GASP! An update within a month of the last one? What is the world coming to?! Hopefully good things. Chapter Eighteen is in the works, and hopefully will be finished soon-ish. Like, before next year. That'd be good. In the mean time...Le Chapter Seventeen! Aaaahhhh! So exciting! Sort of. Kind of. Maybe. Also, I was doing some thinking, and realized, with this story and plot line, I can't really follow the YJ canon too closely. So, this is pretty much officially officially an AU. I mean, officially seriously. Also, school starts back up in about 3 weeks. So. Yeah.

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It was late afternoon when they had finally moved back upstairs. Dick hadn't said a word. Neither had Bruce.

Alfred was content to listen to their silence as he prepared dinner, knife slicing easily through vegetables on the chopping block in the kitchen, where his two masters had relocated. He had, of course, made a pot of tea and a plate of cookies. He was very much aware thatneither of those things would make what just happened any better. That was okay. However, he snuck a glance at the Dynamic Duo, it was about time they said something to each other.

Laying down his knife, the old butler cleared his throat and announced, "I'm going to conveniently leave you two alone for about twenty minutes." He looked directly at them, noting their slightly caught-off-guard expressions before clarifying, "If you need more convenient time, please, do not 'leave me hanging', as the young people say." He walked to the door, stopped, and turned around. "This is convenient, because you need to talk about what has transpired downstairs, which will more than likely require discussing your feelings, which I know Master Bruce would be more comfortable doing with fewer people in the room."

Bruce blushed ever so slightly (only after his oldest friend had left them), and Dick managed a small, but very amused, grin.

Still, they were silent for a few minutes longer, until Dick grabbed a cookie and said, "I tried to hide it, but, I remembered the death of my parents, and sorta re-lived it in my head."

Bruce nodded. "I know."

"What?" the boy looked sharply at him. "Wait, how? Oh, J'onn, right?"

"No. It was my idea."

The cookie dropped to the counter, crumbs scattering.

Bruce regarded his ward cooly. The boy ducked his head, curled his fists and evened out his breath, struggling to keep controlled.

"What do you mean, it was your idea?" Dick finally asked.

The man's eyes darted to the kitchen door, a fleeting thought spared for his butler, wondering if Alfred was standing just outside (he undoubtedly was), wondering how much grief would be sent his way, and how much would be remembered that the Barbara Gordon's list wasn't solely in Bruce's possession through it all. "What do you remember about the day you attacked Tom Metzinger?"

Dick winced at the word 'attack'. "Nothing, Bruce." He groaned, rubbing his head. "We've been over this." He grimaced.

"What's wrong?"

"Headache. It's been on and off. Actually, whenever I try to remember, it comes back. The harder I try, the worse it gets." He huffed. "All we know is what I've been told. Tom said something about my parents, and I went berserk."

"Hmm."

"Is that why?" Dick said sharply, ignoring the growing intensity of his aching head. "You thought that getting me to remember the death of my parents - the worst night of my life! - you thought that would help me?!"

"Didn't it?"

"No, Bruce, not really." The acrobat stood abruptly from his chair. "I don't call re-living nightmares a good idea. Ever." He was pointing his finger in Bruce's face, now. "I don't care if the night of your parent's murder is the inspiration you need every night to go gallivanting around, beating up criminals, but it's not mine, not anymore! That memory, my memory, only helped me down to the ground, pleading with my own mind to stop! I didn't fight off Psimon, Bruce. I was in the fetal position. And I hated it." He sat down, unable to look at his guardian.

Bruce's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched as he worked to control his temper. "First, do not ever bring my parent's death into this." He didn't miss his ward's flinch at his words, however calm he kept them. "I know that your inspiration for what we do no longer lies with what happened to your family. Second, I didn't ask J'onn to heighten your awareness of that memory so you could fight." The man sighed. "To be completely honest, I didn't want to. It's a pain I never liked to deal with myself, and the moment I saw you after their accident, I wanted to keep that pain away as much as I possibly could."

Dick raised his eyes, surprised at this admission.

"I know that's impossible. And if there was anything else I could have thought of, I would have. However, the incident with Metzinger made me think that, perhaps, something that triggers an overwhelming emotional reaction would drive him out." Bruce paused. "I have often felt that no one could quite understand the pain I went through that night, watching my parents die. I knew that there were many other people who had gone through that same feeling of grief and loss, but the feeling you get while watching the murder of your parents is something else, something different. It feels…"

"Sacred." The word was whispered amidst the hesitation.

Bruce nodded slowly. "Yes. Grief is sacred to each person, but especially ours, it sometimes seems. Because of this, it's difficult to share. So difficult, that someone unprepared, like Psimon, cannot handle it. I'm not even sure J'onn could handle it, and he knew what he was getting into."

Dick nodded, swallowing a lump. "It's not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"All of this!" Dick yelled, slamming his hands on the countertop. "My parents dying! Psimon being in my head! Why do I have to shoulder all of this! Why can't I catch a break!" He moaned suddenly, folding his arms in front of him and dropping his head on top. "And my head still hurts."

Any other time, or circumstance, Bruce would have smiled at the mumbled words. Instead, he reached over and grabbed the tea pot and a cup, noting with gratification that it was chamomile tea. He poured it, leaving room for the milk and adding two cubes of sugar, and a dollop of cream. Placing the cup gently down, he rubbed Dick's shoulder, letting the boy know there was something to drink.

Dick raised his head slowly, grasping the cup firmly between his hands and taking a sip. Slightly abashed, he glanced over at his guardian. "It's almost as good as Alfred's."

"Almost? I've spent my whole life with the man, I've watched him make tea countless times, and I get an 'almost'?" He saw the slight tremble in his ward's frame.

"Yeah, but, you're not British. And you have to be British to make it right. Everyone knows that."

"You just made that up."

"Shut up."

Bruce smiled gently. Then he asked, "How's the head?"

"Better."

"Good." Bruce hesitated. "I think we'll stay in, tonight."

Dick looked alarmed, though he only mildly started to protest, "But, patrol…"

Bruce made a show of looking out the window. "It's supposed to rain tonight, you know things slow way down when the weather's bad. And, besides, you've had a long day. We both have, and with your headache our performance will be down, which is the last thing we need.

The boy regarded the man for a few silent moments, in which the man had poured and fixed himself a cup of tea. "Is this your idea, or Alfred's?"

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "It's mine." He took a drink and grimaced. "You're right, this isn't as good as Alfred's."

Dick stared back into his tea. "Hm." He stood, wincing at the jarring sound of the chair scraping against the floor. "I'm going up to my room."

"Dick," Bruce called out to him, causing the boy to pause in the doorway, though not turn around. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." But he was still trembling.

Alfred came in a moment after. "Master Bruce…"

"That could've gone better, I know."

"Could have?" Alfred gave him a reproachful look. "Master Bruce, that was practically a disaster."

"Oh, come on, Alfred, it wasn't that bad. He was making jokes."

"Putting on bravado."

"Look, I know today was…bad."

"Bad? You know, I ought to have J'onn come back and give you a piece of what you just had him experience." The butler went back to preparing the meal.

"You listened?"

"Of course I did, Master Bruce."

"You don't trust me to handle this?"

Alfred laid the knife down with a sigh. "I'm afraid not. I wish I did, I really do. Unfortunately, you have the hardest time showing sympathy-"

"Excuse me?"

Alfred turned around at the demanding tone, knowing full well what was going through the younger man's mind.

Bruce, of course, was livid. "You don't think I have sympathy?" He stood, his voice dangerously low. "That I don't understand what he's going through?"

Alfred merely pursed his lips. "I think you have all the sympathy in the world. But I did say, 'showing' that sympathy was your problem. The boy doesn't need to hear reasons as to why you told J'onn to do that. He needs comfort. Now, I will not say that telling him your reasons were unnecessary. But right now, right after this has all occurred, he needs to your love more than your logic. Right now, he's more than likely feeling as though his memories and emotions - things you two just established as sacred - are now weapons in your war."

Bruce sat back down, taking a drink of his tea.

"And, please," Alfred continued, turning back to the food, "do not threaten me like I am one of Gotham's criminals. Batman's threats don't work against me, I've known you far too long."

Bruce said nothing.

"Good heavens. Did that boy take his cup of tea up to his room?" The old butler left the master of the house alone with his thoughts, grumbling about the rules of food and drink in the rooms.

Bruce watched him go, and then went back to swirling his tea. He needed to think.

'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`'`

Psimon lay in one position for hours. He didn't know how many hours, he just knew that there were a lot between the time he had exited the boy's mind, to now. If he had the energy, he would have laughed at his own absurdity. He hadn't just exited. That would have meant it was voluntary. No, he had been thrown out, by something he had never experienced: grief.

Well, he groaned into a sitting position. He assumed it was grief. He had felt sadness, and had sensed the heavy weight of grief from people around him. But this feeling…it was extraordinary. It was disgusting, he sneered.

Folding his legs, Psimon picked a point and stared. He was surprised by the emotion, and the sheer volume of it. Perhaps he shouldn't have been. He had always been aware of the boy's passion for everything, and there had always been that underlying pathos. But this….

Hm… Psimon began to think. This was grief associated with loss. For whatever reason, it was also associated with a circus, though it could have been a carnival. No, no, it was a circus. But, why?

His mind was tired, though. He didn't want to think too hard right now. He raised a hand to his face, running his fingers over his eyes. When he brought them away, he realized they were wet. He stared at them for a moment, shocked, and then raised his hand again, wiping them right under his eyes. They were tears. He had been crying?

He was still crying, actually. Psimon reached out with his weakened mind to find some emotion other than sadness. He needed to quit this feeling. Finding an angry one, he settled in and wrapped it around his entire being, letting his ideal take over.

This grief problem would have to be solved. Psimon couldn't afford to be thrown by it again.

Well. There's all of that. Tell me what ya thought! -Jimmy C.