Alright, so uh, I need to update this. You'll see why Bruce said no and you'll see that Bruce is always right, even when he's not. Wait- what? Agh, I confuse myself. Screw that! I has Tourettes. Just huggle me and try not to get head bashed (; I likes hugs. Maybe, one day if I become famous, people all over will hug me? I could keep a book of it or something! Or not. Maybe if they're attractive… Eh, who am I kidding? I get distracted too easy :p

BRUCE IS OOC because he is drunk and such SO DON'T FLAME ME FOR IT! There, you've been warned.

Disclaimer: I don't own YJ, but if I owned stupid spell check, I wouldn't see so many green and red lines. I KNOW HOW TO TYPE! I KNOW HOW TO SPELL MY NAME! SCREW OFF IN A DARK CORNER WITH A RUSTY NAIL! *cough, cough*

When Dick burst into the living room to confront his mentor, the black haired elder didn't seem to notice, let alone care. He was in one of the two armchairs by the fire which flickered dangerously in the surprising darkness during the mildly earlier hours. His attention was focused on something that was in his hands. It was a little action figurine that looked as if someone had cloned his alter ego and shrunk him down to about eight inches.

"This is ridiculous," Bruce mumbled to himself, studying the features carefully, "How the hell did they get everything right?"

'There had better be a good reason for this!" Dick said loudly, his head wrapped around his own little predicament.

Bruce didn't glance his way, but he nodded in acknowledgement.

"Exactly! Do secret identities mean anything anymore, nowadays?" he cried exasperatedly, turning over the Batman doll, rubbing the fabric of the cape between his thumb and index finger.

Dick hesitated, attempting to follow what Bruce was talking about.

What does a secret identity have to do with Matt not being able to come over?

Bruce threw up his hands, only after setting the figurine on his pant leg, a look of irritation settling over his features.

"They even have the feel of the fabric right! Stupid fangirls," he groaned, setting his head in his right hand.

Dick finally put two-and-two together and sighed. If he was in an anime, a dramatically large bead of sweat would've appeared to the left of his "Kill-Me-Now" face.

"Bruce, I'm not talking about your doll!"

Bruce glanced over at him, picking up the figurine. He didn't seem to notice the 'doll' comment.

"Oh, don't worry Richard, they have a figurine of Robin too," he said obliviously.

Dick rose an eyebrow. Something was off with Bruce. Usually, his mentor could take a hint. Beside that, was Bruce rambling? Impossible! Something wasn't right. Curiously, Dick walked to his mentor's side, being cautious about it. Bruce seemed a bit confused by it.

"Do you need something?" he inquired simply, his eyes actually meeting the blues across from him.

It didn't take Dick long to draw conclusions.

"Are you-… Bruce, are you on something?" he asked worriedly.

His eyebrows were furrowed, a frown playing over his delicate lips. Bruce's eyes widened at even the idea. A look of anger flashed across his features.

"You dare assume I'm on drugs?" he asked.

That only confirmed something in the back of the false ebony's mind, but from the smell of it, it wasn't drugs his mentor was on.

"No…" he said slowly, recognizing the faint scent of Scotch, "I am accusing you of having one too many drinks though."

Bruce didn't argue this time. He glanced back to the little figurine in his hands, lifting one hand so a fist was in the air and moving it back and forth so it looked like little Batman was flying. The man seemed to drift off into his own mind until his ward loudly cleared his throat to regain the attention he craved.

"Oh- sorry Dick. Yeah, I had a couple drinks. Alfred offered and I excepted. He figured it would…" Bruce stopped mid-sentence, staring hard at the mini Batman's mask for a moment. "I uh-… yeah, he figured it'd mellow me out so I wouldn't… get furious and start thinking… irrationally…"

Dick's eyes widened, surprised he was hearing this. Bruce never drank. He didn't really go to bars, he'd order water and milk and such at the Café and other restaurants. The only actual alcohol in the Manor was in Alfred's room, and the old butler never shared his stash.

"You're drunk," Dick confirmed cautiously, feeling as if he stared at his mentor any longer that he'd start feeling tipsy.

Bruce shrugged lightly, glancing to the fire.

"I don't know how Alfred convinced me… I was pretty," he took a deep breath, "angry about you and that ex-druggie meeting up so I-…"

"Ex-Druggie?" Dick cut him off, sounding half offended and half confused, "I was meeting with my brother!"

It was Bruce's turn to widen his eyes, but his reason was Dick's tone. Even though his mind was numb, he was pretty sure this was one of his little boy's 'Wally Tones' as he had christened them, seeing that it was a tone he only seemed to use with the troublesome Kid Flash. It was that offended, "Dude, what the hell did you say that for?" tone. When Dick saw the widened eyes, he screwed his eyes up, tensed up and stepped back, waiting to be yelled at or scolded or something. He was surprised how mellow and calm the tone that bounced back at him was.

"Well… sorry boy, but your… brother is an ex-druggie. I looked him-… looked up his record. That's the least of it," Bruce said nonchalantly.

Dick's eyes opened, but he didn't really seem all too surprised. In fact, he laughed lightly.

"Whatever Alfred gave you, remind me to have that be my first drink in the future," he said brightly, amused at even the idea that his dearest big brother could have a record.

Bruce's eyebrows furrowed.

"I don't recommend Scotch," he confided, "If anything, try one of those fruity alcoholic stuff in the future. It seems kinda like a sissy drink, but it's better than Scotch and way better than Vodka and Jagermeister. You probably want to remember your first drunk night…"

He stopped, frowning hard as if he was thinking of something. The thought escaped him for a moment and he sat in silence, grabbing at the thoughts until he finally grasped the right one.

"Oh-… and your brother… sorry Dick, but he messed around with cocaine and-," Bruce coughed hard, "and heroine. He dealt with some assault stuff… and it mentioned he was almost went in for rape, but the case was dropped or something like that."

Dick shook his head, although he seemed only to be assuring himself.

"This is my brother we're talking about!" he tried to sound enthusiastic. "Matt's a good guy!"

Bruce held the doll up so the background of it was the burning fire.

"I never said he was a bad guy," Bruce said simply.

Dick held up his hands in exasperation.

"Then why can't he come over and meet you and Alfred?" he cried, his voice strained.

The true ebony didn't look up from the figurine. He was currently trying to take off the mask with no success.

"Because; he's a bad guy," Bruce contradicted himself.

Dick groaned and face-palmed.

"You just- agh!" he turned to leave the room, practically announcing surrender.

Bruce lifted his head again and he seemed surprise to see the small frame leaving the room.

"Hey!" he called, his voice slurring slightly.

Dick stopped in the doorway, turning his head. He sighed weakly.

"What?"

Bruce swallowed, thinking for a moment.

"Does it really mean this much to you?" he phrased carefully.

Bruce got a 'Wally Face', which just like the 'Wally Tones' was a face that the Boy Wonderful only gave to the redhead. It was his "Are-You-Kidding-Me?" face.

"He's my last of kin! The last Grayson related to me… that I know of… Of course it means that much to me!"

Bruce didn't seem to notice the snap.

"I'll give him one chance. How about tomorrow for dinner?" he offered, clasping his hands, suffocating poor little Batman.

Dick grinned ear-to-ear.

"R-Really?" he cried happily before hesitating, "Wait- why tomorrow?"

Bruce smiled warmly, tightening his death grip on the doll's neck.

"Simple my boy, because tonight, I'm drunk. I figure you want your brother to think that someone better than a slurring drunk adopted you," Bruce explained himself, unsteadily getting to his feet.

Dick shrugged, pleased with the answer. He didn't believe the rape charge though. He had glanced over his brother's report and nothing that serious had came up. It was probably just the alcohol thinking for his mentor.

"I suppose. See you at dinner?"

Bruce shook his head, catching his sidekick off guard.

"I'm afraid that I should be heading to bed now," he dismissed himself.

"At five?" Dick cried in disbelief.

Bruce's smile shrunk a little, but it stayed sincere.

"It comes with getting old and getting a little under the influence," he said simply.

Before he headed for the stairs, Bruce stumbled towards the fire, resting his hand against the mantle.

"You can still feel free to attend though. Alfred mentioned roast and I know that's one of your favorites."

Dick nodded slowly, taking the hint with his sober mind, exited the room swiftly. He leaned over the railing of the stairs to watch him for a moment longer. Bruce looked above the mantle where a picture of Dick and his parents sat carefully, the action figure still in his left hand between his index and middle finger.

"You'd be proud of at least one of your boys John," Bruce seemed to say to Dick's dad, a faint smile on his lips.

Then his eyes turned to the action figure.

"As for you…" he promptly tossed it into the fire where he hoped it would melt.

His smile grew, but only to a small smile. It was an increase from a faint smile, but not by much. He watched carefully as the mask began to melt.

"Next time, why don't you mess me up a little before you get the nerve to ask if you can sell an army of my mini clones?" he seemed to ask the melting wax.

It didn't respond, but no one really expected it to. With that being said, Bruce finally seemed content in his drunken state.

YES, I KNOW BRUCE IS OOC. Like I said, I can't make Bruce. When I first wrote this chapter, I winced and was like, "Oh my God! If they saw how OOC Bruce is, they'd throw me in the fire!" so I had to make him drunk. I know Alfred would never make Bruce drink or anything like that. Ignore it. Just… agh. Well, now you know Matt has a record, but you haven't seen it. Next Tuesday (hopefully), you should hear more of Matt with the dinner and such. He isn't such a nice guy (;

Anyway, I apologize for the crappy chapter. I'm just putting this off. I'm scared to write for Bruce. I know Bruce would never get drunk. Shut your traps. Go flame some other story. I'm a Styrofoam plate. One flame and I'm just a white pile of goo. Seriously, that happens. If you haven't thrown one of those white Styrofoam plates into a fire, I recommend you do. It looks cool!

-F.J.