Pedo-File

Disclaimer: Batman and the characters it contains are not mine.

Hey, all. I'm so sorry I haven't been updating. It's just that the work-load has been getting to something of an excess lately and my free time is somewhat scarce. (Why did I take two A.P. classes in the same year?)

But anyway, I wrote this a good two years back (published under the same name) and, despite my whole thirty-minute process of brainstorming, writing, and barely proofreading, it was definitely my most popular fic. With a whopping eleven reviews, no less. (In fact, I do recall that KCS, back before I even entered into the SH fandom, left me a review to the end, I think, that her jaw had fallen off its hinges. Whether that is good or bad, I don't know. Small world, huh?)

Anyway, here is the little bugger once again, reposted and HEAVILY revised.

Batman did not know how to drive. Or, at least, this was the conclusion that Dick had, not unjustifiably, come to right about now. Honestly, there was damn near close to a mile spanning the distance between the Batcave's entrance and their parking spot. And yet Batman, for some obtuse reason or other, could not utilize more than six inches of this distance in order to begin easing off the gas petal, if not just tap the brake? Was it really necessary for him to practically throw the vehicle (perhaps "rocket" being the more appropriate term) into park not more than four seconds before it could, potentially, jettison itself right up and into the Batcomputer? "Through" would be more like it, actually; at a velocity such as the one they were traveling at, it would not be unreasonable to assume that the thing could take out at least another five or six walls.

As it was, they (thankfully) fell just short of making this leap, to nobody's apparent relief but Dick's, who was pretty sure that his brain had just slammed into the front of his skull with enough force to render him permanently blind, or paralyzed, or crazy, or some other equally pleasant form of handicap. Finding his eyesight reasonably intact, he immediately turned to check on, if not send a fleeting warning gaze to, his mentor, whose face presently betrayed all the passionate enthusiasm and vibrant emotion as a bowling ball. Mechanically lifting one gloved finger to a single button, the Caped Crusader heaved his mighty figure out of the vehicle without sparing so much as a single word on his partner. And Robin, although used to Bruce's apparent cold apathy, felt a pang irritation starting to dig its way under his skin.

It all but vanished, however, once the realization dawned on him that the Batcave was actually warm. And dry, which was more than what he could say for himself, but incredibly, not that polished marvel of engineering that sat behind him: the Batmobile. Out all night in the pouring rain and the thing had not one drop of water on it, a phenomenon he could only attribute to Batman's absurd driving skills, which, in themselves, defied the laws of gravity on a fairly regular basis. Honestly, Bruce did things in this car that were only thought to be possible in the mind of a four-year-old child. Had they not been unofficially immune from speeding tickets, they'd have enough of them by now for the police to just impound the thing once and for all.

But now, as Robin sloughed off his cape, which was soaked through and heavy with freezing rainwater, he was just grateful for the towel that Alfred had draped over his shoulders with a barely audible "tut, tut."

Dick turned to check on his mentor and found him leaning, one hand on the car, the other clasped around his great square jaw in thought, with the air of a man who had changed his mind. Robin, sensing this subtle, sudden change in attitude, handed the towel back to a skeptical Alfred, who turned downright dismayed (silently, of course) as Robin bent to retrieve his discarded, sopping cape.

"Stay."

It was a one-word command, the first time he had spoken to him in hours. Dick's fingers stopped just short of grabbing onto the garment, and before the anger could even register, a just hint of despair sunk in. Am I a dog now? he wondered.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Well, no kidding, but is there any particular reason why—"

"I'm going back out alone, Robin. And here's what you're going to do while I'm gone."

Ironically enough, plain and undisguised irritation was written all over the Dark Knight's face. And all the while stood Robin, stiff and stolid as a stone, though outrage fumed beneath the surface. Alfred noted the uncanny switch in the partners' demeanors, silently preparing for an explosion.

"I want you to thoroughly comb through every last article, record, and report you can find on the Joker. Pull out what's useful."

Alfred thought Robin's mask was going to split as his eyebrows shot skyward and almost hit the ceiling.

"Wh—What?"

"Robin! I just gave you an order! Now get to it!" Batman barked, turning on his heel to leap into the car, rev the thing back to life, and tear out of the cave as abruptly as he had just arrived, leaving his gaping ward to stare disbelievingly at his trail of smoke and dust.

Alfred, sensing and partially sharing in the young man's shock, tactfully took it upon himself to remove the dripping cape from Robin's slack fingers and gingerly replace the towel over his shoulders, which had begun to quiver—and not from the cold.

"Oh, Master Dick," the butler said compassionately in his most soothing voice.

"You really mustn't take it personally."

"How. Dare. He," Robin hissed through clenched teeth, tightening his fists.

"Did you hear him, Alfred? What am I? The secretary!?"

"Of course not, Master Dick. He worries often for your safety, and he knows as well as you and I that the Joker is an exceptionally dangerous man, even in his line of work."

"It's been a little while since the last time I wore diapers, Alfred!"

The butler had been prepared for this outburst, of course, and did not flinch as the young man understandably unleashed his anger on the only available target. This did not stop Robin himself from recoiling, however, a bit disgusted at himself for lashing out at Alfred, who was probably the only thing keeping him sane right about now.

"Aw, geez. I'm really sorry, Alfred."

"No apology necessary, young master. May I bring you anything?"

"No than...Actually, coffee would be great, Alfred. It's gonna be a long night."

"Right away, Master Dick."

Running both hands down his face and drawing in a deep, not-so-calming breath, the long-suffering Boy Wonder (and he had made a mental vow to kill anyone who used this God-awful name from here on in) attempted to collect the remains of his demolished composure and plopped himself down in front of the Batcomputer, fingers flying over the keyboard for less than a second as he sighed and entered the vague but sinister keyword.

MATCHES FOR "JOKER" : 819 RECORDS FOUND

"What! You have got to be kidding me!"

The large red text on the screen didn't lie, however, nor were the results lacking in diversity. Everything from Gotham Times excerpts to old Arkham records to police documents to unconfirmed reports and speculation. And he had no way of determiningwhether any of this were actually true, of course.

"It's a good thing I'm staying here out of the goodness of your heart, Bruce," Robin said to no one in particular, cracking his knuckles, "because if I wasn't doing this for free, you couldn't afford me."

"Pardon my saying so, Master Dick, but I highly doubt that."

Alfred placed the silver tray delicately, noiselessly, next to the keyboard. Good old Alfred, Robin thought; he had the sense to prepare an entire pot. The butler poured the young master a cup of the steaming liquid and added a bit of cream, no sugar, just as he knew he took it.

"Would you be requiring anything else, Master Dick?"

"No thanks, Alfred, this is perfect."

"Very good, sir."

The butler turned and departed without a sound, just as he'd arrived. Dick had to admit, he'd given him a bit of a scare when he responded to his absent comment. I wonder why he thinks he always has to be so silent? Robin pondered, then smirked as a new thought dawned on him. Well, now we know where Bruce learned it from.

Swearing through his teeth as he scalded his lips on the first sip of coffee, Robin put down the cup for now in favor of getting to work, selecting the first of many results, which just happened to take him to a crudely-designed web page decked out in screaming purple and green with the heading "Die Laughing: Gotham's Unofficial Fanbase of All Things Joker!"

Robin let out a heavy sigh. I have just lost all faith in humanity.

The minutes ticked on by far too slowly, but those minutes had eventually piled up to just over two and a half hours. He was on his third cup of coffee, which was only lukewarm by now. He was presently in the middle of reading through his forty-fourth result, which was nowhere close to even a tiny dent in 819, of course. He'd figured out that he had to barely even skim them, of course, if he wanted to leave the Batcave sometime within the next seven days. He got the idea to do the math in his head, and found that if he spent only a minute browsing through each item, he'd still be spending just over fourteen hours at the computer, as it was. And this started to piss him off more and more as he systematically leafed through every document and found nothing he hadn't already known.

And some of the crazy things people write! He was starting to believe that Joker, for all his insanity, certainly was an accomplished man, as various background information reported him to be everything from a petty thief to a nuclear physicist to a Russian spy before he became the Clown Prince of Crime. Surely he couldn't present any of this rubbish to Batman with any dignity.

"Pull out what's useful," he'd said. "I don't care whether he was a Navy SEAL or a used car salesman! Now tell me something important!" Dick could hear the thundering voice of a certain angry man in black booming at him (and probably looking at him as if he were an idiot of the first degree, too) all too clearly as he considered the consequences of relating this information to him. The Joker's past, he decided, was unimportant.

It had now been five hours since he'd started this mundane, pointless task, and Dick was finished. Finito. Done. He sat back and examined what little he had managed to find.

THE JOKER

ALIAS: UNKNOWN

CONDITION: VIOLENT SOCIOPATH, PSYCHOTIC (NO DIAGNOSABLE AFFLICTION.)

LAST SEEN: ARKHAM ASYLUM, 10/19/93

Robin—despite his laborious effort, despite five hours, despite his trembling and twitching from imbibing a whole pot of coffee, despite his tired eyes—frankly admitted to himself that he was toast. Despite all that, it was still a painfully meager amount of information, and nothing could be done to change that. He couldn't help but be a bit disappointed in himself. And if he was a bit disappointed in himself, he knew it meant that Bruce was going to give him Hell.

Screw this! I'm done. Five hours of my life, wasted! What more could he have possibly expected me to find? And Bruce can't say that I didn't try, either. Even Alfred can testify for that. Jerk listens to him more than he does me, anyway...

Robin's blood boiled as his caffeine-frayed nerves made his clenched fists shake on the keyboard, still in disbelief that Batman had actually left him up to this crap. He saved the file, nearly fell up the stairs stomping his way out of the cave due to his numb legs, which had long since fallen asleep, and finally barged into his room. He was still in his cape-less uniform, and did not even bother to remove his mask or gloves as he lethargically flopped face-first onto the bed, thoroughly and completely exhausted, and fell into a deep, long-overdue sleep.

What's that awful smell?

He could not help but think this as the foul odor attacked his nostrils, a stench so repulsive it deserved mental comment before he had even opened his eyes. But he opened his eyes nonetheless, and discovered that, to his horror, the not-so-sweet parfum was wafting up from none other than his own inglorious self.

"Oh, my God," he gaped, coughing once as another whiff caught him off guard, "we need to fix this. Now."

Dick hauled himself off the bed with surprisingly little effort. His clock read 8:15. Even so, those scant four hours of sleep had done wonders for his strength. Peeling off his grimy, sweaty costume as he went (Dick believed he had set a new record: never in his life had his uniform been so disgusting that it actually stuck to his skin) the unsightly Boy Wonder headed into his bathroom. If ever there was anybody who deserved a 45-minute shower, it was certainly Robin right about now.

When Dick was finally scrubbed clean of all the odor and filth, he casually threw on his usual khaki pants, button-down shirt, and fleece vest before wandering down into the dining room to see if Bruce was there, as he was every morning, with his newspaper and coffee. Except after nights like the previous one, that is, when he had pulled an all-nighter. In that case, there was only one place for Bruce to be found.

So Dick headed on down to the Batcave where, sure enough, Batman was situated at the computer. How long he had been there was anyone's guess, but suffice it to say that he was looking to be in a just marginally better state than his partner had been in not two hours beforehand. He didn't look all too happy for it, either.

"How'd it go?"

"Nothing but a few henchmen," Batman replied, not even bothering to look at him.

"Oh. That stinks."

"Where's that file I asked you to put together?"

Dick's heart stopped beating inside his chest. His legs wouldn't move; someone had driven nails through his feet and into the floor. His spine had become a pipe full of freezing water, and he could have sworn that he saw his life flash before his eyes.

Bruce was not unaware of his partner's silence despite having been asked a direct question, and turned just in time to see Dick visibly shudder, if only for a second.

"You're awfully flustered this morning," the somewhat puzzled detective observed. Crazy kid. "Just tell me what you named it."

Every muscle in Dick's body, including his mouth, was now officially paralyzed. He knew for a fact he'd really put his foot in it now. After all, the opportunity to vent out his anger had been sitting right in front of his face at the time. He was downright furious when he wrote it, for God's sake!

Meanwhile, the Dark Knight's confusion grew as his patience drained. He had a nasty gash on his lip, with an ugly purple bruise forming around it.

"Well? Are you going to tell me or not?"

Why? Why did I write that? Why did I not think he would find it? How could I have been such a moron? Why?

Having given up trying to make sense of Robin's complete failure to respond to a simple question, he turned back to the computer screen and began typing.

"Go upstairs and lie down, Dick. You look pale."

But no sooner than the command left his mouth, Batman had accessed the computer's history. And displayed on the screen just above Robin's tiny bit of information was, in all caps,

BRUCE LIKES MEN.

The absurd statement, displayed in huge red letters large enough to be seen from at least a few hundred yards away (had the Batcomputer not been kept indoors) was both glorious and terrifying (mostly terrifying) to Dick, but the humor was lost on Batman. Any kind of sentiment expressed by his features were almost always hidden behind the cowl, and Bruce was not exactly what one would call an emotional man, anyway, but the plain shock adorning the Dark Knight's face was evident this time. His white "eyes" bulged and his jaw even dropped ever so slightly. Had Dick not known for a fact that imminent death was surely to follow this reaction, he would have been in stitches by now. As it was, Batman had recovered his composure, face set with a deep scowl and suspicious (or was it incensed?) eyes narrowed at his companion.

"I can explain this," Robin barely found his voice.

"Start. Explaining."

"Well...Well, look!" The Boy Wonder had finally come to his not-often-reached breaking point. "I was on that computer for five hours straight last night looking through the same old stuff that we already know! I'm sorry if I was just a little bit pissed that you left me with such a...Well, that kind of a job."

Dick knew he was history if he'd said "such a stupid job" like he wanted to.

"And what kind of a job is that, Dick? One that's simple and boring like you? Are you telling me you'd rather be out on the streets in the freezing cold fighting thugs with guns for five straight hours on a fruitless search for a mass murderer instead?"

Dick took this cruel, unwarranted insult badly. However, as he began to process the flow of Bruce's words, the answer hit him like a slap in the face, plain and clear as the crimson profanity glowing on the screen. It had all been a test. He'd figured it out. Proudly, Robin raised his head and spoke with complete confidence.

"Yes."

What might have passed for a smile flitted across the Dark Knight's face, a pleasant rarity.

"Good."

Having established this, they both turned back to studying the huge text for no particular reason.

"So, did I pass?" Dick finally broke the silence, posing the question only half-seriously.

"We'll see," Bruce deadpanned, and it was clear that he was not entirely amused by Dick's method of expressing his displeasure with him, nor was he ready to completely forgive him just yet. Finally, with an uncanny and deadly resolution, the Dark Knight forewarned:

"Kid, you'd better hope not."

END

Thank you all for reading. Just as an afternote, I want to say that part of the motivation behind this story is that I hate Batman/Robin slash. I think it's even worse than Batman/Joker. Because, seriously, Robin is a kid. No matter which way you cut it. Period.

Now please, for the love of Batman, leave a review!