned up at him. Bruce was the smartest person he'd ever met. He made Dick's teachers look slipshod. "It's all about concentrating."
"Indeed." Bruce's thumb slipped down Dick's throat and came to rest just over his pulse point. Dick held his breath and closed his eyes, wondering what Bruce was considering. "Now, shall we?"
"Um, yes," Dick said, releasing his hands from the fists he hadn't noticed making. "Go downstairs, you mean?"
Bruce was already at the door. He stuck his head back in. "Yes. Unless you're having trouble concentrating?"
"Nope." Dick sprang up and followed Bruce out into the hall and down the stairs. While Bruce spun the lock behind the grandfather clock, Dick took the opportunity to adjust the hang of his slacks and return his breathing back to a regular rate.
It was a welcome relief to don his Robin suit. With the cape fluttering behind him and the shorts holding him snugly, Dick felt much *stronger* than he ever did in his civilian outfits. He doubted he'd ever understand how Bruce managed to look at once imposing and at ease whether he was being Batman or relaxing in one of his purple velvet house robes. Maybe it was one of those things that came with age, as Alfred and Bruce kept telling him.
"Is there a gang to bust? Mob conspiracies to break open?" Robin bounded over to Batman's worktable and stopped short when he saw that Batman had the scale-model of Gotham City opened.
Batman was bent over the East End. The opera house had not yet been added to the corner of Post Road and Wiltwyck. That was because it wasn't finished; in its place, a toothpick model of its frame rose instead.
"You're worried about the opera people?" Robin squatted down until he was eye-level with the model. From this angle, he could see all the way down Wiltwyck Avenue. It was one of the brighter spots in the East End, quite broad with evenly-spaced, formerly-grand buildings. Once, on a slow night, he had walked on his hands across two blocks' worth of those buildings. He smiled at them now.
"Yes, I am," Batman said. "Commissioner Gordon does not excite easily, as you well know."
Robin winced. He remembered all too well how poorly their surprise party for the commissioner had gone last year. *That* disaster had made Batman's prank on Superman's Arctic fortress seem like a winner in comparison.
"Look down Post Road, if you will," Batman added.
Robin complied. Post Road sported much more irregular rooftops, tenements and twisty alleyways that often confounded even the most hardened mugger in his flight. "Oooh," he breathed.
"Precisely." Batman clucked his tongue, once, against his teeth and Robin beamed up at him. "Good work, Robin."
"Thanks, but it's obvious once you see it --" He removed the glove from his right hand and pointed to where Post Road took a sudden jog, angling back to meet the mews abutting the back of the Opera House. "That's where Red Natasha's boozecan was!"
"Yes. Word on the, ah, 'street', as it were, is that she's back in business." Batman clapped him on the shoulder. "Robin, you're going undercover."
He gaped as Batman strode to the triple-wide wardrobe which held their costumes.
"You'll blend in nicely," Batman told him. Robin was never quite certain *how* Batman knew what he was thinking. Especially with his back turned. "I'm afraid that Bruce Wayne's face is rather too well-known."
That was true. Bruce's photograph often featured on both the business and society pages. Robin's scrapbook was proof enough of *that*.
Regretfully, Robin stripped off his costume and waited, shivering, while Batman flicked through the hangers.
Batman selected an odd disguise, the elements of which Robin had never seen before. He was never going to be sanguine about the resources that Batman commanded; he didn't *want* to be.
"Ahh," Batman said when he handed the trousers to Robin. His mask wrinkled as he gazed at Robin's midriff, then...lower. "Do you require some aid?"
Robin wanted to bite his lip. He did not and instead returned Batman's look. "I'm all right."
"Are you ashamed?" Batman's voice was quiet, far more similar to Bruce's own than seemed appropriate for the cave.
Robin took a deep breath. "No. It's just." He closed his eyes, missing his own mask. "A physiological response. To stimulation and, and."
"Precisely," Batman said. His touch -- one hand on Robin's shoulder, the other in his groin -- was firm. Robin felt the muscles in his thighs twitch as Batman ministered to him. The gloves were smooth and hid the heat that Bruce's hands always held, but their grip felt just as good. Only different.
Robin chewed the inside of his cheek and let out a high-pitched sigh as relief overcame him.
"Very good," Batman said, then held up his sticky glove to lick it clean. Onanism was one thing, but cleanliness was always important. "Now, try on that disguise, would you?"
Shivering a little, goosebumps raking his chest and arms, Robin did so. The disguise consisted of tight, pegged pants and a nylon shirt. His cheeks were very hot and he squirmed against the unfamiliar textures.
Somehow, illogically, it seemed that dressing as a girl was more comfortable.
"Excellent." Batman next dipped his fingers into a pot of pomade.
Robin wrinkled his nose. "That stinks."
"Yes." Batman's bare hand hovered between them, as if waiting for permission.
"Put it on," Robin said. "All part of the disguise, right?"
After combing Robin's hair into a messy ducktail, Batman cleaned his hand and cupped Robin's cheeks. "How do you feel?"
"Um," Robin said. "Not like *me*, that's for sure."
Batman laughed fondly. "You're not supposed to."
"Good, I guess." Robin touched the side of his head and grimaced at the greasiness. He looked like one of the older boys, the ones who hung around outside school, smoking and whistling at girls and discussing their cars' horsepower. He squared his shoulders and looked up at Batman. "Are we ready?"
"Do you have everything?"
Robin patted his pockets. "Stun spray, wallet -- you didn't need to give ten dollars, sheesh, that's *a lot* -- yep. Everything."
"Radio-Memo-Watch?"
Robin held up his wrist. The gadget told time, sure, but it also transmitted to Batman *and* contained a miniaturized recorder for his notes and observations. "Got it."
"Well," Batman said. "I'd say you're ready."
Yet he seemed to hesitate. Robin bounced on his toes. Batman smiled vaguely at him, his body still as if preparing for flight, then clapped his hand down on Robin's shoulder.
*
The Bat-Mobile let Robin out eight blocks away. He sauntered towards the site of Red Natasha's, letting himself enjoy being out alone in the big city without a mask or cape. At the end of an alley, a narrow door cut into the back of a grimy woodframe building waited for him.
A large Italian man guarding the door asked for the password.
"Sob sister," Robin said in his best East End accent. Batman had refused to tell him how *he* knew the password.
The doorman grunted, barely looking up from his racing sheet, and pushed the door open. Robin traversed the long, narrow hallway in utter darkness. As a crimefighter, he had been in plenty of gin joints and taprooms, but they nearly always were rooms that opened right up. This was the first *hidden* one he'd ever seen.
Finally, the passage ended at another door. Robin pushed it open and slid inside.
It took him a long while to grow accustomed to the atmosphere. At first glance, this bar was no different from any other. Bouncy music played on a jukebox and several couples danced with varying degrees of grace. A long counter at the back of the room sported beer taps and shelves of alcohol, while small tables were clustered around the other three walls.
He bought a snort of brandy and sat with it at one table. Gradually, the *strangeness* of this place began to sink in. The bartender was a woman -- Red Natasha had black hair, cropped close to her skull -- and the dancing couples were all of the same sex. Men with men, women with women.
He remembered the first time he'd seen black men dancing with white women. Batman told him then that society was often unjust and that it was their job to help it along the rocky path *toward* justice. So Robin did not allow himself to be shocked. Much.
What's more, the bar's clientele wasn't simply sex-segregated. He observed well-dressed young men who wouldn't be out of place on a college campus or downtown at one of the office towers dancing or chatting with rough-hewn blue-collar types. Some of the women looked absolutely trashy, yet they spoke much more than amiably with lovely girls who were clearly their social betters.
Robin was confused. He was, however, here on a mission. It was his duty to look, listen, and *learn*.
As the night wore on, he found himself enjoying his visit. He met a really older guy named Gilbert who studied Classics at Gotham University and was very excited about a friend named Al Sibiades. Robin supposed that was an immigrant name, perhaps one of the dockworkers in the corner. He danced with a tall young man who worked at Wayne Industries in their accounting division as a calculator.
"I'm Robbie Ma--" Robin started when his partner asked his name.
"No last names, sugar," the calculator said with a smile.
Robin nodded as wisely as he could and said something vaguely blaming the brandy.
He wasn't actually drinking, of course. Aside from Bruce's extensive collection of French wines, alcohol was a refuge for the weak-willed and hopeless. Robin hoped that he was neither.
He proved to be quite popular. One of the older gents, wearing a shabby topcoat and canvas tennis shoes, told his friends that it was "fresh chicken night". Robin didn't know what that meant, and he didn't have time to ask, because someone else was asking him to dance.
This suitor -- the term made Robin giggle when he spoke it into his watch, but it was, really, the most appropriate -- was fair-haired and hook-nosed. He seemed slightly familiar, but Robin could not place his face. He danced, however, like a dream, an Astaire in this smoke-wreathed place, and Robin snuggled close to his fragrant vest.
"Enjoying yourself?" the man asked.
"I love this tune!" Robin said. He drifted on the sweet melodies, enjoying the sway and warmth.
He was startled out of his reverie when a yellow light behind the bar flashed on. His partner swept away and Robin found himself suddenly dancing with a large girl who stepped on his feet.
"Hello?" he said with much bewilderment.
"Hey there," she said. Her voice was deeper than his own.
"Uh, ma'am? You're --" Robin had been shot at and beaten and, once, dropped to the bottom of the harbor trussed up like a pig. But her mauling of his toes was some of the worst pain he'd ever felt.
She laughed throatily. "Don't call me ma'am."
"Sir?" he tried and she spun him around, laughing some more.
"Just hold tight, little one." She breathed into his ear. "And *do* try to butch it up, will you?"
Robin didn't know what *that* meant, either.
Heavy footfalls were coming down the passageway. The door burst open as Robin was twirled and dipped. Three beat cops strode inside.
With Batman, Robin frequently worked closely with the police. They were the protectors of the citizenry, the maintainers of order and the defenders of justice. The sidewise glances and cloaked sneers they were receiving now from the bar's populace baffled Robin. Surely these policemen were simply checking on the liquor license and safety of the denizens.
He recognized one of the cops as Kerr, who'd walked this beat for a good twenty years. Normally, Kerr had a big smile for everyone he passed, and hard candies for the kids. Now, however, he glared around the room, billy club in hand.
"Something to wet your whistle, flatties?" the bartender -- bartendress -- woman behind the bar asked.
Kerr and his men did not reply. Robin hid his face against his partner's ample bosom and continued to dance.
It wasn't much fun any longer.
After a long, strained silence, the cops turned to go. Robin saw Kerr speak to the barmaid, who passed a small envelope his way. He reminded himself to make a note of that into his watch when he was next alone.
When the bar closed shortly after one, Robin made his way back to the rendezvous point. He waited idly on the corner, hands in his pockets, whistling as he rocked on his heels.
Soon enough, a voice from above said, "Robin, report."
He did not look up. Instead, he muttered, "Gimme a gasper, old man."
Batman chuckled as he swept down from his perch, grabbing Robin around the waist and hustling him into the alley where the Bat-Mobile waited. "Still in character, I see."
"Hitting on all eight," Robin said, climbing into the passenger seat.
Batman did not say anything. He didn't even laugh. Robin scowled for a while until he didn't.
*
Back in the cave, Robin pulled off the disguise as quickly as he could, changing back into Dick's clothes. They felt a lot looser, more natural, than the disguise.
Batman sat at his grand desk, transferring the tape of Robin's observations to the Cave's memex device.
"Did it work?" Robin asked, joining him at the desk. "I tried to include descriptions, but --"
"Other than the ambient noise, yes," Batman said. When Robin yawned hugely, Batman spared him a glance. "Tired?"
"A little," Robin admitted.
"Go to bed, then."
Things were so much more *simple* back here in the Cave. Batman, like Bruce, always knew the right thing to do and say.
Gratefully, Robin grinned and hugged Batman around the neck. "Okay. See you soon!"
"Bathe first," Batman said as he stiffened. "You reek of...that world."
"Oh." Robin made his way slowly up the stairs. In their suite, he soaked for a long time in the bath, until his skin was pink all over, scrubbed as clean as he could make it.
He was exhausted and crawled into bed. He was asleep when Bruce came in, waking only when the mattress dipped slightly. He rolled over and snuggled against Bruce's wide, warm chest. Bruce wrapped his arm around Dick's body and pressed his face into his hair.
"Clean now," Dick murmured sleepily.
"Yes." Bruce's fingers stroked down Dick's back. "Did you have a nice time?"
"It was all right. Lots of dancing."
"I see." Bruce breathed softly over him. Dick felt, distantly, his damp hair stirring. He dozed again.
*
Dick aced his geography test the next day. Alfred baked his favorite spice cake in congratulations.
Later that night, he returned to the strange underworld bar, again as Robbie Malone. This time, he felt much more confident. He moved with a swagger in his step, modeled on the dockworkers' stride, and danced with anyone who asked.
One of his partners was a gorgeous lady who claimed her name was Belle. Contrary to tradition, she spoke her whole name -- Belle de Bahl -- which Robin dutifully repeated into his watch.
She had candy-floss hair and scarlet lips. Robin squinted up admiringly at her, certain that she would not be out of place on Bruce Wayne's arm at one of his many festive functions. Just put her in a nicer dress and she'd be the toast of society, even prettier than Jean Harlow.
"Sweet kid," Belle said when he told her that. When she kissed his forehead, Robin almost swooned from the warmth of her lily-of-the-valley toilet water. He didn't understand why such a pretty lady wanted to dance with *him*, not here, not when there were several handsome women with sleek hair and sleeker suits.
He didn't understand, not until the yellow light flashed again and Belle yanked off her wig and wiped a napkin over her mouth. With a start, Robin realized she was a female impersonator. As a man, Belle was droopy and dishwater-pale; all her dazzling glamour had winked out.
Later, he tried to explain the pang that gave him, right in the center of his chest, but Batman interrupted him. "Keep to the facts, Robin. Was there any subversive talk? Any mention of politics?"
Robin flipped down from his handstand and landed several paces away. "Nope. Gilbert asked if I'd ever heard 'Lady in the Dark' by those German fellows --"
"Brecht is a notorious Red," Batman said. "Good catch. Go on."
"Thanks!" Robin balanced on one foot and bent backwards until his legs were in the air again. On his hands, he paced back and forth in front of the desk. "-- but it turned out he just wanted to invite me over to show off his hi-fi."
Batman was silent. The Cave itself was never silent, not with all the bats and drip-drip of various underground streams, but Robin halted his pacing and watched Batman, waiting for him to speak.
Batman's broad shoulders changed their angle, slanting slightly into his body. He was looking down at something, either on the desk or in his lap. Robin flipped back to his feet and cocked his head.
He would have moved closer -- all his instincts, all his *habit*, urged him to move closer -- but he did not wish to irritate Batman with the bar's smell. Not again.
"Anything else?" Batman asked at last. He turned his head, his cheek twitching with a smile when he saw that Robin was walking the top of one bookcase like it was a high wire.
"Nope." Robin jumped down, turning a single somersault before he landed. "Honestly, Batman. They're real nice folks."
"Very...inviting?" Batman pushed back his mask and Robin blinked at the weariness on Bruce's face.
"Yep! But, um --" He moved forward just enough to capture Batman's gloved hand in his own. "You shouldn't be out there alone."
Bruce rubbed the back of his neck, then his forehead. "I'm sure I'll survive the loneliness."
It hadn't occurred to him that Bruce *or* Batman could even get lonely. He was a terrible friend and before he could stop himself, Robin threw himself forward, hugging Batman around the waist. "I'm sorry! So sorry!"
Batman patted his hair and rubbed circles under Robin's cape. "Nothing to apologize for, lad."
"But you said --"
"Irony." Bruce smiled down at him. His blue eyes folded up like fans at the edges. "Nothing to bother yourself over."
Robin sniffled, once, but he was no baby. He squared his shoulders and met Batman's eye. "Promise?"
Batman pulled off his glove, so it was Bruce who pressed his hand against the R on Robin's chest. "I promise."
Robin pulled off his own glove, then untied his mask and draped it over his shoulder. Hands and face bare, he covered Bruce's hand with his own and nodded. "Okay. I believe you."
He hoped Bruce couldn't feel his heart thumping against his rib cage. He suspected, however, that Bruce *could*. Bruce and Batman could do just about anything.
*
Despite the occasional pang of guilt, Robin very much enjoyed his visits to Natasha's cabaret, especially the conversations. Everyone was so interesting and had such strange stories to tell. Edward, for instance, had worked for the Gotham City office of the Department of Commerce until very recently. Now he was a waiter at a diner on Samson and regaled them with tales of the early-morning breakfast rush. Belle lived with her ailing mother and great-aunt all the way across town, near the Tricorner yards; she could only go out those nights when her sister took over their care.
He continued to be surprised -- in the most pleasant sense, naturally -- at how easily the patrons got along. They got along with each other -- though of course Dick was familiar with manly friendship -- as well as with the women. Moreover, the regulars came from all walks of life, yet they mixed and teased and conversed with great comfort.
Perhaps things changed once you were out of school. Robin was used to the much stricter divisions and hierarchies at school. It started simply with girls versus boys, and then within each group, rigid gradations and cliques. Boys could be athletes or scholars, hoods or normals. Because he had been lucky enough to meet Bruce, Dick Grayson ate lunch with the well-off kids. He made good grades and played shortstop on the junior varsity baseball squad. Exerting his considerable athletic gifts to make varsity would not have been fair. He didn't mind that much.
What he had seen of Bruce's world seemed to be a microcosm of his own. The same people attended each and every party, the men congregating in the west library for cigars while the women chatted outside in the garden.
Here, however, in the smoky, flushed haze of the bar, very few lines obtained. He found it terribly exciting.
*
One night, Robin arrived at the bar earlier than usual. Batman had needed to be down at the docks to meet an informant, so he dropped Robin off before heading over.
"You're sure you don't need me?" Robin asked. "Snitches can be terrifically wily, after all --"
"Don't fret," Batman replied. "I'm sure I can handle it. Besides, you have important work to do."
It didn't feel very important. He wasn't making any progress with his investigation *and* he was leaving Batman without backup.
Robin tried not to scowl as he pushed into the bar's main room, even though a scowl would not have been out of place in his disguise. In his distraction, he almost bumped into a slender young man in a shabby suit, carrying a ladies' hat box and small satchel.
"Creesus, I'm sorry --" he said, and winced at the curse as he retrieved the hat box. It was unusually heavy, which confounded him and aroused his suspicions until he handed it back to the man. He recognized the angular lines of the man's face. Without cosmetics, however, those features were a little blurry, dishwater-pale. "*Belle*, is that you?"
Belle gave him half a smile. "Not yet. Give me ten minutes, honey."
Laurence and Gilbert hailed Robin then, and he hurried to join them. They were both physical culture *fanatics* and wanted his opinion on the upcoming heavyweight fight. Robin sipped seltzer water and tried to restrain his enthusiasm for Ted Grant's chances. Laurence disagreed, but his reasons for preferring the challenger, Spunky Spence, were unclear.
Robin chatted with them a little longer, until Gilbert got up to dance. Robin waited at the bar for another fizzy water, tapping his fingers and feet to the swelling, romantic music. Natasha was occupied, huddling behind the bar with a figure Robin could not make out. He leaned a little closer and slid down the bar, looking for all the world as Laurence frequently described him: "Lad on the make, that's our Robbie."
*Our* Robbie: the term made Robin's head throb in an unusual, vaguely painful way. The folks who came here seemed such nice types. A little worn around the edges, to be sure, and they often rattled off argot that Robin could not penetrate, but they didn't *seem* to be any worse than any other group in Gotham. He had to remind himself, sternly, with something of Alfred's stentorian tone, that they were all suspects. What's more, they were all *degenerates*. He did not belong to them, no matter how well they danced or how charmingly eccentric their conversations proved to be.
Natasha tapped him on the shoulder. "What'll it be?"
"Seltzer." Robin handed her the glass and squinted after the retreating figure of her interlocutor. The fair, sparse hair on the back of his head suggested Officer Kerr, but Kerr was surely walking his beat, not visiting this place in plainclothes. He was far too much a flatfoot to become a detective now.
"Eyes to yourself," Natasha said under her breath as she passed him back the glass. "Remember what happened to the cat."
Robin blinked at her. "Catwoman, you mean?"
Throwing back her head and laughing, Natasha slapped him on the shoulder. She was strong, nearly knocking him off balance; the seltzer slopped over his bare arm. "You're all right, kiddo," she said, tossing him a rag.
"Thanks," Robin told her, mopping off his arm, though he had no idea *why* she was praising him. Out of the corner of his eye, a vision in tulle and platinum approached. Belle slid onto a stool next to him, leaning slightly so he could kiss her check. "Belle!"
"That's right, sweetness." Belle waved an imperious hand and Natasha moved to mix the usual Brandy Alexander. "How's my favorite little hood tonight?"
"Swell," Robin said, lying through his teeth. The discomfort evaporated, however, the longer he gazed at Belle. "You look *toothsome*."
Belle smiled, her shiny, cherry-red lips moving like Superman's cape. "That's the idea, yes." She sipped at her cocktail delicately. "Romance, though, it's an unpredictable beast. Sly and devious, always slipping just out of reach."
Robin nodded. "You can say that again."
"What's the bother?" Belle set aside her drink and took Robbie's arm. "Let's dance our troubles away."
"You're on!" He led her to the dance floor and reminded his feet that he was leading this time. Pressed up against him, Belle felt like a warm, familiar pillow, brightly painted and smelling *so* sweet. It was almost impossible to square this gorgeous, graceful creature with the sad, drab young man he'd seen earlier. Belle was like Cinderella, Robin thought, trapped by mean relatives, only escaping to the ball for a brief time. Little did she know that this ball was a nest of vipers.
"Belle?" he asked when the song ended and she waved her hand before her face, pleading tiredness. "Why do you come here?"
She pinched his cheek. "Same reason you do. Friendly faces."
Robin rested his cheek on his hand, mulling that over. "Friendly faces," he said, more for the recording watch than anything in front of him. "Dressing up to go out at night as someone else --"
"Someone else?" Belle laughed, a tinkling sound like crystal and snowfall. "You can't honestly tell me you're not yourself. Not *here*, of all places."
Robin did not know what to say to that. Anything he might have said would, he knew with a weighty, certain *force*, turn her frock back to rags, her coach to a pumpkin. Instead, he asked her to dance again and basked in her dazzling smile.
*
The next night of Robin's undercover work began under a cloud and only darkened from there.
On the drive through Old Gotham to the East End, Batman was more curt than ever. Robin felt truly guilty for cavorting in a bar while leaving Batman to do all of their *real* work. Then, at the bar itself, the calculator -- whose name was Francis -- got into an argument with one of the working stiffs, a huge man named Ned.
Robin watched in amazement as Red Natasha and Gertie, the largest of the suit-jacketed women, separated the two men. He wanted to cover his ears against the stream of vulgarity issuing from both of them. Accusations and recriminations flew fast and furious until the large doorman, Tiny Tito, lumbered into the bar and threw them both out.
After that, the mood in the bar became morose shading to utterly glum. Robin had to swallow his need to cheer everyone up. That wasn't his place, not here. He tried to remind himself, further, that these people were not his friends, but suspects; that attempt failed. while the former succeeded.
He remained in a tight-knit group in the far corner from the door, listening to Gilbert and Edward debate the potential longevity of Schoenberg's atonal revolution while Laurence contributed the occasional wry remark.
When Edward departed for the restroom, the conversation paused. Seeing his chance, Robin asked as casually as he could, "What about opera?"
Laurence rolled his eyes heavenward. "Wayne's folly? It will close in a month!"
Gilbert laughed and carefully wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Either he was not using his real name or he'd purchased the handkerchief in a secondhand shop, because the monogram read *JMK*. "Now, now, that's not entirely fair. Our own Sylvia --" He tipped his head toward a stooped, portly man hovering at the edge of the dance floor, the least likely looking Sylvia Robin could imagine. "-- is in the chorus."
"What's wrong with the opera?" Robin leaned forward. He planted his elbows on the table, a sight which would have made Alfred clutch his breast.
"Nothing, nothing a'tall," Laurence replied and caught Gilbert's eye. "That is, if one appreciates cant, treacle, and retrograde ideals of art."
"Mm." Robin turned his wrist, making as if to check his watch, but actually hoping it was picking up this conversation. "You don't say."
"Enough of this *kulturpolitik*," Edward announced as he retook his seat. He pulled it in a little too close for Robin's comfort, slinging his arm around the back of Robin's own highbacked chair. "Down to the nitty-gritty. What *do* you think possessed our fair Francis tonight?"
They set to gossiping like upstairs maids, an expression he'd heard from Alfred, and barely glanced up when Dick managed to extricate himself from Edward's advances. He joined another table, mostly women, and tried to talk about opera some more. Unfortunately, the girls were far more intent on discussing the state of the local economy. Robin had to shake off the feeling of failure and was able, at least, to get the names of several union leaders and other labor agitators.
When the Bat-Mobile picked him up, Batman's blank face mirrored, Dick thought, his own gloomy mien. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
"Some nights are better than others," Batman reminded him in the cave's dressing room. "A mugger slipped through my hands. What happened to you?"
Robin unbuttoned his shirt, waiting until he'd hung it up to reply. Nothing of import *had* happened to him. That was the problem. "Not sure," he said at last, stepping out of the sharkskin trousers.
"It can be useful to go through the night in sequence," Batman said. He hung up the cowl and cape and when he turned around, wearing just his undershirt and shorts, he was Bruce again. He smiled warmly at Dick. "What's the first thing you remember?"
"A fight," Dick said, taking Bruce's hand. "Francis and Ned had a fight."
"And who are Francis and Ned?"
Dick shook his head. "Just two men."
Bruce led him upstairs, steering him gently into the study. "Were you hurt?" he asked as he pulled Dick onto his lap.
"No, no, nothing like that." Dick twisted around until he had his arm around Bruce's neck. "The things they *said*, Bruce. It was horrible."
"Hm." Bruce rubbed the goosebumps on Dick's calf absentmindedly. "Anything you care to repeat?"
"No," Dick said firmly. "It wasn't so much what they said -- that was bad enough. They were so *angry*. Like...like they wanted to claw each other's eyes out."
"Well, you've seen what rage and violence can wreak," Bruce said gently. "It's never pretty."
"True." Dick lay his cheek against the knob of Bruce's shoulder and traced the line of Bruce's jaw with his index finger. "I guess they were very good chums. Francis and Ned, I mean. To get so angry at each other."
"Erm --" Bruce shifted a little, the snaps on his drawers catching the back of Dick's thigh. "Something like that, I suppose."
Dick drew a little ways back in order to see Bruce clearly. "You don't agree? But, oh, Bruce, if you'd seen them --"
"Sssh," Bruce said and pulled Dick up against his chest again. He passed his hand over Dick's hair. "Perhaps they were."
Dick drew a deep breath, full of Bruce's own particular scent. Lime aftershave, the faint tang of sweat, and something that was just *Bruce*, something that he'd given up on naming. "I hope we don't fight like that," he said, his fingers closing in Bruce's undershirt and holding on. "Never-ever."
"You think..." Bruce's voice trailed off into a sigh. He resumed stroking Dick's hair and the shell of his ear. "We're nothing like them, Dick. You must remember that."
Dick squirmed a little closer and relaxed his hold on Bruce's undershirt. "I'm trying to."
Sighing again, Bruce slid his hand under Dick's buttocks and rearranged him. He squeezed Dick there, fingers resting just under the snug hem of Dick's jockey shorts.
"What's wrong?" Dick asked sleepily.
Bruce said nothing for a long while. Finally, just as Dick felt his legs twitch and warmth begin to pool in his groin, he said, "The consequences of this may have been --" Bruce took a breath. "Underestimated."
Dick did open his eyes to that. "I'm trying, I truly am."
"Of course you are, lad." Bruce pecked Dick's cheek and tightened the hug. "I don't doubt that for a moment."
*
The next day, Dick met Bruce at his office. Such visits were rare treats, but Bruce had had a long day, Alfred told Dick in the car. He could do with some cheer.
"I'll do my best," Dick said, tearing open the wax paper that held his after-school sandwich. He was excited to tell Bruce about that day's history lesson -- the English Civil War was one of Bruce's enthusiasms -- and physical education, where they had started to learn the fox trot.
Dick already knew several dances, classic and modern, but he thought he might be able to get Bruce to practice with him. As homework.
"Call down when you're ready to leave," Alfred told him as he opened the door. Dick usually tried to beat him to that courtesy, but today he was weighed down with his school satchel and half-eaten sandwich.
"Sure thing!" He slid off the seat and grinned. "Thanks, Alfred!"
Dick always caught his breath when he entered the Wayne Building. As one passed through the narrow revolving door, its lobby opened up like a jewelry box. Wide expanses of marble were offset by glittering brass ornaments. The new mural, commissioned from a student of Rivera, stretched across the back wall. Entitled "The Triumph of Personal Industry and the Pleasures of Civic Duty", it was nearly thirty feet long. Squinting, Dick could pretend that the figure in the lead was Bruce. While Bruce had refused all appeals to *pose* for the work, the figure's dark hair and broad shoulders clearly indicated its source.
Though it was a good hour until the offices started closing, the lobby swarmed with people rushing about their business. Dick waved to his friend Ronnie, who manned the newsstand in the corner, as he got caught up in the wave of people making for the elevators.
"Twenty-eight, please," he said when the elevator man asked for floors. The crowd quieted and Dick stood up a little straighter. The elevator man's thumb hovered over the top button for a moment longer. When he depressed it, Dick smiled. "Thank you."
The carriage stopped at nearly every floor. On the nineteenth, Dick saw his friend -- no, suspect -- no, that wasn't right, either. On the nineteenth floor, he saw Francis. Drab in a gray flannel suit, with sloping shoulders and thin mouth, Francis walked briskly down the hall. He might have seen Dick; it was unclear.
At any rate, Dick could hardly greet him.
It was all quite *vexing*. All the more so because Miss Hoyt, Bruce's secretary, made Dick wait for what seemed like hours before buzzing him inside.
Bruce sat at his desk, looking for all the world like Atlas. When he saw Dick, however, his expression at once brightened and sharpened.
It was always slightly confusing to see Bruce shift between his public face and what Dick thought of as his Manor one.
"What's wrong?" Bruce pushed away from the desk and patted the windowsill. After tugging off his school sweater, Dick jumped up on it, hugging his knees to his chest, perching like a cat.
"Nothing," he said. Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I saw...someone."
"Ahh."
"From --" Dick looked around. "The *place*."
"Here?" Bruce asked. He sounded genuinely surprised.
"It's different," Dick said. Bruce loosely gripped Dick's ankle, rubbing a soothing tattoo into his calf. Exhaling slowly, Dick smiled at him. "Thanks. Sorry. Being silly."
"Not at all. What's his name?"
Dick bit his lip. "Um, why?" He was trying to sort out *why* he felt so off-balance; he'd expected that Bruce would help smooth out his confusion. But Bruce seemed to be thinking along an entirely different track.
With his free hand, Bruce reached for his corporation Rolodex, one of three on his desk; the others were dedicated to civic and political leaders and social contacts. "Because if someone like that is working for me, I need to know."
Worry went spiky in the center of Dick's chest. "I don't know his name. Probably he was just visiting. Maybe he's a courier."
Bruce's hold tightened slightly on Dick's ankle, then eased. "All right. Now, how was school?"
Dick swallowed once. Lying to Bruce would be a terrible thing. *Waiting* to tell him the truth was nearly as bad, but in the interests of his mission, perhaps it could be justified. "School was great! Mr. Lenahan talked about Oliver Cromwell for half an hour and did you know that his head blew off its pike in a storm and someone *sold* it?"
Bruce's hand slipped up inside Dick's pantleg and he tugged Dick forward until, finally, Dick could hug his friend. "Yes, I did know that. But your enthusiasm is, as ever, infectious."
"It's just so disgusting!" Dick wriggled a little and hooked his legs over Bruce's, his usual signal to get Bruce to spin his chair. Bruce laughed and complied as Dick beat his heels against Bruce's legs. "Faster -- whee!"
*
A few nights later, Robin found himself dancing exclusively with a tall, dark young man named Pedro. He hailed from Mantegua and spoke with a sultry lilt. Although Robin could not let slip that he had, in fact, visited Pedro's small, fiercely beautiful country, he was able to ask after its Presidente, dear Señor Camaran.
Pedro's face darkened at the mention of Camaran. "He was a tyrant without equal! My people are lucky to be rid of him. Worm! Vampire!"
Robin looked anxiously around. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, so he continued dancing. "He was very nice." Pedro shook his head, dislodging his sleek black hair; disheveled, he looked to be all of twenty years old. "In the papers, I mean. When he visited."
"Soon los Mantegueanos shall be truly free," Pedro continued, as if Robin hadn't spoke.
Here, at last, might the subversive agitation that Robin was duty-bound to uncover. With great effort, he managed to tug the fuming Pedro over to a free table. "You don't say. Liberation, eh? Maybe even..." He looked around, just once, and lowered his voice. "*Revolution*?"
"Sí, sí!" Pedro nodded vehemently.
"And you're in Gotham to aid this effort?" Robin's mind danced with the possibilities -- gunrunning! White slavery! Money-laundering!
"Ah, I can only dream," Pedro said sadly and took Robin's hand. "Alas, I am only a student in exile, seeking -- how do you say? -- congenial company."
He kissed Robin's hand. Very elegantly, it must be said, and Robin found it quite distressing that interrogation should be so much easier when he could kick and punch. His hand tingled warmly while his head swam. "Oh. I'm very glad that you --" Pedro's fingers slipped up the underside of Robin's bare arm. It felt very nice. It felt -- "*Wow*."
Luckily, at that moment, Gilbert crashed into their table, setting the drinks flying and soaking the front of Pedro's shirt. Highly inebriated, Gilbert appeared to be simultaneously weeping and singing.
Robin extricated himself from the cursing Pedro and helped Gilbert out of the bar, and from there, to the quiet side street where he lived.
"It takes *this*," Gilbert lamented, gesturing at his bedraggled clothing and tear-stained face, "to get you to come home with me. Oh, Robbie, I -- this world -- so terrible, cruel and lonely --"
"There, there." Robin patted Gilbert's arm and hurried them across the street.
Gilbert wailed and stumbled, flinging out his arms and clutching his throat as if he were choking. He certainly was a *passionate* man, but Robin could not help thinking that liquor was far from a good idea in the face of such passion.
They made it up six flights of narrow, high stairs with Robin begging and cajoling Gilbert to be quiet all the while. Gilbert sank against Robin's shoulder and fumbled open the lock.
Robin could not hide his shock when he finally saw Gilbert's room. Gilbert seemed so sophisticated, so *refined*, that it should have been impossible for him to live *here*. Tenements overcrowded with immigrants were far more better kept than this hovel. It was a squalid single room, barely wide enough for the single bed that abutted a cold-water sink. Clothes were strewn over every surface, while ashes and cigarette ends covered the floor. The air smelled damp, slightly mildewed and entirely shut-up.
Gilbert drew himself up haughtily and pawed at his hair. "I'm not quite set up for entertaining, I'm afraid." When Robin did not reply, Gilbert fell back dramatically across the bed, covering his face with his hands. "Oh, beauty! Oh, youth! What you must think of me..."
Robin tucked a blanket over Gilbert and brought him a smudged jelly-glass full of cloudy water. He turned the radio to WGBS's Songbird of the Wee Hours and hummed along. When Gilbert had dozed off, Robin quickly tidied the room. If he snooped while he did so, pocketing Gilbert's leatherbound address book and a few lurid paperback books, that was because this was his duty.
He did not enjoy performing that duty. Not tonight.
Robin kept quiet, after meeting Batman at the usual rendezvous, and all through the drive home. Batman appeared to respect that silence.
It was not until they pulled into the Cave's garage that Batman touched Robin's knee. "Everything go smoothly?"
Robin rubbed the back of his neck, something he'd seen Batman do a thousand times. "Maybe I'm no good for undercover work."
Batman switched off the ignition and tousled Robin's hair. "Nonsense." When they entered the main area of the Cave, he pushed Robin toward the exercise mats. "Now, why don't you work off some of those doldrums while I do the filing?"
"Okay." Robin stripped off Robbie's bar clothes and stood for a moment, bouncing on the springy exercise mats, at a loss for what to do first. A bat tumbled from the ceiling, twisting in midair before it started to beat its wings, rising back into the dark. It had been too long since Dick had really *flown*, and so his mind was made up.
From a running start, he jumped straight up, grasping the rings and swinging for a bit. He ran through a series of basic exercises, mostly strength holds and inverted crosses. Hanging upside down, this far off the ground, felt...*right*.
It always had and, Robin suspected, it always would. Bruce fit behind a desk and Alfred fit the entire manor, but Dick and Robin belonged up here. He wasn't immune to gravity, not like Superman; instead, he played *with* gravity, teasing its insistent tug, swinging just a hairsbreadth beyond its reach.
"Robin."
This high up, Robin could not quite make out Batman's tone. After two more Maltese crosses, he dropped and crossed over to the desk. "Here."
Batman did not turn. He had the Dictaphone's earpiece cradled against his shoulder and tapped it once, indicating that he was listening to Robin's tape. "Who is Pedro?"
"Manteguan national. Possible revolutionary, but I don't think so."
"Is he in your report?"
"Of course." Robin bent at the waist and wiped his face. "Why wouldn't he be?"
Batman toggled off the player and replaced the audio receiver in its cradle. Then, and only then, he turned around.
Everything appeared to occur with great deliberation and slowness. Robin bounced once on his tiptoes, longing for the air.
continues in part 2