"...Nice evening," Bruce murmured a little while later.

"Yeah," Dick sighed. After their neck-and-neck race – Django might have been faster by reputation, but The Duke had been spurred on by Bruce's determination – they had guided their mounts to the top of the hill and pulled them to a halt. There they had watched the last brilliant hues of the day die out and be replaced with ever-deepening shades of indigo, out of which a few stars were now emerging. Three-quarters of a full moon rose opposite them, promising to light their way back to the stables when the time came. Out here, away from artificial lights and with the heavens opening up overhead, he could almost pretend like he was eight years old again and everything was the way it had once been...

He drew a deep breath, pulling himself away from the edge of the rabbit-hole of memory for the moment. If he was going to fall into it, he was going to take Bruce with him, he determined; it was an abyss down there, and more importantly the man beside him deserved to hear the story. "...You wanted to know what I was thinking about earlier?"

Leather creaked, and he didn't have to look to know that the billionaire had turned towards him in his saddle. "Yes. You were so excited to do this, I could tell, but as soon as you heard your horse's name your attitude shifted. Why?"

"You know, I...I almost changed my mind back there," he confessed. "When Casey said that this guy," he stroked his horse's neck idly, "was named Django, and then said yours was named Duke...it was almost too much."

"But my horse is called The Duke," Bruce reminded him, his frown audible in his tone.

"I know. That's all that saved it, I think. When Casey said he was an aficionado of westerns...Bruce, I thought he was a music lover. I thought Duke was Duke Ellington, and Django..." A lump formed in his throat. "I thought Django was a reference to Django Reinhardt."

"...Chum, I don't know who that is. Ellington, obviously, yes, but...Reinhardt?"

"Django Reinhardt..." He narrowed his eyes at the night as he tried to recall everything his father had told him two decades before. "Django Reinhardt was a Romani musician. A guitarist, in particular. He did things to jazz music that no one else had ever thought of, and it made him famous. He even came to the U.S. and played with Duke Ellington, which is part of why I thought maybe the names were purposeful.

"My father worshipped Django," he whispered. "We had this little radio that mom had brought with her when she ran away from college with the circus, right? And for all that it hadn't been his to start with, I know that that was dad's most treasured possession. Everywhere we went, every night when we stopped, he'd fiddle with it, trying to find a good jazz station in the vague hope that they would play something by Django, or even just something Django-inspired. He even had this list he'd made of all the stations in different towns he'd been to, divided up by ones he'd heard Django on before and those he hadn't. Every time he found a new set of numbers, he added it on there. I don't know how many times I watched him re-write it all. He kept it in his pocket, and it would get so beaten up, but he wanted it with him all the time.

"I remember how a couple of Christmases before they...before Zucco, mom and Pop Haly conspired to sneak that crumpled old piece of paper away from him. Dad was so upset when he couldn't find it – so upset that it made me cry, I think – but mom didn't tip her hand. We didn't have much money that year, but...Pop took that list down to a printing shop, and he had them put all of those cities and call numbers on a little piece of laminated cardstock. When we woke up on Christmas morning, I knew dad was still sad, and was just trying to put on a cheerful face for me. But when he saw how shiny and strong his list had been made, and realized that now it wouldn't break down in his pocket so bad...well, he didn't have to fake being happy after that."

His voice dropped lower with emotion. "There was this one night, just...just a few weeks before I lost them. We were coming north for the season, and it was so cold out that we were all huddling in our trailers when we weren't working. Dad looked at his list, hoping there'd be something to take our minds off of the cold, and he found a local station that had played Django before. Then he turned the radio on, and there it was; we were in the middle of a three-hour special featuring Django Reinhardt and the Quintette du Hot Club de France. I think the only other time I'd ever seen dad look so happy was after I landed my first quadruple somersault. One Django song was a great occurrence, but a three-hour session...that was cause for celebration.

"He wanted to dance, and he wanted mom to dance with him, but where the hell were they supposed to do that in a tiny little trailer with an eight-year-old underfoot?" A small, sad laugh escaped him as he recalled how they had tried anyway, bouncing their hips and elbows off of the table and the counter in their exuberance. "...Eventually mom bundled me up, and we gave in and went outside. That little radio was stretched all the way to the end of its cord, balanced on the step so we could hear it outside. I sat next to it – I wanted to keep it safe – and I watched them, Bruce. I watched them dance for almost two hours, all the way until the program ended. They were so alive that night, alive in a way I'd never seen them before.

"I'm so glad they had those two hours together," he said hoarsely. "I'm so glad that they danced, and I'm so glad that dad got to hear so much Django. It stayed with him for days afterward. He seemed to dance everywhere he went. Mom even teased him that he would twitch at night like he was dancing in his sleep. He always laughed, but...I like to think he really was dreaming that way. I like to think that he was able to spend his last nights so happy."

He had to stop to swipe at his eyes and sniffle before he could continue. "Anyway...dad loved Django, and not just for his music. Dad loved Django's story, too. You see, Django was caught in a fire when he was eighteen. It killed his wife and paralyzed two of the fingers on his left hand – his playing hand – on top of a bunch of other injuries. The doctors told him he'd never play guitar again. He didn't listen, though. He pushed through it, and he learned to play with just the two fingers he still had, and that's where they say the genius of his music came from. If he'd had all of his fingers to use, maybe he wouldn't have turned out to be such a genius. That was the best part of it all to dad. No matter how bad things got, he always said, we could push through it, survive and thrive, and be better than we were before the rough patch, just like Django."

The most painful aspect of his tale could no longer be avoided, and he gave a watery gasp before he dove into it. "That was what I kept telling myself after...after they fell. That I just had to...to do what Django had done and keep going, keep pushing. I didn't understand before that last night of their lives, but...sometimes, when we were alone and he was tucking me in, or if I was having a hard time with a new move, or if I had a scrape or I got sick, he'd brush my hair back, and he'd say his piece about being strong and working through it, and he'd call me Django like it was my name.

"He always said he didn't adhere to the old belief about giving babies a secret name at birth, known only to the naming parent and the child, but...he only ever called me that when we were alone. Normally it's the mother who gives a secret name, but...mom wasn't Romani. Maybe he figured it wouldn't mean the same to her, so he did it. I don't know. Either way, I think that was his secret name for me, and after they died I finally understood why he'd called me that above anything else. Not because he was prescient or anything, don't get me wrong, but because he knew there would be hardships in my life, as there are in every life, and he wanted me to be strong enough to ride them out. Even," a teary smile broke across his lips as he reached the end of his story, "if he wasn't around to remind me of the story of the man he'd secretly named me after."

For a moment after he finished the only sounds were the faint music of crickets from the woods that girded their hilltop perch. Even the horses stood stock-still and silent, perhaps sensing the seriousness of the atmosphere between their riders, perhaps just caught up in some equine daydream. Then Dick felt The Duke's side shuffle up against his leg, and a second later Bruce had pulled him gently over and into his shoulder. A strong arm squeezed across his back, and he was certain he felt tears drip from the older man's chin and onto his scalp.

"...Thank you for telling me that," a heartfelt murmur rumbled against his ear. "I know it hurt, chum, but...thank you."

"You-" he broke off to sniff again, "-you understand why I...I never told you before?"

"I do," a nod confirmed. "If it was his secret name for you, Dick, then it was entirely your right to keep it to yourself. I'm honored that you shared it with me at all."

"Well, if anyone deserves to know it, it's you. Of course under that logic I should have told you a long time ago, but..."

"The trigger wasn't there."

"Yeah. The...the trigger wasn't there. Not until tonight. Django's not exactly a popular name in these parts, and I avoid spaghetti westerns for a reason."

"You make a damn good Django," Bruce said firmly. "Better, maybe, than even the original."

"I'm no competition. My guitar skills are pathetic," Dick joked weakly.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." With another sigh, he pulled back and straightened himself atop his horse. "It's funny," he mused, "but...there was something else dad used to say about Django. He'd get really excited about something I'd done well, right, and he'd say...he'd say that if the first Django could go from being a dirt-poor entertainer growing up in a trailer to playing Carnegie Hall with Duke Ellington, then his Django could go twice as far. We started in the same place, Django and I, and now...well...now I get to spend nights swinging through Gotham with Batman. I don't know how dad would feel about it, but to me that's worth at least twice as much as going to Carnegie Hall, even with as talented a musician as Duke Ellington."

"No one can ever rightly accuse you of falling short of your fathers' dreams for you, Dick," Bruce said softly.

"...Yeah?" he asked shakily.

"...Yeah, chum."

"Good. I'm glad."

They sat without speaking after that, admiring the ever more plentiful stars and letting the gentle evening breeze dry their cheeks. Dick felt the lightness that comes only after one has shared a private piece of themselves with another and had it be unconditionally accepted, and he reveled in it for as long as he could.

"It's eight o'clock," Bruce said eventually. "We should head back soon, if you're ready."

"I'm..." It was still so perfect out here, in this warm version of that long-ago night when two laughing lovers had danced together to strains of Django atop frosty, crackling grass, but not even perfect moments could last forever. "I'm ready," he decided. "...Let's get these guys back home on time."

"Lead the way."

Casey took their steeds back gratefully and did his duty by inviting them to ride again some other time. He offered to drive them back to the entrance in a cart, but they declined, preferring to steal a few more minutes for themselves in the cool darkness that had settled over the land. Just before they entered the trees that would block the stables from view, Dick glanced back to see Django being led to his stall and wondered what exactly a membership cost per annum. Then he shook his head, laughing silently at himself. A Rom with a country club membership? Now that's a Carnegie Hall-level achievement.

They'd come in a convertible, but Bruce put the top up to keep the bugs out until they were off of the slow back roads that led away from the complex. Dick leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, drained by his long remembrance. He only opened them when, three or four turns into their drive home, jazz began to spill from the speakers. It wasn't Django, but it wasn't bad, and he smiled to soothe the hesitant look on the older man's face. "Good choice," he nodded.

"I assume that this isn't him?"

"No. Or if it is, it's a song I either never heard or forgot about. I didn't...I didn't really keep up on listening to him after...after. Other artists, sure, but Django was just too painful." He paused. "...I ought to fix that, maybe."

"Don't push it too hard too fast, chum. That was a hell of a memory you had back there."

"I know. It...it feels right, though. It didn't before, but...I don't know." He shrugged noncommittally, but his resolve was firming with every passing curve. "It can't hurt to test the limits a little, I guess. Besides," a faint grin crossed his lips, "it gives me an excuse to take up Babs' time at work. Finding something on Django Reinhardt...how much could there be, even in Gotham's library system? I'm guessing not much, since you didn't even know who he was."

"Mm. Probably not much, no."

"Good. Then she'll be stuck with me for at least ten or fifteen minutes. And she won't even be able to complain."

Bruce chuckled, then became silent once more. They reached the freeways that would take them around the city and up into the hills amongst which the manor sat, and as their speed picked up one of them – Dick would never be able to remember who it was – turned up the music. The sky was invisible above the glare of the streetlights, but it was okay now; all he had to do to see the stars was close his eyes, picture his parents dancing, and drift on the music.

They were about to turn onto the long, sweeping driveway when the melody dimmed in his ears. "...What's up?" he asked, pushing back the light doze he'd been about to pass into.

"I need to ask you a question."

"Okay."

"The manager of the country club was at the luncheon today. He said it was a shame that I wasn't a member."

"That's an original pitch," he snorted.

"Maybe not. But he had a point." The billionaire paused. "If you won't let me buy you horses, Dick, at least let me rent them for you."

"...Bruce, what are you talking about? What would you do with a country club membership, seriously?"

"Not much," he acknowledged. "...Except occasionally tag along with you for a trail ride."

"You're serious," Dick gaped. "You...you're really considering this?"

"It is odd that a mover and shaker of my weight, particularly one with children of marriageable age, doesn't have a membership at a place like that. I wouldn't have given that too much weight, necessarily, but...you liked those horses. To be honest, I liked them too. It won't cost anything, at least not in the big picture, it will be good for my reputation, and it will give you easy access to something that makes you happy. Hell, Tim and Damian might find something there to enjoy, too. Who knows? My point is that with all of those things in the 'pros' column, how can I not sign up?"

"...Huh. Well...you're not going to get any further argument from me, Bruce. I mean, to be able to just go and take Django for a ride whenever...that would be a heck of a thing. And I could probably get Timmy out on that lake they have in a boat. He wouldn't mind that too much; he'd be able to say he was being social when it would really just be the two of us. Dami...I'd like to get that kid on a horse. If he doesn't like that, I can always drag him to the tennis courts and tell him to lob balls at me as hard as he can." If he played his cards right, he schemed, he might even be able to get Jason on the program. It would have to be a secret – his brother would require that much, he was certain – but if he could get him out alone, who knew where the conversation might lead?

"That sounds like a dangerous proposition, but I'll trust that you know what you're doing on that count. You seem to have a better clue about him than I do half the time, so..."

"Aw, Dami's okay. He's like that little colt earlier; he bites at you at first, but once he knows you're there to rub his ears and feed him carrots he softens right up. That was a metaphor, by the way," he smirked. "Try rubbing Dami's ears or sticking carrots in his face and you probably will get bitten."

"I wasn't planning on attempting that method, trust me. So...yes, though? You like the idea?"

"...I have just one condition I need to impose before I give my wholehearted approval."

"That being?" Bruce cocked an eyebrow as they crunched to a stop at the base of the front steps.

"At least once a month, you and I take Django and The Duke for a good, long walk to look at the stars." He stuck out his hand. "Deal?"

"...Deal," the billionaire shook. Just before he released him, he squeezed his fingers. "I'm looking forward to it, chum."

"Me, too. I, uh...I promise I'll try not to cry all over you on future outings."

"It's okay. And Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"...Your name's safe with me. I don't believe in magic names any more than your father professed to, but that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate the perceived power behind them. My lips are sealed."

Dick had to bite his lip to keep fresh tears at bay. "...Thanks, dad."

"You're welcome, son. Now...I think I might skip patrol tonight and focus on some files. Are you up for that, or are you going out?"

"So long as Alfred still lets us have cookies, I can be content with files for one night." He wanted to go out, but he had the feeling that he'd keep staring at the stars, and that would defeat the point.

"I think we can wrangle some out of him. Let's go see, huh?"

"Yeah," he laughed. "Let's do that."

They stepped from the car, and Dick stood for a second to appreciate the partial moon that he could once again see. I got so lucky, dad, he thought. First I had you, and now I have Bruce. Any kid would be incredibly lucky to have just one of you as their father, but I got to have you both. I don't know how I managed that kind of fortune, but...I'm grateful that I did. And don't worry; Bruce is worthy of your secret. He's the best keeper of them that I know, and this one...I get the feeling that there might only be one or two higher than it in his vault, even if he really doesn't believe in secret names.

Until I awake again, – he smiled as he turned to go inside, for 'I awake' was the meaning of his secret name and he'd been unable to avoid the pun – good night, dad.

Author's Note: I know some of you were hoping for whumpage in this chapter, but that just wasn't the way the muse wanted to go. However, I will turn out some this week in 'Summer Shorts,' so watch for that.

If anyone is interested in Django Reinhardt, check out my latest blog post.

Thanks for coming with me on this ride. I hope you all enjoyed it. Happy reading!